Oh the gaps left by the passing years in a man's little circle of friends!
Time was when the cordial hand-grip of friends met me in Manchester at every corner, and almost every face in the streets was familiar.
I was there last Christmas, and I walked for half a day without a welcoming voice or smiling countenance to greet me. I thought of them that I had known, and walked with, and drank and eaten with there, and desolation fell upon me. To stroll through the crowded, bustling thoroughfare was like walking through a graveyard at midnight. The buildings loomed upon my gaze like monuments of the departed; and the only inhabitants I saw were spectres of the dead.
It was holiday time, and the passers-by were many. Their laughter sounded in my ears like the sobbing of wind through willows.
Then I fell into a cluster of survivors from the fray, a band of staunch and hearty friends of old, who took me by the hand and "trated me dacent."
"Well, I am glad to see you," said one; then another, then another, and all together in lusty chorus.
That was good.
Then they began to talk. "Do you remember being here with Tom Sutton on such a night? Ah, poor old Tom! His death was an awful shock!"