Behind the shop, where had been originally the “back parlor,” in the days when every genteel house in Chelsea had both its front and back parlor—­the latter for sitting and living in, the former for the reception of company—­sat this afternoon the proprietor, the man whose name had stood above the shop for fifty years, the original and only Emblem.  He was—­nay, he is—­for you may still find him in his place, and may make his acquaintance over a county history any day in the King’s Road—­he is an old man now, advanced in the seventies, who was born before the battle of Waterloo was fought, and can remember Chelsea when it was full of veterans wounded in battles fought long before the Corsican Attila was let loose upon the world.  His face wears the peaceful and wise expression which belongs peculiarly to his profession.  Other callings make a man look peaceful, but not all other callings make him look wise.  Mr. Emblem was born by nature of a calm temperament,—­otherwise he would not have been happy in his business; a smile lies generally upon his lips, and his eyes are soft and benign; his hair is white, and his face, once ruddy, is pale, yet not shrunk and seamed with furrows as happens to so many old men, but round and firm; like his chin and lips it is clean shaven; he wears a black coat extraordinarily shiny in the sleeve, and a black silk stock just as he used to wear in the thirties when he was young, and something of a dandy, and would show himself on a Saturday evening in the pit of Drury Lane; and the stock is fastened behind with a silver buckle.  He is, in fact, a delightful old gentleman to look at and pleasant to converse with, and on his brow every one who can read may see, visibly stamped, the seal of a harmless and honest life.  At the contemplation of such a man, one’s opinion of humanity is sensibly raised, and even house-agents, plumbers, and suburban builders, feel that, after all, virtue may bring with, it some reward.

The quiet and warmth of the afternoon, unbroken to his accustomed ear, as it would be to a stranger, by the murmurous roll of London, made him sleepy.  In his hand he held a letter which he had been reading for the hundredth time, and of which he knew by heart every word; and as his eyes closed he went back in imagination to a passage in the past which it recalled.

He stood, in imagination, upon the deck of a sailing-ship—­an emigrant ship.  The year was eighteen hundred and sixty-four, a year when very few were tempted to try their fortunes in a country torn by civil war.  With him were his daughter and his son-in-law, and they were come to bid the latter farewell.

“My dear—­my dear,” cried the wife, in her husband’s arms, “come what may, I will join you in a year.”

Her husband shook his head sadly.

“They do not want me here,” he said; “the work goes into stronger and rougher hands.  Perhaps over there we may get on better, and besides, it seems an opening.”