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diff --git a/588-0.txt b/588-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f2586d5 --- /dev/null +++ b/588-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5309 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Master Humphrey's Clock, by Charles Dickens + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Master Humphrey's Clock + + +Author: Charles Dickens + + + +Release Date: March 20, 2013 [eBook #588] +[This file was first posted on May 15, 1996] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK*** + + +Transcribed from the 1914 Chapman & Hall edition of “The Mystery of Edwin +Drood and Master Humphrey’s Clock” by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org + + + + + + MASTER HUMPHREY’S CLOCK + + + [Picture: Charles Dickens] + + + + +DEDICATION OF +“MASTER HUMPHREY’S CLOCK” + + + TO + SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQUIRE. + +MY DEAR SIR, + +Let me have _my_ Pleasures of Memory in connection with this book, by +dedicating it to a Poet whose writings (as all the world knows) are +replete with generous and earnest feeling; and to a man whose daily life +(as all the world does not know) is one of active sympathy with the +poorest and humblest of his kind. + + Your faithful friend, + CHARLES DICKENS. + + + + +ADDRESS BY CHARLES DICKENS. + + + 4_th_ _April_, 1840. + +Master Humphrey earnestly hopes, (and is almost tempted to believe,) that +all degrees of readers, young or old, rich or poor, sad or merry, easy of +amusement or difficult to entertain, may find something agreeable in the +face of his old clock. That, when they have made its acquaintance, its +voice may sound cheerfully in their ears, and be suggestive of none but +pleasant thoughts. That they may come to have favourite and familiar +associations connected with its name, and to look for it as for a welcome +friend. + +From week to week, then, Master Humphrey will set his clock, trusting +that while it counts the hours, it will sometimes cheat them of their +heaviness, and that while it marks the thread of Time, it will scatter a +few slight flowers in the Old Mower’s path. + +Until the specified period arrives, and he can enter freely upon that +confidence with his readers which he is impatient to maintain, he may +only bid them a short farewell, and look forward to their next meeting. + + + + +PREFACE TO THE FIRST VOLUME + + +WHEN the Author commenced this Work, he proposed to himself three +objects— + +First. To establish a periodical, which should enable him to present, +under one general head, and not as separate and distinct publications, +certain fictions that he had it in contemplation to write. + +Secondly. To produce these Tales in weekly numbers, hoping that to +shorten the intervals of communication between himself and his readers, +would be to knit more closely the pleasant relations they had held, for +Forty Months. + +Thirdly. In the execution of this weekly task, to have as much regard as +its exigencies would permit, to each story as a whole, and to the +possibility of its publication at some distant day, apart from the +machinery in which it had its origin. + +The characters of Master Humphrey and his three friends, and the little +fancy of the clock, were the results of these considerations. When he +sought to interest his readers in those who talked, and read, and +listened, he revived Mr. Pickwick and his humble friends; not with any +intention of re-opening an exhausted and abandoned mine, but to connect +them in the thoughts of those whose favourites they had been, with the +tranquil enjoyments of Master Humphrey. + +It was never the intention of the Author to make the Members of Master +Humphrey’s clock, active agents in the stories they are supposed to +relate. Having brought himself in the commencement of his undertaking to +feel an interest in these quiet creatures, and to imagine them in their +chamber of meeting, eager listeners to all he had to tell, the Author +hoped—as authors will—to succeed in awakening some of his own emotion in +the bosoms of his readers. Imagining Master Humphrey in his chimney +corner, resuming night after night the narrative,—say, of the _Old +Curiosity Shop_—picturing to himself the various sensations of his +hearers—thinking how Jack Redburn might incline to poor Kit, and perhaps +lean too favourably even towards the lighter vices of Mr. Richard +Swiveller—how the deaf gentleman would have his favourite and Mr. Miles +his—and how all these gentle spirits would trace some faint reflexion in +their past lives in the varying currents of the tale—he has insensibly +fallen into the belief that they are present to his readers as they are +to him, and has forgotten that, like one whose vision is disordered, he +may be conjuring up bright figures when there is nothing but empty space. + +The short papers which are to be found at the beginning of the volume +were indispensable to the form of publication and the limited extent of +each number, as no story of length or interest could be begun until “The +Clock was wound up and fairly going.” + +The Author would fain hope that there are not many who would disturb +Master Humphrey and his friends in their seclusion; who would have them +forego their present enjoyments, to exchange those confidences with each +other, the absence of which is the foundation of their mutual trust. For +when their occupation is gone, when their tales are ended, and but their +personal histories remain, the chimney corner will be growing cold, and +the clock will be about to stop for ever. + +One other word in his own person, and he returns to the more grateful +task of speaking for those imaginary people whose little world lies +within these pages. + +It may be some consolation to those well-disposed ladies and gentlemen +who, in the interval between the conclusion of his last work and the +commencement of this, originated a report that he had gone raving mad, to +know that it spread as rapidly as could be desired, and was made the +subject of considerable dispute; not as regarded the fact, for that was +as thoroughly established as the duel between Sir Peter Teazle and +Charles Surface in the _School for Scandal_; but with reference to the +unfortunate lunatic’s place of confinement; one party insisting +positively on Bedlam, another inclining favourably towards St. Luke’s, +and a third swearing strongly by the asylum at Hanwell; while each backed +its case by circumstantial evidence of the same excellent nature as that +brought to bear by Sir Benjamin Backbite on the pistol shot which struck +against the little bronze bust of Shakespeare over the fireplace, grazed +out of the window at a right angle, and wounded the postman, who was +coming to the door with a double letter from Northamptonshire. + +It will be a great affliction to these ladies and gentlemen to learn—and +he is so unwilling to give pain, that he would not whisper the +circumstance on any account, did he not feel in a manner bound to do so, +in gratitude to those amongst his friends who were at the trouble of +being angry at the absurdity that their inventions made the Author’s home +unusually merry, and gave rise to an extraordinary number of jests, of +which he will only add, in the words of the good Vicar of Wakefield, “I +cannot say whether we had more wit among us than usual; but I am sure we +had more laughing.” + +DEVONSHIRE TERRACE, YORK GATE, _September_, 1840. + + + + +PREFACE TO THE SECOND VOLUME + + +“AN author,” says Fielding, in his introduction to _Tom Jones_, “ought to +consider himself, not as the gentleman who gives a private or +eleemosynary treat, but rather as one who keeps a public ordinary, to +which all persons are welcome for their money. Men who pay for what they +eat, will insist on gratifying their palates, however nice and whimsical +these may prove; and if everything is not agreeable to their taste, will +challenge a right to censure, to abuse, and to damn their dinner without +control. + +“To prevent, therefore, giving offence to their customers by any such +disappointment, it hath been usual with the honest and well-meaning host +to provide a bill of fare, which all persons may peruse at their first +entrance into the house; and having thence acquainted themselves with the +entertainment which they may expect, may either stay and regale with what +is provided for them, or may depart to some other ordinary better +accommodated to their taste.” + +In the present instance, the host or author, in opening his new +establishment, provided no bill of fare. Sensible of the difficulties of +such an undertaking in its infancy, he preferred that it should make its +own way, silently and gradually, or make no way at all. It _has_ made +its way, and is doing such a thriving business that nothing remains for +him but to add, in the words of the good old civic ceremony, now that one +dish has been discussed and finished, and another smokes upon the board, +that he drinks to his guests in a loving-cup, and bids them a hearty +welcome. + +DEVONSHIRE TERRACE, LONDON, _March_, 1841. + + + + +LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS + + PAGE +MASTER HUMPHREY’S CHAMBER _George Cattermole_ 215 +FRIENDLY RECOGNITIONS _Phiz_ 217 +GOG AND MAGOG ,, 228 +A GALLANT CAVALIER _George Cattermole_ 232 +DEATH OF MASTER GRAHAM ,, 237 +A CHARMING FELLOW _Phiz_ 240 +THE TWO FRIENDS ,, 246 +HUNTED DOWN _George Cattermole_ 254 +MR. PICKWICK INTRODUCES HIMSELF TO _Phiz_ 259 +MASTER HUMPHREY +WILL MARKS READING THE NEWS _George Cattermole_ 266 +CONCERNING WITCHES +WILL MARKS TAKES UP HIS POSITION _Phiz_ 270 +FOR THE NIGHT +WILL MARKS ARRIVES AT THE CHURCH _George Cattermole_ 277 +TONY WELLER AND HIS GRANDSON _Phiz_ 282 +PROCEEDINGS OF THE CLUB „ 288 +THE LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF ,, 292 +WILLIAM BLINDER +A RIVAL CLUB ,, 297 +A CHIP OF THE OLD BLOCK ,, 302 +MASTER HUMPHREY’S VISIONARY ,, 311 +FRIENDS +THE DESERTED CHAMBER _George Cattermole_ 318 + +I + + +MASTER HUMPHREY, FROM HIS CLOCK-SIDE IN THE CHIMNEY CORNER + + [Picture: Master Humphrey’s Chamber] + +THE reader must not expect to know where I live. At present, it is true, +my abode may be a question of little or no import to anybody; but if I +should carry my readers with me, as I hope to do, and there should spring +up between them and me feelings of homely affection and regard attaching +something of interest to matters ever so slightly connected with my +fortunes or my speculations, even my place of residence might one day +have a kind of charm for them. Bearing this possible contingency in +mind, I wish them to understand, in the outset, that they must never +expect to know it. + +I am not a churlish old man. Friendless I can never be, for all mankind +are my kindred, and I am on ill terms with no one member of my great +family. But for many years I have led a lonely, solitary life;—what +wound I sought to heal, what sorrow to forget, originally, matters not +now; it is sufficient that retirement has become a habit with me, and +that I am unwilling to break the spell which for so long a time has shed +its quiet influence upon my home and heart. + +I live in a venerable suburb of London, in an old house which in bygone +days was a famous resort for merry roysterers and peerless ladies, long +since departed. It is a silent, shady place, with a paved courtyard so +full of echoes, that sometimes I am tempted to believe that faint +responses to the noises of old times linger there yet, and that these +ghosts of sound haunt my footsteps as I pace it up and down. I am the +more confirmed in this belief, because, of late years, the echoes that +attend my walks have been less loud and marked than they were wont to be; +and it is pleasanter to imagine in them the rustling of silk brocade, and +the light step of some lovely girl, than to recognise in their altered +note the failing tread of an old man. + +Those who like to read of brilliant rooms and gorgeous furniture would +derive but little pleasure from a minute description of my simple +dwelling. It is dear to me for the same reason that they would hold it +in slight regard. Its worm-eaten doors, and low ceilings crossed by +clumsy beams; its walls of wainscot, dark stairs, and gaping closets; its +small chambers, communicating with each other by winding passages or +narrow steps; its many nooks, scarce larger than its corner-cupboards; +its very dust and dulness, are all dear to me. The moth and spider are +my constant tenants; for in my house the one basks in his long sleep, and +the other plies his busy loom secure and undisturbed. I have a pleasure +in thinking on a summer’s day how many butterflies have sprung for the +first time into light and sunshine from some dark corner of these old +walls. + +When I first came to live here, which was many years ago, the neighbours +were curious to know who I was, and whence I came, and why I lived so +much alone. As time went on, and they still remained unsatisfied on +these points, I became the centre of a popular ferment, extending for +half a mile round, and in one direction for a full mile. Various rumours +were circulated to my prejudice. I was a spy, an infidel, a conjurer, a +kidnapper of children, a refugee, a priest, a monster. Mothers caught up +their infants and ran into their houses as I passed; men eyed me +spitefully, and muttered threats and curses. I was the object of +suspicion and distrust—ay, of downright hatred too. + +But when in course of time they found I did no harm, but, on the +contrary, inclined towards them despite their unjust usage, they began to +relent. I found my footsteps no longer dogged, as they had often been +before, and observed that the women and children no longer retreated, but +would stand and gaze at me as I passed their doors. I took this for a +good omen, and waited patiently for better times. By degrees I began to +make friends among these humble folks; and though they were yet shy of +speaking, would give them ‘good day,’ and so pass on. In a little time, +those whom I had thus accosted would make a point of coming to their +doors and windows at the usual hour, and nod or courtesy to me; children, +too, came timidly within my reach, and ran away quite scared when I +patted their heads and bade them be good at school. These little people +soon grew more familiar. From exchanging mere words of course with my +older neighbours, I gradually became their friend and adviser, the +depositary of their cares and sorrows, and sometimes, it may be, the +reliever, in my small way, of their distresses. And now I never walk +abroad but pleasant recognitions and smiling faces wait on Master +Humphrey. + + [Picture: Friendly recognitions] + +It was a whim of mine, perhaps as a whet to the curiosity of my +neighbours, and a kind of retaliation upon them for their suspicions—it +was, I say, a whim of mine, when I first took up my abode in this place, +to acknowledge no other name than Humphrey. With my detractors, I was +Ugly Humphrey. When I began to convert them into friends, I was Mr. +Humphrey and Old Mr. Humphrey. At length I settled down into plain +Master Humphrey, which was understood to be the title most pleasant to my +ear; and so completely a matter of course has it become, that sometimes +when I am taking my morning walk in my little courtyard, I overhear my +barber—who has a profound respect for me, and would not, I am sure, +abridge my honours for the world—holding forth on the other side of the +wall, touching the state of ‘Master Humphrey’s’ health, and communicating +to some friend the substance of the conversation that he and Master +Humphrey have had together in the course of the shaving which he has just +concluded. + +That I may not make acquaintance with my readers under false pretences, +or give them cause to complain hereafter that I have withheld any matter +which it was essential for them to have learnt at first, I wish them to +know—and I smile sorrowfully to think that the time has been when the +confession would have given me pain—that I am a misshapen, deformed old +man. + +I have never been made a misanthrope by this cause. I have never been +stung by any insult, nor wounded by any jest upon my crooked figure. As +a child I was melancholy and timid, but that was because the gentle +consideration paid to my misfortune sunk deep into my spirit and made me +sad, even in those early days. I was but a very young creature when my +poor mother died, and yet I remember that often when I hung around her +neck, and oftener still when I played about the room before her, she +would catch me to her bosom, and bursting into tears, would soothe me +with every term of fondness and affection. God knows I was a happy child +at those times,—happy to nestle in her breast,—happy to weep when she +did,—happy in not knowing why. + +These occasions are so strongly impressed upon my memory, that they seem +to have occupied whole years. I had numbered very, very few when they +ceased for ever, but before then their meaning had been revealed to me. + +I do not know whether all children are imbued with a quick perception of +childish grace and beauty, and a strong love for it, but I was. I had no +thought that I remember, either that I possessed it myself or that I +lacked it, but I admired it with an intensity that I cannot describe. A +little knot of playmates—they must have been beautiful, for I see them +now—were clustered one day round my mother’s knee in eager admiration of +some picture representing a group of infant angels, which she held in her +hand. Whose the picture was, whether it was familiar to me or otherwise, +or how all the children came to be there, I forget; I have some dim +thought it was my birthday, but the beginning of my recollection is that +we were all together in a garden, and it was summer weather,—I am sure of +that, for one of the little girls had roses in her sash. There were many +lovely angels in this picture, and I remember the fancy coming upon me to +point out which of them represented each child there, and that when I had +gone through my companions, I stopped and hesitated, wondering which was +most like me. I remember the children looking at each other, and my +turning red and hot, and their crowding round to kiss me, saying that +they loved me all the same; and then, and when the old sorrow came into +my dear mother’s mild and tender look, the truth broke upon me for the +first time, and I knew, while watching my awkward and ungainly sports, +how keenly she had felt for her poor crippled boy. + +I used frequently to dream of it afterwards, and now my heart aches for +that child as if I had never been he, when I think how often he awoke +from some fairy change to his own old form, and sobbed himself to sleep +again. + +Well, well,—all these sorrows are past. My glancing at them may not be +without its use, for it may help in some measure to explain why I have +all my life been attached to the inanimate objects that people my +chamber, and how I have come to look upon them rather in the light of old +and constant friends, than as mere chairs and tables which a little money +could replace at will. + +Chief and first among all these is my Clock,—my old, cheerful, +companionable Clock. How can I ever convey to others an idea of the +comfort and consolation that this old Clock has been for years to me! + +It is associated with my earliest recollections. It stood upon the +staircase at home (I call it home still mechanically), nigh sixty years +ago. I like it for that; but it is not on that account, nor because it +is a quaint old thing in a huge oaken case curiously and richly carved, +that I prize it as I do. I incline to it as if it were alive, and could +understand and give me back the love I bear it. + +And what other thing that has not life could cheer me as it does? what +other thing that has not life (I will not say how few things that have) +could have proved the same patient, true, untiring friend? How often +have I sat in the long winter evenings feeling such society in its +cricket-voice, that raising my eyes from my book and looking gratefully +towards it, the face reddened by the glow of the shining fire has seemed +to relax from its staid expression and to regard me kindly! how often in +the summer twilight, when my thoughts have wandered back to a melancholy +past, have its regular whisperings recalled them to the calm and peaceful +present! how often in the dead tranquillity of night has its bell broken +the oppressive silence, and seemed to give me assurance that the old +clock was still a faithful watcher at my chamber-door! My easy-chair, my +desk, my ancient furniture, my very books, I can scarcely bring myself to +love even these last like my old clock. + +It stands in a snug corner, midway between the fireside and a low arched +door leading to my bedroom. Its fame is diffused so extensively +throughout the neighbourhood, that I have often the satisfaction of +hearing the publican, or the baker, and sometimes even the parish-clerk, +petitioning my housekeeper (of whom I shall have much to say by-and-by) +to inform him the exact time by Master Humphrey’s clock. My barber, to +whom I have referred, would sooner believe it than the sun. Nor are +these its only distinctions. It has acquired, I am happy to say, +another, inseparably connecting it not only with my enjoyments and +reflections, but with those of other men; as I shall now relate. + +I lived alone here for a long time without any friend or acquaintance. +In the course of my wanderings by night and day, at all hours and +seasons, in city streets and quiet country parts, I came to be familiar +with certain faces, and to take it to heart as quite a heavy +disappointment if they failed to present themselves each at its +accustomed spot. But these were the only friends I knew, and beyond them +I had none. + +It happened, however, when I had gone on thus for a long time, that I +formed an acquaintance with a deaf gentleman, which ripened into intimacy +and close companionship. To this hour, I am ignorant of his name. It is +his humour to conceal it, or he has a reason and purpose for so doing. +In either case, I feel that he has a right to require a return of the +trust he has reposed; and as he has never sought to discover my secret, I +have never sought to penetrate his. There may have been something in +this tacit confidence in each other flattering and pleasant to us both, +and it may have imparted in the beginning an additional zest, perhaps, to +our friendship. Be this as it may, we have grown to be like brothers, +and still I only know him as the deaf gentleman. + +I have said that retirement has become a habit with me. When I add, that +the deaf gentleman and I have two friends, I communicate nothing which is +inconsistent with that declaration. I spend many hours of every day in +solitude and study, have no friends or change of friends but these, only +see them at stated periods, and am supposed to be of a retired spirit by +the very nature and object of our association. + +We are men of secluded habits, with something of a cloud upon our early +fortunes, whose enthusiasm, nevertheless, has not cooled with age, whose +spirit of romance is not yet quenched, who are content to ramble through +the world in a pleasant dream, rather than ever waken again to its harsh +realities. We are alchemists who would extract the essence of perpetual +youth from dust and ashes, tempt coy Truth in many light and airy forms +from the bottom of her well, and discover one crumb of comfort or one +grain of good in the commonest and least-regarded matter that passes +through our crucible. Spirits of past times, creatures of imagination, +and people of to-day are alike the objects of our seeking, and, unlike +the objects of search with most philosophers, we can insure their coming +at our command. + +The deaf gentleman and I first began to beguile our days with these +fancies, and our nights in communicating them to each other. We are now +four. But in my room there are six old chairs, and we have decided that +the two empty seats shall always be placed at our table when we meet, to +remind us that we may yet increase our company by that number, if we +should find two men to our mind. When one among us dies, his chair will +always be set in its usual place, but never occupied again; and I have +caused my will to be so drawn out, that when we are all dead the house +shall be shut up, and the vacant chairs still left in their accustomed +places. It is pleasant to think that even then our shades may, perhaps, +assemble together as of yore we did, and join in ghostly converse. + +One night in every week, as the clock strikes ten, we meet. At the +second stroke of two, I am alone. + +And now shall I tell how that my old servant, besides giving us note of +time, and ticking cheerful encouragement of our proceedings, lends its +name to our society, which for its punctuality and my love is christened +‘Master Humphrey’s Clock’? Now shall I tell how that in the bottom of +the old dark closet, where the steady pendulum throbs and beats with +healthy action, though the pulse of him who made it stood still long ago, +and never moved again, there are piles of dusty papers constantly placed +there by our hands, that we may link our enjoyments with my old friend, +and draw means to beguile time from the heart of time itself? Shall I, +or can I, tell with what a secret pride I open this repository when we +meet at night, and still find new store of pleasure in my dear old Clock? + +Friend and companion of my solitude! mine is not a selfish love; I would +not keep your merits to myself, but disperse something of pleasant +association with your image through the whole wide world; I would have +men couple with your name cheerful and healthy thoughts; I would have +them believe that you keep true and honest time; and how it would gladden +me to know that they recognised some hearty English work in Master +Humphrey’s clock! + + + +THE CLOCK-CASE + + +It is my intention constantly to address my readers from the +chimney-corner, and I would fain hope that such accounts as I shall give +them of our histories and proceedings, our quiet speculations or more +busy adventures, will never be unwelcome. Lest, however, I should grow +prolix in the outset by lingering too long upon our little association, +confounding the enthusiasm with which I regard this chief happiness of my +life with that minor degree of interest which those to whom I address +myself may be supposed to feel for it, I have deemed it expedient to +break off as they have seen. + +But, still clinging to my old friend, and naturally desirous that all its +merits should be known, I am tempted to open (somewhat irregularly and +against our laws, I must admit) the clock-case. The first roll of paper +on which I lay my hand is in the writing of the deaf gentleman. I shall +have to speak of him in my next paper; and how can I better approach that +welcome task than by prefacing it with a production of his own pen, +consigned to the safe keeping of my honest Clock by his own hand? + +The manuscript runs thus + + + +INTRODUCTION TO THE GIANT CHRONICLES + + +Once upon a time, that is to say, in this our time,—the exact year, +month, and day are of no matter,—there dwelt in the city of London a +substantial citizen, who united in his single person the dignities of +wholesale fruiterer, alderman, common-councilman, and member of the +worshipful Company of Patten-makers; who had superadded to these +extraordinary distinctions the important post and title of Sheriff, and +who at length, and to crown all, stood next in rotation for the high and +honourable office of Lord Mayor. + +He was a very substantial citizen indeed. His face was like the full +moon in a fog, with two little holes punched out for his eyes, a very +ripe pear stuck on for his nose, and a wide gash to serve for a mouth. +The girth of his waistcoat was hung up and lettered in his tailor’s shop +as an extraordinary curiosity. He breathed like a heavy snorer, and his +voice in speaking came thickly forth, as if it were oppressed and stifled +by feather-beds. He trod the ground like an elephant, and eat and drank +like—like nothing but an alderman, as he was. + +This worthy citizen had risen to his great eminence from small +beginnings. He had once been a very lean, weazen little boy, never +dreaming of carrying such a weight of flesh upon his bones or of money in +his pockets, and glad enough to take his dinner at a baker’s door, and +his tea at a pump. But he had long ago forgotten all this, as it was +proper that a wholesale fruiterer, alderman, common-councilman, member of +the worshipful Company of Patten-makers, past sheriff, and, above all, a +Lord Mayor that was to be, should; and he never forgot it more completely +in all his life than on the eighth of November in the year of his +election to the great golden civic chair, which was the day before his +grand dinner at Guildhall. + +It happened that as he sat that evening all alone in his counting-house, +looking over the bill of fare for next day, and checking off the fat +capons in fifties, and the turtle-soup by the hundred quarts, for his +private amusement,—it happened that as he sat alone occupied in these +pleasant calculations, a strange man came in and asked him how he did, +adding, ‘If I am half as much changed as you, sir, you have no +recollection of me, I am sure.’ + +The strange man was not over and above well dressed, and was very far +from being fat or rich-looking in any sense of the word, yet he spoke +with a kind of modest confidence, and assumed an easy, gentlemanly sort +of an air, to which nobody but a rich man can lawfully presume. Besides +this, he interrupted the good citizen just as he had reckoned three +hundred and seventy-two fat capons, and was carrying them over to the +next column; and as if that were not aggravation enough, the learned +recorder for the city of London had only ten minutes previously gone out +at that very same door, and had turned round and said, ‘Good night, my +lord.’ Yes, he had said, ‘my lord;’—he, a man of birth and education, of +the Honourable Society of the Middle Temple, Barrister-at-Law,—he who had +an uncle in the House of Commons, and an aunt almost but not quite in the +House of Lords (for she had married a feeble peer, and made him vote as +she liked),—he, this man, this learned recorder, had said, ‘my lord.’ +‘I’ll not wait till to-morrow to give you your title, my Lord Mayor,’ +says he, with a bow and a smile; ‘you are Lord Mayor _de facto_, if not +_de jure_. Good night, my lord.’ + +The Lord Mayor elect thought of this, and turning to the stranger, and +sternly bidding him ‘go out of his private counting-house,’ brought +forward the three hundred and seventy-two fat capons, and went on with +his account. + +‘Do you remember,’ said the other, stepping forward,—‘_do_ you remember +little Joe Toddyhigh?’ + +The port wine fled for a moment from the fruiterer’s nose as he muttered, +‘Joe Toddyhigh! What about Joe Toddyhigh?’ + +‘_I_ am Joe Toddyhigh,’ cried the visitor. ‘Look at me, look hard at +me,—harder, harder. You know me now? You know little Joe again? What a +happiness to us both, to meet the very night before your grandeur! O! +give me your hand, Jack,—both hands,—both, for the sake of old times.’ + +‘You pinch me, sir. You’re a-hurting of me,’ said the Lord Mayor elect +pettishly. ‘Don’t,—suppose anybody should come,—Mr. Toddyhigh, sir.’ + +‘Mr. Toddyhigh!’ repeated the other ruefully. + +‘O, don’t bother,’ said the Lord Mayor elect, scratching his head. ‘Dear +me! Why, I thought you was dead. What a fellow you are!’ + +Indeed, it was a pretty state of things, and worthy the tone of vexation +and disappointment in which the Lord Mayor spoke. Joe Toddyhigh had been +a poor boy with him at Hull, and had oftentimes divided his last penny +and parted his last crust to relieve his wants; for though Joe was a +destitute child in those times, he was as faithful and affectionate in +his friendship as ever man of might could be. They parted one day to +seek their fortunes in different directions. Joe went to sea, and the +now wealthy citizen begged his way to London, They separated with many +tears, like foolish fellows as they were, and agreed to remain fast +friends, and if they lived, soon to communicate again. + +When he was an errand-boy, and even in the early days of his +apprenticeship, the citizen had many a time trudged to the Post-office to +ask if there were any letter from poor little Joe, and had gone home +again with tears in his eyes, when he found no news of his only friend. +The world is a wide place, and it was a long time before the letter came; +when it did, the writer was forgotten. It turned from white to yellow +from lying in the Post-office with nobody to claim it, and in course of +time was torn up with five hundred others, and sold for waste-paper. And +now at last, and when it might least have been expected, here was this +Joe Toddyhigh turning up and claiming acquaintance with a great public +character, who on the morrow would be cracking jokes with the Prime +Minister of England, and who had only, at any time during the next twelve +months, to say the word, and he could shut up Temple Bar, and make it no +thoroughfare for the king himself! + +‘I am sure I don’t know what to say, Mr. Toddyhigh,’ said the Lord Mayor +elect; ‘I really don’t. It’s very inconvenient. I’d sooner have given +twenty pound,—it’s very inconvenient, really.’—A thought had come into +his mind, that perhaps his old friend might say something passionate +which would give him an excuse for being angry himself. No such thing. +Joe looked at him steadily, but very mildly, and did not open his lips. + +‘Of course I shall pay you what I owe you,’ said the Lord Mayor elect, +fidgeting in his chair. ‘You lent me—I think it was a shilling or some +small coin—when we parted company, and that of course I shall pay with +good interest. I can pay my way with any man, and always have done. If +you look into the Mansion House the day after to-morrow,—some time after +dusk,—and ask for my private clerk, you’ll find he has a draft for you. +I haven’t got time to say anything more just now, unless,’—he hesitated, +for, coupled with a strong desire to glitter for once in all his glory in +the eyes of his former companion, was a distrust of his appearance, which +might be more shabby than he could tell by that feeble light,—‘unless +you’d like to come to the dinner to-morrow. I don’t mind your having +this ticket, if you like to take it. A great many people would give +their ears for it, I can tell you.’ + +His old friend took the card without speaking a word, and instantly +departed. His sunburnt face and gray hair were present to the citizen’s +mind for a moment; but by the time he reached three hundred and +eighty-one fat capons, he had quite forgotten him. + +Joe Toddyhigh had never been in the capital of Europe before, and he +wandered up and down the streets that night amazed at the number of +churches and other public buildings, the splendour of the shops, the +riches that were heaped up on every side, the glare of light in which +they were displayed, and the concourse of people who hurried to and fro, +indifferent, apparently, to all the wonders that surrounded them. But in +all the long streets and broad squares, there were none but strangers; it +was quite a relief to turn down a by-way and hear his own footsteps on +the pavement. He went home to his inn, thought that London was a dreary, +desolate place, and felt disposed to doubt the existence of one +true-hearted man in the whole worshipful Company of Patten-makers. +Finally, he went to bed, and dreamed that he and the Lord Mayor elect +were boys again. + +He went next day to the dinner; and when in a burst of light and music, +and in the midst of splendid decorations and surrounded by brilliant +company, his former friend appeared at the head of the Hall, and was +hailed with shouts and cheering, he cheered and shouted with the best, +and for the moment could have cried. The next moment he cursed his +weakness in behalf of a man so changed and selfish, and quite hated a +jolly-looking old gentleman opposite for declaring himself in the pride +of his heart a Patten-maker. + +As the banquet proceeded, he took more and more to heart the rich +citizen’s unkindness; and that, not from any envy, but because he felt +that a man of his state and fortune could all the better afford to +recognise an old friend, even if he were poor and obscure. The more he +thought of this, the more lonely and sad he felt. When the company +dispersed and adjourned to the ball-room, he paced the hall and passages +alone, ruminating in a very melancholy condition upon the disappointment +he had experienced. + +It chanced, while he was lounging about in this moody state, that he +stumbled upon a flight of stairs, dark, steep, and narrow, which he +ascended without any thought about the matter, and so came into a little +music-gallery, empty and deserted. From this elevated post, which +commanded the whole hall, he amused himself in looking down upon the +attendants who were clearing away the fragments of the feast very lazily, +and drinking out of all the bottles and glasses with most commendable +perseverance. + +His attention gradually relaxed, and he fell fast asleep. + +When he awoke, he thought there must be something the matter with his +eyes; but, rubbing them a little, he soon found that the moonlight was +really streaming through the east window, that the lamps were all +extinguished, and that he was alone. He listened, but no distant murmur +in the echoing passages, not even the shutting of a door, broke the deep +silence; he groped his way down the stairs, and found that the door at +the bottom was locked on the other side. He began now to comprehend that +he must have slept a long time, that he had been overlooked, and was shut +up there for the night. + +His first sensation, perhaps, was not altogether a comfortable one, for +it was a dark, chilly, earthy-smelling place, and something too large, +for a man so situated, to feel at home in. However, when the momentary +consternation of his surprise was over, he made light of the accident, +and resolved to feel his way up the stairs again, and make himself as +comfortable as he could in the gallery until morning. As he turned to +execute this purpose, he heard the clocks strike three. + +Any such invasion of a dead stillness as the striking of distant clocks, +causes it to appear the more intense and insupportable when the sound has +ceased. He listened with strained attention in the hope that some clock, +lagging behind its fellows, had yet to strike,—looking all the time into +the profound darkness before him, until it seemed to weave itself into a +black tissue, patterned with a hundred reflections of his own eyes. But +the bells had all pealed out their warning for that once, and the gust of +wind that moaned through the place seemed cold and heavy with their iron +breath. + +The time and circumstances were favourable to reflection. He tried to +keep his thoughts to the current, unpleasant though it was, in which they +had moved all day, and to think with what a romantic feeling he had +looked forward to shaking his old friend by the hand before he died, and +what a wide and cruel difference there was between the meeting they had +had, and that which he had so often and so long anticipated. Still, he +was disordered by waking to such sudden loneliness, and could not prevent +his mind from running upon odd tales of people of undoubted courage, who, +being shut up by night in vaults or churches, or other dismal places, had +scaled great heights to get out, and fled from silence as they had never +done from danger. This brought to his mind the moonlight through the +window, and bethinking himself of it, he groped his way back up the +crooked stairs,—but very stealthily, as though he were fearful of being +overheard. + +He was very much astonished when he approached the gallery again, to see +a light in the building: still more so, on advancing hastily and looking +round, to observe no visible source from which it could proceed. But how +much greater yet was his astonishment at the spectacle which this light +revealed. + +The statues of the two giants, Gog and Magog, each above fourteen feet in +height, those which succeeded to still older and more barbarous figures, +after the Great Fire of London, and which stand in the Guildhall to this +day, were endowed with life and motion. These guardian genii of the City +had quitted their pedestals, and reclined in easy attitudes in the great +stained glass window. Between them was an ancient cask, which seemed to +be full of wine; for the younger Giant, clapping his huge hand upon it, +and throwing up his mighty leg, burst into an exulting laugh, which +reverberated through the hall like thunder. + +Joe Toddyhigh instinctively stooped down, and, more dead than alive, felt +his hair stand on end, his knees knock together, and a cold damp break +out upon his forehead. But even at that minute curiosity prevailed over +every other feeling, and somewhat reassured by the good-humour of the +Giants and their apparent unconsciousness of his presence, he crouched in +a corner of the gallery, in as small a space as he could, and, peeping +between the rails, observed them closely. + +It was then that the elder Giant, who had a flowing gray beard, raised +his thoughtful eyes to his companion’s face, and in a grave and solemn +voice addressed him thus: + + + +FIRST NIGHT OF THE GIANT CHRONICLES + + +Turning towards his companion the elder Giant uttered these words in a +grave, majestic tone: + +‘Magog, does boisterous mirth beseem the Giant Warder of this ancient +city? Is this becoming demeanour for a watchful spirit over whose +bodiless head so many years have rolled, so many changes swept like empty +air—in whose impalpable nostrils the scent of blood and crime, +pestilence, cruelty, and horror, has been familiar as breath to +mortals—in whose sight Time has gathered in the harvest of centuries, and +garnered so many crops of human pride, affections, hopes, and sorrows? +Bethink you of our compact. The night wanes; feasting, revelry, and +music have encroached upon our usual hours of solitude, and morning will +be here apace. Ere we are stricken mute again, bethink you of our +compact.’ + +Pronouncing these latter words with more of impatience than quite +accorded with his apparent age and gravity, the Giant raised a long pole +(which he still bears in his hand) and tapped his brother Giant rather +smartly on the head; indeed, the blow was so smartly administered, that +the latter quickly withdrew his lips from the cask, to which they had +been applied, and, catching up his shield and halberd, assumed an +attitude of defence. His irritation was but momentary, for he laid these +weapons aside as hastily as he had assumed them, and said as he did so: + +‘You know, Gog, old friend, that when we animate these shapes which the +Londoners of old assigned (and not unworthily) to the guardian genii of +their city, we are susceptible of some of the sensations which belong to +human kind. Thus when I taste wine, I feel blows; when I relish the one, +I disrelish the other. Therefore, Gog, the more especially as your arm +is none of the lightest, keep your good staff by your side, else we may +chance to differ. Peace be between us!’ + +‘Amen!’ said the other, leaning his staff in the window-corner. ‘Why did +you laugh just now?’ + +‘To think,’ replied the Giant Magog, laying his hand upon the cask, ‘of +him who owned this wine, and kept it in a cellar hoarded from the light +of day, for thirty years,—“till it should be fit to drink,” quoth he. He +was twoscore and ten years old when he buried it beneath his house, and +yet never thought that he might be scarcely “fit to drink” when the wine +became so. I wonder it never occurred to him to make himself unfit to be +eaten. There is very little of him left by this time.’ + + [Picture: Gog and Magog] + +‘The night is waning,’ said Gog mournfully. + +‘I know it,’ replied his companion, ‘and I see you are impatient. But +look. Through the eastern window—placed opposite to us, that the first +beams of the rising sun may every morning gild our giant faces—the +moon-rays fall upon the pavement in a stream of light that to my fancy +sinks through the cold stone and gushes into the old crypt below. The +night is scarcely past its noon, and our great charge is sleeping +heavily.’ + +They ceased to speak, and looked upward at the moon. The sight of their +large, black, rolling eyes filled Joe Toddyhigh with such horror that he +could scarcely draw his breath. Still they took no note of him, and +appeared to believe themselves quite alone. + +‘Our compact,’ said Magog after a pause, ‘is, if I understand it, that, +instead of watching here in silence through the dreary nights, we +entertain each other with stories of our past experience; with tales of +the past, the present, and the future; with legends of London and her +sturdy citizens from the old simple times. That every night at midnight, +when St. Paul’s bell tolls out one, and we may move and speak, we thus +discourse, nor leave such themes till the first gray gleam of day shall +strike us dumb. Is that our bargain, brother?’ + +‘Yes,’ said the Giant Gog, ‘that is the league between us who guard this +city, by day in spirit, and by night in body also; and never on ancient +holidays have its conduits run wine more merrily than we will pour forth +our legendary lore. We are old chroniclers from this time hence. The +crumbled walls encircle us once more, the postern-gates are closed, the +drawbridge is up, and pent in its narrow den beneath, the water foams and +struggles with the sunken starlings. Jerkins and quarter-staves are in +the streets again, the nightly watch is set, the rebel, sad and lonely in +his Tower dungeon, tries to sleep and weeps for home and children. Aloft +upon the gates and walls are noble heads glaring fiercely down upon the +dreaming city, and vexing the hungry dogs that scent them in the air, and +tear the ground beneath with dismal howlings. The axe, the block, the +rack, in their dark chambers give signs of recent use. The Thames, +floating past long lines of cheerful windows whence come a burst of music +and a stream of light, bears suddenly to the Palace wall the last red +stain brought on the tide from Traitor’s Gate. But your pardon, brother. +The night wears, and I am talking idly.’ + +The other Giant appeared to be entirely of this opinion, for during the +foregoing rhapsody of his fellow-sentinel he had been scratching his head +with an air of comical uneasiness, or rather with an air that would have +been very comical if he had been a dwarf or an ordinary-sized man. He +winked too, and though it could not be doubted for a moment that he +winked to himself, still he certainly cocked his enormous eye towards the +gallery where the listener was concealed. Nor was this all, for he +gaped; and when he gaped, Joe was horribly reminded of the popular +prejudice on the subject of giants, and of their fabled power of smelling +out Englishmen, however closely concealed. + +His alarm was such that he nearly swooned, and it was some little time +before his power of sight or hearing was restored. When he recovered he +found that the elder Giant was pressing the younger to commence the +Chronicles, and that the latter was endeavouring to excuse himself on the +ground that the night was far spent, and it would be better to wait until +the next. Well assured by this that he was certainly about to begin +directly, the listener collected his faculties by a great effort, and +distinctly heard Magog express himself to the following effect: + + * * * * * + +In the sixteenth century and in the reign of Queen Elizabeth of glorious +memory (albeit her golden days are sadly rusted with blood), there lived +in the city of London a bold young ’prentice who loved his master’s +daughter. There were no doubt within the walls a great many ’prentices +in this condition, but I speak of only one, and his name was Hugh Graham. + +This Hugh was apprenticed to an honest Bowyer who dwelt in the ward of +Cheype, and was rumoured to possess great wealth. Rumour was quite as +infallible in those days as at the present time, but it happened then as +now to be sometimes right by accident. It stumbled upon the truth when +it gave the old Bowyer a mint of money. His trade had been a profitable +one in the time of King Henry the Eighth, who encouraged English archery +to the utmost, and he had been prudent and discreet. Thus it came to +pass that Mistress Alice, his only daughter, was the richest heiress in +all his wealthy ward. Young Hugh had often maintained with staff and +cudgel that she was the handsomest. To do him justice, I believe she +was. + +If he could have gained the heart of pretty Mistress Alice by knocking +this conviction into stubborn people’s heads, Hugh would have had no +cause to fear. But though the Bowyer’s daughter smiled in secret to hear +of his doughty deeds for her sake, and though her little waiting-woman +reported all her smiles (and many more) to Hugh, and though he was at a +vast expense in kisses and small coin to recompense her fidelity, he made +no progress in his love. He durst not whisper it to Mistress Alice save +on sure encouragement, and that she never gave him. A glance of her dark +eye as she sat at the door on a summer’s evening after prayer-time, while +he and the neighbouring ’prentices exercised themselves in the street +with blunted sword and buckler, would fire Hugh’s blood so that none +could stand before him; but then she glanced at others quite as kindly as +on him, and where was the use of cracking crowns if Mistress Alice smiled +upon the cracked as well as on the cracker? + +Still Hugh went on, and loved her more and more. He thought of her all +day, and dreamed of her all night long. He treasured up her every word +and gesture, and had a palpitation of the heart whenever he heard her +footstep on the stairs or her voice in an adjoining room. To him, the +old Bowyer’s house was haunted by an angel; there was enchantment in the +air and space in which she moved. It would have been no miracle to Hugh +if flowers had sprung from the rush-strewn floors beneath the tread of +lovely Mistress Alice. + +Never did ’prentice long to distinguish himself in the eyes of his +lady-love so ardently as Hugh. Sometimes he pictured to himself the +house taking fire by night, and he, when all drew back in fear, rushing +through flame and smoke, and bearing her from the ruins in his arms. At +other times he thought of a rising of fierce rebels, an attack upon the +city, a strong assault upon the Bowyer’s house in particular, and he +falling on the threshold pierced with numberless wounds in defence of +Mistress Alice. If he could only enact some prodigy of valour, do some +wonderful deed, and let her know that she had inspired it, he thought he +could die contented. + +Sometimes the Bowyer and his daughter would go out to supper with a +worthy citizen at the fashionable hour of six o’clock, and on such +occasions Hugh, wearing his blue ’prentice cloak as gallantly as +’prentice might, would attend with a lantern and his trusty club to +escort them home. These were the brightest moments of his life. To hold +the light while Mistress Alice picked her steps, to touch her hand as he +helped her over broken ways, to have her leaning on his arm,—it sometimes +even came to that,—this was happiness indeed! + +When the nights were fair, Hugh followed in the rear, his eyes riveted on +the graceful figure of the Bowyer’s daughter as she and the old man moved +on before him. So they threaded the narrow winding streets of the city, +now passing beneath the overhanging gables of old wooden houses whence +creaking signs projected into the street, and now emerging from some dark +and frowning gateway into the clear moonlight. At such times, or when +the shouts of straggling brawlers met her ear, the Bowyer’s daughter +would look timidly back at Hugh, beseeching him to draw nearer; and then +how he grasped his club and longed to do battle with a dozen rufflers, +for the love of Mistress Alice! + +The old Bowyer was in the habit of lending money on interest to the +gallants of the Court, and thus it happened that many a richly-dressed +gentleman dismounted at his door. More waving plumes and gallant steeds, +indeed, were seen at the Bowyer’s house, and more embroidered silks and +velvets sparkled in his dark shop and darker private closet, than at any +merchants in the city. In those times no less than in the present it +would seem that the richest-looking cavaliers often wanted money the +most. + + [Picture: A Gallant Cavalier] + +Of these glittering clients there was one who always came alone. He was +nobly mounted, and, having no attendant, gave his horse in charge to Hugh +while he and the Bowyer were closeted within. Once as he sprung into the +saddle Mistress Alice was seated at an upper window, and before she could +withdraw he had doffed his jewelled cap and kissed his hand. Hugh +watched him caracoling down the street, and burnt with indignation. But +how much deeper was the glow that reddened in his cheeks when, raising +his eyes to the casement, he saw that Alice watched the stranger too! + +He came again and often, each time arrayed more gaily than before, and +still the little casement showed him Mistress Alice. At length one heavy +day, she fled from home. It had cost her a hard struggle, for all her +old father’s gifts were strewn about her chamber as if she had parted +from them one by one, and knew that the time must come when these tokens +of his love would wring her heart,—yet she was gone. + +She left a letter commanding her poor father to the care of Hugh, and +wishing he might be happier than ever he could have been with her, for he +deserved the love of a better and a purer heart than she had to bestow. +The old man’s forgiveness (she said) she had no power to ask, but she +prayed God to bless him,—and so ended with a blot upon the paper where +her tears had fallen. + +At first the old man’s wrath was kindled, and he carried his wrong to the +Queen’s throne itself; but there was no redress he learnt at Court, for +his daughter had been conveyed abroad. This afterwards appeared to be +the truth, as there came from France, after an interval of several years, +a letter in her hand. It was written in trembling characters, and almost +illegible. Little could be made out save that she often thought of home +and her old dear pleasant room,—and that she had dreamt her father was +dead and had not blessed her,—and that her heart was breaking. + +The poor old Bowyer lingered on, never suffering Hugh to quit his sight, +for he knew now that he had loved his daughter, and that was the only +link that bound him to earth. It broke at length and he +died,—bequeathing his old ’prentice his trade and all his wealth, and +solemnly charging him with his last breath to revenge his child if ever +he who had worked her misery crossed his path in life again. + +From the time of Alice’s flight, the tilting-ground, the fields, the +fencing-school, the summer-evening sports, knew Hugh no more. His spirit +was dead within him. He rose to great eminence and repute among the +citizens, but was seldom seen to smile, and never mingled in their +revelries or rejoicings. Brave, humane, and generous, he was beloved by +all. He was pitied too by those who knew his story, and these were so +many that when he walked along the streets alone at dusk, even the rude +common people doffed their caps and mingled a rough air of sympathy with +their respect. + +One night in May—it was her birthnight, and twenty years since she had +left her home—Hugh Graham sat in the room she had hallowed in his boyish +days. He was now a gray-haired man, though still in the prime of life. +Old thoughts had borne him company for many hours, and the chamber had +gradually grown quite dark, when he was roused by a low knocking at the +outer door. + +He hastened down, and opening it saw by the light of a lamp which he had +seized upon the way, a female figure crouching in the portal. It hurried +swiftly past him and glided up the stairs. He looked for pursuers. +There were none in sight. No, not one. + +He was inclined to think it a vision of his own brain, when suddenly a +vague suspicion of the truth flashed upon his mind. He barred the door, +and hastened wildly back. Yes, there she was,—there, in the chamber he +had quitted,—there in her old innocent, happy home, so changed that none +but he could trace one gleam of what she had been,—there upon her +knees,—with her hands clasped in agony and shame before her burning face. + +‘My God, my God!’ she cried, ‘now strike me dead! Though I have brought +death and shame and sorrow on this roof, O, let me die at home in mercy!’ + +There was no tear upon her face then, but she trembled and glanced round +the chamber. Everything was in its old place. Her bed looked as if she +had risen from it but that morning. The sight of these familiar objects, +marking the dear remembrance in which she had been held, and the blight +she had brought upon herself, was more than the woman’s better nature +that had carried her there could bear. She wept and fell upon the +ground. + +A rumour was spread about, in a few days’ time, that the Bowyer’s cruel +daughter had come home, and that Master Graham had given her lodging in +his house. It was rumoured too that he had resigned her fortune, in +order that she might bestow it in acts of charity, and that he had vowed +to guard her in her solitude, but that they were never to see each other +more. These rumours greatly incensed all virtuous wives and daughters in +the ward, especially when they appeared to receive some corroboration +from the circumstance of Master Graham taking up his abode in another +tenement hard by. The estimation in which he was held, however, forbade +any questioning on the subject; and as the Bowyer’s house was close shut +up, and nobody came forth when public shows and festivities were in +progress, or to flaunt in the public walks, or to buy new fashions at the +mercers’ booths, all the well-conducted females agreed among themselves +that there could be no woman there. + +These reports had scarcely died away when the wonder of every good +citizen, male and female, was utterly absorbed and swallowed up by a +Royal Proclamation, in which her Majesty, strongly censuring the practice +of wearing long Spanish rapiers of preposterous length (as being a +bullying and swaggering custom, tending to bloodshed and public +disorder), commanded that on a particular day therein named, certain +grave citizens should repair to the city gates, and there, in public, +break all rapiers worn or carried by persons claiming admission, that +exceeded, though it were only by a quarter of an inch, three standard +feet in length. + +Royal Proclamations usually take their course, let the public wonder +never so much. On the appointed day two citizens of high repute took up +their stations at each of the gates, attended by a party of the city +guard, the main body to enforce the Queen’s will, and take custody of all +such rebels (if any) as might have the temerity to dispute it: and a few +to bear the standard measures and instruments for reducing all unlawful +sword-blades to the prescribed dimensions. In pursuance of these +arrangements, Master Graham and another were posted at Lud Gate, on the +hill before St. Paul’s. + +A pretty numerous company were gathered together at this spot, for, +besides the officers in attendance to enforce the proclamation, there was +a motley crowd of lookers-on of various degrees, who raised from time to +time such shouts and cries as the circumstances called forth. A spruce +young courtier was the first who approached: he unsheathed a weapon of +burnished steel that shone and glistened in the sun, and handed it with +the newest air to the officer, who, finding it exactly three feet long, +returned it with a bow. Thereupon the gallant raised his hat and crying, +‘God save the Queen!’ passed on amidst the plaudits of the mob. Then +came another—a better courtier still—who wore a blade but two feet long, +whereat the people laughed, much to the disparagement of his honour’s +dignity. Then came a third, a sturdy old officer of the army, girded +with a rapier at least a foot and a half beyond her Majesty’s pleasure; +at him they raised a great shout, and most of the spectators (but +especially those who were armourers or cutlers) laughed very heartily at +the breakage which would ensue. But they were disappointed; for the old +campaigner, coolly unbuckling his sword and bidding his servant carry it +home again, passed through unarmed, to the great indignation of all the +beholders. They relieved themselves in some degree by hooting a tall +blustering fellow with a prodigious weapon, who stopped short on coming +in sight of the preparations, and after a little consideration turned +back again. But all this time no rapier had been broken, although it was +high noon, and all cavaliers of any quality or appearance were taking +their way towards Saint Paul’s churchyard. + +During these proceedings, Master Graham had stood apart, strictly +confining himself to the duty imposed upon him, and taking little heed of +anything beyond. He stepped forward now as a richly-dressed gentleman on +foot, followed by a single attendant, was seen advancing up the hill. + +As this person drew nearer, the crowd stopped their clamour, and bent +forward with eager looks. Master Graham standing alone in the gateway, +and the stranger coming slowly towards him, they seemed, as it were, set +face to face. The nobleman (for he looked one) had a haughty and +disdainful air, which bespoke the slight estimation in which he held the +citizen. The citizen, on the other hand, preserved the resolute bearing +of one who was not to be frowned down or daunted, and who cared very +little for any nobility but that of worth and manhood. It was perhaps +some consciousness on the part of each, of these feelings in the other, +that infused a more stern expression into their regards as they came +closer together. + +‘Your rapier, worthy sir!’ + +At the instant that he pronounced these words Graham started, and falling +back some paces, laid his hand upon the dagger in his belt. + +‘You are the man whose horse I used to hold before the Bowyer’s door? +You are that man? Speak!’ + +‘Out, you ’prentice hound!’ said the other. + +‘You are he! I know you well now!’ cried Graham. ‘Let no man step +between us two, or I shall be his murderer.’ With that he drew his +dagger, and rushed in upon him. + +The stranger had drawn his weapon from the scabbard ready for the +scrutiny, before a word was spoken. He made a thrust at his assailant, +but the dagger which Graham clutched in his left hand being the dirk in +use at that time for parrying such blows, promptly turned the point +aside. They closed. The dagger fell rattling on the ground, and Graham, +wresting his adversary’s sword from his grasp, plunged it through his +heart. As he drew it out it snapped in two, leaving a fragment in the +dead man’s body. + +All this passed so swiftly that the bystanders looked on without an +effort to interfere; but the man was no sooner down than an uproar broke +forth which rent the air. The attendant rushing through the gate +proclaimed that his master, a nobleman, had been set upon and slain by a +citizen; the word quickly spread from mouth to mouth; Saint Paul’s +Cathedral, and every book-shop, ordinary, and smoking-house in the +churchyard poured out its stream of cavaliers and their followers, who +mingling together in a dense tumultuous body, struggled, sword in hand, +towards the spot. + +With equal impetuosity, and stimulating each other by loud cries and +shouts, the citizens and common people took up the quarrel on their side, +and encircling Master Graham a hundred deep, forced him from the gate. +In vain he waved the broken sword above his head, crying that he would +die on London’s threshold for their sacred homes. They bore him on, and +ever keeping him in the midst, so that no man could attack him, fought +their way into the city. + +The clash of swords and roar of voices, the dust and heat and pressure, +the trampling under foot of men, the distracted looks and shrieks of +women at the windows above as they recognised their relatives or lovers +in the crowd, the rapid tolling of alarm-bells, the furious rage and +passion of the scene, were fearful. Those who, being on the outskirts of +each crowd, could use their weapons with effect, fought desperately, +while those behind, maddened with baffled rage, struck at each other over +the heads of those before them, and crushed their own fellows. Wherever +the broken sword was seen above the people’s heads, towards that spot the +cavaliers made a new rush. Every one of these charges was marked by +sudden gaps in the throng where men were trodden down, but as fast as +they were made, the tide swept over them, and still the multitude pressed +on again, a confused mass of swords, clubs, staves, broken plumes, +fragments of rich cloaks and doublets, and angry, bleeding faces, all +mixed up together in inextricable disorder. + +The design of the people was to force Master Graham to take refuge in his +dwelling, and to defend it until the authorities could interfere, or they +could gain time for parley. But either from ignorance or in the +confusion of the moment they stopped at his old house, which was closely +shut. Some time was lost in beating the doors open and passing him to +the front. About a score of the boldest of the other party threw +themselves into the torrent while this was being done, and reaching the +door at the same moment with himself cut him off from his defenders. + +‘I never will turn in such a righteous cause, so help me Heaven!’ cried +Graham, in a voice that at last made itself heard, and confronting them +as he spoke. ‘Least of all will I turn upon this threshold which owes +its desolation to such men as ye. I give no quarter, and I will have +none! Strike!’ + +For a moment they stood at bay. At that moment a shot from an unseen +hand, apparently fired by some person who had gained access to one of the +opposite houses, struck Graham in the brain, and he fell dead. A low +wail was heard in the air,—many people in the concourse cried that they +had seen a spirit glide across the little casement window of the Bowyer’s +house— + +A dead silence succeeded. After a short time some of the flushed and +heated throng laid down their arms and softly carried the body within +doors. Others fell off or slunk away in knots of two or three, others +whispered together in groups, and before a numerous guard which then rode +up could muster in the street, it was nearly empty. + + [Picture: Death of Master Graham] + +Those who carried Master Graham to the bed up-stairs were shocked to see +a woman lying beneath the window with her hands clasped together. After +trying to recover her in vain, they laid her near the citizen, who still +retained, tightly grasped in his right hand, the first and last sword +that was broken that day at Lud Gate. + + * * * * * + +The Giant uttered these concluding words with sudden precipitation; and +on the instant the strange light which had filled the hall faded away. +Joe Toddyhigh glanced involuntarily at the eastern window, and saw the +first pale gleam of morning. He turned his head again towards the other +window in which the Giants had been seated. It was empty. The cask of +wine was gone, and he could dimly make out that the two great figures +stood mute and motionless upon their pedestals. + +After rubbing his eyes and wondering for full half an hour, during which +time he observed morning come creeping on apace, he yielded to the +drowsiness which overpowered him and fell into a refreshing slumber. +When he awoke it was broad day; the building was open, and workmen were +busily engaged in removing the vestiges of last night’s feast. + +Stealing gently down the little stairs, and assuming the air of some +early lounger who had dropped in from the street, he walked up to the +foot of each pedestal in turn, and attentively examined the figure it +supported. There could be no doubt about the features of either; he +recollected the exact expression they had worn at different passages of +their conversation, and recognised in every line and lineament the Giants +of the night. Assured that it was no vision, but that he had heard and +seen with his own proper senses, he walked forth, determining at all +hazards to conceal himself in the Guildhall again that evening. He +further resolved to sleep all day, so that he might be very wakeful and +vigilant, and above all that he might take notice of the figures at the +precise moment of their becoming animated and subsiding into their old +state, which he greatly reproached himself for not having done already. + + + +CORRESPONDENCE +TO MASTER HUMPHREY + + +‘SIR,—Before you proceed any further in your account of your friends and +what you say and do when you meet together, excuse me if I proffer my +claim to be elected to one of the vacant chairs in that old room of +yours. Don’t reject me without full consideration; for if you do, you +will be sorry for it afterwards—you will, upon my life. + +‘I enclose my card, sir, in this letter. I never was ashamed of my name, +and I never shall be. I am considered a devilish gentlemanly fellow, and +I act up to the character. If you want a reference, ask any of the men +at our club. Ask any fellow who goes there to write his letters, what +sort of conversation mine is. Ask him if he thinks I have the sort of +voice that will suit your deaf friend and make him hear, if he can hear +anything at all. Ask the servants what they think of me. There’s not a +rascal among ’em, sir, but will tremble to hear my name. That reminds +me—don’t you say too much about that housekeeper of yours; it’s a low +subject, damned low. + +‘I tell you what, sir. If you vote me into one of those empty chairs, +you’ll have among you a man with a fund of gentlemanly information +that’ll rather astonish you. I can let you into a few anecdotes about +some fine women of title, that are quite high life, sir—the tiptop sort +of thing. I know the name of every man who has been out on an affair of +honour within the last five-and-twenty years; I know the private +particulars of every cross and squabble that has taken place upon the +turf, at the gaming-table, or elsewhere, during the whole of that time. +I have been called the gentlemanly chronicle. You may consider yourself +a lucky dog; upon my soul, you may congratulate yourself, though I say +so. + +‘It’s an uncommon good notion that of yours, not letting anybody know +where you live. I have tried it, but there has always been an anxiety +respecting me, which has found me out. Your deaf friend is a cunning +fellow to keep his name so close. I have tried that too, but have always +failed. I shall be proud to make his acquaintance—tell him so, with my +compliments. + +‘You must have been a queer fellow when you were a child, confounded +queer. It’s odd, all that about the picture in your first paper—prosy, +but told in a devilish gentlemanly sort of way. In places like that I +could come in with great effect with a touch of life—don’t you feel that? + + [Picture: A Charming Fellow] + +‘I am anxiously waiting for your next paper to know whether your friends +live upon the premises, and at your expense, which I take it for granted +is the case. If I am right in this impression, I know a charming fellow +(an excellent companion and most delightful company) who will be proud to +join you. Some years ago he seconded a great many prize-fighters, and +once fought an amateur match himself; since then he has driven several +mails, broken at different periods all the lamps on the right-hand side +of Oxford-street, and six times carried away every bell-handle in +Bloomsbury-square, besides turning off the gas in various thoroughfares. +In point of gentlemanliness he is unrivalled, and I should say that next +to myself he is of all men the best suited to your purpose. + + ‘Expecting your reply, + ‘I am, + ‘&c. &c.’ + + * * * * * + +Master Humphrey informs this gentleman that his application, both as it +concerns himself and his friend, is rejected. + + + + +II + + +MASTER HUMPHREY, FROM HIS CLOCK-SIDE IN THE CHIMNEY-CORNER + +MY old companion tells me it is midnight. The fire glows brightly, +crackling with a sharp and cheerful sound, as if it loved to burn. The +merry cricket on the hearth (my constant visitor), this ruddy blaze, my +clock, and I, seem to share the world among us, and to be the only things +awake. The wind, high and boisterous but now, has died away and hoarsely +mutters in its sleep. I love all times and seasons each in its turn, and +am apt, perhaps, to think the present one the best; but past or coming I +always love this peaceful time of night, when long-buried thoughts, +favoured by the gloom and silence, steal from their graves, and haunt the +scenes of faded happiness and hope. + +The popular faith in ghosts has a remarkable affinity with the whole +current of our thoughts at such an hour as this, and seems to be their +necessary and natural consequence. For who can wonder that man should +feel a vague belief in tales of disembodied spirits wandering through +those places which they once dearly affected, when he himself, scarcely +less separated from his old world than they, is for ever lingering upon +past emotions and bygone times, and hovering, the ghost of his former +self, about the places and people that warmed his heart of old? It is +thus that at this quiet hour I haunt the house where I was born, the +rooms I used to tread, the scenes of my infancy, my boyhood, and my +youth; it is thus that I prowl around my buried treasure (though not of +gold or silver), and mourn my loss; it is thus that I revisit the ashes +of extinguished fires, and take my silent stand at old bedsides. If my +spirit should ever glide back to this chamber when my body is mingled +with the dust, it will but follow the course it often took in the old +man’s lifetime, and add but one more change to the subjects of its +contemplation. + +In all my idle speculations I am greatly assisted by various legends +connected with my venerable house, which are current in the +neighbourhood, and are so numerous that there is scarce a cupboard or +corner that has not some dismal story of its own. When I first +entertained thoughts of becoming its tenant, I was assured that it was +haunted from roof to cellar, and I believe that the bad opinion in which +my neighbours once held me, had its rise in my not being torn to pieces, +or at least distracted with terror, on the night I took possession; in +either of which cases I should doubtless have arrived by a short cut at +the very summit of popularity. + +But traditions and rumours all taken into account, who so abets me in +every fancy and chimes with my every thought, as my dear deaf friend? and +how often have I cause to bless the day that brought us two together! Of +all days in the year I rejoice to think that it should have been +Christmas Day, with which from childhood we associate something friendly, +hearty, and sincere. + +I had walked out to cheer myself with the happiness of others, and, in +the little tokens of festivity and rejoicing, of which the streets and +houses present so many upon that day, had lost some hours. Now I stopped +to look at a merry party hurrying through the snow on foot to their place +of meeting, and now turned back to see a whole coachful of children +safely deposited at the welcome house. At one time, I admired how +carefully the working man carried the baby in its gaudy hat and feathers, +and how his wife, trudging patiently on behind, forgot even her care of +her gay clothes, in exchanging greeting with the child as it crowed and +laughed over the father’s shoulder; at another, I pleased myself with +some passing scene of gallantry or courtship, and was glad to believe +that for a season half the world of poverty was gay. + +As the day closed in, I still rambled through the streets, feeling a +companionship in the bright fires that cast their warm reflection on the +windows as I passed, and losing all sense of my own loneliness in +imagining the sociality and kind-fellowship that everywhere prevailed. +At length I happened to stop before a Tavern, and, encountering a Bill of +Fare in the window, it all at once brought it into my head to wonder what +kind of people dined alone in Taverns upon Christmas Day. + +Solitary men are accustomed, I suppose, unconsciously to look upon +solitude as their own peculiar property. I had sat alone in my room on +many, many anniversaries of this great holiday, and had never regarded it +but as one of universal assemblage and rejoicing. I had excepted, and +with an aching heart, a crowd of prisoners and beggars; but _these_ were +not the men for whom the Tavern doors were open. Had they any customers, +or was it a mere form?—a form, no doubt. + +Trying to feel quite sure of this, I walked away; but before I had gone +many paces, I stopped and looked back. There was a provoking air of +business in the lamp above the door which I could not overcome. I began +to be afraid there might be many customers—young men, perhaps, struggling +with the world, utter strangers in this great place, whose friends lived +at a long distance off, and whose means were too slender to enable them +to make the journey. The supposition gave rise to so many distressing +little pictures, that in preference to carrying them home with me, I +determined to encounter the realities. So I turned and walked in. + +I was at once glad and sorry to find that there was only one person in +the dining-room; glad to know that there were not more, and sorry that he +should be there by himself. He did not look so old as I, but like me he +was advanced in life, and his hair was nearly white. Though I made more +noise in entering and seating myself than was quite necessary, with the +view of attracting his attention and saluting him in the good old form of +that time of year, he did not raise his head, but sat with it resting on +his hand, musing over his half-finished meal. + +I called for something which would give me an excuse for remaining in the +room (I had dined early, as my housekeeper was engaged at night to +partake of some friend’s good cheer), and sat where I could observe +without intruding on him. After a time he looked up. He was aware that +somebody had entered, but could see very little of me, as I sat in the +shade and he in the light. He was sad and thoughtful, and I forbore to +trouble him by speaking. + +Let me believe it was something better than curiosity which riveted my +attention and impelled me strongly towards this gentleman. I never saw +so patient and kind a face. He should have been surrounded by friends, +and yet here he sat dejected and alone when all men had their friends +about them. As often as he roused himself from his reverie he would fall +into it again, and it was plain that, whatever were the subject of his +thoughts, they were of a melancholy kind, and would not be controlled. + +He was not used to solitude. I was sure of that; for I know by myself +that if he had been, his manner would have been different, and he would +have taken some slight interest in the arrival of another. I could not +fail to mark that he had no appetite; that he tried to eat in vain; that +time after time the plate was pushed away, and he relapsed into his +former posture. + +His mind was wandering among old Christmas days, I thought. Many of them +sprung up together, not with a long gap between each, but in unbroken +succession like days of the week. It was a great change to find himself +for the first time (I quite settled that it _was_ the first) in an empty +silent room with no soul to care for. I could not help following him in +imagination through crowds of pleasant faces, and then coming back to +that dull place with its bough of mistletoe sickening in the gas, and +sprigs of holly parched up already by a Simoom of roast and boiled. The +very waiter had gone home; and his representative, a poor, lean, hungry +man, was keeping Christmas in his jacket. + +I grew still more interested in my friend. His dinner done, a decanter +of wine was placed before him. It remained untouched for a long time, +but at length with a quivering hand he filled a glass and raised it to +his lips. Some tender wish to which he had been accustomed to give +utterance on that day, or some beloved name that he had been used to +pledge, trembled upon them at the moment. He put it down very +hastily—took it up once more—again put it down—pressed his hand upon his +face—yes—and tears stole down his cheeks, I am certain. + +Without pausing to consider whether I did right or wrong, I stepped +across the room, and sitting down beside him laid my hand gently on his +arm. + +‘My friend,’ I said, ‘forgive me if I beseech you to take comfort and +consolation from the lips of an old man. I will not preach to you what I +have not practised, indeed. Whatever be your grief, be of a good +heart—be of a good heart, pray!’ + +‘I see that you speak earnestly,’ he replied, ‘and kindly I am very sure, +but—’ + +I nodded my head to show that I understood what he would say; for I had +already gathered, from a certain fixed expression in his face, and from +the attention with which he watched me while I spoke, that his sense of +hearing was destroyed. ‘There should be a freemasonry between us,’ said +I, pointing from himself to me to explain my meaning; ‘if not in our gray +hairs, at least in our misfortunes. You see that I am but a poor +cripple.’ + +I never felt so happy under my affliction since the trying moment of my +first becoming conscious of it, as when he took my hand in his with a +smile that has lighted my path in life from that day, and we sat down +side by side. + +This was the beginning of my friendship with the deaf gentleman; and when +was ever the slight and easy service of a kind word in season repaid by +such attachment and devotion as he has shown to me! + +He produced a little set of tablets and a pencil to facilitate our +conversation, on that our first acquaintance; and I well remember how +awkward and constrained I was in writing down my share of the dialogue, +and how easily he guessed my meaning before I had written half of what I +had to say. He told me in a faltering voice that he had not been +accustomed to be alone on that day—that it had always been a little +festival with him; and seeing that I glanced at his dress in the +expectation that he wore mourning, he added hastily that it was not that; +if it had been he thought he could have borne it better. From that time +to the present we have never touched upon this theme. Upon every return +of the same day we have been together; and although we make it our annual +custom to drink to each other hand in hand after dinner, and to recall +with affectionate garrulity every circumstance of our first meeting, we +always avoid this one as if by mutual consent. + +Meantime we have gone on strengthening in our friendship and regard and +forming an attachment which, I trust and believe, will only be +interrupted by death, to be renewed in another existence. I scarcely +know how we communicate as we do; but he has long since ceased to be deaf +to me. He is frequently my companion in my walks, and even in crowded +streets replies to my slightest look or gesture, as though he could read +my thoughts. From the vast number of objects which pass in rapid +succession before our eyes, we frequently select the same for some +particular notice or remark; and when one of these little coincidences +occurs, I cannot describe the pleasure which animates my friend, or the +beaming countenance he will preserve for half-an-hour afterwards at +least. + +He is a great thinker from living so much within himself, and, having a +lively imagination, has a facility of conceiving and enlarging upon odd +ideas, which renders him invaluable to our little body, and greatly +astonishes our two friends. His powers in this respect are much assisted +by a large pipe, which he assures us once belonged to a German Student. +Be this as it may, it has undoubtedly a very ancient and mysterious +appearance, and is of such capacity that it takes three hours and a half +to smoke it out. I have reason to believe that my barber, who is the +chief authority of a knot of gossips, who congregate every evening at a +small tobacconist’s hard by, has related anecdotes of this pipe and the +grim figures that are carved upon its bowl, at which all the smokers in +the neighbourhood have stood aghast; and I know that my housekeeper, +while she holds it in high veneration, has a superstitious feeling +connected with it which would render her exceedingly unwilling to be left +alone in its company after dark. + +Whatever sorrow my dear friend has known, and whatever grief may linger +in some secret corner of his heart, he is now a cheerful, placid, happy +creature. Misfortune can never have fallen upon such a man but for some +good purpose; and when I see its traces in his gentle nature and his +earnest feeling, I am the less disposed to murmur at such trials as I may +have undergone myself. With regard to the pipe, I have a theory of my +own; I cannot help thinking that it is in some manner connected with the +event that brought us together; for I remember that it was a long time +before he even talked about it; that when he did, he grew reserved and +melancholy; and that it was a long time yet before he brought it forth. +I have no curiosity, however, upon this subject; for I know that it +promotes his tranquillity and comfort, and I need no other inducement to +regard it with my utmost favour. + +Such is the deaf gentleman. I can call up his figure now, clad in sober +gray, and seated in the chimney-corner. As he puffs out the smoke from +his favourite pipe, he casts a look on me brimful of cordiality and +friendship, and says all manner of kind and genial things in a cheerful +smile; then he raises his eyes to my clock, which is just about to +strike, and, glancing from it to me and back again, seems to divide his +heart between us. For myself, it is not too much to say that I would +gladly part with one of my poor limbs, could he but hear the old clock’s +voice. + + [Picture: The Two Friends] + +Of our two friends, the first has been all his life one of that easy, +wayward, truant class whom the world is accustomed to designate as +nobody’s enemies but their own. Bred to a profession for which he never +qualified himself, and reared in the expectation of a fortune he has +never inherited, he has undergone every vicissitude of which such an +existence is capable. He and his younger brother, both orphans from +their childhood, were educated by a wealthy relative, who taught them to +expect an equal division of his property; but too indolent to court, and +too honest to flatter, the elder gradually lost ground in the affections +of a capricious old man, and the younger, who did not fail to improve his +opportunity, now triumphs in the possession of enormous wealth. His +triumph is to hoard it in solitary wretchedness, and probably to feel +with the expenditure of every shilling a greater pang than the loss of +his whole inheritance ever cost his brother. + +Jack Redburn—he was Jack Redburn at the first little school he went to, +where every other child was mastered and surnamed, and he has been Jack +Redburn all his life, or he would perhaps have been a richer man by this +time—has been an inmate of my house these eight years past. He is my +librarian, secretary, steward, and first minister; director of all my +affairs, and inspector-general of my household. He is something of a +musician, something of an author, something of an actor, something of a +painter, very much of a carpenter, and an extraordinary gardener, having +had all his life a wonderful aptitude for learning everything that was of +no use to him. He is remarkably fond of children, and is the best and +kindest nurse in sickness that ever drew the breath of life. He has +mixed with every grade of society, and known the utmost distress; but +there never was a less selfish, a more tender-hearted, a more +enthusiastic, or a more guileless man; and I dare say, if few have done +less good, fewer still have done less harm in the world than he. By what +chance Nature forms such whimsical jumbles I don’t know; but I do know +that she sends them among us very often, and that the king of the whole +race is Jack Redburn. + +I should be puzzled to say how old he is. His health is none of the +best, and he wears a quantity of iron-gray hair, which shades his face +and gives it rather a worn appearance; but we consider him quite a young +fellow notwithstanding; and if a youthful spirit, surviving the roughest +contact with the world, confers upon its possessor any title to be +considered young, then he is a mere child. The only interruptions to his +careless cheerfulness are on a wet Sunday, when he is apt to be unusually +religious and solemn, and sometimes of an evening, when he has been +blowing a very slow tune on the flute. On these last-named occasions he +is apt to incline towards the mysterious, or the terrible. As a specimen +of his powers in this mood, I refer my readers to the extract from the +clock-case which follows this paper: he brought it to me not long ago at +midnight, and informed me that the main incident had been suggested by a +dream of the night before. + +His apartments are two cheerful rooms looking towards the garden, and one +of his great delights is to arrange and rearrange the furniture in these +chambers, and put it in every possible variety of position. During the +whole time he has been here, I do not think he has slept for two nights +running with the head of his bed in the same place; and every time he +moves it, is to be the last. My housekeeper was at first well-nigh +distracted by these frequent changes; but she has become quite reconciled +to them by degrees, and has so fallen in with his humour, that they often +consult together with great gravity upon the next final alteration. +Whatever his arrangements are, however, they are always a pattern of +neatness; and every one of the manifold articles connected with his +manifold occupations is to be found in its own particular place. Until +within the last two or three years he was subject to an occasional fit +(which usually came upon him in very fine weather), under the influence +of which he would dress himself with peculiar care, and, going out under +pretence of taking a walk, disappeared for several days together. At +length, after the interval between each outbreak of this disorder had +gradually grown longer and longer, it wholly disappeared; and now he +seldom stirs abroad, except to stroll out a little way on a summer’s +evening. Whether he yet mistrusts his own constancy in this respect, and +is therefore afraid to wear a coat, I know not; but we seldom see him in +any other upper garment than an old spectral-looking dressing-gown, with +very disproportionate pockets, full of a miscellaneous collection of odd +matters, which he picks up wherever he can lay his hands upon them. + +Everything that is a favourite with our friend is a favourite with us; +and thus it happens that the fourth among us is Mr. Owen Miles, a most +worthy gentleman, who had treated Jack with great kindness before my deaf +friend and I encountered him by an accident, to which I may refer on some +future occasion. Mr. Miles was once a very rich merchant; but receiving +a severe shock in the death of his wife, he retired from business, and +devoted himself to a quiet, unostentatious life. He is an excellent man, +of thoroughly sterling character: not of quick apprehension, and not +without some amusing prejudices, which I shall leave to their own +development. He holds us all in profound veneration; but Jack Redburn he +esteems as a kind of pleasant wonder, that he may venture to approach +familiarly. He believes, not only that no man ever lived who could do so +many things as Jack, but that no man ever lived who could do anything so +well; and he never calls my attention to any of his ingenious +proceedings, but he whispers in my ear, nudging me at the same time with +his elbow: ‘If he had only made it his trade, sir—if he had only made it +his trade!’ + +They are inseparable companions; one would almost suppose that, although +Mr. Miles never by any chance does anything in the way of assistance, +Jack could do nothing without him. Whether he is reading, writing, +painting, carpentering, gardening, flute-playing, or what not, there is +Mr. Miles beside him, buttoned up to the chin in his blue coat, and +looking on with a face of incredulous delight, as though he could not +credit the testimony of his own senses, and had a misgiving that no man +could be so clever but in a dream. + +These are my friends; I have now introduced myself and them. + + + +THE CLOCK-CASE + + +A CONFESSION FOUND IN A PRISON IN THE TIME OF CHARLES THE SECOND + +I held a lieutenant’s commission in his Majesty’s army, and served abroad +in the campaigns of 1677 and 1678. The treaty of Nimeguen being +concluded, I returned home, and retiring from the service, withdrew to a +small estate lying a few miles east of London, which I had recently +acquired in right of my wife. + +This is the last night I have to live, and I will set down the naked +truth without disguise. I was never a brave man, and had always been +from my childhood of a secret, sullen, distrustful nature. I speak of +myself as if I had passed from the world; for while I write this, my +grave is digging, and my name is written in the black-book of death. + +Soon after my return to England, my only brother was seized with mortal +illness. This circumstance gave me slight or no pain; for since we had +been men, we had associated but very little together. He was +open-hearted and generous, handsomer than I, more accomplished, and +generally beloved. Those who sought my acquaintance abroad or at home, +because they were friends of his, seldom attached themselves to me long, +and would usually say, in our first conversation, that they were +surprised to find two brothers so unlike in their manners and appearance. +It was my habit to lead them on to this avowal; for I knew what +comparisons they must draw between us; and having a rankling envy in my +heart, I sought to justify it to myself. + +We had married two sisters. This additional tie between us, as it may +appear to some, only estranged us the more. His wife knew me well. I +never struggled with any secret jealousy or gall when she was present but +that woman knew it as well as I did. I never raised my eyes at such +times but I found hers fixed upon me; I never bent them on the ground or +looked another way but I felt that she overlooked me always. It was an +inexpressible relief to me when we quarrelled, and a greater relief still +when I heard abroad that she was dead. It seems to me now as if some +strange and terrible foreshadowing of what has happened since must have +hung over us then. I was afraid of her; she haunted me; her fixed and +steady look comes back upon me now, like the memory of a dark dream, and +makes my blood run cold. + +She died shortly after giving birth to a child—a boy. When my brother +knew that all hope of his own recovery was past, he called my wife to his +bedside, and confided this orphan, a child of four years old, to her +protection. He bequeathed to him all the property he had, and willed +that, in case of his child’s death, it should pass to my wife, as the +only acknowledgment he could make her for her care and love. He +exchanged a few brotherly words with me, deploring our long separation; +and being exhausted, fell into a slumber, from which he never awoke. + +We had no children; and as there had been a strong affection between the +sisters, and my wife had almost supplied the place of a mother to this +boy, she loved him as if he had been her own. The child was ardently +attached to her; but he was his mother’s image in face and spirit, and +always mistrusted me. + +I can scarcely fix the date when the feeling first came upon me; but I +soon began to be uneasy when this child was by. I never roused myself +from some moody train of thought but I marked him looking at me; not with +mere childish wonder, but with something of the purpose and meaning that +I had so often noted in his mother. It was no effort of my fancy, +founded on close resemblance of feature and expression. I never could +look the boy down. He feared me, but seemed by some instinct to despise +me while he did so; and even when he drew back beneath my gaze—as he +would when we were alone, to get nearer to the door—he would keep his +bright eyes upon me still. + +Perhaps I hide the truth from myself, but I do not think that, when this +began, I meditated to do him any wrong. I may have thought how +serviceable his inheritance would be to us, and may have wished him dead; +but I believe I had no thought of compassing his death. Neither did the +idea come upon me at once, but by very slow degrees, presenting itself at +first in dim shapes at a very great distance, as men may think of an +earthquake or the last day; then drawing nearer and nearer, and losing +something of its horror and improbability; then coming to be part and +parcel—nay nearly the whole sum and substance—of my daily thoughts, and +resolving itself into a question of means and safety; not of doing or +abstaining from the deed. + +While this was going on within me, I never could bear that the child +should see me looking at him, and yet I was under a fascination which +made it a kind of business with me to contemplate his slight and fragile +figure and think how easily it might be done. Sometimes I would steal +up-stairs and watch him as he slept; but usually I hovered in the garden +near the window of the room in which he learnt his little tasks; and +there, as he sat upon a low seat beside my wife, I would peer at him for +hours together from behind a tree; starting, like the guilty wretch I +was, at every rustling of a leaf, and still gliding back to look and +start again. + +Hard by our cottage, but quite out of sight, and (if there were any wind +astir) of hearing too, was a deep sheet of water. I spent days in +shaping with my pocket-knife a rough model of a boat, which I finished at +last and dropped in the child’s way. Then I withdrew to a secret place, +which he must pass if he stole away alone to swim this bauble, and lurked +there for his coming. He came neither that day nor the next, though I +waited from noon till nightfall. I was sure that I had him in my net, +for I had heard him prattling of the toy, and knew that in his infant +pleasure he kept it by his side in bed. I felt no weariness or fatigue, +but waited patiently, and on the third day he passed me, running joyously +along, with his silken hair streaming in the wind, and he singing—God +have mercy upon me!—singing a merry ballad,—who could hardly lisp the +words. + +I stole down after him, creeping under certain shrubs which grow in that +place, and none but devils know with what terror I, a strong, full-grown +man, tracked the footsteps of that baby as he approached the water’s +brink. I was close upon him, had sunk upon my knee and raised my hand to +thrust him in, when he saw my shadow in the stream and turned him round. + +His mother’s ghost was looking from his eyes. The sun burst forth from +behind a cloud; it shone in the bright sky, the glistening earth, the +clear water, the sparkling drops of rain upon the leaves. There were +eyes in everything. The whole great universe of light was there to see +the murder done. I know not what he said; he came of bold and manly +blood, and, child as he was, he did not crouch or fawn upon me. I heard +him cry that he would try to love me,—not that he did,—and then I saw him +running back towards the house. The next I saw was my own sword naked in +my hand, and he lying at my feet stark dead,—dabbled here and there with +blood, but otherwise no different from what I had seen him in his +sleep—in the same attitude too, with his cheek resting upon his little +hand. + +I took him in my arms and laid him—very gently now that he was dead—in a +thicket. My wife was from home that day, and would not return until the +next. Our bedroom window, the only sleeping-room on that side of the +house, was but a few feet from the ground, and I resolved to descend from +it at night and bury him in the garden. I had no thought that I had +failed in my design, no thought that the water would be dragged and +nothing found, that the money must now lie waste, since I must encourage +the idea that the child was lost or stolen. All my thoughts were bound +up and knotted together in the one absorbing necessity of hiding what I +had done. + +How I felt when they came to tell me that the child was missing, when I +ordered scouts in all directions, when I gasped and trembled at every +one’s approach, no tongue can tell or mind of man conceive. I buried him +that night. When I parted the boughs and looked into the dark thicket, +there was a glow-worm shining like the visible spirit of God upon the +murdered child. I glanced down into his grave when I had placed him +there, and still it gleamed upon his breast; an eye of fire looking up to +Heaven in supplication to the stars that watched me at my work. + +I had to meet my wife, and break the news, and give her hope that the +child would soon be found. All this I did,—with some appearance, I +suppose, of being sincere, for I was the object of no suspicion. This +done, I sat at the bedroom window all day long, and watched the spot +where the dreadful secret lay. + +It was in a piece of ground which had been dug up to be newly turfed, and +which I had chosen on that account, as the traces of my spade were less +likely to attract attention. The men who laid down the grass must have +thought me mad. I called to them continually to expedite their work, ran +out and worked beside them, trod down the earth with my feet, and hurried +them with frantic eagerness. They had finished their task before night, +and then I thought myself comparatively safe. + +I slept,—not as men do who awake refreshed and cheerful, but I did sleep, +passing from vague and shadowy dreams of being hunted down, to visions of +the plot of grass, through which now a hand, and now a foot, and now the +head itself was starting out. At this point I always woke and stole to +the window, to make sure that it was not really so. That done, I crept +to bed again; and thus I spent the night in fits and starts, getting up +and lying down full twenty times, and dreaming the same dream over and +over again,—which was far worse than lying awake, for every dream had a +whole night’s suffering of its own. Once I thought the child was alive, +and that I had never tried to kill him. To wake from that dream was the +most dreadful agony of all. + +The next day I sat at the window again, never once taking my eyes from +the place, which, although it was covered by the grass, was as plain to +me—its shape, its size, its depth, its jagged sides, and all—as if it had +been open to the light of day. When a servant walked across it, I felt +as if he must sink in; when he had passed, I looked to see that his feet +had not worn the edges. If a bird lighted there, I was in terror lest by +some tremendous interposition it should be instrumental in the discovery; +if a breath of air sighed across it, to me it whispered murder. There +was not a sight or a sound—how ordinary, mean, or unimportant soever—but +was fraught with fear. And in this state of ceaseless watching I spent +three days. + +On the fourth there came to the gate one who had served with me abroad, +accompanied by a brother officer of his whom I had never seen. I felt +that I could not bear to be out of sight of the place. It was a summer +evening, and I bade my people take a table and a flask of wine into the +garden. Then I sat down _with my chair upon the grave_, and being +assured that nobody could disturb it now without my knowledge, tried to +drink and talk. + +They hoped that my wife was well,—that she was not obliged to keep her +chamber,—that they had not frightened her away. What could I do but tell +them with a faltering tongue about the child? The officer whom I did not +know was a down-looking man, and kept his eyes upon the ground while I +was speaking. Even that terrified me. I could not divest myself of the +idea that he saw something there which caused him to suspect the truth. +I asked him hurriedly if he supposed that—and stopped. ‘That the child +has been murdered?’ said he, looking mildly at me: ‘O no! what could a +man gain by murdering a poor child?’ _I_ could have told him what a man +gained by such a deed, no one better: but I held my peace and shivered as +with an ague. + +Mistaking my emotion, they were endeavouring to cheer me with the hope +that the boy would certainly be found,—great cheer that was for me!—when +we heard a low deep howl, and presently there sprung over the wall two +great dogs, who, bounding into the garden, repeated the baying sound we +had heard before. + +‘Bloodhounds!’ cried my visitors. + +What need to tell me that! I had never seen one of that kind in all my +life, but I knew what they were and for what purpose they had come. I +grasped the elbows of my chair, and neither spoke nor moved. + +‘They are of the genuine breed,’ said the man whom I had known abroad, +‘and being out for exercise have no doubt escaped from their keeper.’ + +Both he and his friend turned to look at the dogs, who with their noses +to the ground moved restlessly about, running to and fro, and up and +down, and across, and round in circles, careering about like wild things, +and all this time taking no notice of us, but ever and again repeating +the yell we had heard already, then dropping their noses to the ground +again and tracking earnestly here and there. They now began to snuff the +earth more eagerly than they had done yet, and although they were still +very restless, no longer beat about in such wide circuits, but kept near +to one spot, and constantly diminished the distance between themselves +and me. + +At last they came up close to the great chair on which I sat, and raising +their frightful howl once more, tried to tear away the wooden rails that +kept them from the ground beneath. I saw how I looked, in the faces of +the two who were with me. + + ‘They scent some prey,’ said they, both together. + +‘They scent no prey!’ cried I. + +‘In Heaven’s name, move!’ said the one I knew, very earnestly, ‘or you +will be torn to pieces.’ + +‘Let them tear me from limb to limb, I’ll never leave this place!’ cried +I. ‘Are dogs to hurry men to shameful deaths? Hew them down, cut them +in pieces.’ + +‘There is some foul mystery here!’ said the officer whom I did not know, +drawing his sword. ‘In King Charles’s name, assist me to secure this +man.’ + + [Picture: Hunted down] + +They both set upon me and forced me away, though I fought and bit and +caught at them like a madman. After a struggle, they got me quietly +between them; and then, my God! I saw the angry dogs tearing at the +earth and throwing it up into the air like water. + +What more have I to tell? That I fell upon my knees, and with chattering +teeth confessed the truth, and prayed to be forgiven. That I have since +denied, and now confess to it again. That I have been tried for the +crime, found guilty, and sentenced. That I have not the courage to +anticipate my doom, or to bear up manfully against it. That I have no +compassion, no consolation, no hope, no friend. That my wife has happily +lost for the time those faculties which would enable her to know my +misery or hers. That I am alone in this stone dungeon with my evil +spirit, and that I die to-morrow. {255} + + + +CORRESPONDENCE + + +Master Humphrey has been favoured with the following letter written on +strongly-scented paper, and sealed in light-blue wax with the +representation of two very plump doves interchanging beaks. It does not +commence with any of the usual forms of address, but begins as is here +set forth. + + Bath, Wednesday night. + +Heavens! into what an indiscretion do I suffer myself to be betrayed! To +address these faltering lines to a total stranger, and that stranger one +of a conflicting sex!—and yet I am precipitated into the abyss, and have +no power of self-snatchation (forgive me if I coin that phrase) from the +yawning gulf before me. + +Yes, I am writing to a man; but let me not think of that, for madness is +in the thought. You will understand my feelings? O yes, I am sure you +will; and you will respect them too, and not despise them,—will you? + +Let me be calm. That portrait,—smiling as once he smiled on me; that +cane,—dangling as I have seen it dangle from his hand I know not how oft; +those legs that have glided through my nightly dreams and never stopped +to speak; the perfectly gentlemanly, though false original,—can I be +mistaken? O no, no. + +Let me be calmer yet; I would be calm as coffins. You have published a +letter from one whose likeness is engraved, but whose name (and +wherefore?) is suppressed. Shall _I_ breathe that name! Is it—but why +ask when my heart tells me too truly that it is! + +I would not upbraid him with his treachery; I would not remind him of +those times when he plighted the most eloquent of vows, and procured from +me a small pecuniary accommodation; and yet I would see him—see him did I +say—_him_—alas! such is woman’s nature. For as the poet beautifully +says—but you will already have anticipated the sentiment. Is it not +sweet? O yes! + +It was in this city (hallowed by the recollection) that I met him first; +and assuredly if mortal happiness be recorded anywhere, then those +rubbers with their three-and-sixpenny points are scored on tablets of +celestial brass. He always held an honour—generally two. On that +eventful night we stood at eight. He raised his eyes (luminous in their +seductive sweetness) to my agitated face. ‘_Can_ you?’ said he, with +peculiar meaning. I felt the gentle pressure of his foot on mine; our +corns throbbed in unison. ‘_Can_ you?’ he said again; and every +lineament of his expressive countenance added the words ‘resist me?’ I +murmured ‘No,’ and fainted. + +They said, when I recovered, it was the weather. _I_ said it was the +nutmeg in the negus. How little did they suspect the truth! How little +did they guess the deep mysterious meaning of that inquiry! He called +next morning on his knees; I do not mean to say that he actually came in +that position to the house-door, but that he went down upon those joints +directly the servant had retired. He brought some verses in his hat, +which he said were original, but which I have since found were Milton’s; +likewise a little bottle labelled laudanum; also a pistol and a +sword-stick. He drew the latter, uncorked the former, and clicked the +trigger of the pocket fire-arm. He had come, he said, to conquer or to +die. He did not die. He wrested from me an avowal of my love, and let +off the pistol out of a back window previous to partaking of a slight +repast. + +Faithless, inconstant man! How many ages seem to have elapsed since his +unaccountable and perfidious disappearance! Could I still forgive him +both that and the borrowed lucre that he promised to pay next week! +Could I spurn him from my feet if he approached in penitence, and with a +matrimonial object! Would the blandishing enchanter still weave his +spells around me, or should I burst them all and turn away in coldness! +I dare not trust my weakness with the thought. + +My brain is in a whirl again. You know his address, his occupations, his +mode of life,—are acquainted, perhaps, with his inmost thoughts. You are +a humane and philanthropic character; reveal all you know—all; but +especially the street and number of his lodgings. The post is departing, +the bellman rings,—pray Heaven it be not the knell of love and hope to + + BELINDA. + +P.S. Pardon the wanderings of a bad pen and a distracted mind. Address +to the Post-office. The bellman, rendered impatient by delay, is ringing +dreadfully in the passage. + +P.P.S. I open this to say that the bellman is gone, and that you must not +expect it till the next post; so don’t be surprised when you don’t get +it. + + * * * * * + +Master Humphrey does not feel himself at liberty to furnish his fair +correspondent with the address of the gentleman in question, but he +publishes her letter as a public appeal to his faith and gallantry. + + + + +III + + +MASTER HUMPHREY’S VISITOR + +WHEN I am in a thoughtful mood, I often succeed in diverting the current +of some mournful reflections, by conjuring up a number of fanciful +associations with the objects that surround me, and dwelling upon the +scenes and characters they suggest. + +I have been led by this habit to assign to every room in my house and +every old staring portrait on its walls a separate interest of its own. +Thus, I am persuaded that a stately dame, terrible to behold in her rigid +modesty, who hangs above the chimney-piece of my bedroom, is the former +lady of the mansion. In the courtyard below is a stone face of +surpassing ugliness, which I have somehow—in a kind of jealousy, I am +afraid—associated with her husband. Above my study is a little room with +ivy peeping through the lattice, from which I bring their daughter, a +lovely girl of eighteen or nineteen years of age, and dutiful in all +respects save one, that one being her devoted attachment to a young +gentleman on the stairs, whose grandmother (degraded to a disused laundry +in the garden) piques herself upon an old family quarrel, and is the +implacable enemy of their love. With such materials as these I work out +many a little drama, whose chief merit is, that I can bring it to a happy +end at will. I have so many of them on hand, that if on my return home +one of these evenings I were to find some bluff old wight of two +centuries ago comfortably seated in my easy chair, and a lovelorn damsel +vainly appealing to his heart, and leaning her white arm upon my clock +itself, I verily believe I should only express my surprise that they had +kept me waiting so long, and never honoured me with a call before. + +I was in such a mood as this, sitting in my garden yesterday morning +under the shade of a favourite tree, revelling in all the bloom and +brightness about me, and feeling every sense of hope and enjoyment +quickened by this most beautiful season of Spring, when my meditations +were interrupted by the unexpected appearance of my barber at the end of +the walk, who I immediately saw was coming towards me with a hasty step +that betokened something remarkable. + +My barber is at all times a very brisk, bustling, active little man,—for +he is, as it were, chubby all over, without being stout or unwieldy,—but +yesterday his alacrity was so very uncommon that it quite took me by +surprise. For could I fail to observe when he came up to me that his +gray eyes were twinkling in a most extraordinary manner, that his little +red nose was in an unusual glow, that every line in his round bright face +was twisted and curved into an expression of pleased surprise, and that +his whole countenance was radiant with glee? I was still more surprised +to see my housekeeper, who usually preserves a very staid air, and stands +somewhat upon her dignity, peeping round the hedge at the bottom of the +walk, and exchanging nods and smiles with the barber, who twice or thrice +looked over his shoulder for that purpose. I could conceive no +announcement to which these appearances could be the prelude, unless it +were that they had married each other that morning. + +I was, consequently, a little disappointed when it only came out that +there was a gentleman in the house who wished to speak with me. + +‘And who is it?’ said I. + +The barber, with his face screwed up still tighter than before, replied +that the gentleman would not send his name, but wished to see me. I +pondered for a moment, wondering who this visitor might be, and I +remarked that he embraced the opportunity of exchanging another nod with +the housekeeper, who still lingered in the distance. + +‘Well!’ said I, ‘bid the gentleman come here.’ + +This seemed to be the consummation of the barber’s hopes, for he turned +sharp round, and actually ran away. + +Now, my sight is not very good at a distance, and therefore when the +gentleman first appeared in the walk, I was not quite clear whether he +was a stranger to me or otherwise. He was an elderly gentleman, but came +tripping along in the pleasantest manner conceivable, avoiding the +garden-roller and the borders of the beds with inimitable dexterity, +picking his way among the flower-pots, and smiling with unspeakable good +humour. Before he was half-way up the walk he began to salute me; then I +thought I knew him; but when he came towards me with his hat in his hand, +the sun shining on his bald head, his bland face, his bright spectacles, +his fawn-coloured tights, and his black gaiters,—then my heart warmed +towards him, and I felt quite certain that it was Mr. Pickwick. + +‘My dear sir,’ said that gentleman as I rose to receive him, ‘pray be +seated. Pray sit down. Now, do not stand on my account. I must insist +upon it, really.’ With these words Mr. Pickwick gently pressed me down +into my seat, and taking my hand in his, shook it again and again with a +warmth of manner perfectly irresistible. I endeavoured to express in my +welcome something of that heartiness and pleasure which the sight of him +awakened, and made him sit down beside me. All this time he kept +alternately releasing my hand and grasping it again, and surveying me +through his spectacles with such a beaming countenance as I never till +then beheld. + + [Picture: Mr. Pickwick introduces himself to Master Humphrey] + +‘You knew me directly!’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘What a pleasure it is to +think that you knew me directly!’ + +I remarked that I had read his adventures very often, and his features +were quite familiar to me from the published portraits. As I thought it +a good opportunity of adverting to the circumstance, I condoled with him +upon the various libels on his character which had found their way into +print. Mr. Pickwick shook his head, and for a moment looked very +indignant, but smiling again directly, added that no doubt I was +acquainted with Cervantes’s introduction to the second part of Don +Quixote, and that it fully expressed his sentiments on the subject. + +‘But now,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘don’t you wonder how I found you out?’ + +‘I shall never wonder, and, with your good leave, never know,’ said I, +smiling in my turn. ‘It is enough for me that you give me this +gratification. I have not the least desire that you should tell me by +what means I have obtained it.’ + +‘You are very kind,’ returned Mr. Pickwick, shaking me by the hand again; +‘you are so exactly what I expected! But for what particular purpose do +you think I have sought you, my dear sir? Now what _do_ you think I have +come for?’ + +Mr. Pickwick put this question as though he were persuaded that it was +morally impossible that I could by any means divine the deep purpose of +his visit, and that it must be hidden from all human ken. Therefore, +although I was rejoiced to think that I had anticipated his drift, I +feigned to be quite ignorant of it, and after a brief consideration shook +my head despairingly. + +‘What should you say,’ said Mr. Pickwick, laying the forefinger of his +left hand upon my coat-sleeve, and looking at me with his head thrown +back, and a little on one side,—‘what should you say if I confessed that +after reading your account of yourself and your little society, I had +come here, a humble candidate for one of those empty chairs?’ + +‘I should say,’ I returned, ‘that I know of only one circumstance which +could still further endear that little society to me, and that would be +the associating with it my old friend,—for you must let me call you +so,—my old friend, Mr. Pickwick.’ + +As I made him this answer every feature of Mr. Pickwick’s face fused +itself into one all-pervading expression of delight. After shaking me +heartily by both hands at once, he patted me gently on the back, and +then—I well understood why—coloured up to the eyes, and hoped with great +earnestness of manner that he had not hurt me. + +If he had, I would have been content that he should have repeated the +offence a hundred times rather than suppose so; but as he had not, I had +no difficulty in changing the subject by making an inquiry which had been +upon my lips twenty times already. + +‘You have not told me,’ said I, ‘anything about Sam Weller.’ + +‘O! Sam,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, ‘is the same as ever. The same true, +faithful fellow that he ever was. What should I tell you about Sam, my +dear sir, except that he is more indispensable to my happiness and +comfort every day of my life?’ + +‘And Mr. Weller senior?’ said I. + +‘Old Mr. Weller,’ returned Mr. Pickwick, ‘is in no respect more altered +than Sam, unless it be that he is a little more opinionated than he was +formerly, and perhaps at times more talkative. He spends a good deal of +his time now in our neighbourhood, and has so constituted himself a part +of my bodyguard, that when I ask permission for Sam to have a seat in +your kitchen on clock nights (supposing your three friends think me +worthy to fill one of the chairs), I am afraid I must often include Mr. +Weller too.’ + +I very readily pledged myself to give both Sam and his father a free +admission to my house at all hours and seasons, and this point settled, +we fell into a lengthy conversation which was carried on with as little +reserve on both sides as if we had been intimate friends from our youth, +and which conveyed to me the comfortable assurance that Mr. Pickwick’s +buoyancy of spirit, and indeed all his old cheerful characteristics, were +wholly unimpaired. As he had spoken of the consent of my friends as +being yet in abeyance, I repeatedly assured him that his proposal was +certain to receive their most joyful sanction, and several times +entreated that he would give me leave to introduce him to Jack Redburn +and Mr. Miles (who were near at hand) without further ceremony. + +To this proposal, however, Mr. Pickwick’s delicacy would by no means +allow him to accede, for he urged that his eligibility must be formally +discussed, and that, until this had been done, he could not think of +obtruding himself further. The utmost I could obtain from him was a +promise that he would attend upon our next night of meeting, that I might +have the pleasure of presenting him immediately on his election. + +Mr. Pickwick, having with many blushes placed in my hands a small roll of +paper, which he termed his ‘qualification,’ put a great many questions to +me touching my friends, and particularly Jack Redburn, whom he repeatedly +termed ‘a fine fellow,’ and in whose favour I could see he was strongly +predisposed. When I had satisfied him on these points, I took him up +into my room, that he might make acquaintance with the old chamber which +is our place of meeting. + +‘And this,’ said Mr. Pickwick, stopping short, ‘is the clock! Dear me! +And this is really the old clock!’ + +I thought he would never have come away from it. After advancing towards +it softly, and laying his hand upon it with as much respect and as many +smiling looks as if it were alive, he set himself to consider it in every +possible direction, now mounting on a chair to look at the top, now going +down upon his knees to examine the bottom, now surveying the sides with +his spectacles almost touching the case, and now trying to peep between +it and the wall to get a slight view of the back. Then he would retire a +pace or two and look up at the dial to see it go, and then draw near +again and stand with his head on one side to hear it tick: never failing +to glance towards me at intervals of a few seconds each, and nod his head +with such complacent gratification as I am quite unable to describe. His +admiration was not confined to the clock either, but extended itself to +every article in the room; and really, when he had gone through them +every one, and at last sat himself down in all the six chairs, one after +another, to try how they felt, I never saw such a picture of good-humour +and happiness as he presented, from the top of his shining head down to +the very last button of his gaiters. + +I should have been well pleased, and should have had the utmost enjoyment +of his company, if he had remained with me all day, but my favourite, +striking the hour, reminded him that he must take his leave. I could not +forbear telling him once more how glad he had made me, and we shook hands +all the way down-stairs. + +We had no sooner arrived in the Hall than my housekeeper, gliding out of +her little room (she had changed her gown and cap, I observed), greeted +Mr. Pickwick with her best smile and courtesy; and the barber, feigning +to be accidentally passing on his way out, made him a vast number of +bows. When the housekeeper courtesied, Mr. Pickwick bowed with the +utmost politeness, and when he bowed, the housekeeper courtesied again; +between the housekeeper and the barber, I should say that Mr. Pickwick +faced about and bowed with undiminished affability fifty times at least. + +I saw him to the door; an omnibus was at the moment passing the corner of +the lane, which Mr. Pickwick hailed and ran after with extraordinary +nimbleness. When he had got about half-way, he turned his head, and +seeing that I was still looking after him and that I waved my hand, +stopped, evidently irresolute whether to come back and shake hands again, +or to go on. The man behind the omnibus shouted, and Mr. Pickwick ran a +little way towards him: then he looked round at me, and ran a little way +back again. Then there was another shout, and he turned round once more +and ran the other way. After several of these vibrations, the man +settled the question by taking Mr. Pickwick by the arm and putting him +into the carriage; but his last action was to let down the window and +wave his hat to me as it drove off. + +I lost no time in opening the parcel he had left with me. The following +were its contents:— + + + +MR. PICKWICK’S TALE + + +A good many years have passed away since old John Podgers lived in the +town of Windsor, where he was born, and where, in course of time, he came +to be comfortably and snugly buried. You may be sure that in the time of +King James the First, Windsor was a very quaint queer old town, and you +may take it upon my authority that John Podgers was a very quaint queer +old fellow; consequently he and Windsor fitted each other to a nicety, +and seldom parted company even for half a day. + +John Podgers was broad, sturdy, Dutch-built, short, and a very hard +eater, as men of his figure often are. Being a hard sleeper likewise, he +divided his time pretty equally between these two recreations, always +falling asleep when he had done eating, and always taking another turn at +the trencher when he had done sleeping, by which means he grew more +corpulent and more drowsy every day of his life. Indeed it used to be +currently reported that when he sauntered up and down the sunny side of +the street before dinner (as he never failed to do in fair weather), he +enjoyed his soundest nap; but many people held this to be a fiction, as +he had several times been seen to look after fat oxen on market-days, and +had even been heard, by persons of good credit and reputation, to chuckle +at the sight, and say to himself with great glee, ‘Live beef, live beef!’ +It was upon this evidence that the wisest people in Windsor (beginning +with the local authorities of course) held that John Podgers was a man of +strong, sound sense, not what is called smart, perhaps, and it might be +of a rather lazy and apoplectic turn, but still a man of solid parts, and +one who meant much more than he cared to show. This impression was +confirmed by a very dignified way he had of shaking his head and +imparting, at the same time, a pendulous motion to his double chin; in +short, he passed for one of those people who, being plunged into the +Thames, would make no vain efforts to set it afire, but would straightway +flop down to the bottom with a deal of gravity, and be highly respected +in consequence by all good men. + +Being well to do in the world, and a peaceful widower,—having a great +appetite, which, as he could afford to gratify it, was a luxury and no +inconvenience, and a power of going to sleep, which, as he had no +occasion to keep awake, was a most enviable faculty,—you will readily +suppose that John Podgers was a happy man. But appearances are often +deceptive when they least seem so, and the truth is that, notwithstanding +his extreme sleekness, he was rendered uneasy in his mind and exceedingly +uncomfortable by a constant apprehension that beset him night and day. + +You know very well that in those times there flourished divers evil old +women who, under the name of Witches, spread great disorder through the +land, and inflicted various dismal tortures upon Christian men; sticking +pins and needles into them when they least expected it, and causing them +to walk in the air with their feet upwards, to the great terror of their +wives and families, who were naturally very much disconcerted when the +master of the house unexpectedly came home, knocking at the door with his +heels and combing his hair on the scraper. These were their commonest +pranks, but they every day played a hundred others, of which none were +less objectionable, and many were much more so, being improper besides; +the result was that vengeance was denounced against all old women, with +whom even the king himself had no sympathy (as he certainly ought to have +had), for with his own most Gracious hand he penned a most Gracious +consignment of them to everlasting wrath, and devised most Gracious means +for their confusion and slaughter, in virtue whereof scarcely a day +passed but one witch at the least was most graciously hanged, drowned, or +roasted in some part of his dominions. Still the press teemed with +strange and terrible news from the North or the South, or the East or the +West, relative to witches and their unhappy victims in some corner of the +country, and the Public’s hair stood on end to that degree that it lifted +its hat off its head, and made its face pale with terror. + +You may believe that the little town of Windsor did not escape the +general contagion. The inhabitants boiled a witch on the king’s birthday +and sent a bottle of the broth to court, with a dutiful address +expressive of their loyalty. The king, being rather frightened by the +present, piously bestowed it upon the Archbishop of Canterbury, and +returned an answer to the address, wherein he gave them golden rules for +discovering witches, and laid great stress upon certain protecting +charms, and especially horseshoes. Immediately the towns-people went to +work nailing up horseshoes over every door, and so many anxious parents +apprenticed their children to farriers to keep them out of harm’s way, +that it became quite a genteel trade, and flourished exceedingly. + +In the midst of all this bustle John Podgers ate and slept as usual, but +shook his head a great deal oftener than was his custom, and was observed +to look at the oxen less, and at the old women more. He had a little +shelf put up in his sitting-room, whereon was displayed, in a row which +grew longer every week, all the witchcraft literature of the time; he +grew learned in charms and exorcisms, hinted at certain questionable +females on broomsticks whom he had seen from his chamber window, riding +in the air at night, and was in constant terror of being bewitched. At +length, from perpetually dwelling upon this one idea, which, being alone +in his head, had all its own way, the fear of witches became the single +passion of his life. He, who up to that time had never known what it was +to dream, began to have visions of witches whenever he fell asleep; +waking, they were incessantly present to his imagination likewise; and, +sleeping or waking, he had not a moment’s peace. He began to set +witch-traps in the highway, and was often seen lying in wait round the +corner for hours together, to watch their effect. These engines were of +simple construction, usually consisting of two straws disposed in the +form of a cross, or a piece of a Bible cover with a pinch of salt upon +it; but they were infallible, and if an old woman chanced to stumble over +them (as not unfrequently happened, the chosen spot being a broken and +stony place), John started from a doze, pounced out upon her, and hung +round her neck till assistance arrived, when she was immediately carried +away and drowned. By dint of constantly inveigling old ladies and +disposing of them in this summary manner, he acquired the reputation of a +great public character; and as he received no harm in these pursuits +beyond a scratched face or so, he came, in the course of time, to be +considered witch-proof. + +There was but one person who entertained the least doubt of John +Podgers’s gifts, and that person was his own nephew, a wild, roving young +fellow of twenty who had been brought up in his uncle’s house and lived +there still,—that is to say, when he was at home, which was not as often +as it might have been. As he was an apt scholar, it was he who read +aloud every fresh piece of strange and terrible intelligence that John +Podgers bought; and this he always did of an evening in the little porch +in front of the house, round which the neighbours would flock in crowds +to hear the direful news,—for people like to be frightened, and when they +can be frightened for nothing and at another man’s expense, they like it +all the better. + +One fine midsummer evening, a group of persons were gathered in this +place, listening intently to Will Marks (that was the nephew’s name), as +with his cap very much on one side, his arm coiled slyly round the waist +of a pretty girl who sat beside him, and his face screwed into a comical +expression intended to represent extreme gravity, he read—with Heaven +knows how many embellishments of his own—a dismal account of a gentleman +down in Northamptonshire under the influence of witchcraft and taken +forcible possession of by the Devil, who was playing his very self with +him. John Podgers, in a high sugar-loaf hat and short cloak, filled the +opposite seat, and surveyed the auditory with a look of mingled pride and +horror very edifying to see; while the hearers, with their heads thrust +forward and their mouths open, listened and trembled, and hoped there was +a great deal more to come. Sometimes Will stopped for an instant to look +round upon his eager audience, and then, with a more comical expression +of face than before and a settling of himself comfortably, which included +a squeeze of the young lady before mentioned, he launched into some new +wonder surpassing all the others. + +The setting sun shed his last golden rays upon this little party, who, +absorbed in their present occupation, took no heed of the approach of +night, or the glory in which the day went down, when the sound of a +horse, approaching at a good round trot, invading the silence of the +hour, caused the reader to make a sudden stop, and the listeners to raise +their heads in wonder. Nor was their wonder diminished when a horseman +dashed up to the porch, and abruptly checking his steed, inquired where +one John Podgers dwelt. + +‘Here!’ cried a dozen voices, while a dozen hands pointed out sturdy +John, still basking in the terrors of the pamphlet. + +The rider, giving his bridle to one of those who surrounded him, +dismounted, and approached John, hat in hand, but with great haste. + +‘Whence come ye?’ said John. + +‘From Kingston, master.’ + +‘And wherefore?’ + +‘On most pressing business.’ + +‘Of what nature?’ + +‘Witchcraft.’ + +Witchcraft! Everybody looked aghast at the breathless messenger, and the +breathless messenger looked equally aghast at everybody—except Will +Marks, who, finding himself unobserved, not only squeezed the young lady +again, but kissed her twice. Surely he must have been bewitched himself, +or he never could have done it—and the young lady too, or she never would +have let him. + +‘Witchcraft!’ cried Will, drowning the sound of his last kiss, which was +rather a loud one. + +The messenger turned towards him, and with a frown repeated the word more +solemnly than before; then told his errand, which was, in brief, that the +people of Kingston had been greatly terrified for some nights past by +hideous revels, held by witches beneath the gibbet within a mile of the +town, and related and deposed to by chance wayfarers who had passed +within ear-shot of the spot; that the sound of their voices in their wild +orgies had been plainly heard by many persons; that three old women +laboured under strong suspicion, and that precedents had been consulted +and solemn council had, and it was found that to identify the hags some +single person must watch upon the spot alone; that no single person had +the courage to perform the task; and that he had been despatched express +to solicit John Podgers to undertake it that very night, as being a man +of great renown, who bore a charmed life, and was proof against unholy +spells. + + [Picture: Will Marks reading the News concerning Witches] + +John received this communication with much composure, and said in a few +words, that it would have afforded him inexpressible pleasure to do the +Kingston people so slight a service, if it were not for his unfortunate +propensity to fall asleep, which no man regretted more than himself upon +the present occasion, but which quite settled the question. +Nevertheless, he said, there _was_ a gentleman present (and here he +looked very hard at a tall farrier), who, having been engaged all his +life in the manufacture of horseshoes, must be quite invulnerable to the +power of witches, and who, he had no doubt, from his own reputation for +bravery and good-nature, would readily accept the commission. The +farrier politely thanked him for his good opinion, which it would always +be his study to deserve, but added that, with regard to the present +little matter, he couldn’t think of it on any account, as his departing +on such an errand would certainly occasion the instant death of his wife, +to whom, as they all knew, he was tenderly attached. Now, so far from +this circumstance being notorious, everybody had suspected the reverse, +as the farrier was in the habit of beating his lady rather more than +tender husbands usually do; all the married men present, however, +applauded his resolution with great vehemence, and one and all declared +that they would stop at home and die if needful (which happily it was +not) in defence of their lawful partners. + +This burst of enthusiasm over, they began to look, as by one consent, +toward Will Marks, who, with his cap more on one side than ever, sat +watching the proceedings with extraordinary unconcern. He had never been +heard openly to express his disbelief in witches, but had often cut such +jokes at their expense as left it to be inferred; publicly stating on +several occasions that he considered a broomstick an inconvenient +charger, and one especially unsuited to the dignity of the female +character, and indulging in other free remarks of the same tendency, to +the great amusement of his wild companions. + +As they looked at Will they began to whisper and murmur among themselves, +and at length one man cried, ‘Why don’t you ask Will Marks?’ + +As this was what everybody had been thinking of, they all took up the +word, and cried in concert, ‘Ah! why don’t you ask Will?’ + +‘_He_ don’t care,’ said the farrier. + +‘Not he,’ added another voice in the crowd. + +‘He don’t believe in it, you know,’ sneered a little man with a yellow +face and a taunting nose and chin, which he thrust out from under the arm +of a long man before him. + +‘Besides,’ said a red-faced gentleman with a gruff voice, ‘he’s a single +man.’ + +‘That’s the point!’ said the farrier; and all the married men murmured, +ah! that was it, and they only wished they were single themselves; they +would show him what spirit was, very soon. + +The messenger looked towards Will Marks beseechingly. + +‘It will be a wet night, friend, and my gray nag is tired after +yesterday’s work—’ + +Here there was a general titter. + +‘But,’ resumed Will, looking about him with a smile, ‘if nobody else puts +in a better claim to go, for the credit of the town I am your man, and I +would be, if I had to go afoot. In five minutes I shall be in the +saddle, unless I am depriving any worthy gentleman here of the honour of +the adventure, which I wouldn’t do for the world.’ + +But here arose a double difficulty, for not only did John Podgers combat +the resolution with all the words he had, which were not many, but the +young lady combated it too with all the tears she had, which were very +many indeed. Will, however, being inflexible, parried his uncle’s +objections with a joke, and coaxed the young lady into a smile in three +short whispers. As it was plain that he set his mind upon it, and would +go, John Podgers offered him a few first-rate charms out of his own +pocket, which he dutifully declined to accept; and the young lady gave +him a kiss, which he also returned. + +‘You see what a rare thing it is to be married,’ said Will, ‘and how +careful and considerate all these husbands are. There’s not a man among +them but his heart is leaping to forestall me in this adventure, and yet +a strong sense of duty keeps him back. The husbands in this one little +town are a pattern to the world, and so must the wives be too, for that +matter, or they could never boast half the influence they have!’ + +Waiting for no reply to this sarcasm, he snapped his fingers and withdrew +into the house, and thence into the stable, while some busied themselves +in refreshing the messenger, and others in baiting his steed. In less +than the specified time he returned by another way, with a good cloak +hanging over his arm, a good sword girded by his side, and leading his +good horse caparisoned for the journey. + +‘Now,’ said Will, leaping into the saddle at a bound, ‘up and away. Upon +your mettle, friend, and push on. Good night!’ + +He kissed his hand to the girl, nodded to his drowsy uncle, waved his cap +to the rest—and off they flew pell-mell, as if all the witches in England +were in their horses’ legs. They were out of sight in a minute. + +The men who were left behind shook their heads doubtfully, stroked their +chins, and shook their heads again. The farrier said that certainly Will +Marks was a good horseman, nobody should ever say he denied that: but he +was rash, very rash, and there was no telling what the end of it might +be; what did he go for, that was what he wanted to know? He wished the +young fellow no harm, but why did he go? Everybody echoed these words, +and shook their heads again, having done which they wished John Podgers +good night, and straggled home to bed. + +The Kingston people were in their first sleep when Will Marks and his +conductor rode through the town and up to the door of a house where +sundry grave functionaries were assembled, anxiously expecting the +arrival of the renowned Podgers. They were a little disappointed to find +a gay young man in his place; but they put the best face upon the matter, +and gave him full instructions how he was to conceal himself behind the +gibbet, and watch and listen to the witches, and how at a certain time he +was to burst forth and cut and slash among them vigorously, so that the +suspected parties might be found bleeding in their beds next day, and +thoroughly confounded. They gave him a great quantity of wholesome +advice besides, and—which was more to the purpose with Will—a good +supper. All these things being done, and midnight nearly come, they +sallied forth to show him the spot where he was to keep his dreary vigil. + +The night was by this time dark and threatening. There was a rumbling of +distant thunder, and a low sighing of wind among the trees, which was +very dismal. The potentates of the town kept so uncommonly close to Will +that they trod upon his toes, or stumbled against his ankles, or nearly +tripped up his heels at every step he took, and, besides these +annoyances, their teeth chattered so with fear, that he seemed to be +accompanied by a dirge of castanets. + +At last they made a halt at the opening of a lonely, desolate space, and, +pointing to a black object at some distance, asked Will if he saw that, +yonder. + +‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘What then?’ + +Informing him abruptly that it was the gibbet where he was to watch, they +wished him good night in an extremely friendly manner, and ran back as +fast as their feet would carry them. + +Will walked boldly to the gibbet, and, glancing upwards when he came +under it, saw—certainly with satisfaction—that it was empty, and that +nothing dangled from the top but some iron chains, which swung mournfully +to and fro as they were moved by the breeze. After a careful survey of +every quarter he determined to take his station with his face towards the +town; both because that would place him with his back to the wind, and +because, if any trick or surprise were attempted, it would probably come +from that direction in the first instance. Having taken these +precautions, he wrapped his cloak about him so that it left the handle of +his sword free, and ready to his hand, and leaning against the +gallows-tree with his cap not quite so much on one side as it had been +before, took up his position for the night. + + [Picture: Will Marks takes up his position for the night] + + + +SECOND CHAPTER OF MR. PICKWICK’S TALE + + +We left Will Marks leaning under the gibbet with his face towards the +town, scanning the distance with a keen eye, which sought to pierce the +darkness and catch the earliest glimpse of any person or persons that +might approach towards him. But all was quiet, and, save the howling of +the wind as it swept across the heath in gusts, and the creaking of the +chains that dangled above his head, there was no sound to break the +sullen stillness of the night. After half an hour or so this monotony +became more disconcerting to Will than the most furious uproar would have +been, and he heartily wished for some one antagonist with whom he might +have a fair stand-up fight, if it were only to warm himself. + +Truth to tell, it was a bitter wind, and seemed to blow to the very heart +of a man whose blood, heated but now with rapid riding, was the more +sensitive to the chilling blast. Will was a daring fellow, and cared not +a jot for hard knocks or sharp blades; but he could not persuade himself +to move or walk about, having just that vague expectation of a sudden +assault which made it a comfortable thing to have something at his back, +even though that something were a gallows-tree. He had no great faith in +the superstitions of the age, still such of them as occurred to him did +not serve to lighten the time, or to render his situation the more +endurable. He remembered how witches were said to repair at that ghostly +hour to churchyards and gibbets, and such-like dismal spots, to pluck the +bleeding mandrake or scrape the flesh from dead men’s bones, as choice +ingredients for their spells; how, stealing by night to lonely places, +they dug graves with their finger-nails, or anointed themselves before +riding in the air, with a delicate pomatum made of the fat of infants +newly boiled. These, and many other fabled practices of a no less +agreeable nature, and all having some reference to the circumstances in +which he was placed, passed and repassed in quick succession through the +mind of Will Marks, and adding a shadowy dread to that distrust and +watchfulness which his situation inspired, rendered it, upon the whole, +sufficiently uncomfortable. As he had foreseen, too, the rain began to +descend heavily, and driving before the wind in a thick mist, obscured +even those few objects which the darkness of the night had before +imperfectly revealed. + +‘Look!’ shrieked a voice. ‘Great Heaven, it has fallen down, and stands +erect as if it lived!’ + +The speaker was close behind him; the voice was almost at his ear. Will +threw off his cloak, drew his sword, and darting swiftly round, seized a +woman by the wrist, who, recoiling from him with a dreadful shriek, fell +struggling upon her knees. Another woman, clad, like her whom he had +grasped, in mourning garments, stood rooted to the spot on which they +were, gazing upon his face with wild and glaring eyes that quite appalled +him. + +‘Say,’ cried Will, when they had confronted each other thus for some +time, ‘what are ye?’ + +‘Say what are _you_,’ returned the woman, ‘who trouble even this obscene +resting-place of the dead, and strip the gibbet of its honoured burden? +Where is the body?’ + +He looked in wonder and affright from the woman who questioned him to the +other whose arm he clutched. + +‘Where is the body?’ repeated the questioner more firmly than before. +‘You wear no livery which marks you for the hireling of the government. +You are no friend to us, or I should recognise you, for the friends of +such as we are few in number. What are you then, and wherefore are you +here?’ + +‘I am no foe to the distressed and helpless,’ said Will. ‘Are ye among +that number? ye should be by your looks.’ + +‘We are!’ was the answer. + +‘Is it ye who have been wailing and weeping here under cover of the +night?’ said Will. + +‘It is,’ replied the woman sternly; and pointing, as she spoke, towards +her companion, ‘she mourns a husband, and I a brother. Even the bloody +law that wreaks its vengeance on the dead does not make that a crime, and +if it did ’twould be alike to us who are past its fear or favour.’ + +Will glanced at the two females, and could barely discern that the one +whom he addressed was much the elder, and that the other was young and of +a slight figure. Both were deadly pale, their garments wet and worn, +their hair dishevelled and streaming in the wind, themselves bowed down +with grief and misery; their whole appearance most dejected, wretched, +and forlorn. A sight so different from any he had expected to encounter +touched him to the quick, and all idea of anything but their pitiable +condition vanished before it. + +‘I am a rough, blunt yeoman,’ said Will. ‘Why I came here is told in a +word; you have been overheard at a distance in the silence of the night, +and I have undertaken a watch for hags or spirits. I came here expecting +an adventure, and prepared to go through with any. If there be aught +that I can do to help or aid you, name it, and on the faith of a man who +can be secret and trusty, I will stand by you to the death.’ + +‘How comes this gibbet to be empty?’ asked the elder female. + +‘I swear to you,’ replied Will, ‘that I know as little as yourself. But +this I know, that when I came here an hour ago or so, it was as it is +now; and if, as I gather from your question, it was not so last night, +sure I am that it has been secretly disturbed without the knowledge of +the folks in yonder town. Bethink you, therefore, whether you have no +friends in league with you or with him on whom the law has done its +worst, by whom these sad remains have been removed for burial.’ + +The women spoke together, and Will retired a pace or two while they +conversed apart. He could hear them sob and moan, and saw that they +wrung their hands in fruitless agony. He could make out little that they +said, but between whiles he gathered enough to assure him that his +suggestion was not very wide of the mark, and that they not only +suspected by whom the body had been removed, but also whither it had been +conveyed. When they had been in conversation a long time, they turned +towards him once more. This time the younger female spoke. + +‘You have offered us your help?’ + +‘I have.’ + +‘And given a pledge that you are still willing to redeem?’ + +‘Yes. So far as I may, keeping all plots and conspiracies at arm’s +length.’ + +‘Follow us, friend.’ + +Will, whose self-possession was now quite restored, needed no second +bidding, but with his drawn sword in his hand, and his cloak so muffled +over his left arm as to serve for a kind of shield without offering any +impediment to its free action, suffered them to lead the way. Through +mud and mire, and wind and rain, they walked in silence a full mile. At +length they turned into a dark lane, where, suddenly starting out from +beneath some trees where he had taken shelter, a man appeared, having in +his charge three saddled horses. One of these (his own apparently), in +obedience to a whisper from the women, he consigned to Will, who, seeing +that they mounted, mounted also. Then, without a word spoken, they rode +on together, leaving the attendant behind. + +They made no halt nor slackened their pace until they arrived near +Putney. At a large wooden house which stood apart from any other they +alighted, and giving their horses to one who was already waiting, passed +in by a side door, and so up some narrow creaking stairs into a small +panelled chamber, where Will was left alone. He had not been here very +long, when the door was softly opened, and there entered to him a +cavalier whose face was concealed beneath a black mask. + +Will stood upon his guard, and scrutinised this figure from head to foot. +The form was that of a man pretty far advanced in life, but of a firm and +stately carriage. His dress was of a rich and costly kind, but so soiled +and disordered that it was scarcely to be recognised for one of those +gorgeous suits which the expensive taste and fashion of the time +prescribed for men of any rank or station. + +He was booted and spurred, and bore about him even as many tokens of the +state of the roads as Will himself. All this he noted, while the eyes +behind the mask regarded him with equal attention. This survey over, the +cavalier broke silence. + +‘Thou’rt young and bold, and wouldst be richer than thou art?’ + +‘The two first I am,’ returned Will. ‘The last I have scarcely thought +of. But be it so. Say that I would be richer than I am; what then?’ + +‘The way lies before thee now,’ replied the Mask. + +‘Show it me.’ + +‘First let me inform thee, that thou wert brought here to-night lest thou +shouldst too soon have told thy tale to those who placed thee on the +watch.’ + +‘I thought as much when I followed,’ said Will. ‘But I am no blab, not +I.’ + +‘Good,’ returned the Mask. ‘Now listen. He who was to have executed the +enterprise of burying that body, which, as thou hast suspected, was taken +down to-night, has left us in our need.’ + +Will nodded, and thought within himself that if the Mask were to attempt +to play any tricks, the first eyelet-hole on the left-hand side of his +doublet, counting from the buttons up the front, would be a very good +place in which to pink him neatly. + +‘Thou art here, and the emergency is desperate. I propose his task to +thee. Convey the body (now coffined in this house), by means that I +shall show, to the Church of St. Dunstan in London to-morrow night, and +thy service shall be richly paid. Thou’rt about to ask whose corpse it +is. Seek not to know. I warn thee, seek not to know. Felons hang in +chains on every moor and heath. Believe, as others do, that this was +one, and ask no further. The murders of state policy, its victims or +avengers, had best remain unknown to such as thee.’ + +‘The mystery of this service,’ said Will, ‘bespeaks its danger. What is +the reward?’ + +‘One hundred golden unities,’ replied the cavalier. ‘The danger to one +who cannot be recognised as the friend of a fallen cause is not great, +but there is some hazard to be run. Decide between that and the reward.’ + +‘What if I refuse?’ said Will. + +‘Depart in peace, in God’s name,’ returned the Mask in a melancholy tone, +‘and keep our secret, remembering that those who brought thee here were +crushed and stricken women, and that those who bade thee go free could +have had thy life with one word, and no man the wiser.’ + +Men were readier to undertake desperate adventures in those times than +they are now. In this case the temptation was great, and the punishment, +even in case of detection, was not likely to be very severe, as Will came +of a loyal stock, and his uncle was in good repute, and a passable tale +to account for his possession of the body and his ignorance of the +identity might be easily devised. + +The cavalier explained that a coveted cart had been prepared for the +purpose; that the time of departure could be arranged so that he should +reach London Bridge at dusk, and proceed through the City after the day +had closed in; that people would be ready at his journey’s end to place +the coffin in a vault without a minute’s delay; that officious inquirers +in the streets would be easily repelled by the tale that he was carrying +for interment the corpse of one who had died of the plague; and in short +showed him every reason why he should succeed, and none why he should +fail. After a time they were joined by another gentleman, masked like +the first, who added new arguments to those which had been already urged; +the wretched wife, too, added her tears and prayers to their calmer +representations; and in the end, Will, moved by compassion and +good-nature, by a love of the marvellous, by a mischievous anticipation +of the terrors of the Kingston people when he should be missing next day, +and finally, by the prospect of gain, took upon himself the task, and +devoted all his energies to its successful execution. + +The following night, when it was quite dark, the hollow echoes of old +London Bridge responded to the rumbling of the cart which contained the +ghastly load, the object of Will Marks’ care. Sufficiently disguised to +attract no attention by his garb, Will walked at the horse’s head, as +unconcerned as a man could be who was sensible that he had now arrived at +the most dangerous part of his undertaking, but full of boldness and +confidence. + +It was now eight o’clock. After nine, none could walk the streets +without danger of their lives, and even at this hour, robberies and +murder were of no uncommon occurrence. The shops upon the bridge were +all closed; the low wooden arches thrown across the way were like so many +black pits, in every one of which ill-favoured fellows lurked in knots of +three or four; some standing upright against the wall, lying in wait; +others skulking in gateways, and thrusting out their uncombed heads and +scowling eyes: others crossing and recrossing, and constantly jostling +both horse and man to provoke a quarrel; others stealing away and +summoning their companions in a low whistle. Once, even in that short +passage, there was the noise of scuffling and the clash of swords behind +him, but Will, who knew the City and its ways, kept straight on and +scarcely turned his head. + +The streets being unpaved, the rain of the night before had converted +them into a perfect quagmire, which the splashing water-spouts from the +gables, and the filth and offal cast from the different houses, swelled +in no small degree. These odious matters being left to putrefy in the +close and heavy air, emitted an insupportable stench, to which every +court and passage poured forth a contribution of its own. Many parts, +even of the main streets, with their projecting stories tottering +overhead and nearly shutting out the sky, were more like huge chimneys +than open ways. At the corners of some of these, great bonfires were +burning to prevent infection from the plague, of which it was rumoured +that some citizens had lately died; and few, who availing themselves of +the light thus afforded paused for a moment to look around them, would +have been disposed to doubt the existence of the disease, or wonder at +its dreadful visitations. + +But it was not in such scenes as these, or even in the deep and miry +road, that Will Marks found the chief obstacles to his progress. There +were kites and ravens feeding in the streets (the only scavengers the +City kept), who, scenting what he carried, followed the cart or fluttered +on its top, and croaked their knowledge of its burden and their ravenous +appetite for prey. There were distant fires, where the poor wood and +plaster tenements wasted fiercely, and whither crowds made their way, +clamouring eagerly for plunder, beating down all who came within their +reach, and yelling like devils let loose. There were single-handed men +flying from bands of ruffians, who pursued them with naked weapons, and +hunted them savagely; there were drunken, desperate robbers issuing from +their dens and staggering through the open streets where no man dared +molest them; there were vagabond servitors returning from the Bear +Garden, where had been good sport that day, dragging after them their +torn and bleeding dogs, or leaving them to die and rot upon the road. +Nothing was abroad but cruelty, violence, and disorder. + +Many were the interruptions which Will Marks encountered from these +stragglers, and many the narrow escapes he made. Now some stout bully +would take his seat upon the cart, insisting to be driven to his own +home, and now two or three men would come down upon him together, and +demand that on peril of his life he showed them what he had inside. Then +a party of the city watch, upon their rounds, would draw across the road, +and not satisfied with his tale, question him closely, and revenge +themselves by a little cuffing and hustling for maltreatment sustained at +other hands that night. All these assailants had to be rebutted, some by +fair words, some by foul, and some by blows. But Will Marks was not the +man to be stopped or turned back now he had penetrated so far, and though +he got on slowly, still he made his way down Fleet-street and reached the +church at last. + +As he had been forewarned, all was in readiness. Directly he stopped, +the coffin was removed by four men, who appeared so suddenly that they +seemed to have started from the earth. A fifth mounted the cart, and +scarcely allowing Will time to snatch from it a little bundle containing +such of his own clothes as he had thrown off on assuming his disguise, +drove briskly away. Will never saw cart or man again. + +He followed the body into the church, and it was well he lost no time in +doing so, for the door was immediately closed. There was no light in the +building save that which came from a couple of torches borne by two men +in cloaks, who stood upon the brink of a vault. Each supported a female +figure, and all observed a profound silence. + +By this dim and solemn glare, which made Will feel as though light itself +were dead, and its tomb the dreary arches that frowned above, they placed +the coffin in the vault, with uncovered heads, and closed it up. One of +the torch-bearers then turned to Will, and stretched forth his hand, in +which was a purse of gold. Something told him directly that those were +the same eyes which he had seen beneath the mask. + + [Picture: Will Marks arrives at the Church] + +‘Take it,’ said the cavalier in a low voice, ‘and be happy. Though these +have been hasty obsequies, and no priest has blessed the work, there will +not be the less peace with thee thereafter, for having laid his bones +beside those of his little children. Keep thy own counsel, for thy sake +no less than ours, and God be with thee!’ + +‘The blessing of a widowed mother on thy head, good friend!’ cried the +younger lady through her tears; ‘the blessing of one who has now no hope +or rest but in this grave!’ + +Will stood with the purse in his hand, and involuntarily made a gesture +as though he would return it, for though a thoughtless fellow, he was of +a frank and generous nature. But the two gentlemen, extinguishing their +torches, cautioned him to be gone, as their common safety would be +endangered by a longer delay; and at the same time their retreating +footsteps sounded through the church. He turned, therefore, towards the +point at which he had entered, and seeing by a faint gleam in the +distance that the door was again partially open, groped his way towards +it and so passed into the street. + +Meantime the local authorities of Kingston had kept watch and ward all +the previous night, fancying every now and then that dismal shrieks were +borne towards them on the wind, and frequently winking to each other, and +drawing closer to the fire as they drank the health of the lonely +sentinel, upon whom a clerical gentleman present was especially severe by +reason of his levity and youthful folly. Two or three of the gravest in +company, who were of a theological turn, propounded to him the question, +whether such a character was not but poorly armed for single combat with +the Devil, and whether he himself would not have been a stronger +opponent; but the clerical gentleman, sharply reproving them for their +presumption in discussing such questions, clearly showed that a fitter +champion than Will could scarcely have been selected, not only for that +being a child of Satan, he was the less likely to be alarmed by the +appearance of his own father, but because Satan himself would be at his +ease in such company, and would not scruple to kick up his heels to an +extent which it was quite certain he would never venture before clerical +eyes, under whose influence (as was notorious) he became quite a tame and +milk-and-water character. + +But when next morning arrived, and with it no Will Marks, and when a +strong party repairing to the spot, as a strong party ventured to do in +broad day, found Will gone and the gibbet empty, matters grew serious +indeed. The day passing away and no news arriving, and the night going +on also without any intelligence, the thing grew more tremendous still; +in short, the neighbourhood worked itself up to such a comfortable pitch +of mystery and horror, that it is a great question whether the general +feeling was not one of excessive disappointment, when, on the second +morning, Will Marks returned. + +However this may be, back Will came in a very cool and collected state, +and appearing not to trouble himself much about anybody except old John +Podgers, who, having been sent for, was sitting in the Town Hall crying +slowly, and dozing between whiles. Having embraced his uncle and assured +him of his safety, Will mounted on a table and told his story to the +crowd. + +And surely they would have been the most unreasonable crowd that ever +assembled together, if they had been in the least respect disappointed +with the tale he told them; for besides describing the Witches’ Dance to +the minutest motion of their legs, and performing it in character on the +table, with the assistance of a broomstick, he related how they had +carried off the body in a copper caldron, and so bewitched him, that he +lost his senses until he found himself lying under a hedge at least ten +miles off, whence he had straightway returned as they then beheld. The +story gained such universal applause that it soon afterwards brought down +express from London the great witch-finder of the age, the Heaven-born +Hopkins, who having examined Will closely on several points, pronounced +it the most extraordinary and the best accredited witch-story ever known, +under which title it was published at the Three Bibles on London Bridge, +in small quarto, with a view of the caldron from an original drawing, and +a portrait of the clerical gentleman as he sat by the fire. + +On one point Will was particularly careful: and that was to describe for +the witches he had seen, three impossible old females, whose likenesses +never were or will be. Thus he saved the lives of the suspected parties, +and of all other old women who were dragged before him to be identified. + +This circumstance occasioned John Podgers much grief and sorrow, until +happening one day to cast his eyes upon his housekeeper, and observing +her to be plainly afflicted with rheumatism, he procured her to be burnt +as an undoubted witch. For this service to the state he was immediately +knighted, and became from that time Sir John Podgers. + +Will Marks never gained any clue to the mystery in which he had been an +actor, nor did any inscription in the church, which he often visited +afterwards, nor any of the limited inquiries that he dared to make, yield +him the least assistance. As he kept his own secret, he was compelled to +spend the gold discreetly and sparingly. In the course of time he +married the young lady of whom I have already told you, whose maiden name +is not recorded, with whom he led a prosperous and happy life. Years and +years after this adventure, it was his wont to tell her upon a stormy +night that it was a great comfort to him to think those bones, to +whomsoever they might have once belonged, were not bleaching in the +troubled air, but were mouldering away with the dust of their own kith +and kindred in a quiet grave. + + + +FURTHER PARTICULARS OF MASTER HUMPHREY’S VISITOR + + +Being very full of Mr. Pickwick’s application, and highly pleased with +the compliment he had paid me, it will be readily supposed that long +before our next night of meeting I communicated it to my three friends, +who unanimously voted his admission into our body. We all looked forward +with some impatience to the occasion which would enroll him among us, but +I am greatly mistaken if Jack Redburn and myself were not by many degrees +the most impatient of the party. + +At length the night came, and a few minutes after ten Mr. Pickwick’s +knock was heard at the street-door. He was shown into a lower room, and +I directly took my crooked stick and went to accompany him up-stairs, in +order that he might be presented with all honour and formality. + +‘Mr. Pickwick,’ said I, on entering the room, ‘I am rejoiced to see +you,—rejoiced to believe that this is but the opening of a long series of +visits to this house, and but the beginning of a close and lasting +friendship.’ + +That gentleman made a suitable reply with a cordiality and frankness +peculiarly his own, and glanced with a smile towards two persons behind +the door, whom I had not at first observed, and whom I immediately +recognised as Mr. Samuel Weller and his father. + +It was a warm evening, but the elder Mr. Weller was attired, +notwithstanding, in a most capacious greatcoat, and his chin enveloped in +a large speckled shawl, such as is usually worn by stage coachmen on +active service. He looked very rosy and very stout, especially about the +legs, which appeared to have been compressed into his top-boots with some +difficulty. His broad-brimmed hat he held under his left arm, and with +the forefinger of his right hand he touched his forehead a great many +times in acknowledgment of my presence. + +‘I am very glad to see you in such good health, Mr. Weller,’ said I. + +‘Why, thankee, sir,’ returned Mr. Weller, ‘the axle an’t broke yet. We +keeps up a steady pace,—not too sewere, but vith a moderate degree o’ +friction,—and the consekens is that ve’re still a runnin’ and comes in to +the time reg’lar.—My son Samivel, sir, as you may have read on in +history,’ added Mr. Weller, introducing his first-born. + +I received Sam very graciously, but before he could say a word his father +struck in again. + +‘Samivel Veller, sir,’ said the old gentleman, ‘has conferred upon me the +ancient title o’ grandfather vich had long laid dormouse, and wos s’posed +to be nearly hex-tinct in our family. Sammy, relate a anecdote o’ vun o’ +them boys,—that ’ere little anecdote about young Tony sayin’ as he +_would_ smoke a pipe unbeknown to his mother.’ + +‘Be quiet, can’t you?’ said Sam; ‘I never see such a old magpie—never!’ + + [Picture: Tony Weller and his Grandson] + +‘That ’ere Tony is the blessedest boy,’ said Mr. Weller, heedless of this +rebuff, ‘the blessedest boy as ever _I_ see in _my_ days! of all the +charmin’est infants as ever I heerd tell on, includin’ them as was +kivered over by the robin-redbreasts arter they’d committed sooicide with +blackberries, there never wos any like that ’ere little Tony. He’s +alvays a playin’ vith a quart pot, that boy is! To see him a settin’ +down on the doorstep pretending to drink out of it, and fetching a long +breath artervards, and smoking a bit of firevood, and sayin’, “Now I’m +grandfather,”—to see him a doin’ that at two year old is better than any +play as wos ever wrote. “Now I’m grandfather!” He wouldn’t take a pint +pot if you wos to make him a present on it, but he gets his quart, and +then he says, “Now I’m grandfather!”’ + +Mr. Weller was so overpowered by this picture that he straightway fell +into a most alarming fit of coughing, which must certainly have been +attended with some fatal result but for the dexterity and promptitude of +Sam, who, taking a firm grasp of the shawl just under his father’s chin, +shook him to and fro with great violence, at the same time administering +some smart blows between his shoulders. By this curious mode of +treatment Mr. Weller was finally recovered, but with a very crimson face, +and in a state of great exhaustion. + +‘He’ll do now, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, who had been in some alarm +himself. + +‘He’ll do, sir!’ cried Sam, looking reproachfully at his parent. ‘Yes, +he _will_ do one o’ these days,—he’ll do for his-self and then he’ll wish +he hadn’t. Did anybody ever see sich a inconsiderate old file,—laughing +into conwulsions afore company, and stamping on the floor as if he’d +brought his own carpet vith him and wos under a wager to punch the +pattern out in a given time? He’ll begin again in a minute. There—he’s +a goin’ off—I said he would!’ + +In fact, Mr. Weller, whose mind was still running upon his precocious +grandson, was seen to shake his head from side to side, while a laugh, +working like an earthquake, below the surface, produced various +extraordinary appearances in his face, chest, and shoulders,—the more +alarming because unaccompanied by any noise whatever. These emotions, +however, gradually subsided, and after three or four short relapses he +wiped his eyes with the cuff of his coat, and looked about him with +tolerable composure. + +‘Afore the governor vith-draws,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘there is a pint, +respecting vich Sammy has a qvestion to ask. Vile that qvestion is a +perwadin’ this here conwersation, p’raps the genl’men vill permit me to +re-tire.’ + +‘Wot are you goin’ away for?’ demanded Sam, seizing his father by the +coat-tail. + +‘I never see such a undootiful boy as you, Samivel,’ returned Mr. Weller. +‘Didn’t you make a solemn promise, amountin’ almost to a speeches o’ wow, +that you’d put that ’ere qvestion on my account?’ + +‘Well, I’m agreeable to do it,’ said Sam, ‘but not if you go cuttin’ away +like that, as the bull turned round and mildly observed to the drover ven +they wos a goadin’ him into the butcher’s door. The fact is, sir,’ said +Sam, addressing me, ‘that he wants to know somethin’ respectin’ that ’ere +lady as is housekeeper here.’ + +‘Ay. What is that?’ + +‘Vy, sir,’ said Sam, grinning still more, ‘he wishes to know vether she—’ + +‘In short,’ interposed old Mr. Weller decisively, a perspiration breaking +out upon his forehead, ‘vether that ’ere old creetur is or is not a +widder.’ + +Mr. Pickwick laughed heartily, and so did I, as I replied decisively, +that ‘my housekeeper was a spinster.’ + +‘There!’ cried Sam, ‘now you’re satisfied. You hear she’s a spinster.’ + +‘A wot?’ said his father, with deep scorn. + +‘A spinster,’ replied Sam. + +Mr. Weller looked very hard at his son for a minute or two, and then +said, + +‘Never mind vether she makes jokes or not, that’s no matter. Wot I say +is, is that ’ere female a widder, or is she not?’ + +‘Wot do you mean by her making jokes?’ demanded Sam, quite aghast at the +obscurity of his parent’s speech. + +‘Never you mind, Samivel,’ returned Mr. Weller gravely; ‘puns may be wery +good things or they may be wery bad ’uns, and a female may be none the +better or she may be none the vurse for making of ’em; that’s got nothing +to do vith widders.’ + +‘Wy now,’ said Sam, looking round, ‘would anybody believe as a man at his +time o’ life could be running his head agin spinsters and punsters being +the same thing?’ + +‘There an’t a straw’s difference between ’em,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘Your +father didn’t drive a coach for so many years, not to be ekal to his own +langvidge as far as _that_ goes, Sammy.’ + +Avoiding the question of etymology, upon which the old gentleman’s mind +was quite made up, he was several times assured that the housekeeper had +never been married. He expressed great satisfaction on hearing this, and +apologised for the question, remarking that he had been greatly terrified +by a widow not long before, and that his natural timidity was increased +in consequence. + +‘It wos on the rail,’ said Mr. Weller, with strong emphasis; ‘I wos a +goin’ down to Birmingham by the rail, and I wos locked up in a close +carriage vith a living widder. Alone we wos; the widder and me wos +alone; and I believe it wos only because we _wos_ alone and there wos no +clergyman in the conwayance, that that ’ere widder didn’t marry me afore +ve reached the half-way station. Ven I think how she began a screaming +as we wos a goin’ under them tunnels in the dark,—how she kept on a +faintin’ and ketchin’ hold o’ me,—and how I tried to bust open the door +as was tight-locked and perwented all escape—Ah! It was a awful thing, +most awful!’ + +Mr. Weller was so very much overcome by this retrospect that he was +unable, until he had wiped his brow several times, to return any reply to +the question whether he approved of railway communication, +notwithstanding that it would appear from the answer which he ultimately +gave, that he entertained strong opinions on the subject. + +‘I con-sider,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘that the rail is unconstitootional and +an inwaser o’ priwileges, and I should wery much like to know what that +’ere old Carter as once stood up for our liberties and wun ’em too,—I +should like to know wot he vould say, if he wos alive now, to Englishmen +being locked up vith widders, or with anybody again their wills. Wot a +old Carter would have said, a old Coachman may say, and I as-sert that in +that pint o’ view alone, the rail is an inwaser. As to the comfort, +vere’s the comfort o’ sittin’ in a harm-cheer lookin’ at brick walls or +heaps o’ mud, never comin’ to a public-house, never seein’ a glass o’ +ale, never goin’ through a pike, never meetin’ a change o’ no kind +(horses or othervise), but alvays comin’ to a place, ven you come to one +at all, the wery picter o’ the last, vith the same p’leesemen standing +about, the same blessed old bell a ringin’, the same unfort’nate people +standing behind the bars, a waitin’ to be let in; and everythin’ the same +except the name, vich is wrote up in the same sized letters as the last +name, and vith the same colours. As to the _h_onour and dignity o’ +travellin’, vere can that be vithout a coachman; and wot’s the rail to +sich coachmen and guards as is sometimes forced to go by it, but a +outrage and a insult? As to the pace, wot sort o’ pace do you think I, +Tony Veller, could have kept a coach goin’ at, for five hundred thousand +pound a mile, paid in adwance afore the coach was on the road? And as to +the ingein,—a nasty, wheezin’, creakin’, gaspin’, puffin’, bustin’ +monster, alvays out o’ breath, vith a shiny green-and-gold back, like a +unpleasant beetle in that ’ere gas magnifier,—as to the ingein as is +alvays a pourin’ out red-hot coals at night, and black smoke in the day, +the sensiblest thing it does, in my opinion, is, ven there’s somethin’ in +the vay, and it sets up that ’ere frightful scream vich seems to say, +“Now here’s two hundred and forty passengers in the wery greatest +extremity o’ danger, and here’s their two hundred and forty screams in +vun!”’ + +By this time I began to fear that my friends would be rendered impatient +by my protracted absence. I therefore begged Mr. Pickwick to accompany +me up-stairs, and left the two Mr. Wellers in the care of the +housekeeper, laying strict injunctions upon her to treat them with all +possible hospitality. + + + + +IV + + +THE CLOCK + +AS we were going up-stairs, Mr. Pickwick put on his spectacles, which he +had held in his hand hitherto; arranged his neckerchief, smoothed down +his waistcoat, and made many other little preparations of that kind which +men are accustomed to be mindful of, when they are going among strangers +for the first time, and are anxious to impress them pleasantly. Seeing +that I smiled, he smiled too, and said that if it had occurred to him +before he left home, he would certainly have presented himself in pumps +and silk stockings. + +‘I would, indeed, my dear sir,’ he said very seriously; ‘I would have +shown my respect for the society, by laying aside my gaiters.’ + +‘You may rest assured,’ said I, ‘that they would have regretted your +doing so very much, for they are quite attached to them.’ + +‘No, really!’ cried Mr. Pickwick, with manifest pleasure. ‘Do you think +they care about my gaiters? Do you seriously think that they identify me +at all with my gaiters?’ + +‘I am sure they do,’ I replied. + +‘Well, now,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘that is one of the most charming and +agreeable circumstances that could possibly have occurred to me!’ + +I should not have written down this short conversation, but that it +developed a slight point in Mr. Pickwick’s character, with which I was +not previously acquainted. He has a secret pride in his legs. The +manner in which he spoke, and the accompanying glance he bestowed upon +his tights, convince me that Mr. Pickwick regards his legs with much +innocent vanity. + +‘But here are our friends,’ said I, opening the door and taking his arm +in mine; ‘let them speak for themselves.—Gentlemen, I present to you Mr. +Pickwick.’ + +Mr. Pickwick and I must have been a good contrast just then. I, leaning +quietly on my crutch-stick, with something of a care-worn, patient air; +he, having hold of my arm, and bowing in every direction with the most +elastic politeness, and an expression of face whose sprightly +cheerfulness and good-humour knew no bounds. The difference between us +must have been more striking yet, as we advanced towards the table, and +the amiable gentleman, adapting his jocund step to my poor tread, had his +attention divided between treating my infirmities with the utmost +consideration, and affecting to be wholly unconscious that I required +any. + +I made him personally known to each of my friends in turn. First, to the +deaf gentleman, whom he regarded with much interest, and accosted with +great frankness and cordiality. He had evidently some vague idea, at the +moment, that my friend being deaf must be dumb also; for when the latter +opened his lips to express the pleasure it afforded him to know a +gentleman of whom he had heard so much, Mr. Pickwick was so extremely +disconcerted, that I was obliged to step in to his relief. + +His meeting with Jack Redburn was quite a treat to see. Mr. Pickwick +smiled, and shook hands, and looked at him through his spectacles, and +under them, and over them, and nodded his head approvingly, and then +nodded to me, as much as to say, ‘This is just the man; you were quite +right;’ and then turned to Jack and said a few hearty words, and then did +and said everything over again with unimpaired vivacity. As to Jack +himself, he was quite as much delighted with Mr. Pickwick as Mr. Pickwick +could possibly be with him. Two people never can have met together since +the world began, who exchanged a warmer or more enthusiastic greeting. + +It was amusing to observe the difference between this encounter and that +which succeeded, between Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Miles. It was clear that +the latter gentleman viewed our new member as a kind of rival in the +affections of Jack Redburn, and besides this, he had more than once +hinted to me, in secret, that although he had no doubt Mr. Pickwick was a +very worthy man, still he did consider that some of his exploits were +unbecoming a gentleman of his years and gravity. Over and above these +grounds of distrust, it is one of his fixed opinions, that the law never +can by possibility do anything wrong; he therefore looks upon Mr. +Pickwick as one who has justly suffered in purse and peace for a breach +of his plighted faith to an unprotected female, and holds that he is +called upon to regard him with some suspicion on that account. These +causes led to a rather cold and formal reception; which Mr. Pickwick +acknowledged with the same stateliness and intense politeness as was +displayed on the other side. Indeed, he assumed an air of such majestic +defiance, that I was fearful he might break out into some solemn protest +or declaration, and therefore inducted him into his chair without a +moment’s delay. + +This piece of generalship was perfectly successful. The instant he took +his seat, Mr. Pickwick surveyed us all with a most benevolent aspect, and +was taken with a fit of smiling full five minutes long. His interest in +our ceremonies was immense. They are not very numerous or complicated, +and a description of them may be comprised in very few words. As our +transactions have already been, and must necessarily continue to be, more +or less anticipated by being presented in these pages at different times, +and under various forms, they do not require a detailed account. + +Our first proceeding when we are assembled is to shake hands all round, +and greet each other with cheerful and pleasant looks. Remembering that +we assemble not only for the promotion of our happiness, but with the +view of adding something to the common stock, an air of languor or +indifference in any member of our body would be regarded by the others as +a kind of treason. We have never had an offender in this respect; but if +we had, there is no doubt that he would be taken to task pretty severely. + +Our salutation over, the venerable piece of antiquity from which we take +our name is wound up in silence. The ceremony is always performed by +Master Humphrey himself (in treating of the club, I may be permitted to +assume the historical style, and speak of myself in the third person), +who mounts upon a chair for the purpose, armed with a large key. While +it is in progress, Jack Redburn is required to keep at the farther end of +the room under the guardianship of Mr. Miles, for he is known to +entertain certain aspiring and unhallowed thoughts connected with the +clock, and has even gone so far as to state that if he might take the +works out for a day or two, he thinks he could improve them. We pardon +him his presumption in consideration of his good intentions, and his +keeping this respectful distance, which last penalty is insisted on, lest +by secretly wounding the object of our regard in some tender part, in the +ardour of his zeal for its improvement, he should fill us with dismay and +consternation. + +This regulation afforded Mr. Pickwick the highest delight, and seemed, if +possible, to exalt Jack in his good opinion. + +The next ceremony is the opening of the clock-case (of which Master +Humphrey has likewise the key), the taking from it as many papers as will +furnish forth our evening’s entertainment, and arranging in the recess +such new contributions as have been provided since our last meeting. +This is always done with peculiar solemnity. The deaf gentleman then +fills and lights his pipe, and we once more take our seats round the +table before mentioned, Master Humphrey acting as president,—if we can be +said to have any president, where all are on the same social footing,—and +our friend Jack as secretary. Our preliminaries being now concluded, we +fall into any train of conversation that happens to suggest itself, or +proceed immediately to one of our readings. In the latter case, the +paper selected is consigned to Master Humphrey, who flattens it carefully +on the table and makes dog’s ears in the corner of every page, ready for +turning over easily; Jack Redburn trims the lamp with a small machine of +his own invention which usually puts it out; Mr. Miles looks on with +great approval notwithstanding; the deaf gentleman draws in his chair, so +that he can follow the words on the paper or on Master Humphrey’s lips as +he pleases; and Master Humphrey himself, looking round with mighty +gratification, and glancing up at his old clock, begins to read aloud. + + [Picture: Proceedings of the Club] + +Mr. Pickwick’s face, while his tale was being read, would have attracted +the attention of the dullest man alive. The complacent motion of his +head and forefinger as he gently beat time, and corrected the air with +imaginary punctuation, the smile that mantled on his features at every +jocose passage, and the sly look he stole around to observe its effect, +the calm manner in which he shut his eyes and listened when there was +some little piece of description, the changing expression with which he +acted the dialogue to himself, his agony that the deaf gentleman should +know what it was all about, and his extraordinary anxiety to correct the +reader when he hesitated at a word in the manuscript, or substituted a +wrong one, were alike worthy of remark. And when at last, endeavouring +to communicate with the deaf gentleman by means of the finger alphabet, +with which he constructed such words as are unknown in any civilised or +savage language, he took up a slate and wrote in large text, one word in +a line, the question, ‘How—do—you—like—it?’—when he did this, and handing +it over the table awaited the reply, with a countenance only brightened +and improved by his great excitement, even Mr. Miles relaxed, and could +not forbear looking at him for the moment with interest and favour. + +‘It has occurred to me,’ said the deaf gentleman, who had watched Mr. +Pickwick and everybody else with silent satisfaction—‘it has occurred to +me,’ said the deaf gentleman, taking his pipe from his lips, ‘that now is +our time for filling our only empty chair.’ + +As our conversation had naturally turned upon the vacant seat, we lent a +willing ear to this remark, and looked at our friend inquiringly. + +‘I feel sure,’ said he, ‘that Mr. Pickwick must be acquainted with +somebody who would be an acquisition to us; that he must know the man we +want. Pray let us not lose any time, but set this question at rest. Is +it so, Mr. Pickwick?’ + +The gentleman addressed was about to return a verbal reply, but +remembering our friend’s infirmity, he substituted for this kind of +answer some fifty nods. Then taking up the slate and printing on it a +gigantic ‘Yes,’ he handed it across the table, and rubbing his hands as +he looked round upon our faces, protested that he and the deaf gentleman +quite understood each other, already. + +‘The person I have in my mind,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘and whom I should not +have presumed to mention to you until some time hence, but for the +opportunity you have given me, is a very strange old man. His name is +Bamber.’ + +‘Bamber!’ said Jack. ‘I have certainly heard the name before.’ + +‘I have no doubt, then,’ returned Mr. Pickwick, ‘that you remember him in +those adventures of mine (the Posthumous Papers of our old club, I mean), +although he is only incidentally mentioned; and, if I remember right, +appears but once.’ + +‘That’s it,’ said Jack. ‘Let me see. He is the person who has a grave +interest in old mouldy chambers and the Inns of Court, and who relates +some anecdotes having reference to his favourite theme,—and an odd ghost +story,—is that the man?’ + +‘The very same. Now,’ said Mr. Pickwick, lowering his voice to a +mysterious and confidential tone, ‘he is a very extraordinary and +remarkable person; living, and talking, and looking, like some strange +spirit, whose delight is to haunt old buildings; and absorbed in that one +subject which you have just mentioned, to an extent which is quite +wonderful. When I retired into private life, I sought him out, and I do +assure you that the more I see of him, the more strongly I am impressed +with the strange and dreamy character of his mind.’ + +‘Where does he live?’ I inquired. + +‘He lives,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘in one of those dull, lonely old places +with which his thoughts and stories are all connected; quite alone, and +often shut up close for several weeks together. In this dusty solitude +he broods upon the fancies he has so long indulged, and when he goes into +the world, or anybody from the world without goes to see him, they are +still present to his mind and still his favourite topic. I may say, I +believe, that he has brought himself to entertain a regard for me, and an +interest in my visits; feelings which I am certain he would extend to +Master Humphrey’s Clock if he were once tempted to join us. All I wish +you to understand is, that he is a strange, secluded visionary, in the +world but not of it; and as unlike anybody here as he is unlike anybody +elsewhere that I have ever met or known.’ + +Mr. Miles received this account of our proposed companion with rather a +wry face, and after murmuring that perhaps he was a little mad, inquired +if he were rich. + +‘I never asked him,’ said Mr. Pickwick. + +‘You might know, sir, for all that,’ retorted Mr. Miles, sharply. + +‘Perhaps so, sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, no less sharply than the other, +‘but I do not. Indeed,’ he added, relapsing into his usual mildness, ‘I +have no means of judging. He lives poorly, but that would seem to be in +keeping with his character. I never heard him allude to his +circumstances, and never fell into the society of any man who had the +slightest acquaintance with them. I have really told you all I know +about him, and it rests with you to say whether you wish to know more, or +know quite enough already.’ + +We were unanimously of opinion that we would seek to know more; and as a +sort of compromise with Mr. Miles (who, although he said ‘Yes—O +certainly—he should like to know more about the gentleman—he had no right +to put himself in opposition to the general wish,’ and so forth, shook +his head doubtfully and hemmed several times with peculiar gravity), it +was arranged that Mr. Pickwick should carry me with him on an evening +visit to the subject of our discussion, for which purpose an early +appointment between that gentleman and myself was immediately agreed +upon; it being understood that I was to act upon my own responsibility, +and to invite him to join us or not, as I might think proper. This +solemn question determined, we returned to the clock-case (where we have +been forestalled by the reader), and between its contents, and the +conversation they occasioned, the remainder of our time passed very +quickly. + +When we broke up, Mr. Pickwick took me aside to tell me that he had spent +a most charming and delightful evening. Having made this communication +with an air of the strictest secrecy, he took Jack Redburn into another +corner to tell him the same, and then retired into another corner with +the deaf gentleman and the slate, to repeat the assurance. It was +amusing to observe the contest in his mind whether he should extend his +confidence to Mr. Miles, or treat him with dignified reserve. Half a +dozen times he stepped up behind him with a friendly air, and as often +stepped back again without saying a word; at last, when he was close at +that gentleman’s ear and upon the very point of whispering something +conciliating and agreeable, Mr. Miles happened suddenly to turn his head, +upon which Mr. Pickwick skipped away, and said with some fierceness, +‘Good night, sir—I was about to say good night, sir,—nothing more;’ and +so made a bow and left him. + +‘Now, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, when he had got down-stairs. + +‘All right, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘Hold hard, sir. Right arm +fust—now the left—now one strong conwulsion, and the great-coat’s on, +sir.’ + +Mr. Pickwick acted upon these directions, and being further assisted by +Sam, who pulled at one side of the collar, and Mr. Weller, who pulled +hard at the other, was speedily enrobed. Mr. Weller, senior, then +produced a full-sized stable lantern, which he had carefully deposited in +a remote corner, on his arrival, and inquired whether Mr. Pickwick would +have ‘the lamps alight.’ + +‘I think not to-night,’ said Mr. Pickwick. + +‘Then if this here lady vill per-mit,’ rejoined Mr. Weller, ‘we’ll leave +it here, ready for next journey. This here lantern, mum,’ said Mr. +Weller, handing it to the housekeeper, ‘vunce belonged to the celebrated +Bill Blinder as is now at grass, as all on us vill be in our turns. +Bill, mum, wos the hostler as had charge o’ them two vell-known piebald +leaders that run in the Bristol fast coach, and vould never go to no +other tune but a sutherly vind and a cloudy sky, which wos consekvently +played incessant, by the guard, wenever they wos on duty. He wos took +wery bad one arternoon, arter having been off his feed, and wery shaky on +his legs for some veeks; and he says to his mate, “Matey,” he says, “I +think I’m a-goin’ the wrong side o’ the post, and that my foot’s wery +near the bucket. Don’t say I an’t,” he says, “for I know I am, and don’t +let me be interrupted,” he says, “for I’ve saved a little money, and I’m +a-goin’ into the stable to make my last vill and testymint.” “I’ll take +care as nobody interrupts,” says his mate, “but you on’y hold up your +head, and shake your ears a bit, and you’re good for twenty years to +come.” Bill Blinder makes him no answer, but he goes avay into the +stable, and there he soon artervards lays himself down a’tween the two +piebalds, and dies,—previously a writin’ outside the corn-chest, “This is +the last vill and testymint of Villiam Blinder.” They wos nat’rally wery +much amazed at this, and arter looking among the litter, and up in the +loft, and vere not, they opens the corn-chest, and finds that he’d been +and chalked his vill inside the lid; so the lid was obligated to be took +off the hinges, and sent up to Doctor Commons to be proved, and under +that ’ere wery instrument this here lantern was passed to Tony Veller; +vich circumstarnce, mum, gives it a wally in my eyes, and makes me +rekvest, if you vill be so kind, as to take partickler care on it.’ + +The housekeeper graciously promised to keep the object of Mr. Weller’s +regard in the safest possible custody, and Mr. Pickwick, with a laughing +face, took his leave. The bodyguard followed, side by side; old Mr. +Weller buttoned and wrapped up from his boots to his chin; and Sam with +his hands in his pockets and his hat half off his head, remonstrating +with his father, as he went, on his extreme loquacity. + +I was not a little surprised, on turning to go up-stairs, to encounter +the barber in the passage at that late hour; for his attendance is +usually confined to some half-hour in the morning. But Jack Redburn, who +finds out (by instinct, I think) everything that happens in the house, +informed me with great glee, that a society in imitation of our own had +been that night formed in the kitchen, under the title of ‘Mr. Weller’s +Watch,’ of which the barber was a member; and that he could pledge +himself to find means of making me acquainted with the whole of its +future proceedings, which I begged him, both on my own account and that +of my readers, by no means to neglect doing. {292} + + [Picture: The Last Will and Testament of William Blinder] + + + + +V + + +MR. WELLER’S WATCH + +IT seems that the housekeeper and the two Mr. Wellers were no sooner left +together on the occasion of their first becoming acquainted, than the +housekeeper called to her assistance Mr. Slithers the barber, who had +been lurking in the kitchen in expectation of her summons; and with many +smiles and much sweetness introduced him as one who would assist her in +the responsible office of entertaining her distinguished visitors. + +‘Indeed,’ said she, ‘without Mr. Slithers I should have been placed in +quite an awkward situation.’ + +‘There is no call for any hock’erdness, mum,’ said Mr. Weller with the +utmost politeness; ‘no call wotsumever. A lady,’ added the old +gentleman, looking about him with the air of one who establishes an +incontrovertible position,—‘a lady can’t be hock’erd. Natur’ has +otherwise purwided.’ + +The housekeeper inclined her head and smiled yet more sweetly. The +barber, who had been fluttering about Mr. Weller and Sam in a state of +great anxiety to improve their acquaintance, rubbed his hands and cried, +‘Hear, hear! Very true, sir;’ whereupon Sam turned about and steadily +regarded him for some seconds in silence. + +‘I never knew,’ said Sam, fixing his eyes in a ruminative manner upon the +blushing barber,—‘I never knew but vun o’ your trade, but _he_ wos worth +a dozen, and wos indeed dewoted to his callin’!’ + +‘Was he in the easy shaving way, sir,’ inquired Mr. Slithers; ‘or in the +cutting and curling line?’ + +‘Both,’ replied Sam; ‘easy shavin’ was his natur’, and cuttin’ and +curlin’ was his pride and glory. His whole delight wos in his trade. He +spent all his money in bears, and run in debt for ’em besides, and there +they wos a growling avay down in the front cellar all day long, and +ineffectooally gnashing their teeth, vile the grease o’ their relations +and friends wos being re-tailed in gallipots in the shop above, and the +first-floor winder wos ornamented vith their heads; not to speak o’ the +dreadful aggrawation it must have been to ’em to see a man alvays a +walkin’ up and down the pavement outside, vith the portrait of a bear in +his last agonies, and underneath in large letters, “Another fine animal +wos slaughtered yesterday at Jinkinson’s!” Hows’ever, there they wos, +and there Jinkinson wos, till he wos took wery ill with some inn’ard +disorder, lost the use of his legs, and wos confined to his bed, vere he +laid a wery long time, but sich wos his pride in his profession, even +then, that wenever he wos worse than usual the doctor used to go +down-stairs and say, “Jinkinson’s wery low this mornin’; we must give the +bears a stir;” and as sure as ever they stirred ’em up a bit and made ’em +roar, Jinkinson opens his eyes if he wos ever so bad, calls out, “There’s +the bears!” and rewives agin.’ + +‘Astonishing!’ cried the barber. + +‘Not a bit,’ said Sam, ‘human natur’ neat as imported. Vun day the +doctor happenin’ to say, “I shall look in as usual to-morrow mornin’,” +Jinkinson catches hold of his hand and says, “Doctor,” he says, “will you +grant me one favour?” “I will, Jinkinson,” says the doctor. “Then, +doctor,” says Jinkinson, “vill you come unshaved, and let me shave you?” +“I will,” says the doctor. “God bless you,” says Jinkinson. Next day +the doctor came, and arter he’d been shaved all skilful and reg’lar, he +says, “Jinkinson,” he says, “it’s wery plain this does you good. Now,” +he says, “I’ve got a coachman as has got a beard that it ’ud warm your +heart to work on, and though the footman,” he says, “hasn’t got much of a +beard, still he’s a trying it on vith a pair o’ viskers to that extent +that razors is Christian charity. If they take it in turns to mind the +carriage when it’s a waitin’ below,” he says, “wot’s to hinder you from +operatin’ on both of ’em ev’ry day as well as upon me? you’ve got six +children,” he says, “wot’s to hinder you from shavin’ all their heads and +keepin’ ’em shaved? you’ve got two assistants in the shop down-stairs, +wot’s to hinder you from cuttin’ and curlin’ them as often as you like? +Do this,” he says, “and you’re a man agin.” Jinkinson squeedged the +doctor’s hand and begun that wery day; he kept his tools upon the bed, +and wenever he felt his-self gettin’ worse, he turned to at vun o’ the +children who wos a runnin’ about the house vith heads like clean Dutch +cheeses, and shaved him agin. Vun day the lawyer come to make his vill; +all the time he wos a takin’ it down, Jinkinson was secretly a clippin’ +avay at his hair vith a large pair of scissors. “Wot’s that ’ere +snippin’ noise?” says the lawyer every now and then; “it’s like a man +havin’ his hair cut.” “It _is_ wery like a man havin’ his hair cut,” +says poor Jinkinson, hidin’ the scissors, and lookin’ quite innocent. By +the time the lawyer found it out, he was wery nearly bald. Jinkinson wos +kept alive in this vay for a long time, but at last vun day he has in all +the children vun arter another, shaves each on ’em wery clean, and gives +him vun kiss on the crown o’ his head; then he has in the two assistants, +and arter cuttin’ and curlin’ of ’em in the first style of elegance, says +he should like to hear the woice o’ the greasiest bear, vich rekvest is +immediately complied with; then he says that he feels wery happy in his +mind and vishes to be left alone; and then he dies, previously cuttin’ +his own hair and makin’ one flat curl in the wery middle of his +forehead.’ + +This anecdote produced an extraordinary effect, not only upon Mr. +Slithers, but upon the housekeeper also, who evinced so much anxiety to +please and be pleased, that Mr. Weller, with a manner betokening some +alarm, conveyed a whispered inquiry to his son whether he had gone ‘too +fur.’ + +‘Wot do you mean by too fur?’ demanded Sam. + +‘In that ’ere little compliment respectin’ the want of hock’erdness in +ladies, Sammy,’ replied his father. + +‘You don’t think she’s fallen in love with you in consekens o’ that, do +you?’ said Sam. + +‘More unlikelier things have come to pass, my boy,’ replied Mr. Weller in +a hoarse whisper; ‘I’m always afeerd of inadwertent captiwation, Sammy. +If I know’d how to make myself ugly or unpleasant, I’d do it, Samivel, +rayther than live in this here state of perpetival terror!’ + +Mr. Weller had, at that time, no further opportunity of dwelling upon the +apprehensions which beset his mind, for the immediate occasion of his +fears proceeded to lead the way down-stairs, apologising as they went for +conducting him into the kitchen, which apartment, however, she was +induced to proffer for his accommodation in preference to her own little +room, the rather as it afforded greater facilities for smoking, and was +immediately adjoining the ale-cellar. The preparations which were +already made sufficiently proved that these were not mere words of +course, for on the deal table were a sturdy ale-jug and glasses, flanked +with clean pipes and a plentiful supply of tobacco for the old gentleman +and his son, while on a dresser hard by was goodly store of cold meat and +other eatables. At sight of these arrangements Mr. Weller was at first +distracted between his love of joviality and his doubts whether they were +not to be considered as so many evidences of captivation having already +taken place; but he soon yielded to his natural impulse, and took his +seat at the table with a very jolly countenance. + +‘As to imbibin’ any o’ this here flagrant veed, mum, in the presence of a +lady,’ said Mr. Weller, taking up a pipe and laying it down again, ‘it +couldn’t be. Samivel, total abstinence, if _you_ please.’ + +‘But I like it of all things,’ said the housekeeper. + +‘No,’ rejoined Mr. Weller, shaking his head,—‘no.’ + +‘Upon my word I do,’ said the housekeeper. ‘Mr. Slithers knows I do.’ + +Mr. Weller coughed, and notwithstanding the barber’s confirmation of the +statement, said ‘No’ again, but more feebly than before. The housekeeper +lighted a piece of paper, and insisted on applying it to the bowl of the +pipe with her own fair hands; Mr. Weller resisted; the housekeeper cried +that her fingers would be burnt; Mr. Weller gave way. The pipe was +ignited, Mr. Weller drew a long puff of smoke, and detecting himself in +the very act of smiling on the housekeeper, put a sudden constraint upon +his countenance and looked sternly at the candle, with a determination +not to captivate, himself, or encourage thoughts of captivation in +others. From this iron frame of mind he was roused by the voice of his +son. + +‘I don’t think,’ said Sam, who was smoking with great composure and +enjoyment, ‘that if the lady wos agreeable it ’ud be wery far out o’ the +vay for us four to make up a club of our own like the governors does +up-stairs, and let him,’ Sam pointed with the stem of his pipe towards +his parent, ‘be the president.’ + +The housekeeper affably declared that it was the very thing she had been +thinking of. The barber said the same. Mr. Weller said nothing, but he +laid down his pipe as if in a fit of inspiration, and performed the +following manœuvres. + +Unbuttoning the three lower buttons of his waistcoat and pausing for a +moment to enjoy the easy flow of breath consequent upon this process, he +laid violent hands upon his watch-chain, and slowly and with extreme +difficulty drew from his fob an immense double-cased silver watch, which +brought the lining of the pocket with it, and was not to be disentangled +but by great exertions and an amazing redness of face. Having fairly got +it out at last, he detached the outer case and wound it up with a key of +corresponding magnitude; then put the case on again, and having applied +the watch to his ear to ascertain that it was still going, gave it some +half-dozen hard knocks on the table to improve its performance. + +‘That,’ said Mr. Weller, laying it on the table with its face upwards, +‘is the title and emblem o’ this here society. Sammy, reach them two +stools this vay for the wacant cheers. Ladies and gen’lmen, Mr. Weller’s +Watch is vound up and now a-goin’. Order!’ + +By way of enforcing this proclamation, Mr. Weller, using the watch after +the manner of a president’s hammer, and remarking with great pride that +nothing hurt it, and that falls and concussions of all kinds materially +enhanced the excellence of the works and assisted the regulator, knocked +the table a great many times, and declared the association formally +constituted. + +‘And don’t let’s have no grinnin’ at the cheer, Samivel,’ said Mr. Weller +to his son, ‘or I shall be committin’ you to the cellar, and then p’r’aps +we may get into what the ‘Merrikins call a fix, and the English a +qvestion o’ privileges.’ + +Having uttered this friendly caution, the President settled himself in +his chair with great dignity, and requested that Mr. Samuel would relate +an anecdote. + +‘I’ve told one,’ said Sam. + +‘Wery good, sir; tell another,’ returned the chair. + +‘We wos a talking jist now, sir,’ said Sam, turning to Slithers, ‘about +barbers. Pursuing that ’ere fruitful theme, sir, I’ll tell you in a wery +few words a romantic little story about another barber as p’r’aps you may +never have heerd.’ + +‘Samivel!’ said Mr. Weller, again bringing his watch and the table into +smart collision, ‘address your obserwations to the cheer, sir, and not to +priwate indiwiduals!’ + + [Picture: A Rival Club] + +‘And if I might rise to order,’ said the barber in a soft voice, and +looking round him with a conciliatory smile as he leant over the table, +with the knuckles of his left hand resting upon it,—‘if I _might_ rise to +order, I would suggest that “barbers” is not exactly the kind of language +which is agreeable and soothing to our feelings. You, sir, will correct +me if I’m wrong, but I believe there _is_ such a word in the dictionary +as hairdressers.’ + +‘Well, but suppose he wasn’t a hairdresser,’ suggested Sam. + +‘Wy then, sir, be parliamentary and call him vun all the more,’ returned +his father. ‘In the same vay as ev’ry gen’lman in another place is a +_h_onourable, ev’ry barber in this place is a hairdresser. Ven you read +the speeches in the papers, and see as vun gen’lman says of another, “the +_h_onourable member, if he vill allow me to call him so,” you vill +understand, sir, that that means, “if he vill allow me to keep up that +’ere pleasant and uniwersal fiction.”’ + +It is a common remark, confirmed by history and experience, that great +men rise with the circumstances in which they are placed. Mr. Weller +came out so strong in his capacity of chairman, that Sam was for some +time prevented from speaking by a grin of surprise, which held his +faculties enchained, and at last subsided in a long whistle of a single +note. Nay, the old gentleman appeared even to have astonished himself, +and that to no small extent, as was demonstrated by the vast amount of +chuckling in which he indulged, after the utterance of these lucid +remarks. + +‘Here’s the story,’ said Sam. ‘Vunce upon a time there wos a young +hairdresser as opened a wery smart little shop vith four wax dummies in +the winder, two gen’lmen and two ladies—the gen’lmen vith blue dots for +their beards, wery large viskers, oudacious heads of hair, uncommon clear +eyes, and nostrils of amazin’ pinkness; the ladies vith their heads o’ +one side, their right forefingers on their lips, and their forms +deweloped beautiful, in vich last respect they had the adwantage over the +gen’lmen, as wasn’t allowed but wery little shoulder, and terminated +rayther abrupt in fancy drapery. He had also a many hair-brushes and +tooth-brushes bottled up in the winder, neat glass-cases on the counter, +a floor-clothed cuttin’-room up-stairs, and a weighin’-macheen in the +shop, right opposite the door. But the great attraction and ornament wos +the dummies, which this here young hairdresser wos constantly a runnin’ +out in the road to look at, and constantly a runnin’ in again to touch up +and polish; in short, he wos so proud on ’em, that ven Sunday come, he +wos always wretched and mis’rable to think they wos behind the shutters, +and looked anxiously for Monday on that account. Vun o’ these dummies +wos a favrite vith him beyond the others; and ven any of his acquaintance +asked him wy he didn’t get married—as the young ladies he know’d, in +partickler, often did—he used to say, “Never! I never vill enter into +the bonds of vedlock,” he says, “until I meet vith a young ’ooman as +realises my idea o’ that ’ere fairest dummy vith the light hair. Then, +and not till then,” he says, “I vill approach the altar.” All the young +ladies he know’d as had got dark hair told him this wos wery sinful, and +that he wos wurshippin’ a idle; but them as wos at all near the same +shade as the dummy coloured up wery much, and wos observed to think him a +wery nice young man.’ + +‘Samivel,’ said Mr. Weller, gravely, ‘a member o’ this associashun bein’ +one o’ that ’ere tender sex which is now immedetly referred to, I have to +rekvest that you vill make no reflections.’ + +‘I ain’t a makin’ any, am I?’ inquired Sam. + +‘Order, sir!’ rejoined Mr. Weller, with severe dignity. Then, sinking +the chairman in the father, he added, in his usual tone of voice: +‘Samivel, drive on!’ + +Sam interchanged a smile with the housekeeper, and proceeded: + +‘The young hairdresser hadn’t been in the habit o’ makin’ this avowal +above six months, ven he en-countered a young lady as wos the wery picter +o’ the fairest dummy. “Now,” he says, “it’s all up. I am a slave!” The +young lady wos not only the picter o’ the fairest dummy, but she was wery +romantic, as the young hairdresser was, too, and he says, “O!” he says, +“here’s a community o’ feelin’, here’s a flow o’ soul!” he says, “here’s +a interchange o’ sentiment!” The young lady didn’t say much, o’ course, +but she expressed herself agreeable, and shortly artervards vent to see +him vith a mutual friend. The hairdresser rushes out to meet her, but +d’rectly she sees the dummies she changes colour and falls a tremblin’ +wiolently. “Look up, my love,” says the hairdresser, “behold your imige +in my winder, but not correcter than in my art!” “My imige!” she says. +“Yourn!” replies the hairdresser. “But whose imige is _that_?” she says, +a pinting at vun o’ the gen’lmen. “No vun’s, my love,” he says, “it is +but a idea.” “A idea!” she cries: “it is a portrait, I feel it is a +portrait, and that ’ere noble face must be in the millingtary!” “Wot do +I hear!” says he, a crumplin’ his curls. “Villiam Gibbs,” she says, +quite firm, “never renoo the subject. I respect you as a friend,” she +says, “but my affections is set upon that manly brow.” “This,” says the +hairdresser, “is a reg’lar blight, and in it I perceive the hand of Fate. +Farevell!” Vith these vords he rushes into the shop, breaks the dummy’s +nose vith a blow of his curlin’-irons, melts him down at the parlour +fire, and never smiles artervards.’ + +‘The young lady, Mr. Weller?’ said the housekeeper. + +‘Why, ma’am,’ said Sam, ‘finding that Fate had a spite agin her, and +everybody she come into contact vith, she never smiled neither, but read +a deal o’ poetry and pined avay,—by rayther slow degrees, for she ain’t +dead yet. It took a deal o’ poetry to kill the hairdresser, and some +people say arter all that it was more the gin and water as caused him to +be run over; p’r’aps it was a little o’ both, and came o’ mixing the +two.’ + +The barber declared that Mr. Weller had related one of the most +interesting stories that had ever come within his knowledge, in which +opinion the housekeeper entirely concurred. + +‘Are you a married man, sir?’ inquired Sam. + +The barber replied that he had not that honour. + +‘I s’pose you mean to be?’ said Sam. + +‘Well,’ replied the barber, rubbing his hands smirkingly, ‘I don’t know, +I don’t think it’s very likely.’ + +‘That’s a bad sign,’ said Sam; ‘if you’d said you meant to be vun o’ +these days, I should ha’ looked upon you as bein’ safe. You’re in a wery +precarious state.’ + +‘I am not conscious of any danger, at all events,’ returned the barber. + +‘No more wos I, sir,’ said the elder Mr. Weller, interposing; ‘those vere +my symptoms, exactly. I’ve been took that vay twice. Keep your vether +eye open, my friend, or you’re gone.’ + +There was something so very solemn about this admonition, both in its +matter and manner, and also in the way in which Mr. Weller still kept his +eye fixed upon the unsuspecting victim, that nobody cared to speak for +some little time, and might not have cared to do so for some time longer, +if the housekeeper had not happened to sigh, which called off the old +gentleman’s attention and gave rise to a gallant inquiry whether ‘there +wos anythin’ wery piercin’ in that ’ere little heart?’ + +‘Dear me, Mr. Weller!’ said the housekeeper, laughing. + +‘No, but is there anythin’ as agitates it?’ pursued the old gentleman. +‘Has it always been obderrate, always opposed to the happiness o’ human +creeturs? Eh? Has it?’ + +At this critical juncture for her blushes and confusion, the housekeeper +discovered that more ale was wanted, and hastily withdrew into the cellar +to draw the same, followed by the barber, who insisted on carrying the +candle. Having looked after her with a very complacent expression of +face, and after him with some disdain, Mr. Weller caused his glance to +travel slowly round the kitchen, until at length it rested on his son. + +‘Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘I mistrust that barber.’ + +‘Wot for?’ returned Sam; ‘wot’s he got to do with you? You’re a nice +man, you are, arter pretendin’ all kinds o’ terror, to go a payin’ +compliments and talkin’ about hearts and piercers.’ + +The imputation of gallantry appeared to afford Mr. Weller the utmost +delight, for he replied in a voice choked by suppressed laughter, and +with the tears in his eyes, + +‘Wos I a talkin’ about hearts and piercers,—wos I though, Sammy, eh?’ + +‘Wos you? of course you wos.’ + +‘She don’t know no better, Sammy, there ain’t no harm in it,—no danger, +Sammy; she’s only a punster. She seemed pleased, though, didn’t she? O’ +course, she wos pleased, it’s nat’ral she should be, wery nat’ral.’ + +‘He’s wain of it!’ exclaimed Sam, joining in his father’s mirth. ‘He’s +actually wain!’ + +‘Hush!’ replied Mr. Weller, composing his features, ‘they’re a comin’ +back,—the little heart’s a comin’ back. But mark these wurds o’ mine +once more, and remember ’em ven your father says he said ’em. Samivel, I +mistrust that ’ere deceitful barber.’ {300} + + + + +VI + + +MASTER HUMPHREY, FROM HIS CLOCK-SIDE IN THE CHIMNEY CORNER + +TWO or three evenings after the institution of Mr. Weller’s Watch, I +thought I heard, as I walked in the garden, the voice of Mr. Weller +himself at no great distance; and stopping once or twice to listen more +attentively, I found that the sounds proceeded from my housekeeper’s +little sitting-room, which is at the back of the house. I took no +further notice of the circumstance at that time, but it formed the +subject of a conversation between me and my friend Jack Redburn next +morning, when I found that I had not been deceived in my impression. +Jack furnished me with the following particulars; and as he appeared to +take extraordinary pleasure in relating them, I have begged him in future +to jot down any such domestic scenes or occurrences that may please his +humour, in order that they may be told in his own way. I must confess +that, as Mr. Pickwick and he are constantly together, I have been +influenced, in making this request, by a secret desire to know something +of their proceedings. + +On the evening in question, the housekeeper’s room was arranged with +particular care, and the housekeeper herself was very smartly dressed. +The preparations, however, were not confined to mere showy +demonstrations, as tea was prepared for three persons, with a small +display of preserves and jams and sweet cakes, which heralded some +uncommon occasion. Miss Benton (my housekeeper bears that name) was in a +state of great expectation, too, frequently going to the front door and +looking anxiously down the lane, and more than once observing to the +servant-girl that she expected company, and hoped no accident had +happened to delay them. + +A modest ring at the bell at length allayed her fears, and Miss Benton, +hurrying into her own room and shutting herself up, in order that she +might preserve that appearance of being taken by surprise which is so +essential to the polite reception of visitors, awaited their coming with +a smiling countenance. + +‘Good ev’nin’, mum,’ said the older Mr. Weller, looking in at the door +after a prefatory tap. ‘I’m afeerd we’ve come in rayther arter the time, +mum, but the young colt being full o’ wice, has been’ a boltin’ and +shyin’ and gettin’ his leg over the traces to sich a extent that if he +an’t wery soon broke in, he’ll wex me into a broken heart, and then he’ll +never be brought out no more except to learn his letters from the writin’ +on his grandfather’s tombstone.’ + +With these pathetic words, which were addressed to something outside the +door about two feet six from the ground, Mr. Weller introduced a very +small boy firmly set upon a couple of very sturdy legs, who looked as if +nothing could ever knock him down. Besides having a very round face +strongly resembling Mr. Weller’s, and a stout little body of exactly his +build, this young gentleman, standing with his little legs very wide +apart, as if the top-boots were familiar to them, actually winked upon +the housekeeper with his infant eye, in imitation of his grandfather. + + [Picture: A Chip of the Old Block] + +‘There’s a naughty boy, mum,’ said Mr. Weller, bursting with delight, +‘there’s a immoral Tony. Wos there ever a little chap o’ four year and +eight months old as vinked his eye at a strange lady afore?’ + +As little affected by this observation as by the former appeal to his +feelings, Master Weller elevated in the air a small model of a coach whip +which he carried in his hand, and addressing the housekeeper with a +shrill ‘ya—hip!’ inquired if she was ‘going down the road;’ at which +happy adaptation of a lesson he had been taught from infancy, Mr. Weller +could restrain his feelings no longer, but gave him twopence on the spot. + +‘It’s in wain to deny it, mum,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘this here is a boy +arter his grandfather’s own heart, and beats out all the boys as ever wos +or will be. Though at the same time, mum,’ added Mr. Weller, trying to +look gravely down upon his favourite, ‘it was wery wrong on him to want +to—over all the posts as we come along, and wery cruel on him to force +poor grandfather to lift him cross-legged over every vun of ’em. He +wouldn’t pass vun single blessed post, mum, and at the top o’ the lane +there’s seven-and-forty on ’em all in a row, and wery close together.’ + +Here Mr. Weller, whose feelings were in a perpetual conflict between +pride in his grandson’s achievements and a sense of his own +responsibility, and the importance of impressing him with moral truths, +burst into a fit of laughter, and suddenly checking himself, remarked in +a severe tone that little boys as made their grandfathers put ’em over +posts never went to heaven at any price. + +By this time the housekeeper had made tea, and little Tony, placed on a +chair beside her, with his eyes nearly on a level with the top of the +table, was provided with various delicacies which yielded him extreme +contentment. The housekeeper (who seemed rather afraid of the child, +notwithstanding her caresses) then patted him on the head, and declared +that he was the finest boy she had ever seen. + +‘Wy, mum,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘I don’t think you’ll see a many sich, and +that’s the truth. But if my son Samivel vould give me my vay, mum, and +only dis-pense vith his—_might_ I wenter to say the vurd?’ + +‘What word, Mr. Weller?’ said the housekeeper, blushing slightly. + +‘Petticuts, mum,’ returned that gentleman, laying his hand upon the +garments of his grandson. ‘If my son Samivel, mum, vould only dis-pense +vith these here, you’d see such a alteration in his appearance, as the +imagination can’t depicter.’ + +‘But what would you have the child wear instead, Mr. Weller?’ said the +housekeeper. + +‘I’ve offered my son Samivel, mum, agen and agen,’ returned the old +gentleman, ‘to purwide him at my own cost vith a suit o’ clothes as ’ud +be the makin’ on him, and form his mind in infancy for those pursuits as +I hope the family o’ the Vellers vill alvays dewote themselves to. Tony, +my boy, tell the lady wot them clothes are, as grandfather says, father +ought to let you vear.’ + +‘A little white hat and a little sprig weskut and little knee cords and +little top-boots and a little green coat with little bright buttons and a +little welwet collar,’ replied Tony, with great readiness and no stops. + +‘That’s the cos-toom, mum,’ said Mr. Weller, looking proudly at the +housekeeper. ‘Once make sich a model on him as that, and you’d say he +_wos_ an angel!’ + +Perhaps the housekeeper thought that in such a guise young Tony would +look more like the angel at Islington than anything else of that name, or +perhaps she was disconcerted to find her previously-conceived ideas +disturbed, as angels are not commonly represented in top-boots and sprig +waistcoats. She coughed doubtfully, but said nothing. + +‘How many brothers and sisters have you, my dear?’ she asked, after a +short silence. + +‘One brother and no sister at all,’ replied Tony. ‘Sam his name is, and +so’s my father’s. Do you know my father?’ + +‘O yes, I know him,’ said the housekeeper, graciously. + +‘Is my father fond of you?’ pursued Tony. + +‘I hope so,’ rejoined the smiling housekeeper. + +Tony considered a moment, and then said, ‘Is my grandfather fond of you?’ + +This would seem a very easy question to answer, but instead of replying +to it, the housekeeper smiled in great confusion, and said that really +children did ask such extraordinary questions that it was the most +difficult thing in the world to talk to them. Mr. Weller took upon +himself to reply that he was very fond of the lady; but the housekeeper +entreating that he would not put such things into the child’s head, Mr. +Weller shook his own while she looked another way, and seemed to be +troubled with a misgiving that captivation was in progress. It was, +perhaps, on this account that he changed the subject precipitately. + +‘It’s wery wrong in little boys to make game o’ their grandfathers, an’t +it, mum?’ said Mr. Weller, shaking his head waggishly, until Tony looked +at him, when he counterfeited the deepest dejection and sorrow. + +‘O, very sad!’ assented the housekeeper. ‘But I hope no little boys do +that?’ + +‘There is vun young Turk, mum,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘as havin’ seen his +grandfather a little overcome vith drink on the occasion of a friend’s +birthday, goes a reelin’ and staggerin’ about the house, and makin’ +believe that he’s the old gen’lm’n.’ + +‘O, quite shocking!’ cried the housekeeper, + +‘Yes, mum,’ said Mr. Weller; ‘and previously to so doin’, this here young +traitor that I’m a speakin’ of, pinches his little nose to make it red, +and then he gives a hiccup and says, “I’m all right,” he says; “give us +another song!” Ha, ha! “Give us another song,” he says. Ha, ha, ha!’ + +In his excessive delight, Mr. Weller was quite unmindful of his moral +responsibility, until little Tony kicked up his legs, and laughing +immoderately, cried, ‘That was me, that was;’ whereupon the grandfather, +by a great effort, became extremely solemn. + +‘No, Tony, not you,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘I hope it warn’t you, Tony. It +must ha’ been that ’ere naughty little chap as comes sometimes out o’ the +empty watch-box round the corner,—that same little chap as wos found +standing on the table afore the looking-glass, pretending to shave +himself vith a oyster-knife.’ + +‘He didn’t hurt himself, I hope?’ observed the housekeeper. + +‘Not he, mum,’ said Mr. Weller proudly; ‘bless your heart, you might +trust that ’ere boy vith a steam-engine a’most, he’s such a knowin’ +young’—but suddenly recollecting himself and observing that Tony +perfectly understood and appreciated the compliment, the old gentleman +groaned and observed that ‘it wos all wery shockin’—wery.’ + +‘O, he’s a bad ’un,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘is that ’ere watch-box boy, makin’ +such a noise and litter in the back yard, he does, waterin’ wooden horses +and feedin’ of ’em vith grass, and perpetivally spillin’ his little +brother out of a veelbarrow and frightenin’ his mother out of her vits, +at the wery moment wen she’s expectin’ to increase his stock of happiness +vith another play-feller,—O, he’s a bad one! He’s even gone so far as to +put on a pair of paper spectacles as he got his father to make for him, +and walk up and down the garden vith his hands behind him in imitation of +Mr. Pickwick,—but Tony don’t do sich things, O no!’ + +‘O no!’ echoed Tony. + +‘He knows better, he does,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘He knows that if he wos to +come sich games as these nobody wouldn’t love him, and that his +grandfather in partickler couldn’t abear the sight on him; for vich +reasons Tony’s always good.’ + +‘Always good,’ echoed Tony; and his grandfather immediately took him on +his knee and kissed him, at the same time, with many nods and winks, +slyly pointing at the child’s head with his thumb, in order that the +housekeeper, otherwise deceived by the admirable manner in which he (Mr. +Weller) had sustained his character, might not suppose that any other +young gentleman was referred to, and might clearly understand that the +boy of the watch-box was but an imaginary creation, and a fetch of Tony +himself, invented for his improvement and reformation. + +Not confining himself to a mere verbal description of his grandson’s +abilities, Mr. Weller, when tea was finished, invited him by various +gifts of pence and halfpence to smoke imaginary pipes, drink visionary +beer from real pots, imitate his grandfather without reserve, and in +particular to go through the drunken scene, which threw the old gentleman +into ecstasies and filled the housekeeper with wonder. Nor was Mr. +Weller’s pride satisfied with even this display, for when he took his +leave he carried the child, like some rare and astonishing curiosity, +first to the barber’s house and afterwards to the tobacconist’s, at each +of which places he repeated his performances with the utmost effect to +applauding and delighted audiences. It was half-past nine o’clock when +Mr. Weller was last seen carrying him home upon his shoulder, and it has +been whispered abroad that at that time the infant Tony was rather +intoxicated. {306} + + * * * * * + +I was musing the other evening upon the characters and incidents with +which I had been so long engaged; wondering how I could ever have looked +forward with pleasure to the completion of my tale, and reproaching +myself for having done so, as if it were a kind of cruelty to those +companions of my solitude whom I had now dismissed, and could never again +recall; when my clock struck ten. Punctual to the hour, my friends +appeared. + +On our last night of meeting, we had finished the story which the reader +has just concluded. Our conversation took the same current as the +meditations which the entrance of my friends had interrupted, and The Old +Curiosity Shop was the staple of our discourse. + +I may confide to the reader now, that in connection with this little +history I had something upon my mind; something to communicate which I +had all along with difficulty repressed; something I had deemed it, +during the progress of the story, necessary to its interest to disguise, +and which, now that it was over, I wished, and was yet reluctant, to +disclose. + +To conceal anything from those to whom I am attached, is not in my +nature. I can never close my lips where I have opened my heart. This +temper, and the consciousness of having done some violence to it in my +narrative, laid me under a restraint which I should have had great +difficulty in overcoming, but for a timely remark from Mr. Miles, who, as +I hinted in a former paper, is a gentleman of business habits, and of +great exactness and propriety in all his transactions. + +‘I could have wished,’ my friend objected, ‘that we had been made +acquainted with the single gentleman’s name. I don’t like his +withholding his name. It made me look upon him at first with suspicion, +and caused me to doubt his moral character, I assure you. I am fully +satisfied by this time of his being a worthy creature; but in this +respect he certainly would not appear to have acted at all like a man of +business.’ + +‘My friends,’ said I, drawing to the table, at which they were by this +time seated in their usual chairs, ‘do you remember that this story bore +another title besides that one we have so often heard of late?’ + +Mr. Miles had his pocket-book out in an instant, and referring to an +entry therein, rejoined, ‘Certainly. Personal Adventures of Master +Humphrey. Here it is. I made a note of it at the time.’ + +I was about to resume what I had to tell them, when the same Mr. Miles +again interrupted me, observing that the narrative originated in a +personal adventure of my own, and that was no doubt the reason for its +being thus designated. + +This led me to the point at once. + +‘You will one and all forgive me,’ I returned, ‘if for the greater +convenience of the story, and for its better introduction, that adventure +was fictitious. I had my share, indeed,—no light or trivial one,—in the +pages we have read, but it was not the share I feigned to have at first. +The younger brother, the single gentleman, the nameless actor in this +little drama, stands before you now.’ + +It was easy to see they had not expected this disclosure. + +‘Yes,’ I pursued. ‘I can look back upon my part in it with a calm, +half-smiling pity for myself as for some other man. But I am he, indeed; +and now the chief sorrows of my life are yours.’ + +I need not say what true gratification I derived from the sympathy and +kindness with which this acknowledgment was received; nor how often it +had risen to my lips before; nor how difficult I had found it—how +impossible, when I came to those passages which touched me most, and most +nearly concerned me—to sustain the character I had assumed. It is enough +to say that I replaced in the clock-case the record of so many +trials,—sorrowfully, it is true, but with a softened sorrow which was +almost pleasure; and felt that in living through the past again, and +communicating to others the lesson it had helped to teach me, I had been +a happier man. + +We lingered so long over the leaves from which I had read, that as I +consigned them to their former resting-place, the hand of my trusty clock +pointed to twelve, and there came towards us upon the wind the voice of +the deep and distant bell of St. Paul’s as it struck the hour of +midnight. + +‘This,’ said I, returning with a manuscript I had taken at the moment, +from the same repository, ‘to be opened to such music, should be a tale +where London’s face by night is darkly seen, and where some deed of such +a time as this is dimly shadowed out. Which of us here has seen the +working of that great machine whose voice has just now ceased?’ + +Mr. Pickwick had, of course, and so had Mr. Miles. Jack and my deaf +friend were in the minority. + +I had seen it but a few days before, and could not help telling them of +the fancy I had about it. + +I paid my fee of twopence upon entering, to one of the money-changers who +sit within the Temple; and falling, after a few turns up and down, into +the quiet train of thought which such a place awakens, paced the echoing +stones like some old monk whose present world lay all within its walls. +As I looked afar up into the lofty dome, I could not help wondering what +were his reflections whose genius reared that mighty pile, when, the last +small wedge of timber fixed, the last nail driven into its home for many +centuries, the clang of hammers, and the hum of busy voices gone, and the +Great Silence whole years of noise had helped to make, reigning +undisturbed around, he mused, as I did now, upon his work, and lost +himself amid its vast extent. I could not quite determine whether the +contemplation of it would impress him with a sense of greatness or of +insignificance; but when I remembered how long a time it had taken to +erect, in how short a space it might be traversed even to its remotest +parts, for how brief a term he, or any of those who cared to bear his +name, would live to see it, or know of its existence, I imagined him far +more melancholy than proud, and looking with regret upon his labour done. +With these thoughts in my mind, I began to ascend, almost unconsciously, +the flight of steps leading to the several wonders of the building, and +found myself before a barrier where another money-taker sat, who demanded +which among them I would choose to see. There were the stone gallery, he +said, and the whispering gallery, the geometrical staircase, the room of +models, the clock—the clock being quite in my way, I stopped him there, +and chose that sight from all the rest. + +I groped my way into the Turret which it occupies, and saw before me, in +a kind of loft, what seemed to be a great, old oaken press with folding +doors. These being thrown back by the attendant (who was sleeping when I +came upon him, and looked a drowsy fellow, as though his close +companionship with Time had made him quite indifferent to it), disclosed +a complicated crowd of wheels and chains in iron and brass,—great, +sturdy, rattling engines,—suggestive of breaking a finger put in here or +there, and grinding the bone to powder,—and these were the Clock! Its +very pulse, if I may use the word, was like no other clock. It did not +mark the flight of every moment with a gentle second stroke, as though it +would check old Time, and have him stay his pace in pity, but measured it +with one sledge-hammer beat, as if its business were to crush the seconds +as they came trooping on, and remorselessly to clear a path before the +Day of Judgment. + +I sat down opposite to it, and hearing its regular and never-changing +voice, that one deep constant note, uppermost amongst all the noise and +clatter in the streets below,—marking that, let that tumult rise or fall, +go on or stop,—let it be night or noon, to-morrow or to-day, this year or +next,—it still performed its functions with the same dull constancy, and +regulated the progress of the life around, the fancy came upon me that +this was London’s Heart,—and that when it should cease to beat, the City +would be no more. + +It is night. Calm and unmoved amidst the scenes that darkness favours, +the great heart of London throbs in its Giant breast. Wealth and +beggary, vice and virtue, guilt and innocence, repletion and the direst +hunger, all treading on each other and crowding together, are gathered +round it. Draw but a little circle above the clustering housetops, and +you shall have within its space everything, with its opposite extreme and +contradiction, close beside. Where yonder feeble light is shining, a man +is but this moment dead. The taper at a few yards’ distance is seen by +eyes that have this instant opened on the world. There are two houses +separated by but an inch or two of wall. In one, there are quiet minds +at rest; in the other, a waking conscience that one might think would +trouble the very air. In that close corner where the roofs shrink down +and cower together as if to hide their secrets from the handsome street +hard by, there are such dark crimes, such miseries and horrors, as could +be hardly told in whispers. In the handsome street, there are folks +asleep who have dwelt there all their lives, and have no more knowledge +of these things than if they had never been, or were transacted at the +remotest limits of the world,—who, if they were hinted at, would shake +their heads, look wise, and frown, and say they were impossible, and out +of Nature,—as if all great towns were not. Does not this Heart of +London, that nothing moves, nor stops, nor quickens,—that goes on the +same let what will be done, does it not express the City’s character +well? + +The day begins to break, and soon there is the hum and noise of life. +Those who have spent the night on doorsteps and cold stones crawl off to +beg; they who have slept in beds come forth to their occupation, too, and +business is astir. The fog of sleep rolls slowly off, and London shines +awake. The streets are filled with carriages and people gaily clad. The +jails are full, too, to the throat, nor have the workhouses or hospitals +much room to spare. The courts of law are crowded. Taverns have their +regular frequenters by this time, and every mart of traffic has its +throng. Each of these places is a world, and has its own inhabitants; +each is distinct from, and almost unconscious of the existence of any +other. There are some few people well to do, who remember to have heard +it said, that numbers of men and women—thousands, they think it was—get +up in London every day, unknowing where to lay their heads at night; and +that there are quarters of the town where misery and famine always are. +They don’t believe it quite,—there may be some truth in it, but it is +exaggerated, of course. So, each of these thousand worlds goes on, +intent upon itself, until night comes again,—first with its lights and +pleasures, and its cheerful streets; then with its guilt and darkness. + +Heart of London, there is a moral in thy every stroke! as I look on at +thy indomitable working, which neither death, nor press of life, nor +grief, nor gladness out of doors will influence one jot, I seem to hear a +voice within thee which sinks into my heart, bidding me, as I elbow my +way among the crowd, have some thought for the meanest wretch that +passes, and, being a man, to turn away with scorn and pride from none +that bear the human shape. + + * * * * * + +I am by no means sure that I might not have been tempted to enlarge upon +the subject, had not the papers that lay before me on the table been a +silent reproach for even this digression. I took them up again when I +had got thus far, and seriously prepared to read. + +The handwriting was strange to me, for the manuscript had been fairly +copied. As it is against our rules, in such a case, to inquire into the +authorship until the reading is concluded, I could only glance at the +different faces round me, in search of some expression which should +betray the writer. Whoever he might be, he was prepared for this, and +gave no sign for my enlightenment. + +I had the papers in my hand, when my deaf friend interposed with a +suggestion. + +‘It has occurred to me,’ he said, ‘bearing in mind your sequel to the +tale we have finished, that if such of us as have anything to relate of +our own lives could interweave it with our contribution to the Clock, it +would be well to do so. This need be no restraint upon us, either as to +time, or place, or incident, since any real passage of this kind may be +surrounded by fictitious circumstances, and represented by fictitious +characters. What if we make this an article of agreement among +ourselves?’ + +The proposition was cordially received, but the difficulty appeared to be +that here was a long story written before we had thought of it. + +‘Unless,’ said I, ‘it should have happened that the writer of this +tale—which is not impossible, for men are apt to do so when they +write—has actually mingled with it something of his own endurance and +experience.’ + +Nobody spoke, but I thought I detected in one quarter that this was +really the case. + +‘If I have no assurance to the contrary,’ I added, therefore, ‘I shall +take it for granted that he has done so, and that even these papers come +within our new agreement. Everybody being mute, we hold that +understanding if you please.’ + +And here I was about to begin again, when Jack informed us softly, that +during the progress of our last narrative, Mr. Weller’s Watch had +adjourned its sittings from the kitchen, and regularly met outside our +door, where he had no doubt that august body would be found at the +present moment. As this was for the convenience of listening to our +stories, he submitted that they might be suffered to come in, and hear +them more pleasantly. + +To this we one and all yielded a ready assent, and the party being +discovered, as Jack had supposed, and invited to walk in, entered (though +not without great confusion at having been detected), and were +accommodated with chairs at a little distance. + +Then, the lamp being trimmed, the fire well stirred and burning brightly, +the hearth clean swept, the curtains closely drawn, the clock wound up, +we entered on our new story. {311} + + [Picture: Master Humphrey’s Visionary Friends] + +It is again midnight. My fire burns cheerfully; the room is filled with +my old friend’s sober voice; and I am left to muse upon the story we have +just now finished. + +It makes me smile, at such a time as this, to think if there were any one +to see me sitting in my easy-chair, my gray head hanging down, my eyes +bent thoughtfully upon the glowing embers, and my crutch—emblem of my +helplessness—lying upon the hearth at my feet, how solitary I should +seem. Yet though I am the sole tenant of this chimney-corner, though I +am childless and old, I have no sense of loneliness at this hour; but am +the centre of a silent group whose company I love. + +Thus, even age and weakness have their consolations. If I were a younger +man, if I were more active, more strongly bound and tied to life, these +visionary friends would shun me, or I should desire to fly from them. +Being what I am, I can court their society, and delight in it; and pass +whole hours in picturing to myself the shadows that perchance flock every +night into this chamber, and in imagining with pleasure what kind of +interest they have in the frail, feeble mortal who is its sole +inhabitant. + +All the friends I have ever lost I find again among these visitors. I +love to fancy their spirits hovering about me, feeling still some earthly +kindness for their old companion, and watching his decay. ‘He is weaker, +he declines apace, he draws nearer and nearer to us, and will soon be +conscious of our existence.’ What is there to alarm me in this? It is +encouragement and hope. + +These thoughts have never crowded on me half so fast as they have done +to-night. Faces I had long forgotten have become familiar to me once +again; traits I had endeavoured to recall for years have come before me +in an instant; nothing is changed but me; and even I can be my former +self at will. + +Raising my eyes but now to the face of my old clock, I remember, quite +involuntarily, the veneration, not unmixed with a sort of childish awe, +with which I used to sit and watch it as it ticked, unheeded in a dark +staircase corner. I recollect looking more grave and steady when I met +its dusty face, as if, having that strange kind of life within it, and +being free from all excess of vulgar appetite, and warning all the house +by night and day, it were a sage. How often have I listened to it as it +told the beads of time, and wondered at its constancy! How often watched +it slowly pointing round the dial, and, while I panted for the eagerly +expected hour to come, admired, despite myself, its steadiness of purpose +and lofty freedom from all human strife, impatience, and desire! + +I thought it cruel once. It was very hard of heart, to my mind, I +remember. It was an old servant even then; and I felt as though it ought +to show some sorrow; as though it wanted sympathy with us in our +distress, and were a dull, heartless, mercenary creature. Ah! how soon I +learnt to know that in its ceaseless going on, and in its being checked +or stayed by nothing, lay its greatest kindness, and the only balm for +grief and wounded peace of mind. + +To-night, to-night, when this tranquillity and calm are on my spirits, +and memory presents so many shifting scenes before me, I take my quiet +stand at will by many a fire that has been long extinguished, and mingle +with the cheerful group that cluster round it. If I could be sorrowful +in such a mood, I should grow sad to think what a poor blot I was upon +their youth and beauty once, and now how few remain to put me to the +blush; I should grow sad to think that such among them as I sometimes +meet with in my daily walks are scarcely less infirm than I; that time +has brought us to a level; and that all distinctions fade and vanish as +we take our trembling steps towards the grave. + +But memory was given us for better purposes than this, and mine is not a +torment, but a source of pleasure. To muse upon the gaiety and youth I +have known suggests to me glad scenes of harmless mirth that may be +passing now. From contemplating them apart, I soon become an actor in +these little dramas, and humouring my fancy, lose myself among the beings +it invokes. + +When my fire is bright and high, and a warm blush mantles in the walls +and ceiling of this ancient room; when my clock makes cheerful music, +like one of those chirping insects who delight in the warm hearth, and +are sometimes, by a good superstition, looked upon as the harbingers of +fortune and plenty to that household in whose mercies they put their +humble trust; when everything is in a ruddy genial glow, and there are +voices in the crackling flame, and smiles in its flashing light, other +smiles and other voices congregate around me, invading, with their +pleasant harmony, the silence of the time. + +For then a knot of youthful creatures gather round my fireside, and the +room re-echoes to their merry voices. My solitary chair no longer holds +its ample place before the fire, but is wheeled into a smaller corner, to +leave more room for the broad circle formed about the cheerful hearth. I +have sons, and daughters, and grandchildren, and we are assembled on some +occasion of rejoicing common to us all. It is a birthday, perhaps, or +perhaps it may be Christmas time; but be it what it may, there is rare +holiday among us; we are full of glee. + +In the chimney-comer, opposite myself, sits one who has grown old beside +me. She is changed, of course; much changed; and yet I recognise the +girl even in that gray hair and wrinkled brow. Glancing from the +laughing child who half hides in her ample skirts, and half peeps +out,—and from her to the little matron of twelve years old, who sits so +womanly and so demure at no great distance from me,—and from her again, +to a fair girl in the full bloom of early womanhood, the centre of the +group, who has glanced more than once towards the opening door, and by +whom the children, whispering and tittering among themselves, _will_ +leave a vacant chair, although she bids them not,—I see her image thrice +repeated, and feel how long it is before one form and set of features +wholly pass away, if ever, from among the living. While I am dwelling +upon this, and tracing out the gradual change from infancy to youth, from +youth to perfect growth, from that to age, and thinking, with an old +man’s pride, that she is comely yet, I feel a slight thin hand upon my +arm, and, looking down, see seated at my feet a crippled boy,—a gentle, +patient child,—whose aspect I know well. He rests upon a little +crutch,—I know it too,—and leaning on it as he climbs my footstool, +whispers in my ear, ‘I am hardly one of these, dear grandfather, although +I love them dearly. They are very kind to me, but you will be kinder +still, I know.’ + +I have my hand upon his neck, and stoop to kiss him, when my clock +strikes, my chair is in its old spot, and I am alone. + +What if I be? What if this fireside be tenantless, save for the presence +of one weak old man? From my house-top I can look upon a hundred homes, +in every one of which these social companions are matters of reality. In +my daily walks I pass a thousand men whose cares are all forgotten, whose +labours are made light, whose dull routine of work from day to day is +cheered and brightened by their glimpses of domestic joy at home. Amid +the struggles of this struggling town what cheerful sacrifices are made; +what toil endured with readiness; what patience shown and fortitude +displayed for the mere sake of home and its affections! Let me thank +Heaven that I can people my fireside with shadows such as these; with +shadows of bright objects that exist in crowds about me; and let me say, +‘I am alone no more.’ + +I never was less so—I write it with a grateful heart—than I am to-night. +Recollections of the past and visions of the present come to bear me +company; the meanest man to whom I have ever given alms appears, to add +his mite of peace and comfort to my stock; and whenever the fire within +me shall grow cold, to light my path upon this earth no more, I pray that +it may be at such an hour as this, and when I love the world as well as I +do now. + + + +THE DEAF GENTLEMAN FROM HIS OWN APARTMENT + + +Our dear friend laid down his pen at the end of the foregoing paragraph, +to take it up no more. I little thought ever to employ mine upon so +sorrowful a task as that which he has left me, and to which I now devote +it. + +As he did not appear among us at his usual hour next morning, we knocked +gently at his door. No answer being given, it was softly opened; and +then, to our surprise, we saw him seated before the ashes of his fire, +with a little table I was accustomed to set at his elbow when I left him +for the night at a short distance from him, as though he had pushed it +away with the idea of rising and retiring to his bed. His crutch and +footstool lay at his feet as usual, and he was dressed in his +chamber-gown, which he had put on before I left him. He was reclining in +his chair, in his accustomed posture, with his face towards the fire, and +seemed absorbed in meditation,—indeed, at first, we almost hoped he was. + +Going up to him, we found him dead. I have often, very often, seen him +sleeping, and always peacefully, but I never saw him look so calm and +tranquil. His face wore a serene, benign expression, which had impressed +me very strongly when we last shook hands; not that he had ever had any +other look, God knows; but there was something in this so very spiritual, +so strangely and indefinably allied to youth, although his head was gray +and venerable, that it was new even in him. It came upon me all at once +when on some slight pretence he called me back upon the previous night to +take me by the hand again, and once more say, ‘God bless you.’ + +A bell-rope hung within his reach, but he had not moved towards it; nor +had he stirred, we all agreed, except, as I have said, to push away his +table, which he could have done, and no doubt did, with a very slight +motion of his hand. He had relapsed for a moment into his late train of +meditation, and, with a thoughtful smile upon his face, had died. + +I had long known it to be his wish that whenever this event should come +to pass we might be all assembled in the house. I therefore lost no time +in sending for Mr. Pickwick and for Mr. Miles, both of whom arrived +before the messenger’s return. + +It is not my purpose to dilate upon the sorrow and affectionate emotions +of which I was at once the witness and the sharer. But I may say, of the +humbler mourners, that his faithful housekeeper was fairly heart-broken; +that the poor barber would not be comforted; and that I shall respect the +homely truth and warmth of heart of Mr. Weller and his son to the last +moment of my life. + +‘And the sweet old creetur, sir,’ said the elder Mr. Weller to me in the +afternoon, ‘has bolted. Him as had no wice, and was so free from temper +that a infant might ha’ drove him, has been took at last with that ’ere +unawoidable fit o’ staggers as we all must come to, and gone off his feed +for ever! I see him,’ said the old gentleman, with a moisture in his +eye, which could not be mistaken,—‘I see him gettin’, every journey, more +and more groggy; I says to Samivel, “My boy! the Grey’s a-goin’ at the +knees;” and now my predilictions is fatally werified, and him as I could +never do enough to serve or show my likin’ for, is up the great uniwersal +spout o’ natur’.’ + +I was not the less sensible of the old man’s attachment because he +expressed it in his peculiar manner. Indeed, I can truly assert of both +him and his son, that notwithstanding the extraordinary dialogues they +held together, and the strange commentaries and corrections with which +each of them illustrated the other’s speech, I do not think it possible +to exceed the sincerity of their regret; and that I am sure their +thoughtfulness and anxiety in anticipating the discharge of many little +offices of sympathy would have done honour to the most delicate-minded +persons. + +Our friend had frequently told us that his will would be found in a box +in the Clock-case, the key of which was in his writing-desk. As he had +told us also that he desired it to be opened immediately after his death, +whenever that should happen, we met together that night for the +fulfilment of his request. + +We found it where he had told us, wrapped in a sealed paper, and with it +a codicil of recent date, in which he named Mr. Miles and Mr. Pickwick +his executors,—as having no need of any greater benefit from his estate +than a generous token (which he bequeathed to them) of his friendship and +remembrance. + +After pointing out the spot in which he wished his ashes to repose, he +gave to ‘his dear old friends,’ Jack Redburn and myself, his house, his +books, his furniture,—in short, all that his house contained; and with +this legacy more ample means of maintaining it in its present state than +we, with our habits and at our terms of life, can ever exhaust. Besides +these gifts, he left to us, in trust, an annual sum of no insignificant +amount, to be distributed in charity among his accustomed pensioners—they +are a long list—and such other claimants on his bounty as might, from +time to time, present themselves. And as true charity not only covers a +multitude of sins, but includes a multitude of virtues, such as +forgiveness, liberal construction, gentleness and mercy to the faults of +others, and the remembrance of our own imperfections and advantages, he +bade us not inquire too closely into the venial errors of the poor, but +finding that they _were_ poor, first to relieve and then endeavour—at an +advantage—to reclaim them. + +To the housekeeper he left an annuity, sufficient for her comfortable +maintenance and support through life. For the barber, who had attended +him many years, he made a similar provision. And I may make two remarks +in this place: first, that I think this pair are very likely to club +their means together and make a match of it; and secondly, that I think +my friend had this result in his mind, for I have heard him say, more +than once, that he could not concur with the generality of mankind in +censuring equal marriages made in later life, since there were many cases +in which such unions could not fail to be a wise and rational source of +happiness to both parties. + +The elder Mr. Weller is so far from viewing this prospect with any +feelings of jealousy, that he appears to be very much relieved by its +contemplation; and his son, if I am not mistaken, participates in this +feeling. We are all of opinion, however, that the old gentleman’s +danger, even at its crisis, was very slight, and that he merely laboured +under one of those transitory weaknesses to which persons of his +temperament are now and then liable, and which become less and less +alarming at every return, until they wholly subside. I have no doubt he +will remain a jolly old widower for the rest of his life, as he has +already inquired of me, with much gravity, whether a writ of habeas +corpus would enable him to settle his property upon Tony beyond the +possibility of recall; and has, in my presence, conjured his son, with +tears in his eyes, that in the event of his ever becoming amorous again, +he will put him in a strait-waistcoat until the fit is past, and +distinctly inform the lady that his property is ‘made over.’ + +Although I have very little doubt that Sam would dutifully comply with +these injunctions in a case of extreme necessity, and that he would do so +with perfect composure and coolness, I do not apprehend things will ever +come to that pass, as the old gentleman seems perfectly happy in the +society of his son, his pretty daughter-in-law, and his grandchildren, +and has solemnly announced his determination to ‘take arter the old ’un +in all respects;’ from which I infer that it is his intention to regulate +his conduct by the model of Mr. Pickwick, who will certainly set him the +example of a single life. + +I have diverged for a moment from the subject with which I set out, for I +know that my friend was interested in these little matters, and I have a +natural tendency to linger upon any topic that occupied his thoughts or +gave him pleasure and amusement. His remaining wishes are very briefly +told. He desired that we would make him the frequent subject of our +conversation; at the same time, that we would never speak of him with an +air of gloom or restraint, but frankly, and as one whom we still loved +and hoped to meet again. He trusted that the old house would wear no +aspect of mourning, but that it would be lively and cheerful; and that we +would not remove or cover up his picture, which hangs in our dining-room, +but make it our companion as he had been. His own room, our place of +meeting, remains, at his desire, in its accustomed state; our seats are +placed about the table as of old; his easy-chair, his desk, his crutch, +his footstool, hold their accustomed places, and the clock stands in its +familiar corner. We go into the chamber at stated times to see that all +is as it should be, and to take care that the light and air are not shut +out, for on that point he expressed a strong solicitude. But it was his +fancy that the apartment should not be inhabited; that it should be +religiously preserved in this condition, and that the voice of his old +companion should be heard no more. + +My own history may be summed up in very few words; and even those I +should have spared the reader but for my friend’s allusion to me some +time since. I have no deeper sorrow than the loss of a child,—an only +daughter, who is living, and who fled from her father’s house but a few +weeks before our friend and I first met. I had never spoken of this even +to him, because I have always loved her, and I could not bear to tell him +of her error until I could tell him also of her sorrow and regret. +Happily I was enabled to do so some time ago. And it will not be long, +with Heaven’s leave, before she is restored to me; before I find in her +and her husband the support of my declining years. + +For my pipe, it is an old relic of home, a thing of no great worth, a +poor trifle, but sacred to me for her sake. + +Thus, since the death of our venerable friend, Jack Redburn and I have +been the sole tenants of the old house; and, day by day, have lounged +together in his favourite walks. Mindful of his injunctions, we have +long been able to speak of him with ease and cheerfulness, and to +remember him as he would be remembered. From certain allusions which +Jack has dropped, to his having been deserted and cast off in early life, +I am inclined to believe that some passages of his youth may possibly be +shadowed out in the history of Mr. Chester and his son, but seeing that +he avoids the subject, I have not pursued it. + + [Picture: The Deserted Chamber] + +My task is done. The chamber in which we have whiled away so many hours, +not, I hope, without some pleasure and some profit, is deserted; our +happy hour of meeting strikes no more; the chimney-corner has grown cold; +and MASTER HUMPHREY’S CLOCK has stopped for ever. + + + + +TO THE READERS OF “MASTER HUMPHREY’S CLOCK” + + +DEAR FRIENDS, + +Next November we shall have finished the tale of which we are at present +engaged, and shall have travelled together through twenty monthly parts +and eighty-seven weekly numbers. It is my design when we have gone so +far, to close this work. Let me tell you why. + +I should not regard the anxiety, the close confinement, or the constant +attention, inseparable from the weekly form of publication (for to +commune with you in any form is to me a labour of love) if I had found it +advantageous to the conduct of my stories, the elucidation of my meaning, +or the gradual development of my characters. But I have not done so. I +have often felt cramped and confined in a very irksome and harassing +degree by the space in which I have been constrained to move. I have +wanted you to know more at once than I could tell you; and it has +frequently been of the greatest importance to my cherished intention, +that you should do so. I have been sometimes strongly tempted (and have +been at some pains to resist the temptation) to hurry incidents on, lest +they should appear to you who waited from week to week, and had not, like +me, the result and purpose in your minds, too long delayed. In a word, I +have found this form of publication most anxious, perplexing, and +difficult. I cannot bear these jerky confidences which are no sooner +begun than ended, and no sooner ended than begun again. + +Many passages in a tale of any length, depend materially for their +interest on the intimate relation they bear to what has gone before, or +to what is to follow. I have sometimes found it difficult when I issued +thirty-two closely printed pages once a month, to sustain in your minds +this needful connection: in the present form of publication it is often, +especially in the first half of a story, quite impossible to preserve it +sufficiently through the current numbers. And although in my progress, I +am gradually able to set you right, and to show you what my meaning has +been, and to work it out, I see no reason why you should ever be wrong +when I have it in my power by resorting to a better means of +communication between us to prevent it. + +Considerations of immediate profit and advantage ought in such a case to +be of secondary importance. They would lead me, at all hazards, to hold +my present course. But for the reason I have just now mentioned, I have +after long consideration, and with especial reference to the next new +tale I bear in my mind, arrived at the conclusion that it will be better +to abandon this scheme of publication in favour of our old and well-tried +plan which has only twelve gaps in a year, instead of fifty-two. + +Therefore my intention is, to close this story (with the limits of which +I am of course by this time acquainted) and this work, within, or about, +the period I have mentioned. I should add, that for the general +convenience of subscribers, another volume of collected numbers will not +be published until the whole is brought to a conclusion. + +Taking advantage of the respite which the close of this work will afford +me, I have decided, in January next, to pay a visit to America. The +pleasure I anticipate from this realization of a wish I have long +entertained, and long hoped to gratify, is subdued by the reflection that +it must separate us for a longer time than other circumstances would have +rendered necessary. + +On the first of November, eighteen hundred and forty-two, I purpose, if +it please God, to commence my book in monthly parts, under the old green +cover, in the old size and form, and at the old price. + +I look forward to addressing a few more words to you in reference to this +latter theme before I close the task on which I am now engaged. If there +be any among the numerous readers of _Master Humphrey’s Clock_ who are at +first dissatisfied with the prospect of this change—and it is not +unnatural almost to hope there may be some—I trust they will, at no very +distant day, find reason to agree with + + ITS AUTHOR + +_September_, 1841. + + + + +POSTSCRIPT {0} + + +Now that the time is come for taking leave, I find that the words I have +to add are very few indeed. + +We part until next November. It is a long parting between us, but if I +have left you anything by which to remember me, in the meanwhile, with no +unkind or distant feelings—anything by which I may be associated in +spirit with your firesides, homes, and blameless pleasures—I am happy. + +Believe me it has ever been my true desire to add to the common stock of +healthful cheerfulness, good humour, and good-will, and trust me when I +return to England and to another tale of English life and manners, I +shall not slacken in this zealous work. + +I take the opportunity for thanking all those who have addressed me by +letter since the appearance of the foregoing announcement; and of +expressing a hope that they will rest contented with this form of +acknowledgment, as their number renders it impossible to me to answer +them individually. + +I bid farewell to them and all my readers with a regret that we feel in +taking leave of Friends who have become endeared to us by long and close +communication; and I look forward with truthfulness and pleasure to our +next meeting. + +_November_, 1841. + + + + +FOOTNOTES + + +{0} Postscript, printed on the wrapper of No. 87 of “Master Humphrey’s +Clock”. + +{255} Old Curiosity Shop begins here. + +{292} Old Curiosity Shop is continued here, completing No. IV. + +{300} Old Curiosity Shop is continued to the end of the number. + +{306} Old Curiosity Shop is continued from here to the end without +further break. Master Humphrey is revived thus at the close of the Old +Curiosity Shop, merely to introduce Barnaby Rudge. + +{311} This was Barnaby Rudge, contained in vol. ix. of this Edition. +This is, as indicated, the final appearance of Master Humphrey’s Clock. +It forms the conclusion of Barnaby Rudge. + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK*** + + +******* This file should be named 588-0.txt or 588-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/5/8/588 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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