MASTER HUMPHREY, FROM HIS CLOCK-SIDE IN THE CHIMNEY CORNER.
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.
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!