Master Humphrey’s Clock
By
Charles Dickens
CHAPTER I—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 read-
ers 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 specula-
tions, even my place of residence might one day have a
kind of charm for them. Bearing this possible contin-
gency in mind, I wish them to understand, in the out-
set, 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 retire-
ment has become a habit with me, and that I am un-
willing 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 at-
tend 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
3
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 gor-
geous 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 think-
ing 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 kidnap-
per 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 foot-
steps 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 ac-
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
4
costed 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 curi-
osity 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 acknowl-
edge no other name than Humphrey. With my detrac-
tors, 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 bar-
ber—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 communi-
cating to some friend the substance of the conversa-
tion that he and Master Humphrey have had together
in the course of the shaving which he has just con-
cluded.
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 mel-
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
5
ancholy and timid, but that was because the gentle con-
sideration 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 burst-
ing into tears, would soothe me with every term of fond-
ness 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 can-
not 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 chil-
dren came to be there, I forget; I have some dim thought
it was my birthday, but the beginning of my recollec-
tion 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 com-
ing 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 crowd-
ing 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
6
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 cham-
ber, 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 mechani-
cally), 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 wan-
dered back to a melancholy past, have its regular whis-
perings 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 an-
cient furniture, my very books, I can scarcely bring
myself to love even these last like my old clock.
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
7
It stands in a snug corner, midway between the fire-
side 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 cer-
tain faces, and to take it to heart as quite a heavy dis-
appointment 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 com-
panionship. 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 inconsis-
tent 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
8
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, nev-
ertheless, has not cooled with age, whose spirit of ro-
mance 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 common-
est 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 seek-
ing, and, unlike the objects of search with most phi-
losophers, 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 communicat-
ing 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 encourage-
ment of our proceedings, lends its name to our society,
which for its punctuality and my love is christened ‘Mas-
ter Humphrey’s Clock’? Now shall I tell how that in the
bottom of the old dark closet, where the steady pendu-
lum throbs and beats with healthy action, though the
pulse of him who made it stood still long ago, and never
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
9
moved again, there are piles of dusty papers constantly
placed there by our hands, that we may link our enjoy-
ments 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 hon-
est 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 pro-
ceedings, our quiet speculations or more busy adven-
tures, 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 de-
sirous 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 gentle-
man. 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, con-
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
10
signed 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 im-
portant 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 pock-
ets, and glad enough to take his dinner at a baker’s
door, and his tea at a pump. But he had long ago for-
gotten all this, as it was proper that a wholesale fruiterer,
alderman, common-councilman, member of the worship-
ful 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
11
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 amuse-
ment,—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 col-
umn; 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 fure. 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 hun-
dred 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?
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
12
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 let-
ter 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 for-
gotten. 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!
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
13
‘I am sure I don’t know what to say, Mr. Toddyhigh,’
said the Lord Mayor elect; ‘I really don’t. It’s very in-
convenient. 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 some-
thing 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 Eu-
rope 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 strang-
ers; 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
14
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 decora-
tions 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 disappoint-
ment 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 him-
self 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 ex-
tinguished, 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
15
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 com-
fortable 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 con-
sternation 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 lis-
tened 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 reflec-
tion. He tried to keep his thoughts to the current, un-
pleasant 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 be-
tween 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 pre-
vent 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.
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
16
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 guard-
ian genii of the City had quitted their pedestals, and
reclined in easy attitudes in the great stained glass win-
dow. 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 un-
consciousness 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
17
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 impa-
tience 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 adminis-
tered, that the latter quickly withdrew his lips from
the cask, to which they had been applied, and, catch-
ing 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 win-
dow-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 be-
neath 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.’
‘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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
18
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 under-
stand 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 con-
duits 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.’
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
19
The other Giant appeared to be entirely of this opin-
ion, 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 him-
self, 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 hor-
ribly reminded of the popular prejudice on the subject
of giants, and of their fabled power of smelling out En-
glishmen, however closely concealed.
His alarm was such that he nearly swooned, and it
was some little time before his power of sight or hear-
ing 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 be-
gin 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 pos-
sess 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
20
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 wait-
ing-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 an-
gel; 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
21
that she had inspired it, he thought he could die con-
tented.
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, wear-
ing 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 bro-
ken ways, to have her leaning on his arm,—it some-
times 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 frown-
ing 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 hap-
pened 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 em-
broidered 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.
Of these glittering clients there was one who always
came alone. He was nobly mounted, and, having no at-
tendant, 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
22
him caracoling down the street, and burnt with indig-
nation. But how much deeper was the glow that red-
dened in his cheeks when, raising his eyes to the case-
ment, 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 be-
stow. 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 car-
ried 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 sol-
emnly 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
23
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 gen-
erous, 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, mark-
ing 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
24
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 daugh-
ters in the ward, especially when they appeared to re-
ceive some corroboration from the circumstance of Mas-
ter 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 won-
der 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 pursu-
ance 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
25
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 ap-
proached: 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 ex-
actly three feet long, returned it with a bow. There-
upon 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 disap-
pointed; 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, al-
though it was high noon, and all cavaliers of any qual-
ity 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 ad-
vancing up the hill.
As this person drew nearer, the crowd stopped their
clamour, and bent forward with eager looks. Master Gra-
ham 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
26
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 Gra-
ham 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 scab-
bard 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 min-
gling 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
27
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 sa-
cred 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 win-
dows above as they recognised their relatives or lovers
in the crowd, the rapid tolling of alarm-bells, the furi-
ous 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, bro-
ken plumes, fragments of rich cloaks and doublets, and
angry, bleeding faces, all mixed up together in inextri-
cable 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 confu-
sion 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
28
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 con-
course 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 whis-
pered together in groups, and before a numerous guard
which then rode up could muster in the street, it was
nearly empty.
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 re-
cover 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 sud-
den 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 pedes-
tals.
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 ves-
tiges of last night’s feast.
Stealing gently down the little stairs, and assuming
the air of some early lounger who had dropped in from
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
29
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 ani-
mated 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 consid-
ered 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
30
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 pic-
ture in your first paper—prosy, but told in a devilish gentle-
manly sort of way. In places like that I could come in with
great effect with a touch of life—don’t you feel that?
‘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 sec-
onded a great many prize-fighters, and once fought an
amateur match himself; since then he has driven sev-
eral mails, broken at different periods all the lamps on
the right-hand side of Oxford-street, and six times car-
ried away every bell-handle in Bloomsbury-square, be-
sides 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’s Clock — Dickens
31
Master Humphrey informs this gentleman that his ap-
plication, both as it concerns himself and his friend, is
rejected.
CHAPTER 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-bur-
ied thoughts, favoured by the gloom and silence, steal
from their graves, and haunt the scenes of faded happi-
ness 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 emo-
tions 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.
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
32
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 en-
tertained thoughts of becoming its tenant, I was as-
sured 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 popu-
larity.
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 asso-
ciate 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 re-
joicing, 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 be-
hind, forgot even her care of her gay clothes, in ex-
changing 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 court-
ship, 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 pre-
vailed. At length I happened to stop before a Tavern,
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
33
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 ex-
cepted, 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 encoun-
ter 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 my-
self than was quite necessary, with the view of attract-
ing 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-fin-
ished 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 with-
out 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
34
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 con-
trolled.
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 keep-
ing Christmas in his jacket.
I grew still more interested in my friend. His dinner
done, a decanter of wine was placed before him. It re-
mained 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 mo-
ment. 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.
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
35
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, in-
deed. 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 freema-
sonry 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 attach-
ment 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 acquain-
tance; and I well remember how awkward and con-
strained I was in writing down my share of the dia-
logue, 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 fes-
tival with him; and seeing that I glanced at his dress in
the expectation that he wore mourning, he added hast-
ily 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
36
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 con-
sent.
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 se-
lect 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 him-
self, and, having a lively imagination, has a facility of
conceiving and enlarging upon odd ideas, which ren-
ders him invaluable to our little body, and greatly as-
tonishes 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 what-
ever grief may linger in some secret corner of his heart,
he is now a cheerful, placid, happy creature. Misfortune
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
37
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 my-
self. 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 mel-
ancholy; 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 tranquil-
lity 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.
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 edu-
cated 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 oppor-
tunity, now triumphs in the possession of enormous
wealth. His triumph is to hoard it in solitary wretched-
ness, and probably to feel with the expenditure of ev-
ery shilling a greater pang than the loss of his whole
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
38
inheritance ever cost his brother.
Jack Redburn—he was Jack Redburn at the first little
school he went to, where every other child was mas-
tered 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 musi-
cian, 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 won-
derful 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 en-
thusiastic, 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 pos-
sessor any title to be considered young, then he is a
mere child. The only interruptions to his careless cheer-
fulness are on a wet Sunday, when he is apt to be un-
usually 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 speci-
men of his powers in this mood, I refer my readers to
the extract from the clock-case which follows this pa-
per: 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.
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
39
His apartments are two cheerful rooms looking to-
wards 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 con-
nected 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 pe-
culiar 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 disor-
der 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 disproportion-
ate 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:
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
40
not of quick apprehension, and not without some amus-
ing prejudices, which I shall leave to their own devel-
opment. 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
41
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 accom-
plished, 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 be-
tween 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 recov-
ery was past, he called my wife to his bedside, and con-
fided this orphan, a child of four years old, to her pro-
tection. 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 separa-
tion; and being exhausted, fell into a slumber, from
which he never awoke.
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
42
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 inherit-
ance 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 earth-
quake 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 resolv-
ing 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 busi-
ness with me to contemplate his slight and fragile fig-
ure 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
43
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 sing-
ing—God have mercy upon me!—singing a merry bal-
lad,—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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
44
that he was dead—in a thicket. My wife was from home
that day, and would not return until the next. Our bed-
room 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 sin-
cere, 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 ac-
count, as the traces of my spade were less likely to at-
tract 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 shad-
owy dreams of being hunted down, to visions of the
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
45
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, get-
ting 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 tre-
mendous 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 watch-
ing I spent three days.
On the fourth there came to the gate one who had
served with me abroad, accompanied by a brother of-
ficer 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 fright-
ened 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
46
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 re-
peating 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 cir-
cuits, but kept near to one spot, and constantly dimin-
ished 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
47
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.’
They both set upon me and forced me away, though I
fought and bit and caught at them like a madman. Af-
ter 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 dun-
geon with my evil spirit, and that I die to-morrow.
CORRESPONDENCE
MASTER HUMPHREY HAS been favoured with the follow-
ing 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 under-
stand 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
48
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 en-
graved, 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 agi-
tated 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 ser-
vant 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
49
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, per-
haps, 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.
CHAPTER 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.
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
50
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 some-
how—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 laun-
dry 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 appeal-
ing 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 medi-
tations 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 be-
tokened something remarkable.
My barber is at all times a very brisk, bustling, active
little man,—for he is, as it were, chubby all over, with-
out being stout or unwieldy,—but yesterday his alac-
rity 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 extraor-
dinary manner, that his little red nose was in an un-
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
51
usual glow, that every line in his round bright face was
twisted and curved into an expression of pleased sur-
prise, 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 some-
what 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 announce-
ment 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 an-
other 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 trip-
ping along in the pleasantest manner conceivable, avoid-
ing 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. Be-
fore 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
52
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 grasp-
ing it again, and surveying me through his spectacles
with such a beaming countenance as I never till then
beheld.
‘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 ex-
pected! 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
53
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 ex-
pression 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 ev-
ery day of my life?’
‘And Mr. Weller senior?’ said I.
‘Old Mr. Weller,’ returned Mr. Pickwick, ‘is in no re-
spect more altered than Sam, unless it be that he is a
little more opinionated than he was formerly, and per-
haps at times more talkative. He spends a good deal of
his time now in our neighbourhood, and has so consti-
tuted 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
54
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 present-
ing him immediately on his election.
Mr. Pickwick, having with many blushes placed in my
hands a small roll of paper, which he termed his ‘quali-
fication,’ 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 sat-
isfied 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
55
the bottom, now surveying the sides with his spectacles
almost touching the case, and now trying to peep be-
tween 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 ev-
ery 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 re-
mained 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 house-
keeper, 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, feign-
ing 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 polite-
ness, 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 un-
diminished affability fifty times at least.
I saw him to the door; an omnibus was at the mo-
ment 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,
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
56
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 put-
ting 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 com-
fortably 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 sleep-
ing, by which means he grew more corpulent and more
drowsy every day of his life. Indeed it used to be cur-
rently 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
57
cared to show. This impression was confirmed by a very
dignified way he had of shaking his head and impart-
ing, 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 wid-
ower,—having a great appetite, which, as he could af-
ford 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 ap-
prehension that beset him night and day.
You know very well that in those times there flour-
ished 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 ven-
geance 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
58
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 witch-
craft 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
59
cover with a pinch of salt upon it; but they were infal-
lible, 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 embel-
lishments of his own—a dismal account of a gentleman
down in Northamptonshire under the influence of witch-
craft 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 hear-
ers, with their heads thrust forward and their mouths
open, listened and trembled, and hoped there was a
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
60
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, in-
quired 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 sur-
rounded 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 breath-
less 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
61
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.
John received this communication with much com-
posure, 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 unfortu-
nate 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 invul-
nerable 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 far-
rier 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 no-
torious, 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
62
more on one side than ever, sat watching the proceed-
ings 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 com-
panions.
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 com-
bated it too with all the tears she had, which were very
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
63
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 hus-
bands 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
64
Will Marks and his conductor rode through the town and
up to the door of a house where sundry grave function-
aries 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 vigor-
ously, so that the suspected parties might be found bleed-
ing in their beds next day, and thoroughly confounded.
They gave him a great quantity of wholesome advice be-
sides, 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 po-
tentates 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 chat-
tered 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 up-
wards when he came under it, saw—certainly with sat-
isfaction—that it was empty, and that nothing dangled
from the top but some iron chains, which swung mourn-
fully 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 be-
cause that would place him with his back to the wind,
and because, if any trick or surprise were attempted, it
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
65
would probably come from that direction in the first in-
stance. 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 gal-
lows-tree with his cap not quite so much on one side as
it had been before, took 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 still-
ness of the night. After half an hour or so this mo-
notony 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 man-
drake 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
66
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 al-
most 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 where-
fore 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
67
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 dis-
cern 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 en-
counter touched him to the quick, and all idea of any-
thing 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 under-
taken 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 knowl-
edge of the folks in yonder town. Bethink you, there-
fore, 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
68
female spoke.
‘You have offered us your help?’
‘I have.’
‘And given a pledge that you are still willing to re-
deem?’
‘Yes. So far as I may, keeping all plots and conspira-
cies 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 im-
pediment 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 re-
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
69
garded 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 eye-
let-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 pro-
pose 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 ser-
vice 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 aveng-
ers, 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
70
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 tempta-
tion was great, and the punishment, even in case of de-
tection, was not likely to be very severe, as Will came of a
loyal stock, and his uncle was in good repute, and a pass-
able 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 in-
terment 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 ener-
gies to its successful execution.
The following night, when it was quite dark, the hol-
low echoes of old London Bridge responded to the rum-
bling of the cart which contained the ghastly load, the
object of Will Marks’ care. Sufficiently disguised to at-
tract no attention by his garb, Will walked at the horse’s
head, as unconcerned as a man could be who was sen-
sible 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
71
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 com-
panions in a low whistle. Once, even in that short pas-
sage, 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 be-
fore 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 insup-
portable 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 over-
head 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 infec-
tion 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 mo-
ment 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
72
let loose. There were single-handed men flying from
bands of ruffians, who pursued them with naked weap-
ons, and hunted them savagely; there were drunken,
desperate robbers issuing from their dens and stagger-
ing through the open streets where no man dared mo-
lest 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 en-
countered 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. Di-
rectly 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 immedi-
ately 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 pro-
found silence.
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
73
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. Some-
thing told him directly that those were the same eyes
which he had seen beneath the mask.
‘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 bless-
ing of one who has now no hope or rest but in this grave!’
Will stood with the purse in his hand, and involun-
tarily made a gesture as though he would return it, for
though a thoughtless fellow, he was of a frank and gen-
erous 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 dis-
tance 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
74
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 cer-
tain 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 him-
self much about anybody except old John Podgers, who,
having been sent for, was sitting in the Town Hall cry-
ing 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 unreason-
able 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 broom-
stick, 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
75
on several points, pronounced it the most extraordi-
nary 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 im-
possible old females, whose likenesses never were or
will be. Thus he saved the lives of the suspected par-
ties, and of all other old women who were dragged be-
fore him to be identified.
This circumstance occasioned John Podgers much grief
and sorrow, until happening one day to cast his eyes
upon his house-keeper, 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 spar-
ingly. 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
76
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 re-
joiced 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 cordial-
ity 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 con-
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
77
ferred 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!’
‘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 black-
berries, 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 grandfa-
ther,”—to see him a doin’ that at two year old is better
than any play as wos ever wrote. “Now I’m grandfa-
ther!” 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 vio-
lence, at the same time administering some smart blows
between his shoulders. By this curious mode of treat-
ment 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?
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
78
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 earth-
quake, below the surface, produced various extraordi-
nary 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 per-
spiration 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 re-
plied 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,
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
79
‘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 sev-
eral 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 em-
phasis; ‘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 retro-
spect 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, not-
withstanding that it would appear from the answer which
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
80
he ultimately gave, that he entertained strong opin-
ions 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 com-
fort, 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 ex-
cept the name, vich is wrote up in the same sized letters
as the last name, and vith the same colours. As to the
Honour 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’ mon-
ster, alvays out o’ breath, vith a shiny green-and-gold
back, like a unpleasant beetle in that ‘ere gas magni-
fier,—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 passen-
gers 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 there-
fore begged Mr. Pickwick to accompany me up-stairs,
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
81
and left the two Mr. Wellers in the care of the house-
keeper, laying strict injunctions upon her to treat them
with all possible hospitality.
CHAPTER IV—THE CLOCK
AS WE WERE GOING UP-STAIRS, Mr. Pickwick put on his
spectacles, which he had held in his hand hitherto; ar-
ranged 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 seri-
ously 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 pos-
sibly have occurred to me!’
I should not have written down this short conversa-
tion, 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 them-
selves.—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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
82
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 affect-
ing 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 nod-
ded 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 gentle-
man 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 un-
becoming 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
83
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 com-
prised in very few words. As our transactions have al-
ready 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 pur-
pose, 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
84
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 wound-
ing 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 de-
light, 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 tak-
ing 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 men-
tioned, 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 pro-
ceed 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 ma-
chine 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.
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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
85
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 gentle-
man 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 si-
lent 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 ac-
quainted 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 substi-
tuted for this kind of answer some fifty nods. Then tak-
ing 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.’
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
86
‘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 ex-
tent which is quite wonderful. When I retired into pri-
vate 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 sev-
eral 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 com-
panion 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.
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
87
‘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 circum-
stances, 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 ar-
ranged 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 re-
sponsibility, 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 fore-
stalled 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 an-
other 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 con-
fidence to Mr. Miles, or treat him with dignified re-
serve. 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
88
that gentleman’s ear and upon the very point of whis-
pering 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 depos-
ited 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 house-
keeper, ‘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 inces-
sant, 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 an-
swer, but he goes avay into the stable, and there he
soon artervards lays himself down a’tween the two pie-
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
89
balds, 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 ob-
ject 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.
CHAPTER 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
90
him as one who would assist her in the responsible of-
fice 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 other-
wise 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 im-
prove 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 rumina-
tive 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. Slith-
ers; ‘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 orna-
mented 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 un-
derneath 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
91
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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
92
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 accommo-
dation 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 gentle-
man 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
93
his love of joviality and his doubts whether they were
not to be considered as so many evidences of captiva-
tion 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. Slith-
ers 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 con-
straint 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 agree-
able 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 manoeuvres.
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 ex-
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
94
treme 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 soci-
ety. 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 ham-
mer, 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 re-
quested 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!’
‘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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
95
hand resting upon it,—‘if I might rise to order, I would
suggest that “barbers” is not exactly the kind of lan-
guage 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 Honourable, ev’ry bar-
ber in this place is a hairdresser. Ven you read the
speeches in the papers, and see as vun gen’lman says
of another, “the Honourable 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 pleas-
ant and uniwersal fiction.”’
It is a common remark, confirmed by history and ex-
perience, 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, un-
common clear eyes, and nostrils of amazin’ pinkness;
the ladies vith their heads o’ one side, their right fore-
fingers on their lips, and their forms deweloped beauti-
ful, in vich last respect they had the adwantage over
the gen’lmen, as wasn’t allowed but wery little shoul-
der, 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
96
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-coun-
tered 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 commu-
nity 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
97
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 hair-dresser, 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 en-
tirely 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,’ re-
turned the barber.
‘No more wos I, sir,’ said the elder Mr. Weller, interpos-
ing; ‘those vere my symptoms, exactly. I’ve been took
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
98
that vay twice. Keep your vether eye open, my friend,
or you’re gone.’
There was something so very solemn about this ad-
monition, 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 hap-
pened to sigh, which called off the old gentleman’s at-
tention 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 op-
posed to the happiness o’ human creeturs? Eh? Has it?’
At this critical juncture for her blushes and confu-
sion, 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 car-
rying 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,
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
99
‘they’re a comin’ back,—the little heart’s a comin’ back.
But mark these wurds o’ mine once more, and remem-
ber ‘em ven your father says he said ‘em. Samivel, I
mistrust that ‘ere deceitful barber.’
CHAPTER 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 stop-
ping 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 con-
fess 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, how-
ever, were not confined to mere showy demonstrations,
as tea was prepared for three persons, with a small dis-
play of preserves and jams and sweet cakes, which her-
alded some uncommon occasion. Miss Benton (my house-
keeper bears that name) was in a state of great expec-
tation, too, frequently going to the front door and look-
ing anxiously down the lane, and more than once ob-
serving 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 shut-
ting herself up, in order that she might preserve that
appearance of being taken by surprise which is so es-
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
100
sential 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 some-
thing 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.
‘There’s a naughty boy, mum,’ said Mr. Weller, burst-
ing 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’
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
101
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 impor-
tance of impressing him with moral truths, burst into
a fit of laughter, and suddenly checking himself, re-
marked 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 content-
ment. 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.
‘Why, 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, blush-
ing 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 them-
selves 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,’ re-
plied Tony, with great readiness and no stops.
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
102
‘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 dis-
turbed, 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 sub-
ject 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 coun-
terfeited 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.’
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
103
‘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 unmind-
ful 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 stand-
ing on the table afore the looking-glass, pretending to
shave himself vith a oyster-knife.’
‘He didn’t hurt himself, I hope?’ observed the house-
keeper.
‘Not he, mum,’ said Mr. Weller proudly; ‘bless your
heart, you might trust that ‘ere boy vith a steam-en-
gine 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 be-
hind 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
104
couldn’t abear the sight on him; for vich reasons Tony’s
always good.’
‘Always good,’ echoed Tony; and his grandfather im-
mediately 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 house-
keeper, otherwise deceived by the admirable manner in
which he (Mr. Weller) had sustained his character, might
not suppose that any other young gentleman was re-
ferred 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 fin-
ished, 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.
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 conver-
sation took the same current as the meditations which
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
105
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 at-
tached, 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 re-
mark from Mr. Miles, who, as I hinted in a former paper,
is a gentleman of business habits, and of great exact-
ness 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 sat-
isfied 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. Per-
sonal 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 in-
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
106
troduction, 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 name-
less actor in this little drama, stands before you now.’
It was easy to see they had not expected this disclo-
sure.
‘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 acknowl-
edgment was received; nor how often it had risen to my
lips before; nor how difficult I had found it—how im-
possible, 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 tri-
als,—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 hap-
pier 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
107
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 ham-
mers, and the hum of busy voices gone, and the Great
Silence whole years of noise had helped to make, reign-
ing 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 insig-
nificance; 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
108
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, up-
permost 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 contradic-
tion, 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 miser-
ies 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
109
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 re-
member to have heard it said, that numbers of men and
women—thousands, they think it was—get up in Lon-
don 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 exag-
gerated, 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 pa-
pers that lay before me on the table been a silent re-
proach for even this digression. I took them up again
when I had got thus far, and seriously prepared to read.
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
110
The handwriting was strange to me, for the manu-
script 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 differ-
ent 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 enlighten-
ment.
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 inter-
weave 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 circum-
stances, and represented by fictitious characters. What
if we make this an article of agreement among our-
selves?’
The proposition was cordially received, but the diffi-
culty 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 quar-
ter that this was really the case.
‘If I have no assurance to the contrary,’ I added, there-
fore, ‘I shall take it for granted that he has done so,
and that even these papers come within our new agree-
ment. Everybody being mute, we hold that understand-
ing if you please.’
And here I was about to begin again, when Jack in-
formed 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.
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
111
To this we one and all yielded a ready assent, and the
party being discovered, as Jack had supposed, and in-
vited to walk in, entered (though not without great
confusion at having been detected), and were accom-
modated with chairs at a little distance.
Then, the lamp being trimmed, the fire well stirred
and burning brightly, the hearth clean swept, the cur-
tains closely drawn, the clock wound up, we entered on
our new story.
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 cham-
ber, and in imagining with pleasure what kind of inter-
est 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 com-
panion, and watching his decay. ‘He is weaker, he de-
clines 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 for-
gotten have become familiar to me once again; traits I
had endeavoured to recall for years have come before
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
112
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, impa-
tience, 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 shift-
ing 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 plea-
sure. To muse upon the gaiety and youth I have known
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
113
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 cheer-
ful hearth. I have sons, and daughters, and grandchil-
dren, and we are assembled on some occasion of rejoic-
ing common to us all. It is a birthday, perhaps, or per-
haps 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 laugh-
ing 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, whisper-
ing and tittering among themselves, WILL leave a va-
cant chair, although she bids them not,—I see her im-
age 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
114
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, look-
ing 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 cheer-
ful sacrifices are made; what toil endured with readi-
ness; 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 vi-
sions 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.
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
115
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 be-
ing given, it was softly opened; and then, to our sur-
prise, 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 cham-
ber-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.
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
116
It is not my purpose to dilate upon the sorrow and
affectionate emotions of which I was at once the wit-
ness 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 com-
forted; 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 attach-
ment 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
117
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 furni-
ture,—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 pen-
sioners—they are a long list—and such other claimants
on his bounty as might, from time to time, present them-
selves. 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 in-
quire 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 man-
kind 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 pros-
pect 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 dan-
ger, 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
118
liable, and which become less and less alarming at ev-
ery 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 grav-
ity, 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 per-
fect 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 sol-
emnly 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 inter-
ested in these little matters, and I have a natural ten-
dency to linger upon any topic that occupied his
thoughts or gave him pleasure and amusement. His re-
maining wishes are very briefly told. He desired that we
would make him the frequent subject of our conversa-
tion; 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
Master Humphrey’s Clock — Dickens
119
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 compan-
ion 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 daugh-
ter, 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 re-
stored 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 re-
member him as he would be remembered. From certain
allusions which Jack has dropped, to his having been de-
serted and cast off in early life, I am inclined to believe
that some passages of his youth may possibly be shad-
owed out in the history of Mr. Chester and his son, but
seeing that he avoids the subject, I have not pursued it.
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.
The End