I meet with men of this character very frequently, and though I believe
that the stiff formality of the past age was more congenial than the
present to the formation and growth of these peculiar beings, there are
still a sufficient number of the species in existence for the
philosophical cosmopolite to study and comment upon.
A true specimen of a _man of habit_ should be an old bachelor,--for
matrimony deranges the whole clock-work system upon which he piques
himself. He could never endure to have his breakfast delayed for one
second to indulge "his soul's far dearer part" with a prolonged morning
dream; and he dislikes children, because the noisy urchins make a point of
tormenting him wherever he goes. The Man of Habit has a certain hour for
all the occupations of his life; he allows himself twenty minutes for
shaving and dressing; fifteen for breakfasting, in which time he eats two
slices of toast, drinks two cups of coffee, and swallows two eggs boiled
for two and a half minutes by an infallible chronometer. After breakfast
he reads the newspaper, but lays it down in the very heart and pith of a
clever article on his own side of the question, the moment his time is up.
He has even been known to leave the theatre at the very moment of the
_dénouement_ of a deeply-interesting play rather than exceed his limited
hour by five minutes. He will be out of temper all day, if he does not
find his hat on its proper nail and his cane in its allotted corner. He
chooses a particular walk, where he may take his prescribed number of
turns without interruption, for he would prefer suffering a serious
inconvenience rather than be obliged to quicken or slacken his pace to
suit the speed of a friend who might join him. My uncle Simon was a
character of this cast. I could take it on my conscience to assert that,
every night for the forty years preceding his death, he had one foot in
the bed on the first stroke of 11 o'clock, and just as the last chime had
tolled, that he was enveloped in the blankets to his chin. I have known
him discharge a servant because his slippers were placed by his bed-side
for contrary feet; and I have won a wager by betting that he would turn
the corner of a certain street at precisely three minutes before ten in
the morning. My uncle used to frequent a club in the City, of which he had
become the oracle. Precisely at eight o'clock he entered the room--took
his seat in a leather-backed easy chair in a particular corner--read a
certain favourite journal--drank two glasses of rum toddy--smoked four
pipes--and was always in the act of putting his right arm into the sleeve
of his great-coat, to return home, as the clock struck ten. The cause of
my uncle's death was as singular as his life was whimsical. He went one
night to the club, and was surprised to find his seat occupied by a tall
dark-browed man, who smoked a _meerschaum_ of prodigious size in solemn
silence. Numerous hints were thrown out to the stranger that the seat had
by prescriptive right and ancient custom become the property of my uncle;
he either did not or would not understand them, and continued to keep his
possession of the leather-backed chair with the most imperturbable
_sang-froid_. My uncle in despair took another seat, and endeavoured to
appear as if nothing had occurred to disturb him,--but he could not
dissimulate. He was pierced to the heart,--and
[Illustration: "I SAW THE IRON ENTER HIS SOLE."]
My uncle left the club half-an-hour before his time; he returned
home--went to bed without winding his watch--and the next morning he was
found lifeless in his bed.
* * * * *