[Picture: Master Humphrey’s Chamber]
THE reader must not expect to know where I live. At present, it is true,
my abode may be a question of little or no import to anybody; but if I
should carry my readers with me, as I hope to do, and there should spring
up between them and me feelings of homely affection and regard attaching
something of interest to matters ever so slightly connected with my
fortunes or my speculations, even my place of residence might one day
have a kind of charm for them. Bearing this possible contingency in
mind, I wish them to understand, in the outset, that they must never
expect to know it.
I am not a churlish old man. Friendless I can never be, for all mankind
are my kindred, and I am on ill terms with no one member of my great
family. But for many years I have led a lonely, solitary life;—what
wound I sought to heal, what sorrow to forget, originally, matters not
now; it is sufficient that retirement has become a habit with me, and
that I am unwilling to break the spell which for so long a time has shed
its quiet influence upon my home and heart.
I live in a venerable suburb of London, in an old house which in bygone
days was a famous resort for merry roysterers and peerless ladies, long
since departed. It is a silent, shady place, with a paved courtyard so
full of echoes, that sometimes I am tempted to believe that faint
responses to the noises of old times linger there yet, and that these
ghosts of sound haunt my footsteps as I pace it up and down. I am the
more confirmed in this belief, because, of late years, the echoes that
attend my walks have been less loud and marked than they were wont to be;
and it is pleasanter to imagine in them the rustling of silk brocade, and
the light step of some lovely girl, than to recognise in their altered
note the failing tread of an old man.
Those who like to read of brilliant rooms and gorgeous furniture would
derive but little pleasure from a minute description of my simple
dwelling. It is dear to me for the same reason that they would hold it
in slight regard. Its worm-eaten doors, and low ceilings crossed by
clumsy beams; its walls of wainscot, dark stairs, and gaping closets; its
small chambers, communicating with each other by winding passages or
narrow steps; its many nooks, scarce larger than its corner-cupboards;
its very dust and dulness, are all dear to me. The moth and spider are
my constant tenants; for in my house the one basks in his long sleep, and
the other plies his busy loom secure and undisturbed. I have a pleasure
in thinking on a summer’s day how many butterflies have sprung for the
first time into light and sunshine from some dark corner of these old
walls.
When I first came to live here, which was many years ago, the neighbours
were curious to know who I was, and whence I came, and why I lived so
much alone. As time went on, and they still remained unsatisfied on
these points, I became the centre of a popular ferment, extending for
half a mile round, and in one direction for a full mile. Various rumours
were circulated to my prejudice. I was a spy, an infidel, a conjurer, a
kidnapper of children, a refugee, a priest, a monster. Mothers caught up
their infants and ran into their houses as I passed; men eyed me
spitefully, and muttered threats and curses. I was the object of
suspicion and distrust—ay, of downright hatred too.
But when in course of time they found I did no harm, but, on the
contrary, inclined towards them despite their unjust usage, they began to
relent. I found my footsteps no longer dogged, as they had often been
before, and observed that the women and children no longer retreated, but
would stand and gaze at me as I passed their doors. I took this for a
good omen, and waited patiently for better times. By degrees I began to
make friends among these humble folks; and though they were yet shy of
speaking, would give them ‘good day,’ and so pass on. In a little time,
those whom I had thus accosted would make a point of coming to their
doors and windows at the usual hour, and nod or courtesy to me; children,
too, came timidly within my reach, and ran away quite scared when I
patted their heads and bade them be good at school. These little people
soon grew more familiar. From exchanging mere words of course with my
older neighbours, I gradually became their friend and adviser, the
depositary of their cares and sorrows, and sometimes, it may be, the
reliever, in my small way, of their distresses. And now I never walk
abroad but pleasant recognitions and smiling faces wait on Master
Humphrey.
[Picture: Friendly recognitions]
It was a whim of mine, perhaps as a whet to the curiosity of my
neighbours, and a kind of retaliation upon them for their suspicions—it
was, I say, a whim of mine, when I first took up my abode in this place,
to acknowledge no other name than Humphrey. With my detractors, I was
Ugly Humphrey. When I began to convert them into friends, I was Mr.
Humphrey and Old Mr. Humphrey. At length I settled down into plain
Master Humphrey, which was understood to be the title most pleasant to my
ear; and so completely a matter of course has it become, that sometimes
when I am taking my morning walk in my little courtyard, I overhear my
barber—who has a profound respect for me, and would not, I am sure,
abridge my honours for the world—holding forth on the other side of the
wall, touching the state of ‘Master Humphrey’s’ health, and communicating
to some friend the substance of the conversation that he and Master
Humphrey have had together in the course of the shaving which he has just
concluded.
That I may not make acquaintance with my readers under false pretences,
or give them cause to complain hereafter that I have withheld any matter
which it was essential for them to have learnt at first, I wish them to
know—and I smile sorrowfully to think that the time has been when the
confession would have given me pain—that I am a misshapen, deformed old
man.
I have never been made a misanthrope by this cause. I have never been
stung by any insult, nor wounded by any jest upon my crooked figure. As
a child I was melancholy and timid, but that was because the gentle
consideration paid to my misfortune sunk deep into my spirit and made me
sad, even in those early days. I was but a very young creature when my
poor mother died, and yet I remember that often when I hung around her
neck, and oftener still when I played about the room before her, she
would catch me to her bosom, and bursting into tears, would soothe me
with every term of fondness and affection. God knows I was a happy child
at those times,—happy to nestle in her breast,—happy to weep when she
did,—happy in not knowing why.
These occasions are so strongly impressed upon my memory, that they seem
to have occupied whole years. I had numbered very, very few when they
ceased for ever, but before then their meaning had been revealed to me.
I do not know whether all children are imbued with a quick perception of
childish grace and beauty, and a strong love for it, but I was. I had no
thought that I remember, either that I possessed it myself or that I
lacked it, but I admired it with an intensity that I cannot describe. A
little knot of playmates—they must have been beautiful, for I see them
now—were clustered one day round my mother’s knee in eager admiration of
some picture representing a group of infant angels, which she held in her
hand. Whose the picture was, whether it was familiar to me or otherwise,
or how all the children came to be there, I forget; I have some dim
thought it was my birthday, but the beginning of my recollection is that
we were all together in a garden, and it was summer weather,—I am sure of
that, for one of the little girls had roses in her sash. There were many
lovely angels in this picture, and I remember the fancy coming upon me to
point out which of them represented each child there, and that when I had
gone through my companions, I stopped and hesitated, wondering which was
most like me. I remember the children looking at each other, and my
turning red and hot, and their crowding round to kiss me, saying that
they loved me all the same; and then, and when the old sorrow came into
my dear mother’s mild and tender look, the truth broke upon me for the
first time, and I knew, while watching my awkward and ungainly sports,
how keenly she had felt for her poor crippled boy.
I used frequently to dream of it afterwards, and now my heart aches for
that child as if I had never been he, when I think how often he awoke
from some fairy change to his own old form, and sobbed himself to sleep
again.
Well, well,—all these sorrows are past. My glancing at them may not be
without its use, for it may help in some measure to explain why I have
all my life been attached to the inanimate objects that people my
chamber, and how I have come to look upon them rather in the light of old
and constant friends, than as mere chairs and tables which a little money
could replace at will.
Chief and first among all these is my Clock,—my old, cheerful,
companionable Clock. How can I ever convey to others an idea of the
comfort and consolation that this old Clock has been for years to me!
It is associated with my earliest recollections. It stood upon the
staircase at home (I call it home still mechanically), nigh sixty years
ago. I like it for that; but it is not on that account, nor because it
is a quaint old thing in a huge oaken case curiously and richly carved,
that I prize it as I do. I incline to it as if it were alive, and could
understand and give me back the love I bear it.
And what other thing that has not life could cheer me as it does? what
other thing that has not life (I will not say how few things that have)
could have proved the same patient, true, untiring friend? How often
have I sat in the long winter evenings feeling such society in its
cricket-voice, that raising my eyes from my book and looking gratefully
towards it, the face reddened by the glow of the shining fire has seemed
to relax from its staid expression and to regard me kindly! how often in
the summer twilight, when my thoughts have wandered back to a melancholy
past, have its regular whisperings recalled them to the calm and peaceful
present! how often in the dead tranquillity of night has its bell broken
the oppressive silence, and seemed to give me assurance that the old
clock was still a faithful watcher at my chamber-door! My easy-chair, my
desk, my ancient furniture, my very books, I can scarcely bring myself to
love even these last like my old clock.
It stands in a snug corner, midway between the fireside and a low arched
door leading to my bedroom. Its fame is diffused so extensively
throughout the neighbourhood, that I have often the satisfaction of
hearing the publican, or the baker, and sometimes even the parish-clerk,
petitioning my housekeeper (of whom I shall have much to say by-and-by)
to inform him the exact time by Master Humphrey’s clock. My barber, to
whom I have referred, would sooner believe it than the sun. Nor are
these its only distinctions. It has acquired, I am happy to say,
another, inseparably connecting it not only with my enjoyments and
reflections, but with those of other men; as I shall now relate.
I lived alone here for a long time without any friend or acquaintance.
In the course of my wanderings by night and day, at all hours and
seasons, in city streets and quiet country parts, I came to be familiar
with certain faces, and to take it to heart as quite a heavy
disappointment if they failed to present themselves each at its
accustomed spot. But these were the only friends I knew, and beyond them
I had none.
It happened, however, when I had gone on thus for a long time, that I
formed an acquaintance with a deaf gentleman, which ripened into intimacy
and close companionship. To this hour, I am ignorant of his name. It is
his humour to conceal it, or he has a reason and purpose for so doing.
In either case, I feel that he has a right to require a return of the
trust he has reposed; and as he has never sought to discover my secret, I
have never sought to penetrate his. There may have been something in
this tacit confidence in each other flattering and pleasant to us both,
and it may have imparted in the beginning an additional zest, perhaps, to
our friendship. Be this as it may, we have grown to be like brothers,
and still I only know him as the deaf gentleman.
I have said that retirement has become a habit with me. When I add, that
the deaf gentleman and I have two friends, I communicate nothing which is
inconsistent with that declaration. I spend many hours of every day in
solitude and study, have no friends or change of friends but these, only
see them at stated periods, and am supposed to be of a retired spirit by
the very nature and object of our association.
We are men of secluded habits, with something of a cloud upon our early
fortunes, whose enthusiasm, nevertheless, has not cooled with age, whose
spirit of romance is not yet quenched, who are content to ramble through
the world in a pleasant dream, rather than ever waken again to its harsh
realities. We are alchemists who would extract the essence of perpetual
youth from dust and ashes, tempt coy Truth in many light and airy forms
from the bottom of her well, and discover one crumb of comfort or one
grain of good in the commonest and least-regarded matter that passes
through our crucible. Spirits of past times, creatures of imagination,
and people of to-day are alike the objects of our seeking, and, unlike
the objects of search with most philosophers, we can insure their coming
at our command.
The deaf gentleman and I first began to beguile our days with these
fancies, and our nights in communicating them to each other. We are now
four. But in my room there are six old chairs, and we have decided that
the two empty seats shall always be placed at our table when we meet, to
remind us that we may yet increase our company by that number, if we
should find two men to our mind. When one among us dies, his chair will
always be set in its usual place, but never occupied again; and I have
caused my will to be so drawn out, that when we are all dead the house
shall be shut up, and the vacant chairs still left in their accustomed
places. It is pleasant to think that even then our shades may, perhaps,
assemble together as of yore we did, and join in ghostly converse.
One night in every week, as the clock strikes ten, we meet. At the
second stroke of two, I am alone.
And now shall I tell how that my old servant, besides giving us note of
time, and ticking cheerful encouragement of our proceedings, lends its
name to our society, which for its punctuality and my love is christened
‘Master Humphrey’s Clock’? Now shall I tell how that in the bottom of
the old dark closet, where the steady pendulum throbs and beats with
healthy action, though the pulse of him who made it stood still long ago,
and never moved again, there are piles of dusty papers constantly placed
there by our hands, that we may link our enjoyments with my old friend,
and draw means to beguile time from the heart of time itself? Shall I,
or can I, tell with what a secret pride I open this repository when we
meet at night, and still find new store of pleasure in my dear old Clock?
Friend and companion of my solitude! mine is not a selfish love; I would
not keep your merits to myself, but disperse something of pleasant
association with your image through the whole wide world; I would have
men couple with your name cheerful and healthy thoughts; I would have
them believe that you keep true and honest time; and how it would gladden
me to know that they recognised some hearty English work in Master
Humphrey’s clock!