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YALE

MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK.

That constant pacing to and fro, that never-ending restlessness, that incessant tread of feet wearing the rough stones smooth and glossy—is it not a wonder how the dwellers in narrow ways can bear to hear it! Think of a sick man in such a place as Saint Martin's court, listening to the footsteps, and in the midst of pain and weariness obliged, despite himself (as though it were a task he must perform) to detect the child's step from the man's, the slipshod beggar from the booted exquisite, the lounging from the busy, the dull heel of the sauntering outcast from the quick tread of an expectant pleasure-seeker—think of the hum and noise being always present to his senses, and of the stream of life that will not stop, pouring on, on, on, through all his restless dreams, as if he were condemned to lie dead but conscious, in a noisy churchyard, and had no hope of rest for centuries to come.

Then the crowds for ever passing and repassing on the bridges (on those which are free of toll at least) where many stop on fine evenings looking listlessly down upon the water with some vague idea that by-and-by it runs between green banks which grow wider and wider until at last it joins the broad vast sea—where some halt to rest from heavy loads and think as they look over the parapet that to smoke and lounge away one's life, and lie sleeping in the sun upon a hot tarpaulin, in a dull slow sluggish barge, must be happiness unalloyed—and where some, and a very different class, pause with heavier loads than they, remembering to have heard or read in some old time that drowning was not a hard death, but of all means of suicide the easiest and best.

Covent Garden Market at sunrise too, in the spring or summer, when the fragrance of sweet flowers is in the air, overpowering even the unwholesome steams of last night's debauchery, and driving the dusky thrush, whose cage has hung outside a garret window all night long, half mad with joy! Poor bird! the only neighbouring thing at all akin to the other little captives, some of whom, shrinking from the hot hands of drunken purchasers, lie drooping on the path already, while others, soddened by close contact, await the time when they shall be watered and freshened up to please more sober company, and make old clerks who pass them on their road to business, wonder what has filled their breasts with visions of the country.

But my present purpose is not to expatiate upon my walks. An adventure which I am about to relate, and to which I shall recur at intervals, arose out of one of these rambles, and thus I have been led to speak of them by way of preface.

One night I had roamed into the city, and was walking slowly on in my usual way, musing upon a great many things, when I was arrested by an inquiry, the purport of which did not reach me, but which seemed to be addressed to myself, and was preferred in a soft sweet voice that struck me very pleasantly. I turned hastily round and found at my elbow a pretty little girl, who begged to be directed to a certain street at a considerable distance, and indeed in quite another quarter of the town.

“It is a very long way from here,” said I, “my child.”

“I know that, sir,” she replied timidly. “I am afraid it is a very long way, for I came from there to-night.”

MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK.

"Alone?" said I, in some surprise.

"Oh yes, I don't mind that, but I am a little frightened now, for I had lost my road."

"And what made you ask it of me? Suppose I should tell you wrong."

"I am sure you will not do that," said the little creature, "you are such a very old gentleman, and walk so slow yourself."

I cannot describe how much I was impressed by this appeal and the energy with which it was made, which brought a tear into the child's clear eye, and made her slight figure tremble as she looked up into my face.

"Come," said I, "I'll take you there."

She put her hand in mine as confidingly as if she had known me from her cradle, and we trudged away together: the little creature accommodating her pace to mine, and rather seeming to lead and take care of me than I to be protecting her. I observed that every now and then she stole a curious look at my face as if to make quite sure that I was not deceiving her, and that these glances (very sharp and keen they were too) seemed to increase her confidence at every repetition.

For my part, my curiosity and interest were at least equal to the child's, for child she certainly was, although I thought it probable from what I could make out, that her very small and delicate frame imparted a peculiar youthfulness to her appearance. Though more scantily attired than she might have been she was dressed with perfect neatness, and betrayed no marks of poverty or neglect.

"Who has sent you so far by yourself?" said I.

"Somebody who is very kind to me, sir."

"And what have you been doing?"

"That, I must not tell," said the child firmly.

There was something in the manner of this reply which caused me to look at the little creature with an involuntary expression of surprise; for I wondered what kind of errand it might be that occasioned her to be prepared for questioning. Her quick eye seemed to read my thoughts, for as it met mine she added that there was no harm in what she had been doing, but it was a great secret—a secret which she did not even know herself.

This was said with no appearance of cunning or deceit, but with an unsus-
picious frankness that bore the impress of truth. She walked on as before,
growing more familiar with me as we proceeded and talking cheerfully by
the way, but she said no more about her home, beyond remarking that we
were going quite a new road and asking if it were a short one.

While we were thus engaged, I revolved in my mind a hundred different
explanations of the riddle and rejected them every one. I really felt ashamed
to take advantage of the ingenuousness or grateful feeling of the child for the
purpose of gratifying my curiosity. I love these little people; and it is not a
slight thing when they, who are so fresh from God, love us. As I had felt pleased
at first by her confidence I determined to deserve it, and to do credit to the
nature which had prompted her to repose it in me.

There was no reason, however, why I should refrain from seeing the person
who had inconsiderately sent her to so great a distance by night and alone,

MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK.

40

and as it was not improbable that if she found herself near home she might
take farewell of me and deprive me of the opportunity, I avoided the most
frequented ways and took the most intricate, and thus it was not until we
arrived in the street itself that she knew where we were. Clapping her hands
with pleasure and running on before me for a short distance, my little
acquaintance stopped at a door, and remaining on the step till I came up
knocked at it when I joined her.

A part of this door was of glass unprotected by any shutter, which I did not
observe at first, for all was very dark and silent within, and I was anxious (as
indeed the child was also) for an answer to our summons. When she had
knocked twice or thrice there was a noise as if some person were moving
inside, and at length a faint light appeared through the glass which, as it
approached very slowly, the bearer having to make his way through a great
many scattered articles, enabled me to see both what kind of person it was
who advanced and what kind of place it was through which he came.

It was a little old man with long grey hair, whose face and figure as he held
the light above his head and looked before him as he approached, I could
plainly see. Though much altered by age, I fancied I could recognise in his
spare and slender form something of that delicate mould which I had noticed
in the child. Their bright blue eyes were certainly alike, but his face was so
deeply furrowed and so very full of care, that here all resemblance ceased.

The place through which he made his way at leisure was one of those
receptacles for old and curious things which seem to crouch in odd corners of
this town and to hide their musty treasures from the public eye in jealousy and
distrust. There were suits of mail standing like ghosts in armour here and
there, fantastic carvings brought from monkish cloisters, rusty weapons
of various kinds, distorted figures in china and wood and iron and ivory:
tapestry and strange furniture that might have been designed in dreams.
The haggard aspect of the little old man was wonderfully suited to the place;
he might have groped among old churches and tombs and deserted houses
and gathered all the spoils with his own hands. There was nothing in the
whole collection but was in keeping with himself; nothing that looked older
or more worn than he.

As he turned the key in the lock, he surveyed me with some astonishment
which was not diminished when he looked from me to my companion. The
door being opened, the child addressed him as grandfather, and told him the
little story of our companionship.

"Why bless thee child" said the old man patting her on the head, "how
couldst thou miss thy way—what if I had lost thee Nell!"

"I would have found my way back to you, grandfather," said the child
boldly; "never fear."

The old man kissed her, and then turning to me and begging me to walk
in, I did so. The door was closed and locked. Preceding me with the
light, he led me through the place I had already seen from without, into a
small sitting room behind, in which was another door opening into a kind of
closet, where I saw a little bed that a fairy might have slept in, it looked so

MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK.

very small and was so prettily arranged. The child took a candle and tripped into this little room, leaving the old man and me together.

"You must be tired, sir," said he as he placed a chair near the fire, "how can I thank you?"

"By taking more care of your grandchild another time, my good friend," I replied.

"More care!" said the old man in a shrill voice, "more care of Nelly! why who ever loved a child as I love Nell?"

He said this with such evident surprise that I was perplexed what answer to make, and the more so because coupled with something feeble and wandering in his manner, there were in his face marks of deep and anxious thought which convinced me that he could not be, as I had been at first inclined to suppose, in a state of dotage or imbecility.

"I don't think you consider—" I began

"I don't consider!" cried the old man interrupting me, "I don't consider her! ah how little you know of the truth. Little Nelly, little Nelly!"

It would be impossible for any man, I care not what his form of speech might be, to express more affection than the dealer in curiosities did, in these four words. I waited for him to speak again, but he rested his chin upon his hand and shaking his head twice or thrice fixed his eyes upon the fire.

While we were sitting thus in silence, the door of the closet opened, and the child returned, her light brown hair hanging loose about her neck, and her face flushed with the haste she had made to rejoin us. She busied herself immediately in preparing supper, and while she was thus engaged I remarked that the old man took an opportunity of observing me more closely than he had done yet. I was surprised to see that all this time everything was done by the child, and that there appeared to be no other persons but ourselves in the house. I took advantage of a moment when she was absent to venture a hint on this point, to which the old man replied that there were few grown persons as trustworthy or as careful as she.

"It always grieves me" I observed, roused by what I took to be his selfishness, "it always grieves me to contemplate the initiation of children into the ways of life, when they are scarcely more than infants. It checks their confidence and simplicity—two of the best qualities that Heaven gives them—and demands that they share our sorrows before they are capable of entering into our enjoyments."

"It will never check hers," said the old man looking steadily at me, "the springs are too deep. Besides, the children of the poor know but few pleasures. Even the cheap delights of childhood must be bought and paid for."

"But—forgive me for saying this—you are surely not so very poor"—said I.

"She is not my child, sir," returned the old man. "Her mother was, and she was poor. I save nothing—not a penny—though I live as you see, but" —he laid his hand upon my arm and leant forward to whisper "She shall be rich one of these days, and a fine lady. Don't you think ill of me, because I use her help. She gives it cheerfully as you see, and it would break her heart if she knew that I suffered anybody else to do for me what her

MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK.

little hands could undertake. I don't consider!"—he cried with sudden querulousness, "why, God knows that this one child is the thought and object of my life, and yet he never prospers me—no, never."

At this juncture, the subject of our conversation again returned, and the old man motioning to me to approach the table, broke off, and said no more.

We had scarcely begun our repast when there was a knock at the door by which I had entered, and Nell bursting into a hearty laugh, which I was rejoiced to hear, for it was childlike and full of hilarity, said it was no doubt dear old Kit come back at last.

"Foolish Nell!" said the old man fondling with her hair. "She always laughs at poor Kit."

The child laughed again more heartily than before, and I could not help smiling from pure sympathy. The little old man took up a candle and went to open the door. When he came back, Kit was at his heels.

Kit was a shock-headed shambling awkward lad with an uncommonly wide mouth, very red cheeks, a turned-up nose, and certainly the most conical expression of face I ever saw. He stopped short at the door on seeing a stranger, twirled in his hand a perfectly round old hat without any vestige of a brim, and resting himself now on one leg and now on the other and changing them constantly, stood in the doorway, looking into the parlour with the most extraordinary leer I ever beheld. I entertained a grateful feeling towards the boy from that minute, for I felt that he was the comedy of the child's life.

"A long way, wasn't it, Kit?" said the little old man.

"Why then, it was a goodish stretch, master," returned Kit.

"Did you find the house easily?"

"Why then, not over and above easy, master," said Kit.

"Of course you have come back hungry?"

"Why then, I do consider myself rather so, master" was the answer.

The lad had a remarkable manner of standing sideways as he spoke, and thrusting his head forward over his shoulder, as if he could not get at his voice without that accompanying action. I think he would have amused one anywhere, but the child's exquisite enjoyment of his oddity, and the relief it was to find that there was something she associated with merriment in a place that appeared so unsuited to her, were quite irresistible. It was a great point too that Kit himself was flattered by the sensation he created, and after several efforts to preserve his gravity, burst into a loud roar, and so stood with his mouth wide open and his eyes nearly shut, laughing violently.

The old man had again relapsed into his former abstraction and took no notice of what passed, but I remarked that when her laugh was over, the child's bright eyes were dimmed with tears, called forth by the fulness of heart with which she welcomed her uncouth favourite after the little anxiety of the night. As for Kit himself (whose laugh had been all the time one of that sort which very little would change into a cry) he carried a large slice of bread and meat and a mug of beer into a corner, and applied himself to disposing of them with great voracity.

"Ah!" said the old man turning to me with a sigh as if I had spoken to

MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK.

him but that moment, " you don't know what you say when you tell me that I don't consider her."

" You must not attach too great weight to a remark founded on first appearances, my friend," said I.

" No," returned the old man thoughtfully, " no. Come hither Nell."

The little girl hastened from her seat, and put her arm about his neck.

" Do I love thee, Nell?" said he. " Say—do I love thee, Nell, or no?"

The child only answered by her caresses, and laid her head upon his breast.

" Why dost thou sob," said the grandfather pressing her closer to him and glancing towards me. " Is it because thou know'st I love thee, and dost not like that I should seem to doubt it by my question? Well, well—then let us say I love thee dearly."

" Indeed, indeed you do," replied the child with great earnestness, " Kit knows you do."

Kit, who in despatching his bread and meat had been swallowing two thirds of his knife at every mouthful with the coolness of a juggler, stopped short in his operations on being thus appealed to, and bawled "Nobody isn't such a fool as to say he doesn't" after which he incapacitated himself for further conversation by taking a most prodigious sandwich at one bite.

" She is poor now"—said the old man patting the child's cheek, " but I say again that the time is coming when she shall be rich. It has been a long time coming, but it must come at last; a very long time, but it surely must come. It has come to other men who do nothing but waste and riot. When *will* it come to me !"

" I am very happy as I am grandfather," said the child.

" Tush, tush! " returned the old man, " thou dost not know—how should'st thou! " Then he muttered again between his teeth, " The time must come, I am very sure it must. It will be all the better for coming late ;" and then he sighed and fell into his former musing state, and still holding the child between his knees appeared to be insensible to everything around him. By this time it wanted but a few minutes of midnight and I rose to go, which recalled him to himself.

" One moment, sir," he said. " Now Kit—near midnight, boy, and you still here! Get home, get home, and be true to your time in the morning, for there's work to do. Good night! There, bid him good night Nell and let him be gone! "

" Good night Kit " said the child, her eyes lighting up with merriment and kindness.

" Good night Miss Nell " returned the boy.

" And thank this gentleman," interposed the old man, " but for whose care I might have lost my little girl to-night."

" No, no, master," said Kit, " that won't do, that won't."

" What do you mean? " cried the old man.

" I'd have found her master," said Kit, " I'd have found her. I'd bet that I'd find her if she was above ground, I would, as quick as anybody master. Ha ha ha !"

MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK.

Once more opening his mouth and shutting his eyes, and laughing like a stentor, Kit gradually backed to the door, and roared himself out.

Free of the room the boy was not slow in taking his departure; when he had gone and the child was occupied in clearing the table, the old man said:

"I haven't seemed to thank you sir enough for what you have done to-night, but I do thank you humbly and heartily, and so does she, and her thanks are better worth than mine. I should be sorry that you went away and thought I was unmindful of your goodness, or careless of her—I am not indeed."

I was sure of that, I said, from what I had seen. "But," I added, "may I ask you a question?"

"Ay sir," replied the old man, "what is it?"

"This delicate child," said I, "with so much beauty and intelligence—has she nobody to care for her but you, has she no other companion or adviser?"

"No," he returned looking anxiously in my face, "no, and she wants no other."

"But are you not fearful" said I "that you may misunderstand a charge so tender? I am sure you mean well, but are you quite certain that you know how to execute such a trust as this? I am an old man, like you, and I am actuated by an old man's concern in all that is young and promising. Do you not think that what I have seen of you and this little creature to-night must have an interest not wholly free from pain?"

"Sir" rejoined the old man after a moment's silence, "I have no right to feel hurt at what you say. It is true that in many respects I am the child, and she the grown person—that you have seen already. But waking or sleeping, by night or day, in sickness or health, she is the one object of my care, and if you knew of how much care, you would look on me with different eyes, you would indeed. Ah! it's a weary life for an old man—a weary, weary, life—but there is a great end to gain and that I keep before me."

Seeing that he was in a state of excitement and impatience, I turned to put on an outer coat which I had thrown off on entering the room, purposing to say no more. I was surprised to see the child standing patiently by with a cloak upon her arm, and in her hand a hat and stick.

"Those are not mine, my dear," said I.

"No," returned the child quietly, "they are grandfather's."

"But he is not going out to-night."

"Oh yes he is" said the child, with a smile.

"And what becomes of you, my pretty one?"

"Me! I stay here of course. I always do."

I looked in astonishment towards the old man, but he was, or feigned to be, busied in the arrangement of his dress. From him I looked back to the slight gentle figure of the child. Alone! In that gloomy place all the long, dreary night!

She evinced no consciousness of my surprise, but cheerfully helped the old man with his cloak, and when he was ready took a candle to light us out. Finding that we did not follow as she expected, she looked back with a smile and waited for us. The old man showed by his face that he plainly understood the cause of my hesitation, but he merely signed to me with an inclina-

MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK.

tion of the head to pass out of the room before him, and remained silent. I
had no resource but to comply.

When we reached the door, the child setting down the candle, turned to say
good night and raised her face to kiss me. Then she ran to the old man, who
folded her in his arms and bade God bless her.

"Sleep soundly Nell" he said in a low voice, "and angels guard thy bed.
Do not forget thy prayers, my sweet."

"No indeed" answered the child fervently, "they make me feel so happy!"

"That's well; I know they do; they should" said the old man. "Bless
thee a hundred times. Early in the morning I shall be home."

"You'll not ring twice" returned the child. "The bell wakes me, even in
the middle of a dream."

With this, they separated. The child opened the door (now guarded by
a shutter which I had heard the boy put up before he left the house) and with
another farewell whose clear and tender note I have recalled a thousand times,
held it until we had passed out. The old man paused a moment while it was
gently closed and fastened on the inside, and satisfied that this was done,
walked on at a slow pace. At the street-corner he stopped, and regarding me
with a troubled countenance said that our ways were widely different and that
he must take his leave. I would have spoken, but summoning up more alacrity
than might have been expected in one of his appearance, he hurried away.
I could see that twice or thrice he looked back as if to ascertain if I were still
watching him, or perhaps to assure himself that I was not following at a
distance. The obscurity of the night favoured his disappearance, and his
figure was soon beyond my sight.

I remained standing on the spot where he had left me, unwilling to depart,
and yet unknowing why I should loiter there. I looked wistfully into the
street we had lately quitted, and after a time directed my steps that way. I
passed and repassed the house, and stopped and listened at the door; all was
dark, and silent as the grave.

Yet I lingered about, and could not tear myself away, thinking of all pos-
sible harm that might happen to the child—of fires and robberies and even
murder—and feeling as if some evil must ensue if I turned my back upon
the place. The closing of a door or window in the street brought me before
the curiosity-dealer's once more; I crossed the road and looked up at the
house to assure myself that the noise had not come from there. No, it was
black, cold, and lifeless as before.

There were few passengers astir; the street was sad and dismal, and pretty
well my own. A few stragglers from the theatres hurried by, and now and
then I turned aside to avoid some noisy drunkard as he reeled homewards,
but these interruptions were not frequent and soon ceased. The clocks struck
one. Still I paced up and down, promising myself that every time should be
the last, and breaking faith with myself on some new plea as often as I did so.

The more I thought of what the old man had said, and of his looks and
bearing, the less I could account for what I had seen and heard. I had a
strong misgiving that his nightly absence was for no good purpose. I had

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MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK.

only come to know the fact through the innocence of the child, and though
the old man was by at the time and saw my undisguised surprise, he had pre-
served a strange mystery upon the subject and offered no word of explanation.
These reflections naturally recalled again more strongly than before his hag-
gard face, his wandering manner, his restless anxious looks. His affection for
the child might not be inconsistent with villany of the worst kind; even
that very affection was in itself an extraordinary contradiction, or how could
he leave her thus? Disposed as I was to think badly of him, I never doubted
that his love for her was real. I could not admit the thought, remembering
what had passed between us, and the tone of voice in which he had called her
by her name.

"Stay here of course" the child had said in answer to my question, "I always do!" What could take him from home by night, and every night! I called up all the strange tales I had ever heard of dark and secret deeds committed in great towns and escaping detection for a long series of years; wild as many of these stories were, I could not find one adapted to this mystery, which only became the more impenetrable, in proportion as I sought to solve it.

Occupied with such thoughts as these, and a crowd of others all tending to
the same point, I continued to pace the street for two long hours; at length
the rain began to descend heavily, and then overpowered by fatigue though no
less interested than I had been at first, I engaged the nearest coach and so got
home. A cheerful fire was blazing on the hearth, the lamp burnt brightly,
my clock received me with its old familiar welcome; everything was quiet
warm and cheering, and in happy contrast to the gloom and darkness I had
quitted.

MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK.

But all that night, waking or in my sleep, the same thoughts recurred and the same images retained possession of my brain. I had ever before me the old dark murky rooms—the gaunt suits of mail with their ghostly silent air—the faces all awry, grinning from wood and stone—the dust and rust and worm that lives in wood—and alone in the midst of all this lumber and decay and ugly age, the beautiful child in her gentle slumber, smiling through her light and sunny dreams.

## CORRESPONDENCE.

MASTER HUMPHREY has been favoured with the following letter, written on strongly-scented paper, and sealed in light blue wax with the representation of two very plump doves, interchanging beaks. It does not commence with any of the usual forms of address, but begins as is here set forth.

Bath, Wednesday Night.

Heavens! into what an indiscretion do I suffer myself to be betrayed! To address these faltering lines to a total stranger, and that stranger one of a conflicting sex!—and yet I am precipitated into the abyss, and have no power of self snatchation (forgive me if I coin that phrase) from the yawning gulf before me.

Yes, I am writing to a man, but let me not think of that, for madness is in the thought. You will understand my feelings? Oh yes! I am sure you will! and you will respect them too, and not despise them—will you?

Let me be calm. That portrait—smiling as once he smiled on me—that cane dangling as I have seen it dangle from his hand I know not how oft—those legs that have glided through my nightly dreams and never stopped to speak—the perfectly gentlemanly though false original—can I be mistaken? oh no no.

Let me be calmer yet; I would be calm as coffins. You have published a letter from one whose likeness is engraved, but whose name (and wherefore?) is suppressed. Shall I breathe that name! Is it—but why ask when my heart tells me too truly that it is!

I would not upbraid him with his treachery, I would not remind him of those times when he plighted the most eloquent of vows, and procured from me a small pecuniary accommodation—and yet I would see him—see him did I say—him—alas! such is woman's nature. For as the poet beautifully says—but you will already have anticipated the sentiment. Is it not sweet? oh 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

48

MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK.

agitated face. "Can you?" said he, with peculiar meaning. I felt the gentle
pressure of his foot on mine; our corns throbbed in unison. "Can you?" he
said again, and every lineament of his expressive countenance added the words
"resist me?" I murmured "No," and fainted.

They said when I recovered, it was the weather. I said it was the nutmeg
in the negus. How little did they suspect the truth! How little did they
guess the deep mysterious meaning of that inquiry! He called next morning
on his knees—I do not mean to say that he actually came in that position to
the house door, but that he went down upon those joints directly the servant
had retired. He brought some verses in his hat which he said were original,
but which I have since found were Milton's. Likewise a little bottle labelled
laudanum: also a pistol and a swordstick. He drew the latter, uncocked the
former, and clicked the trigger of the pocket fire-arm. He had come, he said,
to conquer or to die. He did not die. He wrested from me an avowal of my
love, and let off the pistol out of a back window previous to partaking of a
slight repast.

Faithless, inconstant man! How many ages seem to have elapsed since
his unaccountable and perfidious disappearance! Could I still forgive him
both that and the borrowed lucre that he promised to pay next week! Could
I spurn him from my feet if he approached in penitence, and with a matri-
monial object! Would the blandishing enchanter still weave his spells around
me, or should I burst them all and turn away in coldness! I dare not trust
my weakness with the thought.

My brain is in a whirl again. You know his address, his occupations, his
mode of life, are acquainted perhaps with his inmost thoughts. You are
a humane and philanthropic character—reveal all you know—all; but espe-
cially 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 corre-
spondent with the address of the gentleman in question, but he publishes her
letter as a public appeal to his faith and gallantry.

MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK.

MASTER HUMPHREY'S VISITOR.

HEN I am in a thoughtful mood, I often succeed in diverting the current of some mournful reflections, by conjuring up a number of fanciful associations with the objects that surround me, and dwelling upon the scenes and characters they suggest.

I have been led by this habit to assign to every room in my house and every old staring portrait on its walls, a separate interest of its own. Thus, I am persuaded that a stately dame, terrible to behold in her rigid modesty, who hangs above the chimney-piece of my bed-room, is the former lady of the mansion. In the court-yard below, is a stone face of surpassing ugliness, which I have somehow—in a kind of jealousy, I am afraid—associated with her husband. Above my study, is a little room with ivy peeping through the lattice, from which I bring their daughter, a lovely girl of eighteen or nineteen years of age and dutiful in all respects save one, that one being her devoted attachment to a young gentleman on the stairs, whose grandmother (degraded to a disused laundry in the garden) piques herself upon an old family quarrel and is the implacable enemy of their love. With such materials as these, I work out many a little drama, whose chief merit is, that I can bring it to a happy end at will; I

5.

F

50

MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK.

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 love-lorn damsel vainly appealing to his obdurate heart and leaning her white arm upon my clock itself, I verily believe I should only express my surprise that they had kept me waiting so long, and never honoured me with a call before.

I was, in such a mood as this, sitting in my garden yesterday morning under the shade of a favourite tree, revelling in all the bloom and brightness about me, and feeling every sense of hope and enjoyment quickened by this most beautiful season of Spring, when my meditations were interrupted by the unexpected appearance of my barber at the end of the walk, who I immediately saw was coming towards me with a hasty step that betokened something remarkable.

My barber is at all times a very brisk, bustling, active little man—for he is, as it were, chubby all over, without being stout or unwieldy—but yesterday his alacrity was so very uncommon that it quite took me by surprise. Nor could I fail to observe when he came up to me, that his grey eyes were twinkling in a most extraordinary manner, that his little red nose was in an unusual glow, that every line in his round bright face was twisted and curved into an expression of pleased surprise, and that his whole countenance was radiant with glee. I was still more surprised to see my housekeeper, who usually preserves a very staid air and stands somewhat upon her dignity, peeping round the hedge at the bottom of the walk, and exchanging nods and smiles with the barber who twice or thrice looked over his shoulder for that purpose. I could conceive no announcement to which these appearances could be the prelude, unless it were that they had married each other that morning.

I was, consequently, a little disappointed when it only came out that there was a gentleman in the house who wished to speak with me.

"And who is it?" said I.

The barber with his face screwed up still tighter than before, replied that the gentleman would not send his name, but wished to see me. I pondered for a moment, wondering who this visitor might be, and I remarked that he embraced the opportunity of exchanging another nod with the housekeeper who still lingered in the distance.

"Well!" said I, "bid the gentleman come here."

This seemed to be the consummation of the barber's hopes, for he turned sharp round, and actually ran away.

Now, my sight is not very good at a distance, and therefore when the gentleman first appeared in the walk, I was not quite clear whether he was a stranger to me or otherwise. He was an elderly gentleman, but came tripping along in the pleasantest manner conceivable, avoiding the garden-roller and the borders of the beds with inimitable dexterity, picking his way among the flower-pots, and smiling with unspeakable good-humour. Before he was half way up the walk he began to salute me; then I thought I knew him; but when he came towards me with his hat in his hand, the sun shining on his

MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK.

bald head, his bland face, his bright spectacles, his fawn-coloured tights and
his black gaiters—then, my heart warmed towards him and I felt quite certain
that it was Mr. Pickwick.

“My dear sir”—said that gentleman as I rose to receive him, “pray be
seated. Pray sit down. Now, do not stand on my account. I must insist
upon it, really.” With these words Mr. Pickwick gently pressed me down
into my seat, and taking my hand in his, shook it again and again with a
warmth of manner perfectly irresistible. I endeavoured to express in my
welcome, something of that heartiness and pleasure which the sight of him
awakened and made him sit down beside me. All this time he kept alter-
nately releasing my hand, and grasping it again, and surveying me through
his spectacles with such a beaming countenance as I never 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 that his features
were quite familiar to me from the published portraits. As I thought it a
good opportunity of adverting to the circumstance, I concholed 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’ intro-
duction 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 will never wonder, and with your good leave, never know,” said I,
smiling in my turn. “It is enough for me that you give me this gratification.
I have not the least desire that you should tell me by what means I have
obtained it.”

“You are very kind,” returned Mr. Pickwick, shaking me by the hand again,
“you are so exactly what I expected! But for what particular purpose do
you think I have sought you out 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 anticipated his drift, I feigned to be quite igno-
rant of it, and after a brief consideration shook my head despairingly.

“What should you say,” said Mr. Pickwick, laying the fore-finger 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.”

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MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK.

As I made him this answer, every feature of Mr. Pickwick's face fused itself into one all-pervading expression of delight. After shaking me heartily by both hands at once, he patted me gently on the back, and then—I well understood why—coloured up to the eyes, and hoped with great earnestness of manner that he had not hurt me.

If he had, I would have been content that he should have repeated the offence a hundred times rather than suppose so, but as he had not, I had no difficulty in changing the subject by making an enquiry which had been upon my lips twenty times already.

"You have not told me," said I, "anything about Sam Weller."

"Oh! Sam," replied Mr. Pickwick, "is the same as ever. The same true faithful fellow that he ever was. What should I tell you about Sam, my dear Sir, except that he is more indispensable to my happiness and comfort every day of my life?"

"And Mr. Weller senior?" said I.

"Old Mr. Weller" returned Mr. Pickwick, "is in no respect more altered than Sam, unless it be that he is a little more opinionated than he was formerly, and perhaps at times more talkative. He spends a good deal of his time now in our neighbourhood, and has so constituted himself a part of my body-guard, that when I ask permission for Sam to have a seat in your kitchen on clock nights (supposing your three friends think me worthy to fill one of the chairs) I am afraid I must often include Mr. Weller too."

I very readily pledged myself to give both Sam and his father a free admission to my house at all hours and seasons, and this point settled, we fell into a lengthy conversation which was carried on with as little reserve on both sides as if we had been intimate friends from our youth, and which conveyed to me the comfortable assurance that Mr. Pickwick's buoyancy of spirit, and indeed all his old cheerful characteristics, were wholly unimpaired. As he had spoken of the consent of my friends as being yet in abeyance, I repeatedly assured him that his proposal was certain to receive their most joyful sanction, and several times entreated that he would give me leave to introduce him to Jack Redburn and Mr. Miles (who were near at hand) without further ceremony.

To this proposal, however, Mr. Pickwick's delicacy would by no means allow him to accede, for he urged that his eligibility must be formally discussed, and that until this had been done, he could not think of obtruding himself further. The utmost I could obtain from him was, a promise that he would attend upon our next night of meeting, that I might have the pleasure of presenting him immediately on his election.

Mr. Pickwick having with many blushes placed in my hands a small roll of paper, which he termed his "qualification," put a great many questions to me touching my friends and particularly Jack Redburn, whom he repeatedly termed "a fine fellow," and in whose favor I could see he was strongly pre-disposed. When I had satisfied him on these points, I took him up into my room that he might make acquaintance with the old chamber which is our place of meeting.

MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK.

"And this" said Mr. Pickwick stopping short, "is the clock! Dear me! And this is really the old clock!"

I thought he would never have come away from it. After advancing
towards it softly, and laying his hand upon it with as much respect and as
many smiling looks as if it were alive, he set himself to consider it in every
possible direction, now mounting on a chair to look at the top, now going
down upon his knees to examine the bottom, now surveying the sides with his
spectacles almost touching the case, and now trying to peep between it and
the wall to get a slight view of the back. Then, he would retire a pace or two
and look up at the dial to see it go, and then draw near again and stand with
his head on one side to hear it tick: never failing to glance towards me at
intervals of a few seconds each, and nod his head with such complacent grati-
fication as I am quite unable to describe. His admiration was not confined
to the clock either, but extended itself to every article in the room, and really
when he had gone through them every one, and at last sat himself down in all
the six chairs one after another to try how they felt, I never saw such a
picture of good-humour and happiness as he presented, from the top of his
shining head down to the very last button of his gaiters.

I should have been well pleased, and should have had the utmost enjoyment
of his company, if he had remained with me all day, but my favorite, striking
the hour, reminded him that he must take his leave. I could not forbear
telling him once more how glad he had made me, and we shook hands all the
way down stairs.

We had no sooner arrived in the Hall, than my housekeeper gliding out of
her little room (she had changed her gown and cap I observed) greeted Mr.
Pickwick with her best smile and curtsey, and the barber feigning to be
accidentally passing on his way out, made him a vast number of bows. When
the housekeeper curtseyed, Mr. Pickwick bowed with the utmost politeness,
and when he bowed the housekeeper curtseyed again; between the house-
keeper and the barber, I should say that Mr. Pickwick faced about and bowed
with undiminished affability, fifty times at least.

I saw him to the door; an omnibus was at the moment passing the corner
of the lane, which Mr. Pickwick hailed and ran after with extraordinary
nimbleness. When he had got about half way he turned his head, and seeing
that I was still looking after him and that I waved my hand, stopped,
evidently irresolute whether to come back and shake hands again, or to go on.
The man behind the omnibus shouted, and Mr. Pickwick ran a little way
towards him: then he looked round at me, and ran a little way back again.
Then there was another shout and he turned round once more and ran the
other way. After several of these vibrations, the man settled the question by
taking Mr. Pickwick by the arm and putting him into the carriage, but
his last action was to let down the window and wave his hat to me as it
drove off.

I lost no time in opening the parcel he had left with me. The following
were its contents:—

54

MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK.

MR. PICKWICK'S TALE.

A good many years have passed away since old John Rodgers lived in the
town of Windsor, where he was born, and where in course of time he came
to be comfortably and snugly buried. You may be sure that in the time of
King James the First, Windsor was a very quaint queer old town, and you
may take it upon my authority that John Rodgers 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 Rodgers was broad, sturdy, Dutch-built, short, and a very hard eater, as men of his figure often are. Being a hard sleeper likewise, he divided his time pretty equally between these two recreations, always falling asleep when he had done eating and always taking another turn at the trencher when he had done sleeping, by which means he grew more corpulent and more drowsy every day of his life. Indeed it used to be currently reported that when he sauntered up and down the sunny side of the street before dinner (as he never failed to do in fair weather) he enjoyed his soundest nap, but many people held this to be a fiction as he had several times been seen to look after fat oxen on market days, and had even been heard by persons of good credit and reputation to chuckle at the sight, and say to himself with great glee "Live beef, live beef!" It was upon this evidence that the wisest people in Windsor (beginning with the local authorities of course) held that John Rodgers was a man of strong sound sense—not what is called smart, perhaps, and it might be of a rather lazy and apoplectic turn, but still a man of solid parts and one who meant much more than he cared to show. This impression was confirmed by a very dignified way he had of shaking his head and imparting at the same time a pendulous motion to his double chin; in short he passed for one of those people who being plunged into the Thames would make no vain efforts to set it afire, but would straightway flop down to the bottom with a deal of gravity and be highly respected in consequence by all good men.

Being well to do in the world, and a peaceful widower—having a great
appetite, which, as he could afford to gratify it, was a luxury and no incon-
venience, and a power of going to sleep which as he had no occasion to keep
awake was a most enviable faculty—you will readily suppose that John
Podgers was a happy man. But appearances are often deceptive when they
least seem so, and the truth is that notwithstanding his extreme sleekness he
was rendered uneasy in his mind and exceedingly uncomfortable by a constant
apprehension that beset him night and day.

You know very well that in those times there flourished divers evil old
women who under the name of Witches spread great disorder through the land,
and inflicted various dismal tortures upon Christian men: sticking pins and
needles into them when they least expected it, and causing them to walk in
the air with their feet upwards to the great terror of their wives and families,
who were naturally very much disconcerted when the master of the house unex-
pectedly came home, knocking at the door with his heels and combing his hair

MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK.

on the scraper. These were their commonest pranks, but they every day played a hundred others, of which none were less objectionable and many were much more so, being improper besides; the result was that vengeance was denounced against all old women, with whom even the king himself had no sympathy (as he certainly ought to have had) for with his own most Gracious hand he penned a most Gracious consignment of them to everlasting wrath, and devised most Gracious means for their confusion and slaughter, in virtue whereof scarcely a day passed but one witch at the least was most graciously hanged, drowned or roasted in some part of his dominions. Still the press teemed with strange and terrible news from the North or the South or the East or the West relative to witches and their unhappy victims in some corner of the country, and the Public's hair stood on end to that degree that it lifted its hat off its head, and made its face pale with terror.

You may believe that the little town of Windsor did not escape the general contagion. The inhabitants boiled a witch on the King's birthday and sent a bottle of the broth to court, with a dutiful address expressive of their loyalty. The King being rather frightened by the present, piously bestowed it upon the Archbishop of Canterbury, and returned an answer to the address wherein he gave them golden rules for discovering witches and laid great stress upon certain protecting charms, and especially horse-shoes. Immediately the townspeople went to work nailing up horse-shoes over every door, and so many anxious parents apprenticed their children to farriers, to keep them out of harm's way, that it became quite a genteel trade and flourished exceedingly.

In the midst of all this bustle John Podgers ate and slept as usual but shook his head a great deal oftener than was his custom, and was observed to look at the oxen less, and at the old women more. He had a little shelf put up in his sitting-room, whereon was displayed in a row which grew longer every week all the witchcraft literature of the time; he grew learned in charms and exorcisms, hinted at certain questionable females on broomsticks whom he had seen from his chamber window riding in the air at night, and was in constant terror of being bewitched. At length from perpetually dwelling upon this one idea which being alone in his head had it 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 witchtraps in the highway, and was often seen lying in wait round the corner for hours together, to watch their effect. These engines were of simple construction, usually consisting of two straws disposed in the form of a cross, or a piece of a bible-cover with a pinch of salt upon it, but they were infallible, and if an old woman chanced to stumble over them (as not unfrequently happened, the chosen spot being a broken and stony place) John started from a doze, pounced out upon her, and hung round her neck till assistance arrived, when she was immediately carried away and drowned. By dint of constantly inveigling old ladies and disposing of them in this summary manner, he

56

MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK.

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 course of
time to be considered witch-proof.

There was but one person who entertained the least doubt of John Rodgers'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 Rodgers 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.

YALE

One fine midsummer evening, a group of persons were gathered in this place
listening intently to Will Marks (that was the nephew's name) as with his
cap very much on one side, his arm coiled slyly round the waist of a pretty
girl who sat beside him, and his face screwed into a comical expression intended
to represent extreme gravity, he read—with Heaven knows how many
embellishments of his own—a dismal account of a gentleman down in
Northamptonshire under the influence of witchcraft and taken forcible possession
of by the Devil, who was playing his very self with him. John Rodgers 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

MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK.

the hearers with their heads thrust forward and their mouths open, listened and trembled, and hoped there was a great deal more to come. Sometimes Will stopped for an instant to look round upon his eager audience, and then with a more comical expression of face than before and a settling of himself comfortably which included a squeeze of the young lady before mentioned, he launched into some new wonder surpassing all the others.

The setting sun she'd his last golden rays upon this little party who, absorbed in their present occupation, took no heed of the approach of night or the glory in which the day went down, when the sound of a horse approaching at a good round trot, invading the silence of the hour, caused the reader to make a sudden stop and the listeners to raise their heads in wonder. Nor was their wonder diminished when a horseman dashed up to the porch, and abruptly checking his steed, inquired where one John Podgers dwelt.

"Here!" cried a dozen voices, while a dozen hands pointed out sturdy John, still basking in the terrors of the pamphlet.

The rider giving his bridle to one of those who surrounded him, dismounted, and approached John hat in hand, but with great haste.

"Whence come ye?" said John.

"From Kingston, Master."

"And wherefore?"

"On most pressing business."

"Of what nature?"

"Witchcraft."

Witchcraft! Everybody looked aghast at the breathless messenger, and the breathless messenger looked equally aghast at everybody—except Will Marks, who finding himself unobserved, not only squeezed the young lady again, but kissed her twice. Surely he must have been bewitched himself, or he never could have done it—and the young lady too, or she never would have let him.

"Witchcraft?" cried Will, drowning the sound of his last kiss which was rather a loud one.

The messenger turned towards him, and with a frown repeated the word more solemnly than before, then told his errand, which was, in brief, that the people of Kingston had been greatly terrified for some nights past by hideous revels, held by witches beneath the gibbet within a mile of the town, and related and deposed to by chance wayfarers who had passed within ear-shot of the spot—that the sound of their voices in their wild orgies had been plainly heard by many persons—that three old women laboured under strong suspicion, and that precedents had been consulted and solemn council had, and it was found that to identify the hags some single person must watch upon the spot alone—that no single person had the courage to perform the task—and that he had been despatched express to solicit John Podgers to undertake it that very night, as being a man of great renown, who bore a charmed life, and was proof against unholy spells.

John received this communication with much composure, and said in a few words, that it would have afforded him inexpressible pleasure to do

58

MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK.

the Kingston people so slight a service, if it were not for his unfortunate
propensity to fall asleep, which no man regretted more than himself upon the
present occasion, but which quite settled the question. Nevertheless, he
said, there was a gentleman present (and here he looked very hard at a tall
farrier) who having been engaged all his life in the manufacture of horse-shoes
must be quite invulnerable to the power of witches, and who, he had no doubt,
from his known reputation for bravery and good nature, would readily accept
the commission. The farrier politely thanked him for his good opinion, which
it would always be his study to deserve, but added that with regard to the
present little matter he couldn't think of it on any account, as his departing on
such an errand would certainly occasion the instant death of his wife, to whom
as they all knew he was tenderly attached. Now, so far from this circum-
stance being notorious, everybody had suspected the reverse, as the farrier
was in the habit of beating his lady rather more than tender husbands usually
do; all the married men present, however, applauded his resolution with
great vehemence, and one and all declared that they would stop at home
and die if needful (which happily it was not) in defence of their lawful
partners.

This burst of enthusiasm over, they began to look as by one consent toward
Will Marks, who with his cap more on one side than ever, sat watching the
proceedings with extraordinary unconcern. He had never been heard openly
to express his disbelief in witches, but had often cut such jokes at their
expense as left it to be inferred, publicly stating on several occasions that he
considered a broomstick an inconvenient charger and one especially unsuited
to the dignity of the female character, and indulging in other free remarks of
the same tendency to the great amusement of his wild companions.

As they looked at Will, they began to whisper and murmur among them-
selves, 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 grey 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

MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK.

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 Rodgers combat
the resolution with all the words he had, which were not many, but the
young lady combatted it too with all the tears she had, which were very
many indeed. Will, however, being inflexible, parried his uncle's objections
with a joke, and coaxed the young lady into a smile in three short whispers.
As it was plain that he would go and set his mind upon it, John Rodgers
offered him a few first-rate charms out of his own pocket which he duti-
fully declined to accept, and the young lady gave him a kiss which he also
returned.

"You see what a rare thing it is to be married" said Will, "and how
careful and considerate all these husbands are. There's not a man among
them but his heart is leaping to forestal 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 Rodgers good
night, and straggled home to bed.

The Kingston people were in their first sleep, when Will Marks and his
conductor rode through the town and up to the door of a house where sundry
grave functionaries were assembled, anxiously expecting the arrival of the
renowned Rodgers. 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