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. Themerry cricket on the hearth (my constant visitor), this ruddy blaze, myclock, and I, seem to share the world among us, and to be the only thingsawake. The wind, high and boisterous but now, has died away and hoarselymutters in its sleep. I love all times and seasons each in its turn, andam apt, perhaps, to think the present one the best; but past or coming Ialways love this peaceful time of night, when long-buried thoughts,favoured by the gloom and silence, steal from their graves, and haunt thescenes of faded happiness and hope.
The popular faith in ghosts has a remarkable affinity with the wholecurrent of our thoughts at such an hour as this, and seems to be theirnecessary and natural consequence. For who can wonder that man shouldfeel a vague belief in tales of disembodied spirits wandering throughthose places which they once dearly affected, when he himself, scarcelyless separated from his old world than they, is for ever lingering uponpast emotions and bygone times, and hovering, the ghost of his formerself, about the places and people that warmed his heart of old? It isthus that at this quiet hour I haunt the house where I was born, therooms I used to tread, the scenes of my infancy, my boyhood, and myyouth; it is thus that I prowl around my buried treasure (though not ofgold or silver), and mourn my loss; it is thus that I revisit the ashesof extinguished fires, and take my silent stand at old bedsides. If myspirit should ever glide back to this chamber when my body is mingledwith the dust, it will but follow the course it often took in the oldman’s lifetime, and add but one more change to the subjects of itscontemplation.
In all my idle speculations I am greatly assisted by various legendsconnected with my venerable house, which are current in theneighbourhood, and are so numerous that there is scarce a cupboard orcorner that has not some dismal story of its own. When I firstentertained thoughts of becoming its tenant, I was assured that it washaunted from roof to cellar, and I believe that the bad opinion in whichmy 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; ineither of which cases I should doubtless have arrived by a short cut atthe very summit of popularity.
But traditions and rumours all taken into account, who so abets me inevery fancy and chimes with my every thought, as my dear deaf friend? andhow often have I cause to bless the day that brought us two together! Ofall days in the year I rejoice to think that it should have beenChristmas Day, with which from childhood we associate something friendly,hearty, and sincere.
I had walked out to cheer myself with the happiness of others, and, inthe little tokens of festivity and rejoicing, of which the streets andhouses present so many upon that day, had lost some hours. Now I stoppedto look at a merry party hurrying through the snow on foot to their placeof meeting, and now turned back to see a whole coachful of childrensafely deposited at the welcome house. At one time, I admired howcarefully the working man carried the baby in its gaudy hat and feathers,and how his wife, trudging patiently on behind, forgot even her care ofher gay clothes, in exchanging greeting with the child as it crowed andlaughed over the father’s shoulder; at another, I pleased myself withsome passing scene of gallantry or courtship, and was glad to believethat for a season half the world of poverty was gay.
As the day closed in, I still rambled through the streets, feeling acompanionship in the bright fires that cast their warm reflection on thewindows as I passed, and losing all sense of my own loneliness inimagining the sociality and kind-fellowship that everywhere prevailed.At length I happened to stop before a Tavern, and, encountering a Bill ofFare in the window, it all at once brought it into my head to wonder whatkind of people dined alone in Taverns upon Christmas Day.
Solitary men are accustomed, I suppose, unconsciously to look uponsolitude as their own peculiar property. I had sat alone in my room onmany, many anniversaries of this great holiday, and had never regarded itbut as one of universal assemblage and rejoicing. I had excepted, andwith an aching heart, a crowd of prisoners and beggars; but _these_ werenot 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 gonemany paces, I stopped and looked back. There was a provoking air ofbusiness in the lamp above the door which I could not overcome. I beganto be afraid there might be many customers—young men, perhaps, strugglingwith the world, utter strangers in this great place, whose friends livedat a long distance off, and whose means were too slender to enable themto make the journey. The supposition gave rise to so many distressinglittle pictures, that in preference to carrying them home with me, Idetermined to encounter the realities. So I turned and walked in.
I was at once glad and sorry to find that there was only one person inthe dining-room; glad to know that there were not more, and sorry that heshould be there by himself. He did not look so old as I, but like me hewas advanced in life, and his hair was nearly white. Though I made morenoise in entering and seating myself than was quite necessary, with theview of attracting his attention and saluting him in the good old form ofthat time of year, he did not raise his head, but sat with it resting onhis hand, musing over his half-finished meal.
I called for something which would give me an excuse for remaining in theroom (I had dined early, as my housekeeper was engaged at night topartake of some friend’s good cheer), and sat where I could observewithout intruding on him. After a time he looked up. He was aware thatsomebody had entered, but could see very little of me, as I sat in theshade and he in the light. He was sad and thoughtful, and I forbore totrouble him by speaking.
Let me believe it was something better than curiosity which riveted myattention and impelled me strongly towards this gentleman. I never sawso 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 friendsabout them. As often as he roused himself from his reverie he would fallinto it again, and it was plain that, whatever were the subject of histhoughts, they were of a melancholy kind, and would not be controlled.
He was not used to solitude. I was sure of that; for I know by myselfthat if he had been, his manner would have been different, and he wouldhave taken some slight interest in the arrival of another. I could notfail to mark that he had no appetite; that he tried to eat in vain; thattime after time the plate was pushed away, and he relapsed into hisformer posture.
His mind was wandering among old Christmas days, I thought. Many of themsprung up together, not with a long gap between each, but in unbrokensuccession like days of the week. It was a great change to find himselffor the first time (I quite settled that it _was_ the first) in an emptysilent room with no soul to care for. I could not help following him inimagination through crowds of pleasant faces, and then coming back tothat dull place with its bough of mistletoe sickening in the gas, andsprigs of holly parched up already by a Simoom of roast and boiled. Thevery waiter had gone home; and his representative, a poor, lean, hungryman, was keeping Christmas in his jacket.
I grew still more interested in my friend. His dinner done, a decanterof wine was placed before him. It remained untouched for a long time,but at length with a quivering hand he filled a glass and raised it tohis lips. Some tender wish to which he had been accustomed to giveutterance on that day, or some beloved name that he had been used topledge, trembled upon them at the moment. He put it down veryhastily—took it up once more—again put it down—pressed his hand upon hisface—yes—and tears stole down his cheeks, I am certain.
Without pausing to consider whether I did right or wrong, I steppedacross the room, and sitting down beside him laid my hand gently on hisarm.
‘My friend,’ I said, ‘forgive me if I beseech you to take comfort andconsolation from the lips of an old man. I will not preach to y
ou what Ihave not practised, indeed. Whatever be your grief, be of a goodheart—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 hadalready gathered, from a certain fixed expression in his face, and fromthe attention with which he watched me while I spoke, that his sense ofhearing was destroyed. ‘There should be a freemasonry between us,’ saidI, pointing from himself to me to explain my meaning; ‘if not in our grayhairs, at least in our misfortunes. You see that I am but a poorcripple.’
I never felt so happy under my affliction since the trying moment of myfirst becoming conscious of it, as when he took my hand in his with asmile that has lighted my path in life from that day, and we sat downside by side.
This was the beginning of my friendship with the deaf gentleman; and whenwas ever the slight and easy service of a kind word in season repaid bysuch attachment and devotion as he has shown to me!
He produced a little set of tablets and a pencil to facilitate ourconversation, on that our first acquaintance; and I well remember howawkward and constrained I was in writing down my share of the dialogue,and how easily he guessed my meaning before I had written half of what Ihad to say. He told me in a faltering voice that he had not beenaccustomed to be alone on that day—that it had always been a littlefestival with him; and seeing that I glanced at his dress in theexpectation that he wore mourning, he added hastily that it was not that;if it had been he thought he could have borne it better. From that timeto the present we have never touched upon this theme. Upon every returnof the same day we have been together; and although we make it our annualcustom to drink to each other hand in hand after dinner, and to recallwith affectionate garrulity every circumstance of our first meeting, wealways avoid this one as if by mutual consent.
Meantime we have gone on strengthening in our friendship and regard andforming an attachment which, I trust and believe, will only beinterrupted by death, to be renewed in another existence. I scarcelyknow how we communicate as we do; but he has long since ceased to be deafto me. He is frequently my companion in my walks, and even in crowdedstreets replies to my slightest look or gesture, as though he could readmy thoughts. From the vast number of objects which pass in rapidsuccession before our eyes, we frequently select the same for someparticular notice or remark; and when one of these little coincidencesoccurs, I cannot describe the pleasure which animates my friend, or thebeaming countenance he will preserve for half-an-hour afterwards atleast.
He is a great thinker from living so much within himself, and, having alively imagination, has a facility of conceiving and enlarging upon oddideas, which renders him invaluable to our little body, and greatlyastonishes our two friends. His powers in this respect are much assistedby 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 mysteriousappearance, and is of such capacity that it takes three hours and a halfto smoke it out. I have reason to believe that my barber, who is thechief authority of a knot of gossips, who congregate every evening at asmall tobacconist’s hard by, has related anecdotes of this pipe and thegrim figures that are carved upon its bowl, at which all the smokers inthe neighbourhood have stood aghast; and I know that my housekeeper,while she holds it in high veneration, has a superstitious feelingconnected with it which would render her exceedingly unwilling to be leftalone in its company after dark.
Whatever sorrow my dear friend has known, and whatever grief may lingerin some secret corner of his heart, he is now a cheerful, placid, happycreature. Misfortune can never have fallen upon such a man but for somegood purpose; and when I see its traces in his gentle nature and hisearnest feeling, I am the less disposed to murmur at such trials as I mayhave undergone myself. With regard to the pipe, I have a theory of myown; I cannot help thinking that it is in some manner connected with theevent that brought us together; for I remember that it was a long timebefore he even talked about it; that when he did, he grew reserved andmelancholy; 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 itpromotes his tranquillity and comfort, and I need no other inducement toregard it with my utmost favour.
Such is the deaf gentleman. I can call up his figure now, clad in sobergray, and seated in the chimney-corner. As he puffs out the smoke fromhis favourite pipe, he casts a look on me brimful of cordiality andfriendship, and says all manner of kind and genial things in a cheerfulsmile; then he raises his eyes to my clock, which is just about tostrike, and, glancing from it to me and back again, seems to divide hisheart between us. For myself, it is not too much to say that I wouldgladly part with one of my poor limbs, could he but hear the old clock’svoice.
[Picture: The Two Friends]
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 asnobody’s enemies but their own. Bred to a profession for which he neverqualified himself, and reared in the expectation of a fortune he hasnever inherited, he has undergone every vicissitude of which such anexistence is capable. He and his younger brother, both orphans fromtheir childhood, were educated by a wealthy relative, who taught them toexpect an equal division of his property; but too indolent to court, andtoo honest to flatter, the elder gradually lost ground in the affectionsof a capricious old man, and the younger, who did not fail to improve hisopportunity, now triumphs in the possession of enormous wealth. Histriumph is to hoard it in solitary wretchedness, and probably to feelwith the expenditure of every shilling a greater pang than the loss ofhis whole inheritance ever cost his brother.
Jack Redburn—he was Jack Redburn at the first little school he went to,where every other child was mastered and surnamed, and he has been JackRedburn all his life, or he would perhaps have been a richer man by thistime—has been an inmate of my house these eight years past. He is mylibrarian, secretary, steward, and first minister; director of all myaffairs, and inspector-general of my household. He is something of amusician, something of an author, something of an actor, something of apainter, very much of a carpenter, and an extraordinary gardener, havinghad all his life a wonderful aptitude for learning everything that was ofno use to him. He is remarkably fond of children, and is the best andkindest nurse in sickness that ever drew the breath of life. He hasmixed with every grade of society, and known the utmost distress; butthere never was a less selfish, a more tender-hearted, a moreenthusiastic, or a more guileless man; and I dare say, if few have doneless good, fewer still have done less harm in the world than he. By whatchance Nature forms such whimsical jumbles I don’t know; but I do knowthat she sends them among us very often, and that the king of the wholerace is Jack Redburn.
I should be puzzled to say how old he is. His health is none of thebest, and he wears a quantity of iron-gray hair, which shades his faceand gives it rather a worn appearance; but we consider him quite a youngfellow notwithstanding; and if a youthful spirit, surviving the roughestcontact with the world, confers upon its possessor any title to beconsidered young, then he is a mere child. The only interruptions to hiscareless cheerfulness are on a wet Sunday, when he is apt to be unusuallyreligious and solemn, and sometimes of an evening, when he has beenblowing a very slow tune on the flute. On these last-named occasions heis apt to incline towards the mysterious, or the terrible. As a specimenof his powers in this mood, I refer my readers to the extract from theclock-case which follows this paper: he brought it to me not long ago atmidnight, and informed me that the main incident had been suggested by adream of the night before.
His apartments are two cheerful rooms looking towards the garden, and oneof his great delights is to arrange and rearrange the furniture in thesechambers, and put it in every possible variety of position. During thewhole time he has been here, I do not think he has slept for two nightsrunning with the head of his bed in
the same place; and every time hemoves it, is to be the last. My housekeeper was at first well-nighdistracted by these frequent changes; but she has become quite reconciledto them by degrees, and has so fallen in with his humour, that they oftenconsult together with great gravity upon the next final alteration.Whatever his arrangements are, however, they are always a pattern ofneatness; and every one of the manifold articles connected with hismanifold occupations is to be found in its own particular place. Untilwithin the last two or three years he was subject to an occasional fit(which usually came upon him in very fine weather), under the influenceof which he would dress himself with peculiar care, and, going out underpretence of taking a walk, disappeared for several days together. Atlength, after the interval between each outbreak of this disorder hadgradually grown longer and longer, it wholly disappeared; and now heseldom stirs abroad, except to stroll out a little way on a summer’sevening. Whether he yet mistrusts his own constancy in this respect, andis therefore afraid to wear a coat, I know not; but we seldom see him inany other upper garment than an old spectral-looking dressing-gown, withvery disproportionate pockets, full of a miscellaneous collection of oddmatters, 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 mostworthy gentleman, who had treated Jack with great kindness before my deaffriend and I encountered him by an accident, to which I may refer on somefuture occasion. Mr. Miles was once a very rich merchant; but receivinga severe shock in the death of his wife, he retired from business, anddevoted himself to a quiet, unostentatious life. He is an excellent man,of thoroughly sterling character: not of quick apprehension, and notwithout some amusing prejudices, which I shall leave to their owndevelopment. He holds us all in profound veneration; but Jack Redburn heesteems as a kind of pleasant wonder, that he may venture to approachfamiliarly. He believes, not only that no man ever lived who could do somany things as Jack, but that no man ever lived who could do anything sowell; and he never calls my attention to any of his ingeniousproceedings, but he whispers in my ear, nudging me at the same time withhis elbow: ‘If he had only made it his trade, sir—if he had only made ithis trade!’
They are inseparable companions; one would almost suppose that, althoughMr. 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 isMr. Miles beside him, buttoned up to the chin in his blue coat, andlooking on with a face of incredulous delight, as though he could notcredit the testimony of his own senses, and had a misgiving that no mancould be so clever but in a dream.
These are my friends; I have now introduced myself and them.