Master Humphreys Clock | Page 3

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Master Humphrey's Clock by Charles Dickens Scanned and proofed by
David Price [email protected]

Master Humphrey's Clock
by Charles Dickens

CHAPTER I
- MASTER HUMPHREY, FROM HIS CLOCK-SIDE IN THE
CHIMNEY CORNER

THE reader must not expect to know where I live. At present, it is true,
my abode may be a question of little or no import to anybody; but if I
should carry my 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