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    "He felt that his whole life was some kind of dream and he sometimes wondered whose it was and whether they were enjoying it."

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    Chapter 1

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    Chapter 1

    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.

    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

    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!


    It is my intention constantly to address my readers from the
    chimney-corner, and I would fain hope that such accounts as I shall
    give them of our histories and proceedings, our quiet speculations
    or more busy adventures, will never be unwelcome. Lest, however, I
    should grow prolix in the outset by lingering too long upon our
    little association, confounding the enthusiasm with which I regard
    this chief happiness of my life with that minor degree of interest
    which those to whom I address myself may be supposed to feel for
    it, I have deemed it expedient to break off as they have seen.

    But, still clinging to my old friend, and naturally desirous that
    all its merits should be known, I am tempted to open (somewhat
    irregularly and against our laws, I must admit) the clock-case.
    The first roll of paper on which I lay my hand is in the writing of
    the deaf gentleman. I shall have to speak of him in my next paper;
    and how can I better approach that welcome task than by prefacing
    it with a production of his own pen, consigned to the safe keeping
    of my honest Clock by his own hand?

    The manuscript runs thus


    Once upon a time, that is to say, in this our time, - the exact
    year, month, and day are of no matter, - there dwelt in the city of
    London a substantial citizen, who united in his single person the
    dignities of wholesale fruiterer, alderman, common-councilman, and
    member of the worshipful Company of Patten-makers; who had
    superadded to these extraordinary distinctions the important post
    and title of Sheriff, and who at length, and to crown all, stood
    next in rotation for the high and honourable office of Lord Mayor.

    He was a very substantial citizen indeed. His face was like the
    full moon in a fog, with two little holes punched out for his eyes,
    a very ripe pear stuck on for his nose, and a wide gash to serve
    for a mouth. The girth of his waistcoat was hung up and lettered
    in his tailor's shop as an extraordinary curiosity. He breathed
    like a heavy snorer, and his voice in speaking came thickly forth,
    as if it were oppressed and stifled by feather-beds. He trod the
    ground like an elephant, and eat and drank like - like nothing but
    an alderman, as he was.

    This worthy citizen had risen to his great eminence from small
    beginnings. He had once been a very lean, weazen little boy, never
    dreaming of carrying such a weight of flesh upon his bones or of
    money in his pockets, and glad enough to take his dinner at a
    baker's door, and his tea at a pump. But he had long ago forgotten
    all this, as it was proper that a wholesale fruiterer, alderman,
    common-councilman, member of the worshipful Company of Patten-
    makers, past sheriff, and, above all, a Lord Mayor that was to be,
    should; and he never forgot it more completely in all his life than
    on the eighth of November in the year of his election to the great
    golden civic chair, which was the day before his grand dinner at

    It happened that as he sat that evening all alone in his counting-
    house, looking over the bill of fare for next day, and checking off
    the fat capons in fifties, and the turtle-soup by the hundred
    quarts, for his private amusement, - it happened that as he sat
    alone occupied in these pleasant calculations, a strange man came
    in and asked him how he did, adding, 'If I am half as much changed
    as you, sir, you have no recollection of me, I am sure.'

    The strange man was not over and above well dressed, and was very
    far from being fat or rich-looking in any sense of the word, yet he
    spoke with a kind of modest confidence, and assumed an easy,
    gentlemanly sort of an air, to which nobody but a rich man can
    lawfully presume. Besides this, he interrupted the good citizen
    just as he had reckoned three hundred and seventy-two fat capons,
    and was carrying them over to the next column; and as if that were
    not aggravation enough, the learned recorder for the city of London
    had only ten minutes previously gone out at that very same door,
    and had turned round and said, 'Good night, my lord.' Yes, he had
    said, 'my lord;' - he, a man of birth and education, of the
    Honourable Society of the Middle Temple, Barrister-at-Law, - he who
    had an uncle in the House of Commons, and an aunt almost but not
    quite in the House of Lords (for she had married a feeble peer, and
    made him vote as she liked), - he, this man, this learned recorder,
    had said, 'my lord.' 'I'll not wait till to-morrow to give you
    your title, my Lord Mayor,' says he, with a bow and a smile; 'you
    are Lord Mayor DE FACTO, if not DE JURE. Good night, my lord.'

    The Lord Mayor elect thought of this, and turning to the stranger,
    and sternly bidding him 'go out of his private counting-house,'
    brought forward the three hundred and seventy-two fat capons, and
    went on with his account.

    'Do you remember,' said the other, stepping forward, - 'DO you
    remember little Joe Toddyhigh?'

    The port wine fled for a moment from the fruiterer's nose as he
    muttered, 'Joe Toddyhigh! What about Joe Toddyhigh?'

    'I am Joe Toddyhigh,' cried the visitor. 'Look at me, look hard at
    me, - harder, harder. You know me now? You know little Joe again?
    What a happiness to us both, to meet the very night before your
    grandeur! O! give me your hand, Jack, - both hands, - both, for
    the sake of old times.'

    'You pinch me, sir. You're a-hurting of me,' said the Lord Mayor
    elect pettishly. 'Don't, - suppose anybody should come, - Mr.
    Toddyhigh, sir.'

    'Mr. Toddyhigh!' repeated the other ruefully.

    'O, don't bother,' said the Lord Mayor elect, scratching his head.
    'Dear me! Why, I thought you was dead. What a fellow you are!'

    Indeed, it was a pretty state of things, and worthy the tone of
    vexation and disappointment in which the Lord Mayor spoke. Joe
    Toddyhigh had been a poor boy with him at Hull, and had oftentimes
    divided his last penny and parted his last crust to relieve his
    wants; for though Joe was a destitute child in those times, he was
    as faithful and affectionate in his friendship as ever man of might
    could be. They parted one day to seek their fortunes in different
    directions. Joe went to sea, and the now wealthy citizen begged
    his way to London, They separated with many tears, like foolish
    fellows as they were, and agreed to remain fast friends, and if
    they lived, soon to communicate again.

    When he was an errand-boy, and even in the early days of his
    apprenticeship, the citizen had many a time trudged to the Post-
    office to ask if there were any letter from poor little Joe, and
    had gone home again with tears in his eyes, when he found no news
    of his only friend. The world is a wide place, and it was a long
    time before the letter came; when it did, the writer was forgotten.
    It turned from white to yellow from lying in the Post-office with
    nobody to claim it, and in course of time was torn up with five
    hundred others, and sold for waste-paper. And now at last, and
    when it might least have been expected, here was this Joe Toddyhigh
    turning up and claiming acquaintance with a great public character,
    who on the morrow would be cracking jokes with the Prime Minister
    of England, and who had only, at any time during the next twelve
    months, to say the word, and he could shut up Temple Bar, and make
    it no thoroughfare for the king himself!

    'I am sure I don't know what to say, Mr. Toddyhigh,' said the Lord
    Mayor elect; 'I really don't. It's very inconvenient. I'd sooner
    have given twenty pound, - it's very inconvenient, really.' - A
    thought had come into his mind, that perhaps his old friend might
    say something passionate which would give him an excuse for being
    angry himself. No such thing. Joe looked at him steadily, but very
    mildly, and did not open his lips.

    'Of course I shall pay you what I owe you,' said the Lord Mayor
    elect, fidgeting in his chair. 'You lent me - I think it was a
    shilling or some small coin - when we parted company, and that of
    course I shall pay with good interest. I can pay my way with any
    man, and always have done. If you look into the Mansion House the
    day after to-morrow, - some time after dusk, - and ask for my
    private clerk, you'll find he has a draft for you. I haven't got
    time to say anything more just now, unless,' - he hesitated, for,
    coupled with a strong desire to glitter for once in all his glory
    in the eyes of his former companion, was a distrust of his
    appearance, which might be more shabby than he could tell by that
    feeble light, - 'unless you'd like to come to the dinner to-morrow.
    I don't mind your having this ticket, if you like to take it. A
    great many people would give their ears for it, I can tell you.'

    His old friend took the card without speaking a word, and instantly
    departed. His sunburnt face and gray hair were present to the
    citizen's mind for a moment; but by the time he reached three
    hundred and eighty-one fat capons, he had quite forgotten him.

    Joe Toddyhigh had never been in the capital of Europe before, and
    he wandered up and down the streets that night amazed at the number
    of churches and other public buildings, the splendour of the shops,
    the riches that were heaped up on every side, the glare of light in
    which they were displayed, and the concourse of people who hurried
    to and fro, indifferent, apparently, to all the wonders that
    surrounded them. But in all the long streets and broad squares,
    there were none but strangers; it was quite a relief to turn down a
    by-way and hear his own footsteps on the pavement. He went home to
    his inn, thought that London was a dreary, desolate place, and felt
    disposed to doubt the existence of one true-hearted man in the
    whole worshipful Company of Patten-makers. Finally, he went to
    bed, and dreamed that he and the Lord Mayor elect were boys again.

    He went next day to the dinner; and when in a burst of light and
    music, and in the midst of splendid decorations and surrounded by
    brilliant company, his former friend appeared at the head of the
    Hall, and was hailed with shouts and cheering, he cheered and
    shouted with the best, and for the moment could have cried. The
    next moment he cursed his weakness in behalf of a man so changed
    and selfish, and quite hated a jolly-looking old gentleman opposite
    for declaring himself in the pride of his heart a Patten-maker.

    As the banquet proceeded, he took more and more to heart the rich
    citizen's unkindness; and that, not from any envy, but because he
    felt that a man of his state and fortune could all the better
    afford to recognise an old friend, even if he were poor and
    obscure. The more he thought of this, the more lonely and sad he
    felt. When the company dispersed and adjourned to the ball-room,
    he paced the hall and passages alone, ruminating in a very
    melancholy condition upon the disappointment he had experienced.

    It chanced, while he was lounging about in this moody state, that
    he stumbled upon a flight of stairs, dark, steep, and narrow, which
    he ascended without any thought about the matter, and so came into
    a little music-gallery, empty and deserted. From this elevated
    post, which commanded the whole hall, he amused himself in looking
    down upon the attendants who were clearing away the fragments of
    the feast very lazily, and drinking out of all the bottles and
    glasses with most commendable perseverance.

    His attention gradually relaxed, and he fell fast asleep.

    When he awoke, he thought there must be something the matter with
    his eyes; but, rubbing them a little, he soon found that the
    moonlight was really streaming through the east window, that the
    lamps were all extinguished, and that he was alone. He listened,
    but no distant murmur in the echoing passages, not even the
    shutting of a door, broke the deep silence; he groped his way down
    the stairs, and found that the door at the bottom was locked on the
    other side. He began now to comprehend that he must have slept a
    long time, that he had been overlooked, and was shut up there for
    the night.

    His first sensation, perhaps, was not altogether a comfortable one,
    for it was a dark, chilly, earthy-smelling place, and something too
    large, for a man so situated, to feel at home in. However, when
    the momentary consternation of his surprise was over, he made light
    of the accident, and resolved to feel his way up the stairs again,
    and make himself as comfortable as he could in the gallery until
    morning. As he turned to execute this purpose, he heard the clocks
    strike three.

    Any such invasion of a dead stillness as the striking of distant
    clocks, causes it to appear the more intense and insupportable when
    the sound has ceased. He listened with strained attention in the
    hope that some clock, lagging behind its fellows, had yet to
    strike, - looking all the time into the profound darkness before
    him, until it seemed to weave itself into a black tissue, patterned
    with a hundred reflections of his own eyes. But the bells had all
    pealed out their warning for that once, and the gust of wind that
    moaned through the place seemed cold and heavy with their iron

    The time and circumstances were favourable to reflection. He tried
    to keep his thoughts to the current, unpleasant though it was, in
    which they had moved all day, and to think with what a romantic
    feeling he had looked forward to shaking his old friend by the hand
    before he died, and what a wide and cruel difference there was
    between the meeting they had had, and that which he had so often
    and so long anticipated. Still, he was disordered by waking to
    such sudden loneliness, and could not prevent his mind from running
    upon odd tales of people of undoubted courage, who, being shut up
    by night in vaults or churches, or other dismal places, had scaled
    great heights to get out, and fled from silence as they had never
    done from danger. This brought to his mind the moonlight through
    the window, and bethinking himself of it, he groped his way back up
    the crooked stairs, - but very stealthily, as though he were
    fearful of being overheard.

    He was very much astonished when he approached the gallery again,
    to see a light in the building: still more so, on advancing
    hastily and looking round, to observe no visible source from which
    it could proceed. But how much greater yet was his astonishment at
    the spectacle which this light revealed.

    The statues of the two giants, Gog and Magog, each above fourteen
    feet in height, those which succeeded to still older and more
    barbarous figures, after the Great Fire of London, and which stand
    in the Guildhall to this day, were endowed with life and motion.
    These guardian genii of the City had quitted their pedestals, and
    reclined in easy attitudes in the great stained glass window.
    Between them was an ancient cask, which seemed to be full of wine;
    for the younger Giant, clapping his huge hand upon it, and throwing
    up his mighty leg, burst into an exulting laugh, which reverberated
    through the hall like thunder.

    Joe Toddyhigh instinctively stooped down, and, more dead than
    alive, felt his hair stand on end, his knees knock together, and a
    cold damp break out upon his forehead. But even at that minute
    curiosity prevailed over every other feeling, and somewhat
    reassured by the good-humour of the Giants and their apparent
    unconsciousness of his presence, he crouched in a corner of the
    gallery, in as small a space as he could, and, peeping between the
    rails, observed them closely.

    It was then that the elder Giant, who had a flowing gray beard,
    raised his thoughtful eyes to his companion's face, and in a grave
    and solemn voice addressed him thus:


    Turning towards his companion the elder Giant uttered these words
    in a grave, majestic tone:

    'Magog, does boisterous mirth beseem the Giant Warder of this
    ancient city? Is this becoming demeanour for a watchful spirit
    over whose bodiless head so many years have rolled, so many changes
    swept like empty air - in whose impalpable nostrils the scent of
    blood and crime, pestilence, cruelty, and horror, has been familiar
    as breath to mortals - in whose sight Time has gathered in the
    harvest of centuries, and garnered so many crops of human pride,
    affections, hopes, and sorrows? Bethink you of our compact. The
    night wanes; feasting, revelry, and music have encroached upon our
    usual hours of solitude, and morning will be here apace. Ere we
    are stricken mute again, bethink you of our compact.'

    Pronouncing these latter words with more of impatience than quite
    accorded with his apparent age and gravity, the Giant raised a long
    pole (which he still bears in his hand) and tapped his brother
    Giant rather smartly on the head; indeed, the blow was so smartly
    administered, that the latter quickly withdrew his lips from the
    cask, to which they had been applied, and, catching up his shield
    and halberd, assumed an attitude of defence. His irritation was
    but momentary, for he laid these weapons aside as hastily as he had
    assumed them, and said as he did so:

    'You know, Gog, old friend, that when we animate these shapes which
    the Londoners of old assigned (and not unworthily) to the guardian
    genii of their city, we are susceptible of some of the sensations
    which belong to human kind. Thus when I taste wine, I feel blows;
    when I relish the one, I disrelish the other. Therefore, Gog, the
    more especially as your arm is none of the lightest, keep your good
    staff by your side, else we may chance to differ. Peace be between

    'Amen!' said the other, leaning his staff in the window-corner.
    'Why did you laugh just now?'

    'To think,' replied the Giant Magog, laying his hand upon the cask,
    'of him who owned this wine, and kept it in a cellar hoarded from
    the light of day, for thirty years, - "till it should be fit to
    drink," quoth he. He was twoscore and ten years old when he buried
    it beneath his house, and yet never thought that he might be
    scarcely "fit to drink" when the wine became so. I wonder it never
    occurred to him to make himself unfit to be eaten. There is very
    little of him left by this time.'

    'The night is waning,' said Gog mournfully.

    'I know it,' replied his companion, 'and I see you are impatient.
    But look. Through the eastern window - placed opposite to us, that
    the first beams of the rising sun may every morning gild our giant
    faces - the moon-rays fall upon the pavement in a stream of light
    that to my fancy sinks through the cold stone and gushes into the
    old crypt below. The night is scarcely past its noon, and our
    great charge is sleeping heavily.'

    They ceased to speak, and looked upward at the moon. The sight of
    their large, black, rolling eyes filled Joe Toddyhigh with such
    horror that he could scarcely draw his breath. Still they took no
    note of him, and appeared to believe themselves quite alone.

    'Our compact,' said Magog after a pause, 'is, if I understand it,
    that, instead of watching here in silence through the dreary
    nights, we entertain each other with stories of our past
    experience; with tales of the past, the present, and the future;
    with legends of London and her sturdy citizens from the old simple
    times. That every night at midnight, when St. Paul's bell tolls
    out one, and we may move and speak, we thus discourse, nor leave
    such themes till the first gray gleam of day shall strike us dumb.
    Is that our bargain, brother?'

    'Yes,' said the Giant Gog, 'that is the league between us who guard
    this city, by day in spirit, and by night in body also; and never
    on ancient holidays have its conduits run wine more merrily than we
    will pour forth our legendary lore. We are old chroniclers from
    this time hence. The crumbled walls encircle us once more, the
    postern-gates are closed, the drawbridge is up, and pent in its
    narrow den beneath, the water foams and struggles with the sunken
    starlings. Jerkins and quarter-staves are in the streets again,
    the nightly watch is set, the rebel, sad and lonely in his Tower
    dungeon, tries to sleep and weeps for home and children. Aloft
    upon the gates and walls are noble heads glaring fiercely down upon
    the dreaming city, and vexing the hungry dogs that scent them in
    the air, and tear the ground beneath with dismal howlings. The
    axe, the block, the rack, in their dark chambers give signs of
    recent use. The Thames, floating past long lines of cheerful
    windows whence come a burst of music and a stream of light, bears
    suddenly to the Palace wall the last red stain brought on the tide
    from Traitor's Gate. But your pardon, brother. The night wears,
    and I am talking idly.'

    The other Giant appeared to be entirely of this opinion, for during
    the foregoing rhapsody of his fellow-sentinel he had been
    scratching his head with an air of comical uneasiness, or rather
    with an air that would have been very comical if he had been a
    dwarf or an ordinary-sized man. He winked too, and though it could
    not be doubted for a moment that he winked to himself, still he
    certainly cocked his enormous eye towards the gallery where the
    listener was concealed. Nor was this all, for he gaped; and when
    he gaped, Joe was horribly reminded of the popular prejudice on the
    subject of giants, and of their fabled power of smelling out
    Englishmen, however closely concealed.

    His alarm was such that he nearly swooned, and it was some little
    time before his power of sight or hearing was restored. When he
    recovered he found that the elder Giant was pressing the younger to
    commence the Chronicles, and that the latter was endeavouring to
    excuse himself on the ground that the night was far spent, and it
    would be better to wait until the next. Well assured by this that
    he was certainly about to begin directly, the listener collected
    his faculties by a great effort, and distinctly heard Magog express
    himself to the following effect:

    In the sixteenth century and in the reign of Queen Elizabeth of
    glorious memory (albeit her golden days are sadly rusted with
    blood), there lived in the city of London a bold young 'prentice
    who loved his master's daughter. There were no doubt within the
    walls a great many 'prentices in this condition, but I speak of
    only one, and his name was Hugh Graham.

    This Hugh was apprenticed to an honest Bowyer who dwelt in the ward
    of Cheype, and was rumoured to possess great wealth. Rumour was
    quite as infallible in those days as at the present time, but it
    happened then as now to be sometimes right by accident. It
    stumbled upon the truth when it gave the old Bowyer a mint of
    money. His trade had been a profitable one in the time of King
    Henry the Eighth, who encouraged English archery to the utmost, and
    he had been prudent and discreet. Thus it came to pass that
    Mistress Alice, his only daughter, was the richest heiress in all
    his wealthy ward. Young Hugh had often maintained with staff and
    cudgel that she was the handsomest. To do him justice, I believe
    she was.

    If he could have gained the heart of pretty Mistress Alice by
    knocking this conviction into stubborn people's heads, Hugh would
    have had no cause to fear. But though the Bowyer's daughter smiled
    in secret to hear of his doughty deeds for her sake, and though her
    little waiting-woman reported all her smiles (and many more) to
    Hugh, and though he was at a vast expense in kisses and small coin
    to recompense her fidelity, he made no progress in his love. He
    durst not whisper it to Mistress Alice save on sure encouragement,
    and that she never gave him. A glance of her dark eye as she sat
    at the door on a summer's evening after prayer-time, while he and
    the neighbouring 'prentices exercised themselves in the street with
    blunted sword and buckler, would fire Hugh's blood so that none
    could stand before him; but then she glanced at others quite as
    kindly as on him, and where was the use of cracking crowns if
    Mistress Alice smiled upon the cracked as well as on the cracker?

    Still Hugh went on, and loved her more and more. He thought of her
    all day, and dreamed of her all night long. He treasured up her
    every word and gesture, and had a palpitation of the heart whenever
    he heard her footstep on the stairs or her voice in an adjoining
    room. To him, the old Bowyer's house was haunted by an angel;
    there was enchantment in the air and space in which she moved. It
    would have been no miracle to Hugh if flowers had sprung from the
    rush-strewn floors beneath the tread of lovely Mistress Alice.

    Never did 'prentice long to distinguish himself in the eyes of his
    lady-love so ardently as Hugh. Sometimes he pictured to himself
    the house taking fire by night, and he, when all drew back in fear,
    rushing through flame and smoke, and bearing her from the ruins in
    his arms. At other times he thought of a rising of fierce rebels,
    an attack upon the city, a strong assault upon the Bowyer's house
    in particular, and he falling on the threshold pierced with
    numberless wounds in defence of Mistress Alice. If he could only
    enact some prodigy of valour, do some wonderful deed, and let her
    know that she had inspired it, he thought he could die contented.

    Sometimes the Bowyer and his daughter would go out to supper with a
    worthy citizen at the fashionable hour of six o'clock, and on such
    occasions Hugh, wearing his blue 'prentice cloak as gallantly as
    'prentice might, would attend with a lantern and his trusty club to
    escort them home. These were the brightest moments of his life.
    To hold the light while Mistress Alice picked her steps, to touch
    her hand as he helped her over broken ways, to have her leaning on
    his arm, - it sometimes even came to that, - this was happiness

    When the nights were fair, Hugh followed in the rear, his eyes
    riveted on the graceful figure of the Bowyer's daughter as she and
    the old man moved on before him. So they threaded the narrow
    winding streets of the city, now passing beneath the overhanging
    gables of old wooden houses whence creaking signs projected into
    the street, and now emerging from some dark and frowning gateway
    into the clear moonlight. At such times, or when the shouts of
    straggling brawlers met her ear, the Bowyer's daughter would look
    timidly back at Hugh, beseeching him to draw nearer; and then how
    he grasped his club and longed to do battle with a dozen rufflers,
    for the love of Mistress Alice!

    The old Bowyer was in the habit of lending money on interest to the
    gallants of the Court, and thus it happened that many a richly-
    dressed gentleman dismounted at his door. More waving plumes and
    gallant steeds, indeed, were seen at the Bowyer's house, and more
    embroidered silks and velvets sparkled in his dark shop and darker
    private closet, than at any merchants in the city. In those times
    no less than in the present it would seem that the richest-looking
    cavaliers often wanted money the most.

    Of these glittering clients there was one who always came alone.
    He was nobly mounted, and, having no attendant, gave his horse in
    charge to Hugh while he and the Bowyer were closeted within. Once
    as he sprung into the saddle Mistress Alice was seated at an upper
    window, and before she could withdraw he had doffed his jewelled
    cap and kissed his hand. Hugh watched him caracoling down the
    street, and burnt with indignation. But how much deeper was the
    glow that reddened in his cheeks when, raising his eyes to the
    casement, he saw that Alice watched the stranger too!

    He came again and often, each time arrayed more gaily than before,
    and still the little casement showed him Mistress Alice. At length
    one heavy day, she fled from home. It had cost her a hard
    struggle, for all her old father's gifts were strewn about her
    chamber as if she had parted from them one by one, and knew that
    the time must come when these tokens of his love would wring her
    heart, - yet she was gone.

    She left a letter commanding her poor father to the care of Hugh,
    and wishing he might be happier than ever he could have been with
    her, for he deserved the love of a better and a purer heart than
    she had to bestow. The old man's forgiveness (she said) she had no
    power to ask, but she prayed God to bless him, - and so ended with
    a blot upon the paper where her tears had fallen.

    At first the old man's wrath was kindled, and he carried his wrong
    to the Queen's throne itself; but there was no redress he learnt at
    Court, for his daughter had been conveyed abroad. This afterwards
    appeared to be the truth, as there came from France, after an
    interval of several years, a letter in her hand. It was written in
    trembling characters, and almost illegible. Little could be made
    out save that she often thought of home and her old dear pleasant
    room, - and that she had dreamt her father was dead and had not
    blessed her, - and that her heart was breaking.

    The poor old Bowyer lingered on, never suffering Hugh to quit his
    sight, for he knew now that he had loved his daughter, and that was
    the only link that bound him to earth. It broke at length and he
    died, - bequeathing his old 'prentice his trade and all his wealth,
    and solemnly charging him with his last breath to revenge his child
    if ever he who had worked her misery crossed his path in life

    From the time of Alice's flight, the tilting-ground, the fields,
    the fencing-school, the summer-evening sports, knew Hugh no more.
    His spirit was dead within him. He rose to great eminence and
    repute among the citizens, but was seldom seen to smile, and never
    mingled in their revelries or rejoicings. Brave, humane, and
    generous, he was beloved by all. He was pitied too by those who
    knew his story, and these were so many that when he walked along
    the streets alone at dusk, even the rude common people doffed their
    caps and mingled a rough air of sympathy with their respect.

    One night in May - it was her birthnight, and twenty years since
    she had left her home - Hugh Graham sat in the room she had
    hallowed in his boyish days. He was now a gray-haired man, though
    still in the prime of life. Old thoughts had borne him company for
    many hours, and the chamber had gradually grown quite dark, when he
    was roused by a low knocking at the outer door.

    He hastened down, and opening it saw by the light of a lamp which
    he had seized upon the way, a female figure crouching in the
    portal. It hurried swiftly past him and glided up the stairs. He
    looked for pursuers. There were none in sight. No, not one.

    He was inclined to think it a vision of his own brain, when
    suddenly a vague suspicion of the truth flashed upon his mind. He
    barred the door, and hastened wildly back. Yes, there she was, -
    there, in the chamber he had quitted, - there in her old innocent,
    happy home, so changed that none but he could trace one gleam of
    what she had been, - there upon her knees, - with her hands clasped
    in agony and shame before her burning face.

    'My God, my God!' she cried, 'now strike me dead! Though I have
    brought death and shame and sorrow on this roof, O, let me die at
    home in mercy!'

    There was no tear upon her face then, but she trembled and glanced
    round the chamber. Everything was in its old place. Her bed
    looked as if she had risen from it but that morning. The sight of
    these familiar objects, marking the dear remembrance in which she
    had been held, and the blight she had brought upon herself, was
    more than the woman's better nature that had carried her there
    could bear. She wept and fell upon the ground.

    A rumour was spread about, in a few days' time, that the Bowyer's
    cruel daughter had come home, and that Master Graham had given her
    lodging in his house. It was rumoured too that he had resigned her
    fortune, in order that she might bestow it in acts of charity, and
    that he had vowed to guard her in her solitude, but that they were
    never to see each other more. These rumours greatly incensed all
    virtuous wives and daughters in the ward, especially when they
    appeared to receive some corroboration from the circumstance of
    Master Graham taking up his abode in another tenement hard by. The
    estimation in which he was held, however, forbade any questioning
    on the subject; and as the Bowyer's house was close shut up, and
    nobody came forth when public shows and festivities were in
    progress, or to flaunt in the public walks, or to buy new fashions
    at the mercers' booths, all the well-conducted females agreed among
    themselves that there could be no woman there.

    These reports had scarcely died away when the wonder of every good
    citizen, male and female, was utterly absorbed and swallowed up by
    a Royal Proclamation, in which her Majesty, strongly censuring the
    practice of wearing long Spanish rapiers of preposterous length (as
    being a bullying and swaggering custom, tending to bloodshed and
    public disorder), commanded that on a particular day therein named,
    certain grave citizens should repair to the city gates, and there,
    in public, break all rapiers worn or carried by persons claiming
    admission, that exceeded, though it were only by a quarter of an
    inch, three standard feet in length.

    Royal Proclamations usually take their course, let the public
    wonder never so much. On the appointed day two citizens of high
    repute took up their stations at each of the gates, attended by a
    party of the city guard, the main body to enforce the Queen's will,
    and take custody of all such rebels (if any) as might have the
    temerity to dispute it: and a few to bear the standard measures
    and instruments for reducing all unlawful sword-blades to the
    prescribed dimensions. In pursuance of these arrangements, Master
    Graham and another were posted at Lud Gate, on the hill before St.

    A pretty numerous company were gathered together at this spot, for,
    besides the officers in attendance to enforce the proclamation,
    there was a motley crowd of lookers-on of various degrees, who
    raised from time to time such shouts and cries as the circumstances
    called forth. A spruce young courtier was the first who
    approached: he unsheathed a weapon of burnished steel that shone
    and glistened in the sun, and handed it with the newest air to the
    officer, who, finding it exactly three feet long, returned it with
    a bow. Thereupon the gallant raised his hat and crying, 'God save
    the Queen!' passed on amidst the plaudits of the mob. Then came
    another - a better courtier still - who wore a blade but two feet
    long, whereat the people laughed, much to the disparagement of his
    honour's dignity. Then came a third, a sturdy old officer of the
    army, girded with a rapier at least a foot and a half beyond her
    Majesty's pleasure; at him they raised a great shout, and most of
    the spectators (but especially those who were armourers or cutlers)
    laughed very heartily at the breakage which would ensue. But they
    were disappointed; for the old campaigner, coolly unbuckling his
    sword and bidding his servant carry it home again, passed through
    unarmed, to the great indignation of all the beholders. They
    relieved themselves in some degree by hooting a tall blustering
    fellow with a prodigious weapon, who stopped short on coming in
    sight of the preparations, and after a little consideration turned
    back again. But all this time no rapier had been broken, although
    it was high noon, and all cavaliers of any quality or appearance
    were taking their way towards Saint Paul's churchyard.

    During these proceedings, Master Graham had stood apart, strictly
    confining himself to the duty imposed upon him, and taking little
    heed of anything beyond. He stepped forward now as a richly-
    dressed gentleman on foot, followed by a single attendant, was seen
    advancing up the hill.

    As this person drew nearer, the crowd stopped their clamour, and
    bent forward with eager looks. Master Graham standing alone in the
    gateway, and the stranger coming slowly towards him, they seemed,
    as it were, set face to face. The nobleman (for he looked one) had
    a haughty and disdainful air, which bespoke the slight estimation
    in which he held the citizen. The citizen, on the other hand,
    preserved the resolute bearing of one who was not to be frowned
    down or daunted, and who cared very little for any nobility but
    that of worth and manhood. It was perhaps some consciousness on
    the part of each, of these feelings in the other, that infused a
    more stern expression into their regards as they came closer

    'Your rapier, worthy sir!'

    At the instant that he pronounced these words Graham started, and
    falling back some paces, laid his hand upon the dagger in his belt.

    'You are the man whose horse I used to hold before the Bowyer's
    door? You are that man? Speak!'

    'Out, you 'prentice hound!' said the other.

    'You are he! I know you well now!' cried Graham. 'Let no man step
    between us two, or I shall be his murderer.' With that he drew his
    dagger, and rushed in upon him.

    The stranger had drawn his weapon from the scabbard ready for the
    scrutiny, before a word was spoken. He made a thrust at his
    assailant, but the dagger which Graham clutched in his left hand
    being the dirk in use at that time for parrying such blows,
    promptly turned the point aside. They closed. The dagger fell
    rattling on the ground, and Graham, wresting his adversary's sword
    from his grasp, plunged it through his heart. As he drew it out it
    snapped in two, leaving a fragment in the dead man's body.

    All this passed so swiftly that the bystanders looked on without an
    effort to interfere; but the man was no sooner down than an uproar
    broke forth which rent the air. The attendant rushing through the
    gate proclaimed that his master, a nobleman, had been set upon and
    slain by a citizen; the word quickly spread from mouth to mouth;
    Saint Paul's Cathedral, and every book-shop, ordinary, and smoking-
    house in the churchyard poured out its stream of cavaliers and
    their followers, who mingling together in a dense tumultuous body,
    struggled, sword in hand, towards the spot.

    With equal impetuosity, and stimulating each other by loud cries
    and shouts, the citizens and common people took up the quarrel on
    their side, and encircling Master Graham a hundred deep, forced him
    from the gate. In vain he waved the broken sword above his head,
    crying that he would die on London's threshold for their sacred
    homes. They bore him on, and ever keeping him in the midst, so
    that no man could attack him, fought their way into the city.

    The clash of swords and roar of voices, the dust and heat and
    pressure, the trampling under foot of men, the distracted looks and
    shrieks of women at the windows above as they recognised their
    relatives or lovers in the crowd, the rapid tolling of alarm-bells,
    the furious rage and passion of the scene, were fearful. Those
    who, being on the outskirts of each crowd, could use their weapons
    with effect, fought desperately, while those behind, maddened with
    baffled rage, struck at each other over the heads of those before
    them, and crushed their own fellows. Wherever the broken sword was
    seen above the people's heads, towards that spot the cavaliers made
    a new rush. Every one of these charges was marked by sudden gaps
    in the throng where men were trodden down, but as fast as they were
    made, the tide swept over them, and still the multitude pressed on
    again, a confused mass of swords, clubs, staves, broken plumes,
    fragments of rich cloaks and doublets, and angry, bleeding faces,
    all mixed up together in inextricable disorder.

    The design of the people was to force Master Graham to take refuge
    in his dwelling, and to defend it until the authorities could
    interfere, or they could gain time for parley. But either from
    ignorance or in the confusion of the moment they stopped at his old
    house, which was closely shut. Some time was lost in beating the
    doors open and passing him to the front. About a score of the
    boldest of the other party threw themselves into the torrent while
    this was being done, and reaching the door at the same moment with
    himself cut him off from his defenders.

    'I never will turn in such a righteous cause, so help me Heaven!'
    cried Graham, in a voice that at last made itself heard, and
    confronting them as he spoke. 'Least of all will I turn upon this
    threshold which owes its desolation to such men as ye. I give no
    quarter, and I will have none! Strike!'

    For a moment they stood at bay. At that moment a shot from an
    unseen hand, apparently fired by some person who had gained access
    to one of the opposite houses, struck Graham in the brain, and he
    fell dead. A low wail was heard in the air, - many people in the
    concourse cried that they had seen a spirit glide across the little
    casement window of the Bowyer's house -

    A dead silence succeeded. After a short time some of the flushed
    and heated throng laid down their arms and softly carried the body
    within doors. Others fell off or slunk away in knots of two or
    three, others whispered together in groups, and before a numerous
    guard which then rode up could muster in the street, it was nearly

    Those who carried Master Graham to the bed up-stairs were shocked
    to see a woman lying beneath the window with her hands clasped
    together. After trying to recover her in vain, they laid her near
    the citizen, who still retained, tightly grasped in his right hand,
    the first and last sword that was broken that day at Lud Gate.

    The Giant uttered these concluding words with sudden precipitation;
    and on the instant the strange light which had filled the hall
    faded away. Joe Toddyhigh glanced involuntarily at the eastern
    window, and saw the first pale gleam of morning. He turned his
    head again towards the other window in which the Giants had been
    seated. It was empty. The cask of wine was gone, and he could
    dimly make out that the two great figures stood mute and motionless
    upon their pedestals.

    After rubbing his eyes and wondering for full half an hour, during
    which time he observed morning come creeping on apace, he yielded
    to the drowsiness which overpowered him and fell into a refreshing
    slumber. When he awoke it was broad day; the building was open,
    and workmen were busily engaged in removing the vestiges of last
    night's feast.

    Stealing gently down the little stairs, and assuming the air of
    some early lounger who had dropped in from the street, he walked up
    to the foot of each pedestal in turn, and attentively examined the
    figure it supported. There could be no doubt about the features of
    either; he recollected the exact expression they had worn at
    different passages of their conversation, and recognised in every
    line and lineament the Giants of the night. Assured that it was no
    vision, but that he had heard and seen with his own proper senses,
    he walked forth, determining at all hazards to conceal himself in
    the Guildhall again that evening. He further resolved to sleep all
    day, so that he might be very wakeful and vigilant, and above all
    that he might take notice of the figures at the precise moment of
    their becoming animated and subsiding into their old state, which
    he greatly reproached himself for not having done already.


    'SIR, - Before you proceed any further in your account of your
    friends and what you say and do when you meet together, excuse me
    if I proffer my claim to be elected to one of the vacant chairs in
    that old room of yours. Don't reject me without full
    consideration; for if you do, you will be sorry for it afterwards -
    you will, upon my life.

    'I enclose my card, sir, in this letter. I never was ashamed of my
    name, and I never shall be. I am considered a devilish gentlemanly
    fellow, and I act up to the character. If you want a reference,
    ask any of the men at our club. Ask any fellow who goes there to
    write his letters, what sort of conversation mine is. Ask him if
    he thinks I have the sort of voice that will suit your deaf friend
    and make him hear, if he can hear anything at all. Ask the
    servants what they think of me. There's not a rascal among 'em,
    sir, but will tremble to hear my name. That reminds me - don't you
    say too much about that housekeeper of yours; it's a low subject,
    damned low.

    'I tell you what, sir. If you vote me into one of those empty
    chairs, you'll have among you a man with a fund of gentlemanly
    information that'll rather astonish you. I can let you into a few
    anecdotes about some fine women of title, that are quite high life,
    sir - the tiptop sort of thing. I know the name of every man who
    has been out on an affair of honour within the last five-and-twenty
    years; I know the private particulars of every cross and squabble
    that has taken place upon the turf, at the gaming-table, or
    elsewhere, during the whole of that time. I have been called the
    gentlemanly chronicle. You may consider yourself a lucky dog; upon
    my soul, you may congratulate yourself, though I say so.

    'It's an uncommon good notion that of yours, not letting anybody
    know where you live. I have tried it, but there has always been an
    anxiety respecting me, which has found me out. Your deaf friend is
    a cunning fellow to keep his name so close. I have tried that too,
    but have always failed. I shall be proud to make his acquaintance
    - tell him so, with my compliments.

    'You must have been a queer fellow when you were a child,
    confounded queer. It's odd, all that about the picture in your
    first paper - prosy, but told in a devilish gentlemanly sort of
    way. In places like that I could come in with great effect with a
    touch of life - don't you feel that?

    'I am anxiously waiting for your next paper to know whether your
    friends live upon the premises, and at your expense, which I take
    it for granted is the case. If I am right in this impression, I
    know a charming fellow (an excellent companion and most delightful
    company) who will be proud to join you. Some years ago he seconded
    a great many prize-fighters, and once fought an amateur match
    himself; since then he has driven several mails, broken at
    different periods all the lamps on the right-hand side of Oxford-
    street, and six times carried away every bell-handle in Bloomsbury-
    square, besides turning off the gas in various thoroughfares. In
    point of gentlemanliness he is unrivalled, and I should say that
    next to myself he is of all men the best suited to your purpose.

    'Expecting your reply,

    'I am,

    '&c. &c.'

    Master Humphrey informs this gentleman that his application, both
    as it concerns himself and his friend, is rejected.
    Next Chapter
    Chapter 1
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