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Authors: Charles Dickens, Matthew Pearl
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instrument, ascends an inner staircase of only a few steps, leading
to two rooms. One of these is his own sleeping chamber: the other is his
nephew's. There is a light in each.
His nephew lies asleep, calm and
untroubled. John Jasper stands looking down upon him, his unlighted pipe in his
hand, for some time, with a fixed and deep attention. Then, hushing his
footsteps, he passes to his own room, lights his pipe, and delivers himself to
the Spectres it invokes at midnight.
CHAPTER VI—PHILANTHROPY IN MINOR CANON CORNER
THE Reverend Septimus Crisparkle
(Septimus, because six little brother Crisparkles before him went out, one by
one, as they were born, like six weak little rushlights, as they were lighted),
having broken the thin morning ice near Cloisterham Weir with his amiable head,
much to the invigoration of his frame, was now assisting his circulation by
boxing at a looking-glass with great science and prowess. A fresh and healthy
portrait the lookingglass presented of the Reverend Septimus, feinting and
dodging with the utmost artfulness, and hitting out from the shoulder with the
utmost straightness, while his radiant features teemed with innocence, and
soft-hearted benevolence beamed from his boxinggloves.
It was scarcely breakfast-time yet, for
Mrs. Crisparkle—mother, not wife of the Reverend Septimus—was only just down,
and waiting for the urn. Indeed, the Reverend Septimus left off at this very
moment to take the pretty old lady's entering face between his boxing-gloves
and kiss it. Having done so with tenderness, the Reverend Septimus turned to
again, countering with his left, and putting in his right, in a tremendous manner.
“I say, every morning of my life, that
you'll do it at last, Sept,” remarked the old lady, looking on; “and so you
will.”
“Do what, Ma dear?”
“Break the pier-glass, or burst a
blood-vessel.”
“Neither, please God, Ma dear. Here's
wind, Ma. Look at this!” In a concluding round of great severity, the Reverend
Septimus administered and escaped all sorts of punishment, and wound up by
getting the old lady's cap into Chancery—such is the technical term used in
scientific circles by the learned in the Noble Art—with a lightness of touch
that hardly stirred the lightest lavender or cherry riband on it. Magnanimously
releasing the defeated, just in time to get his gloves into a drawer and feign
to be looking out of window in a contemplative state of mind when a servant
entered, the Reverend Septimus then gave place to the urn and other
preparations for breakfast. These completed, and the two alone again, it was
pleasant to see (or would have been, if there had been any one to see it, which
there never was), the old lady standing to say the Lord's Prayer aloud, and her
son, Minor Canon nevertheless, standing with bent head to hear it, he being
within five years of forty: much as he had stood to hear the same words from
the same lips when he was within five months of four.
What is prettier than an old lady—except
a young lady—when her eyes are bright, when her figure is trim and compact,
when her face is cheerful and calm, when her dress is as the dress of a china
shepherdess: so dainty in its colours, so individually assorted to herself, so
neatly moulded on her? Nothing is prettier, thought the good Minor Canon
frequently, when taking his seat at table opposite his long-widowed mother. Her
thought at such times may be condensed into the two words that oftenest did
duty together in all her conversations: “My Sept!”
They were a good pair to sit
breakfasting together in Minor Canon Corner, Cloisterham. For Minor Canon
Corner was a quiet place in the shadow of the Cathedral, which the cawing of
the rooks, the echoing footsteps of rare passers, the sound of the Cathedral
bell, or the roll of the Cathedral organ, seemed to render more quiet than
absolute
to two rooms. One of these is his own sleeping chamber: the other is his
nephew's. There is a light in each.
His nephew lies asleep, calm and
untroubled. John Jasper stands looking down upon him, his unlighted pipe in his
hand, for some time, with a fixed and deep attention. Then, hushing his
footsteps, he passes to his own room, lights his pipe, and delivers himself to
the Spectres it invokes at midnight.
CHAPTER VI—PHILANTHROPY IN MINOR CANON CORNER
THE Reverend Septimus Crisparkle
(Septimus, because six little brother Crisparkles before him went out, one by
one, as they were born, like six weak little rushlights, as they were lighted),
having broken the thin morning ice near Cloisterham Weir with his amiable head,
much to the invigoration of his frame, was now assisting his circulation by
boxing at a looking-glass with great science and prowess. A fresh and healthy
portrait the lookingglass presented of the Reverend Septimus, feinting and
dodging with the utmost artfulness, and hitting out from the shoulder with the
utmost straightness, while his radiant features teemed with innocence, and
soft-hearted benevolence beamed from his boxinggloves.
It was scarcely breakfast-time yet, for
Mrs. Crisparkle—mother, not wife of the Reverend Septimus—was only just down,
and waiting for the urn. Indeed, the Reverend Septimus left off at this very
moment to take the pretty old lady's entering face between his boxing-gloves
and kiss it. Having done so with tenderness, the Reverend Septimus turned to
again, countering with his left, and putting in his right, in a tremendous manner.
“I say, every morning of my life, that
you'll do it at last, Sept,” remarked the old lady, looking on; “and so you
will.”
“Do what, Ma dear?”
“Break the pier-glass, or burst a
blood-vessel.”
“Neither, please God, Ma dear. Here's
wind, Ma. Look at this!” In a concluding round of great severity, the Reverend
Septimus administered and escaped all sorts of punishment, and wound up by
getting the old lady's cap into Chancery—such is the technical term used in
scientific circles by the learned in the Noble Art—with a lightness of touch
that hardly stirred the lightest lavender or cherry riband on it. Magnanimously
releasing the defeated, just in time to get his gloves into a drawer and feign
to be looking out of window in a contemplative state of mind when a servant
entered, the Reverend Septimus then gave place to the urn and other
preparations for breakfast. These completed, and the two alone again, it was
pleasant to see (or would have been, if there had been any one to see it, which
there never was), the old lady standing to say the Lord's Prayer aloud, and her
son, Minor Canon nevertheless, standing with bent head to hear it, he being
within five years of forty: much as he had stood to hear the same words from
the same lips when he was within five months of four.
What is prettier than an old lady—except
a young lady—when her eyes are bright, when her figure is trim and compact,
when her face is cheerful and calm, when her dress is as the dress of a china
shepherdess: so dainty in its colours, so individually assorted to herself, so
neatly moulded on her? Nothing is prettier, thought the good Minor Canon
frequently, when taking his seat at table opposite his long-widowed mother. Her
thought at such times may be condensed into the two words that oftenest did
duty together in all her conversations: “My Sept!”
They were a good pair to sit
breakfasting together in Minor Canon Corner, Cloisterham. For Minor Canon
Corner was a quiet place in the shadow of the Cathedral, which the cawing of
the rooks, the echoing footsteps of rare passers, the sound of the Cathedral
bell, or the roll of the Cathedral organ, seemed to render more quiet than
absolute
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