To Be Taken With A Pinch Of Salt

London. The month of October almost over, and Mr Headstone is sitting in his room in front of a glowing coal fire, an open book upon his lap, and a glass of Old Tom at his elbow. Outside it is bitterly cold and there is as much murk and gloom in the streets as if the ancient shades of creation’s first night had not yet withdrawn from the face of the earth, and it would not be wonderful to meet a crook-backed homunculus shuffling down the Strand. Dogs howl at the moon, which peers down through drifting tattered clouds. A black cat jumps onto a graveyard wall, arches its back and stares with wide green eyes at something moving between the tombs. Horses whinny and shy at the least provocation, their hooves striking sparks on the wet cobbles. Foot passengers, wrapped up in coats and scarves, gliding through the streets, their footfalls muffled by the clammy atmosphere, come and go like the spirits of the departed. It is weather for neither man nor beast, and so Mr Headstone is making himself comfortable by the fireside with the intention of whiling away the evening in the perusal of three ghost stories by Mr Dickens, these short works being the most appropriate form of entertainment for the season. Shadows everywhere. Shadows creeping over the domes and spires of the city; shadows settling on the rooftops of the great houses between Portland Place and Bryanstone Square; shadows, blacker than a judge’s cap, filling up the courts of Gray’s Inn; shadows engulfing the humbler dwellings of Camden Town and Staggs’s Garden; shadows finding every nook and every cranny of every crooked alleyway, and seeping even into the cracks of the newly laid paving stones. Shadows in the very room where Mr Headstone sits alone, looking nervously over his shoulder as he puts down his book, imagining he sees something crouching in the corner, which - on closer investigation - turns out to be nothing more menacing than the coal scuttle. Hark! Is that a scratching at the window? Is that a rustling under the chair? Is that a footfall on the stair? Do the pedagogue’s eyes deceive him, or is the doorknob slowly turning as if someone – or something – wanted to come in? The door creaks slowly open on its hinges, but what apparition stands there? Is it a pale sheeted ghost risen up from the grave come to haunt the trembling pedagogue? No, it is Mrs Raddle delivering the weekly supply of freshly laundered linen, and come to remind Mr Headstone that his rent his due on Saturday.

In Which Mr Headstone Is Restored To Domestic Bliss

It will be a matter of some surprise for the reader to learn that during Mr Headstone’s prolonged absence his landlady had failed to find another tenant for the rooms that he had vacated. Although a number of single gentlemen had walked up in response to the advertisement placed in the scullery window, none of them had been able to reconcile the peculiarities of that attic apartment with their notions of domestic comfort. First, there were the stairs to contend with, which creaked underfoot like the deck of a three-masted schooner, and wound in ever-tightening circles to just below the roof, where inconvenient buttresses of brick and plaster and low-hanging beams of hard wood awaited the unsuspecting crown of any visitor. The interior of the rooms was in much the same condition as Mr Headstone had left it on his departure; that is to say, in a state of confusion and disarray. The carpet waited patiently to snare the tread of any unwary traveller across the floor; the footstool lounged insouciantly on its three uneven legs, eager for an opportunity to upset the weary guest in search of repose; the fireplace frowned darkly, and, when the wind got up outside, sneezed smudges of greasy soot into the air; the sofa sagged dropsically as if inclined to extended bouts of melancholy, and exhibited the symptoms of advanced old age in its effusive sprouting of horsehair through the tears and rents in its wrinkled hide. Cobwebs, with husks of bluebottles in their nets, hung in the high corners where the landlord spiders awaited more tenants. The walls were cold and clammy, like gravestones to the touch. But to Mr Headstone, it was still home, and when he threw open the door and surveyed everything before him, tears rolled down his cheeks – which may have been engendered by the emotion of his return, or – as is more likely – by the operation of the strong odours of dead fish and old beer on his eyes.

In Which Mr Headstone Makes Known His Suspicions

From the very instigation of his grand design to run through the collected works of the Inimitable Author, Mr Headstone had become aware of an alteration in the circumstances of his life, which, as his project progressed, seemed to encroach increasingly on his daily existence. Every man and every woman is subject to their fair share of misfortune, and none but the vain and the mighty can expect to escape the minor trials of life. Mr Headstone, however, was now of the opinion that he had recently been allotted a much larger serving of bad luck than he could possibly be expected to consume, and that he was - with regard to misfortune - developing a severe case of dyspepsia. Furthermore, he had begun to form a suspicion in his own mind that some invisible hand was at work in arranging his encounters with recalcitrant servants, scheming villains, shrewish landladies, tyrannical magistrates & co., and that even the behaviour of inanimate objects was being orchestrated to conspire against him.

On hearing of the pedagogue's complaint, certain members of the assembled company did their best to alleviate Mr Headstone of his delusions. Mr Dick Swiveller took it as a great joke, and laughed at the notion. Mr Simon Tappertit pronounced it as the onset of lunacy, and advised the gentleman to make immediate arrangements for the transference of his belongings and his good self to the Bethlem Royal Hospital. Mr Guppy perceived the situation as an opportunity for taking out an action, and pressed for more details. Only, Mr Mould, whose intellect was equal to the absurdity of the premise, advised Mr Headstone to do the one thing that would put his mind at rest - which was to seek out Mr Dickens and confront him with the charge of willful manipulation of character. This course of action was applauded by all, and Mr Headstone announced his intention to call upon the literary gentleman the very next day.

In Which Mrs Gamp Applies Another Remedy

When a gentleman’s complexion grows paler than a sheet of freshly laundered linen, then it is common practice to stimulate the flow of blood to those areas which - when rosy - are taken to be an outward indication of rude health. Mrs Gamp’s preferred method for achieving this end was to apply the flat and the back of her palm in a vigorous fanning motion about the face of the patient, which operation was invariably guaranteed to bring the colour back to the cheeks as swiftly as could be desired. The gin bottle now being empty, the nurse lost no time in demonstrating the efficacy of this remedy by advancing on Mr Headstone, grasping him by his buttonhole, and beating him about the head in the aforementioned manner.

Having been restored to his former self by the application of a dozen blows, Mr Headstone staggered back into a chair, the better to compose himself. Around him gathered an assembly of his friends and acquaintances, all eager to know what had precipitated his sudden expression of alarm at the mention of Mr Charles Dickens, and all urging the pedagogue to unburden himself of his secret for - as Mr Winkle remarked - a problem shared was a problem halved; or, in the case of the present company, divided into equal portions of one seventeenths. Subdued by the irrefutable argument of mathematics, Mr Headstone surveyed the expectant faces looming before him, and, in a manner that was not entirely consistent with logic or intelligibility, explained his predicament.