Christmas Penny Readings: Original Sketches for the Season

There was a fearful crash, and the wretched woman shrieked aloud; but I was deaf to her cries as she implored me to spare him. I laughed again madly, and still held to the struggling wretch, till, half strangled and in despair, he dashed something in my face, when, as it fell shattering to the floor, I started back and held my enemy at arm’s length.

Aghast I gazed upon Eva, but she covered her face with her hands, and tried to swoon, as she sank in a heap upon the floor. But I had seen all – all in that horribly-distorted mouth. A fearful light had flashed across my brain, and, as servants came hurrying into the room, I thrust my enemy from me, and parting the people at the door, darted down the stairs and fled for my life.

Forgetful of the waiting cab, I was tearing along the pave, when the driver, fearful for his fare, galloped his wretched knacker after me, and then I staggered in, and sunk back amongst the hard cushions, ready almost to heap the dirty straw from beneath my feet upon my wretched head, but still I could hear the sympathising words of the cabby as he closed the door.

“Pore chap, it must ha’ been a scrauntch.”

For he knew where I had been – where I had seen all – all in that fearful moment – the gnashing teeth which lay at my feet, the man’s face, Eva’s distorted, mumbling mouth; and I had fled, never to see her more – never to know rest for the aching misery within my heart. Alas! I had seen all, and oh! cabby, faithful charioteer, ’twas indeed an awful scrauntch, for my fancied rival was Michael Angelo Raphael, the Dentist.

It is only fair to state, on behalf of the young gentleman from whom the above emanated, that he really seemed very bad indeed; in fact, desperate. But as he could eat very heartily, and evidently used a great deal of pomatum, his case is hopeful.

Chapter Fifteen

The Monarch of the Mould

Sing, poet divineOf your sparkling wineOf Catawba, the luscious nectar;While my humbler laysShall rise in praiseOf a king on whose fame I’ll hector.But your lips don’t shoot,For my king’s but fruit,And your brows don’t frown with scorning;For if to an endCame my noble friend,The nation would go into mourning.’Tis that fruit of earthThat the West gave birth,Introduced to our good Queen Bessy;For its glorious savourHas a sweeter flavourThan an epicure’s entrée messy.Potato, potato,My heart’s elate, oh!When you smile on my table brightly;With an epidermisThat, so far from firm isThat it cracks when I grasp you tightly.For a roast, bake, boil,Stew or fry in oil,No fruit can be called thy equal;For carrot or turnipMight him or her nip,And cause an unpleasant sequel.But thou, free from guile,Indigestion – bile —Brought home to thy charge were never;For thy soft white mealIs the dinner lealOf Great Britain’s sons for ever.To say the least,For a Christmas feast,’Twould be quite an act of folly,And far less shirkyTo leave goose or turkey,Than a bowl of potatoes jolly.Why, the old king’s friendSir Loin to attend,Would surely ne’er brown if he knew it;And the very aleTurn beadless – pale,While the beef turn’d cold in its suet.The firmest friendMother earth could sendTo her children when pots were minus;Of a pan not the ghost,But they still could roastThe old king whereon still we dine us.By disease tried sore —May it come no more!For what should we do without him?For Jamaica yamIs a sorry flam,And an artichoke – There, pray scout him!Or who’d think niceSoppy plain-boil’d rice,Or parsnips or chestnuts toasted?Earth has no fruitAs a substituteFor the ’tater plain-boil’d or roasted.So waxy and primeIn the summer-time,When new, with your lamb and gravy,And your young sweet peas,Devour’d with ease —Of that you may make “affidavy.”Or in autumn glowingTo crown the sowing,I love to gaze on the furrowsAnd ridges tumidWhere moistly humidThe jolly old nubbly burrows.O vegetable!Long as we’re ableOur gardens shall smile with your flower;As in long straight rowsThis old friend growsSo humbly where others tower.A cabbage to cutIs all right, butWhere is its strength and stamina?Though right with ham onYour table, or gammon,At best ’tis a watery gammoner,You may go if you list,Where you like ’tis miss’dBefore any entrée or otherGrand preparationOf a French cook’s nation,And naught can the great want smother.Feast on, grandee!From your board I’ll fleeTo my honest old friend in his jacket;For ’twill sit but light,Though you may feel tightIf you too indiscreetly attack it.And, glorious thought!It can be bought —This gem of whose wealth I’ve boasted —For a bronze to be got,In our streets “all hot,”Half cooked by steam and half roasted.Who wouldn’t be poor(Not I, I’m sure),To enjoy such a feast for a copper?Split open – butter’d —Oh, joy ne’er utter’d!And pepper’d – and – “what a whopper?”Just look at the steam,At the can’s bright gleam,And look at the vendor cheery;And hark to his cry,Now low, now high,Speaking feasts for the traveller weary.Go pick yourself,And spend your pelf,Three pound for twopence – they ask it —With eyes full winking;And while you’re thinking,The scale’s tipp’d into your basket.And you who’d wive,Pray, just look alive,And before you declare each feeling,Watch your little mouseOn her way through the house,And catch her potato peeling.You know of the cheese,And Pimlico’s ease,When he pick’d out a wife by the paring;But a better planFor an every-day man —Though an innovation most daring —Is to watch the playOf the knife, and the wayThat the coat of potato’s falling;Just look out for waste,And beware of haste,For thrift’s not the meanest calling.Kidney, regent, fluke,Fit for earl or duke,Or a banquet for Queen Victoria;Own’d I but lyre,I’d never tire,Of singing to thy praise a “Gloria.”May you mealy wax,Never tried by tax,Ever free from Aphis vastator.Of fruits the king,Its praise we’ll sing,Potent, pot-boy, “potater!”

Chapter Sixteen

Spun Yarn

Uncle Joe came and spent Christmas with us last year; a fine, dry, mahogany-visaged old man-o’-war’s-man as ever hitched up his trousers, and called it, “hauling in slack.”

“Forty-five years’ boy and man, I’ve been a sailor,” he’d say; “rated AB, I am; and AB I hope to keep till I’m sewed up in my hammock and sent overboard; for none of your rotting in harbour for me, thanky.”

Uncle Joe ran away to sea when quite a boy, and he had served enough years in the Royal Navy to have been an admiral, but what with our scheme of promotion, and some want of ability on the old fellow’s part, he was a first-rate able seaman, but he never got a step farther. One can always picture him in his blue trousers and loose guernsey, with its wide turn-down collar, his cap set right back on his head, and the name of his ship on the band, in gilt letters, while his big clasp-knife hung by the white lanyard round his waist. Clean, neat, and active, the sinewy old chap came rolling in after my father; neck open, eyes bright, and face shining and good-humoured.

“Cold, cold, cold,” said my father, entering the room where we were clustered round the fire. “Freezes sharp; and, bless my heart, there’s a great ball of snow sticking to my boot,” saying which, the old gentleman, who had just been round the farmyard for the last time that night, went back into the passage and rubbed off the snow, while Uncle Joe, chuckling and laughing, walked up to the fireplace and scraped his shoes on the front bar, so that the pieces of hard snow began sputtering and cissing as they fell in the fire.

“Cold?” said Uncle Joe, filling his pipe, and then shutting his brass tobacco-box with a snap; “Cold? ’taint cold a bit, no more nor that’s hot,” and then, stooping down, he thrust a finger and thumb in between the bottom bars, caught hold of a piece of glowing coal and laid it upon the bowl of his pipe, which means soon ignited the tobacco within. “My hands are hard enough for anything,” he growled, taking the place made for him beside the fire, when he tucked his cap beneath the chair, and then took one leg upon his knee, and nursed it as he smoked for awhile in silence.

“Now, come, Christmas-night,” cried my father, “and you’re all as quiet as so many mice. What’s it to be, Joe – the old thing?”

“Well, yes,” growled my uncle; “I won’t say no to a tot o’ grog,” and then he smoked on abstractedly, while my father mixed for the wanderer whom he had not seen for five years.

“Wish to goodness I’d brought a hammock,” said my uncle, at last. “I did try whether I couldn’t lash the curtains together last night, but they’re too weak.”

“I should think so, indeed,” exclaimed my mother. “That chintz, too. How can you be so foolish, Joe?”

My uncle smoked on, apparently thinking with great disgust of the comfortably-furnished bedroom in which he had to sleep, as compared with the main-deck of his frigate.

“But ’taint cold,” he all at once burst out.

“Three or four degrees of frost, at all events,” said my father.

“Pooh; what’s that?” said my uncle. “That’s hot weather, that is. How should you like to sleep where yours and your mate’s breath all turns into a fall of snow, and comes tumbling on to you? How should you like to nibble your rum as if it was sugar-candy, and never touch nothing of iron for fear of burning your fingers like, and leaving all the skin behind? This ain’t cold.”

“Here, draw round close,” cried my father; “throw on another log or two, and Uncle Joe will spin you a yarn.”

The fire was replenished, and as the many-hued flames leaped and danced, and the sparks flew up the chimney, every face was lit up with the golden glow. The wind roared round the house, and sung in the chimney, but the red curtains were closely-drawn, the table was well spread with those creature comforts so oft seen at the genial season, and closing tightly in – chair against chair – we all watched for the next opening of Uncle Joe’s oracular lips. And we had not long to wait; for, taking his pipe out of his mouth, he began to point with the stem, describe circles, and flourish it oratorically, as he once more exclaimed —

“’Taint cold; not a bit! How should you like to spend Christmas up close aside the North Pole?”

No one answering with anything further than a shiver, the old tar went on: —

“I can’t spin yarns, I can’t, for I allus gets things in a tangle and can’t find the ends again, but I’ll tell you about going up after Sir John Franklin.”

“Hear, hear!” said my father, and Uncle Joe tasted his grog, and then winked very solemnly at my father, as much as to say “That’s it exact.”

“Little more rum?” hinted my father. Uncle Joe winked with his other eye and shook his head and went on: —

“You see, ours was a strong-built ship, fitted out on purpose for the North seas, and what we had to do was to go right up as far nor’ard as we could get, and leave depots of preserved meats, and spirits, and blankets, and pemmican, and all sorts of necessaries, at different places where it was likely that the party might reach; and to mark these spots we had to build up cairns of stones, so that they might be seen. Well, we’d got as far as our captain thought it prudent to go, for we were back’ard in the year, in consequence of the ice having been very late before it broke up that year, and hindering us a good deal; and now that we had landed all as was necessary, and built up the last cairn, the captain says to the officers, he says, ‘We’ll go back now, or we shall be shut in for the winter.’

“’Twasn’t so late in the autumn, and no doubt you were having nice warm weather, but things began looking precious winterly round about us. Great icebergs were floating about, and fogs would hang round them. Snowstorms would come on, with snow with such sharp edges that it would seem a’most to cut your ears off. The shrouds and clews and sheets would be all stiff and covered with ice, while, as to the sails, they were like so much board, and it got to be tough work up aloft.

“‘Cold this here,’ I says to a shipmet. ‘Pooh,’ he says, ‘this ain’t nothing yet.’ Nor more it warn’t nothing at all; and there we were going along as well as we could, with double lookouts, and plenty of need for them to use their eyes, for we might have been crash on to an iceberg ten times over. Captain used to shake his head and look serious, and enough to make him, with all his responsibility, and all of us looking up to him to take care of us; and last of all we seemed to be right in the thick of it, with the ice-pack all around, and ice and snow, ice and snow everywhere, and us just gently sailing along a narrow open channel of blue water, sometimes going east, sometimes west, just as it happened. Sometimes a little more wind would spring up, and the pack opened a bit, and made fresh channels, so that we got on; then the wind would drop, and the loose ice close round us, so that we hardly moved, and at last one morning when I turns out, we were froze in.

“But not hard stuck, you know; for we soon had that ice broken, and got hauling along by fixing ice-anchors, and then pulling at the cable; but our captain only did it by way of duty, and trying to the very last to get free; for his orders were not to winter up there if he could help it. But there we were next morning tighter in than ever, with the ship creaking and groaning at the pressure upon her ribs, and the ice tightening her up more and more, till at last if she weren’t lifted right up ever so many foot, and hung over all on one side, so as we had cables and anchors out into the ice to make sure as she didn’t capsize. But there was no capsize in her; and there she sat, all on the careen, just as if she was mounting a big wave; and so she was, only it was solid.

“Days went by, and the sun got lower and lower, and the weather colder and colder. Sometimes we’d see flocks of birds going south, then a herd or two of deer, and once or twice we saw a bear, but they fought very shy of us; and, last of all, the captain seeing that we must make the best of our winter quarters, set us to work unbending sails, striking masts, and lowering spars on deck, and then the stuff was had up, and the deck regularly roofed in, so as to make a snug house of the ship. Stoves were rigged, snow hauled up round the hull, steps made up to the side, and one way or another all looked so jolly, that I began to reckon on spending my Christmas out in the polar regions. Then, too, extra clothes were sarved out, and gloves, and masks, and fur caps; and one way and another we got to make such stuffed mummies of ourselves, that a rare lot of joking went on.

“‘Wait a bit,’ says my mate, ‘it’ll be colder yet;’ and so it was, colder and colder, till I couldn’t have believed it possible that it could be a bit worse. But it could, though; for, before the winter was over, there’s been times when if a man went outside the vessel the cold would have cut him down dead almost in a moment, and he not able to help himself. Why, as I told you, down on the main-deck, the breath used to turn into a reg’lar fall of snow, and everything would freeze hard in spite of the roaring fires we kept up; and only think of it, just at this time it was always dark, for the sun had gone lower and lower, till at last he had not risen at all, and it was one long, dreary night, with every star seeming to shoot bright icy arrows at you to cut you down.

“The captain used to do all he could to cheer us up, and keep the horrors off; for you know they will come out there when you’re all in the dark and half froze, and wondering whether you’ll see home any more. Sometimes it would be exercise, sometimes a bit of a play, or skylarking. Then one officer or another would read, and we’d have have some music or yarn-spinning, and altogether we were very sociable; and so matters went on till it got to be Christmas-day.”

In whose honour Uncle Joe treated himself to a hearty libation from his steaming tumbler.

” – Christmas-day,” said my uncle, “and proceedings were made for a grand spread, in honour of the old day and them as we’d left behind us.

“Well, the officers made themselves very sociable, and the grog went round. Some chaps danced, others smoked, and one way and another things went on jolly; but though the little stoves roared till they got red-hot, yet there was a regular fog down between decks, while the captain said that it was about the coldest day we had had yet.

“Towards night it seemed to come on awful all at once, and first one and then another chap began shivering and twisting up his shoulders, and then I saw the captain, who was down, give a sharp look round, and then slip up on deck, where I heard him shout out.

“A dozen of us scrambled up on the covered-in deck, feeling cut in two with the icy wind that came down, and then we found as the door out of the bulwarks, and fitted in at the side, had been left open by some one – a door you know that just about this time used to mostly have a man aside it, and when our chaps went to the little ice-observatory it used to be banged to after ’em directly; while if it had been left open but one night, I daresay some on us wouldn’t have woke up any more.

“‘Who’s gone out?’ cries the captain, and then the men begins looking from one to the other, but no one answered.

“‘Where’s Joe Perry,’ shouts out some one in front of me. ‘It’s Joe Perry as is gone.’

“‘You’re a – something,’ I was going to say, but I was that vexed I didn’t say it; but, forgetting all about the officers, I gives my gentleman such a cuff on the ear, as sent him staggering; when instead of being angry, I saw the Cap bite his lip, and no end of chaps began sniggering.

“‘But where’s Bill Barker,’ I says, looking round, for I remembered seeing Bill go up the companion ladder about ten minutes before.

“‘Pass the word for William Barker,’ says the captain, and they passed it, but there was no answer, and then we knew that Bill must have slipped out against orders, thinking he wouldn’t be missed, while the chaps were keeping up Christmas, and forgetting that we should feel the cold from the door he was obliged to leave open, so as to get in again.

“‘Foolish fellow,’ cried the captain, stamping about the deck. ‘Volunteers there, who’ll fetch him in? These five will do,’ he says, and in a few minutes the first luff with five men, were all ready in their fur coats and boots, and masks over their faces, or I oughter say, our faces, for I was one of ’em. And yet you say it’s cold here now. Pooh! Why, we were no sooner outside in that bright starlight, with the northern lights hanging ahead of us, much like a rainbow, than it was as if your breath was taken away, and the wind cutting right through and through you, stiffening your joints, tingling powerfully in your nose, and seeming to make you numbed and stupid.

“‘Double,’ shouts the luff, and keeping our eyes about us, we began to trot along the snowy path towards the little observatory. But he wasn’t there. Then we ran a little one way, then another, and all keeping together as well as we could for the rough ice we were going over. But there was nothing to be seen anywhere on that side of the ship, so we trotted round to the other side, always keeping a sharp look out for our poor mate, and hoping after all that he would be all right; but going by my own feelings, I could not help feeling sure that if he had come out without the same things on as we had, it would go hard with him.

“‘Here look!’ some one shouted in a thick muffly voice, but we were all looking now towards where a couple of bears were coming slowly towards us, while quite plain between us lay on the white snow, the body of poor Bill Barker.

“‘Back to the ship,’ shouted the first luff, and we were soon once more a-top of the steps and inside, but you needn’t think we were going to leave our shipmet in that way, for the next minute saw us going back at the double, but this time well armed.

“As soon as we were within shot, the first luff kneels down, and taking aim, fired his double rifle right and left at the two great brutes that stood growling over poor Bill Barker.

“‘Stand firm, men,’ he says, then ‘prepare to charge.’ And then we five stood with our guns and bayonets ready for the brutes as began to come down upon us, while the luff got behind us, and began to load. You see he wouldn’t let us fire on account of poor Bill, and I s’pose he had more trust in his own gun than in ours, for he kept on fumbling away in the cold till he was loaded, which was when the brutes were only about a dozen yards off, when he drops on one knee aside me, and taking a good long aim fired when one brute was only five or six yards off – both barrels right into him, and rolled him over and over, just as he would have done a rabbit. But the next moment it was helter-skelter, and hooraying, for t’other bear was down on us with a rush, taking no more notice of our bayonets than if they had been so many toothpicks, and downing two of our chaps like nine-pins.

“‘Be firm, men,’ shouts the luff, and we three ran at the great brute that stood growling over our two mates, and I don’t know about what t’others did, but at one and the same moment, I drove the bayonet up to the gun muzzle right in the bear’s flank, and fired as well. Then it seemed that the gun was wrenched out of my hand, and I saw the great brute rear up above me, fetch me a pat with one of its paws, when I caught a glimpse of the luff and heard the sharp ring of his rifle again, and then I seemed to be smothered, for the great beast fell right upon me.

“I don’t know how long it was before they got help from the ship, and the great brute dragged off me; but I know that the next thing I remember is being carried into the ship through the doorway, and hearing some one say, that Bill Barker was frozen stiff and cold. But I soon came to, and excepting the bruises, there was nothing worse the matter than a broken rib, which I soon got the better of. But poor Bill was dead and frozen hard when they got him aboard, with his gun tight fixed in his hand, so that they could not get it away for some time; for though the poor chap knew all the orders well enough about going out without proper preparations, like many more of us, he couldn’t believe as the frost would have such power – power enough to cut him down before he’d walked a couple hundred yards, for it was something awful that night, though the little brawny chaps that live in those parts, seem to bear it very well.

“Freeze! why this is nothing: them two bears were masses of ice next morning when they hauled ’em on board, while everything we cut, had to be thawed first before the stove-fires. But then we had plenty of provisions, and I don’t think I once saw the grog get down so low, as in this here glass of mine – here present.”

My father took the hint, and replenished the old sailor’s glass.

Chapter Seventeen

Asher’s Last Hour

“Now, once for all,” said Asher Skurge, “if I don’t get my bit o’ rent by to-morrow at four o’clock, out you goes, bag and baggage, Christmas-eve or no Christmas-eve. If you can’t afford to pay rent, you’d best go in the house, and let them pay as will.” And Asher girded up his loins, and left Widow Bond and her children in their bare cottage, to moan over their bitter fate.

And then came Christmas-eve and four o’clock, and no money; and, what was better, no Asher Skurge to turn out Widow Bond, “bag and baggage,” not a very difficult task, for there was not much of it. The cottage was well-furnished before Frank Bond’s ship was lost at sea, and the widow had to live by needlework, which, in her case, meant starving, although she found two or three friends in the village who were very sorry for her, or at all events said they were, which answered the same purpose.

However, four o’clock grew near – came – passed – and no Asher. It was not very dark, for there was snow – bright, glittering snow upon the ground; but it gradually grew darker and darker, and with the deepening gloom. Mrs Bond’s spirits rose, for she felt that, leaving heart out of the question, old Skurge, the parish clerk, dare not turn her out that night on account of his own character. Five o’clock came, and then six, and still no Asher; and Widow Bond reasonably thought that something must be keeping him.

Mrs Bond was right – something was keeping the clerk, and that something was the prettiest, yellow-haired, violet-eyed maiden that ever turned out not to be a dreadful heroine given to breaking up, and then pounding, the whole of the ten commandments in a way that would have staggered Moses himself. No; Amy Frith, the rector’s daughter, was not a wicked heroine, and now that she was busy giving the finishing touches to the altar-screen, and pricking her little fingers with holly till they bled, she would not let the old man go because young Harry Thornton, her father’s pupil, was there. And Amy knew that so sure as old Skurge took himself off, the young man would begin making love, which, though it may be crowned in a church, ought not to be made in the same place.