Christmas Penny Readings: Original Sketches for the Season

And it really was but yesterday, comparatively speaking, when, in the depth of winter, a few days before Christmas, Mrs Scribe and self were staying at a friend’s house in Lower Bleak Street, Grimgreen Square, close by Glower Street, North. I had a cold whose effect was to make me insufferably hot and feverish, and as I lay in bed, somewhere about what seemed the middle of the night, by which I mean the middle of one’s sleeping night, not twelve o’clock, when one has just plunged into bed – about the middle of the night, while I was dreaming of being where there were rows upon rows of lights, through which I was being somehow propelled at the risk of being dashed against an indescribable object, while my hands were apparently swelling out to a large size, and I was in a wild, semi-delirious dream, from which it was a charity to wake me, I felt my arm roughly grasped, and a well-known voice whispered in my ear —

“Are you awake?”

As soon as I could collect myself and make sure that I really was in the required state, I said, “Yes.” But that was not until some few seconds had passed.

“Only listen, dear,” there’s some one in the room, the voice whispered again in an agitated manner.

“Pooh, nonsense,” I said perversely, “I know that. There’s been some one all night.” And then I stopped short, for though I knew that I had fastened the door when we came to bed, I could hear a gentle rustling noise, as of some one in a silk dress slowly gliding about the room very slowly, and then coming to a stop, and apparently agitating the robe, when again the rustling began, and it appeared just opposite the foot of our bed.

“What shall we do?” gasped Mrs Scribe in a smothered voice, from beneath the clothes.

I didn’t know, so of course I could not tell her. I knew what I ought to do, which was to have leaped boldly out of bed, and grappled the intruder, but then the rustling was like that of a silk dress, and if a ghost, of course it was of the feminine gender, and one could not help studying decorum.

“Hadn’t you better get up and see what it is?” said Mrs S, accompanying the remark with a touch from her elbow.

“I’m in such a perspiration, I daren’t stir,” I whispered. “Remember what a cold I have.” And how I blessed that cold just then, for to a man not too brave in his constitution, it did seem such a neat creephole, for if one is no hero to his valet, one likes to be somebody in the eyes of a wife. But still I must confess to a horrible dread of ghosts, owing no doubt to the fact, that in our old house in Pimlico, where I dwelt till the age of five, there was a huge black bogie who had his habitat in the cellar, and though I never saw him, I was assured of his existence upon the competent authority of both maids, and consequently always had a wholesome dread of the coal-scuttle and the coals, over which he must have walked.

“But what shall we do?” whispered Mrs Scribe again. “You really must get out, dear.”

Which was likely, wasn’t it, to jump out of bed in the dark on purpose to attack an unseen form in a rustling silk dress, creeping and gliding about apparently by the wall? Why, to have attacked a ghost one could have seen would have been bad enough, but in the dark when it could take one at such disadvantage, it was not to be thought of, so I said by way of compromise —

“Stop a minute,” and there I lay listening to the horrible, creeping, gliding, rustling noise. Ah! I could see it all plainly enough in my imagination. We were in one of the old houses of the past century, and here no doubt there had been a lady murdered after betrayal, and concealed behind the wainscot. And now I remembered a peculiar smell there was in the place when we entered it, a smell that I could not name then, but which I know now, from having experienced it in the British Museum – it was a mummy. There it was, all as plain as could be, a tall slight figure in a brocaded silk dress extended with hoops, short sleeves, and long lace trimmings hanging over the soft well rounded arms; and there she was with her hair built right up, and secured by a great comb, slowly gliding along by the wall, not on the floor, but some feet up, and slowly rising higher and higher towards the ceiling.

All at once I fancied she turned her face to me, and, horror of horrors, it was fleshless – nothing but the gaping sockets of the eyeballs, and the grinning white teeth of a skull, and then I could bear no more, but tried to cover my eyes with my hands, but found they did not need the cover as the clothes were already to a certain extent over them. I solemnly protest, however, that this must have been the act of Mrs Scribe, for I could not have done such a thing.

This convinced me that I could not have seen the figure, so I raised myself upon my elbow, urged thereto by the words of Mrs S, who exclaimed —

“Do pray get up, dear, or I shall faint.”

“I wish you would,” I muttered to myself, but then, thinking of the cruelty of the remark, I added, “or go to sleep,” and then I tried to pierce the thick darkness, but found that I was unable even to distinguish the parts of the bedstead, and there, all the while, was the noise, “rustle, rustle, rustle” – then a stoppage, and a sound as if a hand beat against the wall, and at last the rustling quite ceased, and was succeeded by a peculiar scraping sound, at times quite loud, and then dying away, or stopping, and seeming as if it was not in the room at all.

“Is it gone?” whispered Mrs S, and then, as I did not answer, and she could not hear any noise, sitting up in bed by my side, “Oh! how dreadful it is – isn’t it, dear?” she whispered. “Pray do get up and see what it can be.”

The catarrh had made me so weak, and preyed so upon my nerves, that I was obliged to take refuge again under my cold, and plead perspiration and sudden check, and then, with the exception of the grating noise, all seemed quiet; and I was about thinking of lying down again, when “rustle, rustle,” came the sound again, and Mrs S collapsed, that is to say, sank beneath the clothes, while I – well I didn’t leap out of bed, and try to grapple with our nocturnal visitant. I knew there were matches upon the table, and I remembered exactly where the candle stood, but I put it to the reader, who could get out of bed and try to light a candle when there was a ghost in the room in a brocaded silk dress, rustling about from place to place, and seeming as if the floor was no necessity at all, for sometimes the noise came from far up, and sometimes from low down; and at last, as I sat there in a regular Turkish Bath, minus the shampooing, it seemed that the tall figure I imagined to be there gliding about by the wall grew shorter and shorter until but a foot high, then a few inches, and at last it was upon a level with the floor, and then the noise grew fainter and fainter, and at last was gone entirely, leaving a deep silence as intense as the darkness which closed us in upon all sides.

With what a sigh of relief I fell back in the bed, and exclaimed —

“She’s gone?”

“Then get up and light the candle, dear,” exclaimed Mrs S; but suffering as I was from catarrh, I might have made myself worse – at all events, such a proceeding would have been imprudent – so I lay quite still, thinking that, perhaps, after all, it was but a delusion and a snare, and that I might be attacked as soon as I got out of bed; or even if the ghost were gone, might she not come back again?

It was of no use though. I fought hard, but some women are so powerful in their arguments; and before ten minutes had passed, I was standing shivering by the dressing-table, fumbling about after the matches, which I could not find until I had knocked over the candlestick and a scent-bottle, and then put my foot upon one of the broken pieces. Then, when I opened the box and took hold of a match, it would come off all diabolical and phosphorescent upon my fingers, but no light could I get. Sometimes it was the wrong end I was rubbing upon the sand-paper; sometimes the head came off, and I could see it shining like a tiny star upon the carpet. The beastly things would not light upon the looking-glass, nor yet upon the table; but after I can’t say how many tries, I managed to get a light, though it went out again in an instant, and there I stood trembling and expecting to be clutched by a cold hand or to be dragged back.

Light at last though, for, drying my damp hands as well as I could, I tried again by rubbing the match upon the paper of the wall, and then, though the candle would not ignite with the extinguisher upon it, yet I managed to get it well alight at last, and then tremblingly began to search the room.

The door was fast, and at the first glance there was nothing to be seen anywhere; but I examined behind the curtains, beneath the bed, in the cupboard, and, as a last resource, up the chimney, and found – nothing.

“Why, it was fancy,” I said, quite boldly, putting down the candle upon the dressing-table, and looking at my watch, which, for the moment, I made sure was wrong, for it pointed to seven.

“Don’t put out the candle,” said Mrs S, and I left it burning; but I had hard work to make her believe it was so late.

“But not another night will I stop,” she exclaimed. “I could not bear it, for my nerves would be completely shattered if I had to put up with this long. The place must be haunted.”

Hot water and daylight put a stop to the dissertation which we had upon the subject, and soon after – that is to say, about nine o’clock – we made our way to the breakfast-parlour, where our host and hostess did not appear for another quarter of an hour, and then it was nearly half an hour more before we began breakfast, on account of delays in the kitchen relating to toast, eggs, bacon, hot water, and other necessaries for the matutinal repast.

“You see, it happened so unfortunately,” said our hostess; “but I’m sure you will look over it, as we wanted to be all clear for Christmas-day.”

“Oh, don’t name it,” said Mrs S; “we are often later than this, for Mr S will keep such late hours, especially if he is interested in anything he is reading or writing.”

“I’m sure I need not ask if you both slept comfortably,” said our hostess, “for you both look so well.”

“Hem!” said Mrs Scribe; and I supplemented her cough with another much louder.

“Surely the bed was not damp,” exclaimed our hostess.

“Oh, no,” said Mrs S; “but – but – er – did you ever hear any particular noise about the house of a night?”

Our hostess shook her head, and then looked at me, but my face appeared so placid and happy, that she looked back at Mrs S, who was telegraphing for me to speak.

“No,” said our host, putting down his letters, “no, I don’t think we are much troubled with noises here of a night. I often thought I should like a good haunted house. But surely you heard nothing?”

“Oh, yes,” said my wife, excitedly; “but pray ask Mr S – he will explain;” and she again telegraphed for me to act as chief speaker.

“Well, what was it, Scribe?” exclaimed our host. “What did you hear?”

“What did I hear?” I said, for I had smelt out the rat – or the soot. “Oh, I heard nothing but the sweeps.”

Mrs S looked daggers.

Chapter Twenty Two

A Goblin Ditty

“You don’t believe in ghostsh?”

“No, I don’t believe in ghostsh.”

“Nor yet in goblinsh?”

“No, nor yet in goblinsh, nor witches, nor nothing of the kind, I don’t,” cried Sandy Brown, talking all the while to himself as he was making his way home from the village alehouse on Christmas-eve. “I’m the right short I am, and I ain’t ’fraid o’ nothin’, nor I don’t care for nothin’, an’ I’m aw’ right, and rule Britannia never shall be slaves. I’m a Hinglishman, I am, an’ I’m a goin’ crosh the churchyard home, and I’ll knock the wind outer any ghosht – azh – azh – azh – you know – ghosht, and who shaysh it ain’t all right? I never shee a ghosht yet azh could get the better o’ me, for I’m a man, I am, a true born Briton if I am a tailor. And when I getsh to the head of affairsh I’ll do it p’litically, and put a shtop to ghoshts, and all the whole lot of ’em, and my namesh Brown, and I’m a-going home through churchyard I am.”

And a very nice man was Sandy Brown, the true born Briton, as he went rolling along the path that gloriously bright Christmas-eve, when there were myriads of stars in the East, and the whole heavens above seemed singing their wondrous eternal chorus —

“The hand that made us is Divine.”

The moon shone; the sky was of a deep blue; the stars gemmed the vast arch like diamonds; ay, and, like the most lustrous of jewels, shone again the snow and frost from the pure white earth, while from far away came the northern breeze humming over woodland, down, and lea, turning everything to ice with its freezing breath, so that river and brook forgot to flow, and every chimney sent up its incense-like smoke, rising higher and higher in the frosty air.

The bells had been ringing, and the ringers had shut up the belfry-door. The curate’s and rector’s daughters had finished their task, so that the inside of the church was one great wreath of bright evergreens; while many a busy housewife was hard at work yet, even though past twelve, to finish dressing the goose or stoning the plums.

And what a breeze that was that came singing over the hills, sharp, keen, and blood dancing. Why, it was no use to try and resist it, for it seemed to make your very heart glow, so that you wanted to hug everybody and wish them a merry Christmas. Late, yes, it was late, but there were glaring lights in many a window, and even bright sparks dancing out of the tops of chimneys, for wasn’t it Christmas-eve, and was not the elder wine simmering in the little warmer, while many a rosy face grew rosier through making the toast? And there, too, when you stood by Rudby churchyard and looked at the venerable pile, glittering with snow and ice in the moonlight, while the smooth, round hillocks lay covered as it were with white fur for warmth, the scene brought then no saddening thoughts, for you seemed only gazing upon the happy, peaceful resting-place of those who enjoyed Christmas in the days of the past.

For it’s of no use, you can’t help it, it’s in the bells, or the wind, or the time, or something, you must feel jolly at Christmas, whether you will or no, and though you may set up your back and resist, and all that sort of thing, it’s of no avail, so you may just as well yield with a good grace, and in making others enjoy themselves, enjoy yourself too. Selfishness! Bah, it’s madness, folly: why, the real – the true enjoyment of life is making other people happy, but Sandy Brown thought that making himself the receptacle for more beer than was good for him was being happy; and Sandy Brown was wrong.

And perhaps you’ll say, too, that you don’t believe in ghosts, goblins, and spirits? Hold your tongue, for they’re out by the thousand this Christmas-time, putting noble and bright inspirations into people’s hearts, showing us the sufferings of the poor, and teaching us of the good that there is room to do in this wicked world of ours. But there, fie! fie! fie! to call it this wicked world – this great, wondrous, glorious, beautiful world, if we did not mar its beauty. But there, it’s Christmas-time, when we all think of the coming year, and hopefully gird up our loins for the new struggle.

Sandy Brown had left his wife and child at home, while he went out to enjoy himself after his fashion, which was to drink till he grew so quarrelsome that the landlord turned him out, when he would go home, beat his wife, and then lay upon the bed and swear.

Ah, he was a nice man, was Sandy, just the fellow to have had in a glass case to show as a specimen of a free-born Briton – of the man who never would be a slave – to anything but his own vile passions.

It was very bleak at Sandy’s cottage that night, for the coals were done, and there was no wood. Little Polly could not sleep for the cold, and her mother eat shivering over the fire trying to warm the little thing, who cried piteously, as did its mother. There were no preparations for spending a happy Christmas there, but poor Mrs Brown, pale, young, and of the trusting heart, sat watching and waiting till her lord and master should choose to return.

“There,” said Sandy, blundering through the swing-gate and standing in the churchyard. “Who’sh afraid? Where’sh yer ghosh – eh?”

“Hallo!” said a voice at his elbow, while it seemed that a cold, icy, chilling breath swept over his cheek.

“Where’sh yer ghosh?” cried Sandy, startled and half sober already.

“Don’t make such a noise, man, we’re all here,” said the voice, “come along.”

“Eh?” cried Sandy, now quite sober and all of a shiver, for a cold breath seemed to have gone right through him, and he looked behind him on each side and then in front, but there was nothing visible but the glittering snow – covered graves and tombstones sparkling in the brilliant moonlight.

“Bah!” cried Sandy, “I don’t believe – ”

“Yes, you do,” said the same voice, and again the cold breath seemed to go through Sandy and amongst his hair, so that it lifted his hat, already half off, and it fell to the ground.

“N-n-no, I don’t,” cried Sandy, trying to start off in a run, but he stopped short, for just in front of him stood a bright, glittering, white figure, apparently made of snow, only that it had jolly rosy cheeks, and a pair of the keenest eyes ever seen.

“Yes, you do, Sandy Brown,” said the same voice, “and so don’t contradict. Bring him along.”

In a moment, before he could turn himself, there came a rushing sound like when the wintry breeze plunges into a heap of leaves, and whirls and rustles them away, when Sandy felt himself turned in a moment as it were to ice, and then rising higher and higher as he was borne round and round for some distance; when in the midst of myriads of tiny, glittering, snow-like figures, he was carried all at once right over the church; while like a beam of light the figures swept on after him as now rising, now falling, then circling, he was at last wafted round and round the old church, till he was placed upon the tower top, and like a swarm of bees in summer, the tiny figures came clustering and humming round him till they were all settled.

“Let me go home, please,” cried Sandy, as soon as he could speak, but before the last word was well said, the first figure he had seen clapped its hand upon his mouth, when the tailor’s jaw seemed to freeze stiff, so that he could not move his jaw.

“How dare you?” cried the spirit angrily.

“Dare I what?” Sandy said with his eyes.

“Profane good words,” cried the spirit, in answer. “How dare you talk about home, when you have murdered it, and cast the guardian spirit out? Freeze him. But there, stop a bit.”

Hundreds of the little fellows round had been about to make a dash at Sandy, but they fell back once more, and the tailor sat immoveable.

“There, look there,” said the cold voice; “that’s what you have spoilt.” And Sandy began to weep bitterly, so that his tears froze and fell in little hard pellets of ice on to the snow before him, for he was looking upon the happy little home he had once had before he took to drinking, and watching in the humble but comfortable spot the busy wife preparing for the next day’s Christmas feast, while he, busy and active, was finishing some work to take back.

“Now, look,” cried the cold voice, and in an instant the scene had changed from light to darkness, for he could see his own dissipated, ragged self standing in the open door of his cottage, with the moonlight casting his shadow across the figure of his wife, lying cold and pale, with her child clasped to her breast. The black shadow – his shadow – the gloomy shade of her life cast upon her; and in speechless agony Sandy tried to shriek, for it seemed that she was dead – that they were dead, frozen in the bitter night while waiting for him.

The poor wretch looked imploringly at the figure before him, but there was only a grim smile upon its countenance as it nodded its head; and then, as if in the midst of a storm of snow flakes, Sandy was borne away and away, freezing as he went, now higher, now lower; now close up to some bright window, where he could see merry faces clustering round the fire; now by the humblest cottage, now by the lordly mansion; but see what he would, there was still the black shadow of himself cast upon those two cold figures, and he turned his eyes imploringly from tiny face to tiny face, till all at once he found that they were sailing once more round and round, now higher, now lower, till from sailing round the church the tiny spirits began to settle slowly down more and more in the churchyard, till they left Sandy, stiff and cold, lying between two graves, with the one tall ghostly figure glittering above him.

And now began something more wondrous than ever, for the bright figure glittering in the moonlight began to hover and quiver its long arms and legs above the tailor, and as it shook itself it seemed to fall all away in innumerable other figures, each one its own counterpart, till there was nothing left but the face, which stayed staring right in front.

The old clock struck four, when, groaning with pain and trembling with fear and cold, Sandy Brown slowly raised himself, keeping his eyes fixed upon a stony-faced cherub powdered with snow, which sat upon a tombstone in front, and returned the stare with its stony eyes till Sandy slowly and painfully made his way across the churchyard, leaving his track in the newly fallen snow; while, after an hour or two’s overclouding, the heavens were once more bright and clear, so that when Sandy stood shuddering at his own door he feared to raise the latch, for the moon shone brightly behind him, and he trembled and paused in dread, for he knew where his black shadow would fall.

But in an agony of fear he at length slowly and carefully raised the latch, gazed upon his shadow falling across his wife and child, and then, in the revulsion of feeling to find that they only slept, he staggered for a moment, and as his frightened wife shrieked, he fell to the ground, as if stricken by some mighty blow.

But joy don’t kill, especially at Christmas-time, and when Mrs Brown rose rather late that morning, she could not make out why Sandy was gone out so soon, for his usual custom was to lie half the day in bed after a drinking bout. But Sandy had gone to see about the day’s dinner, and —

But there, Sandy’s home a year after showed the effect of his meeting with the Christmas spirits, for it was well-furnished, and his wife looked happy, plump, and rosy – another woman, in fact; while as to people saying that Sandy fell down drunk in the churchyard, and that it was the little snow storm that he saw, why that’s all nonsense; the story must be true, for a man picked up Sandy’s old hat just by the swing-gate, where it fell off when he felt the spirit’s breath. And as to there being no spirits out at Christmas-time, why I could name no end of them, such as love, gratitude, kindness, gentleness, good humour, and scores more with names, besides all those nameless spirits that cluster round every good, true, and loving heart at Christmas; ay, and at all times. While among those who have listened to this story and thought of its moral, surely there is at this moment that most gracious of spirits – Forbearance.

Chapter Twenty Three

King Boreas

Away with a shout and a shriek from the North,The host of the Storm King in rage hurries forth;With the monarch to lead them away o’er the main,Sweep with whistle and wild shriek the winterly train.O’er the sea, o’er the waves that spring tossing in wrath,To fly after the host in a storm of white froth,Till they dash in their anger on sand-hill and rock,Or make some ship shiver, and groan with their shock.Away rush the train with a howl ’mid each cloud,That no longer moon-silvered floats massive and proud;But torn by the Storm King, and rent by his crew,Wild and ragged scuds onward in murkiest hue.’Mid the rocks, through the caves that o’er ocean’s waves scowl,Away speeds the King, and his followers howlAs they toss the dark sea-weed, and tear up the sand,Which flies frightened in drifts at the touch of their hand.And away, and away, where the forest trees wave,Where the willow and silver birch drooping boughs laveIn the silver-like stream, in the mossy green vale,That ere yet the storm cometh breaks forth in a wail.Now crashing ’mid beech-tops, now rending the oak,Then laying the larch low with mightiest stroke;While through the frail willow the storm spirits tear,And the boughs stream aloft like a maniac’s hair.Rejoicing and shrieking anew at each feat,Away o’er the moorlands, away sharp and fleet;By the cotter’s low hovel, the steep-cresting mill,To the town by the hill-slope, as yet calm and still.Bursting now o’er the roofs with a brain-piercing yell,Round the old abbey towers they mock at each bellAs the past hour’s chimed, when they sweep off the tone,And away o’er the woodlands the summons has flown.Again with a shriek, and again with a cry,The King and his crew keep their revel on high;They bear the cold snow-drift aloft in their train,The sleet-darting arrow, and icy North chain.They bind up the streamlet, they fetter the lake,The huge rocky mountain they shivering break;They rage through the forest, they strew the sea-shore,While the echoing hill-sides resound with their roar.King Boreas passes, his revel is o’er,But the waves still in anger toss down by the shore;The trees lie half broken and torn by the gale,While the streamlets are fettered and bound in the vale.