Hi everybody
to this new entry of Montcada in English – Christmas Edition! Today I’d like to
share with you the second Christmas story that I’ve found. Once again, I want
to thank the website American Culture for posted them. I wish you could enjoy
it as I’ve done.
This
is another story written by Dickens. Enjoy it
A
Christmas Tree
by
Charles Dickens
I
have been looking on, this evening, at a merry company of children assembled
round that pretty German toy, a Christmas Tree. The tree was planted in the
middle of a great round table, and towered high above their heads. It was
brilliantly lighted by a multitude of little tapers; and everywhere sparkled
and glittered with bright objects. There were rosy-cheeked dolls, hiding behind
the green leaves; and there were real watches (with movable hands, at least,
and an endless capacity of being wound up) dangling from innumerable twigs;
there were French-polished tables, chairs, bedsteads, wardrobes, eight-day
clocks, and various other articles of domestic furniture (wonderfully made, in
tin, at Wolverhampton), perched among the boughs, as if in preparation for some
fairy housekeeping; there were jolly, broad-faced little men, much more
agreeable in appearance than many real men--and no wonder, for their heads took
off, and showed them to be full of sugar-plums; there were fiddles and drums;
there were tambourines, books, work-boxes, paint-boxes, sweetmeat-boxes,
peep-show boxes, and all kinds of boxes; there were trinkets for the elder
girls, far brighter than any grown-up gold and jewels; there were baskets and
pincushions in all devices; there were guns, swords, and banners; there were
witches standing in enchanted rings of pasteboard, to tell fortunes; there were
teetotums, humming-tops, needle-cases, pen-wipers, smelling-bottles,
conversation-cards, bouquet-holders; real fruit, made artificially dazzling with
gold leaf; imitation apples, pears, and walnuts, crammed with surprises; in
short, as a pretty child, before me, delightedly whispered to another pretty
child, her bosom friend, "There was everything, and more." This
motley collection of odd objects, clustering on the tree like magic fruit, and
flashing back the bright looks directed towards it from every side--some of the
diamond-eyes admiring it were hardly on a level with the table, and a few were
languishing in timid wonder on the bosoms of pretty mothers, aunts, and
nurses--made a lively realisation of the fancies of childhood; and set me
thinking how all the trees that grow and all the things that come into
existence on the earth, have their wild adornments at that well-remembered
time.
Being
now at home again, and alone, the only person in the house awake, my thoughts
are drawn back, by a fascination which I do not care to resist, to my own
childhood. I begin to consider, what do we all remember best upon the branches
of the Christmas Tree of our own young Christmas days, by which we climbed to
real life.
Straight,
in the middle of the room, cramped in the freedom of its growth by no
encircling walls or soon-reached ceiling, a shadowy tree arises; and, looking
up into the dreamy brightness of its top-- for I observe in this tree the
singular property that it appears to grow downward towards the earth--I look
into my youngest Christmas recollections!
All
toys at first, I find. Up yonder, among the green holly and red berries, is the
Tumbler with his hands in his pockets, who wouldn't lie down, but whenever he
was put upon the floor, persisted in rolling his fat body about, until he
rolled himself still, and brought those lobster eyes of his to bear upon
me--when I affected to laugh very much, but in my heart of hearts was extremely
doubtful of him. Close beside him is that infernal snuff-box, out of which
there sprang a demoniacal Counsellor in a black gown, with an obnoxious head of
hair, and a red cloth mouth, wide open, who was not to be endured on any terms,
but could not be put away either; for he used suddenly, in a highly magnified
state, to fly out of Mammoth Snuff-boxes in dreams, when least expected. Nor is
the frog with cobbler's wax on his tail, far off; for there was no knowing
where he wouldn't jump; and when he flew over the candle, and came upon one's
hand with that spotted back--red on a green ground--he was horrible. The
cardboard lady in a blue-silk skirt, who was stood up against the candlestick
to dance, and whom I see on the same branch, was milder, and was beautiful; but
I can't say as much for the larger cardboard man, who used to be hung against
the wall and pulled by a string; there was a sinister expression in that nose
of his; and when he got his legs round his neck (which he very often did), he
was ghastly, and not a creature to be alone with.
When
did that dreadful Mask first look at me? Who put it on, and why was I so
frightened that the sight of it is an era in my life? It is not a hideous
visage in itself; it is even meant to be droll, why then were its stolid
features so intolerable? Surely not because it hid the wearer's face. An apron
would have done as much; and though I should have preferred even the apron
away, it would not have been absolutely insupportable, like the mask. Was it
the immovability of the mask? The doll's face was immovable, but I was not
afraid of HER. Perhaps that fixed and set change coming over a real face,
infused into my quickened heart some remote suggestion and dread of the
universal change that is to come on every face, and make it still? Nothing
reconciled me to it. No drummers, from whom proceeded a melancholy chirping on
the turning of a handle; no regiment of soldiers, with a mute band, taken out
of a box, and fitted, one by one, upon a stiff and lazy little set of
lazy-tongs; no old woman, made of wires and a brown-paper composition, cutting
up a pie for two small children; could give me a permanent comfort, for a long
time. Nor was it any satisfaction to be shown the Mask, and see that it was
made of paper, or to have it locked up and be assured that no one wore it. The
mere recollection of that fixed face, the mere knowledge of its existence
anywhere, was sufficient to awake me in the night all perspiration and horror,
with, "O I know it's coming! O the mask!"
I
never wondered what the dear old donkey with the panniers--there he is! was
made of, then! His hide was real to the touch, I recollect. And the great black
horse with the round red spots all over him--the horse that I could even get upon--I
never wondered what had brought him to that strange condition, or thought that
such a horse was not commonly seen at Newmarket. The four horses of no colour,
next to him, that went into the waggon of cheeses, and could be taken out and
stabled under the piano, appear to have bits of fur-tippet for their tails, and
other bits for their manes, and to stand on pegs instead of legs, but it was
not so when they were brought home for a Christmas present. They were all
right, then; neither was their harness unceremoniously nailed into their
chests, as appears to be the case now. The tinkling works of the music- cart, I
DID find out, to be made of quill tooth-picks and wire; and I always thought
that little tumbler in his shirt sleeves, perpetually swarming up one side of a
wooden frame, and coming down, head foremost, on the other, rather a
weak-minded person--though good-natured; but the Jacob's Ladder, next him, made
of little squares of red wood, that went flapping and clattering over one
another, each developing a different picture, and the whole enlivened by small
bells, was a mighty marvel and a great delight.
Ah!
The Doll's house!--of which I was not proprietor, but where I visited. I don't
admire the Houses of Parliament half so much as that stone-fronted mansion with
real glass windows, and door-steps, and a real balcony--greener than I ever see
now, except at watering places; and even they afford but a poor imitation. And
though it DID open all at once, the entire house-front (which was a blow, I admit,
as cancelling the fiction of a staircase), it was but to shut it up again, and
I could believe. Even open, there were three distinct rooms in it: a
sitting-room and bed-room, elegantly furnished, and best of all, a kitchen,
with uncommonly soft fire- irons, a plentiful assortment of diminutive
utensils--oh, the warming-pan!--and a tin man-cook in profile, who was always
going to fry two fish. What Barmecide justice have I done to the noble feasts
wherein the set of wooden platters figured, each with its own peculiar
delicacy, as a ham or turkey, glued tight on to it, and garnished with
something green, which I recollect as moss! Could all the Temperance Societies
of these later days, united, give me such a tea-drinking as I have had through
the means of yonder little set of blue crockery, which really would hold liquid
(it ran out of the small wooden cask, I recollect, and tasted of matches), and
which made tea, nectar. And if the two legs of the ineffectual little
sugar-tongs did tumble over one another, and want purpose, like Punch's hands,
what does it matter? And if I did once shriek out, as a poisoned child, and
strike the fashionable company with consternation, by reason of having drunk a
little teaspoon, inadvertently dissolved in too hot tea, I was never the worse
for it, except by a powder!
Upon
the next branches of the tree, lower down, hard by the green roller and
miniature gardening-tools, how thick the books begin to hang. Thin books, in
themselves, at first, but many of them, and with deliciously smooth covers of
bright red or green. What fat black letters to begin with! "A was an
archer, and shot at a frog." Of course he was. He was an apple-pie also,
and there he is! He was a good many things in his time, was A, and so were most
of his friends, except X, who had so little versatility, that I never knew him
to get beyond Xerxes or Xantippe--like Y, who was always confined to a Yacht or
a Yew Tree; and Z condemned for ever to be a Zebra or a Zany. But, now, the
very tree itself changes, and becomes a bean-stalk--the marvellous bean-stalk
up which Jack climbed to the Giant's house! And now, those dreadfully
interesting, double-headed giants, with their clubs over their shoulders, begin
to stride along the boughs in a perfect throng, dragging knights and ladies
home for dinner by the hair of their heads. And Jack--how noble, with his sword
of sharpness, and his shoes of swiftness! Again those old meditations come upon
me as I gaze up at him; and I debate within myself whether there was more than one
Jack (which I am loth to believe possible), or only one genuine original
admirable Jack, who achieved all the recorded exploits.
Good
for Christmas-time is the ruddy colour of the cloak, in which-- the tree making
a forest of itself for her to trip through, with her basket--Little Red
Riding-Hood comes to me one Christmas Eve to give me information of the cruelty
and treachery of that dissembling Wolf who ate her grandmother, without making
any impression on his appetite, and then ate her, after making that ferocious
joke about his teeth. She was my first love. I felt that if I could have
married Little Red Riding-Hood, I should have known perfect bliss. But, it was
not to be; and there was nothing for it but to look out the Wolf in the Noah's
Ark there, and put him late in the procession on the table, as a monster who
was to be degraded. O the wonderful Noah's Ark! It was not found seaworthy when
put in a washing-tub, and the animals were crammed in at the roof, and needed
to have their legs well shaken down before they could be got in, even there-
-and then, ten to one but they began to tumble out at the door, which was but
imperfectly fastened with a wire latch--but what was THAT against it! Consider
the noble fly, a size or two smaller than the elephant: the lady-bird, the
butterfly--all triumphs of art! Consider the goose, whose feet were so small,
and whose balance was so indifferent, that he usually tumbled forward, and
knocked down all the animal creation. Consider Noah and his family, like
idiotic tobacco-stoppers; and how the leopard stuck to warm little fingers; and
how the tails of the larger animals used gradually to resolve themselves into
frayed bits of string!
Hush!
Again a forest, and somebody up in a tree--not Robin Hood, not Valentine, not
the Yellow Dwarf (I have passed him and all Mother Bunch's wonders, without
mention), but an Eastern King with a glittering scimitar and turban. By Allah!
two Eastern Kings, for I see another, looking over his shoulder! Down upon the
grass, at the tree's foot, lies the full length of a coal-black Giant,
stretched asleep, with his head in a lady's lap; and near them is a glass box,
fastened with four locks of shining steel, in which he keeps the lady prisoner
when he is awake. I see the four keys at his girdle now. The lady makes signs
to the two kings in the tree, who softly descend. It is the setting-in of the
bright Arabian Nights.
Oh,
now all common things become uncommon and enchanted to me. All lamps are
wonderful; all rings are talismans. Common flower-pots are full of treasure,
with a little earth scattered on the top; trees are for Ali Baba to hide in;
beef-steaks are to throw down into the Valley of Diamonds, that the precious
stones may stick to them, and be carried by the eagles to their nests, whence
the traders, with loud cries, will scare them. Tarts are made, according to the
recipe of the Vizier's son of Bussorah, who turned pastrycook after he was set
down in his drawers at the gate of Damascus; cobblers are all Mustaphas, and in
the habit of sewing up people cut into four pieces, to whom they are taken
blind-fold.
Any
iron ring let into stone is the entrance to a cave which only waits for the
magician, and the little fire, and the necromancy, that will make the earth
shake. All the dates imported come from the same tree as that unlucky date,
with whose shell the merchant knocked out the eye of the genie's invisible son.
All olives are of the stock of that fresh fruit, concerning which the Commander
of the Faithful overheard the boy conduct the fictitious trial of the
fraudulent olive merchant; all apples are akin to the apple purchased (with two
others) from the Sultan's gardener for three sequins, and which the tall black
slave stole from the child. All dogs are associated with the dog, really a
transformed man, who jumped upon the baker's counter, and put his paw on the
piece of bad money. All rice recalls the rice which the awful lady, who was a
ghoule, could only peck by grains, because of her nightly feasts in the
burial-place. My very rocking-horse,--there he is, with his nostrils turned
completely inside-out, indicative of Blood!--should have a peg in his neck, by
virtue thereof to fly away with me, as the wooden horse did with the Prince of
Persia, in the sight of all his father's Court.
Yes,
on every object that I recognise among those upper branches of my Christmas
Tree, I see this fairy light! When I wake in bed, at daybreak, on the cold,
dark, winter mornings, the white snow dimly beheld, outside, through the frost
on the window-pane, I hear Dinarzade. "Sister, sister, if you are yet
awake, I pray you finish the history of the Young King of the Black
Islands." Scheherazade replies, "If my lord the Sultan will suffer me
to live another day, sister, I will not only finish that, but tell you a more
wonderful story yet." Then, the gracious Sultan goes out, giving no orders
for the execution, and we all three breathe again.
At
this height of my tree I begin to see, cowering among the leaves- -it may be
born of turkey, or of pudding, or mince pie, or of these many fancies, jumbled
with Robinson Crusoe on his desert island, Philip Quarll among the monkeys,
Sandford and Merton with Mr. Barlow, Mother Bunch, and the Mask--or it may be
the result of indigestion, assisted by imagination and over-doctoring--a
prodigious nightmare. It is so exceedingly indistinct, that I don't know why
it's frightful--but I know it is. I can only make out that it is an immense
array of shapeless things, which appear to be planted on a vast exaggeration of
the lazy-tongs that used to bear the toy soldiers, and to be slowly coming
close to my eyes, and receding to an immeasurable distance. When it comes
closest, it is worse. In connection with it I descry remembrances of winter
nights incredibly long; of being sent early to bed, as a punishment for some
small offence, and waking in two hours, with a sensation of having been asleep
two nights; of the laden hopelessness of morning ever dawning; and the
oppression of a weight of remorse.
And
now, I see a wonderful row of little lights rise smoothly out of the ground,
before a vast green curtain. Now, a bell rings--a magic bell, which still
sounds in my ears unlike all other bells--and music plays, amidst a buzz of
voices, and a fragrant smell of orange-peel and oil. Anon, the magic bell
commands the music to cease, and the great green curtain rolls itself up
majestically, and The Play begins! The devoted dog of Montargis avenges the
death of his master, foully murdered in the Forest of Bondy; and a humorous
Peasant with a red nose and a very little hat, whom I take from this hour forth
to my bosom as a friend (I think he was a Waiter or an Hostler at a village
Inn, but many years have passed since he and I have met), remarks that the
sassigassity of that dog is indeed surprising; and evermore this jocular
conceit will live in my remembrance fresh and unfading, overtopping all
possible jokes, unto the end of time. Or now, I learn with bitter tears how
poor Jane Shore, dressed all in white, and with her brown hair hanging down,
went starving through the streets; or how George Barnwell killed the worthiest
uncle that ever man had, and was afterwards so sorry for it that he ought to
have been let off. Comes swift to comfort me, the Pantomime--stupendous
Phenomenon!--when clowns are shot from loaded mortars into the great
chandelier, bright constellation that it is; when Harlequins, covered all over
with scales of pure gold, twist and sparkle, like amazing fish; when Pantaloon
(whom I deem it no irreverence to compare in my own mind to my grandfather)
puts red-hot pokers in his pocket, and cries "Here's somebody
coming!" or taxes the Clown with petty larceny, by saying, "Now, I
sawed you do it!" when Everything is capable, with the greatest ease, of
being changed into Anything; and "Nothing is, but thinking makes it
so." Now, too, I perceive my first experience of the dreary sensation--
often to return in after-life--of being unable, next day, to get back to the
dull, settled world; of wanting to live for ever in the bright atmosphere I
have quitted; of doting on the little Fairy, with the wand like a celestial
Barber's Pole, and pining for a Fairy immortality along with her. Ah, she comes
back, in many shapes, as my eye wanders down the branches of my Christmas Tree,
and goes as often, and has never yet stayed by me!
Out
of this delight springs the toy-theatre,--there it is, with its familiar
proscenium, and ladies in feathers, in the boxes!--and all its attendant
occupation with paste and glue, and gum, and water colours, in the getting-up
of The Miller and his Men, and Elizabeth, or the Exile of Siberia. In spite of
a few besetting accidents and failures (particularly an unreasonable
disposition in the respectable Kelmar, and some others, to become faint in the
legs, and double up, at exciting points of the drama), a teeming world of
fancies so suggestive and all-embracing, that, far below it on my Christmas
Tree, I see dark, dirty, real Theatres in the day-time, adorned with these
associations as with the freshest garlands of the rarest flowers, and charming
me yet.
But
hark! The Waits are playing, and they break my childish sleep! What images do I
associate with the Christmas music as I see them set forth on the Christmas
Tree? Known before all the others, keeping far apart from all the others, they
gather round my little bed. An angel, speaking to a group of shepherds in a
field; some travellers, with eyes uplifted, following a star; a baby in a manger;
a child in a spacious temple, talking with grave men; a solemn figure, with a
mild and beautiful face, raising a dead girl by the hand; again, near a city
gate, calling back the son of a widow, on his bier, to life; a crowd of people
looking through the opened roof of a chamber where he sits, and letting down a
sick person on a bed, with ropes; the same, in a tempest, walking on the water
to a ship; again, on a sea-shore, teaching a great multitude; again, with a
child upon his knee, and other children round; again, restoring sight to the
blind, speech to the dumb, hearing to the deaf, health to the sick, strength to
the lame, knowledge to the ignorant; again, dying upon a Cross, watched by
armed soldiers, a thick darkness coming on, the earth beginning to shake, and
only one voice heard, "Forgive them, for they know not what they do."
Still,
on the lower and maturer branches of the Tree, Christmas associations cluster
thick. School-books shut up; Ovid and Virgil silenced; the Rule of Three, with
its cool impertinent inquiries, long disposed of; Terence and Plautus acted no
more, in an arena of huddled desks and forms, all chipped, and notched, and
inked; cricket-bats, stumps, and balls, left higher up, with the smell of
trodden grass and the softened noise of shouts in the evening air; the tree is
still fresh, still gay. If I no more come home at Christmas-time, there will be
boys and girls (thank Heaven! ) while the World lasts; and they do! Yonder they
dance and play upon the branches of my Tree, God bless them, merrily, and my
heart dances and plays too!
And
I do come home at Christmas. We all do, or we all should. We all come home, or
ought to come home, for a short holiday--the longer, the better--from the great
boarding-school, where we are for ever working at our arithmetical slates, to
take, and give a rest. As to going a visiting, where can we not go, if we will;
where have we not been, when we would; starting our fancy from our Christmas
Tree!
Away
into the winter prospect. There are many such upon the tree! On, by low-lying,
misty grounds, through fens and fogs, up long hills, winding dark as caverns
between thick plantations, almost shutting out the sparkling stars; so, out on
broad heights, until we stop at last, with sudden silence, at an avenue. The
gate-bell has a deep, half-awful sound in the frosty air; the gate swings open
on its hinges; and, as we drive up to a great house, the glancing lights grow
larger in the windows, and the opposing rows of trees seem to fall solemnly
back on either side, to give us place. At intervals, all day, a frightened hare
has shot across this whitened turf; or the distant clatter of a herd of deer
trampling the hard frost, has, for the minute, crushed the silence too. Their
watchful eyes beneath the fern may be shining now, if we could see them, like
the icy dewdrops on the leaves; but they are still, and all is still. And so,
the lights growing larger, and the trees falling back before us, and closing up
again behind us, as if to forbid retreat, we come to the house.
There
is probably a smell of roasted chestnuts and other good comfortable things all
the time, for we are telling Winter Stories-- Ghost Stories, or more shame for
us--round the Christmas fire; and we have never stirred, except to draw a
little nearer to it. But, no matter for that. We came to the house, and it is
an old house, full of great chimneys where wood is burnt on ancient dogs upon
the hearth, and grim portraits (some of them with grim legends, too) lower
distrustfully from the oaken panels of the walls. We are a middle-aged
nobleman, and we make a generous supper with our host and hostess and their
guests--it being Christmas-time, and the old house full of company--and then we
go to bed. Our room is a very old room. It is hung with tapestry. We don't like
the portrait of a cavalier in green, over the fireplace. There are great black
beams in the ceiling, and there is a great black bedstead, supported at the
foot by two great black figures, who seem to have come off a couple of tombs in
the old baronial church in the park, for our particular accommodation. But, we
are not a superstitious nobleman, and we don't mind. Well! we dismiss our
servant, lock the door, and sit before the fire in our dressing-gown, musing
about a great many things. At length we go to bed. Well! we can't sleep. We
toss and tumble, and can't sleep. The embers on the hearth burn fitfully and
make the room look ghostly. We can't help peeping out over the counterpane, at
the two black figures and the cavalier--that wicked- looking cavalier--in
green. In the flickering light they seem to advance and retire: which, though
we are not by any means a superstitious nobleman, is not agreeable. Well! we
get nervous-- more and more nervous. We say "This is very foolish, but we
can't stand this; we'll pretend to be ill, and knock up somebody." Well!
we are just going to do it, when the locked door opens, and there comes in a
young woman, deadly pale, and with long fair hair, who glides to the fire, and
sits down in the chair we have left there, wringing her hands. Then, we notice
that her clothes are wet. Our tongue cleaves to the roof of our mouth, and we
can't speak; but, we observe her accurately. Her clothes are wet; her long hair
is dabbled with moist mud; she is dressed in the fashion of two hundred years
ago; and she has at her girdle a bunch of rusty keys. Well! there she sits, and
we can't even faint, we are in such a state about it. Presently she gets up,
and tries all the locks in the room with the rusty keys, which won't fit one of
them; then, she fixes her eyes on the portrait of the cavalier in green, and
says, in a low, terrible voice, "The stags know it!" After that, she
wrings her hands again, passes the bedside, and goes out at the door. We hurry
on our dressing-gown, seize our pistols (we always travel with pistols), and
are following, when we find the door locked. We turn the key, look out into the
dark gallery; no one there. We wander away, and try to find our servant. Can't
be done. We pace the gallery till daybreak; then return to our deserted room,
fall asleep, and are awakened by our servant (nothing ever haunts him) and the
shining sun. Well! we make a wretched breakfast, and all the company say we
look queer. After breakfast, we go over the house with our host, and then we
take him to the portrait of the cavalier in green, and then it all comes out.
He was false to a young housekeeper once attached to that family, and famous
for her beauty, who drowned herself in a pond, and whose body was discovered,
after a long time, because the stags refused to drink of the water. Since
which, it has been whispered that she traverses the house at midnight (but goes
especially to that room where the cavalier in green was wont to sleep), trying
the old locks with the rusty keys. Well! we tell our host of what we have seen,
and a shade comes over his features, and he begs it may be hushed up; and so it
is. But, it's all true; and we said so, before we died (we are dead now) to
many responsible people.
There
is no end to the old houses, with resounding galleries, and dismal
state-bedchambers, and haunted wings shut up for many years, through which we
may ramble, with an agreeable creeping up our back, and encounter any number of
ghosts, but (it is worthy of remark perhaps) reducible to a very few general
types and classes; for, ghosts have little originality, and "walk" in
a beaten track. Thus, it comes to pass, that a certain room in a certain old
hall, where a certain bad lord, baronet, knight, or gentleman, shot himself,
has certain planks in the floor from which the blood WILL NOT be taken out. You
may scrape and scrape, as the present owner has done, or plane and plane, as
his father did, or scrub and scrub, as his grandfather did, or burn and burn
with strong acids, as his great- grandfather did, but, there the blood will
still be--no redder and no paler--no more and no less--always just the same.
Thus, in such another house there is a haunted door, that never will keep open;
or another door that never will keep shut, or a haunted sound of a
spinning-wheel, or a hammer, or a footstep, or a cry, or a sigh, or a horse's
tramp, or the rattling of a chain. Or else, there is a turret-clock, which, at
the midnight hour, strikes thirteen when the head of the family is going to
die; or a shadowy, immovable black carriage which at such a time is always seen
by somebody, waiting near the great gates in the stable-yard. Or thus, it came
to pass how Lady Mary went to pay a visit at a large wild house in the Scottish
Highlands, and, being fatigued with her long journey, retired to bed early, and
innocently said, next morning, at the breakfast-table, "How odd, to have
so late a party last night, in this remote place, and not to tell me of it,
before I went to bed!" Then, every one asked Lady Mary what she meant?
Then, Lady Mary replied, "Why, all night long, the carriages were driving
round and round the terrace, underneath my window!" Then, the owner of the
house turned pale, and so did his Lady, and Charles Macdoodle of Macdoodle signed
to Lady Mary to say no more, and every one was silent. After breakfast, Charles
Macdoodle told Lady Mary that it was a tradition in the family that those
rumbling carriages on the terrace betokened death. And so it proved, for, two
months afterwards, the Lady of the mansion died. And Lady Mary, who was a Maid
of Honour at Court, often told this story to the old Queen Charlotte; by this
token that the old King always said, "Eh, eh? What, what? Ghosts, ghosts?
No such thing, no such thing!" And never left off saying so, until he went
to bed.
Or,
a friend of somebody's whom most of us know, when he was a young man at
college, had a particular friend, with whom he made the compact that, if it
were possible for the Spirit to return to this earth after its separation from
the body, he of the twain who first died, should reappear to the other. In
course of time, this compact was forgotten by our friend; the two young men
having progressed in life, and taken diverging paths that were wide asunder.
But, one night, many years afterwards, our friend being in the North of
England, and staying for the night in an inn, on the Yorkshire Moors, happened
to look out of bed; and there, in the moonlight, leaning on a bureau near the
window, steadfastly regarding him, saw his old college friend! The appearance
being solemnly addressed, replied, in a kind of whisper, but very audibly,
"Do not come near me. I am dead. I am here to redeem my promise. I come
from another world, but may not disclose its secrets!" Then, the whole form
becoming paler, melted, as it were, into the moonlight, and faded away.
Or,
there was the daughter of the first occupier of the picturesque Elizabethan
house, so famous in our neighbourhood. You have heard about her? No! Why, SHE
went out one summer evening at twilight, when she was a beautiful girl, just
seventeen years of age, to gather flowers in the garden; and presently came
running, terrified, into the hall to her father, saying, "Oh, dear father,
I have met myself!" He took her in his arms, and told her it was fancy,
but she said, "Oh no! I met myself in the broad walk, and I was pale and
gathering withered flowers, and I turned my head, and held them up!" And,
that night, she died; and a picture of her story was begun, though never
finished, and they say it is somewhere in the house to this day, with its face
to the wall.
Or,
the uncle of my brother's wife was riding home on horseback, one mellow evening
at sunset, when, in a green lane close to his own house, he saw a man standing
before him, in the very centre of a narrow way. "Why does that man in the
cloak stand there!" he thought. "Does he want me to ride over
him?" But the figure never moved. He felt a strange sensation at seeing it
so still, but slackened his trot and rode forward. When he was so close to it,
as almost to touch it with his stirrup, his horse shied, and the figure glided
up the bank, in a curious, unearthly manner--backward, and without seeming to
use its feet--and was gone. The uncle of my brother's wife, exclaiming,
"Good Heaven! It's my cousin Harry, from Bombay!" put spurs to his
horse, which was suddenly in a profuse sweat, and, wondering at such strange
behaviour, dashed round to the front of his house. There, he saw the same
figure, just passing in at the long French window of the drawing-room, opening
on the ground. He threw his bridle to a servant, and hastened in after it. His
sister was sitting there, alone. "Alice, where's my cousin Harry?"
"Your cousin Harry, John?" "Yes. From Bombay. I met him in the
lane just now, and saw him enter here, this instant." Not a creature had
been seen by any one; and in that hour and minute, as it afterwards appeared,
this cousin died in India.
Or,
it was a certain sensible old maiden lady, who died at ninety- nine, and
retained her faculties to the last, who really did see the Orphan Boy; a story
which has often been incorrectly told, but, of which the real truth is
this--because it is, in fact, a story belonging to our family--and she was a
connexion of our family. When she was about forty years of age, and still an
uncommonly fine woman (her lover died young, which was the reason why she never
married, though she had many offers), she went to stay at a place in Kent,
which her brother, an Indian-Merchant, had newly bought. There was a story that
this place had once been held in trust by the guardian of a young boy; who was
himself the next heir, and who killed the young boy by harsh and cruel
treatment. She knew nothing of that. It has been said that there was a Cage in
her bedroom in which the guardian used to put the boy. There was no such thing.
There was only a closet. She went to bed, made no alarm whatever in the night,
and in the morning said composedly to her maid when she came in, "Who is
the pretty forlorn-looking child who has been peeping out of that closet all
night?" The maid replied by giving a loud scream, and instantly decamping.
She was surprised; but she was a woman of remarkable strength of mind, and she
dressed herself and went downstairs, and closeted herself with her brother.
"Now, Walter," she said, "I have been disturbed all night by a
pretty, forlorn-looking boy, who has been constantly peeping out of that closet
in my room, which I can't open. This is some trick." "I am afraid
not, Charlotte," said he, "for it is the legend of the house. It is
the Orphan Boy. What did he do?" "He opened the door softly,"
said she, "and peeped out. Sometimes, he came a step or two into the room.
Then, I called to him, to encourage him, and he shrunk, and shuddered, and
crept in again, and shut the door." "The closet has no communication,
Charlotte," said her brother, "with any other part of the house, and
it's nailed up." This was undeniably true, and it took two carpenters a
whole forenoon to get it open, for examination. Then, she was satisfied that
she had seen the Orphan Boy. But, the wild and terrible part of the story is,
that he was also seen by three of her brother's sons, in succession, who all
died young. On the occasion of each child being taken ill, he came home in a
heat, twelve hours before, and said, Oh, Mamma, he had been playing under a particular
oak-tree, in a certain meadow, with a strange boy--a pretty, forlorn-looking
boy, who was very timid, and made signs! From fatal experience, the parents
came to know that this was the Orphan Boy, and that the course of that child
whom he chose for his little playmate was surely run.
Legion
is the name of the German castles, where we sit up alone to wait for the
Spectre--where we are shown into a room, made comparatively cheerful for our
reception--where we glance round at the shadows, thrown on the blank walls by
the crackling fire--where we feel very lonely when the village innkeeper and
his pretty daughter have retired, after laying down a fresh store of wood upon
the hearth, and setting forth on the small table such supper-cheer as a cold
roast capon, bread, grapes, and a flask of old Rhine wine- -where the
reverberating doors close on their retreat, one after another, like so many
peals of sullen thunder--and where, about the small hours of the night, we come
into the knowledge of divers supernatural mysteries. Legion is the name of the
haunted German students, in whose society we draw yet nearer to the fire, while
the schoolboy in the corner opens his eyes wide and round, and flies off the
footstool he has chosen for his seat, when the door accidentally blows open.
Vast is the crop of such fruit, shining on our Christmas Tree; in blossom,
almost at the very top; ripening all down the boughs!
Among
the later toys and fancies hanging there--as idle often and less pure--be the
images once associated with the sweet old Waits, the softened music in the
night, ever unalterable! Encircled by the social thoughts of Christmas-time,
still let the benignant figure of my childhood stand unchanged! In every
cheerful image and suggestion that the season brings, may the bright star that
rested above the poor roof, be the star of all the Christian World! A moment's
pause, O vanishing tree, of which the lower boughs are dark to me as yet, and
let me look once more! I know there are blank spaces on thy branches, where
eyes that I have loved have shone and smiled; from which they are departed.
But, far above, I see the raiser of the dead girl, and the Widow's Son; and God
is good! If Age be hiding for me in the unseen portion of thy downward growth,
O may I, with a grey head, turn a child's heart to that figure yet, and a
child's trustfulness and confidence!
Now,
the tree is decorated with bright merriment, and song, and dance, and
cheerfulness. And they are welcome. Innocent and welcome be they ever held,
beneath the branches of the Christmas Tree, which cast no gloomy shadow! But,
as it sinks into the ground, I hear a whisper going through the leaves.
"This, in commemoration of the law of love and kindness, mercy and
compassion. This, in remembrance of Me!"
