Multimedia Mania/abacus-multimedia-mania.iso/dp/0065/00651.txt

Text File | 1993-07-27 | 40KB | 589 lines

$Unique_ID{bob00651}
$Pretitle{}
$Title{Anthology Of Shorter Works
(A) Christmas Tree}
$Subtitle{}
$Author{Dickens, Charles}
$Affiliation{}
$Subject{tree
christmas
little
house
now
old
upon
green
come
lady
see
pictures
see
figures
}
$Date{}
$Log{See A Great House*0065101.scf
}
Title:       Anthology Of Shorter Works
Book:        (A) Christmas Tree
Author:      Dickens, Charles

(A) Christmas Tree

     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; 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, all kinds
of boxes; there were trinkets for the elder girls, far brighter than any
grownup 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 realization 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
card-board 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 in 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 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 furtippet 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 bedroom,
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 worst 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 being 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 dreadful 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
grand-mother, 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 blindfold.

     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 began 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 worst.  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 forever 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 seashore, 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 enquiries, 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 girls and boys (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 forever 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 the 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.

[See A Great House: The opposing rows of trees seem to fall solemnly back on
either side, to give us place.]

     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 her
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-bed chambers, 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 the 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
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 bed-room 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 down-stairs,
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!"