I have been looking on, this evening, at a merry company of childrenassembled round that pretty German toy, a Christmas Tree. The treewas planted in the middle of a great round table, and towered highabove their heads. It was brilliantly lighted by a multitude oflittle tapers; and everywhere sparkled and glittered with brightobjects. There were rosy-cheeked dolls, hiding behind the greenleaves; and there were real watches (with movable hands, at least,and an endless capacity of being wound up) dangling from innumerabletwigs; there were French-polished tables, chairs, bedsteads,wardrobes, eight-day clocks, and various other articles of domesticfurniture (wonderfully made, in tin, at Wolverhampton), perchedamong the boughs, as if in preparation for some fairy housekeeping;there were jolly, broad-faced little men, much more agreeable inappearance than many real men--and no wonder, for their heads tookoff, and showed them to be full of sugar-plums; there were fiddlesand drums; there were tambourines, books, work-boxes, paint-boxes,sweetmeat-boxes, peep-show boxes, and all kinds of boxes; there weretrinkets for the elder girls, far brighter than any grown-up goldand jewels; there were baskets and pincushions in all devices; therewere guns, swords, and banners; there were witches standing inenchanted rings of pasteboard, to tell fortunes; there wereteetotums, humming-tops, needle-cases, pen-wipers, smelling-bottles,conversation-cards, bouquet-holders; real fruit, made artificiallydazzling 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 oddobjects, clustering on the tree like magic fruit, and flashing backthe bright looks directed towards it from every side--some of thediamond-eyes admiring it were hardly on a level with the table, anda few were languishing in timid wonder on the bosoms of prettymothers, aunts, and nurses--made a lively realisation of the fanciesof childhood; and set me thinking how all the trees that grow andall the things that come into existence on the earth, have theirwild adornments at that well-remembered time.
Being now at home again, and alone, the only person in the houseawake, my thoughts are drawn back, by a fascination which I do notcare to resist, to my own childhood. I begin to consider, what dowe all remember best upon the branches of the Christmas Tree of ourown young Christmas days, by which we climbed to real life.
Straight, in the middle of the room, cramped in the freedom of itsgrowth by no encircling walls or soon-reached ceiling, a shadowytree arises; and, looking up into the dreamy brightness of its top--for I observe in this tree the singular property that it appears togrow downward towards the earth--I look into my youngest Christmasrecollections!
All toys at first, I find. Up yonder, among the green holly and redberries, is the Tumbler with his hands in his pockets, who wouldn'tlie down, but whenever he was put upon the floor, persisted inrolling his fat body about, until he rolled himself still, andbrought those lobster eyes of his to bear upon me--when I affectedto laugh very much, but in my heart of hearts was extremely doubtfulof him. Close beside him is that infernal snuff-box, out of whichthere sprang a demoniacal Counsellor in a black gown, with anobnoxious head of hair, and a red cloth mouth, wide open, who wasnot 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 ofMammoth Snuff-boxes in dreams, when least expected. Nor is the frogwith cobbler's wax on his tail, far off; for there was no knowingwhere he wouldn't jump; and when he flew over the candle, and cameupon one's hand with that spotted back--red on a green ground--hewas horrible. The cardboard lady in a blue-silk skirt, who wasstood up against the candlestick to dance, and whom I see on thesame branch, was milder, and was beautiful; but I can't say as muchfor the larger cardboard man, who used to be hung against the walland pulled by a string; there was a sinister expression in that noseof his; and when he got his legs round his neck (which he very oftendid), he was ghastly, and not a creature to be alone with.
When did that dreadful Mask first look at me? Who put it on, andwhy 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 notbecause 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 nothave been absolutely insupportable, like the mask. Was it theimmovability of the mask? The doll's face was immovable, but I wasnot afraid of HER. Perhaps that fixed and set change coming over areal face, infused into my quickened heart some remote suggestionand dread of the universal change that is to come on every face, andmake it still? Nothing reconciled me to it. No drummers, from whomproceeded a melancholy chirping on the turning of a handle; noregiment of soldiers, with a mute band, taken out of a box, andfitted, one by one, upon a stiff and lazy little set of lazy-tongs;no old woman, made of wires and a brown-paper composition, cuttingup 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 beassured that no one wore it. The mere recollection of that fixedface, the mere knowledge of its existence anywhere, was sufficientto awake me in the night all perspiration and horror, with, "O Iknow it's coming! O the mask!"
I never wondered what the dear old donkey with the panniers--therehe is! was made of, then! His hide was real to the touch, Irecollect. And the great black horse with the round red spots allover him--the horse that I could even get upon--I never wonderedwhat had brought him to that strange condition, or thought that sucha horse was not commonly seen at Newmarket. The four horses of nocolour, next to him, that went into the waggon of cheeses, and couldbe taken out and stabled under the piano, appear to have bits offur-tippet for their tails, and other bits for their manes, and tostand on pegs instead of legs, but it was not so when they werebrought 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; andI 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--thoughgood-natured; but the Jacob's Ladder, next him, made of littlesquares of red wood, that went flapping and clattering over oneanother, each developing a different picture, and the wholeenlivened by small bells, was a mighty marvel and a great delight.
Ah! The Doll's house!--of which I was not proprietor, but where Ivisited. I don't admire the Houses of Parliament half so much asthat stone-fronted mansion with real glass windows, and door-steps,and a real balcony--greener than I ever see now, except at wateringplaces; and even they afford but a poor imitation. And though itDID open all at once, the entire house-front (which was a blow, Iadmit, as cancelling the fiction of a staircase), it was but to shutit up again, and I could believe. Even open, there were threedistinct rooms in it: a sitting-room and bed-room, elegantlyfurnished, and best of all, a kitchen, with uncommonly soft fire-irons, a plentiful assortment of diminutive utensils--oh, thewarming-pan!--and a tin man-cook in profile, who was always going tofry two fish. What Barmecide justice have I done to the noblefeasts wherein the set of wooden platters figured, each with its ownpeculiar delicacy, as a ham or turkey, glued tight on to it, andgarnished with something green, which I recollect as moss! Couldall the Temperance Societies of these later days, united, give mesuch a tea-drinking as I have had through the means of yonder littleset of blue crockery, which really would hold liquid (it ran out ofthe small wooden cask, I recollect, and tasted of matches), andwhich made tea, nectar. And if the two legs of the ineffectuallittle sugar-tongs did tumble over one another, and want purpose,like Punch's hands, what does it matter? And if I did once shriekout, as a poisoned child, and strike the fashionable company withconsternation, by reason of having drunk a little teaspoon,inadvertently dissolved in too hot tea, I was never the worse forit, except by a powder!
Upon the next branches of the tree, lower down, hard by the greenroller and miniature gardening-tools, how thick the books begin tohang. Thin books, in themselves, at first, but many of them, andwith deliciously smooth covers of bright red or green. What fatblack 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! Hewas a good many things in his time, was A, and so were most of hisfriends, except X, who had so little versatility, that I never knewhim to get beyond Xerxes or Xantippe--like Y, who was alwaysconfined to a Yacht or a Yew Tree; and Z condemned for ever to be aZebra or a Zany. But, now, the very tree itself changes, andbecomes a bean-stalk--the marvellous bean-stalk up which Jackclimbed to the Giant's house! And now, those dreadfullyinteresting, double-headed giants, with their clubs over theirshoulders, begin to stride along the boughs in a perfect throng,dragging knights and ladies home for dinner by the hair of theirheads. And Jack--how noble, with his sword of sharpness, and hisshoes of swiftness! Again those old meditations come upon me as Igaze up at him; and I debate within myself whether there was morethan one Jack (which I am loth to believe possible), or only onegenuine original admirable Jack, who achieved all the recordedexploits.
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 herbasket--Little Red Riding-Hood comes to me one Christmas Eve to giveme information of the cruelty and treachery of that dissembling Wolfwho ate her grandmother, without making any impression on hisappetite, and then ate her, after making that ferocious joke abouthis teeth. She was my first love. I felt that if I could havemarried 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 outthe Wolf in the Noah's Ark there, and put him late in the processionon the table, as a monster who was to be degraded. O the wonderfulNoah'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 havetheir 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 wasTHAT against it! Consider the noble fly, a size or two smaller thanthe elephant: the lady-bird, the butterfly--all triumphs of art!Consider the goose, whose feet were so small, and whose balance wasso indifferent, that he usually tumbled forward, and knocked downall the animal creation. Consider Noah and his family, like idiotictobacco-stoppers; and how the leopard stuck to warm little fingers;and how the tails of the larger animals used gradually to resolvethemselves 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 allMother Bunch's wonders, without mention), but an Eastern King with aglittering scimitar and turban. By Allah! two Eastern Kings, for Isee another, looking over his shoulder! Down upon the grass, at thetree's foot, lies the full length of a coal-black Giant, stretchedasleep, 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 thelady prisoner when he is awake. I see the four keys at his girdlenow. The lady makes signs to the two kings in the tree, who softlydescend. It is the setting-in of the bright Arabian Nights.
Oh, now all common things become uncommon and enchanted to me. Alllamps are wonderful; all rings are talismans. Common flower-potsare full of treasure, with a little earth scattered on the top;trees are for Ali Baba to hide in; beef-steaks are to throw downinto the Valley of Diamonds, that the precious stones may stick tothem, and be carried by the eagles to their nests, whence thetraders, with loud cries, will scare them. Tarts are made,according to the recipe of the Vizier's son of Bussorah, who turnedpastrycook after he was set down in his drawers at the gate ofDamascus; cobblers are all Mustaphas, and in the habit of sewing uppeople cut into four pieces, to whom they are taken blind-fold.
Any iron ring let into stone is the entrance to a cave which onlywaits for the magician, and the little fire, and the necromancy,that will make the earth shake. All the dates imported come fromthe same tree as that unlucky date, with whose shell the merchantknocked out the eye of the genie's invisible son. All olives are ofthe stock of that fresh fruit, concerning which the Commander of theFaithful overheard the boy conduct the fictitious trial of thefraudulent olive merchant; all apples are akin to the applepurchased (with two others) from the Sultan's gardener for threesequins, and which the tall black slave stole from the child. Alldogs are associated with the dog, really a transformed man, whojumped upon the baker's counter, and put his paw on the piece of badmoney. All rice recalls the rice which the awful lady, who was aghoule, could only peck by grains, because of her nightly feasts inthe burial-place. My very rocking-horse,--there he is, with hisnostrils turned completely inside-out, indicative of Blood!--shouldhave a peg in his neck, by virtue thereof to fly away with me, asthe wooden horse did with the Prince of Persia, in the sight of allhis father's Court.
Yes, on every object that I recognise among those upper branches ofmy Christmas Tree, I see this fairy light! When I wake in bed, atdaybreak, on the cold, dark, winter mornings, the white snow dimlybeheld, outside, through the frost on the window-pane, I hearDinarzade. "Sister, sister, if you are yet awake, I pray you finishthe history of the Young King of the Black Islands." Scheherazadereplies, "If my lord the Sultan will suffer me to live another day,sister, I will not only finish that, but tell you a more wonderfulstory yet." Then, the gracious Sultan goes out, giving no ordersfor 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 thesemany 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 ofindigestion, assisted by imagination and over-doctoring--aprodigious nightmare. It is so exceedingly indistinct, that I don'tknow why it's frightful--but I know it is. I can only make out thatit is an immense array of shapeless things, which appear to beplanted on a vast exaggeration of the lazy-tongs that used to bearthe toy soldiers, and to be slowly coming close to my eyes, andreceding to an immeasurable distance. When it comes closest, it isworse. In connection with it I descry remembrances of winter nightsincredibly long; of being sent early to bed, as a punishment forsome small offence, and waking in two hours, with a sensation ofhaving been asleep two nights; of the laden hopelessness of morningever dawning; and the oppression of a weight of remorse.
And now, I see a wonderful row of little lights rise smoothly out ofthe ground, before a vast green curtain. Now, a bell rings--a magicbell, which still sounds in my ears unlike all other bells--andmusic plays, amidst a buzz of voices, and a fragrant smell oforange-peel and oil. Anon, the magic bell commands the music tocease, and the great green curtain rolls itself up majestically, andThe Play begins! The devoted dog of Montargis avenges the death ofhis master, foully murdered in the Forest of Bondy; and a humorousPeasant with a red nose and a very little hat, whom I take from thishour forth to my bosom as a friend (I think he was a Waiter or anHostler at a village Inn, but many years have passed since he and Ihave met), remarks that the sassigassity of that dog is indeedsurprising; and evermore this jocular conceit will live in myremembrance fresh and unfading, overtopping all possible jokes, untothe end of time. Or now, I learn with bitter tears how poor JaneShore, dressed all in white, and with her brown hair hanging down,went starving through the streets; or how George Barnwell killed theworthiest uncle that ever man had, and was afterwards so sorry forit that he ought to have been let off. Comes swift to comfort me,the Pantomime--stupendous Phenomenon!--when clowns are shot fromloaded mortars into the great chandelier, bright constellation thatit is; when Harlequins, covered all over with scales of pure gold,twist and sparkle, like amazing fish; when Pantaloon (whom I deem itno irreverence to compare in my own mind to my grandfather) putsred-hot pokers in his pocket, and cries "Here's somebody coming!" ortaxes the Clown with petty larceny, by saying, "Now, I sawed you doit!" when Everything is capable, with the greatest ease, of beingchanged 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 getback to the dull, settled world; of wanting to live for ever in thebright atmosphere I have quitted; of doting on the little Fairy,with the wand like a celestial Barber's Pole, and pining for a Fairyimmortality along with her. Ah, she comes back, in many shapes, asmy eye wanders down the branches of my Christmas Tree, and goes asoften, and has never yet stayed by me!
Out of this delight springs the toy-theatre,--there it is, with itsfamiliar proscenium, and ladies in feathers, in the boxes!--and allits attendant occupation with paste and glue, and gum, and watercolours, in the getting-up of The Miller and his Men, and Elizabeth,or the Exile of Siberia. In spite of a few besetting accidents andfailures (particularly an unreasonable disposition in therespectable Kelmar, and some others, to become faint in the legs,and double up, at exciting points of the drama), a teeming world offancies so suggestive and all-embracing, that, far below it on myChristmas Tree, I see dark, dirty, real Theatres in the day-time,adorned with these associations as with the freshest garlands of therarest 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 themset forth on the Christmas Tree? Known before all the others,keeping far apart from all the others, they gather round my littlebed. An angel, speaking to a group of shepherds in a field; sometravellers, with eyes uplifted, following a star; a baby in amanger; a child in a spacious temple, talking with grave men; asolemn figure, with a mild and beautiful face, raising a dead girlby the hand; again, near a city gate, calling back the son of awidow, on his bier, to life; a crowd of people looking through theopened roof of a chamber where he sits, and letting down a sickperson on a bed, with ropes; the same, in a tempest, walking on thewater 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 thedeaf, health to the sick, strength to the lame, knowledge to theignorant; again, dying upon a Cross, watched by armed soldiers, athick darkness coming on, the earth beginning to shake, and only onevoice heard, "Forgive them, for they know not what they do."
Still, on the lower and maturer branches of the Tree, Christmasassociations cluster thick. School-books shut up; Ovid and Virgilsilenced; the Rule of Three, with its cool impertinent inquiries,long disposed of; Terence and Plautus acted no more, in an arena ofhuddled desks and forms, all chipped, and notched, and inked;cricket-bats, stumps, and balls, left higher up, with the smell oftrodden grass and the softened noise of shouts in the evening air;the tree is still fresh, still gay. If I no more come home atChristmas-time, there will be boys and girls (thank Heaven! ) whilethe World lasts; and they do! Yonder they dance and play upon thebranches of my Tree, God bless them, merrily, and my heart dancesand plays too!
And I do come home at Christmas. We all do, or we all should. Weall come home, or ought to come home, for a short holiday--thelonger, 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 havewe not been, when we would; starting our fancy from our ChristmasTree!
Away into the winter prospect. There are many such upon the tree!On, by low-lying, misty grounds, through fens and fogs, up longhills, winding dark as caverns between thick plantations, almostshutting out the sparkling stars; so, out on broad heights, until westop at last, with sudden silence, at an avenue. The gate-bell hasa deep, half-awful sound in the frosty air; the gate swings open onits hinges; and, as we drive up to a great house, the glancinglights grow larger in the windows, and the opposing rows of treesseem to fall solemnly back on either side, to give us place. Atintervals, all day, a frightened hare has shot across this whitenedturf; or the distant clatter of a herd of deer trampling the hardfrost, has, for the minute, crushed the silence too. Their watchfuleyes beneath the fern may be shining now, if we could see them, likethe icy dewdrops on the leaves; but they are still, and all isstill. And so, the lights growing larger, and the trees fallingback before us, and closing up again behind us, as if to forbidretreat, we come to the house.
There is probably a smell of roasted chestnuts and other goodcomfortable things all the time, for we are telling Winter Stories--Ghost Stories, or more shame for us--round the Christmas fire; andwe 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 thehearth, and grim portraits (some of them with grim legends, too)lower distrustfully from the oaken panels of the walls. We are amiddle-aged nobleman, and we make a generous supper with our hostand hostess and their guests--it being Christmas-time, and the oldhouse full of company--and then we go to bed. Our room is a veryold room. It is hung with tapestry. We don't like the portrait ofa cavalier in green, over the fireplace. There are great blackbeams in the ceiling, and there is a great black bedstead, supportedat the foot by two great black figures, who seem to have come off acouple of tombs in the old baronial church in the park, for ourparticular accommodation. But, we are not a superstitious nobleman,and we don't mind. Well! we dismiss our servant, lock the door, andsit before the fire in our dressing-gown, musing about a great manythings. At length we go to bed. Well! we can't sleep. We toss andtumble, and can't sleep. The embers on the hearth burn fitfully andmake the room look ghostly. We can't help peeping out over thecounterpane, at the two black figures and the cavalier--that wicked-looking cavalier--in green. In the flickering light they seem toadvance and retire: which, though we are not by any means asuperstitious nobleman, is not agreeable. Well! we get nervous--more and more nervous. We say "This is very foolish, but we can'tstand 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 therecomes in a young woman, deadly pale, and with long fair hair, whoglides to the fire, and sits down in the chair we have left there,wringing her hands. Then, we notice that her clothes are wet. Ourtongue cleaves to the roof of our mouth, and we can't speak; but, weobserve her accurately. Her clothes are wet; her long hair isdabbled with moist mud; she is dressed in the fashion of two hundredyears 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 stateabout it. Presently she gets up, and tries all the locks in theroom with the rusty keys, which won't fit one of them; then, shefixes her eyes on the portrait of the cavalier in green, and says,in a low, terrible voice, "The stags know it!" After that, shewrings her hands again, passes the bedside, and goes out at thedoor. We hurry on our dressing-gown, seize our pistols (we alwaystravel with pistols), and are following, when we find the doorlocked. We turn the key, look out into the dark gallery; no onethere. 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 hauntshim) and the shining sun. Well! we make a wretched breakfast, andall the company say we look queer. After breakfast, we go over thehouse with our host, and then we take him to the portrait of thecavalier in green, and then it all comes out. He was false to ayoung housekeeper once attached to that family, and famous for herbeauty, who drowned herself in a pond, and whose body wasdiscovered, after a long time, because the stags refused to drink ofthe water. Since which, it has been whispered that she traversesthe house at midnight (but goes especially to that room where thecavalier in green was wont to sleep), trying the old locks with therusty keys. Well! we tell our host of what we have seen, and ashade comes over his features, and he begs it may be hushed up; andso it is. But, it's all true; and we said so, before we died (weare dead now) to many responsible people.
There is no end to the old houses, with resounding galleries, anddismal 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 remarkperhaps) 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 acertain bad lord, baronet, knight, or gentleman, shot himself, hascertain planks in the floor from which the blood WILL NOT be takenout. You may scrape and scrape, as the present owner has done, orplane and plane, as his father did, or scrub and scrub, as hisgrandfather did, or burn and burn with strong acids, as his great-grandfather did, but, there the blood will still be--no redder andno paler--no more and no less--always just the same. Thus, in suchanother house there is a haunted door, that never will keep open; oranother door that never will keep shut, or a haunted sound of aspinning-wheel, or a hammer, or a footstep, or a cry, or a sigh, ora horse's tramp, or the rattling of a chain. Or else, there is aturret-clock, which, at the midnight hour, strikes thirteen when thehead of the family is going to die; or a shadowy, immovable blackcarriage which at such a time is always seen by somebody, waitingnear the great gates in the stable-yard. Or thus, it came to passhow Lady Mary went to pay a visit at a large wild house in theScottish Highlands, and, being fatigued with her long journey,retired to bed early, and innocently said, next morning, at thebreakfast-table, "How odd, to have so late a party last night, inthis 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 Maryreplied, "Why, all night long, the carriages were driving round andround the terrace, underneath my window!" Then, the owner of thehouse turned pale, and so did his Lady, and Charles Macdoodle ofMacdoodle signed to Lady Mary to say no more, and every one wassilent. After breakfast, Charles Macdoodle told Lady Mary that itwas a tradition in the family that those rumbling carriages on theterrace betokened death. And so it proved, for, two monthsafterwards, the Lady of the mansion died. And Lady Mary, who was aMaid of Honour at Court, often told this story to the old QueenCharlotte; by this token that the old King always said, "Eh, eh?What, what? Ghosts, ghosts? No such thing, no such thing!" Andnever left off saying so, until he went to bed.
Or, a friend of somebody's whom most of us know, when he was a youngman at college, had a particular friend, with whom he made thecompact that, if it were possible for the Spirit to return to thisearth after its separation from the body, he of the twain who firstdied, should reappear to the other. In course of time, this compactwas forgotten by our friend; the two young men having progressed inlife, and taken diverging paths that were wide asunder. But, onenight, many years afterwards, our friend being in the North ofEngland, and staying for the night in an inn, on the YorkshireMoors, happened to look out of bed; and there, in the moonlight,leaning on a bureau near the window, steadfastly regarding him, sawhis old college friend! The appearance being solemnly addressed,replied, in a kind of whisper, but very audibly, "Do not come nearme. I am dead. I am here to redeem my promise. I come fromanother world, but may not disclose its secrets!" Then, the wholeform becoming paler, melted, as it were, into the moonlight, andfaded away.
Or, there was the daughter of the first occupier of the picturesqueElizabethan house, so famous in our neighbourhood. You have heardabout her? No! Why, SHE went out one summer evening at twilight,when she was a beautiful girl, just seventeen years of age, togather flowers in the garden; and presently came running, terrified,into the hall to her father, saying, "Oh, dear father, I have metmyself!" He took her in his arms, and told her it was fancy, butshe said, "Oh no! I met myself in the broad walk, and I was paleand gathering withered flowers, and I turned my head, and held themup!" And, that night, she died; and a picture of her story wasbegun, though never finished, and they say it is somewhere in thehouse to this day, with its face to the wall.
Or, the uncle of my brother's wife was riding home on horseback, onemellow evening at sunset, when, in a green lane close to his ownhouse, he saw a man standing before him, in the very centre of anarrow way. "Why does that man in the cloak stand there!" hethought. "Does he want me to ride over him?" But the figure nevermoved. He felt a strange sensation at seeing it so still, butslackened his trot and rode forward. When he was so close to it, asalmost to touch it with his stirrup, his horse shied, and the figureglided up the bank, in a curious, unearthly manner--backward, andwithout seeming to use its feet--and was gone. The uncle of mybrother's wife, exclaiming, "Good Heaven! It's my cousin Harry,from Bombay!" put spurs to his horse, which was suddenly in aprofuse sweat, and, wondering at such strange behaviour, dashedround 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, andhastened in after it. His sister was sitting there, alone. "Alice,where's my cousin Harry?" "Your cousin Harry, John?" "Yes. FromBombay. 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 thathour and minute, as it afterwards appeared, this cousin died inIndia.
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 theOrphan Boy; a story which has often been incorrectly told, but, ofwhich the real truth is this--because it is, in fact, a storybelonging to our family--and she was a connexion of our family.When she was about forty years of age, and still an uncommonly finewoman (her lover died young, which was the reason why she nevermarried, though she had many offers), she went to stay at a place inKent, which her brother, an Indian-Merchant, had newly bought.There was a story that this place had once been held in trust by theguardian of a young boy; who was himself the next heir, and whokilled the young boy by harsh and cruel treatment. She knew nothingof that. It has been said that there was a Cage in her bedroom inwhich 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 inthe night, and in the morning said composedly to her maid when shecame in, "Who is the pretty forlorn-looking child who has beenpeeping out of that closet all night?" The maid replied by giving aloud scream, and instantly decamping. She was surprised; but shewas a woman of remarkable strength of mind, and she dressed herselfand 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 thatcloset in my room, which I can't open. This is some trick." "I amafraid not, Charlotte," said he, "for it is the legend of the house.It is the Orphan Boy. What did he do?" "He opened the doorsoftly," said she, "and peeped out. Sometimes, he came a step ortwo into the room. Then, I called to him, to encourage him, and heshrunk, and shuddered, and crept in again, and shut the door." "Thecloset has no communication, Charlotte," said her brother, "with anyother part of the house, and it's nailed up." This was undeniablytrue, and it took two carpenters a whole forenoon to get it open,for examination. Then, she was satisfied that she had seen theOrphan Boy. But, the wild and terrible part of the story is, thathe was also seen by three of her brother's sons, in succession, whoall died young. On the occasion of each child being taken ill, hecame home in a heat, twelve hours before, and said, Oh, Mamma, hehad been playing under a particular oak-tree, in a certain meadow,with a strange boy--a pretty, forlorn-looking boy, who was verytimid, and made signs! From fatal experience, the parents came toknow that this was the Orphan Boy, and that the course of that childwhom he chose for his little playmate was surely run.
Legion is the name of the German castles, where we sit up alone towait for the Spectre--where we are shown into a room, madecomparatively cheerful for our reception--where we glance round atthe shadows, thrown on the blank walls by the crackling fire--wherewe feel very lonely when the village innkeeper and his prettydaughter have retired, after laying down a fresh store of wood uponthe hearth, and setting forth on the small table such supper-cheeras a cold roast capon, bread, grapes, and a flask of old Rhine wine--where the reverberating doors close on their retreat, one afteranother, like so many peals of sullen thunder--and where, about thesmall hours of the night, we come into the knowledge of diverssupernatural mysteries. Legion is the name of the haunted Germanstudents, in whose society we draw yet nearer to the fire, while theschoolboy in the corner opens his eyes wide and round, and flies offthe footstool he has chosen for his seat, when the door accidentallyblows open. Vast is the crop of such fruit, shining on ourChristmas Tree; in blossom, almost at the very top; ripening alldown the boughs!
Among the later toys and fancies hanging there--as idle often andless pure--be the images once associated with the sweet old Waits,the softened music in the night, ever unalterable! Encircled by thesocial thoughts of Christmas-time, still let the benignant figure ofmy childhood stand unchanged! In every cheerful image andsuggestion that the season brings, may the bright star that restedabove the poor roof, be the star of all the Christian World! Amoment's pause, O vanishing tree, of which the lower boughs are darkto me as yet, and let me look once more! I know there are blankspaces on thy branches, where eyes that I have loved have shone andsmiled; from which they are departed. But, far above, I see theraiser of the dead girl, and the Widow's Son; and God is good! IfAge be hiding for me in the unseen portion of thy downward growth, Omay 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, anddance, and cheerfulness. And they are welcome. Innocent andwelcome be they ever held, beneath the branches of the ChristmasTree, which cast no gloomy shadow! But, as it sinks into theground, I hear a whisper going through the leaves. "This, incommemoration of the law of love and kindness, mercy and compassion.This, in remembrance of Me!"
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