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diff --git a/1467-0.txt b/1467-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..29bfcc2 --- /dev/null +++ b/1467-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2383 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Some Christmas Stories, by Charles Dickens + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: Some Christmas Stories + + +Author: Charles Dickens + + + +Release Date: May 6, 2015 [eBook #1467] +[This file was first posted in June/July 1998] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SOME CHRISTMAS STORIES*** + + +Transcribed from the 1911 Chapman and Hall Christmas Stories edition, +Volume 1, by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org + + + + + + SOME SHORT CHRISTMAS STORIES + by + CHARLES DICKENS + + +CONTENTS. + + PAGE +A Christmas Tree 1 +What Christmas is as we Grow Older 23 +The Poor Relation’s Story 31 +The Child’s Story 47 +The Schoolboy’s Story 55 +Nobody’s Story 69 + + + + +A CHRISTMAS TREE. +[1850] + + +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!” + + + + +WHAT CHRISTMAS IS AS WE GROW OLDER. +[1851] + + +TIME was, with most of us, when Christmas Day encircling all our limited +world like a magic ring, left nothing out for us to miss or seek; bound +together all our home enjoyments, affections, and hopes; grouped +everything and every one around the Christmas fire; and made the little +picture shining in our bright young eyes, complete. + +Time came, perhaps, all so soon, when our thoughts over-leaped that +narrow boundary; when there was some one (very dear, we thought then, +very beautiful, and absolutely perfect) wanting to the fulness of our +happiness; when we were wanting too (or we thought so, which did just as +well) at the Christmas hearth by which that some one sat; and when we +intertwined with every wreath and garland of our life that some one’s +name. + +That was the time for the bright visionary Christmases which have long +arisen from us to show faintly, after summer rain, in the palest edges of +the rainbow! That was the time for the beatified enjoyment of the things +that were to be, and never were, and yet the things that were so real in +our resolute hope that it would be hard to say, now, what realities +achieved since, have been stronger! + +What! Did that Christmas never really come when we and the priceless +pearl who was our young choice were received, after the happiest of +totally impossible marriages, by the two united families previously at +daggers—drawn on our account? When brothers and sisters-in-law who had +always been rather cool to us before our relationship was effected, +perfectly doted on us, and when fathers and mothers overwhelmed us with +unlimited incomes? Was that Christmas dinner never really eaten, after +which we arose, and generously and eloquently rendered honour to our late +rival, present in the company, then and there exchanging friendship and +forgiveness, and founding an attachment, not to be surpassed in Greek or +Roman story, which subsisted until death? Has that same rival long +ceased to care for that same priceless pearl, and married for money, and +become usurious? Above all, do we really know, now, that we should +probably have been miserable if we had won and worn the pearl, and that +we are better without her? + +That Christmas when we had recently achieved so much fame; when we had +been carried in triumph somewhere, for doing something great and good; +when we had won an honoured and ennobled name, and arrived and were +received at home in a shower of tears of joy; is it possible that _that_ +Christmas has not come yet? + +And is our life here, at the best, so constituted that, pausing as we +advance at such a noticeable mile-stone in the track as this great +birthday, we look back on the things that never were, as naturally and +full as gravely as on the things that have been and are gone, or have +been and still are? If it be so, and so it seems to be, must we come to +the conclusion that life is little better than a dream, and little worth +the loves and strivings that we crowd into it? + +No! Far be such miscalled philosophy from us, dear Reader, on Christmas +Day! Nearer and closer to our hearts be the Christmas spirit, which is +the spirit of active usefulness, perseverance, cheerful discharge of +duty, kindness and forbearance! It is in the last virtues especially, +that we are, or should be, strengthened by the unaccomplished visions of +our youth; for, who shall say that they are not our teachers to deal +gently even with the impalpable nothings of the earth! + +Therefore, as we grow older, let us be more thankful that the circle of +our Christmas associations and of the lessons that they bring, expands! +Let us welcome every one of them, and summon them to take their places by +the Christmas hearth. + +Welcome, old aspirations, glittering creatures of an ardent fancy, to +your shelter underneath the holly! We know you, and have not outlived +you yet. Welcome, old projects and old loves, however fleeting, to your +nooks among the steadier lights that burn around us. Welcome, all that +was ever real to our hearts; and for the earnestness that made you real, +thanks to Heaven! Do we build no Christmas castles in the clouds now? +Let our thoughts, fluttering like butterflies among these flowers of +children, bear witness! Before this boy, there stretches out a Future, +brighter than we ever looked on in our old romantic time, but bright with +honour and with truth. Around this little head on which the sunny curls +lie heaped, the graces sport, as prettily, as airily, as when there was +no scythe within the reach of Time to shear away the curls of our +first-love. Upon another girl’s face near it—placider but smiling +bright—a quiet and contented little face, we see Home fairly written. +Shining from the word, as rays shine from a star, we see how, when our +graves are old, other hopes than ours are young, other hearts than ours +are moved; how other ways are smoothed; how other happiness blooms, +ripens, and decays—no, not decays, for other homes and other bands of +children, not yet in being nor for ages yet to be, arise, and bloom and +ripen to the end of all! + +Welcome, everything! Welcome, alike what has been, and what never was, +and what we hope may be, to your shelter underneath the holly, to your +places round the Christmas fire, where what is sits open-hearted! In +yonder shadow, do we see obtruding furtively upon the blaze, an enemy’s +face? By Christmas Day we do forgive him! If the injury he has done us +may admit of such companionship, let him come here and take his place. +If otherwise, unhappily, let him go hence, assured that we will never +injure nor accuse him. + +On this day we shut out Nothing! + +“Pause,” says a low voice. “Nothing? Think!” + +“On Christmas Day, we will shut out from our fireside, Nothing.” + +“Not the shadow of a vast City where the withered leaves are lying deep?” +the voice replies. “Not the shadow that darkens the whole globe? Not +the shadow of the City of the Dead?” + +Not even that. Of all days in the year, we will turn our faces towards +that City upon Christmas Day, and from its silent hosts bring those we +loved, among us. City of the Dead, in the blessed name wherein we are +gathered together at this time, and in the Presence that is here among us +according to the promise, we will receive, and not dismiss, thy people +who are dear to us! + +Yes. We can look upon these children angels that alight, so solemnly, so +beautifully among the living children by the fire, and can bear to think +how they departed from us. Entertaining angels unawares, as the +Patriarchs did, the playful children are unconscious of their guests; but +we can see them—can see a radiant arm around one favourite neck, as if +there were a tempting of that child away. Among the celestial figures +there is one, a poor misshapen boy on earth, of a glorious beauty now, of +whom his dying mother said it grieved her much to leave him here, alone, +for so many years as it was likely would elapse before he came to +her—being such a little child. But he went quickly, and was laid upon +her breast, and in her hand she leads him. + +There was a gallant boy, who fell, far away, upon a burning sand beneath +a burning sun, and said, “Tell them at home, with my last love, how much +I could have wished to kiss them once, but that I died contented and had +done my duty!” Or there was another, over whom they read the words, +“Therefore we commit his body to the deep,” and so consigned him to the +lonely ocean and sailed on. Or there was another, who lay down to his +rest in the dark shadow of great forests, and, on earth, awoke no more. +O shall they not, from sand and sea and forest, be brought home at such a +time! + +There was a dear girl—almost a woman—never to be one—who made a mourning +Christmas in a house of joy, and went her trackless way to the silent +City. Do we recollect her, worn out, faintly whispering what could not +be heard, and falling into that last sleep for weariness? O look upon +her now! O look upon her beauty, her serenity, her changeless youth, her +happiness! The daughter of Jairus was recalled to life, to die; but she, +more blest, has heard the same voice, saying unto her, “Arise for ever!” + +We had a friend who was our friend from early days, with whom we often +pictured the changes that were to come upon our lives, and merrily +imagined how we would speak, and walk, and think, and talk, when we came +to be old. His destined habitation in the City of the Dead received him +in his prime. Shall he be shut out from our Christmas remembrance? +Would his love have so excluded us? Lost friend, lost child, lost +parent, sister, brother, husband, wife, we will not so discard you! You +shall hold your cherished places in our Christmas hearts, and by our +Christmas fires; and in the season of immortal hope, and on the birthday +of immortal mercy, we will shut out Nothing! + +The winter sun goes down over town and village; on the sea it makes a +rosy path, as if the Sacred tread were fresh upon the water. A few more +moments, and it sinks, and night comes on, and lights begin to sparkle in +the prospect. On the hill-side beyond the shapelessly-diffused town, and +in the quiet keeping of the trees that gird the village-steeple, +remembrances are cut in stone, planted in common flowers, growing in +grass, entwined with lowly brambles around many a mound of earth. In +town and village, there are doors and windows closed against the weather, +there are flaming logs heaped high, there are joyful faces, there is +healthy music of voices. Be all ungentleness and harm excluded from the +temples of the Household Gods, but be those remembrances admitted with +tender encouragement! They are of the time and all its comforting and +peaceful reassurances; and of the history that re-united even upon earth +the living and the dead; and of the broad beneficence and goodness that +too many men have tried to tear to narrow shreds. + + + + +THE POOR RELATION’S STORY. +[1852] + + +HE was very reluctant to take precedence of so many respected members of +the family, by beginning the round of stories they were to relate as they +sat in a goodly circle by the Christmas fire; and he modestly suggested +that it would be more correct if “John our esteemed host” (whose health +he begged to drink) would have the kindness to begin. For as to himself, +he said, he was so little used to lead the way that really— But as they +all cried out here, that he must begin, and agreed with one voice that he +might, could, would, and should begin, he left off rubbing his hands, and +took his legs out from under his armchair, and did begin. + +I have no doubt (said the poor relation) that I shall surprise the +assembled members of our family, and particularly John our esteemed host +to whom we are so much indebted for the great hospitality with which he +has this day entertained us, by the confession I am going to make. But, +if you do me the honour to be surprised at anything that falls from a +person so unimportant in the family as I am, I can only say that I shall +be scrupulously accurate in all I relate. + +I am not what I am supposed to be. I am quite another thing. Perhaps +before I go further, I had better glance at what I _am_ supposed to be. + +It is supposed, unless I mistake—the assembled members of our family will +correct me if I do, which is very likely (here the poor relation looked +mildly about him for contradiction); that I am nobody’s enemy but my own. +That I never met with any particular success in anything. That I failed +in business because I was unbusiness-like and credulous—in not being +prepared for the interested designs of my partner. That I failed in +love, because I was ridiculously trustful—in thinking it impossible that +Christiana could deceive me. That I failed in my expectations from my +uncle Chill, on account of not being as sharp as he could have wished in +worldly matters. That, through life, I have been rather put upon and +disappointed in a general way. That I am at present a bachelor of +between fifty-nine and sixty years of age, living on a limited income in +the form of a quarterly allowance, to which I see that John our esteemed +host wishes me to make no further allusion. + +The supposition as to my present pursuits and habits is to the following +effect. + +I live in a lodging in the Clapham Road—a very clean back room, in a very +respectable house—where I am expected not to be at home in the day-time, +unless poorly; and which I usually leave in the morning at nine o’clock, +on pretence of going to business. I take my breakfast—my roll and +butter, and my half-pint of coffee—at the old-established coffee-shop +near Westminster Bridge; and then I go into the City—I don’t know why—and +sit in Garraway’s Coffee House, and on ’Change, and walk about, and look +into a few offices and counting-houses where some of my relations or +acquaintance are so good as to tolerate me, and where I stand by the fire +if the weather happens to be cold. I get through the day in this way +until five o’clock, and then I dine: at a cost, on the average, of one +and threepence. Having still a little money to spend on my evening’s +entertainment, I look into the old-established coffee-shop as I go home, +and take my cup of tea, and perhaps my bit of toast. So, as the large +hand of the clock makes its way round to the morning hour again, I make +my way round to the Clapham Road again, and go to bed when I get to my +lodging—fire being expensive, and being objected to by the family on +account of its giving trouble and making a dirt. + +Sometimes, one of my relations or acquaintances is so obliging as to ask +me to dinner. Those are holiday occasions, and then I generally walk in +the Park. I am a solitary man, and seldom walk with anybody. Not that I +am avoided because I am shabby; for I am not at all shabby, having always +a very good suit of black on (or rather Oxford mixture, which has the +appearance of black and wears much better); but I have got into a habit +of speaking low, and being rather silent, and my spirits are not high, +and I am sensible that I am not an attractive companion. + +The only exception to this general rule is the child of my first cousin, +Little Frank. I have a particular affection for that child, and he takes +very kindly to me. He is a diffident boy by nature; and in a crowd he is +soon run over, as I may say, and forgotten. He and I, however, get on +exceedingly well. I have a fancy that the poor child will in time +succeed to my peculiar position in the family. We talk but little; +still, we understand each other. We walk about, hand in hand; and +without much speaking he knows what I mean, and I know what he means. +When he was very little indeed, I used to take him to the windows of the +toy-shops, and show him the toys inside. It is surprising how soon he +found out that I would have made him a great many presents if I had been +in circumstances to do it. + +Little Frank and I go and look at the outside of the Monument—he is very +fond of the Monument—and at the Bridges, and at all the sights that are +free. On two of my birthdays, we have dined on à-la-mode beef, and gone +at half-price to the play, and been deeply interested. I was once +walking with him in Lombard Street, which we often visit on account of my +having mentioned to him that there are great riches there—he is very fond +of Lombard Street—when a gentleman said to me as he passed by, “Sir, your +little son has dropped his glove.” I assure you, if you will excuse my +remarking on so trivial a circumstance, this accidental mention of the +child as mine, quite touched my heart and brought the foolish tears into +my eyes. + +When Little Frank is sent to school in the country, I shall be very much +at a loss what to do with myself, but I have the intention of walking +down there once a month and seeing him on a half holiday. I am told he +will then be at play upon the Heath; and if my visits should be objected +to, as unsettling the child, I can see him from a distance without his +seeing me, and walk back again. His mother comes of a highly genteel +family, and rather disapproves, I am aware, of our being too much +together. I know that I am not calculated to improve his retiring +disposition; but I think he would miss me beyond the feeling of the +moment if we were wholly separated. + +When I die in the Clapham Road, I shall not leave much more in this world +than I shall take out of it; but, I happen to have a miniature of a +bright-faced boy, with a curling head, and an open shirt-frill waving +down his bosom (my mother had it taken for me, but I can’t believe that +it was ever like), which will be worth nothing to sell, and which I shall +beg may he given to Frank. I have written my dear boy a little letter +with it, in which I have told him that I felt very sorry to part from +him, though bound to confess that I knew no reason why I should remain +here. I have given him some short advice, the best in my power, to take +warning of the consequences of being nobody’s enemy but his own; and I +have endeavoured to comfort him for what I fear he will consider a +bereavement, by pointing out to him, that I was only a superfluous +something to every one but him; and that having by some means failed to +find a place in this great assembly, I am better out of it. + +Such (said the poor relation, clearing his throat and beginning to speak +a little louder) is the general impression about me. Now, it is a +remarkable circumstance which forms the aim and purpose of my story, that +this is all wrong. This is not my life, and these are not my habits. I +do not even live in the Clapham Road. Comparatively speaking, I am very +seldom there. I reside, mostly, in a—I am almost ashamed to say the +word, it sounds so full of pretension—in a Castle. I do not mean that it +is an old baronial habitation, but still it is a building always known to +every one by the name of a Castle. In it, I preserve the particulars of +my history; they run thus: + +It was when I first took John Spatter (who had been my clerk) into +partnership, and when I was still a young man of not more than +five-and-twenty, residing in the house of my uncle Chill, from whom I had +considerable expectations, that I ventured to propose to Christiana. I +had loved Christiana a long time. She was very beautiful, and very +winning in all respects. I rather mistrusted her widowed mother, who I +feared was of a plotting and mercenary turn of mind; but, I thought as +well of her as I could, for Christiana’s sake. I never had loved any one +but Christiana, and she had been all the world, and O far more than all +the world, to me, from our childhood! + +Christiana accepted me with her mother’s consent, and I was rendered very +happy indeed. My life at my uncle Chill’s was of a spare dull kind, and +my garret chamber was as dull, and bare, and cold, as an upper prison +room in some stern northern fortress. But, having Christiana’s love, I +wanted nothing upon earth. I would not have changed my lot with any +human being. + +Avarice was, unhappily, my uncle Chill’s master-vice. Though he was +rich, he pinched, and scraped, and clutched, and lived miserably. As +Christiana had no fortune, I was for some time a little fearful of +confessing our engagement to him; but, at length I wrote him a letter, +saying how it all truly was. I put it into his hand one night, on going +to bed. + +As I came down-stairs next morning, shivering in the cold December air; +colder in my uncle’s unwarmed house than in the street, where the winter +sun did sometimes shine, and which was at all events enlivened by +cheerful faces and voices passing along; I carried a heavy heart towards +the long, low breakfast-room in which my uncle sat. It was a large room +with a small fire, and there was a great bay window in it which the rain +had marked in the night as if with the tears of houseless people. It +stared upon a raw yard, with a cracked stone pavement, and some rusted +iron railings half uprooted, whence an ugly out-building that had once +been a dissecting-room (in the time of the great surgeon who had +mortgaged the house to my uncle), stared at it. + +We rose so early always, that at that time of the year we breakfasted by +candle-light. When I went into the room, my uncle was so contracted by +the cold, and so huddled together in his chair behind the one dim candle, +that I did not see him until I was close to the table. + +As I held out my hand to him, he caught up his stick (being infirm, he +always walked about the house with a stick), and made a blow at me, and +said, “You fool!” + +“Uncle,” I returned, “I didn’t expect you to be so angry as this.” Nor +had I expected it, though he was a hard and angry old man. + +“You didn’t expect!” said he; “when did you ever expect? When did you +ever calculate, or look forward, you contemptible dog?” + +“These are hard words, uncle!” + +“Hard words? Feathers, to pelt such an idiot as you with,” said he. +“Here! Betsy Snap! Look at him!” + +Betsy Snap was a withered, hard-favoured, yellow old woman—our only +domestic—always employed, at this time of the morning, in rubbing my +uncle’s legs. As my uncle adjured her to look at me, he put his lean +grip on the crown of her head, she kneeling beside him, and turned her +face towards me. An involuntary thought connecting them both with the +Dissecting Room, as it must often have been in the surgeon’s time, passed +across my mind in the midst of my anxiety. + +“Look at the snivelling milksop!” said my uncle. “Look at the baby! +This is the gentleman who, people say, is nobody’s enemy but his own. +This is the gentleman who can’t say no. This is the gentleman who was +making such large profits in his business that he must needs take a +partner, t’other day. This is the gentleman who is going to marry a wife +without a penny, and who falls into the hands of Jezabels who are +speculating on my death!” + +I knew, now, how great my uncle’s rage was; for nothing short of his +being almost beside himself would have induced him to utter that +concluding word, which he held in such repugnance that it was never +spoken or hinted at before him on any account. + +“On my death,” he repeated, as if he were defying me by defying his own +abhorrence of the word. “On my death—death—Death! But I’ll spoil the +speculation. Eat your last under this roof, you feeble wretch, and may +it choke you!” + +You may suppose that I had not much appetite for the breakfast to which I +was bidden in these terms; but, I took my accustomed seat. I saw that I +was repudiated henceforth by my uncle; still I could bear that very well, +possessing Christiana’s heart. + +He emptied his basin of bread and milk as usual, only that he took it on +his knees with his chair turned away from the table where I sat. When he +had done, he carefully snuffed out the candle; and the cold, +slate-coloured, miserable day looked in upon us. + +“Now, Mr. Michael,” said he, “before we part, I should like to have a +word with these ladies in your presence.” + +“As you will, sir,” I returned; “but you deceive yourself, and wrong us, +cruelly, if you suppose that there is any feeling at stake in this +contract but pure, disinterested, faithful love.” + +To this, he only replied, “You lie!” and not one other word. + +We went, through half-thawed snow and half-frozen rain, to the house +where Christiana and her mother lived. My uncle knew them very well. +They were sitting at their breakfast, and were surprised to see us at +that hour. + +“Your servant, ma’am,” said my uncle to the mother. “You divine the +purpose of my visit, I dare say, ma’am. I understand there is a world of +pure, disinterested, faithful love cooped up here. I am happy to bring +it all it wants, to make it complete. I bring you your son-in-law, +ma’am—and you, your husband, miss. The gentleman is a perfect stranger +to me, but I wish him joy of his wise bargain.” + +He snarled at me as he went out, and I never saw him again. + + * * * * * + +It is altogether a mistake (continued the poor relation) to suppose that +my dear Christiana, over-persuaded and influenced by her mother, married +a rich man, the dirt from whose carriage wheels is often, in these +changed times, thrown upon me as she rides by. No, no. She married me. + +The way we came to be married rather sooner than we intended, was this. +I took a frugal lodging and was saving and planning for her sake, when, +one day, she spoke to me with great earnestness, and said: + +“My dear Michael, I have given you my heart. I have said that I loved +you, and I have pledged myself to be your wife. I am as much yours +through all changes of good and evil as if we had been married on the day +when such words passed between us. I know you well, and know that if we +should be separated and our union broken off, your whole life would be +shadowed, and all that might, even now, be stronger in your character for +the conflict with the world would then be weakened to the shadow of what +it is!” + +“God help me, Christiana!” said I. “You speak the truth.” + +“Michael!” said she, putting her hand in mine, in all maidenly devotion, +“let us keep apart no longer. It is but for me to say that I can live +contented upon such means as you have, and I well know you are happy. I +say so from my heart. Strive no more alone; let us strive together. My +dear Michael, it is not right that I should keep secret from you what you +do not suspect, but what distresses my whole life. My mother: without +considering that what you have lost, you have lost for me, and on the +assurance of my faith: sets her heart on riches, and urges another suit +upon me, to my misery. I cannot bear this, for to bear it is to be +untrue to you. I would rather share your struggles than look on. I want +no better home than you can give me. I know that you will aspire and +labour with a higher courage if I am wholly yours, and let it be so when +you will!” + +I was blest indeed, that day, and a new world opened to me. We were +married in a very little while, and I took my wife to our happy home. +That was the beginning of the residence I have spoken of; the Castle we +have ever since inhabited together, dates from that time. All our +children have been born in it. Our first child—now married—was a little +girl, whom we called Christiana. Her son is so like Little Frank, that I +hardly know which is which. + + * * * * * + +The current impression as to my partner’s dealings with me is also quite +erroneous. He did not begin to treat me coldly, as a poor simpleton, +when my uncle and I so fatally quarrelled; nor did he afterwards +gradually possess himself of our business and edge me out. On the +contrary, he behaved to me with the utmost good faith and honour. + +Matters between us took this turn:—On the day of my separation from my +uncle, and even before the arrival at our counting-house of my trunks +(which he sent after me, _not_ carriage paid), I went down to our room of +business, on our little wharf, overlooking the river; and there I told +John Spatter what had happened. John did not say, in reply, that rich +old relatives were palpable facts, and that love and sentiment were +moonshine and fiction. He addressed me thus: + +“Michael,” said John, “we were at school together, and I generally had +the knack of getting on better than you, and making a higher reputation.” + +“You had, John,” I returned. + +“Although” said John, “I borrowed your books and lost them; borrowed your +pocket-money, and never repaid it; got you to buy my damaged knives at a +higher price than I had given for them new; and to own to the windows +that I had broken.” + +“All not worth mentioning, John Spatter,” said I, “but certainly true.” + +“When you were first established in this infant business, which promises +to thrive so well,” pursued John, “I came to you, in my search for almost +any employment, and you made me your clerk.” + +“Still not worth mentioning, my dear John Spatter,” said I; “still, +equally true.” + +“And finding that I had a good head for business, and that I was really +useful _to_ the business, you did not like to retain me in that capacity, +and thought it an act of justice soon to make me your partner.” + +“Still less worth mentioning than any of those other little circumstances +you have recalled, John Spatter,” said I; “for I was, and am, sensible of +your merits and my deficiencies.” + +“Now, my good friend,” said John, drawing my arm through his, as he had +had a habit of doing at school; while two vessels outside the windows of +our counting-house—which were shaped like the stern windows of a +ship—went lightly down the river with the tide, as John and I might then +be sailing away in company, and in trust and confidence, on our voyage of +life; “let there, under these friendly circumstances, be a right +understanding between us. You are too easy, Michael. You are nobody’s +enemy but your own. If I were to give you that damaging character among +our connexion, with a shrug, and a shake of the head, and a sigh; and if +I were further to abuse the trust you place in me—” + +“But you never will abuse it at all, John,” I observed. + +“Never!” said he; “but I am putting a case—I say, and if I were further +to abuse that trust by keeping this piece of our common affairs in the +dark, and this other piece in the light, and again this other piece in +the twilight, and so on, I should strengthen my strength, and weaken your +weakness, day by day, until at last I found myself on the high road to +fortune, and you left behind on some bare common, a hopeless number of +miles out of the way.” + +“Exactly so,” said I. + +“To prevent this, Michael,” said John Spatter, “or the remotest chance of +this, there must be perfect openness between us. Nothing must be +concealed, and we must have but one interest.” + +“My dear John Spatter,” I assured him, “that is precisely what I mean.” + +“And when you are too easy,” pursued John, his face glowing with +friendship, “you must allow me to prevent that imperfection in your +nature from being taken advantage of, by any one; you must not expect me +to humour it—” + +“My dear John Spatter,” I interrupted, “I _don’t_ expect you to humour +it. I want to correct it.” + +“And I, too,” said John. + +“Exactly so!” cried I. “We both have the same end in view; and, +honourably seeking it, and fully trusting one another, and having but one +interest, ours will be a prosperous and happy partnership.” + +“I am sure of it!” returned John Spatter. And we shook hands most +affectionately. + +I took John home to my Castle, and we had a very happy day. Our +partnership throve well. My friend and partner supplied what I wanted, +as I had foreseen that he would, and by improving both the business and +myself, amply acknowledged any little rise in life to which I had helped +him. + + * * * * * + +I am not (said the poor relation, looking at the fire as he slowly rubbed +his hands) very rich, for I never cared to be that; but I have enough, +and am above all moderate wants and anxieties. My Castle is not a +splendid place, but it is very comfortable, and it has a warm and +cheerful air, and is quite a picture of Home. + +Our eldest girl, who is very like her mother, married John Spatter’s +eldest son. Our two families are closely united in other ties of +attachment. It is very pleasant of an evening, when we are all assembled +together—which frequently happens—and when John and I talk over old +times, and the one interest there has always been between us. + +I really do not know, in my Castle, what loneliness is. Some of our +children or grandchildren are always about it, and the young voices of my +descendants are delightful—O, how delightful!—to me to hear. My dearest +and most devoted wife, ever faithful, ever loving, ever helpful and +sustaining and consoling, is the priceless blessing of my house; from +whom all its other blessings spring. We are rather a musical family, and +when Christiana sees me, at any time, a little weary or depressed, she +steals to the piano and sings a gentle air she used to sing when we were +first betrothed. So weak a man am I, that I cannot bear to hear it from +any other source. They played it once, at the Theatre, when I was there +with Little Frank; and the child said wondering, “Cousin Michael, whose +hot tears are these that have fallen on my hand!” + +Such is my Castle, and such are the real particulars of my life therein +preserved. I often take Little Frank home there. He is very welcome to +my grandchildren, and they play together. At this time of the year—the +Christmas and New Year time—I am seldom out of my Castle. For, the +associations of the season seem to hold me there, and the precepts of the +season seem to teach me that it is well to be there. + + * * * * * + +“And the Castle is—” observed a grave, kind voice among the company. + +“Yes. My Castle,” said the poor relation, shaking his head as he still +looked at the fire, “is in the Air. John our esteemed host suggests its +situation accurately. My Castle is in the Air! I have done. Will you +be so good as to pass the story?” + + + + +THE CHILD’S STORY. +[1852] + + +ONCE upon a time, a good many years ago, there was a traveller, and he +set out upon a journey. It was a magic journey, and was to seem very +long when he began it, and very short when he got half way through. + +He travelled along a rather dark path for some little time, without +meeting anything, until at last he came to a beautiful child. So he said +to the child, “What do you do here?” And the child said, “I am always at +play. Come and play with me!” + +So, he played with that child, the whole day long, and they were very +merry. The sky was so blue, the sun was so bright, the water was so +sparkling, the leaves were so green, the flowers were so lovely, and they +heard such singing-birds and saw so many butteries, that everything was +beautiful. This was in fine weather. When it rained, they loved to +watch the falling drops, and to smell the fresh scents. When it blew, it +was delightful to listen to the wind, and fancy what it said, as it came +rushing from its home—where was that, they wondered!—whistling and +howling, driving the clouds before it, bending the trees, rumbling in the +chimneys, shaking the house, and making the sea roar in fury. But, when +it snowed, that was best of all; for, they liked nothing so well as to +look up at the white flakes falling fast and thick, like down from the +breasts of millions of white birds; and to see how smooth and deep the +drift was; and to listen to the hush upon the paths and roads. + +They had plenty of the finest toys in the world, and the most astonishing +picture-books: all about scimitars and slippers and turbans, and dwarfs +and giants and genii and fairies, and blue-beards and bean-stalks and +riches and caverns and forests and Valentines and Orsons: and all new and +all true. + +But, one day, of a sudden, the traveller lost the child. He called to +him over and over again, but got no answer. So, he went upon his road, +and went on for a little while without meeting anything, until at last he +came to a handsome boy. So, he said to the boy, “What do you do here?” +And the boy said, “I am always learning. Come and learn with me.” + +So he learned with that boy about Jupiter and Juno, and the Greeks and +the Romans, and I don’t know what, and learned more than I could tell—or +he either, for he soon forgot a great deal of it. But, they were not +always learning; they had the merriest games that ever were played. They +rowed upon the river in summer, and skated on the ice in winter; they +were active afoot, and active on horseback; at cricket, and all games at +ball; at prisoner’s base, hare and hounds, follow my leader, and more +sports than I can think of; nobody could beat them. They had holidays +too, and Twelfth cakes, and parties where they danced till midnight, and +real Theatres where they saw palaces of real gold and silver rise out of +the real earth, and saw all the wonders of the world at once. As to +friends, they had such dear friends and so many of them, that I want the +time to reckon them up. They were all young, like the handsome boy, and +were never to be strange to one another all their lives through. + +Still, one day, in the midst of all these pleasures, the traveller lost +the boy as he had lost the child, and, after calling to him in vain, went +on upon his journey. So he went on for a little while without seeing +anything, until at last he came to a young man. So, he said to the young +man, “What do you do here?” And the young man said, “I am always in +love. Come and love with me.” + +So, he went away with that young man, and presently they came to one of +the prettiest girls that ever was seen—just like Fanny in the corner +there—and she had eyes like Fanny, and hair like Fanny, and dimples like +Fanny’s, and she laughed and coloured just as Fanny does while I am +talking about her. So, the young man fell in love directly—just as +Somebody I won’t mention, the first time he came here, did with Fanny. +Well! he was teased sometimes—just as Somebody used to be by Fanny; and +they quarrelled sometimes—just as Somebody and Fanny used to quarrel; and +they made it up, and sat in the dark, and wrote letters every day, and +never were happy asunder, and were always looking out for one another and +pretending not to, and were engaged at Christmas-time, and sat close to +one another by the fire, and were going to be married very soon—all +exactly like Somebody I won’t mention, and Fanny! + +But, the traveller lost them one day, as he had lost the rest of his +friends, and, after calling to them to come back, which they never did, +went on upon his journey. So, he went on for a little while without +seeing anything, until at last he came to a middle-aged gentleman. So, +he said to the gentleman, “What are you doing here?” And his answer was, +“I am always busy. Come and be busy with me!” + +So, he began to be very busy with that gentleman, and they went on +through the wood together. The whole journey was through a wood, only it +had been open and green at first, like a wood in spring; and now began to +be thick and dark, like a wood in summer; some of the little trees that +had come out earliest, were even turning brown. The gentleman was not +alone, but had a lady of about the same age with him, who was his Wife; +and they had children, who were with them too. So, they all went on +together through the wood, cutting down the trees, and making a path +through the branches and the fallen leaves, and carrying burdens, and +working hard. + +Sometimes, they came to a long green avenue that opened into deeper +woods. Then they would hear a very little, distant voice crying, +“Father, father, I am another child! Stop for me!” And presently they +would see a very little figure, growing larger as it came along, running +to join them. When it came up, they all crowded round it, and kissed and +welcomed it; and then they all went on together. + +Sometimes, they came to several avenues at once, and then they all stood +still, and one of the children said, “Father, I am going to sea,” and +another said, “Father, I am going to India,” and another, “Father, I am +going to seek my fortune where I can,” and another, “Father, I am going +to Heaven!” So, with many tears at parting, they went, solitary, down +those avenues, each child upon its way; and the child who went to Heaven, +rose into the golden air and vanished. + +Whenever these partings happened, the traveller looked at the gentleman, +and saw him glance up at the sky above the trees, where the day was +beginning to decline, and the sunset to come on. He saw, too, that his +hair was turning grey. But, they never could rest long, for they had +their journey to perform, and it was necessary for them to be always +busy. + +At last, there had been so many partings that there were no children +left, and only the traveller, the gentleman, and the lady, went upon +their way in company. And now the wood was yellow; and now brown; and +the leaves, even of the forest trees, began to fall. + +So, they came to an avenue that was darker than the rest, and were +pressing forward on their journey without looking down it when the lady +stopped. + +“My husband,” said the lady. “I am called.” + +They listened, and they heard a voice a long way down the avenue, say, +“Mother, mother!” + +It was the voice of the first child who had said, “I am going to Heaven!” +and the father said, “I pray not yet. The sunset is very near. I pray +not yet!” + +But, the voice cried, “Mother, mother!” without minding him, though his +hair was now quite white, and tears were on his face. + +Then, the mother, who was already drawn into the shade of the dark avenue +and moving away with her arms still round his neck, kissed him, and said, +“My dearest, I am summoned, and I go!” And she was gone. And the +traveller and he were left alone together. + +And they went on and on together, until they came to very near the end of +the wood: so near, that they could see the sunset shining red before them +through the trees. + +Yet, once more, while he broke his way among the branches, the traveller +lost his friend. He called and called, but there was no reply, and when +he passed out of the wood, and saw the peaceful sun going down upon a +wide purple prospect, he came to an old man sitting on a fallen tree. +So, he said to the old man, “What do you do here?” And the old man said +with a calm smile, “I am always remembering. Come and remember with me!” + +So the traveller sat down by the side of that old man, face to face with +the serene sunset; and all his friends came softly back and stood around +him. The beautiful child, the handsome boy, the young man in love, the +father, mother, and children: every one of them was there, and he had +lost nothing. So, he loved them all, and was kind and forbearing with +them all, and was always pleased to watch them all, and they all honoured +and loved him. And I think the traveller must be yourself, dear +Grandfather, because this what you do to us, and what we do to you. + + + + +THE SCHOOLBOY’S STORY. +[1853] + + +BEING rather young at present—I am getting on in years, but still I am +rather young—I have no particular adventures of my own to fall back upon. +It wouldn’t much interest anybody here, I suppose, to know what a screw +the Reverend is, or what a griffin _she_ is, or how they do stick it into +parents—particularly hair-cutting, and medical attendance. One of our +fellows was charged in his half’s account twelve and sixpence for two +pills—tolerably profitable at six and threepence a-piece, I should +think—and he never took them either, but put them up the sleeve of his +jacket. + + [Picture: Schoolboy with book: illustrated by Fred Walker] + +As to the beef, it’s shameful. It’s _not_ beef. Regular beef isn’t +veins. You can chew regular beef. Besides which, there’s gravy to +regular beef, and you never see a drop to ours. Another of our fellows +went home ill, and heard the family doctor tell his father that he +couldn’t account for his complaint unless it was the beer. Of course it +was the beer, and well it might be! + +However, beef and Old Cheeseman are two different things. So is beer. +It was Old Cheeseman I meant to tell about; not the manner in which our +fellows get their constitutions destroyed for the sake of profit. + +Why, look at the pie-crust alone. There’s no flakiness in it. It’s +solid—like damp lead. Then our fellows get nightmares, and are bolstered +for calling out and waking other fellows. Who can wonder! + +Old Cheeseman one night walked in his sleep, put his hat on over his +night-cap, got hold of a fishing-rod and a cricket-bat, and went down +into the parlour, where they naturally thought from his appearance he was +a Ghost. Why, he never would have done that if his meals had been +wholesome. When we all begin to walk in our sleeps, I suppose they’ll be +sorry for it. + +Old Cheeseman wasn’t second Latin Master then; he was a fellow himself. +He was first brought there, very small, in a post-chaise, by a woman who +was always taking snuff and shaking him—and that was the most he +remembered about it. He never went home for the holidays. His accounts +(he never learnt any extras) were sent to a Bank, and the Bank paid them; +and he had a brown suit twice a-year, and went into boots at twelve. +They were always too big for him, too. + +In the Midsummer holidays, some of our fellows who lived within walking +distance, used to come back and climb the trees outside the playground +wall, on purpose to look at Old Cheeseman reading there by himself. He +was always as mild as the tea—and _that’s_ pretty mild, I should hope!—so +when they whistled to him, he looked up and nodded; and when they said, +“Halloa, Old Cheeseman, what have you had for dinner?” he said, “Boiled +mutton;” and when they said, “An’t it solitary, Old Cheeseman?” he said, +“It is a little dull sometimes:” and then they said, “Well good-bye, Old +Cheeseman!” and climbed down again. Of course it was imposing on Old +Cheeseman to give him nothing but boiled mutton through a whole Vacation, +but that was just like the system. When they didn’t give him boiled +mutton, they gave him rice pudding, pretending it was a treat. And saved +the butcher. + +So Old Cheeseman went on. The holidays brought him into other trouble +besides the loneliness; because when the fellows began to come back, not +wanting to, he was always glad to see them; which was aggravating when +they were not at all glad to see him, and so he got his head knocked +against walls, and that was the way his nose bled. But he was a +favourite in general. Once a subscription was raised for him; and, to +keep up his spirits, he was presented before the holidays with two white +mice, a rabbit, a pigeon, and a beautiful puppy. Old Cheeseman cried +about it—especially soon afterwards, when they all ate one another. + +Of course Old Cheeseman used to be called by the names of all sorts of +cheeses—Double Glo’sterman, Family Cheshireman, Dutchman, North +Wiltshireman, and all that. But he never minded it. And I don’t mean to +say he was old in point of years—because he wasn’t—only he was called +from the first, Old Cheeseman. + +At last, Old Cheeseman was made second Latin Master. He was brought in +one morning at the beginning of a new half, and presented to the school +in that capacity as “Mr. Cheeseman.” Then our fellows all agreed that +Old Cheeseman was a spy, and a deserter, who had gone over to the enemy’s +camp, and sold himself for gold. It was no excuse for him that he had +sold himself for very little gold—two pound ten a quarter and his +washing, as was reported. It was decided by a Parliament which sat about +it, that Old Cheeseman’s mercenary motives could alone be taken into +account, and that he had “coined our blood for drachmas.” The Parliament +took the expression out of the quarrel scene between Brutus and Cassius. + +When it was settled in this strong way that Old Cheeseman was a +tremendous traitor, who had wormed himself into our fellows’ secrets on +purpose to get himself into favour by giving up everything he knew, all +courageous fellows were invited to come forward and enrol themselves in a +Society for making a set against him. The President of the Society was +First boy, named Bob Tarter. His father was in the West Indies, and he +owned, himself, that his father was worth Millions. He had great power +among our fellows, and he wrote a parody, beginning— + + “Who made believe to be so meek + That we could hardly hear him speak, + Yet turned out an Informing Sneak? + Old Cheeseman.” + +—and on in that way through more than a dozen verses, which he used to go +and sing, every morning, close by the new master’s desk. He trained one +of the low boys, too, a rosy-cheeked little Brass who didn’t care what he +did, to go up to him with his Latin Grammar one morning, and say it so: +_Nominativus pronominum_—Old Cheeseman, _raro exprimitur_—was never +suspected, _nisi distinctionis_—of being an informer, _aut emphasis +gratîa_—until he proved one. _Ut_—for instance, _Vos damnastis_—when he +sold the boys. _Quasi_—as though, _dicat_—he should say, _Pretærea +nemo_—I’m a Judas! All this produced a great effect on Old Cheeseman. +He had never had much hair; but what he had, began to get thinner and +thinner every day. He grew paler and more worn; and sometimes of an +evening he was seen sitting at his desk with a precious long snuff to his +candle, and his hands before his face, crying. But no member of the +Society could pity him, even if he felt inclined, because the President +said it was Old Cheeseman’s conscience. + +So Old Cheeseman went on, and didn’t he lead a miserable life! Of course +the Reverend turned up his nose at him, and of course _she_ did—because +both of them always do that at all the masters—but he suffered from the +fellows most, and he suffered from them constantly. He never told about +it, that the Society could find out; but he got no credit for that, +because the President said it was Old Cheeseman’s cowardice. + +He had only one friend in the world, and that one was almost as powerless +as he was, for it was only Jane. Jane was a sort of wardrobe woman to +our fellows, and took care of the boxes. She had come at first, I +believe, as a kind of apprentice—some of our fellows say from a Charity, +but _I_ don’t know—and after her time was out, had stopped at so much a +year. So little a year, perhaps I ought to say, for it is far more +likely. However, she had put some pounds in the Savings’ Bank, and she +was a very nice young woman. She was not quite pretty; but she had a +very frank, honest, bright face, and all our fellows were fond of her. +She was uncommonly neat and cheerful, and uncommonly comfortable and +kind. And if anything was the matter with a fellow’s mother, he always +went and showed the letter to Jane. + +Jane was Old Cheeseman’s friend. The more the Society went against him, +the more Jane stood by him. She used to give him a good-humoured look +out of her still-room window, sometimes, that seemed to set him up for +the day. She used to pass out of the orchard and the kitchen garden +(always kept locked, I believe you!) through the playground, when she +might have gone the other way, only to give a turn of her head, as much +as to say “Keep up your spirits!” to Old Cheeseman. His slip of a room +was so fresh and orderly that it was well known who looked after it while +he was at his desk; and when our fellows saw a smoking hot dumpling on +his plate at dinner, they knew with indignation who had sent it up. + +Under these circumstances, the Society resolved, after a quantity of +meeting and debating, that Jane should be requested to cut Old Cheeseman +dead; and that if she refused, she must be sent to Coventry herself. So +a deputation, headed by the President, was appointed to wait on Jane, and +inform her of the vote the Society had been under the painful necessity +of passing. She was very much respected for all her good qualities, and +there was a story about her having once waylaid the Reverend in his own +study, and got a fellow off from severe punishment, of her own kind +comfortable heart. So the deputation didn’t much like the job. However, +they went up, and the President told Jane all about it. Upon which Jane +turned very red, burst into tears, informed the President and the +deputation, in a way not at all like her usual way, that they were a +parcel of malicious young savages, and turned the whole respected body +out of the room. Consequently it was entered in the Society’s book (kept +in astronomical cypher for fear of detection), that all communication +with Jane was interdicted: and the President addressed the members on +this convincing instance of Old Cheeseman’s undermining. + +But Jane was as true to Old Cheeseman as Old Cheeseman was false to our +fellows—in their opinion, at all events—and steadily continued to be his +only friend. It was a great exasperation to the Society, because Jane +was as much a loss to them as she was a gain to him; and being more +inveterate against him than ever, they treated him worse than ever. At +last, one morning, his desk stood empty, his room was peeped into, and +found to be vacant, and a whisper went about among the pale faces of our +fellows that Old Cheeseman, unable to bear it any longer, had got up +early and drowned himself. + +The mysterious looks of the other masters after breakfast, and the +evident fact that old Cheeseman was not expected, confirmed the Society +in this opinion. Some began to discuss whether the President was liable +to hanging or only transportation for life, and the President’s face +showed a great anxiety to know which. However, he said that a jury of +his country should find him game; and that in his address he should put +it to them to lay their hands upon their hearts and say whether they as +Britons approved of informers, and how they thought they would like it +themselves. Some of the Society considered that he had better run away +until he found a forest where he might change clothes with a wood-cutter, +and stain his face with blackberries; but the majority believed that if +he stood his ground, his father—belonging as he did to the West Indies, +and being worth millions—could buy him off. + +All our fellows’ hearts beat fast when the Reverend came in, and made a +sort of a Roman, or a Field Marshal, of himself with the ruler; as he +always did before delivering an address. But their fears were nothing to +their astonishment when he came out with the story that Old Cheeseman, +“so long our respected friend and fellow-pilgrim in the pleasant plains +of knowledge,” he called him—O yes! I dare say! Much of that!—was the +orphan child of a disinherited young lady who had married against her +father’s wish, and whose young husband had died, and who had died of +sorrow herself, and whose unfortunate baby (Old Cheeseman) had been +brought up at the cost of a grandfather who would never consent to see +it, baby, boy, or man: which grandfather was now dead, and serve him +right—that’s my putting in—and which grandfather’s large property, there +being no will, was now, and all of a sudden and for ever, Old +Cheeseman’s! Our so long respected friend and fellow-pilgrim in the +pleasant plains of knowledge, the Reverend wound up a lot of bothering +quotations by saying, would “come among us once more” that day fortnight, +when he desired to take leave of us himself, in a more particular manner. +With these words, he stared severely round at our fellows, and went +solemnly out. + +There was precious consternation among the members of the Society, now. +Lots of them wanted to resign, and lots more began to try to make out +that they had never belonged to it. However, the President stuck up, and +said that they must stand or fall together, and that if a breach was made +it should be over his body—which was meant to encourage the Society: but +it didn’t. The President further said, he would consider the position in +which they stood, and would give them his best opinion and advice in a +few days. This was eagerly looked for, as he knew a good deal of the +world on account of his father’s being in the West Indies. + +After days and days of hard thinking, and drawing armies all over his +slate, the President called our fellows together, and made the matter +clear. He said it was plain that when Old Cheeseman came on the +appointed day, his first revenge would be to impeach the Society, and +have it flogged all round. After witnessing with joy the torture of his +enemies, and gloating over the cries which agony would extort from them, +the probability was that he would invite the Reverend, on pretence of +conversation, into a private room—say the parlour into which Parents were +shown, where the two great globes were which were never used—and would +there reproach him with the various frauds and oppressions he had endured +at his hands. At the close of his observations he would make a signal to +a Prizefighter concealed in the passage, who would then appear and pitch +into the Reverend, till he was left insensible. Old Cheeseman would then +make Jane a present of from five to ten pounds, and would leave the +establishment in fiendish triumph. + +The President explained that against the parlour part, or the Jane part, +of these arrangements he had nothing to say; but, on the part of the +Society, he counselled deadly resistance. With this view he recommended +that all available desks should be filled with stones, and that the first +word of the complaint should be the signal to every fellow to let fly at +Old Cheeseman. The bold advice put the Society in better spirits, and +was unanimously taken. A post about Old Cheeseman’s size was put up in +the playground, and all our fellows practised at it till it was dinted +all over. + +When the day came, and Places were called, every fellow sat down in a +tremble. There had been much discussing and disputing as to how Old +Cheeseman would come; but it was the general opinion that he would appear +in a sort of triumphal car drawn by four horses, with two livery servants +in front, and the Prizefighter in disguise up behind. So, all our +fellows sat listening for the sound of wheels. But no wheels were heard, +for Old Cheeseman walked after all, and came into the school without any +preparation. Pretty much as he used to be, only dressed in black. + +“Gentlemen,” said the Reverend, presenting him, “our so long respected +friend and fellow-pilgrim in the pleasant plains of knowledge, is +desirous to offer a word or two. Attention, gentlemen, one and all!” + +Every fellow stole his hand into his desk and looked at the President. +The President was all ready, and taking aim at old Cheeseman with his +eyes. + +What did Old Cheeseman then, but walk up to his old desk, look round him +with a queer smile as if there was a tear in his eye, and begin in a +quavering, mild voice, “My dear companions and old friends!” + +Every fellow’s hand came out of his desk, and the President suddenly +began to cry. + +“My dear companions and old friends,” said Old Cheeseman, “you have heard +of my good fortune. I have passed so many years under this roof—my +entire life so far, I may say—that I hope you have been glad to hear of +it for my sake. I could never enjoy it without exchanging +congratulations with you. If we have ever misunderstood one another at +all, pray, my dear boys, let us forgive and forget. I have a great +tenderness for you, and I am sure you return it. I want in the fulness +of a grateful heart to shake hands with you every one. I have come back +to do it, if you please, my dear boys.” + +Since the President had begun to cry, several other fellows had broken +out here and there: but now, when Old Cheeseman began with him as first +boy, laid his left hand affectionately on his shoulder and gave him his +right; and when the President said “Indeed, I don’t deserve it, sir; upon +my honour I don’t;” there was sobbing and crying all over the school. +Every other fellow said he didn’t deserve it, much in the same way; but +Old Cheeseman, not minding that a bit, went cheerfully round to every +boy, and wound up with every master—finishing off the Reverend last. + +Then a snivelling little chap in a corner, who was always under some +punishment or other, set up a shrill cry of “Success to Old Cheeseman! +Hooray!” The Reverend glared upon him, and said, “_Mr._ Cheeseman, sir.” +But, Old Cheeseman protesting that he liked his old name a great deal +better than his new one, all our fellows took up the cry; and, for I +don’t know how many minutes, there was such a thundering of feet and +hands, and such a roaring of Old Cheeseman, as never was heard. + +After that, there was a spread in the dining-room of the most magnificent +kind. Fowls, tongues, preserves, fruits, confectionaries, jellies, +neguses, barley-sugar temples, trifles, crackers—eat all you can and +pocket what you like—all at Old Cheeseman’s expense. After that, +speeches, whole holiday, double and treble sets of all manners of things +for all manners of games, donkeys, pony-chaises and drive yourself, +dinner for all the masters at the Seven Bells (twenty pounds a-head our +fellows estimated it at), an annual holiday and feast fixed for that day +every year, and another on Old Cheeseman’s birthday—Reverend bound down +before the fellows to allow it, so that he could never back out—all at +Old Cheeseman’s expense. + +And didn’t our fellows go down in a body and cheer outside the Seven +Bells? O no! + +But there’s something else besides. Don’t look at the next story-teller, +for there’s more yet. Next day, it was resolved that the Society should +make it up with Jane, and then be dissolved. What do you think of Jane +being gone, though! “What? Gone for ever?” said our fellows, with long +faces. “Yes, to be sure,” was all the answer they could get. None of +the people about the house would say anything more. At length, the first +boy took upon himself to ask the Reverend whether our old friend Jane was +really gone? The Reverend (he has got a daughter at home—turn-up nose, +and red) replied severely, “Yes, sir, Miss Pitt is gone.” The idea of +calling Jane, Miss Pitt! Some said she had been sent away in disgrace +for taking money from Old Cheeseman; others said she had gone into Old +Cheeseman’s service at a rise of ten pounds a year. All that our fellows +knew, was, she was gone. + +It was two or three months afterwards, when, one afternoon, an open +carriage stopped at the cricket field, just outside bounds, with a lady +and gentleman in it, who looked at the game a long time and stood up to +see it played. Nobody thought much about them, until the same little +snivelling chap came in, against all rules, from the post where he was +Scout, and said, “It’s Jane!” Both Elevens forgot the game directly, and +ran crowding round the carriage. It _was_ Jane! In such a bonnet! And +if you’ll believe me, Jane was married to Old Cheeseman. + +It soon became quite a regular thing when our fellows were hard at it in +the playground, to see a carriage at the low part of the wall where it +joins the high part, and a lady and gentleman standing up in it, looking +over. The gentleman was always Old Cheeseman, and the lady was always +Jane. + +The first time I ever saw them, I saw them in that way. There had been a +good many changes among our fellows then, and it had turned out that Bob +Tarter’s father wasn’t worth Millions! He wasn’t worth anything. Bob +had gone for a soldier, and Old Cheeseman had purchased his discharge. +But that’s not the carriage. The carriage stopped, and all our fellows +stopped as soon as it was seen. + +“So you have never sent me to Coventry after all!” said the lady, +laughing, as our fellows swarmed up the wall to shake hands with her. +“Are you never going to do it?” + +“Never! never! never!” on all sides. + +I didn’t understand what she meant then, but of course I do now. I was +very much pleased with her face though, and with her good way, and I +couldn’t help looking at her—and at him too—with all our fellows +clustering so joyfully about them. + +They soon took notice of me as a new boy, so I thought I might as well +swarm up the wall myself, and shake hands with them as the rest did. I +was quite as glad to see them as the rest were, and was quite as familiar +with them in a moment. + +“Only a fortnight now,” said Old Cheeseman, “to the holidays. Who stops? +Anybody?” + +A good many fingers pointed at me, and a good many voices cried “He +does!” For it was the year when you were all away; and rather low I was +about it, I can tell you. + +“Oh!” said Old Cheeseman. “But it’s solitary here in the holiday time. +He had better come to us.” + +So I went to their delightful house, and was as happy as I could possibly +be. They understand how to conduct themselves towards boys, _they_ do. +When they take a boy to the play, for instance, they _do_ take him. They +don’t go in after it’s begun, or come out before it’s over. They know +how to bring a boy up, too. Look at their own! Though he is very little +as yet, what a capital boy he is! Why, my next favourite to Mrs. +Cheeseman and Old Cheeseman, is young Cheeseman. + +So, now I have told you all I know about Old Cheeseman. And it’s not +much after all, I am afraid. Is it? + + + + +NOBODY’S STORY + + +HE lived on the bank of a mighty river, broad and deep, which was always +silently rolling on to a vast undiscovered ocean. It had rolled on, ever +since the world began. It had changed its course sometimes, and turned +into new channels, leaving its old ways dry and barren; but it had ever +been upon the flow, and ever was to flow until Time should be no more. +Against its strong, unfathomable stream, nothing made head. No living +creature, no flower, no leaf, no particle of animate or inanimate +existence, ever strayed back from the undiscovered ocean. The tide of +the river set resistlessly towards it; and the tide never stopped, any +more than the earth stops in its circling round the sun. + +He lived in a busy place, and he worked very hard to live. He had no +hope of ever being rich enough to live a month without hard work, but he +was quite content, GOD knows, to labour with a cheerful will. He was one +of an immense family, all of whose sons and daughters gained their daily +bread by daily work, prolonged from their rising up betimes until their +lying down at night. Beyond this destiny he had no prospect, and he +sought none. + +There was over-much drumming, trumpeting, and speech-making, in the +neighbourhood where he dwelt; but he had nothing to do with that. Such +clash and uproar came from the Bigwig family, at the unaccountable +proceedings of which race, he marvelled much. They set up the strangest +statues, in iron, marble, bronze, and brass, before his door; and +darkened his house with the legs and tails of uncouth images of horses. +He wondered what it all meant, smiled in a rough good-humoured way he +had, and kept at his hard work. + +The Bigwig family (composed of all the stateliest people thereabouts, and +all the noisiest) had undertaken to save him the trouble of thinking for +himself, and to manage him and his affairs. “Why truly,” said he, “I +have little time upon my hands; and if you will be so good as to take +care of me, in return for the money I pay over”—for the Bigwig family +were not above his money—“I shall be relieved and much obliged, +considering that you know best.” Hence the drumming, trumpeting, and +speech-making, and the ugly images of horses which he was expected to +fall down and worship. + +“I don’t understand all this,” said he, rubbing his furrowed brow +confusedly. “But it _has_ a meaning, maybe, if I could find it out.” + +“It means,” returned the Bigwig family, suspecting something of what he +said, “honour and glory in the highest, to the highest merit.” + +“Oh!” said he. And he was glad to hear that. + +But, when he looked among the images in iron, marble, bronze, and brass, +he failed to find a rather meritorious countryman of his, once the son of +a Warwickshire wool-dealer, or any single countryman whomsoever of that +kind. He could find none of the men whose knowledge had rescued him and +his children from terrific and disfiguring disease, whose boldness had +raised his forefathers from the condition of serfs, whose wise fancy had +opened a new and high existence to the humblest, whose skill had filled +the working man’s world with accumulated wonders. Whereas, he did find +others whom he knew no good of, and even others whom he knew much ill of. + +“Humph!” said he. “I don’t quite understand it.” + +So, he went home, and sat down by his fireside to get it out of his mind. + +Now, his fireside was a bare one, all hemmed in by blackened streets; but +it was a precious place to him. The hands of his wife were hardened with +toil, and she was old before her time; but she was dear to him. His +children, stunted in their growth, bore traces of unwholesome nurture; +but they had beauty in his sight. Above all other things, it was an +earnest desire of this man’s soul that his children should be taught. +“If I am sometimes misled,” said he, “for want of knowledge, at least let +them know better, and avoid my mistakes. If it is hard to me to reap the +harvest of pleasure and instruction that is stored in books, let it be +easier to them.” + +But, the Bigwig family broke out into violent family quarrels concerning +what it was lawful to teach to this man’s children. Some of the family +insisted on such a thing being primary and indispensable above all other +things; and others of the family insisted on such another thing being +primary and indispensable above all other things; and the Bigwig family, +rent into factions, wrote pamphlets, held convocations, delivered +charges, orations, and all varieties of discourses; impounded one another +in courts Lay and courts Ecclesiastical; threw dirt, exchanged +pummelings, and fell together by the ears in unintelligible animosity. +Meanwhile, this man, in his short evening snatches at his fireside, saw +the demon Ignorance arise there, and take his children to itself. He saw +his daughter perverted into a heavy, slatternly drudge; he saw his son go +moping down the ways of low sensuality, to brutality and crime; he saw +the dawning light of intelligence in the eyes of his babies so changing +into cunning and suspicion, that he could have rather wished them idiots. + +“I don’t understand this any the better,” said he; “but I think it cannot +be right. Nay, by the clouded Heaven above me, I protest against this as +my wrong!” + +Becoming peaceable again (for his passion was usually short-lived, and +his nature kind), he looked about him on his Sundays and holidays, and he +saw how much monotony and weariness there was, and thence how drunkenness +arose with all its train of ruin. Then he appealed to the Bigwig family, +and said, “We are a labouring people, and I have a glimmering suspicion +in me that labouring people of whatever condition were made—by a higher +intelligence than yours, as I poorly understand it—to be in need of +mental refreshment and recreation. See what we fall into, when we rest +without it. Come! Amuse me harmlessly, show me something, give me an +escape!” + +But, here the Bigwig family fell into a state of uproar absolutely +deafening. When some few voices were faintly heard, proposing to show +him the wonders of the world, the greatness of creation, the mighty +changes of time, the workings of nature and the beauties of art—to show +him these things, that is to say, at any period of his life when he could +look upon them—there arose among the Bigwigs such roaring and raving, +such pulpiting and petitioning, such maundering and memorialising, such +name-calling and dirt-throwing, such a shrill wind of parliamentary +questioning and feeble replying—where “I dare not” waited on “I +would”—that the poor fellow stood aghast, staring wildly around. + +“Have I provoked all this,” said he, with his hands to his affrighted +ears, “by what was meant to be an innocent request, plainly arising out +of my familiar experience, and the common knowledge of all men who choose +to open their eyes? I don’t understand, and I am not understood. What +is to come of such a state of things!” + +He was bending over his work, often asking himself the question, when the +news began to spread that a pestilence had appeared among the labourers, +and was slaying them by thousands. Going forth to look about him, he +soon found this to be true. The dying and the dead were mingled in the +close and tainted houses among which his life was passed. New poison was +distilled into the always murky, always sickening air. The robust and +the weak, old age and infancy, the father and the mother, all were +stricken down alike. + +What means of flight had he? He remained there, where he was, and saw +those who were dearest to him die. A kind preacher came to him, and +would have said some prayers to soften his heart in his gloom, but he +replied: + +“O what avails it, missionary, to come to me, a man condemned to +residence in this foetid place, where every sense bestowed upon me for my +delight becomes a torment, and where every minute of my numbered days is +new mire added to the heap under which I lie oppressed! But, give me my +first glimpse of Heaven, through a little of its light and air; give me +pure water; help me to be clean; lighten this heavy atmosphere and heavy +life, in which our spirits sink, and we become the indifferent and +callous creatures you too often see us; gently and kindly take the bodies +of those who die among us, out of the small room where we grow to be so +familiar with the awful change that even its sanctity is lost to us; and, +Teacher, then I will hear—none know better than you, how willingly—of Him +whose thoughts were so much with the poor, and who had compassion for all +human sorrow!” + +He was at work again, solitary and sad, when his Master came and stood +near to him dressed in black. He, also, had suffered heavily. His young +wife, his beautiful and good young wife, was dead; so, too, his only +child. + +“Master, ’tis hard to bear—I know it—but be comforted. I would give you +comfort, if I could.” + +The Master thanked him from his heart, but, said he, “O you labouring +men! The calamity began among you. If you had but lived more healthily +and decently, I should not be the widowed and bereft mourner that I am +this day.” + +“Master,” returned the other, shaking his head, “I have begun to +understand a little that most calamities will come from us, as this one +did, and that none will stop at our poor doors, until we are united with +that great squabbling family yonder, to do the things that are right. We +cannot live healthily and decently, unless they who undertook to manage +us provide the means. We cannot be instructed unless they will teach us; +we cannot be rationally amused, unless they will amuse us; we cannot but +have some false gods of our own, while they set up so many of theirs in +all the public places. The evil consequences of imperfect instruction, +the evil consequences of pernicious neglect, the evil consequences of +unnatural restraint and the denial of humanising enjoyments, will all +come from us, and none of them will stop with us. They will spread far +and wide. They always do; they always have done—just like the +pestilence. I understand so much, I think, at last.” + +But the Master said again, “O you labouring men! How seldom do we ever +hear of you, except in connection with some trouble!” + +“Master,” he replied, “I am Nobody, and little likely to be heard of (nor +yet much wanted to be heard of, perhaps), except when there is some +trouble. But it never begins with me, and it never can end with me. As +sure as Death, it comes down to me, and it goes up from me.” + +There was so much reason in what he said, that the Bigwig family, getting +wind of it, and being horribly frightened by the late desolation, +resolved to unite with him to do the things that were right—at all +events, so far as the said things were associated with the direct +prevention, humanly speaking, of another pestilence. But, as their fear +wore off, which it soon began to do, they resumed their falling out among +themselves, and did nothing. Consequently the scourge appeared again—low +down as before—and spread avengingly upward as before, and carried off +vast numbers of the brawlers. But not a man among them ever admitted, if +in the least degree he ever perceived, that he had anything to do with +it. + +So Nobody lived and died in the old, old, old way; and this, in the main, +is the whole of Nobody’s story. + +Had he no name, you ask? Perhaps it was Legion. It matters little what +his name was. Let us call him Legion. + +If you were ever in the Belgian villages near the field of Waterloo, you +will have seen, in some quiet little church, a monument erected by +faithful companions in arms to the memory of Colonel A, Major B, Captains +C, D and E, Lieutenants F and G, Ensigns H, I and J, seven +non-commissioned officers, and one hundred and thirty rank and file, who +fell in the discharge of their duty on the memorable day. The story of +Nobody is the story of the rank and file of the earth. They bear their +share of the battle; they have their part in the victory; they fall; they +leave no name but in the mass. The march of the proudest of us, leads to +the dusty way by which they go. O! Let us think of them this year at +the Christmas fire, and not forget them when it is burnt out. + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SOME CHRISTMAS STORIES*** + + +******* This file should be named 1467-0.txt or 1467-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/4/6/1467 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +concept and trademark. 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