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A CHRISTMAS TREE
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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!"
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 Thank
you for this really cool personalized Santa letter service. It is by far the best money spent during the holiday season. I will never forget the look on my daughter's face
last Christmas when Santas letter came and mentioned something she did in school last year, that ONLY she (and Santa Claus) would know about! She was so excited to think Santa really watched over her during the year, and I am looking forward to seeing
that look on my granddaughter's face when she is old enough to get
her first personalized Santa letter! Thank you and happy holidays!! - Christy Alice, Tennessee
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You can make Christmas
especially magical this year for a special child in your life by ordering
a personalized Santa letter for him or her. For so many children around the world, receiving letters from Santa Claus is already part of that magic. Make this holiday extra special for that extra special child in your life! A
Personalized Santa Letter brings a smile to every child's face. When they find an envelope in the mailbox addressed to them, you can't help but to smile at their delight!
You
can relax knowing that our years of experience writing personalized Santa
Letters will absolutely amaze your child. Let us show you just how exciting Christmas can be!
Wouldn't you love to see the look on your child's face when they realize Santa Claus has a special message just for them? They will want to read their letter over and over again! They will feel so special! They are special.
Thank you for helping us help the world one child at a time.
Merry Christmas!
Our wonderful, personalized
Santa letters,
Your child is about to receive a
very special and personalized letter from Santa
Claus, a gift they will always treasure.
As they open their letter from Santa, their eyes will
begin to glow and magic will fill the air, a time they will always remember so have your camera
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To
order
yours now, just follow the simple steps!
To
order a personalized letter from Santa Claus, simply fill out the order form on the next page. Santa asks for two of your child's accomplishments from the past year (how easy is that!?), Christmas
wishes, and various other fun tid-bits that only Santa Claus would know about! As an added bonus, you may
also elect to author your own postscript with more specifics, at no
extra charge!! Each letter is printed on festive holiday paper,
signed by Santa Claus, postmarked at the North Pole, and sent no later than December 12th.
Click here to see a sample letter!
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All personalized letters
from Santa Claus ordered by December 12th
will include an authentic postmark from the North Pole. |
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Have you been good this year?
I'm making my list and I'm checking it twice, I'm going to find out who's been naughty or nice.
Please be sure to listen to your parents and eat all of your vegetables, and take out the trash.
And don't forget to brush your teeth!
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Have you been good this year?
I'm making my list and I'm checking it twice, I'm going to find out who's been naughty or nice.
Please be sure to listen to your parents and eat all of your vegetables, and take out the trash.
And don't forget to brush your teeth!
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Help your children
feel great about their accomplishments this year,
& have Santa Claus tell them how truly wonderful they are!!
Merry
Christmas!!
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Letters ordered today will ship no later than December 12th.
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Personalized Christmas message from Santa Claus.
