Christmas Penny Readings: Original Sketches for the Season

The poor wretch looked imploringly at the figure before him, but there was only a grim smile upon its countenance as it nodded its head; and then, as if in the midst of a storm of snow flakes, Sandy was borne away and away, freezing as he went, now higher, now lower; now close up to some bright window, where he could see merry faces clustering round the fire; now by the humblest cottage, now by the lordly mansion; but see what he would, there was still the black shadow of himself cast upon those two cold figures, and he turned his eyes imploringly from tiny face to tiny face, till all at once he found that they were sailing once more round and round, now higher, now lower, till from sailing round the church the tiny spirits began to settle slowly down more and more in the churchyard, till they left Sandy, stiff and cold, lying between two graves, with the one tall ghostly figure glittering above him.

And now began something more wondrous than ever, for the bright figure glittering in the moonlight began to hover and quiver its long arms and legs above the tailor, and as it shook itself it seemed to fall all away in innumerable other figures, each one its own counterpart, till there was nothing left but the face, which stayed staring right in front.

The old clock struck four, when, groaning with pain and trembling with fear and cold, Sandy Brown slowly raised himself, keeping his eyes fixed upon a stony-faced cherub powdered with snow, which sat upon a tombstone in front, and returned the stare with its stony eyes till Sandy slowly and painfully made his way across the churchyard, leaving his track in the newly fallen snow; while, after an hour or two’s overclouding, the heavens were once more bright and clear, so that when Sandy stood shuddering at his own door he feared to raise the latch, for the moon shone brightly behind him, and he trembled and paused in dread, for he knew where his black shadow would fall.

But in an agony of fear he at length slowly and carefully raised the latch, gazed upon his shadow falling across his wife and child, and then, in the revulsion of feeling to find that they only slept, he staggered for a moment, and as his frightened wife shrieked, he fell to the ground, as if stricken by some mighty blow.

But joy don’t kill, especially at Christmas-time, and when Mrs Brown rose rather late that morning, she could not make out why Sandy was gone out so soon, for his usual custom was to lie half the day in bed after a drinking bout. But Sandy had gone to see about the day’s dinner, and —

But there, Sandy’s home a year after showed the effect of his meeting with the Christmas spirits, for it was well-furnished, and his wife looked happy, plump, and rosy – another woman, in fact; while as to people saying that Sandy fell down drunk in the churchyard, and that it was the little snow storm that he saw, why that’s all nonsense; the story must be true, for a man picked up Sandy’s old hat just by the swing-gate, where it fell off when he felt the spirit’s breath. And as to there being no spirits out at Christmas-time, why I could name no end of them, such as love, gratitude, kindness, gentleness, good humour, and scores more with names, besides all those nameless spirits that cluster round every good, true, and loving heart at Christmas; ay, and at all times. While among those who have listened to this story and thought of its moral, surely there is at this moment that most gracious of spirits – Forbearance.

Chapter Twenty Three

King Boreas

Away with a shout and a shriek from the North,
The host of the Storm King in rage hurries forth;
With the monarch to lead them away o’er the main,
Sweep with whistle and wild shriek the winterly train.

O’er the sea, o’er the waves that spring tossing in wrath,
To fly after the host in a storm of white froth,
Till they dash in their anger on sand-hill and rock,
Or make some ship shiver, and groan with their shock.

Away rush the train with a howl ’mid each cloud,
That no longer moon-silvered floats massive and proud;
But torn by the Storm King, and rent by his crew,
Wild and ragged scuds onward in murkiest hue.

’Mid the rocks, through the caves that o’er ocean’s waves scowl,
Away speeds the King, and his followers howl
As they toss the dark sea-weed, and tear up the sand,
Which flies frightened in drifts at the touch of their hand.

And away, and away, where the forest trees wave,
Where the willow and silver birch drooping boughs lave
In the silver-like stream, in the mossy green vale,
That ere yet the storm cometh breaks forth in a wail.

Now crashing ’mid beech-tops, now rending the oak,
Then laying the larch low with mightiest stroke;
While through the frail willow the storm spirits tear,
And the boughs stream aloft like a maniac’s hair.

Rejoicing and shrieking anew at each feat,
Away o’er the moorlands, away sharp and fleet;
By the cotter’s low hovel, the steep-cresting mill,
To the town by the hill-slope, as yet calm and still.

Bursting now o’er the roofs with a brain-piercing yell,
Round the old abbey towers they mock at each bell
As the past hour’s chimed, when they sweep off the tone,
And away o’er the woodlands the summons has flown.

Again with a shriek, and again with a cry,
The King and his crew keep their revel on high;
They bear the cold snow-drift aloft in their train,
The sleet-darting arrow, and icy North chain.

They bind up the streamlet, they fetter the lake,
The huge rocky mountain they shivering break;
They rage through the forest, they strew the sea-shore,
While the echoing hill-sides resound with their roar.

King Boreas passes, his revel is o’er,
But the waves still in anger toss down by the shore;
The trees lie half broken and torn by the gale,
While the streamlets are fettered and bound in the vale.

Chapter Twenty Four

A Lady in the Case

Well, no, sir, I can’t complain, I’ve risen well in the force, and I’m very well satisfied with my position, but then there’s a great deal of responsibility attached to one’s office, and, I can assure you, police inspectors have something else to do besides sitting still and growing fat. Many a smart young fellow would rise and get to be sergeant, inspector, or super in his turn, but for some little failings that creep out – I have my failings, too, of course, but still somehow I’ve crept up till here I am on the shady side of fifty and busy as ever.

Now you want me to give you an anecdote to put into print, that’s what you want, eh? Well, of course it was easy enough to tell that, and I don’t mind obliging you, for, as you very reasonably say, truth is stranger than fiction. But that disposition to tattle or talk about their business has been the ruin of more than one promising young officer. Now just think for a moment and suppose us to be always ready to talk of the cases we had in hand, where should we be? Marked men would slip us, planned jobs would be stopped, and many a gaol bird, whose tail we want to salt, would be off and escape. Ah, thirty years in the force have shown me some strange sights, and laid bare some curious tricks, all planned for the purpose of getting hold of somebody’s money. I’ve seen and had to do with robbery, and murder, and garrotting, and burking, and suicide, and swindling, and embezzlement, and every kind of felony or larceny you can find a name for.

You know, our part is decidedly, I think, more lively than the city, for with the exception of a good bold robbery now and then at a bank or big gentleman’s, there’s seldom anything much there, while in our part we’re always busy. For somehow or another there’s always so many really clever rascals laying their heads together and making schemes, and then you have something new coming out all at once, like a clap of thunder over the town, and people are very much disgusted because the police have not bad more foresight, when all the while it’s like a game of chess, and though we who play with the white pieces can to a certain extent see through the manoeuvres of black, yet we cannot see through everything as a matter of course.

Now I’m going to tell you of a little affair that happened one Christmas-night about twenty years ago, when I was only number so and so. It was a bright, clear, frosty night; no moon, but plenty of snow had fallen, quite late in the evening, so that the streets were regularly muffled; and in spite of feeling a bit ill-tempered at having to be on duty while other people were enjoying themselves, I could not help thinking of what a seasonable night it was, and how jovial and pleasant every place seemed to look. There were the bright lights and glowing fires, shining ruddy and warm through the drawn curtains; music and laughing might be heard every here and there, and more than once I stopped to hear a sweet voice singing, and felt envious like of the comforts other people enjoyed. Everywhere there seemed jollity and festivity, but in the midst of my growling I could not help recollecting that my beat that night was all in the better part, while down in the slums there was plenty of misery, enough to make even a policeman’s heart sore.

Well, I felt better then, and I went on quietly through the deep snow, now making a little noise where it was a bit trampled, and now stealing along as quietly as could be. Once I caught myself humming a bit of a song I had just heard some one singing, then I whistled a bit, and still I kept on, buttoned up and gloved, thinking how pleasant it would have been spending Christmas at some jolly farm-house in the country, far away from the noise and worry of London.

All at once I came upon a merry party of some half-dozen ladies and gentlemen, just going in at a large house, when one of the gentlemen stopped and gave me quite a cheerer.

“How long are you on for, my man?” he says.

“Six o’clock to-morrow morning, sir.”

“Hum; long hours on a bitter night like this. Bring a glass, John.”

And then I heard him rattle his keys as he says, “stop a minute,” and directly after he came back into the large, handsome hall with a decanter in his hand, while just about the same time the servant brought a wine glass on a little silver tray.

“There, my man,” says the jolly-looking old gentleman, filling me up a glass of wine. “You take care of us, so it’s only fair that we should take care of you. Thank you, my man, I hope I may have good health. There tip it down and have another glass. That’s twenty port, that is, and a couple of glasses of that won’t hurt you. Here, take hold of this lump of cake.”

I didn’t know anything then about twenty port, but I thought I should like twenty glasses of the rich red wine, which trickled down your throat like molten sunshine, and made you feel as if it was a jolly thing to be out on a cold Christmas-night; so I drank my second glass, wishing the pleasant, smiling old chap a merry Christmas, and then next minute, feeling like a new man, I was slowly tramping down the long street.