"You don't believe in ghostsh?"
"No, I don't believe in ghostsh."
"Nor yet in goblinsh?"
"No, nor yet in goblinsh, nor witches, nor nothing of the kind, I
don't," cried Sandy Brown, talking all the while to himself as he was
making his way home from the village alehouse on Christmas-eve. "I'm
the right short I am, and I ain't 'fraid o' nothin', nor I don't care
for nothin', an' I'm aw' right, and rule Britannia never shall be
slaves. I'm a Hinglishman, I am, an' I'm a goin' crosh the churchyard
home, and I'll knock the wind outer any ghosht--azh--azh--azh--you
know--ghosht, and who shaysh it ain't all right? I never shee a ghosht
yet azh could get the better o' me, for I'm a man, I am, a true born
Briton if I am a tailor. And when I getsh to the head of affairsh I'll
do it p'litically, and put a shtop to ghoshts, and all the whole lot of
'em, and my namesh Brown, and I'm a-going home through churchyard I am."
And a very nice man was Sandy Brown, the true born Briton, as he went
rolling along the path that gloriously bright Christmas-eve, when there
were myriads of stars in the East, and the whole heavens above seemed
singing their wondrous eternal chorus--
"The hand that made us is Divine."
The moon shone; the sky was of a deep blue; the stars gemmed the vast
arch like diamonds; ay, and, like the most lustrous of jewels, shone
again the snow and frost from the pure white earth, while from far away
came the northern breeze humming over woodland, down, and lea, turning
everything to ice with its freezing breath, so that river and brook
forgot to flow, and every chimney sent up its incense-like smoke, rising
higher and higher in the frosty air.
The bells had been ringing, and the ringers had shut up the belfry-door.
The curate's and rector's daughters had finished their task, so that
the inside of the church was one great wreath of bright evergreens;
while many a busy housewife was hard at work yet, even though past
twelve, to finish dressing the goose or stoning the plums.
And what a breeze that was that came singing over the hills, sharp,
keen, and blood dancing. Why, it was no use to try and resist it, for
it seemed to make your very heart glow, so that you wanted to hug
everybody and wish them a merry Christmas. Late, yes, it was late, but
there were glaring lights in many a window, and even bright sparks
dancing out of the tops of chimneys, for wasn't it Christmas-eve, and
was not the elder wine simmering in the little warmer, while many a rosy
face grew rosier through making the toast? And there, too, when you
stood by Rudby churchyard and looked at the venerable pile, glittering
with snow and ice in the moonlight, while the smooth, round hillocks lay
covered as it were with white fur for warmth, the scene brought then no
saddening thoughts, for you seemed only gazing upon the happy, peaceful
resting-place of those who enjoyed Christmas in the days of the past.
For it's of no use, you can't help it, it's in the bells, or the wind,
or the time, or something, you must feel jolly at Christmas, whether you
will or no, and though you may set up your back and resist, and all that
sort of thing, it's of no avail, so you may just as well yield with a
good grace, and in making others enjoy themselves, enjoy yourself too.
Selfishness! Bah, it's madness, folly: why, the real--the true
enjoyment of life is making other people happy, but Sandy Brown thought
that making himself the receptacle for more beer than was good for him
was being happy; and Sandy Brown was wrong.
And perhaps you'll say, too, that you don't believe in ghosts, goblins,
and spirits? Hold your tongue, for they're out by the thousand this
Christmas-time, putting noble and bright inspirations into people's
hearts, showing us the sufferings of the poor, and teaching us of the
good that there is room to do in this wicked world of ours. But there,
fie! fie! fie! to call it this wicked world--this great, wondrous,
glorious, beautiful world, if we did not mar its beauty. But there,
it's Christmas-time, when we all think of the coming year, and hopefully
gird up our loins for the new struggle.
Sandy Brown had left his wife and child at home, while he went out to
enjoy himself after his fashion, which was to drink till he grew so
quarrelsome that the landlord turned him out, when he would go home,
beat his wife, and then lay upon the bed and swear.
Ah, he was a nice man, was Sandy, just the fellow to have had in a glass
case to show as a specimen of a free-born Briton--of the man who never
would be a slave--to anything but his own vile passions.
It was very bleak at Sandy's cottage that night, for the coals were
done, and there was no wood. Little Polly could not sleep for the cold,
and her mother eat shivering over the fire trying to warm the little
thing, who cried piteously, as did its mother. There were no
preparations for spending a happy Christmas there, but poor Mrs Brown,
pale, young, and of the trusting heart, sat watching and waiting till
her lord and master should choose to return.
"There," said Sandy, blundering through the swing-gate and standing in
the churchyard. "Who'sh afraid? Where'sh yer ghosh--eh?"
"Hallo!" said a voice at his elbow, while it seemed that a cold, icy,
chilling breath swept over his cheek.
"Where'sh yer ghosh?" cried Sandy, startled and half sober already.
"Don't make such a noise, man, we're all here," said the voice, "come
along."
"Eh?" cried Sandy, now quite sober and all of a shiver, for a cold
breath seemed to have gone right through him, and he looked behind him
on each side and then in front, but there was nothing visible but the
glittering snow--covered graves and tombstones sparkling in the
brilliant moonlight.
"Bah!" cried Sandy, "I don't believe--"
"Yes, you do," said the same voice, and again the cold breath seemed to
go through Sandy and amongst his hair, so that it lifted his hat,
already half off, and it fell to the ground.
"N-n-no, I don't," cried Sandy, trying to start off in a run, but he
stopped short, for just in front of him stood a bright, glittering,
white figure, apparently made of snow, only that it had jolly rosy
cheeks, and a pair of the keenest eyes ever seen.
"Yes, you do, Sandy Brown," said the same voice, "and so don't
contradict. Bring him along."
In a moment, before he could turn himself, there came a rushing sound
like when the wintry breeze plunges into a heap of leaves, and whirls
and rustles them away, when Sandy felt himself turned in a moment as it
were to ice, and then rising higher and higher as he was borne round and
round for some distance; when in the midst of myriads of tiny,
glittering, snow-like figures, he was carried all at once right over the
church; while like a beam of light the figures swept on after him as now
rising, now falling, then circling, he was at last wafted round and
round the old church, till he was placed upon the tower top, and like a
swarm of bees in summer, the tiny figures came clustering and humming
round him till they were all settled.
"Let me go home, please," cried Sandy, as soon as he could speak, but
before the last word was well said, the first figure he had seen clapped
its hand upon his mouth, when the tailor's jaw seemed to freeze stiff,
so that he could not move his jaw.
"How dare you?" cried the spirit angrily.
"Dare I what?" Sandy said with his eyes.
"Profane good words," cried the spirit, in answer. "How dare you talk
about home, when you have murdered it, and cast the guardian spirit out?
Freeze him. But there, stop a bit."
Hundreds of the little fellows round had been about to make a dash at
Sandy, but they fell back once more, and the tailor sat immoveable.
"There, look there," said the cold voice; "that's what you have spoilt."
And Sandy began to weep bitterly, so that his tears froze and fell in
little hard pellets of ice on to the snow before him, for he was looking
upon the happy little home he had once had before he took to drinking,
and watching in the humble but comfortable spot the busy wife preparing
for the next day's Christmas feast, while he, busy and active, was
finishing some work to take back.
"Now, look," cried the cold voice, and in an instant the scene had
changed from light to darkness, for he could see his own dissipated,
ragged self standing in the open door of his cottage, with the moonlight
casting his shadow across the figure of his wife, lying cold and pale,
with her child clasped to her breast. The black shadow--his shadow--the
gloomy shade of her life cast upon her; and in speechless agony Sandy
tried to shriek, for it seemed that she was dead--that they were dead,
frozen in the bitter night while waiting for him.
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.