Chapter Twenty One.

Chapter Twenty One.A Spirit of the Past.Of course they were—the good old times, or, as Macaulay has it, “the brave days of old.” Things are not now as they used to be; and mind, O reader, these are not my words, but those of a patriarch. Things are not as they used to be; the theatres even have not the casts now that they had fifty years since; those were the fine old coaching times, when team after team started from the old Post-office in style. There were beaux and bucks, and men of spirit then—men who could dress, and spent their money as it should be spent. Gambling, duelling, and such spirited affairs were common, and really, there can be no doubt of it, times are altered.I am foolish enough to think for the better—but then I am only a unit,—and I think so in spite of the incessant mess the railway, gas, water, telegraph, pneumatic, and all the other companies are making of our streets. One cannot help admiring our monster hotels, gigantic railway schemes, palatial warehouses, etcetera, etcetera, but then we miss many of our delightful old institutions. Where are the dustmen’s bells of our childhood? Surely those polished articles in our railway stations, always reposing upon a wooden block when one is at a distance, but which our approach seems to be the signal for the “stout porters” to seize and jangle harshly in our ears—surely those are not the “bells, bells, bells” so familiar of old. Where are the organs with the waltzing figures turning round and round to the ground-up music of Strauss or Weber, then in their popularity? Where the people who so horrified our diaper pinafore-encased bosom by walking upon stilts to the accompaniment of drum and Pan pipes? Where the ancient glories of Jack in the Green and Guido Fawkes? Where are numbers of our old street friends who seem gone, while Punch alone seems immortal, and comes out yearly with fresh paint covering his battered old phiz? Certainly we had in the street “twopence more and up goes the donkey,” though no man had the good fortune to be present when the twopence more was arrived at, and the miserable asinine quadruped was elevated upon the ladder and balanced upon its owner’s chin—certainly we had that; but after all said and done, how our acrobats have improved, how much brighter are the spangles, how much better greased the hair and developed the muscles. Look at that tub feat, or the man balanced upon the pole, of course an improved donkey trick. Look at—look at the length of thy article, oh! writer.It seems only yesterday, but some years have passed now since we used to lie in bed of a cold, dark winter’s morning, and listen to the prolonged rattle of the sweep’s brush upon some chimney-pot far on high, and then hear the miserable little fellow’s doleful “halloo, halloo, halloo,” by way of announcement that he had achieved his task, and had head and shoulders right out of the pot. And it seems only yesterday, too, that, by special favour, our household Betty allowed me to descend and see the sweeps do the kitchen chimney, when I stood trembling in presence of our blackened visitors and the smoke-jack, and then saw the great black pall fastened before the fireplace with three forks, when the sooty boy covered his head and face with a cap, grinning diabolically at me before he eclipsed his features, and then by the light of the blackened tallow candle I saw him disappear behind the cloth.That was quite enough, and I could stand no more, but turned and fled upstairs, feeling convinced that he would never come down again.And it really was but yesterday, comparatively speaking, when, in the depth of winter, a few days before Christmas, Mrs Scribe and self were staying at a friend’s house in Lower Bleak Street, Grimgreen Square, close by Glower Street, North. I had a cold whose effect was to make me insufferably hot and feverish, and as I lay in bed, somewhere about what seemed the middle of the night, by which I mean the middle of one’s sleeping night, not twelve o’clock, when one has just plunged into bed—about the middle of the night, while I was dreaming of being where there were rows upon rows of lights, through which I was being somehow propelled at the risk of being dashed against an indescribable object, while my hands were apparently swelling out to a large size, and I was in a wild, semi-delirious dream, from which it was a charity to wake me, I felt my arm roughly grasped, and a well-known voice whispered in my ear—“Are you awake?”As soon as I could collect myself and make sure that I really was in the required state, I said, “Yes.” But that was not until some few seconds had passed.“Only listen, dear,” there’s some one in the room, the voice whispered again in an agitated manner.“Pooh, nonsense,” I said perversely, “I know that. There’s been some one all night.” And then I stopped short, for though I knew that I had fastened the door when we came to bed, I could hear a gentle rustling noise, as of some one in a silk dress slowly gliding about the room very slowly, and then coming to a stop, and apparently agitating the robe, when again the rustling began, and it appeared just opposite the foot of our bed.“What shall we do?” gasped Mrs Scribe in a smothered voice, from beneath the clothes.I didn’t know, so of course I could not tell her. I knew what I ought to do, which was to have leaped boldly out of bed, and grappled the intruder, but then the rustling was like that of a silk dress, and if a ghost, of course it was of the feminine gender, and one could not help studying decorum.“Hadn’t you better get up and see what it is?” said Mrs S, accompanying the remark with a touch from her elbow.“I’m in such a perspiration, I daren’t stir,” I whispered. “Remember what a cold I have.” And how I blessed that cold just then, for to a man not too brave in his constitution, it did seem such a neat creephole, for if one is no hero to his valet, one likes to be somebody in the eyes of a wife. But still I must confess to a horrible dread of ghosts, owing no doubt to the fact, that in our old house in Pimlico, where I dwelt till the age of five, there was a huge black bogie who had his habitat in the cellar, and though I never saw him, I was assured of his existence upon the competent authority of both maids, and consequently always had a wholesome dread of the coal-scuttle and the coals, over which he must have walked.“But what shall we do?” whispered Mrs Scribe again. “You really must get out, dear.”Which was likely, wasn’t it, to jump out of bed in the dark on purpose to attack an unseen form in a rustling silk dress, creeping and gliding about apparently by the wall? Why, to have attacked a ghost one could have seen would have been bad enough, but in the dark when it could take one at such disadvantage, it was not to be thought of, so I said by way of compromise—“Stop a minute,” and there I lay listening to the horrible, creeping, gliding, rustling noise. Ah! I could see it all plainly enough in my imagination. We were in one of the old houses of the past century, and here no doubt there had been a lady murdered after betrayal, and concealed behind the wainscot. And now I remembered a peculiar smell there was in the place when we entered it, a smell that I could not name then, but which I know now, from having experienced it in the British Museum—it was a mummy. There it was, all as plain as could be, a tall slight figure in a brocaded silk dress extended with hoops, short sleeves, and long lace trimmings hanging over the soft well rounded arms; and there she was with her hair built right up, and secured by a great comb, slowly gliding along by the wall, not on the floor, but some feet up, and slowly rising higher and higher towards the ceiling.All at once I fancied she turned her face to me, and, horror of horrors, it was fleshless—nothing but the gaping sockets of the eyeballs, and the grinning white teeth of a skull, and then I could bear no more, but tried to cover my eyes with my hands, but found they did not need the cover as the clothes were already to a certain extent over them. I solemnly protest, however, that this must have been the act of Mrs Scribe, for I could not have done such a thing.This convinced me that I could not have seen the figure, so I raised myself upon my elbow, urged thereto by the words of Mrs S, who exclaimed—“Do pray get up, dear, or I shall faint.”“I wish you would,” I muttered to myself, but then, thinking of the cruelty of the remark, I added, “or go to sleep,” and then I tried to pierce the thick darkness, but found that I was unable even to distinguish the parts of the bedstead, and there, all the while, was the noise, “rustle, rustle, rustle”—then a stoppage, and a sound as if a hand beat against the wall, and at last the rustling quite ceased, and was succeeded by a peculiar scraping sound, at times quite loud, and then dying away, or stopping, and seeming as if it was not in the room at all.“Is it gone?” whispered Mrs S, and then, as I did not answer, and she could not hear any noise, sitting up in bed by my side, “Oh! how dreadful it is—isn’t it, dear?” she whispered. “Pray do get up and see what it can be.”The catarrh had made me so weak, and preyed so upon my nerves, that I was obliged to take refuge again under my cold, and plead perspiration and sudden check, and then, with the exception of the grating noise, all seemed quiet; and I was about thinking of lying down again, when “rustle, rustle,” came the sound again, and Mrs S collapsed, that is to say, sank beneath the clothes, while I—well Ididn’tleap out of bed, and try to grapple with our nocturnal visitant. I knew there were matches upon the table, and I remembered exactly where the candle stood, but I put it to the reader, who could get out of bed and try to light a candle when there was a ghost in the room in a brocaded silk dress, rustling about from place to place, and seeming as if the floor was no necessity at all, for sometimes the noise came from far up, and sometimes from low down; and at last, as I sat there in a regular Turkish Bath, minus the shampooing, it seemed that the tall figure I imagined to be there gliding about by the wall grew shorter and shorter until but a foot high, then a few inches, and at last it was upon a level with the floor, and then the noise grew fainter and fainter, and at last was gone entirely, leaving a deep silence as intense as the darkness which closed us in upon all sides.With what a sigh of relief I fell back in the bed, and exclaimed—“She’s gone?”“Then get up and light the candle, dear,” exclaimed Mrs S; but suffering as I was from catarrh, I might have made myself worse—at all events, such a proceeding would have been imprudent—so I lay quite still, thinking that, perhaps, after all, it was but a delusion and a snare, and that I might be attacked as soon as I got out of bed; or even if the ghost were gone, might she not come back again?It was of no use though. I fought hard, but some women are so powerful in their arguments; and before ten minutes had passed, I was standing shivering by the dressing-table, fumbling about after the matches, which I could not find until I had knocked over the candlestick and a scent-bottle, and then put my foot upon one of the broken pieces. Then, when I opened the box and took hold of a match, it would come off all diabolical and phosphorescent upon my fingers, but no light could I get. Sometimes it was the wrong end I was rubbing upon the sand-paper; sometimes the head came off, and I could see it shining like a tiny star upon the carpet. The beastly things would not light upon the looking-glass, nor yet upon the table; but after I can’t say how many tries, I managed to get a light, though it went out again in an instant, and there I stood trembling and expecting to be clutched by a cold hand or to be dragged back.Light at last though, for, drying my damp hands as well as I could, I tried again by rubbing the match upon the paper of the wall, and then, though the candle would not ignite with the extinguisher upon it, yet I managed to get it well alight at last, and then tremblingly began to search the room.The door was fast, and at the first glance there was nothing to be seen anywhere; but I examined behind the curtains, beneath the bed, in the cupboard, and, as a last resource, up the chimney, and found—nothing.“Why, it was fancy,” I said, quite boldly, putting down the candle upon the dressing-table, and looking at my watch, which, for the moment, I made sure was wrong, for it pointed to seven.“Don’t put out the candle,” said Mrs S, and I left it burning; but I had hard work to make her believe it was so late.“But not another night will I stop,” she exclaimed. “I could not bear it, for my nerves would be completely shattered if I had to put up with this long. The place must be haunted.”Hot water and daylight put a stop to the dissertation which we had upon the subject, and soon after—that is to say, about nine o’clock—we made our way to the breakfast-parlour, where our host and hostess did not appear for another quarter of an hour, and then it was nearly half an hour more before we began breakfast, on account of delays in the kitchen relating to toast, eggs, bacon, hot water, and other necessaries for the matutinal repast.“You see, it happened so unfortunately,” said our hostess; “but I’m sure you will look over it, as we wanted to be all clear for Christmas-day.”“Oh, don’t name it,” said Mrs S; “we are often later than this, for Mr S will keep such late hours, especially if he is interested in anything he is reading or writing.”“I’m sure I need not ask if you both slept comfortably,” said our hostess, “for you both look so well.”“Hem!” said Mrs Scribe; and I supplemented her cough with another much louder.“Surely the bed was not damp,” exclaimed our hostess.“Oh, no,” said Mrs S; “but—but—er—did you ever hear any particular noise about the house of a night?”Our hostess shook her head, and then looked at me, but my face appeared so placid and happy, that she looked back at Mrs S, who was telegraphing for me to speak.“No,” said our host, putting down his letters, “no, I don’t think we are much troubled with noises here of a night. I often thought I should like a good haunted house. But surely you heard nothing?”“Oh, yes,” said my wife, excitedly; “but pray ask Mr S—he will explain;” and she again telegraphed for me to act as chief speaker.“Well, what was it, Scribe?” exclaimed our host. “What did you hear?”“What did I hear?” I said, for I had smelt out the rat—or the soot. “Oh, I heard nothing but the sweeps.”Mrs S looked daggers.

Of course they were—the good old times, or, as Macaulay has it, “the brave days of old.” Things are not now as they used to be; and mind, O reader, these are not my words, but those of a patriarch. Things are not as they used to be; the theatres even have not the casts now that they had fifty years since; those were the fine old coaching times, when team after team started from the old Post-office in style. There were beaux and bucks, and men of spirit then—men who could dress, and spent their money as it should be spent. Gambling, duelling, and such spirited affairs were common, and really, there can be no doubt of it, times are altered.

I am foolish enough to think for the better—but then I am only a unit,—and I think so in spite of the incessant mess the railway, gas, water, telegraph, pneumatic, and all the other companies are making of our streets. One cannot help admiring our monster hotels, gigantic railway schemes, palatial warehouses, etcetera, etcetera, but then we miss many of our delightful old institutions. Where are the dustmen’s bells of our childhood? Surely those polished articles in our railway stations, always reposing upon a wooden block when one is at a distance, but which our approach seems to be the signal for the “stout porters” to seize and jangle harshly in our ears—surely those are not the “bells, bells, bells” so familiar of old. Where are the organs with the waltzing figures turning round and round to the ground-up music of Strauss or Weber, then in their popularity? Where the people who so horrified our diaper pinafore-encased bosom by walking upon stilts to the accompaniment of drum and Pan pipes? Where the ancient glories of Jack in the Green and Guido Fawkes? Where are numbers of our old street friends who seem gone, while Punch alone seems immortal, and comes out yearly with fresh paint covering his battered old phiz? Certainly we had in the street “twopence more and up goes the donkey,” though no man had the good fortune to be present when the twopence more was arrived at, and the miserable asinine quadruped was elevated upon the ladder and balanced upon its owner’s chin—certainly we had that; but after all said and done, how our acrobats have improved, how much brighter are the spangles, how much better greased the hair and developed the muscles. Look at that tub feat, or the man balanced upon the pole, of course an improved donkey trick. Look at—look at the length of thy article, oh! writer.

It seems only yesterday, but some years have passed now since we used to lie in bed of a cold, dark winter’s morning, and listen to the prolonged rattle of the sweep’s brush upon some chimney-pot far on high, and then hear the miserable little fellow’s doleful “halloo, halloo, halloo,” by way of announcement that he had achieved his task, and had head and shoulders right out of the pot. And it seems only yesterday, too, that, by special favour, our household Betty allowed me to descend and see the sweeps do the kitchen chimney, when I stood trembling in presence of our blackened visitors and the smoke-jack, and then saw the great black pall fastened before the fireplace with three forks, when the sooty boy covered his head and face with a cap, grinning diabolically at me before he eclipsed his features, and then by the light of the blackened tallow candle I saw him disappear behind the cloth.

That was quite enough, and I could stand no more, but turned and fled upstairs, feeling convinced that he would never come down again.

And it really was but yesterday, comparatively speaking, when, in the depth of winter, a few days before Christmas, Mrs Scribe and self were staying at a friend’s house in Lower Bleak Street, Grimgreen Square, close by Glower Street, North. I had a cold whose effect was to make me insufferably hot and feverish, and as I lay in bed, somewhere about what seemed the middle of the night, by which I mean the middle of one’s sleeping night, not twelve o’clock, when one has just plunged into bed—about the middle of the night, while I was dreaming of being where there were rows upon rows of lights, through which I was being somehow propelled at the risk of being dashed against an indescribable object, while my hands were apparently swelling out to a large size, and I was in a wild, semi-delirious dream, from which it was a charity to wake me, I felt my arm roughly grasped, and a well-known voice whispered in my ear—

“Are you awake?”

As soon as I could collect myself and make sure that I really was in the required state, I said, “Yes.” But that was not until some few seconds had passed.

“Only listen, dear,” there’s some one in the room, the voice whispered again in an agitated manner.

“Pooh, nonsense,” I said perversely, “I know that. There’s been some one all night.” And then I stopped short, for though I knew that I had fastened the door when we came to bed, I could hear a gentle rustling noise, as of some one in a silk dress slowly gliding about the room very slowly, and then coming to a stop, and apparently agitating the robe, when again the rustling began, and it appeared just opposite the foot of our bed.

“What shall we do?” gasped Mrs Scribe in a smothered voice, from beneath the clothes.

I didn’t know, so of course I could not tell her. I knew what I ought to do, which was to have leaped boldly out of bed, and grappled the intruder, but then the rustling was like that of a silk dress, and if a ghost, of course it was of the feminine gender, and one could not help studying decorum.

“Hadn’t you better get up and see what it is?” said Mrs S, accompanying the remark with a touch from her elbow.

“I’m in such a perspiration, I daren’t stir,” I whispered. “Remember what a cold I have.” And how I blessed that cold just then, for to a man not too brave in his constitution, it did seem such a neat creephole, for if one is no hero to his valet, one likes to be somebody in the eyes of a wife. But still I must confess to a horrible dread of ghosts, owing no doubt to the fact, that in our old house in Pimlico, where I dwelt till the age of five, there was a huge black bogie who had his habitat in the cellar, and though I never saw him, I was assured of his existence upon the competent authority of both maids, and consequently always had a wholesome dread of the coal-scuttle and the coals, over which he must have walked.

“But what shall we do?” whispered Mrs Scribe again. “You really must get out, dear.”

Which was likely, wasn’t it, to jump out of bed in the dark on purpose to attack an unseen form in a rustling silk dress, creeping and gliding about apparently by the wall? Why, to have attacked a ghost one could have seen would have been bad enough, but in the dark when it could take one at such disadvantage, it was not to be thought of, so I said by way of compromise—

“Stop a minute,” and there I lay listening to the horrible, creeping, gliding, rustling noise. Ah! I could see it all plainly enough in my imagination. We were in one of the old houses of the past century, and here no doubt there had been a lady murdered after betrayal, and concealed behind the wainscot. And now I remembered a peculiar smell there was in the place when we entered it, a smell that I could not name then, but which I know now, from having experienced it in the British Museum—it was a mummy. There it was, all as plain as could be, a tall slight figure in a brocaded silk dress extended with hoops, short sleeves, and long lace trimmings hanging over the soft well rounded arms; and there she was with her hair built right up, and secured by a great comb, slowly gliding along by the wall, not on the floor, but some feet up, and slowly rising higher and higher towards the ceiling.

All at once I fancied she turned her face to me, and, horror of horrors, it was fleshless—nothing but the gaping sockets of the eyeballs, and the grinning white teeth of a skull, and then I could bear no more, but tried to cover my eyes with my hands, but found they did not need the cover as the clothes were already to a certain extent over them. I solemnly protest, however, that this must have been the act of Mrs Scribe, for I could not have done such a thing.

This convinced me that I could not have seen the figure, so I raised myself upon my elbow, urged thereto by the words of Mrs S, who exclaimed—

“Do pray get up, dear, or I shall faint.”

“I wish you would,” I muttered to myself, but then, thinking of the cruelty of the remark, I added, “or go to sleep,” and then I tried to pierce the thick darkness, but found that I was unable even to distinguish the parts of the bedstead, and there, all the while, was the noise, “rustle, rustle, rustle”—then a stoppage, and a sound as if a hand beat against the wall, and at last the rustling quite ceased, and was succeeded by a peculiar scraping sound, at times quite loud, and then dying away, or stopping, and seeming as if it was not in the room at all.

“Is it gone?” whispered Mrs S, and then, as I did not answer, and she could not hear any noise, sitting up in bed by my side, “Oh! how dreadful it is—isn’t it, dear?” she whispered. “Pray do get up and see what it can be.”

The catarrh had made me so weak, and preyed so upon my nerves, that I was obliged to take refuge again under my cold, and plead perspiration and sudden check, and then, with the exception of the grating noise, all seemed quiet; and I was about thinking of lying down again, when “rustle, rustle,” came the sound again, and Mrs S collapsed, that is to say, sank beneath the clothes, while I—well Ididn’tleap out of bed, and try to grapple with our nocturnal visitant. I knew there were matches upon the table, and I remembered exactly where the candle stood, but I put it to the reader, who could get out of bed and try to light a candle when there was a ghost in the room in a brocaded silk dress, rustling about from place to place, and seeming as if the floor was no necessity at all, for sometimes the noise came from far up, and sometimes from low down; and at last, as I sat there in a regular Turkish Bath, minus the shampooing, it seemed that the tall figure I imagined to be there gliding about by the wall grew shorter and shorter until but a foot high, then a few inches, and at last it was upon a level with the floor, and then the noise grew fainter and fainter, and at last was gone entirely, leaving a deep silence as intense as the darkness which closed us in upon all sides.

With what a sigh of relief I fell back in the bed, and exclaimed—

“She’s gone?”

“Then get up and light the candle, dear,” exclaimed Mrs S; but suffering as I was from catarrh, I might have made myself worse—at all events, such a proceeding would have been imprudent—so I lay quite still, thinking that, perhaps, after all, it was but a delusion and a snare, and that I might be attacked as soon as I got out of bed; or even if the ghost were gone, might she not come back again?

It was of no use though. I fought hard, but some women are so powerful in their arguments; and before ten minutes had passed, I was standing shivering by the dressing-table, fumbling about after the matches, which I could not find until I had knocked over the candlestick and a scent-bottle, and then put my foot upon one of the broken pieces. Then, when I opened the box and took hold of a match, it would come off all diabolical and phosphorescent upon my fingers, but no light could I get. Sometimes it was the wrong end I was rubbing upon the sand-paper; sometimes the head came off, and I could see it shining like a tiny star upon the carpet. The beastly things would not light upon the looking-glass, nor yet upon the table; but after I can’t say how many tries, I managed to get a light, though it went out again in an instant, and there I stood trembling and expecting to be clutched by a cold hand or to be dragged back.

Light at last though, for, drying my damp hands as well as I could, I tried again by rubbing the match upon the paper of the wall, and then, though the candle would not ignite with the extinguisher upon it, yet I managed to get it well alight at last, and then tremblingly began to search the room.

The door was fast, and at the first glance there was nothing to be seen anywhere; but I examined behind the curtains, beneath the bed, in the cupboard, and, as a last resource, up the chimney, and found—nothing.

“Why, it was fancy,” I said, quite boldly, putting down the candle upon the dressing-table, and looking at my watch, which, for the moment, I made sure was wrong, for it pointed to seven.

“Don’t put out the candle,” said Mrs S, and I left it burning; but I had hard work to make her believe it was so late.

“But not another night will I stop,” she exclaimed. “I could not bear it, for my nerves would be completely shattered if I had to put up with this long. The place must be haunted.”

Hot water and daylight put a stop to the dissertation which we had upon the subject, and soon after—that is to say, about nine o’clock—we made our way to the breakfast-parlour, where our host and hostess did not appear for another quarter of an hour, and then it was nearly half an hour more before we began breakfast, on account of delays in the kitchen relating to toast, eggs, bacon, hot water, and other necessaries for the matutinal repast.

“You see, it happened so unfortunately,” said our hostess; “but I’m sure you will look over it, as we wanted to be all clear for Christmas-day.”

“Oh, don’t name it,” said Mrs S; “we are often later than this, for Mr S will keep such late hours, especially if he is interested in anything he is reading or writing.”

“I’m sure I need not ask if you both slept comfortably,” said our hostess, “for you both look so well.”

“Hem!” said Mrs Scribe; and I supplemented her cough with another much louder.

“Surely the bed was not damp,” exclaimed our hostess.

“Oh, no,” said Mrs S; “but—but—er—did you ever hear any particular noise about the house of a night?”

Our hostess shook her head, and then looked at me, but my face appeared so placid and happy, that she looked back at Mrs S, who was telegraphing for me to speak.

“No,” said our host, putting down his letters, “no, I don’t think we are much troubled with noises here of a night. I often thought I should like a good haunted house. But surely you heard nothing?”

“Oh, yes,” said my wife, excitedly; “but pray ask Mr S—he will explain;” and she again telegraphed for me to act as chief speaker.

“Well, what was it, Scribe?” exclaimed our host. “What did you hear?”

“What did I hear?” I said, for I had smelt out the rat—or the soot. “Oh, I heard nothing but the sweeps.”

Mrs S looked daggers.

Chapter Twenty Two.A Goblin Ditty.“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.

“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 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.

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 howlAs 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 laveIn 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 bellAs 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.

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 howlAs 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 laveIn 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 bellAs 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.

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 howlAs 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 laveIn 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 bellAs 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.As I told you, in places I went along as quiet as a mouse, when I suppose it was about one o’clock that, in the middle of one street, I came all at once upon a tall, well-dressed young fellow inside some area railings, same as you may have seen, sometimes, where, beside the rails, the top of the area is all covered with iron bars, which make it like the top of a cage; while, as a matter of course, you can walk up to the dining-room windows.Well, that’s what this young fellow had done; and, as I went quietly up, there he was, close up, resting one foot on a ledge of the stucco, while one hand was on the sill of the open parlour window.“Hallo!” I said quietly, for I had taken my gentleman quite by surprise; and I felt very good-tempered and comfortable from the effects of those two glasses of sunshine; so “Hallo!” I said, “what is it?” knowing all the while that I must have my gentleman, for he was regularly caged, and looking at me through the bars.“Hush!” he said, not in the least taken aback; “Hush! hold your tongue: there’s a lady in the case. Here, catch hold, and be off, there’s a good fellow;” and then he gave me half-a-crown.Now, seeing that it was light enough for me to make out that he was a well-dressed, smart-looking young chap, I took the half-crown, and as it didn’t seem to be part of my work to interfere with a bit of billing and cooing, I went on, leaving my friend whispering to some one inside.“All right, my fine fellow,” I said to myself, turning it over in my mind; “All right, but I don’t mean to be done if there’s anything else on the way.” So I went slowly on, and turned the corner; and then, knowing that my steps couldn’t be heard, I slipped into a doorway, and made myself as small as I could.Well, I hadn’t been there a minute before I fancied I heard a sound like somebody sneezing, and trying to smother it down; and then my heart beat a little heavier, for I knew there was something more than a lady in the case; while, as I stood squeezed up there, I could make out my friend coming along by the shadow sent forward by the gas-lamp just round the corner. At last, very slowly he peeped round to look along the street where I was, but he could make nothing out, for I kept very snug in my doorway; though, if he had only come down half-a-dozen yards, he must have seen me, for there was a light burning over the door.But the very openness of the place concealed me, and I breathed easier again as I made out by the shadow that he was going back.“My turn now,” I said; and then, going down on hands and knees, I crawled quietly and quickly over the snow, and had my peep round the corner after him, when there he was, slipping along as fast as he could go. “Stop a minute, my boy,” I said, and then I runs as hard as I could down two streets to where I knew I must meet our sergeant and another man; for, you see, we all have our points to cross one another at certain times of the night, so that one man acts as a check on another; and the sergeant soon knows that, if a man’s not at his place, there’s either something wrong or the constable’s neglecting his duty.Just as I thought, there were the sergeant and the man, and the next minute we were going over my ground again, so as to pass along the street and come up to the open window, as I did at first. They were close behind me when I reached the street, and down on my knees I went again, held my hat behind me, crept to the end of the railings, and peeped like a boy playing “whoop.”“All right,” I whispered back to the sergeant, for there was my friend at the other corner down on his hands and knees peeping round too, and watching for me to come back again.Well, we sent our man back through the mews behind the houses to try and catch the watcher, while the sergeant and I crawled very quietly along close to the railings towards the open-windowed house, and next moment we were safe in the doorway, when I saw a head pop back from the open window as we came up; and so did the sergeant—by the way he nipped my arm. But there, we waited quiet and still for our other man to do his work and take number one, as I’ll call the generous half-crown gentleman, when we meant to take proceedings against the one or two inside.About five minutes slipped away very slowly when the sergeant whispered, “He’s a very long time!” But the words were hardly out of his mouth before we heard some one coming down the street as hard as he could run, with another in full chase. So we let the first come on without our showing ourselves, when, as he came near the open window, he gave a low, peculiar whistle—one which was replied to from inside by a sort of warning chirrup. But, if meant for a warning, it was of no use, for, stooping in the shadow of the railings, we darted out just at the right moment, tripped my amorous friend up; and, though he tried to jump clear, it was of no use, for down he went, over and over in the snow, our other man a-top of him, and then we had the “darbies” on him in a moment.“I hope we shan’t alarm that lady that’s in the case,” I said to my friend, as we hauled him up into the doorway; and then with another pair of bracelets we fastened him tight to the scraper, where he was quite safe till we liked to take him off.“Hum,” said the sergeant; then, looking at me and chuckling, as he stood brushing the snow off the knees of his trousers; “Hum, that’s the cock bird, Jones, but I’m afraid the hen will prove rather tough.”“Yes,” I says, “and I’m afraid there’ll be one or two awkward chicks as well.”The next thing the sergeant did was to ring well at the door after sending another man, who now came up, round to the mews at the back to be on the look-out for escaping in that direction; and then, as he climbed over the railings to get at the parlour window, we heard a most tremendous screaming.“Come now, there is a lady in the case after all,” said the sergeant; and then, telling our other man to mind the prisoner, he made ready to get in at the window, where all looked very uncomfortably dark and treacherous.“Shall I go first?” I said, all in a fidget at the same time lest he should say “Yes,” for I don’t mind owning that it looked uncommonly like putting one’s head in a trap to go in at that window; and I felt a bit nervous, if not frightened.The next moment I was over the railings too; and, holding my bull’s-eye so as to throw all the light into the room I could, when in went the sergeant, and directly after, almost before you could say “Jack Robinson,” there was a bit of a scuffle and the sound of a heavy blow, and some one went down with a crash; while, as I leaned forward and held in my light, I just caught a glimpse of some one, and at the same moment a heavy, numbing blow came down on my hand, and the lanthorn was knocked out, and fell with a clang under my feet in the area, while the silence which followed showed me plainly enough that it was not the lady in the case who had been knocked down, but the sergeant.“Now, my lad,” I said to the other policeman, as I stood rubbing and shaking my hand, “one of us must go in; sergeant’s down, safe.”“Well,” he said, “you’ve been longest in the force, you’d best go.”“Wrong,” I said; “you were in before me.”“Well, but,” he said, “I’m a married man, and you ain’t.”“Wrong again,” I said; “I’m married, and have two little ones.”Well, perhaps, you’ll say it was cowardly not to have dashed in at once to help the sergeant. Perhaps it was; but, mind you, all this didn’t take many seconds, as we whispered together; and, besides, I knew well enough that I should be taken at a disadvantage; for, though I couldn’t see him, I was sure enough that there was a fellow armed with a life-preserver or a poker just behind the large window-curtain, so I wanted to plan a bit. And, mind you, I didn’t want to go; but, as my fellow-constable did not seem disposed, and I stood close to the window, there was nothing for it, but to take off my great coat and jump in. So I drew out my staff, when my fingers were so numbed that I could hardly hold it; and then I said to myself, “Now for it, my boy;” when, making plenty of noise, I tried a very stale old trick—one that I didn’t for a moment expect would take; and I tell you what I did. I got my fellow-constable’s bull’s-eye, opened it, and set it on the window-sill, so that the light was shining into the room, and then in went one leg, and I made believe to be jumping in with a rush; but, instead of doing so, I pushed in my hat as far as I could reach on the end of my staff, when “bang, crash,” down came something right on the hat, beating my staff out of my hand, and making my fingers tingle again, it came so hard.That was my time, though, and I leaped in so quickly that, before there was time for another cut, I had tight hold of somebody, and there I was engaged in the fiercest struggle I ever had. There were the chairs knocking here, there, and everywhere, while I could feel somebody’s hot breath against my neck as, locked together, we swayed backwards and forwards. Once I was forced right back upon the dining-room table, but I sprang up again, and the next moment, whoever it was I struggled with had his head through the glass; while, as to the darkness, it was something fearful, for the lanthorn was knocked over, and only shone just in one corner by the floor. Jangle went a piano once as I was forced back on to it, and then the noise grew louder, for I could hear above the wild beast, worrying noise we made, the people upstairs screaming worse than ever.“Well, there must be help come soon,” I thought, as now down, now up, we struggled on. I wanted to shout to my fellow-constable to come in, as he was not wanted outside, but I suppose he did not like the job of getting in, for he did not attempt to come, while as to calling him, I could just as soon have flown, for my adversary seemed quite satisfied with my company, and held on by my throat so tightly, that I was almost choked.All at once, for about the sixth time, I tumbled over the sergeant, and this time down I went undermost, while my head came against one of those tin-plate warmers, and made the most outrageous noise you ever heard in your life. Well, this rather shook the sense out of me, tin being rather a hard metal to catch your head against—so hard, that it seemed to me to quite strike fire, and then taking advantage of my being a little beaten down, this fellow got his hand inside my stock, when what with the blow and the pressure of his knuckles in my throat, lights began to dance before my eyes, and I felt about done. However, it seemed to me to be now not a struggle for capture or escape, but for life and death, and in the last despair of the moment, I got hold of the fellow’s hand between my teeth, and hung on like a bull terrier.How long this lasted I can’t say; but I remember hearing a crash, and seeing the flashed light of a bull’s-eye, when my lord rolled off me, and then through a sort of mist I could just see the sergeant’s face looking all bloody, while directly after the light of the lanthorn was thrown two or three times upon my face.“How are you, my lad?” said the sergeant.But I didn’t tell him, for the simple reason that I could not just then, but lay as still as could be, feeling afraid of tumbling, for the room appeared to be spinning round as fast as possible.“How are you, my lad?” said the sergeant again directly after, but this time a little way off, and then I heard the “click, click” of the handcuffs, as he made them fast round my dear friend’s wrists.But I did not answer then; for though the room had left off spinning so hard, my tongue seemed to have turned sulky, and would not speak, though it was not my fault a bit. One feeling, however, did seem to come upon me now strong, and that was that I should like to have a look at the man on the floor, though not an inch could I move right or left.Well, seeing that I could not answer, the sergeant called in the outside man, and then after a look round the room, he went and opened the dining-room door, and called out:—“Come down, and bring a light. We are the police.”But before he had well said the words, there came a bang like thunder, and I could hear shot go rattling down the passage.“Here, I say! confound you; what are you doing?” shouted the sergeant. “Don’t you hear? We’re the police.” When, bad as I was, I could not help laughing to see the way our poor sergeant jumped. Though certainly it was enough to make him, you’ll say.After a few minutes a miserable looking old gentleman, in a dressing gown, came shivering down with one of those great brass blunderbusses in one hand, and a candlestick in the other.“Keep back,” the old gentleman cried; “it’s loaded again.”“Then the sooner you uncock it the better,” said our sergeant; “or else, perhaps, you’ll be making another mistake. But now, if you’ll go with me, we will just let the other man in,” and then he went and shut down the window, and drew the curtains across.But the old gentleman seemed so scared, that he could hardly tell friends from enemies, and he did not appear to like the idea of the front door being opened, for nearly all the sense seemed frightened out of him. However, he followed the sergeant, and they unlocked the door, let down the chain, and slipped back the bolts, and then after unlocking the darby, they lugged in my friend who said there was a lady in the case, brought him into the dining-room, and set him in an easy-chair in the corner. The sergeant then set light to a pair of candles on the chimney-piece, when I could see all that went on, for I could neither move nor speak yet.“Slip round to the station for more help, and the stretcher,” said the sergeant; and my fellow-constable went, though the old gentleman didn’t seem to like it, and asked if it was safe to be left with the two burglars.Then the sergeant came and stooped over me again, and asked me how I was; but all I could do was to look hard in his face, and wink both my eyes.Just then he asked the old gentleman if he had a drop of brandy in the house, when a decanter was brought out, and a glass held to my lips, and a few drops seemed to revive me so, that I was able to sit up, when the sergeant and the old gentleman between them got me upon a sofa, where I lay quite still and felt better.“Dear me, dear me,” said the old gentleman: “I don’t like my house being turned into a hospital.”“P’raps not,” said the sergeant; “but if it hadn’t been for that poor fellow, you might have looked queer.”Hearing the old fellow grumble seemed to rouse me, and I still went on listening.“It’s been a stiff fight, sir,” said the sergeant; “and that young fellow—”“And you, sergeant,” I said feebly.“Oh, come; that’s cheering,” said he with a pleasant look, which went right over his shining face.You can’t tell how pleased I felt to be able to use my tongue once more, but there was no work in me, and there I lay watching the sergeant give a look at the two prisoners, and examine the handcuffs to see that all was right, when all at once the fellow I had such a struggle with, sprang up and fetched the sergeant the most savage of kicks in the knee—one which sent him staggering back—when, in spite of all that has been said about the police using their staves, I’m sure no one could have blamed that sergeant for bringing his staff down on the fellow’s head, and striking him to the ground, where, as he lay, I had a good look at him.And a nice specimen of humanity he looked—a great six-foot fellow, strong as a horse, while my impression is that, if the sergeant had not come so opportunely to my aid, you would not have heard this story. But the fellow was tolerably knocked about. Ah! and so was the sergeant, while, no doubt, I should have been stunned at first if the chap had not been taken in by my shallow trick.A nice little affair that was, and I saw that I had only just got up in time, for there were two carpet-bags on the floor crammed full of plate—silver dishes and tea and coffee pots, while all the small parts were filled out with forks and spoons.All at once the old gentleman, who had been shivering about as far off the burglars as he could, seemed to catch sight of my half-crown gentleman’s face—a face that he had not appeared so far to be very proud of, for he had kept it hung down over his waistcoat the greater part of the time—when all at once the old gentleman stood still and exclaimed:—“Why, you scoundrel, it’s you, is it?” and the fellow only shrunk down more of a heap, while the old gentleman was so enraged, that he made believe to shoot the rascal with his blunderbuss, when the sergeant made no more ado, but went and took it away from him.“Come, you know,” said the sergeant; “I see you won’t be happy till you’ve done some one a mischief with that pretty little plaything. Oh, he was your footman, was he, and you discharged him for drunkenness, did you, a month ago? Well, I’m not surprised a bit.”Just then three of our men came in, and they walked off our two gaol-birds at once, and then I got hold of the sergeant’s arm, and found I could walk.“Take a little more brandy,” said the old gentleman, and he poured out with a shaking hand about half a wine-glassful, when after I had drunk it he said again:“You’re a brave fellow, and there’s something to drink my health with.”I thanked him, and then we two walked out together, and stood on the pavement amongst the snow, listening to the old gentleman and the servants locking and bolting the door after us.“Well,” said the sergeant; “I think, my lad, we’ve done our night’s work, and after reporting at the station, we’ll go off duty for a day or two; for my head is in a queer state,” and then he lifted his hat, pressed his hand upon it, and looked at the blood-smeared palm under the lamp. “But what did the old fellow give you?”I opened my hand and looked, for I had not cared to look before; in fact, I was so stupid then, and dizzy, that I felt no interest in the money.“Just what I expected,” exclaimed the sergeant; “Sixpence! Well, some men have consciences.”It was a week before the sergeant was pronounced fit for duty, but it took me a fortnight to get right; while our friends had fourteen years each. I’ve often thought of the way I spent that Christmas-night—the roughest I ever did pass; but then you see, there was 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.

As I told you, in places I went along as quiet as a mouse, when I suppose it was about one o’clock that, in the middle of one street, I came all at once upon a tall, well-dressed young fellow inside some area railings, same as you may have seen, sometimes, where, beside the rails, the top of the area is all covered with iron bars, which make it like the top of a cage; while, as a matter of course, you can walk up to the dining-room windows.

Well, that’s what this young fellow had done; and, as I went quietly up, there he was, close up, resting one foot on a ledge of the stucco, while one hand was on the sill of the open parlour window.

“Hallo!” I said quietly, for I had taken my gentleman quite by surprise; and I felt very good-tempered and comfortable from the effects of those two glasses of sunshine; so “Hallo!” I said, “what is it?” knowing all the while that I must have my gentleman, for he was regularly caged, and looking at me through the bars.

“Hush!” he said, not in the least taken aback; “Hush! hold your tongue: there’s a lady in the case. Here, catch hold, and be off, there’s a good fellow;” and then he gave me half-a-crown.

Now, seeing that it was light enough for me to make out that he was a well-dressed, smart-looking young chap, I took the half-crown, and as it didn’t seem to be part of my work to interfere with a bit of billing and cooing, I went on, leaving my friend whispering to some one inside.

“All right, my fine fellow,” I said to myself, turning it over in my mind; “All right, but I don’t mean to be done if there’s anything else on the way.” So I went slowly on, and turned the corner; and then, knowing that my steps couldn’t be heard, I slipped into a doorway, and made myself as small as I could.

Well, I hadn’t been there a minute before I fancied I heard a sound like somebody sneezing, and trying to smother it down; and then my heart beat a little heavier, for I knew there was something more than a lady in the case; while, as I stood squeezed up there, I could make out my friend coming along by the shadow sent forward by the gas-lamp just round the corner. At last, very slowly he peeped round to look along the street where I was, but he could make nothing out, for I kept very snug in my doorway; though, if he had only come down half-a-dozen yards, he must have seen me, for there was a light burning over the door.

But the very openness of the place concealed me, and I breathed easier again as I made out by the shadow that he was going back.

“My turn now,” I said; and then, going down on hands and knees, I crawled quietly and quickly over the snow, and had my peep round the corner after him, when there he was, slipping along as fast as he could go. “Stop a minute, my boy,” I said, and then I runs as hard as I could down two streets to where I knew I must meet our sergeant and another man; for, you see, we all have our points to cross one another at certain times of the night, so that one man acts as a check on another; and the sergeant soon knows that, if a man’s not at his place, there’s either something wrong or the constable’s neglecting his duty.

Just as I thought, there were the sergeant and the man, and the next minute we were going over my ground again, so as to pass along the street and come up to the open window, as I did at first. They were close behind me when I reached the street, and down on my knees I went again, held my hat behind me, crept to the end of the railings, and peeped like a boy playing “whoop.”

“All right,” I whispered back to the sergeant, for there was my friend at the other corner down on his hands and knees peeping round too, and watching for me to come back again.

Well, we sent our man back through the mews behind the houses to try and catch the watcher, while the sergeant and I crawled very quietly along close to the railings towards the open-windowed house, and next moment we were safe in the doorway, when I saw a head pop back from the open window as we came up; and so did the sergeant—by the way he nipped my arm. But there, we waited quiet and still for our other man to do his work and take number one, as I’ll call the generous half-crown gentleman, when we meant to take proceedings against the one or two inside.

About five minutes slipped away very slowly when the sergeant whispered, “He’s a very long time!” But the words were hardly out of his mouth before we heard some one coming down the street as hard as he could run, with another in full chase. So we let the first come on without our showing ourselves, when, as he came near the open window, he gave a low, peculiar whistle—one which was replied to from inside by a sort of warning chirrup. But, if meant for a warning, it was of no use, for, stooping in the shadow of the railings, we darted out just at the right moment, tripped my amorous friend up; and, though he tried to jump clear, it was of no use, for down he went, over and over in the snow, our other man a-top of him, and then we had the “darbies” on him in a moment.

“I hope we shan’t alarm that lady that’s in the case,” I said to my friend, as we hauled him up into the doorway; and then with another pair of bracelets we fastened him tight to the scraper, where he was quite safe till we liked to take him off.

“Hum,” said the sergeant; then, looking at me and chuckling, as he stood brushing the snow off the knees of his trousers; “Hum, that’s the cock bird, Jones, but I’m afraid the hen will prove rather tough.”

“Yes,” I says, “and I’m afraid there’ll be one or two awkward chicks as well.”

The next thing the sergeant did was to ring well at the door after sending another man, who now came up, round to the mews at the back to be on the look-out for escaping in that direction; and then, as he climbed over the railings to get at the parlour window, we heard a most tremendous screaming.

“Come now, there is a lady in the case after all,” said the sergeant; and then, telling our other man to mind the prisoner, he made ready to get in at the window, where all looked very uncomfortably dark and treacherous.

“Shall I go first?” I said, all in a fidget at the same time lest he should say “Yes,” for I don’t mind owning that it looked uncommonly like putting one’s head in a trap to go in at that window; and I felt a bit nervous, if not frightened.

The next moment I was over the railings too; and, holding my bull’s-eye so as to throw all the light into the room I could, when in went the sergeant, and directly after, almost before you could say “Jack Robinson,” there was a bit of a scuffle and the sound of a heavy blow, and some one went down with a crash; while, as I leaned forward and held in my light, I just caught a glimpse of some one, and at the same moment a heavy, numbing blow came down on my hand, and the lanthorn was knocked out, and fell with a clang under my feet in the area, while the silence which followed showed me plainly enough that it was not the lady in the case who had been knocked down, but the sergeant.

“Now, my lad,” I said to the other policeman, as I stood rubbing and shaking my hand, “one of us must go in; sergeant’s down, safe.”

“Well,” he said, “you’ve been longest in the force, you’d best go.”

“Wrong,” I said; “you were in before me.”

“Well, but,” he said, “I’m a married man, and you ain’t.”

“Wrong again,” I said; “I’m married, and have two little ones.”

Well, perhaps, you’ll say it was cowardly not to have dashed in at once to help the sergeant. Perhaps it was; but, mind you, all this didn’t take many seconds, as we whispered together; and, besides, I knew well enough that I should be taken at a disadvantage; for, though I couldn’t see him, I was sure enough that there was a fellow armed with a life-preserver or a poker just behind the large window-curtain, so I wanted to plan a bit. And, mind you, I didn’t want to go; but, as my fellow-constable did not seem disposed, and I stood close to the window, there was nothing for it, but to take off my great coat and jump in. So I drew out my staff, when my fingers were so numbed that I could hardly hold it; and then I said to myself, “Now for it, my boy;” when, making plenty of noise, I tried a very stale old trick—one that I didn’t for a moment expect would take; and I tell you what I did. I got my fellow-constable’s bull’s-eye, opened it, and set it on the window-sill, so that the light was shining into the room, and then in went one leg, and I made believe to be jumping in with a rush; but, instead of doing so, I pushed in my hat as far as I could reach on the end of my staff, when “bang, crash,” down came something right on the hat, beating my staff out of my hand, and making my fingers tingle again, it came so hard.

That was my time, though, and I leaped in so quickly that, before there was time for another cut, I had tight hold of somebody, and there I was engaged in the fiercest struggle I ever had. There were the chairs knocking here, there, and everywhere, while I could feel somebody’s hot breath against my neck as, locked together, we swayed backwards and forwards. Once I was forced right back upon the dining-room table, but I sprang up again, and the next moment, whoever it was I struggled with had his head through the glass; while, as to the darkness, it was something fearful, for the lanthorn was knocked over, and only shone just in one corner by the floor. Jangle went a piano once as I was forced back on to it, and then the noise grew louder, for I could hear above the wild beast, worrying noise we made, the people upstairs screaming worse than ever.

“Well, there must be help come soon,” I thought, as now down, now up, we struggled on. I wanted to shout to my fellow-constable to come in, as he was not wanted outside, but I suppose he did not like the job of getting in, for he did not attempt to come, while as to calling him, I could just as soon have flown, for my adversary seemed quite satisfied with my company, and held on by my throat so tightly, that I was almost choked.

All at once, for about the sixth time, I tumbled over the sergeant, and this time down I went undermost, while my head came against one of those tin-plate warmers, and made the most outrageous noise you ever heard in your life. Well, this rather shook the sense out of me, tin being rather a hard metal to catch your head against—so hard, that it seemed to me to quite strike fire, and then taking advantage of my being a little beaten down, this fellow got his hand inside my stock, when what with the blow and the pressure of his knuckles in my throat, lights began to dance before my eyes, and I felt about done. However, it seemed to me to be now not a struggle for capture or escape, but for life and death, and in the last despair of the moment, I got hold of the fellow’s hand between my teeth, and hung on like a bull terrier.

How long this lasted I can’t say; but I remember hearing a crash, and seeing the flashed light of a bull’s-eye, when my lord rolled off me, and then through a sort of mist I could just see the sergeant’s face looking all bloody, while directly after the light of the lanthorn was thrown two or three times upon my face.

“How are you, my lad?” said the sergeant.

But I didn’t tell him, for the simple reason that I could not just then, but lay as still as could be, feeling afraid of tumbling, for the room appeared to be spinning round as fast as possible.

“How are you, my lad?” said the sergeant again directly after, but this time a little way off, and then I heard the “click, click” of the handcuffs, as he made them fast round my dear friend’s wrists.

But I did not answer then; for though the room had left off spinning so hard, my tongue seemed to have turned sulky, and would not speak, though it was not my fault a bit. One feeling, however, did seem to come upon me now strong, and that was that I should like to have a look at the man on the floor, though not an inch could I move right or left.

Well, seeing that I could not answer, the sergeant called in the outside man, and then after a look round the room, he went and opened the dining-room door, and called out:—

“Come down, and bring a light. We are the police.”

But before he had well said the words, there came a bang like thunder, and I could hear shot go rattling down the passage.

“Here, I say! confound you; what are you doing?” shouted the sergeant. “Don’t you hear? We’re the police.” When, bad as I was, I could not help laughing to see the way our poor sergeant jumped. Though certainly it was enough to make him, you’ll say.

After a few minutes a miserable looking old gentleman, in a dressing gown, came shivering down with one of those great brass blunderbusses in one hand, and a candlestick in the other.

“Keep back,” the old gentleman cried; “it’s loaded again.”

“Then the sooner you uncock it the better,” said our sergeant; “or else, perhaps, you’ll be making another mistake. But now, if you’ll go with me, we will just let the other man in,” and then he went and shut down the window, and drew the curtains across.

But the old gentleman seemed so scared, that he could hardly tell friends from enemies, and he did not appear to like the idea of the front door being opened, for nearly all the sense seemed frightened out of him. However, he followed the sergeant, and they unlocked the door, let down the chain, and slipped back the bolts, and then after unlocking the darby, they lugged in my friend who said there was a lady in the case, brought him into the dining-room, and set him in an easy-chair in the corner. The sergeant then set light to a pair of candles on the chimney-piece, when I could see all that went on, for I could neither move nor speak yet.

“Slip round to the station for more help, and the stretcher,” said the sergeant; and my fellow-constable went, though the old gentleman didn’t seem to like it, and asked if it was safe to be left with the two burglars.

Then the sergeant came and stooped over me again, and asked me how I was; but all I could do was to look hard in his face, and wink both my eyes.

Just then he asked the old gentleman if he had a drop of brandy in the house, when a decanter was brought out, and a glass held to my lips, and a few drops seemed to revive me so, that I was able to sit up, when the sergeant and the old gentleman between them got me upon a sofa, where I lay quite still and felt better.

“Dear me, dear me,” said the old gentleman: “I don’t like my house being turned into a hospital.”

“P’raps not,” said the sergeant; “but if it hadn’t been for that poor fellow, you might have looked queer.”

Hearing the old fellow grumble seemed to rouse me, and I still went on listening.

“It’s been a stiff fight, sir,” said the sergeant; “and that young fellow—”

“And you, sergeant,” I said feebly.

“Oh, come; that’s cheering,” said he with a pleasant look, which went right over his shining face.

You can’t tell how pleased I felt to be able to use my tongue once more, but there was no work in me, and there I lay watching the sergeant give a look at the two prisoners, and examine the handcuffs to see that all was right, when all at once the fellow I had such a struggle with, sprang up and fetched the sergeant the most savage of kicks in the knee—one which sent him staggering back—when, in spite of all that has been said about the police using their staves, I’m sure no one could have blamed that sergeant for bringing his staff down on the fellow’s head, and striking him to the ground, where, as he lay, I had a good look at him.

And a nice specimen of humanity he looked—a great six-foot fellow, strong as a horse, while my impression is that, if the sergeant had not come so opportunely to my aid, you would not have heard this story. But the fellow was tolerably knocked about. Ah! and so was the sergeant, while, no doubt, I should have been stunned at first if the chap had not been taken in by my shallow trick.

A nice little affair that was, and I saw that I had only just got up in time, for there were two carpet-bags on the floor crammed full of plate—silver dishes and tea and coffee pots, while all the small parts were filled out with forks and spoons.

All at once the old gentleman, who had been shivering about as far off the burglars as he could, seemed to catch sight of my half-crown gentleman’s face—a face that he had not appeared so far to be very proud of, for he had kept it hung down over his waistcoat the greater part of the time—when all at once the old gentleman stood still and exclaimed:—

“Why, you scoundrel, it’s you, is it?” and the fellow only shrunk down more of a heap, while the old gentleman was so enraged, that he made believe to shoot the rascal with his blunderbuss, when the sergeant made no more ado, but went and took it away from him.

“Come, you know,” said the sergeant; “I see you won’t be happy till you’ve done some one a mischief with that pretty little plaything. Oh, he was your footman, was he, and you discharged him for drunkenness, did you, a month ago? Well, I’m not surprised a bit.”

Just then three of our men came in, and they walked off our two gaol-birds at once, and then I got hold of the sergeant’s arm, and found I could walk.

“Take a little more brandy,” said the old gentleman, and he poured out with a shaking hand about half a wine-glassful, when after I had drunk it he said again:

“You’re a brave fellow, and there’s something to drink my health with.”

I thanked him, and then we two walked out together, and stood on the pavement amongst the snow, listening to the old gentleman and the servants locking and bolting the door after us.

“Well,” said the sergeant; “I think, my lad, we’ve done our night’s work, and after reporting at the station, we’ll go off duty for a day or two; for my head is in a queer state,” and then he lifted his hat, pressed his hand upon it, and looked at the blood-smeared palm under the lamp. “But what did the old fellow give you?”

I opened my hand and looked, for I had not cared to look before; in fact, I was so stupid then, and dizzy, that I felt no interest in the money.

“Just what I expected,” exclaimed the sergeant; “Sixpence! Well, some men have consciences.”

It was a week before the sergeant was pronounced fit for duty, but it took me a fortnight to get right; while our friends had fourteen years each. I’ve often thought of the way I spent that Christmas-night—the roughest I ever did pass; but then you see, there was a Lady in the Case.

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