After this, the idiotic hilarity of the spectators and the disreputable appearance of the hat when recovered appear but of minor importance.
Altogether, what between March winds, April showers, and the entire absence of May flowers, spring is not a success in cities[16]. It is all very well in the country, as I have said, but in towns whose population is anything over ten thousand it most certainly ought to be abolished. In the worlds grim workshops it is like the children out of place. Neither shows to advantage amid the dust and din. It seems so sad to see the little dirt-grimed brats try to play in the noisy courts and muddy streets. Poor little uncared-for, unwanted human atoms, they are not children. Children are bright-eyed, chubby, and shy. These are dingy, screeching elves, their tiny faces seared and withered, their baby laughter cracked and hoarse.
The spring of life and the spring of the year were alike meant to be cradled in the green lap of nature. To us in the town spring brings but its cold winds and drizzling rains. We must seek it among the leafless woods and the brambly lanes, on the heathy moors and the great still hills, if we want to feel its joyous breath and hear its silent voices. There is a glorious freshness in the spring there. The scurrying clouds, the open bleakness, the rushing wind, and the clear bright air thrill one with vague energies and hopes. Life, like the landscape around us, seems bigger, and wider, and freer a rainbow road leading to unknown ends. Through the silvery rents that bar the sky we seem to catch a glimpse of the great hope and grandeur that lies around this little throbbing world, and a breath of its scent is wafted us on the wings of the wild March wind.
Strange thoughts we do not understand are stirring in our hearts. Voices are calling us to some great effort, to some mighty work. But we do not comprehend their meaning yet, and the hidden echoes within us that would reply are struggling, inarticulate and dumb.
We stretch our hands like children to the light, seeking to grasp we know not what[17]. Our thoughts, like the boys thoughts in the Danish song, are very long, long thoughts, and very vague; we cannot see their end.
It must be so. All thoughts that peer outside this narrow world cannot be else than dim and shapeless. The thoughts that we can clearly grasp are very little thoughts that two and two make four that when we are hungry it is pleasant to eat that honesty is the best policy; all greater thoughts are undefined and vast to our poor childish brains. We see but dimly through the mists that roll around our time-girt isle of life, and only hear the distant surging of the great sea beyond.
The Ghost of the Blue Chamber
(My Uncles Story)
(From Told After Supper, 1891)
I dont want to make you fellows nervous, began my uncle in a peculiarly impressive, not to say blood-curdling, tone of voice, and if you would rather that I did not mention it, I wont; but, as a matter of fact, this very house, in which we are now sitting, is haunted.
You dont say that! exclaimed Mr. Coombes.
Whats the use of your saying I dont say it when I have just said it? retorted my uncle somewhat pettishly. You do talk so foolishly. I tell you the house is haunted. Regularly on Christmas Eve the Blue Chamber [they called the room next to the nursery the blue chamber, at my uncles, most of the toilet service being of that shade] is haunted by the ghost of a sinful man a man who once killed a Christmas wait with a lump of coal.
How did he do it? asked Mr. Coombes, with eager anxiousness. Was it difficult?
I do not know how he did it, replied my uncle; he did not explain the process. The wait had taken up a position just inside the front gate, and was singing a ballad. It is presumed that, when he opened his mouth for B flat, the lump of coal was thrown by the sinful man from one of the windows, and that it went down the waits throat and choked him.
You want to be a good shot, but it is certainly worth trying[18], murmured Mr. Coombes thoughtfully.
But that was not his only crime, alas! added my uncle. Prior to that he had killed a solo cornet-player.
No! Is that really a fact? exclaimed Mr. Coombes.
Of course its a fact, answered my uncle testily; at all events, as much a fact as you can expect to get in a case of this sort.
How very captious you are this evening. The circumstantial evidence was overwhelming. The poor fellow, the cornet-player, had been in the neighbourhood barely a month. Old Mr. Bishop, who kept the Jolly Sand Boys at the time, and from whom I had the story, said he had never known a more hard-working and energetic solo cornet-player. He, the cornet-player, only knew two tunes, but Mr. Bishop said that the man could not have played with more vigour, or for more hours in a day, if he had known forty. The two tunes he did play were Annie Laurie and Home, Sweet Home; and as regarded his performance of the former melody, Mr. Bishop said that a mere child could have told what it was meant for.
This musician this poor, friendless artist used to come regularly and play in this street just opposite for two hours every evening. One evening he was seen, evidently in response to an invitation, going into this very house, BUT WAS NEVER SEEN COMING OUT OF IT[19]!
Did the townsfolk try offering any reward for his recovery? asked Mr. Coombes.
Not a hapenny, replied my uncle.
Another summer, continued my uncle, a German band visited here, intending so they announced on their arrival to stay till the autumn.
On the second day from their arrival, the whole company, as fine and healthy a body of men as one could wish to see, were invited to dinner by this sinful man, and, after spending the whole of the next twenty-four hours in bed, left the town a broken and dyspeptic crew; the parish doctor, who had attended them, giving it as his opinion that it was doubtful if they would, any of them, be fit to play an air again[20].
You you dont know the recipe, do you? asked Mr. Coombes.
Unfortunately I do not, replied my uncle; but the chief ingredient was said to have been railway refreshment-room pork-pie.
I forget the mans other crimes, my uncle went on; I used to know them all at one time, but my memory is not what it was[21]. I do not, however, believe I am doing his memory an injustice in believing that he was not entirely unconnected with the death, and subsequent burial, of a gentleman who used to play the harp with his toes; and that neither was he altogether unresponsible for the lonely grave of an unknown stranger who had once visited the neighbourhood, an Italian peasant lad, a performer upon the barrel-organ.
Every Christmas Eve, said my uncle, cleaving with low impressive tones the strange awed silence that, like a shadow, seemed to have slowly stolen into and settled down upon the room, the ghost of this sinful man haunts the Blue Chamber, in this very house. There, from midnight until cock-crow, amid wild muffled shrieks and groans and mocking laughter and the ghostly sound of horrid blows, it does fierce phantom fight with the spirits of the solo cornet-player and the murdered wait, assisted at intervals, by the shades of the German band; while the ghost of the strangled harpist plays mad ghostly melodies with ghostly toes on the ghost of a broken harp.