CHRISTMAS TALES—CLASSICAL TALES OF WONDER—THE HOST'S GHOST—A TALE OF A SHADOW—A TALE OF A BOGLE—THE LEGEND OF ST. LAURA  
     Jane... We'll draw round
     The fire, and grandmamma perhaps will tell us
     One of her stories.
 
     Harry... Ay, dear grand maamma!
     A pretty story! something dismal¹ now!
     A bloody² murder.
 
     Jane... Or about a ghost.
 
     —Southey: The Grandmother's Fate.
In the evening Miss Gryll said to the doctor, 'We have passed Christmas without a ghost story. This is not as it should be. One evening at least of Christmas ought to be devoted³ to merveilleuses histoires racontées autour du foyer; which Chateaubriand enumerates⁴ among the peculiar⁵ enjoyments⁶ of those qui n'ont pas quitté leur pays natal⁷. You must have plenty of ghosts in Greek and Latin, doctor.'
 
The Rev⁸. Dr. Opimian. No doubt. All literature abounds⁹ with ghosts. But there are not many classical ghosts that would make a Christmas tale according to the received notion of a ghost story. The ghosts of Patroclus in Homer, of Darius in Æschylus, of Polydorus in Euripides, are fine poetical¹⁰ ghosts: but none of them would make a ghost story. I can only call to mind one such story in Greek: but even that, as it has been turned into ballads¹¹ by Goethe, in the Bride of Corinth, and by Lewis, in the Gay Gold Ring,{1}
 
     1 Lewis says, in a note on the Gay Gold Ring:—'I once
     read in some Grecian author, whose name I have forgotten,
     the story which suggested to me the outline of the foregoing
     ballad¹². It was as follows: A young man arriving at the house
     of a friend, to whose daughter he was betrothed¹³, was
     informed that some weeks had passed since death had deprived
     him of his intended bride. Never having seen her, he soon
     reconciled himself to her loss, especially as, during his
     stay at his friend's house, a young lady was kind enough to
     visit him every night in his chamber¹⁴, whence she retired¹⁵ at
     daybreak, always carrying with her some valuable present
     from her lover. This intercourse¹⁶ continued till accident
     showed the young man the picture of his deceased bride, and
     he recognised, with horror, the features of his nocturnal
     visitor. The young lady's tomb being opened, he found in it
     the various presents which his liberality had bestowed¹⁷ on
     his unknown innamorata.'—M. G. Lewis: Tales of Wonder,
     v. i. p. 99.
would not be new to any one here. There are some classical tales of wonder, not ghost stories, but suitable Christmas tales. There are two in Petronius, which I once amused myself by translating as closely as possible to the originals, and, if you please, I will relate them as I remember them. For I hold with Chaucer:
 
     Whoso shall telle a tale after a man,
     He most reherse, as nigh as ever he can,
     Everich word, if it be in his charge,
     All speke he never so rudely and so large:
     Or elles he moste tellen his tale untrewe,
     Or feinen things, or finden wordes newe.{1}
 
     1 Canterbury Tales, w. 733-738.
This proposal being received with an unanimous 'By all means, doctor,' the doctor went on:
 
'These stories are told at the feast of Trimalchio: the first by Niceros, a freedman, one of the guests:
 
'While I was yet serving, we lived in a narrow street, where now is the house of Gavilla. There, as it pleased the gods, I fell in love with the wife of Terentius, the tavern¹⁸-keeper—Melissa Tarentiana—many of you knew her, a most beautiful kiss-thrower.'
 
Miss Gryll. That is an odd term, doctor.
 
The Rev. Dr. Opimian. It relates, I imagine, to some graceful¹⁹ gesture of pantomimic dancing: for beautiful hostesses were often accomplished²⁰ dancers. Virgil's Copa, which, by the way, is only half panegyrical²¹, gives us, nevertheless, a pleasant picture in this kind. It seems to have been one of the great attractions of a Roman tavern: and the host, in looking out for a wife, was probably much influenced by her possession of this accomplishment²². The dancing, probably, was of that kind which the moderns call demi-caractère, and was performed in picturesque²³ costume——
 
The doctor would have gone off in a dissertation²⁴ on dancing hostesses, but Miss Gryll recalled him to the story, which he continued, in the words of Niceros:
 
'But, by Hercules, mine was pure love; her manners charmed me, and her friendliness²⁵. If I wanted money, if she had earned an as, she gave me a semis. If I had money, I gave it into her keeping. Never was woman more trustworthy. Her husband died at a farm which they possessed²⁶ in the country. I left no means untried to visit her in her distress²⁷; for friends are shown in adversity. It so happened that my master had gone to Capua, to dispose of some cast-off finery. Seizing the opportunity, I persuaded a guest of ours to accompany me to the fifth milestone²⁸. He was a soldier, strong as Pluto²⁹. We set off before cockcrow; the moon shone like day; we passed through a line of tombs. My man began some ceremonies before the pillars. I sat down, singing, and counting the stars. Then, as I looked round to my comrade, he stripped himself, and laid his clothes by the wayside. My heart was in my nose: I could no more move than a dead man. But he walked three times round his clothes, and was suddenly changed into a wolf. Do not think I am jesting. No man's patrimony³⁰ would tempt³¹ me to lie. But, as I had begun to say, as soon as he was changed into a wolf, he set up a long howl, and fled into the woods. I remained awhile, bewildered; then I approached to take up his clothes, but they were turned into stone. Who was dying of fear but I? But I drew my sword, and went on cutting shadows till I arrived at the farm. I entered the narrow way. The life was half boiled out of me; perspiration³² ran down me like a torrent³³: my eyes were dead. I could scarcely come to myself. My Melissa began to wonder why I walked so late; "and if you had come sooner," she said, "you might at least have helped us; for a wolf entered the farm and fell on the sheep, tearing them, and leaving them all bleeding. He escaped; but with cause to remember us; for our man drove a spear through his neck." When I heard these things I could not think of sleep; but hurried homeward with the dawn; and when I came to the place where the clothes had been turned into stone, I found nothing but blood.
 
'When I reached home, my soldier was in bed, lying like an ox, and a surgeon was dressing³⁴ his neck. I felt that he was a turnskin, and I could never after taste bread with him, not if you would have killed me. Let those who doubt of such things look into them. If I lie, may the wrath³⁵ of all your Genii fall on me.'
 
This story being told, Trimalchio, the lord of the feast, after giving his implicit³⁶ adhesion to it, and affirming the indisputable veracity³⁷ of Niceros, relates another, as a fact of his own experience.
 
'While yet I wore long hair, for from a boy I led a Chian life,{1} our little Iphis, the delight of the family, died; by Hercules, a pearl; quick, beautiful, one of ten thousand. While, therefore, his unhappy mother was weeping for him, and we all were plunged³⁸ in sorrow, suddenly witches came in pursuit of him, as dogs, you may suppose, of a hare. We had then in the house a Cappadocian, tall, brave to audacity³⁹, capable of lifting up an angry bull. He boldly, with a drawn⁴⁰ sword, rushed out through the gate, having his left hand carefully wrapped up, and drove his sword through a woman's bosom⁴¹; here as it were; safe be what I touch! We heard a groan⁴²; but, assuredly, I will not lie, we did not see the women. But our stout⁴³ fellow returning, threw himself into bed, and all his body was livid, as if he had been beaten with whips; for the evil hand had touched him. We closed the gate, and resumed our watch over the dead; but when the mother went to embrace the body of her son, she touched it, and found it was only a figure, of which all the interior was straw, no heart, nothing. The witches had stolen away the boy, and left in his place a straw-stuffed image. I ask you—it is impossible not—to believe, that there are women with more than mortal knowledge, nocturnal women, who can make that which is uppermost downmost. But our tall hero after this was never again of his own colour; indeed, after a few days, he died raving⁴⁵.'
 
     1 Free boys wore long hair. A Chian life is a delicate and
     luxurious life. Trimalchio implies that, though he began
     life as a slave, he was a pet in the household, and was
     treated as if he had been free.
'We wondered and believed,' says a guest who heard the story, 'and kissing the table, we implored⁴⁶ the nocturnals to keep themselves to themselves, while we were returning from supper.'
 
Miss Gryll. Those are pleasant stories, doctor; and the peculiar style of the narrators testifies to their faith in their own marvels⁴⁷. Still, as you say, they are not ghost stories.
 
Lord Curryfin. Shakespeare's are glorious ghosts, and would make good stories, if they were not so familiarly known. There is a ghost much to my mind in Beaumont and Fletcher's Lover's Progress. Cleander has a beautiful wife, Calista, and a friend, Lisander, Calista and Lisander love each other, en tout⁴⁴ bien, tout honneur. Lisander, in self-defence and in fair fight, kills a court favourite, and is obliged to conceal⁴⁹ himself in the country. Cleander and Dorilaus, Calista's father, travel in search of him. They pass the night at a country inn. The jovial⁵⁰ host had been long known to Cleander, who had extolled⁵¹ him to Dorilaus; but on inquiring for him they find he has been dead three weeks. They call for more wine, dismiss their attendants, and sit up alone, chatting of various things, and, among others, of mine host, whose skill on the lute⁵² and in singing is remembered and commended by Cleander. While they are talking, a lute is struck within; followed by a song, beginning
 
     'Tis late and cold, stir up the fire,—
     Sit close, and draw the table nigher:
     Be merry! and drink wine that's old.
And ending
 
     Welcome, welcome, shall go round,
     And I shall smile, though underground.
And when the song ceases, the host's ghost enters. They ask him why he appears. He answers, to wait once more on Cleander, and to entreat⁵³ a courtesy—
 
     —to see my body buried
     In holy ground: for now I lie unhallowed,
     By the clerk's fault: let my new grave be made
     Amongst good fellows, that have died before me,
     And merry hosts of my kind.
Cleander promises that it shall be done; and Dorilaus, who is a merry old gentleman throughout the play, adds—
 
And forty stoops of wine drank at thy funeral.
 
Cleander asks him—
 
Is't in your power, some hours before my death, To give me warning?
 
The host replies—
 
     I cannot tell you truly:
     But if I can, so much on earth I loved you,
     I will appear again.
In a subsequent scene the ghost forewarns him, and he is soon after assassinated⁵⁴: not premeditatedly, but as an accident, in the working out, by subordinate characters, of a plot to bring into question the purity of Calista's love for Lisander.
 
Miss Ilex. In my young days ghosts were so popular that the first question asked about any new play was, Is there a ghost in it? The Castle Spectre had set this fashion. It was one of the first plays I saw, when I was a very little girl. The opening of the folding-doors disclosing the illuminated⁵⁵ oratory⁵⁶; the extreme beauty of the actress who personated the ghost; the solemn music to which she moved slowly forward to give a silent blessing⁵⁷ to her kneeling daughter; and the chorus of female voices chanting Jubilate; made an impression on me which no other scene of the kind has ever made. That is my ghost, but I have no ghost story worth telling.
 
Mr. Falconer. There are many stories in which the supernatural is only apparent, and is finally explained. But some of these, especially the novels of Brockden Brown, carry the principle of terror to its utmost limits. What can be more appalling⁵⁸ than his Wielandt It is one of the few tales in which the final explanation of the apparently⁵⁹ supernatural does not destroy or diminish the original effect.
 
Miss Gryll. Generally, I do not like that explaining away. I can accord a ready faith to the supernatural in all its forms, as I do to the adventures of Ulysses and Orlando. I should be sorry to see the enchantments⁶⁰ of Circe expounded⁶¹ into sleights of hand.
 
The Rev. Dr. Opimian. I agree with you, Miss Gryll. I do not like to find a ghost, which has frightened me through two volumes, turned into a C............