by Simon Stern
THE VALANCOURT BOOK OF
VICTORIAN CHRISTMAS GHOST STORIES
VOLUME THREE
Edited with an introduction by
SIMON STERN
VALANCOURT BOOKS
The Valancourt Book of Victorian Christmas Ghost Stories, Volume Three
First published December 2018
Introduction © 2018 by Simon Stern
This compilation copyright © 2018 by Valancourt Books, llc
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the copying, scanning, uploading, and/or electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitutes unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher.
Published by Valancourt Books, Richmond, Virginia
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INTRODUCTION
The Victorians invented many things—the penny post and the telegraph, the sensation novel and detective fiction, bicycles and petrol and antimacassar oil—but they did not invent the ghost story. Yet we associate the ghost story with the Victorians, in part doubtless because of Charles Dickens’s efforts to craft the form when serving as editor of Household Words and All the Year Round, and his ability to recognize its appeal for readers during the Christmas holiday—another Victorian achievement, not invented but perfected in the nineteenth century. Writing nearly a quarter-century after the close of the Victorian era, M. R. James proposed a formula that indicates what made Dickens and his contemporaries so successful:
Two ingredients most valuable in the concocting of a ghost story are . . . the atmosphere and the nicely managed crescendo. Let us . . . be introduced to the actors in a placid way; let us see them going about their ordinary business, undisturbed by forebodings, pleased with their surroundings; and into this calm environment let the ominous thing put its head, unobtrusively at first, and then more insistently, until it holds the stage . . . Then, for the setting. The detective story cannot be too much up-do-date: the telephone, the aeroplane, the newest slang, are all in place there.
Although James advised that the author might “leave a loophole for a natural explanation” (as we see in some of the stories in this volume), he preferred to keep it “so narrow as not to be quite practicable.”
This recipe, particularly the concern with atmosphere, helps to explain what many Victorian writers seem to have understood intuitively. The paraphernalia of everyday life pervade any number of Victorian ghost stories, and if to their first readers they offered the pleasure of the mundane slowly and almost imperceptibly inching into the eerie, to modern readers they offer the additional pleasure of a densely and vividly imagined material world whose comforts and accoutrements are fascinatingly different from ours and yet invitingly homey.
The same considerations help to account for the continuing attraction of the Sherlock Holmes stories: what makes them so compelling has to do not only with Holmes’s talent for creating a biographical sketch out of seemingly insignificant trifles, but also with the kinds of trifles he relies on—such as hats and gloves and walking sticks. Even when something drab, like mud, provides the telling clue, it turns out to be the mud near the Wigmore Street Post Office, a localized detail that invites us to place ourselves in the topography of Victorian London.
The ghost story, like the detective story, creates its effects by asking us to imagine a world stocked with desks and paintings and all the furnishings of a world that is sufficiently far removed from living memory as to provide a reliable occasion for nostalgia, yet not so far removed as to seem unenticing. And in both genres, what attracts the reader is not only the profusion of material objects but also their tactile qualities: just as the glove becomes meaningful because of its frayed edge and indentations, the ghost story’s plush sofas and ancient, creaking chests figure not just as items in the background but as palpable objects with a sensory allure.
If these tales owe some of their enduring appeal to the opportunity to imagine, in fine-grained detail, the comforts of Victorian life, those sensations gain additional force in the Christmas ghost story, with its elaborate descriptions of the food and drink, games, and bedclothes that so many of these stories rejoice in offering for the reader’s delectation. We might think of them as a particular kind of sensation tale, one that occasionally recalls the sensation novels of the 1860s and ’70s by introducing a backstory featuring matters like adultery and illegitimacy, but that more typically invites the reader to experience the contrast between the Victorian home’s cheery interior and the piercing cold of the snow and ice outside. In his essay “Gaslight, Fog, Jack the Ripper,” Joachim Kalka points to this contrast as the defining feature of the period, remarking that, “For us, the primary quality distinguishing the nineteenth century . . . is a great, cozy sense of security brought out all the more vividly by the evocation of the uncanny.” The Christmas ghost story compacts all of these features and heightens their effect by eliminating the boundary that insulates the cozy domestic interior from the bitter cold: instead of scaring up an external threat and imagining the home as the safe harbor, it terrorizes the inhabitants with spectral beings who wander between those two spheres.
Not every story in the following pages exemplifies these features—this year’s anthology showcases the diversity of Victorian ghost fiction by including examples of the comic and even satirical modes, as well as the suspenseful variety—but many of them combine drama and fantasy in a way that uses visual and meteorological effects to appeal to the reader’s senses and to heighten the reader’s pleasure. “The Ghost of the Cross-Roads” opens on a lavishly described Christmas feast (with “the whole Pie family” running the gamut from “plebeian Apple to rich Mrs. Mince”) and then immediately presents us with a violent ice-storm, before introducing a wayfarer who has just barely survived the storm and the dreadful adventure that makes up the gist of the tale. “19, Great Hanover Street” and “Walnut-Tree House” give us richly described premises that come under threat in precisely the way that James recommends. Similarly, “Old Simons’ Ghost!” is a wonderful tale of a miser who comes back to reclaim his property, on Christmas Eve, from the long-suffering clerk who tries to take possession of it. On the other hand, some of the stories imagine hauntings that take place entirely out of doors (“The Haunted Tree,” “Haunted Ashchurch,” “The Nameless Village”) or hauntings that target specific individuals (“A Dead Man’s Face”).
Other stories use the form more playfully, such as “The Ghost’s ‘Double’,” which starts conventionally enough, with a bachelor reclining by the fireside in a room whose décor is conducive to “suicidal depression,” only to find himself haunted by two competing ghosts with apparently incompatible agendas. “The Barber’s Ghost” and “The Wicked Editor’s Christmas Dream” take the comedy even further—the would-be victim of the barber’s ghost proves to a pragmatic sort who turns “the late discovery to his own advantage,” and the wicked editor is compelled to undergo a dismal literary tour seemingly based on Scrooge’s experiences, with the significant difference that he is given no reason to reform.
It is perhaps salient that most of the comic ghost stories date from the end of the century, when the familiarity of the genre in its traditional form, carrying the accumulated weight of many decades, may have prompted writers to seek out new directions. “Sir Hugo’s Prayer,” for instance, seems to owe some of its inspiration to Wilde’s “The Canterville Ghost,” another tale in which the phantoms,
all too aware of the demands that literary convention would exact from them, choose to rebel instead of following the script.
Taken together, these stories present Victorian ghosts in a wide variety of incarnations, from the grotesque to the pathetic to the irreverent, and they return for the holiday season to entertain modern readers just as they did more than a century ago.
Simon Stern
October 2018
Simon Stern received his Ph.D. in English literature from Berkeley and his J.D. from Yale and is an associate professor at the University of Toronto, where he is a member of the Faculty of Law and the Department of English.
NOTE ON THE TEXT
The texts of the stories in this volume are faithfully reprinted from the periodicals listed below, except for obvious printer’s errors, which have been silently corrected. Because it was common practice during the Victorian period for a story to appear in one magazine or newspaper then subsequently to be reprinted in others, we are not able to say with certainty whether the dates and publications listed below represent the story’s first appearance or a reprint.
“The Ghost of the Cross-Roads”: South London Press, Dec. 23, 1893
“19, Great Hanover Street”: Sheffield Weekly Telegraph, Dec. 24, 1889
“Sir Hugo’s Prayer”: Hampshire Telegraph, Dec. 25, 1897
“Walnut-Tree House”: The Illustrated London News, Dec. 28, 1878
“Haunted Ashchurch”: The Argosy, December 1893
“The Haunted Tree”: Every Week, Jan. 1, 1871
“A Dead Man’s Face”: Stonehaven Journal, Dec. 25, 1884
“The Ghost’s ‘Double’ ”: Windsor Magazine, December 1898
“The Haunted Manor”: The Guardian, Dec. 26, 1885
“The Nameless Village”: Hampshire Telegraph and Sussex Chronicle (Christmas Supplement), Dec. 19, 1896
“Old Simons’ Ghost!”: The Bridgnorth Journal, Dec. 26, 1896
“Miriam’s Ghost”: Gloucestershire Chronicle, Dec. 25, 1897
“The Vicar’s Ghost”: Express and Advertiser, Dec. 20 and 27, 1890
“The Ghost of the Hollow Field”: Newry Commercial Telegraph,Dec. 25, 1867
“The Wicked Editor’s Christmas Dream”: Tamworth Herald, Dec. 23, 1893
“The Barber’s Ghost”: The Glossop Record, Dec. 25, 1869
“A Spirit Bride”: North Wales Times, Dec. 26, 1896
“The Haunted Oven”: Leeds Times, Dec. 15, 1877
“The Devil’s Own”: Cardiff Times, Nov. 30, 1895
“A Christmas Ghost Story”: Lincolnshire Echo, Dec. 19, 1895
THE GHOST OF THE CROSS-ROADS by Frederick Manley
An Irish Christmas Night Story
Night, and especially Christmas night, is the best time to listen to a ghost story. Throw on the logs! Draw the curtains! Move your chairs nearer the fire and hearken!
Not one among the little group that sat in the snug parlour of Andy Sweeny’s homestead, that wild Christmas of 1843, when Mrs. Sweeny went to the window and drew the snow-white curtains very close, remarking at the same time, “God shelter all poor travellers!” but whose thoughts were as plainly expressed in the general huddling-up which took place as though each one had told his neighbour his particular idea of comfort; and when, in answer to the good woman’s prayer, they joined their voices in one deep, fervent “Amen!” and huddled together in the brave glow of the turf fire, the general sentiment of the party was published by a red-haired, dapper little fellow named “Reddy,” who said, in a rich voice:
“ ’Tis thanking God we should be for this comfort, not forgetting Mrs. Sweeny!”
Although the Sweenys were known the county over for their hospitality, on this particular night they outdid all their previous efforts at entertaining. The oak table in the middle of the floor was covered from end to end with good things. We say good things, and we mean it so. There were no wafer-like sandwiches on that table, nor cold liquids in colder bottles, nor frail china-ware (no china-ware could stand food so substantial), not fancy salads, nor any of those dainties which as good as say to a hungry man, “Come and eat me; I’m too nice to be lying here,” and which, when he has done them justice, spoil his evening’s enjoyment and cause life to be a burden to him.
No; there were no such insidious edibles on Mrs. Sweeny’s table. To think of that supper is to be hungry. Hills of potatoes, all in their coats on account of the severe weather; lakes of soup, mountains of roast beef, with goose and turkey in the valleys between; pigeons, imprisoned in cells of crust, in which were little slits like loopholes, through which the inmates might peep—indeed, one brave bird that, we daresay, had become alarmed at the great number of diners, was attempting to escape, and actually succeeded in getting a leg through the bars, where he stuck and became discouraged; mounds of bread and butter; the whole Pie family, from plebeian Apple to rich Mrs. Mince, were there in their crusty suits. The table mumbled and groaned. But who cared for the table’s sorrows? In truth, who could think of anything but gladness in that home of light and joy on that frozen night?
Outside, the storm raged. The country around, a bleak stretch of moorland, was buried deep in snow. The winds had been busy, and many were the quaint mansions they had built, and strange and weird were the changes they had wrought. The sign-post at the four cross-roads—a most commonplace affair in clear weather—was now a terrible monster with four hideous arms, that were thrust out to seize the belated traveller. All traces of the road were lost, and it would have gone hard with a stranger had he been caught in the storm that December night. Derry Goland, in King’s County, Ireland, is so drear and wild that the destroying elements have made it their meeting-place. Here the winds gather and plan their courses. Here they start from, and to this place return. Any winter’s night you may hear them. At first they whisper among themselves as they map out their ways. Then may be heard deep murmurs, angry murmurs, shaking the boughs, as though the Storm King had given out orders which they did not like.
How the Storm King hated Andy Sweeny’s snug home and the cheerful light shining from the windows, throwing a golden pathway into the night!
More turf for the fire! Every one has a glass of steaming punch in his hand; every one’s face is lighted with love and radiant with joy; every one toasts every one, sings merry songs, dances with his sweetheart, or makes love to her in some shady corner, while the aged every-ones make matches for their boys and girls; and the blind fiddler plays away for dear life. The flames grow brighter as the storm without increases in violence. The punch glows a deeper red and sparkles as with delight. The old clock in the corner has a drowsier tick, and is at peace with the world, for the jolly round face on its dial smiles on the scene; and even the table, forgetful of its complaints, has ceased to groan. In short, there never was a happier home; there never were such music and such punch as Mrs. Sweeny’s, nor jollier souls to drink it.
The floor had just been cleared for dancing, and the fun was at its height, when out in the storm, seeming far away, there rose a cry—a terrible cry—a cry that spoke the anguish of a soul. Those within were silent, and listened with blanched faces to that cry without.
“God save us!” cried Andy. “What was that?”
“The Lord bethune us and all harm! It was the banshee’s cry!”
At this name, so fearful to an Irish ear, the children ran to their mothers and buried their little heads. Wives clung to their husbands, sweethearts to their sturdy lovers, and all waited anxiously for a repetition of the cry. Then something happened which caused all hearts to stand still and sent the cold blood rushing down the back. It was a human voice calling aloud for help! Soon after, the crunch of flying feet was heard. They came nearer and nearer.
“Open the door! Fling it wide!” cried Andy.
Willing hands soon had a broad pathway of firelight streaming from the doorway. The storm rushed in and scattered the turf and tore pictures from their places and made sad havoc with everything. But no one cared; no one noticed i
t. All eyes were watching a man who came flying towards the house; for though it was a blustering night, the moon peeped at intervals through the storm-rift clouds, casting a ghostly light. And now it shone down upon this figure that sped to the door and cried, in a voice made weak by fear and running, “Save me!” then tottered across the threshold and fell prone upon the sanded floor.
Andy Sweeny turned quickly to the door, and, listening, peered long and searchingly into the darkness. At last he cried out:
“Who’s there?”
The only answer was the soughing of the wind across the moor, and a gruesome answer it was.
“Who’s there?” asked Andy again.
“Sure, no wan, avick,” returned his wife. “Shut the door and be aisy.”
Andy cast a rueful, backward glance at the door, as Mrs. Sweeny led him away from it.
“Look at the poor man foreninst ye!”
The poor man before the fire was unconscious. One motherly body was chafing his cold hands, another was bathing his forehead with punch she had seized in her hurry instead of water, and yet another forced the steaming liquor between his clenched teeth.
He was a young—a boy almost—whose age might have been guessed as twenty, and guessed correctly. That he was a stranger in Derry Goland was easily discovered, for the suit he wore was made of fine cloth and cut in the most approved style. Fashionable clothes were as common in Derry Goland as bears, and there wasn’t a bear in the county. A silk-lined cloak, thrown back from his broad shoulders, disclosed a sparkling gem that winked and blinked at the firelight as though the sudden brilliancy was too much to stand. His features, although well formed and regular, had a suggestion of weakness in them, especially the chin and mouth, which lacked firmness, and wore a smiling expression of gentleness more fitted to a woman than a man. The people immediately divined that a gentleman, presumably an Englishman, judging from his dress, had fallen among them, and they went to work on him as though he were the dearest friend of each man who bent over him, or the husband, brother, or sweetheart of each good woman who carried pillows for the weary head and brought a glow of life into the pale face, so numerous were the little offices performed, so heartfelt and deep their solicitude. At length, to the great relief of all, the stranger slowly opened his eyes.