A CHRISTMAS APPARITION. A BIL-IOUS LEGEND.

The day was long sped, The stars overhead For three hours or longer their glimmer had shed, Since the sun had retired remarkably red, As if the Atlantic had flown to his head, When Timothy Tadpole turned into his bed. It was Christmas night, And a beautiful sight Was each little star with his modest light, As if half afraid Of lending his aid To the glorious canopy heaven displayed. Mr. Timothy Tadpole had dined that day In the ancient and orthodox Christmas way, Turkey and sausages, roast beef and ham, Plum-pudding and mince-pies, he’d managed to cram, With custards and syllabubs, jellies and jam; And claret and sherry, And champagne in very Large glasses, which every one voted the right tap; And port which they dish up, And call it a “bishop,” With lemons and nutmegs[19] by way of a “nightcap.” And many a toast, From the health of the host To the health of the fair one each tippler loved most, He had drunk, with a swallow few mortals can boast— And “Hip, hip, hooray!” He had shouted that day In a highly excited convivial way, ’Mid Bacchanal ditties, and protests of scorning To think of retiring to rest before morning. So when Timothy Tadpole turned into his bed An ill-natured chronicler might p’r’aps have said That he carried a little too much in his head— An uncommon event, too, since Timothy’s brains Were computed to weigh such a very few grains That in Timothy’s head you’d have found them as soon As a pair of dried peas in the Nassau Balloon. And while Timothy lay, In a restless way, Turning, and twisting, and kicking, and rolling, That you couldn’t suppose He’d a bit of repose, The bell of St. George’s was grimly tolling! Slowly, deeply, boomed the bell— Midnight hour! it seemed the knell Of hopes, joys, griefs, pains, pleasures dead, Gone with the short-lived day that was fled; Another day from the tiny span That makes the weal and woe of man! Yes, twelve at night— That hour of fright When ghosts pop out of their graves in white, And glide and slink Through keyhole or chink, Or up the chimney or down the sink; And frighten poor sinners, who quake as they tell Of the terrible sight—and the brimstone smell! As Timothy snored, and kicked, and rolled, And the bell of St. George’s grimly tolled, Just as the last stroke died on the air The candle emitted a bluish glare, (For gentlemen coming home late at night Often forget to extinguish the light;) It flickered, and spluttered, and out it went With a pop, and a hiss, and a nasty scent. And as it went out a ghost walked in! An orthodox ghost, with a churchyard grin; From the head to the feet Wrapped in a sheet As white as pure snow—so that, if a man can guess, You’d fancy the ghost had a capital laundress. Yet the ghost, though pale, wasn’t lanky or lean, Like all ghosts that I’ve ever yet heard of or seen, But had rather a corpulent, greasy, fat look, Like an alderman’s ghost, or the ghost of a cook. As the ghost walked in poor Timothy woke, And the ghostly vision on Timothy broke; And Timothy’s eyeballs glare and stare, And up on end goes Timothy’s hair, And Timothy shivers with agitation, And his body’s quite damp with perspiration— A common effect of consternation. But as he lies quaking and shivering, still, With a resolute air, He cries, “Who’s there?” And the vision solemnly answers “Bill!” Bill! Bill who? Bill Smith? Bill Jones? For Bill’s a prænomen each family owns; So Timothy tries with might and main To guess which Bill, but all in vain; Till, shaking with horror through and through, He faintly stammers out “Bill who?” The ghostly accents seem to fill The room as they answer, “Christmas Bill! I’m the ghost of the butcher’s bill! nothing can lay me: I’ll haunt you by day and by night till you pay me!” Timothy Tadpole groans with fright, And tries to shut out the horrid sight, When lo! a new ghost pops into light; And the ghost that now burst on the wretched sinner Was very much paler and very much thinner (Though afterwards Tadpole remarked it as “rum,” he Spoke in a voice that was husky and crummy). As solemn and grave as an undertaker He stalked forth and said, “I’m the bill of the baker; I’ll dog you by night—I’ll settle your hash— I’ll never be still till you hand out the cash.” Again poor Timothy Tadpole groans, And turns and wriggles his weary bones, Trying to shut out the dreadful vision— When, alas and alack! there’s a new apparition! This ghost had an air so dapper and nice, he Looked for a spirit uncommonly spicy; But he turned a pitiless glance on Tim, As if with a look he’d annihilate him, And in accents severe cried, “I’d have you to know, sir, That I am the Christmas bill of the grocer! You’ve eaten and stuffed, and you’ve had your fill, And now let us see what you’ve got in the till: I’ll polish you off in a manner that I know If you don’t pretty speedily fork out the rhino!” But alas and alack! a new one appears, The tailor’s bill, armed with the goose and the shears, And the bill of the bootmaker, gliding together; The latter quite “larking,” And pertly remarking, “Come, dub up, old fellow, there’s nothing like leather.” And the bill of the wine merchant, troubled with hiccups, And the bill of the hosier for collars called “stick-ups.” And round about his bed they flew Hand in hand, this ghostly crew; And they tweaked his nose, And tickled his toes, And rained on his cheeks hard pinches and blows; And seemed to suppose it a capital lark, as They stamped and jumped on his aching carcase. And aye as they went, The air was rent With their shouting and yelling, and thus they gave vent:— “Pay us you must, Down with the dust; None of your “kites,” We will have our rights; We’ll plague you and pinch you by days and by nights; We’ll grind you, and bind you, and force you to settle: None of your promises—out with the metal!” And Timothy vows that he ne’er heard before as Awful a noise as this terrible chorus! He writhed and he wriggled, he twisted and turned; His tongue was on fire—his head, how it burned! He struggled and kicked, gave a desperate roar And a plunge—and came heels over head on the floor. The chorus is done: One by one The ghosts have slipped off, having finished their fun. And Timothy creeps into bed again, Free from his terror, but not free from pain. The shades of the night like the spirits are flitting, Grey dawn on the tops of the mountains is sitting, And under the window a small bantam cock Is crowing—in fact, it is just four o’clock, As Timothy, spite of his terrors and bruises, Yawns, shakes up his pillow, and placidly snoozes!

Don’t drink like a fish, and don’t feed like a glutton; Don’t forget to cash up for your beef and your mutton, Your bread and your sugar, your wine and your Allsop; In short, all your bills, and I hope they’re a small crop. If a tradesman you rob You act like a snob, And you’ll find out, moreover, you’ve done a bad job. So seize on the present, Pay up and look pleasant; Think of Timothy Tadpole—that terrible sight there— A legion of bills makes a deuce of a nightmare! A. W. Cole.