The Arthur Machen Megapack: 25 Classic Works (168 page)

Scrooge, somehow or other, found himself among them. They smiled and greeted one another cheerfully, but it was evident that they were not happy. Marks of care were on their faces, marks that told of past troubles and future anxieties. Scrooge heard a man sigh heavily just after he had wished a neighbour a Merry Christmas. There were tears on a woman s face as she came down the church steps, all in black.

“Poor John!” she was murmuring. “I am sure it was the wearing of money troubles that killed him. Still, he is in Heaven now. But the clergyman said in his sermon that Heaven was only a pretty fairy tale.” She wept anew.

All this disturbed Scrooge dreadfully. Something seemed to be pressing on his heart.

“But,” said he, “I shall forget all this when I sit down to dinner with Nephew Fred and my niece and their young rascals.”

* * * *

It was late in the afternoon; four o’clock and dark, but in capital time for dinner. Scrooge found his nephew’s house. It was as dark as the sky; not a window was lighted up. Scrooge’s heart grew cold.

He knocked and knocked again, and rang a bell that sounded as faint and far as if it had rung in a grave.

At last a miserable old woman opened the door for a few inches and looked out suspiciously.

“Mr. Fred?” said she. “Why, he and his missus have gone off to the Hotel Splendid, as they call it, and they won’t be home till midnight. They got their table six weeks ago! The children are away at Eastbourne.”

“Dining in a tavern on Christmas day!” Scrooge murmured. “What terrible fate is this? Who is so miserable, so desolate, that he dines at a tavern on Christmas day? And the children at Eastbourne!”

The air grew misty about him. He seemed to hear as though from a great distance the voice of Tiny Tim, saying “God help us, every one!”

Again the Spirit stood before him. Scrooge fell upon his knees.

“Terrible Phantom!” he exclaimed. “Who and what are thou? Speak, I entreat thee.”

“Ebenezer Scrooge,” replied the Spirit in awful tones. “I am the Ghost of the Christmas of 1920. With me I bring the demand note of the Commissioners of Income Tax!”

Scrooge’s hair bristled as he saw the figures. But it fell out when he saw that the Apparition had feet like those of a gigantic cat.

“My name is Pussyfoot. I am also called Ruin and Despair,” said the Phantom, and vanished.

With that Scrooge awoke and drew back the curtains of his bed.

“Thank God!” he uttered from his heart. “It was but a dream!”

ELEUSINIA

BY A FORMER MEMBER OF H.C.S.

Oudies Muomenos Oduretal

Introduction

Here we have a graceful and classically conceived poem by a late Herefordian—presumably a beginner in the craft of verse making, but, if so, a beginner full of promise. There is much sweetness in this poetical description of an Eleusinian devotion at Athens; the allusions and references are true to authority, and the sentiment is throughout in harmony with all we know of the worship of Demeter. A line halts here and there, and doubtless the author, if he clings to his first love, will recognize the necessity of dealing more severely with the offspring of his imagination, so as to give them the finish and perfection which we now regard as absolutely indispensable in verses meant to be read; but his actual achievement is sufficiently good to warrant both praise and encouragement. The following verses may convey an idea of the tenderness which is manifest in every stanza of this short poem:——

Are they not weary toiling through the night?

Is it not long before the dawn is breaking?

Shall not the pilgrims gladden in the light?

When God shall burst forth, the powers of darkness shaking.

No, we are not weary, if the night is long;

Nay, it is not long before the dawn is breaking.

For there rises oft the solemn swelling song

While our holy priest his offering is making.

Demeter all holy, see we toil to meet thee.

From the distant parts of thy beloved land;

Demeter all holy, shall we ever see thee

Standing in thy majesty, while countless as the sand

On yonder shore, the multitude adore thee

As thou blessest all men with thy loving hand?

ELEUSINIA.

THE ASSEMBLING.

The day is dawning. Whither shall we bend

Our steps, and whither send

The herald on before us; mighty clouds

That have been thick about the path of night,

Now parting all asunder, let the rays

Of mighty Paean glance upon the hills,

And shew us here and there a marble tower,

With minarets that climb aloft, and gleam

Like silver crowns upon the hills of time.

Let us then climb those hill-tops, if with pain

And patient limbs we may attain thereto.

. . . . .

We then at last have come unto the brow,

And gloried with the rays of the young sun,

May look upon the valley underneath.

It is a plain far stretching to the sea,

Which rocks and tumbles on the distant shore.

While close beneath the hill on which we stand

There is a city shining like a bride,

Whose birth-place was in old Pentelicus.

And all the roads which lead into the town

Are crowded with the hurrying steps of men,

Who have been coming from the north and south,

And east and west;

That they may see the city on this day,

And celebrate the praise of Demeter.

Are they not weary toiling through the night?

Is it not long before the dawn is breaking?

Shall not the pilgrims gladden in the light?

When God shall burst forth, the powers of darkness shaking.

No, we are not weary, if the night is long;

Nay, it is not long before the dawn is breaking.

For there rises oft the solemn swelling song

While our holy priest his offering is making.

Demeter all holy, see we toil to meet thee.

From the distant parts of thy beloved land;

Demeter all holy, shall we ever see thee

Standing in thy majesty, while countless as the sand

On yonder shore, the multitude adore thee

As thou blessest all men with thy loving hand?

Athens is thy dwelling place:

Holy mother, give us grace.

In the town thy temple stands

Bright, all marble from thine hands.

While the gathering people kneel, journeying from many lands.

Is that thy priest who stands within the town?

Is that thy choir whose thunders roll and swell?

Hail to thee most mighty, great be thy renown,

While minstrels sing, and priests thy glory tell.

And now the glory of the rising sun.

Poured forth upon the city marble-built;

And all the crowd of worshippers was come

Unto the temple of the Goddess Queen.

And there they hymn her with resounding songs.

Which rise and fall like thunders, or the noise

Of mighty waters rolling on the shore.

And so the day goes on in worshipping,

Until the sun has hid himself behind

The purple hills that compass Athens round.

And the moon glitters in the pale blue sky

Upon the pilgrims, who have laid their limbs

Weary, but glad at heart, upon the beds

Of herbs, which all the city strews for them.

Such was the ending of the opening day.

THE SEA-SHORE

Now to the sea the mystai bend their steps,

To purge all stain of guilt from off their souls;

And as they go, in pure white vestment clad,

Each one and all implore the goddess queen

To pardon all the sins of the past life.

And wash them pure, and free from every fault.

Down from the temple through the narrow streets,

And gardens smelling sweet, and cool with leaves.

Till they have passed out of the city gates,

And come unto the plain beyond the town,

All through its levels in a mighty band,

Singing in praise of Demeter the Queen.

And then the shore—for every one must wash

His limbs therein, and have it for a sign,

That, as the flesh is pure and tree from stain,

The soul within is in like manner cleansed.

So, the cool water sweeps away the stain,

And all have been absolved—the priest has said.

THE FAST

The dawn again is breaking o’er the deep:

Shall we still journey or yet keep

The fast in Athens? The sea heaves

And murmurs, as the yellow autumn leaves

At eastern winds, and nought relieves

The masses of grey clouds, but ever dark

They stand; and on this day no song

Save of the lark.

For is not now this day a day of tears,

Kept through the long-past years?

Kept and is keeping,

In fast and in weeping.

Now in the city where they stand,

Sorrowing in dark attire,

Wailing at the priest’s command