Christmas Dinner With The Devil

Yes, that’s right. Victorian ghost stories are becoming a regular occurrence on The Poe Show! This time, our ghost story from 1858 follows a man who happens to dine with the devil. After dinner, the two travel to their “journey’s end” together, passing many other lost souls. James Hain Friswell wrote this spooky winter tale over 160 years ago, but the dreary and ghostly narrative is as entertaining today as it has ever been! Now, please enjoy The Oxford Ghost. Otherwise known as...Christmas Dinner with the Devil.

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Episode music and narration by Tynan Portillo.

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Intro music by Emmett Cooke on PremiumBeat.
Opening episode music: Mazurkus Op. 6 No. 1 in F Sharp Minor by Chopin

Chapters

• 0:00 Intro
• 0:34 Story
• 14:26 The Dinner
• 33:24 The Drive
• 46:52 Aftertalk
• 1:01:23 Farewell

Transcript

Tynan Portillo presents, featuring the best horror stories of the 19th century, welcome to The Poe Show podcast. Narrated by Tynan Portillo.

Today’s episode, Christmas Dinner With the Devil, or The Oxford Ghost by James Hain Friswell.

“Boodle, sing a song!”

I addressed the obese individual of that name, the “capital B.”, as he delighted to be called, in the midst of a festive party. I always make a point thereat of asking the wrong man to do the right thing; it gives such a blaze of triumph to the capable if you show up the incapable. It makes the giant look taller, the strong man stronger. I ask the clown to dance, the dull make to make a joke, the fellow who should only be trusted with a spoon to carve a chicken! Boodle could no more sing than a crow.

“Sing a song!” he answered, with the voice of a trombone; “I would as soon swallow the poker. I am not a bashful man; but I am past singing - if ever indeed I was fit for it, and I do not much think that I ever was. I never sang in my life but I felt ashamed of myself for doing so. Some people tune away, vociferating pleasantly, watching the flies on the ceiling, with an air about them which tells anyone how cleverly they think they do it. They like it, I suppose; but as for myself, I never in all my life sang but I felt uneasy for at least three weeks afterwards. The last time I attempted anything of the sort was when I went to a whitebait dinner; and do you know that I could not look any of my friends in the face for three weeks afterwards. Pleasant that, was it not? Sing! No, I’ll die the death of a martyr first!”

“Then you will do something to amuse the party. A Christmast party comes but once a year - is sacred to old feelings, old superstitions, old stories, old songs, old loves, old fancies, and old remembrances. Thank Heaven for Christmas!”

“Amen!” said the priest, piously. “You have been,” said the soldier of the party, carefully caressing his whiskers - “you have been out in the world a great deal, sir?”

“Oh yes,” answered my uncle, “out a good deal - out of my reckoning sometimes, out of spirits very often, out of sorts as well - very seldom, till I grew rather wiser, out of debt; and when I was young, I must confess it, what with dancing at parties with pretty girls, and staying late at bachelors' rooms - very often ‘out’ of nights.”

(MEN LAUGHING, SLOWLY GOING SILENT, JUST FIRE CRACKLING)

“In those nocturnal rambles did you ever see a ghost?”

“Well,” answered my uncle, “I can’t say that I did, and I can’t say that I did not. I am in a state of perplexity between the two. To my dying day, there is a point which I can never solve; and I don’t believe I shall either - no, not if I live to be eighty. It was about Christmas time too.”

“How was it, then?”

(MEN: YES, GO ON! TELL THE STORY! SHH.)

“Why, thus. I was in my younger days a ‘bagman.’ Why they called us ‘bagmen’ I don’t know, nor do I care. Your aunt did; she used to be preciously wild about it. But so long as I pleased my customers and got orders for the house of which I am now the head, what cared I? I dare say that the young fellows who look to inherit my sovereigns will not think them less heavy because they were earned by a ‘bagman.’ I would rather be called a bagman than a commercial gent - ‘commercials’ they call them now that they are whisked about from place to place in railway-carriages. Ah! Mine were the days; when I travelled I did the thing like a gentleman, with my black bodied gig and yellow wheels, and fast-trotting mare. I used to astonish the country people, and there was not a barmaid along the road, within forty miles of London, who had not made love to me af ter her fashion; but then I had metal more attractive in London.

(MEN: GET ON WITH IT! TELL US ABOUT THE GHOST! SHH)

“Well, I was going what I called the Midland circuit, in this very same gig, driving this very same mare. It was just after Thrutell cut Weare’s throat, and a melancholy time it was. The country papers were full of murders, and every passenger on the road looked sharply into the faces of those whom he met, and thought every other person a highwayman. As for me, I put a couple of good double-barrelled pistols close to me in the gig, buttoned my coat round me, and determined to take my chance.

“I was in the tobacco trade then, as now, -p’raps so many people did not smoke as now, -p’raps they did; but at any rate cigars and tobacco were higher in price; and we made such a good thing of it, that no one could afford to keep a traveller from taking orders, especially just about Christmas time, when I was closing up the orders for the old year and getting fresh in for the new.

“Well, I was down in Oxfordshire, travelling northward, and I got to and I got to Oxford a few days before Christmas. When I got there I found a letter from the governors, stating that at about twenty miles north a bill would be due, and would be paid at the bank there, upon the day after Christinas Day. I knew they were in want of money, and I quite understood that my orders were imperative that I should be ready to present the bill when due. I wanted to get home amazingly; but what was to be done? The bill must be presented, and so there was an end of it.

"Sure enough I stayed in Oxford to eat my Christmas dinner. I went to church, and heard the cathedral service in the morning, and joined in the Christmas hymn. I looked hard at the melancholy old fellows — the few, very few, who were left in the colleges upon that day. I thought how lonely must their life be ; and before I went to dinner I walked into two or three of the colleges, and marked one or two solitary lights in the windows of some of the quadrangles, and thought, almost with tears in my eyes, of the poor solitary scholars, the reading men, who were there alone with their books upon Christmas Day.

"I made myself thoroughly miserable about them, I can tell you. They might have rare puddings in the hall, and fine beef, I dare say ; but the poor sizar or servitor (one’s Oxford and t’other Cambridge, I don't know which — they are the same thing in spirit) sat there by his twinkling candle, thinking, I'll be bound, of Christmas Day at home.

“I was so melancholy and depressed with these thoughts, that it came into my head that the best thing I could do was to drive them away, or else I knew that I should spoil my dinner. I therefore whistled the fag-end of a tune; it was, ‘Begone, dull care,' then fashionable, I think, and began my journey towards the White Hart.

“Mine was not to be a solitary dinner. Groggins, an enterprising young fellow in the wine trade — he has chalk stones on his fingers, a large fortune, and occasional fits of delirium tremens now — was to be my companion; and after dinner the landlord was to come up, and to bear his part in a song, and in a bowl of punchy which, in honour of its being Christmas, he had, time out of mind, provided for us bagmen.

"Well, I was just stepping out of the quad at Corpus, turning round my head to look at the solitary twinkling light of one poor devil in the comer, when who should I run against but a collegian. He was a tall, thin, melancholy man, with a torn gown, a very seedy square cap — things which then, as now, were honourable; and from the state of these things I knew him to be learned. He was making towards the light I was looking at, when I ran bump against him. He did not hurt me — I was a stout fellow then; but I must have given him an awkward knock, for I sent him flying yards away. He was as polite as Chesterfield, for he capped to me at once and bowed, and asked my pardon for his awkwardness. That told me that he was a poor student, a sizar. If he had been a gentleman commoner or a nobleman, he would have sworn at me like a bagman.

“‘Your awkwardness, sir?' cried I; ‘upon my word it was mine, and mine alone ; and to apologize more substantially for it, may I be so bold as to wish you a Merry Christmas?'

“I said this in my jolliest voice, and took off my hat as I said it. The collegian gave a sigh, as he answered, ‘A Merry Christmas — I wish one to you, sir.'

" That sigh troubled me so much, that my mind was made up what to do at once. I quite pitied the student, and putting out my hand, took his — a long, thin, cold, consumptive hand it was — and shook it. ‘Come, sir,’ said I, ‘do me the favour, if you have no better invitation, to come and dine with me at the White Hart; I am no scholar myself, and hope I don’t offend you ; I mean it in good- will ; a bottle of old port, a cut from the breast of a turkey, and a piece of beef, will do neither of us harm I will wager.’ Here I fell to whistling ' The roast beef of Old England,’ for want of filling up the pause in a better way,

“The student smiled in a faint shadowy way at my manner, and without a pause accepted the invitation.

"When I had got him, I felt somehow awkward, and did not know what to do with him. Here was a gentleman and a scholar accepting the invitation of a bagman. How should I make him jolly? Would my rude mirth and town stories please him? Would he care to know the maker's price of the weed? I was so fat and burly — he so long, thin, and shadowy; I so untaught, he so learned ; I knew this by his air, his manner, his walk. I felt at the same time awkward and proud, frightened and rejoiced, at my guest's presence. Presently the sound of Christmas bells came upon the air ; so jubilant, ringing, thronging, hurrying through the air ; tumbling over each other in their hurry to get through the belfry bars, and carrying so much good fellowship with them, that I felt quite ashamed of my pride. ‘Eighteen hundred and twenty years ago,' thought I ; ‘there was no pride about the invitation given then. It is a holy season, and the best way to keep it holy is to behave naturally and kindly, and to put my pride in my pocket. After all, I am not sure that the student will not be very glad to dine with me.’

These thoughts flashed through my brain in a minute. I had scarcely gathered up my thoughts, when, through the ringing of the bells, I heard the voice of my acquaintance propose that he should run to his rooms and change his dress; but I, looking at my watch, and not sorry at walking with a 'gown,’ took his arm within mine, and declaring that not a moment was to be lost, set out for the White Hart.

“The landlord looked surprised at me and my guest : what was more, the 'boots’ — who, with a shining face, and hair combed straight upon his forehead, stood at the door, partly in expectation of a Christmas-box, and partly to greet his old friends — absolutely did not recognize the student. I should tell you that ‘boots’ was an old boots, and that his peculiar pride and fame lay in the fact that he positively could remember the faces of every one of the members of the colleges; and that upon consulting him upon any point in that way, he was never found to trip.

“Well, we went up into the great room of the inn. The landlord had drawn the screen round the table, enclosing the fire, and endeavoured to take away from the vastness of the room. There was a four-branch candlestick, with wax candles, but they did not seem to me to give much light. The very fire on the hearth, which was roaring up the huge chimney when we came in, I fancied to smoulder down all of a sudden, and the wax candles actually to want snuffing. A letter, with a great vulgar commercial seal, lay upon the table. It was from my intended companion Tom Groggins, who wrote to say he had been invited to a Christmas dinner, at a tradesman's upon whom he had called for orders, and finished by a 'P.S. — Two of the daughters sing like angels!'

“I wished the daughters had been anywhere else. I depended upon Tom Groggins's cheerful voice and air. I absolutely felt my spirit sinking. ‘I am very sorry, sir,’ said I to the student; ‘but positively I shall have to do all the honours myself. My friend has disappointed me, and I have got no vice.'

‘No what?' queried the student.

"No' vice, no gentleman to support me!

'Oh, that is all ! ' cried he, gaily ; ' I did not quite take you at first. Oh, never mind, I'll be your vice - I’ll support you.' Here he took off his cap, disclosing a beautifully high pale forehead, down the very centre of which the short curly crisp hair grew in a peak, allowing me to notice temples which were as white and polished as the cicatrice of a bum; just as if, indeed, — as if two horns had been cut off, and the wounds cauterised.

“He sat down with great alacrity, and the first course, a boiled turkey, having been placed on the table, I sat down too, and proposed to say grace, which I never omit upon Christmas Day. ' Stop!' cried the student, 'I belong to the clerical profession; I am a clerk, though not in orders; I'll say grace ; do you say it in English ? '

"'Of course I do,' I returned.

"'Ah,' he exclaimed, 'I say it in Latin — an old form, you know.’

"'Say on, then,' I answered; 'no matter what the form be, I can think, though I am no scholar.'

"’Good,' returned the student, bending down his head, so that the white temples glistened in the light. He then uttered very heartily a few words, which he said were the grace, but which I thought, strangely enough, sounded like an imprecation.

" We fell to, but not with that hearty good- will which one should when at a Christmas dinner. There is something peculiarly christianlike and jolly in eating ; at least, so I think. Men eat variously, to be sure; some spread about their victuals over their plates, then glower over them, and then devour them. Some men eat ravenously, like wolves ; others daintily, like pretty ladies ; some men nibble, others gobble and bolt. My friend did not do either. The victuals seemed to glide and slide from the edge of his plate to his knife and fork, and thence to his mouth, with an ease and agility which astonished and confounded me.

“I never saw any other man eat as he did. I have had pretty good practice in my life; but my student friend beat both me and all my acquaintances, living or dead. ' The alderman in chains,' as they then used to denominate the turkey and sausages, had very nearly disappeared. I should have sent it away with only a modest slice cut out of its breast ; but the student would not agree to that, and sliced and cut it nearly to a skeleton. I never saw, either,. a better carver. Wings and legs, breast, back, and side bones, came away like magic. The student did everything with a grace; and even the landlord, who fell back aghast when he came in with the second course, an immense piece de resistance in the shape of a sirloin of beef, although he looked with a profoundly sad and regretful eye at the remains of the turkey, treated the student with marked respect, and placed the beef before him.

"'Landlord,' said he, 'what have you to drink? Something, I hope, that will give me a better appetite; we have been playing at present.’

"’Some hock, or some sparkling moselle?' returned our host.

“'Pish!’ said the other : 'give me something fresh and new. We understand all those things. Let our friend drink light wines, and bring me some gin and bitters. Mind, the best of both, and just give the fire a poke, its spirits are gone out.'

" I was aghast! Here was one on whom I had previously looked with respect, asking for the most vulgar of vulgar liquids. The landlord merely bowed his assent, and as it was Christmas Day, I bade my guest drink what he chose to call for. He took me at my word, repeated his order to the landlord, and tossed off the bumper of gin and bitters, in a way which made me fancy that the liquid hissed as it rolled over his hot tongue. ‘Ah!' thought I, 'it's a wild life they lead at college. This young man will be a ruined man.' I cannot say that the liquid appeared to affect him at all. He said it' was water, and threw a portion of it in the fire, which blazed up in a pale blue flame, testifying to the goodness of our host's spirit, and at the same time lighting up the pale countenance of my guest, and making me mark more than ever the deep lines in his face, extending from his nose to his chin, and those which spread /out from the comers of his eyes, like the lines in a map which show you which way a certain route runs.

“The beef went pretty nearly as quickly as the turkey had gone. I call my memory to witness that it was not eaten by me. I cannot remember that even without dread, nor the face of the landlord, bathed almost in tears, as he carried away just a slight shade of the sirloin. The excellent man bore in the pudding, with despair; but the landlord's daughter, who had an artistic eye, had marked a cross in honour of the day in red berries upon one side of it. It was a huge pudding, and looked nobly with the leaves crackling and glistening in the light above it.

"The pudding was carried to me. I preserved the pretty cross, not only in obedience to my own tastes, but also to that of my companion, who, when he saw it, would not touch the pudding. He took a mince-pie, and talked some nonsense about the holly-berries poisoning the pudding; but I did not heed him — I was only glad that we should redeem our character a little. I'll be bound that down in the kitchen they had called a council to consider our enormous appetites.

"The pudding, with its red cross of beads, was therefore sent away untouched except by me. The cloth removed, we turned to the fire, and the stranger, remarking that he ' ought to know something about fires, since he lit his own and that never went out,' gave ours a poke which made it brilliant in a minute. The landlord then brought in a bowl of punch, emptied a glass of it in wishing us a merry Christmas, and then hurried out of the room to his Christmas dinner. Poor man ! my heart misgave me when he left ; and I thought how his wife pitched into him about his guests. But if my heart misgave about the landlord, I confess it did much more so about myself. What was I to do with my strange guest. Here was he, glowering over the punch-bowl, drinking like a madman, and yet without the slightest effect being produced upon him. I took two or three glasses of punch just to give myself Dutch courage, and then boldly faced my guest, and asked him to give me a song. This he did not seem inclined to do, but he said he would tell me a story; and of all the miserable, wretched abominations perpetrated at Christmas time, his was the worst; I declare it gives me even now the horrors to think of it. It was a Grerman legend about love, and ending in suicide. The love was none of your true-hearted, legitimate English love, but puny, miserable love ; a love which will not fix upon a maiden object, but perversely chooser a married woman — and then, with a heart stuffed full of immorality, a brain of sophisms, and a mouth full of lies, drives the hero (?) — a pretty hero indeed ! — to poison his mistress, and then to cut his own throat. I declare I felt my gall rising; I cleared my throat to speak, and trounced my guest soundly. He laughed hollowly enough, and talked about the English being excessively tame and silly, and wondered why we did not show the same spirit as our neighbours did ! Heaven preserve me from such Christmas talk!

"I had made up my mind to give him a piece of it, when he opened his mouth again, and proposed snapdragon; the punch was gone, and while I played at snapdragon, he said he would brew some punch. I was terribly weary. I wished heartily that he would 'go to Quad,’ as he called his dreary chamber in the old college ; but I could not drive away my guest. He lighted the snapdragon, therefore, and he tucked up his coat cuffs — I declare that he wore no shirt — and showed his long, thin, bony hands at work in the brewing. He next, to give more effect to the snapdragon, blew out the candles !

“How deadly pale he looked by the dancing fires of the spirits ! How hollowly he laughed, when I, unable to keep my eyes from him, burned my fingers in trying to grope for some raisins. Why should we two grown-up people play at such a game? Why should the flame gradually creep up my sleeves, envelope my arms, and dance about my body ? Why should his shining temples glitter like silver in a cold moonlight, and of a sudden sprout with little horns of flame ? Horns of flame on his temples, tufts and sprouts of flame all over his body, crawling in a quick yet stealthy manner, lighting up his ghastly cheeks, his perfectly handsome and marble face, blue on his temples, blue from his eyes, and blue from his ears ; but sulfur colour, tending to a rosy flame, breaking from his mouth ! I was determined to stop it, I shouted, — ‘Save yourself ! stop it! Fire, fire!’

" Loudly as I tried to cry I did not hear my own voice, but I rolled myself on the hearth-rug in an agony of fear, and put out my own flames. When I arose, I still tried to cry ; ' I know what it is,’ I gasped; 'it’s — I see it all — it’s — spontaneous combustion ! ^

“‘It is no such thing, Mr. Boodle,’ said the strange student quietly ; 'tis a little natural magic — that’s all!'

“‘Oh, that’s all! is it, eh?' I gasped, my voice again coming to my aid; 'give me some punch, do anything to —to…’

‘To take away the fright, my dear Boodle : how absurd of you, to be sure ; here — here is some punch of my own brewing.’

"I drank it rapidly. I believed then, and I believe to this day, that it was a glass of fire, hot, of course, and yet sweet, exhilarating, delicious! it ran tingling through my chest, round about my heart, through my shoulders, under my arms, making my elbows feel funny, and my very fingers as if they did not belong to me. Running downward, it made my knees knock together with a delicious delirium tremens, darted into the soles of my boots, warming the calves of my legs in its backward transit, and then shooting up my spine, till it settled itself in the back of my cranium and drove me mad. That was the effect of that punch — I was mad, raving mad !

"The place itself whirled round with me, and seemed motive and alive. The student sat opposite, with his elbows on the table, his ghastly face, exaggerated in its horrible whiteness, in his long claw-like hands. He gazed upon me with a face full of malice. I still drank on. Drink? I could not help drinking! The very glasses were alive. Some of them had legs and staggered towards me with a drunken gravity, and bowed with a mock, splayfooted humility, begging me to empty them ; others, not content with this, flew round my head like the brass balls of a street conjuror, whilst I, catching them with a wondrous dexterity, emptied each in its turn. Meantime, a little dog, which was basking on the mat before us, lost form, became serpentine, and burst out into a strange compound of fiendish hands, fowl-like legs, lizard tail, which, headless and monstrous, held up in its hands a tall glass of punch, and begged me to drink!

"Suddenly the clocks of the various churches struck twelve, and I was sobered in an instant ; the dog, I am bound to say, became a dog again ; and the glasses — but they were empty, stayed quietly on the table, and did not offer themselves to my grasp. I rocked to and fro in my chair. I did not know what to do or think — my head still ached ready to split.

“‘That bill is due to-morrow’ said the student, whose face did not look so very fiendish. ‘If you go on drinking like that, Mr. Boodle, you will never be able to present it. My college punch was good, was it not ?’

"’Good! ' cried I, bitterly ; ‘good ! — oh yes!’ then with a desperate resolution I cried, ‘I’ll go now, I’ll go at once.’ I said this because I knew it was the only to get rid of my tormentor.

“‘I’ll go with you,’ he answered. You will find some one up when we get there who will give us a bed ; come along — another glass, and ring the bell.’ I rang the bell. The sleepy ostler declared gruffly that ‘it was a rum go, to have a hoss put to at that time o’night, and Christmas night too;’ but the boots, who was not sorry to get rid of us, offered to help him, and thus the matter was concluded.

"When I got into the gig, I wrapped myself up warmly ; my tormentor mounted beside me. He said he went to take care of me. Take care of me, indeed ! We drove* out into the quaint streets of the old city, with its colleges with spires and Gothic archways, the old gable ends of houses showing sharp and clear in the moonlight. No one was abroad — we drove, as it were, through a city of the dead. The moon was on the off side of us, a little to our back, so that it threw the shadow of the horse and gig, and the driver, plainly enough before us on the near side. I say the driver only, for the thing which sat by me in a ragged college gown and square cap had no shadow.

"I was not surprised. I had been horrified to my utmost. I could wonder no more. I drove forward into the open country, where the road glistened white in the moonlight, and the long shadows of the trees were thrown • across our path. Out and away, far away. The mare travelled like lightning. I had a strong arm, but it ached with my attempt to hold her in.

“The road soon changed. It was no longer an English country road, but a plain straight viaduct, with water on each side of it. Multitudes of people were passing, and some strange vehicles, drawn by long-tailed Flemish horses, with plumes of feathers on their heads. The drivers were the thinnest men I ever saw, mere lanterns of men, with positively nothing in them. I struck one of them with my whip, and he sounded like a dried bladder. You might as well have whipped an empty cape. My strange friend bade me not whip those drivers, for they would one day drive me, and that men often thought them their friends. I shuddered as he said it. I saw the strange silent eagerness of the passers-by, the thousands thronging to the same goal, the ceaseless hurry of the feet, the careless look of all who trod the way, and I thought to myself that I knew what that way was.

“My companion was himself changed. He was no longer gloomy, but genial. He told me not to be in any hurry, for, said he, we were sure to get to the end of the journey at the appointed time ; no one was ever known to be behind-hand, however slowly he travelled; and as for those who hurried, they were only laughed at for their pains when they arrived. Under these circumstances, therefore, I again tried to pull in my mare, upon whom the pace was beginning to tell. - As we went forwards on that straight road, I saw that the poor mare grew old and out of condition, my spick-and-span new harness was cracked and appeared to be mended with ropes, and the very vehicle in which we sat, instead of being of the newest fashion, seemed worn and pelted, rotten and wormeaten. I wondered how it could hold together.

“Some of the people whom I saw walking along the road soon grew tired of the monotony of the scene. Others declared there were no places to stay at, and indeed they were pretty well driven mad by fellows with whips, who kept urging them forward, whether they would or not. But there were some, although I confess not the majority, who were delighted with the road, and to whom it certainly did offer pleasures and advantages, for they, passing over the streams on each side of the pathway, strolled into pleasant meadows, where they lay down and disported themselves, free from evil or anxiety. The common passengers on the road fixed their eyes on these gay fellows, and praised their happiness, and contrasted their lot with their own; but I observed that, although they grew morose and sad at their hard condition, and the contrast thus afforded them, they seldom took occasion to observe how many were, like themselves, toiling on a painful, weary, hard road, with very indifferent clothing against the weather, and with few or no shoes to speak of. Some were so pricked and urged by the contrast, that they, taking the advice of certain evil companions marvellously like my student, who trudged by their side, threw themselves at once into the river with a despairing yell. I found afterwards, however, that this haste did them no possible good, for my companion told me with a malicious grin, that the river ran a great deal faster than the road, and that when we got to the great terminus we should find that these desperate people had arrived before us, sadly wetted, tumbled and bruised, and heartily ashamed of their precipitancy and haste. There were also — but they were so few that I need scarcely mention them — others who went quietly along, picking out the clean and smooth places in the road, taking no heed of much gold and silver which was strewn about, but always in foul and muddy spots ; would bind up their feet as well as they could, shielding themselves and their neighbours from all harm ; and who^ having paced along pleasantly, we found had arrived quite freshly and blithely at their journey’s end. I observed that a great many people who stooped down to the muddy holes, and loaded their pockets, heads, breasts, and backs with gold and silver, generally called these people fools, asses, and idiots, and despised them heartily, and would puff along under their burden, bragging how hard it was to acquire the gold and riches that they had about them, but which I am certain were very easily picked up ; indeed, the only condition for picking them up was, that whoever did so must not fear the dirt, for although many began the employment with clean hands, yet I found that when they had been some time engaged in the pursuit they grew marvellously dirtyPoor fellows ! they were to be pitied, for when we arrived near the end of our journey, I found that all of them had to throw down their burdens, aye, and to wash themselves pretty clean too, before they were allowed to enter ; so that none of these, I should fancy, who took to the occupation, which was very popular, of gold-picking, got the first place.

“As for myself, I never quite reached it, but it could not, I think, have been very far off, when my strange friend gave the reins a pull, and turned the decrepit old mare into a wayside inn.

“Such an inn! It had been a magnificent church once, but now it served for meaner purposes. The oriel window had been blocked up, galleries built along the aisles, and the arches were filled with bricks. It was miserable to look at, very miserable. I shivered as I entered it.

"The student jumped out of the gig, and called for the ostler. A miserable wan skeleton of a man came and took the old mare’s head. I got down, and felt terribly stiff and old. I opened the well of the gig, where my samples and my valuables, and my bill were, and took them out. I had a great mind to run away, but I did not know my road, and wanting to go to sleep, and to rid me of my companion, I called for the chamber-maid. She came. Such a woman I never saw before, and never want to see again. She was a dried mummy of a creature, with the same discoloured face, dusty eyes, and parchment mouth which a mummy has. She tried to look pleasant, I dare say, but had only that mummy look of drawing her blue lips over her teeth, ready to split them, which all mummies have. I snatched the candle from her, and asked her which bed-room I should have, but I received no answer, and rushed forward.

"The first room I found was a double-bedded room,, but not caring to search further, I took it. It was a sad mouldy old place, with cobweb curtains and hangings, and enough to give one the rheumatism to look at. Anxious about my bill, and knowing that we had but few hours to sleep, I undid my dressing-case, to see that everything was all safe. In unpacking this, I happened to uncover the looking-glass in the pocket of the cover, and looking therein, found that I myself was withered down to an old, old man, and that my clothes hung bagging and worn to shreds upon me. I wSis proceeding with my search, when a hand was laid upon my shoulder, and the case snatched away. With rage and fury, I, knowing it must be the student — for a horrid prescience told me who it was — sprang upon him, and shouted ‘Thieves, robbers, plunderers!' with all my might. My voice was not gone, that was certain.

"’Hush! hush!’ said a cheerful voice, which was that of Tom Groggins, ‘hush! you are all right now, isn’t he, doctor? quite right; look at his eyes, he isn’t the same man!’

“The doctor peered into my face, and looked quite delighted.

"'Oh, Boodle! Boodle! how you have frightened me,' said poor Tom, with a choked voice ; ‘we gave you up ever so many times, that we did.'

“‘Gave me up, eh! where is the bill — where's the student— where the - ’

"’Now, be quiet, Mr. Boodle,' said the doctor, 'be quiet— it's all right. The bill is paid a month ago. The truth is, you, and your college friend, whom you frightened preciously, ate too much of the turkey, beef, and pudding, on Christmas Day ; you've had an attack of apoplexy, then of brain fever — and now you are well over it.'

“That was the account they gave of it," said Mr. Boodle, looking solemnly round, "but I ignore it. I don't believe it. I believe I was ill, very ill, and enough to make me; but I will swear to every bit of the story, to the student, the inn, and the road to it — especially the dirty people picking up heaps of gold! heaps of gold!"

Hello, welcome back to The Poe Show and Happy New Year!

Brief announcement, I will be doing the first True Crime episode on this podcast by the 21st of this month! It will be a True Crime of the 19th Century case, which has been unsolved for over 130 years! For any who have been dying to hear what the episode will be, here it is: the axe murder trials of Lizzie Borden! If you’re someone who likes True Crime, or if you know someone who likes true crime, then tune in on January 21st this month! The episode will cover the murder of Lizzie Borden’s parents, the process of the investigation, the ruling of the court, and the legacy Lizzie Borden left behind.

If you’re new here and enjoyed this episode of the podcast then text it to someone you know who loves Victorian ghost stories, give the podcast a 5 star rating, and be sure to follow and subscribe. Visit thepoeshow.com to listen on any platform and leave comments on Spotify and YouTube or send in anonymous fanmail via text using the link in the description. If you’d like me to work with you in voiceover or narration then email poeshowpod@gmail.com. I am also listed as an audiobook narrator on the site ACX for Audible. And if you’d like to support me and this podcast, the link to my Ko-fi profile is in the description where you can donate, and I’ll be posting some exclusive content on there as well.

I loved doing this story, not only because I can’t get enough of Victorian ghost stories, but because I fell in love with the imagery and the whole idea of it. When I first read the scene where they played snapdragon, I wish that I’d been drinking water so I could’ve spit it out. That’s how far on the edge of my seat I was for that part. And the college student just casually talking while he’s on fire was SUCH a horrific, devilish image that I couldn’t get the sound of his voice or the picture out of my head! So I knew this was going to be a good episode!

Which, by the way, I’ll explain: Snapdragon was an old game that was popular in Victorian England where one would put raisins on a platter and cover it in a flammable liquid, usually brandy. The brandy would then be lit on fire and guests would take turns trying to grab a raisin out of the fire without being burned. And whoever had the most raisins, or just didn’t get burned, would win. Sounds like a stupidly unsafe game today, but remember, just through the 1980’s till the 2000’s, we had toys like lawn darts, easy bake ovens, Magnetix magnets and Razor scooters (which claimed many a weak shin during my childhood).

A part of me hoped that this episode would hit the same spots as The Ghost’s Summons did when I brought Miles Broadhead on to do that episode. I still listen to that episode today and it’s beautiful - and you know why it’s beautiful? There’s no fat on that story at all. A lot of Victorian ghost stories, hell even Victorian writing in general, include a lot of random details. In this story for instance, the narrator says he was a bagman, talks about where he travelled and what relative time it was, just stuff that’s not about the ghost story. Which is why I included the bit of people interrupting him as he speaks; that’s not in the original story, people don’t interrupt him by laughing or saying to tell the story. I just wanted to make that section of the story more entertaining, so I took an artistic interpretation as to how the story should unfold.

And no, Victorian authors were not paid by the line, that’s a misinterpretation of reality - I heard that in high school as well. When it comes to magazines or newspapers, writers were, and still are, either paid by word or paid by installment. So a newspaper would make a deal with an author to receive a number of stories for their columns, and the author would get paid for each installment in a serialized story. Which means the stories could change each week without having a definite end. Those payment rates would vary but short stories were abundant in published columns because of it, which means the authors could have been writing a bit more detail in order to stretch the story a bit. But it must be admitted that the style of writing back then was very heavy on the exposition in the beginning with the story afterward. But the Ghost’s Summons literally starts with the doctor walking into his office and getting to brass tacks right away. It’s an amazing episode, so please listen to The Ghost’s Summons on this podcast after you’re done here.

I also wanted to do this story because it provided a far better picture of what ghosts were like during the Victorian era. As some of you may have learned from previous episodes, like The Ghost’s Summons, ghost stories during the Victorian era actually depicted spirits just as physically present as people. In The Oxford Ghost, it almost seems like James is making a point to say that the narrator saw this student, grabbed his shoulders, shook his hand, that he ate a ton of food - saying that this ghost was as physically manifested as a flesh and blood human being.

And that is what most people believed ghosts to be during that time. It wasn’t until we had developed something called phantasmagoria that ghosts took on a more transparent being.

That all started with a projection device called a “magic lantern” which was invented in the 1650’s. Projectionists would then put on shows to audiences in dark rooms, showing the images on the walls. Much later, in the 1790’s, the first phantasmagoria show would take place, where a magician in Paris, France showed images of skeletons and ghouls…and ghosts! But through the magic lantern, everything was transparent! So that’s how we developed our current beliefs about ghosts! It pervaded the media. This story was written towards the end of the Victorian era, so phantasmagoria would still have plenty of time to bleed across all nations and start to impact modern culture and beliefs surrounding ghosts and spirits.

So the next time you watch Ghost Hunters or Ghost Whisperer or Casper the Friendly Ghost, remember that the concept of transparent souls moving objects and closing doors wasn’t always how the world saw ghosts.

Victorian Christmas ghost stories became a huge tradition, without a very well known beginning. The best we know now is that mankind had developed rituals to ward off evil spirits and mystical forces during the winter solstice, and those rituals were adapted through history as Christianity spread over the world. Garlic was one widely known way to repel evil, and Greeks who converted to Christianity practiced keeping a fireplace lit to drive away an evil goblin. That kind of translation in Britain lead to telling ghost stories around the fire during a cold winter’s night, definitely a good way to spend a long dark night by candlelight. This tradition became even more popular in the Victorian era because of two things: printing presses getting more efficient after the Industrial Revolution, and a movement of Spiritualism which began raking through world cultures, and even captured the attention of Queen Victoria. She became very invested in learning more about these new spiritual ideas, and authors began finding ways to insert societal issues in order to talk about cultural taboos in their stories. This story, too, had an element of that. The main character of this story is called a “bagman,” which means he was a travelling salesman. But this term was also used as a kind of insult, as it also meant one could be a tramp, a loafer, or a homeless person.

The Oxford Ghost was published in 1858, as a part of James Hain Friswell’s collection of stories titled “Ghost Stories and Phantom Fancies.” Our main character, Boodle, tells of his encounter where he met a ghost on Christmas night.

Can I also take a moment here - I don’t know why I’m asking permission. I’m gonna take a moment here - and rant a little bit. This story is from the perspective of Boodle, but really it’s from the perspective of Boodle’s nephew. Because it’s the nephew who asks him to sing a song and then Boodle goes into telling this story. So it’s really the nephew saying “This is what my uncle said.” And it’s so weird because when you read it, there are all of these quotation marks that remind you “Oh yeah, this is the uncle saying this about himself, and then it has the one quotation mark instead of the two when another character says something. It’s so complicated! Like, why not just make the story from the perspective of Boodle? It would’ve been so much easier, it would’ve been easier to write, I’m sure. I don’t know why James Hain Friswell decided to write it like that, but I just found it so odd. And to me personally, it doesn’t add anything to the story. And, in fact, it kind of distances you from it because it’s like oh you are not in the perspective of Boodle. You’re in the perspective of his nephew who’s listening to Boodle telling the story and…I don’t know, I just thought it was so disjointed. But, that’s just my opinion.

Then we have dinner with the devil. Although it was a bit difficult to follow along with the order of events in this section, I’m pretty sure it was meant to be like that because Boodle is having a kind of fever dream for it. But the symbolism is laid on heavy: the collegian utters a prayer in Latin that sound more like a spell, he rejects the hollyberry pie with the shape of a cross on it, he says he attends to fires that never go out, a few pokes in the nearby fire and it starts blazing brilliantly, and during Boodle’s fever dream he says he’s using some natural magic. Everything is pointing to this collegian being the devil, or a demon at the very least. There’s also a kind of random detail of a nearby dog transforming into a large serpent-like creature, which is what? Another symbol for the devil. (Even though snakes from ancient Mesopatamian and Hebrew culture weren’t all bad, they were often used as symbols of fertility, healing and divination as well.)

The ending of this story gave me…almost a Haunted Mansion vibe with all the ghosts moving about and the image Friswell painted there. And if you’re a Disney fan, I hope you noticed the little musical Easter Eggs I put in the music of this episode. If you didn’t, I guess you’ll have to listen again. But the ending was definitely more dreary than the haunted Mansion, so it felt a bit more like the ending of The Ballad of Buster Scruggs. For any who haven’t seen that movie, it’s an anthology of 6 stories about death, and it’s both tragic and beautiful. So spoiler alert if you haven’t seen that movie, but, at the end of the 6th story there are these passengers in a carriage that all slowly realize they are being transported to their judgements after death. It’s not the most tragic story in the anthology, but it is probably the bleakest one. And that scene popped into my head while reading that last passage of this ghost story. All these souls are walking to their judgements, and they all end up at the same place, no matter what they do. I don’t think it’s Hell, or even purgatory, I think it’s just the road to the afterlife.

Boodle’s journey along that road of the dead is filled with symbolism and metaphors, and the people he especially loathed seeing - the ones picking up heaps of gold. Those individuals obviously represent the Ebenezer Scrooge’s of the world, those who hoard wealth for the sake of status and social class instead of improving the world we all live in or realizing that they can’t take it with them. Interesting that that’s a common theme in Victorian ghost stories, huh? You’d think maybe we’d learn a thing or two from reading that over the centuries; you can’t take the wealth with you, and the only ones who get it after you’re gone will be the lawyers and debt collectors. In fact, at the end of your life, with everything stripped away, all they have is dirty hands. Not to say that having a lot of money is a bad thing of course, the thing that’s being criticized is the hoarding of wealth and how people get their hands dirty to get more. Themes like this are relevant even today. Need I mention the public’s reaction to a certain death of a certain CEO of a certain health insurance company? Or need I remind you of a certain submarine with certain passengers that was never seen again?

The story ends with Boodle having aged to be an old man, even his clothes are tattered and worn now, finding a room in a mysterious inn attended by a mummy, or at least she looks like a mummy. Then suddenly being snapped out of his dream by a doctor in the real world. Seems like Friswell is saying that age has a way of sneaking up on you and a person only has so much time to live their life fully.

So, what was your favorite part of the story? Did you like the journey to the inn? Playing snapdragon? Do you enjoy the aftertalk and learning about the history of the piece and its context in the world? Leave a comment on Spotify and YouTube to let me know what your favorite part of this creepy Victorian ghost story was..

Thank you so much for listening to this episode of The Poe Show. Be sure to like, subscribe, follow and add this podcast to your favorites. This podcast is on TikTok (for the time being anyway) @poeshowpodcast and on Instagram @thepoeshowpodcast, where I post some more fun things related to Edgar Allan Poe and classical literature. Also in response to the thing happening with TikTok, I will be transferring most of the content that I would make on TikTok to YouTube Shorts if it gets banned. So please do subscribe on YouTube for other short funny videos about Edgar Allan Poe and classic literature. If you’d like to donate to this podcast, the link to my Ko-fi profile will be in the description, and you will be able to get access to new bonus features coming this year if you become a supporter of the show. Remember to send any fanmail to the show by using the link in the description of this episode and email poeshowpod@gmail.com with any inquiries about voiceover and narration work, and check me out on ACX for Audible.

That’s all for now, but let’s make this a big new year, by tuning in for the true crime episode on Lizzie Borden coming on the 21st! You’ll hear from me then, on The Poe Show podcast.