Other editions of book Christmas Eve

We are delighted to publish this classic book as part of our extensive classic literature collection. This book is a reproduction of an important historical work. Unlike some other reproductions of classic texts, We have not used OCR(Optical Character Recognition), as this leads to bad quality books with introduced typos. Also in books where there are images such as portraits, maps, sketches etc We have endeavoured to keep the quality of these images, so they represent accurately the original artefact. Although occasionally there may be certain imperfections with these old texts, we feel they deserve to be made available for future generations to enjoy. We use state-of-the-art technology to digitally reconstruct the work, preserving the original format whilst repairing imperfections present in the aged copy. In rare cases, an imperfection in the original, such as a blemish or missing page, may be replicated in our edition. We do, however, repair the vast majority of imperfections successfully; any imperfections that remain are intentionally left to preserve the state of such historical works. Out of the little chapel I burst Into the fresh night–air again. Five minutes full, I waited first In the doorway, to escape the rain That drove in gusts down the common’s centre At the edge of which the chapel stands, Before I plucked up heart to enter. Heaven knows how many sorts of hands Reached past me, groping for the latch Of the inner door that hung on catch More obstinate the more they fumbled, Till, giving way at last with a scold Of the crazy hinge, in squeezed or tumbled One sheep more to the rest in fold, And left me irresolute, standing sentry In the sheepfold’s lath–and–plaster entry, Six feet long by three feet wide, Partitioned off from the vast inside— I blocked up half of it at least. No remedy; the rain kept driving.

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“Christmas-Eve” is an account of a vision in which the narrator is taken to a Nonconformist church, to St. Peter’s in Rome, to a Göttingen lecture theatre where a practitioner of the Higher criticism is discoursing on the Christian myth, and back to the Nonconformist church.Out of the little chapel I burstInto the fresh night–air again.Five minutes full, I waited firstIn the doorway, to escape the rainThat drove in gusts down the common's centreAt the edge of which the chapel stands,Before I plucked up heart to enter.Heaven knows how many sorts of handsReached past me, groping for the latchOf the inner door that hung on catchMore obstinate the more they fumbled,Till, giving way at last with a scoldOf the crazy hinge, in squeezed or tumbledOne sheep more to the rest in fold,And left me irresolute, standing sentryIn the sheepfold's lath–and–plaster entry,Six feet long by three feet wide,Partitioned off from the vast inside—I blocked up half of it at least.No remedy; the rain kept driving.They eyed me much as some wild beast,That congregation, still arriving,Some of them by the main road, whiteA long way past me into the night,Skirting the common, then diverging;Not a few suddenly emergingFrom the common's self thro' the paling–gaps—They house in the gravel–pits perhaps,Where the road stops short with its safeguard borderOf lamps, as tired of such disorder;—But the most turned in yet more abruptlyFrom a certain squalid knot of alleys,Where the town's bad blood once slept corruptly,Which now the little chapel ralliesAnd leads into day again,—its priestlinessLending itself to hide their beastlinessSo cleverly (thanks in part to the mason),And putting so cheery a whitewashed face onThose neophytes too much in lack of it,That, where you cross the common as I did,And meet the party thus presided,"Mount Zion" with Love–lane at the back of it,They front you as little disconcertedAs, bound for the hills, her fate averted,And her wicked people made to mind him,Lot might have marched with Gomorrah behind him.

“Christmas-Eve” is an account of a vision in which the narrator is taken to a Nonconformist church, to St. Peter’s in Rome, to a Göttingen lecture theatre where a practitioner of the Higher criticism is discoursing on the Christian myth, and back to the Nonconformist church.Out of the little chapel I burstInto the fresh night–air again.Five minutes full, I waited firstIn the doorway, to escape the rainThat drove in gusts down the common's centreAt the edge of which the chapel stands,Before I plucked up heart to enter.Heaven knows how many sorts of handsReached past me, groping for the latchOf the inner door that hung on catchMore obstinate the more they fumbled,Till, giving way at last with a scoldOf the crazy hinge, in squeezed or tumbledOne sheep more to the rest in fold,And left me irresolute, standing sentryIn the sheepfold's lath–and–plaster entry,Six feet long by three feet wide,Partitioned off from the vast inside—I blocked up half of it at least.No remedy; the rain kept driving.They eyed me much as some wild beast,That congregation, still arriving,Some of them by the main road, whiteA long way past me into the night,Skirting the common, then diverging;Not a few suddenly emergingFrom the common's self thro' the paling–gaps—They house in the gravel–pits perhaps,Where the road stops short with its safeguard borderOf lamps, as tired of such disorder;—But the most turned in yet more abruptlyFrom a certain squalid knot of alleys,Where the town's bad blood once slept corruptly,Which now the little chapel ralliesAnd leads into day again,—its priestlinessLending itself to hide their beastlinessSo cleverly (thanks in part to the mason),And putting so cheery a whitewashed face onThose neophytes too much in lack of it,That, where you cross the common as I did,And meet the party thus presided,"Mount Zion" with Love–lane at the back of it,They front you as little disconcertedAs, bound for the hills, her fate averted,And her wicked people made to mind him,Lot might have marched with Gomorrah behind him.