The Midnight Concord; A Most True and Accurate Summation of the Events of August Past

I've got people underneath my bed. Little men, women, children. Little dogs, little cattle, little church steeples jutting up towards the mattress overhead. There's a whole village, maybe even two, underneath my bed. There's fireworks once a year, on the fourteenth of October (by our calendar, although who knows in which manner the little people reckon time's march?) and I hear them singing long into the night. 1

Oh, I know, you don't believe me. Well I didn't expect you to. No, no, I understand. Or rather I don't, but I've grown used to that. You see, the simple, God's honest truth of the matter is this: I've got people underneath my bed. Very well, turn away, avoid my gaze - by all means avoid my gaze! But don't you dare, for an instant, believe yourself to be better than I, Mr. Ashton. 2

What? This sudden change of heart? This frozen, unseemly jaw flapping and impotent stammering? I assure you, Mr. Ashton, we have never met before. No not on the School Board, nor the Committee for Public Works in Staffordshire. Well how else should I know your name? The little people told me so: Mr. Gregory Ashton of Lichfield.3

Honestly, such fatuous posturing must be overcome - and quickly - if our evening’s labour is to bear fruit. I mean you no harm, Mr. Ashton. Well! This is a revealing act, is it not? A simple man approaches, intending nothing but good natured conversation and perhaps a business proposal; and how do you respond? By drawing a revolver! Oh no, by all means Mr. Ashton, continue to brandish your pistol. Continue to pout, and sweat, and mutter most offensive oaths. 4

If it is any help, Mr. Ashton, I am more than willing to kneel. After all, if a gentleman as highly esteemed as yourself wishes my death, who am I to argue? No, I am merely a simple clerk, with four children, an elderly mother, and a heavily pregnant wife (excuse me, widow) to provide for. What? Yet another change of heart? How fortunate it is, Mr. Ashton, that you were born lacking the famous Englishman’s stoicism. 5

May I rise? Very good, Mr. Ashton, I applaud your generosity. Oh yes, the people underneath my bed; I thought a man of your most rare talents would be intrigued. It is not common, after all, for even a fine zoo such as Lipton’s to exhibit specimens destined to stun and amaze all the British Empire. You hear correctly. The people underneath my bed, the marvels of miniature dimensions, are to become star attraction of Lipton’s Most Exotic and Unusual Menagerie. 6

Oh I’ve forgotten myself. But of course a man of your most renowned and impeccable good sense would wish to see them with his own eyes - the rigours of science demand nothing less! Well, as fortuitous luck may have it, Mr. Ashton, the little people have in fact come to see you. No, there’s no need to tread lightly, peering here and there lest your gargantuan shoes crush scores at a time.7

The little people travel rarely indeed, but when they do travel they certainly never scamper about along the cobblestones, at the mercy of cruel fate and crueller little boys. Here, let me show you, for this is no ordinary briefcase I hold, Mr. Ashton. Rather, it is in fact the very vessel by which the little people came to me some eight years previous. If you are very quiet - and promise to make no sudden movements - you may peek inside...