by Charles Dickens




Preface to Dicken's Christmas Stories

THE narrow space within which it was necessary to confine

these Christmas Stories when they were originally published,

rendered their construction a matter of some difficulty, and almost

necessitated what is peculiar in their machinery. I could not

attempt great elaboration of detail, in the working out of character

within such limits. My chief purpose was, in a whimsical kind of

masque which the good humour of the season justified, to awaken

some loving and forbearing thoughts, never out of season in a

Christian land.

C. D.




I HAVE endeavoured in this Ghostly little book to raise the

Ghost of an Idea which shall not put my readers out of humour

with themselves, with each other, with the season, or with me.

May it haunt their houses pleasantly, and no one wish to lay it.

Their faithful Friend and Servant,

C. D.

(r)December, 1843.




Stave I

Marley's Ghost

MARLEY WAS DEAD, TO BEGIN with. There is no doubt

whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the

clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner.

Scrooge signed it. And Scrooge's name was good upon 'Change

for anything he chose to put his hand to.

Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail.

Mind! I don't mean to say that I know, of my own knowledge,

what there is particularly dead about a door-nail. I might have

been inclined, myself, to regard a coffin-nail as the deadest piece

of ironmongery in the trade. But the wisdom of our ancestors is in

the simile; and my unhallowed hands shall not disturb it, or the

Country's done for. You will therefore permit me to repeat,

emphatically, that Marley was as dead as a door-nail.

Scrooge knew he was dead? Of course he did. How could it be

otherwise? Scrooge and he were partners for I don't know how

many years. Scrooge was his sole executor, his sole administrator,

his sole assign, his sole residuary legatee, his sole friend, and sole

mourner. And even Scrooge was not so dreadfully cut up by the

sad event, but that he was an excellent man of business on the

very day of the funeral, and solemnised it with an undoubted

bargain. The mention of Marley's funeral brings me back to the

point I started from. There is no doubt that Marley was dead. This

must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of

the story I am going to relate. If we were not perfectly convinced

that Hamlet's Father died before the play began, there would be

nothing more remarkable in his taking a stroll at night, in an

easterly wind, upon his own ramparts, than there would be in any

other middle-aged gentleman rashly turning out after dark in a

breezy spot- say Saint Paul's Churchyard for instance- literally to

astonish his son's weak mind.

Scrooge never painted out Old Marley's name. There it stood,

years afterwards, above the warehouse door: Scrooge and Marley.

The firm was known as Scrooge and Marley. Sometimes people

new to the business called Scrooge Scrooge, and sometimes

Marley, but he answered to both names. It was all the same to


Oh! but he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone. Scrooge! a

squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous,

old sinner! Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever

struck out generous fire; secret, and self-contained, and solitary as

an oyster. The cold within him froze his old features, nipped his

pointed nose, shrivelled his cheek, stiffened his gait; made his

eyes red, his thin lips blue; and spoke out shrewdly in his grating

voice. A frosty rime was on his head, and on his eyebrows, and his

wiry chin. He carried his own low temperature always about with

him; he iced his office in the dog-days, and didn't thaw it one

degree at Christmas.

External heat and cold had little influence on Scrooge. No

warmth could warm, no wintry weather chill him. No wind that

blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was more intent upon

its purpose, no pelting rain less open to entreaty. Foul weather

didn't know where to have him. The heaviest rain, and snow, and

hail, and sleet, could boast of the advantage over him in only one

respect. They often 'came down' handsomely, and Scrooge never


Nobody ever stopped him in the street to say, with gladsome

looks, 'My dear Scrooge, how are you? When will you come to see

me?' No beggars implored him to bestow a trifle, no children

asked him what it was o'clock, no man or woman ever once in all

his life inquired the way to such and such a place, of Scrooge.

Even the blind men's dogs appeared to know him; and when they

saw him coming on, would tug their owners into doorways and up

courts; and then would wag their tails as though they said, 'No eye

at all is better than an evil eye, dark master!'

But what did Scrooge care! It was the very thing he liked. To

edge his way along the crowded paths of life, warning all human

sympathy to keep its distance, was what the knowing ones call

'nuts' to Scrooge.

Once upon a time- of all the good days in the year, on Christmas

Eve- old Scrooge sat busy in his counting-house. It was cold,

bleak, biting weather: foggy withal: and he could hear the people

in the court outside, go wheezing up and down, beating their

hands upon their breasts, and stamping their feet upon the

pavement stones to warm them. The city clocks had only just gone

three, but it was quite dark already- it had not been light all day-

and candles were flaring in the windows of the neighbouring

offices, like ruddy smears upon the palpable brown air. The fog

came pouring in at every chink and keyhole, and was so dense

without, that although the court was of the narrowest, the houses

opposite were mere phantoms. To see the dingy cloud come

drooping down, obscuring everything, one might have thought

that Nature lived hard by, and was brewing on a large scale.

The door of Scrooge's counting-house was open that he might

keep his eye upon his clerk, who in a dismal little cell beyond, a

sort of tank, was copying letters. Scrooge had a very small fire,

but the clerk's fire was so very much smaller that it looked like

one coal. But he couldn't replenish it, for Scrooge kept the coal-

box in his own room; and so surely as the clerk came in with the

shovel, the master predicted that it would be necessary for them to

part. Wherefore the clerk put on his white comforter, and tried to

warm himself at the candle; in which effort, not being a man of a

strong imagination, he failed.

'A merry Christmas, uncle! God save you!' cried a cheerful voice.

It was the voice of Scrooge's nephew, who came upon him so

quickly that this was the first intimation he had of his approach.

'Bah!' said Scrooge, 'Humbug!'

He had so heated himself with rapid walking in the fog and frost,

this nephew of Scrooge's, that he was all in a glow; his face was

ruddy and handsome; his eyes sparkled, and his breath smoked


'Christmas a humbug, uncle!' said Scrooge's nephew. 'You don't

mean that, I am sure?'

'I do,' said Scrooge. 'Merry Christmas! What right have you to be

merry? What reason have you to be merry? You're poor enough.'

'Come, then,' returned the nephew gaily. 'What right have you to

be dismal? What reason have you to be morose? You're rich


Scrooge having no better answer ready on the spur of the

moment, said, 'Bah!' again; and followed it up with 'Humbug.'

'Don't be cross, uncle!' said the nephew.

'What else can I be,' returned the uncle, 'when I live in such a

world of fools as this? Merry Christmas! Out upon merry

Christmas! What's Christmas time to you but a time for paying

bills without money; a time for finding yourself a year older, but

not an hour richer; a time for balancing your books and having

every item in 'em through a round dozen of months presented

dead against you? If I could work my will,' said Scrooge

indignantly, 'every idiot who goes about with "Merry Christmas"

on his lips should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried

with a stake of holly through his heart. He should!'

'Uncle!' pleaded the nephew.

'Nephew!' returned the uncle, sternly, 'keep Christmas in your

own way, and let me keep it in mine.'

'Keep it!' repeated Scrooge's nephew. 'But you don't keep it.'

'Let me leave it alone, then,' said Scrooge. 'Much good may it do

you! Much good it has ever done you!'

'There are many things from which I might have derived good,

by which I have not profited, I dare say,' returned the nephew.

'Christmas among the rest. But I am sure I have always thought of

Christmas time, when it has come round- apart from the

veneration due to its sacred name and origin, if anything

belonging to it can be apart from that- as a good time; a kind,

forgiving, charitable, pleasant time; the only time I know of, in

the long calendar of the year when men and women seem by one

consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people

below them as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave,

and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys. And

therefore, uncle, though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver

in my pocket, I believe that it (r)has done me good, and (r)will

do me good; and I say, God bless it!'

The clerk in the tank involuntarily applauded. Becoming

immediately sensible of the impropriety, he poked the fire, and

extinguished the last frail spark for ever.

'Let me hear another sound from (r)you,' said Scrooge, 'and

you'll keep your Christmas by losing your situation! You're quite a

powerful speaker, sir,' he added, turning to his nephew. 'I wonder

you don't go into Parliament.'

'Don't be angry, uncle. Come! Dine with us to-morrow.'

Scrooge said that he would see him- yes, indeed he did. He went

the whole length of the expression, and said that he would see him

in that extremity first.

'But why?' cried Scrooge's nephew. 'Why?'

'Why did you get married?' said Scrooge.

'Because I fell in love.'

'Because you fell in love!' growled Scrooge, as if that were the

only one thing in the world more ridiculous than a merry

Christmas. 'Good afternoon!'

'Nay, uncle, but you never came to see me before that happened.

Why give it as a reason for not coming now?'

'Good afternoon,' said Scrooge.

'I want nothing from you; I ask nothing of you; why cannot we

be friends?'

'Good afternoon,' said Scrooge.

'I am sorry, with all my heart, to find you so resolute. We have

never had any quarrel, to which I have been a party. But I have

made the trial in homage to Christmas, and I'll keep my

Christmas humour to the last. So A Merry Christmas, uncle!'

'Good afternoon!' said Scrooge.

'And A Happy New Year!'

'Good afternoon!' said Scrooge.

His nephew left the room without an angry word,

notwithstanding. He stopped at the outer door to bestow the

greetings of the season on the clerk, who, cold as he was, was

warmer than Scrooge; for he returned them cordially.

'There's another fellow,' muttered Scrooge; who overheard him:

'my clerk, with fifteen shillings a week, and a wife and family,

talking about a merry Christmas. I'll retire to Bedlam.' This

lunatic, in letting Scrooge's nephew out, had let two other people

in. They were portly gentlemen, pleasant to behold, and now

stood, with their hats off, in Scrooge's office. They had books and

papers in their hands, and bowed to him.

'Scrooge and Marley's, I believe,' said one of the gentlemen,

referring to his list. 'Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr.

Scrooge, or Mr. Marley?'

'Mr. Marley has been dead these seven years,' Scrooge replied.

'He died seven years ago, this very night.'

'We have no doubt his liberality is well represented by his

surviving partner,' said the gentleman, presenting his credentials.

It certainly was; for they had been two kindred spirits. At the

ominous word 'liberality,' Scrooge frowned, and shook his head,

and handed the credentials back.

'At this festive season of the year, Mr. Scrooge,' said the

gentleman, taking up a pen, 'it is more than usually desirable that

we should make some slight provision for the Poor and destitute,

who suffer greatly at the present time. Many thousands are in

want of common necessaries; hundreds of thousands are in want

of common comforts, sir.'

'Are there no prisons?' asked Scrooge.

'Plenty of prisons,' said the gentleman, laying down the pen


'And the Union workhouses?' demanded Scrooge. 'Are they still

in operation?'

'They are. Still,' returned the gentleman, 'I wish I could say they

were not.'

'The Treadmill and the Poor Law are in full vigour, then?' said


'Both very busy, sir.'

'Oh! I was afraid, from what you said at first, that something had

occurred to stop them in their useful course,' said Scrooge. 'I'm

very glad to hear it.'

'Under the impression that they scarcely furnish Christian cheer

of mind or body to the multitude,' returned the gentleman, 'a few

of us are endeavouring to raise a fund to buy the Poor some meat

and drink, and means of warmth. We choose this time because it

is a time, of all others, when Want is keenly felt, and Abundance

rejoices. What shall I put you down for?'

'Nothing!' Scrooge replied.

'You wish to be anonymous?'

'I wish to be left alone,' said Scrooge. 'Since you ask me what I

wish, gentlemen, that is my answer. I don't make merry myself at

Christmas and I can't afford to make idle people merry. I help to

support the establishments I have mentioned- they cost enough;

and those who are badly off must go there.'

'Many can't go there; and many would rather die.'

'If they would rather die,' said Scrooge, 'they had better do it, and

decrease the surplus population. Besides- excuse me- I don't know


'But you might know it,' observed the gentleman.

'It's not my business,' Scrooge returned. 'It's enough for a man to

understand his own business, and not to interfere with other

people's. Mine occupies me constantly. Good afternoon,


Seeing clearly that it would be useless to pursue their point, the

gentlemen withdrew. Scrooge resumed his labours with an

improved opinion of himself, and in a more facetious temper than

was usual with him.

Meanwhile the fog and darkness thickened so, that people ran

about with flaring links, proffering their services to go before

horses in carriages, and conduct them on their way. The ancient

tower of a church, whose gruff old bell was always peeping slily

down at Scrooge out of a gothic window in the wall, became

invisible, and struck the hours and quarters in the clouds, with

tremulous vibrations afterwards as if its teeth were chattering in

its frozen head up there. The cold became intense. In the main

street, at the corner of the court, some labourers were repairing

the gas-pipes, and had lighted a great fire in a brazier, round

which a party of ragged men and boys were gathered: warming

their hands and winking their eyes before the blaze in rapture.

The water-plug being left in solitude, its over-flowings sullenly

congealed, and turned to misanthropic ice. The brightness of the

shops where holly sprigs and berries crackled in the lamp heat of

the windows, made pale faces ruddy as they passed. Poulterers'

and grocers' trades became a splendid joke: a glorious pageant,

with which it was next to impossible to believe that such dull

principles as bargain and sale had anything to do. The Lord

Mayor, in the stronghold of the mighty Mansion House, gave

orders to his fifty cooks and butlers to keep Christmas as a Lord

Mayor's household should; and even the little tailor, whom he had

fined five shillings on the previous Monday for being drunk and

bloodthirsty in the streets, stirred up to-morrow's pudding in his

garret, while his lean wife and the baby sallied out to buy the beef.

Foggier yet, and colder. Piercing, searching, biting cold. If the

good Saint Dunstan had but nipped the Evil Spirit's nose with a

touch of such weather as that, instead of using his familiar

weapons, then indeed he would have roared to lusty purpose. The

owner of one scant young nose, gnawed and mumbled by the

hungry cold as bones are gnawed by dogs, stooped down at

Scrooge's keyhole to regale him with a Christmas carol: but at the

first sound of

'God bless you, merry gentleman!

May nothing you dismay!'

Scrooge seized the ruler with such energy of action, that the

singer fled in terror, leaving the keyhole to the fog and even more

congenial frost.

At length the hour of shutting up the counting-house arrived.

With an ill-will Scrooge dismounted from his stool, and tacitly

admitted the fact to the expectant clerk in the Tank, who instantly

snuffed his candle out, and put on his hat.

'You'll want all day to-morrow, I suppose?' said Scrooge.

'If quite convenient, sir.'

'It's not convenient,' said Scrooge, 'and it's not fair. If I was to

stop half-a-crown for it, you'd think yourself ill-used, I'll be


The clerk smiled faintly.

'And yet,' said Scrooge, 'you don't think (r)me ill-used, when I

pay a day's wages for no work.'

The clerk observed that it was only once a year.

'A poor excuse for picking a man's pocket every twenty-fifth of

December!' said Scrooge, buttoning his great-coat to the chin. 'But

I suppose you must have the whole day. Be here all the earlier

next morning.'

The clerk promised that he would; and Scrooge walked out with

a growl. The office was closed in a twinkling, and the clerk, with

the long ends of his white comforter dangling below his waist (for

he boasted no great-coat), went down a slide on Cornhill, at the

end of a lane of boys, twenty times, in honour of its being

Christmas Eve, and then ran home to Camden Town as hard as he

could pelt, to play at blindman's-buff.

Scrooge took his melancholy dinner in his usual melancholy

tavern; and having read all the newspapers, and beguiled the rest

of the evening with his banker's-book, went home to bed. He lived

in chambers which had once belonged to his deceased partner.

They were a gloomy suite of rooms, in a lowering pile of building

up a yard, where it had so little business to be, that one could

scarcely help fancying it must have run there when it was a young

house, playing at hide-and-seek with other houses, and forgotten

the way out again. It was old enough now, and dreary enough, for

nobody lived in it but Scrooge, the other rooms being all let out as

offices. The yard was so dark that even Scrooge, who knew its

every stone, was fain to grope with his hands. The fog and frost so

hung about the black old gateway of the house, that it seemed as if

the Genius of the Weather sat in mournful meditation on the


Now, it is a fact, that there was nothing at all particular about

the knocker on the door, except that it was very large. It is also a

fact, that Scrooge had seen it, night and morning, during his

whole residence in that place; also that Scrooge had as little of

what is called fancy about him as any man in the city of London,

even including- which is a bold word- the corporation, aldermen,

and livery. Let it also be borne in mind that Scrooge had not

bestowed one thought on Marley, since his last mention of his

seven-years' dead partner that afternoon. And then let any man

explain to me, if he can, how it happened that Scrooge, having his

key in the lock of the door, saw in the knocker, without its

undergoing any intermediate process of change- not a knocker,

but Marley's face.

Marley's face. It was not in impenetrable shadow as the other

objects in the yard were, but had a dismal light about it, like a bad

lobster in a dark cellar. It was not angry or ferocious, but looked at

Scrooge as Marley used to look: with ghostly spectacles turned up

on its ghostly forehead. The hair was curiously stirred, as if by

breath or hot air; and, though the eyes were wide open, they were

perfectly motionless. That, and its livid colour, made it horrible;

but its horror seemed to be in spite of the face and beyond its

control, rather than a part of its own expression.

As Scrooge looked fixedly at this phenomenon, it was a knocker


To say that he was not startled, or that his blood was not

conscious of a terrible sensation to which it had been a stranger

from infancy, would be untrue. But he put his hand upon the key

he had relinquished, turned it sturdily, walked in, and lighted his


He (r)did pause, with a moment's irresolution, before he shut

the door; and he (r)did look cautiously behind it first, as if he

half expected to be terrified with the sight of Marley's pigtail

sticking out into the hall. But there was nothing on the back of the

door, except the screws and nuts that held the knocker on, so he

said 'Pooh, pooh!' and closed it with a bang.

The sound resounded through the house like thunder. Every

room above, and every cask in the wine-merchant's cellars below,

appeared to have a separate peal of echoes of its own. Scrooge was

not a man to be frightened by echoes. He fastened the door, and

walked across the hall, and up the stairs; slowly too: trimming his

candle as he went.

You may talk vaguely about driving a coach-and-six up a good

old flight of stairs, or through a bad young Act of Parliament; but

I mean to say you might have got a hearse up that staircase, and

taken it broadwise, with the splinter-bar towards the wall and the

door towards the balustrades: and done it easy. There was plenty

of width for that, and room to spare; which is perhaps the reason

why Scrooge thought he saw a locomotive hearse going on before

him in the gloom. Half-a-dozen gas-lamps out of the street

wouldn't have lighted the entry too well, so you may suppose that

it was pretty dark with Scrooge's dip.

Up Scrooge went, not caring a button for that. Darkness is cheap,

and Scrooge liked it. But before he shut his heavy door, he walked

through his rooms to see that all was right. He had just enough

recollection of the face to desire to do that.

Sitting-room, bed-room, lumber-room. All as they should be.

Nobody under the table, nobody under the sofa; a small fire in the

grate; spoon and basin ready; and the little sauce-pan of gruel

(Scrooge had a cold in his head) upon the hob. Nobody under the

bed; nobody in the closet; nobody in his dressing-gown, which

was hanging up in a suspicious attitude against the wall. Lumber-

room as usual. Old fire-guard, old shoes, two fish-baskets,

washing-stand on three legs, and a poker.

Quite satisfied, he closed his door, and locked himself in;

double-locked himself in, which was not his custom. Thus secured

against surprise, he took off his cravat; put on his dressing-gown

and slippers, and his nightcap; and sat down before the fire to take

his gruel.

It was a very low fire indeed; nothing on such a bitter night. He

was obliged to sit close to it, and brood over it, before he could

extract the least sensation of warmth from such a handful of fuel.

The fireplace was an old one, built by some Dutch merchant long

ago, and paved all round with quaint Dutch tiles, designed to

illustrate the Scriptures. There were Cains and Abels, Pharaoh's

daughters, Queens of Sheba, Angelic messengers descending

through the air on clouds like feather-beds, Abrahams,

Belshazzars, Apostles putting off to sea in butter-boats, hundreds

of figures to attract his thoughts; and yet that face of Marley,

seven years dead, came like the ancient Prophet's rod, and

swallowed up the whole. If each smooth tile had been a blank at

first, with power to shape some picture on its surface from the

disjointed fragments of his thoughts, there would have been a

copy of old Marley's head on every one.

'Humbug!' said Scrooge; and walked across the room.

After several turns, he sat down again. As he threw his head

back in the chair, his glance happened to rest upon a bell, a

disused bell, that hung in the room, and communicated for some

purpose now forgotten with a chamber in the highest story of the

building. It was with great astonishment, and with a strange,

inexplicable dread, that as he looked, he saw this bell begin to

swing. It swung so softly in the outset that it scarcely made a

sound; but soon it rang out loudly; and so did every bell in the


This might have lasted half a minute, or a minute, but it seemed

an hour. The bells ceased as they had begun, together. They were

succeeded by a clanking noise, deep down below; as if some

person were dragging a heavy chain over the casks in the wine-

merchant's cellar. Scrooge then remembered to have heard that

ghosts in haunted houses were described as dragging chains.

The cellar-door flew open with a booming sound, and then he

heard the noise much louder, on the floors below; then coming up

the stairs; then coming straight towards his door.

'It's humbug still!' said Scrooge. 'I won't believe it.'

His colour changed though, when, without a pause, it came on

through the heavy door, and passed into the room before his eyes.

Upon its coming in, the dying flame leaped up, as though it cried,

'I know him; Marley's Ghost!' and fell again.

The same face: the very same. Marley in his pigtail, usual

waistcoat, tights and boots; the tassels on the latter bristling, like

his pigtail, and his coat-skirts, and the hair upon his head. The

chain he drew was clasped about his middle. It was long, and

wound about him like a tail; and it was made (for Scrooge

observed it closely) of cash-boxes, keys, padlocks, ledgers, deeds,

and heavy purses wrought in steel. His body was transparent; so

that Scrooge, observing him, and looking through his waistcoat,

could see the two buttons on his coat behind.

Scrooge had often heard it said that Marley had no bowels, but

he had never believed it until now.

No, nor did he believe it even now. Though he looked the

phantom through and through, and saw it standing before him;

though he felt the chilling influence of its death-cold eyes; and

marked the very texture of the folded kerchief bound about its

head and chin, which wrapper he had not observed before; he was

still incredulous, and fought against his senses.

'How now!' said Scrooge, caustic and cold as ever. 'What do you

want with me?'

'Much!'- Marley's voice, no doubt about it.

'Who are you?'

'Ask me who I (r)was.'

'Who (r)were you then?' said Scrooge, raising his voice. 'You're

particular, for a shade.' He was going to say (r)'to a shade,' but

substituted this, as more appropriate.

'In life I was your partner, Jacob Marley.'

'Can you- can you sit down?' asked Scrooge, looking doubtfully

at him.

'I can.'

'Do it, then.'

Scrooge asked the question, because he didn't know whether a

ghost so transparent might find himself in a condition to take a

chair; and felt that in the event of its being impossible, it might

involve the necessity of an embarrassing explanation. But the

ghost sat down on the opposite side of the fireplace, as if he were

quite used to it.

'You don't believe in me,' observed the Ghost.

'I don't,' said Scrooge.

'What evidence would you have of my reality beyond that of your


'I don't know,' said Scrooge.

'Why do you doubt your senses?'

'Because,' said Scrooge, 'a little thing affects them. A slight

disorder of the stomach makes them cheats. You may be an

undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a

fragment of an underdone potato. There's more of gravy than of

grave about you, whatever you are!'

Scrooge was not much in the habit of cracking jokes, nor did he

feel, in his heart, by any means waggish then. The truth is, that he

tried to be smart, as a means of distracting his own attention, and

keeping down his terror; for the spectre's voice disturbed the very

marrow in his bones.

To sit, staring at those fixed glazed eyes, in silence for a

moment, would play, Scrooge felt, the very deuce with him. There

was something very awful, too, in the spectre's being provided

with an infernal atmosphere of its own. Scrooge could not feel it

himself, but this was clearly the case; for though the Ghost sat

perfectly motionless, its hair, and skirts, and tassels, were still

agitated as by the hot vapour from an oven.

'You see this toothpick?' said Scrooge, returning quickly to the

charge, for the reason just assigned; and wishing, though it were

only for a second, to divert the vision's stony gaze from himself.

'I do,' replied the Ghost.

'You are not looking at it,' said Scrooge.

'But I see it,' said the Ghost, 'notwithstanding.'

'Well!' returned Scrooge, 'I have but to swallow this, and be for

the rest of my days persecuted by a legion of goblins, all of my

own creation. Humbug, I tell you! humbug!'

At this the spirit raised a frightful cry, and shook its chain with

such a dismal and appalling noise, that Scrooge held on tight to

his chair, to save himself from falling in a swoon. But how much

greater was his horror, when the phantom taking off the bandage

round its head, as if it were too warm to wear in-doors, its lower

jaw dropped down upon its breast!

Scrooge fell upon his knees, and clasped his hands before his


'Mercy!' he said. 'Dreadful apparition, why do you trouble me?'

'Man of the worldly mind!' replied the Ghost, 'do you believe in

me or not?'

'I do,' said Scrooge. 'I must. But why do spirits walk the earth,

and why do they come to me?'

'It is required of every man,' the Ghost returned, 'that the spirit

within him should walk abroad among his fellow-men, and travel

far and wide; and if that spirit goes not forth in life, it is

condemned to do so after death. It is doomed to wander through

the world- oh, woe is me!- and witness what it cannot share, but

might have shared on earth, and turned to happiness!'

Again the spectre raised a cry, and shook its chain and wrung its

shadowy hands.

'You are fettered,' said Scrooge, trembling. 'Tell me why?'

'I wear the chain I forged in life,' replied the Ghost. 'I made it

link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free will,

and of my own free will I wore it. Is its pattern strange to


Scrooge trembled more and more.

'Or would you know,' pursued the Ghost, 'the weight and length

of the strong coil you bear yourself? It was full as heavy and as

long as this, seven Christmas Eves ago. You have laboured on it

since. It is a ponderous chain!'

Scrooge glanced about him on the floor, in the expectation of

finding himself surrounded by some fifty or sixty fathoms of iron

cable: but he could see nothing.

'Jacob,' he said, imploringly. 'Old Jacob Marley, tell me more.

Speak comfort to me, Jacob!'

'I have none to give,' the Ghost replied. 'It comes from other

regions, Ebenezer Scrooge, and is conveyed by other ministers, to

other kinds of men. Nor can I tell you what I would. A very little

more is all permitted to me. I cannot rest, I cannot stay, I cannot

linger anywhere. My spirit never walked beyond our counting-

house- mark me!- in life my spirit never roved beyond the narrow

limits of our money-changing hole; and weary journeys lie before


It was a habit with Scrooge, whenever he became thoughtful, to

put his hands in his breeches pockets. Pondering on what the

Ghost had said, he did so now, but without lifting up his eyes, or

getting off his knees.

'You must have been very slow about it, Jacob,' Scrooge

observed, in a business-like manner, though with humility and


'Slow!' the Ghost repeated.

'Seven years dead,' mused Scrooge. 'And travelling all the time!'

'The whole time,' said the Ghost. 'No rest, no peace. Incessant

torture of remorse.'

'You travel fast?' said Scrooge.

'On the wings of the wind,' replied the Ghost.

'You might have got over a great quantity of ground in seven

years,' said Scrooge.

The Ghost, on hearing this, set up another cry, and clanked its

chain so hideously in the dead silence of the night, that the Ward

would have been justified in indicting it for a nuisance.

'Oh! captive, bound, and double-ironed,' cried the phantom, 'not

to know that ages of incessant labour by immortal creatures for

this earth must pass into eternity before the good of which it is

susceptible is all developed. Not to know that any Christian spirit

working kindly in its little sphere, whatever it may be, will find its

mortal life too short for its vast means of usefulness. Not to know

that no space of regret can make amends for one life's opportunity

misused! Yet such was I! Oh! such was I!'

'But you were always a good man of business, Jacob,' faltered

Scrooge, who now began to apply this to himself.

'Business!' cried the Ghost, wringing its hands again. 'Mankind

was my business. The common welfare was my business; charity,

mercy, forbearance, and benevolence, were all my business. The

dealings of my trade were but a drop of water in the

comprehensive ocean of my business!'

It held up its chain at arm's length, as if that were the cause of

all its unavailing grief, and flung it heavily upon the ground


'At this time of the rolling year,' the spectre said, 'I suffer most.

Why did I walk through crowds of fellow-beings with my eyes

turned down, and never raise them to that blessed Star which led

the Wise Men to a poor abode! Were there no poor homes to

which its light would have conducted (r)me!'

Scrooge was very much dismayed to hear the spectre going on at

this rate, and began to quake exceedingly.

'Hear me!' cried the Ghost. 'My time is nearly gone.'

'I will,' said Scrooge. 'But don't be hard upon me! Don't be

flowery, Jacob! Pray!'

'How it is that I appear before you in a shape that you can see, I

may not tell. I have sat invisible beside you many and many a


It was not an agreeable idea. Scrooge shivered, and wiped the

perspiration from his brow.

'That is no light part of my penance,' pursued the Ghost. 'I am

here to-night to warn you, that you have yet a chance and hope of

escaping my fate. A chance and hope of my procuring, Ebenezer.'

'You were always a good friend to me,' said Scrooge. 'Thank'ee!'

'You will be haunted,' resumed the Ghost, 'by Three Spirits.'

Scrooge's countenance fell almost as low as the Ghost's had


'Is that the chance and hope you mentioned, Jacob?' he

demanded, in a faltering voice.

'It is.'

'I- I think I'd rather not,' said Scrooge.

'Without their visits,' said the Ghost, 'you cannot hope to shun

the path I tread. Expect the first to-morrow, when the bell tolls


'Couldn't I take 'em all at once, and have it over, Jacob?' hinted


'Expect the second on the next night at the same hour. The third

upon the next night when the last stroke of Twelve has ceased to

vibrate. Look to see me no more; and look that, for your own sake,

you remember what has passed between us!'

When it had said these words, the spectre took its wrapper from

the table, and bound it round its head, as before. Scrooge knew

this, by the smart sound its teeth made, when the jaws were

brought together by the bandage. He ventured to raise his eyes,

and found his supernatural visitor confronting him in an erect

attitude, with its chain wound over and about its arm.

The apparition walked backward from him; and at every step it

took the window raised itself a little, so that when the spectre

reached it, it was wide open.

It beckoned Scrooge to approach, which he did. When they were

within two paces of each other, Marley's Ghost held up its hand,

warning him to come no nearer. Scrooge stopped.

Not so much in obedience, as in surprise and fear: for on the

raising of the hand, he became sensible of confused noises in the

air; incoherent sounds of lamentation and regret; wailings

inexpressibly sorrowful and self-accusatory. The spectre, after

listening for a moment, joined in the mournful dirge; and floated

out upon the bleak, dark night.

Scrooge followed to the window: desperate in his curiosity. He

looked out.

The air was filled with phantoms, wandering hither and thither

in restless haste, and moaning as they went. Every one of them

wore chains like Marley's Ghost; some few (they might be guilty

governments) were linked together; none were free. Many had

been personally known to Scrooge in their lives. He had been

quite familiar with one old ghost, in a white waistcoat, with a

monstrous iron safe attached to its ankle, who cried piteously at

being unable to assist a wretched woman with an infant, whom it

saw below, upon a door-step. The misery with them all was,

clearly, that they sought to interfere, for good, in human matters

and had lost the power for ever.

Whether these creatures faded into mist, or mist enshrouded

them, he could not tell. But they and their spirit voices faded

together; and the night became as it had been when he walked


Scrooge closed the window, and examined the door by which the

Ghost had entered. It was double-locked, as he had locked it with

his own hands, and the bolts were undisturbed. He tried to say

'Humbug!' but stopped at the first syllable. And being, from the

emotion he had undergone, or the fatigues of the day, or his

glimpse of the Invisible World, or the dull conversation of the

Ghost, or the lateness of the hour, much in need of repose; went

straight to bed, without undressing, and fell asleep upon the


Stave II

The First of the Three Spirits

WHEN SCROOGE AWOKE, IT WAS so dark that, looking out

of bed, he could scarcely distinguish the transparent window from

the opaque walls of his chamber. He was endeavouring to pierce

the darkness with his ferret eyes, when the chimes of a

neighbouring church struck the four quarters. So he listened for

the hour.

To his great astonishment the heavy bell went on from six to

seven, and from seven to eight, and regularly up to twelve; then

stopped. Twelve! It was past two when he went to bed. The clock

was wrong. An icicle must have got into the works. Twelve! He

touched the spring of his repeater, to correct this most

preposterous clock. Its rapid little pulse beat twelve: and stopped.

'Why, it isn't possible,' said Scrooge, 'that I can have slept

through a whole day and far into another night. It isn't possible

that anything has happened to the sun, and this is twelve at noon!'

The idea being an alarming one, he scrambled out of bed, and

groped his way to the window. He was obliged to rub the frost off

with the sleeve of his dressing-gown before he could see anything;

and could see very little then. All he could make out was, that it

was still very foggy and extremely cold, and that there was no

noise of people running to and fro, and making a great stir, as

there unquestionably would have been if night had beaten off

bright day, and taken possession of the world. This was a great

relief, because 'three days after sight of this First of Exchange pay

to Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge or his order,' and so forth, would have

become a mere United States' security if there were no days to

count by.

Scrooge went to bed again, and thought, and thought, and

thought it over and over and over, and could make nothing of it.

The more he thought, the more perplexed he was; and the more he

endeavoured not to think, the more he thought.

Marley's Ghost bothered him exceedingly. Every time he

resolved within himself, after mature inquiry, that it was all a

dream, his mind flew back again, like a strong spring released, to

its first position, and presented the same problem to be worked all

through, 'Was it a dream or not?'

Scrooge lay in this state until the chime had gone three quarters

more, when he remembered, on a sudden, that the Ghost had

warned him of a visitation when the bell tolled one. He resolved to

lie awake until the hour was passed; and, considering that he

could no more go to sleep than go to Heaven, this was perhaps the

wisest resolution in his power.

The quarter was so long, that he was more than once convinced

he must have sunk into a doze unconsciously, and missed the

clock. At length it broke upon his listening ear.

'Ding, dong!'

'A quarter past,' said Scrooge, counting.

'Ding, dong!'

'Half-past!' said Scrooge.

'Ding, dong!'

'A quarter to it,' said Scrooge.

'Ding, dong!'

'The hour itself,' said Scrooge, triumphantly, 'and nothing else!'

He spoke before the bell had sounded, which it now did with a

deep, dull, hollow, melancholy ONE. Light flashed up in the room

upon the instant, and the curtains of his bed were drawn.

The curtains of his bed were drawn aside, I tell you, by a hand.

Not the curtains at his feet, nor the curtains at his back, but those

to which his face was addressed. The curtains of his bed were

drawn aside; and Scrooge, starting up into a half-recumbent

attitude, found himself face to face with the unearthly visitor who

drew them: as close to it as I am now to you, and I am standing in

the spirit at your elbow.

It was a strange figure- like a child: yet not so like a child as like

an old man, viewed through some supernatural medium, which

gave him the appearance of having receded from the view, and

being diminished to a child's proportions. Its hair, which hung

about its neck and down its back, was white as if with age; and yet

the face had not a wrinkle in it, and the tenderest bloom was on

the skin. The arms were very long and muscular; the hands the

same, as if its hold were of uncommon strength. Its legs and feet,

most delicately formed, were, like those upper members, bare. It

wore a tunic of the purest white; and round its waist was bound a

lustrous belt, the sheen of which was beautiful. It held a branch of

fresh green holly in its hand; and in singular contradiction of that

wintry emblem, had its dress trimmed with summer flowers. But

the strangest thing about it was, that from the crown of its head

there sprung a bright clear jet of light, by which all this was

visible; and which was doubtless the occasion of its using, in its

duller moments, a great extinguisher for a cap, which it now held

under its arm.

Even this, though, when Scrooge looked at it with increasing

steadiness, was (r)not its strangest quality. For as its belt

sparkled and glittered now in one part and now in another, and

what was light one instant, at another time was dark, so the figure

itself fluctuated in its distinctness: being now a thing with one

arm, now with one leg, now with twenty legs, now a pair of legs

without a head, now a head without a body: of which dissolving

parts, no outline would be visible in the dense gloom wherein they

melted away. And in the very wonder of this, it would be itself

again, distinct and clear as ever.

'Are you the Spirit, sir, whose coming was foretold to me?' asked


'I am!'

The voice was soft and gentle. Singularly low, as if instead of

being so close beside him, it were at a distance.

'Who, and what are you?' Scrooge demanded.

'I am the Ghost of Christmas Past.'

'Long Past?' inquired Scrooge: observant of its dwarfish stature.

'No. Your past.'

Perhaps Scrooge could not have told anybody why, if anybody

could have asked him; but he had a special desire to see the Spirit

in his cap, and begged him to be covered.

'What!' exclaimed the Ghost, 'would you so soon put out, with

worldly hands, the light I give? Is it not enough that you are one

of those whose passions made this cap, and force me through

whole trains of years to wear it low upon my brow!'

Scrooge reverently disclaimed all intention to offend or any

knowledge of having wilfully 'bonneted' the Spirit at any period of

his life. He then made bold to inquire what business brought him


'Your welfare!' said the Ghost.

Scrooge expressed himself much obliged, but could not help

thinking that a night of unbroken rest would have been more

conducive to that end. The Spirit must have heard him thinking,

for it said immediately:

'Your reclamation, then. Take heed!'

It put out its strong hand as it spoke, and clasped him gently by

the arm.

'Rise! and walk with me!'

It would have been in vain for Scrooge to plead that the weather

and the hour were not adapted to pedestrian purposes; that bed

was warm, and the thermometer a long way below freezing; that

he was clad but lightly in his slippers, dressing-gown, and

nightcap; and that he had a cold upon him at that time. The grasp,

though gentle as a woman's hand, was not to be resisted. He rose:

but finding that the Spirit made towards the window, clasped his

robe in supplication.

'I am a mortal,' Scrooge remonstrated, 'and liable to fall.'

'Bear but a touch of my hand (r)there,' said the Spirit, laying it

upon his heart, 'and you shall be upheld in more than this!'

As the words were spoken, they passed through the wall, and

stood upon an open country road, with fields on either hand. The

city had entirely vanished. Not a vestige of it was to be seen. The

darkness and the mist had vanished with it, for it was a clear,

cold, winter day, with snow upon the ground.

'Good Heaven!' said Scrooge, clasping his hands together, as he

looked about him. 'I was bred in this place. I was a boy here!'

The Spirit gazed upon him mildly. Its gentle touch, though it

had been light and instantaneous, appeared still present to the old

man's sense of feeling. He was conscious of a thousand odours

floating in the air, each one connected with a thousand thoughts,

and hopes, and joys, and cares long, long, forgotten!

'Your lip is trembling,' said the Ghost. 'And what is that upon

your cheek?'

Scrooge muttered, with an unusual catching in his voice, that it

was a pimple; and begged the Ghost to lead him where he would.

'You recollect the way?' inquired the Spirit.

'Remember it!' cried Scrooge with fervour; 'I could walk it


'Strange to have forgotten it for so many years!' observed the

Ghost. 'Let us go on.'

They walked along the road, Scrooge recognising every gate, and

post, and tree; until a little market-town appeared in the distance,

with its bridge, its church, and winding river. Some shaggy ponies

now were seen trotting towards them with boys upon their backs,

who called to other boys in country gigs and carts, driven by

farmers. All these boys were in great spirits, and shouted to each

other, until the broad fields were so full of merry music, that the

crisp air laughed to hear it!

'These are but shadows of the things that have been,' said the

Ghost. 'They have no consciousness of us.'

The jocund travellers came on; and as they came, Scrooge knew

and named them every one. Why was he rejoiced beyond all

bounds to see them! Why did his cold eye glisten, and his heart

leap up as they went past! Why was he filled with gladness when

he heard them give each other Merry Christmas, as they parted at

cross-roads and bye-ways, for their several homes! What was

merry Christmas to Scrooge? Out upon merry Christmas! What

good had it ever done to him?

'The school is not quite deserted,' said the Ghost. 'A solitary

child, neglected by his friends, is left there still.'

Scrooge said he knew it. And he sobbed.

They left the high-road, by a well-remembered lane, and soon

approached a mansion of dull red brick, with a little weathercock-

surmounted cupola on the roof, and a bell hanging in it. It was a

large house, but one of broken fortunes; for the spacious offices

were little used, their walls were damp and mossy, their windows

broken, and their gates decayed. Fowls clucked and strutted in the

stables; and the coach-houses and sheds were overrun with grass.

Nor was it more retentive of its ancient state, within; for entering

the dreary hall, and glancing through the open doors of many

rooms, they found them poorly furnished, cold, and vast. There

was an earthy savour in the air, a chilly bareness in the place,

which associated itself somehow with too much getting up by

candle-light, and not too much to eat.

They went, the Ghost and Scrooge, across the hall, to a door at

the back of the house. It opened before them, and disclosed a long,

bare, melancholy room, made barer still by lines of plain deal

forms and desks. At one of these a lonely boy was reading near a

feeble fire; and Scrooge sat down upon a form, and wept to see his

poor forgotten self as he used to be.

Not a latent echo in the house, not a squeak and scuffle from the

mice behind the panelling, not a drip from the half-thawed

waterspout in the dull yard behind, not a sigh among the leafless

boughs of one despondent poplar, not the idle swinging of an

empty storehouse door, no, not a clicking in the fire, but fell upon

the heart of Scrooge with a softening influence, and gave a freer

passage to his tears.

The Spirit touched him on the arm, and pointed to his younger

self, intent upon his reading. Suddenly a man, in foreign

garments: wonderfully real and distinct to look at: stood outside

the window, with an axe stuck in his belt, and leading by the

bridle an ass laden with wood.

'Why, it's Ali Baba!' Scrooge exclaimed in ecstasy. 'It's dear old

honest Ali Baba! Yes, yes, I know! One Christmas time, when

yonder solitary child was left here all alone, he (r)did come, for

the first time, just like that. Poor boy! And Valentine,' said

Scrooge, 'and his wild brother, Orson; there they go! And what's

his name, who was put down in his drawers, asleep, at the Gate of

Damascus; don't you see him! And the Sultan's Groom turned

upside down by the Genii; there he is upon his head! Serve him

right. I'm glad of it. What business had (r)he to be married to the


To hear Scrooge expending all the earnestness of his nature on

such subjects, in a most extraordinary voice between laughing and

crying; and to see his heightened and excited face; would have

been a surprise to his business friends in the city, indeed.

'There's the Parrot!' cried Scrooge. 'Green body and yellow tail,

with a thing like a lettuce growing out of the top of his head; there

he is! Poor Robin Crusoe, he called him, when he came home

again after sailing round the island. "Poor Robin Crusoe, where

have you been, Robin Crusoe?" The man thought he was

dreaming, but he wasn't. It was the Parrot, you know. There goes

Friday, running for his life to the little creek! Halloa! Hoop!


Then, with a rapidity of transition very foreign to his usual

character, he said, in pity for his former self, 'Poor boy!' and cried


'I wish,' Scrooge muttered, putting his hand in his pocket, and

looking about him, after drying his eyes with his cuff: 'but it's too

late now.'

'What is the matter?' asked the Spirit.

'Nothing,' said Scrooge. 'Nothing. There was a boy singing a

Christmas Carol at my door last night. I should like to have given

him something: that's all.'

The Ghost smiled thoughtfully, and waved its hand: saying as it

did so, 'Let us see another Christmas!'

Scrooge's former self grew larger at the words, and the room

became a little darker and more dirty. The panels shrunk, the

windows cracked; fragments of plaster fell out of the ceiling, and

the naked laths were shown instead; but how all this was brought

about, Scrooge knew no more than you do. He only knew that it

was quite correct; that everything had happened so; that there he

was, alone again, when all the other boys had gone home for the

jolly holidays.

He was not reading now, but walking up and down despairingly.

Scrooge looked at the Ghost, and with a mournful shaking of his

head, glanced anxiously towards the door.

It opened; and a little girl, much younger than the boy, came

darting in, and putting her arms about his neck, and often kissing

him, addressed him as her 'Dear, dear brother.'

'I have come to bring you home, dear brother!' said the child,

clapping her tiny hands, and bending down to laugh. 'To bring

you home, home, home!'

'Home, little Fan?' returned the boy.

'Yes!' said the child, brimful of glee. 'Home, for good and all.

Home, for ever and ever. Father is so much kinder than he used to

be, that home's like Heaven! He spoke so gently to me one dear

night when I was going to bed, that I was not afraid to ask him

once more if you might come home; and he said Yes, you should;

and sent me in a coach to bring you. And you're to be a man!' said

the child, opening her eyes, 'and are never to come back here; but

first, we're to be together all the Christmas long, and have the

merriest time in all the world.'

'You are quite a woman, little Fan!' exclaimed the boy.

She clapped her hands and laughed, and tried to touch his head;

but being too little, laughed again, and stood on tiptoe to embrace

him. Then she began to drag him, in her childish eagerness,

towards the door; and he, nothing loth to go, accompanied her.

A terrible voice in the hall cried, 'Bring down Master Scrooge's

box, there!' and in the hall appeared the school-master himself,

who glared at Master Scrooge with a ferocious condescension, and

threw him into a dreadful state of mind by shaking hands with

him. He then conveyed him and his sister into the veriest old well

of a shivering best-parlour that ever was seen, where the maps

upon the wall, and the celestial and terrestrial globes in the

windows, were waxy with cold. Here he produced a decanter of

curiously light wine, and a block of curiously heavy cake, and

administered instalments of those dainties to the young people: at

the same time, sending out a meagre servant to offer a glass of

'something' to the postboy, who answered that he thanked the

gentleman, but if it was the same tap as he had tasted before, he

had rather not. Master Scrooge's trunk being by this time tied on

to the top of the chaise, the children bade the school-master good-

bye right willingly; and getting into it, drove gaily down the

garden-sweep: the quick wheels dashing the hoar-frost and snow

from off the dark leaves of the evergreens like spray.

'Always a delicate creature, whom a breath might have withered,'

said the Ghost. 'But she had a large heart!'

'So she had,' cried Scrooge. 'You're right. I will not gainsay it,

Spirit. God forbid!'

'She died a woman,' said the Ghost, 'and had, as I think,


'One child,' Scrooge returned.

'True,' said the Ghost. 'Your nephew!'

Scrooge seemed uneasy in his mind; and answered briefly, 'Yes.'

Although they had but that moment left the school behind them,

they were now in the busy thoroughfares of a city, where shadowy

passengers passed and repassed; where shadowy carts and coaches

battled for the way, and all the strife and tumult of a real city

were. It was made plain enough, by the dressing of the shops, that

here too it was Christmas time again; but it was evening, and the

streets were lighted up.

The Ghost stopped at a certain warehouse door, and asked

Scrooge if he knew it.

'Know it!' said Scrooge. 'Was I apprenticed here!'

They went in. At sight of an old gentleman in a Welsh wig,

sitting behind such a high desk, that if he had been two inches

taller he must have knocked his head against the ceiling, Scrooge

cried in great excitement:

'Why, it's old Fezziwig! Bless his heart; it's Fezziwig alive


Old Fezziwig laid down his pen, and looked up at the clock,

which pointed to the hour of seven. He rubbed his hands; adjusted

his capacious waistcoat; laughed all over himself, from his shoes

to his organ of benevolence; and called out in a comfortable, oily,

rich, fat, jovial voice:

'Yo ho, there! Ebenezer! Dick!'

Scrooge's former self, now grown a young man, came briskly in,

accompanied by his fellow-'prentice.

'Dick Wilkins, to be sure!' said Scrooge to the Ghost. 'Bless me,

yes. There he is. He was very much attached to me, was Dick.

Poor Dick! Dear, dear!'

'Yo ho, my boys!' said Fezziwig. 'No more work to-night.

Christmas Eve, Dick. Christmas, Ebenezer! Let's have the shutters

up,' cried old Fezziwig, with a sharp clap of his hands, 'before a

man can say Jack Robinson!'

You wouldn't believe how those two fellows went at it! They

charged into the street with the shutters- one, two, three- had 'em

up in their places- four, five, six- barred 'em and pinned 'em-

seven, eight, nine- and came back before you could have got to

twelve, panting like race-horses.

'Hilli-ho!' cried old Fezziwig, skipping down from the high desk,

with wonderful agility. 'Clear away, my lads, and let's have lots of

room here! Hilli-ho, Dick! Chirrup, Ebenezer!'

Clear away! There was nothing they wouldn't have cleared away,

or couldn't have cleared away, with old Fezziwig looking on. It

was done in a minute. Every movable was packed off, as if it were

dismissed from public life for evermore; the floor was swept and

watered, the lamps were trimmed, fuel was heaped upon the fire;

and the warehouse was as snug, and warm, and dry, and bright a

ball-room, as you would desire to see upon a winter's night.

In came a fiddler with a music-book, and went up to the lofty

desk, and made an orchestra of it, and tuned like fifty stomach-

aches. In came Mrs. Fezziwig, one vast substantial smile. In came

the three Miss Fezziwigs, beaming and lovable. In came the six

young followers whose hearts they broke. In came all the young

men and women employed in the business. In came the

housemaid, with her cousin, the baker. In came the cook, with her

brother's particular friend, the milkman. In came the boy from

over the way, who was suspected of not having board enough from

his master; trying to hide himself behind the girl from next door

but one, who was proved to have had her ears pulled by her

mistress. In they all came, one after another; some shyly, some

boldly, some gracefully, some awkwardly, some pushing, some

pulling; in they all came, anyhow and everyhow. Away they all

went, twenty couple at once; hands half round and back again the

other way; down the middle and up again; round and round in

various stages of affectionate grouping; old top couple always

turning up in the wrong place; new top couple starting off again,

as soon as they got there; all top couples at last, and not a bottom

one to help them! When this result was brought about, old

Fezziwig, clapping his hands to stop the dance, cried out, 'Well

done!' and the fiddler plunged his hot face into a pot of porter,

especially provided for that purpose. But scorning rest, upon his

reappearance, he instantly began again, though there were no

dancers yet, as if the other fiddler had been carried home,

exhausted, on a shutter, and he were a bran-new man resolved to

beat him out of sight, or perish.

There were more dances, and there were forfeits, and more

dances, and there was cake, and there was negus, and there was a

great piece of Cold Roast, and there was a great piece of Cold

Boiled, and there were mince-pies, and plenty of beer. But the

great effect of the evening came after the Roast and Boiled, when

the fiddler (an artful dog, mind! The sort of man who knew his

business better than you or I could have told it him!) struck up 'Sir

Roger de Coverley.' Then old Fezziwig stood out to dance with

Mrs. Fezziwig. Top couple, too; with a good stiff piece of work cut

out for them; three or four and twenty pair of partners; people who

were not to be trifled with; people who (r)would dance, and had

no notion of walking.

But if they had been twice as many- ah, four times- old Fezziwig

would have been a match for them, and so would Mrs. Fezziwig.

As to (r)her, she was worthy to be his partner in every sense of

the term. If that's not high praise, tell me higher, and I'll use it. A

positive light appeared to issue from Fezziwig's calves. They

shone in every part of the dance like moons. You couldn't have

predicted, at any given time, what would have become of them

next. And when old Fezziwig and Mrs. Fezziwig had gone all

through the dance; advance and retire, both hands to your partner,

bow and curtsey, corkscrew, thread-the-needle, and back again to

your place; Fezziwig 'cut'- cut so deftly, that he appeared to wink

with his legs, and came upon his feet again without a stagger.

When the clock struck eleven, this domestic ball broke up. Mr.

and Mrs. Fezziwig took their stations, one on either side of the

door, and shaking hands with every person individually as he or

she went out, wished him or her a Merry Christmas. When

everybody had retired but the two 'prentices, they did the same to

them; and thus the cheerful voices died away, and the lads were

left to their beds; which were under a counter in the back-shop.

During the whole of this time, Scrooge had acted like a man out

of his wits. His heart and soul were in the scene, and with his

former self. He corroborated everything, remembered everything,

enjoyed everything, and underwent the strangest agitation. It was

not until now, when the bright faces of his former self and Dick

were turned from them, that he remembered the Ghost, and

became conscious that it was looking full upon him, while the

light upon its head burnt very clear.

'A small matter,' said the Ghost, 'to make these silly folks so full

of gratitude.'

'Small!' echoed Scrooge.

The Spirit signed to him to listen to the two apprentices, who

were pouring out their hearts in praise of Fezziwig: and when he

had done so, said, 'Why! Is it not? He has spent but a few pounds

of your mortal money: three or four perhaps. Is that so much that

he deserves this praise?'

'It isn't that,' said Scrooge, heated by the remark, and speaking

unconsciously like his former, not his latter, self. 'It isn't that,

Spirit. He has the power to render us happy or unhappy; to make

our service light or burdensome; a pleasure or a toil. Say that his

power lies in words and looks; in things so slight and insignificant

that it is impossible to add and count 'em up: what then? The

happiness he gives, is quite as great as if it cost a fortune.'

He felt the Spirit's glance, and stopped.

'What is the matter?' asked the Ghost.

'Nothing particular,' said Scrooge.

'Something, I think?' the Ghost insisted.

'No,' said Scrooge, 'No. I should like to be able to say a word or

two to my clerk just now. That's all.'

His former self turned down the lamps as he gave utterance to

the wish; and Scrooge and the Ghost again stood side by side in

the open air.

'My time grows short,' observed the Spirit. 'Quick!'

This was not addressed to Scrooge, or to any one whom he could

see, but it produced an immediate effect. For again Scrooge saw

himself. He was older now; a man in the prime of life. His face

had not the harsh and rigid lines of later years; but it had begun to

wear the signs of care and avarice. There was an eager, greedy,

restless motion in the eye, which showed the passion that had

taken root, and where the shadow of the growing tree would fall.

He was not alone, but sat by the side of a fair young girl in a

mourning-dress: in whose eyes there were tears, which sparkled in

the light that shone out of the Ghost of Christmas Past.

'It matters little,' she said, softly. 'To you, very little. Another

idol has displaced me; and if it can cheer and comfort you in time

to come, as I would have tried to do, I have no just cause to


'What Idol has displaced you?' he rejoined.

'A golden one.'

'This is the even-handed dealing of the world!' he said. 'There is

nothing on which it is so hard as poverty; and there is nothing it

professes to condemn with such severity as the pursuit of wealth!'

'You fear the world too much,' she answered, gently. 'All your

other hopes have merged into the hope of being beyond the chance

of its sordid reproach. I have seen your nobler aspirations fall off

one by one, until the master-passion, Gain, engrosses you. Have I


'What then?' he retorted. 'Even if I have grown so much wiser,

what then? I am not changed towards you.'

She shook her head.

'Am I?'

'Our contract is an old one. It was made when we were both poor

and content to be so, until, in good season, we could improve our

worldly fortune by our patient industry. You (r)are changed.

When it was made, you were another man.'

'I was a boy,' he said impatiently.

'Your own feeling tells you that you were not what you are,' she

returned. 'I am. That which promised happiness when we were

one in heart, is fraught with misery now that we are two. How

often and how keenly I have thought of this, I will not say. It is

enough that I (r)have thought of it, and can release you.'

'Have I ever sought release?'

'In words, no. Never.'

'In what, then?'

'In a changed nature; in an altered spirit; in another atmosphere

of life; another Hope as its great end. In everything that made my

love of any worth or value in your sight. If this had never been

between us,' said the girl, looking mildly, but with steadiness,

upon him; 'tell me, would you seek me out and try to win me now?

Ah, no!'

He seemed to yield to the justice of this supposition, in spite of

himself. But he said with a struggle, 'You think not.'

'I would gladly think otherwise if I could,' she answered, 'Heaven

knows! When (r)I have learned a Truth like this, I know how

strong and irresistible it must be. But if you were free to-day, to-

morrow, yesterday, can even I believe that you would choose a

dowerless girl- you who, in your very confidence with her, weigh

everything by Gain: or, choosing her, if for a moment you were

false enough to your one guiding principle to do so, do I not know

that your repentance and regret would surely follow? I do; and I

release you. With a full heart, for the love of him you once were.'

He was about to speak; but with her head turned from him, she


'You may- the memory of what is past half makes me hope you

will- have pain in this. A very, very brief time, and you will

dismiss the recollection of it, gladly, as an unprofitable dream,

from which it happened well that you awoke. May you be happy in

the life you have chosen!'

She left him, and they parted.

'Spirit!' said Scrooge, 'show me no more! Conduct me home.

Why do you delight to torture me?'

'One shadow more!' exclaimed the Ghost.

'No more!' cried Scrooge. 'No more. I don't wish to see it. Show

me no more!'

But the relentless Ghost pinioned him in both his arms, and

forced him to observe what happened next.

They were in another scene and place; a room, not very large or

handsome, but full of comfort. Near to the winter fire sat a

beautiful young girl, so like that last that Scrooge believed it was

the same, until he saw (r)her, now a comely matron, sitting

opposite her daughter. The noise in this room was perfectly

tumultuous, for there were more children there, than Scrooge in

his agitated state of mind could count; and, unlike the celebrated

herd in the poem, they were not forty children conducting

themselves like one, but every child was conducting itself like

forty. The consequences were uproarious beyond belief; but no one

seemed to care; on the contrary, the mother and daughter laughed

heartily, and enjoyed it very much; and the latter, soon beginning

to mingle in the sports, got pillaged by the young brigands most

ruthlessly. What would I not have given to be one of them!

Though I never could have been so rude, no, no! I wouldn't for the

wealth of all the world have crushed that braided hair, and torn it

down; and for the precious little shoe, I wouldn't have plucked it

off, God bless my soul! to save my life. As to measuring her waist

in sport, as they did, bold young brood, I couldn't have done it; I

should have expected my arm to have grown round it for a

punishment, and never come straight again. And yet I should have

dearly liked, I own, to have touched her lips; to have questioned

her, that she might have opened them; to have looked upon the

lashes of her downcast eyes, and never raised a blush; to have let

loose waves of hair, an inch of which would be a keepsake beyond

price: in short, I should have liked, I do confess, to have had the

lightest licence of a child, and yet to have been man enough to

know its value.

But now a knocking at the door was heard, and such a rush

immediately ensued that she with laughing face and plundered

dress was borne towards it the centre of a flushed and boisterous

group, just in time to greet the father, who came home attended by

a man laden with Christmas toys and presents. Then the shouting

and the struggling, and the onslaught that was made on the

defenceless porter! The scaling him with chairs for ladders to dive

into his pockets, despoil him of brown-paper parcels, hold on tight

by his cravat, hug him round his neck, pommel his back, and kick

his legs in irrepressible affection! The shouts of wonder and

delight with which the development of every package was

received! The terrible announcement that the baby had been taken

in the act of putting a doll's frying-pan into his mouth, and was

more than suspected of having swallowed a fictitious turkey, glued

on a wooden platter! The immense relief of finding this a false

alarm! The joy, and gratitude, and ecstasy! They are all

indescribable alike. It is enough that by degrees the children and

their emotions got out of the parlour, and by one stair at a time, up

to the top of the house; where they went to bed, and so subsided.

And now Scrooge looked on more attentively than ever, when

the master of the house, having his daughter leaning fondly on

him, sat down with her and her mother at his own fireside; and

when he thought that such another creature, quite as graceful and

as full of promise, might have called him father, and been a

springtime in the haggard winter of his life, his sight grew very

dim indeed.

'Belle,' said the husband, turning to his wife with a smile, 'I saw

an old friend of yours this afternoon.'

'Who was it?'


'How can I? Tut, don't I know?' she added in the same breath,

laughing as he laughed. 'Mr. Scrooge.'

'Mr. Scrooge it was. I passed his office window; and as it was not

shut up, and he had a candle inside, I could scarcely help seeing

him. His partner lies upon the point of death, I hear; and there he

sat alone. Quite alone in the world, I do believe.'

'Spirit!' said Scrooge in a broken voice, 'remove me from this


'I told you these were shadows of the things that have been,' said

the Ghost. 'That they are what they are, do not blame me!'

'Remove me!' Scrooge exclaimed, 'I cannot bear it!'

He turned upon the Ghost, and seeing that it looked upon him

with a face, in which in some strange way there were fragments of

all the faces it had shown him, wrestled with it. 'Leave me! Take

me back. Haunt me no longer!'

In the struggle, if that can be called a struggle in which the

Ghost with no visible resistance on its own part was undisturbed

by any effort of its adversary, Scrooge observed that its light was

burning high and bright; and dimly connecting that with its

influence over him, he seized the extinguisher-cap, and by a

sudden action pressed it down upon its head.

The Spirit dropped beneath it, so that the extinguisher covered

its whole form; but though Scrooge pressed it down with all his

force, he could not hide the light, which streamed from under it,

in an unbroken flood upon the ground.

He was conscious of being exhausted, and overcome by an

irresistible drowsiness; and, further, of being in his own bedroom.

He gave the cap a parting squeeze, in which his hand relaxed; and

had barely time to reel to bed, before he sank into a heavy sleep.

Stave III

The Second of the Three Spirits

AWAKING IN THE MIDDLE OF A prodigiously tough snore,

and sitting up in bed to get his thoughts together, Scrooge had no

occasion to be told that the bell was again upon the stroke of One.

He felt that he was restored to consciousness in the right nick of

time, for the especial purpose of holding a conference with the

second messenger despatched to him through Jacob Marley's

intervention. But, finding that he turned uncomfortably cold when

he began to wonder which of his curtains this new spectre would

draw back, he put them every one aside with his own hands, and

lying down again, established a sharp look-out all round the bed.

For he wished to challenge the Spirit on the moment of its

appearance, and did not wish to be taken by surprise, and made


Gentlemen of the free-and-easy sort, who plume themselves on

being acquainted with a move or two, and being usually equal to

the time-of-day, express the wide range of their capacity for

adventure by observing that they are good for anything from

pitch-and-toss to manslaughter; between which opposite extremes,

no doubt, there lies a tolerably wide and comprehensive range of

subjects. Without venturing for Scrooge quite as hardily as this, I

don't mind calling on you to believe that he was ready for a good

broad field of strange appearances, and that nothing between a

baby and rhinoceros would have astonished him very much.

Now, being prepared for almost anything, he was not by any

means prepared for nothing; and, consequently, when the Bell

struck One, and no shape appeared, he was taken with a violent fit

of trembling. Five minutes, ten minutes, a quarter of an hour went

by, yet nothing came. All this time, he lay upon his bed, the very

core and centre of a blaze of ruddy light, which streamed upon it

when the clock proclaimed the hour; and which, being only light,

was more alarming than a dozen ghosts, as he was powerless to

make out what it meant, or would be at; and was sometimes

apprehensive that he might be at that very moment an interesting

case of spontaneous combustion, without having the consolation

of knowing it. At last, however, he began to think- as you or I

would have thought at first; for it is always the person not in the

predicament who knows what ought to have been done in it, and

would unquestionably have done it too- at least, I say, he began to

think that the source and secret of this ghostly light might be in

the adjoining room, from whence, on further tracing it, it seemed

to shine. This idea taking full possession of his mind, he got up

softly and shuffled in his slippers to the door.

The moment Scrooge's hand was on the lock, a strange voice

called him by his name, and bade him enter. He obeyed.

It was his own room. There was no doubt about that. But it had

undergone a surprising transformation. The walls and ceiling

were so hung with living green, that it looked a perfect grove;

from every part of which, bright gleaming berries glistened. The

crisp leaves of holly, mistletoe, and ivy reflected back the light, as

if so many little mirrors had been scattered there; and such a

mighty blaze went roaring up the chimney, as that dull

petrification of a hearth had never known in Scrooge's time, or

Marley's, or for many and many a winter season gone. Heaped up

on the floor, to form a kind of throne, were turkeys, geese, game,

poultry, brawn, great joints of meat, sucking-pigs, long wreaths of

sausages, mince-pies, plum-puddings, barrels of oysters, red-hot

chestnuts, cherry-cheeked apples, juicy oranges, luscious pears,

immense twelfth-cakes, and seething bowls of punch, that made

the chamber dim with their delicious steam. In easy state upon

this couch, there sat a jolly Giant, glorious to see; who bore a

glowing torch, in shape not unlike Plenty's horn, and held it up,

high up, to shed its light on Scrooge, as he came peeping round

the door.

'Come in!' exclaimed the Ghost. 'Come in! and know me better,


Scrooge entered timidly, and hung his head before this Spirit. He

was not the dogged Scrooge he had been; and though the Spirit's

eyes were clear and kind, he did not like to meet them.

'I am the Ghost of Christmas Present,' said the Spirit. 'Look upon


Scrooge reverently did so. It was clothed in one simple green

robe, or mantle, bordered with white fur. This garment hung so

loosely on the figure, that its capacious breast was bare, as if

disdaining to be warded or concealed by any artifice. Its feet,

observable beneath the ample folds of the garment, were also bare;

and on its head it wore no other covering than a holly wreath, set

here and there with shining icicles. Its dark brown curls were long

and free; free as its genial face, its sparkling eye, its open hand, its

cheery voice, its unconstrained demeanour, and its joyful air.

Girded round its middle was an antique scabbard; but no sword

was in it, and the ancient sheath was eaten up with rust.

'You have never seen the like of me before!' exclaimed the Spirit.

'Never,' Scrooge made answer to it.

'Have never walked forth with the younger members of my

family; meaning (for I am very young) my elder brothers born in

these later years?' pursued the Phantom.

'I don't think I have,' said Scrooge. 'I am afraid I have not. Have

you had many brothers, Spirit?'

'More than eighteen hundred,' said the Ghost.

'A tremendous family to provide for!' muttered Scrooge.

The Ghost of Christmas Present rose.

'Spirit,' said Scrooge submissively, 'conduct me where you will. I

went forth last night on compulsion, and I learnt a lesson which is

working now. To-night, if you have aught to teach me, let me

profit by it.'

'Touch my robe!'

Scrooge did as he was told, and held it fast.

Holly, mistletoe, red berries, ivy, turkeys, geese, game, poultry,

brawn, meat, pigs, sausages, oysters, pies, puddings, fruit, and

punch, all vanished instantly. So did the room, the fire, the ruddy

glow, the hour of night, and they stood in the city streets on

Christmas morning, where (for the weather was severe) the people

made a rough, but brisk and not unpleasant kind of music, in

scraping the snow from the pavement in front of their dwellings,

and from the tops of their houses, whence it was mad delight to

the boys to see it come plumping down into the road below, and

splitting into artificial little snow-storms.

The house fronts looked black enough, and the windows blacker,

contrasting with the smooth white sheet of snow upon the roofs,

and with the dirtier snow upon the ground; which last deposit had

been ploughed up in deep furrows by the heavy wheels of carts

and wagons; furrows that crossed and re-crossed each other

hundreds of times where the great streets branched off; and made

intricate channels, hard to trace in the thick yellow and icy water.

The sky was gloomy, and the shortest streets were choked up with

a dingy mist, half thawed, half frozen, whose heavier particles

descended in a shower of sooty atoms, as if all the chimneys in

Great Britain had, by one consent, caught fire, and were blazing

away to their dear hearts' content. There was nothing very

cheerful in the climate or the town, and yet was there an air of

cheerfulness abroad that the clearest summer air and brightest

summer sun might have endeavoured to diffuse in vain.

For the people who were shovelling away on the house-tops were

jovial and full of glee; calling out to one another from the

parapets, and now and then exchanging a facetious snowball-

better-natured missile far than many a wordy jest- laughing

heartily if it went right and not less heartily if it went wrong. The

poulterers' shops were still half open, and the fruiterers' were

radiant in their glory. There were great, round, pot-bellied baskets

of chestnuts, shaped like the waistcoats of jolly old gentlemen,

lolling at the doors, and tumbling out into the street in their

apoplectic opulence. There were ruddy, brown-faced, broad-

girthed Spanish Onions, shining in the fatness of their growth like

Spanish Friars, and winking from their shelves in wanton slyness

at the girls as they went by, and glanced demurely at the hung-up

mistletoe. There were pears and apples, clustered high in

blooming pyramids; there were bunches of grapes, made in the

shopkeepers' benevolence to dangle from conspicuous hooks, that

people's mouths might water gratis as they passed; there were

piles of filberts' mossy and brown, recalling, in their fragrance,

ancient walks among the woods, and pleasant shufflings ankle

deep through withered leaves; there were Norfolk Biffins, squab

and swarthy, setting off the yellow of the oranges and lemons,

and, in the great compactness of their juicy persons, urgently

entreating and beseeching to be carried home in paper bags and

eaten after dinner. The very gold and silver fish, set forth among

these choice fruits in a bowl, though members of a dull and

stagnant-blooded race, appeared to know that there was something

going on; and, to a fish, went gasping round and round their little

world in slow and passionless excitement.

The Grocers'! oh the Grocers'! nearly closed, with perhaps two

shutters down, or one; but through those gaps such glimpses! It

was not alone that the scales descending on the counter made a

merry sound, or that the twine and roller parted company so

briskly, or that the canisters were rattled up and down like

juggling tricks, or even that the blended scents of tea and coffee

were so grateful to the nose, or even that the raisins were so

plentiful and rare, the almonds so extremely white, the sticks of

cinnamon so long and straight, the other spices so delicious, the

candied fruits so caked and spotted with molten sugar as to make

the coldest lookers-on feel faint and subsequently bilious. Nor was

it that the figs were moist and pulpy, or that the French plums

blushed in modest tartness from their highly-decorated boxes, or

that everything was good to eat and in its Christmas dress; but the

customers were all so hurried and so eager in the hopeful promise

of the day, that they tumbled up against each other at the door,

crashing their wicker baskets wildly, and left their purchases upon

the counter, and came running back to fetch them, and committed

hundreds of the like mistakes, in the best humour possible; while

the Grocer and his people were so frank and fresh that the

polished hearts with which they fastened their aprons behind

might have been their own, worn outside for general inspection,

and for Christmas daws to peck at if they chose.

But soon the steeples called good people all, to church and

chapel, and away they came, flocking through the streets in their

best clothes, and with their gayest faces. And at the same time

there emerged from scores of bye-streets, lanes, and nameless

turnings, innumerable people, carrying their dinners to the bakers'

shops. The sight of these poor revellers appeared to interest the

Spirit very much, for he stood with Scrooge beside him in a

baker's doorway, and taking off the covers as their bearers passed,

sprinkled incense on their dinners from his torch. And it was a

very uncommon kind of torch, for once or twice when there were

angry words between some dinner-carriers who had jostled each

other, he shed a few drops of water on them from it, and their

good humour was restored directly. For they said, it was a shame

to quarrel upon Christmas Day. And so it was! God love it, so it

was! In time the bells ceased, and the bakers were shut up; and yet

there was a genial shadowing forth of all these dinners and the

progress of their cooking, in the thawed blotch of wet above each

baker's oven; where the pavement smoked as if its stones were

cooking too.

'Is there a peculiar flavour in what you sprinkle from your torch?'

asked Scrooge.

'There is. My own.'

'Would it apply to any kind of dinner on this day?' asked


'To any kindly given. To a poor one most.'

'Why to a poor one most?' asked Scrooge.

'Because it needs it most.'

'Spirit,' said Scrooge, after a moment's thought, 'I wonder you, of

all the beings in the many worlds about us, should desire to cramp

these people's opportunities of innocent enjoyment.'

'I!' cried the Spirit.

'You would deprive them of their means of dining every seventh

day, often the only day on which they can be said to dine at all,'

said Scrooge. 'Wouldn't you?'

'I!' cried the Spirit.

'You seek to close these places on the Seventh Day?' said

Scrooge. 'And it comes to the same thing.'

(r)'I seek!' exclaimed the Spirit.

'Forgive me if I am wrong. It has been done in your name, or at

least in that of your family,' said Scrooge.

'There are some upon this earth of yours,' returned the Spirit,

'who lay claim to know us, and who do their deeds of passion,

pride, ill-will, hatred, envy, bigotry, and selfishness in our name,

who are as strange to us and all our kith and kin, as if they had

never lived. Remember that, and charge their doings on

themselves, not us.'

Scrooge promised that he would; and they went on, invisible, as

they had been before, into the suburbs of the town. It was a

remarkable quality of the Ghost (which Scrooge had observed at

the baker's), that notwithstanding his gigantic size, he could

accommodate himself to any place with ease; and that he stood

beneath a low roof quite as gracefully and like a supernatural

creature, as it was possible he could have done in any lofty hall.

And perhaps it was the pleasure the good Spirit had in showing

off this power of his, or else it was his own kind, generous, hearty

nature, and his sympathy with all poor men, that led him straight

to Scrooge's clerk's; for there he went, and took Scrooge with him,

holding to his robe; and on the threshold of the door the Spirit

smiled, and stopped to bless Bob Cratchit's dwelling with the

sprinkling of his torch. Think of that! Bob had but fifteen 'Bob' a-

week himself; he pocketed on Saturdays but fifteen copies of his

Christian name; and yet the Ghost of Christmas Present blessed

his four-roomed house!

Then up rose Mrs. Cratchit, Cratchit's wife, dressed out but

poorly in a twice-turned gown, but brave in ribbons, which are

cheap and make a goodly show for sixpence; and she laid the

cloth, assisted by Belinda Cratchit, second of her daughters, also

brave in ribbons; while Master Peter Cratchit plunged a fork into

the saucepan of potatoes, and getting the corners of his monstrous

shirt collar (Bob's private property, conferred upon his son and

heir in honour of the day) into his mouth, rejoiced to find himself

so gallantly attired, and yearned to show his linen to the

fashionable Parks. And now two smaller Cratchits, boy and girl,

came tearing in, screaming that outside the baker's they had smelt

the goose, and known it for their own; and basking in luxurious

thoughts of sage and onion, these young Cratchits danced about

the table, and exalted Master Peter Cratchit to the skies, while he

(not proud, although his collars nearly choked him) blew the fire,

until the slow potatoes bubbling up, knocked loudly at the

saucepan-lid to be let out and peeled.

'What has ever got your precious father then?' said Mrs. Cratchit.

'And your brother, Tiny Tim! And Martha warn't as late last

Christmas Day by half-an-hour?'

'Here's Martha, mother!' said a girl, appearing as she spoke.

'Here's Martha, mother!' cried the two young Cratchits. 'Hurrah!

There's (r)such a goose, Martha!'

'Why, bless your heart alive, my dear, how late you are!' said

Mrs. Cratchit, kissing her a dozen times, and taking off her shawl

and bonnet for her with officious zeal.

'We'd a deal of work to finish up last night,' replied the girl, 'and

had to clear away this morning, mother!'

'Well! Never mind so long as you are come,' said Mrs. Cratchit.

'Sit ye down before the fire, my dear, and have a warm, Lord bless


'No, no! There's father coming,' cried the two young Cratchits,

who were everywhere at once. 'Hide, Martha, hide!'

So Martha hid herself, and in came little Bob, the father, with at

least three feet of comforter exclusive of the fringe, hanging down

before him; and his threadbare clothes darned up and brushed, to

look seasonable; and Tiny Tim upon his shoulder. Alas for Tiny

Tim, he bore a little crutch, and had his limbs supported by an

iron frame!

'Why, where's our Martha?' cried Bob Cratchit, looking round.

'Not coming,' said Mrs. Cratchit.

'Not coming!' said Bob, with a sudden declension in his high

spirits; for he had been Tim's blood horse all the way from church,

and had come home rampant. 'Not coming upon Christmas Day!'

Martha didn't like to see him disappointed, if it were only in

joke; so she came out prematurely from behind the closet door,

and ran into his arms, while the two young Cratchits hustled Tiny

Tim, and bore him off into the wash-house, that he might hear the

pudding singing in the copper.

'And how did little Tim behave?' asked Mrs. Cratchit, when she

had rallied Bob on his credulity, and Bob had hugged his daughter

to his heart's content.

'As good as gold,' said Bob, 'and better. Somehow he gets

thoughtful, sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest

things you ever heard. He told me, coming home, that he hoped

the people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it

might be pleasant to them to remember upon Christmas Day, who

made lame beggars walk, and blind men see.'

Bob's voice was tremulous when he told them this, and trembled

more when he said that Tiny Tim was growing strong and hearty.

His active little crutch was heard upon the floor, and back came

Tiny Tim before another word was spoken, escorted by his brother

and sister to his stool before the fire; and while Bob, turning up

his cuffs- as if, poor fellow, they were capable of being made more

shabby- compounded some hot mixture in a jug with gin and

lemons, and stirred it round and round and put it on the hob to

simmer; Master Peter, and the two ubiquitous young Cratchits

went to fetch the goose, with which they soon returned in high


Such a bustle ensued that you might have thought a goose the

rarest of all birds; a feathered phenomenon, to which a black swan

was a matter of course- and in truth it was something very like it

in that house. Mrs. Cratchit made the gravy (ready beforehand in

a little saucepan) hissing hot; Master Peter mashed the potatoes

with incredible vigour; Miss Belinda sweetened up the apple-

sauce; Martha dusted the hot plates; Bob took Tiny Tim beside

him in a tiny corner at the table; the two young Cratchits set

chairs for everybody, not forgetting themselves, and mounting

guard upon their posts, crammed spoons into their mouths, lest

they should shriek for goose before their turn came to be helped.

At last the dishes were set on, and grace was said. It was

succeeded by a breathless pause, as Mrs. Cratchit, looking slowly

all along the carving-knife, prepared to plunge it in the breast; but

when she did, and when the long-expected gush of stuffing issued

forth, one murmur of delight arose all round the board, and even

Tiny Tim, excited by the two young Cratchits, beat on the table

with the handle of his knife, and feebly cried Hurrah!

There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn't believe there

ever was such a goose cooked. Its tenderness and flavour, size and

cheapness, were the themes of universal admiration. Eked out by

apple-sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the

whole family; indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said with great delight

(surveying one small atom of a bone upon the dish), they hadn't

ate it all at last! Yet every one had had enough, and the youngest

Cratchits in particular, were steeped in sage and onion to the

eyebrows! But now, the plates being changed by Miss Belinda,

Mrs. Cratchit left the room alone- too nervous to bear witnesses-

to take the pudding up and bring it in.

Suppose it should not be done enough! Suppose it should break

in turning out! Suppose somebody should have got over the wall

of the back-yard, and stolen it, while they were merry with the

goose- a supposition at which the two young Cratchits became

livid! All sorts of horrors were supposed.

Hallo! A great deal of steam! The pudding was out of the copper.

A smell like a washing-day! That was the cloth. A smell like an

eating-house and a pastrycook's next door to each other, with a

laundress's next door to that! That was the pudding! In half a

minute Mrs. Cratchit entered- flushed, but smiling proudly- with

the pudding, like a speckled cannon-ball, so hard and firm,

blazing in half of half-a-quartern of ignited brandy, and bedight

with Christmas holly stuck into the top.

Oh, a wonderful pudding! Bob Cratchit said, and calmly too, that

he regarded it as the greatest success achieved by Mrs. Cratchit

since their marriage. Mrs. Cratchit said that now the weight was

off her mind, she would confess she had had her doubts about the

quantity of flour. Everybody had something to say about it, but

nobody said or thought it was at all a small pudding for a large

family. It would have been flat heresy to do so. Any Cratchit

would have blushed to hint at such a thing.

At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was cleared, the hearth

swept, and the fire made up. The compound in the jug being

tasted, and considered perfect, apples and oranges were put upon

the table, and a shovel-full of chestnuts on the fire. Then all the

Cratchit family drew round the hearth, in what Bob Cratchit

called a circle, meaning half a one; and at Bob Cratchit's elbow

stood the family display of glass. Two tumblers, and a custard-cup

without a handle.

These held the hot stuff from the jug, however, as well as golden

goblets would have done; and Bob served it out with beaming

looks, while the chestnuts on the fire sputtered and cracked

noisily. Then Bob proposed:

'A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us!' Which all

the family re-echoed.

'God bless us every one!' said Tiny Tim, the last of all.

He sat very close to his father's side upon his little stool. Bob

held his withered little hand in his, as if he loved the child, and

wished to keep him by his side, and dreaded that he might be

taken from him.

'Spirit,' said Scrooge, with an interest he had never felt before,

'tell me if Tiny Tim will live.'

'I see a vacant seat,' replied the Ghost, 'in the poor chimney-

corner, and a crutch without an owner, carefully preserved. If

these shadows remain unaltered by the Future, the child will die.'

'No, no,' said Scrooge. 'Oh, no, kind Spirit! say he will be


'If these shadows remain unaltered by the Future, none other of

my race,' returned the Ghost, 'will find him here. What then? If he

be like to die, he had better do it, and decrease the surplus


Scrooge hung his head to hear his own words quoted by the

Spirit, and was overcome with penitence and grief.

'Man,' said the Ghost, 'if man you be in heart, not adamant,

forbear that wicked cant until you have discovered What the

surplus is, and Where it is. Will you decide what men shall live,

and what men shall die? It may be, that in the sight of Heaven,

you are more worthless and less fit to live than millions like this

poor man's child. Oh God! to hear the Insect on the leaf

pronouncing on the too much life among his hungry brothers in

the dust!'

Scrooge bent before the Ghost's rebuke, and trembling cast his

eyes upon the ground. But he raised them speedily, on hearing his

own name.

'Mr. Scrooge!' said Bob; 'I'll give you Mr. Scrooge, the Founder

of the Feast!'

'The Founder of the Feast indeed!' cried Mrs. Cratchit,

reddening. 'I wish I had him here. I'd give him a piece of my mind

to feast upon, and I hope he'd have a good appetite for it.'

'My dear,' said Bob, 'the children! Christmas Day.'

'It should be Christmas Day, I am sure,' said she, 'on which one

drinks the health of such an odious, stingy, hard, unfeeling man

as Mr. Scrooge. You know he is, Robert! Nobody knows it better

than you do, poor fellow!'

'My dear,' was Bob's mild answer, 'Christmas Day.'

'I'll drink his health for your sake and the Day's,' said Mrs.

Cratchit, 'not for his. Long life to him! A merry Christmas and a

happy new year! He'll be very merry and very happy, I have no


The children drank the toast after her. It was the first of their

proceedings which had no heartiness. Tiny Tim drank it last of

all, but he didn't care twopence for it. Scrooge was the Ogre of the

family. The mention of his name cast a dark shadow on the party,

which was not dispelled for full five minutes.

After it had passed away, they were ten times merrier than

before, from the mere relief of Scrooge the Baleful being done

with. Bob Cratchit told them how he had a situation in his eye for

Master Peter which would bring in, if obtained, full five-and-

sixpence weekly. The two young Cratchits laughed tremendously

at the idea of Peter's being a man of business; and Peter himself

looked thoughtfully at the fire from between his collars, as if he

were deliberating what particular investments he should favour

when he came into the receipt of that bewildering income.

Martha, who was a poor apprentice at a milliner's, then told them

what kind of work she had to do, and how many hours she worked

at a stretch, and how she meant to lie abed to-morrow morning for

a good long rest; to-morrow being a holiday she passed at home.

Also how she had seen a countess and a lord some days before,

and how the lord 'was much about as tall as Peter'; at which Peter

pulled up his collars so high that you couldn't have seen his head

if you had been there. All this time the chestnuts and the jug went

round and round; and by-and-bye they had a song, about a lost

child travelling in the snow, from Tiny Tim, who had a plaintive

little voice, and sang it very well indeed.

There was nothing of high mark in this. They were not a

handsome family; they were not well dressed; their shoes were far

from being water-proof; their clothes were scanty; and Peter might

have known, and very likely did, the inside of a pawnbroker's. But

they were happy, grateful, pleased with one another, and

contented with the time; and when they faded, and looked happier

yet in the bright sprinklings of the Spirit's torch at parting,

Scrooge had his eye upon them, and especially on Tiny Tim, until

the last.

By this time it was getting dark, and snowing pretty heavily; and

as Scrooge and the Spirit went along the streets, the brightness of

the roaring fires in kitchens, parlours, and all sorts of rooms, was

wonderful. Here, the flickering of the blaze showed preparations

for a cosy dinner, with hot plates baking through and through

before the fire, and deep red curtains, ready to be drawn to shut

out cold and darkness. There all the children of the house were

running out into the snow to meet their married sisters, brothers,

cousins, uncles, aunts, and be the first to greet them. Here, again,

were shadows on the window-blind of guests assembling; and

there a group of handsome girls, all hooded and fur-booted, and

all chattering at once, tripped lightly off to some near neighbour's

house; where, woe upon the single man who saw them enter-

artful witches, well they knew it- in a glow!

But, if you had judged from the numbers of people on their way

to friendly gatherings, you might have thought that no one was at

home to give them welcome when they got there, instead of every

house expecting company, and piling up its fires half-chimney

high. Blessings on it, how the Ghost exulted! How it bared its

breadth of breast, and opened its capricious palm, and floated on,

outpouring, with a generous hand, its bright and harmless mirth

on everything within its reach! The very lamplighter, who ran on

before, dotting the dusky street with specks of light, and who was

dressed to spend the evening somewhere, laughed out loudly as

the Spirit passed, though little kenned the lamplighter that he had

any company but Christmas!

And now, without a word of warning from the Ghost, they stood

upon a bleak and desert moor, where monstrous masses of rude

stone were cast about, as though it were the burial-place of giants;

and water spread itself wheresoever it listed, or would have done

so, but for the frost that held it prisoner; and nothing grew but

moss and furze, and coarse rank grass. Down in the west the

setting sun had left a streak of fiery red, which glared upon the

desolation for an instant, like a sullen eye, and frowning lower,

lower, lower yet, was lost in the thick gloom of darkest night.

'What place is this?' asked Scrooge.

'A place where Miners live, who labour in the bowels of the

earth,' returned the Spirit. 'But they know me. See!'

A light shone from the window of a hut, and swiftly they

advanced towards it. Passing through the wall of mud and stone,

they found a cheerful company assembled round a glowing fire.

An old, old man and woman, with their children and their

children's children, and another generation beyond that, all

decked out gaily in their holiday attire. The old man, in a voice

that seldom rose above the howling of the wind upon the barren

waste, was singing them a Christmas song- it had been a very old

song when he was a boy- and from time to time they all joined in

the chorus. So surely as they raised their voices, the old man got

quite blithe and loud; and so surely as they stopped, his vigour

sank again.

The Spirit did not tarry here, but bade Scrooge hold his robe, and

passing on above the moor, sped- whither? Not to sea? To sea. To

Scrooge's horror, looking back, he saw the last of the land, a

frightful range of rocks, behind them; and his ears were deafened

by the thundering of water, as it rolled and roared, and raged

among the dreadful caverns it had worn, and fiercely tried to

undermine the earth.

Built upon a dismal reef of sunken rocks, some league or so from

shore, on which the waters chafed and dashed, the wild year

through, there stood a solitary lighthouse. Great heaps of sea-weed

clung to its base, and storm-birds- born of the wind one might

suppose, as sea-weed of the water- rose and fell about it, like the

waves they skimmed.

But even here, two men who watched the light had made a fire,

that through the loophole in the thick stone wall shed out a ray of

brightness on the awful sea. Joining their horny hands over the

rough table at which they sat, they wished each other Merry

Christmas in their can of grog; and one of them: the elder, too,

with his face all damaged and scarred with hard weather, as the

figure-head of an old ship might be: struck up a sturdy song that

was like a Gale in itself.

Again the Ghost sped on, above the black and heaving sea- on,

on- until, being far away, as he told Scrooge, from any shore, they

lighted on a ship. They stood beside the helmsman at the wheel,

the look-out in the bow, the officers who had the watch; dark,

ghostly figures in their several stations; but every man among

them hummed a Christmas tune, or had a Christmas thought, or

spoke below his breath to his companion of some bygone

Christmas Day, with homeward hopes belonging to it. And every

man on board, waking or sleeping, good or bad, had had a kinder

word for another on that day than on any day in the year; and had

shared to some extent in its festivities; and had remembered those

he cared for at a distance, and had known that they delighted to

remember him.

It was a great surprise to Scrooge, while listening to the moaning

of the wind, and thinking what a solemn thing it was to move on

through the lonely darkness over an unknown abyss, whose depths

were secrets as profound as Death: it was a great surprise to

Scrooge, while thus engaged, to hear a hearty laugh. It was a

much greater surprise to Scrooge to recognise it as his own

nephew's, and to find himself in a bright, dry, gleaming room,

with the Spirit standing smiling by his side, and looking at that

same nephew with approving affability! 'Ha, ha!' laughed

Scrooge's nephew. 'Ha, ha, ha!'

If you should happen, by any unlikely chance, to know a man

more blest in a laugh than Scrooge's nephew, all I can say is, I

should like to know him too. Introduce him to me, and I'll

cultivate his acquaintance.

It is a fair, even-handed, noble adjustment of things, that while

there is infection in disease and sorrow, there is nothing in the

world so irresistibly contagious as laughter and good-humour.

When Scrooge's nephew laughed in this way: holding his sides,

rolling his head, and twisting his face into the most extravagant

contortions: Scrooge's niece, by marriage, laughed as heartily as

he. And their assembled friends being not a bit behindhand,

roared out lustily.

'Ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha, ha!'

'He said that Christmas was a humbug, as I live!' cried Scrooge's

nephew. 'He believed it too!'

'More shame for him, Fred!' said Scrooge's niece, indignantly.

Bless those women; they never do anything by halves. They are

always in earnest.

She was very pretty: exceedingly pretty. With a dimpled,

surprised-looking, capital face; a ripe little mouth, that seemed

made to be kissed- as no doubt it was; all kinds of good little dots

about her chin, that melted into one another when she laughed;

and the sunniest pair of eyes you ever saw in any little creature's

head. Altogether she was what you would have called provoking,

you know; but satisfactory, too. Oh, perfectly satisfactory.

'He's a comical old fellow,' said Scrooge's nephew, 'that's the

truth: and not so pleasant as he might be. However, his offences

carry their own punishment, and I have nothing to say against


'I'm sure he is very rich, Fred,' hinted Scrooge's niece. 'At least

you always tell (r)me so.'

'What of that, my dear!' said Scrooge's nephew. 'His wealth is of

no use to him. He don't do any good with it. He don't make

himself comfortable with it. He hasn't the satisfaction of thinking-

ha, ha, ha!- that he is ever going to benefit US with it.'

'I have no patience with him,' observed Scrooge's niece.

Scrooge's niece's sisters, and all the other ladies, expressed the

same opinion.

'Oh, I have!' said Scrooge's nephew. 'I am sorry for him; I

couldn't be angry with him if I tried. Who suffers by his ill whims!

Himself, always. Here, he takes it into his head to dislike us, and

he won't come and dine with us. What's the consequence? He

don't lose much of a dinner.'

'Indeed, I think he loses a very good dinner,' interrupted

Scrooge's niece. Everybody else said the same, and they must be

allowed to have been competent judges, because they had just had

dinner; and, with the dessert upon the table, were clustered round

the fire, by lamplight.

'Well! I'm very glad to hear it!' said Scrooge's nephew, 'because I

haven't great faith in these young housekeepers. What do (r)you

say, Topper?'

Topper had clearly got his eye upon one of Scrooge's niece's

sisters, for he answered that a bachelor was a wretched outcast,

who had no right to express an opinion on the subject. Whereat

Scrooge's niece's sister- the plump one with the lace tucker: not

the one with the roses- blushed.

'Do go on, Fred,' said Scrooge's niece, clapping her hands. 'He

never finishes what he begins to say! He is such a ridiculous


Scrooge's nephew revelled in another laugh, and as it was

impossible to keep the infection off; though the plump sister tried

hard to do it with aromatic vinegar; his example was unanimously


'I was only going to say,' said Scrooge's nephew, 'that the

consequences of his taking a dislike to us, and not making merry

with us, is, as I think, that he loses some pleasant moments, which

could do him no harm. I am sure he loses pleasanter companions

than he can find in his own thoughts, either in his mouldy old

office, or his dusty chambers. I mean to give him the same chance

every year, whether he likes it or not, for I pity him. He may rail

at Christmas till he dies, but he can't help thinking better of it- I

defy him- if he finds me going there, in good temper, year after

year, and saying, Uncle Scrooge, how are you? If it only puts him

in the vein to leave his poor clerk fifty pounds, (r)that's

something; and I think I shook him yesterday.'

It was their turn to laugh now at the notion of his shaking

Scrooge. But being thoroughly good-natured, and not much caring

what they laughed at, so that they laughed at any rate, he

encouraged them in their merriment, and passed the bottle


After tea, they had some music. For they were a musical family,

and knew what they were about, when they sung a Glee or Catch,

I can assure you: especially Topper, who could growl away in the

bass like a good one, and never swell the large veins in his

forehead, or get red in the face over it. Scrooge's niece played well

upon the harp; and played among other tunes a simple little air (a

mere nothing: you might learn to whistle it in two minutes),

which had been familiar to the child who fetched Scrooge from

the boarding-school, as he had been reminded by the Ghost of

Christmas Past. When this strain of music sounded, all the things

that Ghost had shown him, came upon his mind; he softened more

and more; and thought that if he could have listened to it often,

years ago, he might have cultivated the kindnesses of life for his

own happiness with his own hands, without resorting to the

sexton's spade that buried Jacob Marley.

But they didn't devote the whole evening to music. After a while

they played at forfeits; for it is good to be children sometimes, and

never better than at Christmas, when its mighty Founder was a

child himself. Stop! There was first a game at blindman's buff. Of

course there was. And I no more believe Topper was really blind

than I believe he had eyes in his boots. My opinion is, that it was a

done thing between him and Scrooge's nephew; and that the

Ghost of Christmas Present knew it. The way he went after that

plump sister in the lace tucker, was an outrage on the credulity of

human nature. Knocking down the fire-irons, tumbling over the

chairs, bumping against the piano, smothering himself among the

curtains, wherever she went, there went he! He always knew

where the plump sister was. He wouldn't catch anybody else. If

you had fallen up against him (as some of them did), on purpose,

he would have made a feint of endeavouring to seize you, which

would have been an affront to your understanding, and would

instantly have sidled off in the direction of the plump sister. She

often cried out that it wasn't fair; and it really was not. But when

at last he caught her; when, in spite of all her silken rustlings, and

her rapid flutterings past him, he got her into a corner whence

there was no escape; then his conduct was the most execrable. For

his pretending not to know her; his pretending that it was

necessary to touch her head-dress, and further to assure himself of

her identity by pressing a certain ring upon her finger, and a

certain chain about her neck; was vile, monstrous! No doubt she

told him her opinion of it, when, another blind-man being in

office, they were so very confidential together, behind the


Scrooge's niece was not one of the blind-man's buff party, but

was made comfortable with a large chair and a footstool, in a snug

corner, where the Ghost and Scrooge were close behind her. But

she joined in the forfeits, and loved her love to admiration with all

the letters of the alphabet. Likewise at the game of How, When,

and Where, she was very great, and to the secret joy of Scrooge's

nephew, beat her sisters hollow: though they were sharp girls too,

as Topper could have told you. There might have been twenty

people there, young and old, but they all played, and so did

Scrooge; for wholly forgetting in the interest he had in what was

going on, that his voice made no sound in their ears, he

sometimes came out with his guess quite loud, and very often

guessed quite right, too; for the sharpest needle, best Whitechapel,

warranted not to cut in the eye, was not sharper than Scrooge;

blunt as he took it in his head to be.

The Ghost was greatly pleased to find him in this mood, and

looked upon him with such favour, that he begged like a boy to be

allowed to stay until the guests departed. But this the Spirit said

could not be done.

'Here is a new game,' said Scrooge. 'One half hour, Spirit, only


It was a Game called Yes and No, where Scrooge's nephew had

to think of something, and the rest must find out what; he only

answering to their questions yes or no, as the case was. The brisk

fire of questioning to which he was exposed, elicited from him

that he was thinking of an animal, a live animal, rather a

disagreeable animal, a savage animal, an animal that growled and

grunted sometimes, and talked sometimes, and lived in London,

and walked about the streets, and wasn't made a show of, and

wasn't led by anybody, and didn't live in a menagerie, and was

never killed in a market, and was not a horse, or an ass, or a cow,

or a bull, or a tiger, or a dog, or a pig, or a cat, or a bear. At every

fresh question that was put to him, this nephew burst into a fresh

roar of laughter; and was so inexpressibly tickled, that he was

obliged to get up off the sofa and stamp. At last the plump sister,

falling into a similar state, cried out:

'I have found it out! I know what it is, Fred! I know what it is!'

'What is it?' cried Fred.

'It's your Uncle Scro-o-o-o-oge!'

Which it certainly was. Admiration was the universal sentiment,

though some objected that the reply to 'Is it a bear?' ought to have

been 'Yes'; inasmuch as an answer in the negative was sufficient

to have diverted their thoughts from Mr. Scrooge, supposing they

had ever had any tendency that way.

'He has given us plenty of merriment, I am sure,' said Fred, 'and

it would be ungrateful not to drink his health. Here is a glass of

mulled wine ready to our hand at the moment; and I say, "Uncle


'Well! Uncle Scrooge!' they cried.

'A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to the old man,

whatever he is!' said Scrooge's nephew. 'He wouldn't take it from

me, but may he have it, nevertheless. Uncle Scrooge!'

Uncle Scrooge had imperceptibly become so gay and light of

heart, that he would have pledged the unconscious company in

return, and thanked them in an inaudible speech, if the Ghost had

given him time. But the whole scene passed off in the breath of

the last word spoken by his nephew; and he and the Spirit were

again upon their travels.

Much they saw, and far they went, and many homes they visited,

but always with a happy end. The Spirit stood beside sick beds,

and they were cheerful; on foreign lands, and they were close at

home; by struggling men, and they were patient in their greater

hope; by poverty, and it was rich. In almshouse, hospital, and jail,

in misery's every refuge, where vain man in his little brief

authority had not made fast the door, and barred the Spirit out, he

left his blessing, and taught Scrooge his precepts.

It was a long night, if it were only a night; but Scrooge had his

doubts of this, because the Christmas Holidays appeared to be

condensed into the space of time they passed together. It was

strange, too, that while Scrooge remained unaltered in his

outward form, the Ghost grew older, clearly older. Scrooge had

observed this change, but never spoke of it, until they left a

children's Twelfth Night party, when, looking at the Spirit as they

stood together in an open place, he noticed that its hair was grey.

'Are spirits' lives so short?' asked Scrooge.

'My life upon this globe is very brief,' replied the Ghost. 'It ends


'To-night!' cried Scrooge.

'To-night at midnight. Hark! The time is drawing near.'

The chimes were ringing the three quarters past eleven at that


'Forgive me if I am not justified in what I ask,' said Scrooge,

looking intently at the Spirit's robe, 'but I see something strange,

and not belonging to yourself, protruding from your skirts. Is it a

foot or a claw?'

'It might be a claw, for the flesh there is upon it,' was the Spirit's

sorrowful reply. 'Look here.'

From the foldings of its robe, it brought two children; wretched,

abject, frightful, hideous, miserable. They knelt down at its feet,

and clung upon the outside of its garment.

'Oh, Man! look here. Look, look, down here!' exclaimed the


They were a boy and girl. Yellow, meagre, ragged, scowling,

wolfish; but prostrate, too, in their humility. Where graceful youth

should have filled their features out, and touched them with its

freshest tints, a stale and shrivelled hand, like that of age, had

pinched, and twisted them, and pulled them into shreds. Where

angels might have sat enthroned, devils lurked, and glared out

menacing. No change, no degradation, no perversion of humanity,

in any grade, through all the mysteries of wonderful creation, has

monsters half so horrible and dread.

Scrooge started back, appalled. Having them shown to him in

this way, he tried to say they were fine children, but the words

choked themselves, rather than be parties to a lie of such

enormous magnitude.

'Spirit! are they yours?' Scrooge could say no more.

'They are Man's,' said the Spirit, looking down upon them. 'And

they cling to me, appealing from their fathers. This boy is

Ignorance. This girl is Want. Beware them both, and all of their

degree, but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow I see that

written which is Doom, unless the writing be erased. Deny it!'

cried the Spirit, stretching out its hand towards the city. 'Slander

those who tell it ye! Admit it for your factious purposes, and make

it worse. And abide the end!'

'Have they no refuge or resource?' cried Scrooge.

'Are there no prisons?' said the Spirit, turning on him for the last

time with his own words. 'Are there no work-houses?' The bell

struck twelve.

Scrooge looked about him for the Ghost, and saw it not. As the

last stroke ceased to vibrate, he remembered the prediction of old

Jacob Marley, and lifting up his eyes, beheld a solemn Phantom,

draped and hooded, coming, like a mist along the ground, towards


Stave IV

The Last of the Spirits

THE PHANTOM SLOWLY, GRAVELY, silently approached.

When it came near him, Scrooge bent down upon his knee; for in

the very air through which this Spirit moved it seemed to scatter

gloom and mystery.

It was shrouded in a deep black garment, which concealed its

head, its face, its form, and left nothing of it visible save one

outstretched hand. But for this it would have been difficult to

detach its figure from the night, and separate it from the darkness

by which it was surrounded.

He felt that it was tall and stately when it came beside him, and

that its mysterious presence filled him with a solemn dread. He

knew no more, for the Spirit neither spoke nor moved.

'I am in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come?'

said Scrooge.

The Spirit answered not, but pointed onward with its hand.

'You are about to show me shadows of the things that have not

yet happened, but will happen in the time before us,' Scrooge

pursued. 'Is that so, Spirit?'

The upper portion of the garment was contracted for an instant

in its folds, as if the Spirit had inclined its head. That was the

only answer he received.

Although well used to ghostly company by this time, Scrooge

feared the silent shape so much that his legs trembled beneath

him, and he found that he could hardly stand when he prepared to

follow it. The Spirit paused a moment, as observing his condition,

and giving him time to recover.

But Scrooge was all the worse for this. It thrilled him with a

vague uncertain horror, to know that behind the dusky shroud,

there were ghostly eyes intently fixed upon him, while he, though

he stretched his own to the utmost, could see nothing but a

spectral hand and one great heap of black.

'Ghost of the Future!' he exclaimed, 'I fear you more than any

spectre I have seen. But as I know your purpose is to do me good,

and as I hope to live to be another man from what I was, I am

prepared to bear you company, and do it with a thankful heart.

Will you not speak to me?'

It gave him no reply. The hand was pointed straight before them.

'Lead on!' said Scrooge. 'Lead on! The night is waning fast, and

it is precious time to me, I know. Lead on, Spirit!' The Phantom

moved away as it had come towards him. Scrooge followed in the

shadow of its dress, which bore him up, he thought, and carried

him along.

They scarcely seemed to enter the city; for the city rather seemed

to spring up about them, and encompass them of its own act. But

there they were, in the heart of it; on 'Change, amongst the

merchants; who hurried up and down, and chinked the money in

their pockets, and conversed in groups, and looked at their

watches, and trifled thoughtfully with their great gold seals; and

so forth, as Scrooge had seen them often.

The Spirit stopped beside one little knot of business men.

Observing that the hand was pointed to them, Scrooge advanced

to listen to their talk.

'No,' said a great fat man with a monstrous chin, 'I don't know

much about it, either way. I only know he's dead.'

'When did he die?' inquired another.

'Last night, I believe.'

'Why, what was the matter with him?' asked a third, taking a

vast quantity of snuff out of a very large snuff-box. 'I thought he'd

never die.'

'God knows,' said the first, with a yawn.

'What has he done with his money?' asked a red-faced gentleman

with a pendulous excrescence on the end of his nose, that shook

like the gills of a turkey-cock.

'I haven't heard,' said the man with the large chin, yawning

again. 'Left it to his company, perhaps. He hasn't left it to (r)me.

That's all I know.'

This pleasantry was received with a general laugh.

'It's likely to be a very cheap funeral,' said the same speaker; 'for

upon my life I don't know of anybody to go to it. Suppose we make

up a party and volunteer?'

'I don't mind going if a lunch is provided,' observed the

gentleman with the excrescence on his nose. 'But I must be fed, if

I make one.'

Another laugh.

'Well, I am the most disinterested among you, after all,' said the

first speaker, 'for I never wear black gloves, and I never eat lunch.

But I'll offer to go, if anybody else will. When I come to think of

it, I'm not at all sure that I wasn't his most particular friend; for

we used to stop and speak whenever we met. Bye, bye!'

Speakers and listeners strolled away, and mixed with other

groups. Scrooge knew the men, and looked towards the Spirit for

an explanation.

The Phantom glided on into a street. Its finger pointed to two

persons meeting. Scrooge listened again, thinking that the

explanation might lie here.

He knew these men, also, perfectly. They were men of business:

very wealthy, and of great importance. He had made a point

always of standing well in their esteem: in a business point of

view, that is; strictly in a business point of view.

'How are you?' said one.

'How are you?' returned the other.

'Well!' said the first. 'Old Scratch has got his own at last, hey?'

'So I am told,' returned the second. 'Cold, isn't it?'

'Seasonable for Christmas time. You're not a skater, I suppose?'

'No. No. Something else to think of. Good morning!'

Not another word. That was their meeting, their conversation,

and their parting.

Scrooge was at first inclined to be surprised that the Spirit

should attach importance to conversations apparently so trivial;

but feeling assured that they must have some hidden purpose, he

set himself to consider what it was likely to be. They could

scarcely be supposed to have any bearing on the death of Jacob,

his old partner, for that was Past, and this Ghost's province was

the Future. Nor could he think of any one immediately connected

with himself, to whom he could apply them. But nothing doubting

that to whomsoever they applied they had some latent moral for

his own improvement, he resolved to treasure up every word he

heard, and everything he saw; and especially to observe the

shadow of himself when it appeared. For he had an expectation

that the conduct of his future self would give him the clue he

missed, and would render the solution of these riddles easy.

He looked about in that very place for his own image; but

another man stood in his accustomed corner, and though the clock

pointed to his usual time of day for being there, he saw no likeness

of himself among the multitudes that poured in through the Porch.

It gave him little surprise, however; for he had been revolving in

his mind a change of life, and thought and hoped he saw his new-

born resolutions carried out in this.

Quiet and dark, beside him stood the Phantom, with its

outstretched hand. When he roused himself from his thoughtful

quest, he fancied from the turn of the hand, and its situation in

reference to himself, that the Unseen Eyes were looking at him

keenly. It made him shudder, and feel very cold.

They left the busy scene, and went into an obscure part of the

town, where Scrooge had never penetrated before, although he

recognised its situation, and its bad repute. The ways were foul

and narrow; the shops and houses wretched; the people half-

naked, drunken, slipshod, ugly. Alleys and archways, like so

many cesspools, disgorged their offences of smell, and dirt, and

life, upon the straggling streets; and the whole quarter reeked with

crime, with filth, and misery.

Far in this den of infamous resort, there was a low-browed,

beetling shop, below a pent-house roof, where iron, old rags,

bottles, bones, and greasy offal, were bought. Upon the floor

within, were piled up heaps of rusty keys, nails, chains, hinges,

files, scales, weights, and refuse iron of all kinds. Secrets that few

would like to scrutinise were bred and hidden in mountains of

unseemly rags, masses of corrupted fat, and sepulchres of bones.

Sitting in among the wares he dealt in, by a charcoal stove, made

of old bricks, was a grey-haired rascal, nearly seventy years of

age; who had screened himself from the cold air without, by a

frousy curtaining of miscellaneous tatters, hung upon a line; and

smoked his pipe in all the luxury of calm retirement.

Scrooge and the Phantom came into the presence of this man,

just as a woman with a heavy bundle slunk into the shop. But she

had scarcely entered, when another woman, similarly laden, came

in too; and she was closely followed by a man in faded black, who

was no less startled by the sight of them, than they had been upon

the recognition of each other. After a short period of blank

astonishment, in which the old man with the pipe had joined

them, they all three burst into a laugh.

'Let the charwoman alone to be the first!' cried she who had

entered first. 'Let the laundress alone to be the second; and let the

undertaker's man alone to be the third. Look here, old Joe, here's a

chance! If we haven't all three met here without meaning it!'

'You couldn't have met in a better place,' said old Joe, removing

his pipe from his mouth. 'Come into the parlour. You were made

free of it long ago, you know; and the other two an't strangers.

Stop till I shut the door of the shop. Ah! How it skreeks! There

an't such a rusty bit of metal in the place as its own hinges, I

believe; and I'm sure there's no such old bones here, as mine. Ha,

ha! We're all suitable to our calling, we're well matched. Come

into the parlour. Come into the parlour.'

The parlour was the space behind the screen of rags. The old

man raked the fire together with an old stair-rod, and having

trimmed his smoky lamp (for it was night), with the stem of his

pipe, put it in his mouth again.

While he did this, the woman who had already spoken threw her

bundle on the floor, and sat down in a flaunting manner on a

stool; crossing her elbows on her knees, and looking with a bold

defiance at the other two.

'What odds then! What odds, Mrs. Dilber?' said the woman.

'Every person has a right to take care of themselves. (r)He always


'That's true, indeed!' said the laundress. 'No man more so.'

'Why then, don't stand staring as if you was afraid, woman;

who's the wiser? We're not going to pick holes in each other's

coats, I suppose?'

'No, indeed!' said Mrs. Dilber and the man together. 'We should

hope not.'

'Very well, then!' cried the woman. 'That's enough. Who's the

worse for the loss of a few things like these? Not a dead man, I


'No, indeed,' said Mrs. Dilber, laughing.

'If he wanted to keep 'em after he was dead, a wicked old screw,'

pursued the woman, 'why wasn't he natural in his lifetime? If he

had been, he'd have had somebody to look after him when he was

struck with Death, instead of lying gasping out his last there,

alone by himself.'

'It's the truest word that ever was spoke,' said Mrs. Dilber. 'It's a

judgment on him.'

'I wish it was a little heavier judgment,' replied the woman; 'and

it should have been, you may depend upon it, if I could have laid

my hands on anything else. Open that bundle, old Joe, and let me

know the value of it. Speak out plain. I'm not afraid to be the first,

nor afraid for them to see it. We knew pretty well that we were

helping ourselves, before we met here, I believe. It's no sin. Open

the bundle, Joe.'

But the gallantry of her friends would not allow of this; and the

man in faded black, mounting the breach first, produced (r)his

plunder. It was not extensive. A seal or two, a pencil-case, a pair

of sleeve-buttons, and a brooch of no great value, were all. They

were severally examined and appraised by old Joe, who chalked

the sums he was disposed to give for each, upon the wall, and

added them up into a total when he found there was nothing more

to come.

'That's your account,' said Joe, 'and I wouldn't give another

sixpence, if I was to be boiled for not doing it. Who's next?'

Mrs. Dilber was next. Sheets and towels, a little wearing apparel,

two old-fashioned silver teaspoons, a pair of sugar-tongs, and a

few boots. Her account was stated on the wall in the same manner.

'I always give too much to ladies. It's a weakness of mine, and

that's the way I ruin myself,' said old Joe. 'That's your account. If

you asked me for another penny, and made it an open question, I'd

repent of being so liberal and knock off half-a-crown.'

'And now undo (r)my bundle, Joe,' said the first woman.

Joe went down on his knees for the greater convenience of

opening it, and having unfastened a great many knots, dragged

out a large and heavy roll of some dark stuff.

'What do you call this?' said Joe. 'Bed-curtains!'

'Ah!' returned the woman, laughing and leaning forward on her

crossed arms. 'Bed-curtains!'

'You don't mean to say you took 'em down, rings and all, with

him lying there?' said Joe.

'Yes, I do,' replied the woman. 'Why not?'

'You were born to make your fortune,' said Joe, 'and you'll

certainly do it.'

'I certainly shan't hold my hand, when I can get anything in it by

reaching it out, for the sake of such a man as He was, I promise

you, Joe,' returned the woman coolly. 'Don't drop that oil upon the

blankets, now.'

'His blankets?' asked Joe.

'Whose else's do you think?' replied the woman. 'He isn't likely to

take cold without 'em, I dare say.'

'I hope he didn't die of anything catching? Eh?' said old Joe,

stopping in his work, and looking up.

'Don't you be afraid of that,' returned the woman. 'I an't so fond

of his company that I'd loiter about him for such things, if he did.

Ah! you may took through that shirt till your eyes ache; but you

won't find a hole in it, nor a threadbare place. It's the best he had,

and a fine one too. They'd have wasted it, if it hadn't been for me.'

'What do you call wasting of it?' asked old Joe.

'Putting it on him to be buried in, to be sure,' replied the woman

with a laugh. 'Somebody was fool enough to do it, but I took it off

again. If calico an't good enough for such a purpose, it isn't good

enough for anything. It's quite as becoming to the body. He can't

look uglier than he did in that one.'

Scrooge listened to this dialogue in horror. As they sat grouped

about their spoil, in the scanty light afforded by the old man's

lamp, he viewed them with a detestation and disgust, which could

hardly have been greater, though they had been obscene demons,

marketing the corpse itself.

'Ha, ha!' laughed the same woman, when old Joe, producing a

flannel bag with money in it, told out their several gains upon the

ground. 'This is the end of it, you see! He frightened every one

away from him when he was alive, to profit us when he was dead!

Ha, ha, ha!'

'Spirit!' said Scrooge, shuddering from head to foot. 'I see, I see.

The case of this unhappy man might be my own. My life tends

that way, now. Merciful Heaven, what is this!'

He recoiled in terror, for the scene had changed, and now he

almost touched a bed: a bare, uncurtained bed: on which, beneath

a ragged sheet, there lay a something covered up, which, though it

was dumb, announced itself in awful language.

The room was very dark, too dark to be observed with any

accuracy, though Scrooge glanced round it in obedience to a secret

impulse, anxious to know what kind of room it was. A pale light,

rising in the outer air, fell straight upon the bed; and on it,

plundered and bereft, unwatched, unwept, uncared for, was the

body of this man.

Scrooge glanced towards the Phantom. Its steady hand was

pointed to the head. The cover was so carelessly adjusted that the

slightest raising of it, the motion of a finger upon Scrooge's part,

would have disclosed the face. He thought of it, felt how easy it

would be to do, and longed to do it; but had no more power to

withdraw the veil than to dismiss the spectre at his side.

Oh cold, cold, rigid, dreadful Death, set up thine altar here, and

dress it with such terrors as thou hast at thy command: for this is

thy dominion! But of the loved, revered, and honoured head, thou

canst not turn one hair to thy dread purposes, or make one feature

odious. It is not that the hand is heavy and will fall down when

released; it is not that the heart and pulse are still; but that the

hand WAS open, generous, and true; the heart brave, warm, and

tender; and the pulse a man's. Strike, Shadow, strike! And see his

good deeds springing from the wound, to sow the world with life


No voice pronounced these words in Scrooge's ears, and yet he

heard them when he looked upon the bed. He thought, if this man

could be raised up now, what would be his foremost thoughts?

Avarice, hard-dealing, griping cares? They have brought him to a

rich end, truly! He lay, in the dark empty house, with not a man, a

woman, or a child, to say that he was kind to me in this or that,

and for the memory of one kind word I will be kind to him. A cat

was tearing at the door, and there was a sound of gnawing rats

beneath the hearth-stone. What (r)they wanted in the room of

death, and why they were so restless and disturbed, Scrooge did

not dare to think.

'Spirit!' he said, 'this is a fearful place. In leaving it, I shall not

leave its lesson, trust me. Let us go!'

Still the Ghost pointed with an unmoved finger to the head.

'I understand you,' Scrooge returned, 'and I would do it, if I

could. But I have not the power, Spirit. I have not the power.'

Again it seemed to look upon him.

'If there is any person in the town, who feels emotion caused by

this man's death,' said Scrooge quite agonised, 'show that person

to me, Spirit, I beseech you!'

The Phantom spread its dark robe before him for a moment, like

a wing; and withdrawing it, revealed a room by daylight, where a

mother and her children were.

She was expecting some one, and with anxious eagerness; for

she walked up and down the room; started at every sound; looked

out from the window; glanced at the clock; tried, but in vain, to

work with her needle; and could hardly bear the voices of the

children in their play.

At length the long-expected knock was heard. She hurried to the

door, and met her husband; a man whose face was careworn and

depressed, though he was young. There was a remarkable

expression in it now; a kind of serious delight of which he felt

ashamed, and which he struggled to repress.

He sat down to the dinner that had been hoarding for him by the

fire; and when she asked him faintly what news (which was not

until after a long silence), he appeared embarrassed how to


'Is it good?' she said, 'or bad?'- to help him.

'Bad,' he answered.

'We are quite ruined?'

'No. There is hope yet, Caroline.'

'If (r)he relents,' she said, amazed, 'there is! Nothing is past

hope, if such a miracle has happened.'

'He is past relenting,' said her husband. 'He is dead.'

She was a mild and patient creature if her face spoke truth; but

she was thankful in her soul to hear it, and she said so, with

clasped hands. She prayed forgiveness the next moment, and was

sorry; but the first was the emotion of her heart.

'What the half-drunken woman whom I told you of last night,

said to me, when I tried to see him and obtain a week's delay; and

what I thought was a mere excuse to avoid me; turns out to have

been quite true. He was not only very ill, but dying, then.'

'To whom will our debt be transferred?'

'I don't know. But before that time we shall be ready with the

money; and even though we were not, it would be a bad fortune

indeed to find so merciless a creditor in his successor. We may

sleep to-night with light hearts, Caroline!'

Yes. Soften it as they would, their hearts were lighter. The

children's faces, hushed and clustered round to hear what they so

little understood, were brighter; and it was a happier house for

this man's death! The only emotion that the Ghost could show

him, caused by the event, was one of pleasure.

'Let me see some tenderness connected with a death,' said

Scrooge; 'or that dark chamber, Spirit, which we left just now,

will be for ever present to me.'

The Ghost conducted him through several streets familiar to his

feet; and as they went along, Scrooge looked here and there to

find himself, but nowhere was he to be seen. They entered Poor

Bob Cratchit's house; the dwelling he had visited before; and

found the mother and the children seated round the fire.

Quiet. Very quiet. The noisy little Cratchits were as still as

statues in one corner, and sat looking up at Peter, who had a book

before him. The mother and her daughters were engaged in

sewing. But surely they were very quiet!

'"And He took a child, and set him in the midst of them."'

Where had Scrooge heard those words? He had not dreamed

them. The boy must have read them out, as he and the Spirit

crossed the threshold. Why did he not go on?

The mother laid her work upon the table, and put her hand up to

her face.

'The colour hurts my eyes,' she said.

The colour? Ah, poor Tiny Tim!

'They're better now again,' said Cratchit's wife. 'It makes them

weak by candle-light; and I wouldn't show weak eyes to your

father when he comes home, for the world. It must be near his


'Past it rather,' Peter answered, shutting up his book. 'But I think

he has walked a little slower than he used, these few last evenings,


They were very quiet again. At last she said, and in a steady,

cheerful voice, that only faltered once:

'I have known him walk with- I have known him walk with Tiny

Tim upon his shoulder, very fast indeed.'

'And so have I,' cried Peter. 'Often.'

'And so have I,' exclaimed another. So had all.

'But he was very light to carry,' she resumed, intent upon her

work, 'and his father loved him so, that it was no trouble: no

trouble. And there is your father at the door!'

She hurried out to meet him; and little Bob in his comforter- he

had need of it, poor fellow- came in. His tea was ready for him on

the hob, and they all tried who should help him to it most. Then

the two young Cratchits got upon his knees and laid, each child a

little cheek, against his face, as if they said, 'Don't mind it, father.

Don't be grieved!'

Bob was very cheerful with them, and spoke pleasantly to all the

family. He looked at the work upon the table, and praised the

industry and speed of Mrs. Cratchit and the girls. They would be

done long before Sunday, he said.

'Sunday! You went to-day, then, Robert?' said his wife.

'Yes, my dear,' returned Bob. 'I wish you could have gone. It

would have done you good to see how green a place it is. But

you'll see it often. I promised him that I would walk there on a

Sunday. My little, little child!' cried Bob. 'My little child!'

He broke down all at once. He couldn't help it. If he could have

helped it, he and his child would have been farther apart perhaps

than they were.

He left the room, and went up-stairs into the room above, which

was lighted cheerfully, and hung with Christmas. There was a

chair set close beside the child, and there were signs of some one

having been there, lately. Poor Bob sat down in it, and when he

had thought a little and composed himself, he kissed the little

face. He was reconciled to what had happened, and went down

again quite happy.

They drew about the fire, and talked; the girls and mother

working still. Bob told them of the extraordinary kindness of Mr.

Scrooge's nephew, whom he had scarcely seen but once, and who,

meeting him in the street that day, and seeing that he looked a

little- 'just a little down you know,' said Bob, inquired what had

happened to distress him. 'On which,' said Bob, 'for he is the

pleasantest-spoken gentleman you ever heard, I told him. "I am

heartily sorry for it, Mr. Cratchit," he said, "and heartily sorry for

your good wife." By the bye, how he ever knew (r)that, I don't


'Knew what, my dear?'

'Why, that you were a good wife,' replied Bob.

'Everybody knows that!' said Peter.

'Very well observed, my boy!' cried Bob. 'I hope they do.

"Heartily sorry," he said, "for your good wife. If I can be of service

to you in any way," he said, giving me his card, "that's where I

live. Pray come to me." Now, it wasn't,' cried Bob, 'for the sake of

anything he might be able to do for us, so much as for his kind

way, that this was quite delightful. It really seemed as if he had

known our Tiny Tim, and felt with us.'

'I'm sure he's a good soul!' said Mrs. Cratchit.

'You would be surer of it, my dear,' returned Bob, 'if you saw and

spoke to him. I shouldn't be at all surprised- mark what I say!- if

he got Peter a better situation.'

'Only hear that, Peter,' said Mrs. Cratchit.

'And then,' cried one of the girls, 'Peter will be keeping company

with some one, and setting up for himself.'

'Get along with you!' retorted Peter, grinning.

'It's just as likely as not,' said Bob, 'one of these days; though

there's plenty of time for that, my dear. But however and

whenever we part from one another, I am sure we shall none of us

forget poor Tiny Tim- shall we- or this first parting that there was

among us?'

'Never, father!' cried they all.

'And I know,' said Bob, 'I know, my dears, that when we

recollect how patient and how mild he was; although he was a

little, little child; we shall not quarrel easily among ourselves, and

forget poor Tiny Tim in doing it.'

'No, never, father!' they all cried again.

'I am very happy,' said little Bob, 'I am very happy!'

Mrs. Cratchit kissed him, his daughters kissed him, the two

young Cratchits kissed him, and Peter and himself shook hands.

Spirit of Tiny Tim, thy childish essence was from God!

'Spectre,' said Scrooge, 'something informs me that our parting

moment is at hand. I know it, but I know not how. Tell me what

man that was whom we saw lying dead?'

The Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come conveyed him, as before-

though at a different time, he thought: indeed, there seemed no

order in these latter visions, save that they were in the Future- into

the resorts of business men, but showed him not himself. Indeed,

the Spirit did not stay for anything, but went straight on, as to the

end just now desired, until besought by Scrooge to tarry for a


'This court,' said Scrooge, 'through which we hurry now, is

where my place of occupation is, and has been for a length of

time. I see the house. Let me behold what I shall be, in days to


The Spirit stopped; the hand was pointed elsewhere.

'The house is yonder,' Scrooge exclaimed. 'Why do you point


The inexorable finger underwent no change.

Scrooge hastened to the window of his office, and looked in. It

was an office still, but not his. The furniture was not the same,

and the figure in the chair was not himself. The Phantom pointed

as before.

He joined it once again, and wondering why and whither he had

gone, accompanied it until they reached an iron gate. He paused to

look round before entering.

A churchyard. Here, then, the wretched man whose name he had

now to learn, lay underneath the ground. It was a worthy place.

Walled in by houses; overrun by grass and weeds, the growth of

vegetation's death, not life; choked up with too much burying; fat

with repleted appetite. A worthy place!

The Spirit stood among the graves, and pointed down to One. He

advanced towards it trembling. The Phantom was exactly as it had

been, but he dreaded that he saw new meaning in its solemn


'Before I draw nearer to that stone to which you point,' said

Scrooge, 'answer me one question. Are these the shadows of the

things that Will be, or are they shadows of things that May be,


Still the Ghost pointed downward to the grave by which it stood.

'Men's courses will foreshadow certain ends, to which, if

persevered in, they must lead,' said Scrooge. 'But if the courses be

departed from, the ends will change. Say it is thus with what you

show me!'

The Spirit was immovable as ever.

Scrooge crept towards it, trembling as he went; and following

the finger, read upon the stone of the neglected grave his own


'Am (r)I that man who lay upon the bed?' he cried, upon his


The finger pointed from the grave to him, and back again.

'No, Spirit! Oh, no, no!'

The finger still was there.

'Spirit!' he cried, tight clutching at its robe, 'hear me! I am not

the man I was. I will not be the man I must have been but for this

intercourse. Why show me this, if I am past all hope!'

For the first time the hand appeared to shake.

'Good Spirit,' he pursued, as down upon the ground he fell before

it: 'Your nature intercedes for me, and pities me. Assure me that I

yet may change these shadows you have shown me, by an altered


The kind hand trembled.

'I will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the

year. I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The

Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the

lessons that they teach. Oh, tell me I may sponge away the writing

on this stone!'

In his agony, he caught the spectral hand. It sought to free itself,

but he was strong in his entreaty, and detained it. The Spirit,

stronger yet, repulsed him.

Holding up his hands in a last prayer to have his fate reversed,

he saw an alteration in the Phantom's hood and dress. It shrunk,

collapsed, and dwindled down into a bedpost.

Stave V

The End of It

YES! AND THE BEDPOST WAS HIS own. The bed was his

own, the room was his own. Best and happiest of all, the Time

before him was his own, to make amends in!

'I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future!' Scrooge

repeated, as he scrambled out of bed. 'The Spirits of all Three

shall strive within me. Oh Jacob Marley! Heaven, and the

Christmas Time be praised for this! I say it on my knees, old

Jacob, on my knees!'

He was so fluttered and so glowing with his good intentions, that

his broken voice would scarcely answer to his call. He had been

sobbing violently in his conflict with the Spirit, and his face was

wet with tears.

'They are not torn down,' cried Scrooge, folding one of his bed-

curtains in his arms, 'they are not torn down, rings and all. They

are here- I am here- the shadows of the things that would have

been, may be dispelled. They will be. I know they will!'

His hands were busy with his garments all this time; turning

them inside out, putting them on upside down, tearing them,

mislaying them, making them parties to every kind of


'I don't know what to do!' cried Scrooge, laughing and crying in

the same breath; and making a perfect Laocoon of himself with

his stockings. 'I am as light as a feather, I am as happy as an

angel, I am as merry as a schoolboy. I am as giddy as a drunken

man. A merry Christmas to everybody! A happy New Year to all

the world! Hallo here! Whoop! Hallo!'

He had frisked into the sitting-room, and was now standing

there: perfectly winded.

'There's the saucepan that the gruel was in!' cried Scrooge,

starting off again, and going round the fireplace. 'There's the door,

by which the Ghost of Jacob Marley entered! There's the corner

where the Ghost of Christmas Present, sat! There's the window

where I saw the wandering Spirits! It's all right, it's all true, it all

happened. Ha, ha, ha!'

Really, for a man who had been out of practice for so many

years, it was a splendid laugh, a most illustrious laugh. The father

of a long, long line of brilliant laughs!

'I don't know what day of the month it is!' said Scrooge. 'I don't

know how long I've been among the Spirits. I don't know

anything. I'm quite a baby. Never mind. I don't care. I'd rather be

a baby. Hallo! Whoop! Hallo here!'

He was checked in his transports by the churches ringing out the

lustiest peals he had ever heard. Clash, clang, hammer; ding,

dong, bell. Bell, dong, ding; hammer, clang, clash! Oh, glorious,

glorious! Running to the window, he opened it, and put out his

head. No fog, no mist; clear, bright, jovial, stirring, cold; cold,

piping for the blood to dance to; Golden sunlight; Heavenly sky;

sweet fresh air; merry bells. Oh, glorious! Glorious!

'What's to-day?' cried Scrooge, calling downward to a boy in

Sunday clothes, who perhaps had loitered in to look about him.

'EH?' returned the boy, with all his might of wonder.

'What's to-day, my fine fellow?' said Scrooge.

'To-day!' replied the boy. 'Why, CHRISTMAS DAY.'

'It's Christmas Day!' said Scrooge to himself. 'I haven't missed it.

The Spirits have done it all in one night. They can do anything

they like. Of course they can. Of course they can. Hallo, my fine


'Hallo!' returned the boy.

'Do you know the Poulterer's, in the next street but one at the

corner?' Scrooge inquired.

'I should hope I did,' replied the lad.

'An intelligent boy!' said Scrooge. 'A remarkable boy! Do you

know whether they've sold the prize Turkey that was hanging up

there?- Not the little prize Turkey: the big one?'

'What, the one as big as me?' returned the boy.

'What a delightful boy!' said Scrooge. 'It's a pleasure to talk to

him. Yes, my buck!'

'It's hanging there now,' replied the boy.

'Is it?' said Scrooge. 'Go and buy it.'

'Walk-ER!' exclaimed the boy.

'No, no,' said Scrooge, 'I am in earnest. Go and buy it, and tell

em to bring it here, that I may give them the direction where to

take it. Come back with the man, and I'll give you a shilling.

Come back with him in less than five minutes and I'll give you


The boy was off like a shot. He must have had a steady hand at a

trigger who could have got a shot off half so fast.

'I'll send it to Bob Cratchit's!' whispered Scrooge, rubbing his

hands, and splitting with a laugh. 'He sha'n't know who sends it.

It's twice the size of Tiny Tim. Joe Miller never made such a joke

as sending it to Bob's will be!'

The hand in which he wrote the address was not a steady one,

but write it he did, somehow, and went down-stairs to open the

street door, ready for the coming of the poulterer's man. As he

stood there, waiting his arrival, the knocker caught his eye.

'I shall love it, as long as I live!' cried Scrooge, patting it with his

hand. 'I scarcely ever looked at it before. What an honest

expression it has in its face! It's a wonderful knocker!- Here's the

Turkey. Hallo! Whoop! How are you! Merry Christmas!'

It (r)was a Turkey! He never could have stood upon his legs,

that bird. He would have snapped 'em short off in a minute, like

sticks of sealing-wax.

'Why, it's impossible to carry that to Camden Town,' said

Scrooge. 'You must have a cab.'

The chuckle with which he said this, and the chuckle with which

he paid for the Turkey, and the chuckle with which he paid for the

cab, and the chuckle with which he recompensed the boy, were

only to be exceeded by the chuckle with which he sat down

breathless in his chair again, and chuckled till he cried.

Shaving was not an easy task, for his hand continued to shake

very much; and shaving requires attention, even when you don't

dance while you are at it. But if he had cut the end of his nose off,

he would have put a piece of sticking-plaister over it, and been

quite satisfied.

He dressed himself 'all in his best,' and at last got out into the

streets. The people were by this time pouring forth, as he had seen

them with the Ghost of Christmas Present; and walking with his

hands behind him, Scrooge regarded every one with a delighted

smile. He looked so irresistibly pleasant, in a word, that three or

four good-humoured fellows said, 'Good morning, sir! A merry

Christmas to you!' And Scrooge said often afterwards, that of all

the blithe sounds he had ever heard, those were the blithest in his


He had not gone far, when coming on towards him he beheld the

portly gentleman, who had walked into his counting-house the day

before, and said, 'Scrooge and Marley's, I believe?' It sent a pang

across his heart to think how this old gentleman would look upon

him when they met; but he knew what path lay straight before

him, and he took it.

'My dear sir,' said Scrooge, quickening his pace, and taking the

old gentleman by both his hands. 'How do you do? I hope you

succeeded yesterday. It was very kind of you. A merry Christmas

to you, sir!'

'Mr. Scrooge?'

'Yes,' said Scrooge. 'That is my name, and I fear it may not be

pleasant to you. Allow me to ask your pardon. And will you have

the goodness'- here Scrooge whispered in his ear.

'Lord bless me!' cried the gentleman, as if his breath were taken

away. 'My dear Mr. Scrooge, are you serious?'

'If you please,' said Scrooge. 'Not a farthing less. A great many

back-payments are included in it, I assure you. Will you do me

that favour?'

'My dear sir,' said the other, shaking hands with him. 'I don't

know what to say to such munifi-'

'Don't say anything, please,' retorted Scrooge. 'Come and see me.

Will you come and see me?'

'I will!' cried the old gentleman. And it was clear he meant to do


'Thank'ee,' said Scrooge. 'I am much obliged to you. I thank you

fifty times. Bless you!'

He went to church, and walked about the streets, and watched

the people hurrying to and fro, and patted children on the head,

and questioned beggars, and looked down into the kitchens of

houses, and up to the windows, and found that everything could

yield him pleasure. He had never dreamed that any walk- that

anything- could give him so much happiness. In the afternoon he

turned his steps towards his nephew's house.

He passed the door a dozen times, before he had the courage to

go up and knock. But he made a dash, and did it:

'Is your master at home, my dear?' said Scrooge to the girl. Nice

girl! Very.

'Yes, sir.'

'Where is he, my love?' said Scrooge.

'He's in the dining-room, sir, along with mistress. I'll show you

up-stairs, if you please.'

'Thank'ee. He knows me,' said Scrooge, with his hand already on

the dining-room lock. 'I'll go in here, my dear.'

He turned it gently, and sidled his face in, round the door. They

were looking at the table (which was spread out in great array);

for these young housekeepers are always nervous on such points,

and like to see that everything is right.

'Fred!' said Scrooge.

Dear heart alive, how his niece by marriage started! Scrooge had

forgotten, for the moment, about her sitting in the corner with the

footstool, or he wouldn't have done it, on any account.

'Why bless my soul!' cried Fred, 'who's that?'

'It's I. Your uncle Scrooge. I have come to dinner. Will you let

me in, Fred?'

Let him in! It is a mercy he didn't shake his arm off. He was at

home in five minutes. Nothing could be heartier. His niece looked

just the same. So did Topper when (r)he came. So did the plump

sister when (r)she came. So did every one when (r)they came.

Wonderful party, wonderful games, wonderful unanimity, won-

der-ful happiness!

But he was early at the office next morning. Oh, he was early

there. If he could only be there first, and catch Bob Cratchit

coming late! That was the thing he had set his heart upon.

And he did it; yes, he did! The clock struck nine. No Bob. A

quarter past. No Bob. He was full eighteen minutes and a half

behind his time. Scrooge sat with his door wide open, that he

might see him come into the Tank.

His hat was off, before he opened the door; his comforter too. He

was on his stool in a jiffy; driving away with his pen, as if he were

trying to overtake nine o'clock.

'Hallo!' growled Scrooge, in his accustomed voice, as near as he

could feign it. 'What do you mean by coming here at this time of


'I am very sorry, sir,' said Bob. 'I (r)am behind my time.'

'You are?' repeated Scrooge. 'Yes. I think you are. Step this way,

sir, if you please.'

'It's only once a year, sir,' pleaded Bob, appearing from the Tank.

'It shall not be repeated. I was making rather merry yesterday, sir.'

'Now, I'll tell you what, my friend,' said Scrooge, 'I am not going

to stand this sort of thing any longer. And therefore,' he

continued, leaping from his stool, and giving Bob such a dig in

the waistcoat that he staggered back into the Tank again; 'and

therefore I am about to raise your salary!'

Bob trembled, and got a little nearer to the ruler. He had a

momentary idea of knocking Scrooge down with it, holding him,

and calling to the people in the court for help and a strait-


'A merry Christmas, Bob!' said Scrooge, with an earnestness that

could not be mistaken, as he clapped him on the back. 'A merrier

Christmas, Bob, my good fellow, than I have given you for many a

year! I'll raise your salary, and endeavour to assist your struggling

family, and we will discuss your affairs this very afternoon, over a

Christmas bowl of smoking bishop, Bob! Make up the fires, and

buy another coal-scuttle before you dot another i, Bob Cratchit!'

Scrooge was better than his word. He did it all, and infinitely

more; and to Tiny Tim, who did NOT die, he was a second father.

He became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man,

as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or

borough, in the good old world. Some people laughed to see the

alteration in him, but he let them laugh, and little heeded them;

for he was wise enough to know that nothing ever happened on

this globe, for good, at which some people did not have their fill

of laughter in the outset; and knowing that such as these would be

blind anyway, he thought it quite as well that they should wrinkle

up their eyes in grins, as have the malady in less attractive forms.

His own heart laughed; and that was quite enough for him.

He had no further intercourse with Spirits, but lived upon the

Total Abstinence Principle, ever afterwards; and it was always

said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man

alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and

all of us! And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God bless Us, Every One!