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 nervous.
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
quater 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 last,
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 chesnuts,
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,
man!''
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 me!''
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 waggons; furrows that
crossed and recrossed each other
hundreds of times where the great
streets branched off; and made
intricate channels, hard to trace
in the thick yellow mud 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 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 housetops 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
chesnuts, 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
baker' 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
Scrooge.
``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.''
``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 out 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 in 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 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 ye!''
``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 procession.
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 chesnuts 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 chesnuts 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 spared.''
``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 population.''
Scrooge hung his head to hear
his wn 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, 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 doubt!''
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 a-bed 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 chesnuts and the jug
went round and round; and bye
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 capacious 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
him.''
``I'm sure he is very rich,
Fred,'' hinted Scrooge's niece.
``At least you always tell 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 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
fellow!''
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
followed.
``I was only going to say,''
said Scrooge's nephew, ``that
the consequence 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, 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 joyously.
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 at Christmas,
when its mighty Founder was a
child himself. Stop! There was
first a game at blind-man'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 curtains.
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 vey 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 one!''
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 Scrooge!''''
``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.''
``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 moment.
``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 Ghost.
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 bide 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 workhouses?''
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 him. |