A Christmas Carol - Stave 1 - Marley's Ghost

Experience the timeless classic A Christmas Carol like never before with a heartfelt Southern twist! In this reading of Chapter 1, 'Marley,' we set the stage for Charles Dickens' unforgettable tale of redemption, featuring Scrooge's chilling encounter with the ghost of his old business partner. Let the rich Southern cadence bring new warmth and charm to this holiday favorite.

Gather around and immerse yourself in the magic of the season—perfect for listeners of all ages.

Transcript

Relax and be cozy as I read the first chapter of A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens. Let's begin. Marley's Ghost. Marley was dead to begin with. There's 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 doornail. Mind, I don't mean to say that I know of my own knowledge what there is particularly dead about a doornail. 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 smile, 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 doornail. 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 legity, 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 solemnized 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'm going to relate. If we were not perfectly convinced that Hamlet's father died before the play began, There would be nothing more remarkable than his taking a stroll at night in an easterly wind upon his own ramparts. And there would be an any other middle-aged gentleman rashly turning out after dark in a breezy spot, Say St. 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 him. 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 still 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, Shriveled his cheeks, Stiffened his gait, Made his eyes red, His thin lips blue, And spoke out shrewdly in his grating voice. A frosty rhyme 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 did. 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 a such a place of Scrooge. Even the blind men's dogs appeared to know him and when they saw him coming 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 days in the year, On Christmas Eve, Old Scrooge sat busy in his counting house. It was cold, Bleak, Biting weather, Foggy with all, 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 neighboring 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 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 again. Christmas a humbug, Uncle! Said Scrooge's nephew. You don't mean that? I'm 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 enough. 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 and not knowing an hour richer? A time for balancing your books and having every item in them through a round dozen of months presented dead against you? If I could work my will, Said Scrooge indignantly. Every idiot who goes out 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 Christmastime, When it has come around, Apart from the veneration due to its sacred name and origin. If anything belonging to it can be a part of 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 it has done me good and 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 forever. Let me hear another sound from 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. Tomorrow. 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 resolute. We have never had any quarrel to which I have been a party, But I have made the trial and homage to Christmas, And I'll keep my Christmas humor 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, Not withstanding. 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, Pleased 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 presented by a 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 comfort, Sir. Are there no prisons, Asked Scrooge. Plenty of prisons, Said the gentleman, Laying down the pen again. 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 vigor then, Said Scrooge. Both very busy, Sir. Oh, I was afraid, For what you said at first, That something had occurred to stop them in their useful course, Said Scrooge. I am 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 endeavoring to raise a fund to buy the poor some meat and drink, And means of warmth. We choose this time, Because it is the 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 that. 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, Gentlemen. Seeing clearly that it would be useless to pursue their point, The gentleman withdrew. Scrooge resumed his labors with an improved opinion of himself, And in a more facetous temper than was usual with him. Meanwhile, The fog and darkness thickened so, That people ran about with flaring links, Pro-offering their services to go before horses and carriages, And conduct them on their way. The ancient tower of a church, Whose gruff old bell was always peeping slyly 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 own frozen head up there. The cold became intense. In the main street, At the corner of the court, Some laborers 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 and rapture. The water-plug being left in solitude, Its overflowing suddenly 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. Culturers 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 sell had anything to do. The Lord Mayor, And 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 tomorrow's pudding in his garret, While his lean wife and the baby sallied out to buy beef. Foggier yet, And colder, Piercing, Surging, Biting cold, If the good St. Dunstan had but nipped the evil spirit's nose with the 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's 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 gentlemen, May nothing you dismay, Scrooge seized the ruler of 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 tomorrow, 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 bound, The clerk smiled faintly, And yet, Said Scrooge, You don't think 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 25th of December, Said Scrooge, Buttoning his greatcoat 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 greatcoat, He went down a slide on a cornhill, At the end of a lane of boys, Twenty times, In honor of its being Christmas Eve, And then ran home to Camden Town as hard as he could pelt, The play of blind man's buff. Scrooge took his melancholy dinner in his usual melancholy tavern, And having read all the newspapers, He 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 suit of rooms, And 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 have 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 threshold. Now it is a fact that there was nothing at all particular about the knocker at 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 a 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 an 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 color, 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 again. 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 candle. He did pause, With a moment's irresolution, Before he shut the door. And he did look cautiously behind it first, As if he half expected to be terrified with the sight of Marley's pigtails 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, Poo-poo, 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 that you might have got a hearse up that staircase, And taken it broad-wise, 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 went Scrooge, 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, Bedroom, 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 a little saucepan 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-guards, 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 merchants long ago, And paved all around with quaint Dutch tiles, Designed to illustrate the scriptures. There were Cain's and Abel's, Pharaoh's daughters, Queens of Sheba, Angelic messengers descending through the air on cloud-like feather-beds, Abraham's, Belshazzar's, 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 blanket 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 the chamber in the highest storey of the building. It was with great astonishment, And with a strange, Inexplicable dread, That, As he looked, He saw his 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 house. This might have lasted half a minute, Or a minute, But it seemed like 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 color 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 and his pigtail, Usual waistcoat, Tights, And boots, The tassels on the ladder bristling, Like his pigtail, And his coat skirts, And the hair upon his head. The chain he drew was collapsed about his middle. It was long and wound about him like a tail, And it was made, For, Scrooge observed it closely, Of cashboxes, 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 dead 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 was. Who were you, Then, Said Scrooge, Raising his voice. You're particular for a shade. He was going to say to a shade, But substituted this as more appropriate. In life I was your partner, Jacob Marley. 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 chair 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 own senses? 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 fill 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 specter's voice disturbed the very marrow in his bones. To sit staring at those fixed, Gazed eyes in silence for a moment would play, Scrooge felt, The very deuce with him. There was something very awful, Too, In the specter's being provided with an infernal atmosphere of his 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 vapor 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're 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 his chains 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 his head, As if it were too warm to wear indoors, Its lower jaw dropped down upon its breast. Scrooge fell upon his knees, And clasped his hands before his face. 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 see 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 chains, 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 my own free will, And of my own free will I wore it. Is it patterned strange to you? 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 labored on it since. It is a ponderous chain. Scrooge glanced about him on the floor, And the expectation of finding himself surrounded by some fifty or sixty fathoms of iron cable, But he could see nothing. Jacob, He said imploringly. Oh, 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 me. 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 businesslike manner, Though with humility and deference. Slow, The ghost repeated. Seven years ago, Mused Scrooge, And traveling 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 chains 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 what ages of incessant labor, 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 opportunities misused. Yet, Such was I. Oh, Such was I. But you are 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 incomprehensive ocean of my business. It held up its chain at arm's length, As if it were the cause of all its unveiling grief, And flung it heavily upon the ground again. 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 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 you can see, I may not tell. I have sat invisible beside you many and many a day. It was not an agreeable idea. Scrooge shivered and wiped his perspiration from his brow. That is no light part of my penance, Pursued the ghost. I am here tonight to warn you that you have yet a chance of hope of escaping my fate, A chance of hope of my procuring, Ebenezer. You are always a good friend to me, Said Scrooge. Thank ye. You will be haunted, Resumed the ghost, By three spirits. Scrooge's countenance fell almost as low as the ghost's had done. 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 tomorrow when the bell tolls one. Couldn't I take them all at once and have it over, Jacob? Hinted Scrooge. 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 his 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 again 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 doorstep. The misery with them all was clearly that they sought to interfere for good in human matters and had lost the power forever. 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 home. 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 emotions 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 instant.