Dickens' A Christmas Carol, Stave 3: Second Of The 3 Spirits

Charles Dickens's Christmas classic about wealth, poverty, and generosity of spirit probably needs no introduction, so just relax and enjoy part 3 of this new version, abridged especially for Insight Timer by our very own Mandy Sutter.

In Stave Three, Scrooge is visited by The Ghost of Christmas Present, who takes him far and wide to bless people with the spirit of Christmas. Together they visit all kinds of places, from a barren lighthouse on a rock where two gnarled men wish each other Merry Christmas, to the home of Scrooge's good-natured nephew, where friends are gathered to celebrate. There is much for Scrooge to reflect on.

Music by William King

Transcript

Hello there,

It's Mandi here.

Thanks for joining me tonight and welcome back to Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol.

Tonight I'm going to be reading Stave III,

The second of the three spirits.

But before I begin,

A historical note which might help to explain something that you'll hear later on.

Domestic ovens were quite a rarity at Charles Dickens' time.

Most cooking was done over an open fire and in the homes of the poor,

The hearth was too small to allow the roasting of meat on a spit.

So this is why in A Christmas Carol,

Dickens describes the poor taking their goose or their turkey to the local bakers where they'd be put in the ovens once the day's bread had been baked.

This might be offered free to the poor at Christmas or they might be charged sixpence for it.

It was also offered on Sundays as well so that the poor could have a decent meal once a week.

So please go right ahead and make yourself really comfortable.

Relax your shoulders,

Relax your hands,

Relax your jaw,

And you might like to gently close your eyes.

That's great.

So I'll begin.

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 him.

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 dispatched 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 lookout all round the bed.

For he wished to challenge the spirit on the moment of its appearance and didn't wish to be taken by surprise and made nervous.

He was ready for a good broad field of strange appearances and nothing between a baby and a 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 and nothing came.

All this time he lay on his bed the very core and centre of a blaze of ruddy light which streamed upon him 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.

He was 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.

He began to think that the source and secret of this ghostly light might be in the adjoining room.

He got up softly and shuffled in his slippers to the door.

The moment his 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 transformation.

The walls and ceiling were so hung with living green 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 on the floor 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 and held it up to shed its light on Scrooge as he came peeping around the door.

Come in exclaimed the ghost,

Come in and know me better man.

Scrooge entered timidly and hung his head before this spirit.

Although the spirit's eyes were clear and kind he didn't like to meet them.

I am the ghost of Christmas present said the spirit,

Look upon me.

Scrooge reverently did so.

The spirit was clothed in one simple green robe or mantle bordered with white fur.

The 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 demeanor and its joyful air.

Girded around 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 said Scrooge.

I've never walked forth with the younger members of my family pursued the phantom.

I'm afraid I have not said Scrooge.

Have you many brothers spirit?

More than 1800 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 learned a lesson.

Tonight if you have ought to teach me let me profit by it.

Touch my robe.

Scrooge did as he was told.

He 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 look black enough and the windows blacker contrasting with the smooth white sheet of snow upon the roofs and with the dirty snow upon the ground which last deposit had been ploughed up in deep furrows by the heavy wheels of carts and wagons.

The sky was gloomy and the shortest streets were choked up with a dingy mist,

Half thawed,

Half frozen.

There was nothing very cheerful in the climate or the town and yet there was an air of cheerfulness abroad.

For the people who were shuffling 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 an ancient 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 fruterers were radiant in their glory.

There were great round pot-bellied baskets of chestnuts.

There were ruddy,

Brown-faced,

Broad-girthed Spanish onions.

There were pears and apples,

Plustered high in blooming pyramids.

There were bunches of grapes,

Made in the shopkeeper's benevolence to dangle from conspicuous hooks that people's mouths might water 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,

And urgently entreating and beseeching to be carried home in paper bags and eaten after dinner.

The grocers,

Oh the grocers,

Nearly closed with perhaps two shutters down or one,

But through those gaps such glimpses.

It was not just 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.

But the customers were all so hurried and so eager in the hopeful promise of the day.

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.

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 by-streets,

Lanes,

And nameless turnings,

Innumerable people carrying their dinners to the baker's shops.

Once or twice there were angry words between some dinner carriers who had jostled each other,

But their good humour was restored directly.

But they said it was a shame to quarrel upon Christmas Day,

And so it was,

God love it,

So it was.

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 clerks,

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 a sprinkling from his torch.

And up rose Mrs Cratchit,

Dressed out but poorly in a twice-turned gown,

But brave in ribbons,

Which were 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 bakers they had smelt the goose,

And known it for their own.

Peter 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,

And your brother Tiny Tim?

And Martha warns us late last Christmas day,

By half an hour.

Here's Martha,

Mother,

Said a girl,

Appearing as she spoke.

Why,

Bless your heart alive,

My dear,

How late you are,

Said Mrs Cratchit,

Kissing Martha a dozen times,

And taking off her shawl and bonnet for her,

With a vicious seal.

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 here,

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 Bob,

The father,

With his threadbare clothes,

Darned up and brushed,

To look seasonal,

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 around.

Not coming,

Said Mrs Cratchit.

Not coming,

Said Bob,

With a sudden declension in his high spirits,

For he had been Tim's horse all the way from church,

And had come home rampant.

Not coming upon Christmas Day.

Martha didn't like to see him disappointed,

Even if it were only in jest,

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 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 it might be pleasant to them to remember upon Christmas Day,

The man who made lame beggars walk,

And blind men see.

Bob's voice was tremulous when he told them this.

Tiny Tim's active little crutch was heard upon the floor,

And back he came 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,

And in truth it was something very like it in that house.

Mrs Cratchit made the gravy hissing hot,

Master Peter mashed the potatoes with incredible vigor,

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 served.

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!

Bob said he didn't believe there ever was such a goose cooked.

Its tenderness and flavor were the themes of universal admiration.

Eeked 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 everyone had had enough,

And the youngest Cratchits in particular was 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 backyard and stolen it,

While they were merry with the goose.

Hello!

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 the pastry cooks next door to each other,

With the lawn dresses 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 cannonball,

So hard and firm,

Blazing in half of half a quarter of ignited brandy and bedight,

With Christmas holly stuck into the top.

Oh,

What 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'd had her doubts about the quantity of flour.

Everybody had something to say about it,

But nobody said it was at all a small pudding for a large family.

It would have been heresy to do so.

At last the dinner was all done.

The cloth was cleared,

The hearth swept,

The fire made up,

The compound in the jug being tasted and considered perfect.

Apples and oranges were put on the table and a shovel full of chestnuts on the fire.

Then all the Cratchit family drew round the hearth,

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.

Then Bob proposed a Merry Christmas to us all,

My dears.

God bless us,

Which all the family re-echoed.

God bless us everyone,

Said tiny Tim.

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 will find him here,

Said the ghost.

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 own words quoted by the spirit,

And was overcome with penitence.

Man,

Said the ghost,

If man you be in heart,

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?

Scrooge bent before the ghost's rebuke,

Trembling he cast his eyes upon the ground,

But he raised them again on hearing his own name.

Mr Scrooge,

Says 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'm 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,

But not for his.

Long life to him,

A merry Christmas and a happy new year.

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 tuppence for it.

Scrooge was the ogre.

The mention of his name cast a dark shadow on the party.

After it had passed away,

They were ten times merrier than before,

From the mere relief of Scrooge being done with.

Bob Cratchit told them how he had a situation in line for Master Peter,

Which would bring in,

If obtained,

Five and sixpence weekly.

The two young Cratchits laughed tremendously at the idea of Peter 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.

He pulled up his collars so high you couldn't see his head.

All this time the chestnuts and the jug went round and round,

And by and by 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 all this.

They were not a handsome family,

They were not well dressed,

Their shoes were far from being waterproof,

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.

Scrooge had his eye upon them,

And especially on Tiny Tim,

Until the last.

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 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.

If you had judged from the numbers of people on their way to friendly gatherings,

You might have thought no one was at home to give them welcome when they got there,

Instead of every house expecting company,

And piling up its fires halfway up the chimney.

But now,

Without a word of warning from the ghost,

They stood suddenly 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 firs 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.

Swiftly they advanced towards it.

Passing through the wall of mud and stone,

They found a cheerful company assembled around 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 on 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.

The spirit didn't tarry here,

But bad Scrooge hauled his robe,

And passing on above them all,

Sped wither.

Not to see,

To see.

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 ear through,

There stood a solitary lighthouse.

Great heaps of seaweed clung to its base,

And storm birds 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 figurehead 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 lookout 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 secret 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 recognise it as his own nephews,

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 a proving affability.

Ha ha!

Laughed Scrooge's nephew.

If you should happen,

By any unlikely chance,

To know a man more blessed 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,

And 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 behind hand,

Roared out lustily too.

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.

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.

What of that,

My dear,

Said Scrooge's nephew.

His wealth is of no use to him.

He doesn't do any good with it.

He don't even make himself comfortable with it.

He hasn't the satisfaction of thinking that he's 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,

But I have,

Said Scrooge's nephew.

I'm 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.

He loses a very good dinner,

Said Scrooge's niece.

Everybody else said the same,

And they must be allowed to have been competent judges,

Because they'd just had dinner,

And with the dessert upon the table,

Were clustered around the fire by lamplight.

Do go on,

Fred,

Said Scrooge's niece,

Clapping her hands.

Scrooge's nephew revelled in another laugh,

And as it was impossible to keep the infection off,

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 that he loses some pleasant moments.

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,

Whether he likes it or not,

But 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?

After tea,

They had some music,

For they were a musical family,

And knew what they were about.

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 in the boarding school,

As he had been reminded by the ghost of Christmas past.

When this strain of music sounded,

All the things the ghost had shown him came upon his mind.

He softened,

And thought 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.

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 Christmas's mighty founder was a child himself.

Scrooge's niece 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,

Although they were sharp girls too.

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,

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,

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,

Didn't live in a menagerie,

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 Scrooge,

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,

In as much 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 he may 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,

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 man,

And they were patient in their greater hope,

By poverty,

And it was rich,

In almshouse,

Hospital,

And jail,

In miseries every refuge,

Where vain man in his little grief authority,

Had not made fast the door,

And barbed 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 didn't speak 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 tonight.

Tonight,

Cried Scrooge,

Tonight at midnight,

Hark!

The time is drawing near.

The chimes were ringing the three quarters past eleven.

From the foldings of its robe,

The spirit now brought two children,

Wretched,

Abject,

Hideous,

Miserable.

They knelt down at its feet and clung upon the outside of its garment.

Look,

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.

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 humankind,

Said the spirit,

Looking down upon them.

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 and make it worst,

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.

To be continued.

Reviews

The details in the book, expertly read by Mandy, are soo much more than I recall from the movie version. After sleeping through much of this “chapter” I’ve been enjoying it during daytime hours and am looking forward to the next one. 🙏 ❤️

Such a positive stave, really (though I think there is a lot of misery out there at this time too, amongst those in need) just showing camaraderie to Scrooge is the point… then those two little children at the end… so powerful.
I fell asleep countless times though and found my place if I woke again— thank you so much Mandy!!❤️🙏🏼

I’ll definitely be listening again… I fell asleep before he met the ghost!! Something to look forward to. Thanks Mandy.