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
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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
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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 e 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.'
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`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
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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
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turning out. Suppose somebody should have got over the wall of the back-
yard, and stolen it, while they were merry with the goose -- a supposition
at which the two young Cratchits became livid. All sorts of horrors were
supposed.
Hallo. A great deal of steam. The pudding was out of the copper. A
smell like a washing-day. That was the cloth. A smell like an eating-house
and a pastrycook's next door to each other, with a laundress's next door to
that. That was the pudding. In half a minute Mrs Cratchit entered --
flushed, but smiling proudly -- with the pudding, like a speckled cannon-
ball, so hard and firm, blazing in half of half-a-quartern of ignited brandy,
and bedight with Christmas holly stuck into the top.
Oh, a wonderful pudding. Bob Cratchit said, and calmly too, that he
regarded it as the greatest success achieved by Mrs Cratchit since their
marriage. Mrs Cratchit said that now the weight was off her mind, she
would confess she had had her doubts about the quantity of flour.
Everybody had something to say about it, but nobody said or thought it
was at all a small pudding for a large family. It would have been flat
heresy to do so. Any Cratchit would have blushed to hint at such a thing.
At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was cleared, the hearth swept,
and the fire made up. The compound in the jug being tasted, and
considered perfect, apples and oranges were put upon the table, and a
shovel-full of chestnuts on the fire. Then all the Cratchit family drew
round the hearth, in what Bob Cratchit called a circle, meaning half a one;
and at Bob Cratchit's elbow stood the family display of glass. Two
tumblers, and a custard-cup without a handle.
These held the hot stuff from the jug, however, as well as golden
goblets would have done; and Bob served it out with beaming looks, while
the chestnuts on the fire sputtered and cracked noisily. Then Bob
proposed:
`A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us.'
Which all the family re-echoed.
`God bless us every one.' said Tiny Tim, the last of all.
He sat very close to his father's side upon his little stool. Bob held his
withered little hand in his, as if he loved the child, and wished to keep
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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 own words quoted by the Spirit, and
was overcome with penitence and grief. `Man,' said the Ghost, `if man you
be in heart, not adamant, forbear that wicked cant until you have
discovered What the surplus is, and Where it is. Will you decide what men
shall live, 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
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proceedings which had no heartiness. Tiny Tim drank it last of all, but he
didn't care twopence for it. Scrooge was the Ogre of the family. The
mention of his name cast a dark shadow on the party, which was not
dispelled for full five minutes.
After it had passed away, they were ten times merrier than before,
from the mere relief of Scrooge the Baleful being done with. Bob Cratchit
told them how he had a situation in his eye for Master Peter, which would
bring in, if obtained, full five-and-sixpence weekly. The two young
Cratchits laughed tremendously at the idea of Peter's being a man of
business; and Peter himself looked thoughtfully at the fire from between
his collars, as if he were deliberating what particular investments he
should favour when he came into the receipt of that bewildering income.
Martha, who was a poor apprentice at a milliner's, then told them what
kind of work she had to do, and how many hours she worked at a stretch,
and how she meant to lie abed to-morrow morning for a good long rest; to-
morrow being a holiday she passed at home. Also how she had seen a
countess and a lord some days before, and how the lord was much about
as tall as Peter;' at which Peter pulled up his collars so high that you
couldn't have seen his head if you had been there. All this time the
chestnuts and the jug went round and round; and by-and-bye they had a
song, about a lost child travelling in the snow, from Tiny Tim, who had a
plaintive little voice, and sang it very well indeed.
There was nothing of high mark in this. They were not a handsome
family; they were not well dressed; their shoes were far from being water-
proof; their clothes were scanty; and Peter might have known, and very
likely did, the inside of a pawnbroker's. But, they were happy, grateful,
pleased with one another, and contented with the time; and when they
faded, and looked happier yet in the bright sprinklings of the Spirit's torch
at parting, Scrooge had his eye upon them, and especially on Tiny Tim,
until the last.
By this time it was getting dark, and snowing pretty heavily; and as
Scrooge and the Spirit went along the streets, the brightness of the roaring
fires in kitchens, parlours, and all sorts of rooms, was wonderful. Here, the
flickering of the blaze showed preparations for a cosy dinner, with hot
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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.'
Alight 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
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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
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