The jocund travellers came on; and as they came, Scrooge knew and named them
every one. Why was he rejoiced beyond all bounds to see them. Why did his cold eye
glisten, and his heart leap up as they went past. Why was he filled with gladness
when he heard them give each other Merry Christmas, as they parted at cross-roads
and bye-ways, for their several homes. What was merry Christmas to Scrooge. Out
upon merry Christmas. What good had it ever done to him. `The school is not quite
deserted,' said the Ghost. `A solitary child, neglected by his friends, is left
Scrooge said he knew it. And he sobbed.
They left the high-road, by a well-remembered lane, and soon approached a mansion
of dull red brick, with a little weathercock-surmounted cupola, on the roof, and
a bell hanging in it. It was a large house, but one of broken fortunes; for the
spacious offices were little used, their walls were damp and mossy, their windows
broken, and their gates decayed. Fowls clucked and strutted in the stables; and
the coach-houses and sheds were over-run with grass. Nor was it more retentive of
its ancient state, within; for entering the dreary hall, and glancing through the
open doors of many rooms, they found them poorly furnished, cold, and vast. There
was an earthy savour in the air, a chilly bareness in the place, which associated
itself somehow with too much getting up by candle-light, and not too much to eat.
They went, the Ghost and Scrooge, across the hall, to a door at the back of the
house. It opened before them, and disclosed a long, bare, melancholy room, made
barer still by lines of plain deal forms and desks. At one of these a lonely boy
was reading near a feeble fire; and Scrooge sat down upon a form, and wept to see
his poor forgotten self as he used to be.
Not a latent echo in the house, not a squeak and scuffle from the mice behind
the panelling, not a drip from the half-thawed water-spout in the dull yard behind,
not a sigh among the leafless boughs of one despondent poplar, not the idle swinging
of an empty store-house door, no, not a clicking in the fire, but fell upon the
heart of Scrooge with a softening influence, and gave a freer passage to his tears.
The Spirit touched him on the arm, and pointed to his younger self, intent upon
his reading. Suddenly a man, in foreign garments: wonderfully real and distinct
to look at: stood outside the window, with an axe stuck in his belt, and leading
by the bridle an ass laden with wood. `Why, it's Ali Baba.' Scrooge exclaimed in
ecstasy. `It's dear old honest Ali Baba. Yes, yes, I know. One Christmas time, when
yonder solitary child was left here all alone, he did come, for the first time,
just like that. Poor boy. And Valentine,' said Scrooge,' and his wild brother, Orson;
there they go. And what's his name, who was put down in his drawers, asleep, at
the Gate of Damascus; don't you see him. And the Sultan's Groom turned upside down
by the Genii; there he is upon his head. Serve him right. I'm glad of it. What business
had he to be married to the Princess.'
To hear Scrooge expending all the earnestness of his nature on such subjects,
in a most extraordinary voice between laughing and crying; and to see his heightened
and excited face; would have been a surprise to his business friends in the city,
indeed. `There's the Parrot.' cried Scrooge. `Green body and yellow tail, with a
thing like a lettuce growing out of the top of his head; there he is. Poor Robin
Crusoe, he called him, when he came home again after sailing round the island. `Poor
Robin Crusoe, where have you been, Robin Crusoe.' The man thought he was dreaming,
but he wasn't. It was the Parrot, you know. There goes Friday, running for his life
to the little creek. Halloa. Hoop. Hallo.'
Then, with a rapidity of transition very foreign to his usual character, he said,
in pity for his former self, `Poor boy.' and cried again. `I wish,' Scrooge muttered,
putting his hand in his pocket, and looking about him, after drying his eyes with
his cuff: `but it's too late now.' `What is the matter.' asked the Spirit. `Nothing,'
said Scrooge. `Nothing. There was a boy singing a Christmas Carol at my door last
night. I should like to have given him something: that's all.'
The Ghost smiled thoughtfully, and waved its hand: saying as it did so, `Let
us see another Christmas.'
Scrooge's former self grew larger at the words, and the room became a little
darker and more dirty. The panels shrunk, the windows cracked; fragments of plaster
fell out of the ceiling, and the naked laths were shown instead; but how all this
was brought about, Scrooge knew no more than you do. He only knew that it was quite
correct; that everything had happened so; that there he was, alone again, when all
the other boys had gone home for the jolly holidays.
He was not reading now, but walking up and down despairingly. Scrooge looked
at the Ghost, and with a mournful shaking of his head, glanced anxiously towards
It opened; and a little girl, much younger than the boy, came darting in, and
putting her arms about his neck, and often kissing him, addressed him as her `Dear,
dear brother.' `I have come to bring you home, dear brother.' said the child, clapping
her tiny hands, and bending down to laugh. `To bring you home, home, home.' `Home,
little Fan.' returned the boy. `Yes.' said the child, brimful of glee. `Home, for
good and all. Home, for ever and ever. Father is so much kinder than he used to
be, that home's like Heaven. He spoke so gently to me one dear night when I was
going to bed, that I was not afraid to ask him once more if you might come home;
and he said Yes, you should; and sent me in a coach to bring you. And you're to
be a man.' said the child, opening her eyes,' and are never to come back here; but
first, we're to be together all the Christmas long, and have the merriest time in
all the world.' `You are quite a woman, little Fan.' exclaimed the boy.
She clapped her hands and laughed, and tried to touch his head; but being too
little, laughed again, and stood on tiptoe to embrace him. Then she began to drag
him, in her childish eagerness, towards the door; and he, nothing loth to go, accompanied
A terrible voice in the hall cried.' Bring down Master Scrooge's box, there.'
and in the hall appeared the schoolmaster himself, who glared on Master Scrooge
with a ferocious condescension, and threw him into a dreadful state of mind by shaking
hands with him. He then conveyed him and his sister into the veriest old well of
a shivering best-parlour that ever was seen, where the maps upon the wall, and the
celestial and terrestrial globes in the windows, were waxy with cold. Here he produced
a decanter of curiously light wine, and a block of curiously heavy cake, and administered
instalments of those dainties to the young people: at the same time, sending out
a meagre servant to offer a glass of something to the postboy, who answered that
he thanked the gentleman, but if it was the same tap as he had tasted before, he
had rather not. Master Scrooge's trunk being by this time tied on to the top of
the chaise, the children bade the schoolmaster good-bye right willingly; and getting
into it, drove gaily down the garden-sweep: the quick wheels dashing the hoar-frost
and snow from off the dark leaves of the evergreens like spray. `Always a delicate
creature, whom a breath might have withered,' said the Ghost. `But she had a large
heart.' `So she had,' cried Scrooge. `You're right. I will not gainsay it, Spirit.
God forbid.' `She died a woman,' said the Ghost,' and had, as I think, children.'
`One child,' Scrooge returned. `True,' said the Ghost. `Your nephew.'
Scrooge seemed uneasy in his mind; and answered briefly, `Yes.'
Although they had but that moment left the school behind them, they were now
in the busy thoroughfares of a city, where shadowy passengers passed and repassed;
where shadowy carts and coaches battle for the way, and all the strife and tumult
of a real city were. It was made plain enough, by the dressing of the shops, that
here too it was Christmas time again; but it was evening, and the streets were lighted
The Ghost stopped at a certain warehouse door, and asked Scrooge if he knew it.
`Know it.' said Scrooge. `Was I apprenticed here.'
They went in. At sight of an old gentleman in a Welsh wig, sitting behind such
a high desk, that if he had been two inches taller he must have knocked his head
against the ceiling, Scrooge cried in great excitement: `Why, it's old Fezziwig.
Bless his heart; it's Fezziwig alive again.'
Old Fezziwig laid down his pen, and looked up at the clock, which pointed to
the hour of seven. He rubbed his hands; adjusted his capacious waistcoat; laughed
all over himself, from his shows to his organ of benevolence; and called out in
a comfortable, oily, rich, fat, jovial voice: `Yo ho, there. Ebenezer. Dick.'
Scrooge's former self, now grown a young man, came briskly in, accompanied by
his fellow-prentice. `Dick Wilkins, to be sure.' said Scrooge to the Ghost. `Bless
me, yes. There he is. He was very much attached to me, was Dick. Poor Dick. Dear,
dear.' `Yo ho, my boys.' said Fezziwig. `No more work to-night. Christmas Eve, Dick.
Christmas, Ebenezer. Let's have the shutters up,' cried old Fezziwig, with a sharp
clap of his hands,' before a man can say Jack Robinson.'
You wouldn't believe how those two fellows went at it. They charged into the
street with the shutters -- one, two, three -- had them up in their places -- four,
five, six -- barred them and pinned then -- seven, eight, nine -- and came back
before you could have got to twelve, panting like race-horses. `Hilli-ho!' cried
old Fezziwig, skipping down from the high desk, with wonderful agility. `Clear away,
my lads, and let's have lots of room here. Hilli-ho, Dick. Chirrup, Ebenezer.'
Clear away. There was nothing they wouldn't have cleared away, or couldn't have
cleared away, with old Fezziwig looking on. It was done in a minute. Every movable
was packed off, as if it were dismissed from public life for evermore; the floor
was swept and watered, the lamps were trimmed, fuel was heaped upon the fire; and
the warehouse was as snug, and warm, and dry, and bright a ball-room, as you would
desire to see upon a winter's night.
In came a fiddler with a music-book, and went up to the lofty desk, and made
an orchestra of it, and tuned like fifty stomach-aches. In came Mrs Fezziwig, one
vast substantial smile. In came the three Miss Fezziwigs, beaming and lovable. In
came the six young followers whose hearts they broke. In came all the young men
and women employed in the business. In came the housemaid, with her cousin, the
baker. In came the cook, with her brother's particular friend, the milkman. In came
the boy from over the way, who was suspected of not having board enough from his
master; trying to hide himself behind the girl from next door but one, who was proved
to have had her ears pulled by her mistress. In they all came, one after another;
some shyly, some boldly, some gracefully, some awkwardly, some pushing, some pulling;
in they all came, anyhow and everyhow. Away they all went, twenty couple at once;
hands half round and back again the other way; down the middle and up again; round
and round in various stages of affectionate grouping; old top couple always turning
up in the wrong place; new top couple starting off again, as soon as they got there;
all top couples at last, and not a bottom one to help them. When this result was
brought about, old Fezziwig, clapping his hands to stop the dance, cried out,' Well
done.' and the fiddler plunged his hot face into a pot of porter, especially provided
for that purpose. But scorning rest, upon his reappearance, he instantly began again,
though there were no dancers yet, as if the other fiddler had been carried home,
exhausted, on a shutter, and he were a bran-new man resolved to beat him out of
sight, or perish.
There were more dances, and there were forfeits, and more dances, and there was
cake, and there was negus, and there was a great piece of Cold Roast, and there
was a great piece of Cold Boiled, and there were mince-pies, and plenty of beer.
But the great effect of the evening came after the Roast and Boiled, when the fiddler
(an artful dog, mind. The sort of man who knew his business better than you or I
could have told it him.) struck up Sir Roger de Coverley.' Then old Fezziwig stood
out to dance with Mrs Fezziwig. Top couple, too; with a good stiff piece of work
cut out for them; three or four and twenty pair of partners; people who were not
to be trifled with; people who would dance, and had no notion of walking.
But if they had been twice as many -- ah, four times -- old Fezziwig would have
been a match for them, and so would Mrs Fezziwig. As to her, she was worthy to be
his partner in every sense of the term. If that's not high praise, tell me higher,
and I'll use it. A positive light appeared to issue from Fezziwig's calves. They
shone in every part of the dance like moons. You couldn't have predicted, at any
given time, what would have become of them next. And when old Fezziwig and Mrs Fezziwig
had gone all through the dance; advance and retire, both hands to your partner,
bow and curtsey, corkscrew, thread-the-needle, and back again to your place; Fezziwig
cut -- cut so deftly, that he appeared to wink with his legs, and came upon his
feet again without a stagger.
When the clock struck eleven, this domestic ball broke up. Mr and Mrs Fezziwig
took their stations, one on either side of the door, and shaking hands with every
person individually as he or she went out, wished him or her a Merry Christmas.
When everybody had retired but the two prentices, they did the same to them; and
thus the cheerful voices died away, and the lads were left to their beds; which
were under a counter in the back-shop.
During the whole of this time, Scrooge had acted like a man out of his wits.
His heart and soul were in the scene, and with his former self. He corroborated
everything, remembered everything, enjoyed everything, and underwent the strangest
agitation. It was not until now, when the bright faces of his former self and Dick
were turned from them, that he remembered the Ghost, and became conscious that it
was looking full upon him, while the light upon its head burnt very clear. `A small
matter,' said the Ghost,' to make these silly folks so full of gratitude.' `Small.'