There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn't believe there ever was such
a goose cooked. Its tenderness and flavour, size and cheapness, were the themes
of universal admiration. Eked out by apple-sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient
dinner for the whole family; indeed, as Mrs Cratchit said with great delight (surveying
one small atom of a bone upon the dish), they hadn't ate it all at last. Yet every
one had had enough, and the youngest Cratchits in particular, were steeped in sage
and onion to the eyebrows. But now, the plates being changed by Miss Belinda, Mrs
Cratchit left the room alone -- too nervous to bear witnesses -- to take the pudding
up and bring it in.
Suppose it should not be done enough. Suppose it should break in turning out.
Suppose somebody should have got over the wall of the back-yard, and stolen it,
while they were merry with the goose -- a supposition at which the two young Cratchits
became livid. All sorts of horrors were supposed.
Hallo. A great deal of steam. The pudding was out of the copper. A smell like
a washing-day. That was the cloth. A smell like an eating-house and a pastrycook's
next door to each other, with a laundress's next door to that. That was the pudding.
In half a minute Mrs Cratchit entered -- flushed, but smiling proudly -- with the
pudding, like a speckled cannon-ball, so hard and firm, blazing in half of half-a-quartern
of ignited brandy, and bedight with Christmas holly stuck into the top.
Oh, a wonderful pudding. Bob Cratchit said, and calmly too, that he regarded
it as the greatest success achieved by Mrs Cratchit since their marriage. Mrs Cratchit
said that now the weight was off her mind, she would confess she had had her doubts
about the quantity of flour. Everybody had something to say about it, but nobody
said or thought it was at all a small pudding for a large family. It would have
been flat heresy to do so. Any Cratchit would have blushed to hint at such a thing.
At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was cleared, the hearth swept, and
the fire made up. The compound in the jug being tasted, and considered perfect,
apples and oranges were put upon the table, and a shovel-full of 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 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
The children drank the toast after her. It was the first of their proceedings
which had no heartiness. Tiny Tim drank it last of all, but he didn't care twopence
for it. Scrooge was the Ogre of the family. The mention of his name cast a dark
shadow on the party, which was not dispelled for full five minutes.
After it had passed away, they were ten times merrier than before, from the mere
relief of Scrooge the Baleful being done with. Bob Cratchit told them how he had
a situation in his eye for Master Peter, which would bring in, if obtained, full
five-and-sixpence weekly. The two young Cratchits laughed tremendously at the idea
of Peter's being a man of business; and Peter himself looked thoughtfully at the
fire from between his collars, as if he were deliberating what particular investments
he should favour when he came into the receipt of that bewildering income. Martha,
who was a poor apprentice at a milliner's, then told them what kind of work she
had to do, and how many hours she worked at a stretch, and how she meant to lie
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 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.
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 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
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
But even here, two men who watched the light had made a fire, that through the
loophole in the thick stone wall shed out a ray of brightness on the awful sea.
Joining their horny hands over the rough table at which they sat, they wished each
other Merry Christmas in their can of grog; and one of them: the elder, too, with
his face all damaged and scarred with hard weather, as the figure-head of an old
ship might be: struck up a sturdy song that was like a Gale in itself.
Again the Ghost sped on, above the black and heaving sea -- on, on -- until,
being far away, as he told Scrooge, from any shore, they lighted on a ship. They
stood beside the helmsman at the wheel, the look-out in the bow, the officers who
had the watch; dark, ghostly figures in their several stations; but every man among
them hummed a Christmas tune, or had a Christmas thought, or spoke below his breath
to his companion of some bygone Christmas Day, with homeward hopes belonging to
it. And every man on board, waking or sleeping, good or bad, had had a kinder word
for another on that day than on any day in the year; and had shared to some extent
in its festivities; and had remembered those he cared for at a distance, and had
known that they delighted to remember him.
It was a great surprise to Scrooge, while listening to the moaning of the wind,
and thinking what a solemn thing it was to move on through the lonely darkness over
an unknown abyss, whose depths were secrets as profound as Death: it was a great
surprise to Scrooge, while thus engaged, to hear a hearty laugh. It was a much greater
surprise to Scrooge to recognise it as his own nephew's and to find himself in a
bright, dry, gleaming room, with the Spirit standing smiling by his side, and looking
at that same nephew with approving affability. `Ha, ha.' laughed Scrooge's nephew.
`Ha, ha, ha.'
If you should happen, by any unlikely chance, to know a man more blest in a laugh
than Scrooge's nephew, all I can say is, I should like to know him too. Introduce
him to me, and I'll cultivate his acquaintance.
It is a fair, even-handed, noble adjustment of things, that while there is infection
in disease and sorrow, there is nothing in the world so irresistibly contagious
as laughter and good-humour. When Scrooge's nephew laughed in this way: holding
his sides, rolling his head, and twisting his face into the most extravagant contortions:
Scrooge's niece, by marriage, laughed as heartily as he. And their assembled friends
being not a bit behindhand, roared out lustily. `Ha, ha. Ha, ha, ha, ha.' `He said
that Christmas was a humbug, as I live.' cried Scrooge's nephew. `He believed it
too.' `More shame for him, Fred.' said Scrooge's niece, indignantly. Bless those
women; they never do anything by halves. They are always in earnest.
She was very pretty: exceedingly pretty. With a dimpled, surprised-looking, capital
face; a ripe little mouth, that seemed made to be kissed -- as no doubt it was;
all kinds of good little dots about her chin, that melted into one another when
she laughed; and the sunniest pair of eyes you ever saw in any little creature's
head. Altogether she was what you would have called provoking, you know; but satisfactory,
`He's a comical old fellow,' said Scrooge's nephew,' that's the truth: and not so
pleasant as he might be. However, his offences carry their own punishment, and I
have nothing to say against him.' `I'm sure he is very rich, Fred,' hinted Scrooge's
niece. `At least you always tell me so.' `What of that, my dear.' said Scrooge's
nephew. `His wealth is of no use to him. He don't do any good with it. He don't
make himself comfortable with it. He hasn't the satisfaction of thinking -- ha,
ha, ha. -- that he is ever going to benefit us with it.' `I have no patience with
him,' observed Scrooge's niece. Scrooge's niece's sisters, and all the other ladies,
expressed the same opinion. `Oh, I have.' said Scrooge's nephew. `I am sorry for
him; I couldn't be angry with him if I tried. Who suffers by his ill whims. Himself,
always. Here, he takes it into his head to dislike us, and he won't come and dine
with us. What's the consequence. He don't lose much of a dinner.' `Indeed, I think
he loses a very good dinner,' interrupted Scrooge's niece. Everybody else said the
same, and they must be allowed to have been competent judges, because they had just
had dinner; and, with the dessert upon the table, were clustered round the fire,
by lamplight. `Well. I'm very glad to hear it,' said Scrooge's nephew, `because
I haven't great faith in these young housekeepers. What do you say, Topper.'