26DEC2021 – Quote of the Day – A Christmas Carol – Part 22

A CHRISTMAS CAROL (IN PROSE BEING, A Ghost Story of Christmas)

by Charles Dickens

(OCF editing – Part 22)


The Ghost conducted him through several streets familiar

to his feet; and as they went along, Scrooge looked here and

there to find himself, but nowhere was he to be seen. They

entered poor Bob Cratchit’s house; the dwelling he had

visited before; and found the mother and the children seated

round the fire.


Quiet. Very quiet. The noisy little Cratchits were as

still as statues in one corner, and sat looking up at Peter,

who had a book before him. The mother and her daughters

were engaged in sewing. But surely they were very quiet!


“‘And He took a child, and set him in the midst of



Where had Scrooge heard those words? He had not

dreamed them. The boy must have read them out, as he

and the Spirit crossed the threshold. Why did he not

go on?


The mother laid her work upon the table, and put her

hand up to her face.


“The colour hurts my eyes,” she said.


The colour? Ah, poor Tiny Tim!


“They’re better now again,” said Cratchit’s wife. “It

makes them weak by candle-light; and I wouldn’t show weak

eyes to your father when he comes home, for the world. It

must be near his time.”


“Past it rather,” Peter answered, shutting up his book.

“But I think he has walked a little slower than he used,

these few last evenings, mother.”


They were very quiet again. At last she said, and in a

steady, cheerful voice, that only faltered once:


“I have known him walk with–I have known him walk

with Tiny Tim upon his shoulder, very fast indeed.”


“And so have I,” cried Peter. “Often.”


“And so have I,” exclaimed another. So had all.


“But he was very light to carry,” she resumed, intent upon

her work, “and his father loved him so, that it was no

trouble: no trouble. And there is your father at the door!”


She hurried out to meet him; and little Bob in his comforter

–he had need of it, poor fellow–came in. His tea

was ready for him on the hob, and they all tried who should

help him to it most. Then the two young Cratchits got

upon his knees and laid, each child a little cheek, against

his face, as if they said, “Don’t mind it, father. Don’t be



Bob was very cheerful with them, and spoke pleasantly to

all the family. He looked at the work upon the table, and

praised the industry and speed of Mrs. Cratchit and the girls.

They would be done long before Sunday, he said.


“Sunday! You went to-day, then, Robert?” said his



“Yes, my dear,” returned Bob. “I wish you could have

gone. It would have done you good to see how green a

place it is. But you’ll see it often. I promised him that I

would walk there on a Sunday. My little, little child!”

cried Bob. “My little child!”


He broke down all at once. He couldn’t help it. If he

could have helped it, he and his child would have been farther

apart perhaps than they were.


He left the room, and went up-stairs into the room above,

which was lighted cheerfully, and hung with Christmas.

There was a chair set close beside the child, and there were

signs of some one having been there, lately. Poor Bob sat

down in it, and when he had thought a little and composed

himself, he kissed the little face. He was reconciled to what

had happened, and went down again quite happy.


They drew about the fire, and talked; the girls and mother

working still. Bob told them of the extraordinary kindness

of Mr. Scrooge’s nephew, whom he had scarcely seen but

once, and who, meeting him in the street that day, and seeing

that he looked a little–“just a little down you know,” said

Bob, inquired what had happened to distress him. “On

which,” said Bob, “for he is the pleasantest-spoken gentleman

you ever heard, I told him. ‘I am heartily sorry for it, Mr.

Cratchit,’ he said, ‘and heartily sorry for your good wife.’

By the bye, how he ever knew that, I don’t know.”


“Knew what, my dear?”


“Why, that you were a good wife,” replied Bob.


“Everybody knows that!” said Peter.


“Very well observed, my boy!” cried Bob. “I hope they

  1. ‘Heartily sorry,’ he said, ‘for your good wife. If I

can be of service to you in any way,’ he said, giving me

his card, ‘that’s where I live. Pray come to me.’ Now, it

wasn’t,” cried Bob, “for the sake of anything he might be

able to do for us, so much as for his kind way, that this was

quite delightful. It really seemed as if he had known our

Tiny Tim, and felt with us.”


“I’m sure he’s a good soul!” said Mrs. Cratchit.


“You would be surer of it, my dear,” returned Bob, “if

you saw and spoke to him. I shouldn’t be at all surprised–

mark what I say!–if he got Peter a better situation.”


“Only hear that, Peter,” said Mrs. Cratchit.


“And then,” cried one of the girls, “Peter will be keeping

company with some one, and setting up for himself.”


“Get along with you!” retorted Peter, grinning.


“It’s just as likely as not,” said Bob, “one of these days;

though there’s plenty of time for that, my dear. But however

and whenever we part from one another, I am sure we

shall none of us forget poor Tiny Tim–shall we–or this

first parting that there was among us?”


“Never, father!” cried they all.


“And I know,” said Bob, “I know, my dears, that when

we recollect how patient and how mild he was; although he

was a little, little child; we shall not quarrel easily among

ourselves, and forget poor Tiny Tim in doing it.”


“No, never, father!” they all cried again.


“I am very happy,” said little Bob, “I am very happy!”


Mrs. Cratchit kissed him, his daughters kissed him, the

two young Cratchits kissed him, and Peter and himself shook

hands. Spirit of Tiny Tim, thy childish essence was from



“Spectre,” said Scrooge, “something informs me that our

parting moment is at hand. I know it, but I know not

how. Tell me what man that was whom we saw lying dead?”


The Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come conveyed him, as

before–though at a different time, he thought: indeed, there

seemed no order in these latter visions, save that they were

in the Future–into the resorts of business men, but showed

him not himself. Indeed, the Spirit did not stay for anything,

but went straight on, as to the end just now desired,

until besought by Scrooge to tarry for a moment.


“This court,” said Scrooge, “through which we hurry now,

is where my place of occupation is, and has been for a length

of time. I see the house. Let me behold what I shall be,

in days to come!”


The Spirit stopped; the hand was pointed elsewhere.


“The house is yonder,” Scrooge exclaimed. “Why do you

point away?”


The inexorable finger underwent no change.


Scrooge hastened to the window of his office, and looked

  1. It was an office still, but not his. The furniture was

not the same, and the figure in the chair was not himself.

The Phantom pointed as before.


He joined it once again, and wondering why and whither

he had gone, accompanied it until they reached an iron gate.

He paused to look round before entering.


A churchyard. Here, then; the wretched man whose name

he had now to learn, lay underneath the ground. It was a

worthy place. Walled in by houses; overrun by grass and

weeds, the growth of vegetation’s death, not life; choked up

with too much burying; fat with repleted appetite. A

worthy place!


The Spirit stood among the graves, and pointed down to

One. He advanced towards it trembling. The Phantom was

exactly as it had been, but he dreaded that he saw new

meaning in its solemn shape.


“Before I draw nearer to that stone to which you point,”

said Scrooge, “answer me one question. Are these the

shadows of the things that Will be, or are they shadows of

things that May be, only?”


Still the Ghost pointed downward to the grave by which

it stood.


“Men’s courses will foreshadow certain ends, to which, if

persevered in, they must lead,” said Scrooge. “But if the

courses be departed from, the ends will change. Say it is

thus with what you show me!”


The Spirit was immovable as ever.


Scrooge crept towards it, trembling as he went; and

following the finger, read upon the stone of the neglected

grave his own name, EBENEZER SCROOGE.


“Am I that man who lay upon the bed?” he cried, upon

his knees.


The finger pointed from the grave to him, and back again.


“No, Spirit! Oh no, no!”


The finger still was there.


“Spirit!” he cried, tight clutching at its robe, “hear me!

I am not the man I was. I will not be the man I must

have been but for this intercourse. Why show me this, if I

am past all hope!”


For the first time the hand appeared to shake.


“Good Spirit,” he pursued, as down upon the ground he

fell before it: “Your nature intercedes for me, and pities

  1. Assure me that I yet may change these shadows you

have shown me, by an altered life!”


The kind hand trembled.


“I will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it

all the year. I will live in the Past, the Present, and the

Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. I

will not shut out the lessons that they teach. Oh, tell me I

may sponge away the writing on this stone!”


In his agony, he caught the spectral hand. It sought to

free itself, but he was strong in his entreaty, and detained it.

The Spirit, stronger yet, repulsed him.


Holding up his hands in a last prayer to have his fate

reversed, he saw an alteration in the Phantom’s hood and dress.

It shrunk, collapsed, and dwindled down into a bedpost.


Charles Dickens