A CHRISTMAS CAROL (IN PROSE BEING, A Ghost Story of Christmas)<\/p>\n
by Charles Dickens<\/p>\n
(OCF editing – Part 8)<\/p>\n
As the words were spoken, they passed through the wall,<\/strong><\/p>\n and stood upon an open country road, with fields on either<\/strong><\/p>\n hand. The city had entirely vanished. Not a vestige of it<\/strong><\/p>\n was to be seen. The darkness and the mist had vanished<\/strong><\/p>\n with it, for it was a clear, cold, winter day, with snow upon<\/strong><\/p>\n the ground.<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n “Good Heaven!” said Scrooge, clasping his hands together,<\/strong><\/p>\n as he looked about him. “I was bred in this place. I was<\/strong><\/p>\n a boy here!”<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n The Spirit gazed upon him mildly. Its gentle touch,<\/strong><\/p>\n though it had been light and instantaneous, appeared still<\/strong><\/p>\n present to the old man’s sense of feeling. He was conscious<\/strong><\/p>\n of a thousand odours floating in the air, each one connected<\/strong><\/p>\n with a thousand thoughts, and hopes, and joys, and cares<\/strong><\/p>\n long, long, forgotten!<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n “Your lip is trembling,” said the Ghost. “And what is<\/strong><\/p>\n that upon your cheek?”<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n Scrooge muttered, with an unusual catching in his voice,<\/strong><\/p>\n that it was a pimple; and begged the Ghost to lead him<\/strong><\/p>\n where he would.<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n “You recollect the way?” inquired the Spirit.<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n “Remember it!” cried Scrooge with fervour; “I could<\/strong><\/p>\n walk it blindfold.”<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n “Strange to have forgotten it for so many years!” observed<\/strong><\/p>\n the Ghost. “Let us go on.”<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n They walked along the road, Scrooge recognising every<\/strong><\/p>\n gate, and post, and tree; until a little market-town appeared<\/strong><\/p>\n in the distance, with its bridge, its church, and winding river.<\/strong><\/p>\n Some shaggy ponies now were seen trotting towards them<\/strong><\/p>\n with boys upon their backs, who called to other boys in<\/strong><\/p>\n country gigs and carts, driven by farmers. All these boys<\/strong><\/p>\n were in great spirits, and shouted to each other, until the<\/strong><\/p>\n broad fields were so full of merry music, that the crisp air<\/strong><\/p>\n laughed to hear it!<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n “These are but shadows of the things that have been,” said<\/strong><\/p>\n the Ghost. “They have no consciousness of us.”<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n The jocund travellers came on; and as they came, Scrooge<\/strong><\/p>\n knew and named them every one. Why was he rejoiced beyond<\/strong><\/p>\n all bounds to see them! Why did his cold eye glisten, and<\/strong><\/p>\n his heart leap up as they went past! Why was he filled<\/strong><\/p>\n with gladness when he heard them give each other Merry<\/strong><\/p>\n Christmas, as they parted at cross-roads and bye-ways, for<\/strong><\/p>\n their several homes! What was merry Christmas to Scrooge?<\/strong><\/p>\n Out upon merry Christmas! What good had it ever done<\/strong><\/p>\n to him?<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n “The school is not quite deserted,” said the Ghost. “A<\/strong><\/p>\n solitary child, neglected by his friends, is left there still.”<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n Scrooge said he knew it. And he sobbed.<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n They left the high-road, by a well-remembered lane, and<\/strong><\/p>\n soon approached a mansion of dull red brick, with a little<\/strong><\/p>\n weathercock-surmounted cupola, on the roof, and a bell<\/strong><\/p>\n hanging in it. It was a large house, but one of broken<\/strong><\/p>\n fortunes; for the spacious offices were little used, their walls<\/strong><\/p>\n were damp and mossy, their windows broken, and their<\/strong><\/p>\n gates decayed. Fowls clucked and strutted in the stables;<\/strong><\/p>\n and the coach-houses and sheds were over-run with grass.<\/strong><\/p>\n Nor was it more retentive of its ancient state, within; for<\/strong><\/p>\n entering the dreary hall, and glancing through the open<\/strong><\/p>\n doors of many rooms, they found them poorly furnished,<\/strong><\/p>\n cold, and vast. There was an earthy savour in the air, a<\/strong><\/p>\n chilly bareness in the place, which associated itself somehow<\/strong><\/p>\n with too much getting up by candle-light, and not too<\/strong><\/p>\n much to eat.<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n They went, the Ghost and Scrooge, across the hall, to a<\/strong><\/p>\n door at the back of the house. It opened before them, and<\/strong><\/p>\n disclosed a long, bare, melancholy room, made barer still by<\/strong><\/p>\n lines of plain deal forms and desks. At one of these a lonely<\/strong><\/p>\n boy was reading near a feeble fire; and Scrooge sat down<\/strong><\/p>\n upon a form, and wept to see his poor forgotten self as he<\/strong><\/p>\n used to be.<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n Not a latent echo in the house, not a squeak and scuffle<\/strong><\/p>\n from the mice behind the panelling, not a drip from the<\/strong><\/p>\n half-thawed water-spout in the dull yard behind, not a sigh among<\/strong><\/p>\n the leafless boughs of one despondent poplar, not the idle<\/strong><\/p>\n swinging of an empty store-house door, no, not a clicking in<\/strong><\/p>\n the fire, but fell upon the heart of Scrooge with a softening<\/strong><\/p>\n influence, and gave a freer passage to his tears.<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n The Spirit touched him on the arm, and pointed to his<\/strong><\/p>\n younger self, intent upon his reading. Suddenly a man, in<\/strong><\/p>\n foreign garments: wonderfully real and distinct to look at:<\/strong><\/p>\n stood outside the window, with an axe stuck in his belt, and<\/strong><\/p>\n leading by the bridle an ass laden with wood.<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n “Why, it’s Ali Baba!” Scrooge exclaimed in ecstasy. “It’s<\/strong><\/p>\n dear old honest Ali Baba! Yes, yes, I know! One Christmas<\/strong><\/p>\n time, when yonder solitary child was left here all alone,<\/strong><\/p>\n he did come, for the first time, just like that. Poor boy! And<\/strong><\/p>\n Valentine,” said Scrooge, “and his wild brother, Orson; there<\/strong><\/p>\n they go! And what’s his name, who was put down in his<\/strong><\/p>\n drawers, asleep, at the Gate of Damascus; don’t you see him!<\/strong><\/p>\n And the Sultan’s Groom turned upside down by the Genii;<\/strong><\/p>\n there he is upon his head! Serve him right. I’m glad of it.<\/strong><\/p>\n What business had he to be married to the Princess!”<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n To hear Scrooge expending all the earnestness of his nature<\/strong><\/p>\n on such subjects, in a most extraordinary voice between<\/strong><\/p>\n laughing and crying; and to see his heightened and excited<\/strong><\/p>\n face; would have been a surprise to his business friends in<\/strong><\/p>\n the city, indeed.<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n “There’s the Parrot!” cried Scrooge. “Green body and<\/strong><\/p>\n yellow tail, with a thing like a lettuce growing out of the<\/strong><\/p>\n top of his head; there he is! Poor Robin Crusoe, he called<\/strong><\/p>\n him, when he came home again after sailing round the<\/strong><\/p>\n island. ‘Poor Robin Crusoe, where have you been, Robin<\/strong><\/p>\n Crusoe?’\u00a0 The man thought he was dreaming, but he wasn’t.<\/strong><\/p>\n It was the Parrot, you know. There goes Friday, running<\/strong><\/p>\n for his life to the little creek! Halloa! Hoop! Halloo!”<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n Then, with a rapidity of transition very foreign to his<\/strong><\/p>\n usual character, he said, in pity for his former self, “Poor<\/strong><\/p>\n