tave xe

MARLEY’SGHOST

MARLEYwasdead，tobeginwith.Thereisnodoubtwhateveraboutthat.Theregisterofhisburialwassignedbytheclergyman，theclerk，theundertaker，andthechiefmourner.Scroogesignedit.AndScrooge’snamewasgoodupon’Change，foranythinghechosetoputhishandto.

OldMarleywasasdeadasadoor-nail.

Mind！

Idon’tmeantosaythatIknow，ofmyownknowledge，whatthereisparticularlydeadaboutadoor-nail.Imighthavebeeninclined，myself，toregardacoffin-nailasthedeadestpieceofironmongeryinthetrade.Butthewisdomofourancestorsisinthesimile；andmyunhallowedhandsshallnotdisturbit，orthecountry’sdonefor.Youwillthereforepermitmetorepeatemphatically，thatMarleywasasdeadasadoornail.

Scroogeknewhewasdead？Ofcoursehedid.Howcoulditbeotherwise？ScroogeandhewerepartnersforIdon’tknowhowmanyyears.Scroogewashissoleexecutor，hissoleadministrator，hissoleassign，hissoleresiduarylegatee，hissolefriend，andsolemourner.AndevenScroogewasnotsodreadfullycutupbythesadevent，butthathewasanexcellentmanofbusinessontheverydayofthefuneral，andsolemniseditwithanundoubtedbargain.

ThementionofMarley’sfuneralbringsmebacktothepointIstartedfroThereisnodoubtthatMarleywasdead.

Thismustbedistinctlyunderstood，ornothingwonderfulcancomeofthestoryIamgoingtorelate.IfwewerenotperfectlyconvincedthatHamlet’sfatherdiedbeforetheplaybegan，therewouldbenothingmoreremarkableinhistakingastrollatnight，inaneasterlywind，uponhisownramparts，thantherewouldbeinanyothermiddle-agedgentlemanrashlyturningoutafterdarkinabreezyspot—saySt.PaulsChurchyardforinstance—literallytoastonishhisson’sweakmind.

ScroogeneverpaintedoutOldMarley’sname.Thereitstood，yearsafterwards，abovethewarehousedoor：ScroogeandMarley.ThefirmwasknownasScroogeandMarley.SometimespeoplenewtothebusinesscalledScroogeScrooge，andsometimesMarley，butheansweredtobothnames.Itwasallthesametohi

Oh！

Buthewasatight-fistedhandatthegrindstone.Scrooge！

asqueezing，wrenching，grasping，scraping，clutching，covetous，oldsinner！

Hardandsharpasflint，fromwhichnosteelhadeverstruckoutgenerousfire；secret，andselfcontained，andsolitaryasanoyster.Thecoldwithinhimfrozehisoldfeatures，nippedhispointednose，shrivelledhischeek，stiffenedhisgait；madehiseyesred，histhinlipsblue；andspokeoutshrewdlyinhisgratingvoice.Afrostyrimewason，hishead，andonhiseyebrows，andhiswirychin.Hecarriedhisownlowtemperaturealwaysaboutwithhim；heicedhisofficeinthedog-days；anddidn’tthawitonedegreeatChristmas.

ExternalheatandcoldhadlittleinfluenceonScrooge.Nowarmthcouldwarm，nowintryweatherchillhiNowindthatblewwasbittererthanhe，nofallingsnowwasmoreintentuponitspurpose，nopeltingrainlessopentoentreaty.Foulweatherdidn’tknowwheretohavehiTheheaviestrain，andsnow，andhail，andsleet，couldboastoftheadvantageoverhiminonlyonerespect.Theyoften“camedown”

handsomely，andScroogeneverdid.

Nobodyeverstoppedhiminthestreettosay，withgladsomelooks，“MydearScrooge，howareyou？Whenwillyoucometoseeme？”

Nobeggarsimploredhimtobestowatrifle，nochildrenaskedhimwhatitwaso’clock，nomanorwomaneveronceinallhislifeinquiredthewaytosuchandsucha，place，ofScrooge.Eventheblindmen’sdogsappearedtoknowhim；andwhentheysawhimcomingon，wouldtugtheirownersintodoorwaysandupcourts；andthenwouldwagtheirtailsasthoughtheysaid，“Noeyeatallisbetterthananevileye，darkmaster！”

ButwhatdidScroogecare！

Itwastheverythingheliked.Toedgehiswayalongthecrowdedpathsoflife，warningallhumansympathytokeepitsdistance，waswhattheknowingonescall“nuts”

toScrooge.

Onceuponatime—ofallthegooddaysintheyear，onChristmasEve—oldScroogesatbusyinhiscounting-house.Itwascold，bleak，bitingweather：foggywithal：andhecouldhearthepeopleinthecourtoutsidegowheezingupanddown，beatingtheirhandsupontheirbreasts，andstampingtheirfeetuponthepavementstonestowarmtheThecityclockshadonlyjustgonethree，butitwasquitedarkalready—ithadnotbeenlightallday—andcandleswereflaringinthewindowsoftheneighbouringoffices，likeruddysmearsuponthepalpablebrownair.Thefogcamepouringinateverychinkandkeyhole，andwassodensewithout，thatalthoughthecourtwasofthenarrowest，thehousesoppositeweremerephantoms.Toseethedingycloudcomedroopingdown，obscuringeverything，onemighthavethoughtthatNaturelivedhardby，andwasbrewingonalargescale.

ThedoorofScrooge’scounting-housewasopenthathemightkeephiseyeuponhisclerk，who，inadismallittlecellbeyond，asortoftank，wascopyingletters.Scroogehadaverysmallfire，buttheclerk’sfirewassoverymuchsmallerthatitlookedlikeonecoal.Buthecouldn’treplenishit，forScroogekeptthecoal-boxinhisownroom；andsosurelyastheclerkcameinwiththeshovel，themasterpredictedthatitwouldbenecessaryforthemtopart.Whereforetheclerkputonhiswhitecomforter，andtriedtowarmhimselfatthecandle；inwhicheffort，notbeingamanofstrongimagination，hefailed.

“AMerryChristinas，uncle！

Godsaveyou！”

criedacheerfulvoice.ItwasthevoiceofScrooge’snephew，whocameuponhimsoquicklythatthiswasthefirstintimationhehadofhisapproach.

“Bah！”

saidScrooge.“Humbug！”

Hehadsoheatedhimselfwithrapidwalkinginthefogandfrost，thisnephewofScrooge’s，thathewasallinaglow；hisfacewasruddyandhandsome；hiseyessparkled，andhisbreathsmokedagain.

“Christmasahumbug，uncle！”

saidScrooge’snephew.“Youdon’tmeanthat，Iamsure？”

“Ido，”

saidScrooge.“MerryChristmas！

Whatrighthaveyoutobemerry？Whatreasonhaveyoutobemerry？You’repoorenough.”

“Come，then，”

returnedthenephewgaily.“Whatrighthaveyoutobedismal？Whatreasonhaveyoutobemorose？You’rerichenough.”

Scrooge，havingnobetteranswerreadyonthespurofthemoment，said，“Bah！”

again；andfolloweditupwith“Humbug”

“Don’tbecross，uncle！”

saidthenephew.

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