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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’sfuneralbringsmebacktothepointIstartedfrom。ThereisnodoubtthatMarleywasdead。

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

ScroogeneverpaintedoutOldMarley’sname。Thereitstood，yearsafterwards，abovethewarehousedoor：ScroogeandMarley。ThefirmwasknownasScroogeandMarley。SometimespeoplenewtothebusinesscalledScroogeScrooge，andsometimesMarley，butheansweredtobothnames。Itwasallthesametohim。

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，nowintryweatherchillhim。Nowindthatblewwasbittererthanhe，nofallingsnowwasmoreintentuponitspurpose，nopeltingrainlessopentoentreaty。Foulweatherdidn’tknowwheretohavehim。Theheaviestrain，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，andstampingtheirfeetuponthepavementstonestowarmthem。Thecityclockshadonlyjustgonethree，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”