STAVE (a verse of a song — this book calls its chapters staves) I: MARLEY (Jacob Marley, Scrooge's business partner, seven years dead)'S GHOST

MARLEY was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner (one who grieves at a funeral). Scrooge (Ebenezer Scrooge, the cold rich old man of this story) signed it: and Scrooge's name was good upon 'Change, for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail (fully and finally dead — an old saying).

Mind! I don't mean to say that I know, of my own knowledge, what there is particularly dead about a door-nail (dead as a doornail: fully dead — an old saying). I might have been inclined, myself, to regard a coffin-nail (a nail of a coffin) as the deadest piece of ironmongery (goods made of iron) in the trade. But the wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile (a saying that compares one thing to another); and my unhallowed (not made holy) hands shall not disturb it, or the Country's done for. You will therefore permit me to repeat, emphatically (with insistent force), that Marley was as dead as a door-nail.

Scrooge knew he was dead? Of course he did. How could it be otherwise? Scrooge and he were partners for I don't know how many years. Scrooge was his sole executor (one who carries out a will), his sole administrator, his sole assign, his sole residuary (receiving what is left of an estate) legatee (one left something in a will), his sole friend, and sole mourner. And even Scrooge was not so dreadfully cut up by the sad event, but that he was an excellent man of business on the very day of the funeral, and solemnised (to mark with due ceremony) it with an undoubted bargain.

The mention of Marley's funeral brings me back to the point I started from. There is no doubt that Marley was dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate. If we were not perfectly convinced that Hamlet's Father died before the play began, there would be nothing more remarkable in his taking a stroll at night, in an easterly wind, upon his own ramparts, than there would be in any other middle-aged (of middle age) gentleman rashly (without thinking of the danger) turning out after dark in a breezy spot--say Saint Paul's Churchyard (the open square round St Paul's Cathedral in London) for instance-- literally to astonish (greatly surprised) his son's weak mind.

Scrooge never painted out Old Marley's name. There it stood, years afterwards, above the warehouse door: Scrooge and Marley. The firm was known as Scrooge and Marley. Sometimes people new to the business called Scrooge Scrooge, and sometimes Marley, but he answered to both names. It was all the same to him.

Oh! But he was a tight-fisted (mean with money) hand at the grind-stone (the turning stone tools are sharpened on; hard work), Scrooge! a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous (hungry to own what others have), old sinner! Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret, and self-contained (keeping to oneself), and solitary as an oyster. The cold within him froze his old features, nipped his pointed nose, shrivelled (dried up and wrinkled) his cheek, stiffened (grown stiff) his gait (a way of walking); made his eyes red, his thin lips blue; and spoke out shrewdly (with sharp cunning) in his grating (harsh and scraping) voice. A frosty rime (white frost) was on his head, and on his eyebrows, and his wiry chin. He carried his own low temperature always about with him; he iced his office in the dog-days (the hottest days of summer); and didn't thaw (melting of snow and ice) it one degree at Christmas.

External heat and cold had little influence on Scrooge. No warmth could warm, no wintry weather chill him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting (to strike with blow after blow) rain less open to entreaty (an earnest plea). Foul weather didn't know where to have him. The heaviest rain, and snow, and hail, and sleet (half-frozen falling rain), could boast of the advantage over him in only one respect. They often "came down" handsomely, and Scrooge never did.

Nobody ever stopped him in the street to say, with gladsome (full of gladness) looks, "My dear Scrooge, how are you? When will you come to see me?" No beggars implored (to beg with all one's heart) him to bestow (given as a gift) a trifle (a thing of no importance), no children asked him what it was o'clock, no man or woman ever once in all his life inquired the way to such and such a place, of Scrooge. Even the blind men's dogs appeared to know him; and when they saw him coming on, would tug their owners into doorways and up courts; and then would wag (to swing from side to side) their tails as though they said, "No eye at all is better than an evil eye, dark master!"

But what did Scrooge care! It was the very thing he liked. To edge his way along the crowded paths of life, warning all human sympathy to keep its distance, was what the knowing ones call "nuts" to Scrooge.

Once upon a time--of all the good days in the year, on Christmas Eve--old Scrooge sat busy in his counting-house (the office where money accounts are kept). It was cold, bleak, biting weather: foggy withal (as well — an old word): and he could hear the people in the court outside, go wheezing (to breathe with a whistling sound) up and down, beating their hands upon their breasts, and stamping their feet upon the pavement stones to warm them. The city clocks had only just gone three, but it was quite dark already-- it had not been light all day--and candles were flaring in the windows of the neighbouring offices, like ruddy (red and healthy of face) smears upon the palpable (plain enough to touch) brown air. The fog came pouring in at every chink (a narrow crack; the ring of coins) and keyhole, and was so dense without, that although the court was of the narrowest, the houses opposite were mere phantoms. To see the dingy cloud come drooping (to hang down limply) down, obscuring everything, one might have thought that Nature lived hard by, and was brewing on a large scale.

The door of Scrooge's counting-house was open that he might keep his eye upon his clerk, who in a dismal little cell beyond, a sort of tank, was copying letters. Scrooge had a very small fire, but the clerk's fire was so very much smaller that it looked like one coal. But he couldn (could — couldn't: could not)'t replenish (filled up again) it, for Scrooge kept the coal-box (the box coal is kept in) in his own room; and so surely as the clerk came in with the shovel, the master predicted that it would be necessary for them to part. Wherefore the clerk put on his white comforter, and tried to warm himself at the candle; in which effort, not being a man of a strong imagination, he failed.

"A merry Christmas, uncle! God save you!" cried a cheerful voice. It was the voice of Scrooge's nephew, who came upon him so quickly that this was the first intimation (a first faint sign) he had of his approach.

"Bah!" said Scrooge, "Humbug!"

He had so heated himself with rapid walking in the fog and frost, this nephew of Scrooge's, that he was all in a glow; his face was ruddy and handsome; his eyes sparkled, and his breath smoked again.

"Christmas a humbug, uncle!" said Scrooge's nephew. "You don't mean that, I am sure?"

"I do," said Scrooge. "Merry Christmas! What right have you to be merry? What reason have you to be merry? You're poor enough."

"Come, then," returned the nephew gaily (merrily). "What right have you to be dismal? What reason have you to be morose (gloomy and sour)? You're rich enough."

Scrooge having no better answer ready on the spur of the moment, said, "Bah!" again; and followed it up with "Humbug."

"Don't be cross, uncle!" said the nephew.

"What else can I be," returned the uncle, "when I live in such a world of fools as this? Merry Christmas! Out upon merry Christmas! What's Christmas time to you but a time for paying bills without money; a time for finding yourself a year older, but not an hour richer; a time for balancing your books and having every item in 'em through a round dozen of months presented dead against you? If I could work my will," said Scrooge indignantly (with angry protest), "every idiot who goes about with 'Merry Christmas' on his lips, should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart. He should!"

"Uncle!" pleaded the nephew.

"Nephew!" returned the uncle sternly, "keep Christmas in your own way, and let me keep it in mine."

"Keep it!" repeated Scrooge's nephew. "But you don't keep it."

"Let me leave it alone, then," said Scrooge. "Much good may it do you! Much good it has ever done you!"

"There are many things from which I might have derived good, by which I have not profited, I dare say," returned the nephew. "Christmas among the rest. But I am sure I have always thought of Christmas time, when it has come round--apart from the veneration (deep reverence) due to its sacred name and origin, if anything belonging to it can be apart from that--as a good time; a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time; the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up (closed and locked) hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-passengers (those travelling with us) to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys. And therefore, uncle, though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that it has done me good, and will do me good; and I say, God bless it!"

The clerk in the Tank involuntarily applauded. Becoming immediately sensible (sensible: aware — the old sense here) of the impropriety (improper conduct), he poked the fire, and extinguished (put out) the last frail spark for ever.

"Let me hear another sound from you," said Scrooge, "and you'll keep your Christmas by losing your situation! You're quite a powerful speaker, sir," he added, turning to his nephew. "I wonder you don't go into Parliament."

"Don't be angry, uncle. Come! Dine with us to-morrow."

Scrooge said that he would see him--yes, indeed he did. He went the whole length of the expression, and said that he would see him in that extremity (the farthest end; the last resort) first.

"But why?" cried Scrooge's nephew. "Why?"

"Why did you get married?" said Scrooge.

"Because I fell in love."

"Because you fell in love!" growled (a low angry rumble) Scrooge, as if that were the only one thing in the world more ridiculous than a merry Christmas. "Good afternoon!"

"Nay, uncle, but you never came to see me before that happened. Why give it as a reason for not coming now?"

"Good afternoon," said Scrooge.

"I want nothing from you; I ask nothing of you; why cannot we be friends?"

"Good afternoon," said Scrooge.

"I am sorry, with all my heart, to find you so resolute (firmly determined). We have never had any quarrel, to which I have been a party. But I have made the trial in homage to Christmas, and I'll keep my Christmas humour to the last. So A Merry Christmas, uncle!"

"Good afternoon!" said Scrooge.

"And A Happy New Year!"

"Good afternoon!" said Scrooge.

His nephew left the room without an angry word, notwithstanding. He stopped at the outer door to bestow the greetings of the season on the clerk, who, cold as he was, was warmer than Scrooge; for he returned them cordially (with warm friendliness).

"There's another fellow," muttered (to speak low in the throat) Scrooge; who overheard him: "my clerk, with fifteen shillings (an old British coin; twenty made a pound) a week, and a wife and family, talking about a merry Christmas. I'll retire to Bedlam (the famous London madhouse)."

This lunatic, in letting Scrooge's nephew out, had let two other people in. They were portly (stout and dignified) gentlemen, pleasant to behold, and now stood, with their hats off, in Scrooge's office. They had books and papers in their hands, and bowed to him.

"Scrooge and Marley's, I believe," said one of the gentlemen, referring to his list. "Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr. Scrooge, or Mr. Marley?"

"Mr. Marley has been dead these seven years," Scrooge replied. "He died seven years ago, this very night."

"We have no doubt his liberality (open-handed giving) is well represented by his surviving partner," said the gentleman, presenting his credentials.

It certainly was; for they had been two kindred spirits. At the ominous word "liberality," Scrooge frowned, and shook his head, and handed the credentials back.

"At this festive season of the year, Mr. Scrooge," said the gentleman, taking up a pen, "it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the Poor and destitute (left with nothing), who suffer greatly at the present time. Many thousands are in want of common necessaries; hundreds of thousands are in want of common comforts, sir."

"Are there no prisons?" asked Scrooge (Ebenezer Scrooge, the cold rich old man of this story).

"Plenty of prisons," said the gentleman, laying down the pen again.

"And the Union workhouses (the joint public workhouses where the poor were sent)?" demanded Scrooge. "Are they still in operation?"

"They are. Still," returned the gentleman, "I wish I could say they were not."

"The Treadmill (the prison wheel the poor were set to walk) and the Poor Law are in full vigour (strength and force), then?" said Scrooge.

"Both very busy, sir."

"Oh! I was afraid, from what you said at first, that something had occurred to stop them in their useful course," said Scrooge. "I'm very glad to hear it."

"Under the impression that they scarcely furnish (fitted out with furniture) Christian cheer of mind or body to the multitude," returned the gentleman, "a few of us are endeavouring to raise a fund to buy the Poor some meat and drink, and means of warmth. We choose this time, because it is a time, of all others, when Want is keenly felt, and Abundance rejoices. What shall I put you down for?"

"Nothing!" Scrooge replied.

"You wish to be anonymous?"

"I wish to be left alone," said Scrooge. "Since you ask me what I wish, gentlemen, that is my answer. I don't make merry myself at Christmas and I can't afford to make idle people merry. I help to support the establishments I have mentioned--they cost enough; and those who are badly off must go there."

"Many can't go there; and many would rather die."

"If they would rather die," said Scrooge, "they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population. Besides--excuse me--I don't know that."

"But you might know it," observed the gentleman.

"It's not my business," Scrooge returned. "It's enough for a man to understand his own business, and not to interfere with other people's. Mine occupies me constantly. Good afternoon, gentlemen!"

Seeing clearly that it would be useless to pursue their point, the gentlemen withdrew. Scrooge resumed his labours with an improved opinion of himself, and in a more facetious (joking; playful) temper than was usual with him.

Meanwhile the fog and darkness thickened (grown thick) so, that people ran about with flaring links, proffering (to hold out an offer) their services to go before horses in carriages, and conduct them on their way. The ancient tower of a church, whose gruff (rough and deep of voice) old bell was always peeping slily (in a sly way) down at Scrooge out of a Gothic window in the wall, became invisible, and struck the hours and quarters in the clouds, with tremulous (trembling) vibrations afterwards as if its teeth were chattering in its frozen head up there. The cold became intense. In the main street, at the corner of the court, some labourers were repairing the gas-pipes (pipes carrying gas), and had lighted a great fire in a brazier (an open metal basket for a fire), round which a party of ragged men and boys were gathered: warming their hands and winking their eyes before the blaze in rapture (carried-away joy). The water-plug (the street water pipe) being left in solitude, its overflowings sullenly (in gloomy ill humor) congealed (to set solid; clot), and turned to misanthropic (hating mankind) ice. The brightness of the shops where holly sprigs (a small cut twig) and berries crackled in the lamp heat of the windows, made pale faces ruddy as they passed. Poulterers (a seller of chickens, geese, and turkeys)' and grocers (a seller of household foods)' trades became a splendid joke: a glorious pageant, with which it was next to impossible to believe that such dull principles as bargain and sale had anything to do. The Lord Mayor (the chief officer of the City of London), in the stronghold of the mighty Mansion House, gave orders to his fifty cooks and butlers to keep Christmas as a Lord Mayor's household should; and even the little tailor, whom he had fined five shillings on the previous Monday for being drunk and bloodthirsty in the streets, stirred up to-morrow's pudding in his garret (a room at the top of a house, under the roof), while his lean wife and the baby sallied out to buy the beef.

Foggier (more foggy) yet, and colder. Piercing, searching, biting cold. If the good Saint Dunstan (Saint Dunstan, who caught the Devil by the nose in the old tale) had but nipped the Evil Spirit's nose with a touch of such weather as that, instead of using (use: habit; custom — the old sense here) his familiar weapons, then indeed he would have roared to lusty purpose. The owner of one scant (barely enough) young nose, gnawed (to chew at steadily) and mumbled (to speak low and unclearly) by the hungry cold as bones are gnawed by dogs, stooped (to bend down) down at Scrooge's keyhole to regale (to delight with a treat) him with a Christmas carol: but at the first sound of

"God bless you, merry gentleman! May nothing you dismay!"

Scrooge seized the ruler with such energy of action, that the singer fled in terror, leaving the keyhole to the fog and even more congenial (agreeable; of one's own kind) frost.

At length the hour of shutting up the counting-house (the office where money accounts are kept) arrived. With an ill-will (unfriendly feeling) Scrooge dismounted from his stool, and tacitly (without saying it aloud) admitted the fact to the expectant clerk in the Tank, who instantly snuffed (powdered tobacco for the nose) his candle out, and put on his hat.

"You'll want all day to-morrow, I suppose?" said Scrooge.

"If quite convenient, sir."

"It's not convenient," said Scrooge, "and it's not fair. If I was to stop half-a-crown (an old British coin worth two and a half shillings) for it, you'd think yourself ill-used (badly treated), I'll be bound?"

The clerk smiled faintly.

"And yet," said Scrooge, "you don't think me ill-used, when I pay a day's wages for no work."

The clerk observed that it was only once a year.

"A poor excuse for picking a man's pocket every twenty-fifth (the 25th) of December!" said Scrooge, buttoning his great-coat (a heavy overcoat) to the chin. "But I suppose you must have the whole day. Be here all the earlier next morning."

The clerk promised that he would; and Scrooge walked out with a growl. The office was closed in a twinkling (in a twinkling: in an instant), and the clerk, with the long ends of his white comforter dangling below his waist (for he boasted no great-coat), went down a slide on Cornhill (a street in the City of London), at the end of a lane of boys, twenty times, in honour of its being Christmas Eve, and then ran home to Camden (Camden Town, the poor London district where the Cratchits live) Town as hard as he could pelt (to strike with blow after blow), to play at blindman (from blindman's buff — a blindfold chasing game)'s-buff.

Scrooge took his melancholy dinner in his usual melancholy tavern; and having read all the newspapers, and beguiled (to pass time pleasantly; to charm) the rest of the evening with his banker's-book, went home to bed. He lived in chambers which had once belonged to his deceased partner. They were a gloomy suite of rooms, in a lowering pile of building up a yard, where it had so little business to be, that one could scarcely help fancying it must have run there when it was a young house, playing at hide-and-seek (the hiding-and-finding children's game) with other houses, and forgotten the way out again. It was old enough now, and dreary (gloomy and dull) enough, for nobody lived in it but Scrooge, the other rooms being all let out as offices. The yard was so dark that even Scrooge, who knew its every stone, was fain (fain: gladly — the old sense here) to grope (to feel one's way with the hands) with his hands. The fog and frost so hung about the black old gateway of the house, that it seemed as if the Genius (the ruling spirit — here, of the weather) of the Weather sat in mournful (full of mourning) meditation on the threshold.

Now, it is a fact, that there was nothing at all particular about the knocker (the metal ring for knocking on a door) on the door, except that it was very large. It is also a fact, that Scrooge had seen it, night and morning, during his whole residence in that place; also that Scrooge had as little of what is called fancy about him as any man in the city of London, even including--which is a bold word--the corporation, aldermen (senior officers of a city), and livery. Let it also be borne in mind that Scrooge had not bestowed (given as a gift) one thought on Marley (Jacob Marley, Scrooge's business partner, seven years dead), since his last mention of his seven years' dead partner that afternoon. And then let any man explain to me, if he can, how it happened that Scrooge, having his key in the lock of the door, saw in the knocker, without its undergoing any intermediate process of change--not a knocker, but Marley's face.

Marley's face. It was not in impenetrable (impossible to pass through) shadow as the other objects in the yard were, but had a dismal light about it, like a bad lobster in a dark cellar. It was not angry or ferocious, but looked at Scrooge as Marley used to look: with ghostly spectacles turned up on its ghostly forehead. The hair was curiously stirred, as if by breath or hot air; and, though the eyes were wide open, they were perfectly motionless. That, and its livid (gray-blue as a bruise) colour, made it horrible; but its horror seemed to be in spite of the face and beyond its control, rather than a part of its own expression.

As Scrooge looked fixedly (with a fixed stare) at this phenomenon, it was a knocker again.

To say that he was not startled, or that his blood was not conscious of a terrible sensation to which it had been a stranger from infancy, would be untrue. But he put his hand upon the key he had relinquished (to give up), turned it sturdily (strongly; firmly), walked in, and lighted his candle.

He did pause, with a moment's irresolution (inability to decide), before he shut the door; and he did look cautiously behind it first, as if he half expected to be terrified with the sight of Marley's pigtail (hair worn twisted into a tail behind the head) sticking out into the hall. But there was nothing on the back of the door, except the screws and nuts that held the knocker on, so he said "Pooh, pooh!" and closed it with a bang.

The sound resounded (to ring out loudly) through the house like thunder. Every room above, and every cask (a barrel) in the wine-merchant (a dealer in wine)'s cellars below, appeared to have a separate peal (a ringing burst of sound) of echoes of its own. Scrooge was not a man to be frightened by echoes. He fastened (fixed firmly on) the door, and walked across the hall, and up the stairs; slowly too: trimming his candle as he went.

You may talk vaguely about driving a coach-and-six (a coach drawn by six horses) up a good old flight of stairs, or through a bad young Act of Parliament; but I mean to say you might have got a hearse (the carriage that carries a coffin) up that staircase, and taken it broadwise (sideways on), with the splinter-bar (the crossbar of a coach the horses pull on) towards the wall and the door towards the balustrades (the rail and posts of a staircase): and done it easy. There was plenty of width for that, and room to spare; which is perhaps the reason why Scrooge thought he saw a locomotive hearse going on before him in the gloom. Half-a-dozen (six) gas-lamps (street lamps burning gas) out of the street wouldn (would — wouldn't: would not)'t have lighted the entry too well, so you may suppose that it was pretty dark with Scrooge's dip.

Up Scrooge went, not caring a button for that. Darkness is cheap, and Scrooge liked it. But before he shut his heavy door, he walked through his rooms to see that all was right. He had just enough recollection of the face to desire to do that.

Sitting-room (the family sitting room), bedroom, lumber-room (a room for old stored things). All as they should be. Nobody under the table, nobody under the sofa; a small fire in the grate (with thanks; thankfully); spoon and basin ready; and the little saucepan of gruel (thin boiled oatmeal) (Scrooge had a cold in his head) upon the hob (the shelf at the side of a fireplace for keeping pots warm). Nobody under the bed; nobody in the closet; nobody in his dressing-gown (a loose robe worn at home), which was hanging up in a suspicious attitude against the wall. Lumber-room as usual. Old fire-guard (the metal screen set before a fire), old shoes, two fish-baskets (baskets for carrying fish), washing-stand (the stand that holds a wash basin) on three legs, and a poker.

Quite satisfied, he closed his door, and locked himself in; double-locked (locked with two turns of the key) himself in, which was not his custom. Thus secured against surprise, he took off his cravat (a cloth tied round the neck); put on his dressing-gown and slippers, and his nightcap (a cap worn in bed); and sat down before the fire to take his gruel.

It was a very low fire indeed; nothing on such a bitter night. He was obliged to sit close to it, and brood over it, before he could extract the least sensation of warmth from such a handful of fuel. The fireplace was an old one, built by some Dutch merchant long ago, and paved all round with quaint Dutch tiles, designed to illustrate the Scriptures. There were Cains (a Bible figure painted on the old Dutch fireplace tiles) and Abels (a Bible figure painted on the old Dutch fireplace tiles), Pharaoh (a Bible figure painted on the old Dutch fireplace tiles)'s daughters; Queens of Sheba (a Bible figure painted on the old Dutch fireplace tiles), Angelic messengers descending through the air on clouds like feather-beds (soft beds stuffed with feathers), Abrahams (a Bible figure painted on the old Dutch fireplace tiles), Belshazzars (a Bible figure painted on the old Dutch fireplace tiles), Apostles putting off to sea in butter-boats (little jugs for melted butter), hundreds of figures to attract his thoughts; and yet that face of Marley, seven years dead, came like the ancient Prophet's rod, and swallowed up the whole. If each smooth tile had been a blank at first, with power to shape some picture on its surface from the disjointed (broken apart; disconnected) fragments of his thoughts, there would have been a copy of old Marley's head on every one.

"Humbug!" said Scrooge; and walked across the room.

After several turns, he sat down again. As he threw his head back in the chair, his glance happened to rest upon a bell, a disused bell, that hung in the room, and communicated for some purpose now forgotten with a chamber in the highest story of the building. It was with great astonishment, and with a strange, inexplicable (impossible to explain) dread, that as he looked, he saw this bell begin to swing. It swung so softly in the outset that it scarcely made a sound; but soon it rang out loudly, and so did every bell in the house.

This might have lasted half a minute, or a minute, but it seemed an hour. The bells ceased as they had begun, together. They were succeeded by a clanking (a dull metallic ring) noise, deep down below; as if some person were dragging a heavy chain over the casks in the wine-merchant's cellar. Scrooge then remembered to have heard that ghosts in haunted houses were described as dragging chains.

The cellar-door (the door down to the cellar) flew open with a booming sound, and then he heard the noise much louder, on the floors below; then coming up the stairs; then coming straight towards his door.

"It's humbug still!" said Scrooge. "I won't believe it."

His colour changed though, when, without a pause, it came on through the heavy door, and passed into the room before his eyes. Upon its coming in, the dying flame leaped up, as though it cried, "I know him; Marley's Ghost!" and fell again.

The same face: the very same. Marley in his pigtail, usual waistcoat, tights and boots; the tassels (a hanging bunch of threads) on the latter bristling (with hair standing stiff), like his pigtail, and his coat-skirts (the hanging lower parts of a coat), and the hair upon his head. The chain he drew was clasped (to hold tight in the arms) about his middle. It was long, and wound about him like a tail; and it was made (for Scrooge observed it closely) of cash-boxes (locked boxes for money), keys, padlocks, ledgers, deeds, and heavy purses wrought in steel. His body was transparent; so that Scrooge, observing him, and looking through his waistcoat, could see the two buttons on his coat behind.

Scrooge had often heard it said that Marley had no bowels, but he had never believed it until now.

No, nor did he believe it even now. Though he looked the phantom through and through, and saw it standing before him; though he felt the chilling influence of its death-cold (cold as death) eyes; and marked the very texture of the folded kerchief (a cloth worn over the head) bound about its head and chin, which wrapper he had not observed before; he was still incredulous (refusing to believe), and fought against his senses.

"How now!" said Scrooge, caustic (bitingly sharp) and cold as ever. "What do you want with me?"

"Much!"--Marley's voice, no doubt about it.

"Who are you?"

"Ask me who I was."

"Who were you then?" said Scrooge, raising his voice. "You're particular, for a shade." He was going to say "to a shade," but substituted this, as more appropriate.

"In life I was your partner, Jacob (Marley's first name) Marley."

"Can you--can you sit down?" asked Scrooge, looking doubtfully (with doubt) at him.

"I can."

"Do it, then."

Scrooge asked the question, because he didn't know whether a ghost so transparent might find himself in a condition (condition: social rank — the old sense here) to take a chair; and felt that in the event of its being impossible, it might involve the necessity of an embarrassing explanation. But the ghost sat down on the opposite side of the fireplace, as if he were quite used to it.

"You don't believe in me," observed the Ghost.

"I don't," said Scrooge.

"What evidence would you have of my reality beyond that of your senses?"

"I don't know," said Scrooge.

"Why do you doubt your senses?"

"Because," said Scrooge, "a little thing affects them. A slight disorder of the stomach makes them cheats. You may be an undigested (undigested: not yet broken down in the stomach) bit of beef, a blot (a spot or stain) of mustard, a crumb (a tiny piece of bread or cheese) of cheese, a fragment of an underdone (not cooked enough) potato. There's more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are!"

Scrooge was not much in the habit of cracking jokes, nor did he feel, in his heart, by any means waggish (playfully joking) then. The truth is, that he tried to be smart, as a means of distracting his own attention, and keeping down his terror; for the spectre's voice disturbed the very marrow in his bones.

To sit, staring at those fixed glazed eyes, in silence for a moment, would play, Scrooge felt, the very deuce (the devil — a mild oath) with him. There was something very awful (awful: full of awe — the old sense here), too, in the spectre's being provided with an infernal (hellish; devilish) atmosphere of its own. Scrooge could not feel it himself, but this was clearly the case; for though the Ghost sat perfectly motionless, its hair, and skirts, and tassels, were still agitated as by the hot vapour (steam or mist) from an oven.

"You see this toothpick?" said Scrooge, returning quickly to the charge, for the reason just assigned; and wishing, though it were only for a second, to divert the vision's stony gaze from himself.

"I do," replied the Ghost.

"You are not looking at it," said Scrooge.

"But I see it," said the Ghost, "notwithstanding."

"Well!" returned Scrooge, "I have but to swallow this, and be for the rest of my days persecuted by a legion of goblins, all of my own creation. Humbug, I tell you! humbug!"

At this the spirit raised a frightful (causing fright) cry, and shook its chain with such a dismal and appalling noise, that Scrooge held on tight to his chair, to save himself from falling in a swoon (a fainting fit). But how much greater was his horror, when the phantom taking off the bandage round its head, as if it were too warm to wear indoors, its lower jaw dropped down upon its breast!

Scrooge fell upon his knees, and clasped his hands before his face.

"Mercy!" he said. "Dreadful apparition (a sudden ghostly appearance), why do you trouble me?"

"Man of the worldly mind!" replied the Ghost, "do you believe in me or not?"

"I do," said Scrooge. "I must. But why do spirits walk the earth, and why do they come to me?"

"It is required of every man," the Ghost returned, "that the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellowmen (another human being), and travel far and wide; and if that spirit goes not forth in life, it is condemned to do so after death. It is doomed to wander through the world--oh, woe is me!--and witness (witness: consider as proof — the old sense here) what it cannot share, but might have shared on earth, and turned to happiness!"

Again the spectre raised a cry, and shook its chain and wrung (forced out by pressure) its shadowy hands.

"You are fettered (chained; bound)," said Scrooge, trembling. "Tell me why?"

"I wear the chain I forged in life," replied the Ghost. "I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded (bound around the waist) it on of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it. Is its pattern strange to you?"

Scrooge trembled (to shake finely) more and more.

"Or would you know," pursued the Ghost, "the weight and length of the strong coil you bear yourself? It was full as heavy and as long as this, seven Christmas Eves ago. You have laboured on it, since. It is a ponderous (heavy and slow) chain!"

Scrooge glanced about him on the floor, in the expectation of finding himself surrounded by some fifty or sixty fathoms of iron cable: but he could see nothing.

"Jacob," he said, imploringly (begging with looks). "Old Jacob Marley, tell me more. Speak comfort to me, Jacob!"

"I have none to give," the Ghost replied. "It comes from other regions, Ebenezer (Scrooge's first name) Scrooge, and is conveyed by other ministers, to other kinds of men. Nor can I tell you what I would. A very little more is all permitted to me. I cannot rest, I cannot stay, I cannot linger anywhere. My spirit never walked beyond our counting-house--mark me!--in life my spirit never roved (to wander; roved: given to wandering) beyond the narrow limits of our money-changing (the trading of money) hole; and weary journeys lie before me!"

It was a habit with Scrooge, whenever he became thoughtful, to put his hands in his breeches (knee-length trousers) pockets. Pondering on what the Ghost had said, he did so now, but without lifting up his eyes, or getting off his knees.

"You must have been very slow about it, Jacob," Scrooge observed, in a business-like (practical and orderly) manner, though with humility and deference (respectful yielding).

"Slow!" the Ghost repeated.

"Seven years dead," mused Scrooge. "And travelling all the time!"

"The whole time," said the Ghost. "No rest, no peace. Incessant (never stopping) torture of remorse."

"You travel fast?" said Scrooge.

"On the wings of the wind," replied the Ghost.

"You might have got over a great quantity of ground in seven years," said Scrooge.

The Ghost, on hearing this, set up another cry, and clanked its chain so hideously (horribly) in the dead silence of the night, that the Ward would have been justified in indicting (to charge with a crime) it for a nuisance.

"Oh! captive, bound, and double-ironed (chained with double irons)," cried the phantom, "not to know, that ages of incessant labour by immortal creatures, for this earth must pass into eternity before the good of which it is susceptible is all developed. Not to know that any Christian spirit working kindly in its little sphere, whatever it may be, will find its mortal (mortal: human — the old sense here) life too short for its vast means of usefulness. Not to know that no space of regret can make amends for one life's opportunity misused! Yet such was I! Oh! such was I!"

"But you were always a good man of business, Jacob," faltered (to speak with faltering breaks) Scrooge, who now began to apply this to himself.

"Business!" cried the Ghost, wringing (to twist and squeeze) its hands again. "Mankind was my business. The common welfare was my business; charity, mercy, forbearance (patient holding back), and benevolence (kindly good will), were, all, my business. The dealings of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business!"

It held up its chain at arm's length, as if that were the cause of all its unavailing (unavailing: useless; helping nothing) grief, and flung it heavily upon the ground again.

"At this time of the rolling year," the spectre said, "I suffer most. Why did I walk through crowds of fellow-beings with my eyes turned down, and never raise them to that blessed Star which led the Wise Men to a poor abode (a home; dwelling place)! Were there no poor homes to which its light would have conducted me!"

Scrooge was very much dismayed to hear the spectre going on at this rate, and began to quake exceedingly.

"Hear me!" cried the Ghost. "My time is nearly gone."

"I will," said Scrooge. "But don't be hard upon me! Don't be flowery, Jacob! Pray!"

"How it is that I appear before you in a shape that you can see, I may not tell. I have sat invisible beside you many and many a day."

It was not an agreeable idea. Scrooge shivered (to tremble with cold or fear), and wiped the perspiration (sweat) from his brow.

"That is no light part of my penance (suffering taken on to pay for wrong)," pursued the Ghost. "I am here to-night to warn you, that you have yet a chance and hope of escaping my fate. A chance and hope of my procuring (getting hold of), Ebenezer."

"You were always a good friend to me," said Scrooge. "Thank'ee!"

"You will be haunted," resumed the Ghost, "by Three Spirits."

Scrooge's countenance (the face; composure) fell almost as low as the Ghost's had done.

"Is that the chance and hope you mentioned, Jacob?" he demanded, in a faltering voice.

"It is."

"I--I think I'd rather not," said Scrooge.

"Without their visits," said the Ghost, "you cannot hope to shun the path I tread. Expect the first to-morrow, when the bell tolls One."

"Couldn (could — couldn't: could not)'t I take 'em all at once, and have it over, Jacob?" hinted Scrooge.

"Expect the second on the next night at the same hour. The third upon the next night when the last stroke of Twelve has ceased to vibrate (to tremble with sound). Look to see me no more; and look that, for your own sake, you remember what has passed between us!"

When it had said these words, the spectre took its wrapper from the table, and bound it round its head, as before. Scrooge knew this, by the smart sound its teeth made, when the jaws were brought together by the bandage. He ventured to raise his eyes again, and found his supernatural visitor confronting him in an erect attitude, with its chain wound over and about its arm.

The apparition walked backward from him; and at every step it took, the window raised itself a little, so that when the spectre reached it, it was wide open.

It beckoned (to signal with the hand to come) Scrooge to approach, which he did. When they were within two paces of each other, Marley's Ghost held up its hand, warning him to come no nearer. Scrooge stopped.

Not so much in obedience, as in surprise and fear: for on the raising of the hand, he became sensible (sensible: aware — the old sense here) of confused noises in the air; incoherent sounds of lamentation (loud crying grief) and regret; wailings (a long crying sound) inexpressibly (beyond words) sorrowful (full of sorrow) and self-accusatory. The spectre, after listening for a moment, joined in the mournful dirge (a song of mourning); and floated out upon the bleak, dark night.

Scrooge followed to the window: desperate in his curiosity. He looked out.

The air was filled with phantoms, wandering hither and thither (to that place) in restless haste, and moaning as they went. Every one of them wore chains like Marley's Ghost; some few (they might be guilty governments) were linked together; none were free. Many had been personally known to Scrooge in their lives. He had been quite familiar with one old ghost, in a white waistcoat, with a monstrous iron safe attached to its ankle, who cried piteously (in a way that calls for pity) at being unable to assist a wretched woman with an infant, whom it saw below, upon a door-step. The misery with them all was, clearly, that they sought to interfere, for good, in human matters, and had lost the power for ever.

Whether these creatures faded into mist, or mist enshrouded (to wrap round and hide) them, he could not tell. But they and their spirit voices faded together; and the night became as it had been when he walked home.

Scrooge closed the window, and examined the door by which the Ghost had entered. It was double-locked (locked with two turns of the key), as he had locked it with his own hands, and the bolts were undisturbed. He tried to say "Humbug!" but stopped at the first syllable. And being, from the emotion he had undergone, or the fatigues of the day, or his glimpse of the Invisible World, or the dull conversation of the Ghost, or the lateness (the being late) of the hour, much in need of repose; went straight to bed, without undressing, and fell asleep upon the instant.