First produced at the Royal Surrey Theatre, Feb. 5th, 1844.
Bob—Bob, we shall be obliged to part. You'll ruin me in coals!
Ruin you—with such a fire in such weather! I've been trying to warm myself by the candle for the last half hour, but not being a man of strong imagination, failed.
Hark! I think I hear some one in the office. Go—see who it is.
Marley has been dead seven years, and has left me his sole executor—his sole
administrator—his sole residuary legatee—his sole friend—his sole mourner! My poor old
partner! I was sorely grieved at his death, and shall never forget his funeral. Coming from
it, I made one of the best bargains I ever made. Ha, ha. Folks say I'm tight-
There's your uncle, sir.
Who's that?
A merry Christmas, uncle!
Bah! humbug!
Uncle, you don't mean that, I'm sure.
I do. Merry Christmas! What right have you to be merry? You're poor enough.
Bah! humbug!
Don't be cross, uncle.
What else can I be, 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, and not an hour richer. If I could work my will, 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!
Nephew, keep Christmas in your own way, and let me keep it in mine.
Keep it! But you don't keep it.
Let me leave it alone, then. 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, Christmas among the rest, but I am sure I have always thought of Christmas time, when it has come round, 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 hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys, and, therefore, uncle, though it has not 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, Heaven bless it!
Let me hear another sound from you—
You're quite a powerful speaker. I wonder you don't go into Parliament.
Don't be angry. Come—dine with me to-morrow.
No, no——
But why not?
Why did you get married?
Because I fell in love.
Because you fell in love! Bah! good evening.
I want nothing—I ask nothing of you. Well, I'm sorry to find you so resolute—we have never had any quarrel—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 evening!
And a happy new year!
Good evening!
And a happy Christmas, and a merry new year to you, Bob Cratchit.
The same to you, sir, and many of 'em, and to your wife, and to your darling children, and
to all your friends, and to all you know, and to every one, to all the world.
Two gentlemen want you, sir, as fat as prize beef—shall I call 'em in?
Scrooge and Marley's—I believe I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. Marley!
Mr. Marley has been dead these seven years.
At this festive season of the year, it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the poor and destitute—many thousands are in want of common necessaries—hundreds of thousands are in want of common comfort, sir.
Are there no prisons? and the union workhouses, are they still in operation?
They are still—I wish I could say they were not.
The treadmill and the poor law are in full vigour then?
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. I'm very glad to hear it!
Under the impression that they scarcely furnish Christian cheer of mind or body to the multitude, 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 abundances rejoice. What shall we put you down for?
Nothing!
You wish to be anonymous?
I wish to be left alone. 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 named—they cost enough—those who are badly off must go there.
Many can't go there—many would rather die!
If they'd rather die, they'd better do it, and decrease the surplus population. However, it's not my business, so good evening, gentlemen.
I am sorry we disturbed you.
Beg pardon, gentlemen, I've got an odd eighteen-pence here that I was going to buy a new pair of gloves with in honour of Christmas day, but my heart would feel warmer though my hands were colder, if it helped to put a dinner and a garment on a poor creature who might need. There take it.
Such acts as these from such men as you sooner or later, will be well rewarded.
This way, gentlemen. I feel as light as my four-and-ninepenny gossamer!
A letter, sir.
Already! You'll want all day to-morrow, I suppose.
If quite convenient, sir.
It's not convenient, and it's not fair. If I was to stop half-a-crown for it, you'd think yourself ill-used, I'll be bound, and yet you don't think me ill used when I pay a day's wages for no work.
Christmas comes but once a year.
A poor excuse for picking a man's pockets every twenty-fifth of December! Well, I suppose you must have the whole day. Be here all the earlier next morning. Here's your week's money, fifteen shillings—I ought to stop half-a-crown—never mind!
Thank you, sir! I'll be here before daylight, sir, you may depend upon it. Good night, sir. Oh, what a glorious dinner Mrs. C. shall provide. Good night, sir. A merry Christmas and a happy new year, sir.
Bah! humbug!
Much.
Who are you?
Ask me who I was.
Who were you, then. You're particular for a shade—I mean to a shade.
In life I was your partner, Jacob Marley. You don't believe in me! Why do you doubt your senses?
Because a little thing affects them. A slight disorder of the stomach makes them cheats. You may be an undigested bit of beef—a fragment of an underdone potato. There's more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are.
I do—I must! But why do spirits walk the earth? Why do they come to me?
It is required of every man that the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellow men, and travel far and wide—if not in life, it is condemned to do so after death. It is doomed to wander through the world, oh, woe is me!—and witness what it cannot share, but might have shared on earth, and turned to happiness.
You are fettered!
I wear the chain I forged in life—I made it link by link. Is its pattern strange to you? Oh, no space of regret can make amends for one life's opportunities misused.
But you were always a man of business——
Business! Mankind was my business—charity, mercy, were all my business. At this time of the year I suffered most, for I neglected most. Hear me! I am here to-night to warn you that you have a chance and a hope of escaping my fate. You will be haunted by three spirits——
I—I'd rather be excused!
Without their visits you cannot hope to shun the path I tread. Expect the first when the
clock strikes one. Look to see me no more. For your own sake, remember what has passed
between us.
It is gone. The air seems filled with phantoms—shades of many I knew when living—they all
wear chains like Marley—they strive to assist the poor and stricken, but in vain—they seek to
interfere for good in human nature, but have lost the power forever.
I am!
Who and what are you?
I am the Ghost of Christmas Past. Your welfare—your reclamation brings me here. Turn, and
behold!
My poor forgotten self—and as I used to be!
Look again!
Why it's dear old honest Ali Baba! Yes, one Christmas time, when yonder poor child was left
alone, he
I am come to bring you home, dear brother—we are to be together this Christmas, and be so
merry!
My sister! poor little Fanny!
A delicate creature, whom a breath might have withered. She died a woman, and had, as I think, children.
One child!
True—your nephew. Know you this place?
Why, 'tis old Fezziwig, to whom I was apprenticed—he is alive again! My fellow-apprentice,
Dick Wilkins, too—myself, as I was
Have you forgotten your early love?
Ellen!
Ebenezer, I come to say farewell forever! It matters little to you—very little—another idol has displaced me, and if I can cheer and comfort you in time to come, as I would have tried to do, I have no just cause to grieve.
What idol has displaced you?
A golden one—the master passion. Gain alone engrosses you.
I have not changed towards you.
Our contract is an old one—it was made when we were both poor. You are changed—I am not.
That which promised happiness when we were one in heart, is fraught with misery now we are
two. How often and how keenly I have thought of this I will not say. I have thought of it, and can release you.
Have I ever sought release?
In word—no, never!
In what, then?
In a changed nature—in an altered spirit—in every thing that made my love of any worth or value in your sight. If this had never been between us, tell me, would you seek me out, and try to win me now? Ah, no!
You think not——
I would think otherwise if I could—but if you were free to-day, can even I believe that you
would choose a dowerless girl—you who weigh everything by gain? Or did you so, do I not know
your repentance and regret would surely follow. I do—and I release you, with a full heart,
for the love of him you once were. You will forget all this—may you be happy in the life you
have chosen!
Spirit, show me no more! Why do you delight to torture me?
One shadow more. She whom you resigned for gold—for gain—for sordid ore—she you shall now behold as the tender wife of a good and upright man—as the happy mother of smiling children. You shall see them in their joyous home. Come, thou lonely man of gold—come!
No, no!
I told you these were the shadows of the things that have been—that they are what they are do not blame me. Come——
No, no—I've seen enough—haunt me no longer!
It's very odd! I an't nimmed nothing to-night. Christmas eve, too—when people's got sich lots of tin! But they takes precious good care of it, 'cos I s'pose they thinks if they loses it, they shan't be able to get no Christmas dinner. If I can't prig nothin', I'm sure I shan't be able to get none. Unless this trade mends soon, I must turn undertaker's man again. There is a chance, in that honourable calling of a stray thing or two. Somebody comes! I wonder if I shall have any luck now.
I shall soon be home! Won't my Martha be glad to see me—and what a pleasant happy Christmas
Day we shall spend. What a dinner we shall have! I've got fifteen shillings—my week's
wages—and I'm determined to spend every farthing of it. Won't we have a prime goose, and a
magnificent pudding! And then the gin and water—and oranges
I've a good mind to buy the goose going home; but then if it should turn out fusty—I think
I had better leave it for Mrs. C. The moment I get home, I'll pop the money into her hands,
and—
What my worthy friend Bob Cratchit—how is this, man? you look sorrowful, and on Christmas eve, too!
Some of those boys whom I was sliding with on the ice in Cornhill must have done it.
Done it! Done what, man?
Stole my Christmas dinner—my—salary—I mean my fifteen shillings, that your uncle paid me not an hour ago.
That's unfortunate!
Unfortunate! Think of Tiny Tim's disappointment—no goose—no pudding—no nothing!
Tiny Tim shall not go without his Christmas dinner notwithstanding your loss—no, nor you either—nor any of your family, Bob Cratchit. At such a time as this, no one should be unhappy—not even my hard-hearted uncle, much less a worthy fellow like you. Here, Bob, here's a sovereign—you can return it when my uncle raises your wages—no thanks, but go and be as happy as you deserve to be—once more, a merry Christmas to you!
He's a regular trump! I wanted to thank him, and couldn't find the words! I should like to
laugh, and I feel as if I could cry. If Tiny Tim don't bless you for this my name's not Bob
Cratchit! I've lost fifteen shillings, and I've found a sovereign!
Know me, man? I am the ghost of Christmas Present. Look upon me.
Never!
Have never walked forth with the younger members of my family, meaning, for I am very young, my elder brothers born in these latter years.
I'm afraid I have not. Have you had many brothers, Spirit?
More than eighteen hundred!
A tremendous family to provide for!
To sprinkle the light and incense of happiness every where—to poor dwellings most.
Why to poor ones most?
Because they need it most. But come—touch my robe—we have much to see.
What place is this?
A place where miners live, who labour in the bowels of the earth—they know me. See!
A cheerful company assembled round a glowing fire—an old man and woman, with their children, and children's children all decked gaily out in their holiday attire. I hear the old man's voice above the howling of the wind upon the barren waste; singing a Christmas song, while all swell out the chorus.
Come, we must not tarry—we will to sea—your ear shall be deafened by the roaring waters.
To sea? no, good Spirit!
See yonder solitary lighthouse built on a dismal reef of sunken rocks. Here we men who
watch the light, have made a fire that sheds a ray of brightness on the awful sea, joining
their horny hands over the rough table where they sit, they wish each other a merry Christmas
in can of grog and
Yes, friends, my uncle said that Christmas was a humbug, as I live! He believed it, too!
More shame for him.
He's a comical old fellow! However, his offences carry their own punishment.
He's very rich!
But his wealth is of no use to him. He don't do any good with it. He don't make himself comfortable with it. He hasn't the satisfaction of thinking—ha, ha, ha!—that he is ever going to benefit us with it!
We have no patience with him!
But I have! I'm sorry for him! I couldn't be angry with him if I tried. Who suffers by his
ill whims? Himself! He loves a good dinner—pleasant moments, and pleasanter companions than
he can find in his own thoughts, or in his mouldy chambers. He may rail at Christmas till he
dies, but he can't help thinking better of it, I defy him! If he finds me going there, year
after year and saying, Uncle Scrooge, how are you? If it only puts him in the vein to leave
his poor clerk fifty pounds, that's something, and I think I shook him yesterday!
A merry Christmas and a happy new year to him wherever he is!
Spirit, their merriment has made me so bright and gay, that I could almost pledge them in return, and join in all their innocent mirth!
No ill news, I hope, Mr. Freeheart.
A dance! a dance!
So, this is my clerk's dwelling, Spirit—Bob Cratchit's. You blessed it with the sprinkling
of your torch as we passed the threshold. Bob had but fifteen Bob a
week. He pockets on Saturdays but fifteen copies of his Christian name, and yet the Ghost of
Christmas Present blessed his four-roomed house.
Oh, mother—outside the baker's we smell such a goose! It must have been ours—no one has got
such a goose. Oh, gemini!
Whatever has got your precious father, Bob, and Tiny Tim. And Martha warn't as late this Christmas Day by half an hour!
Here's Martha, mother!
Here's Martha, mother—hurrah! There's such a goose, Martha!
We'd a deal of work to finish up last night, and had to clear away this morning, mother.
Well, never mind, so long as you are come. Sit ye down before the fire, my dear, and have a warm. Lord bless ye!
Not coming.
Not coming upon Christmas Day!
Come, Tiny Tim, into the washhouse, to hear the pudding singing in the copper!
And how did little Tim behave?
As good as gold. Somehow he gets thoughtful sitting by himself so much, and thinks the
sweetest things you ever heard!
The goose! the goose!
Bob's happier than his master! How his blessed urchins, mounting guard upon their posts, cram their spoons into their mouths, lest they should shriek for goose before their turn arrives to be helped! And now, as Mrs. Cratchit plunges her knife in its breast, a murmur of delight arises round the board, and even Tiny Tim beats the table with the handle of his knife, and feebly cries hurrah!
Beautiful! There never was such a goose. It's tender as a lamb, and cheap as dirt. The apple sauce and mashed potatoes are delicious—and now, love, for the pudding. The thought of it makes you nervous.
Too nervous for witnesses. I must leave the room alone to take the pudding up and bring it in.
Awful moment! Suppose it should not be done enough? Suppose it should break in turning out?
Suppose somebody should have got over the wall of the back yard and stolen it?
Hurrah!
Mrs. Cratchit looks flushed, but smiles proudly, like one who has achieved a triumph.
Mrs. Cratchit, I regard this pudding as the greatest success you have achieved since our marriage.
Now that the weight's off my mind, I confess I had my doubts about it, and I don't think it at all a small pudding for so large a family.
It would be flat heresy to say so. A Cratchit would blush to hint at such a thing!
Their merry, cheerful dinner's ended, but not their sweet, enjoyment of the day.
A merry Christmas to us all, my dear—heaven bless us!
Spirit tell me if Tiny Tim will live?
If the shadows I see remain unaltered by the future, the child will die.
No, no—say he will be spared.
If he be like to die—what then? He had better do it, and decrease the surplus population.
My own words!
Man—if man you be in heart, and not adamant—forbear that wicked cant until you have discovered what the surplus is, and where it is. Will you decide what men shall live—what men shall die? To hear the insect on the leaf pronouncing on the too much life among his hungry brothers in the dust.
My dear, I'll give you, "Mr. Scrooge, the founder of the feast!"
The founder of the feast indeed! I wish
My dear—the children—Christmas Day——
It should be Christmas Day, I'm sure, on which one drinks the health of such an odious, stingy, hard, unfeeling man as Mr. Scrooge. You know what he is, Robert—no one better.
My dear—Christmas Day——
I'll drink his health for your sake not for his. Long life to him! A merry Christmas and a
happy new year! He'll be very merry and very happy, no doubt!
Your name alone has cast a gloom upon them. But they are happy—grateful—pleased with one another.
And they look happier yet in the bright sprinkling of thy torch, Spirit.
My life upon this globe is very brief—it ends to-night—at midnight—the time draws near.
Is that a claw protruding from your skirts?
Behold!
Spirit, are they yours?
They are man's—and they cling to me, appealing from their fathers. This boy is
Ignorance—this girl is Want. Beware all of their degree—but most of all beware this boy, for
on his brow is
Have they no regular refuge or resource?
Are there no prisons—no workhouses? Hark, 'tis midnight! I am of the past!
This Spirit's mysterious presence fills me with a solemn dread! I am in the presence of the
Ghost of Christmas yet to come!
He's dead, you say? When did he die?
Last night, I believe.
What has he done with his money?
I haven't heard, he hasn't left it to me. It's likely to be a very cheap funeral, for I don't know of any one likely to go to it.
Well, I don't mind going to it if lunch is provided. I'm not at all sure I was not one of his most particular friends.
Yes—you used to stop, and say "How d'ye do?" whenever you met. But, come—we must to 'Change.
A moral in their words, too! Quiet and dark beside me stands yet the phantom, with its
outstretched hand. It still points onward and I must follow it!
What foul and obscure place is this? What place of bad repute—of houses wretched—of people
half naked—drunken and ill-favoured? The whole quarter reeks with crime—with filth and
misery.
Let the charwoman alone to be the first—let the laundress alone to be second—and let the undertaker's man alone to be the third. Look here old Joe, here's a chance! If we all three haven't met here without meaning it.
You couldn't have met in a better place. Come into the parlour—you're none of you
strangers. Stop till I shut the door of the shop. Ah! how it shrieks! There an't such a rusty
bit of metal here as its own hinges—and I'm sure there's no such old bones here as mine. Ha,
ha! we're all suitable to our
No man more so, so don't stand staring as if you was afraid, woman—who's the wiser? We're not going to pick holes in each other's coats, I suppose?
No, indeed! we should hope not!
Who's the worse for the loss of a few things like these? Not a dead man, I suppose?
If he wanted to keep 'em after he was dead, a wicked old screw, why wasn't he natural in his life time?
If he had been, he'd have had somebody to look after him when he was struck with death, instead of lying, gasping out his last, alone there by himself—it's a judgment upon him! Open that bundle, old Joe, and let me know the value of it.
Stop! I'll be served first, to spare your blushes, though we pretty well knew we were
helping ourselves, and no sin neither!
Two seals, pencil case, brooch, sleeve buttons!
Yes. I do! Why not?
You were born to make your fortune, and you'll certainly do it! Blankets! his blankets?
Whose else's? He won't take cold without 'em!
I hope he didn't die of anything catching!
No, no! or I'd not have waited on such as he! There, Joe, that's the best shirt he had—they'd ha' wasted it, but for me!
What do you call wasting it?
Putting it on him to be buried, to be sure! Somebody was fool enough to do it, but I took it off again! If calico ain't good enough for such a purpose, it ain't good enough for anybody! It's quite as becoming to the body! He can't look uglier than he did in that one!
I listen to their words in horror!
There is what I will give you!
Ha, ha! This is the end of it, you see—he frightened every one away from him when he was
alive, to profit us when he was dead—ha, ha, ha!
What news my love—is it good or bad?
Bad!
We are quite ruined!
No! there is hope yet, Ellen!
If he relents, there is—nothing is past hope if such a miracle has happened.
He is past relenting! He is dead!
Dead! It is a crime but heaven forgive me, I almost feel thankful for it!
What the half drunken-woman told me last night, when I tried to see him and obtain a week's delay, and which I thought a mere excuse to avoid me, was true,—he was not only ill, but dying then!
To whom will our debt be transferred!
I don't know, but before that time we shall be ready with the money, and were we not, we
can hardly find so merciless a creditor in his successor. We may sleep to-night with light
hearts, Ellen. Come!
This is terrible! Let me see some tenderness connected with a death in that dark chamber,
As through the old familiar streets we passed, I looked in vain to find myself, but nowhere was I to be seen.
There, wife, I've returned at last. Come, you have been industrious in my absence—the things will be ready before Sunday.
Sunday! You went to-day, then?
Yes, my dear! 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 I would walk there of a Sunday—my
little—little child—
Don't fret!
Fret! I met Mr. Scrooge's nephew just now, who, seeing that I looked a little down, asked
me what had happened. Ah, he's the pleasantest spoken gentleman you ever heard—he told me he
was sorry for me and for my good wife—but how he knew
Knew what?
Why, that you were a good wife! and he was so kind—it was quite delightful! He said he'd get Peter a better situation—and, mark me, 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 was among us?
Never! never!
Spectre, something informs me that our parting moment is at hand—tell me, ere you quit me,
what man that was whom we saw lying dead?
A churchyard! Here, then, the wretched man who's name I have now to learn, lays underneath
the ground!
Pity me! I will not be the man I have been! Oh, no, no!
Ah! I haven't missed it! Glorious! I say—go to the poulterer's round the corner, and buy the prize turkey for me!
Tell 'em to send it, and I'll give you half a crown. He's off like a shot! I'll send it to
Bob Cratchit's. How astonished he'll be.
Excuse my calling, sir, but the fact is, I couldn't help it. That worthy gentleman, your nephew, is ruined. I said, ruined, sir——
I'm glad of it!
Glad of it! There's an unnatural cannibal!
Oh uncle, you know all! I come not to ask your assistance—that would be madness—but I come to bid you farewell. In three days' time, with my unfortunate family, I shall quit England.
No, you shan't. You shall stay where you are!
You mock me!
I say you shall stay where you are!
This generosity——
No thanks. I'll dine with you to-day, Frank—and as for you, Bob, Tiny Tim shall be my care, and your salary's trebled from this hour.
Oh, this can't be my master! Oh, I'm quite sure it must be somebody else. Yes—it is him, too! He must have gone mad! I've a great mind to knock him down with the ruler, and get Mr. Frank to help me to fit him on a strait waistcoat! Well, I never!
A merry Christmas, Frank—a merry Christmas, Bob—and it