clutching, covetous old sinner," is visited by three ghosts in
succession--The Ghost of Christmas Past, the Ghost of Christmas Present,
and the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. The first recalled the
experiences of Scrooge's youth, the second showed him Christmas as it
might be spent and incidentally, too, what some people thought of him.
The third showed him the "shadows of the things that have not happened,
but will happen in the time before us." He saw himself dead, uncared
for, unwept, unwatched, his effects plundered by the charwoman,
laundress, and undertaker's man and realized the end to which he must
come unless he led an altered life. Holding up his hands he prayed to
have his fate reversed and saw the Ghost shrink and dwindle down into a
bedpost.)
Yes! and the bedpost was his own. The bed was his own, the room was his
own. Best and happiest of all, the Time before him was his own to make
amends in.
"I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future!" Scrooge
repeated, as he scrambled out of bed. "The Spirits of all Three shall
strive within me. O Jacob Marley! Heaven and the Christmas Time be
praised for this! I say it on my knees, old Jacob; on my knees!"
He was so fluttered and so glowing with his good intentions, that his
broken voice could scarcely answer to his call. He had been sobbing
violently in his conflict with the Spirit, and his face was wet with
tears.
"They are not torn down," cried Scrooge, folding one of his bed
curtains in his arms,--"they are not torn down, rings and all. They are
here,--I am here,--the shadows of the things that would have been may be
dispelled. They will be. I know they will!"
His hands were busy with his garments all this time; turning them inside
out, putting them on upside down, tearing them, mislaying them, making
them parties to every kind of extravagance.
"I don't know what to do!" cried Scrooge, laughing and crying in the
same breath; and making a perfect Laocoon of himself with his stockings.
"I am as light as a feather, I am as happy as an angel, I am as merry as
a school-boy. I am as giddy as a drunken man. A Merry Christmas to
everybody! A Happy New Year to all the world! Hallo here! Whoop! Hallo!"
He had frisked into the sitting-room, and was now standing there,
perfectly winded.
"There's the sauce-pan that the gruel was in!" cried Scrooge, starting
off again, and going round the fireplace. "There's the door by which the
Ghost of Jacob Marley entered! There's the corner where the Ghost of
Christmas Present sat! There's the window where I saw the wandering
Spirits! It's all right, it's all true, it all happened. Ha, ha, ha!"
Really, for a man who had been out of practice for so many years, it was
a splendid laugh, a most illustrious laugh. The father of a long, long
line of brilliant laughs!
"I don't know what day of the month it is," said Scrooge. "I don't know
how long I have been amongst the Spirits. I don't know anything. I'm
quite a baby. Never mind. I don't care. I'd rather be a baby. Hallo!
Whoop! Hallo here!"
He was checked in his transports by the churches ringing out the
lustiest peals he had ever heard. Clang, clash, hammer; ding, dong,
bell. Bell, dong, ding; hammer, clang, clash! O, glorious, glorious!
Running to the window, he opened it, and put out his head. No fog, no
mist; clear, bright, jovial, stirring cold; cold, piping for the blood
to dance to; golden sunlight; heavenly sky; sweet fresh air; merry
bells. O, glorious, glorious!
"What's to-day?" cried Scrooge, calling downward to a boy in Sunday
clothes, who perhaps had loitered in to look about him.
"Eh?" returned the boy, with all his might of wonder.
"What's to-day, my fine fellow?" said Scrooge.
"To-day!" replied the boy. "Why, CHRISTMAS DAY."
"It's Christmas Day!" said Scrooge to himself. "I haven't missed it. The
Spirits have done it all in one night. They can do anything they like.
Of course they can. Of course they can. Hallo, my fine fellow?"
"Hallo!" returned the boy.
"Do you know the Poulterer's, in the next street but one, at the
corner?" Scrooge inquired.
"I should hope I did," replied the lad.
"An intelligent boy!" said Scrooge. "A remarkable boy! Do you know
whether they've sold the prize turkey that was hanging up there?--Not
the little prize turkey, the big one?"
"What, the one as big as me?" said the boy.
"What a delightful boy!" said Scrooge. "It's a pleasure to talk to him.
Yes, my buck!"
"It's hanging there now," replied the boy.
"Is it?" said Scrooge. "Go and buy it."
"WALK-ER!" exclaimed the boy.
"No, no," said Scrooge, "I am in earnest. Go and buy it and tell 'em to
bring it here, that I may give them the direction where to take it. Come
back with the man, and I'll give you a shilling. Come back with him in
less than five minutes, and I'll give you half-a-crown!"
The boy was off like a shot. He must have had a steady hand at the
trigger who could have got a shot off half so fast.
"I'll send it to Bob Cratchit's," whispered Scrooge, rubbing his hands,
and splitting with a laugh. "He shan't know who sends it. It's twice the
size of Tiny Tim. Joe Miller never made such a joke as sending it to
Bob's will be!"
The hand in which he wrote the address was not a steady one, but write
he did, somehow, and went down-stairs to open the street door, ready for
the coming of the Poulterer's man. As he stood there, waiting his
arrival, the knocker caught his eye.
"I shall love it as long as I live!" cried Scrooge, patting it with his
hand. "I scarcely ever looked at it before. What an honest expression it
has in its face! It's a wonderful knocker!--Here's the turkey. Hallo!
Whoop! How are you? Merry Christmas!"
It _was_ a turkey! He could never have stood upon his legs, that bird.
He would have snapped 'em off short in a minute, like sticks of
sealing-wax.
"Why, it's impossible to carry that to Camden Town," said Scrooge. "You
must have a cab."
The chuckle with which he said this, and the chuckle with which he paid
for the turkey, and the chuckle with which he paid for the cab, and the
chuckle with which he recompensed the boy, were only exceeded by the
chuckle with which he sat down breathlessly in his chair again, and
chuckled till he cried.
Shaving was not an easy task, for his hand continued to shake very much;
and shaving requires attention, even when you don't dance while you are
at it. But, if he had cut the end of his nose off, he would have put a
piece of sticking-plaster over it, and been quite satisfied.
He dressed himself "all in his best," and at last got out into the
streets. The people were by this time pouring forth, as he had seen them
with the Ghost of Christmas Present; and, walking with his hands behind
him, Scrooge regarded everyone with a delighted smile. He looked so
irresistibly pleasant, in a word, that three or four good-humoured
fellows said: "Good-morning, sir! A Merry Christmas to you!" And Scrooge
said often afterwards, that, of all the blithe sounds he had ever heard,
those were the blithest in his ears....
He went to church, and walked about the streets, and watched the people
hurrying to and fro, and patted the children on the head, and questioned
beggars, and looked down into the kitchens of houses and up to the
windows, and found that every thing could yield him pleasure. He had
never dreamed that any walk--that anything--could give him so much
happiness. In the afternoon, he turned his steps towards his nephew's
house.
He passed the door a dozen times before he had the courage to go up and
knock. But he made a dash and did it.
"Is your master at home, my dear?" said Scrooge to the girl. "Nice girl!
Very."
"Yes, sir."
"Where is he, my love?" said Scrooge.
"He's in the dining-room, sir, along with mistress. I'll show you
upstairs, if you please."
"Thank'ee. He knows me," said Scrooge, with his hand already on the
dining-room lock. "I'll go in here, my dear."
He turned it gently, and sidled his face in, round the door. They were
looking at the table (which was spread out in great array); for these
young housekeepers are always nervous on such points, and like to see
that everything is right.
"Fred!" said Scrooge. Dear heart alive, how his niece by marriage
started!...
"Why, bless my soul!" cried Fred, "Who's that?"
"It's I. Your uncle Scrooge. I have come to dinner. Will you let me in,
Fred?"
Let him in! It is a mercy he didn't shake his arm off. He was at home in
five minutes. Nothing could be heartier. His niece looked just the same.
So did Topper when _he_ came. So did the plump sister when _she_ came.
So did everybody when _they_ came. Wonderful party, wonderful games,
wonderful unanimity, won-der-ful happiness!
But he was early at the office next morning. Oh, he was early there. If
he could only be there first, and catch Bob Cratchit coming late! That
was the first thing he had set his heart upon.
And he did it; yes, he did! The clock struck nine. No Bob. A quarter
past. No Bob. He was full eighteen minutes and a half behind his time.
Scrooge sat with his door wide open, that he might see him come into the
Tank.
His hat was off, before he opened the door, his comforter, too. He was
on his stool in a jiffy, driving away with his pen, as if he were trying
to overtake nine o'clock.
"Hallo!" growled Scrooge, in his accustomed voice, as near as he could
feign it. "What do you mean by coming here at this time of day?"
"I am very sorry, sir," said Bob. "I _am_ behind my time."
"You are!" repeated Scrooge. "Yes, I think you are. Step this way, sir,
if you please."
"It's only once a year, sir," pleaded Bob, appearing from the Tank. "It
shall not be repeated. I was making rather merry yesterday, sir."
"Now, I'll tell you what, my friend," said Scrooge, "I am not going to
stand this sort of thing any longer. And therefore," he continued,
leaping from his stool, and giving Bob such a dig in his waistcoat that
he staggered back into the Tank again,--"and, therefore, I am about to
raise your salary!"
Bob trembled, and got a little nearer to the ruler. He had a momentary
idea of knocking Scrooge down with it, holding him, and calling to the
people in the court for help and a strait-waistcoat.
"A Merry Christmas, Bob!" said Scrooge, with an earnestness that could
not be mistaken, as he clapped him on the back. "A Merrier Christmas,
Bob, my good fellow, than I have given you for many a year! I'll raise
your salary, and endeavour to assist your struggling family, and we'll
discuss your affairs this very afternoon, over a Christmas bowl of
smoking bishop. Bob! Make up the fires, and buy another scuttle of coal
before you dot another i, Bob Cratchit!"
Scrooge was better than his word. He did it all, and infinitely more;
and to Tiny Tim, who did NOT die, he was second father. He became as
good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man as the good old city
knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough, in the good old
world. Some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them
laugh, and little heeded them; for he was wise enough to know nothing
ever happened on this globe, for good, at which some people did not have
their fill of laughter in the outset; and knowing that such as these
would be blind any way, he thought it quite as well that they should
wrinkle up their eyes in grins, as have the malady in less attractive
forms. His own heart laughed, and that was quite enough for him.
He had no further intercourse with Spirits, but lived upon the Total
Abstinence Principle ever afterwards; and it was always said of him,
that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the
knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Tiny
Tim observed, GOD BLESS US EVERY ONE!
Dickens: "A Christmas Carol."
HANDS ALL ROUND
First pledge our Queen this solemn night,
Then drink to England, every guest;
That man's the best Cosmopolite
Who loves his native country best.
May freedom's oak for ever live
With stronger life from day to day;
That man's the true Conservative
Who lops the moulder'd branch away.
Hands all round!
God the traitor's hope confound!
To this great cause of Freedom drink, my friends,
And the great name of England, round and round.
To all the loyal hearts who long
To keep our English Empire whole!
To all our noble sons, the strong
New England of the Southern Pole!
To England under Indian skies,
To those dark millions of her realm!
To Canada whom we love and prize,
Whatever statesman hold the helm.
Hands all round!
God the traitor's hope confound!
To this great name of England drink, my friends,
And all her glorious empire, round and round.
To all our statesmen so they be
True leaders of the land's desire!
To both our Houses, may they see
Beyond the borough and the shire!
We sail'd wherever ship could sail,
We founded many a mighty state;
Pray God our greatness may not fail
Through craven fears of being great.
Hands all round!
God the traitor's hope confound!
To this great cause of Freedom drink, my friends,
And the great name of England, round and round.
Tennyson
JUDAH'S SUPPLICATION TO JOSEPH
And Judah and his brethren came to Joseph's house; and he was yet there:
and they fell before him on the ground. And Joseph said unto them, What
deed is this that ye have done? know ye not that such a man as I can
indeed divine? And Judah said, What shall we say unto my lord? what
shall we speak? or how shall we clear ourselves? God hath found out the
iniquity of thy servants: behold, we are my lord's bondmen, both we, and
he also in whose hand the cup is found. And he said, God forbid that I
should do so: the man in whose hand the cup is found, he shall be my
bondman; but as for you, get you up in peace unto your father.
Then Judah came near unto him, and said, Oh my lord, let thy servant, I
pray thee, speak a word in my lord's ears, and let not thine anger burn
against thy servant: for thou art even as Pharaoh. My lord asked his
servants, saying, Have ye a father, or a brother? And we said unto my
lord, We have a father, an old man, and a child of his old age, a little
one; and his brother is dead, and he alone is left of his mother, and
his father loveth him. And thou saidst unto thy servants, Bring him
down unto me, that I may set mine eyes upon him. And we said unto my
lord, The lad cannot leave his father: for if he should leave his
father, his father would die. And thou saidst unto thy servants, Except
your youngest brother come down with you, ye shall see my face no more.
And it came to pass when we came up unto thy servant my father, we told
him the words of my lord. And our father said, Go again, buy us a little
food. And we said, We cannot go down: if our youngest brother be with
us, then will we go down: for we may not see the man's face, except our
youngest brother be with us. And thy servant my father said unto us, Ye
know that my wife bare me two sons: and the one went out from me, and I
said, Surely he is torn in pieces; and I have not seen him since: and if
ye take this one also from me, and mischief befall him, ye shall bring
down my gray hairs with sorrow to the grave. Now, therefore, when I come
to thy servant my father, and the lad be not with us; seeing that his
life is bound up in the lad's life; it shall come to pass, when he seeth
that the lad is not with us, that he will die: and thy servants shall
bring down the gray hairs of thy servant our father with sorrow to the
grave. For thy servant became surety for the lad unto my father, saying,
If I bring him not unto thee, then shall I bear the blame to my father
for ever. Now therefore, let thy servant, I pray thee, abide instead of
the lad a bondman to my lord; and let the lad go up with his brethren.
For how shall I go up to my father, and the lad be not with me? lest I
see the evil that shall come on my father.
Then Joseph could not refrain himself before all them that stood by him;
and he cried, Cause every man to go out from me. And there stood no man
with him, while Joseph made himself known unto his brethren. And he wept
aloud: and the Egyptians heard, and the house of Pharaoh heard. And
Joseph said unto his brethren, I am Joseph; doth my father yet live? And
his brethren could not answer him; for they were troubled at his
presence. And Joseph said unto his brethren, Come near to me, I pray
you. And they came near. And he said, I am Joseph your brother whom ye
sold into Egypt. And now be not grieved, nor angry with yourselves, that
ye sold me hither: for God did send me before you to preserve life. For
these two years hath the famine been in the land; and there are yet five
years in the which there shall be neither ploughing nor harvest. And
God sent me before you to preserve you a remnant in the earth, and to
save you alive by a great deliverance. So now it was not you that sent
me hither, but God: and he hath made me a father to Pharaoh, and lord of
all his house, and ruler over all the land of Egypt. Haste ye, and go up
to my father, and say unto him, Thus saith thy son Joseph, God hath made
me lord of all Egypt: come down unto me, tarry not: and thou shalt dwell
in the land of Goshen, and thou shalt be near unto me, thou, and thy
children, and thy children's children, and thy flocks, and thy herds,
and all that thou hast: and there will I nourish thee; for there are yet
five years of famine; lest thou come to poverty, thou, and thy
household, and all that thou hast. And, behold, your eyes see, and the
eyes of my brother Benjamin, that it is my mouth that speaketh unto you.
And ye shall tell my father of all my glory in Egypt, and of all that ye
have seen; and ye shall haste and bring down my father hither. And he
fell upon his brother Benjamin's neck, and wept; and Benjamin wept upon
his neck. And he kissed all his brethren, and wept upon them; and after
that his brethren talked with him.
Genesis, XLIV-V.
MIRIAM'S SONG
(Read Exodus, XV.)
Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!
Jehovah hath triumphed--His people are free.
Sing--for the pride of the tyrant is broken,
His chariots and horsemen all splendid and brave,
How vain was their boasting! the Lord hath but spoken,
And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave.
Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!
Jehovah hath triumphed--His people are free.
Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the Lord!
His word was the arrow, His breath was our sword!
Who shall return to tell Egypt the story
Of those she sent forth in the power of her pride?
For the Lord hath looked out from His pillar of glory,
And all her brave thousands are dashed in the tide.
Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!
Jehovah hath triumphed--His people are free.
Thomas Moore
THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB
(Read II. Kings, XIX. 35)
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen:
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride:
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider, distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
Byron
The house of the wicked shall be overthrown:
But the tent of the upright shall flourish.
In the fear of the Lord is strong confidence:
And his children shall have a place of refuge.
Proverbs
THE LARK AT THE DIGGINGS
The friends strode briskly on, and a little after eleven o'clock they
came upon a small squatter's house and premises. "Here we are," cried
George, and his eyes glittered with innocent delight.
The house was thatched and whitewashed, and English was written on it
and on every foot of ground round it. A furze-bush had been planted by
the door. Vertical oak palings were the fence, with a five-barred gate
in the middle of them. From the little plantation, all the magnificent
trees and shrubs of Australia had been excluded with amazing resolution
and consistency, and oak and ash reigned safe from overtowering rivals.
They passed to the back of the house, and there George's countenance
fell a little, for on the oval grass-plot and gravel-walk he found from
thirty to forty rough fellows, most of them diggers.
"Ah, well," said he, on reflection, "we could not expect to have it all
to ourselves, and indeed it would be a sin to wish it, you know. Now,
Tom, come this way; here it is, here it is,--there." Tom looked up, and
in a gigantic cage was a light brown bird.
He was utterly confounded. "What, is it this we came twelve miles to
see?"
"Ay! and twice twelve wouldn't have been much to me."
"Well, but what is the lark you talked of?"
"This is it."
"This? This is a bird."
"Well, and isn't a lark a bird?"
"O, ay! I see! ha! ha! ha! ha!"
Robinson's merriment was interrupted by a harsh remonstrance from
several of the diggers, who were all from the other end of the camp.
"Hold your--cackle," cried one, "he is going to sing;" and the whole
party had their eyes turned with expectation towards the bird.
Like most singers, he kept them waiting a bit. But at last, just at
noon, when the mistress of the house had warranted him to sing, the
little feathered exile began, as it were, to tune his pipes. The savage
men gathered round the cage that moment, and amidst a dead stillness the
bird uttered some very uncertain chirps, but after awhile he seemed to
revive his memories, and call his ancient cadences back to him one by
one, and string them _sotto voce_.
And then the same sun that had warmed his little heart at home came
glowing down on him here, and he gave music back for it more and more,
till at last--amidst breathless silence and glistening eyes of the rough
diggers hanging on his voice--out burst in that distant land his English
song.
It swelled his little throat and gushed from him with thrilling force
and purity, and every time he checked his song to think of its theme,
the green meadows, the quiet stealing streams, the clover he first
soared from, and the spring he sang so well, a loud sigh from many a
rough bosom, many a wild and wicked heart, told how tight the listeners
had held their breath to hear him; and when he swelled with song again,
and poured with all his soul the green meadows, the quiet brooks, the
honey clover, and the English spring, the rugged mouths opened and so
stayed, and the shaggy lips trembled, and more than one drop trickled
from fierce unbridled hearts down bronzed and rugged cheeks.
_Dulce domum!_
And these shaggy men, full of oaths and strife and cupidity, had once
been white-headed boys, and had strolled about the English fields with
little sisters and little brothers, and seen the lark rise, and heard
him sing this very song. The little playmates lay in the churchyard,
and they were full of oaths and drink and lusts and remorses,--but no
note was changed in this immortal song. And so for a moment or two,
years of vice rolled away like a dark cloud from the memory, and the
past shone out in the song-shine: they came back, bright as the immortal
notes that lighted them, those faded pictures and those fleeted days;
the cottage, the old mother's tears when he left her without one grain
of sorrow; the village church and its simple chimes; the clover field
hard by in which he lay and gambolled, while the lark praised God
overhead; the chubby playmates that never grew to be wicked, the sweet
hours of youth--and innocence--and home.
Charles Reade: "It is Never Too Late to Mend."
THE ANCIENT MARINER
It is an ancient Mariner,
And he stoppeth one of three.
"By thy long gray beard and glittering eye,
Now wherefore stopp'st thou me?
The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide,
And I am next of kin;
The guests are met, the feast is set:
May'st hear the merry din."
He holds him with his skinny hand,
"There was a ship," quoth he.
"Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard, loon!"
Eftsoons his hand dropt he.
He holds him with his glittering eye--
The Wedding-Guest stood still,
And listens like a three years' child:
The Mariner hath his will.
The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone:
He cannot choose but hear;
And thus spake on that ancient man,
The bright-eyed Mariner:
"The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared,
Merrily did we drop
Below the kirk, below the hill,
Below the lighthouse top.
The Sun came up upon the left,
Out of the sea came he!
And he shone bright, and on the right
Went down into the sea.
Higher and higher every day,
Till over the mast at noon--"
The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast,
For he heard the loud bassoon.