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MARLEY’SGHOST
MARLEYwasdead，tobeginwith.Thereisnodoubtwhateveraboutthat.Theregisterofhisburialwassignedbytheclergyman，theclerk，theundertaker，andthechiefmourner.Scroogesignedit.AndScrooge’snamewasgoodupon’Change，foranythinghechosetoputhishandto.
OldMarleywasasdeadasadoor-nail.
Mind！
Idon’tmeantosaythatIknow，ofmyownknowledge，whatthereisparticularlydeadaboutadoor-nail.Imighthavebeeninclined，myself，toregardacoffin-nailasthedeadestpieceofironmongeryinthetrade.Butthewisdomofourancestorsisinthesimile；andmyunhallowedhandsshallnotdisturbit，orthecountry’sdonefor.Youwillthereforepermitmetorepeatemphatically，thatMarleywasasdeadasadoornail.
Scroogeknewhewasdead？Ofcoursehedid.Howcoulditbeotherwise？ScroogeandhewerepartnersforIdon’tknowhowmanyyears.Scroogewashissoleexecutor，hissoleadministrator，hissoleassign，hissoleresiduarylegatee，hissolefriend，andsolemourner.AndevenScroogewasnotsodreadfullycutupbythesadevent，butthathewasanexcellentmanofbusinessontheverydayofthefuneral，andsolemniseditwithanundoubtedbargain.
ThementionofMarley’sfuneralbringsmebacktothepointIstartedfroThereisnodoubtthatMarleywasdead.
Thismustbedistinctlyunderstood，ornothingwonderfulcancomeofthestoryIamgoingtorelate.IfwewerenotperfectlyconvincedthatHamlet’sfatherdiedbeforetheplaybegan，therewouldbenothingmoreremarkableinhistakingastrollatnight，inaneasterlywind，uponhisownramparts，thantherewouldbeinanyothermiddle-agedgentlemanrashlyturningoutafterdarkinabreezyspot—saySt.PaulsChurchyardforinstance—literallytoastonishhisson’sweakmind.
ScroogeneverpaintedoutOldMarley’sname.Thereitstood，yearsafterwards，abovethewarehousedoor：ScroogeandMarley.ThefirmwasknownasScroogeandMarley.SometimespeoplenewtothebusinesscalledScroogeScrooge，andsometimesMarley，butheansweredtobothnames.Itwasallthesametohi
Oh！
Buthewasatight-fistedhandatthegrindstone.Scrooge！
asqueezing，wrenching，grasping，scraping，clutching，covetous，oldsinner！
Hardandsharpasflint，fromwhichnosteelhadeverstruckoutgenerousfire；secret，andselfcontained，andsolitaryasanoyster.Thecoldwithinhimfrozehisoldfeatures，nippedhispointednose，shrivelledhischeek，stiffenedhisgait；madehiseyesred，histhinlipsblue；andspokeoutshrewdlyinhisgratingvoice.Afrostyrimewason，hishead，andonhiseyebrows，andhiswirychin.Hecarriedhisownlowtemperaturealwaysaboutwithhim；heicedhisofficeinthedog-days；anddidn’tthawitonedegreeatChristmas.
ExternalheatandcoldhadlittleinfluenceonScrooge.Nowarmthcouldwarm，nowintryweatherchillhiNowindthatblewwasbittererthanhe，nofallingsnowwasmoreintentuponitspurpose，nopeltingrainlessopentoentreaty.Foulweatherdidn’tknowwheretohavehiTheheaviestrain，andsnow，andhail，andsleet，couldboastoftheadvantageoverhiminonlyonerespect.Theyoften“camedown”
handsomely，andScroogeneverdid.
Nobodyeverstoppedhiminthestreettosay，withgladsomelooks，“MydearScrooge，howareyou？Whenwillyoucometoseeme？”
Nobeggarsimploredhimtobestowatrifle，nochildrenaskedhimwhatitwaso’clock，nomanorwomaneveronceinallhislifeinquiredthewaytosuchandsucha，place，ofScrooge.Eventheblindmen’sdogsappearedtoknowhim；andwhentheysawhimcomingon，wouldtugtheirownersintodoorwaysandupcourts；andthenwouldwagtheirtailsasthoughtheysaid，“Noeyeatallisbetterthananevileye，darkmaster！”
ButwhatdidScroogecare！
Itwastheverythingheliked.Toedgehiswayalongthecrowdedpathsoflife，warningallhumansympathytokeepitsdistance，waswhattheknowingonescall“nuts”
toScrooge.
Onceuponatime—ofallthegooddaysintheyear，onChristmasEve—oldScroogesatbusyinhiscounting-house.Itwascold，bleak，bitingweather：foggywithal：andhecouldhearthepeopleinthecourtoutsidegowheezingupanddown，beatingtheirhandsupontheirbreasts，andstampingtheirfeetuponthepavementstonestowarmtheThecityclockshadonlyjustgonethree，butitwasquitedarkalready—ithadnotbeenlightallday—andcandleswereflaringinthewindowsoftheneighbouringoffices，likeruddysmearsuponthepalpablebrownair.Thefogcamepouringinateverychinkandkeyhole，andwassodensewithout，thatalthoughthecourtwasofthenarrowest，thehousesoppositeweremerephantoms.Toseethedingycloudcomedroopingdown，obscuringeverything，onemighthavethoughtthatNaturelivedhardby，andwasbrewingonalargescale.
ThedoorofScrooge’scounting-housewasopenthathemightkeephiseyeuponhisclerk，who，inadismallittlecellbeyond，asortoftank，wascopyingletters.Scroogehadaverysmallfire，buttheclerk’sfirewassoverymuchsmallerthatitlookedlikeonecoal.Buthecouldn’treplenishit，forScroogekeptthecoal-boxinhisownroom；andsosurelyastheclerkcameinwiththeshovel，themasterpredictedthatitwouldbenecessaryforthemtopart.Whereforetheclerkputonhiswhitecomforter，andtriedtowarmhimselfatthecandle；inwhicheffort，notbeingamanofstrongimagination，hefailed.
“AMerryChristinas，uncle！
Godsaveyou！”
criedacheerfulvoice.ItwasthevoiceofScrooge’snephew，whocameuponhimsoquicklythatthiswasthefirstintimationhehadofhisapproach.
“Bah！”
saidScrooge.“Humbug！”
Hehadsoheatedhimselfwithrapidwalkinginthefogandfrost，thisnephewofScrooge’s，thathewasallinaglow；hisfacewasruddyandhandsome；hiseyessparkled，andhisbreathsmokedagain.
“Christmasahumbug，uncle！”
saidScrooge’snephew.“Youdon’tmeanthat，Iamsure？”
“Ido，”
saidScrooge.“MerryChristmas！
Whatrighthaveyoutobemerry？Whatreasonhaveyoutobemerry？You’repoorenough.”
“Come，then，”
returnedthenephewgaily.“Whatrighthaveyoutobedismal？Whatreasonhaveyoutobemorose？You’rerichenough.”
Scrooge，havingnobetteranswerreadyonthespurofthemoment，said，“Bah！”
again；andfolloweditupwith“Humbug”
“Don’tbecross，uncle！”
saidthenephew.
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