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THEFIRSTOFTHETHREESPIRITS
WhenScroogeawoke，itwassodark，that，lookingoutofbed，hecouldscarcelydistinguishthetransparentwindowfromtheopaquewallsofhischamber.Hewasendeavouringtopiercethedarknesswithhisferreteyes，whenthechimesofaneighbouringchurchstruckthefourquarters.Sohelistenedforthehour.
Tohisgreatastonishmenttheheavybellwentonfromsixtoseven，andfromseventoeight，andregularlyuptotwelve；thenstopped.Twelve！
itwaspasttwowhenhewenttobed.Theclockwaswrong.Aniciclemusthavegotintotheworks.Twelve！
Hetouchedthespringofhisrepeater，tocorrectthismostpreposterousclock.Itsrapidlittlepulsebeattwelve；andstopped.
“Why，itisn’tpossible，”
saidScrooge，“thatIcanhavesleptthroughawholedayandfarintoanothernight.Itisn’tpossiblethatanythinghashappenedtothesun，andthisistwelveatnoon！”
Theideabeinganalarmingone，hescrambledoutofbed，andgropedhiswaytothewindow.Hewasobligedtorubthefrostoffwiththesleeveofhisdressing-gownbeforehecouldseeanything；andcouldseeverylittlethen.Allhecouldmakeoutwas，thatitwasstillveryfoggyandextremelycold，andthattherewasnonoiseofpeoplerunningtoandfro，andmakingagreatstir，asthereunquestionablywouldhavebeenifnighthadbeatenoffbrightday，andtakenpossessionoftheworld.Thiswasagreatrelief，because“threedaysaftersightofthisfirstofexchangepaytoMr.EbenezerScroogeorhisorder，”
andsoforth，wouldhavebecomeamereUnitedStates’securityiftherewerenodaystocountby.
Scroogewenttobedagain，andthought，andthought，andthoughtitoverandoverandover，andcouldmakenothingofit.Themorehethoughtthemoreperplexedhewas；andthemoreheendeavourednottothink，themorehethought.
Marley’sghostbotheredhimexceedingly.Everytimeheresolvedwithinhimself，aftermatureinquiry，thatitwasalladream，hismindflewbackagain，likeastrongspringreleased，toitsfirstposition，andpresentedthesameproblemtobeworkedallthrough，“Wasitadreamornot？”
Scroogelayinthisstateuntilthechimehadgonethreequartersmore，whenheremembered，onasudden，thattheghosthadwarnedhimofavisitationwhenthebelltolledone.Heresolvedtolieawakeuntilthehourwaspassed；and，consideringthathecouldnomoregotosleepthangotoheaven，thiswasperhapsthewisestresolutioninhispower.
Thequarterwassolong，thathewasmorethanonceconvincedhemusthavesunkintoadozeunconsciously，andmissedtheclock.Atlengthitbrokeuponhislisteningear.
“Ding，dong！”
.
“Aquarterpast，”
saidScrooge，counting.
“Ding，dong！”
“Half-past！”
saidScrooge.
“Ding，dong！”
“Aquartertoit，”
saidScrooge.
“Ding，dong！”
“Thehouritself，”
saidScroogetriumphantly，“andnothingelse！
Hespokebeforethehourbellsounded，whichitnowdidwithadeep，dull，hollow，melancholyONE.Lightflashedupintheroomupontheinstant，andthecurtainsofhisbedweredrawn.
Thecurtainsofhisbedweredrawnaside，Itellyou，byahand.Notthecurtainsathisfeet，northecurtainsathisback，butthosetowhichhisfacewasaddressed.Thecurtainsofhisbedweredrawnaside；andScrooge，startingupintoahalf-recumbentattitude，foundhimselffacetofacewiththeunearthlyvisitor，whodrewthem：asclosetoitasIamnowtoyou，andIamstandinginthespiritatyourelbow.
Itwasastrangefigure—likeachild：yetnotsolikeachildaslikeanoldman，viewedthroughsomesupernaturalmediumwhichgavehimtheappearanceofhavingrecededfromtheview，andbeingdiminishedtoachild’sproportions.Itshair，whichhungaboutitsneckanddownitsback，waswhiteasifwithage；andyetthefacehadnotawrinkleinit，andthetenderestbloomwasontheskin.Thearmswereverylongandmuscular；thehandsthesame，asifitsholdwereofuncommonstrength.Itslegsandfeet，mostdelicatelyformed，were，likethoseuppermembers，bare.Itworeatunicofthepurestwhite；androunditswaistwasboundalustrousbelt，thesheenofwhichwasbeautiful.Itheldabranchoffreshgreenhollyinitshad；and，insingularcontradictionofthatwintryemblem，haditsdresstrimmedwithsummerflowers.Butthestrangestthingaboutitwas，thatfromthecrownofitsheadtheresprangabright，clearjetoflight，bywhichallthiswasvisible；andwhichwasdoubtlesstheoccasionofitsusing，initsdullermoments，agreatextinguisherforacap，whichitnowheldunderitsar
Eventhis，though，whenScroogelookedatitwithincreasingsteadiness，wasnotitsstrangestquality.Forasitsbeltsparkledandglitterednowinonepartandnowinanother，andwhatwaslightoneinstant，atanothertimewasdark，sothefigureitselffluctuatedinitsdistinctness；nowbeingathingwithonearm，nowwithoneleg，nowwithtwentylegs，nowapairoflegswithoutahead，nowaheadwithoutabody；ofwhichdissolvingparts，nooutlinewouldbevisibleinthedensegloomwhereintheymeltedaway.Andintheverywonderofthis，itwouldbeitselfagain；distinctandclearasever.
“Areyouthespirit，sir，whosecomingwasforetoldtome？”
askedScrooge.
“Iam！”
Thevoicewassoftandgentle.Singularlylow，asif，insteadofbeingsoclosebesidehim，itwereatadistance.
“Who，andwhatareyou？”
Scroogedemanded.
“IamtheGhostofChristmasPast.”
“Longpast？”
inquiredScrooge，observantofhisdwarfishstature.
“No.Yourpast.”
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