Gaiman was introduced by BBC researcher and author Molly Oldfield, who revealed a little known fact about Dickens: The author was a great lover of cats, so much so, that he even used a macabre feline letter opener. Oldfield explained:

"New York was the first place I visited when I decided to write The Secret Museum. The Library's Berg Collection of English and American Literature was kind enough to show me some of their literary treasures that belonged to one of England's greatest writers: Charles Dickens. We're really lucky that the object I wrote about in The Secret Museum is on display today... it's a letter opener, a very special feline letter opener made out of the paw of Dickens's beloved pet cat Bob. Now, Dickens had at least three cats. The first one was called William until Dickens realized that actually she's a girl and renamed her Williamina. Williamina had kittens, and Dickens kept one which he called The Master's Cat that used to snuff out his candle to catch his attention. A third cat was called Bob, after Bob Cratchit, Scrooge's overworked clerk in A Christmas Carol. When dear Bob passed on in 1863, Dickens's sister-in-law realized that Dickens was so upset, so she had one of Bob's little paws, which once padded around the author's lap, immortalized as a letter opener, which Dicken's kept at his side at Gad's Hill as he wrote and used every morning to open his mail."

As eccentric as his letter-opening habits may have been, Dickens was a great orator. Oldfield described his use of the prompt copy at two readings in New York City as nearly rockstar-like:

"Now Dickens used this rare Christmas treasure here in New York at Christmastime in two performances in 1867. The first performance was at a Steinway piano display hall on East 14th Street and the second at a church in Brooklyn. People lined up in the snow for tickets. Some even slept outside for a spot in the crowd. And the queue by opening time was a mile long... Now the way that Dickens liked to prepare for one of his readings was to drink two tablespoons of rum mixed with cream for breakfast, a pint of champagne for tea, and half an hour before he went on stage he would knock back a sherry with a raw egg beaten into it."

To celebrate the 175th anniversary of the book's publication, The New York Public Library released a surprise edition of Insta Novels: A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens. This version of the holiday classic was illustrated by Caitlin McCarthy (@c8l.in) and is available to read on the Library's Instagram account (@nypl). NYPL has also rebroadcast one of its most popular podcast episodes featuring Neil Gaiman reading from Charles Dickens's own prompt copy of A Christmas Carol.

Visit the annoucement post to learn more about Insta Novels.

FULL TRANSCRIPT

[ Sleigh Bells ]

>> You're listening to "Library Talk," from the New York Public Library. I'm your host, Aidan Flax-Clark. Well, the holidays are upon us, and once again, we've got our holiday tradition to share with you on the show. Neil Gaiman reading "a Christmas Carol" at the library in 2013. The comic book writer and novelist made a pretty convincing Dickens look-alike when he was there. The other thing that makes this really incredible is that the copy of "a Christmas Carol" that Gaiman used for the reading is a one-of-a-kind copy that we happen to have at the library. It's called a prompt copy, and it actually belonged to Charles Dickens, himself. He used it for performing "a Christmas Carol," which he did, all over the world. He's got notes and prompts in it, to help him turn the story from something that lives on the page, to something that lives in the theater for audiences. It's really incredible to look at, and if you'd like to see pictures of it, you can go to digitalcollections.nypl.org. But for now, let's enjoy Neil Gaiman reading it. Here he is with "A Christmas Carol."

[ Applause ]

>> Yes. Not a lot of you know that I've actually spent the last eight months secretly growing a beard. And having discovered that Dickens did breakfast on his pint of cream, with two tablespoons of rum beaten into it, and then lunch on sherry, drink his half pint of champagne - his pint of champagne for tea, and then I realized why he put in a five-minute intermission between chapters 2 and 3.

[ Laughter ]

So this is "A Christmas Carol," as read from this, which is this rather wonderful prompt copy, covered in crossed-out bits of emendations of scribbles. And because Dickens, as far as we know, never performed it quite the same way twice, so I will endeavor to emulate him, and never perform it quite the same way once.

[ Laughter ]

"A Christmas Carol, in Four Staves." "Stave One. Marley'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. Scrooge signed it, and Scrooge's name was good upon change for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Marley was dead as a doornail. 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, his sole administrator, his sole assign, his sole residuary legatee, his sole friend, his sole mourner. Scrooge never painted out old Marley's name, however. There it yet 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; he answered to both names. It was all the same to him. Oh, but he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, was Scrooge. A squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous old sinner. Nobody ever stopped him in the street to say with gladsome looks, "My dear Scrooge, how are you? When will you come to see me?" No beggars implored him to bestow a trifle. 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 their tails as though they said, "No eye at all is better than an evil eye, dark master." Once upon a time, of all the good days in the year, upon a Christmas Eve, Old Scrooge sat busy in his counting-house. It was cold, bleak, biting, foggy weather, and the city clerks had only just gone three, but it was quite dark already. 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't replenish it, for Scrooge kept the coal-box 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 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 Scrooge had of his approach. "Bah!" said Scrooge. "Humbug." "Christmas a humbug, uncle? You don't mean that, I'm sure." "I do. Out upon 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; a time for balancing your books and having every item in them through a round dozen of months presented dead against you? If I had 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've 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 -- apart from the veneration due its sacred 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 hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow travelers 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. "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." "Oh, don't be angry, uncle. Come, dine with us tomorrow." 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 first. "but why?" cried Scrooge's nephew. "Why?" "Why did you get married?" "Because I fell in love." "Because you fell in love," growled Scrooge. as if that were the only one thing in the world more ridiculous than a merry Christmas. "Good afternoon." "No. Nay, uncle, but you never came to see me before that happened. So why give it as a reason for not coming now?" "Good afternoon." "I want nothing from you. I ask nothing of you. Why cannot we be friends?" "Good afternoon." "I'm sorry with all my heart to find you so resolute. We have never had any quarrel, to which I have been a party. But I've made the trial in homage to Christmas, and I'll keep my Christmas humor to the last. So a merry Christmas, uncle." "Good afternoon." "And a happy New Year." "Good afternoon." His nephew left the room without an angry word, notwithstanding. The clerk, in letting Scrooge's nephew out, had let two other people in. They were portly 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. He died seven years ago this very night." "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, 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?" "Oh, plenty of prisons. But under the impression that they scarcely furnish Christian cheer of mind or body to the unoffending multitude, a few of us are endeavoring to raise a fund to buy the poor some meat, and drink, and means of warmth. We chose 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." "You wish to be anonymous?" "I wish to be left alone. 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 prisons and the workhouses. 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 die, they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population." At length the hour of shutting up the counting-house arrived. With an ill will, Scrooge, dismounting from his stool, tacitly admitted the fact to the expectant clerk in the tank, who instantly snuffed his candle out and put on his hat. "You'll want all day tomorrow, 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 mightily ill-used, I'll be bound." "Yes, sir." "And yet, you don't think me ill-used when I pay a day's wages for no work." "It's only once a year, sir." "A poor excuse for picking a man's pocket every 25th of December. 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, and the clerk, with the long ends of his white comforter dangling below his waist - for he boasted no greatcoat - went down a slide at the end of a lane of boys, 20 times, in honor of its being Christmas Eve, and then ran home as hard as he could pelt, to play at Blindman's buff. Scrooge took his melancholy dinner in his usual melancholy tavern; and having read all the newspapers, and beguiled 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 the building up a yard, the building old enough now, and dreary enough, for nobody lived in it but Scrooge, the other rooms being all let out as offices. Now it is a fact, that there was nothing at all particular about the knocker on the door of this house, except that it was very large. Also that Scrooge had seen it, night and morning, during his whole residence in that place; also that Scrooge had as little of what fancy about him as any man in the city of London. And yet, 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, with a dismal light about it, like a bad lobster in a dark cellar. It was not angry or ferocious, but it looked at Scrooge as Marley used to look, with ghostly spectacles turned up upon its ghostly forehead. As Scrooge looked fixedly at this phenomenon, it was a knocker again. He said, "Pooh, pooh," and closed the door with a bang. The sound resounded through the house like thunder. Every room above, and every cask in the wine merchant's cellars below, appeared to have a separate peal of echoes of its own. Scrooge was not a man to be frightened by echoes. He fastened the door and walked across the hall and up the stairs; slowly too, trimming his candle as he went. Up Scrooge went, not caring a button for its being very dark. 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, bedroom, lumber room. All as they should be. Nobody under the table; nobody under the sofa. A small fire in the grate; spoon and basin ready. And the little saucepan of gruel -- Scrooge had a cold in his head - upon the hob. Nobody under the bed; nobody in the closet. Nobody in his dressing-gown, which was hanging up in a suspicious attitude against the wall. He closed his door and locked himself in; double-locked himself in, which was not his custom. Thus secured against surprise, he took off his cravat, put on his dressing-gown and slippers, and his nightcap, and sat down before the very low fire to take his gruel. 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 dread, that as he looked, he saw this bell begin to swing. Soon it rang out. Loudly, and so did every bell in the house. This was succeeded by a clanking noise deep down below, as if some person were dragging a heavy chain over the casks in the wine merchant's cellar. Then he heard the noise much louder on the floors below; then coming up the stairs; then coming straight towards his door. It came on through the heavy door, and a specter passed into the room before his eyes. And upon its coming in, the dying flame leaped up as though it cried, "I know him; Marley's ghost." The same face; the very same. Marley in his pigtail, usual waistcoat, tights and boots. 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'd never believed it until now.

[ Laughter ]

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 eyes, and marked the very texture of the folded kerchief bound about its head and chin, he was still incredulous. "How now?" said Scrooge, caustic 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?" "In life. I was your partner, Jacob Marley." "Can you -- sit down?" "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 to take a chair. 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." "I don't." "What evidence would you have of my reality beyond that of your senses?" "I don't know." "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 blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone 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 then. The truth is, that he tried to be smart, as a means of distracting his own attention, and keeping down his horror. 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. "Mercy, dreadful apparition, why do you trouble me? Why do spirits walk the earth, and 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. And if that spirit does not go forth in life, it is condemned to do so after death. I cannot tell you all what I would. A very little more is 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 beyond the narrow limits of our money-changing hole, and weary journeys lie before me." "Seven years dead, and traveling all the time. You travel fast?" "On the wings of the wind." "You might have got over a great quantity of ground in seven years." "Oh, blind man, blind man, not to know, that ages of incessant labor 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 life too short for its vast means of usefulness. Not to know that no space of regret can make amends for one's life's opportunities misused. Yet I was like this man. I once was like this man." "But you were always a good man of business, Jacob," faltered Scrooge, who now began to apply this to himself. "Business? Mankind was my business. The common welfare was my business. Charity, mercy, forbearance, benevolence 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 its unwilling grief, and flung it heavily upon the ground again. At this time of the rolling year, 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? Were there no poor homes to which its light would've conducted me?" Scrooge was very much dismayed to hear the specter going on at this rate, and began to quake exceedingly. "Hear me. My time is nearly gone." "I will, but don't be hard upon me. Don't be flowery, Jacob, pray." "I am here tonight to warn you, that you have yet a chance and a hope of escaping my fate. A chance and hope of my procuring, Ebenezer." "Oh, you always were a good friend to me, thank'ee." "You will be haunted by three spirits." "Is that the chance and hope you mentioned, Jacob? I - I think I'd rather not." "Without their visits, you cannot hope to shun the path I tread. Expect the first tomorrow night, when the bell tolls one. Expect the second on the next night at the same hour; the third, on the next night when the last stroke of 12 has ceased to vibrate. Look to see me no more. And look that, for your own sake, you remember what has passed between us." It walked backward from him; and at every step it took, the window raised itself a little, so that when the apparition reached it, it was wide open. Scrooge closed the window, and examined the door by which the ghost had entered. It was double-locked, as he'd locked it with his own hands, and the bolts were undisturbed. Scrooge 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 of the hour, much in need of repose. He went straight to bed without undressing, and fell asleep on the instant.

[ Applause ]

"Stave 2. "The First of the Three Spirits." When Scrooge awoke, it was so dark, that looking out of bed, he could scarcely distinguish the transparent window from the opaque walls of his chamber, until suddenly the church clock tolled a deep, dark, hollow, melancholy One. Light flashed up in the room upon the instant, and the curtains of his bed were drawn by a strange figure, like a child. Yet not so like a child, as like an old man, viewed through some supernatural medium, which gave him the appearance of having receded from the view, and being diminished to a child's proportion. Its hair, which hung about its neck and down its back, was white as if with age. And yet the face had not a wrinkle in it, and the tenderest bloom was on the skin. It held a branch of fresh, green holly in its hand, and in singular contradiction of that wintry emblem, had its dress trimmed with summer flowers. Though the strangest thing about it was that from the crown of its head, there sprung a bright, clear, jet of light, by which all this was visible, and which was doubtless the occasion of its using in its duller moments, a great extinguisher for a cap, which it now held under its arm. "Are you the spirit, sir, whose coming was foretold to me?" "I am." "Who and what are you?" "I am the Ghost of Christmas Past." "Long past?" "No. Your past. The things that you will see with me are shadows of the things that have been. They will have no consciousness of us. Rise and walk with me." It would've been in vain for Scrooge to plead that the weather and the hour were not adapted to pedestrian purposes; that bed was warm, and the thermometer a long way below freezing; that he was clad but lightly in his slippers, dressing-gown, and nightcap; and that he had a cold upon him at that time. The grasp, though gentle as a woman's hand, was not to be resisted. He rose, but finding that the spirit made towards the window, clasped his robe in supplication. "I am mortal and liable to fall." "Bear but a touch of my hand there," said the spirit, laying it upon his heart, "and you shall be upheld in more than this." As the words were spoken, they passed through the wall, and stood in the busy thoroughfares of a city. It was made plain enough by the dressing of the shops, that here, too, it was Christmas time. The ghost stopped at a certain warehouse door, and asked Scrooge if he knew it. "Know it? Was I apprenticed here?" They went in. At sight of an old gentleman in a Welsh wig, sitting behind such a high desk, that if he'd been two inches taller, he must've knocked his head against the ceiling. Scrooge cried in great excitement, "Why, it's old Fezziwig. Bless his heart; it's Fezziwig alive again." Old Fezziwig laid down his pen and looked up at the clock, which pointed to the hour of seven. He rubbed his hands, adjusted his capacious waistcoat, laughed all over himself, from his shoes to his organ of benevolence, and called out in a comfortable, oily, rich, fat, jovial voice, "Yo ho, there, Ebenezer, Dick." A living and moving picture of Scrooge's former self, a young man came briskly in, accompanied by his fellow prentice. "Dick Wilkins, my old fellow prentice, to be sure," said Scrooge to the ghost. "Bless me, yes, there he is. He was very much attached to me, was Dick. Poor Dick. Dear, dear." "Yo ho, my boys," said Fezziwig. "No more work tonight. Christmas Eve, Dick. Christmas Eve - Christmas, Ebenezer. Let's have the shutters up, before a man can say Jack Robinson. Clear away, my lads. I must have lots of room here. Clear away." There was nothing they wouldn't have cleared away, or couldn't have cleared away, with old Fezziwig looking on. It was done in a minute. Every movable was packed off, as if it were dismissed from public life forevermore. The floor was swept and watered. The lamps were trimmed. Fuel was heaped upon the fire, and the warehouse was as snug, and warm, and dry, and bright a ballroom, as you'd desire to see upon a winter's night. In came a fiddler with a music book, and went up to the lofty desk and made an orchestra of it, and tuned like 50 stomachaches. In came Mrs. Fezziwig, one vast, substantial smile. In came the three Miss Fezziwigs, beaming and lovable. In came the six young followers whose hearts they broke. In came all the young men and women employed in the business. In came the housemaid with her cousin, the baker. In came the cook with her brother's particular friend, the milkman. In they all came, one after another; some shyly, some boldly, some gracefully, some awkwardly, some pushing, some pulling. In they all came, anyhow and everyhow. Away they all went, 20 couples at once; hands half round, and back again the other way; down the middle, and up again; round and round in various stages of affectionate grouping; old top couple always turning up in the wrong place; new top couple starting off again, as soon as they got there; all top couples at last, and not a bottom one to help them. When this result was brought about, old Fezziwig, clapping his hands to stop the dance, cried out, "Well done." And the fiddler plunged his hot face into a pot of porter, especially provided for that purpose. There were more dances, and there were forfeits, and more dances, and there was cake, and there was negus, and there was a great piece of cold roast, and there was a great piece of cold boiled, and there were mince pies, and plenty of beer. But the great effect of the evening came after the roast and boiled, when the fiddler struck up "Sir Roger de Coverley." Then old Fezziwig stood out to dance with Mrs. Fezziwig. Top couple, too, with a good stiff piece of work cut out for them, three or four and twenty pair of partners, people who were not to be trifled with; people who would dance, and had no notion of walking. But if there had been twice as many, four times, old Fezziwig would've been a match for them, and so would Mrs. Fezziwig. As to her, she was worthy to be hiss partner in every sense of the terms. A positive light appeared to issue from Fezziwig's calves. They shone in every part of the dance. You couldn't have predicted at any given time what would become of them next. And when old Fezziwig and Mrs. Fezziwig had gone through the dance, advance and retire, turn your partner, bow and curtsy, corkscrew, thread the needle and back again to your place, Fezziwig cut; cut so deftly that he appeared to wink with his legs. When the clock struck eleven, this domestic ball broke up. Mr. and Mrs. Fezziwig took their stations, one on every side of the door - either side of the door, and shaking hands with every person individually as he or she went out, wished him or her a merry Christmas. When everybody had retired but the two prentices, they did the same to them. And thus their cheerful voices died away, and the lads were left to their beds, which were under a counter in the back shop. "A small matter," said the ghost, "to make these silly folks so full of gratitude." "He's spent but a few pounds of your mortal money, three or four, perhaps. Is that so much that he deserves this praise?" "It isn't that," said Scrooge, heated by the remark, and speaking unconsciously like his former, not his latter self. "It isn't that, Spirit. He has the power to render us happy or unhappy, to make our service light or burdensome, a pleasure or a toil. Say that his power lies in words, and looks, in things so slight and insignificant that it's impossible to add and count them up; what then? The happiness he gives, is quite as great as if it cost a fortune." He felt the spirit's glance and stopped. "What is the matter?" "Nothing particular." "Something, I think." "No, no. I should just like to be able to say a word or two to my clerk just now. That's all." "My time grows short," observed the spirit. "Quick." This was not addressed at Scrooge, or anyone whom he could see, but it produced an immediate effect. For again he saw himself. He was older now, a man in the prime of life. He was not alone, but sat by the side of a fair young girl in a black dress, in whose eyes there were tears. "It matters little," she said softly, to Scrooge's former self. "To you, very little. Another idol has displaced me. And if it can comfort you in time to come, as I would've tried to do, I have no just cause to grieve." "What idol has displaced you?" "A golden one. I have seen your nobler aspirations fall off, one by one, until the master passion game engrosses you, have I not?" "Oh, what then? Even if I have grown so much wiser, what then? I am not changed towards you. Have I ever sought release from our engagement?" "In words, no, never." "In what then?" "In a changed nature; in an altered spirit; in another atmosphere of life, another hope as its great end. If you were free today, tomorrow, yesterday, can even I believe that you would choose a dowerless girl, or choosing her, do I not know that 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." "Spirit, remove me from this place." "I told you that these were shadows of the things that have been," said the ghost. "But they are what they are. Do not blame me." "Remove me," Scrooge exclaimed. "I cannot bear it. Leave me. Take me back; haunt me no longer." In the struggle, if that can be called a struggle, in which the ghost with no visible resistance on its own part was undisturbed by any effort of its adversary, Scrooge observed that its light was burning high and bright, and dimly connecting that with its influence over him, he seized the extinguisher cap, and by a sudden action, pressed it down upon its head. The spirit dropped beneath it, so that the extinguisher covered its whole form, but though Scrooge pressed it down with all his force, he could not hide the light which streamed from under it in an unbroken flood upon the ground. As he struggled with the spirit, he was conscious of being exhausted and overcome by an irresistible drowsiness; and further, of being in his own bedroom. He gave the cap a parting squeeze, in which his hand relaxed; and had barely time to reel to bed, before he sank into a heavy sleep.

[ Applause ]

>> Chapter Three. "The Third Stave. The Second of the Spirits." Scrooge awoke in his own bedroom. There was no doubt about that. But it, and his own adjoining sitting room into which he shuffled in his slippers, attracted by a great light there, had undergone a surprising transformation. The walls and ceiling were so hung with living green, that it looked like a perfect grove. The leaves of holly, mistletoe, and ivy reflected back the light as if so many little mirrors had been scattered there; and such a mighty blaze went roaring up the chimney, as that petrification of the hearth had never known in Scrooge's time, or Marley's, or for many a winter season gone. Heaped up on the floor, to form a kind of throne, where turkeys, geese, game, brawn, great joints of meat, sucking pigs, long wreaths of sausages, mince-pies, plumb-puddings, barrels of oysters, red-hot chestnuts, cherry-cheeked apples, juicy oranges, luscious pears, immense twelfth cakes, and great bowls of punch. In easy state upon this couch, there sat a giant, glorious to see, who bore a glowing torch in shape not unlike Plenty's horn, and who raised it high to shed its light on Scrooge, as he came peeping round the door. "Come in, come in, and know me better, man. I'm the Ghost of Christmas Present. Look upon me. You've never seen the like of me before." "Never." "Have never walked forth with the younger members of my family; meaning for I am very young - my elder brothers born in these later years?" pursued the phantom. "I don't think I have. I am afraid I have not. Have you had many brothers, Spirit?" "More than eighteen hundred." "A tremendous family to provide for. Spirit, conduct me where you will. I went forth last night on compulsion, and learned a lesson which is working now. Tonight if you have aught to teach me, let me profit by it." "Touch my robe." Scrooge did as he was told, and held it fast. All vanished instantly, the room and its contents, and they stood in the city streets upon a snowy Christmas morning. Scrooge and the ghost passed on, invisible, straight to Scrooge's clerk's. And on the threshold of the door, the spirit smiled and stopped to bless Bob Cratchit's dwelling with the sprinklings of his torch. Think of that. Bob had but fifteen "bob" a week himself; he pocketed on Saturdays but 15 copies of his Christian name. And yet, the Ghost of Christmas Present blessed his four-room house. Then up rose Mrs. Cratchit, Cratchit's wife, dressed out but poorly in a twice-turned gown, but brave in ribbons, which are cheap but make a goodly show for sixpence; and she laid the cloth, assisted by Belinda Cratchit, second of her daughters, also brave in ribbons; while Master Peter Cratchit plunged a fork into the saucepan of potatoes, and getting the corners of his monstrous shirt collar -- Bob's private property, conferred upon his son and heir in honor of the day -- into his mouth, rejoiced to find himself so gallantly attired, and yearned to show his linen in the fashionable parks. And now two smaller Cratchits, boy and girl, came tearing in, screaming that outside the baker's, they had smelled the goose, and known it for their own. And basking in luxurious thoughts of sage and onion, these young Cratchits danced about the table, and exulted Master Peter Cratchit to the skies, while he, not proud, although his collars nearly choked him, blew the fire, until the slow potatoes bubbling up, knocked loudly at the saucepan lid, to be let out and peeled. "What has ever got your precious father then?" said Mrs. Cratchit, "and your brother, Tiny Tim? And Martha weren't as late last Christmas Day by half an hour." "Here's Martha, Mother," said a girl, appearing as she spoke. "Here's Martha, Mother," cried the two young Cratchits. Hurrah, there's such a goose, Martha." "Why, bless your heart alive, my dear, how late you are," said Mrs. Cratchit, kissing her a dozen times, and taking off her shawl and bonnet for her. "We'd a deal of work to finish up last night," replied the girl, "and had to clear away this morning, Mother." "Well, never mind, so long as you're come," said Mrs. Cratchit. "Sit ye down before the fire, my dear, and have a warm, Lord bless ye." "No, no; there's father coming," cried the two young Cratchits, who were everywhere at once. "Hide, Martha, hide." So Martha hid herself, and in came little Bob, the father, with at least three feet of comforter, exclusive of the fringe, hanging down before him, and his threadbare clothes darned up and brushed to look seasonable, and Tiny Tim upon his shoulder. Alas for Tiny Tim, he bore a little crutch, and had his limbs supported by an iron frame. "Why, where's our Martha?" cried Bob Cratchit, looking round. "Not coming," said Mrs. Cratchit. "Not coming?" said Bob, with a sudden declension in his high spirits; for he had been Tim's blood horse all the way from church, and had come home rampant. "Not coming upon "Christmas Day?" Martha didn't like to see him disappointed, if it were only in joke, so she came out prematurely from behind the closet door, and ran into his arms, wile the two young Cratchits hustled Tiny Tim and bore him off into the washhouse, that he might hear the pudding singing in the copper. "And how did little Tim behave?" asked Mrs. Cratchit when she'd rallied Bob on his credulity, and Bob had hugged his daughter to his heart's content. "As good as gold," said Bob, "and better. Somehow, he gets thoughtful, sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. He told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant for them to remember upon Christmas Day, who made lame beggars walk and blind men see." Bob's voice was tremulous when he told them this, and trembled more when he said that Tiny Tim was growing strong and hearty. His active little crutch was heard upon the floor, and back came Tiny Tim before another word was spoken, escorted by his brother and sister to his stool before the fire; And while Bob, turning up his cuffs, as if, poor fellow, they were capable of being made more shabby, compounded some hot mixture in a jug with gin and lemons, and stirred it round and round, and put it on the hob to simmer. Master Peter and the two ubiquitous young Cratchits went to fetch the goose, with which they soon returned in high procession. Mrs. Cratchit made the gravy ready beforehand in a little saucepan, hissing hot. Master Peter mashed the potatoes with incredible vigor. Miss Belinda sweetened up the apple sauce. Martha dusted the hot plates. Bob took Tiny Tim beside him in a tiny corner at the table. The two young Cratchits set chairs for everybody, not forgetting themselves, and mounting guards upon their posts, crammed spoons into their mouths, lest they should shriek for goose before their turn came to be helped. At last the dishes were set on, and grace was said. It was succeeded by a breathless pause, as Mrs. Cratchit, looking slowly all along the carving knife, prepared to plunge it in the breast. But when she did, and with a long expected gush of stuffing issued forth, one murmur of delight arose all round the board, and even Tiny Tim, excited by the two young Cratchits, beat on the table with the handle of his knife, and feebly cried, "Hurrah." There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn't believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Its tenderness and flavor, size, and cheapness, were the themes of universal admiration. Eked out by the apple sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole family. Indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said with great delight, surveying one small atom of a bone upon the dish, "They hadn't ate it all, at last." Yet everyone had had enough, and the youngest Cratchits in particular were steeped in sage and onion, to the eyebrows. But now, the plates being changed by Miss Belinda, Mrs. Cratchit left the room alone, too nervous to bear witnesses, to take the pudding up and bring it in. Suppose it should not be done enough. Suppose it should break in turning out. Suppose somebody should've got over the wall of the backyard and stolen it, while they were merry with the goose - a supposition at which the two young Cratchits became livid. All sorts of horrors were supposed. A great deal of steam. The pudding was out of the copper. A smell like a washing day, that was the cloth. A smell like an eating house and a pastrycook's next door to each other, with a laundress's next door to that; that was the pudding. In half a minute Mrs. Cratchit entered, flushed but smiling proudly, with the pudding, like a speckled cannonball, so hard and firm, blazing in half a half a quartern of ignited brandy, and bedight with Christmas holly stuck into the top. "Oh, a wonderful pudding," Bob Cratchit said, and calmly, too, that he regarded it as the greatest success achieved by Mrs. Cratchit since their marriage. Mrs. Cratchit said that now the weight was off her mind, she would confess that she had her doubts about the quantity of flour. Everybody had something to say about it, but nobody said or thought it was at all a small pudding for a large family. Any Cratchit would've blushed to hint at such a thing. At last the dinner was all done. The cloth was cleared, the hearth swept, and the fire made up. The compound in the jug being tasted and considered perfect, apples and oranges were put upon the table, and a shovelful of chestnuts on the fire. Then all the Cratchit family drew round the hearth in what Bob Cratchit called a circle. And at Bob Cratchit's elbows stood the family display of glass - two tumblers and a custard cup without a handle. These held the hot stuff from the jug, however, as well as golden goblets would've done. And Bob served it out with beaming looks, while the chestnuts on the fire sputtered and cracked noisily. Then Bob proposed, "A merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us," which all the family re-echoed. "God bless us, every one," said Tiny Tim, the last of all. He sat very close to his father's side upon his little stool. Bob held his withered little hand in his, as if he loved the child and wished to keep him by his side, and dreaded that he might be taken from him. Scrooge raised his head speedily on hearing his own name. "Mr. Scrooge," said Bob, "I'll give you Mr. Scrooge, the founder of the feast." The founder of the feast, indeed," cried Mrs. Cratchit, reddening. I wish I had him here. I'd give him a piece of my mind to feast upon, and I hope he'd have good appetite for it. "My dear," said Bob, "the children; Christmas Day." "It should be Christmas Day, I am sure," said she, "On one which drinks the health of such an odious, stingy, hard, unfeeling man as Mr. Scrooge. Oh, you know he is, Robert. Nobody knows it better than you do, poor fellow." "My dear," was Bob's mild answer. "Christmas Day." "I'll drink his health for your sake and the day's," said Mrs. Cratchit. "Not for his. Long life to him." A merry Christmas and a happy New Year. He'll be very merry and very happy, I have no doubt." The children drank the toast after her. It was the first of their proceedings which had no heartiness in it. Tiny Tim drank it last of all, but he didn't care twopence for it. Scrooge was the ogre of the family. The mention of his name cast a dark shadow on the party, which was not dispelled for a full five minutes. After it had passed away, they were ten times merrier than before, from the mere relief of Scrooge the baleful being done with. Bob Cratchit told them how he had a situation in his eye for Master Peter, which would bring in, if obtained, full five-and-sixpence weekly. The two young Cratchits laughed tremendously at the idea of Peter's being a man of business. And Peter himself looked thoughtfully at the fire from between his collars, as if he were deliberating what particular investments he should favor when he came into the receipt of that bewildering income. Martha, who was a poor apprentice at a milliner's, then told them what kind of work she had to do, and how many hours she worked at a stretch, and how she meant to lie abed tomorrow morning for a good, long rest, tomorrow being a holiday she passed at home. Also how she had seen a countess and a lord some days before, and how the lord was much about as tall as Peter. At which, Peter pulled up his collar so high, that you couldn't have seen his head if you'd been there. All this time the chestnuts in the jug went round and round and round; and by-and-by they had a song about a lost child traveling in the snow, from Tiny Tim, who had a plaintive little voice, and sang it very well, indeed. There was nothing in high mark in this. They were not a handsome family. They were not well dressed; Their shoes were far from being waterproof; their clothes were scanty. And Peter might've known, and very likely did, the inside of a pawnbroker's. But they were happy, grateful, pleased with one another, and contended with the time. And when they faded, and looked happier yet in the bright sprinklings of the spirit's torch at parting, Scrooge had his eye upon them, and especially on Tiny Tim, until the last. It was a great surprise to Scrooge, as this scene vanished, to hear a hearty laugh. It was a much greater surprise to Scrooge to recognize it as his own nephew's and to find himself in a bright, dry, gleaming room with the Spirit smiling by his side, and looking at that same nephew. It is a fair, noble-handed, even adjustment of things, that while there is infection, and disease, and sorrow, there is nothing in the world so irresistibly contagious as laughter and good humor. When Scrooge's nephew laughed, Scrooge's niece by marriage, laughed as heartily as he. And their assembled friends, not being a bit behindhand, laughed out lustily. "He said that Christmas was a humbug, as I live," cried Scrooge's nephew. "He believed it, too." "More shame for him, Fred," said Scrooge's niece indignantly. "Bless these women. They never do anything by halves. They are always in earnest. She was very pretty, exceedingly pretty, with a dimpled, surprised-looking, capital face, a ripe little mouth that seemed made to be kissed, as no doubt, it was. All kinds of good little dots about her chin that melted into one another when she laughed, and the sunniest pair of eyes you ever saw on any little creature's head. Altogether she is what you would've called provoking, but satisfactory, too. Oh, perfectly satisfactory. "He's a comical old fellow," said Scrooge's nephew. "That's the truth. And not so pleasant as he might be. However, his offenses carry their own punishment, and I have nothing to say against him. Who suffers by his ill whims? Himself, always. Here he takes it into his head to dislike us, and he won't come and dine with us. What's the consequence? You don't lose much of a dinner." "Indeed, I think he loses a very good dinner," interrupted Scrooge's niece. Everybody else said the same, and they must be allowed to have been competent judges, because they'd just had dinner; And with the dessert upon the table, were clustered round the fire by lamplight. "Well, I'm very glad to hear it," said Scrooge's nephew, "Because I haven't any great faith in these young housekeepers. What do you say, Topper?" Topper clearly had his eye on one of Scrooge's niece's sisters, for he answered that a bachelor was a wretched outcast who had no right to express an opinion on the subject. Whereat Scrooge's niece's sister, the plump one with the lace tucker - not the one with the roses - blushed. After tea, they had some music. For they were a musical family, and knew what they were about when they sang a Catch or Glee, I can assure you; especially Topper, who could growl away in the bass like a good one, and never swell the large veins in his forehead, or get red in the face over it. But they didn't devote the whole evening to music. After a while they played at forfeit; for it's good to be children sometimes, and never better than at Christmas, when its mighty founder was a child, Himself. There was first a game at blind man's buff though, and I no more believe Topper was really blinded, than I believe that I believe that he has eyes in his boots; because the way in which he went after that plump sister in the lace tucker, was an outrage on the credulity of human nature. Knocking down the fire irons, tumbling over the chairs, bumping against the piano, smothering himself among the curtains, wherever she went, there went he. He always knew where the plump sister was. He wouldn't catch anybody else. If you'd fallen up against him, as some of them did, and stood there, he would've made a faint of endeavoring to seize you, which would've been an affront to your understanding, and would instantly have sidled off in the direction of the plump sister.

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"Here is a new game," said Scrooge. "One half hour, Spirit, only one." It was a game called Yes and No, where Scrooge's nephew had to think of something, and the rest must find out what; he only answering to their questions yes or no, as the case was. The fire of questioning to which he was exposed, elicited from him that he was thinking of an animal, a live animal, rather disagreeable animal, a savage animal, an animal that growled and grunted sometimes, and talked sometimes, and lived in London, and walked about the streets, and wasn't made a show of, and wasn't led by anybody, and didn't live in a menagerie, and was never killed in a market, and was not a horse, or an ass, or a cow, or a bull, or a tiger, or a dog, or a pig, or a cat, or a bear. At every new question put to him, his nephew burst into a fresh roar of laughter, and was so inexpressibly tickled that he was obliged to get up off the sofa and stamp. At last the plump sister cried out, "I have found it out. I know what it is, Fred; I know what it is." "What is it?" cried Fred. "It's your Uncle Scroooooge." Which it certainly was. Admiration was the universal sentiment, although some objected to the reply to, "Is it a bear?", ought to have been, "Yes."

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Uncle Scrooge had imperceptibly become so gay and light of heart, that he would've drunk to the unconscious company in an inaudible speech, but the whole scene passed off, and the breath of the last words spoken by his nephew. And he and the Spirit were again upon their travels. Much they saw, and far they went, and many homes they visited, but always with a happy end. The spirit stood beside sickbeds, and they were cheerful; on foreign lands, and they were close at home; by struggling men, and they were patient in their greater hope; by poverty, and it was rich. In almshouse, hospital, and jail, in miseries every refuge, where vain man and his little brief authority had not made fast the door and barred the spirit out, he left hiss blessing and taught Scrooge his precepts. Suddenly, as they stood together in an open place, the bell struck twelve. Scrooge looked about him for the ghost, and saw it no more. As the last stroke ceased to vibrate, he remembered the prediction of old Jacob Marley, and lifting up his eyes, beheld a solemn phantom, draped and hooded, coming like a mist along the ground toward him.

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"Stave 4. The Last of the Spirits." The phantom slowly, gravely, silently approached. When it came near him, Scrooge bent down upon his knee. From the air through which the spirit moved, it seemed to scatter gloom and mystery. It was shrouded in a deep, black garment, which concealed its head, its face, its form, and left nothing of it visible, save one outstretched hand. He knew no more, for the spirit neither spoke nor moved. "I am in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come? Ghost of the Future, I fear you more than any specter I have seen. But as I know your purpose is to do me good, and as I hope to live to be another man from where I was, I'm prepared to bear you company, and do it with a thankful heart. Will you not speak to me?" It gave him no reply. The hand was pointed straight before them. "Lead on. Lead on. The night is waning fast, and it is precious time to me, I know. Lead on, Spirit." They scarcely seemed to enter the city, for the city, rather seemed to spring up about them. For there they were in the heart of it on change, amongst the merchants. The spirit stopped beside one little knot of business men. Observing that the hand was pointed to them, Scrooge advanced to listen to their talk. "Nope," said a great, fat man with a monstrous chin, "I don't know much about it either way. I only know he's dead." "When did he die?" enquired another. "Why? What was the matter with him? I thought He'd never die." "God knows," said the first, with a yawn. "What's he done with his money?" asked a red-faced gentleman. "I haven't heard," said the man with the last -- large chin. "Company perhaps? He hasn't left it to me; that's all I know. Bye-bye." Scrooge was at first inclined to be surprised that the spirit should attach importance to conversation apparently so trivial. But feeling assured that it must have some hidden purpose, he set himself to consider what was likely to be. For it could scarcely be supposed to have any bearing on the death of Jacob, his own partner, for that was past, and this ghost's province was the future. He looked about in that very place for his own image, but another man stood in his accustomed corner. And though the clock pointed to his usual time of day for being there, he saw no likeness of himself among the multitudes that poured in through the porch. It gave him little surprise; however, for he'd been revolving in his mind a change of life. For he thought and hoped he saw his new born resolutions carried out in this. They left this busy scene and went into an obscure part of the town to a low shop, where iron, old rags, bottles, bones, and greasy awful were bought. A gray-haired rascal of great age sat smoking his pipe. Scrooge and the phantom came in to the presence of this man, just as a woman with a heavy bundle slunk in to the shop. But she'd scarcely entered, when another woman similarly laden came in too, and she was closely followed by a man in faded black. After a short period of blank astonishment, in which the old man with the pipe had joined them, they all three burst into a laugh. "Let the char woman alone to be the first," cried she who had entered first. "Let the laundress alone to be the second, and let the undertaker's man alone to be the third. Look here, old Joe, here's a chance! If we haven't all three met here without meaning it." "You couldn't have met in a better place. You were made free of it long ago, you know; and the other two ain't strangers. What have you got to sell? What have you got to sell?" "Half a minute's patience, Joe, and you shall see." "What odds then! What odds, Mrs. Dilber?" said the woman. "Every person has the right to take care of themselves. He always did. Who's the worse for a few things like these? Not a dead man, I suppose?" Mrs. Dilber, whose manner was remarkable for general propitiation, said "No indeed, ma'am." "If he wanted to keep them after he was dead, a wicked old screw, why wasn't he natural in his lifetime? 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 there, alone by himself." "It's the truest word that ever was spoke. It's a judgment on him." "I wish it was a little heavier judgment; and it should have been, you may depend upon it. If I could have laid my hands on anything else. Open that bundle, old Joe, and let me know the value of it. Speak out plain. I'm not afraid to be the first, nor afraid for them to see it." Joe went down on his knees for the greater convenience of opening the bundle, and dragged out a large and heavy roll of some dark stuff. "What do you call this? Bed curtains?" "Ah, bed curtains! Don't drop that oil upon the blankets, now!" "His blankets?" asked Joe. "Who else's do you think? He isn't likely to take cold without them, I dare say. Ah, you may look through that shirt till your eyes ache, but you won't find a hole in it, nor a threadbare place. It's the best he had, and a fine one too. They'd have wasted it by dressing him up in it if it hadn't have been for me." Scrooge listened to this dialog in horror. "Spirit, ah, I see; I see. The case of this unhappy man might be my own. My life tends that way now. Merciful heavens! What is this?" The scene had changed; and now he almost touched a bare, uncurtained bed. A pale light rising in the outer air fell straight upon this bed and on it, unwatched, unwept, uncared for, was the body of this plundered man, unknown. "Spirit, let me see some tenderness connected with the death; or this dark chamber, spirit, will forever be present to me." The ghost conducted him to poor Bob Cratchit's house, the dwelling he'd visited before, and found the mother and the children seated round the fire quiet, very quiet. The noisy little Cratchits were as still as statues in one corner and sat looking up at Peter, who had a book before him. The mother and her daughters were engaged in needlework; but surely, they were very quiet. "...And he took a child and set him in the midst of them." Where had Scrooge heard those words? He'd not dreamed them. The boy must have read them out as he and the spirit crossed the threshold. Why did he not go on? The mother laid her work upon the table and put her hand up to her face. "The color hurts my eyes." She said. "The color? Ah, poor Tiny Tim. They're better now again; it makes them weak by candle light; and I wouldn't show weak eyes to your father when he comes home, for the world. It must be near his time." "Past it, rather," Peter answered, shutting up his book. "But I think he's walked a little slower than he used, these few evenings, Mother." "I've known him walk with Tiny Tim upon his shoulder, very fast indeed." "And so have I," cried Peter, "often." "And so have I," exclaimed another. So had all. "But he was very light to carry; and his father loved him so that it was no trouble -- no trouble. And - and there is your father at the door." She hurried out to meet him. And little Bob, in his comforter - he had need of it, poor fellow - came in. His tea was ready for him on the hob and they all tried, who should help him to it most. Then the two young Cratchits got upon his knees and laid each child, a little cheek against his face, as if they said "Don't mind it, Father. Don't be grieved." Bob was very cheerful with them, and spoke pleasantly to all the family. He looked at the work upon the table and praised the industry and speed of Mrs. Cratchit and the girls. "You will be done long before Sunday," he said. "Sunday? You went today then, Robert?" "Yes, my dear," returned Bob. "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 that I would walk there on a Sunday. My little, little child! My little child!" He broke down all at once. He couldn't help it. If he could have helped it, he and his child would have been farther apart, perhaps, than they were. "Specter," said Scrooge, "something informs me that our parting moment is at hand. I know it; but I know not how. Tell me what man that was with the covered face whom we saw lying dead." The ghost of Christmas yet to come conveyed him to a dismal, wretched, ruinous graveyard. The spirit stood among the graves and pointed down to one. "Before I draw nearer to that stone to which you point, answer me one question. Are these the shadows of things that will be? Or are they shadows of things that may be, only?" Still, the ghost pointed downward to the grave by which it stood. "Men's courses will foreshadow certain ends, to which, if persevered in, they must lead. But if the courses be departed from, the ends will change. Say it is thus with what you show me!" The spirit was as immovable as ever. Scrooge crept towards it, trembling as he went. And following the finger, read upon the stone of the neglected grave, his own name-Ebenezer Scrooge. "Am I that man who lay upon the bed? Oh, spirit! Oh, no, no! Spirit, hear me! I -- I'm not the man I was. I will not be the man I must have been, but for this intercourse. Why show me this if I am past all hope? Assure me that I may yet change these shadows you have shown me by an altered life." For the first time, the kind hand faltered. "I will honor Christmas in my heart; try to keep it all the year. I will live in the past, the present and the future. The spirits of all three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach. Oh, tell me, that I may sponge away the writing on this stone." Holding up his hands in a last prayer to have his fate reversed, he saw an alteration in the phantom's hood and dress. It shrunk, collapsed, and dwindled down into a bed post. Yes! And the bed post 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. He was checked in his transports by the churches ringing out the lustiest peals he'd ever heard. Running to the window, he opened it and put out his head. No fog; no mist; no night. Clear, bright, staring, golden day. "What - what's today?" called - cried Scrooge, calling downward to a boy in Sunday clothes who perhaps had loitered in to look about him. "Hey?" "What's today, my fine fellow?" "Today? Why, Christmas day!" "It's Christmas day! I haven't missed it! Hello, my fine fellow?" "Hello." "Do you know the poulterers in the next street but one, at the corner?" "I should hope I did." "An intelligent boy! A remarkable boy! Do you know whether they've sold the prize turkey that was hanging up? And not the little prize turkey; the big one?" "What; the one as big as me?" "What a delightful boy! It's a pleasure to talk to him! Yes, me buck!" "It's hanging there now." "Is it? Go and buy it!" "Walk-er!" exclaimed the boy. "No, no; I - I'm in earnest. Go and buy it and tell them 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. "I'll send it to bob Cratchit's. 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 it, he did, somehow; and went downstairs to open the street door, ready for the coming of the poulterer's man. It was a turkey! He never could have stood upon his legs, that bird! He would have snapped them short off in a minute, like sticks of sealing wax. Scrooge dressed himself all in his best and at last got out into the streets. The people were by this time, pouring forth as he'd 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-humored fellows said "Good morning, sir. 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. 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; then he made a dash, and did it. "Is - is your master at home, my dear?" said Scrooge to the girl. Nice girl, very. "Yes sir." "Where is he, my love?" "He's in the dining room, sir, along with the mistress." "Ah, he knows me," said Scrooge, with his hand already on the dining room lock. "I'll go in there, my dear. Fred!" "Why bless my soul!" cried Fred. "Who's that?" "It's I, your Uncle Scrooge. I've 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 every one when they came. Wonderful party, wonderful games, wonderful unanimity, wonderful 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 thing he'd set his heart upon. And he did it. The clock struck nine. No bob. A quarter past. No Bob. Bob was full 18 minutes and a half behind his time. Scrooge sat with his door wide open, that he might see him come into the tank. Bob's hat was off before he opened the door; his comforter too. He was on his stool on a jiffy, driving away with his pen as if he were trying to overtake nine o'clock. "Hello," growled Scrooge in his accustomed voice as near as he could feign it. "What do you mean by coming here at this time of the day?" "Oh, I - I'm very sorry, sir. I - I am behind my time." "You are? Yes, I think you are. Step this way if you please." "Oh, it's only once a year, sir. It shall not be repeated. I was making rather merry, yesterday, sir." "Now, I'll tell you what, my friend. I am not going to stand this sort of thing any longer; and therefore, " Scrooge continued, leaping from his stool and giving Bob such a dig in the waistcoat that he staggered back into the tank again, "and therefore, I'm about to raise your salary!"

[ Laughter ]

Bob trembled and got a little nearer to the ruler. "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've given you for many a year. I'll raise your salary and endeavor to assist your struggling family. And we will discuss your affairs this very afternoon after a bowl of Smoking Bishop, Bob. Make up the fires and buy a second coal scuttle 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 a 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 his own heart laughed, and that was quite enough for him. He had no further intercourse with spirits, but lived in that respect 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!"

[ Applause ]

>> All right; that was Neil Gaiman reading "A Christmas Carol", using Charles Dickens's own prompt copy that, again, we have here at the library. And if you'd like to see images of it, you can go to digitalcollections.nypl.org to take a look. "Library Talks" is produced by Schuyler Swenson with editorial support from Richert Schnorr and myself.