Chapter 23

"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 the 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-waist-coat.

"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 endeavor to assist your struggling family, and we will discuss your affairs this very afternoon, over a Christmas bowl of smoking bishop, Bob! Make up the fires, and buy another 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 he let them laugh, and little heeded them; for he was wise enough to know that 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 anyway, 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!

FOOTNOTES:

[247-1] The fogs of London are famous. A genuine London fog seems not like the heavy gray mist which we know as a fog, but, as Dickens says, like "palpable brown air." So dense is this brown air at times that all traffic is obliged to cease, for not even those best acquainted with the geography of the city can find their way about.

[251-2] _Bedlam_ is the name of a famous asylum for lunatics, in London. In former times the treatment of the inmates was far from humane, but at the present time the management is excellent, and a large proportion of the inmates are cured.

[252-3] Workhouses are establishments where paupers are cared for, a certain amount of labor being expected from those who are able.

[252-4] In England formerly there existed a device for the punishment of prisoners which was known as the _treadmill_. A huge wheel, usually in the form of a long hollow cylinder, was provided with steps about its circumference, and made to revolve by the weight of the prisoner as he moved from step to step.

[253-5] Links are torches made of tow and pitch. In the days before the invention of street lights, they were in common use in England, and they are still seen during the dense London fogs.

[254-6] Saint Dunstan was an English archbishop and statesman who lived in the tenth century.

[254-7] This is one of the best-known and oftenest-sung of Christmas carols. In many parts of England, parties of men and boys go about for several nights before Christmas singing carols before people's houses. These troops of singers are known as "waits."

[258-8] The splinter-bar is the cross-bar of a vehicle, to which the traces of the horses are fastened.

[261-9] There is a play on the word _bowels_ here. What Scrooge had heard said of Marley was that he had no bowels of compassion--that is, no pity.

[277-10] Scrooge sees and recognizes the heroes of the books which had been almost his only comforters in his neglected childhood.

[284-11] "Sir Roger de Coverley" is the English name for the old-fashioned country-dance which is called in the United States the "Virginia Reel."

[300-12] Biffins are an excellent variety of apples raised in England.

[301-13] _Baker's_ here does not mean exactly what it means with us. In England the poorer people often take their dinners to a baker's to be cooked.

[303-14] A _bob_, in English slang, is a shilling.

[311-15] _Five-and-sixpence_ means five shillings and sixpence, or about $1.32.

[319-16] In what sense has Scrooge "resorted to the sexton's spade that buried Jacob Marley" to cultivate the kindnesses of life?

[320-17] "I love my love" is an old game of which there are several slightly different forms. The player says "I love my love with an _A_ because he's--," giving some adjective beginning with _A_; "I hate him with an _A_ because he's--; I took him to--and fed him on--," all the blanks being filled with words beginning with _A_. This is carried out through the whole alphabet.

[346-18] The Laocoön is a famous ancient statue of a Trojan priest, Laocoön, and his two sons, struggling in the grip of two monstrous serpents. You have doubtless seen pictures of the group. Dickens's figure gives us a humorously exaggerated picture of Scrooge and his stockings.

[349-19] This is a slang expression, used to express incredulity. It has somewhat the same meaning as the slang phrase heard in the United States--"Over the left."

[349-20] Joe Miller was an English comedian who lived from 1684 to 1738. The year after his death there appeared a little book called _Joe Miller's Jests_. These stories and jokes, however, were not written by Miller.

CHRISTMAS IN OLD TIME

_By_ Sir Walter Scott

Heap on more wood![356-1]--the wind is chill; But let it whistle as it will, We'll keep our Christmas merry still. Each age has deem'd the new-born year The fittest time for festal cheer:[356-2] And well our Christian sires of old Loved when the year its course had roll'd, And brought blithe Christmas back again, With all his hospitable train.[356-3] Domestic and religious rite[356-4] Gave honor to the holy night; On Christmas Eve the bells were rung;[356-5] On Christmas Eve the mass[356-6] was sung: That only night in all the year, Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear.[356-7] The damsel donn'd her kirtle sheen;[356-8]

The hall was dress'd with holly green; Forth to the wood did merry-men go, To gather in the mistletoe.[357-9] Then open'd wide the baron's hall To vassal,[357-10] tenant,[357-11] serf,[357-12] and all; Power laid his rod of rule aside,[357-13] And ceremony doff'd his pride.[357-14] The heir, with roses in his shoes,[357-15] That night might village partner choose;[357-16] The lord, underogating,[357-17] share The vulgar game of "post and pair."[357-18] All hail'd, with uncontroll'd delight And general voice, the happy night, That to the cottage, as the crown, Brought tidings of Salvation down.[357-19]

The fire, with well-dried logs supplied, Went roaring up the chimney wide; The huge hall-table's oaken face, Scrubb'd till it shone, the day to grace, Bore then upon its massive board No mark to part the squire and lord.[358-20] Then was brought in the lusty brawn,[358-21] By old blue-coated serving-man; Then the grim boar's head frown'd on high, Crested with bays and rosemary.[358-22] Well can the green-garb'd ranger[358-23] tell, How, when, and where, the monster fell; What dogs before his death he tore, And all the baiting of the boar.[358-24] The wassail[358-25] round, in good brown bowls, Garnish'd with ribbons, blithely trowls.[358-26]

There the huge sirloin reek'd; hard by Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pie;[358-27] Nor fail'd old Scotland to produce, At such high tide, her savory goose. Then came the merry maskers in, And carols roar'd with blithesome din: If unmelodious was the song, It was a hearty note, and strong. Who lists may in their mumming see Traces of ancient mystery;[359-28] White shirts supplied the masquerade, And smutted cheeks the visors made;--[359-29] But, O! what maskers, richly dight, Can boast of bosoms, half so light![359-30] England was merry England, when Old Christmas brought his sports again. 'Twas Christmas broach'd the mightiest ale; 'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale; A Christmas gambol oft could cheer The poor man's heart through half the year.

FOOTNOTES:

[356-1] Is there a stove or a fireplace in the room where the poet sees Christmas kept?

[356-2] What is cheer? What is festal cheer?

[356-3] What is a "train"? How could it be called a hospitable train? Whose train was it?

[356-4] What is a rite?

[356-5] What bells were rung?

[356-6] What is a mass?

[356-7] What is a _stoled_ priest? What is a chalice? What did the priest do when he reared the chalice?

[356-8] The kirtle was a dress-skirt or outer petticoat. _Sheen_ means _gay_ or _bright_.

[357-9] What is mistletoe? Is there anything peculiar in its habits of growth? What did they want of it? What custom is still said to follow the use of mistletoe at Christmastime?

[357-10] A vassal was one of the followers of the baron and paid for protection or for lands he held by fighting in the baron's troops or rendering some other service.

[357-11] A tenant held lands or houses, for which he paid some form of rent.

[357-12] A serf was a slave.

[357-13] At Christmastime even the powerful were willing to cease from ruling and join with the common people.

[357-14] Instead of grand ceremonies, everybody joined in simple amusements, without pride or prejudice.

[357-15] Who was the heir? What was he heir to? Why did he have roses in his shoes?

[357-16] Was he permitted to dance with village maidens at any other time?

[357-17] Without losing any of his dignity.

[357-18] An old-fashioned game of cards.

[357-19] Who brought the tidings of Salvation? To whom was it brought? Who was "the crown"?

[358-20] A lord was one who had power and authority, while a squire was merely an attendant upon a lord.

[358-21] Brawn, in England, is a preparation of meat, generally sheep's head, pig's head, hock of beef, or boar's meat, boiled and seasoned, and run into jelly moulds.

[358-22] What are bays? What is rosemary? Why should the boar's head be called _crested_? Where was it? Why was it there? Why does the poet say it _frowned_ on high?

[358-23] Who was a ranger? What did he do? Do you see any reason for his being green-garbed?

[358-24] What is meant by _baiting_? Who tore the dogs? Why did he tear them? What made the monster fall?

[358-25] Wassail (_wossil_): the liquor in which they drank their toasts, and which signified the good cheer of Christmastime.

[358-26] Moves about; that is, the liquor in good brown bowls was merrily passed along the table from hand to hand.

[358-27] What was near the sirloin? How many kinds of meat were there on the table? Is anything mentioned besides meat? Do you suppose they had other things to eat? Did they have bread and vegetables?

[359-28] In the _mumming_ or acting of these maskers could be seen traces of the ancient mystic plays in which religious lessons were given in plays that were acted with the approval of the church.

[359-29] Did the maskers have rich costumes? What did they wear over their faces? How did they conceal their clothing?

[359-30] Does the poet think that rich maskers would enjoy their pleasure as much as the old-fashioned Christmas merrymakers?

ELEGY

WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD

_By_ THOMAS GRAY

NOTE.--A mournful song written to express grief at the loss of some friend or relative, and at the same time to praise the dead person, is known as an elegy. Sometimes the word has a wider meaning, and includes a poem which expresses the same ideas but applies them to a class of people rather than to an individual. Such a poem is not so personal, and for that very reason it will be appreciated by a larger number of readers. Gray's _Elegy_ is of the latter class--is perhaps the one great poem of that class; for in all probability more people have loved it and found in its gentle sadness, its exquisite phraseology and its musical lines more genuine charm than in any similar poem in the language.

To one who already loves it, any comments on the poem may at first thought seem like desecration, but, on the other hand, there is so much more in the _Elegy_ than appears at first glance that it is worth while to read it in the light of another's eyes. Not a few persons find some enjoyment in reading, but fall far short of the highest pleasure because of their failure really to comprehend the meaning of certain words and forms of expression. For that reason, notes are appended where they may be needed. A good reader is never troubled by notes at the bottom of the page. If they are of no interest or benefit to him, he knows it with a glance and passes on with his reading. If the note is helpful, he gathers the information and returns to his reading, beginning not at the word from which the reference was made, but at the beginning of the sentence or stanza; then he loses nothing by going to the footnote.

The curfew[361-1] tolls the knell[361-2] of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;[361-3]

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower[362-4] The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign.[362-5]

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mold'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude[362-6] forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion,[362-7] or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.[362-8]

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care;[362-9] No children run to lisp their sire's return,[363-10] Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe[363-11] has broke; How jocund[363-12] did they drive their team a-field! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition[363-13] mock their useful toil, Their homely joys and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await[363-14] alike th' inevitable hour: The paths of glory lead but to the grave.[363-15]

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where, through the long-drawn aisle[364-16] and fretted vault, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust[364-17] Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke[364-18] the silent dust, Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;[364-19] Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.[364-20]

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;[364-21] Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood, Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest-- Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.[365-22]

Th' applause[365-23] of listening senates to command The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,[365-24] And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.[366-25]

Far from the madding[366-26] crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learned to stray; Along the cool, sequestered vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect Some frail memorial[366-27] still erected nigh, With uncouth[366-28] rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unlettered Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply; And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die.[366-29]

For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind?[367-30]

On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee,[367-31] who, mindful of th' unhonored dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely Contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, "Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn, Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Mutt'ring his wayward fancies, he would rove; Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love.

"One morn I missed him from the customed hill, Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree. Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he.

"The next, with dirges due,[368-32] in sad array, Slow through the church way path we saw him borne.-- Approach and read, for thou canst read, the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."[368-33]

THE EPITAPH

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth, A youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown: Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth, And Melancholy marked him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere; Heaven did a recompense as largely send: He gave to Misery, all he had, a tear, He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God.

Thomas Gray was born in London on the twenty-sixth of December, 1716, and received his education at Cambridge, where he lived most of his quiet life and where he died in 1771. He was a small and graceful man with handsome features and rather an effeminate appearance, always dressed with extreme care. The greater part of his life was spent in neatly furnished rooms among his books, for he was a hard student, and became noted as one of the first scholars of his time. Among his friends he was witty and entertaining, but among strangers, quiet and reserved, almost timid. He loved his mother devotedly, and after her death he kept her dress neatly folded in his trunk, always by him. Innocent, well-meaning, gentle and retiring, he drew many warm friends to him, though his great learning and his fondness for giving information made many people think him something of a prig.

It might be considered a weakness in the _Elegy_ that it drifts into an elegy on the writer, who becomes lost in the pathos of his own sad end. Yet, knowing the man as we do, we can understand his motives and forgive the seeming selfishness. He is not the only poet whose own sorrows, real or imaginary, were his greatest inspiration.

The metre of the _Elegy_ had been used, before Gray's time, by Sir John Davies for his _Immortality of the Soul_, Sir William Davenant in his _Gondibert_, and Dryden in his _Annus Mirabilis_, and others; but in no instance so happily as here by Gray. In the _Elegy_ the quatrain has not the somewhat disjunctive and isolating effect that it has in some other works where there is continuous argument or narrative that should run on with as few metrical hindrances as possible. It is well adapted to convey a series of solemn reflections, and that is its work in the _Elegy_.

FOOTNOTES:

[361-1] In some of our American towns and cities a curfew bell is rung as a signal that the children must leave the streets and go to their homes. Many years ago it was the custom in English villages to ring a bell at nightfall as a signal for people to cover their fires with ashes to preserve till morning, and as a signal for bed. The word _curfew_, in fact, is from the French, and means _cover fire_.

[361-2] The word _knell_ suggests death, and gives the first mournful note to the poem.

[361-3] The sheep are shut up for the night in the _folds_ or pens. What are the _tinklings_? Why should they be called _drowsy_?

[362-4] The poem is supposed to have been written in the yard of Stoke-Pogis church, a little building with a square tower, the whole covered with a riotous growth of ivy vines. The church is in the country, not many miles from Windsor Castle; and even to this day the beautiful landscape preserves the rural charms it had in Gray's time. We must not suppose that Gray actually sat in the churchyard and wrote his lines. As a matter of fact, he was a very careful and painstaking writer, and for eight years was at work on this poem, selecting each word so that it should express just the shade of meaning he wanted and give the perfect melody he sought. However, he did begin the poem at Stoke in October or November of 1742 and continued it there in November, 1749; but it was finished in Cambridge in June, 1750.