You may talk vaguely about driving a coach' and-six up a good old flight of stairs，or through a bad young Act of Parliament；but I mean to say you might have got a hearse up that staircase，and taken it broadwise，with the splinter-bar towards the wall and the door towards the balustrades；and done it easy. There was plenty of width for that，and room to spare；which is perhaps the reason why Scrooge thought he saw a locomotive hearse going on before him in the gloom. Half a dozen gas-lamps out of the street wouldn’t have lighted the entry too well，so you may suppose that it was pretty dark with Scrooge’s dip.
Up Scrooge went，not caring a button for that. 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. Lumber-room as usual. Old fire-guard，old shoes，two fish-baskets，washing-stand on three legs，and a poker.
Quite satisfied，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 night-cap；and sat down before the fire to take his gruel.
It was a very low fire indeed；nothing on such a bitter night. He was obliged to sit close to it，and brood over it，before he could extract the least sensation of warmth from such a handful of fuel. The fireplace was an old one，built by some Dutch merchant long ago，and paved all round with quaint Dutch tiles，designed to illustrate the Scriptures. There were Cains and Abels，Pharaoh’s daughters，Queens of Sheba，angelic messengers descending through the air on clouds like feather-beds，Abrahams，Belshazzars，Apostles putting off to sea in butter-boats，hundreds of figures to attract his thoughts；and yet that face of Marlcy，seven years dead，came like the ancient prophet's rod，and swallowed up the whole. If cach smooth tile had been a blank at first，with power to shape some picture on its surface from the disjointed fragment of his thoughts，there would have been a copy of old Marley’s head on every one.
“ Humbug！” said Scrooge；and walked across the room.
After several turns，he sat down again. 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 storey 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. It swung so softly in the outset that it scarcely made a sound；but soon it rang out loudly，and so did every bell in the house.
This might have lasted half a minute，or a minute，but it seemed an hour. The bells ceased as they had begun，together. They were 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. Scrooge then remembered to have heard that ghosts in haunted houses were described as dragging chains.
The cellar door flew open with a booming sound，and then he heard the noise much louder，on the floors below；then coming up the stairs；then coming straight towards his door.
“ It’s humbug still！” said Scrooge. “ I won’t believe it.”
His colour changed，though，when，without a pause，it came on through the heavy door，and passed into the room before his eyes. Upon its coming in，the dying flame leaped up，as though it cried，“ I know him！Marley’s ghost！” and fell again.
The same face：the very same. Marley in his pigtail，usual waistcoat，tights，and boots；the tassels on the latter bristling，like his pigtail，and his coat-skirts，and the hair upon his head. The chain he drew was clasped about his middle. It was long，and wound about him like a tail；and it was made （for Scrooge observed it closely） of cash-boxes，keys，padlocks，ledgers，deeds，and heavy purses wrought in steel. His body was transparent；so that Scrooge，observing him，and looking through bis waistcoat，could see the two buttons on his coat behind.
Scrooge had often heard it said that Marley had no bowels，but he had never believed it until now.
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 his head and chin，which wrapper he had not observed before；he was still incredulous，and fought against his senses.
“ 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 <i>was</i>.”
“ Who <i>were</i> you then ？ ” said Scrooge，raising his voice. “You’re particular，for a shade.” He was going to say “ <i>to</i> a shade，” but substituted this，as more appropriate.
“ In life I was your partner，Jacob Marley.”
“ Can you—can you sit down ？ ” asked Scrooge，looking doubtfully at him.
“ 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；and felt that in the event of its being impossible，it might involve the necessity of an embarrassing explanation. 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，” observed the ghost.
“ I don’t，” said Scrooge.
“ What evidence would you have of my reality beyond that of your senses ？ ”
“ I don’t know，” said Scrooge.
“ Why do you doubt your senses ？”
“ Because，said Scrooge，“ 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 terror；for the spectre’s voice disturbed the very marrow in his bones.
To sit，staring at those fixed glazed eyes，in silence for a moment，would play，Scrooge felt，the very deuce with him. There was something very awful，too，in the spectres being provided with an infernal atmosphere of its own. Scrooge could not feel it himself，but this was clearly the case；for though the ghost sat perfectly motionless，its hair，its skirts，and tassels were still agitated as by the hot vapour from an oven.
“ You see this toothpick ？ ” said Scrooge，returning quickly to the charge，for the reason just assigned；and wishing，though it were only for a second，to pert the vision’s stony gaze from himself.
“ I do，” replied the ghost.
“ You are not looking at it，” said Scrooge.
“ But I see it，” said the ghost，“ notwithstanding.”
“Well！” returned Scrooge，“I have but to swallow this，and be for the rest of my days persecuted by a legion of goblins，all of my own creation. Humbug，I tell you—humbug！”
At this the spirit raised a frightful cry，and shook its chain with such a dismal and appalling noise，that Scrooge held on tight to his chair，to save himself from falling in a swoon. 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！
Scrooge fell upon his knees，and clasped his hand before his face.
“ Mercy！” he said. “ Dreadful apparition，why do you trouble me ？ ”
“ Man of the worldly mind，” replied the ghost，“ do you believe in me or not ？ ”
“ I do，” said Scrooge. “ I must. But why do spirits walk the earth，and why do they come to me ？ ”
“ It is required of every man，”the ghost returned，“ that the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellow-men，and travel far and wide；and if that spirit goes not forth in life，it is condemned to do so after death. It is doomed to wander through the world—oh，woe is me！—and witness what it cannot share，but might have shared on earth，and turned to happiness！”
Again the spectre raised a cry，and shook its chain and wrung its shadowy hands.
“You are fettered，” said Scrooge，trembling. “ Tell me why！”