Beyond Humbug

Excerpted from The Trial of Ebenezer Scrooge by Bruce Bueno de Mesquita. (c) 2001 The Ohio State University. Reprinted with permission of Ohio State University Press. All rights reserved. Buy the book from Amazon.com and help support GraceOnline.

When last we cast our weary eyes upon Ebenezer Scrooge, it was Christmas day 1843. He was a man transformed. No longer the miser known to all of London town, Scrooge was now a good and gentle man. He had given his word to those long-ago ghostly visitors whose coming Jacob Marley had foretold, promising that he would dedicate the remainder of his worldly days to making our journey on this earth a gentler, kinder, happier one. And Scrooge was better than his word. He became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man, as the good old city of London knew, or any other good old city, town or borough, in the good old world.

 We look back now on Scrooge in the last few days of his mortal life. The cold snow and blustery wind remind us that Christmas is fast approaching: Christmas 1856. We meet Ebenezer Scrooge, now a very old man indeed, as he makes his way through the dreary lanes of London town. We climb with him to the top of Ludgate Hill, being careful of the children sliding joyfully down the frosted street, and look down upon the snowy fields of St. Paul's churchyard. There, surrounding Christopher Wren's great edifice, we see a myriad of Londoners going about their merry business upon the eve of Christmas. Just in front of the great church's steps is gathered a gaggle of people who are mercilessly taunting an ancient biddy.

  "A penny fer some cheer, a bone fer me dog. A penny fer some cheer, a bone fer me dog. A penny fer some cheer, a bone fer me poor dog," was the endlessly repeated chant of the ragged old hag, herself made up of little more meat than one might find on just such a bone. Her croaking voice, emerging from the steps of St. Paul's Cathedral, was drowned out by the unkind looks and harsh quips tossed her way by some of London's finest folk as they made their way down Fleet Street to the Middle Temple. Few cared enough to make even a trembling donation to the pot laid down just by the bared teeth of her mangy, protruding ribs of a beast; a dog that looked as though it bad better be given lunch soon lest it mistake a passerby for a tasty morsel. Scrooge, as be did every day at this time, worked his way through the sneering crowd, never fearing beast nor hag, to give the lady a shilling and the dog a scrap of food and a sympathetic tickle under its chin. Though be did not enliven this ritual today with a smile--he never did--neither did be forsake the beggared woman and beast.

We look back now on Scrooge in the last few days of his mortal life.

"God bless ye kind sir, God bless yur goodness and damn these miserable creatures here what gives me nothin' but grief and pain." Ebenezer did not pause to take in the woman's praise or to hear her curses but rather continued on his slow passage through the town. Even as the old crone called out to Scrooge, promoting his salvation, others--gentlemen solicitors and barristers called to the bar, gentlemen who sat in judgment of their fellow beings--decried his generosity, fearing his was just the weakness that would assure the decline of the British Empire. Scrooge paid them no mind either. As be made his slow and steady way, he popped an occasional raisin into his almost smiling mouth.

On this particular and fateful evening, Scrooge's meandering took him toward a narrow lane, a cold corner of London well known to him during his days as proprietor of Scrooge and Marley, Moneylenders. In but a few minutes' time, quite nearby St. Paul's, Scrooge found himself in the midst of a small, frosted crowd, a few members of which passed in and out of a humble pub, the venerable George and Vulture. Scrooge, lurking in the shadows in order to remain unseen, contented himself by listening to an exchange between a few hoary gentlemen who stood in the pub's doorway, arguing the precepts of their religion.

"What greater charity can the good Lord have had in mind," said one stout, red-nosed fellow, "than to assist some unknown, unwashed needy soul; a soul who can offer no recompense but gratitude? It is a blessing indeed to give to such a soul as that.

"The best charity is a sturdy kick in the arse! Let them needy beggars work like honest folk and not bother me, that's my answer to you, good sir!" retorted a middle-aged gentleman who was holding a great tankard of beer in one hand and a jangling purse in the other. "What need have they to be poor and bothersome in a land of such wealth and opportunity as this? No sir, if they are poor it is because they choose to be so."

And so the argument went back and forth, with no progress made but in the wealth of the innkeeper who kept these gentlemen in their cups. The drinkers tarried long, pursuing their debate with much good cheer and energy. None seemed in such a hurry that a moment of repartee would be sacrificed to job or familial duty.

Their animated debate and clanking of tankards were unexpectedly interrupted by a solitary, meager voice, choking back the cold, embarrassed by her misery. On her knees, young Molly begged for charity from the gentlemen at the George and Vulture. Molly's face was dirty. Her head displayed a tangled mass of hair that matched the dishevelment of her plain, torn dress. Those in the crowd who cared enough to notice her at all observed Molly's unkemptness with such disgust that they did not see the kindness shining in her eyes or the gentility in her youthful bearing. But they could not escape the frail cries of the small child clutching at her bosom.

"Oh good, kind gentlemen, spare a little compassion for my poor child's soul. Can you find it in your hearts to give us some small trifle for food; just a penny or two, but a penny or two? Anything, please, anything for my little angel this Christmas Eve." No response did she receive. "Something for my wee babe. She is so, so cold."

Molly, on her knees, her head cast down in shame, one hand stretched out in humiliation, the other grasping her little daughter--the rapidly dimming light of her life--interrupted the debaters of fine religious precepts as they milled about like birds of prey waiting for the flicker of life to depart some poor soul.

Going from gentleman to gentleman, tugging at their jackets, she pleaded. "I ask nothing for myself, but my dear little one, oh Lord please help. She is nothing but an innocent helpless baby. Look at how pretty she is, how good and brave." Molly propped up the frail, tired child, who opened her sleepy eyes a little wider. "Eppie dear, smile for the gentlemen, sing a little joyful Christmas carol for them. Show them how you appreciate their kindness and generosity. They take pity on you dear, I know they do. I know it. Christmas Eve, it is Christmas Eve." The girl, obeying her mother's wishes, sang with all the sincerity her little body could muster, "God save ye merry gentlemen, Let nothing you dismay."

Eppie's song faded with the crowd. In apparent obedience to the song's refrain, undismayed, they turned away from the starving mother and her listless, half-frozen little girl. The gentlemen flew away from Molly and into the beckoning warmth of the pub or along the snow-laden paths that would carry them home. They could no longer tarry where, but a minute ago, time was the cheapest thing they owned. The man with the jangling purse broke off his discussion to return home to his family. His haste was only exceeded by that of his stout companion, who had a sudden remembrance of duties that could not be postponed an instant. As these good gentlemen dashed off to the cares of their own lives, Molly pleaded, "Oh please, won't you even look on her sweet face and golden hair? I'll sell a lock for ha'penny. A ha'penny is all, a ha'penny to save her soul."

But the milling drinkers and arbiters of charity dispersed in a twinkling, leaving the poor mother and her withering little child alone in the narrow alley just by Raveloe Lane, the snow pelting them in the face, Molly's outstretched hand empty of even one solitary coin. Alone, that is, except for Ebenezer Scrooge. Mr. Scrooge remained, emerging from the shadows when all others had departed to their homes and hearths. He was neatly dressed in a greatcoat, with a muffler flung carelessly around his neck, worn in so loose a manner that its ineffectiveness against the cold was ensured. Scrooge was thin, his features severe yet not unkind. Though he was very old in body, his eyes sparkled with the innocence of youth, as if living a life reborn. The crown of his head had long lost any remnants that might prevent the sun's warmth from penetrating to his scalp, but the side of his head was covered in long, straight grey hair that fell wildly to his shoulders. His eyebrows were thick and unkempt, being the first-noticed aspect of his worn face. Their bold fullness stood in sharp contrast to his thin, aquiline nose. His lips were thin, too, and bore a bluish cast--perhaps from the cold, perhaps from long-established habit. Old Scrooge must once have been tall, but he stood now stooped forward. His steps were slow, as is the wont of many old people. Yet in him slowness and crookedness of form seemed to come less from any infirmity of body than from an infirmity of spirit, as if he were careworn from the aged life he had lived. His gait and demeanor resembled those of a beast of burden harnessed to some great, ponderous, inescapable chain.

Scrooge, hearing Molly's sighs and touched by her pitiable state, unwound the worn muffler from his neck and offered it to her. His ancient hand was long, thin, and reddened from exposure to the frosty air. Its white fingers and brittle, yellow nails proffered the muffler with a steadiness that belied his hoary state or the severe chill that must have settled within his bones.

"There, there, dear, sweet young mum. Tseh, tseh, dear me, you have but newly outgrown being a child yourself. Let me help you, please. My scarf will do you more good than it has ever done me, I am sure. Won't you take it? I declare, it will wrap your little girl three times round." At this thought the old man smiled softly, almost as if he felt awkward with his own goodness. Searching his pockets for the source of Molly's salvation, he at last, and much embarrassed, declared, "Goodness, forgive me, I do not have even a penny on my person. Dear me, what am I to do? Ah, but here--just a moment's time and I will help you."

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