Light flashed up in the room upon the instant, and the curtains of his bed were drawn aside 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 proportions.  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.  But 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.”

Scrooge then made bold to inquire what business brought him there.

“Your welfare.  Rise, and walk with me!”

It would have been in vain for Scrooge to plead that the weather and the hour were not adapted to pedestrian purposes; that the bed was warm, and the thermometer a long way below freezing; that he was clad but lightly in his slippers, dressing-gown, and night-cap; 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 its robe in supplication.

“I am a 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 had been two inches taller, he must have 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!”