It Is A Melancholy Truth That Even

Others Had Been A Little Wild, Which Was Not To Be Wondered At, And Not Very Blamable; But, He Had Made A Lamentation And Uproar Which It Was Dangerous For The People To Hear, As There Is Always Contagion In Weakness And Selfishness.

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 As Dead As A Door-nail.

Christmas A Humbug, Uncle!" Said Scrooge's Nephew. "you Don't Mean That, I Am Sure?" "i Do," Said Scrooge. "merry Christmas! What Right Have You To Be Merry? What Reason Have You To Be Merry? You're Poor Enough.

Some People Are Nobody's Enemies But Their Own

This Fine Young Man Had All The Inclination To Be A Profligate Of The First Water, And Only Lacked The One Good Trait In The Common Catalogue Of Debauched Vices - Open-handedness - To Be A Notable Vagabond. But There His Griping And Penurious Habits Stepped In; And As One Poison Will Sometimes Neutralise Another, When Wholesome Remedies Would Not Avail, So He Was Restrained By A Bad Passion From Quaffing His Full Measure Of Evil, When Virtue Might Have Sought To Hold Him Back In Vain.