Scro. Spirit, is there a peculiar flavor in what you sprinkle from your torch?
Spir. There is. My own.
Scro. I notice that you sprinkle it to restore good humor, and over dinners. Would it apply to any kind of dinner on this day?
Spir. To any kindly given. To a poor one most.
Scro. Why to a poor one most?
Spir. Because it needs it most.
Enter Ignorance and Want; approaching the Spirit, they kneel at his feet. Scrooge starts back appalled.
Spir. Look here! oh, man, look here! Look! look down here. Behold, where graceful youth should have filled their features out and touched them with its freshest tints; a stale and shriveled hand, like that of age, has pinched and twisted them and pulled them into shreds. Where angels might have sat enthroned, devils lurk and glare out, menacing. No change, no degradation, no perversion of humanity, in any grade, through all the mysteries of wonderful creation, has monsters half so horrible and dread.
Scro. They are fine-looking children. Spirit, are they yours?
Spir. They are man's. And they cling to me, appealing from their fathers. This boy is Ignorance, this girl is Want. Beware them both, and all of their degree; but most of all, beware this boy, for on his brow I see that written which is doom, unless the writing be erased. Deny it, great city. Slander those who tell it ye. Admit it for your factious purposes, make it worse, and abide the end.