Yes, Virginia, Charles Dickens did invent Christmas, at least the Christmas spirit of giving to the poor as well as the presumption and posturing of the rich. As everyone knows, it was 1843 and Dickens had spent his hard-earned cash like an oil-rich camel driver. He was only 31, but he had a large family to feed and felt he was slowly sliding toward oblivion. So he walked the Manchester streets and decided to stop browbeating his readers and return to plain story telling. That’s when A Christmas Carol took shape, and he continued developing it in his mind once back in London. In six weeks he had 30,000 words, and we have had Ignorance and Want, Tiny Tim, Bob Cratchit, Scrooge and Marley ever since. Oh, yes, A Christmas Carol was an exercise in vanity publishing, as Dickens’s publishers, Chapman & Hall, expressed so little enthusiasm for it the author put up his own moolah. A smart move.
One hundred and sixty-five years later, a fat and jolly St Nick makes the rounds in Christian countries, bringing presents and happiness to children the world over, my own country being an exception. St Basil brings gifts to Greek children on 31 December, instead. When Dickens published the short novel, Christmas was very different to the present holiday. There were no Christmas cards, no outpouring of Yuletide greetings, no department store Santas, no Christmas tree in the White House, although at Windsor Castle the Queen had followed her Bavarian husband’s advice and had one put up in 1840. (British royals should always be advised by Germans, but not by the present pacifists who allow the Turks to push them around.) There were no lighting extravaganzas, and, if I’m correct, no midnight services celebrating the birth of our Saviour.
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