“Yes, my dear,” returned Bob. “I wish you could have gone. It would have done you good to see how green a place it is. But you’ll see it often. I promised him that I would walk there on a Sunday. My little, little child!” cried Bob. “My little child!”
If Tiny Tim had died, as the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come suggested he might if things did not change, it would have been most likely from tuberculosis. The symptoms included flushed cheeks, bright eyes, fever, loss of appetite, and most of all, a persistent cough.
It was a very common ailment of the Victorian era, most commonly called “consumption” on both sides of the Atlantic. Victorian scholar Constance Manoli-Skocay wrote, “It was feared, but regarded with a peculiar resignation because it was so unavoidable. It was dreaded, but at the same time romanticized. It was a disease that reflected the culture of its time: the victim slowly, gracefully fading away, transcending their corporeal body, their immortal soul shining through. . . . It affected the poor more often than the wealthy, females more than males, and people of all ages. Anyone could be a victim, but it was especially prevalent among young adults, cruelly striking down those in the prime of their lives.” The end came slowly, and painfully, for the victim as well as for the survivors.
In his lifetime, Charles Dickens had known the death of a child. His little sister Harriet had died in the year the family moved to Bayham Street. Harriet Dickens had been born in 1819 and died in 1824. It is not recorded whether she died in Chatham or on Bayham Street, but surely the memories must have been vivid as Charles was twelve years old at the time. One can almost see the stricken John and Elizabeth Dickens smote with grief, as were Bob and Martha Cratchit at the prospect of their son’s demise. So as the Cratchits were at Christmas, one may assume that this too was taken from Dickens family’s memories.