Christmas was agony for Charles Dickens. His bestseller, A Christmas Carol, was reissued every year and always sold well. His royalties were enough to keep him in style, and his American tours, despite a cruel vexation with the Yankee taxman, had netted £30,000 - roughly the equivalent of a million and a half today.

But Dickens felt hollow; he was a man compelled by public adulation to put on a performance, this one of seasonal joy. The Christian message of the benign father was particularly galling. His own father was a parasitic scrounger forever chiselling money and seizing every opportunity to drink himself insensible at his son's expense. Charles's vast, extended family - including his estranged wife, Kate, and his reproachful mother - would turn up every year, saying nothing, and eat themselves to a standstill while expecting to be royally entertained by their famous relative.

'I have assassinated Christ on his birthday', confessed Dickens (not a man for understatement), 'I, and that buffoon Prince Albert with his plague of conical Prussian trees that march across our cities like soldiers from a geometry school-book. We are guilty men. We have smothered the work of God, buried it with molasses, tinsel, tawdriness, Pecksniffery, trade, unctuous sentiment and ugly foreign vegetables. The spirit of Christmas is debauched, and the money I make from my sickly fictions serves only to mock me. I shall be haunted by this murder until the end of my days.'

Every year Dickens was asked to produce an especially cheery Christmas number of the magazine All the Year Round. This letter from Dickens's publisher to his partner, William Hall, recently unearthed in the British Library, reveals the depth of Charles's need for catharsis.

London 1858

My dear William,

You were right, of course, and I hope the course of action you suggested will be rewarded with a warmer intercourse than that which prevailed after the recent chill. The failure of Charles's copies to arrive for his reading in Manchester can hardly be blamed on us for we did not cause that terrible accident at the junction in Crewe - but when have our authors been reasonable men? Truly, those of us quarrying books from our nation's leaden prose mountains 'The spirit of Christmas is debauched, and the money I make from my sickly fictions serves only to mock me' must keep affection beaming in one eye while calculation shines from the other.

To that end I hired a cabriolet (damn the expense) and clattered through the freezing fog to Lemon's house in Stoke Newington. Dickens was already toasting by the fire, his arm resting on the mantelpiece within easy reach of a pint of porter. Mrs Lemon had retired and her litter of grubby children had been put to bed. Fechter was there, flushed from his success at the Lyceum, also the architect, Gilbert Scott, Davis, whom you know, and an odd but affable Scot called MacWilliam, an acquaintance of Lemon's from his Edinburgh days. Charles was in hectic mood, his beard wagging and his eyes flashing imperiously. Clearly, we were set for a performance.

'Gentlemen', he said, 'you are privileged - though you must judge for yourself if this is a privilege or an imposition - to hear the latest story from my forthcoming Christmas collection.' And before we could clear our throats or cry hurrah, he launched in.
'Once upon a time', he began, with a knowing smile that showed us that we were in fairy-tale country, 'once upon a time, Father Christmas found his services to be in such demand all over our great realm that he could no longer make all the presents for the good, sweet, rosy-cheeked children who deserved them. Oh dear, oh dear, he thought, shaking his shaggy head in dismay, I cannot disappoint all those darling infants who have willed themselves to wake early on Christmas Day in a tremble of anticipation. Imagine their sadness if a well-chosen something has not been left for them in a stocking. The tears will roll down their angelic little phizzogs.'

'But this is the nineteenth century after all, thought Father Christmas. In Birmingham I will build a factory of such power and plenitude that no deserving child will ever be disappointed. Within it no workers need tear their poor hands on cogs and gears, for elves will work the machines and delicate fairies will pack and wrap the toys with the prettiest ribbons and most beautiful papers. Tiny Tim himself, sitting upon a high stool, will cause all the many limbs of the business to work as one as he calls out orders in his piping voice, as clear as a little bell.

Such will be the oiled functioning of this enterprise that the workers will enjoy frequent breaks for tea, skittles and hot crumpets, and never a cross word will be uttered. The fruits of their honest toil will be sent all over the land by train. Even the Palace will approve, for I shall ask Prince Albert whether he would condescend to use our wonderful Offices for the punctual delivery of his Christmas trees. Down from Balmoral, twice a day on the East Coast express, the great steam locomotives will carry trees in thousands. Not even in America will anything like it have been seen before.'

At this point Charles paused to take a large gulp of porter. 'And so it came to pass', he resumed. 'Father Christmas was mightily pleased and all the good children laughed and cried for joy on Christmas Day. But, alas.', and at this point I fancy Charles gave me look, 'alas, even the best plan can prove an ass if no account has been taken of mishaps. Shortly before Christmas a small derailment in Crewe' (there could be no doubt as to the look now) '. the merest pimple on the powerful elephant of our railways, caused one shipment to rest in the delivery bay for longer than it should. Within minutes, deliveries had backed up; the wrapping lines slowed as the fairies could not reach fresh supplies of ribbon. Within half an hour the elves had abandoned production, for the toys could not be carried away. Like a dying animal, all the organs of this great machine failed one by one.

Tiny Tim juggled orders, ducked and weaved, but to no avail. Two days later the warehouse was as full as an egg and all the aisles were jammed with trees. Father Christmas had not slept since the disaster; his eyes were the colour of salmon and he was unsteady on his feet. His jolly red uniform was splotched with sweat and he urgently needed to change his socks. Even his huge reserves of sweet nature were exhausted.'

'At this moment', said Dickens with a demonic gleam in his eye, 'a fairy came up to him with yet another damn conifer from the Balmoral estate. "Father Chwithmuth", said the fairy, "what shall I do with thith Chwithmuth Tree?''

'And that, gentlemen, is how the fairy came to be on top of the Christmas tree.'