Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe

by Harriet Beecher Stowe

  The sexton stood and looked and laughed as he saw the little ones so eager for the scraps and remnants.

  “Don’t you want to come in and see the church?” he said. “It’s all done now, and a brave sight it is. You may come in.”

  They tipped in softly, with large bright, wondering eyes. The light through the stained glass windows fell blue and crimson and yellow on the pillars all ruffled with ground-pine and brightened with scarlet

  bitter-sweet berries, and there were stars and crosses and mottoes in green all through the bowery aisles, while the organist, hid in a thicket of verdure, was practicing softly, and sweet voices sung:

  “Hark! the herald angels sing

  Glory to the new-born King.”

  The little ones wandered up and down the long aisles in a dream of awe and wonder. “Hush, Tottie!” said Elsie when he broke into an eager exclamation, “don’t make a noise. I do believe it’s something like heaven,” she said, under her breath.

  They made the course of the church and came round by the door again, where the sexton stood smiling on them.

  “You can find lots of pretty Christmas greens out there,” he said, pointing to the door; “perhaps your folks would like to have some.”

  “Oh, thank you, sir,” exclaimed. Elsie, rapturously. “Oh, Tottie, only think! Let’s gather a good lot and go home and dress our room for Christmas. Oh, won’t mother be astonished when she comes home, we’ll make it so pretty!”

  And forthwith the children began gathering into their little aprons wreaths of ground-pine, sprigs of holly, and twigs of crimson bitter-sweet. The sexton, seeing their zeal, brought out to them a little cross, fancifully made of red alder-berries and pine.

  Then he said, “A lady took that down to put up a bigger one, and she gave it to me; you may have it if you want it.”

  “Oh, how beautiful,” said Elsie. “How glad I am to have this for mother! When she comes back she won’t know our room; it will be as fine as the church.”

  Soon the little gleaners were toddling off out of the yard — moving masses of green with all that their aprons and their little hands could carry.

  The sexton looked after them. “Take heed that ye despise not these little ones,” he said to himself, “for in heaven their angels—”

  A ray of tenderness fell on the old man’s head; it was from the Shining One who watched the children. He thought it was an afternoon sunbeam. His heart grew gentle and peaceful, and his thoughts went far back to a distant green grove where his own little one was sleeping. “Seems to me I’ve loved all little ones ever since,” he said, thinking far back to the Christmas week when his lamb was laid to rest. “Well, she shall not return to me, but I shall go to her.” The smile of the Shining One made a warm glow in his heart, which followed him all the way home.

  The children had a merry time dressing the room. They stuck good big bushes of pine in each window; they put a little ruffle of ground-pine round mother’s Bible, and they fastened the beautiful red cross up over the table, and they stuck sprigs of pine or holly into every crack that could be made, by fair means or foul, to accept it, and they were immensely satisfied and delighted. Tottie insisted on hanging up his string of many-colored beads in the window to imitate the effect of the stained glass of the great church window.

  “It looks pretty when the light comes through,” he remarked; and Elsie admitted that they might play they were painted windows, with some show of propriety. When everything had been stuck somewhere, Elsie swept the floor, and made up a fire, and put on the tea-kettle, to have everything ready to strike mother favorably on her return.

  SCENE IV.

  A freezing, bright, cold afternoon. “Cold as Christmas!” say cheery voices, as the crowds rush to and fro into shops and stores, and come out with hands full of presents.

  “Yes, cold as Christmas,” says John Morley. “I should think so! Cold enough for a fellow that can’t get in anywhere — that nobody wants and nobody helps! I should think so.”

  John had been trudging all day from point to point, only to hear the old story: times were hard, work was dull, nobody wanted him, and he felt morose and surly — out of humor with himself and with everybody else.

  It is true that his misfortunes were from his own fault; but that consideration never makes a man a particle more patient or good-natured — indeed, it is an additional bitterness in his cup. John was an Englishman. When he first landed in New York from the old country, he had been wild and dissipated and given to drinking. But by his wife’s earnest entreaties he had been persuaded to sign the temperance pledge, and had gone on prosperously keeping it for a year. He had a good place and good wages, and all went well with him till in an evil hour he met some of his former boon-companions, and was induced to have a social evening with them.

  In the first half hour of that evening were lost the fruits of the whole year’s self-denial and self-control. He was not only drunk that night, but he went off for a fortnight, and was drunk night after night, and came back to find that his master had discharged him in indignation. John thinks this over bitterly, as he thuds about in the cold and calls himself a fool.

  Yet, if the truth must be confessed, John had not much “sense of sin,” so called. He looked on himself as an unfortunate and rather ill-used man, for had he not tried very hard to be good, and gone a great while against the stream of evil inclination? and now, just for one yielding, he was pitched out of place, and everybody was turned against him! He thought this was hard measure. Didn’t everybody hit wrong sometimes? Didn’t rich fellows have their wine, and drink a little too much now and then? Yet nobody was down on them.

  “It’s only because I’m poor,” said John. “Poor folks’ sins are never pardoned. There’s my good wife — poor girl!” and John’s heart felt as if it were breaking, for he was an affectionate creature, and loved his wife and babies, and in his deepest consciousness he knew that he was the one at fault. We have heard much about the sufferings of the wives and children of men who are overtaken with drink; but what is not so well understood is the sufferings of the men themselves in their sober moments, when they feel that they are becoming a curse to all that are dearest to them. John’s very soul was wrung within him to think of the misery he had brought on his wife and children — the greater miseries that might be in store for them. He was faint of heart; he was tired; he had eaten nothing for hours, and on ahead he saw a drinking saloon. Why shouldn’t he go and take one good drink, and then pitch off a ferry-boat into the East River, and so end the whole miserable muddle of life altogether?

  John’s steps were turning that way, when one of the Shining Ones, who had watched him all day, came nearer and took his hand. He felt no touch; but at that moment there darted into his soul a thought of his mother, long dead, and he stopped irresolute, then turned to walk another way. The hand that was guiding him led him to turn a corner, and his curiosity was excited by a stream of people who seemed to be pressing into a building. A distant sound of singing was heard as he drew nearer, and soon he found himself passing with the multitude into a great prayer-meeting. The music grew more distinct as he went in. A man was singing in clear, penetrating tones:

  “What means this eager, anxious throng,

  Which moves with busy haste along;

  These wondrous gatherings day by day;

  What means this strange commotion, say?

  In accents hushed the throng reply,

  ‘Jesus of Nazareth passeth by!’”

  John had but a vague idea of religion, yet something in the singing affected him; and, weary and footsore and heartsore as he was, he sank into a seat and listened with absorbed attention:

  “Jesus! ’tis he who once below

  Man’s pathway trod in toil and woe;

  And burdened ones where’er he came

  Brought out their sick and deaf and lame.

  The blind rejoiced to hear the cry,

  ‘Jesus of Nazareth passeth by!’

 
; “Ho, all ye heavy-laden, come!

  Here’s pardon, comfort, rest, and home.

  Ye wanderers from a Father’s face,

  Return, accept his proffered grace.

  Ye tempted ones, there’s refuge nigh —

  ‘Jesus of Nazareth passeth by!’”

  A plain man, who spoke the language of plain working-men, now arose and read from his Bible the words which the angel of old spoke to the shepherds of Bethlehem:

  “Fear not, for behold, I bring you tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people, for unto you is born this day a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.”

  The man went on to speak of this with an intense practical earnestness that soon made John feel as if he, individually, were being talked to; and the purport of the speech was this: that God had sent to him, John Morley, a Saviour to save him from his sins, to lift him above his weakness, to help him overcome his bad habits; that His name was called Jesus, because he shall save his people from their sins. John listened with a strange new thrill. This was what he needed — a Friend, all-powerful, all-pitiful, who would undertake for him and help him to overcome himself — for he sorely felt how weak he was. Here was a Friend that could have compassion on the ignorant and them that were out of the way. The thought brought tears to his eyes and a glow of hope to his heart. What if He would help him? for deep down in John’s heart, worse than cold or hunger or weariness, was the dreadful conviction that he was a doomed man, that he should drink again as he had drunk, and never come to good, but fall lower and lower, and drag all who loved him down with him.

  And was this mighty Saviour given to him?

  “Yes,” cried the man who was speaking; “to you; to you, who have lost name and place; to you, that nobody cares for; to you, who have been down in the gutter. God has sent you a Saviour to take you up out of the mud and mire, to wash you clean, to give you strength to overcome your sins, and lead you home to his blessed kingdom. This is the glad tidings of great joy that the angels brought on the first Christmas day. Christ was God’s Christmas gift to a poor, lost world, and you may have him now, to-day. He may be your own Saviour — yours as much as if there were no other one on earth to be saved. He is looking for you to-day, coming after you, seeking you; he calls you by me. Oh, accept him now!”

  There was a deep breathing of suppressed emotion as the speaker sat down, a pause of solemn stillness.

  A faint strain of music was heard, and the singer began singing a pathetic ballad of a lost sheep and of the Shepherd going forth to seek it:

  “There were ninety and nine that safely lay

  In the shelter of the fold,

  But one was out on the hills away,

  Far off from the gates of gold —

  Away on the mountains wild and bare,

  Away from the tender Shepherd’s care.

  “‘Lord, Thou hast here Thy ninety and nine;

  Are they not enough for Thee?’

  But the Shepherd made answer: ‘’Tis of mine

  Has wandered away from me;

  And although the road be rough and steep

  I go to the desert to find my sheep.’”

  John heard with an absorbed interest. All around him were eager listeners, breathless, leaning forward with intense attention. The song went on:

  “But none of the ransomed ever knew

  How deep were the waters crossed;

  Nor how dark was the night that the Lord went through

  Ere He found His sheep that was lost.

  Out in the desert He heard its cry —

  Sick and helpless, and ready to die.”

  There was a throbbing pathos in the intonation, and the verse floated over the weeping throng; when, after a pause, the strain was taken up triumphantly:

  “But all through the mountains thunder-riven,

  And up from the rocky steep,

  There rose a cry to the gates of heaven,

  ’Rejoice! I have found my sheep!’

  And the angels echoed around the throne,

  ‘Rejoice, for the Lord brings back His own!’”

  All day long, poor John had felt so lonesome! Nobody cared for him; nobody wanted him; everything was against him; and, worst of all, he had no faith in himself. But here was this Friend, seeking him, following him through the cold alleys and crowded streets. In heaven they would be glad to hear that he had become a good man. The thought broke down all his pride, all his bitterness; he wept like a little child; and the Christmas gift of Christ — the sense of a real, present, loving, pitying Saviour — came into his very soul.

  He went homeward as one in a dream. He passed the drinking-saloon without a thought or wish of drinking. The expulsive force of a new emotion had for the time driven out all temptation. Raised above weakness, he thought only of this Jesus, this Saviour from sin, who he now believed had followed him and found him, and he longed to go home and tell his wife what great things the Lord had done for him.

  SCENE V.

  Meanwhile a little drama had been acting in John’s humble home. His wife had been to the shop that day and come home with the pittance for her work in her hands.

  “I’ll pay you full price to-day, but we can’t pay such prices any longer,” the man had said over the counter as he paid her. “Hard times — work dull — we are cutting down all our work-folks; you’ll have to take a third less next time.”

  “I’ll do my best,” she said meekly, as she took her bundle of work and turned wearily away, but the invisible arm of the Shining One was round her, and the words again thrilled through her that she had read that morning: “He shall redeem their soul from deceit and violence, and precious shall their blood be in his sight.” She saw no earthly helper; she heard none and felt none, and yet her soul was sustained, and she came home in peace.

  When she opened the door of her little room she drew back astonished at the sight that presented itself. A brisk fire was roaring in the stove, and the tea-kettle was sputtering and sending out clouds of steam. A table with a white cloth on it was drawn out before the fire, and a new tea set of pure white cups and saucers, with teapot, sugar-bowl, and creamer, complete, gave a festive air to the whole. There were bread, and butter, and ham-sandwiches, and a Christmas cake all frosted, with little blue and red and green candles round it ready to be lighted, and a bunch of hot-house flowers in a pretty little vase in the centre.

  A new stuffed rocking-chair stood on one side of the stove, and there sat Miss Florence De Witt, our young princess of Scene First, holding little Elsie in her lap, while the broad, honest countenance of Betty was beaming with kindness down on the delighted face of Tottie. Both children were dressed from head to foot in complete new suits of clothes, and Elsie was holding with tender devotion a fine doll, while Tottie rejoiced in a horse and cart which he was maneuvering under Betty’s superintendence.

  The little princess had pleased herself in getting up all this tableau. Doing good was a novelty to her, and she plunged into it with the zest of a new amusement. The amazed look of the poor woman, her dazed expressions of rapture and incredulous joy, the shrieks and cries of confused delight with which the little ones met their mother, delighted her more than any scene she had ever witnessed at the opera — with this added grace, unknown to her, that at this scene the invisible Shining Ones were pleased witnesses.

  She had been out with Betty, buying here and there whatever was wanted, — and what was not wanted for those who had been living so long without work or money?

  She had their little coal-bin filled, and a nice pile of wood and kindlings put behind the stove. She had bought a nice rocking-chair for the mother to rest in. She had dressed the children from head to foot at a ready-made clothing store, and bought them toys to their hearts’ desire, while Betty had set the table for a Christmas feast.

  And now she said to the poor woman at last:

  “I’m so sorry John lost his place at father’s. He was so kind and obliging, and I always liked him; and I’ve be
en thinking, if you’d get him to sign the pledge over again from Christmas Eve, never to touch another drop, I’ll get papa to take him back. I always do get papa to do what I want, and the fact is, he hasn’t got anybody that suited him so well since John left. So you tell John that I mean to go surety for him; he certainly won’t fail me. Tell him I trust him.” And Miss Florence pulled out a paper wherein, in her best round hand, she had written out again the temperance pledge, and dated it “Christmas Eve, 1875.”

  “Now, you come with John to-morrow morning, and bring this with his name to it, and you’ll see what I’ll do!” and, with a kiss to the children, the little good fairy departed, leaving the family to their Christmas Eve.

  What that Christmas Eve was, when the husband and father came home with the new and softened heart that had been given him, who can say? There were joyful tears and solemn prayers, and earnest vows and purposes of a new life heard by the Shining Ones in the room that night.

  “And the angels echoed around the throne,

  Rejoice! for the Lord brings back his own.”

  SCENE VI.

  “Now, papa, I want you to give me something special to-day, because it’s Christmas,” said the little princess to her father, as she kissed and wished him “Merry Christmas” next morning.

  “What is it, Pussy — half of my kingdom?”

  “No, no, papa; not so much as that. It’s a little bit of my own way that I want.”

  “Of course; well, what is it?”

  “Well, I want you to take John back again.”

  Her father’s face grew hard.

  “Now, please, papa, don’t say a word till you have heard me. John was a capital gardener; he kept the green-house looking beautiful; and this Mike that we’ve got now, he’s nothing but an apprentice, and stupid as an owl at that! He’ll never do in the world.”

  “All that is very true,” said Mr. De Witt, “but John drinks, and I won’t have a drinking man.”

  “But, papa, I mean to take care of that. I’ve written out the temperance pledge, and dated it, and got John to sign it, and here it is,” and she handed the paper to her father, who read it carefully, and sat turning it in his hands while his daughter went on: