"Ha-ha-ha-ha! ha-ha-ha!" laughed Shadrach--Shadrach Pratt, light porter
at Teman, Sundry, and Sope's, the wholesale and retail grocers in the
City. "Ha-ha-ha!" laughed Shadrach, stopping, with one foot on the wet
pavement and the other in the snowy slush of the kennel, to slap his
thigh, and say: "That's a good 'un, that is--`What do the Arabs of the
desert live on? the sand which is there.' That _is_ a good one, rale
grit. Ha-ha-ha!" laughed the little man. "I'll ask 'em that after
dinner to-morrow."
Who'd have thought, to see the little fellow go skipping along through
the wet, splashy snow, that there were holes in the sides of his boots,
and that one sole had given up the stitches that morning and gone off,
being not buried, but suffering the fiery ordeal of burning, curling
about upon its funereal pyre as though still alive? Who'd have thought
that he had had no dinner this Christmas-eve, and was now off,
post-haste, to his home in Bermondsey (_pronounced_ Bummonsey), to get
dinner and tea together--a hot meal of bloater and bread-and-butter--
with orders to be back in an hour at the latest? for it was busy tide
with the firm, and whatever Shadrach's duty may have been at other
times, he was heavy porter now decidedly.
Over the bridge, round the corner, down by Tooley Street warehouses,
famed for suffering from an ailment that must amongst buildings answer
to the Saint Anthony's fire of the human being; down past sacking,
sailcloth, and rope warehouses; and down past marine stores, and
miseries enough to give a man an ultramarine tint; and then home in the
pleasant and unsalubrious locality of Snow's Fields. Snow there was in
plenty--muddy, slushy snow; but the only field visible was a large field
for improvement; but then, as Shadrach said, "How handy for business!"
"Here's father!" was the cry, as the little man rushed in, hugged his
wife, and had his legs hugged at the same time; and then he was in the
warm place by the tea-tray, toasting his steaming boots, and watching
the water being poured into the hissing, hot earthen teapot.
"Now, then," said Mrs Pratt, "they've all had their teas; and you're
not to touch them, or give them a scrap. But have you had your dinner?"
"No," said Shadrach; "only stayed my stomach with half a pint of four
ale and a hot tater, at one; but I've brought a bloat--There, bless my
soul! I always did say the tail of your coat is not a safe place, and
if I ain't been setting upon it. What a good job it was a hard-roed
'un. Not hurt a bit. Who'll toast it?"
"Me--me--me!" chorussed some six or seven voices; and then the most
substantial-looking of the family was picked out, and she began toasting
till the fish began to curl its head and tail together, when the toaster
happening to turn her head to watch the distribution of "dog's bits" (ie
scraps of bread-and-butter), the bloater glided from the fork, and had
to be picked from the ashes and wiped.
But it was not so very gritty when done, and only made Shadrach think
about the Arabs and the sandwiches; though, after distributing so many
scraps, father's share of bloater, or grit, was not large; and then up
jumped the refreshed head of the family, and prepared for another start.
"'Tain't much, eighteen shillings a week, with a family, is it?" said
Shadrach, counting the money out in his wife's hand; "but, never mind,
there's lots worse off."
Mrs Pratt gave a shrug, as much as to say, "And lots better." But,
smiling again, she told what preparations had been made towards the next
day.
"There, I can't stop," said Shadrach; "you must do it all. Goose, you
know! Wait till it's quite late at Leadenhall, and then you'll get it
cheap. They can't sell them all out."
Mrs Pratt seemed to think that the goose would make a fearful hole in
eighteen shillings.
"There's coals, and grosheries, and vegetables, and bread, and butter;
and Ginger's boots are in a sad state, and--and--"
Certainly, Ginger's boots were in a sad state; but that was not of much
consequence, according to the Countess de Noailles; and if she advocated
bare feet amidst the aristocracy, she would have little pity for
Ginger--domus name of Mr Pratt's fourth son; for Shadrach was given to
nicknaming his children in accordance with the common objects of his
life: hence "Ginger," "Pepper," and "Spicy" were familiar terms for as
many children.
"But didn't I, eh?--the Christmas-box?" said Shadrach, pinching his chin
and looking innocent.
"Why, an old cheat!" cried Mrs Pratt, rushing to the door, and finding
a brown paper parcel resting behind the bulky umbrella upon her clogs;
and then, amidst a volley of cheers, bearing it to the table, which was
directly surrounded by chairs, climbed upon by an escalading party, and
it was only by dint of great presence of mind that Mrs Pratt saved the
brown paper citadel by hurriedly opening it, drawing out a pound of
raisins, and bribing the attacking party by giving them a plum apiece.
"Ta ta! I'm off," cried Shadrach, with glistening eyes, as he hurried
out and banged the door after him; but only to climb on to the
window-sill by means of holding on to the water-butt and nearly pulling
it over, when he could peep through a hole in the shutter and see his
wife hold up to the eyes of the exultant children the Christmas-box
regularly given by Teman, Sundry, and Sope to their _employes_. There
was a pound of raisins, and a pound of currants, and a ditto brown
sugar, a ditto lump, an ounce of spice, and a quarter of a pound of
peel; which was the last packet opened, when Shadrach leaped down and
hurried away through the dirty street.
But it was fine now overhead, and the stars began to twinkle brightly,
while the slushy roads were fast growing crisp; but not crisp enough to
prevent moisture from creeping through into Shadrach's boots.
"Because they live on the sand which--law!" cried Shadrach, "what a pity
we can't live on sand; what a lot the little 'uns do eat." And then he
stopped short for a minute to hear some street singers spoiling a carol,
and heard the reference to a babe in a manger; and then somehow, as he
trotted on, Shadrach could not see very clearly for thinking of two
lambs lost from his humble fold: one sleeping in its little grave with
the pure white snow covering its breast, and the bright stars like
angels' eyes watching it; and the other--"My poor, poor bairn!" sobbed
the little man, hurrying along; and then he was elbowing his way through
the throng on London Bridge, eager to get back in time.
"That's the worst of music," said Shadrach; "it allus upsets me. Ah!
yah! where are you running to, you young dog?" he cried to a boy who,
yelling out "I would I were a bird," blundered on to the little man's
favourite corn, and made him limp the rest of the way. "Not that sort
of music, confound him. Would he was a bird, indeed! Pity he ain't got
his neck wrung for him. Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Shadrach, taking a long
breath; "how bracing the wind is off the river! why, I do declare if I
couldn't over posts or anything to-night."
But there was no room for Shadrach to run or over posts, for the streets
were thronged with busy, hurrying people. The roadway was crowded too;
and everywhere it was plain to see that Christmas was here. It was
quite a blessing that some of the laden railway-vans did not break down,
for there would have been an absolute block; while, however it was
possible for all the presents on the way to get to their destination in
time, no one could say. Shops and people, ay, and weather too, all
spoke of Christmas: people looked hearty and genial; the shops looked
generous; while, though the weather felt cold, it was not a griping,
nipping cold, but a warm, dry cold that made the slush hard and firm,
and whispered of blazing fires and brave old English comforts.
God bless it! I love a Christmas-night; and, when I say a
Christmas-night, I mean any night in that jovial, happy tide, when men
sink the care and money-hunting to spread enjoyment around; when the
hand is open, either for a loving, brotherly pressure, or to aid a
poorer brother; or, better still, the fatherless and the widow. The
hand open? ay, and the heart too; for there seems to be breathed around
a spirit that softens the hard crust, so that it is open to any emotion,
be it such as begets mirth or tears. Who can say what it is?--that
loving, happy exhilaration that comes over us, and makes a man even kiss
his mother-in-law roundly. Why, it's the very time to get your salary
raised, is Christmas; and now the secret is out, I know I shall never be
forgiven by the heads of firms, who will be pounds out of pocket in
future. Who ever kicked a dog at Christmas; or prosecuted a thief? who
ever gave a beggar a penny without a blush for the smallness of the sum?
God bless it! though it comes so soon year after year to tell us how by
twelve months our span of life is shorter, and that we are nearer to the
long sleep. God bless it! and may its genial breath softly waft the
incense from every frugal hearth in our land, and rest in love where the
poor prepare their humble feast--ay, feast; for the simplest Christmas
dinner is a feast sprinkled by the torch of "Christmas Present."
There's something stirring in the very air, and the bells sound as they
do at no other time--they go home to the feelings, and call up from the
past the happy emotions planted in our hearts by God; but which a busy
life and rude contact with the world have caused to flee away and hide.
Back they come though, till, in the wild delight, eyes sparkle, cheeks
flush, and hands grasp hands in the fulness of heart to give a squeeze
often accompanied by a twinkling eye, where a tear will force its way.
Holy--sacred--are those reunions--those family meetings; and sad is it
when a seat becomes vacant; but is not that loss a bond to bind those
left the tighter, as wishing each other "a merry Christmas," as I do,
they say--"God bless it!"
Is there such a thing as a kind of magnetism in life by which spirit
whispers to spirit, and by some occult warning we know that those we
love are near? Or why should old Shadrach start and shiver as he passed
some one in the throng, and then mutter to himself very
thoughtfully--"Poor Polly!"
But it was a busy night, and what baskets did Shadrach lug about from
Gracechurch Street. East, west, north, and south--here, there, and
everywhere. Light porter, indeed! why, we won't insult him. But he
didn't mind, bless you, though he groaned and grunted under his load of
Christmas fruit; and there was something merry to say to every servant
lass who lightened his basket. Toast and ale, and egg-flip too, were
waiting when eleven o'clock struck, and though Mr Sope wanted to keep
open another hour, and Sundry said half an hour, old Teman, the head,
said "No! regular hours were the thing, and it was not fair to the young
men; and that if the Queen herself came from Buckingham Palace and
wanted a pound or two of fruit, she should not have it after the
shutters were up."
It would have done your heart good to have seen Shadrach rattle up those
shutters, as the boy down stairs held them up to the roller ready for
him to take.
"Ter-r-r-r-r-rattle" went the shutter as he dragged it over the roller,
and then "flip-flap-bang," it was in its place. "Ter-r-r-r-r-rattle"
went another, and nearly knocked an old gentleman over, but he only gave
a leap, skip, and a jump, and laughed. Two shutters up, and that big,
nodding Chinese mandarin with the bare stomach is covered up.
"Ter-r-r-r-rattle," and part of the big China punchbowl covered.
"Ter-r-r-r-rattle," and the whole of it covered. At it again--and the
squeezy almond-eyed lady hidden. At it again, nine shutters up. At it
again, skipping about as though he had never walked a step that day, but
just come fresh out of a lavender-and-clover bed ready for work, after
lying by for a rest. "Ter-r-r-r-rattle-bing-bang-bump." He did it that
time: knocked the policeman's helmet off, and sent it rolling along the
pavement.
"God bless my soul," said Shadrach, aghast at such an assault upon the
law of the land, but the policeman only laughed, and old Teman only
laughed, and called the bobby up to the door, while he fetched him a
glass of egg-flip himself, and wished him "A merry Christmas."
"Bang--slap--slip--flap--crack--jangle--jang--jink jonk--jank!" There
they are; the twelve shutters up, and both iron bars; screws rammed in,
and all tight; and Shadrach not a bit out of breath. Shop closed, and
no Queen to beg for a pound or two of fruit and test old Teman's
loyalty, as he ladled out the flip to his dozen men, when, wishing he
could have poured his share into his pocket, Shadrach said "Good-night!"
and was off homeward.
Plenty of people in the streets yet, but London Bridge seemed empty on
the west side when Shadrach reached it, and then stopped at the first
recess to look over at the rushing river. A bright, calm, light night,
with snow lying here and there in patches; here upon pier or barge,
there upon roof, and all glittering in the light of the full moon.
Lanthorns here and there where vessels were moored, and lamps in lines
upon the distant bridges. Frost laying hold of everything; but warmed
with exercise and the genial draught, Shadrach felt not the cold, but
knelt gazing over at the hurrying tide, and comparing it, perhaps, with
his life. But there was something else upon his mind, something that
kept bringing a shadow over him, and kept him from hurrying home.
At length he stepped down, and walked slowly across the bridge towards
the Borough; but then, with a strange, thoughtful, undecided step, he
crossed over and sauntered back towards the city again; and at last
stood leaning once more over the parapet, gazing at the glittering
river, till he started, for the clocks began to strike twelve. There
were the faint and distant tones, and the sharp, clear sounds of those
at hand, mingled with which came the heavy boom of Saint Paul's, till
the last stroke had fallen upon his ear, when with a half-shudder of
cold, Shadrach once more stepped down and commenced with some display of
vigour his homeward walk.
There was scarcely a soul to be seen now upon the bridge, but as he
reached the middle recess, Shadrach paused with a strange, tumultuous
beating at his heart, for there, in the same position as that in which
he had so lately leant, was the figure of a woman, evidently watching
the rushing river.
"Could she be meditating self-destruction?" Shadrach thought. "Could
he save her? But why should such thoughts come when he had often and
often seen women of her class in the same attitude?" he asked himself
the question, and could find no answer, except that it was so sad to see
a homeless outcast there upon a Christmas-eve.
"Poor thing--poor thing!" muttered Shadrach to himself; and then, going
up and speaking in a husky voice: "Had you not better go home, my girl?"
"What?" cried the girl, angrily; "home? There's no home for such as I."
"But the night--the cold--and--ah, my God!--Polly!"
Shadrach had advanced to the girl, and laid his hand upon her shoulder;
when, starting, she turned hastily round and confronted him beneath the
lamp; a mutual recognition took place, when, with a bitter cry, the girl
darted away, while her father staggered and fell, striking his head
violently against the granite seat.
But he soon recovered himself, slowly got up, looked hopelessly round at
the deserted bridge, and then walked with feeble, uncertain steps in the
direction of home.
The old Dutch clock upon the wall had given warning that it was about to
strike one; the fire was low, and the candle burned with a long snuff,
as Shadrach Pratt and his wife sat beside the fire silent and tearful.
There was an open Bible upon his lap, and he had been essaying to read,
but the print looked blurred and confused; his voice was husky; and more
than one tear had dropped upon the page where it said--"I will arise and
go to my father," and again where "his father fell upon his neck and
kissed him;" and there was sorrow that night in the humble home.
The candle burned down, quivered in the socket, and then went out; the
fire sank together again and again with a musical tinkle, and then
ceased to give forth its warmth; but through the two round holes in the
shutters the bright moonbeams shone, bathing the couple with their
light, as slowly they knelt down, and Shadrach repeated some words,
stopping long upon that impressive clause--"As we forgive them that
trespass against us."
"And you'll leave the back door unfastened, Mary?" whispered Shadrach.
Mrs Pratt nodded.
"And forget the past if she should come?"
"Ah, me! ah, me! my poor girl!" cried the mother, thoroughly
heart-broken, and for the first time since her child forsook her home
showing any emotion; "what have we done that we should be her judges?"
The moonbeams shone brightly in as the couple rose, and after listening
for a moment at the stair foot, Shadrach walked to the back door, opened
it, uttered a cry, and then fell upon his knees; for there, upon the
cold snow, with her cheek resting upon the threshold, lay the lost one
of the flock--cold, pale, and motionless, but with her hands
outstretched, and clasped together, as if praying for forgiveness.
Stretched upon the cold snow by the door she had stolen from two years
before; lying where she had crept, with trembling hands, and quivering,
fevered lips, whispering to herself that she would die there, for she
dared ask no entrance.
Need the story be told of that Christmas-day, and of the joy in that
poor man's home--of the sick one weeping in her mother's arms--of the
welcome given to one the world called lost! I trow not; but let us skip
another year, and then stand in the same room, in the same place, and at
the same hour, as with a bright light in his humble, ordinary face,
Shadrach Pratt, a man not addicted to quoting Scripture, takes his
homely wife's hand, and whispers--
"More than over ninety and nine just persons which need no repentance."