Christmas Penny Readings: Original Sketches for the Season

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 employés. 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.”

Chapter Five

Upon Christmas-Eve

And I’ve found that out that it isn’t money, nor a well-furnished house, nor clothes that make a man happy, but the possession of a good wife; and it took me ten years to find it out. It took me ten selfish years – years that I had been spending thinking more about myself than anybody else, you know. And all that while I’d got so used to it that I never took any notice of the patience and forbearance and tenderness that was always being shown to me. It’s all right, thinks I, and it’s me that’s master, and I’ve a right to be served. And that’s the case with too many of us: we get married, and are precious proud taking the wife out for a bit; but then come the domestic duties, and mostly a few children, when it’s hard work to make both ends meet, and so the poor wife gets lower and lower and lower, till she’s a regular slave, while the husband looks on, and never stretches out a hand to save her a bit of trouble.

Well, that’s measuring other people’s corn by your own bushel, and that’s right – that’s just what it is: that’s my bushel, and allowing for it being a bit battered and knocked about, it’s surprising what a correct measure it is, and if ever I use that old measure to try any other man’s corn, and I find as it don’t do for it, I always feel as if I should like to shake that fellow’s hand off, for I know he’s a trump and a man worth knowing.

Now, I’m going to tell you how I found it all out, and in finding it all out as I call it, let me tell you I mean principally what a fool I had been for ten long years. I needn’t tell you when it was, and Jane there don’t care to be too nice about the day – very well, we’ll say you do, but never mind now – only it was Christmas-eve, and I come home from work with my hands in my pockets, and a week’s wage there too, and when I mounted the stairs and went into our shabby room, there was the wife down in the low rocking-chair, with two of the little ones in her lap, and though her head was partly turned away I could see she was crying, and another time I should have flown at her about it, for I don’t mind saying as I was a regular brute to her – not hitting or anything of that sort, you know, but sending hard words such as she’s told me since hit harder than blows. But I couldn’t fly at her then on account of a strange chap as was there. Shabby, snuffy-looking little fellow, with flue in his hair and pits in his chin, where he couldn’t shave into, so that, what with his face not being over well washed, and his old black clothes looking greasy, he didn’t seem the sort of visitor as you’d care about having in your place, because, though I came home dirty with my trade, I always set that down as clean dirt, and don’t mind it.

“Well, what’s for you?” I says, precious gruff.

“Two pun fifteen and ninepence, with costs,” he says, bringing out a paper; and then you might have knocked me down with it, for I knew it was for rent. There’d been a bother about it several times, and no wonder, and as I’d promised again and again, and never kept my word, as I should have done, why this was come on me, and there was a man in possession.

There was only one thing to be done, and of course that I does at once; goes over the way to the landlord, and when I got into his room I began to bluster a bit.

“It’s a deal too bad,” I says.

“Have you brought the money, my man?” he says.

“No, I ain’t,” I says, “and I thinks – ”

“Now, look here, Roberts,” he says, quite quietly, and holding up his finger, “You’re not the sort of tenant I want. You’re no credit to the place. If you had been a decent fellow, struggling against the world, and you owed me twice as much, and I saw you meant to pay, why I’d never have put in the bailiffs; but when I see a man going on as you do, why I say if you’ve money to waste you can pay your rent. Sorry for your wife, but if you can’t pay the money now, there’s the door. I’m not going to be annoyed in my own place.”

He wasn’t a big man, but he took me down twenty pegs in a minute in his cool, easy way, and before I knew where I was I’d backed out, and was going across the street, when I recollects the man sitting there at home, and of a Christmas-eve too, and I slowly went back and sent in a message to landlord, and directly after I stood before him again, and after no end of a hard fight he consented to let a pound stop on, and send the man off if I’d pay down one pound fifteen and ninepence.