The Christmas Victory

Meanwhile, back in Cambridge, Henry had finished his translation of Dante’s inferno and sent it off to his publisher.

******

By now, the Quaker City had arrived in England, while Charles and Uncle were getting ready to leave. The day before they were going to leave for the states, Charles and Uncle Natty were in an English restaurant and had just ordered their meal when Charles thought he saw a familiar face at a nearby table. “Wait here a minute,” he told Nathan. “I think I know that fellow over there.” Walking over to the table, he stared at the person seated there and said haltingly, “Pardon me, Sir, but aren’t you Samuel Clemens?”

The man frowned and squinted at the inquirer. “Well, lands sake! I haven’t used that name for ages. I go by Mark Twain, now. And who would you be?”

“I’m Charles Longfellow—Henry W. Longfellow’s son. Don’t you remember? We met on the train. I was going to the war, and you were going to the west.”

The light of recognition began to shine in Mark’s eyes. “Oh, yes. You’re the gung-ho soldier boy. Well, I see you survived the war.”

“Just barely.” Charles sighed. “I caught Scarlet Fever and Phenomena, and then got shot up bad in the shoulder.”

Mark laughed. “But, you’re still in one piece I see.” He motioned. “Pull up a chair and sit down.”

Charles pulled out the chair he was standing next to and slid into the seat. “So, did you become a famous writer yet?”

“Well, aside from my newspaper work, I’ve only published one story so far, but it has brought me a modicum of fame. And how is your father?”

Charles smiled. He was hoping Mark would bring up his father. “Oh, he’s doing quite well. He had a book published a few years ago—‘Tales from a Wayside Inn” it’s called.” Charles reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a copy of the poem. “But here is his latest and what I feel is his greatest poem. He wrote this on Christmas day three years ago and it was quite an epiphany for him.” He handed Mark the poem.

Mark took the paper and perused it. “He must have gone through a lot of pain to write this.”

“Yes. I didn’t tell you on th’ train, but my mother died in fire the year before I ran away to join the army.”

“I’ll bet it made your father twice as sad to see you go then. So how did you get them to take you, since you were so young?”

“The commander wrote to my father that he needed me, and my father finally agreed to let me go.”

“But then you got sick.”

“Yeah, so I went home for a while, but when I recovered, I went right back.”

Mark snarled. “—and got shot up.”

“Yeah. I guess I wasn’t meant to stay there too long.”

Mark kept staring at the poem. “So I can see why he wrote all this negative stuff, but at the 6^th verse, the tone completely changes. That must be what you meant when you said he had an epiphany.”

“Yes. Between the 6^th and 7^th stanza, he finally came to realize the truth.”

“—that God isn’t dead or sleeping? But how could he come to that conclusion just by listening to the Christmas bells?”

“I don’t know, but he did. And afterward he found something even greater.”

“And what could that be?”

“--The peace of having his sins forgiven and knowing Jesus as his Savior.”

“You’re saying that he got religion. But how? Just from hearing the bells?”

“No, the bells just opened him up. I lead him the truth about Jesus by relating the crux of a sermon I had heard while in the Army. I’ll relate it to you if you have a minute.”

By now the waiter had brought the food to their table and Nathan was motioning to Charles to come back and eat. He raised his hand in a gesture of “just a minute.” With his voice he said to Mark, “I can have the food brought here, or I can tell it to you later, as you wish.”

But Mark just scowled. “Forget it!” he exclaimed. “I’m not really interested. Religion is nothing but a crutch for the emotionally weak and crippled. Maybe you and your father need it, but I sure don’t. So, thanks anyway but no thanks. See you later, Charlie.”

Charles was somewhat crestfallen as he walked back to their table. He had failed to reach both his Uncle Natty and Sam Clemens. But, as he seated himself and glanced back at Mark, he happened to notice that the writer had slipped the poem into his shirt pocket. Perhaps, he thought, it may come in useful for him later on.