At length a Sabbath-school was determined on. As most of those able and willing to work were already engaged, one of the officers of the church volunteered to superintend the school, provided he might have the assistance of a band of young girls, who hitherto had been privileged to assemble week after week as a Bible-class in the "pastor's study."
On the first Sabbath about thirty or forty children were assembled of all ages and sizes, with wondering eyes; and in a few moments I found myself seated in a chair before six boys, whom I at once recognized as some of the worst village urchins, always to be seen at the "depôt," or on the "hotel steps," laden with baskets of apples and pea-nuts, their own best customers. I was about to ask for more hopeful subjects, but our earnest superintendent only held out to me the class-book and pencil—and I was alone with my destiny.
Among the names, I registered Andrew Jackson, Andrew Jackson, Jr., Marquis Lafayette, George Washington, and Byron Clarke. When about to inquire the cognomen of the last, I was forestalled by his calling out, in a stentorian voice, "My name a'n't nothing but Bill Jones; but I guess you have heard of the boy who sings nigger songs and dances Jim Crow at the 'Harrison House.'" He was unfortunately not mistaken in his notoriety, and the task before me assumed a new magnitude. None of them could read, and after half an hour of A B C, I proceeded to ask some simple questions of Bible history, of which I soon found that they knew absolutely nothing: their ideas of God, even, were as wild as those of the little Hindoos. So I began at the beginning. I spoke of the six days of creation; then of the deluge. When in my account of the ark and its wondrous freight, I was interrupted by one. "Did they have bears?" "Yes," I answered. "And lions?" "Yes." "Elephants?" "Yes." "Monkeys?" "Yes." And finally Billy Jones, all eagerness, "Did they have a clown?" And I found to my utter dismay that my youthful auditors, certainly not incapable of association of ideas, had conceived of Noah merely as the proprietor of a menagerie travelling in that wild waste of waters. Truly this was fallow ground. But our superintendent only smiled encouragement, and bade me go forward.
Sabbath after Sabbath rolled on, and rain or shine my six boys were always in their places. They had learned to love the school, especially the sweet hymns; and their quick sympathies had gone out to one who at least always tried to treat them gently and kindly. Of their affection I had many unmistakable proofs. Once I remember walking in one of the quiet streets. I was suddenly startled by three sonorous cheers, and looking up I saw the "Marquis," Andrew Jackson, and Byron Clarke. Though not precisely the most agreeable greeting for a young lady, I could not in my heart do less than wave a return. Again, they frequently brought to our door presents of flowers and fruit. In one instance the latter bore such a striking resemblance to some rosy-cheeked apples in a neighbor's orchard that I was forced to reprove the boy, and the next Sabbath took for our "lesson talk" the eighth commandment. Not many days after the same child made his appearance at the kitchen, his hands filled with the first pond-lilies of the season; and as he gave them to me he said, "There, Miss Esther, you will like them, for they's honest; God growed them in the outlet." Never, from that day to this, have flowers brought more true gladness to my heart than did those pure white blossoms, plucked by swarthy hands in the "outlet" where "God growed them."
We established a missionary society among them, and many a penny, previously devoted to fire-crackers and the like, now found its way down the red chimney of our "savings bank." Poor Bill Jones had less to give than any of the boys, and this I plainly saw troubled him a great deal. He had stopped dancing "Jim Crow," first on Sabbath, and of late on week-days; and this being his chief source of revenue, his spare pennies were few and far between. One day, with a bright face, he asked me "if it was not right to do good on Sundays?" Of course I replied yes; and then "if it was wrong to take money for doing good on Sundays?" This was a nice distinction—one which I felt him not capable of understanding should I attempt it. So I simply said, "No, I thought not." Though feeling rather curious, I had no opportunity just then of asking as to these pious earnings. Next Sabbath the teachers were requested to remain a moment. A gentleman arose, not a member of our school, saying that a few hours since he had witnessed a scene which had so touched his heart that he could not forbear cheering us with the glad tidings. Passing the "Harrison House," he noticed that the invariable group of Sunday-noon loungers had deserted their post. Just then his ear was caught by a clear melodious voice singing. It seemed to come from the bar-room. Yes, as he drew near, from the open windows of that den of pollution floated out on the summer air the words:
"Watchman, tell as of the night,
What its signs of promise are."
He stepped upon the low platform and looked in. On a table sat a negro boy. About the room were hard-faced young men, and those older, on whose bloated features intemperance had set its livid brand. But they were all listening. The singer finished the last verse, and then began again. This time he sang, "Jesus, lover of my soul."
My own eyes were dimmed, said the gentleman, as he came to the lines,
"Vile and full of sin I am;