Plymouth Church, Brooklyn Heights
1856
The service over and all the visitors and congregants greeted, Harriet retired to the pastor’s study with Henry and Frederick Douglass. Henry, still full of life, bounded through the door and onto his favorite sitting place, the sofa, in his favorite position—on his knees, curled almost into position like a Cheshire cat. “Hattie, do take off that atrocious bonnet, you look like a country schoolmarm.”
She glanced at Mr. Douglass to see how he was receiving her brother’s foolishness. “Henry, please!”
“Oh, Hattie, settle your feathers. You are both at home here and we are all family.” Smiling, he reached for a nearby plate. It appeared to have once been full of cookies, but now there were only two left. “Here, a peace offering.”
“No thank you, brother. We have business to attend to.”
Henry half pouted, half smiled. “Don’t be cross with me.” He turned to Frederick Douglass. “You see, a prophet is without honor in his own family.” He turned in the seat like a five-year-old, not like a world-famous pastor. “Please have one. They are delicious ginger cookies. See the crumbs? But I saved these last just for the two of you. I knew you would be famished. Take one, and then pour tea so that you will be refreshed.” He beamed at the two of them, his blue-gray eyes sparkling. “I thought of everything.” He pouted again. “Please, Hattie.”
When they each had tea, Harriet and Frederick accepted the last two cookies. Frederick nodded at Harriet. “Please, ladies first.”
Harriet sipped her tea and then bit into the cookie.
Henry leaned forward, one eyebrow raised. “Delicious?”
Harriet frowned and then, without thinking, she spit crumbs onto the floor.
Henry clapped his hands, lifting partway from his seat. “Perfect!”
She gulped tea to wash the taste from her mouth. “Henry, the cookies are horrible!”
“I know.” He giggled. “One of the good church ladies baked them for me.” He looked back and forth between Harriet and Frederick. “The sweet woman’s eyesight is not what it once was. I believe she reached for the salt when she thought she had the sugar.” He laughed out loud. “I threw most of them away, but I wanted to share my good fortune with friends.”
Frederick Douglass attempted to cover his laugh with his napkin.
Her younger brother had always been a prankster, and age had not cured him. “I should have known better.” She looked at Frederick. “Did you know about this, Mr. Douglass?”
Frederick shrugged, trying not to smile. “This is a family matter. I never step between brother and sister.”
“You are both children. I am here on a serious matter, and you both waste time with silly games.”
The two men laughed aloud. Henry bounced on the sofa like a child, sputtering, “‘A m-m-merry heart doeth good like a m-m-medicine.’”
Frederick wiped tears from his eyes as he chuckled. “‘The joy of the LORD is our strength.’”
“How can the two of you laugh when there are such heavy matters before us?”
Henry and Frederick began to outdo each other, quoting Bible passages.
“‘They that sow in tears shall reap in joy!’”
“‘Make a joyful noise unto the LORD, all the earth: make a loud noise, and rejoice, and sing praise.’”
They paid no attention to her. “Henry, behave!” With each round of quotes, the two got louder and louder. “Hush, you two, anyone about will think you have gone mad.” They ignored her and continued.
“‘But let all those that put their trust in thee rejoice: let them ever shout for joy!’”
“‘Be glad in the LORD, and rejoice, ye righteous: and shout for joy!’”
It was unseemly. The two of them were shouting now. “What kind of example are you two gentlemen—if I may call you that—setting?” Her protests were futile. “You are infants! I have come all this way to discuss the letter I have with me, and the two of you are playing whirligig and rolling the hoop.”
Frederick Douglass stood and bowed. “‘Rejoice in the LORD, O ye righteous: for praise is comely!’”
“Henry, you have had a terrible influence on Mr. Douglass. You have turned a perfectly intelligent gentleman into a jokester, like yourself.”
Not to be outdone, Henry stood this time and sang his quote in a booming baritone. “‘Hitherto have ye asked nothing in my name: ask, and ye shall receive, that your joy may be full.’”
“What would Father say, Henry?”
Mr. Douglass joined Henry in song. The two linked arms, raising one toward the ceiling. “‘Rejoice in the LORD always: and again I say, Rejoice!’”
Harriet tried to hold back the smile creeping onto her face. “A couple of blasphemers is what you two are. If only the newspapers could get wind of this.” A giggle leaked out. “I think I shall tell them myself.” She let go and laughed.
No matter the circumstances, Henry had always been the child in the family to brighten events by making everyone laugh. She had been so worried, had cried so many tears. Laughter was medicine. Harriet pressed her napkin to her face and allowed herself to laugh and weep.