One very cold but calm and clear winter night, a lame man was seen to
hurry along the Strand in the direction of Saint Paul's Cathedral. The
man was clothed in a thick greatcoat, and wore a shawl round his neck,
which muffled him up to the very eyes. Indeed, the said shawl would
have gone quite over his eyes if it had not been for his fine Roman
nose, which stuck out over it, and held it firmly down.
The man's lameness was only a limp. It did not prevent him from walking
very fast indeed. He was evidently bent on business; nevertheless, the
business was not so pressing but that he could stop now and then to look
at anything that interested him in the crowded streets.
And how crowded they were--and cheerful too: for it was Christmastide,
and people seemed to be more excited and hearty than usual. The shops
were resplendent--filled to overflowing with everything that could tempt
man to spend money, and blazing with gas-light, so that the streets
seemed even brighter than at noon. The poulterers' shops, in
particular, were so stuffed, that rows of fat geese and ducks,
apparently finding the crush too much for them inside, seemed to have
come outside the shops and hung themselves up round the doors and
windows!
The lame man did not linger long, however, but hurried onwards until he
reached that quarter of the city near to the Bank of England, where very
poor and wretched people lived upon wondrously little of that gold which
lay in such huge quantities so near them.
In the back slums of this region there were no bright gas-lights. The
shops were ill-lighted and miserable, like the population, except a few
at the corners of streets, where rough men and ragged women, and even
children, went to poison themselves with gin.
In one of the darkest and dirtiest of these streets the lame man found
an open door and entered, taking off his greatcoat and shawl, which he
handed to a pleasant-faced man who stood there.
"I'm in good time, I hope?" said the lame man.
"Oh yes, they're on'y 'alf through their tea yet. Miss Home's bin
singin' to 'em."
The lame man's body was very thin and not very strong, but his face was
particularly handsome and grave, with a strange mingling of humour and
sadness in his expression.
Opening an inner door, he entered a large schoolroom, and, going to the
upper end of it, took his place behind some gentlemen, who nodded to him
as he passed.
The room was filled with the very lowest classes of the London poor.
Among them were ferocious-looking, dirty, ragged men, who might have
been thieves, burglars, or pickpockets. Not less disreputable-looking
were the women and children. The air of the room smelt horribly of
dirty clothes and drink. They were all very quiet, however, and
well-behaved at the time, for all were busily engaged in eating splendid
"hunks" of bread and cheese, and drinking huge mugsful of hot tea.
Truly there are few quieters of the savage human breast equal to food!
Probably all the people there were hungry; many of them had been
starving, and were ravenous. There was scarcely any sound except of
moving jaws, when, accompanied by a few chords from a harmonium, a
sweet, mellow, female voice told of the love of Jesus Christ to poor,
perishing, guilty man.
Both the words and music of the hymn had a soothing influence on the
people. When the calm contentment resulting from satisfied hunger had
settled down on them, a gentleman rose, and, continuing the theme of the
hymn, told his hearers earnestly about the Saviour of sinners. His
address was very short, because, he said, a city missionary--a personal
friend--had come that night to speak to them. As he said this, he
turned to the lame man, who rose at once and stood forward.
There was something in the gaze of this man's piercing yet tender eyes
which forced the attention of even the most careless among them. His
handsome young face was very pale, and his lips were for a moment
compressed, as if he were trying to keep back the words which were ready
to rush out. When he spoke, the soft tones of a deep bass voice helped
to secure attention, so that you could have heard a pin drop.
At once the lame man launched into a most thrilling description of a
scene of peril and rescue. He told of a gallant ship battling with a
furious gale: of her striking on a shoal: of the masts going over the
side: of wreck and ruin all around, and the wild waves bursting over
passengers and crew, and gradually breaking up the ship--"No hope--no
hope--only cries for mercy--shrieks of despair!"
As the lame man spoke, his eyes seemed to flash. His cheeks were no
longer pale. The rough men before him frowned and gazed as if their
anxiety had been roused. The women leaned forward with eager looks of
sympathy. Even the children were spellbound. One hulking fellow, with
a broken nose and a black eye, sat clutching both knees with his
muscular hands, and gazed open-mouthed and motionless at the speaker,
who went on to say that when things were at their worst, and death
stared the perishing people in the face, a beautiful object seemed
suddenly to rise out of the raging sea; its colour was a mixture of pure
white and bright blue!
It was the lifeboat, which sheered alongside and took them on board one
by one.
"Some there were," said the lame man impressively, "who hung back, and
some who at first did not believe in the lifeboat, and _refused_ to
leave the doomed ship. There was _no hope_ for those who refused--none
whatever; but they gave in at last. God put it into their hearts to
_trust_ the lifeboat, and so the whole were rescued and brought in
safety to the land."
"Well done!" burst from the hulking man with the broken nose, and a deep
sigh of relief escaped from many of the women; but there was instant
silence again, for the speaker's hand was up, his eyes were glittering,
and his lips compressed. Every one knew that more was coming, and they
bent forward.
Then, in a low soft voice, he began to tell of a dark but quiet night,
and a slumbering city; of a little spark, which like sin in a child, was
scarcely visible at first, but soon grew fierce and spread, until it
burst out in all the fury of an unquenchable fire. He told of the
alarm, the shouts of "_Fire_!" the rushing to the rescue, and the
arrival of the engines and the fire-escape. Then he described the
horror of a young woman in the burning house, who, awaking almost too
late, found herself on the very edge of destruction, with the black
smoke circling round and the impassable gulf of flame below. Just then
the head of the fire-escape approached her, and a man with extended arms
was seen a few feet below her, calling out, "Come!"
Like some of those in the shipwreck, she did not at first believe in the
fire-escape. She could not _trust_. She _would not_ leap. While in
that condition there was no hope for her, but God put it into her heart
to trust. She leaped, and was saved!
The speaker stopped. Again there was a sigh of relief and a tendency to
cheer on the part of the hulking man, but once more the sparkling eyes
and compressed lips riveted the people and tied their tongues. In
another moment the missionary had them on a battlefield, which he
described with thrilling power, passing rapidly from the first bugle
call through all the fight, until the foe was finally put to flight amid
the shouts of "Victory!"
"Men and women," he said in conclusion, "I am painting no fancy
pictures. The things I have told to you did really happen, and four
dear brothers of my own were chief actors in the scenes described. They
helped to rescue the perishing from the sea and from the fire, and
joined in the shout of Victory! on the battlefield. Now, friends, you
are in a worse case than any I have yet described. The tempest of sin
is roaring round and in you. This world is sinking beneath you, but
Jesus Christ, our Lifeboat, is alongside. Will you come? The fire is
burning under your very feet; there is no deliverance from the flames of
God's wrath, except by the Great Escape. Jesus is at hand to save.
Will you come? The battle is raging. Don't you _know_ it? Do you
forget that awful combat with the tempter when you fought your way past
the gin-shop, but were beaten and turned back? Or that terrible
assault, when passion after a deadly struggle laid you helpless on your
back? Oh! may God's Holy Spirit open your eyes to see Jesus--the
Captain of your Salvation--at your elbow this moment, waiting at the
door of your heart and knocking till you will open and let Him in to
lead you on to--Victory!"
Here the speaker dropped his voice again, and spoke tenderly of the love
of Jesus to the chief of sinners, and as he spoke, tears were seen
trickling down many a dirty face, and sobs broke the solemn stillness.
As the lame man was going home that night, a young girl ran after him
and seized his arm. Her eyes were swollen with weeping.
"Oh, sir," she cried in a low voice that trembled with emotion, "can--
will--Jesus save the like of me?"
"Assuredly, my poor girl. He says `Come unto me,' and `Whosoever
_will_,' let him come. If _you_ are willing, there is no doubt about
_His_ willingness. The difficulty only lies with you, not with Him.
Where do you live?"
"I have no home," sobbed the girl; "I have run away from my home, and
have no place to lay my head in here. But oh! sir, I want to be saved!"
The lame man looked with the deepest commiseration into the appealing
eyes. "Come," he said, "walk with me. I will tell you of One who had
no place where to lay His head."
She took his arm without a word, and the two hurried through the still
crowded streets. Arrived at his own door, the lame man knocked. It was
opened by a fair, soft, and exceedingly pretty little woman of about
thirty years of age, whose fresh face was the very personification of
goodness.
"Why, Jim!" she exclaimed, looking at the girl in surprise.
"Here we are, Molly," exclaimed the lame man, bustling into a snug room
in which a fire was blazing, and cheering preparations for tea were
going on, "and I've brought a friend to spend the night with us.
There's plenty of room on your floor for a shake-down, eh? This is my
sister," he added turning to the girl, "Mary Thorogood, but we always
call her Molly. She has come to visit me this Christmas--much against
her will, I believe, she's so fond of the old folk at home. Come now,
take her into your room, Molly; make her comfortable, and then we'll
have tea."
Molly took the girl into her room. Returning a moment later for
something forgotten, she was touched on the shoulder by her brother, who
whispered low in her ear:--
"A brand, Molly dear, plucked from the burning."
Molly turned her eyes upon her brother with a glad smile as she
re-entered her little room, and shut the door.