"But," continued Mrs Twitter, "I really find that the entire care of
her is too much for me, for, although dear Mary assists me, her studies
require to be attended to, and, do you know, babies interfere with
studies dreadfully. Not that I have time to do much in that way at
present. I think the Bible is the only book I really study now, so, you
see, I've been thinking of adding to our establishment by getting a new
servant;--a sort of nursery governess, you know,--a cheap one, of
course. Sam quite agrees with me, and, as it happens, I know a very
nice little girl just now--a very very poor girl--who helps us so nicely
on Sundays in George Yard, and has been recommended to me as a most
deserving creature. I expect her to call to-night."
"Be cautious, Mrs Twitter," said Mrs Loper. "These _very_ poor girls
from the slums of Whitechapel are sometimes dangerous, and, excuse me,
rather dirty. Of course, if you know her, that is some security, but I
would advise you to be very cautious."
"Thank you, my dear," said Mrs Twitter, "I usually am very cautious,
and will try to be so on this occasion. I mean her to be rather a sort
of nursery governess than a servant.--That is probably the girl."
She referred to a rather timid knock at the front door. In another
second the domestic announced Hetty Frog, who entered with a somewhat
shy air, and seemed fluttered at meeting with unexpected company.
"Come in, Hetty, my dear; I'm glad to see you. My friends here know
that you are a helper in our Sunday-schools. Sit down, and have a cup
of tea. You know why I have sent for you?"
"Yes, Mrs Twitter. It--it is very kind. Our Bible-nurse told me, and
I shall be so happy to come, because--but I fear I have interrupted you.
I--I can easily come back--"
"No interruption at all, my dear. Here, take this cup of tea--"
"And a crumpet," added Mrs Larrabel, who sympathised with the spirit of
hospitality.
"Yes, take a crumpet, and let me hear about your last place."
Poor Hetty, who was still very weak from her recent illness, and would
gladly have been excused sitting down with two strangers, felt
constrained to comply, and was soon put at her ease by the kindly tone
and manner of the hostess. She ran quickly over the chief points of her
late engagements, and roused, without meaning to do so, the indignation
of the ladies by the bare mention of the wages she had received for the
amount of work done.
"Well, my dear," said the homely Mrs Twitter, "we won't be so hard on
you here. I want you to assist me with my sewing and darning--of which
I have a very great deal--and help to take care of baby."
"Very well, ma'am," said Hetty, "when do you wish me to begin my
duties?"
"Oh! to-morrow--after breakfast will do. It is too late to-night. But
before you go, I may as well let you see the little one you are to have
charge of. I hear she is awake."
There could be no doubt upon that point, for the very rafters of the
house were ringing at the moment with the yells which issued from an
adjoining room.
"Come this way, Hetty."
Mrs Loper and Mrs Larrabel, having formed a good opinion of the girl,
looked on with approving smiles. The smiles changed to glances of
surprise, however, when Hetty, having looked on the baby, uttered a most
startling scream, while her eyes glared as though she saw a ghostly
apparition.
Seizing the baby with unceremonious familiarity, Hetty struck Mrs
Twitter dumb by turning it on its face, pulling open its dress, glancing
at a bright red spot on its back, and uttering a shriek of delight as
she turned it round again, and hugged it with violent affection,
exclaiming, "Oh! my blessed Matty!"
"The child's name is not Matty; it is Mita," said Mrs Twitter, on
recovering her breath. "What _do_ you mean, girl?"
"Her name is _not_ Mita, it is Matty," returned Hetty, with a flatness
of contradiction that seemed impossible in one so naturally gentle.
Mrs Twitter stood, aghast--bereft of the power of speech or motion.
Mrs Loper and Mrs Larrabel were similarly affected. They soon
recovered, however, and exclaimed in chorus, "What _can_ she mean?"
"Forgive me, ma'am," said Hetty, still holding on to baby, who seemed to
have an idea that she was creating a sensation of some sort, without
requiring to yell, "forgive my rudeness, ma'am, but I really couldn't
help it, for this is my long-lost sister Matilda."
"Sister Matilda!" echoed Mrs Loper.
"Long-lost sister Matilda!" repeated Mrs Larrabel.
"This--is--your--long-lost sister Matilda," rehearsed Mrs Twitter, like
one in a dream.
The situation was rendered still more complex by the sudden entrance of
Mr Twitter and his friend Crackaby.
"What--what--what's to do _now_, Mariar?"
"Sister Matilda!" shouted all three with a gasp.
"Lunatics, every one of 'em," murmured Crackaby.
It is, perhaps, scarcely necessary to add that a full explanation ensued
when the party became calmer; that Mrs Twitter could not doubt the
veracity of Hetty Frog, but suspected her sanity; that Mrs Frog was
sent for, and was recognised at once by Mr Twitter as the poor woman
who had asked him such wild and unmeaning questions the night on which
he had found the baby; and that Mr and Mrs Twitter, Mrs Loper, Mrs
Larrabel, and Crackaby came to the unanimous conclusion that they had
never heard of such a thing before in the whole course of their united
lives--which lives, when united, as some statisticians would take a
pride in recording, formed two hundred and forty-three years! Poor Mrs
Twitter was as inconsolable at the loss of her baby as Mrs Frog was
overjoyed at the recovery of hers. She therefore besought the latter to
leave little Mita, _alias_ Matty, with her just for one night longer--
only one night--and then she might come for her in the morning, for, you
know, it would have been cruel to remove the child from her warm crib at
that hour to a cold and comfortless lodging.
Of course Mrs Frog readily consented. If Mrs Frog had known the
events that lay in the womb of the next few hours, she would sooner have
consented to have had her right-hand cut off than have agreed to that
most reasonable request.
But we must not anticipate. A few of our _dramatis personae_ took both
an active and an inactive part in the events of these hours. It is
therefore imperative that we should indicate how some of them came to be
in that region.
About five of the clock in the afternoon of the day in question, Sir
Richard Brandon, his daughter and idol Diana, and his young friend
Stephen Welland, sat in the dining-room of the West-end mansion
concluding an early and rather hasty dinner. That something was pending
was indicated by the fact that little Di sat accoutred in her hat and
cloak.
"We shall have to make haste," said Sir Richard, rising, "for I should
not like to be late, and it is a long drive to Whitechapel."
"When do they begin?" asked Welland.
"They have tea at six, I believe, and then the meeting commences at
seven, but I wish to be early that I may have a short conversation with
one of the ladies of the Home."
"Oh! it will be so nice, and such fun to see the dear little boys. How
many are going to start for Canada, to-night, papa?"
"About fifty or sixty, I believe, but I'm not sure. They are sent off
in batches of varying size from time to time."
"Is the demand for them so great?" asked Welland, "I should have thought
that Canadian farmers and others would be afraid to receive into their
dwellings what is often described as the scum of the London streets."
"They were afraid at first, I am told, but soon discovered that the
little fellows who came from Miss Macpherson's Home had been subjected
to such good training and influences before leaving that they almost
invariably turned out valuable and trustworthy workmen. No doubt there
are exceptions in this as in every other case, but the demand is, it
seems, greater than the supply. It is, however, a false idea that
little waifs and strays, however dirty or neglected, are in any sense
the scum of London. Youth, in all circumstances, is cream, and only
turns into scum when allowed to stagnate or run to waste. Come, now,
let us be off. Mr Seaward, the city missionary, is to meet us after
the meeting, and show you and me something of those who have fallen very
low in the social scale. Brisbane, who is also to be at the meeting,
will bring Di home. By the way, have you heard anything yet about that
poor comrade and fellow-clerk of yours--Twitter, I think, was his name--
who disappeared so suddenly?"
"Nothing whatever. I have made inquiries in all directions--for I had a
great liking for the poor fellow. I went also to see his parents, but
they seemed too much cut up to talk on the subject at all, and knew
nothing of his whereabouts."
"Ah! it is a very sad case--very," said Sir Richard, as they all
descended to the street. "We might, perhaps, call at their house
to-night in passing." Entering a cab, they drove away.
From the foregoing conversation the reader will have gathered that the
party were about to visit the Beehive, or Home of Industry, and that Sir
Richard, through the instrumentality of little Di and the city
missionary, had actually begun to think about the poor!
It was a special night at the Beehive. A number of diamonds with some
of their dust rubbed off--namely, a band of little boys, rescued from
the streets and from a probable life of crime, were to be assembled
there to say farewell to such friends as took an interest in them.
The Hive had been a huge warehouse. It was now converted, with but
slight structural alteration, into a great centre of Light in that
morally dark region, from which emanated gospel truth and Christian
influence, and in which was a refuge for the poor, the destitute, the
sin-smitten, and the sorrowful. Not only poverty, but sin-in-rags, was
sure of help in the Beehive. It had been set agoing to bring, not the
righteous, but sinners, to repentance.
When Sir Richard arrived he found a large though low-roofed room crowded
with people, many of whom, to judge from their appearance, were, like
himself, diamond-seekers from the "west-end," while others were
obviously from the "east-end," and had the appearance of men and women
who had been but recently unearthed. There were also city missionaries
and other workers for God in that humble-looking hall. Among them sat
Mr John Seaward and George Brisbane, Esquire.
Placing Di and Welland near the latter, Sir Richard retired to a corner
where one of the ladies of the establishment was distributing tea to all
comers.
"Where are your boys, may I ask?" said the knight, accepting a cup of
tea.
"Over in the left corner," answered the lady. "You can hardly see them
for the crowd, but they will stand presently."
At that moment, as if to justify her words, a large body of boys rose
up, at a sign from the superintending genius of the place, and began to
sing a beautiful hymn in soft, tuneful voices. It was a goodly array of
dusty diamonds, and a few of them had already begun to shine.
"Surely," said Sir Richard, in a low voice, "these cannot be the ragged,
dirty little fellows you pick up in the streets?"
"Indeed they are," returned the lady.
"But--but they seem to me quite respectable and cleanly fellows, not at
all like--why, how has the change been accomplished?"
"By the united action, sir, of soap and water, needles and thread,
scissors, cast-off garments, and Love."
Sir Richard smiled. Perchance the reader may also smile; nevertheless,
this statement embodied probably the whole truth.
When an unkempt, dirty, ragged little savage presents himself, or is
presented, at the Refuge, or is "picked up" in the streets, his case is
promptly and carefully inquired into. If he seems a suitable
character--that is, one who is _utterly_ friendless and parentless, or
whose parents are worse than dead to him--he is received into the Home,
and the work of transformation--both of body and soul--commences. First
he is taken to the lavatory and scrubbed outwardly clean. His elfin
locks are cropped close and cleansed. His rags are burned, and a new
suit, made by the old women workers, is put upon him, after which,
perhaps, he is fed. Then he is sent to a doctor to see that he is
internally sound in wind and limb. If passed by the doctor, he receives
a brief but important training in the rudiments of knowledge. In all of
these various processes Love is the guiding principle of the operator--
love to God and love to the boy. He is made to understand, and to
_feel_, that it is in the name of Jesus, for the love of Jesus, and in
the spirit of Jesus--not of mere philanthropy--that all this is done,
and that his body is cared for _chiefly_ in order that the soul may be
won.
Little wonder, then, that a boy or girl, whose past experience has been
the tender mercies of the world--and that the roughest part of the
world--should become somewhat "respectable," as Sir Richard put it,
under such new and blessed influences.
Suddenly a tiny shriek was heard in the midst of the crowd, and a sweet
little voice exclaimed, as if its owner were in great surprise--
"Oh! oh! there is _my_ boy!"
A hearty laugh from the audience greeted this outburst, and poor Di,
shrinking down, tried to hide her pretty face on Welland's ready arm.
Her remark was quickly forgotten in the proceedings that followed--but
it was true.
There stood, in the midst of the group of boys, little Bobby Frog, with
his face washed, his hair cropped and shining, his garments untattered,
and himself looking as meek and "respectable" as the best of them.
Beside him stood his fast friend Tim Lumpy. Bobby was not, however, one
of the emigrant band. Having joined only that very evening, and been
cropped, washed, and clothed for the first time, he was there merely as
a privileged guest. Tim, also, was only a guest, not having quite
attained to the dignity of a full-fledged emigrant at that time.
At the sound of the sweet little voice, Bobby Frog's meek look was
replaced by one of bright intelligence, not unmingled with anxiety, as
he tried unavailingly to see the child who had spoken.
We do not propose to give the proceedings of this meeting in detail,
interesting though they were. Other matters of importance claim our
attention. It will be sufficient to say that mingled with the
semi-conversational, pleasantly free-and-easy, intercourse that
ensued, there were most interesting short addresses from the
lady-superintendents of "The Sailors' Welcome Home" and of the
"Strangers' Rest," both of Ratcliff Highway, also from the chief of the
Ragged schools in George Yard, and several city missionaries, as well as
from city merchants who found time and inclination to traffic in the
good things of the life to come as well as in those of the life that now
is.
Before the proceedings had drawn to a close a voice whispered:
"It is time to go, Sir Richard." It was the voice of John Seaward.
Following him, Sir Richard and Welland went out. It had grown dark by
that time, and as there were no brilliantly lighted shops near, the
place seemed gloomy, but the gloom was nothing to that of the filthy
labyrinths into which Seaward quickly conducted his followers.
"You have no occasion to fear, sir," said the missionary, observing that
Sir Richard hesitated at the mouth of one very dark alley. "It would,
indeed, hardly be safe were you to come down here alone, but most of 'em
know me. I remember being told by one of the greatest roughs I ever
knew that at the very corner where we now stand he had _many_ and many a
time knocked down and robbed people. That man is now an earnest
Christian, and, like Paul, goes about preaching the Name which he once
despised."
At the moment a dark shadow seemed to pass them, and a gruff voice said,
"Good-night, sir."
"Was that the man you were speaking of?" asked Sir Richard, quickly.
"Oh no, sir," replied Seaward with a laugh; "that's what he was once
like, indeed, but not what he is like now. His voice is no longer
gruff. Take care of the step, gentlemen, as you pass here; so, now we
will go into this lodging. It is one of the common lodging-houses of
London, which are regulated by law and under the supervision of the
police. Each man pays fourpence a night here, for which he is entitled
to a bed and the use of the kitchen and its fire to warm himself and
cook his food. If he goes to the same lodging every night for a week he
becomes entitled to a free night on Sundays."
The room into which they now entered was a long low chamber, which
evidently traversed the whole width of the building, for it turned at a
right angle at the inner end, and extended along the back to some
extent. It was divided along one side into boxes or squares, after the
fashion of some eating-houses, with a small table in the centre of each
box, but, the partitions being little higher than those of a church-pew,
the view of the whole room was unobstructed. At the inner angle of the
room blazed a coal-fire so large that a sheep might have been easily
roasted whole at it. Gas jets, fixed along the walls at intervals, gave
a sufficient light to the place.
This was the kitchen of the lodging-house, and formed the sitting-room
of the place; and here was assembled perhaps the most degraded and
miserable set of men that the world can produce. They were not all of
one class, by any means; nor were they all criminal, though certainly
many of them were. The place was the last refuge of the destitute; the
social sink into which all that is improvident, foolish, reckless,
thriftless, or criminal finally descends.
Sir Richard and Welland had put on their oldest great-coats and
shabbiest wideawakes; they had also put off their gloves and rings and
breastpins in order to attract as little attention as possible, but
nothing that they could have done could have reduced their habiliments
to anything like the garments of the poor creatures with whom they now
mingled. If they had worn the same garments for months or years without
washing them, and had often slept in them out of doors in dirty places,
they might perhaps have brought them to the same level, but not
otherwise.
Some of the people, however, were noisy enough. Many of them were
smoking, and the coarser sort swore and talked loud. Those who had once
been in better circumstances sat and moped, or spoke in lower tones, or
cooked their victuals with indifference to all else around, or ate them
in abstracted silence; while not a few laid their heads and arms on the
tables, and apparently slept. For sleeping in earnest there were rooms
overhead containing many narrow beds with scant and coarse covering,
which, however, the law compelled to be clean. One of the rooms
contained seventy such beds.
Little notice was taken of the west-end visitors as they passed up the
room, though some dark scowls of hatred were cast after them, and a few
glanced at them with indifference. It was otherwise in regard to
Seaward. He received many a "good-night, sir," as he passed, and a
kindly nod greeted him here and there from men who at first looked as if
kindness had been utterly eradicated from their systems.
One of those whom we have described as resting their heads and arms on
the tables, looked hastily up, on hearing the visitors' voices, with an
expression of mingled surprise and alarm. It was Sammy Twitter, with
hands and visage filthy, hair dishevelled, eyes bloodshot, cheeks
hollow, and garments beyond description disreputable. He seemed the
very embodiment of woe and degradation. On seeing his old friend
Welland he quickly laid his head down again and remained motionless.
Welland had not observed him.
"You would scarcely believe it, sir," said the missionary, in a low
tone; "nearly all classes of society are occasionally represented here.
You will sometimes find merchants, lawyers, doctors, military men, and
even clergymen, who have fallen step by step, chiefly in consequence of
that subtle demon drink, until the common lodging-house is their only
home."
"Heaven help me!" said Sir Richard; "my friend Brisbane has often told
me of this, but I have never quite believed it--certainly never realised
it--until to-night. And even now I can hardly believe it. I see no one
here who seems as if he ever had belonged to the classes you name."
"Do you see the old man in the last box in the room, on the left-hand
side, sitting alone?" asked Seaward, turning his back to the spot
indicated.
"Yes."
"Well, that is a clergyman. I know him well. You would never guess it
from his wretched clothing, but you might readily believe it if you were
to speak to him."
"That I will not do," returned the other firmly.
"You are right, sir," said Seaward, "I would not advise that you
should--at least not here, or now. I have been in the habit of reading
a verse or two of the Word and giving them a short address sometimes
about this hour. Have you any objection to my doing so now? It won't
detain us long."
"None in the world; pray, my good sir, don't let me disarrange your
plans."
"Perhaps," added the missionary, "you would say a few words to--"
"No, no," interrupted the other, quickly; "no, they are preaching to
_me_ just now, Mr Seaward, a very powerful sermon, I assure you."
During the foregoing conversation young Welland's thoughts had been very
busy; ay, and his conscience had not been idle, for when mention was
made of that great curse strong drink, he vividly recalled the day when
he had laughed at Sam Twitter's blue ribbon, and felt uneasy as to how
far his conduct on that occasion had helped Sam in his downward career.
"My friends," said the missionary aloud, "we will sing a hymn."
Some of those whom he addressed turned towards the speaker; others paid
no attention whatever, but went on with their cooking and smoking. They
were used to it, as ordinary church-goers are to the "service." The
missionary understood that well, but was not discouraged, because he
knew that his "labour in the Lord" should not be in vain. He pulled out
two small hymn-books and handed one to Sir Richard, the other to
Welland.
Sir Richard suddenly found himself in what was to him a strange and
uncomfortable position, called on to take a somewhat prominent part in a
religious service in a low lodging-house!
The worst of it was that the poor knight could not sing a note.
However, his deficiency in this respect was more than compensated by
John Seaward, who possessed a telling tuneful voice, with a grateful
heart to work it. Young Welland also could sing well, and joined
heartily in that beautiful hymn which tells of "The wonderful words of
life."
After a brief prayer the missionary preached the comforting gospel, and
tried, with all the fervour of a sympathetic heart, to impress on his
hearers that there really was Hope for the hopeless, and Rest for the
weary in Jesus Christ.
When he had finished, Stephen Welland surprised him, as well as his
friend Sir Richard and the audience generally, by suddenly exclaiming,
in a subdued but impressive voice, which drew general attention:
"Friends, I had no intention of saying a word when I came here, but, God
forgive me, I have committed a sin, which seems to force me to speak and
warn you against giving way to strong drink. I had--nay, I _have_--a
dear friend who once put on the Blue Ribbon."
Here he related the episode at the road-side tavern, and his friend's
terrible fall, and wound up with the warning:
"Fellow-men, fellow-sinners, beware of being laughed out of good
resolves--beware of strong drink. I know not where my comrade is now.
He may be dead, but I think not, for he has a mother and father who pray
for him without ceasing. Still better, as you have just been told, he
has an Advocate with God, who is able and willing to save him to the
uttermost. Forgive me, Mr Seaward, for speaking without being asked.
I could not help it."
"No need to ask forgiveness of me, Mr Welland. You have spoken on the
Lord's side, and I have reason to thank you heartily."
While this was being said, those who sat near the door observed that a
young man rose softly, and slunk away like a criminal, with a face ashy
pale and his head bowed down. On reaching the door, he rushed out like
one who expected to be pursued. It was young Sam Twitter. Few of the
inmates of the place observed him, none cared a straw for him, and the
incident was, no doubt, quickly forgotten.
"We must hasten now, if we are to visit another lodging-house," said
Seaward, as they emerged into the comparatively fresh air of the street,
"for it grows late, and riotous drunken characters are apt to be met
with as they stagger home."
"No; I have had enough for one night," said Sir Richard. "I shall not
be able to digest it all in a hurry. I'll go home by the Metropolitan,
if you will conduct me to the nearest station."
"Come along, then. This way."
They had not gone far, and were passing through a quiet side street,
when they observed a poor woman sitting on a door-step. It was Mrs
Frog, who had returned to sit on the old familiar spot, and watch the
shadows on the blind, either from the mere force of habit, or because
this would probably be the last occasion on which she could expect to
enjoy that treat.
A feeling of pity entered Sir Richard's soul as he looked on the poorly
clothed forlorn creature. He little knew what rejoicing there was in
her heart just then--so deceptive are appearances at times! He went
towards her with an intention of some sort, when a very tall policeman
turned the corner, and approached.
"Why, Giles Scott!" exclaimed the knight, holding out his hand, which
Giles shook respectfully, "you seem to be very far away from your beat
to-night."
"No, sir, not very far, for this is my beat, now. I have exchanged into
the city, for reasons that I need not mention."
At this point a belated and half-tipsy man passed with his donkey-cart
full of unsold vegetables and rubbish.
"Hallo! you big blue-coat-boy," he cried politely to Giles, "wot d'ye
call _that_?"
Giles had caught sight of "_that_" at the same moment, and darted across
the street.
"Why, it's fire!" he shouted. "Run, young fellow, you know the
fire-station!"
"_I_ know it," shouted the donkey-man, sobered in an instant, as he
jumped off his cart, left it standing, dashed round the corner, and
disappeared, while Number 666 beat a thundering tattoo on Samuel
Twitter's front door.