Once again we return to the great city, and to Mrs Frog's poor lodging.
But it is not poor now, for the woman has at last got riches and joy--
such riches as the ungodly care not for, and a joy that they cannot
understand.
It is not all riches and joy, however. The Master has told us that we
shall have "much tribulation." What then? Are we worse off than the
unbelievers? Do _they_ escape the tribulation? It is easy to prove
that the Christian has the advantage of the worldling, for, while both
have worries and tribulation without fail, the one has a little joy
along with these--nay, much joy if you choose--which, however, will end
with life, if not before; while the other has joy unspeakable and full
of glory, which will increase with years, and end in absolute felicity!
Let us look at Mrs Frog's room now, and listen to her as she sits on
one side of a cheerful fire, sewing, while Hetty sits on the other side,
similarly occupied, and Matty, _alias_ Mita, lies in her crib sound
asleep.
It is the same room, the same London atmosphere, which no moral
influence will ever purify, and pretty much the same surroundings, for
Mrs Frog's outward circumstances have not altered much in a worldly
point of view. The neighbours in the court are not less filthy and
violent. One drunken nuisance has left the next room, but another
almost as bad has taken his place. Nevertheless, although not altered
much, things are decidedly improved in the poor pitiful dwelling.
Whereas, in time past, it used to be dirty, now it is clean. The table
is the same table, obviously, for you can see the crack across the top
caused by Ned's great fist on that occasion when, failing rather in
force of argument while laying down the law, he sought to emphasise his
remarks with an effective blow; but a craftsman has been at work on the
table, and it is no longer rickety. The chair, too, on which Mrs Frog
sits, is the same identical chair which missed the head of Bobby Frog
that time he and his father differed in opinion on some trifling matter,
and smashed a panel of the door; but the chair has been to see the
doctor, and its constitution is stronger now. The other chair, on which
Hetty sits, is a distinct innovation. So is baby's crib. It has
replaced the heap of straw which formerly sufficed, and there are two
low bedsteads in corners which once were empty.
Besides all this there are numerous articles of varied shape and size
glittering on the walls, such as sauce-pans and pot-lids, etcetera,
which are made to do ornamental as well as useful duty, being polished
to the highest possible degree of brilliancy. Everywhere there is
evidence of order and care, showing that the inmates of the room are
somehow in better circumstances.
Let it not be supposed that this has been accomplished by charity. Mrs
Samuel Twitter is very charitable, undoubtedly. There can be no
question as to that; but if she were a hundred times more charitable
than she is, and were to give away a hundred thousand times more money
than she does give, she could not greatly diminish the vast poverty of
London. Mrs Twitter had done what she could in this case, but that was
little, in a money point of view, for there were others who had stronger
claims upon her than Mrs Frog. But Mrs Twitter had put her little
finger under Mrs Frog's chin when her lips were about to go under
water, and so, figuratively, she kept her from drowning. Mrs Twitter
had put out a hand when Mrs Frog tripped and was about to tumble, and
thus kept her from falling. When Mrs Frog, weary of life, was on the
point of rushing once again to London Bridge, with a purpose, Mrs
Twitter caught the skirt of her ragged robe with a firm but kindly grasp
and held her back, thus saving her from destruction; but, best of all,
when the poor woman, under the influence of the Spirit of God, ceased to
strive with her Maker and cried out earnestly, "What must I do to be
saved?" Mrs Twitter grasped her with both hands and dragged her with
tender violence towards the Fold, but not quite into it.
For Mrs Twitter was a wise, unselfish woman, as well as good. At a
certain point she ceased to act, and said, "Mrs Frog, go to your own
Hetty, and she will tell you what to do."
And Mrs Frog went, and Hetty, with joyful surprise in her heart, and
warm tears of gratitude in her eyes, pointed her to Jesus the Saviour of
mankind. It was nothing new to the poor woman to be thus directed. It
is nothing new to almost any one in a Christian land to be pointed to
Christ; but it _is_ something new to many a one to have the eyes opened
to see, and the will influenced to accept. It was so now with this
poor, self-willed, and long-tried--or, rather, long-resisting--woman.
The Spirit's time had come, and she was made willing. But now she had
to face the difficulties of the new life. Conscience--never killed, and
now revived--began to act.
"I must work," she said, internally, and conscience nodded approval. "I
must drink less," she said, but conscience shook her head. "It will be
very hard, you see," she continued, apologetically, "for a poor woman
like me to get through a hard day without just _one_ glass of beer to
strengthen me."
Conscience did all her work by looks alone. She was naturally dumb, but
she had a grand majestic countenance with great expressive eyes, and at
the mention of _one_ glass of beer she frowned so that poor Mrs Frog
almost trembled.
At this point Hetty stepped into the conversation. All unaware of what
had been going on in her mother's mind, she said, suddenly, "Mother, I'm
going to a meeting to-night; will you come?"
Mrs Frog was quite willing. In fact she had fairly given in and become
biddable like a little child,--though, after all, that interesting
creature does not always, or necessarily, convey the most perfect idea
of obedience!
It was a rough meeting, composed of rude elements, in a large but
ungilded hall in Whitechapel. The people were listening intently to a
powerful speaker.
The theme was strong drink. There were opponents and sympathisers
there. "It is the greatest curse, I think, in London," said the
speaker, as Hetty and her mother entered.
"Bah!" exclaimed a powerful man beside whom they chanced to sit down.
"I've drank a lot on't an' don't find it no curse, at all."
"Silence," cried some in the audience.
"I tell 'ee it's all barn wot 'e's talkin'," said the powerful man.
"Put 'im out," cried some of the audience. But the powerful man had a
powerful look, and a great bristly jaw, and a fierce pair of eyes which
had often been blackened, and still bore the hues of the last fight; no
one, therefore, attempted to put him out, so he snapped his fingers at
the entire meeting, said, "Bah!" again, with a look of contempt, and
relapsed into silence, while the speaker, heedless of the slight
interruption, went on.
"Why, it's a Blue Ribbon meeting, Hetty," whispered Mrs Frog.
"Yes, mother," whispered Hetty in reply, "that's one of its names, but
its real title, I heard one gentleman say, is the Gospel-Temperance
Association, you see, they're very anxious to put the gospel first and
temperance second; temperance bein' only one of the fruits of the gospel
of Jesus."
The speaker went on in eloquent strains pleading the great cause--now
drawing out the sympathies of his hearers, then appealing to their
reason; sometimes relating incidents of deepest pathos, at other times
convulsing the audience with touches of the broadest humour, insomuch
that the man who said "bah!" modified his objections to "pooh!" and ere
long came to that turning-point where silence is consent. In this
condition he remained until reference was made by the speaker to a man--
not such a bad fellow too, when sober--who, under the influence of
drink, had thrown his big shoe at his wife's head and cut it so badly
that she was even then--while he was addressing them--lying in hospital
hovering between life and death.
"That's me!" cried the powerful man, jumping up in a state of great
excitement mingled with indignation, while he towered head and shoulders
above the audience, "though how _you_ come for to 'ear on't beats me
holler. An' it shows 'ow lies git about, for she's _not_ gone to the
hospital, an' it wasn't shoes at all, but boots I flung at 'er, an' they
only just grazed 'er, thank goodness, an' sent the cat flyin' through
the winder. So--"
A burst of laughter with mingled applause and cheers cut off the end of
the sentence and caused the powerful man to sit down in much confusion,
quite puzzled what to think of it all.
"My friend," said the speaker, when order had been restored, "you are
mistaken. I did not refer to you at all, never having seen or heard of
you before, but there are too many men like you--men who would be good
men and true if they would only come to the Saviour, who would soon
convince them that it is wise to give up the drink and put on the blue
ribbon. Let it not be supposed, my friends, that I say it is the _duty_
of every one to put on the blue ribbon and become a total abstainer.
There are circumstances in which a `little wine' may be advisable. Why,
the apostle Paul himself, when Timothy's stomach got into a chronic
state of disease which subjected him, apparently, to `frequent
infirmities,' advised him to take a `little wine,' but he didn't advise
him to take many quarts of beer, or numerous glasses of brandy and
water, or oceans of Old Tom, or to get daily fuddled on the poisons
which are sold by many publicans under these names. Still less did Paul
advise poor dyspeptic Timothy to become his own medical man and
prescribe all these medicines to himself, whenever he felt inclined for
them. Yes, there are the old and the feeble and the diseased, who may,
(observe I don't say who _do_, for I am not a doctor, but who _may_),
require stimulants under medical advice. To these we do not speak, and
to these we would not grudge the small alleviation to their sad case
which may be found in stimulants; but to the young and strong and
healthy we are surely entitled to say, to plead, and to entreat--put on
the blue ribbon if you see your way to it. And by the young we mean not
only all boys and girls, but all men and women in the prime of life, ay,
and beyond the prime, if in good health. Surely you will all admit that
the young require no stimulants. Are they not superabounding in energy?
Do they not require the very opposite--sedatives, and do they not find
these in constant and violent muscular exercise?"
With many similar and other arguments did the speaker seek to influence
the mass of human beings before him, taking advantage of every idea that
cropped up and every incident in the meeting that occurred to enforce
his advice--namely, total abstinence for the young and the healthy--
until he had stirred them up to a state of considerable enthusiasm.
Then he said:--
"I am glad to see you enthusiastic. Nothing great can be done without
enthusiasm. You may potter along the even tenor of your way without it,
but you'll never come to much good, and you'll never accomplish great
things, without it. What is enthusiasm? Is it not seeing the length,
breadth, height, depth, and bearing of a good thing, and being zealously
affected in helping to bring it about? There are many kinds of
enthusiasts, though but one quality of enthusiasm. Weak people show
their enthusiasm too much on the surface. Powerful folk keep it too
deep in their hearts to be seen at all. What then, are we to scout it
in the impulsive because too obvious; to undervalue it in the reticent
because almost invisible? Nay, let us be thankful for it in any form,
for the _thing_ is good, though the individual's manner of displaying it
may be faulty. Let us hope that the too gushing may learn to clap on
the breaks a little--a very little; but far more let us pray that the
reticent and the self-possessed, and the oh!--dear--no--you'll--never--
catch--me--doing--that--sort--of--thing people, may be enabled to get up
more steam. Better far in my estimation the wild enthusiast than the
self-possessed and self-sufficient cynic. Just look at your gentlemanly
cynic; good-natured very likely, for he's mightily pleased with himself
and excessively wise in regard to all things sublunary. Why, even he
has enthusiasm, though not always in a good cause. Follow him to the
races. Watch him while he sees the sleek and beautiful creatures
straining every muscle, and his own favourite drawing ahead, inch by
inch, until it bids fair to win. Is _that_ our cynic, bending forward
on his steed, with gleaming eyes and glowing cheek, and partly open
mouth and quick-coming breath, and so forgetful of himself that he
swings off his hat and gives vent to a lusty cheer as the favourite
passes the winning-post?
"But follow him still further. Don't let him go. Hold on to his
horse's tail till we see him safe into his club, and wait there till he
has dined and gone to the opera. There he sits, immaculate in dress and
bearing, in the stalls. It is a huge audience. A great star is to
appear. The star comes on--music such as might cause the very angels to
bend and listen.
"The sweet singer exerts herself; her rich voice swells in volume and
sweeps round the hall, filling every ear and thrilling every heart,
until, unable to restrain themselves, the vast concourse rises _en
masse_, and, with waving scarf and kerchief, thunders forth applause!
And what of our cynic? There he is, the wildest of the wild--for he
happens to love music--shouting like a maniac and waving his hat,
regardless of the fact that he has broken the brim, and that the old
gentleman whose corns he has trodden on frowns at him with savage
indignation.
"Yes," continued the speaker, "the whole world is enthusiastic when the
key-note of each individual, or class of individuals, is struck; and
shall _we_ be ashamed of our enthusiasm for this little bit of heavenly
blue, which symbolises the great fact that those who wear it are racing
with the demon Drink to save men and women, (ourselves included,
perhaps), from his clutches; racing with Despair to place Hope before
the eyes of those who are blindly rushing to destruction; racing with
Time to snatch the young out of the way of the Destroyer before he lays
hand on them; and singing--ay, shouting--songs of triumph and glory to
God because of the tens of thousands of souls and bodies already saved;
because of the bright prospect of the tens of thousands more to follow;
because of the innumerable voices added to the celestial choir, and the
glad assurance that the hymns of praise thus begun shall not die out
with our feeble frames, but will grow stronger in sweetness as they
diminish in volume, until, the river crossed, they shall burst forth
again with indescribable intensity in the New Song.
"Some people tell us that these things are not true. Others say they
won't last. My friends, I know, and many of you know, that they _are_
true, and even if they were _not_ to last, have we not even now ground
for praise? Shall we not rejoice that the lifeboat has saved some,
because others have refused to embark and perished? But we don't admit
that these things won't last. Very likely, in the apostolic days, some
of the unbelievers said of them and their creed, `How long will it
last?' If these objectors be now able to take note of the world's
doings, they have their answer from Father Time himself; for does he not
say, `Christianity has lasted nearly nineteen hundred years, and is the
strongest moral motive-power in the world to-day?' The Blue Ribbon, my
friends, or what it represents, is founded on Christianity; therefore
the principles which it represents are sure to stand. Who will come now
and put it on?"
"I will!" shouted a strong voice from among the audience, and up rose
the powerful man who began the evening with "bah!" and "pooh!" He soon
made his way to the platform amid uproarious cheering, and donned the
blue.
"Hetty," whispered Mrs Frog in a low, timid voice, "I think I would
like to put it on too."
If the voice had been much lower and more timid, Hetty would have heard
it, for she sat there watching for her mother as one might watch for a
parent in the crisis of a dread disease. She knew that no power on
earth can change the will, and she had waited and prayed till the arrow
was sent home by the hand of God.
"Come along, mother," she said--but said no more, for her heart was too
full.
Mrs Frog was led to the platform, to which multitudes of men, women,
and children were pressing, and the little badge was pinned to her
breast.
Thus did that poor woman begin her Christian course with the fruit of
self-denial.
She then set about the work of putting her house in order. It was
up-hill work at first, and very hard, but the promise did not fail her,
"Lo! I am with you alway." In all her walk she found Hetty a guardian
angel.
"I must work, Hetty, dear," she said, "for it will never do to make you
support us all; but what am I to do with baby? There is no one to take
charge of her when I go out."
"I am quite able to keep the whole of us, mother, seeing that I get such
good pay from the lady I work for, but as you want to work, I can easily
manage for baby. You know I've often wished to speak of the Infant
Nursery in George Yard. Before you sent Matty away I wanted you to send
her there, but--" Hetty paused.
"Go on, dear. I was mad agin' you an' your religious ways; wasn't that
it?" said Mrs Frog.
"Well, mother, it don't matter now, thank God. The Infant Nursery, you
know, is a part of the Institution there. The hearts of the people who
manage it were touched by the death of so many thousands of little ones
every year in London through want and neglect, so they set up this
nursery to enable poor widowed mothers and others to send their babies
to be cared for--nursed, fed, and amused in nice airy rooms--while the
mothers are at work. They charge only fourpence a day for this, and
each baby has its own bag of clothing, brush and comb, towel and cot.
They will keep Matty from half-past seven in the morning till eight at
night for you, so that will give you plenty of time to work, won't it,
mother?"
"It will indeed, Hetty, and all for fourpence a day, say you?"
"Yes, the ordinary charge is fourpence, but widows get it for twopence
for each child, and, perhaps, they may regard a deserted wife as a
widow! There is a fine of twopence per hour for any child not taken
away after eight, so you'll have to be up to time, mother."
Mrs Frog acted on this advice, and thus was enabled to earn a
sufficiency to enable her to pay her daily rent, to clothe and feed
herself and child, to give a little to the various missions undertaken
by the Institutions near her, to put a little now and then into the
farthing bank, and even to give a little in charity to the poor!
Now, reader, you may have forgotten it, but if you turn back to near the
beginning of this chapter, you will perceive that all we have been
writing about is a huge digression, for which we refuse to make the
usual apology.
We return again to Mrs Frog where we left her, sitting beside her
cheerful fire, sewing and conversing with Hetty.
"I can't bear to think of 'im, Hetty," said Mrs Frog. "You an' me
sittin' here so comfortable, with as much to eat as we want, an' to
spare, while your poor father is in a cold cell. He's bin pretty bad to
me of late, it's true, wi' that drink, but he wasn't always like that,
Hetty; even you can remember him before he took to the drink."
"Yes, mother, I can, and, bless the Lord, he may yet be better than he
ever was. When is his time up?"
"This day three weeks. The twelve months will be out then. We must
pray for 'im, Hetty."
"Yes, mother. I am always prayin' for him. You know that."
There was a touch of anxiety in the tones and faces of both mother and
daughter as they talked of the father, for his home-coming might,
perhaps, nay probably would, be attended with serious consequences to
the renovated household. They soon changed the subject to one more
agreeable.
"Isn't Bobby's letter a nice one, mother?" said Hetty, "and so well
written, though the spellin' might have been better; but then he's had
so little schoolin'."
"It just makes my heart sing," returned Mrs Frog. "Read it again to
me, Hetty. I'll never tire o' hearin' it. I only wish it was longer."
The poor mother's wish was not unnatural, for the letter which Bobby had
written was not calculated to tax the reader's patience, and, as Hetty
hinted, there was room for improvement, not only in the spelling but in
the writing. Nevertheless, it had carried great joy to the mother's
heart. We shall therefore give it _verbatim et literatim_.
Brankly Farm--Kanada.
"Deer Mutrer. wen i left you i promisd to rite so heer gos. this Plase
is eaven upon arth. so pritty an grand. O you never did see the likes.
ide park is nuffin to it, an as for Kensintn gardings--wy to kompair
thems rediklis. theres sitch a nice little gal here. shes wun of deer
mis mukfersons gals--wot the vestenders calls a wafe and sometimes a
strai. were all very fond of er spesially tim lumpy. i shuvd im in the
river wun dai. my--ow e spluterd. but e was non the wus--all the better,
mister an mistress meryboi aint that a joly naim are as good as gold to
us. we as prairs nite and mornin an no end o witls an as appy as kings
and kueens a-sitin on there throns. give all our luv to deer father, an
etty an baiby an mis mukferson an mister olland an all our deer
teechers. sai we'll never forgit wot they told us. your deer sun Bobby."
"Isn't it beautiful?" said Mrs Frog, wiping away a tear with the sock
she was darning in preparation for her husband's return.
"Yes, mother. Bless the people that sent 'im out to Canada," said
Hetty, "for he would never have got on here."
There came a tap to the door as she spoke, and Mrs Twitter, entering,
was received with a hearty welcome.
"I came, Mrs Frog," she said, accepting the chair--for there was even a
third chair--which Hetty placed for her, "to ask when your husband will
be home again."
Good Mrs Twitter carefully avoided the risk of hurting the poor woman's
feelings by needless reference to jail.
"I expect him this day three weeks, ma'am," replied Mrs Frog.
"That will do nicely," returned Mrs Twitter. "You see, my husband
knows a gentleman who takes great pleasure in getting con--in getting
men like Ned, you know, into places, and giving them a chance of--of
getting on in life, you understand?"
"_Yes_, ma'am, we must all try to git on in life if we would keep in
life," said Mrs Frog, sadly.
"Well, there is a situation open just now, which the gentleman--the same
gentleman who was so kind in helping us after the fire; you see we all
need help of one another, Mrs Frog--which the gentleman said he could
keep open for a month, but not longer, so, as I happened to be passing
your house to-night on my way to the Yard, to the mothers' meeting, I
thought I'd just look in and tell you, and ask you to be sure and send
Ned to me the moment he comes home."
"I will, ma'am, and God bless you for thinkin' of us so much."
"Remember, now," said Mrs Twitter, impressively, "_before_ he has time
to meet any of his old comrades. Tell him if he comes straight to me he
will hear something that will please him very much. I won't tell you
what. That is my message to him. And now, how is my Mita? Oh! I need
not ask. There she lies like a little angel!" (Mrs Twitter rose and
went to the crib, but did not disturb the little sleeper.) "I wish I saw
roses on her little cheeks and more fat, Mrs Frog."
Mrs Frog admitted that there was possible improvement in the direction
of roses and fat, but feared that the air, (it would have been more
correct to have said the smoke and smells), of the court went against
roses and fat, somehow. She was thankful, however, to the good Lord for
the health they all enjoyed in spite of local disadvantages.
"Ah!" sighed Mrs Twitter, "if we could only transport you all to
Canada--"
"Oh! ma'am," exclaimed Mrs Frog, brightening up suddenly, "we've had
_such_ a nice letter from our Bobby. Let her see it, Hetty."
"Yes, and so nicely written, too," remarked Hetty, with a beaming face,
as she handed Bobby's production to the visitor, "though he doesn't
quite understand yet the need for capital letters."
"Never mind, Hetty, so long as he sends you capital letters," returned
Mrs Twitter, perpetrating the first pun she had been guilty of since
she was a baby; "and, truly, this is a charming letter, though short."
"Yes, it's rather short, but it might have been shorter," said Mrs
Frog, indulging in a truism.
Mrs Twitter was already late for the mothers' meeting, but she felt at
once that it would be better to be still later than to disappoint Mrs
Frog of a little sympathy in a matter which touched her feelings so
deeply. She sat down, therefore, and read the letter over, slowly,
commenting on it as she went along in a pleasant sort of way, which
impressed the anxious mother with, not quite the belief, but the
sensation that Bobby was the most hopeful immigrant which Canada had
received since it was discovered.
"Now, mind, send Ned up _at once_," said the amiable lady when about to
quit the little room.
"Yes, Mrs Twitter, I will; good-night."