"RESCUE THE PERISHING."
Proverbial philosophy asserts that the iron should be struck when it is
hot. I sympathise with proverbial philosophy in this case, but that
teacher says nothing whatever about striking the iron when it is cold;
and experience--at least that of blacksmiths--goes to prove that cold
iron may be struck till heat is evolved, and, once heated, who knows
what intensity of incandescence may be attained?
I will try it. My hammer may not be a large one. A sledge-hammer it
certainly is not. Such as it is I wield it under the impulse of great
heat within me, and will direct my blows at the presumably cold iron
around. I say presumably,--because if you, good reader, have not been
subjected to the same influences with myself you cannot reasonably be
expected to be even warm--much less white-hot.
The cause of all this heat was Dr Barnardo's splendid meeting held
recently in the Royal Albert Hall. I came home from that meeting
incandescent--throwing off sparks of enthusiasm, and eagerly clutching
at every cold or lukewarm creature that came in my way with a view to
expend on it some of my surplus heat!
The great Albert Hall filled is enough of itself to arouse enthusiasm,
whatever the object of the gathering may be. Ten thousand human beings,
more or less, swarming on the floor, clustering on the walls, rising
tier above tier, until in dim distance the pigmy throng seems soaring up
into the very heavens, is a tremendous, a solemn, a heart-stirring
sight, suggestive--I write with reverence--of the Judgment Day. And
when such an assembly is convened for the purpose of considering matters
of urgent importance, matters affecting the well-being of multitudes,
matters of life and death which call for instant and vigorous action,
then the enthusiasm is naturally intensified and needs but little
hammering to rouse it to the fiercest glow.
It was no ordinary gathering this--no mere "annual meeting" of a grand
society. It was indeed that, but a great deal more. There was a "noble
chairman," of course, and an address, and several speeches by eminent
men; but I should suppose that one-half of the audience could not well
see the features of the speakers or hear their words. These were
relatively insignificant matters.
The business of the evening was to present to the people a great Object
Lesson, and the only figure on the platform that bulked large--at least
in my esteem--was that of Dr Barnardo himself, and a magical master of
the ceremonies did the doctor prove himself to be.
Being unable to induce the "West End" to visit the "East End," he had
simply cut several enormous slices out of the slums and set them down in
the Royal Albert Hall for inspection.
The display was set forth interestingly and with emphasis, insomuch that
things almost spoke for themselves, and wherein they failed to do so the
Doctor supplemented in a satisfactorily sonorous voice.
One of the slum-slices was a large one. It consisted of thirteen
hundred children--boys and girls--in bright, light, smart dresses, who
clustered on the orchestra and around the great organ, like flowers in
June. Looking at their clean, wholesome faces, neat attire, and orderly
demeanour, I thought, "Is it possible that these are the sweepings of
the streets?" The question was tellingly answered later on; but here it
may be stated that this beautiful band of 1300 was only a slice--a
sample--of the Doctor's large family, which at present numbers nearly
3500. (It now, in 1893, numbers nearly 5000.)
It was grand to hear them sing! The great organ itself had to sing
small beside them, for wood and metal can never hope to equal the living
human voice, even though it be but a voice from the slums. Not only
hymns but humorous songs they sang, and heroic. A telling effect was
produced while singing one of the latter by the sudden display of 1300
Union Jacks, each the size of a 'kerchief, which the singers waved in
time to the chorus. It seemed as though a stiff breeze had swept over
the flower-bed and kissed the national flag in passing.
Another surprise of this kind was given during the stirring song of _The
Fire Brigade_, when 1300 bits of gold and silver paper, waved to and
fro, seemed to fill the orchestra with flashing fire.
But much of this was for show, to tickle our eyes and ears and prepare
the way, as it were, for the grave and stern realities yet to come.
There was a mighty platform covered with crimson cloth in the centre of
the hall in front of the orchestra. On it were several mysterious
objects covered with sheets. At a signal--a whistle--given by the
Doctor, a band of sturdy boys, clad in their work-a-day uniform,
scampered down the central passage of the hall, jumped on the platform,
flung off the sheets, and discovered carpenters' benches, saws, hammers,
wood--in short, all the appliances with which they carry on the various
trades at their "Home" in the East End. In a few seconds, as if by
magic, the platform was a workshop in full swing--hammering, sawing,
chiselling, wood-chopping, clattering, and indescribable din, which was
enhanced, but not drowned, by the applause of the astonished audience.
The little fellows worked as though life depended on their activity, for
the space, it seemed to me, of half a minute. Then the shrill whistle
sounded again, and the work ceased, as if the springs of life had been
suddenly cut off. Dead silence ensued; each worker remaining in the
attitude in which he had been petrified--a group of artisan statuary in
colour!
The Doctor was thus enabled quietly to explain that the display
represented only a very few of the trades taught and carried on by his
rescued boys at Stepney Causeway.
At another signal the splendidly drilled young fellows scampered off,
carrying not only their tools, but their benches, tables, stools, and
even debris along with them, and, disappearing in less than a couple of
minutes, left not a chip or shaving behind.
It would take a good many pages of close writing to give anything like a
detailed account of all that I saw. I must pass over much in order to
emphasise one or two very telling incidents. The Doctor presented a
sample of all his wares. One of these was a very touching sample--
namely, a band of cripples, who made their way slowly on crutches down
the passage to the platform--for it is one of the noteworthy points in
this Mission that no destitute boy is turned away, whether he be well or
ill, crippled or sound. So, also, there was a small procession of neat,
pleasant-looking nurses, each leading one or more mites of forsaken
humanity from "Babies' Castle."
But it seemed to me that the kernel of the nut had been reached, and the
foundation of the God-like Mission laid bare for our inspection, when
the raw material was led forth. We had got accustomed by that time to
turn an expectant gaze at a far distant door when the Doctor's voice
ceased or his whistle sounded. Presently a solitary nurse with the neat
familiar white cap and apron appeared at the door leading two little
creatures by the hand. A hush--a distinct though indescribable
sensation--as of profound pity and pathos,--passed over the vast
assembly as a little boy and girl direct from the slums were led
forward. The nurse had to walk slowly to accommodate her pace to
theirs. Half naked, ragged, dirty, unkempt, bereft of their natural
guardians, or forsaken by them--helpless, yet left to help themselves
almost before they could walk! Forward they came to the central
platform, casting timid, wondering glances around at the mighty host of
well-to-do beings, not one of whom, perhaps, ever knew what it is to
hunger for a whole day and lie down at night with a door-step for a
pillow. Oh, it was pitiful! the Doctor advanced to these forlorn ones
and took them by the hands with inexpressible tenderness, and then,
facing the assembly, broke the silence and presented the human material
which it was, under God, his mission in life to rescue.
Then turning abruptly to the flower-bed in the orchestra, he signalled
with his finger. A flower that might well have been styled a rosebud--a
neat little girl in pink with a natty straw hat--tripped lightly down
and stood on the platform beside the poor waifs. Looking up once more
to the entranced audience and pointing to the children, the Doctor
said--
"Such as these are, she was but a few months ago, and such as she is now
they will soon become, with God's blessing."
I may not quote the words correctly, but that is my recollection of the
substance.
The Doctor was not content, however, to show us the foundation and
progress of his work. He showed us the work, as it were, completed, in
the form of a band of sturdy young men in their working costume, ready
to start as rescued, trained, useful, earnest labourers for the fields
of Manitoba--young men who all had once been lost waifs and strays.
Still further, he, as it were, put the copestone on his glorious work by
presenting a band of men and women--"old boys and girls"--who had been
tested by rough contact with the world and its temptations, and had come
off victorious "by keeping their situations with credit" for periods
varying from one to nine years--kept by the power of Christ!
When I saw the little waifs and looked up at the bands of happy children
before me, and thought of the thousands more in the "Homes," and of the
multitudes which have passed through these Homes in years gone by; the
gladness and the great boon to humanity which must have resulted, and of
the terrible crime and degradation that might have been--my heart
offered the prayer, which at that moment my voice could not have
uttered--"God bless and prosper Dr Barnardo and his work!"
I hear a voice from the "Back of Beyont," or some such far off
locality--a timid voice, perhaps that of a juvenile who knows little,
and can scarce be expected to care much, about London--asking "Who is
Dr Barnardo?"
For the sake of that innocent one I reply that he is a Scavenger--the
chief of London Scavengers! He and his subordinates sweep up the human
rubbish of the slums and shoot it into a receptacle at 18 Stepney
Causeway, where they manipulate and wash it, and subject it to a variety
of processes which result, with God's blessing, in the recovery of
innumerable jewels of inestimable value. I say inestimable, because men
have not yet found a method of fixing the exact value of human souls and
rescued lives. The "rubbish" which is gathered consists of destitute
children. The Assistant Scavengers are men and women who love and serve
the Lord Jesus Christ.