Chapter Twenty.Occupations at Brankly Farm.The farmer led our two boys through a deliciously scented pine-wood at the rear of his house, to a valley which seemed to extend and widen out into a multitude of lesser valleys and clumps of woodland, where lakelets and rivulets and waterfalls glittered in the afternoon sun like shields and bands of burnished silver.Taking a ball of twine from one of his capacious pockets, he gave it to Bobby along with a small pocket-book.“Have you got clasp-knives?” he asked.“Yes, sir,” said both boys, at once producing instruments which were very much the worse for wear.“Very well, now, here is the work I want you to do for me this afternoon. D’you see the creek down in the hollow yonder—about half a mile off?”“Yes, yes, sir.”“Well, go down there and cut two sticks about ten feet long each; tie strings to the small ends of them; fix hooks that you’ll find in that pocket-book to the lines. The creek below the fall is swarming with fish; you’ll find grasshoppers and worms enough for bait if you choose to look for ’em. Go, and see what you can do.”A reminiscence of ancient times induced Bobby Frog to say “Walke–e–r!” to himself, but he had too much wisdom to say it aloud. He did, however, venture modestly to remark—“I knows nothink about fishin’, sir. Never cotched so much as a eel in—”“When I give you orders,obeythem!” interrupted the farmer, in a tone and with a look that sent Bobby and Tim to the right-about double-quick. They did not even venture to look back until they reached the pool pointed out, and when they did look back Mr Merryboy had disappeared.“Vell, I say,” began Bobby, but Tim interrupted him with, “Now, Bob, youmustgit off that ’abit you’ve got o’ puttin’ v’s for double-u’s. Wasn’t we told by the genl’m’n that gave us a partin’ had-dress that we’d never git on in the noo world if we didn’t mind our p’s and q’s? An’ here you are as regardless of your v’s as if they’d no connection wi’ the alphabet.”“Pretty coveyouare, to find fault wi’me,” retorted Bob, “w’en you’re far wuss wi’ your haitches—a-droppin’ of ’em w’en you shouldn’t ought to, an’ stickin’ of ’em in where you oughtn’t should to. Go along an’ cut your stick, as master told you.”The sticks were cut, pieces of string were measured off, and hooks attached thereto. Then grasshoppers were caught, impaled, and dropped into a pool. The immediate result was almost electrifying to lads who had never caught even a minnow before. Bobby’s hook had barely sunk when it was seized and run away with so forcibly as to draw a tremendous “Hi! hallo!! ho!!! I’ve got ’im!!!” from the fisher.“Hoy! hurroo!!” responded Tim, “so’ve I!!!”Both boys, blazing with excitement, held on.The fish, bursting, apparently, with even greater excitement, rushed off.“He’ll smash my stick!” cried Bob.“The twine’s sure to go!” cried Tim. “Hold o–o–on!”This command was addressed to his fish, which leaped high out of the pool and went wriggling back with a heavy splash. It did not obey the order, but the hook did, which came to the same thing.“A ten-pounder if he’s a’ ounce,” said Tim.“You tell that to the horse—hi ho! stop that, will you?”But Bobby’s fish was what himself used to be—troublesome to deal with. It would not “stop that.”It kept darting from side to side and leaping out of the water until, in one of its bursts, it got entangled with Tim’s fish, and the boys were obliged to haul them both ashore together.“Splendid!” exclaimed Bobby, as they unhooked two fine trout and laid them on a place of safety; “At ’em again!”At them they went, and soon had two more fish, but the disturbance created by these had the effect of frightening the others. At all events, at their third effort their patience was severely tried, for nothing came to their hooks to reward the intense gaze and the nervous readiness to act which marked each boy during the next half-hour or so.At the end of that time there came a change in their favour, for little Martha Mild appeared on the scene. She had been sent, she said, to work with them.“To play with us, you mean,” suggested Tim.“No, father said work,” the child returned simply.“It’s jolly work, then! But I say, old ’ooman, d’you call Mr Merryboy father?” asked Bob in surprise.“Yes, I’ve called him father ever since I came.”“An’ who’s your real father?”“I have none. Never had one.”“An’ your mother?”“Never had a mother either.”“Well, you air a curiosity.”“Hallo! Bob, don’t forget your purliteness,” said Tim. “Come, Mumpy; father calls you Mumpy, doesn’t he?”“Yes.”“Then so will I. Well, Mumpy, as I was goin’ to say, you may come an’workwith my rod if you like, an’ we’ll make a game of it. We’ll play at work. Let me see where shall we be?”“In the garden of Eden,” suggested Bob.“The very thing,” said Tim; “I’ll be Adam an’ you’ll be Eve, Mumpy.”“Very well,” said Martha with ready assent.She would have assented quite as readily to have personated Jezebel or the Witch of Endor.“And I’ll be Cain,” said Bobby, moving his line in a manner that was meant to be persuasive.“Oh!” said Martha, with much diffidence, “Cain was wicked, wasn’t he?”“Well, my dear Eve,” said Tim, “Bobby Frog is wicked enough for half-a-dozen Cains. In fact, you can’t cane him enough to pay him off for all his wickedness.”“Bah! go to bed,” said Cain, still intent on his line, which seemed to quiver as if with a nibble.As for Eve, being as innocent of pun-appreciation as her great original probably was, she looked at the two boys in pleased gravity.“Hi! Cain’s got another bite,” cried Adam, while Eve went into a state of gentle excitement, and fluttered near with an evidently strong desire to help in some way.“Hallo! got ’im again!” shouted Tim, as his rod bent to the water with jerky violence; “out o’ the way, Eve, else you’ll get shoved into Gihon.”“Euphrates, you stoopid!” said Cain, turning his Beehive training to account. Having lost his fish, you see, he could afford to be critical while he fixed on another bait.But Tim cared not for rivers or names just then, having hooked a “real wopper,” which gave him some trouble to land. When landed, it proved to be the finest fish of the lot, much to Eve’s satisfaction, who sat down to watch the process when Adam renewed the bait.Now, Bobby Frog, not having as yet been quite reformed, and, perhaps, having imbibed some of the spirit of his celebrated prototype with his name, felt a strong impulse to give Tim a gentle push behind. For Tim sat in an irresistibly tempting position on the bank, with his little boots overhanging the dark pool from which the fish had been dragged.“Tim,” said Bob.“Adam, if you please—or call me father, if you prefer it!”“Well, then, father, since I haven’t got an Abel to kill, I’m only too ’appy to have a Adam to souse.”Saying which, he gave him a sufficient impulse to send him off!Eve gave vent to a treble shriek, on beholding her husband struggling in the water, and Cain himself felt somewhat alarmed at what he had done. He quickly extended the butt of his rod to his father, and dragged him safe to land, to poor Eve’s inexpressible relief.“What d’ee mean by that, Bob?” demanded Tim fiercely, as he sprang towards his companion.“Cain, if you please—or call me son, if you prefers it,” cried Bob, as he ran out of his friend’s way; “but don’t be waxy, father Adam, with your own darlin’ boy. I couldn’t ’elp it. You’d ha’ done just the same to me if you’d had the chance. Come, shake ’ands on it.”Tim Lumpy was not the boy to cherish bad feeling. He grinned in a ghastly manner, and shook the extended hand.“I forgive you, Cain, but please go an’ look for Abel an’ pitch intohimw’en next you git into that state o’ mind, for it’s agin common-sense, as well as history, to pitch into your old father so.” Saying which, Tim went off to wring out his dripping garments, after which the fishing was resumed.“Wot a remarkable difference,” said Bobby, breaking a rather long silence of expectancy, as he glanced round on the splendid landscape which was all aglow with the descending sun, “’tween these ’ere diggin’s an’ Commercial Road, or George Yard, or Ratcliff ’Ighway. Ain’t it, Tim?”Before Tim could reply, Mr Merryboy came forward.“Capital!” he exclaimed, on catching sight of the fish; “well done, lads, well done. We shall have a glorious supper to-night. Now, Mumpy, you run home and tell mother to have the big frying-pan ready. She’ll want your help. Ha!” he added, turning to the boys, as Martha ran off with her wonted alacrity, “I thought you’d soon teach yourselves how to catch fish. It’s not difficult here. And what do you think of Martha, my boys?”“She’s a trump!” said Bobby, with decision.“Fust rate!” said Tim, bestowing his highest conception of praise.“Quite true, lads; though why you should say ‘fust’ instead of first-rate, Tim, is more than I can understand. However, you’ll get cured of such-like queer pronunciations in course of time. Now, I want you to look on little Mumpy as your sister, and she’s a good deal of your sister too in reality, for she came out of that same great nest of good and bad, rich and poor—London. Has she told you anything about herself yet?”“Nothin’, sir,” answered Bob, “’cept that when we axed—asked, I mean—I ax—ask your parding—she said she’d neither father nor mother.”“Ah! poor thing; that’s too true. Come, pick up your fish, and I’ll tell you about her as we go along.”The boys strung their fish on a couple of branches, and followed their new master home.“Martha came to us only last year,” said the farmer. “She’s a little older than she looks, having been somewhat stunted in her growth, by bad treatment, I suppose, and starvation and cold in her infancy. No one knows who was her father or mother. She was ‘found’ in the streets one day, when about three years of age, by a man who took her home, and made use of her by sending her to sell matches in public-houses. Being small, very intelligent for her years, and attractively modest, she succeeded, I suppose, in her sales, and I doubt not the man would have continued to keep her, if he had not been taken ill and carried to hospital, where he died. Of course the man’s lodging was given up the day he left it. As the man had been a misanthrope—that’s a hater of everybody, lads—nobody cared anything about him, or made inquiry after him. The consequence was, that poor Martha was forgotten, strayed away into the streets, and got lost a second time. She was picked up this time by a widow lady in very reduced circumstances, who questioned her closely; but all that the poor little creature knew was that she didn’t know where her home was, that she had no father or mother, and that her name was Martha.“The widow took her home, made inquiries about her parentage in vain, and then adopted and began to train her, which accounts for her having so little of that slang and knowledge of London low life that you have so much of, you rascals! The lady gave the child the pet surname of Mild, for it was so descriptive of her character. But poor Martha was not destined to have this mother very long. After a few years she died, leaving not a sixpence or a rag behind her worth having. Thus little Mumpy was thrown a third time on the world, but God found a protector for her in a friend of the widow, who sent her to the Refuge—the Beehive as you call it—which has been such a blessing to you, my lads, and to so many like you, and along with her the 10 pounds required to pay her passage and outfit to Canada. They kept her for some time and trained her, and then, knowing that I wanted a little lass here, they sent her to me, for which I thank God, for she’s a dear little child.”The tone in which the last sentence was uttered told more than any words could have conveyed the feelings of the bluff farmer towards the little gem that had been dug out of the London mines and thus given to him.Reader, they are prolific mines, those East-end mines of London! If you doubt it, go, hear and see for yourself. Perhaps it were better advice to say, go and dig, or help the miners!Need it be said that our waifs and strays grew and flourished in that rich Canadian soil? It need not! One of the most curious consequences of the new connection was the powerful affection that sprang up between Bobby Frog and Mrs Merryboy, senior. It seemed as if that jovial old lady and our London waif had fallen in love with each other at first sight. Perhaps the fact that the lady was intensely appreciative of fun, and the young gentleman wonderfully full of the same, had something to do with it. Whatever the cause, these two were constantly flirting with each other, and Bob often took the old lady out for little rambles in the wood behind the farm.There was a particular spot in the woods, near a waterfall, of which this curious couple were particularly fond, and to which they frequently resorted, and there, under the pleasant shade, with the roar of the fall for a symphony, Bob poured out his hopes and fears, reminiscences and prospects into the willing ears of the little old lady, who was so very small that Bob seemed quite a big man by contrast. He had to roar almost as loud as the cataract to make her hear, but he was well rewarded. The old lady, it is true, did not speak much, perhaps because she understood little, but she expressed enough of sympathy, by means of nods, and winks with her brilliant black eyes, and smiles with her toothless mouth, to satisfy any boy of moderate expectations.And Bobbywassatisfied. So, also, were the other waifs and strays, not only with old granny, but with everything in and around their home in the New World.
The farmer led our two boys through a deliciously scented pine-wood at the rear of his house, to a valley which seemed to extend and widen out into a multitude of lesser valleys and clumps of woodland, where lakelets and rivulets and waterfalls glittered in the afternoon sun like shields and bands of burnished silver.
Taking a ball of twine from one of his capacious pockets, he gave it to Bobby along with a small pocket-book.
“Have you got clasp-knives?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” said both boys, at once producing instruments which were very much the worse for wear.
“Very well, now, here is the work I want you to do for me this afternoon. D’you see the creek down in the hollow yonder—about half a mile off?”
“Yes, yes, sir.”
“Well, go down there and cut two sticks about ten feet long each; tie strings to the small ends of them; fix hooks that you’ll find in that pocket-book to the lines. The creek below the fall is swarming with fish; you’ll find grasshoppers and worms enough for bait if you choose to look for ’em. Go, and see what you can do.”
A reminiscence of ancient times induced Bobby Frog to say “Walke–e–r!” to himself, but he had too much wisdom to say it aloud. He did, however, venture modestly to remark—
“I knows nothink about fishin’, sir. Never cotched so much as a eel in—”
“When I give you orders,obeythem!” interrupted the farmer, in a tone and with a look that sent Bobby and Tim to the right-about double-quick. They did not even venture to look back until they reached the pool pointed out, and when they did look back Mr Merryboy had disappeared.
“Vell, I say,” began Bobby, but Tim interrupted him with, “Now, Bob, youmustgit off that ’abit you’ve got o’ puttin’ v’s for double-u’s. Wasn’t we told by the genl’m’n that gave us a partin’ had-dress that we’d never git on in the noo world if we didn’t mind our p’s and q’s? An’ here you are as regardless of your v’s as if they’d no connection wi’ the alphabet.”
“Pretty coveyouare, to find fault wi’me,” retorted Bob, “w’en you’re far wuss wi’ your haitches—a-droppin’ of ’em w’en you shouldn’t ought to, an’ stickin’ of ’em in where you oughtn’t should to. Go along an’ cut your stick, as master told you.”
The sticks were cut, pieces of string were measured off, and hooks attached thereto. Then grasshoppers were caught, impaled, and dropped into a pool. The immediate result was almost electrifying to lads who had never caught even a minnow before. Bobby’s hook had barely sunk when it was seized and run away with so forcibly as to draw a tremendous “Hi! hallo!! ho!!! I’ve got ’im!!!” from the fisher.
“Hoy! hurroo!!” responded Tim, “so’ve I!!!”
Both boys, blazing with excitement, held on.
The fish, bursting, apparently, with even greater excitement, rushed off.
“He’ll smash my stick!” cried Bob.
“The twine’s sure to go!” cried Tim. “Hold o–o–on!”
This command was addressed to his fish, which leaped high out of the pool and went wriggling back with a heavy splash. It did not obey the order, but the hook did, which came to the same thing.
“A ten-pounder if he’s a’ ounce,” said Tim.
“You tell that to the horse—hi ho! stop that, will you?”
But Bobby’s fish was what himself used to be—troublesome to deal with. It would not “stop that.”
It kept darting from side to side and leaping out of the water until, in one of its bursts, it got entangled with Tim’s fish, and the boys were obliged to haul them both ashore together.
“Splendid!” exclaimed Bobby, as they unhooked two fine trout and laid them on a place of safety; “At ’em again!”
At them they went, and soon had two more fish, but the disturbance created by these had the effect of frightening the others. At all events, at their third effort their patience was severely tried, for nothing came to their hooks to reward the intense gaze and the nervous readiness to act which marked each boy during the next half-hour or so.
At the end of that time there came a change in their favour, for little Martha Mild appeared on the scene. She had been sent, she said, to work with them.
“To play with us, you mean,” suggested Tim.
“No, father said work,” the child returned simply.
“It’s jolly work, then! But I say, old ’ooman, d’you call Mr Merryboy father?” asked Bob in surprise.
“Yes, I’ve called him father ever since I came.”
“An’ who’s your real father?”
“I have none. Never had one.”
“An’ your mother?”
“Never had a mother either.”
“Well, you air a curiosity.”
“Hallo! Bob, don’t forget your purliteness,” said Tim. “Come, Mumpy; father calls you Mumpy, doesn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Then so will I. Well, Mumpy, as I was goin’ to say, you may come an’workwith my rod if you like, an’ we’ll make a game of it. We’ll play at work. Let me see where shall we be?”
“In the garden of Eden,” suggested Bob.
“The very thing,” said Tim; “I’ll be Adam an’ you’ll be Eve, Mumpy.”
“Very well,” said Martha with ready assent.
She would have assented quite as readily to have personated Jezebel or the Witch of Endor.
“And I’ll be Cain,” said Bobby, moving his line in a manner that was meant to be persuasive.
“Oh!” said Martha, with much diffidence, “Cain was wicked, wasn’t he?”
“Well, my dear Eve,” said Tim, “Bobby Frog is wicked enough for half-a-dozen Cains. In fact, you can’t cane him enough to pay him off for all his wickedness.”
“Bah! go to bed,” said Cain, still intent on his line, which seemed to quiver as if with a nibble.
As for Eve, being as innocent of pun-appreciation as her great original probably was, she looked at the two boys in pleased gravity.
“Hi! Cain’s got another bite,” cried Adam, while Eve went into a state of gentle excitement, and fluttered near with an evidently strong desire to help in some way.
“Hallo! got ’im again!” shouted Tim, as his rod bent to the water with jerky violence; “out o’ the way, Eve, else you’ll get shoved into Gihon.”
“Euphrates, you stoopid!” said Cain, turning his Beehive training to account. Having lost his fish, you see, he could afford to be critical while he fixed on another bait.
But Tim cared not for rivers or names just then, having hooked a “real wopper,” which gave him some trouble to land. When landed, it proved to be the finest fish of the lot, much to Eve’s satisfaction, who sat down to watch the process when Adam renewed the bait.
Now, Bobby Frog, not having as yet been quite reformed, and, perhaps, having imbibed some of the spirit of his celebrated prototype with his name, felt a strong impulse to give Tim a gentle push behind. For Tim sat in an irresistibly tempting position on the bank, with his little boots overhanging the dark pool from which the fish had been dragged.
“Tim,” said Bob.
“Adam, if you please—or call me father, if you prefer it!”
“Well, then, father, since I haven’t got an Abel to kill, I’m only too ’appy to have a Adam to souse.”
Saying which, he gave him a sufficient impulse to send him off!
Eve gave vent to a treble shriek, on beholding her husband struggling in the water, and Cain himself felt somewhat alarmed at what he had done. He quickly extended the butt of his rod to his father, and dragged him safe to land, to poor Eve’s inexpressible relief.
“What d’ee mean by that, Bob?” demanded Tim fiercely, as he sprang towards his companion.
“Cain, if you please—or call me son, if you prefers it,” cried Bob, as he ran out of his friend’s way; “but don’t be waxy, father Adam, with your own darlin’ boy. I couldn’t ’elp it. You’d ha’ done just the same to me if you’d had the chance. Come, shake ’ands on it.”
Tim Lumpy was not the boy to cherish bad feeling. He grinned in a ghastly manner, and shook the extended hand.
“I forgive you, Cain, but please go an’ look for Abel an’ pitch intohimw’en next you git into that state o’ mind, for it’s agin common-sense, as well as history, to pitch into your old father so.” Saying which, Tim went off to wring out his dripping garments, after which the fishing was resumed.
“Wot a remarkable difference,” said Bobby, breaking a rather long silence of expectancy, as he glanced round on the splendid landscape which was all aglow with the descending sun, “’tween these ’ere diggin’s an’ Commercial Road, or George Yard, or Ratcliff ’Ighway. Ain’t it, Tim?”
Before Tim could reply, Mr Merryboy came forward.
“Capital!” he exclaimed, on catching sight of the fish; “well done, lads, well done. We shall have a glorious supper to-night. Now, Mumpy, you run home and tell mother to have the big frying-pan ready. She’ll want your help. Ha!” he added, turning to the boys, as Martha ran off with her wonted alacrity, “I thought you’d soon teach yourselves how to catch fish. It’s not difficult here. And what do you think of Martha, my boys?”
“She’s a trump!” said Bobby, with decision.
“Fust rate!” said Tim, bestowing his highest conception of praise.
“Quite true, lads; though why you should say ‘fust’ instead of first-rate, Tim, is more than I can understand. However, you’ll get cured of such-like queer pronunciations in course of time. Now, I want you to look on little Mumpy as your sister, and she’s a good deal of your sister too in reality, for she came out of that same great nest of good and bad, rich and poor—London. Has she told you anything about herself yet?”
“Nothin’, sir,” answered Bob, “’cept that when we axed—asked, I mean—I ax—ask your parding—she said she’d neither father nor mother.”
“Ah! poor thing; that’s too true. Come, pick up your fish, and I’ll tell you about her as we go along.”
The boys strung their fish on a couple of branches, and followed their new master home.
“Martha came to us only last year,” said the farmer. “She’s a little older than she looks, having been somewhat stunted in her growth, by bad treatment, I suppose, and starvation and cold in her infancy. No one knows who was her father or mother. She was ‘found’ in the streets one day, when about three years of age, by a man who took her home, and made use of her by sending her to sell matches in public-houses. Being small, very intelligent for her years, and attractively modest, she succeeded, I suppose, in her sales, and I doubt not the man would have continued to keep her, if he had not been taken ill and carried to hospital, where he died. Of course the man’s lodging was given up the day he left it. As the man had been a misanthrope—that’s a hater of everybody, lads—nobody cared anything about him, or made inquiry after him. The consequence was, that poor Martha was forgotten, strayed away into the streets, and got lost a second time. She was picked up this time by a widow lady in very reduced circumstances, who questioned her closely; but all that the poor little creature knew was that she didn’t know where her home was, that she had no father or mother, and that her name was Martha.
“The widow took her home, made inquiries about her parentage in vain, and then adopted and began to train her, which accounts for her having so little of that slang and knowledge of London low life that you have so much of, you rascals! The lady gave the child the pet surname of Mild, for it was so descriptive of her character. But poor Martha was not destined to have this mother very long. After a few years she died, leaving not a sixpence or a rag behind her worth having. Thus little Mumpy was thrown a third time on the world, but God found a protector for her in a friend of the widow, who sent her to the Refuge—the Beehive as you call it—which has been such a blessing to you, my lads, and to so many like you, and along with her the 10 pounds required to pay her passage and outfit to Canada. They kept her for some time and trained her, and then, knowing that I wanted a little lass here, they sent her to me, for which I thank God, for she’s a dear little child.”
The tone in which the last sentence was uttered told more than any words could have conveyed the feelings of the bluff farmer towards the little gem that had been dug out of the London mines and thus given to him.
Reader, they are prolific mines, those East-end mines of London! If you doubt it, go, hear and see for yourself. Perhaps it were better advice to say, go and dig, or help the miners!
Need it be said that our waifs and strays grew and flourished in that rich Canadian soil? It need not! One of the most curious consequences of the new connection was the powerful affection that sprang up between Bobby Frog and Mrs Merryboy, senior. It seemed as if that jovial old lady and our London waif had fallen in love with each other at first sight. Perhaps the fact that the lady was intensely appreciative of fun, and the young gentleman wonderfully full of the same, had something to do with it. Whatever the cause, these two were constantly flirting with each other, and Bob often took the old lady out for little rambles in the wood behind the farm.
There was a particular spot in the woods, near a waterfall, of which this curious couple were particularly fond, and to which they frequently resorted, and there, under the pleasant shade, with the roar of the fall for a symphony, Bob poured out his hopes and fears, reminiscences and prospects into the willing ears of the little old lady, who was so very small that Bob seemed quite a big man by contrast. He had to roar almost as loud as the cataract to make her hear, but he was well rewarded. The old lady, it is true, did not speak much, perhaps because she understood little, but she expressed enough of sympathy, by means of nods, and winks with her brilliant black eyes, and smiles with her toothless mouth, to satisfy any boy of moderate expectations.
And Bobbywassatisfied. So, also, were the other waifs and strays, not only with old granny, but with everything in and around their home in the New World.
Chapter Twenty One.Treats of Altered Circumstances and Blue-Ribbonism.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? Dotheyescape 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,aliasMita, 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 itissomething 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 justoneglass 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 ofoneglass 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 howyoucome for to ’ear on’t beats me holler. An’ it shows ’ow lies git about, for she’snotgone 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 thedutyof 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 whodo, for I am not a doctor, but whomay), 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 thethingis 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. Isthatour 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 risesen 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 shallwebe 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 theyaretrue, and even if they werenotto 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 itverbatim 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, “beforehe 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 hadsucha 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 upat once,” said the amiable lady when about to quit the little room.“Yes, Mrs Twitter, I will; good-night.”
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? Dotheyescape 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,aliasMita, 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 itissomething 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 justoneglass 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 ofoneglass 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 howyoucome for to ’ear on’t beats me holler. An’ it shows ’ow lies git about, for she’snotgone 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 thedutyof 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 whodo, for I am not a doctor, but whomay), 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 thethingis 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. Isthatour 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 risesen 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 shallwebe 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 theyaretrue, and even if they werenotto 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 itverbatim 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, “beforehe 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 hadsucha 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 upat once,” said the amiable lady when about to quit the little room.
“Yes, Mrs Twitter, I will; good-night.”
Chapter Twenty Two.Ned Frog’s Experiences and Sammy Twitter’s Woes.But Ned Frog, with strong drink combined, rendered fruitless all the efforts that were put forth in his behalf at that time.When discharged with a lot of other jail-birds, none of whom, however, he knew, he sauntered leisurely homeward, wondering whether his wife was alive, and, if so, in what condition he should find her.It may have been that better thoughts were struggling in his breast for ascendency, because he sighed deeply once or twice, which was not a usual mode with Ned of expressing his feelings. A growl was more common and more natural, considering his character.Drawing nearer and nearer to his old haunts, yet taking a roundabout road, as the moth is drawn to the candle, or as water descends to its level, he went slowly on, having little hope of comfort in his home, and not knowing very well what to do.As he passed down one of the less frequented streets leading into Whitechapel, he was arrested by the sight of a purse lying on the pavement. To become suddenly alive, pick it up, glance stealthily round, and thrust it into his pocket, was the work of an instant. The saunter was changed into a steady businesslike walk. As he turned into Commercial Street, Ned met Number 666 full in the face. He knew that constable intimately, but refrained from taking notice of him, and passed on with an air and expression which were meant to convey the idea of infantine innocence. Guilty men usually over-reach themselves. Giles noted the air, and suspected guilt, but, not being in a position to prove it, walked gravely on, with his stern eyes straight to the front.In a retired spot Ned examined his “find.” It contained six sovereigns, four shillings, threepence, a metropolitan railway return ticket, several cuttings from newspapers, and a recipe for the concoction of a cheap and wholesome pudding, along with a card bearing the name of Mrs Samuel Twitter, written in ink and without any address.“You’re in luck, Ned,” he remarked to himself, as he examined these treasures. “Now, old boy you ’aven’t stole this ’ere purse, so you ain’t a thief; you don’t know w’ere Mrs S.T. lives, so you can’t find ’er to return it to ’er. Besides, it’s more than likely she won’t feel the want of it—w’ereas I feels in want of it wery much indeed. Of course it’s my dooty to ’and it over to the p’lice, but, in the first place, I refuse to ’ave any communication wi’ the p’lice, friendly or otherwise; in the second place, I ’ad no ’and in makin’ the laws, so I don’t feel bound to obey ’em; thirdly, I’m both ’ungry an’ thirsty, an’ ’ere you ’ave the remedy for them afflictions, so, fourthly—’ere goes!”Having thus cleared his conscience, Ned committed the cash to his vest pocket, and presented the purse with its remaining contents to the rats in a neighbouring sewer.Almost immediately afterwards he met an Irishman, an old friend.“Terence, my boy, well met!” he said, offering his hand.“Hooroo! Ned Frog, sure I thought ye was in limbo!”“You thought right, Terry; only half-an-hour out. Come along, I’ll stand you somethin’ for the sake of old times. By the way, have you done that job yet?”“What job?”“Why, the dynamite job, of course.”“No, I’ve gi’n that up,” returned the Irishman with a look of contempt. “To tell you the honest truth, I don’t believe that the way to right Ireland is to blow up England. But there’s an Englishman you’ll find at the Swan an’ Anchor—a sneakin’ blackguard, as would sell his own mother for dhrink—he’ll help you if you wants to have a hand in the job. I’m off it.”Notwithstanding this want of sympathy on that point, the two friends found that they held enough in common to induce a prolonged stay at the public-house, from which Ned finally issued rather late at night, and staggered homewards. He met no acquaintance on the way, and was about to knock at his own door when the sound of a voice within arrested him.It was Hetty, praying. The poor wife and daughter had given up hope of his returning at so late an hour that night, and had betaken themselves to their usual refuge in distress. Ned knew the sound well, and it seemed to rouse a demon in his breast, for he raised his foot with the intention of driving in the door, when he was again arrested by another sound.It was the voice of little Matty, who, awaking suddenly out of a terrifying dream, set up a shrieking which at once drowned all other sounds.Ned lowered his foot, thrust his hands into his pockets, and stood gazing in a state of indecision at the broken pavement for a few minutes.“No peace there,” he said, sternly. “Prayin’ an’ squallin’ don’t suit me, so good-night to ’ee all.”With that he turned sharp round, and staggered away, resolving never more to return!“Is that you, Ned Frog?” inquired a squalid, dirty-looking woman, thrusting her head out of a window as he passed.“No, ’tain’t,” said Ned, fiercely, as he left the court.He went straight to a low lodging-house, but before entering tied his money in a bit of rag, and thrust it into an inner pocket of his vest, which he buttoned tight, and fastened his coat over it. Paying the requisite fourpence for the night’s lodging, he entered, and was immediately hailed by several men who knew him, but being in no humour for good fellowship, he merely nodded and went straight up to his lowly bed. It was one of seventy beds that occupied the entire floor of an immense room. Police supervision had secured that this room should be well ventilated, and that the bedding should be reasonably clean, though far from clean-looking, and Ned slept soundly in spite of drink, for, as we have said before, he was unusually strong.Next day, having thought over his plans in bed, and, being a man of strong determination, he went forth to carry them into immediate execution. He went to a lofty tenement in the neighbourhood of Dean and Flower Street, one of the poorest parts of the city, and hired a garret, which was so high up that even the staircase ended before you reached it, and the remainder of the upward flight had to be performed on a ladder, at the top of which was a trap-door, the only entrance to Ned’s new home.Having paid a week’s rent in advance he took possession, furnished the apartment with one old chair, one older table, one bundle of straw in a sack, one extremely old blanket, and one brand-new pipe with a corresponding ounce or two of tobacco. Then he locked the trap-door, put the key in his pocket, and descended to the street, where at Bird-fair he provided himself with sundry little cages and a few birds. Having conveyed these with some food for himself and the little birds to his lodging he again descended to the street, and treated himself to a pint of beer.While thus engaged he was saluted by an old friend, the owner of a low music-hall, who begged for a few minutes’ conversation with him outside.“Ned,” he said, “I’m glad I fell in with you, for I’m uncommon ’ard up just now.”“I never lends money,” said Ned, brusquely turning away.“’Old on, Ned, I don’t want yer money, bless yer. I wants togiveyou money.”“Oh! that’s quite another story; fire away, old man.”“Well, you see, I’m ’ard up, as I said, for a man to keep order in my place. The last man I ’ad was a good ’un, ’e was. Six futt one in ’is socks, an’ as strong as a ’orse, but by ill luck one night, a sailor-chap that was bigger than ’im come in to the ’all, an’ they ’ad a row, an’ my man got sitch a lickin’ that he ’ad to go to hospital, an’ ’e’s been there for a week, an’ won’t be out, they say, for a month or more. Now, Ned, will you take the job? The pay’s good an’ the fun’s considerable. So’s the fightin’, sometimes, but you’d put a stop to that you know. An’, then, you’ll ’ave all the day to yourself to do as you like.”“I’m your man,” said Ned, promptly.Thus it came to pass that the pugilist obtained suitable employment as a peacemaker and keeper of order, for a time at least, in one of those disreputable places of amusement where the unfortunate poor of London are taught lessons of vice and vanity which end often in vexation of spirit, not only to themselves, but to the strata of society which rest above them.One night Ned betook himself to this temple of vice, and on the way was struck by the appearance of a man with a barrow—a sort of book-stall on wheels—who was pushing his way through the crowded street. It was the man who at the temperance meeting had begun with “bah!” and “pooh!” and had ended by putting on the Blue Ribbon. He had once been a comrade of Ned Frog, but had become so very respectable that his old chum scarcely recognised him.“Hallo! Reggie North, can that be you?”North let down his barrow, wheeled round, and held out his hand with a hearty, “how are ’ee, old man? W’y you’re lookin’ well, close cropped an’ comfortable, eh! Livin’ at Her Majesty’s expense lately? Where d’ee live now, Ned? I’d like to come and see you.”Ned told his old comrade the locality of his new abode.“But I say, North, how respectable you are! What’s come over you? not become a travellin’ bookseller, have you?”“That’s just what I am, Ned.”“Well, there’s no accountin’ for taste. I hope it pays.”“Ay, pays splendidly—pays the seller of the books and pays the buyers better.”“How’s that?” asked Ned, in some surprise, going up to the barrow; “oh! I see, Bibles.”“Yes, Ned, Bibles, the Word of God. Will you buy one?”“No, thank ’ee,” said Ned, drily.“Here, I’ll make you a present o’ one, then,” returned North, thrusting a Bible into the other’s hand; “you can’t refuse it of an old comrade. Good-night. I’ll look in on you soon.”“You needn’t trouble yourself,” Ned called out as his friend went off; and he felt half inclined to fling the Bible after him, but checked himself. It was worth money! so he put it in his pocket and went his way.The hall was very full that night, a new comic singer of great promise having been announced, and oh! it was sad to see the youths of both sexes, little more than big boys and girls, who went there to smoke, and drink, and enjoy ribald songs and indecent jests!We do not mean to describe the proceedings. Let it suffice to say that, after one or two songs and a dance had been got through, Ned, part of whose duty it was to announce the performances, rose and in a loud voice said—“Signor Twittorini will now sing.”The Signor stepped forward at once, and was received with a roar of enthusiastic laughter, for anything more lugubrious and woe-begone than the expression of his face had never been seen on these boards before. There was a slight look of shyness about him, too, which increased the absurdity of the thing, and it was allso natural, as one half-tipsy woman remarked.So it was—intensely natural—for Signor Twittorini was no other than poor Sammy Twitter in the extremest depths of his despair. Half-starved, half-mad, yet ashamed to return to his father’s house, the miserable boy had wandered in bye streets, and slept in low lodging-houses as long as his funds lasted. Then he tried to get employment with only partial success, until at last, recollecting that he had been noted among his companions for a sweet voice and a certain power of singing serio-comic songs, he thought of a low music-hall into which he had staggered one evening when drunk—as much with misery as with beer. The manager, on hearing a song or two, at once engaged him and brought him out. As poor Sammy knew nothing about acting, it was decided that he should appear in his own garments, which, being shabby-genteel, were pretty well suited for a great Italian singer in low society.But Sammy had over-rated his own powers. After the first burst of applause was over, he stood gazing at the audience with his mouth half open, vainly attempting to recollect the song he meant to sing, and making such involuntary contortions with his thin visage, that a renewed burst of laughter broke forth. When it had partially subsided, Sammy once more opened his mouth, gave vent to a gasp, burst into tears, and rushed from the stage.This was the climax! It brought down the house! Never before had they seen such an actor. He was inimitable, and the people made the usual demand for anencorewith tremendous fervour, expecting that Signor Twittorini would repeat the scene, probably with variations, and finish off with the promised song. But poor Sammy did not respond.“I see,—you can improvise,” said the manager, quite pleased, “and I’ve no objection when it’s well done like that; but you’d better go on now, and stick to the programme.”“I can’t sing,” said Sammy, in passionate despair.“Come, come, young feller, I don’t like actin’offthe stage, an’ the audience is gittin’ impatient.”“But I tell you I can’t sing a note,” repeated Sam.“What! D’ye mean to tell me you’re not actin’?”“I wish I was!” cried poor Sam, glancing upward with tearful eyes and clasping his hands.“Come now. You’ve joked enough. Go on and do your part,” said the puzzled manager.“But I tell you I’mnotjoking. I couldn’t sing just now if you was to give me ten thousand pounds!”It might have been the amount of the sum stated, or the tone in which it was stated—we know not—but the truth of what Sam said was borne so forcibly in upon the manager, that he went into a violent passion; sprang at Sam’s throat; hustled him towards a back door, and kicked him out into a back lane, where he sat down on an empty packing case, covered his face with his hands, bowed his head on his knees, and wept.The manager returned on the stage, and, with a calm voice and manner, which proved himself to be a very fair actor, stated that Signor Twittorini had met with a sudden disaster—not a very serious one—which, however, rendered it impossible for him to re-appear just then, but that, if sufficiently recovered, he would appear towards the close of the evening.This, with a very significant look and gesture from Ned Frog, quieted the audience to the extent at least of inducing them to do nothing worse than howl continuously for ten minutes, after which they allowed the performances to go on, and saved the keeper of order the trouble of knocking down a few of the most unruly.Ned was the first to quit the hall when all was over. He did so by the back door, and found Sam still sitting on the door-step.“What’s the matter with ye, youngster?” he said, going up to him. “You’ve made a pretty mess of it to-night.”“I couldn’t help it—indeed I couldn’t. Perhaps I’ll do better next time.”“Better! ha! ha! You couldn’t ha’ done better—if you’d on’y gone on. But why do ye sit there?”“Because I’ve nowhere to go to.”“There’s plenty o’ common lodgin’-’ouses, ain’t there?”“Yes, but I haven’t got a single rap.”“Well, then, ain’t there the casual ward? Why don’t you go there? You’ll git bed and board for nothin’ there.”Having put this question, and received no answer, Ned turned away without further remark.Hardened though Ned was to suffering, there was something in the fallen boy’s face that had touched this fallen man. He turned back with a sort of remonstrative growl, and re-entered the back lane, but Signor Twittorini was gone. He had heard the manager’s voice, and fled.A policeman directed him to the nearest casual ward, where the lowest stratum of abject poverty finds its nightly level.Here he knocked with trembling hand. He was received; he was put in a lukewarm bath and washed; he was fed on gruel and a bit of bread—quite sufficient to allay the cravings of hunger; he was shown to a room in which appeared to be a row of corpses—so dead was the silence—each rolled in a covering of some dark brown substance, and stretched out stiff on a trestle with a canvas bottom. One of the trestles was empty. He was told he might appropriate it.“Are they dead?” he asked, looking round with a shudder.“Not quite,” replied his jailer, with a short laugh, “but dead-beat most of ’em—tired out, I should say, and disinclined to move.”Sam Twitter fell on the couch, drew the coverlet over him, and became a brown corpse like the rest, while the guardian retired and locked the door to prevent the egress of any who might chance to come to life again.In the morning Sam had a breakfast similar to the supper; was made to pick oakum for a few hours by way of payment for hospitality, and left with a feeling that he had at last reached the lowest possible depth of degradation.So he had in that direction, but there are other and varied depths in London—depths of crime and of sickness, as well as of suffering and sorrow!Aimlessly he wandered about for another day, almost fainting with hunger, but still so ashamed to face his father and mother that he would rather have died than done so.Some touch of pathos, or gruff tenderness mayhap, in Ned Frog’s voice, induced him to return at night to the scene of his discreditable failure, and await the pugilist’s coming out. He followed him a short way, and then running forward, said—“Oh, sir! I’m very low!”“Hallo! Signor Twittorini again!” said Ned, wheeling round, sternly. “What have I to do with your being low? I’ve been low enough myself at times, an’ nobody helped—”Ned checked himself, for he knew that what he said was false.“I think I’m dying,” said Sam, leaning against a house for support.“Well, if you do die, you’ll be well out of it all,” replied Ned, bitterly. “What’s your name?”“Twitter,” replied Sam, forgetting in his woe that he had not intended to reveal his real name.“Twitter—Twitter. I’ve heard that name before. Why, yes. Father’s name Samuel—eh? Mother alive—got cards with Mrs Samuel Twitter on ’em, an’ no address?”“Yes—yes. How do you come to know?” asked Sam in surprise.“Never you mind that, youngster, but you come along wi’ me. I’ve got a sort o’ right to feed you. Ha! ha! come along.”Sam became frightened at this sudden burst of hilarity, and shrank away, but Ned grasped him by the arm, and led him along with such decision, that resistance he felt would be useless.In a few minutes he was in Ned’s garret eating bread and cheese with ravenous satisfaction.“Have some beer!” said Ned, filling a pewter pot.“No—no—no—no!” said Sam, shuddering as he turned his head away.“Well, youngster,” returned Ned, with a slight look of surprise, “please yourself, and here’s your health.”He drained the pot to the bottom, after which, dividing his straw into two heaps, and throwing them into two corners, he bade Sam lie down and rest.The miserable boy was only too glad to do so. He flung himself on the little heap pointed out, and the last thing he remembered seeing before the “sweet restorer” embraced him was the huge form of Ned Frog sitting in his own corner with his back to the wall, the pewter pot at his elbow, and a long clay pipe in his mouth.
But Ned Frog, with strong drink combined, rendered fruitless all the efforts that were put forth in his behalf at that time.
When discharged with a lot of other jail-birds, none of whom, however, he knew, he sauntered leisurely homeward, wondering whether his wife was alive, and, if so, in what condition he should find her.
It may have been that better thoughts were struggling in his breast for ascendency, because he sighed deeply once or twice, which was not a usual mode with Ned of expressing his feelings. A growl was more common and more natural, considering his character.
Drawing nearer and nearer to his old haunts, yet taking a roundabout road, as the moth is drawn to the candle, or as water descends to its level, he went slowly on, having little hope of comfort in his home, and not knowing very well what to do.
As he passed down one of the less frequented streets leading into Whitechapel, he was arrested by the sight of a purse lying on the pavement. To become suddenly alive, pick it up, glance stealthily round, and thrust it into his pocket, was the work of an instant. The saunter was changed into a steady businesslike walk. As he turned into Commercial Street, Ned met Number 666 full in the face. He knew that constable intimately, but refrained from taking notice of him, and passed on with an air and expression which were meant to convey the idea of infantine innocence. Guilty men usually over-reach themselves. Giles noted the air, and suspected guilt, but, not being in a position to prove it, walked gravely on, with his stern eyes straight to the front.
In a retired spot Ned examined his “find.” It contained six sovereigns, four shillings, threepence, a metropolitan railway return ticket, several cuttings from newspapers, and a recipe for the concoction of a cheap and wholesome pudding, along with a card bearing the name of Mrs Samuel Twitter, written in ink and without any address.
“You’re in luck, Ned,” he remarked to himself, as he examined these treasures. “Now, old boy you ’aven’t stole this ’ere purse, so you ain’t a thief; you don’t know w’ere Mrs S.T. lives, so you can’t find ’er to return it to ’er. Besides, it’s more than likely she won’t feel the want of it—w’ereas I feels in want of it wery much indeed. Of course it’s my dooty to ’and it over to the p’lice, but, in the first place, I refuse to ’ave any communication wi’ the p’lice, friendly or otherwise; in the second place, I ’ad no ’and in makin’ the laws, so I don’t feel bound to obey ’em; thirdly, I’m both ’ungry an’ thirsty, an’ ’ere you ’ave the remedy for them afflictions, so, fourthly—’ere goes!”
Having thus cleared his conscience, Ned committed the cash to his vest pocket, and presented the purse with its remaining contents to the rats in a neighbouring sewer.
Almost immediately afterwards he met an Irishman, an old friend.
“Terence, my boy, well met!” he said, offering his hand.
“Hooroo! Ned Frog, sure I thought ye was in limbo!”
“You thought right, Terry; only half-an-hour out. Come along, I’ll stand you somethin’ for the sake of old times. By the way, have you done that job yet?”
“What job?”
“Why, the dynamite job, of course.”
“No, I’ve gi’n that up,” returned the Irishman with a look of contempt. “To tell you the honest truth, I don’t believe that the way to right Ireland is to blow up England. But there’s an Englishman you’ll find at the Swan an’ Anchor—a sneakin’ blackguard, as would sell his own mother for dhrink—he’ll help you if you wants to have a hand in the job. I’m off it.”
Notwithstanding this want of sympathy on that point, the two friends found that they held enough in common to induce a prolonged stay at the public-house, from which Ned finally issued rather late at night, and staggered homewards. He met no acquaintance on the way, and was about to knock at his own door when the sound of a voice within arrested him.
It was Hetty, praying. The poor wife and daughter had given up hope of his returning at so late an hour that night, and had betaken themselves to their usual refuge in distress. Ned knew the sound well, and it seemed to rouse a demon in his breast, for he raised his foot with the intention of driving in the door, when he was again arrested by another sound.
It was the voice of little Matty, who, awaking suddenly out of a terrifying dream, set up a shrieking which at once drowned all other sounds.
Ned lowered his foot, thrust his hands into his pockets, and stood gazing in a state of indecision at the broken pavement for a few minutes.
“No peace there,” he said, sternly. “Prayin’ an’ squallin’ don’t suit me, so good-night to ’ee all.”
With that he turned sharp round, and staggered away, resolving never more to return!
“Is that you, Ned Frog?” inquired a squalid, dirty-looking woman, thrusting her head out of a window as he passed.
“No, ’tain’t,” said Ned, fiercely, as he left the court.
He went straight to a low lodging-house, but before entering tied his money in a bit of rag, and thrust it into an inner pocket of his vest, which he buttoned tight, and fastened his coat over it. Paying the requisite fourpence for the night’s lodging, he entered, and was immediately hailed by several men who knew him, but being in no humour for good fellowship, he merely nodded and went straight up to his lowly bed. It was one of seventy beds that occupied the entire floor of an immense room. Police supervision had secured that this room should be well ventilated, and that the bedding should be reasonably clean, though far from clean-looking, and Ned slept soundly in spite of drink, for, as we have said before, he was unusually strong.
Next day, having thought over his plans in bed, and, being a man of strong determination, he went forth to carry them into immediate execution. He went to a lofty tenement in the neighbourhood of Dean and Flower Street, one of the poorest parts of the city, and hired a garret, which was so high up that even the staircase ended before you reached it, and the remainder of the upward flight had to be performed on a ladder, at the top of which was a trap-door, the only entrance to Ned’s new home.
Having paid a week’s rent in advance he took possession, furnished the apartment with one old chair, one older table, one bundle of straw in a sack, one extremely old blanket, and one brand-new pipe with a corresponding ounce or two of tobacco. Then he locked the trap-door, put the key in his pocket, and descended to the street, where at Bird-fair he provided himself with sundry little cages and a few birds. Having conveyed these with some food for himself and the little birds to his lodging he again descended to the street, and treated himself to a pint of beer.
While thus engaged he was saluted by an old friend, the owner of a low music-hall, who begged for a few minutes’ conversation with him outside.
“Ned,” he said, “I’m glad I fell in with you, for I’m uncommon ’ard up just now.”
“I never lends money,” said Ned, brusquely turning away.
“’Old on, Ned, I don’t want yer money, bless yer. I wants togiveyou money.”
“Oh! that’s quite another story; fire away, old man.”
“Well, you see, I’m ’ard up, as I said, for a man to keep order in my place. The last man I ’ad was a good ’un, ’e was. Six futt one in ’is socks, an’ as strong as a ’orse, but by ill luck one night, a sailor-chap that was bigger than ’im come in to the ’all, an’ they ’ad a row, an’ my man got sitch a lickin’ that he ’ad to go to hospital, an’ ’e’s been there for a week, an’ won’t be out, they say, for a month or more. Now, Ned, will you take the job? The pay’s good an’ the fun’s considerable. So’s the fightin’, sometimes, but you’d put a stop to that you know. An’, then, you’ll ’ave all the day to yourself to do as you like.”
“I’m your man,” said Ned, promptly.
Thus it came to pass that the pugilist obtained suitable employment as a peacemaker and keeper of order, for a time at least, in one of those disreputable places of amusement where the unfortunate poor of London are taught lessons of vice and vanity which end often in vexation of spirit, not only to themselves, but to the strata of society which rest above them.
One night Ned betook himself to this temple of vice, and on the way was struck by the appearance of a man with a barrow—a sort of book-stall on wheels—who was pushing his way through the crowded street. It was the man who at the temperance meeting had begun with “bah!” and “pooh!” and had ended by putting on the Blue Ribbon. He had once been a comrade of Ned Frog, but had become so very respectable that his old chum scarcely recognised him.
“Hallo! Reggie North, can that be you?”
North let down his barrow, wheeled round, and held out his hand with a hearty, “how are ’ee, old man? W’y you’re lookin’ well, close cropped an’ comfortable, eh! Livin’ at Her Majesty’s expense lately? Where d’ee live now, Ned? I’d like to come and see you.”
Ned told his old comrade the locality of his new abode.
“But I say, North, how respectable you are! What’s come over you? not become a travellin’ bookseller, have you?”
“That’s just what I am, Ned.”
“Well, there’s no accountin’ for taste. I hope it pays.”
“Ay, pays splendidly—pays the seller of the books and pays the buyers better.”
“How’s that?” asked Ned, in some surprise, going up to the barrow; “oh! I see, Bibles.”
“Yes, Ned, Bibles, the Word of God. Will you buy one?”
“No, thank ’ee,” said Ned, drily.
“Here, I’ll make you a present o’ one, then,” returned North, thrusting a Bible into the other’s hand; “you can’t refuse it of an old comrade. Good-night. I’ll look in on you soon.”
“You needn’t trouble yourself,” Ned called out as his friend went off; and he felt half inclined to fling the Bible after him, but checked himself. It was worth money! so he put it in his pocket and went his way.
The hall was very full that night, a new comic singer of great promise having been announced, and oh! it was sad to see the youths of both sexes, little more than big boys and girls, who went there to smoke, and drink, and enjoy ribald songs and indecent jests!
We do not mean to describe the proceedings. Let it suffice to say that, after one or two songs and a dance had been got through, Ned, part of whose duty it was to announce the performances, rose and in a loud voice said—
“Signor Twittorini will now sing.”
The Signor stepped forward at once, and was received with a roar of enthusiastic laughter, for anything more lugubrious and woe-begone than the expression of his face had never been seen on these boards before. There was a slight look of shyness about him, too, which increased the absurdity of the thing, and it was allso natural, as one half-tipsy woman remarked.
So it was—intensely natural—for Signor Twittorini was no other than poor Sammy Twitter in the extremest depths of his despair. Half-starved, half-mad, yet ashamed to return to his father’s house, the miserable boy had wandered in bye streets, and slept in low lodging-houses as long as his funds lasted. Then he tried to get employment with only partial success, until at last, recollecting that he had been noted among his companions for a sweet voice and a certain power of singing serio-comic songs, he thought of a low music-hall into which he had staggered one evening when drunk—as much with misery as with beer. The manager, on hearing a song or two, at once engaged him and brought him out. As poor Sammy knew nothing about acting, it was decided that he should appear in his own garments, which, being shabby-genteel, were pretty well suited for a great Italian singer in low society.
But Sammy had over-rated his own powers. After the first burst of applause was over, he stood gazing at the audience with his mouth half open, vainly attempting to recollect the song he meant to sing, and making such involuntary contortions with his thin visage, that a renewed burst of laughter broke forth. When it had partially subsided, Sammy once more opened his mouth, gave vent to a gasp, burst into tears, and rushed from the stage.
This was the climax! It brought down the house! Never before had they seen such an actor. He was inimitable, and the people made the usual demand for anencorewith tremendous fervour, expecting that Signor Twittorini would repeat the scene, probably with variations, and finish off with the promised song. But poor Sammy did not respond.
“I see,—you can improvise,” said the manager, quite pleased, “and I’ve no objection when it’s well done like that; but you’d better go on now, and stick to the programme.”
“I can’t sing,” said Sammy, in passionate despair.
“Come, come, young feller, I don’t like actin’offthe stage, an’ the audience is gittin’ impatient.”
“But I tell you I can’t sing a note,” repeated Sam.
“What! D’ye mean to tell me you’re not actin’?”
“I wish I was!” cried poor Sam, glancing upward with tearful eyes and clasping his hands.
“Come now. You’ve joked enough. Go on and do your part,” said the puzzled manager.
“But I tell you I’mnotjoking. I couldn’t sing just now if you was to give me ten thousand pounds!”
It might have been the amount of the sum stated, or the tone in which it was stated—we know not—but the truth of what Sam said was borne so forcibly in upon the manager, that he went into a violent passion; sprang at Sam’s throat; hustled him towards a back door, and kicked him out into a back lane, where he sat down on an empty packing case, covered his face with his hands, bowed his head on his knees, and wept.
The manager returned on the stage, and, with a calm voice and manner, which proved himself to be a very fair actor, stated that Signor Twittorini had met with a sudden disaster—not a very serious one—which, however, rendered it impossible for him to re-appear just then, but that, if sufficiently recovered, he would appear towards the close of the evening.
This, with a very significant look and gesture from Ned Frog, quieted the audience to the extent at least of inducing them to do nothing worse than howl continuously for ten minutes, after which they allowed the performances to go on, and saved the keeper of order the trouble of knocking down a few of the most unruly.
Ned was the first to quit the hall when all was over. He did so by the back door, and found Sam still sitting on the door-step.
“What’s the matter with ye, youngster?” he said, going up to him. “You’ve made a pretty mess of it to-night.”
“I couldn’t help it—indeed I couldn’t. Perhaps I’ll do better next time.”
“Better! ha! ha! You couldn’t ha’ done better—if you’d on’y gone on. But why do ye sit there?”
“Because I’ve nowhere to go to.”
“There’s plenty o’ common lodgin’-’ouses, ain’t there?”
“Yes, but I haven’t got a single rap.”
“Well, then, ain’t there the casual ward? Why don’t you go there? You’ll git bed and board for nothin’ there.”
Having put this question, and received no answer, Ned turned away without further remark.
Hardened though Ned was to suffering, there was something in the fallen boy’s face that had touched this fallen man. He turned back with a sort of remonstrative growl, and re-entered the back lane, but Signor Twittorini was gone. He had heard the manager’s voice, and fled.
A policeman directed him to the nearest casual ward, where the lowest stratum of abject poverty finds its nightly level.
Here he knocked with trembling hand. He was received; he was put in a lukewarm bath and washed; he was fed on gruel and a bit of bread—quite sufficient to allay the cravings of hunger; he was shown to a room in which appeared to be a row of corpses—so dead was the silence—each rolled in a covering of some dark brown substance, and stretched out stiff on a trestle with a canvas bottom. One of the trestles was empty. He was told he might appropriate it.
“Are they dead?” he asked, looking round with a shudder.
“Not quite,” replied his jailer, with a short laugh, “but dead-beat most of ’em—tired out, I should say, and disinclined to move.”
Sam Twitter fell on the couch, drew the coverlet over him, and became a brown corpse like the rest, while the guardian retired and locked the door to prevent the egress of any who might chance to come to life again.
In the morning Sam had a breakfast similar to the supper; was made to pick oakum for a few hours by way of payment for hospitality, and left with a feeling that he had at last reached the lowest possible depth of degradation.
So he had in that direction, but there are other and varied depths in London—depths of crime and of sickness, as well as of suffering and sorrow!
Aimlessly he wandered about for another day, almost fainting with hunger, but still so ashamed to face his father and mother that he would rather have died than done so.
Some touch of pathos, or gruff tenderness mayhap, in Ned Frog’s voice, induced him to return at night to the scene of his discreditable failure, and await the pugilist’s coming out. He followed him a short way, and then running forward, said—
“Oh, sir! I’m very low!”
“Hallo! Signor Twittorini again!” said Ned, wheeling round, sternly. “What have I to do with your being low? I’ve been low enough myself at times, an’ nobody helped—”
Ned checked himself, for he knew that what he said was false.
“I think I’m dying,” said Sam, leaning against a house for support.
“Well, if you do die, you’ll be well out of it all,” replied Ned, bitterly. “What’s your name?”
“Twitter,” replied Sam, forgetting in his woe that he had not intended to reveal his real name.
“Twitter—Twitter. I’ve heard that name before. Why, yes. Father’s name Samuel—eh? Mother alive—got cards with Mrs Samuel Twitter on ’em, an’ no address?”
“Yes—yes. How do you come to know?” asked Sam in surprise.
“Never you mind that, youngster, but you come along wi’ me. I’ve got a sort o’ right to feed you. Ha! ha! come along.”
Sam became frightened at this sudden burst of hilarity, and shrank away, but Ned grasped him by the arm, and led him along with such decision, that resistance he felt would be useless.
In a few minutes he was in Ned’s garret eating bread and cheese with ravenous satisfaction.
“Have some beer!” said Ned, filling a pewter pot.
“No—no—no—no!” said Sam, shuddering as he turned his head away.
“Well, youngster,” returned Ned, with a slight look of surprise, “please yourself, and here’s your health.”
He drained the pot to the bottom, after which, dividing his straw into two heaps, and throwing them into two corners, he bade Sam lie down and rest.
The miserable boy was only too glad to do so. He flung himself on the little heap pointed out, and the last thing he remembered seeing before the “sweet restorer” embraced him was the huge form of Ned Frog sitting in his own corner with his back to the wall, the pewter pot at his elbow, and a long clay pipe in his mouth.