Personal Reminiscences in Book Making, Robert Michael Ballantyne [the best ebook reader for android txt] 📗

voice ceased or his whistle sounded. Presently a solitary nurse with the neat familiar white cap and apron appeared at the door leading two little creatures by the hand. A hush--a distinct though indescribable sensation--as of profound pity and pathos,--passed over the vast assembly as a little boy and girl direct from the slums were led forward. The nurse had to walk slowly to accommodate her pace to theirs. Half naked, ragged, dirty, unkempt, bereft of their natural guardians, or forsaken by them--helpless, yet left to help themselves almost before they could walk! Forward they came to the central platform, casting timid, wondering glances around at the mighty host of well-to-do beings, not one of whom, perhaps, ever knew what it is to hunger for a whole day and lie down at night with a door-step for a pillow. Oh, it was pitiful! the Doctor advanced to these forlorn ones and took them by the hands with inexpressible tenderness, and then, facing the assembly, broke the silence and presented the human material which it was, under God, his mission in life to rescue.

Then turning abruptly to the flower-bed in the orchestra, he signalled with his finger. A flower that might well have been styled a rosebud--a neat little girl in pink with a natty straw hat--tripped lightly down and stood on the platform beside the poor waifs. Looking up once more to the entranced audience and pointing to the children, the Doctor said--

"Such as these are, she was but a few months ago, and such as she is now they will soon become, with God's blessing."

I may not quote the words correctly, but that is my recollection of the substance.

The Doctor was not content, however, to show us the foundation and progress of his work. He showed us the work, as it were, completed, in the form of a band of sturdy young men in their working costume, ready to start as rescued, trained, useful, earnest labourers for the fields of Manitoba--young men who all had once been lost waifs and strays.

Still further, he, as it were, put the copestone on his glorious work by presenting a band of men and women--"old boys and girls"--who had been tested by rough contact with the world and its temptations, and had come off victorious "by keeping their situations with credit" for periods varying from one to nine years--kept by the power of Christ!

When I saw the little waifs and looked up at the bands of happy children before me, and thought of the thousands more in the "Homes," and of the multitudes which have passed through these Homes in years gone by; the gladness and the great boon to humanity which must have resulted, and of the terrible crime and degradation that might have been--my heart offered the prayer, which at that moment my voice could not have uttered--"God bless and prosper Dr Barnardo and his work!"

I hear a voice from the "Back of Beyont," or some such far off locality--a timid voice, perhaps that of a juvenile who knows little, and can scarce be expected to care much, about London--asking "Who is Dr Barnardo?"

For the sake of that innocent one I reply that he is a Scavenger--the chief of London Scavengers! He and his subordinates sweep up the human rubbish of the slums and shoot it into a receptacle at 18 Stepney Causeway, where they manipulate and wash it, and subject it to a variety of processes which result, with God's blessing, in the recovery of innumerable jewels of inestimable value. I say inestimable, because men have not yet found a method of fixing the exact value of human souls and rescued lives. The "rubbish" which is gathered consists of destitute children. The Assistant Scavengers are men and women who love and serve the Lord Jesus Christ.


CHAPTER THIRTEEN.


A KNOTTY QUESTION.

"Tom Blunt," said Richard Sharp, "I deny your premises, condemn your reasoning as illogical, and reject your conclusions with scorn!"

The youth who made this remark with very considerable assurance and emphasis was a student. His fellow-student received it with an air of bland good-nature.

"Dick," said he, "your oratory is rotund, and if it were convincing might be impressive; but it fails to some extent in consequence of a certain smack of self-assertion which is unphilosophical. Suppose, now, that we have this matter out in a calm, dispassionate manner, without `tooth,' or egotism, or prejudice, which tend so powerfully to mar human disputation and render it abortive."

"With all my heart, Tom," said the other, drawing close to the fire, placing one foot against the mantelpiece, as being a comfortable, though not elegant posture, resting his elbows on the arms of his chair, and placing his hands in that position--with all the finger tips touching each other--which seems, from the universal practice of civilised society, to assist mental elucidation. "I am quite prepared. Come on!"

"Stay; while my mind is working I like to have my hands employed. I will proceed with my monkey while we talk," said Blunt, taking up a walking-stick, the head of which he had carved into the semblance of a monkey. "Sweet creature!" he added, kissing the object of his affection, and holding it out at arm's-length. "Silent companion of my solitary rambles, and patient auditor of my most secret aspirations, you are becoming quite a work of art. A few more touches of the knife, and something like perfection shall have been attained! Look here, Dick, when I turn it towards the light--so--isn't there a beauty about the contour of that upper lip and nose which--"

"Don't be a fool, Tom," interrupted his friend, somewhat impatiently; "you seem to me to be growing more and more imbecile every day. We did not sit down to discuss fine art--"

"True, Richard, true; but there is a power in the consideration of fine art, which, when judiciously interpolated in the affairs of life, tends to soften the asperities, to round away, as it were, the ruggedness of human intercourse, and produce a tranquillity of mind which is eminently conducive to--to--don't you see?"

"No, I don't see!"

"Then," continued Blunt, applying his knife to one of the monkey's eyes, "there arises the question--how far is this intellectual blindness the result of incapacity of intellectual vision, or of averted gaze, or of the wilful shutting of the intellectual eyelids?"

"Well, well, Tom, let that question alone for the present. Let us come to the point, for I wish to have my mind cleared up on the subject. You hold that gambling is wrong--essentially wrong."

"I do; but let us not have a misunderstanding at the very beginning," said Blunt. "By gambling I do not mean the playing of games. That is not gambling. What I understand by gambling is betting on games--or on anything--and the playing of games for the purpose of winning money, or anything that possesses value, great or small. Such gambling I hold to be wrong--essentially, morally, absolutely wrong, without one particle of right or good in it whatever."

As he spoke Blunt became slightly more earnest in tone, and less devoted to the monkey.

"Well, now, Tom, do you know I don't see that."

"If you did see it, my dear fellow," returned Blunt, resuming his airy tone, "our discussion of the subject would be useless."

"Well, then, I _can't_ see it to be wrong. Here are you and I. We want to have a game of billiards. It is uninteresting to play even billiards for nothing; but we each have a little money, and choose to risk a small sum. Our object is not gain, therefore we play for merely sixpenny points. We both agree to risk that sum. If I lose, all right. If you lose, all right. That's fair, isn't it?"

"No; it is undoubtedly equal, but not necessarily fair. Fair means `free from blemish,' `pure,' in other words, right. Two thieves may make a perfectly fair division of spoil; but the fairness of the division does not make their conduct fair or right. Neither of them is entitled to divide their gains at all. Their agreeing to do so does not make it fair."

"Agreed, Tom, as regards thieves; but you and I are not thieves. We propose to act with that which is our own. We mutually agree to run the risk of loss, and to take our chance of gain. We have a right to do as we choose with our own. Is not that fair?"

"You pour out so many fallacies and half truths, Dick, that it is not easy to answer you right off."

"Morally and politically you are wrong. Politically a man is not entitled to do what he chooses with his own. There are limitations. For instance, a man owns a house. Abstractly, he is entitled to burn it down if he chooses. But if his house abuts upon mine, he may not set it on fire if he chooses, because in so doing he would set fire to my house also, which is very much beyond his right. Then--"

"Oh, man, I understand all that," said Sharp quickly. "Of course a man may put what he likes in his garden, but with such-like limitations as that he shall not set up a limekiln to choke his neighbours, or a piggery to breed disease; but gambling does nothing like that."

"Does it not?" exclaimed Blunt. "Does it not ruin hundreds of men, turning them into sots and paupers, whereby the ruined gamblers become unable to pay their fair share of taxation; and, in addition, lay on the shoulders of respectable people the unfair burden of supporting them, and perhaps their families?"

"But what if the gambler has no family?"

"There still remains his ruined self to be maintained."

"But suppose he is not ruined--that he manages, by gambling, to support himself?"

"In that case he still remains guilty of two mean and contemptible acts. On the one hand he produces nothing whatever to increase the wealth or happiness of the world, and, on the other hand, whatever he gains is a matter of direct loss and sorrow to others without any tangible equivalent. It is not so with the orator or the musician. Though their products are not indeed tangible they are distinctly real and valuable. During the hour of action the orator charms the ear, eye, and intellect. So does the musician. When the hour is past the heart is gladdened by the memory of what has been, and the hopes are aroused in anticipation of what may yet be in the future. As regards the orator, the lessons inculcated may be a lasting gain and pleasure, and source of widespread benefit through life. To a great extent this may also be said of the musician when words are wedded to music. Who has not heard of souls being delivered from spiritual darkness and brought into spiritual light by means of song?--a benefit which will last through eternity as well as time. Even the man of wealth who lives on the interest of his possessions is not necessarily a drone in the human hive. He may, by wise and careful use of his wealth, greatly increase the world's riches. By the mere management of it he may fill up his days with useful and happy