Dusty Diamonds Cut and Polished: A Tale of City Arab Life and Adventure

“Oh! I’m so glad to hear that he’s much better, and been out too! I would have come to see him again long long ago, but p—”

She checked herself, for Mrs Screwbury had carefully explained to her that no good girl ever said anything against her parents; and little Di had swallowed the lesson, for, when not led by passion, she was extremely teachable.

“And oh!” she continued, opening her great blue lakelets to their widest state of solemnity, “you haven’t the smallest bit of notion how I have dreamt about my boy—and my policeman too! I never can get over the feeling that they might both have been killed, and if they had, you know, it would have been me that did it; only think! I would have—been—a murderer! P’raps they’d have hanged me!”

“But they weren’t killed, dear,” said Hetty, unable to restrain a smile at the awful solemnity of the child, and the terrible fate referred to.

“No—I’m so glad, but I can’t get over it,” continued Di, while those near to her stood quietly by unable to avoid overhearing, even if they had wished to do so. “And they do such strange things in my dreams,” continued Di, “you can’t think. Only last night I was in our basket-cart—the dream-one, you know, not the real one—and the dream-pony ran away again, and gave my boy such a dreadful knock that he fell flat down on his back, tumbled over two or three times, and rose up—a policeman! Not my policeman, you know, but quite another one that I had never seen before! But the very oddest thing of all was that it made me so angry that I jumped with all my might on to his breast, and when I got there it wasn’t the policeman but the pony! and it was dead—quite dead, for I had killed it, and I wasn’t sorry at all—not a bit!”

This was too much for Hetty, who burst into a laugh, and Sir Richard thought it time to go and see the games that were going on in other parts of the field, accompanied by Welland and the missionary, while Hetty returned to her special pet Lilly Snow.

And, truly, if “one touch of nature makes the whole world kin,” there were touches of nature enough seen that day among these outcasts of society to have warranted their claiming kin with the whole world.

Leap-frog was greatly in favour, because the practitioners could abandon themselves to a squirrel-and-cat sort of bound on the soft grass, which they had never dared to indulge in on the London pavements. It was a trying game, however, to the rags, which not only betrayed their character to the eye by the exhibition of flesh-tints through numerous holes, but addressed themselves also to the ears by means of frequent and explosive rendings. Pins, however, were applied to the worst of these with admirable though temporary effect, and the fun became faster and more furious,—especially so when the points of some of the pins touched up the flesh-tints unexpectedly.

On these occasions the touches of nature became strongly pronounced—expressing themselves generally in a yell. Another evidence of worldly kinship was, that the touched-up ones, instead of attributing the misfortune to accident, were prone to turn round with fierce scowl and doubled fists under the impression that a guilty comrade was in rear!

The proceedings were totally arrested for one hour at mid-day, when unlimited food was issued, and many of the forlorn ones began to feel the rare sensation of being stuffed quite full and rendered incapable of wishing for more! But this was a mere interlude. Like little giants refreshed they rose up again to play—to swing, to leap, to wrestle, to ramble, to gather flowers, to roll on the grass, to bask in the gladdening sunshine, and, in some cases, to thank God for all His mercies, in spite of the latent feeling of regret that there was so little of all that enjoyment in the slums, and dark courts, and filthy back-streets of the monster city.

Of course all the pins were extracted in this second act of the play, and innumerable new and gaping wounds were introduced into the clothing, insomuch that all ordinary civilised people, except philanthropists, would have been shocked with the appearance of the little ones.

But it was during the third and closing act of the play that the affair culminated. The scene was laid on the lawn in front of Mr Brisbane’s mansion.

Enter, at one end of the lawn, a band of small and dirty but flushed and happy boys and girls, in rags which might appropriately be styled ribbons. At the other end of the lawn a train of domestics bearing trays with tea, cakes, buns, pies, fruits, and other delectable things, to which the ragged army sits down.

Enter host and hostess, with Sir Richard, friends and attendants.

(Host.)—after asking a blessing—“My little friends, this afternoon we meet to eat, and only one request have I to make—that you shall do your duty well.” (Small boy in ribbons.—“Von’t I, just!”) “No platter shall return to my house till it be empty. No little one shall quit these premises till he be full; what cannot be eaten must be carried away.”

(The ragged army cheers.)

(Host.)—“Enough. Fall-to.”

(They fall-to.)

(Little boy in tatters, pausing.)—“I shan’t fall two, I’ll fall three or four.”

(Another little boy, in worse tatters.)—“So shall I.”

(First little boy.)—“I say, Jim, wot would mother say if she was here?”

(Jim.)—“She’d say nothin’. ’Er mouth ’ud be too full to speak.”

(Prolonged silence. Only mastication heard, mingled with a few cases of choking, which are promptly dealt with.)

(Blobby, with a sigh.)—“I say, Robin, I’m gettin’ tight.”

(Robin, with a gasp.)—“So am I; I’m about bustin’.”

(Blobby, coming to another pause.)—“I say, Robin, I’m as full as I can ’old. So’s all my pockits, an’ there’s some left over!”

(Robin—sharply.)—“Stick it in your ’at, then.”

(Blobby takes off his billycock, thrusts the remnant of food therein, and puts it on.)

Enter the brass band of the neighbouring village, (the bandsmen being boys), which plays a selection of airs, and sends a few of the smaller ragamuffins to sleep.

(Sir Richard Brandon, confidentially to his friend.)—“It is an amazing sight.”

(Host.)—“Would that it were a more common sight!”

Enter more domestics with more tea, buns, and fruit; but the army is glutted, and the pockets are brought into requisition: much pinning being a necessary consequence.

(Lilly Snow, softly.)—“It’s like ’eaven!”

(Hetty, remonstratingly.)—“Oh! Lilly, ’eaven is quite different.”

(Dick Swiller.)—“I’m sorry for it. Couldn’t be much ’appier to my mind.”

(Host.)—“Now, dear boys and girls, before we close the proceedings of this happy day, my excellent friend, your missionary, Mr Seaward, will say a few words.”

John Seaward steps to the front, and says a few words—says them so well, too, so simply, so kindly, yet so heartily, that the army is roused to a pitch of great enthusiasm; but we leave this speech to the reader’s imagination: after which— Exeunt Omnes.

And, as the curtain of night falls on these ragged ones, scattered now, many of them, to varied homes of vice, and filth, and misery, the heavy eyelids close to open again, perchance, in ecstatic dreams of food, and fun and green fields, fresh air and sunshine, which impress them more or less with the idea embodied in the aphorism, that “God made the country, but man made the town.”

Chapter Nine.

How the Poor are Succoured

“I am obliged to you, Mr Seaward, for coming out of your way to see me,” said Sir Richard Brandon, while little Di brought their visitor a chair. “I know that your time is fully occupied, and would not have asked you to call had not my friend Mr Brisbane assured me that you had to pass my house daily on your way to—to business.”

“No apology, Sir Richard, pray. I am at all times ready to answer a call whether of the poor or the rich, if by any means I may help my Lord’s cause.”

The knight thought for a moment that he might claim to be classed among the poor, seeing that his miserable pittance of five thousand barely enabled him to make the two ends meet, but he only said:

“Ever since we had the pleasure of meeting at that gathering of ragged children, my little girl here has been asking so many questions about poor people—the lower orders, I mean—which I could not answer, that I have asked you to call, that we may get some information about them. You see, Diana is an eccentric little puss,” (Di opened her eyes very wide at this, wondering what “eccentric” could mean), “and she has got into a most unaccountable habit of thinking and planning about poor people.”

“A good habit, Sir Richard,” said the missionary. “‘Blessed are they that consider the poor.’”

Sir Richard acknowledged this remark with a little bow. “Now, we should like to ask, if you have no objection, what is your chief object in the mission at—what did you say its name—ah! George Yard?”

“To save souls,” said Mr Seaward.

“Oh—ah—precisely,” said the knight, taken somewhat aback by the nature and brevity of the answer, “that of course; but I meant, how do you proceed? What is the method, and what the machinery that you put in motion?”

“Perhaps,” said the missionary, drawing a small pamphlet from his pocket, “this will furnish you with all the information you desire. You can read it over to Miss Diana at your leisure—and don’t return it; I have plenty more. Meanwhile I may briefly state that the mission premises are in George Yard, High Street, Whitechapel, one of the worst parts of the east of London, where the fire of sin and crime rages most fiercely; where the soldiers of the Cross are comparatively few, and would be overwhelmed by mere numbers, were it not that they are invincible, carrying on the war as they do in the strength of Him who said, ‘Lo, I am with you alway.’

“In the old coaching days,” continued Mr Seaward, “this was a great centre, a starting-point for mail-coaches. For nigh thirty years the mission has been there. The ‘Black Horse’ was a public-house in George Yard, once known to the magistrates as one of the worst gin-shops and resort of thieves and nurseries of crime in London. That public-house is now a shelter for friendless girls, and a place where sick children of the poor are gratuitously fed.”

From this point the missionary went off into a graphic account of incidents illustrative of the great work done by the mission, and succeeded in deeply interesting both Diana and her father, though the latter held himself well in hand, knowing, as he was fond of remarking, that there were two sides to every question.

Checking his visitor at one point, he said, “You have mentioned ragged schools and the good that is done by them, but why should not the school-boards look after such children?”

“Because, Sir Richard, the school-boards cannot reach them. There are upwards of 150,000 people in London who have never lived more than three months in one place. No law reaches this class, because they do not stay long enough in any neighbourhood for the school-board authorities to put the law into operation. Now, nearly three hundred of the children of these wanderers meet in our Free Ragged Day Schools twice a day for instruction. Here we teach them as efficiently as we can in secular matters, and of course they are taught the Word of God, and told of Jesus the Saviour of sinners; but our difficulties are great, for children as well as parents are often in extremest poverty, the former suffering from hunger even when sent to school—and they never stay with us long. Let me give you an instance:—

“One morning a mother came and begged to have her children admitted. She had just left the workhouse. Three children in rags, that did not suffice to cover much less to protect them, stood by her side. She did not know where they were to sleep that night, but hoped to obtain a little charing and earn enough to obtain a lodging somewhere. She could not take the children with her while seeking work—Would we take them in? for, if not, they would have to be left in the streets, and as they were very young they might lose themselves or be run over. We took them in, fed, sympathised with, and taught them. In the afternoon the mother returned weary, hungry, dejected. She had failed to obtain employment, and took the children away to apply for admission to a casual ward.”

“What is a casual ward, Mr Missionary?” asked Di.

“Seaward, my love,—his name is not Missionary,” said Sir Richard.

“A casual ward,” answered the visitor, “is an exceedingly plain room with rows of very poor beds; mere wooden frames with canvas stretched on them, in which any miserable beggars who choose to submit to the rules may sleep for a night after eating a bit of bread and a basin of gruel—for all which they pay nothing. It is a very poor and comfortless place—at least you would think it so—and is meant to save poor people from sleeping, perhaps dying, in the streets.”

“Do some people sleep in the streets?” asked Di in great surprise.

“Yes, dear, I’m sorry to say that many do.”

“D’you mean on the stones, in their night-dresses?” asked the child with increasing surprise.

“Yes, love,” said her father, “but in their ordinary clothes, not in their night-dresses—they have no night-dresses.”

Little Di had now reached a pitch of surprise which rendered her dumb, so the missionary continued:

“Here is another case. A poor widow called once, and said she would be so grateful if we would admit her little girl and boy into the schools. She looked clean and tidy, and the children had not been neglected. She could not afford to pay for them, as she had not a penny in the world, and applied to us because we made no charge. The children were admitted and supplied with a plain but nourishing meal, while their mother went away to seek for work. We did not hear how she sped, but she had probably taken her case to God, and found Him faithful, for she had said, before going away, ‘I know that God is the Father of the fatherless, and the husband of the widow.’

“Again, another poor woman came. Her husband had fallen sick. Till within a few days her children had been at a school and paid for, but now the bread-winner was ill—might never recover—and had gone to the hospital. These children were at once admitted, and in each case investigation was made to test the veracity of the applicants.

“Of course,” continued the missionary, “I have spoken chiefly about the agencies with which I happen to have come personally in contact, but it must not be supposed that therefore I ignore or am indifferent to the other grand centres of influence which are elsewhere at work in London; such as, for instance, the various agencies set agoing and superintended by Dr Barnardo, whose Home for Working and Destitute Boys, in Stepney Causeway, is a shelter from which thousands of rescued little ones go forth to labour as honest and useful members of society, instead of dying miserably in the slums of London, or growing up to recruit the ranks of our criminal classes. These agencies, besides rescuing destitute and neglected children, include Homes for destitute girls and for little boys in Ilford and Jersey, an Infirmary for sick children of the destitute classes in Stepney, Orphan Homes, Ragged and Day schools, Free dinner-table to destitute children, Mission Halls, Coffee Palaces, and, in short, a grand net-work of beneficent agencies—Evangelistic, Temperance, and Medical—for the conduct of which is required not far short of One Hundred Pounds a day!”

Even Sir Richard Brandon, with all his supposed financial capacities, seemed struck with the magnitude of this sum.

“And where does Dr Barnardo obtain so large an amount?” he asked.

“From the voluntary gifts of those who sympathise with and consider the poor,” replied Seaward.

“Then,” he added, “there is that noble work carried on by Miss Rye of the Emigration Home for Destitute Little Girls, at the Avenue House, Peckham, from which a stream of destitute little ones continually flows to Canada, where they are much wanted, and who, if allowed to remain here, would almost certainly be lost. Strong testimony to the value of this work has been given by the Bishops of Toronto and Niagara, and other competent judges. Let me mention a case of one of Miss Rye’s little ones, which speaks for itself.

“A little girl of six was deserted by both father and mother.”

“Oh! poor little thing!” exclaimed the sympathetic Di, with an amazing series of pitiful curves about her eyebrows.

“Yes, poor indeed!” responded Seaward. “The mother forsook her first; then her father took her on the tramp, but the little feet could not travel fast enough, so he got tired of her and offered her to a workhouse. They refused her, so the tramping was continued, and at last baby was sold for three shillings to a stranger man. On taking his purchase home, however, the man found that his wife was unwilling to receive her; he therefore sent poor little baby adrift in the streets of London!”

“What a shame!” cried Di, with flashing orbs.

“Was it not? But, when father and mother cast this little one off, the Lord cared for it. An inspector of police, who found it, took it to his wife, and she carried it to Miss Rye’s Home, where it was at once received and cared for, and, doubtless, this little foundling girl is now dwelling happily and usefully with a Canadian family.”

“How nice!” exclaimed Di, her eyes, lips, and teeth bearing eloquent witness to her satisfaction.

“But no doubt you have heard of Miss Rye’s work, as well as that of Miss Annie Macpherson at the Home of Industry, and, perhaps, contributed to—”

“No,” interrupted Sir Richard, quickly, “I do not contribute; but pray, Mr Seaward, are there other institutions of this sort in London?”

“Oh! yes, there are several, it would take me too long to go into the details of the various agencies we have for succouring the poor. There is, among others, The Church of England ‘Central Home for Waifs and Strays,’ with a ‘Receiving House’ for boys in Upper Clapton, and one for girls in East Dulwich, with the Archbishop of Canterbury for its President. Possibly you may have heard of the ‘Strangers’ Rest,’ in Saint George Street, Ratcliff Highway, where, as far as man can judge, great and permanent good is being constantly done to the souls of sailors. A sailor once entered this ‘Rest’ considerably the worse for drink. He was spoken to by Christian friends, and asked to sign the pledge. He did so, and has now been steadfast for years. Returning from a long voyage lately, he went to revisit the Rest, and there, at the Bible-class, prayed. Part of his prayer was— ‘God bless the Strangers’ Rest. O Lord, we thank Thee for this place, and we shall thank Thee to all eternity.’ This is a sample of the feeling with which the place is regarded by those who have received blessing there. In the same street, only a few doors from this Rest, is the ‘Sailor’s Welcome Home.’ This is more of a home than the other, for it furnishes lodging and unintoxicating refreshment, while its devoted soul-loving manager, Miss Child, and her assistant workers, go fearlessly into the very dens of iniquity, and do all they can to bring sailors to Jesus, and induce them to take the pledge against strong drink, in which work they are, through God’s blessing, wonderfully successful. These two missions work, as it were, into each other’s hands. In the ‘Rest’ are held prayer-meetings and Bible-classes, and when these are dismissed, the sailors find the open door of the ‘Welcome Home’ ready to receive them, and the inmates there seek to deepen the good influence that has been brought to bear at the meetings—and this in the midst of one of the very worst parts of London, where temptation to every species of evil is rampant, on the right-hand and on the left, before and behind.

“But, Sir Richard, although I say that a grand and extensive work of salvation to soul, body, and spirit is being done to thousands of men, and women, and children, by the agencies which I have mentioned, and by many similar agencies which I have not now time to mention, as well as by the band of City Missionaries to which I have the honour to belong, I would earnestly point out that these all put together only scratch the surface of the vast mass of corruption which has to be dealt with in this seething world of London, the population of which is, as you are aware, equal to that of all Scotland; and very specially would I remark that the work is almost exclusively carried on by the voluntary contributions of those who ‘consider the poor!’

“The little tract which I have given you will explain much of the details of this great work, as carried on in the George Yard Mission. When you have read that, if you desire it, I will call on you again. Meanwhile engagements compel me to take my leave.”

After luncheon, that day, Sir Richard drew his chair to the window, but instead of taking up the newspaper and recommending his little one to visit the nursery, he said:

“Come here, Di. You and I will examine this pamphlet—this little book—and I’ll try to explain it, for reports are usually very dry.”

Di looked innocently puzzled. “Should reports always be wet, papa?”

Sir Richard came nearer to the confines of a laugh than he had reached for a long time past.

“No, love—not exactly wet, but—hm—you shall hear. Draw the stool close to my knee and lay your head on it.”

With his large hand on the golden tresses, Sir Richard Brandon began to examine the record of work done in the George Yard Mission.

“What is this?” he said. “Toy Classes,—why, this must be something quite in your way, Di.”

“Oh yes, I’m sure of that, for I adore toys. Tell me about it.”

“These toy classes are for the cheerless and neglected,” said the knight, frowning in a businesslike way at the pamphlet. “Sometimes so many as eighty neglected little ones attend these classes. On one occasion, only one of these had boots on, which were very old, much too large, and both lefts. When they were seated, toys and scrap-books were lent to them. There were puzzles, and toy-bricks, and many other things which kept them quite happy for an hour. Of course the opportunity was seized to tell them about Jesus and His love. A blessed lesson which they would not have had a chance of learning at home—if they had homes; but many of them had none. When it was time to go they said—‘Can’t we stay longer?’

“The beginning of this class was interesting,” said Sir Richard, continuing to read. “The thought arose—‘gather in the most forlorn and wretched children; those who are seldom seen to smile, or heard to laugh; there are many such who require Christian sympathy.’ The thought was immediately acted on. A little barefooted ragged boy was sent into the streets to bring in the children. Soon there was a crowd round the school-door. The most miserable among the little ones were admitted. The proceedings commenced with prayer—then the toys were distributed, the dirty little hands became active, and the dirty little faces began to look happy. When the toys were gathered up, some could not be found, so, at the next meeting, some of the bigger children were set to watch the smaller ones. Presently one little detective said: ‘Please, teacher, Teddy’s got a horse in his pocket,’ and another said that Sally had an elephant in her pinafore! Occasion was thus found to show the evil of stealing, and teach the blessedness of honesty. They soon gave up pilfering, and they now play with the toys without desiring to take them away.”

“How nice!” said Di. “Go on, papa.”

“What can this be?” continued Sir Richard, quoting—“Wild Flowers of the Forest Day Nursery. Oh! I see—very good idea. I’ll not read it, Di, I’ll tell you about it. There are many poor widows, you must know, and women whose husbands are bad, who have no money to buy food and shelter for themselves and little ones except what they can earn each day. But some of these poor women have babies, and they can’t work, you know, with babies in their arms, neither can they leave the babies at home with no one to look after them, except, perhaps, little sisters or brothers not much older than themselves, so they take their babies to this Cradle-Home, and each pays only twopence, for which small sum her baby is taken in, washed, clothed, warmed, fed, and amused by kind nurses, who keep it till the mother returns from her work to get it back again. Isn’t that good?”