Cast Adrift

T >> T. S. Arthur >> Cast Adrift

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"The attempt to engage and lead them in prayer was, however, a
matter of great difficulty. They seemed to regard the attitude of
kneeling as very amusing, and were reluctant to commit themselves so
far to the ridicule of their companions as to be caught in such a
posture. After reading to them a portion of the Holy Scriptures and
telling them of Jesus, they were dismissed, greatly pleased with
their first visit to a Sabbath-school.

"As for ourselves, we had also received a lesson. We found--what
indeed we had expected--that the poor children were very ignorant,
but we also found what we did not expect--namely, such an acute
intelligence and aptitude to receive instruction as admonished us of
the danger of leaving them to grow up under evil influences to
become master-spirits in crime and pests to society. Many of the
faces that we had just seen were very expressive--indeed, painfully
so. Some of them seemed to exhibit an unnatural and premature
development of those passions whose absence makes childhood so
attractive.

"Hunger! ay, its traces were also plainly written there. It is
painful to see the marks of hunger on the human face, but to see the
cheeks of childhood blanched by famine, to behold the attenuated
limbs and bright wolfish eyes, ah! that is a sight.

"The organization of a day-school came next. There were hundreds of
children in the district close about the mission who were wholly
without instruction. They were too dirty, vicious and disorderly to
be admitted into any of the public schools; and unless some special
means of education were provided, they must grow up in ignorance. It
was therefore resolved to open a day-school, but to find a teacher
with her heart in such a work was a difficulty hard to be met;
moreover, it was thought by many unsafe for a lady to remain in this
locality alone, even though a suitable one should offer. But one
brave and self-devoted was found, and one Sunday it was announced to
the children in the Sabbath-school that a day school would be opened
in the same building at nine o'clock on Monday morning.

"About thirty neglected little ones from the lanes and alleys around
the mission were found at the schoolroom door at the appointed hour.
But when admitted, very few of them had any idea of the purpose for
which they were collected. The efforts of the teacher to seat them
proved a failure. The idea among them seemed to be that each should
take some part in amusing the company. One would jump from the back
of a bench upon which he had been seated, while others were creeping
about the floor; another, who deemed himself a proficient in turning
somersaults, would be trying his skill in this way, while his
neighbor, equally ambitious, would show the teacher how he could
stand on his head. Occasionally they would pause and listen to the
singing of a hymn or the reading of a little story; then all would
be confusion again; and thus the morning wore away. The first
session having closed, the teacher retired to her home, feeling that
a repetition of the scenes through which she had passed could
scarcely be endured.

"Two o'clock found her again at the door, and the children soon
gathered around her. Upon entering the schoolroom, most of them were
induced to be seated, and a hymn was sung which they had learned in
the Sabbath-school. When it was finished, the question was asked,
'Shall we pray?' With one accord they answered, 'Yes.' 'And will you
be quiet?' They replied in the affirmative. All were then requested
to be silent and cover their faces. In this posture they remained
until the prayer was closed; and after resuming their seats, for
some minutes order was preserved. This was the only encouraging
circumstance of the day.

"For many weeks a stranger would scarcely have recognized a school
in this disorderly gathering which day after day met in the old
gloomy building. Very many difficulties which we may not name were
met and conquered. Fights were of common occurrence. A description
of one may give the reader an idea of what came frequently under our
notice.

"A rough boy about fourteen years of age, over whom some influence
had been gained, was chosen monitor one morning; and as he was a
leader in all the mischief, it was hoped that putting him upon his
honor would assist in keeping order. Talking aloud was forbidden.
For a few minutes matters went on charmingly, until some one, tired
of the restraint, broke silence. The monitor, feeling the importance
of his position, and knowing of but one mode of redress, instantly
struck him a violent blow upon the ear, causing him to scream with
pain. In a moment the school was a scene of confusion, the friends
of each boy taking sides, and before the cause of trouble could be
ascertained most of the boys were piled upon each other in the
middle of the room, creating sounds altogether indescribable. The
teacher, realizing that she was alone, and not well understanding
her influence, feared for a moment to interfere; but as matters were
growing worse, something must be done. She made an effort to gain
the ear of the monitor, and asked why he did so. He, confident of
being in the right, answered,

"'Teacher, he didn't mind you; he spoke, and I licked him; and I'll
do it again if be don't mind you.'

"His services were of course no longer required, although he had
done his duty according to his understanding of the case.

"Thus it was at the beginning of this work nearly twenty years ago,"
said the missionary. "Now we have an orderly school of over two
hundred children, who, but for the opportunity here given, would
grow up without even the rudiments of all education. Is not this a
gain upon the enemy? Think of a school like this doing its work
daily among these neglected little ones for nearly a score of years,
and you will no longer feel as if nothing had been done--as if no
headway had been gained. Think, too, of the Sabbath-school work in
that time, and of the thousands of children who have had their
memories filled with precious texts from the Bible, who have been
told of the loving Saviour who came into the world and suffered and
died for them, and of his tender love and perpetual care over his
children, no matter how poor and vile and afar off from him they may
be. It is impossible that the good seed of the word scattered here
for so long a time should not have taken root in many hearts. We
know that they have, and can point to scores of blessed
instances--can take you to men and women, now good and virtuous
people, who, but for our day-and Sabbath-schools, would, in all
human probability, be now among the outcast, the vicious and the
criminal.

"So much for what has been done among the children. Our work with
men and women has not been so fruitful as might well be supposed,
and yet great good has been accomplished even among the hardened,
the desperate and the miserably vile and besotted. Bad as things are
to-day--awful to see and to contemplate, shocking and disgraceful to
a Christian community--they were nearly as bad again at the time
this mission set up the standard of God and made battle in his name.
Our work began as a simple religious movement, with street
preaching."

"And with what effect?" asked Mr. Dinneford.

"With good effect, in a limited number of cases, I trust. In a
degraded community like this there will always be some who had a
different childhood from that of the crowds of young heathen who
swarm its courts and alleys; some who in early life had religious
training, and in whose memories were stored up holy things from
Scripture; some who have tender and sweet recollection of a mother
and home and family prayer and service in God's temples. In the
hearts of such God's Spirit in moving could touch and quicken and
flush with reviving life these old memories, and through them bring
conviction of sin, and an intense desire to rise out of the horrible
pit into which they had fallen and the clay wherein their feet were
mired. Angels could come near to these by what of good and true was
to be found half hidden, but not erased from their book of life, and
so help in the work of their recovery and salvation.

"But, sir, beyond this class there is small hope, I fear, in
preaching and praying. The great mass of these wretched beings have
had little or no early religious instruction. There, are but few, if
any, remains of things pure and good and holy stored away since
childhood in their memories to be touched and quickened by the
Spirit of God. And so we must approach them in another and more
external way. We must begin with their physical evils, and lessen
these as fast as possible; we must remove temptation from their
doors, or get them as far as possible out of the reach of
temptation, but in this work not neglecting the religious element as
an agency, of untold power.

"Christ fed the hungry, and healed the sick, and clothed the naked,
and had no respect unto the persons of men. And we, if we would lift
up fallen humanity, must learn by his example. It is not by
preaching and prayer and revival meetings that the true Christian
philanthropist can hope to accomplish any great good among the
people here, but by doing all in his power to change their sad
external condition and raise them out of their suffering and
degradation. Without some degree of external order and obedience to
the laws of natural life, it is, I hold, next to impossible, to
plant in the mind any seeds of spiritual truth. There is no ground
there. The parable of the sower that went forth to sow illustrates
this law. Only the seed that fell on good ground brought forth
fruit. Our true work, then, among this heathen people, of whom the
churches take so little care, is first to get the ground in order
for the planting, of heavenly seed. Failing in this, our hope is
small."

"This mission has changed its attitude since the beginning," said
Mr. Dinneford.

"Yes. Good and earnest men wrought for years with the evil elements
around them, trusting in God's Spirit to change the hearts of the
vile and abandoned sinners among whom they preached and prayed. But
there was little preparation of the ground, and few seeds got
lodgment except in stony places, by the wayside and among thorns.
Our work now is to prepare the ground, and in this work, slowly as
it is progressing, we have great encouragement. Every year we can
mark the signs of advancement. Every year we make some head against
the enemy. Every year our hearts take courage and are refreshed by
the smell of grasses and the odor of flowers and the sight of
fruit-bearing plants in once barren and desolate places. The ground
is surely being made ready for the sower."

"I am glad to hear you speak so encouragingly," returned Mr.
Dinneford. "To me the case looked desperate--wellnigh hopeless.
Anything worse than I have witnessed here seemed impossible."

"It is only by comparisons, as I said before, that we can get at the
true measure of change and progress," answered the missionary.
"Since we have been at work in earnest to improve the external life
of this region, we have had much to encourage us. True, what we have
done has made only a small impression on the evil that exists here;
but the value of this impression lies in the fact that it shows what
can be done with larger agencies. Double our effective force, and we
can double the result. Increase it tenfold, and ten times as much
can be done."

"What is your idea of this work?" said Mr. Dinneford. "In other
words, what do you think the best practical way to purify this
region?"

"If you draw burning brands and embers close together, your fire
grows stronger; if you scatter them apart, it will go out," answered
the missionary. "Moral and physical laws correspond to each other.
Crowd bad men and women together, and they corrupt and deprave each
other. Separate them, and you limit their evil power and make more
possible for good the influence of better conditions. Let me give
you an instance: A man and his wife who had lived in a wretched way
in one of the poorest hovels in Briar street for two years, and who
had become idle and intemperate, disappeared from among us about six
months ago. None of their neighbors knew or cared much what had
become of them. They had two children. Last week, as I was passing
the corner of a street in the south-western part of the city in
which stood a row of small new houses, a neatly-dressed woman came
out of a store with a basket in her hand. I did not know her, but by
the brightening look in her face I saw that she knew me.

"'Mr. Paulding,' she said, in a pleased way, holding out her hand;
'you don't know me,' she added, seeing the doubt in my face. 'I am
Mrs.--.'

"'Impossible!' I could not help exclaiming.

"'But it's true, Mr. Paulding,' she averred, a glow of pleasure on
her countenance. 'We've turned over a new leaf.'

"'So I should think from your appearance,' I replied. 'Where do you
live?'

"'In the third house from the corner,' pointing to the neat row of
small brick houses I have mentioned. 'Come and look at our new home.
I want to tell you about it!'

"I was too much pleased to need a second invitation.

"'I've got as clean steps as my neighbors,' she said, with pride in
her voice, 'and shades to my windows, and a bright door-knob. It
wasn't so in Briar street. One had no heart there. Isn't this nice?'

"And she glanced around the little parlor we had entered.

"It was nice, compared to the dirty and disorderly place they had
called their home in Briar street. The floor was covered with a new
ingrain carpet. There were a small table and six cane-seat chairs in
the room, shades at the windows, two or three small pictures on the
walls and some trifling ornaments on the mantel. Everything was
clean and the air of the room sweet.

"'This is my little Emma,' she said as a cleanly-dressed child came
into the room; 'You remember she was in the school.'

"I did remember her as a ragged, dirty-faced child, forlorn and
neglected, like most of the children about here. It was a wonderful
transformation.

"'And now,' I said, 'tell me how all this has come about.'

"'Well, you see, Mr. Paulding,' she answered, 'there was no use in
John and me trying to be anything down there. It was temptation on
every hand, and we were weak and easily tempted. There was nothing
to make us look up or to feel any pride. We lived like our
neighbors, and you know what kind of a way that was.

"'One day John said to me, "Emma," says he, "it's awful, the way
we're living; we'd better be dead." His voice was shaky-like, and it
kind of made me feel bad. "I know it, John," said I, "but what can
we do?" "Go 'way from here," he said. "But where?" I asked.
"Anywhere. I'm not all played out yet;" and he held up his hand and
shut it tight. "There's good stuff in me yet, and if you're willing
to make a new start, I am." I put my hand in his, and said, "God
helping me, I will try, John." He went off that very day and got a
room in a decent neighborhood, and we moved in it before night. We
had only one cart-load, and a wretched load of stuff it was. But I
can't tell you how much better it looked when we got it into our new
room, the walls of which were nicely papered, and the paint clean
and white. I fixed up everything and made it as neat as possible.
John was so pleased. "It feels something like old times," he said.
He had been knocking about a good while, picking up odd jobs and not
half working, but he took heart now, quit drinking and went to work
in good earnest, and was soon making ten dollars a week, every cent
of which he brought home. He now gets sixteen dollars. We haven't
made a back step since. But it wouldn't have been any use trying if
we'd stayed in Briar street. Pride helped us a good deal in the
beginning, sir. I was ashamed not to have my children looking as
clean as my neighbors, and ashamed not to keep things neat and
tidy-like. I didn't care anything about it in Briar street.'

"I give you this instance, true in nearly every particular," said
the missionary, "in order to show you how incurable is the evil
condition of the people here; unless we can get the burning brands
apart, they help to consume each other."

"But how to get them apart? that is the difficult question," said
Mr. Dinneford.

"There are two ways," was replied--"by forcing the human brands
apart, and by interposing incombustible things between them. As we
have no authority to apply force, and no means at hand for its
exercise if we had the authority, our work has been in the other
direction. We have been trying to get in among these burning brands
elements that would stand the fire, and, so lessen the ardor of
combustion."

"How are you doing this?"

"By getting better houses for the people to live in. Improve the
house, make it more sightly and convenient, and in most cases you
will improve the person who lives in it. He will not kindle so
easily, though he yet remain close to the burning brands."

"And are you doing this?"

"A little has been done. Two or three years ago a building
association was organized by a few gentlemen of means, with a view
to the purchase of property in this district and the erection of
small but good houses, to be rented at moderate cost to honest and
industrious people. A number of such houses have already been built,
and they are now occupied by tenants of a better class, whose
influence on their neighbors is becoming more and more apparent
every day. Brady street--once the worst place in all this
district--has changed wonderfully. There is scarcely a house in the
two blocks through which it runs that does not show some improvement
since the association pulled down half a dozen of its worst frame
tenements and put neat brick dwellings in their places. It is no
uncommon thing now to see pavement sweeping and washing in front of
some of the smallest and poorest of the houses in Brady street where
two years ago the dirt would stick to your feet in passing. A clean
muslin half curtain, a paper shade or a pot of growing plants will
meet your eyes at a window here and there as you pass along. The
thieves who once harbored in this street, and hid their plunder in
cellars and garrets until it could be sold or pawned, have abandoned
the locality. They could not live side by side with honest
industry."

"And all this change may be traced to the work of our building
association, limited as are its means and half-hearted as are its
operations. The worst of our population--the common herd of thieves,
beggars and vile women who expose themselves shamelessly on the
street--are beginning to feel less at home and more in danger of
arrest and exposure. The burning brands are no longer in such close
contact, and so the fires of evil are raging less fiercely. Let in
the light, and the darkness flees. Establish the good, and evil
shrinks away, weak and abashed."

CHAPTER XX.

_SO_ the morning found them fast asleep. The man awoke first and
felt the child against his bosom, soft and warm. It was some moments
ere he understood what it meant. It seemed as if the wretched life
he had been leading was all a horrible dream out of which he had
awakened, and that the child sleeping in his bosom was his own
tenderly-loved baby. But the sweet illusions faded away, and the
hard, sorrowful truth stood out sternly before him.

Then Andy's eyes opened and looked into his face. There was nothing
scared in the look-hardly an expression of surprise. But the man saw
a mute appeal and a tender confidence that made his heart swell and
yearn toward the homeless little one.

"Had a nice sleep?" he asked, in a tone of friendly encouragement.

Andy nodded his head, and then gazed curiously about the room.

"Want some breakfast?"

The hungry face lit up with a flash of pleasure.

"Of course you do, little one."

The man was on his feet by this time, with his hand in his pocket,
from which he drew a number of pennies. These he counted over
carefully twice. The number was just ten. If there had been only
himself to provide for, it would not have taken long to settle the
question of expenditure. Five cents at an eating-shop where the
caterer supplied himself from the hodge-podge of beggars' baskets
would have given him a breakfast fit for a dog or pig, while the
remaining five cents would have gone for fiery liquor to quench a
burning thirst.

But another mouth had too be fed. All at once this poor degraded man
had risen to a sense of responsibility, and was practicing the
virtue of self-denial. A little child was leading him.

He had no toilette to make, no ablutions to practice. There was
neither pail nor wash-basin in his miserable kennel. So, without any
delay of preparation, he caught up the broken mug and went out, as
forlorn a looking wretch as was to be seen in all that region.
Almost every house that he passed was a grog-shop, and his nerves
were all unstrung and his mouth and throat dry from a night's
abstinence. But he was able to go by without a pause. In a few
minutes he returned with a loaf of bread, a pint of milk and a
single dried sausage.

What a good breakfast the two made. Not for a long time had the man
so enjoyed a meal. The sight of little Andy, as he ate with the fine
relish of a hungry child, made his dry bread and sausage taste
sweeter than anything that had passed his lips for weeks.

Something more than the food he had taken steadied the man's nerves
and allayed his thirst. Love was beating back into his heart--love
for this homeless wanderer, whose coming had supplied the lost links
in the chain which bound him to the past and called up memories that
had slept almost the sleep of death for years. Good resolutions
began forming in his mind.

"It may be," he said to himself as new and better impressions than
he had known for a long time began to crowd upon him, "that God has
led this baby here."

The thought sent a strange thrill to his soul. He trembled with
excess of feeling. He had once been a religious man; and with the
old instinct of dependence on God, he clasped his hands together
with a sudden, desperate energy, and looking up, cried, in a
half-despairing, half-trustful voice,

"Lord, help me!"

No earnest cry like that ever goes up without an instant answer in
the gift of divine strength. The man felt it in a stronger purpose
and a quickening hope. He was conscious of a new power in himself.

"God being my helper," he said in the silence of his heart, "I will
be a man again."

There was a long distance between him and a true manhood. The way
back was over very rough and difficult places, and through dangers
and temptations almost impossible to resist. Who would have faith in
him? Who would help him in his great extremity? How was he to live?
Not any longer by begging or petty theft. He must do honest work.
There was no hope in anything else. If God were to be his helper, he
must be honest, and work. To this conviction he had come.

But what was to be done with Andy while he was away trying to earn
something? The child might get hurt in the street or wander off in
his absence and never find his way back. The care he felt for the
little one was pleasure compared to the thought of losing him.

As for Andy, the comfort of a good breakfast and the feeling that he
had a home, mean as it was, and somebody to care for him, made his
heart light and set his lips to music.

When before had the dreary walls of that poor hovel echoed to the
happy voice of a light-hearted child? But there was another echo to
the voice, and from walls as long a stranger to such sounds as
these--the walls in the chambers of that poor man's memory. A
wellnigh lost and ruined soul was listening to the far-off voices of
children. Sunny-haired little ones were thronging about him; he was
looking into their tender eyes; their soft arms were clinging to his
neck; he was holding them tightly clasped to his bosom.

"Baby," he said. It was the word that came most naturally to his
lips.

Andy, who was sitting where a few sunbeams came in through a rent in
the wall, with the warm light on his head, turned and looked into
the bleared but friendly eyes gazing at him so earnestly.

"I'm going out, baby. Will you stay here till I come back?"

"Yes," answered the child, "I'll stay."

"I won't be gone very long, and I'll bring you an apple and
something good for dinner."

Andy's face lit up and his eyes danced.

"Don't go out until I come back. Somebody might carry you off, and
then I couldn't give you the nice red apple."

"I'll stay right here," said Andy, in a positive tone.

"And won't go into the street till I come back?"

"No, I won't." Andy knit his brows and closed his lips firmly.

"All right, little one," answered the man, in a cheery sort of voice
that was so strange to his own ears that it seemed like the voice of
somebody else.

Still, he could not feel satisfied. He was living in the midst of
thieves to whom the most insignificant thing upon which they could
lay their hands was booty. Children who had learned to be hard and
cruel thronged the court, and he feared, if he left Andy alone in
the hovel, that it would not only be robbed of its meagre furniture,
but the child subjected to ill-treatment. He had always fastened the
door on going out, but hesitated now about locking Andy in.

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