Dusty Diamonds Cut and Polished by Robert Michael Ballantyne (i am reading a book TXT) 📖

claim our attention. It will be sufficient to say that mingled with the semi-conversational, pleasantly free-and-easy, intercourse that ensued, there were most interesting short addresses from the lady-superintendents of "The Sailors' Welcome Home" and of the "Strangers' Rest," both of Ratcliff Highway, also from the chief of the Ragged schools in George Yard, and several city missionaries, as well as from city merchants who found time and inclination to traffic in the good things of the life to come as well as in those of the life that now is.

Before the proceedings had drawn to a close a voice whispered:

"It is time to go, Sir Richard." It was the voice of John Seaward.

Following him, Sir Richard and Welland went out. It had grown dark by that time, and as there were no brilliantly lighted shops near, the place seemed gloomy, but the gloom was nothing to that of the filthy labyrinths into which Seaward quickly conducted his followers.

"You have no occasion to fear, sir," said the missionary, observing that Sir Richard hesitated at the mouth of one very dark alley. "It would, indeed, hardly be safe were you to come down here alone, but most of 'em know me. I remember being told by one of the greatest roughs I ever knew that at the very corner where we now stand he had _many_ and many a time knocked down and robbed people. That man is now an earnest Christian, and, like Paul, goes about preaching the Name which he once despised."

At the moment a dark shadow seemed to pass them, and a gruff voice said, "Good-night, sir."

"Was that the man you were speaking of?" asked Sir Richard, quickly.

"Oh no, sir," replied Seaward with a laugh; "that's what he was once like, indeed, but not what he is like now. His voice is no longer gruff. Take care of the step, gentlemen, as you pass here; so, now we will go into this lodging. It is one of the common lodging-houses of London, which are regulated by law and under the supervision of the police. Each man pays fourpence a night here, for which he is entitled to a bed and the use of the kitchen and its fire to warm himself and cook his food. If he goes to the same lodging every night for a week he becomes entitled to a free night on Sundays."

The room into which they now entered was a long low chamber, which evidently traversed the whole width of the building, for it turned at a right angle at the inner end, and extended along the back to some extent. It was divided along one side into boxes or squares, after the fashion of some eating-houses, with a small table in the centre of each box, but, the partitions being little higher than those of a church-pew, the view of the whole room was unobstructed. At the inner angle of the room blazed a coal-fire so large that a sheep might have been easily roasted whole at it. Gas jets, fixed along the walls at intervals, gave a sufficient light to the place.

This was the kitchen of the lodging-house, and formed the sitting-room of the place; and here was assembled perhaps the most degraded and miserable set of men that the world can produce. They were not all of one class, by any means; nor were they all criminal, though certainly many of them were. The place was the last refuge of the destitute; the social sink into which all that is improvident, foolish, reckless, thriftless, or criminal finally descends.

Sir Richard and Welland had put on their oldest great-coats and shabbiest wideawakes; they had also put off their gloves and rings and breastpins in order to attract as little attention as possible, but nothing that they could have done could have reduced their habiliments to anything like the garments of the poor creatures with whom they now mingled. If they had worn the same garments for months or years without washing them, and had often slept in them out of doors in dirty places, they might perhaps have brought them to the same level, but not otherwise.

Some of the people, however, were noisy enough. Many of them were smoking, and the coarser sort swore and talked loud. Those who had once been in better circumstances sat and moped, or spoke in lower tones, or cooked their victuals with indifference to all else around, or ate them in abstracted silence; while not a few laid their heads and arms on the tables, and apparently slept. For sleeping in earnest there were rooms overhead containing many narrow beds with scant and coarse covering, which, however, the law compelled to be clean. One of the rooms contained seventy such beds.

Little notice was taken of the west-end visitors as they passed up the room, though some dark scowls of hatred were cast after them, and a few glanced at them with indifference. It was otherwise in regard to Seaward. He received many a "good-night, sir," as he passed, and a kindly nod greeted him here and there from men who at first looked as if kindness had been utterly eradicated from their systems.

One of those whom we have described as resting their heads and arms on the tables, looked hastily up, on hearing the visitors' voices, with an expression of mingled surprise and alarm. It was Sammy Twitter, with hands and visage filthy, hair dishevelled, eyes bloodshot, cheeks hollow, and garments beyond description disreputable. He seemed the very embodiment of woe and degradation. On seeing his old friend Welland he quickly laid his head down again and remained motionless.

Welland had not observed him.

"You would scarcely believe it, sir," said the missionary, in a low tone; "nearly all classes of society are occasionally represented here. You will sometimes find merchants, lawyers, doctors, military men, and even clergymen, who have fallen step by step, chiefly in consequence of that subtle demon drink, until the common lodging-house is their only home."

"Heaven help me!" said Sir Richard; "my friend Brisbane has often told me of this, but I have never quite believed it--certainly never realised it--until to-night. And even now I can hardly believe it. I see no one here who seems as if he ever had belonged to the classes you name."

"Do you see the old man in the last box in the room, on the left-hand side, sitting alone?" asked Seaward, turning his back to the spot indicated.

"Yes."

"Well, that is a clergyman. I know him well. You would never guess it from his wretched clothing, but you might readily believe it if you were to speak to him."

"That I will not do," returned the other firmly.

"You are right, sir," said Seaward, "I would not advise that you should--at least not here, or now. I have been in the habit of reading a verse or two of the Word and giving them a short address sometimes about this hour. Have you any objection to my doing so now? It won't detain us long."

"None in the world; pray, my good sir, don't let me disarrange your plans."

"Perhaps," added the missionary, "you would say a few words to--"

"No, no," interrupted the other, quickly; "no, they are preaching to _me_ just now, Mr Seaward, a very powerful sermon, I assure you."

During the foregoing conversation young Welland's thoughts had been very busy; ay, and his conscience had not been idle, for when mention was made of that great curse strong drink, he vividly recalled the day when he had laughed at Sam Twitter's blue ribbon, and felt uneasy as to how far his conduct on that occasion had helped Sam in his downward career.

"My friends," said the missionary aloud, "we will sing a hymn."

Some of those whom he addressed turned towards the speaker; others paid no attention whatever, but went on with their cooking and smoking. They were used to it, as ordinary church-goers are to the "service." The missionary understood that well, but was not discouraged, because he knew that his "labour in the Lord" should not be in vain. He pulled out two small hymn-books and handed one to Sir Richard, the other to Welland.

Sir Richard suddenly found himself in what was to him a strange and uncomfortable position, called on to take a somewhat prominent part in a religious service in a low lodging-house!

The worst of it was that the poor knight could not sing a note. However, his deficiency in this respect was more than compensated by John Seaward, who possessed a telling tuneful voice, with a grateful heart to work it. Young Welland also could sing well, and joined heartily in that beautiful hymn which tells of "The wonderful words of life."

After a brief prayer the missionary preached the comforting gospel, and tried, with all the fervour of a sympathetic heart, to impress on his hearers that there really was Hope for the hopeless, and Rest for the weary in Jesus Christ.

When he had finished, Stephen Welland surprised him, as well as his friend Sir Richard and the audience generally, by suddenly exclaiming, in a subdued but impressive voice, which drew general attention:

"Friends, I had no intention of saying a word when I came here, but, God forgive me, I have committed a sin, which seems to force me to speak and warn you against giving way to strong drink. I had--nay, I _have_--a dear friend who once put on the Blue Ribbon."

Here he related the episode at the road-side tavern, and his friend's terrible fall, and wound up with the warning:

"Fellow-men, fellow-sinners, beware of being laughed out of good resolves--beware of strong drink. I know not where my comrade is now. He may be dead, but I think not, for he has a mother and father who pray for him without ceasing. Still better, as you have just been told, he has an Advocate with God, who is able and willing to save him to the uttermost. Forgive me, Mr Seaward, for speaking without being asked. I could not help it."

"No need to ask forgiveness of me, Mr Welland. You have spoken on the Lord's side, and I have reason to thank you heartily."

While this was being said, those who sat near the door observed that a young man rose softly, and slunk away like a criminal, with a face ashy pale and his head bowed down. On reaching the door, he rushed out like one who expected to be pursued. It was young Sam Twitter. Few of the inmates of the place observed him, none cared a straw for him, and the incident was, no doubt, quickly forgotten.

"We must hasten now, if we are to visit another lodging-house," said Seaward, as they emerged into the comparatively fresh air of the street, "for it grows late, and riotous drunken characters are apt to be met with as they stagger home."

"No; I have had enough for one night," said Sir Richard. "I shall not be able to digest it all in a hurry. I'll go home by the Metropolitan, if you will conduct me to the nearest station."

"Come along, then. This way."

They had not gone far, and were passing through a quiet side street, when they observed a poor woman sitting on