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

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 Bobby _was_ satisfied. 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? Do _they_ escape 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, _alias_ Mita, 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 it _is_ something 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 just _one_ glass 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 of _one_ glass 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 how _you_ come for to 'ear on't beats me holler. An' it shows 'ow lies git about, for she's _not_ gone 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 the _duty_ of 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 who _do_, for I am not a doctor, but who _may_), 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