Dusty Diamonds Cut and Polished by Robert Michael Ballantyne (readict books txt) 📕

say, to plead, and to entreat--put on the blue ribbon if you see your way to it. And by the young we mean not only all boys and girls, but all men and women in the prime of life, ay, and beyond the prime, if in good health. Surely you will all admit that the young require no stimulants. Are they not superabounding in energy? Do they not require the very opposite--sedatives, and do they not find these in constant and violent muscular exercise?"

With many similar and other arguments did the speaker seek to influence the mass of human beings before him, taking advantage of every idea that cropped up and every incident in the meeting that occurred to enforce his advice--namely, total abstinence for the young and the healthy-- until he had stirred them up to a state of considerable enthusiasm. Then he said:--

"I am glad to see you enthusiastic. Nothing great can be done without enthusiasm. You may potter along the even tenor of your way without it, but you'll never come to much good, and you'll never accomplish great things, without it. What is enthusiasm? Is it not seeing the length, breadth, height, depth, and bearing of a good thing, and being zealously affected in helping to bring it about? There are many kinds of enthusiasts, though but one quality of enthusiasm. Weak people show their enthusiasm too much on the surface. Powerful folk keep it too deep in their hearts to be seen at all. What then, are we to scout it in the impulsive because too obvious; to undervalue it in the reticent because almost invisible? Nay, let us be thankful for it in any form, for the _thing_ is good, though the individual's manner of displaying it may be faulty. Let us hope that the too gushing may learn to clap on the breaks a little--a very little; but far more let us pray that the reticent and the self-possessed, and the oh!--dear--no--you'll--never-- catch--me--doing--that--sort--of--thing people, may be enabled to get up more steam. Better far in my estimation the wild enthusiast than the self-possessed and self-sufficient cynic. Just look at your gentlemanly cynic; good-natured very likely, for he's mightily pleased with himself and excessively wise in regard to all things sublunary. Why, even he has enthusiasm, though not always in a good cause. Follow him to the races. Watch him while he sees the sleek and beautiful creatures straining every muscle, and his own favourite drawing ahead, inch by inch, until it bids fair to win. Is _that_ our cynic, bending forward on his steed, with gleaming eyes and glowing cheek, and partly open mouth and quick-coming breath, and so forgetful of himself that he swings off his hat and gives vent to a lusty cheer as the favourite passes the winning-post?

"But follow him still further. Don't let him go. Hold on to his horse's tail till we see him safe into his club, and wait there till he has dined and gone to the opera. There he sits, immaculate in dress and bearing, in the stalls. It is a huge audience. A great star is to appear. The star comes on--music such as might cause the very angels to bend and listen.

"The sweet singer exerts herself; her rich voice swells in volume and sweeps round the hall, filling every ear and thrilling every heart, until, unable to restrain themselves, the vast concourse rises _en masse_, and, with waving scarf and kerchief, thunders forth applause! And what of our cynic? There he is, the wildest of the wild--for he happens to love music--shouting like a maniac and waving his hat, regardless of the fact that he has broken the brim, and that the old gentleman whose corns he has trodden on frowns at him with savage indignation.

"Yes," continued the speaker, "the whole world is enthusiastic when the key-note of each individual, or class of individuals, is struck; and shall _we_ be ashamed of our enthusiasm for this little bit of heavenly blue, which symbolises the great fact that those who wear it are racing with the demon Drink to save men and women, (ourselves included, perhaps), from his clutches; racing with Despair to place Hope before the eyes of those who are blindly rushing to destruction; racing with Time to snatch the young out of the way of the Destroyer before he lays hand on them; and singing--ay, shouting--songs of triumph and glory to God because of the tens of thousands of souls and bodies already saved; because of the bright prospect of the tens of thousands more to follow; because of the innumerable voices added to the celestial choir, and the glad assurance that the hymns of praise thus begun shall not die out with our feeble frames, but will grow stronger in sweetness as they diminish in volume, until, the river crossed, they shall burst forth again with indescribable intensity in the New Song.

"Some people tell us that these things are not true. Others say they won't last. My friends, I know, and many of you know, that they _are_ true, and even if they were _not_ to last, have we not even now ground for praise? Shall we not rejoice that the lifeboat has saved some, because others have refused to embark and perished? But we don't admit that these things won't last. Very likely, in the apostolic days, some of the unbelievers said of them and their creed, `How long will it last?' If these objectors be now able to take note of the world's doings, they have their answer from Father Time himself; for does he not say, `Christianity has lasted nearly nineteen hundred years, and is the strongest moral motive-power in the world to-day?' The Blue Ribbon, my friends, or what it represents, is founded on Christianity; therefore the principles which it represents are sure to stand. Who will come now and put it on?"

"I will!" shouted a strong voice from among the audience, and up rose the powerful man who began the evening with "bah!" and "pooh!" He soon made his way to the platform amid uproarious cheering, and donned the blue.

"Hetty," whispered Mrs Frog in a low, timid voice, "I think I would like to put it on too."

If the voice had been much lower and more timid, Hetty would have heard it, for she sat there watching for her mother as one might watch for a parent in the crisis of a dread disease. She knew that no power on earth can change the will, and she had waited and prayed till the arrow was sent home by the hand of God.

"Come along, mother," she said--but said no more, for her heart was too full.

Mrs Frog was led to the platform, to which multitudes of men, women, and children were pressing, and the little badge was pinned to her breast.

Thus did that poor woman begin her Christian course with the fruit of self-denial.

She then set about the work of putting her house in order. It was up-hill work at first, and very hard, but the promise did not fail her, "Lo! I am with you alway." In all her walk she found Hetty a guardian angel.

"I must work, Hetty, dear," she said, "for it will never do to make you support us all; but what am I to do with baby? There is no one to take charge of her when I go out."

"I am quite able to keep the whole of us, mother, seeing that I get such good pay from the lady I work for, but as you want to work, I can easily manage for baby. You know I've often wished to speak of the Infant Nursery in George Yard. Before you sent Matty away I wanted you to send her there, but--" Hetty paused.

"Go on, dear. I was mad agin' you an' your religious ways; wasn't that it?" said Mrs Frog.

"Well, mother, it don't matter now, thank God. The Infant Nursery, you know, is a part of the Institution there. The hearts of the people who manage it were touched by the death of so many thousands of little ones every year in London through want and neglect, so they set up this nursery to enable poor widowed mothers and others to send their babies to be cared for--nursed, fed, and amused in nice airy rooms--while the mothers are at work. They charge only fourpence a day for this, and each baby has its own bag of clothing, brush and comb, towel and cot. They will keep Matty from half-past seven in the morning till eight at night for you, so that will give you plenty of time to work, won't it, mother?"

"It will indeed, Hetty, and all for fourpence a day, say you?"

"Yes, the ordinary charge is fourpence, but widows get it for twopence for each child, and, perhaps, they may regard a deserted wife as a widow! There is a fine of twopence per hour for any child not taken away after eight, so you'll have to be up to time, mother."

Mrs Frog acted on this advice, and thus was enabled to earn a sufficiency to enable her to pay her daily rent, to clothe and feed herself and child, to give a little to the various missions undertaken by the Institutions near her, to put a little now and then into the farthing bank, and even to give a little in charity to the poor!

Now, reader, you may have forgotten it, but if you turn back to near the beginning of this chapter, you will perceive that all we have been writing about is a huge digression, for which we refuse to make the usual apology.

We return again to Mrs Frog where we left her, sitting beside her cheerful fire, sewing and conversing with Hetty.

"I can't bear to think of 'im, Hetty," said Mrs Frog. "You an' me sittin' here so comfortable, with as much to eat as we want, an' to spare, while your poor father is in a cold cell. He's bin pretty bad to me of late, it's true, wi' that drink, but he wasn't always like that, Hetty; even you can remember him before he took to the drink."

"Yes, mother, I can, and, bless the Lord, he may yet be better than he ever was. When is his time up?"

"This day three weeks. The twelve months will be out then. We must pray for 'im, Hetty."

"Yes, mother. I am always prayin' for him. You know that."

There was a touch of anxiety in the tones and faces of both mother and daughter as they talked of the father, for his home-coming might, perhaps, nay probably would, be attended with serious consequences to the renovated household. They soon changed the subject to one more agreeable.

"Isn't Bobby's letter a nice one, mother?" said Hetty, "and so well written, though the spellin' might have been better; but then he's had so little schoolin'."

"It just makes my heart sing," returned Mrs Frog. "Read it again to me, Hetty. I'll never tire o' hearin' it. I only wish it was longer."

The poor mother's wish was not unnatural, for the letter which Bobby had written was not calculated to tax the reader's patience, and, as Hetty hinted, there was room for improvement, not