 | Chapter XVIII.
Margery's Sabbath-School. The tenant-house, or,, Embers from poverty's hearthstone |  |
18. Chapter XVIII.
Margery's Sabbath-School.
THE Sabbath day, with holy and ameliorating influences,
dawned over the great city. A blessed calmness
ushered in the sun, which rose unclouded, shimmering
over the smooth waters of the two broad rivers that belt
the metropolis, and clothing all the rolling billows of the
bay with radiant light. It was one of those mild days
which come in midwinter, to thaw the heavy snows, and
unlock for a space the waters that the hand of frost had
sealed; one of those spring-like days, with clear blue sky
and soft south-western wind, usually the presage of renewed
storms, and seeming as if Winter paused, relaxing
his rigor, for a space, perhaps, to gather up the scattered
elements of future warfare. On such a day, in the country,
you may note the flash of multitudinous rivulets,
emancipated from their icy chains, and dancing musically
through softened meadows, or over moss-clad rocks; you
may hear, occasionally, the quick twitter of a bird, half
cheated into a welcome-song to spring! and it may be
that you can discern small blades of tender grass springing
into short-lived greenness, to die, like too early budding
on the hill-side, the peals of Sabbath bells will fall upon
your ear, with mellower music, as if in unison with sun-lit
heaven and smiling earth.
In the city, on such a mild mid-winter Sabbath, you
may see, should you pass along the water front, thousands
of men and boys wandering up and down the wharves,
looking at ships and their cargoes piled upon the piers,
watching steamboats plying over the water, or gazing idly
out to the pilot boats sailing in the bay, to the islands at
the harbor mouth, and to the tall lighthouses far in the
hazy distance. Crowds of listless people saunter on the
Battery walks, and other crowds stand at corners of the
streets, near open doors of drinking shops, while separate
groups sit upon boxes, anchors, and bulk-heads, hour after
hour, watching the river life. Often, unhappily, you may
hear the laugh of young men at some low jest uttered by
a comrade, and oftener still an oath or ribald word from
lips on which the down of early manhood is but just
appearing. For these young men, and for throngs of
boys at riotous play upon the piers, and for the idlers
wandering up and down, there is no sanctity in the day—
no Sabbath feeling, elevating heart and mind. They hear
the church-chimes, floating from tall belfries over the city,
but no theme of peaceful thought blends with the aerial
music; they behold blue skies above them, and feel the
southwest breeze, but no chord of prayerful gratitude is
touched in their hearts, responsive to the loveliness of
nature. Strange and very sad that such multitudes of
people, in a Christian city, should go forth upon so bright
their breasts!
But, if we would closely observe most of these Sabbath
loiterers upon wharves and at street corners—haggard-looking
men, with jaded and vacant faces; rough youths,
in flashy secondhand clothes, with rank-smelling cigars
held between their discolored teeth; and children of
every age, boys and girls, from the precocious urchin of a
half-dozen years, to the one just verging into adolescence;
if we would follow them, as the night draws on, to their
dwelling-places, and mark the influences and associations
pervading and surrounding such abodes, we should not
experience much difficulty in discovering the reason and
cause of the Sabbath idling and desecration which we had
witnessed. We should behold children reared in localities
of filth and disease—with vice and dissipation constantly
before their eyes; born of parents steeped in the dregs of
poverty and wretchedness, their earliest habit beggary,
their first lesson profanity, their constant experiences hunger,
and cold, and neglect; we should see these children
growing in years without ever hearing the name of their
Heavenly Father, save when coupled with horrible curses
—see them swarming out upon the wharves and streets,
by day, and burrowing in hovels, worse than the kennels
of dogs, at night—see them merging into youth, as
hangers-on of fire-companies, or river-thieves, or attendants
of bar-rooms and gambling-houses, or banded together
as fighters and political bravos; see their sisters,
born in the same hovels, reared amid like scenes—learning,
with feminine quickness, the worst lessons at the
to prime, in ways of wickedness that lead to early death.
All this we should behold; and, oh! Father of Mercy!
we should see civilization standing, even like the listless
wharf-loiterers, gazing abroad upon great ships with stores
of wealth, and upon pilot-boats, and lighthouses built up
for the protection of commerce—while not a glance of
its eyes is turned toward the human beings perishing, soul
and body, in the great city behind, with no lighthouse to
show to them the rocks and quicksands of life—no pilots
to lead them away from the gulf of despair into which
they and their children are falling.
Their children! O Christian fathers and mothers!
think of the kind of children that must inevitably be born
unto the dwellers among filth, dissipation, disease, and
starving squalor!—think of the malaria poisoning body,
and the evil example influencing mind, and the debased
associations corrupting heart!—think of future communities
physically weakened and morally depraved by the
vicious habits of the present generation—habits almost
inseparable from the condition of life out of which no
helping hand seeks to rescue them—habits grounded in
dark and filthy abodes—nursed amid crowded localities—
fostered by want of air, of light, of water, of room wherein
to move and dwell—habits, to sum up all, which never
can be broken and eradicated until that blot upon civilization
is removed from our midst—the crowded, reeking,
pestiferous tenant-house of the poor.
A quiet Sabbath morning, even in Kolephat College!
upon the wharves, or congregated at groggeries, imbibing
drugged spirits, which, inflaming their blood, would bring
them home at dusk riotous and quarrelsome, to banish all
quiet from the tenant-house thenceforward through the
night. It might be that a stray denizen of the College
would find himself in a church upon that calm Sunday,
but such occurrence, should it transpire, were strange
indeed; for, in truth, as I have said, it is from tenant-houses,
such as that in charge of Peleg Ferret, that the
crowds of Sabbath-idlers go forth, at morning, one by
one.
Betimes, in the early day, Margaret the seamstress had
set her humble home in order, putting away the work
that had occupied her through the weary week. The little
ones received their breakfast, and were rendered tidy for
the Sabbath, and then the boy, as was his wont, brought
to his sister's little stand a well-worn Bible, from which
Margery was accustomed to read some chronicle of godly
ones who served the God of Israel or, more favorite theme
of Harry, the story of our blessed Lord, who walked the
sea, discoursed upon the mount, and died unmurmuring on
the cruel cross. On this occasion, Harry seemed perplexed
concerning what should be the subject of his sister's lesson,
and Margery said—
“Does Harry remember what was read on Sunday
last?”
“O, yes!” he answered. “It was little Joseph that
you read about, and how his wicked brothers throwed him
into a pit.”
“And do you recollect what afterwards became of
Joseph?”
“Yes, Margery! and about Benjamin, and all.”
“Then, Harry, perhaps you can sit down here with
Fanny, and tell her how the Lord took care of Joseph, in
Egypt, among strangers, and made him a great and good
man.”
“Please, sissy, I'll try,” said Harry. And then, seating
Fanny in his own little chair, the boy leaned against
his sister, as she sat by her table, and began in his simple,
childish way, to rehearse that beautiful narrative which
has charmed the hearts of children through so many ages
of the past. Fanny, very quiet and attentive, listened to
the tale, her sweet face eloquent with feeling, as the
strange vicissitudes of the Hebrew youth's life were gradually
unfolded to her wondering mind. The orphan's
hands were clasped together, as she sat, her eyes fixed
earnestly upon the countenance of her new friend, and
thus, for the first time in all her infant life, the words of
Sabbath teaching fell upon her ears. At last, the quaintly-told,
but all-absorbing history was ended; and then,
Margaret, stooping fondly over her brother, to kiss his
clear forehead, said—
“You have a famous memory, Harry, and must pay
great attention to what you hear me read. Do you think,
Fanny, that you can remember the story of Joseph?”
“I think so,” said the orphan, hesitatingly. “But, oh!
if Rob was here, he could recollect it all.”
“And Rob is here!” cried a jubilant voice, at that
moment, as the door of Margaret's room was flung suddenly
abruptly paused, looking extremely foolish, as he encountered
the surprised look which the seamstress directed
towards him.
Fanny would hardly have recognized her newsboy friend,
had not his voice assured her of his identity; for the
kindness of Mr. Granby, conjoined with Samson's care,
had produced a complete metamorphosis in his appearance,
even since the day before. A suit of brown, the first new
clothes the boy had ever known, a pair of stout boots,
and cloth cap, and, more than all, a white shirt-collar,
turned neatly over his vest, were sufficient, indeed, to disguise
from ordinary gaze the weird and ragged urchin who
had slept so lately, with his fellow-dwarfs, half-buried by
the falling snow. In truth, the lad seemed strange even
to himself, and though a sudden impulse had caused him
to introduce himself so wildly into Margery's apartment,
he now stood where he had stopped, much frightened at
his temerity, and doubtful what apology could be sufficient
for his rudeness. Fanny, however, quickly interposed,
exclaiming, as she caught the eye of Margaret—
“It's Rob, please.”
“I come to see that little girl,” cried the Weasel,
naïvely pointing to his friend. “Please, ma'am, I didn't
go for to jump in so, but I heerd Fanny say, `If Rob was
here,' and—so—and so—I couldn't wait to knock.”
“No matter, Rob,” said the seamstress, kindly. “Come
here, now, and let us shake hands. Fanny has spoken to
me of her friend Robert, and so we are pretty well acquainted.
There,” she continued, as she drew the boy
friend, and Harry, who is my brother, and we shall have
a real Sabbath-school. Eh, Harry?—shall I be the
teacher?”
Harry laughed, and clapped his hands, and then ran
and brought a cricket, for the stranger-child to sit on.
“You haven't got nary seat yourself,” remarked the
Weasel, hesitating.
“Yes, this cricket is big enough for two,” replied
Harry; “and you may sit in my chair, and I'll sit here,
with Fanny.”
“Maybe, Fanny would rather sit with Robert,” said the
sister; and Fanny's eyes seemed to express the same
thing. So Harry led the young orphan to a seat beside
her other friend, upon the cricket, and then drew his own
chair close to Fanny.
“There, sissy—we're a class,” he exclaimed, merrily;
but at this moment a knock was heard, and Rob said
“Mr. Granby is a-comin'.”
Mr. Granby was accompanied by Samson, and Samson
brought a basket, covered by a napkin, and with a newspaper
pinned around it, in which basket were niceties
that Samson himself had selected in Mr. Granby's storeroom,
by and with the consent of Mrs. George the housekeeper.
Margaret, after shaking hands with the old
gentleman, and replying to his thoughtful inquiries concerning
her health, received the basket from the negro's
hand, and laid it away; at the same time reaching chairs
for her visitors.
“The little ones were about giving me a new vocation,”
observing the three children, seated in a row together.
“I was to open school for them.”
“Ah, indeed!” returned the old gentleman, pleasantly
smiling. “And it is a noble vocation.”
“Sister Margery can teach better than the school-ma'am,”
here said Harry, turning his sunny face towards
Mr. Granby. “She knows all about everything, I do
believe!”
Margery smiled and told her brother he was a chatter-box;
whereupon Harry qualified his declaration, affirming
that “Sister Margery knew all he wanted to know.”
Samson the negro showed his white teeth, in great enjoyment
of the child's archness, and both Rob and Fanny
looked as if they agreed with the happy brother in admiration
of that pale-faced woman with the dark, mild
eyes.
Mr. Granby remained a moment or two silent, as if
revolving some thought in his mind, that had just occurred
to him.
“Truly, Miss—Miss” —
“Winston,” added Margery.
“Truly, Miss Winston,” said the old gentleman, “when
I passed along the street below, and through the entries
of this house, and saw the crowd of neglected-looking
children swarming at every corner, I wondered if there
were no teachers in the world, to look after their infant
souls.”
Margaret shook her head, and looked at Harry, with a
sorrowful expression.
“You could teach 'em, sissy,” exclaimed the brother.
“I believe the little fellow is right,” rejoined Mr.
Granby. “It is the benevolent and christian spirit that
can best teach these poor abandoned ones. Samson!
what was it I remarked, as we walked through the alley
below?”
“You said dere ought to be a big government schule
'stablished, Massa Granby, for de trainin' up of all de poor
children.”
“And what did you reply, my old friend?”
“Lor' bress you, massa, what I says doesn't 'mount to
nothin'. I jes' t'ought dere ought to be a skule in ebbery
alley an' tenant-house—dat's all.”
“And you were right, Samson!” cried his master,
warmly. “It is here, in the midst of these habitations,
that reforming influences should be set at work; here, in
the tenant-house, ought to be planted a school, wherein to
gather, as in a sheepfold, the poor lambs who are outcast
from the flock of society. Yes, Samson! the miserable
and squalid offspring of these poor people might thus be
made infant missionaries, to carry to their depraved homes
an influence and power of good, whereby whole families
should be reformed and elevated.”
The old gentleman, as he uttered this speech, had risen
from his chair, and stood, with hand outstretched, and
eyes fixed upon his sable servant and friend. A lovely
expression rested on his venerable face, and shone in his
clear eye, and Margaret Winston, as she regarded him,
and marked the mild benevolence that radiated from his
brow, could not but recall the words of Holy Writ—
guile.”
“But, we are forgetting our school here,” returned
Mr. Granby, with a gentle smile, as he turned towards
the seamstress. “Here are our three patient pupils in
waiting, and, if you please, Miss, Samson and myself, who
are both near our second childhood, will add our docility
to theirs. Will not my young friend Harry accept us as
fellow-scholars in his sister's school?”
Harry glanced up in Margery's face, ready to laugh
outright at what appeared to him a very comical suggestion;
but his sister's serious look checked all merriment
in a moment.
“Please, Margery,” he said, “won't you tell your
pretty story about Moses?—not from the Bible, but the
way you tell me about the King's daughter.”
“Moses! Oh! I'd like to hear about Moses, Rob,”
whispered Fanny, softly, to her companion on the
cricket.
“I'd like to hear about the King's daughter,” replied
the Weasel. “Who was Moses, Fan?”
“He was a good man, Rob, in the Bible.”
“Well, I'd like to hear about him, too.”
“Won't you tell about Moses, Margery?” pleaded
Harry.
“Do, by all means, Miss Winston,” said Mr. Granby;
and thus encouraged, Margery drew her chair close to
the children, and began her paraphrase of that tenderest
incident of old-time Scripture history. Meantime, Samson
the negro leaned forward, with one sable hand raised
speaking face with growing interest. And this was
Margery's story of the Hebrew Foundling:—
“The last glow of sunset,” said the seamstress, in a
tone of exceeding softness, “the last glow of sunset was
silvering the temple-roofs of a beautiful city; trembling
upon the shapes of great statues, hewn out of dark rock,
that filled the colonnaded streets; and flashing redly back
from brazen gates, whereon were carved strange symbols
of an ancient race of men. Through the wide avenues, that
were shaded by long rows of date-trees, there moved a
procession of males and females, some of them carrying
garlands of flowers in their hands, others holding aloft
urns made of brown earth, and others, again, as they
walked, swinging backwards and forwards small silver
censers, in which rare perfumes were burning, sending up
clouds of sweet smoke upon the evening air. This procession
was a company of priests and priestesses, who
were going down to the banks of a great river, in order
to perform a religious ceremony; for, in those days, and
in that ancient country, the people were not Christians,
but heathens, who worshipped idols of wood, and brass,
and stone.”
“They didn't know any better, Fanny,” whispered
Harry, as his sister paused a moment. “That was the
reason.” But Margaret went on:
“As the procession moved forward,” she said, “towards
the city gate, a great many richly-dressed people joined in
it, swelling its numbers very much. Among these were
portly merchants, who wore long, flowing garments of
white and purple cloth, and many ladies, too, arrayed in
costly stuffs, with light head-dresses, from which thin,
gossamer-looking veils were drooping. Besides these, a
great number of children walked along, between the
company of priests, some of them led by their parents'
hands, and others gambolling by themselves. All the
people in this procession were clothed very handsomely,
and seemed to be, as they really were, the wealthiest and
most favored people of the city.
“But as the procession passed along through the broad
streets, and outside of the gates, there were great multitudes
of people who did not take part in the ceremonies,
but, rather, appeared to be fearful of approaching the
priests, and soldiers, and merchants. These multitudes
were composed of men and women, like the procession,
but they were not clothed in fine raiment—indeed, most
of them had scarcely any garment to cover themselves—
and they had no garlands of flowers, or gilded urns, and
no silver censers to swing; neither did they sing any joyful
songs, like the company of worshippers. On the contrary,
some of these poor people carried upon their heads
and shoulders great loads of stones and clay, staggering
all the time, with fatigue; others stooped down, almost
doubled, digging deep pits, and scooping out earth, in
order to make channels to the river-bed; others clambered
up ladders, with much pain and difficulty, bearing
burdens of sun-baked brick, which they piled up into
walls and ramparts on the river-banks, and with which,
all the city temples.”
“Dear me!” here interrupted Mr. Granby, who had
been listening very earnestly to Margaret's description;
“they are doing the same things now-a-days. But, pardon
me, Miss! Go on, please!”
“On every side of the poor people, who were laboring
so hard, fierce-looking men were stationed, holding whips
in their hands. These men were the task-masters, who
forced the laborers to exert themselves oftentimes beyond
their strength, so that many of the latter continually sank
down, and died under the heavy loads which they were
carrying. But the saddest thing of all was to see great
numbers of children among the toiling people, weeping,
and bitterly lamenting, because their fathers and mothers
were so miserable, and because they constantly fell down
and died from severe toils. But nobody appeared to take
any notice of these children, so that they went aside, by
themselves, and began to creep near to the procession of
rich people; and then, whenever they could do so without
being seen, they would run up, slyly, and snatch away
some of the merchants' jewels, or some ornament of the
ladies, and very often they would cunningly entice the
little children of the merchants, to steal the money and
costly goods of their fathers and mothers. In this manner,
the children of the poor people became a plague and terror
to all the wealthy people who were in the procession.”
“O my!” ejaculated Bob the Weasel. “What did
they do to 'em? Wasn't there no p'licemen?”
“Hush!” said Harry—“you'll hear.”
“Then came tall men, with staves,” pursued Margery,
“and these men seized the little children, and shut them
up in dark cells, near the city gates, or else tied weights
to their ankles, and condemned them to labor, like the
other slaves, in deep pits and on the walls. For in reality
all poor people were slaves in that ancient land, because
of the pride and hardheartedness of the merchants, and
because of the neglect of the priests, who would not
hearken to the prayers of those unfortunates.”
“I am afraid such hardheartedness and neglect are
not entirely the sins of ancient lands,” said Mr. Granby,
thoughtfully.
“Well, the procession moved grandly down to the
river side,” resumed the teacher; “and there the priests,
and merchants, and maidens, and beautiful children, sang
loud songs, and threw their garlands of flowers upon the
water, and swung their censers on the banks, making
clouds of sweet incense. But the people behind, who
toiled and were scourged, and the weeping children of
these poor ones, dared not approach the priests, but stood
afar off, lifting up their voices in lamentation.”
Margaret paused in her recital, and looked at the newsboy,
who sat with his right hand clasped by Fanny, whose
own right hand rested on Harry's neck. Bob the Weasel
appeared strangely absorbed in the narrative to which he
was listening; his lips were parted, his eyes raised steadfastly,
and as the seamstress became silent, a deep sigh
escaped his breast.
“Do you understand the story, Robert?” asked Mr.
Granby, noticing the boy's earnest attention.
“I think there's jes' sich poor folks now, please sir!”
said the Weasel. “I know there's children jes' like them.”
Mr. Granby, as he heard this remark, looked more
closely at Rob Morrison's face than ever he had done
before, and was struck with the lines of thoughtfulness that
appeared in it. Since the transformation which the lad's
outward person had undergone, much of the weazen expression
had departed, and what seemed before a look of
mingled craft and recklessness now was sobered into a
serious cast. The small eyes still glittered with their old
sharpness, and there was a curve about the lip muscles
that told of an impatient temperament; but, after all, in
his new garb, the Weasel would not have figured to disadvantage
among a score of ordinary school-boys from a
much higher walk in life than that to which he, poor
child, had been accustomed. Mr. Granby was evidently
pleased with his observation of Rob, as well as with the
latter's remark, and nodded his head to Samson, to indicate
his satisfaction; whereat the acute negro displayed
his dazzling teeth, as in agreement with his master. Then
all grew attentive again, as Margery resumed her story.
“After the company had remained for some time near
the river, and when the priests had concluded their ceremonies,
the grand procession was formed again, and
returned homeward to the city. And as it entirely disappeared
within the gates, there came a poor woman, walking
slowly and cautiously down towards the river-banks. This
woman, it seemed, was one of the poor toiling people,
because her countenance was very sorrowful, and because
she came out of the ranks of children who were weeping
constantly kissed and clasped to her bosom, sighing all the
while; and, at last, when the sun was going down, she
took a little cradle that she had made out of reeds which
grew by the water-side, and placed the dear little infant
in that frail vessel. Then, watching to see that nobody
was near, she pushed the cradle of reeds away, and let it
float down on the river's bosom.”
“Oh! what did she do that for?” cried Fanny, with
an appealing look from Margaret to Mr. Granby, and
then to Rob Morrison.
“It was to save the poor baby's life,” said the seamstress.
“There was a very cruel and unjust man, who was
king of that country, and he had given orders to have
every little boy belonging to the poor people killed, as
soon as he was born; and this dear infant's mother hoped
that her baby might be saved, if she let it float away on
the river, because, she thought, perhaps, the wicked soldiers
might not know it was one of the poor babies that
the king had ordered them to kill.”
“O! that was it!” exclaimed Rob—he and Fanny
appearing to be much relieved.
“So, my dear children,” went on the seamstress, “the
mother let the cradle, with her dear child in it, glide away
on the waters, although, you may be sure, she was very
much frightened, thinking of all the monsters that lived
in the river. But she was a very good woman, and
trusted in God; and so she felt, although this little naked
child of the poor outcast people was exposed to so many
dangers, that the Almighty was watchful and would be a
out; for, at that very hour, when the child floated on the
water, there came thither the King's daughter, with all
her maidens, to bathe in the river; and, presently, the
princess spied the cradle, and sent one of her attendants
to bring it to her. You may be sure, this princess, whose
name, we are told, was Thermuthis, was much astonished
to find the babe; but she was very kindhearted, and, seeing
how helpless it looked, she resolved not to abandon
the poor little foundling. It was the Lord who put it
into her heart to be so good, for it is He who inspires all
generous thoughts in the mind. So, then, the king's
daughter called one of the women who was standing near,
and said: `Take this child away, and nurse it for me, and
I will give thee thy wages!' And the woman took the
baby, to nurse it, and bring it up, under protection of the
friendly princess; and the child grew to be a great and
learned man, and a servant of the Almighty.”
“It was Moses!” cried Harry, who had remained silent
a long period, and now broke out suddenly, addressing
Fanny.
“Bress de Lord! yes!—it was Moses!” said Samson,
quite as much interested as the children.
“I wish I knowed Moses!” whispered Bob the Weasel,
to Fanny, though not so low but that Margery overheard
him.
“Sometime I will tell you more about him,” said the
seamstress, kindly. “How he was a great leader and
law-giver in Israel, and led all the poor people, his countrymen,
oppressed them.”
Mr. Granby remained for a few moments without speaking,
absorbed, apparently, in thought; then, rising slowly,
the old gentleman approached the seamstress, and took
her thin, transparent hand within his own.
“Yes, dear Miss Winston,” he said, solemnly. “It
was Moses, the great Israelitish lawgiver, who led his
countrymen out of the Land of Egypt, and out of the
House of Bondage! Oh! that the beautiful ones who
are as princesses and daughters of kings in this our
favored land, would do unto the outcast children of our
day, even as Thermuthis, the daughter of Pharaoh, did
unto Moses, the foundling child!—ay, even as you are
striving to do, Miss Winston, unto these neglected babes
before you. All around us are the naked and destitute,
appealing to our pity, but how few, indeed, respond to the
cry of the perishing. Miss! may I ask of you to aid me
in a work which I would fain set about at once?”
Mr. Granby fixed his benevolent gaze upon the seamstress,
as he said this, with an expression of sympathy
and esteem that caused Margaret's eyes to droop modestly
to the floor; but, as if in relief of her embarrassment,
the speaker continued:
“I see you here, Miss, humble and patient, but toiling
almost beyond your strength—this child dependent upon
your exertions and care! Heaven has blessed me with
means which may be usefully employed, and I have been
thinking that, if the neglected children of this poor neighborhood
could be brought together under your teaching
young character.”
The old gentleman spoke slowly, and in low tones,
holding Margery's hand, which trembled in his clasp.
“And, so, I have been thinking, that you might put
aside this toilsome occupation of the needle, which is
undermining your health, as can be plainly seen, and if a
class could be gathered together, as you were playfully
saying—in short, Miss, if you could have a little school,
and teach these poor children of your neighborhood—
would it not be a good work?”
“Indeed, indeed, it would sir!” cried Margaret, earnestly.
“Then, if you like, it shall be done!” said the old gentleman,
enthusiastically. “A school we will have, here,
in your room, or wherever you like; and the expenses it
shall be my privilege to bear. You shall be teacher, my
dear Miss Winston, and I'll be—committee-man.”
Harry Winston opened his eyes very widely, half unable
to comprehend the proposition; but when he saw tears
flowing down his sister's cheeks, and beheld her warmly
shaking Mr. Granby's hand, he seemed to catch the spirit
of the scene at once, and, springing suddenly from his
chair, ran and caught the visitor's disengaged hand—
“Is sister Margery to have a school, really?” he asked,
breathlessly.
“Yes, dear Harry.”
“And me, and Fanny, and Rob—all to be scholars?”
“Yes, Harry! and you are to bring all the poor little
boys and girls you can find, who will promise to behave
well.”
“Oh, how nice that'll be!” exclaimed the child.
“So it's settled!” said Mr. Granby, with great satisfaction.
“Samson! does it suit you, my good boy?”
“Not 'xactly,” answered the negro, shaking his head.
“Why, Samson, what have you to say?” asked Mr.
Granby, somewhat astonished, and rather grieved, at his
servant's apparent disapproval.
“'Skuse me, Massa Granby—but 'sposin' de children
won't come to skule?”
“Bless me! I did not think of that?” said the old
gentleman.
“Dey is berry cur'ous, dose children,” continued Samson,
rubbing his head. “An' if dere was such a ting as
to gib 'em suthin' to eat, an' suthin' to take away home,
for de ole folks to eat, whenebber dey was good children,
an' larned de lesson—kind o' 'ward o' good behavior,
like, massa—you know” —
“You are right, Samson!” replied his master. “The
instruction that is listened to, upon an empty stomach,
may be thanklessly received. The poor children have
physical as well as mental wants. Samson, I thank you for
the hint, and it shall be acted upon. We will send to
the highways, and bring in the hungry in body and soul,
to eat of that which we have. And now, Miss Winston, if
you would like to read from that blessed book before you,
I will afterwards implore a blessing on our undertaking.”
Margaret opened the sacred volume, and read from the
Gospel of John of that love which is eternal, and of that
confidence in God which is omnipotent in life and death.
And then the venerable philanthropist knelt down beside
of all mercies, for His blessing upon the work which they
would do. While the alleys and corners around Kolephat
College, and all its wretched neighborhood, swarmed with
unshaven men, and untidy women, and neglected, quarrelsome
children, there were prayer and supplication arising
in their midst, from hearts filled with love and compassion
even for these outcasts from the family of refined civilization—these
dwellers in the Darkness and Bondage of
Social Egypt.
Be sure, O Human Heart! the prayer was sanctified
unto good in future days!
| Chapter XVIII.
Margery's Sabbath-School. The tenant-house, or,, Embers from poverty's hearthstone | |