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Page 8
Beasts of burden, ye peoples, still
Ridden hard by a ruthless will!
Militarism is mounted firm.
The saddled slaves may shudder and squirm,
The bridled brutes may shy and shrink,
The road is long, and the gulf's black brink
Seems distant yet, and is scarcely seen
By the rival riders, whose pride and spleen
Blind them--save to each other's glare,
To the pace they make, and the weight they bear,
Those hot-urged horses! Lash and goad,
Rash riders!--but, at the end of the road,
When the growing burden's last possible pound
Is piled; when the steed's last staggering bound
Is made, when the last short, labouring breath
Is breathed, when over, in shuddering death,
The charger rolls, with a sickening crash,
And responds no more to the spur or lash;
And the gulf yawns close, sheer slope to air,
Black, unavoidable, ruinous there--
Then, gallant rider, how will _you_ fare?
* * * * *
IN THE COUNTY COUNCIL.
CHARRINGTON forgot his manners,
Pleading for the _Jolly Tanners_;
He gave his tongue, at serious cost,
The Licence which the _Tanners_ lost.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE ROAD TO RUIN.]
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE TROUBLES OF STALKING!!
_Irate Gillie_ (_on discovering in the distance, for the third time
that morning, a "Brute of a Man" moving about in his favourite bit of
"Forest"_). "OH! DEIL TAKE THE PEOPLE! COME AWA,' MUSTER BROWN, SIR;
_IT'S JUST PEKKADILLY!!!_"]
* * * * *
AN AUTUMN AFTERNOON
AT NAZARETH HOUSE.
O wealthy and world-weary triflers, O idle and opulent folk,
For whom time is a foe to be slain, and life's self but a bore or
a joke,
Take yourselves, and your hearts, and your purses to Nazareth
House and behold
The brave service of well-bestowed time, the brave uses of
well-applied gold!
Where is Nazareth House, then, and what? 'Tis in Hammersmith,
Madam, a place
That you probably seldom illume with the light of your beautiful
face.
But _what_? That's a far larger question, full answer to which
would take time.
Far better go see for yourself. If there's aught of the moral
sublime
In these gold-grubbing days, 'tis in scenes where love-service
unbought and unpaid--
A vastly unbusiness-like thing in the eyes of the vassals of
Trade!--
Is devoted in silence unseen to the outcast, the old, and the poor.
Five hundred such waifs are here housed, and _they yearn to find
refuge for more!_
That's the pith of the matter, dear Madam! And as for the rest,
I've returned
From a visit, and fancy your heart, like my own, would have
lightened and burned!
Had you walked through the wards, as I walked, with a Sister as
frank and unfeigned
As sweet Charity's servant should be. There was nothing o'er
piously strained
In this unrigid Refuge for helplessness. Cheeriness, confidence,
mirth
Seemed to reign in these child-crowded rooms--in these wards where
the aged, whose birth
Dated well-nigh a century back, whether sewing, or smoking, or prone
On the pallet of sickness, all _smiled_, and no soul seemed
forlorn or alone.
How they sang, those close clustering toddlers, their curly heads
tier above tier,
With never a trace of restraint, and unknowing the shadow of fear!
Here timidity checks not the young, and here weariness haunts not
the old.
There is laughter on age-shrivelled lips, and the eyes of mere
babies are bold
With the confidence born but of love. Even imbeciles, helpless and
blind,
Shut out at each sense from full life, yet can feel unseen
tendance is _kind_,
And sit silently placid, or burst into song of a heart-searching
sort--
Muffled speech from unplumbed spirit-depths, yet inspired by the
impulse of sport.
Have a chat, my dear Madam--shrink not, they are women!--with
age-wrinkled dames,
Who are busily bed-quilting here, while the Autumn sun ruddily
flames
On the walls from the liberal windows. Bestow but a smile and a
jest,
They'll respond with a jest and a smile, for there's life in each
age-burdened breast,
And confidence, comfort, and cheer. Here again clustered close
round the fire
Are a number of grizzle-look'd men, every one is a true "hoary
sire,"
Bowed, time-beaten, grey, yet alert and responsive to kindness of
speech;
And see how old eyes can light up if you promise a pipe-charge
a-piece.
For the comforting weed KINGSLEY eulogised is not taboo in this
place,
Where the whiff aromatic brings not cold reproval to Charity's face.
Ah! the tale is o'erlong for full telling; but never a bright
afternoon
In London's chill leaf-strewn October was better bestowed. 'Tis a
boon
To be able to speak on behalf of Samaritan kindness so schemed,
In a way in which lovers of man, not of mummeries, ever have
dreamed.
On such wise, wide, benevolent lines, with no bondage of class or
of creed.
But the helpless Five Hundred still swell, and the Sisterhood feel
sorest need
Of enlarging their borders and branches. The children especially
swarm,
And for every poor, pale, helpless mite, who can here find a
pallet and form,
Home, food, clothing, schooling, life-settlement, _love_, there
are hundreds for whom
And their piteous appeal the response must unwillingly come, "No
more room!",
Room, not in their hearts but their wards is this unselfish
Sisterhood's lack;
There you, my dear Madam, can help, if your purse-strings a little
you'll slack.
The Home for Poor Age, Helpless Childhood, Incurable Sickness,
depends
Not on fees or on wealthy endowments, but alms and free service of
friends.
Gifts, not only of money, but garments and furniture, beds,
tables, chairs,
The Nazareth ladies will welcome--Come! Is there a Christian who
cares
For God's poor and the Christ-welcomed children, who will not
respond in some way
To the modest appeal of these ladies, who care for the Waif and
the Stray?
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