The display was set forth interestingly and with emphasis, insomuch that things almost spoke for themselves, and wherein they failed to do so the Doctor supplemented in a satisfactorily sonorous voice.
One of the slum-slices was a large one. It consisted of thirteen hundred children—boys and girls—in bright, light, smart dresses, who clustered on the orchestra and around the great organ, like flowers in June. Looking at their clean, wholesome faces, neat attire, and orderly demeanour, I thought, “Is it possible that these are the sweepings of the streets?” The question was tellingly answered later on; but here it may be stated that this beautiful band of 1300 was only a slice—a sample—of the Doctor’s large family, which at present numbers nearly 3500. (It now, in 1893, numbers nearly 5000.)
It was grand to hear them sing! The great organ itself had to sing small beside them, for wood and metal can never hope to equal the living human voice, even though it be but a voice from the slums. Not only hymns but humorous songs they sang, and heroic. A telling effect was produced while singing one of the latter by the sudden display of 1300 Union Jacks, each the size of a ’kerchief, which the singers waved in time to the chorus. It seemed as though a stiff breeze had swept over the flower-bed and kissed the national flag in passing.
Another surprise of this kind was given during the stirring song of The Fire Brigade, when 1300 bits of gold and silver paper, waved to and fro, seemed to fill the orchestra with flashing fire.
But much of this was for show, to tickle our eyes and ears and prepare the way, as it were, for the grave and stern realities yet to come.
There was a mighty platform covered with crimson cloth in the centre of the hall in front of the orchestra. On it were several mysterious objects covered with sheets. At a signal—a whistle—given by the Doctor, a band of sturdy boys, clad in their work-a-day uniform, scampered down the central passage of the hall, jumped on the platform, flung off the sheets, and discovered carpenters’ benches, saws, hammers, wood—in short, all the appliances with which they carry on the various trades at their “Home” in the East End. In a few seconds, as if by magic, the platform was a workshop in full swing—hammering, sawing, chiselling, wood-chopping, clattering, and indescribable din, which was enhanced, but not drowned, by the applause of the astonished audience. The little fellows worked as though life depended on their activity, for the space, it seemed to me, of half a minute. Then the shrill whistle sounded again, and the work ceased, as if the springs of life had been suddenly cut off. Dead silence ensued; each worker remaining in the attitude in which he had been petrified—a group of artisan statuary in colour!
The Doctor was thus enabled quietly to explain that the display represented only a very few of the trades taught and carried on by his rescued boys at Stepney Causeway.
At another signal the splendidly drilled young fellows scampered off, carrying not only their tools, but their benches, tables, stools, and even débris along with them, and, disappearing in less than a couple of minutes, left not a chip or shaving behind.
It would take a good many pages of close writing to give anything like a detailed account of all that I saw. I must pass over much in order to emphasise one or two very telling incidents. The Doctor presented a sample of all his wares. One of these was a very touching sample—namely, a band of cripples, who made their way slowly on crutches down the passage to the platform—for it is one of the noteworthy points in this Mission that no destitute boy is turned away, whether he be well or ill, crippled or sound. So, also, there was a small procession of neat, pleasant-looking nurses, each leading one or more mites of forsaken humanity from “Babies’ Castle.”
But it seemed to me that the kernel of the nut had been reached, and the foundation of the God-like Mission laid bare for our inspection, when the raw material was led forth. We had got accustomed by that time to turn an expectant gaze at a far distant door when the Doctor’s voice ceased or his whistle sounded. Presently a solitary nurse with the neat familiar white cap and apron appeared at the door leading two little creatures by the hand. A hush—a distinct though indescribable sensation—as of profound pity and pathos,—passed over the vast assembly as a little boy and girl direct from the slums were led forward. The nurse had to walk slowly to accommodate her pace to theirs. Half naked, ragged, dirty, unkempt, bereft of their natural guardians, or forsaken by them—helpless, yet left to help themselves almost before they could walk! Forward they came to the central platform, casting timid, wondering glances around at the mighty host of well-to-do beings, not one of whom, perhaps, ever knew what it is to hunger for a whole day and lie down at night with a door-step for a pillow. Oh, it was pitiful! the Doctor advanced to these forlorn ones and took them by the hands with inexpressible tenderness, and then, facing the assembly, broke the silence and presented the human material which it was, under God, his mission in life to rescue.