Chapter XXII: Section 32: recites (3)

This then is the refuge described by Miss Procter, and her pretty garland of verses is still sold for its benefit. In 1860, there was no Catholic refuge in England, and excellent as were those supported by Protestants, they did not supply all demands. Rev. Dr. Gilbert of Moorfields Chapel found in a block of buildings, called by a pleasant coincidence, "Providence Row," a large empty stable separated by a yard from No. 14 Finsbury Square. The Sisters of Mercy were then seeking a house more suited to their needs than the one in Broad street. The two projects fitted each other like mosaic; No. 14 Finsbury Square should be the convent, the stable should be the refuge. Benches and beds were provided at first for fourteen persons only; but in February, 1861, additional provision was made for forty-six women and children. Before the month of April, 1862, 14,785 lodgings, with breakfast and supper, had been given.

But charity is as unsatiable in its desires as self-indulgence, and Dr. Gilbert's ideas soon outgrew the stable in Providence Row. The present refuge, giving accommodation to three hundred adults and children, was opened last autumn. It will be in operation from October to May of every year, on week-days from five P.M. to half-past seven A.M.; on Sundays, throughout the twenty-four hours. In this room on the ground floor, with its blazing fire, the women are received for inspection. If any one shows herself unworthy of assistance, either by intoxication or by the use of bad language, she is turned away. Without doubt many sinners are admitted to the refuge, and the sisters rejoice in being able to check their course of evil for twelve hours; but no one receives hospitality here unless she can conform outwardly to the habits of decent persons. This is the only refuge where admission depends on the good character of the applicant. It has proved an efficient preventive of the contamination so much to be dreaded whenever the poor and ignorant are brought together in large numbers.

The selection of guests being made, their dresses and shawls, wet with London fog and mud, are dried by the fire; and the fixture basins round the room are placed at their service with a bountiful supply of water.

From the inspection-room they pass to a large apartment, where they have supper, and sit together in warmth and comfort until bedtime. The supper consists of a bowl of excellent gruel and half a pound of bread for each person. It is to be observed that, though the accommodations are good of their kind, affording a decent asylum to the homeless, they are not calculated to attract those who can find comfortable shelter elsewhere.

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At an early hour night-prayers are said by a sister, and the women are shown to the dormitories. The beds are constructed in an ingenious manner, economizing space and making perfect cleanliness practicable. Two inclined planes, fastened together at the higher end, pass down the middle of the dormitory. Two more inclined planes pass down the sides of the room with the higher end next the wall. These platforms are partitioned off by planks into troughs about two feet wide and six feet long, (that is to say, the length of the slope of the platform,) looking much like cucumber frames without glass. These are the beds, and at the foot of each is a little gate, which can be opened to admit of drawing out a sliding plank in the bottom of the trough. This is done every morning by the sisters in charge of the dormitories, and the floor beneath is swept. But now the little gates are closed and the beds are ready for their forlorn occupants. Each is furnished with a thick mattress and pillow covered with brown enamel cloth and with a large coverlet of thick leather. As the women go to bed thoroughly warm and wear their clothing, they sleep comfortably under these odd-looking quilts; especially the mothers, who often hold one little child in their arms while another nestles at their feet. The bedding is wiped carefully every morning, and thus the dormitories are kept free from vermin. A cell partitioned off at each end of the dormitory, with two or three windows, provides the sisters in charge with a private room and at the same time with a post of observation. The arrangements for water throughout the house are excellent, including a hose fixed in the wall of every dormitory, ready to be used in case of fire.

At half-past six in the morning, the sleepers are roused; at seven they have breakfast, consisting, like the supper, of a basin of gruel and half a pound of bread. At half-past seven, they leave the refuge, some times to be seen no more, sometimes to return night after night for weeks together. On Sunday they can remain all day. But, as persons are admitted without distinction of creed, they are allowed to leave the refuge during the hours of morning service to go to church. A short lesson in the catechism is given every evening at the refuge; but only Catholics are allowed to attend the classes unless occasionally by especial permission. They have, for their Sunday dinner, as much strong beef soup as they can eat with bread.

The arrangements for men are similar to those for women, though less extensive. The entrances are separate, and there are watchmen in the male dormitory. The refuge provides thirty-two beds for men and one hundred and fifty for women. It is by packing in children with their parents that so many individuals are lodged.

The survey of the building ended, we pass out of the front door just as five o'clock strikes, and the tattered throng, Jenny among them, present themselves for admission. This institution could be copied with good effect in several American cities. Its system of management guards against two evils. Provision being made only for the bare necessities of life, no temptation is offered to impostors. Propriety of behavior being ensured by strict surveillance, the chance of contamination is materially lessened, perhaps wholly removed.

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It is no unusual thing, even in the United States, for men and boys, women and girls, to spend a night in the station-house because they have no other place to sleep. A refuge is less expensive than other charitable establishments. The first cost of a building is considerable; the annual outlay in provisions, fuel, and light, comparatively trifling. The money spent every year in indiscriminate almsgiving in a large city would serve to support a night refuge for several hundred persons. But while providing for the houseless poor of to-day, we should remember that their numbers are increasing with every successive generation. The children of our poorest class must be rescued from their present migratory life, divided between street, jail, and penitentiary.

Much has been done for girls, and we can only desire an extension of the work. With an increase of funds, the Sisters of Charity, of Mercy, of the Good Shepherd, and of Notre Dame could accomplish a mission of great importance to the future prosperity of our country. These ladies devote their lives to saving from misery and degradation the children of those who cannot or will not perform a parent's duty. They need money to accomplish this. We too often dole it out to them as if they had asked alms for themselves. Let us give them not only money but sympathy and encouragement. Many a good work has failed for want of friendly words to give the strength for one final vigorous effort.

But what is to be done for the boys? They may be divided into three classes. First, children guilty of no worse crime than friendlessness. Second, small boys obnoxious to the police for petty infringements of the laws; third, newsboys, bootblacks, and costermongers, more or less familiar with the vices of city life. The third class is developed from the other two, because neglected poverty naturally gravitates to vice and crime.

The development of a true ragamuffin is a process painfully interesting to watch. At an age when the children of the rich take sober walks attended by nursery-maid or governess, he knows the streets as well as any watchman. At seven years old, he is arrested by some energetic policeman for throwing stones, bathing, stealing a bunch of grapes, or some other first-class felony. Once in the hands of the law, there is no redress for him unless he is "bailed out." He must go to jail to wait for trial-day--perhaps three or four weeks. The turnkeys do their best for him; find him a decent companion if he is frightened, or, still better, give him a cell to himself, where he looks more like a squirrel in a cage than a criminal offender. I have seen in one day four mere babies in prison for "breaking and entering!"

But, with all the precautions used in a well-ordered jail to prevent mischief, our infant ragamuffin comes out older by many years than he went in. He has been in prison, and his tiny reputation is gone for ever. A few years later he comes back, arrested for some grave misdemeanor; a sly, old-fashioned little rogue by this time, gifted with an ingenuity fitting him admirably to be the tool of some professional thief. Then begins a course of sojourns in workhouses and juvenile penitentiaries. By and by he reappears in jail with a smart suit of clothes, the fruit of a successful burglary, and you are informed with an air of conscious superiority that this time it is a house of correction or State's prison offence. There is ambition in crime as well as in other careers, we may be sure. He grows up to be a drunkard, a libertine, a bad husband, and the father of children more degraded than himself. We know of an entire family having been in prison at one time, father, mother, and all the children.

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Who is to blame for this career of vice and crime? Not the officers of the jail, who bitterly regret the necessity of receiving children, but cannot set them free. Not the judges, who are sworn to administer the laws as they stand, not to improve upon them.

The police are to blame for exercising their enthusiasm for order upon babies, instead of making examples of grown men guilty of similar misdemeanors, but harder to catch.

The public is to blame for making insufficient provision for the reclamation of juvenile offenders. Above all, we Catholics are to blame, because these are usually the children of foreign parents, and Catholics, at least in name.

Let us build an asylum in the air for these poor little urchins. Aerial philanthropy requires no funds, and very little executive ability. Who knows but our plan may be carried out in earnest, one of these days, by some Dr. Gilbert, trustful of small beginnings, and content to let his project first see the light in a stable?

We would have _one division_ devoted to little orphans, and children whose parents are willing to resign them for a time or for ever.

A second division should be given to the infant criminals of whom we have just spoken. Their offences are always bailable. A trustworthy person should be employed to go bail for all children under ten years of age, and bring them to the asylum to await their trial. The judges gladly sentence children to serve out a term at a juvenile home instead of sending them to penitentiaries. Thus we should recover them after their trial, for a length of time proportioned to the importance of severing old associations. Their circumstances should be thoroughly investigated and reported to the judge--character of parents, place of residence, etc., etc.

These two divisions should be under the charge of female religious; with several male attendants to do menial work and enforce discipline in the few instances where strong measures might be necessary, but without possessing any authority except the reflected one of acting under the matron's orders. The necessity of vigilance can hardly be exaggerated. One child of vicious habits can corrupt many more. But since direct surveillance is irritating even to children, a routine of light and frequently-varied occupation would be found useful in giving vent to restless activity, which is at the root of many childish misdemeanors. The superintendents must learn to distinguish fun from mischief; energy from insubordination.

A third division should provide a refuge for newsboys and others of the same tribe. These older boys should be under the charge of the Christian Brothers. An evening school, a library of books such as boys enjoy, and a collection of innocent games would form an important element in the plan of management. They should be persuaded to put a portion of their earnings in the savings bank, and induced if possible to alter their roving life and learn a trade. Preference should be shown to lads of correct life over those who have been in prison, but encouragement and countenance given to every boy willing to conform to the rules of the refuge. We lay less stress upon separating the good from the bad among the lads for two reasons. A boy of fourteen or fifteen who has not been corrupted by street life must be temptation-proof. It is difficult to judge the respective merits of lads of that age or to learn their past histories. They must to a great extent be taken on trust.

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In the course of a few years a fourth division would become necessary to provide for the little boys grown too old for petticoat government. This division should also be under the charge of the Christian Brothers.

The institution would be very expensive, unless it were made partially self-supporting. There is a good deal of light work connected with trades that might be done by boys resident in the house. Perhaps in time city governments would wake up to the fact that it costs less to give boys a good plain education than to support rogues and paupers; but our dream of charity is rudely dispersed by a yawn from our companion and a suggestion that we should reach Piccadilly sooner by the underground railroad than on foot. The gaslights stare despondingly at me through the yellow fog. A London Arab solicits a penny for clearing the slimy crossing, and wonders at the glow of charity with which we press sixpence into his grimy palm. Where are we? In London? Yes, but there are orphans wandering homeless about the streets of American cities, too; bootblacks going to destruction by scores; tiny children falling victims to the misplaced zeal of policemen; and not even the corner-stone of our asylum is laid!

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A Chinese Husband's Lament For His Wife.
Translated From The French Of M. Stanislas Julien,
Professor Of The Chinese Language, Paris.

I.

It was in the fifth watch of the first day of the year, when the winter's cold was most intense, that my tender wife died. Can there be on earth a man more unhappy than I? O my wife! if thou wert still here, I would give thee a new robe for the new year; but woe is me, thou art gone down to the sombre abode where flows the yellow fountain. Would that husband and wife could see one another again! Come to me in the night--come to me in the third watch--let me renew for a little while the sweetness of the past.

II.

In the second moon, when spring has come, and the sun stays each day longer in the sky, every family washes its robes and linen in pure water, and husbands who have still their wives love to adorn them with new garments. But I, who have lost mine, am wasting my life away in grief; I cannot even bear to see the little shoes that enclosed her pretty feet! Sometimes I think that I will take another companion; but where can I find another so beautiful, wise, and kind!

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III.

In the third moon, the peach-tree opens its rose-colored blossoms, and the willow is bedecked with green tresses. Husbands who have still their wives go with them to visit the tombs of their fathers and friends. But I who have lost mine go alone to visit _her_ grave, and to wet with my hot tears the spot where her ashes repose. I present funereal offerings to her shade; I burn images of gilded paper in her honor. "Tender wife," I cry with a tearful voice, "where art thou, where art thou?" But she, alas! hears me not. I see the solitary tomb, but I cannot see my wife!

IV.

In the fourth moon, the air is pure and serene, and the sun shines forth in all his splendor. How many ungrateful husbands then give themselves up to pleasure and forget the wife they have lost! Husband and wife are like two birds of the same forest; when the fatal hour arrives, each one flies off a different way. I am like a man, who, beguiled by the sweet fancies of an enchanting dream, seeks, when he awakes, the young beauty that charmed his imagination while he slept, but finds around him only silence and solitude. So much loveliness, so much sweetness vanished in one morning! Why, alas! could not two friends, so dearly united, live and grow gray together!

V.

In the fifth moon, the dragon-headed boats float gaily on the waters. Exquisite wines are heated, and baskets are filled up with delicious fruits. Each year at this season, I delighted to enjoy the pleasures of these simple feasts with my wife and children. But now I am weary and restless, a prey to the bitterest anguish. I weep all day and all night, and my heart seems ready to break. Ah! what do I see at this moment? Pretty children at merry play before my door. Yes, I can understand that they are happy; they have a mother to press them to her bosom. Go away, dear children, your joyous gambols tear my heart.

VI.

In the sixth moon, the burning heat of the day is almost unbearable. The rich and the poor then spread their clothes out to air. I will expose one of my wife's silken robes, and her embroidered shoes to the sun's warm beams. See! here is the dress she used to wear on festal days, here are the elegant little slippers that fitted her pretty feet so well. But where is my wife? Oh! where is the mother of my children? I feel as if a cold steel blade were cutting into my heart.

VII.

In the seventh moon, my eyes overflow with tears; for it is then that Nieaulan visits his wife Tchi-niu in heaven. Once I also had a beautiful wife, but she is lost to me for ever. That fair face, lovelier than the flowers, is constantly before me. Whether in movement or at rest, the remembrance of her that is gone from me never ceases to rack my bosom. What day have I forgotten to think of my tender wife--what night have I not wept till morning?

VIII.

On the fifteenth day of the eighth moon, her disk is seen in its greatest splendor, and men and women then offer to the gods melons and cakes, ball-like in form as the orb of night. Husbands and wives stroll together in the fields and groves, and enjoy the soft moonlight. {281} But the round disk of the moon can only remind _me_ of the wife I have lost. At times, to solace my grief I quaff a cup of generous wine; at times I take my guitar, but my trembling hand can draw forth no sound. Friends and relations invite me to their houses, but my sorrowful heart refuses to share in their pleasures.

IX.

In the ninth moon, the chrysanthemum opens its golden cup, and every garden exhales a balmy odor. I would gather a bunch of newly-blown flowers if I had still a wife whose hair they could adorn! My eyes are weary with weeping--my hands are withered with grief, and I beat a fleshless breast. I enter the tasteful room that was once my wife's; my two children follow me, and come to embrace my knees. They take my hands in theirs, and speak to me with choking voices; but by their tears and sobs I know they ask me for their mother.

X.

On the first day of the tenth moon, both rich and poor present their wives with winter clothing. But to whom shall I offer winter clothing? I, who have no wife! When I think of her who rested her head on my pillow, I weep and burn images of gilded paper. I send them as offerings to her who now dwells beside the yellow fountain. I know not if these funereal gifts will be of use to her shade; but at least her husband will have paid her a tribute of love and regret.

XI.

In the eleventh moon, I salute winter, and again deplore my beautiful wife. Half of the silken counterpane covers an empty place in the cold bed where I dare not stretch out my legs. I sigh and invoke heaven; I pray for pity. At the third watch I rise without having slept, and weep till dawn.

XII.

In the twelfth moon, in the midst of the winter's cold, I called on my sweet wife. "Where art thou," I cried; "I think of thee unceasingly, yet I cannot see thy face!" On the last night of the year she appeared to me in a dream. She pressed my hand in hers; she smiled on me with tearful eyes; she encircled me in her caressing arms, and filled my soul with happiness. "I pray thee," she whispered, "weep no more when thou rememberest me. Henceforth I will come thus each night to visit thee in thy dreams."

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A May Flower.

A look and a word, my sweet lady;
A thought of your kind heart, I pray,
For a flower that blooms by the roadside,
This beautiful morning in May.

I know that engagements await you;
I know you have many to meet;
Yet, pray, linger here for a moment,
And look at this flower of the street.

'Tis but May, my sweet lady, and hardly
Has spring had the time to look bright;
Yet this flower it called into being
Already is smitten with blight.

Already upon its fair leaflets
Lie heavy the grime and the dust;
Its shrivelled and lack-lustre petals,
Tell a story--stop, lady!--you must.

For a soul is in danger, my lady,
The soul of this drooping street flower;
And you by a look can recall it
To life, or 'twill die in an hour.

Ah me! if you knew but the power
Of one word of kindness from you;
Could you see what a tempest of passion
A glance of your eye would subdue!

What hope once again would awaken
To arm this poor soul for the right!
Thanks, my lady! Go happily onward,
The tempted is strengthened with might.

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