ILLINOIS UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS AT URBANA-CHAMPAIGN PRODUCTION NOTE University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign Library Brittle Books Project, 2012.COPYRIGHT NOTIFICATION In Public Domain. Published prior to 1923. This digital copy was made from the printed version held by the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. It was made in compliance with copyright law. Prepared for the Brittle Books Project, Main Library, University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign by Northern Micrographics Brookhaven Bindery La Crosse, Wisconsin 2012^Author ofThe Oiled SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CHRISTIAH KNOWLEDGE, NORTHUMBERLAND AVENUE, LONDON. W,CRowland’s Macassar Oil Preserves, and strengthens the hair oi Children and Adults. Also sold in a Golden Colour. Established 1851. BH3K&ECK BflNK, Southampton Buildings, Chancery Lane THREE per CENT. INTEREST allowed on DEPOSITS, repayable on demand. TWO per CENT, on CURRENT ACCOUNTS, when not drawn below £100. STOCKS, SHARES, and ANNUITIES purchased & sold. SAYINGS DEPARTMENT. For the encouragement of Thrift the Bank receives small sums on deposit, and allows Interest, at the rate of THREE PER CENT, per annum, on each completed £1. The Interest is added to the principal on 31st March annually. FRANCIS RAVENSCROFT, Manager. HOW TO PURCHASE A HOUSE FOR TWO GUINEAS PER MONTH, OR A PLOT OF LAND FOR FIVE SHILLINGS PER MONTH, with immediate possession. Apply at the Office of the Birkbeck Freehold Land Society. The BIRKBECK ALMANACK, with full particulars, post free.__ FRANCIS RAVENSCROFT, Manager. ; By a thorough knowledge of the natural laws which govern the operations of digestion and nutrition, and by a careful application of the fine properties of well-selected Cocoa, Mr. Epps has provided our breakfast tables with a delicately flavoured beverage which may save us many heavy doctors’ bills. 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FARMER’S BOY AND BIOGRAPHIES. DAVID LIVINGSTONE PIONEER. THE GREAT AFRICAN POPUliAR TMIiBS. (Imperial 8vo.), 16 pages, illustrated. With Paper Wrapper. AN EVENTFUL NIGHT, and What Came of it. THE LILY OF LEYDEN. By the late W. H. G. MOUNTAIN MOGGY; or, the Stoning of the Witch. By the late W. H. G. Kingston. ___ LONDON 3, NORTHUMBERLAND AVENUE. CHARING CROSS, W.C THE TWO WHALERS ; or, Adventuresinthe Pacific By the late W\ H. G. Kingston. ROB NIXON. By the late W. H. G. Kingston. WHITER THAN SNOW. Send a Post Card to the PURE WATER COMPANY, Limited, Queen’s Road, Battersea, for a list of their PURE DRINKS. THE ANTI-PICKPOCKET PURSE. Pickpockets can’t get it. Highly recommended by the Press. For description and recommendation, see “Cassell's Magazine” (Sept. 1889), &c. In Solid Ueathei*, post free, Is. Id. Herbert Anderson, i6, Hammersmith Terrace. London, W. The Trade supplied^Mirage of theStree BY THB REV. P. B. POWER, M.A., Author of “ The Oiled Featheretc• PUBLISHED UNDER THE DIRECTION OF THE TRACT COMMITTEE, LONDON: SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE Northumberland Avenue, W.C.; 43, Queen Victoria SteeT, E.C. ; 97, Westbourne Grove, W. BRIGHTON : 135, North Street. N^W YORK: E. & J. B. YOUNG & CO#THE MIRAGE* OF THE STREETS. “'V7’ES, sir, as you say, I am now growing old ; and, as you say, ’tis good to be thinking of another and a better world. I know what you mean, sir; you don’t want to make out that folk should live all their young lives in foolish, much less evil, ways, or in thoughtless ways either. That would be bad preaching, although I’m afraid it is the preaching which many a man, who is his own parson, gives himself. He says, ‘Enjoy life while you’re living; and then think of another when you can’t help yourself, but are dying.’ Time was, sir, when that was my creed—at least, the first part of it, ‘ enjoy life while you can ’—that was my text, and I lived it out, ‘enjoying myself,’ as I used to think then; but the second part I didn’t trouble myself about; many’s the * A. mirage is a vision—generally in tlie optical refraction into the sky. time I said with poor fellows who are gone now, ‘We’ll all die like dogs, and there will be an end of us; so let us be merry while we can.’ “ Now, there are some folk, sir, who would he angry with you if you dropped in upon them of a Christmas Eve, and began telling them that, they ought to be thinking of another world, and that, they were getting old; but according to my way of thinking now (though there was a time when it would have been quite the other way), Christmas Eve isn’t a bad time to be thinking about getting old; for isn’t the year getting old, and isn’t there a new, young, fresh year coming, and doesn’t this remind us of how ’twill be with ourselves, something new and fresh, when the old is gone; and there’s no better desert—of very distant objects tLrown up byTHE MIRAGE OF THE STREETS. time for thinking of another world—for wasn’t it at this time that our Blessed Lord came from another world to bring us to it some day, with Himself?” • This speech was made by a man of about fifty, who was just picking up again after a serious illness ; and who had been attended all through it by the clergyman of the village in which he lived. John Wilson, the speaker, had been only a year or so an inhabitant of the village of Changewell; and no one in the place knew anything of his history. They only knew that, years ago, his parents had lived there, in the very pretty cottage which he himself had recently bought; and there was a vague report that, once upon a time, the Wilsons had amongst their family a bad son; and that, this John Wilson was the very same. The Bev. Mr. Blende heard all this, but he had a delicacy in asking too much about his parishioner’s past life, especially as he found him of a rather reticent nature, and particularly close on this subject. It was known that John Wilson had bqen apretty extensive jobmaster, and cab proprietor, in London; and it was presumed that he was now living on what he had made in that capacity; but no one learned much by any inquiries made either from himself, or his wife. And as to his little daughter, Dearie, why, of course there was not much that she could tell; only, from one or two little things which the child dropped, or queer things that she said, about there perhaps being angels about, though folk didn’t know it, there was a universal opinion in Changewell that, John Wilson could tell some kind of story, if he chose so to do. How, had it not been for John Wilson’s recent long and severe illness, you might have gone, good reader, for ever without this Christmas story, however much a better one might have taken its place, by some other hand. But during this illness Wilson’s heart opened much5 THE MIRAGE OF to the kind man who had visited him, without fear of infection from the fever; and he felt drawn, he knew not why, to unbosom to him the story, I may say, of his life—to tell him about “ The Mirage of the Street,” which John did not know himself by the name of “a mirage,” but which was a something—what was it ? j^h! he would give half of what he had to know; and, good reader, when you have heard John Wilson’s Christmas story to the parson, you must settle with yourself what it really was. ' f There were only four people in the world who knew the tale-, or portions of the tale, which John Wilson had to tell; and now, a fifth was to be added, in the person of the clergyman of Change-well ; and that, with the full consent of John Wilson’s wife, one of the four already mentioned; the other .three being her. parents and husband. It would be piore proper to say there were but four who had evor known the story; there are but two now, for tile good old cabman Joe Davis, 1 THE STREETS. and his wife, John Wilson’s wife’s father and mother, have now gone to their rest, carrying, so far as they were concerned, the secret of the mirage of the streets to their graves with them. They never talked of it except to one another, and then only in whispers ; and their chief day of talking about it was on a Sunday, when, along with their Bible and hymn-book, it did them a deal of good; for it helped them to think of a better world; and anything that does that for us in the midst of what ••is earthly, and of the earth, is a . help and blessing. “ Eolk don’t like going out much of a Christmas evening,” said John Wilson to the minister, after a silence of some time, which the good man did not interrupt ; for he saw that the still ailing man was trying to make up his mind to something; and the minister knew how to respect many silences, and not to hurry those who were making effort with themselves ; “ but if you will come across for an hour to-morrow evening I’ll tell you, what many6 THE MIRAGE OF THE STREETS. here would give a deal to know, only you’ll never tell it as long as my wife and I are living; and when you do tell it, it must be with other names, so that no one may know who saw that blessed sight.” “ Yes, I’ll come, and thank you much,” said the minister. “ My good old mother goes to sleep in her chair every evening from six to seven, and then I can come across; ” and with a squeeze of the hand, the minister took his leave. And with intense interest did he look forward to hear what his parishioner had to tell; for he had often observed a look about him, which did not belong altogether to ordinary life; and which, however well it might become a poet now and then, certainly was strange, as seen on one whom every one knew bad been a job-master. The cabman’s story accounted for it all. II. Christmas evening found Mr. Blende at John Wilson’s fire, and John himself seated in his armchair, still propped up a little with pillows, but well able for the exertion of telling his tale, which he soon began :— Yes, sir, you shall hear the story of my life, and a sorry one it is, I am grieved to say, so far as the beginning of it is concerned ; but the end part is better, and I expect the ending to be the best of all. You must know, sir, that, long years ago, there lived in this very cottage.another John Wilson, who was my father. He was a good man, and tried to bring us all up (and there were eleven of us) in the right way; and in that way most of us walked. Many are dead, and some are in foreign lands; and I believe I am the only one living in England now, out o* all who once lived in this happy house. I was the youngest son, and was both father’s and mother’s darling; and, as is too often the case with the youngest—a spoiled child. Mother was always thinking of the other world, and many a time she told me the Bible stories of the angels of God, who came down and talked with men; and helped them on earth. SheTHE MIRAGE OF THE STREETS. was always fond of the angels-— that good mother of mine; and she was always glad, she said, that I was born at Christmas time, for at that time the angels sang in the sky. “And who knows,” said she, “ but that, some day or other, the angels will help my hoy! Didn’t they look after the young child Jesus ? and who knows what jnay he done for us, for Jesus’ sake?” And many’s the prayer she put up, that, her “little lad,” as she called me, might be looked after, aye, even if he went astray. Well, sir, time passed on, and I became a big lad, and with the growth of strength came the growth of willand not having been checked, as I ought to have been, I would have my own way in everything. Father would have begun to rule me now, for he saw his mistake; but it was too late—the twig had thus far hardened into shape; and it needed a stronger hand than his, or any one’s on earth, to make it grow straight. Poor mother I I believe I hur- ried her, and father too, into their graves. I need not trouble you with what I did, and what I did not do—the prayer will tell you all about me, where it says, “We have done those things which we ought not to have done, and left undone those things which we ought to have done.” That was • pretty nearly the story of my life. At last, when father wearied me with holding me in, and mother with her good advice, and her tears—for, bad as I was, I could not bear to see her cry—I enlisted. I thought, like a fool, that, by enlisting I should be my own master. I listened to all the foolish tales that a recruiting sergeant told me; and I left home without saying a word to the dear old people I left there. I left them, to break their hearts. The woman’s was the soonest to break; and my mother died six months after I enlisted. Father held out for two years, but he grew thinner every week, and his hand shook more and more; and at last he took to his bed, and followed mother to the grave. They left THE MIRAGE OP THE STREETS. me, poor souls! a little bag with a hundred and twenty sovereigns in it, in gold, silver, and copper, their savings for me for many a long year. This money was sent to me by the people who managed father’s affairs after his death; and with it came a little parcel, which, I don’t know why, I was afraid to open for a long time ; and I kept it by me—ay, for six months— and never broke the seal, or untied the string. "Well, it took me only about six months to spend all that money. I stood treat to every vagabond in the regiment; and got myself and them into the black hole, and punishment of various kinds, over and over again. At last, the colonel, who saw how much mischief was going on, and that I was at the bottom of it, hi*4 me court-martialed, and the end of that job was that I got imprisonment, and then was, as they call it, (< drummed out ”—turned out of the army with disgrace. I was so hardened then, I didn’t care for the shame, but I do care for it uow, and for all disgrace and shame; for they are unworthy of a man. When I was drummed out of the regiment, and turned my back on the barracks, all I had in the world, except the clothes on my back, was half-a-crown—not much for a man to face the world with, and especially a man without any character; and, still worse, with a bad one. I made my way, as best I could, to London, expecting that I should find something to do, and I was so far tamed by what had happened that, I was willing to do anything. The smart of trouble was on me, and I did not want to get into it again. Not that I was one bit better in myself, but I had just felt what came of wrong doing; and did not want any more of it, at any rate as yet. The half-crown, and the bag, were all I had. You will ask me why I did not open the bag—perhaps it might be filled with bank-notes; but somehow I had a dread of what might be inside, though I don’t know why; and by the feel I knew there were no notes» inside,THE MIRAGE OF THE STREETS. 9 Well, when I came near London I found an outhouse where I tould lie safely until the ,morn-ipg; I crept up into an old1 loft belonging to it, and there11: lay upon a wisp of straw, with the moon shining in clear and bright upon me. Something came oyer me that I must look into the bag, and that I might perhaps be the better in some way for it; so I pulled it out, and found to my great surprise that it contained a sampler—a little square of canvas worked with silk ; and there was a bit of paper with it, in fatjier’s writing. It was very short—it said, “ The lines are mother’s own making, and she spent the last days of her life working this prayer for her dear boy. May they come true to him in his day of need! ” “Bead them, sir,” said John Wilson, unfolding reverently a silk handkerchief, and handing the little square to the clergyman. Mr. Blende took the sampler, and read as follows:— “ Angels guard my darling boy, Who is my greatest earthly joy; Even if ever he be bad, Do not desert the little lad, But take and lead him by the hand, And bring him to the heavenly land.” While the clergyman was reading these lines, John Wilson looked steadily in his face. He was evidently reading it, and that with a purpose. But not a particle of a smile came over Mr. Blende’s countenance at the doggerel nature of the lines; on the other hand, his eyes filled with tears; and if a man had keen sight, the corner of the clergyman’s mouth could have been seen to twitch. Wilson was apparently satisfied, for he put out his hand for the sampler, reverently folded it up in its covering again, and then said to his visitor: “Yes, sir, I’ll tell you what I saw, for I see you are fit to hear it—if you had laughed at my poor mother’s rhymes, I could not have gone on. I should have said you couldn’t understand my story ; but you know, sir, that there are such things as heart rhymes—and these are heart rhymes; and they tell more of what’s real, than many a grand book. Ho eye has ever seen them,, but my wife’s, since they came into my possession, and I mean them to be10 THE MIRAGE OF THE STREETS. buried with me when I die. Perhaps you’ll wilder, sir, how she could have written such lines at all—how, considering what I was, and what I had been to her, she could call me her “darling boy;” the same way. I was the one on earth she loved most, next to father; I suppose she thought of what I used to be, and perhaps what I might yet be, but, however ’tis to be explained, there it “ It contained a sampler.»’- Page 9. but that’s part of the beauty of the lines that, they tell she never changed towards me, bad as I was—and her “ earthly joy ! ”— well, sir, that’s harder to square, but I suppose ’tis to be done in is; and I’m glad to think she thought that of me, right through to the end. I was not surprised to read this about the “taking by the hand,” and “ leading to the11 THE MIRAGE OP THU STREETS. heavenly land,” for mother was a great one to believe about the holy angels being sent to help people in the world; and I know ing hand in my hour of need. And what was on that sampler befriended me in due time. But not at once. The evil that was MJohn Wilson looked steadily in his face,”—Page 9« what she meant—that somehow or other, somebody or other, I don’t mean to say “who,” or “ how,” should give me a help- in me had yet to work itself out. Perhaps it is owing to the prayer on the sampler that it did not work me out.13 THE MIRAGE OF THE STREETS. I was off early in the morning, for I knew that, to be caught there, was probably to be taken up by the police, and I had had enough of confinement for a while; and at last I found myself in London, almost a penniless man. Hither, and thither, I wandered, as no doubt many a man had done before me, and many an one will after me; and, at last, evening fell, and found me wandering without a home or meal. Perhaps, it was better for me even then than I knew, that I had that sampler in my pocket. I don’t know what made me put my hand into my pocket to feel if it was there, but I did so ; and as I did this, I knocked my elbow against a post that stood midway in a little passage, just to prevent its being used by any horse or cart. I don’t think I should have noticed it as I sauntered along, if it had not been for that. I often wonder since, whether the sampler had anything to do with my getting into what I might call a kind of place that night. Well, when I went down the little alley, which gave one or two queer turns, I found myself in a mews, were there were no gentlemen’s carriages, but a number of cabs of one kind and another; and there were all sorts of people about them. There were cabs of all sorts, and horses of all sorts, and men of all sorts too, drivers and helpers, young and old. A few seemed decent men enough; but many were reckless, swearing, drinking fellows—most of these last, young men, with no one to care for in the world, and no one to care for them. There was one man, one of the helpers in the yard, cleaning a rickety old cab, a night cab—for the worst of both cabs and horses, and men too, go on the night work—and he was getting on badly with his job, for he had one thumb tied up; and now and again, he stamped his foot upon the ground with pain. Whatever I had been, I had always had a soft heart for any one in pain; and so I went up to him and said, “Here, mate, I’ll give you a helping hand.” He lookedTHE MIRAGE OF THE STREETS. *3 at me from head to foot, and says, “ Who are you ? ” “ It doesn’t matter who I am,” said I, “ I’ll give you a helping hand.’ ’ 11 And what do you want for it?” said he. “Nothing,” I answered; “ I’ll do it just to give you a lift, and help you through with that hand.” “ Why, here’s a go ! ” says he; “ I asked my brother to help me this very day, and he wouldn’t come under a shilling, although he had nothing to do; and here you come—a stranger, and offer to do it for nothing at all. Now, I do call this ‘ a go! ’ And that’s the way you get yer living, I suppose? But I won’t throw away good luck; here, take this mop and clean this cab, if you are in for work,” and he began to blow his hand with pain. I set to with a will, and I saw him eyeing me all the time. At last the job was finished, and I said, “ Any more, mate ? ” and he said, “No,” and I turned to go away, but he called to me, and said, “ Look here, stranger, you’re a good hand at cleaning a cab; are you as good a one at driving too ? ” “I’ve often cleaned a trap,” said I, “ and driven one too, but I don’t know London.” “Well,” said he, “here’s sixpence, and I’ll show you where you may sleep in our hay-loft tonight; and one good turn deserves another—maybe I can get you a job in the yard.” “ I set to with a will,” And he was as good as his word. I got a shilling there the next day, and then another; and then was taken on regularly of an evening. The men in the yard soon got to like me, and one and another took me about when they could, to make me know the town; and, as I was always very quick at places, I soonTHE MIRAGE OF THE STREETS. *4 picked up the main thoroughfares pretty well. I had had a good education from my poor father and mother, for one in my place in life; so, seeing a chance before me, I made up my mind to make the best of it; and I saved money enough to buy a map, and every spare minute I kept looking at it, and picking up all about the streets and squares. At last, my turn of luck came. The old man who drove this very cab fell ill, and I put in for it, and got it too. There were two brothers of them; one drove a day cab, and the other a night one, and they lived in the only two houses which were in the yard, if they could be called in the yard. They were more in a court at the side of it. I did all I could to help the poor old fellow until he died; and, between his brother and myself, he wanted for nothing until he went. He had no trouble in the world except about the old cab and horse; and it was wonderful how much he took on about these. The whole thing was not worth a ¿610 note; but the old mare used to eat a crust out of his hand, and try to switch the few hairs she had by way of a tail, when he came and rubbed her nose, and said, “Polly, Polly, my pretty,” as sweetly as if he was sixteen and was courting her. The only thing that troubled him, so far as this world was concerned, was who’d drive Polly when he was gone; would he tickle her with the end of the whip, under the right ear, when she rubbed herself up against the left shaft; and would he rub her nose, when she came home, and finish off with the top of his thumb? ’Twas wonderful how much he made of that, and he says to me— “ "Wilson, double up the pillow and make it as like Polly’s head as you can, and put it yonder.” Well, I got it into some kind of a shape, and he, with hard work, for I think it took him ten minutes to do it, gets up on his elbow, and chirps, and says, “Polly!—Now,” says he to me,THE MIRAGE OF THE STREETS. “ let me hear you say Polly.” I tried, I suppose, twenty times up and down, butnoneof my “ Polly s” would please him, until at last I hit it off, and he says, “ You’ll be her Mend; she’ll know you by-and-bye. Now,” says ho, “reach down that whip. This whip,” says he, “isn’tfor what most whips are for, for Polly isn’t like what most horses are. It has a lash on it, but that’s only for the name of the thing. I’ll show you how to use it.” With that he took the end of the handle, and the lash in his hand, and reached out to the pillow with the whip doubled up, and begins to chirp almost like a chick when it has come out of the egg; and he twiddles the whip round and round, and moved it up and down on that part of the pillow where the right ear would have been, if it had been a horse’s head; until at last I saw his grip of it was getting loose, and he leaned back upon the pillow. But he didn’t die then; I saw him once more; he wasn’t to go until he said a good word to me. And this was tho very next day. He knew he was going, for he says, “ Wilson, you listen to what an old man says, one who’s been in the world a long time, and who’s now going out of it, and who’s leaving you and Polly in it. Here are the ri bbons for you,’.' and he pulls a small parcel, no bigger than a man’s glove, out from under his pillow. Now you know, sir, that the reins go by the name of the ribbons very often; and I couldn’t for the life of me make out what he meant; for I knew no reins could fit into so small a parcel as that. But I soon saw what they were, though if he hadn’t been there himself to explain them, no mortal man could have ever guessed what he was driving at. He opened the parcel with his poor trembling hand, and pulls out some pieces of the ribbon, some of it in dark, and some of it light, but all blue. “Wilson,” says he, “there’s a rosette of dark there for eaohside of Polly’s head, and the same of 'light; and there’s a streamer toTHE MIRAGE OP THE STREETS. 16 each. And there’s a bit of a bow-knot of both the colours for the whip, to be tied up near the top. For the last six years Polly’s been on the winning side in the boat race, and keep your eyes open, and your ears. Listen to what you can; and always put up the colour that will win as near as you can guess.” “Bui,” said I, “where’s the use, when no one takes notice of a night cab—’tis dark at night.” “ Yes,” says he, “ but ’tis light in the early morning, and I’m proud that poor Polly and the old cab shouldn’t be so out of the world entirely, as not be worth a bit of ribbon, when you see one on half the little boys and girls in the street. “ And now, my lad; there’s no more I have to think of in this World. ’Tisn’t much I have of this world’s goods, but such as they are—there they are for you. I’ve seen to it that you’re to have the cab after I’m gone—drive straight, be straight, and remember you’re driving to another world yourself, and keep your head straight. Bemember the harness will have to be taken off at last; and think of the rest that will be for those who kept the road as they should. I’ve thought of it many a time when I have been driving about in hail, and rain, and snow. There isn’t much sunshine for us night cabmen, anyhow in the winter time; but I’m going where there will be winter no more,” and he squeezed my hand; and in about an hour after, he dozed off just like a child going to sleep, and woke up no more. He was a good old man. The world, though it didn’t know it, had one less of its good men when he died; and though I was almost ashamed to do it, though I’m not now ashamed to own it, I stooped down and kissed his old weather-beaten face, before they screwed him down. III. As soon as good old Darby Griffith was dead, I put in for the cab, as I said, and got it. But I’m hardly right in saying I got it for any putting in of mine; I4d. a Large Bar. The World’s most marvellous Cleanser and Polisher. Makes Tin like Silver,, Copper like Gold, Paint like New, Brass Ware like Mirrors, Spotless Earthenware, Crockery like Marble, Marble White. 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Well, sir,.after Darby’s funeral, Us brother had me into his house, and says all over again what Darby had said about going straight. He was a good man, and his wife was a good woman, and his little daughter Kitty was a good child. If anything would have kept me straight, it ought to have been having a man like Robert Griffith to help me. But the old blood was in me, and I was to be pulled up another way. Just as some trees acre grown one way, and some another, and some men are cured by one physic and some by another; so, some folks are to be brought right by a strong hand, and some by a weak one. Even with horses there are children with such a light hand that, they’ll rule the fiercest beast, when a man chucking at the reins and digging in the spurs would be thrown in a minute. ’Twas a child that was to be my cure, and the strange part of my life was, what a child had to do with me. For a while I went on very well; when I drove Polly about the town I often thought I saw old Darby sitting alongside me, and I often heard his voice telling me to drive straight and keep straight; and I used at times to think of what would happen to me when I died, and where I should go to, for I knew that that was what Darby meant about the harness being taken off. I got on so well that, I was given a day cab; and in spare times, and when my work was done, I was always welcome at Robert Griffith’s home. His good wife mended my things for me, and Kitty looked after my stockings, and did me many a little kindness, so that I had almost a home with these good folk. I had my Sundays to myself, for our master would not send out any of his cabs on that day; and I always went once in the day with Kitty and her mother to church. Buta gentleman one day treated me to liquor—gentlemen don’t know what they’re doing whenis THE MIRAGE OF THE STREETS. they give drink—and I smashed the cab within an hour of my taking it; and that was an end of me for many a long day. It was not so long in time, for it was only six months I was going wrong; hut I grew desperate when I found I was thrown'on the world again, and I was soon in rags once more. I never went near Griffith’s yard now, hut got odd jobs here and there; and where I should have ended I can’t tell, if it hadn’t been that old Robert spied me one day as he was driving out by Ilighgate, and he jumps off his box like a young man; and before I knew where I was, he had me into his cab. “ I’m returning empty,” said he, “ and you must come back with me. Promise like an honest man—on the word of an honest man—that you won’t stir out of the cab, and I’ll drive you where you’ll find a friend.” Well, sir, to be trusted like an honest man was too much for me; so I gave him my word; and on we drove. We cabmen get queer \ fares sometimes, but I never heard of one having a queerer fare than I was. I knew the road. well, and every step the horse took I knew was bringing me nearer to Griffith’s own house, and often I looked out of the window, hoping he was going to turn to the right, or to the left; but on he went, until he drove into the old yard, and stopped at his own door. More than once I had a mind to jump out, when I saw where I was being driven to; but I felt I had been trusted as an honest man, and I couldn’t do it. “ I’ve brought him home,” said Griffith to his wife—and she cried, and Kitty cried, and Griffith himself got watery about the eyes; and, to tell the truth, I felt very queer myself. They didn’t scold me, but Griffith’s wife took me aside that evening, and pulls out a little bag that I knew well kept their savings. “John,” said she, “ go and buy yourself a decent bit of clothes ”—and her trusting me half killed me. Well, sir, I got the clothes, and then she says, “ Bide here quietly aTHE MIRAGE OF THE STREETS. >9 bit—we can make a comer where you can sleep, and my husband will try if he can get you on a night cab again—’twould be no use trying for a day cab, though perhaps you may come to that again some time.” That good woman talked many things to me while I was in her home; and when I left it, after I had got a night cab again through her husband’s interceding for me, I determined to do better, and to go through any hardship, not to come down on them for anything; and to pay them back, if by any chance I could. And all this, sir, I never made doubt, since I came to think of such things at all, belonged in some way to the sampler. Many a time I read it; only, knowing what mother thought about the angels, I never could see that old Darby, with his weather-beaten face, could have been one—nor yet his brother Robert—but I felt I was being helped along in a wonderful way; and that I had met at any rate with Mends when I was most down on my back—and friends, too, who always tried to do me good for the other world as well as this. But now, sir, you shall hear what no one in the world but Kitty knows—for my wife yonder is the little Kitty that I have been speaking about. I had been having a bad spell of it, and had come home more than one morning or two without having had even a single fare. A little of this work goes a great way with a man who has to pay the master so much a night, whether he makes it or not. And I am sorry to say my bad luck was bringing me into something worse than the loss of money, for I wras beginning to take some drink again “ to keep myself up,” as I thought. Well, sir, I believe I should have gone to the bad again, but that what I am now going to tell you happened. [Lowering his voice, and motioning to the clergyman to put his head nearer to him, the former cabman continued—] The good words on the sampler,SO THE MIRAGE OF THE STREETS. sir, were going to prove my friend. I was driving along down some middling streets off the City Road, when, as I went along one, I saw something on the pavement ; it was not close to a gas lamp, so I could not tell at once what it was; it looked more like a heap of clothes than anything else. But I was not left long in doubt upon the matter. As soon as I drew up quite opposite it, I heard a pitiful little voice saying, “ Good coachman, help me; I’m so tired! ” I often thought afterwards of her saying “ Coachman,” and said to myself, that proved she was a lady, and came from the country, as she said. “Here’s a go !” said I, “a child out by herself at this hour of night! ” and I got off the box to see what she was like. She was about seven years old, to judge by her look, and her clothes were a very mixed lot; they were very good, as we found out afterwards, inside; but they were only poor outside. And the reason for that was found out by-and-bye. I took her up in my arms, and brought her on to the next gas lamp to see what she was like; for ’twould not have been worth while to put her in the cab. Then I saw that she wasn’t a common child, however common her outside clothes might have been; and her face wasn’t a common child’s face; but such as I’ve often seen on ladies in the open carriages at Hyde Park Corner. “ Coachman,” said she, “father said he’d come for me in a minute when he left me in this street, and he’s been away a long time, and I don’t know where he’s gone, and will you take care of me until the morning ? ” That was a queer thing, you’ll say, sir, for a child to ask a strange man to take charge of her like that. “ Ho, young one,” said I, “ I can’t take care of you; I’ve no place to take you to. I must drive you to the workhouse, and they will take care of you there.” For you see, sir, I lodged where there were a lot of other fellows; and a child would have no business inaplace like that. With that, I lifted her up in my arms, andTHE MIRAGE OF THE STREETS. 21 put her into the cab. Perhaps, sir, ’twas no affair of mine, and I might have left her for the police; but the sampler came up in my mind, and I thought, “Perhaps she’s some one’s joy,” the same as I was, and better worth being so, too, and so I thought I’d have her seen to at once. But thi3 time when I lifted her, bless you, sir, I felt she was as light as a feather; and even through her clothes I could feelherlittle bones. Says I, “I must drive you to a hospital.” ‘ With that, sir—and you’ll hardly believe it—she strokes my face with her little thin hand, and says, “ Please take care of me all night.” There was something about that child, sir, that made me feel quite foolish like; so, instead of saying, “ Nonsense, little one! they’ll take good care of you at the hospital,” I said, “Well, we’ll see,” and I put her carefully inside, and began to drive slowly along, all-the time thinking to myself what exactly I should do; for you see, sir—and I should have told you this before—she said her mother had died only two days ago, after coming up fresh from the country; and her father, who used only to come a couple of times a year to see them, had forgotten her in the street. “ Hem! ” said I to myself, has he forgotten her ? Young ones are dropped about in a queer way in these London streets. There’s such a thing as “forgetting on purpose.’ ” Well, sir, I kept crawling about, for I dare say a full hour, when at last I stopped near a ga3 lamp, and thought I’d look in at her. There she was, sir, sleeping as sound as if she was in her own little bed, wherever that was; but she was wheezing at times when she drew her breath, and the hospital kept coming fresh up into my mind. Says I to myself, “ I’ll just drive there, and say nothing about it,” when she opens her eyes, and sees me, and up with her little thin hand, and strokes my rough face again. “ Oh,” she says, “ I’m so comfortable; I’ll sleep here all night.aa THE MIRAGE OF THE STREETS. And this is a nice carriage, for I saw it a minute ago all covered with gold, and two white horses drawing it, and an angel holding the reins; but he wasn’t driving the horses, for they seemed to go along by themselves; and we were all going to heaven to be with mother.” It went to my heart, sir, to hear her talk of “ angels,” and “mother;” and I thought, “Well, I don’t know about the horses, miss (for I felt she was a lady), but the driver of this cab ain’t an angel.” I told you she said, “ I’ll sleep here all night; ” and will you believe it, I felt as though the cab were all hers, a brougham of her own, and that I was her coachman, and I musn’t say “Ho.” “Well,” said I, “I’ll go to the yard, and take out the horse and you shall stay there until the morning.” And home I went. I did. And I declare I wonder at it now; and I took out the horse, and I wrapped my own coat about her; and I says, “Ain’t you afraid to be here all by yourself?” and she says, “Ho. Mother told me before she died that the angels would take care of me,” and she nods her head and says, “ Good-night, coachman,” like a lady, and she was fast off again. There I sat on the step of the cab —and walked round it—and up and down in front of it, allthat blessed night, sometimes thinking what a fool I was, and sometimes feeling like one of the soldiers on guard at the palace, but there I spent that night. When morning came she roused up, and first of all says, “ Where ami?” then she asks, “Did my father come for me,” then she put up her mouth and she kisses me, she did. And if I had never been the better for doing for her, but that kiss, ’twould have paid me well. As soon as I could, I got Mrs. Griffith to come and see after her; and she found out from her that her father seldom came to see them; and then they would rather he stayed away. He was a grand-looking man, but fierce in his words, and ways. And her mother had been a long time ill,THE MIRAGE OF and when she died, the father had promised to take her to a nice homo, hut had brought her that ugly dress, and put her in it, and left her last night in the street. Mrs. Griffith would have taken her in at once, but the child says, “I want to see the primroses again. I’ll go home with you when I see the primroses; but let me see them, for they were all just going to blow when we came up to London.” I don’t know what came over Mrs. Griffith, but she looked long and earnest at the child, and I saw her thinking within herself, and then, as though she made up her mind all of a sudden, she says, “ You shall go, my dear, and my little daughter Kitty shall go,with you, and I’ll go too.” And so we went, and I says to myself, as I sat on the box with those inside, “ Well, I don’t know whether I’m a fool or not, driving a fare like this,” though it wasn’t a fare at all; and I wouldn’t have taken sixpence from them, even if they had all the money in the Bank of Eng- THE STREETS. *3 land. Well, sir, we drove four miles out of town to a place where I knew the primroses grew; and Kitty and her mother took her out of the cab, and sat her down upon the little bank. She pulls them each a little bunch, and then she pulls one for me, and she puts it into my buttonhole. ’Twas the last flower in this world she ever pulled, for she turned whiter and whiter, and looked as if she’d faint away. Well she soon began to talk bits of odd sentences, “Dear mother,” “Holy angels,” “All white,” and the like; but the strangest of all was, “ If I can, I’ll pay you, kind man. I will.” That was the longest sentence she said, and with her head on Mrs. Griffith’s breast, she just dropped off to sleep. We were all in a fright, I can tell you. People might say we murdered the child ! there would perhaps be an inquest — who knew ?—-but the thing blew over very quiet. The rest is soon told. Things didn’t mend with me for a good24 THE MIRAGE OF THE STREETS. •while, and I was, one dark night about one o’clock, driving along the top of the very street where I met the child first, and I says almost like a child, as light as I don’t know how many gas lamps, only with a white light. I was half afraid to drive down, but I “ She just dropped off to sleep.”—Page 23, to myself, “ Ah, little lass, I’m in want of the holy angels, or somebody, to help me now,” when what should I see down that street but a something that looked was hard up—at the very worst; and I says, “ If so be that it was an angel in heaven, it won’t hurt me; and if so be ’tis the child she won’t hurt me, least of all;me mirage op the streets. *3 and the sampler, too, came strong into my mind, so down I drove. The nearer I got to the place, the more the light faded away: but on I went; and I was surprised to find nothing there but a man who says, “ Hoi! cab! you drive me to the Elephant and Castle,” and before I knew where I was, in he jumped; and I had of course to drive on; and that man kept me three mortal hoars going from one short job to another, besides all the time he kept me standing at the first place we went to. And what I .got for that job set me on my legs once more. ’Twas two months after that, when I was down again, and things very bad, and this time ’twas four o’clock in the morning, and I was standing in the middle of the rank, and two others, one before and one behind me, and I was thinking, “AhI shouldn’t I be very glad to see the little dear once more,” for she. was more or less in my mind, when I saw the light again; but this time ’twas coming towards me, I knew the Colour of the light, and it seemed to take shape the nearer it came. The snow was falling, but ’twas whiter than all the snow in the world ; and alongside it I saw something black, and both of them moving together. “Ah,” said I to myself, “ I’ll see what it is this time; and on it came : but just as I was going to say, “Is that my little dear?” a swish of snow flew by me> and I was half blinded for the moment; but I had no time to think of anything, for that instant gentleman hails me, just at the very spot where the light and the snow got mixed up in one, and says, “Drive me to the London Docks.’ ’ ’Twas a good fare there, and ’twas better than the fare, for I got a return; and both of them had an open hand; and I got on again for a spell. Why that gentleman picked me out from the middle, and did not take either the cab before, or behind me, never to this day can I tell. I think I saw the lights—no, I’m sure, for I remember each time well—full six times in all; but2« THE MIRAGE OF THE STREETS. rme from the other world, the I’ve made my story long as it is, and I’ll only tell you of the sixth—the last. It was that which made me a jobmaster. ’Twas full two years after the blessed little one (for that’s what I call her now, and sometimes “ the little angel; ” though our old parson used to say the holy dead aren’t and never will be angels — but more than the angels; however, I call her the angel}—full two years after the little one died, I was one night within three or four streets of the place where I first saw her. Times were bad then, too, as they had often been before. Well, sir, I was moving along slowly, and at that very time saying over to myself the words of the sampler. And do you know, it was always when I have been most thinking over the words of the sampler, and making them a prayer like, that I saw tkit light, whatever it was, and got those fares and helps, for all the world as if my good old mother’s prayers were heard, and some one was sent to messed world where she had gone so long ago. I was going along slowly, as I was saying to you, when I says to myself, “A man may chance to pick up a fare in one street as well as another; anyhow, I’ll drive past the old street, just for the love of the little one ; and because I think it will do me good.” I was worse off that day, sir, than I had been for many a day; but as soon as I made that resolution with myself, I felt that comfortable that, I was somehow almost sure some good was coming. Well, sir, on I went, and as I came, to the top of the street, there, right before me, just in the old place, I saw the light as plain as I had ever done before. ’Twas the same light, and had the same shape; and it was standing quite still, whatever it was. But for that light, sir, I should have never driven down that street, nor ever met there with what made me a job-master, and put me up in the world for the rest of my days,THE MIRAGE OF THE STREETS. besides making me think of the other world; for I said to myself, u It won’t do for a man who sees these lights to be going in deeds of darkness.” I didn’t gallop my horse down the street as many a man would have done—no, I knew better than that now—I pulled up to a walk; I felt, sir, like a man going to church, who goes reverently, and quietly, if he knows what he is about. I hoped in my heart of hearts-—though I was a fool for doing so, for I might have known better from the past—that, perhaps, if I came along quietly, the light, or figure, or whatever it was, would stay until I got up with it; but just as before, so it was now, the nearer I came, the more it faded away. Still I went on, until I came to the spot itself. It was the very spot where I had seen the blessed little one for the first time. And there there was somebody, sure enough, but it wasn’t she. No, ’twas something very unlike. ’Twas a miserable old man, all tumbled down on the pavement; you wouldn’t give a shilling for all he had on his back; and he had a big bag with him, full of old pieces of paper and wood, and odds and ends that he had picked up; and for which, as I heard afterwards, he used to get a few pence at a marine store from time to time. He was groaning awfully, and when I came up, he cried, “ Cabman, take me to the hospital, for my leg’s broken, and, I’m afraid, in two places.” Well, sir, I’m ashamed to say it now, I was that ignorant of what I should have done that, I wasn’t ready to do it. u No,” thought I to myself, “ it won’t do the like of you any harm to stay there for a bit; and the police will be sure to find you out.” But it wasn’t for long that I had that bad thought; I said to myself, “ Who knows but that the blessed little one brought me here to help this old man ? I’ll drive him off to the hospital.” So I got him in, but ’twas with great work, and he screamed almost with pain. His old sack, too, I bundled up on the top of the cab, for though it was worth only a38 THE MIRAGE OF THE STREETS. few halfpence, and he was in such pain, he had that love of money that he wouldn’t part with it; perhaps he hoped to go out with it again. When we got to the hospital, I had to give an account of him, and they took my name and much,” but he never offered me a penny piece, nor did I think he had one to give. When he said, “ Come and see me, won’t you ? ” he said too, “ for I haven’t a friend in the world.” I don’t know that I’d have gone to see him for his saying that, but that M ’Twas a miserable old man.”—Page 27« address, and number; and I didn’t know but that, if anything happened to him I might be wanted. But if I should be, I would be easy enohgh to find, for before I parted with him he says, “ Come to me, and see me, won’t you ? ” and he says, u Thank ’ee very I thought to myself, “ Why, you’re like the blessed little one in that—and though you’ve nothing in you to draw a man to you, I’ll come.” And so, sir, I went to see him every Sunday, which was visiting day, for I daresay six months;THE MIRAGE OP THE STREETS. and the more I went to see him, the more my heart turned in pity to him, and I used to bring him a few flowers, and one little thing and another, such as he was allowed to have. But one Sunday when I went, the sister who kept the ward meets me at the door with a long face, and she shakes her head, as soon as ever I came in. Said she, “ He’s taken a bad turn, and we don’t think he’ll get through.” He said if he was very bad and going off we were to send for you ; and I believe if you hadn’t come this afternoon, as I knew you would do, I’d have had to send for you before four-and-twenty hours.” When I looked at him, I saw a great change had come over him; he was a dying man; and I promised him I’d come and see him again in the morning. I did go, and I found a screen all round the bed, for they put that round when a man is dying, to keep him from being disturbed; and not to make the rest of the people in the ward feel queer. He had all his senses about him as clear as a bell, and he says to me—for he had learnt my name —“John, stoop down, put your ear down close to my mouth. I’m going now, and all I’ve gathered is no use to me, but ’twill be of use to you; will you promise mo not to spend it for two years after you get it, and to keep it afterwards as long as you can ? ” You may be sure, sir, I was surprised, for I thought he hadn’t sixpence in the world, but I promised him I would. “ How,” says he, “ look here; sister has my will. I made it here a week ago, and it says, you’re to have my clothes, and that’s all I have; but inside the cuffs of my old coat, stitched in where no one would ever guess they were, you’ll find two banknotes, and those are what you’re to keep safe.” The old man died that night, and sure enough I got a letter from the sister telling me of the will. There was a deal of laughing at the hospital over my legacy, and I pretended to laugh myself—for I ‘was sore- afiaid30 THE MIRAGE OF THE STREETS. that the secret might get out. So I took the clothes, and went home, and opened the sleeves of the coat; and there, one in each sleeve, I found two Bank of England notes, and each of them was for ¿6500. I cut up all the rest of the things, for, said I to myself, “ perhaps he was so fond of being secret that, even at the last, he may have kept something to himself ; ” but I found nothing more. I was now a made man; I had enough to start in a good way of business on my own account. But I kept faith with the dead man; I put the money in the bank, and let it lie at interest; and never drew a penny of it for two whole years. Many a time I was tempted to put an end to my life of hardship, and use the money at once; but I stuck fast to my intention to keep my word. At last, the end of the two years came; and I drew out half the money. I thought ’twas keeping good faith with ,the old man if I let half He at interest; besides, it would be a nice nest- egg to fall back upon, if times of trouble came. But they never came again, at least so far as money was concerned. I became a job-master on my own account, and things prospered with me; and I am as you see me now. “And the little one?” said the minister, inquiringly. “ I never saw the light again,” said Wilson. “ Once I thought I saw it, when our little Bobin was dying; I thought I saw it near his cradle; but I was only dreaming, for I woke up with a start. I had been watching the little lad all night, and was very weary, and had dropped asleep. So I went over to the little cot to look at him, and then I saw him lying with the most heavenly smile on his little face, just such a smile as he’d have had if he’d seen an angel; and the angel had said, ‘ Come away, where you’ll be ill no more.’ And his little hand was out, just the way he used to put it out, when he wanted me to take him out with me; and there was a look of love all overTHE MIRAGE OF THE STREETS. his face, so that it was beautiful to behold.” The good minister of Change-well mused much that Christmas night over all that he had heard. Pondering over his fire, he thought of all the angels had done at the coming of the Lord; one after another, Bible thoughts of their appearances came before his mind. He never told John “Wilson what his opinion was as to what he had told him, nor did John ever ask him; but he preached ere long some sermons on ministries from the other life, which made some folk say one thing, and some another; but the general opinion which was held in the village after these sermons was that, the other world was nearer to us than we supposed; and that, there was no reason why all about the holy beings from another world who visited this, should belong only to Bible times. tonion ; Printed by Pwuw, Gaudsk* .& Co., F&riingdon Road, E.ÇA SERIES OF PENNY STORIES, Bt *he Rev. P. B, POWER, M.A., avthox or “ th* onuts miHU,” Demy 8m 32 pages, Pictorial Paper Wrapper, Id. each. Born with a Silver Spoon in His Month. It Only Wants Turning Ronnd. The Choir Boy of Harlestone Minster. “ He’s Gone Yonder.” A Christmas Surprise. The Gold that Wouldn’t Go.” “ He’s Overhead.” The Dead Man’s Specs. House and Home. The Mirage of the Streets. Demy 8vo. 32 pages, Pictorial Paper Wrapper, Id. each. Three Times Tried. By B. L. Fabjeon. Golden Feather. By the Author of “Mehalah,” ft*. For Dick’s Sake. By Mrg. J. H. Riddell, author of “ George Geith,” &o. Slipping Away. By the Author of “ Yicta VictriK.* Saved by the Skin of his . Teeth. By Helen Shiptow. Lord John. By G. Muttillb Fen*. Gone. By Kathabimm S. HAOQtrdza» Paying the Penalty. By Charles Gibbons, A Terrible Inheritance. By Grant Allen, In Marine Armour. By G. Manville Fenn. My Soldier Keeper. By C. Phillepps^Wollet. By Telegraph. By J. Maolaren Cobban, Constable A1. By J. M. Saxbt. The Plague Ship. By G. A. Henty. Staunch : A Story of Steel. By G. Manville Fenn. A Living Apparition. By Grant Allen. Brought to Light. By Mrs. Newman. Two Volumes (containing Six Stories in each), paper boards, 6d. each. SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE, LONDON i NORTHUMBERLAND AVENUE, W.C., 97, WESTBOURNE GROTE, W. 48, QUEEN VICTORIA STREET, E.G.COLOURS—EXQUISITE. 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