At last

Front matter

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Dedication

I dedicate my book , by kindest personal permission , given at

Palazzo Capodimonte y Napoli ,

to her most gracious Majesty

Preface

J UST look at that Mount Beau Ideal! How resplendent he is in that wonderful light! He lifts his unattainable summit into the blue, and veils it among those mysterious, many-tinted clouds. Alas! how imperfect all human achievement in view of that sublime mountain! Better so. Pity to the climber who has reached his aim, his Beau-Ideal. Eternity will not be long enough for that.

In deepest sympathy with all my sisters and fellowworkers of the Woman’s Christian Temperance Union all over the world, I have wished to add my mite to all noble, unselfish work done for the Master, by writing this true story.

It can not be urged with success that I have exaggerated in the portions that treat of the temperance question, for no language that I know anything about, would be adequate to depict the scenes of Slumdom in any land or city.

If my boy-hero and my heroine travel somewhat in France and the Riviera of Italy, they have ever the one great aim — to bring to God a consecrated service. My reader who is ever a student, and constantly discovering the limited extent of his own knowledge, who is an enthusiastic lover of art, history and historical scenes and natural beauty, will follow them, if not to learn, to refresh his memory. He will expand a hint thrown out to whet curiosity and inquiry in less cultivated, or youthful readers. Perhaps he may thus dream again the sunny dreams of his own journeyings, that, hidden away in the store-room of the mind, might not otherwise be turned over and recalled to memory.

If the golden promises, and the resulting peace born of them to my heroine and her laddie, should bring comfort, healing, strength to rise and conquer, to any troubled and tempted soul, the writer will have her reward.

Chapter I. No. 12 Free Street

VIA DOLOROSA, VIA CRUCIS— VIA LUCIS.

“All common things, each day’s events,

That with the hour begin and end,

Our pleasures and our discontents,

Are rounds by which we may ascend.”

I T was a large room with three windows, one looking over a church toward the sunrising, one southward over several church spires, roofs and chimneys, and far to the left, over a strip of the shimmering Lake Ontario; the third looked westward, through which the setting sun was pouring his golden light.

The apartment wore an air of refinement and taste, and its command of light precluded gloom, and that feeling of being shut in, produced by walls and darkened windows. One felt the conviction on entering it, that a noble soul, with the inward eye turned toward the true “Light,” had chosen it, and made it a dwelling-place of gladsomeness and peace. Through a large arch, hung with white lace

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portieres, one saw an inner room, containing a large, halftester bed, and near it a smaller child’s couch, both so white they might have been snowed on.

All the windows were draped in pure white, the woodwork was white, and the walls were of a delicate acqua marine. The space between the east and south windows was adorned by a full-length mirror, with a table in front of it, on which stood a large bowl filled with wild-flowers and a variety of ferns. The walls were hung with photographs of Raphael’s gloriou’s Madonna, his Transfiguration on the Mount, that beautiful portrait of him, that one sees in the Louvre and in Florence, and a portrait of Luther and Melancthon. There were also two aquarelles, one a view of the Campagna di Roma, with the Alban and Sabine Hills in the background, looking like heaps of precious stones in the winter lights, and the distant, snow-wreathed Soracte. The other was a sketch of Giotto’s marvelous tower of the Brunelleschi Duomo in Florence, both painted during happy days in la Bell’ Italia.

A small, low book-case contained choice classics, and a carpet of pale, subdued tints covered the floors of both chambers.

A gilt cage hung outside the south window, containing a canary — Roma — for he was a native of Rome — which sang a brilliant melody, for you must know Roma is an educated bird. On a rug near the door lay Don Pedro, a splendid Mount Saint Bernard of purest race.

A round table stood before the west window, the tray laid for tea for two, and a tiny, shining brass tea-kettle on a

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ii small petroleum stove, sent up a cheery column of steam.

And now permit me to introduce to you the two occupants of the apartment. Mrs. Molada sits on a low prie- Dieu chair near the sopha, playing lightly ‘ ‘ Addio Bella Napoli ” on the guitarre, and little Harry, the hero of this true story, is just putting the tea-pot on the table, humming at the same time the sweet melody, that awakens dreams of the blue Bay of Naples, its Capri and Ischia, its Sorento, its lovely shores, once the delight of Virgil and of Tasso, and its awful Vesuvius.

Doctor Molada, a man of high standing in the professional world, and well remembered in Toronto, had left his wife and only child a competency, which he had, unfortunately, invested in the Central Bank. When the crash of that bank came, Mrs. Molada’ s wealth took its flight for other lands, where it wrote sonnets, and disported itself gaily, like the Jackdaw of the fable, and the result to her was a change from her beautiful home Donthank, to two chambers, her guitarre, her piano and organ were sold, and a portion of her large and valuable library.

Through the kind efforts of the Rev. Dr. Glenavon, pastor of the Fleur-de-lis Church, called by his own people Pastor Glenavon, the equipments of the chambers I have described, were bought in at the sale of Donthank, and presented to her.

Dr. and Mrs. Molada had been— during their residence in Toronto — members of the Fleur-de-lis church, and the good pastor had been as a brother to them, and, like all great souls, when the tornado of sorrow broke upon them, he was true to the old friendship.

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As Mrs. Molada sits in her low chair, sweeping the strings of her guitarre, you see a lady somewhat above the medium height, with a large head, gold-brown hair of that rich and rare shade one sees in the old paintings of Venice, a regal brow, too high for an artist’s type of beauty, a countenance illuminated by large, soft, lustrous hazel-gray eyes, and a firm mouth, about which plays a pensive smile — a mouth, though firm, of mild and gentle expression. Her graceful form is draped in black — there is not a hint of color about her save the gleam of her wonderful eyes and magnificent hair. At the first interview, you are struck with a sublime something that seems to rest like a halo over the form and features, and fill the great eyes with a radiant light, and you look again to discover the mystery. When you come to know her better, you will understand it. Her attitude towards Christ is fairly well expressed by the little hymn which she wrote in the hour of her bitterest sorrow:

HOW LONG.

How long, oh Lord, how long ?

Has been my constant moan;

But now my only song —

I trust in Thee alone.

Thy will is always good,

And what Thou dost is best,

Thou knowest, Lord, I would Seek only Thee for rest.

My sufferings seem small,

When I recall Thy pain,

And Thou hast borne them all,

That I with Thee might reign,

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Might triumph over sin,

And walk in constant light;

The victory I win Through Thy eternal might.

Harry is almost a perfect copy of his mother. His golden hair tosses itself in a beautiful confusion of freedom-loving curls over a massive head of grand proportions, and his eyes are the loveliest sapphire blue. When under the influence of any strong emotion, like listening to favorite poetry or music, the eyes seem aflame with latent fire, and the childface becomes pale. Raphael would have chosen him as a model for one of his glorious boy-angels; he reminds one of Fra Angelico’s purest, divinest forms. The head is that of a philanthropist and of a genius. Will he write in marble or in colors ? — in music or in words ? Vast possibilities lie wrapped up in the little form. As you regard him, you see the fact, and you ask the same questions his mother has asked herself a thousand times.

She has devoted herself during his young life, to the training of his rare mind, taking care to lay the foundations of a high, all-sided character broad and strong. But Mrs, Molada is in a rapid decline, combined with heart trouble, forbidden much physical exertion, and you feel a wild throb at your heart as you look at mother and son, and see that the boy will probably soon be motherless, as well as fatherless.

A tap at the door interrupted the playing and the humming, and a kind-faced woman opened it, to enquire if she could do anything more, and her little daughter, Bald6ra, somewhat larger than Harry, peeped in from behind her mother.

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Mrs. Trueman is Mrs. Molada’s landlady. She is a poor widow ? Bless you, no; she is a poor woman with a drunken husband; she rents the chambers, and gives attendance, and takes in ironing to support herself and her helpless children and her useless husband.

Query. Does a woman get out of her ‘ * sphere ’ ’ when she supports a lazy, good-for-nothing drunkard, who swore at God’s altar to “ cherish ” her ?

How glad I am that woman has a ‘ ‘ sphere ’ ’ ! That has been unanimously granted her. It never entered into the head of any man under the sun to deny that woman has a “sphere,” even if he have none himself. If he had, why does he intrude so much into hers ?

A sphere of which the centre is everywhere, the circumference nowhere.

Now a is a large place.

Look at it!

If she had received only a

would have been left out, over could have had there much space which she no claim.

But she has a “ sphere.” Look at that, and see the vast difference between it and a flat circle. Woman has an absolute right to every inch of that globe — every square inch in it is hers — every cube inch in it is hers — every superficial inch is hers, and, therefore, the entire globe is hers, to live in, to work in, to use, and God has “pre-ordained” her to occupy it. She may dig down to the heart of it, climb the highest mountain-peak of it, or go down into Slumdom.

“ Do you demand proof? Here it is.” Psalm lxviii-11: “ The Lord gave the word; great was the company of those that published it. ” I wish that every woman knew that the pronoun in the original Hebrew is in the feminine, and means women. The New Version translates it properly. “The Lord giveth the word; the women that publish the tidings are a great host.” Wonderful prophecy! for this is a prophetic Psalm — wonderful, partial fulfillment in this age!

This is emphatically woman’s age. The world can not do without her work. If the great reforms that our troubled world so much needs, are ever to be a glorious reality, and not the wild chimeras of a disordered brain, it must be largely accomplished by woman’s influence, woman’s heart, and woman’s work. The world’s cosmopolitan minds already recognize this.

Let it not be forgotten — a most striking fact — that the first commission given by the Christ after the resurrection, was to women. The first commission is in Matthew xxviii- 10. The second in John xx-17. This is indisputable. Jesus sent women to tell men.

It is clear, then, that woman has been pre-ordained by i6 the “Bishop of Souls” to proclaim His gospel, and in presence of this royal ordination, “every mouth shall be stopped,” that would hinder her in this the “ King’s business.” No deputed commission is hers. It is direct from the Head “ of all power in heaven and in earth.”

One thought more. Women were present at the Pentecost — Acts i-14, Acts ii-i, and, “they w’ere all filled with the Holy Ghost,” — “ the women, and Mary the mother of Jesus.”

Mrs. Trueman was a true soul, full ofi large sympathies, and the whiteness of those beds already referred to, proved her loving care of her lodgers.

But to return to our sheep.

The sun had set, and the gray shadows of twilight were busy extinguishing every ray of light,- when they had finished tea.

Harry, with rare handiness and grace for such a wee laddie, had put all in its place, his mother watching him the while with a yearning tenderness, and what an inexpressible solace he was to her, only her great mother-heart and God knew.

Seating himself close to his mother, he said: “ Mater, we are very, very poor. We have not food for to-morrow. What shall we do?”

“You remember I told you, Harry, that when the Glasgow Bank failed, ladies in Edinburgh and elsewhere, who had dwelt in mansions, and driven in carriages, were obliged to hide themselves in attics, sometimes up eight stories or more, and sew or knit, or do anything. And

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they had not as we have had, a ndble pastor, to buy in favorite objects to furnish these home-like rooms, as our dear Dr. Glenavon has done.”

“If we only had our dear piano in that space there on the east side, near that pleasant window, and the organ in that corner between the south and west windows, it would be so nice — just perfect! ”

“Yes, dearie, but we must be patient and thankful. How good and true God has been to us. Bring your little Bible, son, and let us see from that, whether we are ‘ very, very poor,’ as you think.”

“And your guitarre, too? We will sing, will we not? ”

“Now, son, turn first to Isaiah liv-5,” and Harry read: “ For thy Maker is thine husband; the Lord of Hosts is his name.”

‘ * Such a ‘ husband * can never fail, Harry, for he is the Omnipotent, ‘in whom all fullness dwells.’ ” Colossians i-19.

“ Next find Jeremiah xlix-i 1.” Again the musical childvoice read: “ Leave thy fatherless children, I will preserve them alive, and let thy widows trust in me.”

“ Then Psalm cxlvi-9:” “ The Lord relieveth the fatherless and widow.”

“ Now Proverbs xv-25:” “The Lord will destroy the house of the proud; but he will establish the border of the widow. ’ ’

“Next Exodus xxii-21-22:” “Ye shall not afflict any widow, or fatherless child. If thou afflict them in any wise, and they cry at all unto me, I will surely hear their cry.”

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“ That is just wonderful, mater.’ ’

“The truth is, son, the grandest, choicest promises in God’s word, are to the widow and orphan.”

“Mater, people can not know these words are in the Bible; if they did, they would not worry so, would they? ”

“ Nor think themselves ‘very, very poor’.”

“ Oh, mater! I did not understand when I said that."

“ No, dearie, I know. Now, we will couple with the foregoing, two sublime and glorious assurances. You will find the first in i Corinthians iii-2 1-22-23. The second is in Romans viii-28.”

Harry, trained in finding places in his Bible, having committed the names of all its books to memory, and knowing just where each book was to be found, could almost open at the place sought.

Not like a person I once saw, when the pastor announced the first reading-lesson for ii Chronicles, turned to the list of the names of the books of the Bible, to find where Chronicles came! Not to be able to turn to a book at once, is as bad as having dust on one’s Bible.

Again Harry read: “For all things are yours, whether Paul, or Apollos, or Cephas, or the world, or life, or death, or things present, or things to come; all are yours; and ye are Christ’s; and Christ is God’s.”

“And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God. ’ How I love those ‘ knows ’ of the Bible. They leave no doubt, no question, all is absolute certainty. It is not I hope, nor think, but ‘ I know’.”

“ For we know that if our earthly house of this tabernacle

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were dissolved, we have a building of God, an house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. ’ ’ ii Corinthians v-i.

“ Beloved, now are we the sons of God, and it doth not yet appear what we shall be, but we know that when he shall appear we shall be like him; for we shall see him as he is.” i John iii-2.

“We know that he heareth us.” i John v-15.

“These marvelous promises, chZri, comprehensible only to faith, these ‘knows/ are for all God's children , and since you and I have taken Christ for our Lord and King, they are ours. But, they are only for them. There is not a promise to the rebel. So you see, cheri, we can not possibly estimate our riches, they are so vast; they fill the Now and the Eternities.”

A carriage was heard to drive up and stop in front of the house, and Harry ran to the window. “ Oh, Miitterchen! It is Mrs. Raben, with carriage, and coachman and footman, and he has got a large basket! How nice! You said you knew — you trusted. God has heard! ”

“There!”

“ Mrs. Raben said something to the footman, and he has shut the carriage door again. She is not coming up. The footman is bringing up the basket. You will not permit him to leave it? It is like sending an empty carriage to a funeral. * ’

‘ ‘ Let us hear the message, cheri. ’ ’

In answer to the knock, Harry opened the door. Don Pedro barked — he understood! he had heard!

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The liveried footman, setting down the basket, delivered a polite preamble, and ended that ‘ ‘ Mrs. Raben was greatly hurried — would call next week.”

“Harry, say we thank Mrs. Raben very much for her thoughful kindness.” The footman departed, and Harry set down the basket and shut the door.

‘ ‘ Mutterchen! ' ’

“Yes, dearie.”

“ Is Mrs. Raben a true lady? Or has she only money f Is she a snob ? She dares to send you up a basket by her servant — she, sitting in her carriage! ”

‘ ‘ Harry, the Lord sent the basket. Let us not worry over the manners of those who brought it. Is there just a little pride in hiding, son ? You are too little a boy to know that the world is full of shams and snobs. A true character knows that money does not make true merit, or high culture and breeding per se. But it is a mighty factor for good, consecrated to God.

She would not have dared act so if we had been at Donthank.”

‘ ‘ There would have been no need, Harry. The Central Bank made all the trouble — but it has been permitted.”

“Why?”

“ I can not answer you — I have many thoughts about it. But, now, bring in Roma, or we shall have him hoarse; how sweetly he sings to-night! ”

Patting Don Pedro’s beautiful head, he went to the window followed by the dog, when he suddenly exclaimed,

“ Oh, Mutterchen! Here are Pastor and Mrs. Glenavon, and she is carrying a basket!” and Harry flew down the stairway to meet them.

“We have just come to say good evening for a minute,” said Mrs. Glenavon, entering. “ I have been so much engaged to-day, that I could not come earlier. To-morrow will be my husband’s birthday, and as you are not able to join us just yet, I thought we would run over and bring you a share of our preparations.”

“And I suspect,” said the pastor, “that Harry will find his favorite cake, to say nothing of a certain cream — Charlotte Russe, which is rather toothsome for older boys.”

The Rev. Dr. Glenavon was a born pastor. His tall and slender figure was seen quite as frequently at the doors of the poor and neglected, as at those of the opulent. He had a true sympathy for the rich, who are often misunderstood and undeservedly censured, and from whom impossibilities are sometimes expected; but there was not a single grain of snobbishness or toadyism in his composition. Simple and unassuming in manners, he made himself at home everywhere. In the home where Sorrow had enthoned herself, there he sat down at the hearthstone of the heart, where ofttimes only the gray ashes of consumed earthly joys and hopes were left, and which no leaping flame should again gladden, and in just the right words held up the torch of eternal hope and faith. And when he went away people said,

“ What a beautiful life! ”

In the pulpit he captivated the thinkers, and the non-reflecting he set a thinking. Whether he examined the surface, face, or plunged beneath the surface, or looked at the under side of things, or dug to the core of them, or traced the guiding Hand in the mazes of life’s tragedy, there were always the racy style, the quaint, sparkling thought, bracing the intellectual being like a mountain breeze.

He was a poet too, in the highest sense, and many of his poetical flights in the pulpit were evovled from his arduous brain, though the fact was not always known. His quiet modesty delayed people in discovering all his rare intellect* uality.

“ I see you have your guitarre ready, dear Mrs. Molada, will you and Harry sing ? Or, if you must not, accompany him ?”

“ I feel my heart so full, Dr. Glenavon, I must try a little to-night.”

Mrs. Molada possessed a voice of rare pathos, and richness of tone and color, and she had carefully trained Harry. She sang that beautiful solo from Mendelssohn’s “ Elijah,” “Cast thy burden upon the Lord,” and then Harry had to sing alone the same composer’s “ The Lord is mindful of His Own ” from the “St. Paul.” When he came to “ Bow down before him, ye mighty,” he sang with such abandon, with upturned face, forgetful of all around him, his face pale with enthusiasm, that the mother forgot her accompaniment to listen, and the pastor rose and moved toward the window.

So must Mendelssohn himself have looked in his moments of inspiration. Harry,” said Dr. Glenavon, “ God has given you a voice to sing; have you consecrated it to Him ? ”

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‘‘Yes, Dr. Glenavon — I am all His.’'

A sudden and powerful change, a wonderful development seemed to have taken place in the boy as he had sung, and not only the mother, but Dr. and Mrs. Glenavon had been struck with it.

When they had taken leave, Harry set to work to discover the contents of the two baskets.

Mrs. Raben’s contained a dozen bananas, a large basin of strawberries ready for table, a jug of cream, another of milk, a roast chicken, a boiled tongue, bread and cake.

In Mrs. Glenavon’ s, were a loaf of home-made bread, rolls, a roll of butter of the choicest, fruit, and the cake and Charlotte Russe of which the pastor had so playfully spoken.

“What do you think now, son, of your ‘very very poor?’ ”

Her face was shining with a wondrous light, and a tear glistened in the great eyes.

“ Carissima mia ,” Harry cried, embracing her passionately, “ I will never say I am poor again, never. You have .proved to me that that is impossible. How queer! We have nothing , and yet we have ‘ all things! ’ ”

“ To the world a paradox. May my wee laddie never forget the divine command — ‘ Have faith in God.’ ”

Chapter II. .lohengrin

“ So many worlds, so much to do,

So little done, such things to be.”

ATER, may I go down town ? I want to see a boy

I VI about something. May I do what I like all this morning? You always said you could trust your Harry. I will be back before noon.”

“You are a wee laddie to go about alone. You know nothing of the world.”

“ ‘ Little Mother,’ I shall have to learn, now we are all alone, poor, and you ill. When we used to drive, or ride, and visit the poor so much, I saw and heard all sorts of boys. I know a good many poor boys. Please let me go, and say I may do what I choose.”

“I trust you, son, but I fear others. Go with God’s blessing. ’ ’

“ Addio Carissima mia ,” and hugging his mother enough to strangle her, Harry dashed down the stairs, and turned his steps toward King Street, his constant companion, Don Pedro, marching with stately dignity by his side.

Harry was a precocious boy of double his years, of striking originality, great self-reliance, and a courage that did not know what fear meant.

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anima tua e da viltate offesa could not be asserted of my little hero; true, he had, so to speak, no experience of life; as with all children, his knowledge was, so far, largely subjective, though he was far wiser than people gave him credit for — the objective must come with life — sorrow, life-joy, life-disappointment and disillusion.

His theory, not yet understood by himself, or developed, was that to will was to do, and, to a certain extent, he was right. He had not yet learned that there are limitations to this will-power and its results.

His love for his mother was the governing passion of his young soul, and now, when she was reduced to poverty and delicate health, all sorts of plans for her support and comfort floated through his boyish mind. Of himself he never thought* only of her; and, though, perhaps not fully conscious of it, his trust in God was perfect. Those promises, of which she had spoken so sweetly and eloquently, and with such childlike faith, had stamped themselves deeply on his mind, and would lend tone and color to his life. Mrs. Molada had proved her superior wisdom and insight into the boy’s character, by trusting him; nothing would have discouraged him, and grieved his high and noble spirit, like a want of confidence.

At the corner of King and Toronto streets, Pat Donegal had a ‘ ‘ stand ” as a boot-black. Harry had been with his mother to visit the Donegals, a very poor Irish family, who had known better days, and he knew Pat as a kind, generous lad.

♦Thy soul is oppressed with vile fear.

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Pat Donegal was the ‘ ‘ boy ’ ’ Harry wanted to see, and he was not long in reaching the place where he worked.

“ Good morning, Pat. How is business ? ”

“Hello! Molada. What does such a little toad as you know ’bout ‘ business ? ’ What’s up ? ”

“ Pat, I am going into business, and I want you to tell me some things — to teach me. Will you ? ”

“You! Business? Whatever’s in the wind?*' cried Pat in genuine surprise.

“See, Pat, you know the Central Bank has — ’’ “quashed" interrupted Pat, emphatically — “and / must take care of my mater.’’

“ St. Patrick! You? ”

“Yes, Pat.”

“ What are you going to do, Samson ! ”

“I am going to be a Newsboy; but I must earn some money to buy my papers to start with.”

“Oh, I’ll lend you all you need. I don’t forget your beautiful lady-mother’s visits, and baskets of good things, nor her kindness when poor sister Nora died, either. I would do anything for her and you.”

“ Thank you Pat. I knew you were the boy to consult ; but I have resolved never to borrow. I will earn it.”

“ Resolved!” That’s a big ’un for such a little codger. “ How will you earn it? ”

‘ ‘ Blacking boots. ’ ’

Pat uttered a prolonged wheugh.

“ Pat, you must not judge me by my size. I think I can do it. What do yon say when you want to polish a gentleman’s boots? ”

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44 Do you want a shine, sir? ”

44 How much should he pay ? ”

“Ten cents I ask. A generous cove sometimes gives more. Is Don Pedro going to help? ”

Don Pedro wagged his tail.

44 Thank you so much, Pat,” and they turned to go.

“I say, hello!” cried Pat. “You’d better go to the corner of King and Yonge, there by Ellis’ Jewelry store.”

Don Pedro careered and danced around his young master like a dog out of his mind. Harry hastened back to No. 12 , but not home. He knocked at Mrs. Trueman’s door. She was ironing, and Bald6ra was attending to the fire. Out of breath he managed to say, “Mrs. Trueman, I want our boot-brushes and polish, and the stool till noon, if Bald6ra can nurse baby without it, and the whisk too, please.”