MY OWN ACQUAINTANCE.
It was after this that my own acquaintance with Falconer commenced.
I had just come out of one of the theatres in the neighbourhood of the Strand, unable to endure any longer the dreary combination of false magnanimity and real meanness, imported from Paris in the shape of a melodrama, for the delectation of the London public.Ihad turned northwards, and was walking up one of the streets near Covent Garden, when my attention was attracted to a woman who came out of a gin-shop, carrying a baby.She went to the kennel, and bent her head over, ill with the poisonous stuff she had been drinking.And while the woman stood in this degrading posture, the poor, white, wasted baby was looking over her shoulder with the smile of a seraph, perfectly unconscious of the hell around her.
'Children will see things as God sees them,' murmured a voice beside me.
I turned and saw a tall man with whose form I had already become a little familiar, although I knew nothing of him, standing almost at my elbow, with his eyes fixed on the woman and the child, and a strange smile of tenderness about his mouth, as if he were blessing the little creature in his heart.
He too saw the wonder of the show, typical of so much in the world, indeed of the world itself--the seemingly vile upholding and ministering to the life of the pure, the gracious, the fearless.
Aware from his tone more than from his pronunciation that he was a fellow-countryman, I ventured to speak to him, and in a home-dialect.
'It's a wonnerfu' sicht.It's the cake o' Ezekiel ower again.'
He looked at me sharply, thought a moment, and said,'You were going my way when you stopped.I will walk with you, if you will.'
'But what's to be done about it?' I said.
'About what?' he returned.
'About the child there,' I answered.
'Oh! she is its mother,' he replied, walking on.
'What difference does that make?' I said.
'All the difference in the world.If God has given her that child, what right have you or I to interfere?'
'But I verily believe from the look of the child she gives it gin.'
'God saves the world by the new blood, the children.To take her child from her, would be to do what you could to damn her.'
'It doesn't look much like salvation there.'
'You mustn't interfere with God's thousand years any more than his one day.'
'Are you sure she is the mother?' I asked.
'Yes.I would not have left the child with her otherwise.'
'What would you have done with it? Got it into some orphan asylum?--or the Foundling perhaps?'
'Never,' he answered.'All those societies are wretched inventions for escape from the right way.There ought not to be an orphan asylum in the kingdom.'
'What! Would you put them all down then?'
'God forbid.But I would, if I could, make them all useless,'
'How could you do that?'
'I would merely enlighten the hearts of childless people as to their privileges.'
'Which are?'
'To be fathers and mothers to the fatherless and motherless.'
'I have often wondered why more of them did not adopt children.Why don't they?'
'For various reasons which a real love to child nature would blow to the winds--all comprised in this, that such a child would not be their own child.As if ever a child could be their own! That a child is God's is of rather more consequence than whether it is born of this or that couple.Their hearts would surely be glad when they went into heaven to have the angels of the little ones that always behold the face of their Father coming round them, though they were not exactly their father and mother.'
'I don't know what the passage you refer to means.'
'Neither do I.But it must mean something, if He said it.Are you a clergyman?'
'No.I am only a poor teacher of mathematics and poetry, shown up the back stairs into the nurseries of great houses.'
'A grand chance, if I may use the word.'
'I do try to wake a little enthusiasm in the sons and daughters--without much success, I fear.'
'Will you come and see me?' he said.
'With much pleasure.But, as I have given you an answer, you owe me one.'
'I do.'
'Have you adopted a child?'
'No.'
'Then you have some of your own?'
'No.'
'Then, excuse me, but why the warmth of your remarks on those who--'
'I think I shall be able to satisfy you on that point, if we draw to each other.Meantime I must leave you.Could you come to-morrow evening?'
'With pleasure.'
We arranged the hour and parted.I saw him walk into a low public-house, and went home.
At the time appointed, I rang the bell, and was led by an elderly woman up the stair, and shown into a large room on the first-floor--poorly furnished, and with many signs of bachelor-carelessness.Mr.Falconer rose from an old hair-covered sofa to meet me as I entered.I will first tell my reader something of his personal appearance.
He was considerably above six feet in height, square-shouldered, remarkably long in the arms, and his hands were uncommonly large and powerful.His head was large, and covered with dark wavy hair, lightly streaked with gray.His broad forehead projected over deep-sunk eyes, that shone like black fire.His features, especially his Roman nose, were large, and finely, though not delicately, modelled.His nostrils were remarkably large and flexile, with a tendency to slight motion: I found on further acquaintance that when he was excited, they expanded in a wild equine manner.The expression of his mouth was of tender power, crossed with humour.He kept his lips a little compressed, which gave a certain sternness to his countenance: but when this sternness dissolved in a smile, it was something enchanting.He was plainly, rather shabbily clothed.No one could have guessed at his profession or social position.He came forward and received me cordially.After a little indifferent talk, he asked me if I had any other engagement for the evening.
'I never have any engagements,' I answered--'at least, of a social kind.I am burd alane.I know next to nobody.'
'Then perhaps you would not mind going out with me for a stroll?'
'I shall be most happy,' I answered.
