The British Workman was an English broadsheet
periodical, published monthly by Partridge and Co in
London. The publishing house of S. W. Partridge & Co was
founded by Thomas Bywater Smithies of York in 1855 in
order to publish The British Workman. It was published
between 1855 and 1892, and aimed to "promote the health,
wealth and happiness of the working classes"
Here is
one story from this publication...
THE
BRITISH WORKMAN
December 1st, 1864.
THE
RAILWAY STATION; OR, THE POWER OF KIND WORDS.
The
station was lighted up cheerfully by the bright morning
sun. Long trains were coming in and going out. Steam
engines, those great fire-dragons which man has caught
and subdued to his will, and made serviceable and
obedient, were puffing and panting, and uttering screams
from their great metallic throats, drawing after them
their long array of carriages, or standing quietly
before their burdens. Under the wide glass roof,
swallows perched or fluttered among the iron girders,
and looked down upon the bustle below, with curious but
by no means alarmed eyes; great travellers themselves,
it was, perhaps, amusing and pleasant to them, to see
the fuss and stir and noise, that more or less attend
all human travelling, and to note how much trouble their
own rapid feather-carriages save them, how much happier
and less expensive is their own mode of conveyance than
ours. No need have they of purse or ticket, or
travelling rug, no need of iron rails and iron engines,
no need of boxes or carpet-bags, but with smooth rapid
flight, borne onwards by their own strong wings, they
travel for hundreds of miles over land and sea, bold and
peaceful and free.
Amused and interested like the swallows above me, I
gazed upon the flowing and ebbing of the human tide
within the station. I had some time to wait, ere I could
proceed on my homeward journey. Life had presented to me
a pleasant and peaceful aspect that day, and I looked
round with hopeful eyes, glad for the sunshine, glad for
the signs of human improvement I met on every hand, and
for the wonderful increase of knowledge among the
people, especially observable in the last thirty years
of my life, and glad for the love of the Great Author of
love, more and more manifested every day, both in the
worlds of matter and of spirit.
Placing myself near the book-stall, upon one of the many
convenient seats of the platform, I imagined I saw upon
the faces about me, signs of greater intelligence than
were to be found on similar faces in the time of my
boyhood. Wider, higher brows, brighter eyes, a more
thoughtful expresssion,—was I mistaken in imagining
these to be more common than heretofore? I thought not;
and especially in the children’s faces, did these seem
to me observable. Certainly, the children of this
generation are, in comparison with those who have gone
before them, the children of light—light and knowledge
abound for them on every hand. But are they also the
children of love? For unless light and love go hand in
hand, evil will but grow ranker and deadlier, and
increase of knowledge, will be but increase of sin.
Passengers were walking about, or standing near the open
doors of carriages, belonging to the outgoing or
incoming trains : porters were lifting boxes from out
the bowels of capacious luggage vans, or trundling piles
of them along with quick steps and strong careful arms,
past groups of men and women, and through circles of
widely-skirted ladies and children, drest gaily as
tropical birds, who moved or were moved hastily aside as
their “By your leave!” sounded abruptly in their ears.
The young man at the book-stall who had dusted and
arranged his books, and periodicals, and papers for the
day, was handing to a young lady with very dark eyes,
and long black ringlets, a pocket edition of
Longfellow’s Poems, with which, no doubt, she meant to
solace the rest of her journey. Friends to greet the new
comers, and friends to bid adieu to the departing ones,
stood looking out for well-known faces, or grasped the
hands that would so soon be separated from them for
miles—who knows how many?—or for years, who can tell how
long ? A company of third-class passengers, bound for
the government trains, just about to start, steamed in
from the booking office, carrying various bundles and
baskets and carpet bags, most of 'them with an half-
anxious air, and all with “ haste” written as in large
letters on every feature of their faces. What hard
care-touched faces some of these were! What histories
were clearly written out among the wrinkles! What
sorrows and troubles some of those dim eyes, and
contracted brows, and thin withered cheeks, had lived
through ! On several I could trace the mark of the
destroyer, strong drink, too plainly visible to be
mistaken : on some I thought I perceived the shadow he
casts around him, and sends before him into every
household he visits. But there were young faces
also—among these worn elderly ones, and over them quite
other expressions lay. The round cheek, the full bright
eye, the red lipped mouth, the smooth forehead, had not
as yet many tales to tell of hope deferred, or
long-endured pain of body and mind, or years of sinful
indulgence. Expectation,—hope, ever present, and not
dreaming of non-fulfilment, was there, and the joy of
conscious health and strength. Here, I thought, are
morning travellers in a double sense; the sun shines
upon them, the journey before them seems inviting, the
expected destination pleasant; on the railway of life
they are proceeding with glad hearts, but what
unexpected stoppages will they meet with? What new
companions take up? What storms and showers go through?
What terminus will they find themselves in at last?
The bell of the departing train rang vigorously, and the
stream of passengers quickened its flow ;—amongst the
crowd was a little boy of about nine years of age,
holding in one hand a bundle tied up in a dark blue
cotton handkerchief. With bewildered air, and uncertain
steps, now stopping a moment, now running forward, he
looked up at the faces of those near him, as if desirous
to ask a question, but as none of the faces looked down
upon him, he lost courage, and the question was unasked
; all were far too hurried and pre-engaged to give one
glance at the little boy in the shabby coat and
trousers; and while he stood hesitating, passed him by
roughly enough, treating him much as they would have
done a block of wood, had it stood in their way. Now a
basket was ruthlessly poked into his chest, now the
corner of a box was driven against his arm, now his cap
was brushed off by the elbow of a sturdy butcher, with
leathern gaiters, and a thick knobbed stick, and now his
toes were trodden on by more than one heavily-nailed
shoe. He bore it all, however, without a cry, wincing
and flinching it is true, but still looking up as if in
search of some face he knew, or some one that would
sympathize with his trouble, whatever that might be. But
men and women and children passed him by, without a
glance ; they had far too important affairs of their own
to attend to, and the enquiry so plainly written on his
little pale face was unheeded. An influx of passengers
between myself and him, here hid him from my sight. Like
bees in search of a new home, the travellers swarmed
about, and quietly deposited themselves and their
belongings, within the depths of the roomy carriages.
All was eagerness and bustle, all were anxious for the
best seats, and as all could not get them, there was
some little confusion, but by and bye one after another
settled themselves in their places, and after seeing to
the safe bestowal of their luggage, subsided into
comparative calm. One of the porters made himself more
than usually active and agreeable. His heart was
evidently in his work, and with a smile here, and a
cheering word there, and a helpful hand everywhere,
brought order out of the chaos, and comfort where had
been anxiety, and in some cases, real distress. A lame
young woman, with a little girl, first experienced his
kindness. Her little daughter was too young to be
anything but a charge and care to her—she could neither
procure a ticket, or take care of the luggage, or even
sit still in the carriage while her mother did these
things. James Waltho, (I afterwards discovered his name)
saw the perplexity in the young woman’s face—he saw the
crutch that upheld her sinking footsteps, and at once
came forward with his ready, efficient help; with a
bright look of encouragement he assisted her and the
little girl, into one of the third-class' carriages,
looked up her box, and saw it placed in the right van,
procured her ticket, and brought the important inch of
pasteboard, and the change, quickly to her, and spoke
cheerily and kindly as he did this, till her sorrowful
face lighted up with surprise and pleasure, her eyes
brightened, and a smile dawned on lips that I fancy did
not often lose their expression of suffering. The child
was equally delighted, and chatted away to her mother in
merry fashion, after he bid them good morning. An
elderly woman, afflicted with that common complaint of
the elderly, too much flesh, had found him, she assured
her next neighbour, “the greatest comfort as ever was,”
for he had sought up her lost bandbox, that had been
crushed and hidden, behind a mountain of luggage, had
told her which station she must get out at, for
Colehouse, her native village, and had had patience with
all her numerous enquiries, never once “taking her up
sharp,” as the clerk had done in the railway office, but
answering her with good humour, and friendliness. “He’s
a good son, I know,” she added, to her sympathizing
listener, who had also experienced his good offices,
“whoever his mother is, an’ I only wish as I was herI”
The very highest praise she knew how to give him. A poor
widow travelling with her six children, and multifarious
boxes, to her husband’s parents in the south of England,
with the tears scarce dry upon her face, found his ready
help a ray of real sunshine upon her gloomy path, and
felt in some way, she scarce knew why, more comfortable
for the rest of her long, wearisome journey, after his
sympathetic glance and kind accent. A young servant girl
going to place many miles away from her home, with her
heart full, and her head confused and beating with the
excitement of travelling, and the wonder how the world
would open for her, whether the strange “new master and
missus” would be kind and considerate, and treat her as
a human being needing love and care as well as food and
wages, and not entirely as a domestic machine, from whom
all the work must be got that the machine could possibly
give, in the shortest space of time—found her timid
question about the safety of her large painted box that
held all her possessions, answered readily and kindly,
and the box as carefully handled and placed, as if it
had belonged to the greatest lady of the land, instead
of to a poor servant-girl going out to her first place.
A consumptive-looking man, whose feeble steps and short
breathing, told of the weakness and suffering he
endured, and who had almost fainted in the throng, found
a strong arm placed under his, and an encouraging
smiling face, leading him on towards a comfortable
carriage—the face and the arm of James Waltho—and
presently a glass of water brought by the same
individual, placed close to his fevered blanched lips.
“He’s a real angel, that he is!” said the same admiring
old lady who had wished to be his mother, and who had
sat watching this scene with considerable interest.
“Dear me, only to think whatever I should have done
without him!” and she fanned herself vigorously with a
great red handkerchief as she spoke, as if to cool down
her enthusiasm to the proper point of cool propriety.
All these various acts of kindness I had seen, and some
others which I need not here relate—these little
kindnesses so freely rendered, without hope of fee or
reward, which yet were at the time, to the poor anxious
people he served, great kindnesses, and I inwardly
admired and wondered. It is true when he removed boxes,
saw to their proper adjustment in the carriages, and
directed passengers to their right places in the right
train, he was but doing that which was his duty, what he
was paid to do, but the way iu which this duty was
accomplished, was that which made it so admirable. With
joy I saw he was one of those who understood and
practised the loving precept of Christ, “Do unto others
as ye would they should do unto you,”—and my heart went
with him, though he knew it not, in his good work.
Ah, thought I, if people would but remember how much joy
and comfort and blessing arise from acts and words of
disinterested love and kind-heartedness, they would
surely seek to cultivate in themselves that spirit of
benevolence, that would make the world happier for their
presence. Travelling is to many but a carrying out of a
scheme of pleasure, to many others it is, on the
contrary, a weariness, an anxiety, an almost
insufferable worry, undertaken from necessity, with too
often some uninviting, and it may be, dreaded interview
or "object at the end. How much the weariness and worry
and disgust, may be relieved by the kindness of even a
railway porter; the ready, cheerful assistance rendered
at a time when the brain is bewildered and hurried, and
unequal to the demands upon its activity and
forethought, few perhaps imagine.
But now came in. sight the little boy with the blue
bundle. Calling up alibis courage, he addressed the
plea-sant-looking porter, “Oh, if you please, sir, is
this the train for B--?” naming a well-known seaport on
our coast. His voice was excited and a little tremulous,
for he had asked several who had passed him by without
notice, and might not this tall, imposing-looking man,
with the silver marks upon his coat, be as unkind as the
rest? This time, however, his question was not un-swered.
James Waltho looked at his little questioner with some
surprise. “No, my boy, this is the train for L----.
You’re too late for the B----train, it went off ten
minutes ago at the other end of the station.” As he
spoke, the little fellow’s face rapidly changed colour.
Disappointment and deep trouble were marked there, and
presently a choking sob rose to the lips, as, overcome
by the blow to his expectations, the boy sat down upon a
portmanteau close by, and began to cry. His child’s
heart was full to overflowing. He had endured much that
day, and was now unable to bear more. But now the doors
of the carriages were hastily closed, the engine gave
out preparatory puffs, the guard’s whistle sounded
shrill as the signal for departure, and the train slowly
moved away. James Waltho was left standing beside the
little stranger. “Don’t be downhearted, my little man,”
he said, in the kindest possible voice. “There’s another
train going in a few hours to B--. You’d better go home
a bit, and come here again at a quarter to three.” But
the boy did not seem to be much comforted with his
words, his tears still flowed on, though he evidently
made a strong effort to check them. The sympathizing
voice of his unknown friend, perhaps, helped to call
forth the pant-up fountain of tears, and troubled with
the child’s distress, the good porter could not find in
his heart to leave him. He sat down, therefore, beside
him, and asked him of his home and friends, and the
reason of his journey to B--.
It was a child’s story of sorrow he obtained in reply.
His name was William Lee. He came from W---, a village
the porter happened to know. There he had lived ever
since he could remember, with his mother and ‘ little
sister Bessy, who was a cripple. Only a week ago his
mother had died, and three days afterwards he and his
sister were taken to the union. He had run away from the
union, he acknowledged, because he could not bear to
stay in a workhouse, and because he wished to go to sea,
and earn his living as a cabin-boy. There was another
reason, too, his father had been a sailor, and though
they had not heard from him for some years, his mother
had always believed him to be alive, and told her
children so, and Willy had an ardent desire to find him.
“He always went to B----, when he went to his ship, and
I must go to B----too. Mother used to teach us to pray
for him, that he might come home safe, and see us all
again, an’ I’ve prayed every night, an’ I think God will
send him, don’t you?” The boy looked up into the large
clear eyes of one he felt to be his friend, as he asked
this last question,—and the smile he met there assured
him. “But wouldn’t it have been better if you had stayed
at W----? Your father would then have known where to
find you?” asked the porter. “Oh no—mother said I was to
go to B--to find him, and look in all the ships. And I
must work too. Oh, sir, don’t send me back to the
workhouse!” “Never fear! I’ll not send you back, my
little man! But where’s your ticket for B--?” He did not
understand the question at first, but at length had to
confess that he had neither ticket or money for his
journey. He thought he should have been able to get on
at the top among the luggage—or to creep up behind—or to
do some other childish and impossible thing to get a
seat; all he knew was, he must go to B--. He had heard
of the railway, and perhaps thought some compassionate
person might allow him to sit beside him or her ; the
porter could never clearly understand him on this point,
and almost feared to tell him how unreasonable had been
his expectations. Giving him a few encouraging words,
for he was obliged now to go away, and leaving him part
of a biscuit to eat, at the same time telling him to
take a seat beside me, till he could come again to
him—he went off to other duties. “That’s a regular
little impostor!” said another of the porters to him,
shaking his head and pointing with his thumb to the
would-be sailor boy. “He no more wants to go into a ship
than I do. He’s an artful dodger, he is, and will be
stealing something. Mind what you’re about with him.”
“Yes, yes, I’ll mind!” replied James Waltho, “but I
don’t believe he’s anything but true; lie’s such an
honest face of his own. Poor little chap! He’s lost his
mother only last week.” “All stuff, I tell you,”
responded the other, gruffly, “but you’re one of the
softest chaps as is, anybody may take you in.” James
smiled as though he was not much afraid of being taken
in, which in truth he was not, for he was truly brave,
daring to do good, even though he might expect to meet
with an evil return. In this case, however, he had no
fears whatever. “I would rather be what you call a soft
chap, than one of your hard ones,” was his mild reply,
“and I fancy you would too, Watson ! Don’t you remember
who told us to be like our Father in heaven, who makes
His sun to shine both on the evil and the good?” Watson
made no reply, but looked for a moment half ashamed.
William Lee and myself were soon good friends, and when
the porter came to us, it was agreed he should not go on
his journey to B--till the next day, when I could
accompany him. and see him placed in some likely ship.
That day he shared the porter’s dinner, and at night
slept at his house, and on the morrow, bright and
cheerful, I saw him once more at the station. Kind words
had found their way to his heart, as sunshine and soft
rain find their way to the young plant, and thus help to
develop stem and leaf and flower to perfection. He was
hopeful and joyous, “he should be sure to find his
father, now God had found him such kind friends.” I will
not say that these were his exact words, but they give
the meaning of those he used. And then the journey was
made, and the ship was found, and the cabin-boy went
abroad upon the great wilderness of waters, which yet
God holds in the hollow of His hand. His prayers were
not then answered, for he had not found his father, but
there was great hope in his heart that he should do so.
Years went on, not many certainly, but very important
ones to the people of my story; and now might be seen a
young man, tall and strong, with broad chest, and bright
eyes, and bronzed face—who walked backwards and forwards
upon the platform of a certain railway station, and by
his side was one of the porters, a pleasant-faced,
bright-eyed man also, though much older than his
companion. They talked very earnestly together, and
presently the porter asked—“And your father?”—For a
moment the young man looked sorrowful. “I found his
grave in a foreign country,” he said sadly. “The letter
that told of his death had never reached my mother, so,
as she had never heard of his death, she believed him to
be still alive. It was a sad disappointment to me, for I
also believed that he was living. But do you remember
what you told me that night I slept at your house ? I
have never forgotten it, and I did not forget it then.
You said, ‘My lad, when you pray for your father, do not
forget that God is the best and truest Father you will
ever get! He will never leave you or forsake you. And
always try to live so as to please him.’ You do not know
the good you have done me by those words, those kind
words of yours! They comforted me for my father’s loss.
They cheered my way over many a gloomy billow, they
sounded in my ears in many a storm • they’ve been with
me on the deck, and in my hammock, by night and by day.
When I’ve been tempted to do evil I’ve remembered your
kind acts and good words, and I’ve said, ‘No, I’ll try
.to please God my Heavenly Father, and the man that was
my first friend,’ and I’ve come away undefiled, and, by
God’s goodness, here I am to thank youI” Here he grasped
the porter’s hand with a fervid grasp, and then added,
“I’ve brought my little earnings for Bessy, and have set
her up as a dressmaker at W--. I can’t tell you how she
cried over me, when she found out who I was, for she
couldn’t at first believe that the big fellow you see
now, was her little brother Willy, who left her behind
him that windy night in the workhouse. We both cried
together, and I hope we shall never shed worse tears
than those. But how much of our happiness we both owe to
you!”
When the young sailor was gone, another of the porters
who had seen the interview came up. “Uncommon fine young
fellow that!” he said, “Who was it, Waltho? One of your
young brothers? If he is, I can only say, I wish there
was as good looking a fellow in my family!” “And yet you
once called him an artful dodger, and wanted me to throw
stones at him, Watson!” “Him? you’re joking!” “When he
came here nine or ten years ago,” Waltho continued, “a
poor little lad without a mother, and wanted to find a
ship. If I had done as you wanted me that day, he’s just
been telling me he shouldn’t have been here to-day
alive, and happy as he is. He says, ‘hard words would
have sunk his little bark, but kind ones, like a fair
wind, filled his sails and set him going.’ So you see,
Watson, there’s more virtue in kind words, even at a
railway station, than you suppose.”
“After all, I believe you’re right, old fellow.”
And was he not right
END.
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