A WALK THROUGH TOWN.

*THE WORKER*

BRISBANE, AUGUST 31, 1895.

A WALK THROUGH TOWN.

What is there to see? A lot of people jostling one another about, a few brilliantly-lighted shop windows, a number of dirty, ragged children; groups of men, some of them drunken, standing at the street corners; young boys and girls laughing and talking in thoughtless pleasures. Surely these are not worth going down town on a Saturday night to see? No; if that is all, it is not worth seeing; but is it all? Look deeper. Don't judge things by the surface, but try and see how much tragedy and comedy there is; how many different types of character you may see; how much you may learn of people in a walk through town on Saturday night.

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Look at those three girls just in front of us. How bright and happy they look; too young, surely to know aught of care; life can be full of nothing but hope and promise for them; they at least can never have felt poverty's cold clasp; well dressed, bright and happy they look, and we smother a sigh and think bitterly how little they know of hardship. But is it so? Have they really found life so pleasant? Let us follow the centre one, the brightest of the three, home. Notice how the gladness goes from her face as she changes her neat walking dress for an older one and sits down to finish sowing – work that must be done if she would have food for the coming week. Think how much hard work she must have done, how much weariness have felt, before she even earned money enough for buy the dress she went out in tonight, and then do not grudge the few hours pleasure she taken on Saturday night in town.

* * *

Look at the little children, ragged and dirty. Poor little things, they ought to have been in bed hours ago. See them scrambling, laughing, tumbling down, crying; one minute brimful of fun, the next shaken by some childish sorrows that seems too great for their little hearts to bear. Dear little children. What would we not give to make you happy, and keep you from the cares and sorrows that will meet you on your journey through life? Let us go on a little further. Now we have come to the corner of the street and we see bright lights and a crowd of people. An open air meeting is being held. A minister is calling earnestly on the people to come to God. Hymns are sung; prayer is offered, and all the while the great stream of people pass backwards and forwards, too busy, too careless, or perhaps, in some cases, too sorrowful to listen. Perchance one, out of many, will stop for a minute, but he hears nothing to help him, this gospel is not good news for him, and he passes again on his way, unhelped, unfreshed.

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We go on again. There, we see a poor woman looking in a grocer's shop window, seeing if there are any fag-ends of bacon, or cheap pieces of cheese; she has so little money and she must make it go as far as possible. Here, we come upon a group of drunken men, and we shrink back in horror, despising them for their weakness, but never extending a helping hand for them. They are too low for us to touch, too abandoned for us to help, and we pass on in Pharisaical pride and think how much better we are than they. Now, again, we are with well-dressed people. The organ recital, held in one of our fashionable churches, is just over, and we meet the crowd of people coming out. As we pass we catch snatches of conversation; “How lovely the music was,” “With what beautiful expression the lady soloist sang.” “What an ugly dress she wore.” “How horrible her hat was,” &c, and at length we are past them. We meet boys and girls, young men and maidens happy in seeing and being seen, and some of the gladness in their faces seems to pass into our hearts as we look at them, and we send up a silent prayer for God that they may be spared the bitterness of life a little longer; that they may be happy yet a little while. Now we pass a group of young men. We see by the ribbons round their hats that they belong to the cyclists club, and we hear them eagerly disputing as to who ought to have won the race that afternoon.

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At last we reach the bridge, and we stand for a minute and look at the river flowing beneath it and see the gaslight reflected on its quiet surface. How silent it is. How it soothes and quietens one. How far away we seem already from the crowd. What a quiet resting place it would make. Would it not be as well if we, now at once, took our troubles with ourselves to find peace and quiet in the river? The thought lays hold of us; it has a strange fascination; we seem to hear a voice saying "Come!" We look at the river - how silent it is; then we look away towards the crowded town. A cool wind blows; we feel it on our cheeks; it rouses us. Not another look at the river; we hasten to the town. It is the time for work, not rest. There is much to be done and few to do it. The little children must be made happy; the poor, toil-worn men who drown their sorrows in drink must be cheered. Our work is here, it will be at our peril if we neglect it. Again we walk back through the town. Here, a child has fallen down. We pick it up and say a few gentle words to it. We realise how much work there is to be done, and a prayer, earnest and strong, goes up to heaven that God will give us strength to do our share. CLARK