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The Pamphlet Collection of Sir Robert Stout: Volume 17

The Colours of the Rainbow

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The Colours of the Rainbow.

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There is a quarter of Manchester called Ancoats, which is decidedly not the Belgravia of the cotton capital. The population is dense, and for the most part poor. There is one range of buildings in the locality called Forty Row, which consists of a row of forty houses several storeys in height, each storey forming a separate tenement. I was told once how many people inhabited this row of forty houses, but I am afraid to say now lest I should seem to exaggerate. I know the number far exceeded the population of many villages. Not only were the houses four storeys high, each storey forming a separate house; but in many instances large families inhabited one room, so that the same floor would be distributed between two and even three households. Thus the forty became multiplied by four, and grew into one hundred and sixty, and in these exceptional cases the multiplication was increased by the further subdivision of the rooms. In each of these hundred and sixty tenements, families averaging five each resided; so that at least page 4 eight hundred people were crowded into one row of houses. A good many of these, at the time I speak of (thirteen years ago), belonged to the criminal class. It was the university of thiefdom. It its cellars and garrets juvenile pickpockets were trained to their adroit legerdemain, and burly beginners graduated in garotting, and matriculated in petty larcency. There was the "buz-nappers academy," where scientific students were trained in the use of skeleton keys, the manipulation of "jemmies," and the management of centre-bits: and many a young desperado became a "wrangler," or took his degree under the tutelage of a professor crowned with the "county crop." During sundry visitations to this Arcadian retreat, I happened to make the acquaintance of seven young gentlemen, of ages varying from eleven to fifteen, whose histories and accomplishments were somewhat remarkable. They were all more or less proficient young thieves, and were somewhat distinguished in the larcenous university. Their names were exceedingly suggestive, and the fortuitous combination of initials was decidedly striking. One of them was known by the name of "Viper," partly, I think on account of his serpentine proclivities, and partly because of his prowess in the abstraction of pocket-handkerchiefs, or 'vipes.' Another was called "Ivories." He was a lad of colour, and derived his sobriquet from the whiteness of his teeth, which used to gleam like Mr. Carker's against his ebony skin, and make his broad grin like the flash of a dark lantern. A third was simply called be Bobby; I suppose because his real name was Robert, or perhaps with some vague reference to his luck in evading the police. The appellation of "Ginger" was bestowed upon a fourth, a name which was designed to bear a personal reference, and to be derived from the vivid colour of his hair, although if it had also page 5 referred to his temper it would not have been inappropriate. But his hair was so flamingly red, that his companions used to pretend to warm their hands and even light their pipes at it; and they would often draw him away from a wall, or a doorpost, under a well-feigned dread that he would set the house on fire, and would throw water over him 'to put him out,' as they said. It certainly had the effect of putting him out in one sense, for it put him in a towering rage; and the colder the water, the hotter was Ginger's indignation. The fifth youth in the gang was called "York;" I think because he had been imprisoned in York Castle. He was the oldest of the boys, and was much looked up to by the rest, chiefly on the strength of this honourable experience: it certainly was not on account of his superior intelligence, for he was the greatest dolt among them. The sixth was called "Oysters," on account of the reputation he had acquired by the feat of capsizing an oyster-stall in the streets, and making off with the loose change of the vendor during the confusion. This exploit obtained for him the further name of the "Pearl-diver." He was a young Jew, and had a great taste for precious-stones, and he was himself a jewel of the first water. The seventh and last of the crew was jovially designated "Rory o' More;" he was an Irishman (all these boys call themselves men), and his name was More. These seven lads were under the sort of professional guardianship of a crafty old thief of seventy-five, who had been in half the jails in England, and who had been dodging the galleys and the gallows from his cradle. His name was Benbow. But I asked his permission to call him Rainbow, for a reason which I will explain. I got these seven lads to attend now and then at a rough sort of night school near at hand, and they also went occasionally to the Heyrod Street Ragged School, conducted page 6 by Mr. Richard Johnson, the Secretary of the Manchester Ragged School Union. It was not until I had been familiar with the nicknames of these seven boys for sometime, that the strangeness of their initials struck me. I had run over their names often enough in different orders; but one day I was writing them down for some purpose or another, when I was reminded of a somewhat strange coincidence. "Viper," "Ivories," "Bobby," "Ginger," "York," "Oysters," and "Rory o' More." I remembered a certain course of lectures I used to attend at school years before, in which I was told that the initial letters of the colours of the Rainbow formed the word "Vibgyor," and that they were violet, indigo, blue, green, yellow, orange, and red. I accordingly asked old Benbow to let me call him Rainbow. And I called these seven young varlets my rainbow of hope, and I gave Viper a violet waistcoat; Ivories, an indigo jacket; be Bobby, a blue cap; Ginger, a pair of green trousers; York, a yellow shirt; Oysters, an orange neck-tie; and Rory o' More, a pair of red mittens. The proper sequel to such a story ought to be that old Rainbow died a Christian saint, and that the seven hopefuls became members of the seven churches; but I cannot record any such dénouement; for I saw a case in the police report of a northern newspaper of a youth answering very much to the description of what I fancy Ginger would be like now, having been arraigned for cutting off a lady's back-hair in the streets for the purposes of sale. So many practical jokes had been played off upon his own hair, that I suppose he thought he was entitled to some reprisals in the same department; but the result of the magisterial investigation did not tend to prove that he was the rightful heir-at-law, so they turned the key upon him for bolting with the lock. As a politician, Ginger was supposed to have Whig tendencies; page 7 hence, probably, his interference with the lady's coiffure. But, though I cannot report the entire reformation of all these boys, I can trace the result of teaching and kindness upon some of them, and the like of them, to a degree which proves that any band, however sunken, may be raised into a band of hope. Old Rainbow died about four years ago; and from such accounts as friends have given me, there were softening signs of penitence even about his crime-hardened bed, which make one cling to the trust and fondle the hope, that even round the death-scene of the dying thief there were streaks of promise.

And while my memory is reverting to this Ancoats district of Manchester, I may mention that it was there I made my first essay at lecturing working people; and I assure you the audiences which used to assemble were sights to see. I don't mean that they were sights to see in point of numbers, for they were not so large as the company I am addressing now; but in point of appearance. You don't require to be told that Manchester is a place where a great deal of dyeing is done. My lecture-hall was in the midst of a huge cluster of mills and print-works, and other large places of industry; Sir William Fairbairn's engineering forge, and the Mayfield print-works, where Hoyle's prints are made, being hard by. My audiences were largely composed of the work-people of be th sexes from these places, while many of a poorer class were mixed up among them. But if a rainbow is an emblem of hope, mine were the most hopeful assemblies ever convened in England. They were all the colours of the rainbow. Not only did a man with a black face sit with a woman with a blue face on his right, and a girl with green arms on his left, and a be y with yellow hands before him, and a matron with a red neck behind him; page 8 but the same person used to come from Sunday to Sunday, and would be a different colour every time he came. Talk of the æthiopian changing his skin and the leopard his spots, this transformation scene was enacted week by week before my very eyes in Ancoats, Manchester. A gentleman would come with his face a bright blue to-day, and a dark green next Sunday, and a flaming red the Sunday after, and a rich brown the Sunday after that. As to the hands, the stock of coloured gloves they wore was inexhaustible. The individual did not change his personality, only his complexion. It was not Mr. White and Mr. Green, and Mr. Brown and Mr. Black, but the same John Smith each day with a new face. These poor fellows changed colours because they dye daily; they dyed to live, just as some ladies of the beau monde seem to live to dye. We have the colours of the rainbow painted under the wand of fashion, as well as mixed on the palette of necessity. A raven tress turns golden, a yellow neck turns alabaster, a pale cheek turns vermilion, a grey eyebrow turns auburn, as soon as Rachel begins to weep over her children the crystal tears of Tartary, or to fling over them the cosmetiques of Calabar. To look upon a crowd of these prudes of artifice and dolls of vanity, would be a rainbow scene of less hopefulness, to me at least, than my variegated brethren at Manchester presented. I felt there were simple hearts and honest sympathies under those parti-colours, and I felt at home amongst them. But I wonder whether, supposing all our hearts could be pinned upon our sleeves just now, there would not be a strange variety of dyes displayed, moral dyes, indicative of various shades of evil. There would be the black heart, and the soiled heart, and many a degree of moral hue would show itself upon the disc of character. And, if conscience were only broadly and page 9 sensitively alert with all of us, even the index of the face would show a colour answering to the goadings of conviction from within.

But the rainbow is hope's own emblem. It is caused by the reflection through the raindrops of the sunbeams. To make a rainbow, sun, shower, and cloud are necessary conditions. And to create hope, shade, shower, and sun are also needed. God put the be w in heaven to seal his promise that the earth's fruits should not fail to meet men's wants. And we may use it as a pledge that his promises for the soul shall never fail. The darker the cloud, the clearer the rainbow. And so, the deeper the sorrow, the surer the hope. We have been speaking of people changing their colour week by week, just as politicians have sometimes been known to change their creed sometimes. But the secret of this change, after all, was only a 'tale of a tub,' being determined by the tub over which the dyer was called upon to work. But the complexion of a man's life and history takes its colour, too, from circumstances. It is not how he dyes, but how he lives, which determines the colour both of his own life and of those around him. There are always clouds enough, even in the happiest lot, to leave room for a rainbow. It is not all pure unfleeced azure over any human head. And even with the best of us, there is cause enough for memory, and retrospect, and penitence, to drop a tear full often. So, if we will find the cloud and rain, God will find the sunshine, and thus the be w shall be flung upon the cloud. Did you never look through your tears, when you have been unable to keep them back, at a candle, or at some shining light? And as the light has shone upon the tears, have you not seen the prism colours painted on the drops, like the colours of the rainbow in your eye? So, through the page 10 tear of penitence for wrong-doing, may the sad heart, descry hope's promise, if you will but let God's smile shine on it.

There's need enough, heaven knows, for some sympathy and support amidst this rough life in poor men's homes, higher, stronger, and more constant than human hearts or helps will furnish. The world at best is a chaos of cloud-land; and life at its fairest is a scene of struggling and hard work. It is carrying a cross up a steep, steep hill, from the cradle to the grave, a cross which gets heavier as we get older. Poverty, hard times, slack work, low wages, stern masters, sick homes, and death-struck households, these things make life a rugged brunt at any time. But the troubles which men's own faults and vices superadd to these, make it tenfold worse. Love, and courage, and patience, in the midst of poverty and hard times, are rainbows which make any lot supportable. But what, where love is drowned in drink, where courage is whelmed by vice, where patience is wearied out by cruelty; what then? Ah, it is a sad condition; and it is but too true a picture of the heart of many a wife and mother in Christian England at this hour. But to the saddest of the sad we may declare the true assurance that there is no time nor strait at which love is banished, or courage need be quenched. A husband may have perjured and foresworn each vow of faithfulness; around you there may be the perished forms of children sickened or starved to death; the waste once called a home may be a stripped and empty hovel, or a den vocal with oaths, and resonant with blows and cries. But even for one so bruised, bereft, and spurned, there is hope. Upon the black cloud there is a rainbow; through the hot rain of tears there shines a sun; and above the wail of heart-break there sounds a voice of brotherhood and pity. It is not the be w of human comfort, it is not page 11 the sunshine of a neighbour's smile, it is not the tone of mortal tenderness : but the be w is cast by the brightness of Christ's smile upon the bitter tears. He is a Brother when all else are cold as ice. Oh! if the wretched had but faith to feel it, and to trust, they would feel a hand supporting them in darkest trial, and either in life or death, a corner of the veil of dark and pierceless mystery would be lifted up to show the bright beyond. And in that further light, the forms of angel children bright as the morning, and blythe as the summer-time, would be seen sporting around the pearly throne-steps of the King of kings. The hand which is lifting up that veil is a pierced hand; and the wound it bears reminds use of suffering borne for us. There's not a load of sorrow on your heart, but Christ has borne a heavier. There's not a thorn that pierces you, but Christ has felt a sharper. You complain of poverty. He, too, was poor. Though He was rich, for your sake He became poor, that you, through his poverty might be rich. You say you are deserted and forsaken. He, too, suffered unsupported. He trod the wine-press alone, and of the people there was none with Him. You say you have hardly a home to rest it. He had not where to lay His head. Oh! believe it, in deepest suffering you are in fellowship with a yet deeper Sufferer. The harder your lot, if you bear it in Christian trustfulness, the nearer shall it bring you to Christ. Once let your faith lay hold on Him, and no lash of the world's sharpest whip-thong shall drive you from Him; but your earthly crown of thorns shall be exchanged for a heavenly crown of gold, and when you have borne your cross, with Jesus helping you, to the top of the weary steep, you shall exchange it for a throne beside Him where you shall reign, a prince for evermore. All this, if you will but trust Him, take Him as a Saviour, and give Him all your heart.

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And to those working men, whose work seems so heavy, and whose wage seems so light, that they often grow sullen, desperate, and reckless, let me commend this trust in Christ as a lightener of the burden. If you think we parsons don't care for you, be assured at least our Master does. And if you do not care for us, do be entreated to care for Him of whom we preach; for He is truly a faithful friend. Heaven and earth may pass away, but His love, never. Neither height, nor depth, nor things present, nor things to come, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor life, nor death, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate you from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus your Lord. O try to be Christian men. Then you will be good workmen, good neighbours, good citizens, good husbands, good fathers, and your homes will be happy homes, be they never so poor. Work with a will, and still trust when you cannot work.

Pause not to dream of the future before us;
Pause not to weep the wild cares that come o'er us,
Mark how creation's deep musical chorus,
Unintermitting goes up into heaven!

Never the ocean wave falters in flowing,
Never the little seed stops in its growing,
More and more richly the rose-heart keeps glowing,
Till from its nourishing stem it is riven.

"Labour is worship!" the robin is singing,
"Labour is worship!" the wild bee is ringing,
Listen! that eloquent whisper upspringing
Speaks to thy soul out of nature's great heart.

From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower,
From the rough sod blows the soft breathing flower;
From the small insect, the rich coral bower;
Only man in the plan, shrinks from his part.

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Labour is life! 'tis the still water faileth;
Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth;
Keep the watch wound, for the dark night assaileth;
Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon.

Labour is glory! the flying cloud lightens,
Only the waving wing changes and brightens,
Idle hearts only the dark future frightens,
Play the sweet keys if thou'dst keep them in tune.

Labour is rest, from the sorrows that greet us,
Rest from the petty vexations that meet us,
Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat us,
Rest from world-syrens that lure us to ill.
Work, and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow;
Work, thou shalt ride over care's coming billow!
Lie not down wearied 'neath woe's weeping willow,
Work with a stout heart and resolute will.

Droop not tho' shame, sin, and anguish are round thee,
Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath be und thee!
Look to yon pure heaven smiling beyond thee!
Rest not content in thy darkness—a clod.
Work for some good, be it ever so slowly,
Cherish some flower be it ever so lowly,
Labour! true labour, is noble and holy,
Let labour follow thy prayers to thy God.

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Passmore and Alabaster, Steam Printers, 31, Little Britain.