VERY solemn and still are the streets of the great city in the dead of the night. Theaters, public-houses, and night coffee-shops, all closed; the long line of lamps in the wet streets shining only upon a passing wayfarer at intervals—someone hurrying for a doctor for the sick or the dying; some outcast woman who is a sinner; some drunkard who has fallen asleep in a byway, where the cold has partially sobered him, and who now hastens home. So solemn and still are the streets that the measured tread of the policeman echoes on the way as he goes in a fashion never heard during the day. Overhead is a black, moonless abyss, wherein light clouds flit hurryingly in constant change, dropping rain as they pass away.
Quiet and still upon the streets, but in the crowded houses women and children innumerable, sleeping away the labor or play of the bygone day. Fast locked in the slumber that is so like, and yet so unlike, death, they are utterly self-defenseless should danger come, but carefully guarded by the wakeful policeman without.
As he passes upon his way, through one of the narrower streets of his beat, he sees a thin curl of smoke within one of the houses, and a small dull-red light in the basement, that he well knows should not be there. To draw his rattle and spring it loudly, to hammer upon the door and shutters of the house with all his might, are things of course; and then through the silent street, up into the wild night sky, goes the fearful cry of “Fire! fire!”
A shambling, ragged scarecrow, whom drink has left homeless, comes up first; then a woman; then another; and while the scarecrow hurries off for the engines and the fire-escape, the women help to awaken the heavy sleepers by their shrill screams of “Fire! fire!”
They are hard to awaken, sleeping in a crowded house and a heavy atmosphere after a day of hard labor; but they must not be left to die in their sleep, or be burned in their beds; and hammering, and shouting, and screaming continue and increase, as more people gather in front of the high, narrow building.
Sleeping in the midst of a horrible danger, and liable every moment to an awful death―just like untold thousands of others in this great city, who have sinned long and deeply against a loving, merciful Father in heaven; who are cold and indifferent concerning their own eternal condition, sleeping carelessly with danger and death all around them, rapidly enclosing them in, and ushering them into an unknown and unprepared-for condition and judgment beyond!
Hark! there is some glass broken by the heat within, and from the opening thus made the smoke pours forth: at first in a light, thin curl, speedily thicker and thicker; while the dull-red light brightens, and the crackle and roar of the fire are distinctly heard between the shouts of men and women’s screams.
“Keep the door fast closed, or they will all be dead before help can come!” Minutes seem hours, and though only a very few have really elapsed since the discovery, murmurs are heard as to the delay of the engines and the tardiness of the fire-escape.
“Look look! there is a woman at one of the upper windows 1 you can see her white night-dress and her face! There is a child come to her also! Look at the young face with an agony of fear upon it, clinging to the mother’s side! God help them! for no one else can do so if the fire-escape does not come speedily; for the stairs are on fire, and the passage is a mass of smoldering flame through which nothing human can pass and live.”
“Here comes the fire-escape at last! Make way! make way!” And dragged heavily over the uneven stones, carefully steered along the center of the narrow streets, many willing hands lightening by sharing the labor of the fireman in charge, the huge machine is brought to the front of the house and placed against the upper wall.
Helmet adjusted, belt tightened, ax in its place, the fireman mounts the ladder, until he arrives at the window where the woman and the child are waiting in mortal fear.
“Stand from below!” he calls in steady accents, while his strong ax flies back and forth upon the glass and the woodwork of the windows and the wreck comes crashing to the ground, where all is now dead silence and attention, the crowd watching the gleaming helmet and the flying arm of the fire-man upon the escape.
“Here comes an engine! clear the way! clear the way!” And tearing and thundering upon its way, on which no shouting is needed to make a path through the silent streets, the first engine arrives. There is a sense of the fire being now in charge curiously apparent through all the assembled crowd. Speedily engine after engine arrives; a body of police come up and make a clear space in which the engines may work, and the firemen attend to their duty.
Falling back, quietly but unwillingly, the crowd form as much of a circle as possible round the burning building, whereof the basement and the ground-floor are now clearly in flames.
Meanwhile the fireman has planted himself firmly upon the window-space, taken the child upon his back, and gently assisting and encouraging the woman, he descends the escape step by step. At every step the crowd cheer, and encourage, and applaud with cries of “Hurray!” “Well done!” “Brave fellow!” “Two saved at any rate!” until the fireman reaches the ground, and the woman and child are rescued from the fiercely threatening flames.
Saved! from danger and a dreadful death when their need was greatest, their danger nearest, themselves utterly unable to do anything for their own rescue or safety. Saved! by the courage and self-devotion of another. A striking illustration of God’s way of salvation. Convinced of danger and liability to eternal death, the shiner, unable to save or help himself, looks around for succor; almost despairing, all but bereft of heart and hope, and weak and helpless. Then the Son of God comes to the rescue, and by self-devotion He seeks and saves those who else were eternally lost.
Again the fireman mounts quickly, for the fire is fiercer, and there is no time to lose. It is known that several more are in the burning house, of whom some are seen at the windows screaming for aid. There is an almost dead stillness below; limbs are quivering with anxious sympathy, faces upturned which are pale with suspense, for the fierce red glow can be plainly seen through the chinks of the shutters, and it is clear that the interior of the shop is a mass of fire that must soon make its way into the street, and up all the stores of the high, narrow old house. The rescuer mounts the escape to a window where a man is sitting, partly inside, partly outside, the building. He is evidently measuring the distance to the ground, with so plain an intention to leap forth that the crowd can see it, and implore him to wait until the fireman can reach and save him. Speedily the fireman is by his side, and looking into the room he sees there a woman sunk down in fainting fear upon the heating floor, who is in even greater danger than the man seated upon the window. Tenderly and gently she is brought down the escape, while the ringing plaudits of the ever-increasing crowd testify their sense of the fireman’s courage, and inspire him to renewed efforts in his gallant fight for lives with the fierce fire.
For the third time, still more quickly, he ascends upon his dangerous work, and again descends with the life rescued from the very jaws of the destroyer.
“There are more in the building!” says the last man brought down, and again the steps are mounted, and cautiously passing the window the fireman is entirely lost to view. Now is heard the fierce hiss of the water falling upon the escape to keep it cool, and upon the houses on either side, though none is yet directed upon the flaming house; the steam would instantly slay any yet within its awful walls. It is life for life at the call of duty; how long the rafters will bear his weight, how long before the fierce, hot, blinding smoke will choke him, or the blazing fire consume him, the fireman knows not. There are lives to be saved, and though he has a wife dearly loved, and little children who are very precious to him, he is down upon his knees groping carefully for those who are unable to save or help themselves, rendered unconscious by the fear of death and the suffocating vapor all around.
“One more yet! that makes five!” comes hoarsely through the blinding, choking smoke, as the almost exhausted fireman makes his way to the window. With eyes all but sightless, teeth firmly clenched, he makes his way out of the heated air within to the precious coolness and free breathing without. There, amid crying and sobbing, but no cheering, he now slowly but safely makes his way to the ground.
As they come, the map who is with him recovers more and more from the exhaustion and unconsciousness that must soon have been unbroken until the judgment. He tries to speak, but his hot lips and dry tongue forbid for a short space; renewing his efforts again and again, he is at last able to gasp out— “There is another on the floor in my room!”
Black with smoke and dust, almost exhausted with the strain and the heat, the brave fireman once more mounts the steps of the escape, and makes his way into the midst of the burning—plainly seen now, for the fierce flames are rushing out from basement and ground-floor. As they mount into the air they lick the escape as it stands, and, in spite of the drenching showers, strive hard to burn it and the man upon it. Not a sound, not a sigh, from the wordless multitude intently gazing on the brave, devoted man, who coolly disappears once more into the burning building.
Moments seem like hours in the feverish hearts of the gazing multitudes ere he once more comes forth from the fearful conflict. He is giddy and unsteady with the heat, but he clings as with a death-grip to the precious prize—the sixth and last whom he has rescued from that awful death!
Weeping and sobbing their gratitude, the friends of the rescued man receive him from the very border of the grave, and they turn to give their thanks to his true-hearted deliverer.
But he is not there; he is high up on the escape that is fiercely burning, himself choking in the flames, hopelessly entangled in the escape, while smoke and flame lick his brave life away. Held fast by his ax, and unable to rescue himself, the fierce fire all around him, he is struggling with his last strength in plain view of the multitude below, who shriek, and scream, and clasp their hands as the red flames leap and glow upon the writhing form, moving more and more feebly as the power of life dies away. His strong weapon has caught him in a deadly snare, and he is fast held by it to the blazing machine.
One last fierce, convulsive, despairing struggle, and lie is free! — but free to fall from the fearful height; and in an instant the brave heart is still, the devoted life gone, his wife widowed, and his children fatherless, as he lies at the foot of the escape, broken, dead at his post!
So, at his post, doing his duty nobly, died one of England’s best and bravest, six rescued lives testifying to his daring bravery in his work; his own life freely given for the salvation of others.
It was but natural that the hearts of his countrymen and women should respond with prideful sorrow as the sad, stirring account flew over the world. It was but natural that they should gladly help and pride for the loved wife and children of their fellow-countryman who died so nobly at his post. It was but natural that thousands upon thousands should line the way of the unconscious body to the house appointed for all living, and bedew with tears of unaffected sorrow the path on which he was taken for the last time.
Dead and gone! Dying in the act of duty, as noble a death as ever man died under the sun; passing away in a successful endeavor to seek and save those who, without his aid, must have perished in the fierce fire. No wonder that his country is proud of him; that his comrades speak of him with pride that even yet melts into tears as they remember how suddenly, how grandly, he was called into scenes beyond the grave!
Very natural and right this love and pride in one so truly devoted to duty; but not easily to be recoiled with the utter indifference shown to One who also died, in greater agony and for infinitely nobler purposes than the fireman of whom I have spoken. The Son of God came down from the glory of heaven, from the bosom of the Father, to His chosen, freely chosen, post and place on this sinful earth of God’s and ours. He who had created all things, “by whose pleasure they are and were created,” came to be a weak, helpless babe at an earthly mother’s bosom, that so from the very beginning of life He might experience all the trials and sorrows of the race He had created, and whom He loved with an everlasting love. When yet but a child He stood in the Temple that was His own—the Jehovah of Hosts in the lovely form of an intelligent child—learning by slow, sad experience, the trials and sorrows of a human childhood, gaining by the same painful process the increase of earthly wisdom that is always the outcome of subjection. So He grew to manhood, doubtless laboring hard for daily bread, the Son of God and the Son of Mary; the Lord of Heaven and the Carpenter’s reputed Son; the Architect of the universe and yet a Carpenter Himself (see Mark 6:33Is not this the carpenter, the son of Mary, the brother of James, and Joses, and of Juda, and Simon? and are not his sisters here with us? And they were offended at him. (Mark 6:3)). Remaining year after year unknown and unnoticed, living a poor workman’s life of labor and care, honorably working for the bread His human nature needed, every day of this unknown and unnoticed life of eighteen years contains within itself a revelation of matchless, self-devoting love!
But who thinks upon it? who thanks and praises His holy and blessed name for thus living at His voluntary post? A few who love Him, one here and there who walk with Him; but the great mass—even of those who know the touching history well—pass unheedingly by, taking no note of His lovely ways.
And when He came forth from labor and retirement to be the greatest Teacher, Physician, and Friend earth ever beheld, how was it then? Having to depend on the charity of women for His clothing; not having where to lay His head; so poor as to have to work a miracle to pay the tax for the Temple that had been erected to Him and was all His own!
Going about doing good; taking little children in His arms, laying His hand on them and blessing them. Healing the sick; as when the poor, loathed leper crept to His feet and looked up into the loving, pitying face with the low-breathed entreaty, “Lord if thou wilt thou canst make me clean!” and was answered, ere yet the sound of his words had died on the air, “I will! be thou clean!” When for the first and last time He entered and passed through Jericho, where the blind son of Timæus sat by the highway-side begging, and hearing the footstep of the promised Messiah near unto him, met Him with the entreating cry, “Son of David, have mercy on me!” with what kindness he was attended to! how readily the whole gathering was stayed in its progress to pity and heal the blind beggar by the way!
Just as pityingly went the Son of God into the chamber of death, and awoke to fresh life the dead girl lying there, with the endearing words she had probably often heard from her loving mother’s lips as the call to another day’s love and care, “Talitha-cumi! —Maiden, arise!”
But who thinks of Jesus? whose eyes follow lovingly His path of undeviating self-devotion? Who praises Him today for all His loving ministry to the blind, the lame, the hungry, the dying, and the dead?
Not to those only, but to that woman stained with sin, who was dragged to His feet in the Temple, and there used as an unconscious snare for His life. See Him standing there, with the captive in the death-net at His feet, and His enemies maliciously triumphant all around! See Him stoop —write—look up—look down and write again. Look now at the malicious faces, dark with conscience-smiting; see them depart one by one till Jesus is left alone, with the woman standing by Him; the death-net rent to tatters, and the captive freed!
Stand with Him at the grave of “our friend” Lazarus; see the heavy tears of sorrow for sin and its dread companion—death, roll down the cheek of the friend of Lazarus and the Son of God I Hear His low, measured tones of command, “Lazarus, come forth!” and see His servants, Death and the Grave, instantly obey their Master, and loose their hold!
Yet who thinks of Jesus? Who gives thanks to the Master of Death that thus He opened the way of resurrection, and afterward threw it wide by His own rising from the dead lighting our way, and the way of our loved ones, through the valley of shadow and darkness into the regions of reality and light beyond?
Striving triumphantly with the worst that sin and hell could do, “he set his face steadfastly to go up to Jerusalem,” to die! See Him, sold for the price of the meanest slave, and condemned to a disgraced slave’s death, on His way to the awful agony of such suffering for sin! See that holy face—never convulsed by passion or blushing for sin—insulted, spitefully used, spit upon, an smitten with the palms of sinful hands! Staggering, scourged, wounded, bleeding from cruel blows, so He came to die! Mocked by the soldier escort, deserted by His followers and friends, fainting from exhaustion at last, prone on the earth He had made, “Behold the Lamb of God!” Of all that He had helped and benefited; of all men that had blessed Him and hailed Him king, there was no eye to pity, no hand to save; not one to whisper a word of comfort wherewith to help Him on toward the still greater agony on the hill of Calvary.
Spurned, with mocking and reviling, from the earth He came to save; over Him the darkening heaven, and the wrath of God whose utmost vengeance against sin He was bearing in that dread hour; look upon Jesus! Hear His words to His broken-hearted mother; to the disciple whom He loved, who had regained courage to come near and see Him die; to the dying, converted thief; to His Father in heaven, and to all the wondering universe. Hear His “It is finished!” when He bowed His head and gave up the ghost.
Yet who thinks of Jesus, the Friend of man—sinful, dying, yet immortal man—and the Son of God, who for us men and for our salvation came down from the glory of the Father, and “became obedient unto death, even the death of the cross”?
Let us think, now, of His holy, loving life, of His wise and gracious teaching, of the example He has left us, of His death for our sins, and His present place in heaven for us, until we much better know Him “whom to know is life eternal,” and are able truthfully to say, “We love him because he first loved us,” and proved it fully, by dying at His post.
J. C. W.