strangest feelings and experiences. I feel as if I had been out in
some other world and been brought back again; and now I hardly know
myself or where I am. You know I wrote you all about Maggie, and her
leaving us, and poor Mary's trouble about her, and how she had been
since seen in a very bad neighborhood: I promised Mary faithfully that
I would go after her; and so, after all our Christmas labors were
over, Harry and I went on a midnight excursion with Mr. James, the
Methodist minister, who has started the mission there.
It seemed to me very strange that a minister could have access to
all those places where he proposed to take us, and see all that was
going on without insult or danger but he told me that he was in the
constant habit of passing through the dance-houses, and talking with
the people who kept them, and that he had never met with any rudeness
or incivility.
He told us that in the very center of this worst district of New
York, among drinking saloons and dance-houses, a few Christian
people had bought a house in which they had established a mission
family, with a room which they use for a chapel; and they hold weekly
prayer-meetings, and seek to draw in the wretched people there.
On this evening, he said, they were about to give a midnight supper at
the Home to any poor houseless wanderer whom they could find in those
wretched streets, or who hung about the drinking-saloons.
"Our only hope in this mission," he said, "is to make these wretched
people feel that we really are their friends and seek their good;
and, in order to do this, we must do something for them that they
can understand. They can all understand a good supper, when they are
lying about cold and hungry and homeless, on a stinging cold night
like this; and we don't begin to talk to them till we have warmed and
fed them. It surprises them to have us take all this trouble to do
them good; it awakens their curiosity; they wonder what we do it for,
and then, when we tell them it is because we are Christians, and love
them, and want to save them, they believe us. After that, they are
willing to come to our meetings, and attend to what we say."
Now, this seemed to me good philosophy, but I could not help saying:
"Dear Mr. James, how could you have the courage to begin a mission
in such a dreadful place; and how can you have any hope of saving
such people?" And he answered: "With God, all things are possible.
That was what Christ came for--to seek and save the _lost_. The Good
Shepherd," he said, "leaves the ninety and nine safe sheep in the
fold, and goes after one that is lost _until he finds it_." I asked
him who supported the Home, and he said it was supported by God, in
answer to prayer; that they made no public solicitation; had nobody
pledged to help them; but that contributions were constantly coming
in from one Christian person or another, as they needed them; that
the superintendent and matron of the Home had no stated salary, and
devoted themselves to the work in the same faith that the food and
raiment needed would be found for them; and so far it had not failed.
All this seemed very strange to me. It seemed a sort of literal
rendering of some of the things in the Bible that we pass over as
having no very definite meaning. Mr. James seemed so quiet, so
assured, so calm and unexcited, that one couldn't help believing him.
It seemed a great way that we rode, in parts of the city that I never
saw before, in streets whose names were unknown to me, till finally we
alighted before a plain house in a street full of drinking-saloons.
As we drove up, we heard the sound of hymn-singing, and looked into a
long room set with benches which seemed full of people. We stopped a
moment to listen to the words of an old Methodist hymn;
"Come, ye weary, heavy-laden,
Lost and ruined by the fall,
If you tarry till you're better,
You will never come at all.
Not the righteous--
Sinners, Jesus came to call.
"Come, ye thirsty, come and welcome,
God's free bounty glorify.
True belief and true repentance,
Every grace that brings us nigh,
Without money,
Come to Jesus Christ and buy."
It was the last hymn, and they were about breaking up as we went into
the house. This building, Mr. James told us, used to be a rat-pit,
where the lowest, vilest, and most brutal kinds of sport were going
on. It used to be, he said, foul and filthy, physically as well as
morally; but scrubbing and paint and whitewash had transformed it
into a comfortable home. There was a neat sitting-room, carpeted
and comfortably furnished, a dining-room, a pantry stocked with
serviceable china, a workroom with two or three sewing-machines, and
a kitchen, from which at this moment came a most appetizing smell
of the soup which was preparing for the midnight supper. Above, were
dormitories, in which were lodging about twenty girls, who had fled to
this refuge to learn a new life. They had known the depth of sin and
the bitterness of punishment, had been spurned, disgraced and outcast.
Some of them had been at Blackwell's Island--on the street--in the
very gutter--and now, here they were, as I saw some of them, decently
and modestly dressed, and busy preparing for the supper. When I looked
at them setting the tables, or busy about their cooking, they seemed
so cheerful and respectable, I could scarcely believe that they had
been so degraded. A portion of them only were detailed for the night
service; the others had come up from the chapel and were going to bed
in the dormitories, and we heard them singing a hymn before retiring.
It was very affecting to me--the sound of that hymn, and the thought
of so peaceful a home in the midst of this dreadful neighborhood. Mr.
James introduced us to the man and his wife who take charge of the
family. They are converts--the fruits of these labors. He was once a
singer, and connected with a drinking-saloon, but was now giving his
whole time and strength to this work, in which he had all the more
success because he had so thorough an experience and knowledge of
the people to be reached. We were invited to sit down to a supper in
the dining-room, for Mr. James said we should be out so late before
returning home that we should need something to sustain us. So we
took some of the soup which was preparing for the midnight supper,
and very nice and refreshing we found it. After this, we went out
with Mr. James and the superintendent, to go through the saloons
and dance-houses and drinking places, and to distribute tickets of
invitation to the supper. What we saw seems now to me like a dream.
I had heard that such things were, but never before did I see them.
We went from one place to another, and always the same features--a
dancing-room, with girls and women dressed and ornamented, sitting
round waiting for partners; men of all sorts walking in and surveying
and choosing from among them and dancing, and, afterwards or before,
going with them to the bar to drink. Many of these girls looked young
and comparatively fresh; their dresses were cut very low, so that I
blushed for them through my veil. I clung tight to Harry's arm, and
asked myself where I was, as I moved round among them. Nobody noticed
us. Everybody seemed to have a right to be there, and see what they
could.
I remember one large building of two or three stories, with larger
halls below, all lighted up, with dancing and drinking going on,
and throngs and throngs of men, old and young, pouring and crowding
through it. These tawdrily bedizened, wretched girls and women seemed
to me such a sorrow and disgrace to womanhood and to Christianity
that my very heart sunk, as I walked among them. I felt as if I could
have cried for their disgrace. Yet nobody said a word to us. All the
keepers of the places seemed to know Mr. James and the superintendent.
He spoke to them all kindly and politely, and they answered with the
same civility. In one or two of the saloons, the superintendent asked
leave to sing a song, which was granted, and he sung the hymn that
begins:
"I love to tell the story
Of unseen things above,
Of Jesus and his glory,
Of Jesus and his love;
I love to tell the story--
It did so much for me--
And that is just the reason
I tell it unto thee."
At another place, he sung "Home, sweet home," and I thought I saw many
faces that looked sad. Either our presence was an embarrassment, or
for some other reason it seemed to me there was no real gaiety, and
that the dancing and the keeping up of a show of hilarity were all
heavy work.
There seems, however, to be a gradation in these dreadful places.
Besides these which were furnished with some show and pretension,
there were cellars where the same sort of thing was going on--dancing
and drinking, and women set to be the tempters of men. We saw
miserable creatures standing out on the sidewalk, to urge the
passers-by to come into these cellars. It was pitiful, heart-breaking
to see.
But the lowest, the most dreadful of all, was what they called the
bucket shops. There the vilest of liquors are mixed in buckets and
sold to wretched, crazed people who have fallen so low that they
cannot get anything better. It is the lowest depth of the dreadful
deep.
Oh, those bucket shops! Never shall I forget the poor, forlorn,
forsaken-looking creatures, both men and women, that I saw there.
They seemed crouching in from the cold--hanging about, or wandering
uncertainly up and down. Mr. James spoke to many of them, as if he
knew them, kindly and sorrowfully. "This is a hard way you are going,"
he said to one. "Ar'n't you most tired of it?" "Well," he said to
another poor creature, "when you have gone as far as you can, and come
to the end, and nobody will have you, and nobody do anything for you,
then come to us, and we'll take you in."
During all this time, and in all these places, the Superintendent, who
seemed to have a personal knowledge of many of those among whom he
was moving, was busy distributing his tickets of invitation to the
supper. He knew where the utterly lost and abandoned ones were most to
be found, and to them he gave most regard.
But as yet, though I looked with anxious eyes, I had seen nothing of
Maggie. I spoke to Mr. James at last, and he said, "We have not yet
visited Mother Moggs's establishment, where she was said to be. We are
going there now."
"Mother Moggs is a character in her way," he told us. "She has always
treated me with perfect respect and politeness, because I have shown
the same to her. She seems at first view like any other decent woman,
but she is one that, if she were roused, would be as prompt with knife
and pistol as any man in these streets." As he said this, we turned
a corner, and entered a dancing-saloon, in its features much like
many others we had seen. Mother Moggs stood at a sort of bar at the
upper end, where liquors were displayed and sold. She seemed really so
respectably dressed, and so quiet and pleasant-looking, that I could
scarcely believe my eyes when I saw her.
Mr. James walked up with us to where she was standing, and spoke to
her, as he does to every one, gently and respectfully, inquiring after
her health, and then, in a lower tone, he said, "And how about the
health of your soul?"
She colored, and forced a laugh, and answered with some smartness:
"Which soul do you mean? I've got two--one on each foot."
He took no notice of the jest, but went on:
"And how about the souls of these girls? What will become of them?"
"I ain't hurting their souls," she said. "I don't force 'em to stay
with me; they come of their own accord, and they can go when they
please. I don't keep 'em. If any of my girls can better themselves
anywhere else, I don't stand in their way."
The air of virtuous assurance with which she spoke would have given
the impression that she was pursuing, under difficult circumstances,
some praiseworthy branch of industry at which her girls were
apprentices.
Just at this moment, I turned, and saw Maggie standing behind me. She
was not with the other girls, but standing a little back, toward the
bar. Instantly I crossed over, and, raising my veil, said, "Maggie,
poor child! come back to your mother."
Her face changed in a moment; she looked pale, as if she were going to
faint, and said only, "Oh! Mrs. Henderson, you here?"
"Yes, I came to look for you, Maggie. Come right away with us," I
said. "O Maggie! come," and I burst into tears.
She seemed dreadfully agitated, but said:
"Oh, I can't; it's too late!"
"No, it isn't. Mr. James," I said, "here she is. Her mother has sent
for her."
"And you, madam," said Mr. James to the woman, "have just said
you wouldn't stand in the way, if any of your girls could better
themselves."
The woman was fairly caught in her own trap. She cast an evil look
at us all, but said nothing, as we turned to leave, I holding upon
Maggie, determined not to let her go.
We took her with us to the Home. She was crying as if her heart would
break. The girls who were getting the supper looked at her with
sympathy and gathered round her. One of them interested me deeply.
She was very pale and thin, but had such a sweet expression of peace
and humility in her face! She came and sat down by Maggie and said,
"Don't be afraid; this is Christ's home, and he will save you as he
has me. I was worse than you are--worse than you ever could be--and He
has saved _me_. I am _so_ happy here!"
And now the miserable wretches who had been invited to the supper
came pouring in. Oh, such a sight! Such forlorn _wrecks_ of men, in
tattered and torn garments, with such haggard faces, such weary,
despairing eyes! They looked dazed at the light and order and quiet
they saw as they came in. Mr. James and the superintendent stood at
the door, saying, "Come in, boys, come in; you're welcome heartily!
Here you are, glad to see you," seating them on benches at the lower
part of the room.
While the supper was being brought in, the table was set with an array
of bowls of smoking hot soup and a large piece of nice white bread at
each place. When all had been arranged, Mr. James saw to seating the
whole band at the tables, asked a blessing, standing at the head, and
then said, cheerily, "Now, boys, fall to; eat all you want; there is
plenty more where this came from, and you shall have as much as you
can carry."
The night was cold, and the soup was savory and hot, and the bread
white and fine, and many of them ate with a famished appetite; the
girls meanwhile stood watchful to replenish the bowls or hand more
bread. All seemed to be done with such a spirit of bountiful, cheerful
good-will as was quite inspiriting.
It was not till hunger was fully satisfied that Mr. James began to
talk to them, and when he did, I wondered at his tact.
"This is quite the thing, now, isn't it, boys, of a cold night like
this, when a fellow is hungry? See what it is to have friends.
"I suppose, boys, you get better suppers than these from those
fellows that you buy your drink of. They make suppers for you
sometimes, I suppose?"
"No, indeed," growled some of the men. "Catch 'em doing it!"
"Why, I should think they ought to, when you spend all your money on
them. You pay all your money to them, and make yourselves so poor that
you haven't a crust, and then they won't even get you a supper?"
"No, that they won't," growled some. "They don't care if we starve."
"Boys," said Mr. James, "aren't you fools? Here these men get rich,
and you get poor. You pay all your earnings to them. You can't have
anything, and they have everything. They can have plate-glass windows,
and they can keep their carriages, and their wives have their silk
dresses and jewels, and you pay for it all; and then, when you've
spent your last cent over their counters, they kick you into the
street. Aren't you fools to be supporting such men? Your wives don't
get any silk dresses, I'll bet. O boys, where are your wives?--where
are your mothers?--where are your children?"
By this time they were looking pretty sober, and some of them had
tears in their eyes.
"Oh, boys, boys! this is a bad way you've been in--a bad way. Haven't
you gone long enough? Don't you want to give it up? Look here--now,
boys, I'll read you a story." And then he read from his pocket
Testament the Parable of the Prodigal Son. He read it beautifully: I
thought I had never understood it before. When he had done, he said,
"And now, boys, hadn't you better come back to your Father? Do you
remember, some of you, how your mother used to teach you to say, 'Our
Father, who art in heaven?' Come now, kneel down, every one of you,
and let's try it once more."
They all knelt, and I never heard anything like that prayer. It was so
loving, so earnest, so pitiful. He prayed for those poor men, as if
he were praying for his own soul. They must have _felt_ how he loved
them. It almost broke my heart to hear him: it did seem for the time
as if the wall were down that separates God's love from us, and that
everybody must feel it, even these poor wretched creatures.
There were among them some young men, and some whose heads and
features were good, and indicative of former refinement of feeling. I
could not help thinking how many histories of sorrow, for just so many
families, were written in those faces.
"Is it possible that you can save any of these?" I said to Mr. James,
as they were going out.
"_We_ cannot, but God can," he said. "With God, all things are
possible. We have seen a great many saved that were as low as these;
but it was only by the power of God converting their souls. That is at
all times possible."
"But," said Harry, "the craving for drink gets to be a physical
disease."
"Yet I have seen that craving all subdued and taken away by the power
of the Holy Spirit. They become new creatures in Christ."
"That would be almost miraculous," said Harry.
"We must expect miracles, and we shall have them," replied he.
Meanwhile the girls had gathered around Maggie, and were talking with
her, and when we spoke of going, she said:
"Dear Mrs. Henderson, let me stay here awhile; the girls here will
help me, and I can do some good here, and by-and-by, perhaps, when I
am stronger, I can come back to mother. It's better for me here now."
Mr. James and the matron both agreed that, for the present, this would
be best.
There is a current of sympathy, an energy of Christian feeling, a sort
of enthusiasm, about this house, that helps one to begin anew.
It was nearly morning before we found ourselves in our home
again--but, for me, the night has not been spent in vain. Oh, mother,
can it be that in a city full of churches and Christians such dreadful
things as I saw are going on every night? Certainly, if all Christians
felt about it as those do who have begun this Home, there would be
a change. If every Christian would do a little, a great deal would
be done; for there are many Christians. But now it seems as if a few
were left to do all, while the many do nothing. But Harry and I are
resolved henceforth to do our part in helping this work.
Mary is comforted about Maggie and unboundedly grateful to me for
going.
I think she herself prefers her staying there awhile; she has felt so
keenly what Aunt Maria said about her being a burden and disgrace to
us.
We shall watch over her there, and help her forward in life as fast as
she is strong enough to go. But I am making this letter too long, so
good-by for the present.
Your loving
EVA.
_CHAPTER XLII._
JIM'S FORTUNES.
"Well, hurrah for Jim!" exclaimed our friend Jim Fellows, making
tumultuous entrance into the Henderson house, with such a whirl and
breeze of motion as to flutter the music on the piano, and the papers
on Harry's writing-desk, while he skipped round the room, executing an
extemporary _pas seul_.
"Jim, for goodness sake, what now?" said Harry, rising. "What's up?"
"I've got it! I've got it!--the first place on 'the Forum!' Think of
the luck! I've been talking with Ivison and Sears about it, and the
papers are all drawn. I'm made now, you'd better believe. It's firm
land at last, and I tell you, if I haven't scratched for it!"
"Wish you joy, my boy, with all my heart," said Harry, shaking his
hand. "It's the top of the ladder."
"And I, too, Jim," said Eva, offering her hand frankly. "Sit down and
have a cup of tea with us."
"_You_ don't care, I suppose, what happens to _me_," said Jim in an
abused tone, turning to Alice, who had sat quietly in a shaded corner
through this outburst.
"Bless me, Jim, I've been holding my breath, for I didn't know what
you'd do next. I'm sure I wish you joy with all my heart. There's my
hand on it," and Alice reached out her hand as frankly as Eva.
It was a hand as fair, soft and white as a man might wish to have
settle like a dove of peace and rest in his own; and, as it went into
his palm, Jim could not help giving it a warm, detaining grasp that
had a certain significance, especially as his eyes rested upon her
with a flash of expression before which hers fell.
Alice had come to Eva's to dine, and they were now just enjoying that
pleasant after-dinner hour around the fireside, when they sat and
played with their tea in pretty teacups, and chatted, and looked into
the fire. It is the hour dear to memory, when the home fireside seems
like a picture, when the gleams of light that fall on one's plants and
pictures and books and statuettes, bring forth some new charm in each
one, giving rise to the exulting feeling, "Nowhere in the world is
there a place so pretty and so cosy as this."
Now, Alice had been meditating a return to her own home that night,
trusting to Harry for escort; but, at the moment that Jim took her
hand and she saw the expression of his eyes, she mentally altered her
intentions and resolved to remain all night. She was sure if she rose
to go Jim would, of course, be her escort. She was not going to walk
home alone with him in his present mood, and trust herself to hear,
and be obliged to answer, anything he might be led to say.
The fact is well known to observers of mental phenomena, that an
engagement suddenly sprung upon a circle of intimate acquaintances is
often productive of great searchings of heart, and that it is apt to
have a result similar to the knocking down of one brick at the extreme
of a line of them.
Alice had been startled and astonished by finding her rector
descending from the semi-angelic sphere where she had, in her
imagination, placed him, and coming into the ranks of mortal and
marrying men. She had seen and handled the engagement ring which
sparkled on Angie's finger, and it looked like any other ring that
a gentleman of good taste might buy, and she had heard all the
comments of the knowing ones thereon. Already there was activity
in the direction of a prospective trousseau. Aunt Maria, with her
usual alertness, was prizing stuffs and giving records of prices and
of cheap and desirable shopping places, and racing from one end of
the city to the other in self-imposed pilgrimages of research. There
were discussions of houses for the future rectory. Everything was
in a whirl of preparation. There was marriage in the very air: and
the same style of reflection which occurs when there is a death, is
apposite also to the betrothal--"Whose turn shall come next?" "_Hodie
mihi--cras tibi._"
Jim Fellows, the most excitable, sympathetic of all mortal Jims, may
well be supposed to have felt something of the general impulse.
Now, Miss Alice was as fine a specimen of young-lady-hood at
twenty-two as is ordinarily to be met with in New York or otherwhere.
She was well read, well bred, high-minded and high-principled. She
was a little inclined to the ultra-romantic in her views, and while
living along contentedly, and with a moderate degree of good sense
and comfort, with such people as were to be found on earth, was a
little prone to indulge dreams of super-celestial people--imaginary
heroes and heroines. In the way of friendship, she imagined she liked
many of her gentlemen associates; but the man she was to marry was
to be a hero--somebody before whom she and every one else should be
irresistibly constrained to bow down and worship. She knew nobody of
this species as yet.