AN ALL-NIGHT MEETING OF THE ARMY.
The crash of tamborines, the jarring roar of a badly strung snare-drum,
and the troubled, fitful echoing of a discordant chorus breaks through
the quiet atmosphere of the darkening street. People turn and look back,
some with a look of perplexity, others with a smile of contempt, while
those going in the direction of the sound quicken their footsteps. As
they pass us we hear them say “the Salvation Army—an all-night meeting,”
and instinctively we turn and follow them. As we draw nearer the people
on the sidewalks thicken, while the music, which in the distance sounded
at first like the wild air of a street minstrel ditty, assumes the style
of a religious chant. The music, if it can so be called, issues from a
dark, dense circular mass of people in the middle of the street. Suddenly
it breaks into nervous and excited motion, and takes up a line of march,
led by a man who walks backwards, facing those who follow, and beating
time with a baton. He leads them in a high pitched, cracked voice, which
at the higher notes becomes positively painful, but is always earnest
and impassioned. It is a motley group that follows him. Prominent among
them are the women, who, regardless of the mud and slush, heedless of the
coarse and impertinent remarks of loafers as they pass, trudge patiently,
singing in a chirpy, squeaky voice, which has been utterly broken and
toggled up by constant and strained use in the chilly, open air. Some of
them are
YOUNG AND PRETTY,
slyly watching the crowds as they pass, while others of them are
middle-aged and hard-featured, the material of which grass widows are
made. Each of them carries a tambourine which they beat out of all
unison, and which, did they but know it, are calculated to do more harm
than good, as their music is enough to drive any man to madness. On they
march, the wild, weird music rising an falling fitfully, while every now
and then the sharp ejaculations of “Praise God!” “Hallelujah!” etc.,
cut through the clangor like nervous shafts of sound. On either side of
the column march a mob of men, women and urchins, some jeering them,
others sympathizing with them, while hundreds tramp along out of sheer
curiosity. The crowd thickens, sways forward anxious to obtain favorable
seats in the hall, as it is now known to all them that there is going
to be a “knee drill and an all night hand to hand fight with the devil
while the gates of hell are to be stormed towards morning by the forlorn
hope.” The long, low barrack-like building is reached, the wide doors
are flung open and the eager mob follow the soldiers with a rush into
the vast and garishly lit interior. Then a scene opens on the eye which
can only be witnessed in a great city. The high amphitheatre at the far
end is soon densely packed by Salvation army soldiers, both men and
women, most of the former dressed in red and blue coats with the breast
illuminated with medals in various designs. The huge barn-like edifice
is filled as if by magic and by all classes of citizens, from the devout
woman sitting patiently in front, who has come to listen and to pray,
down to the brazen-faced night hawk in the jockey cap and bangs, who has
come to see and be seen and to make a mash if she finds a victim. And how
many of such are here! Their cold, calculating, treacherous eyes watching
stealthily the crowds of
SMUG-FACED YOUTHS
that occupy the lower part of the hall. Still the crowd comes pouring in
until the place is packed to the doors, and then for the first time a
partial stillness falls upon the place. There is a slight commotion in
the front row of the elevated stage and then amid a crash of tamborines
and a roar of voices chanting a spirited chorus, a woman with a pale,
spirituelle face and fine, intelligent eyes, shaded by a plain black
straw bonnet bound with red ribbons, steps to the front, stands still as
a statue, and looks with a strangely pitiful expression over the vast
crowd before her. Even after the music ceases, she still stands there,
with fingers tightly clasped and lips moving in silent prayer, and then,
suddenly and unexpectedly, she flings herself down on her knees, her
whole body shaken with spasmodic sobs. The great crowd is thoroughly
stilled now. All eyes are bent upon her, some in alarm, some in pity,
while others burn with the kindling fire of religious fervor. She rises
slowly and, stretching out her trembling hands to the audience, cries in
a clear, bugle-like voice, “Oh, why will you die?” and then overcome by
her feelings, bursts into a torrent of tears again. A thrill runs through
the vast assemblage, all have caught the infection from her, and even the
brazen-faced female in the back seat lets fall her eyes with a guilty
look. Once more the electric woman on the platform begins to speak—at
first brokenly, and gathering strength as she goes on, bursts out in an
appeal to sinners, in which the terrors of a real old-fashioned up and up
fire and brimstone gehenna are painted with a vividness which would
DO CREDIT TO A TALMAGE
or an old-time backwoods hard-shell Baptist preacher. She talks with a
rapidity that is marvellous, every fibre in her willowy body vibrates,
her eyes shine and her thin hands beat the air and rend the countenance
of an imaginary Satan. She continues to speak until completely exhausted,
and when she ceases another mighty chorus fills the hall. One after
another the soldiers get up and relate their experience. Yonder is a man
who used to be a dry-haired and gray-faced drunkard; now he is a man with
new life coursing in his veins and shining in his eyes. He tells what
the Lord has done for him, and as he relates the story his wife, who
will never be beautiful again, for twenty years of unceasing misery have
stamped themselves upon her, falls upon her knees, and, with the fast
tears flowing down her cheeks, cries, “Yes, it’s all true, thank God,
it’s all true!” That girl who is speaking now used to be a night hawk
herself, but no one can mistake her earnestness. And thus the night wears
on amid the crash of discordant music and the wailings and cries of the
converted. The crowd begins to thin towards twelve o’clock, young men and
women meet at the door, exchange a glance and a whispered word, and then
slide out into the darkness. Suddenly there is a tumult in the lower part
of the hall. A cry of “fight!” a savage oath, the audience rise as if by
magic, and two or three muscular soldiers wrench a disorderly visitor to
the door and fling him into the street. The singers sing till they are
hoarse, the talkers talk till their voices crack, the exhorters look wan
and ghastly, the tamborine players fall asleep in their seats, the noisy
place stills frequently, and by four o’clock in the morning the last
of them steps through the entrance and finds his way through the grey
streets towards home.