A CHURCH IN THE GHETTO
About this time the old church of Sea and Land at the corner of Market
and Henry streets was to be put up for auction. The New York
Presbytery wanted to sell it and devote most of the money to the
building up of uptown churches. I was sent there by the missionary
society to hold the place until they got a good price for it. I
gathered the trustees around me--a splendid band of devout men, mostly
young men--and I did not need to tell them that it was a forlorn hope.
They already knew it.
We outlined a plan of campaign to save the church for that community,
and the result is that the church is there to-day. Of course, the
district is largely Jewish, but there were enough Gentiles to fill a
dozen churches.
It was inevitable that we should get in touch with the Jewish
children. We had a kindergarten, but made it known to the Jewish
community that we were not in the business of proselyting, and that
they need have no hesitation in sending their children to our
kindergarten, which was a great blessing to the whole community.
Sunday evenings in the spring and fall, I spoke to large congregations
of Jewish people from the steps of the church, on the spirit of Jewish
history--as to what it had done for the world and what it could still
do.
I think it was in the early part of 1893 that I began my work there.
It was the year of the panic, and the East Side was in a general state
of stringency and starvation. A group of ministers of various
denominations got together and devised a plan for a cheap restaurant
in which we were to sell meals at cost.
Probably for the first time in the history of New York, a Roman
Catholic priest, a Jewish rabbi, Presbyterian, Methodist and Baptist
pastors sat down around a table to talk over the welfare of the
people. A committee was formed, and I nominated the Catholic priest
for chairman. He was elected. The restaurant did not last very long,
and probably the chief good of the thing was the getting together of
these men. Difficulties, of course, came thick and fast. Kosher meat
for the Jews, fish for the Catholics on Friday, and any old thing for
the Gentiles, were the smallest of the difficulties to be overcome.
I was supported in my church work by a band of young men and women,
mostly from a distance, who gave their services freely, and in the
course of a year or two, we managed to increase the church membership
by a hundred or so, and occasionally we filled the structure by
serving out refreshments to the lodging-house men of the Bowery. I had
an opportunity to touch the social needs of the community by
coöperating with the University Settlement which was then in its
infancy. I opened the church edifice for their lecture course which
included Henry George, Father McGlyn, Thaddeus B. Wakeman, Daniel de
Leon, Charles B. Spahr, and W.J. Sullivan. Sixteen years ago these men
were the moving spirits in their respective lines in New York City.
The New York Presbytery was not altogether pleased by this new
departure in church work; but we had the lectures first, and asked
permission afterward. Most of these men filled the church to
overflowing. In the case of Father McGlyn, hundreds had to be turned
away.
As I sat beside Father McGlyn in the pulpit, I said, "Father, how do
you stand with the Pope, these days? What is the status of the case?"
"Well, Irvine," he said, "I can best explain it by a dream that I had
some time ago. I dreamed that a young priest visited me with the
intention of getting me to recant. 'McGlyn,' he said, 'if you don't
recant, you'll be damned!' And I thought for a minute or two and then
gave the only answer that a man with a conscience could give: 'Well,
brother, I'll be damned if I do!'"
I found myself drifting quietly out of old methods of church work, and
attempting, at least, to apply religion to the conditions around
me. Every aspect of social life was in need of remedial treatment. Of
course, I did not neglect the religious teaching, but what the
situation demanded was ethical teaching, and, without making any
splurge about my change of view, I worked at whatever my hand found to
do in that immediate neighbourhood.
[Illustration: Alexander Irvine.
From a sketch by Juliet Thompson]
The push-cart men and organ-grinders were terrorized by the policemen.
I hired an organ-grinder one summer afternoon to play for several
hours, so that the children of the neighbourhood might have a dance on
the street. It was a joy to my soul to see these little bits of
half-naked humanity dancing by the hundreds on the streets and
sidewalks, most of them barefooted, hatless and coatless. It was on
one of these occasions that I discovered the petty graft exercised on
the organ-grinders. The push-cart men all paid toll to the policeman
on the beat, and the captain of the precinct winked at it. The
officers of the precinct looked upon the religious leaders as "easy
marks"--every one of them. The detectives of the Society for
Prevention of Crime went through my parish and discovered wholesale
violations of excise laws and city ordinances by the existence of
bawdy-houses and the selling of liquor in prohibited hours and on
Sundays. The captain of the precinct came out with a public statement
that these men were liars; that the law was observed and prostitution
did not exist. As between Dr. Parkhurst and the captain of the
precinct, the public was inclined to believe the captain.
One Sunday evening after service, I dressed in the clothes of a
labourer, took several men with me and went through the parish. The
first place we entered was the East River Hotel, a few blocks from my
church. We purchased whiskey at the bar. I did not drink the whiskey,
for under oath I could not tell whether it was whiskey or not; but my
companions were not so hampered. After paying for the liquor, we were
invited upstairs, and there we saw one of the ghastliest, most inhuman
sights that can be found anywhere on earth outside of Port Said. We
counted forty women on the first floor. We saw them and their stalls,
surroundings and companions, and we beat a hasty retreat. A cry of
alarm was raised, and the barkeeper jumped to the door. It was secured
by two heavy chains. No explanation was made, but a straight demand
that he open the door, which was done, and we passed out.
The grand jury, which at that time was hearing report and
counter-report on the condition of the neighbourhood, had for a
foreman a Tammany man who owned several saloons. We went into these
saloons one after another, purchased liquor in bottles, and next
morning appeared before the grand jury armed with affidavits, and the
liquor. Dr. Parkhurst stood at the door of the jury room as I went
in, and whispered to me as I passed him: "This thing cannot last
forever."
The first few minutes of my testimony I was unconsciously assuming the
position of a criminal myself, and apologizing for interfering with
these gentlemen. The assistant district attorney, instead of
representing the people and standing for the Law, was inquiring into
my reasons for doing such an unusual thing. I objected to the foreman
sitting on his own case.
"This man," I said, "is an habitual violator of the Law. I am here to
testify to that; so are my companions. We have the evidence of his
law-breaking here," and I pointed to the bottles that we had placed on
the table.
They did not move, however, and I think they rather considered the
whole thing a joke. We proceeded to describe the East River Hotel and
similar resorts that a few days previously had been described as
immaculately clean by the captain of the precinct. The result of all
this was the sustaining of the testimony of Dr. Parkhurst's
detectives. The petty graft among the organ-grinders and the push-cart
men went right on. Complaints were jokes and were treated as such.
The change of seasons brought little change in the activities of a
church centre like that. In the winter it was the provision of coal
and clothes. In the summer it was fresh-air parties and doctors.
I made the discovery one day in a tenement in talking to a little
child of five, that she had never seen a green field or a tree. This
led me to ask the missionaries assisting the church to make a search
for a few weeks and collect as many such children as possible. We got
together seventeen, ranging from three to seven years of age, not any
of whom had ever seen a single aspect of the outdoor world, save the
world of stone and brick and wood.
Some friends in Montclair, N.J., arranged a lawn party for these
little ones, and we proceeded. Nothing extraordinary happened. There
was no open-eyed wonder, few exclamations as we intently watched the
emotions of these children as they gazed for the first time on lawns,
flower gardens and trees. Two-thirds of them were seasick on the train
and the one regret of the journey was that we had not taken along half
a dozen wet nurses.
The one unique thing of the day was the luncheon. The children were
arranged around an extemporized table where sandwiches, lemonade and
milk were abundantly provided. At a signal from the hostess, I said,
"Now, children, everything is ready! Have your luncheon." But there
was no commotion. Two-thirds of them sat motionless, looking at each
other.
The sandwiches were made of ham. If I had not seen this with my own
eyes, I would scarcely have credited the telling of it by anybody
else. Two-thirds of the children were of Jewish parents and had been
taught at least one thing thoroughly. The hostess did the best she
could under the circumstances and provided other kinds of meat, cake
and fruit, and the festal occasion had a happy ending.
A certain amount of care has always to be exercised in new
enterprises, in departures from the ordinary routine, especially if
they involve expense; or, as I have said before, interfere with
political or economic progress. Pulpit preaching is the smallest item
in the entire programme of a preacher, especially in such a
neighbourhood and in such a church. If a preacher wants an audience,
all he has to do is to step outside his church door, stand on a box,
and the audience is ready-made. It is miscellaneous and cosmopolitan;
it is respectful and multitudinous. When I discovered this, I
proceeded to act on my convictions, and copy, to the extent of getting
an audience, at least, the Socialist propagandist; and I proceeded to
work _with_ the people around me instead of _for_ them. There were no
lines of demarkation to my activity. I touched the life of the
community at every angle, sometimes entering as a fool where an angel
would fear to tread.
I was called upon to visit a poor couple who lived in a rear tenement.
They were of the unattached; had no ecclesiastical connections
whatever. I saw that the old man, who lay on a couch, was dying. He
was scarcely able to speak, but managed to express a desire that I
sing to him; so, as there was no one present but his wife and myself
to hear it, I sang. This inspired the old man to sing himself. He
coughed violently, tried to clear his throat, pulled himself together,
and sang after me a line of "Jesus, Lover of my Soul." This was very
touching, but the solemnity was severely jarred by following that line
by the first line of: "Little Brown Jug, don't I love you!" So between
the Little Brown Jug and the sacred poetry of the church he wound up,
dying with his head on my knee.
There was an insurance of thirty dollars on his life. I informed the
undertaker, and did what I could to comfort the old woman who was now
entirely alone in the world. One of the missionaries of the church
came next day and helped to make arrangements for the funeral which
was to take place in the afternoon. They had not been long in that
alley and knew nobody in it, and when I arrived to conduct the funeral
service at three o'clock in the afternoon, there was a little crowd of
people around the door, and from the inside came agonized yells from
the old woman.
I opened the door and marched in. I found the undertaker in the act of
taking the body out of the casket and laying it on the lounge in the
corner. The old woman was on her knees, wringing her hands and begging
him in the name of God not to do it. I asked for an explanation and,
rather reluctantly, the undertaker told me, proceeding with his
programme as he explained that there was a "kink" in the insurance.
"Well," I said, "we can fix that up all right."
"Yes," he said, "you can fix it up with cash; but we are not in the
undertaking business for our health, you know."
"Well, stop for a moment," I pleaded, "and let us talk it over!"
"Have you got the dough?" he asked.
"Not here," I replied, "but I am the pastor of that church up there on
the corner, and surely we are good enough for the small expense of
this funeral."
By this time he had the lid on the casket and was proceeding to carry it
out. The old woman was now on her feet and almost in hysterics. I was
mightily moved by the situation, and asked the man to wait; but he
jabbed the end of the casket under my arm--perhaps accidentally--pushing
me to one side on his way to the door. I was there ahead of him however;
locked the door and put the key in my pocket.
"Now, will you wait for one moment till we talk it over?"
His answer was a volley of oaths. I waited until he subsided, and then
I said:
"I will be responsible for this financially. You are wringing the
heart's blood out of this poor old woman, and I don't propose to stand
by and allow it." I raised my voice and continued--"I will give you
two minutes to put that corpse back in the casket and arrange it for
burial, and if you don't do it, there may be two to bury instead of
one."
I began to time him, making absolutely no answer to anything he said.
I quieted the old woman, stood very close to her and put my hand on
her head. I said, "It's all right, Mary. Everything is all right. You
are not friendless. You are not alone."
The two minutes were up. I took off my coat, rolled up my shirt
sleeves and advanced toward him.
"Are you going to do the decent thing?"
There was one long look between us. Then he put the body back in the
casket, arranged it for burial, and I opened the door and the crowd
came in, not, however, before I had put my coat on again. I read the
service and preached the sermon, and the undertaker did the rest.
Some months afterward, I was at work in my study in the tower of the
old church, when I heard a loud knocking at the church door--a most
unusual thing. I came down and found that undertaker and a gentleman
and lady, well dressed, evidently of the well-to-do class, standing at
the door.
"Here is a couple that want to get married, Mr. Irvine," the
undertaker said.
They came into the study and were married, and I shook hands with the
three, and they went off. Next day I went to the undertaker--indeed,
he was an undertaker's helper. I went up to his desk and laid down a
five-dollar bill, one-fourth of the marriage fee. Without being
invited, I pulled a chair up and sat down beside him.
"Now, tell me, brother," I said confidentially. "Why did you bring
them to me?"
A smile overspread his features.
"Well," he said, "it was like this. You remember that funeral
business?"
"Yes."
"Well, I figured it out like this: that one of the two of us was
puttin' up a damned big bluff; but I hadn't the heart to call it.
Shake!"