RESCUE MISSION WORK
When I was called to assist in the Gospel Mission, I was not a novice in
rescue work, having been among the workers of the Sunday Breakfast
Association in Philadelphia, Pa., for twelve years under the direction
of Mr. Lewis Bean, probably one of the ablest mission workers of this or
any other country. The Sunday Breakfast is, so far as I know, the
largest Rescue Mission of this country.
HOW GOD CALLED ME
When I moved from Washington to Philadelphia, I found myself very
lonely. I had been President of a Collegiate Institute at Atchison,
Kan., from 1870 to 1885, when, because of failure of health, I came
East, and took up literary work. At Washington, where I lived from 1885
to 1888, I soon came in contact with literary people, and belonged to
both literary and scientific clubs, some of whose members are to this
day strong personal friends. But in the twelve years in Philadelphia I
never became much acquainted with university people, authors' clubs,
Browning or Shakespeare clubs, although I knew they were all there. God
had to break me loose from too great devotion to that side of life in
order to use me for more spiritual work.
One evening, in the summer of 1888, I came along Arch Street where, in a
basement room at Broad and Arch, some women were holding a prayer
service. I entered and joined with them. Three poor, ragged, soiled men
were converted. I saw the women were even more inexperienced with the
phenomena of sudden conversions than I was. So I stepped forward and
pledged the converts to a Christian life. Then I appealed to the good
men present to see that the converts had a good meal that night, and
asked for work for them. Good men at once promised both.
When the meeting was dismissed a gentleman came to me and said, “We need
you at the Sunday Breakfast Association to speak next Sunday night. We
shall have over 1000 men present, all needing to find God. You are one
of the women who can speak without any of the Little Johnny death-bed
scenes, and we need you.” I replied, “If you asked me to talk on
Dickens, Shakespeare, or any literary character, I could easily do it,
but to win souls to Christ, I am not at all sure I could do it.” He did
not argue, he simply said, “I give you your opportunity.” That startled
me, and I said, “I will try.”
So the next Sunday evening at the Breakfast Association I made my first
talk before an audience largely of the submerged tenth. The galleries
and the platform were filled with well-dressed people, and, instead of
trying to save some soul, I tried to make a fine speech. My rhetoric was
perfect, my periods nicely rounded, my illustrations pertinent, and I
sat down pretty well satisfied with my fine self. Mr. Bean saw what I
had done, so he shook a few grains out of all the chaff I had given
them, made the application, and let me down as easily as he could.
But while I sat there God's Spirit dealt with me. “What if a mother of
one of these lost men had had your opportunity,” said God's Spirit,
“would she have talked platitudes to the galleries and the platform?
Would she? Would she?” I saw my sin. As I fled from the house I nearly
cried aloud in my shamefaced grief. When I got to my room I went to my
knees and I cried to God my deep shame, “Dear Father, I have sinned. I
know now that is not my work. My business is to instruct the intellect.
I will leave the winning of souls to preachers and mothers. Help me to
bear the testimony of a well-ordered Christian life, speaking for you in
my own social set, but I am not equal to facing those who have looked
long into the eyes of sin and suffering and sorrow, and are uncomforted
with a knowledge of Thy grace.”
So I felt I had disposed of that, and determined to keep to literature
forevermore. The next day the card of a woman whom I had met in the
highest social circles of Washington was sent to my room. As I came down
through the hall I saw in front of the house her carriage with footman
and driver and team of Kentucky-bred horses. When I entered she broke
out in a sort of wail, “I hear you spoke at the Breakfast Association
last night.” “Yes, and made a great guy of myself. I do not expect to
ever go there again, except as a spectator. I fear I am more literary
than religious.”
I wish I could describe the next few minutes. Her face blazed. “You,
you!” she said; “why you had a father a minister, your mother a praying
woman, and you not to go there to speak to lost men, if you have the
opportunity! You have had everything which training can give, and you
refuse to reach a hand to lost men.”
“Well, what does that concern you?”
She sat down. The agony in her face became anguish. She turned white,
then red, then back to white, till I feared for her heart. “What does it
concern me! What! What! Well, I must tell you. I have a son who sits
down in that awful crowd!”
It was my turn now to be moved. “You?” I said, “why, you live in a white
marble palace, and can it be that your son is a homeless, friendless
man?”
“Yes,” she said, “I live in a white marble palace and I hate it from
turret to foundation stone, because my oldest son is not allowed under
its roof. He is a drunkard, and will steal everything he can lay his
hands on and sell it for drink, so that his father forbids me to see him
or to give him money. The last time I saw him he was shoveling coal into
a manhole; he looked the part.”
Here she tried to give me a large roll of money, as she said, “Take
this, and please go to the Breakfast Association and find my darling
boy.” “Madam, I am not authorized to take money for the Association. Dr.
Henderson is the Treasurer, do see him!” “I will not. Will know who you
are. I told him much of meeting you in Washington. I want you to take
this money and find and clothe my sorrowful son; and oh, say what I
would like to say if I could talk like you! Tell him when he sees a
light at the top of the house that his mother is in the attic praying
for him, and will you pray for me that I shall not die under this? Will
you pray for my son?”
Then we two kneeled and poured into the heart of a loving Saviour that
story of woe. How she wailed over her own frivolous life, and promised
her God a life for Him. Nearly all the persons referred to have died,
so, though the parties may be recognized in Philadelphia, it cannot now
harm anyone.
I took the money offered. The next Sunday evening I went to the
Association, and my face must have told the story, for when I said to
Mr. Bean, “I have a message,” he let me speak. I selected the words,
“Son, behold thy mother!” I told many incidents of heart-broken mothers
because of the sins of their sons, and then I told of Mrs. W., nearly in
the above language. Probably two hundred men requested prayer that
night, and I saw God could use me for other than literary work.
Mr. Bean said, “That man will not show up till the others have gone,” so
I sat down and waited.
When nearly everyone had left the room a poor, blear-eyed youth came to
the platform. He said, “Mrs. Monroe, I am Will W. Do give me some
money.” I said, “Will, do you intend to break your mother's heart? Do
you intend to keep on drinking?” “Now, see here, Mrs. Monroe, I have
honestly tried to quit.” Then, pushing up his sleeve, he showed me
scars. “There I have signed the pledge with my own blood, and I cannot
quit.” Howard McMasters, one of the Breakfast Association workers,
pointed the way to Christ far better than I could. Then he gave him
tickets where he could get lodging. I met him the next day at a Turkish
bath house. At first they refused to take him, and only by paying a high
price could I secure him a bath and proper barbering. I gave him a
complete outfit of clothes, and he looked very respectable. Mr.
McMasters put a good man on the case to talk with him, to read the New
Testament with him, to explain salvation and to help him find God, and
to keep at his side whenever possible.
My business took me out of town for several weeks; when I came back to
the city, I went, of course, the first Sunday evening to the Breakfast
Association. After the meeting was over Will W. came slouching up to the
platform as vile as when I first saw him. He had sold every article I
had given him for drink. This sorrowful experience was repeated about
five times, but as good is stronger than evil, the prayers of God's
people prevailed, and Mr. McMasters brought him forward to the altar and
God met him.
His mother's prayers, the word of God as shown by Howard McMasters and
that wonderful Divine Spirit made a clean work, and a soul was born to
God. We kept him as well guarded as we could. The smells of the street
troubled him, for that reason I went to his father's wholesale house on
Market Street. I had met Mr. W. with his wife in Washington, and he met
me cordially, till I said, “Mr. W., I have come to talk to you about
your oldest son.” He blazed at me, “Don't you dare to speak to me of my
oldest son. He has broken my heart, his mother's heart, and disgraced my
name. I will not permit even my wife to speak of him, much less a
friend.” “But he is converted, Mr. W. It will be different now.” “Oh! he
has a new dodge, has he?” “Mr. W., you must talk to me fairly about this
wrecked young life or refer me to someone who can act in your behalf.”
“Well, see his brother,” and a clerk showed me to the brother's
counting-room. He heard my story with sympathy. After stating the case,
I said, “I want you to put him on a truck farm down near Media, and get
him away from the smells of Philadelphia.” This was done, though it took
several weeks to bring it about.
The next Sunday night Will sat on the platform, and testified to the
power of God to save. When the meeting had closed, a handsome young
woman, wearing a costly tailor-made gown and with the stamp of the
patrician in every line of her dainty person, said to me, “Mrs. Monroe,
I am going to marry Will W. this week.” “Oh, my dear girl, do not risk
it till he has proved himself for two years! Do not risk it!” “You
believe he is converted, do you not?” “Why, yes; but we should see the
transforming power of the gospel before you risk your happiness.” “Will
needs me now to help him keep straight. You have not as much faith as
you ought to have yourself, or you would believe he will hold out.”
What more could I say? They were married. His mother was present at the
ceremony, and they went to the farm to live. Will was held by the power
of God, and, after much blundering, they made a fair success with a
truck farm.