CONCORDIA.

“I move it as a substitute for the original motion,” and call the

previous question on “the Parliament of Man”—aforesaid by the English

Laureate. By the same token, I met half a dozen selectest growths

of people in San Francisco who, in the broadest, international way

are doing more to make this name Concordia descriptive, rather than

prophetic in its application to our oldest home, than any other people

I can name. They work among the Chinese, Japanese, and “wild Arabs of

the Barbary Coast,” they go with faces that are an epitomized gospel,

and preach to the stranger within the Golden Gate that he is a stranger

no more; they bring glad tidings of good which shall be to all people,

for to them, as to their Master, “there is neither Jew nor Greek, bond

nor free, male nor female in Christ Jesus.”

Look at this unique group photographed upon the sensitive plate of

memory by “your special artist.” A tall Kentuckian of the best type;

“much every way;” “big heart, big head, fine, clear-cut countenance,

blue, scrutinizing eyes, large form, wrapped in an ample overcoat,

its pockets full of scientific temperance documents,” this is Dr. R.

H. McDonald, President of the Pacific Bank, Prohibition candidate for

Governor, and temperance leader “on the coast.” Go with me to his

elegant home; see his mother, fair and beaming at eighty-four; and

his talented sons, who, though educated largely abroad, have never

tarnished their fine physiques with the alcoholic or nicotine poisons.

Go to the “Star Band of Hope Hall” on Sunday afternoon and hear his

accomplished daughter sing to the little street Arabs of the society,

while the Doctor presides over the meeting and introduces the eastern

temperance worker, your correspondent and her secretary, Miss Anna

Gordon, after whose speeches he presents each dear little child to

us, patting them on the head, whispering words of praise for each,

and emptying his great pockets of goodies and children’s literature.

Remember that he has heart and hand open for every good work; know

that he has a fortune of seven millions, and pray heaven to send us

more wealthy men with wealthy hearts. Beside him stands a small, plain

looking man with a royal gray eye; a man of quiet manners, terse,

vigorous style, and cultured English utterances, a former sea-captain,

who in the ports of China and Japan, as well as Boston and Liverpool,

has succeeded in keeping his crew sober, and in teaching them to lay

up their money; a gifted head and loyal heart he has; witness his

editorials in _The Rescue_ and his leadership in founding the great

Orphan’s Home at Vallejo in the suburbs (both paper and orphanage being

conducted by the Good Templars, whose most gifted members are Will

D. Gould, the genial lawyer of Los Angeles, Mrs. Emily Pitt Stevens,

the best temperance lecturers on the coast, Mrs. M. E. Corigdon, of

Mariposa, and Geo. B. Katzenstein, of Sacramento). Very different

in method, though one in aim with the two men I have described, is

another redoubtable champion of every good cause, Rev. Dr. M. C.

Briggs, who is like a tower “that stands four-square to every wind that

blows.” Observe that well-knit figure, those herculean shoulders, that

dauntless face, and it will go without saying that this man is nature’s

model of the Methodist pioneer, to whom all hardships are but play;

who has a sledge hammer blow for evil doers, but a brother’s clasp for

the repentant; a man whose deep, musical voice in the palmy days of

his prime gave wings to such rhetoric and such argument as combined

with the speeches of Starr King and Col. Baker, to save California to

the Union. Near the gifted Dr. Briggs stand his life-time friends and

allies, Captain and Mrs. Charles Goodall, the former our Methodist

Mecænus in California, founder of the famous “Oregon Navigation

Company,” and the true type of a Christian layman, his heart and home

open to all who come in the name of the Master whom he loves with the

simplicity and fondness of the child. A tall, dark-eyed, impressive

man, in life’s full prime, comes next. “See Otis Gibson, or you have

missed the moral hero of Gold-opolis”—this was concurrent testimony

coming from every side. Garfield left no truer saying than that the

time wants men “who have the courage to look the devil squarely in the

face and tell him that he is the devil.” Precisely this fearless sort

of character is Rev. Otis Gibson. He has been the uncompromising friend

of “the heathen Chinee,” through all that pitiful Celestial’s grievous

fortunes on our western shore. When others cursed he blessed; while

others pondered he prayed; what was lacking in schools, church, counsel

and kindness he supplied. It cost something thus to stand by a hated

and traduced race in spite of hoodlum and Pharisee combined. But Otis

Gibson could not see why the people to whom we owe the compass and the

art of printing, the choicest porcelain, the civil service examination

might not christianize as readily on our shores as their own. In this

faith he and his noble wife have worked on until they have built up a

veritable city of refuge for the defenceless and despairing, in the

young and half barbarous metropolis of the Pacific slope. We went to a

wedding in this attractive home, where a well-to-do young Chinaman was

married to a modest, gentle Chinese girl, rescued from a life of untold

misery and sin by this blessed Christian home. Contrary to popular

opinion, a chorus of Chinese made very tolerable music, and while a

Celestial played one of Sankey’s hymns, stately Mrs. Capt. Goodall, the

generous friend and patron saint of the establishment, escorted the

bride, and after a simple service (with the word “obey” conspicuously

left out), the large circle of invited philanthropists was regaled on

the refreshments made and provided for such entertainments.

We afterward visited the “Chinese Quarter,” so often described, under

escort of Rev. Dr. Gibson. We saw the theaters where men sit on the

back and put their feet on the board part of the seat; where actors

don their costumes in full sight of the audience, and frightful

pictured dragons compete with worse discord for supremacy. We saw

the joss-house, with swinging censer and burning incense, tapers and

tawdriness, a travesty of the Catholic ceremonial, taking from the

latter its one poor merit of originality. We saw a mother and child

kneeling before a hideous idol, burning tapers, tossing dice, and thus

“consulting the oracle,” with many a sidelong glance of inattention

on the part of the six-year-old boy, but with sighs and groans that

proved how tragically earnest was the mother’s faith. Dr. Gibson said

the numbers on the dice corresponded to wise sayings and advices on

strips of paper sold by a mysterious Chinese whose “pious shop” was

in the temple vestibule, whither the poor woman resorted to learn the

result of her “throw,” and then returned to try again, until she got

some response that quieted her. Could human incredulity and ignorance

go farther? We saw the restaurants, markets and bazars, as thoroughly

Chinese as Pekin itself can furnish; the haunts of vice, all open to

the day; the opium dens, with their comatose victims; and then, to

comfort our hearts and take away the painful vividness of woman’s

degradation, Dr. Gibson took us to see a Christian Chinese home, made

by two of his pupils, for years trained under his eye. How can I make

the contrast plain enough? A square or two away, the horrid orgies of

opium and other dens, but here a well-kept dry goods store, where the

husband was proprietor, and in the rear a quiet, pleasant, sacred home.

The cleanly, kind-faced wife busy with household cares, her rooms the

picture of neatness, her pretty baby sleeping in his crib, and over

all the peace that comes from praise and prayer. Never in my life did

I approach so near to that perception, too great for mortal to attain,

of what the gospel has achieved for woman, as when this gentle, honored

wife and mother said, seeing me point to an engraving of “The Good

Shepherd,” on her nursery wall: “_O, yes! he gave this home to us._”

Otis Gibson conducts the Methodist Mission of San Francisco. In that of

the Presbyterian, Mrs. P. B. Browne, a gifted lady, president of the

W. C. T. U. of California, is prominent, as she has long been in the

Woman’s Christian Association. Mrs. Taylor, president of the local W.

C. T. U., is a lovely Christian worker, also Mrs. Williams of the same

society, and Miss Annie Crary, daughter of that rare editorial genius,

Rev. Dr. B. F. Crary of _The California Christian Advocate_, is our

most talented and best taught Kindergartner.

But there remains a choice bit of portraiture ere my group of

philanthropic leaders is complete. How firm and fine the etching that

should accurately show the features of Mrs. Sarah B. Cooper, whose

strong, sweet individuality I have not seen excelled—no, not even among

women. From the time when our eastern press teemed with notices of the

Presbyterian lady who had been tried for heresy and acquitted, who had

the largest Bible class in San Francisco and was founder of that city’s

Kindergartens for the poor, I made a mental memorandum that, no matter

whom I missed, this lady I would see. So at 12:30 on a mild May Sabbath

noon, I sought the elegant Plymouth Church, built by Rev. Dr. A. L.

Stone, and found a veritable congregation in its noble auditorium. Men

and women of high character and rare thoughtfulness were gathered,

Bibles in hand, to hear the exposition of the acquitted heretic,

whom a Pharisaical deacon had begun to assail contemporaneously with

her outstripping him in popularity as an expounder of the gospel of

love. She entered quietly by a side door, seated herself at a table

level with the pews, laid aside her fur-lined cloak and revealed a

fragile but symmetric figure, somewhat above the medium height, simply

attired in black, with pose and movement altogether graceful, and

while perfectly self-possessed, at the furthest remove from being

self-assertive. Then I noted a sweet, untroubled brow, soft brown

hair chastened with tinge of silver (frost that fell before its time,

doubtless at the doughty deacon’s bidding); blue eyes, large, bright

and loving; nose of the noblest Roman, dominant yet sensitive, chiseled

by generations of culture, the unmistakable expression of highest force

and mettlesomeness in character, held in check by all the gentlest

sentiments: a mouth firm, yet delicate, full of the smiles that follow

tears. Wordsworth’s lines describe her best:

* * “A creature not too bright or good

For human nature’s daily food,

And yet a spirit, still and bright,

With something of an angel’s light.”

The teacher’s method was not that of pumping in, but drawing out. There

were no extended monologues, but the Socratic style of colloquy—brief,

comprehensive, passing rapidly from point to point, characterized the

most suggestive and helpful hour I ever spent in Bible class. There was

not the faintest effort at rhetorical effect; not a suspicion of the

hortatory in manner, but all was so fresh, simple and earnest, that

in contrast to the pabulum too often served up on similar occasions,

this was nutritious essence. A Bible class teacher is like a hen with

ample brood and all inclined to “take to the grass.” How to coax them

back from their discursive rambles by discovering the toothsome morsel

and restfully proclaiming it, the average teacher “finds not,” but it

is a portion of “the vision and faculty divine” in this California

phenomenon. Let me jot down a few notes:

“What we call the new birth is but the opening of the eyes of the

spirit upon its own world.” “There can be no kingdom of love to us,

unless we enter it by love. We can not be mathematicians unless

we enter the kingdom of mathematics. We can not perceive anything

unless we address to it the appropriate organ of perception.” “Have

we risen into any experience of the higher life? Are we in the way

of completeness of soul? A soul dark toward God is in sad plight. No

meaning in worship—none in prayer—that is a soul diseased.” “Baptism

makes a child of God as coronation makes a king. But remember, he was

a king before he was crowned.” As Lucretia Mott said, “We must have

truth for authority, and not authority for truth.” “Dorcas did not

bestow alms-gifts but alms-_deeds_; wrought not by a Dorcas society,

but by Dorcas herself.” “Christ’s miracles were subject to the laws of

the spiritual world. He could not spiritually bless those who were not

susceptible to spiritual blessing.” “If I would prove to any one that

God is his father I must first prove to him that I am his brother.”

When the delightful hour was over, among the loving group that

gathered around her, attracted by the healing virtue of her spiritual

atmosphere, came a temperance sojourner from the east. As my name was

mentioned, the face so full of spirituality lighted even more than was

its wont, and the soft, strong voice said, “Sometimes an introduction

is a _recognition_—and so I feel it to be now.” Dear reader, I consider

that enough of a compliment to last me for a term of years. I feel

that it helped mortgage me to a pure life; I shall be better for it

“right along.” For if I have ever clasped hands with a truth-seeker, a

disciple of Christ and lover of humanity, Sarah B. Cooper held out to

me that loving, loyal hand. The only “invitation out” which I gave to

myself, and insisted on keeping, was to this woman’s home on Vallejo

avenue, where, with her noble husband and true-hearted daughter, she

illustrates how near the gates of Paradise a mortal home may be. One’s

ideal seldom “materializes,” but in that lovely cottage, with its

spotless cleanliness, fair, tasteful rooms, individualized so perfectly

that he who ran might read how high the natures mirrored here, in the

flower-decked dinner table and the “good talk,” in the study upstairs

packed with choice books, and the sunset window looking out over the

Golden Gate, I stored up memories that ought to yield electric energy

for many a day. We talked of the past—and I found that my new friend,

as well as her husband, had been for years the pupil of my beloved

father in the gospel, our lamented Dr. Henry Bannister, late Professor

of Hebrew in Garrett Biblical Institute at Evanston, Ill. With what

reverence and tenderness we talked of that brave, earnest, sympathetic

life! We spoke of her experiences as a teacher in the South, and she

rejoiced in the good tidings I brought of a “Yankee school-ma’am’s”

welcome for temperance’s sake in nearly one hundred cities of Dixie’s

land. We talked most of all about God and his unspeakable gift of

Christ Jesus our Lord. I found this tireless brain had busied itself

with the study of all religions, the testimony of science, philosophy

and art; a more hospitable intellect I have not known, nor a glance

more wide and tolerant, but “Christ and him crucified” is to that loyal

heart “the Chief among thousands and altogether lovely.”

Let me give a few sentences from the inspiring letters that come to me

across the distance between that bay window by the Golden Gate, and my

“Rest Cottage” by the inland sea:

“If I know myself, I have one regnant wish: To help build up the

coming kingdom.” “I desire you to include me in all your invocations

for light and guidance.” “We move on in one work, we are co-laborers

for a common Master—blessed be His name. We both aim at one thing:

character-building in Christ Jesus. I am to speak before the C. L. S.

C. at Pacific Grove, Monterey, on the ‘Kindergarten in its Relation

to Character-Building.’ I shall speak of temperance. Have tried to

help women both north and south who are working in their little towns

heroically.” “The Chautauqua of the Coast, energized by desperate,

sometimes almost despairing love for their tempted ones.”

The _Independent_ and other leading journals have in Mrs. Cooper a

valued correspondent, and her work among the little, ill-born and

worse-nurtured children of San Francisco’s moral Sahara has been

described by her own pure and radiant pen. It is one of the most potent

forces in that city’s uplift toward Christianity. Among the best types

of representative women, America may justly count Sarah B. Cooper, the

student, the Christian exegete and philosopher, and the tender friend

of every untaught little child.