I AM INTRODUCED TO THE DIVES OF BARBARY COAST
Sister Kauffman was well acquainted with the dives of Barbary Coast,
she having occasionally to seek some one inquired for, or perhaps a
lost member of the family returned to former haunts of sin. The next
time she had occasion to go, I requested that I might accompany her.
She very gladly consented.
At nine o'clock that night we were in a horrible neighborhood. I had a
tight grip on her arm, and no wonder, for we were now where every vice
and crime were common and reigned supreme.
Plainly do I still see the first place we entered. It was called "The
Klondyke." "Come, sister, don't be afraid: God is watching over us,"
whispered Sister Kauffman as she walked me through a screen door and
into that gaudy, low barroom, where were congregated a most deplorable
mixture of degraded men and youth in various stages of inebriety. The
place reeked with the vile odors of whiskey, beer, tobacco,
uncleanliness of body, etc., so that my stomach revolted, and I felt as
if I should be compelled to return to the fresh air; but Sister
Kauffman, who had obtained permission from the proprietor (tending
bar), took me through another doorway, which led into a dance-hall.
Positively I was as though rooted to the spot, and I said to myself,
"This is even worse than anything of which I read or hear." I do not
dare to describe the situation; for I know that young people are going
to read this book and I have not the least inclination to sully their
minds. Suffice it to say, I was looking upon a shameful scene of total
depravity participated in by both sexes, some of whom were little more
than in their teens.
An intoxicated girl sidled up to me. How sickening was that vile breath
in my face as she said. "Say, what yer got in that case?" It was my
auto-harp. "Sing something for her, Sister Roberts," said Sister
Kauffman, at the same time drawing the girl and me into a remote
corner. I sent up to the throne of grace a quick, silent petition, and
the answer immediately returned, for strength came. Taking my little
instrument in my arms. I commenced, with shaky voice, the song that you
will find between these pages entitled, "Her Voice." "Don't, oh! don't!
Oh! for God's sake don't!" sobbed and shrieked that poor wanderer as
she threw herself upon me and buried her head, with its tawdry covering
and matted mop of dirty hair, in my lap.
[Illustration: SHEET MUSIC
Andante
HER VOICE.
Words and Music by Mrs. Florence Roberts.
(Illustration)
1. Hark! I hear the sweet-est music Float-ing
2. Once a-gain I hear sweet voi-ces I've not
3. Years have passed since they have left us, Still the
(Illustration)
round me o'er and o'er, Such a min-gling of sweet
heard for man-y years, Join-ing in the heav'n-ly ten-der
mem-o-ry Of these sing-ing saint-ed
(Illustration)
voi-ces, Sing-ing as in days of yore; And I
cho-rus; And my eyes are filled with tears, As I
loved ones Lin-gers round my heart to-day. Now I'm
(Illustration)
feel such peace and glad-ness Steal-ing o'er me ten-der-ly,
hear my saint-ed moth-er, With the loved ones free from care,
wait-ing and I'm lis-t'ning For the one that I love best.
(Illustration)
As I hear my moth-er sing-ing, "Je-sus
Sing a-gain as in my child-hood, Of no
Je-sus, bid-ding me to blend My voice in
(Illustration)
loves me, e-ven me, loves me, e-ven me."
sor-row o-ver there; sor-row o-ver there,
sing-ing with the blest; sing-ing with the blest.
Refrain. 1st Verse.
(Illustration)
"I am so glad that Jesus loves me, Je-sus loves e-ven me."
Refrain. 2d Verse.
(Illustration)
"There'll be no more sor-row there, There'll be no more
(Illustration)
sor-row there; In heav-en a-bove, where
(Illustration)
all is love, There'll be no more sor-row there."
Refrain. 3d Verse.
(Illustration)
"In the sweet bye and bye We shall
(Illustration)
meet on that beau-ti-ful shore; In the sweet bye and
(Illustration)
bye, We shall meet on that beau-ti-ful shore." ]
This drew the attention of the dancers, causing a temporary halt. One
of her companions tried to pacify her and to draw her away, but she
resisted and only clung the closer. I forgot the awful surroundings as
my heart went out in tenderest pity. Placing my hand on her shoulder, I
offered soothing words and inquired if I could help her, if I could
comfort her. Presently she said: "Lady, God must have sent you here
tonight. I'm sober now; I was drunk when you came in. I want to let you
know my mother is dead." How she sobbed! The dancing was resumed,
whilst the girl, somewhat recovered, continued her story. "She only
left me a year ago. She was a good Christian, my mother was; and just
before she died, she sent everybody out of the room so as to have a
talk with me. 'Hazel,' she said, 'You've given me a heap of trouble and
anxiety, but I forgive you, dear, I forgive you. Now kiss Mother, and
promise to be a better girl. I've been praying many a long day for you,
my child. I'm going to leave you. The doctor says I may not see
morning. Don't cry, dear. Don't cry.' .... And then she prayed aloud.
'O God! make my naughty girl a good girl. Save her soul, O God, and may
I some day meet her in heaven. Please, God. for the dear Savior's sake.
Amen.' ... Just look how I've kept my word! What's your name, lady?"
"You may call me Mother Roberts, dear, and, furthermore, you may come
with me and that other lady over there, to our home if you wish."
Before we left that place, and between dances, a man sitting in drunken
stupor on a bench suddenly tilted back his hat, stared at me, and
accosted me thus:
"Howdy-do, Mother Roberts."
"My! who is this that recognizes me in such a den?" I questioned
myself. "Who are you, my man, and where have we met?" I inquired.
Imagine my chagrin at his replying:
"In the jail at Sacramento."
"How awful! What will these people think--that I am an ex-jail bird?"
Such were the thoughts that were running through my mind.
"Yep; you gave me a speel there, and I don't forget it. Say, kids, this
'ere woman's all right. I wish I'd a minded wot she said, 'n I wouldn't
be 'ere ter night."
Hearing these last words, Sister Kauffman, who had been busy dealing
with many souls all of this time, said:
"If you mean that, come with Mother Roberts and me down to the mission,
a block away. The dear young men workers there will be only too glad to
help you."
Then we immediately wended our way out. I with my precious autoharp
under one arm and the infinitely more precious human treasure's arm
tucked safely under my other. We soon reached the humble mission, left
the man in safe keeping, and took a homeward-bound car, retiring about
2 A.M., grateful and almost too happy to sleep.
Hazel stayed with us some time and then obtained a permanent situation
in a Christian family as their trusted domestic.
The ice, now broken, soon thawed, and night after night two or three of
us workers went to the slums, dance-halls, and dives, endeavoring to
rescue some mother's wandering boy or girl. Did we always succeed? By
no means. Often the small hours of the morning found us wending our way
homeward weary and disappointed, but never greatly discouraged. At the
least, we sowed the precious seed, claiming God's promise in Isa. 55:11
as we did so.
Many a time I have seen a girl quickly tuck away in the bosom of her
dress some little tract (we always were well supplied), perhaps bearing
these words. "Jesus the Savior loves you, and sent me to tell you so";
for not always, by any means, would the proprietors or proprietresses
permit us to converse with their victims. Sometimes we were so
fortunate as to procure a girl's lodging-house address; then we had the
gratification of calling there in the daytime and privately dealing
with her, always with more or less good results. On such visits I took
the autoharp; for singing is a great, indeed I may say, an invaluable
aid in this work.
On one occasion, when three of us were seeking the lost, making saloon
to saloon, dance-hall to dance-hall visits, we went into a place where
my attention was immediately drawn to a beautiful, modest-looking young
lady (about seventeen years old) standing alongside of a gorgeous bar
and trying to repel the advances of a pompous, sporty-looking
middle-aged man. The man behind the bar was frowning and saying to her,
"Here, none of those monkey-shines, miss. You tend to business. D'you
hear?" Sister Kauffman and the other worker had gone into the
dance-hall in the rear. Quickly stepping up to the girl, I inquired of
her what he meant, what so young and modest a girl was doing there, and
whether she did not desire to leave, and implored her to let me aid in
rescuing her from her wretched life. Quickly she told me that she was
motherless and also that she had been home from an Eastern school only
about twenty-four days. "My child, what has happened that you are
here?" I inquired, astonished beyond measure. Before she could reply
the big blonde man tending bar said:
[Illustration: THE DIVE KEEPER'S DAUGHTER]
"Here you" (addressing me), "make yourself scarce. You and your kind
are ---- ---- hoo-doos to our business"
"Please, please go," the girl pleaded.
Just at this juncture Sister Kauffman and her lady companion came
through the dance hall double doors. The latter held them wide open and
in her loud, penetrating voice slowly uttered these words:
"What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his own
soul? or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?" ...
"Come, Sister Roberts."
"Yes, in a minute," I replied as I motioned to them I would join them
outside.
"I will not leave," I said to the girl, "unless you give me some good
reason for not accompanying me, seeing you express a desire to be
rescued."
"---- ---- ----!" shouted the man, "if you don't clear right out, I'll
brain you" He held suspended in the air a full soda water bottle, one
of the heaviest.
The girl, pushing me away from her, said, "Go! go! He'll do it." And
then she whispered:
"_He's my father_."
I rushed out, excitedly informed my companions, and then quickly sought
a policeman, who, when I informed him, simply shrugged his shoulders
and remarked: "I can't interfere. The man has a license, his daughter
isn't of age, he's her legal guardian. Don't know what you can do about
it; you'll have to consult higher authority than me"--a course which we
proceeded to follow in the morning.
In the evening we visited that same place, accompanied by an officer in
private clothes. A large, showy woman and also a bar-tender stood
behind the bar. "Are you the party what was here last night trying to
make trouble?" she inquired. "Well, you're left. The bird has flown.
Ha! ha! I'm running this place now, and I don't need your help,
neither. Don't you come here while I'm in charge of it," etc.
Evidently, the policeman first accosted had given the alarm. I have
never heard what became of that poor girl and her wicked, unnatural
father. A tenderhearted woman in that awful neighborhood, one who had
tried to protect her, told me this:
The girl's mother died when she was a babe. The father (not then a
saloon man) sent her to New York to be raised by her aunt. When old
enough she was placed in school. The aunt died. She was removed to
another school, and there she remained until called for by her father,
who all these years had been her provider. He brought her to San
Francisco, where he now kept a dive and dance-hall. She being a rather
timid girl, it can be readily understood why she submitted to his
authority and tyranny.
My mind now reverts to two of the soldier boys, returned from the
Philippines and seated one night in one of those places where we were
permitted to work and also to sing. Toward the close of the song,
Can a boy forget his mother's prayer,
When he has wandered God knows where?
I discovered them with their arms about each other's shoulders and both
with the tears silently coursing down their cheeks. Setting my
instrument on one side and remembering my own dear son, the daily
object of my prayers, I essayed, in earnest, gentle tones, to admonish
them. Both acknowledged having been carefully reared by Christian
mothers, one of whom was dead. Had they been my own, I could not have
more earnestly pleaded with them. In consequence of my admonition they
soon took their departure, promising as they did so never again to
cross the threshold of any place where they would be ashamed to have
their mothers find them, and also to seek once more their neglected
Savior. Both were soon reclaimed; for I had the pleasure of meeting
them later in a house of worship on the Army's camp-grounds, at the
Presidio.
Christian parents, you that through death or other means have been
deprived of the companionship of your children, why not occasionally
join some of the rescue workers in their efforts to save somebody's
wandering boy or girl, instead of sitting in a rocking-chair, nursing
your sorrows? Speak the kindly, loving word of warning or advice;
encourage the wayward son or daughter to reform; and thus better your
condition as well as theirs. This will _surely_ bring an indescribable
peace and satisfaction to the soul, assuage much grief, and help to
promote the Master's kingdom. He takes us at our word. We sing:
I'll go where you want me to go, dear Lord.
Over mountain, or plain, or sea,
I'll say what you want me to say, dear Lord,
I'll be what you want me to be.
Do we mean it?