in the lower stretches of the bowery, in new york, that street once famous for a tawdry sprightliness but now run to humdrum and commonplace, stands the bowery mission. it is really a pretentious affair of its kind, the most showy and successful of any religious effort directed toward reclaiming the bum, the sot, the crook and the failure. as a matter of fact, the three former, and not always the latter, are not easily reclaimed by religion or anything else. it is only when the three former degenerate into the latter that the thought of religion seems at all enticing, and then only on the side that leans toward help for themselves. the bowery mission as an institution gathers its full quota of these failures, and its double row of stately old english benches, paid for by earnest christians who have heard of it through much newspaper heralding of its services, are nightly filled and overflowing.
the spirit of this organization is peculiar. it really does not ask anything of its adherents or attendants, or whatever they might be called, except that they come in. no dues are collected, no services exacted. there is even a free lunchroom and an employment bureau run in connection with it, where the hungry can get a cup of coffee and a roll at midnight and the jobless can sometimes hear of something to their advantage during the day. the whole spirit of the place is one of helpfulness,208 though the task is of necessity dispiriting and in some of its aspects gruesome.
for these individuals who frequent this place of worship are surely, of all the flotsam of the city, the most helpless and woebegone. there is something about the type of soul which turns to religion in extremis which is not pleasing. it appears to turn to religion about as a drowning man turns to a raft. there is the taint of personal advantage about it and not a little of the cant and whine of one who would curry favor with life or the lord. granting this, yet here they are, and here they come, out of the bowery and the side streets of the bowery, that wonderful ganglia of lodging houses; and in this place, and i presume others of its stripe, listen to presumably inspiring sermons. in all fairness, the speakers seem to realize that they have a difficult task to perform in awakening these men to a consciousness of their condition. they know that there is, if not cant, at least mental and physical lethargy to overcome. these bodies are poisoned by their own inactivity and sense of defeat. when one looks at them collectively the idea instinctively forces itself forward: “what is there to save?”
and yet, shabby and depressing as are these facts, there is a collective, coherent charm and color about the effort itself which to one who views it entirely disinterestedly is not to be scoffed at. the hall itself, a long deep store turned to a semblance of gothic beauty by a series of colored windows set in the store-front facing the bowery, and by a gallery of high-backed benches of gothic design at the back, and by mottoes and traceries209 in dark blue and gold which harmonize fittingly with the walnut stain of the woodwork, is inviting. even the shabby greenish-brown and dusty gray coats of the audience blend well with the woodwork, and even the pale colorless faces of gray or ivory hue somehow add to what is unquestionably an artistic and ornamental effect.
the gospel of god the all-forgiving is the only doctrine here thoroughly insisted upon. it is, in a way, a doctrine of inspiration. that it is really never too late to change, to come back and begin all over, is the basic idea. god, once appealed to, can do anything to restore the contrite heart to power and efficiency. believe in god, believe that he really loves you, believe that he desires to make you all you should be, and you will be. your fortunes will change. you will come into peace and decency and be respected once more. god will help you.
it is interesting to watch the effect of this inspirational doctrine, driven home as it is by imaginative address, oratorical fire, and sometimes physical vehemence. the speakers, the ordinary religionists of an inspirational and moral turn, not infrequently possess real magnetism, the power to attract and sway their hearers. these dismal wanderers, living largely in doubt and despair, can actually be seen to take on a pseudo-courage as they listen. you can see them stir and shift, the idea that possibly something can be done for them if only they can get this belief into their minds, actually influencing their bodies. and now and then some one who has got a soft job, a place, through the ministrations of the mission210 workers, or who has been pulled out of a state of absolute despair—or at least claims to have been—will arise and testify that such has been the case. his long wanderings in the dark will actually fascinate him by contrast and he will expatiate with shabby eloquence upon his present decency and comfort as contrasted with what he was. i remember one night hearing an old man tell what a curse he had been to a kind-hearted sister, and how he wanted but one thing, now that he was coming out of his dream of evil, and that was to let her see some day that he had really reformed. it was a pathetic wish, so little to hope for, but the wish was seemingly sincere and the speaker fairly recovered.
and they claim to recover a percentage, small though it is, to actual service and usefulness. the service may not be great, the usefulness not very important, but such as it is, there it is. and if one could but believe them, so dubious is all so-called reformation of this sort, there is something pleasing in the thought that out of the muck and waste of the slough of despond some of these might actually be brought to health and decency, a worthwhile living, say. yet are they? dirty, grimy, like flies immersed in glue, can they be—have they ever been—dragged to safety and set on their feet again, clean, hopeful, or even weakly so?
i remember listening one night to the story of the son of the man who founded the mission. it appears that the father was rich and the boy indulgently fostered, until at last he turned out to be a drunkard, rake and what not—all the nouns usually applied to those who do evil. his father had tried to retain a responsible211 position for him among his affairs but was finally compelled to cut him off. he ordered him out of his house, his business, had his will remade, cutting him off without a dollar, and declared vehemently and determinedly that he would never look upon him again.
the bowery mission
the boy disappeared. some five years later a thin, shabby, down-hearted wastrel strolled into the mission and sat down, contenting himself with occupying a far corner and listening wearily to what was being said. after the services were over he came to the director in charge and confessed that he was the son of the man who had founded the mission, that he was actually at the end of his rope, hungry, and with no place to sleep—your prodigal son. the director, of course, at once took him in charge, gave him a meal and a bed, and set about considering whether anything could be done for him.
it appears that the youth, like his prototype of the parable, had actually had his fill of the husks, but in addition he was sick and dispirited and willing to die. the director encouraged him to hope. he was young yet. there was still a chance for him. he first gave him odd jobs about the mission, then secured him a place as waiter in a small restaurant, and finally, figuring out a notable idea, took him to the foreman of the father’s own printing establishment and asked a place for him as a printer’s devil. the character of the mission director was sufficient guarantee and the place was given, though no one knew who the rundown assistant really was. finally, after over eleven months of service, the director went to the owner of the business212 and said: “would you like to know where your boy is?”
“no,” the father replied sharply, “i would not.”
“if you knew he had reformed and had been working for at least a year and a half steadily in one place—wouldn’t that make any difference?”
“well,” he replied, looking at him quizzically, “it might. where is he?”
“right here in your own establishment.”
the old man got up. “what’s he doing? let me look at him.”
the two traversed the halls of a great business establishment and finally came to the department where the youth was working. the father, eager but cautious, scanned the room and saw his son, himself unnoticed. he was sticking type, a green shade over his eyes.
for a moment the parent hesitated, then went over.
“harry,” he called.
the boy jumped.
“father!” he cried.
it was described as a moment of intense emotion. the boy broke down and wept and the father shed tears over him. finally he sobered himself and said: “now you come with me. i guess you’re all right enough to be my son again. you can set more type to-morrow.” and he led him away.
truth? or romance? i do not know.
the final answer to this form of service, however, is in the mission itself. nightly you may see them rise and hear them testify. one night the speaker, pouring forth a fiery description of god’s power, stopped in the213 midst of his address and said: “is that you, tommy wilson, up there in the gallery?”
“yes, sir.”
“tommy, i’m glad to see you. won’t you get up and sing ‘my lord and i’? i know there isn’t any one here who wouldn’t rather hear you sing than me preach any time. will you?”
“yes, sir.”
up in the gallery, three rows back, there arose a shabby little man, his dusty suit showing the well-worn marks of age. he was clean and docile, however, and seemed to be some one whom the mission had reclaimed in times past. in fact, the speaker made it clear that tommy was a great card, for out of the gutter he had come to contribute a beautiful voice to the mission, a voice that was now missing because he had a job in a faraway part of the city.
tommy sang. he put his hands in his coat pockets, stood perfectly erect, and with his head thrown back gave vent to such a sweet, clear melody that it moved every heart. it was not a strong voice, not showy, but pure and lovely, like a limpid stream. the song he sang was this:
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i have a friend so precious,
so very dear to me;
he loves me with such tender love,
he loves me faithfully.
i could not live apart from him,
i love to feel him nigh;
and so we dwell together,
my lord and i.
sometimes i’m faint and weary,
he knows that i am weak,
and as he bids me lean on him
his help i gladly seek;
he leads me in the paths of light,
beneath a sunny sky;
and so we walk together,
my lord and i.
i tell him all my sorrows,
i tell him all my joys,
i tell him all that pleases me,
i tell him what annoys;
he tells me what i ought to do,
he tells me how to try;
and so we walk together,
my lord and i.
he knows how i’m longing
some weary soul to win,
and so he bids me go and speak
the loving word for him;
he bids me tell his wondrous love,
and why he came to die;
and so we work together
my lord and i.
as he sang i could not help thinking of this imaginatively personified lord of the universe in all his power and wisdom taking note of this singing, shabby ant—of the faith that it required to believe that he would. then i thought of the vast forces that shift and turn in their mighty inscrutability. i thought of suns and planets that die, not knowing why they are born. of the vast machinery, the vast chemistry, of things dark, ruthless, brutal, and then of love, and mercy and tenderness that is somehow present along with cruelty and savagery. and then i thought of this little, shabby215 reclaimed water-rat, this scraping of the mud crawled to the bank, who yet could stand there in his shabby coat and sing! what if, after all, as the christian scientists believe, the lord was not distant from things but here, now, everywhere, divine goodness speaking in and through matter and man. what if evil and weakness and failure were dreams only, evil dreams, from which we wake to something different, better—omnipotence, to essential unity with life and love? for a moment, so mysterious a thing is emotion and romance, the thought carried me with the singer, and i sang with him:
“and so we walk together,
my lord and i.”
but outside in the cold, hard street, with its trucks and cars, i knew the informing spirit is not quite like that, neither so kind nor helpful—at least not to all.
