University of Virginia Library

MY Dear Mother: I sit down to write to you with
a heart full of the strangest feelings and expeririences.
I feel as if I had been out in some other
world and been brought back again; and now I hardly
know myself or where I am. You know I wrote you all
about Maggie, and her leaving us, and poor Mary's
trouble about her, and how she had been since seen in a
very bad neighborhood: I promised Mary faithfully that
I would go after her; and so, after all our Christmas
labors were over, Harry and I went on a midnight excursion
with Mr. James, the Methodist minister, who has
started the mission there.

It seemed to me very strange that a minister could
have access to all those places where he proposed to
take us, and see all that was going on without insult or
danger but he told me that he was in the constant
habit of passing through the dance-houses, and talking
with the people who kept them, and that he had never
met with any rudeness or incivility.

He told us that in the very center of this worst district
of New York, among drinking saloons and dance-houses,
a few Christian people had bought a house in
which they had established a mission family, with a room
which they use for a chapel; and they hold weekly
prayer-meetings, and seek to draw in the wretched people
there.

On this evening, he said, they were about to give a
midnight supper at the Home to any poor houseless wanderer

whom they could find in those wretched streets, or
who hung about the drinking-saloons.

“Our only hope in this mission,” he said, “is to
make these wretched people feel that we really are their
friends and seek their good; and, in order to do this, we
must do something for them that they can understand.
They can all understand a good supper, when they are
lying about cold and hungry and homeless, on a stinging
cold night like this; and we don't begin to talk to
them till we have warmed and fed them. It surprises
them to have us take all this trouble to do them good;
it awakens their curiosity; they wonder what we do it
for, and then, when we tell them it is because we are
Christians, and love them, and want to save them, they
believe us. After that, they are willing to come to our
meetings, and attend to what we say.”

Now, this seemed to me good philosophy, but I could
not help saying: “Dear Mr. James, how could you have
the courage to begin a mission in such a dreadful place;
and how can you have any hope of saving such people?”
And he answered: With God, all things are possible.
That was what Christ came for—to seek and save the
lost. The Good Shepherd,” he said, “leaves the ninety
and nine safe sheep in the fold, and goes after one that
is lost until he finds it.” I asked him who supported
the Home, and he said it was supported by God, in
answer to prayer; that they made no public solicitation;
had nobody pledged to help them; but that contributions
were constantly coming in from one Christian
person or another, as they needed them; that the superintendent
and matron of the Home had no stated salary,
and devoted themselves to the work in the same faith
that the food and raiment needed would be found for
them; and so far it had not failed.

All this seemed very strange to me. It seemed a

sort of literal rendering of some of the things in the
Bible that we pass over as having no very definite meaning.
Mr. James seemed so quiet, so assured, so calm
and unexcited, that one could n't help believing him.

It seemed a great way that we rode, in parts of the
city that I never saw before, in streets whose names
were unknown to me, till finally we alighted before a
plain house in a street full of drinking-saloons. As we
drove up, we heard the sound of hymn-singing, and
looked into a long room set with benches which seemed
full of people. We stopped a moment to listen to the
words of an old Methhodist hymn;

It was the last hymn, and they were about breaking
up as we went into the house. This building, Mr.
James told us, used to be a rat-pit, where the lowest,
vilest, and most brutal kinds of sport were going on.
It used to be, he said, foul and filthy, physically as well
as morally; but scrubbing and paint and whitewash
had transformed it into a comfortable home. There was
a neat sitting-room, carpeted and comfortably furnished,
a dining-room, a pantry stocked with serviceable china,
a work-room with two or three sewing-machines, and a
kitchen, from which at this moment came a most appetizing

smell of the soup which was preparing for the
midnight supper. Above, were dormitories, in which
were lodging about twenty girls, who had fled to this
refuge to learn a new life. They had known the depth
of sin and the bitterness of punishment, had been
spurned, disgraced and outcast. Some of them had been
at Blackwell's Island—on the street—in the very gutter
—and now, here they were, as I saw some of them, decently
and modestly dressed, and busy preparing for the
supper. When I looked at them setting the tables, or
busy about their cooking, they seemed so cheerful and
respectable, I could scarcely believe that they had been
so degraded. A portion of them only were detailed for
the night service; the others had come up from the
chapel and were going to bed in the dormitories, and we
heard them singing a hymn before retiring. It was very
affecting to me—the sound of that hymn, and the thought
of so peaceful a home in the midst of this dreadful
neighborhood. Mr. James introduced us to the man
and his wife who take charge of the family. They are
converts—the fruits of these labors. He was once a
singer, and connected with a drinking-saloon, but was
now giving his whole time and strength to this work, in
which he had all the more success because he had so
thorough an experience and knowledge of the people to
be reached. We were invited to sit down to a supper
in the dining-room, for Mr. James said we should be out
so late before returning home that we should need something
to sustain us. So we took some of the soup which
was preparing for the midnight supper, and very nice and
refreshing we found it. After this, we went out with
Mr. James and the superintendent, to go through the
saloons and dance-houses and drinking places, and to
distribute tickets of invitation to the supper. What we
saw seems now to me like a dream. I had heard that
such things were, but never before did I see them. We
went from one place to another, and always the same
features—a dancing-room, with girls and women dressed
and ornamented, sitting round waiting for partners; men
of all sorts walking in and surveying and choosing from
among them and dancing, and, afterwards or before,
going with them to the bar to drink. Many of these
girls looked young and comparatively fresh; their
dresses were cut very low, so that I blushed for them
through my veil. I clung tight to Harry's arm, and
asked myself where I was, as I moved round among
them. Nobody noticed us. Everybody seemed to have
a right to be there, and see what they could.

I remember one large building of two or three stories,
with larger halls below, all lighted up, with dancing and
drinking going on, and throngs and throngs of men, old
and young, pouring and crowding through it. These
tawdrily bedizened, wretched girls and women seemed
to me such a sorrow and disgrace to womanhood and to
Christianity that my very heart sunk, as I walked among
them. I felt as if I could have cried for their disgrace.
Yet nobody said a word to us. All the keepers of the
places seemed to know Mr. James and the superintendent.
He spoke to them all kindly and politely, and
they answered with the same civility. In one or two
of the saloons, the superintendent asked leave to sing a
song, which was granted, and he sung the hymn that
begins:

At another place, he sung “Home, sweet home,” and
I thought I saw many faces that looked sad. Either our
presence was an embarrassment, or for some other reason
it seemed to me there was no real gaiety, and that the
dancing and the keeping up of a show of hilarity were
all heavy work.

There seems, however, to be a gradation in these
dreadful places. Besides these which were furnished
with some show and pretension, there were cellars where
the same sort of thing was going on—dancing and
drinking, and women set to be the tempters of men. We
saw miserable creatures standing out on the sidewalk, to
urge the passers-by to come into these cellars. It was
pitiful, heart-breaking to see.

But the lowest, the most dreadful of all, was what
they called the bucket shops. There the vilest of liquors
are mixed in buckets and sold to wretched, crazed
people who have fallen so low that they cannot get
anything better. It is the lowest depth of the dreadful
deep.

Oh, those bucket shops! Never shall I forget the
poor, forlorn, forsaken-looking creatures, both men and
women, that I saw there. They seemed crouching in
from the cold—hanging about, or wandering uncertainly
up and down. Mr. James spoke to many of them, as
if he knew them, kindly and sorrowfully. “This is a
hard way you are going,” he said to one. “Ar'n't you
most tired of it?” “Well,” he said to another poor
creature, “when you have gone as far as you can, and
come to the end, and nobody will have you, and nobody
do anything for you, then come to us, and we'll take
you in.”

During all this time, and in all these places, the
Superintendent, who seemed to have a personal knowledge
of many of those among whom he was moving, was

busy distributing his tickets of invitation to the supper.
He knew where the utterly lost and abandoned ones
were most to be found, and to them he gave most
regard.

But as yet, though I looked with anxious eyes, I had
seen nothing of Maggie. I spoke to Mr. James at last,
and he said, “We have not yet visited Mother Moggs's
establishment, where she was said to be. We are going
there now.”

“Mother Moggs is a character in her way,” he told
us. “She has always treated me with perfect respect
and politeness, because I have shown the same to her.
She seems at first view like any other decent woman,
but she is one that, if she were roused, would be as
prompt with knife and pistol as any man in these
streets.” As he said this, we turned a corner, and entered
a dancing-saloon, in its features much like many
others we had seen. Mother Moggs stood at a sort of
bar at the upper end, where liquors were displayed and
sold. She seemed really so respectably dressed, and so
quiet and pleasant-looking, that I could scarcely believe
my eyes when I saw her.

Mr. James walked up with us to where she was
standing, and spoke to her, as he does to every one,
gently and respectfully, inquiring after her health, and
then, in a lower tone, he said, “And how about the health
of your soul?”

She colored, and forced a laugh, and answered with
some smartness: “Which soul do you mean? I've got
two—one on each foot.”

He took no notice of the jest, but went on:

“And how about the souls of these girls? What will
become of them?”

“I ain't hurting their souls,” she said. “I don't
force 'em to stay with me; they come of their own accord,

and they can go when they please. I don't keep
'em. If any of my girls can better themselves anywhere
else, I don't stand in their way.”

The air of virtuous assurance with which she spoke
would have given the impression that she was pursuing,
under difficult circumstances, some praiseworthy branch
of industry at which her girls were apprentices.

Just at this moment, I turned, and saw Maggie standing
behind me. She was not with the other girls, but
standing a little back, toward the bar. Instantly I
crossed over, and, raising my veil, said, “Maggie, poor
child! come back to your mother.”

Her face changed in a moment; she looked pale, as
if she were going to faint, and said only, “Oh! Mrs.
Henderson, you here?”

“Yes, I came to look for you, Maggie. Come right
away with us,” I said. “O Maggie! come,” and I burst
into tears.

She seemed dreadfully agitated, but said:

“Oh, I can't; it's too late!”

“No, it isn't. Mr. James,” I said, “here she is. Her
mother has sent for her.”

“And you, madam,” said Mr. James to the woman,
“have just said you wouldn't stand in the way, if any of
your girls could better themselves.”

The woman was fairly caught in her own trap. She
cast an evil look at us all, but said nothing, as we
turned to leave, I holding upon Maggie, determined not
to let her go.

We took her with us to the Home. She was crying
as if her heart would break. The girls who were getting
the supper looked at her with sympathy and gathered
round her. One of them interested me deeply. She
was very pale and thin, but had such a sweet expression
of peace and humility in her face! She came and sat

down by Maggie and said, “Don't be afraid; this is
Christ's home, and he will save you as he has me. I
was worse than you are—worse than you ever could be—
and He has saved me. I am so happy here!”

And now the miserable wretches who had been invited
to the supper came pouring in. Oh, such a sight!
Such forlorn wrecks of men, in tattered and torn garments,
with such haggard faces, such weary, despairing
eyes! They looked dazed at the light and order and
quiet they saw as they came in. Mr. James and the
superintendent stood at the door, saying, “Come in,
boys, come in; you're welcome heartily! Here you are,
glad to see you,” seating them on benches at the lower
part of the room.

While the supper was being brought in, the table was
set with an array of bowls of smoking hot soup and a
large piece of nice white bread at each place. When all
had been arranged, Mr. James saw to seating the whole
band at the tables, asked a blessing, standing at the
head, and then said, cheerily, “Now, boys, fall to; eat all
you want; there is plenty more where this came from,
and you shall have as much as you can carry.”

The night was cold, and the soup was savory and
hot, and the bread white and fine, and many of them ate
with a famished appetite; the girls meanwhile stood
watchful to replenish the bowls or hand more bread.
All seemed to be done with such a spirit of bountiful,
cheerful good-will as was quite inspiriting.

It was not till hunger was fully satisfied that Mr.
James began to talk to them, and when he did, I wondered
at his tact.

“This is quite the thing, now, is n't it, boys, of a cold
night like this, when a fellow is hungry? See what it is
to have friends.

“I suppose, boys, you get better suppers than these

from those fellows that you buy your drink of. They
make suppers for you sometimes, I suppose?”

“No, indeed,” growled some of the men. “Catch
'em doing it!”

“Why, I should think they ought to, when you spend
all your money on them. You pay all your money to
them, and make yourselves so poor that you have n't a
crust, and then they won't even get you a supper?”

“No, that they won't,” growled some. “They don't
care if we starve.”

“Boys,” said Mr. James, “are n't you fools? Here
these men get rich, and you get poor. You pay all your
earnings to them. You can't have anything, and they
have everything. They can have plate-glass windows,
and they can keep their carriages, and their wives have
their silk dresses and jewels, and you pay for it all; and
then, when you've spent your last cent over their counters,
they kick you into the street. Are n't you fools
to be supporting such men? Your wives do n't get
any silk dresses, I'll bet. O boys, where are your
wives?—where are your mothers?—where are your
children?”

By this time they were looking pretty sober, and some
of them had tears in their eyes.

“Oh, boys, boys! this is a bad way you've been in—
a bad way. Have n't you gone long enough? Don't you
want to give it up? Look here—now, boys, I'll read
you a story.” And then he read from his pocket Testament
the Parable of the Prodigal Son. He read it beautifully:
I thought I had never understood it before.
When he had done, he said, “And now, boys, had n't you
better come back to your Father? Do you remember,
some of you, how your mother used to teach you to say,
`Our Father, who art in heaven?' Come now, kneel
down, every one of you, and let's try it once more.”

They all knelt, and I never heard anything like that
prayer. It was so loving, so earnest, so pitiful. He
prayed for those poor men, as if he were praying for his
own soul. They must have felt how he loved them. It
almost broke my heart to hear him: it did seem for the
time as if the wall were down that separates God's love
from us, and that everybody must feel it, even these poor
wretched creatures.

There were among them some young men, and some
whose heads and features were good, and indicative of
former refinement of feeling. I could not help thinking
how many histories of sorrow, for just so many families,
were written in those faces.

“Is it possible that you can save any of these?” I
said to Mr. James, as they were going out.

“We cannot, but God can,” he said “With God,
all things are possible. We have seen a great many
saved that were as low as these; but it was only by the
power of God converting their souls. That is at all
times possible.”

“But,” said Harry, “the craving for drink gets to be
a physical disease.”

“Yet I have seen that craving all subdued and taken
away by the power of the Holy Spirit. They become
new creatures in Christ.”

“That would be almost miraculous,” said Harry.

“We must expect miracles, and we shall have them,”
replied he.

Meanwhile the girls had gathered around Maggie,
and were talking with her, and when we spoke of going,
she said:

“Dear Mrs. Henderson, let me stay here awhile; the
girls here will help me, and I can do some good here,
and by-and-by, perhaps, when I am stronger, I can come
back to mother. It's better for me here now.”

Mr. James and the matron both agreed that, for the
present, this would be best.

There is a current of sympathy, an energy of Christian
feeling, a sort of enthusiasm, about this house, that
helps one to begin anew.

It was nearly morning before we found ourselves in
our home again—but, for me, the night has not been
spent in vain. Oh, mother, can it be that in a city full
of churches and Christians such dreadful things as I saw
are going on every night? Certainly, if all Christians
felt about it as those do who have begun this Home, there
would be a change. If every Christian would do a little,
a great deal would be done; for there are many Christians.
But now it seems as if a few were left to do all,
while the many do nothing. But Harry and I are resolved
henceforth to do our part in helping this work.

Mary is comforted about Maggie and unboundedly
grateful to me for going.

I think she herself prefers her staying there awhile;
she has felt so keenly what Aunt Maria said about her
being a burden and disgrace to us.

We shall watch over her there, and help her forward
in life as fast as she is strong enough to go. But I am
making this letter too long, so good-by for the present.