Books: In His Steps

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The week following, the Bishop had an experience that belongs to
this part of the Settlement history. He was coming back to the
Settlement very late from some gathering of the striking tailors,
and was walking along with his hands behind him, when two men jumped
out from behind an old fence that shut off an abandoned factory from
the street, and faced him. One of the men thrust a pistol in his
face, and the other threatened him with a ragged stake that had
evidently been torn from the fence.

"Hold up your hands, and be quick about it!" said the man with the
pistol.

Chapter Twenty-seven

"Righteousness shall go before him and shall set us in the way of
his steps."

THE Bishop was not in the habit of carrying much money with him, and
the man with the stake who was searching him uttered an oath at the
small amount of change he found. As he uttered it, the man with the
pistol savagely said, "Jerk out his watch! We might as well get all
we can out of the job!"

The man with the stake was on the point of laying hold of the chain
where there was a sound of footsteps coming towards him.

"Get behind the fence! We haven't half searched him yet! Mind you
keep shut now, if you don't want--"

The man with the pistol made a significant gesture with it and, with
his companion, pulled and pushed the Bishop down the alley and
through a ragged, broken opening in the fence. The three stood still
there in the shadow until the footsteps passed.

"Now, then, have you got the watch?" asked the man with the pistol.

"No, the chain is caught somewhere!" and the other man swore again.

"Break it then!"

"No, don't break it," the Bishop said, and it was the first time he
had spoken. "The chain is the gift of a very dear friend. I should
be sorry to have it broken."

At the sound of the Bishop's voice the man with the pistol started
as if he had been suddenly shot by his own weapon. With a quick
movement of his other hand he turned the Bishop's head toward's what
little light was shining from the alleyway, at the same time taking
a step nearer. Then, to the amazement of his companion, he said
roughly: "Leave the watch alone! We've got the money. That's
enough!"

"Enough! Fifty cents! You don't reckon--"

Before the man with the stake could say another word he was
confronted with the muzzle of the pistol turned from the Bishop's
head towards his own.

"Leave that watch be! And put back the money too. This is the Bishop
we've held up--the Bishop--do you hear?"

"And what of it! The President of the United States wouldn't be too
good to hold up, if--"

"I say, you put the money back, or in five seconds I'll blow a hole
through your head that'll let in more sense than you have to spare
now!" said the other.

For a second the man with the stake seemed to hesitate at this
strange turn in events, as if measuring his companion's intention.
Then he hastily dropped the money back into the rifled pocket.

"You can take your hands down, sir." The man lowered his weapon
slowly, still keeping an eye on the other man, and speaking with
rough respect. The Bishop slowly brought his arms to his side, and
looked earnestly at the two men. In the dim light it was difficult
to distinguish features. He was evidently free to go his way now,
but he stood there making no movement.

"You can go on. You needn't stay any longer on our account." The man
who had acted as spokesman turned and sat down on a stone. The other
man stood viciously digging his stake into the ground.

"That's just what I am staying for," replied the Bishop. He sat down
on a board that projected from the broken fence.

"You must like our company. It is hard sometimes for people to tear
themselves away from us," and the man standing up laughed coarsely.

"Shut up!" exclaimed the other. "We're on the road to hell, though,
that's sure enough. We need better company than ourselves and the
devil."

"If you would only allow me to be of any help," the Bishop spoke
gently, even lovingly. The man on the stone stared at the Bishop
through the darkness. After a moment of silence he spoke slowly like
one who had finally decided upon a course he had at first rejected.

"Do you remember ever seeing me before?"

"No," said the Bishop. "The light is not very good and I have really
not had a good look at you."

"Do you know me now?" The man suddenly took off his hat and getting
up from the stone walked over to the Bishop until they were near
enough to touch each other.

The man's hair was coal black except one spot on the top of his head
about as large as the palm of the hand, which was white.

The minute the Bishop saw that, he started. The memory of fifteen
years ago began to stir in him. The man helped him.

"Don't you remember one day back in '81 or '82 a man came to your
house and told a story about his wife and child having been burned
to death in a tenement fire in New York?"

"Yes, I begin to remember now." The other man seemed to be
interested. He ceased digging his stake in the ground and stood
still listening.

"Do you remember how you took me into your own house that night and
spent all next day trying to find me a job? And how when you
succeeded in getting me a place in a warehouse as foreman, I
promised to quit drinking because you asked me to?"

"I remember it now. I hope you have kept your promise."

The man laughed savagely. Then he struck his hand against the fence
with such sudden passion that he drew blood.

"Kept it! I was drunk inside of a week! I've been drinking ever
since. But I've never forgotten you nor your prayer. Do you remember
the morning after I came to your house, after breakfast you had
prayers and asked me to come in and sit with the rest? That got me!
But my mother used to pray! I can see her now kneeling down by my
bed when I was a lad. Father came in one night and kicked her while
she was kneeling there by me. But I never forgot that prayer of
yours that morning. You prayed for me just as mother used to, and
you didn't seem to take 'count of the fact that I was ragged and
tough-looking and more than half drunk when I rang your door bell.
Oh, what a life I've lived! The saloon has housed me and homed me
and made hell on earth for me. But that prayer stuck to me all the
time. My promise not to drink was broken into a thousand pieces
inside of two Sundays, and I lost the job you found for me and
landed in a police station two days later, but I never forgot you
nor your prayer. I don't know what good it has done me, but I never
forgot it. And I won't do any harm to you nor let any one else. So
you're free to go. That's why."

The Bishop did not stir. Somewhere a church clock struck one. The
man had put on his hat and gone back to his seat on the stone. The
Bishop was thinking hard.

"How long is it since you had work?" he asked, and the man standing
up answered for the other.

"More'n six months since either of us did anything to tell of;
unless you count 'holding up' work. I call it pretty wearing kind of
a job myself, especially when we put in a night like this and don't
make nothin'."

"Suppose I found good jobs for both of you? Would you quit this and
begin all over?"

"What's the use?" the man on the stone spoke sullenly. "I've
reformed a hundred times. Every time I go down deeper. The devil's
begun to foreclose on me already. It's too late."

"No!" said the Bishop. And never before the most entranced audience
had he felt the desire for souls burn up in him so strongly. All the
time he sat there during the remarkable scene he prayed, "O Lord
Jesus, give me the souls of these two for Thee! I am hungry for
them. Give them to me!"

"No!" the Bishop repeated. "What does God want of you two men? It
doesn't so much matter what I want. But He wants just what I do in
this case. You two men are of infinite value to Him." And then his
wonderful memory came to his aid in an appeal such as no one on
earth among men could make under such circumstances. He had
remembered the man's name in spite of the wonderfully busy years
that lay between his coming to the house and the present moment.

"Burns," he said, and he yearned over the men with an unspeakable
longing for them both, "if you and your friend here will go home
with me tonight I will find you both places of honorable employment.
I will believe in you and trust you. You are both comparatively
young men. Why should God lose you? It is a great thing to win the
love of the Great Father. It is a small thing that I should love
you. But if you need to feel again that there is love in the world,
you will believe me when I say, my brothers, that I love you, and in
the name of Him who was crucified for our sins I cannot bear to see
you miss the glory of the human life. Come, be men! Make another try
for it, God helping you. No one but God and you and myself need ever
know anything of this tonight. He has forgiven it the minute you ask
Him to. You will find that true. Come! We'll fight it out together,
you two and I. It's worth fighting for, everlasting life is. It was
the sinner that Christ came to help. I'll do what I can for you. O
God, give me the souls of these two men!" and he broke into a prayer
to God that was a continuation of his appeal to the men. His pent-up
feeling had no other outlet. Before he had prayed many moments Burns
was sitting with his face buried in his hands, sobbing. Where were
his mother's prayers now? They were adding to the power of the
Bishop's. And the other man, harder, less moved, without a previous
knowledge of the Bishop, leaned back against the fence, stolid at
first. But as the prayer went on, he was moved by it. What force of
the Holy Spirit swept over his dulled, brutal, coarsened life,
nothing but the eternal records of the recording angel can ever
disclose. But the same supernatural Presence that smote Paul on the
road to Damascus, and poured through Henry Maxwell's church the
morning he asked disciples to follow in Jesus' steps, and had again
broken irresistibly over the Nazareth Avenue congregation, now
manifested Himself in this foul corner of the mighty city and over
the natures of these two sinful sunken men, apparently lost to all
the pleadings of conscience and memory and God. The prayer seemed to
red open the crust that for years had surrounded them and shut them
off from divine communication. And they themselves were thoroughly
startled by it.

The Bishop ceased, and at first he himself did not realize what had
happened. Neither did they. Burns still sat with his head bowed
between his knees. The man leaning against the fence looked at the
Bishop with a face in which new emotions of awe, repentance,
astonishment and a broken gleam of joy struggled for expression. The
Bishop rose.

"Come, my brothers. God is good. You shall stay at the Settlement
tonight, and I will make good my promise as to the work."

The two men followed him in silence. When they reached the
Settlement it was after two o'clock. He let them in and led them to
a room. At the door he paused a moment. His tall, commanding figure
stood in the doorway and his pale face was illuminated with the
divine glory.

"God bless you, my brothers!" he said, and leaving them his
benediction he went away.

Chapter Twenty-eight

IT WAS the afternoon of that morning when Burns was installed in his
new position as assistant janitor that he was cleaning off the front
steps of the Settlement, when he paused a moment and stood up to
look about him. The first thing he noticed was a beer sign just
across the alley. He could almost touch it with his broom from where
he stood. Over the street immediately opposite were two large
saloons, and a little farther down were three more.

Suddenly the door of the nearest saloon opened and a man came out.
At the same time two more went in. A strong odor of beer floated up
to Burns as he stood on the steps. He clutched his broom handle
tightly and began to sweep again. He had one foot on the porch and
another on the steps just below. He took another step down, still
sweeping. The sweat stood on his forehead although the day was
frosty and the air chill. The saloon door opened again and three or
four men came out. A child went in with a pail, and came out a
moment later with a quart of beer. The child went by on the sidewalk
just below him, and the odor of the beer came up to him. He took
another step down, still sweeping desperately. His fingers were
purple as he clutched the handle of the broom.

Then suddenly he pulled himself up one step and swept over the spot
he had just cleaned. He then dragged himself by a tremendous effort
back to the floor of the porch and went over into the corner of it
farthest from the saloon and began to sweep there. "O God!" he
cried, "if the Bishop would only come back!" The Bishop had gone out
with Dr. Bruce somewhere, and there was no one about that he knew.
He swept in the corner for two or three minutes. His face was drawn
with the agony of his conflict. Gradually he edged out again towards
the steps and began to go down them. He looked towards the sidewalk
and saw that he had left one step unswept. The sight seemed to give
him a reasonable excuse for going down there to finish his sweeping.

He was on the sidewalk now, sweeping the last step, with his face
towards the Settlement and his back turned partly on the saloon
across the alley. He swept the step a dozen times. The sweat rolled
over his face and dropped down at his feet. By degrees he felt that
he was drawn over towards that end of the step nearest the saloon.
He could smell the beer and rum now as the fumes rose around him. It
was like the infernal sulphur of the lowest hell, and yet it dragged
him as by a giant's hand nearer its source.

He was down in the middle of the sidewalk now, still sweeping. He
cleared the space in front of the Settlement and even went out into
the gutter and swept that. He took off his hat and rubbed his sleeve
over his face. His lips were pallid and his teeth chattered. He
trembled all over like a palsied man and staggered back and forth as
if he was already drunk. His soul shook within him.

He had crossed over the little piece of stone flagging that measured
the width of the alley, and now he stood in front of the saloon,
looking at the sign, and staring into the window at the pile of
whiskey and beer bottles arranged in a great pyramid inside. He
moistened his lips with his tongue and took a step forward, looking
around him stealthily. The door suddenly opened again and someone
came out. Again the hot, penetrating smell of liquor swept out into
the cold air, and he took another step towards the saloon door which
had shut behind the customer. As he laid his fingers on the door
handle, a tall figure came around the corner. It was the Bishop.

He seized Burns by the arm and dragged him back upon the sidewalk.
The frenzied man, now mad for a drink, shrieked out a curse and
struck at his friend savagely. It is doubtful if he really knew at
first who was snatching him away from his ruin. The blow fell upon
the Bishop's face and cut a gash in his cheek. He never uttered a
word. But over his face a look of majestic sorrow swept. He picked
Burns up as if he had been a child and actually carried him up the
steps and into the house. He put him down in the hall and then shut
the door and put his back against it.

Burns fell on his knees sobbing and praying. The Bishop stood there
panting with his exertion, although Burns was a slightly-built man
and had not been a great weight for a man of his strength to carry.
He was moved with unspeakable pity.

"Pray, Burns--pray as you never prayed before! Nothing else will
save you!"

"O God! Pray with me. Save me! Oh, save me from my hell!" cried
Burns. And, the Bishop knelt by him in the hall and prayed as only
he could pray.

After that they rose and Burns went to his room. He came out of it
that evening like a humble child. And the Bishop went his way older
from that experience, bearing on his body the marks of the Lord
Jesus. Truly he was learning something of what it means to walk in
His steps.

But the saloon! It stood there, and all the others lined the street
like so many traps set for Burns. How long would the man be able to
resist the smell of the damnable stuff? The Bishop went out on the
porch. The air of the whole city seemed to be impregnated with the
odor of beer. "How long, O Lord, how long?" he prayed. Dr. Bruce
came out, and the two friends talked about Burns and his temptation.

"Did you ever make any inquiries about the ownership of this
property adjoining us?" the Bishop asked.

"No, I haven't taken time for it. I will now if you think it would
be worth while. But what can we do, Edward, against the saloon in
this great city? It is as firmly established as the churches or
politics. What power can ever remove it?"

"God will do it in time, as He has removed slavery," was the grave
reply. "Meanwhile I think we have a right to know who controls this
saloon so near the Settlement."

"I'll find out," said Dr. Bruce.

Two days later he walked into the business office of one of the
members of Nazareth Avenue Church and asked to see him a few
moments. He was cordially received by his old parishioner, who
welcomed him into his room and urged him to take all the time he
wanted.

"I called to see you about that property next the Settlement where
the Bishop and myself now are, you know. I am going to speak
plainly, because life is too short and too serious for us both to
have any foolish hesitation about this matter. Clayton, do you think
it is right to rent that property for a saloon?"

Dr. Bruce's question was as direct and uncompromising as he had
meant it to be. The effect of it on his old parishioner was
instantaneous.

The hot blood mounted to the face of the man who sat there beneath a
picture of business activity in a great city. Then he grew pale,
dropped his head on his hands, and when he raised it again Dr. Bruce
was amazed to see a tear roll over his face.

"Doctor, did you know that I took the pledge that morning with the
others?"

"Yes, I remember."

"But you never knew how I have been tormented over my failure to
keep it in this instance. That saloon property has been the
temptation of the devil to me. It is the best paying investment at
present that I have. And yet it was only a minute before you came in
here that I was in an agony of remorse to think how I was letting a
little earthly gain tempt me into a denial of the very Christ I had
promised to follow. I knew well enough that He would never rent
property for such a purpose. There is no need, Dr. Bruce, for you to
say a word more."

Clayton held out his hand and Dr. Bruce grasped it and shook it
hard. After a little he went away. But it was a long time afterwards
that he learned all the truth about the struggle that Clayton had
known. It was only a part of the history that belonged to Nazareth
Avenue Church since that memorable morning when the Holy Spirit
sanctioned the Christ-like pledge. Not even the Bishop and Dr.
Bruce, moving as they now did in the very presence itself of divine
impulses, knew yet that over the whole sinful city the Spirit was
brooding with mighty eagerness, waiting for the disciples to arise
to the call of sacrifice and suffering, touching hearts long dull
and cold, making business men and money-makers uneasy in their
absorption by the one great struggle for more wealth, and stirring
through the church as never in all the city's history the church had
been moved. The Bishop and Dr. Bruce had already seen some wonderful
things in their brief life at the Settlement. They were to see far
greater soon, more astonishing revelations of the divine power than
they had supposed possible in this age of the world.

Within a month the saloon next the Settlement was closed. The
saloon-keeper's lease had expired, and Clayton not only closed the
property to the whiskey men, but offered the building to the Bishop
and Dr. Bruce to use for the Settlement work, which had now grown so
large that the building they had first rented was not sufficient for
the different industries that were planned.

One of the most important of these was the pure-food department
suggested by Felicia. It was not a month after Clayton turned the
saloon property over to the Settlement that Felicia found herself
installed in the very room where souls had been lost, as head of the
department not only of cooking but of a course of housekeeping for
girls who wished to go out to service. She was now a resident of the
Settlement, and found a home with Mrs. Bruce and the other young
women from the city who were residents. Martha, the violinist,
remained at the place where the Bishop had first discovered the two
girls, and came over to the Settlement certain evenings to give
lessons in music.

"Felicia, tell us your plan in full now," said the Bishop one
evening when, in a rare interval of rest from the great pressure of
work, he was with Dr. Bruce, and Felicia had come in from the other
building.

"Well, I have long thought of the hired girl problem," said Felicia
with an air of wisdom that made Mrs. Bruce smile as she looked at
the enthusiastic, vital beauty of this young girl, transformed into
a new creature by the promise she had made to live the Christ-like
life. "And I have reached certain conclusions in regard to it that
you men are not yet able to fathom, but Mrs. Bruce will understand
me."

"We acknowledge our infancy, Felicia. Go on," said the Bishop
humbly.

"Then this is what I propose to do. The old saloon building is large
enough to arrange into a suite of rooms that will represent an
ordinary house. My plan is to have it so arranged, and then teach
housekeeping and cooking to girls who will afterwards go out to
service. The course will be six months' long; in that time I will
teach plain cooking, neatness, quickness, and a love of good work."

"Hold on, Felicia!" the Bishop interrupted, "this is not an age of
miracles!"

"Then we will make it one," replied Felicia. "I know this seems like
an impossibility, but I want to try it. I know a score of girls
already who will take the course, and if we can once establish
something like an esprit de corps among the girls themselves, I am
sure it will be of great value to them. I know already that the pure
food is working a revolution in many families."

"Felicia, if you can accomplish half what you propose it will bless
this community," said Mrs. Bruce. "I don't see how you can do it,
but I say, God bless you, as you try."

"So say we all!" cried Dr. Bruce and the Bishop, and Felicia plunged
into the working out of her plan with the enthusiasm of her
discipleship which every day grew more and more practical and
serviceable.

It must be said here that Felicia's plan succeeded beyond all
expectations. She developed wonderful powers of persuasion, and
taught her girls with astonishing rapidity to do all sorts of
housework. In time, the graduates of Felicia's cooking school came
to be prized by housekeepers all over the city. But that is
anticipating our story. The history of the Settlement has never yet
been written. When it is Felicia's part will be found of very great
importance.

The depth of winter found Chicago presenting, as every great city of
the world presents to the eyes of Christendom the marked contrast
between riches and poverty, between culture, refinement, luxury,
ease, and ignorance, depravity, destitution and the bitter struggle
for bread. It was a hard winter but a gay winter. Never had there
been such a succession of parties, receptions, balls, dinners,
banquets, fetes, gayeties. Never had the opera and the theatre been
so crowded with fashionable audiences. Never had there been such a
lavish display of jewels and fine dresses and equipages. And on the
other hand, never had the deep want and suffering been so cruel, so
sharp, so murderous. Never had the winds blown so chilling over the
lake and through the thin shells of tenements in the neighborhood of
the Settlement. Never had the pressure for food and fuel and clothes
been so urgently thrust up against the people of the city in their
most importunate and ghastly form. Night after night the Bishop and
Dr. Bruce with their helpers went out and helped save men and women
and children from the torture of physical privation. Vast quantities
of food and clothing and large sums of money were donated by the
churches, the charitable societies, the civic authorities and the
benevolent associations. But the personal touch of the Christian
disciple was very hard to secure for personal work. Where was the
discipleship that was obeying the Master's command to go itself to
the suffering and give itself with its gift in order to make the
gift of value in time to come? The Bishop found his heart sing
within him as he faced this fact more than any other. Men would give
money who would not think of giving themselves. And the money they
gave did not represent any real sacrifice because they did not miss
it. They gave what was the easiest to give, what hurt them the
least. Where did the sacrifice come in? Was this following Jesus?
Was this going with Him all the way? He had been to members of his
own aristocratic, splendidly wealthy congregations, and was appalled
to find how few men and women of that luxurious class in the
churches would really suffer any genuine inconvenience for the sake
of suffering humanity. Is charity the giving of worn-out garments?
Is it a ten-dollar bill given to a paid visitor or secretary of some
benevolent organization in the church? Shall the man never go and
give his gift himself? Shall the woman never deny herself her
reception or her party or her musicale, and go and actually touch,
herself, the foul, sinful sore of diseased humanity as it festers in
the great metropolis? Shall charity be conveniently and easily done
through some organization? Is it possible to organize the affections
so that love shall work disagreeable things by proxy?

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