CHAPTER XVII
In Seattle
“There are no bad herbs or bad men; there are only bad cultivators”—Hugo.
I shall never forget my first visit to Seattle several years ago. I came from Tacoma by boat. As we rounded the point in the bay the magic city burst into view. It seemed like the work of genii, this mighty commercial gateway to the land of the Alaskan,—a wonderful, beautiful city, solidly, grandly built and in so short a time. It is a miracle of American industry and enterprise. Its citizens have force and power and determined character. Yet here in this beautiful spot, I found, as in other cities, the starving, homeless, and destitute.
“Will you give me enough to get something to eat?” asked an eighteen-year-old young man as he stopped me on one of the principal, prosperous streets of Seattle. He was such an object of pity that I hesitated and regarded him closely before I replied. So soiled and wretched was he that I stood apart lest he might touch me. Not alone did his clothing speak of his misery, but his face seemed burned with sin and neglect.
“Go to the Charity Society,” I said.
“Will they help me?” he eagerly asked.
I looked at a clock nearby and saw that it was then fifteen minutes after five.
“It will be useless for you to go there now as they close at five, but,” I said, “although I’m about broke, too, I will buy you a beer.”
His lip trembled and tears actually filled his eyes as he said, “I can find a lot of fellows who will buy me a beer, but I can’t find anyone who will buy me something to eat.”