People who visit a great city, and explore it with a curious eye, generally overlook the most remarkable things in it. They "do it up" in Guide-Book fashion, going the stereotyped rounds of custom-ridden predecessors. If my chain were a little longer, I would write you a book of travels that would at least have the merit of ignoring the usual finger-posts that challenge travellers. I promise you I would cross conservative lots, and climb over conservative fences, and leave the rags and tatters of custom fluttering on them, behind me, as I strode on to some unfrequented hunting-ground.
That's the way I'd do. Never a "lord" or "lady," or a "palace," or a "picture gallery," should figure in my note-book. "Old masters" and young masters would be all the same to me. When my book was finished, if nobody else wanted to read it, I'd sit down and read it myself. Of course you know such a method pre-supposes a little capital to start with, at the present price of paper; but really, I put it to you, wouldn't that be the only honest and racy way to write a book?
Don't be alarmed—there's no chance of my doing it. I dream of it, though, sometimes—this deliciousness of "speaking right out in meetin'" without fear of the bugbear of excommunication. And speaking of "meetin,'" that's what I have been coming at. The "Fulton-street daily prayer-meeting." It is one of the most wonderful sights in New York. In the busiest hour of the day, in its busiest business street, noisy with machinery of all kinds, even the earth under your feet sending out puffs of steam at every other step, to remind you of its underground labor, is a little plain room, with a reading-desk and a few benches, with hymn-books scattered about. Take a seat, and watch the worshippers as they collect. Men, with only a sprinkling of bonnets here and there. Business men, evidently; some with good coats, some with bad; porters, hand-cartmen, policemen, ministers; the young man of eighteen or twenty, the portly man of forty, and the bent form, whitening head, and faltering step of age. For one hour they want to ignore, and get out of, that maelstrom-whirl, into a spiritual atmosphere. They feel that they have souls as well as bodies to care for, and they don't want to forget it. How lonely soever yonder man, in that great rough coat, may be, in this great, strange city, to which he has just come, here is sympathy, here is companionship, here are, in the best sense, "brethren." Never mind creeds; that is not what they assemble to discuss. But has that man a burden, a grief or a sorrow, which is intensified tenfold by want of sympathy? Nobody knows his name; nobody is curious to know. He has sent a little slip of paper up to the desk, and he wants them all to pity and pray for him. It may be the man on this seat, or that yonder—nobody knows. Yes—"pray" for him. Perhaps you are smiling. You "don't believe in prayer." Oh, wait till some strand of earthly hope is parting, before you are quite sure of that. Was there ever an hour of peril or human agony through which he or she who "did not believe in prayer," was passing, that the lips did not involuntarily frame the short prayer, "Oh, God?"
Well, they "pray" for him. He feels stronger and better as he listens. He has found friends, even here in this great whirling city, who are sorry for him; of whose circle he can make one, whenever he chooses; and to whom he can more fully introduce himself, if he cares to be better known.
I say it is a good and a noble thing. It warmed and gladdened my heart to see it. And all the more, that at every step, on leaving, I saw the "traps" of the Evil One, sprung for that man's return footsteps.
One of the pleasantest features of this "one-hour meeting" to me was the hymns. I don't know or care whether they were "sung in tune." It wasn't hired singing, thank God! It came straight from orthodox lungs, with a will and a spirit. Those old "come-to-Jesus" hymns! I tell you I long for them sometimes with a homesick longing, like that of the exiled Swiss for his favorite mountain song. You may pick up the hymn-books containing them, and with your critical forefinger point to "hell" and "an angry God," and all that. It makes no difference to me. Don't I take pleasure in looking at your face, though your nose isn't quite straight, and your eyes are not perfect, and your shoulders are not shaped to my mind. I don't mind that, so that there's a heart-tone in your voice, a love-look in your eye, when I'm heart-sore—don't you see?
Oh! I liked that meeting. I'm going again. It was so homely, and hearty, and Christian. One man said, "them souls." Do you think I flounced out of the meeting for that? I liked it. One poor foreigner couldn't pronounce straight, for the life of him. So much the better. His stammering tongue will be all right some day. I haven't the least idea who all those people were, singing and praying there; but I never can tell you how I liked it. That "Come to Jesus" was sung with a heart-ring that I haven't stopped hearing, yet, though I have slept on it once or twice. You may say "priestcraft!" "early education!" and all that. There are husks with the wheat, I know; but for all that—I tell you there is wheat!
With submission, to the authorities it seems to me that the Sunday Schools of to-day are somewhat perverted from the original intention of their founders. As I understand it, their object was to collect the children of poor, ignorant parents for Biblical instruction. I look out of my window, every Sunday morning, upon the spectacle of gaily attired little ladies and gentlemen, leaving their brown-stone fronts of handsome dwellings, and tripping lightly in dainty boots to the vestries of well-to-do churches. As I watch them, I wonder why their parents, educated, intelligent people, or at least with plenty of leisure, should shift upon the shoulders of Sunday-school teachers so responsible a duty? I say "duty," and it is a cold, hard word to use, in connection with a dear little child whose early lessons on religious subjects should be carefully and cautiously and judiciously unfolded. I cannot understand, and I say this without meaning any disrespect to the great army of well-meaning, good-hearted Sunday-school teachers all over the land, how these parents can reserve to themselves on Sunday morning only the dear pleasure of decking their little persons in gay Sunday attire, and never ask—never inquire—never think—what may be the answer given by a Sunday-school teacher, to the far reaching childish question, which may involve a lifetime of bewilderment, perplexity, and spiritual unrest, to the little creature, each shining fold of whose garment has been smoothed and patted into place by these "doting" parents; it may be treasonable to say so, but it seems to me an unnatural proceeding. Then again I think these children should not occupy the time and attention of teachers, while the poor, who are always with us, are totally uninstructed, far beyond all the humane attempts that have been made, and are daily making, to accomplish this purpose. Surely no teacher whose heart is in his or her work, would let the want of fine clothes stand in the way of such effort. Now when I see the children in a locality like the Five Points, or in the various mission schools established for the benefit of children, I say—Now that is "a Sunday-school" after the plan of the founders. These children, who have nothing inviting at their miserable homes on Sunday; whose weary parents have no heart or strength or knowledge for these things; gathered in here by kind men and women; to whom this weekly reunion is perhaps the only bright spot in their whole little horizon; who sing their little songs with real heart and feeling; who believe in their teachers, because they know they have come down to inodorous, disagreeable localities, and love them because their lives are not cast in pleasant places; these teachers who, if the children have had no dinner or breakfast, give them dinner or breakfast—why—that I call a practical Sunday School! It is a blessed thing; and no one can listen to the hearty singing of these little uncared-for waifs of the street, without a choking feeling in the throat, that, if voiced, would be, God bless these teachers? If they were taught nothing but those simple little songs, it were worth all the time, and money, and self-sacrifice involved in the teaching.
Those words ring in their ears during the week. They sing them on the door-steps of the miserable dwellings they call home; there is a "heaven" somewhere, they feel, where misery, and dirt, and degradation are unknown. The passer-by listens—some discouraged man, perhaps, whom the world has roughly used—some wretched woman who weeps, as she listens; and this little bit of Gospel, so unobtrusive, so accidental, so sweetly voiced, is like the seed the wind wafts to some far-off rock—when you look again, there is the full-blown flower; no one knew how it took root or whence it came, but, thank God, winds and storms have no power to dislodge it. My heart warms to such Sunday-schools; and, without any wish to disparage others, I cannot but think that, if the parents who are in condition to instruct their own children, would not delegate this duty, the hundreds of teachers by this means freed, might gather in the stray lambs, whose souls and bodies no man cares for.