She sat down. The agony in her face became anguish. She turned white, then red, then back to white, till I feared for her heart. “What does it concern me! What! What! Well, I must tell you. I have a son who sits down in that awful crowd!”
It was my turn now to be moved. “You?” I said, “why, you live in a white marble palace, and can it be that your son is a homeless, friendless man?”
“Yes,” she said, “I live in a white marble palace and I hate it from turret to foundation stone, because my oldest son is not allowed under its roof. He is a drunkard, and will steal everything he can lay his hands on and sell it for drink, so that his father forbids me to see him or to give him money. The last time I saw him he was shoveling coal into a manhole; he looked the part.”
Here she tried to give me a large roll of money, as she said, “Take this, and please go to the Breakfast Association and find my darling boy.” “Madam, I am not authorized to take money for the Association. Dr. Henderson is the Treasurer, do see him!” “I will not. Will know who you are. I told him much of meeting you in Washington. I want you to take this money and find and clothe my sorrowful son; and oh, say what I would like to say if I could talk like you! Tell him when he sees a light at the top of the house that his mother is in the attic praying for him, and will you pray for me that I shall not die under this? Will you pray for my son?”
Then we two kneeled and poured into the heart of a loving Saviour that story of woe. How she wailed over her own frivolous life, and promised her God a life for Him. Nearly all the persons referred to have died, so, though the parties may be recognized in Philadelphia, it cannot now harm anyone.
I took the money offered. The next Sunday evening I went to the Association, and my face must have told the story, for when I said to Mr. Bean, “I have a message,” he let me speak. I selected the words, “Son, behold thy mother!” I told many incidents of heart-broken mothers because of the sins of their sons, and then I told of Mrs. W., nearly in the above language. Probably two hundred men requested prayer that night, and I saw God could use me for other than literary work.
Mr. Bean said, “That man will not show up till the others have gone,” so I sat down and waited.
When nearly everyone had left the room a poor, blear-eyed youth came to the platform. He said, “Mrs. Monroe, I am Will W. Do give me some money.” I said, “Will, do you intend to break your mother's heart? Do you intend to keep on drinking?” “Now, see here, Mrs. Monroe, I have honestly tried to quit.” Then, pushing up his sleeve, he showed me scars. “There I have signed the pledge with my own blood, and I cannot quit.” Howard McMasters, one of the Breakfast Association workers, pointed the way to Christ far better than I could. Then he gave him tickets where he could get lodging. I met him the next day at a Turkish bath house. At first they refused to take him, and only by paying a high price could I secure him a bath and proper barbering. I gave him a complete outfit of clothes, and he looked very respectable. Mr. McMasters put a good man on the case to talk with him, to read the New Testament with him, to explain salvation and to help him find God, and to keep at his side whenever possible.
My business took me out of town for several weeks; when I came back to the city, I went, of course, the first Sunday evening to the Breakfast Association. After the meeting was over Will W. came slouching up to the platform as vile as when I first saw him. He had sold every article I had given him for drink. This sorrowful experience was repeated about five times, but as good is stronger than evil, the prayers of God's people prevailed, and Mr. McMasters brought him forward to the altar and God met him.
His mother's prayers, the word of God as shown by Howard McMasters and that wonderful Divine Spirit made a clean work, and a soul was born to God. We kept him as well guarded as we could. The smells of the street troubled him, for that reason I went to his father's wholesale house on Market Street. I had met Mr. W. with his wife in Washington, and he met me cordially, till I said, “Mr. W., I have come to talk to you about your oldest son.” He blazed at me, “Don't you dare to speak to me of my oldest son. He has broken my heart, his mother's heart, and disgraced my name. I will not permit even my wife to speak of him, much less a friend.” “But he is converted, Mr. W. It will be different now.” “Oh! he has a new dodge, has he?” “Mr. W., you must talk to me fairly about this wrecked young life or refer me to someone who can act in your behalf.” “Well, see his brother,” and a clerk showed me to the brother's counting-room. He heard my story with sympathy. After stating the case, I said, “I want you to put him on a truck farm down near Media, and get him away from the smells of Philadelphia.” This was done, though it took several weeks to bring it about.