Our little circular of that period thus sets forth:
THE NEED OF RESCUE WORK
“Washington is a dreadful place for a man out of work. The city having no manufactories, and all rough work, such as excavating, is let by contract to men who prefer Italians or Negroes as diggers, while stores and offices have room for only the efficient young person, so that, when from age, inefficiency or lack of political influence, people are dropped from the government service, we are often at our wit's end to provide means of subsistence for these worthy persons most anxious to labor. We have some old men whose working days are over. These are for the most part good men, for the wicked do not live out half their days. A few immigrants from northern Europe, sick men who are able to walk about, but could not work if they had it; the shoestring man, the umbrella man, the sandwich man, the men who are half insane for lack of food and enforced lack of sleep, for they have no place to sleep oftener than once a week. Then we have the criminal classes, which must be touched with the Spirit of God, or they will become the dynamite which will destroy our cities, also the men just out of prison. These are the special thought of the Mission, for unless they are made to feel that they are but temporarily sidetracked from the great highway of success, they will become an ever-increasing menace to society.
“Above all, we have the drunkard, who has lost his grip, lost family, lost place in society, lost business and has become a mass of putrid flesh, utterly abhorrent to his fellow-men. When we look at these people, whose weary eyes have looked long into unspeakable sorrow, our very souls rejoice that we have proven beyond possibility of doubt that 'the blood of Jesus Christ, His son, cleanses from all sin; that if we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness,' for we have seen some of every class mentioned redeemed, placed back in society, among the producing power of the nation.”
“OUR GOSPEL MISSION TIDINGS”
(a monthly paper) was issued first in October, 1909. All members of the Executive Committee have helped in some measure on it, but the responsibility has fallen heaviest on Mr. G. W. Wheeler and myself. Our entire income is the result of our paper, it is our means of communicating with the public.
THE INDUSTRIAL PLANT
was really brought about by two tragedies. One cold day I went to the Mission, and on the outside I saw a man, whom I shall call Kelly, shivering at the door. He looked like death, pale, trembling, the lips and nostrils drawn as if in extreme pain. “What is the matter, Kelly?” I said. “I am starving to death; amid all these happy people I am left out. I have walked the streets hunting work till I can walk no more.”
At that time we did not provide food of any kind, but I said, “Let us go up stairs to the Mission,” where Mr. Proctor, then acting as Superintendent, provided bread and coffee. I set the man to re-whitewashing the dormitories, and we kept him till he secured work.
The other was the case of a young man just released from Moundsville Penitentiary. After I had given the lesson one Tuesday night, I was led to tell in detail the story of Valentine Burke, a man converted in the St. Louis jail, from reading one of Mr. Moody's sermons in a city newspaper. Mr. Burke afterward became a valuable citizen, held the position of assistant warden, and led hundreds of lost men into the clear light of the gospel. When I had finished, a well-dressed man on the front seat said, “I am just out of Moundsville; no one has spoken a kind word to me, I have had nothing to eat to-day, I see no way but to steal again.” He was only about twenty-two years of age. I put my arm over his shoulder and said, “Son, we will take care of you and get you work.” The Superintendent took him up stairs, gave him bread and coffee, then a warm bath, but he was so weary the men had to help him to get to bed. We all tried to get that boy work, but as soon as the word penitentiary was mentioned every door was closed. I remember walking up Capitol Hill, crying aloud to God, “Give us an industrial plant or the sorrows of homeless, workless men will take my life.”