Part 15 (1/2)

My first impulse was to jump the fence and save the woman but the man being evidently half-drunk might have turned and poured into me what was intended for his wife; and the first law of nature was sufficiently developed in me to let her have what belonged to her! I tried to speak but my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. I was positively scared.

The old fellow walked up to the tree, letting out as he walked a volley of oaths. I recovered my equilibrium, sprang over the fence, crept up behind and jumped on him, knocking him down and instantly disarming him.

I went inside with them and sat between them until they seemed to have forgotten what had happened. Then I put them to bed, put the light out and went home. I examined the revolver and found it empty. Next morning I went back and told the old man that I would volunteer to give him some lessons in target practice; and that the reason I knocked him down was because he was such a poor shot. This old couple became my staunchest supporters.

I interested the students of Tabor College in the people of that out-of-the-way community, and before I built the Chapel of the Carpenter which still stands there I organized a college settlement which was manned by students.

The small church, the chapel on ”the bottoms,” the work of the college students and the increasing circle of converts and friends made the work attractive to me, but I had entered the political field in order to protest against and possibly remedy something civic that savoured of Sodom; and for a minister that was an unpardonable sin. The ”interests” determined to cripple me or destroy my work. This they did successfully by the medium of a subsidized press and other means, fair and foul. It was a case of a city against one man--a rich city against a poor man and the man went down to defeat--apparent defeat, anyway: I packed my belongings and left. As I crossed the bridge which spans the river I looked on the little squatter colony on ”the bottoms” and as my career there pa.s.sed in review, for the second time in my life I was stricken with home-sickness and I was guilty of what my manhood might have been ashamed of--tears.

CHAPTER XIV

MY FIGHT IN NEW HAVEN

The experiences of 1894, '5 and '6 gave me a distaste--really a disgust--with public life I felt that I would never enter a large city again. I sought retirement in a country parish; this was secured for me by my friend, the president of Tabor College, the Rev. Richard Cecil Hughes.

It was in a small town in Iowa--Avoca in Pottawattomie County; I stayed there a year.

In 1897 I was in Cleveland, Ohio, in charge of an inst.i.tution called The Friendly Inn; a very good name if the place had been an inn or friendly. My inability to make it either forced me to leave it before I had been there many months. It was in Cleveland that I first joined a labour union. I was a member of what was called a Federal Labour Union and was elected its representative to the central body of the union movement.

Early in 1898 I was in Springfield, Ma.s.s., delivering a series of addresses to a Bible school there. My funds ran out and not being in receipt of any remuneration and, not caring to make my condition known, I was forced for the first time in my life to become a candidate for a church. There were two vacant pulpits and I went after both of them. Meantime I boarded with a few students who, like their ancestors, had ”plenty of nothing but gospel.”

They lived on seventy-five cents a week. Living was largely a matter of scripture texts, hope and imagination. I used to breakfast through my eyes at the beautiful lotus pond in the park. We lunched usually on soup that was a constant reminder of the soul of Tomlinson of Berkeley Square. Quant.i.tively speaking, supper was the biggest meal of the day--it was a respite also for our imaginations.

The day of my candidacy arrived. I was prepared to play that most despicable of all ecclesiastical tricks--making an impression. I almost memorized the Scripture reading and prepared my favourite sermon; my personal appearance never had been so well attended to. The hour arrived. The little souls sat back in their seats to take my measure.

It was their innings. I had been duly looked up in the year-book and my calibre gauged by the amount of money paid me in previous pastorates.

The ”service” began. My address to the Almighty was prepared and part of the game is to make believe that it is purely extemporaneous. Every move, intonation and gesture is noted and has its bearing on the final result. I was saying to the ecclesiastical jury: ”Look here, you dumb-heads, wake up; I'm the thing you need here!” Sermon time came and with it a wave of disgust that swept over my soul.

”Good friends,” I began; ”I am not a candidate for the pastorate here.

I was a few minutes ago; but not now. Instead of doing the work of an infinite G.o.d and letting Him take care of the result I have been trying to please _you_. If the Almighty will forgive me for such unfaith--such meanness--I swear that I will never do it again.”

Then I preached. This brutal plainness created a sensation and several tried to dissuade me, but I had made up my mind.

It was while I was enjoying the ”blessings” of poverty in Springfield that I was called to New Haven to confer with the directors of the Young Men's Christian a.s.sociation about their department of religious work. I had been in New Haven before. In 1892 I addressed the students of Yale University on the subject of city mission work and, as a result of that address, had been invited to make some investigations and outline a plan for city mission work for the students. I spent ten days in the slum region there, making a report and recommendations. On these the students began the work anew. I was asked at that time to attach myself to the university as leader and instructor in city missions, but work in New York seemed more important to me.

I rode my bicycle from Springfield to New Haven for that interview.

When it was over I found myself on the street with a wheel and sixty cents. I bought a ”hot dog”--a sausage in a bread roll--ate it on the street and then looked around for a lodging.

”Is it possible,” I asked a policeman, ”to get a clean bed for a night in this town for fifty cents?”

”Anything's possible,” he answered, ”but----”

He directed me to the Gem Hotel, where I was shown to a 12 6 box, the walls of which spoke of the battles of the weary travellers who had preceded me. I protected myself as best I could until the dawn, when I started for Springfield, a disciple for a day of the no-breakfast fad.

Things were arranged differently at the next interview. I was the guest of the leaders in that work and was engaged as ”Religious Work Director” for one year. I think I was the first man in the United States to be known officially by that t.i.tle.

The Board of Directors was composed of men efficient to an extraordinary degree. The General Secretary was a worker of great energy and business capacity and as high a moral type as the highest.

He was orthodox in theology and the directors were orthodox in sociology. It was a period when I was moving away from both standpoints.

To express a very modern opinion in theology would disturb the churches--the moral backers of the inst.i.tution; to express an advanced idea in sociology would alienate the rich men--the financial backers.

A month after I began my work I ”supplied” the pulpit of a church in the New Haven suburbs called the Second Congregational Church of Fair Haven. The chairman of the pulpit supply committee was a member of the Board of Directors of the Y.M.C.A.