When night came down on Babylon, Nineveh, and Jerusalem,
they needed careful watching, otherwise the incendiary's torch might have
been thrust into the very heart of the metropolitan splendor; or enemies,
marching from the hills, might have forced open the gates. All night long,
on top of the wall and in front of the gates, might be heard the measured
step of the watchman on his solitary beat. It is to me a deeply suggestive
and solemn thing, to see a man standing guard by night. It thrilled through
me, as at the gate of an arsenal in Charleston, the question once smote me,
"Who comes there?" followed by the sharp command: "Advance and give the
countersign." Every moral teacher stands on picket, or patrols the wall as
watchman. His work is to sound the alarm; and whether it be in the first
watch, in the second watch, in the third watch, or in the fourth watch—to be
vigilant until the daybreak flings its "morning glories" of blooming cloud
across the arching trellis of the sky.
The ancients divided their night into four parts—the
first watch, from six to nine; the second, from nine to twelve; the third,
from twelve to three; and the fourth, from three to six. I speak now of the
city in the third watch, or from twelve to three o'clock. I never weary of
looking upon the life and brilliancy of the city in the first watch. That is
the hour when the stores are closing. The laboring men, having left the
scaffolding and the shop, are on their way home. It rejoices me to give them
my seat in the city car. They have stood and hammered away all day. Their
feet are weary. They are exhausted with the tug of work. They are mostly
cheerful. With appetites sharpened on the swift turner's wheel and the
carpenter's whetstone, they seek the evening meal. The clerks, too, have
broken away from the counter, and with brain weary of the long line of
figures, and the whims of those who go a-shopping, seek the face of mother,
or wife and child. The merchants are unharnessing themselves from their
anxieties, on their way up the street. The boys that lock up are heaving
away at the shutters, shoving the heavy bolts, and taking a last look at the
fire to see that all is safe. The streets are thronged with young men,
setting out from the great centers of bargain-making. Let idlers clear the
street, and give right of way to the besweated artisans and merchants! They
have earned their bread, and are now on their way home to get it. The lights
hang over ten thousand evening meals—the parents at either end of the table,
the children between. Thank God! "who sets the solitary in families!"
A few hours later, and all the places of amusement, good
and bad, are in full tide. Lovers of art, catalogue in hand, stroll through
the galleries and discuss the pictures. The ball-room is resplendent with
the rich apparel of those who await the signal from the orchestra. The
footlights of the theater flash up; the bell rings, and the curtain rises;
and out from the gorgeous scenery glide the actors, greeted with the
vociferation of the expectant multitudes. Concert-halls are lifted into
enchantment with the warble of one songstress, or swept out on a sea of
tumultuous feeling by the blast of brazen instruments. Drawing-rooms are
filled with all gracefulness of apparel, with all sweetness of sound, with
all splendor of manner; mirrors are catching up and multiplying the scene,
until it seems as if in infinite corridors there were garlanded groups
advancing and retreating. The out-door air rings with laughter, and with the
moving to and fro of thousands on the great promenades. Mirth, revelry,
beauty, fashion, magnificence mingle in the great metropolitan picture,
until the thinking man goes home to think more seriously, and the praying
man to pray more earnestly.
A beautiful and overwhelming thing is the city in the
first and second watches of the night. But the clock strikes twelve, and the
third watch begins. The thunder of the city has rolled from the air. Slight
sounds now cut the night with a distinctness that excites your attention.
You hear the tinkling of the bell of the street-car in the far distance; the
baying of the dog; the stamp of the horse in the adjoining street; the
slamming of a saloon door; the hiccoughing of the inebriate; and the shriek
of the steam-whistle five miles away. Solemn and stupendous is this third
watch. There are respectable men abroad. The city missionary is going up
that court, to take a scuttle of coal to a poor family. The undertaker goes
up the steps of that house, from which there comes a bitter cry, as though
the destroying angel had smitten the first-born. The minister of Jesus
passes along; he has been giving the sacrament to a dying Christian. The
physician hastens past, the excited messenger a few steps ahead, impatient
to reach the threshold. Men who are forced to toil into the midnight are
hastening to their pillow. But the great multitudes are asleep. The lights
are out in the dwellings, save here and there one. That is the light of the
watcher, for the remedies must be administered, and the fever guarded, and
the ice kept upon the temples, and the perpetual prayer offered by hearts
soon to be broken. The street-lamps, standing in long line, reveal the
silence and the slumber of the town.
Stupendous thought—a great city asleep! Weary arm
gathering strength for to-morrow's toil. Hot brain getting cooled off. Rigid
muscles relaxing. Excited nerves being soothed. White locks of the
octogenarian in thin drifts across the white pillow—fresh fall of flakes on
snow already fallen. Children with dimpled hands thrown out over the pillow,
with every breath inhaling a new store of fun and frolic. Let the great
multitudes sleep! A slumberless Eye will watch them. Let one great wave of
refreshing slumber roll across the heart of the great town,
submerging trouble and weariness and pain. It is the third watch of the
night, and time for the city to sleep.
But be not deceived. There are thousands of people in the
great town who will not sleep a moment tonight. Go up that dark court. Be
careful, or you will fall over the prostrate form of a drunkard lying on his
own worn step. Look about you, or you will feel the garroter's hug. Try to
look in through that broken pane! What do you see? Nothing. But listen. What
is it? "God help us!" No footlights—but tragedy—mightier, ghastlier than
Ristori or Edwin Booth ever acted. No bread. No light. No fire. No cover.
They lie strewn upon the floor—two whole families in one room. They shiver
in the darkness. They have had no food today. You say: "Why don't they beg?"
They did beg—but got nothing. You say: "Hand them over to the almshouse."
Ah! they had rather die than go to the almshouse. Have you never heard the
bitter cry of the man or of the child when told that he must go to the
almshouse?
You say that these are wicked poor, and have
brought their own misfortune on themselves. So much the more to be pitied.
The Christian poor—God helps them! Through their night there twinkles
the round, merry star of hope, and through the cracked window-pane of their
hovel they see the crystals of heaven. But the wicked are the more to be
pitied. They have no hope. They are in hell now. They have put out their
last light. People excuse themselves from charity—by saying they do not
deserve to be helped. If I have ten prayers for the innocent—I shall have
twenty for the guilty. If a ship be dashed upon the rocks, the fisherman, in
his hut on the beach, will wrap the warmest flannels around those who are
the most chilled and battered. The wicked poor have suffered two
awful wrecks, the wreck of the body—and the wreck of the soul; a wreck for
time—and a wreck for eternity!
Go up that alley! Open the door. It is not locked. They
have nothing to lose. No burglar would want anything that is there. There is
only a broken chair set against the door. Strike a match and look around
you. Beastliness and rags! A shock of hair hanging over the scarred visage.
Eyes glaring upon you. Offer no insult. Be careful what you say. Your life
is not worth much in such a place. See that red mark on the wall. That is
the mark of a murderer's hand. From the corner a wild face starts out of the
straw and moves toward you, just as your light goes out. Strike another
match. Here is a little babe. It does not laugh. It never will laugh. A
sea-flower flung on an awfully barren beach: O that the Shepherd would fold
that lamb! Wrap your shawl about you, for the January wind sweeps in. Strike
another match. The face of that young woman is bruised and gashed now—but a
mother once gazed upon it in ecstasy of fondness. Awful stare of two eyes
that seem looking up from the bottom of woe. Stand back. No hope has dawned
on that soul for years. Hope never will dawn upon it. Utter no scorn. The
match has gone out. Light it not again, for it would seem to be a mockery.
Pass out! Pass on! Know that there are thousands of such
abodes in our cities. An awful, gloomy, and overwhelming picture is the city
in the third watch. After midnight the crime of the city does its chief
work. At eight and a half o'clock in the evening the criminals of the city
are at leisure. They are mostly in the drinking saloons. It needs courage to
do what they propose to do. Rum makes men reckless. They are getting their
brain and hand just right. Toward midnight they go to their garrets. They
gather their tools. Soon after the third watch they stalk forth, silently,
looking out for the police, through the alleys to their appointed work. This
is a burglar; and the door-lock will fly open at the touch of the false
keys. That is an incendiary; and before morning there will be a light on the
sky, and a cry of "Fire! Fire!" That is an assassin; and a lifeless body
will be found tomorrow in some of the vacant lots. During all the day there
are hundreds of villains to be found lounging about, a part of the time
asleep, a part of the time awake; but at twelve tonight they will rouse up,
and their eyes will be keen, and their minds acute, and their arms strong,
and their foot fleet to fly or pursue.
Many of them have been brought up to the evil work. They
were born in a thief's garret. Their childish plaything was a burglar's dark
lantern. As long ago as they can remember, they saw, toward morning, the
mother binding up the father's head, wounded by a watchman's club. They
began by picking boys' pockets, and now they can dig an underground passage
to the cellar of the bank, or will blast open the door of the gold vault. So
long as the children of the street are neglected, there will be no lack of
desperadoes.
In the third watch of the night the gambling-houses are
in full blast. What though the hours of the night are slipping away, and the
wife sits waiting in the cheerless home! Stir up the fires! Bring on the
drinks! Put up the stakes! A whole fortune may be made—or lost—before
morning! Some of the firms that once thrived, have already foundered on the
gambler's table. The money-drawer in many a mercantile house will this year
mysteriously spring a leak.
Gambling is a portentous vice, and is making great
efforts to become respectable. Recently a member of Congress played, and
carried off a trophy of one hundred and twenty thousand dollars. The
old-fashioned way of getting a fortune is too slow! Let us toss up and see
who shall have it! And so it goes, from the wheezing wretches who pitch
pennies in a rum grocery, to the millionnaire gamblers in the gold-market.
After midnight the eye of God will look down and see uncounted
gambling-saloons plying their destruction.
Passing down the street tonight, you may hear the
wrangling of the gamblers mingling with the rattle of the dice, and the
clear, sharp crack of the balls on the billiard-table. The finest rooms in
the city are gambling dens. In gilded parlor, amid costly tapestry, you may
behold these dens of death. These houses have walls attractive with
elaborate fresco and gems of painting—no sham artist's daub—but a
masterpiece. Mantel and table glitter with vases and statuettes. Lounges and
couches with deep cushions, the perfection of upholstery, invite to rest and
repose. Tufts of geranium, from bead baskets, suspended mid-room, drop their
bewitching perfume. Fountains gushing up, sprinkling the air with sparkles,
or gushing through the mouth of the marble lion. Long mirrors, mounted with
scrolls and wings and exquisite carvings, catching and reflecting back the
magnificence. At their doors merchant-princes dismount from their carriages;
official dignitaries enter; legislators, tired of making laws, here take a
respite in breaking them. From all classes, this crime is gathering its
victims: the importer of foreign silks, and the Chatham street dealer in
pocket-handkerchiefs; clerks having a game in the store after the shutters
are put up; and officers of the court whiling away the time while the jury
are out.
In the woods around the city, in the morning, it is no
rare thing to find the suspended bodies of suicides. No splendor of
surroundings can hide the dreadful nature of this sin. In the third watch of
this very night, the tears of thousands of orphans and widows will dash up
in those fountains. The thunders of eternal destruction roll in the deep
rumble of that ten-pin alley. And as from respectable circles young men and
old are falling in line of procession, all the drums of woe begin to beat
the dead march of ten thousand souls.
Seven million dollars are annually lost in New York city
at the gambling-table. Some of your own friends may be at it. The agents of
these gambling-houses around our hotels are well dressed. They meet a
stranger in the city; they ask him if he would like to see the city; he
says, "Yes;" they ask him if he has seen that splendid building up town, and
he says "No." "Then," says the villain to the greenhorn, "I will show you
the lions and the elephants." After seeing the lions and the elephants, I
would not give much for a young man's chance for decency or heaven. He looks
in, and sees nothing objectionable; but let him beware, for he is on
enchanted ground. Look out for the men who have such sleek hats—always
sleek hats—and such a patronizing air, and who are so unaccountably
interested in your welfare and entertainment. All that they want of you is
your money!
A young man on Chestnut street, Philadelphia, lost in a
night all his money at the gambling-table, and, before he left the table,
blew his brains out; but before the maid had cleaned up the blood, the
players were again at the table, shuffling away. A wolf has more compassion
for the lamb whose blood it licks up; a robber has more love for the belated
traveler upon whose carcass he piles the stone; the frost has more feeling
for the flower it kills; the fire has more tenderness for the tree-branch it
consumes; the storm has more pity for the ship that it shatters —than a
gambler's heart has mercy for his victim! Deed of darkness unfit for
sunlight, or early evening hour! Let it come forth only when most of the
city lights are out, in the third watch of the night!
Again, it is after twelve o'clock, that drunkenness shows
its worst deformity! At eight or nine o'clock the low saloons are not so
ghastly. At nine o'clock the victims are only talkative. At ten o'clock they
are much flushed. At eleven o'clock their tongue is thick, and their hat
occasionally falls from the head. At twelve they are nauseated and
blasphemous, and not able to rise. At one o'clock they fall to the floor,
asking for more drink. At two o'clock, they are unconscious and breathing
hard. They would not flee, though the house took fire. Soaked, imbruted,
dead drunk! They are strewn all over the city, in the drinking saloons—
fathers, brothers, and sons; men as good as you, naturally—perhaps better.
Not so with the higher circles of intoxication. The
"gentlemen" coax their fellow-reveler to bed, or start with him for home,
one at each arm, holding him up; the night air is filled with his hooting
and cursing. He will be helped into his own door. He will fall into the
entry. Hush it up! Let not the children of the house be awakened to hear the
shame. He is one of the merchant princes. But you cannot always hush it up.
Drink makes men mad. One of its victims came home and found that his wife
had died during his absence; and he went into the room where she had been
prepared for the grave, and shook her from the shroud, and tossed her body
out of the window. Where sin is loud and loathsome and frenzied, it is hard
to keep it still. This whole land is soaked with the abomination!
It became so bad in Massachusetts, that the State arose
in indignation; and having appointed agents for the sale of alcohol for
mechanical and medicinal purposes, prohibited the general traffic under a
penalty of five hundred dollars. The popular proprietors of the Revere,
Tremont, and Parker Houses were arrested. The grog-shops diminished in
number from six thousand to six hundred. God grant that the time may speed
on when all the cities and States shall rouse up, and put their foot upon
this abomination. As you pass along the streets, night by night, you will
see the awful need that something radical be done.
But you do not see the worst. That will come to pass long
after you are sleeping—in the third watch of the night. Oh! you who have
been longing for fields of evangelistic work, here they are before you. At
the London midnight meetings, thirteen thousand of the daughters of sin were
reformed; and uncounted numbers of men, who were drunken and debauched, have
been redeemed. If from our highest circles a few score of men and women
would go forth among the wandering and the destitute, they might yet make
the darkest alley of the town kindle with the gladness of heaven. Do not go
in your warm furs, and from your well-laden tables, thinking that pious
counsel will stop the gnawing of empty stomachs or warm their stockingless
feet. Take food and medicine, and clothing, as well as a prayer. When the
city missionary told the destitute woman she ought to love God, she said:
"Ah! if you were as cold and hungry as I am, you could think of nothing
else."
I am glad to know that not one earnest prayer, not one
heartfelt alms-giving, not one kind word, ever goes unblessed. Among the
mountains of Switzerland there is a place where, if your voice is uttered,
there will come back a score of echoes. Only utter a kind, sympathetic, and
saving word in the dark places of the town—and there will come back ten
thousand echoes from all the thrones of heaven. There may be someone reading
this, who knows by experience, of the tragedies enacted in the third
watch of the night. I am not the man to thrust you back with one harsh word.
Take off the bandage from your soul, and put on it the salve of the Savior's
compassion. There is rest in God for your tired soul. Many have come back
from their wanderings. I see them coming now. Cry up the news to heaven! Set
all the bells a-ringing! Under the high arch spread the banquet of
rejoicing. Let all the crowned heads of heaven come in and keep the jubilee.
I tell you there is more joy in heaven over one man who repents, than over
ninety-nine who never got off the track.
But there is a man who will never return from his evil
ways. How many acts are there in a tragedy? Five, I believe:
ACT 1.—Young man starting from home. Parents and sisters
weeping to have him go. Wagon passing over the hills. Farewell kiss thrown
back. Ring the bell and let the curtain drop.
ACT 2.—Marriage altar. Bright lights. Full organ. White
veil trailing through the aisle. Prayer and congratulation, and exclamations
of "How well she looks!" Ring the bell, and let the curtain drop.
ACT 3.—Midnight. Woman waiting for staggering steps. Old
garments stuck into the broken window-pane. Many marks of hardship on the
face. Biting of the nails of bloodless fingers. Neglect, cruelty, disgrace.
Ring the bell, and let the curtain drop.
ACT 4.—Three graves in a very dark place. Grave of child
who died from lack of medicine. Grave of wife who died of a broken heart.
Grave of husband and father who died of dissipation. Plenty of weeds—but no
flowers. O what a blasted heath with three graves! Ring the bell, and let
the curtain drop.
ACT 5.—A destroyed soul's eternity. No light; no music;
no hope! Despair coiling around the heart with unutterable anguish.
Blackness of darkness forever! Woe! Woe! Woe! I cannot bear longer to look.
I close my eyes at this last act of the tragedy. Quick! Quick! Ring the bell
and let the curtain drop!