Nearly all the policemen in New York know about the Water Street Mission and its work; so also does every tough bunco-steerer, professional sneak-thief, and all the other specimens of the class who, after persistently violating the law and placing themselves in bad repute, find themselves shut out from every opportunity to earn an honest living, and who dwell in the shadow of the penitentiary or the electric chair throughout their miserable lives.
When the convict who has served his time in Sing Sing prepares to face the world again— that world that can be counted upon to do its utmost towards driving him back to prison— he is usually advised of the thorny path before him, and the last sentence of the advice used to be this: "You had better go down to the Water Street Mission."
Likely the convict has heard of "Water Street" before. If he purposes to reform he makes his way to the Mission. There he is sheltered, fed, and clothed, if need be, and put to work at something. He is asked no questions. No promises are exacted. He has no rules to observe except the one rule of order. He is not lectured on his past.
One night an old man came in. He was known to many as the "Old Colonel." He was one of the most typical tramps that ever came into the Mission, where the lost congregate in such numbers. No pen can adequately describe his condition, but this may give a faint idea of how he looked: he was over six feet tall, and about sixty years old— but he looked a hundred. His dirty gray beard was about a foot long, and his hair, of the same color, hung a foot down his back. His eyes were disgustingly bleared, and the hue of his face showed that he and water had long been strangers. He had an old, ragged overcoat, probably pulled out of some ash barrel, and fastened with a nail. An old coat and vest completed his scare-crow wardrobe.
The Old Colonel had been known for years as a common beggar. He had come to the mission one Sunday night; and in the middle of the service he had stood and peered forward, calling out: "Mr. Hadley, are you there?"
Mr. Hadley was the founder of the mission, and he answered, "Yes, I am here."
"Will you pray for me? I am of a contrite spirit."
At the close of the meeting he came up, with probably twenty others, and prayed away like a man in dead earnest. When we rose from our knees he also stood up and said: "Well, I am saved. There is no doubt about it."
Then he put his arms around Mr. Hadley's neck and said, "Brother Hadley, what are you going to give me?" He was told, "You will get a night's lodging."
"Yes," said the old derelict, "that's right, but what else?"
"We will give you a quarter for your breakfast."
"That's right," said he. "I always knowed you were a Christian." With his quarter and ticket for a bed he staggered off, promising: "I'll come every night. Yes, brother Hadley. I'll come every night."
Who was this specimen of the devil's cruel power and handiwork? He was from one of Ohio's oldest and best-known families, from a wealthy, prosperous Christian home.
After going through college, he had studied law. He had married and begun to practice, but while in college he had begun to drink, and in every way and everywhere he now proved to be a failure. However, he had served through the Civil War with credit, and was mustered out a colonel in an Illinois cavalry regiment.
A colonel, but a confirmed drunkard. He really struggled against that deadly habit which had so securely fastened itself upon him; but it seemed useless.
At last, when home, wife, and children were lost to him, he became utterly discouraged. He gave up in despair and coming to New York, took an assumed name. In that great and wicked city he became a street beggar and a confirmed drunkard known only as "the Old Colonel." This was the man who came up for prayers that night.
He was on hand early the following evening, as he had promised. Again he came forward for prayers when the invitation was given, and prayed away most earnestly. After we arose from our knees he stood up, and with much unction said he was saved sure enough this time. He tried to put his arms around Mr. Hadley again, but was repulsed this time with much more vigor than grace. Then he was taken to the door and told to leave.
"Do you mean it?" he said, incredulously.
"If you linger much longer, you will see that we mean it."
The old Colonel went away slowly, cursing Mr. Hadley, the Mission, and everybody else. He swore he would die in the streets before he would ever come to Water Street again.
And Mr. Hadley? His heart smote him as he saw the miserable, hopeless figure go out into the night. He went to bed, but not to sleep. He could think of nothing else, pray for nothing else but the old derelict. He felt he must be saved, or Mr. Hadley would never again have peace.
Two weeks later, during a special prayer service for the soul of the Old Colonel, one of the workers came across the old man in Battery Park, and told him they were praying for him. When Mr. Hadley reached the Mission that night, there on the back bench sat the Colonel. It was Mr. Hadley's turn now, and as he put his arms around the old man's neck, he burst into tears. He got some food, and fed him. He bathed and clothed him and had his hair and beard trimmed.
What a change! But the greatest change was in the heart of the Old Colonel. Mr. Hadley's human love had opened the way for the divine love of the Savior to enter and fill the Old Colonel's heart, and he was now a new creation in Christ Jesus.