In one of the vilest sections of the city is a modest looking brick building, known as Pacific Garden Mission. Over the door hangs a lantern bearing the inscription, “Strangers Welcome.” When the shades of night come on, and the rays of the lantern shine out, revealing the legend inscribed upon it, they illuminate a region full of vice, crime and suffering. In earlier days the street was lined with long rows of rum-shops, ratpits, low-down dens, and thieves’ dens of the worst description. Here and there are dance houses, brilliantly lighted, and ornamented with gaudy transparencies. Strains of music floated out into the night air, and about the doors and along the sidewalks stand groups of hideous women, waiting to entice the stranger into these hells where they are made drunk with drugged liquors, robbed of their money and valuables and turned helpless into the streets. Groups of drunken and foul-mouthed men and boys lounge about the street, bandying vile jests with the women, and often insulting respectable passers by. High over all this sea of wretchedness and sin, the Pacific Garden lantern shines out like a beacon light, the only sign of cheer and hope to be seen. If you listen you will hear sounds of music in this building also, but the strains are of praise and thanksgiving—strange sounds to hear in such a neighborhood.

Some years ago a wretched building, that had long been used for vile purposes and known as one of the toughest places which Chicago then supported, was secured by George R. Clarke and his wife, and was opened as a Christian mission, and devoted to saving the drunken and sinful dwellers in this section of the city. The work was slow at first, but it prospered and at length assumed such proportions that the old building was found inadequate to the purpose of the mission and the German Methodist Church building at 100 Van Buren street was secured and has been continuously occupied by the Mission for over twenty-five years.

The surprise of this quarter of the city at seeing George R. Clarke and his wife in its midst in the guise of missionaries was not unnatural. Ministering to, caring for, and saving the drunkard and the harlot is the work planned for the corps of workers.

Colonel Clarke, as he was familiarly known, died some years ago. It was while he was engaged as a western miner that he became imbued with the spirit to save souls. Returning to Chicago, he married, and the two began the work of saving the lost and friendless. Their meetings were well attended; many came to see and hear and others to make fun; but the earnestness of the devoted pair had its effects and the curious and scoffers became converts in their turn. Little by little assistance began to be held out to the Mission, and at length a strong body of Christian men and women came to its aid with money, and the Mission placed upon a sound and safe basis.

They have gone among the outcasts and the wretched, the sinful and the degraded, and have rescued them from their vile ways, brought them to the saving knowledge of God and His religion, and have started them in a new and better course of life. Their efforts often failed; many of their converts lapsed into their old ways, but the number of those who are actually reforming is surprisingly large, and the lasting results achieved are great and glorious. No one, however wretched, however far gone in sin, is ever turned away; a helping hand is extended to all, and the vilest outcast is made to feel welcome and confident that there is still a chance for salvation left him.

There is no more interesting sight in the city than one of Pacific Garden Mission Gospel meetings. The audience is made up of men and women of various classes, including many who avoid other Christian agencies, who have never been in a place of prayer or heard the Bible read except by the prison Chaplain; the poor and friendless who have drifted into Chicago from all parts of the world; drunkards, thieves, roughs and discharged convicts, sailors, and many prodigal sons who have wandered away from Christian mothers and have fallen into crime and beggary.

The meetings are held in a pleasant, well-lighted and ventilated room on the first floor. Near the entrance hangs a sign, inscribed as follows: “Strangers and the Poor Always Welcome.” Over the inside walls is the favorite scriptural verse of Colonel Clarke, which reads: “Christ came into the world to save sinners, among whom I am Chief.” The room is neatly furnished, and is provided with a cabinet organ.

The genius of the place is Harry Munroe, the assistant superintendent of the mission. He is a powerful messenger of the Gospel to the lost ones of the great city. He is a man with sharp eyes and quick, decisive manner. He is thoroughly in earnest in his work, and understands the character and habits of the class to whom he appeals. Being intense in his purposes and animated by a desire to win sinners to the Saviour, he is able to speak with effectual power to these rough men, who listen respectfully to his words, and are attracted to him by those personal peculiarities that fit him for his work—a work that is unique, and has become one of the most important in the great city.

As the clock points to the hour for song and testimony, Harry opens his hymn-book, and calls out in a strong, cheery voice, “sixty-nine,” and thereupon the singing begins, accompanied by the cabinet organ, and the singers whose voices were once raised only in blasphemy. If the singing is a little faint, Harry spurs up his audience by calling out, “Don’t be afraid of your voices, boys; sing out with your whole soul,” and generally the volume of praise grows stronger and fuller.

The testimonies roll in as the meeting progresses, strange and startling many of them, some so quaintly worded that they would provoke a smile in a more “respectable” prayer-meeting, but all given with an earnestness and pathos that is wonderful. Sometimes a drunken man will endeavor to interrupt the meeting. One night a man of this kind staggered to his feet, and hiccoughed, “Jesus saves me, too.”

“That ain’t so,” replied Harry, emphatically; “Jesus don’t save any man that is full of rum.” And down sits the man, utterly abashed by the quick retort.

Harry acts as his own policeman, and meets all attempts at disturbances on the ground. The offenders are seized in his powerful grasp, and led to the door, and put into the street, first being entreated to be quiet and lead better lives.

As the testimonies are given the audience is deeply moved. Yonder is a street-walker, kneeling on the floor, with her face hidden in her hands, sobbing bitterly. Mrs. Clarke, or one of the co-workers goes down to the poor outcast, and whispers to her despairing soul the only words of hope she ever heard. Others give evidence of their desire to be saved, and the meeting devotes itself to prayer for them. Mrs. Clarke’s keen eye sweeps the room, and at once detects the hesitating. In an instant she is at their side, devoting her mild, but powerful eloquence to urging them to take the decisive step then and there.

There is something wonderful in her mild grasp of the hand, and in her earnest tones, “Come, let the Good Lord save you. He has saved others, and I know there is a chance for you.”

“And He took him by the right hand and lifted him up.” Lifted him up! my brother!