CHAPTER VII.

THE BISHOP’S VISION

“The Bishop is out of hand,” Ernest wrote me. “He is clear up in the

air. Tonight he is going to begin putting to rights this very miserable

world of ours. He is going to deliver his message. He has told me so,

and I cannot dissuade him. To-night he is chairman of the I.P.H.,[1]

and he will embody his message in his introductory remarks.

[1] There is no clew to the name of the organization for which these

initials stand.

“May I bring you to hear him? Of course, he is foredoomed to futility.

It will break your heart—it will break his; but for you it will be an

excellent object lesson. You know, dear heart, how proud I am because

you love me. And because of that I want you to know my fullest value, I

want to redeem, in your eyes, some small measure of my unworthiness.

And so it is that my pride desires that you shall know my thinking is

correct and right. My views are harsh; the futility of so noble a soul

as the Bishop will show you the compulsion for such harshness. So come

to-night. Sad though this night’s happening will be, I feel that it

will but draw you more closely to me.”

The I.P.H. held its convention that night in San Francisco.[2] This

convention had been called to consider public immorality and the remedy

for it. Bishop Morehouse presided. He was very nervous as he sat on the

platform, and I could see the high tension he was under. By his side

were Bishop Dickinson; H. H. Jones, the head of the ethical department

in the University of California; Mrs. W. W. Hurd, the great charity

organizer; Philip Ward, the equally great philanthropist; and several

lesser luminaries in the field of morality and charity. Bishop

Morehouse arose and abruptly began:

[2] It took but a few minutes to cross by ferry from Berkeley to San

Francisco. These, and the other bay cities, practically composed one

community.

“I was in my brougham, driving through the streets. It was night-time.

Now and then I looked through the carriage windows, and suddenly my

eyes seemed to be opened, and I saw things as they really are. At first

I covered my eyes with my hands to shut out the awful sight, and then,

in the darkness, the question came to me: What is to be done? What is

to be done? A little later the question came to me in another way: What

would the Master do? And with the question a great light seemed to fill

the place, and I saw my duty sun-clear, as Saul saw his on the way to

Damascus.

“I stopped the carriage, got out, and, after a few minutes’

conversation, persuaded two of the public women to get into the

brougham with me. If Jesus was right, then these two unfortunates were

my sisters, and the only hope of their purification was in my affection

and tenderness.

“I live in one of the loveliest localities of San Francisco. The house

in which I live cost a hundred thousand dollars, and its furnishings,

books, and works of art cost as much more. The house is a mansion. No,

it is a palace, wherein there are many servants. I never knew what

palaces were good for. I had thought they were to live in. But now I

know. I took the two women of the street to my palace, and they are

going to stay with me. I hope to fill every room in my palace with such

sisters as they.”

The audience had been growing more and more restless and unsettled, and

the faces of those that sat on the platform had been betraying greater

and greater dismay and consternation. And at this point Bishop

Dickinson arose, and with an expression of disgust on his face, fled

from the platform and the hall. But Bishop Morehouse, oblivious to all,

his eyes filled with his vision, continued:

“Oh, sisters and brothers, in this act of mine I find the solution of

all my difficulties. I didn’t know what broughams were made for, but

now I know. They are made to carry the weak, the sick, and the aged;

they are made to show honor to those who have lost the sense even of

shame.

“I did not know what palaces were made for, but now I have found a use

for them. The palaces of the Church should be hospitals and nurseries

for those who have fallen by the wayside and are perishing.”

He made a long pause, plainly overcome by the thought that was in him,

and nervous how best to express it.

“I am not fit, dear brethren, to tell you anything about morality. I

have lived in shame and hypocrisies too long to be able to help others;

but my action with those women, sisters of mine, shows me that the

better way is easy to find. To those who believe in Jesus and his

gospel there can be no other relation between man and man than the

relation of affection. Love alone is stronger than sin—stronger than

death. I therefore say to the rich among you that it is their duty to

do what I have done and am doing. Let each one of you who is prosperous

take into his house some thief and treat him as his brother, some

unfortunate and treat her as his sister, and San Francisco will need no

police force and no magistrates; the prisons will be turned into

hospitals, and the criminal will disappear with his crime.

“We must give ourselves and not our money alone. We must do as Christ

did; that is the message of the Church today. We have wandered far from

the Master’s teaching. We are consumed in our own flesh-pots. We have

put mammon in the place of Christ. I have here a poem that tells the

whole story. I should like to read it to you. It was written by an

erring soul who yet saw clearly.[3] It must not be mistaken for an

attack upon the Catholic Church. It is an attack upon all churches,

upon the pomp and splendor of all churches that have wandered from the

Master’s path and hedged themselves in from his lambs. Here it is:

“The silver trumpets rang across the Dome;

The people knelt upon the ground with awe;

And borne upon the necks of men I saw,

Like some great God, the Holy Lord of Rome.

“Priest-like, he wore a robe more white than foam,

And, king-like, swathed himself in royal red,

Three crowns of gold rose high upon his head;

In splendor and in light the Pope passed home.

“My heart stole back across wide wastes of years

To One who wandered by a lonely sea;

And sought in vain for any place of rest:

‘Foxes have holes, and every bird its nest,

I, only I, must wander wearily,

And bruise my feet, and drink wine salt with tears.’”

[3] Oscar Wilde, one of the lords of language of the nineteenth

century of the Christian Era.

The audience was agitated, but unresponsive. Yet Bishop Morehouse was

not aware of it. He held steadily on his way.

“And so I say to the rich among you, and to all the rich, that bitterly

you oppress the Master’s lambs. You have hardened your hearts. You have

closed your ears to the voices that are crying in the land—the voices

of pain and sorrow that you will not hear but that some day will be

heard. And so I say—”

But at this point H. H. Jones and Philip Ward, who had already risen

from their chairs, led the Bishop off the platform, while the audience

sat breathless and shocked.

Ernest laughed harshly and savagely when he had gained the street. His

laughter jarred upon me. My heart seemed ready to burst with suppressed

tears.

“He has delivered his message,” Ernest cried. “The manhood and the

deep-hidden, tender nature of their Bishop burst out, and his Christian

audience, that loved him, concluded that he was crazy! Did you see them

leading him so solicitously from the platform? There must have been

laughter in hell at the spectacle.”

“Nevertheless, it will make a great impression, what the Bishop did and

said to-night,” I said.

“Think so?” Ernest queried mockingly.

“It will make a sensation,” I asserted. “Didn’t you see the reporters

scribbling like mad while he was speaking?”

“Not a line of which will appear in to-morrow’s papers.”

“I can’t believe it,” I cried.

“Just wait and see,” was the answer. “Not a line, not a thought that he

uttered. The daily press? The daily suppressage!”

“But the reporters,” I objected. “I saw them.”

“Not a word that he uttered will see print. You have forgotten the

editors. They draw their salaries for the policy they maintain. Their

policy is to print nothing that is a vital menace to the established.

The Bishop’s utterance was a violent assault upon the established

morality. It was heresy. They led him from the platform to prevent him

from uttering more heresy. The newspapers will purge his heresy in the

oblivion of silence. The press of the United States? It is a parasitic

growth that battens on the capitalist class. Its function is to serve

the established by moulding public opinion, and right well it serves

it.

“Let me prophesy. To-morrow’s papers will merely mention that the

Bishop is in poor health, that he has been working too hard, and that

he broke down last night. The next mention, some days hence, will be to

the effect that he is suffering from nervous prostration and has been

given a vacation by his grateful flock. After that, one of two things

will happen: either the Bishop will see the error of his way and return

from his vacation a well man in whose eyes there are no more visions,

or else he will persist in his madness, and then you may expect to see

in the papers, couched pathetically and tenderly, the announcement of

his insanity. After that he will be left to gibber his visions to

padded walls.”

“Now there you go too far!” I cried out.

“In the eyes of society it will truly be insanity,” he replied. “What

honest man, who is not insane, would take lost women and thieves into

his house to dwell with him sisterly and brotherly? True, Christ died

between two thieves, but that is another story. Insanity? The mental

processes of the man with whom one disagrees, are always wrong.

Therefore the mind of the man is wrong. Where is the line between wrong

mind and insane mind? It is inconceivable that any sane man can

radically disagree with one’s most sane conclusions.

“There is a good example of it in this evening’s paper. Mary McKenna

lives south of Market Street. She is a poor but honest woman. She is

also patriotic. But she has erroneous ideas concerning the American

flag and the protection it is supposed to symbolize. And here’s what

happened to her. Her husband had an accident and was laid up in

hospital three months. In spite of taking in washing, she got behind in

her rent. Yesterday they evicted her. But first, she hoisted an

American flag, and from under its folds she announced that by virtue of

its protection they could not turn her out on to the cold street. What

was done? She was arrested and arraigned for insanity. To-day she was

examined by the regular insanity experts. She was found insane. She was

consigned to the Napa Asylum.”

“But that is far-fetched,” I objected. “Suppose I should disagree with

everybody about the literary style of a book. They wouldn’t send me to

an asylum for that.”

“Very true,” he replied. “But such divergence of opinion would

constitute no menace to society. Therein lies the difference. The

divergence of opinion on the parts of Mary McKenna and the Bishop do

menace society. What if all the poor people should refuse to pay rent

and shelter themselves under the American flag? Landlordism would go

crumbling. The Bishop’s views are just as perilous to society. Ergo, to

the asylum with him.”

But still I refused to believe.

“Wait and see,” Ernest said, and I waited.

Next morning I sent out for all the papers. So far Ernest was right.

Not a word that Bishop Morehouse had uttered was in print. Mention was

made in one or two of the papers that he had been overcome by his

feelings. Yet the platitudes of the speakers that followed him were

reported at length.

Several days later the brief announcement was made that he had gone

away on a vacation to recover from the effects of overwork. So far so

good, but there had been no hint of insanity, nor even of nervous

collapse. Little did I dream the terrible road the Bishop was destined

to travel—the Gethsemane and crucifixion that Ernest had pondered

about.