View source for 1925-12-Improvement Era-Fall in Manhattan

==Fall in Manhattan==
:''Improvement Era'', v29 n2, December 1925, pp. 119-122
:by Fred L. Markham

Back in old New York, during these Indian Summer days, while the folks in the hills and valleys are enjoying the beauty of nature's glorious color, the missionaries to the Big City are busily engaged in outdoor meetings, sometimes almost under the shadow of the Woolworth tower, and always in a canyon of sombre gray. That means preaching, and to a rushing mass of humanity who insistently hurry on, up and down the narrow, dirty streets.

I suppose that not many of the folks out west know what it means to hold an open air meeting on old Manhatten's highways. I'm going to try and take you to one. I want you to feel the fright, the nervous excitement that comes when you separate yourself from the thousands free for the lunch hour who are walking down Broadway and step from the curb to a street sticky with a thin layer of mud and strewn with the refuse of a day's accumulation, fruit peelings, cigarette stubs, oil from the heavy trucks and the ever present refuse from numerous horses. People with whom you were but a moment before walking abreast, turn to see what has prompted such peculiar behavior. With your heart pounding in your head, lungs and to your very finger-tips, you slowly and with thoughtful deliberation unroll the flag and set it up on the improvised music stand carried as a flag-staff. Street speakers must always fly an American flag while talking, a hang-over from the feverish war days of 1917 and 1918. A few extra curious souls with little to do always stop and watch you, as they will watch anything that is not included in the humdrum routine of city street life. They are useful, as they always form the nucleus around which the main crowd will later gather. These are as a rule of the Jewish race, in spite of which fact, out of curiosity, they will sometimes remain through a full Christian service.

The pre-occupation of unrolling the flag, coupled with a half-dazed interest in returning the gazes of these few curious ones, rather takes away the frightened feeling experienced upon first stepping forth, but now it comes back with a force that you could not expect. Intensely conscious of yourself and of your unusual situation, your mind refuses to function as you would like it to. Various thoughts rapidly follow each other through your consciousness, foremost is the desire to run, but that quite easily submerges to permit a flood of excuses to present their plea.

"Perhaps we'd do better by going to another corner, the crowd here doesn't look good today." "They'lll not stand with the sun so hot as it is today."

"It is too noisy here, I don't think we can be heard."'

The sky is scanned in the vain hope of an approaching storm. Anything, anything to take you away from that particular corner, at that particular time with that particular task. At last consciousness of duty overpowers these wayward tendencies and you turn to the practical consideration of your situation. A crowd must be gathered. How? Well, you can sing, or just begin by "calling them in," both of which might sound quite simple, but aren't. Previous experience has shown you that the New Yorker above all else is intensely curious. A break in the monotonous train of daily office or warehouse activity is always welcomed, and especially if it is something in which the only requisite is to watch some one else act. Capitalizing upon this characteristic you use a piece of ordinary chalk and make a series of peculiar marks on the grimy pavement. The passing groups seeing this extraordinary behavior stop to watch the fun, as they suppose it to be. Once begun, the old terrified feeling gradually vanishes and in its place comes an intensified mental strain, a racking search for subject matter and the language to convey it. Gradually, and slow enough to keep the crowd coming, you develop from the crude marks a word, then a sentence—your subject. The chalking done, a crowd, curious, yet half jovial and jostling, has circled round, some of the rear ones so anxious to see that they impatiently force their more fortunate fellows until only a small circle surrounding the writing remains. That circle is your rostrum and from it you must develop your subject.

Rising, a chill as cold and petrifying as any wind that blows across the glacier of Mount Timpanogos, plays relays up and down your back bone. You are facing a crowd of a hundred of New York's five million. You realize in a half conscious way that within that hundred lie all the possibilities of a polyglot metropolis. As many types of mind as there are individuals. As many different points of view on the subject of religion as there are people before you. Hebrews, Catholics, Chinese, Hindus, Protestants and Mohammedans, and you must direct the thoughts of the conglomerate group into the channels you want.

Within that group you may have a millionaire, and beside him a thug. You may have a college graduate with fraternity keys dangling from his watch chain, and beside him a moroon who shovels muck in a nearby excavation. You can recognize the grimy mechanic with his clothing, hands and face covered with grease and dirt of the shop bench, the shop girl with modish dress and wondering stare, the shopper lacking time to stay and find out the reason for the traffic congestion, but yet too curious to pass by without seeing what she can at a glance.

Smiles of amusement, and sometimes derision, meet you as you announce the intention of holding a meeting, and small groups move away when they learn it is to be a religious discussion. The crowd comes and goes in such groups of two and three, sometimes with such startling rapidity that it seems as if they are manipulated by magic. But the hundred has attracted others, and for those that leave plenty come to keep their places filled.

Prayer offered, the topic announced and ready to begin, a sense of security settles upon you. The chill that a few moments ago shook you has been thawed with the satisfying warmth which accompanies the manifestation of the Spirit of God. Words come that a few moments before seemed miserably frozen, and then the real joy of seeing that that crowd, perhaps forty or fifty, has remained. The subject develops, a man with rimless glasses and correct clothes stands looking intently at you as you talk. Plainly, he is interested. You talk definitely to him. It is affecting him surely. Then he moves away. The message didn't hit home. People come and go, and a few stay, one here and one there.

"Who is that behind? A cop? What; O yes, the permit." All outdoor speakers in the city must, besides having a flag prominently displayed, have a permit from the commissioner of Public Safety which identifies the organization, the speaker and the corner, thus regulating the practice of holding street meetings. Having satisfactorily explained it all to the representative of the law, you turn to the crowd to find it augmented to nearly twice its former size. This is the inevitable result of the police interference. To a New Yorker, the presence of the man in blue always gives omen of a fight or excitement equally interesting. As the newcomers find the nature of the gathering, however, they begin to sift out until the crowd again comes back to its former size.

Following the interruption, the words continue to flow, now slowly and with deliberation, now fast and sharp and definite. It is a wonderful feeling. You sense the power to hold a group with the sound of your own voice, but behind it you recognize that it comes only because the inspiration of your words is from your Father in Heaven. You are thankful for the ability given you to present such a truth laden message, sparkling with spirituality and capable of giving the greatest joy on earth. As you speak, these thoughts keep racing through your mind: "If they can only understand it! If they can only grasp the grandeur, the extent, the power of it all. If they can only see it as I would like them to see it! There is an interested one, a bright looking fellow, and right in the middle of the crowd, I hope he is going to stay. If he will just wait until after the climax!" Of a sudden your voice seems helpless. No matter how loud you call it is impossible to raise it above the din in the street. The traffic, which for the past few minutes has been but an occasional express wagon or a delivery truck, seems to develop instantly into a flood of singing, grinding street cars, of rattling trucks and steel tired freight wagons pounding over stone-paved roadways. This is characteristic of lower Broadway. The conglomerate noises echo and reecho while the buildings on either side seem to vibrate and re-vibrate as if their tone-frequency had been struck, and sound-box-like they add each new sound to the last until the aggregate is too much for a single voice to over-sound. Struggling determinedly, you manage to hold a few of your group until the thunder of the vehicles has passed, then; with quiet restored, you bring out your final appeal followed by a few announcements: Of free literature obtainable immediately following the closing prayer, of a meeting at the chapel at the corner of Gates and Franklin next Sunday evening at seven thirty, of Books of Mormon open for their inspection after the services. Then prayer.

With the flag rolled up, a few questions answered, and a Book of Mormon sold to the young fellow you had watched through the meeting, you turn your back upon the corner which so short a time ago was the setting of the scene of so many conflicting emotions. Now an enveloping satisfaction fills your whole being. You have done a difficult bit of work, and the joy of its completion rests upon you. You have mastered yourself, placing your duty above all personal desires. You have above all else given a few more of God's children the opportunity to hear a modern day message from Him. Your duties as a watchman to Israel have for a short time been faithfully fulfilled. And with a happiness born of such realization you walk down the street turning into an Automat for a bowl of baked beans and a plate of whole wheat bread.

That night in the quiet of the missionary quarters you place a little "one" mark in the "Open air meeting" column of the missionary weekly report.

This is Fall in Manhattan.

Brooklyn, N. Y.