Our “Artful Dodgers.” by A City Pastor

Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Oct 22, 1872

Our “Artful Dodgers.”

By A City Pastor

BY A CITY PASTOR.

One of the oldest and most respected pastors in New York once remarked in the hearing of the writer, that after a long experience, he was forced to believe that every stranger who called upon him, without any credentials, to solicit pecuniary aid, was an impostor. This seems somewhat uncharitable, and yet our own experience is rapidly tending to the same conclusion. The number of impecunious individuals, young and old, male and female, white and black, polished and rough, insinuating and repulsive, who call on the clergy almost daily for aid, with the variety of tales which they tell, would make material for a large volume. If half the address, ingenuity, and persistence which these “artful dodgers” exhibit in the pursuit of their trade, were expended on some honest calling, we are quite sure that large success would be the result. The various forms of imposture which they practice would illustrate the pages of many a “Rogues’ Calendar.” Some of them are very ingenious. For instance, a man calls on Rev. Dr. ——, and desires his immediate presence at the house of one of his parishioners, whose children are seriously ill. The Doctor’s pastoral sympathies are aroused, and he prepares to accompany the messenger at once. While putting on his overcoat, he asks:

“What is the name of the family?”

“Thompson, Doctor; the children belong to your Sunday-school.”

“Thompson—Thompson! I do not think that I have any family of that name on my parish list.”

“Oh! yes, Doctor; the children belong to your mission school, and they are very sick with small-pox.”

The Doctor pauses. He doubts whether it is his duty to run the risk of bringing a deadly disease to his own family, and he hesitates. The man observes it, and says:

“Indeed, Doctor, I hardly think you ought to go to the house under the circumstances; but you see the family are very poor. I and other neighbors have done all we can to help them; but we are poor ourselves

and I thought you ought to know about it.”

The Domine’s hand goes to his pocket at once. “I shall be very glad to help them to any comfort that they need. Here are ten dollars for them, and you will please let me know how they are getting on.”

“Oh! thank you, Doctor; I’m sure you’re very kind, and the money will do them a heap of good, and I’ll be sure to let you know how the children are to-morrow.”

And the kind neighbor goes off with the Doctor’s ten dollars, and how many more he manages to pick up by playing on the sympathies of other pastors with the same story, we do not know. But we do know that the above game was played on one of the most excellent pastors of this city, who narrated his experience to a circle of his brethren soon after, and found that another minister had been called on by the same individual, with the same story, though without the same success.

Not long since, the writer was summoned to his parlor near the close of the day. There sat a young woman decently dressed, modest in appearance, and with thin, pale face bearing the marks of recent illness. She rose at my entrance, and with a very prepossessing manner told her story:

“I am sorry to intrude upon you, Doctor ——, but I am in great trouble, and know not where to look for aid. I am the daughter of poor parents, who live in Illinois. I came to this city with a lady who lives in California, to go home with her as a seamstress in her family. I was taken very ill on our arrival, and the lady was obliged to sail without me. When I recovered, I was not able to return to my parents, and I obtained work in Stewart’s cloak department, where I have earned seven dollars a week for the last six months. A month ago, I was taken sick again, and have exhausted all my means, and am not able to pay my board, and my landlady threatens to turn me out of the house. If I can get the means to pay her for two weeks, I think I shall be able to work by that time and take care of myself. But I have not a friend in this city, and I have taken the liberty to come to you with my story.”

Modestly told—with a perfectly simple, natural air—confirmed by her pale cheeks, and everything about her narrative calculated to impress even an experienced city pastor favorably. I think most of us would have yielded to such a petitioner. I was on the point of giving her what she needed, when I thought I would examine the case in person.

“What is your name?”

“Mary Thomas, sir.”

“Where do you board?”

“At 116 West Nineteenth street, sir.”

No hesitation, no evasion, prompt, straight-forward, honest. It seemed as if her story must be true. I took my card from my pocket, and gave it to her, saying, “Take that to your landlady, and tell her that I will call and see her in the morning, and if your story is true, I will give you what you need.”

“Oh! thank you, sir, thank you,” and off Mary Thomas went, with a grateful smile on her pale face, leaving in spite of all my experience, a most favorable impression behind her.

Next morning, directly after breakfast, I posted down to West Nineteenth street. On inquiring at the house to which I had been directed, for Mary Thomas,

“No such person here, sir,” was the instant reply.

I described her appearance. I went to other boarding and tenement-houses in the block, but no trace could I find of my interesting Mary Thomas. Determined not to give it up so, I went down to Stewart’s. My friend, Mr. Brown, the gentlemanly employé, gave me his usual courteous greeting. I stated the case to him, and begged him to facilitate my inquiries in the “cloak department.” We mounted to that part of the great establishment, and prosecuted the search for Mary Thomas. The list of employees was examined, the manager questioned, but no such name was found on the one, or known to the other. Finally, having spent about two hours of the best part of my day in this fruitless manner, I wended my way back to my study, where I ought to have been for those two hours hard at work on my sermon for Sunday, firmly convinced that my interesting “Mary Thomas” was a stupendous fraud.

Well, what do you think of another case? A well-dressed, gentlemanly young man calls on Saturday, and with much apparent honesty, thus delivers himself:

“Dr. ——, I should not have called upon you, had I not heard my pastor, Mr. Barnes, of Philadelphia, speak of you. I am a member of his church, have been absent two weeks on a journey, and am just short of enough money to pay my fare home, and the peculiarity of my position is, that I am a teacher in Mr. Barnes’ Sunday-school, and to-morrow is our anniversary and festival, and I wouldn’t miss being with my class on that occasion for anything. So I thought I would ask you to lend me three dollars to pay my fare. Of course I will send it back to you immediately.”

Of course I did not lend him the money, but other and younger brethren did, and never heard anything more from the excellent member and Sunday-school teacher of Mr. Barnes’ church.

Of such cases, the name is legion, for they are many. They consume our time, they betray our Christian sympathies, they vex us with their plausible and persistent falsehoods; and the only possible service that they do us, is to ground us more deeply in that fundamental article of our Calvinistic standard, the total depravity of man, and of woman also!—Christian Intelligencer.