I LAY THE FIRST STONE IN MY FOUNDATION.
My story now opens in New York, whither I am come to seek my fortune as
a maker and seller of the invisible fabrics of the brain.
During my year in Europe I had done my best to make myself known at the
workshops of different literary periodicals, as a fabricator of these
airy wares. I tried all sorts and sizes of articles, from grave to gay,
from lively to severe, sowing them broadcast in various papers, without
regard to pecuniary profit, and the consequence was that I came back to
New York as a writer favorably known, who had made something of a
position. To be sure my foot was on the lowest round of the ladder, but
it was _on_ the ladder, and I meant to climb.
"To climb--to what?" In the answer a man gives to that question lies
the whole character of his life-work. If to climb be merely to gain a
name, and a competence, a home, a wife, and children, with the means of
keeping them in ease and comfort, the question, though beset with
difficulties of practical performance, is comparatively simple. But if
in addition to this a man is to build himself up after an ideal
standard, as carefully as if he were a temple to stand for eternity; if
he is to lend a hand to help that great living temple which God is
perfecting in human society, the question becomes more complicated
still.
I fear some of my fair readers are by this time impatient to see
something of "my wife." Let me tell them for their comfort that at this
moment, when I entered New York on a drizzly, lonesome December evening
she was there, fair as a star, though I knew it not. The same may be
true of you, young man. If you are ever to be married, your wife is
probably now in the world; some house holds her, and there are mortal
eyes at this hour to whom her lineaments are as familiar as they are
unknown to you. So much for the doctrine of predestination.
But at this hour that I speak of, though the lady in question was a
living and blessed fact, and though she looked on the same stars, and
breathed the same air, and trod daily the same sidewalk with myself, I
was not, as I perceive, any the wiser or better for it at this
particular period of my existence.
In fact, though she was in a large part the unperceived spring and
motive of all that I did, yet at this particular time I was so busy in
adjusting the material foundations of my life that the ideas of marrying
and giving in marriage were never less immediately in my thoughts. I
came into New York a stranger. I knew nobody personally, and I had no
time for visiting.
I had been, in the course of my wanderings, in many cities. I had
lingered in Paris, Rome, Florence, and Naples, and, with the exception
of London, I never found a place so difficult to breathe the breath of
any ideality, or any enthusiasm, or exaltation of any description, as
New York. London, with its ponderous gloom, its sullen, mammoth,
aristocratic shadows, seems to benumb, and chill, and freeze the soul;
but New York impressed me like a great hot furnace, where twig, spray,
and flower wither in a moment, and the little birds flying over, drop
down dead. My first impulse in life there was to cover, and conceal, and
hide in the deepest and most remote caverns of my heart anything that
was sacred, and delicate, and tender, lest the flame should scorch it.
Balzac in his epigrammatic manner has characterized New York as the city
where there is "neither faith, hope, nor charity," and, as he never came
here, I suppose he must have taken his impressions from the descriptions
of unfortunate compatriots, who have landed strangers and been
precipitated into the very rush and whirl of its grinding selfishness,
and its desperate don't-care manner of doing things. There is abundance
of selfishness and hardness in Paris, but it is concealed under a veil
of ideality. The city wooes you like a home, it gives you
picture-galleries, fountains, gardens, and grottoes, and a good natured
lounging population, who have nothing to do but make themselves
agreeable.
I must confess that my first emotion in making my way about the streets
of New York, before I had associated them with any intimacy or
acquaintances, was a vague sort of terror, such as one would feel at
being jostled among cannibals, who on a reasonable provocation wouldn't
hesitate to skin him and pick his bones. There was such a driving,
merciless, fierce "take-care-of-yourself, and devil take the hindmost"
air, even to the drays and omnibuses, and hackmen, that I had somewhat
the feeling of being in an unregulated menagerie, not knowing at what
moment some wild beast might spring upon me. As I became more acquainted
in the circles centering around the different publications, I felt an
acrid, eager, nipping air, in which it appeared to me that everybody had
put on defensive armor in regard to his own innermost and most precious
feelings, and like the lobster, armed himself with claws to seize and to
tear that which came in his way. The rivalry between great literary
organs was so intense, and the competition so vivid, that the offering
of any flower of fancy or feeling to any of them, seemed about as absurd
as if a man should offer a tea-rose bud to the bawling, shouting hackman
that shake their whips and scream at the landing.
Everything in life and death, and time and eternity, whether high as
Heaven, or deep as hell, seemed to be looked upon only as subject matter
for advertisement, and material for running a paper. Hand out your
wares! advertise them and see what they will bring, seemed to be the
only law of production, at whose behest the most delicate webs and
traceries of fancy, the most solemn and tender mysteries of feeling, the
most awful of religious emotions came to have a trademark and market
value! In short, New York is the great business mart, the Vanity Fair of
the world, where everything is pushed by advertising and competition,
not even excepting the great moral enterprise of bringing in the
millennium; and in the first blast and blare of its busy, noisy
publicity and activity, I felt my inner spirits shrink and tremble with
dismay. Even the religion of this modern century bears the deep impress
of the trade-mark, which calendars its financial value.
I could not but think what the sweet and retiring Galilean, who in the
old days was weary and worn with the rush of crowds in simple old
Palestine, must think if he looks down now, on the way in which his
religion is advertised and pushed in modern society. Certain it is, if
it be the kingdom of God that is coming in our times, it is coming with
very great observation, and people have long since forgot the idea that
they are not to say "Lo, here!" and "Lo, there!" since that is precisely
what a large part of the world are getting their living by doing.
These ideas I must confess bore with great weight on my mind, as I had
just parted from my mother, whose last words were that whatever else I
did, and whether I gained anything for this life or not, she trusted
that I would live an humble, self-denying, Christian life. I must own
that for the first few weeks of looking into the interior management of
literary life in New York, the idea at times often seemed to me really
ludicrous. To be humble, yet to seek success in society where it is the
first duty to crow from morning till night, and to praise, and vaunt,
and glorify, at the top of one's lungs, one's own party, or paper, or
magazine, seemed to me sufficiently amusing. However, in conformity with
a solemn promise made to my mother, I lost no time in uniting myself
with a Christian body, of my father's own denomination, and presented a
letter from the Church in Highland to the brethren of the Bethany
Church.
And here I will say that for a young man who wants shelter, and
nourishment and shade for the development of his fine moral
sensibilities, a breakwater to keep the waves of materialism from
dashing over and drowning his higher life, there is nothing better, as
yet to be found, than a union with some one of the many bodies of
differing names and denominations calling themselves Christian Churches.
A Christian Church, according to the very best definition of the name
ever yet given, is a congregation of faithful men in which the pure word
of God is preached, and the sacraments duly ministered according to
Christ's ordinance; and making due allowance for all the ignorance, and
prejudice, and mistakes, and even the willful hypocrisy, which, as human
nature is, must always exist in such connections, I must say that I
think these Churches are the best form of social moral culture yet
invented, and not to be dispensed with till something more fully
answering the purpose has been tested for as long a time as they.
These are caravans that cross the hot and weary sands of life, and while
there may be wrangling and undesirable administration at times within
them, yet, after all, the pilgrim that undertakes alone is but a speck
in the wide desert, too often blown away, and withering like the leaf
before the wind.
The great congregation of the Bethany on Sabbath days, all standing up
together and joining in mighty hymn-singing, though all were outwardly
unknown to me, seemed to thrill my heart with a sense of solemn
companionship, in my earliest and most sacred religious associations. It
was a congregation largely made up of young men, who like myself were
strangers, away from home and friends, and whose hearts, touched and
warmed by the familiar sounds, seemed to send forth magnetic odors like
the interlocked pine trees under the warm sunshine of a June day.
I have long felt that he who would work his brain for a living, without
premature wear upon the organ, must have Sunday placed as a sacred
barrier of entire oblivion, so far as possible, of the course of his
week-day cares. And what oblivion can be more complete than to rise on
the wings of religious ordinance into the region of those diviner
faculties by which man recognizes his heirship to all that is in God?
In like manner I found an oasis in the hot and hurried course of my
week-day life, by dropping in to the weekly prayer-meeting. The large,
bright, pleasant room seemed so social and home-like, the rows of
cheerful, well-dressed, thoughtful people, seemed, even before I knew
one of them, fatherly, motherly, brotherly, and sisterly, as they joined
with the piano in familiar hymn-singing, while the pastor sat among them
as a father in his family, and easy social conversation went on with
regard to the various methods and aspects of the practical religious
life.
To me, a stranger, and naturally shy and undemonstrative, this socialism
was in the highest degree warming and inspiring. I do not mean to set
the praise of this Church above that of a hundred others, with which I
might have become connected, but I will say that here I met the types of
some of those good old-fashioned Christians that Hawthorne celebrates in
his "Celestial Railroad," under the name of Messrs. "Stick to the
Right," and "Foot it to Heaven," men better known among the poor and
afflicted than in fashionable or literary circles, men who, without
troubling their heads about much speculation, are footing it to Heaven
on the old, time-worn, narrow way, and carrying with them as many as
they can induce to go.
Having thus provided against being drawn down and utterly swamped in the
bread-and-subsistence struggle that was before me, I sought to gain a
position in connection with some paper in New York. I had offers under
consideration from several of them. The conductors of "_The Moral
Spouting Horn_" had conversed with me touching their projects, and I had
also been furnishing letters for the "_Great Democracy_," and one of the
proprietors had invited me to a private dinner, I suppose for the
purpose of looking me over and trying my paces before he concluded to
purchase me.
Mr. Goldstick was a florid, middle-aged man, with a slightly bald head,
an easy portliness of manner, and that air of comfortable patronage
which men who are up in the world sometimes carry towards young
aspirants. It was his policy and his way to put himself at once on a
footing of equality with them, easy, jolly, and free; justly thinking
that thereby he gained a more unguarded insight into the inner citadel
of their nature, and could see in the easy play of their faculties just
about how much they could be made to answer his purposes. I had a
chatty, merry dinner of it, and found all my native shyness melting away
under his charming affability. In fact, during the latter part of the
time, I almost felt that I could have told him anything that I could
have told my own mother. What did we not talk about that is of interest
in these stirring times? Philosophy, history, science, religion, life,
death, and immortality--all received the most graceful off-hand
treatment, and were discussed with a singular unanimity of
sentiment--that unanimity which always takes place when the partner in a
discussion has the controlling purpose to be of the same mind as
yourself. When, under the warm and sunny air of this genial nature, I
had fully expanded, and confidence was in full blossom, came the
immediate business conversation in relation to the paper.
"I am rejoiced," said Mr. Goldstick, "in these days of skepticism to
come across a young man with real religious convictions. I am not, I
regret to say, a religious professor myself, but I appreciate it, Mr.
Henderson, as the element most wanting in our modern life."
Here Mr. Goldstick sighed and rolled up his eyes, and took a glass of
wine.
I felt encouraged in this sympathetic atmosphere to unfold to him my
somewhat idealized views of what might be accomplished by the daily
press, by editors as truly under moral vows and consecrations, as the
clergymen who ministered at the altar.
He caught the idea from me with enthusiasm, and went on to expand it
with a vigor and richness of imagery, and to illustrate it with a
profusion of incidents, which left me far behind him, gazing after him
with reverential admiration.
"Mr. Henderson," said he, "_The Great Democracy_ is not primarily a
money-making enterprise--it is a great moral engine; it is for the great
American people, and it contemplates results which look to the complete
regeneration of society."
I ventured here to remark that the same object had been stated to me by
the _Moral Spouting Horn_.
His countenance assumed at once an expression of intense disgust.
"Is it possible," he said, "that the charlatan has been trying to get
hold of you? My dear fellow," he added, drawing near to me with a
confidential air, "of course I would be the last man to infringe on the
courtesies due to my brethren of the press, and you must be aware that
our present conversation is to be considered strictly confidential."
I assured him with fervor that I should consider it so.
"Well, then," he said, "between ourselves, I may say that _The Moral
Spouting Horn_ is a humbug. On mature reflection," he added, "I don't
know but duty requires me to go farther, and say, in the strictest
confidence, you understand, that I consider _The Moral Spouting Horn_ a
swindle."
Here it occurred to me that the same communication had been made in
equal confidence, by the proprietor of _The Moral Spouting Horn_ in
relation to _The Great Democracy_. But, much as I was warmed into
confidence by the genial atmosphere of my friend, I had still enough
prudence to forbear making this statement.
"Now," said he, "my young friend, in devoting yourself to the service of
_The Great Democracy_ you may consider yourself as serving the cause of
God and mankind in ways that no clergyman has an equal chance of doing.
Beside the press, sir, the pulpit is effete. It is, so to speak," he
added, with a sweep of the right hand, "nowhere. Of course the
responsibilities of conducting such an organ are tremendous,
tremendous," he added, reflectively, as I looked at him with awe; "and
that is why I require in my writers, above all things, the clearest and
firmest moral convictions. Sir, it is a critical period in our history;
there is an amount of corruption in this nation that threatens its
dissolution; the Church and the Pulpit have proved entirely inadequate
to stem it. It rests with the Press."
There was a solemn pause, in which nothing was heard but the clink of
the decanter on the glass, as he poured out another glass of wine.
"It is a great responsibility," I remarked, with a sigh.
"Enormous!" he added, with almost a groan, eyeing me sternly.
"Consider," he went on, "the evils of the tremendously corrupted
literature which is now being poured upon the community. Sir, we are
fast drifting to destruction, it is a solemn fact. The public mind must
be aroused and strengthened to resist; they must be taught to
discriminate; there must be a just standard of moral criticism no less
than of intellectual, and that must be attended to in our paper."
I was delighted to find his views in such accordance with my own, and
assured him I should be only too happy to do what I could to forward
them.
"We have been charmed and delighted," he said, "with your contributions
hitherto; they have a high moral tone and have been deservedly popular,
and it is our desire to secure you as a stated contributor in a
semi-editorial capacity, looking towards future developments. We wish
that it were in our power to pay a more liberal sum than we can offer,
but you must be aware, Mr. Henderson, that great moral enterprises must
always depend, in a certain degree, on the element of self-sacrifice in
its promoters."
I reflected, at this moment, on my father's life, and assented with
enthusiasm--remarking that "if I could only get enough to furnish me
with the necessaries of life I should be delighted to go into the
glorious work with him, and give to it the whole enthusiasm of my
soul."
"You have the right spirit, young man," he said. "It is delightful to
witness this freshness of moral feeling." And thus, before our interview
was closed, I had signed a contract of service to Mr. Goldstick, at very
moderate wages, but my heart was filled with exulting joy at the idea of
the possibilities of the situation.
I was young, and ardent; I did _not_, at this moment, want to make money
so much as to make myself felt in the great world. It was the very
spirit of Phæton; I wanted to have a hand on the reins, and a touch of
the whip, and guide the fiery horses of Progress.
I had written stories, and sung songs, but I was not quite content with
those; I wanted the anonymous pulpit of the Editor to speak in, the
opportunity of being the daily invisible companion and counselor of
thousands about their daily paths. The offer of Mr. Goldstick, as I
understood it, looked that way, and I resolved to deserve so well of him
by unlimited devotion to the interests of the paper, that he should open
my way before me.