THE CHURCH OF THE APOSTLES.
I.
In the lower old-fashioned part of the city, in a narrow street--almost
a lane--once filled with demure-looking dwellings, but now chiefly with
immense lofty warehouses of foreign importers; and not far from the
corner where the lane intersected with a very considerable but
contracted thoroughfare for merchants and their clerks, and their carmen
and porters; stood at this period a rather singular and ancient edifice,
a relic of the more primitive time. The material was a grayish stone,
rudely cut and masoned into walls of surprising thickness and strength;
along two of which walls--the side ones--were distributed as many rows
of arched and stately windows. A capacious, square, and wholly
unornamented tower rose in front to twice the height of the body of the
church; three sides of this tower were pierced with small and narrow
apertures. Thus far, in its external aspect, the building--now more than
a century old,--sufficiently attested for what purpose it had originally
been founded. In its rear, was a large and lofty plain brick structure,
with its front to the rearward street, but its back presented to the
back of the church, leaving a small, flagged, and quadrangular vacancy
between. At the sides of this quadrangle, three stories of homely brick
colonnades afforded covered communication between the ancient church,
and its less elderly adjunct. A dismantled, rusted, and forlorn old
railing of iron fencing in a small courtyard in front of the rearward
building, seemed to hint, that the latter had usurped an unoccupied
space formerly sacred as the old church's burial inclosure. Such a fancy
would have been entirely true. Built when that part of the city was
devoted to private residences, and not to warehouses and offices as now,
the old Church of the Apostles had had its days of sanctification and
grace; but the tide of change and progress had rolled clean through its
broad-aisle and side-aisles, and swept by far the greater part of its
congregation two or three miles up town. Some stubborn and elderly old
merchants and accountants, lingered awhile among its dusty pews,
listening to the exhortations of a faithful old pastor, who, sticking to
his post in this flight of his congregation, still propped his
half-palsied form in the worm-eaten pulpit, and occasionally
pounded--though now with less vigorous hand--the moth-eaten covering of
its desk. But it came to pass, that this good old clergyman died; and
when the gray-headed and bald-headed remaining merchants and accountants
followed his coffin out of the broad-aisle to see it reverently
interred; then that was the last time that ever the old edifice
witnessed the departure of a regular worshiping assembly from its walls.
The venerable merchants and accountants held a meeting, at which it was
finally decided, that, hard and unwelcome as the necessity might be, yet
it was now no use to disguise the fact, that the building could no
longer be efficiently devoted to its primitive purpose. It must be
divided into stores; cut into offices; and given for a roost to the
gregarious lawyers. This intention was executed, even to the making
offices high up in the tower; and so well did the thing succeed, that
ultimately the church-yard was invaded for a supplemental edifice,
likewise to be promiscuously rented to the legal crowd. But this new
building very much exceeded the body of the church in height. It was
some seven stories; a fearful pile of Titanic bricks, lifting its tiled
roof almost to a level with the top of the sacred tower.
In this ambitious erection the proprietors went a few steps, or rather a
few stories, too far. For as people would seldom willingly fall into
legal altercations unless the lawyers were always very handy to help
them; so it is ever an object with lawyers to have their offices as
convenient as feasible to the street; on the ground-floor, if possible,
without a single acclivity of a step; but at any rate not in the seventh
story of any house, where their clients might be deterred from employing
them at all, if they were compelled to mount seven long flights of
stairs, one over the other, with very brief landings, in order even to
pay their preliminary retaining fees. So, from some time after its
throwing open, the upper stories of the less ancient attached edifice
remained almost wholly without occupants; and by the forlorn echoes of
their vacuities, right over the head of the business-thriving legal
gentlemen below, must--to some few of them at least--have suggested
unwelcome similitudes, having reference to the crowded state of their
basement-pockets, as compared with the melancholy condition of their
attics;--alas! full purses and empty heads! This dreary posture of
affairs, however, was at last much altered for the better, by the
gradual filling up of the vacant chambers on high, by scores of those
miscellaneous, bread-and-cheese adventurers, and ambiguously
professional nondescripts in very genteel but shabby black, and
unaccountable foreign-looking fellows in blue spectacles; who,
previously issuing from unknown parts of the world, like storks in
Holland, light on the eaves, and in the attics of lofty old buildings in
most large sea-port towns. Here they sit and talk like magpies; or
descending in quest of improbable dinners, are to be seen drawn up along
the curb in front of the eating-houses, like lean rows of broken-hearted
pelicans on a beach; their pockets loose, hanging down and flabby, like
the pelican's pouches when fish are hard to be caught. But these poor,
penniless devils still strive to make ample amends for their physical
forlornness, by resolutely reveling in the region of blissful ideals.
They are mostly artists of various sorts; painters, or sculptors, or
indigent students, or teachers of languages, or poets, or fugitive
French politicians, or German philosophers. Their mental tendencies,
however heterodox at times, are still very fine and spiritual upon the
whole; since the vacuity of their exchequers leads them to reject the
coarse materialism of Hobbs, and incline to the airy exaltations of the
Berkelyan philosophy. Often groping in vain in their pockets, they can
not but give in to the Descartian vortices; while the abundance of
leisure in their attics (physical and figurative), unite with the
leisure in their stomachs, to fit them in an eminent degree for that
undivided attention indispensable to the proper digesting of the
sublimated Categories of Kant; especially as Kant (can't) is the one
great palpable fact in their pervadingly impalpable lives. These are the
glorious paupers, from whom I learn the profoundest mysteries of things;
since their very existence in the midst of such a terrible
precariousness of the commonest means of support, affords a problem on
which many speculative nutcrackers have been vainly employed. Yet let me
here offer up three locks of my hair, to the memory of all such glorious
paupers who have lived and died in this world. Surely, and truly I honor
them--noble men often at bottom--and for that very reason I make bold to
be gamesome about them; for where fundamental nobleness is, and
fundamental honor is due, merriment is never accounted irreverent. The
fools and pretenders of humanity, and the impostors and baboons among
the gods, these only are offended with raillery; since both those gods
and men whose titles to eminence are secure, seldom worry themselves
about the seditious gossip of old apple-women, and the skylarkings of
funny little boys in the street.
When the substance is gone, men cling to the shadow. Places once set
apart to lofty purposes, still retain the name of that loftiness, even
when converted to the meanest uses. It would seem, as if forced by
imperative Fate to renounce the reality of the romantic and lofty, the
people of the present would fain make a compromise by retaining some
purely imaginative remainder. The curious effects of this tendency is
oftenest evinced in those venerable countries of the old transatlantic
world; where still over the Thames one bridge yet retains the monastic
tide of Blackfriars; though not a single Black Friar, but many a
pickpocket, has stood on that bank since a good ways beyond the days of
Queen Bess; where still innumerable other historic anomalies sweetly and
sadly remind the present man of the wonderful procession that preceded
him in his new generation. Nor--though the comparative recentness of our
own foundation upon these Columbian shores, excludes any considerable
participation in these attractive anomalies,--yet are we not altogether,
in our more elderly towns, wholly without some touch of them, here and
there. It was thus with the ancient Church of the Apostles--better
known, even in its primitive day, under the abbreviative of The
Apostles--which, though now converted from its original purpose to one
so widely contrasting, yet still retained its majestical name. The
lawyer or artist tenanting its chambers, whether in the new building or
the old, when asked where he was to be found, invariably replied,--_At
the Apostles'_. But because now, at last, in the course of the
inevitable transplantations of the more notable localities of the
various professions in a thriving and amplifying town, the venerable
spot offered not such inducements as before to the legal gentlemen; and
as the strange nondescript adventurers and artists, and indigent
philosophers of all sorts, crowded in as fast as the others left;
therefore, in reference to the metaphysical strangeness of these curious
inhabitants, and owing in some sort to the circumstance, that several of
them were well-known Teleological Theorists, and Social Reformers, and
political propagandists of all manner of heterodoxical tenets;
therefore, I say, and partly, peradventure, from some slight waggishness
in the public; the immemorial popular name of the ancient church itself
was participatingly transferred to the dwellers therein. So it came to
pass, that in the general fashion of the day, he who had chambers in the
old church was familiarly styled an _Apostle_.
But as every effect is but the cause of another and a subsequent one, so
it now happened that finding themselves thus clannishly, and not
altogether infelicitously entitled, the occupants of the venerable
church began to come together out of their various dens, in more social
communion; attracted toward each other by a title common to all.
By-and-by, from this, they went further; and insensibly, at last became
organized in a peculiar society, which, though exceedingly
inconspicuous, and hardly perceptible in its public demonstrations, was
still secretly suspected to have some mysterious ulterior object,
vaguely connected with the absolute overturning of Church and State, and
the hasty and premature advance of some unknown great political and
religious Millennium. Still, though some zealous conservatives and
devotees of morals, several times left warning at the police-office, to
keep a wary eye on the old church; and though, indeed, sometimes an
officer would look up inquiringly at the suspicious narrow window-slits
in the lofty tower; yet, to say the truth, was the place, to all
appearance, a very quiet and decorous one, and its occupants a company
of harmless people, whose greatest reproach was efflorescent coats and
crack-crowned hats all podding in the sun.
Though in the middle of the day many bales and boxes would be trundled
along the stores in front of the Apostles'; and along its critically
narrow sidewalk, the merchants would now and then hurry to meet their
checks ere the banks should close: yet the street, being mostly devoted
to mere warehousing purposes, and not used as a general thoroughfare, it
was at all times a rather secluded and silent place. But from an hour or
two before sundown to ten or eleven o'clock the next morning, it was
remarkably silent and depopulated, except by the Apostles themselves;
while every Sunday it presented an aspect of surprising and startling
quiescence; showing nothing but one long vista of six or seven stories
of inexorable iron shutters on both sides of the way. It was pretty much
the same with the other street, which, as before said, intersected with
the warehousing lane, not very far from the Apostles'. For though that
street was indeed a different one from the latter, being full of cheap
refectories for clerks, foreign restaurants, and other places of
commercial resort; yet the only hum in it was restricted to business
hours; by night it was deserted of every occupant but the lamp-posts;
and on Sunday, to walk through it, was like walking through an avenue of
sphinxes.
Such, then, was the present condition of the ancient Church of the
Apostles; buzzing with a few lingering, equivocal lawyers in the
basement, and populous with all sorts of poets, painters, paupers and
philosophers above. A mysterious professor of the flute was perched in
one of the upper stories of the tower; and often, of silent, moonlight
nights, his lofty, melodious notes would be warbled forth over the roofs
of the ten thousand warehouses around him--as of yore, the bell had
pealed over the domestic gables of a long-departed generation.
II.
On the third night following the arrival of the party in the city,
Pierre sat at twilight by a lofty window in the rear building of the
Apostles'. The chamber was meager even to meanness. No carpet on the
floor, no picture on the wall; nothing but a low, long, and very
curious-looking single bedstead, that might possibly serve for an
indigent bachelor's pallet, a large, blue, chintz-covered chest, a
rickety, rheumatic, and most ancient mahogany chair, and a wide board of
the toughest live-oak, about six feet long, laid upon two upright empty
flour-barrels, and loaded with a large bottle of ink, an unfastened
bundle of quills, a pen-knife, a folder, and a still unbound ream of
foolscap paper, significantly stamped, "Ruled; Blue."
There, on the third night, at twilight, sat Pierre by that lofty window
of a beggarly room in the rear-building of the Apostles'. He was
entirely idle, apparently; there was nothing in his hands; but there
might have been something on his heart. Now and then he fixedly gazes at
the curious-looking, rusty old bedstead. It seemed powerfully symbolical
to him; and most symbolical it was. For it was the ancient dismemberable
and portable camp-bedstead of his grandfather, the defiant defender of
the Fort, the valiant captain in many an unsuccumbing campaign. On that
very camp-bedstead, there, beneath his tent on the field, the glorious
old mild-eyed and warrior-hearted general had slept, and but waked to
buckle his knight-making sword by his side; for it was noble knighthood
to be slain by grand Pierre; in the other world his foes' ghosts bragged
of the hand that had given them their passports.
But has that hard bed of War, descended for an inheritance to the soft
body of Peace? In the peaceful time of full barns, and when the noise of
the peaceful flail is abroad, and the hum of peaceful commerce resounds,
is the grandson of two Generals a warrior too? Oh, not for naught, in
the time of this seeming peace, are warrior grandsires given to Pierre!
For Pierre is a warrior too; Life his campaign, and three fierce allies,
Woe and Scorn and Want, his foes. The wide world is banded against him;
for lo you! he holds up the standard of Right, and swears by the Eternal
and True! But ah, Pierre, Pierre, when thou goest to that bed, how
humbling the thought, that thy most extended length measures not the
proud six feet four of thy grand John of Gaunt sire! The stature of the
warrior is cut down to the dwindled glory of the fight. For more
glorious in real tented field to strike down your valiant foe, than in
the conflicts of a noble soul with a dastardly world to chase a vile
enemy who ne'er will show front.
There, then, on the third night, at twilight, by the lofty window of
that beggarly room, sat Pierre in the rear building of the Apostles'. He
is gazing out from the window now. But except the donjon form of the old
gray tower, seemingly there is nothing to see but a wilderness of tiles,
slate, shingles, and tin;--the desolate hanging wildernesses of tiles,
slate, shingles and tin, wherewith we modern Babylonians replace the
fair hanging-gardens of the fine old Asiatic times when the excellent
Nebuchadnezzar was king.
There he sits, a strange exotic, transplanted from the delectable
alcoves of the old manorial mansion, to take root in this niggard soil.
No more do the sweet purple airs of the hills round about the green
fields of Saddle Meadows come revivingly wafted to his cheek. Like a
flower he feels the change; his bloom is gone from his cheek; his cheek
is wilted and pale.
From the lofty window of that beggarly room, what is it that Pierre is
so intently eying? There is no street at his feet; like a profound black
gulf the open area of the quadrangle gapes beneath him. But across it,
and at the further end of the steep roof of the ancient church, there
looms the gray and grand old tower; emblem to Pierre of an unshakable
fortitude, which, deep-rooted in the heart of the earth, defied all the
howls of the air.
There is a door in Pierre's room opposite the window of Pierre: and now
a soft knock is heard in that direction, accompanied by gentle words,
asking whether the speaker might enter.
"Yes, always, sweet Isabel"--answered Pierre, rising and approaching
the door;--"here: let us drag out the old camp-bed for a sofa; come, sit
down now, my sister, and let us fancy ourselves anywhere thou wilt."
"Then, my brother, let us fancy ourselves in realms of everlasting
twilight and peace, where no bright sun shall rise, because the black
night is always its follower. Twilight and peace, my brother, twilight
and peace!"
"It is twilight now, my sister; and surely, this part of the city at
least seems still."
"Twilight now, but night soon; then a brief sun, and then another long
night. Peace now, but sleep and nothingness soon, and then hard work for
thee, my brother, till the sweet twilight come again."
"Let us light a candle, my sister; the evening is deepening."
"For what light a candle, dear Pierre?--Sit close to me, my brother."
He moved nearer to her, and stole one arm around her; her sweet head
leaned against his breast; each felt the other's throbbing.
"Oh, my dear Pierre, why should we always be longing for peace, and then
be impatient of peace when it comes? Tell me, my brother! Not two hours
ago, thou wert wishing for twilight, and now thou wantest a candle to
hurry the twilight's last lingering away."
But Pierre did not seem to hear her; his arm embraced her tighter; his
whole frame was invisibly trembling. Then suddenly in a low tone of
wonderful intensity he breathed:
"Isabel! Isabel!"
She caught one arm around him, as his was around herself; the tremor ran
from him to her; both sat dumb.
He rose, and paced the room.
"Well, Pierre; thou camest in here to arrange thy matters, thou saidst.
Now what hast thou done? Come, we will light a candle now."
The candle was lighted, and their talk went on.
"How about the papers, my brother? Dost thou find every thing right?
Hast thou decided upon what to publish first, while thou art writing the
new thing thou didst hint of?"
"Look at that chest, my sister. Seest thou not that the cords are yet
untied?"
"Then thou hast not been into it at all as yet?"
"Not at all, Isabel. In ten days I have lived ten thousand years.
Forewarned now of the rubbish in that chest, I can not summon the heart
to open it. Trash! Dross! Dirt!"
"Pierre! Pierre! what change is this? Didst thou not tell me, ere we
came hither, that thy chest not only contained some silver and gold, but
likewise far more precious things, readily convertible into silver and
gold? Ah, Pierre, thou didst swear we had naught to fear!"
"If I have ever willfully deceived thee, Isabel, may the high gods prove
Benedict Arnolds to me, and go over to the devils to reinforce them
against me! But to have ignorantly deceived myself and thee together,
Isabel; that is a very different thing. Oh, what a vile juggler and
cheat is man! Isabel, in that chest are things which in the hour of
composition, I thought the very heavens looked in from the windows in
astonishment at their beauty and power. Then, afterward, when days
cooled me down, and again I took them up and scanned them, some
underlying suspicions intruded; but when in the open air, I recalled the
fresh, unwritten images of the bunglingly written things; then I felt
buoyant and triumphant again; as if by that act of ideal recalling, I
had, forsooth, transferred the perfect ideal to the miserable written
attempt at embodying it. This mood remained. So that afterward how I
talked to thee about the wonderful things I had done; the gold and the
silver mine I had long before sprung for thee and for me, who never were
to come to want in body or mind. Yet all this time, there was the latent
suspicion of folly; but I would not admit it; I shut my soul's door in
its face. Yet now, the ten thousand universal revealings brand me on the
forehead with fool! and like protested notes at the Bankers, all those
written things of mine, are jaggingly cut through and through with the
protesting hammer of Truth!--Oh, I am sick, sick, sick!"
"Let the arms that never were filled but by thee, lure thee back again,
Pierre, to the peace of the twilight, even though it be of the dimmest!"
She blew out the light, and made Pierre sit down by her; and their hands
were placed in each other's.
"Say, are not thy torments now gone, my brother?"
"But replaced by--by--by--Oh God, Isabel, unhand me!" cried Pierre,
starting up. "Ye heavens, that have hidden yourselves in the black hood
of the night, I call to ye! If to follow Virtue to her uttermost vista,
where common souls never go; if by that I take hold on hell, and the
uttermost virtue, after all, prove but a betraying pander to the
monstrousest vice,--then close in and crush me, ye stony walls, and into
one gulf let all things tumble together!"
"My brother! this is some incomprehensible raving," pealed Isabel,
throwing both arms around him;--"my brother, my brother!"
"Hark thee to thy furthest inland soul"--thrilled Pierre in a steeled
and quivering voice. "Call me brother no more! How knowest thou I am thy
brother? Did thy mother tell thee? Did my father say so to me?--I am
Pierre, and thou Isabel, wide brother and sister in the common
humanity,--no more. For the rest, let the gods look after their own
combustibles. If they have put powder-casks in me--let them look to it!
let them look to it! Ah! now I catch glimpses, and seem to half-see,
somehow, that the uttermost ideal of moral perfection in man is wide of
the mark. The demigods trample on trash, and Virtue and Vice are trash!
Isabel, I will write such things--I will gospelize the world anew, and
show them deeper secrets than the Apocalypse!--I will write it, I will
write it!"
"Pierre, I am a poor girl, born in the midst of a mystery, bred in
mystery, and still surviving to mystery. So mysterious myself, the air
and the earth are unutterable to me; no word have I to express them. But
these are the circumambient mysteries; thy words, thy thoughts, open
other wonder-worlds to me, whither by myself I might fear to go. But
trust to me, Pierre. With thee, with thee, I would boldly swim a
starless sea, and be buoy to thee, there, when thou the strong swimmer
shouldst faint. Thou, Pierre, speakest of Virtue and Vice; life-secluded
Isabel knows neither the one nor the other, but by hearsay. What are
they, in their real selves, Pierre? Tell me first what is
Virtue:--begin!"
"If on that point the gods are dumb, shall a pigmy speak? Ask the air!"
"Then Virtue is nothing."
"Not that!"
"Then Vice?"
"Look: a nothing is the substance, it casts one shadow one way, and
another the other way; and these two shadows cast from one nothing;
these, seems to me, are Virtue and Vice."
"Then why torment thyself so, dearest Pierre?"
"It is the law."
"What?"
"That a nothing should torment a nothing; for I am a nothing. It is all
a dream--we dream that we dreamed we dream."
"Pierre, when thou just hovered on the verge, thou wert a riddle to me;
but now, that thou art deep down in the gulf of the soul,--now, when
thou wouldst be lunatic to wise men, perhaps--now doth poor ignorant
Isabel begin to comprehend thee. Thy feeling hath long been mine,
Pierre. Long loneliness and anguish have opened miracles to me. Yes, it
is all a dream!"
Swiftly he caught her in his arms:--"From nothing proceeds nothing,
Isabel! How can one sin in a dream?"
"First what is sin, Pierre?"
"Another name for the other name, Isabel."
"For Virtue, Pierre?"
"No, for Vice."
"Let us sit down again, my brother."
"I am Pierre."
"Let us sit down again, Pierre; sit close; thy arm!"
And so, on the third night, when the twilight was gone, and no lamp was
lit, within the lofty window of that beggarly room, sat Pierre and
Isabel hushed.