A Frenchman in America Part 28
O Paradise, O Paradise!
'Tis weary waiting here; I long to be where Jesus is, To feel, to see him near.
O Paradise, O Paradise!
I greatly long to see The special place my dearest Lord, In love, prepares for me!
Knowing something of those people outside the church doors, I have often thought what an edifying sight it would be if the Lord deigned to listen and take a few of them at their word. If the fearless Christ were here on earth again, what crowds of cheats and humbugs he would drive out of the Temple! And foremost, I fancy, would go the people who, instead of thanking their Maker who allows the blessed sun to shine, the birds to sing, and the flowers to grow for them here, howl and whine lies about longing for the joy of moving on to the better world, to the "special place" that is prepared for them. If there be a better world, it will be too good for hypocrites.
After hymn the fifth, Dr. Talmage takes the floor. The audience settled in their seats in evident antic.i.p.ation of a good time, and it was soon clear to me that the discourse was not to be dull at any rate. But I waited in vain for a great thought, a lofty idea, or refined language.
There came none. Nothing but commonplaces given out with tricks of voice and the gestures of a consummate actor. The modulations of the voice have been studied with care, no single platform trick was missing.
The doctor comes on the stage, which is about forty feet wide. He begins slowly. The flow of language is great, and he is never at a loss for a word. Motionless, in his lowest tones, he puts a question to us. n.o.body replies, of course. Thereupon he paces wildly up and down the whole length of the stage. Then, bringing up in full view of his auditors, he stares at them, crosses his arms, gives a double and tremendous stamp on the boards, and in a terrific voice he repeats the question, and answers it. The desired effect is produced: he never misses fire.
Being an old stager of several years' standing myself, I admire him professionally. n.o.body is edified, n.o.body is regenerated, n.o.body is improved, but all are entertained. It is not a divine service, but it is a clever performance, and the Americans never fail to patronize a clever performance. All styles go down with them. They will give a hearing to everybody but the bore, especially on Sundays, when other forms of entertainment are out of the running.
[Ill.u.s.tration: THE DESIRED EFFECT.]
It is not only the Brooklyn public that are treated to the discourses of Dr. Talmage, but the whole of America. He syndicates his sermons, and they are published in Monday's newspapers in all quarters of America. I have also seen them reproduced in the Australian papers.
The delivery of these orations by Dr. Talmage is so superior to the matter they are made of, that to read them is slow indeed compared to hearing them.
At the back of the programme was a flaring advertis.e.m.e.nt of Dr.
Talmage's paper, called:
CHRISTIAN HERALD AND SIGNS OF OUR TIMES.
A live, undenominational, ill.u.s.trated Christian paper, with a weekly circulation of fifty thousand copies, and rapidly increasing. Every State of the Union, every Province of Canada, and every country in the world is represented on its enormous subscription list. Address your subscription to Mr. N., treasurer, etc.
"Signs of our times," indeed!
[Ill.u.s.tration]
CHAPTER x.x.xI.
VIRGINIA--THE HOTELS--THE SOUTH--I WILL KILL A RAILWAY CONDUCTOR BEFORE I LEAVE AMERICA--PHILADELPHIA--IMPRESSIONS OF THE OLD CITY.
_Petersburg, Va., March 3._
Left New York last night and arrived here at noon. No change in the scenery. The same burnt-up fields, the same placards all over the land.
The roofs of houses, the trees in the forests, the fences in the fields, all announce to the world the magic properties of castor oil, aperients, and liver pills.
[Ill.u.s.tration: MY SUPPER.]
A little village inn in the bottom of old Brittany is a palace of comfort compared to the best hotel of a Virginia town. I feel wretched.
My bedroom is so dirty that I shall not dare to undress to-night. I have just had lunch: a piece of tough dried-up beef, custard pie, and a gla.s.s of filthy water, the whole served by an old negro on an old, ragged, dirty table-cloth.
Petersburg, which awakes so many souvenirs of the War of Secession, is a pretty town scattered with beautiful villas. It strikes one as a provincial town. To me, coming from the busy North, it looks asleep. The South has not yet recovered from its disasters of thirty years ago. That is what struck me most, when, two years ago, I went through Virginia, Carolina, and Georgia.
Now and then American eccentricity reveals itself. I have just seen a church built on the model of a Greek temple, and surmounted with a pointed spire lately added. Just imagine to yourself Julius Caesar with his toga and buskin on, and having a chimney-top hat on his head.
The streets seemed deserted, dead.
To my surprise, the Opera House was crowded to-night. The audience was fashionable and appreciative, but very cool, almost as cool as in Connecticut and Maine.
Heaven be praised! a gentleman invited me to have supper at a club after the lecture.
_March 4._
I am sore all over. I spent the night on the bed, outside, in my day clothes, and am bruised all over. I have pains in my gums too. Oh, that piece of beef yesterday! I am off to Philadelphia. My bill at the hotel amounts to $1.50. Never did I pay so much through the nose for what I had through the mouth.
_Philadelphia, March 4._
Before I return to Europe I will kill a railway conductor.
[Ill.u.s.tration: "IMAGINE JULIUS CaeSAR WITH A BIG HAT."]
From Petersburg to Richmond I was the only occupant of the parlor car.
It was bitterly cold. The conductor of the train came in the smoke-room, and took a seat. I suppose it was his right, although I doubt it, for he was not the conductor attached to the parlor car. He opened the window.
The cold, icy air fell on my legs, or (to use a more proper expression, as I am writing in Philadelphia) on my lower limbs. I said nothing, but rose and closed the window. The fellow frowned, rose, and opened the window again.
"Excuse me," I said; "I thought that perhaps you had come here to look after my comfort. If you have not I will look after it myself." And I rose and closed the window.
"I want the window open," said the conductor, and he prepared to re-open it, giving me a mute, impudent scowl.
I was fairly roused. Nature has gifted me with a biceps and a grip of remarkable power. I seized the man by the collar of his coat.
"As true as I am alive," I exclaimed, "if you open this window, I will pitch you out of it." And I prepared for war. The cur sneaked away and made an exit compared to which a whipped hound's would be majestic.
I am at the Bellevue, a delightful hotel. My friend Wilson Barrett is here, and I have come to spend the day with him. He is playing every night to crowded houses, and after each performance he has to make a speech. This is his third visit to Philadelphia. During the first visit, he tells me that the audience wanted a speech after each act.
It is always interesting to compare notes with a friend who has been over the same ground as yourself. So I was eager to hear Mr. Wilson Barrett's impressions of his long tour in the States.
Several points we both agreed perfectly upon at once; the charming geniality and good-fellowship of the best Americans, the brilliancy and naturalness of the ladies, the wonderful intelligence and activity of the people, and the wearing monotony of life on the road.
[Ill.u.s.tration: THE WHIPPED CONDUCTOR.]
After the scene in the train, I was interested, too, to find that the train conductors--those mute, magnificent monarchs of the railroad--had awakened in Mr. Barrett much the same feeling as in myself. We Europeans are used to a form of obedience or, at least, deference from our paid servants, and the arrogant att.i.tude of the American wage-earner first amazes, and then enrages us--when we have not enough humor, or good-humor, to get some amus.e.m.e.nt out it. It is so novel to be tyrannized over by people whom you pay to attend to your comfort! The American keeps his temper under the process, for he is the best-humored fellow in the world. Besides, a small squabble is no more in his line than a small anything else. It is not worth his while. The Westerner may pull out a pistol and shoot you if you annoy him, but neither he nor the Eastern man will wrangle for mastery.
[Ill.u.s.tration: A BOSS.]