Mr. Hendricks met one as a man ought always to meet men, without any airs of superiority, or without any appearance of being bored. A coal heaver would get from him as polite a bow as a chief justice. He kept his patience when he was being lied about. Speeches were put in his mouth which he never made, interviews were written, the language of which he never used. The newspapers that had lied about him, when he lived, turned hypocrites, and put their pages in mourning rules when he died. There were some men appointed to attend his memorial services in Indianapolis on November 30, 1885, whom I advised to stay away, and to employ their hours in reviewing those old campaign speeches, in which they had tried to make a scoundrel out of this man. They were not among those who could make a dead saint of him. Mr. Hendricks was a Christian, which made him invulnerable to violent attack. For many years he was a Presbyterian, afterwards he became associated with the Episcopal Church. His life began as a farmer's boy at Shelbyville, his hands on the plough. He was a man who hated show, a man whose counsel in Church affairs was often sought. Men go through life, usually, with so many unconsidered ideals in its course, so many big moments in their lives that the world has never understood.
I remember I was in one of the western cities when the telegram announcing the death of Cornelius Vanderbilt came, and the appalling anxiety on all sides, for two days, was something unique in our national history. It was an event that proved more than anything in my lifetime the financial convalescence of the nation. When it was found that no financial crash followed the departure of the wealthiest man in America, all sensible people agreed that our recuperating prosperity as a nation was built on a rock. It had been a fictitious state of things before this. It was an event, which, years before, would have closed one half of the banks, and suspended hundreds of business firms. The passing of $200,000,000 from one hand to another, at an earlier period in our history would have shaken the continent with panic and disaster.
In watching where this $200,000,000 went to, we lost sight of the million dollars bequeathed by Mr. Vanderbilt to charity. Its destiny is worth recalling. $100,000 went to the Home and Foreign Missionary Society; $100,000 to a hospital; $100,000 to the Young Men's Christian Association; $50,000 to the General Theological Seminary; $50,000 for Bibles and Prayer-Books; $50,000 to the Home for Incurables; $50,000 to the missionary societies for seamen; $50,000 to the Home for Intemperates; $50,000 to the Missionary Society of New York; $50,000 to the Museum of Art; $50,000 to the Museum of Natural History; and $100,000 to the Moravian Church. While the world at large was curious about the money Mr. Vanderbilt did not give to charity, I celebrate his memory for this one consecrated million.
He was a railroad king, and they were not popular with the masses in 1885-6. And yet, the Grand Central Depot in New York and the Union Depot in Philadelphia, were the palaces where railroad enterprise admitted the public to the crowning luxury of the age. Men of ordinary means, of ordinary ability, could not have achieved these things. And yet it was necessary to keep armed men in the cemetery to protect Mr. Vanderbilt's remains. This sort of thing had happened before. Winter quarters were built near his tomb, for the shelter of a special constabulary. Since A.T. Stewart's death, there had been no certainty as to where his remains were. Abraham Lincoln's sepulchre was violated. Only a week before Mr. Vanderbilt's death, the Phelps family vault at Binghamton, New York, was broken into. Pinkerton detectives surrounded Mr. Vanderbilt's body on Staten Island. Wickedness was abroad in all directions, and there were but fifteen years of the nineteenth century left in which to redeem the past.
In the summer of 1886, Doctor Pasteur's inoculations against hydrophobia, and Doctor Ferron's experiments with cholera, following many years after Doctor Jenner's inoculations against small-pox, were only segments of the circle which promised an ultimate cure for all the diseases flesh is heir to. Miracles were amongst us again. I had much more interest in these medical discoveries than I had in inventions, locomotive or bellicose. We required no inventions to take us faster than the limited express trains. We needed no brighter light than Edison's. A new realm was opening for the doctors. Simultaneously, with the gleam of hope for a longer life, there appeared in Brooklyn an impudent demand, made by a combination of men known as the Brewers' Association. They wanted more room for their beer. The mayor was asked to appoint a certain excise commissioner who was in favour of more beer gardens than we already had. They wanted to rule the city from their beer kegs. In my opinion, a beer garden is worse than a liquor saloon, because there were thousands of men and women who would enter a beer garden who would not enter a saloon. The beer gardens merely prepare new victims for the eventual sacrifice of alcoholism. Brooklyn was in danger of becoming a city of beer gardens, rather than a city of churches.
On January 24, 1886, the seventeenth year of my pastorate of the Brooklyn Tabernacle was celebrated. It was an hour for practical proof to my church that the people of Brooklyn approved of our work. By the number of pews taken, and by the amount of premiums paid in, I told them they would decide whether we were to stand still, to go backward, or to go ahead. We were, at this time, unable to accommodate the audiences that attended both Sabbath services. The lighting, the warming, the artistic equipment, all the immense expenses of the church, required a small fortune to maintain them. We had more friends than the Tabernacle had ever had before. At no time during my seventeen years' residence in Brooklyn had there been so much religious prosperity there. The memberships of all churches were advancing. It was a gratifying year in the progress of the Gospel in Brooklyn. It had been achieved by constant fighting, under the spur of sound yet inspired convictions. How close the events of secular prominence were to the religious spirit, some of the ministers in Brooklyn had managed to impress upon the people. It was a course that I pursued almost from my first pastoral call, for I firmly believed that no event in the world was ever conceived that did not in some degree symbolise the purpose of human salvation.
When Mr. Parnell returned to England, I expected, from what I had seen and what I knew of him, that his indomitable force would accomplish a crisis for the cause of Ireland. My opinion always was that England and Ireland would each be better without the other. Mr. Parnell's triumph on his return in January, 1886, seemed complete. He discharged the Cabinet in England, as he had discharged a previous Cabinet, and he had much to do with the appointment of their successors. I did not expect that he would hold the sceptre, but it was clear that he was holding it then like a true king of Ireland.
There was a storm came upon the giant cedars of American life about this time, which spread disaster upon our national strength. It was a storm that prostrated the Cedars of Lebanon.
Secretary Frelinghuysen, Vice-president Hendricks, ex-Governor Seymour, General Hancock, and John B. Gough were the victims. It was a cataclysm of fatality that impressed its sadness on the nation. The three mightiest agencies for public benefit are the printing press, the pulpit, and the platform. The decease of John B. Gough left the platforms of America without any orator as great as he had been. For thirty-five years his theme was temperance, and he died when the fight against liquor was hottest. He had a rare gift as a speaker. His influence with an audience was unlike that of any other of his contemporaries. He shortened the distance between a smile and a tear in oratory. He was one of the first, if not the first, American speaker who introduced dramatic skill in his speeches. He ransacked and taxed all the realm of wit and drama for his work. His was a magic from the heart. Dramatic power had so often been used for the degradation of society that speakers heretofore had assumed a strict reserve toward it. The theatre had claimed the drama, and the platform had ignored it. But Mr. Gough, in his great work of reform and relief, encouraged the disheartened, lifted the fallen, adopting the elements of drama in his appeals. He called for laughter from an audience, and it came; or, if he called for tears, they came as gently as the dew upon a meadow's grass at dawn. Mr. Gough was the pioneer in platform effectiveness, the first orator to study the alchemy of human emotions, that he might stir them first, and mix them as he judged wisely. So many people spoke of the drama as though it was something built up outside of ourselves, as if it were necessary for us to attune our hearts to correspond with the human inventions of the dramatists. The drama, if it be true drama, is an echo from something divinely implanted. While some conscienceless people take this dramatic element and prostitute it in low play-houses, John B. Gough raised it to the glorious uses of setting forth the hideousness of vice and the splendour of virtue in the salvation of multitudes of inebriates. The dramatic poets of Europe have merely dramatised what was in the world's heart; Mr. Gough interpreted the more sacred dramatic elements of the human heart. He abolished the old way of doing things on the platform, the didactic and the humdrum. He harnessed the dramatic element to religion. He lighted new fires of divine passion in our pulpits.
The new confidence that this wonderful Cedar of Lebanon put into the work of contemporary Christian labourers in the vineyard of sacred meaning is our eternal inheritance of his spirit. He left us his confidence.