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Seriously, for a moment--if we in our careless way, and
with a cigar upon our lips, can hazard a serious reflection--whither is
all this growth, and quick succulence of the opening year to tend? Is moderation
all gone by? Will the fast Californians trample us down utterly? Is a man
good for nothing, if he win no coat of gold? Is steam to drive our quiet
coaching to the wall? Must ships tear their rent through ocean at fifteen
knots the hour, or be condemned?
Where is old, slow-paced learning to stand if it stands at all? And what, pray, is to become of ancient quietude of manner and of life? For ourselves, we feel out of breath. We grow afraid to show our thread-bare coat in the street. We hide our old books. We blush for our old silver tea set. We fear the contrast even of our plain-bound Bible with some new Scriptural book, or the lectures of some new Dr. ----- Parker.
"FAST," is the word: and it irks us terribly.
Society is tumbling "ahead" neck and heels. We grow dizzy with
watching it. We seek for quiet streets, where we may stretch our office
limbs into healthful warmth, and we are horrified with some new line of
omnibuses, or crazed by the infernal music of some "fine, athletic
company of target-shooters." Our old friends that we counted on, four
years back, for a quiet sit-down or a cheerful rubber at whist, in a cozy
parlor, twelve by fifteen, have all moved up town, equipped their daughters
with guitars, and grown bloated with "Caloric," or with "Spirits."
The terrible glitter of the mines has crept into every
fashion of life; tables glitter with galvanized plate; hotels glitter with
vanity-teaching mirrors; boats glitter with chandeliers and stained glass;
churches glitter with guilt crosses, and guilty clergy; wives glitter
in showy diamonds and daughters; and home itself is glittering with this
awful gold-guiltiness!
Seriously, is it to time to think whether we are upon the
whole, making the new-coming wealth count toward the healthy development
of character, and to the permanence and the advancement of what is most
prized in domestic and in social life? Are we not, between steam and gold,
growing into a mechanical and outside life--very rapid, to be sure, and
very splendid; but not doing much to ennoble taste, and to build up those
best bulwarks of any really strong people--cheerful and contented firesides?
Take your hair-brained Californian, steaming away from all the influences of the good old estate, and making money, and modeling character, among unshaven gold-diggers, and godless gamblers--with not so much religion about him as "sees God in clouds," and in what way does he grow fitting to be father of honest citizens?
Or, Mr. Croesus, consider your daughter, whom you have cloaked in bedizenents that outshine every neighbor's daughter, making all your earnestness tend toward shrewd investments, and offering all your home thought as a sacrifice to the Moloch of mammon. Are you kindling in your child such aspirations, or such quiet virtues, as will make her the mother of any Washington, or indeed of any good fellow whatever?
Is there not something earnest in life, after all,
besides steam and besides gold; or even besides Caloric, and railroads?
If one might judge by the papers nowadays, and their paragraphs, he might
think there was not. Take up any journal you please, and how much will you
find in it, dear madam--or dear reader of any sort--to stir a man's soul
into a quicker and keener relish for the true refinements of life and of
manners?--how much to stimulate to a bolder and sterner study of duty and
to an ambition for that eminence which grows out of duty performed?--how
much to chasten one's thoughts of life and its tasks; and to light its humblest
phases with that dignity which grows out of cultivation and content?
On the other hand, scarce a column but will incite madly
the thirst for that species of eminence which comes by wealth, and for that
enterprise which braves all risks for its attainment. We are preaching like
an old man we know: but old men are growing rarer every day; and we cling
to our pleasant privilege of garrulity while we may. Life hums and dashes
by our dusty office window with a sad, exultant monotone; cabs and cars
and biers, and target men and men in gigs, whirl by, and startle us into
such musings as we have written down; while a frail flower, lifting its
leaves against the dusty panes, is always a sort of God's voice to us, teaching
us those old quiet truths of nature to which we have attuned our holy.
It is done now; and we turn to lighter things.
("Editor's Easy Chair," Harper's New Monthly Magazine. No. XXXV, April, 1853, Vol. VI, p. 703)
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