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the mercy seat until he gets them through also. And if it's twelve o'clock midnight before the meeting is over, he isn't going to care.
, But the neighbours did. They said the church was a bad thing for property values. So they raised some money and bought two lots near Third Avenue. These they gave to the trustees of the church on condition that they move the meeting-house over there. The trustees consented and the building was put up. One day Zekiel Moore, a merchant and member of the Seventh Street Church, saw a vacant plot on Mulberry Street near Bleecker, and got the idea of building a church there. So Jake Bunting called a meeting at his house on Crosby Street, and the thing was started. There were great doings when our new meeting-house was finally dedicated. Dr. Bangs preached the sermon that afternoon. How some things stand out in a person's memory! It was from Luke I, 79. The sermon was meant mostly for us who were saved. This was as it should be. A dedication sermon is to the saints rather than to the sinners.
The preacher described the darkness out of which we had been delivered. I could almost feel the heat of the flames as he pictured the thing, and showed how we had been snatched as a brand from the burning. Although I had been in the backsliding class often and long, I was no longer in that state of alienation nor appointed unto wrath. My
delight was now in witnessing and testimonies. I could with joy gaze into the lower depths, which once used to send shivers and goose-flesh all over me.
“Waken and mourn, ye heirs of hell,
See how the pit gapes wide for you, ,
There was a time when that sort of thing would have made me hang onto the seat in front to keep from slipping down into the pit. But now my feet had been placed upon the rock. I was no longer building on the sands, but on solid foundations. Hay and wheat and stubble the fire will consume these. But the rock stands, when the nearer waters roll.
These thoughts may seem poky and dull to some. That is because they have never experienced religion. It was in this Mulberry Street Church and in the big marble church on Fourth Avenue, which a little later I was instrumental in building, that I spent a good share of my time out of business hours. When a man goes to prayer meeting and class meeting two nights of the week, and to church twice on Sun
day, and on week-days works at his office from morning till night, his life is made up of about two things -- work and worship.
In order to know what a man really is, you've got to see him now and then away from his office. Business isn't the whole of life. Business shows one side of a man. His church and home life show the other side. That is where a good many of the revilings against me have come from. They have come from people who have seen me only at business. Everybody knows that business is one thing, and a man's church and home life another thing. I have had to sharpen my wits - count the pennies close in order to make money. But there has been something to Dan Drew besides just getting rich, and I want people to know what this other something is. Unless a business man is also a converted man, with the witness of the spirit within him, he is like a hog under an apple tree — so busy crunching the fruit that he doesn't have time to look up to where the fruit comes from. It isn't fair to judge a man by his down-town life alone. Business, anyhow, slobbers a fellow up. It's like teaching a calf to drink out of a pail — you're sure to get splashed and dirty. Business is a scramble for the cash. Nobody looks for manners around the meal tub.
AILROADS were now all the rage. And
at about this time the greatest railroad
in the world, for its day, was finished, “The New York & Lake Erie.” It was called, for short, the "Erie. I was soon to make a bag of money out of this Erie Road. So I came to know a good deal about it. The road had been a long time a-building. Young Pierson, of Ramapo, well-nigh lost his fortune in the job. If it hadn't been for English investors coming forward and buying the stock at a time when Americans had got sick of the thing, it would have fallen flat as a pancake and there wouldn't have been any Erie Road at all. Pierson had worked like everything to get the Legislature to give a subsidy. In this he was backed by the southern tier of counties in York State. Those counties for a long time had felt sore that the Erie Canal had not been built through their section rather than through the Mohawk section. And they put up such a howl that the Legislature had either to give them a canal of their own, or else build a railroad. Pierson – he was the son of old Judge Pierson of Ramapo - pushed the thing
and got a grant of money from the Legislature. But this hadn't carried the road to completion. It hung fire. It was built only half-way to Lake Erie — was like a bridge thrown half-way across, about as much use as no bridge at all. The Legislature wouldn't grant any more money. Also American capital got cold feet. The thing looked bad. It was at this time that English investors came to the rescue. They put up their good money, bought the road's paper, helped the thing out. So that by and by a pair of rails was laid clean through to Dunkirk.
Then there was a great jubilee. All the people in that part of the state joined in the “Hurrah.” They had been jealous of the Erie Canal section of York State. Now they could hold their heads up with any. Because, what is a canal with its poky old boats, compared to a railroad 500 miles long, with trains scooting over the rails like a streak of lightning! Thirty miles an hour now wasn't considered remarkable; soon the trains could keep up that speed the whole distance. To celebrate the completion of the road two trains of cars ran over the route. There were many invited guests — the President, Dan Webster, and lots of the other big wigs. It was in the spring of the year. When finally they got to Dunkirk at Lake Erie, they had a big barbecue. Under a tent were victuals for well-nigh a thousand people. Whole roast pigs