It is not my purpose in this little
volume to make any boast of myself as an historian.
Bookmaking is not my profession; neither do I propose
to go into extensive details more than it is necessary
to harmonize the coincidents of events as they occurred
and the effect they produced in the development of
an unusual Christian career, and God knows that my
only desire is to reconcile the opposing privileges
of a meek and lowly Christian worker, to be equal
if not greater to those of a High Priest who in his
fulness of life though one of the most active ecclesiastical
officials in the highest circles of church and society,
his firm belief in success, knowing of no fear, and
daringly climbing up in higher ranks among philosophical
societies, holding such an exalted position in the
most ancient Christian church. The church that
holds the undisputable proof as the first authentical
apostolic establishment with founder the apostle of
the Gentiles himself. And who is the student of
the Scriptures, be he a Christian or philosopher of
the Epicurean or the Stoic system that could reasonably
argue that the oration on the Areopagus made by Paul
to the Athenians being the masterpiece and model of
the most convincing speeches ever made in the Christian
era? That this High Priest, while enjoying all
the comforts and privileges belonging to his high
office, together with its honors and gorgeous trappings,
does not attach any over-weening importance to ecclesiastical
dignity, neither does he consider a “comedown”
the step he has taken, but he gives the simple, yet
convincing reason that he just follows the process
of evolution in Christianity, doing the will of his
Master who promised to all mankind one Lord one
Faith one Baptism. And for the last
six years he has proven that it is possible for a man
to begin from the very bottom of life, his nearest
and dearest relatives opposing him, with no friends
to understand his desires and his ambitions, to be
a wanderer in a great country like the United States,
and travel from the Atlantic Coast to the Pacific
Ocean, proud to always be able to support himself
and also help someone on his way. Exercising the
principle of the Apostle Paul, working hard for his
living, stranger not only to the ethics and customs
of the people whose sympathetic hearts he was coming
to win, but unable to even put two sentences together
in their own language, and today here he is to tell
you the story, as true as your beautiful breath that
keeps your soul and body alive, and the only favor
he asks from you is that when you severely criticise
the grammatical and syntactical site in the execution
of this work, you may in your kindness, remember that
his only resource to derive any philological assistance,
was a twenty-five cent Webster’s dictionary,
bought from a second-hand book store.
This is my first day in New York.
And looking around to find the number of the house
where I was going to stay, my thoughts were so animated
as to feel that all the arteries and veins of my body
through my feet were kissing the ground upon which
my heart would soon appease with its Maker.
A few people, going to the Low Mass,
I should judge by the solemnity of their walk, men
and women, sent curious glances at the stranger dressed
in the robes on the street. By this time approaching
the 7th Avenue and not finding the desired number
I was just directing my steps towards a gentleman
dressed in some kind of uniform to inquire about the
place, when a young man tipped his hat in front of
me and raised the finger of his right hand and pointed
to the sign of the florist’s store just a few
steps backwards. I could then plainly read the
name on the board above the door. It was the
name very dear to me, which, with longing heart I
was looking for. Almost immediately a man came
out from that same store with a broad smile on his
face and with a gentle bow, as though asking my permission,
he took my valise thus relieving me just in time, and
leading the way into the store I saw another gentleman
behind a counter preparing a large floral design from
the rarest flowers of the season, for the funeral
of a most distinguished politician of Harlem.
Although I yield to no man in the
appreciation of a good smiling face and here I had
two of them and the most typical faces which are prominent
in the making of this heterogeneous republic, John,
representing the Huguenot and Dutch, and Jack whose
father and mother were Irish, and Jack was Irish too.
Both these gentlemen with pantomimic actions in a
few words which now I know were English words but at
that time I could not tell if they were Chinese or
Hindoo. They tried to make me understand that
Mr. George N., whom they knew I was looking for, as
they had heard him speaking of me and they saw my photograph,
and they were waiting notification of my coming, and
that they were struck by ecstasy at my sudden appearance,
he was at breakfast and that he would soon be back
so I had better step into his office and rest myself
while waiting for him. The expectancy to meet
my friend George N., it lengthened every moment for
me waiting in that little office. Twenty-four
years since I saw him last when I was only ten years
old, and even if I had not seen his photograph in
all these years I could distinguish him among ten
thousand. He was my first teacher in the grammar
school; neighbor in my home and a very great distant
relative. He always took especial interest in
my scholarship. My childhood and school days
were not all that I could desire for me, to be, for
I was an orphan, yet it was that orphan who always
carried the first or the second honors in the annual
examinations. It was for this reason, perhaps,
that my teachers were all well pleased with my progress.
The past is only a memory, yet when we look back in
the light of our sincerity we can trace every point
and every reason that contributed to our success or
failure in our lives. It is not a vision neither
is there a mere kinetoscope procession. The High
Priest is here waiting to meet his teacher with the
same solemnity as in the old school days when he had
to meet his teacher after some of his occasional mischiefs.
With these and other agreeable memories relishing
my time in that office, I heard a loud applause in
the store and the words “Father is here,”
aroused my inquisitiveness and before I could leave
my chair, there was at the door of the office standing
the man whom I wanted to see. Sturdy and resolute
with two slow steps he now extends a welcome hand to
me and as he called me by my childish nickname in
response said, I, my teacher! Yes, said he, How
do you do my Father? Why didn’t you let
me know when you were coming so I could meet you at
the pier; How long have you been wandering to find
this place? And many other complimentaries, but,
you must, he went on saying, change your appearance
at once, for I am not going to disgrace myself and
you too, if we dare to walk on the streets with you
dressed in robes like this. Let us go up stairs
in my room, and I believe you can be fitted with a
new suit of clothes made to order for me which I was
ready to try on today, as the tailor just sent them
here a little while ago. Then you must have a
very clean shave, my goodness, there is a whole mask
to come off your face and the long black hair you
have, you can make some money by selling it to any
fashionable lady. Now, Father, you have to hurry,
because the barber shop closes at 12 o’clock
and you only have the necessary time to change your
dress.
The clothes which George N. offered
for my transfiguration with the exception of being
made for a man one inch taller than my own stature
they didn’t look very awkward upon me and to
escape curiosity he took me through the alleys of
a narrow passage into the 124th Street, where an elderly
German kept a barber shop and when he was through cleaning
that over burdened head of mine, he was almost exhausted,
and liable to a fine, if any policeman happened to
see him working on Sunday after 12 o’clock.
The barber closed the door of his shop allowing time
for us to just step out and we hastened our way back
to the store, now walking on 7th Avenue. Jack,
whose name already is mentioned here, is one of the
leading flower decorators in New York City. He
could make a cross of flowers look like a picture,
and he could make a bouquet for the most particular
bride, he could decorate a little chapel around the
corner and make it look as artistic as he could decorate
a rich mansion in the most exclusive Riverside Drive.
Jack made as much money as any of his high grade fellow
traders in Harlem, and he had no home responsibilities,
his widow mother being what we might call well-to-do,
for she owned considerable real estate in that vicinity,
yet, Jack, every Monday morning had to obtain a loan
for his carfare, and more than half a dozen young
ladies all around Manhattan were particularly interested
in Jack’s welfare. This is Sunday and one
o’clock in the afternoon, and Jack should be
enjoying his holiday, and there were already two of
his female chums waiting for him on the sidewalk.
Yet Jack had always some more time to spare to accommodate
his employer George N., who as now entered the store
he gave the synthematical pass-word “that’s
all,” which in the language of the employer and
employees it means “The boys may now go home.”
But Jack, as he took a glimpse on
me, in all his Irish calibre he almost screamed:
Help! St. Patrick, what a metamorphosis is this?
Is that you, Father? You look now to me more
like a butterfly out of a caterpillar than anything
in Ireland. Say, girls, calling his friends from
the outside, come in you girls, I take the honor to
introduce you to the Father ..., but, my soul, I am
ashamed to call you Father, so fashionable a gentleman
as you look now. You shall not call me Father,
said I, as long as you see me dressed like a gentleman.
I shall not, Jack said, and with his girls took his
departure, while George N., who interpreted all this
merriment, took a fresh white rose and put it in my
buttonhole. Let us go for lunch, said he and I
followed gladly for I felt it was a timely call.
As George N. is a bachelor he takes
his meals in no particular place, anywhere from Harlem
Casino or Palm Garden or Manhattan Club to a ten cent
lunch counter. Today he took me into a dollar
a plate restaurant on 125th Street. Before I
was through with my dinner, George N. made the remark
to me saying “if you always enjoy the American
cooking the way I observe you doing, you will never
starve in America, I assure you.” It was
the wisest prophecy that George N. ever made about
my future in America.
After dinner we visited Grant’s
Tomb on Riverside Drive and on our return he gave
me instructions how to find the Waldorf Astoria hotel
where Aleck, one of his nephews had a position, and
that Aleck would make arrangements for the night for
me and that the following morning George N. would
wait for me to discuss my plans for the future.
I left him and when I was in my room which Aleck provided
for me, the time was well nigh midnight.
After the day’s excitement I
hoped that a good night’s rest would refresh
me anew and the next morning would find me prepared
for the work I chose to devote my future life in this
New World. With a lightning quickness my mind
examined all my past life and with the same speed I
made my conclusions that there was no more any pleasure
for me to look back, neither was there any attraction
in that garb which so often is the representation
of hypocrisy itself. I felt so happy for my decision
and with a grateful heart I bent on my knees in prayer
to Him who lay down His life for my freedom and my
salvation, and as an evidence of my good health, the
night passed undisturbed in sound sleep and in the
morning when Aleck called me for breakfast I felt that
every fibre of my body was springing for action, and
with the last touch leaping from my bed the first
day of new life went into history.