The gilded age :: :: University of Virginia Library

If there be any place and time in the world where and
when it seems easy to “go into something” it is in Broadway
on a spring morning, when one is walking city-ward, and has
before him the long lines of palace-shops with an occasional
spire seen through the soft haze that lies over the lower town,
and hears the roar and hum of its multitudinous traffic.

To the young American, here or elsewhere, the paths to
fortune are innumerable and all open; there is invitation in
the air and success in all his wide horizon. He is embarrassed
which to choose, and is not unlikely to waste years in dallying
with his chances, before giving himself to the serious tug
and strain of a single object. He has no traditions to bind
him or guide him, and his impulse is to break away from
the occupation his father has followed, and make a new way
for himself.

Philip Sterling used to say that if he should seriously set
himself for ten years to any one of the dozen projects that
were in his brain, he felt that he could be a rich man. He
wanted to be rich, he had a sincere desire for a fortune, but
for some unaccountable reason he hesitated about addressing
himself to the narrow work of getting it. He never walked
Broadway, a part of its tide of abundant shifting life,

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[ILLUSTRATION]

PHILIP AT THEATRE.

[Description: 499EAF. Page 115. In-line image of a theatre scene in which a man is peering at the action on stage through opera glasses.] without feeling something of the flush of wealth, and unconsciously
taking the elastic step of one well-to-do in this
prosperous world.

Especially at night in the crowded theatre—Philip was too
young to remember the old Chambers' Street box, where the
serious Burton led his hilarious and pagan crew—in the intervals
of the screaming comedy, when the orchestra scraped
and grunted and tooted its dissolute tunes, the world seemed
full of opportunities to Philip, and his heart exulted with a
conscious ability to take any of its prizes he chose to pluck.

Perhaps it was the swimming ease of the acting on the
stage, where virtue had its reward in three easy acts, perhaps
it was the excessive light of the house, or the music, or the
buzz of the excited talk between acts, perhaps it was youth
which believed everything, but for some reason while Philip
was at the theatre he had the utmost confidence in life and
his ready victory in it.

Delightful illusion of paint and tinsel and silk attire, of
cheap sentiment and high and mighty dialogue! Will there

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not always be rosin enough for the squeaking fiddle-bow?
Do we not all like the maudlin hero, who is sneaking round
the right entrance, in wait to steal the pretty wife of his rich
and tyrannical neighbor from the paste-board cottage at the
left entrance? and when he advances down to the foot-lights
and defiantly informs the audience that, “he who lays
his hand on a woman except in the way of kindness,” do we
not all applaud so as to drown the rest of the sentence?

Philip never was fortunate enough to hear what would
become of a man who should lay his hand on a woman with
the exception named; but he learned afterwards that the
woman who lays her hand on a man, without any exception
whatsoever, is always acquitted by the jury.

The fact was, though Philip Sterling did not know it, that
he wanted several other things quite as much as he wanted
wealth. The modest fellow would have liked fame thrust
upon him for some worthy achievement; it might be for a
book, or for the skillful management of some great newspaper,
or for some daring expedition like that of Lt. Strain or Dr.
Kane. He was unable to decide exactly what it should be.
Sometimes he thought he would like to stand in a conspicuous
pulpit and humbly preach the gospel of repentance; and it
even crossed his mind that it would be noble to give himself
to a missionary life to some benighted region, where the datepalm
grows, and the nightingale's voice is in tune, and the
bul-bul sings on the off nights. If he were good enough he
would attach himself to that company of young men in the
Theological Seminary, who were seeing New York life in
preparation for the ministry.

Philip was a New England boy and had graduated at
Yale; he had not carried off with him all the learning of that
venerable institution, but he knew some things that were
not in the regular course of study. A very good use of the
English language and considerable knowledge of its literature
was one of them; he could sing a song very well, not in time
to be sure, but with enthusiasm; he could make a magnetic
speech at a moment's notice in the class room, the debating

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[ILLUSTRATION]

WHAT PHILIP LEARNED AT COLLEGE.

[Description: 499EAF. Page 117. In-line image of a river scene with rowing boats, people doing pull-ups, and a public speech.] society, or upon any fence or dry-goods box that was convenient;
he could lift himself by one arm, and do the giant
swing in the gymnasium; he could strike out from his left
shoulder; he could handle an oar like a professional and pull
stroke in a winning race. Philip had a good appetite, a sunny
temper, and a clear hearty laugh. He had brown hair,
hazel eyes set wide apart, a broad but not high forehead, and
a fresh winning face. He was six feet high, with broad
shoulders, long legs and a swinging gait; one of those loose-jointed,
capable fellows, who saunter into the world with a
free air and usually make a stir in whatever company they
enter.

After he left college Philip took the advice of friends and
read law. Law seemed to him well enough as a science, but
he never could discover a practical case where it appeared to
him worth while to go to law, and all the clients who stopped
with this new clerk in the ante-room of the law office where
he was writing, Philip invariably advised to settle—no matter
how, but settle—greatly to the disgust of his employer, who
knew that justice between man and man could only be attained
by the recognized processes, with the attendant fees.
Besides Philip hated the copying of pleadings, and he was
certain that a life of “whereases” and “aforesaids” and
whipping the devil round the stump, would be intolerable.

His pen therefore, and whereas, and not as aforesaid,
strayed off into other scribbling. In an unfortunate hour,
he had two or three papers accepted by first-class magazines,
at three dollars the printed page, and, behold, his vocation
was open to him. He would make his mark in literature.

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Life has no moment so sweet as that in which a young man
believes himself called into the immortal ranks of the masters
of literature. It is such a noble ambition, that it is a
pity it has usually such a shallow foundation.

At the time of this history, Philip had gone to New York
for a career. With his talent he thought he should have
little difficulty in getting an editorial position upon a metropolitan
newspaper; not that he knew anything about newspaper
work, or had the least idea of journalism; he knew he
was not fitted for the technicalities of the subordinate departments,
but he could write leaders with perfect ease, he was
sure. The drudgery of the newspaper office was too distasteful,
and besides it would be beneath the dignity of a graduate
and a successful magazine writer. He wanted to begin at
the top of the ladder.

To his surprise he found that every situation in the editorial
department of the journals was full, always had been
full, was always likely to be full. It seemed to him that the
newspaper managers didn't want genius, but mere plodding
and grubbing. Philip therefore read diligently in the Astor
library, planned literary works that should compel attention,
and nursed his genius. He had no friend wise enough to
tell him to step into the Dorking Convention, then in session,
make a sketch of the men and women on the platform, and
take it to the editor of the Daily Grapevine, and see what
he could get a line for it.

One day he had an offer from some country friends, who
believed in him, to take charge of a provincial daily newspaper,
and he went to consult Mr. Gringo—Gringo who
years ago managed the Atlas—about taking the situation.

“Take it of course,” says Gringo, take anything that
offers, why not?”

“But they want me to make it an opposition paper.”

“Well, make it that. That party is going to succeed, it's
going to elect the next president.”

“I don't believe it,” said Philip, stoutly, “its
wrong in principle, and it ought not to succeed, but

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I don't see how I can go for a thing I don't believe in.”

“O, very well,” said Gringo, turning away with a shade
of contempt, “you'll find if you are going into literature and
newspaper work that you can't afford a conscience like that.”

But Philip did afford it, and he wrote, thanking his friends,
and declining because he said the political scheme would fail,
and ought to fail. And he went back to his books and to
his waiting for an opening large enough for his dignified
entrance into the literary world.

It was in this time of rather impatient waiting that Philip
was one morning walking down Broadway with Henry
Brierly. He frequently accompanied Henry part way down
town to what the latter called his office in Broad Street, to
which he went, or pretended to go, with regularity every day.
It was evident to the most casual acquaintance that he was a
man of affairs, and that his time was engrossed in the largest
sort of operations, about which there was a mysterious air.
His liability to be suddenly summoned to Washington, or
Boston or Montreal or even to Liverpool was always imminent.
He never was so summoned, but none of his acquaintances
would have been surprised to hear any day that he had
gone to Panama or Peoria, or to hear from him that he had
bought the Bank of Commerce.

The two were intimate at that time,—they had been classmates—and
saw a great deal of each other. Indeed, they
lived together in Ninth Street, in a boarding-house there,
which had the honor of lodging and partially feeding several
other young fellows of like kidney, who have since gone their
several ways into fame or into obscurity.

It was during the morning walk to which reference has
been made that Henry Brierly suddenly said, “Philip, how
would you like to go to St. Jo?”

“I think I should like it of all things,” replied Philip, with
some hesitation, “but what for.”

“Oh, its a big operation. We are going, a lot of us, rail-road
men, engineers, contractors. You know my uncle is a

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great railroad man. I've no doubt I can get you a chance to
go if you'll go.”

“But in what capacity would I go?”

“Well, I'm going as an engineer. You can go as one.”

“I don't know an engine from a coal cart.”

“Field engineer, civil engineer. You can begin by carrying
a rod, and putting down the figures. It's easy enough.
I'll show you about that. We'll get Trautwine and some of
those books.”

“Yes, but what is it for, what is it all about?”

“Why don't you see? We lay out a line, spot the good
land, enter it up, know where the stations are to be, spot them,
buy lots; there's heaps of money in it. We wouldn't engineer
long.”

“When do you go?” was Philip's next question, after
some moments of silence.

“To-morrow. Is that too soon?”

“No, its not too soon. I've been ready to go anywhere
for six months. The fact is, henry, that I'm about tired of
trying to force myself into things, and am quite willing to
try floating with the stream for a while, and see where I will
land. This seems like a providential call; it's sudden enough.”

The two young men who were by this time full of the
adventure, went down to the Wall street office of Henry's
uncle and had a talk with that wily operator. The uncle
knew Philip very well, and was pleased with his frank enthusiasm,
and willing enough to give him a trial in the western
venture. It was settled therefore, in the prompt way in
which things are settled in New York, that they would start
with the rest of the company next morning for the west.

On the way up town these adventurers bought books on
engineering, and suits of India-rubber, which they supposed
they would need in a new and probably damp country, and
many other things which nobody ever needed anywhere.

The night was spent in packing up and writing letters, for
Philip would not take such an important step without informing
his friends. If they disapprove, thought he, I've done
my duty by letting them know. Happy youth, that is ready

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to pack its valise, and start for Cathay on an hour's notice.

“By the way,” calls out Philip from his bed-room, to
Henry, “where is St. Jo.?”

“Why, it's in Missouri somewhere, on the frontier I think.
We'll get a map.”

“Never mind the map. We will find the place itself. I
was afraid it was nearer home.”

Philip wrote a long letter, first of all, to his mother, full of love
and glowing anticipations of his new opening. He wouldn't
bother her with business details, but he hoped that the day
was not far off when she would see him return, with a moderate
fortune, and something to add to the comfort of her
advancing years.

To his uncle he said that he had made an arrangement
with some New York capitalists to go to Missouri, in a land
and railroad operation, which would at least give him a knowledge
of the world and not unlikely offer him a business opening.
He knew his uncle would be glad to hear that he had
at last turned his thoughts to a practical matter.

It was to Ruth Bolton that Philip wrote last. He might
never see her again; he went to seek his fortune. He
well knew the perils of the frontier, the savage state of society,
the lurking Indians and the dangers of fever. But there was
no real danger to a person who took care of himself. Might
he write to her often and tell her of his life. If he returned
with a fortune, perhaps and perhaps. If he was unsuccessful,
or if he never returned—perhaps it would be as well.
No time or distance, however, would ever lessen his interest
in her. He would say good-night, but not good-bye.

In the soft beginning of a Spring morning, long before
New York had breakfasted, while yet the air of expectation
hung about the wharves of the metropolis, our young adventurers
made their way to the Jersey City railway station of
the Erie road, to begin the long, swinging, crooked journey,
over what a writer of a former day called a causeway of
cracked rails and cows, to the West.