a thin and spectral shadow of public
worship, discouraging to the attendants upon it, and dishonoring to
religion itself.

The pastor of a large congregation in the city of New York has no
sinecure. The sermons to be written, the parochial visiting, once a
year, at least, to each family, and weekly or daily to the sick and
afflicted, my walks commonly extended to from four to seven miles a
day, the calls of the poor and distressed, laboring under every kind of
difficulty, the charities to be distributed, I was in part the almoner
of the congregation, the public meetings, the committees to be attended,
the constantly widening circle of social relations and engagements, the
pressure, in fine, of all sorts of claims upon time and thought, all
this made a very laborious life for me. Yet it was pleasant, and very
interesting. I thought when I [85]first went to the great city, when
I first found myself among those busy throngs, none of whom knew me,
beside those ranges of houses, none of which had any association for
me, that I should never feel at home in New York. But it became very
home-like to me. The walls became familiar to my eye; the pavement grew
soft to my foot. I built me a house, that first requisite for feeling at
home. I chanced to see a spot that I fancied: it was in Mercer Street,
between Waverley Place and Eighth Street, just in the centre of
everything, a step from Broadway and my church, just out of the noise of
everything; there we passed many happy days. I have been quite a builder
of houses in my life. I built one in New Bedford. My study had the
loveliest outlook upon Buzzard's Bay and the Elizabeth Islands, I shall
never have such a study again. Oh, the joy of that sea view! When I came
to it again, after a vacation's absence, it moved me like the sight of
an old friend. And I have built about the old home in Sheffield, till it
is almost a new erection.

But to return to New York: I was very happy there. I had a congregation,
I believe, that was interested in me. I made friends that were and are
dear to me. When I first went to New York, I was elected a member of the
Artists' Club, or Club of the Twenty-one, as it was called; by what good
fortune or favor I know not, for I was the first clergyman that had ever
been a member of it. It consisted of artists and other gentlemen,
[86] an equal number of each. Cole and Durand and Ingham and Inman and
Chapman and Bryant and Verplanck and Charles Hoffman wer