New York Ministers and Fast Horses.
By Editor
IS THE following a candid and truthful representation of the practices of New York ministers, or only a wicked burlesque by some unprincipled reprobate upon the clerical profession? If we were not living in days when ministers take their friends into liquor saloons and treat them to gin and milk, and when they openly advocate vengeance by personal and lawless acts of violence for private injuries, we should be inclined to the latter opinion. But as it is, we are prepared for anything, and see no improbability in what professes to be a plain, unexaggerated statement concerning the habits of some of the religious teachers of N. Y. city. A late New York paper says: A New York correspondent, himself a minister, has been observing “life” from the piazza of Harry Bertholf, on the Harlem road, and thus relates what he saw: Gentlemen who do not care to ride fast, or do not care to be beaten, drive here with their wives and families, and from Harry’s pleasant parlor look out upon the exciting scene. His piazzas and balconies are full of the most distinguished men in New York. Harry was for many years the crier of the courts. A partisan judge displaced him. He obtained this position, and is immensely popular, not only with the horsemen, but with judges, lawyers, and princely merchants. His bar room in the afternoon is packed. The horsemen drink principally hot lemonade. It is a curious place, for everybody is dissected who goes tramping by. “Hullo! that’s a fine nervous team. Yes, that’s Weston, of St. John’s Chapel. He loves a good horse. I was out with him when he was chaplain189of the Seventh Regiment.” And Doctor Weston goes dashing by in his slouched hat and driving gloves, with a brother minister, an ultra high church man, by his side. “Don’t you know who that is? That’s Hall, of the Fifth Avenue church. Well, he can afford it. Six thousand in gold, house rent, perquisites thrown in.” And Doctor Hall with a pair of spanking horses, a tall, large formed man, with a jockey cap on his head, and in a spider wagon, rolls out of sight toward Harlem river. Twenty years ago a minister in New York could not have kept a span of fast horses and his pulpit besides. The world moves. There comes Corey with Mountain Maid and Kentucky Mare. He preaches in a little church on Murray Hill; but it is one of the most elegant chapels in New York. He is an eager driver and loves the road. “Vanderbilt will die soon from an affection of the heart.” “Why so?” “Didn’t you know he gave Corey the Mountain Maid? She is worth $10,000.” Behind is a gentleman in earnest conversation with Harry. “Something to drink?” “Yes, but the fact is, my minister is with me.” “Well invite him to take something.” “Bless me! I wouldn’t do that for the world!” “Let me see him,” Harry says. “Point him out to me. That’s him with the cap on? Pshaw! I have seen him before.” Harry goes up to the divine, and to the question, Will you join Mr. — in something to drink, the answer is, “Certainly I will,” and the parties reach the bar, glasses jingle, and the pulpit and pew understand each other better. “It was a long time before I could get my minister to take a ride with me on the road,” said a party on the left. “He consented one day, and I drove only a fair pace, to his great terror. Grasping the seat convulsively, he kept crying out, ‘Don’t! please don’t! Do hold up! Don’t drive so fast!’ After the second round he sat up erect. On the third he intimated that a horse was gaining on me. Before the drive closed he became so excited that he shouted, ‘Take care! He’ll go by you.’ And so the conversation continued till the teams were brought round, and the parties were on the road again.