As I peer into the dim past that haunts the scenes of my childhood in
Aberdeen, Scotland, a thousand memories troop by like the scenes of a
panorama with the footlights turned low; and when I contemplate them
in a meditative hour it leaves me with as lonesome a feeling as if I
had listened to the old time song, "Home Sweet Home," which I have
heard a thousand times in distant climes, sometimes sung to crowded
audiences at the opera, and again by the pioneer as he rattled his
prairie schooner over the plains.
It is a song that never grows old and never will so long as men leave
the home of their childhood, around whose hearthstones still play
ghost-like, the recollections of bye-gone years, tenderly touching
their sympathies as they pause for a moment in their monied pursuits
in other lands.
[Illustration: SOUNDING THE DEPTHS]
The old red school house on Princeton street, with the tall lank
figure of Ellwood for its presiding master and who believed in and
practiced the command of the Holy Writ: "Spare the rod and spoil
the child," was to me in those years of tenderness, a dismal
contemplation. But Sundays had a brighter hue when Mother would
dress me in full Highland suit of tartan, and adorn my cap with an
eagle feather, surmounted with a brooch of the design of an arm
with a dagger, bearing the motto, "We fear nae fae." With my small
claymore and buckled shoes and plaid, how proudly I would walk up
to the barracks at Castle Gate, where the sentry would salute me,
and give me permission to enter.
But those days had their troubles as well as pleasures. The West North
street boys had a grievance against those of the East North street and
one Saturday both sides met in battle array, armed with wooden
swords, near the North church at Queen street. After a determined
resistance West North street was victorious, when someone presented us
with a flag. It was a common piece of bunting, but to our young heroes
it was something to be looked up to and defended with our lives before
the honor of West North street should be sullied.
That banner cost us many a headache, and many a soiled suit of clothes
after the usual Saturday battle. On one occasion we sallied forth as
usual to the battlefield, carrying our banner, and shouting derisively
at our foe. The enemy had been reinforced and after a hard struggle,
they captured our flag and carried it off in triumph to East North
street.
Our fellows were a crest-fallen lot, as we sat on the steps of the
church looking the picture of dejection. However, a few days later, I
summoned the boys to meet in an old building in Ferrier's Lane. There
were fifteen of us and we came armed with our wooden swords. After
much debate over the loss of our flag, a committee was appointed to
notify the East North street fellows, that we were ready to offer
battle, and dared them to meet us the following Saturday and bring the
captured flag. They accepted the challenge. When we met again in the
old building by the hazy and flickering light of a tallow candle, with
upraised swords we swore to re-capture our flag, uphold the honor of
our street or die in the attempt. I was chosen captain on this
occasion, and never did a general rack his brain more for a plan of
success than I did to win this battle. Finally I hit upon a stratagem
and after school submitted it to all. It was to proceed to the usual
place of battle, but at the corner of Queen street five boys were to
be stationed out of sight, and when both armies met they were to rush
in on their standard bearer and capture the flag. We met, and even to
this day I shudder at the ferocity of that battle. Twice I was knocked
down; several times our street was on the retreat when someone
shouted--"Remember our oath!" and then another desperate rush, and
along with the charge of the five secreted ones which so surprised the
East North street boys that they finally yielded, and we carried off
our flag in triumph. John Taylor's head was cut, John Ingerham's eyes
were black, my right knee cap was out of place and six or eight others
were more or less wounded. The boys of East North street fared about
the same. Good old Doctor Ellis living in King street witnessed the
fight, but he kept my secret, for I told Mother that I was hurt in
running a race.
And so those delightful days of early boyhood passed like one long
summer day. But a change came. My father died and in a few months
more, my loving Mother, after a lingering illness, passed away. I then
left the home of my childhood to live with my older brother, James.
Although every possible kindness was shown me, there was lacking a
mother's love, a mother's sympathy and cheering words, things that
touch the tender chords of a boy's heart. At that time I was sent to
the Ledingham Academy, but it was useless. The golden veil through
which I had looked out on the world was lifted, the chain of love and
affection broken. I saw the great ships come with their strange men
from other ports of the world. I saw them unfurl their snowy sails and
speed over the blue waters bound for the shores of other climes. I
watched them until they were but a speck of white down on the blue
horizon, and I longed to be on board--to feel the ship roll upon the
billows and hear the wind whistling through the rigging, to climb
aloft and view the limitless expanse of ocean and feel that I was a
part of these white specters of the sea.
One day I saw in the windows of Knox & Co., a sign which read:
"Two apprentices wanted for the sea."
I went in and told them I wanted to become a sailor. About this time
another lad about one year older than myself came in on the same
errand. An old gentleman, after surveying us both for some moments,
remarked that in his opinion we were too young, but told us to wait a
few minutes as Captain McKenzie would be in soon.
When Captain McKenzie came in he asked us if it was with the consent
of our parents that we made application. Being answered in the
affirmative by James Mitchell, the other boy, I answered that my
father and mother were dead, but my brother would sign the necessary
papers.