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A VAGABOND’S ODYSSEY
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[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR]
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A VAGABOND’S
ODYSSEY
BEING FURTHER REMINISCENCES OF A WANDERING
SAILOR-TROUBADOUR IN MANY LANDS
BY
A. SAFRONI-MIDDLETON
AUTHOR OF
“SAILOR AND BEACHCOMBER”
❦
_WITH SIXTEEN ILLUSTRATIONS
FROM PHOTOGRAPHS_
NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
1916
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PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY THE RIVERSIDE PRESS LIMITED
EDINBURGH
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TO
THE MEMORY OF MY DEAR COMRADE
OMAR
WHOM I BURIED IN THE AUSTRALIAN BUSH
NORTHERN QUEENSLAND
ALSO TO
D. RAELTOA OF SAMOA
AND TO MY MEMORIES OF MELODY AND
MIRTH IN THE SOUTH SEAS
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FOREWORD
“The path to hell is paved with good intentions.”
LOOKING reflectively over this second instalment of my autobiography, I
perceive that I am such a genuine vagabond that I have even travelled
along in my reminiscences without caring for the material niceties of
recognised literary method; so I have gone back over the whole track and
tried earnestly to polish my efforts.
It seems quite unnecessary for vagabonds to wear (metaphorically
speaking) old trousers with fringed ends to the legs, penniless pockets,
dusty boots, an unshaven face and dirty collar, or to give vent to the
devil-may-care utterances and all the ungrammatical “politeness” of the
phraseology of the grog shanty and bush hotels, when they attempt to
live over again on paper the tale of their wandering life. I cannot
reform the world into a population of convivial beachcombers, nor would
I if I could, out of consideration for future vagabonds, who naturally
want the outer spaces of the world for their special province. Neither
can I make you believe I could have done better in a literary sense if I
had taken more trouble with my book. But I can to some extent reform
myself, and at least strive to compete with the literary aristocrats on
the slopes of their own cultivated ground. I am sure they will make good
company if I succeed, and they will have been my best friends. Yes, I
half believe in jumping out of bed on a cold night to hold a candle to
the devil! I know that sometimes while you stand shivering you discover
that he’s really not such a bad fellow, and the candlelight is likely to
give you a glimpse of some faint resemblance in his wrinkled face, some
far-off expression of that beautiful old life that he lived ere he
sinned, became respectable and fell—banished from heaven.
Life is a terrible contradiction; we are dead because we are born alive.
Our very creed is based on the sad fact that the cemetery tablets record
the dates of the true beginning of life everlasting. The thundering city
is a necropolis wherein multitudes of wandering corpses breathe, with
inert souls and thoughts that are like night bats flitting through the
sepulchres of our death, with dead eyes and dead mouths that open to
cough and even sometimes laugh! My book of reminiscences is (to me at
least) like those silent, moss-grey tablets of immortality; but even
more wonderful and true (as far as I know), for, while I am dead, I can
see my long ago. I can lift the stone slab from the grave in the silent
night and gaze on the dead boy’s face, and in a way make the dead eyes
laugh and the voiceless mouth mutter and sing in a hollow voice old,
far-away songs of love, romance and its comrade, grief. Yes, you and I
can see such things. Oh, how ineffably sad to some of us!
You may wonder what all this has to do with the preface to a book of
reminiscences. It has a lot to do with the matter, because I am a born
vagabond, and the world is incorrigibly respectable!
There are about one hundred pages missing from this book—pages that
should have told of the inevitable details of stern existence: those
things that all men who are vagabonds experience, such as the
stomach-rumbles of hunger, monstrous hopes and misgivings, hospitals and
illnesses, and cold nights sleeping out under the coco-palms and
gum-trees when the wind suddenly shifts to a shivering quarter. Evil
thoughts, heartaches, the tenderest wishes, passionate drums, longings,
and memories in the night of a woman’s eyes, the fall before great
temptation, atheistical thoughts, curses and religious remorses you will
look for in vain. For, after all, I am not brave enough to tell the
truth! I might have done so if I had had the friendly, courageous
publisher who would not cut them out of the original manuscript. But
where is the publisher who would let me hide behind his influential bulk
as he risked all and published the truth? Yes, those things which would
make the reader recognise the truth by his own responsive thrills.
Well, I will risk my reputation on the opinions of those critics who
will be able to read the hundred pages I have left out. For real
scallawags do not always leave the worst out only. Moreover, I may be
lucky enough to find sympathy, for even critics are sometimes at heart
genuine vagabonds, and they may realise that I have turned into the
light of other days, the stars, the blue tropical skies, moonlit seas by
coral reefs and palm-clad isles, and into the heart of intense dreams,
to paint faithfully all that I tell.
Before my North American experiences, which I have recorded in the
opening chapters of this book, I had shipped before the mast of a
sailing ship, the _S——p_, at Sydney, N.S.W., intending to go with her
round the Horn, and so home to England. But, being unable to tolerate
the bullying chief mate and the offal-flavoured fo’c’sle food, I left
the boat at ’Frisco and again shipped on an American tramp that was
chartered for trading purposes to go cruising in the South Seas, where
once more I had many ups and downs, and settled for a few months in the
Fiji group and elsewhere. My reminiscences, and many of the incidents of
that time, I have told in the second part of the present volume, which
opens with “The Charity Organization of the South Seas.”
My South Sea Island legends and fairy tales have never been told
elsewhere. I have written them as nearly as possible in the manner in
which they were told me by the Samoan children and natives who were my
friends. The mythology of the South Seas is unfortunately becoming
almost completely forgotten by the natives, who now live under such
different conditions, and seem only interested in the creeds, legends
and mythology of the Western world.
These experiences of mine are written from memory, and I have as nearly
as possible kept them in the order that I lived them; and if they seem
far-flung for one as young as I was, let me assure you that hundreds of
English boys have had my experiences and could tell this tale.
I am from a family of rovers. My uncles were travellers and explorers.
My brothers out of the spirit of adventure all went to sea, and achieved
success on sea and land through perseverance. My grandfather in his
boyhood went to sea. (I believe he was born at sea. His mother was a
lady of the Italian Court, noted for her beauty and an accomplished
musician.) He was a direct descendant of Charles, the second Earl of
Middleton, whose estates were eventually confiscated by creditors—an
evil destiny that has survived right down to the present, it having
cropped up in the author’s own affairs.
I hope to follow this volume with another one, wherein I shall tell of
my life when I settled for a while among civilised peoples and became
respectable, and my serious troubles commenced.
I have to thank Messrs Boosey & Company, of London, for permission to
use certain extracts from my military band Entr’actes, Marches, etc.,
which they have published.
A. S.-M.
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CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. IN BOSTON 17
II. UNITED STATES MILITARY MUSIC 23
II. I TRAVEL AND SELL BUG POWDER 27
IV. MY BROTHER’S RETURN 35
V. HOME 45
VI. CHANGES IN SAMOA 55
VII. ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 69
VIII. ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON AND HIS FRIENDS 83
IX. HONOLULU 96
X. AN INLAND MARCH 110
XI. AT SEA 130
XII. CIRCULAR QUAY 140
XIII. MATENE-TE-NGA 155
XIV. MEMORIES AND REFLECTION 173
XV. THE LECTURER 182
XVI. HOMESICK 191
XVII. A NEGRO VIOLINIST 213
XVIII. MY MANY PROFESSIONS 220
XIX. YOKOHAMA 230
XX. BOMBAY 241
XXI. AT SEA IN DREAMS 249
XXII. I ARRIVE AT THE ORGANIZATION 261
XXIII. FATHER ANSTER 276
XXIV. BACK AT THE CHARITY ORGANIZATION 289
XXV. AT NUKA HIVA 305
XXVI. A DECK-HAND ON BOARD THE “ELDORADO” 311
XXVII. MY ENGLAND 325
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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Portrait of the Author _Frontispiece_
Hongis Track, Rotorua, N.Z. 58
Whangarei Falls, North Auckland, N.Z. 70
Wanganui River, N.Z. 92
A River Wharf, West Africa 118
Kawieri, N.Z. 142
Whakarewarewa, Rotorua, N.Z. 148
Old Maori, said to be 105 years old 152
Half-Caste Maori Girls 160
Lake Rotorua and Mokoia Island, N.Z. 176
Settler’s Home, Gold Coast 194
The First Motor-Car in a Gold Coast 204
Village
River Scene, West Africa 216
Botanical Gardens, Ballarat 238
River Scene in New Zealand 246
Dart Valley, Lake Wakatipu, N.Z. 272
_The New Zealand photographs are by Mr F. G. Radclife, Whangarei, New
Zealand._
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CHAPTER I
In Boston—Song-composing—Looking for a Publisher—How I secured him—I
visit Providence—I play in the Military Band—Hard up
IN those old days of my youth an atmosphere of romance gathered from old
novels and dreams still sparkled in my head. I am going to tell of the
adventures that followed directly on my boyhood, when before the mast I
had crossed the seas with eyes athirst for romance, looking for the
wonderful, the beautiful in distant lands, in men and in women, and for
that opportunity to perform those mighty, world-thrilling deeds that,
alas, I have not even yet performed!
After much wandering in search of wealth and fame, following desperate
trouble owing to schemes that failed in Australia and the South Sea
Islands, I at length caught typhoid fever in San Francisco. With many
misgivings I recovered. At last I found myself sitting in a top attic in
North America. It was a humble little room, the atmosphere and
surroundings the very thing to feed the fire of my aspiring mind, to
force one to do better. Its one window-pane was broken; the furniture
consisted of an old table, a box chair, a candlestick and my
extemporised bed on the floor! I was in Boston, “the Hub of the
Universe”! My sea-chest and best suit were in pawn in San Francisco. My
money had almost all gone, and my latest grand passion had faded. I had
been practising the violin furiously day and night, for I hoped to
become the world’s greatest violinist. Yet at heart I still felt
triumphant. The world seemed especially mine! One thing only existence
lacked—a kindred spirit to stand shoulder to shoulder by my side on some
quest for glorious violence, adventurous thrills, voyaging across the
uncharted seas of imagination. O too brief, splendid madness of youth!
Far below, outside my window, over the city’s stone-slabbed streets,
rattled vehicles, and the hurried, endless battalions of Yankee citizens
passed by, seeking fortune or the grave. Gold seemed the incentive to
all thrills; human passion, hope and ambition seemed congealed into a
mechanical state of steam, electric locomotion, and all that the
almighty silver dollars would clink against. I also seemed to have
frozen and become a part of the machine which is called civilisation.
The songs of sails aloft, the noise of forest winds and soundings across
deep waters, had faded from my dreams into a wail of selfishness.
Imagination is the soul of the Universe, and grief is its Bible; but,
alas, I felt a gross craving for food.
So my ambition to outrival Paganini on the violin had subsided from its
state of enthusiastic fire and had left in my heart a dull callousness.
One intense wish survived: to get a sound pair of boots and a new suit!
Winter snows were only just melting, and much privation had considerably
thinned me. I had done many things which I feel remain best untold.
Necessity had inspired me with many original and desperate schemes, the
latest of which was a determination to compose songs. Music hall hits
come, have their day, are whistled and sung by the élite and by the
street-arab, and suddenly I thought, why should not I supply the public
with those rotten melodies? I would do it on original lines and give the
American public something new. Did they not hail as brand-new old
melodies that Wellington’s soldiers sung at Waterloo and antiquated
strains brought over by the passengers of the _Mayflower_ with one bar
reversed and the title altered.
I would jump from my bed at night and, throwing off my “blanket,” which
consisted of half-a-dozen old overcoats which my landlady had lent me,
write down inspired strains and next day put them to suitable words,
words with those sentimental and lascivious suggestions in them that
suit the public taste—for the artist in me had sorrowed and become
temporarily gross. I sought money more than the applause of musical
critics. Boston publishers became familiar with my handwriting. I had
about fifty rejected manuscripts with specially printed forms, notices
that offered me “their appreciation of my favours, and the editor’s
sincere compliments, and by the same post with many regrets they were
returning the MSS.” At length I thought my name was getting too well
known: I was obliged to seek a _nom de plume_. With characteristic
family cautiousness I hit on a name that was already famous in New York
musical circles. My youthful innocence had almost passed, and I vaguely
felt that to compete with the world I must deliberately stain myself
with its contagion. Often my heart bristled with schemes as
multitudinous as quills on a hedgehog’s hide.
I had composed an attractive melody and had placed suitable words to it,
but, notwithstanding my famous _nom de plume_, “Muller,” I had had my
manuscripts returned, torn in the post, the editor’s marks indelibly
damaging it, and too often a dark stain across the first page that
looked suspiciously like editorial tobacco juice.
Things began to look serious. I became, if possible, even thinner. My
landlady’s politeness became gross; she thumped the door for rent. I was
starving and only had a cake of common yellow soap. With the superhuman
energy and pluck of aspiring youth I tried again, imitated the latest
hit and sent the manuscript to “D—— & Co.,” of Boston, a small
publishing firm in a side street off 6th Avenue. I signed it with my
_nom de plume_; the initials differed by one letter from those of the
original owner—I thought this necessary to save legal trouble.
I waited three days. The post brought me no letter, so I wrote to the
publisher and said:
“DEAR SIRS,—I am an Englishman on tour, and a member of the Carl
Rosa Opera Company’s orchestra. I may have to leave Boston at
any moment, so, much against my wish, I must worry you for
speedy consideration of my manuscript song, _Dreams of
Eldorado_, which I can get publicly performed in London town
when I arrive back.”
Two days later, to my great delight, I received a letter asking me to
call on D—— & Co. _re_ my manuscript. The very thought of my song
reaching engraving and print thrilled me; that I should be published in
America at another man’s expense seemed impossible! A Vanderbilt-like
feeling pervaded my being. I pawned my violin, paid my landlady a week’s
rent and gave the little blue-eyed daughter twenty-five cents to buy
sweets with. I could have sung with joy. Next morning at ten-thirty I
was to be at the publisher’s office. By night the reaction set in. I
became suspicious. Suppose it was all a ruse! For had I not borrowed a
famous name? A thousand thoughts haunted me; my musical ability seemed
nil. I had no talent. I hummed my melodies over; they seemed
ridiculously tuneless. There was no doubt about it: the Boston
publishers had seen through my scheme, had held a solemn council, and
most probably would be waiting in that office to pounce upon me and
charge me with my duplicity, and then God knows what they might do. On
the floor all night the old overcoats moved and moved as I restlessly
turned in my bed. I was numbed with awful suspicions and possible
contingencies. I rose haggard and wretched, and against all my usual
instincts sought a saloon and drank twenty-five cents’ worth of rum.
With renewed courage I prepared to risk all. At ten o’clock I walked
past a brass-plated door with D—— & Co. on it. Three times I passed it
and then, walking crabwise, I went in. A little man with a skull-cap on
got up and welcomed me. I hurriedly glanced round; the ambushed
publishers of my imagination faded as the girl typewriter yawned and
clicked away. My erstwhile gloom blossomed to monstrous hopes.
Negotiations commenced. “What did I usually ask for my work?” he
demanded. I blushed and hastily wiped my nose. “Will fifty dollars do?”
I answered. I eventually got five dollars for the song as a preliminary
payment on royalties to come. Such royalties! One cent on each copy sold
after the first ten thousand advertisement copies had been given away
and the second one thousand had repaid the actual expenses of the
publication and engraving. Afterwards, too, I found out that to engrave
a song of four plates cost the publisher five dollars. I trembled as I
clutched the green five-dollar bill. “Will he alter his mind?” was my
chief thought. “Does he think I am the great Muller?” The publisher
broke in on my thoughts. “Place your name there,” he said, and I signed
the imposing agreement, four times the length of my manuscript song.
Readjusting his skull-cap and wiping his spectacles, he began to examine
my signature. The weather was cold, but I started to perspire. Was he
comparing my signature with Muller’s? It was an awful thought, and with
a sickly farewell I bolted!
Hurrying down the main street, I longed to get out of sight with the
dollars, but I heard a shout behind me; my assumed name was loudly
called: I turned; my heart sank. I nearly fainted: the publisher was
running after me. I clutched my money, determined to resist. The new
greatness thrust upon me by the sale of my song still remained with me.
I could not humiliate my pride and run, though I longed to do so. With
his little skull-cap askew, he stood puffing in front of me! I gave one
glance to warn him not to get too near my person, and heard him saying:
“Oh, excuse me, Mr Muller, I suppose you will be in Boston long enough
to correct the proof?”
In a dream I reached my room, packed up my brush and comb, got my violin
out of pawn and left Boston for Providence, where my brother lived, who
had left England years before. To my great regret I found, when I
arrived, that he was away in California. No one seemed to know when he
would return. I could not force my way into his bachelor rooms, and so I
was once more on the rocks.
I became acquainted with a young Swede who was musical and played the
clarionet. Together we fixed up a small orchestra, went out to play at
dances and so just managed to exist. We hired a large room in a hall
near the Hoyle Buildings in Westminster Street; made our own furniture
out of meat tubs and our beds of old overcoats. My violin, with coats
doubled on it, made an excellent pillow. With our heads side by side on
it we slept as soundly as though we were in the Australian bush. I spent
hours each day, and sometimes worked far into the night, practising my
violin and reading the lives of great musicians and writers.
My brother, a crack violinist and a well-known journalist in the States,
did not return for four or five months, and in the meantime our
orchestra failed. My friend and I lived for a time on the free lunches
of the grog saloons. North American saloon owners do not allow their
customers to starve while they supply them with alcoholic poison, which
is, however, fifty per cent. better than English spirit. For Americans
are both humane and practical. They know that dead men do not buy rum,
so the bars at luncheon hours steam with hot Frankforts, plates of cold
meat, cheese and biscuits, provided without any charge to their
customers. The honesty of Providence is illustrated by one fact alone—if
you buy ten cents’ worth of whisky they hand you a glass and the bottle,
that you may help yourself. In London, Australia and the South Seas the
grog-keeper would be ruined in a week if he ran his business on those
lines! You seldom see a woman in a grog saloon, and never drunk in the
streets.
Eventually I secured several jobs at concert halls. The pay was small,
but, though other work was to be had, my temperament strongly objected
to anything that needed muscular power. To tell the truth, I was
ambitious. I longed to raise myself out of the ordinary ruck of things.
However, when my Swedish friend got a job out at Pawtucket, digging
post-holes, the high wages tempted me and I too started work there.
Together we toiled for three weeks. Then once more I started composing,
and had several pieces of dance music accepted in my own name. I
arranged them as pianoforte solos, and one or two for the violin and
piano.
When the weather got warm I sometimes went out to Fort Hill, on the
Seekonk river. The prairie-land of Rhode Island survives in variegated
patches of miles of beautiful scenery, with rushing rivers, and
landscapes dotted by wooden homesteads that remind one of New Zealand
and the Australian bush-land.
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