Tramping, New York, Washington, and Chicago
For two days we followed the Amonoosuc (which is a lovely stream),
tramping along exquisite winding roads, loitering by sunny ripples or
dreaming in the shadow of magnificent elms. It was all very, very
beautiful to us of the level lands of Iowa and Dakota. These brooks
rushing over their rocky beds, these stately trees and these bleak
mountain-tops looming behind us, all glowed with the high splendor, of
which we had dreamed.
At noon we called at a farm-house to get something to eat and at night
we paid for lodging in a rude tavern beside the way, and so at last
reached the railway and the Connecticut River. Here we gained our trunks
(which had been sent round by express) and as the country seemed poor
and the farms barren, we spent nearly all our money in riding down the
railway fifty or sixty miles. At some small town (I forget the name), we
again took to the winding roads, looking for a job.
Jobs, it turned out, were exceedingly hard to get. The haying was over,
the oats mainly in shock, and the people on the highway suspicious and
inhospitable. As we plodded along, our dimes melting away, hunger came,
at last, to be a grim reality. We looked less and less like college boys
and more and more like tramps, and the householders began to treat us
with hostile contempt.
No doubt these farmers, much beset with tramps, had reasonable excuse
for their inhospitable ways, but to us it was all bitter and uncalled
for. I knew that cities were filled with robbers, brigands, burglars and
pirates, but I had held (up to this time), the belief that the country,
though rude and barren of luxury was nevertheless a place of plenty
where no man need suffer hunger.
Frank, being younger and less hardy than I, became clean disheartened,
and upon me fell the responsibility and burden of the campaign. I
certainly was to blame for our predicament.
We came finally to the point of calling at every house where any crops
lay ungathered, desperately in hope of securing something to do. At last
there came a time when we no longer had money for a bed, and were forced
to sleep wherever we could find covert. One night we couched on the
floor of an old school-house, the next we crawled into an oat-shock and
covered ourselves with straw. Let those who have never slept out on the
ground through an August night say that it is impossible that one should
be cold! During all the early warm part of the night a family of skunks
rustled about us, and toward morning we both woke because of the chill.
On the third night we secured the blessed opportunity of nesting in a
farmer's granary. All humor had gone out of our expedition. Each day the
world grew blacker, and the men of the Connecticut Valley more cruel and
relentless. We both came to understand (not to the full, but in a large
measure) the bitter rebellion of the tramp. To plod on and on into the
dusk, rejected of comfortable folk, to couch at last with pole-cats in a
shock of grain is a liberal education in sociology.
On the fourth day we came upon an old farmer who had a few acres of
badly tangled oats which he wished gathered and bound. He was a large,
loose-jointed, good-natured sloven who looked at me with stinging,
penetrating stare, while I explained that we were students on a vacation
tramping and in need of money. He seemed not particularly interested
till Frank said with tragic bitterness, "If we ever get back to Dakota
we'll never even look this way again." This interested the man. He said,
"Turn in and cut them oats," and we gladly buckled to our job.
Our spirits rose with the instant resiliency of youth, but what a task
that reaping proved to be! The grain, tangled and flattened close to the
ground, had to be caught up in one hand and cut with the old-fashioned
reaping-hook, the kind they used in Egypt five thousand years ago--a
thin crescent of steel with a straight handle, and as we bowed ourselves
to the ground to clutch and clip the grain, we nearly broke in two
pieces. It was hot at mid-day and the sun fell upon our bended shoulders
with amazing power, but we toiled on, glad of the opportunity to earn a
dollar. "Every cent means escape from this sad country," I repeated.
We stayed some days with this reticent gardener, sleeping in the attic
above his kitchen like two scullions, uttering no complaint till we had
earned seven dollars apiece; then we said, "Good luck," and bought
tickets for Greenfield, Massachusetts. We chose this spot for the reason
that a great railway alluringly crossed the river at that place. We
seemed in better situation to get west from such a point.
Greenfield was so like Rockford (the western town in which I had worked
as a carpenter), that I at once purchased a few tools and within a few
hours secured work shingling a house on the edge of the town, while my
brother took a hand at harvesting worms from a field of tobacco near by.
The builder, a tall man, bent and grizzled, complimented me warmly at
the close of my second day, and said, "You may consider yourself hired
for as long as you please to stay. You're a rattler." No compliment
since has given me more pleasure than this. A few days later he invited
both of us to live at his home. We accepted and were at once established
in most comfortable quarters.
Tranquil days followed. The country was very attractive, and on Sundays
we walked the neighboring lanes, or climbed the high hills, or visited
the quaint and lonely farm-houses round about, feeling more akin each
week to the life of the valley, but we had no intention of remaining
beyond a certain time. Great rivers called and cities allured. New York
was still to be explored and to return to the west before winter set in
was our plan.
At last the time came when we thought it safe to start toward Albany and
with grateful words of thanks to the carpenter and his wife, we set
forth upon our travels. Our courage was again at topmost gauge. My
success with the saw had given me confidence. I was no longer afraid of
towns, and in a glow of high resolution and with thirty dollars in my
pocket, I planned to invade New York which was to me the wickedest and
the most sorrowful as well as the most splendid city in the world.
Doubtless the true story of how I entered Manhattan will endanger my
social position, but as an unflinching realist, I must begin by
acknowledging that I left the Hudson River boat carrying my own luggage.
I shudder to think what we two boys must have looked like as we set off,
side by side, prospecting for Union Square and the Bowery. Broadway, we
knew, was the main street and Union Square the center of the island,
therefore we turned north and paced along the pavement, still clamped to
our everlasting bags.
Broadway was not then the deep canon that it is today. It was walled by
low shops of red brick--in fact, the whole city seemed low as compared
with the high buildings of Chicago, nevertheless I was keenly worried
over the question of housing.
Food was easy. We could purchase a doughnut and a cup of coffee almost
anywhere, or we could eat a sandwich in the park, but the matter of a
bed, the business of sleeping in a maelstrom like New York was something
more than serious--it was dangerous. Frank, naturally of a more prodigal
nature, was all for going to the Broadway Hotel. "It's only for one
night," said he. He always was rather careless of the future!
I reminded him that we still had Philadelphia, Baltimore and Washington
to "do" and every cent must be husbanded--so we moved along toward Union
Square with the question of a hotel still undecided, our arms aching
with fatigue. "If only we could get rid of these awful bags," moaned
Frank.
To us Broadway was a storm, a cyclone, an abnormal unholy congestion of
human souls. The friction of feet on the pavement was like the hissing
of waves on the beach. The passing of trucks jarred upon our ears like
the sevenfold thunders of Patmos, but we kept on, shoulder to shoulder,
watchful, alert, till we reached Union Square, where with sighs of deep
relief we sank upon the benches along with the other "rubes" and
"jay-hawkers" lolling in sweet repose with weary soles laxly turned to
the kindly indiscriminating breeze.
The evening was mild, the scene enthralling, and we would have been
perfectly happy but for the deeply disturbing question of a bed.
Franklin, resting upon my resourceful management, made no motion even
when the sun sank just about where that Venetian fronted building now
stands, but whilst the insolent, teeming populace in clattering carts
and drays charged round our peaceful sylvan haven (each driver plying
the lash with the fierce aspect of a Roman charioteer) I rose to a
desperate mission.
With a courage born of need I led the way straight toward the basement
portal of a small brown hotel on Fourth Avenue, and was startled almost
into flight to find myself in a bar-room. Not knowing precisely how to
retreat, I faltered out, "Have you a bed for us?"
It is probable that the landlord, a huge foreign-looking man understood
our timidity--at any rate, he smiled beneath his black mustache and
directed a clerk to show us a room.
In charge of this man, a slim youth, with a very bad complexion, we
climbed a narrow stairway (which grew geometrically shabbier as we rose)
until, at last, we came into a room so near the roof that it could
afford only half-windows--but as we were getting the chamber at
half-price we could not complain.
No sooner had the porter left us than we both stretched out on the bed,
in such relief and ecstasy of returning confidence as only weary youth
and honest poverty can know.--It was heavenly sweet, this sense of
safety in the heart of a tempest of human passion but as we rested, our
hunger to explore returned. "Time is passing. We shall probably never
see New York again," I argued, "and besides our bags are now safely
_cached_. Let's go out and see how the city looks by night."
To this Franklin agreed, and forth we went into the Square, rejoicing in
our freedom from those accursed bags.
Here for the first time, I observed the electric light shadows, so
clear-cut, so marvellous. The park was lighted by several sputtering,
sizzling arc-lamps, and their rays striking down through the trees,
flung upon the pavement a wavering, exquisite tracery of sharply
defined, purple-black leaves and branches. This was, indeed, an entirely
new effect in our old world and to my mind its wonder surpassed nature.
It was as if I had suddenly been translated to some realm of magic art.
Where we dined I cannot say, probably we ate a doughnut at some lunch
counter but I am glad to remember that we got as far as Madison
Square--which was like discovering another and still more enchanting
island of romance. To us the Fifth Avenue Hotel was a great and historic
building, for in it Grant and Sherman and Lincoln and Greeley had often
registered.
Ah, what a night that was! I did not expend a dollar, not even a
quarter, but I would give half of all I now own for the sensitive heart,
the absorbent brain I then possessed. Each form, each shadow was a
miracle. Romance and terror and delight peopled every dusky side street.
Submerged in the wondrous, drenched with the spray of this measureless
ocean of human life, we wandered on and on till overborne nature called
a halt. It was ten o'clock and prudence as well as weariness advised
retreat. Decisively, yet with a feeling that we would never again glow
beneath the lights of this radiant city, I led the way back to our
half-rate bed in the Union Square Hungarian hotel.
It is worth recording that on reaching our room, we opened our small
window and leaning out, gazed away over the park, what time the tumult
and the thunder and the shouting died into a low, continuous roar. The
poetry and the majesty of the city lost nothing of its power under the
moon.
Although I did not shake my fist over the town and vow to return and
conquer it (as penniless writers in fiction generally do) I bowed down
before its power. "It's too much for us," I told my brother. "Two
millions of people--think of it--of course London is larger, but then
London is so far off."
Sleep for us both was but a moment's forgetfulness. At one moment it was
night and at another it was morning. We were awakened by the voice of
the pavement, that sound which Whitman calls "the loud, proud, restive
bass of the streets," and again I leaned forth to listen to the
widespread crescendo roar of the deepening traffic. The air being cool
and clear, the pedestrians stepped out with brisker, braver movement,
and we, too, rose eager to meet the day at the gate of the town.
All day we tramped, absorbing everything that went on in the open.
Having explored the park, viewed the obelisk and visited the zoo, we
wandered up and down Broadway, mooning upon the life of the streets.
Curbstone fights, police manoeuvres, shop-window comedies, building
operations--everything we saw instructed us. We soaked ourselves in the
turbulent rivers of the town with a feeling that we should never see
them again.
We had intended to stay two days but a tragic encounter with a
restaurant bandit so embittered and alarmed us that we fled New York (as
we supposed), forever. At one o'clock, being hungry, very hungry, we
began to look for a cheap eating house, and somewhere in University
Place we came upon a restaurant which looked humble enough to afford a
twenty-five cent dinner (which was our limit of extravagance), and so,
timidly, we ventured in.
A foreign-looking waiter greeted us, and led us to one of a number of
very small tables covered with linen which impressed even Frank's
uncritical eyes with its mussiness. With a feeling of having
inadvertently entered a den of thieves, I wished myself out of it but
lacked the courage to rise and when the man returned and placed upon
the table two glasses and a strange looking bottle with a metal stopper
which had a kind of lever at the side, Frank said, "Hi! Good thing!--I'm
thirsty." Quite against my judgment he fooled around with the lever till
he succeeded in helping himself to some of the liquid with which the
bottle was filled. It was soda water and he drank heartily, although I
was sure it would be extra on the bill.
The food came on slowly, by fits and starts, and the dishes were all so
cold and queer of taste that even Frank complained. But we ate with a
terrifying premonition of trouble. "This meal will cost us at least
thirty-five cents each!" I said.
"No matter, it's an experience," my spendthrift brother retorted.
At last when the limp lettuce, the amazing cheese and the bitter coffee
were all consumed, I asked the soiled, outlandish waiter the price.
In reply he pencilled on a slip as though we were deaf, and finally laid
the completed bill face down beside my plate. I turned it over and grew
pale.
It totalled _one dollar and twenty cents_!
I felt weak and cold as if I had been suddenly poisoned. I trembled,
then grew hot with indignation. "Sixty cents apiece!" I gasped. "Didn't
I warn you?"
Frank was still in reckless mood. "Well, this is the only time we have
to do it. They won't catch us here again."
I paid the bill and hurried out, bitterly exclaiming, "No more New York
for me. I will not stay in such a robbers' den another night."
And I didn't. At sunset we crossed the ferry and took the train for New
Brunswick, New Jersey. Why we selected this town I cannot say, but I
think it must have been because it was half-way to Philadelphia--and
that we were just about as scared of Philadelphia as we were resentful
of New York.
After a night battle with New Jersey mosquitoes and certain plantigrade
bed-fellows native to cheap hotels, we passed on to Philadelphia and to
Baltimore, and at sunset of the same day reached Washington, the storied
capital of the nation.
Everything we saw here was deeply significant, national, rousing our
patriotism. We were at once and profoundly interested by the negro life
which flowered here in the free air of the District as under an African
sun; the newsboys, the bootblacks, the muledrivers, all amused us. We
spent that first night in Washington in a little lodging house just at
the corner of the Capitol grounds where beds were offered for
twenty-five cents. It was a dreadful place, but we slept without waking.
It took a large odor, a sharp lance to keep either of us awake in those
days.
Tramping busily all the next day, we climbed everything that could be
climbed. We visited the Capitol, the war building, the Treasury and the
White House grounds. We toiled through all the museums, working harder
than we had ever worked upon the farm, till Frank cried out for mercy. I
was inexorable. "Our money is getting low. We must be very saving of
carfare," I insisted. "We must see all we can. We'll never be here
again."
Once more we slept (among the negroes in a bare little lodging house),
and on the third day, brimming with impressions, boarded the Chicago
express and began our glorious, our exultant return over the
Alleghanies, toward the west.
It was with a feeling of joy, of distinct relief that we set our faces
toward the sunset. Every mile brought us nearer home. I knew the West. I
knew the people, and I had no fear of making a living beyond the
Alleghanies. Every mile added courage and hope to our hearts, and
increased the value of the splendid, if sometimes severe experiences
through which we had passed. Frank was especially gay for he was
definitely on his way home, back to Dakota.
And when next day on the heights of the Alleghany mountains, the train
dipped to the west, and swinging around a curve, disclosed to us the
tumbled spread of mountain-land descending to the valley of the Ohio, we
sang "O'er the hills in legions, boys" as our forefathers did of old. We
were about to re-enter the land of the teeming furrow.
Late that night as we were riding through the darkness in the smoking
car, I rose and, placing in my brother's hands all the money I had, said
good-bye, and at Mansfield, Ohio, swung off the train, leaving him to
proceed on his homeward way alone.
It was about one o'clock of an autumn night, sharp and clear, and I
spent the remainder of the morning on a bench in the railway station,
waiting for the dawn. I could not sleep, and so spent the time in
pondering on my former experiences in seeking work. "Have I been wrong?"
I asked myself. "Is the workman in America, as in the old world, coming
to be a man despised?"
Having been raised in the splendid patriotism, perhaps one might say
flamboyant patriotism, of the West during and following our Civil War, I
had been brought up to believe that labor was honorable, that idlers
were to be despised, but now as I sat with bowed head, cold, hungry and
penniless, knowing that I must go forth at daylight--seeking work, the
world seemed a very hostile place to me. Of course I did not consider
myself a workman in the ordinary hopeless sense. My need of a job was
merely temporary, for it was my intention to return to the Middle West
in time to secure a position as teacher in some country school.
Nevertheless a lively imagination gave me all the sensations of the
homeless man.
The sun rose warm and golden, and with a return of my courage I started
forth, confident of my ability to make a place for myself. With a wisdom
which I had not hitherto shown I first sought a home, and luckily, I say
luckily because I never could account for it, I knocked at the door of a
modest little boarding house, whose mistress, a small blonde lady,
invited me in and gave me a room without a moment's hesitation. Her
dinner--a delicious mid-day meal, so heartened me that before the end of
the day, I had secured a place as one of a crew of carpenters. My
spirits rose. I was secure.
My evenings were spent in reading Abbott's _Life of Napoleon_ which I
found buried in an immense pile of old magazines. I had never before
read a full history of the great Corsican, and this chronicle moved me
almost as profoundly as Hugo's _Les Miserables_ had done the year
before.
On Sundays I walked about the country under the splendid oaks and
beeches which covered the ridges, dreaming of the West, and of the
future which was very vague and not very cheerful in coloring. My plan
so far as I had a plan, was not ambitious. I had decided to return to
some small town in Illinois and secure employment as a teacher, but as I
lingered on at my carpenter trade till October nothing was left for me
but a country school, and when Orrin Carter, county superintendent of
Grundy County, (he is Judge Carter now) informed me that a district
school some miles out would pay fifty dollars a month for a teacher, I
gladly accepted the offer.
On the following afternoon I started forth a passenger with Hank Ring
on his way homeward in an empty corn wagon. The box had no seat,
therefore he and I both rode standing during a drive of six miles. The
wind was raw, and the ground, frozen hard as iron, made the ride a kind
of torture, but our supper of buckwheat pancakes and pork sausages at
Deacon Ring's was partial compensation. On the following Monday I
started my school.
The winter which followed appalled the oldest inhabitant. Snow fell
almost daily, and the winds were razor-bladed. In order to save every
dollar of my wages, I built my own fires in the school-house. This means
that on every week-day morning, I was obliged to push out into the
stinging dawn, walk a mile to the icy building, split kindling, start a
flame in the rude stove, and have the room comfortable at half-past
eight. The thermometer often went to a point twenty degrees below zero,
and my ears were never quite free from peeling skin and fevered tissues.
My pupils were boys and girls of all sizes and qualities, and while it
would be too much to say that I made the best teacher of mathematics in
the county, I think I helped them in their reading, writing, and
spelling, which after all are more important than algebra. On Saturday I
usually went to town, for I had in some way become acquainted with the
principal of a little normal school which was being carried on in Morris
by a young Quaker from Philadelphia. Prof. Forsythe soon recognized in
me something more than the ordinary "elocutionist" and readily aided me
in securing a class in oratory among his students.
This work and Forsythe's comradeship helped me to bear the tedium of my
work in the country. No Saturday was too stormy, and the roads were
never too deep with snow to keep me from my weekly visit to Morris
where I came in contact with people nearer to my ways of thinking and
living.
But after all this was but the final section of my eastern
excursion--for as the spring winds set in, the call of "the sunset
regions" again overcame my love of cities. The rush to Dakota in March
was greater than ever before and a power stronger than my will drew me
back to the line of the middle border which had moved on into the
Missouri Valley, carrying my people with it. As the spring odors filled
my nostrils, my wish to emigrate was like that of the birds. "Out there
is my share of the government land--and, if I am to carry out my plan of
fitting myself for a professorship," I argued--"these claims are worth
securing. My rights to the public domain are as good as any other
man's."
My recollections of the James River Valley were all pleasant. My brother
and father both wrote urging me to come and secure a claim, and so at
last I replied, "I'll come as soon as my school is out," thus committing
all my future to the hazard of the homestead.
And so it came about that in the second spring after setting my face to
the east I planned a return to the Border. I had had my glimpse of
Boston, New York and Washington. I was twenty-three years of age, and
eager to revisit the plain whereon my father with the faith of a
pioneer, was again upturning the sod and building a fourth home. And
yet, Son of the Middle Border--I had discovered that I was also a
Grandson of New England.