Throughout those years at Hamilton I think of my father as absorbed in
the mechanical and intellectual work of his newspaper. My earliest sense
of him relates him as much to the types and the press as to the table
where he wrote his editorials amidst the talk of the printers, or of the
politicians who came to discuss public affairs with him. From a quaint
pride, he did not like his printer's craft to be called a trade; he
contended that it was a profession; he was interested in it, as the
expression of his taste, and the exercise of his ingenuity and
invention, and he could supply many deficiencies in its means and
processes. He cut fonts of large type for job-work out of apple-wood in
default of box or olive; he even made the graver's tools for carving the
letters. Nothing pleased him better than to contrive a thing out of
something it was not meant for, as making a penknife blade out of an old
razor, or the like. He could do almost anything with his ready hand and
his ingenious brain, while I have never been able to do anything with
mine but write a few score books. But as for the printer's craft with
me, it was simply my joy and pride from the first things I knew of it. I
know when I could not read, for I recall supplying the text from my
imagination for the pictures I found in books, but I do not know when I
could not set type. My first attempt at literature was not written, but
put up in type, and printed off by me. My father praised it, and this
made me so proud that I showed it to one of those eminent Whig
politicians always haunting the office. He made no comment on it, but
asked me if I could spell baker. I spelled the word simple-heartedly,
and it was years before I realized that he meant a hurt to my poor
little childish vanity.
Very soon I could set type very well, and at ten years and onward till
journalism became my university, the printing-office was mainly my
school. Of course, like every sort of work with a boy, the work became
irksome to me, and I would gladly have escaped from it to every sort of
play, but it never ceased to have the charm it first had. Every part of
the trade became familiar to me, and if I had not been so little I could
at once have worked not only at case, but at press, as my brother did. I
had my favorites among the printers, who knew me as the Old Man, because
of the habitual gravity which was apt to be broken in me by bursts of
wild hilarity; but I am not sure whether I liked better the conscience
of the young journeyman who wished to hold me in the leash of his moral
convictions, or the nature of my companion in laughter which seemed to
have selected for him the fit name of Sim Haggett. This merrymaker was
married, but so very presently in our acquaintance was widowed, that I
can scarcely put any space between his mourning for his loss and his
rejoicing in the first joke that followed it. There were three or four
of the journeymen, with an apprentice, to do the work now reduced by
many facilities to the competence of one or two. Some of them slept in a
den opening from the printing-office, where I envied them the wild
freedom unhampered by the conventions of sweeping, dusting, or
bed-making; it was next to camping out.
The range of that young experience of mine transcends telling, but the
bizarre mixture was pure delight to the boy I was, already beginning to
take the impress of events and characters. Though I loved the art of
printing so much, though my pride even more than my love was taken with
it, as something beyond other boys, yet I loved my schools too. In their
succession there seem to have been a good many of them, with a variety
of teachers, whom I tried to make like me because I liked them. I was
gifted in spelling, geography, and reading, but arithmetic was not for
me. I could declaim long passages from the speeches of Corwin against
the Mexican War, and of Chatham against the American War, and poems from
our school readers, or from Campbell or Moore or Byron; but at the
blackboard I was dumb. I bore fairly well the mockeries of boys, boldly
bad, who played upon a certain simplicity of soul in me, and pretended,
for instance, when I came out one night saying I was six years old, that
I was a shameless boaster and liar. Swimming, hunting, fishing, foraging
at every season, with the skating which the waters of the rivers and
canals afforded, were my joy; I took my part in the races and the games,
in football and in baseball, then in its feline infancy of Three Corner
Cat, and though there was a family rule against fighting, I fought like
the rest of the boys and took my defeats as heroically as I knew how;
they were mostly defeats.
My world was full of boys, but it was also much haunted by ghosts or the
fear of them. Death came early into it, the visible image in a negro
babe, with the large red copper cents on its eyelids, which older boys
brought me to see, then in the funeral of the dearly loved mate whom we
school-fellows followed to his grave. I learned many things in my
irregular schooling, and at home I was always reading when I was not
playing. I will not pretend that I did not love playing best; life was
an experiment which had to be tried in every way that presented itself,
but outside of these practical requisitions there was a constant demand
upon me from literature. As to the playing I will not speak at large
here, for I have already said enough of it in _A Boy's Town_; and as to
the reading, the curious must go for it to another book of mine called
_My Literary Passions_. Perhaps there was already in my early literary
preferences a bent toward the reality which my gift, if I may call it
so, has since taken. I did not willingly read poetry, except such pieces
as I memorized: little tragedies of the sad fate of orphan children, and
the cruelties of large birds to small ones, which brought the lump into
my throat, or the moralized song of didactic English writers of the
eighteenth century, such as "Pity the sorrows of a poor old man." That
piece I still partly know by heart; but history was what I liked best,
and if I finally turned to fiction it seems to have been in the dearth
of histories that merited reading after Goldsmith's Greece and Rome;
except Irving's _Conquest of Granada_, I found none that I could read;
but I had then read _Don Quixote_ and _Gulliver's Travels_, and had
heard my father reading aloud to my mother the poems of Scott and Moore.
Since he seems not to have thought of any histories that would meet my
taste, I fancy that I must have been mainly left to my own choice in
that sort, though he told me of the other sorts of books which I read.
I should be interested to know now how the notion of authorship first
crept into my mind, but I do not in the least know. I made verses, I
even wrote plays in rhyme, but until I attempted an historical romance I
had no sense of literature as an art. As an art which one might live by,
as by a trade or a business, I had not the slightest conception of it.
When I began my first and last historical romance, I did not imagine it
as something to be read by others; and when the first chapters were
shown without my knowing, I was angry and ashamed. If my father thought
there was anything uncommon in my small performances, he did nothing to
let me guess it unless I must count the instance of declaiming Hallock's
_Marco Bozzaris_ before a Swedenborgian minister who was passing the
night at our house. Neither did my mother do anything to make me
conscious, if she was herself conscious of anything out of the common in
what I was trying. It was her sacred instinct to show no partiality
among her children; my father's notion was of the use that could be
combined with the pleasure of life, and perhaps if there had been
anything different in my life, it would not have tended more to that
union of use and pleasure which was his ideal.
Much in the environment was abhorrent to him, and he fought the local
iniquities in his paper, the gambling, the drunkenness that marred the
mainly moral and religious complexion of the place. In _A Boy's Town_ I
have studied with a fidelity which I could not emulate here the whole
life of it as a boy sees life, and I must leave the reader who cares for
such detail to find it there. But I wish again to declare the almost
unrivaled fitness of the place to be the home of a boy, with its two
branches of the Great Miami River and their freshets in spring, and
their witchery at all seasons; with its Hydraulic Channels and
Reservoirs, its stretch of the Miami Canal and the Canal Basin so fit
for swimming in summer and skating in winter. The mills and factories
which harnessed the Hydraulic to their industries were of resistless
allure for the boys who frequented them when they could pass the guard
of "No Admittance" on their doors, or when they were not foraging among
the fields and woods in the endless vacations of the schools. Some boys
left school to work in the mills, and when they could show the loss of a
finger-joint from the machinery they were prized as heroes. The Fourths
of July, the Christmases and Easters and May-Days, which were
apparently of greater frequency there and then than they apparently are
anywhere now, seemed to alternate with each other through the year, and
the Saturdays spread over half the week.
V
The experience of such things was that of the generalized boy, and easy
to recall, but the experience of the specialized boy that I was cannot
be distinctly recovered and cannot be given in any order of time; the
events are like dreams in their achronic simultaneity. I ought to be
able to remember when fear first came into my life; but I cannot. I am
aware of offering as a belated substitute for far earlier acquaintance
with it the awe which I dimly shared with the whole community at a case
of hydrophobia occurring there, and which was not lessened by hearing my
father tell my mother of the victim's saying: "I have made my peace with
God; you may call in the doctors." I doubt if she relished the
involuntary satire as he did; his humor, which made life easy for him,
could not always have been a comfort to her. Safe in the philosophy of
Swedenborg, which taught him that even those who ended in hell chose it
their portion because they were happiest in it, he viewed with kindly
amusement the religious tumults of the frequent revivals about him. The
question of salvation was far below that of the annexation of Texas, or
the ensuing war against Mexico, in his regard; but these great events
have long ago faded into national history from my contemporary
consciousness, while a tragical effect from his playfulness remains
vivid in my childish memory. I have already used it in fiction, as my
wont has been with so many of my experiences, but I will tell again how
my mother and he were walking together in the twilight, with me, a very
[Illustration: _The Miami Canal at Hamilton_]
small boy, following, and my father held out to me behind his back a
rose which I understood I was to throw at my mother and startle her.
My aim was unfortunately for me all too sure; the rose struck her head,
and when she looked round and saw me offering to run away, she whirled
on me and made me suffer for her fright in thinking my flower was a bat,
while my father gravely entreated, "Mary, Mary!" She could not forgive
me at once, and my heart remained sore, for my love of her was as
passionate as the temper I had from her, but while it continued aching
after I went to bed, she stole up-stairs to me and consoled me and told
me how scared she had been, and hardly knew what she was doing; and all
was well again between us.
I wish I could say how dear she was to me and to all her children. My
eldest brother and she understood each other best, but each of us lived
in the intelligence of her which her love created. She was always
working for us, and yet, as I so tardily perceived, living for my father
anxiously, fearfully, bravely, with absolute trust in his goodness and
righteousness. While she listened to his reading at night, she sewed or
knitted for us, or darned or mended the day's ravage in our clothes
till, as a great indulgence, we fell asleep on the floor. If it was
summer we fell asleep at her knees on the front door-step, where she had
sat watching us at our play till we dropped worn out with it; or if it
had been a day of wild excess she followed us to our beds early and
washed our feet with her dear hands, and soothed them from the bruises
of the summer-long shoelessness. She was not only the center of home to
me; she was home itself, and in the years before I made a home of my
own, absence from her was the homesickness, or the fear of it, which was
always haunting me. As for the quick temper (now so slow) I had from
her, it showed itself once in a burst of reckless fury which had to be
signalized in the family rule, so lenient otherwise, by a circumstantial
whipping from my father. Another, from her, for going in swimming (as we
always said for bathing) when directly forbidden, seems to complete the
list of my formal punishments at their hands in a time when fathers and
mothers were much more of Solomon's mind in such matters than now.
I never was punished in any sort at school where the frequent scourging
of other boys, mostly boys whom I loved for something kind and sweet in
them, filled me with anguish; and I have come to believe that a blow
struck a child is far wickeder than any wickedness a child can do; that
it depraves whoever strikes the blow, mother, or father, or teacher, and
that it inexpressibly outrages the young life confided to the love of
the race. I know that excuses will be found for it, and that the
perpetrator of the outrage will try for consolation in thinking that the
child quickly forgets, because its pathetic smiles so soon follow its
pathetic tears; but the child does not forget; and no callousing from
custom can undo the effect in its soul.
From the stress put upon behaving rather than believing in that home of
mine we were made to feel that wicked words were of the quality of
wicked deeds, and that when they came out of our mouths they depraved
us, unless we took them back. I have not forgotten, with any detail of
the time and place, a transgression of this sort which I was made to
feel in its full significance. My mother had got supper, and my father
was, as he often was, late for it, and while we waited impatiently for
him, I came out with the shocking wish that he was dead. My mother
instantly called me to account for it, and when my father came she felt
bound to tell him what I had said. He could then have done no more than
gravely give me the just measure of my offense; and his explanation and
forgiveness were the sole event. I did not remain with an exaggerated
sense of my sin, though in a child's helplessness I could not urge, if I
had imagined urging, that my outburst was merely an aspiration for
unbelated suppers, and was of the nature of prayers for rain, which good
people sometimes put up regardless of consequences. With his
Swedenborgian doctrine of degrees in sin, my father might have thought
my wild words prompted by evil spirits, but he would have regarded them
as qualitatively rather than quantitatively wicked, and would not have
committed the dreadful wrong which elders do a child by giving it a
sense of sinning far beyond its worst possible willing. As to conduct
his teaching was sometimes of an inherited austerity, but where his own
personality prevailed, there was no touch of Puritanism in it.
Our religious instruction at home was not very stated, though it was
abundant, and it must have been because we children ourselves felt it
unseemly not to go, like other children, to Sunday-school that we were
allowed to satisfy our longing for conformity by going for a while to
the Sunday-school of the Baptist church, apparently because it was the
nearest. We got certain blue tickets and certain red ones for memorizing
passages from the New Testament, but I remember much more distinctly the
muscular twitching in the close-shaven purplish cheek of the teacher as
he nervously listened with set teeth for the children's answers, than
anything in our Scripture lessons. I had been received with three or
four brothers and sisters into the Swedenborgian communion by a passing
New Church minister, but there were no services of our recondite faith
in Hamilton, and we shared in no public worship after my mother followed
my father from the Methodist society. Out of curiosity and a solemn joy
in its ceremonial, I sometimes went to the Catholic church, where my
eyes clung fascinated to the life-large effigy of Christ bleeding on His
cross against the eastern wall; but I have more present now the sense of
walks in the woods on Sunday, with the whole family, and of the long,
sweet afternoons so spent in them.
If we had no Sabbaths in our house, and not very recognizable Sundays,
we were strictly forbidden to do anything that would seem to trifle with
the scruples of others. We might not treat serious things unseriously;
we were to swear not at all; and in the matter of bywords we were
allowed very little range, though for the hardness of our hearts we were
suffered to say such things as, "Oh, hang it!" or even, "Confound it
all!" in extreme cases, such as failing to make the family pony open his
mouth for bridling, or being bitten by the family rabbits, or butted
over by the family goat. In such points of secular behavior we might be
better or worse; but in matters of religious toleration the rule was
inflexible; the faith of others was sacred, and it was from this early
training, doubtless, that I was able in after life to regard the
occasional bigotry of agnostic friends with toleration.
During the years of my later childhood, a few public events touched my
consciousness. I was much concerned in the fortunes of the Whig party
from the candidacy of Henry Clay in 1844 to the fusion of the
anti-slavery Whigs with the Freesoil party after their bolt of the
Taylor nomination in 1848, when I followed my father as far as a boy of
eleven could go. He himself went so far as to sell his newspaper and
take every risk for the future rather than support a slave-holding
candidate who had been chosen for his vote-winning qualities as a
victorious general in the Mexican War. I did not abhor that aggression
so much as my father only because I could not understand how abhorrent
it was; but it began to be a trouble to me from the first mention of
the Annexation of Texas, a sufficiently dismaying mystery, and it
afflicted me in early fixing my lot with the righteous minorities which
I may have sometimes since been over-proud to be of. Besides such
questions of national interest I was aware of other things, such as the
French Revolution of 1848; but this must have been wholly through
sympathy with my father's satisfaction in the flight of Louis Philippe
and the election of the poet Lamartine to be the head of the provisional
government. The notion of provisional I relegated to lasting baffle in
its more familiar association with the stock of corn-meal and bran in
the feed-stores, though I need but have asked in order to be told what
it meant. The truth is I was pre-occupied about that time with the
affairs of High Olympus, as I imagined them from the mythology which I
was reading, and with the politics of Rome and Athens, as I conceived
them from the ever-dear histories of Goldsmith. The exploits of the
Ingenious Gentleman of La Mancha had much to do in distracting me from
the movement of events in Mexico, and at the same time I was enlarging
my knowledge of human events through _Gulliver's Travels_ and Poe's
_Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque_.
My father had not only explained to me the satire which underlay
_Gulliver's Travels_; he told me so much too indignantly of De Foe's
appropriation of Selkirk's narrative, that it long kept me from reading
_Robinson Crusoe_; but he was, as I have divined more and more, my guide
in that early reading which widened with the years, though it kept
itself preferably for a long time to history and real narratives. He was
of such a liberal mind that he scarcely restricted my own forays in
literature, and I think that sometimes he erred on that side; he may
have thought no harm could come to me from the literary filth which I
sometimes took into my mind, since it was in the nature of sewage to
purify itself. He gave me very little direct instruction, and he did not
insist on my going to school when I preferred the printing-office. All
the time, perhaps, I was getting such schooling as came from the love of
literature, which was the daily walk and conversation of our very simple
home, and somehow protected it from the sense of narrow means and the
little hope of larger. My father's income from his paper was scarcely
over a thousand dollars a year, but this sufficed for his family, then
of seven children, and he was of such a sensitive pride as to money,
that he would hardly ask for debts due him, much less press for their
payment; so that when he parted with his paper he parted with the hope
of much money owing him for legal and even official advertising and for
uncounted delinquent subscriptions. Meanwhile he was earning this money
by the work of his head and hand; and though I must always love his
memory for his proud delicacy, I cannot forget that this is not a world
where people dun themselves for the debts they owe. What is to be said
of such a man is that his mind is not on the things that make for
prosperity; but if we were in adversity we never knew it by that name.
My mother did the whole work of her large household, and gave each of us
the same care in health and sickness, in sickness only making the
sufferer feel that he was her favorite; in any other case she would have
felt such a preference wicked. Sometimes she had a hired girl, as people
then and there called the sort of domestic that in New England would
have been called a help. But it must have been very seldom, for two
girls alone left record of themselves: a Dutch girl amusingly memorable
with us children because she called her shoes _skoes_, and claimed to
have come to America in a _skip_; and a native girl, who took charge of
us when our mother was on one of her homesick visits Up-the-River, and
became lastingly abhorrent for the sort of insipid milk-gravy she made
for the beefsteak, and for the nightmare she seemed to have every night,
when she filled the house and made our blood run cold with a sort of
wild involuntary yodeling.
Apparently my mother's homesickness mounted from time to time in an
insupportable crisis; but perhaps she did not go Up-the-River so often
as it seemed. She always came back more contented with the home which
she herself was for us; once, as my perversely eclectic memory records,
it was chiefly because one could burn wood in Hamilton, but had to burn
coal at Martin's Ferry, where everything was smutched by it. In my old
age, now, I praise Heaven for that home which I could not know apart
from her; and I wish I could recall her in the youth which must have
been hers when I began to be conscious of her as a personality; I know
that she had thick brown Irish hair and blue eyes, and high German
cheek-bones, and as a girl she would have had such beauty as often goes
with a certain irregularity of feature; but to me before my teens she
was, of course, a very mature, if not elderly person, with whom I could
not connect any notion of looks except such as shone from her care and
love. Though her intellectual and spiritual life was in and from my
father, she kept always a certain native quality of speech and a rich
sense in words like that which marked her taste in soft stuffs and
bright colors. In the hard life of her childhood in the backwoods she
was sent to an academy in the nearest town, but in the instant anguish
of homesickness she walked ten miles back to the log cabin where at
night, as she would tell us, you could hear the wolves howling. She had
an innate love of poetry; she could sing some of those songs of Burns
and Moore which people sang then. I associate them with her voice in the
late summer afternoons; for it was at night that she listened to my
father's reading of poetry or fiction. When they were young, before and
after their marriage, he kept a book, as people sometimes did in those
days, where he wrote in the scrupulous handwriting destined to the
deformity of over-use in later years, such poems of Byron or Cowper or
Moore or Burns as seemed appropriate to their case, and such other verse
as pleased his fancy. It is inscribed (for it still exists) _To Mary_,
and with my inner sense I can hear him speaking to her by that sweet
name, with the careful English enunciation which separated its syllables
into Ma-ry.