Powerful claws, I reckon. Jack, you'll be getting into trouble some
day with your weepons." He took a small knife out of his pocket.
"Look here, Jack. I've been going up and down the river more'n
twenty years, and never carried a weepon bigg'n that, and never had a
muss with nobody. A man who draws his bowie sometimes gets shot.
Let's look at your knife."
He examined it closely, deciphered the brand, drew his thumb over the
edge, and observed:
"Why, blame me, if it ain't one of them British bowies--a
Free-trade Brummagen. I reckon you can't carve anyone with a thing
like this." He made a dig at the hand-rail with the point, and it
actually curled up like the ring in a hog's snout. "You see, Jack, a
knife like that is mean, unbecoming a gentleman, and a disgrace to a
respectable boat." He pitched the British article into the river and
went up into the saloon.
As Jack had not yet recovered his prestige, he went away, and
returned with a dinner knife in one hand and a shingling hammer in
the other. He waited for his adversary until the sun was low and the
deck passengers were preparing their evening meal. Two of the
Englishmen came along towards the stairs and ascended to the saloon.
Presently they began to descend with their mate in the middle. Jack
looked at them, and for some reason or other he did not want any more
prestige. He sauntered away along the guard deck, and remained in
retirement during the rest of the voyage. He was not, after all, a
very desperate desperado.
During the next night our boat was racing with a rival craft, and one
of her engines was damaged. She had then to hop on one leg, as it
were, as far as Peoria. The Illinois river had here spread out into
a broad lake; the bank was low, there were no buildings of any kind
near the water; some of the passengers landed, and nobody came to
offer them welcome.
I stood near an English immigrant who had just brought his luggage
ashore, and was sitting on it with his wife and three children. They
looked around at the low land and wide water, and became full of
misery. The wife said:
"What are we boun' to do now, Samiul? Wheer are me and the childer
to go in this miserable lookin' place?"
Samiul: "I'm sure, Betsy, I don't know. I've nobbut hafe a dollar
left of o' my money. They said Peoria was a good place for us to
stop at, but I don't see any signs o' farmin' about here, and if I go
away to look for a job, where am I to put thee and the childer, and
the luggage and the bedding?"
"Oh!" said Betsy, beginning to cry; "I'm sorry we ever left owd
England. But thou would come, Samiul, thou knows, and this is the
end on it. Here we are in this wild country without house or home,
and wi' nothin' to eat. I allus thowt tha wor a fool, Samiul, and
now I'm sure and sartin on it."
Samiul could not deny it. His spirit was completely broken; he hung
down his head, and tears began to trickle down his eyes. The three
children--two sturdy little boys and a fair-haired little girl--
seeing their dad and ma shedding tears, thought the whole world must
be coming to an end, and they began howling out aloud without any
reserve. It was the best thing they could have done, as it called
public attention to their misery, and drew a crowd around them. A
tall stranger came near looked at the group, and said:
"My good man, what in thunder are you crying for?"
"I was told Peoria was a good place for farmin'," Samuel said, "and
now I don't know where to go, and I have got no money."
"Well, you are a soft 'un," replied the stranger. "Just dry up and
wait here till I come back."
He walked away with long strides. Peoria was then a dreary-looking
city, of which we could see nothing but the end of a broad road, a
few frame buildings, two or three waggons, and some horses hitched to
the posts of the piazzas.
The stranger soon returned with a farmer in a waggon drawn by two
fine upstanding horses, fit for a royal carriage. The farmer at once
hired the immigrant at ten dollars a month with board for himself and
family. He put the luggage into his waggon, patted the boys on the
head and told them to be men; kissed the little girl as he lifted her
into the waggon, and said:
"Now, Sissy, you are a nice little lady, and you are to come along
with me, and we'll be good friends."
Never was sorrow so quickly turned into joy. The man, his wife, and
children, actually began smiling before the tears on their cheeks
were dry.
Men on every western prairie were preparing their waggons for the
great rush to California; new hands were wanted on the lands, and the
immigrants who were then arriving in thousands, took the place of the
other thousands who went westward across the plains. There was
employment for everybody, and during my three years' residence on the
prairies I only saw one beggar. He was an Italian patriot, who said
he had fought for Italy; he was now begging for it in English,
badly-broken, so I said:
"You are a strong, healthy man; why don't you go to work? You could
earn eight or ten dollars a month, with board, anywhere in these
parts."
But the Italian patriot was a high-class beggar; he was collecting
funds, and had no idea of wasting his time in hard work. He gave me
to understand that I had insulted him.
Besides this patriot, there were a few horse-thieves and hog duffers
on the prairies, but these, when identified, were either stretched
under a tree or sent to Texas.
In those days the prairie farmers were all gentlemen, high-minded,
truthful, honourable, and hospitable. There were no poor houses, no
asylums. All orphans were adopted and treated as members of some
family in the neighbourhood.
I am informed that things are quite different now. The march of
empire has been rapid; many men have grown rich, to use a novel
expression, beyond the dreams of avarice, and ten times as many have
grown poor and discontented.
The great question for statesmen now is, "What is to be done for the
relief of the masses?" and the answer to it is as difficult to find
as ever.
But I have to proceed up the Illinois river.
The steamboat stopped at Lasalle, the head of navigation, and we had
then to travel on the Illinois and Michigan canal. We went on board
a narrow passenger boat towed by two horses, and followed by two
freight barges. We did not go at a breakneck pace, and had plenty of
time for conversation, and to look at the scenery, which consisted of
prairies, sloughs, woods, and rivers. The picture lacked background,
as there is nothing in Illinois deserving the name of hill. But we
passed an ancient monument, a tall pillar, rising out of the bed of
the Illinois river. It is called "Starved Rock." Once a number of
Indian warriors, pursued by white men, climbed up the almost
perpendicular sides of the pillar. They had no food, and though the
stream was flowing beneath them, they could not obtain a drink of
water without danger of death from rifle bullets. The white men
instituted a blockade of the pillar, and the red men all perished of
starvation on the top of it.
The conversation was conducted by the captain of the canal boat, as
he walked on the deck to and fro. He was full of information. He
said he was a native of Kentucky; had come down the Ohio river from
Louisville; was taking freight to Chicago; reckoned he was bound to
rake in the dollars on the canal; was no dog-gonned Abolitionist;
niggers were made to work for white folks; they had no souls any more
than a horse; he'd like to see the man who would argue the point.
Mrs. Beecher Stowe was then writing "Uncle Tom's Cabin," at too great
a distance to hear the challenge, but a greenhorn ventured to argue
the point.
"What about the mulatto? Half black, half white. His father being a
white man had a whole soul; his mother being black had no soul. Has
the mulatto a whole soul, half a soul, or no soul at all?"
The captain paused in his walk, with both hands in his pockets, gazed
at the argumentative greenhorn, turned his quid, spat across the
canal, went away whistling "Old Dan Tucker," and left the question of
the mulatto's soul unsolved.
When I arrived at Joliet there was a land boom at Chicago. The canal
company had cut up their alternate sections, and were offering them
at the usual alarming sacrifice. A land boom is a dream
of celestial bliss. While it lasts, the wisest men and the greatest
fools walk with ecstatic steps through the golden streets of a New
Jerusalem. I have been there three times. It is dreadful to wake up
and to find that all the gold in the street is nothing but moonshine.
I proceeded to the Lake City to lay the foundation of my fortune by
buying town lots. I laid the foundation on a five-acre block in West
Joliet, but had to borrow seven dollars from my nearest friend to pay
the first deposit. Chicago was then a small but busy wooden town,
with slushy streets, plank sidewalks, verandahs full of rats, and
bedrooms humming with mosquitoes. I left it penniless but proud, an
owner of real estate.
While returning to Joliet on the canal boat my nearest friend, from
whom I had borrowed the seven dollars, kindly gave me his views on
the subject of "greenhorns." (The Australian equivalent of
"greenhorn" is "new chum." I had the advantage of serving my time in
both capacities). "No greenhorn," he observed, "ever begins to get
along in the States until he has parted with his bottom dollar. That
puts a keen edge on his mind, and he grows smart in business. A
smart man don't strain his back with hard work for any considerable
time. He takes out a patent for something--a mowing machine, or
one for sowing corn and pumpkins, a new churn or wash-tub, pills for
the shakes, or, best of all, a new religion--anything, in fact,
that will catch on and fetch the public."
I had parted with my bottom dollar, was also in debt, and therefore
in the best position for getting along; but I could not all at once
think of anything to patent, and had to earn my daily bread some way
or other. I began to do it by hammering sheets of iron into the
proper curves for an undershot water-wheel. After I had worked two
days my boss suggested that I should seek other employment--in a
school, for instance; a new teacher was wanted in the common school
of West Joliet.
I said I should prefer something higher; a teacher was of no more
earthly account than a tailor.
The boss said: "That might be so in benighted Britain, but in the
Great United States our prominent citizens begin life as teachers in
the common schools, and gradually rise to the highest positions in
the Republic."
I concluded to rise, but a certificate of competency was required,
and I presented myself for examination to the proper official, the
editor and proprietor of 'The True Democrat' whose office was across
the bridge, nearly opposite Matheson's woollen factory. I found the
editor and his compositor labouring over the next edition of the
paper.
The editor began the examination with the alphabet. I said in
England we used twenty-six letters, and I named all of them correctly
except the last. I called it "zed," but the editor said it was
"zee," and I did not argue the point.
He then asked me to pick out the vowels, the consonants, the flats,
the sharps, the aspirates, the labials, the palatals, the dentals,
and the mutes. I was struck dumb; I could feel the very foundation
of all learning sinking beneath me, and had to confess that I did not
know my letters.
Then he went on to spelling and writing. My writing was barely
passable, and my spelling was quite out of date. I used superfluous
letters which had been very properly abolished by Webster's
dictionary.
At last the editor remarked, with becoming modesty, that he was
himself of no account at figures, but Mr. Sims would put me through
the arithmetic. Mr. Sims was the compositor, and an Englishman; he
put me through tenderly.
When the examination was finished, I felt like a convicted impostor,
and was prepared to resume work on the undershot water-wheel, but the
two professors took pity on me, and certified in writing that I was
qualified to keep school.
Then the editor remarked that the retiring teacher, Mr. Randal, had
advertised in the 'True Democrat' his ability to teach the Latin
language; but, unfortunately, Father Ingoldsby had offered himself as
a first pupil; Mr. Randal never got another, and all his Latin oozed
out. On this timely hint I advertised my ability to teach the
citizens of Joliet not only Latin, but Greek, French, Spanish, and
Portuguese. My advertisement will be found among the files of the
'True Democrat' of the year 1849 by anyone taking the trouble to look
for it. I had carelessly omitted to mention the English language,
but we sometimes get what we don't ask for, and no less than sixteen
Germans came to night school to study our tongue. They were all
masons and quarrymen engaged in exporting steps and window sills to
the rising city of Chicago.
When Goldsmith tried to earn his bread by teaching English in
Holland, he overlooked the fact that it was first necessary for him
to learn Low Dutch. I overlooked the same fact, but it gave me no
trouble whatever. There was no united Germany then, and my pupils
disagreed continually about the pronunciation of their own language,
which seemed, like that of Babel, intelligible to nobody. I composed
their quarrels by confining their minds to English solely, and
harmony was restored each night by song.
The school-house was a one-storey frame building on the second
plateau in West Joliet, and was attended by about one hundred
scholars. In the rear was a shallow lagoon, fenced on one side by a
wall of loose rocks, infested with snakes. The track to the cemetery
was near, and it soon began to be in very frequent use. One day
during recess the boys had a snake hunt, and they tied their game in
one bunch by the heads with string, and suspended them by the
wayside. I counted them, and there were twenty-seven snakes in the
bunch.
The year '49 was the 'annus mirabilis' of the great rush for gold
across the plains, and it was also an 'annus miserabilis' on account
of the cholera. In three weeks fourteen hundred waggons bound for
California crossed one of the bridges over the canal. I was desirous
of joining the rush, but was, as usual, short of cash, and I had to
stay at Joliet to earn my salary. I met the editor of the 'True
Democrat' nearly every day carrying home a bucket of water from the
Aux Plaines river. He did his own chores. He sent two young men who
wished to become teachers to my school to graduate. One was named
O'Reilly, lately from Ireland; I gave him his degree in a few weeks,
and he kept school somewhere out on the prairie. The other did not
graduate before the cholera came. He was a native of Vermont, and he
played the clarionet in our church choir. The instrumental music
came from the clarionet, from a violin, and a flute. The choir came
from France and Germany, Old England and New England, Ireland,
Alsace, and Belgium. It was divided into two hostile camps, and the
party which first took possession of the gallery took precedence in
the music for that day only. There was a want of harmony. One
morning when the priest was chanting the first words of the Gloria,
the head of a little French bugler appeared at the top of the gallery
stairs, and at once started a plaint chant, Gloria, we had never
rehearsed or heard before. He sang his solo to the end. He was
thirsting for glory, and he took a full draught.
I don't think there was ever a choir like ours but one, and that was
conducted by a butcher from Dolphinholm in the Anglican Church at
Garstang. One Sunday he started a hymn with a new tune. Three times
his men broke down, and three times they were heard by the whole
congregation whispering ferociously at one another. At length the
parson tried to proceed with the service, and said: "Let us pray."
But the bold butcher retorted: "Pray be hanged. Let us try again,
lads; I know we can do it." He then started the hymn for the fourth
time, and they did it. After the service the parson demanded
satisfaction of the butcher, and got it in a neighbouring pasture.
The cholera came, and we soon grew very serious. The young man from
Vermont walked with me after school hours, and we tried to be
cheerful, but it was of no use. Our talk always reverted to the
plague, and the best way to cure it or to avoid it. The doctors
disagreed. Every theory was soon contradicted by facts; all kinds of
people were attacked and died; the young and the old, the weak and
the strong, the drunken and the sober. Every man adopted a special
diet or a favourite liquor--brandy, whiskey, bitters, cherry-bounce,
sarsaparilla. My own particular preventive was hot tea, sweetened
with molasses and seasoned with cayenne pepper. I survived, but that
does not prove anything in particular.
The two papers, the 'Joliet Signal' and the 'True Democrat', scarcely
ever mentioned the cholera. It would have been bad policy, tending
to scare away the citizens and to injure trade.
Many men suddenly found that they had urgent business to look after
elsewhere, and sneaked away, leaving their wives and families behind
them.
On Sunday Father Ingoldsby advised his people to prepare their souls
for the visit of the Angel of Death, who was every night knocking at
their doors. There were many, he said, whose faces he had never seen
at the rails since he came to Joliet; and what answer would they give
to the summons which called them to appear without delay before the
judgment seat of God? What doom could they expect but that of
damnation and eternal death?
The sermon needed no translation for the men of many nations who were
present. Irishmen and Englishmen, Highlanders and Belgians, French
and Germans, Mexicans and Canadians, could interpret the meaning of
the flashing eye which roamed to every corner of the church, singling
out each miserable sinner; the fierce frown, the threatening gesture,
the finger first pointing to the heaven above, and then down to the
depths of hell.
Some stayed to pray and to confess their sins; others hardened their
hearts and went home unrepentant. Michael Mangan went to Belz's
grocery near the canal. He said he felt pains in his interior, and
drank a jigger of whisky. Then he bought half-a-gallon of the same
remedy to take home with him. It was a cheap prescription, costing
only twelve and a half cents, but it proved very effective. Old Belz
put the stuff into an earthenware bottle, which he corked with a
corncob. Michael started for home by the zigzag path which led up
the steep limestone bluff, but his steps were slow and unsteady; he
sat down on a rock, and took another dose out of his bottle. He
never went any further of his own motion, and we buried him next day.
We were of different opinions about the cause of his death; some
thought it was the cholera, others the pangs of conscience, some the
whisky, and others a mixture of all three; at any rate, he died
without speaking to the priest.
Next day another neighbour died, Mr. Harrigan. He had lost one arm,
but with the other he wrote a good hand, and registered deeds in the
County Court. I called to see him. He was in bed lying on his back,
his one arm outside the coverlet, his heaving chest was bare, and his
face was ghastly pale. There were six men in the room, one of whom
said:
"Do you know me, Mr. Harrigan?"
"Sure, divil a dog in Lockport but knows you, Barney," said the dying man.
Barney lived in Lockport, and in an audible whisper said to us: "Ain't
he getting on finely? He'll be all right again to-morrow, please
God."
"And didn't the doctor say I'd be dead before twelve this day?"
asked Harrigan.
I looked at the clock on the mantelshelf. It was past ten. He died
an hour later.
One day the young man from Vermont rose from his seat and looked at
me across the schoolroom. I thought he was going to say something.
He took down his hat, went to the door, turned and looked at me
again, but he did not speak or make any sign. Next morning his place
was vacant, and I asked one of the boys if he had seen the young man.
The boy said:
"He ain't a-coming to school no more, I calkilate. He was buried
this morning before school hours."
That year, '49 was a dismal year in Joliet.
Mr. Rogers, one of the school managers, came and sat on a bench near
the door. He was a New Englander, a carpenter, round-shouldered,
tall and bony. He said:
"I called in to tell you that I can't vote for appinting you to this
school next term. Fact is the ladies are dead against you; don't see
you at meeting on the Sabbath; say you go to the Catholic Church with
the Irish and Dutch. I a'n't a word to say agen you myself. This is
a free country; every man can go, for aught I care, whichever way he
darn chooses--to heaven, or hell, or any other place. But I want
to be peaceable, and I can't get no peace about voting for you next
term, so I thought I'd let you know, that you mightn't be
disappointed."
In that way Mr. Rogers washed his hands of me. I said I was sorry I
did not please the ladies, but I liked to hear a man who spoke his
mind freely.
Soon afterwards the Germans brought me word that the Yankees were
calling a meeting about me. I was aware by this time that when a
special gathering of citizens takes place to discuss the demerits of
any individual, it is advisable for that individual to be absent if
possible; but curiosity was strong within me; hitherto I had never
been honoured with any public notice whatever, and I attended the
meeting uninvited.
The Yankees are excellent orators; they are born without bashfulness;
they are taught to speak pieces in school from their childhood; they
pronounce each word distinctly; they use correctly the rising
inflection and the falling inflection. Moreover, they are always in
deadly earnest; there is another miserable world awaiting their
arrival. Their humorists are the most unhappy of men. You may smile
when you read their jokes, but when you see the jokers you are more
inclined to weep. With pain and sorrow they grind, like Samson, at
the jokers' mill all the days of their lives.
The meeting was held in the new two-storey school-house.
Deacon Beaumont took the chair--my chair--and Mr Curtis was
appointed secretary. I began to hate Deacon Beaumont, as also Mr.
Curtis, who was the only other teacher present; it was evident they
were going to put him in my place.
Each speaker on rising put his left hand in the side pocket of his
pants. I was not mentioned by name, but nevertheless I was given
clearly to understand that I had been reared in a land whose people
are under the dominion of a tyrannical monarch and a bloated
aristocracy; that therefore I had never breathed the pure air of
freedom, and was unfitted to teach the children of the Great Republic.
Mr. Tucker, an influential citizen, moved finally that the school
managers be instructed to engage a Mr. Sellars, of Dresden, as
teacher at the West Joliet School. He said Mr. Sellars was a young
man from New England who had been teaching for a term at Dresden, and
had given great satisfaction. He had the best testimony to the
character and ability of the young man from his own daughter, Miss
Priscilla Tucker, who had been school marm in the same school, and
was now home on a visit. She could give, from her own personal
knowledge, any information the managers might require.
Mr. Tucker's motion was seconded. There was no amendment proposed,
and all in favour of the motion were requested by Deacon Beaumont to
stand up. The Yankees all rose to their feet, the others sat still,
all but old Gorges, a Prussian, who, with his two sons, had come to
vote for me. But the old man did not understand English. His son
John pulled him down, but Deacon Beaumont had counted his vote, and
the motion was carried by a majority of one. So I was, in fact, put
out of the school by my best friend, old Gorges.