PART I. THE RELIEF

FOREWORD

The life-story of Sir Henry M. Stanley is not only of intense human

interest but presents a noble example of the possibilities of real

manhood in the face of unceasing and overwhelming obstacles. Stanley

made every obstacle a stepping-stone, and thus rose from waifdom to high

estate. He rendered unparalleled services to the cause of humanity and

civilization by his fearless penetration of darkest Africa, opening

mysterious regions for the first time to the world’s knowledge, to

Christian Missions and to peaceful commerce. His work resulted in the

suppression of the worst horrors of African Slavery.

We may well note Stanley’s qualities of honest ambition, sense of duty,

untiring industry, tenacity of purpose, dauntless courage, breadth of

view and steadfast trust in God.

Stanley was my greatly-valued friend, and I treasure my memories of him

and of his life work. Pray accept this Autobiography with my Christmas

Greeting.

[Illustration:

Henry

]

_Christmas, 1914_

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF

SIR HENRY MORTON STANLEY

[Illustration: HENRY M. STANLEY, 1890]

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF

SIR HENRY MORTON

STANLEY, G.C.B.,

* * * * *

D.C.L., (Oxford and Durham), LL.D., (Cambridge and Edinburgh), etc.;

Doctor of Philosophy of the University of Halle; Honorary Member of The

Royal Geographical Society, and the Geographical Societies of The Royal

Scottish, Manchester, etc.; Gold Medallist of The Royal Geographical

Society of London; Gold Medallist of Paris, Italy, Sweden, and Antwerp

Geographical Societies, etc.; Grand Cordon of the Medjidie; Grand

Commander of the Osmanlie; Grand Cordon of the Order of the Congo; Grand

Commander of the Order of Leopold; Star of Zanzibar; Star of Service on

the Congo; etc., etc.

* * * * *

EDITED BY HIS WIFE,

DOROTHY STANLEY.

_WITH SIXTEEN ILLUSTRATIONS, MAP, AND

ONE FACSIMILE LETTER._

FOURTH EDITION.

LONDON:

SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON AND CO., LTD.

COPYRIGHT REGISTERED IN GREAT BRITAIN

AND THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

REPRINTED FROM AMERICAN PLATES BY

WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON

EDITOR’S PREFACE

In giving to the world this Autobiography of my husband’s early years, I

am carrying out his wishes. Unfortunately, the Autobiography was left

unfinished. I am, however, able to give very full extracts from his

journals, letters, and private note-books, in which, day by day, he

jotted down observations and reflections.

My best introduction is the following passage from a letter he wrote to

me on November 30, 1893:--

‘I should like to write out a rough draft, as it were, of my life. The

polishing could take care of itself, or you could do it, when the time

comes. Were I suddenly to be called away, how little, after all, the

world would know of me! My African life has been fairly described, but

only as it affected those whom I served, or those who might be

concerned. The inner existence, the _me_, what does anybody know of?

nay, you may well ask, what do I know? But, granted that I know little

of my real self, still, I am the best evidence for myself. And though,

when I have quitted this world, it will matter nothing to me what people

say of me, up to the moment of death we should strive to leave behind us

something which can either comfort, amuse, instruct, or benefit the

living; and though I cannot do either, except in a small degree, even

that little should be given.

‘Just endeavour to imagine yourself in personal view of all the poor

boys in these islands, English, Scotch, Welsh, and Irish, and also all

the poor boys in Canada, the States, and our Colonies; regarding them as

we regard those in the schools we visit in Lambeth, or at Cadoxton, we

would see some hundreds, perhaps thousands, to whom we would

instinctively turn, and wish we had the power to say something that

would encourage them in their careers.

‘That is just how I feel. Not all who hear are influenced by precept,

and not all who see, change because of example. But as I am not singular

in anything that I know of, there must be a goodly number of boys who

are penetrable, and it is for these penetrable intelligences, and

assimilative organizations, that I would care to leave the truthful

record of my life. For I believe the story of my efforts, struggles,

sufferings, and failures, of the work done, and the work left undone,--I

believe this story would help others. If my life had been merely

frivolous, a life of purposeless drifting, why, then silence were

better. But it has not been so, and therefore my life can teach some

lessons, and give encouragement to others.’

The pathos of this Autobiography lies in the deprivations and denials of

those early years, here recorded for the first time. Yet these

sufferings, as he came to realise, were shaping and fitting him for the

great work he was to perform; and his training and experiences were

perhaps the finest a man could have had, since, day by day, he was being

educated for the life that lay before him. Stanley writes:--

‘It can be understood how invaluable such a career and such a training,

with its compulsory lessons, was to me, as a preparation for the

tremendous tasks which awaited me.’

A boy of intense and passionate feelings, the longing for home, love,

friends, and encouragement, at times amounted to pain; yet all these

natural blessings were denied him; he received no affection from

parents, no shelter of home, no kindness or help of friends, excepting

from his adopted father, who died soon after befriending the lonely boy.

Baffled and bruised at every turn, yet ‘the strong pulse of youth

vindicates its right to gladness, even here.’ Orphaned, homeless,

friendless, destitute, he nevertheless was rich in self-reliance and

self-control, with a trust in God which never failed him. And so Stanley

grew to greatness, a greatness which cannot be fully measured by his

contemporaries. As a key to Stanley’s life, it may be mentioned that one

of his earliest and dearest wishes, often expressed to me in secret,

was, by his personal character and the character of his work in every

stage of his career, to obliterate the stigma of pauperism which had

been so deeply branded into his very soul by the Poor-Law methods, and

which in most cases is so lifelong in its blasting effects on those who

would strive to rise, ever so little, from such a Slough of Despond. So

that, when he had achieved fame as an explorer, he craved, far more than

this, a recognition by the English and American Public of the high

endeavour which was the result of a real nobility of character and aim.

The ungenerous conduct displayed towards Stanley by a portion of the

Press and Public would have been truly extraordinary, but for the

historical treatment of Columbus and other great explorers into the

Unknown. Stanley was not only violently attacked on his return from

every expedition, but it was, for instance, insinuated that he had not

discovered Livingstone, while some even dared to denounce, as forgeries,

the autograph letters brought home from Livingstone to his children,

notwithstanding their own assurance to the contrary. This reception

produced, therefore, a bitter disappointment, only to be appreciated by

the reader when he has completed this survey of Stanley’s splendid

personality.

That Stanley sought no financial benefit by exploiting Africa, as he

might legitimately have done, is borne out by the fact that instead of

becoming a multi-millionaire, as the result of his vast achievements,

and his unique influence with the native chiefs, the actual sources of

his income were almost entirely literary. This is indicated in the text.

Accepting Free Trade as a policy, the blindness of the British Nation to

the value of additional colonies, and the indifference, not only of

successive Governments, but of the various Chambers of Commerce, and the

industrial community generally, whose business instincts might have been

expected to develop greater foresight, were a source of the deepest

concern and disappointment to Stanley; for it meant the loss to England

both of the whole of the present Congo Free State, and, later, of the

monopoly of the Congo Railway, now one of the most profitable in the

world. The determined opposition for long exhibited to the acquisition

of Uganda and British East Africa was also, for a time, a great anxiety

to him.

It may also be pointed out here that all that is now German East Africa

was explored and opened up to commerce and civilisation by British

explorers, Livingstone, Burton, Speke, and Stanley. Thus England threw

away what individual Empire-builders had won for the realm. The obvious

advantages and paramount necessity to a Free-Trade country of having

vast new markets of its own are sufficiently apparent, whatever views

are held on the difficult Fiscal Question.

Canon Hensley Henson, in 1907, preached a remarkable sermon at St.

Margaret’s Church, Westminster, on St. Paul; and the following passage

struck me as being, in some respects, not inapplicable to Stanley:--

‘St. Paul, in after years, when he could form some estimate of the

effect of his vision, came to think that it represented the climax of a

long course of Providential action; his ancestry, character, training,

experiences, seemed to him, in retrospect, so wonderfully adapted to the

work which he had been led to undertake, that he felt compelled to

ascribe all to the over-ruling Providence of God; that no less a Power

than God Himself had been active in his life; and the singular congruity

of his earlier experiences with the requirements of his later work,

confirmed the impression.’

‘Such men,’ wrote the Rev. W. Hughes, Missionary on the Congo, ‘as Dr.

Livingstone and Henry M. Stanley, who went to Africa to prepare the way

and open up that vast and wealthy country, that the light of

civilisation and the Gospel might enter therein, are men created for

their work, set apart, and sent out by Divine Providence, which

over-rules everything that it may promote the good of man, and show

forth His own glory. No one who has always lived in a civilised country

can conceive what these two men have accomplished.’

The following striking picture of Stanley, from an article in

‘Blackwood’s Magazine,’ may well be given here:--

‘If the history of modern discovery has a moment comparable for dramatic

interest to that in which Columbus turned his prow westward, and sailed

into space, to link for ever the destinies of two hemispheres, it is the

one in which a roving white man, in the far heart of Africa, set his

face down the current of a mighty river, and committed himself to its

waters, determined, for weal or woe, to track their course to the sea.

The Genoese navigator, indeed, who divined and dared an unknown world,

staked the whole future of humanity on his bold intuition, but posterity

may one day trace results scarcely less momentous to the resolve of the

intrepid explorer who launched his canoe on the Congo at Nyangwe, to win

a second great inheritance for mankind.

The exploration of the great, moving highway of Africa makes an epoch in

the discovery of Africa, closing the era of desultory and isolated

research, and opening that of combined, steady effort towards a

definite, though distant, goal. That goal is the opening-up of the vast

Equatorial region to direct intercourse with Europe.’

I will now close my preface with St. Paul’s words, because they so

wonderfully apply to Stanley:--

In journeyings often, in perils of waters,

In perils of robbers, in perils by mine own countrymen,

in perils by the heathen,

In perils in the city, in perils in the wilderness,

in perils in the sea,

In perils among false brethren;

In weariness and painfulness, in watchings often,

In hunger and thirst, in fastings often,

In cold and nakedness.

* * * * *

If I must needs glory, I will glory of the things that concern my

weakness.

(II Corinthians, Chap. xi, 26, 27, 30.)

The first nine chapters of the book are the Autobiography, covering the

early years of Stanley’s life. In the remaining chapters, the aim has

been to make him the narrator and interpreter of his own actions. This

has been done, wherever possible, by interweaving, into a connected

narrative, strands gathered from his unpublished writings.

These materials consist, first, of journals and note-books. For many

years he kept a line-a-day diary; through some periods, especially

during his explorations, he wrote a full journal; and at a later period

he kept note-books, as well as a journal, for jotting down, sometimes a

personal retrospect, sometimes a comment on the society about him, or a

philosophical reflection.

The material includes, next, a number of lectures, upon his various

explorations; these he prepared with great care, but they were never

published. They were written after he had published the books covering

the same travels; and in the lectures we have the story told in a more

condensed and colloquial way. Finally, there are his letters; in those

to acquaintances, and even to friends, Stanley was always reserved about

himself, and his feelings; I have therefore used only a few of those

written to me, during our married life.

In some parts of the book, a thread of editorial explanation connects

the passages by Stanley’s hand; and for some periods, where the original

material was fragmentary, the main narrative is editorial.

The use of the large type signifies that Stanley is the writer; the

smaller type indicates the editor’s hand.

I would here record my deep gratitude to Mr. George S. Merriam, of

Springfield, Massachusetts, U. S. A., for the invaluable help and advice

he has given me; and also to Mr. Henry S. Wellcome, Stanley’s

much-valued friend, for the great encouragement and sympathy he has

shown me throughout the preparation of this book for the press.

Mr. Sidney Low’s beautiful tribute, I republish, by kind permission of

Messrs. Smith and Elder, from the ‘Cornhill Magazine,’ of July, 1904.

Finally, I would draw attention to the map of Africa placed at the end

of this volume: Stanley carefully superintended the making of it by the

great map-maker, Mr. John Bolton, at Messrs. Stanford’s. It was Mr.

Bolton’s suggestion that I should put the small outline map of England

beside it to indicate, by comparison, the relative size of that portion

of Africa which is included in the larger map.

D. S.

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION TO THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY XV

PART I

AUTOBIOGRAPHY. THROUGH THE WORLD

I. THE WORKHOUSE 3

II. ADRIFT 35

III. AT SEA 69

IV. AT WORK 86

V. I FIND A FATHER 118

VI. ADRIFT AGAIN 140

VII. SOLDIERING 167

VIII. SHILOH 186

IX. PRISONER OF WAR 205

PART II

THE LIFE (_continued, from Stanley’s Journals, Notes, etc._)

X. JOURNALISM 219

XI. WEST AND EAST

INDIAN WARS OF THE WEST.--ABYSSINIAN CAMPAIGN, ETC. 225

XII. A ROVING COMMISSION 237

XIII. THE FINDING OF LIVINGSTONE 251

XIV. ENGLAND AND COOMASSIE 285

XV. THROUGH THE DARK CONTINENT 296

XVI. FOUNDING THE CONGO STATE 333

XVII. THE RESCUE OF EMIN

I. THE RELIEF 353

II. PRIVATE REFLECTIONS 380

XVIII. WORK IN REVIEW 392

XIX. EUROPE AGAIN 409

XX. THE HAPPY HAVEN 423

XXI. POLITICS AND FRIENDS 439

XXII. IN PARLIAMENT 466

XXIII. SOUTH AFRICA 482

XXIV. FAREWELL TO PARLIAMENT 501

XXV. FURZE HILL 506

XXVI. THE CLOSE OF LIFE 512

XXVII. THOUGHTS FROM NOTE-BOOKS 517

BIBLIOGRAPHY 541

INDEX 543

ILLUSTRATIONS

HENRY M. STANLEY, 1890 _Frontispiece_

_Photograph by Mrs. Frederic W. H. Myers._

COTTAGE WHERE HENRY M. STANLEY WAS BORN _to face_ 4

FYNNON BEUNO 42

HENRY M. STANLEY, AGED 15 52

“CRAIG FAWR” FROM THE FARM 54

HENRY M. STANLEY, AGED 17 140

HENRY M. STANLEY, AGED 20 167

HENRY M. STANLEY, 1872 264

_Photograph by the London Stereoscopic Co., Regent St., London._

DOCTOR LIVINGSTONE 282

_Photograph by the London Stereoscopic Co., Regent St., London._

HENRY M. STANLEY AND HIS ZANZIBARIS, 1877 330

HENRY M. STANLEY, 1882 336

_Photograph By Messrs. Thomson, New Bond St., London._

HENRY M. STANLEY, 1885 348

_Photograph By Messrs. Elliott & Fry, Baker St., London._

FAC-SIMILE OF A LETTER BY SIR HENRY M. STANLEY 378

HENRY M. STANLEY AND HIS OFFICERS, 1890 390

HENRY M. STANLEY, ON HIS RETURN FROM AFRICA, 1890 409

_Photograph by Mrs. Frederic W. H. Myers._

DOROTHY STANLEY 423

_Photograph by Mrs. Frederic W. H. Myers._

IN THE VILLAGE CHURCHYARD, PIRBRIGHT 516

MAP OF AFRICA SHOWING STANLEY’S JOURNEYS _at end_

_By Messrs. Stanford, London._

INTRODUCTION TO THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY

There is no reason now for withholding the history of my early years,

nothing to prevent my stating every fact about myself. I am now

declining in vitality. My hard life in Africa, many fevers, many

privations, much physical and mental suffering, bring me close to the

period of infirmities. My prospects now cannot be blasted by gibes, nor

advancement thwarted by prejudice. I stand in no man’s way. Therefore,

without fear of consequences, or danger to my pride and reserve, I can

lay bare all circumstances which have attended me from the dawn of

consciousness to this present period of indifference.

I may tell how I came into existence, and how that existence was moulded

by contact with others; how my nature developed under varying

influences, and what, after life’s severe tests, is the final outcome of

it. I may tell how, from the soft, tender atom in the cradle, I became a

football to Chance, till I grew in hardihood, and learned how to repel

kicks; how I was taught to observe the moods and humours of that large

mass of human beings who flitted by me.

As I have been in the habit of confining myself to myself, my reserve

has been repugnant to gossip in every shape or form, and I have ever

been the least likely person to hear anything evil of others, because,

when the weakness or eccentricity of a casual acquaintance happened to

be a topic, I have made it a principle to modify, if I could not change

it. In this book I am not translating from a diary, nor is it the

harvest of a journal, but it consists of backward glances at my own

life, as memory unrolls the past to me. My inclination, as a young man,

was always to find congenial souls to whom I could attach myself in

friendship, not cling to for support, friends on whom I could thoroughly

rely, and to whom I could trustfully turn for sympathy, and the exchange

of thoughts. But, unfortunately, those to whom in my trustful age I

ventured to consign the secret hopes and interests of my heart,

invariably betrayed me. In some bitter moods I have thought that the

sweetest parts of the Bible are wholly inapplicable to actual humanity,

for no power, it appeared to me, could ever transform grown-up human

beings so as to be worthy of heavenly blessings.

‘Little children, love one another,’ says divine St. John. Ah! yes,

while we are children, we are capable of loving; our love is as that of

Angels, and we are not far below them in purity, despite our trivial

errors and fantasies; for however we err, we still can love. But when I

emerged from childhood, and learned by experience that there was no love

for me, born, so to say, fatherless, spurned and disowned by my mother,

beaten almost to death by my teacher and guardian, fed on the bread of

bitterness, how was I to believe in Love?

I was met by Hate in all its degrees, and not I alone. Look into the

halls of legislation, of religious communities, of justice; look into

the Press, any market-place, meeting-house, or walk of life, and answer

the question, as to your own soul, ‘Where shall I find Love?’

See what a change forty years have wrought in me. When a child, I loved

him who so much as smiled at me; the partner of my little bed, my

play-fellow, the stranger boy who visited me; nay, as a flower attracts

the bee, it only needed the glance of a human face, to begin regarding

it with love. Mere increase of years has changed all that. Never can I

recall that state of innocence, any more than I can rekindle the

celestial spark, for it was extinguished with the expansion of intellect

and by my experience of mankind. While my heart, it may be, is as tender

as ever to the right person, it is subject to my intellect, which has

become so fastidious and nice in its choice, that only one in a million

is pronounced worthy of it.

No doubt there will be much self-betrayal in these pages, and he who can

read between the lines, as a physiognomist would read character, will

not find it difficult to read me. But then, this is the purpose of an

Autobiography, and all will agree that it must be much more authentic

than any record made of me by another man. Indeed, I wish to appear

without disguise, as regards manners and opinions, habits and

characteristics.

If a nation can be said to be happy which has no history, that man is

also happy whose uneventful life has not brought him into prominence,

and who has nothing to record but the passing of years between the

cradle and the grave. But I was not sent into the world to be happy, nor

to search for happiness. I was sent for a special work. Now, from

innocent boyhood and trustful youth, I have advanced to some height

whence I can look down, pityingly; as a father I can look down upon that

young man, Myself, with a chastened pride; he has done well, he might

have done better, but his life has been a fulfilment, since he has

finished the work he was sent to do.

Amen.

PART I

AUTOBIOGRAPHY

THROUGH THE WORLD

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF SIR HENRY MORTON STANLEY

CHAPTER I

THE WORKHOUSE

It is said that one of the patrician Mostyns, of North Wales, possesses

a written pedigree forty feet long, to prove the claim of his family to

a direct descent from Adam. Though no doubt much of this extraordinary

genealogy is fabulous, it allows all of us plebeians a reasonable hope

to believe that we are also descended from that venerated ancestor of

our common humanity. The time has been when patrician families fondly

believed their first progenitor had come direct from Heaven, and we

baser creatures had to be content with an earthly sire.

I can prove as ancient a descent for myself, though the names of my

intermediate progenitors between Adam and my grandfathers, Moses and

John, have not been preserved. My family belonged to a class always

strangely indifferent to written pedigrees, which relied more on oral

traditions, the preserving of which has been mostly the duties of

females, on account of their superior fluency of speech, and their

disposition to cling to their family hearth. My earliest pains were

caused by the endless rehearsal of family history to which my nurse was

addicted; for soon after sunset each evening she would insist on taking

me before some neighbour’s fire, where I would meet about a dozen dames

from the Castle Row, prepared to indulge in their usual entertainment of

recitations from their stock of unwritten folklore. After a ceremonious

greeting and kindly interchange of civil enquiries about each other’s

health and affairs, they would soon drift into more serious matter. I

have a vague idea that much of it bordered on the uncanny and awful, but

I retain a strong impression that most of their conversations related to

the past and present of their respective families, courtships,

marriages, and deaths being prime events. I also remember that there

were many long pauses, during which I could hear a chorus of sympathetic

sighs. The episodes which drew these from their affectionate breasts are

quite forgotten, but those sighs haunt me still.

Such families as were clustered in front of the Green of Denbigh Castle

were an exceedingly primitive folk, with far less regard for ancient

ancestry than the Bedouin of the Desert. Indeed, I doubt whether

any tradesman or farmer in our parts could say who was his

great-great-grandfather, or whether one yeoman out of a hundred could

tell who was his ancestor of two hundred years back. As King Cazembe

said to Livingstone, the ‘Seeker of Rivers,’ ‘We let the streams run on,

and do not enquire whence they rise or whither they flow.’

So these simple Welsh people would answer if questioned about their

ancestors, ‘We are born and die, and, beyond that, none of us care who

were before us, or who shall come after us.’

My personal recollections do not extend beyond the time I lay in the

cradle; so that all that precedes this period I have been obliged to

take upon trust. Mind and body have grown together, and both will decay

according to the tasks or burdens imposed on them. But strange,

half-formed ideas glide vaguely into the mind, sometimes, and then I

seem not far from a tangible and intelligent view into a distant age.

Sometimes the turn of a phrase, a sentence in a book, the first faint

outline of a scene, a face like, yet unlike, one whom I knew, an

incident, will send my mind searching swiftly down the long-reaching

aisles, extending far into remote, pre-personal periods, trying to

discover the connection, to forge again the long-broken link, or to

re-knit the severed strand.

My father I never knew. I was in my ‘teens’ before I learned that he had

died within a few weeks after my birth. Up to a certain date in the

early Forties, all is profound darkness to me. Then, as I woke from

sleep one day, a brief period of consciousness suddenly dawned upon my

faculties. There was an indefinable murmur about me, some unintelligible

views floated before my senses, light flashed upon the spirit, and I

entered into being.

At what age I first received these dim, but indelible, impressions, I

cannot guess. It must have been in helpless

[Illustration: THE COTTAGE WHERE HENRY M. STANLEY WAS BORN]

infancy, for I seem to have passed, subsequently, through a long age of

dreams, wherein countless vague experiences, emotions, and acts occurred

which, though indefinable, left shadowy traces on my memory. During such

a mechanical stage of existence it was not possible for me to

distinguish between dreams and realities.

I fancy I see a white ceiling, and square joists, with meat-hooks

attached to them, a round, pink human face, the frill of a cap, a bit of

bright ribbon; but, before I am able to grasp the meaning of what I see,

I have lapsed into unconsciousness again. After an immeasurable time,

the faculties seem to be re-awakened, and I can distinguish tones, and

am aware that I can see, hear, and feel, and that I am in my cradle. It

is close by a wooden staircase, and my eyes follow its length up, and

then down; I catch sight of a house-fly, and then another, and their

buzz and movements become absorbing. Presently a woman advances, bends

over me a moment, then lifts me up in her arms, and from a great height

I survey my world.

There is a settle of dark wood, a bit of carving at the end of it; there

is a black, shiny chimney; a red coal-fire, with one spluttering jet of

flame, and waving soot-flakes; there is a hissing black kettle, and a

thread of vapour from the nozzle; a bright copper bed-warmer suspended

to the wall; a display of coloured plates, mainly blue, with Chinese

pictures on them, arranged over a polished dresser; there is an uneven

flagstone floor; a window with diamond panes set in lead; a burnished

white table, with two deep drawers in it; a curious old clock, with

intensely red flowers above, and chains and weights below it; and,

lastly, I see a door cut into two halves, the upper one being wide open,

through which I gain my first view of sky and space. This last is a

sight worth seeing, and I open my eyes roundly to take stock of this

pearly space and its drifting fleece as seen through the door, and my

attention is divided between the sky and the tick-tack of the clock,

while forced to speculate what the white day and the pearly void mean.

There follows a transition into another state of conscious being wherein

I appear to have wings, and to be soaring up to the roof of a great

hall, and sailing from corner to corner, like a humming bee on a tour of

exploration; and, the roof presently being removed, I launch out with

wings outspread, joyous and free, until I lose myself in the unknowable,

to emerge, sometime after, in my own cradle-nest at the foot of the

wooden stairs.

And thus, for an unknown stretch of time, I endure my days without

apparent object, but quietly observant, and an inarticulate witness of a

multitude of small events; and thus I waited, and watched, and dreamed,

surrendering myself to my state, undisturbed, unaffected, unresisting,

borne along by Time until I could stand and take a larger and more

deliberate survey of the strange things done around me. In process of

time, however, my tongue learns to form words, and to enter upon its

duties, and it is not long before intelligence begins to peep out and to

retain durably the sense of existence.

One of the first things I remember is to have been gravely told that I

had come from London in a band-box, and to have been assured that all

babies came from the same place. It satisfied my curiosity for several

years as to the cause of my coming; but, later, I was informed that my

mother had hastened to her parents from London to be delivered of me;

and that, after recovery, she had gone back to the Metropolis, leaving

me in the charge of my grandfather, Moses Parry, who lived within the

precincts of Denbigh Castle.

Forty years of my life have passed, and this delving into my earliest

years appears to me like an exhumation of Pompeii, buried for centuries

under the scoriæ, lava, and volcanic dust of Vesuvius. To the man of the

Nineteenth Century, who paces the recovered streets and byeways of

Pompeii, how strange seem the relics of the far distant life! Just so

appear to me the little fatherless babe, and the orphaned child.

Up to a certain time I could remember well every incident connected with

those days; but now I look at the child with wonder, and can scarcely

credit that out of that child I grew. How quaint that bib and tucker,

that short frock, the fat legs, the dimpled cheeks, the clear, bright,

grey eyes, the gaping wonderment at the sight of a stranger; and I have

to brush by the stupefied memories of a lifetime!

When I attempt to arrest one of the fleeting views of these early stages

of my life, the foremost image which presents itself is that of my

grandfather’s house, a white-washed cottage, situated at the extreme

left of the Castle, with a long garden at the back, at the far end of

which was the slaughterhouse where my Uncle Moses pole-axed calves, and

prepared their carcasses for the market; and the next is of myself, in

bib and tucker, between grandfather’s knees, having my fingers guided,

as I trace the alphabet letters on a slate. I seem to hear, even yet,

the encouraging words of the old man, ‘Thou wilt be a man yet before thy

mother, my man of men.’

It was then, I believe, that I first felt what it was to be vain. I was

proud to believe that, though women might be taller, stronger, and older

than I, there lay a future before me that the most powerful women could

never hope to win. It was then also I gathered that a child’s first duty

was to make haste to be a man, in order that I might attain that highest

human dignity.

My grandfather appears to me as a stout old gentleman, clad in corduroy

breeches, dark stockings, and long Melton coat, with a clean-shaven

face, rather round, and lit up by humorous grey eyes. He and I occupied

the top floor, which had an independent entrance from the garden. The

lower rooms were inhabited by my uncles, Moses and Thomas. By-and-bye,

there came a change. My strong, one-armed Uncle Moses married a woman

named Kitty, a flaxen-haired, fair girl of a decided temper; and after

that event we seldom descended to the lower apartments.

I have a vivid remembrance of Sunday evenings at a Wesleyan chapel, on

account of the tortures which I endured. The large galleried building,

crowded with fervid worshippers, and the deep murmur of ‘Amens,’ the

pious ejaculations, are well remembered, as well as the warm atmosphere

and curious scent of lavender which soon caused an unconquerable

drowsiness in me. Within a short time my head began to nod heavily, to

the great danger of my neck, and the resolute effort I made to overcome

this sleepiness, to avoid the reproaches of my grandfather, who affected

to be shocked at my extraordinary behaviour, caused the conflict with

nature to be so painful that it has been impossible for me to forget the

chapel and its scenes.

After passing my fourth year there came an afternoon when, to my dismay

and fright, a pitcher with which I was sent for water fell from my hands

and was broken. My grandfather came to the garden door on hearing the

crash, and, viewing what had happened, lifted his forefinger menacingly

and said, ‘Very well, Shonin, my lad, when I return, thou shalt have a

sound whipping. You naughty boy!’

A tragedy, however, intervened to prevent this punishment. It appears

that he was in a hurry to attend to some work in a field that day, and,

while there, fell down dead. The neighbours announced that he had died

through the ‘visitation of God,’ which was their usual way of explaining

any sudden fatality of this kind. He was aged 84. His tomb at Whitchurch

declares the event to have occurred in 1847.

Soon after, I was transferred to the care of an ancient couple who lived

at the other end of the Castle, named Richard and Jenny Price, keepers

of the Bowling Green, into which one of the courts of the old Castle had

been converted. The rate for my maintenance was fixed at half-a-crown a

week, which my two uncles agreed to pay to the Prices. Old Richard

Price, besides being a gamekeeper, was Sexton of Whitchurch, and Verger

of St. David’s. His wife Jenny, a stout and buxom old lady, is

remembered by me mostly for her associations with ‘peas-pudding,’ for

which I had a special aversion, and for her resolute insistence that,

whether I liked it or not, I should eat it.

Other memories of this period are also unforgettable for the pains

connected with them,--such as the soap-lather in my Saturday evening

tub, and the nightly visits of Sarah Price, the daughter of the house,

to her friends at Castle Row, where she would gossip to such a late hour

that I always suffered from intolerable fidgets. Mothers of the present

day will understand how hard it is for a child of four or five years old

to remain awake long after sunset, and that it was cruel ignorance on

the part of Sarah to keep me up until ten o’clock every night, to listen

to her prosy stories of ghosts and graves. Sarah’s description of a

devil, a curious creature with horns on his head, with hoofed feet and a

long tail, was wont to make me shiver with fright. She was equally

graphic and minute in her descriptions of witches, ghosts, fairies,

giants and dwarfs, kidnappers and hobgoblins, bugaboos, and other

terrific monsters, against whose extraordinary powers it behoved me to

be always on guard. The dark night was especially haunted by them, and

the ingle-nook by a bright fire was then the safest place for children.

If the grown folk had not all shared Sarah’s belief in these gruesome

creatures, I might perhaps have doubted they existed; but I remember to

have seen them huddle closer to the fire, look warily over their

shoulders at the shadows, as though they lay in wait for a casual bit of

darkness to pounce upon them and carry them off to the ghostly limbo.

Had Sarah but known how pain impresses the memory of a child, it is

probable that she would have put me to bed rather than have taken me

with her, as a witness of her folly and ignorant credulity. She believed

herself to be very level-headed, and, indeed, by her acquaintances she

was esteemed as a sensible and clever woman; but, as she infected me

with many silly fears, I am now inclined to believe that both she and

her neighbours were sadly deficient in common-sense.

One effect of these interminable ghost-stories was visible one evening

when I went to fetch some water from the Castle well. It appeared to me

that I saw on this occasion a tall, black spectre, standing astride of

the Castle well. I took it at first to be the shadow of a tree, but

tracing it upward I saw a man’s head which seemed to reach the sky. I

gazed at it a short time, unable to move or cry out; then the phantom

seemed to be advancing upon me, fear put wings to my feet, and I turned

and ran, screaming, and never once halted until I had found a safe

hiding-place under my bed. The dreadful vision of that ghost haunted me

for years, and for a long time I made it a rule not to retire until I

had looked under the bed, lest, when asleep, ghosts and kidnappers might

come and carry me off. The belief that the darkness was infested by evil

agencies and ferocious visitants hostile to little boys I owe to Sarah’s

silly garrulity at Castle Row.

I am under the impression that during the day, for a portion of this

period, I was sent to an infant’s school, where there was a terrible old

lady who is associated in my mind with spectacles and a birch rod; but I

have no particular incident connected with it to make it definite.

Richard Price and his wife Jenny seem to have, at last, become dismayed

at my increasing appetite, and to have demanded a higher rate for my

maintenance. As both my uncles had in the mean time married, and through

the influence of their wives declined to be at further charge for me,

the old couple resolved to send me to the Workhouse. Consequently Dick

Price, the son, took me by the hand one day, Saturday, February 20th,

1847, and, under the pretence that we were going to Aunt Mary at Fynnon

Beuno, induced me to accompany him on a long journey.

The way seemed interminable and tedious, but he did his best to relieve

my fatigue with false cajolings and treacherous endearments. At last

Dick set me down from his shoulders before an immense stone building,

and, passing through tall iron gates, he pulled at a bell, which I could

hear clanging noisily in the distant interior. A sombre-faced stranger

appeared at the door, who, despite my remonstrances, seized me by the

hand, and drew me within, while Dick tried to sooth my fears with glib

promises that he was only going to bring Aunt Mary to me. The door

closed on him, and, with the echoing sound, I experienced for the first

time the awful feeling of utter desolateness.

The great building with the iron gates and innumerable windows, into

which I had been so treacherously taken, was the St. Asaph Union

Workhouse. It is an institution to which the aged poor and superfluous

children of that parish are taken, to relieve the respectabilities of

the obnoxious sight of extreme poverty, and because civilisation knows

no better method of disposing of the infirm and helpless than by

imprisoning them within its walls.

Once within, the aged are subjected to stern rules and useless tasks,

while the children are chastised and disciplined in a manner that is

contrary to justice and charity. To the aged it is a house of slow

death, to the young it is a house of torture. Paupers are the failures

of society, and the doom of such is that they shall be taken to eke out

the rest of their miserable existence within the walls of the Workhouse,

to pick oakum.

The sexes are lodged in separate wards enclosed by high walls, and every

door is locked, and barred, and guarded, to preserve that austere

morality for which these institutions are famous. That the piteous

condition of these unfortunates may not arouse any sympathy in the

casual visitor, the outcasts are clad in fustian suits, or striped

cotton dresses, in which uniform garb they become undistinguishable, and

excite no interest. Their only fault was that they had become old, or so

enfeebled by toil and sickness that they could no longer sustain

themselves, and this is so heinous and grave in Christian England that

it is punished by the loss of their liberty, and they are made slaves.

At one time in English history such wretches were left to die by the

wayside; at another time, they incurred the suspicion of being witches,

and were either drowned or burnt; but in the reign of Queen Victoria the

dull-witted nation has conceived it to be more humane to confine them in

a prison, separate husband from wife, parent from child, and mete out to

each inmate a daily task, and keep old and young under the strictest

surveillance. At six in the morning they are all roused from sleep; and

at 8 o’clock at night they are penned up in their dormitories. Bread,

gruel, rice, and potatoes compose principally their fare, after being

nicely weighed and measured. On Saturdays each person must undergo a

thorough scrubbing, and on Sundays they must submit to two sermons,

which treat of things never practised, and patiently kneel during a

prayer as long as a sermon, in the evening.

It is a fearful fate, that of a British outcast, because the punishment

afflicts the mind and breaks the heart. It is worse than that which

overtakes the felonious convict, because it appears so unmerited, and so

contrary to that which the poor have a right to expect from a Christian

and civilised people.

Ages hence the nation will be wiser, and devise something more suited to

the merits of the veteran toilers. It will convert these magnificent and

spacious buildings into model houses for the poor, on the flat system,

which may be done at little expense. The cruel walls which deprive the

inmates of their liberty will be demolished, and the courts will be

converted into grassy plats edged by flowering bushes. The stupid

restraints on the aged will be abolished, husbands and wives will be

housed together, their children will be restored to them after school

hours. The bachelors and spinsters will dwell apart, the orphans will be

placed in orphanages, the idiots in asylums, and the able-bodied tramp

and idler in penitentiaries, and these costly structures will lose their

present opprobrious character.

But now, as in 1847, the destitute aged and the orphans, the vagabonds

and the idiots, are gathered into these institutions, and located in

their respective wards according to age and sex. In that of St. Asaph

the four wards meet in an octagonal central house, which contains the

offices of the institution, and is the residence of the governor and

matron.

It took me some time to learn the unimportance of tears in a workhouse.

Hitherto tears had brought me relief in one shape or another, but from

this time forth they availed nothing. James Francis, the one-handed

school-master into whose stern grasp Dick Price had resigned me, was

little disposed to soften the blow dealt my sensibilities by treachery.

Though forty-five years have passed since that dreadful evening, my

resentment has not a whit abated. Dick’s guile was well meant, no doubt,

but I then learned for the first time that one’s professed friend can

smile while preparing to deal a mortal blow, and that a man can mask

evil with a show of goodness. It would have been far better for me if

Dick, being stronger than I, had employed compulsion, instead of

shattering my confidence and planting the first seeds of distrust in a

child’s heart.

Francis, soured by misfortune, brutal of temper, and callous of heart,

through years of control over children, was not a man to understand the

cause of my inconsolable grief. Nor did he try. Time, however,

alleviated my affliction, and the lapse of uncounted days, bringing

their quota of smarts and pains, tended to harden the mind for life’s

great task of suffering. No Greek helot or dark slave ever underwent

such discipline as the boys of St. Asaph under the heavy masterful hand

of James Francis. The ready back-slap in the face, the stunning clout

over the ear, the strong blow with the open palm on alternate cheeks,

which knocked our senses into confusion, were so frequent that it is a

marvel we ever recovered them again. Whatever might be the nature of the

offence, or merely because his irritable mood required vent, our poor

heads were cuffed, and slapped, and pounded, until we lay speechless and

streaming with blood. But though a tremendously rough and reckless

striker with his fist or hand, such blows were preferable to deliberate

punishment with the birch, ruler, or cane, which, with cool malice, he

inflicted. These instruments were always kept ready at hand. It simply

depended upon how far the victim was from him, or how great was his

fury, as to which he would choose to castigate us with. If we happened

to be called up to him to recite our lessons, then the bony hand flew

mercilessly about our faces and heads, or rammed us in the stomachs

until our convulsions became alarming. If, while at the desk, he was

reading to us, he addressed a question to some boy, the slightest error

in reply would either be followed by a stinging blow from the ruler, or

a thwack with his blackthorn. If a series of errors were discovered in

our lessons, then a vindictive scourging of the offender followed, until

he was exhausted, or our lacerated bodies could bear no more.[1]

My first flogging is well remembered, and illustrates the man’s temper

and nature thoroughly, and proves that we were more unfortunate than

vicious. It was a Sunday evening in the early part of 1849. Francis was

reading aloud to us the 41st chapter of Genesis, preliminary to

dismissing us to our dormitory. There was much reference in the chapter

to Joseph, who had been sold as a slave by his brothers, and had been

promoted to high rank by Pharaoh. In order to test our attention, he

suddenly looked up and demanded of me who it was that had interpreted

the dream of the King. With a proud confidence I promptly replied,--

‘Jophes, sir.’

‘Who?’

‘Jophes, sir.’

‘Joseph, you mean.’

‘Yes, sir, Jophes.’

Despite his repeated stern shouts of ‘Joseph,’ I as often replied

‘Jophes,’ wondering more and more at his rising wrath, and wherein lay

the difference between the two names.

He grew tired at last, and laying hold of a new birch rod he ordered me

to unbreech, upon which I turned marble-white, and for a moment was as

one that is palsied, for my mind was struggling between astonishment,

terror, and doubt as to whether my ears had heard aright, and why I was

chosen to be the victim of his anger. This hesitation increased his

wrath, and while I was still inwardly in a turmoil he advanced upon me,

and rudely tore down my nether garment and administered a forceful

shower of blows, with such thrilling effect that I was bruised and

bloodied all over, and could not stand for a time. During the hour that

followed I remained as much perplexed at the difference between ‘Jophes’

and ‘Joseph’ as at the peculiar character of the agonising pains I

suffered. For some weeks I was under the impression that the scourging

was less due to my error than to some mysterious connection it might

have with Genesis.

With such a passionate teacher it may be imagined that we children

increased his displeasure times without number. The restlessness of

childhood, and nature’s infirmities, contributed endless causes for

correction. The unquiet feet, the lively tongues, defects of memory,

listlessness, the effects of the climate, all sufficed to provoke his

irritation, and to cause us to be summarily castigated with birch or

stick, or pummelled without mercy.

Day after day little wretches would be flung down on the stone floor in

writhing heaps, or stood, with blinking eyes and humped backs, to

receive the shock of the ebony ruler, or were sent pirouetting across

the school from a ruffianly kick, while the rest suffered from a

sympathetic terror during such exhibitions, for none knew what moment he

might be called to endure the like. Every hour of our lives we lived and

breathed in mortal fear of the cruel hand and blighting glare of one so

easily frenzied.

The second memorable whipping I received was during the autumn of 1851,

the year of Rhuddlan Eisteddfod. Cholera was reported to be in the

country, and I believe we were forbidden to eat fruit of any kind. Some

weeks, however, after the edict had been issued, I and the most

scholarly boy in the school were sent on an errand to the Cathedral

town. When returning, we caught sight of a bunch of blackberries on the

other side of a hedge, and, wholly oblivious of the consequences, we

climbed over a gate into the field and feasted on the delicious fruit,

and, of course, stained our fingers and lips. On reporting ourselves to

Francis, it was evident by the way he gazed at us both that he guessed

what we had been doing, but he said nothing, and we retired from him

with a sense of relief. About half an hour after we all had been

dismissed to our dormitory, and we were all quiet abed, the master’s

tramp was heard on the stairs, and when he appeared at the door he had a

birch as large as a broom in his hand.

He stood long enough to remind us all that he had expressly forbidden us

to eat any fruit from stall or hedge because of the sickness that was in

the country; then, giving a swishing blow in the air with his birch, he

advanced to my bed and with one hand plucked me out of bed, and

forthwith administered a punishment so dreadful that blackberries

suggested birching ever afterwards. He next went to the bed of the

scholar George, who hitherto had escaped the experience he was now to

undergo, because of his remarkable abilities. George, being new to the

exquisite pain of flagellation, writhed and struggled to such an extent

that he exasperated the master, and received double punishment, and his

back, breast, and legs were covered with wounds.

The hard tasks imposed upon us, such as sweeping the play-ground with

brooms more suited to giants than little children, the washing of the

slated floors when one was stiff from caning, the hoeing of frost-bound

ground, when every stroke on it caused the nerves to quiver, the

thinly-clad body all the while exposed to a searching wind; the

compelling us to commit whole pages to memory during the evening; in

these, and scores of other ways, our treatment was ferocious and stupid.

Under such treatment as these examples describe, who could have supposed

that any of the St. Asaph waifs would ever have developed into anything

resembling respectable manhood? Yet several of these poor lads have

since risen to receive a large measure of respect from Society. One of

them has become a wealthy merchant, another is a vicar, a third is a

colonial lawyer, and a fourth is a person of distinction in a South

African State.

It is true that, though unfortunate in early infancy, many of these

children were of sound, vigorous stock, and descended from people who

had once been eminently respectable; and the diet, though meagre, was

nourishing; but the inhuman discipline, the excessive confinement to

school, ought to have dwarfed their bodies, crushed their spirits, and

made them hopelessly imbecile.

Up to the eleventh year of age we all appeared to be of the same mould,

and of a very level mediocrity. We were of the same cowed, submissive

aspect, and were a mere flock of cropped little oddities, eating at the

same table, rising from bed and retiring at the same minute, subject to

the same ruthless discipline, and receiving the same lessons. There were

four classes of us, and the grade of intelligence in each class was so

alike that one might predict with certainty what year the infant of the

fourth class would be promoted to a place in the first. Favoritism was

impossible, for no boy possessed means, grace, or influence to mollify

or placate such a monster as Francis. Clad in that uninteresting garb of

squalid fustian, with hair mown close to the skull, brow-beaten and

mauled indiscriminately, a god might have passed unnoticed by the

average visitor. But as each boy verged on his eleventh year his

aptitudes became more marked, and he became distinguished by a certain

individuality of character and spirit.

The number of boys in our school averaged thirty, but out of that number

only five could be picked out as possessing qualities rivalling those of

the average clever boys of the best public schools. One named ‘Toomis’

was a born mathematician, another was famous for retentiveness of

memory. George Williams was unusually distinguished for quick

comprehension, while Billy, with his big head and lofty brow, astonished

Her Majesty’s Inspector, who prophesied great things of him in the

future, while I, though not particularly brilliant in any special thing

that I can remember, held my own as head of the school.

When the Eisteddfod was held at Rhuddlan in 1851, I was the one chosen

to represent the genius of the school; but, soon after the nomination,

I fell ill of measles, and Toomis succeeded to the honour. Apropos of

this: exactly forty years later I was invited to preside over one of the

meetings of the Eisteddfod, held at Swansea, but as I was preparing for

this honour, a fall at Mürren, Switzerland, resulted in the fracture of

my left leg, which rendered my appearance impossible.

The other boys in the school consisted of the dunces, the indolent, the

malingerers, the would-be truants, the dull, the noisy, the fat-witted

majority, just six times more numerous than the naturally-able boys.

This proportion of one in six is very common in the world. In ships that

I have sailed in, among the military companions with whom I have

campaigned, among the blacks and the whites of my African expeditions,

in the House of Commons, and in Congress, the leaven of one in six

seemed to be required to keep things rightly going.

When Bishop Vowler Short--who had once been tutor to Cardinal

Newman--appeared on his annual visit to the school, he was heard to

express high approval of the attainments of some of the boys in the

first class, and, after honouring them with valuable souvenirs,

graciously blessed them.

When Captain Leigh Thomas, the Chairman of the Board of Guardians, who

was a local magnate, and of Indian distinction--being descended from

that Captain George Thomas, who, in the last century, rose from

obscurity to the rank of an Indian prince in North-West India--visited

us, he pointed out to Francis promising traits in several of the head

boys, and was not too proud to pat us on the head, and elevate us by

kind encouragements with a hope that there were bright rewards in store

for some of us for our manifest abilities.

Her Majesty’s Inspector of Schools on his tour of inspection professed

to discover in some of our boys the signs of unusual intelligence, and,

calling one up to him, felt his head and his temples, and then turned

round to Francis, and declared, in our acute hearing, that he felt

assured ‘that boy would be a prodigy of learning if he went on.’

Our parson--Mr. Smalley, of Cwm--unbent one day to examine us on

Scripture History, and one boy so astonished him by his wonderful

memory, and quick and correct answers, that he exclaimed, ‘Why,

Francis, you have quite a young Erasmus here.’

The famous Hicks Owen, of Rhyllon, examined us in geography one time,

and was pleased to say, on concluding, that some of us knew far more

geography than he knew himself, and that to prevent being shamed by us

he would have to study his gazetteers and atlas before he ventured among

us a second time.

The auditor of the Board, after testing Toomis’s proficiency in

mathematics, laughingly called him young Babbage, and a lightning

calculator.

Such commendation was a great encouragement and stimulus. The rarity of

it, I suppose, impressed it on our minds, and the sweetness of the

praise had a more penetrating effect than blame or bruise.

The difference between our school and the public grammar school of the

period lay in the fact that our instruction was principally religious

and industrial, while in the other it was mainly secular and physical.

The aim of the Guardians appeared to be the making of commonplace

farmers, tradesmen, and mechanics, and instead of the gymnasium, our

muscles were practised in spade industry, gardening, tailoring, and

joiner’s work.

Our outdoor games were of a gentle and innocent kind, and only pursued

when the weather prohibited the use of the hoe and spade. We

instinctively chased humble-bees, daddy-long-legs, we played with

cowslip-balls, wove chains of dandelion flowers, and made chaplets of

buttercups. The oldsters, through some mysterious connection with the

outside boy-world, became acquainted with spring-tops, tip-cat,

kite-flying, hop-scotch, and marbles, leap-frog, hen-and-chickens, and

follow-my-leader. Through some means, the art of telling the time by

thistledown, and of divining by blowing the tassel, had been introduced

among us. We sometimes played hide-and-seek, and excited ourselves by

mild gambling with stones. At rare intervals we blackened one another’s

eyes, but, from fear of consequences, our quarrels were more often

settled by wrestling, when the victor might indulge his spleen by

thumping the fallen without marking the face. We were firm believers in

nocturnal visitants, and in the magic of the rhyme,

‘Rain, rain, go to Spain,

Sun, sun, come again.’

The mimetic power was early developed in me. The school-teacher, and

various country persons, the old porter even, were mimicked well enough

to draw the applause of my school-mates.

We joyfully looked forward to the coming of May, which always preceded

the season of sunshine and outdoor play on the lush green plats outside

of the walls. We faithfully observed St. Valentine’s Day, the 29th of

May, the 5th of November, and the 30th of January, for the names of Guy

Fawkes, and Charles I and II, were well known to us. Good Friday was

always a gloomy day with us, and Easter was solemn; but Christmas became

associated with pudding, toffee, and apples, and was the most welcome

day in the year.

We were Church folk, and were swayed by her festivals. Most of us could

repeat the Morning Service from memory, a few knew the Collects and

Psalms by heart, for they had been given to us so frequently as tasks

because of their sub-divisions, and because it was deemed necessary to

keep us constantly occupied; and as, morning and evening, we performed

our devotions, we grew marvellously familiar with Sacred History.

Our school was a little world in miniature. Most of those now prominent

in my recollection had been foreshadowed by traits which distinguished

my school-mates. The small creatures were faithful prototypes of scores

of adults I have since met in various parts of the world. If they have

not met with their deserts, good, bad, or indifferent, it must be

because of their lack, or misuse, of opportunities, or accident. There

were some among them good enough for heaven, there were others who

seemed wholly vile. Even at that early age I held a belief that some of

them would become heroes and saints, and would be world-famous, while

there were two or three whom I regarded as too despicable for human

intercourse. Time, however, has proved me to have been wrong. My saint

occupies an average place among common men, my hero is lost in the deep

silence, my criminals are probably as good yeomen as could be wished, my

ideals of imbecility are modest citizens, but from among the unobserved

flock have emerged two or three to note and worth.

Meantime, remote and secluded from the world without our gates, which

rode in fine chariots, or sat in glory on the roof of the ‘Jellamanjosy’

coach, or strode free along the Queen’s highway, we vegetated within the

high walls surrounding our home of lowliness. We could take no part in

public rejoicings, or grieve in its sorrows; we knew no Royal or State

occasions, shared in no jubilant celebrations, and were equally ignorant

of public panics and disturbances, as of the pomp and woes of war. In

the Crimea there might be a million of men gathered together to play at

the dangerous game of cannon-balls, and to batter one another into

shapeless fragments; London might roar day and night with its thunderous

traffic; Birmingham might be suffocating under the fumes of its

furnaces; and Manchester might vibrate under the force of its

accumulated mechanisms,--to us it mattered as little as though we were

in another planet.

Year after year we noted the passing of the seasons by the budding

blossoms, the flight of bees, the corn which changed from green to gold,

the fall and whirl of leaves, followed soon after by white snow, and

blasts of nipping winds, which stiffened our muscles, and sent us

shivering to the fire.

The little shops near and in St. Asaph had somehow the air of

large-hearted benevolence, which I never knew to be realised. How often

I tried to peep in, that I might understand the ways of these singular

people, having by right divine the privilege of dispensing to all men

unlimited stores of food and clothing! How I envied the grocer’s boy,

who could dig his hands at his pleasure into inexhaustible barrels of

currants and boxes of raisins, and the plenteous loaves of white

fragrant sugar, or the smart youth with the blue necktie, who might wear

any gorgeous robe he chose, for I believed it was only his modesty which

prevented him from appearing in crimson, or yellow, silk and satin!

We had reason to believe that the great world outside contained lower

depths of misery than anything experienced by us; for, now and then, we

caught glimpses of horrid, unkempt vagrants as they came to the porter’s

lodge for a lodging; and, during our visits to St. Asaph, we could not

enter the town without being impressed with the squalor of the Irish

Square, which made us glad that we were not so disreputable as the

ragged urchins of that sordid locality. Little as we were aware of it,

our minds were becoming soiled by prejudices, just as our boots were

stained with the greasy mud of that neighbourhood. The repulsiveness of

the Square, and the insolence of the smutty-faced, bare-footed _gamins_,

made us believe that Irishmen and Roman Catholics were barbarians and

idolaters, and when, losing patience with their yelping clamour, we

turned to resent their attacks, and saw them skurry to their kennels, we

believed ourselves justified in the opinion that the young brats knew

nothing of fair fighting. Once this opinion became fixed, no amount of

argument would avail to prove its injustice.

Probably the very morning that I had had to bide the brunt of their

savage rudeness, and had been disgusted with their ugliness, had seen me

superintending the cleaning of our dormitory, with a zeal inspired by my

firm belief that before we could be called good, we must be clean,

within and without, and that our hearts, our persons, and our dwellings,

should be without stain. How I came to manifest the passion of a fanatic

for order and cleanliness I know not, yet when it was my turn to clean

up and make the beds, I was seized with a consuming desire to exhibit

everything at its best, to arrange the beds without a single crease or

pucker, to make the folds with mathematical exactness, to dust and

polish cupboards and window-sills until they were speckless, and to make

the flagstones shine like mirrors. ‘There,’ I would say to my companions

detailed for these duties, my eyes sparkling with pride, ‘that is the

way to wash a floor. Let us make the beds fit for princes to sleep in’;

and hard after this triumph of order and neatness I would perhaps be

despatched to the town to have every sense offended by the miracles of

dirt and disorder in and around the Irish Square. No wonder that we felt

unmitigated scorn for Irish habits and ways!

There were two or three boys, even among us, whom we should have exiled

among the Irish had we the power. We felt it to be degradation to be

near them at school. One was remarkable for a pasty complexion, small,

piggish eyes, white eyelashes, and carroty hair. Another had projecting

gooseberry eyes, which suggested that they might fall from him some

day, as from a bush. His stubborn soul could endure thumping without

bellowing, though a tear or two would trickle. His mouth was like that

of a beast, and garnished with great, jagged teeth; and, altogether, he

was so unlovely as to shock every sense in us. Between Francis and

ourselves, they had a hard time of it; and I often wonder how fate has

disposed of them during this long interval.

When I reached my eleventh year, the king of the school for beauty and

amiability was a boy of about my own age, named Willie Roberts. Some of

us believed that he belonged to a very superior class to our own. His

coal-black hair curled in profusion over a delicately moulded face of

milky whiteness. His eyes were soft and limpid, and he walked with a

carriage which tempted imitation. Beyond these indications of him I

remember but little, for just then I fell ill with some childish malady

which necessitated my removal to the infirmary, where I lay for weeks.

But as I was becoming convalescent I was startled by a rumour that he

had suddenly died.

When I heard that his body was in the dead-house I felt stricken with a

sense of irreparable loss. As the infirmary opened upon the court-yard

which contained our _morgue_, some of the boys suggested that it might

be possible to view him, and, prompted by a fearful curiosity to know

what death was like, we availed ourselves of a favourable opportunity,

and entered the house with quaking hearts. The body lay on a black bier,

and, covered with a sheet, appeared uncommonly long for a boy. One of

the boldest drew the cloth aside, and at the sight of the waxen face

with its awful fixity we all started back, gazing at it as if

spell-bound. There was something grand in its superb disregard of the

chill and gloom of the building, and in the holy calm of the features.

It was the face of our dear Willie, with whom we had played, and yet not

the same, for an inexplicable aloofness had come over it. We yearned to

cry out to him to wake, but dared not, for the solemnity of his face was

appalling.

Presently the sheet was drawn further away, and we then saw what one of

us had insinuated might be seen. The body was livid, and showed scores

of dark weals. One glance was enough, and, hastily covering it, we

withdrew, with minds confirmed in the opinion that signs of violence

would appear after death as testimonies against him who was guilty of

it. After what we had seen, it would have been difficult for anyone to

have removed from our minds the impression that Francis was accountable

for Willie’s death.

For weeks after this my first thought in the morning was of Willie’s

dead face, and, in consequence, I could not help looking into every face

with something of pity that mankind should be born for death and burial

in the cold remorseless earth. When I re-entered the school I found

myself curiously regarding Francis, and wondering that he was so

insensible to the miserable fate in store for him, and that he could be

so pitiless in his cruelty to his fellow-sufferers. What would he say, I

thought, when the Judge, who would come to judge the quick and the dead,

would ask him, ‘What hast thou done to thy brother Willie?’

Some time after Willie’s death, George, the scholar, and I became as

chummy as twin brothers. He was not so amiable as Willie, but we

believed him to be severely good, and far more learned, by which he

obtained our respect. He was not a zealous friend, and after some

intimacy with him I was often chilled with what appeared to be

selfishness in him. It may have been that I was too exacting, but I

certainly thought that it was not in his nature to be scrupulous in the

keeping of the pact of chumship. If a cake or an apple was to be divided

into two, an uneasy feeling came over me that he took pains to pick out

the larger half, and in any dispute with other boys George was not so

resolutely insistent on my behalf as the vow of brotherhood demanded.

After a few weeks of effort to make inward apologies for his laxity and

backwardness, it was forced upon me that he was by nature indifferent to

his obligations, and it was agreed that each should be a friend unto

himself for the future. There was no quarrel, however, but we parted

with mutual respect.

About this period I came across a pious romance--the title of which is

forgotten--relating to three young brothers or friends,--one of whom I

remember was named Enoch,--who for their perfect piety were attended by

a Guardian Angel. They had set out on travels through a land which must

have been subtropical, from its luxurious vegetation and its beflowered

scenes; but whatever might be the perils they encountered, or the

temptations that beset them, the unseen guardian was always near them,

and made them strong, confident, and victorious. The stories of Joseph,

David, and Daniel, and the three brave youths at Babylon had powerfully

affected me, but, unfortunately, their associations with tasks and rods

had marred their attractions. My delight in saintly Enoch and his

friends was unalloyed by any such bitter memories. The story was also

written in an easy every-day language, and the scenes were laid in a

country wherein God’s presence was still felt. God had departed from

Canaan, and He had cast off Israel, and now His protection was

vouchsafed to all the children of men without distinction, and only

piety and prayer were needed to secure His aid in times of distress.

Above the fireplaces in the schoolroom, the two dormitories, and

dining-hall, were tacked painted iron sheets which were inscribed with

appropriate Scriptural texts. We had Bible lessons morning and evening,

collects and gospels to commit to memory. Our shelves held a fair

collection of religious literature,--memoirs of Wesley, Fletcher, lives

of Bunyan, Fox, Milton, and others of less note, sermons, and

commentaries. Twice on Sunday we had full services, and after supper the

porter of the establishment, who was a Methodist of super-fervid zeal,

would treat us to a lengthy and noisy prayer, which, as I think of it

now, was rather a tedious string of adjurations to, and incriminations

of the Almighty, than a supplication for grace to the Creator.

But all these religious exercises and literature had not such direct

immediate effect as this romantic novelette. I now conceived God to be a

very real personage, as active to-day as in Biblical periods in His

supervision of mundane concerns. I fancied God’s Presence visible in

many small events, but, to obtain the Divine interposition in one’s

favour, it was necessary to earnestly solicit it, and to be worthy of it

by perfect sinlessness. Here was a great difficulty. It was not possible

to be wholly free from sin in our circumstances. I observed that our

seniors, though they punctiliously went through the forms of prayer,

were none of them blameless. They were cruelly unkind, they were unjust

in their punishments, they were censorious without cause, and most

ungentle. They asked for God’s forgiveness for their trespasses, but

were relentless in their condemnation of the smallest fault we

committed. When I came to think of that beast Will Thomas, and that imp

Davies, and that tale-bearer and mischief-maker Williams, my gorge rose

against them, and I felt that the circumstances of Enoch’s life were not

like mine.

However, I made a grand effort to free myself from my vanity and pride.

I compelled myself for a season to make the sacrifices demanded of me. I

championed ugly Will against his oppressors, and suppressed my scorn of

Davies. I strove to like Williams, though I feared he was incorrigible.

I sought to surprise each of them with good offices, and in the process

endured much contumely, because human beings are so prone to misconstrue

one’s actions. I rose at midnight to wrestle in secret with my wicked

self, and, while my schoolfellows sweetly reposed, I was on my knees,

laying my heart bare before Him who knows all things, vowing that the

next day should be a witness of my sincerity, and that I would have no

fear of derision for attempts at well-doing. I would promise to abstain

from wishing for more food, and, to show how I despised the stomach and

its pains, I would divide one meal out of the three among my neighbours;

half my suet pudding should be given to Ffoulkes, who was afflicted with

greed, and, if ever I possessed anything that excited the envy of

another, I would at once surrender it. Greater proof than these of my

resolve to be perfect I thought I could not show, and when I had done my

part, I hoped to see the sign of God’s favour in milder treatment by

Francis.

I cannot recollect that the season which I devoted to the subjection of

self witnessed the lenity which I anticipated, or that it had any effect

beyond a feeling of physical weakness; but, indirectly, I am not sure

that it was wholly without gain. Without the faith which supported me, I

might never have thought of experimenting on Will and practising it on

myself, my dislikes, and passions, and placing them at the service of

those I had despised; and I am inclined to think that the feeling of

friendlessness was soothed. It was a comfort to know that though without

a parent, relation, or friend on earth to turn to, I had a Father in

Heaven before Whom I was the equal of the mightiest.

I believed in the immediate presence of Angels who were deputed to

attend us for our protection, that the emissaries of the Evil One ranged

about during the darkness of the night, seeking to wreak their spite

against those averse to them, and I believed that the frightful dreams

from which we sometimes suffered were due to their machinations.

Sometimes I woke up in the middle of the night, after a tremendous

struggle with a nightmare, and, gaspingly looking out, fancied I saw the

evil spirits crowding the darkness and sailing about like huge fantastic

microbes, or standing, shadowy-grey, at the foot of the bed. I would rub

my eyes hard for a clearer vision, and I would observe them retreat

against the cold bare walls. Within, all was terror and confusion,

entreaties to Heaven for protection, admonition respecting some neglect

of prayer, or coldness in devotion; and I would rise from bed on being

thus informed of the remedy, and indulge in the sacred theft of prayer

with the humbleness due from a little child praying to the Universal

Father and Creator.

If, by accident, I was discovered, the day following was certain to be

one of torture, an opprobrious nickname, or bitter gibe, taunts,

immodest expressions or gestures; every kind of conspiracy would be made

to excite the demon that lurks within every human breast, so that by

night, what with hate of my fellows, burning anger at their atrocious

conduct, remorse for having succumbed to rage at their wicked practices,

I had collapsed from my virtuous state, to be again brought to my sense

of inborn sinfulness by some nightly visitation, or a curious gush of

tearful repentance, and an agony of longing for the love of some human

being.

The religious convictions of my childhood were too intense and real to

omit recalling them. Often it appeared as though it were wholly useless

to struggle against evil, yet there was an infinitesimal improvement in

each stage. The character was becoming more and more developed. The

temper was becoming firmer. Experience was teaching me something of that

great lesson of life which enables one to view more calmly lapses of

condition.

Thus there are two things for which I feel grateful to this strange

institution of St. Asaph. My fellow-man had denied to me the charm of

affection, and the bliss of a home, but through his charity I had

learned to know God by faith, as the Father of the fatherless, and I had

been taught to read. It is impossible that in a Christian land like

Wales I could have avoided contracting some knowledge of the Creator,

but the knowledge which is gained by hearing is very different from that

which comes from feeling. Nor is it likely that I would have remained

altogether ignorant of letters. Being as I was, however, the

circumstances of my environment necessarily focussed my attention on

religion, and my utterly friendless state drove me to seek the comfort

guaranteed by it.

It would be impossible to reveal myself, according to the general

promise involved in the title of this book, if I were to be silent

regarding my religious convictions. Were I to remain silent, the true

key to the actions of my life would be missing. Or, rather, let me try

to put the matter more clearly: the secret influence which inspired what

good I may have done in life, for the same reason prevented me from

doing evil, curbed passion, guided me when the fires of youth,

licentious company, irreverent mates, and a multitude of strange

circumstances must have driven me into a confirmed state of wickedness.

I was therefore grateful, after all, for the implanting of religious

principles in me by the Biblical education given me in the Union. The

fear of doing wrong intentionally, the feeling of reverence, the impulse

of charity, the possession of a conscience, are all due to this. Without

this teaching I should have been little superior to the African savage.

It has been the driving power for good, the arrestor of evil. It has

given me an acute and perceptive monitor, able by its own delicacy to

perceive evil no matter how deceptive its guise. It has formed a magnet

by which to steer more straightly than I could otherwise have done.

My belief that there was a God, overseeing every action, observing and

remembering, has come often between me and evil. Often when sorely

tempted, came the sudden strength to say, ‘No, I _will_ not, it will be

wicked; not criminal, but sinful; God sees me.’ It is precisely for this

strength that I am grateful. Reason would not have been sufficient to

restrain me from yielding to temptation. It required a conscience, and a

religious conviction created it. That same inward monitor has

restrained me from uttering idle words, from deceiving my

fellow-creatures with false promises, and from hastily condemning them

without sufficient evidence, from listening to slanders, and from

joining with them, from yielding to vindictiveness; it has softened a

nature that without its silent and gentle admonitions would, I am sure,

be much worse than it is. I do not claim that it has always been

successful,--far from it,--but I am grateful for what it has done; and

this feeling, so long as I possess it, will induce me to hope that it

will ever remain with me, a restraining power, a monitor to do my duty

to my Creator, and to my fellow-men.

Whether these religious convictions would have continued with me had I

lived the life of the city is another question. I think not. At least,

not in sufficient force. A journalist’s life in New York does not give

time for reflection or introspection.

Religion grew deep roots in me in the solitude of Africa, so that it

became my mentor in civilization, my director, my spiritual guide. With

religious conviction we can make real and substantial progress; it gives

body, pith, and marrow; without it, so-called progress is empty and

impermanent,--for without the thought of God we are tossed about on a

sea of uncertainty; for what is our earth compared with the vast

universe of worlds in immeasurable space? But above all the vastness of

infinity, of which the thoughts of the wisest men can extend to but an

infinitesimal fraction, is the Divine and Almighty Intellect which

ordered all this; and to Him I turn,--the Source of the highest energy,

the Generator of the principle of duty.

In the adults’ ward at St. Asaph was a harmless imbecile, named John

Holywell, who had been a resident of the house for about a score of

years. He was now over fifty, and was likely to remain until his body

was conveyed to a pauper’s grave. As his fate, so mine promised, except

that I could pray and read.

Tyranny of the grossest kind lashed and scowled at us every waking hour,

but even Will Thomas possessed something that I had not. He had

relations who occasionally visited him with gifts; but I was alone, none

ever came to see me.

I must have been twelve ere I knew that a mother was indispensable to

every child. To most boys of twelve such a simple fact must have been

obvious, but as my grandsire and nurse had sufficed for my earliest

wants, the necessity for a mother had not been manifest to me. Now that

I was told my mother had entered the house with two children, my first

feeling was one of exultation that I also had a mother, and a

half-brother and a half-sister, and the next was one of curiosity to

know what they were like, and whether their appearance portended a

change in my condition.

Francis came up to me during the dinner-hour, when all the inmates were

assembled, and, pointing out a tall woman with an oval face, and a great

coil of dark hair behind her head, asked me if I recognised her.

‘No, Sir,’ I replied.

‘What, do you not know your own mother?’

I started, with a burning face, and directed a shy glance at her, and

perceived she was regarding me with a look of cool, critical scrutiny. I

had expected to feel a gush of tenderness towards her, but her

expression was so chilling that the valves of my heart closed as with a

snap. ‘Honour thy father and mother,’ had been repeated by me a thousand

times, but this loveless parent required no honour from me. After a few

weeks’ residence my mother departed, taking her little boy with her, but

the girl was left in the institution; and, such is the system

prevailing, though we met in the same hall for months, she remained as a

stranger to me.

Among the notable incidents of this age was the suicide of the Governor,

who through some mental strain ended his life with a razor. Then there

was a burglary, or an attempt at one, in our schoolroom. We found one

morning that one of the windows had been forced open, the poker lay on

the table, and there were traces of the bookshelves and desks having

been ransacked. After that, handsome Harry Ogden, who had been sent to

Kinmel on an errand, returned highly intoxicated, which made us boys

marvel at his audacity. Then Barney Williams, one of the cleverest boys

in the school, was detected stealing stamps from the Master’s letters,

which offence was brought to the notice of the Guardians, and was

punished by a public birching, as much, we believed, to the satisfaction

of Francis as to the anguish of poor Barney.

Bishop Short having presented to us some skeleton drawings and views of

cathedrals, I took to copying them, and in a few months had acquired

such excellence that my reputation spread wide in our circle. Francis

affected to believe that I was destined for a ‘limner.’ The Bishop

rewarded me with a Bible bearing his autograph. Miss Smalley, of Cwm,

presented me with a drawing-book and pencils, and I was introduced to a

number of notabilities around as the ‘artist’ of the school. Other small

accomplishments tended to bring me into prominence. My recitations were

much admired. On our annual holidays I was selected to lead the choir of

glee-singers, and, after the Government Inspector’s examinations, I was

pronounced to be the most advanced pupil.

I have no idea of my personal appearance at this time, but I remember to

have heard some comments from bystanders as we bathed at Rhyl which made

me blush violently, also Captain Thomas saying that it would be of vast

benefit to me if I were put under a garden-roller. An old blacksmith of

Denbigh, as I passed him one day, asked me if I was not the grandson of

Moses Parry, and on my admitting it, pretended that I could not belong

to the big-boned Parry breed; while one that stood by him terrified me

by saying that I would be in prime order for eating, after a month’s

stuffing on raisins and sweeties. From an early age I contracted an

intense dislike to these wretched personalities.

In process of time my classmates, who had grown with me, and been

promoted simultaneously with myself, and now filled the first form,

began to be taken away by their relatives, or entered service. Benjie

Phillips became a page of Captain Thomas. When we saw him arrayed in his

beautiful livery, George, the scholar, and I thought fortune most unkind

and indiscriminating; but, looking backward, both of us must confess

that, like fools, we knew not what was good for us. Fortune had reserved

us for other work, but before we should be called we were fated to be

tried a little more.

‘Time teaches us that oft One Higher,

Unasked, a happier lot bestows

Than if each blighted dream’s desire

Had blossomed as the rose.’

Barney was the next to leave. Toomis, the calculator, found employment

with the Whiteley of the neighbourhood; and, finally, George, the

scholar, was claimed by an uncle to be prepared for the ministry.

When, in 1856, the time came for Francis’s annual visit to his friends

at Mold, he appointed me his deputy over the school. On the very first

day of his absence, a boy named David, my especial _bête noire_ on the

play-ground, and whose malice was a source of trouble to me, thought fit

to question my fitness for the post, and persisted in noisy

demonstrations against my authority. For a while the serious nature of a

conflict with one who had often proved himself my superior in strength

restrained me from noticing his breach of order. The sharp-witted boys

of the first class observed this reluctance, and rightly accounted for

it. They also soon became insolently boisterous, and I had to cry

‘Silence!’ as imperiously as possible. There was an instant’s hush from

habit at the word, but, overcoming their first fear, and prompted by

mischievous David, the buzz was resumed, and soon became intolerable.

I strode up in front of David, and ordered him to take his stand at the

Dunce’s corner, which he scornfully declined at once. He dared me to

compel him, and added biting words about my puny strength and impudence.

Instinctively, the school felt that an exciting struggle was impending,

and suspended their restlessness. I was forced to accept David’s

challenge, but when his sinewy arms embraced me I would gladly have

compromised with him had my pride permitted, for the unbending rigidity

of his stiff back was terrifying to think of. We contended breathlessly

for some time, but, finally, I succeeded in kicking his stubborn pins

from under him, and he fell heavily undermost. In a few seconds I rode

in triumph over his prostrate form, and demanded his submission, which

he sullenly refused. Dicky, more friendly than the others, came forward

at the call with a woollen muffler, and with his assistance I made David

captive, and after binding the tense arms conducted him to the

opprobrious corner, where he was left to meditate, with two others

similarly guilty. From the hour when the heroic whelp, David, was

subdued, my authority was undisputed. Often since have I learned how

necessary is the application of force for the establishment of order.

There comes a time when pleading is of no avail.

Not many weeks after Francis had returned from Mold, an event occurred

which had a lasting influence on my life. But for the stupid and brutal

scene which brought it about, I might eventually have been apprenticed

to some trade or another, and would have mildewed in Wales, because,

with some knowledge of my disposition, I require great cause to break

away from associations. Unknown to myself, and unperceived by anyone

else, I had arrived at the parting of the ways. Unconsciously I had

contracted ideas about dignity, and the promise of manhood was manifest

in the first buds of pride, courage, and resolution; but our

school-master, exposed to moods of savage temper, and arbitrary from

habit, had failed to notice the change.

In May, 1856, a new deal table had been ordered for the school, and some

heedless urchin had dented its surface by standing on it, which so

provoked Francis that he fell into a furious rage, and uttered terrific

threats with the air of one resolved on massacre. He seized a birch

which, as yet, had not been bloodied, and, striding furiously up to the

first class, he demanded to know the culprit. It was a question that

most of us would have preferred to answer straight off; but we were all

absolutely ignorant that any damage had been made, and probably the

author of it was equally unaware of it. No one could remember to have

seen anyone standing on the table, and in what other manner mere dents

had been impressed in the soft deal wood was inexplicable. We all

answered accordingly.

‘Very well, then,’ said he, ‘the entire class will be flogged, and, if

confession is not made, I will proceed with the second, and afterwards

with the third. Unbutton.’

He commenced at the foot of the class, and there was the usual yelling,

and writhing, and shedding of showers of tears. One or two of David’s

oaken fibre submitted to the lacerating strokes with a silent squirm or

two, and now it was fast approaching my turn; but instead of the old

timidity and other symptoms of terror, I felt myself hardening for

resistance. He stood before me vindictively glaring, his spectacles

intensifying the gleam of his eyes.

‘How is this?’ he cried savagely. ‘Not ready yet? Strip, sir, this

minute; I mean to stop this abominable and bare-faced lying.’

‘I did not lie, sir. I know nothing of it.’

‘Silence, sir. Down with your clothes.’

‘Never again,’ I shouted, marvelling at my own audacity.

The words had scarcely escaped me ere I found myself swung upward into

the air by the collar of my jacket, and flung into a nerveless heap on

the bench. Then the passionate brute pummelled me in the stomach until I

fell backward, gasping for breath. Again I was lifted, and dashed on the

bench with a shock that almost broke my spine. What little sense was

left in me after these repeated shocks made me aware that I was smitten

on the cheeks, right and left, and that soon nothing would be left of me

but a mass of shattered nerves and bruised muscles.

Recovering my breath, finally, from the pounding in the stomach, I aimed

a vigorous kick at the cruel Master as he stooped to me, and, by chance,

the booted foot smashed his glasses, and almost blinded him with their

splinters. Starting backward with the excruciating pain, he contrived to

stumble over a bench, and the back of his head struck the stone floor;

but, as he was in the act of falling, I had bounded to my feet, and

possessed myself of his blackthorn. Armed with this, I rushed at the

prostrate form, and struck him at random over his body, until I was

called to a sense of what I was doing by the stirless way he received

the thrashing.

I was exceedingly puzzled what to do now. My rage had vanished, and,

instead of triumph, there came a feeling that, perhaps, I ought to have

endured, instead of resisting. Some one suggested that he had better be

carried to his study, and we accordingly dragged him along the floor to

the Master’s private room, and I remember well how some of the infants

in the fourth room commenced to howl with unreasoning terror.

After the door had been closed on him, a dead silence, comparatively,

followed. My wits were engaged in unravelling a way out of the curious

dilemma in which I found myself. The overthrow of the Master before the

school appeared to indicate a new state of things. Having successfully

resisted once, it involved a continued resistance, for one would die

before submitting again. My friend Mose asked me in a whisper if I knew

what was to happen. Was the Master dead? The hideous suggestion changed

the whole aspect of my thoughts. My heart began to beat, as my

imagination conjured up unknown consequences of the outrage to

authority; and I was in a mood to listen to the promptings of Mose that

we should abscond. I assented to his proposal, but, first, I sent a boy

to find out the condition of the Master, and was relieved to find that

he was bathing his face.

Mose and I instantly left the school, for the ostensible purpose of

washing the blood from my face; but, as a fact, we climbed over the

garden-wall and dropped into Conway’s field, and thence hastened through

the high corn in the Bodfari direction, as though pursued by

bloodhounds.

This, then, was the result of the folly and tyranny of Francis. Boys are

curious creatures, innocent as angels, proud as princes, spirited as

heroes, vain as peacocks, stubborn as donkeys, silly as colts, and

emotional as girls. The budding reason is so young and tender that it is

unable to govern such composite creatures. Much may be done with

kindness, as much may be done with benevolent justice, but undeserved

cruelty is almost sure to ruin them.

We ran away with a boundless belief that beyond the walls lay the

peopled South that was next to Heaven for happiness. The singing birds,

the rolling coaches, the tides of joyous intercourse, the family groups,

the happy hearths, the smiling welcome of our kind, all lay beyond the

gates, and these we fled to meet, with the innocence of kids.

CHAPTER II

ADRIFT

Whatever innocent trust I may have entertained, that beyond the walled

domain of the Union House I should meet with glad friends, was doomed to

an early disappointment. I had often dreamed of a world that was next to

Heaven for happiness. Many a long summer evening I had spent looking out

of our windows upon the radiant vale of Clwyd, and the distant lines of

hills which rose beyond leafy Cefn, exciting my imagination by the

recital to myself of fanciful delights, which I believed to exist beyond

the far horizon. The tides of humanity, as they swept gaily over the

highroad in view of our gates, had seemed very beautiful and happy; but,

at the first contact with the highly privileged people whom we met on

the turnpike, they did not appear so gracious to me. Whether they

rolled-by in carriages, or sat on the coach, enjoyed the air at the

cottage-door, or smashed stones by the road-side, drove swift gigs, or

tramped afoot like ourselves, all alike were harsh and forbidding. Even

lads of our own age and frocked children assailed us with scorn and

abuse.

It impressed itself on me that we were outcasts. We wore the Workhouse

livery, and this revealed the sphere we belonged to, to all who met us.

Beings in that garb had no business on the public road! We were clearly

trespassers. What with the guilty feeling of having absconded, and

outraging the public sense by our appearance in scenes where we were

undoubted aliens, we began to feel exceedingly uncomfortable, and shrank

from the view of every one.

As night approached, other anxieties troubled us sorely. Where should we

sleep? How should we subsist? We could not remain always in hiding. The

sun was about setting when we came across a disused lime-kiln. We crept

through the arch into the open bowl-like interior. By cuddling together,

we could just find room in the bottom to sleep; but, as it was still

daylight, our feet could be seen through the opening of the arch by the

passers-by, and we should be taken prisoners. We therefore had to lean

on the sides of the kiln until the darkness came, before we could forget

our misery in sleep. In this awkward position we waited silently for the

darkness.

Our limbs ached with fatigue, our spirits were dejected. In about an

hour, probably, it would be dark; but in such a mood, what a time to

wait! Many illusions disappeared. Nothing of what I had seen through the

Workhouse windows was real. I had been all the time dreaming, having

taken too seriously facts which had been sugared with pleasantness for

our childish minds. The world was ugly, cruel, and hard, and all

grown-up people were liars. From my nurse and old women, my head had

been crammed with ghost stones, and I had become a believer in signs,

omens, auguries, and fetishism, transmitted to me by foolish peasants

from our tattooed ancestors, until the clear glass of my mind had been

blurred; and, as the darkness settled over me, memories of its spectral

inhabitants came trooping to the surface. I fancied I saw images of

those beings who haunt the dark when unguarded by lock and bolt. Through

the top and arch of the kiln, we were open to their assaults. I became

nervously watchful, and, the more I strained my eyes, the more I fancied

I could see flaming imps acting a ceaseless pantomime of malice. Once or

twice I thought I felt the whiff of ghostly wings, and my terror caused

a feeling of suffocation. The only safe thing to do was to talk, tell

stories to each other, that the accursed spirits might know we were

awake and fearless. I continued awake by this method until the sky began

to pale before the advancing dawn, when I softly dropped into sleep, and

so passed the most uneasy night I remember.

With the sunrise, we rose, stiff and hungry, to resume our flight. By

preference, we clung to the lanes, as being the safest for fugitives who

wore the parish uniform; but, near Corwen, our aching vitals compelled

us to brave the publicity of the pike road. We halted, at last, before a

stone cottage, at the door of which a stout and motherly old woman

stooped over a wash-tub resting on a three-legged stool. Her frilled cap

looked very white and clean. A flaxen-haired baby sat astride of the

door-sill, beating a tom-tom with a piece of china-ware. Our

desperately famished state overcame our shyness, and we asked for a

piece of bread. The woman braced herself up, and, giving us a

compassionate look, said, ‘You seem poorly, children. Surely you don’t

belong to these parts?’

‘No, ma’am, we belong to St. Asaph.’

‘Oh, yes. You are from the Workhouse.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

She invited us cordially to enter, and, opening a cupboard that was

under the stairs, drew out a loaf. She cut off thick slices, smeared

them with butter and treacle, and, filling two large mugs with

buttermilk, set them before us, and bade us ‘eat and welcome.’

After such kindness it was not difficult to win our confidence. I well

remember how the homely clock, with its face crowned at the top with

staring red flowers, ticked loudly during the pauses of our narrative,

and how the minute-hand flung itself recklessly round the dial; how,

near the door, the wash-tub became covered with a scum as the

soap-bubbles exploded one by one; how the good woman suckled her babe to

sleep, as we talked. The coloured picture of that cottage stands out

unfading in my memory, despite the varied accumulations of so many

years.

Having been strengthened by food, and comforted with friendly advice, we

decided it would be best to push on towards Denbigh. Night overtook us,

and we sought the lee of a haystack in a field, too tired to fear

ghosts; and, early next day, drew near the castled town we both loved so

well.

We reached the foot of High Street, and looked with envy at the

shop-boys. We could not help peeping at the bright shop-windows which

exposed such varied wealth, and admiring those singularly-favoured

people, who were able to dispense such assortments of luxuries among

their friends.

Beyond the market-place Mose led the way up a narrow lane leading

towards Castle Green, and, shortly, turned in into a dingy stone house

near a bakery. After mounting some steps we were confronted by a woman

who, as soon as she rested her eyes upon my companion, lifted her hands

up, and cried out in affectionate Welsh,--

‘Why bless their little hearts! How tired they look! Come in, dears,

both of you!’

When Mose crossed the threshold he was received with a sounding kiss,

and became the object of copious endearments. He was hugged convulsively

in the maternal bosom, patted on the back, his hair was frizzled by

maternal fingers, and I knew not whether the mother was weeping or

laughing, for tears poured over smiles, in streams. The exhibition of

fond love was not without its effect on me, for I learned how a mother

should behave to her boy.

A glow of comfort warmed our hearts as she bustled about the kitchen,

intent upon unusual hospitality. She relieved us of our caps, dusted a

polished chair for each of us with her apron, and set them in the snug

ingle-corners, laughing and weeping alternately, and sending waves of

emotion careering over us out of sheer sympathy. She burned to talk, but

reminded herself, by starts, of our necessities, making us smile at her

self-reproaches, her hurried attempts to snatch the food from the

shelves of her dresser, and her evident intention to be bountiful. She,

finally, arranged a table, and, from a new tin-loaf, cut out generous

breadths, on which she dropped circles of black treacle, and pressed

them into our hands. After piling other lavishly-buttered slices on a

plate near by, the boiling water was poured over the tea, and not until

she had seen us well engaged on her bounties did she slacken her haste.

Then, bringing a high-backed chair between us, she laid one hand on the

other in her lap, and exclaimed,--

‘Dear heart alive, how you have grown, Mose, my lad! It makes my heart

thump to see you so beautiful and clever-looking. Are not you very

clever now? And don’t you know just everything, writing and ciphering,

and all that, you know? But what is the matter, children? How is it you

have come to Denbigh? Have you been sent on errands, or have you run

away? Don’t be bashful, but tell me truly.’

When Mose had related the incidents which brought about our sudden

departure from St. Asaph, a look of anxiety came across her face. Then

she asked who I was.

I announced, ‘I am the grandson of Moses Parry, of the Castle, on my

mother’s side, and of John Rowlands, of Llys, on my father’s side.’

‘Oh, indeed,’ she said gravely, nodding her head up and down. ‘I knew

them both well, for when your grandfather, Moses Parry, was rich and

lived at Plâs Bigot, I was a servant girl in his service. That was a

grand time for him. I have seen as many as forty people sit at the old

man’s table; the family, servants, and farm-hands all together. The

family sat at one end. Then came the big salt-cellar, and below it the

servants of the house and work-people were ranged on the two sides. A

fine houseful we had always, too, and a finer family could not be seen

in the Vale of Clwyd. Let me see; there was John, the eldest son, Moses,

and Thomas, and there were the daughters, Mary, Maria, and a young girl

called Elizabeth. Which of these was your mother? Not Mary, I warrant.’

‘My mother’s name is Elizabeth,’ I replied.

‘So! I think I remember something about her, and your father was the

eldest son of John Rowlands, of Llys! Well, I wonder! It seems strange

now how we lose count of people whom at one time in our young days we

knew well. And old John Rowlands is your grandfather! Dear heart alive!

‘I remember the burial of the old man, Moses Parry, very well. He died

suddenly in a field. I was at the funeral, and saw him buried at

Whitchurch. It was my duty, you know, and a fine funeral it was, too.

Poor old man! It was a great come-down in the world from the great house

at Plâs Bigot to that little cottage at the Castle. Did you think of

going to see old John Rowlands?’

‘Yes, I thought of him, and of Uncle Moses and Thomas, and of my cousin

Moses Owen, who keeps a school at Brynford, near Holywell.’

‘Well, I don’t wish to discourage you; but those who know John Rowlands

would tell you there was little hope of help from _him_. However, the

Llys is not above a good hour’s walk, and you could see him first. It

might turn out better than we expect.’

‘Why, is he so poor, then?’

‘Poor! Oh no, John Rowlands is rich enough. He has two big farms, and is

a very prosperous man, but he is severe, cross, and bitter. His eldest

son, John, who, I suppose, was your father, died many years ago,

thirteen or fourteen years, I should think. There are two daughters

living with him, and they might be kind to you. No, it will be no harm

to try the old man. He will not eat you, anyway, and something must be

done for you.’

From this good woman I received more information relating to my family

than I had ever heard previously. It has remained fresher in my memory

than events of last week. At a later period I questioned Aunt Maria, of

Liverpool, upon these matters, and she confirmed their accuracy.

The next morning, after a refreshing rest, I set out for the Llys,

Llanrhaidr. I have but a faint recollection of its appearance, though I

remember a big farm-yard, and fat stock-horses, pigs, cackling geese,

and fowls. My mind was too much preoccupied with the image of a severe

and sour old man, said to be my father’s father, to take note of

buildings and scenery.

Nothing is clear to me but the interview, and the appearance of two

figures, my grandfather and myself. It is quite unforgettable.

I see myself standing in the kitchen of the Llys, cap in hand, facing a

stern-looking, pink-complexioned, rather stout, old gentleman, in a

brownish suit, knee-breeches, and bluish-grey stockings. He is sitting

at ease on a wooden settee, the back of which rises several inches

higher than his head, and he is smoking a long clay pipe.

I remember that he asked who I was, and what I wanted, in a lazy,

indifferent way, and that he never ceased smoking while he heard me, and

that, when I concluded, he took his pipe from his mouth, reversed it,

and with the mouth-piece pointing to the door, he said, ‘Very well. You

can go back the same way you came. I can do nothing for you, and have

nothing to give you.’

The words were few; the action was simple. I have forgotten a million of

things, probably, but there are some few pictures and some few phrases

that one can never forget. The insolent, cold-blooded manner impressed

them on my memory, and if I have recalled the scene once, it has been

recalled a thousand times.

I was back with Mose before noon, and his mother said, ‘Oh, well, I see

how it is. You have failed. The hard-hearted old man would not receive

you.’

In the afternoon, I paid a visit to Uncle Moses, who was now a

prosperous butcher. Flaxen-haired Kitty, whose appearance in the dim

time when I was an infant had caused my expulsion from the house of my

grandfather, received me with reserve. They gave me a meal; but married

people, with a houseful of children, do not care to be troubled with the

visits of poor relations, and the meaning conveyed by their manner was

not difficult to interpret.

I next visited the ‘Golden Lion,’ kept by Uncle Thomas; but here also,

the house was full; and early on the following morning I was on my way

to Brynford, to interview Moses Owen, the school-master.

Brynford is a hamlet situate in the midst of a moory waste, about half

an hour from Holywell, and about five minutes’ walk from Denbigh. The

district is mostly given up to lead-mining. I stopped in front of a new

National Schoolhouse, and the master’s residence. My cousin was my last

chance. If he refused his aid, my fate must necessarily be that of a

young vagabond, for Wales is a poor country for the homeless and

friendless.

I was admitted by a buxom woman of decided temper, whose first view of

me was with an ill-concealed frown. But as I requested to see Mr. Owen,

the school-master, she invited me in, gazing curiously at the strange

garb of what she took to be a new pupil.

On being shown to the parlour, a tall, severe, ascetic young man of

twenty-two or twenty-three years demanded my business. As he listened to

me, an amused smile came to his face, and, when I had concluded, he

reassumed his pedagogic severity, and cross-examined me in my studies.

Though he gave me several hard questions which I was unable to answer,

he appeared pleased, and finally agreed to employ me as

pupil-teacher--payment to be in clothing, board, and lodging.

‘But I cannot take you as you are. You will have to go to my mother’s at

Tremeirchion, who will see that you are properly equipped for our school

with decent clothing, and in about a month you can return to me and

prove what you are worth.’

Thus I entered on my first stage in the world.

Within three hours, on the following day, I entered the straggling and

ancient village of Tremeirchion. It lies scattered along a hillside,

about three miles from St. Asaph, and four from Denbigh. In a remote

time its humble founders had been constrained to build their cabins on

this rocky waste at the outskirts of rich estates and fat farms, but

ultimately their cabins had been replaced by slate-roofed cottages, and

an ale-house or two, and as many shops for the sale of peasant

necessaries were added. About the XIIth Century a small church was

built, and a ‘God’s Acre’ attached to it, which was planted with yew for

the protection of the building from the gales,[2] and the whole was

surrounded by a wall. Later on, when the appearance of Wesley had

disturbed the litigious and discontented Welsh peasantry, a couple of

chapels rose up.

Beyond the village, and after descending the hillside about a mile, past

fir groves, and the leafy woods of Brynbella Hall, I came to the foot of

the hill, and at a few yards from the road-side stood the inn,

grocery-shop, and farm-house known as Ffynnon Beuno,--St. Beuno’s

Spring, or Well.

At the back of the house ran a narrow valley which terminated in the

Craig Fawr (Great Rock). Near the front was a lodge and gate, leading to

Brynbella Hall, well hidden by a tall, rook-haunted wood. The great

house was once occupied by Mrs. Thrale, Dr. Johnson’s friend.

Tremeirchion, literally translated, means the Maiden’s Town, and was so

named from a convent which stood in its vicinity, and was supposed to be

the refuge chosen by St. Winifred, when she retired with a company of

virgins after her revivification by good St. Beuno at Holywell. Compared

with the famous spring of St. Winifred’s at Holywell, that of St. Beuno

is a modest affair, and boasts of no virtues beyond purity and

sweetness. The water is collected in a stone tank adjoining the house of

Ffynnon Beuno, and is allowed to escape, for the benefit of the

villagers, through the open mouth of a rude representation of a human

head, which is affixed in the front wall.

The externals of Ffynnon Beuno favourably impressed me. The sign over

the door informed the public that Mary Owen

[Illustration: FYYNNON BEUNO]

kept open house for the entertainment of man and beast, and sold

groceries, tobacco, ale, and spirituous liquors, and, it might have

added, milk, and butter, poultry, and sheep. As I walked towards the

door I prayed inwardly that my aunt would be as gracious to me as I

believed the owner of the cosy establishment ought to be.

She stood in the centre of her kitchen floor, as I handed her son’s

letter to her. The contents surprised and annoyed her. Though there was

no scorn in her reception of me, I yet felt instinctively that she would

rather not have received the news. The announcement was too sudden and

precipitate to please a mother who, until now, had been a law to her

favourite son. She took her own time to express herself. She asked me

how I had found her house, whether I was hungry and tired, quietly

observing me the while. She set before me an abundance of choice food.

Her pattens signalled her movements in the pantry, dairy, shop, and

beer-cellar; but I knew she was thinking of me, and the letter from her

son. Each time she came in to add some dish to the fare she was

spreading for me, I felt her searching eyes on me. This was an ominous

beginning, and made me feel subdued as I sat in the shadow of the

ingle-nook.

Some neighbours came in to quench their thirst with my aunt’s brewing,

and from my place I could not fail to hear snatches of the conversation,

most of which related to me. My aunt was relieving herself of her

grievance, by which I discovered that her sense of prudence had been

offended by my cousin Moses’ rash act.

‘At his age,’ she said, ‘to take upon himself the keep and education of

a growing boy! He will be marrying himself shortly, and will have

children enough of his own to bring up. Why should he bother himself

about other people’s children? I say, “do what you can for your own, and

let other people do for their families the same.” I don’t like this whim

of Moses’ at all. In the first place, it is disrespect to me, his

mother, who has striven hard to establish him in life; and, in the

second place, it is extravagant, and every penny that that boy will cost

him must be a loss to the family that he will have to look after in the

course of a few years,’ etc., etc.

Poor Aunt Mary! She made me feel mean and depressed at the time, but I

understand it all now. She had inherited the instincts of economy, and

the calamities which had overtaken her father, and reduced his family

from affluence to poverty, had taught her wisdom. From these

circumstances she had long ago learned that only thrift, calculation,

and contrivance, can prevent the most respectable family from declining

to that poverty which leads to the workhouse. She knew that money meant

much to poor folk, and that the only way to make money in her condition

of life was to make the most of her resources, keep whatever she could

scrape from the proceeds of industry; and, acting on those principles,

she was an enemy to all imprudence and improvidence, waste and

extravagance. As she could not invoke the law to hinder young couples

from the folly of early marriage, she could disown them, even though

they were her nearest relatives, and suffer them, unassisted, to bear

the punishment due to the unwise. For mothers in her position, she knew

of no other course, and necessity left no choice. The scraps of

complaint which I heard enabled me to interpret her thoughts and actions

towards me henceforth. When I saw the bony, narrow face, dark with

vexations, and the way she jerked a tankard or a plate from the table,

or flapped vigorously her duster, I knew that I was at the bottom of her

trouble.

Her husband had died three years before, leaving her with the care of

four sons. As her sons approached manhood, her responsibility increased.

So far she had done admirably. Edward, the eldest, was a railway

official at Morley, where in time his abilities must necessarily secure

him promotion. Her second son, Moses, had graduated with honours at

Carnarvon College, and was now the teacher of a National School at

Brynford. Such a distinguished scholar, and one consumingly zealous in

all that belonged to his profession, could not fail to have a brilliant

future. John, the third son, was a lad of eighteen, on the eve of

entering the railway service, as a clerk. David, the youngest, a lad of

thirteen, was destined by his mother to assist her with the farm.

Before I left Ffynnon Beuno for school, I had abundant opportunities to

inform myself of the low estimate formed of me by the neighbours. My

aunt was so honest and candid that she admitted them fully into her

confidence respecting me, and these sympathetic gossips, while they

drank the home-brewed ale, expressed freely to one another their

opinions of me, regardless whose ears might hear.

It was through these--especially Hugh, the blacksmith, and John, the

butcher--that I was informed that I was the son of Aunt Mary’s youngest

sister, who had left her home early, for service in London, and had

thereby grievously offended her family. In straying to London, in spite

of family advice, my mother had committed a capital offence. She had,

moreover, become the mother of three children, and had thereby shown

herself to be a graceless and thriftless creature.

‘Now,’ said they, turning to me, ‘you will know what to expect if you

offend your aunt. With us the rule is “every family for itself, and God

for us all.” Mrs. Owen is a very good woman, but she will stand no

nonsense. You don’t belong to her, and you will be turned out of the

house the minute you forget yourself. So look out, my boy.’

A young boy cannot be expected to penetrate into the secret motives of

his elders, but, though his understanding may be dull, the constant

iteration of hints will not fail in the end to sharpen his intelligence.

Thus it was that I came to perceive that my condition had not been

bettered much by my abrupt exit from St. Asaph. If in one I had suffered

physical slavery, I was now about to suffer moral slavery. I say it in

no resentful sense, but as a fact. I saw that I was to be subject to an

anxious woman’s temper, whose petulance would not be controlled by any

tenderness for me. She was the undisputed mistress of her household, and

those who were of it could only remain with her by uncomplaining

submissiveness. This feeling of dependence on other people’s favour, and

the sense that my condition was never to be other than the singer of

their virtues, greatly troubled me at times.

There are some, by nature proud, who patient in all else,

demand but this:

To love and be beloved, with gentleness; and being scorned,

What wonder if they die, some living death!--SHELLEY.

To her own children, Aunt Mary was the best of mothers. Had I received

but a tithe of her affection, I fear that, like an ass partial to his

crib, I should have become too home-loving ever to leave. As Jacob

served Laban, I would have served aunt for years, for a mere smile, but

she had not interest enough in me to study my disposition, or to suspect

that the silent boy with a somewhat dogged look could be so touched by

emotion. What I might have become with gracious treatment her youngest

son David became. He clung to his mother’s hearth, and eventually

married the daughter of Jones, of Hurblas, by whom he had a large

family. All his life he remained profoundly ignorant that beyond his

natal nook the universe pulsed deep and strong, but, as the saying is,

‘Home-keeping youth hath ever homely wits,’ and gain and honour are not

for those who cling to their fireside.

Throughout the working week Aunt Mary’s face betrayed the fretfulness

occasioned by her many cares. She was a veritable specimen of the Martha

type, and, according to her nature, all her thoughts were bent upon

industry and its proceeds. She took gloomy views of her financial

affairs, and was prone to be in ill-humour, which was vented in saying

disagreeable things to her servants. The damp hollow in which her house

stood, between a brook and a well, hills and deep woods, probably was

accountable for much of this. Her face was thin and sharp, and showed

traces of bad health, as well as of anxiety. The querulous voice and

frequent sighing proved that she suffered in body and thought. But on

Sunday she was a model of propriety and decorum, and a beautiful

motherliness often shone in her eyes, and not a trace of anxiety could

be seen in her face. The next day, however, she would be transformed.

The mind which governed the estate recovered all its alertness. It

seemed as if the Sabbath cap and silk dress had some sedative influence

on her, for when they were put away in lavender, and the Monday gown had

been put on, she resumed her asperity. Like a stern general about to

commence battle, she issued her orders to David about matters connected

with the farm. No detail of byre or barn, seed or stock, field or fold,

was omitted. David repeated them to me, and I conveyed them to Dobbin,

the pony, Brindle, the cow, and her patient sisters, and to Pryn, the

terrier.

From Monday’s early breakfast to the Saturday tea, every creature at

Ffynnon Beuno understood the peremptory law that each was to work. Our

food was unstinted, and of superior quality. Never since have I tasted

such divine bread, or such savoury meat, and the Sunday dinner was

unsurpassable. If my aunt expected us to labour for her with all our

might, no one could complain of being starved, or being ill-fed. What

labour could a small, ignorant boy give for such bounties? I trimmed

hedges, attended the sheep, cleared the byre, fed the stock, swept the

farm-yard, cut and stacked fuel, drove Dobbin to Rhyl station for coal,

or to Denbigh for beer, or to Mostyn for groceries--the odd jobs that

may be done on a farm are innumerable.

Jane, the maid, was not averse to profiting by my help in churning, or

milking, or preparing the oven for the week’s baking. David, though a

year younger than I was, used me as his fag. From him I learned how to

mow, plough, and sow, to drive, ride, shear sheep, and mix pig-swill. I

came to love the farm, its odour of kine and sweet fodder, the humours

of the cattle and sheep, and, though often oppressed by the sense that I

was the one unloved creature at Ffynnon Beuno, my days were not

altogether unhappy.

At the end of a month, my school-outfit was ready, and David and I were

driven by my aunt in her green shandry to Brynford.

School-life commenced the next day, and I was duly appointed monitor of

the second class. In some subjects, a few of the head boys of the

National School were more advanced than I was, but in history,

geography, and composition I was superior.

The school closed at four o’clock, and from tea-time till our supper of

porridge and milk--which Moses Owen affected, from his belief in the

bone-making properties of oatmeal--was ready, I was kept indoors to

learn Euclid, Algebra, and Latin, and Grammar. As my cousin possessed a

fair library of solid literature, I soon made sensible progress, as,

with his system of tuition, and my eager desire to acquit myself to his

satisfaction, I could not fail to do.

Moses Owen was infatuated about books, and, had his health permitted, he

would doubtless, in time, have been heard of in the world. At least,

such was the opinion of those qualified to judge. He was, however, of

delicate constitution, like many slender, overgrown youths, and his

health required careful watching. His residence being new, and exposed

to the winds blowing over the moory waste, the damp was perceptible in

the weeping walls and the mouldy wall-paper, and he was often subject to

fits of lassitude and weakness; but when in tone, he showed all the

energy of his mother, and was indefatigable in teaching me. At

meal-times he was always cross-examining me on the subject of my tasks,

his conversation was highly scholastic, and, when out walking with him,

I was treated to lectures. Fed by such methods and stimulated to think,

I became infected with a passion for books, and for eighteen hours out

of the twenty-four I was wholly engrossed with them. When, a couple of

months later, I stood up for examination among the head pupils, my

progress was conspicuous.

In time, all friendship with any schoolfellow at Brynford was

impossible. Most of the boys were uncongenial through their incurable

loutishness. Few of them were cleanly or orderly, and their ideas of

what was right differed from mine. They were vilely irreligious, and to

my astonishment acted as though they believed manliness to consist of

bare-faced profanity. Most of them snuffled abominably, while as to

being tidy and neat, no savages could have shown greater indifference.

It would be easier to transform apes into men, than to make such natures

gentle. They all appeared to have become acquainted with my antecedents,

and their general behaviour towards me was not dissimilar to that which

the unconvicted show towards the ‘ticket-of-leave.’ The gentlest retort

was followed by expressions which reminded me of my ignoble origin.

Often they did not wait to be provoked, but indulged their natural

malice as from divine privilege. The effect of it was to drive me within

my own shell, and to impress the lesson on me that I was forever banned

by having been an inmate of the Workhouse. I was neither grieved nor

resentful for this, because I had no dignity or vanity which could be

wounded; and, being confined to my own thoughts, I obtained more leisure

for observation, and there was less occasion for speech.

My cousin, also, was too imperious and exacting to leave me much time

for brooding, and, to one of my temperament, moping is disagreeable.

When, however, a few of our neighbours’ children condescended, for want

of other company, to solicit mine for hunting nests among the furze, or

for a battle in the pools, or to explore an abandoned lead-shaft, the

restlessness latent in all boys was provoked in me, and I remember

several enjoyable Saturday afternoons.

Accomplished as my cousin Moses appears to have been in literature, he

was too young to know much about human nature. After months of

indefatigable tuition, he relaxed in his efforts. He began to affect a

disbelief in my advancement, and to indulge in scorn of my progress. My

short-comings were now the theme of his discourses, each time we met. My

task became heavier and longer, his sarcasms sharper, and his manner

more provoking. As I owed a home to him I was debarred from retorting.

He did not stoop to the vulgar punishment of birching or caning, but

inflicted moral torture by a peculiar gift of language. His cutting

words were more painful to bear than any amount of physical castigation;

their effect bewildered me and made me more despairing, and I think his

unkindness increased as my helpless dependency on him was made more

manifest. It frequently happens that as the dependent becomes humbler

the tyrant becomes harsher, for the spirit taken from one seems to be

converted into force in the other.

Aunt Mary, during all this period, had been regularly visiting her son

once a week with fresh home-supplies, and, by observing the change in my

cousin after one of these visits, I suspected that her wishes were

gradually perverting his original intentions towards me. Moses was

absolute over his brother David and myself, but when Aunt appeared it

was obvious, even to me, that, however great her respect for his talents

was, his personality sank in the presence of her masterful spirit. The

stronger nature of his mother ruled him as completely at Brynford as

when he was a tiny boy at home. In the same way that his mother showed

her pride in her son Moses, her son was proud of his mother’s fine

qualities, her wise management of her property and business, and the

esteem she won from all who came near her, as an honourable, far-seeing,

and right-judging woman.

A pity it is that Moses did not pursue the shorter and nobler course

with me. It was but due to his mother that her wishes should prevail,

but by hesitating, and gradually working himself into a dislike of me,

he deprived me of the sweet memory of his goodness. Had he but called me

and said, ‘I am too poor to play the benevolent cousin longer, and we

must part,’ and sent me off there and then, I should have lived to

honour him for his straightforwardness, and to remember with gratitude

that, as long as he was able to, he was graciously beneficent. But, with

every spoonful of food I ate, I had to endure a worded sting that left a

rankling sore. I was ‘a dolt, a born imbecile, and incorrigible dunce.’

When the tears commenced to fall, the invectives poured on my bent head.

I was ‘a disgrace to him, a blockhead, an idiot.’ If, wearying of this,

I armed myself with a stony impassiveness, he would vary his charges and

say, ‘I had hoped to make a man of you, but you are bound to remain a

clod-hopper; your stupidity is monstrous, perfectly monstrous!’ He would

push back his chair from the table, and with fierce, brow-beating

glances exclaim, ‘Your head must be full of mud instead of brains. Seven

hours for one proposition! I never knew the equal of this numskull. I

can endure no more of this. You must go back whence you came. You are

good for nothing but to cobble paupers’ boots,’ etc., etc.

It would be difficult to decide whether I, becoming more and more

confused by this wholly-unlooked-for violence, and confounded by a

growing belief in my worthlessness, or Moses, tired with his

self-imposed task of teaching his unfortunate cousin, deserved the more

pity. Had I been in his place, and believed my protégé to be the

matchless dunce he described me to be, I could never have had the heart

to bait him to despair, but would have sought an occupation for him more

suited for his capacities. Moses appears to have required time to heat

himself thoroughly for such a resolve, and, in his desire for a proper

pretence, he was becoming cruel.

So from this time he was mute about my merits. I was the object of

incessant disparagement and reproaches, and the feeling of this acted as

a weighty clog on my efforts. The excellence which the Owenses,

Pritchards, and Joneses of the school might aspire to was to be denied

me. My spiritual, intellectual, and bodily functions were to be

stimulated with birch, boot, and bluster; for in no other way could one

so dense as I be affected. The pain at last became intolerable, and I

was again drawing perilously near revolt. But Moses saw nothing, and

continued to shower his wordy arrows, which perpetually stung and caused

inward bleeding.

I used to think that Moses was a grand scholar, but I got to believe

that he had never been a boy. That towering intellect of his was not due

to education, it came to him with his mother’s milk. Yet I was unable to

understand, when I reflected on the severity of his manner, how the Lord

Bishop of St. Asaph--who was a Prince of the Church, and was three times

older than Moses--could unbend so far as to challenge us Workhouse boys

to a race over his lawn, and would laugh and be as frisky as any of us.

The stones of the highway would sooner rise and smile than Moses Owen

would relax the kill-joy mask he wore at this period.

At last, after a course of nine months’ tuition, I received permission

to visit Ffynnon Beuno, and I was never recalled to Brynford. Though my

aunt never forgot that she ought to be rid of me as soon as possible,

there was no hardship in doing chores for her at the farm. When she was

gracious, as she often was, she amply compensated me for any inward

sufferings inflicted during her severe week-day mood. She was an

exacting mistress, and an unsympathetic relative, though, in every other

sense, she was a most estimable woman. But what I lacked most to make my

youth complete in its joy was affection.

Tremeirchion is only a hamlet overlooking the Vale of Clwyd, inhabited

by tradesmen, farm-employees, and navvies, and their families; but my

impression is that though the Vale contains a large number of landed

proprietors, few of them are prouder than the occupants of the hamlet.

Sarah Ellis, who rented a cottage from my aunt at the grand rate of 30

shillings a year, carried herself more majestically than any royal

person I have since seen, and seemed to be always impressing her dignity

on one. There was Mr. Jones, of Hurblas, Jones, of Tynewydd, Jones, of

Craig Fawr, Hugh, the blacksmith, Sam Ellis, the navvy--they are revived

in my mind now, and I fail to see what cause they had of being so

inordinately haughty as I remember them to have been. Then there was my

aunt--she was proud, David was proud--they were all exceedingly proud in

Tremeirchion. I am reminded how they despised all foreigners, hated the

Sassenach, and disparaged their neighbours, and how each thought his, or

her, state, manners, or family to be superior to any other. Yet, if

their condition was not humble, where shall we look for humbleness? But

I am doubtless wrong in calling this opinionative habit ‘pride’; perhaps

‘prejudice’ would describe it, the prejudice born of ignorance, and

fostered in a small, untravelled community, which knew nothing of the

broad, sunny lands beyond the fog-damp Vale. The North-Welsh are a

compound of opposites,--exclusive as Spaniards, vindictive as Corsicans,

conservative as Osmanlis; sensible in business, but not enterprising;

quarrelsome, but law-abiding; devout, but litigious; industrious and

thrifty, but not rich; loyal, but discontented.

Our tavern-kitchen on a Saturday night was a good school for the study

of the North-Welsh yeoman and peasant, for then it used to be full of

big-boned men, dressed in velveteen coats and knee-breeches, who drank

like troopers, and stormed like madmen. The farmer, butcher, tailor,

shoemaker, navvy, game-keeper, and a ‘gent’ or two held high carnival

during the last hours of the working week; and David and rosy-cheeked

Jane and myself had to trot briskly in the service of supplying these

mighty topers with foaming ale.

The first quart made them sociable, the second made them noisily merry.

Tom Davies, the long-limbed tailor, would then be called for a song,

and, after a deal of persuasion, he would condescend, in spite of his

hoarseness, to give us ‘Rule Britannia,’ or the ‘March of the Men of

Harlech,’ the chorus of which would be of such stupendous volume that

the bacon flitches above swung to the measure. If, while under the

influence of the ale and the patriotic song, the French had happened to

invade the Vale of Clwyd, I do believe that if the topers could have got

within arm’s length of them the French would have had a bad time of it.

Then another singer would treat us to ‘The Maid of Llangollen,’ which

soothed the ardent tempers heated by the late valorous thoughts; or John

Jones, the butcher, envious of the applause won by Tom Davies, would

rise and ring out the

[Illustration: HENRY M. STANLEY, AT 15]

strain, ‘To the West, where the mighty Mizzourah,’ which gave us the

vision of a wide and free land awaiting the emigrant, and an enormous

river flowing between silent shores to the sea. More beer would be

called for by the exulting men, while eyes spoke to eyes of enchanted

feelings, and of happy hearts. Courage was high at this juncture,

waistcoats would be unbuttoned for easy breathing, content flushed each

honest face, the foaming ale and kitchen fire were so inspiring!

After ten, the spirits of our customers would be still more exalted, for

they were deep in the third quart! All the combativeness of the Welsh

nature then was at white heat. This would be the time for Dick

Griffiths--wooden-legged Dick--to indulge in sarcasm at the expense of

the fiery butcher; and for Sam Ellis, the black-browed navvy, to rise

and challenge them both to a bout of fisticuffs; and then would follow

sad scenes of violence, for John, who was gamey as a bantam-cock, would

square off at the word.

But, at this critical moment, Aunt Mary would leave her shop-counter,

and walk solemnly into the kitchen, and, with a few commands, calm the

fiery souls. Dick would be bustled out ignominiously, as he was too

irascible for peace after half-past ten. Sam would be warned of dreadful

consequences if he lifted his voice again; while as for John Jones, the

butcher, it was pitiful to see how craven he became at sight of a

woman’s uplifted forefinger. Thus did the men waste their spare time in

gossip, and smoking, and drinking--which involved a waste of their spare

cash, or the surplus left in their pockets after the purchase of

absolute necessities. The gossip injured men’s morals, as the smoking

deadened their intellects, and the beer disturbed their lives. The

cottage and farm fireside has received greater praise than it deserves,

for if we think of the malice, ill-nature, and filthy or idle gossip

vacuous minds find pleasure in, it will be seen that there is another

side to the picture, and that not a flattering one.

This chapter might be expanded to a book, if I were to dwell on too many

details of this period. It was crowded with small felicities

notwithstanding myriads of slights. During the prostrating fevers of

Africa, memory loved to amuse itself with its incidents. It had been my

signal misfortune to have been considered as the last in the village,

and every churl was but too willing to remind me of it. My aunt was

nothing loth to subdue any ebullience of spirit with the mention of the

fact that I was only a temporary visitor, and my cousin David was quick,

as boys generally are, to point out how ill it became me to forget it,

while Jane used it as an effective weapon to crush any symptom of

manliness. But, with a boy’s gaiety and healthful spirit, I flung all

thoughts of these miseries aside, so that there were times when I

enjoyed hearty romps with David, hunted for rabbits, and burrowed in the

caves, or made dams across the brook, with the memory of which I have

whiled many a lonely hour in African solitudes.

Aunt Mary had so often impressed it on me that I was shortly to leave,

and worry in the outer world for myself, that my imagination while with

the sheep on Craig Fawr, or at church, was engaged in drawing fanciful

pictures of the destiny awaiting me. My favourite spot was on the rocky

summit of the Craig. There the soul of ‘Childe Roland’ gradually

expanded into maturity. There he dreamed dreams of the life to come.

There I enjoyed a breezy freedom, and had a wide prospect of the rich

Vale of Clwyd,--from the seashore at Rhyl to the castled town of

Denbigh,--and between me and the sky nothing intervened. There was I

happiest, withdrawn from contact with the cold-hearted, selfish world,

with only the sheep and my own thoughts for company. There I could be

myself, unrestrained. My loudest shout could not be heard by man, my

wildest thought was free. The rolling clouds above me had a charm

indescribable, they seemed to carry my spirit with them to see the huge,

round world, in some far-off corner of which, invisible to everyone but

God, I was to work out my particular task.

At such a time, Enoch’s glorious and sweet life would be recalled in the

lovely land of flowers and sunshine, and it would not be long before I

would feel inspired to imitate his holy blamelessness, and, rising to my

feet, I would gather stones, and raise a column to witness my vows, like

Jacob in the patriarchal days. Those hours on the top of the Craig were

not wholly without their influence. They left on the mind remembrances

of a secret compact with the All-seeing God, Who heard, through rushing

clouds and space, the loveless

[Illustration: “CRAIG FAWR” FROM THE FARM]

boy’s prayer and promise; and, when provoked, they often came between me

and offence.

Finally, another aunt came to visit us from Liverpool; and, therewith,

the first phase of my future was shaped. When she had gathered the

intentions of her sister towards me, she ventured upon the confident

statement that her husband--Uncle Tom, as he came to be known to me--was

able to launch me upon a career which would lead to affluence and

honour. He had such great influence with a Mr. Winter--Manager of a

Liverpool Insurance Office--that my future was assured. After several

debates between the two sisters, Aunt Mary was persuaded that I had but

to land in Liverpool to be permanently established in a

highly-prosperous business.

After Aunt Maria’s departure, a letter from her husband arrived which

substantiated all she had said, and urged the necessity of an early

decision, as such a vacancy could not be left long unfilled. It only

needed this to hurry Aunt Mary in procuring for me the proper outfit,

which she was resolved should be as complete as if it were for one of

her own children.

When the day of departure at last came, my feelings were violently

wrenched; certainly some fibres of my affection were being torn, else

why that feeling of awful desolation? It may appear odd that I wept

copiously at leaving Ffynnon Beuno, where there were none who could have

wept for me, had they tried ever so hard. Nevertheless, when one image

after the other of the snug farm-house and lovely neighbourhood, the

Craig Fawr, the fields, the woods, the caves, the brook, crowded into my

mind, I was sorely tempted to pray for a little delay. It is probably

well that I did not, and it was better for my health that my affections

were with inanimate nature and not with persons, for, otherwise, it

would have been a calamity. Wordsworth finely describes the feeling that

moved me in the lines,--

‘These hills,

Which were his living being, even more

Than his own blood ... had laid

Strong hold upon his affections, were to him

A pleasurable feeling of blind love.’

As the little packet-steamer bore us towards Liverpool, and the shores

of Wales receded from view, the sight of the melancholy sea and cold

sky seemed in fit sympathy with the heavy burden which lay on my heart.

They stirred up such oppressive fancies that I regarded myself as the

most miserable being in existence, deprived of even a right to love the

land that I was born in. I said to myself, ‘I have done no harm to any

living soul, yet if I but get attached to a field, all conspire to tear

me away from it, and send me wandering like a vagabond over the

unknown.’

Who can describe that sadness? Anguish racked me, and a keen sense of

woe and utter beggary so whelmed the mind that my ears became dead to

words, my eyes blind to all colours, save that which sympathised with

the gloom within. No gold or silver had I, nor land, nor any right even

to such small share as might be measured for my grave; but my memory was

rich with pleasant thoughts, stored with scenic beauties. Oh! place me

on the summit of the Craig again, and let me sit in peace, and my happy

thoughts will fly out, one by one, and bring the smile to my face, and

make me proof against the misery of orphanage and the wintry cold of the

world; there my treasures, which to me were all-sufficing, wearied me

not with their weight or keeping, were of no bulk to kindle

covetousness, or strike the spark of envy, and were close-hidden within

the soul. Often as I have left English shores since, the terrible

dejection of spirit of that day has ever recurred to my mind.

When about half-way across the Dee estuary, I was astonished at seeing

many great and grand ships sailing, under towers of bellying canvas,

over the far-reaching sea, towards some world not our own. Not long

after there appeared on the horizon clouds of smoke, out of which,

presently, wound a large city. There I saw distinctly masses of houses,

immensely tall chimneys, towers, lengths of walls, and groves of

ship’s-masts.

My rustic intelligence was diverted by the attempt to comprehend what

this sight could mean. Was this Liverpool, this monstrous aggregation of

buildings, and gloomy home of ships? Before I could answer the question

satisfactorily, Liverpool was all around me: it had grown, unperceived

by me, into a land covered by numberless structures of surpassing

vastness and height, and spread on either side of our course. We sped

along a huge sea-wall, which raised its grim front as high as a castle,

and before us was a mighty river; on either side there was an

immeasurable length of shore, crowded with houses of all sorts; and when

I looked astern, the two lines with their wonders of buildings ran far

out towards the sea, whence we had so swiftly come.

Before my distracted mind could arrange the multitude of impressions

which were thronging on me, my aunt, who had sat through all unmoved and

silent, touched me on the shoulder and bade me follow her ashore.

Mechanically, I obeyed, and stepped out on a floating stage which was

sufficiently spacious to accommodate a whole town-full of people; and,

walking over an iron bridge, we gained the top of the colossal wall,

among such a number of human beings that I became speechless with fear

and amazement.

Entering a carriage, we drove along past high walls that imprisoned the

shipping, through an atmosphere impregnated with fumes of pitch and tar,

and streets whose roar of traffic was deafening. My ears could

distinguish clinks of iron, grinding roll of wheels, tramp of iron-shod

hoofs, but there was a hubbub around them all which was loud and

strenuous, of which I could make nothing, save that it was awful and

absorbing. Fresh from the slumbering existence of a quiet country home,

my nerves tingled under the influence of the ceaseless crash and

clamour. The universal restlessness visible out of the carriage windows,

and the medley of noises, were so overwhelming that from pure

distraction and an impressive sense of littleness in the midst of such a

mighty Babel, every intelligent faculty was suspended.

The tremendous power of this aggregate force so fiercely astir, made me

feel so limp and helpless that again I was tempted to implore my aunt to

return with me to the peace of Tremeirchion. But I refused the cowardly

impulse, and, before my total collapse, the carriage stopped at an

hotel. We were received by such smiling and obliging strangers that my

confidence was restored. The comfort visible everywhere, and the

composed demeanour of my aunt and her friends, were most soothing.

In the evening, Aunt Maria appeared, and her warm greetings served to

dissipate all traces of my late panic, and even infused a trifle of

exaltation, that my insignificant self was henceforth to be considered

as one of the many-throated army which had made Liverpool so terrible to

a youthful rustic. She was pressed to stay for a nine-o’clock supper,

but when she rose to depart I was by no means reluctant to brave the

terror of the street. Aunt Mary slipped a sovereign into my hand, stood,

over a minute, still and solemn, then bade me be a good boy and make

haste to get rich. I was taken away, and I never saw her again.

The streets no longer resounded with the startling hurly-burly of the

day. At a quick trot we drove through miles of lighted ways, and by

endless ranges of ill-lit buildings. Once I caught a glimpse of a

spacious market, aglow with gas-lights, where the view of innumerable

carcases reminded me of the wonderful populousness of the great city;

but beyond it lay the peaceful region of a sleeping people. At about the

middle of this quieter part the cab halted, and we descended before the

door of No. 22, Roscommon Street.

My precious box, with its Liverpool outfit, was carried into the house,

and a second later I was in the arms of cheery ‘Uncle Tom.’ In

expectation of my coming there was quite a large party assembled. There

was my irrepressible cousin, Mary Parkinson, with her husband, tall John

Parkinson, the cabinet-maker, a brave, strong, and kindly fellow. There

were also my cousins Teddy and Kate, and Gerard, Morris, and others.

Cousin Mary was an independent young woman, and, like all women

conscious of good looks, sure of her position in a small circle; but,

important as she might be, she was but secondary to Uncle Tom, her

father. He was the central figure in the gathering, and his sentiments

were a law to his household. He stood in the forefront, of medium size,

corpulent, rubicund, and so genial, it was impossible to withstand him.

‘My word, laddy! thou art a fine boy! Why, I had no idea they could

raise such as thou in Wales. What hast been living on to get so plump

and round--cheeks like apples, and eyes like stars? Well, of all!--I

say, Mary, John, my dears, why are ye standing mute? Give the laddy here

a Lancashire welcome! Buss him, wench! He is thy first cousin. Teddy, my

lad, come up and let me make thee acquainted with thy cousin. Kate, step

forward, put up thy mouth, dear; there, that is right! Now welcome, a

thousand times, to Liverpool, my boy! This is a grand old city, and thou

art her youngest citizen,’ etc., etc.

He was so breezy and bluff of speech, and so confident of great things

for me in Liverpool, that I forgot I was in the city of noise and smoke,

as well as my first dread of it. He was the first of his type I ever

met. He had the heartiness and rollickness of the traditional ‘sea-dog,’

as sound in fibre as he was impervious to care. No presence could daunt

him or subdue his unabashed frankness. He was like that fellow

‘Who having been praised for bluntness doth affect

A saucy roughness.

He cannot flatter, he!

An honest mind and plain,--he must speak truth;

An they will take it, so; if not, he’s plain.’

Uncle Tom was a man of fair education, and had once occupied a

responsible post in the railway service. It was through his influence

that Edward Owen had found a position in it, and I presume that the

memory of that had influenced Aunt Mary in committing me to his care.

Uncle Tom must have been found wanting in some respects, for he had

descended in the scale of life, while his protégé, Edward, was now

mounting rapidly. He now was a poor ‘cottoner,’ at a pound a week, with

which he had to support himself and large family. His fault--if fault it

may be called--may be guessed by the fact that, while his family was

increasing, he had rashly undertaken to burden himself with the care of

a boy of my age, while the slightest accident or indisposition would

leave him wholly without means to support anybody. His heart was

altogether too easily expansive for one of his condition. Had his means

permitted, he would have kept perpetual holiday with his friends, he so

loved good cheer and genial fellowship. He was over-contented with

himself and others; and too willing to become surety for anyone who

appeared to possess good-humour and good-nature; and, through that

disposition, which is fatal to a man of family, he continued to fall

lower and lower, until his precarious wages barely sufficed for the

week’s wants.

During the first few days I did little more than tramp through the

streets of Liverpool from Everton to the Docks, with Teddy Morris, aged

12, as a guide, who showed me the wonders of the city with the air of an

important shareholder glorying in his happy investments. The spirit of

his father in regard to its splendour and wealth had taken possession of

him, and so much was I impressed with what he said to me, that, had a

later comer questioned me about Liverpool, I should doubtless have

expressed the conviction that its grandeur was due in a great measure to

the presence of Uncle Tom and his son Teddy.

The day came when Uncle Tom took me to interview Mr. Winter, through

whose influence I was to lay the foundation of that promised prosperity

that was to be mine. I had donned my new Eton suit for the first time,

and my hair shone with macassar. Such an important personage as Mr.

Winter could only live among the plutocracy of Everton Heights; and

thither we wended, with hope and gladness in our eyes.

Years ago, when Uncle Tom was in affluent circumstances, he had

befriended Mr. Winter in some way that had made that gentleman pledge

himself to repay his kindness. He was about to test the sincerity of his

professions by soliciting his influence on behalf of his wife’s nephew.

We were received with a profuse show of friendship, and such civilities

that they seemed obsequious to me when I compared the sheen of Mr.

Winter’s black clothes with the fluffy jacket on Uncle Tom’s shoulders.

The gentleman took out his spotless kerchief and affected to dust the

chair before placing it before his visitor, and anxiously inquired about

the health of good Mrs. Morris and her divine children. When he came

finally to touch upon my affairs, I was rendered quite emotional with

pride by the compliments he showered upon me.

Mrs. Winter, an extremely genteel person in long curls, presently

appeared upon the scene, and after cooing with her spouse and exchanging

affectionate embraces, was introduced to us. But, though we were

present, husband and wife had such an attraction for each other that

they could not refrain from resuming their endearments. My cheeks burned

with shame as I heard them call one another, ‘My sweetie, darling love,

blessed dearie,’ and the like; but Uncle Tom was hugely delighted, and

took it all as a matter of course. In Wales, however, married people

did not conduct themselves so grossly in public.

When we rose to go away, Mr. Winter resumed his earnest and benevolent

manner to us, and begged my uncle to call on him next morning at nine

sharp, and he would be sure to hear of something favourable. While

returning home down the slope from Everton, Uncle Tom was most emphatic

in declaring that ‘dear old Winter was a born gentleman, a dear, kind

heart, and excellent old soul,’ and that I might consider myself as a

‘made man.’ Exultations at my prospects inclined me to echo my uncle’s

sentiments, and to express my belief that Mrs. Winter was like a saint,

with her dove-like eyes and pretty ringlets, though in some recess of me

was something of a disdain for those mawkish endearments of which I had

been an unwilling witness. These subjects occupied us all the way back

to No. 22, Roscommon Street, upon entering which we revealed all that

had happened to Aunt Maria, and made her participate in the delights of

hope.

Twenty times during the month did Uncle Thomas and I travel up to

Everton Heights, and the oftener we called on Mr. and Mrs. Winter, the

less assured we became of the correctness of our first impressions.

These visits cost Uncle Tom, who ought to have been at work checking the

cotton bales, seventy shillings, which he could ill afford to lose. The

pair at every occasion met us with exquisite politeness, and their

cooing by-plays recurred regularly, he affectionate beyond words, she

standing with drooping head, and meek sense of unworthiness, as he

poured over her the oil of sweetness.

The visits had been gradually becoming more and more tedious to us, for

what may have been gratification to them was nauseous to disappointed

people, until at the end of the twenty-first visit Uncle Tom burst out

uncontrollably with, ‘Now, d--n it all! Stop that, Winter. You are

nothing but an artful humbug. In God’s name, man, what pleasure can you

find in this eternal lying? Confound you, I say, for a d--d old rascal

and hypocrite! I can’t stand any more of this devilish snivelling. I

shall be smothered if I stay here longer. Come, boy, let’s get out of

this, we will have no more of this canting fraud.’

Instinct had prepared me somewhat for this violent explosion, but I was

shocked at its force when it occurred. It deepened my belief that my

uncle was a downright, honest, and valiant man; and I respected the

righteousness of his anger, but I was bound to be grieved by his

profanity. He fumed all the way home at the _farceur_, and yet comforted

himself and me, saying, ‘Never mind, laddie! We’ll get along somehow

without the help of that sweep.’

Aunt Maria’s conduct when we reached home was the beginning of a new

experience. She called me aside and borrowed my gold sovereign, for, as

she put it, ‘Uncle Tom has now been out of work for over three weeks,

because, you know, it was necessary to call every day on the false

friend, who fed him with hopes. He is awfully distressed and put out,

and I must get him a good meal or two to put spirit into him. In a day

or two he will be all right.’

On Monday morning of the next week she borrowed my Eton suit, and took

it to the place of the three gilt balls. The Monday after, she took my

overcoat to the same place, and then I knew that the family was in great

trouble. The knowledge of this was, I think, the first real sharpener of

my faculties. Previously, I had a keen sight, and acute hearing, but

that was all: there had been no effect on the reason. I have often

wondered that I was so slow of understanding things which had been

obvious to little Teddy from the first.

I now walked the streets with a different object than sight-seeing. Shop

windows were scrutinised for the legend ‘Boy wanted.’ I offered my

services scores of times, and received for answer that I was either too

young, too little, not smart enough, or I was too late; but one day,

after a score of refusals, I obtained my first employment at a

haberdasher’s in London Road, at five shillings a week; and my duties

were to last from seven in the morning until nine at night, and to

consist of shop-sweeping, lamp-trimming, window-polishing, etc.

As London Road was some distance from Roscommon Street, I had to rise

before six o’clock, by which I enjoyed the company of uncle, who at this

hour prepared his own morning meal. At such times he was in the best of

moods. He made the most savoury coffee, and was more generous than aunt

with the bread and butter. He was unvaryingly sanguine of my ultimate

success in life. He would say, ‘Aye, laddie, thou ‘ilt come out all

right in the end. It’s a little hard at first, I know, but better times

are coming, take my word for it’; and he would cite numerous instances

of men in Liverpool, who, beginning at the lowest step, had risen by

dint of perseverance and patience to fabulous wealth. Those early

breakfasts, while Aunt Maria and the children were asleep, and uncle

bustled cheerfully about with the confidence of a seer in the future,

have been treasured in my memory.

At half-past six I would leave the house, with a tin bucket containing

bread and butter and a little cold meat to support me until nine at

night. Thousands in similar condition were then trudging through the

streets to their various tasks, bright, happy, and regular as

clock-work. To all appearance they took pride in their daily toils, and

I felt something of it, too, though the heavy shutters, which I took

down and put up, made me wince when I remembered them. I think most of

us would have preferred the work with the wages to the wages without the

work. The mornings were generally sunless, the buildings very grimy, the

atmosphere was laden with soot, and everything was dingy; but few of us

thought of them as we moved in long and lively procession of men and

boys, women and girls, with complexions blooming like peaches, and lips

and ears reddened with rich blood.

As it drew near half-past nine at night, I would return home with

different views. My back ached, I was hungry and tired, and a supper of

cockles and shrimps, or bloater, was not at all stimulating. At

half-past ten I would be abed, weary with excessive weariness.

So long as my fresh country strength endured, my habits were regular,

but after two months the weight of the shutters conquered me, and sent

me to bed for a week to recuperate. Meantime, the haberdasher had

engaged a strong boy of eighteen in my place. Then followed a month of

tramping about the streets again, seeking fresh work, during which I

passed through the usual vicissitudes of hope and disappointment. The

finances of the family fell exceedingly low. Nearly all my clothes

departed to the house of the gilt balls, and their loss entailed a

corresponding loss of the smartness expected in office or shop-boys.

Necessity drove me further afield, even as far as the Docks. It was

then, while in search of any honest work, that I came across the bold

sailor-boys, young middies, gorgeous in brass buttons, whose jaunty air

of hardihood took my admiration captive. In the windows of the marine

slop-shops were exposed gaudy kerchiefs stamped with the figures of the

Royal Princes in nautical costume, which ennobled the sailor’s

profession, though, strange to say, I had deemed it ignoble, hitherto.

This elevation of it seduced me to enter the Docks, and to inspect more

closely the vessels. It was then that I marvelled at their lines and

size, and read with feelings verging on awe the names ‘Red Jacket,’

‘Blue Jacket, ‘Chimborazo,’ ‘Pocahontas,’ ‘Sovereign of the Seas,’

‘William Tapscott,’ etc. There was romance in their very names. And what

magnificent ships they were! Such broad and long-reaching extent of

decks, such girth of hulk and dizzy height of masts! What an atmosphere

of distant regions, suggestive of spicy Ind, and Orient isles! The

perfume of strange products hung about them. Out of their vast holds

came coloured grain, bales of silks hooped with iron, hogsheads,

barrels, boxes, and sacks, continuously, until the piles of them rose up

as high as the shed-roof.

I began to feel interested in the loud turmoil of commerce. The running

of the patent tackles was like music to me. I enjoyed the clang and boom

of metal and wood on the granite floors, and it was grand to see the

gathered freight from all parts of the world under English roofs.

On boards slung to the rigging were notices of the sailing of the ships,

and their destinations. Some were bound for New York, New Orleans,

Demerara, and West Indies, others were for Bombay, Calcutta, Shanghai,

the Cape, Melbourne, Sydney, etc. What kind of places were those cities?

How did these monstrous vessels ever leave the still pools walled round

with granite? I burned to ask these and similar questions.

There were real Liverpool boys about me, who were not unwilling to

impart the desired information. They pointed out to me certain

stern-faced men, with masterful eyes, as the captains, whose commands

none could dispute at sea; men of unlimited energy and potent voices as

the mates, or officers, who saw to the carrying out of their superior’s

commands; and the jerseyed workmen in the rigging--some of whom sported

gold earrings, and expectorated with superb indifference--as the sailors

who worked the ships from port to port. Each of these seamen bore on his

face an expression which I interpreted to mean strength, daring, and

defiance.

Before I parted from these boys, who were prodigies of practical wisdom,

and profound in all nautical matters, I had learned by comparing the

‘Red Jacket’ and ‘Dreadnought’ with the ‘American Congress’ and

‘Winfield Scott,’ the difference between a first-class clipper and an

ordinary emigrant packet, and why some ships were ‘Black-Ballers’ and

others ‘Red-Crossers,’ and how to distinguish between a vessel built in

Boston and one of British build.

One day, in my wanderings in search of work, I rambled up a by-street

close to the Brambley Moor Dock, and saw over a butcher’s stall a

notice, ‘Boy wanted.’ I applied for the vacancy, and Mr. Goff, the

proprietor, a pleasant-faced, prosperous-looking man, engaged me

instantly and turned me over to his foreman. This man, a hard,

sinister-faced Scotsman, for his fixed scowl, and implacable

irascibility, was a twin brother of Spleen. There never was such a

constant fault-finder, and, for general cantankerousness, I have never

met his like. The necessity of finding some work to do, and of never

leaving it, except for a change of work, called forth my utmost efforts

to please; but the perpetual scolding and cross tantrums, in which he

seemed to take delight, effectually baffled my simple arts. This man’s

eyes peculiarly affected me. They were of the colour of mud, and their

pin-point pupils sparkled with the cruel malignity of a snake’s. When,

in after years, I first looked into the visual orbs of the African

crocodile, my first thought was of the eyes of Goff’s foreman. Heaven

forbid that after such a long period I should malign him, but I cannot

resist the conviction that when he died, those who had known him must

have breathed freer!

Wretched as was my fortnight’s stay at the butcher’s under the

inhumanly-malicious foreman, it was the means of my becoming more

intimately acquainted with the stern lords of the sea, and their stately

ships; for my work consisted in carrying baskets of fresh provisions to

the vessels in the docks; and Time and Fate had so ordered it that

through this acquaintance I should be shunted into another line of life.

During the last few weeks domestic matters at Roscommon Street had not

been at all pleasant. The finances of the family had fallen very low,

and it had been evident that here, also, as at Ffynnon Beuno, there was

a wide distinction between children who had parents and those who were

orphaned. For if ever a discussion rose between my cousin and myself, my

uncle and aunt were invariably partial to their own, when called to

arbitrate between us. It was obvious that I was the least aggressive and

troublesome, the most respectful and sympathetic, of the younger members

of the family, but these merits were as naught when weighed in the

scales of affection. Teddy’s temper, made arrogant by the conceit that

he was his father’s son, required to be curbed sometimes; but if I

asserted myself, and promised him a thrashing, the maternal bosom was a

sure refuge; and, as each mother thinks her son more perfect than any

other boy, a certain defeat awaited me. Just as I had submitted to the

humours of David at Ffynnon Beuno, I was forced to submit to those of

Teddy. If aunt’s censures of me were not sufficient to ensure immunity

to the nagging boy, there was the old man’s rough tongue to encounter.

Slowly the thought was formed that if I were not to be permitted to

resent Teddy’s infirmities of temper, nor to obtain the protection of

his over-indulgent parents, my condition could not be worse if I

exchanged the growing intolerance of the evil for some other, where, at

least, I should enjoy the liberty of kicking occasionally. On striking a

balance between the gains of living with Teddy’s family and the crosses

received through Teddy’s insolence, it appeared to my imperfect mind

that my humiliation was in excess. I had not obtained the clerkship for

which I had left Wales, my gold sovereign was gone, all my clothes were

in the pawnshop. I had fallen so low as to become a butcher’s errand

boy, under a brute. At home, there was as little peace at night, as

there was, during the day, with the foreman. Exposed to the unruly

spitefulness of Teddy, the frowns of aunt, the hasty anger of uncle, and

the unholy fury of the Scotsman, I was in a fair way of being ground

very fine.

At this juncture, and while in an indifferent mood, Fate caused a little

incident to occur which settled my course for me. I was sent to the

packet-ship ‘Windermere’ with a basket of provisions, and a note to

Captain David Hardinge. While the great man read his note, I gazed

admiringly at the rich furniture of the cabin, the gilded mirrors, and

glittering cornices, and speculated as to the intrinsic value of this

gilding, but, suddenly, I became conscious that I was being scrutinised.

‘I see,’ said the captain, in a strong and rich voice, ‘that you admire

my cabin. How would you like to live in it?’

‘Sir?’ I answered, astonished.

‘I say, how would you like to sail in this ship?’

‘But I know nothing of the sea, sir.’

‘Sho! You will soon learn all that you have to do; and, in time, you may

become a captain of as fine a ship. We skippers have all been boys, you

know. Come, what do you say to going with me as cabin-boy? I will give

you five dollars a month, and an outfit. In three days we start for New

Orleans, to the land of the free and the home of the brave.’

All my discontent gathered into a head in a moment, and inspired the

answer: ‘I will go with you, sir, if you think I will suit.’

‘That’s all right. Steward!’ he cried; and, when the man came, the

captain gave him his instructions about me. As he spoke, I realised

somewhat more clearly what a great step I had taken, and that it was

beyond my power to withdraw from it, even if I should wish to do so.

There was no difficulty in obtaining Goff’s consent to quit his service;

and the fiendish foreman only gave a sardonic smile which might mean

anything. As I strode towards home, my feelings varied from spasms of

regret to gushes of joy, as I mentally analysed the coming change.

Larded bread, and a sordid life with its pawnshops and family

bickerings, were to be exchanged for full rations and independence.

Constant suppression from those who usurped the right to control my

actions, words, and thoughts, was to be exchanged for the liberty

enjoyed by the rest of the world’s toilers. These were the thoughts

which pleased me; but when I regarded the other side, a haunting sense

of insecurity and foreboding sobered me, and made me unhappy. Then

there was a certain feeling of affection for my native land and family.

Oh! if my discontent had not been so great, if Uncle Tom had been only

more just, I had clung to them like a limpet to a rock! It needed all

the force of reason, and the memories of many unhappinesses and

innumerable spites, to sever all connection with my humble love, and

accept this offer of freedom and release from slavery. The magnitude of

the change, and the inevitable sundering of all earthly ties at such

short notice, troubled me greatly; but they had no effect in altering my

decision.

When the old man reached home and heard the news, he appeared quite

staggered. ‘What! Going to America!’ he exclaimed. ‘Shipped as a

cabin-boy! Come now, tell me what put that idea into your head? Has

anything happened here that I do not know? Eh, wife, how is this?’

His sincere regret made it harder than ever to part. It was in my nature

to hate parting. Aunt joined her arguments to those of Uncle Tom to

dissuade me. But there rose up before me a great bulk of wretchedness,

my slavish dependence on relatives who could scarcely support

themselves, my unfortunate employment, Teddy’s exasperating insolence,

family recriminations, my beggar’s wardrobe, and daily diet of

contumely; and I looked up from the introspection, and, with fixed

resolve, said:--

‘It is no use, uncle. I must go. There is no chance of doing anything in

Liverpool’; and, though he was not of a yielding disposition, uncle

consented at last.

In strict justice, however, to his character, I must admit that, had

circumstances been equal to his deserving, his nephew would never have

been permitted to leave England with his consent; for, according to him,

there was no place in all the world like England.

On the third day the ‘Windermere’ was warped out of dock, and then a

steam-tug towed her out into mid-river. Shortly after, a tug brought the

crew alongside. Sail was loosened, and our ship was drawn towards the

ocean, and, as she headed for the sea, the sailors, with rousing

choruses, hoisted topsails, and sheeted them home.

CHAPTER III

AT SEA

When the ‘Windermere’ was deserted by the tug, and she rose and fell to

the waves, I became troubled with a strange lightness of the head, and

presently I seemed to stand in the centre of a great circle around which

sea, and sky, and ship revolved at great speed. Then for three days I

lay oblivious, helpless, and grieving; but, at the deck-washing on the

fourth morning, I was quickened into sudden life and activity by hearing

a hoarse, rasping voice, whose owner seemed in a violent passion,

bawling down the scuttle: ‘Now then, come out of that, you--young

Britisher! Step up here in a brace of shakes, or I’ll come down and skin

your ---- carcase alive!’

The furious peremptoriness of the voice was enough to rouse the dead,

and the fear of the ogre’s threats drove all feelings of sickly

wretchedness away, and drew me on deck immediately. My nerves tingled,

and my senses seemed to swim, as I cast a look at the unsteady sea and

uneasy ship; but the strong penetrating breeze was certainly a powerful

tonic, though not such a reviver as the sight of the ireful fellow who

came on at a tearing pace towards me and hissed: ‘Seize that

scrubbing-broom, you--joskin! Lay hold of it, I say, and scrub, you--son

of a sea-cook! Scrub like--! Scrub until you drop! Sweat, you--swab! Dig

into the deck you ---- white-livered lime-juicer!’

I stole the briefest possible glance at his inflamed face, to catch some

idea of the man who could work himself into such an intense rage, for he

was a kind of creature never dreamed of before by me. Seeing me bend to

my task without argument or delay, he darted to another boy on the lee

side, and with extreme irony and retracted lips, stooped, with hands on

knees, and said to him: ‘Now, Harry, my lad, I am sure you don’t want

the toe of my boot to touch ungently those crescents of yours. Do you

now?’

‘No, sir,’ said the boy promptly.

‘All right, then, my sweet son of a gun. Lay your weight on that broom,

and let her rip, d’ ye hear?’

‘Aye, aye, sir.’

Nelson, for that was his name, straightened himself, and cruelly

smiling, observed the sailors, who were scrubbing and holy-stoning with

exemplary industry, and then moved towards them discharging salvoes of

blasphemies on their heads, of varying force and character. I wondered,

as between the tremendous oaths I heard the sigh of the sea and the moan

of the wind, how long the Almighty would restrain His hand. I scrubbed

away until I became heated, but my thoughts were far from my work. I was

trying to unravel vague ideas about the oddness of things in this world.

It seemed to me surprising that, while so many people on land feared to

take the name of God in vain, men on the great sea, surrounded by perils

and wonders, could shout aloud their defiance of heaven and hell. There

was not a soul on board with whom I could exchange my inner thoughts,

and, from this period, I contracted a habit of communing with myself.

At eight bells I was told I belonged to Nelson, the second mate’s watch,

and that my berth was with Harry, in the apprentice cabin on the main

deck. There was no mention of the cabin-boy appointment. When the watch

was relieved, Harry and I had a talk. This boy had already made one

voyage on the ‘Windermere,’ and, though he despised greenhorns, among

whom he classed me, he was pleased to be good-natured with me, probably

because I showed such deference to his spirit and experience. He

graciously promised to coach me, or, rather, put me ‘up to the ropes,’

that I might avoid a few of the punishments mates are so quick to bestow

on dull ship-boys.

When I told him that I had been engaged as cabin-boy, he was uncommonly

amused, and said that the skipper was at his ‘old game.’ ‘On the last

voyage we had two boys who had been induced to join in the same way,

but, as soon as we were out to sea, Nelson got a hint from the “cappen”

and fell on them like a thousand of bricks, and chased them forrard

pretty quick, I tell ye. They were bully-ragged all the way to New

Orleans, and at the pier they sloped, leaving their sea-duds to me. We

made a good thing out of the young duffers. The skipper must have

cleared twenty-five dollars in wages from the pair of them, the mates

had their fun out of them, and I had their toggery.

‘What you’ve got to do is to mind your eye. Look out for Nelson, and be

lively. That man ain’t no softy, I tell ye. If he comes down on you,

you’ll get it hot, and no mistake. When he sings out, jump, as though

you were bitten, and answer, “Aye, aye, sir.” Never forget to “sir” him.

Whether it’s scrubbing, or brass-cleaning, or hauling, stick to your job

like--and “sharp” ‘s the word every time. The second mate is bad enough,

but Waters, the chief mate, is the very devil. With him the blow goes

before the word, while Nelson roars like a true sea-dog before he

strikes. Good Lord, I’ve seen some sights aboard this packet, I have.’

‘But how did the captain make twenty-five dollars by the boys on the

last voyage?’

‘How? Well you _are_ a goose! Why, they left their wages, over two

months due, in his hands, when they ran away from the ship for fear of

worse treatment going home. Aye, that’s the ticket, and the size of it,

my little matey. Haze and bully the young lubbers well at sea, and they

scoot ashore the first chance they get.’

‘Were the mates not hard on you?’

‘Oh, Waters took me into his watch, and showed a liking for me, for, you

see, I was not quite a greeny. My father saw me properly shipped, and I

signed articles. They didn’t, but came aboard with the cappen’s

permission, and so did you. The skipper has to account for me when he

gets to port; but you, you may be blown overboard, and no one would be

the wiser. I am now as good as an ordinary seaman, though too young for

the forecastle. I can furl royals as spry as any bucco sailor on board,

and know every rope on the ship, while you don’t know stem from stern.’

These glib nautical phrases, most of which were but vaguely understood

by me, his assurance, his daring, his want of feeling, made me admire

and wonder at him. He was a typical sea-boy, with a glitter in his eyes

and bloom in his smooth cheeks that told of superabundant health and

_hardiesse_. But for one thing, a prince might have been proud of him as

a son. Satan, I thought, had already adopted him. His absolute

ignorance of religion, his awful coarseness of speech, removed him miles

away from me, as though he were a brave young savage of another nation

and language, and utterly incomprehensible to me. He was not to be

imitated in any way, and yet he obtained my admiration, because he had

been to America, had manfully endured the tortures of sea-life, and bore

himself indomitably.

Long Hart, the cook, was another kind of hero to me. He stood over six

feet high in his galley felts, and his saffron complexion and creased

neck spoke of foreign suns, maritime romance, and many voyages. The gold

earrings he wore I suspected belonged to his dead wives. His nethers

consisted of black doe-skin, his body was cased in a dark blue jersey,

and a blue Phrygian cap covered his head. He disdained the use of

sailors’ colloquialisms, and spoke like a school-master in very grand

words. My rustic innocence appeared to have an attraction for him; on

the second evening after my recovery, he offered the freedom of his

galley to me, and, when I brought the apprentice kids, he was generous

in his helpings of soft-tack, scouse, and duff. During the dog-watches

he spun long yarns about his experiences in deep-sea ships, and voyages

to Callao, California, West Coast of Africa, and elsewhere, many of

which were horrible on account of the cruelty practised on sailors. I

heard of poor sailors hoisted up to the yard-arm, and ducked by the run

in the sea until they were nearly drowned; of men being keel-hauled,

tied stark-naked to the windlass, and subjected to the most horrible

indignities, put over the ship’s side to scrub the ship’s coppers in the

roasting hot sun, and much else which made me thankful that the captains

of the day were not so cruel as those twenty years back. His

condescension to a young lubber like myself, and his generosity, won

from me such deference and civility that he assumed a kind of

protectorship over me, and assisted in the enlightenment of my

understanding about many things.

The crew consisted mainly of Anglo-Irish, Dutchmen, one or two English,

and as many Yankees. They were undisciplined spirits, who found the wild

sea-life congenial to their half-savage natures, and had formed the odd

notion that to be sailors was to be of nobler stuff than shoremen, and

accordingly swaggered magnificently whenever they could do it safely.

For some reason they had conceived their nobility to lie in the fact

that they had voluntarily adopted a more perilous profession than any

practised by landsmen. They were adored by the girls in port, and

enjoyed the privilege of gloriously swearing whenever they chose, and

the pleasure of this conceit gave them happiness. Shoremen seldom swore,

except the dockmen, who aped sailors’ manners and gait. They went to

church, feared the constables, seldom got drunk or went on a spree,

sported gloves, and seemed afraid of work.

When they catch these shore-lubbers at sea, the sailors’ contempt for

them is very manifest. They are delighted when they are sea-sick, oaths

and blows are freely dealt to them, they take pleasure in provoking

their aversion to slush and tar, and secretly enjoy their cruel

treatment by the mates. As they made me feel my inferiority to Harry, I

have since witnessed many another treated in the same way. Poor brutes!

considering the slave life they lead, it would be a pity to deprive them

of this miserable consolation.

The discipline of the ‘Windermere’ was well begun by the time I regained

health. It was the pride of the officers that, though the ‘Windermere’

was not a ‘Black-Ball’ packet, she was big and smart enough to be one,

and they were resolved that the customs of the Black-Baller should

prevail on board, and that the discipline should be of the same quality.

Whether it came up to the regulation standard I do not know, but just as

Francis flogged, beat, and pummelled the infants under his charge, so

the ruffian mates stormed, swore, and struck or booted the full-grown

wretches on board the ‘Windermere.’ The captain was too high and mighty

to interfere, or he may have issued his orders to that purpose, and was

satisfied with the zealous service of his mates: at any rate, I scarcely

heard his voice except during gales of wind, and then it was stern and

strident.

Strange to say, the majority of the sailors preferred the American

ships, with all their brutality, to the English, with their daily doses

of lime-juice. Harry, Long Hart, and the forecastle arguments which we

had perforce to hear, as our den adjoined that of the sailors,

sufficiently informed me of the fact that the soft-tack, plum-duff, good

mess of beef of the Yankees, were preferred to the weevilly-biscuit,

horse-beef, and gill of lime-juice of the British. ‘Give me,’ said a

forecastle orator, ‘a Yankee ship, and not a lousy lime-juicer. Even on

the worst Yankee ship afloat no bucco sailor need fear the mates. If a

man knows his duty and won’t shirk, he is safe against the devil

himself, I say. Watch Bully Waters himself. He never drops on a real

shell-back, but on some infernal land-lubber who has shipped as an A.

B., when he is not fit to carry guts to a bear. It is the loutish

Dutchmen and Swedes who have spoiled these packet-ships. You can’t

expect mates, in a squall of wind that may whip the masts off, to stand

still until their orders enter the stupid head of a Dutchman who doesn’t

know a word of English. Well, what must they do? The ship is their first

duty, and they fly at the Dutchman, and if the Dutchman don’t understand

that he must skip--he must stand and be skinned. There’s my sentiments.’

I heard such defence scores of times, which proves that the worst side

has something to say for itself.

It may have been the shell-back’s boast or Harry’s criticism which

induced me, when on deck, to observe more closely that professional

superiority which made the ‘bucco sailor’ so fearless. It seemed to me

that though the ‘old hands’ knew their work well, they took precious

care to do as little as possible; and, had anyone asked me, after I had

got safely ashore, what I thought of them, I should have said that they

did more ‘dusting round’ than real work.

It is true the ‘old salts’ were loudest in their responses to the mate’s

commands, that they led the bowline song and the halliard chant, were

cheerier with their ‘Aye, ayes,’ ‘Belays,’ ‘Vast hauling,’ and chorus;

that they strove whose hands should be uppermost at the halliards and

nearest to the tackles; but all this did not impress me so much as they

might think it did. When the officers thundered out, ‘All hands shorten

sail,’ ‘Furl top-gallant sails,’ or ‘Reef topsail,’ the shell-backs

appeared to delay under various shifty pretexts to climb up the rigging,

in order that being last they might occupy the safe position at the bunt

of the sails; and when it was only a four-man job, the way in which they

noisily passed the word along, without offering to move, was most

artful. At serving, splicing, and steering, the skill of the old hands

counted greatly, no doubt; but in work aloft they were nowhere, compared

to those Dutchmen and Norwegians they so much derided. They were, in

fact, strategists in the arts of shirking.

Sometimes the ‘sojering,’ as it was called, was a little too

conspicuous; and then Bully Waters, with awful energy and frantic

malice, drew blood from ‘old salt’ and ‘joskin’ indiscriminately, with

iron belaying-pins, and kicked, and pounded, until I sickened at the

sound of the deadly thuds, and the faces streaming with blood; but I was

compelled to admit that for some days after there would be a more

spontaneous briskness to obey orders, and old and young regarded the

fiery mate from the corners of their eyes.

Five days from Liverpool there suddenly appeared on deck three

stowaways,--two Irish boys of about fourteen and fifteen, and an

Irishman,--ragged, haggard, and spiritless from hunger, sickness, and

confinement. Of course they had to undergo the ordeal of inspection by

the stern captain, who contemptuously dismissed them as though they were

too vile to look at; but Nelson chivied the three unfortunates from the

poop to the bow to ‘warm their cockles,’ as he phrased it. The cries of

the youngest boy were shrillest and loudest, but, when he afterwards

emerged to beg food, we guessed by his roguish smile that he had been

least hurt. Harry expressed his opinion that he was a ‘Liverpool rat,’

who would certainly end his days in the State’s prison.

Curiously enough, the presence of these two young stowaways acted as a

buffer between me and a considerable amount of inglorious mauling, which

Nelson, for practice’ sake, would have inflicted on my ‘Royal Bengal,

British person,’ as, with playful devilry, he admitted. But the rogues

did not appear to be very sensitive about the indignity to which they

were subjected. The younger Paddy disturbed the ship with shrill screams

if Nelson but raised his hand, and thus his rat’s wit saved him often.

O’Flynn, the eldest boy, would run and dodge his tormentor, until

Nelson, who seemed to love the fun of licking them, through cunning

caught them, and then the cries of the innocents would be heart-rending.

Before many days had passed, I had discovered that Nelson had also his

arts. Though I had never been in a theatre, and could not understand, at

first, why one man should assume so many poses, I should have been blind

not to perceive that the real self of Nelson was kept in reserve, and

that he amused himself by behaving differently to each on board. He had

one way with the captain, another with his colleague, and various were

the styles he assumed before the sailors. From profound deference to

Captain Hardinge, and respectful fellowship with Waters, he gradually

rose in his own estimation as he addressed himself to the lower grades,

until to me he was arrogance personified, and to the stowaways a

‘born-hellian.’ With Harry he indulged in broad irony, to the more

stodgy of the crew he was a champion prize-fighter, to others he spoke

with a dangerous smoothness, with lips retracted; but behind every

character he adopted stood the real Nelson, a ferocious and

short-tempered brute, ready to blaze up into bloody violence.

Until we were abreast of Biscay Bay we experienced no bad weather, but

rolled along comfortably under moderate breezes, with a spiteful gust or

two. I was gradually becoming seasoned, and indifferent to the

swing-swang of the sea. As Nelson said, with a condescending but evil

smile, I was ‘fresh as a daisy.’ The gales and tempests about which

Harry and Long Hart loved to talk were so long a-coming that I doubted

whether the sea was really so very dreadful, or that the canvas towers

would ever need to be taken in. From sunrise down to the decline of day

our mast-heads drew apparently the same regular lines and curves against

a clear sky. But now the blue disappeared under depths of clouds which

intensified into blackness very rapidly, and the whistling whispers in

the shrouds changed their note. The sea abandoned its mechanical heave,

and languid upshoot of scattered crests. Whether the sky had signalled

the change and the sea obeyed, or whether the elements were acting

simultaneously, I knew not, but, just as the cloudiness had deepened, a

shadow passed over the ocean, until it was almost black in colour; and

then, to windward, I could see battalion after battalion of white-caps

rushing gaily, exultingly, towards us. The watches were mustered:

captain and mates appeared with oil-skins ready, and when the wind began

to sing in louder notes, and the great packet surged over on her side,

and the water shot through the scuppers, the captain shook his head

disparagingly and cried, ‘Shorten sail, Mr. Waters; in with royals and

top-gallant sails, down with the flying jib,’ etc., etc.

This was the period when I thought Mr. Waters was at his grandest. His

trumpet-like voice was heard in ‘larum tones, as though the existence of

a fleet was at stake; and every ‘man-jack’ seemed electrified and flew

to his duty with all ardour. Nor was Nelson behind Waters in energy. The

warning sounds of the wind had announced that intensity of action was

expected from every soul. The waves leaped over the high foreboard, and

the ship was pressed over until the deck was as steep as the roof of a

church, and a foaming cataract impended over us. Then it was the mates

bawled out aloud, and sailors clambered up the shrouds in a frenzy of

briskness, and the deck-hands bawled and sang after a fashion I had not

heard before, while blocks tam-tammed recklessly, great sail-sheets

danced wildly in the air, and every now and then a thunder sound, from

bursting canvas, added to the general excitement. Though somewhat

bewildered by the windy blasts, the uproar of rushing waters, and the

fury of captain and crew, I could not help being fascinated by the

scene, and admiring the passionate energy of officers and crew. A gale

at sea is as stimulating as a battle.

When the area of sail had been reduced to the limit of safety, we had a

clearer view fore and aft, and I had more leisure to listen to the

wind-music in the shrouds, to observe the graver aspect of the sea, and

to be influenced by unspeakable impressions. What a power this invisible

element, which had stirred the sea to madness, was! If I raised my head

above the bulwarks, it filled my eyes with tears, tore at my hair, drove

up my nostrils with such force as to make me gasp. It flew up our

trousers, and under our oilskin jackets, and inflated us until we

resembled the plumpest effigies conceivable.

In the height of the turmoil, while trying to control my ideas, I was

startled by the penetrating voice of Waters singing in my ear.

‘Now, my young pudding-faced joker, why are you standing here with your

mouth wide open? Get a swab, you monkey, and swab up this poop, or I’ll

jump down your--throat. Look alive now, you sweet-scented son of a

sea-cook!’

That first voyage of mine was certainly a remarkable one, were it only

for the new-fangled vocabulary I was constantly hearing. Every sentence

contained some new word or phrase, coined extempore, and accentuated by

a rope’s end, or ungentle back-hander, with gutter adjectives and

explosive epithets. Every order appeared to require the force of a

gathered passion, as though obedience was impossible without it.

From this date began, I think, the noting of a strange coincidence,

which has since been so common with me that I accept it as a rule. When

I pray for a man, it happens that at that moment he is cursing me; when

I praise, I am slandered; if I commend, I am reviled; if I feel

affectionate or sympathetic towards one, it is my fate to be detested or

scorned by him. I first noticed this curious coincidence on board the

‘Windermere.’ I bore no grudge, and thought no evil of any person, but

prayed for all, morning and evening, extolled the courage, strength, and

energy of my ship-mates, likened them to sea-lions, and felt it an

honour to be in the company of such brave men; but, invariably, they

damned my eyes, my face, my heart, my soul, my person, my nationality; I

was damned aft, and damned forward. I was wholly obnoxious to everyone

aboard, and the only service they asked of God towards me was that He

should damn me to all eternity. It was a new idea that came across my

mind. My memory clung to it as a novelty, and at every instance of the

coincidence I became more and more confirmed that it was a rule, as

applied to me; but, until it was established, I continued to bless those

who persecuted me with their hideous curses. I am glad to think that I

was sustained by a belief that I was doing right; for, without it, I

should have given scope to a ferocious and blasphemous resentment. It

cheered me with a hope that, by and by, their curses would be blessings;

and, in the meantime, my mind was becoming as impervious to such

troubles as a swan’s back to a shower of rain.

Harry, on the contrary, made a distinction. He allowed no one to curse

him, except the officers. When a sailor ventured to swear at him, he

returned the swearing with interest, and clenched his fist ready for the

violent sequel. He had long ago overcome the young boy’s squeamishness

at an oath. If anything, he was rather prone to take the boy’s advantage

over a man, and dare him to prove himself a coward by striking one

younger and weaker. It is a cunning method of fence, which I have since

found is frequently practised by those who, without loss of manliness,

can resort to screaming. When I confided to him that the crew of the

‘Windermere’ were a very wicked set, he said the ‘Windermere’ was Heaven

compared to a Black-Ball packet-ship. I believe that he would have liked

to see more belaying-pins and marline-spikes thrown at the men by the

mates, more knuckle-dusting, and sling-shot violence. According to him,

brutal sailors should be commanded by brutal mates. ‘Lime-juicers’ were

too soft altogether for his kidney.

From the day we reached the region of the Trades, we enjoyed blue skies

and dry decks, speeding along under square yards, with studding-sails

below and aloft. Our work, however, was not a whit easier. The mates

hated to see idleness, and found endless jobs of scrubbing paint-work,

brass-cleaning, painting, oiling, slushing, and tarring, not to mention

sennet-making, and serving shrouds and stays. Sundays, however,--weather

permitting,--were restful. The sailors occupied themselves with

overhauling their kits, shaving, hair-cutting, and clothes-mending. In

the afternoon, after gorging themselves on duff, they were more given to

smoke, and to spinning such sanguinary yarns of sea-life that I wondered

they could find pleasure in following such a gory profession. When sea

and sky were equally sympathetic, and Waters and Nelson gave a rest to

their vocal machines, there might have been worse places than the deck

of the ‘Windermere’ on a Sunday; and, to us boys, the Sunday feed of

plum-duff, with its ‘Nantucket raisins,’ soft-tack, and molasses, or

gingerbread, contributed to render it delightful.

We were on the verge of the Gulf of Mexico, when one night, just after

eight bells were struck, and the watch was turning out, Waters, who was

ever on the alert for a drop on someone, hurled an iron belaying-pin at

a group of sailors on the main deck, and felled a Norwegian senseless.

Then, as though excited at the effect, he bounded over the poop-railing

to the main deck, amongst the half-sleepy men, and struck right and left

with a hand-spike, and created such a panic that old salts and joskins

began to leap over each other in their wild hurry to escape from the

demon. Four men lay on the deck still as death for a while, but,

fortunately, they recovered in a short time, though the Norwegian was

disabled for a week.

The next day, Nelson tried to distinguish himself. While washing decks,

he caught the youngest Paddy fairly, and availed himself of the

opportunity to avenge former failures so effectually that the boy had

not a joke left in him. His fellow-stowaway was next made to regret ever

having chosen the ‘Windermere’ to escape from the miseries inseparable

from Liverpool poverty. Before many minutes Nelson was dancing about me,

and wounding me in many a vulnerable point; and then, aspiring for

bigger game, he affected to feel outraged at the conduct of the man at

the wheel, and proceeded to relieve himself by clouting and kicking the

poor fellow, until the bright day must have appeared like a starry sky

to him.

Labouring under the notion that Liverpool sailors needed the most

ferocious discipline, our two mates seldom omitted a chance to prove to

them that they were resolved to follow every detail of the code, and to

promote their efficiency; but, when about four days from the mouth of

the Mississippi, they suddenly abstained from physical violence, and

except by intermittent fits of mild swearing, and mordant sarcasm, they

discontinued all efforts at the improvement of the men. The day before

we arrived at the Balize, the mates astonished me by their extravagant

praise of those they had so cruelly mauled and beaten. They called them

‘Jolly Tars,’ ‘Yankee Boys’ (a very high compliment), ‘Ocean heroes,’

etc., etc. Bully Waters exhibited his brilliantly white teeth in broad

smiles, and Nelson gushed, and was jovially ebullient. I heard one

sailor remark upon this sudden change of demeanour in them, that the

mates knew when to ‘’bout face’ and sing a new tune; and that old hands

could tell how near they were to the levee by the way Yankee mates

behaved, and that there was no place so unwholesome for bullies as the

New Orleans levee. Another sailor was of the opinion that the mates were

more afraid of being hauled up before the court; he had often seen their

like,--‘hellians at sea, and sweet as molasses near port.’

On the fifty-second day from Liverpool, the ‘Windermere’ anchored off

one of the four mouths of the Mississippi River, in twenty-seven feet of

water. The shore is called the Balize. Early next morning a small tug

took our ship, and another of similar size, in tow, and proceeded up the

river with us. We were kept very busy preparing the vessel for port, but

I had abundant opportunities to note the strange shores, and the

appearance of the greatest of American rivers. After several hours’

steaming, we passed ‘English turn,’ which Harry described as the place

where the English were ‘licked’ by the Americans on the 8th of January,

1815--a story that was then incredible to me. After an ascent of about

one hundred miles up the river, we came in view of the chief port of the

Mississippi Valley, and, in due time, our vessel became one of three

lying at a pier-head, pointing up among a seemingly countless number of

ships and river-steamers, ranged below and above our berth. The

boarding-house touts poured aboard and took possession of the sailors;

and, before many minutes, Harry and I alone remained of the crew that

had brought the big ‘Windermere’ across the sea to New Orleans.

* * * * *

Though about thirty-five years have elapsed since I first stood upon the

levee of the Crescent City, scarcely one of all my tumultuous sensations

of pleasure, wonder, and curiosity, has been forgotten by me. The levee

sloped down with a noble breadth to the river, and stretched for miles

up and down in front of the city, and was crowded with the cargoes of

the hundreds of vessels which lay broadside to it. In some places the

freights lay in mountainous heaps, but the barrels, and hogsheads, and

cotton bales, covered immense spaces, though arranged in precise order;

and, with the multitudes of men,--white, red, black, yellow,--horses,

mules, and drays and wagons, the effect of such a scene, with its fierce

activity and new atmosphere, upon a raw boy from St. Asaph, may be

better imagined than described.

During my fifty-two days of ship-life there had filtered into my mind

curious ideas respecting the new land of America and the character of

the people. In a large measure they were more complimentary than

otherwise; but the levee of New Orleans carried with its name a

reputation for sling-shots, doctored liquor, Shanghai-ing, and

wharf-ratting, which made it a dubious place for me. When Harry directed

my attention to the numerous liquor saloons fronting the river-side, all

the scandalous stories I had heard of knifing, fighting, and

manslaughter, recurred at once to my mind, and made me very shy of these

haunts of villainy and devilry. As he could not forego the pleasure of

introducing me to a city which he had constantly praised, he insisted

that I should accompany him for a walk that first night up Tchapitoulas

Street, and to some ‘diggins’ where he had acquaintances. I accepted his

invitation without any misgiving, or any other thought than of

satisfying a natural curiosity.

I think it is one of the most vivid recollections I possess. The details

of my first impressions, and an analysis of my thoughts, would fill many

pages. Of the thousands of British boys who have landed in this city, I

fancy none was so utterly unsophisticated as myself--for reasons which

have already been related.

Directly the sun was set we were relieved from duty, and were allowed

liberty to go ashore. We flew over the planking laid across the ships,

light as young fawns; and, when I felt the shore under my feet, I had to

relieve myself by an ecstatic whirl or two about Harry, crying out, ‘At

last! At last! New Orleans! It is too good to be true!’ I was nearly

overwhelmed with blissful feeling that rises from emancipation. I was

free!--and I was happy, yes, actually happy, for I was free--at last the

boy was free!

We raced across the levee, for joy begets activity, and activity is

infectious. What was a vivid joy to me, was the delight of gratified

pride to Harry. ‘I told you,’ he said, beaming, ‘what New Orleans was.

Is it not grand?’ But ‘grand’ did not convey its character, as it

appeared to my fresh young eyes. Some other word was wanted to express

the whole of what I felt. The soft, balmy air, with its strange scents

of fermenting molasses, semi-baked sugar, green coffee, pitch, Stockholm

tar, brine of mess-beef, rum, and whiskey drippings, contributed a

great deal towards imparting the charm of romance to everything I saw.

The people I passed appeared to me to be nobler than any I had seen.

They had a swing of the body wholly un-English, and their facial

expressions differed from those I had been accustomed to. I strove hard

to give a name to what was so unusual. Now, of course, I know that it

was the sense of equality and independence that made each face so

different from what I had seen in Liverpool. These people knew no

master, and had no more awe of their employers than they had of their

fellow-employees.

We reached the top of Tchapitoulas Street, the main commercial artery of

the city. The people were thronging home from the business quarters, to

the more residential part. They passed by in many hundreds, with their

lunch-buckets, and, though soiled by their labours, they were not

wearied or depressed. In the vicinity of Poydras Street, we halted

before a boarding-house, where Harry was welcomed with the warmth which

is the due of the returned voyager. He ordered dinner, and, with

appetites sharpened by youth and ocean airs, we sat down to a spread of

viands which were as excellent as they were novel. Okra soup, grits,

sweet potatoes, brinjalls, corn scones, mush-pudding, and

‘fixings’--every article but the bread was strange and toothsome. Harry

appropriated my praise of the meal to himself, paid for it with the air

of one whose purse was deep beyond soundings, and then invested a silver

piece in cigars; for American boys always smoked cigars, and, when in

New Orleans, English boys loved to imitate them.

Now, when I stepped on the levee, frisky as a lamb, I was about as good

as a religious observance of the Commandments can make one. To me those

were the principal boundary-stones that separated the region of right

from that of wrong. Between the greater landmarks, there were many

well-known minor indexes; but there were some which were almost

undiscoverable to one so young and untravelled as I was. Only the

angelically-immaculate could tread along the limits of right and wrong

without a misstep.

After dinner we sauntered through a few streets, in a state of sweet

content, and, by and by, entered another house, the proprietress of

which was extremely gracious. Harry whispered something to her, and we

were shown to a room called a parlour. Presently, there bounced in four

gay young ladies, in such scant clothing that I was speechless with

amazement. My ignorance of their profession was profound, and I was

willing enough to be enlightened; but, when they proceeded to take

liberties with my person, they seemed to me to be so appallingly wicked

that I shook them off and fled out of the house. Harry followed me, and,

with all the arts he could use, tried to induce me to return; but I

would as soon have jumped into the gruel-coloured Mississippi as have

looked into the eyes of those giggling wantons again. My disgust was so

great that I never, in after years, could overcome my repugnance to

females of that character.

Then Harry persuaded me to enter a bar-room, and called for liquor, but

here, again, I was obstinate. ‘Drink yourself, if you like,’ said I,

‘but I belong to the Band of Hope and have signed the pledge, so I must

not.’

‘Well smoke then, do something like other fellows,’ he said, offering me

my choice.

As I had never heard that smoking was a moral offence, and had a desire

to appear manly, I weakly yielded, and, putting a great cigar between my

lips, puffed proudly and with vigour. But alas! my punishment was swift.

My head seemed to swim, and my limbs were seized with a trembling; and,

while vainly trying to control myself, a surge of nausea quite

overpowered me, and I tried to steal back to the ship, as abjectly

contrite as ever repentant wretch could well be. Thus ended my first

night at New Orleans.

Harry’s story of the two English boys, who had been compelled to abscond

from the ‘Windermere’ the voyage before, recurred to me more than once

after Nelson’s greeting next morning. ‘Hello! you here still! I thought

you had vamoosed like the Irish stowaways. Not enough physic, eh? Well,

sonny, we must see what we can do for you.’

I was put to cleaning brass-work--a mechanical occupation that breeds

thought. If, attracted by a lively levee scene, I lifted my eyes, one or

other of the mates bawled out, ‘Now, you scalawag, or, you little sweep,

what in--are you doing? Get on with that work, you putty-faced son of

a--!’ and so on! Ever some roaring blasphemy, some hideous epithet,

with a kick or a clout, until, on the fifth day, conviction stole upon

every sense that it was to a set purpose; and my small remnant of

self-respect kindled into a revolt. I understand now that it was the

pitiful sum of money due to me they wished to save for the ship-owners

or captain, that prevented them from saying right out, ‘You may go, and

be ---- to you.’ Such a dismissal entailed a settlement. Just as Moses

Owen lacked the moral courage to despatch me from his presence, these

men were at the same game of nagging; and it succeeded in inspiring

indifference as to what would become of me. I could say, at last,

‘Better to rot on this foreign strand than endure this slave’s life

longer.’

That evening I declined to go ashore with Harry, and sat pondering in

the loneliness of my cabin, and prayer, somewhat fallen into disuse of

late, was remembered; and I rose from my knees primed for the venture.

Habit of association, as usual with me, had knit some bonds of

attachment between me and the ship. She connected me with England; by

her I came, and by her I could return. Now that was impossible; I must

follow the stowaways, and leave the floating hell for ever.

I lit the swinging pewter lamp, emptied my sea-bag on the floor, and out

of its contents picked my best shore clothes, and the Bishop’s Bible. I

dressed myself with care, and, blowing out the lamp, lay down. By and

by, Harry reeled in, half-stupefied with his excesses, rolled into his

bunk above me; and, when he was unconscious, I rose and glided out. Five

minutes later, I was hurrying rapidly along the river-side of the levee;

and, when about half a mile from the ship, I plunged into the shadows

caused by a pile of cotton bales, and lay down to await day-break.

CHAPTER IV

AT WORK

Soon after sunrise I came out of my nest, and after dusting myself,

strode towards Tchapitoulas Street.

‘The world was all before me where to choose,

And Providence my guide.’

The absolutely penniless has a choice of two things, work or starve. No

boy of my age and vitality could deliberately choose starvation. The

other alternative remained to me, and for work, work of any kind, I was

most ready; with a strong belief that it was the only way to achieve

that beautiful independence which sat so well on those who had

succeeded. I was quite of the opinion of my Aunt Mary, that ‘rolling

stones gathered no moss,’ and I wanted permanent work, wherein I could

approve myself steady, and zealously industrious. Hitherto, I had been

most unfortunate in the search. Respectful civility, prompt obedience,

and painstaking zeal, had been at a discount; but, such is the buoyancy

of healthy youth, I still retained my faith that decent employment was

within reach of the diligent, and it was this that I was now bent upon.

Hastening across the levee, I entered the great commercial street of the

city, at a point not far from St. Thomas Street, and, after a little

inward debate, continued down Tchapitoulas Street, along the sidewalk,

with all my senses wide-awake. I read every sign reflectively. The

store-owners’ names were mostly foreign, and suggestive of Teutonic and

Hibernian origin; but the larger buildings were of undeniable

Anglo-Saxon. At the outset, lager-beer saloons were frequent; then

followed more shanties, with rusty tin roofs; but, beyond these, the

stores were more massive and uniform, and over the doors were the

inscriptions, ‘Produce and Commission Merchants,’ etc.

As I proceeded, looking keenly about for the favourable chance, the

doors were flung open one by one, and I obtained a view of the interior.

Negroes commenced to sweep the long alleys between the goods piles, and

to propel the dust and rubbish of the previous day’s traffic towards the

open gutter. Then flour, whiskey, and rum barrels, marked and branded,

were rolled out, and arranged near the kerbstone. Hogsheads and tierces

were set on end, cases were built up, sacks were laid in orderly layers,

awaiting removal by the drays, which, at a later hour, would convey them

to the river-steamers.

Soon after seven, I had arrived near the end of the long street; and I

could see the colossal Custom-House, and its immense scaffolding. So

far, I had not addressed myself to a single soul, and I was thinking I

should have to search in another street; when, just at this time, I saw

a gentleman of middle age seated in front of No. 3 store, reading a

morning newspaper. From his sober dark alpaca suit and tall hat, I took

him to be the proprietor of the building, over the door of which was the

sign, ‘Speake and McCreary, Wholesale and Commission Merchants.’ He sat

tilted back against what appeared to be the solid granite frame of the

door, with a leisured ease which was a contrast to the activity I had

previously noticed. After a second look at the respectable figure and

genial face, I ventured to ask,--

‘Do you want a boy, sir?’

‘Eh?’ he demanded with a start; ‘what did you say?’

‘I want some work, sir; I asked if you wanted a boy.’

‘A boy,’ he replied slowly, and fixedly regarding me. ‘No, I do not

think I want one. What should I want a boy for? Where do you hail from?

You are not an American.’

‘I came from Liverpool, sir, less than a week ago, by a packet-ship. I

shipped as cabin-boy; but, when we got to sea, I was sent forward, and,

until last night, I was abused the whole voyage. At last, I became

convinced that I was not wanted, and left. As you are the first

gentleman I have seen, I thought I would apply to you for work, or ask

you for advice as to how to get it.’

‘So,’ he ejaculated, tilting his chair back again. ‘You are friendless

in a strange land, eh, and want work to begin making your fortune, eh?

Well, what work can you do? Can you read? What book is that in your

pocket?’

‘It is my Bible, a present from our Bishop. Oh, yes, sir, I can read,’ I

replied proudly.

He held out his hand and said, ‘Let me see your Bible.’

He opened it at the fly-leaves, and smiled, as he read the inscription,

‘Presented to John Rowlands by the Right Revd. Thomas Vowler Short, D.

D., Lord Bishop of St. Asaph, for diligent application to his studies,

and general good conduct. January 5th, 1855.’

Returning it to me, he pointed to an article in his newspaper, and said,

‘Read that.’ It was something about a legislative assembly, which I

delivered, as he said, ‘very correctly, but with an un-American accent.’

‘Can you write well?’ he next asked.

‘Yes, sir, a good round-hand, as I have been told.’

‘Then let me see you mark that coffee-sack, with the same address you

see on the one near it. There is the marking-pot and brush.’

In a few seconds, I had traced ‘[Illustration: symbol] MEMPHIS, TENN.,’

and looked up.

‘Neatly done,’ he said; ‘now proceed and mark the other sacks in the

same way.’

There were about twenty of them, and in a few minutes they were all

addressed.

‘Excellent!’ he cried; ‘even better than I could do it myself. There is

no chance of my coffee getting lost _this_ time! Well, I must see what

can be done for you. Dan,’ he cried to a darkie indoors, ‘when is Mr.

Speake likely to be in?’

‘’Bout nine, sah, mebbe a leetle aftah.’

‘Oh, well,’ said he, looking at his watch, ‘we have ample time before

us. As I don’t suppose you have breakfasted yet, you had better come

along with me. Take the paper, Dan.’

We turned down the next street, and as we went along he said first

impressions were very important in this world, and he feared that if his

friend James Speake had seen cotton fluff and dust on my jacket, and my

uncombed hair, he might not be tempted to look at me twice, or care to

trust me among his groceries; but, after a breakfast, a hair-cut, and a

good clean-up, he thought I would have a better chance of being

employed.

I was taken to a restaurant, where I was provided with superb coffee,

sugared waffles, and doughnuts, after which we adjourned to a basement

distinguished by a pole with red, white, and blue paint.

Everyone who has been operated upon by an American barber will

understand the delight I felt, as I lay submissive in the luxurious

chair, to be beautified by a demi-semi-gentleman, with ambrosial curls!

The mere fact that such as he condescended to practise his art upon one

who but yesterday was only thought worthy of a kick, gave an increased

value to my person, and provoked my conceit. When my dark hair had been

artistically shortened, my head and neck shampooed, and my face glowed

with the scouring, I looked into the mirror and my vanity was

prodigious. A negro boy completed my toilet with an efficient brushing

and a boot-polish, and my friend was pleased to say that I looked

first-rate.

By the time we returned to Speake and McCreary’s store, Mr. James Speake

had put in an appearance. After a cordial greeting, my benefactor led

Mr. Speake away by the arm and held a few minutes’ earnest conversation

with him. Presently I was beckoned to advance, and Mr. Speake said with

a smile to me,--

‘Well, young man, this gentleman tells me you want a place. Is that so?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘That is all right. I am willing to give you a week’s trial at five

dollars, and if we then find we suit each other, the place will be

permanent. Are you agreeable?’

There could be no doubt of that fact, and Mr. Speake turned round to two

young gentlemen, one of whom he called Mr. Kennicy, and the other Mr.

Richardson, and acquainted them with my engagement as a help to Mr.

Richardson in the shipping business. The generosity of my unknown friend

had been so great that, before addressing myself to any employment, I

endeavoured to express my gratitude; but my strong emotions were not

favourable to spontaneous fluency. The gentleman seemed to divine what I

wished to say, and said,--

‘There, that will do. I know what is in your heart. Shake hands. I am

going up-river with my consignments, but I shall return shortly and hope

to hear the best accounts of you.’

For the first half-hour my heart was too full, and my eyes too much

blurred, to be particularly bright. The gentleman’s benevolence had been

immense, and as yet I knew not even his name, his business, or what

connection he had with the store of Speake and McCreary. I was in the

midst of strangers, and, so far, my experience of them had not been of

that quality to inspire confidence. In a short time, however, Mr.

Richardson’s frankness and geniality made me more cheerful. He appeared

to take pride in inducting me into my duties, and I responded with

alacrity. He had an extremely pleasant manner, the candour of Harry,

without his vulgarity. Before an hour had passed, I was looking up to

him as to a big brother, and was asking him all sorts of questions

respecting the gentleman who had taken me out of the street and started

me so pleasantly in life.

From Mr. Richardson I learned that he was a kind of broker who dealt

between planters up-river and merchants in New Orleans, and traded

through a brother with Havana and other West Indian ports. He had a desk

in the store, which he made use of when in town, and did a good deal of

safe business in produce both with Mr. Speake and other wholesale

merchants. He travelled much up and down the river, taking large

consignments with him for back settlements up the Arkansas, Washita, and

Saline, and other rivers, and returning often with cotton and other

articles. _His name was_ MR. STANLEY. His wife lived in St. Charles

Street, in a first-class boarding-house, and, from the style Mr. and

Mrs. Stanley kept up, he thought they must be pretty well off. This was

the extent of the information Mr. Richardson could give me, which was

most gratifying, and assured me that I had at least one friend in the

strange city.

There have been several memorable occasions in my life; but, among them,

this first initial stage towards dignity and independence must ever be

prominent. What a proud, glad holiday-spirit moved me then! I soon

became sensible of a kindling elation of feeling, for the speech of all

to me was as though everyone recognised that I had entered into the

great human fraternity. The abruptness of the transition, from the slave

of yesterday into the free-man of to-day, endowed with a sacred

inviolability of person, astonished me. Only a few hours ago, I was as

one whose skull might be smashed at the impulse of a moment; and now,

in an instant, as it were, I was free of the severe thraldom, and

elevated to the rank of man.

Messrs. Kennicy and Richardson were good types of free-spoken young

America. They were both touchy in the extreme, and, on points of

personal honour, highly intolerant. America breeds such people by

thousands, who appear to live eternally on the edge of resentment, and

to be as inflammable as tinder. It is dangerous to deal with them in

badinage, irony, sarcasm, or what we call ‘chaff.’ Before the expiration

of the first day, I had noted that their high spirits scarcely brooked a

reproof, or contradiction, the slightest approach to anything of the

kind exciting them to a strange heat. When I saw that they became

undisguisedly angry because Mr. Speake happened to ask them why some

order for goods had not been completed, I really could not help feeling

a little contempt for them. Otherwise, they were both estimable young

men, clean as new pins, exquisitely dressed, and eminently

cordial--especially Richardson, whom I warmly admired.

My first day’s employment consisted in assisting Dan and Samuel, the two

negroes, in taking groceries on trucks from the depths of the long store

to the sidewalk, or rolling liquor or flour-barrels on the edges of thin

boards,--an art I acquired very soon,--and in marking sundry lots for

shipment to Mississippi ports with strange names, such as Bayou

Placquemine, Attakapas, Opelousas, etc., etc. Richardson was, in the

meantime, busy in making out bills of lading, and arranging with the

pursers of the steamers for their transportation. The drays clattered to

the door, and removed the goods as fast as we could get them ready.

Every moment of the day added to my rapture. The three lofts above the

ground-floor contained piles upon piles of articles such as could be

comprised under the term groceries, besides rare wines and brandies,

liqueurs and syrups. The ground-floor was piled up to the ceiling almost

with sacks of coffee-berries, grains, and cases of miscellanea, barrels

of flour, tierces of bacon, hams, etc., etc. It was informing even to

read the titles on the neatly-branded cases, which contained bottled

fruit, tinned jams, berries of all kinds, scented soaps, candles,

vermicelli, macaroni, and other strange things. If I but stepped on the

sidewalk, I saw something new and unheard-of before. The endless drays

thundering by the door, and the multitudes of human beings, not one of

whom was like the other in head-gear or dress, had a fascination for me;

and, with every sound and sight, I was learning something new.

While influenced by all these things, I sprang upon work of any kind

with an avid desire to have it completed; but the negroes did their

utmost to suppress my boisterous exuberance of spirit by saying, ‘Take

it easy, little boss, don’t kill yourself. Plenty of time. Leave

something for to-morrow.’ Had the mates of the ‘Windermere’ but looked

in upon us, they might have learned that a happy crew had more work in

them, than when driven by belaying-pins and rope’s ends.

Towards evening we swept up; and, when we had tidied the store, it came

to my mind that I knew no lodging-house. In consulting with Dan, he said

he knew a Mrs. Williams, who kept a nice, cheap boarding-house on St.

Thomas Street, where I could be most comfortable. It was arranged that

he should introduce me, and I walked up Tchapitoulas Street, with the

two slaves, whose tin lunch-buckets swung heavily, I thought, as they

moved homeward.

Mrs. Williams, a young and black beauty, with intelligent features, was

most affable, and agreed to board me at a rate which would leave me a

respectable margin at the end of the week, and to give me a large attic

room for myself. Her house was of wood, with a garden in front, and a

spacious tree-shaded yard at the rear. The maternal solicitude she

showed in providing for my comfort greatly charmed me, though I was

forced to smile at her peculiar English and drawling accent. But when,

just as I was about to retire to my bedroom, she, in the most

matter-of-fact way, assisted me to undress, and took possession of my

shirt and collar, saying they would be washed and ironed by morning,

that I might look more ‘spruce,’ my estimation of her rose very high

indeed, and affected me to such a degree that I revolved all the

kindnesses I had experienced during the day, and was reminded to give

thanks to Him, Who, ‘like as a father, pitieth His children and them

that fear Him.’

The next morning, by half-past six, I was at the door of Speake and

McCreary’s store, fit for any amount of work, and glorying in my

condition. By eight o’clock the store, which was about one hundred feet

long, was sweet and clean, the sidewalk was swept, and the earlier

instalments of goods duly arranged on it for shipment. Then the

book-keeper and shipping-clerk entered, fresh and scented as for

courtship, took off their street coats, and donning their linen

‘dusters,’ resumed business. About nine, Mr. James Speake--McCreary was

dead--appeared with the mien of gracious masterhood, which to me was a

sign of goodness, and stimulative of noble efforts in his service.[3]

My activity and fresh memory were soon appreciated. Half-a-dozen times a

day my ready answers saved time. My hearing seemed to them to be

phenomenal; and my accuracy in remembering the numbers of kegs, cases,

and sacks remaining in store, caused me, before the end of the week, to

be regarded as a kind of walking inventory. I could tell where each

article was located, and the contents of the various lofts had also been

committed to my memory. Unlike the young gentlemen, I never argued, or

contradicted, or took advantage of a pettish ebullition to aggravate

temper; and, what was a great relief to persons with responsibilities in

a warm climate, I was always at hand, near the glass-door of the office,

awaiting orders. Previous to my arrival, Dan and Samuel had always found

something to do at a distance, either upstairs or in the back-yard; they

pretended not to hear; and it had been a fatiguing task to call them,

and trying to the patience to wait for them; but now I was within easy

hail, and my promptitude was commended. Thereupon my week’s trial ended

satisfactorily, even more so than I had anticipated, for I was

permanently engaged at twenty-five dollars a month. Such a sum left me

with fifteen dollars a month, net, after payment of board and lodging,

and was quite a fortune in my eyes. Mr. Speake, moreover, advanced a

month’s pay, that I might procure an outfit. Mr. Richardson, who boarded

in the more fashionable Rampart Street, undertook to assist in my

purchases, and presented me with a grand, brass-bound trunk of his own,

which, besides having a tray for shirts, and a partition for neck-ties

and collars, was adorned on the lid with the picture of a lovely maiden.

Truly, a boy is easily pleased! I had more joy in contemplating that

first trunk of mine, and imprisoning my treasures under lock and key,

than I have had in any property since!

My rating was now a junior clerk. Our next-door neighbours, Messrs. Hall

and Kemp, employed two junior clerks, whose pay was four hundred dollars

a year. They were happy, careless lads, who dressed well, and whose

hardest toil was with the marking-pot. I was now as presentable as they,

but I own to be proud that I had no fear of soiling my hands or clothes

with work, and I never allowed a leaky sack of coffee, or barrel of

flour, to leave our store for want of a little sewing or

coopering--tasks which they felt it to be beneath them to do!

Long before the ‘Windermere’ had sailed back for Liverpool with her

cotton cargo, a great change had come over me. Up to my arrival in New

Orleans, no indulgence had been shown me. I was scarcely an hour away

from the supervision of someone. From my nurse’s maternal care, I had

passed under the strict régime of the Orphan’s Academy--the Workhouse;

thence I had been transferred to the no-less-strict guardianship of Aunt

Mary, and the severe Moses, thence into that of Uncle Tom; and,

afterwards, had tasted of the terrible discipline of an American

packet-ship. Draconian rules had been prescribed; the birch hung ever in

view in one place, censure and menace at another. At Uncle Tom’s there

was no alternative but obedience or the street; and the packet-ship was

furnished with rope’s ends and belaying-pins. But, within a few weeks of

arriving in America, I had become different in temper and spirit. That

which was natural in me, though so long repressed, had sprung out very

quickly under the peculiar influence of my surroundings. The childish

fear of authority had fled--for authority no longer wore its stern,

relentless aspect, but was sweetly reasonable. Those who exercised it

were gentle and sociable, and I repaid them with respect and gratitude.

To them I owed my happiness; and my new feeling of dignity made me

stretch myself to my full height, and revel luxuriously in fond ideas. I

possessed properties in my person which I instinctively valued, and felt

bound to cultivate. The two-feet square of the street I occupied were

mine for the time being, and no living man could budge me except at his

peril. The view of the sky was as freely mine as another’s. These

American rights did not depend on depth of pocket, or stature of a man,

but every baby had as much claim to them as the proudest merchant.

Neither poverty nor youth was degrading, nor was it liable to abuse from

wealth or age. Besides my youth, activity, and intelligence, of which I

had been taught the value, I had become conscious of the fact that I

possessed privileges of free speech, free opinions, immunity from

insult, oppression, and the contempt of class; and that, throughout

America, my treatment from men would solely depend upon my individual

character, without regard of family or pedigree. These were proud

thoughts. I respired more freely, my shoulders rose considerably, my

back straightened, my strides became longer, as my mind comprehended

this new feeling of independence. To the extent of so much I could not

be indebted to any man living; but for the respectability of the

covering and comfort of the body, and the extension of my rights to more

ground than I could occupy standing, I must work.

Inspired of these thoughts, I was becoming as un-English in disposition

as though I had been forty years in the land, and, as old Sir Thomas

Browne puts it, ‘of a constitution so general that it consorted and

sympathised’ with things American. My British antipathies and

proclivities were dropping from me as rapidly as the littlenesses of my

servile life were replaced by the felicities of freedom. I shared in the

citizens’ pride in their splendid port, the length and stability of

their levee, their unparalleled lines of shipping, their magnificent

array of steamers, and their majestic river. I believed, with them, that

their Custom-House, when completed, would be a matchless edifice, that

Canal Street was unequalled for its breadth, that Tchapitoulas Street

was, beyond compare, the busiest street in the world, that no markets

equalled those of New Orleans for their variety of produce, and that no

city, not even Liverpool, could exhibit such mercantile enterprise, or

such a smart go-ahead spirit, as old and young manifested in the chief

city of the South. I am not sure that I have lost all that lively

admiration yet, though I have since seen dozens of cities more populous,

more cultivated, and more opulent. Many years of travel have not

extinguished my early faith, but it would require ages to eradicate my

affection for the city which first taught me that a boy may become a

_man_.

Had the joylessness of boyhood endured a few years longer, it is

probable that the power of joyousness would have dried up; but,

fortunately, though I had seen fifteen summers, I was a mere child in

experience. It was only eighteen months since I had left St. Asaph, and

but two months and a half since I had entered the world outside my

family. Since I became a man, I have often wondered what would have

become of me had my melting mood that last night at Roscommon Street

lasted a little longer. It was the turning-point of my life, I am

disposed to think, and it was good for me to have had the courage to say

‘No,’ at that critical moment. A trifle more perseverance, on the part

of Uncle Tom, would have overcome my inclination for departure from

England, and made me a fixture within his own class. On that occasion my

weakly, half-hearted negative served me to good purpose; but I should

have been spared many trials had I been educated to utter my ‘Noes’ more

often, more loudly, and more firmly than I have; and I suppose most men

have had cause to condemn that unsatisfactory education which sent them

into the world so imperfectly equipped for moral resistance. In my

opinion, the courage to deliver a proper ‘No’ ought to be cultivated as

soon as a child’s intelligence is sufficiently advanced. The few times I

have been able to say it have been productive of immense benefit to me,

though to my shame, be it said, I yearned to say ‘Yes.’

That soft habit of becoming fondly attached to associations, which made

me weep on leaving St. Asaph, Ffynnon Beuno, Brynford, Liverpool, and

even the ‘Windermere,’ made me cling to my attic room in the house of

Mrs. Williams. My increase of pay enabled me to secure a larger and more

comfortable room; but, detesting change, I remained its occupant. My

self-denial was compensated, however, by a fine surplus of dollars, with

which I satisfied a growing desire for books.

So far, all the story-books I had read, beyond the fragments found in

School-readers, consisted of that thrilling romance about Enoch and his

brothers, a novelette called ‘First Footsteps in Evil,’ ‘Kaloolah,’ by

Dr. Mayo, which I had found at Ffynnon Beuno, and ‘Ivanhoe,’ in three

volumes, at which I had furtively glanced as it lay open in my cousin’s

study at Brynford.

Through the influence of cheap copies of standard books, millions of

readers in America have been educated, at slight cost, in the best

productions of English authors; and when these have been delegated to

the second-hand bookstalls, it is wonderful what a library one can

possess at a trifling expense. There was such a stall existing

conveniently near St. Thomas Street, which I daily passed; and I could

never resist fingering the books, and snatching brief delights from

their pages. As soon as my wardrobe was established, I invested my

surplus in purchases of this description, and the bookseller, seeing a

promising customer in me, allowed me some latitude in my selection, and

even catered to my tastes. The state of the binding mattered little; it

was the contents that fascinated me. My first prize that I took home was

Gibbon’s ‘Decline and Fall,’ in four volumes, because it was associated

with Brynford lessons. I devoured it now for its own sake. Little by

little, I acquired Spenser’s ‘Faery Queen,’ Tasso’s ‘Jerusalem

Delivered,’ Pope’s ‘Iliad,’ Dryden’s ‘Odyssey,’ ‘Paradise Lost,’

Plutarch’s ‘Lives.’ Simplicius on Epictetus, a big ‘History of the

United States,’ the last of which I sadly needed, because of my utter

ignorance of the country I was in.

Mrs. Williams gave me a few empty cases, out of which, with the loan of

a saw, hammer, and nails, I constructed a creditable book-case; and,

when it was put up, I do believe my senses contained as much delight as

they were able to endure, without making me extravagant in behaviour. My

attic became my world now, and a very great expansible world, full of

kings, emperors, knights, warriors, heroes, and angels. Without, it

might have been better, less sordid; within, it was glorious for great

deeds and splendid pageantry. It affected my dreams, for I dreamed of

the things that I had read. I was transported into Trojan Fields, and

Odyssean Isles, and Roman Palaces; and my saturated brain revolved prose

as stately as Gibbon’s, and couplets that might have been a credit to

Pope, only, if I chanced to remember at day-break what I had been busy

upon throughout the night, the metre and rhyme were shameful!

My self-indulgence in midnight readings was hurtful to my eyes, but they

certainly interposed between me and other harms. The passion of study

was so absorbing that it effectually prevented the intrusion of other

passions, while it did not conflict with day-work at the store. Hall and

Kemp’s young gentlemen sometimes awoke in me a languid interest in Ben

de Bar’s Theatrical troupe, or in some great actor; but, on reaching

home, my little library attracted my attention, and a dip into a page

soon effaced all desire for other pleasure. What I am I owe to example,

nature, school-education, reading, travel, observation, and reflection.

An infinitesimal amount of the mannerisms observed clung to me, no

doubt. The housewifely orderliness of Aunt Mary, the serious propriety

of Cousin Moses,--then, when I went to sea, the stern voice of the

captain, the ripping, explosive manner of the mates, the reckless

abandon of the sailors,--after that, the conscientious yielding of

myself to details of business,--all this left indelible impressions on

me.

* * * * *

About the fourth week Mr. Stanley returned, with a new batch of orders.

He warmly congratulated me upon my improved appearance, and

confidentially whispered to me that Mr. Speake was thoroughly satisfied

with my devotion to business. He gave me his card, and said that on the

following Sunday he would be glad to see me at breakfast.

When the day arrived, I went to St. Charles Street, a quarter greatly

superior to St. Thomas Street. The houses were aristocratic, being of

classic design, with pillared porticoes, and wide, cool verandahs,

looking out upon garden-shrubbery and flowering magnolias. Mr. Stanley

was in an easy-chair, awaiting me. But for that, I should have hesitated

at mounting the wide steps, so imposing the establishment appeared. He

took me by the hand to an ample room luxuriously furnished, and

introduced me to a fragile little lady, who was the picture of

refinement. My reception was of such a character that it led me to

believe she was as tender and mild as her quiet and subdued looks; and

the books on the centre table made me think her pious. Nothing could

have been better calculated to conquer my shyness than the gracious

welcome she accorded me. We took our respective places at once, she as a

motherly patroness, and I as a devotedly-grateful protégé, fully

sensible of what was due to her as the wife of my benefactor. Her

husband stood towering over me with his hand on my head, and an

encouraging smile on his face, that I might speak out without fear; and

he watched the impression I made on his wife. The ordeal of presentation

was made easy through her natural goodness, and the gentle art she

possessed of winning my confidence. She placed me on a divan near her,

and I was soon prattling away with a glibness that a few minutes before

would have been deemed impossible to such a stocky boy.

To confine within a sentence my impressions of the first lady I ever

conversed with, is entirely beyond my power. There was an atmosphere

about her, in the first place, which was wholly new. The elaborateness

and richness of dress, the purity and delicacy of her face, the

exquisite modulations of her voice, the distinctness of her enunciation,

and the sweet courtesy of her manner, I will not say awed me, but it

kindled as much of reverence as ever I felt in my life. If I were to

combine this with a feeling that the being beside me might command me to

endure practically any torture, or dare any danger, for her sake, it

will perhaps sum up the effect which this gentlewoman made on my raw

mind. It was at this hour I made the discovery of the immense distance

between a lady and a mere woman; and, while I gazed at her clear,

lustrous eyes, and noted the charms which played about her features, I

was thinking that, if a lady could be so superior to an ordinary

housewife, with her careless manner of speech, and matter-of-fact ways,

what a beautiful thing an angel must be!

When we adjourned to the breakfast-table, I found more material to

reflect upon. There were about a dozen people, of about the age and rank

of Mr. and Mrs. Stanley, at the table; and it struck me that there was

an almost impassable gulf between me and them. Their conversation was

beyond my understanding, mostly, though I could spell and interpret each

word; but the subjects of their talk left me in the clouds. Their

remarks upon literature, politics, and social life, seemed to me most

appropriate to books; but it surprised me to think that people could

exchange so much learning across a table with the fluency of boys

discussing the quality of pudding. Their soothing manner of address, the

mutual respect, and deferent temper, greatly elevated them above my

coarse-grained acquaintances; and, though they must have guessed, by my

manner and age, that I did not belong to their sphere, they paid me the

honour of including me in their courteous circle, until, unconsciously,

I was straining to acquit myself worthily. Altogether, it was a

memorable breakfast; and, when I reached home, it seemed to me that

fortune was about to spoil me; otherwise, why this glow and pride that I

felt?

After this Sunday, my acquaintance with Mr. Stanley rapidly ripened into

something exceeding common gratitude. His bearing towards me was

different from that which anybody else showed to me. Many were kind and

approving; but, nevertheless, no one stooped to court my notice with

that warm, genial manner which distinguished Mr. Stanley. I felt

frequently flattered by the encomiums of Mr. Speake, and the friendship

of Richardson; but still, there was something of reserve between us,

which kept me somewhat tongue-tied in their presence. They never

inquired about my welfare or health, or how I liked my boarding-house,

or what I thought of anything, or made any suggestion which would

stimulate confidence. Their talks with me were all about the business

appertaining to the store, or some hap-hazard remark about the weather,

or some scene in the street; but Mr. Stanley’s way was as though it

specially concerned him to know everything about me personally, which

had the quality of drawing me out, and making me garrulous, to the verge

of familiarity. So, little by little, I came to regard him as an elderly

associate, with such a charming, infectious frankness, that I could

only, for want of a comparison, remember my affection for my old

grandfather, as corresponding with the mixed feelings of regard and awe

I had towards him. Besides, to be in his company, even for a brief time,

was an education for one so ignorant as myself. Information about

somebody or something dropped from his lips with every remark he made. I

felt myself becoming intelligent, informed about the geography and

history of the city and state that I was in, and learned in the ways and

customs of the people. The great merchants and institutions assumed a

greater interest for me. They were something more than strange names for

repetition; they had associations which revealed personalities of worth,

colossal munificence, remunerative enterprise, etc., etc.

Every Sunday morning I spent with the Stanleys, and the instantaneous

impression I had received of their goodness was more than confirmed.

Mrs. Stanley seemed to become at each visit more tender and caressingly

kind, in the same manner as he manifested a more paternal cordiality. I

yielded myself wholly to their influence, so that my conduct when out of

their sight was governed by the desire to retain their good opinions.

Without them, probably, my love of books would have proved sufficient

safe-guard against the baser kind of temptations; but, with them, I was

rendered almost impregnable to vice. They took me to church, each

Sabbath; and, in other ways, manifested a protective care. I resumed the

custom of morning and evening prayer, my industry at the store was of a

more thoughtful kind, my comings and goings were of more exemplary

punctuality. The orderly, industrious life I was following not only

ensured me the friendship of the Stanleys, but won me favour from Mr.

Speake, who, though wearing often a somewhat anxious expression,

restrained himself whenever he had an occasion to communicate with me.

In the third month there was a change at the store. Mr. Speake had some

words with Mr. Kennicy, the book-keeper, who, being, as I said, touchy,

resigned on the spot. A Mr. J. D. Kitchen was employed in his stead, and

Mr. Speake saw fit to increase my salary to thirty dollars a month,

giving for his reason the fact that the store had never been in such

admirable order as it had been since I had entered it. I was immensely

proud, of course, at this acknowledgement; but it was only natural that,

being so susceptible and impressionable, it should stimulate me to

greater efforts to deserve his approbation. Enlightening me, as it did,

in duties expected of me, it might be said to have increased my

interest in the condition of the store, until it partook of that which a

fond proprietor might feel in it. Envious, or ill-natured, people might

have said it was fussy, or officious. At any rate, this disposition to

have everything clean, to keep the stacks in orderly arrangement, to be

on hand when wanted, to keep my notes of shipment methodically, to be

studiously bent upon perfection in my duties, led to the following

incident.

We were ordered to take stock, and, while counting cases, and sacks, and

barrels, etc., I had now and then to re-arrange the stacks, because, in

the hurry of business, a box of pickles or jams had become mixed with

biscuits or candle-boxes; and, in handling these articles, it struck me

that several of them were uncommonly light. I mentioned this, but it did

not attract much attention. It was discovered, also, that the

coffee-sacks were much slacker than they ought to be; but, though the

rents through which the contents must have escaped appeared as if made

by rats, as the quantity of berries on the ground was inadequate to the

loss, I knew no other way in which to account for it. However, when, on

going to the lofts, we gauged the contents of the wine-puncheons and

syrup-barrels, and found them to be half-emptied, matters began to look

serious. The leakage on the floor was not sufficient to explain the loss

of so many gallons; and the discussion between the book-keeper and

shipping-clerk suggested trouble when the ‘old man’ would be informed.

From what I gathered, the former book-keeper, Mr. Kennicy, was supposed

to be in fault. We were short of several boxes of biscuits, sardines,

and other articles; and it seemed obvious that Mr. Kennicy must have

omitted to enter sales on his book, and thus caused this unexpected

discrepancy.

Mr. Speake, as had been anticipated, exhibited much vexation, though, in

the presence of Mr. Kitchen and Mr. Richardson, he could only ask,

querulously, ‘How could such articles disappear in such a

disproportionate manner? We do not sell by retail. If we sold wine, or

syrup, at all, we would sell by the cask, or barrel, and not by the

gallon. The barrels seem to tally, but the contents are diminished in

some mysterious manner. Then there are the emptied cases, of which this

boy has spoken: how can we account for bottles taken from one, and tins

from another? The invoices were checked when the goods came in, and no

deficiency was reported to me. There is gross carelessness somewhere,

and it must be looked into,’ etc., etc.

Both Mr. Kitchen and Mr. Richardson, under this argument, laboured under

the sense of reproach, and I was not wholly free from a feeling of

remissness. I strove hard to remember whether in conveying the cases to

their respective piles, or hoisting the barrels to the lofts, a

suspicion of light weight had entered my mind; and while filled with a

sense of doubt and misgiving, I proceeded to hunt for a broom to sweep

up, before closing. I found one in the corner of the back-yard; but, on

drawing it to me, a tin lunch-bucket was disclosed, the sight of which

in such an unexpected place suggested that the broom had been placed to

screen it from view. On taking hold of it, I was amazed at its weight;

but, on lifting the lid, I no longer wondered, for it was three-fourths

full of golden syrup. It flashed across my mind that here was the

solution of the mystery that troubled us, and that, if one bucket was

made the means of surreptitiously conveying golden syrup, a second might

be used for the same purpose. On searching for the other negro’s bucket,

I found it placed high above my reach, on a peg, and under his outdoor

coat. Seizing a board, I struck it underneath, and a few drops of a dark

aromatic liquor trickled down the sides. As, now, there could be no

reason to doubt that the culprits had been discovered, I hastened to the

office to give my information.

By great good-luck, Mr. Stanley appeared at that moment, and I at once

acquainted him with what I had found. Mr. Richardson joined us, and,

when he had heard it, he became hotly indignant, and cried, ‘I see it

all now. Come on, let us inform Mr. Speake, and have this affair cleared

up at once!’

Mr. Speake and Mr. Kitchen were in the office turning over ledger,

journal, and day-book, comparing entries, when we burst upon them with

the discovery. Mr. Speake was astonished and exclaimed, ‘There now, who

would have thought of these fellows? A systematic robbery has been going

on for goodness knows how long!’

While breathlessly discussing the matter, we suddenly remembered

various strange proceedings of the negroes, and our suspicions were

excited that there must be certain secret nests of stores somewhere in

the building; and Richardson and I were sent off to explore. The same

idea seemed to be in our minds, for we first searched the dark alleys

between the goods-piles, and, in a short time, we had lit upon the

secret hoards. Hams, sardines, and tins of biscuits, packages of

candles, etc., etc., were found between the hogsheads and tierces; and,

when we had carried them to the office, the indignation of everyone was

very high.

Dan and Samuel had been all this time in the upper lofts, and were now

called down. When questioned as to their opinions about the

disappearance of certain articles, they both denied all knowledge, and

affected the ignorance of innocence; but, when they were sharply told to

lead us to their tin buckets, their features underwent a remarkable

change, and assumed a strange grey colour. Dan pretended to forget where

he had placed his bucket; but, when Mr. Speake took him by the collar

and led him to the broom that hid it, he fell on his knees, and begged

his master’s pardon. Mr. Speake was, however, too angry to listen to

him, and, snatching the lid off, revealed to us half a gallon of the

best golden syrup, which the wretch had intended to have taken home.

When Sam’s useful utensil was examined, it was found that its owner had

a preference for sweet Malmsey wine!

A constable was called in, and Dan and Samuel were marched off to the

watch-house, to receive on the next day such a flogging as only

practised State-officials know how to administer. Dan, a few days later,

was reinstated at the store; but Samuel was disposed of to a planter,

for field-work.

The last Sunday morning Mr. Stanley was in the city, on this occasion,

was marked with a visit he paid to me at my humble boarding-house. He

was pleased to express his great surprise that, at that early hour, my

attic was arranged as though for inspection. He scrutinised my

book-case, and remarked that I had a pretty broad taste, and suggested

that I should procure various books which he mentioned. In self-defence,

I was obliged to plead poverty, and explained that my books were only

such as I could obtain at a second-hand book-stall. He finally

condescended to breakfast with me, and made himself especially

agreeable to Mrs. Williams and her guests; after which, we went to

church, and thence he took me to dine with him. In the afternoon, we

drove in a carriage down Levee Street, past the French Market, and I was

shown many of the public buildings, banks, and squares; and, later, we

took a short railway trip to Lake Ponchartrain, which is a fair piece of

water, and is a great resort for bathers. When we returned to the city,

late in the evening, I was fairly instructed in the topography of the

city and neighbourhood, and had passed a most agreeable and eventful

day.

On the next evening, I found a parcel addressed to me, which, when

opened, disclosed a dozen new books in splendid green and blue covers,

bearing the names of Shakespeare, Byron, Irving, Goldsmith, Ben Jonson,

Cowper, etc. They were a gift from Mr. Stanley, and in each book was his

autograph.

The summer of 1859, according to Mr. Richardson, was extremely

unhealthy. Yellow fever and dysentery were raging. What a sickly season

meant I could not guess; for, in those days, I never read a newspaper,

and the city traffic, to all appearance, was much as usual. On Mr.

Speake’s face, however, I noticed lines of suffering; and one day he was

so ill that he could not attend to business. Three or four days later,

he was dead; and a message came from the widow that I should visit her,

at her home, at the corner of Girod and Carondelet Streets. She was now

in a state of terrible distress, and, clad in heavy mourning, she

impressed me with very sombre thoughts. It comforted her to hear how

sensible we all were of her loss; and then she communicated to me her

reasons for desiring my presence. Through her husband she had been made

aware of my personal history, and, on account of the interest it had

excited in her, she had often induced her husband to tell her every

incident at the store. She proceeded to reveal to me the flattering

opinion he had formed of me, in terms that augmented my grief; and, as a

mark of special favour, I was invited to stay in the house until after

the funeral.

That night, I was asked to watch the dead, a duty of which I was wholly

unaware before. The body rested in a splendid open coffin, covered with

muslin, but the ghastliness of death was somewhat relieved by the

Sunday costume in which the defunct merchant was clothed. When the

traffic of the streets had ceased, and the silence of the night had

fallen on the city, the shadows in the ill-lit room grew mysterious.

About midnight, I dozed a little, but suddenly woke up with an

instinctive feeling that the muslin had moved! I sprang to my feet, and

memories of spectral tales were revived. Was it an illusion, begotten of

fear? Was Mr. Speake really dead? There was, at that moment, another

movement, and I prepared to give the alarm; but a sacrilegious ‘meow’

betrayed the character of the ghost! A second later, it was felled by a

bolster; and, in its haste to escape, the cat entangled its claws in the

muslin, and tore and spat in a frenzy; but this was the means of saving

me from the necessity of chasing the wretched animal along the

corridors, for, as it was rushing through the door, I caught the veil.

The next day, a long procession wound through the streets towards the

cemetery.[4] The place of interment was surrounded by a high wall, which

contained several square tablets, commemorative, as I supposed, of the

dead lying in the earth; but I was much shocked when I learned that,

behind each tablet, was a long narrow cell wherein bodies were

corrupting. One of these cells had just been opened, and was destined

for the body of my late employer; but, unfortunately for my feelings,

not far off lay, huddled in a corner, the relics of mortality which had

occupied it previously, and which had been ruthlessly displaced.

Within a short time, the store, with all its contents, was disposed of

by auction, to Messrs. Ellison and McMillan. Messrs. Kitchen and

Richardson departed elsewhere, but I was retained by the new firm. Mrs.

Cornelia Speake and her two children removed to Louisville, and I never

saw either of them again.

About this time there came to Mrs. Williams’s boarding-house a blue-eyed

and fair-haired lad, of about my own age, seeking lodgings. As the house

was full, the landlady insisted on accommodating him in my room, and

bedding him with me; and, on finding that the boy was English, and just

arrived from Liverpool, I assented to her arrangement.

My intended bed-fellow called himself Dick Heaton, and described himself

as having left Liverpool in the ship ‘Pocahontas,’ as a cabin-boy. He

also had been a victim to the hellish brutality of Americans at sea, the

steward apparently having been as callous and cruel as Nelson of the

‘Windermere’; and, no sooner had his ship touched the pier, than the boy

fled, as from a fury. Scarcely anything could have been better

calculated to win my sympathy than the recital of experiences similar to

my own, by one of my own age, and hailing from the same port that I had

come from.

Dick was clever and intelligent, though not well educated; but, to make

up for his deficiency in learning, he was gifted with a remarkable

fluency, and had one of the cheeriest laughs, and a prettiness of manner

which made up for all defects.

Our bed was a spacious four-poster, and four slim lads like us might

have been easily accommodated in it. I observed, however, with silent

surprise, that he was so modest he would not retire by candle-light, and

that when he got into bed he lay on the verge of it, far removed from

contact with me. When I rose in the morning, I found that he was not

undressed, which he explained by saying that he had turned in thus from

the habit of holding himself ready for a call. On beginning his voyage

he had been so severely thrashed for a delay caused by dressing, that he

had scarcely dared to take off his boots during the whole voyage. He

also told me that, when he had discovered how almost impossible it was

to avoid a beating from the steward and cook, he had resorted to the

expedient of padding the seat of his trousers with cotton, and wearing a

pad of the same material along the spine, but to avert suspicion that he

was thus cunningly fortified against the blows, he had always continued

to howl as freely as before. The naïveté of the revelation was most

amusing, though I was surprised at the shameless way in which he

disclosed his tricks and cowardly fears. However, it did not deter me

from responding to his friendly advances, and in two days I came to

regard him as a very charming companion. The third morning, being

Sunday, we chatted longer abed; but, when rising together, I cast a

glance at his hips, and remarked that he need have no fear of being

thrashed at New Orleans. He appeared a little confused at first, but,

suddenly remembering, he said that on the Monday he would have to

purchase a new pair of trousers and seek work. A little later, it struck

me that there was an unusual forward inclination of the body, and a

singular leanness of the shoulders, compared with the fulness below the

waist in him; and I remarked that he walked more like a girl than a boy.

‘So do you,’ he retorted, with a liberty natural to our age, at which I

only laughed.

I proposed to him that we should breakfast at the French Market that

morning, to which he willingly agreed. We walked down Levee Street, down

to the foot of Canal Street, where we saw fifty or sixty river steamers

assembled, which, massed together, made a most imposing sight. Turning

to take a view of the scene up-river, with its miles upon miles of

shipping, its levee choked with cotton, and other cargoes, he said that

it was a finer sight than even the docks of Liverpool. After a cup of

coffee and some sugared waffles, we proceeded on a tour through the old

quarter of the city, and wandered past the Cathedral of St. Louis, and

through Royal, Chartres, Burgundy, and Toulouse Streets, and, coming

home by Rampart Street, entered Canal Street, and continued our weary

way, through Carondelet and St. Charles Streets, home, where we arrived

heated and hungry. Dick had shown himself very observant, and professed

to be astonished at the remarkable variety of complexions and appearance

of the population. So long as we were in the neighbourhood of the levee

he had been rather shy, and had cast anxious glances about him, fearing

recognition from some of the crew of the ‘Pocahontas’; but, after we had

gone into some of the back streets, he had been more at ease, and his

remarks upon the types of people we met showed much shrewdness.

Monday morning I woke at an early hour, to prepare myself for the week’s

labour; and, on looking towards Dick, who was still sound asleep, was

amazed to see what I took to be two tumours on his breast. My

ejaculation and start woke my companion. He asked what was the matter?

Pointing to his open breast, I anxiously inquired if those were not

painful?

He reddened, and, in an irritable manner, told me that I had better mind

my own business! Huffed at his ungraciousness, I turned resentfully

away. Almost immediately after, I reminded myself of his confusion, his

strange manner of entering a clean bed with his clothes on, his jealous

avoidance of the light, his affectation of modesty, his peculiar

suppleness and mincing gait, and the odd style of his figure. These

things shaped themselves rapidly into proofs that Dick was not what he

represented himself to be. True, he had a boy’s name, he wore boy’s

clothes, he had been a cabin-boy; but such a strange boy I had never

seen. He talked far too much and too fluently, he was too tricky, too

nimble, somehow. No, I was convinced he could _not_ be a boy! I sat up

triumphantly, and cried out with the delight of a discoverer:--

‘I know! I know! Dick, you are a girl!’

Nevertheless, when he faced me, and unblushingly admitted the

accusation, it frightened me; and I sprang out of bed as though I had

been scorched!

‘What,’ I exclaimed, ‘do you mean to say you are a girl?’

‘Yes, I am,’ said she, turning pale, as she became infected with my

excitement.

Perplexed at this astounding confirmation of what, after all, had been

only a surmise of playful malice, I stammeringly demanded,--

‘Well, what _is_ your name, then? It cannot be Dick, for that belongs to

a boy.’

‘I am Alice Heaton. There, now, you have my whole secret!’ she said with

asperity.

‘Alice Heaton!’ I echoed, quite confounded at the feminine name; and I

reproachfully asked, ‘If you are a girl, say, what do you mean by coming

into my bed, and passing yourself off as a boy?’

She had kept up bravely so far, but she now answered me with tears and

sobs, and every doubt of her sex vanished, while I was in such a medley

of emotions that I stood like one utterly bereft of sense, not knowing

what to do. Presently, she said, ‘Come, let us dress, and I will tell

you all about it.’

I lost no time in doing what she advised; and, after taking a turn or

two in the yard, returned to find her ready for me.

Now that her sex was revealed, I wondered that I had been so blind as

not to perceive it before, for, in every movement, there was

unmistakeable femininity. Alice made me sit down, and the substance of

the story she now told me was as follows:

She had been born at Everton, Liverpool, and, since she had begun to

walk, she had lived with a severe old grandmother, who grew more cross

as she aged. From childhood, she had known nothing but ill-treatment;

she was scolded and slapped perpetually. When she was twelve years of

age, she began to struggle with her granny, and, in a short time, she

proved that her strength was too great to be beaten by an infirm old

woman; little by little, her grandmother desisted from the attempt, but

substituted, instead, the nagging system. As she approached her

fourteenth year, her grandmother developed a parsimony which made her

positively hateful. Every crust she ate at the house was begrudged to

her, though, so far as she knew, there was no cause for this pinching

and starving. Her home contained evidences of respectability. The

furniture was abundant and of good quality, and the many curios in the

glass cases in the parlour showed that her parents had been in

comfortable circumstances. How her grandmother obtained her means of

living, Alice did not know; but, judging from her dress and condition,

her poverty was not so distressing as to be the cause of such extreme

penuriousness.

During the last five or six months, as she was getting on to fifteen,

Alice had been acquainted with girlish neighbours, and through them,

with some young middies who had just returned from their voyages. These

had delighted to tell her friends of the wonders of foreign lands, and

of the genial welcome they had met with from their foreign friends. The

stories of their sea-life, and the pictures of America which they gave,

fascinated her; and she secretly resolved that, upon the first violent

outbreak of her grandmother’s temper, she would try her fortune as a

cabin-boy. With this view, every penny she could scrape, or steal, from

her grandmother she hoarded, until, at last, she had enough to purchase

from a slop-shop all she needed for a disguise. When her grandmother

finally broke out into a bad fit of temper, and, provoked by her

defiance, ordered her out of the house, she was ready for her venture.

She went to a barber’s shop and had her hair cut close; returning home,

she dressed herself in boy’s costume, and, with a sailor’s bag on her

back, entered a boarding-house near the docks. A few days later, she had

the good luck to be engaged as a cabin-boy by the captain of the

‘Pocahontas,’ and, by careful conduct, escaped detection during the

voyage, though nothing would avail her to avoid the rope’s ending and

cuffing of the steward and his fellow-officers.

By the time she had concluded her narrative, it was full time for me to

depart to my work. We hurriedly agreed to consult together about future

plans upon my return in the evening, and I left her with an assurance

that all my means and help were at her service. All that day her

extraordinary story occupied my mind, and, though she was undoubtedly an

artful and bold character, her uncommon spirit compelled my admiration,

while her condition was such as to compel my sympathy.

At the closing hour I sped homeward, but, on arriving at Mrs.

Williams’s, I was told Alice had not been seen since the early morning.

I waited many hours, but waited in vain. She was never seen, or heard

of, by me again; but I have hoped ever since that Fate was as propitious

to her, as I think it was wise, in separating two young and simple

creatures, who might have been led, through excess of sentiment, into

folly.

The next Sabbath after the disappearance of Alice, I paid my usual visit

to Mrs. Stanley, and was shocked and grieved to hear, from her maid,

Margaret, that she was seriously ill, and under medical treatment. A

glass of ice-water which she had taken on Friday had been speedily

followed by alarming symptoms of illness. She was now so prostrated by

disease that she required constant attendance. Margaret’s face betrayed

so much fatigue and anxiety that I tendered my services, and even begged

her to employ me in any way. After a little hesitation, she said I might

be useful in enabling her to take a little rest, if I would sit at the

door, and, upon any movement or sound within the sick chamber, call her.

I kept my post all through the day and night, and, though there were

frequent calls on Margaret, her snatches of rest served to maintain her

strength. As I went off to my labour, I promised to solicit a few days’

leave from Mr. Ellison, and to return to her within the hour.

Mr. Ellison, however, to whom I preferred my request for a few days’

liberty, affected to regard me as though I had uttered something very

outrageous, and curtly told me I ‘might go to the D----, if I liked, and

stay with him for good.’ Such an offensive reply, a few months earlier,

would have made me shrink into myself; but the New Orleans atmosphere

ripens one’s sense of independence and personal dignity, and I replied

with something of the spirit that I had admired in Mr. Kennicy and Mr.

Richardson, and said:--

‘Very well, sir. You may discharge me at once!’ Of course, to a person

of Mr. Ellison’s sanguinary hair and complexion, the answer was

sufficient to ensure my furious dismissal on the instant.

Margaret was greatly vexed at my action when she heard of it, but

consoled me by saying that a few days’ liberty would do me no harm. My

whole time was now placed at her disposal, and I had reason to know that

my humble services were a considerable relief and assistance to her at

this trying time. Meanwhile, poor Mrs. Stanley was becoming steadily

worse; and, on Wednesday night, her case was reported to be desperate by

the physician. There was no more sleep for any of us until the issue

should be decided. Near midnight, Margaret, with a solemn and ghastly

face, beckoned me into the sick lady’s room. With my heart throbbing

painfully, and expecting I know not what, I entered on tiptoe. I saw a

broad bed, curtained with white muslin, whereon lay the fragile figure

of the patient, so frail and delicate that, in my rude health, it seemed

insolence in me to be near her. It had been easy for me to speak of

illness when I knew so little of what it meant; but, on regarding its

ravages, and observing the operation of death, I stood as one petrified.

Margaret pushed me gently to the bedside, and I saw by the dim light how

awfully solemn a human face can be when in saintly peace. Slowly, I

understood how even the most timid woman could smilingly welcome Death,

and willingly yield herself to its cold embrace. I had hitherto a stony

belief that those who died had only been conquered through a sheer want

of will on their part (‘All men think all men mortal but

themselves’[5]), and that the monster, with its horrors of cold, damp

earth, and worms, needed only to be defied to be defeated of its prey.

While listening at the door, I had wished that, in some way, I could

transfuse a portion of my fulness of spirit into her, that she might

have the force to resist the foe; for, surely, with a little more

courage, she would not abandon husband, friends, and admirers, for the

still company in the Churchyard. But the advance of Death was not like

that of a blustering tyrant. It was imperceptible, and inconceivably

subtle, beginning with a little ache--like one of many known before.

Before it had declared its presence, it had narcotized the faculties,

eased the beats of the heart, lessened the flow of blood, weakened the

pulse; it had sent its messenger, Peace, before it, to dispel all

anxieties and regrets, and to elevate the soul with the hope of Heaven;

and then it closed the valves.

She opened her mild eyes, and spoke words as from afar: ‘Be a good boy.

God bless you!’ And, while I strained my hearing for more, there was an

indistinct murmur, the eyes opened wide and became fixed, and a

beautiful tranquillity settled over the features. How strangely serene!

When I turned to look into Margaret’s eyes, I knew Death had come.

By a curious coincidence, Captain Stanley, her brother-in-law, arrived

from Havana the next day, in a brig. He knew nothing of me. There was no

reason he should be tender to my feelings, and he intimated to me, with

the frankness of a ship’s captain, that he would take charge of

everything. Even Margaret subsided before this strong man; and, being

very miserable, and with a feeling of irretrievable loss, I withdrew,

after a silent clasp of the hands.

About three days later I received a letter from Margaret, saying that

the body had been embalmed, and the casket had been put in lead; and

that, according to a telegram received from Mr. Stanley, she was going

up the river to St. Louis with it, by the steamer ‘Natchez.’

For a period, I was too forlorn to heed anything greatly. I either

stayed at home, reading, or brooding over the last scene in Mrs.

Stanley’s chamber, or I wandered aimlessly about the levee, or crossed

over to Algiers, where I sat on the hulks, and watched the river

flowing, with a feeling as of a nightmare on me.

My unhappy experiences at Liverpool had not been without their lessons

of prudence. My only extravagances so far had been in the purchase of

books; and, even then, a vague presentiment of want had urged me to be

careful, and hurry to raise a shield against the afflictions of the

destitute. Though at liberty, there was no fear that I should abuse it.

By and by, the cloud lifted from my mind; and I set about seeking for

work. Fortune, however, was not so kind this time. The Mr. Stanleys of

the world are not numerous. After two weeks’ diligent search, there was

not a vacancy to be found. Then I lowered my expectations, and sought

for work of any kind. I descended to odd jobs, such as the sawing of

wood, and building wood-piles for private families. The quality of the

work mattered little.

One day there came a mate to our boarding-house, who told me that his

captain was ill, and required an attendant. I offered myself, and was

accepted.

The vessel was the ‘Dido,’ a full-sized brig. The captain suffered from

a bilious fever, aggravated by dysentery, from drinking Mississippi

water, it was thought. He was haggard, and yellow as saffron. I received

my instructions from the doctor, and committed them to paper to prevent

mistakes.

My duties were light and agreeable. During the remission of fever, the

captain proved to be a kindly and pious soul; and his long grey beard

gave him a patriarchal appearance, and harmonized with his patient

temper. For three weeks we had an anxious time over him, but, during the

fourth, he showed signs of mending, and took the air on the poop. He

became quite communicative with me, and had extracted from me mostly all

that was worth relating of my short history.

At the end of a month I was relieved from my duties; and as I had no

desire to resume sea-life, even with so good a man, I was paid off most

handsomely, with a small sum as a ‘token of regard.’ As I was about to

depart, he said some words which, uttered with all solemnity, were

impressive. ‘Don’t be down-hearted at this break in the beginning of

your life. If you will only have patience, and continue in well-doing,

your future will be better than you dream of. You have uncommon

faculties, and I feel certain that, barring accidents, you will some day

be a rich man. If I were you, I would seek your friend at St. Louis, and

what you cannot find in this city, you may find in that. You deserve

something better than to be doing odd jobs. Good-bye, and take an old

man’s best wishes.’

The old captain’s words were better than his gold, for they gave me a

healthful stimulus. His gold was not to be despised, but his advice

inspired me with hope, and I lifted my head, and fancied I saw clearer

and further. All men must pass through the bondage of necessity before

they emerge into life and liberty. The bondage to one’s parents and

guardians is succeeded by bondage to one’s employers.

On the very next day I took a passage for St. Louis, by the steamer

‘Tuscarora’; and, by the end of November, 1859, I reached that busy

city. The voyage had proved to me wonderfully educative. The grand

pictures of enterprise, activity, and growing cities presented by the

river shores were likely to remain with me forever. The successive

revelations of scenery and human life under many aspects impressed me

with the extent of the world. Mental exclamations of ‘What a river!’

‘What a multitude of steamers!’ ‘What towns, and what a people!’ greeted

each new phase. The intensity of everything also surprised me, from the

resistless and deep river, the driving force within the rushing boats,

the galloping drays along the levees, to the hurried pace of everybody

ashore. On our own steamer my nerves tingled incessantly with the sound

of the fast-whirling wheels, the energy of the mates, and the clamour of

the hands. A feverish desire to join in the bustle burned in my veins.

On inquiring at the Planters’ Hotel, I extracted from the hotel clerk

the news that Mr. Stanley had descended to New Orleans on business a

week before! For about ten days I hunted for work along the levee, and

up and down Broadway, and the principal streets, but without success;

and, at last, with finances reduced to a very low ebb, the river, like a

magnet, drew me towards it. I was by this time shrunk into a small

compass, even to my own perception. Self-depreciation could scarcely

have become lower.

Wearied and disheartened, I sat down near a number of flat-boats and

barges, several of which were loading, or loaded, with timber, boards,

and staves; and the talk of the men,--rough-bearded fellows,--about me,

was of oak, hickory, pine shingles, scantling, and lumber; and I heard

the now familiar names of Cairo, Memphis, and New Orleans. At the last

word, my attention was aroused, and I discovered that one of the

flat-boats was just about to descend the river to that port. Its crew

were seated on the lumber, yarning light-heartedly; and their apparent

indifference to care was most attractive to an outcast. I stole nearer

to them, found out the boss, and, after a while, offered to work my

passage down the river. Something in me must have excited his rough

sympathy, for he was much kinder than might have been expected from his

rough exterior. I had long since learned that the ordinary American was

a curious compound of gentleman and navvy. His garb and speech might be

rough, his face and hands soiled, beard and hair unkempt, but the

bearing was sure to be free, natural, and grand, and his sentiments

becoming; the sense of manly dignity was never absent, and his manners

corresponded with his situation. My services were accepted, not without

receiving a hint that loafing could not be tolerated aboard a flat-boat.

Being the youngest on board, I was to be a general helper, assist the

cook, and fly about where wanted. But what a joy to the workless is

occupation! Independence may be a desirable thing, but the brief taste I

had had of it had, by this, completely sickened me.

We cast off at day-break, and committed our huge unwieldy boat to the

current of the Mississippi, using our sweeps occasionally to keep her in

the middle. For the most part it seemed to me a lazy life. The physical

labours were almost nil, though, now and then, all hands were called to

exert their full strength, and the shouting and swearing were terrific.

When the excitement was passed, we subsided into quietude, smoking,

sleeping, and yarning. A rude galley had been set up temporarily for the

cook’s convenience, and a sail was stretched over the middle of the boat

as a shelter from the sun and rain. There were eleven of us altogether,

including myself. My promiscuous duties kept me pretty busy. I had to

peel potatoes, stir mush, carry water, wash tin pans, and scour the

plates, and on occasions lend my strength at pulling one of the

tremendously long oars.

No special incident occurred during the long and tedious voyage. Once we

narrowly escaped being run down by the ‘Empress’ steamer, and we had a

lively time of it, the angry men relieving themselves freely of threats

and oaths. Steamers passed us every day. Sometimes a pair of them raced

madly side by side, or along opposite banks, while their furnaces, fed

by pitch-pine, discharged rolling volumes of thick smoke, which

betrayed, for hours after they had disappeared from view, the course

they had taken. The water would splash up the sides of our boat, and the

yellow river would part into alarming gulfs on either hand. At large

towns, such as Cairo, Memphis, Vicksburg, and Natchez, we made fast to

the shore; and, while the caterer of the mess took me with him to make

his purchases of fresh provisions, the crew sought congenial haunts by

the river-side for a mild dissipation. By the end of the month, our

voyage terminated at some stave and lumber-yards between Carrolltown and

New Orleans.

On the whole, the flat-boatmen had been singularly decent in their

behaviour. Their coarseness was not disproportionate to their

circumstances, or what might be expected from wage-earners of their

class; but what impressed me most was the vast amount of good feeling

they exhibited. There had been a few exciting tussles, and some sharp

exchanges of bellicose talk between the principals, but their bitterness

vanished in a short time, while, towards myself, they were more like

protectors than employers. Nevertheless, a few painful truths had been

forced on my notice; I had also gained valuable experience of the

humours of rivers. The fluvial moods had considerably interested me. The

play of currents, eddies, and whirlpools afforded inexhaustible matter

for observation. The varying aspects of the stream in calm and storm,

when deep or shallow, in the neighbourhood of snags, sandbars, and

spits, reflecting sunshine or leaden sky, were instructive, and the

veteran flat-boatmen were not averse to satisfying my inquisitiveness.

Being naturally studious and reflective, I carried away with me far more

than I could rehearse of what was of practical value; but, boy-like, I

relegated my impressions to memory, where, in process of time, they

could be solidified into knowledge.

CHAPTER V

I FIND A FATHER

After tying up, I was at liberty to renovate my person. My shore-clothes

restored me to the semblance of my former self, and, with many a protest

of good-will from my late companions, I walked towards the city. In a

few hours I reached St. Charles Street, and, as though wearied with its

persecution of me, Fortune brought me into the presence of Mr. Stanley.

His reception of me was so paternal that the prodigal son could not have

been more delighted. My absence from New Orleans had but intensified my

affection for the only friend I seemed to possess in all America. Once

out of his presence, I felt as a stranger among strangers; on

re-entering it, I became changed outwardly and inwardly. Away from him,

I was at once shy, silent, morosely severe; with him, I was exuberantly

glad, and chatted freely, without fear of repulse. Since we had parted,

I had met some thousands, and spoken with a few hundreds; but no one had

kindled in me the least spark of personal interest. It may, then, be

understood how my greeting expressed my sense of his pre-eminence and

rarity.

* * * * *

Between the last sentence and what follows, there should be an interval

represented by many * * * * * *. I do not know how it came about, but I

was suddenly fixed immovably, for a period. Preoccupied with my bursting

gladness, I had observed nothing but our mutual gratification; and then

I had poured my tale of woes unchecked, except by an expression of

sympathy, now and again, from him. But, presently, after some

commonplaces, his words sounded a deeper note, and stirred my innermost

being. A peculiar sensation--as though the wind of a strong breathing

was flowing down my back, and ran up with a refluent motion to the head,

blowing each hair apart--came over me, and held me spell-bound and

thrilled to the soul. _He was saying, with some emotion, that my future

should be his charge!_ He had been so powerfully affected by what

Margaret had told him, with all the warmth of her Irish nature, of the

last scene at the deathbed of his wife, that he had been unable to

dissociate me from his thoughts of her; he had wondered what I was

doing, what had become of me, imagined that I was starving, and, knowing

how friendless and unsophisticated I was, each conjecture had been

dismal and pitiful; and he had resolved, on reaching New Orleans, to

make diligent search for me, and take me to himself. While he related

his extraordinary intentions, it seemed to me as if my spirit was

casting an interested regard upon my own image, and was glorying in the

wonderful transformation that was taking place. To think that any man

should be weaving such generous designs upon a person so unworthy and

insignificant as myself, and plotting a felicitous future for me, nursed

in contumely and misery, seemed to me to be too wonderful for belief!

Then, again, there was a certain mysterious coincidence about it which

awed me. In my earliest dreams and fancies, I had often imagined what

kind of a boy I should be with a father or mother. What ecstasy it would

be if my parent came to me, to offer a parent’s love, as I had enviously

seen it bestowed on other children. In my secret prayers, something of a

wish of this kind had been behind the form of words; and now, as an

answer from the Invisible, came this astounding revelation of His power!

He had cast a little leaven of kindness into the heart of a good man.

From the very first encounter, it had acted beneficially for me; and now

it had leavened his whole nature, until it had become a fatherly

affection, which would shield my youth from trial and temptation, and

show me the best side of human nature!

Before I could quite grasp all that this declaration meant for me, he

had risen, taken me by the hand, and folded me in a gentle embrace. My

senses seemed to whirl about for a few half-minutes; and, finally, I

broke down, sobbing from extreme emotion. It was the only tender action

I had ever known, and, what no amount of cruelty could have forced from

me, tears poured in a torrent under the influence of the simple embrace.

The golden period of my life began from that supreme moment! As I

glance back at it from the present time, it seems more like a dream, as

unreal as a vision of the night. Compared with these matter-of-fact

days, or the ruthless past, it was like a masquerade among goodly

felicities and homely affections, and its happy experiences have been

too precious and sacred for common chat, though they have lain near

enough for the fitting occasion, moulded and ready for utterance. They

have formed my best memories, and furnished me with an unfading store of

reflections, and, probably, have had more influence than any other upon

my conduct and manners. For, to be lifted out of the depths of

friendlessness and destitution to a paternal refuge, and made the object

of care and solicitude so suddenly, at a time, too, when I was most

impressionable, without an effort on my own part, and without an

advocate, bordered on the miraculous. Predisposed to inward communing,

with a strong but secret faith in Providence, I regarded it as

principally the result of a Divine interposition, the course of which

was a mystery not to be lightly talked of, but to be remembered for its

significance.

After a restful night, and when breakfast had been despatched, we

adjourned to a room used as an office and sitting apartment, and there I

was subjected to a sympathetic cross-examination. Every incident of my

life, even to the fancies that had fled across the mind of callow

boyhood, was elicited with the assistance of his searching questions,

and then I was, as it were, turned completely inside out. Mr. Stanley

said that what I had told him only bore out the conclusion he had long

before arrived at concerning me. He had suspected that I was an orphan,

or one who had been flatly disowned, and a waif exposed to every wind of

Chance; and he was glad that it had deposited me in his keeping. He

expressed amazement that helpless children were treated so unfeelingly

in England, and marvelled that no one cared to claim them. Being a

childless man, he and his wife had often prayed for the blessing of

offspring, until they were wearied with desiring and expecting. Then

they had gone to the Faubourg St. Mary, and had visited the Infant

Asylum, with the view of adopting some unclaimed child; but they had

made no choice, from over-fastidiousness. It much surprised him that

none of my relations had discovered in me what had struck him and

Speake. Had he searched New Orleans all through, he said, he could not

have found one who would have shared his views respecting me with more

sympathy than his friend; and, had Mr. Speake lived, he added, I should

have been as good as established for life. Mr. Speake had written his

estimates of my character often, and, in one letter, had predicted that

I was cut out for a great merchant, who would eventually be an honour to

the city. Mr. Kitchen, the book-keeper, had also professed to be

impressed with my qualities; while young Richardson had said I was a

prodigy of activity and quick grasp of business.

Then, at some length, he related the circumstances which had induced him

to take a warmer interest in me. He had often thought of the start I had

given him by the question, ‘Do you want a boy, sir?’ It seemed to voice

his own life-long wish. But he thought I was too big for his purpose.

For the sake, however, of the long-desired child, he determined to do

the best he could for me, and had obtained my engagement with his friend

Speake. When he had gone home, his wife had been much interested in the

adventure with me, and had often asked how his ‘protégé’ was getting on?

When she had, finally, seen me, she had said something to him which had

given a new turn to his thoughts; but, as I was already established, and

was likely to succeed, he had ceased thinking about it. On Margaret’s

arrival at St. Louis with his wife’s remains, she had been so eloquent

in all the details of what had occurred, that he inwardly resolved that

his first object on reaching the city should be to seek me and undertake

what God had pointed out to him; namely, to educate me for the business

of life, and be to me what my father should have been. ‘The long and the

short of it is,’ said he, ‘as you are wholly unclaimed, without a

parent, relation, or sponsor, I promise to take you for my son, and fit

you for a mercantile career; and, in future, _you are to bear my name,

“Henry Stanley.”_’ Having said which, he rose, and, dipping his hands in

a basin of water, he made the sign of the cross on my forehead, and went

seriously through the formula of baptism, ending with a brief

exhortation to bear my new name worthily.

In answer, as it might seem, to the least shade of doubt on my face,

which he thought he observed, he gave me a brief summary of his own

life, from which I learned that he had not always been a merchant. He

told me that he had been educated for the ministry, and had been

ordained, and for two years had preached in various places between

Nashville and Savannah; but, finally, becoming lukewarm, he had lost his

original enthusiasm for his profession, and had turned his attention to

commerce. Intimacy with men of business, and social life, had led him by

degrees to consider himself unfitted for a calling which seemed to

confine his natural activities; but, though he had lost the desire to

expound the Christian faith from the pulpit, he had not lost his

principles. The greater gains of commerce had seemed to him to be more

attractive than the work of persuading men and women to be devout. After

one or two unsuccessful essays as a storekeeper, he had finally adopted

a commission business, and had succeeded in several profitable ventures.

He thought that, in a few years, he would return to the store business,

and settle in ‘one of the back-country places’ for which he had a great

hankering; but, at present, he could not make up his mind to terminate

his city connections. Much else he related to me, for it was a day of

revelations; but to me, personally, it mattered little--it was quite

sufficient that he was he, my first, best friend, my benefactor, my

father!

Only the close student of the previous pages could compass my feelings

at finding the one secret wish of my heart gratified so unexpectedly. To

have an unbreathed, unformed wish plucked out of the silence, and

fashioned into a fact as real as though my dead father had been restored

to life and claimed me, was a marvel so great that I seemed to be

divided into two individuals--one strenuously denying that such a thing

could be, and the other arraying all the proofs of the fact. It was even

more of a wonder than that Dick the boy should be transformed into Alice

the girl! But when hour after hour passed, and each brought its

substantial evidence of the change, the disturbed faculties gradually

returned to their normal level, though now more susceptible to happiness

than when existence was one series of mortifications.

As we walked the streets together, many a citizen must have guessed by

my glowing face and shining eyes that I was brimful of joy. I began to

see a new beauty in everything. The men seemed pleasanter, the women

more gracious, the atmosphere more balmy! It was only by severe

suppression that I was able to restrain myself from immoderate

behaviour, and breaking out into hysteric and unseemly ebullience. A

gush of animal enjoyment in life, from this date, would sometimes

overtake me, and send me through the streets at the rate of a

professional pedestrian. I would open my mouth and drink the air, with

deep disdain for all physical weakness. I had to restrain the electrical

vitality, lest the mad humour for leaping over a dray or cart might

awaken the suspicion of the policeman. On such days, and during such

fits, it was indeed joy to be alive,--‘but to be young was very Heaven.’

Most of the day was spent in equipping me for the new position I was to

assume. I was sumptuously furnished with stylish suits, new linen,

collars, flannels, low-quarter shoes, and kip[6] boots: toilet articles

to which I was an utter stranger, such as tooth-and nail-brushes, and

long white shirts, resembling girls’ frocks, for night-dresses. It had

never entered my head, before, that teeth should be brushed, or that a

nail-brush was indispensable, or that a night-dress contributed to

health and comfort! When we returned to Mr. Stanley’s boarding-house, we

had a pleasant time in the arrangement of the piles of new garments and

accessories, and in practising the first lessons in the art of personal

decoration. In Wales the inhabitants considered it unbecoming in one who

aspired to manliness to ape the finicky niceties of women, and to be too

regardful of one’s personal appearance; and had they heard my new father

descant so learnedly on the uses of tooth-and nail-brushes, I feel sure

they would have turned away with grimaces and shrugs of dissatisfaction.

What would stern Aunt Mary have said, had she viewed this store of

clothing and linen that was destined for the use of a boy whom, at one

time, she had seriously meditated indenturing to a cobbler? But,

previous to the assumption of my new habiliments, I was conducted to a

long bath, set in a frame of dark wood, and, while looking at it, and

wondering at its splendour, I heard so many virtues ascribed to its

daily use that I contracted quite a love for it, and vowed to myself

that since it appeared to be a panacea for so many ills, all that

scented soap and scrubbing could effect would be gladly tested by me.

I steeped myself that afternoon, as though I would wash out the stains

ugly poverty and misery had impressed upon my person since infancy; and,

when I emerged out of the bath, my self-esteem was as great as befitted

the name and character I was hereafter to assume. But there was much to

improve inwardly as well as outwardly. The odium attached to the old

name, and its dolorous history, as it affected my sense of it, could not

be removed by water, but by diligent application to a moral renovation,

and making use of the new life, with the serious intent to hold the

highest ideal I knew of, as my exemplar. To aid me in my endeavours, my

new father was gentleness itself. At first, he made no great demand on

me; but our intercourse was permitted to grow to that familiar intimacy

which inspired perfect confidence. There was no fear that I could ever

be contemptuous or disrespectful; but, had he not allowed a certain time

for familiarising me with his presence and position towards me, I might

not have been able to overcome a natural timidity which would have

ill-suited our connection. When I had learned to touch him without

warning, and yet receive a genial welcome, laugh in his presence

unchecked, and even comb his beard with my fingers, then I came

completely out of my shell; and, after that, development was rapid.

‘Boys should be seen, and not heard’ had been so frequently uttered

before me that I had grown abashed at the sound of an adult’s voice. The

rule was now agreeably reversed. I was encouraged to speak upon every

occasion, and to utter my opinions regardless of age and sex. No

incident occurred, and no subject was mentioned, that I was not invited

to say what I thought of it.

Apart from commercial and cognate details, I think my ripening

understanding was made more manifest in anything relating to human

intercourse and human nature, owing, probably, to the greater efforts

made by my father to assist me in recovering lost ground. Boys bred up

at home pick up, instinctively, the ways and manners prevailing there. I

had had no home, and therefore I was singularly deficient in the little

graces of home life. Unconsciously to myself, from the moment I had

stepped out of the bath-room in my new garments, I began that elementary

education which was to render me fit to be seen by the side of a

respectable man. I had to lose the fear of men and women, to know how to

face them without bashfulness or awkwardness, to commune with them

without slavish deference, to bear myself without restraint, and to

carry myself with the freedom which I saw in others; in a word, I had to

learn the art of assimilating the manner, feeling, and expression of

those around me. Being attentive and intelligent, acute of hearing,

quick of eye-sight, and with a good memory, I had gained immensely in my

father’s estimation, and he was, to me, a sufficient judge.

Our wanderings from city to city, steamer to steamer, and store to

store, which the business of my father necessitated, I do not propose to

dwell upon; in fact, it would be impossible to contain within a volume

all that I remember of this, and subsequent periods. I am more concerned

with the personal element, the cardinal incidents, and the tracing of my

growth to maturity. Besides, the banks of the Mississippi and its lower

tributaries have little to recommend them to a youngster after the first

expressive Oh! of admiration. The planters’ mansions, the settlements,

and cities, are mainly of uniform colour and style of architecture. When

we have seen one mansion, settlement, or city, we seem to have seen all.

One river-bank is like the other. The houses are either of wood with a

verandah, and painted, or of red brick; there is a church spire here,

and, there, a mass of buildings; but presently, after a second view,

there is as little of lasting interest as in the monotonous shores of

the great river. I only record such incidents as affected me, and such

as clearly stand out conspicuously in the retrospect, which have been

not only a delight to memory, but which I am incapable of forgetting.

During nearly two years, we travelled several times between New Orleans,

St. Louis, Cincinnati, and Louisville; but most of our time was spent on

the lower Mississippi tributaries, and on the shores of the Washita,

Saline, and Arkansas Rivers, as the more profitable commissions were

gained in dealings with country merchants between Harrisonburg and

Arkadelphia, and between Napoleon and Little Rock. From these business

tours I acquired a better geographical knowledge than any amount of

school-teaching would have given me; and at one time I was profound in

the statistics relating to population, commerce, and navigation of the

Southern and South-Western States. Just as Macaulay was said to be

remarkable for being able to know a book from beginning to end by merely

turning over its pages, I was considered a prodigy by my father and his

intimate friends for the way names and faces clung to my memory. I could

tell the name of every steamer we had passed, the characteristics of her

structure, and every type of man we met. A thing viewed, or a subject

discussed likely to be useful, became impressed indelibly on the mind.

Probably this mental acquisitiveness was stimulated by the idea that it

formed the equipment of a merchant, which I believed it was my ultimate

destiny to be; and that every living man should be a living gazetteer,

and possess facts and figures at his fingers’ ends. Meantime, my memory

was frequently of great use to my father as an auxiliary to his

memorandum-book of shipments, purchases, and sales. Once having seen the

page, I could repeat its record with confidence; and I was often

rewarded by his admiring exclamation, ‘Well, I never heard the like! It

is perfectly astonishing how you remember details,’ etc. But, though

eyes and ears and technical memory were well exercised, it was some time

before judgment was formed. Understanding was slow. It took long for me

to perceive wherein lay the superiority of one sugar over another, or

why one grade of flour fetched a higher price than another, or wherein

Bourbon whiskey was superior to rye, and to distinguish the varying

merits of coffees, teas, etc. What a man said, or how he looked, his

dress, appearance, and so on, were ineffaceable; but the unwritten, or

untold, regarding him was a blank to me; and when I heard comments from

bystanders upon the nature of some person, I used to wonder how they

formed their opinions. However, the effect of these criticisms upon men

and their manners was to inspire me with a desire to penetrate beneath,

and to school myself in comparing different people. I had abundance of

opportunities, in the multitudes we met in the crowded steamers, and the

many towns we visited; but that which would have given the key to the

mystery was wanting, viz., personal intercourse. In the absence of

direct conversation and dealings with people, it was difficult to

discover the nature of a spirit lurking under a fair outside.

When we left New Orleans, at the end of 1859, we had brought with us a

portmanteau packed with choice literature, and I was given to understand

that the histories of Rome, Greece, and America, poetry and drama, were

especially for my use, and that I was to pursue my studies as diligently

as at a school. The practice of travel enabled my father to dispose

himself comfortably for the indulgence of reading, within a very short

time after reaching his cabin. He acted as one who had only changed his

room, and was only concerned with his own business. With such a man, a

river-voyage was no impediment to instruction. He set me an example of

application to my book, which, added to my own love of study, enabled me

to cultivate indifference to what was passing outside of our cabin. Our

travelling library was constantly replenished at the large cities, with

essays, memoirs, biographies, and general literature; but novels and

romances were rigidly excluded.

He first taught me how a book should be read aloud, and, in a few

seconds, had corrected a sing-song intonation which was annoying to him.

He said that one could almost tell whether a reader understood his

author by the tone of his delivery; and, taking up a Shakespeare, he

illustrated it by reading, ‘Who steals my purse steals trash,’ etc.; and

the various styles he adopted were well calculated to enforce his

lesson. From the monotone I was unable to see any beauty or point in the

quotation; but, when he assumed the tone of the moralist, the lines

certainly set me thinking, and the truth of the sentiments appeared so

clear that I was never able to forget the quotation.

Sometimes, also, when reading aloud a page of history, I would come to a

dull paragraph, and my attention would flag; but he was quick to detect

this, and would compel me to begin again, because he was sure that I

knew not what I had been reading. I merely note this because during two

years we read together a large number of books; and, as I had the

benefit of his disquisitions and comments on my reading, it will be seen

that with such a companion these river-voyages considerably advanced my

education, as much so, indeed, as though I had been with a tutor. Nor,

when we dropped our books, and promenaded the deck, was my mind left to

stagnate in frivolity. He took advantage of every object worthy of

notice to impress on me some useful, or moral lesson,--to warn me

against errors of omission, or commission.

Whatever it may have been in my personal appearance that first attracted

him to me, it is certain that the continued affection he always showed

towards me was secured by my zealous efforts always to follow his

slightest suggestion. I think it would have been difficult to have found

a boy in the neighbourhood of the Mississippi who observed his parent’s

wishes with a more scrupulous exactitude than I did those of my adopted

father. As I came to have an entire knowledge of him, I knew not which

to admire most, the unvarying, affectionate interest he showed in my

personal welfare, or his merits as a man and moral guardian. Being of

original ideas, acute mind, and impressive in speech, the matter of his

conversation glued itself into my memory, and stirred me to thought.

I remember well when, one day, he revealed something of the method he

proposed to follow with me for the perfecting of my commercial

education, I expressed a doubt as to whether, after all his trouble and

care, I would ever come up to his expectations. I said that as to

carrying out plain instructions with all good-will there need be no

fear--I loved work, and the approbation given to fidelity and industry;

but, when I contemplated being left to my own judgement, I felt strong

misgivings. How admirably he interpreted my thoughts, explained my

doubts! He infused me with such confidence that, had a store been given

me there and then, I should have instantly accepted its management!

‘But,’ he said, ‘I am not going to part with you yet. You have much to

learn. You are a baby in some things yet, because you have been only a

few months in the world. By the time I have wound up matters, you will

have learned thousands of little trifles, and will be so grounded in

solid knowledge that you may safely be trusted under another merchant to

learn the minutiæ of business, and so get ready to keep store with me.’

I suggested to him that I laboured under disadvantages such as hampered

very few other boys, which would act as a clog on the free exercise of

my abilities, and that, even if other people refrained from alluding to

my Parish breeding, the memory of it would always have a depressing

effect on me. But such thoughts he met with something like angry

contempt. ‘I don’t know,’ said he, ‘what the custom of the Welsh people

may be, but _here_ we regard personal character and worth, not pedigree.

With us, people are advanced, not for what their parentage may have

been, but for what they are themselves. All whom I meet in broadcloth

have risen through their own efforts, and not because they were their

father’s children. President Buchanan was made our chief magistrate

because he was himself, and not because of his father, or his ancestors,

or because he was poorly or richly brought up. We put a premium on the

proper exercise of every faculty, and guarantee to every man full

freedom to better himself in any way he chooses, provided always he does

not exercise it at the expense of the rights of other people. It is only

those who refuse to avail themselves of their opportunities, and

shamefully abuse them, that we condemn.’

At other times, the vehemence of youth would frequently betray itself;

and, if I had not been checked, I should probably have developed undue

loquacity. Being of sanguine temper by nature, I was led through gushes

of healthy rapture into excesses of speech; but he would turn on me, and

gravely say that he was not accustomed to carry magnifiers with him;

that, owing to his own sense of proportion, my figures gave him no true

idea of the fact I wished to state, that my free use of unnecessary

ciphers only created confusion in his mind. Sometimes he would assume a

comical look of incredulity, which brought me to my senses very quickly,

and made me retract what I had said, and repeat the statement with a

more sacred regard for accuracy. ‘Just so,’ he would say; ‘if a thing is

worth stating at all, it might as well be stated truly. A boy’s fancy is

very warm, I know; but, if once he acquires the habit of multiplying his

figures, every fact will soon become no better than a fable.’

Being an early riser himself, he insisted on my cultivating the habit of

rising at dawn, but he also sent me to bed at an early hour. He lost no

occasion to urge me to apply the morning hours to study; and, really,

his anxiety that I should snatch the flying minutes appeared to be so

great, that I was often infected with it as though they were something

tangible, but so elusive that only a firm grasp would avail. If he saw

me idly gazing on the shores, he would recall me, to ask if I had

finished some chapter we had been discussing, or if I had found a

different answer to his question than I had last given; and, if he

detected an inclination in me to listen to the talk of passengers round

the bar, he would ask if there were no books in the cabin, that I must

needs hanker for the conversation of idlers. ‘All the babble of these

topers, if boiled down,’ he would say, ‘would not give a drachm of

useful knowledge. Greatness never sprang from such fruitless gossip.

Those men were merely wasting time. From motives of selfishness, they,

no doubt, would be glad to exchange trivial talk with anyone, big or

little, who might come near them, but it was not to my interest to be in

their company.’

He would put his arm in mine, and lead me away to deliver himself of his

thoughts on the glory of youth, painting it in such bright colours that,

before long, I would be seized with a new idea of its beauty and value.

It appeared to be only a brief holiday, which ought to be employed for

the strengthening of muscles, gathering the flowers of knowledge, and

culling the riper fruits of wisdom. Youth was, really, only the period

for gaining strength of bone, to endure the weight put on it by manhood,

and for acquiring that largeness of mind necessary to understand the

ventures I should hereafter be compelled to take. To squander it among

such fellows as congregated around bar-rooms and liquor-counters was as

foolish as to open my veins to let out my life-blood. ‘Now is the time

to prepare for the long voyage you are to take. You have seen the ships

in the docks taking in their stores before leaving for the high sea

where nothing can be bought. If the captains neglect their duties, the

crews will starve. You are in the dock to-day; have you everything ready

for your voyage? Are _all_ your provisions aboard? If not, then, when

you have hoisted your sails, it will be too late to think of them, and

only good-luck can save you from misfortune’; and so on, until, through

his forcible manner, earnestness, and copious similes, I returned to my

studies with intense application.

The sight in the steamer saloons of crowds of excited gamblers was

employed by him in exposition of his views on the various ways of

acquiring wealth. Those piles of golden eagles that glittered on the

table of the saloon would enrich none of the gamblers permanently. Money

obtained by such methods always melted away. Wealth was made by industry

and economy, and not by gambling or speculating. To know how to be

frugal was the first step towards a fortune, the second was to practice

frugality, and the third step was to know what to do with the money

saved. It was every man’s duty to put something aside each day, were it

only a few cents. No man in America was paid such low wages that, if he

were determined, he could not put away half of them. A man’s best

friend, after God, was himself; and, if he could not rely on himself, he

could not rely on anybody else. His first duty was to himself, as he was

bound to his own wants all his life, and must provide for them under

every circumstance; if he neglected to provide for his own needs, he

would always be unable to do anything towards the need of others. Then,

as his custom was, he would proceed to apply these remarks to my case. I

was to retain in my mind the possibility of being again homeless, and

friendless, and adrift in the world, the world keeping itself to itself,

and barring the door against me, as it did at Liverpool, New Orleans,

and St. Louis, ‘The poor man is hated, even by his own neighbour; but

the rich man has many friends,’ etc., etc.

An original method of instruction which he practised with me was to

present me different circumstances, and ask me what I would do. These

were generally difficult cases, wherein honesty, honour, and

right-doing, were involved. No sooner had I answered, than he would

press me with another view of it, wherein it appeared that his view was

just as fair as the one I had; and he would so perplex me that I would

feel quite foolish. For instance, a fellow-clerk of mine was secretly

dishonest, but was attached to me in friendship. He made free with his

employer’s till, and one day was discovered by me alone. What would I

do? I would dissuade him. But supposing, despite his promises to you, he

was still continuing to abstract small sums: what then? I would accuse

him of it, and say to him he was a thief. Supposing that, seeing you

could give no positive proof of his theft, he denied it? Then he would

be a liar, too, and there would be a quarrel. And what then? That is

all. What of the employer? In what way? Is he not in question? does he

not pay you for looking after his interests? But I do look after his

interests, in trying to prevent the theft. And yet, with all your care

of his interests, the pilfering goes on, and nobody knows it but you.

You think, then, that I ought to tell on him, and ruin him? Well, when

you engaged with your employer, did you not make something of a bargain

with him, that, for a certain wage, you would make his interests your

own, and keep him duly informed of all that was going on?

This is one example of the painstaking way in which he would stir up my

reasoning powers. When we walked through the streets, he would call my

attention to the faces of the passers-by, and would question me as to

what professions or trades they belonged to; and, when I replied that I

could not guess them, he would tell me that my eyes were the lamps to my

feet, and the guides to my understanding, and would show me that though

I might not guess accurately each time, in many instances I might arrive

at the truth, and that, whether wrong or right, the attempt to do so was

an exercise of the intellect, and would greatly tend, in time, to

sharpen my wits.

Moral resistance was a favourite subject with him. He said the practice

of it gave vigour to the will, which required it as much as the muscles.

The will required to be strengthened to resist unholy desires and low

passions, and was one of the best allies that conscience could have.

Conscience was a good friend, and the more frequently I listened to it,

the more ready it was with its good offices. Conscience was the sense of

the soul; and, just as the senses of smell and taste guarded my body

from harm or annoyance, it guarded the spirit from evil. It was very

tender and alert now, because I was yet at school and the influence of

the Scriptures was strong in me; but, when neglected, it became dull and

insensitive. Those, however, who paid heed to it grew to feel the

sensation of its protective presence, and, upon the least suspicion of

evil, it strenuously summoned the will to its aid, and thus it was that

temptations were resisted.

Whether afloat or ashore, his manners were so open and genial, that one

would think he courted acquaintance. Many people, led by this, were

drawn to accost him; but no man knew better than he, how to relieve

himself of undesirable people, and those who enjoyed his company were

singularly like himself, in demeanour and conversation. It is from the

character of his associates that I have obtained my most lasting

impressions of Americans, and, whenever mentioned, these are the figures

which always rise first in the mental view. ‘Punch’s’ ‘Jonathan’ I have

never had the fortune to meet, though one who has travelled through

two-thirds of the Union could scarcely have failed to meet him, if he

were a common type. Among his kind, my adopted father was no mean

figure. I once heard a man speak of him as ‘a man of a soft heart but a

hard head,’ which I fancied had a sound of depreciation; but, later, I

acknowledged it as just.

It was some six months or so after my adoption that I ventured to broach

a subject of more than ordinary interest to me. In fact, it was my only

remaining secret from him. It had been often on the tip of my tongue,

but I had been restrained from mentioning it through fear of scorn. My

ideas respecting the Deity I suspected were too peculiar to trust them

to speech; and yet, if someone did not enlighten me, I should remain

long in ignorance of the Divine character. True, certain coincidences

made me secretly believe that God heard me; nevertheless, I burned to

know from an authoritative source whether I was the victim of illusions,

or whether the Being of my conceptions bore any resemblance to that of

the learned and old I had met. I imagined God as a personality with

human features, set in the midst of celestial Glory in the Heaven of

Heavens; and, whenever I prayed, it was to Him thus framed that I

directed my supplications. My father did not ridicule this idea as I

feared he would, and I was much relieved to hear him ask how I had come

to form such a fancy. This was difficult to express in words, but, at

last, I managed to explain that, probably, it was from the verse which

said that God had made man after His own image, and because clergymen

always looked upward when in church.

I cannot give his own words, but this is the substance of my first

intelligible lesson on this subject.

‘God is a spirit, as you have often read. A spirit is a thing that

cannot be seen with human eyes, because it has no figure or form. A man

consists of body and spirit, or, as we call it, soul. The material part

of him we can see and feel; but that which animates him, and governs his

every thought, is invisible. When a person dies, we say his spirit has

fled, or that his soul has departed to its Maker. The body is then as

insensible as clay, and will soon corrupt, and become absorbed by the

earth.

‘We cannot see the air we breathe, nor the strong wind which wrecks

ships, and blows houses down, yet we cannot live without air, and the

effects of the winds are not disputed. We cannot see the earth move, and

yet it is perpetually whirling through space. We cannot see that which

draws the compass-needle to the Pole; yet we trust our ships to its

guidance. No one saw the cause of that fever which killed so many people

in New Orleans last summer, but we know it was in the air around the

city. If you take a pinch of gunpowder and examine it, you cannot see

the terrible force that is in it. So it is with the soul of man. While

it is in him, you witness his lively emotions, and wonder at his

intelligence and energy; but, when it has fled, it leaves behind only an

inert and perishable thing, which must be buried quickly.

‘Well, then, try and imagine the Universe subject to the same invisible

but potent Intelligence, in the same way that man is subject to his. It

is impossible for your eyes to see the thing itself; but, if you cannot

see its effects, you must be blind. Day after day, year after year,

since the beginning, that active and wonderful Intelligence has been

keeping light and darkness, sun, moon, stars, and earth, each to their

course in perfect order. Every living being on the earth to-day is a

witness to its existence. The Intelligence that conceived this order and

decreed that it should endure, that still sustains it, and will outlast

every atom of creation, we describe under the term of God. It is a short

word, but it signifies the Being that fills the Universe, and a portion

of Whom is in you and me.

‘Now, what possible figure can you give of that Being that fills so

large a space, and is everywhere? The sun is 95 millions of miles from

us; imagine 95 millions of miles on the other side, yet the circle that

would embrace those two points is but a small one compared to the whole

of space. However far that space extends, the mighty Intelligence

governs all. You are able to judge for yourself how inconceivable, for

the mind of man, God is. The Bible says “As the Heavens are higher than

the earth, so are His ways higher than our ways.” God is simply

indefinable, except as a spirit, but by that small fraction of Him which

is in us, we are able to communicate with Him; for He so ordered it that

we might be exalted the more we believe in Him.’

‘But how, then, am I to pray?’ I asked, as my little mind tried to grasp

this enormous space, and recoiled, baffled and helpless. ‘Must I only

think, or utter the words, without regard to the object or way I direct

them?’

‘It seems to me our Saviour Himself has instructed us. He said, “But

thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut

thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret; and thy Father, which

seeth in secret, shall reward thee openly. Your Father knoweth what

things ye have need of before ye ask Him.”

‘Prayer is the expression of a wish of the heart, whether you speak

aloud, or think it. You are a creature of God, destined to perform His

design, be it great or little. Out of the limits of that design you

cannot venture, therefore prayer will not avail you. Within the limits

you will be wise to pray, in order that you may be guided aright. The

understanding that He has seen fit to give you is equal to what you are

destined to do. You may do it well, or ill; but that is left to your

choice. How wide, or how narrow, those limits are, no one knows but

Himself. Your existence may be compared to this: supposing I give you a

sum of money which I know to be enough to take you to New Orleans and

return here. If you spend that money faithfully and properly, it will

suffice to bring you comfortably back; but, if you are foolish and waste

it by the way, it may not even be enough to take you half-way on your

journey. That is how I look upon our existence. God has furnished us

with the necessary senses for the journey of life He has intended we

should take. If we employ them wisely, they will take us safely to our

journey’s end; but if, through their perversion, we misuse them, it will

be our own fault. By prayer our spirits communicate with God. We seek

that wisdom, moral strength, courage, and patience to guide and sustain

us on the way. The Father, Who has all the time observed us, grants our

wish, and the manner of it is past finding out; but the effect is like a

feeling of restored health, or a burst of gladness. It is not necessary

to make long or loud prayers: the whisper of a child is heard as well as

the shout of a nation. It is purity of life, and sincerity of heart,

that are wanted when you approach the Creator to implore His assistance.

We must first render the service due to Him by our perfect conduct,

before we seek favours from Him.’

‘But what does the verse “So God created him in His own image” mean,

then?’

‘If you still cling to the idea that the human form is a tiny likeness

of the Almighty, you are more childish than I believed you to be.

“Image,” in the Bible sense, means simply a reflection. In our souls and

intelligence we reflect, in a small way, God’s own mightier spirit and

intelligence, just as a small pocket mirror reflects the sun and the

sky, or your eyes reflect the light.’

Having had my doubts satisfied upon these essential points, there was

only one thing more which I craved to know, and that was in regard to

the Scriptures. Were they the words of God? If not, what was the Bible?

According to him, the Bible was the standard of the Christian faith, a

fountain whence we derived our inspiration of piety and goodness, a

proof that God interfered in human affairs, and a guide to salvation. He

read from Timothy, ‘All scripture is given by inspiration of God, and is

profitable for doctrine, for reproof, for correction, for instruction in

righteousness: that the man of God may be perfect, thoroughly furnished

unto all good works’; and from Paul he quoted that ‘it was written for

our learning, that we through patience and comfort might have hope.’

‘You are not,’ said he, ‘to pay too much attention to the set phrases,

but to the matter and spirit of what is written, which are for the

promotion of virtue and happiness. Many of the books have been written

by men like ourselves, who lived between two thousand and four thousand

years ago, and they used words peculiar to their own time. The mere

texts or form of the words they used are not the exact words of God, but

are simply the means of conveying the messages breathed into their

understandings; and, naturally, they delivered them in the style of

their period, and according to their ability, with such simplicity as

would enable the common people to comprehend them. If I had to convey to

you the proclamation of the President of the United States, I should

have to write it more simply, and in a form that you would understand:

so these Divine proclamations have been given to us by His chosen

messengers, more faithfully than literally.’

The above are a few of the intelligent ideas which I obtained from my

father, and for which I have been as grateful as for his unusual

goodness in other respects. Probably, many a sermon which I had heard

had contained them in a diluted form; but they had not been adapted to

my understanding, and his clear exposition of these subjects was an

immense relief to me. It was a fortunate thing for me that my foggy

beliefs, and vague notions, in regard to such high matters, could be

laid open with all trust and confidence before one so qualified and

tender, before they became too established in my mind, otherwise, as my

own intelligence ripened, I might have drifted into atheistical

indifference. The substance of my father’s sayings, which I have always

remembered, illustrate the bent of his mind. I carefully copied them

into a beautiful memorandum-book of which he made me a present, New

Year’s Day, 1860, and which I was so proud of that, during the first few

days, I had filled more than half of it with the best words of my

father.

It must not be supposed that I was at all times deserving of his

solicitude, or equal to his expectations. I was one who could not always

do the right and proper thing, for I was often erring and perverse, and

at various times must have tried him sorely. My temper was quick, which,

with an excess of false pride, inspired me to the verge of rebellion. A

sense of decency prevented me from any overt act of defiance, but the

spirit was not less fierce because I imposed the needful restraint on

it. Outwardly, I might be tranquil enough, but my smothered resentment

was as wicked and unjustifiable as if I had openly defied him. A

choleric disposition on his part would have been as a flame to my

nature, and the result might have been guessed. Happily for me, he was

consistently considerate, and declined to notice too closely the flushed

face, and the angry sparkles of the eye, which betokened revolt. An

occasional blood-letting might perhaps have been beneficial to me; but

he had discovered other methods, just as efficacious, for reducing me to

a state of reason, and never once had recourse to threats. My fits of

sullenness had been probably provoked by an unexpected sharpness of

tone, or a denial of some liberty, or graver censure than I thought I

deserved. Constrained to silence by the magnitude and character of my

obligations to him, I, of course, magnified my grievances; and, the

longer reconciliation was deferred, the larger these seemed. Before this

dangerous mood sought vent, some look, a word, some secret transmission

of sympathy occurred, and, in an instant, the evil humour vanished; for

weeks afterwards, I would endeavour to atone for my churlish behaviour

by a contrite submissiveness which was capable of undergoing any

penance.

‘I do not punish you,’ he said, ‘because I want you to remember that you

are a little man, and the only difference between us is that I am an

older man. If I were in the habit of striking you, you would run away

from me, or it would be noticeable in you by a slinking gait, or a sly

eye, or a sullen disposition, or a defiant look, or you would become

broken-spirited; all this I do not want you to be--I wish for your

filial regard, and your respect, which I would not deserve if I

terrified. Misery and suffering would wreck your temper, while kindness

and reason will bring out the best qualities of your nature; for you, as

well as every child that is born, possess something that is good, and it

is the sunshine of tenderness that makes it grow.’

To one who considers that neither the closest ties of relationship, nor

the highest claims of affection, are sufficient to preserve the

rebellious spirit in an angelic temper for a long time, this boyish

inconsistency and perverseness will be no surprise; but I was sensible

that it was only owing to his patience that it did not receive the

condign punishment it deserved. This, in itself, was an education; for I

learned, after several experiences, not to disturb myself too seriously

because of a temporary change in his manner or mood, and to accept it

rather as being due to some cross in business, or physical condition,

than to any offence in me, and so the customary cordiality was soon

restored.

If I could only have made similar allowances earlier, and with other

persons in later life, I should have had much less unhappiness to

bewail; but, in his case, the necessity of doing so was impressed on me

by my intimate knowledge of his fatherliness, and affectionate

considerateness, and by the constant sense that I owed him unreserved

submission.

CHAPTER VI

ADRIFT AGAIN

My education did not consist solely of his discussions upon books,

morality, and religion, but it embraced a countless variety of topics

suggested by our travels. By his method of teaching, no passive

reception of facts was possible, and the stimulus to intellect was given

by being urged to observe, sift, and examine every article of

conversation. I absorbed considerable practical knowledge during this

period. His level-headedness, which I was prone to regard at that time

as the height of worldly wisdom, and his intense realness, aided greatly

to clarify my ideas upon many things, and was excellently adapted to

form a sound judgment. He could be as genial as a glad boy on his summer

holiday, lofty as a preacher, frank as a brother; but righteously

austere, hilariously familiar and jocose, yet sublime, according to

occasion. The candour and good faith with which he spoke, the expansive

benevolence, and the large amount of sympathy he always showed when I

sought his advice, or exposed my doubts or fears, were the very

qualities which were best calculated to ensure my affection, extract my

shy confidences, and cultivate in me a fearless openness. With the

exception of those fits of sullen resentment to which I was now and then

subject, like other human whelps, my life with him was one unbroken

period of pleasantness, and, so far as I required and knew, every

condition of a Paradise was present, in the unfretting, fair, and

healthful existence which I led.

I sometimes imagine that he must have discerned something attractive in

me, though I myself was unconscious of the cause. If I review my

appearance at that time, I can find nothing to admire. I was naturally

shy, silent, short of figure, poorly clad, uninteresting, and yet he

chose me, from the first moment he saw me, to be an object of his

charity. I endeavoured to be, as the phrase is, good and grateful; but,

[Illustration: HENRY M. STANLEY, AT 17]

as I have reason to remember, I was by no means perfect in my

endeavours. I think zeal, good-will, docility, were my only commendable

traits; but they strike me now as being insufficient to account for my

undeniable good fortune.

I can only remember one noticeable incident, outside of the common, in

connection with this period, and that occurred in the middle of 1860. We

were passengers on the steamer ‘Little Rock,’ as she was returning,

laden with cotton, down the Washita. My father had been paid money due

to him for goods by a merchant near Fairview, and, through neglect, or

some other reason, had deferred entrusting it to the purser longer than

he ought. We were approaching near Sicily Island, when, in the gloom

caused by the mountain-pile of cotton bales, I observed a man lingering

rather suspiciously near our cabin-door. At first, I took him for one of

the stewards; but, on observing him more particularly, his conduct, I

thought, suggested some nefarious design. My father had retired, and,

according to custom, I ought to have been abed; but the unusual freight

of cotton the boat carried had kept me in a state of suppressed

excitement. Being light and active, I ensconced myself in a dark gap

between two tiers of bales, and waited patiently. After a little time

the man put his ear to our door, and presently opened it, and entered

our cabin. In a few minutes, I heard my father’s voice ask, ‘Who is

there?’ and, immediately, sounds of a struggle were heard. Upon this I

bounded in, and found the stranger wrestling with my father, and one of

the two seemed to be choking. Upon seeing me, the intruder turned

rapidly towards me. I saw the flash as of steel, and something struck me

between my arm and left breast in my overcoat, and a piece of metal

tinkled on the floor. Then, with a deep curse, I was flung aside, and

the man fled along the guards. We instantly raised a cry of ‘Thieves!’

which brought crowds of stewards and passengers to us, carrying lights.

These revealed an open portmanteau, with rumpled contents, and the half

of a carving-knife blade on the floor. On examining my coat it was seen

that it had a cut as far as the canvas stiffening. All these evidences

tended to prove that a daring attempt at robbery had been made, and, it

was suspected, by someone connected with the boat. The chief steward

mustered the waiters, but they all answered to their names. He next

counted the carving-knives, and, according to him, one was missing. The

incident caused quite a commotion for the time, but the culprit was

never discovered.

Beyond this incident, we were singularly free from mishaps, and exciting

episodes, upon waters that had been the scene of many a calamity; and

yet, when I chanced to find myself among a group of passengers, I

frequently heard terrible recitals of experiences at boiler-explosions,

and shipwrecks, and other events hazardous to life. We had often been

fellow-passengers with gamblers, some of whom were wrought into fury by

their losses at cards; but, whether it was owing to my good or evil

fortune, I never happened to be present when the issue was left to the

arbitrament of revolver and bowie-knife, as there were plenty of

peace-makers always ready to interfere at the critical moment.

In September of 1860, we met a tall and spruce gentleman, of the name of

Major Ingham, on board of a steamer bound to New Orleans. From what I

gathered, he was a South Carolinian by birth, but, some few years since,

had removed to Saline County, Arkansas, and had established a plantation

not far from Warren. My father and he had an abundant amount of

small-talk together relating to acquaintances and localities, which

occupied their leisure during the voyage. The Major also ingratiated

himself with me, and, through his description of the forests of pine and

oak, and accounts of the wild animals, such as catamounts, bears, and

deer, in his region, I became warmly attached to him. Before reaching

New Orleans, we had become so intimate that he extended an invitation to

me to spend a month with him on his Arkansas plantation; and, on

referring him to father, I found that he was not so averse to the

proposal as I feared he would be. The subject was deferred for further

consideration in the city.

After about a fortnight’s stay at the St. Charles Hotel, my father was

made anxious by a letter from Havana from his brother, and he resolved

to go and see him. He then disclosed to me that after much mental

discussion he had concluded that Major Ingham’s invitation had assisted

greatly in smoothing matters. For some time he had been debating as to

how it would be best to take the first step for establishing my future.

He had been much struck with the opportunities for doing a good business

in a country store, at some place below Pine Bluff on the Arkansas.

There were a large number of planters settled there, and a general

supply store such as he had fancied for their convenience could not fail

to be a success. Major Ingham’s plantation was situated about forty

miles back of the Arkansas River, and, at Cypress Bend, there was a

friend of his who, upon a letter from him, would take me in to teach me

the details of a country merchant’s business. Here was an opportunity of

approaching his project in a methodical way without loss of time. His

brother’s illness at Havana had caused some confusion in his affairs,

and it was necessary for him to cross the Gulf and set things in order.

Meantime, I had a safe escort to within a day’s drive of the merchant’s

store, to which, after being tired of the plantation, I was to go to be

grounded in the minutiæ of a retail store; and in a few months he would

have wound up his commission business, and be able to avail himself of

my local knowledge, and proceed to choose the best locality.

I saw no objection to any of his arrangements, as they rather coincided

with my secret ambitions, which had been fostered by many previous

allusions to such a scheme as had been now explained. The suddenness of

the parting was somewhat of a drawback to the beauty of the project;

but, as accident was the cause, and his absence was to be only for a few

months, during which we could often correspond, I became inclined, with

the sanguineness of my nature, to anticipate much enjoyment from the

novelty of the situation. In my highly-coloured fancy, I saw illimitable

pine-woods, infested by Indians, and by wild-cats, and other savage

felines; and the fact that I was about to prepare myself to be a dealer

in merchandise, preliminary to a permanent establishment, appeared such

an enchanting prospect that I felt no disposition to peer into sober

realities. Could we have foreseen, however, that this parting, so calmly

proposed and so trustfully accepted, was to be for ever, both of us

would have shrunk from the thought of it; but, unknown to ourselves, we

had arrived at the parting of the ways, and though we both sincerely

hoped the ways would meet, we were gliding along steep planes which

would presently precipitate us into the wide gulf of separation.

From the moment it was agreed to part for a while, my father lost no

opportunity to fill me with practical counsel, which, had my memory been

a knapsack, I could have extracted at will for consolation and guidance.

Unfortunately, for some things my memory was like a sieve: it retained

the larger rules, but dropped the lesser ones; it preserved certain

principles that had an affinity with my nature, but the multitude of

minor ones that he had attempted to graft on my nature fell away, one by

one. I was to be industrious, orderly, honourable, and steady, patient,

and obliging. But something of these I would naturally have shown under

any circumstances; but contact with real life discovers that these

virtues are insufficient to keep us serene and immaculate, that the

spirit of youth requires its sensibilities to be disciplined in many

ways before it endures with sweetness and patience the spurns, and

gibes, and mocks, of a rude world. It frequently meets conditions

wherein nothing will avail but force, of a most strenuous kind.

When the hour came for my father’s departure, Major Ingham and I

accompanied him on board the Havana steamer. The last parting occurred

in the state-room. At that moment, there was a wild fluttering of the

heart; and something like an ugly cloud of presentiments, vague shadows

of unknown evils to come, which started strong doubts of the wisdom of

parting, came over me all at once. But, as usual, when clear expression

was most needed, I was too tongue-tied for much speech, so many ideas

thronged for utterance, and I turned away as though stricken dumb. Half

an hour later, the steamer was only discernible by its trail of smoke.

After he had gone, the flood-gates were opened, the feelings relieved

themselves by torrents of words, and my loss and loneliness pressed hard

upon the senses. Much as I had valued him, it needed this time of

anguish to reveal fully what he had been to me. Then, pang after pang of

poignant contrition pierced me through and through. I was dissatisfied

with the sum of my conduct, with his own professions that I had been to

him what he had hoped and wished. If he had but returned there and then,

with the clear light that fell on my deficiencies now, how I should have

striven to satisfy my own exact ideas of what was due to him! This

little absence, with its unutterable remorse, had been more efficacious

in showing me my own inwardness than all his unselfish generosity.

Nearly five and thirty years have passed since, and I have not

experienced such wretchedness as I did that night following his

departure. A very little more, and I think it would have exceeded the

heart’s power to bear. My emotions were much more distressing than

anyone could have judged from my appearance. I caught a view of myself

in a mirror, and my face struck me as exhibiting an astonishing contrast

to the huge disorder beneath it. For the first time, I understood the

sharpness of the pang which pierces the soul when a loved one lies with

folded hands, icy cold, in the sleep of Death. I vexed myself with

asking, Had my conduct been as perfect as I then wished it had been? Had

I failed in aught? Had I esteemed him as he deserved? Then a craving

wish to hear him speak but one word of consolation, to utter one word of

blessing, made me address him as though he might hear; but no answer

came, and I experienced a shiver of sadness and wished that I could die.

I have often looked back upon the boy who sat like a stone in his

father’s chair for hours, revolving with fixed eyes and unmoved face all

that this parting seemed to him to mean. Up to a certain point he traced

minutely all its details, went over every word and little act, and then

a great blank wall met him, into which he strove and strove again to

penetrate, and, being baffled, resumed his mental rehearsals.

Before Major Ingham turned his steps homeward, I received a letter from

my father duly announcing his arrival at the island of Cuba. After

describing the passage across the Gulf, he went on to say that the more

he thought of his plans, the more he was inclined to regard the Major’s

invitation as a happy incident in his programme. He had often pondered

over the best means of starting me in a business for which I had a

decided bent, and he had been sounding several country merchants with a

view of giving me a preliminary training, but he had constantly deferred

a decision in the hope of finding something that more nearly suited his

ideas. Now, however, it all seemed clear. He had always fancied the

Arkansas River, as it had a richer back country than any other, and, by

means of the steamers and its superior navigation, was in direct

communication with the cities on the Mississippi. There were many

professions and trades for which I was fit, but he thought that I was

more partial to a mercantile career, and he was glad of it. He went on

to say that I had made a wonderful advance during the last year with

him, but it was on the next few years that my future depended. For

tiding over them successfully, I had only to hold fast to my principles,

and be fearless in all manly things; to persevere and win.

The letter seemed to be his very self, full of practical sense. I felt

enriched by its possession. It was a novelty to have a letter of my own,

sent from such a distance. I read it over and over, and found new

meanings and greater solace each time. The signature attracted my

attention with its peculiar whip, or flourish, below; and in my reply,

which covered many pages, I annexed that whip and ended my first epistle

with it; and, ever since, no signature of mine has been complete without

it.

Soon after, Major Ingham started on his return home in a stern-wheeler

bound for the Washita and Saline Rivers. The Washita, next to the

Arkansas, is the most important river which passes through the state of

Arkansas--pronounced ‘Arkansa_w_.’ The Saline is one of its feeders, and

has a navigable course of only about one hundred and twenty-five miles.

The Washita in its turn empties into the Red River, and the latter into

the Mississippi.

On, or about, the seventh day from New Orleans, the steamer entered the

Saline, and a few miles above Long View we landed on the right bank,

and, mounting into a well-worn buggy, were driven a few miles inland to

Ingham’s plantation.

I am as unaware of the real status of my host among his neighbours, as I

am of the size of his domain. It then appeared in my eyes immense, but

was mostly a pine forest, in the midst of which some few score of black

men had cleared a large space for planting. The house was of solid pine

logs, roughly squared, and but slightly stained by weather, and neatly

chinked without with plaster, and lined within with planed boards, new

and unpainted--it had an air of domestic comfort.

My welcome from Mrs. Ingham left nothing to be desired. The slaves of

the house thronged in her train, and curtsied and bobbed, with every

token of genuine gladness, to the ‘Massa,’ as they called him, and then

were good enough to include me in their bountiful joy. The supper which

had been got ready was something of a banquet, for it was to celebrate

the return of the planter, and was calculated to prove to him that,

though New Orleans hotels might furnish more variety, home, after all,

had its attractions in pure, clean, well-cooked viands. When the

hearth-logs began to crackle, and the fire-light danced joyfully on the

family circle, I began to feel the influence of the charm, and was ready

to view my stay in the western woods with interest and content.

But there was one person in the family that caused a doubt in my mind,

and that was the overseer. He joined us after supper, and, almost

immediately, I contracted a dislike for him. His vulgarity and

coarseness revived recollections of levee men. His garb was offensive;

the pantaloons stuffed into his boots, the big hat, the slouch of his

carriage, his rough boisterousness, were all objectionable, and more

than all his accents and the manner of his half-patronising familiarity.

I set him down at once as one of those men who haunt liquor-saloons, and

are proud to claim acquaintance with bar-tenders. Something in me,

perhaps my offishness, may probably have struck him with equal

repulsion. Under pretence of weariness I sought my bed, for the circle

had lost its charm.

The next day the diet was not so sumptuous. The breakfast at seven, the

dinner at noon, and the supper at six, consisted of pretty much the same

kind of dishes, except that there was good coffee at the first meal, and

plenty of good milk for the last. The rest mainly consisted of boiled,

or fried, pork and beans, and corn scones. The pork had an excess of fat

over the lean, and was followed by a plate full of mush and molasses. I

was never very particular as to my diet, but as day after day followed,

the want of variety caused it to pall on the palate. Provided other

things had not tended to make me critical, I might have gratefully

endured it, but what affected me principally were the encomiums lavished

upon this style of cookery by the overseer, who, whether with the view

of currying favour with Mrs. Ingham, or to exasperate my suppressed

squeamishness, would bawl out, ‘I guess you can’t beat this, howsumdever

you crack up New Or-lee-ans. Give me a raal western pot-luck, to your

darned fixin’s in them ‘ar Mississippi towns.’

With such society and fare, I could not help feeling depressed, but the

tall pine forest, with its mysterious lights and shades, had its

compensations. As, in process of time, the planter intended to extend

his clearing and raise more cotton, every tree felled assisted in

widening the cultivable land. On learning this, I asked and obtained

permission to cut down as many trees as I liked, and, like a ruthless

youth with latent destructive propensities, I found an extraordinary

pleasure in laying low with a keen axe the broad pines. I welcomed with

a savage delight the apparent agony, the portentous shiver which ran

from root to topmost plume, the thunderous fall, and the wild recoil of

its neighbours, as it rebounded and quivered before it lay its still

length. After about a score of the pine monarchs had been levelled, the

negroes at work presented new features of interest. On the outskirts of

the clearing they were chopping up timber into portable or rollable

logs, some were ‘toting’ logs to the blazing piles, others rolled them

hand over hand to the fires, and each gang chanted heartily as it

toiled. As they appeared to enjoy it, I became infected with their

spirit and assisted at the log-rolling, or lent a hand at the toting,

and championed my side against the opposite. I waxed so enthusiastic

over this manly work, which demanded the exertion of every ounce of

muscle, that it is a marvel I did not suffer from the strain; its fierce

joy was more to my taste than felling timber by myself. The atmosphere,

laden with the scent of burning resin, the roaring fires, the dance of

the lively flames, the excitement of the gangs while holding on, with

grim resolve and in honour bound, to the bearing-spikes, had a real

fascination for me. For a week, I rose with the darkies at the sound of

the overseer’s horn, greeted the revivifying sunrise with anticipating

spirits, sat down to breakfast with a glow which made the Major and his

wife cheerier, and then strode off to join in the war against the pines

with a springy pace.

How long this toil would have retained its sportive aspect for me I know

not, but I owed it to the overseer that I ceased to love it. He was a

compound of a Legree[7] and Nelson, with an admixture of mannerism

peculiarly his own. It was his duty to oversee all the gangs, the hoers,

wood-cutters, fire-attendants, log-rollers, and toters. When he

approached the gang with which I worked, the men became subdued, and

stopped their innocent chaff and play. He had two favourite songs: one

was about his ‘deah Lucindah,’ and the other about the ‘chill winds of

December,’ which he hummed in a nasal tone when within speaking distance

of me, while the cracks of his ‘black snake’ whip kept time. But, as he

sauntered away to other parts, I felt he was often restive at my

presence, for it imposed a certain restraint on his nature. One day,

however, he was in a worse humour than usual. His face was longer, and

malice gleamed in his eyes. When he reached us we missed the usual

tunes. He cried out his commands with a more imperious note. A young

fellow named Jim was the first victim of his ire, and, as he was

carrying a heavy log with myself and others, he could not answer him so

politely as he expected. He flicked at his naked shoulders with his

whip, and the lash, flying unexpectedly near me, caused us both to drop

our spikes. Unassisted by us, the weight of the log was too great for

the others, and it fell to the ground crushing the foot of one of them.

Meantime, furious at the indignity, I had engaged him in a wordy

contest: hot words, even threats, were exchanged, and had it not been

for the cries of the wounded man who was held fast by the log, we should

probably have fought. The end of it was, I retired from the field,

burning with indignation, and disgusted with his abominable brutality.

I sought Major Ingham, whom I found reclining his length in an

easy-chair on the verandah. Not hearing the righteous condemnation I had

hoped he would express, and surprised at his want of feeling, I hotly

protested against the cruelty of the overseer in attacking a man while

all his strength was needed to preserve others from peril, and declaimed

against him for using a whip in proximity to my ears, which made the

Major smile compassionately at my inexperience in such matters. This was

too much for my patience, and I then and there announced my intention to

seek the hospitality of Mr. Waring, his neighbour, as I could

not be any longer the guest of a man who received my complaint so

unsympathetically. On hearing me say this, Mrs. Ingham came out of the

house, and expressed so much concern at this sudden rupture of our

relations that I regretted having been so hasty, and the Major tried to

explain how planters were compelled to leave field-work in charge of

their overseer; but it was too late. Words had been uttered which left a

blister in the mind, personal dignity had been grossly wounded, the

Major had not the art of salving sores of this kind, and I doggedly

clung to my first intentions. In another quarter of an hour I had left

the plantation with a small bundle of letters and papers, and was

trudging through the woods to Mr. Waring’s plantation.

We have all our sudden likes and dislikes. The first view of the

comfortable homeliness of Mr. Waring’s house gave me an impression of

family felicity, and when the old man with several smiling members of

his family came to the door, it appeared to me as if it revived a

picture I had seen somewhere in Wales, and all my heart went out to

those who were in the house.

Strange to say, in proportion to the period spent at Major Ingham’s, I

possess a more vivid recollection of the night I passed at Mr. Waring’s,

and my thoughts have more often reverted to the more ancient house and

its snugness and pleasant details, than to the other. As I did not

mention anything about the causes of my departure from his neighbour’s

plantation, it was tacitly understood that I was only resting for the

night, previous to resuming my journey next morning, and they did not

press me to stay. I begged, however, Mr. Waring to do me the favour to

send a buggy for my trunk the next morning. When it arrived, I repacked

it; and, leaving it in his charge, I set off on a tramp across country

to the Arkansas, rejecting many an offer of aid up to the last minute.

The road wound up and down pine-clothed hills, and, being a sandy loam,

was dry and tolerably smooth. In the hollows I generally found a stream

where I quenched my thirst, but I remember to have travelled a

considerable distance for a young pedestrian without meeting any water,

and to have reflected a little upon what the pains of dying from thirst

would be like. I rested at a small farm-house that night; and, next

morning, at an early hour, was once more footing it bravely, more

elated, perhaps, than my condition justified. I regarded myself as being

upon a fine adventure, the narration of which would surprise my father.

My eyes travelled through far-reaching colonnades of tapering pine and

flourishing oak, and for a great part of the time I lost consciousness

of my circumstances, while my mind was absorbed in interminable

imaginings of impossible discoveries and incidents. I saw myself the

hero of many a thrilling surprise, and looked dreamily through the

shades, as though in some places like them I would meet the preying

beasts whom it would be my fortune to strike dead with my staff. But,

invariably, on being brought to a proper sense of the scenes, and my

real condition, I recognized how helpless I was against a snarling

catamount, or couchant panther; I was devoutly thankful that Arkansas

was so civilised that my courage was in no fear of being tested.

Just at dusk I reached the Arkansas River at Cypress Bend, having

travelled about forty miles across country, without having met a single

adventure.

Mr. Altschul’s store, at which I was to devote myself to acquiring the

arts and details of a country merchant’s business, was situate about

fifty miles S. E. of Little Rock, and half-way between Richmond and

South Bend. I found no difficulty at all in entering the establishment,

for I had no sooner introduced myself than I was accepted by his family

with all cordiality. The store was, in reality, a country house of

business. It stood isolated in a small clearing in the midst of Cypress

Grove, and was removed from the dwelling-house of the family by a

quarter of a mile. It was a long one-storied building of solid logs,

divided into four apartments, three of which contained all manner of

things that ironmongers, gunners, grocers, drapers, stationers, are

supposed to sell; the fourth room, at the back, was used as an office

during the day, and as a bedroom at night, by the clerks in charge. I

commenced my duties in November, 1860, being warmly hailed as a

fellow-clerk by Mr. Cronin, the salesman, and Mr. Waldron, the

assistant-salesman.

Cronin was an Irishman from New York, about thirty years old; the

assistant was the son of a small planter in the vicinity. The first was

a character for whom I had a pitying fondness. One-half of him was

excellent, all brightness, cleverness, and sociability, the other half,

perhaps the worse, was steeped in whiskey. He was my Alphabet of the

race of topers. I have never been able to be wrathful with his kind,

they are such miracles of absurdity! Here and there one may meet a

malignant, but they are mostly too stupid to be hated. Cronin knew his

duties thoroughly. He was assiduous, obliging, and artful beyond

anything with the ladies. He won their confidences, divined their

preferences, and, with the most provoking assurance, laid the identical

piece of goods they wanted before them, and made them buy it. It was a

treat to observe the cordial, and yet deferent, air with which he

listened to their wishes, the deft assistance he gave to their

expression, his bland assents, the officious haste and zeal he exhibited

in attending on them, and the ruthless way he piled the counters with

goods for their inspection. Sometimes I suspected he was maliciously

making work for me, for, being the junior, I had to refold the goods,

and restore them to their places; but, in justice to him, I must say he

nobly assisted in the re-arrangement. Cronin was a born salesman, and I

have never met his equal since.

The poorer class of women he dazzled by his eloquent commendations, his

elaborate courtesy, and the way he made them conceited with their own

superior knowledge of what was genuine and rich. If the woman was a

coloured person, he was benevolent and slightly familiar. His small grey

eyes twinkled with humour, as he whispered friendly advice as to the

quality of the goods, and besieged her with such attentions that the

poor thing was compelled to buy.

With the planters, who were of varying moods, Mr. Cronin bore himself

with such rare good-humour and tact, that one found a pleasure in

watching the stern lips relax, and the benignant look coming to their

gloomy eyes. He would go forward to meet them, as they stepped across

the threshold, with hearty abandon and joviality, put fervour into his

hand-shakes, sincerity into his greeting, and welcome into his every

act. He anxiously enquired after their healths, condoled with them in

their fevers, sympathised with them in their troubles about their

cotton-crops, and soon found excuse to draw them to the liquor

apartment, where he made them taste Mr. Altschul’s latest importations.

According to Mr. Cronin, the ‘cobwebs’ were cleared by the preliminary

drink, and it enabled both salesman and buyer to take a cheerier view of

things, and to banish thoughts that would impede business. Naturally,

the planters cared little for cotton-prints or jaconets, though they

often carried daintily-pencilled commissions from the ladies at home,

which Mr. Cronin satisfactorily executed at once, on the plea that

ladies must be served first; but when these were disposed of,--always

with reverent regard for the fair sex,--Mr. Cronin flung off his

tenderness and became the genial salesman again. Had the gentleman seen

the new Californian saddles, or the latest thing in rifles, shot-guns

that would kill duck at ninety yards? Those who heard him expatiate upon

the merits of fire-arms wondered at the earnestness he threw into his

language, and at the minute knowledge he seemed to possess of the

properties of each article. Or the subject was saddles. I heard with

amazement about the comparative excellencies of the Californian,

English, and cavalry article, and thought his remarks ought to be

printed. In this way, with regard to rifles, I soon got to know all

about the merits of the Ballard, Sharp, Jocelyn rifles, their special

mechanisms, trajectory, penetration, and range. If I alluded to the

revolvers, his face glowed with a child’s rapture as he dilated upon the

superiority of the Tranter over the Colt, or the old-fashioned

‘pepper-box’; but, when he took up a beautiful Smith and Wesson, he

became intoxicated with his own bewildering fluency, and his gestures

were those of an oratorical expert. Then some other excuse would be

found for adjourning to the liquor room, where he continued to hold

forth with his charming persuasiveness, until he succeeded in effecting

a sale of something.

Mr. Cronin was indeed an artist, but Mr. Altschul did not appreciate him

as his genius deserved. The proprietor laid too much stress upon his

propensity to drink, which was certainly incurable, and too little upon

the profits accruing to him through his agency. He also suspected him of

gross familiarities with female slaves, which, in Mr. Altschul’s eyes,

were unpardonable. Therefore, though he was invaluable to me as a model

salesman, poor Cronin was obliged to leave after a while.

Waldron in a short time found counter-work too irksome and frivolous

for his nature, and he also left; then two young men, very proud and

high-stomached, and not over-genial to customers, were engaged instead.

But by this time I had become sufficiently acquainted with the tone of

the planter community to be able to do very well, with a few

instructions from Mr. Altschul. I had learned that in the fat cypress

lands there was a humanity which was very different from that

complaisant kind dwelling in cities. It had been drawn from many States,

especially from the South. The Douglasses were from Virginia, the

Crawfords from ‘Old Georgia,’ the Joneses and Smiths from Tennessee, the

Gorees from Alabama. The poorer sort were from the Carolinas,

Mississippi, Missouri, and Tennessee, the professional men and white

employers from a wider area--which included Europe. Several of the

richer men owned domains of from six to ten square miles. They lived

like princelings, were owners of hundreds of slaves over whom they were

absolute except as to life or limb, and all their environments catered

to their egotism. Though genially sociable to each other, to landless

people like myself they conducted themselves as though they were under

no obligations. Such manners as they exhibited were not so much due to

neighbourly good-feeling as to their dislike of consequences which might

result from a wanton offishness. When they emerged from their respective

territories to the common view, their bearing seemed to say that they

yielded to us every privilege belonging to free whites, but reserved to

themselves the right to behave as they deemed fitting to their state,

and of airing any peculiarity unquestioned, and unremarked by the

commonalty. They were as exclusive as the proud county families of

Wales.

It may easily be seen, then, what a sight our store presented when about

a dozen magnates of this kind, fresh from their cotton principalities,

and armed, cap-à-pie, each in his own peculiar dress, assembled in it.

In time, of course, I became used to it; and, considering their

anxieties, the malarial climate, and the irritating ‘ague-cake,’ they

behaved well, on the whole. Their general attitude was, however, stiff

and constrained. Each slightly raised his hat as he came in, and their

‘Sirs’ were more formal and punctilious than, as neighbours or

fellow-citizens, they ought to have been.

My proud fellow-clerks were disposed to think it was the dread of the

pistol which made them so guarded in speech and action, but I thought

that it was the fear of compromising the personal dignity by a

disgraceful squabble with men untaught in the forms of good society.

Arkansas is sometimes known as the Bear State, and many of its people at

that time were singularly bearish and rude. The self-estimate of such

men was sometimes colossal, and their vanities as sensitive as

hair-triggers. None of them could boast of the piety of saints, but

nearly all had been influenced by the religion of their mothers--just as

much as might enable them to be distinguished from barbarians. It is

wonderful what trivial causes were sufficient to irritate them. A little

preoccupation in one’s own personal affairs, a monosyllabic word, a look

of doubt, or a hesitating answer, made them flare up hotly. The true

reason for this excessive sensitiveness was that they had lived too much

within their own fences, and the taciturnity engendered by exclusiveness

had affected their habits. However amiable they might originally have

been, their isolation had promoted the growth of egotism and

self-importance. This is the essence of ‘Provincialism,’ wherever it is

met with, in country or in city life.

Few visited our store who did not bear some sign of the pernicious

disease, which afflicted old and young in the bottom-lands of the

Arkansas. I had not been a week at the store before I was delirious from

the fever which accompanies ague, and, for the first time in my life,

was dieted on calomel and quinine. The young physician of our

neighbourhood, who boarded with Mr. Altschul, communicated to me many

particulars regarding the nature of this plague. In the form termed by

him ‘congestive chills,’ he had known many cases to terminate fatally

within a few hours. Blacks as well as whites were subject to it. Nothing

availed to prevent an attack. The most abstemious, temperate, prudent

habits no more prevented it than selfish indulgence or intemperance. So,

what with isolation on their wide estates, their life amongst obsequious

slaves, indigestion, and inflamed livers, their surroundings were not

well adapted to make our wealthy customers very amiable or sociable.

Though I had a bowing acquaintance with scores, only half-a-dozen or so

people condescended to hold speech with me. The mention of these reminds

me that one day one of my friends, named Newton Story, and myself were

weighed in the scales, and while Story, a fine manly fellow, weighed one

hundred and eighty-five pounds, I was only ninety-five pounds,--within

three pounds of seven stone. The frequency of ague attacks had reduced

me to skin and bone. It was a strange disease, preceded by a violent

shaking, and a congealed feeling as though the blood was suddenly iced,

during which I had to be half-smothered in blankets, and surrounded by

hot-water bottles. After a couple of hours’ shivering, a hot fit

followed, accompanied by delirium, which, about the twelfth hour, was

relieved by exhausting perspiration. When, about six hours later, I

became cool and sane, my appetite was almost ravenous from quinine and

emptiness. For three or four days afterwards, unless the fever was

tertian, I went about my duties as before, when, suddenly, a fit of

nausea would seize me, and again the violent malady overpowered me. Such

was my experience of the agues of the Arkansas swamp-land; and, during

the few months I remained at Cypress Bend, I suffered from them three

times a month.

The population of the State in that year (1861) was about 440,000; and I

find, to my astonishment, that now (1895) it is over a million and a

quarter, of whom only about 10,000 are foreign-born. Neither the

dreadful ague, which exceeds in virulence the African type, nor the

Civil War, has been able to check the population. What a hope for

much-scorned Africa there is in these figures!

But this is a digression due to my desire to be just to my bilious

fellow-sufferers in the swamp-land. One of our new salesmen was famous

as a violinist, and his favourite song and tune was about the ‘Arkansas

Traveller,’ who, losing his way in one of the sloughy highways through

the swamp, disappeared in the mud leaving his hat behind him to indicate

the spot. Reflective people will see in this story another obstacle to

social intercourse.

Every new immigrant soon became infected with the proud and sensitive

spirit prevailing in Arkansas. The poor American settler, the Irish

employee, the German-Jew storekeeper, in a brief time grew as liable to

bursts of deadly passion, or fits of cold-blooded malignity, as the

Virginian aristocrat. In New Orleans, and other great cities, the social

rule was to give and take, to assert an opinion, and hear it

contradicted without resort to lethal weapons, but, in Arkansas, to

refute a statement was tantamount to giving the lie direct, and was

likely to be followed by an instant appeal to the revolver or bowie.

Sometimes, an ‘_if_ you said so, then I said so,’ staved off the bloody

arbitrament, but such folk were probably late immigrants and not old

citizens.

It struck even a youth like me as being ridiculous for a servile

German-Jew pedlar to fancy himself insulted by a casual remark from some

mean and ill-bred white, and to feel it necessary to face the tube of a

backwoodsman, when he might have ignored him and his rudeness

altogether. It was hard to understand why he should resent his honour

being doubted, except from a mistaken sense of his importance, for the

ill-opinion of the planter community he had trebly earned already, by

being a trader, a foreigner, and a Jew; and the small portion of regard

he aspired to win by an act of daring bluff was not worth a thought,

least of all the peril of his life, or the smart of a wound. With regard

to his ‘honour,’ it seemed to bear a different meaning on different

banks of a river. On the eastern shore of the Mississippi, it meant

probity in business; on the western shore, it signified popular esteem

for the punishment of a traducer, and he who was most prompt in killing

anyone who made a personal reflection obtained most honour, and

therefore every pedlar or clerk in Arkansas hastened to prove his

mettle.

At South Bend, about nine miles below us, there was a store-keeper who

prided himself more upon the ‘honour’ he had won as a duellist than upon

commercial integrity. It was the example of his neighbourhood which had

fired this abnormal ambition, and, on my arrival at the Arkansas, his

clerks had begun to imitate him. The neighbouring merchants, envious of

his fame, essayed the perilous venture; and, at last, Mr. Altschul was

smitten with the mania. There is no doubt that, had his courage been of

a more compact quality, he would have competed with the man of South

Bend for ‘honour.’ He selected, however, the choicest of his stock of

Smith and Wesson’s vest-pocket revolvers, and was lavishly extravagant

with the ammunition. At the outset, he could not resist blinking at the

flash of his own pea-shooter, but, by dint of practice, he succeeded in

plugging a big tree at twenty paces. Then, in an evil moment, his

mounting spirit was inspired to turn his pistolette on a motherly old

sow which had strayed among his cabbages, and he mortally wounded her.

The owner of the animal was cross old Mr. Hubbard, a small planter, who

came on an ambling mule, presently, with a double-barrel shot-gun,

charged with an awful number of buck-pellets, to interview Mr. Altschul.

When he returned home, I inferred, from Hubbard’s satisfied smile, that

the interview had not been unsatisfactory to him. From that moment we

noticed that Mr. Altschul abandoned pistol practice--for, naturally, the

pistolette was not a fit weapon to cope with a shot-gun. One of my

fellow-clerks remarked that it was a pity Mr. Hubbard had no excuse for

calling upon the man at South Bend for damages.

If the craze for shooting had been communicated to such a respectable

man as Mr. Altschul, it may be imagined what a fascination pistols had

for us youths. We had hip-pockets made in our trousers, and the Smith

and Wesson was regarded as an indispensable adjunct to manhood. Our

leisure hours were devoted to target-practice, until my proficiency was

so great that I could sever a pack-thread at twenty paces.

Theoretically, we were already man-slaughterers, for our only object in

practice was to be expert in killing some imaginary rowdy, or burglar.

In our rude world such a person might present himself at any moment. The

rowdy needed only a little liquor to develop himself, and the store,

guarded only by a boy at night, offered a tempting inducement to a

burglarious individual. Among our hundred and odd customers there were

several who were not over-regardful of our susceptibilities; and as my

colleagues were of their own kidney, and had an acute sense of their

dignity, there was no saying when a crisis might arise. Personally, I

was not yet wrought up to this fine susceptiveness, though, probably, I

had as quick a spirit as any fire-eater in Arkansas County. What I might

do if my patience was abused, or how much bullying would be required to

urge me to adopt the style in vogue, was, however, as yet undetermined.

Of the code of honour and usage I had heard enough, but whenever I

supposed myself to be the object of rude aggression, the dire extreme

made me shrink. The contingency was a daily topic, but, when I dwelt on

the possibility of being involved, I inwardly held that liquory

ebullience ought not to be noticed.

Among our customers was a man named Coleman, a large, loose-jointed

young fellow, who owned a plantation and some twenty slaves. At regular

intervals he came to make his purchase of cloth for his slaves,

provisions, etc., and always departed with a bottle of whiskey in each

saddle-bag. One day he and some chance acquaintance had commenced a

bottle of Bourbon, and under the influence of the liquor he became

objectionable, and hinted to one of the salesmen that it was ‘rot-gut,’

diluted with swamp-water. At the commencement it was taken to be the

rough pleasantry of a drunken rustic; but, as Coleman reiterated the

charge, the clerk’s patience was exhausted, and he retorted that

swamp-water was wholesome for drunkards such as he. After this, one

savage retort provoked another, and Coleman drew his revolver; but, as

he aimed it, I crooked his elbow, and the bullet pierced the roof.

Almost immediately after, the clerk had flung himself against his

opponent, and we all three came to the floor. Then, while I clung to his

thumb, to prevent his raising the hammer, assistance came from the next

store-room; and the one who most efficiently interfered was a strong and

stalwart planter, named Francis Rush, for he wrenched the weapon from

his hand. There followed a disagreeable quarter of an hour: both Coleman

and the clerk were wild to get at each other, but in the end we forced a

truce. Coleman’s saddle-bags were put on his horse, and I held his

stirrups while he mounted. He glared fiercely at me awhile, and then,

after a warning that I had better avoid meddling with other people’s

quarrels, he rode away.

Coleman never returned to the store again. Some weeks after this event,

I was despatched round the neighbourhood to collect debts, and his name

was on my list. There was an ominous silence about his house as I rode

up, but, on making my way to the negro quarter to make enquiries, I was

told in a frightened whisper that their master had disappeared into

parts unknown, after killing Francis Rush.

An evening came when the long-expected burglarious adventure occurred.

Night had fallen by the time I returned to the store from supper at Mr.

Altschul’s, but there was a moonlight which made the dead timber in the

Cypress Grove appear spectral. Near the main entrance to the store was a

candle, which I proceeded to light after entering the building. Then,

closing and dropping the strong bar across the door, I walked down the

length of the store towards the office and my bedroom. Holding the

candle well up, I noticed as I passed the fire-place a pile of soot on

the hearth-stone. As it had been swept clean after the day’s business,

the sight of it instantly suggested a burglar being in the chimney.

Without halting, I passed on to the office, cast a quick look at the

back door and windows, and, snatching my little revolver from under the

pillow, retraced my steps to the fire-place. Pointing the weapon up the

chimney, I cried out, ‘Look out, I am about to fire. After the word

“three” I shall shoot. One! two!--’ A cloud of soot poured down on my

arm, the rumble of a hasty scramble was heard, and I fired into the

brick to hasten his departure. I then flew into the office, set my

candle upon a chair, opened the back door, and darted out in time to see

a negro’s head and shoulders above the chimney-top. By means of threats,

and a sufficient demonstration with the fire-arm, he was made to

descend, and marched to Mr. Altschul’s house, where he surrendered to

the proprietor. Except that he was severely bound, his treatment was

respectful, for he represented over a thousand dollars, and to injure

him was to injure Dr. Goree, his owner, and one of our most respected

customers.

Mr. Altschul was an Israelite and kept open store on Sunday, for the

benefit of the negroes around. The clerks, being Christians, were, of

course, exempted from labour that day; but, on one special Sunday, one

of our party had volunteered to take Mr. Altschul’s place at the

counter. In the afternoon, he was attending a clamouring crowd of about

thirty negroes, with his counter littered with goods. As I came in, I

observed that he was not so alertly watchful as he ought to have been,

with such a number of men, and so many exposed articles. I sat down and

closely watched, and saw that, each time his back was turned, two men

abstracted stockings, thread-spools and ribands, stuffing them into

their capacious pockets. After considering the best method of compelling

restoration, I withdrew and called Simon, Mr. Altschul’s burly slave,

and instructed him how to assist me.

A few seconds after re-entering the store, the two halves of the front

door were suddenly flung to, and barred, and a cry of ‘Thieves’ was

raised. There was a violent movement towards me, but Simon flourished a

big knife above his head, and swore he would use it, if they did not

stand still and be searched. Those who were conscious of their innocence

sided with us; and through their help we turned out a pretty assortment

of small goods, which the clerk, by referring to his sales-book, found

had not been sold.

I went out to shoot turtle-doves one holiday, and aimed at one on a

branch about thirty feet above the road, and over-hanging it. Almost

immediately after, old Hubbard, the planter, emerged into view from

round the corner, in a tearing rage, and presented his shot-gun at me.

Seeing no one else near, and assuming that he was under some great

mistake, I asked what the matter was, upon which he boldly accused me of

shooting at him, and he put his hand to his face to show the wound. As

there was not the slightest trace of even a bruise, I laughed at him, as

it seemed to me that only an overdose of whiskey could account for such

a paroxysm of passion.

Since my arrival at Auburn I had received three letters from my father

from Havana, within a period of about nine weeks. Then, month after

month of absolute silence followed. The last letter had stated that his

brother was convalescent, and that, in about a month, he intended to

return to New Orleans, and would then pay me a visit. Until well into

March, 1861, I was in daily expectation of hearing from him, or seeing

him in person. But we were destined never to meet again. He died

suddenly in 1861--I only heard of his death long after. In the mean

time, wholly unheeded by me, astounding national events had occurred.

Several of the Southern States had openly defied the United States

Government. Forts, arsenals, and ships of war had been seized by the

revolted States, and, what was of more importance to me, the forts below

New Orleans had been taken by the Louisiana troops. These events were

known to readers of newspapers in Arkansas, but the only newspaper taken

at the Auburn store was a Pine Bluff weekly, which, as I seldom saw it,

I never imagined would contain any news of personal interest to me.

It was not until March that I began dimly to comprehend that something

was transpiring which would involve every individual. Dr. Goree, our

neighbour planter, happened to meet Mr. W. H. Crawford, an

ex-Representative of Georgia, at our store, and began discussing

politics. Their determined accents and resolute gestures roused my

curiosity, and I heard them say that the States of Alabama, Georgia,

Louisiana, and others, had already formed a separate government, and

that one called Jeff Davis had been proclaimed President of the new

government; and they wondered why Arkansas was so slow to join the

Confederates, etc., etc. This was news to me, and when they unfolded

their respective newspapers and read extracts from them, it dawned upon

me that if I wished to post myself upon the grave national affairs, I

should have to read those stupid sheets which hitherto I had regarded as

being only fit for merchants and bearded men.

Thus stimulated to think that the events of the time affected the people

of Arkansas County, even youths like myself, I began to read the Pine

Bluff paper, and to be more inquisitive; and it was not long before I

had a vague conception that the country was in a terribly disturbed

state, and that there would be war. Notwithstanding the information

gleaned from persons who gave themselves little trouble to satisfy a

strange boy, it was not until young Dan Goree returned from Nashville

College that I could assimilate properly all that I had heard. Young Dan

was a boy of about my own age, and being the son of such a politician as

Dr. Goree, was naturally much more advanced in political matters than I.

He it was who, in friendly converse, acted as my Mentor, and gave me the

first intelligent exposition of how affairs stood between the two

sections of the Union. It was from him I learned that the election of

Abe Lincoln, in the November previous, had created a hostile feeling in

the South, because this man had declared himself opposed to slavery; and

as soon as he became President, in March, he would do all in his power

to free all the slaves. Of course, said he, in that event all

slave-holders would be ruined. His father owned about one hundred and

twenty slaves, worth from $500 to $1200 a head, and to deprive him of

property that he had bought with cash was pure robbery. That was the

reason that all the people of the South were rising against the Northern

people, and they would fight, to the last man. When the State of

Arkansas ‘seceded,’ then every man and boy would have to proceed to the

war and drive those wretched Abolitionists back to their homes, which

would be an easy task, as one Southerner was better than ten of those

Northern fellows, many of whom had never seen a gun! Dan thought that

the boys of the South, armed with whips, would be quite sufficient to

lick the thieving hounds!

I need not pursue the theme, but it was from such a source that I

obtained my elementary lessons in American Politics. From the time when,

in December, 1857, I had read some leaderette about the Louisiana

Legislative Assembly, politics had been repulsively dry to me, and

newspapers were only useful for their shipping and trade details.

Specially interesting to me, however, was it to know that Missouri and

its metropolis, St. Louis, would assuredly join the South; though I was

saddened to learn that Cincinnati and Louisville were enemies. What

curious emotions that word ‘enemies’ caused in me! People I knew well,

with whom I had worshipped, boys with whom I had contracted delightful

friendships at Newport and Covington, to be enemies! Then I wondered how

we were to obtain our goods in future. Consignments of arms, medicine,

dry-goods, and ironware, had come to us from St. Louis, Cincinnati, and

even Chicago. The conditions of trade would be altogether altered!

It was not, however, until I had propounded the question as to how the

seizure of the Mississippi forts affected people who were abroad, and

wished to return home, that I understood how deeply involved I was by

this rupture of relations between the North and South. I was told that

all communication was stopped, that ships coming in from sea would be

turned back, or else, if they were permitted to come in by the cruisers

outside, would certainly not be permitted to leave; that every ship

insisting on going to New Orleans would be searched, and, if anything

likely to assist the enemy was found, she would be detained, and

perhaps confiscated; and that, as no vessel was permitted to enter the

river, so none would have the privilege of leaving. Here was something

wholly unexpected! My father was shut out, and I was shut in! He could

not come to me, nor could I join him. In some mysterious way somebody

had built an impassable wall round about us, and the South was like a

jail, and its inhabitants had been deprived of the liberty of leaving.

From the moment that I fully realised this fact, everything bore a

different aspect to what it had before. I was a strange boy in a strange

land, in the same condition of friendlessness as when I fled from the

‘Windermere.’ I had prepared myself to convince my father that the

valley of the Arkansas was not a fit place to live in. My staring bones

and hollow eyes should speak for me, and we would try the Washita

Valley, or ascend the Arkansas, towards Little Rock, where the country

was healthier, but anywhere rather than in such a pestilential place as

the swamp-land of Arkansas. But my intentions had come to naught, my

cherished hopes must be abandoned. I was stranded effectually, and I had

no option but to remain with Mr. Altschul.

It was an evil hour to meditate any design of a personal nature, for the

sentiment of the period was averse from it. The same unperceivable power

that had imprisoned me in the fever-and-ague region of Arkansas was

rapidly becoming formidable. Man after man unresistingly succumbed to

its influence. Even the women and children cried for war. There was no

Fiery Cross, but the wire flashed the news into every country-place and

town, and, wherever two met, the talk was all about war. Most of the

cotton States had already seceded, and as our State was their sister in

sentiment, habit, and blood, Arkansas was bound to join her sisters, and

hasten with her sons to the battle-field, to conquer or die. Early in

May, the State Representatives met at Little Rock, and adopted the

ordinance of secession; whereupon the fighting spirit of the people rose

in frenzy. Heroic sayings, uttered by ancient Greek and Roman heroes,

were mouthed by every stripling. The rich planters forgot their pride

and exclusiveness, and went out and orated among the common folk. They

flourished their hats and canes, and cried, ‘Give us Liberty, or give

us Death!’ The young men joined hands and shouted, ‘Is there a man with

soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said--This is my own, my native

land?’ ‘An honourable death is better than a base life,’ etc., etc. In

the strident tones of passion, they said they would welcome a bloody

grave rather than survive to see the proud foe violating their altars

and their hearths, and desecrating the sacred soil of the South with

their unholy feet. But, inflamed as the men and youths were, the warlike

fire that burned within their breasts was as nothing to the intense heat

that glowed within the bosoms of the women. No suggestion of compromise

was possible in their presence. If every man did not hasten to the

battle, they vowed they would themselves rush out and meet the Yankee

vandals. In a land where women are worshipped by the men, such language

made them war-mad.

Then one day I heard that enlistment was going on. Men were actually

enrolling themselves as soldiers! A Captain Smith, owner of a plantation

a few miles above Auburn, was raising a Company to be called the ‘Dixie

Greys.’ A Mr. Penny Mason, living on a plantation below us, was to be

the First-lieutenant, and Mr. Lee, nephew of the great General Lee, was

to be Second-lieutenant. The youth of the neighbourhood were flocking to

them and registering their names. Our Doctor,--Weston Jones,--Mr. Newton

Story, and the brothers Varner, had enlisted. Then the boy Dan Goree

prevailed upon his father to permit him to join the gallant braves.

Little Rich, of Richmond Store, gave in his name. Henry Parker, the boy

nephew of one of the richest planters in the vicinity, volunteered,

until it seemed as if Arkansas County was to be emptied of all the youth

and men I had known.

About this time, I received a parcel which I half-suspected, as the

address was written in a feminine hand, to be a token of some lady’s

regard; but, on opening it, I discovered it to be a chemise and

petticoat, such as a negro lady’s-maid might wear. I hastily hid it from

view, and retired to the back room, that my burning cheeks might not

betray me to some onlooker. In the afternoon, Dr. Goree called, and was

excessively cordial and kind. He asked me if I did not intend to join

the valiant children of Arkansas to fight? and I answered ‘Yes.’

At my present age, the whole thing appears to be a very laughable affair

altogether; but, at that time, it was far from being a laughing matter.

He praised my courage, and my _patriotism_, and said I should win

undying glory, and then he added, in a lower voice, ‘We shall see what

we can do for you when you come back.’

What _did_ he mean? Did he suspect my secret love for that sweet child

who sometimes came shopping with her mother? From that confidential

promise I believed he did, and was, accordingly, ready to go anywhere

for her sake.

About the beginning of July we embarked on the steamer ‘Frederick

Notrebe.’ At various landings, as we ascended the river, the volunteers

crowded aboard; and the jubilation of so many youths was intoxicating.

Near Pine Bluff, while we were making merry, singing, ‘I wish I was in

Dixie,’ the steamer struck a snag which pierced her hull, and we sank

down until the water was up to the furnace-doors. We remained fixed for

several hours, but, fortunately, the ‘Rose Douglas’ came up, and took us

and our baggage safely up to Little Rock.

We were marched to the Arsenal, and, in a short time, the Dixie Greys

were sworn by Adjutant-General Burgevine into the service of the

Confederate States of America for twelve months. We were served with

heavy flint-lock muskets, knapsacks, and accoutrements, and were

attached to the 6th Arkansas Regiment of Volunteers, Colonel Lyons

commanding, and A. T. Hawthorn, Lieutenant-colonel.

General Burgevine was, in later years, Commander of the Mercenaries, in

the Imperial Chinese army against the Taipings, and an ally of General

(Chinese) Gordon, at one time. Dismissed by the Imperialists, he sought

the service of the Taipings. Wearied of his new masters, he conceived a

project of dethroning the Emperor, and reigning in his stead; he went so

far as to try and tempt Gordon to be his accomplice!

[Illustration: HENRY M. STANLEY, AT 20]

CHAPTER VII

SOLDIERING

I am now about to begin a period lasting about six years, which, were it

possible, I should gladly like to re-live, not with a view of repeating

its woes and errors, pains and inconsistencies, but of rectifying the

mistakes I made. So far, I had made none of any importance; but

enlisting in the Confederate service, because I received a packet of

female clothes, was certainly a grave blunder. But who is able to

withstand his fate or thwart the designs of Providence? It may have been

time for me, getting close on to eighteen, to lose some of the soft

illusions of boyhood, and to undergo the toughening process in the trail

of war. Looking backward upon the various incidents of these six years,

though they appear disjointed enough, I can dimly see a connection, and

how one incident led to the other, until the curious and somewhat

involved design of my life, and its purpose, was consummated. But this

enlistment was, as I conceive it, the first of many blunders; and it

precipitated me into a veritable furnace, from which my mind would have

quickly recoiled, had I but known what the process of hardening was to

be. Just as the fine edge of boyish sensitiveness was blunted, somewhat,

by the daring blasphemy of the ‘Windermere’ officers, so modesty and

tenderness were to be shocked, by intercourse with men who cast off

sweet manners with their civilian clothes, and abandoned themselves to

the rude style of military life. A host of influences were at work

sapping moral scruples. The busy days, the painful events, the

excitement of the camp, the general irreligiousness, the disregard of

religious practice, the contempt for piety, the licentious humours of

the soldiers, the reckless and lavish destruction of life, the

gluttonous desire to kill, the devices and stratagems of war, the weekly

preaching in defence of it, the example of my elders and superiors, the

enthusiasm of beautiful women for strife--finally, all that was weak,

vain, and unfixed in my own nature, all conspired to make me as

indifferent as any of my fellows to all sacred duties.

I had to learn that that which was unlawful to a civilian was lawful to

the soldier. The ‘Thou shalt not’ of the Decalogue, was now translated

‘Thou shalt.’ Thou shalt kill, lie, steal, blaspheme, covet, and hate;

for, by whatever fine names they were disguised, everyone practised

these acts, from the President down to the private in the rear rank. The

prohibition to do these things was removed, and indulgence in licence

and excess was permissible. My only consolation, during this curious

‘volte-face’ in morality, was, that I was an instrument in the strong,

forceful grip of circumstance, and could no more free myself than I

could fly.

Heaven knows if any among the Dixie Greys can look at the acts of the

war with my eyes. Not having been educated as I had been, nor become

experienced afterwards in the ways of many lands, it is not likely any

of them would. Many of them went to the war as passionate patriots in

the spirit of religious duty, blessed by their families; others with an

appetite for glory, the desire of applause, a fondness for military

excitement, or because they were infected with the general craze, or to

avoid tedious toil, or from the wildness of youth, etc. It was

passionate patriotism that was the rule, and brought to its standard all

sorts and conditions of men; and it was this burning passion that

governed all conduct, and moulded public life to its will.

Now all men who knew our brigade commander will concede that, whatever

virtues he may have had, ambition was his distinguishing characteristic.

It was commonly said that he was a man of genius, could command a

Department, or be a first-class Minister of War; but, from what I can

recollect of him, he aimed at the highest office in the land, and was

sufficiently unscrupulous to establish himself as a dictator. Colonel

Lyons was purely and simply a soldier: Lieutenant-colonel A. T. Hawthorn

was too vain of military distinction, and the trappings of official

rank, to have stooped to be a patriot in the ranks; but Captain S. G.

Smith was a patriot of the purest dye, of the most patrician appearance,

one of the finest and noblest types of men I have ever met: a man of

stubborn honour and high principles, brave, and invariably gentle in

demeanour and address. Our First-lieutenant was a Mr. Penny Mason, a

Virginian, bright, soldierly, zealous, and able, and connected with the

oldest families of his State. He rose, as his military merits deserved,

to the rank of Adjutant-general. Our Second-lieutenant was a nephew of

General Lee, who in the soldiers’ parlance was a ‘good fellow.’ He also

became distinguished during the war. Our Third-lieutenant was a ‘dandy’,

who took immense trouble with his appearance, and was always as neat as

a military tailor and the laundry could make him. Our Orderly-sergeant

was an old soldier of the name of Armstrong, an honest and worthy

fellow, who did his duty with more good-humour and good-nature than

would have been expected under the circumstances.

The privates were, many of them, young men of fortune, sons, or close

relations, of rich Arkansas planters of independent means; others were

of more moderate estate, overseers of plantations, small cotton-growers,

professional men, clerks, a few merchants, and a rustic lout or two. As

compared with many others, the company was a choice one, the leaven of

gentlehood was strong, and served to make it rather more select than the

average. Still, we were only a tenth of a regiment, and, though a fifth

of the regiment might be self-respecting, gentlemanly fellows, daily

contact in camp with a majority of rough and untaught soldiers is apt to

be perverting in time.

We were not subjected to the indignity of being stripped and examined

like cattle, but were accepted into the military service upon our own

assurance of being in fit condition; and, after being sworn in, we shed

our civil costumes, and donned the light grey uniforms. Having been duly

organized, we next formed ourselves into messes. My mess consisted of

Jim Armstrong, the Orderly-sergeant; Newton Story, the Colour-sergeant,

who had been overseer of Dr. Goree’s plantation; Dan Goree, a boy, the

son and heir of Dr. Goree; Tom Malone, a genial fellow, but up to every

gambling trick, a proficient in ‘High-low-jack,’ Euchre, Poker, and Old

Sledge, and, when angered, given to deliver himself in very energetic

language; old Slate, knowing as any, anecdotive, and pleasant. Tomasson,

a boisterous fellow, who acted frequently like a bull in a china-shop,

was admitted by Armstrong to the mess because he was a neighbour, and

full of jests. A Sibley tent, an improvement on the bell-tent, contained

the whole of us comfortably.

Dan Goree had brought his slave Mose, a faithful blackie, to wait upon

him. The mess annexed his services as cook and tin-washer, and, in

return, treated Dan with high consideration. Mose was remarkable for a

cow-like propensity to kick backward, if we but pointed our fingers at

him. Armstrong contributed to the general comfort a stylish canteen and

the favour of his company; and the rest of us gave our services and

means to make the social circle as pleasant as possible, which, as we

were ‘bright, smart, and alive,’ meant a great deal; for, if there were

any fowls, butter, milk, honey, or other accessories to diet in our

neighbourhood, they were sure to be obtained by some indefatigable

member of the mess. I was too ‘green’ in the forager’s arts, at the

beginning of the campaign, but I was apt; and, with such ancient

campaigners as Armstrong and old Slate,--both of whom had been in the

Mexican War of 1847,--I did not lack tuition by suggestion.

When clothed in our uniforms, each of us presented a somewhat attenuated

appearance; we seemed to have lost in dignity, but gained in height. As

I looked at Newton Story’s form, I could scarcely believe my eyes.

Instead of the noble portliness for which he had been distinguished, he

was lean as a shorn sheep. Sleek Dan Goree was girlishly slender, while

I had a waspish waist, which measured a trifle more than two hands. Dr.

Jones was like a tall, over-grown lad; and, as for the Varner brothers,

they were elegant to the verge of effeminacy.

With military clothes, we instinctively assumed the military pose: our

heads rose stiff and erect above our shoulders, our chests bulged out,

and our shoulder-blades were drawn in. We found ourselves cunningly

peeping from the corners of our eyes, to observe if any admired our

martial style. The Little Rock ‘gals,’ crowding about the Arsenal

grounds, were largely responsible for the impressive airs we took. The

prettiest among them drew into her circle a score or more of heroic

admirers, whose looks pictured their admiration; and how envied were

they who obtained a smile from the fair! And how they strutted, with

their eyeballs humid with love! If, when we promenaded the streets,

with equal step and arm-in-arm, we detected the presence of cambric

frocks on a ‘stoep,’ or in some classic porch, we became as ridiculous

as peacocks from excess of vanity. Indeed, in those early days, we were

all over-troubled with patriotic thrills, sanguinary ardour, and bursts

of ‘bulliness.’ The fever of military enthusiasm was at its height, in

man, woman, and child; and we, who were to represent them in the war,

received far more adulation than was good for us. The popular praise

turned our young heads giddy, and anyone who doubted that we were the

sanest, bravest, and most gallant boys in the world, would have been in

personal danger! Unlike the Spartans, there was no modesty in the

estimate of our own valour. After a few drills, we could not even go to

draw rations without the practice of the martial step, and crying out

‘Guide centre,’ or ‘Right wheel,’ or some other order we had learned. At

our messes, we talked of tactics, and discussed Beauregard’s and Lee’s

merits, glorified Southern chivalry, and depreciated the Yankees, became

fluent in the jargon of patriotism, and vehement in our hatred of the

enemy. Few of us had ever smelled the fumes of battle, but that did not

deter us from vividly painting scenes of carnage when the blood rolled

in torrents, and the favoured ‘Dixie Greys’ led the van to victory.

Our martial souls were duly primed for the field by every adjunct of

military system. The fife, drum, and trumpet sounded many times a day. A

fine brass band thrilled us, morning and evening, with stirring music.

The drum and fife preceded us to the drilling-ground, and inspired us to

sprightliness, campward. We burnished brass buttons, arms, and

accoutrements, until they shone like new gold. We bought long Colt’s

revolvers, and long-bladed bowie-knives; we had our images taken on

tin-types in our war-paint and most ferocious aspects, revolver in one

hand, bowie-knife in the other, and a most portentous scowl between the

eyebrows. We sharpened the points of our bayonets, and gave a razor-edge

to our bowies, that the extermination we intended should be sudden and

complete.

After a few weeks we made our last march through the Arkansan capital.

The steamer was at the river-side, to take us across. The streets were

gay with flags and ladies’ dresses. The people shouted, and we, raw and

unthinking, responded with cheers. We raised the song, ‘We’ll live and

die for Dixie,’ and the emotional girls waved their handkerchiefs and

wept. What an imposing column we made! The regiment was in full

strength. The facets of light on our shining muskets and bayonets were

blinding. Banners of regiments and companies rustled and waved to the

breeze. We strode down to the levee with ‘eyes front,’ after the manner

of Romans when reviewed by their tribunes!

Once across the river, that August day, we strapped our knapsacks, slung

our haversacks and water-canteens, and felt more like veterans. All

being ready, our physically-noble Colonel Hawthorn, prancing on his

charger, drew his bright sword, and, after he had given us a

sufficiently stern glance, rode to the head of the regiment; the brass

band struck up a lively tune, and we swung gaily in column of four along

the pike, towards the interior. Our officers and orderly walked parallel

with us. The August sun was extremely hot, the pike was hard, dry, and

dusty. At first, the officers’ voices had a peremptory and sharp ring in

them as they sang out, ‘Keep step, there! Left shoulder, shift arms!

Dress up!’ but after a while, as the heat began to force a copious

perspiration, and the limy dust from the metalled highway parched our

throats, they sobered down, and allowed us to march at ease.

Within an hour the sweat had darkly stained our grey coats about the

arm-pits and shoulders, and it rolled in streams down our limbs into our

boots, where, mingling with the dust and minute gravel, it formed a

gritty mud which distressed our feet. Our shoulders ached with the

growing weight and hardness of the muskets, our trousers galled us

sorely, the straps and belts became painfully constrictive, and impeded

respiration, but, through fear of shame, we endured all, without

complaint. At the end of the hour we were halted for five minutes’ rest,

and then resumed the march.

Like all new recruits, we carried a number of things that veterans

dispense with: for instance, keepsakes, and personal treasures; mine

were a daguerreotype of my adopted father, and a lock of his grey

hair,--very trivial and valueless to others, but my own peculiar

treasures, carried in my knapsack to be looked at every Sunday morning

when we smartened up. With these, toilet articles, soap, changes of

under-clothing, camp-shoes, etc., besides extra uniform, and blankets,

made up our luggage, which, with heavy musket, bayonet-accoutrements,

and canteen of water, weighed about sixty pounds, and more, in some

cases. For growing and lean youths this was a tremendous weight; and,

during the second hour, the sense of oppression and soreness rapidly

increased; but, excepting more frequent changes of the musket from

shoulder to shoulder, we bated nothing of our resolve to endure.

After the second halt we were sensibly lamer. The gravel created

blisters, and the warm mud acted like a poultice on the feet. The

military erectness gave way to a weary droop, and we leaned forward

more. We were painfully scalded, restlessly shifted our weapons, and

tried scores of little experiments, hustled our cartridge-pouches, inch

by inch, then from back to front, from right to left; tugged at our

breast-straps, eased our belts, drank copious draughts of water; and

still the perspiration rolled in a shower down our half-blinded faces,

and the symptoms of collapse became more and more pronounced.

Finally, the acutest point of endurance was reached, and nature

revolted. Our feet were blistered, our agonies were unendurable, and,

despite official warning and menace, we hopped to the road-side, whipped

off our boots to relieve our burning feet; after a little rest, we rose

and limped after the company. But the column had stretched out to a

tremendous length with its long wagon-train, and to overtake our friends

seemed hopeless. As we limped along, the still untired soldiers mocked

and jeered at us, and this was very hard to endure. But, by and by, the

stragglers became more numerous; the starch appeared to be taken out of

the strongest, and, the longer the march continued, the greater was the

multitude of the weary, who crawled painfully in the rear of the column.

Had the Little Rock ladies witnessed our arrival at camp late at night,

we should have been shamed for ever. But, fortunately, they knew nothing

of this; and blessing the night which hid our roasted faces and sorry

appearance, we had no sooner reached the precincts of the camp than we

embraced the ground, pains and aches darting through every tortured

limb, feet blistered and bleeding, our backs scorched, and our shoulders

inflamed. No bed that I had ever rested on gave me a tithe of the

pleasure afforded me now by the cold, damp pasture-land.

The next day was a halt. Many of us were more fitted for hospital at

day-break than for marching, but, after a bathe in the stream, a change

of linen, and salving our wounds, we were in better mood. Then

Armstrong, the old orderly, suggested that we should shed our knapsacks

of all ‘rubbish,’ and assisted his friends by his advice as to what was

indispensable and what was superfluous. The camp-fires consumed what we

had rejected, and, when we noted the lightened weight of our knapsacks

after this ruthless ransackment, we felt fitter for the march than on

the day we departed from the Arkansas River.

Our surroundings at camp were novel for inexperienced youths. We were

tented along the road-side, having taken down the fences of a field, and

encroached on farm-lands, without asking permission. The rails were also

freely used by us as firewood. A town of canvas had risen as if by

magic, with broad, short streets, between the company tents; and in the

rear were located the wagons carrying provisions, ammunition, and extra

equipments.

In a few days we were camped in the neighbourhood of Searcy, about sixty

miles from Little Rock. The aspect of the country was lovely, but there

was something fatal to young recruits in its atmosphere. Within two

weeks an epidemic carried off about fifty, and quite as many more lay in

hospital. Whether it was the usual camp typhus, or malarious fever,

aggravated by fatigue and wretched rations, I was too young to know or

to concern myself about; but, in the third week, it seemed to threaten

us all, and I remember how the soldiers resorted to the prayer-meetings

in each company, and how solemn they were at service on Sunday. The

pressure of an impending calamity lay heavy upon us all while in camp,

but, as soon as we left it, we recovered our spirits.

It was at this camp I acquired the art of diving. At swimming I was a

proficient a long time before, but the acquisition of this last

accomplishment soon enabled me to astonish my comrades by the distance I

could traverse under water.

The brigade of General Hindman was at last complete in its

organisation, and consisted of four regiments, some cavalry, and a

battery of artillery. About the middle of September we moved across the

State towards Hickman on the Mississippi, crossing the Little Red,

White, Big Black, and St. Francis Rivers, by the way. Once across the

Mississippi, we marched up the river, and, in the beginning of November,

halted at what was then called ‘the Gibraltar of the Mississippi.’

On the 7th of November, we witnessed our first battle,--that of

Belmont,--in which, however, we were not participants. We were held in

readiness on the high bluffs of Columbus, from whence we had a

commanding view of the elbow of land nearly opposite, whereon the battle

took place. The metaphor ‘Gibraltar’ might, with good reason, be applied

to Columbus, for General Polk had made notable exertions to make it

formidable. About one hundred and forty cannon, of large and small

calibre, had been planted on the edge of the steep and tall bluffs

opposite Belmont, to prevent the descent of the river by the enemy.

A fleet of vessels was discerned descending, a few miles above Belmont,

and two gun-boats saucily bore down and engaged our batteries. The big

guns, some of them 128-pound Parrott-rifled, replied with such a storm

of shell that they were soon obliged to retreat again; but we novices

were delighted to hear the sound of so many cannon. We received a few

shots in return, but they were too harmless to do more than add to the

charm of excitement. The battle began at between ten and eleven in the

morning, the sky then being bright, and the day gloriously sunny; and it

continued until near sunset. Except by the volleying, and thick haze

which settled over the woods, we could not guess what was occurring. The

results were, on our side, under General Polk, 641 killed, wounded, and

missing. On the Federal side, under General Grant, the loss was 610

killed, wounded, and missing. To add to our casualties, a 128-pound

rifled-gun burst at our battery, by which seven of the gunners were

killed, and General Polk and many of his officers were wounded.

A youth requires to be educated in many ways before his manhood is

developed. We have seen what a process the physical training is, by the

brief description of the first day’s march. It takes some time to bring

the body to a suitable state for ungrudging acceptance of the hard

conditions of campaigning, so that it can find comfort on a pike, or in

a graveyard, with a stone for a pillow, and ease on clods, despite

drenching rain and chilling dew. Then the stomach has to get accustomed

to the soldier’s diet of fried, or raw, bacon and horse-beans. The

nerves have to be inured to bear, without shrinking, the repeated shocks

and alarms of the camp. The spirit has to be taught how to subject

itself to the spurns and contumely of superior and senior, without show

of resentment; and the mind must endure the blunting and deadening of

its sensibilities by the hot iron of experience.

During the long march from Little Rock to Columbus we became somewhat

seasoned, and campaigning grew less and less unpleasant. Our ordinary

march was now more in the nature of an agreeable relief from monotonous

camp-duties. We were not so captious and ready to take offence as at

first, and some things that were once most disagreeable were now

regarded as diversions.

I now fully accepted it as a rule that a soldier must submit to military

law; but many, like myself, had lost a great deal of that early

enthusiasm for a soldier’s life by the time we had reached Columbus. It

had struck us when at picket-duty alone, in the dark, that we had been

great fools to place ourselves voluntarily in a position whence we could

not retreat without forfeit of life; and that, by a monosyllable, we had

made our comrades our possible enemies upon a single breach of our oath.

We had condemned ourselves to a servitude more slavish than that of the

black plantation-hands, about whose condition North and South had

declared war to the death. We could not be sold, but our liberties and

lives were at the disposal of a Congress about which I, at least, knew

nothing, except that, somewhere, it had assembled to make such laws as

it pleased. Neither to Captain Smith, nor to Lieutenant Mason, nor even

to my messmate Armstrong, could I speak with freedom. Any of them might

strike me, and I should have to submit. They could make me march where

they pleased, stand sentry throughout the night, do fatigue-duty until I

dropped, load my back as they would a mule, ride me on a rail, make a

target of me if I took a quiet nap at my post; and there was no possible

way out of it.

To say the truth, I had not even a desire to shirk the duties I had

undertaken. I was quite prepared and ready to do all that was required;

for I loved the South because I loved my Southern friends, and had

absorbed their spirit into every pore. Nevertheless, when far removed

from the hubbub of camp, at my isolated post, my reason could not be

prevented from taking a cynical view of my folly in devoting myself to

be food for powder, when I might have been free as a bird, to the extent

of my means. And if, among my vague fancies, I had thought that, by

gallantry, I might win promotion such as would be some compensation for

the sacrifice of my liberty, that idea had been exploded as soon as I

had measured myself by hundreds of cleverer, abler, and braver men, and

saw that they, even, had no chance of anything but to fill a nameless

grave. The poetry of the military profession had departed under the

stress of many pains, the wear and tear, and the certainty that

soldiering was to consist of commonplace marches, and squalid camp-life.

The punishment inflicted on such as were remiss in their duties during

the march had opened my eyes to the consequences of any misdemeanour, or

an untimely ebullience of youthful spirits. I had seen unfortunate

culprits horsed on triangular fence-rails, and jerked up by vicious

bearers, to increase their pains; others, straddled ignominiously on

poles; or fettered with ball and chain; or subjected to head-shaving; or

tied up with the painful buck and gag; or hoisted up by the thumbs;

while no one was free of fatigue-duty, or exempt from fagging to someone

or other, the livelong day.

Those who were innocent of all breaches of ‘good order and discipline’

had reason to lament having sacrificed their independence, for our

brigade-commander, and regimental officers, were eaten up with military

zeal, and were resolved upon training us to the perfection of soldierly

efficiency, and, like Bully Waters of the ‘Windermere,’ seemed to think

that it was incumbent on them to get the full value of our keep and pay

out of us. They clung to the antiquated notion that soldiers were

appointed as much to drudge for their personal service as for the

purposes of war. Besides the morning and evening musters, the nine

o’clock dress-parade, the drill from that hour to noon, the cleaning of

arms and accoutrements, the frequent interruptions of rest by the ‘long

roll’ heard in the dead of night, the guard-duty, or picket, we had to

cook our provisions, put up the officers’ tents, make their beds soft as

straw and hay or grass could make them, collect fuel for their fires,

dig ditches around their tents, and fag for them in numberless ways.

These made a mighty list of harassments, which, on account of the

miserably hard fare, and insufficient preparation of it, weighed on our

spirits like lead, tended to diminish our number by disease, and sent

hundreds to the hospital.

The Dixie Greys, for instance, consisted mostly of young men and lads

who were as ignorant of the art of converting their ration of raw beef

and salt pork, field beans, and flour, into digestible food, as they

were of laundry work; yet they were daily served with rations, which

they might eat raw, or treat as they liked. Of course, they learnt how

to cook in time; but, meanwhile, they made sorry messes of it, and

suffered accordingly. Those with good constitutions survived their

apprenticeship, and youth, open air, and exercise, enabled them to bear

it a long time; but when, with improper food, the elements chilled and

heated us with abrupt change, and arbitrary officialism employed its

wits to keep us perpetually on the move, it becomes evident, now, why

only the hardiest were enabled to bear the drudgery and vexation imposed

upon them, and why disease slew more than two-thirds of the whole number

of soldiers who perished during the war.

The fault of the American generalship was that it devoted itself solely

to strategy and fighting, and providing commissariat supplies; but

seldom, or never, to the kindly science of health-preservation. The

officers knew how to keep their horses in good condition; but I do not

remember ever to have seen an officer who examined the state of our

messes, or stooped to show that, though he was our military superior, he

could take a friendly and neighbourly interest in our well-being, and

that his rank had not estranged his sympathies. If, at the muster, a

soldier was ill, he was put on the sick-list; but it never seems to have

struck any officer, from General Lee down to the Third-lieutenant of an

infantry company, that it might be possible to reduce the number of

invalids by paying attention to the soldiers’ joys and comforts. The raw

provisions were excellent and abundant, and they only needed to be

properly prepared to have made us robust and strong.

Just as the regimental physician and his assistants were requisite for

the _cure_ of illness, a regimental ‘chef,’ as superior of the company’s

cooks, would have been useful for the _prevention_ of it, in fifty per

cent of the cases; but the age was not advanced enough to recognise

this.

Although I am apt to assign causes for things in my old age, it must not

be supposed that I, as a boy, could then know much about such matters. I

was, fortunately, blessed with the power of endurance, and was of so

elastic a disposition that I could act my part without cavil or

criticism. At that time, I felt that I had no other business in the

world than to eat, work, and use my eyes, wits, and powers as a soldier,

and to be as happy as my circumstances would allow; and I do not think I

made myself obnoxious to any living soul. Within our mess we were not

without our disagreements, and I had to bear my share of banter from my

elders; but none can say, ‘This was he whom we had sometime in derision,

and a proverb of reproach. We accounted his life madness, and his end to

be without honour.’

The exigencies of war necessitated our removal by train from Columbus to

Cave City, Kentucky, where we arrived about the 25th of November, 1861.

We remained in this camp until about the middle of February, 1862. The

force around Bowling Green and Cave City numbered 22,000. Our brigade

was attached to the Division of General Hardee, author of ‘Tactics.’

During the time we remained there, no fighting occurred; but we made

several midnight marches towards Green River, and posted ourselves in

positions to surprise the enemy, expected to come from Munfordville.

During the winter in this camp I won the approval of the mess by an

aptitude for lessening the inconveniences under which we suffered in

mid-winter, and my success in foraging. Instead of a fire under the

Sibley tripod, which, besides endangering our feet and bedding, smoked

us, I suggested that we should sink a hearth and build a fire-place with

a flue and regular chimney of mud outside; and, with the help of the

veteran Slate, the work was executed so well that our tent was always

warm and clear of smoke, while the edges of the hearth made comfortable

seats by which we could toast our feet, and recline back luxuriously.

Tomasson, our bawling mess-mate, was not worth his salt at any work

except legitimate soldiering. He seemed to consider that, by dusting

around like a clown at a pantomime, and giving us the honour of his

company, he did enough for the general welfare. Armstrong and Story were

sergeants; and, of course, their Mightinesses were exempt from doing

more than stooping to praise! Dan, being in the leading-strings of

Story, was not permitted to roam; therefore, when it came to a

consideration of ways and means for improving our diet, it devolved upon

Malone, Slate, and myself to exert ourselves for the mess.

The long halt at Cave City served to initiate me into the mysteries of

foraging, which, in army-vocabulary, meant not only to steal from the

enemy, but to exploit Secessionist sympathisers, and obtain for love and

money some trifles to make life more enjoyable. Malone and Slate were

very successful and clever in all sorts of ruses. I was envious of the

praises given to them, and resolved to outdo them. What rackings of the

brain I suffered, as I mentally revolved the methods to adopt! General

Sidney Johnston gave not so much time to the study of inflicting defeat

on the Yankees, as I gave to win glory from the mess by my exploits.

Half-a-dozen times in December it had been my turn to forage, but,

somehow, my return was not greeted with any rapturous applause. However,

by Christmas Eve I had a fair knowledge of the country and the temper of

the people about, and my mind was stored with information regarding

Secessionists, Unionists, and lanes, and farms, to a radius of five

miles around the camp. Just on the edge of my circle, there lay one fat

farm towards Green River, the owner of which was a Yank, and his

neighbour told me he corresponded with the enemy. For a foot-soldier,

the distance was somewhat far, but for a horse-man, it was nothing.

The day before Christmas, through the assistance of a man named Tate, I

had the promise of a mule; and having obtained the countersign from

Armstrong, I set out, as soon as it was dark, to levy a contribution on

the Unionist farmer. It was about ten o’clock by the time I reached the

place. Tying my mule in the angle of a fence, I climbed over, and

explored the grounds. In crossing a field, I came to half-a-dozen low

mounds, which I was certain contained stores of potatoes, or something

of the kind. I burrowed into the side of one of them with my bayonet,

and presently I smelled apples. These were even better than potatoes,

for they would do splendidly for dumplings. I half-filled a sack with

them. After burrowing into two or three others, I came to one which

contained the winter store of potatoes, and I soon raked out enough to

make a load. I hurried with my booty to my mule, and secured it on the

mule.

Then, thinking that a goose, or even a duck or a fowl or two, would make

our Christmas dinner complete, I was tempted to make a quest for them,

anticipating, as I crept towards the farm, the glory I should receive

from my mess. I reached the out-houses with every faculty strained, and

I soon had the pleasure of wringing the neck of a goose, a duck, and two

fowls.

I ought to have had the discretion to retire now, but the ambition to

extinguish Malone and Slate, to see the grin of admiration on

Armstrong’s face, and Newton Story open his eyes, and Tomasson compelled

to pay homage to worth, left me still dissatisfied; and just then

scenting a hog-pen, I quietly moved towards it. By the light of a feeble

moon I worked into the piggies’ home, and there, cuddled about the hams

of their mother, I saw the pinky forms of three or four plump shoats.

Aye, a tender shoat, roasted brown and crisp, would be the crown of a

Christmas dinner! I bounded lightly as a lean fox into the sty, snatched

a young porkling up by the heels, creating a terrifying clamour by the

act. We were all alarmed, the mother hoarsely grunted, the piggies

squealed in a frightful chorus, the innocent rent the midnight air with

his cries; but, determined not to lose my prize, I scrambled over, ended

its fears and struggles by one fierce slash, dumped the carcase into the

sack, and then hastened away. Lights were visible in the farm-house,

doors slammed, and by a broad beam of light I saw a man in the doorway

with a gun in his hand. A second later a shower of pellets whistled

about me, fortunately without harm, which sent me tearing madly towards

my mule. In a few minutes, bathed in perspiration, I was astride of my

mule, with my sack of dead meat in front of me, and potatoes and apples

thumping the sides of my animal as I rode away towards camp.

Long before dawn, I made my triumphant appearance in front of my tent,

and was rewarded by every member of the mess with the most grateful

acknowledgements. The Christmas dinner was a splendid success, and over

twenty invited guests sat down to it, and praises were on every lip; but

without the apple dumplings and fritters it would not have been complete

to us youngsters. Secretly, I was persuaded that it was as wrong to rob

a poor Unionist as a Secessionist; but the word ‘foraging,’ which, by

general consent, was bestowed on such deeds, mollified my scruples.

Foragers were sent out by the authorities every other day, and even

authorised to seize supplies by force; and, according to the military

education I was receiving, I did not appear to be so very wicked as my

conscience was inclined to make me out to be.

When I set out foraging in the daytime I was amply furnished with funds,

and sought some fraternal ‘Secesh.’ Towards Green River, beyond the

pickets, an old Secessionist lady and I became great friends, trusting

one another without reservation. I would give her ten dollars at a time

to invest in eggs, butter, and fowls; and she would trust me with bowls,

tins, and linen, to take the articles to camp. The old lady was wont to

bless my ‘honest face’ and to be emotional, as I told her of the

sufferings of my fellow-‘Dixies’ at camp, out in the snow and wintry

gale. Her large faith in me, and her good heart, made me so scrupulous

that I ran many risks to restore her property to her. Her features and

widowed condition, the sight of her dairy utensils, clean, and smelling

of laitage, cream, and cheese, revived pleasing recollections of kine

and their night-stalls, and led on to Aunt Mary and her chimney-side;

from that moment, I was her most devoted admirer. Through her

favouritism for me, our mess was often able to lend a pound of fresh

butter and a dozen eggs to the officers’ mess.

One of the most singular characteristics of my comrades was their

readiness to take offence at any reflection on their veracity or

personal honour, and the most certain provocation of fury was to give

anyone the lie. They could stand the most vulgar horse-play, sarcastic

badinage, and cutting jokes, with good-humour; but, if that unhappy word

escaped one in heat, or playful malice, it acted on their nerves as a

red rag is said to do on a mad bull. The glory of a native Southerner

consists in being reputed brave, truth-telling, and reverent towards

women. On such subjects, no joking was permissible. He who ventured to

cast a doubt upon either was liable to be called upon at an instant to

withdraw it; and, if an angry tone made the doubter writhe, and

indisposed to submit, there was sure to be a scene. To withdraw a word

at an imperious command was to confess oneself inferior in courage to

him who challenged; and, as all prided themselves on being of equal

rank, and similarly endowed with the best qualities of manhood, I never

met one who was morally brave enough to confess his fault and apologise,

unless he was compelled by overwhelming odds.

During that winter I absorbed so many of these ‘chivalrous’ ideas that I

was in a fair way of becoming as great a ‘fire-eater’ as any son of the

South. Had it not been for Newton Story and Armstrong, who knew

intuitively when to interpose their authority, Tomasson’s rudeness,

which flared me up many a time, would, I am sure, have been followed by

deplorable consequences. There was young Dan also; he was often in a

wrangling mood, and by his over-insistent glorifications of Southern

chivalry brought us within a hair’s breadth of triggers.

The tedium of camp-life at Cave City was relieved by outbreaks of this

kind, for, when we were not required to exhibit our courage against the

common foe, the spirit of mischief found it an easy task to influence

our susceptiveness when discussing such dear and near matters as valour,

chastity, honour, and chivalry, the four chiefest virtues of the South.

It is not an easy task to identify myself in the sunken hearth of the

tent at Cave City, talking grandly upon such themes; but several scenes

recur to the mind, and compel me to the humiliating confession that it

_was_ I.

This life did not tend to awaken spiritual thoughts, or religious

observations. When, after a long lapse from piety, I strove to correct

my erring disposition with the aid of prayer, how very faint-hearted I

felt! I shrank from the least allusion to any goody-goodiness

manifested; I became shame-faced if I was accused of being pious; the

Bible was only opened by stealth; and I was as ready to deny that I

prayed, as Peter was to deny Christ. A word or act of my neighbour

became as perilous to my spiritual feelings as a gust of east wind is to

a sufferer from Influenza. Every hour brought its obstacle; but I came,

by degrees, to realise that, just as one must concentrate his reasoning

faculties for the solution of a problem, I must, if I hoped to win in

the great fight, summon every good thought to my assistance, and

resolutely banish all false pride.

But these were not my worst faults. Tomasson’s mad humour was as

infectious as Dan’s dissertations upon Southern chivalry. Indoors he was

jestive, amusing, vulgarly-entertaining; outdoors, he made us all join

him in uproarious laughter. The prank of a mule, the sight of a tall

hat, the apparition of a black coat, a child, a woman, a duel between

two cocks, a culprit undergoing penance, it mattered not what, tickled

his humorous nerve, and instigated him to bawl, and yell, and break out

into explosions of laughter; and whether we laughed at him, or at that

which had caught his fancy, in a second we had joined in the yelling,

the company became smitten with it, then the regiment, and, finally, the

army, was convulsed in idiotic cachinnations. I really blushed at the

follies that people like Tomasson often led us into; but, after all,

these occasional bursts of jolly imbecility were only a way these

free-born natures took to express their animal discontent and mild

melancholy, under the humiliating circumstances of that crude period. It

was really pathetic, after a mild paroxysm of this kind, to hear them

sigh, and turn to each other and ask, ‘Who would sell a farm to become a

soldier?’

From the day when personal decoration was not expected from the private

soldiers, and we learned that endurance was more esteemed than

comeliness, a steady deterioration in our appearance took place. We

allowed weeks to pass by without a bath; our hair was mown, not cut,

making a comb unnecessary; a bottle of water sufficed for ablution, a

pocket-hand-kerchief, or the sleeve of our jacket, served for a towel; a

dab of bacon-fat was all that was needed for our boots; our dingy grey

uniforms required no brushing. Soldiering, as practised in time of war,

was most demoralising in many ways; for the conflict against hunger,

fatigue, cold, and exposure, exhausted the energies and strength of each

individual.

By February, 1862, we had learned the trade of war tolerably well, and

were rich in ‘wrinkles’; for no teacher is so thorough as necessity. We

were no longer harrowed by the scarcity of comforts, and the climate,

with its fickleness and inclemency, we proudly disregarded. Whether it

rained, sleeted, or snowed, or the keen frost bit through to the marrow,

mattered as little to us as it did to the military geniuses who expected

raw soldiers to thrive on this Spartan training. To perfect content with

our lot we could not hope to attain, so long as we retained each our

spiritual individualities, and remembered what we had enjoyed in times

gone-by; but, after a course of due seasoning, the worst ills only

provoked a temporary ill-humour; while our susceptibility to fun so

sweetened our life that there was scarcely anything in our lives but

conduced to a laugh and prompted a jest.

The fall of Forts Henry and Donelson, on the 6th and 16th February,

1862, required our instant evacuation of Cave City and Bowling Green, to

Nashville, lest we should be cut off by the Union advance up the

Cumberland and Tennessee Rivers, behind us. We were therefore obliged to

march through the snow to the rear of Bowling Green, where we were

packed into the cars and speedily taken to Nashville, arriving there on

the 20th February. Thence, after a couple of days, we were marched

towards the South, viâ Murfreesboro, Tullahoma, Athens, and Decatur, a

march of two hundred and fifty miles. At the latter place we took the

cars again, and were transported to Corinth, where we arrived on the

25th March. Here it leaked out that a surprise was intended against our

army, by the conqueror of Donelson, who had landed from the Tennessee

River near Shiloh, some twenty-four miles away from us. Brigades and

regiments were daily arriving, belonging to the divisions of Generals

Clark, Cheatham, Bragg, Withers, and Breckenridge, which were finally

formed into three army corps, under the inspection commands of Polk,

Braxton, Bragg, and Hardee, and were now united under the commands of

Generals Albert Sidney Johnston, and P. G. T. Beauregard.

CHAPTER VIII

SHILOH

On April 2, 1862, we received orders to prepare three days’ cooked

rations. Through some misunderstanding, we did not set out until the

4th; and, on the morning of that day, the 6th Arkansas Regiment of

Hindman’s brigade, Hardee’s corps, marched from Corinth to take part in

one of the bloodiest battles of the West. We left our knapsacks and

tents behind us. After two days of marching, and two nights of

bivouacking and living on cold rations, our spirits were not so buoyant

at dawn of Sunday, the 6th April, as they ought to have been for the

serious task before us. Many wished, like myself, that we had not been

required to undergo this discomfort before being precipitated into the

midst of a great battle.

Military science, with all due respect to our generals, was not at that

time what it is now. Our military leaders were well acquainted with the

science of war, and, in the gross fashion prevailing, paid proper

attention to the commissariat. Every soldier had his lawful allowance of

raw provender dealt out to him; but, as to its uses and effects, no one

seemed to be concerned. Future commanding generals will doubtless remedy

this, and when they meditate staking their cause and reputation on a

battle, they will, like the woodman about to do a good day’s work at

cutting timber, see that their instruments are in the best possible

state for their purpose.

Generals Johnston and Beauregard proposed to hurl into the Tennessee

River an army of nearly 50,000 rested and well-fed troops, by means of

40,000 soldiers, who, for two days, had subsisted on sodden biscuit and

raw bacon, who had been exposed for two nights to rain and dew, and had

marched twenty-three miles! Considering that at least a fourth of our

force were lads under twenty, and that such a strenuous task was before

them, it suggests itself to me that the omission to take the physical

powers of those youths into their calculation had as much to do with

the failure of the project as the obstinate courage of General Grant’s

troops. According to authority, the actual number of the forces about to

be opposed to each other was 39,630 Confederates against 49,232

Federals. Our generals expected the arrival of General Van Dorn, with

20,000 troops, who failed to make their appearance; but, close at hand

to Grant, was General Buell’s force of 20,000, who, opportunely for

Grant, arrived just at the close of the day’s battle.

At four o’clock in the morning, we rose from our damp bivouac, and,

after a hasty refreshment, were formed into line. We stood in rank for

half an hour or so, while the military dispositions were being completed

along the three-mile front. Our brigade formed the centre; Cleburne’s

and Gladden’s brigades were on our respective flanks.

Day broke with every promise of a fine day. Next to me, on my right, was

a boy of seventeen, Henry Parker. I remember it because, while we

stood-at-ease, he drew my attention to some violets at his feet, and

said, ‘It would be a good idea to put a few into my cap. Perhaps the

Yanks won’t shoot me if they see me wearing such flowers, for they are a

sign of peace.’ ‘Capital,’ said I, ‘I will do the same.’ We plucked a

bunch, and arranged the violets in our caps. The men in the ranks

laughed at our proceedings, and had not the enemy been so near, their

merry mood might have been communicated to the army.

We loaded our muskets, and arranged our cartridge-pouches ready for use.

Our weapons were the obsolete flint-locks,[8] and the ammunition was

rolled in cartridge-paper, which contained powder, a round ball, and

three buckshot. When we loaded we had to tear the paper with our teeth,

empty a little powder into the pan, lock it, empty the rest of the

powder into the barrel, press paper and ball into the muzzle, and ram

home. Then the Orderly-sergeant called the roll, and we knew that the

Dixie Greys were present to a man. Soon after, there was a commotion,

and we dressed up smartly. A young Aide galloped along our front, gave

some instructions to the Brigadier Hindman, who confided the same to

his Colonels, and presently we swayed forward in line, with shouldered

arms. Newton Story, big, broad, and straight, bore our company-banner of

gay silk, at which the ladies of our neighbourhood had laboured.

As we tramped solemnly and silently through the thin forest, and over

its grass, still in its withered and wintry hue, I noticed that the sun

was not far from appearing, that our regiment was keeping its formation

admirably, that the woods would have been a grand place for a picnic;

and I thought it strange that a Sunday should have been chosen to

disturb the holy calm of those woods.

Before we had gone five hundred paces, our serenity was disturbed by

some desultory firing in front. It was then a quarter-past five. ‘They

are at it already,’ we whispered to each other. ‘Stand by,

gentlemen,’--for we were all gentlemen volunteers at this time,--said

our Captain, L. G. Smith. Our steps became unconsciously brisker, and

alertness was noticeable in everybody. The firing continued at

intervals, deliberate and scattered, as at target-practice. We drew

nearer to the firing, and soon a sharper rattling of musketry was heard.

‘That is the enemy waking up,’ we said. Within a few minutes, there was

another explosive burst of musketry, the air was pierced by many

missiles, which hummed and pinged sharply by our ears, pattered through

the tree-tops, and brought twigs and leaves down on us. ‘Those are

bullets,’ Henry whispered with awe.

At two hundred yards further, a dreadful roar of musketry broke out from

a regiment adjoining ours. It was followed by another further off, and

the sound had scarcely died away when regiment after regiment blazed

away and made a continuous roll of sound. ‘We are in for it now,’ said

Henry; but as yet we had seen nothing, though our ears were tingling

under the animated volleys.

‘Forward, gentlemen, make ready!’ urged Captain Smith. In response, we

surged forward, for the first time marring the alignment. We trampled

recklessly over the grass and young sprouts. Beams of sunlight stole

athwart our course. The sun was up above the horizon. Just then we came

to a bit of packland, and overtook our skirmishers, who had been

engaged in exploring our front. We passed beyond them. Nothing now stood

between us and the enemy.

‘There they are!’ was no sooner uttered, than we cracked into them with

levelled muskets. ‘Aim low, men!’ commanded Captain Smith. I tried hard

to see some living thing to shoot at, for it appeared absurd to be

blazing away at shadows. But, still advancing, firing as we moved, I, at

last, saw a row of little globes of pearly smoke streaked with crimson,

breaking-out, with spurtive quickness, from a long line of bluey figures

in front; and, simultaneously, there broke upon our ears an appalling

crash of sound, the series of fusillades following one another with

startling suddenness, which suggested to my somewhat moidered sense a

mountain upheaved, with huge rocks tumbling and thundering down a slope,

and the echoes rumbling and receding through space. Again and again,

these loud and quick explosions were repeated, seemingly with increased

violence, until they rose to the highest pitch of fury, and in unbroken

continuity. All the world seemed involved in one tremendous ruin!

This was how the conflict was ushered in--as it affected me. I looked

around to see the effect on others, or whether I was singular in my

emotions, and was glad to notice that each was possessed with his own

thoughts. All were pale, solemn, and absorbed; but, beyond that, it was

impossible for me to discover what they thought of it; but, by

transmission of sympathy, I felt that they would gladly prefer to be

elsewhere, though the law of the inevitable kept them in line to meet

their destiny. It might be mentioned, however, that at no time were we

more instinctively inclined to obey the voice of command. We had no

individuality at this moment, but all motions and thoughts were

surrendered to the unseen influence which directed our movements.

Probably few bothered their minds with self-questionings as to the issue

to themselves. That properly belongs to other moments, to the night, to

the interval between waking and sleeping, to the first moments of the

dawn--not when every nerve is tense, and the spirit is at the highest

pitch of action.

Though one’s senses were preternaturally acute, and engaged with their

impressions, we plied our arms, loaded, and fired, with such nervous

haste as though it depended on each of us how soon this fiendish uproar

would be hushed. My nerves tingled, my pulses beat double-quick, my

heart throbbed loudly, and almost painfully; but, amid all the

excitement, my thoughts, swift as the flash of lightning, took all

sound, and sight, and self, into their purview. I listened to the battle

raging far away on the flanks, to the thunder in front, to the various

sounds made by the leaden storm. I was angry with my rear rank, because

he made my eyes smart with the powder of his musket; and I felt like

cuffing him for deafening my ears! I knew how Captain Smith and

Lieutenant Mason looked, how bravely the Dixie Greys’ banner ruffled

over Newton Story’s head, and that all hands were behaving as though

they knew how long all this would last. Back to myself my thoughts came,

and, with the whirring bullet, they fled to the blue-bloused ranks

afront. They dwelt on their movements, and read their temper, as I

should read time by a clock. Through the lurid haze the contours of

their pink faces could not be seen, but their gappy, hesitating,

incoherent, and sensitive line revealed their mood clearly.

We continued advancing, step by step, loading and firing as we went. To

every forward step, they took a backward move, loading and firing as

they slowly withdrew. Twenty thousand muskets were being fired at this

stage, but, though accuracy of aim was impossible, owing to our

labouring hearts, and the jarring and excitement, many bullets found

their destined billets on both sides.

After a steady exchange of musketry, which lasted some time, we heard

the order: ‘Fix Bayonets! On the double-quick!’ in tones that thrilled

us. There was a simultaneous bound forward, each soul doing his best for

the emergency. The Federals appeared inclined to await us; but, at this

juncture, our men raised a yell, thousands responded to it, and burst

out into the wildest yelling it has ever been my lot to hear. It drove

all sanity and order from among us. It served the double purpose of

relieving pent-up feelings, and transmitting encouragement along the

attacking line. I rejoiced in the shouting like the rest. It reminded me

that there were about four hundred companies like the Dixie Greys, who

shared our feelings. Most of us, engrossed with the musket-work, had

forgotten the fact; but the wave after wave of human voices, louder

than all other battle-sounds together, penetrated to every sense, and

stimulated our energies to the utmost.

‘They fly!’ was echoed from lip to lip. It accelerated our pace, and

filled us with a noble rage. Then I knew what the Berserker passion was!

It deluged us with rapture, and transfigured each Southerner into an

exulting victor. At such a moment, nothing could have halted us.

Those savage yells, and the sight of thousands of racing figures coming

towards them, discomfited the blue-coats; and when we arrived upon the

place where they had stood, they had vanished. Then we caught sight of

their beautiful array of tents, before which they had made their stand,

after being roused from their Sunday-morning sleep, and huddled into

line, at hearing their pickets challenge our skirmishers. The

half-dressed dead and wounded showed what a surprise our attack had

been. We drew up in the enemy’s camp, panting and breathing hard. Some

precious minutes were thus lost in recovering our breaths, indulging our

curiosity, and re-forming our line. Signs of a hasty rouse to the battle

were abundant. Military equipments, uniform-coats, half-packed

knapsacks, bedding, of a new and superior quality, littered the company

streets.

Meantime, a series of other camps lay behind the first array of tents.

The resistance we had met, though comparatively brief, enabled the

brigades in rear of the advance camp to recover from the shock of the

surprise; but our delay had not been long enough to give them time to

form in proper order of battle. There were wide gaps between their

divisions, into which the quick-flowing tide of elated Southerners

entered, and compelled them to fall back lest they should be surrounded.

Prentiss’s brigade, despite their most desperate efforts, were thus

hemmed in on all sides, and were made prisoners.

I had a momentary impression that, with the capture of the first camp,

the battle was well-nigh over; but, in fact, it was only a brief

prologue of the long and exhaustive series of struggles which took place

that day.

Continuing our advance, we came in view of the tops of another mass of

white tents, and, almost at the same time, were met by a furious storm

of bullets, poured on us from a long line of blue-coats, whose attitude

of assurance proved to us that we should have tough work here. But we

were so much heartened by our first success that it would have required

a good deal to have halted our advance for long. Their opportunity for

making a full impression on us came with terrific suddenness. The world

seemed bursting into fragments. Cannon and musket, shell and bullet,

lent their several intensities to the distracting uproar. If I had not a

fraction of an ear, and an eye inclined towards my Captain and Company,

I had been spell-bound by the energies now opposed to us. I likened the

cannon, with their deep bass, to the roaring of a great herd of lions;

the ripping, cracking musketry, to the incessant yapping of terriers;

the windy whisk of shells, and zipping of minie bullets, to the swoop of

eagles, and the buzz of angry wasps. All the opposing armies of Grey and

Blue fiercely blazed at each other.

After being exposed for a few seconds to this fearful downpour, we heard

the order to ‘Lie down, men, and continue your firing!’ Before me was a

prostrate tree, about fifteen inches in diameter, with a narrow strip of

light between it and the ground. Behind this shelter a dozen of us flung

ourselves. The security it appeared to offer restored me to my

individuality. We could fight, and think, and observe, better than out

in the open. But it was a terrible period! How the cannon bellowed, and

their shells plunged and bounded, and flew with screeching hisses over

us! Their sharp rending explosions and hurtling fragments made us shrink

and cower, despite our utmost efforts to be cool and collected. I

marvelled, as I heard the unintermitting patter, snip, thud, and hum of

the bullets, how anyone could live under this raining death. I could

hear the balls beating a merciless tattoo on the outer surface of the

log, pinging vivaciously as they flew off at a tangent from it, and

thudding into something or other, at the rate of a hundred a second.

One, here and there, found its way under the log, and buried itself in a

comrade’s body. One man raised his chest, as if to yawn, and jostled me.

I turned to him, and saw that a bullet had gored his whole face, and

penetrated into his chest. Another ball struck a man a deadly rap on the

head, and he turned on his back and showed his ghastly white face to the

sky.

‘It is getting too warm, boys!’ cried a soldier, and he uttered a

vehement curse upon keeping soldiers hugging the ground until every

ounce of courage was chilled. He lifted his head a little too high, and

a bullet skimmed over the top of the log and hit him fairly in the

centre of his forehead, and he fell heavily on his face. But his thought

had been instantaneously general; and the officers, with one voice,

ordered the charge; and cries of ‘Forward, forward!’ raised us, as with

a spring, to our feet, and changed the complexion of our feelings. The

pulse of action beat feverishly once more; and, though overhead was

crowded with peril, we were unable to give it so much attention as when

we lay stretched on the ground.

Just as we bent our bodies for the onset, a boy’s voice cried out, ‘Oh,

stop, _please_ stop a bit, I have been hurt, and can’t move!’ I turned

to look, and saw Henry Parker, standing on one leg, and dolefully

regarding his smashed foot. In another second, we were striding

impetuously towards the enemy, vigorously plying our muskets, stopping

only to prime the pan and ram the load down, when, with a spring or two,

we would fetch up with the front, aim, and fire.

Our progress was not so continuously rapid as we desired, for the blues

were obdurate; but at this moment we were gladdened at the sight of a

battery galloping to our assistance. It was time for the nerve-shaking

cannon to speak. After two rounds of shell and canister, we felt the

pressure on us slightly relaxed; but we were still somewhat sluggish in

disposition, though the officers’ voices rang out imperiously. Newton

Story at this juncture strode forward rapidly with the Dixies’ banner,

until he was quite sixty yards ahead of the foremost. Finding himself

alone, he halted; and turning to us smilingly, said, ‘Why don’t you come

on, boys?’ You see there is no danger!’ His smile and words acted on us

like magic. We raised the yell, and sprang lightly and hopefully towards

him. ‘Let’s give them hell, boys!’ said one. ‘Plug them plum-centre,

every time!’

It was all very encouraging, for the yelling and shouting were taken up

by thousands. ‘Forward, forward; don’t give them breathing time!’ was

cried. We instinctively obeyed, and soon came in clear view of the

blue-coats, who were scornfully unconcerned at first; but, seeing the

leaping tide of men coming on at a tremendous pace, their front

dissolved, and they fled in double-quick retreat. Again we felt the

‘glorious joy of heroes.’ It carried us on exultantly, rejoicing in the

spirit which recognises nothing but the prey. We were no longer an army

of soldiers, but so many school-boys racing, in which length of legs,

wind, and condition tell.

We gained the second line of camps, continued the rush through them, and

clean beyond. It was now about ten o’clock. My physical powers were

quite exhausted, and, to add to my discomfiture, something struck me on

my belt-clasp, and tumbled me headlong to the ground.

I could not have been many minutes prostrated before I recovered from

the shock of the blow and fall, to find my clasp deeply dented and

cracked. My company was not in sight. I was grateful for the rest, and

crawled feebly to a tree, and plunging my hand into my haversack, ate

ravenously. Within half an hour, feeling renovated, I struck north in

the direction which my regiment had taken, over a ground strewn with

bodies and the débris of war.

The desperate character of this day’s battle was now brought home to my

mind in all its awful reality. While in the tumultuous advance, and

occupied with a myriad of exciting incidents, it was only at brief

intervals that I was conscious of wounds being given and received; but

now, in the trail of pursuers and pursued, the ghastly relics appalled

every sense. I felt curious as to who the fallen Greys were, and moved

to one stretched straight out. It was the body of a stout English

Sergeant of a neighbouring company, the members of which hailed

principally from the Washita Valley. At the crossing of the Arkansas

River this plump, ruddy-faced man had been conspicuous for his

complexion, jovial features, and good-humour, and had been nicknamed

‘John Bull.’ He was now lifeless, and lay with his eyes wide open,

regardless of the scorching sun, and the tempestuous cannonade which

sounded through the forest, and the musketry that crackled incessantly

along the front.

Close by him was a young Lieutenant, who, judging by the new gloss on

his uniform, must have been some father’s darling. A clean bullet-hole

through the centre of his forehead had instantly ended his career. A

little further were some twenty bodies, lying in various postures, each

by its own pool of viscous blood, which emitted a peculiar scent, which

was new to me, but which I have since learned is inseparable from a

battle-field. Beyond these, a still larger group lay, body overlying

body, knees crooked, arms erect, or wide-stretched and rigid, according

as the last spasm overtook them. The company opposed to them must have

shot straight.

Other details of that ghastly trail formed a mass of horrors that will

always be remembered at the mention of Shiloh. I can never forget the

impression those wide-open dead eyes made on me. Each seemed to be

starting out of its socket, with a look similar to the fixed wondering

gaze of an infant, as though the dying had viewed something appalling at

the last moment. ‘Can it be,’ I asked myself, ‘that at the last glance

they saw their own retreating souls, and wondered why their caskets were

left behind, like offal?’ My surprise was that the form we made so much

of, and that nothing was too good for, should now be mutilated, hacked,

and outraged; and that the life, hitherto guarded as a sacred thing, and

protected by the Constitution, Law, Ministers of Justice, Police,

should, of a sudden,--at least, before I can realise it,--be given up to

death!

An object once seen, if it has affected my imagination, remains

indelibly fixed in my memory; and, among many other scenes with which it

is now crowded, I cannot forget that half-mile square of woodland,

lighted brightly by the sun, and littered by the forms of about a

thousand dead and wounded men, and by horses, and military equipments.

It formed a picture that may always be reproduced with an almost

absolute fidelity. For it was the first Field of Glory I had seen in my

May of life, and the first time that Glory sickened me with its

repulsive aspect, and made me suspect it was all a glittering lie. In my

imagination, I saw more than it was my fate to see with my eyes, for,

under a flag of truce, I saw the bearers pick up the dead from the

field, and lay them in long rows beside a wide trench; I saw them laid,

one by one, close together at the bottom,--thankless victims of a

perished cause, and all their individual hopes, pride, honour, names,

buried under oblivious earth.

My thoughts reverted to the time when these festering bodies were

idolized objects of their mothers’ passionate love, their fathers

standing by, half-fearing to touch the fragile little things, and the

wings of civil law out-spread to protect parents and children in their

family loves, their coming and going followed with pride and praise, and

the blessing of the Almighty over-shadowing all. Then, as they were

nearing manhood, through some strange warp of Society, men in authority

summoned them from school and shop, field and farm, to meet in the woods

on a Sunday morning for mutual butchery with the deadliest instruments

yet invented, Civil Law, Religion, and Morality complaisantly standing

aside, while 90,000 young men, who had been preached and moralized to,

for years, were let loose to engage in the carnival of slaughter.

Only yesterday, they professed to shudder at the word ‘Murder.’ To-day,

by a strange twist in human nature, they lusted to kill, and were

hounded on in the work of destruction by their pastors, elders, mothers,

and sisters. Oh, for once, I was beginning to know the real truth! Man

was born for slaughter! All the pains taken to soothe his savage heart

were unavailing! Holy words and heavenly hopes had no lasting effect on

his bestial nature, for, when once provoked, how swiftly he flung aside

the sweet hope of Heaven, and the dread of Hell, with which he amused

himself in time of ease!

As I moved, horror-stricken, through the fearful shambles, where the

dead lay as thick as the sleepers in a London park on a Bank Holiday, I

was unable to resist the belief that my education had been in abstract

things, which had no relation to our animal existence. For, if human

life is so disparaged, what has it to do with such high subjects as God,

Heaven, and Immortality? And to think how devotional men and women

pretended to be, on a Sunday! Oh, cunning, cruel man! He knew that the

sum of all real knowledge and effort was to know how to kill and mangle

his brothers, as we were doing to-day! Reflecting on my own emotions, I

wondered if other youths would feel that they had been deluded like

myself with man’s fine polemics and names of things, which vanished with

the reality.

A multitude of angry thoughts surged through me, which I cannot

describe in detail, but they amounted to this, that a cruel deception

had been practised on my blank ignorance, that my atom of imagination

and feeling had been darkened, and that man was a portentous creature

from which I recoiled with terror and pity. He was certainly terrible

and hard, but he was no more to me now than a two-legged beast; he was

cunning beyond finding out, but his morality was only a mask for his

wolfish heart! Thus, scoffing and railing at my infatuation for moral

excellence as practised by humanity, I sought to join my company and

regiment.

The battle-field maintained the same character of undulated woodland,

being, in general, low ridges separated by broad depressions, which sunk

occasionally into ravines of respectable depth. At various places, wide

clearings had been made; and I came across a damp bottom or two covered

with shrubs. For a defensive force there were several positions that

were admirable as rallying-points, and it is perhaps owing to these, and

the undoubted courage exhibited by the Federal troops, that the battle

was so protracted. Though our attack had been a surprise, it was certain

that they fought as though they were resolved to deny it; and, as the

ground to be won from the enemy was nearly five miles in depth, and

every half mile or so they stood and obstinately contested it, all the

honours of the day were not to be with us.

I overtook my regiment about one o’clock, and found that it was engaged

in one of these occasional spurts of fury. The enemy resolutely

maintained their ground, and our side was preparing for another assault.

The firing was alternately brisk and slack. We lay down, and availed

ourselves of trees, logs, and hollows, and annoyed their upstanding

ranks; battery pounded battery, and, meanwhile, we hugged our

resting-places closely. Of a sudden, we rose and raced towards the

position, and took it by sheer weight and impetuosity, as we had done

before. About three o’clock, the battle grew very hot. The enemy

appeared to be more concentrated, and immovably sullen. Both sides fired

better as they grew more accustomed to the din; but, with assistance

from the reserves, we were continually pressing them towards the river

Tennessee, without ever retreating an inch.

About this time, the enemy were assisted by the gun-boats, which hurled

their enormous projectiles far beyond us; but, though they made great

havoc among the trees, and created terror, they did comparatively little

damage to those in close touch with the enemy.

The screaming of the big shells, when they first began to sail over our

heads, had the effect of reducing our fire; for they were as fascinating

as they were distracting. But we became used to them, and our attention

was being claimed more in front. Our officers were more urgent; and,

when we saw the growing dyke of white cloud that signalled the

bullet-storm, we could not be indifferent to the more immediate danger.

Dead bodies, wounded men writhing in agony, and assuming every

distressful attitude, were frequent sights; but what made us heart-sick

was to see, now and then, the well-groomed charger of an officer, with

fine saddle, and scarlet and yellow-edged cloth, and brass-tipped

holsters, or a stray cavalry or artillery horse, galloping between the

lines, snorting with terror, while his entrails, soiled with dust,

trailed behind him.

Our officers had continued to show the same alertness and vigour

throughout the day; but, as it drew near four o’clock, though they

strove to encourage and urge us on, they began to abate somewhat in

their energy; and it was evident that the pluckiest of the men lacked

the spontaneity and springing ardour which had distinguished them

earlier in the day. Several of our company lagged wearily behind, and

the remainder showed, by their drawn faces, the effects of their

efforts. Yet, after a short rest, they were able to make splendid

spurts. As for myself, I had only one wish, and that was for repose. The

long-continued excitement, the successive tautening and relaxing of the

nerves, the quenchless thirst, made more intense by the fumes of

sulphurous powder, and the caking grime on the lips, caused by tearing

the paper cartridges, and a ravening hunger, all combined, had reduced

me to a walking automaton, and I earnestly wished that night would come,

and stop all further effort.

Finally, about five o’clock, we assaulted and captured a large camp;

after driving the enemy well away from it, the front line was as thin as

that of a skirmishing body, and we were ordered to retire to the tents.

There we hungrily sought after provisions, and I was lucky in finding a

supply of biscuits and a canteen of excellent molasses, which gave

great comfort to myself and friends. The plunder in the camp was

abundant. There were bedding, clothing, and accoutrements without stint;

but people were so exhausted they could do no more than idly turn the

things over. Night soon fell, and only a few stray shots could now be

heard, to remind us of the thrilling and horrid din of the day,

excepting the huge bombs from the gun-boats, which, as we were not far

from the blue-coats, discomforted only those in the rear. By eight

o’clock, I was repeating my experiences in the region of dreams,

indifferent to columbiads and mortars, and the torrential rain which, at

midnight, increased the miseries of the wounded and tentless.

An hour before dawn, I awoke from a refreshing sleep; and, after a

hearty replenishment of my vitals with biscuit and molasses, I conceived

myself to be fresher than on Sunday morning. While awaiting day-break, I

gathered from other early risers their ideas in regard to the events of

yesterday. They were under the impression that we had gained a great

victory, though we had not, as we had anticipated, reached the Tennessee

River. Van Dorn, with his expected reinforcements for us, was not likely

to make his appearance for many days yet; and, if General Buell, with

his 20,000 troops, had joined the enemy during the night, we had a bad

day’s work before us. We were short of provisions and ammunition,

General Sidney Johnston, our chief Commander, had been killed; but

Beauregard was safe and unhurt, and, if Buell was absent, we would win

the day.

At daylight, I fell in with my Company, but there were only about fifty

of the Dixies present. Almost immediately after, symptoms of the coming

battle were manifest. Regiments were hurried into line, but, even to my

inexperienced eyes, the troops were in ill-condition for repeating the

efforts of Sunday. However, in brief time, in consequence of our pickets

being driven in on us, we were moved forward in skirmishing order. With

my musket on the trail I found myself in active motion, more active than

otherwise I would have been, perhaps, because Captain Smith had said,

‘Now, Mr. Stanley, if you please, step briskly forward!’ This

singling-out of me wounded my _amour-propre_, and sent me forward like a

rocket. In a short time, we met our opponents in the same formation as

ourselves, and advancing most resolutely. We threw ourselves behind such

trees as were near us, fired, loaded, and darted forward to another

shelter. Presently, I found myself in an open, grassy space, with no

convenient tree or stump near; but, seeing a shallow hollow some twenty

paces ahead, I made a dash for it, and plied my musket with haste. I

became so absorbed with some blue figures in front of me, that I did not

pay sufficient heed to my companion greys; the open space was too

dangerous, perhaps, for their advance; for, had they emerged, I should

have known they were pressing forward. Seeing my blues in about the same

proportion, I assumed that the greys were keeping their position, and

never once thought of retreat. However, as, despite our firing, the

blues were coming uncomfortably near, I rose from my hollow; but, to my

speechless amazement, I found myself a solitary grey, in a line of blue

skirmishers! My companions had retreated! The next I heard was, ‘Down

with that gun, Secesh, or I’ll drill a hole through you! Drop it,

quick!’

Half a dozen of the enemy were covering me at the same instant, and I

dropped my weapon, incontinently. Two men sprang at my collar, and

marched me, unresisting, into the ranks of the terrible Yankees. _I was

a prisoner!_

When the senses have been concentrated upon a specific object with the

intensity which a battle compels, and are forcibly and suddenly veered

about by another will, the immediate result is, at first, stupefying.

Before my consciousness had returned to me, I was being propelled

vigorously from behind, and I was in view of a long, swaying line of

soldiers, who were marching to meet us with all the precision of drill,

and with such a close front that a rabbit would have found it difficult

to break through. This sight restored me to all my faculties, and I

remembered I was a Confederate, in misfortune, and that it behoved me to

have some regard for my Uniform. I heard bursts of vituperation from

several hoarse throats, which straightened my back and made me defiant.

‘Where are you taking that fellow to? Drive a bayonet into the ---- ----!

Let him drop where he is!’ they cried by the dozen, with a German

accent. They grew more excited as we drew nearer, and more men joined in

the opprobrious chorus. Then a few dashed from the ranks, with levelled

bayonets, to execute what appeared to be the general wish.

I looked into their faces, deformed with fear and fury, and I felt

intolerable loathing for the wild-eyed brutes! Their eyes, projected and

distended, appeared like spots of pale blue ink, in faces of dough!

Reason had fled altogether from their features, and, to appeal for mercy

to such blind, ferocious animalism would have been the height of

absurdity, but I was absolutely indifferent as to what they might do

with me now. Could I have multiplied myself into a thousand, such

unintellectual-looking louts might have been brushed out of existence

with ease--despite their numbers. They were apparently new troops, from

such back-lands as were favoured by German immigrants; and, though of

sturdy build, another such mass of savagery and stupidity could not have

been found within the four corners of North America. How I wished I

could return to the Confederates, and tell them what kind of people were

opposing them!

Before their bayonets reached me, my two guards, who were ruddy-faced

Ohioans, flung themselves before me, and, presenting their rifles,

cried, ‘Here! stop that, you fellows! He is our prisoner!’ A couple of

officers were almost as quick as they, and flourished their swords; and,

amid an expenditure of profanity, drove them quickly back into their

ranks, cursing and blackguarding me in a manner truly American. A

company opened its lines as we passed to the rear. Once through, I was

comparatively safe from the Union troops, but not from the Confederate

missiles, which were dropping about, and striking men, right and left.

Quickening our pace, we soon were beyond danger from my friends; after

which, I looked about with interest at the forces that were marching to

retrieve their shame of yesterday. The troops we saw belonged to Buell,

who had crossed the Tennessee, and was now joined by Grant. They

presented a brave, even imposing, sight; and, in their new uniforms,

with glossy knapsacks, rubbers undimmed, brasses resplendent, they

approached nearer to my idea of soldiers than our dingy grey troops.

Much of this fine show and seeming steadiness was due to their newer

equipments, and, as yet, unshaken nerves; but, though their movements

were firm, they were languid, and lacked the élan, the bold confidence,

of the Southerners. Given twenty-four hours’ rest, and the enjoyment of

cooked rations, I felt that the Confederates would have crumpled up the

handsome Unionists within a brief time.

Though my eyes had abundant matter of interest within their range, my

mind continually harked back to the miserable hollow which had disgraced

me, and I kept wondering how it was that my fellow-skirmishers had so

quickly disappeared. I was inclined to blame Captain Smith for urging me

on, when, within a few minutes after, he must have withdrawn his men.

But it was useless to trouble my mind with conjectures. I was a

prisoner! Shameful position! What would become of my knapsack, and my

little treasures,--letters, and souvenirs of my father? They were lost

beyond recovery!

On the way, my guards and I had a discussion about our respective

causes, and, though I could not admit it, there was much reason in what

they said, and I marvelled that they could put their case so well. For,

until now, I was under the impression that they were robbers who only

sought to desolate the South, and steal the slaves; but, according to

them, had we not been so impatient and flown to arms, the influence of

Abe Lincoln and his fellow-abolitionists would not have affected the

Southerners pecuniarily; for it might have been possible for Congress to

compensate slave-owners, that is, by buying up all slaves, and

afterwards setting them free. But when the Southerners, who were not

averse to selling their slaves in the open market, refused to consider

anything relating to them, and began to seize upon government property,

forts, arsenals, and war-ships, and to set about establishing a separate

system in the country, then the North resolved that this should not be,

and that was the true reason of the war. The Northern people cared

nothing for the ‘niggers,’--the slavery question could have been settled

in another and quieter way,--but they cared all their lives were worth

for their country.

At the river-side there was tremendous activity. There were seven or

eight steamers tied to the bank, discharging troops and stores. The

commissariat stores and forage lay in mountainous heaps. In one place on

the slope was a corral of prisoners, about four hundred and fifty in

number, who had been captured the day before. I was delivered to the

charge of the officer in command of the guards, and, in a few minutes,

was left to my own reflections amid the unfortunates.

The loss of the Union troops in the two days’ fight was 1754 killed,

8408 wounded, and 2885 captured; total, 13,047. That of the Confederates

was 1728 killed, 8012 wounded, and 959 missing; total, 10,699.

The loss of Hindman’s Brigade was 109 killed, 546 wounded, 38 missing;

total, 693,--about a fifth of the number that went, on the Sunday

morning, into action.

Referring to these totals, 1754 + 1728 = 3482, killed, General Grant,

however, says, in his article on Shiloh: ‘This estimate of the

Confederate loss must be incorrect. We buried, by actual count, more of

the enemy’s dead in front of the divisions of McClernand and Sherman

alone than here reported; and 4000 was the estimate of the burial

parties for the whole field.’[9]

Nine days after the battle of Shiloh, a conscript law was passed by the

Confederate Congress which annulled all previous contracts made with

volunteers, and all men between eighteen and thirty-five were to be

soldiers during the continuance of the war. General T. C. Hindman, our

brigade commander, was appointed, fifty days after Shiloh, commanding

general of Arkansas, and enforced the conscript law remorselessly. He

collected an army of 20,000 under this law, and such as deserted were

shot by scores, until he made himself odious to all by his ruthlessness,

violence, and tyranny.

While at Atlanta, Georgia, in March, 1891, I received the following

letter (which is copied verbatim) from ‘old Slate,’ as we used to call

him, owing to a certain quaint, old-mannish humour which characterised

him.

* * * * *

BLUE RIDGE, GA.

March 28th, 1891.

DEAR SIR,--I am anxious to know if you enlisted in Company E., Dixie

Greys, 6th Arkansas Regiment, Col. Lyon commanding, Lieut.-Col.

Hawthorn, Capt. Smith commanding Dixie Greys, Co. E. Col. Lyons was

accidently killed on the Tennessee River, by riding off Bluff and horse

falling on him.

On the 6th April, 1862, the Confederates attacked the Yankees at Shiloh.

Early in the morning I was wounded, and I never saw our boyish-looking

Stanley no more, but understood he was captured, and sent North. I have

read everything in newspapers, and your Histories, believing you are the

same Great Boy. We all loved you, and regretted the results of that

eventful day. This is enough for you to say, in reply, that you are the

identical Boyish Soldier. You have wrote many letters for me. Please

answer by return mail.

Very truly yours,

JAMES M. SLATE.

Address:

J. M. SLATE, BLUE RIDGE.

CHAPTER IX

PRISONER OF WAR

On the 8th of April we were embarked on a steamer, and despatched to St.

Louis. We were a sad lot of men. I feel convinced that most of them

felt, with myself, that we were ill-starred wretches, and special

objects of an unkind Fate. We made no advances to acquaintanceship, for

what was the value of any beggarly individual amongst us? All he

possessed in the world was a thin, dingy suit of grey, and every man’s

thoughts were of his own misfortune, which was as much as he could bear,

without being bothered with that of another.

On the third day, I think, we reached St. Louis, and were marched

through the streets, in column of fours, to a Ladies’ College, or some

such building. On the way, we were not a little consoled to find that we

had sympathisers, especially among the ladies, in the city. They crowded

the sidewalks, and smiled kindly, and sometimes cheered, and waved

dainty white handkerchiefs at us. How beautiful and clean they appeared,

as compared with our filthy selves! While at the college, they besieged

the building, and threw fruit and cakes at the struggling crowds in the

windows, and in many ways assisted to lighten the gloom on our spirits.

Four days later, we were embarked on railroad cars, and taken across the

State of Illinois to Camp Douglas, on the outskirts of Chicago. Our

prison-pen was a square and spacious enclosure, like a bleak

cattle-yard, walled high with planking, on the top of which, at every

sixty yards or so, were sentry-boxes. About fifty feet from its base,

and running parallel with it, was a line of lime-wash. That was the

‘dead-line’ and any prisoner who crossed it was liable to be shot.

One end of the enclosure contained the offices of the authorities.

Colonel James A. Milligan, one of the Irish Brigade (killed at

Winchester, July 24th, 1864) commanded the camp. Mr. Shipman, a citizen

of Chicago, acted as chief commissary. At the other end, at quite three

hundred yards distance, were the buildings allotted to the prisoners,

huge, barn-like structures of planking, each about two hundred and fifty

feet by forty, and capable of accommodating between two hundred and

three hundred men. There may have been about twenty of these structures,

about thirty feet apart, and standing in two rows; and I estimated that

there were enough prisoners within it to have formed a strong

brigade--say about three thousand men--when we arrived. I remember, by

the regimental badges which they wore on their caps and hats, that they

belonged to the three arms of the service, and that almost every

Southern State was represented. They were clad in home-made butternut

and grey.

To whatever it was due, the appearance of the prisoners startled me. The

Southerners’ uniforms were never pretty, but when rotten, and ragged,

and swarming with vermin, they heightened the disreputability of their

wearers; and, if anything was needed to increase our dejection after

taking sweeping glances at the arid mud-soil of the great yard, the

butternut and grey clothes, the sight of ash-coloured faces, and of the

sickly and emaciated condition of our unhappy friends, were well

calculated to do so.

We were led to one of the great wooden barns, where we found a six-foot

wide platform on each side, raised about four feet above the flooring.

These platforms formed continuous bunks for about sixty men, allowing

thirty inches to each man. On the floor, two more rows of men could be

accommodated. Several bales of hay were brought, out of which we helped

ourselves for bedding. Blankets were also distributed, one to each man.

I, fortunately, found a berth on the right-hand platform, not far from

the doorway, and my mate was a young sprig of Mississippi nobility named

W. H. Wilkes (a nephew of Admiral C. Wilkes, U. S. Navy, the navigator,

and captor of Mason and Slidell, Confederate Commissioners).

Mr. Shipman soon after visited us, and, after inspection, suggested that

we should form ourselves into companies, and elect officers for drawing

rations and superintending of quarters. I was elected captain of the

right-hand platform and berths below it. Blank books were served out to

each captain, and I took the names of my company, which numbered over

one hundred. By showing my book at the commissariat, and bringing a

detail with me, rations of soft bread, fresh beef, coffee, tea,

potatoes, and salt, were handed to me by the gross, which I had

afterwards to distribute to the chiefs of messes.

On the next day (April 16th), after the morning duties had been

performed, the rations divided, the cooks had departed contented, and

the quarters swept, I proceeded to my nest and reclined alongside of my

friend Wilkes, in a posture that gave me a command of one-half of the

building. I made some remarks to him upon the card-playing groups

opposite, when, suddenly, I felt a gentle stroke on the back of my neck,

and, in an instant, I was unconscious. The next moment I had a vivid

view of the village of Tremeirchion, and the grassy slopes of the hills

of Hiraddog, and I seemed to be hovering over the rook woods of

Brynbella. I glided to the bedchamber of my Aunt Mary. My aunt was in

bed, and seemed sick unto death. I took a position by the side of the

bed, and saw myself, with head bent down, listening to her parting

words, which sounded regretful, as though conscience smote her for not

having been so kind as she might have been, or had wished to be. I heard

the boy say, ‘I believe you, aunt. It is neither your fault, nor mine.

You were good and kind to me, and I knew you wished to be kinder; but

things were so ordered that you had to be what you were. I also dearly

wished to love you, but I was afraid to speak of it, lest you would

check me, or say something that would offend me. I feel our parting was

in this spirit. There is no need of regrets. You have done your duty to

me, and you had children of your own, who required all your care. What

has happened to me since, was decreed should happen. Farewell.’

I put forth my hand and felt the clasp of the long, thin hands of the

sore-sick woman, I heard a murmur of farewell, and immediately I woke.

It appeared to me that I had but closed my eyes. I was still in the same

reclining attitude, the groups opposite were still engaged in their card

games, Wilkes was in the same position. Nothing had changed.

I asked, ‘What _has_ happened?’

‘What could happen?’ said he. ‘What makes you ask? It is but a moment

ago you were speaking to me.’

‘Oh, I thought I had been asleep a long time.’

On the next day, the 17th April, 1862, my Aunt Mary died at Fynnon

Beuno!

I believe that the soul of every human being has its attendant

spirit,--a nimble and delicate essence, whose method of action is by a

subtle suggestion which it contrives to insinuate into the mind, whether

asleep or awake. We are too gross to be capable of understanding the

signification of the dream, the vision, or the sudden presage, or of

divining the source of the premonition, or its purport. We admit that we

are liable to receive a fleeting picture of an act, or a figure, at any

moment; but, except being struck by certain strange coincidences which

happen to most of us, we seldom make an effort to unravel the mystery.

The swift, darting messenger stamps an image on the mind, and displays a

vision to the sleeper; and if, as sometimes follows, among tricks and

twists of an errant mind, or reflex acts of the memory, it happens to be

a true representation of what is to happen, or has happened, thousands

of miles away, we are left to grope hopelessly as to the manner and

meaning of it, for there is nothing tangible to lay hold of.

There are many things relating to my existence which are inexplicable to

me, and probably it is best so; this death-bed scene, projected on my

mind’s screen, across four thousand five hundred miles of space, is one

of these mysteries.

After Wilkes and I had thoroughly acquainted ourselves with all the evil

and the good to be found at Camp Douglas, neither of us saw any reason

at first why we could not wait with patience for the exchange of

prisoners. But, as time passed, we found it to be a dreary task to

endure the unchanging variety of misery surrounding us. I was often

tempted with an impulse to challenge a malignant sentry’s bullet, by

crossing that ghastly ‘dead-line,’ which I saw every day I came out. A

more unlovely sight than a sick Secessionist, in a bilious butternut, it

is scarcely possible to conceive. Though he had been naked and soiled by

his own filth, there would still have remained some elements of

attractiveness in him; but that dirty, ill-made, nut-coloured homespun

aggravated every sense, and made the poor, sickly wretch unutterably

ugly.

In our treatment, I think there was a purpose. If so, it may have been

from a belief that we should the sooner recover our senses by

experiencing as much misery, pain, privation, and sorrow as could be

contained within a prison; and, therefore, the authorities rigidly

excluded every medical, pious, musical, or literary charity that might

have alleviated our sufferings. It was a barbarous age, it is true; but

there were sufficient Christian families in Chicago, who, I am

convinced, only needed a suggestion, to have formed societies for the

relief of the prisoners. And what an opportunity there was for such, to

strengthen piety, to promote cheerfulness, soothe political ferocity,

and subdue the brutal and vicious passions which possessed those

thousands of unhappy youths immured within the horrible pen!

Left to ourselves, with absolutely nothing to do but to brood over our

positions, bewail our lots, catch the taint of disease from each other,

and passively abide in our prison-pen, we were soon in a fair state of

rotting, while yet alive. The reaction from the excitement of the

battle-field, and the cheerful presence of exulting thousands, was

suspended for a few days by travel up the Mississippi, the generosity of

lady-sympathisers in St. Louis, and the trip across Illinois; but, after

a few days, it set in strong upon us, when once within the bleak camp at

Chicago. Everything we saw and touched added its pernicious

influence--the melancholy faces of those who were already wearied with

their confinement, the numbers of the sick, the premature agedness of

the emaciated, the distressing degeneration of manhood, the plaints of

suffering wretches, the increasing bodily discomfort from

ever-multiplying vermin, which infested every square inch.

Within a week, our new draft commenced to succumb under the maleficent

influences of our surroundings. Our buildings swarmed with vermin, the

dust-sweepings were alive with them. The men began to suffer from

bilious disorders; dysentery and typhus began to rage. Day after day my

company steadily diminished; and every morning I had to see them carried

in their blankets to the hospital, whence none ever returned. Those not

yet delirious, or too weak to move unaided, we kept with us; but the

dysentery--however they contracted it--was of a peculiarly epidemical

character, and its victims were perpetually passing us, trembling with

weakness, or writhing with pain, exasperating our senses to such a

degree that only the strong-minded could forego some expression of their

disgust.

The latrines were all at the rear of our plank barracks, and each time

imperious nature compelled us to resort to them, we lost a little of

that respect and consideration we owed our fellow-creatures. For, on the

way thither, we saw crowds of sick men, who had fallen, prostrate from

weakness, and given themselves wholly to despair; and, while they

crawled or wallowed in their filth, they cursed and blasphemed as often

as they groaned. In the edge of the gaping ditches, which provoked the

gorge to look at, there were many of the sick people, who, unable to

leave, rested there for hours, and made their condition hopeless by

breathing the stenchful atmosphere. Exhumed corpses could not have

presented anything more hideous than dozens of these dead-and-alive men,

who, oblivious to the weather, hung over the latrines, or lay extended

along the open sewer, with only a few gasps intervening between them and

death. Such as were not too far gone prayed for death, saying, ‘Good

God, let me die! Let me go, O Lord!’ and one insanely damned his vitals

and his constitution, because his agonies were so protracted. No

self-respecting being could return from their vicinity without feeling

bewildered by the infinite suffering, his existence degraded, and

religion and sentiment blasted.

Yet, indoors, what did we see? Over two hundred unwashed, unkempt,

uncombed men, in the dismalest attitudes, occupied in relieving

themselves from hosts of vermin, or sunk in gloomy introspection,

staring blankly, with heads between their knees, at nothing; weighed

down by a surfeit of misery, internal pains furrowing their faces,

breathing in a fine cloud of human scurf, and dust of offensive hay,

dead to everything but the flitting fancies of the hopeless!

One intelligent and humane supervisor would have wrought wonders at this

period with us, and arrested that swift demoralization with which we

were threatened. None of us were conspicuously wise out of our own

sphere; and of sanitary laws we were all probably as ignorant as of the

etiology of sclerosis of the nerve-centres. In our colossal ignorance,

we were perhaps doing something half-a-dozen times a day, as dangerous

as eating poison, and constantly swallowing a few of the bacilli of

typhus. Even had we possessed the necessary science at our finger-tips,

we could not have done much, unaided by the authorities; but when the

authorities were as ignorant as ourselves,--I cannot believe their

neglect of us was intentional,--we were simply doomed!

Every morning, the wagons came to the hospital and dead-house, to take

away the bodies; and I saw the corpses rolled in their blankets, taken

to the vehicles, and piled one upon another, as the New Zealand

frozen-mutton carcases are carted from the docks!

The statistics of Andersonville are believed to show that the South was

even more callous towards their prisoners than the authorities of Camp

Douglas were. I admit that we were better fed than the Union prisoners

were, and against Colonel Milligan and Mr. Shipman I have not a single

accusation to make. It was the age that was brutally senseless, and

heedlessly cruel. It was lavish and wasteful of life, and had not the

least idea of what civilised warfare ought to be, except in strategy. It

was at the end of the flint-lock age, a stupid and heartless age, which

believed that the application of every variety of torture was better for

discipline than kindness, and was guilty, during the war, of enormities

that would tax the most saintly to forgive.

Just as the thirties were stupider and crueller than the fifties, and

the fifties were more bloody than the seventies, in the mercantile

marine service, so a war in the nineties will be much more civilized

than the Civil War of the sixties. Those who have survived that war, and

have seen brotherly love re-established, and reconciliation completed,

when they think of Andersonville, Libby, Camp Douglas, and other

prisons, and of the blood shed in 2261 battles and skirmishes, must in

this present peaceful year needs think that a moral epidemic raged, to

have made them so intensely hate then what they profess to love now.

Though a democratic government like the American will always be more

despotic and arbitrary than that of a constitutional monarchy, even its

army will have its Red Cross societies, and Prisoners’ Aid Society; and

the sights we saw at Camp Douglas will never be seen in America again.

Were Colonel Milligan living now, he would admit that a better system of

latrines, a ration of soap, some travelling arrangements for lavatories,

a commissioned superintendent over each barrack, a brass band, the loan

of a few second-hand books, magazines, and the best-class newspapers

(with all war-news cut out), would have been the salvation of two-thirds

of those who died at Camp Douglas; and, by showing how superior the

United States Government was to the Confederate States, would have sent

the exchanged prisoners back to their homes in a spirit more reconciled

than they were. Those in authority to-day also know that, though when in

battle it is necessary to fight with all the venom of fiends for

victory, once the rifle is laid down, and a man becomes a prisoner, a

gracious treatment is more efficacious than the most revolting cruelty.

Still, the civilized world is densely ignorant. It has improved

immensely in thirty years, but from what I have seen in my travels in

many lands, it is less disposed to be kind to man than to any other

creatures; and yet, none of all God’s creatures is more sadly in need of

protection than he!

The only official connected with Camp Douglas whom I remember with

pleasure is Mr. Shipman, the commissary. He was gentlemanly and

white-haired, which, added to his unvarying benevolence and politeness,

caused him to be regarded by me as something of an agreeable wonder in

that pestful yard. After some two days’ acquaintance, while drawing the

rations, he sounded me as to my intentions. I scarcely comprehended him

at the outset, for Camp Douglas was not a place to foster intentions. He

explained that, if I were tired of being a prisoner, I could be released

by enrolling myself as a Unionist, that is, becoming a Union soldier. My

eyes opened very wide at this, and I shook my head, and said, ‘Oh, no, I

could not do that.’ Nothing could have been more unlikely; I had not

even dreamed that such an act was possible.

A few days later, I said to Mr. Shipman, ‘They have taken two

wagon-loads of dead men away this morning.’ He gave a sympathetic shrug,

as if to say, ‘It was all very sad, but what can we do?’ He then held

forth upon the superiority of the North, the certainty of defeat for the

South, the pity it was to see young men throw their lives away for such

a cause as slavery, and so on; in short, all that a genuinely kind man,

but fervidly Northern, could say. His love embraced Northerners and

Southerners alike, for he saw no distinction between them, except that

the younger brother had risen to smite the elder, and must be punished

until he repented.

But it was useless to try and influence me by political reasons. In the

first place, I was too ignorant in politics, and too slow of

comprehension, to follow his reasonings; in the second place, every

American friend of mine was a Southerner, and my adopted father was a

Southerner, and I was blind through my gratitude; and, in the third

place, I had a secret scorn for people who could kill one another for

the sake of African slaves. There were no blackies in Wales, and why a

sooty-faced nigger from a distant land should be an element of

disturbance between white brothers, was a puzzle to me. I should have to

read a great deal about him, ascertain his wrongs and his rights, and

wherein his enslavement was unjust and his liberty was desirable, before

I could venture upon giving an opinion adverse to 20,000,000

Southerners. As I had seen him in the South, he was a half-savage, who

had been exported by his own countrymen, and sold in open market,

agreeable to time-honoured custom. Had the Southerners invaded Africa

and made captives of the blacks, I might have seen some justice in

decent and pious people exclaiming against the barbarity. But, so far as

I knew of the matter, it was only the accident of a presidential

election which had involved the North and South in a civil war, and I

could not take it upon me to do anything more than stand by my friends.

But, in the course of six weeks, more powerful influences than Mr.

Shipman’s gentle reasoning were undermining my resolve to remain as a

prisoner. These were the increase in sickness, the horrors of the

prison, the oily atmosphere, the ignominious cartage of the dead, the

useless flight of time, the fear of being incarcerated for years, which

so affected my spirits that I felt a few more days of these scenes would

drive me mad. Finally, I was persuaded to accept with several other

prisoners the terms of release, and enrolled myself in the U. S.

Artillery Service, and, on the 4th June, was once more free to inhale

the fresh air.

But, after two or three days’ service, the germs of the prison-disease,

which had swept so many scores of fine young fellows to untimely graves,

broke out with virulence in my system. I disguised my complaint as much

as was possible, for, having been a prisoner, I felt myself liable to be

suspected; but, on the day of our arrival at Harper’s Ferry, dysentery

and low fever laid me prostrate. I was conveyed to the hospital, and

remained there until the 22nd June, when I was discharged out of the

service, a wreck.

My condition at this time was as low as it would be possible to reduce a

human being to, outside of an American prison. I had not a penny in my

pocket; a pair of blue military trousers clothed my nethers, a dark

serge coat covered my back, and a mongrel hat my head. I knew not where

to go: the seeds of disease were still in me, and I could not walk three

hundred yards without stopping to gasp for breath. As, like a log, I lay

at night under the stars, heated by fever, and bleeding internally, I

thought I ought to die, according to what I had seen of those who

yielded to death. As my strength departed, death advanced; and there was

no power or wish to resist left in me. But with each dawn there would

come a tiny bit of hope, which made me forget all about death, and think

only of food, and of the necessity of finding a shelter. Hagerstown is

but twenty-four miles from Harper’s Ferry; but it took me a week to

reach a farm-house not quite half-way. I begged permission to occupy an

out-house, which may have been used to store corn, and the farmer

consented. My lips were scaled with the fever, eyes swimming, face

flushed red, under the layer of a week’s dirt--the wretchedest object

alive, possibly, as I felt I was, by the manner the good fellow tried to

hide his disgust. What of it? He spread some hay in the out-house, and I

dropped on it without the smallest wish to leave again. It was several

days before I woke to consciousness, to find a mattress under me, and

different clothes on me. I had a clean cotton shirt, and my face and

hands were without a stain. A man named Humphreys was attending to me,

and he was the deputy of the farmer in his absence. By dint of

assiduous kindness, and a diet of milk, I gained strength slowly, until

I was able to sit in the orchard, when, with open air, exercise, and

more generous food, I rapidly mended. In the early part of July, I was

able to assist in the last part of the harvest, and to join in the

harvest supper.

The farm-house where my Good Samaritan lived is situated close to the

Hagerstown pike--a few miles beyond Sharpsburg. My friend’s name is one

of the few that has escaped my memory. I stayed with him until the

middle of August, well-fed and cared for, and when I left him he

insisted on driving me to Hagerstown, and paying my railway fare to

Baltimore, viâ Harrisburg.[10]

PART II

THE LIFE, FROM STANLEY’S JOURNALS, NOTES, ETC.

CHAPTER X

JOURNALISM

Up to this point Stanley has told his own story. The chapter which

follows is almost wholly a weaving together of material which he left.

That material consists, first, of an occasional and very brief diary,

which he kept from 1862; then, at irregular intervals through many

years, entries in a fuller journal, and occasional comments and

retrospects in his note-books, during the last peaceful years of life.

He was discharged from Harper’s Ferry, June 22, 1862. Then he seems to

have turned his hand to one resource and another, to support himself; we

find him ‘harvesting in Maryland,’ and, later, on an oyster-schooner,

getting upon his feet, and out of the whirlpool of war into which he had

naturally been drawn by mere propinquity, so to speak; now his heart

turned with longing to his own kin, and the belated affection which he

trusted he might find.

* * * * *

November, 1862. I arrived, in the ship ‘E. Sherman,’ at Liverpool. I was

very poor, in bad health, and my clothes were shabby. I made my way to

Denbigh, to my mother’s house. With what pride I knocked at the door,

buoyed up by a hope of being able to show what manliness I had acquired,

not unwilling, perhaps, to magnify what I meant to _become_; though what

I was, the excellence of my present position, was not so obvious to

myself! Like a bride arraying herself in her best for her lover, I had

arranged my story to please one who would, at last, I hoped, prove an

affectionate mother! But I found no affection, and I never again sought

for, or expected, what I discovered had never existed.

I was told that ‘I was a disgrace to them in the eyes of their

neighbours, and they desired me to leave as speedily as possible.’

* * * * *

This experience sank so deep, and, together with the life in earlier

years, had so marked an effect on Stanley’s character, that it seemed

best to give it to the reader just as he noted it down as he mused over

his life, near its close. When fame and prosperity came to him, he was

just to the claims of blood, and gave practical help; but the tenderness

which lay deep in his nature, and the repeated and hopeless rebuffs it

encountered, produced, in the reaction, an habitual, strong

self-suppression. The tenderness was there, through all the stirring

years of action and achievement; but it was guarded against such shocks

as had earlier wounded it, by an habitual reserve, and an austere

self-command.

He returned to America, and, with a sort of rebound towards the world of

vigorous action, threw himself, for a time, into the life of the sea.

The motive, apparently, was partly as a ready means of livelihood, and

partly a relish for adventure; and adventure he certainly found. Through

1863, and the early months of 1864, he was in one ship and another, in

the merchant service; sailing to the West Indies, Spain, and Italy.

He condenses a ship-wreck into a two-line entry: ‘Wrecked off Barcelona.

Crew lost, in the night. Stripped naked, and swam to shore. Barrack of

Carbineers ... demanded my papers!’

The end of 1863 finds him in Brooklyn, New York, where we have another

brief chronicle:--

* * * * *

Boarding with Judge X----. Judge drunk; tried to kill his wife with

hatchet; attempted three times.--I held him down all night. Next

morning, exhausted; lighted cigar in parlour; wife came down--insulted

and raved at me for smoking in her house!

* * * * *

In August, 1864, he enlisted in the United States Navy, on the receiving

ship ‘North Carolina,’ and was then assigned to the ‘Minnesota,’ and

afterwards to the ‘Moses H. Stuyvesant,’ where he served in the capacity

of ship’s writer. Nothing shows that he was impelled by any special

motive of sympathy with the national cause. It has been told how he went

into the Confederate service, as a boy naturally goes, carried along

with the crowd. At this later time he may have caught something of the

enthusiasm for the Union that filled the community about him; or, very

probably, he may have gone on a fighting ship simply as more exciting to

his adventurous spirit than a peaceful merchantman. In any case, he

embarked on what proved to be the beginning of his true occupation and

career, as the observer and reporter of stirring events; later, he was

to play his part as a maker of events.

There is nothing to show just how or why he became a newspaper

correspondent, but we know _the where_; and no ambitious reporter could

ask a better chance for his first story than Stanley had when he

witnessed the first and second attacks of the Federal forces on Fort

Fisher, North Carolina. Those attacks are part of the history of the

great war; how, in December, 1864, General Butler assailed the port from

the sea, the explosion under its walls of a vessel charged with powder

being a performance as dramatic as many of Butler’s military exploits;

how, a year later, a carefully-planned expedition under General Terry,

attacked the fort; how, after a two days’ bombardment by the fleet, two

thousand sailors and marines were landed, under instructions to ‘board

the fort in a seaman-like manner’; how they were repelled by a murderous

fire, while a force of soldiers assaulting from another side drove the

defenders back, in a series of hand-to-hand contests, till the fort was

won.

On both those occasions, it fell to Stanley to watch the fight, to tell

the story of it in his own lucid and vigorous style, and to have his

letters welcomed by the newspapers, and given to the world.

Three months later, in April, 1865, the war was ended, and Stanley left

the Navy. Then, for a twelve-month, his diary gives only such glimpses

of him as an occasional name of a place with date. ‘St. Joseph,

Missouri,--across the Plains,--Indians,--Salt Lake City,--Denver,--Black

Hawk,--Omaha.’ Apparently through this time, he was impelled by an

overflowing youthful energy, and an innate love of novelty and

adventure.

In his later years, he told how, in his early days, his exuberant vigour

was such, that when a horse stood across his path his impulse was, not

to go round, but to jump over it! And he had a keen relish for the

sights and novelties, the many-coloured life of the West. So he went

light-heartedly on his way,--

‘For to admire and for to see,

For to behold the world so wide.’

Through this period he seems to have done more or less newspaper

correspondence, and to have tended towards that as a profession. Here

belongs an episode which is told in one of the autobiographic fragments;

the reckless frolic of boys recounted with the sobriety of age.

* * * * *

Being connected with the press, my acquaintance was sought by some

theatrical people in Omaha; at which, being young and foolish, I was

much gratified. After a benefit performance, which I was principally the

means of getting up for them, I supped with them, and for the first

time, I drank so much wine that I tasted the joys and miseries of

intoxication. My impression will not be forgotten, for though the

faculty of self-restraint was helpless, the brain was not so clouded

that I did not know what I was about. I was conscious of an

irrepressible hilarity, which provoked me to fling decorum to the winds,

and of being overwhelmingly affectionate to my boon companions.

The women of the party appeared more beautiful than houris, especially

one for whom I felt ecstatic tenderness. When we had supped and drank

and exhausted our best stories, about two o’clock in the morning we

agreed to separate, the ladies to their own homes, but we men to a

frolic, or lark, in the open. The effect of wine was at its highest. We

sallied out, singing, ‘We won’t go home till morning.’ I was soon

conscious that my tread was different, that the sidewalk reminded me of

the deck of a ship in a gale, the lamp-posts were not perpendicular, and

leaned perilously over, which made me babble about the singular

waywardness and want of uprightness in houses and lamp-posts and awning

columns, and the curious elasticity of the usually firm earth. I wished

to halt and meditate about this sudden change of things in general.

Scraps of marine songs about the ‘briny ocean,’ ‘brave sailor boys,’ and

‘good ships be on her waters,’ were suggested to me by the rocking

ground, and burst in fluent song from my lips; a noisier set than we

became, it is scarcely possible to imagine.

I wonder now we were not shot at, for the Omaha people were not very

remarkable for forbearance when angered, and a charge of small shot

would have been no more than we each of us well deserved. But someone

suggested that vengeful men were after us, and that was enough to send

us scampering, each to his home, at four o’clock in the morning. I

reached my place without accident, and without meeting a single

constable; and, plunging into bed, I fell into a deep sleep. My first

waking made me aware of a racking headache, and a deep conviction that I

had behaved disgracefully.

I was enriched, however, by an experience that has lasted all my life,

for I then vowed that this should be the last time I would have to

condemn myself for a scandalous act of the kind. ‘What an egregious fool

I have been! Hang N---- and all his gang!’ was my thought for many a day.

* * * * *

Like David Copperfield’s first supper-party, one such lesson was enough

for a man who was to do a man’s part; he never again fell under Circe’s

spell. But the hunger for robust exploit was there, and he had found a

companion of kindred tastes. With W. H. Cook, in May, 1866, he started

for Denver. ‘We bought some planking and tools, and, in a few hours,

constructed a flat-bottomed boat. Having furnished it with provisions

and arms against the Indians, towards evening we floated down the Platte

River. After twice up-setting, and many adventures and narrow escapes,

we reached the Missouri River.’ From Omaha they travelled to Boston,

where in July, 1866, they took a sailing-ship for Smyrna.

They had planned to go far into Asia. The precise nature of their plan

is not recounted; but there is little doubt that Stanley was acting

partly as a newspaper-correspondent. What was the base of supplies, or

how ambitious were their hopes, is not told; but they went on their own

resources, and were well provided with money. Stanley seems from the

first to have commanded good prices for his newspaper work, and he notes

that he early took warning from the extravagance and dissipation which

brought many a bright young fellow in the profession to grief.

‘I practiced a rigid economy, punished my appetites, and, little by

little, the sums acquired through this abstinence began to impart a

sense of security, and gave an independence to my bearing which, however

I might strive to conceal it, betrayed that I was delivered from the

dependent state.’ Thus, presumably, he had saved the sinews of war for

this expedition. The opening stage, from the approach to the Asian

shore, was crowded with interest. Stanley records with enthusiasm the

appeal of classic and biblical association, the strangeness and

fascination of Oriental scenery, the aspects of country and people. On

leaving Smyrna, they plunged into the interior. It was his first draught

of the wonder-world of the Orient, and he drank eagerly.

But a speedy change fell on the travellers. First, the American lad whom

they had brought with them as an attendant, out of sheer mischief set a

fire ablaze, which spread, and threatened wide destruction, bringing

upon them a crowd of infuriated villagers, whom they had great

difficulty in appeasing. Then, when they had penetrated into wilder

regions, they fell in with a treacherous guide, who brought upon them a

horde of Turkomans. They were severely beaten, and robbed of all their

money,--twelve hundred dollars,--their letter of credit, and all their

personal equipment; then dragged to a village, and arraigned as

malefactors; then hustled from place to place for five days, with

indignity and abuse, to escape imminent death only by the intervention

of a benevolent old man.

The semi-civilized prison to which they were at last consigned proved a

haven of refuge, for there appeared on the scene a Mr. Peloso, Agent of

the Imperial Ottoman Bank at Constantinople, who bestirred himself in

the friendliest manner on their behalf. Setting the facts of the case

before the Turkish Governor, he completely turned the tables on the

ruffianly accusers by getting them put in prison to await their trial,

while Stanley and his companions moved on their way to Constantinople.

There, again, they received most effective friendship at the hands of

Mr. Edward Joy Morris, the American Minister, and Mr. J. H. Goodenow,

the American Consul-general. Warm hospitality was shewn them; Mr. Morris

advanced £150 for their needs, their assailants were tried, found

guilty, and punished; ultimately the Turkish Government made good the

money stolen.

That was the end of the Stanley-Cook exploration of Asia. The explorer’s

first quest had met a staggering set-back. But, ‘repulse is interpreted

according to the man’s nature,’ as Morley puts it; ‘one of the

differences between the first-rate man and the fifth-rate lies in the

vigour with which the first-rate man recovers from this reaction, and

crushes it down, and again flings himself once more upon the breach.’

CHAPTER XI

WEST AND EAST

INDIAN WARS OF THE WEST.--ABYSSINIAN CAMPAIGN, ETC.

* * * * *

Stanley writes: ‘My first entry into journalistic life as a selected

“special” was at St. Louis after my return from Asia Minor. Hitherto, I

had only been an attaché, or supernumerary, as it were, whose

communications had been accepted and most handsomely rewarded, when, as

during the two bombardments of Fort Fisher, they described events of

great public interest. I was now instructed to “write-up” North-western

Missouri, and Kansas, and Nebraska. In 1867, I was delegated to join

General Hancock’s expedition against the Kiowas and Comanches, and, soon

after the termination of a bloodless campaign, was asked to accompany

the Peace Commission to the Indians.’

* * * * *

These two expeditions he reported in a series of letters to the

‘Missouri Democrat,’ which, in 1895, he made into the first of two

volumes, ‘My Early Travels and Adventures.’ It is the graphic story of a

significant and momentous contact of civilization with savagery. Two

years after the close of the Civil War, the tide of settlers was swiftly

advancing over the great prairies of the West. The Union Pacific

Railroad was being pushed forward at the rate of four miles a day. The

Powder River military road was being constructed to Montana, and forts

erected along its line, through the best and most reliable

hunting-grounds of the Sioux, and without their consent. The Indians

throughout a wide region were thrown into a ferment, and there were

outbreaks against the white settlers. In March, a force was sent out

under General Hancock, which Stanley accompanied, with the general

expectation of severe fighting. But General Hancock soon imparted to

Stanley his views and purposes, which were to feel the temper of the

Indians, to see who were guilty, and who were not; to learn which tribes

were friendly-disposed; to separate them from the tribes bent on war; to

make treaties wherever practicable; and to post more troops on certain

roads.

In a march of four hundred and fifty miles, he practically accomplished

this plan. The hostile Sioux and Cheyennes were detached from their

allies, the Kiowas, Arapahoes, and Comanches; and when the hostiles

stole away from the conference, and began outrages on the settlers, they

were punished by the destruction of their villages. But after Hancock’s

return, the plains still seethed with menace and occasional outbreaks,

and a general Indian war seemed imminent.

In July, Congress met the emergency by the appointment and despatch of a

Peace Commission. At its head was General Sherman, with a group of

distinguished officers, two chief Indian Commissioners, and Senator

Henderson, of Missouri. Sherman, after some very effective speeches to

the Indians, left the further work to the other Peace Commissioners, who

travelled far and wide over the Plains, for two thousand miles. They met

the principal tribes in council, and made a series of treaties, which,

with the distribution of presents, and the general view impressed upon

the Indians in addresses, frank, friendly, and truthful, brought about a

general pacification.

In Stanley’s picturesque story of all this, perhaps the most striking

feature is the speeches of the Indian chiefs as they set forth the

feelings and wishes of their people. Said old Santanta; ‘I love the land

and the buffalo, and will not part with them. I don’t want any of those

medicine houses built in the country; I want the papooses brought up

exactly as I am. I have word that you intend to settle us on a

Reservation near the mountains. I don’t want to settle there. I love to

roam over the wide prairie, and, when I do it, I feel free and happy;

but, when we settle down, we grow pale and die.’

‘Few,’ writes Stanley, ‘can read the speeches of the Indian chiefs

without feeling deep sympathy for them; they move us by their pathos and

mournful dignity. But they were asking the impossible. The half of a

continent could not be kept as a buffalo pasture and hunting-ground.’

Reviewing the situation many years later, he pronounces that the decline

and disappearance of the Indians has been primarily due, not to the

wrongs by the whites, but to their innate savagery, their mutual

slaughter, the ravages of disease, stimulated by unsanitary conditions;

and, especially, the increased destructiveness of their inter-tribal

wars, after they had obtained fire-arms from the whites. His account of

the complaints laid before the Commissioners shows that there were real

and many wrongs on the part of the whites. To one story of a wanton

murder, and the comment, ‘Those things I tell you to show you that the

pale-faces have done wrong as well as the Indians,’ that stout old

veteran of the Plains, General Harney, replied: ‘That’s so, the Indians

are a great deal better than we are.’ But of the broad purpose of the

Government, and the spirit in which the Commission acted, Stanley

writes: ‘These letters describe the great efforts made by the United

States Government to save the unfortunate Indians from the consequences

of their own rash acts. The speeches of General Hancock and General

Sherman and the Peace Commissioners faithfully reflect the sentiments of

the most cultivated Americans towards them, and are genuine exhortations

to the Indians to stand aside from the overwhelming wave of white

humanity which is resistlessly rolling towards the Pacific, and to take

refuge on the Reservations, where they will be fed, clothed, protected,

and educated in the arts of industry and Christian and civilised

principles.’ The replies of the Indian chiefs no less faithfully reflect

their proud contempt of danger, and betray, in many instances, a

consciousness of the sad destiny awaiting them.

In all this, Stanley was unconsciously acquiring a preliminary lesson in

dealing with savage races. The tone in which Sherman, Henderson, and

Commissioner Taylor, spoke to the Indians, now as to warriors, now as to

children, gave hints which, later, Stanley put to good use. And the

experience of the Indians suggests a parallel with that of the Congo

natives as each met the whites. The wise and generous purposes of men

like Sherman and Taylor, as afterwards of Stanley, were woefully impeded

in their execution by the less fine temper of their subordinates.

And now, from the West, Stanley goes to the East. The point of departure

is given in the Journal.

* * * * *

January 1st, 1868. Last year was mainly spent by me in the western

Territories, as a special correspondent of the ‘Missouri Democrat,’ and

a contributor to several journals, such as the ‘New York Herald,’

‘Tribune,’ ‘Times,’ ‘Chicago Republican,’ ‘Cincinnati Commercial,’ and

others. From the ‘Democrat’ I received fifteen dollars per week, and

expenses of travel; but, by my contributions to the other journals, I

have been able to make on an average ninety dollars per week, as my

correspondence was of public interest, being the records of the various

expeditions against the warlike Indians of the plains. By economy and

hard work, though now and then foolishly impulsive, I have been able to

save three thousand dollars, that is, six hundred pounds. Hearing of the

British expedition to Abyssinia, and as the Indian troubles have ceased,

I ventured at the beginning of December last to throw up my engagement

with the ‘Democrat,’ proceeded to Cincinnati and Chicago, and collected

my dues, which were promptly paid to me; and in two cases, especially

the ‘Chicago Republican,’ most handsomely.

I then came over to New York, and the ‘Tribune’ and ‘Times’ likewise

paid me well. John Russell Young, the Editor of the New York ‘Tribune,’

was pleased to be very complimentary, and said he was sorry he knew of

nothing else in which he could avail himself of the services of ‘such

an indefatigable correspondent.’ Bowing my thanks, I left the

‘Tribune,’ and proceeded to the ‘Herald’ office; by a spasm of courage,

I asked for Mr. Bennett. By good luck, my card attracted his attention,

and I was invited to his presence. I found myself before a tall,

fierce-eyed, and imperious-looking young man, who said, ‘Oh, you are the

correspondent who has been following Hancock and Sherman lately. Well, I

must say your letters and telegrams have kept us very well informed. I

wish I could offer you something permanent, for we want active men like

you.’

‘You are very kind to say so, and I am emboldened to ask you if I could

not offer myself to you for the Abyssinian expedition.’

‘I do not think this Abyssinian expedition is of sufficient interest to

Americans, but on what terms would you go?’

‘Either as a special at a moderate salary, or by letter. Of course, if

you pay me by the letter, I should reserve the liberty to write

occasional letters to other papers.’

‘We do not like to share our news that way; but we would be willing to

pay well for exclusive intelligence. Have you ever been abroad before?’

‘Oh, yes. I have travelled in the East, and been to Europe several

times.’

‘Well, how would you like to do this on trial? Pay your own expenses to

Abyssinia, and if your letters are up to the standard, and your

intelligence is early and exclusive, you shall be well paid by the

letter, or at the rate by which we engage our European specials, and you

will be placed on the permanent list.’

‘Very well, Sir. I am at your service, any way you like.’

‘When do you intend to start?’

‘On the 22nd, by the steamer “Hecla.”’

‘That is the day after to-morrow. Well, consider it arranged. Just wait

a moment while I write to our agent in London.’

In a few minutes he had placed in my hands a letter to ‘Colonel Finlay

Anderson, Agent of the “New York Herald,” The Queen’s Hotel, St.

Martin’s Le Grand, London’; and thus I became what had been an object of

my ambition, a regular, I hope, correspondent of the ‘New York Herald.’

On the 22nd, in the morning, I received letters of introduction from

Generals Grant and Sherman, which I telegraphed for, and they probably

will be of some assistance among the military officers on the English

expedition. A few hours later, the mail steamer left. I had taken a

draft on London for three hundred pounds, and had left the remainder in

the bank.

* * * * *

The letters to the ‘New York Herald,’ narrating the Abyssinian campaign,

were afterwards elaborated into permanent form, the last half of

Stanley’s book, ‘Coomassie and Magdala.’ The campaign has become a

chapter of history; the detention of Consul Cameron by the tyrannical

King Theodore, of Abyssinia, continued for years; the imprisonment and

abuse of other officers and missionaries, to the number of sixty; the

fruitless negotiations for their release; the despatch from India of a

little army of English and Punjabis, under Sir Robert Napier, afterwards

Lord Napier, of Magdala; the marching columns of six thousand men, with

as many more to hold the sea-coast, and the line of communication; the

slow advance for months through country growing more wild and

mountainous, up to a height of ten thousand feet; Napier’s patient

diplomacy with chiefs and tribes already chafing against Theodore’s

cruelties; the arrival before the stronghold; the sudden impetuous

charge of the King’s force; the quick repulse of men armed with spears

and match-locks before troops handling rocket-guns, Sniders, and

Enfields; the surrender of the captives, and their appearance among

their deliverers; the spectacle of three hundred bodies of

lately-massacred prisoners; the next day’s assault and capture of the

town; Theodore shot by his own hand; the return to the coast: all this

Stanley shared and told.

His telling, in its final form,[11] has for setting an account of

antecedent events, the early success and valour of Theodore, his

degeneracy, the queer interchange of courtesies and mutual puzzlements

between Downing Street and Magdala, and the organisation of the rescue

force. These historical prefaces were characteristic of Stanley’s books;

the story of what he saw had an illuminating background of what had gone

before, worked out by assiduous study. The record of the campaign is

told with plentiful illustration of grand and novel landscape, of

barbaric ways, of traits in his companions. There is a pervading tone of

high spirits and abounding vitality. At first looked at a little

askance, as an American, by the other correspondents, he soon got on

very good terms with them. ‘Their mess,’ he writes, ‘was the most

sociable in the army, as well as the most loveable and good-tempered’;

and he names the London correspondents, individually, as his personal

friends. Lord Napier was courteous, and gave him the same privileges as

his English colleagues. With the officers, too, he got on well. There

is occasional humorous mention in the book, and more fully in the

Journal, of a certain captain whose tent he shared for a while, and whom

he names ‘Smelfungus,’ after Sterne; he might have been dubbed ‘Tartarin

de Tarascon,’ for he was a braggadocio, sportsman, and warrior, whose

romances first puzzled, and then amused, Stanley, until he learned that

a severe wound, and a sun-stroke, had produced these obscurations in a

sensible and gallant fellow.

As a correspondent he scored a marked success, for which he had good

fortune, as well as his own pains, to thank. On his way out, he had made

private arrangements with the chief of the telegraph office, at Suez,

about transmitting his despatches. ‘My telegrams,’ he notes in the

Journal, ‘are to be addressed to him, and he will undertake that there

shall be no delay in sending them to London, for which services I am to

pay handsomely if, on my return, I hear that there had been no delay.’

This foresight was peculiarly characteristic of Stanley. On the return

march, he could not get permission to send an advance courier with his

despatches; these had to go in the same bag which carried the official

and the other press bulletins. In the Red Sea, the steamer stuck aground

for four days; and, under the broiling heat, an exchange of chaff

between a colonel and captain generated wrath and a prospective duel;

Stanley’s mediation was accepted; reconciliation, champagne, and--Suez

at last; but only to face five days of quarantine! Stanley manages to

get a long despatch ashore, to his friend in the telegraph office. It is

before all the others, and is hurried off; then the cable between

Alexandria and Malta breaks, and for weeks not another word can pass!

Stanley’s despatch brings to London the only news of Theodore’s

overthrow. Surprise, incredulity, denunciations of the ‘Herald’ and its

‘imposture,’--then conviction, and acceptance! Stanley had won his place

in the world’s front rank of correspondents! He notes in his Journal,

‘Alexandria, June 28th, 1868. I am now a permanent employee of the

“Herald,” and must keep a sharp look-out that my second “coup” shall be

as much of a success as the first. I wonder where I shall be sent to

next.’

He was sent to examine the Suez Canal, which he found giving promise of

completion within a year. Then, on to Crete, to describe the

insurrection; and here he found no startling public news, but met with a

personal experience which may be given in full.

* * * * *

The Island of Syra, Greece, August 20th, 1868. Christo Evangelides seems

desirous of cultivating my acquaintance. He has volunteered to be my

conductor through Hermopolis. As he speaks English, and is a genial

soul, and my happiness is to investigate, I have cordially accepted his

services. He first took me on a visit of call to Mrs. Julia Ward Howe,

of Boston, and then to the Greek seminary, where I saw some young

Greeks with features not unworthy of the praise commonly ascribed to

Greek beauty. On the way to the Square, Evangelides, observing my

favourable impressions, took advantage of my frank admiration and

suggested that I should marry a Greek girl. Up to this moment it never

had entered my mind that it must be some day my fate to select a wife.

Rapidly my mind revolved this question. To marry requires means, larger

means than I have. My twelve hundred pounds would soon be spent; and on

four hundred pounds a year, and that depending on the will of one man,