bringing her to Norwich, removed their business to Worcester, Mass. She
followed them, and, as usual, I followed her. The business of her
patrons was the manufacture of pistols, a patented, six-barrelled,
self-cocking revolver, the first of its kind, I believe, ever invented,
and a wonder in its day. The whole six barrels revolved on a rod running
through their center, and by one and the same ratchet movement the
hammer was raised and the chambers of the barrel thrown into position to
receive the discharge from a percussion cap. There was a great demand
for these pistols in the South and West. It was, I suppose, on account
of my sister's intimacy with the families of these manufacturers that a
place was found for me in their works.
See me now no longer in a linen shirt and brown broadcloth jacket, but
again in blue jean overalls, with grimy, oily hands and dirty face, shut
in walls from which was no escape for ten hours each day. The lathes,
hand tools, forges and engine which operated the machinery were novel
and interesting to me at first. I was the only boy in the establishment.
The workmen, all skilled mechanics, were a remarkably fine body of men.
They earned large wages, lived quite comfortably, and were prominent in
their several circles and churches. One of them became Lieut. Gov. of
Mass. I was placed under the charge of the foreman of the first floor
where the heavier part of the material of the pistol was prepared. I did
the odd jobs of the room, worked a punching machine and managed the
lathe that turned the rough outside of the pistol barrel. My master took
an active personal interest in me and was very minute and painstaking in
his instructions. He was a very pious man and lost no opportunity of
exhorting me to seek religion and become converted. It made no
impression on me; I understood no word he said. Besides, just the same
words had always been familiar to me and had never conveyed any meaning
to my simple ears. It did not trouble me to be called a sinner; it never
occurred to me to question whether I was or not. In short in my
innocence and indifference, I was a perfect type of the thing itself, as
understood by the church. But when my master invited me to go a-fishing
on some half holiday, that was a very different sort of a text, which I
well understood. Alas, when the fish did not bite, it gave an
uncomfortable opportunity for a little exhortation. In addition to the
work in the shop I spent much time in the office, where I was employed
in putting the last touches to the pistols before being packed for
delivery. I burnished the silver plates, set in the handles, cleaned and
oiled the chambers, hammers and nipples, and polished the whole with
fine chamois skin. Thus I had a hand in the beginning and completion of
the construction of a pistol, and knew pretty well all the intermediate
operations. I also obtained an inkling of the way the business was
conducted by hearing the conversation and discussions of the
proprietors. I heard many secrets. Some of them confused my small
glimmerings of moral sense. It seemed to me that I had known the same
sort of obliquities among boys in the swapping of jacknives. I heard the
bookkeeper say one day, "business is business; this is no Sunday
school." I had bewildering thoughts. Was it possible these pistols were
not what they seemed and would not kill a man? For I knew they were sold
mostly in the South for the fighting of duels. I longed to try one on a
cat. The sun rose and set on my suspicions, with never a solution. To
this day I cannot rid myself of an innate doubt when I make a purchase.
I expect to be cheated.
I seemed in a fair way at last of acquiring a trade, and it might have
been, except for the accident of my boarding place. For there I first
came in contact with books and students. It was not a regular boarding
house, save for three months in the winter. I was taken into the family
on account of its association with mine long before in Bellingham. The
master of the house had formerly been the clergyman of that town, but
was now a botanic-eclectic physician and general medical professor of a
school, which held one winter session in his house. It was attended by
only a dozen students. Lobelia was Prof. ----'s strong point. Everybody
in the house was put through a course of lobelia with a heavy sweat,
sometimes to cure a slight indisposition, but more often as an
experiment. My only escape from the drudgery of the workshop was in
feigning sickness and undergoing the Professor's panacea. This confined
me to the bed for a day and gave me another day for recovery, when I
could be about and enjoy myself. These sweatings and retchings took the
color out of my cheeks so that when I returned to the shop it was easily
believed that I had been ill, and, with considerable sympathy, my master
also warned me of the brevity and uncertainty of life and the necessity
of preparing for the day of wrath. Little did he know how all this could
be escaped by a good dose of lobelia.
It was a curious life I led at this time between my regular occupation,
lobelia, the dissecting room of the professor and frequent religious
exhortations. I was immensely delighted by the secrets of the basement
cellar, where, in winter, the cadavers were kept I became accustomed to
the sight of them, and frequently inspected them when alone, curious to
see the internal structure of a human body, for until that time I was
not conscious of any internal structure of the human body. Hands and
feet were the epitome of my physiology. The whole business of dissection
was conducted in the most clandestine manner, although the subjects were
obtained from Boston and were, no doubt, honestly procured. There was
probably some professional reason for their being all women. I know not
why, but I seemed to be trusted by the Professor and his little band of
students, and when cadavers arrived at the railroad station by express,
I was often sent to watch them until they could be removed. They came in
large casks packed in oats.
I had little time to make acquaintance with boys, as I was not allowed
on the street in the evening, and Sunday was strictly observed. Nor did
I know any girls of my own age. With the pretty waitress of the
Professor's dining-room, some years older than myself, I had occasional
ardent encounters on back stairs and in dark entries. I was less
embarrassed by them than formerly and began to play the beau. As usual,
only girls much older than myself attracted me. I began to have the same
experience with regard to men. There were even some moments when I dimly
realized why some men were respected and honored. For the proprietors of
the pistol factory I had a deep reverence. One of them, the inventor of
the self-cocking pistol, was the model of a reserved, dignified
gentleman. I saw much of him in the office attending to his business,
deciding and despatching it with few words. The other member of the firm
was in complete contrast to his partner. His round, jolly face was
always wreathed in smiles, a joke, a pun, or story always forthcoming,
and business the last thing to be considered. He was a college graduate
and a poet of local reputation. It is singular in my boyhood how often I
happened to be dropped in the vicinity of small poets. This gentleman
was, like myself, a native of Bellingham, and on that account he
sometimes noticed me and made inquiries after my well-being. He seemed
to me a very great man, chiefly because he wrote poetry and had it
printed in books. I imagine that he expected me to remain a mechanic,
and had little thought of the influence he was unconsciously exerting
over the future. Nor did I myself recognize it, until years later when
my first article appeared in a magazine; feeling some pride in this
grand, world-moving effort, I sent it to him as a lawful tribute. Time
had not been kind to him; he had almost lost the use of his hand for
writing and was using some sort of mechanical contrivance for that
purpose. But the fire of the proselyter still burned in him, and he
ended his note of acknowledgment with the old familiar query about the
salvation of my soul.
THE AWAKENING
Having no boy associates I began to cultivate the Professor's students.
I spent my leisure time with them, and, through their conversation,
entered a new world. Words are too cold a medium to convey the change
that came over me, for at the same time that I began in some measure to
appreciate the learning and general knowledge of these young men I began
to be conscious of my own ignorance, I became aware that I knew nothing,
never had, and probably never should. Consequently I was more depressed
than stimulated. I reflected on the conversations I heard among the
students, and the pithy, sententious sayings of the Professor at the
table. He usually settled all discussions and table talk with a
witticism or apt quotation, I was about to say with a toothpick; for he
had a curious habit of digging his thumb and finger into his vest pocket
and fumbling for one, jabbing it into one side of his mouth and
delivering his wisdom from the other side. His wife who sat opposite to
him, tall, lean and prim always frowned on any levity at the table. It
was her opinion that we should eat our food in silence and as quickly as
possible, so that, as she often remarked, the table could be cleared and
the kitchen work not be delayed. To her great distress the conversation
often became so lively that the meal dragged, and various were her
devices for bringing back our attention to the business at hand. I had
some sense of the humor of the situation, and as I never took part in
the talk, I amused myself by exchanging winks with the pretty waitress.
She was the only person in the house near my own age. We were very good
friends; she cut me a little larger piece of pie than she served to the
others, darned my socks and called me "Sonny," and "curly head." She was
not averse to an arm around her waist, and I repaid her kindness in the
only currency I had--a kiss. However, I more enjoyed the society of the
students than I did hers. I could be in their company without being
noticed. No word escaped me and slowly, then, at length, overwhelmingly,
there was borne in upon me the crushing sense of the difference between
these young men and myself, their interests, expectations, future
careers and mine. Yet I saw no way out of my present situation. The
bitter seeds of unrest, and ambitions without opportunities, were at the
same time planted in a fruitful soil. When the soul of man is awakened,
not one but all its faculties awaken together. Hitherto the memory of my
past life had no existence and no interest. It was a blank page.
All at once, when most cast down and discouraged in my thought of the
future, that blank page of the past became illuminated and full of
delightful pictures and memories. I was entirely overcome by them. They
all pointed back to Bellingham, which I had not thought of since leaving
it. The attraction to the place became irresistible. It seemed as if
there I could recover myself and begin my life over again, continuing
all its joys, reuniting all its companionships. It is obvious to me now
that this was an evasive yet ingenuous effort to escape from myself, an
awakening that had come to me, which I knew not how to meet. I revolved
several plans for getting back to my native place and becoming a farmer.
None of these were practicable, and I determined to go, trusting to
chance to make the way plain. But even the going had difficulties. I
solved them by setting out. I crossed the bridge before I came to it,
and all the way was easy. I could take no scrip for the journey, for I
had none; neither two coats, for I had but one; nor yet could I take the
blessing of any one, for to no one save the waitress did I entrust my
intentions. I set out on foot, and once on the road, I felt as free and
joyous as a bird. There were twenty-five miles to cover, and I expected
to do them from sun to sun of a late April day. Sometimes I ran for a
mile or two from sheer eagerness to arrive. Most of the way I sauntered
along thinking of nothing, overflowing with animal spirits. Enough the
freedom, the open sky, the earth, which had been lost to me for three
years. It did not occur to me that I was running away, not from outward
conditions, but from myself; that at last I had come to the not unusual
crisis in the life of boys. However, it was a very mild form of runaway,
twenty-five miles, and its objective my old home; not the lure of the
sea nor the army, nor yet the adventures of the dime novel hidden in the
hay mow. No, it was none of these, but strangely in contrast to them, an
impulsive, passionate awakening of memory, an attempted escape from a
future, which had been shown to me as in a vision, and from which I
shrank in fear and despair.
At noon I was half way between Grafton and Upton and I rested on a high
bank with my back against a stone wall. There I could see the church
spires of Milford town, and beyond, the land fell away toward
Bellingham. I ate some food that the waitress had given me for the
journey, and took the road again. Soon I was in Milford. The remainder
of the way was very familiar. I knew every house, rock and tree; yet
everything looked smaller than I anticipated. I hurried on as I wished
to arrive at Uncle Lyman's before his supper time, which I knew was
invariably at five o'clock the year round. Uncle Lyman's house, to which
I was going, was the house in which I was born. He had been my father's
most intimate friend. The house had always been like a home to me, even
after my family had one of their own. As I hurried along I saw again the
house, one-storied, and the elm tree, with its branches extending over
the roof, and arching the highway. I suddenly remembered the flat stone
that had been set in its bole for a seat, which the tree had so
overgrown that, as a child, I could sit there and be almost hidden from
sight; and the brook which flowed through the fields near the house,
where the grass was always a darker green along its course, even when it
dried up; and the windings so many and sharp that they seemed to write
letters when one looked down upon them from a little elevation. I have
sat in a tree and fancied I spelled out words in the green grass.
As I came nearer the house I became more and more agitated about the
welcome that awaited me. It was friendly, yet surprised, and not as warm
as I had expected. Had they changed? Or was it I? Certainly I did not
feel at home. This was the house most dear to me, this the settle where
I had sat when my legs did not reach the floor. How familiar sounded the
voices I now heard, one deep and penetrating, the other a thin falsetto;
yet I did not feel the comfort I had imagined that I should. At the
table were the same dishes I remembered; the taste was gone. After
supper I went out and tried to sit in my old seat in the elm. It was too
small for me now; alas, it seemed to disown me, to have cast me out. The
barn which once looked so enormous appeared insignificant. I went to bed
unreconciled and unhappy. Yet how can a healthy boy awake in the morning
dejected? Night, pitying night, which knows how the evil days succeed
each other, hinders their sad return and hides in her oblivious mantle
their weariness, their sorrows and their disappointments. I was awake at
dawn, and yesterday was forgotten. The sun shone across the tops of the
forest oaks just beginning to show their red buds. There was dew on the
grass and a sweet, earthy smell in the air. Robins were calling
everywhere and blue birds flying low from fence to fence. The little
brook was full to the brim; the lush grass laid flat along its borders.
I found the places where I used to erect my miniature mill wheels, and
the remains of the little dam. Here was already antiquity. I did not
need Egypt or Greece. Childhood contains their whole story. The season
was unusually early; the great elm was becoming misty with the ruffled
edges of its unfolding leaves. The outermost sprays began to drop from
increasing weight of sap and leaf bud. Catkins hung on birch and willow
and alder and the ancient bed of tansy had a new growth of three inches.
Down the hill toward Beaver Pond, and along the meadow clusters of ferns
were leading up their brides and bridegrooms in opposite pairs with
bowed heads. It was twenty days before the usual pasturing time; but
Uncle Lyman was turning his cattle out for half a day to keep the grass
from becoming too rank and sour. I helped him drive the cows, oxen and
heifers to the pasture. How they gamboled, kicked up their heels and
tossed their heads. No more bow and stanchion, no more dry hay and
confinement for them. I shared in their exhilaration, having been myself
a prisoner for the past six months, and as we drove them afield, could
hardly keep from dancing and shouting. "There, my son," said Uncle
Lyman, "let me see if you have forgotten how to put up the bars."
I lifted them into place with a will, and thought, this is the life for
me. Emboldened by his question I opened my mind in a roundabout way as
to helping him all summer on the farm. He saw my drift at once and told
me he could not hire me, nor any other boy; he must have a man if
anybody, and that I must stick to my trade.
"You can stay a few days," he continued, "and then you had better go
back to it," and as if to soften his advice he added, "The first cloudy
day we will try for pickerel, though it is rather too early."
This might have been discouraging and a dreadful check to my plans, but
by some sudden transition wholly inexplicable, I had already half given
them up. My discontent and melancholy had been exhausted in the running
away; and a few hours experience of disenchantment reconciled me to my
lot.
There is no human experience more acutely painful than when one awakens
to the fact that he is a person, an ego, unrelated to people or things,
with no real claim to assert save that of habit or associations. The
sense of isolation and loneliness is at first overpowering, and vainly
does he try to attach himself to former objects and environment. The
awakening may come in mature years, it may come in youth; but at what
time it appears, the old heavens and the old earth crumble and the soul
faces its own destiny and recognizes that it must walk alone.
I was surprised to see how the face of things had altered, when, in the
course of the day, I hunted up the two playmates with whom I had
formerly been most intimate. I met a cold reception. We could not find
our way back to the old ground, the old innocent relation. As for Launa
Probana, I did not so much as inquire for her. Time and change had not
yet made her distinct and dear. After this I enjoyed myself very well
for a few days, excusing my prank with the notion that it was a
vacation. We went fishing, but the pickerel would not come from their
hiding places. In the evenings Uncle Lyman and his wife at their several
sides of the fireplace, she with her knitting, and he with his pipe, and
I in a corner of the settle, talked of the days when my father was
alive, and of the labors they underwent to make a good farm, clearing
the brush and stones and building the fences. They told me of my birth
and my father's joy at having a son. Then when I inquired for Nahum,
their son, whom I remembered as a young man, when I was a child, a
sudden silence fell over the great kitchen. There was no reply and the
mother's head drooped over her work and tears fell upon it. I wondered,
but did not dare to speak, and shortly I climbed the attic stairs to my
bed. The next day Uncle Lyman cautioned me not to mention Nahum again
before his wife. He said he had run away, and they knew not where he
was. A guilty pang struck my heart; I became conscious of what I had
done, and thought perhaps at that very moment my sister might be weeping
for me.
Nothing was now wanting to complete the failure of my escapade, and I
was as eager to run back as I had been to run away. Memories, touched by
imagination, had come to naught in contact with reality. I learned my
first lesson in keeping it and ideals in their proper place. A bird in
the bush is worth two in the hand! Utopia is a far country, toward which
to travel is better than to arrive. It was some years before I restored
the Bellingham of my imagination. If experience be nothing but suffering
then I had experienced; over this transaction therefore I grant an act
of oblivion.
The return to Worcester was tedious. I was in no hurry, dreading my
reception; what should I say, what should I answer? I revolved many
explanations, but each I could think of contained a falsehood. With all
my waywardness I was never a good liar; the lie was manifest in my face
and I could feel it there as something not myself. I concluded to say
nothing and not attempt any apology. This proved the wiser plan. Few
questions were asked; reproachful looks were to be expected. Some
penalty I paid in the shop also; harder tasks were set for me and I was
kept more strictly to my work. The students of Prof. Lobelia were now
gone, the sessions of his medical school closing in April, and the house
seemed lonesome. In the course of the summer there came into the family
a young man who was preparing himself to be a missionary. For the first
time I heard of Greek and Latin books. The young man was studying both;
it excited my curiosity. Here were other things of which I knew nothing,
and I began at this period to be oppressed continually by the more and
more frequent discovery of the extent of my ignorance. Luckily I knew
how to read. My rustic mentors had warned me against girls, but never of
books. I found in the Professor's library a queer assortment of odds and
ends of learned works. There was a shelf of theology and missionary
records, doubtless collected when he was a minister; many shelves of
medical books, and a small number of miscellaneous works, histories and
cyclopaedias. Among these latter I chanced one day to take down
Whelpley's Compend of History. All that I can remember of it now are its
stories of ancient heroes, Alexander, Caesar, the greater and lesser men
of Greek and Roman annals. That of Alexander made the deepest impression
upon me; I know not why, perhaps his conquests, his glory, his youth. I
scarcely knew before what the word hero meant. It was a mark of utter
inexperience and a visionary temperament that my ambition should have
been so aroused by the career of an ancient hero instead of the man who
had invented a self-cocking pistol. It was to be two thousand years
behind the times, in an age when half a generation is sufficient to
write you down as belated and not wanted. However, it is well to have a
hero in youth, an example, a spur, a Bucephalus, although one gets many
a fall before he reaches the goal, and I can date my desire to know more
and to achieve something from the reading of that brief compend of
ancient history.
If ever a man finds a path to the true life, he experiences two
awakenings, the intellectual and the spiritual, and it matters little
which is first. In Worcester I stumbled upon the two books in the space
of three years, which led me from darkness to day. The first was that I
have just described; the other was of somewhat the same character,
Emerson's Representative Men.