There is mystery connected with the incidents which I am about to
relate. Looked at from one point of view, the whole affair is
mysterious--eminently so; yet, regarded from another point of view, it
is not so mysterious as it seems. Whatever my reader may think about it
as he goes along, I entreat him to suspend his judgment until he has
reached the conclusion of my narrative. My only reason for bringing
this mysterious matter before the public is, that, in addition to
filling me with unutterable surprise, it had the effect of quenching one
of my strongest desires, and effectually prevented my becoming a sailor.
This, I freely admit, is not in itself a sufficient reason to justify my
rushing into print. But when I regard the matter from what may be
termed a negative point of view, I do feel that it is not absolutely
presumptuous in me to claim public attention. Suppose that Sir John
Franklin had never gone to sea; what a life of adventure and discovery
would have been lost to the world! what deeds of heroism undone, and,
therefore, untold! I venture to think, that if that great navigator had
not gone to sea, it would have been a matter of interest, (knowing what
we now know), to have been told that such was the case. In this view of
the matter I repeat it, as being of possible future interest, that the
incident I am about to relate prevented my becoming a sailor.
I am said to be a soft boy--that is to say, I _was_ said to be soft.
I'm a man now, but, of course, I was a boy once. I merely mention this
to prove that I make no pretension whatever to unusual wisdom; quite the
reverse. I hate sailing under false colours--not that I ever did sail
under any colours, never having become a sailor--and yet I shouldn't say
that, either, for that's the very point round which all the mystery
hangs. I _did_ go to sea! I'm rather apt to wander, I find, from my
point, and to confuse my own mind, (I trust not the reader's). Perhaps
the shortest way to let you understand how it was is to tell you all
about it.
My name is Robert Smith--not an unusual name, I am given to understand.
It was of little use to me during the period of my boyhood, for I never
got any other name than Bob--sometimes _soft_ was added. I had a
father. He loved me. As a natural consequence, I loved him. He was
old, partially bald, silver-haired, kind, affectionate, good, five feet
six, and wore spectacles. I, at the time I write of; was young, stout,
well-grown, active, and had a long nose--much too long a nose: it was
the only point in regard to which I was sensitive. It was owing to the
length of this member, I believe, that I once went by the name of
Mozambique. You see, I conceal nothing. The remarkable--the
mysterious--the every way astonishing incidents I am about to relate,
require that I should be more than usually careful and particular in
stating things precisely as I saw them and understood them at the time.
In this view of the matter I should remark that the softness with which
I was charged did not refer to my muscles--they were hard and well
developed--but to my intellect. I take this opportunity of stating that
I think the charge unjust. But, to conclude my description of myself; I
am romantic. One of my dearest companions used to say that my nose was
the same, minus the tic! What he meant by that I never could make out.
I doubt if he himself knew.
My chief delight in my leisure hours was to retire to my bedroom and
immerse myself in books of travel and adventure. This was my mania. No
one can conceive the delight I experienced in following heroes of every
name over the pathless deep and through the trackless forests of every
clime. My heart swelled within me, and the blood rushed through my
veins like liquid fire, as I read of chasing lions, tigers, elephants,
in Africa; white bears and walrus in the Polar regions; and deer and
bisons on the American prairies. I struggled long to suppress the flame
that consumed me, but I could not. It grew hotter and hotter. At last,
it burst forth--and this brings me to the point.
I thought--one dark, dismal night in the middle of November--I thought,
(mind, I don't say I determined; no, but I thought), of running away
from home and going to sea!
I confess it with shame. The image of my dear father rose before me
with a kind and sorrowful look. I repented; started to my feet, and
seized the book I was reading with the intention of tossing it into the
fire. In doing so, I accidentally turned over a leaf. There was an
illustration on the page. I looked at it. An African savage firing the
whole contents of a six-barrelled revolver down the throat of a Bengal
tiger, without, apparently, doing it any harm! I thought not of the
incongruous combination. My soul was fired anew. Once again I thought
of running away from home and going to sea--not by any means with the
intention of remaining at sea, but for the purpose of reaching foreign--
if possible--unknown lands.
Having conceived the thought, I rose calmly, shut the book carefully,
but with decision, thrust my hands firmly into my pockets, knitted my
brows, and went out in search of my bosom friend John Brown--also a
commonplace name, I believe--at least, so it is said.
Jack, as I used to call him, had a mother, but no father--his father
died when Jack was an infant. I've often fancied that there was a
delicate bond of union between us here. He had a mother, but no father.
I had a father, but no mother. Strange coincidence! I think the fact
helped to draw us together. I may be wrong, but I think so. Jack was
on a visit to us at the time, so I had only to cross the passage to
reach his room.
"Come in," he cried, as I knocked.
"Jack, come to my room. It's more comfortable than yours. I want your
advice."
He rose, in some surprise, and followed me.
If John Brown's name was commonplace, his person was certainly not so.
He looked like a young lord. He was a noble fellow, by nature if not by
birth. A clear, sunny face, masculine chin and nose, sweet, firm mouth,
the eye of an eagle, and the soft, curly, golden hair of a child. Tall,
broad-shouldered, elegant, bold as a lion, gentle and kind as a lamb--
such was my best, my dearest friend, Jack.
"Jack," said I, "I'm going to run away!"
My friend fell into a chair, put both legs straight out, and looked at
me in speechless amazement for a second; then he burst into an
uncontrollable fit of laughter.
"Jack," I repeated, "I'm going to run away."
"You'll do nothing of the sort," said he.
"And," I continued, regardless of his remark, "I mean that you shall run
away with me."
"I'll do nothing of the sort," he replied. "But come, Bob, my boy,
you're joking. Surely this is not the object for which you called me
out of my room."
"Indeed it is. Listen to me, Jack." (I looked at him impressively. He
returned the look, for Jack was earnest as well as gay.) "You know that
my dear father positively refused to let me go abroad, although I have
entreated him to do so again and again. Now I think that's hard, you
know. I love my dear father very much, but--"
"You love yourself better. Is that it?"
"Well, put it so if you choose. I don't care. I'm going to run away,
and if you won't go with me you can stay at home--that's all."
"Come, come, Bob, don't be cross," said Jack, kindly; "you know you
don't mean it."
"But I do; and I'm sure I don't see what it is that prevents you from
going too," said I, testily.
"H'm! well, there is a small matter, a sort of moral idea, so to speak,
that prevents."
"And what is that?"
"Respect for my mother! Bob, my boy, I've been too deeply imbued with
that in my babyhood to shake it off now, even if I wished to do so; but
I don't, Bob, I don't. I'm proud of my mother, and, moreover, I
remember her teachings. There's one little verse I used to repeat to
her every Sunday night, along with the rest of the ten commandments,
`Honour thy father and thy mother,' etcetera. It seems to me that
running away is rather flying in the face of that. Doesn't it strike
you in that light, Bob?"
I was silent. I felt that I had no argument against such reasoning.
Jack rose.
"It's late, Bob; we are to start on our fishing expedition to-morrow
morning at six, so it behoves us to get into bed. Good-night! and think
over it!"