I was very fond of asking my nurse to sing in old Irish or to teach me Irish words. This she did, but agreed with her sister Biddy that it was all very uncanny, and that there must have been a time when I was perfectly familiar with the owld language, as I had such unearthly fondness for it.
I must have been about seven years old when my parentstook a house in Arch Street, above Ninth Street, Philadelphia. Here my life begins to be more marked and distinct. I was at first sent,i.e., walked daily to the school of Jacob Pierce, a worthy Quaker, who made us call him Jacob, and who carefully taught us all the ordinary branches, and gave us excellent lectures on natural philosophy and chemistry with experiments, and encouraged us to form mineralogical collections, but who objected to our reading history, “because there were so many battles in it.” In which system of education all that is good and bad, or ratherweak, in Quakerism is fully summed up. Like the Roman Catholic, it is utterly unfit forallthe world, and incapable of grappling with or adapting itself to the natural expansion of science and the human mind. Thus the Quaker garb, which was originally intended by its simplicity to avoid the appearance of eccentricity or peculiarity (most dress in the time of the Stuarts being extravagant), has now become, by merely sticking to old custom, the most eccentric dress known. The school was in a very large garden, in which was a gymnasium, and in the basement of the main building there was a carpenter’s shop with a turning-lathe, where boys were allowed to work as a reward for good conduct.
I could never learn the multiplication table. There are things which the mind, like the stomach, spasmodically rejects without the least perceptible cause or reason. So I have found it to be with certain words whichwillnot be remembered. There was one Arab word which I verily believe I looked out one hundred times in the dictionary, and repeated a thousand, yet never could keep it. Every teacher should be keen to detect these antipathies, and cure them by gentle and persuasive means. Unfortunately no one in my youth knew any better way to overcome them than by “keeping me in” after school to study, when I was utterly weary and worn—a very foolish punishment, as is depriving a boy of his meals, or anything else levelled at Nature. I think there must have been many months of time, and ofas much vain and desperate effort on my part to remember, wasted on my early arithmetic. Now I can see that byrewardsor inducements, and by the very simple process of only learning “one time one is one” for the first lesson, and that and one line more for the second, I could have mastered the whole book in time. But oh! the weary, dreary days, and the sad waste of time, and the anxious nervous suffering, which arithmetic cost me in my youth, and mathematics in after years!
But there was one class at Jacob’s in which I wasfacile-princepsand habitual past-grand-master. This was the class which was, like the professorship of Diogenes Teufelsdröckh, for Matters and Things in General. That is to say, we read aloud from some book—it may have been selections from English writers—and then Jacob, picking out the hard words or facts or phrases, required of them definition or explanation. One day there arose in these questions a sum in arithmetic, when I shot down to the tail of the class as a plummet drops to the bottom of the well. I shall never forget the proud fierce impatience which I felt, like an imprisoned chieftain who knows that he will speedily be delivered and take dire vengeance on his foes. I had not long to wait. “‘Refectory,’ what is a ‘refectory’? Hillburn Jones, does thee know? Joseph Widdifield, does thee?” But none of them knew till it came to me “down tail,” when I cried “An oyster-cellar.” “That is quite right, Charley; thee can go up head,” said Jacob, and as I passed Hillburn Jones he whispered, half in fun, half enviously, the “Kemble Refectory.” This was an oyster-cellar which had been recently opened under the Arch Street Theatre, and whence Hillburn and I had derived our knowledge of the word, the difference being that I remembered more promptly and risked more boldly. But I missed it one day when I defined apeasantas “a nest full of young birds;” the fact being that I recalled a picture in Æsop’s fables, and confusedpeasantwithpheasant. One day Jacob rebuked the class for letting mealways be at their head, when Hillburn Jones, who was a very honest little boy, said, “Indeed, Jacob, thee must know that all that we do know, Charley tells us.” For I was already an insatiable reader, and always recalling what I read, and always communicating my knowledge to others in the form of small lectures. I had a book of Scripture stories, with a picture of Pharaoh in his chariot, with the title, “Pharaoh’s host sunk in the Red Sea.” Hence I concluded that ahostwas a vehicle of a very superior description. A carriage-builder in our neighbourhood had executed a chaise of very unusual magnificence, and as I stood admiring it I informed Hillburn that this was what was called by the learned ahost, and that it was in such a host that Pharaoh perished. I remember elevating my voice somewhat for the benefit of a bystander, being somewhat proud of this bit of knowledge.
Unfortunately, not only my father, but also my teacher, and with them the entire population of North America, in those days regarded a good knowledge of arithmetic as forming nine-tenths of all that was most needful in education, while indulgence in a taste for general information, and “literature” especially, was glared at with a very evil eye indeed, as tending to injure a “practical business man.” That there could be any kind of profitable or respectable calling not based upon arithmetic did not enter into the heart of man to conceive, while among the bankers and merchants of Boston, New York, or Philadelphia there was a deeply-seated conviction that even a wealthy and successful editor, literary man, or artist, was really an inferior as compared to themselves. As this sublime truth was severely rubbed into me several times daily during the greater portion of my youthful life, and as in its earlier stage I rarely met with a man grown who did not look down on me as an unfortunate non-arithmetical, unbusinesslike creature, and let me know it too, I very naturally grew up with a low estimate of my own capacities; and as I was proud and sensitive, this was to mea source of much suffering, which often became terrible as I advanced in years. But at that time the position of the literary man or scholar, with the exception of a very few brilliant magnates who had “made money,” was in the United States not an enviable one. Serious interest in art and letters was not understood, or so generally sympathised with, as it now is in “Quakerdelphia.” There was a gentleman in Philadelphia who was a scholar, and who having lived long abroad, had accumulated a very curious black-letter andrarioralibrary. For a long time I observed that this library was never mentioned in polite circles without significant smiles. One day I heard a lady say very meaningly, “I suppose that you know what kind of books he hasand how he obtained them?” So I inquired very naturally if he had come by them dishonestly. To which the reply, half-whispered in my ear lest it should be overheard, was, “They say his books are alloldthings, which he did not buy at any first-class stores, but picked up at old stalls and in second-hand shops at less than their value; in fact,they did not cost him much.”
Yet these remarks must not be regarded as too sweeping or general. Firstly, I am speaking of sixty years since. Secondly, there were many people of literary tastes in Philadelphia—a little isolated, it is true; and finally, there was a great culture of science, founded by Franklin, and fostered by the medical schools. I could cite a brilliant array of names of men distinguished in these matters. What I am writing is simply a sincere record of my own—somewhat peculiar—or personal experiences. There are doubtless many who would write very differently. And now times areverygreatly changed.
I have again a quaint early reminiscence. It would happen that now and then a new carriage, always of the same sober description, with two very good, but seldom showy, horses would appear in the streets. Then its owner would be greeted on Market Street with the remark, “Well, Sammy,I see thee’s got thee fifty thousand dollars.” This sum—ten thousand pounds—constituted the millionaireism or moneyed aristocracy of those days. On it, with a thriving business, Samuel could maintain a family in good fashion, and above all, in great comfort, which was sensibly regarded as better than fashion or style. Fifty thousand dollars entitled a man to keep a carriage and be classed as “quality” by the negroes.
It may be worth noting that although the Quakers did not allow the piano in their families, as being too worldly, they compromised by having musical boxes. And I have heard that in the country, where still older fashioned ideas prevailed, the one bit of finery allowed to a Quaker damsel was a red ribbon; but it must be red, not of any other colour.
Let it be remembered that at this time Philadelphia, and even the world, were as yet to a great degree in the Middle Ages as compared to the present day. We had few steamboats, and no railroads, or telephones, or percussion-caps, or a tremendous press, or Darwinism, or friction matches. Even the introduction of ice-cream, and stone coal as fuel, and grates was within the memory of our elders. Apropos of matches, the use of tinderbox and brimstone matches was universal; bold young men had tinder pistols; but the wood fire was generally kept under ashes all night, and I can well remember how our negro servants, when it had gone out, were used early on winter mornings to borrow a shovelful of coals from the cook of our next-door neighbour, and how it was handed over the garden fence, the recipient standing on our pump handle and the donor on hers.
I forget in what year the railroad (with locomotives) was first built from Philadelphia to Columbia, a distance of sixty miles. I believe it was the first real road of the kind in America. On the day when the first train ran, the City Council and certain honoured guests made the journey, and among them was my father, who took me with him. There were only a few miles of the road then completed. It was a stupendous marvel to me, and all this being drawn by steam,and by a great terrible iron monster of a machine. And there was still in all souls a certain unearthly awe of the recently invented and as yet rather rare steamboats. I can (strangely enough) still recall this feeling by a mental effort—this meeting the Horror for the first time! My father remembered, and had been in the first steamboat which was a success on the Delaware. I saw its wreck in after years at Hoboken. The earlier boat made by John Fitch is still preserved in Bordentown.
I can remember that when gas was introduced to light the city, it was done under a fearful opposition. All the principal people signed a petition against it. I saw the paper. It would burst and kill myriads; it was poisonous; and, finally, it would ruin the oil trade. However, we got it at last. Somebody had invented hand gas-lamps; they were sold in the Arcade; and as one of these had burst, it was naturally supposed that the gasworks would do the same.
The characteristics of old Philadelphia were in those days so marked, and are, withal, so sweet to the memory, that I cannot help lingering on them. As Washington Irving says of the Golden Age of Wouter van Twiller, “Happy days when the harvest moon was twice as large as now, when the shad were all salmon, and peace was in the land.” Trees grew abundantly in rows in almost every street—one before every house. I had two before mine till 1892, when the Street Commissioners heartlessly ordained that one must be cut down and removed, and charged me ten dollars for doing it. It is needless to say that since Street Commissioners have found this so profitable, trees have disappeared with sad rapidity. Then at twilight thepea-akof the night-hawk could be heard all over Arasapha, which is the Indian name for the place where our city stands; there were in Coaquannoc, or the Schuylkill, abundant gold fish and perch, of which I angled divers. Yes, there was, and still is, a Fisher Club, which claims to be the oldest gentleman’s club in Anglo-Saxony, and which has for two centuries brewed for itself a“fish-house punch” as delicious as that of London civic banquets. There be no fish in the fair river now; they have all vanished before the combined forces of petroleum and the offal of factories and mines, but the Fish-House Club still has its merry banquets in its ancient home; for, as the French say, “Chacun péche à sa manière.” In graveyards lone or over gardens green glittered of summer nights millions of fireflies; there was the scent of magnolias, roses, pinks, and honeysuckles by every house; for Philadelphians have always had a passion for flowers, and there never was a Quaker, much less a Quakeress, who has not studied botany, and wandered in Bartram’s Garden and culled blue gentians in the early fall, or lilies wild in Wissahickon’s shade. There still remains a very beautiful relic of this olden time in the old Swedes Church, which every stranger should visit. It is a quaint structure of more than two hundred years, and in its large churchyard (which is not, like Karamsin’s graves, “deserted and drear,” but charming and garden-like) one can imagine himself in rural England.
In the spring of the year there was joyous activity on the Delaware, even in town; for, as the song hath it—
“De fishin’ time hab come at last,De winter all am gone and past;”
“De fishin’ time hab come at last,De winter all am gone and past;”
and there was the casting of immense seines and the catching of myriads of shad, the typical fish or emblem of the Quaker Philadelphian, because in the profile outline of the shad people professed to discern the form according to which the Quaker coat was cut. With the shad were many herring, and now and then a desperate giant of a sturgeon, who in his struggles would give those concerned enough to do. Then the yells of the black fishermen, the flapping of the horny knife-backed prey—often by the flashing of a night-fire—formed a picture worthy of Rembrandt. Apropos of these sturgeon, the fresh caviare or roe (which has been pronounced at St. Petersburg to surpass the Russian) was always thrownaway, as was often the case with sweetbreads, which were rarely eaten. But if the caviare or roe was really in those days “caviare to the general” multitude, thenoseof the fish was not, it being greatly coveted by us small boys wherewith to make a ball for “shinny,” which for some occult reason was preferred to any other. Old people of my acquaintance could remember when seals had been killed at Cape May below the city, and how on one or two occasions a bewildered whale of no small dimensions had found its way to Burlington, some miles above.
Now and then there would be found in the bay below the city a tremendous, square-shaped, hideous, unnatural piscatorial monster, known as a devil-fish, or briefly devil. It was a legend of my youth that two preachers or ministers of the Presbyterian faith once went fishing in those waters, and having cast out a stout line, fastened to the mast, for shark, were amazed at finding themselves all at once careering through the waves at terrible speed, being dragged by one of the diabolical “monsters of the roaring deep” above mentioned. Whereupon a friend, who was in the boat, burst out laughing. And being asked, “Wherefore this unrestrained hilarity?” replied, “Is it not enough to make a man laugh to see the Devil running away with two clergymen?”
There was a very excellent and extensive museum of Matters and Things in General, founded by an ancient artist named Peale, who was the head-central charm and delight of all young Philadelphia in those days, and where, when we had been good all the week, we were allowed to repair on Saturday afternoons. And here I may say by the way, that miscellaneous collections of “curiosities,” oddities, and relics are far more attractive to children, and stimulate in them far more interest and inquisitiveness and desire for general information, than do the best scientific collections, where everything is ranked and numbered, and wherein even an Etruscan tiara or a Viking’s sword loses much of its charm when placed simply as a “specimen” in a row of others ofthe kind. I am not arguing here in the least against scientific or properly arranged archæologic collections, but to declare the truth that forchildrenmuseums of the despised curiosities are far more attractive and infinitely more useful.
I owe so very much myself to the old Peale’s Museum; it served to stimulate to such a remarkable degree my interest in antiquities and my singular passion for miscellaneous information, and it aided me so much in my reading, that I cannot pass it by without a tribute to its memory. How often have I paused in its dark galleries in awe before the tremendous skeleton of the Mammoth—how small did that of a great elephant seem beside it—and recalled the Indian legend of it recorded by Franklin. And the stuffed monkeys—one shaving another—what exquisite humour, which never palled upon us! No;thatwas the museum for us, and the time will come when there will be such collections made expressly for the young.
“Stuffed monkey” was a common by-word, by the way, for a conceited fellow. Therefore theLouisville Journal, speaking of a rival sheet, said: “Reader, if you will go into the Louisville Museum, you will see two stuffed monkeys reading theCourier. And if you will then go into the office of theLouisville Courier, you may see two living stuffed monkeys editing the same.” The beautiful sallies of this kind which appeared in these two newspapers for years would make a lively volume.
Never shall I forget one evening alone in that Museum. I had come with Jacob Pierce’s school, and strayed off alone into some far-away and fascinating nook, forgetful of friends and time. All the rest had departed homewards, and I sought to find them. The dark evening shades were casting sombre tones in the galleries—I was a very little boy of seven or eight—and the stuffed lions and bears and wolves seemed looming or glooming into mysterious life; the varnished sharks and hideous shiny crocodiles had a light of awful intelligence in their eyes; the gigantic anaconda had longawaited me; the grim hyæna marked me for his own; even deer and doves seemed uncanny and goblined. At this long interval of sixty years, I can recall the details of that walk, and every object which impressively half-appalled me, and how what had been a museum had become a chamber of horrors, yet not without a wild and awful charm. Of course I lost my way in the shades, and was beginning to speculate on having to pass a night among the monsters, and how much there would be left for my friends to mourn over in the morning, when—Eureka! Thalatta!—I beheld the gate of entrance and exit, and made my latter as joyously as ever did the souls who were played out of Inferno by the old reprobate of the Roman tale.
Since that adventure I never mentioned it to a living soul till now, and yet there is not an event of my life so vividly impressed on my memory.
My father took me very rarely to the theatre; but my Quaker school-mates had never seen the inside of such places at all, and therefore listened greedily to what I could tell them of the sights. One of the wonders of my youth was the seeing the great elephant Columbus perform in a play called “The Englishman in Siam.” It was indeed very curious, and it is described as such in works on natural history. And I saw Edwin Forrest (whom I learned to know in later years) in “Metamora,” and Fanny Kemble in “Beatrice,” and so on. As for George Boker, he went, I believe, to every place of amusement whenever he pleased, and talked familiarly of actors, some of whom he actually knew, and their lives, in a manner which awoke in me awe and a feeling as being humble and ignorant indeed. As we grew older, Boker and I, from reading “Don Quixote” and Scott, used to sit together for hours improvising legends of chivalry and marvellous romances. It was in the year when it first appeared that I read (in theNew Monthly) and got quite by heart the rhyming tale of “Sir Rupert the Fearless,” a tale of the Rhine, one of the Ingoldsby legends, by Barham. Ican still repeat a great part of it. I bore it in mind till in after years it inspired (allied to Goethe’sWassermädchen) my ballad ofDe Maiden mit Nodings on, which has, as I now write, been very recently parodied and pictured byPunch, March 18, 1893. My mother had taught me to get poetry by heart, and by the time I was ten years of age, I had imbibed, so to speak, an immense quantity; for, as in opium-eating, those who begin by effort end by taking in with ease.
There was something else so very characteristic of old Philadelphia that I will not pass it by. In the fall of the year the reed-bird, which is quite as good as the ortolan of Italy, and very much like it (I prefer the reed-bird), came in large flocks to the marshes and shores of the Delaware and Schuylkill. Then might be seen a quaint and marvellous sight of men and boys of all ages and conditions, with firearms of every faculty and form, followed by dogs of every degree of badness, in all kinds of boats, among which thebateauof boards predominated, intermingled with an occasional Maryland dug-out or poplar canoe. Many, however, crept on foot along the shore, and this could be seen below the Navy Yard even within the city limits. Then, as flock after flock of once bobolinks and now reed-birds rose or fell in flurried flight, there would be such a banging, cracking, and barking as to suggest a South American revolution aided by blood-hounds. That somebody in themêléenow and then got a charge of shot in his face, or that angry parties in dispute over a bird sometimes blazed away at one another and foughtà l’outrancein every way, “goes without saying.” Truly they were inspiriting sights, and kept up the martial valour, aided by frequent firemen’s fights, which made Philadelphians so indomitable in the Rebellion, when, to the amazement of everybody, our Quaker city manifested a genius or love for hard fighting never surpassed by mortals.
There were, of course, some odd episodes among the infantry or gunners on foot, and one of these was so welldescribed by my brother Henry in a poem, that I venture to give it place.
Two men and a bull-dog ugly,Two guns and a terrier lame;They’d better stick out in the marsh there,And set themselves up for game.But no; I mark by the cockingOf that red-haired Paddy’s eye,He’s been “reeding” too much for you, sir,Any such game to try.“Now, Jamie, ye divil, kape dark there,And hould the big bull-dog in;There’s a bloody big crowd of rade-birds,That nade a pepperin’!”Ker-rack! goes the single barrel,Flip-boong! roars the old Queen Anne;There’s a Paddy stretched out in the mud-hole,A kicked-over, knocked-down man.“Och, Jamie, ye shtupid crature,Sure ye’re the divil’s son;How many fingers’ load, thin,Did ye putt in this d---d ould gun?”“How many fingers, be jabers?I nivir putt in a wan;Did ye think I’d be afther jammin’Me fingers into a gun?”“Well, give me the powder, Jamie.”“The powder! as sure as I’m born,I put it all into yer musket,For I’d nivir a powder-horn!”
Two men and a bull-dog ugly,Two guns and a terrier lame;They’d better stick out in the marsh there,And set themselves up for game.
But no; I mark by the cockingOf that red-haired Paddy’s eye,He’s been “reeding” too much for you, sir,Any such game to try.
“Now, Jamie, ye divil, kape dark there,And hould the big bull-dog in;There’s a bloody big crowd of rade-birds,That nade a pepperin’!”
Ker-rack! goes the single barrel,Flip-boong! roars the old Queen Anne;There’s a Paddy stretched out in the mud-hole,A kicked-over, knocked-down man.
“Och, Jamie, ye shtupid crature,Sure ye’re the divil’s son;How many fingers’ load, thin,Did ye putt in this d---d ould gun?”
“How many fingers, be jabers?I nivir putt in a wan;Did ye think I’d be afther jammin’Me fingers into a gun?”
“Well, give me the powder, Jamie.”“The powder! as sure as I’m born,I put it all into yer musket,For I’d nivir a powder-horn!”
Then we all had reed-bird suppers or lunches, eked out perhaps with terrapins and soft-shell crabs, gumbo, “snapper,” or pepper-pot soup, peaches, venison, bear-meat,salon la saison—for both bear and deer roamed wild within fifty or sixty miles—so that, all things considered, if Philadelphians,and Baltimoreans did run somewhat over-much to eating up their intellects—as Dr. Holmes declares they do—they had at least the excuse of terrible temptation, which the men of my “grandfather-land” (New England), as he once termed it in a letter to me, very seldom had at any time.
Once it befell, though a few years later, that one winter there was a broad fair field of ice just above Fairmount dam, which is about ten feet high, that about a hundred and fifty men and maidens were merrily skating by moonlight. I know not whether Colonel James Page, our great champion skater, was there cutting High Dutch; but this I know, that all at once, by some strange rising of the stream, the whole flake of ice and its occupants went over the dam. Strangely enough, no one was killed, but very few escaped without injury, and for some time the surgeons were busy. It would make a strange wild picture that of the people struggling in the broken floes of ice among the roaring waters.
And again, during a week on the same spot, some practical joker amused himself with a magic-lantern by making a spirit form flit over the fall, against its face, or in the misty air. The whole city turned out to see it, and great was their marvelling, and greater the fear among the negroes at the apparition.
Sears C. Walker, who was an intimate friend, kept a school in Sansom Street, to which I was transferred. I was only seven years old at the time, and being the youngest, he made, when I was introduced, a speech of apology to his pupils. He was a good kind man, who also, like Jacob, gave us lectures on natural philosophy and chemistry. There I studied French, and began to learn to draw, but made little progress, though I worked hard. I have literally never met in all my life any person with so little natural gift or aptitude for learning languages or drawing as I have; and if I have since made an advance in both, it has been at the cost of such extreme labour as would seem almost incredible. I was greatly interested in chemistry, as a child would be,and, having heard Mr. Walker say something about the colouring matter in quartz, resolved on a great invention which should immortalise my name. My teacher used to make his own ink by pounding nut-galls in an iron mortar. I got a piece of coarse rock-crystal, pounded it up in the same mortar, pouring water on it. Sure enough the result was a pale ink, which the two elder pupils, who had maliciously aided and encouraged me, declared was of a very superior quality. I never shall forget the pride I felt. I had, first of all scientists, extracted the colouring matter from quartz! The recipe was at once written out, with a certificate at the end, signed by my two witnesses, that they had witnessed the process, and that this was written with the ink itself! This I gave to Mr. Walker, and could not understand why he laughed so heartily at it. It was not till several days after that he explained to me that the ink was the result of the dregs of the nut-galls which remained in the mortar.
We had not many books, but what we had I read and reread with great assiduity. Among them were Cooper’s novels, Campbell’s poems, those of Byron, and above all, Washington Irving’s “Sketch Book,” which had great influence on me, inspiring that intense love for old English literature and its associations which has ever since been a part of my very soul. Irving was indeed a wonderful, though not astartlinggenius; but he had sympathised himself into such appreciation of the golden memories and sweet melodies of the olden time, be it American or English, as no writer now possesses. In my eighth year I loved deeply his mottoes, such as that from Syr Grey Steel:—
“He that supper for is dight,He lies full cold I trow this night;Yestreen to chamber I him led,This nighte Grey Steel has made his bed.”
“He that supper for is dight,He lies full cold I trow this night;Yestreen to chamber I him led,This nighte Grey Steel has made his bed.”
Lang—not Andrew—has informed us that no copy of the first black-letter edition of Sir Grey Steel is known to exist. In after years I found in the back binding of an oldfolio two pieces of it, each about four inches square. It has been an odd fatality of mine that whenever a poet existed in black-letter, I was always sure to peruse him first in that type, which I always from childhood preferred to any other. To this day I often dream of being in a book-shop, turning over endless piles of marvellously quaint parchment bound books inletres blake, and what is singular, they are generally works quite unknown to the world—first discoveries—unique! And then—oh! then—how bitter is the waking!
There was in Mr. Walker’s school library a book, one well known as Mrs. Trimmer’s “Natural History.” This I read, as usual, thoroughly and often, and wrote my name at the end, ending with a long snaky flourish. Years passed by, and I was at the University, when one evening, dropping in at an auction, I bought for six cents, or threepence, “a blind bundle” of six books tied up with a cord. It was a bargain, for I found in it in good condition the first American editions of De Quincey’s “Opium-Eater,” “The Rejected Addresses,” and the Poems of Coleridge. But what startled me was a familiar-looking copy of Mrs. Trimmer’s “Natural History,” in which at the end was my boyish signature.
“And still wider.” In 1887 I passed some weeks at a hotel in Venice. A number of Italian naval officers dined at ourtable-d’hôteevery evening. One of them showed us an intaglio which he had bought. It represented a hunter on an elephant firing at a tiger. The owner wished to know something about it. Baron von Rosenfeld, a chamberlain of the Emperor of Austria, remarked at once that it was as old as the days of flint-locks, because smoke was rising from the lock of the gun. I felt that I knew more about it, but could not at once recall what I knew, and said that I would explain it the next day. And going into the past, I remembered that this very scene was the frontispiece to Mrs. Trimmer’s “Natural History.” I think that some gem engraver, possibly in India, had copied it to order. I can even now recall many other things in the book, but attribute my retention ofso much which I have readnotto a good memory, such as the mathematician has, which graspsdirectly, but simply to frequent reading and mental reviewing or revising. Where there has been none of this, I forgot everything in a short time.
My father took in those yearsBlackwood’sand theNew Monthly Magazine, and as I read every line of them, they were to me a vast source of knowledge. I remember an epigram by “Martial in London” in the latter:—
“In Craven Street, Strand, four attorneys find place,And four dark coal-barges are moored at the base;Fly, Honesty, fly—seek some safer retreat,For there’s craft on the river, and craft in the street.”
“In Craven Street, Strand, four attorneys find place,And four dark coal-barges are moored at the base;Fly, Honesty, fly—seek some safer retreat,For there’s craft on the river, and craft in the street.”
I never pass by Craven Street without recalling this, and so it has come to pass that by such memories and associations London in a thousand ways is always reviving my early life in America.
TheNoctes Ambrosianæpuzzled me, as did the Bible, but I read, read, read,toujours. My uncle Amos lent me the “Arabian Nights,” though my father strictly prohibited it. But the zest of the forbidden made me study it with wondrous love. The reader may laugh, but it is a fact that having obtained “Mother Goose’s Melodies,” I devoured them with a strange interest reflected from Washington Irving. The truth is, that my taste had been so precociously developed, that I unconsciously found aliterarymerit or charm in them as I did in all fairy-tales, and I remember being most righteously indignant once when a young bookseller told me that I was getting to be too old to read such stuff! The truth was, that I was just getting to be old enough to appreciate it as folk-lore and literature, which he never did.
The great intellectual influence which acted on me most powerfully after Irving was an incomplete volume of about 1790, called “The Poetical Epitome.” It consisted of many of Percy’s “Relics” with selections of ballads, poems, andepigrams of many eminent writers. I found it a few years after at a boarding-school, where I continually read it as before.
As I was backward in my studies, my parents, very injudiciously so far as learning was concerned, removed me from Mr. Walker’s school, and put me under the care of T. Bronson Alcott, who had just come to Philadelphia. This was indeed going from the frying-pan into the very fire, so far as curing idleness and desultory habits and a tendency to romance and wild speculation was concerned. For Mr. Alcott was the most eccentric man who ever took it on himself to train and form the youthful mind. He did not really teach any practical study; there was indeed some pretence at geography and arithmetic, but these we were allowed to neglect at our own sweet will. His forte was “moral influence” and “sympathetic intellectual communion” by talking; and oh, heaven! what a talker he was! He was then an incipient Transcendentalist, and he did not fail to discover in me the seeds of the same plant. He declared that I had a marvellous imagination, and encouraged my passion for reading anything and everything to the very utmost. It is a fact that at nine years of age his disquisitions on and readings from Spenser’s “Faerie Queen” actually induced me to read the entire work, of which he was very proud, reminding me of it in 1881, when I went to Harvard to deliver the Phi Beta Kappa poem. He also read thoroughly into us the “Pilgrim’s Progress,” Quarles’s “Emblems,” Northcote’s “Fables,” much Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Milton, all of which sunk into my very soul, educating me indeed “ideally” as no boy perhaps in Philadelphia had ever been educated, at the utter cost of all real “education.” It was a great pity, and pity ’tis ’tis true. The wordidealwas ever in his mouth. All of the new theories, speculations, or fads which were beginning to be ventilated among the Unitarian liberal clergy found ready welcome in his dreamy brain, and he retailed them all to his pupils, among whom I was certainly the only one whotook them in and seriously thought them over. Yet I cannot say that Ireallyliked the man himself. He was not to me exactly sympathetic-human. Such training as his would develop in any boy certain weaknesses—and I had mine—which were very repulsive to my father, who carried plain common-sense to extremes, and sometimes into its opposite of unconscious eccentricity, though there was no word which he so much hated.
Bulwer’s “Last Days of Pompeii,” “The Disowned,” and “Pilgrims of the Rhine” made a deep and lasting impression on me. I little thought then that I should in after years be the guest of the author in his home, and see the skull of Arbaces. Oh, that by some magic power every author could be made to feelallthe influence, all the charm, which his art exerts on his readers, and especially the young. Sometimes, now and then, by golden chance, a writer of books does realise this, and then feels that he has lived to some purpose. Once it happened to me to find a man, an owner of palaces and millions, who had every facility for becoming familiar with far greater minds and books than mine, who had for years collected with care and read everything which I had ever written. He actually knew more about my books than I did. I was startled at the discovery as at a miracle. And if the reader knewwhatamélangeI have written, he would not wonder at it.
It is very probable that no man living appreciates the vast degree to which any book whatever which aims at a little more than merely entertaining, and appeals at all to thought, influences the world, and how many readers it gets. There are books, of which a thousand copies were never sold, which have permeated society and been the argument of national revolutions. Such a book was the “Political Economy” of H. C. Carey, of which I possess the very last copy of the first, and I believe the only, edition. And there are novels which have gone to the three hundred thousand, of whose authors it may be said that
“Over the barren desert of their brainsThere never strayed the starved camel of an idea,”
“Over the barren desert of their brainsThere never strayed the starved camel of an idea,”
and whose works vanish like wind.
What is very remarkable is the manner in which even the great majority of readers confuse these two classes, and believe that mere popular success is correlative with genius and desert. A great cause of this really vulgar error is the growing conviction that artistic skill alone determines merit in literature, and that intellect, as the French, beginning mildly with Voltaire and ending violently with Sainte-Beuve, assert is of far less importance than style. “Le style,c’est l’esprit du siècle.” Apropos of which I remarked that in the warlike Middle Age in France the motto might have been “L’homme c’est lesteel.” Then came the age of wigs, when the cry was, “L’homme c’est lestyle.” And now we are in the swindling and bogus-company-promoting age, when it might be proclaimed that “L’homme c’est lesteal.”
There was another book which I read through and through in early childhood to great profit. This was Cottle’s “Alfred,” an epic of some merit, but chiefly in this, that it sets forth tolerably clearly the old Norse life and religion. George Boker owned and gave me some time after a book entitled “Five Norse Poems,” in the original, and translated. This with Grey’s poems, which latter I possessed, laid the basis for a deep interest in after years in Northern antiquities; they were soon followed by Mallett; and if I have since read many sagas in Icelandic and studied with keenest interest the museums of the North, the first incentive thereto came from my boyish reading. When I was sixteen I executed a poetic version of the “Death Song of Regner Lodbrog,” which, though it was never published, I think was at least as good as any translation which I have since executed, “however that may be.” I very seriously connected this Norse spirit with my grandfather and his stern uncles and progenitors, who had fought in Canada and in the icy winters of New England; grim men they were all; and I daresay that I wasquite right. It always seems to me that among these alternately fighting and farming Icelanders I am among my Leland relatives; and I even once found Uncle Seth in his red waistcoat in the Burnt Njals saga to the life. There was a paragraph, as I write, recently circulating in the newspapers, in which I was compared in appearance to an old grey Viking, and it gave me a strange uncanny thrill, as if the writer of it were a wizard who had revealed a buried secret.
My parents, on coming to Philadelphia, had at first attended the Episcopal church, but finding that most of their New England friends held to the Rev. W. H. (now Dr.) Furness, an Unitarian, they took a pew in his chapel. After fifteen years they returned to the Episcopal faith, but allowed me to keep the pew to myself for one or two years, till I went to college. In Dr. Furness’s chapel I often heard Channing and all the famous Unitarian divines of the time preach, and very often saw Miss Harriet Martineau, Dr. Combe, the phrenologist, and many other distinguished persons. In other places at different times I met Andrew Jackson, Henry Clay, to whom I was introduced, Daniel Webster, to whom I reverently bowed, receiving in return a gracious acknowledgment, Peter Duponceau, Morton, Stephen Girard, Joseph Buonaparte, the two authors of the “Jack Downing Letters”; and I once heard David Crockett make a speech. Apropos of Joseph Buonaparte, I can remember to have heard my wife’s mother, the late Mrs. Rodney Fisher, tell how when a little girl, and while at his residence at Bordentown, she had run a race with the old ex-king of Spain. A very intimate friend in our family was Professor John Frost, the manufacturer of literally innumerable works of every description. He had many thousands of woodcut blocks, and when he received an order—as, for example, a history of any country, or of the world, or of a religion, or a school geography, or book of travel or adventure, or a biography, or anything else that the heart of man could conceive—he set his scribes to write, scissors and paste, and lo! the book wasmade forthwith, he aiding and revising it. What was most remarkable was that many of thesepièces de manufacturewere rather clever, and very well answered the demand, for their sale was enormous. He had when young been in the West Indies, and written a clever novelette entitled “Ramon, the Rover of Cuba.” Personally he was very handsome, refined, and intelligent; a man meant by Nature for higher literary work than mere book-making.
Miss Eliza Leslie, the writer of the best series of sketches of American domestic life of her day, was a very intimate friend of my mother, and a constant visitor at our house. She was a sister of Leslie, the great artist, and had been in her early life much in England. I was a great favourite with her, and owed much to her always entertaining and very instructive conversation, which was full of reminiscences of distinguished people and remarkable events. I may say with great truth that I really profited as much by mere hearing as many boys would have done by knowing the originals, so deep was the interest which I felt in all that I heard, and so eager my desire to learn to know the world.
Then I was removed, and with good cause, from Mr. Alcott’s school, for he had become so very “ideal” or eccentric in his teaching and odd methods of punishment by tormenting without ever whipping, that people could not endure his purely intellectual system. So for one winter, as my health was bad and I was frequently ill, for a long time I was allowed to do nothing but attend a writing-school kept by a Mr. Rand. At the end of the season, he sadly admitted that I still wrote badly; I think he pronounced me the worst and most incurable case of bad writing which he had ever attended. In 1849 Judge (then Mr.) Cadwallader, with whom I was studying law, said that he admired my engrossing hand more than any he had ever seen except one. As hands go round the clock, our hands do change.
I was to go the next summer to New England with my younger brother, Henry Perry Leland, to be placed in thecelebrated boarding-school of Mr. Charles W. Greene, at Jamaica Plains, five miles from Boston; which was done, and with this I enter on a new phase of life, of which I have very vivid reminiscences. Let me state that we first went to Dedham and stayed some weeks. There I found living with his father, an interesting boy of my own age, named William Joshua Barney, a grandson of the celebrated Commodore Barney, anent whom was written the song, “Barney, leave the girls alone,” apropos of his having been allowed to kiss Marie Antoinette and all her maids of honour. William had already been at Mr. Greene’s school, and we soon became intimate.
During this time my father hired a chaise; I borrowed William’s shot-gun, and we went together on a delightful tour to visit all our relations in Holliston, Milford, and elsewhere. At one time we stopped to slay an immense black snake; at another to shoot wild pigeons, and “so on about” to Providence and many places. From cousins who lived in old farmhouses in wild and remote places I received Indian arrow-heads and a stone tomahawk, and other rustic curiosities dear to my heart. At the Fremont House in Boston my father showed me one day at dinner several foreign gentlemen of different nations belonging to different Legations. In Rhode Island I found by a stream several large pot-holes in rocks of which I had read, and explained to my father (gravely as usual) how they were made by eddies of water and gravel-stones. One day my father in Boston took me to see a marvellous white shell from China, valued at one hundred pounds. What was the amazement of all present to hear me give its correct Latin name, and relate a touching tale of a sailor who, finding such a shell when shipwrecked on a desert island, took it home with him, “and was thereby raised (as I told them) from poverty to affluence.” Which tale I had read the week before in a children’s magazine, and, as usual, reflected deeply on it, resolving to keep my eye on all shells in future, in the hope of something turning up.
I wasnot, however, a little prig who bored people with my reading, for I have heard old folk say that there was a quaintnaïvetéand droll seriousness, and total unconsciousness of superior information in my manner, which made these outpourings of mine very amusing. I think I was a kind of little Paul Dombey, unconsciously odd, and perhaps innocently Quaker-like. I could never understand why Aunt Nancy, and many more, seemed to be so much amused at serious and learned examples and questions which I laid down to them. For though they did not “smile outright,” I had learned to penetrate the New England ironical glance and satirical intonation. My mother said that, when younger, I, having had a difficulty of some kind with certain street-boys, came into the house with my eyes filled with tears, and said, “I told them that they were evil-minded, but they laughed me to scorn.” On another occasion, when some vagabond street-boys asked me to play with them, I gravely declined, on the ground that I must “Shun bad company”—this phrase being the title of a tract which I had read, and the boys corresponding in appearance to a picture of sundry young ragamuffins on its title-page.
My portrait had been admirably painted in Philadelphia by Mrs. Darley, the daughter of Sully, who, I believe, put the finishing touches to it. When Mr. Walker saw it, he remarked that it looked exactly as if Charley were just about to tell one of his stories. At the time I was reading for the first time “The Child’s Own Book,” an admirable large collection of fairy-tales and strange adventures, which kept me in fairy-land many a time while I lay confined to bed for weeks with pleurisies and a great variety of afflictions, for in this respect I suffered far more than most children.
Mr. Charles W. Greene was a portly, ruddy, elderly Boston gentleman of good family, who had been in early life attached in some diplomatic capacity to a Legation, and had visited Constantinople. I think that he had met with reverses, but having some capital, had been established by his many friends as a schoolmaster. He was really a fine old gentleman, with a library full of old books, and had Madeira in quaint little old bottles, on which, stamped in the glass, one could readGreene1735. He had a dear little wife, and both were as kind to the boys as possible. Once, and once only, when I had really been very naughty, did he punish me. He took me solemnly into the library (oh, what blessed beautiful reading I often had there!), and, after a solemn speech, and almost with tears in his eyes, gave me three blows with a folded newspaper! That was enough. If I had been flayed with a rope’s end, it would not have had a greater moral effect than it did.
Everything was very English and old-fashioned about the place. The house was said in 1835 to be a hundred and fifty years old, having been one of the aristocratic Colonial manors. One building after another had been added to it, and the immense elms which grew about testified to its age. The discipline or training was eminently adapted to make young gentlemen of us all. There was almost no immorality among the boys, and no fighting whatever. The punishments were bad marks, and for every mark a boy was obliged to go to bed an hour earlier than the others. Extreme cases of wickedness were punished by sending boys to bed in the daytime. When two were in a room, and thus confined, they used to relieve the monotony of their imprisonment by fighting with pillows. Those who had bad marks were also confined within certain bounds. Good boys, or those especially favoured, were allowed to chop kindling wood, or do other light work, for which they were paid three cents per hour.
The boy who was first down in the morning had an apple given to him. This apple was greatly despised by the bolder spirits, who taunted those who arose promptly with a desire to obtain it.
Candour compels me to admit that, as a teacher of learning, Mr. Greene was not pre-eminent. He had two schoolrooms, and employed for each as good a teacher as he could hire. But we were not at all thoroughly well taught, although we were kept longer in the schoolroom than was really good for us; for in summer we had an hour’s study before breakfast, then from nine till twelve, and again from two to five. In winter we had, instead of the early lesson, an hour in the evening. Something was wanting in the system, and I believe that after a year and a half I knew no more, as regards studies, than I did when I first entered.
When a boy’s birthday came, he was allowed to have some special dainty for us all. I was very much disgusted with the Boston boys when they selected pork and beans, which I loathed. Some would choose plum-pudding, others apple-pies. There were always two or three dishes for breakfast, as, for instance, fried potatoes and butter, or cold meat, or pan-dowdy—a kind of coarse and broken up apple-pie—with the tea and bread and coffee, but we could only eat of one. There was rather too much petty infant-schoolery in all this, but we got on very well. Pepper and mustard were forbidden, but I always had a great natural craving for these, and when I asked for them, Mr. Greene would shake his head, but always ended by handing them to me. He was abon vivanthimself, and sympathised with me. There were one or two books also of a rather peppery or spicy nature in his library, such as a collection of rollicking London songs, at which he likewise shook his head when I asked for them—but I got them. There I read for the first time all of Walter Scott’s novels, and the Percy Ballads, and some of Marryatt’s romances, and Hood’s Annual, and Dr. Holmes’s first poems.
There was in Mr. Greene’s library a very curious and now rare work in three volumes, published in Boston at some time in the twenties, called “The Marvellous Depository.” It consisted of old legends of Boston, such as the story of “Peter Rugg,” “Tom Walker and the Devil,” “The Golden Tooth,” “Captain Kidd,” “The Witch Flymaker,” and an admirable collection of unearthly German tales, such as “The Devil’s Elixir,” by Hoffmann (abridged), “Jacob the Bowl,” “Rubezahl,” “Der Freyschutz,” and many more, but all of the unearthly blood-curdling kind. Singly, they were appalling enough to any one in those days when the supernatural still thrilled the strongest minds, but taken altogether for steady reading, the book was a perfect Sabbat of deviltry and dramatic horrors. The tales were well told, or translated in very simple but vigorous English, and I pored over the collection and got it by heart, and borrowed it, and took it to Dedham in the holidays, and into the woods, where I read it in sunshine or twilight shade by the rippling river, under wild rocks, and so steeped my soul in the supernatural, that I seemed to live a double life. As was natural, my schoolmates read and liked such tales, but they sunk into my very soul, and took root, and grew up into a great overshadowing forest, while with others they were only as dwarf bushes, if they grew at all. All of this—though I did not know it—was unconsciously educating my bewitched mind to a deep and very precocious passion for mediæval and black-letter literature and occult philosophy, which was destined to manifest itself within a few years.
There was another book which greatly influenced my mind and life. I have forgotten the title, but it was a very remarkable collection of curiosities, such as accounts of a family of seven children who had every one some strange peculiarity, dwarfs and giants, and mysteriously-gifted mortals, and all kinds of odd beings and inventions. I obtained in a very mysterious way; for one day I found it in my desk, a blessed gift indeed from some unknown friend whohad rightly judged of my tastes. This work I literally lived upon for a long time. Once a lady friend of my mother’s came in winter and took me a-sleighing, but I had my dear book under my jacket, and contrived now and then to re-read some anecdote in it. In after years I found a copy of it in the Mercantile Library, Philadelphia, but I have never seen it elsewhere.[56]I had at Mr. Alcott’s carefully studied all the Percy Anecdotes, and could repeat most of them when recalled by some association; also Goldsmith’s “Animated Nature,” the perusal of which latter work was to me as the waving of a forest and the sighing of deep waters. Then, too, I had read—in fact I owned—the famous Peter Parley books, which gave me, as they have to thousands of boys, a desire to travel and see the world. I marvelled greatly at finding that Peter Parley himself, or Mr. S. G. Goodrich, had a beautiful country-house very near our school, and his son Frank, who was a very pleasant and wonderfully polite and sunshiny boy, sat by me in school. Frank Goodrich in after life wrote a novel entitled “Flirtation and its Consequences,” of which my brother said, “What are its consequences, Frank; good rich husbands? By no means.” I can remember being invited to a perfectly heavenly garden-party at the Goodrichs’, and evening visits there with my mother. And I may note by the way, that Frank himself lived abroad in after years; that his father became the American Consulin Paris, and that in 1848 he introduced to theGouvernement Provisoirethe American delegation, of which I was one, and how we were caricatured in theCharivari, in which caricature I was specially depicted, the likeness being at once recognised by everybody, and how I knew nothing of it all till I was told about it by the beautiful Miss Goodrich, Frank’s younger sister, on a Staten Island steamboat, many, many years after. And as a postscript I may add, that it is literally true that before I was quite twenty-three years of age I had been twice caricatured or pictorially jested on in the MunichFliegende Blätterand twice in the ParisCharivari, which may show that I was to a certain degree about town in those days, as I indeed was. While I am about it, I may as well tell the Munich tale. There was a pretty governess, a great friend of mine, who had charge of two children. Meeting her one day in the park, at a sign from me she pressed the children’s hats down over their eyes with “Kinder, setzt eure Hüte fester auf!” and in that blessed instant cast up her beautiful lips and was kissed. I don’t know whether we were overseen; certain it is that in the next number of theFliegende Blätterthe scene was well depicted, with the words. The other instance was this. One evening I met in aBierhallea sergeant of police with whom I fraternised. I remember that he could talk modern Greek, having learned it in Greece. This was veryinfra dig.indeed for a student, and one of my comrades said to me that, as I was a foreigner, I was probably not aware of what a fault I had committed, but that in future I must not be seen talking to a soldier. To which I, with a terrible wink, replied, “Mum’s the word; that soldier islieutenant of police in my ward, and I have squared it with him all right, so that if there should be aBierkrawall(a drunken row) in our quarter he will let me go.” This, which appeared as a grand flight of genial genius to a German, speedily went through all the students’kneipe, and soon appeared, very well illustrated, in the “F. B.”
We were allowed sixpence a week spending-money at Mr.Greene’s, two cents, or a penny, being deducted for a bad mark. Sometimes I actually got a full week’s income; once I let it run on up to 25 cents, but this was forbidden, it not being considered advisable that the boys should accumulate fortunes. A great deal of my money went for cheap comic literature, which I carefully preserved. In those days there were Crockett’s almanacs (now a great fund of folk-lore), and negro songs and stories were beginning to be popular. It is very commonly asserted that the first regular negro minstrel troupe appeared in 1842. This is quite an error. While I was at Mr. Greene’s, in 1835, there came to Dedham a circus with as regularly-appointed a negro minstrel troupe of a dozen as I ever saw. I often beheld the pictures of them on the bill. Nor do I think that this was any novelty even then. The Crockett almanacs greatly stimulated my sense of American humour (they do indeed form collectively a very characteristic work), and this, with some similar reading, awoke in me a passion for wild Western life and frontier experiences, which was fully and strangely gratified in after years, but which would certainly have never happened had it not been for this boyish reading.
For I beg the reader to observe that it is a very deeply-seated characteristic that whatever once takes root in my mind invariably grows. This comes from the great degree to which I have always gone over, reviewed, andreflected on, or nursed everything which ever once really interested me. And as I have thus far written, and shall probably conclude this work without referring to a note, the reader will have ample opportunity of observing how very strangely in all cases the phases of my life were predetermined long before by the literary education which I gave myself, aided very much by hereditary or other causes quite beyond my control. Now, as the object of aLifeis to understand every cause which created it, and as mine was to a very unusual degree created by reading andreflecting, even in infancy, I beg the reader not to be impatient with me for describing so much in detail thebooks which made my mind at different times. That is, I pray this much allowance and sympathy from possible readers and critics, that they will kindly not regard me as vain or thinking over-much of, or too much over, myself. For to get oneself forth as one really is requires deep investigation intoeverycause, and the depicting all early characteristics, and the man never lived who ever did this truly and accurately without much egoism, or what the ill-disposed may treat as such. And I promise the possible reader that when this subjective analysis shall be fairly disposed of, there will be no lack of mere incident or event of objective nature and more general interest.
My first winter at Jamaica Plains was the terrible one of 1835, during which I myself saw the thermometer at 50 degrees Fahrenheit below zero, and there was a snow-bank in the play-ground from October till May. The greatest care possible was taken of us boys to keep us warm and well, but we still suffered very much from chilblains. Water thrown into the air froze while falling. Still there were some happy lights and few shadows in it all. The boys skated or slid on beautiful Jamaica Pond, which was near the school. There was a general giving of sleds to us all; mine broke to pieces at once. I never had luck with any plaything, never played ball or marbles, and hardly ever had even a top. Nor did I ever have much to do with any games, or even learn in later years to play cards, which was all a great pity. Sports should be as carefully looked to in early education as book-learning. I had also a pair of dear gazelle-skates given to me with the rest, but they also broke up on first trial, and I have never owned any since. Destiny was always against me in such matters.
The boys built two large snow-houses, roofed in or arched over with hard snow. One was ingeniously and appropriately like an Eskimo hut, with a rather long winding passage leading into it. Of these I wrote in the spring, when the sun had begun to act, “one is almost annihilated, and of theother not avestageremains.” I found the letter by chance many years later.
There lived in Boston some friends of my mother’s named Gay. In the family was an old lady over eighty, who was a wonderfully lively spirited person. She still sang, as I thought, very beautifully, to the lute, old songs such as “The merry days of good Queen Bess,” and remembered the old Colonial time as if it were of yesterday. One day Mr. Gay came out and took me to his house, where I remained from Saturday until Monday; during which time I found among the books, and very nearly read through, all the poems of Peter Pindar or Doctor Wolcott. Precious reading it was for a boy of eleven, yet I enjoyed it immensely. While there, I found in the earth in the garden an oval, dark-green porphyry pebble, which I, moved by a strange feeling, preserved for many years as an amulet. It is very curious that exactly such pebbles are found as fetishes all over the world, and the famous conjuring stone of the Voodoos, which I possess, is only an ordinary black flint pebble of the same shape. Negroes have travelled a thousand miles to hold it in their hands and make a wish, which, if uttered withfaith, is always granted. Its possession alone entitles any one to the first rank as master in the mysteries of Voodoo sorcery. Truly I began early in the business! I may here say that since I owned the Voodoo stone it has been held in several very famous and a few very beautiful hands.
While I was at Mr. Greene’s I wrote my first poem. I certainly exhibited no great precocity of lyrical genius in it, but the reader must remember that I was only a foolish little boy of ten or eleven at the time, and that I showed it to no one. It was as follows:
“As a long-bearded Sultan, an infidel Turk,Who ne’er in his life had done any work,Rode along to the bath, he saw Hassan the black,With two monstrous water-skins high on his back.“‘Ho, Hassan, thou afreet! thou infidel dog!Thou son of a Jewess and eater of hog!This instant, this second, put down thy skin jugs,And for my sovereign pleasure remove both the plugs!’“The negro obeyed him, put both on the ground,And opened the skins and the water flew round;The Sultan looked on till he laughèd his fill;Then went on to the bath, feeling heated and ill.“When arrived at the bath, ‘Is all ready?’ he cries.‘Indeed it is not, sire,’ the bath-man replies;‘For to fetch the bath-water black Hassan has gone,And your highness can’t have it till he shall return.’”
“As a long-bearded Sultan, an infidel Turk,Who ne’er in his life had done any work,Rode along to the bath, he saw Hassan the black,With two monstrous water-skins high on his back.
“‘Ho, Hassan, thou afreet! thou infidel dog!Thou son of a Jewess and eater of hog!This instant, this second, put down thy skin jugs,And for my sovereign pleasure remove both the plugs!’
“The negro obeyed him, put both on the ground,And opened the skins and the water flew round;The Sultan looked on till he laughèd his fill;Then went on to the bath, feeling heated and ill.
“When arrived at the bath, ‘Is all ready?’ he cries.‘Indeed it is not, sire,’ the bath-man replies;‘For to fetch the bath-water black Hassan has gone,And your highness can’t have it till he shall return.’”
In after years my friend, Professor E. H. Palmer, translated this into Arabic, and promised me that it should be sung in the East. It is not much of a poem, even for a boy, but there is one touch true to life in it—which is thecursing. This must have come to me by revelation; and in after years in Cairo I never heard a native address another as “Afrit!Ya-hinzeer—wa Yahud—yin uldeen ak?”—“curse your religion!”—but I thought how marvellous it was that I, even in my infancy, had divined so well how they did it! However, now I come to think of it, I had the year before read Morier’s “Haji-Baba” with great admiration, and I doubt not that it was the influence of that remarkable book which produced this beautiful result. In after years I met with a lady who was a daughter of Morier. Apropos of thebook, it reminds me that I specially recall myreviewingit mentally many times.
I have reviewed my early life in quiet, old-fashioned, shaded Philadelphia and in rural New England so continually and carefully all the time ever since it passed that I am sure its minutest detail on any day would now be accurately recalled at the least suggestion. As I shall almost certainly write this whole work without referring to a note or journal or other document, it will be seen that I remember the past pretty well. What is most remarkable in it all, if Icanmake myself intelligible, is that what between the deep and indelibleimpression made on my mind bybooks, and that of scenery and characters now passed away—the two being connected—it all seems to me now to be as it were vividly depicted, coloured, orwrittenin my mind, like pages in an illuminated or illustrated romance. As some one has said that dreams are novels which we read when asleep, so bygone memories, when continually revived and associated with the subtle and delicate influences ofreading, really become fixed literature to us, glide into it, and are virtually turned to copy, which only awaits type. Thus asceneto one highly cultivated in art is really a picture, to a degree which few actually realise, though they may fancy they do, because to actually master this harmony requires so many years of study and thought that I very rarely meet with perfect instances of it. De Quincey and Coleridge are two of the best illustrations whom I can recall, while certain analytical character-sifters in modern novels seem the farthest remote from such genial naturalness.
At the end of the first year my brother returned to Philadelphia. I passed the summer at Dr. Stimson’s, in Dedham, wandering about in the woods with my bow, fishing in the river, reading always whatever fate or a small circulating library provided—I remember that “The Devil on Two Sticks” and the “Narrative of Captain Boyle” were in it—and carving spoons and serpents from wood, which was a premonition of my later work in this line, and of my “Manual of Wood-Carving.”
At this time something took place which deeply impressed me. This was the two hundredth anniversary of the building of the town of Dedham, which was celebrated with very great splendour: speeches, tents with pine-boughs, music-booths, ginger-beer, side-shows—in short, all the pomp and circumstance of a country fair allied to historic glory. I had made one or two rather fast and, I fear me, not over-reputable acquaintances of my own age, with whom I enjoyed the festival to the utmost. Then I returned to school, and autumncame, and then winter. At this time I felt fearfully lonely. I yearned for my mother with a longing beyond words, and was altogether home-sick.
I was seated one Saturday afternoon, busily working in the drawing-class under a little old Englishman named Dr. Hunt, when there came the startling news that a gentleman had come to take me home! I could hardly believe my senses. I went down, and was presented to a man of about thirty, of extremely pleasant and attractive appearance, who told me that his name was Carlisle, that he was a friend of my father’s, and that I was at once to return with him to Philadelphia. I wonder that I did not faint with joy. Mr. Carlisle was a man of very remarkable intelligence, kindness, and refinement. Nearly sixty years have passed since then, and yet the memory of the delightful impression which he made on me is as fresh as ever. My trunk was soon packed; we were whirled away to Boston, and went to a hotel, he treating me altogether like a young gentleman and an equal.
It had been the dream and hope and wild desire of my life to go to the Lion Theatre in Boston, where circus was combined with roaring maritime melodramas, of which I had heard heavenly accounts from a few of my schoolmates. And Mr. Carlisle took me there that evening, and I saw “Hyder Ali.” Never, never in my life before did I dream that dramatic art, poetry, andmimesiscould attain to such ideal splendour. And then a sailor came on the stage and sang “Harry Bluff,” and when he came to the last line—
“And he died like a true Yankee sailor at last,”
“And he died like a true Yankee sailor at last,”
amid thundering hurrahs, it seemed to me that romance could go no farther. I do not think that Mr. Carlisle had any knowledge of boys, certainly not of such a boy as I was, but I am sure that he must have been amply repaid for his kindness to me in my delight. And there were acrobatic performances,such as I had never seen in my life, and we returned to the hotel and a grand supper, and I was in heaven.
The next morning Mr. Carlisle put into my hand, with great delicacy, such a sum as I had never before possessed, telling me that I “would need it for travelling expenses.” All the while he drew me out on literature. On the Long Island Sound steamer he bade me notice a young gentleman (whom I was destined to know in after years), a man with curly hair and very foppish air, accompanied by a page “in an eruption of buttons,” and told me that it was N. P. Willis. And so revelling in romance and travel, with mince-pie and turkey for my daily food, my pocket stuffed with money, in the most refined and elegant literary society (at least it was there on deck), I came to Philadelphia. I may here say that the memory of Mr. Carlisle has made me through all my life kinder to boys than I might otherwise have been; and if, as a teacher, I have been popular among them, it was to a great degree due to his influence. For, as will appear in many passages in this book, I have to a strange degree the habit of thinking over marked past experiences, and drawing from them precedents by which to guide my conduct; hence it has often happened that a single incident has shown itself in hundreds of others, as a star is reflected in countless pools.