. B21 A3 
 
 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 000134fi^H40 
 
CONFESSIONS OF 
 BOYHOOD 
 
 JOHN ALBEE 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 RICHARD G. BADGER 
 
 THE GORHAM PRESS 
 I9IO 
 
Copyright 1910 by John Albee 
 
 All Rights Reserved 
 
 Bsi A3 
 
 The Goruam Press, Boston, U S. a 
 
 ©CI.A265400 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Introduction r 
 
 The Walls of the World 27 
 
 Shadows and Echoes ri 
 
 Holidays 52 
 
 The Amputation yy 
 
 Country Funerals gg 
 
 My Mother's Red Cloak 96 
 
 My Uncle Lyman 107 
 
 The Dorr War and Millerism 124 
 
 Woods and Pastures 132 
 
 Apprenticeships 143 
 
 Home and Homesickness 148 
 
 The Saw Mill 1^5 
 
 Bootmaking i5q 
 
 Love and Luxury 1-76 
 
 Shop Boy 192 
 
 Pistol Maker 204 
 
 3 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 The i\wakening 211 
 
 Student Life 228 
 
 School Master 238 
 
 Farm Hand 252 
 
 Conclusion 263 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 FOR so many years Belllngham has 
 had its abode In my fancy that I 
 find it hard to associate the town 
 with a definite geographical loca- 
 tion. I connect it rather with the 
 places of dreams and wonderland; the lost 
 cities of the Oxus and Hydaspes, the Hes- 
 perian Gardens and those visionary realms 
 visited and named by poets. My birthplace 
 grows unfamiliar when I take down an atlas 
 and run my finger over the parti-colored di- 
 visions of the Norfolk County of Massachu- 
 setts and trace the perimeter which confines 
 Bellingham to its oblong precinct, surround- 
 ed by those mythical lands of Mendon, Mil- 
 ford and Medway. They wear an authorita- 
 tive appearance on the map; but for me they 
 occupied no such positions in my childhood 
 and stand as stubborn realities hindering my 
 feet when I wish to return to the Red House 
 of my fathers. Once there, memory and fact 
 are no longer conflicting. I find, as of old, 
 the gently undulating hills, the gently loiter- 
 ing stream. 
 
 5 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 The legends concerning the founding of 
 Bellingham are missing. I am sorry; for I 
 could believe the most extravagant, feeling 
 with Plutarch, that fortune, in the history of 
 any town, often shows herself a poet. The 
 Delphian Pythoness advised Theseus to 
 found a city wherever in a strange land he 
 was most sorrowful and afflicted. There at 
 length he would find repose and happiness. 
 Thus it happened when the wanderers from 
 Braintree settled on the shores of the upper 
 Charles. They brought their unhappy for- 
 tunes so far, and there, in due time, found 
 comfort and contentment. 
 
 The traveller, journeying through the 
 
 highways of Bellingham, would see nothing 
 
 to attract his attention or interest. It has no 
 
 monuments, ruins nor historic associations; 
 
 no mountain, nor hill even. The Charles 
 
 river has travelled so little way from its 
 
 source as hardly yet to be a river. The soil 
 
 is stony and pays back not much more than is 
 
 put into it. The fine forests of white oak 
 
 have been mostly reduced to ashes in the 
 
 stoves of Milford, and their oracles have 
 
 ceased. My father, who could cut as clean a 
 
 scarf as any man of his day, helped to fell 
 
 6 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 them. Scrub oak and gray birch have taken 
 their places, but do not fill them. One great 
 elm remains; it seemed to me the largest and 
 oldest tree in the world. My mother nursed 
 her children in its shade; under it my world 
 began. In its top lived the wind and from the 
 longest spray of its longest limb the oriole 
 hung her artistic basket and brooded her gold- 
 en babies. Like many another ancient door- 
 yard tree it carried back its traditional origin 
 to a staff stuck in the ground and left to its 
 fate. 
 
 Bellingham was incorporated in 17 19 by 
 yeoman farmers, and later settled largely by 
 Revolutionary soldiers from neighboring com- 
 munities on the east, particularly from old 
 Braintree. On the Mendon tablet placed in 
 memory of the founders of the town appears 
 the name of my earliest ancestor. He was 
 a surveyor and plotted the land and built the 
 first mill, being called from Braintree for that 
 purpose. Permit me to take pride in my 
 learned ancestor, especially in his talent for 
 figures— the distress of my life. The most 
 interesting periods in the annals of the New 
 England people are when they began to or- 
 ganize themselves into communities for the 
 
 7 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 promotion of law, learning and piety. Their 
 efforts were primitive yet affecting. Their lan- 
 guage halted, but they knew what they wanted 
 and meant to have. 
 
 Such are the records of Bellingham. And 
 other history it has little out of the common 
 incidents of humanity. No eminent sons have 
 as yet remembered it with noble benefactions. 
 It has had no poet and no mention in litera- 
 ture. The reporters pass it by. It is not even 
 a suburb, last sad fate of many towns and 
 villages. This is one of the reasons for my 
 attachment— its unchangeableness, its entire 
 satisfaction of sentiment. 
 
 Yet such is the charm of one's native soil 
 that he is able to find in it the most wonderful 
 of all the beautiful things of the soul, namely, 
 those which no one else can see or believe. 
 After long years of absence, on returning to 
 Bellingham, my memory sees more than my 
 eyes. She who accompanies me in my ram- 
 bles over the town often takes photographs of 
 the places dearest to me; but her pictures 
 show not what I behold, and she wonders 
 what it can be that so infatuates me. I see a 
 hand she cannot see — forms, faces, happen- 
 ings not registered on the camera; places 
 
 8 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 where linger the invisible spirits of joyful or 
 painful experiences; playmates, companions, 
 whole families now dust, a thousand events 
 recalled only when time begins to obliterate 
 those of the present moment. 
 
 Although the sun went down over venerable 
 Mendon town, it lingered longer over Belling- 
 ham in summer days than in any place I have 
 known. There was hardly any night; just a 
 few attic stairs, a dream, and the sun and I 
 were again at play. Nor elsewhere were ever 
 the summer clouds so high, so near the blue, 
 so impetuous in the constant west wind to fol- 
 low each other into the unknown, mysterious 
 east. 
 
 Fortunate is the town with a river flowing 
 through its whole length and boys and girls to 
 accompany its unhasting waters. It was made 
 for them, also for the little fish and the white 
 scented lilies. For a few hours of the day 
 the great floats of the mill wheel drank of it, 
 sending it onward in the only agitation it ever 
 permitted itself. Then there was Bear Hill, 
 though never a bear in the oldest memory, 
 yet the name was ominous to children. I fear- 
 ed it and liked to visualize its terrors from a 
 safe distance in the blackberry field behind the 
 
 9 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 Red House. To kill a bear or an Indian was 
 the very limit of imaginative prowess. It was 
 too easy, and In an hour, tiresome, to kill 
 birds, snakes and anything one chanced up- 
 on that had life. Only the grasshop- 
 per could escape with the ransom of 
 some molasses from the jug he carries 
 hidden, no one knows where. You nev- 
 er knew a grasshopper was provisioned 
 with a molasses jug? Well then you have 
 never studied the boy's traditional natural 
 history. Therein are recorded things unknown 
 to science; discoveries never divulged, secrets 
 more deep than the Elusinian, passed on from 
 initiate to initiate for countless generations. 
 Nature has told them only to children, and 
 when grown to manhood, seals their lips with 
 that Impious Injunction to put away childish 
 things. 
 
 It Is not a river nor a landscape that gives 
 to a town Its real Importance; it Is the char- 
 acter of its men and women. That Is the pin- 
 nacle from which to view its landscape. Be- 
 fore cities and factories had begun to stir 
 the ambition and attract the young by op- 
 portunities for fortune and fame, Bell- 
 ingham was the home of an intelligent, 
 
 10 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 llberty-loving people; a community self- 
 sufficing, sharing its abundance with those 
 less abounding. It was thus the best place in 
 the world to be born about the first third of 
 the last century — to be explicit, in eighteen 
 hundred and thirty-three. And I wish that I 
 and the companions of my childhood could 
 have imitated Plutarch who said "I live in a 
 little town and choose to live there lest it 
 should become smaller." 
 
 All that is dear remains as it was, and it is 
 my delight to remember and magnify what it 
 is to me. My friends laugh when I say it is 
 better to be remembered in Bellingham than 
 to be famous in ten cities. It has been my 
 misfortune never to have lived in any other 
 place that in a few years, did not change and 
 forget itself. I cannot find anything in my 
 later residences that continues to connect me 
 with them. They have cut a street through 
 me, they have torn down and rebuilt my old 
 nests; and I know no more melancholy inti- 
 mation of the small consequence of one's life 
 and associations than this. Therefore I thank 
 Heaven for a town removed from the track 
 of progress, uninvaded by summer visitors and 
 
 all business enterprises ; land left sacred to its 
 
 II 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 native Inhabitants, a sluggish stream, unprofit- 
 able earth, huckleberry bushes and the imag- 
 ination. Since this is so, and there is little fear 
 of intrusion by the curious or the mercenary, 
 I will confide to my readers the situation of 
 the town with the understanding that they 
 will never attempt to verify my description. 
 
 It lies in the southwestern corner of Nor- 
 folk county, is eight miles long from north to 
 south, from three to four in width. The 
 brooks and ponds in the southern part have 
 their outlet into the Blackstone river; those 
 of the north into the Charles, which is the 
 natural but tortuous bound between eighteen 
 towns and cities of the county. It was named 
 for one of the Provincial governors of Massa- 
 chusetts, Richard Bellingham — a fine name. 
 Farming is the chief occupation of the inhab- 
 itants at present as it always has been. In 
 former times there were two or three small 
 cotton and woollen mills on the river. The 
 oldest of them, on the banks of the Charles, 
 is as picturesque a ruin as time, fire and neglect 
 are able to achieve in a hundred years. The 
 walls of heavy blocks of stone, roofless and 
 broken in outline, are still standing. Great 
 trees have grown up within them and now 
 
 12 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 overtop them. Here and there a poplar leans 
 forth from a broken window casement, leav- 
 ing scant room for the ghosts of ancient spin- 
 ners and weavers to peer into the outer world 
 at midnight. From a distance It resembles a 
 green, enclosed orchard. Decay may mantle 
 itself In newest green but cannot obliterate 
 memories of former generations. On these 
 fallen floors the young women of Belllngham 
 once labored and were merry on fifty cents a 
 day, a working day never less than twelve 
 hours long. They sang at their work, and 
 when the loom was running in good order, 
 they leaned out of the windows or gossiped 
 with each other. On Sundays the roads and 
 fields were gay with these respectable Yankee 
 maidens, becurled and berlbboned, philander- 
 ing with their sweethearts or in bevies visit- 
 ing each other's houses. Every girl had her 
 album in which her friends wrote their names, 
 and usually they were able to contribute an 
 original stanza; or, If not, a line from the 
 hymn-book, or a sentiment from the school 
 reader or Bible. They dressed in calico In 
 summer and in winter linsey-woolsey, and 
 wore at their work ample aprons of osna- 
 burg, a small checked blue and white cloth. 
 
 13 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 Vice was unknown; at least the annals re- 
 cord no flagrant examples. 
 
 I fear those who only know the cotton and 
 woollen mills of this day cannot realize or be- 
 lieve what an immense blessing they were to 
 New England when they first began to dot all 
 the streams offering sufficient water power to 
 operate their machinery. For the first time 
 they opened a way for young women to earn 
 money whereby they could assist their families 
 and promote the improvement of their own 
 condition. Work in these mills was sought 
 as a temporary employment generally; or for 
 the purpose of gaining money enough to at- 
 tend an academy for a few terms, from 
 whence they were graduated qualified to teach 
 a district school. It is said, that formerly, 
 when the factory girls were all American, five 
 hundred could have been found at any time in 
 the Lowell mills competent to teach school. 
 What a contrast these girls were in health, 
 beauty and intelligence to the pale, pinched 
 faces and bedraggled dresses now seen hurry- 
 ing to the Fall River and Manchester mills. 
 The mill girls of 1840 were self-respecting, 
 neat in their dress, religious, readers of good 
 books, members of all kinds of clubs for 
 
 14 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 study, and many of them could write excel- 
 lent English. The Lowell Offering, a mag- 
 azine conducted by factory girls at the 
 period I have mentioned, now seems very 
 remarkable; not so much perhaps for its 
 contributions, as that it should have ex- 
 isted at all. Yet the writing in the 
 Operatives^ Magazine and the Lowell Of- 
 fering was as good as that now appearing 
 in periodicals, in some respects superior, being 
 the free, unpaid and spontaneous utterances 
 of the human heart. It is mentioned with 
 praise in Emerson's Dial, One of our sweet- 
 est New England poets, Lucy Larcom, began 
 her career as a writer in them. I write that 
 name where I can see from my window a 
 mountain named in her honor. Although her 
 childhood was widely different from mine in 
 outward circumstances, I find in her auto- 
 biography something of her inward experi- 
 ences that reminds me of my own. 
 
 All the old-time life of farm and factory 
 is gone. It is refreshing to know a single 
 remnant of it left anywhere; and I was never 
 more surprised and delighted than to find in 
 Florence, Massachusetts, a few years ago, a 
 large class of silk mill girls reading and study- 
 
 15 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 ing Chaucer under the direction of a farmer's 
 wife of the same place. Bellingham mill, 
 may you continue to be filled with goodly trees 
 until you can assemble a class in Chaucer ! 
 
 Near this ruined mill stands a row of tene- 
 ment houses fast falling to pieces and one 
 large house where some of the operatives were 
 boarded. In the neighboring hamlet nearly 
 every house is standing that was there fifty 
 years ago, and there are no new ones. There 
 was an ancient law of Solon that houses in the 
 country should be placed a bowshot apart, and 
 this regulation seems to have been observed 
 in Bellingham. You could see their lights in 
 the evening, hear the dogs bark and the cock 
 crow at dawn. 
 
 Over the Green Store is a hall where 
 formerly Adin Ballou used to preach his 
 various gospels of Universalism, temper- 
 ance, peace and abolition on Sunday after- 
 noons following the morning services in his 
 neighboring parish, the Hopedale Com- 
 munity. As my family was attached to 
 the Baptist and Methodist persuasions I 
 cannot now imagine what drew them to hear 
 this famous reformer of society and religion. 
 They must have attended in this hall, for al- 
 
 i6 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 though I cannot recall anything else, I do re- 
 member going to sleep there in the hot sum- 
 mer afternoons in my sister's lap. But any 
 kind of a meeting was a temptation not to be 
 resisted in that little community. Adin Bal- 
 lou was in full sympathy with all the other re- 
 formers and transcendentalists of the Com- 
 monwealth, and when I search myself for an 
 explanation of my early and intuitive attrac- 
 tion to their ideals I sometimes fancy they 
 must have visited me in my sleep in that old 
 hall; or perhaps I heard something which lay 
 like a seed in the unconscious, secret recesses 
 of my being until time and favoring circum- 
 stances called it forth. For I find it recorded, 
 that he fired his hearers with aspirations for 
 "grand objects and noble ideas." 
 
 Regarding the topography of Bellingham, 
 the most that can be said is, that it has none, 
 none that distinguishes it either by lakes or 
 hills. The best soil is in the northern and 
 southern parts of the town and along the val- 
 ley of the Charles river. The white oaks were 
 once the most abundant of the deciduous trees. 
 They seem to love a lean and stubborn soil. 
 I have seen graves laid open to a considerable 
 depth where oaks had once stood, and still 
 
 17 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 uncovering nothing but coarse gravel. I have 
 talked with ancient well-diggers who declared 
 that the bottom of Bellingham was just like 
 the top and only good for grey birch and 
 beans. Yet they may not have dug after all 
 to the veins which supply the floral and ar- 
 boreal life of the earth. A poor soil is usual- 
 ly porous, admitting more wholesome air and 
 sunshine, and it is through these vital forces 
 that trees and men grow taller and hardier. 
 Thus do I like to compensate the sterile fields 
 of my native place by their stalwart, thin, 
 straight-backed citizens, all bone and muscle, 
 living with undimmed eyes and ears to ripe 
 old age, mowing their meadows to the last 
 summer of their lives and dying conveniently 
 in some winter month when work was slack. 
 The dial of my childhood marked none but 
 sunny days; the dry air and drier earth of 
 Bellingham gave me health and strength. I 
 never found any road in the town too long 
 for my walking if only the summer afternoon 
 were as long. I knew the roads and byways 
 foot by foot, and could find my way, If need 
 were, in the night as well as In the day. All 
 the houses I knew and their occupants; all the 
 
 good apple trees and whose was every cow 
 
 i8 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 grazing in the roadside pastures or resting 
 beneath a tree. If I could have my will I 
 would spend the remainder of my days ram- 
 bling once more and every day those familiar 
 roads and lanes, like Juno descending the 
 Olympian path — 
 
 "Reflecting with rapid thoughts 
 There was I, and there, remembering many 
 things." 
 
 The most perfect picture of contentment 
 Is a cow lying In the green grass under a 
 green tree chewing her cud; and this content- 
 ment I could realize, give me back the sandy 
 highways and green meadows, my bare feet, 
 Idleness and long summer days. 
 
 I was even more familiar with the pastures 
 and the woods than with the roads. The 
 whole surface of my ambit was spread out 
 like a miniature map In my eye, and continues 
 to be. Especially I knew the convenient ways 
 of reaching the river and Beaver pond and 
 the brook which connects It with the river 
 Charles. It grieves me that this stream has 
 never been celebrated In verse or prose ; while 
 the Concord, which rises on the same water- 
 
 19 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 shied with the Charles and almost from the 
 same spring, has had several famous poets 
 and is historic In Revolutionary annals. Long- 
 fellow sang one short song to our river, but 
 he looked out only on the foul mudbanks of 
 its Cambridge course, shut the door, went back 
 to his study and composed his subjective 
 Charles. 
 
 Slowly did I learn the actual extent and 
 course of the river Charles which, in my 
 childhood, rose as a shallow stream In the 
 green depths of a wood lying to the north of 
 Bellingham, flowing east, then south under 
 the arched bridge near the school house, emp- 
 tying somewhere in the southern sky; for, in 
 my childish apprehension, I thought It must 
 run up from where I was most familiar with 
 it. Its youth and mine were coincident, and 
 as years were added, the river broadened and 
 lengthened until I found myself one day at 
 its mouth, in reaching which, it had touched 
 and watered eighteen towns. It is the father 
 of no considerable stream, but innumerable 
 rivulets add to Its waters. It is about thirty 
 miles from source to mouth In a direct 
 course though it wanders a hundred miles in 
 its efforts to find the ocean. 
 
 20 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 "There runs a shallow brook across our field 
 For twenty miles where the black crow flies 
 five." 
 
 It never has any headlong haste to arrive. It 
 saunters like a schoolboy and stops to visit a 
 thousand recesses and indentations of upland 
 and meadow. It stays for a cow to drink, 
 or an alder to root itself in the bank, or to 
 explore a swamp, and it rather wriggles than 
 runs through its eighteen townships. It is 
 likely to stop at any one of them and give up 
 the effort to reach the sea. For my part I 
 wish it had, and actually, as in my memory 
 and fancy, ended at the outermost shores of 
 Bellingham. 
 
 The revolution of the earth can only ac- 
 count for the flow of the Charles for there 
 is no perceptible descent of the land. I like 
 to think it is ruled by the stars and not by 
 the configuration of the earth's surface. It 
 is vagrant and nomadic in its habits, moving 
 on a little, returning, winding and doubling, 
 uncertain of its own intentions, a brother of 
 the English Wye, said to derive its name from 
 Vaga, the wanderer, or vagabond. Since its 
 waters sprang from their fountain head and 
 
 21 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 learned that their destiny was to become a 
 river, they have never been in haste to reach 
 its turbid outlet, but go reluctantly from 
 town to town with whole days before them, 
 yes, perhaps, it was an age in making its 
 first journey. It loses its way often, but cares 
 not so there be a pleasant meadow to mean- 
 der through or a contemplative fisherman to 
 companion its course. The Charles has never 
 gained force, as man is said to do, by having 
 obstacles to overcome. It treats all the dams 
 which intercept its current with a lenient 
 benevolence, never having been known to 
 carry one away. Meeting a dam, it turns the 
 other cheek; in other words it patiently re- 
 tires into its higher channels and fountains, 
 filling and stilling the little babbling brooks 
 by its backward impulse, contented to be a 
 pond when it cannot be a river. It scarcely 
 resisted the ancients of Dedham, when they 
 attempted to steal it. Having no watershed 
 of its own, the Charles is not subject to those 
 floods and frenzies which make so many other 
 streams dangerous. Sedges and flags, the 
 skunk cabbage and marsh marigold, grape 
 vines, alders, willows and button bush abound 
 along its shores. White and yellow lilies 
 
 22 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 and the pickerel weed almost choke its 
 course in many places. Under the leaves of 
 these hides himself that fish which old anglers 
 named the water-wolf, the pickerel, who 
 preys upon his smaller brothers and sisters. 
 All is fish that comes into his net. There was 
 no more exciting moment in my boyhood than 
 when a pickerel swallowed the frog's leg on 
 my hook and began to retreat with it under 
 the lily pads. In the stream also were horned 
 pouts, perch, shiners and that silly little fish 
 we called ''kivers," for which my earliest fish- 
 ing was done with a bent pin. I was natur- 
 ally capacitated for fishing by my fondness 
 for silence and solitude. The mystery of wa- 
 ter drew me from one pool to another and a 
 constant expectancy of a larger fish than had 
 ever been caught. I was not aware that 
 words could make him as big as one chose; 
 but I had pictured him in my mind in all his 
 immense and shining length. What I most 
 wished to catch was a leviathan; my mother 
 when reading the word in the Bible had told 
 me it meant some kind of great fish, the larg- 
 est in the world. Once indeed I thought I 
 had him on my hook, but it proved only a 
 sunken log. Of stillness and solitude I had 
 
 23 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 my fill strolling along the banks of the river. 
 It seemed like Sunday without the require- 
 ments Imposed upon me by that day, stiff 
 shoes and Sunday-school. I became as still 
 as the nature around me, stepping softly and 
 almost hushing my breath. If I might de- 
 scribe In one word the sensation which I com- 
 monly experienced In my earliest lonely In- 
 tercourse with stream and forest It was a 
 breathless expectation, made up In part of 
 fear. In part of a vague hope of discovering 
 something wonderful. This quest never 
 wearied nor disheartened me; I only became 
 more eager In Its pursuit the more It evaded 
 me ; another search, another day and It would 
 be revealed. What would be revealed? 
 There are no words given to man in which 
 he can clearly portray the striving of the 
 spirit for that which shall resemble and sat- 
 isfy its visions and aspirations. The child 
 sees these visions and feels these aspirations 
 and strives to put his finger upon them; they 
 exist for him as physical objects which he 
 wishes to capture and carry home to his 
 mother with a proud consciousness of his val- 
 or. As soon as she had praised my handful of 
 flowers, my pocketful of nuts, or little string 
 
 24 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 of fish they palled upon me and I began Im- 
 mediately to feel an uneasy sense of disap- 
 pointment, of disillusion, knowing I had mis- 
 erably failed. The bombastic brag to my 
 mother and her praise were a kind of mock- 
 ery and falsehood. Illusion followed illu- 
 sion, defeat followed defeat, yet the morrow 
 was ever to be their healer and compensation. 
 How often have I been soothed by the wave- 
 less waters of the Charles river, its whispering 
 ripples scarcely reaching the shores and mak- 
 ing no impression upon it. But on my ear 
 they sounded like words interjected with soft 
 laughter. There I made acquaintance with 
 the earth, the waters, the shadows of the 
 sky, trying often to sink my hook to the edge 
 of a cloud. It was not in the heavens that I 
 first noticed the stars, but their trembling 
 images in water. 
 
 Thus by the humble and narrow environ- 
 ment of my childhood was It made doubly 
 dear to me; the very limitations themselves 
 enforcing and promoting the growth of won- 
 der and healthy imagination. It is this which 
 has kept alive my early memories and made 
 them pleasant and suggestive throughout my 
 life. Nor do I think my experiences peculiar. 
 
 25 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 Sir Henry Wotton In the last years of his 
 life happily expressed the feeling common to 
 men. "Seeing that very place where I sat 
 when I was a boy occasioned me to remem- 
 ber those very thoughts of my youth which 
 then possessed me; sweet thoughts indeed, 
 that promised my growing years numerous 
 pleasures without mixture of cares; and those 
 to be enjoyed when time, which I therefore 
 thought slow-paced had changed my youth 
 into manhood". 
 
 As I have already said unchangeable- 
 ness is the characteristic of Bellingham, and 
 I repeat it, that I may add that it is the coun- 
 terpart of something in myself. I have been 
 swept on with my race and my time and 
 while sharing all their tendencies, at heart 
 what I value most, that which Is most native 
 and dearest to me Is the simple undisturbed 
 life, full of friendliness, piety and humble 
 amusements Into which I was born. What 
 this life was, as reflected In a happy child- 
 hood, a neglected youth and Idealised by Its 
 Irrecoverable loss the following pages at- 
 tempt to portray. 
 
 26 
 
THE WALLS OF THE WORLD 
 
 A ONE-STORIED house was lofty 
 and convenient enough in a land 
 where God had planted a com- 
 munity of his common people. 
 That was the height of the 
 temple of the Greeks, which was only the 
 enlarged form of the hut or the house 
 of their Pelasgian ancestors. It was built 
 low in due reverence to its origin and to 
 their gods. No other architecture has ever 
 surpassed its beauty and sublimity. The 
 earth is ours to build upon and over, nor 
 much above. The early New England farm- 
 house was as beautiful in its place as the 
 Greek temple. Sometimes it was set directly 
 on the highway; sometimes in the middle of 
 a field or on the side of rising ground, and 
 not infrequently on the top of a hill, where 
 it shared without deforming, the natural ele- 
 vation of the earth. It was usually square, 
 but sheds and outbuildings lengthened its ap- 
 pearance and these latter added a comfort- 
 able and homelike aspect and were a larger 
 sort of window through which the wayfarer 
 
 27 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 seemed to behold the life of the family more 
 intimately. The pitch of the roof was flat- 
 tened, the better to resist wind and storm, 
 and through it arose the chimney stack. On 
 either side of the front door were the parlor 
 and living room; the former seldom 
 opened, and the latter rarely occupied un- 
 til afternoon and evening. The back 
 door was the most in use at all times, 
 and it was through it that one came 
 nearest to the hearts and homelife of 
 the inmates. The kitchen was where the 
 meals were cooked and eaten, the Bible read 
 at morning and evening and pipes lighted by 
 a live coal from the hearth. This live coal 
 was sometimes lost and the tinderbox miss- 
 ing; then the man of the family would travel 
 to the nearest house for a spark with which 
 to kindle his lost fire. The methods of carry- 
 ing and keeping it alive were numerous and 
 ingenious; a warming pan or iron pot would 
 answer, if the distance was not too great. 
 One of my forefathers awoke on a winter 
 morning to find the ashes in the fireplace cold, 
 and the nearest neighbor eight miles away. 
 It was an impossible undertaking to keep a 
 coal alive on a walk of eight miles. Wrap- 
 
 28 
 
THE WALLS OF THE WORLD 
 
 ping a piece of cotton cloth tightly about a 
 small stick he ignited one end at his neighbor's 
 hearth, and like an humble Prometheus car- 
 ried the smouldering gift to his little world 
 and its belated breakfast. 
 
 The kitchen was the favorite gathering 
 place of humble New England families and 
 it was there they were best seen and under- 
 stood; there the spinning wheel hummed 
 while the pot was boiling or the bannock bak- 
 ing; there stockings and boots were dried by 
 the open fire and the latter daily greased. 
 With what pride did I see my first pair stand- 
 ing there shining in their coat of pig's scro- 
 tum, this being thought invulnerable to wet, 
 especially snow water. Hardly could I go 
 to bed for longing to look at them and to try 
 them on for I know not how many times. By 
 the wide hearth of stone or brick, one could 
 whittle with impunity. Dirt is not common 
 dirt in front of an open fire. Charles Lamb's 
 clean hearth or that of the too fastidious 
 modern house robs it of half its comfort and 
 attractiveness. A little matter out of place, 
 somebody's definition of dirt, is one of the 
 most hospitable and cordial things I ever 
 meet in the houses of my friends. A room 
 
 29 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 with evidences of being lived in by the fam- 
 ily invites me to share the intimacy of that 
 life for the time being; but a too carefully 
 garnished room, which my host occupies only 
 while a guest is present, relegates me to my 
 proper place— a stranger within the gates. It 
 was with difficulty the family could be driven 
 into the sitting room in the evening. The men 
 preferred to stretch out on the settle and 
 smoke another pipe; the boys had a little 
 more whittling to do and loved to hear their 
 elders talk. Rarely was an outer garment 
 put on by men during the week days of win- 
 ter except on Sundays when riding cloaks 
 were the common wear for women, surtouts 
 for men. These were hand woven, or if 
 purchased, were of camlet. It was said of a 
 certain family that a drop of its blood was as 
 good as a great coat, so hardy and healthy 
 were its sons. 
 
 Among such farmers and manners and cus- 
 toms was I born, in a red house under the 
 great elm. In its shade the old doctor waited 
 and talked with the expectant father until 
 called into the house by the women who pre- 
 sided at such functions in the neighborhood. 
 My memory does not reach back to the 
 
 30 
 
THE WALLS OF THE WORLD 
 
 ^'trailing clouds of glory", but doubtless It 
 was these which obscured the April sun that 
 afternoon, so that the new baby could be 
 carried out under the elm tree and there 
 rocked to his first sleep. My next excursion, 
 so the family traditions aver, was to Uncle 
 Peter's, the nearest neighbor, the oracle of 
 the community for all signs, omens and coun- 
 try folk-lore, who, taking me in his arms, 
 carried me to the attic of his house and 
 touched my head to the ridgepole : "What 
 did you do that for?" my mother asked. 
 "Oh, that's the way to make him a great man 
 sometime. I does it to all the boy babies. 
 There's luck in it." In those days there were 
 great hopes, and prophecies had not ceased. 
 Many a sweet sleep did I have under the elm 
 tree's shade later on; and many a tiresome 
 hour turning the grindstone for the long 
 bladed sythes. In the trunk of the tree were 
 stuck many worn out blades, their points im- 
 bedded by the tree's growth from year to 
 year. Thus they became tallies marking the 
 past seasons of haying. Under the tree was 
 the afternoon parlor of the family through- 
 out the summer; there all the feminine in- 
 dustries went on, braiding straw, knitting and 
 
 31 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 mending, or a letter was added to the sam- 
 pler. Often some neighbor came bringing 
 her work, for nobody could be idle for a 
 moment. I do not know what they talked 
 about, but I can guess. However the picture 
 is faithful and attractive, though for us, silent 
 now. I find as few representatives of the ideal 
 common people as of the nobility or of genius. 
 So let them remain a picture, and do not ask 
 for their conversation, neither for their gram- 
 mar nor pronounciation. Cannot a Dorian 
 speak Doric? Kindly and helpful neighbors 
 can live together without the correctness and 
 elegancies of either. To me it is hateful to see 
 them caricatured and made literary merchan- 
 dise. Not so were the classic idyls and pas- 
 torals of Theocritus, Virgil, Spenser and Saint 
 Pierre composed. Is there nothing but bad 
 grammar, mispronounciation and provincial- 
 isms in the heart of the rustic? Must he 
 be forever misrepresented by his speech that 
 he may be saved by his virtues? The closer 
 a picture is drawn to the outward circum- 
 stance the more transient it will be. Ideals 
 alone survive in art and literature. I should 
 like to have the Theban law reenacted, which 
 required the imitation in art of the beautiful 
 
 32 
 
THE WALLS OF THE WORLD 
 
 and forbade the representation of the de- 
 formed and grotesque. 
 
 Four summers had passed before I knew 
 of any world beyond the walls of the Red 
 House, the dooryard and the shade of the 
 elm tree. I did not feel their confinement. 
 There seemed to be boundless liberty, 
 and the delusion Is complete when there 
 is no sense of limitation. The goldfish 
 In his glass prison no doubt supposes 
 himself swimming In an infinite sea. 
 When the boy's growth can be still meas- 
 ured by his mother's yardstick his out- 
 look Is restricted correspondingly. He 
 climbs upon a chair with difficulty and cannot 
 see over the table. This being, so lately 
 from heaven, creeps upon the earth, and his 
 first experiences are with the feet and under 
 side of things. Ask the creeper how the hu- 
 man face, a room and its furniture appear to 
 him. My father's face as I looked up to 
 him seemed to be very narrow and a yard 
 long. A face there was not. Nor had my 
 mother's round table any top; but its two 
 crossbars beneath, screws and catch and three 
 feet belonged to my under world. I could 
 explore the floor from corner to corner; the 
 
 33 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 mantel-shelf, windows and celling were 
 worlds and worlds above me. Lifted on some 
 one's shoulder I touched the celling with my 
 finger and knew no greater joy nor anything 
 more wonderful. 
 
 At length the creeper raises himself to 
 his feet. He walks, he can sit In a chair, 
 but will not. If he only would, what care 
 and trouble might be taken from his pro- 
 tectors. But he has found the door open and 
 the alluring dangers beyond; he has found 
 a new realm which he hears called In the 
 homely country speech out-of-doors. There 
 Is where he now lives and finds his liveliest 
 Interests. As he Is no longer a creeper but a 
 being of Importance to himself he deserves 
 a name, and It shall be henceforth I — my 
 own small, as yet uncapltallzed I. 
 
 The walls of my newly extended world are 
 the low enchanted hills of Mendon. There 
 the sky seems to curve down, to rest and to 
 end. It takes a long time to remove that 
 horizon line; even when one Is six feet. It of- 
 ten remains In Its accustomed place. I shall 
 pass beyond It, yet return again. My vision 
 will be often contracted; I shall see what I 
 once saw, become what I once was; shadowy 
 
 34 
 
THE WALLS OF THE WORLD 
 
 memories become bright by the touch of hand 
 and foot, and even the sense of smell shall 
 guide me through many a path and restore 
 many a room, many a threshing floor and 
 corn crib. When thrust back upon myself, 
 defeated, hopeless, I have retreated to the 
 scenes of my childhood where I could be tri- 
 umphant and happy in possessions, of which 
 I cannot be deprived, and that are beyond my 
 own power to alienate. But that time is far 
 in the future and I am contented with the 
 walls of my present world now expanded to 
 the hills of Mendon. Between them and me 
 flows the Charles stream. It is impassible as 
 far as I can see, yet I have heard and been 
 warned of a bridge full of peril. It is, how- 
 ever, an incredible distance to that bridge — 
 as much as a quarter of a mile. When there, 
 I dare not go forward lest I might be lost. 
 I tremble with desire and apprehension. I 
 return, slowly at first, then faster and faster, 
 until, breaking into a run, I reach my moth- 
 er's yard, where agitated but safe, I seem to 
 have escaped some fearful thing. This risk 
 gives me joy. So I go again, and this time I 
 shall pass over the bridge and beyond into 
 the unknown that eludes me. Adding to 
 
 35 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 danger the temptation to disobedience, I go 
 to the bridge oftener and oftener, some- 
 times leaning over the rail to watch for a 
 while the chips and straws floating along the 
 surface of the slow stream. They are mov- 
 ing in a direction of which I know nothing. 
 The depth of the water at the bridge is not 
 great, yet deep enough to be mysterious and 
 it hypnotises me. It draws me into it and I 
 lose myself. North and south, east and west, 
 in the water and in the skies all is mystery 
 which I am trying every moment to pene- 
 trate. As to myself I know nothing. Re- 
 flection, melancholy introspection, that sweet 
 disease of youth, from which it is so difficult 
 to escape, have not yet found me. There is 
 as yet little consciousness of any thing be- 
 yond external and material things save a faint 
 incommunicable magic which hangs like a veil 
 over the bounds of a small farm. From 
 those bounds my feet will not disengage me. 
 On very still days I hear sounds far away 
 and feel something within me that wishes to 
 follow them, does indeed follow over a great 
 space and leaves my body behind. As I hang 
 far over the rail of the bridge I see my face 
 in the water and become absorbed in its dis- 
 
 36 
 
THE WALLS OF THE WORLD 
 
 torted reflections. I amuse myself exagger- 
 ating them by various grimaces, swelling out 
 and drawing in my fat cheeks. I dare the 
 image to battle with my little fists; it accepts 
 the challenge and returns blow for blow. 
 
 The hither side of the bridge became more 
 and more familiar, the farther side more and 
 more desired. I knew the road to the school- 
 house and to our three neighbors, all of whom 
 I was accustomed to address as uncles and 
 aunts. There was a fourth neighbor and 
 nearer, yet there was a distance of some social 
 kind. They were spoken of as Captain and 
 Mistress Barber. To this house, a great 
 Colonial mansion, with windows as large as 
 those of the meetinghouse, I was often sent 
 on errands. No matter how often, I could 
 not deliver my message, or note or borrowed 
 salt without the greatest confusion. I felt 
 my breath give way, something fill my throat. 
 It was the words I was told to say over and 
 over, repeated all the way until I was too full 
 for utterance. Mistress Barber looked down 
 upon me with her long white face and was 
 able to guess the purpose of the boy's mission 
 through his stammering and embarrassment. 
 In her gentle, affable voice, as I now recall 
 
 37 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 it, I recognise the tone of a lady. She would 
 inquire when the errand was done if the little 
 boy would like an apple or a cake. The ques- 
 tion was too difficult; so she gave him both. 
 As I turned away I passed under the great 
 pine tree standing a little way from the man- 
 sion. It stood alone and it still stands two 
 centuries old, in ample space and in conse- 
 quence has grown symmetrical in form and 
 luxuriant with foliage. It had realised the 
 promise of its youth, a fate which 
 happens to few trees in a forest. From its 
 first majestic upward sweeping limbs to its 
 tufted top reigned solemn and perpetual 
 night. The wind scarcely swayed its dense 
 and plumy branches. It merely turned up 
 the silvery sides of the five-fingered clusters 
 of needles which responded with a low 
 melancholy voice like an aeolian harp, or 
 those minor chords composed under its shade 
 by my friend the Flute Player of Bellingham. 
 In the woods when the pines sing it is not these 
 I hear but the lone tree by the Barber man- 
 sion. It was the only tree in my reach I had 
 never climbed. I was afraid of its dark mys- 
 terious recesses — also of Captain Barber. 
 I grew old enough to do errands at longer 
 
 38 
 
THE WALLS OF THE WORLD 
 
 and longer distances. It was In doing them 
 that I at length crossed the bridge, an event 
 as Important to the child as the Rubicon to 
 Caesar. I began the conquest of new worlds 
 and to beat down the Mendon ramparts. I was 
 despatched to a more distant neighbor, the 
 great and wealthy house of the Pennlmans. 
 In a clean frock and Sunday shoes, my face 
 freshly washed, and with the largess of one 
 cent with which to buy candy at the Green 
 Store I departed full of anticipation, fear 
 and excitement. To the bridge It was a fa- 
 miliar way; beyond that half a mile, never 
 before travelled by me. I crossed the bridge 
 with three skips and a jump; never had It 
 seemed so narrow ; but once beyond I was as- 
 sailed with a thousand frights. The stone 
 walls rose up to an Intolerable height; behind 
 them lurked Innumerable wicked men and 
 bears. There was terror In everything, and 
 I looked back continually to see If the way 
 of retreat remained open. When at last I 
 lost sight of my mother's cottage my heart 
 almost stopped beating. Should I ever find 
 my way back? Should I ever see my home 
 again? I hurried forward without turning 
 my head as If the only safety now was In 
 
 39 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 reaching my journey's end. Soon I climbed 
 the eminence on which stood the Penniman 
 mansion. Its vast size astonished me. It 
 was two storied with a high gambrel roof 
 making in effect a third story. Through the 
 gambrel peaks rose two great chimneys, and 
 I wondered what two chimneys could be for. 
 Elaborate cornices surmounted the doors and 
 windows; the doors were all closed, the win- 
 dows draped; there was no sign of life any- 
 where. High shrubbery in bloom surround- 
 ed the house on three sides. There was not 
 even a wood pile in sight, that most common 
 accompaniment of every door yard I had ever 
 seen. The barn and other out buildings were 
 at some distance from the house — another 
 strange thing. From the eminence of the 
 Penniman mansion I could overlook the 
 Mendon hills and to my surprise there was 
 something beyond, indistinct, a greater dis- 
 tance than I had ever looked into, and there 
 vague forms rose up, whether clouds or other 
 hills I could not tell. My errand called me 
 away. I lifted the heavy brass knocker of the 
 green double door and let it fall once. It was 
 opened and I acquitted myself very well as 
 I did not have to speak; I had only to deliver 
 
 40 
 
THE WALLS OF THE WORLD 
 
 a parcel with a note. Whether it was a lord- 
 ly Penniman or only a servant who met me I 
 knew not, as I feared to raise my eyes from 
 under my wide brimmed straw hat, I held 
 out the parcel, felt it taken and rushed away. 
 Then my own important business began, the 
 spending of my cent. The doors of the 
 Green Store were wide open; a dog lay 
 stretched on the platform in front; the sun 
 poured his full rays over everything and an 
 aspect of sleepy quiet pervaded the outside 
 and inside of the building. There were no 
 customers to be seen, nor sound to be heard 
 save the buzzing of flies about the molasses 
 measures at the farther end of the room. 
 The store-keeper himself was fast asleep in 
 a chair tilted against the counter. I stepped 
 softly half fearing to awaken him. My 
 Sunday shoes squeaked a little and the 
 sound aroused him, though not entirely. 
 He slowly opened his eyes, looking at me fix- 
 edly as if uncertain of any presence. Then, 
 at length, he tilted his chair forward with a 
 bang, put a hand on each knee, raised himself, 
 stretched, yawned and scowled upon me as a 
 disturber of his peace. However the trader 
 also awoke in him and he went behind his 
 
 41 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 counter. I had not yet spoken a word. 
 Words were not necessary, for the country 
 storekeeper knows without being told what 
 the small urchin with one hand clutched tight- 
 ly wants of him. He took down a glass jar 
 with a bright brass cover full of sticks of 
 candy. There was only one short question to 
 be asked and answered, "what color"? The 
 boy, savage that he is, knows and de- 
 lights in but one, and he said "red", a word 
 he can spell also; blue has a twist he can- 
 not yet master. Sometime Launa's eyes 
 are going to teach him. In the shop, as he 
 hurried out, his eyes saw many things never 
 seen before. He coveted them all, especial- 
 ly such as shone in steel or brass or bright 
 new wood. He hardly knew their names; 
 but what beautiful playthings they would 
 make. All movable objects are potential 
 playthings to him. He makes them also, like 
 the Creator, out of nothing; if he wants a 
 horse he has it on the instant by straddling 
 a stick or tying a string to a companion. He 
 has epic uses for his father's tools, his moth- 
 er's knitting needles; they can slay a thou- 
 sand foes at one stroke and the button bag 
 contains them alive and dead. Six marching 
 
 42 
 
THE WALLS OF THE WORLD 
 
 clothes-pins are his army and conquer the 
 world In an afternoon. 
 
 The dog still slept as I left the store, the 
 merchant returned to his chair, the sun shone 
 on in noontide splendor. No shadow fell 
 from the Pennlman mansion; It looked more 
 lifeless and larger than ever. It seemed too 
 large to me to live in and like a meeting- 
 house. Not a leaf stirred on the great elm; 
 the trim spires of the Lombardy poplars had 
 folded their limbs upward to rest, as some- 
 times one does his arms. The grasshopper 
 began with a sudden shrill note which grew 
 drowsy toward the close as if he were too 
 lazy and hot to complete It. Over the sun- 
 burnt fields shimmered the heated air. I 
 seemed to be the only living, moving thing; 
 the Intense hush, the high noon of the mid- 
 summer day interfused my whole being so 
 that I hardly dared to step for fear of dis- 
 turbing the universal repose. It oppressed 
 me with a sense of loneliness. A wagon com- 
 ing along the road broke the spell and all 
 things were restored to life. 
 
 Before returning homeward I gazed once 
 more over the Mendon hills and I wonder 
 where and what that new looming world is. 
 
 43 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 It is not many years before I know. My legs 
 grow longer, the heart braver. I cross the 
 bridge fearless and careless. Stone walls con- 
 ceal neither friend nor foe. The forests con- 
 tain only trees. I look down upon small boys ; 
 they are now my natural prey. I throw stones 
 at them and make them cry, which gives me 
 unspeakable delight. I am proud, restless, 
 agitated by nameless longings. The walls 
 of my world oppress me. Destiny has de- 
 termined that I shall not be disenchanted be- 
 fore that world is entirely exhausted so that 
 after many years I may recover its earliest 
 charm. Nothing interests me more than a 
 moment. I have become acquainted with 
 Mistress Barber, the aristocratic Pennimans 
 and Dr. Thurber, the poet— for Bellingham 
 has a small poet, though I was like to forget 
 it. He nods to me from his sulky. They 
 say he writes his prescriptions in rhyme. He 
 also composes epitaphs for his patients when 
 his boluses fail to save them, and divides the 
 glory with the local Fourth of July orators 
 with a suitable poem. His magnum opus is 
 an elementary chemistry in verse for use in 
 schools. He had a chubby, rubicund face and 
 a head of iron grey curls which shook as he 
 
 44 
 
THE WALLS OF THE WORLD 
 
 laughed. 
 
 The Barbers and Pennlmans are kind to 
 me, but they no longer offer me an apple and 
 a cake. Perhaps they like me and think they 
 can make something of me. Or It may be on 
 my mother's account, whose kind heart and 
 sweet, winning face every body knows ex- 
 cept herself, for she Is as humble and modest 
 as she Is good. Admitted to their houses 
 I discover new manners; their clothing is 
 different and their rooms have unfamiliar 
 furnishings that show no sign of usage. I 
 sit very straight In a soft-seated chair as I 
 have been instructed, but do not know what 
 to do with my hands and can hardly keep 
 them out of my pockets. My heels secretly 
 feel for the rung of the chair; it has none, 
 which seems curious, and it is a puzzle I 
 take home with me. These superior neigh- 
 bors of ours speak of books, of music and 
 persons and places unknown to me. They 
 have been as far as Mendon, beyond I imag- 
 ine, for I hear the names Boston and Provi- 
 dence. It Incites me to know all that they 
 know, and I begin to make comparisons, to 
 find that one house differs from another, 
 that one person differs from another 
 
 45 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 and to choose between them. All things 
 draw or repel me. I have glimmerings 
 of an ideal, of something less or more 
 than is present and actual. A cent, 
 that formerly made me rich, now makes 
 me poor. I am not so eager for playmates; 
 there are moments when they seem mere ba- 
 bies, and our sports dull and trivial. The 
 sweet child whose frock falls only to her 
 knees, whose wide white pantalets almost 
 touch her red shoes, with whom I have 
 romped for three summers alternately teas- 
 ing and caressing, yet always with the lofty 
 port of protection and superiority, no longer 
 satisfies my heart or gratifies my pride. I try 
 to avoid her. She follows me about meekly, 
 confused by my coldness. Her long-lashed 
 eyes look at me distrustfully and are suffused 
 with tears when I decline to play. What do 
 I care? My heart is harder than a stone. 
 Moreover, I have transferred my affections; 
 I am in love with a woman of twenty-three, 
 seventeen years older than myself. To be 
 with her makes me perfectly happy; I am 
 transformed, I am humble to slavishness and 
 my manner toward this enchanting being is 
 precisely like that of my discarded maid to- 
 
 46 
 
THE WALLS OF THE WORLD 
 
 ward me. Thus is she avenged, for I too 
 have to suffer when unnoticed. My new 
 love's smile, (for she only deigns to smile 
 upon me and seldom speaks), enthralls me, 
 I cannot express myself; I follow her about 
 like a dog. 
 
 There is a plant called Boy Love because 
 it never comes to fruition, seldom blooms. It 
 Is almost extinct save In old neglected house- 
 yards. My gardener allows me to cultivate 
 It in an uncherlshed corner of one of her beds. 
 I can never pass it without plucking a spray 
 of Its fragrant leaves. Its very smell is of 
 other days and ancient gardens. The fashion- 
 able rose cannot endure it. I mean sometime 
 to disprove Its Impotence and entice it into 
 flowering for the encouragement of little boy 
 lovers that they be not ashamed of their in- 
 fantile, ardent attachments but bravely con- 
 fess them as I do. 
 
 This phase of young life passes like so 
 many others. How swiftly they pass ! and 
 must, since we have in ten years to rehearse 
 all the parts for the next fifty. In due time 
 my girl playmate and also the young woman 
 were married, and meeting long afterward 
 we found nothing In common, not even a 
 
 47 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 memory. One had forgotten that we ever 
 played together; the other laughed incredu- 
 lously at the boyish attachment. At length I 
 too forget these mere matrons; I remember 
 only the little maid and the coquette of 
 twenty-three. 
 
 As one climbs the sides of a mountain it 
 lowers its crest, but the view becomes ex- 
 tended. The hills of Mendon diminished as 
 often as I climbed other hills or succeeded 
 in reaching the topmost spires of taller trees. 
 They were no longer so lofty, so distant, so 
 infatuating. The walls of my world were 
 expanded on two sides, the south and the 
 west. All unknown lands were on the north. 
 China was there, which to me was a place 
 where they did nothing but fly kites; so much 
 I remembered from my geography book; 
 there too was Boston, merely a place 
 where we sold our huckleberries in sum- 
 mer. I had been as far as Mendon 
 and found that the world did not end 
 there, nor were there any hills even. 
 They had moved themselves to the next hori- 
 zon whitherto my fancies had flown. Disil- 
 lusions increased with my height. A yard- 
 stick no longer measured to the top of my 
 
 48 
 
THE WALLS OF THE WORLD 
 
 head ; the score Is nowmarked upon the jambs 
 of the cellar door, and sometimes I cheat 
 with yarn balls In the heels of my boots. I 
 cannot grow fast enough to keep pace with 
 my ambition. When I am larger, when I 
 am a man, then I shall — could one but re- 
 cover the predicate of those phrases! There 
 Is a cell In my brain as yet filled with nothing; 
 but there Is commotion, an eddy, like that of 
 the vortlcel which Is drawing thither Its des- 
 tined deposits. The things that draw me are 
 also themselves moving toward me. The 
 cell Is In time filled, emptied and filled again 
 and again. Particles of this and that re- 
 main. Who can predict what will be the 
 permanent deposit? 
 
 The Mendon hills and those, rising con- 
 tinually beyond, caused me many a heart 
 break, many disillusions, journeylngs, path- 
 less and lampless, many apprenticeships to 
 unprofitable masters. I explored the un- 
 known because It was unknown and because I 
 knew not what I wanted. There was disap- 
 pointment wherever the pursuit ended. I 
 would go on— never arriving. "Stay, thou 
 art so fair", Is not the wish of boys. The 
 mountains were not so high, the ocean not so 
 
 49 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 vast, the cities not so Immense, no good so 
 good as anticipated. My heart hungered for 
 the Impossible before It had attained the 
 possible; for the fruitage of things be- 
 fore the plough and the hardened hand; 
 In fine, before reckoning with those forces 
 which determine the happiness and miser- 
 ies of life. But there Is compensation 
 for every disappointment and mistaken 
 dream of childhood and youth. I cher- 
 ish them fondly as the early drama of 
 my life, in which, now a spectator, I see the 
 small actor performing his mimic part with 
 mingled feelings of amusement, censure or 
 sympathy. When the curtain rises I am once 
 more on my own side of the Mendon hills; 
 the walls of that first world enclose and pro- 
 tect me. Here I again recover my first sense 
 of nature and the existence of other beings; 
 here I discern the Inward foreshadowlngs of 
 what was to attract and mould me through 
 life. 
 
 50 
 
SHADOWS AND ECHOES 
 
 TWO things In nature Impressed 
 me more than any others In my 
 childhood. One was the appar- 
 ent motion of the moon, when 
 I tried to walk or run away from 
 It. To see It keep an equal pace with me, 
 moving when I moved, stopping when I 
 stopped, sometimes vexed me and more of- 
 ten amused me. The heavens are young 
 when we are, close and companionable; they 
 come down to the earth not more than two 
 miles from where we stand. I tried many 
 experiments with the moon, when It was full, 
 to see If I could not outrun the bright and 
 tricksy traveller. My efforts were vain and 
 only Increased my wonder. I never spoke of 
 It nor required an explanation from my eld- 
 ers. Children ask no questions regarding 
 those simple operations of nature which they 
 first observe. They remain deep In their si- 
 lent consciousness. Such as they do ask are su- 
 perficial, and are either a passing impulse of 
 a dawning social nature or are Inspired by 
 parents and teachers. I have observed that 
 
 51 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 when they ask these questions they care noth- 
 ing and remember naught of the answers. 
 What is deepest in them is growing in si- 
 lence; it is not yet formed into conceptions, 
 and has no language. The difference between 
 the spoken questions of children and their im- 
 pressions, as yet so undefined, is like that be- 
 tween pictures of the snapshot camera and 
 the astronomer's plates which, for hours, 
 gather and develop the figure of some dis- 
 tant, unseen star. 
 
 My other childish observation was of 
 shadows, especially my own, cast upon the 
 ground by a low afternoon sun. This never 
 vexed or puzzled me as did the outfooting 
 moon. An old play says that the shadows 
 of things are better than the things them- 
 selves; and Pindar places man at two re- 
 moves from them. But indeed shadows 
 pleased me before I knew of the hu- 
 miliating comparisons poets and prophets had 
 made; and sometimes more than the real sub- 
 stances with which I was familiar — trees, 
 brooks and pastures. In the shadow of my- 
 self were the flattering length and size which 
 I coveted, the huge man; for I wished above 
 all other things to become a man as fast as 
 
 52 
 
SHADOWS AND ECHOES 
 
 possible that I might do and have the things 
 which men do and have. These as I remem- 
 ber were trousers, long-legged boots, two 
 pieces of pie, to sit up in the evening and 
 never to go to school again ; for I was always 
 driven to bed and went unwillingly to my 
 books. Many were the subterfuges by 
 which I escaped my lessons, a lost book or a 
 headache; and how I rejoiced in the storms 
 which made it impossible to send me the long 
 mile through snow or rain. I remember only 
 one evening when I was allowed to sit up as 
 long as I wished, my parents, having gone to 
 see a man hung in Dedham, one of the fes- 
 tive occasions in old Norfolk County, the 
 boy was left in charge of a sister. I remem- 
 ber it chiefly because my sister read to me 
 that evening John Gilpin's Ride. It was the 
 first, and for a long time, the only poem in 
 which I took any interest. Gilpin on his 
 horse, his cloak and bottles twain visualized 
 themselves before me so clearly that they 
 still remain more vivid than what I read yes- 
 terday. 
 
 But my shadow, ah, that was quite enough 
 to satisfy my most ardent longings. More- 
 over I seemed able to step on it, to lengthen 
 
 53 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 or shorten it, to make it assume strange gro- 
 tesque shapes; in a word I could play with 
 it. This I could not do with such objects as 
 trees, house, barn and fences; or rather there 
 was no such response from them as from the 
 shadow. 
 
 Echo was the only other direct responsive 
 thing I found in nature as yet. Echo is the 
 shadow of sound. Echo and shadow are 
 brother and sister; irresponsible children of 
 nature who love to sport and play pranks 
 with matter and make men doubt their own 
 senses. I knew several of the dwelling 
 places of echo; one in chief was between a 
 large barn and a deep wood, and others at 
 different points on Beaver Pond. Never 
 would they return the individual voice; all 
 came reflected back as echo's own, neither 
 mine nor that of my companions; only now 
 louder or less, more distinct or faint. It had 
 a lonely, plaintive, even melancholy tone, 
 which the Greeks explained was in conse- 
 quence of an unfortunate love affair with the 
 beautiful Narcissus. It sulked, and hiding in 
 a cave, never spoke again unless first spoken 
 to. I could hardly believe that echo was not 
 the voice of a human being. To satisfy my- 
 
 54 
 
SHADOWS AND ECHOES 
 
 self I examined the barn and forest for some 
 mocking man or boy. Was not this better 
 than the explanations which never explain 
 to children? And who can expound a shadow? 
 When I once heard a minister exclaim that 
 man Is but a shadow I understood him lit- 
 erally and was glad In my little heart think- 
 ing only of Its size and nimble movements. 
 
 Echo and shadow hint of other things In 
 nature besides solid matter and that which 
 can be appropriated by any machinery or re- 
 solved by any chemical yet discovered. These 
 and sounds and perfumes also remind us that 
 the world was made for admiration and 
 amusement as well as for use. I believe that 
 the Creator was thinking, when He planned 
 It, as much of little boys and girls and poets 
 as of the husbandman and craftsman. Echo 
 loves to Imitate our voice as much as we love 
 to hear it; and shadows love to caricature our 
 forms that we may laugh and even assist 
 them; for if you stretch an arm between the 
 sun and a snowbank shadow aids you with Its 
 comic pencil. It is no wonder the sad ghosts 
 throw no shadow; there must be sunshine, 
 life and joy or you cannot even living cast a 
 pleasant one. I sometimes more admire the 
 
 55 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 shadows In a painting than the figures or the 
 scene. The imperfect landscape of the 
 Greeks excused itself from observing none in 
 the sacred enclosures of the temples of Zeus. 
 The light must find no impediment in the un- 
 substantial matter of divine beings. 
 
 It was pleasant in my afternoon rambles 
 to see my form projected over places where 
 I could not follow; on the other shore of a 
 stream and along stony fields good for noth- 
 ing but a crop of shadows. Thus by my 
 shadow I triumphed over space, and when it 
 came to a vanishing point, I imagined it still 
 extending itself to some neighbor's door or 
 into the next town. My eyes could not fol- 
 low it nor my feet; yet something in me ac- 
 companied it and gave me a sense of magic 
 power. An unconscious feeling for beauty 
 in things of earth began to draw me away 
 from houses and children and to make me 
 lonely. I found playthings I could not carry in 
 my pocket. These have remained with me 
 all my life. The path we leave behind us is 
 the one we oftenest tread. One little brook 
 still flows through my heart. I feel it, I 
 hear its smothered ripple, not meant for hear- 
 ing, and I smell its meadowy fragrance. 
 
 56 
 
SHADOWS AND ECHOES 
 
 I treated matter with the perfect frank- 
 ness and credulity which passes away with 
 childhood; and she rewarded me with visions 
 and illusions that are withheld from self- 
 guarded and discreet manhood. I knew not 
 then that shadows were the scoffing synonym 
 for all unsubstantial vanities and day-dreams, 
 or that other mystic conception that substance 
 itself is but the shadow and reflection of the 
 power which created it, or that light itself is 
 but the adumbration of God. How good 
 it is that the child is ignorant of so many 
 things. It leaves room for the existence and 
 growth of a mind, of an imagination which, 
 in time, shall lead rather than follow the pro- 
 cesses of reason; which shall leap before It 
 looks, conscious of prescience before proof, 
 arriving on wings while the shoestrings are 
 being tied. Blessed are the ignorance, the be- 
 liefs and the innocency of the country boy. 
 For if he can maintain a remnant of these 
 Into maturity the world will be more beauti- 
 ful; he will idealize his friends and lovers, 
 and never be conquered by the untoward cir- 
 cumstances and events of his life. The child 
 is a plant that blossoms first at the root un- 
 derground, like the fringed polygala, and 
 
 57 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 only after a free and natural nurture, again 
 blossoms at the top with the same color, the 
 same modest beauty. Let the child pur- 
 sue shadows and believe them real; let 
 him discover their unreality and suffer 
 defeats; but he shall not know when he 
 is defeated, for still other shadows shall 
 allure him to the end of his days. The 
 pursuit, not the attainment, is the true 
 joy of living. Perilous are the condi- 
 tions of attainment. The goal is seldom in 
 sight. We are driven on from dream to 
 dream, and to awake is to lose the charm of 
 existence. No pearl grows in the shell with- 
 out the pressure of some irritating substance; 
 and no boy becomes a man until he has felt 
 the sting of opposition, discouragement, de- 
 feat, and has pursued shadows with an un- 
 faltering faith. 
 
 58 
 
SHADOWS AND ECHOES 
 SHADOWS 
 
 Phantom of being, Protean face, 
 Parasite of rock, of towers and man 
 Since sun and matter erst began, 
 Fleet vanlsher from our embrace, 
 Thy fairy forms the faithful ape 
 Of substance; all the landscape 
 In thy mimic loom mere woven air 
 Where naught is real yet all is fair; 
 Taunting us with bold mockeries 
 And willing cheats and splendid lies. 
 Deceiving all sense save the eyes. 
 Flying without wings 
 Gigantic o'er the mountain's knees; 
 Or of tiniest things 
 Etching their wavy images; 
 Or playing some fantastic trick 
 To please the fancy of a child; 
 Or tireless watcher of the sick 
 When others are by sleep beguiled. 
 Thou follower of sun and moon. 
 Gatherer of the undulating mass 
 Through which no light may pass, 
 Over the whole world darkening soon. 
 Or standing steadfast all an afternoon 
 Behind some oak tree's ancient crown 
 
 59 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 Until the lingered sun goes down- 
 Give to the weary traveller repose 
 In thy cool umbrageous tent, 
 And to the husbandman, who goes 
 To thee by heat and toil forespent. 
 Give sleep, and let thy veil his limbs enclose. 
 
 bo 
 
SHADOWS AND ECHOES 
 
 ECHO 
 
 Echo is mate of shadow and of shade, 
 Saying only what is given it to say; 
 
 Hiding in wall or cave or wooded glade, 
 Without ideas, sound with sound at play. 
 
 But thou, sweet echo, art my faithful friend; 
 
 For when my simple songs on all ears die 
 Thou art responsive to the very end, 
 
 And answerest them with perfect flattery. 
 
 6i 
 
HOLIDAYS 
 
 IN the small towns of Norfolk County, 
 even as late as the middle of the nine- 
 teenth century, Christmas was not 
 kept as a holiday. The people adhered 
 mainly to the Congregational and 
 Baptist faiths. Christmas was in some 
 way associated with Popish superstitions. 
 The Woman in Scarlet was still preached 
 against and feared as became the sons 
 and daughters of the Puritans. I have 
 never forgotten my childish vision of 
 this wonderful creature, a vision that connect- 
 ed itself with a neighbor's daughter who 
 dressed in bright red mousseline-delaine and 
 wore an immense hoop, played the fiddle and 
 scandalized the community by her manners, 
 music and muslin. But the young men were 
 all in love with her and she held a nightly 
 court in a little brown house in that part of 
 the town called Hard Scrabble. She took the 
 pick of her admirers, was married at eigh- 
 teen, bore what Aeschylus calls the "divine 
 load" in fifteen travails, fourteen sons and 
 one daughter, and lived to play her fiddle to 
 
 62 
 
HOLIDAYS 
 
 more than thirty grandchildren. The com- 
 munity at length became reconciled to her, al- 
 though she continued to wear to the end of 
 her life red gowns and a bulging hoop — the 
 women gossips now said to conceal her usual 
 condition. To me she was and is the Scarlet 
 Woman, an inhabitant not of Rome or Baby- 
 lon, but of a town where I am the supreme 
 pontiff, a town not made of galvanized iron 
 nor stone nor brick, but weather-stained 
 boards with sometimes a touch of red paint. 
 
 Doubtless many people sigh for the days 
 when Christmas was not, for it has become a 
 burden in its secular observances, a game of 
 give and take. I never heard of the day in my 
 childhood. Scarcely will this be beheved, so 
 difficult is it to realise that a present universal 
 custom, and one so linked with religious senti- 
 ment, has not always existed; nevertheless it 
 is true. If I were relating something that hap- 
 pened yesterday, or the day before, I should 
 not be much chagrined to be disputed and to 
 find myself in error; but the memory of the 
 events of childhood is authentic and indis- 
 putable. There was no Christmas for chil- 
 dren in Bellingham, or I should remember it 
 as vividly as I do Fast Day, Thanksgiving, 
 
 63 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 Fourth of July and Town Meeting Day. The 
 last named was the first holiday of the year 
 for the male population, occurring on the 
 first Tuesday in March. It was a day when the 
 solid men of the town came to the front and 
 sat in high seats, dignified and important; 
 when the less solid or, more gay got drunk, 
 and the boys played games about the town- 
 house, and ate as many buns as they had cents 
 to buy. The town-house of Bellingham was 
 an old Universalist church whose society had 
 been uprooted and driven away by the ser- 
 mons, prayers and persecutions of the Bap- 
 tist brethern and sisters. It must have been 
 an ancient building as it had a high pulpit, a 
 sounding board still higher and square pews. 
 I used to go in when hungry to buy the 
 buns, which were on sale in one of these 
 square pews fitted up as a small shop, 
 boards being laid on the top rail, and 
 the high seats forming shelves for the 
 display of eatables. I recall only the 
 buns with distinctness, buns with three 
 large plums sticking out of their shiny 
 red tops, which afforded the greatest return 
 to a hungry boy for the trifling sum he had to 
 expend. These plums deceived me into the 
 
 64 
 
HOLIDAYS 
 
 belief that there were more Inside and some- 
 times I did find one lost In the air holes of the 
 sponge-like cake. But the bun was sweet and 
 that was enough, sweetened with white sugar 
 too, a rare flavor In those days. I write white 
 sugar but Its current name was loaf sugar. 
 It came In cone-shaped packages wrapped In 
 heavy chocolate colored paper, and this paper 
 was used by women for dyeing. These pack- 
 ages were hung up over the counters of all 
 country stores. The sale was small as It was 
 expensive and limited In use, chiefly to the 
 sick room, wedding and funeral feasts. A 
 trader would buy enough to last him for a 
 long time; consequently the packages hung in 
 their places year after year, becoming dirty 
 and fly specked. But the inside was well 
 protected with soft white paper, and, when 
 opened, revealed its dazzling crystals. I liked 
 It almost as much as candy and I rarely had 
 a bit of the precious article. Brown sugar 
 and molasses were the common household 
 sweets; bread and molasses an excellent lunch 
 for hungry boys always crying for something 
 to eat and never filled. 
 
 The town meeting bun Is a thing of the 
 past. When I ventured Into the town house 
 
 65 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 I stepped very softly and felt an exceeding 
 awe. It was a strange sensation to be mov- 
 ing about among men whose legs were as 
 long as I was tall, and, generally, as unno- 
 ticed as If I did not exist. Sometimes a kind- 
 ly old man would look down, put his hand on 
 my head and say: "You'll be a man before 
 you know It;" or another would vary the ex- 
 pression with, '^you'll be a man before your 
 mother." Both meant the boy had grown 
 since the last town meeting. I have, 
 since those days, known town meetings from 
 the standpoint of a man and voter and have 
 even taken part In their counsels; yet I have 
 had always more Interest In them as an ob- 
 server than as an active participant. Per- 
 haps this was because I was not an office 
 seeker. I have revolved schemes for town 
 Improvements a whole year and taken them 
 Into the March meeting only to have them 
 smashed In a moment. In general at the 
 meetings In rural districts, where there Is lit- 
 tle business to transact and the day Is before 
 them, the citizens like to hear discussion, es- 
 pecially If the disputants get Into a passion 
 or Interject a little fun. Then everybody 
 takes a hand and the main question Is so con- 
 
 66 
 
HOLIDAYS 
 
 fused and lost that even the moderator can- 
 not restate It. Party spirit rages, old feuds 
 come to life and men remember all the ugly 
 doings and sayings of their neighbors and are 
 hot to pay off old scores and get even, as 
 they say. Suddenly, at the height of the 
 wrangle, the whole matter Is dropped, peace 
 reigns and the regular business Is resumed as 
 If nothing had happened. These tempests 
 clear the air for a year, and everybody Is In 
 better humor having discharged his accumu- 
 lation of grudges and animosities. I have 
 heard closer speech, more sententious, 
 more convincing and in more direct and 
 forcible language in town meeting than 
 from any other forum. Men are not so 
 much ambitious of eloquence as they are to 
 carry their point. There is often more fun, 
 wit and sarcasm as well as logic than goes 
 with more pretentious and popular rostrums. 
 When the town-meeting Is abolished freedom 
 will have lost her humble but most powerful 
 ally. When the town grows to a city all is 
 lost; for our freedom and Individual rights de- 
 pend on direct and individual participation 
 in public affairs. Otherwise, all Is com- 
 promise, averages, irresponsibility and mere 
 
 67 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 chance how affairs turn out. The larger the 
 city, the easier It is for rascals to rule. 
 
 The town meeting was succeeded in April 
 by Fast Day, appointed always for a Thurs- 
 day. For some unknown reason Thursday in 
 New England was an almost sacred day, a 
 sort of secular Sabbath. Thanksgiving was 
 invariably on that day of the week; also eve- 
 ning prayer meetings and usually religious 
 conventions, quarterly meetings, Sunday- 
 school conferences and weddings. There is 
 an ancient proverb which says "Thursday 
 come, the week is gone;" for farmers 
 and laboring people it was uphill to 
 that day, and an easy and quick descent 
 to the end of the week. By Friday, 
 or, at least, Saturday we could go a-fish- 
 ing or visiting; or to the store for some 
 Sunday snuff, tobacco or "West Injy" goods. 
 Work relaxed a little, the strain to finish a 
 job was less, we went to bed and arose some- 
 what later. Boys were not generally com- 
 pelled to attend the Fast Day religious ser- 
 vice. It had ceased to be as strictly kept as 
 formerly. In villages and centers of towns 
 there was customarily a match game of ball, 
 very unlike the present base ball. Boys played 
 
 68 
 
HOLIDAYS 
 
 with boys and men with men. The New 
 England bootmakers, of whom there were 
 some in most villages, were the leaders in 
 these games. Fast Day was above all days 
 the established one for shooting and burning 
 powder. Why, it would be hard to discover, 
 as it was too late for winter game and too 
 early for any other. However, it was 
 fun and made men and boys jolly and im- 
 portant to roam through the woods and fields 
 with a gun over the shoulder, for that was 
 still the soldiery way of carrying it. It was 
 more often fired at a mark than at bird or 
 beast. Powder had to be exploded to give 
 expression to the holiday exuberance and a 
 noise made, game or no game. I suffered 
 dreadfully for several years in not being able 
 to have a gun, and my misery grew acute at 
 the approach of Fast Day. I had to content 
 myself with percussion caps, powder and lead 
 cannon. The latter I made myself and when 
 I had no lead I made them of wood. These 
 I fired as long as the ammunition held out 
 and then with one mighty charge I would 
 burst them into fragments, and Fast Day 
 was over for me. 
 
 As Fourth of July approached, my chief 
 
 69 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 concern was to get possession of twenty-five 
 cents. This was the traditional limit of a 
 boy's spending money for that day. He must 
 save or earn it, or expect a miracle. How to 
 save on nothing a year was an early problem 
 of mine; and as to earning, my services, even 
 then, were not in demand, and I cannot re- 
 member ever to have been hired to be a good 
 boy. My mother had a cheaper way and a 
 more effectual. Such is the miserable history 
 of poor boys and poor mothers. Thus it was 
 that I rarely had the twenty-five cents ; it was 
 oftener a dime. Even that seemed large 
 enough to fill one pocket and buy a world of 
 things. To think over all the single articles 
 that itwould purchase was to possess them for 
 that moment, and I never had a truer owner- 
 ship in my life than that which was enjoyed 
 in these imaginary possessions. Strangely 
 enough, I could so feel my own what I knew 
 the dime or the quarter would purchase, that 
 I was content not to spend it at all. Yet a 
 day would come when some sudden impulse 
 or appetite would snatch it away from me; 
 then with what penitence was I overcome; 
 for, as soon as I had a thing in my hand it 
 ceased to have the least value; if eaten, it 
 
 70 
 
HOLIDAYS 
 
 did not fill me; If a plaything, I soon tired 
 and then hated It; and only Its destruction 
 gave me one passing moment of joy. 
 
 Occasionally Fourth of July was celebrated 
 in military fashion; the train-band marched 
 to the music of drum and fife accompanied by 
 a procession of urchins. The crowning ex- 
 ercise was the firing of a salute by the whole 
 company. It made every boy wish to be a 
 soldier as soon as possible. Then the muskets 
 were stacked under a great elm tree from a 
 limb of which swung the sign, *'E. Thayer, 
 Inn" and we all took a free drink, In consid- 
 eration of the dinner which was to follow at 
 a shilling a head. 
 
 The more common observance of the day 
 was of a much milder character, Sunday- 
 school picnics. In which the churches of towns 
 near each other united. We went to Mendon, 
 and next year Mendon came to us. These 
 picnics consisted of a little religion, much 
 lemonade and cake, followed next day by 
 headache. The day ended with a thunder- 
 storm when the picnic was in Mendon; such 
 was the common saying. Thunder storms 
 In the night were the dread of my mother's 
 household, especially on the Fourth of July 
 
 71 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 when already excited by the day's events. 
 We invariably expected the end of the 
 world so much prophesied by neighbor 
 White. If the storm came on In the daytime 
 the whole family went to bed and covered up 
 their heads. For my part, I longed to be 
 out of doors in the rain, and enjoyed nothing 
 so much as the drops falling on my bare head, 
 and in splashing about through the puddles 
 with bare feet. I was exhilarated by the 
 sound of thunder, but lightning terrified me 
 and seemed to throw me down. It was in an 
 August thunderstorm that my father lost his 
 life In an attempt to save his shocks of rye 
 from ruin, which was Indeed the end of the 
 world for his family. It was no wonder that 
 my mother and sisters were alarmed when the 
 black clouds and sultry air came over the 
 Mendon hills. I was too young to heed the 
 menace or to be reminded of the domestic 
 catastrophe and sorrow. Nature, rain or 
 shine, winter or summer, river, pasture, 
 clouds, woods, flowers, berries, apples, birds, 
 were my playthings from which I was learn- 
 ing to find the images and equivalents in my- 
 self. Lying on my back and watching the 
 summer clouds race across the sky gave me 
 
 72 
 
HOLIDAYS 
 
 my first comparison and attachment of a 
 natural object to a conscious mental concep- 
 tion. I arrested those clouds in their flight 
 across the blue, and whether they went sail- 
 ing on or sank below the horizon I still saw 
 them, and their images remained firmly fixed 
 in my mind. 
 
 It was a rare chance when I was allowed to 
 spend Fourth of July in Milford, the little 
 metropolis of our region. There the celebra- 
 tions were on a grander scale; the local militia 
 company gathered to itself others from the 
 border towns, and besides fife and drum, a 
 whole band of music marched at the head of 
 the companies, and a cannon on the town com- 
 mon saluted the Fourth of July rising and 
 setting sun and the noon of the day. There 
 was probably an oration in the church but I 
 had no ear for speech when my eyes were 
 filled with seeing; for there were shows of 
 various kinds in booths about the common 
 and in the town hall. How to make twenty- 
 five cents take me into all was beyond my 
 arithmetic; so I contented myself with spend- 
 ing ten cents on an exhibition of Albino chil- 
 dren, white-haired, ivory-skinned and pink- 
 eyed. Another ten cents admitted me to a 
 
 73 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 collection of dwarfs and giants, the dwarfs 
 mounted on the shoulders or heads of the 
 giants. The remaining five cents let me Into 
 the best show of all, a learned pig that played 
 cards and performed amusing tricks. For a 
 good while I wished for nothing so much as a 
 learned pig. But now my money was gone, 
 and I was hungry as only a boy on a holiday 
 can be. I had walked three miles to the 
 town, and there were three miles now between 
 me and my mother's cupboard. When I ar- 
 rived there I feasted for the remainder of the 
 day and went to bed still hungry. The next 
 few days were flat and languid. In all my 
 boyhood pleasures and excitements I suffered 
 Intensely from these reactions. I tormented 
 the family by persistent teaslngs to go some- 
 where, or to do something. "Go play, go read 
 your book, go see what Aunt Chloe Is doing," 
 they would say. How could I fill the void 
 with such trivial pastimes with a Fourth of 
 July cannon ringing In my ears and the 
 learned pig's red eyes following me? I 
 wanted all days to be Fourth of July, and 
 for a while I made them so with a wooden 
 gun, a General Washington paper chapeau 
 and a tin pan for a brass band. At length the 
 
 74 
 
HOLIDAYS 
 
 days gradually fell Into their usual tenor and 
 I became reconciled to such amusements and 
 mischiefs as my two playmates, George Jen- 
 nison and Harry Thurber, and myself could 
 Invent. 
 
 We now began to look forward to the time 
 of ice and snow. Meanwhile Thanksgiving 
 day is near. Little as It meant to me, It was 
 nevertheless a break in the usual order of the 
 days. I have read many cheerful accounts of 
 the Thanksgiving home gatherings — the 
 feastlngs and the frolic in which the turkey 
 and plum pudding appeared to be treated al- 
 most like divinities. But never did I know, 
 In boyhood, the family reunion, the turkey 
 or the pudding, so that these gatherings and 
 dinners are to me pictures and I regard them 
 as I do the feasts of Homer's heroes, pleasant 
 to read of and to imagine. Some of our 
 neighbors celebrated the day In the customary 
 manner and no doubt acknowledged the 
 goodness of the Divine Providence as enjoin- 
 ed by the Governor's proclamation. But the 
 bounty of the Divine Providence never trav- 
 elled by our lonely road, nor left a turkey or 
 pudding at the door of the little Red House. 
 Saddest of all her sad days I think my mother 
 
 75 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 felt It to be, seeing the bounties and friends 
 at the tables of others and unable to make 
 her own worthy of the occasion. She some- 
 times spared an aged and unprofitable hen 
 from her scanty flock and made us each a 
 custard in an earthen cup. For that day she 
 brought out her only silver, six tea spoons, 
 and spread on her round table her only table 
 cloth, hand-woven and white as snow. In the 
 evening we parched corn over the hearth fire. 
 My mother sat at one corner of the fireplace 
 and by her side a tall light stand, her candle, 
 her Bible and her knitting. At bedtime she 
 read a chapter aloud, and kneeling, made a 
 low, plantive prayer, the burden of which was 
 always thankfulness and trust. I remember 
 not the words, but the tone still sounds in my 
 ear. Thus returned from year to year my 
 four holidays until I was old enough to find 
 the road that led from the town and on which 
 I now love to travel back and indulge a holi- 
 day of memories. 
 
 76 
 
THE AMPUTATION 
 
 ASIDE from the formal and ap- 
 pointed holidays, the events and 
 days that a country community 
 most enjoyed were not numer- 
 ous; yet their infrequency and 
 unexpectedness added a certain amount of 
 zest to its monotonous annals. A fire, an ac- 
 cident, a death, a raising, an engagement, a 
 fight, a new minister, even Miss Penniman's 
 new style of gown from Boston were not un- 
 welcome excitements. They furnished food 
 for talk, for wonder, discussion and scandal. 
 Although there was a certain terror con- 
 nected with the unusual event I am about to 
 describe, yet this did not deter me from look- 
 ing forward to it as a kind of holiday. 
 
 For a long time it had been rumored that 
 our neighbor, Amos Partridge, would have 
 to lose his leg. He had what was called a 
 white swelling on his knee. Besides his 
 house, Amos Partridge had a large barn and 
 a shop, where, in winter, he bottomed boots. 
 The bottomer of boots sat on a low bench and 
 did most of his work on his lap and knee. 
 
 77 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 It was thought that the primary cause of 
 Amos' trouble arose from a slight blow upon 
 his knee as he sat at his work, increased by 
 subsequent constant pressure upon the spot 
 by the strap which held the boot in place. 
 He worked as long as he was able, and for 
 some time before the operation, he was 
 obliged to use a crutch in passing from 
 his shop to his house. The swelling 
 grew steadily in size, and became more 
 and more troublesome although every 
 remedy then known to New England 
 therapeutics had been tried, including all 
 the nostrums of the neighborhood, plas- 
 ters, poultices, washes and prayers; for 
 Amos was much beloved by his neighbors, 
 mostly Methodists, to which sect he himself 
 belonged. He was about thirty-five years old, 
 tall and large-framed, light-haired, full- 
 bearded and with blue eyes, a pure Saxon 
 type of a man. His forehead was high and 
 narrow and much work and suffering had 
 ploughed untimely furrows upon it. His 
 house stood close by the roadside, in a field 
 between two pieces of woodland. It was 
 small, one-storied, the only unusual thing 
 about it being that it was painted white, as was 
 
 78 
 
THE AMPUTATION 
 
 also the neat fence which enclosed a tiny space 
 in front almost touching the road. This 
 enclosure was in summer a tangle of cinna- 
 mon roses, lilacs, sweet-william, bouncing- 
 Bet and other common flowers which propa- 
 gate and harvest themselves. A narrow 
 gravelled walk, upon which the flowers con- 
 stantly encroached, led to the front door — 
 a useless door, generally, as no one ever 
 thought of entering it. There were two 
 rooms on either side of this door; one, the 
 family sitting room, the other, the sacred 
 country parlor with the usual hair-cloth cov- 
 ered furniture and home-made rugs in bright 
 colors and quaint patterns. There was a gilt 
 mirror too, the upper third of which was 
 opaque, and upon it was painted a 
 one-masted vessel with impossible sails set 
 straight from stem to stern, which helps me 
 to recall the room and much of the interior 
 of the house. I had never seen so fine a pic- 
 ture; nor had I ever seen a vessel of any kind. 
 It was wonderful. I never tired of looking 
 at it although I had seen it many times as the 
 room was opened for prayer meetings, which 
 my mother attended regularly, taking me 
 with her. How well I recall those meetings, 
 
 79 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 which sobered me for life. Not that any 
 spoken words impressed me, for I understood 
 nothing of what was said or sung; but there 
 was a sadness, a suppression in the air, as of 
 the valley of Jehosaphat. The stillness too, 
 that Intense hush which often occurred be- 
 tween the remarks and prayers of the brethren 
 and sisters, filled me with a nameless, shrink- 
 ing fear. Had I been old enough, conversion 
 would have been easy as the only means of 
 escape from those terrible silences. My usual 
 relief was in clinging to my mother's hand 
 which gave me a sense of protection from I 
 knew not what; or in looking at the vessel 
 In the mirror and sailing away to other 
 worlds. Under that sail I visited all the 
 neighboring Inland towns whose names and 
 nothing more I knew — Mllford, Medway, 
 Mendon and Hopklnton, the utmost bound 
 of my little world— beyond Hopklnton, noth- 
 ing. 
 
 At length there came a day when Amos 
 Partridge could work no longer; the pain In 
 his knee became too excruciating to be en- 
 dured. The surgeon was summoned and a 
 date determined for an amputation. The 
 
 neighborhood was Informed and nothing else 
 
 80 
 
THE AMPUTATION 
 
 was talked or thought of during the pre- 
 ceeding days. The chances of Amos surviv- 
 ing the operation were discussed; for it was 
 before the days of anaesthetics and the science 
 of surgery had not then made the removal of 
 a limb the least of its triumphs. Most of the 
 neighbors, especially the women, took a hope- 
 less view of the result. Preparations were 
 made much resembling those for a funeral. 
 My mother told me she was going to the 
 amputation, and as she never left me at home 
 when she went abroad, I knew I should go 
 too. But this did not oppress me, not nearly 
 as much as the thought of a prayer meeting. 
 A dim sensation of something extraordinary 
 about to happen filled me with excitement. 
 Yet, on the whole, it was an emotion of joy. 
 The momentous day of the amputation ar- 
 rived. I could harly restrain my Impatience. 
 It was a calm, soft afternoon In early spring 
 when my mother and I set out for the house 
 of Amos Partridge; not however, before my 
 mother had been to her chamber, and, on her 
 knees, offered a silent prayer. She ap- 
 peared very serious and silent on the way. 
 Could she be Ignorant of the pleasure I was 
 anticipating? I danced along by her side; 
 
 8i 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 hardly feeling the earth beneath my feet; 1 
 was already at the scene of expected festivity. 
 I noticed that mymother carried a fan. It was 
 not a hot day and I wondered much what the 
 fan was for. We arrived at the house where 
 there was already a considerable assemblage 
 of the neighbors and friends from a distance. 
 Horses were fastened to trees, fences and the 
 sides of the barn, just as on Sunday at the 
 meeting-house or at the annual town-meeting. 
 The small boy was there in numbers, but 
 only a few girls. Alas, for the small boy! 
 He was not permitted to play near the house 
 nor to make the least noise. Instead of a 
 holiday, for him, it turned out a more seri- 
 ous affair than the usual Puritan Sabbath. Bit- 
 ter was my disappointment. My mother, as 
 she left me to go into the house, warned me 
 to keep very still and be a good boy. Ac- 
 cordingly I remained under the window of 
 the room in which the operation was to be 
 performed. The windows were wide open, 
 and I could see and hear all that was said and 
 done. I had a view of my mother and two 
 other women standing by the bedside of 
 Amos, fanning him. I could see the face of 
 
 the sufferer, pale, emaciated and troubled. 
 
 82 
 
THE AMPUTATION 
 
 Presently I heard the voice of the minister, 
 and looking toward the foot of the bed, I saw 
 opened before him the great family Bible 
 from which he was reading. From the fre- 
 quent recurrence of the words boils and af- 
 flictions I think it must have been some chap- 
 ter in Job that he had selected as suitable for 
 the occasion. After the Scriptures the minis- 
 ter made a long prayer. 
 
 Then the dreadful preparations began. I 
 saw the bed-clothing pulled back and the dis- 
 eased limb exposed; it was twice its natural 
 size. The surgeon was the once famous Dr. 
 Miller, of Franklin, reputed the seventh son 
 of a seventh son, some extraordinary gift in 
 surgery being credited to such a descent. In 
 his day he performed all the surgical opera- 
 tions in that part of Massachusetts and the 
 bordering towns of Rhode Island. Spread 
 out on a small table at his right hand were 
 his intruments, whose names I did not know, 
 but they interested me immensely. What 
 would I not have given for one of those 
 dainty polished saws or keen knives with 
 handsome handles ! The room was partly 
 filled with neighbors, mostly women, ready 
 to lend their aid to the surgeon and to com- 
 
 83 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 fort the patient, whose family sat weeping In 
 an adjoining room. Amos' eyes were now 
 closed and his mouth set firm. As the tourni- 
 quet was twisted tighter and tighter the lines 
 In his brow grew deeper. He breathed hard 
 and a moan, the only one, escaped him as 
 the knife went through the outer skin. It was 
 not long before the sound of the saw came 
 through the open wIndow\ The operation 
 was over and the leg had taken Its last step 
 with Its fellow. It was carried away Into 
 the barn for dissection; we heard with awe 
 that Amos felt a faint sensation of pain when 
 the knives and probes were searching for 
 the hidden disease, as If the severed limb still 
 remembered Its possessor. 
 
 Subsequently the remains of the leg were 
 burled In Amos' garden, which gave rise to 
 some questionings In this pious and scrupulous 
 community as to whether It ought not to hav^e 
 been placed In the graveyard. But Amos 
 said that he did not own a lot yet, and when 
 he died, he should not need his old leg to wel- 
 come him to his grave. 
 
 The operation proved successful. In a 
 short time Amos was up with the empty pan- 
 taloon fastened back and the stump of the 
 
 84 
 
THE AMPUTATION 
 
 leg encased in a thick leather protector. As 
 he had used crutches for some time before the 
 amputation he soon learned to accommodate 
 himself to their new use. He could not now 
 walk long distances, so the weekly prayer 
 meetings were generally appointed at his 
 house. He became what was called among 
 Methodists a class-leader; he took the lead- 
 ing part in all the private religious gather- 
 ings and never failed in his opening prayer 
 to thank the Lord for bringing him safely 
 through his peril. ''It was Thy hand that 
 held the knife", he would exclaim, ''yea, it 
 was"; and all the brethren said, amen. 
 
 There was, in the little community of 
 which Amos Partridge was the central and 
 pathetic figure, a sincere belief in the near- 
 ness and activity of Heaven in its every day 
 affairs. It rendered them serious, careful 
 and slightly superstitious. It was also true, 
 however, that these tendencies sometimes 
 seemed to create antagonism and a rebellious 
 spirit in the young men. We children, from 
 the same causes, were timid, afraid of the 
 dark, afraid of everything; or, it may be, 
 these very, nameless terrors of the night, of 
 wild beasts and the forests, together with re- 
 
 85 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 actions from fancied escapes were the best 
 stimulants and rustic guardians of the Imag- 
 ination—the primitive Muses of the Belllng- 
 ham boy. 
 
 86 
 
COUNTRY FUNERALS 
 
 IF a surgical operation brought with It 
 a country lad's holiday, a funeral may 
 also be reckoned among the events 
 which varied his life, If not with 
 gaiety, at least with pleasing diver- 
 sion. As a very young child I was present at 
 two funerals which for special reasons have 
 Impressed themselves upon my memory. I 
 had heard much of a widowed sister of my 
 father, supposed to be rich; this proved to 
 be a fable. Her husband had left the bulk 
 of his estate to foreign missions, and only a 
 bare support to his wife. As he had ac- 
 quired his property by selling liquor It was 
 but natural he should wish to make a restitu- 
 tion In the land of the heathen. The widow, 
 my aunt, lived to an advanced age. When 
 she died I accompanied my family to her ob- 
 sequies. There I met her other young 
 nephews and nieces besides the children of 
 the neighborhood. We had a merry time to- 
 gether all day except for the hour of the ser- 
 vices. There was a general feast served for 
 everybody. The children were served at a 
 
 87 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 second table, but there was a plentiful supply 
 of goodies reserved for us and no tears to 
 check our appetites. At the table we were 
 told that our aunt had left us each fifty dol- 
 lars. I had never heard of, least of all, seen 
 such a sum of money and I conjectured It was 
 enough to last the remainder of our lives. 
 
 A great deal takes place at a country fu- 
 neral characteristic of the kindly as well as 
 the weaker side of rustic men and women. 
 There Is much bustle and subdued cheerful- 
 ness mingled with awe; conversation Is car- 
 ried on In whispers. The chief mourners are 
 permitted to be as helpless as they please; 
 everything Is done for them; they are treated 
 as automatons. They are arranged In ranks 
 next to the corpse according to consanguinity. 
 Then come the neighbors and those persons 
 who love to attend funerals. Children bring 
 up the rear and In the hall and doorway lean 
 a few men who seem to have no particular re- 
 lation to the occasion. The Important per- 
 sonage, not excepting the minister. Is the vol- 
 unteer undertaker, who for some unknown 
 reason, has become the man usually called 
 upon to officiate at the exercises. He knows 
 his business, and for an hour feels himself 
 
 88 
 
COUNTRY FUNERALS 
 
 a man of consequence. He is Impartial In 
 his attentions; be the dead old or young, 
 saint or sinner, he is equally anxious that 
 the ceremonies shall be conducted with proper 
 decency and order. The rich give him a lit- 
 tle more care, as they, perhaps, have rendered 
 unto their dead a handsomer outfit for their 
 last appearance and farewell journey; such I 
 think may have been the case when our dis- 
 tinguished neighbors, the Scammels and Pen- 
 nlmans passed away. When the minister has 
 concluded his remarks and his prayer, gen- 
 erally in the most lugubrious words and scrip- 
 tural phrases he can muster, the man in 
 charge of the funeral, (for country people 
 knew no such professional name as under- 
 taker), comes briskly forward, and, with 
 much ceremony, lifts the lid of the coffin, re- 
 arranges some portion of the dress about the 
 tace of the dead, gives a searching glance 
 over the coffin and then announces: "The 
 friends and all those who desire, may now 
 view the 'remains' ". This is the most af- 
 fecting moment in the ceremony; the last 
 parting look which wrings the heart of the 
 stoutest, when the women break down and 
 are led away blinded by their tears. It Is 
 
 89 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 then that the most indifferent spectator pays 
 that beautiful tribute of weeping for those 
 he may not have loved, nay, hated or de- 
 spised. All the ill is forgotten, the good 
 alone remembered. A hearse was hardly 
 known In the old days. The coffin was placed 
 on a bier of home construction and carried to 
 the graveyard on the shoulders of four men. 
 The sad funeral procession followed behind, 
 the mourners walking two and two and the 
 rear made up of a straggling company of 
 men, women and children. The minister of- 
 fered a farewell prayer at the grave, and In 
 summer time, an appropriate hymn was sung, 
 Its appropriateness consisting mostly in its 
 dismal words and tune. Then the terrible 
 moment arrived, the lowering of the coffin 
 and the sound of the first earth upon it; for, 
 formerly the company awaited this last act. 
 This was not the formal dust to dust, a ver- 
 bal and figurative act, but some shovelfuls of 
 real earth that for a few moments rattled and 
 pounded the top of the coffin with a heart- 
 rending sound. The minister shook hands 
 with the chief mourners, every one took his 
 way home, the bier was placed under a tree 
 and left to the elements and to be the play- 
 
 90 
 
COUNTRY FUNERALS 
 
 thing of boys until the feet of them, that 
 await at the door to carry out the dead, are 
 heard again. 
 
 The next funeral of which I have a recol- 
 lection came into my own home. My father 
 was dead, dead in the prime of his life, his 
 labors and his hopes. Of this event I recall 
 only two things, being taken from my play- 
 things under an apple tree to the grave, and 
 the hard pressure of my hand by my sister as 
 the coffin was lowered. This became in after 
 years my most pathetic memory as I grew to 
 realize what it meant. In that grave all 
 our hopes were buried; that I was uncon- 
 scious of it must have made the grief of my 
 family only the more poignant. At the same 
 time I became the object of their greater 
 solicitude and affection, and it was a miracle 
 that, in a family of women only, I was not 
 spoilt by too much indulgence. But while my 
 sisters petted and pampered me, my moth- 
 er's graver manners and prayers doubtless 
 saved me from being too selfish and effem- 
 inate. Boys, however, owe chiefly to each 
 other their escape from the apron string and 
 the softness of nursery manners. 
 
 How empty now seemed the house whence 
 
 91 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 the dear father had gone forever. The prob- 
 lems of Hfe offered themselves to my mother 
 and sisters with a terrible and crushing real- 
 ity. My sisters were old enough and had 
 sufficient education to teach the summer terms 
 of district schools. My mother boarded the 
 winter schoolmaster and planted and cared 
 for her garden with her own hands. There 
 was a pig in the pen and a flock of hens in 
 the sod house. Most of my father's tools 
 were sold at public vendue, which brought in 
 a little ready money. There was straw to be 
 braided at one and a half, sometimes two 
 cents per yard; in summer huckleberries were 
 picked and sold for three and four cents a 
 quart. There was a peddler who made his 
 rounds monthly and always put up for the 
 night at my mother's house, paying his score 
 with a liberal barter of such articles as he 
 carried, dry goods, women's shoes and small 
 wares. Dresses were made over and over, 
 were darned and patched as long as the cloth 
 would hold the stitches. My father's clothes 
 were cut down for me and I wore the last 
 of them in my sixteenth year. My straw 
 hats and winter caps were homemade. Every 
 year a cousin In business In Woonsocket Falls 
 
 92 
 
COUNTRY FUNERALS 
 
 presented me with a pair of new boots. There 
 was no want In the household because wants 
 were few and had been reduced to the last 
 limit. I am sure I never went cold or hungry 
 although I never had a boughten plaything 
 or any of those delicacies which are more 
 necessary to children than necessities. 
 
 It is in such circumstances that the friendli- 
 ness of country neighbors appears in Its most 
 beautiful light. There Is no thought of alms- 
 giving on their part, nor a sense of accepting 
 charity on the part of the recipients. Benev- 
 olence and gratitude were not called upon to 
 exchange compliments. Farmer Bosworth is 
 going our way and leaves a jug of milk; he 
 stops to chat a while and relight his pipe with 
 a coal from the hearth. Would you see him 
 do It with a boy's eyes? The tongs are too 
 long and heavy to bring around to his pipe; 
 but with them he pulls out a coal of the right 
 size, picks it up between thumb and finger and 
 puts it into his pipe bowl. I stand close be- 
 side him, and although he doesn't cringe, I 
 do, and almost feel my fingers burn. He 
 winks out of the corner of his eye at me and 
 says, 'Your old daddy Is tough Isn't he?' and 
 shows me the end of his thumb calloused and 
 
 93 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 hard as the knurl of white oak; only fire 
 could clean it to the original skin. He shakes 
 out his blue frock for fear of fire in it, and 
 goes his way. There is always something to 
 spare by those who have more, to those who 
 have less. Whoever kills a fatted cow or a 
 pig in early winter sends a portion to the Red 
 House; and a load of wood is left in the 
 night by some farmer who does not wish his 
 right hand to know what his left doeth. 
 Money is scarce; but everything else is shared 
 with those in distress or in sickness. This is 
 so much a matter of course that no one thinks 
 of credit or reward. 
 
 In such ways as I have described were the 
 widow and her fatherless children saved from 
 destitution or loss of their respectable posi- 
 tion in the little community. I am sure my 
 mother relied with complete trust on the 
 scriptural promises made to those in her dif- 
 ficult circumstances. If they were fulfilled by 
 human agencies, that, also, was the doing of 
 the Divine Director of the affairs of the poor. 
 In those days men and women were good 
 and simple, obedient, not only unto the com- 
 mands and examples of their Bible, but also 
 to the impulses of their own kind hearts., 
 
 94 
 
COUNTRY FUNERALS 
 
 Yet the household never again felt the 
 highest happiness of domestic life. A soft 
 and tranquil resignation took Its place. They 
 moved about with a gentler step, speaking in 
 subdued tones, more often not at all. They 
 had to live out their lives, although It now 
 seemed hardly worth the struggle. Tears 
 were In their eyes at the table, and one or 
 another would arise before the meal was half 
 finished. I heard suppressed sobs as I went 
 to sleep on a truckle-bed beside my mother, 
 who during the day was more composed than 
 her daughters. Neighbors soon began to call ; 
 there was then a hearty cry in which every- 
 body in the room joined. Nothing so relieves 
 the pent-up feeling as this, if only a little sym- 
 pathy Is present, as it were, to receive and 
 consecrate the precious and sacred tribute of 
 tears. 
 
 As for me when I returned from the grave 
 of my father, unconscious of what had hap- 
 pened, I resumed my interrupted play under 
 the apple tree. I had never as yet wept for 
 anything except the crossing of my will — 
 April tears, soon dried. 
 
 95 
 
MY MOTHER'S RED CLOAK 
 
 MY mother was a silent woman, 
 seldom speaking unless first 
 addressed, and she never 
 asked questions of callers be- 
 yond what an extreme courte- 
 sy required. I noticed the latter trait when 
 a child, in contrast to the custom of most 
 people; for to ask questions seemed to be 
 the usual and almost only manner of carrying 
 on conversation among the neighbors. More- 
 over, I was myself pestered beyond endurance 
 by a fire of questions whenever I went any- 
 where, or anybody came to us. I inherit from 
 my mother a great reserve in speech and 
 fondness for silence; and, as the latter can 
 only be purchased by retirement, I have 
 added to silence a love of solitude in which I 
 have doubtless too much indulged myself. All 
 sorts of suppositions follow a man who retires 
 and declines the ambitions of his contemporar- 
 ies. By some he is thought a coward or eccen- 
 tric; by others he is believed to be a philoso- 
 pher. Those of a more indulgent temper 
 guess that delicate health or some dis- 
 
 96 
 
MY MOTHER'S RED CLOAK 
 
 appointment In love, In business or profes- 
 sion has driven him away from his kind. 
 None of these solutions hits the marks. And 
 although I have no wish to relieve myself 
 of responsibility for my course of life, still 
 less to apologize for it, destiny. In form of 
 a woman, my mother, has directed my life 
 In spite of reason, the persuasion of friends 
 or the allurements of the world — the world 
 which Inflicts its just penalities upon him who 
 refrains from becoming an actor, who per- 
 sists in being a spectator. The paradox of 
 my nature Is that I love my kind as much as 
 I love solitude and silence. My friendships 
 are now sixty years old. My mother also 
 enjoyed society although she never sought 
 it. She was easily amused, but I never heard 
 her laugh aloud; her whole face smiled and 
 It was more contagious than the outbursts of 
 more demonstrative persons. She listened 
 apparently with all her senses and faculties. 
 It was this characteristic I imagine, that, 
 when outward voices were withdrawn, made 
 possible the turning of an inward ear to the re- 
 sponses of her soul. In no other way can I 
 account for the fact that without education 
 or opportunities she became a refined gentle- 
 
 97 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 woman, became Intelligent without books and 
 had an Insight and judgment In all matters 
 within her sphere, much depended upon by 
 her family and acquaintances. She was fem- 
 inine to the tips of her fingers, and sympa- 
 thetic with distress and misfortune. From 
 her scanty cupboard she fed all who asked 
 for food. She believed and often said that 
 the loaf which Is divided is never consumed. 
 Wandering beggars knew her door and were 
 never turned away. But, as her house was 
 small, and without a man. If they asked for 
 shelter, she sent them to the next neighbor. 
 
 Bred In such a quiet atmosphere I was 
 usually very silent In my mother's presence. 
 When alone on the road, or In the fields, or 
 with my playthings I talked to myself a great 
 deal ; or rather I addressed inanimate objects 
 as If they were living beings, a habit which 
 still clings to me, although the voice Is no 
 longer needed. My days were full; I found 
 everywhere enough to keep my feet moving 
 and my hands busy. I was completely filled 
 and satisfied with the earth just as I found it 
 in the town of Bellingham. When, however, 
 evening came on and I had to go into the 
 house, everything shrank to the size of the 
 
 98 
 
MY MOTHER'S RED CLOAK 
 
 room. I became restless and fretful. Hav- 
 ing exhausted every amusement which the 
 house afforded and, however sleepy, unwill- 
 ing to go to bed, I sat down upon a cricket 
 at my mother's knee and kept saying, "tell 
 me one little story." 
 
 One such evening I recall when the days 
 were growing short and shorter and the can- 
 dle was lighted at half past four o'clock. It 
 was a privilege always granted me to light 
 the candle. If no one happened to be look- 
 ing I blew it out for the pleasure of relight- 
 ing it; for, like other children I loved to play 
 with fire and the candles and the open hearth 
 gave me ample opportunities. The bellows 
 and I were intimate and constant playmates. 
 We played many a trick together; sometimes 
 stealing up behind one of my sisters and 
 blowing into her ear, or going some distance 
 away from the candle I made a current of 
 air which would sway the candle flame, when 
 my mother would exclaim, ''how the wind 
 does blow; some door must be open." Then 
 my titter would reveal the rogue, who was 
 reminded that it was his bedtime. 
 
 But, on the evening to which I have re- 
 ferred, I was a good boy having expended 
 
 99 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 my naughtiness during the day. There was 
 a still calm throughout the house and the in- 
 tense cold had hushed the air over field and 
 wood. The candle was alight on the three- 
 footed stand and my mother was counting the 
 stitches in the setting of a new stocking. As 
 usual I was coaxing for a story. Perhaps it 
 was the red yarn which reminded my mother 
 of her red cloak, or some sudden flash of ten- 
 der memories. When she had fairly started 
 the stocking so that she could knit without 
 counting or looking at her work she said, 
 "I had a red cloak once; would you like to 
 hear about it?" 
 
 "Oh yes, and tell it long, long, mother." 
 "I was a little girl then, so the cloak was 
 short, and so the story. Red was the color 
 I most admired when I was ten years old. 
 It became me, so I thought, for I was almost 
 as dark skinned as an Indian. Folks called 
 me Widow Thayer's red-winged blackbird 
 when I wore my cloak, of which I was very 
 proud. It had no sleeves and came down to 
 my feet and was closed at the neck with a 
 fastening of silk cord braided in a pretty 
 pattern. 
 
 I went to meeting in it all one winter, proud 
 
 lOO 
 
MY MOTHER'S RED CLOAK 
 
 and gay, but never wore It on any other day 
 except the Sabbath. At the end of winter It 
 was packed away In a great chest where our 
 winter clothing was kept In summer with tan- 
 sy laid among the garments to prevent moths. 
 My red cloak was placed at the bottom of the 
 chest and I myself spread an unnecessary 
 number of green tansy sprays over It. I 
 never thought of the cloak again until the 
 next winter. When It was taken out for me 
 to wear one cold November Sabbath, what 
 was my grief to see the cloak, as I thought, 
 ruined. The tansy leaves had printed their 
 exact shapes In a dark brown color all over 
 the back, which had lain uppermost In the 
 bottom of the chest. The pressure and the 
 heat had acted like a dye. I cried my eyes 
 red and would not go to meeting. Every 
 one thought the cloak was spoilt. But one 
 day the minister's wife called at our house, 
 and the sad tale of the cloak was related to 
 her, and asking to see It she said, "Why," 
 '*If It wasn't pretty before — and I never liked 
 red for little girls — It certainly Is now. It 
 Is beautiful with those brown leaves; It looks 
 almost like a palm-leaf cashmere shawl." 
 Now a palm-leaf cashmere shawl was the 
 
 lOI 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 finest and most costly outer garment a woman 
 could possess in those days. My mother 
 and sisters agreed with the minister's wife, as 
 her opinion about all women's concerns was 
 as much respected as was her husband's on 
 religious matters. So I began to wear the 
 cloak again, and people thought it was a new 
 one, and wondered how my mother could be 
 so extravagant when she was so poor. But 
 the cloak was much admired and thought to 
 become me more than the last year's red one. 
 The secret was not kept long for the minis- 
 ter's wife explained it to someone to free my 
 mother from the charge of extravagance. 
 Soon everybody knew it and many inquiries 
 were made how it happened. Some of 
 our neighbor's daughters even tried to 
 produce the same effects on their dresses 
 and cloaks by pressing green leaves on them 
 with hot flatirons. But it did not succeed. 
 You cannot imitate accidents; they just hap- 
 pen once ; the next one is something different. 
 So all the girls envied me my cloak. It lasted 
 me ten years, for I was not much taller at 
 twenty than at ten." 
 
 My mother was silent again and I ex- 
 claimed "is that all, mother? Tell some more, 
 
 1 02 
 
MY MOTHER'S RED CLOAK 
 
 do." 
 
 "Stories, my son, must have an end or you 
 would not like them — but there would never 
 be another. I have heard of a book that had 
 a thousand, but it took a thousand evenings 
 to tell them. So one an evening ought to be 
 enough, and it is your bedtime." 
 
 Here my youngest sister, Harriet, who was 
 fifteen years old, said, "Mother, why don't 
 you tell him the other part of the cloak 
 story?" 
 
 "Yes, tell it," I entreated. 
 
 My mother appeared to be wholly ab- 
 sorbed in her stocking; she had dropped a 
 stitch and was working her needles painfully, 
 trying to recover it. A half sad smile, half 
 pleased expression came into her face and a 
 faint blush upon her brown cheek. 
 
 "Well, I suppose the journey I took in the 
 red cloak with the tansy figures is what your 
 sister wants me to tell you about. My moth- 
 er, your grandmother, was a widow. I 
 never saw my own father, for I was born 
 while he was away fighting in the battles of 
 the Revolution and he never returned; he 
 was killed at Yorktown. When I was about 
 ten years old my mother had an offer of mar- 
 
 103 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 riage from a farmer in Medway who had lost 
 his wife ; his children had grown up, married 
 and settled excepting one son twenty years 
 old. It was a matter of convenience on both 
 sides; my mother needed a home and he 
 needed a housekeeper. The marriage took 
 place in her own house. But she did not go 
 immediately to her new home; she had a lit- 
 tle property to dispose of and other small af- 
 fairs to arrange. When she had sold every- 
 thing but her old white mare she set out 
 for Medway upon the mare's back, taking 
 me with her on a pillion behind. It was a 
 day in Spring, and although not cold, I wore 
 my cloak as the easiest way of carrying it. 
 No doubt it was a queer spectacle we made; 
 yet, not as queer then as it would seem now — 
 the old white mare ambling along, head 
 down, and feet hardly clearing the ground 
 under the heavy load, for your grand- 
 mother was a large, stout woman and 
 we had a number of bags and bundles 
 fastened onto the saddle, and I almost 
 hidden among them, was quite covered by 
 my cloak so that I might have been mis- 
 taken for another parcel hanging behind 
 my mother's broad back. She wore an 
 
 104 
 
MY MOTHER'S RED CLOAK 
 
 immense bonnet flaring wide in front and 
 big bowed silver spectacles. I had on a small 
 tightly-fitting bright yellow cap tied under 
 my chin with blue ribbon. It was not a long 
 journey from Bellingham to Medway, but it 
 was the first I had ever taken, and it seemed 
 to me it would never end. I was much sub- 
 dued and even frightened on the way. It was 
 all so strange and perplexing to me this 
 marriage of my mother to a strange man, 
 giving up my childhood home and going to 
 another of which I knew nothing. Little did 
 I imagine the destiny that awaited me there. 
 At last we turned into a long lane and came 
 to a large rambling farm house with barns 
 all about It. A young man came to the door- 
 step to meet us. I was not In the habit of 
 taking much notice of boys and young men, 
 but I could not help seeing that he was a 
 handsome youth, tall, fair haired and blue 
 eyed. He helped my mother to dismount, 
 and then lifted me in his arms from the pil- 
 lion. That young man, my son, was your 
 father, and I have heard him say he that 
 moment fell in love with the little girl In the 
 red cloak. He seemed never so much pleased 
 as when winter came round and I began to 
 
 105 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 wear it again. He waited and served ten 
 years for me, and when I was twenty and he 
 thirty we were married. We went back to 
 BelHngham to be married by my mother's 
 minister, an old friend. We went on horse- 
 back, I on a pilhon behind your father just 
 as I had left the town and wearing still my 
 red cloak, but almost for the last time, for 
 it was thought no longer suitable for a mar- 
 ried woman. It was hung away in a closet; 
 your father would not have it made over into 
 any other kind of a garment, as was the 
 thrifty custom of all households, although I 
 much wanted to make it into a petticoat. 
 Your father prized it more than any of my 
 newer clothes, and it hung in the closet for 
 many a year. Sometimes in the long winter 
 evenings when we would be talking of old 
 times and the ten tedious years of his waiting, 
 he would make me take out the cloak and 
 parade around the room. It seemed to make 
 him happy and more affectionate." 
 
 io6 
 
MY UNCLE LYMAN 
 
 AS I shall often allude to my 
 Uncle Lyman in these pages, I 
 will sketch as much of his char- 
 acter and his ways as I can now 
 recall, and that may interest the 
 reader. He was a farmer of the old style 
 and I love to remember him. To hear of 
 great men and great events is stimulating, 
 as even the sound of fire Is warming; yet the 
 memory of those who have been near and 
 dear to us brings a deeper glow into the 
 heart. 
 
 Uncle Lyman's farm supplied nearly 
 every one of his needs except what were 
 called In his day West India goods. He 
 believed with Cato that the father of a fam- 
 ily ought always to sell and never to buy. He 
 strictly followed his advice in selling his old 
 cattle, his old carts and used up tools and 
 everything which he did not want. This was 
 why his yards and buildings were unincum- 
 bered with the trumpery which so often dis- 
 figures New England farms. West India 
 goods were the luxuries of his time. These 
 
 107 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 goods were chiefly rum, sugar and molasses. 
 Tea and spices were even greater luxuries. 
 The strange marks on tea chests were a ci- 
 pher no one had unravelled. On his farm were 
 raised corn, wheat and always rye, for rye 
 and not wheat was in Bellingham the staff of 
 life. Eggs, cheese, butter and pork were 
 bartered at the country stores for West 
 India goods. Work, incessant work was 
 the prime necessity on the farm and in 
 the house, and Uncle Lyman and his 
 wife never knew an idle day. This fixed 
 upon him a serious and preoccupied air. 
 He began the day early and left off late. The 
 sun was his fellow traveller and laborer to 
 and fro in the furrow, the corn rows and the 
 swath. But it was hard for him to leave his 
 work at sundown; darkness alone sometimes 
 compelled him to quit the field. After sup- 
 per, which was at five o'clock, the year round, 
 is half and the better half of the day in sum- 
 mer, he used to say. Our Bellingham 
 neighbors were humble, hard working 
 people, but they taught me "the great art of 
 cheerful poverty." I was early cured of sev- 
 eral follies by standing under the shadow of 
 rustic wise men. I drove their oxen to the 
 
 io8 
 
MY UNCLE LYMAN 
 
 plow, and often fell behind alongside the 
 ploughman and picked up the scattered seeds 
 of old, traditional wisdom in his furrows. 
 With these the sagacious urchin sometimes 
 astonished his little mother. Visitors, a 
 cloudy day, a gentle rain did not prevent 
 Uncle Lyman from his labors. "Let us keep 
 ahead of the weather," he would say, "and 
 then we can go a-fishing." No weeds grew 
 in his corn or rye; and his made hay seldom 
 was wet. He scented a shower from as far 
 away as the Mendon hills. He first taught 
 me to notice the sweet perfume which a 
 summer shower drives before it from afar, 
 the combined perfume of wild flowers, trees 
 and new mown grass. 
 
 There was always the promise held out 
 that, after haying or the first hoeing, we 
 should go a-fishing on Beaver Pond, and 
 sometimes the promise was kept. He was a 
 masterful trailer for pickerel; he put into 
 it the same energy as into his axe and scythe. 
 In the same way that I was allowed to drive 
 his mare Nancy by holding the slack of the 
 reins, did I have my part in the fishing ex- 
 cursions. I held a line over the edge of the 
 boat until the fish bit, then another hand took 
 
 109 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 it and drew it in. Perch or pout it was mine, 
 and credit and praise were duly given. 
 "What a smart boy!" words that made me 
 more proud than any commendations I have 
 heard since. When they were cooked I 
 wanted my own catch to eat and was hu- 
 mored. And in general that is the boy's dis- 
 position; whatever he captures or finds on 
 trees or on the earth he wishes to eat. No 
 doubt a green apple and the buds of trees, 
 and all kinds of sweet or peppery roots give 
 him that wild and strenuous virtue which en- 
 ables him to resist pampering and effeminat- 
 ing influences. 
 
 Although Uncle Lyman seldom allowed 
 himself a holiday, I believe he enjoyed it as 
 much as I did. He was simply an older 
 boy; that was the secret of our sympathy 
 and my admiration for him. He knew so 
 many more things than I, could do so many 
 more, yet when with me, all in a playful way 
 as if they were of no account, and only for 
 fun. He was my model and my ideal of a 
 man in everything that made for me the 
 world. I felt an inward, irresistible impulsion 
 to do all that he did, just as we are inclined 
 to beat time to the music that we love. Thus 
 
 no 
 
MY UNCLE LYMAN 
 
 was I taught to labor and enslaved to It be- 
 fore I knew it; for a boy wants to do what 
 he sees men do ; he must handle the hoe, the 
 rake, the axe and the scythe, and these are 
 often made to suit his size and strength in 
 order to tempt him still further on. Thus 
 does he forge his own chains ; he is caught in 
 his own net and his plaything tools become 
 his masters. Now he must mow and hoe in 
 earnest, however hot the sun, however much 
 he hates to work. Yet I have never felt any 
 distinction between work and play when the 
 former was to my liking. 
 
 Uncle Lyman's wisdom had been handed 
 down to him by his fathers, and he had im- 
 proved it by observation. He added a new 
 touch to the wrinkled face of ancient use. 
 He knew the properties of all trees, weeds 
 and herbs. Ash and hornbeam were his most 
 precious woods. Ash served every purpose 
 this side of iron; it was as good as a rope, 
 for was not the Gordlon knot tied with it? 
 and could be whittled down as fine as a 
 knitting needle without breaking, and still 
 keeping Its strength; It could be pounded 
 Into basket stuff, separating the layers to al- 
 most any degree of thinness. It handled 
 
 III 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 every tool, from a pitchfork to an awl, and 
 made the whole of a rake, the bows, teeth, 
 head and staff. Besides, it had medicinal vir- 
 tues; it was good for nose-bleed ever since 
 it staunched the royal nose of King James, 
 the Second. Although the most elastic of 
 wood it never grew crooked, but shot up a 
 trunk as straight as an arrow. It is a tree 
 prophetic of archery. Uncle Lyman made 
 me many a bow from a selected piece of ash, 
 each year of my age a little longer and stout- 
 er. He measured the length the bow should 
 be by my height. What a joy it was at length 
 to shoot an arrow almost out of sight! 
 "Now", said Uncle Lyman, "you are almost 
 big enough for a gun". Alas, I might as well 
 have wished for a kingdom. A wooden gun 
 for awhile satisfied my ambition. With that, 
 however, I shot many an Indian, and the lit- 
 tle boys and girls who teased and provoked 
 me. But I soon tired of these imaginary foes 
 and marksmanship. With bow and arrow I 
 could hit the trunk of a tree, the house door, 
 and by accident a pane of glass. Best of all 
 I liked to shoot over Uncle Lyman's door- 
 yard elm, or try for the clouds. Often I 
 lost my arrow in them; so I bragged and be- 
 
 112 
 
MY UNCLE LYMAN 
 
 lleved. 
 
 The hornbeam was much less common 
 than the ash and was saved with particular 
 care. It was mainly used for stanchions in 
 the tie-ups of cows and oxen, for stakes on 
 sleds and carts, and for levers. It is not 
 easily bent and is almost impossible to break; 
 it is the steel of the forest. Its foliage re- 
 sembles that of the elm, but is finer and den- 
 ser. It has no insect enemies and minds not 
 the fiercest tempests. Uncle Lyman said 
 only lightning could rive it, that the horn- 
 beam drew fire from the clouds, and one 
 should never go near it in a thunder storm. 
 This was only when it was alive. 
 
 His various speculations about natural ob- 
 jects and phenomena, were always in the 
 way of contraries and offsets. Good weath- 
 er was enough to ensure forthcoming bad; 
 a full crop this year meant a poor one next 
 year. If every kernel of corn sprouted, look 
 out for plenty of crows and a poor yield. 
 Thus he comforted himself in every reverse 
 and humbled himself in good fortune. In 
 good years he was more saving, and in bad, 
 less so than most of his neighbors. Now he 
 had a fear ahead and now a hope. Thus he 
 
 113 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 balanced both; yet the balance so inclined 
 that the years increased his store, and thrift, 
 industry and honesty brought him honor 
 among his neighbors. He helped the widow 
 and the orphan and loaned money without a 
 mortgage. His debts and credits were obli- 
 gations of honor; as he paid, so he was paid. 
 Uncle Lyman admired trees as the most 
 wonderful things that God had made grow 
 out of the earth. He could hardly bring 
 himself to chop them down. The crash of 
 a falling tree which gave me the most intense 
 delight, made him sorrowful. He stood 
 awhile over it as over the corpse of an old 
 friend. He had known it for many a year, 
 had noted its growth from a sapling to a 
 tree as old as himself. Like the old man of 
 Verona, 
 
 "A neighboring wood, born with himself, he 
 sees. 
 And loves his old contemporary trees". 
 
 The trees I loved and played with most in 
 my boyhood, the white birches, for which I 
 still have more fondness than any other in 
 our northern forests. Uncle Lyman cared for 
 
 114 
 
MY UNCLE LYMAN 
 
 not at alL Although he had a sense of beauty, 
 and long association with an object affected 
 him with a tinge of romance and secret sen- 
 timent, yet utility was the chief criterion in 
 his estimate of trees and men. Could you do 
 a good day's work, it was enough; it filled 
 the measure of a man and the promise of a 
 boy. A useful tree was therefore the best 
 tree. He had no use for white or gray 
 birches, for they were neither timber nor 
 vendible firewood. He often ridiculed them, 
 and if there was a worthless fellow in town, 
 he was, in his comparison, a gray birch, good 
 for nothing but to hoop the cider barrels, of 
 which the fellow was too fond; if a too gay 
 girl, she was a white birch, dressed in satin, 
 frizzled and beribboned, dress over dress of 
 the same stuff to her innermost petticoat. He 
 saw no good in the birch except for the backs 
 of naughty boys. I now know a hundred uses 
 for the birch, unsuspected by him. He had 
 never heard of peg and spool and bobbin 
 mills, nor of the mountain poet who makes 
 his own birch bark books, on whose leaves he 
 inscribes his simple songs — and, envied man, 
 is able to sell them. 
 
 But all these useful, playful and poetic uses 
 
 115 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 are nothing to me In comparison to the birch- 
 en bower wherein I spent entrancing summer 
 days with Launa Probana. 
 
 Having been my father's most intimate 
 friend, when he died in the midst of his years, 
 he became my mother's adviser and helper, 
 and to me a second father. I loved him well, 
 and I believe he reciprocated this boyish af- 
 fection. His eyes twinkled and the wrinkles 
 on his weather-beaten face ran together when 
 I approached him In the field, or when we 
 talked together beside the hearth fire or un- 
 der the elm tree when the day's work was 
 done. For some reason I cannot now fath- 
 om, unless it were the ambitious desire to put 
 myself on a footing with his years and wis- 
 dom, I would assume with him an unnat- 
 ural gravity. My wisdom consisted in ask- 
 ing him questions, any that happened to come 
 Into my head. I took for granted that he 
 knew everything. Had he not been to Bos- 
 ton, and more than once? Yet little would 
 he say about that town. He liked much bet- 
 ter to talk of places he had never seen, 
 especially London and London Bridge. I 
 only learned that people In Boston dressed 
 every day In the week In their best clothes; 
 
 ii6 
 
MY UNCLE LYMAN 
 
 that was what made the deepest impression 
 upon me; for our best clothes hung in the 
 closet until Sunday. Uncle Lyman and I 
 went barefooted and shirtsleeved all summer. 
 He never had a linen shirt or collar; but how 
 fine he looked In a snowy white cotton shirt 
 and broad collar, a blue coat and tall bell- 
 shaped hat, a hat he had worn all his life on 
 the Sabbath and at funerals. Nor do I think 
 he had, during his manhood, more than one 
 best suit of clothing. In winter he always 
 wore a long woolen frock made by his wife, 
 and a cap of woodchuck skin. Folks said it 
 was like to be a hard winter when he put 
 on his overcoat. His complexion was as 
 dark as an Indian's; eyes as black as night, 
 and he had straight raven hair. He used 
 much tobacco, always a quid in his mouth ex- 
 cept when It was a pipe. He mostly refrained 
 on the Sabbath until the evening when a long 
 quiet smoke compensated him for abstinence 
 during two sermons. His voice was rich 
 and seemed to come from deep down In his 
 chest. When he was a bit puzzled, he 
 scratched his head with one finger. He was 
 scrupulously neat In his person and orderly 
 in his yard and buildings. No chips, no brok- 
 
 117 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 en-down carts nor tools disfigured his prem- 
 ises. His was almost the only barn of a 
 working farmer I ever saw that was kept 
 clean and neat — except my own. He did not 
 belong to any church; but he had a whole 
 pew in the body of the meetinghouse and con- 
 tributed his full share to the support of the 
 Gospel. Moreover he gave of the produce 
 of his farm every year something to the min- 
 ister's woodshed or cellar. I never heard 
 him but once make any comment on the ser- 
 mons he had heard, which were more than 
 five thousand according to his figures. "My 
 boy'\ he said to me one Sunday evening, "If 
 you should ever be a parson, try to make your 
 sermons different every time. It seems to me 
 as though I had heard the same sermon all 
 my life". On the Sabbath day, after the 
 chores were done, there were shaving and 
 dressing, the fires to be put out and the win- 
 dows to be made fast with a button or a nail. 
 Then the carryall was brought out, a high 
 narrow vehicle difficult to get into, and still 
 more difficult to get out of. The mare, Nan- 
 cy, was called white, but she had patches of 
 brown along her expansive sides and was, 
 with much effort, squeezed between the fills, 
 
 ii8 
 
MY UNCLE LYMAN 
 
 and the straps made tight in their buckles. 
 Nancy winced at this tightening. She did not 
 like her Sunday harness which had grown 
 hard and stiff from infrequent use and too 
 small, having been made for her when she 
 was younger. I also felt most uncom- 
 fortable in my good clothes, which were ever 
 outgrown and held me like a corselet. At 
 last the house door was locked and we drove 
 the two miles to the church, silent and seri- 
 ous as became our Sunday clothes and our 
 equipage. We felt strange to ourselves and 
 not at ease. When the meeting was over T 
 had a sudden overpowering revulsion in my 
 spirits. I wanted to shout, to run, to jump 
 over something and a hitching post as high as 
 my head offered the nearest opportunity. I 
 forgot the Sunday school lesson in a mo- 
 ment; I had not understood a word of it. 
 On the way home we became very cheerful. 
 There was comment on the wayside farms 
 and gossip of the doings of the neighbors. 
 We compared the height of their corn with 
 our own field, and always found it a little 
 less than ours. A heavy load of some- 
 thing seemed lifted from our hearts on re- 
 turning from meeting. Uncle Lyman slyly 
 
 119 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 put his quid back into his mouth which at 
 once made him happier. There was a faint 
 remonstrance from the back seat, which he 
 pretended not to hear; or he would rejoin, 
 "mother, have you munched all those cara- 
 way seeds you took along to meeting?" My 
 driving on the way home was much like the 
 illusion which follows us through life. Hands 
 in front of ours direct our actions and our 
 affairs. We hold bi^t the slack of the reins, 
 and the driven imagines himself the driver. 
 There was a short whip in the socket, which 
 was never taken out in the summer, and in 
 sleighing disappeared altogether; it was only 
 ornamental. "Hudup" and a flap of the 
 reins were enough for the encouragement of 
 Nancy. A switch of her tail and a laying 
 back of her ears showed that she under- 
 stood. If a letter must be written, it was done 
 after meeting. Uncle Lyman seldom touched 
 pen and paper except when an item was to be 
 set down in his account book. Paper was 
 scarce and costly and postage six good cents ; 
 and the pen, a quill, was usually dried up, 
 and the nib opened too wide to hold the ink, 
 and had to be soaked a good while before it 
 would write. There was always- some excuse 
 
 1 20 
 
MY UNCLE LYMAN 
 
 for not answering a letter. But nothing 
 pleased him more than to receive one. It 
 was read slowly and with great attention, 
 stuck behind the clock and reread for a week. 
 The Sabbath ended with an early supper and 
 early sleep, for Monday was always a busy 
 day. Corn and potatoes did not rest on 
 the Sabbath, neither did weeds. 
 
 At last for Uncle Lyman there came the 
 eternal Sabbath day. He lifted the latch 
 of his house door for the last time, smoked 
 his last pipe, and laid down willingly to sleep. 
 Other feet now traverse his lands; there is 
 new paint over the ancient red house walls, 
 and new labor saving tools; they and hired 
 menials do the work, but no more than his 
 two hands in proud industrious independence 
 were wont to accomplish. He is forgotten by 
 those who now possess what he made worth 
 possessing. But I have not forgotten him, 
 and little do the present owners of his houses 
 and lands imagine that there Is a title back 
 of theirs, registered in the court of memory 
 which no mere occupation and ownership can 
 invalidate. 
 
 121 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 THE ANCIENT NEW ENGLAND FARMER 
 
 How pleasant o'er the still autumnal vale 
 
 From his great timbered barn's wide open 
 
 door 
 
 The muffled sound of his unresting flail 
 
 In rhythmic swing upon the threshing 
 floor! 
 
 How straight their tasselled tops his corn 
 upreared ! 
 Straight were the rows, no weed dared 
 raise Its head: 
 How golden gleamed their opening sheaths 
 well eared 
 Whose inner husks stuffed out his bulging 
 bed! 
 
 Full many a field of dewy grass breast-high 
 His long sharp scythe ere breakfast time 
 did lay; 
 
 Full many a hurrying shower came by, 
 But to the mow still faster went the hay. 
 
 To him as inward fires were ice and snow, 
 They urged his pulse with warm vivacious 
 blood; 
 How made his furrowed cheeks in winter 
 glow 
 With ruddy health and Iron hardihood ! 
 
 122 
 
MY UNCLE LYMAN 
 
 Superfluous to him was coat or vest, 
 
 Let blow hot or cold or stormiest weather; 
 
 Lie, as his hardy fathers, liked the best 
 His shirt sleeves free and brimless cap of 
 leather. 
 
 Few were his books, his learning was but 
 small; 
 He boasted not of thoughts beyond his 
 speech ; 
 Some few and simple maxims bounded all 
 That he had learned, or wished to teach. 
 
 He loved his home, his farm, his native town; 
 These were the walls his happy world con- 
 fined; 
 And heaven with unaccustomed joy looked 
 down 
 To see fulfilled a life itself designed. 
 
 Sadly his neighbors bore him to his grave 
 
 Beneath the old perpetual mourning pine. 
 Where honest tears and praise they duly 
 
 gave. 
 For all he was, the immemorial sign. 
 
 123 
 
THE DORR WAR AND MILLERISM 
 
 THERE was trouble enough in 
 Belllngham in 1840. The sleepy 
 old town in its previous existence 
 had never felt a ripple of ex- 
 citement more moving than a 
 sewing bee, a travelling phrenologist or tem- 
 perance lecturer, a summer picnic or a winter 
 revival. Now it was invaded on one hand 
 by Millerism and on the other by the Dorr 
 War. The seat of the latter was in Rhode 
 Island; but Bellingham, being a border town, 
 was in danger of a raid. The Dorrites did, 
 in fact, advance as far as Crook's Tavern 
 on the southern boundary of the town, where, 
 having drunk up what rum they could find, 
 and hearing that the other tavern in the cen- 
 ter of the town was kept on teetotal princi- 
 ples, they at once retreated. Not, how- 
 ever, before an alarm had been rung 
 out by the church bell and the militia 
 company called to arms. Great was the 
 fright of the women and children. There 
 was no sleeping in any house, no work- 
 ing and little eating for several days. My 
 
 124 
 
THE DORR WAR AND MILLERISM 
 
 mother took her family to the top of a 
 neighboring hill to reconnoitre and was pre- 
 pared to run for the woods in case the enemy 
 appeared. She was in great distress, having 
 no man to care for and protect her little 
 brood. She was a small, delicate and timid 
 woman, extremely unfitted to play the 
 heroine, and only used to suffering, which 
 she bore like a saint. On the contrary I aged 
 seven, armed with a long fishpole, threatened 
 the advance of the rebels, and was eager to 
 have them come on. I did not go far from 
 my mother and sisters however. I enjoyed 
 the situation, for I loved danger, with plenty 
 of protection and means of escape. I loved 
 fire, deep and threatening water, the roofs of 
 houses, high, dangerous places, thin ice and 
 a bull in the pasture. These tempted me to 
 trials of boyish bravery. At heart, a little 
 coward, I brandished my fishpole and clung 
 to my mother's dress. We could see our sol- 
 diers with their high hats surmounted by 
 pompons, parading in front of the town 
 house and could hear the snare drum beat the 
 time of their movement. Nothing came of 
 the affair beyond great excitement and town 
 talk. The Dorrites retreated to Smithfield, 
 
 125 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 the militia men went back to their farms and 
 the town was saved. I was terribly disap- 
 pointed, and the succeeding days were too 
 flat and dull to be endured. I got through 
 them by playing at soldiering for the re- 
 mainder of the summer, making forts and 
 wooden guns and gay uniforms out of bright 
 bits of calico, cocked hats of paper stuck full 
 of cock tail feathers. I had also a long- 
 handled lance which had come down in the 
 family from Revolutionary times with which 
 I charged the woodpile and the hen house, 
 made of sods, at an angle in the orchard 
 wall. Through this I thrust so fiercely one 
 day that I killed our only rooster, to the con- 
 sternation of my mother and sisters. As I 
 was much in need of more tail feathers for 
 my military hat, it did not seem to me such 
 a tragedy. I was punished by not getting 
 the drumstick and wishing bone when he was 
 cooked, and the tail feathers, to my chagrin, 
 were made into a hearth duster. 
 
 The Dorr Rebellion was not long past 
 when the terrifying prophecies of Rev. Wil- 
 liam Miller began to be preached. He had 
 figured out by Biblical and historical dates 
 that the world was to last six thousand years, 
 
 126 
 
THE DORR WAR AND MILLERISM 
 
 and that era would be reached about 1843. 
 The Dorr scare was a trifle compared to 
 the panic which now seized upon many peo- 
 ple in the country towns of New England. 
 Even those who disbelieved or scoffed could 
 not conceal their dread. It sobered every- 
 body and banished all joy and gaiety. A 
 sad expectancy and presentiment of impend- 
 ing disaster oppressed whole communities. 
 Church members and serious minded persons 
 thought it as well to be prepared and to be on 
 the safe side, in case the end should come. Re- 
 vivals were going on everywhere and the 
 churches were refilled. What impression 
 did this talk and excitement make on chil- 
 dren? I can say for one that I enjoyed it 
 almost as much as the Dorr War. I compre- 
 hended nothing of what it meant. I never 
 thought of anything happening to myself, to 
 the house or my dog and kites. The general 
 agitation filled me inwardly with a lively joy; 
 the danger seemed to threaten only our 
 neighbors, that is, such as were Millerites. 
 I reasoned that they and their houses would 
 somehow disappear while we should remain. 
 So every morning I climbed a little hill to see 
 if Sylvanus White's house was standing. He 
 
 127 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 was the leading believer in the end of the 
 world among our neighbors, a prosperous 
 farmer living in a large, frame house. I 
 heard my mother say that he had no children, 
 and it did not make much difference to him 
 what happened. I pondered this remark of 
 my mother trying to think what she meant. I 
 got no farther than the curious conclusion 
 that all the Millerites were grown up people 
 without children, and, by a natural deduction, 
 that my mother and sisters and myself were 
 safe from the end of the world. But I was 
 not altogether satisfied. In my heart, so 
 much did I delight in having something go- 
 ing on, that I wanted to see the great event, 
 which I pictured to myself, remembering 
 the words, flame, smoke and thunder, as 
 something like the mimic Indian fights I had 
 once seen represented on the annual training 
 day of the militia men; only this promised to 
 be on a grander scale. 
 
 It Is well known that children play at 
 death and funerals without sorrow; so I 
 played the destruction of the world with great 
 delight. I made my world of small boxes for 
 houses, one over the other, and on top of all, 
 a crippled kite which represented Farmer 
 
 128 
 
THE DORR WAR AND MILLERISM 
 
 White, as I had heard that he had prepared 
 a white robe in which to ascend. I wanted of 
 course some people in my doomed world be- 
 sides Farmer White. I manufactured quite 
 an assemblage out of one thing and another 
 and gave them names, mostly of older boys 
 whom I disliked, my Sunday-school teacher, 
 who gave me a bad half hour every week, 
 and my uncle Slocomb who was always tell- 
 ing my mother I would never be a man if she 
 did not stop indulging me so much. I added 
 a few pretended animals of corn cobs, a 
 dead snake, a live frog; and, as these did not 
 seem the real thing, I tied my dog and cat and 
 a lame chicken close to the sacrificial heap. I 
 surrounded the whole with sticks, paper and 
 pine cones and then came the exciting moment 
 when I "touched her off," as boys say. What 
 fun, what glee I experienced at that moment, 
 no one can know, who does not keep in his 
 bosom a fragment of his boyish heart. Cre- 
 ation may please the gods, but it cannot equal 
 the boy's pleasure in destruction, especially by 
 fire. I only needed a few spectators and I 
 soon had them. The flames began to singe 
 the dog and cat, and fricassee the chicken. 
 Their howling and screaming brought the 
 
 129 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 family upon the scene, and none too soon to 
 save the lives of my pets. I was shut in a 
 dark closet on bread and water for the re- 
 mainder of the day and left to meditate, as 
 my mother charged me, when I confessed my 
 intentions, on "the naughtiness of mocking se- 
 rious things." Thus did I innocently antici- 
 pate in my own person that dies irae which I 
 had prepared for my imaginary town. I 
 took no further interest in Millerism and in 
 neighbor White's big house and ascension 
 robe. After this I made new and less de- 
 structible worlds which continue to this day. 
 
 But the delusion did not expire by my 
 neglect. It is still cherished as the candid 
 faith of many readers of scriptural oracles. 
 And now they are comforted by the astrono- 
 mers who terrify us with their calculations 
 on the inexorable cataclysm impending over 
 our trusty and splendid earth. Never mind; 
 we shall not be at the exit. To the vast fu- 
 ture belong all these disconcerting predictions 
 —and welcome. Time has already inscribed 
 our urns, and, without mathematics, appoint- 
 ed for each one his separate and appropriate 
 catastrophe. We who have lived fifteen lus- 
 
 130 
 
THE DORR WAR AND MILLERISM 
 
 trums have already witnessed the dissolution 
 of our world. What more could the Rev. 
 William Miller do for us? 
 
 131 
 
WOODS AND PASTURES 
 
 THERE are many matters In the 
 recollections of our earliest years 
 so minute that to speak of them 
 Is only becoming to second child- 
 hood. "The soul discovers great 
 things from casual circumstances", says Por- 
 phory. Providence provides temporary 
 bridges through life which commonly fall to 
 pieces after we pass over them and are for- 
 gotten. It is not so with me; one bridge 
 remains whole and more beautified by time — 
 that on which I return to my native town. I 
 require no daylight or lantern for the journey. 
 Some men can number their happy days; I 
 more often count my happy nights, when I 
 soothe myself to repose by recalling the sweet 
 and tender joys of childhood. I travel the 
 roads and pastures or wade the brook hand 
 In hand with Launa Probana. 
 
 There was no gate out of Bellingham In my 
 childhood. Its confines I never thought to 
 question, or to suspect that there was any- 
 thing beyond. It had Its own sun, moon and 
 stars. Its river, its pond, its pastures and 
 
 132 
 
WOODS AND PASTURES 
 
 woods as full of Interests and resources and 
 as exhilarating as any place discovered later 
 on the map of the world. This concentration 
 and limitation give to children experiences and 
 Illusions which color thewhole subsequent life. 
 They are implicit In that soil where we find 
 the roots of our being. They are what make 
 us good citizens, steadfast friends, true lov- 
 ers, observers of nature, disciples of the poets. 
 They, whose early life is diffused over too 
 many objects, with too many opportunities, 
 have only a temporary and Incomplete hold 
 and delight in any of the advantages of their 
 superior fortune. What is the good of how- 
 ever large a circle, if it have no center? 
 
 The lean and hungry pastures of Belling- 
 ham were prolific in Inexhaustible harvests; 
 what they bore on their surface may hint of 
 something deeper and more perennial. The 
 pastures and borders of the woods were cov- 
 ered with patches of huckleberry and blue-ber- 
 ry bushes, and over every stone heap 
 clambered the low blackberry vines with 
 racemes of luscious fruit. The pastures 
 were named from one or the other of 
 these berries, and their owners never 
 claimed private right to them. To put 
 
 133 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 up the bars as we entered and left the 
 field, was the only obligation expected of us. 
 Seldom were they taken down; the women 
 crawled through, the boys leaped over, the 
 small girls squeezed in between the posts and 
 the wall. Our forefathers left the turn- 
 stile behind them in their English meadows, 
 but not the short-cut from house to house, 
 from field to field or from village to village. 
 There is always a shorter way than the crowd 
 travels. Boys and animals, those untaught 
 explorers and surveyors, are the first to find 
 it. Once within the pasture, a hundred short 
 paths led hither and thither wherein grew a 
 little low, sweet grass which the red cows 
 grazed and sheep nibbled; and as they saunt- 
 ered along they paid behind for their food in 
 front. Then a warning voice would be raised 
 telling us to be careful where we stepped. In 
 these mazy pathways we were always return- 
 ing upon our tracks and finding the bushes we 
 had already stripped. Children were crying 
 out to each other that the bottom of their 
 pails was covered, or that they had a pint or 
 quart, and generally as many went into the 
 mouth as into the pail. The days when we 
 went berrying were holidays, although the 
 
 134 
 
WOODS AND PASTURES 
 
 berries were picked for market and added a 
 mite to the year's supply of silver money. 
 Bank bills and gold we never saw, only silver 
 and copper, and of these, silver was the mon- 
 ey of men and women and huge copper cents 
 and half cents of boys. I can remember a 
 time when one cent was riches unspeakable, 
 treasured for months and often displayed in 
 triumph to penniless companions. Poor in- 
 deed are they who have never known the day 
 of small things and the size of a cent. It is 
 said money is only good for what it will buy, 
 and the miser who hoards is the scoff of man- 
 kind. I must have been a descendant of Shy- 
 lock for I loved cents for themselves and the 
 feeling of importance they gave me. I pol- 
 ished them until they shone like gold and the 
 face of the Father of his Country gleamed 
 with irridescent benignity. Some were hope- 
 lessly worn and battered; some had a hole in 
 them or a piece nicked out of the rim. These 
 I exchanged with my mother for more perfect 
 ones which I could burnish. 
 
 For children, berrying was play, pure pas- 
 time; it brought no money to their pockets. 
 For the first hour it was Infinitely exciting; 
 by the next, we wanted something else, and It 
 
 135 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 was difficult to keep us in order. What to 
 do next is an eternal question that has fol- 
 lowed both children and man from Eden. It 
 is usually resolved by doing the same thing 
 over again. 
 
 A little boy once sat discontentedly on the 
 bank of a river. A traveller asked him what 
 was the matter. He answered "I want to be 
 on the other side of the stream.'' "What 
 for?" inquired the traveller. ''So that I could 
 come back here," said the restless boy. 
 
 To hide and play games was one means of 
 escape from the fatigue of the slow filling 
 berry pails. Then such quiet fell over the pas- 
 ture that our elders knew some mischief was 
 afoot. We were promptly discovered, scold- 
 ed and warned that we must fill our pails be- 
 fore we could play. 
 
 As milking time approached we gathered 
 up stray hats, aprons and handkerchiefs and 
 prepared to go home. We painted each oth- 
 ers' cheeks with the red blood of huckleber- 
 ries and crowned our heads with leaves of 
 the birch and oak, stalks of indigo weed or 
 broad fern fronds that hung down over the 
 face like green veils. Thus freaked and 
 marked, walking in single file, our mothers 
 
 136 
 
WOODS AND PASTURES 
 
 and elder sisters behind us, shouting, leaping 
 and laughing, we presented something as near 
 a Bacchic procession as could be found In 
 a community enshrouded In the black cloak of 
 John Calvin. What a good time It was to be 
 alive, and never Is a boy so young as In the 
 berry pasture, nor any place so full of en- 
 chantments. She — for It was never a boy — 
 who had picked the most berries that day, 
 headed the band and was a proud and envied 
 person. Our elders cherished this emulation. 
 I was always thinking that the next time we 
 went berrying, I should try for the head of 
 the procession ; but the fun was too much for 
 me; I could not hold to my resoluton above 
 a half hour; I was excessively fond of praise 
 but averse to the ways of meriting it. The 
 only long word I brought away from child- 
 hood was approbatlveness. I never used the 
 word, nor knew Its meaning, and, least of all, 
 could have pronounced It. I heard It once 
 only, together with another word, editor, 
 which I understood as little, from the lips of 
 a travelling phrenologist. It happened that 
 my mother lodged and fed him for a night 
 and he paid his score by examining the heads 
 of all the family. I was greatly impressed 
 
 137 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 when he remarked that I had a large bump 
 of approbativeness and would sometime be an 
 editor. As to the bump, feeling over my own 
 head, I never could find it. My mother said 
 it was inside and that the phrenologist meant 
 I must be a good boy. I was quite used to 
 that interpretation of everything concerning 
 myself. A great many years after, when I 
 became editor of an obscure newspaper, so 
 little comfort, reputation or profit did I find 
 In it, that I amused myself In thinking of it as 
 the fulfillment of the phrenologist's pro- 
 phecy. 
 
 The Bacchic procession dropped Its mem- 
 bers here and there along the road and we 
 got to our own cottage tired, sunburnt and 
 hungry. We ate our suppers of berries and 
 milk out of pewter porringers with pewter 
 spoons and went to bed at dark. The next 
 day we fed on berry pies, and all the neigh- 
 borhood during the berry season bore the 
 marks of pies in blackened teeth and lips, ex- 
 cept a few fastidious young women who clean- 
 ed theirs with vinegar. Tooth brushes were 
 as unknown as rouge and powder. Every 
 Saturday night the children were scrubbed In 
 a wash tub in front of the fire place in winter, 
 
 138 
 
WOODS AND PASTURES 
 
 and at the door In summer. During the ses- 
 sion of school my mother washed my ears and 
 face every day, pinned my collar, kissed me, 
 and always her tedious parting Injunction was, 
 mind your teacher, study your lesson and be 
 a good boy. Then away with flying feet I 
 overtake my companions, whom no sooner 
 met, than we loitered along the road, hand in 
 hand, or arms around another's neck, merry 
 and playful, quite unmindful of nine o'clock 
 and the hateful lesson. There were no preco- 
 cious and wonderful children In our red 
 school house. Even I did not begin to write 
 poetry until I was eighteen or nineteen ! The 
 only literary prodigy among our neighbors 
 was a maiden lady who wrote obituary verses 
 on the death of her pious friends. 
 
 The berry season lasted several weeks, 
 and toward Its close prudent housewives 
 dried some for winter use or preserved 
 them in molasses. The last we gath- 
 ered were the swamp, or high-bush blue- 
 berries. These had a sub-acid, delicious 
 flavor, not unlike the smell of the swamp pink, 
 which grew in the same spot. The black rasp- 
 berry, which we called thimble berry, was 
 found along the stone walls, but was not 
 
 139 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 abundant. I knew a few bushes and kept It 
 secret, for if I found a saucerful I was sure 
 of a small pie baked by my mother, and all 
 my own. If I could not find enough for a 
 pie I strung such as I gathered on long spears 
 of grass. As they were shaped like little thim- 
 bles, I fitted them on the grass stems one over 
 the other like a nest of cups, reversing them 
 at Intervals, to make a pattern, which showed 
 the young savage, generally Intent only on 
 something to eat or to play with, to have a 
 slight artistic instinct. As I now recall those 
 strings of thimble berries, I think they would 
 make an humble ornamental border to a pic- 
 ture of a New England roadside with its 
 crooked and tumbled stone walls. No road 
 to me Is attractive that Is not bounded by such 
 walls and fringed with berry bushes, brush 
 and wild apple trees, from among which peer 
 forth the cymes of the wayfaring bush and 
 sweet scented clusters of the traveller's joy. 
 Let England have her trim, hawthorne lanes 
 and pleached gardens of fruit and flower, and 
 Italy her olive and orange; for me the New 
 England wilding roadside, interrupted only 
 now and then by a farmhouse and littered 
 yard, is dearer. 
 
 140 
 
WOODS AND PASTURES 
 
 I have not yet mentioned other berries that 
 used to make a country boy's life so full of in- 
 terest. There was the cranberry, not yet ex- 
 ploited by cultivation and proprietorship. In 
 Bellingham the cranberry meadows were still 
 wild and free. The farmer who claimed an 
 exclusive right to them had no standing in the 
 community and was universally denounced as 
 mean and stingy. No one wanted many, as 
 they were not bought at country stores, and, 
 required as much sugar in the cooking as there 
 were berries; so cranberry sauce was a luxury 
 rarely indulged. Like most wild fruits they 
 were never picked clean. When the spring 
 thaws flooded the meadows and washed them 
 in windrows on the shore we gathered them 
 to eat raw and also for paint. Having been 
 frozen and a little sweetened in their winter 
 and watery wanderings, we found them more 
 palatable than when cooked. I know not why, 
 yet a country boy prefers the raw and wild 
 flavor far more than the condiments and sea- 
 sonings of cookery. The chief use of the 
 spring cranberries was as a paint; the thin 
 juice made a pretty, pink color on white pa- 
 per, or added an admirable touch to a rus- 
 set, red cheek, such as commonly beautified 
 
 141 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 Belllngham boys and girls, nurtured on milk, 
 apples and brown bread, open air and unfin- 
 ished attic chambers. 
 
 I dwell much on the recollections of the 
 doings of the day, but the nights had also 
 their joys, none greater than the rain on the 
 roof and the exquisite, semi-conscious mo- 
 ments when sleep began to overtake body and 
 soul, gently extinguishing them in a soothing, 
 delicious languor. The low country attic is 
 the true house of dreams, where the good, the 
 strange or the fearful spirits play over the 
 subjected and helpless will. Long time I re- 
 membered some of those dreams which visited 
 my truckle bed, placed on rollers a foot from 
 the floor and thrice as many from the ridge 
 pole. In winter, tightly tucked in by a loving 
 mother, the cold without only made me feel 
 the more snug and warm within. The snow 
 sifted through the chinks in the loose shingles, 
 making little white hillocks on the floor, and 
 often I found enough on my pillow in the 
 morning to press into a snowball and pelt my 
 sister, who slept at the other end of the at- 
 tic. 
 
 I follow no order in my narrative: I wan- 
 der; but how can one go far in the small and 
 
 142 
 
WOODS AND PASTURES 
 
 circumscribed region of earliest memories, 
 bound each to each by some inwardly felt af- 
 finity, which neither time nor world wander- 
 ings can dissever? One thing suggests anoth- 
 er and the connection must be found in the 
 things themselves. Cranberry picking carried 
 me forward into springtime; now I return to 
 the autumn, the harvest season, when al- 
 though not old enough to dig my mother's 
 small patch of potatoes, I could pick them up 
 in a basket. She herself handled the hoe un- 
 covering the long reds and the white Che- 
 nangos. I liked better to shake down apples 
 than to gather things from the ground; for to 
 climb trees is as much a boy's as a monkey's 
 instinct. That was my first thought when I 
 happened to observe any kind of tree, could 
 I climb it? The wild grapes which grew in 
 profusion along the banks of our river 
 clambering over the tall grey birches gave me 
 glorious opportunities for climbing, as the 
 sweetest and largest clusters were always at 
 the very top of the trees. The limbs of the 
 grey birch, although small, are very elastic 
 and tough, making a sure footing for the 
 climber. The danger was, that, as he 
 approached the slender spire of the tree, 
 
 143 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 it would suddenly bend or break and 
 drop him Into the water. This was all 
 the more fun, if he could swim. When 
 he reached home he was liable to have 
 his jacket not only dried but "warmed," which 
 was the colloquial for a thrashing. I usually 
 sold grapes enough during the day of the Fall 
 militia training to keep me in pocket money 
 through the winter. This was my first effort 
 at any kind of trading and, I think, spoilt 
 me for a commercial career; for there was no 
 cost, no capital, no loss; all was profit; and 
 ever since that day it has seemed to me the 
 only manner of doing business worth while. 
 There are, or were, other compensations 
 in a life of trade, which might fire the 
 ambition of a strenuous youth. I remember 
 three voyages made the merchant a Thane in 
 ancient England. 
 
 When frost began to brown the grass and 
 brighten the trees, the woods were full of 
 boys, partridges and squirrels. The boys and 
 squirrels, much alike in their appetites and 
 ability to climb trees, were intent on gather- 
 ing a store of nuts for winter. In early morn- 
 ing after a sharp frost, the chestnut burrs 
 opened and the nuts dropped out, falling and 
 
 144 
 
WOODS AND PASTURES 
 
 hiding among the leaves. There we hunted 
 for them; the squirrels did not appear to have 
 to hunt, but put their intelligent paws under 
 the leaves with an Infallible instinct. They 
 were always on the ground earlier than we, 
 and filled their cheeks before we had filled 
 our bags and pockets. What extraordinary 
 care the chestnut takes of herself; a rough 
 outer garment bristling with sharp needles, 
 and within, the whitest, silkiest lining fit for 
 the cradle of a baby queen. To prevent ac- 
 cidents and a more easy delivery from the 
 burr, the nut is annolnted with a slight exu- 
 dation of oil, which gives a soft, agreeable 
 feeling as you hold it in your hand. Doubt- 
 less It acts as a preservative also keeping the 
 nut from becoming too soon dry and hard. 
 Chestnuts were laid away for future use, to 
 be brought out on winter evenings with cider 
 and apples. Nobody thought of going to bed 
 without first eating something. Sometimes the 
 chestnuts were roasted in the ashes on the 
 hearth, and less often boiled. Of all places 
 to warm them, a boy's pocket was the best; 
 there they were handiest to eat on the road, 
 or at school, when the teacher was not look- 
 ing. If caught in the act, you were called up 
 
 145 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 to her desk and forfeited the contents of your 
 pocket. It might be returned to you if you 
 had behaved yourself meanwhile and had not 
 whispered, thrown spit balls, or pinched the 
 little girl who sat next to you. There were 
 two kinds of walnut trees in the neighbor- 
 hood; the common name of one was shag- 
 bark, of the other pignut. The shagbark was 
 the walnut of the market, a nut with a rich, 
 oily kernel; the pignut was smaller with a 
 very thick shell and correspondingly small 
 meat, hard to separate from the shell. They 
 were of little worth, not salable and we gath- 
 ered them only when the other kind was 
 scarce. It took a hard frost, several times 
 repeated, to loosen them from the tree. We 
 often clubbed them down. It was a perilous 
 undertaking to climb a walnut tree, for the 
 limbs began to grow high up and the trunk 
 was covered with a rough bark, hence the 
 name shagbark; to shin up, and still more to 
 descend, was apt to make patches or a new 
 seat to your trousers your mother's evening 
 work after you had gone to bed. Where grew 
 anything good to eat and free to all, a boy 
 was sure to have it, although it cost him sub- 
 sequent patches, whippings and tears. Shall 
 
 146 
 
WOODS AND PASTURES 
 
 the squirrel hunt for nuts and the little sons 
 of men be forbidden, just to save a new pair 
 of breeches, or an old jacket? But the woes 
 of country boyhood are naught in comparison 
 to its joys, and a day in a berry field, or a 
 morning among the chestnut trees, under the 
 blue sky and a west wind, with merry com- 
 panions. Is a memory that outshines all the 
 purchased pleasures of later life. Confess 
 to me, ye humble and trivial things, confess 
 what charms were yours, which never the 
 flood of years submerges. Alas, they have no 
 speech. I hear but a strain of imperishable 
 music. 
 
 147 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 HOME AND HOMESICKNESS 
 
 IT was thought best In New England 
 country towns that boys, who were 
 not needed on the farm and were not 
 to be educated beyond the common 
 school, should learn some trade. As 
 my mother possessed no land nor any means 
 to send me to academy and college. It was 
 early decided to apprentice me to a trade with 
 some good master. There was another rea- 
 son; she did not feel able nor competent to 
 manage me when I should be older. She had 
 a presentiment that It would require a strong- 
 er hand than her own gentle one to guide me 
 In a straight path. Always after the death of 
 her husband, her only means of meeting her 
 difficulties and perplexities was by prayer. 
 Three times each day, after the morning, noon 
 and evening meals she retired to her own 
 chamber to pray. She read none but religious 
 books and the Bible. Her Bible was the wed- 
 ding gift of her husband— that and one sil- 
 ver spoon marked with his and her initials 
 
 148 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 J. A. and E. T. Intertwined after the manner 
 of silversmiths. My father appears to have 
 been the owner of but one book, Cotton Math- 
 er's, "Essays to do Good," which I still pos- 
 sess and, alas, could never read through. Of 
 course the title of the volume at the date of 
 its republication, 1808, had been greatly re- 
 duced. No Mather would be satisfied with 
 a title much less expansive than the contents, 
 nor wanting some Latin interlardings. The 
 original title was "Benifacius," followed by 
 ten lines of sub-titles. This was unusual re- 
 serve for one of Cotton Mather's productions. 
 In its day it was as popular as is the worst 
 novel of ours, and was continually being re- 
 published. Even Dr. Franklin read and 
 praised it and professed that it had influ- 
 enced his whole life. The preface is a fine 
 specimen of the manner In which a popular 
 Boston preacher at the beginning of the 
 eighteenth century expressed himself when he 
 appeared in print. It has all the airs and 
 attudlnizing of a full dress ball-room. He 
 says that a passage in the speech of a British 
 envoy suggested the book and declares of 
 it, "Ink were too vile a liquor to write that 
 passage. Letters of gold were too mean to be 
 
 149 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 the preservers of It. Paper of Amyanthus 
 would not be precious and perennous enough 
 to perpetuate it." 
 
 A prayerful mother, the Bible and the Rev. 
 Cotton Mather ought to have been sufficient 
 to turn out good boys from any household. 
 Then there was Sunday-school where we 
 were much instructed about the nature and 
 consequences of sin and the end that awaited 
 bad boys. Notwithstanding, some closer and 
 more practical guidance was needed for a 
 growing lad; something to put him in the 
 way of preparing to earn his living. Accord- 
 ingly in my eighth year I was turned over to 
 an uncle, my father's only brother, who lived 
 in the next town. He was a boot maker with 
 four sons of his own. At once I found my- 
 self cut off from all the objects and persons 
 I had ever known, thrown into a strange 
 world, my own lost as completely as if I had 
 gone to another. I found myself introduced 
 to a small room up a flight of stairs at the 
 end of the shed of my uncle's house. The 
 room was full of windows, all of which looked 
 in the direction of my lost home; it had a 
 number of low shoemaker's benches ranged 
 along three of its sides. Here my uncle and 
 
 150 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 two of his sons made boots. I was directed 
 to one of the benches and began by being 
 taught how to use a waxed end and stitch the 
 counters of bootlegs. Never In my life be- 
 fore had I been pinned to one spot for any 
 length of time save on a school bench; never 
 before set at any work that was not or that 
 could not be made half play. A deadly home- 
 sickness at once seized upon me, of which I 
 could not be cured by all the kindness and 
 encouragement of my uncle and aunt. I was 
 constantly looking out of the shop windows, 
 expecting some one to come and rescue me. 
 Constantly I wept and could not swallow my 
 food for the lump In my throat; at last food 
 was loathsome and my eyes became so swollen 
 with continual tears that I could scarcely see 
 to thread my needle. Thus I suffered for 
 three weeks and my young heart was wounded 
 and broken past all cure. My nature was 
 changed from that time; a kind of depres- 
 sion and melancholy, took the place of my 
 natural gaiety. I can readily believe, such 
 were my misery and agony, that one might 
 die of homesickness. I recall It so well that 
 I can diagnose Its symptoms which are like 
 those of a fever. It comes over one In par- 
 
 151 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 oxysms, followed by a great calm as from 
 sudden cessation of acute pain, then by a 
 choking sensation, a terrible sinking of the 
 heart, down, down, all things swim in the con- 
 vulsion of lost senses until tears once more 
 relieve the overwrought soul. To add to my 
 misery my two young cousins would have 
 nothing to do with me. For the entire three 
 weeks I never spoke a word; the moment I 
 tried I choked and burst into tears. No 
 wonder my cousins and other boys avoided 
 me. Such a baby was past their comprehen- 
 sion or tolerance. In my own natural place 
 I should have had no more mercy on such an 
 one. It is remarkable how early boys begin 
 to trim each other into manly character; they 
 instantly discover and attack any little weak- 
 ness, and with rough and ready hand or 
 tongue make the weakling or the upstart 
 ashamed of himself. But no treatment harsh 
 or kind could cure a homesick child, and one 
 day my uncle said he was going to see my 
 mother, and that I was to go with him. Oh, 
 how my spirits recovered themselves ! I nev- 
 er thought of the return; only to go, to be 
 once more in my own home, with my own 
 river, fields and companions, filled me with 
 
 152 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 ecstacy. I went and I did not return. I did 
 not know what was said between my mother 
 and uncle; I saw him drive away and leave 
 me behind with unspeakable joy. For many 
 subsequent days I observed my mother's sor- 
 rowful eyes when she spoke to me. Her 
 first experiment, which promised so well, had 
 railed. If she was disappointed, I was so- 
 bered and much easier to manage from that 
 time forth : I tried to please my mother. Our 
 old way of life went on its usual round. Again 
 the little Red House was happy. I resumed 
 my play under the garden apple tree or on the 
 great rock in the corner of the orchard. That 
 year I mastered the alphabet, and I was giv- 
 en a slate and pencil for the purpose of keep- 
 ing me still when not saying my letters. The 
 school days of that period are memorable to 
 me, chiefly from the recesses and the noon in- 
 termission an hour long. It was in that hour 
 I became Intimate with some little girls, and 
 found that I liked them as well as boy play- 
 mates. How we choose our favorite compan- 
 ions, no man is wise enough to know; yet 
 choice there certainly was, with no formality 
 or effort. How could it be otherwise? From 
 the troop by the door or the roadside, eating 
 
 153 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 their dinner from basket or pail or playing 
 games, some predestined affinity drew away 
 a boy and maid to the birchen bower, where 
 with one mind they set up mimic housekeep- 
 ing and forbade the entrance of strange chil- 
 dren. There one cloak covered them both. 
 Or they rambled hand in hand through the 
 woods, or waded in the shallow water of 
 Beaver brook down to the stone arch bridge 
 where the confined streamlet gurgled softly 
 over the slimy pebbles, and the arch echoed to 
 the sound of their voices. What matter though 
 pantalets and little breeches, pulled up as high 
 as they could be, were wet with jumping and 
 splashing; hot sun and warm blood would 
 soon dry them. Wrinkles and limpness might 
 betray them when they returned to the moth- 
 er's fold at night, but her reproaches had no 
 terror nor any restraint for happy children, 
 who alone know the secrets of their own pleas- 
 ures and have no remembrance of interference 
 with them. With boy and boy there is a per- 
 fect equality; no pretentions are allowed, ex- 
 cept those of age. With maid and boy it is 
 different. With my companion, I wished to 
 appear superior, to show her things, even to 
 attempt to explain them; and thus I myself 
 
 154 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 learned to observe natural objects and to love 
 them. She was my teacher, although I be- 
 lieved myself hers. She listened, she looked 
 up at me and asked another question, and so 
 I see her to this day. How should I not be- 
 come wise? If not, it is no fault of hers. 
 My Launa, whom I led through the woods, 
 along the water courses, and to whom 
 I promised, that some day we would catch a 
 cloud and ride around the sky visiting the 
 moon and stars, yes, it was Launa to whom I 
 promised everything, and promised because 
 she wished it, and I felt it my business to 
 seem able to gratify all her desires. She al- 
 ready led me captive; well she knew it, and 
 loved to test me with impossible demands. 
 She dared me to do a hundred things, which 
 attempting and failing, I boldly declared I 
 had done. Just as willing to be deceived as 
 I to deceive, she never questioned my lie, but 
 led me on to some fresh feat, some brook or 
 fence to leap, or inaccessible flower or berry 
 to bring her. Already I got out of difficul- 
 ties by changing the subject, by evading the 
 challenge and diverting her to some other ob- 
 ject, play or plan to which she as readily 
 listened. How proud, how important and 
 
 155 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 superior I felt and with what trust the little 
 siren permitted it. Among all my apprentice- 
 ships this to Launa Probana was that which 
 taught me most and is most ineffaceable. 
 
 THE SAW-MILL 
 
 The next effort to make a craftsman of me 
 was in my tenth year. I was put under the 
 hands of a millwright. He set up the 
 machinery of saw and grist mills and re- 
 paired them when out of order. He 
 had a saw mill and shingle mill of his own, 
 but he was often away from home, especially 
 in winter, and then I ran the saw mill alone. 
 Its machinery was old fashioned and now 
 obsolete, an upright saw, a carriage for the 
 logs somewhat like that now in use, but much 
 heavier and more clumsy. To set the logs 
 to the required width of boards or other lum- 
 ber we used inch rules, a bar made on pur- 
 pose for the work and dogs to hold the logs 
 in place. The power was water turned upon 
 the floats of a large wheel. No large timber 
 was left in the neighborhood, otherwise a boy 
 of ten could not have run the mill alone ; but 
 with a cant-hook I could usually manage to 
 
 156 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 roll the log upon the carriage and put It In 
 position. We ran off the slabs first and these 
 were the perquisites of the mill owner. They 
 were used In his own family and some were 
 sold or given to poor widows and others. The 
 saw mill was run only In winter time; the 
 water of the mill pond was drawn off In early 
 spring, and where It had flooded the land, 
 grass grew In summer. While the log was 
 running through the saw, It was my never end- 
 ing delight to lean out of an opening In the 
 side of the mill and watch the tallrace rush 
 from under the building. All winter I looked 
 forward to the day when the great gates of 
 the dam would be raised and the pond dis- 
 appear In a few hours. I cannot exactly des- 
 cribe the feeling with which, after a few days 
 of sunshine, I walked over the ground where 
 the water had stood; a strange commingling 
 of awe and curiosity, especially as I threaded 
 the now dry, narrow and deep canal, which 
 led the water of the pond to the mill. There 
 I often walked just to enjoy In Imagination 
 the thought, what If the water should sud- 
 denly come pouring down upon me ! I even 
 selected the best places to escape up the rough 
 stone walls of the canal. All my boyhood I 
 
 157 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 enjoyed thrilling imaginary perils, and the 
 planning means of escape. The walls of this 
 canal were made of irregular stones from 
 the field. Alternately wet and dry they had 
 taken on beautiful colors, variegated accord- 
 ing to the character of the stone, and between 
 them in summer, and quite covering them in 
 places, grew many kinds of wild flowers, 
 mosses and ferns, and, most splendid of all, 
 the cardinal flower. The canal was always 
 damp, and a few frogs and green snakes made 
 it their summer home. Do not imagine I 
 made any such observations as these at the 
 time, least of all that I then knew the cardinal 
 flower by its correct name. I saw, I felt, I 
 dreamed; now I remember and know a little 
 more. I lacked the right name and reason for 
 most things, but knowing nothing, I named 
 everything after my own fancy and found 
 the creation as good and sweet as the Crea- 
 tor at the end of his week's work. Every 
 boy is a new Adam, and christens the world 
 of his senses in the most primitive figure of 
 language, metonomy. 
 
 The terms of my apprenticeship included a 
 new suit of clothes each year, and that I 
 should be sent to school in the summer. The 
 
 158 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 clothes were never forthcoming and my 
 mother had to furnish them. My master 
 gave me my boots for winter and shoes 
 for summer, but I went barefooted seven 
 months of tlie year. This was no hard- 
 ship. How I hated to wear shoes on 
 the only day when it was compulsory, 
 Sunday. It cost me tears to learn to tie a 
 double bow knot with my shoestring, as my 
 master insisted upon my doing, and this was 
 the only thing during my apprenticeship that 
 he took pains to teach me — to tie a shoe- 
 string. He was a silent, self-absorbed man 
 with a stern manner, a square set jaw, wide 
 mouth and ponderous ears. He was very 
 fond of his two little girls, three and four 
 years old; but he never had a kind word for 
 me. However, he was not peculiar in this re- 
 spect. Boys were not cosseted in those days, 
 but made to feel the rod and keep their place. 
 It seems to me now that I must have been to 
 him a necessary nuisance, tolerated for what 
 service I could render, yet I was not unhappy. 
 My mother lived across the road and I could 
 see her every day. I had some time for 
 play; the mills, the tools, the dam and canals 
 interested me and beyond all, I fished to my 
 
 159 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 heart's content. There was an old mongrel 
 dog at my heels wherever I went, and togeth- 
 er we hunted woodchucks and squirrels with- 
 out a gun. In the evening, by the stove, he 
 still hunted them in his dreams, whimpering 
 and barking as soon as he was sound asleep, 
 and I myself often had the same dream when 
 I had been unusually excited by the sport. In 
 the autumn I set snares for partridges which 
 I sold to the Boston stage drivers for nine- 
 pence apiece. Well do I remember the high 
 hope with which I entered the silent wood in 
 early morning to examine my snares, the ex- 
 hilaration when I found a poor partridge in 
 the noose, limp and dead, with a white film 
 drawn over her eyes. Pity for bird or beast 
 or human beings was an unknown feeling 
 then: I liked to torment such life as I had 
 power over, to see it suffer. The sale of 
 partridges furnished me with considerable 
 spending money; for what I spent it, I know 
 not. I am only certain I did not hoard it, 
 as I have never found any ancient silver pieces 
 in my purse or pockets. I can think of no 
 more entertaining account book than one 
 which should show the acquisition and out- 
 lay of a boy's money; his financial statement 
 
 1 60 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 from his fifth to his fifteenth year. I should 
 like to audit such an account and, however, it 
 came out I would agree to find it correctly 
 cast, balanced and properly vouched; for a 
 boy always gets his money's worth and thinks 
 he has what he wants. In his trades with 
 other boys, money seldom plays any part, and 
 the little swindler always believes he has got 
 the best of the bargain. And why? Because 
 he has what he coveted, and what was anoth- 
 er's. Somehow the other fellow's knife Is a 
 little better than his own, it is three blades to 
 his two. When he finds the cheat he has only 
 to swap again. In this way I traded a dozen 
 times in one summer and came out with one 
 blade, but a bright brass haft. 
 
 By this time I could read and even Imitate 
 the copies set in the writing books. This, 
 however, was not the real method by which I 
 had learned to use the pen or rather pencil. 
 Much more skill was acquired in little notes 
 to Launa Probana during school hours, passed 
 furtively under the desks and benches or hid- 
 den In a book which I was suddenly anxious 
 to borrow or lend. What nothings we wrote ! 
 With what pains and searchings of the brain 
 for words ! Still I filled my bit of paper while 
 
 i6i 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 Launa wrote only three words, yet her name 
 signed in the tiniest letters satisfied me. With 
 that name in my vest pocket I felt her near me, 
 fixed my attention upon my book again, and 
 learned my lessons more easily. I was conscious 
 that she watched all my movements out of the 
 corner of her eye, and at recitations it was she, 
 who, when I hesitated and was lost, bending 
 her head down so as not to be observed by 
 the teacher, whispered softly the right word 
 and saved me from shame. Thus in a thou- 
 sand ways she repaid the boy's devotion, and 
 however out-spelt or out-grammared he might 
 be, where he stood, was for her the head of 
 the class. What lessons we learned, not in 
 any book nor taught by any teacher! After 
 a year or two more of winter saw-mill and 
 summer school my teacher thought I was old 
 enough to write compositions, an exercise 
 usual in all New England common schools. 
 Long before this I thought myself com- 
 petent and was ambitious to begin. It seemed 
 too much a school exercise to be undertaken 
 out of it. I saw the older pupils on appointed 
 afternoons stand up in their places and read 
 from their slates the compositions they had 
 written. It fired my ambition beyond any of 
 
 162 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 the other exercises or lessons. It seemed to 
 me the very pinnacle of greatness to stand up 
 and read a composition before the whole 
 school. How I labored over my first little 
 essay, not being able to think of anything, or 
 to find language; how I began without any 
 real beginning sentences that had no end; how 
 I strung together words without connection 
 or sense, how the whole school tittered and 
 made faces as I read, how I sat down flushed, 
 trembling, completely overwhelmed with mor- 
 tification. It pains me even to remember. What 
 would Launa care for me now ! Without 
 seeming to notice her I looked over to where 
 she sat and saw that she was weeping. I did 
 not speak to her for a whole week. Thus I 
 punished myself, and all the week pondered 
 how I could write something which should 
 make her again proud of me and reinstate 
 myself with my teacher and schoolmates. 
 Suddenly It occurred to me that next time I 
 would choose a subject of which I knew some- 
 thing. Wonderful discovery, which has been 
 of use to me ever since; a bit as well as reins 
 — this Is the reason why I have not been a 
 prolific writer. Between one book and the 
 next I am totally forgotten. I found also thus 
 
 163 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 early that one needs a muse. I had made a 
 blunder in not taking Launa Into my counsels, 
 say rather into my mind, for I had never 
 once thought of her while writing, nor that 
 she would be my audience. No, I thought only 
 of myself, and the distinction I should win all 
 for myself. Thus experienced, I did not re- 
 peat my mistake. When we were next called 
 upon for compositions, I coaxed Launa to 
 go with me at the nooning to the shade of the 
 old blacksmith shop, where I proposed that 
 we should write them together. There sen- 
 tence by sentence I made my little essay, cov- 
 ering one side of my slate, with Launa for in- 
 spirer and critic. My subject was the saw- 
 mill, that one I knew best. There was a 
 pricking of ears in the schoolroom when I 
 named my humble subject, and an elder boy 
 by my side whispered, *'Now, give us some 
 sawdust." I prospered this time and won a 
 smile from Launa. Had I helped her at all 
 in her own composition? I know not; yet 
 when she read, it seemed to me I had written 
 it myself. Such has always been myexperience 
 in regard to writing which I have admired, 
 and thought I could do as well — until I tried. 
 Thus passed two happy summers and two 
 
 164 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 lonely impatient winters; then I was ill with 
 a fever and came to the doors of death. I 
 never resumed my apprenticeship to the mill- 
 wright. For some years succeeding my ill- 
 ness I suffered from periodical sick headache 
 which, before and after, was accompanied by 
 a dreadful depression, an indescribable 
 apathy, a distate for food, for play, for every- 
 thing: I wished myself dead. My mother 
 and sisters were very tender to me at this 
 time; they amused me, they petted me, and 
 in the evening read to me stories out of Mer- 
 ry's Museum and from the school readers. It 
 was at this time I was sent on a visit to Bos- 
 ton, perhaps for my health and spirits. I say 
 sent, for I went alone in a stage coach the 
 thirty miles. Much preparation was made 
 for my journey and many letters passed to 
 relatives in Boston concerning it. I had a 
 new cloak lined with bright red flannel, home- 
 made, and a cap with an extremely flat crown 
 and a tassel that fell upon my shoulder. These 
 were the first articles of clothing that made 
 me feel that everybody was looking at me, a 
 feeling something between vanity and embar- 
 rassment. My cousin met me in Boston at 
 the stage office and took me to his house in 
 
 165 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 the old West End, at that time the residence 
 of the respectable middle class, with here and 
 there some more wealthy citizens. There 
 were a few shops at the corners of the streets; 
 but I did not venture beyond the street where 
 my cousin lived and saw nothing at all of the 
 city. I was taken to church on Sunday and 
 once to the Museum, where I saw the elder 
 Booth in Shylock. The only scene that made 
 an Impression upon me was that where Shy- 
 lock Is about to take his pound of flesh. He 
 squatted upon the floor, his wild and terrible 
 face turned directly upon me, as It seemed, 
 while he sharpened his knife upon his rusty 
 shoe. I was filled with terror and began to 
 cry and begged to be taken away. Quite an- 
 gry, yet pitying me, too, I suppose, my cousin 
 led me out and home where I went at once to 
 bed, covering my head tightly, unable to sleep 
 for apprehension lest I should be discovered 
 by Shylock. At the Players' Club, in New 
 York City, In the last winter of Edwin 
 Booth's life, I related this incident to him as 
 a childish tribute to his father's power. "Yes," 
 he said, "that was my father, and such things 
 often happened among women and children 
 when he was playing that character. He was 
 
 i66 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 dangerous at times, not to his audiences, but 
 occasionally to his fellow actors." 
 
 I returned from Boston not much wiser 
 nor more travelled than when I went. I 
 found nothing there that gave me so much 
 pleasure as the freedom of my own field, my 
 sports and my companions. When asked what 
 I had seen, what I had done, I candidly con- 
 fessed, nothing; yet among boys I did feel a 
 certain pride because I was the only one 
 among them who had been to Boston. And 
 I have found the result of nearly all travel Is 
 little more than the cheap avenue to conversa- 
 tion between those who have travelled over 
 the same ground, or the feeling of superiority 
 that one has wandered farther. 
 
 Although I was more active and restless 
 than most boys, ever longing, yet with no def- 
 inite object, I believe I should always have re- 
 mained In the place of my birth, except for 
 family exigencies, for I had no ambitions, no 
 special talent nor practical faculty. When I 
 reflect on the futility of literature without ge- 
 nius, or the miserly rewards of scholarship, 
 or the disastrous conclusion In a majority of 
 business enterprises, I confess the life of a 
 New England farmer Is to be preferred. It 
 
 167 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 was so ordered that opportunities, which I 
 never could have made for myself, came to 
 me unsought and without effort. Such edu- 
 cation as I have, a miscellany of odds and 
 ends of learning, and such things as I have ac- 
 complished, are the chance results of various 
 and disconnected Impulses; and God himself 
 has given me my beautiful friends. I have 
 found them waiting for me all along my path, 
 and their attachment has always filled me with 
 astonishment and gratitude; for I cannot 
 think it Is anything I have done that should 
 deserve It. So I relegate It to that indefinable, 
 unconscious self which Is hidden from our 
 own knowledge. On the whole, who is he, 
 that would not rather be loved for himself 
 than for his book, his horses or his honors? 
 He, who Is capable of friendship, and Inspires 
 It, Is happier than Alexander with worlds con- 
 quered and to be conquered. 
 
 After much counselling and agitating of 
 the change, my mother moved from Belllng- 
 ham, which was her native place, to Hopkin- 
 ton; and, from this time forth to the end of 
 her life, she continued to change her residence 
 from town to town as work, cheaper rent, or 
 the persuasion of friends Induced her. My 
 
 1 68 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 eldest sister and I went with her. The change 
 filled me with a pleasant excitement, although 
 we were going to the same place and the very 
 same house where I had suffered so much 
 from home-sickness. I did not then know that 
 in leaving my birthplace I left behind me the 
 fountain head of half my later musings, re- 
 grets and imaginings. In returning now, I 
 find naught but the graves of my family, the 
 elm of my childhood, fallen to the ground, its 
 bleached trunk and larger limbs reminding me 
 of a skeleton, the well filled with stones, and 
 the Red House converted into a woodshed. 
 The river still flows by; one great pine still 
 murmurs and wonders what has become of 
 the children once playing in its shade; the 
 pond, the arched bridge which spanned its 
 outflow are unchanged. And Launa, I fear 
 to inquire what has become of her, though I 
 never lost her. She followed and reappeared 
 in all my wanderings. 
 
 BOOTMAKING 
 
 In Hopkinton I began to feel myself too 
 old to play with girls. Boys were numerous 
 and knew more than those I had met before. 
 
 169 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 I soon caught up with their manners and 
 customs, and in some respects bettered 
 them. I outdid them in mischief, looted 
 the best apple trees, beat them at ball 
 and managed to escape my tasks oftener. 
 My work was stitching the counters of 
 boots; my mother and sister filled their 
 spare time with the same employment. In- 
 deed, at this period it was our sole means of 
 support. The making of boots, pegged boots, 
 double soled and welted, with legs treed until 
 they were as stiff and hard as boards, was the 
 chief occupation of all that portion of the 
 town called Hayden Row. For a mile or 
 more up and down this street were the houses 
 of the bootmakers, each with its little shop, 
 either attached to the house, or built in the 
 yard. Each had from two to six workers. 
 Generally every part of the boot was made in 
 these shops ; the stock was cut and distributed 
 from some larger shop to which the finished 
 boots were returned to be put in cases and 
 shipped. The smaller shops were the centers 
 for the gossip, rumors and discussions which 
 agitated the community. There men sharp- 
 ened their wits upon each other, played prac- 
 tical jokes, sang, argued the questions of that 
 
 170 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 day, especially slavery, and arranged every 
 week from early spring to late autumn a 
 match game of ball either among themselves 
 or the bootmakers of neighboring towns for 
 Saturday afternoon, which was their half hol- 
 iday. All this was possible where the men sat 
 on low benches, making scarcely any noise, 
 and doing work which did not often require 
 concentrated attention. My uncle was a stern 
 abolitionist, as were the other bootmakers; 
 and before I knew It, I was one; nor did I 
 know at that time that there was any other 
 opinion In the world. Little did I understand 
 or care for the subject. My uncle took the 
 Liberator, and It was sometimes read aloud In 
 the shop, and I can remember feeling angry 
 at some of the stories of cruelty to slaves. I 
 am glad I was brought up In such an atmos- 
 phere, for I have not changed on this point, 
 as I have In so many other of my beliefs. The 
 only church In the place was the Methodist, 
 and my mother had, almost for the first time 
 since her conversion at the age of fourteen, an 
 opportunity of mingling with the brethren 
 and sisters of her own faith. The chief finan- 
 cial pillar of the Methodists of New Eng- 
 land, Lee Claflin, was a citizen of Hopkinton, 
 
 171 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 although his place of business was Boston. 
 He was, when I knew him, a rather short, 
 fat man with a large head and a face beam- 
 ing with benevolence and good will. To be 
 noticed, to be spoken to by him was a great 
 honor, so that when he laid his hand upon 
 my head and inquired If I were a child of 
 grace, although I had not the least Idea what 
 he meant, I was equal to the occasion and 
 said, "Yes, sir." My mother smiled at my 
 confession and I have no doubt her heart was 
 made glad; for though she was not at all 
 rigid In the religious discipline of her chil- 
 dren, the great desire of her life was that 
 they should be converted and saved from the 
 toils of Satan. I had, as early as I had any 
 conception of my own, a certain image of Sa- 
 tan as something huge, an aggregation of all 
 the largest objects with which I was most fa- 
 miliar, arms and legs as long as the tallest 
 trees and church steeples, and It was of his 
 size that I was afraid, rather than of his 
 temptations and torments, which I heard 
 thundered from the pulpit. I had a fear, born 
 of sundry rough encounters with larger boys, 
 of that which was superior In strength, and to 
 me Satan was as a big and ugly boy, whom I 
 
 172 
 
. APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 sometimes looked for along the road, expect- 
 ing him to dart out from behind the stone 
 walls, or clumps of bushes. Many writers 
 have said harsh things about the former re- 
 ligious creeds and preaching of our New Eng- 
 land forefathers, especially in their effects 
 upon children. I do not agree with them. 
 It did often save the wayward from peril, and 
 offered a rich field for the imaginative inter- 
 pretations of children. What does the mod- 
 ern child find in a modern sermon to give him 
 any sort of quickening? Yes, my dear pulpit 
 orators, with no wing left to imp your elo- 
 quence, recover Satan in all his immense, 
 Miltonic grandeur and energy. 
 
 Those happy Hopkinton days were filled 
 with many new and fascinating objects and 
 boyish pursuits to which I gave an undivided 
 heart. I learned all the tricks and sleight-of- 
 hand with which the bootmakers amused 
 themselves and puzzled each other In their 
 shops. I was long in discovering the secret 
 of the best trick of all, which was making 
 names and pictures appear on the bare plaster 
 of the shop walls by striking on them with a 
 woolen cap such as we all wore. Then there 
 were all sorts of string, button and ball tricks, 
 
 173 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 and my pockets were full of articles with 
 which to astonish the uninitiated. He, who 
 introduced or invented a new trick or puzzle, 
 was the hero of the shops for a day; and for 
 many days after, as soon as learned, the men 
 and boys were confounding each other by its 
 performance. In those days Signor Blitz was 
 travelling the country, giving his necromantic 
 shows, and left behind him everywhere a 
 taste for his wonderful performances. Our 
 ingenuity was exercised in weaving watch 
 chains in various patterns with silk twist; in 
 making handsome bats for ball, and in mak- 
 ing the balls themselves with the ravelled yarn 
 of old stockings, winding it over a bit of rub- 
 ber, and in sewing on a cover of fine thin calf 
 skin. This ball did not kill as it struck one, 
 and, instead of being thrown to the man on 
 the base, was more usually thrown at the man 
 running between them. He who could make 
 a good shot of that kind was much applauded, 
 and he who was hit was laughed at and felt 
 very sheepish. That was true sport, plenty 
 of fun and excitement, yet not too serious 
 and severe. The issue of the game was 
 talked over for a week. I did my daily stint 
 of stitching with only one thing in mind, to 
 
 174 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 play ball when through; for the boys played 
 every afternoon. When there was to be an 
 important match game the men practised af- 
 ter the day's work was done. 
 
 Meanwhile my education was entirely 
 neglected. I attended no school at this time, 
 either summer or winter, and came as near 
 acquiring a trade as I have ever done. In 
 fact I longed to be able to make the whole 
 of a boot, to last, peg, trim, gum, blackball 
 and stone it, all processes of the craft as then 
 practised. But how does one know when he 
 is learning? I was laying up a good store of 
 things more valuable than any in books, whilst 
 the free life I led was preparing in me the 
 soft and impressionable tablets on which could 
 be traced future experiences and acquisitions 
 of a more intellectual kind. Tomorrow would 
 come and this was its preparation. Yet not 
 consciously can one prepare for it all that it 
 is to hold. I became a graduate of the shops 
 of the bootmakers before acquiring the whole 
 of their trade, but not before absorbing most 
 of that which constituted the overflow of their 
 lives. I began to imitate the manners and 
 conversation of men. Ridiculed for this, I re- 
 treated into myself and became more ob- 
 
 175 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 servant and more silent. A small, very dim 
 yet new light appeared to me — reflection, si- 
 lent thoughts at night, and when alone ; ques- 
 tionings with no least effort at answers. My 
 new world as yet was not much more than 
 a mile square, as in my native town; within 
 that mile I knew every natural object and all 
 the people. Everybody called me by my first 
 name, prefixing, usually, "little curly" or 
 "snub-nose," and my companions gave me 
 nicknames according to their likes or dislikes. 
 I much affected the company of boys older 
 than myself, especially my cousins, whom I 
 naturally looked up to and very much ad- 
 mired. They would have none of me, called 
 me "nuisance" and "tag-tail." This last epi- 
 thet wounded me sorely and made me slink 
 away like a whipped cur. Added to my mile- 
 square world, I had now also the germs of 
 memory. Faintly and at long intervals I re- 
 membered my life in Bellingham; but it 
 seemed another planet, far off, indistinct, and 
 I had as yet no desire to return to it. 
 
 LOVE AND LUXURY 
 
 My mother had three daughters, one had 
 died within a year of my father's death. She 
 
 176 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 was the belle of the neighborhood, fair- 
 haired and blue-eyed, not very tall, grace- 
 ful and attractive. Every one admired 
 her and her friends loved her ardent- 
 ly. She had already ventured into verse, 
 religious in tone, and affectionate effusions to 
 her girl friends. With a little education she 
 had begun to teach school. She was my first 
 teacher and the school her first. We were 
 very fond of each other. Her kiss was the 
 only one I did not shrink from and try to 
 escape. She took most of the care of me, and 
 I always slept in the same room with her. 
 Usually I went to sleep in her bed, and in the 
 morning crept back into it. When death came 
 and took her away from me, when I found, 
 in the darkened room to which my mother 
 led me where she lay in a white dress, that she 
 did not kiss me nor even speak, I was fright- 
 ened and awed. In a short time I forgot her; 
 but before I grewto be a man I recovered her, 
 and shed the tears long due her love and loss. 
 Another older sister was already a successful 
 teacher in the district schools of the region, 
 so successful indeed, that she taught winters 
 as well as summers, which was unusual for 
 women teachers to attempt. Several winters 
 
 177 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 she had undertaken schools, the pupils of 
 which were so unruly that no man could be 
 found who was able to control them. At 
 length, through friends who knew her success 
 and abilities, she was invited to take charge of 
 a private school in Norwich, Connecticut. Her 
 pupils were from the wealthy and influential 
 families of the upper, the aristocratic part of 
 the city, round about Savin Hill and along the 
 Yantic riverside. After she had become es- 
 tablished there, she took me back with her 
 at the end of a spring vacation. I found my- 
 self among a very different class of children 
 from any I had ever known, highbred, well- 
 mannered and well-dressed, I felt at first 
 abashed and suppressed; but as we were all 
 children, more or less unconscious of distinc- 
 tions in rank, democrats at heart, I soon came 
 to terms with them; if there were any bar- 
 riers, they were broken down as soon as we 
 began to play together. There is no realm 
 of equality like that of the playground; there 
 you are estimated on your merits, your skill, 
 your honor and good nature. In two weeks I 
 felt perfectly at home, and already had two 
 or three cronies to whom I was devoted. I 
 dreaded the hour of my return to my mother. 
 
 178 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 It came; I found myself again among men 
 in shirtsleeves, and boys in blue jean overalls; 
 my mother's oven no more busy than of old, 
 my hands black with leather and sticky with 
 wax, I, who had been eating the fine fare of 
 rich men's tables with silver forks and knives 
 that shone like mirrors. The world had been 
 changed in a few weeks and fifty miles of 
 travel. I felt myself no part of anything 
 around me; I loathed it and longed to return 
 to my sister. I had had a taste of better 
 things, or so they seemed, or was it their nov- 
 elty? I began to look down with shame and 
 disgust at the humble life around me. Above 
 all I wanted to escape my task and wondered 
 how I had ever wished to be a bootmaker. 
 
 Norwich was a small and beautiful city, 
 well planted with trees, the houses large and 
 set in ample ground. Two rivers meet there 
 to form a third, the Thames, at the head of 
 which is the port or Landing as it is called. 
 At the port of the city I had for the first 
 time seen steamers and sailing vessels. Strange 
 and wonderful creatures they were to me, and 
 I asked a thousand questions about them with- 
 out comprehending in the least the answers. I 
 was told they sailed down the river with the 
 
 179 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 tide, past New London, then out upon the 
 sea, and at once and ever since I always be- 
 hold vessels, as it were, double, one near and 
 another far away, disappearing on some vast 
 level plain. Here was water enough, water, 
 the most fascinating thing in nature, tempting 
 by its dangers to boyish adventures, and I de- 
 termined to be a sailor as soon as I was old 
 enough and could get back to Norwich. How 
 to get back was the problem I vexed myself 
 over day and night for weeks and months. My 
 sister returning home for her summer vaca- 
 tion, I continued to tease and coax until she 
 consented to my wishes. My small trunk, cov- 
 ered with hairy cow hide, was packed with my 
 few belongings, and with a gay heart I left 
 the town and my mother's door never to re- 
 turn permanently, and as blind as a stone to 
 what I was going away for; I was going — 
 that was all that concerned me. There was 
 no future; time does not exist for children; 
 yesterdays are faint, tomorrows undreamed, 
 today endless. Arriving in Norwich, at once, 
 I felt at home. I met my former playmates 
 without a greeting, and just as if we had not 
 been separated for half a year. Nothing was 
 changed; we resumed our sports, and every 
 
 1 80 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 afternoon at the close of school, in which I 
 was now a pupil, we played among the cedars 
 of Savin Hill; or else we paired off and spent 
 our time with the dogs, rabbits and pigeons 
 and other pets owned by my different com- 
 panions. I had myself one hen which the 
 good dame, with whom my sister and I board- 
 ed, allowed me to keep in a large box in her 
 yard. I spent much of my time, when without 
 companions, with my hen. I made her many 
 nests in hopes of enticing her to lay eggs, for 
 which I was promised a cent apiece by dame 
 Onion. I cannot recall how I came by this 
 hen, nor what was her final fate. What trifles 
 we pursue ! What trifles connect the seven 
 ages of life, more often remembered than the 
 real steps of our career. So let biddy spread 
 her wing as wide as Jove's eagle, and eat 
 gravel with Juno's peacock; and in this narra- 
 tion I keep company with my betters, who 
 have not lowered their dignity by confessing 
 their obligations to the beasts of the field, the 
 birds of the air and to all those friendly crea- 
 tures which dwell in the shelter of the house 
 and the barnyard. So, little red hen, I leave 
 thee here on the road by which I strayed, 
 playing and singing, into the fearful arena of 
 
 i8i 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 life, walled and thousand-eyed; whether we 
 fall or triumph, the spectacle and the wonder 
 of an hour. 
 
 Whether it were better to be the limpet 
 fixed to its rock, forever free from change, or 
 the wild gull soaring over shores and sea, now 
 wading in the mud, now riding glor- 
 iously on the crest of the billows, 
 is a query which has often agitated me since 
 the time I abandoned the home of my child- 
 hood. For me there was no return now to 
 the rock. I thought of my home with a 
 gloomy dread lest I should have to return to 
 it. Such forebodings, however, were rare and 
 did not interfere with my complete enjoyment 
 of present pleasures. Along with them I 
 caught the manners of the little aristocrats of 
 my sister's school. It was an ideal company 
 of boys and girls, handsome, refined and inno- 
 cent. My sister herself was a natural lady 
 and rigorous in her demands for perfect con- 
 duct on the part of her pupils. She spared me 
 least of all, as more needing such discipline, 
 and also, I suppose, that she might escape any 
 suspicion of sisterly partiality. I have ever 
 been extremely open to personal influences 
 and environment, and apt to take on the cus- 
 
 182 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 toms and opinions of those with whom I 
 mingle. What one gains so Is a part of his 
 education. It is true there Is a lurking dan- 
 ger as well as advantage, and we may be 
 wrecked or carried Into a safe harbor accord- 
 ing to the accidents of life and the power or 
 feebleness of the will. My good fortune was 
 seemingly great at this time, having such a sis- 
 ter to watch over me and such Influences 
 around me. On the other hand I was dis- 
 qualified by it for living the life of a poor man 
 which circumstances have made imperative; 
 and It required many years to reconcile me to 
 my lot and to discover other riches by which 
 a man might make his life honorable and hap- 
 py. My sister's pupils were affectionately at- 
 tached to her and this feeling was soon shared 
 by their parents. She visited among them con- 
 tinually, and always took me with her. I saw 
 the inside of the houses of the rich, the lead- 
 ing citizens of Norwich, governors and ex- 
 governors of the state, senators, the Rock- 
 wells, Greens, Tylers, Williams, Backuses, 
 Lusks, and others, and became used to the 
 elegancies and luxuries of their households. 
 My sister seemed to be recognized as their 
 equal, as well she might be. She was a woman 
 
 183 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 to win her way anywhere ; distinguished look- 
 ing, full of tact and efficiency. She was tall, 
 with a perfect figure and graceful movement. 
 Her eyes were large and dark, her hair black 
 and abundant, in this being the only one of 
 my mother's children who resembled her, as 
 she did also in the contour of her face and 
 nose. She was of a hopeful and joyous tem- 
 perament and full of energy; by this latter 
 gift she had raised herself from the humblest 
 position to one of influence and acquired in 
 no long time much reputation as a remarkably 
 successful teacher, and her services were 
 in constant demand. She was also a favorite 
 in all classes of society and knew how to ad- 
 just herself to the humblest and the highest of 
 her fellow creatures. From the time of her 
 father's death she had been the prop of the 
 family, the mover in all their plans and the 
 provider of their needs. Over me she 
 had a special charge and a sacred duty, for 
 my father, conscious of the too gentle nature 
 of his wife and the poverty in which he was 
 about to leave her, had on his deathbed, com- 
 mitted, had indeed made a solemn gift of his 
 little boy to the daughter whom he trusted 
 most; and for fifty years did she fulfil that 
 
 184 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 trust. On her tombstone are engraved these 
 brief but true words: ''Faithful daughter, sis- 
 ter, friend, teacher." New England has been 
 full of such devoted, self-sacrificing daughters 
 and sisters, and still is. I do not single her 
 out as exceptional, but to give her the tribute 
 she merits, and that she may not be among the 
 uncounted and unremembered where these 
 pages shall be read. 
 
 In my sister's school besides good manners, 
 which now seem to me the best part of my 
 education, I learned to draw and to sing; and 
 In which I delighted most. It were hard to 
 say. Never before had I heard any music, 
 except that of the doleful and droning church 
 choir. We sang simple songs about nature, 
 conduct, duties to the Heavenly Father, to 
 parents and teacher. Their notes lingered 
 in my ears for a great many years, and I can 
 still hum some of them. We drew plain fig- 
 ures, blocks, cones, the sides and roofs of 
 buildings and outlines of trees. In penman- 
 ship I made no progress, and It was always 
 unformed and illiterate until I was a man, 
 and took it In hand without a teacher. My 
 two years' detention from school did not seem 
 to put me Into classes below me in age. I 
 
 185 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 could read and spell very well. There were 
 other longer or shorter periods when my edu- 
 cation was entirely interrupted; yet I did not 
 have to begin my studies exactly where I had 
 left off. Something carries us along uncon- 
 sciously and a natural intelligence bridges 
 over the superficial differences between our- 
 selves and our associates. How often have I de- 
 ceived myself into thinking I knew something 
 when it was merely a borrowed acquirement, 
 as it were, a cuticular absorption from a tran- 
 sient environment or interest, from classmates, 
 
 social circles, clubs and books. Great books 
 are the most flattering deceivers of all. I nev- 
 er read one that did not touch me nearly in 
 this way. The fall to my own proper level is 
 painful, but has been somewhat stayed and 
 alleviated by reading another. Being of this 
 plastic, imitative nature, I soon took on 
 the manners and childish ideas of my com- 
 panions in my sister's school. I was already 
 aristocrat enough to look down with indiffer- 
 ence upon the boys of the Landing and other 
 parts of the town, and at a good safe distance, 
 to call them by some insulting name. We nev- 
 er came to blows, nor ever nearer than a 
 stone's throw. By the natural elective afiini- 
 
 i86 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 ties, which seem to be more marked among 
 boys and girls than among men and women, I 
 formed the closest intimacy with two broth- 
 ers about my own age. They belonged to 
 the leading family among my sister's pa- 
 trons. Their father was a wealthy, retired 
 manufacturer who had held every honor Nor- 
 wich had to bestow. The boys were in- 
 dulged in all their wishes, in every kind of pet 
 animal that walks or flies, a menagerie of 
 small creatures in cages, ponies for the sad- 
 dle and dogs to follow. In these I was al- 
 lowed to share as if my own, and their house 
 was as much mine as theirs, more often tak- 
 ing supper in it than at my boarding place. 
 Thus becoming familiar with and possessing 
 the pleasures which wealth can furnish a boy, 
 I knew not what a fall I was preparing for 
 myself when the thread of my destiny should 
 lead me back into its narrow and tortuous 
 path. How is any one responsible for such 
 passages in his life which carry him into sit- 
 uations and form in him tastes and propensi- 
 ties that must be relinquished with much sor- 
 row or maintained with peril? But the hour 
 of doom was not yet, and my pleasant days 
 had no omen that their sun would ever set. 
 
 187 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 In truth that sun has never set on the days 
 when I was In the company and close beside 
 the one girl in my sister's school with whom 
 I felt the passionless, but none the less ardent 
 delight. Laugh who will— "Her sweet smile 
 haunts me still." Never was sweeter or more 
 captivating on the face of a girl or woman, 
 and it was perpetually there, whether she 
 spoke or only looked in your eyes. By it I 
 should even now recognize her among a thou- 
 sand. If I had then known that souls are rein- 
 carnated, I should have known by her smile 
 that she was the Launa Probana of my earliest 
 awakening. I never played with her, but I 
 was in the same class; she was at the head of 
 it in spelling exercises, where, in the then cus- 
 tomary manner, we went up when we mas- 
 tered a word missed by the pupil below. I 
 was always struggling to stand next to her, 
 and when I did, I was happy. That is how 
 I learned to spell so well! I had become 
 diffident with girls and as much more so with 
 her as I was fond of being with her. Con- 
 sequently we spoke to each other but little. 
 To be where she was was enough. Those in- 
 clinations and awkward attentions, which be- 
 tray the situation to the onlooker, I manl- 
 
 i88 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 fested always in her presence without sus- 
 picion of being observed. I was alert to win 
 her notice by any sort of indirection, and em- 
 barrassed to speechlessness when I had won 
 it. There were certain occasions when I 
 could count on having her for my companion, 
 when we found ourselves together by some 
 inevitable attraction. These were on the ex- 
 cursions which my sister was fond of taking 
 with her whole school to places of interest in 
 the vicinity of Norwich. The holiday free- 
 dom, the excitement, made it easier for me to 
 be more demonstrative than usual toward the 
 new-found Launa. Yet we were still too 
 young and sensitive for indulgence in the 
 physical tokens of affection. We often walked 
 hand in hand, yet under cover of that which 
 was a permissible and usual gallantry among 
 all the children of the school, the secret at- 
 tachment of any pair was pleasantly and suf- 
 ficiently hidden even from themselves. Won- 
 drous were the places we visited; places of 
 historic or natural interest; to Groton by 
 steamboat, where we saw Fort Griswold and 
 Its monument to the heroes of the Revolution- 
 ary fight, and Its still surviving heroine, Moth- 
 er Bailey, who tore up her petticoat to make 
 
 189 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 cartridges for the gunners. We called upon 
 the venerable woman In her neat, little cot- 
 tage. She was very proud of her fame. She 
 related the story of the fight, not omitting her 
 part in it. "Do you think I am a very old 
 woman?" she said to us. "Well, see," and 
 in an instant she was whirling around the 
 room in an old fashioned jig. Then we re- 
 turned to the Fort, and in its enclosure we 
 opened our baskets and ate our cakes and ap- 
 ples. I sometimes think that was the hap- 
 piest day of my life. Certainly it was the 
 very beginning of what is called seeing the 
 world. What, is not the first steamboat ride, 
 and with your sweetheart, the first fort, the 
 scene of a battle and the most celebrated her- 
 oine of the Revolution something? My sweet- 
 heart was the only thing not entirely novel; 
 her smiles ever recalled the memory of Launa 
 Probana. All the way home we stood on deck, 
 leaning over the rail, watching the swirl and 
 foam from the paddle wheels, and our tongues 
 were loosened. As usual, in my attempts at 
 seeming superior to girl companions, I under- 
 took to explain things about which I knew 
 nothing. Now, any boy could put me down 
 in a minute with, "how big you talk;" but 
 
 190 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 my gentler hearer led me on with her ac- 
 quiescence and her trusting, wondering eyes. 
 The teacher's brother was somebody in her 
 estimation; he was a new kind of boy. The 
 other boys she had known all her life, com- 
 monplace, tiresome teasers or clowns. That 
 awkward impediment, a rival, I had not to 
 contest or fear. All went well with us until 
 I fell from the ranks of the aristocracy and 
 became a menial shop boy in a store. But be- 
 fore that eclipse there were other happy days 
 and joyous experiences. Together we visited 
 the grave of the Indian Uncas, and the rem- 
 nant of his tribe at Montville; we drove 
 often to Fishville, where was an estate laid 
 out in a foreign fashion with grottoes, mazes, 
 fountains, strange trees and shrubbery and a 
 museum of curiosities. 
 
 Doubtless it was not the intention of my 
 sister at this time to educate me. Perhaps she 
 saw nothing in me worthy of it. I do not 
 much wonder at her conviction, if such it was, 
 as I look at a daguerreotype of myself taken 
 about that period, a round head, mostly hair, 
 a low forehead, a pair of round eyes, thick 
 nose and lips and short neck, altogether just 
 such a solid, stolid child as one would expect 
 
 191 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 to see from the country, bred in the sun and 
 cold, and fed on brown bread and milk. My 
 being with my sister, and a pupil in her school 
 was a temporary expedient until a place could 
 be found for me. At length it was found, a 
 situation in a dry goods store, where I could 
 earn my board and clothing. Thus without 
 warning I fell completely out of the ranks of 
 the elect and again returned to servitude as 
 a shop boy, a runner of errands, a builder of 
 fires and floor-sweeper. 
 
 SHOP BOY 
 
 In country stores the man or boy behind 
 the counter was an enviable person. Many 
 boys had no higher ambition than to be a 
 storekeeper. I was now behind the counter, 
 and although there was nothing in a 
 dry goods shop to interest me as in the 
 country store, with its varied assort- 
 ment of goods, tools, crockery and can- 
 dies, I felt rather proud of my posi- 
 tion, especially when permitted to wait on a 
 customer. He seemed an inferior sort of a 
 person, and I had no idea at first of conciliat- 
 ing him and making a sale. It was not then 
 
 192 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 the custom to observe a fixed price and simply 
 show the goods ; but clerks were expected and 
 instructed to use persuasion, to expatiate on 
 quality and beauty, and to take less than they 
 first asked. The cost price was marked with 
 secret characters; the selling price was vari- 
 able. The more you could get out of a gulli- 
 ble customer, the better; and he who could 
 get the most was the smartest clerk. A thrifty 
 purchaser would beat down the price little by 
 little, the sharp clerk yielding with many prot- 
 estations until a last offer was made, when, 
 with feigned hesitation, the clerk would wrap 
 up the goods. One thinks he has bought a 
 cheap bargain, the other figures the profit and 
 laughs in his sleeve. It was not my particular 
 duty to w^it upon customers except in a rush 
 of trade, or early in the day before the oth- 
 er clerks had arrived. I opened the store in 
 the morning, swept the floors and sidewalk, 
 dusted the counters, filled the lamps, and in 
 winter built the fire. During the day I ran 
 on errands, delivered goods and was the fag 
 of the proprietor and his two clerks. I soon 
 chafed under the confinement, and when sent 
 out of the store I made no haste to return; 
 the farther away the bundle was to be deliv- 
 
 193 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 ered the better I liked It, and I always took 
 the longest way, loitering about, making ac- 
 quaintance with strange boys, dogs and any 
 wayside apple or pear tree. If possible I 
 skirted the region of the wharves and the 
 rivers, where I always found something in- 
 teresting going on, a vessel arriving or leav- 
 ing, sailors chaffing and fighting. Sometimes 
 I received a small fee for delivering the 
 bundle at the door of a lady, but this hap- 
 pened rarely; it was not the custom, and sel- 
 dom was I even thanked. I had only two 
 memorable adventures on my travels; one 
 was an attack on my breeches by a savage dog, 
 and the other— shall I confess it— almost 
 as disagreeable. A young and handsome wom- 
 an, whom I had often seen in the store, and 
 knew me, I imagine, better than I knew her, 
 called me into the house with my package, set 
 me on her knees, petted and kissed me, and 
 asked me a lot of questions about one of the 
 clerks. I have reason to believe her tender 
 behavior was meant rather for her beloved 
 clerk than for me. I reported nothing on my 
 return, only, on being reproved for my long 
 absence, I said, "Miss — had kept me," which 
 made the clerk look sheepish. I was not sent 
 
 194 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 to her house again. The clerks, however, did 
 use me a good deal as an Innocent pander In 
 their various Intrigues with the pretty and 
 fast girls of the town. I carried notes, con- 
 cealed In dry goods bundles, and brought back 
 answers In my jacket pocket, which I was In- 
 structed to deliver on the sly. 
 
 The proprietor of the store to whom I was 
 bound, and In whose family I lived, was a tall, 
 thin, sallow-faced man. He had a nervous 
 manner, but he was not unkind to me. He 
 clothed and fed me well. He chewed tobac- 
 co and was brimming over with funny stories, 
 funny and usually indelicate. I heard much 
 swearing, too, and I began to think It the 
 proper thing to try to be wicked myself. I 
 was greatly attached to the two clerks, and 
 they were my models In everything. One of 
 them was also the bookkeeper of the estab- 
 lishment as well as a salesman. He dressed 
 after the mode In trig, close-fitting suits; his 
 pantaloons were like tights, and only kept on 
 his legs by straps under his boots. He played 
 and fooled with me In Idle hours. The other 
 clerk was exceedingly sober, often melancholy, 
 seldom smiled and had nothing to do with me, 
 rarely speaking to me. I stood in awe and ad- 
 
 195 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 miration of him. He wrote poetry for the lo- 
 cal newspaper, and I think he felt above us 
 all, and above his position. He belonged to 
 a distinguished family, and why he happened 
 to be a dry goods clerk I never knew. He 
 seemed as much out of his natural place as I. 
 How restless and penned up I felt at times 
 no words can tell. The lean dog with free- 
 dom, is much more to be envied than 
 the chained dog with a golden collar. It was 
 a small store of only three counters, and dur- 
 ing unoccupied hours there was nothing on 
 the shelves or in drawers with which I could 
 amuse myself. In mere desperation for some- 
 thing to occupy myself I counted spools of 
 cotton and silk, unrolled and rolled again 
 pieces of goods, and many a hot summer af- 
 ternoon, when both the shops and the streets 
 were deserted, I caught flies and put them in 
 a bottle, and then smoked them to death. 
 
 I now seldom saw my former playmates. 
 Their families traded at a much larger and 
 more fashionable store. Our customers were 
 of an humbler class, mainly from the suburbs 
 and adjoining villages. But a boy does not 
 long remain companionless, be there another 
 boy within reach. I became intimate first with 
 
 196 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 a lad in a grocery store, whereby there was 
 considerable access to sugar, raisins and oth- 
 er sweets; through him, together with oth- 
 ers in similar situations, I was made a member 
 of their secret society, having been tested as 
 to strength, reliability and other qualifica- 
 tions. Our badge was a red morocco star, 
 worn under the left lappet of the vest. The 
 only purpose of the club that I could ever dis- 
 cover, was to lick every boy who did not be- 
 long to it! I was expected to celebrate my 
 initiation by challenging three non-members, 
 which I proceeded to do, licked two and met 
 my match in the third. Then I was warned 
 to attack only boys smaller than myself. The 
 morals of the club were meant to be on a par 
 with those of much older boys, but signally 
 failed. We were as bad as we knew how to 
 be; none of us had the courage or the enter- 
 prise to do the naughty things which so ex- 
 cited our emulation in our elders. However, 
 we insulted and beat all the goody-good boys 
 in our way, swore small oaths, smoked and 
 swaggered until sick with nausea, and crown- 
 ing achievement, learned what a Tom and 
 Jerry tasted like, enticed merely by the name. 
 It was not until we had Ike Bromley for a 
 
 197 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 leader, that we fairly succeeded In being as 
 bad as we wished. He had an instinct for 
 mischief and deviltry, and a way with him 
 that led captive the heart and devotion of all 
 boys. Daring and cool, he could carry a 
 sober, innocent face which would disarm a de- 
 tective and charm a deacon. Whoever got 
 caught or punished, he always escaped. No 
 one could have guessed at this time that he 
 would become one of the most brilliant journ- 
 alists of his day, the wittiest and most en- 
 gaging of men at a dinner table, a boon com- 
 panion, and beloved friend. Money was very 
 scarce with us ; what little we had we earned 
 In various outside ways. In doing extra er- 
 rands or selling old rubbers, old boots, copper 
 and brass. In fact we were the scavengers 
 of the town, and had the run of all the cel- 
 lars. We managed to sneak or steal our way 
 Into most of the shows that visited the town. 
 For some reason, now quite Incomprehensible, 
 the wharves were our most common rendez- 
 vous. And for what object we spent our 
 small funds on raw clams, eaten out of the 
 shell, and doused with pepper sauce, (which, 
 for my part, I could with the greatest diffi- 
 culty swallow, bringing tears to my eyes, and 
 
 198 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 burning in my throat for a week after) , I as 
 little know, but now suppose It was In Imi- 
 tation of the rough men and sailors about the 
 piers with whom we consorted, and whom we 
 wished to impress with our manliness. In- 
 deed, with all the rough characters about the 
 streets we made friends and aped their man- 
 ners as much as we could, two or three no- 
 toriously fast, rich young men being our par- 
 ticular heroes. Nothing saved us from the 
 realization of our ideals but our extreme 
 youth and native Innocence, and perhaps some 
 lurking sense that we were playing at vice, 
 with fire that would not burn and water that 
 would not drown. There was one thing we 
 were ambitious to do, yet could not screw 
 our courage to the sticking point; we wanted 
 to get drunk to see how it felt. Either a 
 Tom and Jerry had not sufficient potency, or 
 we could never find the bottom of the glass 
 before our stomachs rebelled, for we only paid 
 the penalty in a penitential headache without 
 the fun of the debauch. 
 
 I realized all the while the peril of my 
 ways In case they should come to light, which 
 only served to increase the excitement, though 
 now and then I had some serious moments. 
 
 199 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 Several times I barely escaped discovery, and 
 our pranks often defied punishment because 
 of our number and the ease with which we 
 could shoulder off the blame on one another. 
 I now thought of the children of my sister's 
 school, with whom I had recently been so inti- 
 mate, with contempt as far beneath me in 
 knowing how to have real sport. 
 
 Although I continued to be the menial of 
 the store, I had acquired some knowledge of 
 the business; could snap a piece of broad- 
 cloth to show its firm quality and nap, hang 
 dress goods in proper folds over my arm to 
 give an idea how they would look when made 
 up, and talk quite glibly on the cheapness of 
 our wares in comparison with those of our 
 competitors. I could see that the small boy 
 in a jacket, and only two heads higher than 
 the counter, amused the men customers with 
 his brag attempt at being a salesman, and that 
 the women smiled down upon him approving- 
 ly—all of which he took as a compliment to 
 his success; for successful he often was, to 
 the surprise of the older clerks. With what 
 pride did I enter my sales on a slate kept for 
 the purpose under the cash drawer. I sur- 
 mised that the women sometimes bought 
 
 200 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 goods just to encourage the boy. The 
 clerks laughed and made fun of me tell- 
 ing me it was my rosy cheeks that sold 
 the goods. Young ladies frequented the 
 shop for no other purpose than to chat 
 and flirt with the clerks, and one I re- 
 member always kissed me at any favorable 
 chance. How I hated my red cheeks, and 
 tried my best to rub out the color. It was 
 a comfort to be told I should outgrow it, and 
 then the girls would not care for me. For two 
 long years I had ceased to care for them. It 
 was even with some shame that I thought of 
 my Launas, they, who later in life, have 
 formed many an ideal of loveliness. 
 
 It is said the child in the womb passes 
 through all animal forms in its growth from 
 the germ to birth. Whether any incipient 
 wings have been observed I have not heard. 
 In much the same way the boy represents in 
 his growth the different stages of civilization 
 from the savage to the civilized man. Some 
 time the average boy typifies the Indian, the 
 cowboy, prizefighter, pirate, sailor, soldier; 
 and all classes of rough, wild men are wonder- 
 fully attractive to him. He wishes to be like 
 them and plays at being one of them. For 
 
 20I 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 more than a year I was greatly attached to the 
 ruffians on the wharves, and to such of the 
 Montville Indians as I could make friends 
 with. A wandering party of Indians from 
 the Penobscot tribe had their tents pitched 
 for a whole summer just outside the city, 
 with whom I became intimate, and spent my 
 leisure time with them. I made my er- 
 rands go their way, however long the circuit. 
 I should have gone away with them, would 
 they have had me. To live in a tent and shoot 
 with a bow became to me the ideal of life. 
 Strange it is that the most vivid memory of 
 that episode remaining with me is the pecu- 
 liar smell of the Indians; but it was not then 
 offensive to me. 
 
 All these propensities were greatly stimu- 
 lated by reading at this time the Wandering 
 Jew of Eugene Sue. I had found the volume, 
 a paper covered pamphlet edition, in a drawer 
 in the store. I carried it home secretly and 
 read it at night. After I was supposed to be 
 in bed and asleep, and the house still, I used 
 to get up, partly dress, light my lamp and 
 read often until midnight or as long as the oil 
 held out. I doubt if any one knows the su- 
 preme pleasure and excitement of reading, 
 
 202 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 who has not read a book surreptitiously. All 
 the mysteries and horrors of the Wandering 
 Jew entered into my soul, and while it opened 
 a scene and actions utterly new to me, it sob- 
 ered me far beyond anything that had ever 
 happened to me. About the same time I had 
 many gloomy days and nights of terror from 
 having seen the bodies of twenty-five drowned 
 passengers from the wreck of a steamboat 
 which plied between Norwich and New York 
 City. Our poet clerk took me with him to see 
 them the morning they were brought to the 
 dock on another steamboat of the same line. 
 They were laid out in rows on the main deck, 
 frozen stiff, for it was the winter season, cov- 
 ered with sand and particles of ice, their flesh 
 dreadfully lacerated and blue, their features 
 contorted into ghastly shapes. Among them 
 were two men whom we knew well, frequent- 
 ers of our store. I clung to the hand of the 
 clerk, and should have fainted, had he not 
 taken me away immediately. He himself was 
 overcome, and his sad face was sadder and 
 longer for many days. The whole city was in 
 gloom and mourning. A revival, which was 
 in progress in one of the Baptist churches, 
 added greatly to its converts in consequence of 
 
 203 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 the accident, and the presence of death In such 
 near and fearful form. 
 
 PISTOL MAKER 
 
 At length Fortune took a new turn at her 
 wheel. Suddenly the store door closed be- 
 hind me; broom, oil can, coal hod and 
 scissors knew me no more. I rejoiced in 
 my release and in the prospect of new scenes, 
 new faces and pleasures. What was to be my 
 occupation did not give me one thought; I 
 had as yet no choice, no preference. Where- 
 ever there were boys was my world and my 
 trade. 
 
 Two of my sister's influential patrons, who 
 had been instrumental in bringing her to Nor- 
 wich, 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 cen- 
 ter, and by one and the same ratchet move- 
 ment the hammer was raised and the chambers 
 
 204 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 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 ac- 
 count 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 oper- 
 ated the machinery were novel and interesting 
 to me at first. I was the only boy in the es- 
 tablishment. The workmen, all skilled mechan- 
 ics, 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 heav- 
 ier part of the material of the pistol was pre- 
 pared. I did the odd jobs of the room, 
 worked a punching machine and managed the 
 lathe that turned the rough outside of the pis- 
 tol barrel. My master took an active personal 
 
 205 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 Interest in me and was very minute and pains- 
 taking In his Instructions. He was a very pi- 
 ous man and lost no opportunity of exhort- 
 ing 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 sin- 
 ner; It never occurred to me to question 
 whether I was or not. In short In my Inno- 
 cence 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-fish- 
 Ing on some half holiday, that was a very dif- 
 ferent sort of a text, which I well understood. 
 Alas, when the fish did not bite. It gave an 
 uncomfortable opportunity for a little exhor- 
 tation. 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 be- 
 ginning and completion of the construction of 
 
 206 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 a pistol, and knew pretty well all the interme- 
 diate 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 cheat- 
 ed. 
 
 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 
 
 207 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 association with mine long before In Belllng- 
 ham. The master of the house had formerly 
 been the clergyman of that town, but was now 
 a botanic-eclectic physlcan and general med- 
 ical 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 indisposi- 
 tion, but more often as an experiment. My 
 only escape from the drudgery of the work- 
 shop 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 111, and, with considerable 
 sympathy, my master also warned me of the 
 brevity and uncertainty of life and the neces- 
 sity of preparing for the day of wrath. Lit- 
 tle 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 be- 
 tween my regular occupation, lobelia, the dls- 
 
 208 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 secting room of the professor and frequent 
 religious exhortations. I was immensely de- 
 lighted by the secrets of the basement cellar, 
 where, in winter, the cadavers were kept. I 
 became acustomed to the sight of them, and 
 frequently inspected them when alone, curi- 
 ous to see the internal structure of a human 
 body, for until that time I was not con- 
 scious of any internal structure of the hu- 
 man body. Hands and feet were the epi- 
 tome of my physiology. The whole business 
 of dissection was conducted in the most clan- 
 destine manner, although the subjects were ob- 
 tained from Boston and were, no doubt, hon- 
 estly procured. There was probably some pro- 
 fessional 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 
 
 209 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 dining-room, some years older than myself, I 
 had occasional ardent encounters on back 
 stairs and in dark entries. I was less em- 
 barrassed 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 dim- 
 ly 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 forth- 
 coming, and business the last thing to be con- 
 sidered. Hewas a college graduate and a poet 
 of local reputation. It is singular in my boy- 
 hood 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 
 
 210 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 seemed to me a very great man, chiefly be- 
 cause he wrote poetry and had it printed in 
 books. I imagine that he expected me to re- 
 main a mechanic, and had little thought of the 
 influence he was unconsciously exerting over 
 the future. Nor did I myself recognize it, un- 
 til 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 me- 
 chanical 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 salva-r 
 tion of my soul. 
 
 THE AWAKENING 
 
 Having no boy associates I began to cul- 
 tivate 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 
 
 211 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 appreciate the learning and general knowl- 
 edge of these young men I began to be con- 
 scious of my own Ignorance, I became aware 
 that I knew nothing, never had, and probably 
 never should. Consequently I was more de- 
 pressed than stimulated. I reflected on the 
 conversations I heard among the students, and 
 the pithy, sententious sayings of the Profes- 
 sor at the table. He usually settled all dis- 
 cussions and table talk with a witticism or apt 
 quotation, I was about to say with a tooth- 
 pick; 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 lev- 
 ity 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 dis- 
 tress the conversation often became so 
 lively that the meal dragged, and vari- 
 ous were her devices for bringing back 
 our attention to the business at hand. 
 I had some sense of the humor of the 
 
 212 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 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 slow- 
 ly, then, at length, overwhelmingly, there was 
 borne in upon me the crushing sense of the 
 difference between these young men and my- 
 self, their interests, expectations, future ca- 
 reers 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 dis- 
 couraged in my thought of the future, that 
 
 213 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 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, re- 
 uniting 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 be- 
 coming a farmer. None of these were prac- 
 ticable, and I determined to go, trusting to 
 chance to make the way plain. But even the 
 going had difficulties. I solved them by set- 
 ting 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; neith- 
 er 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 
 
 214 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 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, over- 
 flowing with animal spirits. Enough the free- 
 dom, 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 con- 
 trast to them, an impulsive, passionate awak- 
 ening 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 Belling- 
 ham. I ate some food that the waitress 
 
 215 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 had given me for the journey, and took 
 the road again. Soon I was in Milford. 
 The remainder of the way was very 
 famihar. 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 re- 
 membered the flat stone that had been set in 
 its bole for a seat, which the tree had so over- 
 grown 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 
 
 216 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 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 enor- 
 mous 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 disappoint- 
 ments. I was awake at dawn, and yesterday 
 
 217 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 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 re- 
 mains 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 ruflled edges of its 
 unfolding leaves. The outermost sprays be- 
 gan 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 turn- 
 ing 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 
 
 218 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 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 ex- 
 hilaration, 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 Ly- 
 man, "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 round- 
 about 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 sud- 
 den transition wholly inexplicable, I had al- 
 ready half given them up. My discontent and 
 
 219 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 melancholy had been exhausted In the running 
 away; and a few hours experience of disen- 
 chantment reconciled me to my lot. 
 
 There Is no human experience more acute- 
 ly painful than when one awakens to the fact 
 that he Is a person, an ego, unrelated to peo- 
 ple or things, with no real claim to assert save 
 that of habit or associations. The sense of Iso- 
 lation and loneliness Is at first overpowering, 
 and vainly does he try to attach himself to 
 former objects and environment. The awak- 
 ening 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. Af- 
 ter this I enjoyed myself very well for a few 
 days, excusing my prank with the notion that 
 
 220 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 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 at- 
 tic stairs to my bed. The next day Uncle Ly- 
 man 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 con- 
 scious of what I had done, and thought per- 
 haps at that very moment my sister might be 
 weeping for me. 
 
 Nothing was now wanting to complete the 
 
 221 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 failure of my escapade, and I was as eager to 
 run back as I had been to run away. Memor- 
 ies, 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 Belling- 
 ham of my imagination. If experience be noth- 
 ing but suffering then I had experienced; over 
 this transaction therefore I grant an act of 
 oblivion. 
 
 The return to Worcester was tedious. 1 
 was in no hurry, dreading my reception; what 
 should I say, what should I answer? I re- 
 volved 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 
 
 222 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 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 mis- 
 sionary. For the first time I heard of Greek 
 and Latin books. The young man was study- 
 ing both ; it excited my curiosity. Here were 
 other things of which I knew nothing, and I 
 began at this period to be oppressed continu- 
 ally 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 rec- 
 ords, doubtless collected when he was a min- 
 ister; many shelves of medical books, and a 
 small number of miscellaneous works, his- 
 tories and cyclopaedias. Among these latter 
 I chanced one day to take down Whelpley's 
 Compend of History. All that I can remem- 
 ber of it now are its stories of ancient he- 
 roes, Alexander, Caesar, the greater and less- 
 er men of Greek and Roman annals. That 
 of Alexander made the deepest impression 
 
 223 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 upon me; I know not why, perhaps his con- 
 quests, 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 intellectu- 
 al 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. 
 
 The beech at last divides the rock in whose 
 
 224 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 invisible seam its tiny seed was sown. I now 
 began to spend all my leisure time in reading, 
 and to be more and more aware of my un- 
 profitable and aimless life. Books carried 
 me this way and that. I was wholly overcome 
 by them as by a strong personal influence, 
 especially when I read Byron. The student 
 whom I have mentioned had a few books of 
 poetry, and among them the complete works 
 of Byron in one thick volume bound in calf, 
 and printed on cheap, thin paper. He him- 
 self had written verses before his conversion. 
 He now looked upon his poets as witnesses 
 of his former sinful state. He wanted to 
 sell them to me with all their sins, and event- 
 ually I did buy his copy of Byron for 
 fifty cents, after borrowing and becoming 
 so enamoured of it that I felt I could 
 not live without the book. The By- 
 ronic moods and fashion I imitated to the best 
 of my ability. I began to turn down my Sun- 
 day linen collar which had stood up to my 
 ears, and to wear my hair long and careless; 
 whereas formerly, I had brushed it back and 
 upward as straight as possible, after the man- 
 ner of ministers and schoolmasters, now I let 
 it hang as it would over my forehead and 
 
 225 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 neck. Melancholy was the wear, and for this, 
 in my present temper, not much effort was 
 required. I did not, as Alexander and Chry- 
 sostom had done, put my favorite author un- 
 der my pillow; but often having to sleep on 
 the floor, this volume of Byron served as my 
 pillow. In turn one book after another held 
 me like a captive lover, and I endeavored to 
 conform my life to what I read, no sooner 
 enthralled by one than I found another more 
 enchanting. I formed a taste for reading that 
 has lasted all my life, in which, if there be 
 any education, any mental discipline, is the 
 only consistent part of my development. Our 
 critics and literary mentors extol such books 
 as are fit to be read a second time. I have a 
 still better reason for a second reading, be- 
 cause I forget the first. When I strictly ex- 
 amine myself I cannot say that the contents 
 of any book remain long with me, not even 
 the Greek and Latin grammars over which 
 I spent years of terrible toil. Somewhat sur- 
 vives the years, vague, inexact and never at 
 hand when wanted. Enough for me that I 
 know pretty well where to find what I have 
 once read. I have been drawn to the authors, 
 who have written especially for me, by a cer- 
 
 226 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 tain, recurrent impulse and appetite. Then I 
 can go to the shelf in the dark. I find that 
 memory is a faculty over which we cannot use 
 the whip and spur to much purpose. It goes 
 its own gait through barren or fertile fields, 
 gathering many a weed with its flowers. How 
 many trifles one carries through life from 
 childhood days, by no effort of his own, things 
 of the senses mostly, when these were unwrit- 
 ten tablets and blank for the first impressions. 
 Upon these tablets are indelibly retained a cer- 
 tain box, a spool, a pair of stairs, the smell of 
 a neighbor's house, when, with all my efforts, 
 I cannot recover my father's voice and count- 
 enance, nor many another thing that would 
 make a golden treasury of memory. Instead, 
 it Is more like the lumber of an old attic, or 
 the contents of a boy's pocket. From much 
 reading I began to observe the difference be- 
 tween written and spoken languages, and to 
 single out the people who used the best speech 
 In their common conversation. I tried my- 
 self to talk like the books I read. Never be- 
 fore had I noticed any difference between men 
 as to education. All were on the same plane, 
 only separable by some personal relation to 
 myself. Little by little they became distinct 
 
 227 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 so that I attempted to classify them In a crude 
 and bookish way. Character and the moral 
 point of view, with their manifold applica- 
 tions to life, were as yet hidden from me. I 
 judged men and women by their speech, even 
 by their pronunciation, and thought that 1 
 could detect the accent of the educated. In 
 short, education became all In all to my 
 mind; the one desirable possession, and 
 Its end the writing of books. Its reward 
 fame. As was natural I tried to write, 
 but my rude penmanship, my Inability to 
 spell the words, which I was ambitious 
 to use, the difficulty of beginning a sen- 
 tence, and still greater perplexity of end- 
 ing It, completely disgusted me and filled me 
 with despair. It was more evident than ever 
 that education was the ladder for my enter- 
 prise. There was, at that time. In Worcester a 
 learned blacksmith, who knew fifty languages; 
 he might have been an example to me; 
 yet I had never heard of him. I knew only 
 the great men of Whelpley's ancient history, 
 and the poet Byron. Schools and colleges 
 assumed great and greater Importance. I saw 
 no way of educating myself: I expected It to 
 be done for me, as everything thus far had 
 
 228 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 been. I was nearly sixteen years old, bare- 
 ly able to read and write, but no more ad- 
 vanced than the average boy of ten or twelve. 
 
 STUDENT LIFE 
 
 After much solicitation I persuaded my 
 sister to send me for one term to the Wor- 
 cester Academy. This was a school then 
 In the suburbs of the city under the 
 patronage of the Baptists. It had for- 
 merly been a manual labor school; that Is, 
 students could pay their expenses by labor on 
 a farm belonging to the Institution. This fea- 
 ture had been given up, and It was conducted 
 like other Institutions of a similar character. 
 It was essentially a country academy. Intended 
 primarily for youths who, having gone 
 through the common schools, desired some 
 further education at small expense. One or 
 two terms were considered sufficient to round 
 off the culture of farmers' sons. The school 
 pretended to teach Latin and Greek, and oc- 
 casionally sent a student to college. A few, 
 having acquired a taste for study, remained 
 long enough to fit themselves to become teach- 
 ers of common schools, or to enter one of the 
 
 229 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 professions, which at that time did not place so 
 much importance as at present upon lengthy, 
 preparation and a degree. The expenses 
 were as light as was the fare. The 
 rooms were scantily furnished; chairs, tables 
 and beds were in the last stages of dilapida- 
 tion from the rough usage of a generation of 
 students. No one felt or was held responsible 
 for their condition. Some of the students 
 boarded themselves in the dormitory, which 
 did not add to the tidiness and order of their 
 rooms. Books, clothing, plates and pots, 
 wood and food were scattered about 
 promiscuously. Each room was a citadel, 
 neither teachers nor steward ever en- 
 tered it; a servant made up the bed, 
 and that was the extent of her function. We 
 filled our own water pails, cut our own wood 
 and swept the room when we happened to 
 think of it, and could borrow a broom. As 
 I have said, the common table was meagerly 
 kept. How could it have been otherwise at 
 the rate of one dollar per week? We often 
 rose in rebellion at the cooking, when we 
 drove the waitress from the room, hurling the 
 food, and after it, the dishes, upon the floor. 
 No punishments ever followed these out- 
 
 230 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 breaks, nor any of our pranks with the bell, 
 the steward's horse and cow and the princi- 
 pal's desk. The discipline was mild; or rath- 
 er there was none. And yet there were many 
 diligent students and a few who distinguished 
 themselves In later life. The best features of 
 the Institution were its unbounded freedom, 
 the close democratic companionship of the stu- 
 dents, the affectionate attachments formed, 
 and the tremendous interest we took In the 
 meetings of the Phllomathean society for de- 
 bates, and the reading of essays and poetry, 
 exhibited also in a lesser degree In the Satur- 
 day declamations and compositions. How 
 deep and real were our personal attachments I 
 may Illustrate in mentioning that I have main- 
 tained two of them for fifty years. Others 
 that faded out of my life I still remember with 
 grateful and tender feelings, especially a 
 young man considerably older than myself, to 
 whom I was passionately devoted. He was a 
 handsome, reserved fellow with the eyes and 
 lips of genius. He played the violin, and 
 well do I recall the sensitive twitchlngs of his 
 mouth at any strain of unusual thrilling sweet- 
 ness. It made my heart beat faster when he 
 spoke to me, which was rarely; and never be- 
 
 231 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 fore had I felt such a deep emotion as when 
 coming from the city one evening he asked 
 me to take his arm. It was the common cus- 
 tom with all of us when walking or strolling 
 about the grounds to lock arms or put them 
 about each other's necks. Only with him, the 
 violinist, It was less usual than with the oth- 
 ers. How often have I wondered what was 
 the subsequent career of him whom we 
 thought the greatest man among us. 
 
 With such freedom, such slight discipline, 
 and so little pressure In the classroom. It was 
 nevertheless the best arena for the develop- 
 ment of the whole man which I have ever 
 known. Our debates were exciting, often 
 fierce; sometimes we almost came to blows, 
 and Instead of being merely practice and fo- 
 renslcs,they were very real and vital, so much 
 so, that we generally resumed them when two 
 or three met In their rooms or on their walks. 
 They were sure to continue until the next meet- 
 ing, when a new question would be proposed. 
 Usually the topics for debate and the princi- 
 pal disputants were selected a week In ad- 
 vance. Much time was given to preparation, 
 to the complete neglect of our studies. The 
 debates were extemporaneous, and after the 
 
 232 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 preliminary speeches, the question was open 
 to all. The topics of debate were generally 
 on the social and political issues of the time; 
 anti-slavery, temperance, women's rights; 
 these questions often led into religious and 
 theological controversies. Not who was the 
 better scholar, but who was the better speak- 
 er, and next the better writer, was the popular 
 estimate of reputation and settlement of rank 
 in school. We strove above everything to be 
 eloquent, to become orators ; that being at the 
 time the aim set before us by ambitious pub- 
 lic men, inspired by the examples of Webster, 
 Clay, Calhoun and others. It is my belief 
 that, at this period, one of the great public 
 prizes of glory, which young students set be- 
 fore themselves, was to deliver a Fourth of 
 July oration. Meanwhile no instruction was 
 given in elocution, rhetoric or composi- 
 tion. The required exercises in decla- 
 mation and writing were conducted with 
 almost no criticism. They neither added 
 nor subtracted from our standing with 
 the teachers by any sign known to us. 
 We were left to our own self-instruction, 
 which, on account of our enthusiasm, emula- 
 tion and rivalries, was the very best of school- 
 
 233 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 masters. We studied parliamentary law from 
 a little volume called Cushlng's manual; for 
 who could tell when he might be called upon 
 to be an officer of the club, or at what point 
 he could with safety move the previous ques- 
 tion? Very amusing were some of the at- 
 tempts of the students to speak extemporane- 
 ously; the stammering, the hesitation, the 
 confusion and final flunk; the confidence with 
 which some one would spring to his feet, as 
 If full to the muzzle, and the entire Inconse- 
 quence and futility of his words, ending in ap- 
 parent abject paralysis of speech. We dealt 
 liberally In jeers at any exhibition of bathos 
 or fustian; in laughter and applause at any 
 touch of eloquence or wit. What better train- 
 ing was there than this? I have always had 
 a fond lingering desire to be an orator, but 
 when before an audience found myself as cold 
 as a clod. Toward essay writing and reading 
 our attitude was somewhat different. Yet here 
 we looked for and were only satisfied with 
 eloquence— good, resounding periods with 
 plentiful classical allusion and quotations of 
 poetry. We always expected at least one apos- 
 trophe to "Science Hill," which was the con- 
 secrated name of the eminence on which the 
 
 234 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 academy building stood. Progress, liberty, 
 the Fathers of the Republic and other patri- 
 otic themes were those on which we sharpened 
 our pens. For purely literary subjects there 
 was no Interest whatever; and, because of this 
 indifference, occurred what was, to me, one of 
 the most mortifying episodes of my youth. I 
 had come into the possession of Milton's 
 poetry, and though untouched by his Para- 
 dise Lost, his Lycldas was a revelation to me 
 of the music and rhythm and allusions possible 
 to poetry. I committed It to memory and 
 startled my class one day by reciting it as a 
 part of the regular exercises. It was custom- 
 ary for some criticism to follow such exer- 
 cises; but, to my distress, my beautiful poem, 
 that had filled me with delight, was received 
 In absolute silence. It had fallen like a bolt 
 from heaven on those young wights. Cov- 
 ered with confusion, I went to my seat feeling 
 that I had committed the unpardonable sin of 
 attempting to do something beyond my ca- 
 pacity. No comment on my effort was made 
 at the time; I was not even rallied about it 
 outside the class room; and only after fifty 
 years had passed did I learn the reason of the 
 extraordinary silence that had followed my 
 
 235 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 rhetorical outbreak. Said one of my class- 
 mates at a reunion, "I shall never forget the 
 day you recited Lycidas ; none of the fellows 
 had ever done such a thing; they neither knew 
 nor cared for poetry, and your recitation was 
 a revelation to us all. It came like a shock 
 and thrilled us to bigger things. We never 
 forgot it." 
 
 So impressionable and plastic is youth in its 
 formative period that it only takes one great 
 poem to unlock for it the higher mysteries. 
 
 We taught ourselves patriotism in season, 
 and before the days of attenuated and hyper- 
 sensitive politics. Rough fellows were we, 
 dressed in cheap coats, eating coarse food, 
 sleeping on hard beds in cold rooms, and I 
 fear the well was not much called upon for 
 baths. We read but little. There was not 
 a newspaper nor magazine taken in the whole 
 establishment, and how we knew what was go- 
 ing on in the world I cannot tell ; yet in some 
 way it penetrated our seclusion. In such a 
 small and socially affiliated school, what one 
 knew, all the others soon imbibed. We were 
 every one of us Yankee boys, acquisitive and 
 resolved to make the most of ourselves and 
 our small opportunities. The library of the 
 
 236 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 institution contained about a hundred volumes, 
 and of these some were religious books. There 
 was a ragged, greasy Shakespeare in eight 
 volumes which I tried to read through, but 
 found the task too much for me. However, I 
 did have a glimpse of something for which I 
 found myself unprepared; and such is the con- 
 stitution of my mind, that I have seldom been 
 able to grasp dramatic writing with complete 
 enjoyment; I am apt to dwell too long on its 
 beauty spots. For this reason I prefer the 
 Greek drama, because of the simplicity of its 
 construction. The characters are fewer, and, 
 I may say, not so personal, and there are not 
 so many threads to keep in hand. I am in no 
 perplexity when I begin Agamemnon and An- 
 tigone; there is a clear, simple and straight 
 path for action. The one book which we all 
 read with greatest diligence was Todd's Stu- 
 dent's Manual. As we did not really study 
 much, it seemed best to know all about the 
 methods and rules for study. The book was 
 stuffed full of sound advice In regard to the 
 regulations of the student's time, diet, sleep 
 and exercise; in short, what may, without 
 offense, be called the mechanical apparatus for 
 the acquirement of education and character. 
 
 237 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 I am sure I profited much from this manual, 
 although I could never observe a tithe of its 
 instructions. It was something to know there 
 was a path especially laid out for the student, 
 if he could not always keep it. It prompted 
 the searching of one's self, and in consequence, 
 many of us began to keep a diary, which, I 
 think in my own case, stimulated observation 
 and reflection. Feeble as the young child's 
 first effort to walk were my entries in my first 
 diary. How is one to write without a definite 
 subject, or one selected for him? But with 
 each day's practice it became easier, and at 
 last a pleasure to hold a silent intercourse with 
 myself, to recover and merely to catalogue the 
 day's doings and try to discriminate them. In 
 vain thus far were my attempts at logic in the 
 debating club, and the sentences in my diary 
 seemed even more wanting In connection. Con- 
 junctions would not join, nor any therefores 
 and wherefores tie the sentences. It was mere- 
 ly chance that I landed a verb In the right 
 place, and did not altogether lose the noun. I 
 seemed to know what I wanted to say but it 
 would not form itself on the pen, and what 
 I wrote one day I had an infinite disrelish for 
 the next. I have heard something in my time 
 
 238 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 about rising upon our dead selves. I know of 
 nothing so dead and so precipitating as the 
 look Into an early youthful diary. Not much 
 more encouraging is the book one has written 
 and published, and some time after has the 
 temerity to open. 
 
 SCHOOLMASTER 
 
 After a few terms at Worcester Academy, 
 during which I contrived in different ways to 
 support myself on a single meal a day, at 
 one time by ringing the bell for morning 
 prayers and sweeping the general recita- 
 tion room, at another by delivering a 
 daily newspaper, the Worcester Spy, to 
 one hundred and twenty-five subscribers, I 
 thought myself competent to teach a common 
 school, by which I hoped to earn enough to 
 carry me through another year of study. I 
 was examined as to my qualifications for teach- 
 ing by the chairman of the school commit- 
 tee of the town of Grafton, having applied 
 for one of the district schools. Between fright 
 and incompetency I passed a most inadequate 
 examination. What little I did know de- 
 serted me at the pinch. The reverend gen- 
 
 239 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 tleman, who conducted me through questions 
 in the various common school studies, was one 
 of the most amiable souls in the world, as I 
 had many subsequent opportunities of know- 
 ing, for he continued my friend as long as he 
 lived. He told me frankly that he was hard- 
 ly waranted in giving me a certificate, but 
 would allow me to make a trial of the school, 
 and, as my sister had such a high reputation 
 as a teacher, he had no doubt I would succeed 
 if I was in earnest and studied diligently. The 
 school consisted of fifty pupils of all ages; 
 some were just learning to read, others had 
 been through again and again all the text 
 books in use and went to school in winter for 
 fun, and because they had nothing else to do. 
 There were six young men four years older 
 than myself. These older pupils thought they 
 knew their school books well enough, and had 
 no occasion to study them again. They were 
 much inclined to match their proficiency with 
 that of their teacher, which was a good way 
 of putting him on his mettle. A few ap- 
 peared to be present only to make trouble, and 
 to try their pugilism against that of the mas- 
 ter. I was not especially athletic; yet, when 
 my temper was up, I was a dangerous antag- 
 
 240 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 onist. I soon discovered the work cut out for 
 me. I spent every evening In preparation for 
 the next day's lessons, and I Introduced some 
 new exercises for those older boys and girls 
 whose familiarity with their books gave them 
 little to do. My troubles began soon enough, 
 not In the school, but among the parents, 
 which was shortly reflected In their children. 
 In every New England school district there 
 are generally factions and parties as In larger 
 political divisions; It divides on all kinds of 
 Issues, political, religious or social. I am giving 
 my experience, not for Its personal value, but as 
 the average picture of the average school dis- 
 trict. This particular district was sharply split 
 by the temperance partyand the rummies. It so 
 happened that the prudential committeeman, 
 as he was called, that Is, the agent whose of- 
 fice it was to hire a teacher and have the gen- 
 eral care of all the business concerns of the 
 school for the year, was an ardent temper- 
 ance worker, and I boarded with him. This 
 was reason enough for the other party to stir 
 up antagonism against the teacher. It was not 
 long before I became aware of the situation, 
 and learned to my surprise and amusement 
 that I was a strong temperance man, and in 
 
 241 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 the habit of making temperance speeches. The 
 rummies, I found, were men addicted only to 
 their cider barrels; hard working citizens 
 with red faces and rather lurid speech. On 
 the whole, I thought them much more inter- 
 esting characters than the faction to which I 
 was supposed to belong. But they would have 
 none of me, and I had not sufficient tact to 
 win them to myself. The crisis came when I 
 thrashed the son of one of them, my first 
 and last experiment in corporal punishment. 
 The boy's father threatened and sent me word 
 that the first time he met me I might look out 
 for his horse whip. I fully expected it, and 
 carried a stick on my way to and from school. 
 He turned out to be a great coward, for one 
 day we met on the road and he slunk the oth- 
 er side of his load of wood as we came op- 
 posite each other. He took his boy out of 
 school, and several others followed him, com- 
 plaining that I did not know enough arithme- 
 tic to teach them, which was quite true, only 
 I was learning; and gladly would I learn and 
 gladly teach, if they could have had patience. 
 I think my most successful teaching has been 
 with those with whom I was also studying 
 and learning, having a double incitement and 
 
 242 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 interest. The teacher who knows it all before- 
 hand, and rests in his knowledge is soon 
 dulled and wearied. 
 
 This incident, the thrashing of one boy and 
 the withdrawal of several others, brought 
 peace and good will into the school-room, and 
 I became on intimate and even affectionate 
 terms with the remainder of the pupils, and 
 on the last day of the term, examination day it 
 was called, we were all much lauded and flat- 
 tered by the school committee and assembled 
 friends. It was my first experience of respon- 
 sibility, and settled some matters with me for 
 life, chief of which was that the only authority 
 and influence of value are those that are 
 gained by love. The more friendly and in- 
 timate my relation with any pupil the more 
 pleasant was my task, the more easy his les- 
 son, the more rapid his progress. I also 
 learned that all effort is lost on a stupid mind, 
 and that it is better to wait upon its awaken- 
 ing. In this I had my own experience to sup- 
 port me, for I never learned anything until 
 aroused from within; all else is but untemp- 
 ered plaster that falls away as soon as it ceas- 
 es to be fresh. Outside of my school and its 
 duties I found considerable opportunity for 
 
 243 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 Improving myself. The couple, with whom I 
 boarded, were good souls, and, having no 
 children of their own, showed me much kind- 
 ly attention. The table was plentiful; we had 
 pumpkin pie three times daily, baked in ob- 
 long tins, and the corner piece was the fa- 
 vorite cut. My room was large and pleasant, 
 and better furnished than any I had ever oc- 
 cupied. My host always wore a cheerful smile 
 and seemed the happiest of men, although he 
 never joked; his conversation was serious and 
 religious, in striking contrast to his manner 
 and usual countenance. He spoke of heaven and 
 hell with the same merry twinkle in his eye, the 
 same smiling face. His speech was accompan- 
 ied by a sort of low, half audible whistle. 
 He encouraged me through all my troubles, 
 and told me not to worry about the old cider- 
 drinking farmers, as there were more horse- 
 whips than one in the "deestrict." His wife's 
 chief dread in this mortal life was fire. She 
 expected the house would burn up every night. 
 I can see now her painful look of alarm when 
 there was news of a conflagration anywhere; 
 she would immediately leave her chair, look at 
 the stove, examine the stovepipe and peer out 
 into the kitchen. Then it was not unusual for 
 
 244 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 dissolute, drinking men to take revenge on the 
 total abstainers by setting fire to their barns. 
 There was only one family in the district with 
 whom I became intimate, and whose friend- 
 ship across the continent I still keep. This 
 was the family of a retired Universalist cler- 
 gyman. They lived in a large farmhouse, and 
 the clergyman was engaged in reclaiming an 
 immense bog, and occasionally supplying some 
 vacant neighboring pulpit. He was a vision- 
 ary of a perfect kind. All bogs were to him 
 prospective gardens of Eden; impossibili- 
 ties to him the only things worth attempting; 
 all men saints and angels. He had inherited 
 a considerable fortune, which had mostly dis- 
 appeared in the fathomless swamps of the dif- 
 ferent towns where he had sojourned as a 
 clergyman. His wife was a lineal descendant 
 of one of the heroes of Concord Bridge; a 
 beautiful, domestic woman full of prudent 
 and wise counsels, which had saved the family 
 from being swallowed up in her husband's 
 Utopias. Three of their younger children 
 were among the brightest of my pupils; three 
 grown up sons were still at home, working 
 on the land a part of the year, and in winter 
 they made boots in a little shop attached to 
 
 245 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 the house. As formerly In Hopklnton, so here 
 In this shop, but with more Intelligence and 
 learning, I heard and now took part In 
 the discussion of all sorts of questions. Their 
 minds seemed to have been trained In more 
 philosophical directions than any I had met. 
 Here I had some new Insights which helped 
 me forward, and I heard much of the worth- 
 lessness of religious dogmas. It was, how- 
 ever, with a tin pedler, a friend and distant 
 relative of this family, that I turned the new- 
 est leaf in my mental progress. He usually 
 travelled through Grafton twice a month, and 
 made It his convenience to put up over night 
 with his friends. It was there I used to meet 
 him. His name was Daboll, and he claimed 
 to be descended from that ancient Connecticut 
 maker of arithmetics and almanacs, Nathan 
 Daboll. He said that was why he became a 
 pedler— he was born to calculate. Yet his 
 occupation sat very lightly upon him. It gave 
 him abundant opportunities for reflection and 
 conversation. In the latter he took delight, 
 and lost no chance of displaying his skill In 
 setting forth his own Ideas and drawing out 
 those of his customers. If he sold a pan or a 
 broom It was accompanied by some bit of 
 
 246 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 philosophy that he had evolved on the lone- 
 some stretches of road between farmhouse 
 and farmhouse. I write evolved; but that was 
 not his own word, nor his theory of the origin 
 of his ideas. He claimed that they came to 
 him when he escaped his own control. I have 
 forgotten many of the details and examples 
 which he used to give in explanation of his 
 doctrine, and should not remember them at 
 all after so many years, save that at various 
 times I have had similar experiences, and that 
 I have been often reminded of them by the 
 modern discussions of psychology, and espe- 
 cially of the operations of the subjective mind. 
 He said that he was led into his view from 
 thinking about his dreams which were beyond 
 control of the will. His next step was to ob- 
 serve that he sometimes dreamed when awake ; 
 that is, thoughts came into his mind without 
 conscious effort, and at times when his head 
 was wholly vacant or wholly occupied with his 
 business. Many things were made clear to 
 him in this manner, and he had come to the 
 conclusion that the best way to get the wis- 
 dom enjoined by the Bible and learned men, 
 was to escape from yourself, in short, to be- 
 come passive. In long summer days, slowly 
 
 247 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 travelling his circuit of some forty miles, call- 
 ing at every house where he was well known, 
 and must needs be in no haste to trade, (for 
 country people were never sure of what they 
 wanted until they looked the cart over), he 
 had plenty of time to resign himself to the in- 
 voluntary and dreamlike states of mind, which 
 solved for him the questions in which he was 
 most interested. I was not so much impressed 
 that such notions should come from a tin ped- 
 ler as by the notions themselves; for at that 
 period the democracy of our New England 
 towns considered and treated a pedler as a 
 man and a brother. His business was not re- 
 garded as demeaning, and frequently was an 
 apprenticeship to that of a store keeper, and 
 he might, and sometimes did, become the rich 
 merchant of a great city. Many young men 
 peddled small wares, books and pictures be- 
 tween terms to help themselves in paying for 
 their education. So Reuben Daboll was no 
 phenomenon; but his philosophy was phe- 
 nomenal, at least to me, and kept me awake 
 on the nights when the evening had been spent 
 with him. It kept me awake, I say, for I 
 never could reason far, and trying to think 
 gave me a headache. I was perplexed by a 
 
 248 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 thousand problems, my own, and those pro- 
 pounded by my companions and elders, and 
 others suggested in books; and I wondered 
 if DaboU's way was not an easier and shorter 
 method of answer than the pros and cons of 
 argument. It is interesting now for me to re- 
 flect upon the two influences following each 
 other so closely, that were quickening my own 
 faculties ; for they were in direct contrast with 
 each other; one, the animated debates and at- 
 tempted logical presentation of a subject with 
 its related facts, as presented at the Worcester 
 Academy; and this new method of passive 
 receptivity, this opening of the inner eye of the 
 mind to receive impressions. It was a long 
 time before I could experiment with any suc- 
 cess in this new direction, for I was of an ac- 
 tive and impatient temperament, longing to 
 hurry to an end that I might begin something 
 new, and wishing to arrive rather than to 
 profit by each day's march. As I grew to ma- 
 turity, the latter method was more congenial 
 and became of more practical use to me, and 
 one of my favorite mottoes has been, "Our 
 thoughts are a pious reception." 
 
 The winter school being over in the spring, 
 I returned to Worcester Academy feeling 
 
 249 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 older and more sobered. I began Latin with 
 a dim idea of going to college, how and when, 
 I did not dare to forecast. I was not as happy 
 as formerly in the school. The debates, com- 
 positions and declamations interested me less, 
 and I should have been quite dull except for 
 some young girls at the Oread Institute. This 
 institution had just been opened on the hill, 
 directly opposite our academy. It was not 
 within speaking distance, but was within writ- 
 ing and signalling distance. All intercourse 
 between the girl students and ourselves was 
 prohibited. I have frequently noticed this 
 juxtaposition of schools for the sexes, and al- 
 so that laws of non-intercourse are enacted for 
 no other purpose than to make their infringe- 
 ment the more tempting and delightful. My 
 chum knew one of the Oreads, a girl from his 
 own village; with this key we carried the 
 citadel. We established a post office in the 
 neighboring stone wall and arranged many a 
 clandestine meeting, walk or drive. The girl 
 whom I had chosen for my devotions was 
 from the White Mountains of New Hamp- 
 shire. She wore her hair in long curls, that 
 fell over her neck and shoulders, and were 
 constantly straggling over her face. Then 
 
 250 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 with a toss of her comely head and a pretty 
 gesture of her hand she would throw them 
 back. This little trick captivated me and 
 fixed my fate. She constantly came between me 
 and the Latin declensions and conjugations 
 that I was trying to memorize. However, I 
 was saved from anything like a formal at- 
 tachment by her early announcement to me 
 that she was engaged to the son of an ex- 
 governor of New Hampshire. I had reason 
 to suspect afterward that this was a subterfuge 
 to forestall any serious consequences from our 
 intercourse. If so, she was a wise maiden, 
 and whatever claims we men may arrogate to 
 ourselves, women are better tacticians than 
 we in their personal relations. With this bar- 
 rier, thus timely erected, I was kept on my 
 good behavior and we amused ourselves with 
 each other's company in many a stolen wood- 
 land walk, and in a frequent defrauding of the 
 Worcester post-office of its revenues. She 
 wrote a tiny hand and could crowd more upon 
 a page than I could upon four. I treasured 
 her notes in my inmost pocket, and our secret 
 correspondence gave me almost as deep a joy 
 as did our companionship. 
 
 It was at this time I began to make verses, 
 251 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 as much from an Imitative instinct as from my 
 sentimental relation with the pretty Oread; 
 for there was now in the school a young man 
 who set up for a poet and was much admired 
 by us all. It seems to me he must have had 
 a sense of musical rythm, for there has re- 
 mained In my ear ever since a stanza of his 
 which I caught as he read it to a little co- 
 terie of students. There is nothing In It save 
 its melody. 
 
 "The while amid the greenwood 
 Whistled the summer breeze 
 Fair Mantua's maiden swore to wed 
 Her loving Genoese." 
 
 Those two names, Mantua and Genoese, 
 had a wonderful, faraway imaginative asso- 
 ciation for me, and still have. Matthew 
 Arnold's magic of poetry, magical words and 
 lines, explain all its charm for me. A feel- 
 ing beyond the words or the sense is what I 
 require in poetry. In vain did I try to ex- 
 press in rhyme what I felt. The lines halted 
 for the last word. I never ventured to read 
 them to my Oread or fellow students. Thus 
 I cherished two secrets and discovered that 
 
 252 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 the private Indulgence of verse-making is al- 
 most as sweet as a hidden love. The terms 
 of the Academy and the Oread Institute end- 
 ed on the same day, and I parted from my 
 sweetheart never to meet again. 
 
 FARM HAND 
 
 What to do with myself during the long 
 summer vacation was the next question. My 
 money was fast wasting in spite of my 
 economies. There were no country schools 
 open to male teachers in summer. My 
 sister advised me to find employment on 
 a farm. I thought at once of Belling- 
 ham, and my dear Uncle Lyman. He did not 
 want help and eventually I hired myself to 
 another uncle who lived in the extreme south- 
 ern part of the town, close upon the boundary 
 of Rhode Island. My wages were to be twelve 
 dollars per month with board. My uncle's 
 wife was my father's only surviving sister. 
 Their children were married and settled else- 
 where. All that was left to them was a large 
 farm and old age. The one made them rath- 
 er poorer than richer; the other brought upon 
 them a growing habit of penurlousness, gloom 
 
 253 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 and irritability. I was expected to do all the 
 heavy work and most of the chores, except 
 the milking; that, they would allow no one to 
 do, for fear of not squeezing out the lastdrop. 
 My aunt still made butter and cheese to sell, 
 and in this work I usually helped her the first 
 thing in the morning before the regular day's 
 work. We had breakfast at sunrise, often be- 
 fore. After breakfast my uncle went into the 
 sitting-room where : 
 
 "He waled a portion with judicious care, 
 'And let us worship God,' he says, with 
 solemn air." 
 
 I suppose that Is what he did, for I could 
 hear the low mumble of his voice and occa- 
 sionally catch a scriptural phrase, but neither 
 my aunt nor myself participated in this mock- 
 ery of family prayers. She said she had too 
 much to do, and she could not spare me from 
 the cheese tub and the churn. She scolded her 
 husband for his contributions to the church, 
 and begrudged every cent that was spent. She 
 had Franklin's prudential maxims at her 
 tongue's end, besides many another gathered 
 in the course of her long life of thrift and 
 
 254 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 hard work. She never rested from her la- 
 bors until the Sabbath. Our food was of the 
 coarsest kind, but well cooked, and work and 
 hunger were sauce enough. She baked once 
 a week in a great brick oven ; her other daily 
 cooking was done by an open fire. Brown 
 bread and cheese were the staff of our life, 
 and I became more fond of them than of any 
 viands I have since eaten. In vain have I be- 
 sought my household to discover the recipe 
 of my aunt's brown loaves. Who can recover 
 for me the relish that went with them ? With 
 this aged couple I led a lonely yet healthful 
 life. I came nearer to the earth than ever 
 before ; I mean her dirt, her stones, her odors 
 and dews as well as to cows, sheep and horses, 
 whose closer relation to the soil insensibly af- 
 fects those who have the care of them. I felt 
 myself a brother to the ox that I yoked and 
 guided along the furrow. My nigh ox came 
 from the pasture at my call and would 
 lick my hand and stretch out his neck 
 to be stroked. The whole barnyard was 
 friendly, and I took pleasure, having 
 none other, in the signs of it. The neigh- 
 bors were few and I saw nothing of them. 
 One young man sometimes called, but as his 
 
 255 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 Interest in me appeared to consist In a desire 
 to save my soul his visits distressed me. It 
 was my singular fortune through my child- 
 hood and early youth, to have been followed 
 by soul savers. At last in desperation I told 
 him that I was not sure as yet that I had a soul 
 to save; when I had, I would consider his 
 propositions. Whereupon he went his way and 
 reported that I was a Universalist, that being 
 in Bellingham the most opprobrious of names, 
 in consequence of an ancient feud between the 
 Baptist and Universalist churches. The Bap- 
 tists had come off conquerers; the name, how- 
 ever, remained; and an indefinable name of 
 reproach is a convenient thing to have in a 
 country neighborhood. 
 
 I have mentioned the penuriousness of my 
 employers. In the case of my uncle it was ex- 
 hibited in the most extraordinary, amusing, 
 yet harmless ways. He never could pass by an 
 old, bent, used-up nail, bit of string, pin or a 
 straight stick without picking It up and putting 
 it away. The collar of his coat and front of 
 his gaudy flannel vest were stuck full of point- 
 less pins and eyeless needles. The shed oppo- 
 site the house was a museum of rubbish, odds 
 and ends of the most worthless articles neatly 
 
 256 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 sorted, tied up in small bundles and hung 
 about the sides of the building. It was a well- 
 developed mania with him, having acquired 
 it through his long years of money getting and 
 saving, and in larger matters, which had made 
 him a well-to-do farmer. Although now old, 
 he was a well-preserved man; there was still 
 a wholesome red spot in his cheek, and a 
 gleam of youth in his eye. His movements 
 were so deliberate and slow that it was impos- 
 sible that he could ever have worn himself out 
 with work. He would pause between every 
 hill that he hoed and make some remark, or 
 look up at the sun for the time of the day. He 
 could not mow a straight swath because he 
 was always nicking in and out for some straw 
 left by other mowers. When he harnessed 
 his aged horse, as reliable as an ox to drive, 
 and not much faster, he would go over and 
 over every buckle and strap to make sure that 
 all was safe, in the meantime talking to him in 
 a soothing voice as if he expected every mo- 
 ment that he would run away. If Jim had a 
 strong point it was in standing still. When he 
 sneezed he used to say, "I guess I am good 
 for another day," and like his wife he had a 
 ready proverb for everything. Seldom could 
 
 257 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 I catch the whole of it, for he sputtered in 
 his speech and had a falsetto voice. It was 
 evident that he had acquired his property by 
 exceeding thrift, rather than labor, by that 
 ancient all-pervading custom of the New Eng- 
 land farmer of doing without and making 
 things last another year. 
 
 I had promised myself to do some studying 
 during the summer, but found that the long 
 hours of labor and fatigue at their end unfitted 
 me for anything save rest and sleep. I scarcely 
 opened a book of any kind. I had a volume 
 of Macauly's Essays with me in which I read 
 a little on the Sabbath. On rainy days I stole 
 away to the hay mow and read one of Jane 
 Porter's novels which I found in the house. I 
 attempted to commit to memory the whole of 
 the Lady of the Lake, but got no farther than 
 the first canto, and the songs interspersed 
 through the others. These songs I recited 
 in the field, and they were a great comfort to 
 me. Little do the poets know in what strange, 
 obscure places, and in what lonely, unknown 
 hearts their verses find lodgment. It is not 
 necessary that one should contend that Scott 
 is the greatest of poets, who thought so for a 
 single summer. 
 
 258 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 With thirty dollars In my purse and a blue 
 camlet suit made of a cloak, which had been 
 my father's best outer garment, I returned to 
 Worcester Academy. I made a resolution, 
 which I kept, to have no more Intimacies with 
 the Oreads, and to devote myself to study. I 
 still cherished the Idea of college, although it 
 seemed as distant as ever. I began to be In- 
 terested In public affairs and attended the first 
 convention of the Free Soil party which was 
 held In Worcester. I heard Charles Sumner 
 and Charles Allen speak. Sumner appealed 
 to my sympathies, Allen to my reason. Allen 
 argued, Sumner was eloquent. Most young 
 men In New England had hitherto been ad- 
 mirers of Webster and Clay, and termed 
 themselves Whigs. The truth was they were 
 called to whatever was eloquence. They wor- 
 shipped the greatness of sounding, patriotic 
 periods. How we admired Kossuth, and im- 
 mediately paid him the shallow compliment 
 of wearing a Kossuth hat. I also thought I 
 was a Whig, much to the sorrow of my moth- 
 er, whose sympathies were with the Abolition- 
 ists. After the Free Soil convention I was a 
 Free Soller, and such I continued, casting my 
 first vote for John C. Fremont. At this time 
 
 259 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 Worcester was the favorite place for every 
 kind of convention of the friends of progress. 
 Anti-slavery, Non-resistance and Women's 
 Rights. I heard all the strange and strong 
 speakers and advocates on those free and 
 lively platforms. I heard Garrison, Phillips, 
 May, Quincy, Pillsbury, the Fosters, So- 
 journer Truth, Burleigh, Lucretia Mott, and 
 Ernestine Rose. The last speaker, a hand- 
 some, modishly dressed New York Jewess, 
 converted me to the cause of woman. In a 
 short time I was an enthusiastic reformer all 
 along the line. Probably there has been no 
 period in our history so charged with new 
 and revolutionary ideas as that from 1835 to 
 1850. It was a good time to be alive and to 
 be near the center of agitation in Massachu- 
 setts. I heard both church and state and the 
 whole structure of society attacked. What- 
 ever other reform might be under discussion 
 these were sure to receive the hardest blows; 
 strike, and spare not, was the watchword. For 
 me the great event in my personal experience 
 and awakening at this period, was not espe- 
 cially connected with the reforms that I have 
 named. One small book very much in com- 
 mon with my former limited reading and en- 
 
 260 
 
APPRENTICESHIPS 
 
 thusiasms for celebrated men, shook me to the 
 center of my being. It was Emerson's Rep- 
 resentative Men, recently published. Care- 
 lessly looking over the volumes on Mr. 
 Grout's counter in Worcester, I took it up, at- 
 tracted by its title, for I was always hungering 
 for stories of eminent men, always hoping to 
 find the secret of their greatness, that I might 
 use it for my own advancement. I stood and 
 read a few pages, laid down the book, but felt 
 that I must read it through. After some bat- 
 tling between my purse and desire, desire 
 won, and I bought the precious volume 
 at the cost of my breakfast for several 
 weeks, so slender were my resources. In 
 the course of three or four years I 
 added to my library Milton's poems, a 
 volume of Tennyson and three of Pot- 
 ter's translation of Euripides; the latter, 
 not because I wanted it, but because I hap- 
 pened to have made the final bid at a book 
 auction. In Representative Men I found the 
 meat my nature craved. In all previous his- 
 tories and biographies that I had read, there 
 was much going round and about poets and 
 heroes, an external, academic treatment; with 
 Emerson I seemed to come nearer the possible 
 
 261 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 ideal which was already vaguely outlined in 
 my mind. Besides there was much else than 
 Napoleon and Shakespeare in the pages. 
 There were the moral and poetic insights, 
 and, moreover, there was the style, the vital 
 and penetrating Emersonianism, which 
 aroused, and no doubt, dazzled the youthful 
 and impressionable reader. Emerson's terse 
 epigrammatic method of writing was con- 
 genial to my inability to follow difficult log- 
 ic. His style seemed to me the poetical foil 
 of all the prosers of all time. Through the 
 reading of this book eventually I became ac- 
 quainted with Emerson, Alcott and Thoreau. 
 They became my teachers; I followed them 
 until, by their guidance, I was enlarged 
 enough to find my own way into companion- 
 ship with those poets and thinkers, who have 
 endured through the ages. May I never for- 
 get to acknowledge my debt to those men of 
 Concord, my earliest masters in fidelity to 
 ideals and the inward light. 
 
 262 
 
CONCLUSION 
 
 I BEGAN to write these confidences of 
 boyhood for my own pleasure. If I 
 were to continue them into man- 
 hood I could not find nor distinguish 
 myself. It would be like emerging 
 suddenly from solitude into a crowd. The 
 bright days of childhood easily separate them- 
 selv^es from all later time, and are painted with 
 the free pencil of the Imagination. I have 
 now come almost to the wide gateways of the 
 world where I must join the indistinguishable 
 procession and begin to forget myself In Its 
 alluring enchantments. 
 
 With the discovery of certain books of an- 
 cient history, Plutarch, Euripides and Emer- 
 son's Essays there came an unexpected close 
 to my student life at the Worcester Academy. 
 Several of my classmates and myself agreed 
 that we could be better fitted for college at 
 Phillips Academy, Andover, than where we 
 were, and accordingly we put ourselves under 
 the tuition of Dr. Samuel H. Taylor, at that 
 time the most eminent school and drill-master 
 In New England. Under him I just escaped 
 
 263 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 
 becoming a classical scholar and also nearly 
 lost the chance of ever acquiring a love for 
 the classics; for it was drill, paradigms, 
 rules, exceptions, scansion, in short, all that 
 pertains to the external apparatus of the Greek 
 and Latin tongues. Often we spent two hours 
 on eight lines of Homer. The father of lit- 
 erature became a Procrustean, grammatical 
 bed on which we were to be stretched, and it 
 did nearly exterminate every one of us. For 
 my own part, I was possessed with an intem- 
 perate haste to read Homer straight through 
 as fast as I could; for I felt, without ex- 
 actly knowing, that there was something in the 
 epic I wanted, yes, I needed and must have. 
 Checked in this by the rigors of the recitation 
 room I lost much of my interest in study, and 
 spent the time which was supposed to be given 
 to text books in reading all the classic and 
 English poetry I could find, and in valorous 
 attempts at composition, both prose and verse. 
 This I by no means now regret, and rejoice 
 that my tuition escaped the Spartan discipline 
 no less than the present pragmatical curricula. 
 At length I was fitted for college and ad- 
 mitted to Harvard. Misfortunes culminated 
 at the same moment. I did not remain. I was 
 
 264 
 
CONCLUSION 
 
 too ill for study, and suddenly the bottom of 
 my perfidious purse dropped out. Bitter was 
 my disappointment. But in another year I be- 
 gan a new career which brought me happiness, 
 new opportunities, new friends and dividends 
 from Utopian investments. Health and hope, 
 my natural inheritance, returned. Boyhood 
 was gone, but not the invincible boy. 
 
 As in the Parable I had traveled far, un- 
 certain of the road. My diet had been mostly 
 husks, but how sweet! Arriving at last at 
 hospitable doors, I could receive without peni- 
 tence, without tears the welcome long pre- 
 pared for me. Thenceforth I submitted my- 
 self with more patience and trust to the des- 
 tiny which had been awaiting me throughout 
 my apprenticeships. My destiny became my 
 choice. 
 
 265 
 
CONFESSIONS OF BOYHOOD 
 AVE ATGUE VALE 
 
 I shall not pass this way again; 
 But near by is the town where I was born ; 
 I loved it well. 
 
 And near my heart my mother State; 
 She wreathed her sword with freedom, learn- 
 ing, law 
 
 When tyrants fell. 
 
 Three words from Athens held me long; 
 Nothing-too-much, proportion, harmony; 
 By these excel. 
 
 I never hurried for the goal, 
 But like the tortoise travelled steadily, 
 Sans band, sans bell. 
 
 Born when the star of Spring arose, 
 Haply my auspices were cast for calm 
 Of wood and dell. 
 
 Form I admired and sounds and scents; 
 Motion of waters, silences of stars- 
 Mighty their spell I 
 
 266 
 
CONCLUSION 
 
 No senate called me from the plow; 
 No hundred thousand readers read my 
 books — 
 
 They did not sell. 
 
 Many the friends when life was new 
 Heaven sent to me, but now, alas, reclaimed; 
 Sound, Muse, their knell. 
 
 You, who hereafter pass this way. 
 Remember him who made this simple book 
 And say farewell. 
 
 267 
 
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