CHAPTER TEN.
A HARD FIGHT.
Across the wide Atlantic-- It drives me almost frantic, To watch the breakers breaking, and hear their dull, low roar!-- My soul is winging madly; And my eyes are peering sadly, As I span the long, long distance from my home-girt shore!
I was disgusted with America in more ways than one.
Being of a hopeful, castle-building temperament, I had sanguinelythought that I would meet with employment there at once; and, be able tomaster in some unknown, mysterious way, the great art of money-making,on the very instant that I landed in the New World!
I really imagined it, I think, to be an enchanted place, where everynewly-arrived person became magically changed into a sort of Midas on asmall scale; transforming everything he touched, if not into gold--thedays of California were now over--at all events into Washington"eagles," or Mexican silver dollars, or even greenbacks, which werebetter than nothing, although greasy and not acknowledged at theirnominal value.
Upon my word, I really believe that that was my secret opinionconcerning America before I actually crossed the Atlantic!
Probably, I would not have told you so had you asked me then; but Ithink that was my real idea about it. It was to me an Eldorado, whereill-luck was undreamt of; and where I should be able to heap up richeswithout the slightest out-of-the-way exertion on my part, in anincredibly short space of time:--riches that would enable me to returnhome, in the character of a millionaire, in a year or two at theoutside, and claim Min's hand from the then-unresisting Mrs Clyde!
Was I not a fool? Pray, say so, if you think it.--_I_ won't mind, blessyou! for, I know that there are more such in the world besides myself,eh?
I soon found out my mistake.
Not only was the cost of living excessively high--I had to pay twelvedollars a week for a bedroom in Brooklyn, an adjacent suburb, with"board" of which I did not partake very frequently, through an inherentdislike to bad cookery--but employment of any description was sodifficult to be obtained that for every vacant situation advertised inthe New York papers there were several hundred applicants, amongst whoman Englishman stood a very poor chance of being selected when competingwith native citizens.
Do you know, Transatlantica is about the very worst quarter of the globefor an educated man to go to, who has no scientific attainments, such asa knowledge of chemistry and engineering--which may occasionally standhim in good stead.
For skilled artisans, or those brought up to a regular trade, there aregood wages to be had, and constant work; but a "gentleman," or clerk--unless he intends reversing the whole training of his life, which hewill find an extremely difficult thing to do--had far better go andbreak stones on the highways at home, than think to improve hiscondition by emigrating to America!
There are some men who can throw off all old associations and the habitsin which they have been bred from boyhood, but, not one in a thousand--though I have myself seen an Oxford graduate acting as an hotel tout inCincinnati and the son of a "Bart, of the British Empire" driving a mudcart in Chicago!--neither of these, either, had been brought down bydrinking, that general curse of exiled Englishmen in ill-luck.
I had good introductions; and yet, although I met with great hospitalityin being asked out to dinner, I could never get any employment put in myway.
A dinner is a dinner, certainly, and a very good thing in itself--not tobe sneezed at, either, in the Empire City, let me tell you; for, there,you can have as neat a repast served, whether in private houses or atthe Great Delmonico's of "Fourteenth Street," as you would meet with atone or _two_ haunts I wot of in the Palais Royale. Still, I leave it toyourself, a dinner is but a poor "quid" to him lacking the "quo" of animmediate fortune--is it not?
Matters began to grow serious with me; for, my income having amounted to_nil_ since my landing in the new world, my assets were graduallydiminishing. I had only a few pounds left; as my expenditure forlodging alone was at the rate of over two guineas a week; and MonsieurParole d'Honneur's loan, which I looked upon only in the light oftrading capital, I had determined not to touch on for personal need.
What should I do?
I went to one of the American gentlemen to whom I had been introduced,and laid my position before him. He advised me, as he had previouslyadvised me, to "look about" me.
I had "looked about me" already for some three months--without anythingcoming of it; however, I looked about me now again, and?--met Brown ofPhiladelphia!
"Brown of Philadelphia" was one who is known among our "cousins" as a"live" man. Brown of Philadelphia was an enterprising man; he was more:he was a benevolent man. He had a splendid scheme, he told me, forturning over thousands of dollars at once. He had no wish to merelybetter himself, however. He was a man with a large heart, and wouldmake my fortune too. It seemed as if Providence had speciallyinterfered to prevent his meeting with a partner until I had answeredhis advertisement! _I_ should be his partner. I need not know anythingof the business--_he_ would manage all that. What I should have to do,would be, to take care of all the money that came in--a post for whichboth he and I thought I was peculiarly fitted. And the scheme?--
Perhaps you will laugh when I tell you. It was selling blacking!
There is nothing to be ashamed of in it, though. Have not Day andMartin made a fortune by it, and a name in all the world? Has not manya proud merchant prince risen to eminence on a more ignoble commodity?
Blacking! There is something noble in causing the feet of posterity toshine; and to be the means of testing the standing of a would-begentleman! Clean boots are an essentiality of society; why should Ishrink from the responsibility of helping to produce them?
Well, whether you consider it a lowering trade or not, Brown ofPhiladelphia suggested our "going into" blacking together. He knew of aplace, he said, where he could get it for "next to nothing;" and, as hethen pertinently observed, I must be aware that it might be disposed ofin New York at more than cent, per cent, profit. So, why should we notembark in it? If we did, Brown of Philadelphia--only he was opposed tobetting, on moral principle--was prepared to wager a trifle that wewould soon have more "greenbacks" than we should know what to do with!
He had an office already, had my benevolent friend,--"located" in afirst-rate part of Broadway. All I should have to do, he explained,would be to put a small sum into the concern--so as to be independent,as it were, and not merely accepting "a big thing" at his hands--and, myfortune was made. If I would contribute, say, five hundred dollars--"amere song"--we might go joint shares in what would turn out to be a mostremarkably go-a-head enterprise; yes, sir!
Strange! But, the amount he mentioned was the exact sum, in Americanexchange, of my capital--about which, you know, I had previously spokento him in a friendly and communicative way. It _was_ odd, my justhaving sufficient, wasn't it?--Yet, how lucky, to be sure! And then,there was no necessity for my being acquainted with the business:--hewould manage that. My duty would be to take in money--exactly what Iliked! That's what took my fancy so amazingly--"tickled" me, as ArtemusWard would have expressed it--so I repeat it!
Brown of Philadelphia was the soul of honour, as well as distinguishedfor his smartness and benevolence. He did not want to impose on _me_,bless you!
No; on the contrary, he gave me a reference to a large bank "down town,"and also to a notorious shoddy celebrity who lived "up" town,--to theformer of which I went, making inquiries as to his stability.Certainly, they knew Mr Brown of Philadelphia. Had a large balance atpresent in their hands. As far as they were aware--must be reticent incommercial matters, you know--perfectly responsible party. Could I havetaken any further precaution? I think not, after this statement.
Quite satisfactory, wasn't it?
I did not go to shoddy character in Fifth Avenue, because it was ahorribly long pull there in the street "cars:"--thought bank referencesufficient, wouldn't you?
Perfectly satisfactory, I thought; and told Brown of Philadelphia so atour
next meeting, when I lunched with him by appointment.
We next went to see the office--our office--in Broadway, afterwards.Just the thing--possibly a trifle small; but then we could enlarge intime, eh? Not the slightest doubt. Brown of Philadelphia and Iexcellent friends. He dined with me at an hotel that day--at my expenseon this occasion.
After dinner, arranged business matters as partners should do, drawingup a deed of associationship, and so on. Brown of Philadelphia producedroll of dollars in "greenbacks"--his share of the capital of our embryofirm. I produced roll of "greenbacks"--my share of capital of embryofirm. Both parcels sealed up; and given into Brown of Philadelphia'scustody, as senior partner, to deposit same in our joint names at a bankon the morrow.
Brown of Philadelphia and I then parted with words and signs of mutualrespect and admiration; and I hied me to my Brooklyn lodgings in highdelight at the fortunate turn in my affairs.
Why, I would be rich in a few months; and then:--
What delightful dreams I had that night!
We were to meet again the next morning punctually at "ten sharp" at "theoffice."
_I_ was there to the minute, but Brown of Philadelphia wasn't; and,although I waited for him many subsequent minutes after the appointedtime, he never came--nor have I clapped eyes on him from that day tothis.
Faithless Brown! He robbed me of my belief in human nature, in additionto my hoarded "greenbacks."
The office, I found, had been taken by the keen philanthropist for aweek, a few dollars of the rent being advanced by him as security onaccount. On asking at the bank, which had in the first instancesatisfied me of his integrity, the cashier told me that Brown ofPhiladelphia had drawn out all of his available balance the veryafternoon on which I had made my inquiries respecting him; and where hewas gone, no one knew!
"Skedaddled," evidently. As for shoddy celebrity, "up town," to whomBrown of Philadelphia had also referred me, said that my friend hadswindled _him_ a short period before. Good joke, his being given as areference!
I put the affair in the hands of the police; but they gave me about asmuch comfort as our guardians in blue would have done.
They said he had gone south. I went to Baltimore after him; but I couldnot meet him, although I was full of determination and had taken arevolver with me in case Brown might have his "shooting irons" handy!--The blunderbuss that had belonged to the deceased Earl Planetree, andwhich Lady Dasher had given me as a useful parting present, I had leftbehind in England, thinking that such a valuable object of antiquityshould not be recklessly risked.
The police then telegraphed for me to come north--while I was enjoyingthe canvas-backed ducks of "Maryland, my Maryland," and nursing myvengeance. I came "up north;" but it was of no use. I never saw Brownof Philadelphia again, or recovered my lost capital.
It had gone where the good, or bad, niggers go; and I only hope "Brown"has gone there too!
This misfortune filled up the measure of my troubles, though they werenumerous enough already.
To get employment of a regular character, which became more necessary tome now than ever--was as impossible as it had been all along!
Nobody seemed to want anybody like me, in spite of my being notunskilled in foreign languages, and up to clerk's work--having not yetforgotten the book-keeping which my crammer had crammed into me for thebenefit of the "Polite Letter Writer Commissioners."
I was not actually in necessity, as I had still sufficient funds left todefray my bare living expenses for some months, with strict economy; butI had not come to America merely to exist! I had left home to make myfortune, I tell you; and, how could I be satisfied at this state ofthings? I was losing time, day by day; and not approaching one whitnearer to the object of my life!
In addition to these reflections, I had found out the truth of the time-honoured maxim, "coelum non animam mutant qui trans mare currunt."--Imight go from the old world to the new; but I could not leave my oldmemories, my old thoughts behind me!
At first, the novelty of things about me distracted my attention.
I was in a strange country amongst fresh faces, all connected only withthe present, so that, I had little time to look back on the past.
Besides, I was hopeful of carving out a new career for myself; and hopeis a sworn antagonist to retrospection.
But, as I began to get used to the place and people, never-forgottenscenes and associations came back to mind, which I felt were moredifficult to banish now, three thousand miles away, than when I was onthe spot with which they had been connected.
Oh! how, bustled about amidst a crowd of unsympathising strangers, towhom our domestic life is only an ideality, I longed for the quiet andcharm and love of an English home!
I think that your wanderers and prodigals and black sheep, little thoughyou may believe it, appreciate family union and social ties much morethan your steady-going respectables who never stray without the routinecircle of upright existence; never err; are never banned as outcasts!
The former look upon "home"--what a world does the very name convey toone who has never known what it is!--much as Moore's "Peri" regardedParadise, and as the lost angels may wistfully think of the heaven fromwhich they were expelled. Perhaps they overrate its attributes,imagining, as they do, that it is a blissful state of being, for everdebarred to them; but they _do_ have such feelings--the dregs, probably,of their bitter nature!
I can speak to the point, for, I was one of this class.
_I_ was a prodigal, a black sheep, a wanderer. One on whom Fate hadwritten on his forehead at his birth, "unstable as water, thou shalt notexcel," and yet, I had the madness, (you may call it so,) to dream ofregeneration and happiness!
How many a time had I not pictured to myself the home of my longing.Nothing grand or great occurred to me--my old ambitions were dead.
I only wished for a little domain of my own, where some _one_ would lookup to me, at all events, watching for my coming, and receiving me withgladness "in sorrow or in rest." A kingdom of affection, where no angryword should be ever spoken or heard; where peace and love would reign,no matter what befell!
It was a dream:--you are right. I thought so, now, often enough, faraway from England and all that I held dear; and, unsuccessful as Ialways had been, as I always seemed doomed to be!
Happiness for me? What a very ridiculous idea! I was a lunatic. Ishould "laugh with myself," as poor Parole d'Honneur used to say!
I knew what sundry kindly-natured persons would say, in the event of myreturning to England empty-handed, were I to lead the steadiest lifepossible.--"Here is Frank Lorton back again like a bad penny!"--theywould sneer.--"Reformed from all his wild ways, eh? Really, MrsGrundy, you must not expect us to believe _that_! Can the leopardchange his spots?"--and so on; or else, kindly hint, that,--"when thedevil was sick, the devil a monk would be: when the devil got well, thedevil a monk was he."--Oh yes, I had little doubt what _their_charitable judgment would be!
Still, the thought of these people's opinions did not oppress me much;for I knew equally well that, should some freak of Fate endow me withfame and fortune, they would be the first to receive me with open arms--ignoring all my former social enormities.--Their tune would be slightlydifferent then!
It would be--"Dear me! how glad we are to see him back! You know, MrsGrundy, that you always said he would turn out well.--His littlefastnesses and Bohemian ways?--Pooh! we won't speak of those now:--onlythe hot blood of youth, you know--signs of an ardent disposition--we allhave our faults;"--and so on.
No, I was not thinking much of "society's" opinion; but, of that ofothers, whose good esteem I really valued. _They_ believed in mestill:--was I worthy of it?
I thought not.
I doubted myself. Understand, I had no fear of making any new falsestep in the eyes of the world; or of plunging anew into the dissipationsand riotous living of so-called "life," in return for which I was noweating the husks of voluntary exile: young as I was, I had alreadylearnt a bitter
lesson of the hollowness and deception of all this!
It was another dread which haunted me.
The vicar had, without in any way making light of them, condoned mymisdeeds, telling me that there was more joy in heaven over onerepentant sinner, than for ninety-and-nine just persons that had neveroffended: while, my darling--she who had the most cause to turn from me,the greatest right to condemn--had forgiven me; and bidden me to lookforward to the future, with the hopeful assurance that she was certainthat I would never give her reason again to doubt her faith in me.
But, the fatherly affection of the one, the devoted confidence of theother, merited some greater return on my part than mere "uprightness oflife,"--in the worldly sense of the expression! Surely, they did?
A man's words and actions may be above reproach, as far as society isconcerned; and yet, he may not have a particle of true religion abouthim. Both the vicar and Min, however, were earnest Christians. Theywere deeply religious, without a suspicion of cant or affectation; andthey wished me to be so, too. I had promised to pray to please them;but, had I kept my promise? No, I had failed:--my conscience told meso!
As long as things had gone smoothly with me, I believe I _did_ pray--with the faith that my petitions were heard above; but, when dark dayscame, God seemed to forsake me, and my prayers were cast back into myown bosom. I might repeat a form of words a thousand times over; still,how could I be said to pray when the spirit was wanting?--It was only ajugglery, like the repeating machine in which the Burmese believe, orthe beads of irreligious Catholics.
Min had specially pointed out a text of promise to me in the _Psalms_,where it is said, "No good thing shall He withhold from them who lead agodly life;" and, I had hoped in it; yet now, when I saw all my plansfail, this text took away my faith. Everything was withheld from me, Ithought; therefore I could not lead a godly life, no matter howstrenuously I strove to do so. I was outcast and forgotten! I had gonethrough the "vale of misery;" but I could not "use it as a well;" for mypools were empty! Instead of my Creator directing my "going in theway," He had left me to stumble forward blindly, until I had fallen intothe Slough of Despond,--the sink of unbelief!
How hard it is to find that faith which enables us to pray in theconfident belief of our supplications being attended to! I rememberonce reading a passage in a sermon preached by the Archdeacon of SaintAlbans in Westminster Abbey some thirteen years ago, which was nowbrought to my mind. It was one of a series specially designed "for theworking classes," and entitled _The Prayer of Human Kind_. The passageran as follows:--
"Why do some penitents--penitents really at heart--still groan, and try, by self-infliction and by keeping open their wounds, to appease God, and find no comfort to their souls? Is it not that they have not really taken to their hearts that God _is_ their Father in Christ; and that, `even as a father pitieth his own children, so is the Lord merciful to them that fear him?' Had they, by faith, taken this blessed truth to their souls, they might and would, not in hopelessness and dread, but in trust and penitential love, make their wants known as a child to its parent; they would arise, and in humble compunctions, and not desponding trust, say, `Father, I have sinned.' They would carry each trouble to him, and say, `Lord, thou knowest me to be set in this strait, or under that temptation; Lord, deliver me.' `Thou seest the longing desire of my heart; Lord, grant it.' `Thou knowest my weakness; Lord, strengthen me.' They would carry and lay their separate cares before Him, and cast them on Him, knowing that He careth for them. They would ask, knowing that they will receive; knowing that an answer that withholds what is asked for is as real, and frequently a more merciful answer, than one that grants it."
Ah! That was the faith I could not fathom:--that was why my prayersgave me no comfort, I suppose. And yet, it is said that God, whom richmen find so difficult of approach, manifests Himself to us more inadversity than in prosperity. I could not believe in this myself; for,when I was successful, I really seemed to have faith, and could prayfrom my heart; while, now, despondent, it appeared hypocrisy on my partto pretend to bend my knees to the Almighty; I felt so despairinglyfaithless!
La Mennais says, in his _Paroles d'un Croyant_, that--
"Il y a toujours des vents brulants, qui passent sur l'ame de l'homme, et la dessechant. La priere est la rosee qui la rafraichit."
And, again,--
"Dieu sait mieux que vous ce dont vous avez besoin, et c'est pour cela qu'il veut que vous le lui demandiez; car Dieu est lui-meme votre premier besoin, et prier Dieu, c'est commencer a posseder Dieu."
The sirocco of sorrow had fanned its hot breath over my soul; but, nograteful spring shower had cooled it through prayer. God, certainly,knows better than we what we should desire; but why does He not instructus in His wishes?
Perhaps you think this all milk-and-watery talk, and that I do not meanwhat I say?
But I do. Even those people whom you might think the most unlikelypersons to have such thoughts, will have these reflections, so why notspeak of them?
Some, I know, believe that all religious conversation should be strictlytabooed in any reference to secular matters. But it seems to me a verydelicate faith that will only stand an airing once a week, like yourchurch services on Sundays! _I_ have thought of such things, and I'mnot ashamed to mention them.
Acting on my mind at the same time--in concert with these religiousdoubts, and the consciousness of my unlucky fortunes--was a strongfeeling of home-sickness, which grew and grew with greater intensity asthe months rolled by.
I got so miserable, that, I felt with Shelley--
"I could lie down, like a tired child, And weep away the life of care Which I have borne and yet must bear!"
For what profit did this warring against destiny bring me? Nothing--nothing, but the "vanity and vexation of spirit," which a more believingsoul than mine had apostrophised in agony, ages before I was born.
You may not credit the fact of the Swiss mountaineers pining of what iscalled "Home-woe," when banished from their beloved glaciers, the sameas Cyrus's legions suffered from _nostalgia_; and, may put down theFrenchman's _maladie du pays_, which some expatriated communists areprobably experiencing now in New Caledonia, to blatant sentimentality;but they are each and all true expositions of feeling.
We Englishmen are generally prosaic; but some of us have known theterrible yearning which this home-sickness produces in us in foreignlands. The Devonshire shepherd will weep over the recollections which alittle daisy will bring back to him of the old country of his childhood,when standing beneath an Australian gum tree. I have seen a Scotchmanin America cherish a thistle, as if it were the rarest of plants, fromits native associations; and I know of a potted shamrock which wasbrought all the way across the ocean in an emigrant ship, by an Irishminer, and which now adorns the window of a veranda-fronted cottage atthe Pittsburgh mines in Pennsylvania!
Some of us _are_ "sentimental," you see. I can answer for myself, atleast; and I know that the air of "Home, sweet Home," has affected mequite as much as the "Ranz des Vaches" would appeal to the sensibilitiesof an Alpine Jodeller!
I got home-sick now. The passion took complete possession of me.
The burning, suffocating heat of the summer "in the States," caused meto pant after the cool shade of the old Prebend's walk at Saint Canon's;and call to mind those inviting lawns and osiered eyots along theThames, where I used to spend the warm evenings at home. I thought asIzaak Walton, the vicar's favourite, had thought before me--that I wouldcheerfully sacrifice all hopes of worldly advancement, all dreams offortune, all future success, problematical though each and allappeared--
So, I the fields and meadows green may view; And daily by fresh rivers walk at will, Among the daisies and violets blue, Red hyacinth and yellow daffodil; Purple narcissus, like the morning's rays, Pale gander grass and azure culver keys.
In the gorgeous Indian summer, when the nature of the New World seems toawake, dressing all the tree
s in fantastic foliage of varied hue, myfancies were recalled to a well-remembered Virginian creeper thatornamented the houses of the Terrace, where my darling lived; for itsleafy colouring in the autumn was similar to that I now beheld--in thechrome-tinted maples, the silvery-toned beeches and scarlet "sumachs" ofthe western forests.
And in the frozen winter, of almost Arctic severity and continuance,home was brought even nearer to me--in connection with all the cherishedmemories of that kindly-tempered season. I thought of the old firesideswhere I had been a welcome guest in times past; the old Christmasfestivities, the old Christmas cheer, the--bah! What good will it do toyou and I thus to trace over the aching foot-prints of recollection?
I used to go down to the mouth of the Hudson river, that I might watchthe red-funnelled Cunard steamers start on their passage to England--sending my heart after them in impotent cravings: I used, I remember, tomark off the days as they passed, in the little almanack of my pocket-book--scoring them out, just as Robinson Crusoe was in the habit ofnotching his post for the same purpose:--I used to fret and fret, infact, eating my soul away in vain repinings and foolish longings!
And, still, my fortunes did not brighten--notwithstanding that I huntedin every direction for work, and tried to wean my mind from painfulassociations by hopeful anticipations of "something turning up" on themorrow. The morrow came, sure enough; but no good luck:--my fortunesgot darker and darker, as time went on; while my home yearnings grewstronger.
I would have borne my troubles much better, I'm certain, if I could onlyhave heard from my darling.
There was no hope of that, however, as you know. Even if Min would haveconsented to such a thing, which I knew she would not have done, Ishould never have dreamt of asking her to write to me in opposition toher mother's wishes. It is true that I had dear little MissPimpernell's letters; but what could _they_ be in comparison withletters from Min?--although, of course, the kind old lady would tell meall about her, and how she looked, and what she said, in order toencourage me?
It was a hard fight, a bitter struggle--that first year I passed inAmerica; and, my memory will bear the scars of the combat, I believe,until my dying day.
Still, time brought relief; and, opportunity, success--so the worldwags.
She and I, Volume 2 Page 10
