The story of a bad boy

Contents

Note to the Visitors’ Edition

I. In which I introduce Myself

II. In WHICH I ENTERTAIN PECULIAR VIEWS

Introduction To The Visitor’s Edition

BY CHARLES S. OLCOTT

If Thomas Bailey Aldrich were living to-day and could enter the front door of his grandfather’s house in Court Street, Portsmouth, New Hampshire, he would be likely to have a strange feeling of suddenly renewed youth; for his eyes would rest upon the same rooms and many of the same furnishings as those which greeted him in 1849, when he returned to the old house, a lad of twelve, to enter upon those happy boyish experiences so pleasantly related in “The Story of a Bad Boy.” And then, as he passed from room to room and gazed once more upon the old familiar sights, he would experience a deeper and richer joy — a sense of pride, mingled with love and gratitude, for this unique and splendid tribute to his memory, from his faithful wife and many loyal friends.

In the summer of 1907, .following the death of Mr. Aldrich, which occurred in the spring of that year, it was suggested in a local newspaper of Portsmouth, New Hampshire, that the old Bailey house, where “Tom Bailey” lived with his “Grandfather

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Nutter,” should be purchased by the town and refurnished as a permanent memorial to its distinguished son. The response was instant and hearty. The Thomas Bailey Aldrich Memorial Association was at once formed, and a fund of ten thousand dollars was raised by popular subscriptions, in sums varying from one dollar to one thousand dollars. The house, which had fallen into alien hands and had not been kept in good repair, was purchased and restored to its original condition, and the heirs gladly gave back all that had been taken away at the death of Grandfather Bailey. On June 30, 1908, the restored house was formally dedicated by a distinguished representation of Aldrich’s friends, including Richard Watson Gilder, William Dean Howells, Hamilton Wright Mabie, Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Thomas Nelson Page, Samuel L. Clemens, and many others whose names are well known.

The “Nutter” house, or the “Aldrich Memorial” as it is officially known, impresses one with a sense of perfect satisfaction. I have seen memorials that are barn-like in their emptiness, so difficult has it been to secure a sufficient number of relics to furnish the rooms; others impress me like shops for the sale of souvenirs; others have the cold, touch-menot aspect of a museum; and some are overloaded with busts, pictures, and inscriptions intended to convey an impression of the greatness of the former xi occupant. The Nutter house, on the contrary, looks as though Tom and his grandfather had gone off to the village an hour before, and Aunt Abigail and Kitty Collins, after “tidying” the rooms to perfection, had slipped away to gossip with the neighbors. The visitor has a feeling that real people are living there and is surprised to learn that at a certain hour each day the attendants go away and lock it up for the night.

Mrs. Aldrich told us that when her husband took her there for the first time, as his bride, the old house made such a strong impression upon her mind that when she came to restore the place, many years afterward, she remembered distinctly where every piece of furniture used to stand. The perfection of her work is seen in the hundreds of little touches — the shawl thrown carelessly over the back of a chair, the fan lying on the sofa, the books on the centre table, the music on the old-fashioned square piano, grandfather’s Bible and spectacles on his bedroom table, the embroidered coverlet in the “blue-chintz room,” the netting over Aunt Abigail’s bed, the clothing in the closets, and even the nightclothes carefully laid out on each corpulent feather bed. I fancy the most loving touches of all were given to the little hall bedroom where Tom Bailey slept. There is the little window out of which Tom swung himself, with the aid of Kitty Collins’s clothes-line, at the awful hour of eleven o’clock, and xii

tumbled into a big rosebush, on the night before “the Fourth.” The “pretty chintz curtain” may not be the one Tom knew, but it is very like it; and there is a very good imitation of the original wall-paper, on which Tom counted two hundred and sixty-eight birds, each individual one of which he admired, although no such bird ever existed. He knew the exact number because he once counted them when laid up with a black eye and dreamed that the whole flock flew out of the window. The little bed has “a patch quilt of more colors than were in Joseph’s coat,” and across it lies a clean white waistcoat waiting for Tom to put it on, as though to-morrow would be Sunday. Above the head of the bed are the two oak shelves, holding the very books that Tom loved. In front of the window is the “high-backed chair studded with brass nails like a coffin,” and on the right “a chest of carved mahogany drawers” and “a looking-glass in a filigreed frame.” A little swallow-tailed coat, once worn by Tom, hangs over the back of a chair, ready to be worn again. Surely Tom Bailey is expected home to-night!

Even the garret is ready in case to-morrow should be stormy. “Here meet together, as if by some preconcerted arrangement, all the broken-down chairs of the household, all the spavined tables, all the seedy hats, all the intoxicated-looking boots, all the split walking-sticks that have retired from business, xiii

weary with the march of life.” One slight liberty has been taken, in placing “The Rivermouth Theatre” in one comer of the attic, next to Kitty Collins’s room, but this may be forgiven in view of the fact that the bam, where the “Theatre” really was, has disappeared.

In our anxiety to see Tom’s room and the attic, we have rushed upstairs somewhat too rapidly. Let us now go down and inspect the other rooms with more leisure.

In the front of the house, on the second floor, and at the left of the tiny bedroom which Tom occupied, is Grandfather Nutter’s room. It was too near for Tom’s convenience, and that is why the young gentleman lowered himself from the window by a rope — at least, that was the reason he doubtless argued to himself in favor of the more romantic mode of exit, although as a matter of fact grandfather was a sound sleeper and Tom might have walked boldly downstairs without awakening him. Still he would have had to pass the door of Aunt Abigail’s room at the head of the stairs, and if the old lady had suddenly appeared, Tom could scarcely have escaped a dose of “hot drops,” which his aunt considered a certain cure for any known ailment, from a black eye to a broken arm. Aunt Abigail, it will be remembered, was the maiden sister of Captain Nutter, who “swooped down on him,” at the funeral of the captain’s wife, “with a bandbox in one hand

XIV and a faded blue cotton umbrella in the other.” Though apparently intending to stay only a few days, she decided that her presence was indispensable to the captain, and whether he wished it or not she kept on staying for seventeen years, and might have stayed longer had not death released her from the self-imposed duty.

On the right of Tom’s room is “the blue-chintz room, into which a ray of sun was never allowed to penetrate.” But it was “thrown open and dusted, and its mouldy air made sweet with a bouquet of pot-roses” on the occasion of Nelly Glentworth’s visit, and a very delightful room Nelly must have found it, if it looked as well then as it does now, under the skillful direction of Mrs. Aldrich.

Across the hall from Aunt Abigail’s room is the guest chamber. An old-fashioned rocking-chair by the window, with a Bible and candle conveniently placed on a stand close by, give the visitor every opportunity to get himself into a proper frame of mind before taking a plunge into the depths of the snow-white mountain of feathers, hospitably piled up to an enormous height for his comfort.

Descending now to the main floor (for we are inspecting this house exactly contrary to the usual order), we step into the large corner room at our left. Here visions arise of Tom sitting disconsolately on the haircloth sofa, in the evening, driven to distraction by the monotonous click-click of xv

Aunt Abigail’s knitting-needles, but sometimes happily diverted by the spectacle of grandfather going to sleep over his newspaper and setting fire to it with the small block-tin lamp which he held in his hand.

Across the hall is the parlor, which was seldom open except on Sundays, and was “ pervaded by a strong smell of centre table.” Here again we fancy Tom sitting in one corner, “crushed.” All his favorite books are banished to the sitting-room closet until Monday morning. There is nothing to do and nothing to read except Baxter’s “Saint’s Rest.” “Genial converse, harmless books, smiles, lightsome hearts, all are banished.” It was no fault of the room, however, that Tom felt doleful, for there is a fine, wide, open fireplace with big brass andirons from which a wonderful amount of cheer might have been extracted, while a piano in one corner and some shelves of books in another were capable of providing boundless entertainment, had the room been accessible on any other day than Sunday.

Passing down through the hall we enter a door on the left, into the dining-room. Do you remember how Captain Nutter tormented poor Tom at the breakfast table, on the morning of the Fourth of July, by reading from the Rivermouth “Barnacle” an account of the burning of the stage-coach the night before? “Miscreants unknown,” read the grandfather, while Tom’s hair stood on end. “Five dollars reward offered for the apprehension of the

XVI perpetrators. Sho! I hope Wingate will catch them,” continued the old gentleman, while Tom nearly ceased to breathe. And the sly old fox knew all about it and had already settled Tom’s share of the damages!

We now cross the hall into the kitchen, which we ought to have visited first, as everybody else does. A more delightful New England kitchen could scarcely be imagined. This was the only place where Sailor Ben felt at home — and no wonder, for how could any room have a more inviting fireplace? Here Tom sought refuge when oppressed by the atmosphere of the sitting-room and found relief in Kitty Collins’s funny Irish stories. And here Sailor Ben gathered the whole family around the table while he spun his yarn “ all about a man as has made a fool of hisself.”

This is the delightful fact about the Nutter house of to-day — every room brings back memories of Tom Bailey, Grandfather Nutter, Aunt Abigail, Kitty Collins, and Sailor Ben. The furnishings are so perfect that we should not have been surprised if any one of these old friends had suddenly confronted us. Our minds were concentrated upon their personalities and upon “The Story of a Bad Boy.” The illusion is so complete that we scarcely gave a thought to the author of the tale un-til we entered the Memorial building at the rear. Suddenly Tom Bailey vanished and with him all the

XVII other ghosts of the old house. We stood in the presence of Thomas Bailey Aldrich, the poet, the writer of a multitude of delightful tales, and the man of genial personality. Here, in a single large room, are brought together the priceless autographs, manuscripts, first editions, and pictures which Aldrich had found pleasure in collecting. Here is the little table on which he wrote “The Story of a Bad Boy,” and there are cases containing countless presents, trophies, and expressions of regard from his friends. The walls are hung with manuscripts framed in connection with portraits of their distinguished writers, as Aldrich loved to have them. At the end of the room is a handsome oil painting of Aldrich himself. Everything tends to suggest the exquisite taste of the man, his genial nature, his varied attainments, and the extent of his wide circle of distinguished friends. Above all, the room speaks in eloquent terms of the affectionate loyalty to his memory that has led his family to bring together the material for a memorial unsurpassed in variety of interest and tasteful arrangement of details.

Even the garden in the rear of the house is made to sing its song in memory of Aldrich, for here are growing all the flowers mentioned in his poetry, blending their perfumes and uniting harmoniously their richness of color in one graceful tribute to the beauty and delicacy of his verse.

Chapter I In Which I Introduce Myself

This is the Story of a Bad Boy. Well, not such a very bad, but a pretty bad boy ; and I ought to know, for I am, or rather I was, that boy myself.

Lest the title should mislead the reader, I hasten to assure him here that I have no dark confessions to make. I call my story the story of a bad boy, partly to distinguish myself from those faultless young gentlemen who generally figure in narratives of this kind, and partly because I really was not a cherub. I may truthfully say I was an amiable, impulsive lad, blessed with fine digestive powers, and no hypocrite. I did not want to be an angel and with the angels stand ; I did not think the missionary tracts presented to me by the Rev. Wibird Hawkins were half so nice as Robinson Crusoe ; and I failed to send my little pocket-money to the natives of the Feejee Islands, but spent it royally in peppermint-drops and taffy candy. In short, I was a real human boy, such as you may meet anywhere in New England, and no more like the impossible boy in a story-book than a sound orange is like one that has been sucked dry. But let us begin at the beginning.

Whenever a new scholar came to our school, I used to confront him at recess with the following words : “ My name ’s Tom Bailey ; what ’s your name ? ” If the name struck me favorably, I shook hands with the new pupil cordially ; but if it did not, I would turn on my heel, for I was particular on this point. Such names as Higgins, Wiggins, and Spriggins were deadly affronts to my ear ; while Langdon, Wallace, Blake, and the like, were passwords to my confidence and esteem.

Ah me ! some of those, dear fellows are rather elderly boys by this time — lawyers, merchants, sea-captains, soldiers, authors, what not ? Phil Adams (a special good name that Adams) is consul at Shanghai, where I picture him to myself with his head closely shaved — he never had too much hair — and a long pigtail hanging down behind. He is married, I hear ; and I hope he and she that was Miss Wang Wang are very happy together, sitting

^ross-legged over their diminutive cups of tea m a sky-blue tower hung with bells. It is so I think of him ; to me he is henceforth a jewelled mandarin, talking nothing but broken China. Whitcomb is a judge, sedate and wise, with spectacles balanced on the bridge of that remarkable nose which, in former days, was so plentifully sprinkled with freckles that the boys christened him Pepper Whitcomb. Just to think of little Pepper Whitcomb being a judge ! What would he do to me now, I wonder, if I were to sing out “ Pepper ! ” some day in court ? Fred Langdon is in California, in the native-wine business — he used to make the best licorice-water / ever tasted ! Binny Wallace sleeps in the Old South Burying- Ground ; and Jack Harris, too, is dead — Harris, who commanded us boys, of old, in the famous snowball battles of Slatter’s Hill. Was it yesterday I saw him at the head of his regiment on its way to join the shattered Army of the Potomac? Not yesterday, but six years ago. It was at the battle of the Seven Pines. Gallant Jack Harris, that never drew rein until he had dashed into the Rebel battery ! Se they found him — lying across the enemy’s guns.

How we have parted, and wandered, and married, and died ! I wonder what has b$- come of all the boys who went to the Temple Grammar School at Rivermouth when I was a youngster ?

“All, all are gone, the old familiar faces ! ”

It is with no ungentle hand I summon them back, for a moment, from that Past which has closed upon them and upon me. How pleasantly they live again in my memory ! Happy, magical Past, in whose fairy atmosphere even Conway, my ancient foe, stands forth transfigured,, with a sort of dreamy glory encircling his bright red hair !

With the old school formula I begin these sketches of my boyhood. My name is Tom Bailey ; what is yours, gentle reader ? I take for granted that it is neither Wiggins nor Spriggins, and that we shall get on famously together, and be capital friends forever.

Chapter II In Which I Entertain Peculiar Views

I was born at Rivermouth, but, before I had a chance to become very well acquainted with that pretty New England town, my parents removed to New Orleans, where my father invested his money so securely in the banking business that he was never able to get more than half of it out again. But of this hereafter.

I was only eighteen months old at the time of the removal, and it did not make much difference to me where I was, because I was so small ; but several years later, when my father proposed to take me North to be educated, I had my own peculiar views on the subject. I instantly kicked over the little negro boy who happened to be standing by me at the moment, and, stamping my foot violently on the floor of the piazza, declared that I would not be taken away to live among a lot of Yankees !

You see I was what is called “a Northern man with Southern principles.” I had no recollection of New England : my earliest memories were connected with the South, with Aunt Chloe, my old negro nurse, and with the great ill-kept garden in the centre of which stood our house — a white-washed brick house it was, with wide verandas — shut out from the street by lines of orange, fig, and magnolia trees. I knew I was born at the North, but hoped nobody would find it out. I looked upon the misfortune as something so shrouded by time and distance that may be nobody remembered it. I never told my schoolmates I was a Yankee, because they talked about the Yankees in such a scornful way as to make me feel that it was quite a disgrace not to be born in Louisiana, or at least in one of the Border States. And this impression was strengthened by Aunt Chloe, who said, “ Dar ain’t no gentl’- men in the Norf noway,” and on one occasion terrified me beyond measure by declaring, “ If any of dem mean whites tries to git me away from marster, I ’s jes’ gwine to knock ’em on de head wid a gourd ! ”

The way this poor creature’s eyes flashed and the tragic air with which she struck at an imaginary “ mean white ” are amcng the most vivid things in my memory of those days.

To be frank, my idea of the North was about as accurate as that entertained by the welleducated Englishmen of the present day concerning America. I supposed the inhabitants were divided into two classes — Indians and white people ; that the Indians occasionally dashed down on New York, and scalped any woman or child (giving the preference to children) whom they caught lingering in the outskirts after nightfall ; that the white men were either hunters or schoolmasters, and that it was winter pretty much all the year round. The prevailing style of architecture I took to be log-cabins.

With this delightful picture of Northern civilization in my eye, the reader will easily understand my terror at the bare thought of being transported to Rivermouth to school, and possibly will forgive me for kicking over little black Sam, and otherwise misconducting myself, when my father announced his determination to me. As for kicking little Sam — I always did that, more or less gently, when anything went wrong with me.

My father was greatly perplexed and troubled by this unusually violent outbreak, and especially by the real consternation which he saw written in every line of my countenance. As little black Sam picked himself up, my father took my hand in his and led me thoughtfully to the library.

IO THE STORY OF A BAD BOY

I can see him now as he leaned back in the bamboo chair and questioned me. He appeared strangely agitated on learning the nature of my objections to going North, and proceeded at once to knock down all my pine-log houses, and scatter all the Indian tribes with which I had populated the greater portion of the Eastern and Middle States.

“ Who on earth, Tom, has filled your brain with such silly stories ? ” asked my father, wiping the tears from his eyes.

“ Aunt Chloe, sir ; she told me.”

“And you really thought your grandfather wore a blanket embroidered with beads, and ornamented his leggings with the scalps of his enemies ? ”

“ Well, sir, I did n’t think that exactly.”

“Didn’t think that exactly? Tom, you will be the death of me.”

He hid his face in his handkerchief, and, when he looked up, he seemed to have been suffering acutely. I was deeply moved myself, though I did not clearly understand what I had said or done to cause him to feel so badly. Perhaps I had hurt his feelings by thinking it even possible that Grandfather Nutter was an Indian warrior.

My father devoted that evening and several subsequent evenings to giving me a clear and

THE STORY OF A BAD BOY n

succinct account of New England ; its early struggles, its progress, and its present condition — faint and confused glimmerings of all which I had obtained at school, where history had never been a favorite pursuit of mine.

I was no longer unwilling to go North ; on the contrary, the proposed journey to a new world full of wonders kept me awake nights. I promised myself all sorts of fun and adventures, though I was not entirely at rest in my mind touching the savages, and secretly resolved to go on board the ship — the journey was to be made by sea — with a certain little brass pistol in my trousers-pocket, in case of any difficulty with the tribes when we landed at Boston.

I could not get the Indian out of my head. Only a short time previously the Cherokees — or was it the Camanches ? — had been removed from their hunting-grounds in Arkansas ; and in the wilds of the Southwest the red men were still a source of terror to the Border settlers. “ Trouble with the Indians” was the staple news from Florida published in the New Orleans papers. We were constantly hearing of travellers being attacked and murdered in the interior of that State. If these things were done in Florida, why not in Massachusetts ?

Yet long before the sailing day arrived I was eager to be off. My impatience was increased by the fact that my father had purchased for me a fine little mustang pony, and shipped it to Rivermouth a fortnight previous to the date set for our own departure — for both my parents were to accompany me. The pony (which nearly kicked me out of bed one night in a dream), and my father’s promise that he and my mother would come to Rivermouth every other summer, completely resigned me to the situation. The pony’s name was Gitana , which is the Spanish for gypsy ; so I always called her — she was a lady pony — Gypsy.

At last the time came to leave the vine-covered mansion among the orange-trees, to say good-by to little black Sam (I am convinced he was heartily glad to get rid of me), and to part with simple Aunt Chloe, who, in the confusion of her grief, kissed an eyelash into my eye, and then buried her face in the bright bandanna turban which she had mounted that morning in honor of our departure.

I fancy them standing by the open garden gate ; the tears are rolling down Aunt Chloe’s cheeks ; Sam’s six front teeth are glistening like pearls ; I wave my hand to him manfully, then I call out “ good-by ” in a muffled voice to Aunt Chloe ; they and the old home fade away. I am never to see them again !

Chapter III On Board The Typhoon

I do not remember much about the voyage to Boston, for after the first few hours at sea I was dreadfully unwell.

The name of our ship was the “A No. i, fast-sailing packet Typhoon.” I learned afterwards that she sailed fast only in the newspaper advertisements. My father owned one quarter of the Typhoon, and that is why we happened to go in her. I tried to guess which quarter of the ship he owned, and finally concluded it must be the hind quarter — the cabin, in which we had the cosiest of staterooms, with one round window in the roof, and two shelves or boxes nailed up against the wall to sleep in.

There was a good deal of confusion on deck while we were getting under way. The captain shouted orders (to which nobody seemed to pay any attention) through a battered tin trumpet, and grew so red in the face that he reminded me of a scooped-out pumpkin with a lighted candle inside. He swore right and left at the sailors without the slightest regard for their feelings. They did n’t mind it a bit, however, but went on singing —

“ Heave ho !

With the rum below,

And hurrah for the Spanish Main O ! ”

I will not be positive about “ the Spanish Main,” but it was hurrah for something O. I considered them very jolly fellows, and so indeed they were. One weather-beaten tar in particular struck my fancy — a thick-set, jovial man, about fifty years of age, with twinkling blue eyes and a fringe of gray hair circling his head like a crown. As he took off his tarpaulin I observed that the top of his head was quite smooth and flat, as if somebody had sat down on him when he was very young.

There was something noticeably hearty in this man’s bronzed face, a heartiness that seemed to extend to his loosely knotted neckerchief. But what completely won my good will was a picture of enviable loveliness painted on his left arm. It was the head of a woman with the body of a fish. Her flowing hair was of vivid green, and she held a pink comb in one hand. I never saw anything so beautiful. I determined to know that man. I think I would have given my brass pistol to have had such a picture painted on my arm.

While I stood admiring this work of art, a fat, wheezy steam-tug, with the word AJAX in staring black letters on the paddle-box, came puffing up alongside the Typhoon. She was ridiculously small and conceited, compared with our stately ship. I speculated as to what she was going to do. In a few minutes we were lashed to the little monster, which gave a snort and a shriek, and began backing us out from the levee (wharf) with the greatest ease.

I once saw an ant running away with a piece of -cheese eight or ten times larger than itself. I could not help thinking of it, when I found the chubby, smoky-nosed tug-boat towing the Typhoon out into the Mississippi River.

In the middle of the stream we swung round, the current caught us, and away we flew like a great winged bird. Only it did not seem as if we were moving. The shore, with the countless steamboats, the tangled rigging of the ships, and the long lines of warehouses, appeared to be gliding away from us.

It was grand sport to stand on the quarter-deck and watch all this. Before long there was nothing to be seen on either side but stretches of low, swampy land, covered with stunted cypress-trees, from which drooped delicate streamers of Spanish moss — a fine place for alligators and Congo snakes. Here and x6 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY

there we passed a yellow sand-bar, and here and there a snag lifted its nose out of the water like a shark.

“This is your last chance to see the city, Tom,” said my father, as we swept round a bend of the river.

I turned and looked. New Orleans was just a colorless mass of something in the distance, and the dome of the St. Charles Hotel, upon which the sun shimmered for a moment, was no bigger than the top of old Aunt Chloe’s thimble.

What do I remember next ? the gray sky and the fretful blue waters of the Gulf. The steam-tug had long since let slip her hawsers and gone panting away with a derisive scream, as much as to say, “ I ’ve done my duty, now look out for yourself, old Typhoon ! ”