The autobiography of an individualist

Front matter

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY

OF AM INDIVIDUALIST

BY JAMES O. FAGAN

Contents

I. Beginnings in Scotland 1

II. Life Problems in South America ... 32

III. Travel and Adventures in Africa . . 63

II

If my recollection of my adventures is even partially reliable, it is impossible to imagine a more lawless and harum-scarum beginning to the career of any mortal. But, doubtless, during this early period there were already two sides to the problem of my bringing-up, although at this distance I find it difficult to reconcile the two parallel and contemporaneous lines. Nevertheless, I am well aware, from what I was able to learn afterwards, that even at the time that I was seemingly running wild in the earliest mad-cap stage, I was really being drilled and whipped into civilized form by other and sterner forces, and in due time the fruits of this training were abundantly in evidence.

But, even at its best, the domestic situation in which I was placed is little understood by Americans of the present generation. A certain aloofness between parents and children in most well-regulated families in those days was considered necessary for purposes of decorum and discipline. In this way servants and relatives to a great extent had charge of our family, although my father kept careful watch of the proceedings. There were morning and evening prayers, grace was said before and after each meal, although our parents never sat at the same table with the small boys, and there was the strictest observance of the Sabbath.

Whatever may have been his desires on the subject, my father certainly found it impossible to attend to us all personally while we were in the barefoot, runabout stage, but he made up for it when we grew old enough to appreciate his administration. It is in this light, and during this later period, that I chiefly remember him.

Thus, as briefly as possible, I have tried to draw upon my memory for a picture of a youth in the Highlands of Scotland in what to me are the olden times, struggling, unconsciously of course, with his environment and heredity. True, the process was under cover, but the two lines of effort and advance, even then, were clearly defined. The one was overflowing, disorganized, boisterous, and natural. The other was artificial, organized, and moral. On the one hand, there was heredity, the aboriginal activity and yearning of a hunting and fighting disposition, craving for expression; and, on the other hand, there was the environment of a determined and methodical plan on the part of a schoolmaster, a minister, and home influences, to turn these half -savage propensities into civilized channels.

Personality, it must be remembered, as a conscious factor, was still in the embryo state, biding its time. Then, of a sudden, just at this stage of development, the forces engaged met in a sort of catastrophe and, in a single day, I became a conscious and soulful personality.

It happened in this way, in my eleventh year. Between brothers in our family there was no such thing as constant comradeship. Occasionally we would play together in pairs or otherwise, but unless we happened to join forces in some common cause, we were usually in a state of chronic rivalry. Plots and counterplots were always under way. Encounters of every description, for the most part manly and short-lived affairs, were the order of the day. But we all seemed to have chums in the village in whose company most of the play-time was spent.

My particular companion was a little lad about my own age, the son of the village miller, whose mill was a short distance outside the village on the edge of a noted rabbit-warren called "The Dens." Alec was even a more inveterate poacher than I, and nearly as good a crag-climber. The alliance between us was offensive and defensive in every particular. We were inseparable. Whenever I went astray, and was wanted for anything, I was always to be found in the vicinity of this mill.

In front of the building and, if I am not mistaken, rising sheer from the roadway in front of it, the crags spread out to right and left. The bald surface of these perpendicular sheets of clay was divided at intervals by crevices or ravines running vertically from top to bottom. Here and there on the face of these parapets there were a number of ledges, perhaps twenty or thirty feet long, running horizontally across the surface. In nearly all of these ledges there were deep holes, burrowed by the rabbits. They were the breeding-places of the rabbits and of numerous jackdaws, the natural prey of the village boys. One ledge or shelf in particular was the despair of every boy in the village. It was simply inaccessible. It seemed as if every rabbit we chased out of the " Dens," understanding this fact and mocking us, invariably ran across the face of the cliff and took refuge on that shelf.

One day Alec and I determined to scale that crag or break our necks in the attempt. We must have deliberately and carefully planned the expedition in advance. We started from the mill one morning just before dawn. We provided ourselves with knives and a stout rope. Without much difficulty we scrambled up one of the ravines that divided the cliff into sections. When the sun rose we were probably two hundred feet from the base of the cliff, and horizontally on a level with the coveted ledge. To reach it, however, it was necessary to cut a firm pathway, inch by inch, with our knives, for a distance of fifty feet across an almost perpendicular parapet. As a guide to our work there was already a faint trackway made by the rabbits. Along this line, footstep after footstep, we dug our perilous way, until about half the distance was covered in safety. I was three or four yards ahead of my companion. Then, suddenly, like a flash, Alec's foothold gave way and down he went. In falling he shouted my name.

There is no necessity to draw on my imagination to picture my predicament or to describe my state of mind. I am there again this minute. For a second or two I was rigid with a sort of terror. To turn back was impossible, and I could not look down. I simply drove my knife up to the hilt in the crag and held on. Then, after an unnoticed interval, the sound of shouts from below came up to me. They seemed to wake me out of my trance.

Meanwhile, in some unaccountable way, determination had taken the place of fear. I have always looked back upon these moments as the time when my personality first emerged into real consciousness. I whispered to myself one word — "Courage." Then I went on with my work, cutting out the path to the ledge. It was a mechanical process — I did n't seem to know or realize what I was doing. I reached the goal and returned by the way I had come.

At the foot of the hill a crowd was awaiting me. I did n't ask any questions. I knew from the silence that Alec was dead. Half the village accompanied me to my home. My father was away. I was locked in the cellar for safe-keeping. Toward evening, to my surprise, I was liberated and given a good meal. For several days I was in disgrace, or thought I was. Then the village authorities came and asked me some questions.

Finally my father returned. I was surprised that he seemed to avoid me. I knew something was brewing. Then one morning I was told to get ready to go to Inverness with him. Generally speaking, the trip was looked upon by any of us as a treat. On this occasion, however, I did n't flatter myself in this way. Then came another surprise. The trip was postponed on account of the weather, and I was told to present myself at once in the library.

I had no sooner entered the room than my father sent me to a storeroom for a trunk full of letters and documents. I at once noticed a change in his manner and method of addressing me. There was a sort of companionship indicated in his words and actions to which I was totally unaccustomed. I wondered what was going to happen. He said he was sorry about the accident, and especially for Alec. He was walking up and down the room. I looked up and saw that his lips were quivering with emotion. That was enough for me. I did n't utter a sound, but I gripped myself all over, while the tears poured from my eyes in streams. However, there was no use trying to put old heads on young shoulders, he continued, and besides, after all, perhaps I was only a chip of the old block. In fact, a little stronger than some of the other chips, he hoped. There had always been too much abortive effort in the family. I, at least, had done what I set out to do.

Of all things he hated abortive effort. I could hardly believe my senses. As I listened, every minute he was speaking added a year to my life.

My father knew I was collecting postage stamps and " crests." He went on to tell me that he was going to burn up a lot of family records and letters. He wished me to read a little about the family history they contained, and, incidentally, I could help myself to the stamps. He gave me a hint or two in regard to his reasons for destroying these letters. There were financial troubles on the horizon. Some kind of family quarrel and possibly a lawsuit. We could read the letters together, and he would determine as we went along which to preserve and which to throw into the open fireplace before which we were seated.

The letters contained family history of a varied description, chiefly from India. The health of this one, the promotion of another in the Service, the expedition of another on a diplomatic mission to the Afghans, the sickness and death of a brother at Aden, returning home on sick-leave — such were some of the topics.

I was so keyed up at the time that scarcely an incident in these letters has escaped my memory. Especially impressive to me in many of the letters were the stories of financial disaster, and the pitiful forebodings of kinsmen who had lost their all in the wreck of the Agra bank.

Thus the day passed away and, with intervals for meals, my letter-burning occupation was continued until late into the evening. But there was another incident connected with the occasion that made quite an impression upon me at the time. When the servant brought in the lights, my father ordered some "toddy." He compelled me to drink a small quantity. He thought it might assist me in going to sleep, but he made it the occasion to tell me something about whiskey. Although, generally speaking, it was something to be avoided, on the other hand, it was nothing to be afraid of. He mentioned one or two unsatisfactory illustrations in the history of the family as a warning against its abuse. He thought it well for me to understand something about it at an early age. " If you take a dislike to it," he said, "you will do well. At any rate, govern yourself thoughtfully in the matter." Then I went to bed in a tumult of mental bewilderment.

Psychologically speaking this is the end of the personally unconscious period. The next stage relates to school-life, to intellectual development, and especially to religious foundations.

in

There is a tide in the affairs of boys, as well as in those of men, that, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. This is usually the period when the boy, awakening to a consciousness of his own personality, determines, it matters not how feebly at first, to think and act for himself.

In my own case, self-assertion, on a small scale, of course, began almost immediately after the death of my companion Alec. I can only attribute my somewhat premature development in this respect to the mental shock which I received upon that occasion, and there was one feature about this sudden development which seems to me to be worth mentioning. This was the abnormal sensitiveness that ensued. Mental impressions of all kinds were very acute, and at times almost painful. I remember how careful I was not to offend any one, or to hurt the feelings of any one in any way. This led to a natural desire on my part to do my best in order to secure the good opinion of people.

But this feature was only incidental; my real purpose was to be better and stronger than my companions in whatever sphere I might happen to meet them. After all, this was only a very natural desire and a simple development of the life I had been leading; but that the consciousness of will-power should actually add to the strength of my muscles was a revelation to me at the time and was illustrated one day in a very emphatic manner.

A number of boys were playing in the vicinity of the blacksmith's shop. Lifting weights was one of our customary pastimes. The biggest boy in the company was one of my brothers who was two or three years my senior. Incidentally, he took hold of a small anvil, but failed to move it. Thereupon I lifted it from the ground with apparent ease. The boys shouted, and the blacksmith came out and challenged me to do it again. I did so. But the peculiar part of this illustration is that I distinctly remember half chuckling to myself and saying, "I have a secret."

This kind of self-consciousness affected my behavior in a marked degree. I became quiet in my manner and studious in my habits. What may be called the dawn of purpose in my behavior led naturally to a good deal of concentration, and, at this psychological moment, the Free Kirk minister, Mr. Brown, took hold of me.

To try to explain what religion meant to such an impressionist as I was, at that early age, would be a useless proceeding. I think, however, the religion of the Free Church was thoroughly in harmony with my mental level at the time. For one thing, it introduced me to the Bible, but of this book and its influence I shall have more to say at a later stage of my story. At any rate, Mr. Brown instilled into me the principles of orthodoxy, and of the Bible as the great human guide, in the same way that McTavish, the schoolmaster, was pounding into me the construction of hexameters in Latin verse, and the value of x in algebra. The following story will give an idea of my religious condition at this time, and of the change from my former childlike indifference in such matters.

One day, very thoughtlessly, I took aim with a stone and killed a sparrow. I can never forget the religious turmoil the act excited in my mind. The situation, I am afraid, does not admit of interpretation, still less of appreciation, at the present day. I took refuge in prayer, — a process whose spiritual aim and practical end is discipline.

But the most noticeable phase of this early religious training was the strange secrecy that was maintained on all sides in regard to moral problems from a practical point of view. I speak of the sermonizing on the subject. "Lead us not into temptation," was interpreted in its widest significance. I was terribly impressed with wickedness in the abstract. Ignorance and innocence were supposed to be the safest route to salvation. One day coming across the expression, "The Scarlet Woman," I asked Mr. Brown to explain it to me. I remember his answer: "My boy, at your age curiosity will do you a great deal more harm than enlightenment will do you good. Study the * Paradise Lost' and beware of the popular craving for the novels of Dickens."

This, then, was the religious atmosphere in which I was being educated. Its central tenet was the necessity for an absolute ignorance of the world and its dangers from the practical point of view, in combination with religious safeguards that were depended upon to act instinctively in times of temptation and danger. It has been necessary for me to dwell on this religious situation at the time when my personality was beginning to assert itself, in order that the practical tests of the system which came later may be thoroughly understood. It was in this supersensitive condition, therefore, that my final studies in my twelfth year in the academy in Fortrose were continued.

The sudden change in my habits and general deportment was immediately noticed by my father and by McTavish, the schoolmaster. The former took many opportunities to favor and encourage me. The schoolmaster also, taking his cue from my father, took considerable pride in the progress I was making in my studies. This schoolmaster was first of all and principally an educational machine, but considering the material and the difficulties he had to contend with, some sixty or seventy boys and girls of various ages in a single room, under his exclusive direction, he was probably the right kind of man in the right place. At no time during my pupilage under him, however, did this man have any intellectual or moral attraction for me. He possessed a method, and that was all. In my mind's eye I can see him now standing on the platform at the end of the schoolroom, slightly to one side of an enormous blackboard, a long lance-like pointer in one hand, and the ever-present "taws" swinging significantly in the other. He brings the pointer down sharply on the floor and says, "Attention." Then he scribbles off a problem of some kind on the board, takes a step forward and says, "One, two, three, off!" At once there is a rattle and squeaking of slate pencils, and after an interval some one brings his slate down on his desk with a slam and shouts, "First." Others follow in rotation as fast as their tasks are completed. Meanwhile, Mc- Tavish is in the body of the hall, scrutinizing the answers and admonishing the slow ones. In all probability he pounces upon a "dunce," takes him by the ear and deposits him silently in the corner of the room with his face to the wall. Occasionally, however, in a magnanimous mood, he returns to the platform empty-handed and explains the difficulties in the problem in the most sympathetic manner. Once in a while in his remarks to the pupils he lapses into the brogue of the neighborhood. On one occasion I happen to shout "First," at the top of my voice. " Jeames, my boy," he replies, "dinna shoot; when ye 're no first, I'll be making a note of it."

But perhaps the most exceptional feature of this schoolmaster's administration was his quarterly "repoorts," as they were called. They were delivered in person. As a rule, he borrowed a pony for the purpose. He usually set out on a Wednesday afternoon and took in a circuit of seven or eight miles. At every house which he entered for the purpose of reporting the progress of the children, he was invariably refreshed with a good drink of whiskey; the consequence was that, by the time he was headed for home, the pony was thoroughly worked up. On the home-stretch we boys were agreed that there was no one like our schoolmaster for getting a Tarn o' Shanter-like gallop out of that pony.

However, in regard to my own progress, I probably studied hard because I was compelled to. Thanks to McTavish, his methods, and his "taws," there was no doubt about my proficiency in the "Three R's." In regard to these fundamentals McTavish was a tyrant. Neither the Laird's first-born, nor the poorest lad in the village, could escape this initial drilling. And by the way, the number of books that were carried to and fro was one of the astonishing features of our school-life. Morning and evening the country roads were dotted with boys and girls carrying piles of books certainly two feet deep at times, securely strapped between boards and slung over stout little shoulders. The girls usually managed to saddle themselves with the heaviest burdens, and the most desperate fight I ever engaged in was for the privilege of carrying one of these ponderous libraries.

Such, then, in brief, was my intellectual and religious condition when I left this village school and was sent to a grammar school in Manchester, England, to continue my studies. There were eight or nine hundred boys in this school, and I was admitted to it on what was called the "foundation." There was a batch of twenty of us who were successful in this way, winnowed out of a couple of hundred aspirants. When I left the school I was in the fifth "form." The master's name was Styles, and his methods and personality were typical of the whole school. Our class of thirty boys was divided into sections. Each section had its overseer — one of ourselves — and, in this way, the master kept in touch with every unit in the class.

Religious instruction was part of the curriculum, and, during an attendance of a little over three years at this grammar school, my religious ideas were enlarged considerably and my convictions deepened. This was also by far the hardest study-period of my life, and my book-knowledge was extended over a wide range of subjects. I was also an inveterate football and cricket player, but my studies took precedence over everything. The concentration of mind, brought about by continuous study, resulted in a mental condition that was altogether too morbid and introspective, and but for the timely intervention and advice of Mr. Styles, serious mental results would have followed. I had only one or two companions whom I cared anything about, and they were nearly as studious as myself. I did not get into scrapes of any kind, and I remember Mr. Styles saying to me one day that he thought if I broke loose once in a while it would widen my horizon a little. However, he went right to work on my case in his usual practical manner: he insisted on daily exercise and play, he took me to the theatre (I had never been in my life before), and during the following holiday season I went with him to visit some friends near London; incidentally he gave me a vivid introduction to some of the scenes and problems of a great city.

There is just one final feature of my training in this grammar school which I think it will be well to mention. This has reference to the class spirit that was instilled into the boys with such sincerity and force that it was actually a normal condition, both in field-sports and in studies, and any deviation from it was always roundly denounced by the boys themselves. This phase of my school-life had a striking illustration during the class examinations, just before my departure from the school.

I was particularly anxious to head the class list on this occasion, and as I was in what was called a classical "form," or class, at the time, the principal tests were in our knowledge of Latin and Greek. There were thirty-odd boys in the form; the room just accommodated us comfortably, each boy being seated at his individual desk with his printed examination paper before him. My most dreaded rival in these examinations sat next me at a desk on the right, and I think that this boy, who was a genius in many ways, would have beaten me if he had not resorted to unlawful methods . We were translating a passage from the "Medea" of Euripides at the time, and as I happened to look round in this boy's direction, it struck me he was trying to hide something with his elbow. In short, I soon came to the conclusion that he was making use of a "crib" or translation, the edge of which just projected under his ; desk cover. I was so dumfounded that I could hardly believe my eyes. The fifth form was the second highest in the school, and such an occurrence among us was almost unthinkable. However, acting simply in the class spirit, which in fact I did n't have to think about, I at once stood up and asked the form master if it would be considered the proper thing then and there to name a boy for cribbing. He replied, "Most certainly." I did so. The boy, without a word of excuse, bluntly and frankly pleaded guilty. He was immediately expelled from the classroom, and the cheering that followed the closing of the incident, which the master himself encouraged, gave me instantly to understand that I had not been mistaken in my estimate of the class spirit.

IV

My school life in Manchester ended rather abruptly. My younger brothers were coming along, and it became necessary for me to earn a living. It was a time when telegraph cables were being laid to all parts of the world. So I went up to London and spent some time learning to operate the cable instruments. I made such good progress that I very soon received an appointment in the service of a company that was then laying cables along the coast of South America, and forthwith I made preparations to leave England.

At this point it will be well to call to mind my intellectual and religious condition. I was pretty well equipped with school-learning, and my mind was filled with a mass of moral generalities, but of the world and its practical dangers and temptations I was supremely ignorant. I was extremely religious, but, according to modern ideas and standards, my education lacked its most essential feature. This, however, was the religious stage of my development, and it must bear its own burden and tell its own story.

Just before leaving England I received an invitation to visit a cousin who was home from India on a visit. He was about forty years of age, and by far the strongest, most practical, and withal the noblest kind of man I had yet encountered. He tried to explain to me the different aspects of city life from a practical point of view, but although I listened attentively to his advice it did not seem to appeal to me in a personal way. I could not get away from the mass of generalities in which my knowledge of good and evil was enveloped, and it was these practical aspects of life that my cousin endeavored to bring home to me in a final interview.

Just before my departure for South America, we sat side by side in the anteroom of a restaurant. I retain the liveliest and kindliest recollection of this conversation. My cousin spoke first of himself. There were many incidents and shortcomings in his own career on which he looked back with keenest regret, and perhaps on that very account his words should have had additional weight.

Then he turned to my own plans and prospects. He had been informed of my satisfactory record at school, but that by itself, in his opinion, did n't amount to much. The problems of life were not to be solved by the mere exercise of intellectual attainments. He said a good deal about heredity and environment, although he did not make use of these terms, but he laid emphasis upon what he called "streaks" and habits. All these ideas and situations, he contended, are for the most part derived from the behavior of people who drift. They have no terrors to the man with a purpose in life, and a will. He took a number of illustrations from our own family history as practical examples of individual success and failure, and to show that character is always dependent upon pronounced individualism.

In conclusion my cousin asked me if I had read any novels. He wished I would immediately read one of Bulwer-Lytton's — I have forgotten the title. He referred specifically to one passage or chapter in this book, in which the guardian of a young lady calls her attention to a small plant or fern half hidden among the rocks on a hillside. He told her he had been watching the little plant for weeks in its brave struggle to lift its head up out of its unfavorable surroundings into the clear air and sunshine. From my cousin's point of view it was a striking lesson in character-building, the significance of which was accentuated by the parting advice given to this girl by the guardian, "Keep yourself unspotted from the world."

If my cousin had understood my mental condition at the time he would have been more explicit. As it was, I only half understood his meaning. To keep myself unspotted from the world was just another Biblical text, and I was still in the thraldom of these terrible generalities. However unusual and morbid my mental state at this time may appear to this matter-of-fact and practical generation, I cannot refrain from describing the sequel to this interview.

I wandered homeward to my lodging. Every step of the journey is indelibly fixed on my memory. Early in the afternoon I took a seat in a secluded spot in Kensington Gardens. Before long I was disturbed and sought a still quieter situation. I soon found an enormous tree-trunk, roots and all, from which the tree itself had been severed and carted away. In the great cavity in the ground, caused by the violent uprooting of the tree, I ensconced myself. I wished to think over this problem of life, and of my future, which my cousin had been trying so patiently to impart to me. What did he actually mean when he told me to keep myself unspotted from the world? Was there actually a conspiracy in nature or otherwise, for the waylaying and moral destruction of people? If so, under what guise and in what form was I to look for it? Hour after hour I pondered, and still no light came. I was finally aroused from my reverie by the monotonous and oft-repeated cry of the park policeman, "All out, all out." Then I made the best of my way homeward.