The first twenty years of my life

Front matter

My Home.

THE

FIRST TWENTY YEARS

Chapter I. Introductory

It is my birthday,— ray fiftieth birthday ! AH around me breathes the soft summer air. White clouds float dreamily over the blue sky, and the hills lie clothed in the sweet verdure which June only sheds over the earth. Yes, I was born in June, the loveliest of all the summer months. In just such a day as this, perhaps, — so bright, so full of all glad influences,— I drew my first breath,

I have been told I was a feeble infant, giving at first so few signs of life that it was doubted if I should survive the day. If I had not, if that feeble spark of being had flickered and gone out, where and what would it have been now? How different from this soul, that beats in an earthly body, filled with hopes and fears and flooding memories of all the sad and sweet experiences of an earthly life ! "Was it well that that frail breath grew stronger and the pulsations of that little heart more firm and equal? Was it well that that germ of spiritual life unfolded into the passions, the aspirations, the knowledge of good and evil, of the full-grown man ? It was well. "Even so, Father, for so it seemed good in thy sight."

My life has been a quiet one, marked by few startling incidents; yet, on reviewing it, I have thought it would be pleasant, and perhaps profitable, to write down some of its more prominent events. It may be that some young man beginning life may be warned by my mistakes or encouraged by my successes. I would gladly impart to others the lessons I have bought by hard experience, that they may not pay for them in the same costly currency. Few, I know, give heed to those who have preceded them, or will be taught save by personal trial; but

INTRODUCTORY. 9

I will write, praying that some one at least may read and be the better for it.

My heart warms towards the young when I see them starting joyfully forth on the journey of life; for, in the words of a quaint Scotch writer, "It is a troublous water, the water of life; and it has often given me a sore heart to see the young things launched upon it like bairns' boats, sailing hither and thither in an unpurposelike manner, having no thought of who it is that sends both the soft wind and the storm ; and, if they have need of various instruments and a right pilot-man who guide ships over that constant uncertainty, the sea, I think not but there is far greater need of all manner of helps to pass safely through that greater uncertainty, life."

Chapter II. Childhood

I was born in a quiet little town, which I shall call Hillbury. It lies in the western part of New England, near one of the summits of the Green Mountain range. It is inhabited mostly by small farmers, who live by keeping dairies and raising stock, They are scattered about among the hills, their houses being often perched on "some breezy knoll, where all the winds of heaven congregate in winter and a pure, delicious air fans them through the summer. Pure air, pure water, wild and picturesque scenery, are the birthright of these dwellers on the hills ; and it is an inheritance by no means to be despised.

My first recollections are of sitting on a flat rock in our back-yard and looking out on the dense forest of pines and hemlocks which covered the steep hill opposite. This rock was shaded by a spreading oak-tree 5 and in this shade was built our " cubby-house/' — the joint property of my younger sister and myself. How well I remember this cubby-house, the depository of all our choicest treasures ! It was made of shingles laid on broken bricks, and had six shelves in it ; and very capacious and splendid we thought it was. These shelves were adorned with broken bits of crockery, turkeys' feathers, egg-shells painted with indigo and celandine, and with acorns, of all sizes, transformed into cups and saucers, plates and platters, and any other articles of tablefurniture we chanced to need. In front of the top-shelf hung a festoon of shells made of pretty blue robins' eggs, which had been perforated at each end and the contents blown out. Who had been cruel enough to steal them from the nest I know not; but we prized them highly. Another cherished treasure was an arm-chair made of cornstalks by an ingenious cousin of our's, which certainly was a little unsteady in its habits, and never used, even to hold Susan's dollie, but none the less admired for that. But the crowning glory of all was a small cup of china, — real china, — which had a handle and held water. To-be-sure, it had a little piece broken from it; but, judiciously arranged, this did not show, and it was considered as good as new. I can remember now the tiny wreath of leaves and roses which ran round the top : how pretty they were to our childish eyes, and how real and pure was our enjoyment of it ! I do not think the most expensive toys of modern times give more pleasure to their possessors than our simple cubby-house gave us. We used to adorn it with clover-blossoms and buttercups in summer and with bright-coloured leaves in autumn, and give teaparties to imaginary friends, who feasted on imaginary dainties.

I like to linger over this childish memory. There is something in it very sweet to* me; for with it are linked the whispering of the winds through the large oak-tree, the shadows that came and went on those grand old woods, the murmur of insects, the gushing song of birds, and, sweeter than all, the sound of my mother's voice as she sang at her work. How they all come to me now, as I sit by the window and write !

It is associated also with the pretty childish face and tones of my sister Susan, — a blue-eyed, "toddlin' wee thing," four years younger than myself. I loved this little sister dearly, though I often tyrannized over her, as older brothers are apt to do ; and the first punishment I can remember receiving was from my mother for being unkind to her. I had pushed her down the back-door steps and left her screaming with fright and pain. I walked away, choosing to think she was not hurt, — only "making believe." I can remember thinking it was manly not to pay any heed to her, — to put my hands in my pocket and begin to whistle. I had not gone far before I heard my mother's voice, calling " Allen ! Allen !" in its severest tone. I never thought of disregarding that; for I had received the old-fashioned training which, if it taught little else, thoroughly instilled that most valuable lesson, — obedience.

I went back, trembling with a consciousness of guilt. Susan had ceased crying, and looked pitifully at me with her sweet blue eyes, on whose lashes the tears were glistening. My mother held me at arm's length and gazed fixedly at me. There was something in her eye when she was displeased that always made me quail, — a clear light, a fixed determination, which left no hope of escape.

" Cowardly, cruel boy!" she said: "you may be thankful you did not kill your sister!" And she led me unresistingly to the door of an empty room which had been used as a store-closet, and turned the key upon me.

I was awed, but not subdued. I sat down on the floor, swelling with indignation and determined not to make any submission, let what would come. I remember the thoughts which came to me as I sat there. I had heard my father read the story of Hannibal, — how he swore eternal hatred to the Romans when he was nine years old ; how he became a great warrior and crossed the Alps and gained glorious victories, — and, curiously enough, I identified myself with him. I too would be a hero, — a great man ; would fight, and conquer, and die ! "What I should fight was by no means clear to me. I don't think it was exactly my mother or little sister, but an impalpable something which prevented me from doing as I wished. I speak of this feeling more minutely because it was one which afterwards filled a large space in my mental life, — the desire to be a great man and to accomplish something wonderful.

My heroic vein did not, however, last long. Before noon I felt very hungry; and hunger is not conducive to heroism as a general thing, — certainly not in boys of seven years old. I cried aloud. I grew more angry, and pounded on the door in my rage. Then I heard my mother's light step, and her calm voice — oh, how calm and stern it was ! — saying, —

" Allen, don't let me hear any more noise!"

There was a kind of magical spell in that tone of her's. I cannot well account for its peculiar influence, but I never could resist its power. It was probably owing in a great measure to her inflexible self-control and to the force of habit. I had never been allowed to contradict her, but from my infancy had submitted — had been made to — in the veriest trifle, till the idea of opposition was wholly foreign to my nature, — one which never occurred to me when she spoke in that decided tone. This consciousness of being in the hands of a superior being (for such she was to me) quieted me. I do not think it exactly subdued me, or that if she had required it I would then have made any concession ; but I ceased to struggle. I sat down by the window and gazed listlessly on the prospect. The sky was very bright and very blue, with not a single cloud. The hills were beautiful in their stillness as they rested against it, with the trees all motionless in the soft sunlight. The pastures on the hillside were green and sunny, with here and there groups of cows, some feeding quietly and some chewing the cud under the silent trees. No sound was heard but the tinkling of the water-drops as they fell into the trough. All was so still, so almost solemn, in that noonday radiance, that my rebellious soul was hushed. I wished I was good ; but I was not, and I felt a kind of sullen certainty I never should be.

At last I fell asleep. When I awoke, long shadows lay across the hills, the cows were coming downwards to the bars, and a fresh breeze, laden with sweet forest-odours, was fanning my feverish cheeks. My angry feelings had all gone, and I felt kindly to every one. I heard tiny feet pattering on the kitchen-floor, and longed to put my arms round my darling little Susan, to go out with her to the cubby-house and drink tea from our acorn cups. How sorry I was [ had ever been unkind to her ! I thought, What if I had killed her ? What if her head had struck on the stone at the bottom of the steps and she had never breathed again? I saw her, in imagination, in a little coffin such as Willie Reed was put in, went to her funeral, and saw her laid in the ground. It was a terrible fancy, and I wept aloud. I think I loved my little sister better than most brothers do, she was so gentle and so good ; and when I thought of her dying my heart was broken. Just at this moment my mother came in. It was an auspicious moment, and she doubtless saw I was no longer obstinate, for she looked sadly, but kindly, at me.

2*

"Will you promise," she said, mildly, "to be kind to your little sister?"

" Oh, yes, I will ! I will be good to her !" I exclaimed, a torrent of tears falling from my eyes. "I don't want Susie to die and be buried in the ground ! I will be good to her."

My mother was a woman of few words, but I saw a tear standing in her eye ; and she stooped and kissed me (a rare thing for her) as she said,

"You have been very wicked, Allen, but I will pray for you, and I hope God will forgive you."

I don't know how it is with other children, but to me there was always something very solemn in the thought of my mother's praying for me. She never prayed in the presence of us children ; but, when she went into her bedroom and locked the door, we knew she was at prayer, and the thought of it never failed to impress me with a kind of awe.

It may be my mother erred in not speaking more familiarly to us of sacred things ; that we might have been won by it, if she had, to more loving thoughts of Jesus; but one thing can be said in favour of hei mode of training: it gave us a reverence for holy things ; and reverence is a trait sg indispensable to all true excellence that 1 sometimes think its value can scarcely be overestimated.

How sweet and beautiful to me were the quiet home pleasures that night ! — the sitting down at the door with our basins of bread and milk, while the kitty came to watch us and eat the piece of bread we now and then fished out for her; the standing by the table to eat our gingerbread, (my piece was twice as large that night as usual, and I thanked my mother in my heart, though I dared not speak of it ;) the coming home of the cows, driven by my father when he returned from work; the milking them on the green before the door; the straining of the brimming pails into the cheese-tubs, and the pouring the froth into kitty's dish, while Susan and I were allowed to dip our bright little tin cups carefully into the tub and quaff a draught sweeter and richer than any nectar !

My heart was at peace, and hence every thing around me was beautiful. Little Susan seemed dearer to me than ever; and, when I had said my prayers and lay down beside her in the trundle-bed that night, my heart was full of gratitude. There was something of penitence, too, for having injured her, my own darling little sister; and I resolved I would be kind and gentle to her always, — always.

Chapter III. Home Influences

For the first ten years of my life I was a delicate child, accustomed to quiet sports, such as girls usually like, — as my fondness for the cubby-house shows ; but at that age I became stout and healthy, and ever after possessed an uncommon degree of physical vigour. With strength of body came greater activity of mind and heart, and the development of both the good and evil in my nature went on rapidly. The influences under which this development took place deserve to be noticed ; for under a different training I should have doubtless been a very different being both in youth and manhood.

My parents were poor; that is, they were obliged to labour for their daily bread and had few possessions ; yet there was in our home none of the degradation and want which extreme poverty brings. If we had few of the comforts and none of the elegancies of life, our necessities were always supplied ; and, as few of our neighbours were better off, there were no invidious, comparisons made. Few children were ever happier in a father's house, I think, than Susan and myself; and few can look back to the old home with a more grateful, affectionate regard than fills our hearts now that the shadows of age are beginning to fall across our path.

The old home! Oh, how pleasantly it rises before me in its sweet greenness and tranquillity, with its murmuring mountainbrook; its encircling hills crowned with dark, rich forests, and the broad blue sky stretched over all, wider and deeper-tinted and more serene than any other sky can ever be !

The house was a small brown cottage, nestled quietly among the green trees around it, so as scarcely to attract the notice of the passer-by. It was by no means one of those fanciful modern houses, with pointed roofs and Venetian blinds, which are nowadays called cottages, but a long, low building, with a sloping, mossy roof projecting over its front, forming a rude piazza, or stoop, as we called it, in which we used to sit when the day's labours were ended and watch the shadows gather on the pine-woods opposite.

The cottage was of that genuine tint of brown artists love so well; but no artist's hands could have given those old boards their colouring. The soft breath of spring, the fiery suns of summer, the cold winds of autumn and the fierce snows and tempests of winter had all been painting them for more than half a century; and soft and pleasant to the eye were the hues they had imparted, — more picturesque and charming than any thing Art produces in her most successful moods.

It was a home-like place, with the great oak-tree overshadowing it, the green yard sloping away in front, and the high hills rising behind it; while at the south there was a grand outlook over a wide tract of hills and valleys. These in some places were rugged and bare, with monstrous rocks lying like huge sleeping giants crouched upon the grass, in others smiling with the loveliest verdure ; while here and there, all over the hills and valleys, were scattered clusters of trees grouped as gracefully as if designed expressly to gratify the eye of taste ; and who, indeed, shall say they were not? I felt then and feel still that no landscape could be more beautiful than this, — especially at midsummer, when the sunlight rested softly upon it and the fleecy clouds floated over, checkering it with light, passing shadows, as lovely as they were fleeting. And then too in autumn, how gorgeous were those wooded hills in their "coat of many colours" ! Can those who are born amid the brick walls of a city, and whose childish years are spent away from all the sweet influences of nature, love their early home as we did ? Can they turn back to it with hearts as grateful, as full of tenderness and soul-felt joy, as are filling our's ? I suppose they do ; for, after all, it is the presence of love which most sanctifies a home. Yet to have one's birthplace amid such wild and picturesque scenery as surrounded mine is certainly a cause for gratitude.

As I have said, my mother was a person of few words, possessing a determined spirit which kept my own in check. She was of a calm and sedate temperament, seldom manifesting violent emotion of any kind, — not, I think, so much from the absence of acute sensibilities and deep feelings as from an habitual self-control. This last, and a beautiful consistency between her words and acts, were very striking traits in her character. She was exceedingly watchful of us children ; but her care never degenerated into that fretful anxiety mothers so often manifest. Her face, as I remember it, was a grave one, with strong, deep lines upon it. I do not think she could ever have been handsome ; but her smile was the most beautiful I ever saw on a human face. It was like the fall of sunlight on a shady spot, transfusing and transforming what it touched. Her voice was one of rare sweetness, — clear and low-toned ; and I cannot recollect her ever speaking on a high, angry key. She seldom laughed, and never loudly ; but that beautiful smile would irradiate her face whenever we gathered about her knee at twilight or had earned her approbation by doing right. She reverenced right, — duty; and we knew it, not so much because she talked about it as that it shone out through every action of her life, the moving, guiding principle. She never lavished caresses upon us ; but a simple word or look of tenderness from her was worth more than the most profuse expressions from a more demonstrative nature would have been.

I have heard (but not till her spirit had gone to its rest) that she belonged to a proud family and had been delicately nurtured ; that her marriage to my father was considered by her friends as quite beneath her; and that by it she became almost separated from them. I know that there was never any exchange of visits, or of little tokens of kindness, between us and relatives on my mother's side, while uncles, aunts and cousins of my father's abounded. However, we never heard of any grand relations, but were always taught to be contented with our humble lot and not to look for great things in the world.

My father was very unlike my mother; and I speak of him last, partly because a child's thoughts more naturally revert at once to his mother, but also because my mother was really the ruling spirit of our household. My father was of an amiable, easy disposition, contented to live on from day to day without thinking much of futurity, or, if he did think, never seeing a shadow on the prospect. He had less solidity of mind, I believe, but more literary taste, than my mother, and spent his leisure hours (of which, I fancy, he contrived to have many more than he ought) in reading of a most miscellaneous character. He was warm-hearted and affectionate, extravagantly fond of his children, especially of Susan, who was his pet and darling ; never reproving us, but turning us over to our mother when any discipline was needed. He must have been a very handsome man in his younger days, for his well-formed features, his large dark eyes and his noble forehead made him a very fine-looking man in middle life. His figure, too, was good, his manners easy and winning, and his whole character of just the kind to inspire

28 TWENTY YEABS OF MY LIFE.

affection rather than command reverence. And very dearly did we love him, — though, strange to say, I think we loved our mother better, and yet we feared her more. We bounded out joyfully to meet our father whenever he came home, overwhelmed him with caresses, laughed and frolicked with him ; but in our graver moods we sought our mother and listened to her low, sweet voice with great delight, whether she told us stories of good children or led our childish thoughts upward to our great Father and our heavenly home. My dear, sweet mother! It seems but a little time since we stood beside her and watched the gathering darkness stealing over the hills and counted eagerly the bright, shining stars

"As they came twinkling one by one Upon the shady sky."

What a great mystery to our childish minds was that " shady sky," bending over all things so silently, so solemnly ! And those stars, winking and twinkling so brightly all night long! I used to gaze at them, as I lay in bed, through the white, looped-up window-curtain, wondering why they were looking at me so and never stopped twinkling for a single minute. There was a strange charm to me also in the murmuring music of a little winding stream, whose voice I never heard in the daytime, but which was always audible as I lay in bed at night. Its melody thrilled my heart with a strange, sweet sadness ; and it often comes to me now in the silent nigtnVwatches, stirring my soul to tears with its soft, liquid tone. So powerful and lasting are the little things "which lie about us in our infancy" !

I have wandered from what I was about to say of my mother's influence over us ; but I am sure it was deeper and far more perceptible in moulding my character than my father's. In person I was said to be like my father, (I may say it without vanity, for surely this body, on which the storms of fifty winters have beaten, has little enough to boast of now;) but I think my mind was like my mother's, while Susan was a blending of the two. She had my mother's blue eyes, with my father's changing play of face ; my mother's small figure, with my father's ease of manner ; my mo-

3* ther's quiet devotion to duty, with my ther's enthusiastic love of what was beautiful. Such, at least, she became in after-years, — my father's pride, my mother's stay. In our childhood I only knew she was the sweetest, dearest sister that a boy ever had.

Our home training in one respect was quite a contrast to that of most of our neighbours, and, I think, to that of most country farm-houses. Owing to her having been bred in a more refined atmosphere, or perhaps merely actuated by her own good sense, my mother laid great stress on manners, and exacted from us as rigid an observance of all the little proprieties of life as if we had been the children of the most wealthy citizen.

" There are some things poor people like ns cannot get," she used to say; "but good manners cost nothing. We can certainly have these."

She never allowed us to come to the table till our hair, teeth, and nails were in perfect order. " Your hands may become black and rough," she would tell us, "by hard labour; but they never need be dirty when your work is done." So thoroughly did this attention to personal cleanliness become a habit with me that through life I have never been able to sit down without attending to these things; and, though I have always been a working-man, I have never found the place where five minutes of time could not be taken for it. " Cold water, combs and brushes," she would say, "cost very little; and, if they did not, I would save the expense from other things rather than do without them."

When at the table, we were required to sit and to cut our food and hold our knife and fork in the proper way. ¥e were never allowed to speak in a rude, coarse voice, to cry out, " Wha-at?" as I have heard some children do, instead of "Sir?" or "Ma'am?" or to say, "Give me this," "Give me that," but always, "Thank you for this," or, " Give me that, if you please, sir." If we ever asked for any thing impatiently, my mother's reproving eye was on us, and we instantly changed our form of expression. This civility of tone and manner, as my mother said, costs nothing; but it made our home a much pleasanter and happier one, and its influence was felt through life.

Tidiness was another virtue rigidly enforced. Every book, paper, plaything and article of dress was laid in its place. And it is singular how easily children fall into orderly habits when it is the custom of the house. I don't think my mother scolded at us; but we knew it was expected we should put every thing away, — and we did, even if it was not always exactly pleasant or agreeable at the time. No shoes run down at heel or with strings draggling in the mud, no tattered aprons, no unbuttoned collars nor ragged elbows, were ever seen about us; so that, though our garments were always of the coarsest kind, and sometimes of necessity soiled, we could never be called untidy.

Our good Hillbury neighbours were somewhat scandalized at this particularity in little things. It was regarded by them as extreme folly ; and of course Susan and I were often laughed at for being so " stuckup" and "notional." When we carried our complaints to our mother, she comforted us by saying, " If you' feel and speak kindly to every one, they will soon cease to laugh." And so it was. I had faults enough of other kinds to alienate my schoolfellows ; but Susan, refined and gentle as she was, was always a favourite, even with the roughest boy in school.

One day I had gone in to see Tom Reed, — a rough, good-natured boy, who was quite a crony of mine ; and, while waiting for him to go somewhere with me, I overheard a conversation between his grandmother (who was an excellent old lady in her way) and a neighbour of her's, — a very coarse, rough woman. I remember it as well as if I heard it yesterday.

"Did you -ever see any thing like the way Miss Richmond is bringing up her children? They'll be spile't as sure as fate. Just think of making such a fuss over their finger-nails every day of their lives ! And I don't see, for my part, as they look any better than other folk's children, after all. There's Allen Richmond, tied to his mother's apron-string, drawlin' out his fine words : its enough to make a body sick to hear 'em. But he han't got a coat to his back but what's been patched, with all his airs."