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 sanguinely thought that I would meet with employment there at once; and, be able to master 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 every newly-arrived person became magically changed into a sort of Midas on a small scale; transforming everything he touched, if not into gold—the days of California were now over—at all events into Washington “eagles,” or Mexican silver dollars, or even greenbacks, which were better than nothing, although greasy and not acknowledged at their nominal value.
Upon my word, I really believe that that was my secret opinion concerning America before I actually crossed the Atlantic!
Probably, I would not have told you so had you asked me then; but I think that was my real idea about it. It was to me an Eldorado, where ill-luck was undreamt of; and where I should be able to heap up riches without the slightest out-of-the-way exertion on my part, in an incredibly short space of time:—riches that would enable me to return home, in the character of a millionaire, in a year or two at the outside, 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, bless you! 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 twelve dollars a week for a bedroom in Brooklyn, an adjacent suburb, with “board” of which I did not partake very frequently, through an inherent dislike to bad cookery—but employment of any description was so difficult to be obtained that for every vacant situation advertised in the New York papers there were several hundred applicants, amongst whom an Englishman stood a very poor chance of being selected when competing with native citizens.
Do you know, Transatlantica is about the very worst quarter of the globe for an educated man to go to, who has no scientific attainments, such as a knowledge of chemistry and engineering—which may occasionally stand him in good stead.
For skilled artisans, or those brought up to a regular trade, there are good wages to be had, and constant work; but a “gentleman,” or clerk—unless he intends reversing the whole training of his life, which he will find an extremely difficult thing to do—had far better go and break stones on the highways at home, than think to improve his condition by emigrating to America!
There are some men who can throw off all old associations and the habits in 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 in Cincinnati and the son of a “Bart, of the British Empire” driving a mud cart in Chicago!—neither of these, either, had been brought down by drinking, that general curse of exiled Englishmen in ill-luck.
I had good introductions; and yet, although I met with great hospitality in being asked out to dinner, I could never get any employment put in my way.
A dinner is a dinner, certainly, and a very good thing in itself—not to be 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 at the Great Delmonico’s of “Fourteenth Street,” as you would meet with at one or two haunts I wot of in the Palais Royale. Still, I leave it to yourself, a dinner is but a poor “quid” to him lacking the “quo” of an immediate 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 gradually diminishing. I had only a few pounds left; as my expenditure for lodging alone was at the rate of over two guineas a week; and Monsieur Parole d’Honneur’s loan, which I looked upon only in the light of trading 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 previously advised me, to “look about” me.
I had “looked about me” already for some three months—without anything coming of it; however, I looked about me now again, and?—met Brown of Philadelphia!
“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, for turning over thousands of dollars at once. He had no wish to merely better himself, however. He was a man with a large heart, and would make my fortune too. It seemed as if Providence had specially interfered to prevent his meeting with a partner until I had answered his advertisement! I should be his partner. I need not know anything of 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 which both 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 and Martin made a fortune by it, and a name in all the world? Has not many a proud merchant prince risen to eminence on a more ignoble commodity?
Blacking! There is something noble in causing the feet of posterity to shine; and to be the means of testing the standing of a would-be gentleman! Clean boots are an essentiality of society; why should I shrink from the responsibility of helping to produce them?
Well, whether you consider it a lowering trade or not, Brown of Philadelphia suggested our “going into” blacking together. He knew of a place, he said, where he could get it for “next to nothing;” and, as he then pertinently observed, I must be aware that it might be disposed of in New York at more than cent, per cent, profit. So, why should we not embark in it? If we did, Brown of Philadelphia—only he was opposed to betting, on moral principle—was prepared to wager a trifle that we would soon have more “greenbacks” than we should know what to do with!
He had an office already, had my benevolent friend,—“located” in a first-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, my fortune was made. If I would contribute, say, five hundred dollars—“a mere song”—we might go joint shares in what would turn out to be a most remarkably go-a-head enterprise; yes, sir!
Strange! But, the amount he mentioned was the exact sum, in American exchange, of my capital—about which, you know, I had previously spoken to him in a friendly and communicative way. It was odd, my just having sufficient, wasn’t it?—Yet, how lucky, to be sure! And then, there was no necessity for my being acquainted with the business:—he would manage that. My duty would be to take in money—exactly what I liked! That’s what took my fancy so amazingly—“tickled” me, as Artemus Ward would have expressed it—so I repeat it!
Brown of Philadelphia was the soul of honour, as well as distinguished for 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 the former of which I went, making inquiries as to his stability. Certainly, they knew Mr Brown of Philadelphia. Had a large balance at present in their hands. As far as they were aware—must be reticent in commercial matters, you know—perfectly responsible party. Could I have taken 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 a horribly long pull there in the street “cars:”—thought bank reference sufficient, wouldn’t you?
Perfectly satisfactory, I thought; and told Brown of Philadelphia so at our 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 in time, eh? Not the slightest doubt. Brown of Philadelphia and I excellent friends. He dined with me at an hotel that day—at my expense on this occasion.
After dinner, arranged business matters as partners should do, drawing up a deed of associationship, and so on. Brown of Philadelphia produced roll of dollars in “greenbacks” - his share of the capital of our embryo firm. I produced roll of “greenbacks”—my share of capital of embryo firm. Both parcels sealed up; and given into Brown of Philadelphia’s custody, as senior partner, to deposit same in our joint names at a bank on the morrow.
Brown of Philadelphia and I then parted with words and signs of mutual respect and admiration; and I hied me to my Brooklyn lodgings in high delight 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 “the office.”
I was there to the minute, but Brown of Philadelphia wasn’t; and, although I waited for him many subsequent minutes after the appointed time, he never came—nor have I clapped eyes on him from that day to this.
Faithless Brown! He robbed me of my belief in human nature, in addition to my hoarded “greenbacks.”
The office, I found, had been taken by the keen philanthropist for a week, a few dollars of the rent being advanced by him as security on account. On asking at the bank, which had in the first instance satisfied me of his integrity, the cashier told me that Brown of Philadelphia had drawn out all of his available balance the very afternoon on which I had made my inquiries respecting him; and where he was gone, no one knew!
“Skedaddled,” evidently. As for shoddy celebrity, “up town,” to whom Brown of Philadelphia had also referred me, said that my friend had swindled him a short period before. Good joke, his being given as a reference!
I put the affair in the hands of the police; but they gave me about as much comfort as our guardians in blue would have done.
They said he had gone south. I went to Baltimore after him; but I could not meet him, although I was full of determination and had taken a revolver with me in case Brown might have his “shooting irons” handy!—The blunderbuss that had belonged to the deceased Earl Planetree, and which Lady Dasher had given me as a useful parting present, I had left behind in England, thinking that such a valuable object of antiquity should not be recklessly risked.
The police then telegraphed for me to come north—while I was enjoying the canvas-backed ducks of “Maryland, my Maryland,” and nursing my vengeance. I came “up north;” but it was of no use. I never saw Brown of 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 were numerous enough already.
To get employment of a regular character, which became more necessary to me now than ever—was as impossible as it had been all along!
Nobody seemed to want anybody like me, in spite of my being not unskilled in foreign languages, and up to clerk’s work—having not yet forgotten the book-keeping which my crammer had crammed into me for the benefit of the “Polite Letter Writer Commissioners.”
I was not actually in necessity, as I had still sufficient funds left to defray my bare living expenses for some months, with strict economy; but I had not come to America merely to exist! I had left home to make my fortune, I tell you; and, how could I be satisfied at this state of things? I was losing time, day by day; and not approaching one whit nearer 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.”—I might go from the old world to the new; but I could not leave my old memories, 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 with the 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 hope is a sworn antagonist to retrospection.
But, as I began to get used to the place and people, never-forgotten scenes and associations came back to mind, which I felt were more difficult to banish now, three thousand miles away, than when I was on the spot with which they had been connected.
Oh! how, bustled about amidst a crowd of unsympathising strangers, to whom our domestic life is only an ideality, I longed for the quiet and charm and love of an English home!
I think that your wanderers and prodigals and black sheep, little though you may believe it, appreciate family union and social ties much more than your steady-going respectables who never stray without the routine circle of upright existence; never err; are never banned as outcasts!
The former look upon “home”—what a world does the very name convey to one who has never known what it is!—much as Moore’s “Peri” regarded Paradise, and as the lost angels may wistfully think of the heaven from which they were expelled. Perhaps they overrate its attributes, imagining, as they do, that it is a blissful state of being, for ever debarred 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 had written on his forehead at his birth, “unstable as water, thou shalt not excel,” and yet, I had the madness, (you may call it so,) to dream of regeneration 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 look up to me, at all events, watching for my coming, and receiving me with gladness “in sorrow or in rest.” A kingdom of affection, where no angry word 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, far away from England and all that I held dear; and, unsuccessful as I always had been, as I always seemed doomed to be!
Happiness for me? What a very ridiculous idea! I was a lunatic. I should “laugh with myself,” as poor Parole d’Honneur used to say!
I knew what sundry kindly-natured persons would say, in the event of my returning to England empty-handed, were I to lead the steadiest life possible.—“Here is Frank Lorton back again like a bad penny!”—they would sneer.—“Reformed from all his wild ways, eh? Really, Mrs Grundy, you must not expect us to believe that! Can the leopard change his spots?”—and so on; or else, kindly hint, that,—“when the devil was sick, the devil a monk would be: when the devil got well, the devil 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 with fame and fortune, they would be the first to receive me with open arms—ignoring all my former social enormities.—Their tune would be slightly different then!
It would be—“Dear me! how glad we are to see him back! You know, Mrs Grundy, that you always said he would turn out well.—His little fastnesses and Bohemian ways?—Pooh! we won’t speak of those now:—only the hot blood of youth, you know—signs of an ardent disposition—we all have our faults;”—and so on.
No, I was not thinking much of “society’s” opinion; but, of that of others, whose good esteem I really valued. They believed in me still:—was I worthy of it?
I thought not.
I doubted myself. Understand, I had no fear of making any new false step in the eyes of the world; or of plunging anew into the dissipations and riotous living of so-called “life,” in return for which I was now eating the husks of voluntary exile: young as I was, I had already learnt 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 my misdeeds, telling me that there was more joy in heaven over one repentant sinner, than for ninety-and-nine just persons that had never offended: 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 look forward to the future, with the hopeful assurance that she was certain that I would never give her reason again to doubt her faith in me.
But, the fatherly affection of the one, the devoted confidence of the other, merited some greater return on my part than mere “uprightness of life,”—in the worldly sense of the expression! Surely, they did?
A man’s words and actions may be above reproach, as far as society is concerned; and yet, he may not have a particle of true religion about him. Both the vicar and Min, however, were earnest Christians. They were deeply religious, without a suspicion of cant or affectation; and they 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 me so!
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 days came, God seemed to forsake me, and my prayers were cast back into my own 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 a jugglery, like the repeating machine in which the Burmese believe, or the 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 a godly life;” and, I had hoped in it; yet now, when I saw all my plans fail, this text took away my faith. Everything was withheld from me, I thought; therefore I could not lead a godly life, no matter how strenuously I strove to do so. I was outcast and forgotten! I had gone through the “vale of misery;” but I could not “use it as a well;” for my pools were empty! Instead of my Creator directing my “going in the way,” He had left me to stumble forward blindly, until I had fallen into the Slough of Despond,—the sink of unbelief!
How hard it is to find that faith which enables us to pray in the confident belief of our supplications being attended to! I remember once reading a passage in a sermon preached by the Archdeacon of Saint Albans in Westminster Abbey some thirteen years ago, which was now brought to my mind. It was one of a series specially designed “for the working classes,” and entitled The Prayer of Human Kind. The passage ran 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 prayers gave me no comfort, I suppose. And yet, it is said that God, whom rich men find so difficult of approach, manifests Himself to us more in adversity than in prosperity. I could not believe in this myself; for, when I was successful, I really seemed to have faith, and could pray from my heart; while, now, despondent, it appeared hypocrisy on my part to pretend to bend my knees to the Almighty; I felt so despairingly faithless!
La Mennais says, in his Paroles d’un Croyant, that—
“Il y a toujours des vents brûlants, qui passent sur l’âme de l’homme, et la desséchant. La prière est la rosée qui la rafraîchit.”
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-même votre premier besoin, et prier Dieu, c’est commencer à posséder Dieu.”
The sirocco of sorrow had fanned its hot breath over my soul; but, no grateful spring shower had cooled it through prayer. God, certainly, knows better than we what we should desire; but why does He not instruct us in His wishes?
Perhaps you think this all milk-and-watery talk, and that I do not mean what I say?
But I do. Even those people whom you might think the most unlikely persons to have such thoughts, will have these reflections, so why not speak of them?
Some, I know, believe that all religious conversation should be strictly tabooed in any reference to secular matters. But it seems to me a very delicate faith that will only stand an airing once a week, like your church services on Sundays! I have thought of such things, and I’m not ashamed to mention them.
Acting on my mind at the same time—in concert with these religious doubts, and the consciousness of my unlucky fortunes—was a strong feeling of home-sickness, which grew and grew with greater intensity as the 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 believing soul than mine had apostrophised in agony, ages before I was born.
You may not credit the fact of the Swiss mountaineers pining of what is called “Home-woe,” when banished from their beloved glaciers, the same as Cyrus’s legions suffered from nostalgia; and, may put down the Frenchman’s maladie du pays, which some expatriated communists are probably 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 the terrible yearning which this home-sickness produces in us in foreign lands. The Devonshire shepherd will weep over the recollections which a little daisy will bring back to him of the old country of his childhood, when standing beneath an Australian gum tree. I have seen a Scotchman in America cherish a thistle, as if it were the rarest of plants, from its native associations; and I know of a potted shamrock which was brought all the way across the ocean in an emigrant ship, by an Irish miner, and which now adorns the window of a veranda-fronted cottage at the Pittsburgh mines in Pennsylvania!
Some of us are “sentimental,” you see. I can answer for myself, at least; and I know that the air of “Home, sweet Home,” has affected me quite as much as the “Ranz des Vaches” would appeal to the sensibilities of an Alpine Jödeller!
I got home-sick now. The passion took complete possession of me.
The burning, suffocating heat of the summer “in the States,” caused me to 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 the Thames, where I used to spend the warm evenings at home. I thought as Izaak Walton, the vicar’s favourite, had thought before me—that I would cheerfully sacrifice all hopes of worldly advancement, all dreams of fortune, all future success, problematical though each and all appeared—
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 to awake, dressing all the trees in fantastic foliage of varied hue, my fancies were recalled to a well-remembered Virginian creeper that ornamented the houses of the Terrace, where my darling lived; for its leafy colouring in the autumn was similar to that I now beheld—in the chrome-tinted maples, the silvery-toned beeches and scarlet “sumachs” of the 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 cherished memories of that kindly-tempered season. I thought of the old firesides where I had been a welcome guest in times past; the old Christmas festivities, the old Christmas cheer, the—bah! What good will it do to you 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 watch the red-funnelled Cunard steamers start on their passage to England—sending my heart after them in impotent cravings: I used, I remember, to mark 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 of notching his post for the same purpose:—I used to fret and fret, in fact, eating my soul away in vain repinings and foolish longings!
And, still, my fortunes did not brighten—notwithstanding that I hunted in every direction for work, and tried to wean my mind from painful associations by hopeful anticipations of “something turning up” on the morrow. The morrow came, sure enough; but no good luck:—my fortunes got darker and darker, as time went on; while my home yearnings grew stronger.
I would have borne my troubles much better, I’m certain, if I could only have heard from my darling.
There was no hope of that, however, as you know. Even if Min would have consented to such a thing, which I knew she would not have done, I should never have dreamt of asking her to write to me in opposition to her mother’s wishes. It is true that I had dear little Miss Pimpernell’s letters; but what could they be in comparison with letters from Min?—although, of course, the kind old lady would tell me all about her, and how she looked, and what she said, in order to encourage me?
It was a hard fight, a bitter struggle—that first year I passed in America; 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 world wags.