CHAPTER I. THE WAY HE WAS “BROUGHT UP.”
J ohn Earl, the subject of our story, was a true and veritable specimen of the genus Jour Printer,—intelligent, reckless, witty, improvident, competent, and unsteady,—floating on the great sea of life, regardless of either its winds or tides,—but little troubled about the present, and perfectly indifferent as to the future. John was the son of a Philadelphia printer, who died soon after his marriage, and the grief and destitution of our hero's mother so preyed upon her slender frame, that in giving birth to him she sunk under her sufferings—the wail of her offspring in this world was the knell which signalled her departure to another. That “the poor aids the poor,” was a saying verified in John's case, for a poor shoemaker in the house adjoining his home took charge of the bereaved infant, and sheltered it beneath his humble roof. The worthy son of Crispin had none of his own to trouble him, and his wife and himself, as their little charge budded into prattling childhood, grew daily more fond of him, until our hero held at least his third of interest in the household. At his own request he was permitted to learn the same business his father had been bred to, and with many injunctions, and a good suit of clothes, he was consigned at a proper age to a master printer. Soon after his transfer to his new home, his adopted parents bade him farewell. The old shoemaker had become infected with the western fever for emigration, and after long and repeated consultations with his wife, had concluded to depart to the land of rapid fortunes and unbounded enterprise. The parting was affectionate, and after many fond wishes for each other's happiness, our hero was left to the mercies of the “Art preservative.” We need not say that he grew wise in its mysteries, we will assume it as a matter of course. John was, or rather grew to be of a happy disposition, and viewed life as something resembling Pat's pig, a compound of alternate streaks of fat and lean, and whenever fortune looked through her blue spectacles upon his progress, he always set it down as his streak of lean, and grew happy amid his distresses, under the firm belief that his alternate slice of fat was next in order. He was a philosopher in the true sense of the word, for he let no occurrence of life rumple the couch of his repose—if he didn't like his quarters he took up his store of earthly wealth upon the end of a stick, and travelled. At the period of which we write, John had tasted four or five years of the responsibility of manhood, and had, from the day of his freedom, been an occasional visiter to all the Atlantic cities; he had now grown tired of his old tramping ground, and turned his eye westward. Who knows, thought John, but I may find a Mount Arrarat in the new land whereon to rest my ark! “The west, aye,” thought John, “that mighty corn field—that region of pork and plenty—land of the migrating sucker—haven of hope, and country of adventure, I stretch out my arms towards thee, take me up like a mother, and be kind to your new child.”
Gathering up his shirt No. 2, and overcoat No. 1, into a handkerchief valise, and wending his way to a Baltimore steamer, he proceeded on board, deposited his bundle, and shook the dust of the city from his feet. From the deck of the steamer he looked out upon the mart of trade, covered with its busy hundreds, who were rushing to and fro, and running in and out of the great store-houses, like swarms of bees around their hives.
“Poor fellows,” soliloquized John, “how soon old time will knock them over, and distribute all the honey they are toiling for among a new generation.”
A ringing of the steamer's bell disturbed his musings, and all became, for a few minutes, bustle and confusion—the engine moved, and the paddles answered its clank with a splash, a moment more and they were moving in the stream, and wending their way past the rows of shipping. As the smoke of the city faded from their view, John turned about to look upon his fellow passengers; some looked pleased, as if the trip was one of pleasure; others sad, as if departing from joys; whilst a portion, discontented with what they had left, appeared determined to dislike what they were journeying to, and muttered their displeasure audibly. Standing alone, leaning over the rail, was a fine looking elderly gentleman, whose countenance wore an air of quiet content and goodness—it was, indeed, one of those inviting countenances that we sometimes see possessed by honorable old age, which tells of wise thought and kindly sympathy, instead of a callous heart and suspicious mind, and our hero selected its owner for a travelling acquaintance. Approaching him, and leaning over a rail by his side, he remarked, “We are moving through the water, sir, with lightning speed.”
This assertion being most palpable and manifest, the old gent remarked in turn that they were moving with rapidity. Having fully agreed upon this point, John ventured further to enquire, “If it had ever occurred to his mind that steamboats were a great invention, any how?” The old gentleman acknowledged “he had been forcibly struck with the fact.” Now, these passes of conversation may appear to the reader as very trivial and commonplace, but let us assure him they led to important results—they broke the ice which lay between two bodies, and let their souls float into contact. John having, as it were, got hold of the cover of non-intercourse, which most travellers wear, just unfolded it at each corner, and by his wit, intelligence, and reckless gaiety, folded himself up next the old man's heart, and tucked the corners of the robe under him. The old man soon became delighted with our hero, and they became inseparable compagnons du voyage.
A small bell was rung, and immediately the clerk commenced taking up tickets. Here was an eventful period for John—he had not troubled himself with the necessary receipt for passage, for one very good reason—he had none of the needful to purchase it with; like all philosophers he had great faith in luck, and now resigned himself to her care.
“I'll take your ticket, sir,” said the clerk.
“I wish you would,” said John, “if you see it any where about me.”
The clerk took a stare at our hero, and then remarked, “I have no time to jest, sir.”
“Nor I any inclination,” added John, “the fact is, my friend, I've got no ticket, and as uncle Sam is my only existing relation, and as you have a contract with him, suppose you book me as one of his males.”
“I say I have no time for jesting, sir,” reiterated the clerk, in an angry tone, “so please to hand me your ticket.”
“Well, then,” continued John, “I'll have to let you into my secret, I see,—I'm an attaché of the press, on my road to Washington;—now, I suppose, its all right. You are aware if I am delayed, Gales and Seaton will be very angry, and Blair and Rives get in a pucker.” The clerk was here getting into a wrathy state, when John's old friend reached the clerk the amount of his passage, and he passed on. John objected, but the old man insisted upon lending it to him, and the matter of fare being settled they sped onward smoothly as before. “Here's a streak of fat” thought John, “for I have accidentally fell in with a travelling angel,” and as some return for his generosity, he set about making himself particularly agreeable to his old companion. In the course of their conversation the old gent learned John's history, and that he was now on his way to Washington in search of business, to raise money enough to carry him west. His companion informed John that he was a western man, and invited him to bear him company to his home in Cleveland, Ohio; but our hero preferred the Mississippi country. He agreed, however, if he should fail in gaining business in Washington, to accompany him to Wheeling, provided he would increase the debt already incurred, and trust to the goddess, luck, for payment. After being assured that his company was considered worth double the sum, the matter was set at rest, and they entered Washington together.
The old man had business in the city, and proposed to our hero, that while he was transacting it, he should take a stroll through the offices and see what chance there was for employment, and afterwards meet him at the Capitol. They separated, and when they again met, according to appointment, our typo “reported no progress,” so it was instantly agreed they should depart for Wheeling. As they gazed from the “spectator's gallery,” John whispered to his companion:
“I know the mass of those patriots below, and rightly appreciate them, for I have been behind the curtain—have helped some of them to make good English of their speeches to Bunkum,—have seen their tricks to get office, and their tricks to keep them,—have seen the way the cat jumps, and seen it jump too; in short, I'm up to the whole 'wool pulling' system, and I advise them to go it while they can, for the people may one day find them out, and then their spreading here will end in a sprawl at home.”
He had gradually grown warm in his soliloquy, until his voice became audible, when the speaker struck his hammer, the sergeant-at-arms started for the gallery, and John and his old friend started for the stairs.
On the next morning the two departed west, leaving the seat of government and its official inhabitants, for the broad land of promise which lay beyond.
“What think you of the capital?” enquired the old gentleman, as they journeyed onward.
“The worst,” answered our hero, and assuming a Timon of Athens attitude, he added, “I have turned my back upon it in disgust. It is a theatre of the worst passions in our nature—chicanery lurks within the cabinet, distrust and envy without, while fawning sycophancy environs it around and about. To sum it up, it is a little of government—a great deal of 'bunkum,' sprinkled with a high seasoning of political juggling, the whole of which has but one end and aim—the spoils of Uncle Sam.”
“Bravo!” exclaimed his old friend, “you will have to get elected from some of the Western states, and set about cleaning the Augean stable.”
“Not I,” answered John. “It's too dirty a job, and besides, the sovereign people claim it as their peculiar privilege, let them smell it out for themselves.”
Discussing thus, things political, they jogged on to their place of parting, without incident worthy of noting by the way. John still held to his desire of visiting the Mississippi country, and his old friend insisted on paying his expenses to Cincinnati, our hero easily yielded to his proposition, with the understanding that it was to be paid when they again met.
“I may one day see you in Cleveland,” said John, “with fortune buckled on my back, and if it should be there, 'whether I will or no,' be assured I shall not cut my old friends.”
The old man laughed at the careless abandon of his young friend, insisted upon his calling upon him in Cleveland when he had become tired of strolling, and they parted with warm expressions of regard. Our hero having found a boat which drew so little water, that it would, as the captain said, “run up a tree with a drop of the element upon it,” he embarked on board, and stretching his form out in one of the state-room berths, gave liberty to his thoughts, and wandered back in memory to his childhood. Vainly did his memory search for some kindred face to dwell upon, the only semblance to such was the old shoemaker and his wife; and next to them he placed his late companion,—for he and his adopted parents were the only beings in his recollection who had ever bestowed upon him disinterested, kindly regard. He felt that he had floated like a moat in the sunbeam, whithersoever the breeze listed, having no home where he might nestle in health, or lie down in when seized by affliction—no port opened its arms to his bark, nor had it any destination—because it had no papers! but floated upon the broad wave of life the sport of fortune—and a hard fortune at that. As these thoughts stole over his heart, it became sad, and for the first time in years its fountains filled up to overflowing, and poured its burning waters over his cheeks. The future was a matter of such uncertainty, that he did not care to think upon it, nor at that moment did he care what it might bring forth—if good, well; if evil, it would be but a change from one feature of hard fortune to another. In due course of time the queen city of the west appeared in the distance, and his heart revived as he gazed upon her young greatness—hope awoke from her short slumber to urge him forward to greater efforts. On landing he sought out a printing establishment, and at his first application fortune favored him—a streak of fat was waiting for his arrival in the pork city, so throwing off his coat, he was soon clicking the type to the tune of “better days” and here we shall leave him until our next chapter.