My own Life and Adventures; by Robert Merry.
CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCTION.
I am inclined to think, that, among the various pleasures of life, talking is one of the greatest. Eating and drinking are very good things, especially when one is hungry and thirsty, and has a good meal before him. But they are very short in their duration. The heartiest supper is over in a few minutes, and drinking, in as many seconds. Beside, these are selfish pleasures, and afford only the single satisfaction of an immediate appetite. But talking is not confined to self, nor is it limited to the body. It exercises the mind, and extends alike to the speaker and the listener.
The love of talking exhibits itself in very infancy. The little prattler, even before he can speak words, tries to amuse you with his inarticulate gabble. And when he has learned a word, with what glory does he repeat it to you! A young soldier touches off a cannon with less exultation than the infant pronounces his first articulate syllable.
And then, look at a group of children! How eager are they to speak to each other! How their little tongues rattle! Sometimes all will speak at once, whether anybody listens or not. It is often hard to get a word in edgewise among such a set of orators.
Suppose some child has been away, and comes home with a piece of news. How does he rush into the room, scarcely taking time to hang up his hat or cap, and with staring eyes and ruddy cheeks, set forth the wondrous tale! Suppose a child has seen something new, as a lion or an elephant; how does he talk of it to his companions! Or, suppose he has been rambling in the woods, and has seen an eagle, or a gray squirrel, or a woodchuck,—something he had never seen before,—how eager is he to talk about it!
Thus it is with the young; they love to talk of things that interest them; and thus it is with those who have passed from the morning of life toward its setting sun. It may be that old people are less talkative than young ones; but still we all love to speak to others of that which excites our own feelings, or occupies our minds. Talking, then, is one of the great pleasures of life, and God has no doubt made it so for good and wise purposes. How large a portion of the happiness of life would be cut off, if we were all dumb!
For myself, I was a great rattler in youth, and, even now that my hair is grizzled with years, I must confess that I am not greatly altered in this respect. My life has been a varied one, and I have seen a good deal of the world. I cannot pretend to be so great a traveller as Peter Parley, nor can I match him in telling stories to babies. But still, give me a good listener, and something to speak about, and I can talk from sunrise to sunset.
I love better to talk to youth than to others. Those who are from eight to sixteen years old, are my chosen friends. I always find some way of entertaining them. Several bright-eyed girls and boys are in the habit of coming to see me, and I tell them my long stories. They come again and again, and I infer that they are pleased with them. I tell them sometimes of giants and fairies; but it is curious, that, while most young people prefer these tales of fancy, I succeed much better in pleasing my listeners by talking to them about things that really exist, or have really happened. Truth, after all, is more attractive than fiction, if it is only dressed in a proper guise.
My own adventures seem to give my listeners the most pleasure; for I have been all over the United States; have been a soldier, and seen service; have been a pedler, and travelled thousands of miles on foot; have met with strange accidents and hairbreadth escapes from danger; and have had my share of what is called hard luck. Still, I have reason to thank Heaven that my heart is happy, and my mind cheerful. I love sunshine as well as when I was a boy, and see much more occasion to laugh than to cry. I have indeed my serious moods, for there are some subjects that demand seriousness and reverence. Religion claims some of our time, and much of our thought. The Sabbath is with me a day of solemn reflection and prayer. I bend over the Bible, with a feeling that I am listening to the voice of God. These things make me serious, but not sad. As the sun seems to shine brighter, when it comes out from a cloud, so my heart is ever more serene and cheerful, for its communion with holy things.
But this is enough for an introduction. I am now going to tell the story of my own life, which I hope may prove both amusing and instructive.
CHAPTER II.
About my Birth.—The Death of my Parents.—My first Journey.—My Wonder at seeing the Country.—Lambs.—I find out where Milk comes from.—Reflections and good Advice.
I was born in the city of New York, in the year 1790. My parents were both English people. At first, they were in poor circumstances, but my father became a merchant, and acquired some property. He died, however, in the midst of success; and in a few months after my mother followed. I was thus left an orphan, at the age of six years, but with a fortune of about ten thousand dollars.
My mother had a brother living in the small town of Salem, situated upon the eastern border of the State of New York, and touching the line of Connecticut. He kept a tavern; and, as it was upon the great road that was then the route between Boston and New York, he had a good situation and a thriving business.
To the care of this uncle I was committed by my mother’s will, and immediately after her death I was taken to my uncle’s residence. I had never been out of the city of New York, and had never seen the country. I had supposed the world one great city, and never fancied that there were hills, and forests, and rivers, and fields without any houses. I still remember my journey from New York to Salem very well. I remember that the sight of so many new things, put the recollection of my father and my mother out of my mind, and banished the sorrow I had felt at seeing my parents laid into the coffin, and carried away, to return to me no more. I was delighted at everything I met, and particularly remember some lambs that I saw playing on a hill-side. They were scampering about, jumping from rock to rock, and chasing each other at full speed. I had never seen a lamb before, and I thought these the prettiest creatures that were ever made. I have since seen lions and tigers, and many other strange creatures; but I have never met with any animal, that excited in me half the admiration that I felt when I saw those little lambs.
I suppose some of my young friends in the country will laugh at what I am now going to tell them; but it is nevertheless true. As I was going from New York to Salem, we stopped one night at a small inn. When we arrived at this place, the sun was an hour high, and I had some time to play about the house. As I was running around, peeping at every new and strange thing, I saw some cows in the barn-yard. I had seen cows before, but still I went up to the gate and looked through, and there I saw a woman, sitting upon a little stool, and milking one of the cows. Now I had never seen a cow milked before, nor, indeed, did I know where milk came from. I had not thought about it at all. If I had been asked the question, I should probably have said, that we got milk as we do water, by pumping it from the cistern, or drawing it out of the well.
I looked at the woman for some time, wondering what she could be about. When she had done, she came out of the yard, and I saw that her pail was full of milk. “What is that that you have got?” said I. “It is milk,” said the woman. “Where did you get it?” said I. “I got it from the cow, you little simpleton!” said the woman; and then she went into the house.
I did not like to be called a simpleton, for I had come all the way from the great city of New York, and supposed that I knew everything. I soon found, however, that I was ignorant of many useful things that children of my age in the country were well acquainted with.
The little incident, however, that I have just related, was not without its use to me. It set me thinking about other things, and I began to ask questions about every article of food and dress,—where they came from, and how they were made; and, in this way, I obtained a great deal of knowledge. I would recommend it to my young readers to follow my example in this respect. They will find it very amusing to study into these matters. Let them one day inquire about hats, what they are made of, where the materials come from, how they are obtained, and how they are wrought into hats. Another day, let them take up the subject of coats, and learn all about the cloth, the buckram, silk, twist, and buttons, that are used in making them. So let them go through with dress; and then they may inquire about bread, and other articles of food; and then they may learn all about the furniture in the house. From this subject, they may go on and learn how houses are built. I can assure my young readers, that, in this way, they may spend their time very pleasantly, and become well acquainted with all those useful things with which we are surrounded. If I had done this before I went to Salem, I should have known where milk came from, and not been called simpleton by a milkmaid.
CHAPTER III.
Wise Observations.—Story of the Hat.
I fancy that some of my readers imagine, that it would be a dull business to study into the history of hats and coats, bread and butter, and such other common-place things. But there is an old proverb which says, “Look ere you leap;” and another which says, “Think twice and speak once.” These admonish us never to be over-hasty in speaking or acting; and, on the present occasion, I shall endeavor to show, that this good rule has been transgressed by those who despise my advice about hats and coats, bread and butter.
Here, Philip! give me a hat; let it speak for itself. Come, old hat, tell us your story! tell us what you are made of; where the materials of which you are made were obtained, how they were put together, and the price at which you were sold. Come, old beaver, speak out! What! dumb? Not a word? Then I will speak for you. So here is
THE STORY OF THE HAT, SUPPOSED TO BE TOLD BY ITSELF.
“I am made partly of wool, which is the hair of sheep, and partly of furs, of different kinds. There is some beaver’s fur, some musquash’s, and some wildcat’s in me.
“I suppose that everybody knows how we get wool,—by shearing it from the sheep’s back; but we do not get furs in the same way. Musquashes, beavers, and wildcats are not tame, like sheep, and they will not let you take them into a barn, and shear off their nice, soft fur. These creatures live far away from the abodes of men; they seek the distant solitudes beyond the hills and mountains, and those who would catch them must go and find them in these wild retreats.
“Sometimes, it is true, a beaver is found nearer to our houses, and now and then a wildcat, that has strayed from his native forest, is found in the neighboring woods. The musquash builds his habitation on the banks of streams, and is not very uncommon even in districts frequented by man.
“But these animals are, on the whole, so scarce, that, in order to obtain a supply of their fur, a great many hunters and trappers spend their time in roaming through the mountains, valleys, and prairies of the far West, in order to obtain them. These people meet with a great many strange adventures. Sometimes they will follow the branch of a river for five hundred miles, in a boat, during which time they will not meet with a human habitation, save the wigwams of the Indians. Sometimes they will sleep at night upon the ground, with no covering but a blanket; sometimes they will meet with a party of Indians, and have a fight with them. Sometimes they will meet with friendly Indians, who receive them into their lodges, and entertain them kindly; sometimes they are confronted by a grizzly bear, who places himself in their path, and must receive at least a dozen bullets in his breast before he is killed. Sometimes they will roam over wide deserts, and suffer very much for want of water. Sometimes they will be in the midst of a vast prairie, the grass of which is on fire, and then they have the greatest difficulty to escape from the flames. Sometimes they are robbed of all their furs by hostile Indians, and sometimes they meet with Indians who sell them large quantities of fur.
“After a great many cares, and trials, and dangers, and often after an absence of two years, the fur-hunter comes back with his load of skins; and a pretty figure he is. The clothes he carried with him are worn out, and he is now attired in the skins of various wild beasts. On his head you see the grizzled fur of a raccoon, with his tail hanging down behind. His coat is made of a wolf’s skin, and his vest of the skin of an otter. But his trowsers are the drollest part of his attire. They are made of a bear’s skin, and each leg looks like a great, shaggy, black dog, standing upright! Altogether, the hunter is a most curious object. He looks like three or four wild animals all sewed into one!
“What a great variety of adventures has this man met with in his wanderings of two years. How many pleasant stories could he tell, if he would sit down of a long winter night, and recount all that happened to him; all about the bears, the foxes, the wolves, and the wild Indians that he saw. How much this poor man must have suffered; what toil, hunger, thirst, danger and privation; and all this, that master Philip might have a hat; all this to get furs to make hats of.
“The wool and fur being obtained, these are prepared by the hatter, who, in the first place, makes a sort of cap, shaped something like a sugar-loaf. This is then soaked in hot water, and, being put upon a block, the crown is made of a proper shape. The whole is stiffened with gum, colored, dressed, put in boxes, and sent to the hat-seller. The price paid for me was two dollars. Philip has worn me for about a year, but I am in a sad condition. The hole in my crown was made by a stick, which went through me one day when Philip threw me at a red squirrel on the fence. The rent on my brim was caused by a saucy fellow, that tried to pull me off one day; but I chose to be torn, rather than see Philip insulted by having his hat knocked off; for, though the boy has his faults, I like him better than anybody else.”
Such is the story of the hat. My object in giving it to you is, to show, that the commonest article of daily use has its history, if we will only inquire into it.
CHAPTER IV.
Arrival at my Uncle’s.—The Village.—Bill Keeler.—My first Day at School.—Trouble.
I must now return to the story of myself. The morning after I left the little tavern where I discovered how milk was obtained, we proceeded on our journey, and at evening arrived at my uncle’s house. It was an old-fashioned building, painted red, with a large sign swinging in front, upon one side of which was the picture of a stout barn-yard cock, and on the other side was the head of a bull. So my uncle’s tavern went by the name of the “Cock and Bull.”
I soon became acquainted with the family, and in a few weeks was quite familiar with the main street and all the by-lanes in the village. My uncle had no children, but there was living with him a boy about ten years old, by the name of Bill Keeler. He became my principal companion, and, being a very knowing sort of lad, gave me an insight into many things, which I could not otherwise have understood.
After I had been at my uncle’s about six months, it was concluded to send me to school. I was now seven years of age, but, strange as it may seem to boys and girls of the present day, I did not know my letters, and, what is more remarkable, I had a great dislike to the idea of going to school. I believe it is the case that all people who grow up ignorant acquire a settled dislike to learning and learned people. As an owl can see best in the dark, because the light seems to put his eyes out, so ignorant people love ignorance and darkness, because truth and knowledge offend and distress them. I mention these things as a warning to my reader against growing up in ignorance, and thereby becoming a lover of darkness, rather than light.
Well, I went to school for the first time, and I remember all about it to this day. The schoolhouse was situated in a large space, where four roads met. It was a bleak and desolate hill-side, partly covered with heaps of stones, thrown out of the path, or gathered from the neighboring fields. There were a few groups of tangled briers and stunted huckleberry bushes amid these heaps of stones. On the lower side of the hill, there was an old gnarled oak growing out of a heap of splintered rocks, at the foot of which there bubbled forth a small stream of pure water. This fountain went by the pretty name of “Silver Spring.”
Bill Keeler led me into the school, which was then kept by Mistress Sally St. John. She looked at me through her spectacles, and over her spectacles, and then patted me on the head, told me I was a good boy, and sent me to a seat. In about an hour I was called up, the spelling-book opened, and the alphabet being placed before me, the mistress pointed to the first letter, and asked me what it was.
I looked at the letter very carefully, and then gazed in the face of Mistress St. John, but said nothing. “What’s that?” said she, peremptorily, still pointing to the first letter of the alphabet. Now I hadn’t been used to being scolded, and therefore felt a little angry at the manner in which the school-mistress addressed me. Beside, at that moment I saw Bill Keeler at the other end of the room, looking at me with a saucy twinkle in his eye, which made me still more angry.
“What’s that?” again said the school-mistress, still sharper than before. It was time for me to do something. “I’ll not tell you!” said I. “Why not?” said the school-mistress, greatly amazed at my conduct. “Because I didn’t come here to teach you your letters; but I came here to learn them.”
The school-mistress shut up her book. Bill Keeler rolled up his eyes, and made his mouth into a round O. “Go to your seat!” said the school-mistress. I turned to go. “Stop!” said the school-mistress, fetching me a slap on the side of the head; at the same moment she opened the book, and again presented the alphabet to my view. “Look, there!” said she, pointing with her finger to the top letter; “do you see that?” I answered, “Yes.” “Well, that’s A,” said she. “That’s A?” said I, doubtingly. “Yes,” said the mistress sharply. “I don’t believe it!” said I. “Why don’t you believe it?” said she. “Because I never heard of it before,” I replied. “Go to your seat!” said the school-mistress; and away I went.
Such was my first day’s schooling. In the evening, Mistress St. John called upon my uncle, and told him I was the most stupid creature she ever saw, and very ill-mannered beside; and she hoped I would by no means be permitted to come again to her school. My uncle was greatly offended, not with me, but with the school-mistress. He declared I should not go near her again; and, for more than a year, I was permitted to amuse myself in my own way. I was greatly pleased with all this at the time, but I have since often thought how severely I was punished for my ill behavior at school. For more than a year, I was left to run about in idleness, getting bad habits, and losing the precious time that should have been devoted to the acquisition of knowledge. Thus it always happens, that, soon or late, we are made to suffer for our misconduct.
(To be continued.)