Sword and Pen
by John Algernon Owens · English · Gutenberg #28152 · 1,060,971 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Sword and Pen
Author: John Algernon Owens
Release date: February 21, 2009 [eBook #28152]
Most recently updated: January 4, 2021
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/28152
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Transcriber's note:
Several minor typographical errors have been corrected in
transcribing this work: contineu, secresy, bubling,
reconnoissance, cotemporary, delived (should be delivered),
eat (ate), Alleghany, amendmet, lage (large). Otherwise the
text is original and retains some inconsistent or outdated
spellings.
The original contains two lengthy addenda supplied by the
publisher which were not named in the Table of Contents.
Entries for these have been added to the Contents for
the convenience of the reader.
Despite the many testimonials in this book, as of 2008, the
source of the Mississippi is considered to be Lake Itasca.
Following a five-month investigation in 1891 it was decided
that the stream from Elk Lake (the body that Glazier would
have called Lake Glazier) into Itasca is too insignificant
to be deemed the river's source. Both lakes can be seen,
looking much as they do in the maps in this book, by directing
any online mapping service to 47 deg.11'N, 95 deg.14'W.
SWORD AND PEN
* * * * *
POPULAR WORKS OF
Captain Willard Glazier.
THE SOLDIER-AUTHOR.
I. Soldiers of the Saddle.
II. Capture, Prison-Pen, and Escape.
III. Battles for the Union.
IV. Heroes of Three Wars.
V. Peculiarities of American Cities.
VI. Down the Great River.
Captain Glazier's works are growing more and more popular
every day. Their delineations of military life, constantly
varying scenes, and deeply interesting stories, combine to
place their writer in the front rank of American authors.
SOLD ONLY BY SUBSCRIPTION.
PERSONS DESIRING AGENCIES FOR ANY OF CAPTAIN GLAZIER'S
BOOKS SHOULD ADDRESS
THE PUBLISHERS
* * * * *
[Illustration: (signed) Willard Glazier]
SWORD AND PEN;
or,
Ventures and Adventures
of
WILLARD GLAZIER,
(The Soldier-Author,)
In
War and Literature:
Comprising
Incidents and Reminiscences of His Childhood; His
Chequered Life As a Student and Teacher; and His
Remarkable Career As a Soldier and Author;
Embracing Also the Story of His Unprecedented
Journey from Ocean to Ocean
on Horseback; and an Account of
His Discovery of the True Source
of the Mississippi River, and
Canoe Voyage Thence to
the Gulf of Mexico.
by
JOHN ALGERNON OWENS.
Illustrated.
Philadelphia:
P. W. Ziegler &. Company, Publishers,
720 Chestnut Street.
1890.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1880, by
John Algernon Owens,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D.C.
PREFACE.
No apology will be required from the author for presenting to the public
some episodes in the useful career of a self-made man; and while the
spirit of patriotism continues to animate the sturdy sons of America,
the story of one of them who has exemplified this national trait in a
conspicuous measure, will be deemed not unworthy of record. The lessons
it teaches, more especially to the young, are those of uncompromising
_duty_ in every relation of life--self-denial, perseverance and "pluck;"
while the successive stages of a course which led ultimately to a
brilliant success, may be studied with some advantage by those just
entering upon the business of life. As a soldier, Willard Glazier was
"without fear and without reproach." As an author, it is sufficient to
say, he is appreciated by his _contemporaries_--than which, on a
literary man, no higher encomium can be passed. The sale of nearly half
a million copies of one of his productions is no slight testimony to its
value.
Biography, to be interesting, must be a transcript of an eventful, as
well as a remarkable career; and to be instructive, its subject should
be exemplary in his aims, and in his mode of attaining them. The hero of
this story comes fully up to the standard thus indicated. His career has
been a romance. Born of parents of small means but of excellent
character and repute; and bred and nurtured in the midst of some of the
wildest and grandest scenery in the rugged county of St. Lawrence,
close by the "Thousand Isles," where New York best proves her right to
be called the Empire State through the stamp of royalty on her hills and
streams--under the shadow of such surroundings as these, my subject
attained maturity, with no opportunities for culture except those he
made for himself. Yet he became possessed of an education eminently
useful, essentially practical and calculated to establish just such
habits of self-reliance and decision as afterwards proved chiefly
instrumental in his success. Glazier had a fixed ambition to rise. He
felt that the task would be difficult of accomplishment--that he must be
not only the architect, but the builder of his own fortunes; and, as the
statue grows beneath the sculptor's hand to perfect contour from the
unshapely block of marble, so prosperity came to Captain Glazier only
after he had cut and chiseled away at the hard surface of inexorable
circumstance, and moulded therefrom the statue of his destiny.
J. A. O.
Philadelphia, _June 14th_, 1880.
* * * * *
TO
THE MEMORY OF
ULYSSES SIMPSON GRANT,
WHOSE SWORD,
AND TO THAT OF
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW,
WHOSE PEN,
Have so Nobly Illustrated the Valor and Genius of their Country:
THE AUTHOR,
In a Spirit of Profound Admiration for
THE RENOWNED SOLDIER,
And of Measureless Gratitude to
THE IMMORTAL WRITER,
Dedicates This Book.
* * * * *
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
ORIGIN OF THE GLAZIER FAMILY.
Lineage of Willard Glazier.--A good stock.--Oliver Glazier at the
Battle of Bunker Hill.--The home of honest industry.--The Coronet of
Pembroke.--The "Homestead Farm."--Mehitable Bolton.--Her New England
home.--Her marriage to Ward Glazier.--The wild "North Woods."--The
mother of the soldier-author 21
CHAPTER II.
BIRTH AND CHILDHOOD OF WILLARD GLAZIER.
The infant stranger.--A mother's prayers.--"Be just before you are
generous."--Careful training.--Willard Glazier's first battle.--A
narrow escape.--Facing the foe.--The "happy days of childhood."--
"The boy is father to the man" 27
CHAPTER III.
EARLY LIFE AND HABITS.
Scotch-Irish Presbyterianism of twenty-five years ago.--The "little
deacon."--First days at school.--Choosing a wife.--A youthful
gallant.--A close scholar but a wild lad.--A mother's influence.--
Ward Glazier a Grahamite.--Young Willard's practical jokes.--
Anecdote of Crystal Spring.--"That is something like water" 34
CHAPTER IV.
WILLARD GLAZIER AT SCHOOL.
School-days continued.--Boys will be boys.--Cornelius Carter, the
teacher.--Young Willard's rebellion against injustice.--
Gum-chewing.--Laughable race through the snow.--The tumble into a
snow-bank, and what came of it.--The runaway caught.--Explanation
and reconciliation.--The new master, James Nichols.--"Spare the rod
and spoil the child."--The age of chivalry not gone.--Magnanimity
of a school-boy.--Friendship between Willard and Henry
Abbott.--Good-bye to the "little deacon" 42
CHAPTER V.
ECCENTRICITIES OF HENRY GLAZIER.
Henry Glazier.--A singular character.--"Kaw-shaw-gan-ce" and
"Quaw-taw-pee-ab."--Tom Lolar and Henry Glazier.--Attractive
show-bills.--Billy Muldoon and his trombone.--Behind the
scenes.--"Sound your G!"--The mysterious musician.--What happened to
Billy.--"May the divil fly away wid ye!" 50
CHAPTER VI.
VISIONS OF THE FUTURE.
The big uncle and the little nephew.--Exchange of ideas between the
eccentric Henry Glazier and young Willard.--Inseparable
companions.---Willard's early reading.--Favorite authors.--
Hero-worship of the first Napoleon and Charles XII. of Sweden.--
The genius of good and of evil.--Allen Wight.--A born teacher.--
Reverses of fortune.--The shadow on the home.--Willard's resolve
to seek his fortune and what came of it.--The sleep under the
trees.--The prodigal's return.--"All's well that ends well" 58
CHAPTER VII.
WILLARD GLAZIER AT HOME.
Out of boyhood.--Days of adolescence.--True family pride.--Schemes
for the future.--Willard as a temperance advocate.--Watering his
grandfather's whiskey.--The pump behind the hill.--The sleigh-ride
by night.--The "shakedown" at Edward's.--Intoxicated by tobacco
fumes.--The return ride.--Landed in a snow-bank.--Good-bye horses
and sleigh!--Plodding through the snow 68
CHAPTER VIII.
ADVENTURES--EQUINE AND BOVINE.
Ward Glazier moves to the Davis Place.--"Far in the lane a lonely
house he found."--Who was Davis?--Description of the place.--A wild
spot for a home.--Willard at work.--Adventure with an ox-team.--The
road, the bridge and the stream.--"As an ox thirsteth for the
water."--Dashed from a precipice!--Willard as a horse-tamer.--
"Chestnut Bess," the blooded mare.--The start for home.--"Bess" on
the rampage.--A lightning dash.--The stooping arch.--Bruised and
unconscious 75
CHAPTER IX.
THE YOUNG TRAPPER OF THE OSWEGATCHIE.
A plan of life.--Determination to procure an education.--A
substitute at the plow.--His father acquiesces in his determination
to become a trapper.--Life in the wild woods along the
Oswegatchie.--The six "dead falls."--First success.--A fallacious
calculation.--The goal attained.--Seventy-five dollars in hard
cash!--Four terms of academic life.--The youthful rivals.--Lessons
in elocution.--A fight with hair-brushes and chairs!--"The walking
ghost of a kitchen fire."--Renewed friendship.--Teaching to obtain
means for an education 87
CHAPTER X.
THE SOLDIER SCHOOL-MASTER.
From boy to man.--The Lyceum debate.--Willard speaks for the
slave.--Entrance to the State Normal School.--Reverses.--Fighting
the world again.--Assistance from fair hands.--Willard meets Allen
Barringer.--John Brown, and what Willard thought of him.--Principles
above bribe.--Examination.--A sleepless night.--Haunted by the
"ghost of possible defeat."--"Here is your certificate."--The school
at Schodack Centre.--At the "Normal" again.--The Edwards
School.--Thirty pupils at two dollars each.--The "soldier
school-master."--Teachers at East Schodack.--The runaway
ride.--Good-by mittens, robes and whip!--Close of school at East
Schodack 102
CHAPTER XI.
INTRODUCTION TO MILITARY LIFE.
The mutterings of war.--Enlistment.--At Camp Howe.--First experience
as a soldier.--"One step to the front!"--Beyond Washington.--On
guard.--Promotion.--Recruiting service.--The deserted home on
Arlington Heights.--"How shall I behave in the coming battle?"--The
brave Bayard.--On the march.--The stratagem at Falmouth Heights.--A
brilliant charge.--After the battle 118
CHAPTER XII.
FIRST BATTLE OF BRANDY STATION.
The sentinel's lonely round.--General Pope in command of the
army.--Is gunboat service effective?--First cavalry battle of Brandy
Station.--Under a rain of bullets.--Flipper's orchard.--"Bring on
the brigade, boys!"--Capture of Confederate prisoners.--Story of a
revolver.--Cedar Mountain.--Burial of the dead rebel.--Retreat from
the Rapidan.--The riderless horse.--Death of Captain Walters 128
CHAPTER XIII.
MANASSAS AND FREDERICKSBURG.
Manassas.--The flying troops.--The unknown hero.--Desperate
attempt to stop the retreat.--Recruiting the decimated
ranks.--Fredericksburg.--Bravery of Meagher's brigade.--The
impregnable heights.--The cost of battles.--Death of
Bayard.--Outline of his life 135
CHAPTER XIV.
UNWRITTEN HISTORY.
"What boots a weapon in a withered hand?"--A thunderbolt
wasted.--War upon hen-roosts.--A bit of unpublished history.--A
fierce fight with Hampton's cavalry.--In one red burial blent.--From
camp to home.--Troubles never come singly.--The combat.--The
capture.--A superfluity of Confederate politeness.--Lights and
shadows 144
CHAPTER XV.
THE CAPTURE.
A situation to try the stoutest hearts.--Hail Columbia!--Every man a
hero.--Kilpatrick's ingenuity.--A pen-picture from "Soldiers of the
Saddle."--Glazier thanked by his general.--Cessation of
hostilities.--A black day.--Fitzhugh Lee proposes to crush
Kilpatrick.--Kil's audacity.--Capture of Lieutenant Glazier.--Petty
tyranny.--"Here, Yank, hand me that thar hat, and overcoat, and
boots" 155
CHAPTER XVI.
LIBBY PRISON.
"All ye who enter here abandon hope."--Auld lang syne.--Major
Turner.--Hope deferred maketh the heart sick.--Stoicism.--Glazier
enters the prison-hospital--A charnel-house.--Rebel surgeons.--
Prison correspondence.--Specimen of a regulation letter.--The
tailor's joke.--A Roland for an Oliver.--News of death.--Schemes
for escape.--The freemasonry of misfortune.--Plot and
counter-plot.--The pursuit of pleasure under difficulties 166
CHAPTER XVII.
PRISON LIFE.
Mournful news.--How a brave man dies.--New Year's day.--Jolly under
unfavorable circumstances.--Major Turner pays his respects.--
Punishment for singing "villainous Yankee songs."--Confederate
General John Morgan.--Plans for escape.--Digging their way to
freedom.--"Poet No. 1, All's well."--Yankee ingenuity.--The tunnel
ready.--Muscle the trump card.--No respect to rank.--_Sauve qui
peut!_--A strategic movement.--"Guards! guards!"--Absentees from
muster.--Disappointed hopes.--Savage treatment of prisoners.--Was
the prison mined? 179
CHAPTER XVIII.
DANVILLE.--MACON.--SAVANNAH.
Belle Boyd, the Confederate spy.--National characteristics.--Colonel
Mosby.--Richmond to Danville.--Sleeping spoon-fashion.--Glazier's
"corrective point" suffers.--Saltatory entrance to a railroad
car.--Colonel Joselyn.--Sympathy of North Carolinians.--Ingenious
efforts to escape.--Augusta.--Macon.--Turner again!--"Carelessness"
with firearms.--Tunneling.--Religious revival.--Order from
Confederate War Department.--Murder!--Fourth of July.--Macon to
Savannah.--Camp Davidson.--More tunneling 194
CHAPTER XIX.
UNDER FIRE AT CHARLESTON.
Under siege.--Charleston Jail.--The Stars and Stripes.--Federal
compliments.--Under the guns.--Roper Hospital.--Yellow
Jack.--Sisters of Charity.--Rebel Christianity.--A Byronic
stanza.--Charleston to Columbia.--"Camp Sorghum."--Nemesis.--Another
dash for liberty.--Murder of Lieutenants Young and Parker.--Studying
topography.--A vaticination.--Back to reality 206
CHAPTER XX.
THE ESCAPE FROM COLUMBIA.
Mysterious voices.--"I reckon dey's Yankees."---"Who comes
there?"--The Lady of the Manor.--A weird spectacle.--The struggle
through the swamp.--A reflection on Southern swamps in
general.--"Tired nature's sweet restorer" 221
CHAPTER XXI.
LOYALTY OF THE NEGROES.
Startled by hounds.--An unpleasant predicament.--A Christian
gentlewoman.--Appeal to Mrs. Colonel Taylor.--"She did all she
could."--A meal fit for the gods.--Aunt Katy.--"Lor' bress ye,
marsters!"--Uncle Zeb's prayer.--Hoe-cake and pinders.--Woodcraft
_versus_ astronomy.--Canine foes.--Characteristics of the slave.--
Meeting escaped prisoners.--Danger.--Retreat and concealment 228
CHAPTER XXII.
PROGRESS OF THE FUGITIVES.
Parting company.--Thirst and no water.--Hoping for the end.--The boy
and the chicken.--Conversation of ladies overheard.--The fugitives
pursued.--The sleeping village.--Captain Bryant.--The _alba
sus_.--Justifiable murder, and a delicious meal.--Darkies and their
prayers.--Man proposes; God disposes.--An adventure.--A _ruse de
guerre_.--Across the Savannah 238
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE PERILS OF AN ESCAPE.
Alligators.--A detachment of Southern chivalry.--A scare.--Repairs
neatly executed.--Misery and despair.--Virtue its own
reward.--Hunger and desperation.--Audacity.--A Confederate
officer.--"A good Union man."--"Two sights and a jambye."--A narrow
escape 249
CHAPTER XXIV.
RECAPTURED BY A CONFEDERATE OUTPOST.
Fugitive slaves.--A rebel planter.--The big Ebenezer.--A sound of
oars.--A _ruse de guerre_.--Burial of a dead soldier.--A free
ride.--Groping in the dark.--"Who goes there!"--Recaptured.--_Nil
desperandum_.--James Brooks.--Contraband of war.--Confederate
murders.--In the saddle again.--A dash for freedom.--Again
captured.--Tried as a spy 261
CHAPTER XXV.
FINAL ESCAPE FROM CAPTIVITY.
In jail.--White trash.--Yankees.--Off to Waynesboro.--No
rations.--Calling the roll.--Sylvania.--Plan for escape.--Lieutenant
John W. Wright.--A desperate project.--Escaped!--Giving chase.--The
pursuers baffled.--Old Richard.--"Pooty hard case, massa."--Rebel
deserters.--The sound of cannon.--Personating a rebel officer.--Mrs.
Keyton.--Renewed hope.--A Confederate outpost.--Bloodhounds.--Uncle
Philip.--March Dasher.--Suspicion disarmed.--"Now I'ze ready,
gemmen."--Stars and stripes.--Glorious freedom.--Home 274
CHAPTER XXVI
GLAZIER RE-ENTERS THE SERVICE.
Glazier's determination to re-enter the army.--Letter to Colonel
Harhaus.--Testimonial from Colonel Clarence Buel.--Letter from Hon.
Martin I. Townsend to governor of New York.--Letter from General
Davies.--Letter from General Kilpatrick.--Application for new
commission successful.--Home.--The mother fails to recognize her
son.--Supposed to be dead.--Recognized by his sister
Marjorie.--Filial and fraternal love.--Reports himself to his
commanding officer for duty.--Close of the war and of Glazier's
military career.--Seeks a new object in life.--An idea occurs to
him.--Becomes an author, and finds a publisher 295
CHAPTER XXVII.
CAREER AS AN AUTHOR.
Glazier in search of a publisher for "Capture, Prison-Pen and
Escape."--Spends his last dollar.--Lieutenant Richardson a friend
in need.--Joel Munsell, of Albany, consents to publish.--The author
solicits subscriptions for his work before publication.--
Succeeds.--Captain Hampton.--R. H. Ferguson.--Captain F. C.
Lord.--Publication and sale of first edition.--Great success.--Pays
his publisher in full.--Still greater successes.--Finally attains
an enormous sale.--Style of the work.--Extracts.--Opinions of the
press 304
CHAPTER XXVIII.
"THREE YEARS IN THE FEDERAL CAVALRY."
Another work by Captain Glazier.--"Three Years in the Federal
Cavalry."--Daring deeds of the Light Dragoons.--Extracts from the
work.--Night attack on Falmouth Heights.--Kilpatrick's
stratagem.--Flight of the enemy.--Capture of Falmouth.--Burial of
Lieutenant Decker.--Incidents at "Brandy Station."--"Harris Light"
and "Tenth New York."--"Men of Maine, you must save the
day!"--Position won.--Some press reviews of the work 313
CHAPTER XXIX.
"BATTLES FOR THE UNION."
"Battles for the Union."--Extracts.--Bull Run.--Brandy
Station.--Manassas.--Gettysburg.--Pittsburg Landing.--Surrender of
General Lee.--Opinions of the press.--Philadelphia "North
American."--Pittsburg "Commercial."--Chicago "Inter-Ocean."--
Scranton "Republican."--Wilkes-Barre "Record of the
Times."--Reading "Eagle."--Albany "Evening Journal" 322
CHAPTER XXX.
"HEROES OF THREE WARS."
Literary zeal.--"Heroes of Three Wars."--Extract from preface.--Sale
of the work.--Extracts: Washington.--Winfield Scott.--Zachary
Taylor.--Grant.--Sheridan.--Kilpatrick.--Press reviews, a few out
of many: Boston "Transcript."--Chicago "Inter-Ocean."--Baltimore
"Sun."--Philadelphia "Times."--Cincinnati "Enquirer."--Worcester
"Spy."--Pittsburg "Gazette" 341
CHAPTER XXXI.
OCEAN TO OCEAN ON HORSEBACK.
From Boston to San Francisco.--An unparalleled ride.--Object of the
journey.--Novel lecture tour.--Captain Frank M. Clark.--"Echoes from
the Revolution."--Lecture at Tremont Temple.--Captain Theodore L.
Kelly.--A success.--Proceeds of lecture.--Edward F.
Rollins.--Extracts from first lecture.--Press notices 364
CHAPTER XXXII.
BOSTON TO CHICAGO.
In the saddle.--Bunker Hill.--Arrives in Albany.--Reminiscences.--
The Soldiers' Home.--Contributions for erecting Soldiers'
Home.--Reception at Rochester.--Buffalo.--Dunkirk.--Swanville.--
Cleveland.--Massacre of General Custer.--Monroe.--Lectures for
Custer Monument.--Father of General Custer.--Detroit.--
Kalamazoo.--An adventure.--Gives "Paul Revere" a rest.--Decatur.--
Niles.--Michigan City.--Chicago 376
CHAPTER XXXIII.
CHICAGO TO OMAHA.
Returns to Michigan City.--Joliet.--Thomas Babcock.--Herbert
Glazier.--Ottawa.--La Salle.--Colonel Stevens.--Press Notice.--Taken
for a highwayman.--Milan.--Davenport.--Press Notice.--Iowa
City.--Des Moines.--Press Notice.--Attacked by prairie
wolves.--Council Bluffs.--Omaha 401
CHAPTER XXXIV.
CAPTAIN GLAZIER CAPTURED BY INDIANS.
Captain Glazier as a horseman.--Cheyenne.--Two herders.--Captured
by Indians.--Torture and death of a herder.--Escape.--Ogden.--
Letter to Major Hessler.--Kelton.--Terrace.--Wells.--Halleck.--
Elko.--Palisade.--Argenta.--Battle Mountain.--Golconda.--Humboldt.--
"The majesty of the law."--Lovelock's.--White Plains.--Desert.--
Wadsworth.--Truckee.--Summit.--Sacramento.--Brighton.--
Stockton.--SAN FRANCISCO 410
CHAPTER XXXV.
RETURN FROM CALIFORNIA.
Returns to the East by the "Iron Horse."--Boston _Transcript_ on the
journey on horseback.--Resumes literary work.--"Peculiarities of
American Cities."--Preface to book.--A domestic incident.--A worthy
son.--Claims of parents.--Purchases the Old Homestead, and presents
it to his father and mother.--Letter to his parents.--The end 431
CHAPTER XXXVI.
THE MISSISSIPPI RIVER.
An interval of literary work.--Conception of another expedition.--
Reflections upon the Old Explorers.--Indian rumors.--Determined to
find the true source of the Great River.--Starting on the eventful
journey.--Joined by his brother George and Barrett Channing
Paine.--Collecting materials for the expedition.--Brainerd the
first point of departure.--Through the Chippewa country.--Seventy
miles of government road.--Curiosity its own reward.--Arrival at
Leech Lake 437
CHAPTER XXXVII
HOME OF THE CHIPPEWAS.
An aboriginal red man.--A primitive hotel.--A native of the
forest.--Leech Lake.--Major Ruffe's arrival.--White Cloud.--Paul
Beaulieu and his theory about the source of the
Mississippi.--Che-no-wa-ge-sic.--Studying Indian manners and
customs.--Dining with Indian royalty.--Chippewa hospitality.--How
the wife of an Indian Chief entertains.--Souvenir of Flat
Mouth.--Return of Che-no-wa-ge-sic.--A council held.--An Indian
speech.--"No White Man has yet seen the head of the Father of
Waters."--Voyage of exploration.--Launching the canoes 444
CHAPTER XXXVIII
EXPLORATION AND DISCOVERY.
Launching the canoes.--Flat Mouth and White Cloud again.--An
inspiring scene.--Farewell to Leech Lake.--Up the Kabekanka
River.--Dinner at Lake Benedict.--Difficult navigation.--A peaceful
haven.--Supper and contentment.--Lake Garfield.--Preparations for
first portage.--Utter exhaustion.--Encampment for the night.--The
cavalry column.--Lake George and Lake Paine.--The Naiwa River.--Six
miles from Itasca.--Camping on the Mississippi watershed.--A
startling discovery.--Rations giving out.--Ammunition gone.--Arrival
at Lake Itasca 454
CHAPTER XXXIX.
DISCOVERY OF THE SOURCE OF THE MISSISSIPPI.
Short rations.--Empty haversacks and depleted
cartridge-boxes.--Statement of Chenowagesic.--Captain Glazier's
diary.--Vivid description.--Coasting Itasca.--Chenowagesic
puzzled.--The barrier overcome.--Victory! the Infant
Mississippi.--Enthusiastic desire to see the source.--The goal
reached.--A beautiful lake.--The fountain-head.--An American the
first white man to stand by its side.--Schoolcraft.--How he came to
miss the lake.--Appropriate ceremonies.--Captain Glazier's
speech.--Naming the lake.--Chenowagesic.--Military honors.--"Three
cheers for the explorer" 465
CHAPTER XL.
DOWN THE GREAT RIVER.
Voyage from Source to Sea.--Three thousand miles in an open
canoe.--"Pioneers of the Mississippi."--A thrilling lecture.--The
long voyage begun.--Mosquitoes.--Hunger and exhaustion.--The Captain
kills an otter.--Lakes Bemidji and Winnibegoshish.--An Indian
missionary.--Wind-bound.--Chenowagesic bids farewell to the
Captain.--Pokegama Falls.--Grand Rapids.--Meeting the first
steamboat.--Aitkin.--Great enthusiasm.--The new canoes.--Leaving
Aitkin.--Arrival at Little Falls.--Escorted in triumph to the
town.--"Captain Glazier! A speech! A speech!"--Lake Pepin.--An
appalling storm.--St. Louis.--Southern hospitality.--New
Orleans.--Arrival at the Gulf of Mexico.--End of voyage 476
CHAPTER XLI.
RECEPTION BY THE NEW ORLEANS ACADEMY OF SCIENCES.
Captain Glazier returns to New Orleans.--A general ovation.--
Flattering opinions of the press.--Introduction to the Mayor.--
Freedom of the City tendered.--Special meeting of the New Orleans
Academy of Sciences.--Presentation of the "Alice" to the Academy.--
Captain Glazier's address.--The President's Response.--Resolutions
of thanks and appreciation passed.--Visit to the Arsenal of the
Washington Artillery.--Welcome by the Old Guard of the Louisiana
Tigers.--Pleasant memories of the "Crescent City" 490
CHAPTER XLII.
BEFORE THE MISSOURI HISTORICAL SOCIETY.
Return to St. Louis.--Lecture at Mercantile Library
Hall.--Brilliant audience.--The Missouri Historical Society
present.--Eloquent introduction by Judge Todd.--"Pioneers of the
Mississippi."--Presentation of the "Itasca" to the Historical
Society.--Remarks of Captain Silas Bent on accepting the
canoe.--Congratulations of the audience.--Closing scene 496
CHAPTER XLIII.
GREETINGS OF THE VOYAGE.
An interesting souvenir.--Greeting at Lake Glazier.--Petition to
Geographical Societies.--Voice from Aitkin, Gate City of the Upper
Mississippi.--Tributes from Brainerd.--Mississippi Pyramid.--An old
friend at La Crosse.--Greetings at St. Louis.--Senator Lamar.--Royal
welcome at Bayou Tunica.--Sentiment of Port Eads.--Congratulations
of the officers of the "Margaret."--Greetings from New
Orleans.--"Fame's triple wreath."--Closing remarks 502
"SWORD AND PEN" COMMENDATIONS. 517
APPENDIX BY THE PUBLISHERS Appx. i
ILLUSTRATIONS.
Portrait of the Soldier-author _Frontispiece_
Birth-place of Willard Glazier 26
The First Battle 32
Race with the Schoolmaster 44
Tragic Experience with an Ox-Team 80
The Young Trapper of the Oswegatchie 90
Gouverneur Wesleyan Seminary 102
Old State Normal School 110
A Cavalry Column on the March 118
Night Attack on Falmouth Heights 126
Federal Canteens for Confederate Tobacco 130
Burial of Captain Walters at Midnight, during Pope's retreat 134
Sergeant Glazier at Aldie 146
Lieutenant Glazier at Brandy Station 156
Cavalry Fight at New Baltimore--Lieutenant Glazier taken Prisoner 160
Libby Prison 166
The Hole in the Floor 192
Tunneling--the Narrow Path To Freedom 198
Charleston Jail--Charleston, South Carolina 206
The Escape From Columbia--Crossing the Dead-Line 216
The Escape--Fed by Negroes in a Swamp 220
The Pursuit of Knowledge under Difficulties 224
Uncle Zeb's Prayer 232
The Escape--Crossing the Savannah at Midnight 246
A Mutual Surprise 258
Recaptured by a Confederate Outpost 266
The Escape and Pursuit 270
The Escape From Sylvania, Georgia--Running the Guard 276
Interview With Joel Munsell 306
Cavalry Foraging-Party Returning To Camp 312
A Cavalry Bivouac 319
Battle of Gettysburg 332
Captain Glazier at Tremont Temple--Boston 364
Boston to Brighton--First Day of The Journey 376
A Night among Wolves 406
Captured by Indians, near Skull Rocks, Wyoming 412
Pursued by Arrapahoes 418
Riding into the Pacific, near the Cliff House--San Francisco 428
Map of the Headwaters of the Mississippi 437
Captain Glazier Embarking for the Headwaters of the Mississippi 454
Camp Among the Pines 458
Making a Portage 462
Map of Lake Glazier 464
Lake Glazier--Source of the Mississippi 468
Running Rapids on the Upper Mississippi 478
SWORD AND PEN.
CHAPTER I.
ORIGIN OF THE GLAZIER FAMILY.
Lineage of Willard Glazier.--A good stock.--Oliver Glazier at the
Battle of Bunker Hill.--The home of honest industry.--The Coronet
of Pembroke.--The "Homestead Farm."--Mehitable Bolton.--Her New
England home.--Her marriage to Ward Glazier.--The wild "North
Woods."--The mother of the soldier-author.
Willard Glazier comes of the mixed blood of Saxon and of Celt. We first
hear of his ancestors upon this side of the Atlantic at that period of
our nation's history which intervened between the speck of war at
Lexington and the cloud of war at Bunker Hill.
Massachusetts and the town of Boston had become marked objects of the
displeasure of the British Parliament. Later, in 1775, Ethan Allen had
startled Captain Delaplace by presenting his lank figure at the
captain's bedside and demanding the surrender of Ticonderoga in the name
of the "Great Jehovah and the Continental Congress." In the language of
Daniel Webster, "A spirit pervaded all ranks, not transient, not
boisterous, but deep, solemn, determined."
War on their own soil and at their own doors was indeed a strange work
to the yeomanry of New England; but their consciences were convinced of
its necessity, and when their country called them to her defense they
did not withhold themselves from the perilous responsibility.
The statement of Quincy seemed to pervade all hearts. Said that
distinguished son of genius and patriotism, "Blandishments will not
fascinate us, nor will threats of a halter intimidate; for, under God,
we are determined that, wheresoever, whensoever, and howsoever we shall
be called to make our exit, we will die free men."
At such a time, and among such men, we find enrolled in the ranks of the
patriot army Oliver Glazier, the great-grandfather of the subject of the
present biography.
Oliver's father was John Glazier, a Massachusetts Lancastrian, born in
1739. John Glazier was the son of William Glazier, born about the year
1700, his ancestry being respectively of English and of Scotch
extraction. Oliver himself, however, was born in the town of Lancaster,
in the province or colony of Massachusetts, May twenty-third, 1763.
Hence the blood of Norman, of Saxon and of Celt, that had forgotten the
animosities of race and mingled quietly in the veins of his ancestors,
had become purely American in Oliver, and though but little over
fourteen years of age, we find him doing yeoman service upon the
ramparts of Bunker Hill.
That he performed well his part in the struggle for liberty, is evident
from the fact that he appears upon the rolls as a pensioner, from the
close of that memorable contest until the time of his death.
Mr. Frank Renehan, in a sketch contributed by him to an elaborate work
which was published by the New York and Hartford Publishing Company in
1871, comments as follows upon the coincidence of Oliver Glazier in 1775
and Willard Glazier in 1861--both being at the time of entering service
comparatively boys in age, enlisting for the defense of their country:
"The former, though then but fourteen years of age, participated with
the patriots in the battle of Bunker Hill, and to the last contributed
his young enthusiasm and willing services to the cause he had espoused;
thus giving early testimony of his devotion to the land of his adoption
and of fealty to the principles of popular government involved in the
struggle for American independence. So remarkable an instance of
ancestral fidelity to the interests of civil liberty could not but
exercise a marked influence upon those of the same blood to whom the
tradition was handed down, and here we find our subject, a scion of the
third generation, assisting in 1861 on the battlefields of the South, in
maintenance of the liberty his progenitor had contributed to achieve in
1775 on the battlefields of the North! This is not mentioned as a
singular fact--history is replete with just such coincidences,--but
merely for the purpose of suggesting the moral that, in matters of
patriotism, the son is only consistent when he imitates the example and
emulates the virtues of his sires."
In this eloquent passage occurs an error of fact. Oliver Glazier while
in the patriot army was _not_ fighting for the "land of his adoption."
As we have seen, he was native here and "to the manor born." Indeed, in
the light of historic proof and with the example of men descended from
Washington and Light Horse Harry Lee before us, we are rather inclined
to admire the paragraph as a fine specimen of rhetorical composition
than to admit its accuracy as a deduction in philosophy.
Subsequent to his term of military service--an experience through which
he had safely passed--Oliver Glazier became a resident of West Boylston,
Massachusetts, where he married a Miss Hastings.
The name of Glazier, Lower tells us, is purely English, and is derived
from the title given to the trade. However that may be, those who have
borne it have always expressed a pride in having sprung from the great
mass--the people--and have held with the philosopher of Sunnyside, that
whether "hereditary rank be an illusion or not, hereditary virtue gives
a patent of nobility beyond all the blazonry of the herald's college."
The name of Hastings takes its rise from a nobler source; for Mrs.
Oliver Glazier brought into the family as blue blood as any in all
England. The great family which bears that name in Great Britain can
show quarterings of an earlier date than the battle which gave a kingdom
to William of Normandy. Macaulay says that one branch of their line, in
the fourteenth century, "wore the coronet of Pembroke; that from another
sprang the renowned Lord Chamberlain, the faithful adherent of the White
Rose, whose fate has furnished so striking a theme both to the poet and
historian," and while it is probable that this wife of an American
patriot was many degrees removed from the powerful leaders whose name
she bore, the same blood undoubtedly flowed in her veins that coursed
through theirs.
Oliver, during the many years of a happy married life which terminated
in his death at the ripe age of ninety-seven, became the father of
eight children. His son Jabez left Boylston at an early age, and after
considerable "prospecting" finally married a Miss Sarah Tucker and
settled in the township of Fowler, St. Lawrence County, New York. Out of
their union sprang three sons, George, Ward, and Henry, and four
daughters, Elvira, Martha, Caroline and Lydia. During a visit he made to
his "down East" relations, Ward married a young lady by the name of
Mehitable Bolton, of West Boylston, Massachusetts.
This young lady was a true representative of the New England woman, who
believes that work is the handmaid of religion. She entered a cotton
factory at Worcester when only seventeen years of age, and worked
perseveringly through long years of labor, often walking from her home
in West Boylston to the factory at Worcester, a distance of seven miles.
At the time of her marriage--which occurred when she was
twenty-five--she had accumulated the snug little sum of five hundred
dollars, besides possessing a handsome wardrobe, all of which was the
fruit of her own untiring industry.
If it be true that the mothers of men of mark are always women of strong
and noble characters, then we are not surprised to find in the mother of
Willard Glazier those sterling qualities which made her young life
successful.
The early married life of Ward Glazier was passed upon the farm first
cleared and cultivated by his father, and which has since become known
to the neighborhood as the "Old Glazier Homestead." This farm is
situated in the township of Fowler, midway between the small villages of
Little York and Fullersville.
The township is a tract of rugged land, containing only the little
village of Hailesborough, besides those already named. Along its borders
rushes and tumbles a turbulent stream which still retains its original
Indian appellation--the Oswegatchie; a name no doubt conveying to the
ear of its aboriginal sponsors some poetical conceit, just as another
stream in far off Virginia is named the Shenandoah, or "Daughter of the
Stars."
Those who are at all familiar with the scenery that prevails in what in
other sections of the country are called the great North Woods, and in
their own neighborhood the great South Woods, can readily imagine what
were the geological and scenic peculiarities of Fowler township. Bare,
sterile, famished-looking, as far as horticultural and herbaceous crops
are concerned, yet rich in pasture and abounding in herds--with vast
rocks crested and plumed with rich growths of black balsam, maple, and
spruce timber, and with huge boulders scattered carelessly over its
surface and margining its streams, St. Lawrence County presents to-day
features of savage grandeur as wild and imposing as it did ere the foot
of a trapper had profaned its primeval forests.
Yet its farms and its dwellings are numerous, its villages and towns
possess all the accompaniments of modern civilization, the spires of its
churches indicate that the gentle influences of religion are not
forgotten, and there, as elsewhere, the indomitable will of man has won
from the wilderness a living and a home.
[Illustration: Birth-place Of Willard Glazier.]
CHAPTER II.
BIRTH AND CHILDHOOD OF WILLARD GLAZIER.
The infant stranger.--A mother's prayers.--"Be just before you are
generous."--Careful training.--Willard Glazier's first battle.--A
narrow escape.--Facing the foe.--The happy days of
childhood.--"The boy is father to the man."
The Glazier Homestead, as we have said, is upon the main road leading
from Little York to Fullerville. It is a substantial and comfortable
farm-house, with no pretension to architectural beauty, but,
nevertheless, is a sightly object in a pleasant landscape. Standing back
two hundred feet from the road, in a grove of gigantic elms, with a
limpid brook of spring water a short distance to the right, and rich
fields of herd grass stretching off rearwards towards the waters of the
Oswegatchie, which hurry along on their journey of forty miles to the
St. Lawrence River, the old house is sure to attract the attention of
the traveller, and to be long remembered as a picture of solid and
substantial comfort.
In this old house, upon the morning of August twenty-second, 1841, to
Ward Glazier and Mehitable, his wife, a son was born who was
subsequently named Willard. The father and mother were by no means
sentimental people--they were certainly not given to seeing the poetical
side of life; they were plain, earnest people, rough hewn out of the
coarse fibre of Puritanism, but the advent of this little child brought
a joy to their hearts that had its softening influence upon the home in
which he was to be reared.
The thoroughness of Ward Glazier's nature, that conscientiousness in
excess which made him radical in all things, was of the _heart_ as well
as of the head, and though not a demonstrative man, the intensity of his
paternal love cropped out in many ways. As to his wife, hers was truly
"mother's love." And what notes are there attuned to sacred music, in
all the broad vocabulary of the English tongue, which gives any idea of
the sentiment that links a woman to her babe, except the three simple
syllables, "mother's love!" Brooding over the tiny stranger, ready to
laugh or cry; exultant with hope and pride, despondent with fear,
quivering with anguish if the "wind of heaven doth visit its cheek too
roughly," and singing hosannas of joy when it lisps the simpler
syllables that she so patiently has taught, covering it with the broad
wing of her measureless affection, and lavishing upon it such "sighs as
perfect joy perplexed for utterance, steals from her sister sorrow,"
there is nothing except God's own illimitable affection for his
creatures, that can rival in depth and strength and comprehensiveness, a
mother's love.
The heart of Ward Glazier's wife, at this time, blossomed in absolutely
rank luxuriance with this feeling, and ran riot in the joy of its
possession; but she determined within herself that it should be no blind
or foolish worship. It grew, therefore, into a sober, careful, provident
affection.
Quiet and unobtrusive in manner, her face always wore a look of gravity
befitting one who felt that God had entrusted to her charge a fresh
human soul to mould for good or evil. She fully realized the fact that
her son would grow up with honor or sink down into ignominy just as she
should guide or spoil him in his youth. She quite comprehended the
stubborn truth, that while the father to some extent may shape the
outward career of his son, the mother is responsible for the coloring of
his inner life: and that
"All we learn of good is learned in youth,
When passion's heat is pure, when love is truth."
Though of Puritan stock, though reared in the austere faith of John
Knox, there was nothing hard or harsh in this mother's character, and
still less was there anything of the materialist about her. She would
have utterly scouted the doctrine of Cabanis and his school, which held
that the physical was the whole structure of man; that all instincts,
passions, thoughts, emanated from the body; that sensibility is an
effect of the nervous system, that passion is an emanation of the
viscera, that intellect is nothing more than a cerebral secretion, and
"self-consciousness but a general faculty of living matter." She had
drunk inspiration of a different kind from her infancy. In her New
England home the very atmosphere was charged with religious influences.
She was taught, or rather she had learned without a teacher, not only to
see God in the flowers and in the stars, but to recognize his immediate
agency in all things terrestrial.
Night after night, listening to the tremulous tones of her father as he
read a lesson from the sacred page, not only to those of his own blood,
but to his "man-servant, his maid-servant, and the stranger within his
gates," she had felt the presence of a tangible God, and when, at last,
she followed the fortunes of the chosen one of her heart far into the
great North Woods, nature spoke to her from the forest and the cataract,
deepening each early impression and intensifying each early belief,
until she realized as a living fact that the "Lord was ever in his holy
temple" and that his temple was the universe.
To a woman like this every act of life became a matter of conscience,
and the training of her child of course became such to Mrs. Glazier. She
had watched the pitfalls which the "world, the flesh and the
devil"--that trinity of evil--provide for the feet of the unwary, and
she determined that young Willard's steps, if she could prevent it,
should never stray that way.
Her husband took life and its duties much more easily. He was less rigid
in his sense of parental responsibility. While a man of great rectitude
of purpose, he was good-natured to a fault--somewhat improvident,
careless of money, ever ready to extend aid to the needy, and especially
disinclined to the exercise of harshness in his home, even when the
stern element of authority was needed. In short, he was one of those
big-hearted men who are so brimful of the "milk of human kindness" that
the greatest pain they ever feel is the pain they see others suffer. His
plan therefore was, spare the rod even if you _do_ spoil the child.
But--perhaps fortunately for young Willard--Mrs. Glazier held different
views. From his very infancy she endeavored to instil into his nature
habits of truthfulness, industry and thrift. "Never waste and never lie"
was her pet injunction. Her aim was not to make her son a generous, but
a _just_ man. "One hour of justice is worth an eternity of prayer,"
says the Arabian proverb, but Mrs. Glazier, while she exalted justice as
the greatest of the virtues, also believed that in order to make man's
heart its temple, prayer was an absolutely necessary pre-requisite. She
likewise endeavored from the first to habituate the boy's mind to
reflect upon the value of money and the uses of economy. She would have
"coined her blood for drachms" if that would have benefited her husband
or her son. Her savings were not spent upon herself, but in the hard
school of a bitter experience she had learned that money means much more
than dollars and cents--that its possession involves the ability to live
a life of honor, untempted by the sordid solicitations that clamor round
the poor man's door and wring the poor man's heart.
The result was that as soon as he began to comprehend her words, young
Willard had impressed upon his memory maxims eulogizing all who practise
habits of sobriety, industry and frugality, and denunciatory of all who
fail to do so.
His mother never wearied of teaching him such sayings of Dr. Franklin as
these: "Time is money," "Credit is money," "Money begets money," "The
good paymaster is lord of another man's purse," and "The sound of a
man's hammer heard by his creditor at six o'clock in the morning makes
him easy six months longer, while the sound of his voice heard in a
tavern, induces him to send for his money the next day;" "Trifling items
aggregate into large totals," while the text that ruled the house was
that of the Scripture, "If any would not work neither should he eat."
The effect of the constant teaching of such lessons was not however
perceptible in the lad's habits in very early life. He was no model
little boy, no monster of perfection--he was like the boys that we see
around us every day--not one of the marvels we read about. But the seed
was sown in his soul which was destined to quicken into fruit in after
life.
At the early age of four years his mother began to teach him to read and
write, and under her loving tuition he acquired a knowledge of these two
branches of culture quite rapidly.
Just about this time an incident occurred which came near finishing
young Willard's career in a manner as sudden as it would have been
singular.
The "Homestead Farm" was at that time pretty well stocked for a place
only containing one hundred and forty acres, and among the cattle was a
sturdy Alderney bull whose reputation for peace and quietness was
unusually good.
On a certain morning, however, early in the spring of the year 1845,
young Master Willard happened to overhear a conversation between two of
the farm hands, in the course of which one of them declared that "old
Blackface was tarin' round mighty lively." This statement interested the
lad to such an extent that he concluded to go and see how this "tarin'
round" was done.
Accordingly, taking advantage of a moment when his mother's attention
was occupied, he started for the barnyard, into which Mr. Bull had been
turned only a few moments before. Now as young Willard was somewhat
smaller than the visitors our bovine friend was in the habit of
receiving, such an unwarrantable intrusion was not to be tolerated for
a moment. Accordingly, no sooner had Willard set his little feet within
the enclosure of the barn-yard than the bull gave a roar of rage, and
catching the boy on the tips of his horns, which fortunately were
buttoned, sent him twenty feet up in the air, preparing to trample him
out of existence when he should come down. Luckily some of the men were
attracted to the scene, who secured his bullship and rescued the child.
Willard was not seriously hurt, and the instant he regained his feet, he
turned round, shook his tiny fist at the now retreating animal and
shouted out in a shrill treble, "When I get to be a big man I'll toss
you in the air!"
Having thus taken the bull by the horns in a literal as well as
figurative sense, the lad began gradually to develop into that terrible
embodiment of unrest--a boy. He exhibited no very marked peculiarities
up to this time to distinguish him from other youths; but just grew into
the conglomerate mass of good, bad and indifferent qualities which go to
make up the ordinary flesh-and-blood boy--brimful of mischief and
impatient of restraint.
CHAPTER III.
EARLY LIFE AND HABITS.
Scotch-Irish Presbyterianism of twenty-five years ago.--The "little
deacon."--First days at school.--Choosing a wife.--A youthful
gallant.--A close scholar but a wild lad.--A mother's
influence.--Ward Glazier a Grahamite.--Young Willard's practical
jokes.--Anecdote of Crystal Spring.--"That is something like
water."
It must not be supposed that young Willard's home was gloomy and
joyless, because it was presided over by a religious woman. The
Presbyterians of that day and that race were by no means a lugubrious
people. They did not necessarily view their lives as a mere vale of
tears, nor did they think the "night side of nature" the most sacred
one. The Rev. Mr. Morrison, one of their divines, tells us that "the
thoughtless, the grave, the old and the young, alike enjoyed every
species of wit," and though they were "thoughtful, serious men, yet they
never lost an occasion that might promise sport," and he very
pertinently asks, "what other race ever equaled them in getting up
corn-huskings, log-rollings and quiltings?--and what hosts of queer
stories are connected with them!" Fond of fun, there was a grotesque
humor about them, which in its way has, perhaps, never been equaled.
"It was the sternness of the Scotch Covenanter softened by a century's
residence abroad, amid persecution and trial, united to the comic humor
and pathos of the Irish, and then grown wild in the woods among their
own New England mountains."
[Illustration: The First Battle.]
Such was the Scotch-Irish Presbyterianism of that period.
Other cheerful influences were also at work in the two villages that
comprised the town of Fowler. The only house of worship in the town
proper was a Universalist church, and the people were compelled for the
most part, notwithstanding their various creeds, to worship in a common
temple where the asperities of sectarian difference had no existence.
Ward Glazier, at that time, was an adherent of Universalism, while his
wife held evangelical views. But he was ever ready to ride with his wife
and son to the church of her choice at Gouverneur, a distance of six
miles, and returning, chat with them pleasantly of the sermon, the
crops, the markets and the gossip of the town.
In truth, young Willard's early home was a good and pleasant one, and
having learned, under his mother's careful training, to read exceedingly
well, for a boy of his age, by the time he reached his fourth year he
became noted for his inquiring disposition, his quiet manner, and a
quaint habit of making some practical application of the "wise saws"
with which his mother had stored his juvenile mind.
The result was that up to this period of his existence he was an
old-fashioned little fellow, and somehow had acquired the sobriquet of
the "little deacon."
At about five years of age, however, a change took place in the boy.
The bird that flutters and twitters in the parent nest is a very
different thing from the emancipated fledgeling, feeling its newly
acquired power of flight, and soaring far up and out into the woods and
over the fields; and the boy whose experience of life is confined to
the household of his parents, is not less different from the lad who has
gone beyond it into the bustle and turmoil of that epitomized world,--a
public school.
Little Willard, like other youths, was thrown into this new sphere of
action suddenly, and without any adequate idea of what was there
expected of him. The first day passed as all first days at school pass,
not in study, but in looking on and becoming accustomed to the
surroundings, himself in turn being the subject of scrutiny by his
school-mates, as the "new boy." The day did not end, however, without
its incident.
Young Willard as soon as he had made his bow to his new teacher, was
placed upon a bench in close proximity to a pretty little girl of about
his own age. Instead of wasting his time therefore, by studying the less
attractive lineaments of his male companions, he made a careful
comparison between this young lady and the other girls present, the
result of which was that the moment he was permitted to go out during
the customary recess, he bounded off home at the top of his speed, and
with all the exuberance natural to his years announced to his astonished
mother, "Mother! mother! I've picked out my wife!"
Susceptibility to the influence of beauty seems, at this period of
Willard's life, to have been one of his prominent characteristics, for
in addition to exhibiting itself in the manner described, upon another
occasion not long afterwards it broke out as follows:
Every school-boy is aware that there is nothing so humiliating to a male
pupil at a public school as to be called a "girl-boy." Hence, for
trivial offences a boy is often punished by being sandwiched between two
girls, and compelled to remain there until the offence committed has
been sufficiently atoned for. Now young Willard was frequently guilty of
talking during study hours, and his teacher determined to try this
species of punishment upon him with a view of correcting the offensive
habit. As soon, therefore, as he caught him indulging in the prohibited
practice, he was ordered to take his place between two very young ladies
of six and eight summers respectively. To the amazement of his teacher,
young Willard sustained the infliction smilingly, and believing that
this was an indication that the culprit recognized the justice of the
punishment and was practising a commendable patience, he very soon
called him up to his own desk, reasoned with him upon the necessity of
observing the rules of school, and released him with an admonition to be
careful for the future, as a repetition of his offence would certainly
be followed by a repetition of the punishment.
Willard said nothing, but went to his desk, and for the space of five
minutes, perhaps, there was complete silence in the school-room. Then
Mr. ---- was startled to hear a distinct, clear, unmistakable whisper
break in upon his meditations, and became as suddenly struck with the
conviction that it was uttered by Master Willard Glazier.
The countenance of the pedagogue grew dark and stern. Fire shot from his
usually calm eyes, and his expression betokened the fact that this
flagrant act of disobedience was more than he could bear. Indignation
however soon gave place to astonishment, for the little fellow, without
waiting for a single word from his teacher's lips, quietly arose to his
feet, and with the placid expression of an individual performing a
meritorious action, marched across the school-room and deliberately
seated himself in the place he had before occupied between the two
little girls.
"Willard Glazier!" thundered the master, "come here, sir, immediately!"
The boy of course instantly obeyed.
"What do you mean, sir!" exclaimed the teacher, "how dare you conduct
yourself in this disgraceful manner, sir!"
Young Willard looked astonished.
"Why, Mr. ----," said he, "didn't you say that if I whispered to Myron
Sprague again, I should go back and sit between Lizzie and Annie?"
"Yes, sir, I did, and how dare you disobey me in this way?"
"Why, sir," said Willard, "I whispered again to him, because,
sir,--because--I like to sit there, sir."
A light dawned upon the mind of the master, and thereafter he adopted a
less attractive mode of punishing Willard's offences. To some of my
readers such incidents may seem too trivial for record, and no doubt
such days as these _are_ foolish days, but are they not in our memories,
among our very happiest too? As David Copperfield said of such, so say
we, that "of all my time that Time has in his grip, there's none at
which I smile so much, or think of half so kindly."
The usual surroundings of a public school made a great change in the
existence of Willard Glazier, and it is necessary to note its influence,
for in writing the life of a man in its private as well as its public
relations, the chief point to be considered is that which men call
_character_, and how it was formed and fashioned.
If the truth must be told, the "little deacon" had not been a month in
attendance at school before he was up to every imaginable species of
mischief that the fertile brain of a school-boy could conceive--provided
its execution did not involve unequivocal untruth or palpable
dishonesty.
No human being, save one, was exempt from his practical jokes. That one
was his mother. In his wildest moods, a glance of reproach from her
would check him. His father, however, enjoyed no such immunity, and in a
kindly way, he delighted in tormenting the good man whenever the
opportunity offered.
For instance, that worthy gentleman, among other idiosyncracies, was a
follower of the so-called Dr. Sylvester Graham, an ex-Presbyterian
clergyman who, in 1832, inaugurated, by a familiar course of lectures, a
new system of dietetics.
The Grahamites, as they were called, held that health is the necessary
result of obeying certain physical laws, and disease the equally certain
result of disobeying them; that all stimulants are pernicious to the
human body, and should be rejected, except in those rare cases where it
becomes necessary to administer one known poison as an antidote to
another equally deadly, in order to neutralize its effects or expel it
from the system. Dr. Graham condemned the use of tea, coffee and spices,
tobacco, opium, and not only alcoholic drinks but even beer and cider,
declaring that all were equally poisonous, and that they only differed
in the degree in which their evil qualities were concentrated or
expanded.
Ward Glazier held this theory to be the result of a profound philosophy,
and considered the observance of the course of diet he prescribed to be
the only way in which a human being could secure for himself a sound
mind in a sound body. In medicine, Mr. Glazier was an equally rigid
hydropathist. He held that the system of water cure was the only
rational system of healing. One of his individual fancies was to drink
only water obtained from a particular spring. This spring was
beautifully clear and cold, and was situated at the distance of about
sixty rods from the house. It was Willard's allotted duty each day to
fill a large pitcher from its crystal treasures for use at meals. In
order to do this, the brooklet being extremely shallow, and running over
masses of pebbles, he was compelled to kneel and dip it up with a
cup,--an operation requiring both time and patience. Now within a few
yards of this place flowed a small stream or creek considerably deeper
and of larger volume, fed by a number of rills, and as the boy had
conceived the impression that his father only fancied a distinction
where there was really no difference, between the waters of the rival
streams, it occurred to him that he might just as well plunge his
pitcher in the latter, fill it by a single effort, and thus save himself
what he especially disliked,--useless labor. This he did with the
following result:
Ward Glazier was just about sitting down to dinner as Willard entered,
and observing that his son came from the immediate vicinity of the
creek, poured out and tasted a little of the water with evident
dissatisfaction.
"Willard," said he, "you didn't get this from the spring; this is creek
water. Now go right back and get a pitcherful from the spring."
Off started Master Willard to do as he was bidden, but on his way, the
originator of all mischief suggested to his fertile brain the idea of
playing a trick upon his father; so instead of going to the spring, he
simply loitered for a few moments out of sight of such of the family as
might be at the windows,
"Under an elm whose antique roots peep out
Upon the brook, that brawls along the wood."
He then quietly sauntered back, with the identical pitcher of water with
which he had come forth.
"There," said he, emphatically, as if he had fulfilled his mission, at
the same time placing the pitcher near his father's plate upon the
table. The good man took it up, examined the contents with a critical
eye, poured out a glassful of the sparkling liquid and drained it to the
last drop.
"Ah," said he, with a sigh expressive of great satisfaction, "_that_ is
something like water! _that_ does a man good!"
This evidence of parental fallibility Master Willard enjoyed hugely, but
it was many years before he ventured to give his father an opportunity
to join in the laugh at his own expense, by telling him of the
occurrence.
CHAPTER IV.
WILLARD GLAZIER AT SCHOOL.
School-days continued.--Boys will be boys.--Cornelius Carter, the
teacher.--Young Willard's rebellion against
injustice.--Gum-chewing.--Laughable race through the snow.--The
tumble into a snow-bank, and what came of it.--The runaway
caught.--Explanation and reconciliation.--The new master, James
Nichols.--"Spare the rod and spoil the child."--The age of
chivalry not gone.--Magnanimity of a school-boy.--Friendship
between Willard and Henry Abbott.--Good-bye to the "little
deacon."
Willard Glazier was, by no means, what is termed a bad boy, at school.
It is true he was full of mischief; was the last in for study and the
first out for recreation, but he was neither disobedient nor inattentive
to his lessons. One scholarly element, however, he lacked. The bump
which phrenologists term reverence had small development in him at this
period of his existence. His record always stood high in the matter of
lessons, but low in the matter of conduct. Instances of insubordination
occurred whenever he thought he was treated unfairly, while no boy was
ever more ready to submit to authority when wisely and justly
administered. The following incident is an illustration in point:
One of his teachers bore the name of Cornelius Carter. We have been
unable to ascertain this gentleman's nationality, nor would his history,
if known to us, be pertinent to this work, but we have reason to
believe that he was of Scottish descent, if not actually a native of
that
"Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,
Land of the mountain and the flood."
At all events he possessed all the sterling qualities of that
clear-headed people.
A man of fine parts and scholarly attainments, earnestly bent upon doing
his whole duty, vigorous, energetic and thorough in everything, Carter
was just the man to conduct a school with mathematical precision, but at
the same time, his natural irritability was such that the whirlwind was
less fierce than his wrath, when the latter was aroused. About the time
of his advent among the pupils at the Little York public school,
gum-chewing had become an accomplishment among the boys, and though it
was a species of amusement positively forbidden, was carried on
surreptitiously throughout the school.
One dark winter morning just after a heavy fall of snow, it happened
that our friend Willard, though placed upon a bench in the middle of a
row of these gum-chewing juveniles, was himself not chewing, for the
simple reason that he had no gum to chew, and his next neighbors were
niggardly enough to refuse to give him any.
Suddenly the hawk eye of Carter swept down upon the offending group; and
quite assured that if mischief was in progress, young Glazier was in it,
came forward and stretching out his long arms, placed his palms upon the
outermost cheek of each "end boy," and brought the heads of the entire
line together with a shock that made them ring again. Then, without a
word, he caught each urchin in turn by the collar of his coat, and with
one vigorous jerk swung him into the middle of the floor and in his
sternest tones bade him stand there until further orders.
Willard did not at the moment venture to say anything, but stood with
the rest, nursing his wrath. Had he really been at fault he would have
thought nothing of it, but first to have been deprived by circumstances
of the opportunity to break the rules, and then to be punished for a
breach of them, was too much.
He waited, without a word, until the group of delinquents, after
listening to a scathing lecture, were dismissed to their seats. He then
deliberately proceeded to put his books under his arm, preparatory to
making a start for home.
One of the monitors, a large boy, observing this movement, informed Mr.
Carter that Willard Glazier was going to "cut for home," in other words,
to leave school without permission.
The master, upon receiving this intelligence, started down the aisle
towards young Willard; but that restive youth perceiving the movement,
made rapid time for the door, and dashed down-stairs closely pursued by
the now furious pedagogue.
Having some rods the advantage at the start, the boy reached the
exterior of the building first, and struck out in a straight line for
home.
[Illustration: Race With The Schoolmaster.]
The storms which prevailed throughout the entire winter in St. Lawrence
County, had piled up their accumulated snows over the space of ground
that separated the school-house from Willard Glazier's home. Over this
single expanse of deep snow many feet had trodden a hard path, which
alternate melting and freezing had formed into a solid, slippery,
back-bone looking ridge, altogether unsafe for fast travel. Over this
ridge young Willard was now running at the top of his speed. In view of
the probable flogging behind, he took no heed of the perils of the path
before him.
"So like an arrow, swift he flew
Shot by an archer strong,
So did he fly, which brings me to
The middle of my song."
As for Carter, not a whit daunted by the icy path and the fact that he
was hatless, in slippers, and clad only in a long, loose summer coat
worn in the heated school-room, he gave chase in gallant style, and
while Willard possessed the advantage of an earlier start, the teacher's
long legs compensated for the time gained by his pupil, and made a
pretty even race of it.
On he went therefore, his coat-tails standing out straight like the
forks of a boot-jack, and a red bandanna handkerchief streaming in the
wind from his pocket behind like some fierce piratic flag! On, too, went
Master Willard Glazier, until both--one now nearly upon the heels of the
other--reached a troublesome miniature glacier, when each missed his
footing.
Down went the boy's head and up went the master's heels, and the pair
lay together, panting for breath, in the drifts of a contiguous
snow-bank.
"Ah, ha!" said Carter, when he had recovered sufficiently to speak, "so
you were going home, were you?"
"Yes," said young Willard, as his head emerged from the drift, looking
like an animated snow-ball, "and I would have reached there, too, if I
hadn't slipped."
This was all that was said, at the time, but as Mr. Carter led his
prisoner back, an explanation took place, in which the lad so strongly
insisted that his escapade arose from a sense of the gross injustice
done him, that Carter's own sense of right was touched, and after
admonishing the boy to take a different mode of redressing his
grievances in the future, he agreed to forego the flogging and let
Master Willard finish the remainder of the session in the customary way.
After this occurrence, Willard got along very well under the tuition of
Mr. Carter, and it was not until some years later, when a gentleman by
the name of Nichols took charge of the school, that anything transpired
worthy of note.
James Nichols was a devout believer in Solomon's maxim that to spare the
rod is to spoil the child. The whip was his arbiter in all differences
which arose between his pupils and himself. He never paused, as Mr.
Montieth has lately done, to consider that at least two-thirds of the
offences for which children are flogged at school are "crimes for which
they are in nowise responsible," and "when stripped of the color given
to them by senseless and unmeaning rules, they are simply the crimes of
being a boy and being a girl," and are "incited by bad air, cold feet,
overwork and long confinement; crimes which the parents of these same
children are accustomed to excuse in themselves, when they sit in
church, by the dulness of the sermon, or other circumstances that offend
against nature and which they sometimes soothe with fennel or hartshorn,
or change of position, and not unseldom with sleep." In school
discipline Mr. Nichols was a pure materialist. He never realized
Cayley's profound lesson that "education is not the mere storing a
youthful memory with a bundle of facts which it neither digests nor
assimilates," but that it is the formation and training of a mind. Under
his _regime_ the rod ruled everything. Even the offence of whispering
was punished by the lash.
Upon one occasion, when young Willard was seated between two
brothers--Henry and Brayton Abbott by name--engaged in solving Algebraic
problems, a whispered inquiry, regarding the lesson, passed from one to
the other.
Mr. Nichols at the moment happened to glance towards them, and
conjectured, by the movement of Willard's lips, that he was violating
the rule against whispering.
"Willard Glazier!" said he, angrily, "come out here, sir!"
The boy obeyed.
"Now then, Willard," said Mr. Nichols, "I presume you understand the
rules of this school?"
"I think I do, sir."
"Very well, then you know that whispering during the hours of study is a
breach of its discipline, and that I must punish you."
Willard said nothing.
"Have you a knife, sir?" pursued the teacher.
"No, sir," replied the boy, not quite certain whether the knife was
wanted for the purpose of scalping him, or merely with a view of
amputating the unruly member which had been the instrument of offence.
"Well, take this one," said Nichols, handing him a five-bladed
pocket-knife, with the large blade open, "go out and cut me a good stout
stick."
The boy by no means relished the prospect this mission suggested, but
seeing no means of escape, he went to a grove in the neighborhood and
cut a stick whose dimensions resembled a young tree--shrewdly suspecting
that Nichols would never venture to use a club of such size.
With this stick he stalked majestically back to the school-room. As he
entered, he saw Henry Abbott standing up in front of the teacher's desk,
and heard him utter these words:
"It is not fair, Mr. Nichols, to flog Willard alone. It was my fault,
sir. I beckoned to Brayton and whispered first. That is what started it.
You should whip me, too, sir."
The master, as we have said, was stern and uncompromising, but his
nature was not entirely devoid of feeling, and as he heard the brave
admission, his eye lighted up with sudden softness.
"Go back to your seats, boys," said he, "I will not flog either of you
to-day. Lads that are brave enough to face the punishment of one offence
as you have done, can, I hope, be trusted not to soon commit another."
The incident was one that raised the tone of the whole school, and it
gave rise to a warm feeling of admiration in Willard Glazier's breast
for Henry Abbott which did Willard good, and made the two youths firm
friends.
Thus the years sped on--dotted with little incidents that seem too
trivial to relate, and yet each one of which had _some_ effect upon the
future life and character of young Willard. He had become a pretty wild
boy by this time, and the cognomen of the "little deacon" was dropped
without ceremony.
Although he was marked high for scholarly attainment, he received many a
bad mark for violating the rules of school.
This state of affairs existed until the boy had reached the age of
eleven years, when he was brought into contact with two diametrically
opposite influences, one of which was calculated to _make_ and the other
to mar his future character and fortunes.
CHAPTER V.
ECCENTRICITIES OF HENRY GLAZIER.
Henry Glazier.--A singular character.--"Kaw-shaw-gan-ce" and
"Quaw-taw-pee-ah."--Tom Lolar and Henry Glazier.--Attractive
show-bills.--Billy Muldoon and his trombone.--Behind the
scenes.--"Sound your G!"--The mysterious musician.--What happened
to Billy.--"May the divil fly away wid ye!"
At this time there resided in the paternal homestead a younger brother
of Ward Glazier named Henry, who was Willard's senior by about eleven
years, and, physically speaking, was a splendid specimen of masculine
development. Like his brothers Ward and George, he stood six feet in his
stockings, and literally looked down on his fellows.
He had conceived a great liking for his nephew Willard, and on many a
hunting excursion in the Great North Woods, the boy was his only
companion. This affection, however, was not unmingled with some contempt
for the lad's diminutive stature.
Upon one occasion, during a visit to West Boylston, he made it his
business to search out the relatives of Willard's mother, in order to
ascertain what sort of stock she came from. On returning home, this son
of Anak exclaimed, with a dejected air:
"Mother, I'll be hanged if I ain't discouraged! Our Willard will always
be a little runt. His mother's folks ain't bigger'n a pinch of snuff!"
How far the prediction has been verified any one who has seen the
compact, sinewy form of the young soldier will understand.
Henry Glazier reveled in everything sensational. His ideal of heaven was
a succession of tableaux in which he was to play the principal part.
At one time he joined another eccentric character named Tom Lolar, an
Indian of the Seneca tribe, whose lands in the long ago of Indian
history bordered the blue waters of Lake Seneca in central New York.
This peculiar pair proceeded to electrify certain rural communities in
their immediate neighborhood with huge posters, announcing that on a
given night:
KAW-SHAW-GAN-CE,
OR
THE RED WILD CAT,
THE
_Great Chief of the Walaitipu Indians,_
Now traveling for the benefit of his tribe, proposes to exhibit
to an enlightened public the
Trophies won by his Braves,
In their battles with other Ferocious Tribes beyond the Rocky
Mountains, and the Great Chief will likewise give an
exhibition of the
WAR DANCES OF HIS NATION.
Accordingly upon the night in question Tom Lolar as "_Kaw-shaw-gan-ce_,"
and Henry Glazier as ticket agent, reaped such an excellent harvest that
the latter concluded to start a "live Indian" upon his own account.
This he accordingly did, dubbing the prodigy of his creation
"Quaw-taw-pee-ah," or the "Red Wild Cat."
Whether this venture was successful or not we have failed to learn, but
there is one story connected with it which is too good to be lost,
though it lacks satisfactory evidence of authenticity.
The legend runs that our enterprising manager went three miles away and
hunted up a genuine old native of Erin who had deserted from the British
army, where he held some position in one of the military bands attached
to a regiment stationed in Canada. With true Irish instinct this exile
of Erin had brought his trombone across the border, and "the
enterprising manager"--to use the language of the bills--"secured in him
the services of an eminent musician, late of Her Majesty's Royal Band,"
to discourse sweet music during the entire performance. This and other
attractive announcements drew a goodly crowd of lads and lasses from far
and near to the place appointed, and when the doors--otherwise
tent-flaps--were open, the assemblage marched in to the entrancing
strains of the trombone, as played by "Professor Muldoonati" _alias_
Billy Muldoon.
Everything passed off well. "Quaw-taw-pee-ah" presented to the _elite_
of the locality a type of the aboriginal American, which at least
possessed the merit of originality. If the audience expected to be
astonished they were not disappointed; for such an Indian as they then
beheld no living eye had ever looked upon before.
Mr. Catlin would have admitted that this noble red man was alien to any
of his tribes, and even Cooper's Leather-Stocking would have conceded
that his was a new revelation of savage humanity. It is barely possible
that Buffalo Bill may have dreamed of something like him, and it is not
impossible that the late Edwin Forrest may have actually been on
speaking terms with his brother, but outside of these two gentlemen, we
do not believe that human imagination ever conceived a child of the
forest in any respect resembling "Quaw-taw-pee-ah" on his opening night.
It did seem a little singular to combine the convivial music of "St.
Patrick's day in the morning" with such diabolical grimaces and gestures
as those which the Great Chief used in the pantomimic expression of his
sentiments. But the people were prepared for originality, and they had
it. At any rate the performance received their loud applause. At last,
however, it was over: the successive scenes of the programme had come
and gone--the war dances were finished, the curtain had fallen on the
last act, and Billy Muldoon's trombone had subsided into silence. But if
the performance within was wild, it was nothing to the wild night
without. It was the seventeenth of March, and the snow had been steadily
falling since morning, shrouding the hills and all the surrounding
country with a mantle as white and cold as a winding sheet.
The wind had increased since nightfall, and by the time
"Quaw-taw-pee-ah" had washed his face of its red lead, and Mr. Muldoon
had been paid his share of the proceeds, it was blowing "great guns," as
the sailors say. Out into such a night as this the audience dispersed:
but the lights of home shone through the blinding storm near at hand,
and buffeting with the fierce gusts of whirling snow and wind was only
brave sport for them. Not so, however, with Mr. Billy Muldoon. _His_
home was three miles away, and though the prospect without was anything
but pleasant, he prepared to face it like a man. His only precaution was
to see that an old army canteen was filled afresh with the best whiskey
the neighborhood afforded. Then he started on his homeward journey.
At first it was pretty hard work. The snow had drifted into heaps in
some places, and rose almost to the little man's waist. Still he
struggled bravely on, only stopping now and then to celebrate the
anniversary of Ireland's Patron Saint by taking a long pull and a strong
pull at the canteen.
For a half-hour or more he made but slow progress through the pitiless,
pelting storm, and he heartily cursed his folly in attempting the task
of coming home at all, on such a night as this. But a change came o'er
the spirit of his dream. As the contents of the canteen had diminished,
Billy's spirits had risen in exact proportion, his heart had grown
strong and he began to despise the difficulties in his way. In fact he
was as happy as a prince, and rather liked the idea of facing the snow
drifts and fighting the wind. So on he went. What seemed strange to
Billy was the fact that there seemed to be so much sameness in the
surrounding features of the landscape--or so much of it as he could
discover, during the momentary lulls of the storm. He therefore stopped
short, steadied himself for a moment, and took another drink; which
proceeding seemed to clear up his mind on the puzzled subject, for
muttering that it was "all roight," he once more started forward.
Another half-hour passed and still another, and yet Billy found the road
open before him, with no sign of his own humble little home. He began to
grow very tired and considerably muddled, and paused at length to
consider the situation.
In front of him he perceived something so like the lane that led to his
own shanty that he joyfully proceeded, and at length reached what he
believed to be a back door that he had directed his wife to leave "on
the latch" for his return.
What surprised him was that he could see no light within. He was,
however, sufficiently aware of the fact that he had taken more of "the
crayther" than his good woman would approve of, so not caring to wake
her up, he stole to the door and tried to lift the latch. It was
fastened. Everything within was dark as Erebus, and not a sound could be
heard except the low breathing of what he supposed to be his sleeping
children. This rather excited Billy's wrath. He had been particular in
his injunction to leave the door unbolted, and it was hard to be kept
out in the storm on such a night as this. He called out--at first in a
whisper, then louder and louder--to Kathleen to let him in. There was no
response. Yet he certainly heard the movement of feet within. What could
it mean? The little man finally swore a big oath and fiercely demanded
admittance; but still there came no reply. He then essayed to force the
door, and to his utter amazement the upper part of it gave way, opening
out like a window-shutter, while the lower part remained firm. The
musician therefore climbed up, and seating himself on the edge of the
door, peered in. He could see nothing but a black void. To use his own
figure of speech, "yez might as well hunt for Gineral Washington's will
down a black dog's throat, as attimpt to see the nose on yer face in
there!"
He was nearly paralyzed with astonishment. Suddenly a bright thought
struck him. He raised his trombone to his lips, and in spite of the
mingled emotions that agitated his breast, blew upon it a blast loud
enough to have waked the dead.
Imagine therefore how his previous astonishment was deepened into almost
idiotic wonder when he heard a reply from what appeared to be a trombone
of more gigantic power than his own. "Bur-r-r!" went Mr. Muldoon's
instrument.
"Boo-o-o!" replied the invisible respondent.
Billy was amazed. Billy was awe-stricken. But the instinct of the
musician rose above all other emotions.
"Sound your G!" said Billy.
"Boo-o-o!" was the answer in a deeper base than before.
"Yer out o' tune, ye domned old fool!" says Billy.
"Boo-o-o!" came the response once more.
"Sound yer G, and take that, ye murtherin spalpeen!" said the now
thoroughly exasperated musician, dashing his own instrument in the
direction of his invisible rival.
Just then poor Billy saw a ferocious-looking pair of eyes glaring at
him, and before he had time to add another word, some huge object rushed
towards him, struck him a determined blow, and lifting him off his perch
sent him into the middle of the road.
The fact is, Billy had wandered very much out of his way, and had
mistaken Ward Glazier's barn for his own dwelling. The supposed rival
musician was our old acquaintance, "Black-face," the Bull.
Billy picked himself up from the snow, and, regardless of his bruised
body and aching bones, steadied himself for a last shot at the enemy.
The little man looked in the direction where he thought his adversary
ought to be, and though he could see nothing through the darkness and
storm, he shouted out, in accents of blended dignity and contempt:
"May the divil fly away wid ye! Ye may be the sthronger of the two, but,
be jabers, yer no museecian!"
How he eventually got home and what were his sentiments regarding the
adventure with which he had met, are facts that do not concern this
history; but it is quite probable that he wondered as we have often
done, that St. Patrick, while engaged in the laudable task of expelling
snakes from the soil of the Emerald Isle, did not also provide that such
reptiles should keep out of the boots of her sons.
CHAPTER VI.
VISIONS OF THE FUTURE.
The big uncle and the little nephew.--Exchange of ideas between the
eccentric Henry Glazier and young Willard.--Inseparable
companions.--Willard's early reading.--Favorite
authors.--Hero-worship of the first Napoleon and Charles XII. of
Sweden.--The genius of good and of evil.--Allen Wight.--A born
teacher.--Reverses of fortune.--The shadow on the
home.--Willard's resolve to seek his fortune and what came of
it.--The sleep under the trees.--The prodigal's return.--"All's
well that ends well."
Between Henry Glazier and young Willard a singular friendship had sprung
up. The great, six-foot uncle and the quaint, old-fashioned boy were
much together.
In the woods and fields, at junketings and corn-huskings, the pair were
often seen in grave converse, and while Willard was ever eager to hear
the stories of his uncle's mad adventures and queer scrapes, Henry
Glazier, in turn, would listen with a species of reverent wonder to the
boy's recital of striking passages of history or of fiction which he had
picked up in the course of a varied and desultory reading--a taste for
which was developed even at that early age. The volumes to which he had
access were few in number, but he had read their pages again and again,
and the subjects of which they treated were, for the most part, of just
such a character as were calculated to attract the attention of a youth
of action rather than of thought.
Among them were "Rollin's Ancient History," "Robinson Crusoe," "The
Arabian Nights," "Life of Charles XII. of Sweden," "Kossuth and his
Generals," and "Napoleon and his Marshals,"--everything relating to the
career of the great Corsican being devoured with the greatest avidity.
He began, of course, by reading the descriptions of battles. All boys do
so. But gradually his interest in such exciting events extended to the
actors in them, and again to the causes that led to them, and at length
the books were read from the preface to the end.
The conversations between the uncle and nephew were far from exercising
a good influence over the boy. If Willard related some daring deed from
the life of Charles XII. or of the great Napoleon--his own especial
hero--his uncle Henry would match it with some equally striking, if less
civilized adventure in the forest or upon the river, in which he or some
of his whilom associates had played the principal part. All this was, to
a certain extent, calculated to unsettle the lad's mind for the common,
routine duties of a useful existence. Fortunately, however, at about the
time that it began to produce that effect, another opposite and more
powerful influence was brought to bear upon him which changed the
current of his ambition, and turned his attention to matters less
exciting in their character, but destined to exert a much greater
influence over his future life. I allude to his association with his
teacher, Allen Wight.
The small, plain brick school-house at Little York stands there, we
believe, to-day as it did then in all its native and naked ugliness.
Such a structure, looking at it aesthetically, is not a cheerful sight
to the lover of learning, but at that period it was under the mastership
of a mind of no ordinary calibre. From all that we can learn of him,
Allen Wight was that remarkable character--a born educator. He did not
believe his duty was performed by merely drilling his pupils,
parrot-like, to repeat other men's sentiments. He knew that the minds of
mortals, particularly if young and fresh, are as diverse in their
springs of action as the laws of the universe, and he conceived it to be
his duty to study the individual characteristics of each scholar under
his charge, as he would have familiarized himself with the notes of a
piece of music before he attempted to play it. His method was that of
the Jesuit, carried out in a Protestant fashion. In young Glazier he
took especial interest. He liked the sturdy little fellow who, though
full of youthful vim, could yet sit down and discuss the difference
between a Macedonian phalanx as described by Rollin and a _corps
d'armee_ as manoeuvred by Soult, and he determined if possible--to use
his own phraseology--"to make a man of him."
His first step was to lead the boy's mind up to a habit of reasoning
upon the present and the past, and upon the every day world of practical
realities with which he had to do. When this habit had become
sufficiently matured in him, the wise teacher told him the story of his
own life, with its struggles, its disappointments and its triumphs,
thinking thus to stimulate his favorite pupil to greater efforts and
better achievements in the path of knowledge. He talked to young Willard
as he would have talked to a man, yet with all the gentleness of manner
he would have used in addressing a woman. Every incentive which he could
place before the boy, every appeal to both heart and brain which he
could make, Allen Wight used--as the mechanic would use the lever--to
bring out all that was noblest and best in him--to develop all the
sleeping possibilities of his young nature.
Ward Glazier had not been as prosperous in his worldly affairs as his
patriotism and honesty deserved, and things at the old "Homestead"
looked rather gloomy. Poverty is a fearful darkener of child-life, and
while its shadow rarely fell on Willard, who was always at school or
roving the woods and fields with his uncle Henry, to his sisters and
brothers it frequently presented its dark face and whispered unpleasant
prophesies of the future.
Of course it was not that abject kind of poverty which stints the supply
of food and fire in a house. It did not still the prattle of the
children, or banish childish mirth from the dwelling. It was not the
wolf at the door, but the wolf in the dim possible distance when the
poor father, bent with age, would perhaps be unable to keep his little
flock together. But the boy had never thought of such a possible time.
_His_ visions of the future were of sights to be seen in the great
world--of a time when he would be large enough and free enough to
accompany his uncle Henry upon some of his wild adventures among
civilized or savage races, and of the delights of unlimited books to be
read upon subjects most congenial to his mind. He therefore made no
allowance for his father's gloomy face and short words, and often
thought him stern when he was only sad.
A slight incident, however, changed all this and compelled him to face
life not as a dream but as a reality. One evening Willard's father came
home very tired and somewhat dispirited by some adverse circumstances,
such as occur in every man's business life at times, and of course he
was not in the most pleasant frame of mind to encounter the petty
annoyances of a household. Something that Willard said or did, capped
the climax of his irritability and he called the boy a fool. It was a
very unusual thing for Ward Glazier to speak with even apparent
harshness to his children, and the lad felt it, therefore, all the more
keenly. He became very thoughtful and silent, and crept off to bed
earlier than usual only to lie awake most of the night brooding over the
insult, and debating within himself what to do in order to vindicate his
outraged dignity. The conclusion at which he finally arrived was that
when the morning came, he would run away from home and seek his fortune
in the great world. The fact is he had been reading "Robinson Crusoe"
but a day or two previous, and that charming story had made a great
impression on his mind. Under its weird influence his vivid imagination
conjured up possible scenes of adventure in which he was to emulate the
courage and sagacity of that celebrated truant, and eventually come
home, as Robinson did, a man full of knowledge with which to astonish
the family, and with wealth to lavish on brothers and sisters, and make
comfortable the declining years of his parents. "_Then_ his father would
not think him a fool," said this youthful logician to himself. His
active little brain was too highly stimulated by his great resolve to
permit much sleep that night, and his bosom swelled proudly as he
thought how bravely he would encounter misfortune and face danger for
the sake of the glorious future he saw in the distance. His boyish heart
thrilled strangely within him as he pictured to himself how full of
amazement his brothers and sisters would be, when they found he had gone
forth all alone to seek his fortune. Even the little sleep, therefore,
that he obtained, was but a dreamy repetition of his waking thoughts,
and when the first gray streak of dawn told of the coming day, the boy
arose and quietly dressing himself for his journey, emerged from the
house, passed down the avenue under the broad elms and struck the
highway. He shivered a little as the chill air of morning touched his
cheek, and his ambitious dream did not look quite so glowing and
glorious as it had done when snugly ensconced in his comfortable bed,
but still he had a consciousness that he was doing something very manly,
and he walked on with a firm step and determined heart.
It is true he had no very definite idea of _where_ he was going,--he
only thought of doing great things and seeing strange sights. His whole
plan of travel was comprehended in the one idea of _going out into the
world_. That was all. Accordingly the youth trudged on for miles without
weariness,--for his head was still thronged with thick coming fancies of
the possible future that lay before him, and for some time the exulting
sense of freedom that ever accompanies disenthralment of any kind,
thrilled his whole being with a firm resolution to accomplish great
things.
At the expiration of a few hours, however, the fatigue involved in so
unusual a tramp before breakfast, began to tell upon him, and as he
mechanically slackened his pace, his reflections assumed a less jubilant
and less satisfactory character. He had walked nearly fourteen miles and
was already footsore. "Going out into the world," began to seem not
quite so enchanting a proceeding as it had appeared to be at starting.
For the first time since the idea of "seeking his fortune" had entered
his mind, he asked himself _where_ he was to seek it.
The reply to this inquiry was not easy. Meanwhile the sun had mounted
high up in the heavens and was shining brightly, the birds were singing
their matin songs, and in the roadside pastures the cattle were quietly
grazing. It was a peaceful, pastoral scene, but its peace did not enter
the heart of the wanderer. Somehow the world did not appear half so
attractive in his eyes as it had looked when he stole forth from his
father's gate in the cold gray of the morning twilight. His step,
therefore, was less elastic and his bearing less assured now than then,
and at length he sat down under a large beech-tree by the roadside, to
reflect upon the situation. He began to feel very weary, and the sudden
transition from action to repose induced a drowsiness that in a few
minutes overcame his waking sense and launched him into the sea of
forgetfulness. The young head sank lower and lower on his breast, and
finally, sleep ... "that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care,"...
"sore labor's bath, balm of hurt minds, great Nature's second course,"
came to him unawares, and for some hours he was totally oblivious of all
surroundings.
It was a dreamless sleep, and noon had come when he awoke. For a few
moments he was unable to recall where he was or how he had come there,
but in a very short time the recollection of everything that had
happened to him since the evening before swept over his mind like a
flood. Every circumstance now, however, was viewed in a far different
light. Somehow, the provocation which had sent him into the wide world
to seek his fortune did not seem half so great as it had seemed only the
night before. The example of De Foe's hero was not so completely
alluring, and a portion of that history which the evening previous he
had not deemed worthy of a thought, now rose vividly before him. He
seemed to read again these words:
"My father, a grave, wise man, gave me serious and excellent counsel
against what he saw was my design. He told me it was for men of
desperate fortunes on the one hand, or of aspiring superior fortunes on
the other, who went abroad upon adventures, to rise by enterprise and
make themselves famous in undertakings of a nature out of the common
road: that these things were all either too far above me, or too far
below me: that mine was the middle state or what might be called the
upper station of humble life, which he had found by long experience was
the best state in the world, the most suited to human happiness. The
wise man gave his testimony to this when he prayed to have 'neither
poverty nor riches.'" And then came the thought that all that Robinson
ever gained in fame or fortune, failed to still the quiet but terrible
whisper of his conscience whenever he thought of those he had abandoned
for a roving life. So intently did he think upon these things, he seemed
actually to behold the wanderer upon his sea-girt island with lawless
Will Atkins and the gentle French priest beside him, while the words of
the repentant mutineer seemed to be hissed into his ear:--"No, sir, I
did not cut his throat, but I cut the throat of all his comforts. I
shortened his days and I broke his heart by the most ungrateful,
unnatural return, for the most tender and affectionate treatment that
father ever gave or child could receive." Young Willard could not but
remember that _his_ parents had been most kind and tender, that _his_
father had lavished upon him during all the years of his childhood a
most prodigal wealth of affection: and the one harsh epithet he had
received seemed as nothing among the multitude of kind and loving words
that had never been withheld from him. His heart told him that something
deeper than any ordinary woe would darken his mother's quiet face when
she beheld his empty chair and realized that he had gone, perhaps never
to return, without one farewell word to her. Such reflections as these,
that he wondered had not occurred to him before, now took possession of
his mind and, impelled by their influence, he arose and slowly started
back towards home. As he came within sight of the old place he saw his
father in the distance reaping, and the sight filled him with gladness.
"From the top of the road, through the gap was seen
Down a zigzag road cut up by rills,
The velvet valley cradled between
Dark double ridges of 'elm' clad hills;
And just beyond, on the sunniest slope,
With its windows aglint in the sunset warm,
In the spot where he first knew life and hope,
Was the dear old house of the 'Homestead' farm."
But he was not just then in a frame of mind to meet the parental eye,
and he therefore skirted round a piece of woods which concealed him from
his father's view and reaching the door unobserved, crept into the
house.
Though his absence had been discovered, and its cause, if not known, at
least shrewdly suspected, his father and mother in their reception of
him very wisely ignored all knowledge of his truancy and treated the
young prodigal with such unusual marks of kindness and indulgence, that
he was completely melted, and felt, with keen remorse, that he had been
upon the eve of becoming a most wretched ingrate. The lesson of the
experiment was not lost upon him, and he never again tried the foolish
venture.
CHAPTER VII.
WILLARD GLAZIER AT HOME.
Out of boyhood.--Days of adolescence.--True family pride.--Schemes
for the future.--Willard as a temperance advocate.--Watering his
grandfather's whiskey.--The pump behind the hill. The sleigh-ride
by night.--The "shakedown" at Edwards.--Intoxicated by tobacco
fumes.--The return ride.--Landed in a snow-bank.--Good-bye horses
and sleigh!--Plodding through the snow.
Ward Glazier--putting his theories to the test of practice--believed it
best to allow the error of his son to work out its own punishment,
without adding a word to indicate that he knew it had been committed.
The wisdom of such reticence is not often recognized by parents placed
in similar circumstances, but it would perhaps be better for the
children if it were. At the same time the father thought it expedient to
apprise Allen Wight of the matter. That gentleman readily acquiescing in
his plans, saw in the recoil which would probably succeed such an
escapade in the mind of a sensitive and generous boy, the opportunity he
sought to arouse him to a sense of the duties that lay before him in his
future career, in living a useful and worthy life.
One afternoon, therefore, when they were enjoying a quiet chat after
school hours, he managed--without the slightest allusion to the runaway
freak--to turn the conversation to the subject of "self-made men." Not,
be it understood, that species of fungi who only love their maker,
because being
"_Self_-made, _self_-trained, _self_-satisfied,"
they are
"Themselves their only daily boast and pride."
Not the Randall Leslies, or the Peter Firkins of the world or that other
"Score of Peter Funks,
Of the mock-mining stamp, who deal in chunks
Of confidence, ores and metals as examples
And sell the bowels of the earth by samples;"
but that higher race who have achieved noble things despite all the
drawbacks of poverty and friendlessness.
He spoke of Clive, the Shropshire farmer's son, who, according to the
greatest of modern historians, equalled Lucullus in war and Tergot in
peace; that reformer who out of the discordant elements of an Indian
oligarchy consolidated and perfected an empire, one of the most splendid
the world contains.
He spoke, too, of that other Indian ruler who as he lay dreaming a boy's
day-dream one holiday, upon the bank of a stream that flowed through
Daylesford Manor--the manor which one ancestor's sword had won and
another ancestor's folly had lost--who formed a scheme of life that
culminated in the extension of the same empire beyond all previous
expectation, and in linking his own name so inseparably with the story
of his country, that no man can write the history of England without
writing the life of Warren Hastings.
Other examples of great ends achieved with little means, by men in our
own land, were talked over.
Franklin the _boy_, walking up Market street, Philadelphia, a
penny-roll under each arm and munching a third, under the laughing
observation of Miss Read, his future wife--and Franklin the sage and
Minister, representing his government at the most elegant court in
Europe, were contrasted for his edification. Various modern instances
were added, Mr. Wight keeping in view Pope's axiom that
"Men must be taught as if you taught them not,
And things unknown proposed as things forgot."
When the boy's mind had been sufficiently awakened he followed the
advice of the old adage to "strike while the iron is hot," and impressed
upon him the fact that being the eldest son he was naturally the prop of
his house; nor did he ignore the truth, unpalatable as it might be, that
Willard could hope for no material aid from the hands of his parents. He
must carve his own way. He must build even the ladder up which he was to
climb. Others had done so--why not he? And then he told him that the way
to do it successfully was to acquire knowledge and cultivate wisdom; for
"Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one,
Have, oft times, no connection.
Knowledge dwells in the thoughts of other men,
Wisdom in minds attentive to their own."
Working upon what he rightly conjectured to be the boy's newly awakened
sense of the kindness of his father, he spoke of that good man's
pecuniary reverses, and professed his faith in Willard as the future
regenerator of the fallen fortunes of Ward Glazier's family.
The boy's generous enthusiasm was awakened at once. His ordinary school
tasks and home duties no longer looked commonplace, and were no longer
distasteful to him. They were but incidents in a general plan of
usefulness, and he performed them with an air of cheerfulness that
pleased his teacher and delighted his parents. He volunteered to help
his father in the fields, and while but a boy in years, he yet performed
the work of a man. In fact, he had discovered that every duty of life
has its heroic side, and needs only the impulse of high and noble
motives to be invested with dignity and interest.
Meanwhile, he did not neglect his studies. The idea of intellectual
culture was no longer a mere abstraction. Books were not only what they
always had been--reservoirs of knowledge, alluring to his imagination,
and fascinating to his mind--but they were now looked upon as levers,
with which he was to move the world. Knowledge _now_ meant the means
whereby, in the days to come, he was to acquire the power to make his
father and mother comfortable for the balance of their lives; and to
surround his sisters with those luxuries which go far towards making
existence a thing of grace and refinement. When, therefore, he worked
during the warm days of summer, aiding his father in the care of the
farm, the summer evenings found him poring earnestly over his
books--practical and useful ones now--and the harvest once gathered, he
was back again in his old place at school, where he studied steadily and
hard. His teacher, Allen Wight, looked on and was satisfied. And yet
Willard was a wild boy--as wild as any in the school. His relish for fun
and frolic was as keen as ever, but it was now subordinated to his
judgment. His practical jokes were fewer, and the peculiarities of his
father no longer furnished him with a subject for their perpetration.
Now and then, however, the old exuberance of mischief _would_ break out,
and upon one occasion his grandfather became its victim.
As that mosaic styled "character" is nothing more than an aggregate of
just such trivial things, we trust our readers will pardon us if we
relate the incident in point.
When Willard was over nine years of age, his father moved from the Old
Homestead and purchased a place named the Goodrich Farm, where he opened
a country store. The venture proved to be an unfortunate one, and, after
a series of pecuniary vicissitudes, he left it, and, at the period to
which we refer, was the occupant of a farm known in that section as the
Davis Place.
This farm and the Glazier Homestead occupied positions upon opposite
sides of the same public road--the former being one mile nearer the town
of Fullersville.
Meantime, the Homestead was occupied and cultivated by Jabez Glazier,
the grandfather of Willard, and upon certain occasions the boy was sent
over to stay for a few days at that place, to help the old gentleman in
many little ways connected with its cultivation.
At that time and in that locality it was customary during the haying
season to deal out to the men employed stated rations of whiskey every
day. A bottle was filled for each one, and, being placed by the
recipient in a swathe of the newly-cut grass, frequent visits were made
to the spot and frequent libations indulged in. Ward Glazier and his
wife being determinedly opposed to the use of ardent spirits under any
circumstances whatever, the custom was dispensed with at the Davis
Place; but at the Old Homestead, under the rule of Jabez Glazier, the
time-honored usage was staunchly maintained. Young Willard had been so
deeply inoculated with his parents' opinions on this subject, that he
had delivered an address before the society of "Sons of Temperance" at
Fullerville even at that early age, and his disgust may be imagined when
he found himself selected by his grandfather to go to the village tavern
for the necessary quantity of "Old Rye." He asked that some other
messenger might be sent, but the old gentleman was inflexible. Nobody
but Willard would satisfy his whim--perhaps because he felt that, in the
custody of his grandson, the "fire-water" would not be tampered with on
its return to the farm. Willard did not openly rebel against his
grandfather's commands--since it was the fashion in those days for
children to be obedient--but turned his attention to gaining his object
by means of a little stratagem. Not far from the house on the road
leading to the store stood an old pump, concealed from view by an
intervening building and a rising hill. Here this youthful disciple of
Father Matthew made it a practice regularly to stop, and pouring out
half the contents of the jug he carried, refilled it with the crystal
liquid from the pump.
At first this _improvement_ in their potations seemed hardly to attract
the attention of the individuals interested; but, as each day the
proportion of water increased, the dilution at last forced itself upon
their attention, and every one agreed that the tavern-keeper was
cheating Jabez in the "Rye" business. The result of it all was the
withdrawal of Jabez Glazier's custom from the establishment in
question, and the future purchase of "spiritual" goods by Mr. Jabez
himself in person.
Thus Willard's object was attained, and the cold-water people were no
longer vexed by the inconsistent spectacle of a son of temperance
playing Ganymede to a set of drinking, though by no means drunken,
hay-makers.
Not often, now, did young Willard figure as chief in any mad scrape or
wild boyish adventure. Those times were left behind. Once, indeed, his
uncle Henry, the patron of the great chief "_Kaw-shaw-gan-ce_," swooped
down upon the household, and, in an enormous four-horse sleigh of his
own construction, took him, together with a gay and festive party of
lads and lasses, off to Edwards, a village nine miles away. Here the
rustic party had a "shake-down," and young Willard got fearfully sick in
a dense atmosphere of tobacco smoke. The feast over, he was tightly
packed in the sleigh with the buxom country girls and their muscular
attendants, while Henry Glazier drove across country through a blinding
snow-storm and over measureless drifts. The party was stranded at last
on a rail fence under the snow, and the living freight flung bodily
forth and buried in the deep drifts. They emerged from their snowy
baptism with many a laugh and scream and shout, and tramped the
remainder of the distance home. The horses having made good their
escape, Willard was carried forward on his uncle Henry's back.
CHAPTER VIII.
ADVENTURES--EQUINE AND BOVINE.
Ward Glazier moves to the Davis Place.--"Far in the lane a lonely
house he found."--Who was Davis?--Description of the place.--A
wild spot for a home.--Willard at work.--Adventure with an
ox-team.--The road, the bridge and the stream.--"As an ox
thirsteth for the water."--Dashed from a precipice!--Willard as a
horse-tamer.--"Chestnut Bess," the blooded mare.--The start for
home.--"Bess" on the rampage.--A lightning dash.--The stooping
arch.--Bruised and unconscious.
It will be remembered that when Ward Glazier left the Homestead, he
removed to a neighboring farm known as the Goodrich Place,--a fine,
comfortable, well-stocked and well-tilled farm, presenting an appearance
of prosperity to the eye of the observer and calculated to make the
impression that its owner must be well-to-do in the world. As we have
heretofore hinted, however, Ward Glazier failed to prosper there. Why
this was the case it is hard to tell. A late writer has suggested that
"not only the higher intellectual gifts but even the finer moral
emotions are an incumbrance to the fortune-hunter." That "a gentle
disposition and extreme frankness and generosity have been the ruin in a
worldly sense of many a noble spirit;" and he adds that "there is a
degree of cautiousness and distrust and a certain insensibility and
sternness that seem essential to a man who has to bustle through the
world and engineer his own affairs,"--and if he be right, the matter
may be easily understood.
However that may be, he failed to prosper, and as business misfortunes
began to fall thick and fast upon his head, he gave up the farm to his
creditors, together with all his other effects, and took up his abode at
the Davis Place.
Who the particular Davis was whose name clung to the place we have been
unable to ascertain, but when Ward Glazier moved there, the house seemed
fairly to scowl upon the passer-by--so utterly unprepossessing was its
appearance. A rude, capacious wooden structure, it stood fronting the
highway, and was a place where the beautiful had no existence. The very
soil looked black and rough--the vegetation rugged. Every inclosure was
of stone or knotted timber, and even a dove-cot which in its fresher
days some hand had placed upon the lawn, was now roofless and shattered,
and lay prone upon the ground, a shapeless mass of collapsed boards. The
lawn--if such it could be named--resembled a bleak shore, blackened with
stranded wrecks of ships whose passengers had long years before gone
down at sea. The broken windows in the dormitories were festooned with
cobwebs that had housed long lines of ancestral spiders, and where a
pane or two of glass remained among the many empty frames, one fancied a
gibbering spectre might look out from the gloomy depths behind.
The back-ground against which this bleak and sombre place was thrown was
no less grim and stern. Huge rocks in tiers, like stone coffins, rose in
fierce ranges one above another up and up--back and farther back until
they reached a point from whence a miniature forest of dwarf beech and
maple, that appeared to crown the topmost bastion of them all, nodded in
the swaying wind like funeral plumes upon a Titan's hearse.
In fact, the only gleam of light upon the place--and it was a crazy,
fitful gleam at that--came from a rushing stream that took its source
high up among the hills. This brook first seen off to the extreme left
of the house, came dashing down the rocks until it reached a level.
Then, swinging round with sudden swirl it engirdled the place, and after
many a curious twist and turn got straight again and went onward far off
among the neighboring fields and lost itself at last in the Oswegatchie.
The interior of the house was just as wild and dreary as the exterior.
The rooms, for the most part, were too large for comfort. When one
spoke, a dozen ghostly echoes answered, and at twilight the smaller
children huddled around the kitchen fire and seldom went beyond that
cheerful room until bed time. Often, in the dead of night, the creaking
of timber and the voices of the wind startled the little ones from
sleep, and a sense of something unreal and mysterious overshadowed their
young minds.
It was, take it all in all, a grim, gaunt, strange place in which to fix
a home. It was there, however, in the midst of such sterile
surroundings, that the next five years of Willard's life were mainly
passed. There were no external influences brought to bear upon this
portion of his existence that were not harsh and wild and stern. His
father, honest even to the verge of fanaticism, was letting his heart
corrode to bitterness under the sense of hopeless indebtedness. The
churlish fields attached to the place offered but a grudging reward for
the hardest labor. There was no hope of his acquiring a profession or
even an education beyond the scant opportunity of Allen Wight's school,
unless he himself could earn the means to pay for it. Still he was
neither discouraged nor without hope. Instead of sinking under this
accumulation of difficulties, his moral fibre was rendered more robust,
and with it his physical strength and usefulness developed daily.
Thus a year sped on, and at the end of that time his father, as one
means of adding something to his scanty resources, obtained the job of
hauling a quantity of iron ore from the ore beds near Little York to a
forge and furnace at Fullerville. Willard with an ox-team and his uncle
Henry with a span of fine horses, were employed for the most part to do
the actual hauling.
By this time Willard was quite familiar with the management of horses,
and he had also learned to drive oxen, so that at the age of thirteen he
worked with his ox-team as regularly and almost as efficiently as any of
his grown-up uncles or even his father. The management of an ox-team, by
the way, is quite different from that of horses, and at times it becomes
very troublesome business, requiring for its successful accomplishment
the very nicest admixture of courage, coolness and discretion. Willard,
however, with the self-reliance that always characterizes a boy of his
age, never for a moment doubted that he was adequate to the task, and as
he had been placed in charge of a very fine yoke of oxen, took much
pride in driving them in the same manner as he would have driven a span
of horses, seated on the top of his load upon the wagon instead of being
on foot and close by their heads, as prudence would have taught an
older driver to do. The truth is, that if there was any human being
before whom the boy delighted to exhibit himself as doing a manly part
in his little circle of existence, that being was Henry Glazier.
Consequently, when his uncle's team was on the road, Master Willard took
a position upon his own load with as important an air as if he were on
the box of a coach-and-four, and guided his cattle as if they were
animals of the most docile disposition, to halt at his whisper or
proceed at his word. As the principal part of the work was performed at
midsummer under the rays of a scorching sun, the cattle were, of course,
irritable and restive to a degree that in colder weather would have
seemed inconsistent with the phlegmatic characteristics of their race.
The road from Little York to Fullerville is a winding, narrow road,
somewhat hilly in places, and neither very smooth nor level at any
point. Midway between the two villages a brawling stream crosses the
road, and making a turn empties itself, at the distance of about thirty
yards, into the waters of the Oswegatchie. This stream is spanned by a
rustic bridge at a very considerable elevation above the water. The
banks are high and abrupt, and, as the traveler approaches them, he
cannot fail to be attracted by the silvery sparkle of the waters far
below. The view from the bridge takes in the white farm-houses with
their emerald setting of rich grain-fields and meadowlands, the distant
forge with its belching smoke-stacks, the winding Oswegatchie, and the
distant blue hills. If the month happens to be August, the traveler may
hear the cheerful hum of busy industry, the swinging cradles of the
harvesters or the steady roll of the reaper. Upon a day, late in this
richest of summer months--August--in the year of our Lord 1854, Willard
and his uncle Henry were slowly wending their way towards
Fullerville--the former with his ox-team and the latter with a spanking
span of horses. The beasts of burden by their drooping heads and slow
pace evinced the fact that the loads of ore they were drawing were
unusually heavy, and this, combined with the sultry atmosphere, was
telling upon the strength of even such powerful beasts as they.
Willard, as usual, was seated upon the top of his load, and, as they
neared the bridge, despite his familiarity with every detail of the
scene, a sense of its exquisite beauty took possession of him, and, for
a moment, he forgot that he was driving an ox-team. For a moment he was
oblivious to the fact that it takes all a driver's care and skill to
prevent mischief whenever a thirsty ox obtains a glimpse of water upon a
summer's day. As they neared the bridge, the fevered eyes of the cattle
caught sight of the limpid stream away down below, and, just as a cry of
warning from his uncle recalled the boy to a sense of the deadly peril
of his position, the cattle made an oblique plunge over the edge of the
bank with two tons of iron-ore in lumps varying from five pounds to
fifty, pouring a huge and deadly hail over their reckless heads. With
rare presence of mind for a boy of his age, the instant he heard his
uncle's warning cry, Willard realized the situation and jumped sideways
from the wagon. As he did so, his hat fell off and rolled a short
distance away. At the same moment a lump of ore, weighing not less than
one-hundred pounds, fell upon it and crushed it so deeply into the
ground that it was completely hidden from view. Many months afterwards,
some boys digging for fish-bait found the hat buried there, and returned
to the village with a tale of some possible and unknown murder,
committed when or by whom no one could tell.
[Illustration: Tragic Experience With An Ox-team.]
As for the boy himself, he escaped with only a scratch or two and a few
bruises, but that he escaped with his life or with sound limbs was
almost a miracle; and, as his big-hearted uncle picked him up, he hugged
the lad as one snatched from the very jaws of death. Willard was
somewhat awed by the narrowness of his escape, and it was observed that
his face wore an expression a shade graver than was its wont for several
days after the occurrence.
The lesson, however, made no lasting impression. Scarce a week had gone
by ere his life was once more imperilled, and this time the danger
resulted from his own reckless over-confidence in himself.
It is a singular fact in the boy's history that every danger to which at
this period of his life he was exposed, seems to have been twin-brother
to some other hazard equally great, and which tripped upon its very
heels.
As already stated, Willard was a good horseman for a boy of his age. He
possessed considerable nerve, and, having been brought up among horses,
knew a good deal about their ways. But his real knowledge upon the
subject was nothing to that which he thought he possessed; and, though a
stout little fellow, of course he lacked the muscle of steel that is
required to master an enraged horse. But he had never hesitated to ride
any steed in all that neighborhood, with the single exception of one of
a pair of extremely beautiful but vicious mares, which on account of her
color was named "Chestnut Bess."
This horse was as wild and untamed as the famous steed of Mazeppa, and
even Henry Glazier, master-horseman though he was, seldom attempted to
use this one, except in harness with her mate. The knowledge of this
fact excited an overweening desire in Willard's breast to show them what
_he_ could do in the way of taming the hitherto untamed creature, and
never having been unhorsed in his life, he determined, upon the first
favorable opportunity, to try his powers upon the vicious animal. That
opportunity was not long in coming. One summer morning it was arranged
that Willard should go over to his grandfather's and aid in the
cultivation of a large corn-field on the Homestead Farm. Willard made up
his mind that, if he went, he would go in style on the back of "Chestnut
Bess." He wanted to show his Uncle Henry and the others what the "little
runt" was capable of accomplishing as an equestrian. Accordingly, he
placed a good strong bridle upon the mare's head, gave an extra pull at
the saddle-girth to assure himself there was no possibility of _that_
failing him, and, taking a hoe, which he wished to use in his work on
the farm, in his right hand, he led the mare quietly down the path, out
through the gate, and into the road. Gathering the reins in his left
hand, without giving her time to conjecture his object--for mounting her
was no easy task--he jumped lightly into the saddle, and screwed his
knees into her sides with all his might.
Now, this mare was not one of those ordinary quadrupeds possessing a
single vice, which the rider may learn and master. She was an animal of
infinite resources. Her modes of attack were innumerable. It is true she
rather preferred to settle matters upon the very threshold of the
contest in a short, sharp way, by kicking her man before he could mount.
But, if baffled in this design, she would vary the proceedings by
dashing her head down between her knees, sending her heels up in the
air, and, if possible, plunge the rider over her head to the ground; or,
she would waltz round on her hind legs in such a way as to render the
best balanced brain somewhat dizzy and uncertain; in the event of the
failure of these coquettish pleasantries, she had not a single scruple
against playing Shylock, and taking her pound of flesh out of his leg
with her teeth. Thus, you see, it would not do to go to sleep upon her
back; and Master Willard Glazier no sooner found himself firmly seated
than he made up his mind that for the time, at least, he had his hands
full of business. As the mare had been deprived of an opportunity to
kick him, by the suddenness with which he sprang upon her back, she
concluded to try her next favorite line of strategy and shake him off.
So down went her head and up went her heels, and, had he been less on
the alert, he must have gone to earth; but, with his knees dug into her
sides as if they were the opposite jaws of a vice, for every jerk of her
head _down_ he gave one with the reins _up_, and at each jerk the
hoe-handle gave her a rap over the ears, so that she began to find the
fun less agreeable than usual. Changing her tactics, with a bound she
proceeded to execute a fine imitation of the "German," and spin round
like a Fifth Avenue belle or a humming-top. But the boy's young, clear,
temperate brain and well-disciplined nerves were proof even against this
style of attack, and still firm in his seat, he belabored the brute with
his hoe with such a perfect rain of blows that she gave up her prancing
and dashed down the road at a break-neck pace. For perhaps five hundred
yards the road led down hill, and then, crossing a stream, ascended
again, the ascent being quite steep and by no means smooth.
While upon the descent, it was all Willard could do to hold on, for he
was encumbered with the hoe, which at every jump of the mare struck the
top of her head, until she absolutely flew. The few pedestrians upon the
road that morning stopped in amazement to stare after the mad flight of
horse and rider.
As soon as the bridge was crossed and they commenced the abrupt rise,
"Chestnut Bess" began to slacken her pace, but the young gentleman, who
by this time considered himself her master, would not agree to this. He
proposed to give her a lesson, so he administered a good thrashing with
his novel style of whip and compelled her to keep her pace all the way
to the top of the hill, where horse and rider at length arrived in
safety. From that point to the Old Homestead the mare was perfectly
willing to jog along quietly, and when they reached the farm you may be
sure that the "spirit" of one "mortal" at least was "proud," as he
related to his wondering kinsman how he had taken the mischief out of
the chestnut mare.
The boy rose immeasurably in his uncle Henry's estimation by this feat,
and all were delighted with his pluck, though Jabez Glazier, his
grandfather, with his greater experience, warned him not to trust the
beast too far, for, according to his belief, her eye had danger in it
yet. When the day of work was ended, Willard once more mounted upon
"Chestnut Bess" and rode towards home. For a short time the mare trotted
quietly along, and the boy was more than ever convinced that he had
broken her of her tricks.
This agreeable belief however was of short duration. The thought had
hardly entered his head when she commenced her antics again. Her heels
went skyward and her nose went down, and a repetition of the morning's
performances succeeded.
There was quite as much vigor and pertinacity in her movements as if she
were just starting out for the day. This time Willard had provided
himself with a stout beech switch, and used its stinging persuasion with
good effect. She danced, she pranced, she waltzed, she made sudden
dashes and full stops. She would have rolled in the gravel if the boy's
switch had ceased stinging her into motives for action, but she could
not shake him off. He clung to her back like a little leech, and it
began to look as if human will-power was going to conquer brute
stubbornness, when suddenly a new idea seemed to enter the animal's
head. Without a moment's warning, and utterly scorning the control of
the bit which she had taken in her teeth, she swung round and at full
gallop made straight for the Homestead farm from which she had so lately
come. The farm-yard gate was wide open and she dashed in, making
directly for the wagon-shed at the extreme end of the place, which was
now empty. This shed, the top of which was supported by a cross-beam,
was only just high enough to permit a wagon to be sheltered there, and
if the horse got in, Willard saw at a glance that she would be obliged
to lower her head to do so, and that in the course of her entry he must
inevitably strike the beam and perhaps be instantly killed or swept off
her back upon a pile of rocks that on either side walled the entrance to
the shed.
His heart for once failed him, for there seemed no earthly hope of
escape. There was no time to spring off, even if the speed at which he
was going would have permitted him to do so, for in a shorter time than
it has taken to describe the scene, the shed was reached, bang went the
mare's head against the opposite end, and at the same instant Willard
felt a dull thud against his person, realized the fact that he was being
thrown into the air, and then came darkness and unconsciousness. He was
dashed violently upon the stones, and when picked up his body was found
to be much lacerated and bruised.
Fortunately, however, no bones were broken, though he was obliged to
keep his bed for some days afterwards. No doubt while lying there during
slow convalescence he mused upon the vicissitudes attendant upon the
career of a horse-tamer. At all events from this time he became much
steadier and more prudent,--the wild adventures of his earlier boyhood
having entirely lost their attraction for him.
CHAPTER IX.
THE YOUNG TRAPPER OF THE OSWEGATCHIE.
A plan of life.--Determination to procure an education.--A
substitute at the plow.--His father acquiesces in his
determination to become a trapper.--Life in the wild woods along
the Oswegatchie.--The six "dead-falls."--First success.--A
fallacious calculation.--The goal attained.--Seventy-five dollars
in hard cash!--Four terms of academic life.--The youthful
rivals.--Lessons in elocution.--A fight with hair-brushes and
chairs!--"The walking ghost of a kitchen fire."--Renewed
friendship.--Teaching to obtain means for an education.
At this period of Willard's life, he is described by Mr. Rennehan as
having acquired an appetite for the acquisition of knowledge which soon
became the controlling passion of his nature, and, "thoroughly absorbed
by this idea, he fixed upon the select school of his native town as the
institution best adapted to initiate him in the course suited to the
fulfilment of his laudable ambition."
But his determination to procure an education met with obstacles from
the outset. How to defray the necessary expenses which such a course
involved was the question which continually presented itself for his
ingenuity to solve. His father's reverses placed it quite beyond the
possibilities to hire help upon the farm, and Willard's services had
therefore come to be looked upon as something of vital importance.
In dragging from the hard soil of the Davis place the living which
necessity compelled, he performed the work of a man, and the perfect
trust which his father reposed in him gave his services additional
value.
This fact increased the difficulty of his position; but though he made
it a point to husband all his spare time for self-instruction, he was
far from satisfied with the existing state of affairs, and pondered long
and earnestly over the best means of securing the advantages of regular
instruction.
At that time the streams tributary to the St. Lawrence were supplied
with such fur-bearing animals as the mink, the musk-rat, the otter, and
the more humble rabbit, the skins of all of which were more or less
valuable and were sought by professional trappers. These men found the
business a reasonably lucrative one, and it commended itself especially
to Willard, as health and strength were the only capital required. The
grand difficulty was how to supply his place in the work of the farm.
His father was a man who always listened with patience and sympathy to
any scheme that promised to benefit his children. His son, therefore,
had no hesitation in laying the whole matter before him and seeking his
advice upon the subject. He felt, of course, that any proposal to
withdraw his personal labor from the common stock of exertion by which
the cultivation of the farm was rendered a possibility, was a direct
pecuniary tax upon his father's resources; but he believed he could to a
great extent neutralize the injury by supplying a substitute.
He also felt assured that although the step he proposed to take might be
a present loss to the family it would prove an ultimate gain. He was
thoroughly determined to make _his_ life a success, and he was just as
thoroughly determined that any success which might crown his efforts
should be shared by his parents. It is true that the road looked long
and the path rough, but he had a "heart for any fate," and his courage
never failed. A substitute at the plow he knew he could obtain for a
small sum, and the board of such a person would take the place of his
own at the home table, and he never doubted that he could earn a
sufficient surplus to pay the wages of such an assistant. At all events
he made up his mind to try the experiment.
With young Willard, to think was to act, and this project was no sooner
conceived than he proceeded to put it into execution. He laid his plans
frankly before his father, who, to his great gratification, assented to
his proposal. A man was hired for fifteen dollars a month to take
Willard's place on the farm, and the latter made his first venture as a
trapper.
His initial experiment was to set six traps of the pattern called a
"dead-fall" or "figure of four," and this resulted in the capture of two
minks worth about eight dollars. With what an exultant heart he drew out
his first mink and realized that by his own unaided exertions he had
made some money, no boy or man need be told. He at once, however,
entered into some rather fallacious calculations and built some
extremely airy castles. It occurred to him that if out of six traps he
could obtain two skins, out of one hundred he could obtain thirty-three,
and so on, in proportion.
This, however, proved to be a miscalculation, it not being so much the
number of traps set, as the quantity of game in a given locality which
regulates the amount of success for a trapper. Yet his efforts in this
new business succeeded to a gratifying degree, and the fact of having
exchanged the dull monotony of farm drudgery for the exhilarating
excitement of a hunter's life, was in itself a sufficient reward for any
amount of exertion. Indeed what mode of life could be happier or more
free, for a healthy, strong-limbed youth of fifteen, than to live as he
then did, almost entirely in the woods? Then too, his daily route lay in
the midst of some of the finest scenery to be found anywhere in New
York, even in that grand old county of St. Lawrence.
To a lover of nature nothing could be more alluring than the locality
through which Willard, at that period of his life, trapped and hunted.
To follow the winding waters of the Oswegatchie is to enjoy a perpetual
feast. That river is one of a great family of rivers, among which may be
enumerated the Rackett, the Grasse, the Indian, and the Black, all of
which take their rise far up in the recesses of the great North Woods.
Though not to any extent navigable, it is yet nearly as broad as the
lovely and "blue Juniata" of "peaceful Pennsylvania."
At times turbulent and brawling, it is often vexed in its passage to the
St. Lawrence by rapids and cataracts varying in height and volume, but
which in their infinite variety give a wild and romantic beauty to this
poetical stream. At times it glides smoothly along through low meadow
lands, and again it plunges into some dense thicket or brawls through
some briery dell where the foliage is so thick that one can only see
the glint and ripple of its waters at rare intervals, shining between
the lapping leaves and tangled vines. Then again it sweeps onward
through cleft rocks and jutting banks until, lost at last in the very
heart of the primeval forest, its twilight waters reflect the images of
giant trees which had their beginning on its banks a century ago.
[Illustration: The Young Trapper Of The Oswegatchie.]
Willard's life during that autumn passed in persevering work. Day by day
he traveled his accustomed routes, while the leaves turned from green to
red and from red to russet and brown, and at last fell from the naked
branches of the forest trees with a little farewell rustle, to be
trodden into the rich soil below.
By the time the first snow came he found himself much more robust
physically, and with seventy-five dollars clear profit in his pocket. In
addition to these advantages he also acquired the inestimable habit of
self-reliance, so that when he entered upon a course of preparation for
his academic life, it was with full faith in himself. For four terms,
beginning August thirteenth, 1857, and ending the latter part of June,
1859, he remained at the excellent institution of learning which he had
selected, and while there gained considerable credit as a hard student.
During the first of these terms a generous rivalry existed between
himself and a youth by the name of Albert Burt, as to which should lead
the class. As it turned out, however, they kept together and were both
marked "perfect." The academy was under the management of the Rev. E. C.
Bruce, M. A., Principal; and Andrew Roe, Professor of Mathematics. About
a month or six weeks after he entered the school, he arranged to take
lessons in elocution under a Professor Bronson, that gentleman having
organized a large class at the academy.
In a brief diary kept by him at the time, we find the remark that he was
"greatly pleased with the Professor's method of teaching that important
branch of study." Willard had advanced to the higher grade of Algebra
and Grammar, had added Philosophy to the list of his studies, and having
cultivated a natural turn for public speaking, was elected on the
eighteenth of December, 1857, a member of the Oratorical Society--an
association connected with the institution. His boy experiences were
very similar to those which happen to all lads in academic life. He had
his chums, among whom were Brayton Abbott and Ozias Johnson; he had his
little flirtations with misses of his own age, and he had his fights, as
all boys have.
Among the latter was one with Johnson, who was his room-mate, and who,
being four years older than himself, undertook, for fun, to rub his face
with a newly-purchased hair-brush. This kind of fun did not suit
Willard, however, and he resented it by giving Johnson a "dig" in the
ribs. Whereupon a fight ensued in earnest, and as Willard was too young
and light to keep up the contest at close quarters, he dodged his
adversary and covered his retreat by dropping chairs in front of
Johnson's legs, which brought that young gentleman to the floor more
than once, to his own intense disgust and Willard's great gratification.
At length Johnson managed to corner his opponent, and then rubbed his
face so thoroughly with the bristles that his comrades that morning
thought he had caught the scarlet-fever, or as Dickens says, that he
was the "walking ghost of a kitchen fire."
As generally happens, however, between two manly fellows, their combat
inspired a feeling of mutual respect, and from being mere acquaintances
they grew to be fast friends.
Study and sedentary habits at length so much impaired Willard's health
that, in the latter part of the month of August, 1858, he was compelled
to cease his attendance at school and go home. The thirtieth of
September following, however, found him at the Teachers' Institute of
St. Lawrence County, with the proceedings of which body he appears to
have been highly gratified, for in the diary to which we have already
referred, he speaks of it in these words:--
"I am now attending the Teachers' Institute of this county, which is in
session at Gouverneur, it having opened upon the twenty-seventh instant.
The School Commissioners are Mr. C. C. Church and Allen Wight. I am
highly pleased with the proceedings and the method of conducting the
exercises of this apparently indispensable part of a Teacher's
instruction,"--adding that it was his "intention to become a teacher the
coming winter." Indeed, to be a teacher seems to have been his favorite
scheme of life, and his highest ambition was ultimately to fill the
chair of Mathematics in one of the great institutions of learning. That
most exact of sciences was his favorite branch of study, and the
intellectual stimulus which it imparts had for him a peculiar
fascination.
In pursuance of his object, and in order, by teaching during one part of
the year, to raise means to enable him to attend school during another
portion, he set about procuring for himself a school. Fortunately for
the accomplishment of his object, it was suggested to him to apply to
the School Commissioner of his own Assembly district, and he did so. The
examination which followed his application, owing to some local rivalry,
was extremely rigid; but he passed through it with great credit and
received the appointment he desired, being assigned forthwith to duty in
the town of Edwards, St. Lawrence County. He commenced teaching in the
bleak month of November, 1858, and was very earnest in fulfilling the
duties of his position, taking every opportunity not only of instilling
knowledge into the minds of his pupils, but also striving to imbue them
with a love of self-culture. He labored hard in his efforts to earn
means with which to support himself during the coming summer at the
Gouverneur Wesleyan Seminary, and discovered while thus working that
teaching was as much of a discipline for himself as for his pupils.
The time does not seem to have passed unpleasantly to him at this period
of his career, for in an entry made in his diary on the twenty-eighth of
November, 1858, he says:
"I am spending the evening with Mr. Hiram Harris and family, having come
into the district this afternoon. My mission here is to teach school for
a term of three months in fulfilment of the contract existing between
the trustees and myself. In compliance with a custom that prevails, I am
expected to 'board around,' as it is styled, and Mr. Harris, being one
of the Trustees, has invited me to spend my first week at his house.
"The School Commissioner of this Assembly district is Mr. C. C. Church,
of Potsdam, from whom I received a certificate based upon the
recommendation of Commissioner Allen Wight of the first district. The
School Trustees are E. L. Beardsley, Hiram Harris, and Jeptha Clark. The
present term will be my first experience in the profession I have
adopted. I do hope it will prove a useful one, for I am of opinion that
a teacher's first experience is apt to give color to his whole future
career." The day after this entry he adds that "only a small attendance
greeted me upon opening my school," and after consoling himself with the
reflection that this will leave him plenty of time for study, he adopted
a single rule--"Do right;" and an additional motto, "A time and place
for everything and everything in its time and place."
It will thus be seen that he had already acquired a clear idea of the
importance of order in every pursuit, and knew that method gives to an
ordinary mortal Briaerean arms with which to accomplish whatever he may
desire to do. How few attain to this knowledge until it is too late!
As a writer, whose words we think worthy of remembrance, has said:
"This is an era of doing things scientifically. People make scientific
calculations of the weather, and the average number of murders for the
next year. They measure the stars and they measure the affections, both
scientifically. The only thing they fail to do scientifically is, to
manage themselves. As a rule, they _drift_, and then find fault with
fate and Providence because they don't drift into the right port. They
drift _into_ life with a multiplicity of vague dreams, which are
somehow to be realized; but they have a very dim idea of ways and means.
They drift _through_ it, carelessly, with an inadequate knowledge of
their own resources, and a still more inadequate notion of using them to
the best advantage; they drift _out_ of it with a melancholy sense of
failure, both absolutely as to themselves and relatively as to the
world. Of all their splendid possibilities, none are realized. Nothing
is completed. They start wrong or they make one fatal step, and
everything goes wrong all the way through. It seems as if most lives
were only experiments. Now and then one is turned out which fits in its
niche and is tolerably symmetrical. The rest are all awry, unfinished,
misplaced, and merely faint suggestions of what might have been. Much of
this is doubtless beyond mortal control, but a far greater portion is
due to the lack of a nice direction of forces. The human mechanism is
complicated, and a very slight flaw sets it all wrong. There may be too
much steam or too much friction, or too little power or too little
balance. But clearly the first step is to strengthen the weak points, to
gauge its capabilities, to set it running smoothly, and to give it a
definite aim. If existence were simply passive and the mission of man
was to _be_ instead of to _do_, he might perhaps be left to develop as
the trees do, according to his own will or fancy or according to certain
natural laws. But as it is the universal wish wherever one is, to be
somewhere else, a little higher in the scale, it seems to be a part of
wisdom, as well as humanity, to fit one for climbing. But many an
aspirant finds his wings clipped in the beginning of his career, through
the ignorance or carelessness of his friends, who never took the trouble
of measuring his capabilities. He is treated as a receptacle into which
a certain amount of ideas are to be poured, no matter whether they may
answer to anything within him or not. He is turned out of an educational
mill with five hundred others, and with plenty of loose knowledge, but
without the remotest idea of what to do with it, or what nature intended
him for, and with no especial fitness for any one thing. He can _think_,
probably, if he has the requisite amount of brains, but how to establish
a relation between thought and bread and butter is the problem. He has
the requisite motive power, but it is not attached to anything. _He_
does not know how to attach it, so he revolves in a circle, or makes a
series of floundering experiments, that bear meagre fruit, perhaps when
the better part of his life is gone. He knows _books_, but he does _not_
know men. He is a master of theories, but cannot apply them. If he has a
small amount of brains, his case is still more hopeless. To be sure, a
proper amount of knowledge has been poured in, but it has all slipped
through. He might have assimilated some other kind of knowledge, but
that particular kind has left him with mental dyspepsia, and a vague
feeling of hopelessness which is likely to prove fatal to all useful
effort. Or perhaps he has talent, but is destitute of the requisite tact
to make it tell upon the world. His success depends largely on his power
to move others, but he has no lever and is forced to rely upon main
strength, which involves a serious expenditure of vitality, with only
doubtful results. He works all his life against perpetual friction,
because no one had the foresight or insight to discern that this was the
flaw in his machinery.
"Another fatal point is in the choice of a vocation. Having drifted
through an education, he next drifts into his business or profession. He
rarely stops to take an inventory of his capital, or, at best, he takes
a very partial one. Chance or circumstance decides him. His grandfather
sits on the judge's bench. He thinks the judge's bench a desirable
place, so he takes to the law. He puts on his grandfather's coat without
the slightest reference to whether it will fit or not. Perhaps he
intends to grow to _it_, but a willow sapling cannot grow into an oak.
It may grow into a very respectable willow, but if it aspires to the
higher dignity, it will most likely get crushed or blown over. It may be
that he has a grand vision of commercial splendor, and plunges into
business life with a very good idea of Sophocles and Horace and no idea
whatever of trade; with a very good talent for theories, but none
whatever for facts; with some insight into metaphysics, but none at all
into people. Instead of trying his strength in shallow waters, he starts
to cross the Atlantic in a very small skiff. By the time he has reached
mid-ocean he discovers his error, but it is too late to turn back; so he
is buffeted about by winds and waves until he, too, goes down and counts
among the failures.
"Another of the few points upon which life hinges is marriage, and
people drift into that as they do into everything else. It is one of the
things to be done in order to complete the circle of human experience. A
man is caught by a pretty face and a winning smile. He takes no thought
of the new element he is adding to his life, either with reference to
his outward career or his inward needs. Caprice governs his choice, or
perhaps a hard form of self-interest. Having committed one or two of
the grand errors of life, he settles down to its serious business, and
speedily discovers that he has a dead weight to carry. He has mistaken
his vocation, whatever it may be.
"He is conscious now that it is too late to change; that he might have
attained supreme excellence in some other calling. He toils with heavy
heart and sinking spirit at the plodding pace of dull mediocrity. His
work is drudgery and wearies him body and soul. Those who once smiled
upon him pass him by. Men of far inferior capabilities distance him in
the race. Perhaps too he has made another misstep, and has a wife who
sympathizes neither with his tastes nor his trials: who has no
comprehension of him whatever, save that he is a being whose business it
is to love her and furnish her with spending money. The beauty which
fascinated him has grown faded and insipid. The pretty coquetries that
won him pall upon him; he is absolutely alone with the burden of life
pressing heavily upon him. Is it strange that he is mastered in the
battle and finally falls beneath the world's pitiless tread? This is a
sad little picture, but it is an every-day one, and the world goes on
its way as before.
"What matters it that a lonely, dissipated man has lain down in sorrow
to rise no more! The world cannot stop to weep over the remains of the
departed one it has trampled upon. Those whose business it is can take
them on one side, lay them away under the green sod out of sight, shed a
tear perhaps, and pass on until their turn comes to lay down wearily, go
to sleep, and be laid away. The world chides, the world laughs, but it
takes no cognizance of the grief--
"'That inward breaks and shows no cause without,
_Why_ the man dies.'
"Yet there is but the difference of a point in the game between the
victim and the hero. The cards are the same, or the victim, perhaps,
_may_ hold the best trumps, but he plays recklessly, loses his point,
loses his game, loses all! On such slight things does human destiny
hinge. The hero has all his resources at command--his game dimly
outlined. He knows his winning cards, and he plays them skilfully.
"Every point tells. Nothing is left to chance that can be accomplished
by foresight. He wins the game. He wins the prizes. He has the mastery
of life. The world takes off its hat to him. Fortune and people smile
upon him. Not that he is better than others--very likely he is not so
good. But the world counts results. Becky Sharp is not a model, but
Becky Sharp is a power. The world does not like her in the abstract, but
it likes her dinners, it courts her smiles, it fawns upon her, it
showers its good things upon her, all because _she has mastered it_.
Becky Sharp is not a model. Her aims are unworthy, and her means
unscrupulous; but she reads us a lesson in fact, in foresight, in
energy, in the subtle art of making the most of limited resources. So
long as life is a game, it is worth studying. The difference between
playing it well and playing it ill is the difference between light and
darkness, between joy and desolation, between life and death."
Even at that early and immature time of his life, Willard Glazier had
thought much upon this subject--examples of the disjointed successes of
all unplanned and unmethodical careers having been brought too
frequently into close proximity to his own door, not to have made an
impression upon his inquiring mind.
Hence, at the very threshold of his life as a teacher, he resolved to
have plan and purpose clearly defined in everything he did.
CHAPTER X.
THE SOLDIER SCHOOL-MASTER.
From boy to man.--The Lyceum debate.--Willard speaks for the
slave.--Entrance to the State Normal School.--Reverses.--Fighting
the world again.--Assistance from fair hands.--Willard meets
Allen Barringer.--John Brown, and what Willard thought of
him.--Principles above bribe.--Examination.--A sleepless
night.--Haunted by the "ghost of possible defeat."--"Here is your
certificate."--The school at Schodack Centre.--At the "Normal"
again.--The Edwards School.--Thirty pupils at two dollars
each.--The "soldier school-master."--Teaches at East
Schodack.--The runaway ride.--Good-by mittens, robes and
whip!--Close of school at East Schodack.
Although a very boy in years, young Glazier felt himself already
stepping upon the boundary line of manhood and, luckily for his future
welfare, comprehended the manifold dangers and mentally realized the
responsibilities which attend that phase of human existence.
Upon the fifth of February, 1857, the dull routine of a teacher's duty
was varied by a visit made to Edwards by Willard's uncle Joseph, and his
sisters; and, after closing his school, the former went home with his
visitors, and thence to a Lyceum which had been established in the
Herrick School District, where a debate was in progress as to the
relative importance, in a humanitarian point of view, of the bondage of
the African race in the Southern States, or the decadence of the
Indian tribes under the encroachments of the Whites. The "question"
assumed that the Aborigines were most worthy of sympathy; and young
Glazier, being invited to participate in the discussion, accepted, and
spoke upon the negative side of the question.
[Illustration: Gouverneur Wesleyan Seminary.]
He little dreamed upon that winter's night, when, in the small arena of
a village debating-club, he stood up as the champion of the slave, that
the day was not far distant when he would ride rowel-deep in carnage
upon battle-fields which war's sad havoc had made sickening, fighting
for the same cause in whose behalf he now so eloquently spoke.
No prophetic vision of what fate held in store for him appeared to the
ardent boy, speaking for those who could not rise from the darkness of
their bondage to speak for themselves. No glimpse of weary months
dragged out in Confederate prisons--of hair-breadth escapes from dangers
dread and manifold--of hiding in newly-dug graves made to assist the
flight of the living, not to entomb the dead--of lying in jungles and
cypress-swamps while fierce men and baffled hounds were panting for his
blood--of vicissitudes and perils more like the wild creations of some
fevered dream than the plain and unvarnished reality: nothing of all
this came before him to trouble his young hopes or cloud his bright
anticipations of the future.
He spoke of freedom, and had never seen a slave. He pictured the cruelty
of the lash used in a Christian land on Christian woman, be she black or
white. He spoke of the deeper wrong of tearing the new-born babe from
its mother's breast to sell it by the pound--of dragging the woman
herself from the father of her child and compelling her to mate with
other men--of the fact that such wrongs were not alone the offspring of
cruel hearts, nor of brutal owners, but arose from the mere operation of
barbarous laws where masters, if left to themselves, would have been
most kind. He spoke of such things as these, and yet he never dreamed
that his words were but the precursors of deeds that would make mere
words seem spiritless and tame.
Young Glazier spoke well. The little magnates of the place,--the older
men, after this, talked of him as of one likely to rise, to become a man
of note, and their manner grew more respectful towards the young
school-master. His occupations and amusements at this period of his
existence, though simple in their character, were considerably varied.
Among other entries in his journal about this date, is one that so
commends itself by its brevity and comprehensiveness that I quote it
_verbatim_.
"Having," he says, "received an invitation upon the twenty-fourth of
December, I attended a party at the residence of Jeptha Clark, whose
excellent wife received me very kindly; upon Christmas day I visited T.
L. Turnbull's school at Fullerville; upon Monday last called at Mr.
Austin's school in the Herrick District; Tuesday, dropped down for a
moment upon the students at Gouverneur; on Wednesday, returned home; and
on Thursday, for the greater part of the day, assisted uncle Joseph in
hauling wood from the swamps on the Davis Place."
Thus the time slipped rapidly by and his first term of teaching drew to
a close. In the spring of 1859 he again became a member of the
Gouverneur Wesleyan Seminary, and in May of that year, made the
following characteristic entry in his diary:
"'Order is Heaven's first law.' A time and place for everything, and
everything in its time and place, was the rule of conduct I adopted some
time ago. In accordance with this determination I have laid out the
following routine of occupation for each day. I intend to abide by it
during the present term. I will retire at ten o'clock P. M., rise each
morning at five o'clock, walk and exercise until six, then return to my
room, breakfast and read history until eight, then repeat what the
English call a 'constitutional,' viz.: another walk until prayers,
devoting the time intervening between prayers and recitation, to
Algebra. After recitation, I will study Geometry for three-quarters of
an hour, Latin for half an hour, and be ready for recitation again at
two o'clock. This will complete my regular course of study, and, by
carrying out this routine, I can dine at noon, and also have a
considerable amount of time for miscellaneous reading and writing, to
say nothing of my Saturdays, upon which I can review the studies of the
week."
To this plan young Glazier adhered conscientiously, and hence made rapid
progress and very soon found himself in a condition to take another
forward step in the pathway of learning. That step was the entrance to
the State Normal School at Albany. To go to West Point and receive the
military training which our government benevolently bestows upon her
sons at that institution, had been his pet ambition for years--the
scheme towards which all his energies were bent. But failing in this,
his next choice was the Normal School. Accordingly, on a certain
September afternoon in 1859, he found himself in the capital city of the
Empire State, knocking for admission at the doors of the Normal School.
He was alone and among strangers in a great city, with a purse
containing the sum of eight dollars! For a course of seven or eight
months instruction this was certainly a modest estimate of expenses! In
fact, young Glazier had based his financial arrangements on a
miscalculation of the amount furnished by the State. He did not then
know that the only provision made by the body politic was for mileage,
tuition and text-books. But on Monday morning, September seventeenth,
1859, he signed his name to the Normal pledge, and at the conclusion of
the examination--which continued until September twenty-third--was
assigned to the Junior Class--there being at that time four classes: the
Senior and sub-Senior, Junior and sub-Junior.
The next step was to find lodgings at a weekly or monthly price more
suited to his means than those which he had temporarily taken at the
Adams House on his arrival there the previous evening. Always frugal in
regard to his personal expenditures, he knew that, in order to eke out
the full term with his scanty resources, he must carry his habitual
thrift to its fullest extent. He therefore scoured the town for
apartments, aided by references from Professor Cochran, principal of the
Normal, and finally obtained a room on Lydius street, almost within
shadow of the Cathedral, and at the certainly reasonable rate of "six
shillings per week." This room he shared with Alexander S. Hunter, from
Schoharie County, and a member of the sub-Senior Class. For several
weeks the young students boarded at this place, buying what food they
required, which the landlady cooked for them free of charge.
Seventy-five cents a week paid for their cooking and rent!
But even this small outlay soon exhausted the meagre resources of young
Glazier and, at the end of the time mentioned, he went over into
Rensselaer County, to look up a school, in order to replenish his
well-nigh empty purse, and to enable him to continue in his efforts to
acquire an education. It was a bright clear morning in November when he
left his boarding-place on Lydius street in quest of his self-appointed
work, and, crossing the Hudson on a ferry-boat, walked all the way to
Nassau by the Bloomingdale Road--a distance of sixteen miles. His object
was to find Allen Barringer, School Commissioner for Rensselaer County,
who, as he had been told, lived somewhere near Nassau. On the way to
that village he passed two or three schools, concerning which he made
inquiries, with a view to engaging some one of them on his return to
Albany should he be so successful as to obtain a certificate from Mr.
Barringer. At about two o'clock in the afternoon of this, to him,
eventful day, young Glazier had arrived at the residence of Harmon
Payne, near East Schodack, or "Scott's Corners," as it was sometimes
called. He had been referred to this gentleman as one likely to assist
him in his endeavors to obtain a school. He had eaten nothing since
morning, and, having walked a distance of nearly sixteen miles, as may
be imagined, was somewhat faint and hungry. But the good wife of Mr.
Payne showed herself not lacking in the kindly courtesy belonging to a
gentlewoman, and, with true hospitality, placed before the young Normal
student a delicious repast of bread and honey.
To this youthful wayfarer, with a purse reduced to a cypher, and
struggling over the first rough places in the pathway of life, the
simple meal was like manna in the wilderness. After chatting pleasantly
with the family for an hour or more, he started again on his journey.
But this time not alone; for Mr. Payne very kindly sent his niece with
the boy teacher, in whom he had become so much interested, to show him a
shorter route "across lots" to East Schodack. This village, two miles
farther on, by the traveled highway, was only three-quarters of a mile
distant by a pathway leading across the pasture lands of some adjoining
farms. In the fading November afternoon the young lady and her _protege_
walked together to East Schodack--a walk which young Willard never
forgot, and out of which afterwards grew a fairy fabric of romantic
regard glittering with all the rainbow hues of boyish sentiment, and
falling collapsed in the after-crash of life, like many another
soap-bubble experience of first young days.
But he did not succeed, at that time, in securing the East Schodack
School, as he had hoped to do. Nothing daunted, however, he trod
reverses under foot and pushed on towards the residence of the School
Commissioner whose _ipse dixit_ was to award him success or failure.
Allen Barringer lived one mile from the village of Nassau, in Rensselaer
County, and it was nearly nightfall when, with an anxious heart and
weary with the day's journey, he knocked at the door of the comfortable
country residence which had been pointed out to him as the one
belonging to the School Commissioner. That gentleman himself came to the
door in answer to his knock, and upon Willard's inquiry for Mr.
Barringer replied:
"I am Mr. Barringer, sir; what can I do for you?"
His manner was so pleasant and his face so genial that young Glazier, at
once reassured, had no difficulty in making known his business.
"I have come out here from Albany," said he, "to see if I could pass
examination for a certificate, to teach in your district."
"Well, come in, come in," said Mr. Barringer, cordially, "and I will see
what I can do for you. You are not going back to Albany to-night?" he
asked.
"No, I shall not be able to do so," replied Willard.
"Have you friends or relatives here with whom you intend to stay?"
"No, sir."
"Then I shall be glad to have you stop with us to-night. I am a young
man like yourself, living at home here with my parents, as you see; I am
fond of company, and will be happy to place my room at your disposal.
And as there will be no hurry about the examination, we will talk more
about it after supper."
Young Glazier thanked his host for the kind proffer of entertainment,
and of course acquiesced in the arrangement.
Accordingly, after the physical man had been refreshed at a well-spread
supper-table, Mr. Barringer conducted his young guest to his own
apartments, where they drew their easy-chairs before a comfortable fire,
and entered into conversation.
"I am considerably interested in politics just now," said Mr. Barringer,
and then he asked abruptly, "what is your opinion of John Brown?"
At this time the first red flash of the war that swiftly followed, had
glowered athwart the political horizon, in the John Brown raid at
Harper's Ferry, and against this lurid background the figure of the
stern old man stood out in strong relief. It was at the period when,
shut up in prison, he was writing those heroic words to his wife, those
loving words of farewell to his children; when petitions poured in
pleading for his life--though they were petitions all in vain--and when,
naturally, partisan feeling on the subject was at its height. Willard
felt that in expressing his candid convictions he might be treading on
dangerous ground, and perhaps endangering his chances for success, yet
he held principle so high, and honest sentiment so far above bribe, that
if his certificate had depended on it he would not have hesitated to
express his admiration for the brave old man who laid down his life for
the slave, and whose name has since been crowned with the immortelles of
fame. Therefore Willard replied with a frankness worthy of emulation
that he looked upon John Brown as a conscientious, earnest, devoted
man--a man whose face was firmly set in the path of duty though that
path led to imprisonment and the gallows; a man much in advance of his
time--one of the pioneers of free thought, suffering for the sacred
cause, as pioneers in all great movements always suffer. He spoke with a
modest fearlessness known sometimes to youth and to few men. Mr.
Barringer replied that, though he held different views, he could not but
admire Willard's frankness in avowing his own political convictions,
and that this independence in principle would in nowise detract from his
previously formed good opinion of him. Afterwards, Mr. Barringer
examined him in the common English branches of study, besides astronomy,
philosophy and algebra--studies usually taught in the public schools of
Rensselaer County. In this way, with much pleasant talk dropped at
intervals through the official business of examination, interspersed
with politics and concluded with social chat, an agreeable evening
passed.
[Illustration: Old State Normal School. Albany, New York.]
Mr. Barringer at last said good-night to the young Normal student, with
the remark that he would see what could be done for him in the morning.
Not much sleep visited Willard's eyes that night, with the ghost of
possible defeat haunting his wakeful senses, stretched to their utmost
tension of anxiety.
Would he, or would he not, receive in the morning the certificate he
sought? This was the thought tossed continually up on the topmost wave
of his consciousness all the night long. Morning dawned at last, much to
his relief. When Mr. Barringer came to his door to announce breakfast,
he handed Willard the coveted piece of paper.
"Now then," said he, cheerily, "here is your certificate, and as I am
going to drive over to Albany after breakfast, if you have no particular
school in view, I shall be glad to have you ride with me as far as
Schodack Centre, where I have some very good friends, and will introduce
you to the trustees of the district, Messrs. Brockway, Hover and
Knickerbocker."
Accordingly they drove over to the residence of Milton Knickerbocker,
school trustee of District No. 7, of the town of Schodack.
That gentleman thanked the School Commissioner for bringing the young
teacher over, said that he would be pleased to engage him, and that it
was only necessary to see another trustee, George Brockway, to make the
engagement final. Mr. Knickerbocker then accompanied young Glazier to
the residence of Mr. Brockway, where arrangements were made for him to
teach the school at Schodack Centre. He then walked back to Albany.
Willard had said nothing to his landlady, on Lydius street, concerning
his intended absence, fearing he might have to report the failure of his
project, and on the evening of his return to Albany--having been away
for thirty-six hours--was surprised to find that the family were just
about to advertise him in the city papers, thinking some strange fate
had befallen him,--that he had perhaps committed suicide.
In just one week from the time Glazier engaged his school at Schodack
Centre, he returned to that place, and taught the young Schodackers
successfully through the specified term, after which he went to Albany
and passed the next Normal School term. On the twelfth of July
following, he left Albany for the home farm, where he worked until the
first of September. He then went on a prospecting tour out to Edwards,
near the field of his former efforts, and canvassed for scholars at two
dollars each, for a term of eight weeks. His object was to teach during
the fall and winter months and return to Albany in the spring. This
energetic youth of eighteen succeeded in obtaining about thirty pupils,
among whom were six teachers--one of them having taught four terms.
Among the incidents of his school experience at this time may be
mentioned the fact of a series of drill tactics, originated by himself,
with which he practised his pupils so thoroughly that they were enabled
to go through all the regular evolutions set down in Hardee. Yet he had
never seen the drill-book.
It may be regarded as one of those outcroppings of his natural bent
towards the military art which he displayed from his very infancy; for
true military genius, like true poetical genius, is born, not made. Of
course our young tactician soon made himself known, and throughout the
district he was distinguished by the title of the "Soldier-Schoolmaster."
It was an involuntary tribute yielded by public sentiment to the boy who
afterwards became the "Soldier-Author."
This boy-teacher, young as he was, marshaled all his pupils into
disciplined order, like the rank and file of the army, and somehow held
natural words of command at his disposal whereby he wielded the human
material given into his charge, as a general might wield the forces
under his command. The school was his miniature world and he was its
master--his diminutive kingdom wherein he was king; and within the
boundary of this chosen realm his sway was absolute.
First the "Soldier-Schoolmaster," drilling his boy-pupils; then the
Soldier of the Saddle, riding through shot and shell and war's fierce
din on Virginia's historic fields; and last, but perhaps not least, the
"Soldier-Author," winning golden opinions from press and people; through
all these changes of his life, from boy to man, one characteristic shows
plain and clear--his military bent. It is like the one bright stripe
through a neutral ground, the one vein of ore deposit through the
various stratifications of its native rock.
The Edwards Select School was continued until the first of November,
when Glazier left home once more, this time in company with his sister
Marjorie, bound for Troy. On arriving at that city he left his sister at
the house of an old friend, Alexander McCoy, and went down into
Rensselaer County a second time in search of a school, or rather two
schools--one for his sister as well as one for himself. He succeeded in
obtaining both of them on the same day, and went back to Troy that
night. His own district was East Schodack, near Schodack Centre, where
he had previously taught, and his sister secured the school two miles
north of the village of Castleton and six miles distant from Albany.
The little school-house near Castleton, where his sister taught, was
located in a lovely spot on a height overlooking the Hudson and
commanding a fine view of the river and the surrounding scenery.
During the school term in their respective districts, it was Willard
Glazier's habit to visit his sister once a week, on Saturday or Sunday,
and on several occasions a gentleman living at East Schodack, William
Westfall by name, who owned a fine horse and sleigh, loaned him the use
of his conveyance to drive to Castleton and return. The sleigh was
provided with warm robes of fur and the horse was beyond doubt spirited,
and a handsome specimen of the genus horse. But as we cannot look for
absolute perfection in anything pertaining to earth, it may be stated
that this animal was no exception to the universal rule. He had his
fault, as young Glazier discovered--a disagreeable habit of running
away every time he saw a train of cars. Perhaps the horse couldn't help
it; it was no doubt an inherited disposition, descended to him through
long lines of fractious ancestors, and therefore it need not be set down
against him in the catalogue of wilful sins. But whether so or
otherwise, this little unpleasantness in his disposition was an
established fact, and unfortunately there were two railroads to cross
between East Schodack and Castleton. On Glazier's first ride to
Castleton with the Westfall horse and sleigh, he had just crossed the
Boston and Albany Railroad when a freight-train rolled heavily by, which
put the horse under excellent headway, and on reaching the Hudson River
Railroad--the two tracks running very near each other--a passenger train
came up behind him. This completed the aggregation of causes, and away
flew the horse down the road to Castleton at break-neck speed. Fences
disappeared like gray streaks in the distance; roadside cottages came in
view and were swiftly left behind in the track of the foam-flecked
animal. All that Glazier could do was to keep him in the road, until at
length an old shed by the roadside served his purpose, and running him
into it, the horse, puffing and snorting, was obliged to stop. On his
return to East Schodack, Mr. Westfall asked him how he liked the horse.
He replied that he thought the animal a splendid traveler. He _did_
think so, beyond question.
The next Sunday young Glazier was driving again to Castleton with the
same stylish turn-out; this time with his sister Marjorie in the sleigh.
She had come up to East Schodack the evening before, and he was taking
her back to her school. The sleighing was excellent, the day fine, and
all went merry as a marriage bell until they reached the railroad. There
the inevitable train of cars loomed in view, and the puff, puff of the
engine, sending out great volumes of steam and its wild screech at the
crossing, completely upset what few ideas of propriety and steady travel
this horse may have had in his poor, bewildered head, and, with a leap
and a jerk, he was once more running away on the Castleton Road as if
the entire host of the nether regions were let loose after him.
For a little while he made things around them as lively as a pot of
yeast. Away went whip, robes, mittens and everything else lying loose in
the bottom of the sleigh at all calculated to yield to the velocity of a
whirlwind or a runaway. But Glazier proved himself master of the
situation in this as in many another event of his life, and with one
hand holding his frightened sister from jumping out of the sleigh, with
the other he twisted the lines firmly around his wrist and kept the
horse in the road, until, at the distance of three-quarters of a mile
beyond Castleton, he brought the infuriated animal to a stand-still by
running him against the side of a barn. Afterwards he drove leisurely
back and picked up the robes, and whip and articles spilled during the
wild runaway ride.
A broken shaft was the only result of this last adventure, which Glazier
of course, put in repair before his return to East Schodack. Mr.
Westfall never knew until after the close of the school term that his
horse had afforded the young teacher an opportunity to tell what he knew
about runaways.
The school at East Schodack closed with an exhibition exceedingly
creditable to the efforts of the teacher, at which Mr. Allen Barringer
was present, and in a speech before the school complimented young
Glazier in the highest terms. The programme of exercises was an
excellent one, and was made up of original addresses, declamations,
recitations and music. After the close of the school, Mr. Barringer
presented Glazier with a certificate which entitled him to teach for
three years, and also gave him in addition the following letter of
recommendation--a tribute of which any young teacher might be justly
proud, and which he carefully preserved:
"To Whom it May Concern:
"This is to certify, that I am well acquainted with Willard
Glazier, he having taught school during the winters of 1859 and '60
in my Commission District. I consider him one of the most promising
young teachers of my acquaintance. The school that has the good
fortune to secure his services will find him one of the most
capable and efficient teachers of the day.
"Allen Barringer,
"School Commissioner, Rensselaer County.
"Schodack, New York, 1860."
Early in the year 1860 he resumed his studies at the State Normal
School, and remained at that institution until the guns of Sumter
sounded their war-cry through the land.
This period was the great turning-point in Willard Glazier's life, and
hereafter we encounter him in a far different _role_.
CHAPTER XI
INTRODUCTION TO MILITARY LIFE.
The mutterings of war.--Enlistment.--At Camp Howe.--First
experience as a soldier.--"One step to the front!"--Beyond
Washington.--On guard.--Promotion.--Recruiting service.--The
deserted home on Arlington Heights.--"How shall I behave in the
coming battle?"--The brave Bayard.--On the march.--The stratagem
at Falmouth Heights.--A brilliant charge.--After the battle.
The inevitable results of the discord so long pending between North and
South accumulated day by day; and when, at length, Abraham Lincoln was
elected by a large popular majority, that election was, as everybody
knows, immediately followed by the calling of a Southern States
Convention, the secession, one after another, of each of those States,
the capture of Fort Sumter, the killing of Ellsworth, and the defeat of
the Federal troops at Bull Run. All of these occurrences contributed to
inflame the passions, intensify the opinions, and arouse the enthusiasm
of the people of both sections to fever-heat.
It was in the whirl and torrent of this popular storm that Willard
Glazier was caught up and swept into the ranks of the Union army.
His regiment, the Harris Light Cavalry, was originally intended for the
regular service--to rank as the Seventh Regular Cavalry. The general
government, however, concluded to limit the number of their regiments of
horse to six--the reasons for which are given by Captain Glazier in
his "Soldiers of the Saddle," as follows:
"Under the military _regime_ of General Scott, the cavalry arm of the
service had been almost entirely overlooked. His previous campaigns in
Mexico, which consisted chiefly of the investment of walled towns and of
assaults on fortresses, had not been favorable to extensive cavalry
operations, and he was not disposed, at so advanced an age in life,
materially to change his tactics of war."
[Illustration: A Cavalry Column On The March.]
Hence, this regiment was mustered into service as the "Second Regiment
of New York Cavalry," and, as Senator Ira Harris had extended to the
organization the influence of his name and purse, it soon came to be
called the "Harris Light Cavalry," and retained that title throughout
the whole of its eventful career. The natural tastes of young Glazier
led him into this branch of the service in preference to the infantry,
and we find him writing to his sister Marjorie as follows:
Camp Howe, near Scarsdale, New York,
_August 16th, 1861_.
My Dear Sister: From the post-mark of this letter you will at once
conjecture the truth ere I tell it to you, and I can fancy you
saying to yourself when you glance at it: "Willard is no longer
talking about enlisting but has really entered the army." You are
right, I now wear the Union Blue.
Many of our home friends will doubtless wonder why I have
sacrificed my professional prospects at a time when they first
began to look cheering, in order to share the hardships and perils
of a soldier's life. But I need not explain, to _you_, my reasons
for doing so. When our country is threatened with destruction by
base and designing men, in order to gratify personal ambition and
love of sway, it becomes her sons to go to her rescue and avert the
impending ruin. The rebelling South has yet to learn the difference
between the _true principles_ of the Constitution and the
_delusion_ of "State rights." It is as easy to die a volunteer as a
drafted soldier, and in my opinion, is infinitely more honorable.
I shall return to my studies as soon as the Rebellion is put down
and the authority of our Government fully restored, and not _until_
then.
Let me give you a sketch of our movements thus far. Having reached
Troy at 3 o'clock on the afternoon of the day you and I parted, I
spent the remainder of the evening until 8 o'clock in the city. At
that hour we embarked for New York, and the boys had a very
exciting and enthusiastic time on board the steamer Vanderbilt.
Wednesday was spent at 648 Broadway, Regimental Headquarters of the
"Harris Light Cavalry;" and on that night we came by train to our
present camp: or, rather, as near it as we could, for it is two
miles from the nearest station. The spot is picturesque enough to
be described. An old farm, surrounded by stone fences that look
like ramparts, constitutes the camp. The Hudson and Harlem rivers
are in full view, and the country around is full of beauty. On the
first night we _bivouacked_ upon the bare sod, with no covering for
our bodies but the broad canopy of heaven. It was not until a late
hour on the following afternoon that our white tents began to dot
the ground and gleam through the dark foliage of the trees.
Crowds of visitors from the neighboring village come out every day
to see us. My health was never better, and this sort of life
affords me keen enjoyment. The very roughness of it is
invigorating. My present writing-desk is the top of the stone wall
I have alluded to, so you must criticise neither my penmanship nor
my style. I received a letter from father on Tuesday afternoon,
and, thank God! I enter the service with his full approbation. The
discipline enforced here is strict, our rations are good, fruit is
very abundant, and to be had for the asking; so that if you will
only write soon and often, there will be little else required to
fill the wants of
Your affectionate brother, Willard.
Fortunately for their future comfort, the Harris Light Cavalry, at the
very outset of its military career, was placed under the charge of a
rigid and skilful disciplinarian--one Captain A. N. Duffie--who, having
graduated honorably at the celebrated French military school, St. Cyr,
possessed all the martial enthusiasm as well as personal peculiarities
of his excitable countrymen.
The captain either was, or believed himself to be, an eloquent speaker,
and his efforts at rhetorical display, added to his French pronunciation
of English words, became a source of great amusement to the men. He was
wont to harangue them, as if they were about to enter upon a sanguinary
battle. The old stone walls of the peaceful farm were pictured as
bristling with the enemy's bayonets, and the boys were called on to
"charge" at the hidden foe and capture him.
"One morning," says Captain Glazier, "after a week spent in drill, we
were all surprised by receiving an order to 'fall into line,' and
discovered that the object of this movement was to listen to a
Napoleonic harangue from Captain Duffie. So loud had been our protests,
so manifest our rebellious spirit on the subject of fortifying a
peaceful farm on the banks of the Hudson, that the captain undoubtedly
feared he might not be very zealously supported by us in his future
movements, and, like Napoleon on assuming command of the Army of Italy,
sought to test the devotion of his men. After amusing us a-while in
broken English, appealing to our patriotism and honor, he at length
shouted:
"'Now, as many of you as are ready to follow me to the cannon's mouth,
take one step to the front!'
"This _ruse_ was perfectly successful, and the whole line took the
desired step."
The time passed pleasantly enough in this camp of instruction, despite
the monotony of drill and guard duty, and, by the time the order to
break camp reached the men, they were well advanced in the duties of the
soldier.
The regiment left Camp Howe about the end of August, and, passing
through New York, entered that most beautiful and patriotic of cities,
Philadelphia, where they were royally entertained by the managers of the
"Volunteer Refreshment Saloon." They at length reached Washington and
encamped a half mile beyond the Capitol.
From this point Glazier writes to his mother as follows:
Camp Oregon,
Near Washington, D.C.,
_August 25th, 1861_.
Dear Mother: I am at present seated under the branches of a large
peach tree that marks the spot where two sentinels of our army,
while on duty last night, were shot by the rebels. I was one of the
same guard, having been assigned to such duty for the first time
since entering the service. Like all other sentinels, I was obliged
to walk my lonely beat with drawn sabre.
It may interest you to know where I performed my first guard duty.
It was in front of the residence of a rabid secessionist, who is
now an officer in the famous Black-Horse Cavalry. You may remember
that this regiment was reported to have been utterly destroyed at
Bull Run, and yet I am informed by Washingtonians that it had but
two companies in the fight. So much for newspaper gossip.
During the day I was very kindly treated by the family of this
gentleman, but in the evening our camp commander came to me and
said: "Take this revolver, and if you value your life, be vigilant.
_Remember, you are not at Scarsdale now!_" He, of course, referred
to our old camp near Scarsdale, twenty-four miles from New York.
Our present one is a little over half a mile from the Capitol, and
from my tent I can see the dome of that building, glittering, like
a ball of gold, in the sunlight.
Yesterday I paid a visit to the city. The streets were crowded with
infantry, artillery and cavalry soldiers, all actively engaged in
preparing for the coming conflict. An engagement seems to be close
at hand. Entrenchments are being dug and batteries erected in every
direction. The citizens do not apprehend any danger from an attack
by the enemy.
My regiment has been attached to Brigadier-General Baker's
Brigade. It will be three weeks to-morrow since I enlisted. I have
been in this camp one week, and one week was spent at Camp Howe,
Scarsdale, New York.
We are being rapidly prepared for field service. Our drill is very
rigid, yet I submit to the discipline willingly, and I find that
hard study is as essential to the composition of a good soldier as
to a good teacher. I have purchased a copy of the "Cavalry
Tactics," and devote every leisure hour to its mastery. There is
but one thing which gives me any serious annoyance now, and that is
the question of the ways and means for the education of my brothers
and sisters. I think Elvira and Marjorie had better teach this
winter, and then, if the war should be concluded before next
spring, I will make arrangements for their attendance at school
again. With kindest love to all, I am
Your loving and dutiful son,
Willard.
About two months more were occupied by the Harris Light in camp-duty,
scouting and foraging, but almost immediately after their arrival in
Virginia, young Glazier was promoted to the rank of Corporal. Shortly
after his promotion he was detailed for recruiting service and sent to
the city of New York for that purpose. The great city was in a turmoil
of excitement.
The "Tammany" organization carried things with a high hand, and was
opposed by the equally powerful Union League. Between these two centres
the current of public opinion ran in strong tides. But, in the midst of
it all, the young corporal was successful in his recruiting service, and
on the second day of December rejoined his comrades, who were then at
Camp Palmer, Arlington Heights.
This spot was one of peculiar beauty. Its associations were hallowed.
There stood the ancestral home of the Lees, whose deserted rooms seemed
haunted with memories of a noble race. Its floors had echoed to the
tread of youth and beauty. Its walls had witnessed gatherings of renown.
From its portals rode General Lee to take command of the Richmond
troops--a man who must be revered for his qualities of heart and
remembered especially by the North as one who, amid all the fury of
passion which the war engendered, was never betrayed into an intemperate
expression towards the enemy. _Now_, the halls and porches of the quaint
old building rang with the tread of armed men. Its rooms were despoiled,
and that atmosphere of desolation which ever clings about a deserted
home, enveloped the place. A winding roadway under thick foliaged trees,
led down the Heights to the "Long Bridge," crossing the Potomac. Near
the house stood an old-fashioned "well sweep" which carried a
moss-covered bucket on its trips down the well, to bring up the most
sparkling of water. Instinctively a feeling of sadness took possession
of the heart at the mournful contrast between the past and present of
this beautiful spot.
"Ah, crueler than fire or flood
Come steps of men of alien blood,
And silently the treacherous air
Closes--and keeps no token, where
Its dead are buried."
The day of trial--the baptism of battle--seemed rapidly approaching.
General McClellan, having drilled and manoeuvred and viewed and reviewed
the Army of the Potomac, until what had been little better than an armed
and uniformed mob began to assume the aspect of a body of regul
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