Chapter Two--In Which I Entertain Peculiar Views
I was born at Rivermouth, but, before I had a chance to become very wellacquainted with that pretty New England town, my parents removed to NewOrleans, where my father invested his money so securely in the bankingbusiness that he was never able to get any of it out again. But of thishereafter.
I was only eighteen months old at the time of the removal, and it didn'tmake much difference to me where I was, because I was so small; butseveral years later, when my father proposed to take me North to beeducated, I had my own peculiar views on the subject. I instantly kickedover the little Negro boy who happened to be standing by me at themoment, and, stamping my foot violently on the floor of the piazza,declared that I would not be taken away to live among a lot of Yankees!
You see I was what is called "a Northern man with Southern principles."I had no recollection of New England: my earliest memories wereconnected with the South, with Aunt Chloe, my old Negro nurse, andwith the great ill-kept garden in the centre of which stood our house--awhitewashed stone house it was, with wide verandas--shut out from thestreet by lines of orange, fig, and magnolia trees. I knew I was bornat the North, but hoped nobody would find it out. I looked upon themisfortune as something so shrouded by time and distance that maybenobody remembered it. I never told my schoolmates I was a Yankee,because they talked about the Yankees in such a scornful way it mademe feel that it was quite a disgrace not to be born in Louisiana, or atleast in one of the Border States. And this impression was strengthenedby Aunt Chloe, who said, "dar wasn't no gentl'men in the Norf no way,"and on one occasion terrified me beyond measure by declaring that,"if any of dem mean whites tried to git her away from marster, she wasjes'gwine to knock 'em on de head wid a gourd!"
The way this poor creature's eyes flashed, and the tragic air with whichshe struck at an imaginary "mean white," are among the most vivid thingsin my memory of those days.
To be frank, my idea of the North was about as accurate as thatentertained by the well-educated Englishmen of the present dayconcerning America. I supposed the inhabitants were divided into twoclasses--Indians and white people; that the Indians occasionally dasheddown on New York, and scalped any woman or child (giving the preferenceto children) whom they caught lingering in the outskirts afternightfall; that the white men were either hunters or schoolmasters, andthat it was winter pretty much all the year round. The prevailing styleof architecture I took to be log-cabins.
With this delightful picture of Northern civilization in my eye, thereader will easily understand my terror at the bare thought of beingtransported to Rivermouth to school, and possibly will forgive me forkicking over little black Sam, and otherwise misconducting myself, whenmy father announced his determination to me. As for kicking little Sam--Ialways did that, more or less gently, when anything went wrong with me.
My father was greatly perplexed and troubled by this unusually violentoutbreak, and especially by the real consternation which he saw writtenin every line of my countenance. As little black Sam picked himself up,my father took my hand in his and led me thoughtfully to the library.
I can see him now as he leaned back in the bamboo chair and questionedme. He appeared strangely agitated on learning the nature of myobjections to going North, and proceeded at once to knock down all mypine log houses, and scatter all the Indian tribes with which I hadpopulated the greater portion of the Eastern and Middle States.
"Who on earth, Tom, has filled your brain with such silly stories?"asked my father, wiping the tears from his eyes.
"Aunt Chloe, sir; she told me."
"And you really thought your grandfather wore a blanket embroidered withbeads, and ornamented his leggins with the scalps of his enemies?"
"Well, sir, I didn't think that exactly."
"Didn't think that exactly? Tom, you will be the death of me."
He hid his face in his handkerchief, and, when he looked up, he seemedto have been suffering acutely. I was deeply moved myself, though I didnot clearly understand what I had said or done to cause him to feel sobadly. Perhaps I had hurt his feelings by thinking it even possible thatGrandfather Nutter was an Indian warrior.
My father devoted that evening and several subsequent evenings to givingme a clear and succinct account of New England; its early struggles, itsprogress, and its present condition--faint and confused glimmeringsof all which I had obtained at school, where history had never been afavorite pursuit of mine.
I was no longer unwilling to go North; on the contrary, the proposedjourney to a new world full of wonders kept me awake nights. I promisedmyself all sorts of fun and adventures, though I was not entirely atrest in my mind touching the savages, and secretly resolved to go onboard the ship--the journey was to be made by sea--with a certain littlebrass pistol in my trousers-pocket, in case of any difficulty with thetribes when we landed at Boston.
I couldn't get the Indian out of my head. Only a short time previouslythe Cherokees--or was it the Camanches?--had been removed from theirhunting-grounds in Arkansas; and in the wilds of the Southwest the redmen were still a source of terror to the border settlers. "Troublewith the Indians" was the staple news from Florida published in the NewOrleans papers. We were constantly hearing of travellers being attackedand murdered in the interior of that State. If these things were done inFlorida, why not in Massachusetts?
Yet long before the sailing day arrived I was eager to be off. Myimpatience was increased by the fact that my father had purchased for mea fine little Mustang pony, and shipped it to Rivermouth a fortnightprevious to the date set for our own departure--for both my parents wereto accompany me. The pony (which nearly kicked me out of bed one nightin a dream), and my father's promise that he and my mother would come toRivermouth every other summer, completely resigned me to the situation.The pony's name was Gitana, which is the Spanish for gypsy; so I alwayscalled her--she was a lady pony--Gypsy.
At length the time came to leave the vine-covered mansion among theorange-trees, to say goodby to little black Sam (I am convinced he washeartily glad to get rid of me), and to part with simple Aunt Chloe,who, in the confusion of her grief, kissed an eyelash into my eye, andthen buried her face in the bright bandana turban which she had mountedthat morning in honor of our departure.
I fancy them standing by the open garden gate; the tears are rollingdown Aunt Chloe's cheeks; Sam's six front teeth are glistening likepearls; I wave my hand to him manfully then I call out "goodby" in amuffled voice to Aunt Chloe; they and the old home fade away. I am neverto see them again!