 | CHAPTER I.
LEAVING HOME. The border rover |  |
1. CHAPTER I.
LEAVING HOME.
I believe it is customary, when an individual sets
out to write an autobiography, to begin at the beginning—that
is to say, with his first recollection—and
give a detailed account of the passing of his earliest
years. I shall not adopt this plan; because, in the
first place, the earlier years of my existence were not
marked with events of peculiar interest to the reader;
and in the second place, my narrative is intended
merely as a chronicle of the most remarkable scenes
and adventures through which I passed after arriving
at the age of manhood. It may not be improper,
however, to devote a few words to my birth, parentage
and past life, in order to fairly introduce myself
to the reader, with whom it is my design to make a
rather long, and I hope agreeable, journey.
I was born in the city of Philadelphia, and am the
youngest child of four, and an only son. My father,
merchant; and though now retired from the cares of
business, is still living; as are, also, my mother and
two of my sisters—the last mentioned being married
and settled in the city of my nativity—and both of
their husbands, I may add, are active partners in
what was once the house of Rivers & Co. It was the
cherished design of my father to have me succeed
him in business, and so perpetuate the firm, which
first took its name from his father and father-in-law;
for my father married the daughter of Lemuel Roland,
the co-partner of my grandfather Rivers, and I was
appropriately christened Roland, the surname of my
mother: I say it was the cherished design of my
father that I should succeed him in business, and
certainly it was reasonable in him to wish to see the
firm of Rivers & Co. carried down at least another
generation. Moreover, I took a youthful pride in
the knowledge that I had a legal right to support and
extend a mercantile title begun with my ancestors on
both sides, and so harmoniously cemented; and could
I, on arriving at the proper age, have been contented
with an even, peaceful business-life, the darling hope
of my worthy father would have been realized.
But, unfortunately for this design, there was a
restless something implanted in my very nature
which demanded change, even in my earlier years,
and rapidly grew and developed with my growth, till
at last inclination and desire became too strong for
reason and judgment. In my school-boy days I battled
the venerable counting-room of my father, did I
resolve to conquer, and force contentment with my
lot. A thousand times did I mentally say, “The firm
of Rivers & Co. shall never be changed while I have
being;” and a thousand times did some evil genius
seem to whisper, “You will never tread in the footsteps
of your honored predecessors.”
Why could I not be contented while surrounded by
the luxuries of wealth? Why came that incessant
longing for change, which made unhappy my waking
hours, and mingled ever in my dreams? Had I a
destiny to fulfil, which would take me far from
home and friends, and surround me with hardships
and perils, and bow with grief the venerable heads
most dear to me? I shuddered at the thought, and
yet felt that the thought was only the precursor of
the reality.
My father, though ever willing to indulge me in
any and every rational and reasonable pastime, was
withal too strict a disciplinarian of the old school to
permit a single hour of the twenty-four to pass in
what might be termed sheer idleness. Every minute
had to be as strictly accounted for as if every minute
were a dollar. Though wealthy to an extent which
cast many so-called opulent families in the shade, it
was a principle with him to have his children instructed
in every branch of learning and labor which
was likely to be of use to them, in the event of being
reduced to a state of comparative poverty. A
like too many indulgent fathers, think his children of
so superior a mould as to be disgraced by honest toil.
On the contrary, his daughters were taught to manage
the kitchen as well as adorn the parlor, and I often
found my task with clerks of the lowest salary; and
in my rough, worsted roundabout, with my labor-soiled
hands and face, was not unfrequently mistaken
for one of them, by pompous, perfumed, and dashingly
dressed customers. I had my hours for schooling,
recreation and labor; and though I sometimes
thought the last unnecessary and degrading, yet I
knew too well my father's inflexible adherence to
system, to think of remonstrating. I thus began to
labor so young that I remember not a period of idleness;
and sorely was my pride many times wounded,
during the years of my minority, by seeing the sons
of clerks better dressed and having more freedom
than the only son of a princely merchant. But I
have lived to thank my father for his upright course,
for it saved me perhaps from dissipation, and certainly
from many a temptation, and begot habits of manly,
energetic activity and self-dependence, in contradistinction
to effeminate indolence and infantile helplessness,
which so generally curse the lives of rich men's
sons. Would to Heaven, for the good of mankind,
that every father were like mine in this respect!
I rose, by degrees, from the position of a hardworking
clerk—the common packer of bales and
boxes—to be assistant book-keeper in my father's
me thoroughly acquainted with his system of doing
business and the extensive operations of the establishment.
I had now completed my twentieth year, and
another twelve-month would see me my own master,
and, as my father most ardently hoped, the head of
the house; for it had been his favorite project for
years, to celebrate his retirement from business and
my succession on my twenty-first anniversary. How
he was doomed to disappointment, which almost
broke his heart, I shall presently show.
I have spoken of a restless desire for change, beginning
with my earlier years, growing upon me with my
growth, and strengthening with my strength. Notwithstanding
my constant and arduous employment,
and my earnest striving to be contented in the envied
position where fortune had placed me, I could not
control or govern my fancy, which, during every
unoccupied moment, awake or asleep, was continually
roving far, far away, to some unknown region beyond
my natural view. Yet my desire did not extend to
Oriental lands—the pomp and degradation, the splendor
and misery of ancient cities—but to the grandeur
and solitude of nature; of nature unchanged by art;
of nature wild, free, primitive; of nature as found on
the ocean, the desert, the prairie, or the rocky steeps
of the howling wilderness. Vainly did I struggle to
crush this desire, which I kept locked in my breast;
vainly did I bring reason, filial affection, pride, ambition,
and all the opposing faculties of which I was
within—a voice like that which bade the Wandering
Jew move on—cried, “Go! go! go!”
Discontented and unhappy for years, I now grew
melancholy and abstracted. I could not relish my
food; my sleep became broken and feverish; and my
pale, sickly complexion, hollow eyes, and sudden,
nervous starts, gradually betrayed my mental sufferings.
For a long time my father seemed not to notice
the change—a change which I remarked with regret
—and concerning which, when questioned by my
mother, or some of my intimate friends, I made evasive
replies, and added a forced laugh, to imply it was
nothing serious.
At last, one day, my father called me aside, and
with considerable show of feeling, said:
“Roland, you are not well!”
“I certainly do not feel well,” I answered, for with
him I was resolved to be frank.
“I have for some time remarked a change in you,”
he continued; “and I perceive you get thinner every
day, although you evidently struggle to overcome
your disease, whatever it may be. Is your mind at
ease?”
“Why do you ask, father?”
“Because, in your case, I fancy I detect a mental
anxiety with which the body sympathizes.”
My father, it will thus be seen, had observed me
closely, and with a discernment for which I had not
given him credit.
“I cannot say that my mind is at ease,” I replied
to his question.
“Well, Roland, speak out, and frankly.”
“I will, father. I feel that I am too much confined
here. I long for travel—for change.”
“And where would you go, my son?”
“Anywhere,” I replied, eagerly, “so that the journey
be long; but I would prefer”—
“Well,” he said, as I hesitated, “what would you
prefer?”
I thought of the Western prairies, of which I had
recently read some glowing accounts, and had frequently
seen in my dreams, and felt prompted to
name them as my destination; but a moment's reflection
convinced me that I should thus be asking a
favor which would be refused, and I instantly substituted:
“I would go westward.”
“A long journey westward!” he repeated, musingly,
and closely eyeing me the while; “that is rather a
vague request. I really do not like to spare you, for
in less than three months now you will be of age, and
then, you know, I intend to put the responsibility of
the house on your shoulders. But, really, you need
rest and change, and so I have a mind to send you to
St. Louis, to settle a long standing account with Willard
& Brothers.”
“Do, father, please!” I eagerly rejoined, while my
nerves seemed to thrill with rapture, and my blood to
leap wildly through my veins; for the city which he
as the way-mark to a longer journey.
“You seem excited, Roland,” said my father; “I
have not seen your eyes so sparkle, and so much color
in your face, for a long time. Are you really so delighted
at leaving home?”
“Pardon me, father! I really was not thinking of
the parting from you and mother; but of the delights
of travel and change.”
“You will not find the journey so delightful as you
anticipate, my son; but experience will best prove
the truth of my words. But you must not disappoint
me of your presence here on your birth-day. I have
looked forward to that point of time for many years,
and your absence would make it a day of gloom instead
of a day of rejoicing.”
I made no reply, and my eye sought the ground,
for my heart acknowledged the guilt of deceiving a
parent I loved and venerated. My father probably
mistook the expression for one resulting from a far
different cause, for he immediately inquired:
“When would you like to start, Roland?”
“As soon as you think proper, father.”
“Let me see—this is Friday. Be ready to leave on
Monday next.”
The night following this decision I could not sleep.
I lay tossing to and fro, my fancy revelling in the delights
of unbounded freedom, and my heart heavy
with a half-formed design of doing wrong. Should I
thus go forth to return at some distant period, or perchance
parents farewell with a lie in my heart, if not upon my
tongue? Had I been so carefully and fondly reared,
to be the instrument, in the hands of Fate, to strike a
cruel blow against the happiness of those I loved?
Should I let selfish desire, with one fell swoop, bear
down every principle of right and honor, reason, duty
and love? But then, the glowing pictures of faney
—how bright, how beautiful, how enchanting they
rose before my mind's vision! A green earth, with
gorgeous flowers, a balmy air, a blue sky, and a glorious
sun, with the freedom of the untamed eagle,
seemed stretching away beyond the narrow path of
duty. Should I not for once overstep its circumscribed
limits, and let my soul feast, and fill, and
expand with the divine of nature? Should I not rise
superior to any earthly tie—strained but not severed
—for the reward of a life-long gratification? Well, I
could not say—I could not decide. There was weight
and force on either side; and, set in motion by doubt,
they rocked the mind till every fount of feeling cast
troubled waters to the surface.
I will not detain the reader with the tedium of
preparation, or the scenes of parting. All separations
from those we love, when a long future, with its fearful
uncertainties, stretches between the present and
the point of probable reunion, are periods of trial;
and the heart pours forth its gathered affections with
the truth and purity of something holy, and then
struggles in anguish to recover the vitality which has
Master.
The parting from my parents and friends was the
more trying to me, that I felt guilty of a deception
concerning my return; for already I knew myself
secretly yielding to the temptation of a prolonged
absence; and once away, and the poignancy of parting
dulled by time, I could not say to what extent the
power of desire might prevail over affection and duty.
“Something tells me you will not speedily return,”
said my mother, with maternal tenderness, a tear
glistening in her eye. “You are going from home
for the first time, Roland, and may your journey
prove a safe and pleasant one! Take care of your
health, and avoid temptation, and may Heaven bless
and prosper you!”
“Remember my instructions, and bring not dis-appointment
to my hope!” said my father, as he
grasped my hand for the last time.
My heart was full; my eyes were dim; and silently
turning away, I sprung into the carriage, and was
rapidly whirled from the most touching scene which
had ever been presented in my then uneventful existence.
| CHAPTER I.
LEAVING HOME. The border rover | |