My Boyhood

\u27 New York City, August 20, 1912. Rkv. II. D. Lamb. Dear tiir, — The editor of the Atlantic Monthly has been good enough to send me your letter to him for perusal, — I being \u27The Outsider.\u27 It was my earnest endeavor to write the article in question without giving offense, but I fear I have failed in this, and even in the more important task of expressing clearly what I meant to say. My point was that Smith is frankly not a Christian; therefore that it is idle to say that he should go to church if he does n\u27t want to; and that he should not be criticized for not going any more than he should be for staying away from a synagogue. He is really not a part of either establishment. The Outsider did not mean to complain about the churches. Mr. Nicholson did and, being a churchman, I suppose he has a right to; but Smith as I understand him sees no reason why they should change themselves on his account. He does n\u27t want the minister to preach philosophical sermons for him. If he wants philosophy he can go to university or university-extension lecture for that. What I tried to bring out was that while Smith does not oppose organized Christianity, it does not seem to him to be the way unto God. Also that persistent reference to Smith as a man morally defective because he has not some official church affiliation seems to me a wrong view to take. That\u27s all. If the church means something to him and he goes there to worship, it is certainly good for him to go. If he only goes because custom and public opinion condemn him if he stays away, it will do him no good. It is better for him to worry out his own salvation than to assume things he does not believe in for convenience or for profit. And I will go a step further and hope I shall not be misunderstood: it is better for him to work things out for himself and come to a wrong conclusion, than to guess right and let it go at that. Yours sincerely, The Outsider. P. S. — I do not play golf. V!. !E ATLANTIC MONTHLY Milton, Mass., August 13, 1912. To the Editor of the Atlantic. Sir, —Perhaps the following quotation from the works of the great Swedish scientist, philosopher, and seer, Emanuel Swedenborg, would be an aid to Smith\u27s reflections on church-going. The phraseology is rather odd, but it can be understood. The brackets are mine. \u27Man is continually in [internal] worship when he is in [a state of] love and charity, external worship being only an effect. The angels are in such Worship; wherefore with them there is a perpetual sabbath; whence also the sabbath, in an internal sense, signifies the kingdom of the Lord. Man, however, during his abode in this world, ought not to omit the practice of external worship, for by external worship things internal are excited [i.e., called forth], and by external worship things external are kept in a state of sanctity so that internal things can flow in [to the mind]. Moreover, man is hereby imbued with knowledge and prepared to receive [into his understanding] things celestial. He is also gifted with states of sanctity, though he be ignorant of it; which states are preserved by the Lord for this use in eternal life, for in the other life all man\u27s states of life return.\u27 A. H. Ward. NOVEMBER, 1912 MY BOYHOOD BY JOHN MUIE When I was a boy in Scotland I was fond of everything that was wild, and ail my life I \u27ve been growing fonder and fonder of wild places and wild creatures. Fortunately, around my native (own of Dunbar, by the stormy North Sea, there was no lack of wildness, though most of the land lay in smooth estivation.. With red-blooded playmates, wild as myself, I loved to wander in the fields to hear the birds i\u27tng, and along the seashore to gaze and wonder at the shells and seaweeds, eels and crabs in the pools among the rocks when the tide was low. And, best of all, m glorious storms to watch the waves thundering on the black headlands and Cfa\u27ggy ruins of the old Dunbar Castle wen the sea and the sky, the waves *M\u3e the clouds, were mingled together is one. -, After I was five or six years old I ««away to the seashore or the fields Most every Saturday, and every day !~| the school vacations except Sundays, ^ugh solemnly warned that I must i%: at home in the garden and back- $*«*.■ lest I should learn to think bad gSSta* and say bad words. All in **%; Ir spite of the sure sore punish- ££j8 that followed like shadows, the g™m inherited wildness in our blood ran true on its glorious course, as-invincible and unstoppable as the stars- My earliest recollections of the country were gained on short walks with my grandfather when I was perhaps not over three years old. On one of these walks grandfather took me to Lord Lauderdale\u27s gardens, where I saw figs growing against a sunny wall and tasted some of them, and got as many apples to eat as I wished. On another memorable walk in a hay-field,, when we sat down to rest on one of the haycocks, I heard a sharp, prickly, stinging cry, and jumping up eagerly, called grandfather\u27s attention to it. He said he heard only the wind, but I insisted on digging into the hay and turning it over until we discovered the source of the strange exciting sound — a mother field-mouse with half a dozen naked young hanging to her teats. This to me was a wonderful discovery. No hunter could have been more excited on discovering a bear and her cubs in a wilderness den. I was sent to school before I had completed my third year. The first school- day was doubtless full of wonders, but I am not able to recall any of them. I remember the servant washing my face and getting soap in my eyes, and mother hanging a little green bag with my first book in it around my neck so 578 MY BOYHOOD MY BOYHOOD 579 I would not lose it, and its blowing back in the sea-wind like a flag. But before I was sent to school my grandfather, as I was told, had taught me my letters from shop signs across the street. I can remember distinctly how proud I was when I had spelled my way through the little first book into the second, which seemed large and important, and so on to the third. Going from one book to another formed a grand triumphal advancement, the memories of which still stand out in clear relief. At this time infants were baptized and vaccinated a few days after birth. I remember very well a fight with the doctor when, my brother David was vaccinated. This happened, I think, before I was sent to school. I could not imagine what the doctor, a tall, severe- looking man in black, was doing to my brother; but as mother, who was holding him in her arms, offered no objection, I looked on quietly while he scratched the arm, until I saw blood. Then, unable to trust even my mother, I managed to spring up high enough to grab and bite the doctor\u27s arm, yelling that \u27I wasna gan to let him hurt my bonnie brither,\u27 while to my utter astonishment mother and the doctor only laughed at me. So far from complete at times is sympathy between parents and children, and so much like wild beasts are baby boys: little fighting, biting, climbing pagans. Father was proud of his garden and seemed always to be trying to make it as much like Eden as possible, and in a corner of it he gave each of us a little bit of ground for our very own, in which we planted what we best liked, wondering how the hard dry seeds could change into soft leaves and flowers and find their way out to the light; and to see how they were coming on we used to dig up the larger ones, such as peas and beans, every day. My aunt had a corner assigned to her in our garden, which she filled with lilies, and we all looked with the utmost respect and admiration at that precious lily-bed, and wondered whether when we grew up we should ever be rich enough to own one anything like so grand. We imagined that each lily was worth an enormous sum of money, and never dared to touch a single leaf or petal of them. We really stood in awe of them. Far, far was I then from the wild-lily gardens of California, which I was destined to see in their glory. When I was a little boy at Mungo Siddons\u27s school a flower-show was held in Dunbar and I saw a number of the exhibitors carrying large handfuls of dahlias, the first I had ever seen. I thought them marvelous in size and beauty and, as in the case of my aunt\u27s lilies, wondered if I should ever be rich enough to own some of them. Although I never dared to touch my aunt\u27s sacred lilies, I have good cause to remember stealing some common flowers from an apothecary, Peter Law- son, who also answered the purpose of a regular physician to most of the poor people of the town and adjacent country. He had a pony which was considered very wild and dangerous, and when he was called out of town he mounted this wonderful beast, which after standing long in the stable was frisky and boisterous, and often to our delight reared and jumped and danced about from side to side of the street before he could be persuaded to go ahead. We boys gazed in awful admiration and wondered how the druggist could be so brave and able as to get on and stay on that wild beast\u27s back. This famous Peter loved flowers and had a fine garden surrounded by an iron fence, through the bars of which, when I thought no one saw me, I oftentimes snatched a flower and took to my heels. One day Peter discovered me in this mischief, dashed out into the street and caught me. I screamed that I wouldna steal any more if he would let me go. He did n\u27t say anything, but just dragged me along to the stable where lie kept the wild pony, pushed me in right back of his heels, and shut the ■ door. I was screaming of course, but as soon as I was imprisoned the fear of being kicked quenched all noise. I hardly dared breathe. My only hope was in motionless silence. Imagine the agony I endured! I did n\u27t steal any more of his flowers. He was a good hard judge of boy nature. It appears natural for children to be fond of water, although the Scotch method of making every duty dismal contrived to make necessary bathing for health terrible to us. I well remember among the awful experiences of childhood being taken by the servant to the seashore when I was between two and three years old, stripped at the side of a deep pool in the rocks, plunged into it among crawling crawfish and slippery wriggling snake-like eels, and drawn up gasping and shrieking only to be plunged down again and again. As the time approached for this terrible bathing I used to hide in the darkest corners of the. house, and oftentimes a long search was required to find me. But after we were a few years older we enjoyed bathing with other boys as we wandered along the shore, careful however not to get into a pool that had an invisible boy-devouring monster at the bottom of it. Such pools, miniature maelstroms, were called \u27Sookin-in- goats,\u27 and were well known to most of US; Nevertheless we never ventured into any pool on strange parts of the coast before we had thrust a stick into \u27L If the stick were not pulled out of °W hands, we boldly entered, and en- !°yed plashing and ducking long ere we had learned to swim. j Most of the Scotch children believe ln ghosts, and some under peculiar con ditions continue to believe in them all through life. Grave ghosts are deemed particularly dangerous, and many of the most credulous will go far out of their way to avoid passing through or near a graveyard in the dark. After being instructed by the servants in the nature, looks, and habits of the various black and white ghosts, boowuzzies, and witches, we often speculated as to whether they could run fast, and tried to believe that we had a good chance to get away from most of them. To improve our speed and wind we often took long runs into the country. Tarn o\u27 Shanter\u27s mare outran a lot of witches, — at least until she reached a place of safety beyond the keystone of the bridge, — and we thought perhaps we also might be able to outrun them. Our house formerly belonged to a physician, and a servant girl told us that the ghost of the dead doctor haunted one of the unoccupied rooms in the second story, that was kept dark on account of a heavy window-tax. Our bedroom was adjacent to the ghost room, which had in it a lot of chemical apparatus, — glass-tubing, glass and brass retorts, test-tubes, flasks, etc., —- and we thought that those strange articles were still used by the old dead doctor in compounding physic. In the long summer clays David and I were put to bed several hours before sunset. Mother tucked us in carefully, drew the curtains of the big old-fashioned bed, and told us to lie still and sleep like gude bairns; but we were usually out of bed, playing games of daring called \u27scoot- chers,\u27 about as soon as our loving mother reached the foot of the stairs, for we could n\u27t lie still, however hard we might try. Going into the ghost room was regarded as a very great scootcher. After venturing in a few 06 7/S MY BOYHOOD .580 steps and rushing back in terror, I used to dare David to go as far without getting caught. The roof of our house, as well as the crags and walls of the old castle, offered fine mountaineering exercise. Our bedroom was lighted by a dormer window. One night I opened it in search of good seootchers and hung myself out over the slates, holding on to the sill, while the wind was making a balloon of my nightgown. I then dared David to try the adventure, and he did. Then I went out again and hung by one hand, and David did the same. Then I hung by one finger, being careful not to slip, and he did that too. Then I stood on the sill and examined the edge of the left wall of the window, crept up the slates along its side by slight fingerholds, got astride of the roof, sat there a few minutes looking at the scenery over the garden wall while the wind was howling and threatening to blow me off, managed to slip down, catch hold of the sill and get safely back into the room. But before attempting this scootcher, recognizing its dangerous character, with commendable caution I warned David that in case I should happen to slip I would grip the rain trough when I was going over the eaves and hang\u27on, and. that he must then run fast downstairs and tell father to get a ladder for me, and tell him to be quick because I would soon be tired hanging dangling in the wind by my hands. After my return from this capital scootcher, David, not to be outdone, crawled up to the top of the window roof, and got bravely astride of it; but in trying to return he lost courage and began to greet (to cry), \u27I canna get doon. Oh, I canna get doon.\u27 I leaned out of the window and shouted encouragingly, \u27Dinna greet, Davie, dinna greet, I\u27ll help ye doon. If you greet, fayther will hear, and gee us baith an awfu\u27 skelp- ing.\u27 Then, standing on the sill and MY BOYHOOD 581 holding on by one hand to the window casing, I directed him to slip his feet down within reach, and after securing a good hold, I jumped inside and dragged him in by his heels. This finished scootcher-scrambling for the night and frightened us into bed. Boys are often at once cruel and merciful, thoughtlessly hard-hearted and tender-hearted, sympathetic, pitiful, and kind in ever changing contrasts. Love of neighbors, human or animal, grows up amid savage traits, coarse and fine. When father made out to get us securely locked up in the backyard to prevent our shore and field wanderings, we had to play away the comparatively dull time as best we could. One of our amusements was hunting cats without seriously hurting them. These sagacious animals knew, however, that, though not very dangerous, boys were not to be trusted. Once in particular, I remember, we began throwing stones at an experienced old Tom, not wishing to hurt him much, though he was a tempting mark. He soon saw what we were up to, fled to the stable and climbed to the top of the hay-manger. He was still within range, however, and we kept the stones flying faster and faster, but he just blinked and played possum without wincing either at our best shots or at the noise we made. I happened to strike him pretty hard with a good-sized pebble, but he still blinked and sat still as if without feeling. \u27He must be mortally wounded,\u27 I said, \u27and now we must kill him to put him out of pain,\u27 the savage in us rapidly growing with indulgence. All took heartily to this sort of cat mercy and began throwing the heaviest stones we could manage, but that old fellow knew what characters we were, and just as we imagined hini mercifully dead he evidently thought that the play was becoming too serious and it was time to retreat; for suddenly with a wild whir and gurr of energy, he launched himself over our heads, rushed across the yard in a blur of speed, climbed to the roof of another building and over the garden wall — out of pain and bad company, with all his lives • wide-awake and in good working order. v After we had thus learned that Tom had at least nine lives, we tried to verify the common saying that no matter how far cats fall they always land on their feet unhurt. We caught one in our back-yard — not Tom, but a smaller one of manageable size — and somehow got him smuggled up to the top story of the house. I don\u27t know how on earth we managed to let go of him, for when we opened the window and held him over the sill he knew his danger and made violent efforts to scratch and bite his way back into the room; but we determined to carry the thing through, and at last managed to drop him. I can remember to this day how the poor creature in danger of his life strained and balanced as he was falling, and managed to alight on his feet. This was a cruel thing for even wild boys to do, and we never tried the experiment again, for we sincerely pitied the poor fellow when we saw him creeping slowly away, stunned and frightened, with a swollen black-and-blue chin. r- Again, showing the natural savagery of boys, we delighted in dog fights, and even in the horrid red work of slaughter houses, often running long distances and climbing over walls and roofs to see a pig killed, as soon as we heard the desperately earnest squealing. And if the butcher was good-natured, we begged him to let us get a near view of the mysterious insides, and to give us a bladder to blow up for a football. But here is an illustration of the better side of boy nature. In our back-yard there were three elm trees, and in the one nearest the house a pair of robin- redbreasts had their nest. When the young were almost able to fly, a troop of the celebrated \u27 Scots Grays\u27 visited Dunbar, and three or four of their fine horses were lodged in our stable. * When the soldiers were polishing their swords and helmets they happened to notice the nest, and just as they were leaving, one of them climbed the tree and robbed it. With sore sympathy we watched the young birds as the hardhearted robber pushed them one by one beneath his jacket — all but two that jumped out of the nest and tried to fly; but they were easily caught as they fluttered on the ground, and were hidden away with the rest. The distress of the bereaved parents, as they hovered and screamed over the frightened crying children they so long had loved and sheltered and fed, was pitiful to see; but the shining soldier rode grandly away on his big gray horse, caring only for the few pennies the young song-birds would bring and the beer they would buy, while we all, sisters and brothers, were crying and sobbing. I remember as if it happened this day how my heart fairly ached and choked me. Mother put us to bed and tried to comfort us, telling us that the little birds would be well fed and grow big, and soon learn to sing in pretty cages; but again and again we rehearsed the sad story of the poor bereaved birds and their frightened children, and could not be comforted. Father came into the room when we were half asleep and still sobbing, and I heard mother telling him that, \u27A\u27 the bairns\u27 hearts were broken over the robbing of the nest in the elm.\u27 After attaining the manly belligerent age of five or six years, very few of my school-days passed without a fist fight, and half a dozen was no uncommon number. When any classmate of our own age questioned our rank and standing as fighters we always made haste to settle the matter at a quiet place on 0&7/S 582 MY BOYHOOD MY BOYHOOD 583 the Davel Brae. To be a \u27gude fechter* was our highest ambition, our dearest aim in life in or out of school. To be a good scholar was a secondary consideration, though we tried hard to hold high places in our classes and gloried in being Dux. We fairly reveled in the battle stories of glorious William Wallace and Robert the Bruce, with which every breath of Scotch air is saturated, and of course we were all going to be soldiers. On the Davel Brae battleground we often managed to bring on something like real war, greatly more exciting than personal combat. Choosing leaders, we divided into two armies. In winter damp snow furnished plenty of ammunition to make the thing serious, and in summer sand and grass-sods. Cheering and shouting some battle-cry such as \u27Bannockburn! Bannockburn! Scotland forever! The Last War in India!\u27 we were led bravely on. For heavy battery work we stuffed our Scotch blue bonnets with snow and sand, sometimes mixed with gravel, and fired them at each other as cannon balls. in An exciting time came when at the age of seven or eight years I left the auld Davel Brae school for the grammar school. Of course I had a terrible lot of fighting to do, because a new scholar had to meet every one of his age who dared to challenge him, this being the common introduction