CHAPTER 53

My Boyhood's Home

WE took passage in one of the fast boats of the St. Louis and St. Paul

Packet Company, and started up the river.

When I, as a boy, first saw the mouth of the Missouri River, it was

twenty-two or twenty-three miles above St. Louis, according to the

estimate of pilots; the wear and tear of the banks have moved it down

eight miles since then; and the pilots say that within five years the

river will cut through and move the mouth down five miles more, which

will bring it within ten miles of St. Louis.

About nightfall we passed the large and flourishing town of Alton,

Illinois; and before daylight next morning the town of Louisiana,

Missouri, a sleepy village in my day, but a brisk railway center now;

however, all the towns out there are railway centers now. I could not

clearly recognize the place. This seemed odd to me, for when I retired

from the rebel army in '61 I retired upon Louisiana in good order; at

least in good enough order for a person who had not yet learned how

to retreat according to the rules of war, and had to trust to native

genius. It seemed to me that for a first attempt at a retreat it was not

badly done. I had done no advancing in all that campaign that was at all

equal to it.

There was a railway bridge across the river here well sprinkled with

glowing lights, and a very beautiful sight it was.

At seven in the morning we reached Hannibal, Missouri, where my boyhood

was spent. I had had a glimpse of it fifteen years ago, and another

glimpse six years earlier, but both were so brief that they hardly

counted. The only notion of the town that remained in my mind was the

memory of it as I had known it when I first quitted it twenty-nine

years ago. That picture of it was still as clear and vivid to me as a

photograph. I stepped ashore with the feeling of one who returns out of

a dead-and-gone generation. I had a sort of realizing sense of what the

Bastille prisoners must have felt when they used to come out and look

upon Paris after years of captivity, and note how curiously the familiar

and the strange were mixed together before them. I saw the new houses--

saw them plainly enough--but they did not affect the older picture in

my mind, for through their solid bricks and mortar I saw the vanished

houses, which had formerly stood there, with perfect distinctness.

It was Sunday morning, and everybody was abed yet. So I passed through

the vacant streets, still seeing the town as it was, and not as it is,

and recognizing and metaphorically shaking hands with a hundred familiar

objects which no longer exist; and finally climbed Holiday's Hill to get

a comprehensive view. The whole town lay spread out below me then, and I

could mark and fix every locality, every detail. Naturally, I was a good

deal moved. I said, 'Many of the people I once knew in this tranquil

refuge of my childhood are now in heaven; some, I trust, are in the

other place.' The things about me and before me made me feel like a boy

again--convinced me that I was a boy again, and that I had simply been

dreaming an unusually long dream; but my reflections spoiled all that;

for they forced me to say, 'I see fifty old houses down yonder, into

each of which I could enter and find either a man or a woman who was a

baby or unborn when I noticed those houses last, or a grandmother who

was a plump young bride at that time.'

From this vantage ground the extensive view up and down the river, and

wide over the wooded expanses of Illinois, is very beautiful--one of the

most beautiful on the Mississippi, I think; which is a hazardous remark

to make, for the eight hundred miles of river between St. Louis and St.

Paul afford an unbroken succession of lovely pictures. It may be that

my affection for the one in question biases my judgment in its favor; I

cannot say as to that. No matter, it was satisfyingly beautiful to me,

and it had this advantage over all the other friends whom I was about

to greet again: it had suffered no change; it was as young and fresh

and comely and gracious as ever it had been; whereas, the faces of the

others would be old, and scarred with the campaigns of life, and marked

with their griefs and defeats, and would give me no upliftings of

spirit.

An old gentleman, out on an early morning walk, came along, and we

discussed the weather, and then drifted into other matters. I could not

remember his face. He said he had been living here twenty-eight years.

So he had come after my time, and I had never seen him before. I asked

him various questions; first about a mate of mine in Sunday school--what

became of him?

'He graduated with honor in an Eastern college, wandered off into the

world somewhere, succeeded at nothing, passed out of knowledge and

memory years ago, and is supposed to have gone to the dogs.'

'He was bright, and promised well when he was a boy.'

'Yes, but the thing that happened is what became of it all.'

I asked after another lad, altogether the brightest in our village

school when I was a boy.

'He, too, was graduated with honors, from an Eastern college; but life

whipped him in every battle, straight along, and he died in one of the

Territories, years ago, a defeated man.'

I asked after another of the bright boys.

'He is a success, always has been, always will be, I think.'

I inquired after a young fellow who came to the town to study for one of

the professions when I was a boy.

'He went at something else before he got through--went from medicine to

law, or from law to medicine--then to some other new thing; went away

for a year, came back with a young wife; fell to drinking, then to

gambling behind the door; finally took his wife and two young children

to her father's, and went off to Mexico; went from bad to worse, and

finally died there, without a cent to buy a shroud, and without a friend

to attend the funeral.'

'Pity, for he was the best-natured, and most cheery and hopeful young

fellow that ever was.'

I named another boy.

'Oh, he is all right. Lives here yet; has a wife and children, and is

prospering.'

Same verdict concerning other boys.

I named three school-girls.

'The first two live here, are married and have children; the other is

long ago dead--never married.'

I named, with emotion, one of my early sweethearts.

'She is all right. Been married three times; buried two husbands,

divorced from the third, and I hear she is getting ready to marry an old

fellow out in Colorado somewhere. She's got children scattered around

here and there, most everywheres.'

The answer to several other inquiries was brief and simple--

'Killed in the war.'

I named another boy.

'Well, now, his case is curious! There wasn't a human being in this town

but knew that that boy was a perfect chucklehead; perfect dummy; just

a stupid ass, as you may say. Everybody knew it, and everybody said it.

Well, if that very boy isn't the first lawyer in the State of Missouri

to-day, I'm a Democrat!'

'Is that so?'

'It's actually so. I'm telling you the truth.'

'How do you account for it?'

'Account for it? There ain't any accounting for it, except that if you

send a damned fool to St. Louis, and you don't tell them he's a damned

fool they'll never find it out. There's one thing sure--if I had a

damned fool I should know what to do with him: ship him to St. Louis--

it's the noblest market in the world for that kind of property. Well,

when you come to look at it all around, and chew at it and think it

over, don't it just bang anything you ever heard of?'

'Well, yes, it does seem to. But don't you think maybe it was the

Hannibal people who were mistaken about the boy, and not the St. Louis

people.'

'Oh, nonsense! The people here have known him from the very cradle--

they knew him a hundred times better than the St. Louis idiots could

have known him. No, if you have got any damned fools that you want to

realize on, take my advice--send them to St. Louis.'

I mentioned a great number of people whom I had formerly known. Some

were dead, some were gone away, some had prospered, some had come

to naught; but as regarded a dozen or so of the lot, the answer was

comforting:

'Prosperous--live here yet--town littered with their children.'

I asked about Miss----.

Died in the insane asylum three or four years ago--never was out of it

from the time she went in; and was always suffering, too; never got a

shred of her mind back.'

If he spoke the truth, here was a heavy tragedy, indeed. Thirty-six

years in a madhouse, that some young fools might have some fun! I was

a small boy, at the time; and I saw those giddy young ladies come

tiptoeing into the room where Miss ---- sat reading at midnight by a

lamp. The girl at the head of the file wore a shroud and a doughface,

she crept behind the victim, touched her on the shoulder, and she looked

up and screamed, and then fell into convulsions. She did not recover

from the fright, but went mad. In these days it seems incredible that

people believed in ghosts so short a time ago. But they did.

After asking after such other folk as I could call to mind, I finally

inquired about _myself_:

'Oh, he succeeded well enough--another case of damned fool. If they'd

sent him to St. Louis, he'd have succeeded sooner.'

It was with much satisfaction that I recognized the wisdom of having

told this candid gentleman, in the beginning, that my name was Smith.