Bidwell's Travels, from Wall Street to London Prison: Fifteen Years in Solitude
learn the other two R's, with any trifle that I might come across
floating around promiscuously.
I certainly hope our much-lauded public schools are conducted on better
lines now than then; if not, they are frauds from the foundation. The
instruction in No. 13 was so lax and radically bad that the whole
governing body and the principal ought to have been sent to the
penitentiary on the charge of false pretense for drawing their salaries
and giving nothing in return. And yet I remember when examination day
came, instead of the committee investigating the progress of the pupils,
it usually turned into a mere hallelujah chorus upon our "grand public
school system."
Here is a remarkable fact: I seldom missed a promotion and passed from
grade to grade until within two years I found myself in Junior "A," the
next to the highest class in the school, just as ignorant as my
classmates, and that is saying much.
It was all very pitiful. My blood boils even now when I think of the
traitors chosen and paid to see me fully equipped and armed to begin the
battle of life who left me with phantom weapons which would shiver into
fragments at the first shock of conflict.
I left Junior A of old No. 13, with its algebra, logic, philosophy
(heaven save the word!) and advanced grammar, unable to write a
grammatical sentence. I had been taught spelling out of an expositor--a
sort of pocket dictionary containing about fifteen hundred words. Most
of these, with their definitions, parrotlike, I had learned to spell,
but never once in all my school experience had I been taught the
derivation of a single word. Indeed, I took it for granted that in the
good old days Adam had invented the words much as he named the animals,
and, of course, supposed that he spoke good English. The knowledge of
history I gained at No. 13 was strictly limited and exceedingly
primitive. I knew the Jews in the old days were a bad lot. That Brutus
had slain Caesar. That the Mayflower had landed our fathers on Plymouth
Rock. That wicked George III. was a tyrant, and that the boys in Boston
had thrown a tea-kettle at his head. I knew all about our George and the
cherry tree, and there my historical knowledge ended.
So here I was launched out in the world a model scholar! Stamped as
proficient in grammar, history, logic, philosophy and arithmetic, but
yet in useful knowledge a barbarian, unable to spell or even write a
grammatical letter and unversed in the ways of the world--a world, too,
where I would be cast entirely upon my own resources.
My home life was happy. My father had lost his grip on the world, but
his faith in the Unseen remained. My mother, caring little for this
life, lived in and for the spiritual. To her heaven was a place as much
as the country village where she was born. She was never tired of
talking to us children about its golden streets and the rest there after
the toils and pains of life. But, boylike, we discounted all she said,
and felt we wanted some of this world before we knocked at the gates of
the next.
We loved our mother, but her soul was too gentle to keep in restraint
hot, fiery youths like my brothers and myself. On the whole we were good
boys, and I suppose caused her no more pain than the average youngsters.
Perhaps the keynote of her character can best be found in the following
incident, if that which was of daily occurrence could be called an
incident:
Every night of my life in those days she would come to my bed to pray
over me, ever saying, as she kissed me or clasped my hand: "My son,
remember if you were to pass your whole life here in poverty and
hardship it would not much matter so long as you attain to the Heavenly
Rest." This teaching would have been well had she only taught me some
worldly wisdom with it, but that all-essential knowledge was kept from
me, I being left to learn the ways of man in that terrible school of
experience. The consequence being that when after some months I was
launched out in life I was a ripe and apt victim to be caught in the
world's huge snare. In fact, had my parents designed me to become a
traveler in the Primrose Way they could not have educated me to better
purpose.
Save when in the school I had never been permitted to associate with
other boys, but was kept in the house, and up to my sixteenth year
hardly dreamed there was evil in the world. I was told much about the
"wicked," but thought that meant those who smoked tobacco or drank
whisky. I hardly thought any women came under that category, but if any,
then it must mean those who came around selling apples and oranges. The
reader will see that when once away from the shelter of home, in
threading the world's devious ways, I would be crossing the roaring
torrent "on the perilous footing of a spear," all but certain to fall
into the flood beneath.
During my last year at school and for a long time after leaving it, my
father and mother were never tired of talking about my good education.
Possibly they were not very good judges, but I am confident that they,
after all, did not realize the importance of a boy being well equipped
in that regard. Their thoughts and minds were so bent on the other
world, and things unseen bulked so hugely on their mental vision, that
there was small space left for things of this earth. They, good, simple
souls, were made for and ought to have lived in the Golden Age, when all
men were brave and all women true, where neighborly eyes reflected the
love and faith within; but in our utilitarian days they were sadly out
of place, and little wonder if they had lost their way in this world.
In their intense longing for the life beyond the grave, their passionate
desire to walk the streets of gold, they, by their actions, seemed to
forget that we were on this earth, and that we were here with many sharp
reminders of the fact.
The same guilelessness was manifested in their choice of our home
reading. The books I was allowed access to in the house were "The Life
of King David," "The History of Jerusalem," "Baxter's Saints' Rest,"
"The Immortal Dreamer's Pilgrim" and Fox's "Book of Martyrs." His first
martyr is Stephen, and such was my gross ignorance of history that I
always supposed Stephen had been martyred by the Church of Rome. Here
was mental food for a boy who had his own way to make in the world.
Craving other mental food than "The Life of David," I used to club
pennies with a chum and buy that delectable sheet, "Ned Buntline's Own,"
then in fear and trembling would creep to an upper room and read "The
Haunted House" or "The Ghost of Castle Ivy" until my hair stood on end
in a sort of ecstatic horror; or the stirring adventures of "Jack the
Rover" or "Pirate Chief" until my brain took fire and a mighty impulse
stirred every fibre impelling me to follow in their footsteps.
I had remained idly at home for some six months after my release from
school, when one night my father returned from New York and said: "My
son, I have found a situation for you." That was delightful news, and
when I went to bed that night I was too excited to sleep.
The future was full of color, red and purple, of course. Happily for me
the future in all its black misery was hidden behind those gilded
clouds.
So now at sixteen I was about to sail out of harbor, and how equipped!
Absolutely without education, void of worldly wisdom, and in my boyish
brain dividing the world into two sections. In one was King David
slaying the Phillistines or dancing before the Ark. In the other was
Jack the Rover and the Pirate Chief. How easy to guess the rest! Yet I
was not a bad boy--far from it. I only needed wise guidance and good
companionship, and as the ignorance and crudity of my character dropped
off, the innate virtue--mine by lawful heritage--would have been
developed. But pitchforked into the wild whirl of Wall street and its
fast set of gilded youth, the gates of the Primrose Way to destruction
were held wide open to my eager feet.
CHAPTER II.
"'TWAS EVER THUS." OF COURSE IT WAS.
The situation my father had obtained for me was with a sugar broker by
the name of Waterbury. He was a partner in a large refinery, his office
being in South Water street. He was a nice, conservative old man, and
let things run on easily. His chief clerk, Mr. Ambler, was every inch a
gentleman, who, quickly perceiving what an ignoramus I was, out of the
goodness of his heart resolved to teach me something.
There were two sharp young men in our office. They liked me well enough,
but used to guy me unmercifully for my simplicity and clumsiness. One of
them, Harry by name, was something of a scapegrace, and soon acquired
quite a power over me. I stood in much fear of his ridicule, and
frequently did things for which my conscience reproached me, rather than
stand the fire of his raillery. The greatest harm he did me was in
firing my imagination with stories of Wall street, of the fortunes that
were and could be made in the gold room or on 'Change. He made tolerably
clear the modus operandi of speculators, and I secretly resolved that
some day I, too, would try my fortune.
My friend Mr. Ambler's health was bad, and frequent attacks of illness
caused him to be away from the office for weeks at a time, and that
meant much loss to me. When I had been there about a year, he resigned
his position and went as manager for a factory in New Haven. But before
leaving he interested himself so far in my welfare as to secure me a
position with a firm of brokers in New street, at a salary of $10 a
week. My employers were good fellows, lovers of pleasure and men of the
world, not scrupling to talk freely with me of their various adventures
out of business hours. I had lost much of my awkwardness and gauche
manners, and under the $10 a week arrangement began to dress fairly
well. My employers did a brokerage business and speculated as well on
their own account. My duties were decidedly light and pleasant, and
brought me into contact with some of the sharpest as well as the most
famous men in the street. Among them was a brilliant young man of my own
age, who took a great fancy to me, and frequently proposed that we
should start for ourselves. Being doubtful of my powers, I shrank from
risking my scanty funds in any speculative venture. Much to my mother's
concern, I had begun attending the theatre, and one night, on my friend
Ed Weed's invitation, I went with him to Niblo's. After the performance
we went to supper at Delmonico's, and I was perfectly fascinated by the
company and surroundings, going home long past midnight a different man
than I had last left it.
The next day Ed came to the office and invited me to lunch, where, after
making some disparaging remarks about the country cut of my garments, he
offered to introduce me to his tailor, who was never in a hurry for his
money. After business that day we walked uptown together, and, prompted
by Ed, I ordered $150 worth of garments, then went to his outfitter and
ordered nearly an equal amount in shirts, ties, gloves, etc.
One amusing result was that when, a few days later, I walked down to our
office, comme il faut in garb, my employers raised my salary to $30 a
week, but this left me poorer than when I had husbanded my poor little
$10. Soon after, piloted by Ed, I ventured $50 on a margin in gold.
Unluckily, I won, invested again and again, and within fourteen days was
$284 ahead. I paid my tailor and outfitter's bill, bought a $100 watch
on credit, and gave a wine supper on borrowed money. Soon after this I
went to board at the old St. Nicholas, the then fashionable hotel. From
that time I began to drift more and more away from home influences.