V + 

Newburyport + 

The train now well under way for Newburyport, our poet, he of the dream-life, crawled forth from his cave of gloom and began to take notice. Soon he was all notice and no gloom. His prior and only trip in a railway train was now over two years back in ancient history, which signified oblivion. Hence all was now new and novel. He began at once, at the very beginning of the beginning, that intolerable, interminable series of questions which all children ask and no mother can for long stand the strain of answering. He did his mother the wholly unsolicited and unwelcome honor of assuming as a finality that she knew the names of every farmer along the route, that she knew why the trees went by so fast, why the telegraph wires rose and fell and rose again; that she was personally acquainted with the conductor and the brakeman. At the forty-seventh question, Mother, who was only twenty-eight and not very strong, became drowsy with fatigue just as her son was becoming rigidly interested. Mother was not the only one asleep; everybody was asleep; and he noticed that they were all greasy with sweat and dust and grotesquely relaxed. He was intent on knowing the brakeman’s name. For that purpose he moved up the aisle, managed to open the door, was on the platform and would have been pitched to Kingdom Come as the ramshackle train rounded a sharp curve, had not a white-faced brakeman grabbed him, thrust him back into the car and, with a string of New England profanities, wanted to know why in thunder he was out on the platform. The child replied that he had come to ask him his name; to which the brakeman replied: “Wall, I swow, you be a cute un; you’ll be President some day.” So the child immediately transferred his questionnaire from oblivious Mama to his wide awake new friend whom he found good natured, and much amused, and whose name as far as this recorder knows, may have been Matthew, Luke, David or Moses⁠—all favorites in that day; but there were also many Johns, Jameses, Marks, Samuels, Ezechiases⁠—but no Solomons. He put the brakeman through an exhaustive examination and cross-examination concerning this, that and the other, after he had induced him to detail his family connections and home life, and to give assurance that he was not a Papist, and had not hated his teacher. + 

Then began the technical inquisition: Why did the wires move up and down all the time? What were the wires for? Why did the poles whizz by? What did “telegraph” mean? What made that funny noise all the time, click-a-lick-click-click, click-a-lick click-click-click? And so on and so on. He was amazed at what the brakeman knew. It was wonderful how much he knew. Then came a toot for the next station; the brakeman swung open the door, let out a yell that startled the child, reminding him of the Baptist minister in South Reading, and began to twist the hand-brake with all his strength. The child saw all this through the open door. How wonderful that one man could be so strong as to stop a car that had been going so fast? Wasn’t it splendid to see a man in action? He adopted “Luke” immediately. At the station Luke helped him down the steps, and he began verifying certain statements. For Luke had only told him; he wanted to see. So he examined the link and coupling pins, the flange on the wheels, the iron rails which he found badly frayed from wear, the open joints, the fish plates, the spikes, the ties, and was crawling under the car to examine the trucks when a strange man yanked him out and asked him if he was crazy. The bell rang; the brakeman hoisted him aboard before he had had time to go forward and ask the engineer his name, and the fireman his name, and how much wood it took, and what made the choo-choo. True the brakeman had told him all about it, but that wasn’t seeing; and besides he wished to know the engineer and the fireman personally, for they must be great men⁠—it must be a wonderful man who could keep the engine on the track and steer it around all those curves as the brakeman said he did. And the brakeman said the fireman expected to be an engineer some day, but that he himself didn’t expect to brake no cars all his life⁠—it was just hell in winter; and he went on to tell of his ambition, said he’d be damned if he’d work for anybody much longer; he’d save up some money and was going to have other men work for him, and he’d make more money out of them. He’d drive ’em, he said; he’d learn ’em what a day’s work meant when they worked for him, he would; and so on, excitedly. The child took no interest in this and wandered back to his mother, who, having observed him in safe hands, had not troubled. He started to tell her all about his new friend, what a great man he was, that he wore three woolen undershirts in winter, and knew the name of every station, and all about links and pins, and engines and telegraph and everything, until Mama wearily turned toward him and gasped: “Louis! Louis!! Mon dieu, you are a pest!” Louis thought it strange that his Mamma was not interested in what interested him, yet failed to reflect that the brakeman’s get-rich romance had bored him. So on went the train swaying, rattling, banging, clanking, sinking suddenly, rising suddenly, screeching infernally around the curves, amidst smoke and dust and an overpowering roar. Soon there were two bedraggled ones sweatily sleeping side by side, and from the roar unfolded for one of them a dream of much mixed up brakemen, wheels, engineers, telegraphs, wood, links, pins, firemen, trucks⁠—but no conductor; the conductor had not interested him, for he had a big belly, a heavy gold watch chain across it, gray chin whiskers, wore spectacles and did nothing but walk up and down, punch tickets and stick bits of cards in people’s hats. Faintly the brake-wheel creaked; and a distant voice seemed to call the name of a station⁠—“Newburyport!!” + 

The town, in, by, and of itself, made no first impression on him, other than one of quiet commonplace. It was not very different from the village of South Reading, only it was larger and had more streets and houses. + 

The family had taken quarters in an old-looking building called a “hotel”⁠—a word new to the child. The hotel fronted on a square in which were trees, and on the other side of the square but not opposite the hotel was the town hall, and in front of the town hall was the town pump⁠—of which, more later. Thus the family “boarded” at the hotel. The dining room was a large dreary cave containing one long table at which the boarders sat facing each other. From the middle one could not see the end of the rows of vacant sallow faces. The family had places in the middle⁠—Louis sitting next to Mamma. He was hungry⁠—always hungry. It was their first joint struggle against dyspepsia. Not much was said for a while; then Louis, in confidential tones, suitable to a pasture, uttered this sage judgment: “Mamma; this gravy isn’t like Grandmamma’s gravy; this is only just a little flour and water!” Mamma made big eyes and grasped his arm, a titter went along the opposite row, napkins to faces, whispers exchanged, some rude persons laughed, and someone said “Hurrah!” Lucky Grandpa wasn’t there⁠—the ceiling would have fallen. Everybody was stunned at the child’s bravado, but assent was beaming. Perhaps, even, they yearned for some of Grandmamma’s gravy; why not? if they but knew! The child looked at the opposite row of faces in astonishment. What was it all about? If the gravy was only a little flour and water, why not say so? Besides, he was only talking to Mamma anyway. And moreover, he did not see anything to laugh at, at all. It was a serious matter, this flour and water. + 

Mamma said she would tell him something after a while when they were alone. And she did. According to her view, children, in public, should be seen but not heard; they should speak only when spoken to; they should be well mannered, circumspect; they should especially be respectful toward their elders; they must never put themselves forward, or try to be smart or show off, or otherwise attract attention to themselves; must remain in the background; speak in subdued tones and say: “yes, sir,” “no, sir,” “yes, ma’am,” “no, ma’am,” and she thus went on setting forth a complete code of ethics and etiquette for children in general and for her child in especial particularity, for she trusted he would not become, so she said, a young ruffian like other people’s children that were devoid of table manners in particular, and used the language of the streets. This was Mamma’s theory. In practice she vacillated, oscillated, vibrated, ricochetted, made figures of eight and spirals in her temperamental emotionalism and mother love, meanwhile clutching at the straw of her theory. And this was not all. Secretly she kept a note book. In this she entered carefully and minutely all the wonderful sayings of her son as observed by herself, or as transmitted in long letters from Grandmamma. True to form, she immediately entered the gravy item, wrote a long letter to Grandmamma about it, confessed she nearly strangled in suppressing her delight; and how the other people present were convulsed, as a loud voice, within the dining room’s wilderness, proclaimed the unholy truth that this was not like Grandmamma’s gravy⁠—it was only just a little flour and water. Officially the child was squelched; and officially Mamma kept an eye to weatherward. But in her secret book she gave way to self flattery. + 

Not so with Father. There was no sentiment, no nonsense about him. He would not rave for thirty minutes over a single blossom; a brief moment of appreciation sufficed; during which he would express regret at the absence in him of the sense of smell. This was the regular formula⁠—unless it came to “Scenery.” What he had fixed firmly in mind was a practical program fitted to a child that had grown up like a weed⁠—a program of physical training, combined with presumptive education and sure discipline. This program he set in motion by pulling his son out of bed at five in the morning, standing him upright, hurrying him into his clothes and leading him by the hand straight to the town pump. Here Sullivan Senior pumped vigorously until certain the water was of lowest temperature; then he gave unto the child to drink. The child, as commanded, drank the full cup, shuddered, and complained of the chill. Well, if he was chilly, he must run⁠—to establish circulation⁠—again a new word. There was no help for it. After a sharp quarter mile, the son of Patrick Sullivan was convinced that “circulation” was now established, and said so. They settled to a brisk walk. At the end of two miles they came upon a narrow arm of the sea, which spread into a beautiful sequestered pool, at the point reached, with water deep, and clear green, and banks quite high. Strip! was the order. Strip it was. No sooner done than the high priest dexterously seized the neophyte, and, bracing himself, with a back-forward swing cast the youngster far out, saw him splash and disappear; then he dived, came up beside a wildly splashing sputtering unit, trod water, put the child in order, and with hand spread under his son’s breast began to teach him the simple beginnings of scientific swimming. “Must not stay too long in the water,” he said. “Would Sonny like a ride astride Papa’s shoulders to a landing?” Sonny would and did. He gloried as he felt beneath him the powerful heave and sink and heave of a fine swimmer, as he grasped his father’s hair, and saw the bank approach. + 

On land he took note of his father’s hairy chest, his satiny white skin and quick flexible muscles over which the sunshine danced with each movement. He had never seen a man completely stripped, and was pleased and vastly proud to have such a father, especially when the father, an object lesson in view, made exhibition dives and swam this way and that way in lithe mastery. And he asked his father to promise him he would teach him how to do these things, that he too might become a great swimmer. For he had a new ideal now, an ideal upsprung in a morning’s hour⁠—a vision of a company of naked mighty men, with power to do splendid things with their bodies. + 

The return journey passed quickly and excitedly. Would Papa take him again to the pool? Yes, Papa would take him every morning to the pool. And would he have to swallow any more salt water? Not unless he opened his mouth at the wrong time. And why was the water salt, and why did it tingle the skin so queerly? Because it was sea water. And would Papa show him the sea? Yes, Papa would show him the sea, and ships under sail; and Papa would some day take him to the shipyards where ships were built. Ah, what prospects of delight! How big the world was growing, how fast the world was spreading. Had not Papa promised him? + 

The dingy hotel loomed ahead; a mighty craving arose. To the child, the bowl of cold oatmeal was super-manna. Father’s dietary law was strict; simple foods, no coffee, no tea, no pastry, a little meat; and strictly taboo was white flour bread, for the millers had even then begun their work; lots of milk, some brown sugar, plenty of greens and fruit, potatoes only when baked, or boiled in their jackets and so eaten; no greasy things; and at times a tiny sip of claret as a bonus. His time-law for young people was: Taps at eight o’clock, reveille five o’clock. He put his son through a fine and highly varied course of calisthenics to make him supple and resilient. He took him daily to the pump and the pool, made of him for his age a competent diver and swimmer, made him vault fences, throw stones at a mark; taught him to walk properly⁠—head up, chin in, chest out; to stride easily from the hip, loose in the shoulders. And the child worked with gusto; it became play; for the father did all these things with him jointly⁠—they even ran races together, and threw stones at marks, in competition. Surely it was intensive training; but Father was wise in these respects: He knew that where there was hard work, there must also be leisure and relaxation, and time for carefree play. Father was forty-five then, and wondrous wise for his day and generation. To be sure his profession gave him the time to spare. + 

So, the family frequently went a-picnicking to the lovely banks of the Merrimac River, and elsewhere to shady groves and beauty spots. + 

This Sunday, it was the first trip to the Merrimac⁠—a clear, calm summer day, not too warm. + 

They found, at the bend of the river, a bit of greensward, sufficiently shaded, yet leaving an open view of the woods across the water. + 

The great stream flowed by tranquilly: its dark brown mirror solemnly picturing woods and sky. + 

The child had never seen a river. Was it not wonderful, this river so wide, so dark, so silent, so swift in its flow? How could such things be? Why had he not known? + 

Here and there a small fish jumped, leaving a pretty circle of ripples where it fell; and then arose into the air an enormous sturgeon, to fall heavily back, making a great hole whence came a rush of circles expanding magically to the shores, causing sky and trees to totter and twist; then all would be calm again and silent, as the great stream flowed on and on careless of trifles; on and on, so Papa said, until its waters should mingle with the sea’s; on and on, day and night, winter and summer, year after year, before we were born, when we are gone, so Papa said, its waters had flowed and would evermore flow to the sea. + 

Papa and Mamma had begun to draw pictures of the opposite shore, and were absorbed in the doing. + 

The child watched sturgeon after sturgeon leap and fall; they seemed to shoot out of the water’s surface. He had never seen such big strong fishes; he had seen nothing larger than minnows and sunfish in South Reading. But here on this river everything was large. + 

So thinking he wandered downstream along the water’s edge, musing about South Reading, recalling his rivulet, his dam, his marsh. How small they seemed. And then there arose his tall, slender elm, his great ash tree to comfort him. Mechanically he ascended a hill, entered a heavy grove, musing, as he went, upon the great river Merrimac; lost in the thought that the world about him was growing so large that it seemed out of proportion to him⁠—too great for his little size, too bewildering for his untutored mind. Meanwhile something large, something dark was approaching unperceived; something ominous, something sinister that silently aroused him to a sense of its presence. He became aware; he peered through the foliage. What was it? He could not quite see; he could not make out; except that it was huge, long and dark. He thought of turning back, for he was but a little boy, alone in the woods bordering a dark-running river whose power had stilled him, and the lonely grove that stilled him; he was high strung with awe; he could glimpse the river; he was moving forward, unthinkingly, even while he thought of turning back. The dark thing came ever nearer, nearer in the stillness, became broader, looming, and then it changed itself into full view⁠—an enormous terrifying mass that overhung the broad river from bank to bank. + 

The child’s anxious heart hurt him. What could this monster mean? He tried to call for Papa, but found no voice. He wished to cry out but could not. He saw great iron chains hanging in the air. How could iron chains hang in the air? He thought of Julia’s fairy tales and what the giants did. Might there be a fairy in the woods nearby? And then he saw a long flat thing under the chains; and this thing too seemed to float in the air; and then he saw two great stone towers taller than the trees. Could these be the giants? And then of a sudden, mystery of mysteries, he saw a troll, not much bigger than a man, come out of the fairy forest, driving a fairy team. + 

The troll went right across on the flat thing that floated in the air, and vanished. This must be the land of enchantment that Julia told about. A wicked wizard has done this thing. A giant will come soon to eat up a little boy. And the trees murmured: “Yes; a wicked wizard has done this thing⁠—a giant will come to eat up a little boy⁠—goodbye, little boy”⁠—and the river said: “Goodbye little boy”⁠—and the great iron chains said: “Goodbye little boy.” The child shrieked: “Papa! Papa! Papa!” Instanter Papa appeared⁠—ah, the good fairy had waved her wand in the enchanted wood! Papa had become concerned at the child’s long absence, and was angry that his son should have gone away without asking permission. He had intended to spank the child; but one look at that upturned face, at those eyes glazed with approaching madness halted him in alarm. “What’s the matter, Sonny? Did something frighten you?” “Oh, Papa, Papa, see the big iron chains hanging in the air, see the two giants turned to stone, see the flat thing floating in the air. A troll just came over it with horses and wagon. I am to be eaten up by a giant. The troll with the magic wagon is coming to get me now. I am to be eaten by a giant, Papa; the trees have just said goodbye, little boy; the river has said goodbye, little boy; Oh, Papa, did the good fairy send you to save me?” Papa, thoroughly alarmed, impulsively said: “Yes, dear”; then, soothingly: “Sonny, you must not listen any more in memory to Julia’s Irish tales. They are not true, now. There are not any giants or goblins, or trolls or elves or even fairies any more anywhere. They lived only in people’s fancy long ago, when Ireland was young. It is only the tales that are told today⁠—for the Irish have ever loved romance. Their heads are filled with queer notions. They imagine things that are not so. Papa lived in Ireland once; he knows what is true. Now we will go to the bridge and see it all.” + 

“And what is a bridge, Papa?” + 

“That is what you are to see. Don’t be afraid. It won’t hurt you.” + 

So they went to the nearby bridge. + 

As they crossed to the Amesbury side the Father felt the nervous clutch of his child’s hand about his forefinger. His own mind began to clear; now the child’s mind must be cleared. So he explained that the roadway of the bridge was just like any other road, only it was held up over the river by the big iron chains; that the big iron chains did not float in the air but were held up by the stone towers over the top of which they passed and were anchored firmly into the ground at each end beyond the towers; that the roadbed was hung to the chains so it would not fall into the river. That the bridge was so strong that many people and loaded teams could pass over it at the same time; and as he said this, happily some teams and people came and went. Father was clever in making simple explanations of things he knew something about. This expertness came of his long training in teaching little tots to dance. His skill and patience in this respect were fine art. So, gradually, he brought his son out of nightmare-land into the daylight of reality. For shameful fear, he substituted in his son’s heart confidence and courage. Thus was the child-mind freed again to wonder what men could do; to adjust itself to the greater world into which it had been suddenly catapulted from South Reading’s tiny world. Within that little spot of earth he had never seen a river, never a bridge, for neither river nor bridge were there to be seen. On their way to rejoin Mamma, the child turned backward to gaze in awe and love upon the great suspension bridge. There, again, it hung in air⁠—beautiful in power. The sweep of the chains so lovely, the roadway barely touching the banks. And to think it was made by men! How great must men be, how wonderful; how powerful, that they could make such a bridge; and again he worshipped the worker. + 

Mamma had become alarmed; but Father, on the approach, gave her a hush-sign. Evening was on the wing; dew was in the air; dark Merrimac still flowed, sturgeons still leaped high, a cricket chirped its first, cheerful note. They returned to the dismal house of flour and water. + 

This child was soon abed; the father sank into deep thought: This would never do; the boy must be protected against himself; he was overexciteable; he must not be let go into the woods alone, nor near any mystic thing. His blood must be cooled⁠—more water; no meat; his mind must be directed to everyday things; he would take him into the active world, to the shipyards, to see ships a-building; he would take him to Plum Island, to get the salt sea air, to see the real ocean, with its ships coming and going under full sail; he would explain all these practical things to him and keep his mind wholesome; he must be educated to realities, disciplined, shown life as it is. And Father, thus ruminating, turned in. + 

Now they are at the shipyards, father and son. Four or five ships are in progress on the ways; others are being rigged in the slips. One is a skeleton, another almost ready to launch. There is much hubbub; men going here and there. The strident song of the caulking iron saws the air; odor of tar everywhere; fine view of the harbor, craft of all kinds moving this way and that⁠—some at anchor. Here in the shipyard were crowds of men working, doing many things, all moving at the same time⁠—all urging toward a great end. The child was in a seventh heaven; here were his beloved strong men, the workers⁠—his idols. What a great world it was into which he had been thrust⁠—the great river, the wonderful bridge, the harbor, the full rigged ships so gallantly moving. And what new words too⁠—circulation, calisthenics, catenary, dietary, suspension bridge and others, that seemed very long, very strange indeed. Was he also entering a world of words? Were there many more such words? + 

Eagerly he watched a man working with an adze. The man was lying on his back and chipping overhead. Then the man turned on his side and chipped sidewise; then he chipped between his feet and in front of his feet. Was it not wonderful? He had never seen an adze, nor a man at work with an adze. Here, the man took off heavy chips and there only thin shavings; was it not wonderful? He wished to talk to the man, but the man was too busy; perhaps the man wished to keep his feet to walk home with. And all the other men were too busy to talk to him; they did not seem to know he was there, except one man near a kettle of hot tar who told him to get out of the way. And there were men boring holes in great planks; other men steaming planks, other men carrying planks, other men bending the planks against the ribs of the ship, other men driving in with sledgehammers great iron bolts to keep the planks in place, and these men, he guessed, had no time to talk to him. He wondered why the ships were all set stern-end toward the water. He wondered how “they” were going to get them into the water. And there were men who drove oakum⁠—a new word⁠—into the joints between the planks. They did it with a thin wedge and a funny looking mallet, and made a sound that beat upon his ear drums. He could get near enough to some of these men to talk to them, but they were too busy to hear him; and he saw men painting another ship which was all ready to be pushed into the water. And there was such a rush and crowd of things that were new to him that he was joyfully dazed⁠—very happy, very serious. + 

He had his first view of the power of concerted action; but he did not look at it that way. To him it seemed the work of individual men working separately, or of small groups of men helping each other⁠—a great crowd of men each doing his own work in his own way. To be sure, he saw men walking about who spoke to the workmen, and the workmen always had to listen to these men. In the great confusion he had not sensed order, and therefore did not ask Papa about it. Yet he saw the ships grow, and saw the workmen make them grow. + 

He walked all over the place with Papa, ever inquisitive, peering here and there. The hum of work was everywhere. He keenly sensed its greatness. What could men not do if they could do this, and if they could make a great bridge⁠—suspended in the air over the Merrimac. He poured forth his questions and Papa answered them pretty well, but a bit pedantically where he was not posted. He used too many big words. He concealed with them what he did not know. + 

A few days later father and son saw the launching of a ship, and the child had another spasm of wonder, for the ship seemed to him to launch itself; he did not see any men pushing it, and Father recited something about “she seems to feel the thrill of life along her keel,” which he said was poetry because it all rhymed, so the child learned at once what poetry was⁠—it was a new word. And again came the regular questionnaire, and again Father did his best, using however, so many strange long words that the child became drugged and drowsy with them and said he wanted to go home; so they both, father and son, went home. + 

And soon the child began to tease to be taken to Plum Island, to see the ocean his father had talked about. Strangely enough there wasn’t any ocean at South Reading, any more than there was a great river and a wonderful bridge there; any more than there was a great shipyard and a great harbor. At South Reading there was only a railroad and two ponds⁠—a big pond and a little pond and some hills. So the son, accompanied by the father, went to Plum Island, for he had said, “This is to be mine, isn’t it, Papa?” And the father had relaxed at the idea. + 

There they stood, in a stiff salt breeze, on the sharply sloping rounded beach; some drifting clouds in a pale sky, some ships in the offing. True, he had seen the ocean at Cape Ann, seen it in furious, terrifying, storming moods; seen it as huge glossy ground swells, as glancing, dancing wavelets in the sunshine; but that was long, long ago when he was three; he had wholly forgotten what happened when he was three⁠—and four⁠—and five. He had forgotten even that he had fallen into a well there. He had, like the workmen in the shipyard, been too busy⁠—all these years, these months, these days. + 

Even South Reading was fading before the glory of the new-risen day; this engulfing splendor of Newburyport, as they stood there, on the hard wet sand, two figures solitary, a mere speck, a minute accent on the monotonous miles of beach and pounding surf. The child looked far seaward, without emotion, save a sense of dull platitude, of endless nothingness, of meaningless extension. The sea was merely rough, without mood, dull in color, spotted here and there by a cloud’s shadow. It left him indifferent, all except the green and white combing surf which was in merry mood. He wished to wade in but Father said positively no, the beach was too steep, the undertow too strong. Undertow? Undertow?⁠—another word⁠—more explanations. He built sand forts which the rising tide made short work of; he ran up and down the beach, waded in the dry sand, found some wild cranberry bushes. He ran back to Papa who was wrapped in thought, standing with folded arms, facing the sea. Far to the east, far over the waters lay Ireland, he said to his son. The son looked for Ireland; it was not to be seen; but he cried out of a sudden: “Papa, some of those ships are sinking! One is all gone but the top of the masts; one is just beginning to sink!” Father, who wished to educate his son, now found his work cut out for him. How explain the curvature of the sea? How explain the horizon? How prove that the ships were not sinking? He went at it bravely, patiently, doggedly, step by step; he even made diagrams on his drawing pad. Little by little the child grasped the idea; he brightened with intelligence. His Father had opened for him then and there a new, an utterly unsuspected world⁠—the world of pure knowledge⁠—vaster than the sea, vaster than the sky. And for the child, the portal to that limitless world was an illusion⁠—a sinking ship. + 

Now it was time to return to Boston. The school must open soon. In the bustle of preparation the day he was seven passed unnoticed even by himself. Newburyport departed⁠—Boston came. + 