Mayne Reid

Mayne Reid.

by Elizabeth Reid.

CHAPTER ONE.

EARLY LIFE. EMIGRATION TO AMERICA. EDGAR ALLAN POE.

To most of the world, Captain Mayne Reid is known only as a writer of thrilling romances and works on natural history. It will appear in these pages that he was also distinguished as a man of action and a soldier, and the record of his many gallant deeds should still further endear him to the hearts of his readers.

He was born in the north of Ireland, in April, 1818, at Ballyroney, county Down, the eldest son of the Reverend Thomas Mayne Reid, Presbyterian minister, a man of great learning and ability. His mother was the daughter of the Reverend Samuel Rutherford, a descendant of the "hot and hasty Rutherford" mentioned in Sir Walter Scott"s "Marmion."

One of Mayne Reid"s frequent expressions was: "I have all the talent of the Reids and all the deviltry of the Rutherfords." He certainly may be said to have inherited at least the "hot and hasty temper" of his mother"s family, for his father, the Reverend Thomas Mayne Reid, was of a most placid disposition, much beloved by his parishioners, and a favourite alike with Catholics and Protestants. It used to be said of him by the peasantry, "Mr Reid is so polite he would bow to the ducks."

Several daughters had been born to them before the advent of their first son. He was christened Thomas Mayne, but in after life dropped the Thomas, and was known only as Mayne Reid. Other sons and daughters followed, but Mayne was the only one destined to figure in the world"s history.

Young Mayne Reid early evinced a taste for war. When a small boy he was often found running barefooted along the road after a drum and fife band, greatly to his mother"s dismay. She chided him, saying, "What will the folks think to see Mr Reid"s son going about like this?" To which young Mayne replied, "I don"t care. I"d rather be Mr Drum than Mr Reid."

It was the ardent wish of both parents that their eldest son should enter the Church; and, at the age of sixteen, Mayne Reid was sent to college to prepare for the ministry of the Presbyterian Church, but after four years" study, it was found that his inclinations were altogether opposed to this calling. He carried off prizes in mathematics, cla.s.sics, and elocution; distinguished himself in all athletic sports; anything but theology. It is recorded, on one occasion when called upon to make a prayer, he utterly failed, breaking down at the first few sentences. It was called by his fellow-students "Reid"s wee prayer."

Captain Mayne Reid has been heard to say, "My mother would rather have had me settle down as a minister, on a stipend of one hundred a year, than know me to be the most famous man in history."

The good mother could never understand her eldest son"s ambition; but she was happy in seeing her second son, John, succeed his father as pastor of Closkilt, Drumgooland.

In the month of January, 1810, Mayne Reid first set foot in the new world--landing at New Orleans. We quote his own words: "Like other striplings escaped from college, I was no longer happy at home. The yearning for travel was upon me, and without a sigh I beheld the hills of my native land sink behind the black waves, not much caring whether I should ever see them again."

Soon after landing, he thus expressed himself, showing how little store he set upon his cla.s.sical training as a stock-in-trade upon which to begin the battle of life: "And one of my earliest surprises--one that met me on the very threshold of my Transatlantic existence--was the discovery of my own utter uselessness. I could point to my desk and say, "There lie the proofs of my erudition; the highest prizes of my college cla.s.s." But of what use are they? The dry theories I had been taught had no application to the purposes of real life. My logic was the prattle of the parrot. My cla.s.sic lore lay upon my mind like lumber; and I was altogether about as well prepared to struggle with life--to benefit either my fellow-men or myself--as if I had graduated in Chinese mnemonics. And, oh! ye pale professors, who drilled me in syntax and scansion, ye would deem me ungrateful indeed were I to give utterance to the contempt and indignation which I then felt for ye; then, when I looked back upon ten years of wasted existence spent under your tutelage; then, when, after believing myself an educated man, the illusion vanished, and I awoke to the knowledge that I knew nothing."

We shall not here follow Mayne Reid through the ever varying scenes of this period--his life in Louisiana, encounters on the prairies with buffaloes, grizzly bears, and Indians on the war-path with their trophies of scalps; his excursions with trappers and Indians up the Red River, the Missouri, and Platte--for all of these are embodied in his writings, which contain more reality than romance.

Mayne Reid tried his hand at various occupations, both in the civilised and uncivilised life of the new world.

For a brief s.p.a.ce he was "storekeeper" and "n.i.g.g.e.r driver," then tutor in the family of Judge Peyton Robertson, of Tennessee. Soon tiring of this, he set up a school of his own in the neighbourhood, erecting a wooden building as school house, at his own expense. He was very popular as a teacher, but hunting in the backwoods being more to his taste, he soon went in quest of fresh sport.

At Cincinnati, Ohio, by way of a change, he joined a company of strolling players, but very soon convinced himself that play-acting was not his _forte_. This little episode in his life, the gallant Captain was anxious to keep from the knowledge of his family in Ireland. They, strict Presbyterians as they were, looked upon play-actors as almost lost to the evil one. However, the fact got into print some years later.

Of all his varied adventures, the Captain would never tell us of his failure in this one line of business, though he would dwell on his talent as "storekeeper" and schoolmaster.

Between the years 1842 and 1846 we hear of him as a poet, newspaper correspondent and editor. In the autumn of 1842 Mayne Reid had reached Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Here he contributed poetry to the _Pittsburgh Chronicle_, under the _nom de plume_ of the "Poor Scholar." In the spring of 1813 he settled in Philadelphia, and devoted all his energies to literature, the most ambitious of his efforts being a poem, "La Cubana," published in "G.o.dey"s Magazine." Here he also produced a five-act tragedy "Love"s Martyr," which is full of dramatic power.

During Mayne Reid"s residence in Philadelphia he made the acquaintance of the American poet, Edgar Allan Poe, and the following account of the poet"s life, written by Mayne Reid some years later, in defence of his much maligned friend, is of interest.

"Nearly a quarter of a century ago, I knew a man named Edgar Allan Poe.

I knew him as well as one man may know another, after an intimate and almost daily a.s.sociation extending over a period of two years. He was then a reputed poet; I only an humble admirer of the Muses.

"But it is not of his poetic talent I here intend to speak. I never myself had a very exalted opinion of it--more especially as I knew that the poem upon which rests the head corner-stone of his fame is not the creation of Edgar Allan Poe, but of Elizabeth Barrett Browning. In "Lady Geraldine"s Courtship," you will find the original of "The Raven."

I mean the tune, the softly flowing measure, the imagery and a good many of the words--even to the "rustling of the soft and silken curtain."

"This does not seem like defending the dead poet, nor, _as a poet_, is his defence intended. I could do it better were I to speak of his prose, which for cla.s.sic diction and keen a.n.a.lytic power has not been surpa.s.sed in the republic of letters. Neither to speak of his poetry, or his prose, have I taken up the pen; but of what is, in my opinion, of much more importance than either--his moral character. Contrary to my estimate, the world believes him to have been a great poet; and there are few who will question his transcendent talents as a writer of prose.

But the world also believes him to have been a blackguard; and there are but few who seem to dissent from this doctrine.

"I am one of this few; and I shall give my reasons, drawing them from my own knowledge of the man. In attempting to rescue his maligned memory from the clutch of calumniators, I have no design to represent Edgar Allan Poe as a model of what man ought to be, either morally or socially. I desire to obtain for him only strict justice; and if this be accorded, I have no fear that those according it will continue to regard him as the monster he has been hitherto depicted. Rather may it be that the hideous garment will be transferred from his to the shoulders of his hostile biographer.

"When I first became acquainted with Poe he was living in a suburban district of Philadelphia, called "Spring Garden." I have not been there for twenty years, and, for aught I know, it may now be in the centre of that progressive city. It was then a quiet residential neighbourhood, noted as the chosen quarter of the Quakers.

"Poe was no Quaker; but, I remember well, he was next-door neighbour to one. And in this wise: that while the wealthy co-religionist of William Penn dwelt in a splendid four-story house, built of the beautiful coral-coloured bricks for which Philadelphia is celebrated, the poet lived in a lean-to of three rooms--there may have been a garret with a closet--of painted plank construction, supported against the gable of the more pretentious dwelling.

"If I remember aright, the Quaker was a dealer in cereals. He was also Poe"s landlord; and, I think, rather looked down upon the poet--though not from any question of character, but simply from his being fool enough to figure as a scribbler and a poet.

"In this humble domicile I can say that I have spent some of the pleasantest hours of my life--certainly some of the most intellectual.

They were pa.s.sed in the company of the poet himself and his wife--a lady angelically beautiful in person and not less beautiful in spirit. No one who remembers that dark-eyed, dark-haired daughter of Virginia--her own name, if I rightly remember--her grace, her facial beauty, her demeanour, so modest as to be remarkable--no one who has ever spent an hour in her company but will endorse what I have above said. I remember how we, the friends of the poet, used to talk of her high qualities.

And when we talked of her beauty, I well knew that the rose-tint upon her cheek was too bright, too pure to be of earth. It was consumption"s colour--that sadly-beautiful light which beckons to an early tomb.

"In the little lean-to, besides the poet and his interesting wife, there was but one other dweller. This was a woman of middle age, and almost masculine aspect. She had the size and figure of a man, with a countenance that, at first sight, seemed scarce feminine. A stranger would have been incredulous--surprised, as I was--when introduced to her as the mother of that angelic creature who had accepted Edgar Poe as the partner of her life.

"Such was the relationship; and when you came to know this woman better, the masculinity of her person disappeared before the truly feminine nature of her mind; and you saw before you a type of those grand American mothers--such as existed in the days when block-houses had to be defended, bullets run in red-hot saucepans, and guns loaded for sons and husbands to fire them. Just such a woman was the mother-in-law of the poet Poe. If not called upon to defend her home and family against the a.s.saults of the Indian savage, she was against that as ruthless, as implacable, and almost as difficult to repel--poverty. She was the ever-vigilant guardian of the house, watching it against the silent but continuous sap of necessity, that appeared every day to be approaching closer and nearer. She was the sole servant, keeping everything clean: the sole messenger, doing the errands, making pilgrimages between the poet and his publishers, frequently bringing back such chilling responses as "The article not accepted," or, "The cheque not to be given until such and such a day"--often too late for his necessities.

"And she was also messenger to the market; from it bringing back, not the "delicacies of the season," but only such commodities as were called for by the dire exigencies of hunger.

"And yet were there some delicacies. I shall never forget how, when peaches were in season and cheap, a pottle of these, the choicest gifts of Pomona, were divested of their skins by the delicate fingers of the poet"s wife, and left to the "melting mood," to be amalgamated with Spring Garden cream and crystallised sugar, and then set before such guests as came in by chance.

"Reader! I know you will acknowledge this to be a picture of tranquil domestic happiness; and I think you will believe me, when I tell you it is truthful. But I know also you will ask, "What has it to do with the poet?" since it seems to reflect all the credit on his wife, and the woman who called him her son-in-law. For all yet said it may seem so; but I am now to say that which may give it a different aspect.

"During two years of intimate personal a.s.sociation with Edgar Allan Poe, I found in him the following phases of character, accomplishment and disposition:

"First: I discovered rare genius; not at all of the poetic order, not even of the fanciful, but far more of a practical kind, shown in a power of a.n.a.lytic reasoning such as few men possess, and which would have made him the finest detective policeman in the world. Vidocq would have been a simpleton beside him.

"Secondly: I encountered a scholar of rare accomplishments--especially skilled in the lore of Northern Europe, and more imbued with it than with the southern and strictly cla.s.sic. How he had drifted into this speciality I never knew. But he had it in a high degree, as is apparent throughout all his writings, some of which read like an echo of the Scandinavian "Sagas."

"Thirdly: I felt myself in communication with a man of original character, disputing many of the received doctrines and dogmas of the day; but only original in so far as to dispute them, altogether regardless of consequences to himself or the umbrage he gave to his adversaries.

"Fourthly: I saw before me a man to whom vulgar rumour had attributed those personal graces supposed to attract the admiration of women. This is the usual description given of him in biographical sketches. And why, I cannot tell, unless it has been done to round off a piquant paragraph. His was a face purely intellectual. Women might admire it, thinking of this; but it is doubtful if many of them ever fell, or could have fallen, in love with the man to whom it belonged. I don"t think many ever did. It was enough for one man to be beloved by one such woman as he had for his wife.

"Fifthly: I feel satisfied that Edgar Allan Poe was not, what his slanderers have represented him, a rake. I know he was not; but in truth the very opposite. I have been his companion in one or two of his wildest frolics, and can certify that they never went beyond the innocent mirth in which we all indulge when Bacchus gets the better of us. With him the jolly G.o.d sometimes played fantastic tricks--to the stealing away his brain, and sometimes, too, his hat--leaving him to walk bareheaded through the streets at an hour when the sun shone too clearly on his crown, then prematurely bald.

"While acknowledging this as one of Poe"s failings, I can speak truly of its not being habitual; only occasional, and drawn out by some accidental circ.u.mstance--now disappointment; now the concurrence of a social crowd, whose flattering friendship might lead to champagne, a single gla.s.s of which used to affect him so much that he was hardly any longer responsible for his actions, or the disposal of his hat.

"I have chronicled the poet"s crimes, all that I ever knew him to be guilty of, and, indeed, all that can be honestly alleged against him; though many call him a monster. It is time to say a word of his virtues. I could expatiate upon these far beyond the s.p.a.ce left me; or I might sum them up in a single sentence by saying that he was no worse and no better than most other men.

"I have known him to be for a whole month closeted in his own house--the little "shanty" supported against the gable of the rich Quaker--all the time hard at work with his pen, poorly paid, and hard driven to keep the wolf from his slightly-fastened door, intruded on only by a few select friends, who always found him, what they knew him to be, a generous host, an affectionate son-in-law and husband; in short, a respectable gentleman.

"In the list of literary men, there has been no such spiteful biographer as Dr Rufus Griswold, and never such a victim of posthumous spite as poor Edgar Allan Poe."

Mayne Reid left Philadelphia in the spring of 1846, spending the summer at Newport, Rhode Island, as correspondent to the _New York Herald_, under the name of "Ecolier." In September of the same year he was in New York, and had secured a post on Wilkes" _Spirit of the Times_, but in November he abandoned the pen for the sword.

The following extract from a letter of Mayne Reid to his father tells something of his life in Philadelphia:

"Headquarters, U.S. Army,