The Contest with Enemies.—Departure from Philadelphia.—Friendship of N. P. Willis.—Discouraging Reception.—Interview with Horace Greeley.—Searching for a Vessel.—Steerage Passage for Liverpool.—Fellow Passengers.—The Voyage.—The Beauty of the Sea.—Landing at Liverpool. “How rosed with morn, how angel innocent,
Thus looking back, I see my lightsome youth!
Each thought a wondrous bounty Heaven had lent,
And each illusion was a radiant truth!
Each sorrow dead bequeathed a young desire,
Each hovering doubt, or cloud of discontent,
So interfused with Faith’s pervading fire,
That to achieve seemed light as to aspire!”
—Taylor.
Bayard was not an exception to the universal rule, found true by nearly every scholar, and every successful statesman. He was ridiculed by a thoughtless throng. His success in the matters he undertook subjected him to the slights and backbiting of envious simpletons, and everywhere the looks and shrugs of his acquaintances told with what contempt they looked upon his endeavors to be a poet, and to see the world. It was the same old trial, and only those young men who, like Bayard, are able to stand firm against ridicule and envy, ever reach the acropolis of[43] their ambition. No record has been found of the effect these things had upon Bayard, or upon the two noble young men who were his companions; but we do know that they turned not from their purpose. Bayard’s sensitive nature, his warm heart, his innocent ambition must have felt the stings, and, at times in after life, he spoke as one who had not forgotten. How grand and honorable the exceptional appearance of the few who were generous and faithful to the poor boy on the threshold of his life!
Taking with them only such baggage as they could carry in their hands, these three young men,—Bayard Taylor, Franklin Taylor, and Barclay Pennock.—started for New York the last week in June, 1844. There had been but little delay, notwithstanding the day for departure had been set before Bayard knew where the funds were to come from to defray his expenses.
There was a strong hope in Bayard’s mind that Mr. N. P. Willis, who had written him such encouraging letters, would be able to assist him in securing employment as a travelling correspondent of some of the New York daily papers. Mr. Willis was widely known, and greatly respected in New York, and, on the arrival of Bayard at his office, he entered heartily into the work of procuring such a situation for his young friend. But foreign correspondence had been as much overdone in New York as in Philadelphia. So many writers had tried to make a name[44] by imitating the first successful correspondents, that the people were weary with the monotonous story. It was as well known then as it is now, that copyists and imitators are not what a live, active, original newspaper requires. Correspondence from almost anywhere could be made interesting and amusing, if the writer would only write naturally, and describe the things he saw in just the light they appeared to him. No one thought that this boy would do anything else but follow in the old track. Hence they wished for none of his writings. One gentleman told him that it was useless to make engagements, for a youth, going into a strange country in that hap-hazard way, would not live to write any letters. Mr. Willis’ generous assistance availed Bayard nothing with a people who had so often been compelled to form their own opinion of the people they wished to employ, and who considered themselves the best judges.
In the editorial room of the New York “Tribune” sat the editor, whose name is being written higher, on the list of America’s great men, by every succeeding year. To his quick eye, there was promise of noble things in the countenance of the boy. He had himself been a venturesome, ambitious, penniless boy, and, like Bayard, he had boldly pushed his boat into the dangerous billows. He may have remembered Benjamin Franklin’s hazardous trip, as a boy, to Philadelphia, for Bayard was mentioned by Mr. Willis as a young man from the Quaker city. Whatever may[45] have been his thoughts, he treated Bayard with his usual consideration, and informed the youth that he was ready to publish and pay for all letters that were worth inserting in the “Tribune.” But he solemnly warned Bayard against attempting to write anything until he knew enough about the country to write intelligently. Bayard told Mr. Greeley that he would try to get acquainted with the people of Germany and their institutions, and, as soon as he felt competent, would send a few letters for Mr. Greeley’s criticism. The busy editor nodded as the boy thanked him, bade him good-day, and, doubtless, instantly forgot there had ever been such a visitor; and left the fact in oblivion, until it was brought to mind some months afterwards by the arrival of a letter from Germany.
Mr. Willis told Bayard, as he said afterwards, to keep up his courage, and go forward: “The way to Valhalla is broad and smooth to the hero, but narrow and dangerous to the coward.” It appears by the brief account which is given in the introduction to his “Views Afoot,” published by Putnam & Sons, New York, that the party had a difficult task to find a vessel in which the accommodations, rates of passage, and port of destination were within their plan. They intended at first to take a vessel direct for the Continent; but in such of them as were bound for continental ports, the fare was too high. They were, however, on the point of taking passage in a Dutch sailing vessel, the consignees of which were[46] acquaintances of Mr. Willis, and consequently made some reduction in the fares, when an opportunity offered itself for a steerage passage in a vessel bound for Liverpool. In that way, they would be conveyed to England for the sum of twenty-four dollars. But such a passage! Think of it, ye disconsolate, fault-finding tourists, who lie in the soft beds of a steamer, with fresh air and plenty of light! Think of it, ye sufferers that occupy the great forward hall of a steamship, and who curse your fate that you are compelled to take a steerage passage! What would you do or say should you be crowded into a cabin of rough planks, eight feet long, and seven feet wide, with nine passengers and eight narrow berths, in a clumsy, dirty little sailing vessel? Yet this was the young adventurer’s choice, rather than expend the small sum of twenty-five dollars from his small store. These three boys were compelled, by the terms of passage, to furnish their own provisions and bedding, and the fact that the unexpected honesty and kindness of a warehouse clerk prevented their starting off without enough food to last through the voyage, is another proof that “fortune favors the brave.”
As there was one more adult passenger in the steerage than there were berths, Bayard and his cousin Frank good-naturedly agreed to occupy one together. To the writer, who has frequently crossed the treacherous Atlantic, there seems to be no experience so inconceivably miserable and sickening as a steerage[47] passage in a sailing vessel must be to the landsman. But when to the usual discomforts of dampness, darkness, sea-sickness, and strange company, are added the cramps caused by being packed with another passenger like a sandwich into a narrow box, and the absence of fresh air, no tortures of the Inquisition would seem to equal it. Bayard often referred to his first discouraging sensation of sea-sickness. Coming, as it always does to the passenger, just as he is taking his last sad look at the fading shores of his native country, it is always a disheartening experience. Bayard shed tears as he began to realize that he was actually afloat upon the wide ocean, and could not if he would return to the land. He has since well said, that had he known more of life, and the dangers of travel, his alarm and discouragement would have been much greater than they were, and of longer duration. Youth borrows no trouble; hence it is happy and victorious.
Of that voyage, and its sufferings, in the ship “Oxford,” beginning on the first day of July, and ending at Liverpool on the twenty-ninth of the same month, he made but brief mention; yet his experience in getting the ship’s cook to boil their potatoes, in eating their meals of pilot-bread, and in the company of their English, Scotch, Irish, and German cabin-mates, was most charmingly told in his letters to the “Gazette” and to the “Post,” as well as in “Views Afoot,” to which reference has already been made. His German[48] companion was not only a social advantage, but furnished the adventurous youths with a pleasant opportunity to get some of the German phrases, and to hear descriptions of the country they were to visit. They were also favored by the captain’s permission to use books from the cabin library, which contained several entertaining books of travel and of fiction. The closing days of the voyage appear to have been pleasant in some respects, for the beauty of the sea made a lasting impression upon his mind, and might possibly have been still in his memory when he wrote the lines in his “Poems of Home and Travel,” running thus:—
“The sea is a jovial comrade,
He laughs wherever he goes;
His merriment shines in the dimpling lines
That-wrinkle his hale repose:
He lays himself down at the feet of the Sun,
And shakes all over with glee,
And the broad-backed billows fall faint on the shore
In the mirth of the mighty Sea.”
It may be that the beauty and joy of the sea appeared more remarkable because of the great contrast between its free and wild life, and the crowded and stifled existence of the mortals who witnessed its gambols. At all events he was not so delighted with the sea that he could not shout with the others, when the dark outlines of Ireland’s mountains appeared through the mist. The sleepless nights, the company of howling Iowa Indians, the musty cabin, the terrible nausea—all[49] were forgotten in the sight of land, and as the goal grew nearer, the more like a dream became all the disagreeable experiences of the voyage, until when, after tacking from northern Ireland to Scotland, from Scotland to Ireland, and from Ireland to the Isle of Man, they sailed up the Mersey to Liverpool, the inconveniences of the voyage had wholly faded out, and only the few agreeable incidents remained a reality. They passed the dreaded officials of the custom-house without difficulty, and by the advice of a “wild Englishman,” who was one of their travelling companions, they went to the Chorley Tavern, and there enjoyed a bountiful dinner, as only passengers by sea can enjoy them when first they step on shore. Bayard was impressed by the sombre appearance of the city, and amused by the use of the middle of the streets for sidewalks, and by the pink each man carried in his buttonhole.