Henry Stanley
SO I RESOLVED TO BOOK PASSAGE to St. Louis, and within a few days I found myself heading north on the Mississippi aboard the Tuscarora. In other places I will mention my enthrallment with such craft; but what I will say now is that my first journey upriver, some nine days long, with its ascent into a port that was nearly as glorious and glutted with ships as New Orleans, and much grander than bustling Liverpool, gave me a further indication as to the enormity and boundless resources of America. St. Louis’s docks bustled with the same commerce as those in New Orleans — everywhere I looked there were steamers unloading great cargoes of cotton and other goods; endless barrels and crates, boasting of the river economy, were laid along the docks.
Once I had descended onto the levee, I made my way, by hired hack, to the Planters House Hotel, where I approached the front desk clerk and presented myself as a “close acquaintance” of Mr. Stanley and inquired as to his whereabouts.
“He’s not here,” I was told. “He left last week on a steamer.”
I could not, at this point, fully absorb the ramifications of that remark.
“He did?” I asked.
“He has gone south, to New Orleans.”
Such a declaration might have alighted upon me with less consequence had I, in my pocket, enough money to book a return passage to New Orleans.
Shortly I took a room in a modest boardinghouse near the harbor to contemplate the means by which I would earn some money. For some ten days I made my way around the major streets of that city, which I did not know, looking for work.
One afternoon, with my frustrations mounting and my funds running perilously low, I happened to make my way down to the riverside, where many flatboats and barges were docked. One of them was loaded up with a massive shipment of timber. The crew was an agreeable lot. Speaking with one of them, I learned that the flatboat was to set out that very evening for New Orleans, and so I sought their boss with the idea of offering my services in exchange for passage downriver.
A few hours later, I returned with my carpetbag, and, dressed in a manner practical for such work, I joined the crew as the flatboat cast off into the current. It took us two weeks to reach New Orleans.
ON THAT VOYAGE, I WELL LEARNED the appeal of the river; the quietude of a flatboat’s passage as opposed to that of a steamship, with its clanging bells and whistles. The churning of the paddle wheel was quite appealing, our slow progress giving one much time to think and observe the motions of the water. Its currents and eddies and whirlpools, its fluvial volatility, were a source of fascination to me: I learned how the river could be calm one moment and stormy the next; I learned of its depths and shallows; the trickiness of navigating its snags and sandbars; the way it turned silver and gold in the sunlight or suddenly resembled gruel under the gray skies; with these transformations I grew familiar.
One thing was certain: No matter how many times we saw a steamboat speeding past us along the river, its chimney sending up billows of thick, pitch-pine-fed smoke, it always seemed a fanciful event — the calm waters suddenly stirring, the captain blowing the horn to let us know of his approach, as if we could possibly have missed it! Long after such steamboats had vanished from view, we could see their courses marked out, far into the distance, by the lingering trails of dark smoke, a long plume of which hung in the air for hours as the boats disappeared down the Mississippi.
IN NEW ORLEANS AGAIN, after the exhilarations and tedium of that journey, I headed straightaway to Mr. Stanley’s home on St. Charles Avenue, and, to my good fortune, found him there, in a receptive and grateful mood toward me. To see him again after so many months uplifted my spirits instantly, for his manner, by way of affections, was more than what it had been before — a consequence, I believe, of hearing stories from his maid about my devotion to his late wife during her last days on this earth. He had been so moved by such tales that, in the clearest way possible, he told me my future would be in his charge from this time onward. Moreover, he declared that he would now directly undertake my development into a man of commerce and instruct me in the ways of his profession.
That night, over supper, we spoke of many things as we never had before, and, with a greater curiosity, he pursued those details of my life that I had been too ashamed to tell him before — mainly, that I had been as good as an orphan, having neither mother nor father to claim as my own. Then Mr. Stanley said that he and his wife had always been childless and, wanting their own, had often visited the infant asylum in New Orleans, but they had been too fastidious and careful to make a choice, something they had come to regret. But now he saw that things could unfold differently in his life — for as a widower, he was lonely and longing for a good companion.
Then Mr. Stanley promised to take me up as his own ward: He would make preparations to adopt me in the future and bestow his name upon me.
That night he clarified for me the details of his life, which I had only known before as hearsay. He had been educated for the ministry as a young man, and for some seven years he had traveled the South as an itinerant preacher, but he had found out, through a deep examination of his conscience, that he felt unsuited to that profession. Commerce, with its social intimacies, held a greater attraction for him. Having succeeded in a number of ventures, he established an office in St. Louis and, with his older brother, one in Havana, Cuba, a land he called beautiful.
It was his wish, once he had made a satisfactory fortune, to sever his city connection and return to the storekeeper’s trade, perhaps in some tranquil outpost upriver, for he saw that there would come a time when he would be weary of travel; but, in the meantime, he said there would be much to teach me, his son.
SHORTLY I MOVED MOST of my books and what other possessions I had from Mrs. Williams’s boardinghouse and took lodging on St. Charles Avenue with my new father. At first he taught me the essentials of gentlemanly grooming: the use of clippers, so that my nails might not grow so long and dirty; how to clean my teeth with tooth powder and a brush, something I had never known before. He also introduced me to the concept of a daily bath, bidding me to make use of the grand wooden tub that he kept for such purposes.
“Forget all the nonsense you were raised with,” Mr. Stanley told me. “Cleanliness is what differentiates the gentleman from the common laborer and slave.”
He had guided me further in the selection of clothing and helped me to accrue all manner of stylish suits: He taught me that a well-ironed shirt and well-tied cravat did much by way of making a good impression, especially with businessmen, a necessity if I wanted a life in commerce. Shoes were important, too.
Then, with the outward aspects of my appearance somewhat rectified, and with my habits becoming more fastidious, he turned to what he saw as the essential flaw of my bearing.
“You have many fine characteristics: You are swift of mind, pensive, and courteous; but you are also far too afraid and timid around things and people; it is as if you feel beneath the others you meet. I have noticed on many occasions a certain awkwardness in your social manner; you are often sullen in your private moments and easily defer to the opinions of others, as if you have none of your own. In short, you do not seem like a person who will stand up for himself: In business — and in life — this will not help your dealings, as the merchants you shall meet are men, and as men they only want to deal with men, not boys uncertain of themselves. What you must do, young man, is adopt the mental attitude that you are in every way equal if not superior to those whom you encounter; in the rare cases where this is not true, then you will learn it a useful posture to adopt anyway. Your timidity must be forgotten.”