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This is an incredible autobiography of a man devoted to forming children both in schools and in literature. His legacy lives on in his books, especially the Tom Playfair series.
IN THE centuries that have passed, many men and many women consecrated to God have favored us with their recollections. Of practically all of them one might say that they wrote because they had done great things for the glory of God, or had lived lives of heroic sanctity, or had worked miracles, or had experienced visions and made prophecies; while practically all of them, it may be stated, wrote under orders of their superiors.
Now I am undertaking to write my own recollections, but I do not feel quite sure that I am favoring the present generation or the generations to come. The shoe, I believe, is on the other foot; more probably they will favor me by reading my recollections. Also, so far as I know, and to my mind there is no doubt about it, I have not done great things for the glory of God, nor have I lived a life of heroic sanctity, nor have I worked miracles of any sort, nor has God vouchsafed me visions, revelations or prophecies. Finally, I have not written under the orders of my superiors.
I can say, though, that my superiors in their kindness of heart have approved of my undertaking this work. Possibly they are humoring me. On the face of it, it would seem that I am not overburdened with that exquisite virtue which is called modesty.
I am no shrinking violet hidden from the eye; nor am I in any sense fair as the star nor the only one shining in the sky. The only claim I can make for myself in setting down my recollections is that of originality; and, in my opinion, there are times when it is better to be original than to be modest.
This is the day of the average man; and if the average man happens at the same time to be a Religious who gives us the ordinary ups and downs and ins and outs of the religious life, it may contribute to autobiography something so far not attempted in prose or rhyme. It may be, too, that readers of autobiography that has to do with the religious and ecclesiastical are apt to be dismayed by the thought of embracing the religious life. It may strike them that such a life is one of high heroics. My modest story-if by any force of language it may be called modest at all-may give them a more encouraging orientation.
I was born in St. Louis, Missouri, on the fourth day of October in the year 1859, being the second son of John Finn and Mary Josephine Finn (nee Whyte). The first child, John, lived long enough to become invested with his shining baptismal robe. I think my father must have been quite proud of me; for he presented fifty dollars to the priest who baptized me; and John Finn, at that time, was by no means a wealthy man. In fact he did not own a house of his own. He and my mother were boarding with a good woman named Mrs. Cooney, whom I remember as a woman with a well-developed case of asthma. My advent into this world changed the economic policy of the Finn family. My father, almost at once, bought a house in Gamble Street, where I spent my earliest years and from which I gleaned my earliest memories.
There are some things connected with my early childhood which I do not clearly remember myself but which have been established in my memory by hearsay. My father, like my mother, had left Ireland, poor famine-stricken Ireland, to wage the battle of life under more favorable circumstances. An orphan, he brought from Ireland some five or six brothers and one sister. He was the head of the family. I came into contact with his sister and himself only. The others got lost in the melting pot, and, so far as I know, never did anything to attract public notice or excite private admiration. They were slightly below the average.
This, however, was not true of my sire. He was a man of energy and personality, and was, during the Civil War, a candidate of the Democratic Party for the mayoralty of St. Louis. He was defeated; for the Civil War, so far as St. Louis was concerned, had ruined the Democratic Party. In those early years he had a smaller office; he was an alderman and president of the Board of Health. It happened that during his term there was a cholera epidemic raging in the city. John Finn rose nobly to the occasion, so nobly that, when the epidemic had passed away, grateful citizens, with all manner of pomp and circumstance, presented him with a silver set in commemoration of his heroic activity. The silver set is still in the family, and it has always given me a sort of thrill. As I write, I grin at the thought that I never did anything nearly so heroic in all my life.
I remember also, in connection with this, that while I was spending a few weeks in Omaha, where my eyes were delighted with the spectacle of Indians and squaws roaming the streets in their native habiliments, there broke out one day in one of the main streets a fire. It was some sort of stable. Horses, so far as I know, have no instinct when it comes to facing a fire. They won't come out themselves nor will they willingly be led from the scene of danger. My father, happening to pass that way, dared the danger of the flames, blindfolded a few of the horses and brought them out in time.
He always was a brave man. There is nothing in my memories to make me think I resemble him in this respect. In fact I was rather the other way. He was very fond of horses, kept a good stable. I myself found it an ordeal to pass the horses as they stood in their stalls. I felt that I was taking my life in my hands and that one kick would do for me. And yet, in the days when I was newly breeched, I must have had some sort of courage. Urged on by my father's sister, who then resided with us and was a militant Catholic, I would, so I have been told, venture forth to meet any strange boy of my size who ventured into the neighborhood, and interrogate him as to his religion. If he said he was a Catholic I greeted him with what cordiality I had. But if he said he was a Protestant, there was a fight. If I licked him, my aunt was jubilant and, no doubt, rewarded me. If he got the better of me, my aunt gave me another licking. All of this is hearsay, but I do remember distinctly that from the age of six or seven I had a strong distaste for fighting.
My early years were marked by a great love for flowers and some taste for music. As to the music, I must humbly confess that the instrument which thrilled my youthful soul above all others was the bass drum.
I am now going back to what I believe to be my earliest recollection. Possibly I would, in the ordinary course of life, have forgotten it, but the family talked about it so much afterwards that it was lodged very strongly in my memory. I must have been three or at most four years of age, when there came past our home a troop of soldiers headed by a brass band. The blare of trumpets aroused my soul; the boom of the bass drum raised me to heights where I lost track of home and duty. I must have been at play behind our house when the magical strains struck my ears. I must also have been in dishabille. At any rate I had no hat, and I was bound upon following the magic band. I wanted a hat. It did not occur to me to go into the house and get one in the regular way. I fished one (an ancient thing, no doubt) out of the ash barrel, clapped it on my head and, filled with military ardor, fell into rank behind the soldiers. The boom of the bass drum must have lent strength to my legs.
I followed that procession all the way downtown to the levee, where the soldiers marched onto a gun boat. Like the monk of legend, who was carried away by the song of a bird so that for him time and space ceased to be, I followed and would, without qualm of conscience, have gone down the Mississippi River had not a policeman stayed me just as I was leaving the shore. He asked me my name. I told him quite frankly that my name was Frank. When he asked, "Frank what?" I had no satisfactory answer. Then I launched into description. I told him my father kept horses and said some edifying things about my mother which have escaped my memory.
The guardian of the law was a very pleasant man. He at once enlisted my sympathies, got me some candy, and led me off to a police station, where I was treated with much kindness and consideration and thought that I was having the time of my life.
In the meantime there was consternation in the Finn household and a bellman was parading the streets ringing his bell and yelling for any knowledge of Frank Finn. I was a lost boy. Of course, I was in due time brought home; but what my father did to me I am not going to set down in type. It was a glorious hour anyhow-certainly my first, and possibly my most daring adventure. The years have passed by, but I still love music and have a knack of meeting nice policemen.
I also carry from those days a memory of the battle or skirmish of Camp Jackson. Young as I was, I aligned myself very positively with the defenders of the South. My father, it is true, was a Unionist. So, too, was my mother. But my nurse, a widow named Mrs. Condron, whom all of us children called "Connie," was a fire-eating Southerner. From her I got what ideas I had of the war between the North and the South, with the result that I loved Jackson and Lee and despised General Grant. I recall the skirmish of Fort Jackson. Nearly everybody in the neighborhood went out to see the fight, and quite a number were brought back in ambulances. The impression made upon me was that the fight did particular harm to neither the soldiers of the North nor of the South. It was the innocent bystander who was damaged.
There is one memory of these days which stands out clear and unforgettable. It was a remark made by my grandfather, who to me was incalculably old, although as a matter of fact he must have been in the middle sixties. He had just finished "Dombey and Son" by Charles Dickens. As he finished the last sentence and closed the book he rose and said, "This is the finest book I ever read in my life."
The impression made upon me was extraordinary. "What a wonderful book," I reflected, "that must be! Why, grandfather has been reading books all his life. And look how old he is. If that is the most remarkable book he ever read, it must be a very remarkable book indeed." I could not read at that time; but, through all the years that followed, I carried in my head the memory of "Dombey and Son" and a high ideal of Charles Dickens. That remark of his had a tremendous influence on my early life.
In the meantime the family had increased. My sister Kate and, after her, my sister Teresa made their appearance in the home; and, living next door to us, Mr. and Mrs. John Daly became the proud parents of my cousin Dick. It was not many years before the four of us formed into a gang quite able to take care of ourselves. But our ways were not the ways of our elders; and frequently they held a council of war and we were all summoned to their presence and cross-examined. It was in this way that we began to learn that there were some things that were right and some things that were wrong. When things were wrong, I was promptly picked out as the ringleader. If there was any punishing to be done–and with justice I must admit that there frequently was–I bore the brunt of the penalty.
My simple home life was broken in these days by a visit to Omaha. I think I must have spent a month with my father and mother in that then semi-civilized town. We lived in a hotel, the only one there, I believe, and f derived great excitement from spelling out the menu card. There were many sorts of omelets designated on that printed sheet and I invariably called for champagne omelet. Champagne omelet still exists on menu cards, but in those days it existed on the card alone. In vain did I order it day after day. Thus began the first period of my disillusionment.
There was in the hotel at that time a striking looking gentleman with long white hair. He was Professor Fowler, great phrenologist. Phrenology in those days had the vogue which Freudism has attained at the present writing. Of course nothing would do my father but to have my head examined. Professor Fowler left no bumps or depressions untouched. Then he wrote an essay on me, pointing out my character, my disposition and my future career. Unfortunately this valuable document is lost. But my mother read it to me many a time, and I recall that the professor said I was troubled with a sort of disease called "I can't-I can't do this, I can't do that." The venerable old man was right. He also said that my head was one of the most extraordinary he had ever examined. I fancy that he said this of many another head.
One prediction of my future which rather startled me and which I will never forget was that I was destined to marry the cousin of an Amazon. In this the professor was clearly wrong; nor is there any possibility of his prediction ever coming true.
I remember my return to St. Louis. It was a thrill to come back to the old town, a thrill to see the old houses and the old places of my early activities, an ecstasy to meet my sisters and my cousin and my aunts.
At this period of my life, from six to eight years of age, I had very little religion. My mother was a saintly woman, but so far as I was concerned, her sanctity was not contagious. My first experiences at school were not especially agreeable. I was a member, in those early days, of St. Malachy's Church, and when the parish school opened I was one of the first pupils to be enrolled. The parish school of that day was something to which one cannot at the present point with pride. It had all the merits and defects of the rural public schools which we find here and there all over our country. There was one teacher and he was hopeless.
I remember my first confession. We were ordered into line one day and brought down to the church. The information I carried with me was that I was to tell my sins. This was authentic. Sympathetic schoolboys got it into my head that after confession the priest would take me down in the cellar and lash me. I entered with dread and left much improved in spirits; there was no castigation.
If I distinguished myself in any way while attending St. Malachy's School, I fail to remember it, and no one has ever reminded me of it. One fine afternoon I played hooky. This was my second adventure and it ended with a like sad result. On reaching home that afternoon, my mother accused me pointblank. There was nothing for me to do but to plead guilty. Even at that age, and wanting as I was in religion, I was not given to lying. I think my father took up the case at that juncture. I have never played truant since.
Came a day, as the movie writers would have it, when I learned to read. Along with this new gift came a period of sickness, and I buried myself in what books I could get. My beloved nurse Connie fell dangerously ill at this time. Having made her peace with God and convinced she was no longer for this world, she disposed of many of her belongings. To me she gave five or six books, among them "Fabiola," by Cardinal Wiseman, "Scalp Hunters," by Marion Leeds, and "Rosemary," by Huntington.
Connie recovered, but I kept the books; and with the reading of "Fabiola" came a new period in my life. The beautiful story of those early Christian martyrs had a profound influence upon my life. Religion began to mean something to me. Since the day of reading "Fabiola," I have carried the conviction that one of the greatest things in the world is to get the right book into the hands of the right boy or girl. No one can indulge in reading to any extent without being largely influenced for better or for worse. Only yesterday, just before I took up these recollections, word came to me that a brilliant young man, an outstanding student of our college in Cincinnati, had lost the faith. I was more shocked than astonished. I had known the boy well and had thought much of him. But I had also known that even in his callow youth he had read books against faith, books dangerous to morals, and books of every kind provided they had some claims to literary merit. In a word, he had browsed without discriminating between the good and the poisonous. The result was as might have been expected.
From the day of Connie's bequest I became a ravenous reader. At the age of seven or eight I made nothing of devouring books which appealed to children of the fifth, sixth, and seventh grades. I began to rise in the estimation of my parents. They conceived the idea that I was a very gifted lad. Of course I did nothing to disabuse them.
In our neighborhood was a young woman named Miss Carmenia Hood, who started a select school. Nothing, so my father thought, was too good for a youth of my promise; so to the select school I was promptly sent; and there for a year or two, as a flower, I blushed unseen. In a word, no one found me out. I liked my teacher very much, but cared very little for the lessons. My occupation was to read and read and read. So it was that, as a boy of eight, I had a rather remarkable vocabulary. The boys with whom I consorted called my attention to this defect or perfection as in their judgment the case might seem to be. In any event my parents and relations were looking to the day when I would set the river on fire.
One memory more I carry of those days when I lived in Gamble Street. It is a memory of a confession. When I had whispered my crimes to the priest and received absolution, I left the box feeling like a morning star. For years the effect was almost magical. It was the greatest thrill of my early days.
When I was about nine years of age, we moved to 2529 Pine Street, at that time the most beautiful residence section of St. Louis. The house is still there, but the beauty is departed. When I go to St. Louis now and then and pass up Pine Street from Twenty-fifth to Twenty-ninth, my heart sinks. The whole neighborhood, at that time a place of beauty, is changed.
It was at this new residence that I developed into an author. I had my little desk and writing materials; and there one blissful summer I sat me down day after day and wrote some forty or fifty pages of a wonderful Indian story with a besieged blockhouse and savage Indians who knew how to remove the scalp with precision and dispatch, and wonderful white men who could hit a penny at a hundred yards' distance.
I never read the story myself, for the simple reason that I could not read my own writing. But my uncle could. John Daly was a printer, and a printer could read manuscripts which would defy a Philadelphia lawyer. Once a week, then, my mother, my father, my aunts, and other distinguished grown-up people would assemble in the house and Uncle John, who was something of an elocutionist, would read my precious manuscript. I had no intention of being humorous in my story, and consequently I was very much puzzled by the howls of laughter which greeted many of my sentences. Of course I never finished the story; but for a boy of eight or nine, it was, no doubt, not without its merits. At any rate, when at the age of ten I was entered at St. Louis University, the family expected that of all the students attending that historic institution I would be the shining light.