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The Life of P.T. Barnum
P.T. Barnum


HarperCollins is proud to present its incredible range of best-loved, essential classics.Meet the greatest entertainer of the 19th Century…In 1834, desperate to create a better life for his family, small-time Connecticut businessman P. T. Barnum moved to New York City. With true entrepreneurial spirit and against all odds, he wowed audiences with his ensemble of musical spectacles, attractions and variety shows – often exploiting the vulnerable for entertainment value. A master showman, his crowning achievement was the world-famous circus, Barnum & Bailey’s Greatest Show on Earth.In this account of his life and work, written by the man himself and first published in 1855, P. T. Barnum creates an aura of excitement about himself and his enduring fame, confirming his reputation as the greatest impresario of all time and revealing the controversial decisions that helped him to his fortune.









THE LIFE OF P. T. BARNUM

Written by Himself










Copyright (#ulink_4193c81f-d0cc-5124-b34e-650f59a7bbc5)


William Collins

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street,

London SE1 9GF

WilliamCollinsBooks.com (http://WilliamCollinsBooks.com)

This eBook edition published by William Collins in 2017

Classic Literature: Words and Phrases adapted from Collins English Dictionary

Cover by e-Digital Design

Cover image © Getty Images/Owen Franken

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins

Source ISBN: 9780008284749

Ebook Edition © December 2017 ISBN: 9780008277024

Version: 2017-11-20


Contents

Cover (#u450e9202-9eaa-5629-bac0-11bc41870d11)

Title Page (#uf2d6ea05-52a5-563b-9943-6a7a803994e6)

Copyright (#u2a770e98-d023-5889-831e-2e5aaa87bc97)

History of William Collins (#u58046d00-e085-5276-9700-07aa3c3675b9)

Introductory (#u458da39c-6dc3-597e-806c-ff5b0bc86d1b)

Chapter I. My Early History (#uc7c971ec-10e2-5094-83f7-de145986dcdf)

Chapter II. Clerk in a Store – Anecdotes (#u2b07c18a-4881-50ba-9bbc-8976377a243a)

Chapter III. Sunday School – Old Meeting-House (#ua5d6ab06-64de-5b56-a29b-cbd4b9e93359)

Chapter IV. Anecdotes with an Episode (#u0bca9432-c097-5a10-babe-99344574e496)

Chapter V. A Batch of Incidents (#uaf740f30-21ae-5dbb-86a2-9a095e732626)

Chapter VI. Incidents and Various Schemes (#ud6f11e80-3e05-5da2-bf92-7c08882d1807)

Chapter VII. Struggling – Joice Heth – Vivalla (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter VIII. The Travelling Circus (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter IX. The American Museum (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter X. European Tour – Tom Thumb (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter XI. The Jenny Lind Enterprise (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter XII. “Side Shows” – Buffalo Hunt, Etc. (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter XIII. Temperance and Agriculture (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter XIV. Sundry Business Enterprises (#litres_trial_promo)

Footnotes (#litres_trial_promo)

Classic Literature: Words and Phrases (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




History of William Collins (#ulink_f747b956-1fa1-52ce-ba8e-1487fd05d875)


In 1819, millworker William Collins from Glasgow, Scotland, set up a company for printing and publishing pamphlets, sermons, hymn books, and prayer books. That company was Collins and was to mark the birth of HarperCollins Publishers as we know it today. The long tradition of Collins dictionary publishing can be traced back to the first dictionary William co-published in 1825, Greek and English Lexicon. Indeed, from 1840 onwards, he began to produce illustrated dictionaries and even obtained a licence to print and publish the Bible.

Soon after, William published the first Collins novel; however, it was the time of the Long Depression, where harvests were poor, prices were high, potato crops had failed, and violence was erupting in Europe. As a result, many factories across the country were forced to close down and William chose to retire in 1846, partly due to the hardships he was facing.

Aged 30, William’s son, William II, took over the business. A keen humanitarian with a warm heart and a generous spirit, William II was truly ‘Victorian’ in his outlook. He introduced new, up-to-date steam presses and published affordable editions of Shakespeare’s works and ThePilgrim’s Progress, making them available to the masses for the first time.

A new demand for educational books meant that success came with the publication of travel books, scientific books, encyclopedias, and dictionaries. This demand to be educated led to the later publication of atlases, and Collins also held the monopoly on scripture writing at the time.

In the 1860s Collins began to expand and diversify and the idea of ‘books for the millions’ was developed, although the phrase wasn’t coined until 1907. Affordable editions of classical literature were published, and in 1903 Collins introduced 10 titles in their Collins Handy Illustrated Pocket Novels. These proved so popular that a few years later this had increased to an output of 50 volumes, selling nearly half a million in their year of publication. In the same year, The Everyman’s Library was also instituted, with the idea of publishing an affordable library of the most important classical works, biographies, religious and philosophical treatments, plays, poems, travel, and adventure. This series eclipsed all competition at the time, and the introduction of paperback books in the 1950s helped to open that market and marked a high point in the industry.

HarperCollins is and has always been a champion of the classics, and the current Collins Classics series follows in this tradition – publishing classical literature that is affordable and available to all. Beautifully packaged, highly collectible, and intended to be reread and enjoyed at every opportunity.




INTRODUCTORY (#ulink_25f73916-5c82-5abf-95b4-c42c259eb4dc)


PHINEAS TAYLOR was my maternal grandfather. I was his first grandchild, and it was suggested that I should perpetuate his honored name. My delighted ancestor confirmed the choice, and handed to my mother a gift-deed, in my behalf, of five acres of land, be the same more or less, situated in that part of the parish of Bethel, town of Danbury, county of Fairfield, State of Connecticut, known as “Plum Trees;” said tract of land being designated “IVY ISLAND.”

The village and parish of Bethel, honored by embracing within its limits that valuable inheritance of mine, (of which I shall hereafter have something to say,) has been repeatedly mentioned to me, by persons who ought to know, as my birth-place, and I have always acknowledged and reverenced it accordingly.

As however my grandfather happened to be born before me, and as it is said by all who knew him and have knowledge of me, that I am “a chip of the old block,” I must record some facts regarding him.

I think I can remember when I was not more than two years old, and the first person I recollect having seen, was my grandfather. As I was his pet, and spent probably the larger half of my waking hours in his arms, during the first six years of my life, my good mother estimates that the amount of lump sugar which I swallowed from his hands, during that period, could not have been less than two barrels.

My grandfather was decidedly a wag. He was a practical joker. He would go farther, wait longer, work harder and contrive deeper, to carry out a practical joke, than for anything else under heaven. In this one particular, as well as in many others, I am almost sorry to say I am his counterpart; for although nothing that I can conceive of delights me so much as playing off one of those dangerous things, and although I have enjoyed more hearty laughs in planning and executing them, than from any one source in the world, and have generally tried to avoid giving offence, yet I have many times done so, and as often have I regretted this propensity, which was born in me, and will doubtless continue until “dust returns to dust.”

My grandfather had four children: IRENA, my mother; LAURA, now the widow of Aaron Nichols; EDWARD, late Judge of the County Court. These three at present reside in Bethel, in which village ALANSON, the youngest of the four, died June 5, 1846, aged nearly 45.

The two sons exhibited a small degree of their father’s propensity for a joke. My aunt Laura is considerably given that way – my mother somewhat less so; but what is lacking in all the children, is fully made up with compound interest in the eldest grandson.

My paternal grandfather was Captain Ephraim Barnum, of Bethel


– a captain in the militia in the Revolutionary War. His son Philo was my father.


He too was of a lively turn of mind, and relished a joke better than the average of mankind. These historical facts I state as some palliation for my own inclination that way. “What is bred in the bone,” etc.

BORN – MARRIED – DIED. Most of my ancestors have passed the third state. I hope, through the grace of God, to meet them all in a better world, where “they neither marry nor are given in marriage,” and where “Death is swallowed up in victory.”




CHAPTER I (#ulink_f7ba27ce-119c-5bd7-9263-78fd3ad85ceb)

My Early History (#ulink_f7ba27ce-119c-5bd7-9263-78fd3ad85ceb)


First Appearance – School Experience – John Haight – Breaking the Ice – A Debt Discharged – Living Statues – Dive, you Vagabond! – Speculation in Horns – The Biter Bit – The Horse and his Rider – The Crisis – John goes to Sea – A Naval Officer – Pennies and Sixpennies – Fish out of Water – First Visit to New York – Adventures in the City – Speculation in Oranges – Guns and Torpedoes – Funds running low – My first Swop – Vast Supplies – Corporation Morals – End of the Bargain.



MY first appearance upon this stage was on the 5th day of July, Anno Domini 1810. Independence Day had gone by, the cannons had ceased to thunder forth their remembrances of our National Anniversary, the smoke had all cleared away, the drums had finished their rattle, and when peace and quiet were restored, I made my début.

This propensity of keeping out of harm’s way has always stuck by me. I have often thought that were I forced to go to war, the first arms that I should examine would be my legs. I should scarcely fulfil the plan of the Yankee soldier who fired a few stray shots at the enemy on his own hook, and then departed, singing,

“He that fights and runs away,

May live to fight another day.”

I am decidedly a man of peace, and the first three words of the first line would never correctly apply to me if it was possible for me to appropriate the three words which follow them.

I am not aware that my advent created any peculiar commotion in the village, though my good mother declares that I made a great deal of noise the first hour I saw the light, and that she has never been able to discover any cessation since.

I must pass by the first seven years of my life – during which my grandfather crammed me with sugar and loaded me with pennies, to buy raisins and candies, which he always instructed me to solicit from the store-keeper at the “lowest cash price” – and proceed to talk of later events.

I commenced going to school at the age of about six years. The first date which I recollect inscribing upon my writing-book, was 1818. A schoolhouse in those days was a thing to be dreaded – a schoolmaster, a kind of being to make the children tremble. My first school-teacher was a Mr. Camp, the second Mr. Zerah Judson, the third a Mr. Curtiss from Newtown, the fourth Dr. Orris T. Taylor, and afterwards my uncle Alanson Taylor, etc. In the summers Miss Hannah Starr, an excellent teacher, of whom I was an especial favorite, and for whom I have ever entertained the highest respect, was our school-mistress. The first three male teachers used the ferule prodigiously, and a dark dungeon which was built in the house, was tenanted nearly all the time during school hours, by some unlucky juvenile frequently under eight years of age, who had incurred the displeasure of the “one-man power.”

I was generally accounted a pretty apt scholar, and as I increased in years, there were but two or three in school who were considered my superiors. In arithmetic I was unusually quick and I recollect, at the age of twelve years, being called out of bed one night by my teacher, who had laid a small wager with a neighbor that I could figure up and give the correct number of feet in a load of wood in five minutes. The neighbor stated the dimensions, and as I had no slate in the house I marked them on the stove pipe, and thereon also figured my calculations, and gave the result in less than two minutes, to the great delight of my teacher, my mother, and myself, and to the no small astonishment of our incredulous neighbor. My father was a tailor, a farmer, and sometimes a tavern-keeper; so I was often kept out of school, and never had any “advantages” except at the common district school, and one summer at the “Academy” in Danbury, a distance of three miles, which I marched and countermarched six times per week.

Like most farmers’ boys, I was obliged to drive and fetch the cows, carry in firewood, shell corn, weed beets and cabbages, and, as I grew larger, I rode horse for ploughing, turned and raked hay, and in due time handled “the shovel and the hoe,” as well as the plough; but I never really liked to work.

One of my playmates, who also had occasion to drive cows the same road with myself, and who was two years my senior, I will in these pages call John Haight. He was the son of Dr. Ansel Haight, one of our village physicians. John was a pretty hard customer. He was profane, bullying, fond of visiting other people’s peach and apple orchards, water-melon patches, etc. Many is the whipping that fell to my lot for disobeying my mother’s injunction “not to play with that John Haight.”

John was a regular raw-head and bloody-bones to all prudent mothers, and although he had a happy faculty of coaxing their sons into scrapes, he never helped them out. The boys generally both liked and feared him. They liked him for his impudent, daredevil sort of character, and they feared him because he was a terrible tyrant, ruling his mates with a rod of iron, and flogging all who presumed to disobey him.

On one occasion a dozen of the schoolboys – John among the rest – were skating upon a pond where the water was about twelve feet deep. John, prompted by his reckless spirit, dashed out on a portion of the pond where the ice was known to be thin, and, breaking through, nearly disappeared. He however caught by the ice, and struggled to get out, with nothing but his head and shoulders visible. John was then about fourteen years of age, the other boys ranging from ten to twelve. He called lustily for assistance, but we were all afraid to approach the dangerous locality. The ice kept giving way under the pressure of his arms, while he kept following it up, struggling and calling for help. We were shy and remained at a respectful distance. John, seeing our fears, became excited, and swore, in the most bitter tones, that if we did not help him he would give every one of us a “thundering licking” if he ever did get out.

Not relishing this threat, and with the spirit of thoughtlessness which marks boys of that age, we all decamped, leaving poor John to his fate. We quite expected he would be drowned, and as he had flogged several of us since morning, we did not much care what became of him. The next day I met one of my comrades. His head was enveloped in a cotton flag handkerchief, from under which I could perceive peeping out the edge of a black eye.

“What is the matter?” I inquired.

“John Haight got out yesterday, and has licked me this morning for not helping him,” was the reply.

The next day, as I was approaching the pond for another skating spree, I met John.

“Stop, or you’ll catch your death-blow!” roared John.

I halted as suddenly as if I had received the same command from a captain of artillery.

He approached me so closely that I could feel his breath upon my face, and looking me square in the eye, he exclaimed:

“Mr. Taylor Barnum, it seems to me I owe you a licking.” He then very deliberately divested himself of his coat, threw it upon the snow, and proceeded to cancel the debt in double quick time. In less than two minutes I was pretty well pummelled, and started for home, “drowned in tears.” My mother inquired the cause of my troubles, and when I informed her, she replied that I was served right for keeping such company.

A week had not elapsed after John’s accident before the round dozen of his schoolmates had received their promised “licking.” The boys were generally careful not to complain at home when John had whipped them, lest their fathers should administer the rod for having been caught in such company.

My father met John a few days after his accident, and never having heard a word about it, among other remarks he said, “Well, John, do you skate any now-a-days?”

“Oh, yes, Uncle Phile; the other day I skated clear up to here,” answered John, pointing to his neck with imperturbable gravity.

In spite of the tyranny of that boy, I preferred his companionship to that of any other of my mates; and though the family removed to Norwalk, so many of my early memories are linked with him that I feel impelled to relate additional incidents concerning him, although I was not immediately interested in them.

The Sunday after the family removed, (it was in midsummer,) John took his younger brother into the creek to bathe. Just as the various congregations were pouring out of the churches, John and Tom were seen perfectly naked standing upon the railing of the bridge.

“Don’t you stir till I give the word,” said John to his almost helpless brother.

The crowds of ladies and gentlemen were fast approaching the bridge, but the brothers stood fixed as statues. As the first score of persons stepped upon the bridge, and hundreds were at their heels, John exclaimed, at the top of his voice, “Now, Tom, dive, you little vagabond – dive!” at the same time pushing poor little Tom off into the deep creek, which was running thirty feet below. John himself leaped at the same instant, and in a few moments afterwards was seen swimming like a duck to the shore, with little Tom on his back.

While living in Norwalk, a comb-maker, who looked more to interest than principle, one day said to him, “John, the country comb-makers are having a good many horns come up on board the sloops, and they are stored in the warehouse of Munson Hoyt & Co. on the dock. If you can manage to hook some of them occasionally, I’ll buy them of you at a shilling apiece.” This was less than half their value, but as John wanted spending money, he assented.

The next night he brought the comb-maker four fine-looking ox horns, and received half a dollar for the larceny. The following night he brought as many more. The comb-maker cautioned John to be very careful and not get caught. John thanked him for his kind warning, and promised to conduct his thefts with the most profound secresy. Night after night, and week after week, did John bring horns and receive the rewards of his iniquity. Months rolled on, and John still escaped suspicion. At last he brought in a dozen horns at once, and insisted on receiving three dollars for them; “For,” said he, “they are much larger than any I ever before ‘hooked,’ and are worth treble what I ask for them.” The comb-maker looked at them, and exclaimed, in astonishment, “Why, these are the largest kind of Spanish horns. Where did you get them?”

“At the storehouse on the wharf, of course,” replied John.

The comb-maker had some misgivings. “I’ll pay you two dollars on account,” he continued, “and in the morning I’ll go down to the storehouse and examine the lot.”

John received his two dollars, but it was the last money he ever earned in that way. The next morning the comb-maker discovered that there were no such horns in the warehouse, and he also learned the uncomfortable fact that John Haight had received over a hundred dollars for stealing horns from the comb-maker’s own pile in the back shop, and bringing them into the front door for sale!

The following Fourth of July was celebrated in Norwalk by horse-racing. I was present. The owner of one high-mettled steed desired to enter him for the purse, but no person of sufficiently light weight could be found who dared to ride him. He had thrown many a good rider, and the equestrians in those parts were shy about mounting him. John heard of the owner’s dilemma, and as he never feared anything, he volunteered to ride, provided in case of winning he should have a portion of the stakes. The owner readily assented to this proposition, and John was soon astride the fractious animal. Preliminaries were settled, the judges took their stand, the horses were brought into line, and all started at the word “go.” Before they had reached half a mile, every horse was at the top of his speed, under the incessant application of whip and spur; when, quick as thought, John’s horse, frightened by some object at the road-side, came to a dead stand-still, and threw the rider headlong over a stone wall about seven feet high!

Hundreds of persons ran to the spot, and poor John was taken up for dead. A large contusion was found on his forehead from which the blood was running profusely, and several other frightful wounds marked his face and portions of his body. His father and other physicians were soon upon the ground. John was bled and restoratives applied, but in vain. He remained insensible, and was carried home on a litter. The sports of the day ceased, and the village was overspread with gloom. John was not what might be termed absolutely vicious, and his eccentricities furnished such a fund of amusement to the villagers that they felt “they could better spare a better person.”

“Will he die, do you think?” was the oft-repeated question addressed to such persons as were seen to emerge from the house where John lay in a stupor.

“There seems no hope of his recovery,” was the usual response.

John lay all night without manifesting any signs of life, except an almost imperceptible breathing, and occasionally a mournful and subdued groan.

In the morning he was still unconscious, and the monotony of his darkened chamber was only occasionally broken by some inarticulate mutterings which betrayed the absence of his reason.

A medical consultation was held, and inquirers were told that under the effects of remedies which had been applied, a crisis would probably occur about noon, which would determine whether there was any chance for his recovery. The slow-moving minutes seemed hours as his anxious parents and relatives watched at the silent bedside, and occasionally glanced at the clock. Eleven; half-past eleven; twelve o’clock arrived – and yet no sign of returning consciousness appeared. Ten, fifteen minutes more elapsed, and yet no sign.

“Will he leave us without one word or look of recognition?” inquired his agonized mother.

“We hope and believe,” responded one of the physicians in a whisper, “that even should his case prove fatal, he will return to consciousness in a few minutes, and be in full possession of his senses.”

Ten minutes more passed, and John turned his face slowly towards his anxious watchers. His eyes gradually opened, his lips began to move – all was breathless silence, every ear was on the qui vive to catch the first audible sound.

“Curse that thundering horse – I believe he bolted!” drawled the now conscious John.

A suppressed laugh was heard among the bystanders; the faces of his anxious parents were lit up with smiles, and the physicians declared that with quiet and good nursing he would probably recover.

In a week afterwards John was seen about the streets with his head bandaged, and he himself as ready as ever to embark in the first reckless enterprise that might turn up.

When John attained the age of sixteen years he had become so headstrong that his parents found him quite unmanageable. His father therefore determined upon sending him to sea. John, nothing loth, accompanied him to New York, and an arrangement was soon made for him to go before the mast on board a stout brig bound for Rio Janeiro. He was somewhat fractious during the first few days at sea, but under the discipline of a resolute mate he soon was mellowed down, and behaved well. He returned to New York with the vessel, and of his own choice shipped for another voyage.

On his second arrival at Rio, his clothing was stolen by some of the sailors. He was vexed, quitted the brig, and secreted himself, being determined not to return in her. The captain vainly sought for him, and was obliged to return to New York without him. The day the brig’s arrival in New York was announced, John’s father (who had removed to that city) went down to the wharf to see his son. His surprise and grief were great upon being told that John had left the ship, and remained in South America. His family were filled with sorrow, and the captain was urged to try, on the next trip, to induce him to return. Unfortunately the captain was obliged to make a trip to Liverpool and back, and another to New Orleans, before again visiting the Brazils.

At last, however, he was again ready to set sail. Dr. Haight placed a hundred dollars in his hands, and begged him to find his son, use the money for his benefit, and bring him back to his anxious parents. The captain promised to do all in his power.

When the brig arrived at Rio, the captain went on shore, and almost the first man he met was John Haight, with an epaulette upon each shoulder, and in the full dress of an officer in the Brazilian navy.

“Why, Haight, is it possible this is you?” exclaimed the astonished captain.

“Well, I guess it is a chap of about my size,” returned John with some dignity.

“I am glad to see you, but astonished to behold you in that dress,” responded the captain.

“I expect to astonish some other folks before I die,” replied the young officer.

“But I want you to return with me without fail,” rejoined the captain. “Your family are in great distress about you, and your father has sent a hundred dollars by me to relieve your wants.”

“I ha’n’t got any wants,” replied John, “so you may take the money back to father with my compliments; and please say to him that I was robbed of all my clothes in this country, and I will never return home until I lose more, or get the worth of them back.”

John never returned, and I believe was never heard of more. Probably death soon afterwards terminated the career of one, who, had he been carefully trained, might have shone brightly in a high sphere of society, and been an ornament to his family as well as a blessing to his race.

My organ of acquisitiveness must be large, or else my parents commenced its cultivation at an early period. Before I was five years of age I began to accumulate pennies and sixpennies. At the age of six years my grandfather informed me that all my little pieces of coin amounted to one dollar, and if I would go with him and take my money, he would show me something worth having. Placing all my wealth in a pocket handkerchief which was closely wound up and firmly grasped, I started with my grandfather. He took me to the village tavern, then kept by Mr. Stiles Wakelee, and approaching the landlord, he said, “Here, Mr. Wakelee, is the richest boy in this part of the country. He has a dollar in cash. I wish you to take his change and give him a silver dollar for it.”

The complaisant landlord took my deposits and presently handed me a silver dollar.

Never have I seen the time (nor shall I ever again) when I felt so rich, so absolutely independent of all the world, as I did when I looked at that monstrous big silver dollar, and felt that it was all my own. Talk of “cart wheels,” there was never one half so large as that dollar looked to me. I believed, without the slightest reservation, that this entire earth and all its contents could be purchased by that wonderful piece of bullion, and that it would be a bad bargain at that.

But my dollar did not long remain alone. My mother taught me that I should still save my pennies, and I did so. As I grew larger, my grandfather paid me ten cents per day for riding the horse which preceded the ox-team in ploughing, and I hit upon various expedients for adding to my pile. On “training days,” instead of spending money, I was earning it in the vocation of a peddler. My stock in trade consisted of a gallon of molasses, boiled down and worked into molasses candy, called in those times “cookania,” and I usually found myself a dollar richer at the end of “training,” than I was at the commencement. As I always had a remarkable taste for speculation, my holiday stock soon increased, and comprised “ginger-bread,” cookies, sugar candies, and cherry rum. The latter article consisted of a demijohn of New England rum, in which was put a quantity of wild cherries, and I believe a little sugar. I soon learned that the soldiers were good cherry-rum customers, and no sooner did I hear the words “halt,” “ground arms,” than I approached the “trainers” with my decanter and wine-glass. In a few years I should have been a second Crœsus in wealth, had not my father considerately allowed me to purchase my own clothing. This arrangement kept my pile reduced to a moderate size. Always looking out for the main chance, however, I had sheep of my own, a calf of which I was the sole proprietor, and other individual property which made me feel, at twelve years of age, that I was quite a man of substance.

I felt at the same time that I had not reached my proper sphere. The farm was no place for me. I always disliked work. Headwork I was excessively fond of. I was always ready to concoct fun, or lay plans for money-making, but hand-work was decidedly not in my line. My father insisted that I could hoe and plough and dig in the garden as well as anybody else, but I generally contrived to shirk the work altogether, or by slighting it, get through with the day’s work.

I was not quite twelve years of age when I visited the commercial metropolis for the first time. It happened as follows: My father, as before stated, kept the village tavern. Late one afternoon in January, 1822, Mr. Daniel Brown, of Southbury, Ct., arrived at our house with a drove of fat cattle which he was taking to New York for sale. The stock were put into our large barnyard, the horses ridden by himself and assistant were stabled, and Mr. Brown having partaken of a warm supper, drew off his boots, put on his slippers, and sat down by the fire to spend the evening comfortably.

I looked upon him as a great man, for he had been to “York,” and to “go to York” in those days was thought quite as much of as to go to Europe is now. I listened to the relation of his adventures in city and country, my interest in the man continually increasing. At last I heard him say to my father, that he expected to buy many more cattle in Ridgefield, and at other points on his way to the city, and he would be glad to hire a boy who was light of foot, to run along with him and assist in driving the cattle. I immediately besought my father (like a modern office-seeker) to intercede for me, and if possible procure me the coveted situation. He did so. Consultation with my mother resulted in her consent, and it was immediately arranged that I should visit New York. I was told to retire at once, so as to be ready to start with the drove of cattle at daylight in the morning. I went to bed, but not to sleep. Visions of all sorts haunted my imagination. A new world was about to be opened to me. I slept an hour or two towards morning, dreaming of the great city with streets paved with gold, and many castles – in the air.

At daylight I was aroused, took a few mouthfuls of breakfast, and started off on foot in the midst of a heavy snow-storm, to help drive the cattle. Before reaching Ridgefield, Mr. Brown put me on his horse to gallop after a wandering ox; the horse fell, rolled upon my foot, and sprained my ankle. I suffered intensely, but dared not complain lest my employer should contrive some way to send me back, for I was not yet ten miles from home. He very considerately allowed me to ride behind him on the horse, and that night the landlady of the hotel where we stopped bathed my ankle, which was considerably swollen. The next day it was a trifle better, but as I continued to limp, Mr. Brown permitted me to ride most of the time.

In three or four days we reached the city of New York, and put up at the Bull’s Head tavern, kept, I think, by Mr. Givens. The drover would be busy a week selling his cattle, and then I was to return home with him in a sleigh.

That was a great week for me. My mother gave me a dollar before I left home, and I never expected to see the end of it. I supposed it would supply my every wish, and yet leave unknown quantities of small change on hand. The first outlay I made was for oranges. I was very fond of this fruit, and had often wished I could have as many as I could eat. I entered a confectionery store and inquired the price of oranges. “Four pence apiece,” was the reply.

Now, “four pence” in Connecticut is six cents, and I supposed it was the same the world over. Profiting by my experience in “beating down” the price, and not doubting Franklin’s proverb that “a penny saved is two pence earned,” I informed the lady that “I considered four pence apiece too dear, but I would give her ten cents for two.”

The feminine shopkeeper hesitated for a moment, but finally said that seeing it was me, and as it was probably my first visit to New York, she would let me have the two oranges for ten cents, but she should expect me to trade with her whenever I wanted any thing in her line. I thanked her, and took the oranges. I thought it was very liberal in her to make such a generous deduction from the price of her fruit, little dreaming that, owing to the difference in currency, I had paid her two cents more than she asked.

Soon dispatching my two oranges, I purchased two more, and had eighty cents left. This seemed to me sufficient for all mortal wants. I then bought for thirty-one cents a little gun, which would “go off” and send a stick some distance across the room. I intended to astonish my schoolmates with the gun when I got home, for it astonished me considerably, as I had never seen any thing of the kind before. I went into the bar-room of our hotel, and began to amuse myself with the extraordinary implement. The bar-room was crowded with customers, and shooting at random, the arrow grazed one man’s nose and passed on, hitting the barkeeper in the eye. Smarting under the pain it occasioned, the latter came in front of his counter, caught me by the collar, shook me sternly, boxed my ears till my head rung, and told me to put that gun out of the way or he would throw it into the stove. I felt considerably injured in my feelings, and sneaking slyly up stairs placed the precious treasure under my pillow.

Visiting the toy shop again, the good woman instructed me in the mystery of torpedoes. She threw one with considerable force on the floor, and it exploded, greatly to my delight. Would not these astonish our school-boys? I bought six cents’ worth for that purpose, but could not wait to use them at home. As the guests at the hotel were passing in to dinner, and supposing that they had never seen any thing in the torpedo line and would be delighted to do so, I could not refrain from giving them the opportunity. So taking two from my pocket and throwing them with all my strength against the side of the hall through which the crowd was passing, a loud double-report followed, much to the surprise and annoyance of the guests. The landlord came rushing out in a high state of excitement, and discovering the culprit he stretched me upon the floor at a single blow with his open hand.

“There, you little greenhorn,” he exclaimed, “see if that will teach you better than to explode your infernal crackers in my house again!”

It did. I was perfectly taught in a single lesson; went up stairs and deposited the balance of the torpedoes with my gun. I ate no dinner that day. My dignity had been insulted and my appetite had vanished. I was humbled. I felt forlorn and forsaken. I however had one resource. It was the toy shop. I visited it again, bought a watch, a breast-pin, and a top. I was still a rich man. I had eleven cents left. I went to bed and dreamed of all my possessions.

The next morning, immediately after breakfast, I visited the toy shop again to “look around,” and perceived many things which I had not noticed the day previously. Presently I saw a beautiful knife with two blades, besides a gimlet and cork-screw! This was a novelty. The most useful article in existence, beyond all doubt. I must possess it. My father would be delighted, for it was a carpenter shop in miniature, and was too valuable an article to leave behind me. Wouldn’t old Bethel be astonished! But what was the price of this combination of all that was useful and ornamental? Only thirty-one cents. Alas, I had only eleven! I learned to my astonishment that my funds were exhausted. But have the knife I must, and so I proposed to my kind friend, the shop woman, that she should receive back the top and breast-pin at a slight deduction from what I had paid for them, and then taking my eleven cents, should let me have the knife. The kind creature consented, and thus I made my first “swop.” Presently I discovered some molasses candy. It was whiter and nicer than any I had ever seen before. I must have some. So I asked the lady to take back the watch at a slight discount, and give me the worth of it in molasses candy. She did so. It was delicious. I had never tasted any thing so nice – and before night I had resigned my gun into her possession and swallowed its value in molasses candy. The next morning I swallowed all my torpedoes in the same shape, and in the course of the day even my knife followed in the sweet footsteps of its illustrious predecessors. Molasses candy was the rock on which I split. My money was all gone – my notions all swopped for it – and yet, like Oliver Twist, I cried for “more.”

The good woman had a son of about my size. I had no particular use for my two pocket handkerchiefs. Her boy could use them, and I gladly accepted her proposal to trade them for four sticks of molasses candy. I had an extra pair of stockings which I was sure I should never need, and they went for five more rolls of molasses candy!

When thus divested of all I possessed, I became resigned to my fate, and, turning my attention to some other source of excitement, I made the acquaintance of a young gentleman from Connecticut. He was about twenty years of age, had been in New York once before, “knew the ropes,” and proposed to show me the city. I gladly accompanied him, and saw many sights that day which astonished me beyond measure. He took me to “Bear Market,” as it was then called – “Washington Market,” as it is now designated. I was greatly surprised at the immense quantities of meat there displayed.

“What under heaven do they expect to do with all this meat?” I asked my companion with much curiosity.

“They expect to sell it, of course,” he said.

“They’ll get sucked in then,” I replied exultingly, for I felt assured that it would never be possible to consume all that beef before doomsday. It was probably all masticated within the next twenty-four hours, but to a raw boy from the country such a thing would seem incredible. It was equally incredible to “Uncle Sam Taylor,” several years afterwards. Rising early one morning, the old gentleman roused his companions, saying, “Let us look in upon Fulton Market. I rather guess there will be a grand show of beef. I have already seen three cart loads go by!”

I think I shall never forget an inscription which I saw painted on a small square piece of board and fastened to a post on the dock at the rear of the market. It was a corporation warning, and read as here presented.

FIVE DOLLARS FINE FOR

THROWING any kind of DAMD

aged meat or fish into

the Public Docks.

I was astonished at the profanity of the public authorities, and wondered why they could not have said simply, “aged meat or fish,” without prefixing the offensive adjective. I called the attention of my friend to the deplorable state of public morals as exhibited on their public “sign,” when he explained that some wicked wag, not having the fear of the city aldermen before his eyes, had interpolated the little “D,” and thus made the word “damaged” express its own true meaning, though in an unnecessarily strong and objectionable manner.

My friend also took me out of town to see the State Prison, paid my way in, and witnessed my astonishment at seeing so many wicked convicts dressed in the striped prison suit, and especially to see about two hundred shoe-makers turn their faces to the door when we entered, with as much precision as if they had been automatons all moved by a single wire. I also saw a large windmill the same day, which was the first time I had ever seen the like.

My week was soon up. Mr. Brown took me into his one-horse sleigh immediately after dinner, drove as far as Sawpitts, now called Port Chester, stopped over night, started early the next morning, and arrived at Bethel the same evening.

I had a thousand questions to answer, and found my brothers and sisters much disappointed that I had brought them none of the fruits of my dollar. My mother examined my wardrobe, and finding it two pocket-handkerchiefs and one pair of stockings short, I was whipped and sent to bed. Thus terminated my first visit to New York.

I was however for a long time quite a lion among the school-boys, for I had “been to York,” and seen with my own eyes many wonders “which they had only heard tell of.”




CHAPTER II (#ulink_0a52615d-4deb-5d89-81a2-6d5b83480fb5)

Clerk in a Store – Anecdotes (#ulink_0a52615d-4deb-5d89-81a2-6d5b83480fb5)


Clerk in a Store – An Eye to Business – Jokers’ Exchange – My Inheritance – Ivy Island – Anticipations – An Exploring Expedition – Among the Bogs – A Hornets’ Nest – The Promised Land – Vanished Dreams – Razor-strops – Diamond cut Diamond – Drunkard’s Keg – Sense of Honor – The Dark Picture – Credit stopped – Tricks of Trade – Three in a Bed – Traps and Barricades – Battle of the Spurs – The Wrong Horse.



MY aversion to hand-work, on the farm or otherwise, continued to be manifested in various ways, all of which was generally set down to the score of laziness. I believe, indeed, I had the reputation of being the laziest boy in town, probably because I was always busy at head-work to evade the sentence of gaining bread by the sweat of the brow. In sheer despair of making any thing better of me, my father concluded to try me as a merchant. He had previously erected a suitable building in Bethel, and taking Mr. Hiram Weed as a partner, they purchased a stock of dry goods, groceries, hardware, and a thousand other “notions;” and I was duly installed as clerk in a country store.

Like many greenhorns before me, this was the height of my ambition. I felt that it was a great condescension on my part to enter into conversation with the common boys who had to work for a living. I strutted behind the counter with a pen back of my ear, was wonderfully polite to ladies, assumed a wise look when entering charges upon the day-book, was astonishingly active in waiting upon customers, whether in weighing tenpenny nails, starch, indigo, or saleratus, or drawing New England rum or West India molasses.

Ours was a cash, credit and barter store; and I drove many a sharp trade with old women who paid for their purchases in butter, eggs, beeswax, feathers, and rags, and with men who exchanged for our commodities, hats, axe-helves, oats, corn, buck-wheat, hickory-nuts, and other commodities. It was something of a drawback upon my dignity that I was compelled to sweep the store, take down the window-shutters, and make the fire; nevertheless the thought of being a “merchant” fully compensated me for all such menial duties.

My propensities for money-making continued active as ever, and I asked and obtained the privilege of purchasing candies on my own account, to sell to the juvenile portion of our customers. I received a small salary for my services, (my father as usual stipulating that I should clothe myself,) and I intended to be faithful to my employers; but I have found, all through life, that wherever there are conflicting interests, men are very apt to think of self first, and so I fear it was with me, – for I well remember spending much time in urging indulgent mothers to buy candies for their darling children, when other customers were waiting to be served with more substantial articles of merchandise.

A country store in the evening, or upon a wet day, is a miserably dull place, so far as trade is concerned. Upon such occasions therefore I had little to do, and I will explain why the time did not hang unpleasantly upon my hands.

In nearly every New England village, at the time of which I write, there could be found from six to twenty social, jolly, story-telling, joke-playing wags and wits, regular originals, who would get together at the tavern or store, and spend their evenings and stormy afternoons in relating anecdotes, describing their various adventures, playing off practical jokes upon each other, and engaging in every project out of which a little fun could be extracted by village wits whose ideas were usually sharpened at brief intervals by a “treat,” otherwise known as a glass of Santa Cruz rum, old Holland gin, or Jamaica spirits.

Bethel was not an exception to this state of things. In fact no place of its size could boast more original geniuses in the way of joking and story-telling than my native village. As before stated, my grandfather, Phineas Taylor, was one of the sort. His near neighbor, Benjamin Hoyt, or “Esquire Hoyt,” as he was called, on account of being a justice of the peace, was one of the most inveterate story-tellers I ever knew. He could relate an anecdote with better effect than any man I have ever seen. He would generally profess to know all the parties in the story which he related, and however comic it might be, he would preserve the most rigid seriousness of countenance until its dénouement, when he would break forth into a hearty haw! haw! which of itself would throw his hearers into convulsions of laughter.

Luckily or unluckily, our store was the resort of all these wits, and many is the day and evening that I have hung with delight upon their stories, and many the night that I have kept the store open until eleven o’clock, in order to listen to the last anecdotes of the two jokers who had remained long after their companions had gone to rest.

Inheriting a vital love of fun and an aptness for practical jokes, all that was said and done by these village wags was not only watched with the most intense pleasure by myself, but was also noted upon the tablets of a most retentive memory, whence I can now extract them without losing scarcely a word. Some of these specimens I will present to the reader hereafter. I will however here advert to a circumstance which will show how the whole neighborhood, as it were, would join in practising and perpetuating a joke.

It will be remembered that my grandfather, a few days after my birth, in consideration of my taking his name, presented me with a tract of land called “Ivy Island.” I was not four years of age before my grandfather informed me, with much seriousness, that I was a landowner; that he had given me a valuable farm on account of my name, etc.; and I am certain that not a week elapsed, from that period till I was twelve years of age, that I did not hear of this precious patrimony. My grandfather never spoke of me in my presence, either to a neighbor or stranger, without saying that I was the richest child in town, because I owned all “Ivy Island,” the most valuable farm in Connecticut. My mother often reminded me of my immense possessions, and my father occasionally asked me if I would not support the family when I came in possession of my property. I frequently assured my father, in the most perfect good faith, that he need give himself no uneasiness upon that score, for I would see that all the family wants were bountifully supplied when I attained my majority and received my estate. Our neighbors, too, reminded me a dozen times a day, that they feared I would refuse to play with their children, because I had inherited such immense wealth, while they had nothing of the sort.

These continual allusions to “Ivy Island,” for six or eight years, I fear excited my pride, and I know that the prospect made me wish that the slow-moving wheels of time would attain a rapidity which would hurry up that twenty-first birth-day, and thus enable me to become the nabob, which my grandfather’s generous foresight had cut me out for. How often, too, did I promise my playmates, when they rendered me a kind action, that when I became of age they should have a slice of “Ivy Island” that would make them rich for life! I sincerely intended to fulfil these promises to the letter. But, alas for the mutability of human affairs! an issue was at hand which I little expected, and one which was destined to effect a serious change in my hopes and aspirations.

One summer (I think it was 1822, at which period I was twelve years old) I asked my father’s permission to visit “Ivy Island.” He promised I should do so in a few days, as we should be getting hay in that vicinity. I scarcely slept for three nights, so great was my joy to think that, like Moses of old, I should be permitted to look upon the promised land. The visions of wealth which had so long haunted me in relation to that valuable locality now became intensified, and I not only felt that it must be a land flowing with milk and honey, but caverns of emeralds, diamonds, and other precious stones, as well as mines of silver and gold, opened vividly to my mind’s eye.

The wished-for morning at length arrived, and my father informed me that we were to mow in the meadow adjoining “Ivy Island,” and that I might visit it with our hired man during “nooning.” My grandfather kindly reminded me that when I came to look upon the precious spot, I was to remember that I was indebted to his bounty, and that if I had not been named “Phineas” I never could have been the proprietor of “Ivy Island.” My mother, too, had to put in a word.

“Now, Taylor,” said she, “don’t become so excited when you see your property as to let your joy make you sick, for remember, rich as you are, that it will be nine years before you can come into possession of your fortune.” I promised to be calm and reasonable.

“If you visit Ivy Island,” she continued, “you will lose your rest at noon, and you will feel tired, after turning hay all the forenoon. Had you not better lie under the trees and rest at ‘nooning,’ and visit Ivy Island at some other time?”

“No, my dear mother,” I replied, “I don’t care for nooning, I shall not feel tired, and I am so anxious to step upon my property, that I cannot wait any longer.”

“Well, go,” said my mother; “but don’t feel above speaking to your brothers and sisters when you return.”

I felt that this injunction was not altogether superfluous, for I already began to feel that it was rather degrading for me to labor as hard as those who had no estate settled upon them.

We went to work in our meadow. It was situated in that part of “Plum-Trees” known as “East Swamp.” When we arrived at the meadow I asked my father where “Ivy Island” was.

“Yonder, at the north end of this meadow, where you see those beautiful trees rising in the distance,” he replied.

I looked towards the place indicated, and my bosom swelled with inexpressible pride and delight, as I beheld for the first time the munificent gift of my honored and generous grandsire.

The forenoon soon slipped away; I turned the grass as fast as two men could cut it, and after making a hasty repast with my father and the workmen under the shade trees, our favorite “hired man,” a good-natured Irishman named Edmund, taking an axe upon his shoulders, told me he was ready to go with me to visit “Ivy Island.”

I started upon my feet with delight, but could not restrain asking him why he took an axe. He replied that perhaps I would like to have him cut into some of the beautiful specimens of timber upon my property, in order that I could see how superior it was in quality to that found in any other part of the world. His answer was perfectly satisfactory, and we started. As we approached the north end of the meadow the ground became swampy and wet, and we found great difficulty in proceeding. We were obliged to leap from bog to bog, and frequently making a mis-step, I found myself up to my middle in water. At one time I stood upon a bog, and the next was so far off that I greatly feared I could not reach it. My companion, who was several rods in advance of me, saw my dilemma, and called out for me to leap stoutly and I should succeed.

“I am sure I cannot,” I replied; “and if I could, I shall be worse off when I reach the next bog than I am now, for there is no place near it that is above water.”

“You are a little off from the regular track,” responded my Hibernian friend; “but never mind, you will have to wade a little.”

“The water will be over my head, and I shall be drowned,” I replied, in a most despairing tone.

“Divil a danger at all at all, for the water is not four feet deep in the deepest place,” was the reply.

“If I go under, you must help me out,” I replied tremblingly.

“To be sure I will; so never fear, but give a strong jump, and you are all safe,” was the encouraging response.

I summoned all my strength, clenched both my hands, sprang with all my force, and just saved myself by striking upon the edge of the next bog. I straightened myself up, got upon the middle of the bog, and began to prepare for wading in the water, which I greatly feared would be too deep for me to ford, when I saw countless hornets rising from the spot on which I stood. Instantly they came buzzing about my face and ears. One vicious rascal stung me on the tip of my nose, and, shrieking with the smart, I leaped into the water regardless of consequences. I soon found myself up to my neck, and fearful that the next step would carry me under water altogether, I roared lustily for help.

The trusty Irishman, feeling that there was no real cause for alarm, broke into a peal of laughter, and bade me be of good cheer, “For,” said he, “you’ll not have to wade more than a quarter of a mile in that way before you reach the verge of your valuable property.”

“If I go under, you must help me in a moment, for I can’t swim,” I replied despondingly.

“Niver fear me; if I see ye in danger I’ll have ye out in a twinkling.”

With this assurance I made an advance step and found my head still in the air. Half a dozen hornets now attacked me, and I involuntarily ducked my head under the water. When I popped out again my tormenters had disappeared, and I waded on as well as I could towards “Ivy Island.” After about fifteen minutes, during which time I floundered through the morass, now stepping on a piece of submerged wood, and anon slipping into a hole, I rolled out upon dry land, covered with mud, out of breath, and looking considerably more like a drowned rat than a human being.

“Thank the Merciful Powers, ye are safe at last,” said my Irish companion.

“Oh, what a dreadful time I have had, and how that hornet’s sting smarts!” I groaned, in misery.

“Niver mind, my boy; we have only to cross this little creek, and ye’ll be upon yer own valuable property,” was the encouraging reply.

I looked, and behold we had arrived upon the margin of a stream ten or twelve feet wide, the banks of which were so thickly lined with alders that a person could scarcely squeeze between them.

“Good heavens!” I exclaimed, “is my property surrounded with water?”

“How the divil could it be ‘Ivy Island’ if it was not?” was the quick response.

“Oh! I had never thought about the meaning of the name,” I replied; “but how in the world can we get across this brook?”

“Faith, and now you’ll see the use of the axe, I am thinking,” replied Edmund, as he cut his way through the alders, and proceeded to fell a small oak tree which stood upon the bank of the stream. This tree fell directly across the brook, and thus formed a temporary bridge, over which Edmund kindly assisted me.

I now found myself upon “Ivy Island,” and began to look about me with curiosity.

“Why, there seems to be nothing here but stunted ivies and a few straggling trees!” I exclaimed.

“How else could it be ‘Ivy Island’” was the quiet answer.

I proceeded a few rods towards the centre of my domain, perfectly chop-fallen. The truth rushed upon me. I had been made a fool of by all our neighborhood for more than half a dozen years. My rich “Ivy Island” was an inaccessible piece of barren land, not worth a farthing, and all my visions of future wealth and greatness vanished into thin air. While I stood pondering upon my sudden downfall, I discovered a monstrous black snake approaching me, with upraised head and piercing black eyes. I gave one halloo and took to my heels. The Irishman helped me across the temporary bridge, and this was my first and last visit to “Ivy Island!” We got back to the meadow, and found my father and men mowing away lustily.

“Well, how do you like your property?” asked my father, with the most imperturbable gravity.

“I would sell it pretty cheap,” I responded, holding down my head.

A tremendous roar of laughter bursting from all the workmen showed that they were in the secret. On returning home at night, my grandfather called to congratulate me, with as serious a countenance as if “Ivy Island” was indeed a valuable domain, instead of a barren waste, over which he and the whole neighborhood had chuckled ever since I was born. My mother, too, with a grave physiognomy, hoped I had found it as rich as I anticipated. Several of our neighbors called to ask if I was not glad now, that I was named Phineas; and from that time during the next five years I was continually reminded of the valuable property known as “Ivy Island.”

I can the more heartily laugh at this practical joke, because that inheritance was long afterwards of service to me. “Ivy Island” was a part of the weight that made the wheel of fortune begin to turn in my favor at a time when my head was downward.

“What is the price of razor strops?” inquired my grandfather of a peddler, whose wagon, loaded with Yankee notions, stood in front of our store.

“A dollar each for Pomeroy’s strops,” responded the itinerant merchant.

“A dollar apiece!” exclaimed my grandfather; “they’ll be sold for half the money before the year is out.”

“If one of Pomeroy’s strops is sold for fifty cents within a year, I’ll make you a present of one,” replied the peddler.

“I’ll purchase one on those conditions. Now, Ben, I call you to witness the contract,” said my grandfather, addressing himself to Esquire Hoyt.

“All right,” responded Ben.

“Yes,” said the peddler, “I’ll do as I say, and there’s no back-out to me.”

My grandfather took the strop, and put it in his side coat pocket. Presently drawing it out, and turning to Esquire Hoyt, he said, “Ben, I don’t much like this strop now I have bought it. How much will you give for it?”

“Well, I guess, seeing it’s you, I’ll give fifty cents,” drawled the ’Squire, with a wicked twinkle in his eye, which said that the strop and the peddler were both incontinently sold.

“You can take it. I guess I’ll get along with my old one a spell longer,” said my grandfather, giving the peddler a knowing look.

The strop changed hands, and the peddler exclaimed, “I acknowledge, gentlemen; what’s to pay?”

“Treat the company, and confess you are taken in, or else give me a strop,” replied my grandfather.

“I never will confess nor treat,” said the peddler, “but I’ll give you a strop for your wit;” and suiting the action to the word, he handed a second strop to his customer. A hearty laugh ensued, in which the peddler joined.

“Some pretty sharp fellows here in Bethel,” said a bystander, addressing the peddler.

“Tolerable, but nothing to brag of,” replied the peddler; “I have made seventy-five cents by the operation.”

“How is that?” was the inquiry.

“I have received a dollar for two strops which cost me only twelve and a half cents each,” replied the peddler; “but having heard of the cute tricks of the Bethel chaps, I thought I would look out for them and fix my prices accordingly. I generally sell these strops at twenty-five cents each, but, gentlemen, if you want any more at fifty cents apiece, I shall be happy to supply your whole village.”

Our neighbors laughed out of the other side of their mouths, but no more strops were purchased

There was a poor sot in Bethel, who had a family consisting of a wife and four children. Before he took to drink he was an industrious, thriving, intelligent, and respectable man – by trade a cooper; but for ten years he had been running down hill, and at last became a miserable toper. Once in a while he would “keg,” as he called it; that is, he would abjure strong drink for a certain length of time – usually for a month. During these intervals he was industrious and sober. He visited the stores; the neighbors gladly conversed with him, and encouraged him to continue in well doing. The poor fellow would weep as he listened to friendly admonitions, and would sometimes reply:

“You are right, my friends; I know you are right, for now my brain is cool and clear, and I can see as well as you can that there is no happiness without sobriety. I am like the prodigal son, who, ‘when he came to himself,’ saw that there was no hope for him unless he arose and returned to his father and to the walks of duty and reason. I have come to myself.”

“Yes,” would be the reply; “but will you remain so?”

Drawing himself up, with a look of pride which always distinguished him before his fall, he would say, “Do you suppose that I would bemean myself and family by becoming a confirmed sot?”

His wife was respected and his children beloved by all the neighbors; they continued to interchange visits with our most worthy families; and, notwithstanding his long career of dissipation, his neighbors did not cease to hope that, by appealing to his pride and self-respect, they could be able, during some of his sober intervals, to induce a promise of total and eternal abstinence from the cup. His sense of honor was so elevated, that they felt sure he would break the fatal spell for ever, if he would but once pledge his word to do so.

“No, surely you would not become a sot; your self-respect and love for your family would not permit it; and therefore I suppose you will never drink liquor again,” remarked an anxious neighbor.

“Not till my ‘keg’ is up, which is three weeks from yesterday,” was the reply.

“Oh, give us your word now,” chimed in several friends, “that you will not drink when your ‘keg,’ is up, but that you will abstain for ever. Only pledge your word, and we know you’ll keep it.”

“To be sure I would, so long as the world should stand. My word is sacred, and therefore I am cautious about pledging it. When once given, all the fiends of Pandemonium could not tempt or force me to break it. But I shall not pledge myself. I only say you are right, gentlemen; drinking liquor is a bad business, and when my ‘keg’ is up – I’ll think about it. I break off once in a few months, merely to prove to myself and to you that I am not a drunkard and never shall be, for you see I can control myself.”

With this delusive sophism the poor fellow would content himself, but he almost unconsciously looked forward with hope and joy for the time to arrive which had been fixed upon, for his pent-up appetite grew the stronger as the day approached, and therefore as soon as the moment arrived he would seize the bottle, and be drunk as speedily as possible. Then would be renewed his career of misery, and then again would his trembling wife and children feel overwhelmed by the dark picture opening before them.

At the termination of one of these “kegs,” he got drunk as usual, and beat his wife as he had often done before. On awaking the next morning, he desired her to send a child to the store for rum. She replied that they had all gone to school. He then requested her to go and replenish the bottle. She made an excuse which put, him off for an hour or two, when he arose from the bed and essayed to eat his breakfast. But his parched tongue and burning throat, the results of last night’s debauch, destroyed all appetite except for rum, and although perfectly sober, this raging fire almost maddened him; and turning to his wife, he said:

“Mrs.—, I am sick; you must go and get me some liquor.”

“I cannot do it,” was the sad but firm reply.

“Cannot! Am I to be disobeyed by my lawful wedded wife? Have I sunk so low that my wishes may be thwarted and my directions disobeyed by the partner of my life?” replied he with all his native pride and dignity.

“I never refused to do any thing which would promote your happiness, but I cannot help you procure that which will make you unhappy and your family wretched,” replied the desponding wife.

“We will soon see who is master here,” replied the husband, “and you will find that I shall show my power in a manner that you will feel, for I will stop your credit at the store.”

With this threat he buttoned up his coat, ran his fingers through his hair, and placing his bottle in his pocket, strode off to the village, with the dignity of a Brutus.

Arriving at our store, he marched up to the proprietor with the air of a wealthy patron, and exclaimed:

“Mr. Weed, my wife has disobeyed me this morning, and I forbid you to trust her on my account.”

Mr. Weed, seeing by the rolling eye and pallid face of his customer, that the “keg” was broken, replied with considerable sharpness:

“Oh, Mr.—, you need not have taken the trouble to forbid me trusting your wife, for I would not trust you!”

This repulse, so sudden and unexpected, at once overwhelmed and saved him. He was astonished to find himself brought so low, and indignantly drawing the empty bottle from his pocket and dashing it into a thousand pieces upon the floor, he exclaimed:

“There! thou cursed leveller of humanity, and destroyer of man’s respect! I pledge myself before God, I will never again taste a drop of any thing that can intoxicate;” and he kept his word. He is now a wealthy man, has frequently represented his town in the State Legislature, and his family, including several grand-children, is one of the first in the country in point of respectability and moral worth.

There is something to be learned even in a country store. We are apt to believe that sharp trades, especially dishonest tricks and unprincipled deceptions, are confined entirely to the city, and that the unsophisticated men and women of the country do every thing “on the square.” I believe this to be measurably true, but know that there are many exceptions to this rule. Many is the time I cut open bundles of rags, brought to the store by country women in exchange for goods, and declared to be all linen and cotton, that contained quantities of worthless woollen trash in the interior, and sometimes stones, gravel, ashes, etc. And sometimes, too, have I (contrary to our usual practice) measured the load of oats, corn or rye which our farmer-customer assured us contained a specified number of bushels, perhaps sixty, and found it four or five bushels short. Of course the astonished woman would impute the rag-swindle to a servant or neighbor who had made it up without her knowledge, and the man would charge carelessness upon his “help” who measured the grain, and by mistake “made a wrong count.” These were exceptions to the general rule of honesty, but they occurred with sufficient frequency to make us watchful of our customers, and to teach me the truth of the adage, “There’s cheating in all trades but ours.”

While I was clerk in the store in Bethel, my father kept the village tavern. I usually slept with my younger brother Eder, but when our house was filled with travellers we were obliged to sleep “three in a bed,” by taking in our honest Irish farmer, Edmund, as sleeping partner. After the store was closed at night, I would frequently join some of our village boys in a party at the house of their parents, and what with story-telling and various kinds of “child’s play,” a couple of hours would glide away, and at eleven o’clock at night (which was later than my parents permitted) I would slyly creep up stairs, and crawl into bed with the greatest caution lest I should awake my brother, who would be sure to report my late hours to my parents.

My brother contrived all sorts of plans to catch me on my return home, but sleep would overtake him, and thus I eluded his vigilance. Sometimes he would pile trunks and chairs against the door, so that I could hardly open it without upsetting the barricade, and awakening him by the noise. I generally managed, however, to open the door by degrees, and get to bed without disturbing his slumbers.

One night I found the door fastened on the inside by a nail firmly driven over the latch. Determined not to let him outwit me, I descended the stairs, found a short ladder which I ascended, and entered our bedroom window without being discovered. These continual contrivances of my brother made me always suspicious of some trap on my return home, and I generally approached my dormitory with the greatest caution. One night I returned as usual about eleven o’clock, and opening the door a few inches with great care, I run in my arm in order to discover any obstructions which might lie in wait for me. My hand soon touched a small cord, which I found was attached to the door-latch by one end; where the other end was fastened I could not imagine, and the darkness would not enable me to discover. I drew a knife from my pocket, and cutting the cord very cautiously, opened the door and got into bed without discovery. On awaking the next morning, I found the other end of the cord attached to my brother’s big toe! This ingenious contrivance he thought would wake him up, and it undoubtedly would have done so but for my timely discovery.

Another night he sat up in the middle of the bed and bolstered himself with pillows, determined to keep awake until I returned. But sleep at last overcame him, and when I arrived and found him in that position, I snugged myself in cosily across the foot of the bed and went to sleep. In the morning he found himself sitting bolt upright in bed, just as he went to sleep the night before. Giving me a kick, he woke me up, and exclaimed:

“You worked it pretty well last night, but I’ll catch you yet.”

“You are welcome to do it if you can,” I replied; “but you will have to get up early in the morning to catch a weasel asleep.”

The next night he fastened a spur upon his naked heel and went to sleep, thinking that when I got into bed I should hit the spur, and perhaps rake my shin, the pain of which would cause me to cry out and thus awake him. I retired with my usual caution that night, and discovering no contrivance, I concluded my brother had abandoned the chase, and turning my back to him I was soon wrapped in the arms of Morpheus.

It chanced that night that a number of tin peddlers and other travellers arrived at a late hour, and every bed being engaged, our Irish Edmund was obliged to sleep with us. Perceiving me stowed away on the farther side of the bed, and my brother lying as usual plump in the middle, he quietly laid himself down on the front and went to sleep. At about two o’clock I was awakened by a fearful noise. The full moon was streaming in at the window, making our bedroom as light as day.

“I’ll tache ye to go to bed wid a spur on, ye little divil ye,” exclaimed Edmund, as he held my brother high in the air, one hand gripping his neck and the other holding the offending leg with the spur on, just over my head.

“What is the matter, Edmund?” I exclaimed in surprise.

“Nothing is the matter, except this brother of yours has run his spur into me groin a matter of three inches,” replied the indignant Irishman, who was suffering under the smart of his wound.

“I did not mean it for you; I meant it for Taylor,” whined out my brother, only half awake.

“Divil a bit do I care who you meant it for, so that I have got it,” replied Edmund, at the same time giving my brother several slaps, which made him yell like a young Indian.

Edmund then unbuckled the spur, and arranging us all in bed again, he turned to go to sleep, simply remarking to my brother: “The nixt time ye try to ride me for a horse, ye’ll find I’m a kicking one, ye spalpeen!”




CHAPTER III (#ulink_7d340092-34c6-518f-ad48-aaf2b6152ca9)

Sunday School – Old Meeting-House (#ulink_7d340092-34c6-518f-ad48-aaf2b6152ca9)


The Sunday-School – Eccentric Clergyman – A zealous Brother – Pumping a Witness – Awful Disclosures – Suspicious Circumstances – The Trial – The Climax – The Wedding Fee – Doctrinal Discussions – The Old Meeting-House – The Stove Reform – Power of Imagination – The Deacon’s Appeal – The Bible-Class – The One Thing Needful – An Explosion.



LIKE most persons in the New England States, I was brought up to attend church regularly on the Sabbath. Indeed, before I was able to read, I was one of the first scholars in Sunday-school. We had but one church or “meeting-house” in Bethel, (Presbyterian,) and here all attended. A difference in creeds and sects was scarcely known in our little country village at that time. The old meeting-house had neither steeple nor bell, but in summer time it was a comfortable place for the inhabitants to congregate. My good mother would teach me my lessons in the New Testament and the Catechism, and my highest aspiration was to get every word so perfectly as to obtain the reward of merit. This valuable pecuniary consideration consisted of a ticket which stated that the bearer was entitled to one mill “reward,” so that ten tickets were worth one cent; and as this reward was not payable in cash, but in Sunday-school books at ten cents each, it follows that one hundred tickets would be required to purchase one book, so that a scholar must be successful every consecutive Sabbath (which was simply impossible) for the space of two years before he could come in possession of a tangible prize! Infinitesimal as was this recompense, it was sufficient to spur me to intense diligence.

The first clergyman whom I remember preaching in Bethel was the Rev. Samuel Sturges. At the time I was a clerk, the Rev. Mr. Lowe was the preacher. He traded at our store, and although he was fond of his pipe, and most clergymen in those days who visited my father and grandfather loved their “glass,” I was impressed with the belief that the clergy, individually and collectively, were considerably more than human. I still entertain sincere respect for that calling, and am certain that many of its members (as all ought to be) are devoted disciples of their blessed Master; yet it is sadly true, that as the “best fruit is most pecked by the birds,” so also is the best cause most liable to be embraced by hypocrites; and we all have learned, with pain and sorrow, that the title “REV.” does not necessarily imply a saint, for nothing can prevent our sometimes being deceived by a “wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

The Rev. Richard Varick Dey, who resided at Greenfield, Ct, was in the habit of coming to Bethel to preach on Sabbath evenings. He was a very eloquent preacher, and an eccentric man. He possessed fine talents – his sermons were rich in pathos and wit, and he was exceedingly popular with the world’s people. The more straight-laced, however, were afraid of him. His remarks both in and out of the pulpit would frequently rub hard against some popular dogma, or knock in the head some favorite religious tenet Mr. Dey was therefore frequently in hot water with the church – and was either “suspended,” or about to be brought to trial for some alleged breach of ministerial duty, or some suspected heresy. While thus debarred from preaching, he felt that he must do something to support his family. With this view he visited Bethel, Danbury, and other towns, and delivered “Lectures,” at the termination of which, contributions for his benefit were taken up. I remember his lecturing in Bethel on “Charity.” This discourse overflowed with eloquence and pathos, and terminated in a contribution of more than fifty dollars.

It was said that on one occasion Mr. Dey was about to be tried before an ecclesiastical body at Middletown. There being no railroads in those days, many persons travelled on horseback. Two days before the trial was to take place, Mr. Dey started for Middletown alone, and on horseback. His valise was fastened behind the saddle, and putting on his large great-coat surmounted with half a dozen broad “capes,” as was the fashion of that period, and donning a broad-brimmed hat, he mounted his horse and started for the scene of trial.

On the second day of his journey, and some ten miles before reaching Middletown, he overtook a brother clergyman, also on horseback, who was wending his way to the Consociation.

He was a man perhaps sixty years of age, and his silvered locks stood out like porcupine quills. His iron visage, which seemed never to have worn a smile, his sinister expression, small keen selfish looking eyes, and compressed lips, convinced Mr. Dey that he had no hope of mercy from that man as one of his judges. The reverend gentlemen soon fell into conversation. The sanctimonious clergyman gave his name and residence, and inquired those of Mr. Dey.

“My name is Mr. Richard,” replied Rev. Richard V. Dey, “and my residence is Fairfield.” [Greenfield is a parish in the town of Fairfield.]

“Ah,” exclaimed the other clergyman; “then you live near Mr. Dey: do you know him?”

“Perfectly well,” responded the eccentric Richard.

“Well, what do you think of him?” inquired the anxious brother.

“He is a wide-awake eunning fellow, one whom I should be sorry to offend, for I would not like to fall into his clutches; but if compelled to do so, I could divulge some things which would astonish our Consociation.”

“Is it possible? Well, of course your duty to the Church and the Redeemer’s cause will prompt you to make a clean breast of it, and divulge every thing you know against the accused,” responded the excited clergyman.

“It is hard to destroy a brother’s reputation and break up the peace of his family,” answered the meek Mr. Richard.

“It is the duty of the elect to expose and punish the reprobates,” replied the sturdy Puritan.

“But had I not better first tell our brother his fault, and give him an opportunity to confess and be forgiven?”

“Our brother, as you call him, is undoubtedly a heretic, and the true faith is wounded by his presence amongst us. The Church must be purged from unbelief. We must beware of those who would introduce damnable heresies.”

“Are you sure that Mr. Dey is an unbeliever?” inquired the modest Mr. Richard.

“I have heard that he throws doubt upon the Trinity – shrugs his shoulders at some portions of the Saybrook Platform, and has said that even reprobates may sincerely repent, pray for forgiveness, and be saved. Ay, that he even doubts the damnation of unregenerate infants!”

“Horrible!” ejaculated Mr. Richard.

“Yes! Horrible indeed, but I trust that our Consociation will excommunicate him at once and for ever. But what do you know concerning his belief?”

“I know nothing specially against his belief,” responded Mr. Richard, “but I have witnessed some of his acts which I should be almost sorry to expose.”

“A mistaken charity! It is your duty to tell the Consociation all you know regarding the culprit, and I shall insist upon your doing so.”

“I certainly desire to do that which is right and just, and as I am but young in the ministry I shall defer to your judgment founded on age and experience. But I would prefer at first to state to you what I know, and then will be guided by your advice in regard to giving my testimony before the Consociation.”

“A very proper course. You can state the facts to me, and I will give you my counsel. Now what do you know?”

“I know that on more than one occasion I have caught him in the act of kissing my wife,” replied the injured Mr. Richard.

“I am not at all astonished,” responded the clergyman; “such conduct coincides exactly with the opinion I had formed of the man. I commiserate you, sir, but I honor your sense of duty in divulging such important facts, even at the expense of exposing serious troubles in your domestic relations. But, sir, justice must have its course. These facts must be testified to before the Consociation. Do you know any thing else against the delinquent?”

“I know something more, but it is of a nature so delicate, and concerns me personally so seriously, that I must decline divulging it.”

“Sir, you cannot do that. I will not permit it, but will insist on your telling the whole truth before our Consociation, though your heart-strings were to break in consequence. I repeat, sir, that I sympathize with you personally, but personal feelings must be swallowed up in the promotion of public good. No sympathy for an individual can be permitted to clash with the interests of the true Church. You had better tell me, sir, all you know.”

“Since you say that duty requires it, I will do so. I have caught him, under very suspicious circumstances, in my wife’s bedroom,” said the unfortunate Mr. Richard.

“Was your wife in bed?” inquired the man with the iron face.

“She was,” faintly lisped the almost swooning Mr. Richard.

“Enough, enough,” was the response. “Our Consociation will soon dispose of the Rev. Richard V. Dey.”

The two clergymen had now arrived at Middletown. The Rev. Mr. Vinegarface rode to the parsonage, while Mr. Dey, alias “Mr. Richard,” went to a small and obscure inn.

The Consociation commenced the next day. This ecclesiastical body was soon organized, and after disposing of several minor questions, it was proposed to take up the charges of heresy against the Rev. Mr. Dey. The accused, with a most demure countenance, was conversing with his quondam travelling companion of the day previous, who upon hearing this proposition instantly sprang to his feet, and informed the Reverend Chairman that providentially he had been put in possession of facts which must necessarily result in the immediate expulsion of the culprit from the Church, and save the necessity of examining testimony on the question of heresy. “In fact,” continued he, “I am prepared to prove that the Rev. Richard V. Dey has frequently kissed the wife of one of our brethren, and has also been caught in a situation which affords strong evidence of his being guilty of the crime of adultery!”

A thrill of horror and surprise ran through the assembly. Every eye was turned to Mr. Dey, who was seated so closely to the last speaker that he touched him as he resumed his seat. Mr. Dey’s countenance was as placid as a May morning, and it required keen vision to detect the lurking smile of satisfaction that peeped from a corner of his eye. A few minutes of dead silence elapsed.

“Produce your witnesses,” finally said the Chairman, in an almost sepulchral voice.

“I call on the Rev. Mr. Richard, of Fairfield, to corroborate under oath the charges which I have made,” responded the hard-visaged Puritan.

Not a person moved. Mr. Dey looked as unconcerned as if he was an utter stranger to all present, and understood not the language which they were speaking.

“Where is the Rev. Mr. Richard?” inquired the venerable Chairman.

“Here he is,” responded the accuser, familiarly tapping Mr. Dey on the shoulder.

The whole audience burst into such a roar of laughter as probably never was heard in a like Consociation before.

The accuser was almost petrified with astonishment at such inconceivable conduct on the part of that sedate religious assembly.

Mr. Dey alone maintained the utmost gravity.

“That, sir, is the Rev. Richard V. Dey,” replied the Chairman when order was restored.

The look of utter dismay which instantly marked the countenance of the accuser threw the assembly into another convulsion of laughter, during which Mr. Dey’s victim withdrew and was not seen again in Middletown. The charges of heresy were then brought forward. After a brief investigation they were dismissed for want of proof, and Mr. Dey returned to Greenfield triumphant.

I have often heard Mr. Dey relate the following anecdote. A young couple called on him one day at his house in Greenfield. They informed him that they were from the southern portion of the State, and desired to be married. They were well dressed, made considerable display of jewelry, and altogether wore an air of respectability. Mr. Dey felt confident that all was right, and calling in several witnesses, he proceeded to unite them in the holy bonds of wedlock.

After the ceremonies were concluded, Mr. Dey invited the happy pair (as was usual in those days) to partake of some cake and wine. They thus spent a social half-hour together, and on rising to depart the bridegroom handed Mr. Dey a twenty-dollar bank note, remarking that this was the smallest bill he had, but if he would be so good as to pay their hotel bill (they had merely dined and fed their horse at the hotel) he could retain the balance of the money for his services. Mr. Dey thanked him for his liberality, and proceeded at once to the hotel with the lady and gentleman and informed the landlord that he would settle their bill. They proceeded on their journey, and the next day it was discovered that the bank note was a counterfeit, and that Mr. Dey had to pay nearly three dollars for the privilege of marrying this loving couple!

The newspapers in various parts of the State subsequently published facts which showed that the affectionate pair got married in every town they passed through – thus paying their expenses and fleecing the clergymen by means of counterfeits.

One of the deacons of Mr. Dey’s church asked him if he usually kissed the bride at weddings. “Always,” was the reply.

“How do you manage when the happy pair are negroes?” was the deacon’s next question. “In all such cases,” replied Mr. Dey, “the duty of kissing is appointed to the deacons.”

My grandfather was a Universalist, and for various reasons, fancied or real, he was bitterly opposed to the Presbyterians in doctrinal views, though personally some of them were his warmest and most intimate friends. Being much attached to Mr. Dey, he induced that gentleman to deliver a series of Sunday evening sermons in Bethel, and my grandfather was not only on all these occasions one of the most prominent and attentive hearers, but Mr. Dey was always his guest. He would generally stop over Monday and Tuesday with my grandfather, and as several of the most social neighbors were called in, they usually had a jolly time of it. Occasionally “mine host” would attack Mr. Dey good-naturedly on theological points, and would generally come off second best, but he delighted, although vanquished, to repeat the sharp answers with which Mr. Dey met his objections to the “confession of faith.”

One day, when a dozen or more of the neighbors were present, and enjoying themselves in passing around the bottle, relating anecdotes, and cracking jokes, my grandfather called out in a loud tone of voice, which at once arrested the attention of all present:

“Friend Dey, I believe you pretend to believe in foreordination?”

“To be sure I do,” replied Mr. Dey.

“Well now, suppose I should spit in your face, what would you do?” inquired my grandfather.

“I hope that is not a supposable case,” responded Mr. Dey, “for I should probably knock you down.”

“That would be very inconsistent,” replied my grandfather exultingly; “for if I spat in your face it would be because it was foreordained I should do so; why then would you be so unreasonable as to knock me down?”

“Because it would be foreordained that I should knock you down,” replied Mr. Dey with a smile.

The company burst into a laugh, in which my grandfather heartily joined, and he frequently related this incident with much gusto.

I have before said that our old meeting-house, without either steeple or bell, was a comfortable place in summer. But my teeth chatter even now, as I think of the dreary, cold, and freezing times we had there in winter. Such a thing as a stove in a meeting-house had never been heard of in those days, and an innovation of that description would have been considered little less than sacrilege. The old-fashioned sermons were an hour and a half to two hours long, and there the congregation would sit and shiver, and their faces would look so blue, that it is no wonder “the world’s people” sometimes called them “blue skins.” They were literally so.

Our mothers and grandmothers were the only persons who were permitted to approach comfort. Such as could afford it had a “muff and tippet,” and carried a “foot-stove,” which consisted of a small square tin box, perforated, and inclosed in a wood frame, with a wire handle. There was a door in one side, in which was thrust a small square iron dish of live coals, sprinkled over with a few ashes. Those who lived some distance from the meeting-house took their foot-stove in the wagon or “cutter” – for there was generally good sleighing in winter – and, on arriving “to meeting,” they would replenish the foot-stove with fresh coals at the nearest neighbor’s before entering the sanctuary.

At last, and after many years, the spirit of reform reached the shivering congregation of the old Bethel meeting-house. A brother, who was evidently quite ahead of the age, and not, as some of the older brethren thought, “out of his head,” had the temerity to propose that a stove should be introduced into the church for the purpose of heating it. Many brethren and sisters raised their hands and rolled their eyes in surprise and horror. “A pretty pass, indeed, when professing Christians needed a fire to warm their zeal.” The proposition was impious, and it was voted down by an overwhelming majority.

The “reformer,” however, persevered, and, by persuasion and argument, he gradually gained a few converts. He argued that one large stove for heating the whole house was as harmless as fifty small stoves to warm the fifty pairs of feet belonging to the owners of said portable stoves; and while some saw no analogy between the two cases, others declared that if he was mad there was “method in his madness.”

Another year rolled by; cold November arrived, and the stove question was again mooted. Excitement ran high; night meetings and church caucuses were held to discuss the question; arguments were made pro and con in the village stores; the subject was introduced into conference meetings and prayed over; even the youngsters had the question brought up in the debating club, and early in December a general “society’s meeting” was called to decide by ballot whether there should or should not be a stove in the meeting-house.

The ayes carried it by a majority of one, and, to the consternation of the minority, the stove was introduced. On the first Sabbath afterwards two venerable maiden ladies fainted on account of the dry atmosphere and sickly sensation caused by the dreaded innovation. They were carried out into the cold air, and soon returned to consciousness, after being informed that in consequence of there not being pipe enough within two lengths, no fire had yet been placed in the stove!

The following Sunday was a bitter cold day, and the stove was crammed with well-seasoned hickory wood and brought nearly to a red heat. This made most parts of the house comfortable, pleased many, and horrified a few.

Immediately after the benediction had been pronounced, at the close of the afternoon service, one of the deacons, whose “pew” was near the door, arose and exclaimed, in a loud voice, “The congregation are requested to tarry.”

Every person promptly sat down on hearing this common announcement. The old deacon approached the altar, and turning to the people, addressed them in a whining tone of voice as follows:

“Brethren and sisters, you will bear me witness that from the first I have raised my voice against introducing a stove into the house of the Lord. But a majority has pronounced against me. I trust they voted in the fear of God, and I submit, for I would not wittingly introduce schisms into our church; but if we must have a stove I do insist on having a larger one, for the one you have is not large enough to heat the whole house, and the consequence is, it drives all the cold back as far as the outside pews, making them three times as cold as they were before, and we who occupy those pews are obliged to sit in the entire cold of this whole house.”

The countenance and manner of the speaker indicated, beyond all doubt, that he was sincere, and nothing would appease him until the “business committee” agreed to take the subject into consideration. In the course of the week they satisfied him that the stove was large enough, except on unusually severe days, but they found great difficulty in making him comprehend that if the stove did not heat the entire building, it did not intensify the cold by driving it all into a corner.

While Rev. Mr. Lowe preached in Bethel he formed quite a large Bible-class, which was composed mostly of boys and girls from twelve to fourteen years of age. I was one of the class. A portion of our duty was to take a verse selected by the minister, write out our explanation of it, and drop the composition into a hat passed round for the purpose. All the articles were then read aloud by the clergyman. As the verses selected and distributed to the scholars were also promiscuously drawn from a hat, no person, not even Mr. Lowe himself, knew what subject fell to any particular scholar.

The Bible-class was held immediately after the conclusion of the afternoon services, and it was customary for the entire congregation to remain and hear the compositions read. Sometimes the explanations given by the scholars were wretched, sometimes ludicrous, but generally very good. I think that my own usually fell under the second head. Mr. Lowe always made a few remarks at the reading of each composition, either by way of approval or dissent, and in the latter case he always gave his reasons.

I remember that on one occasion I drew from the hat, Luke x. 42: “But one thing is needful; and Mary hath chosen that good part which shall not be taken away from her.” Question. “What is the one thing needful?”

I took home my verse and question, and at the first opportunity wrote out the explanation about as follows:

“This question, ‘What is the one thing needful?’ is capable of receiving various answers, depending much upon the persons to whom it is addressed.

“The merchant might answer that ‘the one thing needful is plenty of customers, who buy liberally without “beating down,” and pay cash for all their purchases.’

“The farmer might reply that ‘the one thing needful is large harvests and high prices.’

“The physician might answer that ‘it is plenty of patients.’

“The lawyer might be of opinion that ‘it is an unruly community, always engaged in bickerings and litigations.’

“The clergyman might reply, ‘It is a fat salary, with multitudes of sinners seeking salvation and paying large pew rents.’

“The bachelor might exclaim, ‘It is a pretty wife who loves her husband, and who knows how to sew on buttons.’

“The maiden might answer, ‘It is a good husband, who will love, cherish, and protect me while life shall last.’

“But the most proper answer, and doubtless that which applied to the case of Mary, would be, ‘The one thing needful is to believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, follow in his footsteps, love God and obey his commandments, love our fellow-man, and embrace every opportunity of administering to his necessities. In short, the one thing needful is to live a life that we can always look back upon with satisfaction, and be enabled ever to contemplate its termination with trust in Him who has so kindly vouchsafed it to us, surrounding us with innumerable blessings, if we have but the heart and wisdom to receive them in a proper manner.’”

Although the reading of most of the above caused a tittering among the audience, in which the clergyman himself could scarcely refrain from joining, and although the name of “Taylor Barnum” was frequently whispered among the congregation, I had the satisfaction of hearing the Rev. Mr. Lowe say, at the conclusion, that it was a well-written and correct answer to the question, “What is the one thing needful?”

Mr. Lowe was an Englishman. He purchased a small farm near Bethel and undertook to carry on farming, but having had little or no experience in that way, he made many awkward mistakes. One day he and his man were engaged in blasting rocks near his barn. They had drilled a large deep hole, charged the blast, and adjusted the slow match. Mr. Lowe requested his man to retire while he completed the process. His man went to the other side of the barn. Mr. Lowe then applied the fire to the match, and stepping to the barn, which was within two rods of the rock, he stuck his head into the stable window, leaving his entire body exposed. The explosion filled the air with large fragments of rock. One piece, supposed to weigh three hundred pounds, fell at the side of the parson, grazing his clothing as it passed, and was imbedded twenty inches in the ground, close to his feet. Mr. Lowe could but acknowledge his frightfully narrow escape, and took no more lessons from the ostrich when engaged in blasting rocks.




CHAPTER IV (#ulink_b0b7e0df-5269-56cd-8659-85189300e5d1)

Anecdotes with an Episode (#ulink_b0b7e0df-5269-56cd-8659-85189300e5d1)


My Grandfather’s Voyage – A Stray Clergyman – The Beard Question – A Quandary – The Whiskers Doomed – Half-shaved – The Razor Overboard – Indian File – Unique Procession – The Joke kept up – Christian’s Death-bed – The Irishman’s Dog – Clinching the Bargain – The Trick discovered – Mrs. O’Brien consoled – Blue-Laws – The Stage Agent – Dodging the Deacons – Stretching the Legs – Jehu’s Consternation – A Dry Season – The Miller’s Trial – The Verdict – Old Bob – Bob in the Bogs – The Rider afoot – A Slave for Life – Marking the Value.



DANBURY and Bethel were and still are manufacturing villages. Hats and combs were the principal articles of manufacture. The hatters and comb-makers had occasion to go to New York every spring and fall, and they generally managed to go in parties, frequently taking in a few “outsiders” who merely wished to visit the city for the fun of the thing. They usually took passage on board a sloop at Norwalk, and the length of their passage depended entirely upon the state of the wind. Sometimes the run would be made in eight hours, and at other times nearly as many days were required. It however made little difference with the passengers. They went in for “a spree,” and were sure to have a jolly time whether on land or water. They were all fond of practical jokes, and before starting they usually entered into a solemn compact, that any man who got angry at a practical joke should forfeit and pay the sum of twenty dollars. This agreement frequently saved much trouble, for occasionally an unexpected and rather severe trick would be played off, and sadly chafe the temper of the victim.

Upon one of these occasions a party of fourteen men started from Bethel on a Monday morning for New York. Among the number were my grandfather, Capt. Noah Ferry, Benjamin Hoyt, Esq., Uncle Samuel Taylor, (as he was called by everybody,) Eleazer Taylor, and Charles Dart. Most of these were proverbial jokers, and it was doubly necessary to adopt the stipulation in regard to the control of temper. It was therefore done in writing, duly signed.

They arrived at Norwalk Monday afternoon. The sloop set sail the same evening, with a fair prospect of reaching New York early the next morning. Several strangers took passage at Norwalk, among the rest a clergyman. He soon found himself in jolly company, and attempted to keep aloof. But they informed him it was no use, they expected to reach New York the next morning, and were determined to “make a night of it,” so he might as well render himself agreeable, for sleep was out of the question. His “Reverence” remonstrated at first, and talked about “his rights,” but he soon learned that he was in a company where the rights of “the majority” were in the ascendant; so he put a smooth face upon affairs, and making up his mind not to retire that night, he soon engaged in conversation with several of his fellow-passengers.

The clergyman was a slim spare man, standing over six feet high in his stockings, light complexion, sandy hair, and wearing a huge pair of reddish-brown whiskers. Some of the passengers joked him upon the superfluity of hair upon his face, but he replied that nature had placed it there, and although he thought proper, in accordance with modern custom, to shave off a portion of his beard, he considered it neither unmanly nor unclerical to wear whiskers. It seemed to be conceded that the clergyman had the best of the argument, and the subject was changed.

Expectation of a speedy run to New York was most sadly disappointed. The vessel appeared scarcely to move, and through long weary hours of day and night, there was not a ripple on the surface of the water. Nevertheless there was merriment on board the sloop, each voyager contributing good-humor to beguile the tediousness of time.

Friday morning came, but the calm continued. Five days from home, and no prospect of reaching New York! We may judge the appearance of the beards of the passengers. There was but one razor in the company; it was owned by my grandfather – and he refused to use it, or to suffer it to be used. “We shall all be shaved in New York,” said he.

On Saturday morning “all hands” appeared upon deck – and the sloop was becalmed opposite Sawpitts! (now Port Chester.)

This tried the patience of the passengers sadly.

“I expected to start for home to-day,” said one.

“I supposed all my combs would have been sold at auction on Wednesday, and yet here they are on board,” said another.

“I intended to have sold my hats surely this week, for I have a note to pay in New Haven on Monday,” added a third.

“I have an appointment to preach in New York this evening and to-morrow,” said the clergyman, whose huge sandy whiskers overshadowed a face now completely covered with a bright red beard a quarter of an inch long.

“Well, there is no use crying, gentlemen,” replied the captain; “it is lucky for us that we have chickens and eggs on freight, or we might have to be put upon allowance.”

After breakfast the passengers, who now began to look like barbarians, again solicited the loan of my grandfather’s razor.

“No, gentlemen,” he replied; “I insist that shaving is unhealthy and contrary to nature, and I am determined neither to shave myself nor loan my razor until we reach New York.”

Night came, and yet no wind. Sunday morning found them in the same position. Their patience was well nigh exhausted, but after breakfast a slight ripple appeared. It gradually increased, and the passengers were soon delighted in seeing the anchor weighed and the sails again set. The sloop glided finely through the water, and smiles of satisfaction forced themselves through the swamps of bristles which covered the faces of the passengers.

“What time shall we reach New York if this breeze continues?” was the anxious inquiry of half a dozen passengers.

“About two o’clock this afternoon,” replied the good-natured captain, who now felt assured that no calm would further blight his prospects.

“Alas! that will be too late to get shaved,” exclaimed several voices – “the barber shops close at twelve.”

“And I shall barely be in time to preach my afternoon sermon,” responded the red-bearded clergyman. “Mr. Taylor, do be so kind as to loan me your shaving utensils,” he continued, addressing my grandfather.

The old gentleman then went to his trunk, and unlocking it, he drew forth his razor, lather-box and strop. The passengers pressed around him, as all were now doubly anxious for a chance to shave themselves.

“Now, gentlemen,” said my grandfather, “I will be fair with you. I did not intend to lend my razor, but as we shall arrive too late for the barbers, you shall all use it. But it is evident we cannot all have time to be shaved with one razor before we reach New York, and as it would be hard for half of us to walk on shore with clean faces, and leave the rest on board waiting for their turn to shave themselves, I have hit upon a plan which I am sure you will all say is just and equitable.”

“What is it?” was the anxious inquiry.

“It is that each man shall shave one half of his face, and pass the razor over to the next, and when we are all half shaved we shall go on in rotation and shave the other half.”

They all agreed to this except the clergyman. He objected to appearing so ridiculous upon the Lord’s day, whereupon several declared that any man with such enormous reddish whiskers must necessarily always look ridiculous, and they insisted that if the clergyman used the razor at all he should shave off his whiskers.

My grandfather assented to this proposal, and said: “Now, gentlemen, as I own the razor, I will begin, and as our reverend friend is in a hurry he shall be next – but off shall come one of his whiskers on the first turn, or he positively shall not use my razor at all.”

The clergyman seeing there was no use in parleying, reluctantly agreed to the proposition.

In the course of ten minutes one side of my grandfather’s face and chin, in a straight line from the middle of his nose, was shaved as close as the back of his hand, while the other looked like a thick brush fence in a country swamp. The passengers burst into a roar of laughter in which the clergyman irresistibly joined, and my grandfather handed the razor to the clerical gentleman.

The clergyman had already well lathered one half of his face and passed the brush to the next customer. In a short time the razor had performed its work, and the clergyman was denuded of one whisker. The left side of his face was as naked as that of an infant, while from the other cheek four inches of a huge red whisker stood out in powerful contrast. Nothing more ludicrous could well be conceived. A deafening burst of laughter ensued, and the poor clergyman slunk quietly away to wait an hour until his turn should arrive to shave the other portion of his face.

The next man went through the same operation, and all the rest followed; a new laugh breaking forth as each customer handed over the razor to the next in turn. In the course of an hour and a quarter every passenger on board was half shaved. It was then proposed that all should go upon deck and take a drink before operations were commenced on the other side of their faces. When they all gathered upon the deck the scene was most ludicrous. The whole party burst again into loud merriment, each man being convulsed by the ridiculous appearance of the rest.

“Now, gentlemen,” said my grandfather, “I will go into the cabin and shave off the other side. You can all remain on deck. As soon as I have finished I will come up and give the clergyman the next chance.”

“You must hurry or you will not all be finished when we arrive,” remarked the captain, “for we shall touch Peck Slip wharf in half an hour.”

My grandfather entered the cabin, and in ten minutes he appeared upon deck razor in hand. He was smoothly shaved.

“Now,” said the clergyman, “it is my turn.”

“Certainly,” said my grandfather. “You are next, but wait a moment, let me draw the razor across the strop once or twice.”

Putting his foot upon the side rail of the deck and placing one end of the strop upon his leg, he drew the razor several times across it. Then as if by mistake the razor flew from his hand, and dropped into the water! My grandfather with well-feigned surprise exclaimed in a voice of terror, “Good heavens! the razor has fallen overboard!”

Such a picture of consternation as covered one half of all the passengers’ faces was never before witnessed. At first they were perfectly silent as if petrified with astonishment. But in a few minutes murmurs began to be heard and soon swelled into exclamations. “An infernal hog!” said one. “The meanest thing I ever knew,” remarked another. “He ought to be thrown overboard himself,” cried several others; but all remembered that every man who got angry was to pay a fine of twenty dollars, and they did not repeat their remarks. Presently all eyes were turned upon the clergyman. He was the most forlorn picture of despair that could be imagined.

“Oh, this is dreadful!” he drawled in a tone which seemed as it every word broke a heart-string.

This was too much, and the whole crowd broke into another roar. Tranquillity was restored! The joke, though a hard one, was swallowed. The sloop soon touched the dock. The half-shaved passengers now agreed that my grandfather, who was the only person on board who appeared like a civilized being, should take the lead for the Walton House in Franklin Square, and all the rest should follow in “Indian file.” He reminded them that they would excite much attention in the streets, and enjoined them not to smile. They agreed, and away they started. They attracted a crowd of persons before they reached the corner of Pearl street and Peck Slip, but they all marched with as much solemnity as if they were going to the grave. The door of the Walton House was open. Old Backus the landlord was quietly enjoying his cigar, while a dozen or two persons were engaged in reading the papers, etc. In marched the file of nondescripts with the rabble at their heels. Mr. Backus and his customers started to their feet in astonishment. My grandfather marched solemnly up to the bar – the passengers followed and formed double rows behind him. “Santa Cruz rum for nineteen,” exclaimed my grandfather to the barkeeper. The astonished liquor-seller produced bottles and tumblers in double quick time, and when Backus discovered that the nondescripts were old friends and customers, he was excited to uncontrollable merriment.

“What in the name of decency has happened,” he exclaimed, “that you should all appear here half shaved?”

“Nothing at all, Mr. Backus,” said my grandfather, with apparent seriousness. “These gentlemen choose to wear their beards according to the prevailing fashion in the place they came from, and I think it is very hard that they should be stared at and insulted by you Yorkers because your fashion happens to differ a trifle from theirs.”

Backus half believed my grandfather in earnest, and the by-standers were quite convinced such was the fact, for not a smile appeared upon one of the half-shaved countenances.

After sitting a few minutes the passengers were shown to their rooms, and at tea-time every man appeared at the table precisely as they came from the sloop. The ladies looked astonished, the waiters winked and laughed, but the subjects of this merriment were as grave as judges. In the evening they maintained the same gravity in the bar-room, and at ten o’clock they retired to bed with all due solemnity. In the morning however, bright and early, they were in the barber’s shop undergoing an operation that soon placed them upon a footing with the rest of mankind.

It is hardly necessary to explain that the clergyman did not appear in that singular procession of Sunday afternoon. He tied a handkerchief over his face, and taking his valise in his hand, started for Market street, where it is presumed he found a good brother and a good razor in season to fill his appointment.

In the month of August, 1825, my maternal grandmother met with an accident which, although considered trivial at the time, resulted in her death. While walking in the garden she stepped upon the point of a rusty nail, which ran perhaps half an inch into her foot. It was immediately extracted, but the foot became swollen, and in a few days the most alarming symptoms were manifest. She was soon sensible that she was upon her death-bed, but she was a good Christian, and her approaching end had no terrors for her. The day before her departure, and while in the full possession of her faculties, she sent for all her grandchildren to take their final leave of her. I never can forget the sensations which I experienced when my turn came to approach her bed-side, and when, taking my hand in hers, she spoke to me of her approaching dissolution, of the joys of religion, the consoling reflections that a death-bed afforded those who could feel that they had tried to live good lives and be of benefit to their fellow-men. She besought me to think seriously of religion, to read my Bible often, to pray to our Father in heaven, to be regular in my attendance at church; to use no profane nor idle language, and especially to remember that I could in no way so effectually prove my love to God, as in loving all my fellow-beings. I was affected to tears, and promised to remember her counsel. When I received from her a farewell kiss, knowing that I should never behold her again alive, I was completely overcome, and however much I may have since departed from her injunctions, the impressions received at that death-bed scene have ever been vivid among my recollections, and I trust they have proved in some degree salutary. A more sincere Christian or a more exemplary woman than my grandmother I have never seen.

But my serious moods did not long remain undisturbed. One of the customers at our store was an Irishman named Peter O’Brien, a small farmer in one of the districts several miles north of Bethel. An Irishman in those days was a rarity in the interior of Connecticut, and the droll mother-wit, as well as the singular Irish bulls of Peter, gave him considerable celebrity in those parts.

On one occasion Peter visited the store to make some purchases, and one of our village wags perceiving a small dog in his wagon, and wishing to joke the Hibernian, asked O’Brien if the dog was for sale.

“As for the matter of that, I’ll be afther selling almost any thing for money,” responded the Irishman.

“Is he a good watch-dog?”

“Faith, and he’ll defind with his last dhrop of blood any property that you’ll show him.”

“Is he good to drive cattle from a field?”

“He’ll never give over chasing any thing he sees till it’s fairly into the street, after you once acquaint him with your wishes.”

“Will you warrant all that you say is true?”

“Sure I will, and I’ll give back the money if it’s a lie I’m telling you,” earnestly replied Peter O’Brien.

“What will you take for the dog?”

“Only the trifling matter of two dollars.”

“Well,” replied our villager, “he don’t look as if he was worth two cents, but as I want a watch-dog with all the good qualities which you recommend, I’ll take him.”

“I’m sure it’s making fun of me you are,” said Peter; “and I don’t know what Mrs. O’Brien could do without her favorite dog.”

“I confess I was joking at first, Peter, but I am now in earnest, and there is your money,” said his customer, handing him the two dollars.

“A bargain is a bargain,” replied Peter, as he stowed away his money in a bit of old bladder which he used as a purse, “but sure and there’ll be the deuce to pay with Mrs. O’Brien.”

“Oh, you must buy her a little snuff to pacify her,” replied the wag.

“Faith, and this will hold something that will do it better than snuff,” replied Peter, as he took a wooden gallon bottle from his wagon and walked into the store.

“Now, me boy,” said O’Brien, approaching me, “be after giving me half a gallon of New England rum, and half a gallon of molasses.”

“Where is your other bottle?” I inquired.

“That will hold a gallon,” replied Peter, with a gravity which evidently was not assumed.

“But you don’t want to mix the rum and molasses together, I suppose?” I replied.

“Sure, and what a jackass I am, for I never thought of that,” exclaimed Peter, in a tone of surprise, “and divil another bottle did I bring at all at all!”

Peter was as witty a fellow as ever left the Emerald Isle, and yet at times he was as stupid as a horse-block, the foregoing instance being a veritable illustration of the fact.

When Peter next came to our village, he was accosted very roughly by his dog-customer, when the following conversation ensued:

“You lying Irishman! I want you to take that miserable puppy and give me back my two dollars.”

“Fun is fun,” replied Peter, “and you are always funning me, but I don’t like ye to charge me with lying, for that’s a thing I leave for my betters. I never tells lies, sir.”

“You do; you lied and deceived me about that worthless dog.”

“Divil a lie did I tell ye at all at all.”

“Why, the dog is blind as a bat,” replied the customer in great anger.

“Sure, and that’s no fault of the poor dog’s, but his serious misfortune,” replied Peter solemnly, amid a shout of laughter from a dozen loungers in the store.

“But you said he would watch property, and drive cattle out of the field.”

“Not at all. I said he would chase any thing that he’d see, and watch all that you would show him,” replied O’Brien with imperturbable gravity.

Another scene of merriment ensued, and the wag, seeing that Peter had the advantage of him, quietly asked him if he was going to refund the money.

“Surely not, for many valuable reasons, one of which is, I spent it three days ago.”

“But your wife, who loved the dog so well, would be glad to see him home again, I suppose?” replied the victim, who was becoming reconciled to the joke.

“As for the matter of that,” replied Peter, “I told her he was sold into good and benevolent hands, and she has at last become reconciled to her loss.”

Another laugh followed, in which the dog-purchaser joined.

“Well, you may keep the money,” he replied, “but you may take the dog.”

“No, I thank ye, it would only be opening the wound of Mrs. O’Brien afresh, and that you know would be cruel,” replied Peter.

In the days of which I am now writing, a much stricter outward regard was paid to the Sabbath in the State of Connecticut than at present. If a man was seen riding horseback or in a carriage on Sunday before sundown, a tithing-man, deacon of a church, or grand-jury man was sure to arrest him, and unless he could show that sickness or some other case of necessity induced him to come out, he was fined the next day.

The mail stage from New York to Boston was permitted to run on the Sabbath, but in no case to take passengers. Sometimes the cupidity of the New York agents would induce them to book travellers through Connecticut on the holy day, but nearly every meeting-house had its sentinel on the look-out, and it was very difficult for a driver to escape being arrested if he had one or more persons in his coach. In that case the driver, his horses, stage, mail and passengers were obliged to “lie to” until Monday morning, when driver and passengers must each pay a fine before being permitted to depart.

On one occasion, Oliver Taylor and Benjamin Hoyt, a brace of wags from Bethel, were in New York, and as the way-bill was filled for several week-days ahead, they went to the stage office, No. 21 Bowery, early one Sunday morning, and asked to be carried that day to Norwalk, Ct.

“It can’t be done,” peremptorily replied the stage agent.

“It is very important,” responded Oliver; “my wife and children are dangerously sick at Bethel, and I must reach there before to-morrow morning.”

“And my mother isn’t expected to live the day out,” meekly added ’Squire Ben, with a face considerably elongated.

“It won’t do, gentlemen; these periodical sicknesses are excessively prevalent, and I am wonderfully sorry for you, but we have been stopped, fined, and our mail detained several times this year, in your State. We are decidedly sick of it, and will carry no more passengers in Connecticut on Sunday,” was the prompt reply.

“They are not as strict now as they were formerly,” urged Mr. Taylor.

“Not half,” added Mr. Hoyt.

“Formerly!” exclaimed the agent; “why, it is only two weeks since we were arrested in Stamford.”

“Yes, and it cost me eleven dollars besides the detention,” added the proprietor, who had just stepped in.

“Now, sir,” said Mr. Taylor, addressing the proprietor, “our business is urgent; we are Connecticut men, and know Connecticut laws and Connecticut deacons – yes, and how to dodge them, too. We will pay you ten dollars for our passages to Norwalk, and whenever we pass through a Connecticut village we will lie down on the bottom of the stage, and thus your vehicle, being apparently empty, will pass through unmolested.”

“Will you do this promptly as you pass through each Connecticut village?” asked the melting proprietor.

“Positively,” was the reply of Taylor and Hoyt.

“Well, I don’t think it any sin to dodge your Yankee blue-laws, and I’ll take you on those conditions,” responded the stage man.

The passage money was paid, the two valises snugly packed under the inside seats, and their two owners were as snugly seated in the mail coach.

“Remember your promises, gentlemen, and dodge the Yankee deacons,” said the stage proprietor, just as the driver flourished his long whip, and the horses started off in a gallop. The two passengers nodded a willing assent.

Messrs. Taylor and Hoyt knew every inch of the road. As the stage approached the Connecticut line, they prepared to stow themselves away. Just before reaching Greenwich, they both stretched themselves upon their backs on the bottom of the coach. The agents of the law – and gospel, were on the look-out, the driver’s face assumed a most innocent look, the apparently empty stage “passed muster,” and was permitted to move along unmolested, a straight-laced deacon merely remarking to the tithing-man, “I guess them ’ere Yorkers have concluded it won’t pay to send their passengers up this way on the Lord’s day.” The tithing-man nodded his satisfaction.

At Stamford the game of “hide and seek” was successfully repeated. At Darien, which is within six miles of Norwalk, where our passengers were to leave the stage and take their chances for reaching Bethel, about twenty miles north, they once more laid themselves down upon their backs, and the driver, assuming a demure look, let his horses take a slow trot through the village.

“Now, Ben,” said Taylor, “I’m a-going to give the deacons a chance, fine or no fine,” and instantly he thrust his feet a tempting distance out of the side window of the coach.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake draw in your feet,” exclaimed Hoyt, in horror, as he saw a pair of boots sticking a couple of feet [no pun intended] out of the window.

“Couldn’t think of such a thing,” quietly responded Taylor, with a chuckle.

“But we agreed to hide, and now you are exposing the stage-driver as well as ourselves,” urged the conscientious and greatly alarmed Hoyt.

“We agreed to lie on our backs, and we are doing it flat enough; but my legs want stretching, and they must have it,” was the mischievous reply.

They were now opposite the village church, and the poor driver, unconscious of the grand display his passengers were making, carried his head high up, as much as to say, “You may look, gentlemen, but it’s no use.”

A watchful deacon, horror-struck at beholding a pair of boots with real legs in them emerging from the stage window, hallooed to the driver to stop.

“I’m empty, and shan’t do it,” responded coachee, with a tone of injured innocence.

“You have got a passenger, and must stop,” earnestly replied the deacon.

The driver, turning his face towards the body of his coach, was alarmed at seeing a pair of legs dangling out of the window, and with a look of dismay instantly jerking his reins and giving his horses half a dozen smart cuts, they struck into a quick gallop just as the deacon’s hand had reached within a foot of the leader’s bridle. The coach slightly grazed the deacon, half knocking him over, and was soon beyond his reach. The frightened driver applied the lash with all his might, continually hallooing, “Draw in them infernal boots!”

A double haw-haw of laughter was all the satisfaction he received in reply to his commands, and, Jehu-like, the team dashed ahead until not a house was in sight. The driver then reined in his horses, and began remonstrating with his passengers. They laughed heartily, and handing him half a dollar, bade him be quiet.

“In ten minutes it will be sundown,” they added, “you can therefore go into Norwalk in safety.”

“But they will pull me up in Darien and fine me when I return,” replied the driver.

“Don’t be alarmed,” was the response; “they can’t fine you, for no one can swear you had a passenger. Nothing was seen but a pair of legs, and for aught that can be proved they belonged to a wax figure.”

“But they moved,” replied the driver, still alarmed.

“So does an automaton,” responded Mr. Taylor; “so give yourself no uneasiness, you are perfectly safe.”

The driver felt somewhat relieved, but as he passed through Darien the next day, he had some misgivings. The deacon, however, had probably reached the same conclusion in regard to the rules and nature of evidence as had Mr. Taylor, for no complaint was made, and the driver was permitted to pass unheeded. His fright, however, caused him to notify his employers, that if they ever sent any more passengers to Connecticut on the Sabbath, they might send a driver with them, for he would see them – “blowed” before they would catch him in another such a scrape.

About the last prosecution which we had in Danbury for a violation of the Sabbath, was in the summer of 1825. There was a drought that season. The grass was withered, the ground was parched, all vegetation was seriously injured, and the streams far and near were partially or wholly dried up. As there were no steam mills in those days, at least in that vicinity, our people found it difficult to get sufficient grain ground for domestic purposes without sending great distances. Our local mills were crammed with the “grists” of all the neighborhood awaiting their turn to be converted into flour or meal. Finally it commenced raining on a Saturday night, and continued all day Sunday. Of course, everybody was delighted. Families who were almost placed upon an “allowance” of bread, were gratified in the belief that the mills would now be set a-going, and that the time of deliverance was at hand. One of our millers, an eccentric individual, and withal a worthy man, knowing the strait in which the community was placed, and remembering that our Saviour permitted his disciples to pluck ears of corn upon the Sabbath, concluded to risk the ire of bigoted sticklers who strained at a gnat and swallowed a camel, set his mill in motion on Sunday morning, and had finished many a grist for his neighbors before Monday’s sun had arisen.

On Monday afternoon he was arrested on a grand juror’s complaint for breaking the Sabbath. He declined employing counsel, and declared himself ready for trial. The court-room was crowded with sympathizing neighbors. The complaint was read, setting forth the enormity of his crime in converting grain into flour on the holy Sabbath – but it did not state the fact, that said grinding saved the whole neighborhood from a state of semi-starvation. The defendant maintained a countenance of extreme gravity.

“Are you guilty or not guilty?” asked the man of judicial authority.

“Not guilty – but I ground,” was the reply.

Loud laughter, which the court declared was quite unbecoming the halls of justice, was here indulged by the spectators.

As the act was confessed, no evidence was adduced on the part of the State. Numerous witnesses testified regarding the great drouth, the difficulty in procuring bread from the lack of water to propel the mills, and stated the great necessity of the case. The defendant said not a word, but a verdict of not guilty was soon returned. The community generally was delighted, and the ideas that had heretofore existed in that vicinity, that a cat should be punished for catching a mouse on Sunday, or that a barrel of cider should be whipped for “working” on the first day of the week, became obsolete; compelling men to go to “meeting” went out of fashion; in fact, a healthy reaction took place, and from that time the inhabitants of Connecticut became a voluntary Sabbath-observing people, abstaining from servile labor and vain recreation on that day, but not deeming it a sin to lift a suffering ox from the pit if he happened to be cast therein after sunset on Saturday, or before sundown on Sunday.

My father, besides being in the mercantile line, and keeping the village tavern, ran a freight wagon to. Norwalk, and kept a small livery stable. On one occasion, a young man named Nelson Beers applied to him for the use of a horse to ride to Danbury, a distance of three miles. Nelson was an apprentice to the shoe-making business, nearly out of his time, was not over-stocked with brains, and lived a mile and a half east of our village. My father thought that it would be better for Nelson to make his short journey on foot than to be at the expense of hiring a horse, but he did not tell him so.

We had an old horse named “Bob.” Having reached an age beyond his teens, he was turned out in a bog lot near our house to die. He was literally a “living skeleton” – much in the same condition of the Yankee’s nag, which was so weak his owner had to hire his neighbor’s horse to help him draw his last breath. My father, in reply to Nelson’s application, told him that the livery horses were all out, and he had none at home except a famous “race-horse,” which he was keeping in low flesh in order to have him in proper trim to win a great race soon to come off.

“Oh, do let me have him, Uncle Phile;


I will ride him very carefully, and not injure him in the least; besides, I will have him rubbed down and fed in Danbury,” said Nelson Beers.

“He is too valuable an animal to risk in the hands of a young man like you,” responded my father.

Nelson continued to importune, and my father to play off, until it was finally agreed that the horse could be had on the condition that he should in no case be ridden faster than a walk or slow trot, and that he should be fed four quarts of oats at Danbury.

Nelson started on his Rosinante, looking for all the world as if he was on a mission to the “carrion crows;” but he felt every inch a man, for he fancied himself astride of the greatest race-horse in the country, and realized that a heavy responsibility was resting on his shoulders, for the last words of my father to him were, “Now, Nelson, if any accident should happen to this animal while under your charge, you could not pay the damage in a lifetime of labor.”

Old “Bob” was duly oated and watered at Danbury, and at the end of several hours Mr. Beers mounted him and started for Bethel. He concluded to take the “great pasture” road home, that being the name of a new road cut through swamps and meadows, as a shorter route to our village. Nelson, for the nonce forgetting his responsibility, probably tried the speed of his race-horse and soon broke him down. At all events something occurred to weaken old Bob’s nerves, for he came to a stand-still, and Nelson was forced to dismount. The horse trembled with weakness, and Nelson Beers trembled with fright. A small brook was running through the bogs at the roadside, and Beers thinking that perhaps his “racehorse” needed a drink, led him into the stream. Poor old “Bob” stuck fast in the mud, and not having strength to withdraw his feet, quietly closed his eyes, and, like a patriarch as he was, he dropped into the soft bed that was awaiting him, and died without a single kick.

No language can describe the consternation of poor Beers. He could not believe his eyes, and vainly tried to open those of his horse. He placed his ear at the mouth of poor old Bob, but took it away again in utter dismay. The breath had ceased.

At last Nelson, groaning as he thought of meeting my father, and wondering whether eternity added to time would be long enough for him to earn the value of the horse, took the bridle from the “dead-head,” and unbuckling the girth, drew off the saddle, placed it on his own back, and trudged gloomily towards our village.

It was about sundown when my father espied his victim coming up the street with the saddle and bridle thrown across his shoulders, his face wearing a look of the most complete despair. My father was certain that old Bob had departed this life, and he chuckled inwardly and quietly, but instantly assumed a most serious countenance. Poor Beers approached more slowly and mournfully than if he was following a dear friend to the grave.

When he came within hailing distance my father called out, “Why, Beers, is it possible you have been so careless as to let that race-horse run away from you?”

“Oh, worse than that – worse than that, Uncle Phile,” groaned Nelson.

“Worse than that! then he has been stolen by some judge of valuable horses. Oh, what a fool I was to intrust him to anybody!” exclaimed my father with well-feigned sorrow.

“No, he ain’t stolen, Uncle Phile,” said Nelson.

“Not stolen! well, I am glad of that, for I shall recover him again; but where is he? I am afraid you have lamed him.”

“Worse than that,” drawled the unfortunate Nelson.

“Well, what is the matter? where is he? what ails him?” asked my father.

“Oh, I can’t tell you – I can’t tell you!” said Beers with a groan.

“But you must tell me,” returned my father.

“It will break your heart,” groaned Beers.

“To be sure it will if he is seriously injured,” replied my father; “but where is he?”

“He is DEAD!” said Beers, as he nerved himself up for the announcement, and then closing his eyes, sank into a chair completely overcome with fright.

My father groaned in a way that started Nelson to his feet again. All the sensations of horror, intense agony, and despair were depicted to the life on my father’s countenance.

“Oh, Uncle Phile, Uncle Phile, don’t be too hard with me; I wouldn’t have had it happen for all the world,” said Beers.

“You can never recompense me for that horse,” replied my father.

“I know it, I know it, Uncle Phile; I can only work for you as long as I live, but you shall have my services till you are satisfied after my apprenticeship is finished,” returned Beers.

After a short time my father became more calm, and although apparently not reconciled to his loss, he asked Nelson how much he supposed he ought to owe him.

“Oh, I don’t know – I am no judge of the value of blood horses, but I have been told they are worth fortunes sometimes,” replied Beers.

“And mine was one of the best in the world,” said my father, “and in such perfect condition for running – all bone and muscle.”

“O yes, I saw that,” said Beers, despondingly, but with a frankness that showed he did not wish to deny the great claims of the horse and his owner.

“Well,” said my father with a sigh, “as I have no desire to go to law on the subject, we had better try to agree upon the value of the horse. You may mark on a slip of paper what sum you think you ought to owe me for him, and I will do the same; we can then compare notes and see how far we differ.”

“I will mark,” said Beers, “but, Uncle Phile, don’t be too hard with me.”

“I will be as easy as I can, and endeavor to make some allowance for your situation,” said my father; “but, Nelson, when I think how valuable that horse was, of course I must mark something in the neighborhood of the amount of cash I could have received for him. I believe, however, Nelson, that you are an honest young man, and are willing to do what you think is about right. I therefore wish to caution you not to mark down one cent more than you really think, under the circumstances, you ought to pay me when you are able, and for which you are now willing to give me your note of hand. You will recollect that I told you when you applied for the horse that I did not wish to let him go.”

Nelson gave my father a grateful look, and assented to all he said. At least a dozen of our joke-loving neighbors were witnessing the scene with great apparent solemnity. Two slips of paper were prepared; my father marked on one, and after much hesitation Beers wrote on the other.

“Well, let us see what you have marked,” said my father.

“I suppose you will think it is too low,” replied Beers, handing my father the slip of paper.

“Only three hundred and seventy-five dollars!” exclaimed my father, reading the paper; “well, there is a pretty specimen of gratitude for you.”

Nelson was humbled, and could not muster sufficient courage to ask my father what he had marked. Finally one of our neighbors asked my father to show his paper – he did so. He had marked “Six and a quarter cents.” Our neighbor read it aloud, and a shock of mirth ensued which fairly lifted Beers to his feet. It was some time before he could comprehend the joke, and when he became fully aware that no harm was done, he was the happiest fellow I have ever seen.

“By thunder!” said he, “I’ve got a dollar and thirty-seven and a half cents, and darned if I don’t treat that out as free as air. I was never scared so bad before in my life.”

Nelson stood treat for the company, and yet having half his money left on hand, he trudged home a happier if not a wiser man.




CHAPTER V (#ulink_7e9371fe-a26f-5ea1-a9e3-e1ad60019efb)

A Batch of Incidents (#ulink_7e9371fe-a26f-5ea1-a9e3-e1ad60019efb)


Money-making – Lotteries – An attractive Scheme – No Blanks – Small Prizes – Predecessors In Humbug – Cutting up Bacon – Out of Breath – An off Ox – White-faced Rum – A Pillar in the Church – A Fish Story – The Tables turned – Taking the Census – Quick Work – Hieroglyphics – A Strange Name – Taking an Oath – Button Moulds – The Tin Peddler – Trading in Whetstones – The Difference – Materials for my Book – The Wood Chopper – Excitement increases – The wonderful Bean – A Joke foreclosed – Death of my Father – A Trade in Bottles – My Lottery – Bottles and Skimmers – Lots of Tin – Doggerel – Mysterious Stockings – Curious Coincidence – An Act of “Charity” – Queer Symptoms – Tit for Tat – Trade in Russia – Comedy of Errors – The Fur flies – The Explanation – Filling Rum Bottles – The Old Pensioners – The Duel – A Dead Shot.

AMONG the various ways which I had for making money on my own account, from the age of twelve to fifteen years, was that of lotteries. One of our neighbors, a pillar in the church, permitted his son to indulge in that line, the prizes consisting of cakes, oranges, molasses candy, etc.; and the morality of the thing being thus established, I became a lottery manager and proprietor. The highest prize was generally five dollars – sometimes less, and sometimes as high as ten dollars. All the prizes in the lottery amounted to from twelve to twenty-five dollars. The cost of the entire tickets was twenty or twenty-five per cent. more than the prizes. I found no difficulty in disposing of my tickets to the workmen in the hat and comb manufactories, etc.

I had Gen. Hubbard as a predecessor in that business. He was a half-witted old fellow, who wandered about the town living upon the charities of its inhabitants. He was eccentric. One day he called in at Major Hickock’s and asked to have his boots soled. When they were finished Hubbard said to the Major, “I thank you kindly.” “Oh, that is more than I ask,” said the good-hearted Major. “‘Thank you kindly’ is two and sixpence, and I ask only two shillings.” “Well, I’ll take the rest in cider,” responded Hubbard.

On one occasion he got up a lottery – capital prize ten dollars, tickets twelve and a half cents each. He sold out all his tickets in a few days and pocketed the money. Coming around in those parts a fortnight afterwards, his customers inquired about their prizes. “Oh,” replied Gen. Hubbard, “I am convinced this is a species of gambling, so I have concluded not to draw the lottery!” His customers laughed at the joke and lost their shillings.

Lotteries in those days were patronized by both Church and State. As a writer has said, “People would gamble in lotteries for the benefit of a church in which to preach against gambling.”

In 1819 my grandfather, Phineas Taylor, and three other gentlemen, were appointed managers of a lottery for such a purpose, and they met to concoct a “scheme.” My grandfather was anxious to adopt something new, so as, if possible, to make it peculiarly attractive and popular. He finally hit upon a plan which he said he was sure would carry every thing before it. It was adopted, and his anticipations were fully realized. The Scheme, as published in the “Republican Farmer,” Bridgeport, July 7, 1819, set forth that the lottery was “By Authority of the State of Connecticut,” for the benefit of the “Fairfield Episcopal Society,” and the inducements held out for the purchase of tickets were as follows:

“The Episcopal Society in Fairfield was at the commencement of the revolutionary war blessed with a handsome Church, completely finished, and painted inside and out, with an elegant set of plate for the communion service, and a handsome Library; also a large and elegant Parsonage-House, with out-houses, fences, &c., which were all destroyed by fire, or carried away at the time the town of Fairfield was burnt, in the year 1779, by the British troops under Tryon, which so impoverished the Society that they never have been able to reinstate themselves; and, as all other Ecclesiastical Societies, and individuals, who suffered losses by the enemy at that time, have long since, in some measure, been remunerated by the Hon. Legislature; and at their Spring Session, 1818, on the petition of the Wardens and Vestry of the Episcopal Church in Fairfield, to the Hon. General Assembly, they granted a Lottery that might in some measure remunerate them also for their so long omitted claims.”

The “Scheme” itself was considered a novelty, for it announced, “Not a Blank in the Lottery.” It was certainly attractive, for while the price of a ticket was five dollars, 11,400 out of a total of 12,000 prizes were set down at $2.50 each!

This favorable state of things justified the managers in announcing, (as they did,) that

“A more favorable Scheme for the Adventurer, we presume to say, was never offered to the public. The one now offered contains more high Prizes than Schemes in general of this amount; and it will be observed that a person can obtain two Tickets for the same money that will buy but one in a Scheme of any other description. Consequently the Adventurer will have two chances for the high Prizes to one in any other Lottery.”

Never was a lottery so popular, before it was drawn, as this. The fear of drawing a blank had hitherto been quite a drawback to investments in that line; but here there was “NOT A BLANK IN THE LOTTERY!” Besides, adventurers had “two chances for the high prizes to one in any other lottery!” Rather slim chances to be sure, when we observe that there were only nine prizes above one hundred dollars, in twelve thousand tickets! One chance in thirteen hundred and thirty-three! But customers did not stop to think of that. Then again, according to the Scheme, “a person can obtain two Tickets for the same money that will buy but one in a Scheme of any other description.”

The tickets sold with unparalleled rapidity. Scarcely a person thought of purchasing less than two. He was sure to draw two prizes of $2.50 each, and at the worst he could lose no more than $5, the ordinary price of a ticket! All the chances were sold some time previous to the day announced for the commencement of the drawing – a fact unprecedented in the history of lotteries. My grandfather was looked upon as a public benefactor. He sold personally more than half the entire number of tickets, and as each manager received a per centage on sales made by himself, there was profit in the operation.

The day of drawing arrived. My grandfather announced each prize as it came from the wheel, and during the twenty-four days required for drawing the twelve thousand numbers at five hundred each day, he called out “two dollars and fifty cents” eleven thousand four hundred times, and various other prizes, all told, only six hundred times!

Persons who had bought two tickets, being sure of losing not more than $5 at the worst, found themselves losers $5.75, for as the Scheme announced “all prizes subject to the usual deduction of 15 per cent.,” each $2.50 prize realized to the holder $2.12, “payable in 60 days.”

The whole country was in an uproar. “Uncle Phin Taylor” was unanimously voted a regular old cheat – the scheme, with “not a blank in the lottery,” was denounced as “the meanest scheme ever invented, and nobody but Phin Taylor would have ever thought of such a plan for deceiving the people!” In fact, from that date till the day of his death, he was called “old two dollars and fifty cents,” and many was the hearty laugh which he enjoyed at the thought thereof. As time wore away, he was declared to be the ’cutest man in those parts, and the public generally became reconciled to consider his famous “Scheme” as a capital practical joke.

The drawing of a State-Church Lottery (under other managers) was advertised in February, 1823, and “adventurers” were assured of this “farther opportunity of obtaining an easy independence for the small sum of $5.” The quiet unction of this announcement is peculiarly refreshing. One chance in only twelve thousand! Such bipeds as “humbugs” certainly existed long before I attained my majority.

My grandfather was for many years a “Justice of the Peace,” and became somewhat learned in the law. As lawyers were not then so plenty in Connecticut as at present, he was sometimes engaged in pettifogging small cases before a Justice. On one occasion he went to Woodbury, Ct., in that capacity. His opponent was lawyer Bacon, an attorney of some celebrity. Bacon despised the idea of contending against a pettifogger, and seized every opportunity during the trial to annoy my grandfather. If the latter objected to evidence introduced by the former as irrelevant or illegal, Mr. Bacon would remind the court that his adversary was a mere pettifogger, and of course knew nothing about law or the rules of evidence. My grandfather took this all very coolly; indeed it gratified him to annoy the learned counsel on the other side. At last Mr. Bacon became considerably excited, and looking my grandfather directly in the face, he said:

“Your name is Taylor, I believe, sir?”

“It is,” was the reply.

“It takes nine tailors to make a man,” responded the lawyer triumphantly.

“And your name is Bacon, I think,” said my grandfather.

“Yes, sir.”

“Bacon is the meanest part of the hog,” rejoined the pettifogger.

Even the court joined in the laughter which followed, and at the same time advised Mr. Bacon to refrain in future from remarks which were unnecessary and unbecoming. The learned attorney exhibited a ready willingness in acceding to the request of the Judge.

My grandfather was troubled with the asthma. One day while walking up a steep hill in company with Mr. Jabez Taylor, (father to Oliver,) an old wag of about his own age, my grandfather, puffing and breathing like a porpoise, exclaimed:

“I wish I could stop this plaguy breathing.”

“So do all your neighbors,” was the facetious reply.

One of our neighbors, “Uncle Sam Taylor,” as he was called, was an eccentric man. He always gloried in being on the contrary side. If a proposition was as plain as the sun at noon-day, Uncle Sam would never admit it. If a question had two sides to it, he would be sure to find the wrong one, just for the sake of the argument. Withal, he was a good-hearted man, and an excellent neighbor. Ask him to loan you his axe or hoe, and he would abruptly reply: “You can’t have it, I don’t lend my tools,” and presently he would bring the article you desired.

I once called to borrow his horse to ride to Danbury. “You shan’t have it,” he replied in a tone that frightened me. I started towards the door quite chop-fallen.

“You will find the saddle and bridle on the stairs,” called out Uncle Sam. The hint was sufficient, and I rode his horse to “town.”

On one occasion Uncle Sam and my uncle Edward Taylor were mowing for Phineas Judd. Mr. Judd visited the meadow several times in the course of the day, and seemed dissatisfied with the labor. In the afternoon he complained that they had not cut as much grass as he expected they would in the same space of time.

“I don’t care any thing about you, Phin,” said Uncle Sam. “I have worked as fast as I am going to do, and faster than you should expect men to work on New England rum.”

“New England rum!” exclaimed Mr. Judd, with surprise. “It is good Santa Cruz.”

“It is the meanest kind of New England rum, Phin, and you know it – real white-face,” said Uncle Sam.

“You are certainly mistaken, Mr. Taylor,” said Mr. Judd, in a tone which showed his feelings were injured. “I told the boy to get the best kind of Santa Cruz rum.”

“No, you didn’t. You told him to get New England rum, and you know it,” said Uncle Sam.

Mr. Judd called up the boy. “What kind of rum did you tell Mr. Weed you wanted?” said Mr. Judd, addressing the boy.

“The best Santa Cruz,” was the reply.

“There,” said Mr. Judd triumphantly, “now you see it is just as I told you, Mr. Taylor.”

“It’s New England rum, and you know it,” replied Uncle Sam, and then addressing my uncle Edward, he said: “Come, Ed, let us take another drink of ‘white-face’ and go on with our mowing.”

They did so, and Mr. Judd left the field with downcast countenance. When he had got out of hearing, my uncle Edward said:

“Uncle Sam, is that really New England rum?”

“No, it is as good Santa Cruz as ever was tasted, but I thought I’d pay Phin for his grumbling,” said the ever contrary Uncle Sam.

“You do like to be contrary,” responded uncle Ed.

“I always was on the contrary side, and I always mean to be,” replied the eccentric old man.

A religious revival took place in Bethel. As is generally the case on these exciting occasions, many persons were awakened, became converted, and joined the church. One man was taken into the church who was not overstocked with brains. When he joined the church one of the deacons, addressing him, said:

“Brother P—, from this time we shall all look to you as one of the pillars of the church.”

Poor P—, looking around and noticing the columns which supported the gallery, not doubting that he was to be placed in a similar position as a “pillar,” burst into tears, exclaiming, “That burthen will be greater than I can bear.”

Another half-witted man was determined to join the church, but not being wanted, he was told that “the church was full.” He then applied for the first vacancy, and waited a long time in patience for death to make a removal, so that he could be admitted.

One old man, who was quite stubborn in his religious notions, attended all the meetings, but was not converted. The village clergyman took that opportunity to urge him to come to the anxious seat – but the old man replied:

“You know my sentiments on this subject, for I have frequently argued points of theology with you. You are welcome to your opinion, I have mine. We don’t agree.”

The next day the clergyman mentioned the old man’s case to one of the Revivalist ministers.

“Oh,” he replied, “that man evidently needs some sound arguments. Introduce me to him, and if his heart don’t become softened I am mistaken.”

The introduction was made, and the clerical stranger said to the old man:

“Have you any objections to listening to some arguments which I desire to offer in favor of your being converted and joining the church?”

“Not at all,” was the reply.

The clergyman then commenced his argument, which lasted three-quarters of an hour. The old man listened attentively.

“Now,” says the clergyman, “what do you think about joining the church?”

“Oh, I suppose it’s well enough for some folks, but I have got so old, it is hardly worth pottering about,” was the curious reply.

As Danbury lies twenty miles from the sea-board, we had no fish market there, but a good substitute was found in numerous fish peddlers, who brought clams, oysters, scallops, and all kinds of fish and samphire in its season from Bridgeport, Norwalk, etc., and sold the same from house to house in such quantities as might be wanted. These peddlers usually each made several trips per week, so that although we were situated inland, we could usually obtain a daily supply of fresh fish. My grandfather, who took great pride in excelling his neighbors in any thing he undertook, made a standing offer of one dollar for the first fresh shad that was brought to our village each season. As customers usually were willing to buy shad only when they were sufficiently plenty to retail at twenty-five cents each, my grandfather was sure to receive his “first shad” annually a week or two before any others were seen in that market. One season, as usual, the itinerant fish merchant coming into Bethel with a load of “porgies,” clams and fresh cod, brought the prize shad and received his dollar. My grandfather invited several of the neighbors to breakfast with him the next morning, and placed his shad in cold water upon his back piazza. Captain Noah Ferry, a precious wag, managed to steal it just in the dusk of the evening and conveyed it to his own house. The neighbors were as usual gathered at the store in the evening. My grandfather countermanded his invitations, and complained bitterly that the shad had been stolen. He could not help thinking that a dog had done it, and concluded that it was destroyed. The neighbors, most of whom were in the secret, pretended to sympathize with the loser.

“Never mind, Phin,” said Captain Noah, “you must be more careful next time and put your fish out of the reach of dogs. As it is, you probably have made no provision for breakfast, so I invite you and Ben and Dr. Haight to come over and breakfast with me. I shall have a nice loin of veal cooked in a new style, which I am sure will please you.”

The invitation was accepted, and Noah purchased a quart of Santa Cruz rum, at the same time enjoining ’Squire Hoyt to be sure and bring over some fresh tanzy in the morning for bitters.

The guests arrived at an early hour, and after a brief social chat, breakfast was announced. Instead of veal, a splendid shad, hot, well buttered, and bearing the marks of the gridiron, appeared upon the table. My grandfather perceiving the joke, and waiting for the hearty “haw-haw” of his neighbors to cease, merely remarked, “Well, Noah, I always suspected you were a thief, and now I am sure of it.” Another laugh from the company gave an additional zest to their appetite, and the “first shad of the season” was soon numbered among the things that were.

The following spring, my grandfather’s prize shad was stolen by a dog. Somewhat more than half of the tit-bit was, however, redeemed from the thief, and put into a pan of clean water on the back piazza. By ’cute management of its owner, Ferry stole the precious morsel, and invited a company to breakfast, as before, without specifying the viands. My grandfather purposely arrived at too late an hour to participate in the luxury. Ferry expressed regret, “for,” said he, “we had the first shad of the season.” When the facts came out, he was thoroughly chop-fallen, and it was long before he forgave the practical joke.

As before stated, my grandfather had a great desire to excel. On his farm he had a particular meadow of ten acres which every season he would have cut, dried, and put into the barn in a single day, merely that he could brag of doing what no one else did. Of course he hired extra help for that purpose. In the year 1820 he was appointed deputy marshal for taking the census in that part of the county. True to his natural characteristics, he was determined it should be done quicker than any predecessor had ever accomplished the same thing. Consequently he arose every morning at daylight, spent little time at breakfast, and mounting his horse started off on his mission, not returning home till dark. He would ride up to a house, give a “halloo,” and immediately address his interrogations to the lady or whoever else happened to come to the door.

“What is the name of this family?” “How many children?” “What sexes?” “What ages?” “How many can read and write?” “Any deaf and dumb,” etc., etc. Then placing his memorandum book in his side coat pocket, he would say “All right,” and gallop off to the next neighbor. My grandfather’s chirography was horrid. It usually looked as if a spider that had dropped into a bottle of ink was permitted to crawl over the paper. He himself could not read it half the time when he had forgotten the purport of the subject he had written about.

He hurried up the census of the territory placed under his charge in twenty-one days. Ten years previously it had taken thirty-nine days. Here was a feat for him to boast of, and he improved the opportunity.

But having once taken the census, it was now necessary to get competent persons to transcribe, or perhaps I might more properly say, translate it. For this purpose he employed Moses Hatch, Esq., a talented and witty lawyer in Danbury, ’Squire Ben Hoyt, who wrote a plain round hand, and his own son, Edward Taylor.

It was a rare treat to see these individuals seated at the table trying to decipher the wretched manuscript that lay before them. My grandfather walked up and down the room, being called every few minutes to explain some name or other word that was as unintelligible as if it had been written in Arabic. He would put on his spectacles, look at it, turn it over, scratch his head, and try to recollect some circumstance which would enlighten him and aid in threading the labyrinth. He had an excellent memory, and would generally manage, after long studying, to make out what he had intended to write. The delay, however, occupied many more days than he had gained in taking the census. At times the old gentleman would lose his patience, and protest that his writing was not half as bad as his transcribers pretended, but that their own obtuseness caused the delay; he would then say, “It is unreasonable to expect me to write, and then furnish brains to enable you to copy it.”

On one occasion Moses Hatch, after puzzling in vain for twenty minutes over something that was intended for a man’s name, called out, “Come, Uncle Pnin, here is a man named Whitlock, but what in all conscience do you call this which you have marked down for his Christian name?”

My grandfather glanced at it for a moment, and said it was “Jiabod,” adding, “Any fool could see that, without calling on me to read it for him.”

“Jiabod!” said Hatch. “Now, what mother would ever think of giving her son such an outlandish name as ‘Jiabod?’”

“I don’t know nor care any thing about that,” replied my grandfather, “but I know it is Jiabod. I recollect the name perfectly well.”

“Jiabod Whitlock,” repeated Hatch; “you are certainly mistaken; you must be mistaken; no man ever could have been named Jiabod.”

My grandfather insisted he was right, and intimated to Mr. Hatch that he desired him to write away and not dispute him when he knew he could not be mistaken.

’Squire Hoyt looked at the word some time, and then said, “Phin, was not his name Ichabod?”

“I declare I believe it was,” said my grandfather, mellowing down considerably.

The transcribers’ laugh nettled him.

“You can laugh, gentlemen,” said he, “but remember under what circumstances that was written. It was done on horseback, in warm weather, and the horse was continually kicking off the flies; the devil could not write legibly under such circumstances.”

“Oh no,” said Hatch soothingly; “as you say, nobody could write plainly on horseback while the horse was kicking off the flies; but only give you a good pen, ’Squire Taylor, and let you sit down to a table, and you do write a beautiful hand!”

My grandfather could not help joining in the merriment that followed this happy hit. It was many years before he heard the last of “Jiabod.”

Doctor Haight, the father of John, was a good-natured joker. He took the world very easily – could tell a good story, and laugh as heartily as any body. His language was not always chosen with the degree of discretion that could be wished, and he consequently frequently slipped out expressions which sounded harshly, especially to those who did not know him.

On one occasion he and Mr. Jonathan Couch, a very worthy and sedate Methodist in Bethel, were appointed administrators on an estate. They visited the Probate Judge at Danbury for the purpose of taking out letters of administration. Judge Cook, who was a gentleman of the old school, received his visitors with considerable dignity.

“Will you please take the necessary oath, gentlemen?” said Judge Cook, with official solemnity.

“I prefer to affirm,” said the conscientious Mr. Couch. The affirmation was solemnly administered by Judge Cook, who then turned to Dr. Haight and said, “Which do you prefer, sir, the affirmation or the oath?”

“Oh, I don’t care a d—n which I take,” said the doctor abruptly. The moral sense of his auditors was of course shocked beyond expression.

Dr. Carrington, Esquire James Clarke, and other well-known jokers of Danbury, were the authors of many anecdotes which I heard in my younger days. The doctor kept a country store. A small farmer coming to trade with him one day, asked him if he took cheese in exchange for goods. “Certainly,” was the reply. The farmer brought in a large bag and emptied out eleven very small cheeses. “Only eleven!” said the doctor counting them; “I can’t do any thing with them.”

“Why not?” asked the farmer.

“There is not a full set – there should be twelve,” responded the doctor.

“A full set of what?” inquired the farmer.

“Button moulds, of course,” was the reply.

Fortunately the farmer was of a humorous turn and took the joke in good part.

“Tin peddlers,” as they were called, were abundant in those days. They travelled through the country in covered wagons, filled with tin ware and small Yankee notions of almost every description, including jewelry, dry goods, pins, needles, etc., etc. They were a sharp set of men, always ready for a trade whether cash or barter, and as they generally were destitute of moral principle, whoever dealt with them was pretty sure to be cheated. Dr. Carrington had frequently traded with them, and had just as frequently been shaved. He at last declared he would never again have any business transaction with that kind of people.

One day a peddler drove up to the doctor’s store, and jumping from his wagon went in and told him he wished to barter some goods with him.

The doctor declined trading, quietly remarking that he had been shaved enough by tin peddlers, and would have nothing more to do with them.

“It is very hard to proscribe an entire class because some of its members happen to be dishonest,” said the wary peddler, “and I insist on your giving me a trial. I am travelling all through the country, and can get rid of any of your unsaleable goods. So, to give you a fair chance, I will sell you any thing I have in my wagon at my lowest wholesale price, and will take in exchange any thing you please to pay me from your store at the retail price.”

“Your offer seems a fair one,” said the doctor, “and I will look over your goods.”

He proceeded to the wagon, and seeing nothing that he wanted except a lot of whetstones, of which the peddler had a large quantity, he inquired the price.

“My wholesale price of whetstones is $3 per dozen,” replied the peddler.

“Well, I will take a gross of them,” said the doctor.

The twelve dozen whetstones were brought in, counted out, and carefully placed upon a shelf behind the counter.

“Now,” said the peddler, “you owe me $36, for which I am to take such goods as you please at the retail price. Come, doctor, what are you going to pay me in?”

“In whetstones at fifty cents each, which will take just six dozen,” replied the doctor gravely, at the same time commencing to count back one half of his purchase.

The peddler looked astonished for a moment, and then bursting into what is termed “a horse laugh,” he exclaimed, “Took in, by hokey! Here, doctor, take this dollar for your trouble (handing him the money); give me back my truck, and I’ll acknowledge for ever that you are too sharp for a tin peddler!”

The doctor accepted the proposed compromise, and was never troubled by that peddler again.

In those days politics ran high. There were but two parties, Democrats and Federalists. On one election day it was known that in Danbury the vote would be a very close one. Every voter was brought out. Wagons were sent into all parts of the town to bring in the “lame, halt, and blind” to cast their votes. The excitement was at its height, when a slovenly fellow who had just voted was heard to whisper to a friend, “I have voted once, and I would go and vote again if I thought the moderator would not know me.”

“Go and wash your face, and nobody would know you again,” said uncle Jabez Taylor, who happened to overhear the remark, and who was on the opposite political side.

My uncle, Colonel Starr Barnum, who is still living, was always famous for a dry joke. On one occasion he and my grandfather engaged in a dispute about the church. My grandfather had contributed largely towards building the Bethel “meeting-house,” and twenty years afterwards, when he invited a clergyman of his own particular belief to preach there, the use of the house was refused him. He was indignant, and in this conversation with my uncle he became much excited, and said “the church might go to the devil.”

“Come, come, my dear fellow; you are going a little too fast, my dear fellow,” said the Colonel; “it don’t happen to be your business to be sending folks to the devil in that way. You are a little too fast, my dear fellow.”

The expression, “my dear fellow,” was a favorite one with my uncle, and was used on all occasions.

In the course of their conversation the belligerents disputed about an ox-chain. Each claimed it as his own. Finally my grandfather seized it, and declaring that it was his, said that no person should have it without a law-suit.

“Take it and go to the devil with it,” said the Colonel in a rage.

“Come, come, my dear fellow,” said a neighbor who had heard all their conversation; “you are a little too fast, my dear fellow. You must not send Uncle Phin to the devil in that way, my dear fellow.”

My uncle saw the force of the remark, and merely replied with a smile, “You must remember, my dear fellow, that he was sending a whole church to the devil, when I was sending only one man there. That, I take it, is a very different thing, my dear fellow.”

The old Colonel, now over seventy years of age, still resides in Bethel. I called on him a few days since. He is quite infirm, but retains his vivacity in a great degree. I spent half an hour with him in talking over old times, and when about to leave, I said, “Uncle Starr, I want to come up and spend several days with you. I am collating facts for my autobiography, and I have no doubt you could remind me of many things that I would like to put into my book.”

“I guess I could remind you of many things that you would not like to put in your book,” grunted the old Colonel with a chuckle, which showed his love of the humorous to be as strong as ever.

My grandfather one day had a cord of hickory wood lying in front of his door. As he and ’Squire Ben Hoyt stood near it, a wood-chopper came along with an axe in his hand. Always ready for a joke, my grandfather said, “Ben, how long do you think it would take me to cut up that load of wood in suitable lengths for my fire-place?”

“I should think about five hours,” said Ben.

“I think I could do it in four hours and a half,” said my grandfather.

“Doubtful,” said Ben; “hickory is very hard wood.”

“I could do it in four hours,” said the wood-chopper.

“I don’t believe it,” said Ben Hoyt.

“I do,” replied my grandfather.

“I don’t think any man could cut that wood in four hours,” said ’Squire Ben, confidently.

“Well, I’ll bet you a quart of rum this man can do it,” said my grandfather.

“I will bet he can’t,” replied Ben, who now saw the joke.

The wood-chopper took off his coat and inquired the time of day

“Just nine o’clock,” said my grandfather, looking through the window at his clock.

“Ten, eleven, twelve, one; if I get it chopped by one o’clock, you win your bet,” said the wood-chopper, addressing my grandfather.

“Yes,” was the response from both the bettors.

At it he went, and the chips flew thick and fast.

“I shall surely win the bet,” said my grandfather.

“I don’t believe it yet,” said Esquire Hoyt.

Several of the neighbors came around, and learning the state of the case, made various remarks regarding the probable result. Streams of perspiration ran down the wood-chopper’s face, as he kept his axe moving with the regularity of a trip-hammer. My grandfather, to stimulate the zealous wood-cutter, gave him a glass of Santa Cruz and water. At eleven o’clock evidently more than half the wood-pile was cut. My grandfather expressed himself satisfied that he would win the bet.

Esquire Hoyt, on the contrary, insisted that the wood-chopper would soon begin to lag, and that he would give out before the wood was finished. These remarks, which of course were intended for the wood-cutter’s ear, had the desired effect. The perspiration continued to flow, but the strength and vigor of the wood-cutter’s arms exhibited no relaxation. The neighbors cheered him. His pile of wood was fast diminishing. It was half-past twelve, and only a few sticks were left. All at once a thought struck the wood-chopper. He stopped for a moment, and resting on his axe addressed my grandfather.

“Look here, who is going to pay me for cutting this wood?” said he.

“Oh, I don’t know any thing about that,” said my grandfather, with great gravity.

“Thunder! You don’t expect I’m going to cut a cord of wood for nothing, do you?” exclaimed the wood-chopper indignantly.

“That’s no business of mine,” said my grandfather; “but really I hope you won’t waste your time now, or I shall lose my bet.”

“Go to blazes with your bet!” was the savage reply, and the wood-cutter threw his axe upon the ground.

The by-standers all joined in a hearty laugh, which increased the anger of the victim. They went to dinner, and when they returned he was sitting on the pile of wood, muttering vengeance against the whole village. After teasing him for an hour or two, my grandfather paid his demands.

The wood-chopper taking the money said: “That’s all right, but I guess I shall know who employs me before I chop the next cord of wood.”

An old gentleman lived in Bethel whom I will call “Uncle Reese.” He was an habitual snuff-taker. He always carried a “bean” in his box, which, he insisted, imparted a much improved flavor to the snuff. “Uncle Reese” peddled clams, fish, etc., on the road from Norwalk to Danbury. On one occasion my grandfather, who was also a snuff-taker, borrowed the bean from him for a few days. In the mean time the borrower whittled a piece of pine into the exact shape of the bean, and then taking it to a neighboring hat shop dropped it into the dye kettle, and thus colored it so that it was almost a fac-simile of the original bean. When Uncle Reese called for his treasure, my grandfather took from his snuff-box its wooden representative, and handed it over with many thanks.

Uncle Reese placed the imposition unsuspectingly into his snuff-box, and went on his way. He was just starting for Norwalk for a load of clams. Before he returned the next day, my grandfather had acquainted nearly all the town with the joke, in every case enjoining secresy. That caution was hardly necessary, for if there was ever a town where the inhabitants universally enjoyed a practical joke, that town was Danbury.

As Uncle Reese passed through Bethel and Danbury the next day, nearly every man, woman and child begged a pinch of snuff, and they all asked, as a particular favor, that it might be taken immediately under the bean, so as to secure some of the extra fragrance. The snuff-box was replenished several times that day. Many persons inquired of him what the properties of the bean were, where it came from, etc. He informed them that it grew on a tree in the East Indies, that it always imparted a peculiar and delightful flavor, and in fact that no snuff was fit for the human nose until it had been properly scented by the bean.

After the illusion had been kept up several days, my grandfather invited some twenty friends to dine with him the following week. “Uncle Reese” was one of the number, for the grand dénouement was appointed for that occasion. The fates were however against him. The victim came into our store to replenish his snuff-box. Dr. Orris Tyler Taylor, a most eccentric individual, (son of Uncle Samuel Taylor,) was present. He asked permission to examine the bean. Uncle Reese assured him it grew on a tree in the East Indies. The doctor run his knife through it, and the piece of pine wood, white as snow, was laid open to view.

“Uncle Reese” was astonished beyond measure. A roar of laughter which followed from all present, convinced him that there was a trick, and that all were in the secret. After a moment’s reflection, he exclaimed, “That old sinner, Phin Taylor, did that!”

My grandfather was never forgiven to the day of his death. He also was sorely chagrined that he could not have been present when the joke was disclosed. He blamed the doctor very much for the premature exposure, and declared he would rather have lost the best cow he owned, than to have had the secret divulged before the day of his dinner-party. I have no doubt he spoke the truth.

My father was brought to his bed with a severe attack of fever in March, and departed this life, I trust for a better world, on the 7th of September, 1825, aged 48 years.

I was then fifteen years of age. I stood by his bedside. The world looked dark indeed, when I realized that I was for ever deprived of my paternal protector! I felt that I was a poor inexperienced boy, thrown out on the wide world to shift for myself, and a sense of forlornness completely overcame me. My mother was left with five children. I was the oldest, and the youngest was only seven years of age. We followed the remains of husband and parent to their resting-place, and returned to our desolate home, feeling that we were forsaken by the world, and that but little hope existed for us this side the grave.

Administrators to the estate were appointed, and the fact was soon apparent that my father had not succeeded in providing any of this world’s goods for the support of his family. The estate was declared insolvent, and it did not pay fifty cents upon a dollar. My mother, like many widows before her, was driven to many straits to support her little family, but being industrious, economical and persevering, she succeeded in a few years in redeeming the homestead and becoming its sole possessor. The few dollars which I had accumulated, I had loaned to my father, and held his note therefor, but it was decided that the property of a minor belonged to the father, and my claim was ruled out. I was subsequently compelled to earn as clerk in a store the money to pay for the pair of shoes that were purchased for me to wear at my father’s funeral. I can truly say, therefore, that I began the world with nothing, and was barefooted at that.

I remained with Mr. Weed as clerk but a little longer, and then removed to “Grassy Plain,” a mile north-west of the village of Bethel, where I engaged with James S. Keeler and Lewis Whitlock, as clerk in their store, at six dollars per month and my board – my mother doing my washing. I soon entered into speculations on my own account, and by dint of economy succeeded in getting a little sum of money ahead. I boarded with Mrs. Jerusha Wheeler and her daughters, Jerusha and Mary. As nearly everybody had a nick-name, the two former ladies were called “Rushia” – the old lady being designated “Aunt Rushia.” They were an exceedingly nice and worthy family, and made me an excellent home. I chose my uncle Alanson Taylor as my “guardian,” and was guided by his counsel. I was extremely active as a clerk, was considered a ’cute trader, and soon gained the confidence and esteem of my employers. I remember with gratitude that they allowed me many facilities for earning money.

On one occasion a peddler called at our store with a large wagon filled with common green glass bottles of various sizes, holding from half a pint to a gallon. My employers were both absent, and I bantered him to trade his whole load of bottles in exchange for goods. Thinking me a greenhorn, he accepted my proposition, and I managed to pay him off in unsaleable goods at exorbitant prices. Soon after he departed, Mr. Keeler returned and found his little store half filled with bottles!

“What under heavens have you been doing?” said he in surprise.

“I have been trading goods for bottles;” said I.

“You have made a fool of yourself,” he exclaimed, “for you have bottles enough to supply the whole town for twenty years.”

I begged him not to be alarmed, and promised to get rid of the entire lot within three months.

“If you can do that,” said he, “you can perform a miracle.”

I then showed him the list of goods which I had exchanged for the bottles, with the extra prices annexed, and he found upon figuring that I had bartered a lot of worthless trash at a rate which brought the new merchandise to considerably less than one-half the wholesale price. He was pleased with the result, but wondered what could be done with the bottles. We stowed away the largest portion of them in the loft of our store.

My employers kept what was called a barter store. Many of the hat manufacturers traded there and paid us in hats, giving “store orders” to their numerous employees, including journeymen, apprentices, female hat trimmers, etc., etc. Of course we had a large number of customers, and I knew them all intimately.

I may say that when I made the bottle trade I had a project in my head for selling them all, as well as getting rid of a large quantity of tinware which had been in the store for some years, and had become begrimed with dirt and fly-specks. That project was a lottery. On the first wet day, therefore, when there were but few customers, I spent several hours in making up my scheme. The highest prize was $25, payable in any kind of goods the customer desired. Then I had fifty prizes of $5 each, designating in my scheme what goods each prize should consist of. For instance, one $5 prize consisted of one pair cotton hose, one cotton handkerchief, two tin cups, four pint glass bottles, three tin skimmers, one quart glass bottle, six tin nutmeg graters, eleven half-pint glass bottles, etc., etc. – the glass and tinware always forming the greater portion of each prize. I had one hundred prizes of one dollar each, one hundred prizes of fifty cents each, and three hundred prizes of twenty-five cents each. There were one thousand tickets at fifty cents each. The prizes amounted to the same as the tickets – $500. I had taken an idea from the church lottery, in which my grandfather was manager, and had many prizes of only half the cost of the tickets. I headed the scheme with glaring capitals, written in my best hand, setting forth that it was a “MAGNIFICENT LOTTERY!” “$25 FOR ONLY 50 CTS.!!” “OVER 550 PRIZES!!!” “ONLY 1000 TICKETS!!!!” “GOODS PUT IN AT THE LOWEST CASH PRICES!!!!!” etc., etc., etc.

The tickets went like wildfire. Customers did not stop to consider the nature of the prizes. Journeymen hatters, boss hatters, apprentice boys, and hat trimming girls bought tickets. In ten days they were all sold. A day was fixed for the drawing of the lottery, and it came off punctually, as announced.

The next day, and for several days thereafter, adventurers came for their prizes. A young lady who had drawn five dollars would find herself entitled to a piece of tape, a spool of cotton, a paper of pins, sixteen tin skimmers, cups, and nutmeg graters, and a few dozen glass bottles of various sizes! She would beg me to retain the glass and tinware and pay her in some other goods, but was informed that such a proceeding would be contrary to the rules of the establishment and could not be entertained for a moment.

One man would find all his prizes to consist of tinware. Another would discover that out of twenty tickets, he had drawn perhaps ten prizes, and that they consisted entirely of glass bottles. Some of the customers were vexed, but most of them laughed at the joke. The basket loads, the arms full, and the bags full of soiled tin and glass bottles which were carried out of our store during the first few days after the lottery drawing, constituted a series of most ludicrous scenes. Scarcely a customer was permitted to depart without one or more specimens of tin or green glass. Within ten days every glass bottle had disappeared, and the old tinware was replaced by a smaller quantity as bright as silver.

My uncle Aaron Nichols, husband of my aunt Laura, was a hat manufacturer on a large scale in Grassy Plains. His employees purchased quantities of tickets. He bought twelve, and was very lucky. He drew seven prizes. Unfortunately they were all to be paid in tin! He took them home one day in his wagon – looking like a tin peddler as he went through the street. Two days afterwards aunt Laura brought them all back.

“I have spent six hours,” said she, “in trying to rub some of this tin bright, but it is impossible. I want you to give me some other goods for it.” I told her it was quite out of the question.

“What on earth do you suppose I can do with all this black tin?” said she.

I replied that if my uncle Nichols had the good fortune to draw so many prizes, it would be presumption in me to dictate what use he should make of them.

“Your uncle is a fool, or he would never have bought any tickets in such a worthless lottery,” said she.

I laughed outright, and that only added to her vexation. She called me many hard names, but I only laughed in return.

Finally, says I, “Aunt Laura, why don’t you take some of your tin over to ‘Aunt Rushia?’ I heard her inquiring this morning at the breakfast table where she could buy some tin skimmers.”

“Well, I can supply her,” said my aunt Laura, taking half-a-dozen skimmers and an assortment of other articles in her apron and proceeding at once to my boarding-house across the street.

“Aunt Rushia,” said she, as she entered the door, “I have come to sell you some tin skimmers.”

“Mercy on us!” exclaimed “Aunt Rushia,” “I have got skimmers enough.”

“Why, Taylor Barnum told me you wanted to buy some,” said aunt Laura in surprise.

“I am afraid that boy is a mischievous young joker,” said aunt Rushia, laughing; “he did that to plague me, for I drew seven skimmers in the lottery.”

Aunt Laura returned more vexed than ever. She emptied the whole lot of tin upon the floor of the store, and declared she would never have it in her house again. She returned home.

I immediately dispatched the lot of tin to her house in a wagon. It reached there before she did, and when she entered her kitchen she found the tinware piled up in the middle of the room, with the following specimen of my poetry dangling from the handle of a tin coffee-pot:

“There was a man whose name was Nick,

He drew seven prizes very slick;

For the avails he took tinware,

Which caused his wife to fret and swear.”

It was several weeks before my aunt Laura forgave me the joke. At about that period, however, she sent me a mince pie nicely covered over in clean white paper, marked on the outside, “A mince pie for Taylor Barnum.”

I was delighted. I cut the string which surrounded it and took off the paper. The pie was baked in one of the unwashed tin platters! Of course I could not eat it, but it was an evidence to me of reconciliation, and that afternoon I took tea with my aunt, where I had enjoyed many an excellent meal before, and have done the same thing scores of times since.

My grandfather enjoyed my lottery speculation very much, and seemed to agree with many others, who declared that I was indeed “a chip of the old block.”

Occasionally some one of my school-mates in Bethel would visit me in the evening, and sleep with me at my boarding-house. James Beebe, a boy of my own age, once came for that purpose. One of our nearest neighbors was Mr. Amos Wheeler, son of the widow, “Aunt Jerusha.” As he and his wife were absent that night, they had arranged that I should sleep in their house, so as not to have their children left alone. I took my chum Jim Beebe with me, as a fellow-lodger. Several days afterwards Jim called on me and said that in dressing himself in the morning, at Mr. Wheeler’s, he had put on the wrong stockings. Instead of getting his own, which were a new pair, he had got an old pair belonging to Mr. Wheeler. They were distinctly marked “A. W.” I told him the only way was for him to return to Mrs. Wheeler her husband’s stockings, and explain to her how the mistake had been made. He did so, and soon returned in a high state of anger. He called Mrs. Wheeler all sorts of hard names. It seems that she examined the old stockings, and notwithstanding the initials of her husband’s name, “A. W.,” were worked into the top of them, she denied that they were his, and of course denied having any stockings in her possession belonging to Jim Beebe.

I confess I thought her conduct was unaccountable. It was difficult to believe that for the sake of a pair of stockings she would state an untruth, and yet it was evident that “A.W.” were not the initials of James Beebe’s name, and that they were the initials of Amos Wheeler. Jim declared that he discovered his mistake on the very day that he dressed himself at Amos Wheeler’s house, and of course Mrs. Wheeler must be mistaken. I showed the stockings to Mr. Wheeler. He did not know so much about his wardrobe as his wife did, but he said he was sure his wife could not be mistaken. Of course we were just as confident that she was mistaken. There could be no doubt about it, but Jim was compelled to take home the old stockings. I was considerably vexed by the circumstance. Jim was downright mad, and declared he would not sleep in Grassy Plains again under any consideration, lest the women might steal all his clothes, and claim them as their own.

I met him a week afterwards, and commenced laughing at him about his old stockings.

“Oh, that is all right,” said he. “You see I happened to sleep with John Williams a night or two before I slept with you, and as all the Williams boys slept in the same room, I got the wrong pair of stockings. John Williams met me a few days ago and told me his brother Adam had a pair of stockings with my initials marked on them, and he concluded therefore that I had worn his and left mine by mistake. I called on Adam, and found that it was as he suspected.”

So it seemed that the A. W. stood for Adam Williams, instead of Amos Wheeler, and that Mrs. Wheeler was right after all. It certainly was a singular coincidence, and made a strong impression on my mind. I have many a time since that simple event reflected that scores, probably hundreds of innocent men have been executed on circumstantial evidence less probable than that which went to prove Amos Wheeler to be the owner of the old stockings bearing his initials.

On Saturday nights I usually went to Bethel to remain with my mother and attend church on the Sabbath. My mother continued for some years to keep the village tavern. One Saturday evening a violent thunder shower came up; it was very dark, and rained in torrents, with occasional intervals of a few minutes. Miss Mary Wheeler (who was a milliner) sent word across to the store that there was a girl at her house from Bethel, who had come up on horseback to obtain her new bonnet, that she was afraid to return home alone, and if I was going to Bethel on horseback that night, she wished me to escort her customer. I assented, and in a few minutes my horse was at “Aunt Rushia’s” door. I went in, and was introduced to a fair, rosy-cheeked, buxom-looking girl, with beautiful white teeth, named “Chairy Hallett.” Of course “Chairy” was a nickname, which I subsequently learned meant “Charity.”

I assisted the young lady into her saddle, was soon mounted on my own horse, and we trotted slowly towards Bethel.

The brief view that I had of this girl by candle-light, had sent all sorts of agreeable sensations through my bosom. I was in a state of feeling quite new to me, and as unaccountable as it was novel. I opened a conversation with her, and finding her affable and in no degree prim or “stuck-up,” (although she was on horseback,) I regretted that the distance to Bethel was not five miles instead of one. A vivid flash of lightning at that moment lighted up the horizon, and gave me a fair view of the face of my interesting companion. I then wished the distance was twenty miles at the least. I was not long in learning that she was a tailoress, working with Mr. Zerah Benedict, of Bethel. The tailoring trade stood much higher in my estimation from that moment than it ever did before. We soon arrived at Bethel, and bidding my fair companion good night, I went to my mother’s. That girl’s face haunted me in my dreams that night. I saw her the next day at church, and on every subsequent Sunday for some time, but no opportunity offered that season for me to renew the acquaintance.

Messrs. Keeler and Whitlock sold out their store of goods to Mr. Lewis Taylor in the summer of 1827. I remained a short time as clerk for Mr. Taylor. They have a proverb in Connecticut, that “the best school in which to have a boy learn human nature, is to permit him to be a tin peddler for a few years.” I think his chances for getting “his eye-teeth cut” would be equally great, in a country barter store like that in which I was clerk. As before stated, many of our customers were hatters, and we took hats in payment for goods. The large manufacturers generally dealt preety fairly by us, but some of the smaller fry occasionally shaved us prodigiously. There probably is no trade in which there can be more cheating than in hats. If a hat was damaged “in coloring” or otherwise, perhaps by a cut of half a foot in length, it was sure to be patched up, smoothed over, and slipped in with others to send to the store. Among the furs used for the nap of hats in those days, were beaver, Russia, nutria, otter, coney, muskrat, etc., etc. The best fur was otter, the poorest was coney.

The hatters mixed their inferior furs with a little of their best, and sold us the hats for “otter.” We in return mixed our sugars, teas, and liquors, and gave them the most valuable names. It was “dog eat dog” – “tit for tat.” Our cottons were sold for wool, our wool and cotton for silk and linen; in fact nearly every thing was different from what it was represented. The customers cheated us in their fabrics: we cheated the customers with our goods. Each party expected to be cheated, if it was possible. Our eyes, and not our ears, had to be our masters. We must believe little that we saw, and less that we heard. Our calicoes were all “fast colors,” according to our representations, and the colors would generally run “fast” enough and show them a tub of soap-suds. Our ground coffee was as good as burned peas, beans, and corn could make, and our ginger was tolerable, considering the price of corn meal. The “tricks of trade” were numerous. If a “peddler” wanted to trade with us for a box of beaver hats worth sixty dollars per dozen, he was sure to obtain a box of “coneys” which were dear at fifteen dollars per dozen. If we took our pay in clocks, warranted to keep good time, the chances were that they were no better than a chest of drawers for that purpose – that they were like Pindar’s razors, “made to sell,” and if half the number of wheels necessary to form a clock could be found within the case, it was as lucky as extraordinary.

Such a school would “cut eye-teeth,” but if it did not cut conscience, morals, and integrity all up by the roots, it would be because the scholars quit before their education was completed!

On one occasion, a hatter named Walter Dibble called to buy some furs from us. For certain reasons I was anxious to play a joke upon him. I sold him several kinds of fur, including “beaver” and “coney.” He wanted some “Russia.” I told him we had none, but Mrs. Wheeler, where I boarded, had several hundred pounds.

“What on earth is a woman doing with ‘Russia?’” said he.

I could not answer, but I assured him that there were 130 pounds of old Rushia, and 150 pounds of young Rushia in Mrs. Wheeler’s house, and under her charge, but whether it was for sale I could not say.

Off he started with a view to make the purchase. He knocked at the door. Mrs. Wheeler, the elder, made her appearance.

“I want to get your Russia,” said the hatter.

Mrs. Wheeler asked him to walk in and be seated. She of course supposed that he had come for her daughter “Rushia.”

“What do you want of Rushia?” asked the old lady.

“To make hats,” was the reply.

“To trim hats, I suppose you mean?” responded Mrs. Wheeler.

“No, for the outside of hats,” replied the hatter.

“Well, I don’t know much about hats,” said the old lady, “but I will call my daughter.”

Passing into another room where “Rushia” the younger was at work, she informed her that a man wanted her to make hats.

“Oh, he means sister Mary, probably. I suppose he wants some ladies’ hats,” replied Rushia, as she passed into the parlor.

“This is my daughter,” said the old lady.

“I want to get your Russia,” said he, addressing the young lady.

“I suppose you wish to see my sister Mary; she is our milliner,” said the young Rushia.

“I wish to see whoever owns the property,” said the hatter.

Sister Mary was sent for, and soon made her appearance. As soon as she was introduced, the hatter informed her that he wished to buy her “Russia.”

“Buy Rushia!” exclaimed Mary in surprise; “I don’t understand you.”

“Your name is Miss Wheeler, I believe,” said the hatter, who was annoyed by the difficulty he met in being understood.

“It is, sir.”

“Ah! very well. Is there old and young Russia in the house?”

“I believe there is,” said Mary, surprised at the familiar manner in which he spoke of her mother and sister, both of whom were present.

“What is the price of old Russia per pound?” asked the hatter.

“I believe, sir, that old Rushia is not for sale,” replied Mary indignantly.

“Well, what do you ask for young Russia?” pursued the hatter.

“Sir,” said Miss Rushia the younger, springing to her feet, “do you come here to insult defenceless females? If you do, sir, we will soon call our brother, who is in the garden, and he will punish you as you deserve.”

“Ladies!” exclaimed the hatter, in astonishment, “what on earth have I done to offend you? I came here on a business matter. I want to buy some Russia. I was told you had old and young Russia in the house. Indeed, this young lady just stated such to be the fact, but she says the old Rushia is not for sale. Now, if I can buy the young Russia I want to do so – but if that can’t be done, please to say so and I will trouble you no farther.”

“Mother, open the door and let the gentleman pass out; he is undoubtedly crazy,” said Miss Mary.

“By thunder! I believe I shall be if I remain here long,” exclaimed the hatter, considerably excited. “I wonder if folks never do business in these parts, that you think a man is crazy if he attempts such a thing?”

“Business! poor man,” said Mary soothingly, approaching the door.

“I am not a poor man, madam,” replied the hatter. “My name is Walter Dibble; I carry on hatting extensively in Danbury; I came to Grassy Plains to buy fur, and have purchased some ‘beaver’ and ‘coney,’ and now it seems I am to be called ‘crazy’ and a ‘poor man,’ because I want to buy a little ‘Russia’ to make up my assortment.”

The ladies began to open their eyes a little. They saw that Mr. Dibble was quite in earnest, and his explanation threw considerable light upon the subject.

“Who sent you here?” asked sister Mary.

“The clerk at the store opposite,” was the reply.

“He is a wicked young fellow for making all this trouble,” said the old lady. “He has been doing this for a joke,” she continued.

“A joke!” exclaimed Dibble, in surprise. “Have you not got any Russia, then?” he asked.

“My name is Jerusha, and so is my daughter’s,” said Mrs. Wheeler, “and that, I suppose, is what he meant by telling you about old and young Rushia.”

Mr. Dibble bolted through the door without a word of explanation, and made directly for our store. “You young scamp!” said he, as he entered; “what did you mean by sending me over there to buy Russia?”

“I did not send you to buy Rushia. I supposed you were either a bachelor or widower, and wanted to marry Rushia,” I replied, with a serious countenance.

“You lie, you young dog, and you know it,” he replied; “but never mind, I’ll pay you off for that, some day;” and taking his furs, he departed with less ill-humor than could have been expected under the circumstances.

“As drunk as a hatter” has long since passed into a proverb. There were some sober hatters in the times of which I write, but there were also many drinking ones. The hatters from out of town bought their rum by the keg or barrel, while those on Grassy Plains kept a man whose almost sole duty it was to go to and from the store and shops with half a dozen rum-bottles of various sizes. Some of these bottles were replenished several times in a day. My business, of course, included the filling of rum-bottles. I suppose I have drawn and bottled more rum than would be necessary to float a ship.

As it required a man of no superior intelligence to be a liquor carrier, the personage filling that office was usually a half-witted sort of fellow, or sometimes a broken-down toper, whose honor could be relied on not to drink until he had arrived at the hat shops with his precious burdens. The man who carried the bottles from the local hat shops the season I lived there was nicknamed “Soft Case.” He did not resent this title, when used by the journeymen and other men, but would not permit the boys to make use of the epithet. He was a harmless sort of chap, usually about half drunk, with just about brains enough to fill the station to which he was appointed. His name was Jacob, and by this name I usually addressed him; but coming in one day while I was in a hurry, I called out, “Well, Soft Case, what kind of liquor do you want today?”

“Don’t call me Soft Case,” said he, indignantly; “I’ll not allow it. I want you to understand, sir, that I am as hard a case as you or anybody else.”

Among our customers were several old Revolutionary pensioners, who usually traded out the amounts of their pensions before they were due, leaving their pension papers with us as security. It was necessary for us, however, in order to obtain the pension money, that the pensioner should appear before the pension agent when his money was due, and sign a receipt therefor. As some of these old men were pretty hard drinkers, it behooved us not to suffer them to trade out all their pension long before it was due, as instances had been known where they had refused to appear and sign their names unless their creditor would present them with a handsome bonus.

The name of one of our pensioners was Bevans. His nickname was “Uncle Bibbins.” He loved his glass, and was excessively fond of relating apocryphal Revolutionary adventures. We could hardly name a battle which he had not been in, a fortress which he had not helped to storm, nor any remarkable sight which he had not seen.

“Uncle Bibbins” had nearly used up his pension in trade at our store. We held his papers, but three months were to elapse before he could draw his money. We desired to devise some plan to get him away for that length of time. He had relations in Guilford, and we hinted to him that it would be pleasant for him to spend a few months with his Guilford friends, but he did not seem inclined to go. I finally hit upon an expedient that I thought would effect our design.

A journeyman hatter, named Benton, worked for my uncle Nichols. He was fond of a joke. I induced him to call “Uncle Bibbins” a coward, tell him he had been wounded in the back, etc., and thus provoke a duel. He did so, and at my suggestion “Uncle Bibbins” challenged Benton to fight him with musket and ball at a distance of twenty yards.

The challenge was accepted, I was chosen second by “Uncle Bibbins,” and the duel was to come off immediately. My principal, taking me aside, begged me to put nothing in the guns but blank cartridges. I assured him it should be so, and therefore that he might feel perfectly safe. This gave the old man extra courage, and caused him to brag tremendously. He declared that he had not been so long in bloody battles for nothing, and that he would put a bullet through Benton’s heart at the first shot.

The ground was measured in the lot at the rear of our store, and the principals and seconds took their places. At the word given both parties fired. “Uncle Bibbins,” of course, escaped unhurt, but Benton leaped several feet into the air, and fell upon the ground with a dreadful yell, as if he had been really shot. “Uncle Bibbins” was frightened. As his second I ran to him, told him that in my hurry to take the ball from Benton’s gun, I had by some mistake neglected to extract the bullet from his, and that he had undoubtedly killed his adversary. I then whispered to him to go immediately to Guilford, to keep quiet, and he should hear from me as soon as it would be safe to do so. He started up the street on a run, and immediately quit the town for Guilford, where he kept himself quiet until it was time for him to return and sign his papers. I then wrote him that “he could return in safety, that almost miraculously his adversary had recovered from his wound, and now forgave him all, as he felt himself much to blame for having in the first place insulted a man of his known courage.”

“Uncle Bibbins” returned, signed the papers, and we obtained the pension money. A few days thereafter he met Benton.

“My brave old friend,” said Benton, “I forgive you my terrible wound and long confinement on the very brink of the grave, and I beg of you to forgive me also. I insulted you without a cause.”

“I forgive you freely,” said “Uncle Bibbins;” “but,” he continued, “you must be careful next time how you insult a dead shot.”

Benton promised to be more circumspect in future, and “Uncle Bibbins” supposed to the day of his death that the duel, wound, blood and all, was a plain matter of fact.

Perhaps I should apologize for devoting so much space, as I have done in the foregoing pages, to practical jokes and other incidents not immediately relating to myself. I was born and reared in an atmosphere of merriment; my natural bias was developed and strengthened by the associations of my youth; and I feel myself entitled to record the sayings and doings of the wags and eccentricities of Bethel, because they partly explain the causes which have made me what I am.




CHAPTER VI (#ulink_daab3625-298e-5c32-99bf-855510f3e55f)

Incidents and Various Schemes (#ulink_daab3625-298e-5c32-99bf-855510f3e55f)


A Toe-string – Spirit of Speculation – On my own Hook – Youthful Restlessness – Successful Experiment – Extending Business – Swearing out the Balance – Seeing the Elephant – Forcing a Settlement – Pettifogging – The Speech Spoiled – My Maiden Plea – A Cheap Wedding – The Disappointed Squire – The Quack Dentist – Geese Feathers – Consultation – The Love-Letter – Vinegar and Honey – Poetical Appeal – Tender-lines – The Compromise – Extravagant Living – A Close Shave – Useful Information – Facts and Figures – The Lottery Mania – Plot and Counterplot – My Marriage – The Irish Peddler – The Mock Trial – Motion to Adjourn – A Real Lawyer – A Scattering Court – Judge Parsons – House keeping – Religious Excitement – Sectarian Politics – The Herald of Freedom – The Libel Suit – In Jail – The Day of Jubilee – Balancing Accounts.



IN the autumn of 1826 Mr. Oliver Taylor, who had removed from Danbury to Brooklyn, Long Island, a few years previously, offered me the position of clerk in his grocery store. He had also a large comb factory in Brooklyn and a comb store in New York. I accepted Mr. Taylor’s offer. The store was at the corner of Sands and Pearl streets.

Many of our customers were early ones, to buy articles for their breakfasts, and I was obliged to rise before daylight. This was so different from my previous habits, that I had much difficulty in waking in the morning. To aid me in my endeavors at diligence, I arranged with a watchman, at two shillings per week, to pull a string which hung out of my chamber-window in the third story, one end being fastened to my big toe.

The arrangement fully answered the purpose, but Mr. Taylor became acquainted with it, through the watchman I believe; and on one occasion there was a more violent pulling than I had bargained for. I howled with pain, ran to the window, and bade the watchman desist, else he would pull my toe off. Not suspecting a trick, I dressed myself, went down stairs, and discovered that it was only half-past twelve o’clock! It was a long time before I ascertained who my tormentor was, though I might reasonably have suspected Oliver; but after that adventure I managed to wake without assistance, and discharged the watchman in toto.

I had not been long in Mr. Taylor’s employment before I became conversant with the routine of the business, and the purchasing of all the goods for the store was soon intrusted to me. I bought for cash entirely, and thus was enabled to exercise my judgment in making purchases – sometimes going into all sections of the lower part of the city in search of the cheapest markets for groceries. I also frequently attended the wholesale auctions of teas, sugars, molasses, etc., so that by watching the sales, noting the prices, and recording the names of buyers, I knew what profits they were realizing, and how far I could probably beat them down for cash. At these auctions I occasionally made the acquaintance of several grocers who wanted small lots of the goods offered for sale, and we frequently clubbed together and bid off a lot which, being divided between us, gave each about the quantity he desired, and at a reduced price from what we should have been compelled to pay if the goods had passed into other hands and thus been taxed with another profit.

My employer manifested great interest in me, and treated me with the utmost kindness, but the situation did not suit me. The fact is, there are some persons so constituted that they can never be satisfied to labor for a fixed salary, let it be never so great. I am one of that sort. My disposition is, and ever was, of a speculative character, and I am never content to engage in any business unless it is of such a nature that my profits may be greatly enhanced by an increase of energy, perseverance, attention to business, tact, etc. As therefore I had no opportunity to speculate on my own account in this Brooklyn store, I soon became uneasy. Young as I was, (and probably because I was so young,) I began to think seriously of going into business for myself, and although I had no capital to start on, several men of means had offered to furnish the money and join me in business. I was just then at an uneasy age – in a transition state – neither boy nor man – an age when it is of the highest importance that a youth should have some discreet friend and instructor on whose good counsel he can rely. How self-conceited, generally, are boys from sixteen to eighteen years old. They feel that they are fully competent to transact business which persons much older than they, know requires many years’ experience. This is the age, too, when the “eighteen-year-old fever” is apt to make fools of young men in other than a business point of view. Boys of this age, and girls of twelve to sixteen, are undoubtedly the most disagreeable persons in the world. They are so wild, so stubborn and self-sufficient, that reflecting parents have great reason for deep anxiety as to the “turn” which they may take.

In the summer of 1827 I caught the small-pox, which, although I had been vaccinated successfully some eight years previously, assumed a very severe type of varioloid. This confined me to the house for several months. The expense attending my sickness made a sad inroad upon my funds. As soon as I was sufficiently recovered, I started for home to spend a few weeks in recruiting my health, taking passage on board a sloop for Norwalk. When the passengers, numbering twenty ladies and gentlemen, came on board, they were frightened at the appearance of my face, which still bore strong marks of the disease from which I had just recovered. By an unanimous vote I was requested to go on shore, and Captain Munson Hoyt, whom I well knew, having been in the habit of visiting his sloop weekly for the purchase of butter, eggs, etc., informed me that he was pained in conveying to me the wishes of the affrighted passengers. Of course I felt compelled to comply, and left the sloop with a heavy heart. I lodged that night at Holt’s old hotel in Fulton street, and the next morning went to Norwalk by steamboat, reaching Bethel the same afternoon.

I spent several weeks with my mother, who was unremitting in her exertions to make me comfortable. During my convalescence I visited my old schoolmates and neighbors generally, and had several opportunities of slightly renewing the short acquaintance which I had formed with the attractive tailoress “Chairy Hallett,” while escorting her on horseback, from Grassy Plains to Bethel, in the thunder shower. These opportunities did not lessen the regard which I felt for the young lady, nor did they serve to render my sleep any sounder. However, “I did not tell my love,” and the “worm in the bud” did not feed on my “pock-marked cheek.”

At the end of four weeks I again left the maternal roof and departed for Brooklyn. In a short time I made arrangements for opening a porter-house on “my own hook,” in the neighborhood of the grocery store; and, giving Mr. Taylor the requisite notice of my desire to leave his employment, he engaged a practised hand as my successor, and I opened the porter-house. Within a few months I found an opportunity of selling out to advantage, and as I had a good offer to engage as clerk in a similar establishment kept by Mr. David Thorp, 29 Peck Slip, New York, I sold out and removed thither. Mr. Thorp’s place was a great resort of the Danbury and Bethel comb-makers, hatters, etc., and this giving me a constant opportunity of seeing my townsmen, made it very agreeable. I boarded in Mr. Thorp’s family, who used me very kindly. He allowed me frequent opportunities of visiting the theatre with such of my companions as came to New York. I had much taste for the drama – soon became, in my own opinion, a close critic, and did not fail to exhibit my powers in this respect to all the juveniles from Connecticut who accompanied me to the theatre.

My habits generally were not bad. Although constantly engaged in selling liquor to others, I probably never drank a pint of liquor, wine, or cordials, before I was twenty-two years of age. I always attended church regularly, and was never without a Bible in my trunk, which I took frequent occasion to read.

In February, 1828, my grandfather wrote me that if I would come to Bethel and establish some kind of business for myself, he would allow me to occupy, rent free, one half of his carriage-house. I had a strong desire to return to my native village, and after several weeks’ reflection I accepted his offer.

The carriage-house referred to was situated on the public street in Bethel, and I concluded to finish off one part of it, and open a retail fruit and confectionery store. Before leaving New York, I consulted several fruit dealers with whom I was acquainted, and made arrangements for sending them my orders. I then went to Bethel, arranged the building, put in a small stock of goods, including a barrel of ale, and opened my establishment on the first Monday morning in May, 1828, that being our military training day.

The hopes and fears which agitated me for weeks previously to this my first grand opening, have probably never had a parallel in all my subsequent adventures. I was worth about one hundred and twenty dollars, and I invested all I possessed in this enterprise. It cost me fifty dollars to fit up my little store, and seventy dollars more purchased my stock in trade. I am suspicious that I received little good from attending church the day previously to opening my store, for I distinctly remember being greatly exercised in mind for fear it would rain the next day, and thus diminish the number of customers for my cakes, candies, nuts, raisins, etc.

I was up betimes on Monday morning, and was delighted to find the weather propitious. The country people began to flock into the village at an early hour, and the novelty of my little shop, which was set out in as good style as I was capable of, attracted their attention. I soon had plenty to do, and before noon was obliged to call in one of my old school-mates to assist me in waiting upon my numerous customers. Business continued brisk during the whole day and evening, and when I closed I had the satisfaction of counting out sixty-three dollars as my day’s receipts! My entire barrel of ale was sold, but the assortment of other goods was not broken up, nor apparently very seriously diminished, so that although I had received the entire cost of my goods, less seven dollars, the stock on hand showed that my profits had been excellent.

I need not attempt to relate how gratified I was by the result of my first day’s experiment. I considered my little store as a “fixed fact,” and such it proved to be. I put in another barrel of ale, and proceeding to New York, expended all of my money for a small stock of fancy goods, and such articles as I thought would find a ready sale. My assortment included pocket-books, combs, beads, cheap finger-rings, pocket-knives, and a few toys. My business continued good during the summer, and in the fall I added stewed oysters to my assortment.

My grandfather had great pleasure in my success, and advised me to take the agency of some lottery dealer for the sale of lottery tickets on commission. Lotteries were at that time legal in Connecticut, and were generally considered as legitimate a branch of business as any other. I therefore adopted my grandfather’s advice, and obtained an agency for selling lottery tickets on a commission of ten per cent. This business, connected with the fruit, confectionery, oyster, and toy establishment, rendered my profits quite satisfactory.

On one occasion a young man of my acquaintance called to examine some pocket-books. He inquired the prices, and finally selected one that pleased him. He said he would take it, but he desired me to give him a credit on it for a few weeks. I told him that had he wanted any article of necessity which I had for sale, I would not object to trusting him a short time, but it struck me that a pocket-book was something of a superfluity for a person who had no money. He replied that it did not strike him in that light, and that he did not see why it was not as proper to seek credit for a pocket-book as for any thing else. He however failed to convince me of the necessity of his possessing such an article until he had something to put into it, and I therefore declined his proposition.

My little store became a favorite resort for the men in our village, and many is the good practical joke that was enacted there.

Danbury is situated about eight miles east of the line which separates the State of Connecticut from that of New York. Several eccentric individuals from “York State” were in the habit of visiting Bethel. Among these was a gray-headed old miller whom I will call Crofut. Another was Mr. Hackariah Bailey, always for short called “Hack Bailey.” Crofut was a very profane man. Almost every other word was an oath. He had become so confirmed in a habit of swearing, that he was quite unaware of the extent of his profanity. He was a man of wealth. He generally visited Bethel to dispose of wheat-flour, bringing it in bags piled up to the very top of a large wagon, drawn by a pair of splendid horses. Crofut and Bailey were both self-willed men. When their minds were made up, there was no turning them. Hack Bailey was a showman. He imported the first elephant that was ever brought to this country, and made a fortune by exhibiting it. He was afterwards extensively engaged in travelling menageries, and subsequently was very successful in running opposition steamboats upon the North River. He built a fine hotel in Somers, N. Y., the place of his residence, called it the Elephant Hotel, and erected a large stone pillar in front of it, on which he placed a golden elephant.

One day, Crofut was in my little store, engaged in conversation with many of our neighbors, who were always sure to congregate about him whenever he came to the village. His language as usual partook largely of the profane. Nathan Seelye, Esq., one of our village justices of the peace, who was a strict man in his religious principles, came in, and hearing the conversation told Mr. Crofut that he considered it his duty to fine him one dollar for swearing.

Crofut responded immediately with an oath, that he did not care a d – n for the Connecticut blue-laws.

“That will make two dollars,” said Mr. Seelye.

This brought forth another oath.

“Three dollars,” said the sturdy justice.

Nothing but oaths were given in reply, until Esquire Seelye declared the damage to the Connecticut laws to amount to fifteen dollars.

Crofut took out a twenty-dollar bill, and handed it to the justice of the peace, with an oath.

“Sixteen dollars,” said Mr. Seelye, counting out four dollars to hand to Mr. Crofut, as his change.

“Oh, keep it, keep it,” said Crofut, “I don’t want any change, I’ll d—n soon swear out the balance” – and he did so, after which he was more circumspect in his conversation, remarking that twenty dollars a day for swearing was about as much as he could stand.

“Hack Bailey,” after making many thousand dollars by the exhibition of his elephant, concluded to take the world a little easier, and in order to avoid the necessity of travelling any more through the country, he sold one half of his interest in the animal to a showman, who agreed to exhibit the elephant and account to Hack for one half the receipts.

After the partner had been absent some weeks, Hack began to look with some anxiety for a remittance. Nothing came, however, and he wrote to his partner to inquire the cause. He received no reply. At last, becoming impatient, he took the stage to Boston, and in the course of a few days overtook his partner at New Bedford, Mass. Hack asked him why he had not remitted his portion of the profits. He was assured, in reply, that there were no profits, that the expenses swallowed them all, etc.

Hack knew better than this, for he had heard that the elephant had drawn large crowds wherever he went, and he saw that many hundreds of persons visited the exhibition in New Bedford. He therefore insisted on a settlement.

“I will settle with you when I return next fall; I have no time now,” replied the stubborn partner.

This reply strengthened Hack’s conviction that his chance for the profits under the present management was a very slim one. He then offered to sell his interest in the elephant to his partner.

“I have elephant stock enough now,” was the reply.

“Well, I will buy out your interest,” said Hack.

“No, I thank you, I don’t care about selling; I am very well satisfied as it is.”

“But I am not,” replied Hack, “and I won’t stand it. You shall not travel any longer in charge of this elephant as long as I own any interest in him.”

“I would like to see you prevent it. Our written contract stipulates that I am to have charge of the elephant, and next fall we are to settle up,” replied the partner.

“But it also stipulates that you are to remit me one half of the profits as fast as they accrue,” replied Hack.

“Yes, and no faster. I tell you there are no profits,” responded the partner.

Hack grew more indignant. “Will you sell your half of the elephant?” he asked.

“No,” was the reply.

“Will you buy my half?”

“No.”

“Then you go no farther with the animal,” replied Hack.

“I know the law, and defy you to try it,” responded the partner.

“I’ll try something that will be effectual, as I am a living man,” said Hack, who now felt the lion fairly aroused within him.

“Try what you please,” was the reply.

The next morning at daylight the partner went to the barn to take the elephant, which was to be led to the next town. He found Hack Bailey standing at the elephant’s side with a loaded rifle.

“Don’t you touch that animal quite yet,” said Hack, raising his rifle.

“Mr. Bailey, do you mean to kill me?” cried the affrighted partner.

“No, sir,” replied Mr. Bailey, “I mean to do nothing but what is lawful. I came here to get my rights. You refuse them to me. You ought to know me better than to suppose you can impose upon me any longer. You have refused to buy or sell – now you may do what you please with your half of that elephant, but I am fully determined to shoot my half!”

The man knew that there was no back-out in the character of Hack Bailey, and he saw also that he was never more in earnest in his life. Hack raised the rifle to his shoulder and pointed it towards the elephant.

“Stop, stop, and I’ll settle,” exclaimed the partner with a look of horror.

“Oh, no, you won’t,” said Hack, proceeding to take aim.

“I will, upon honor,” was the earnest reply.

Hack lowered his rifle, and within half an hour afterwards he had sold his half of the elephant to his partner for a good round price, and the animal thus escaped having the life taken out of at least one half of him.

My grandfather, being a Justice of the Peace, frequently had to sit in judgment upon civil and criminal suits. On one occasion a man was arrested on a grand jury complaint for assault and battery. The case was to be tried before my grandfather. A young medical student named Newton was boarding at my mother’s, and he volunteered to defend the prisoner. Of course pettifogging was new business to Newton, but he thought it would be a good chance to show off his talents to our villagers. Mr. Couch, the grand-jury man, came to me and said that inasmuch as a pettifogger was engaged by the prisoner, he thought the State ought to have some person to defend its interest, and he would give me a dollar if I would go in and argue the case of the State before the Justice. Nothing loth, I accepted the proposition and received my fee in advance.




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