Read the book: «The Life of P.T. Barnum»
THE LIFE OF P. T. BARNUM
Written by Himself
Copyright
William Collins
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
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London SE1 9GF
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This eBook edition published by William Collins in 2017
Classic Literature: Words and Phrases adapted from Collins English Dictionary
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Source ISBN: 9780008284749
Ebook Edition © December 2017 ISBN: 9780008277024
Version: 2017-11-20
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
History of William Collins
Introductory
Chapter I. My Early History
Chapter II. Clerk in a Store – Anecdotes
Chapter III. Sunday School – Old Meeting-House
Chapter IV. Anecdotes with an Episode
Chapter V. A Batch of Incidents
Chapter VI. Incidents and Various Schemes
Chapter VII. Struggling – Joice Heth – Vivalla
Chapter VIII. The Travelling Circus
Chapter IX. The American Museum
Chapter X. European Tour – Tom Thumb
Chapter XI. The Jenny Lind Enterprise
Chapter XII. “Side Shows” – Buffalo Hunt, Etc.
Chapter XIII. Temperance and Agriculture
Chapter XIV. Sundry Business Enterprises
Footnotes
Classic Literature: Words and Phrases
About the Publisher
History of William Collins
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 The Pilgrim’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
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 Bethelfn1 – a captain in the militia in the Revolutionary War. His son Philo was my father.fn2 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
My Early History
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
Clerk in a Store – Anecdotes
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
Sunday School – Old Meeting-House
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 free sample has ended.
