Peter Parley's Own Story
by Samuel G. Goodrich · English · Gutenberg #45165 · 522,040 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Peter Parley's Own Story
Author: Samuel G. Goodrich
Release date: March 18, 2014 [eBook #45165]
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Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PETER PARLEY'S OWN STORY ***
[Illustration: AUNT DELIGHT'S SCHOOL.]
PETER PARLEY'S
OWN STORY.
_FROM THE PERSONAL NARRATIVE OF THE LATE
SAMUEL G. GOODRICH_, ("_PETER PARLEY_.")
With Illustrations.
NEW YORK:
PUBLISHED BY SHELDON & COMPANY,
335 BROADWAY, COR. WORTH ST,
1864.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863, by
THE HEIRS OF S. G. GOODRICH,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, for
the Southern District of New York.
ELECTROTYPED BY SMITH & MCDOUGAL, 82 & 84 BERKMAN ST.
PRINTED BY C. S. WESTCOTT & CO., 79 JOHN ST.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
PAGE
Birth and Parentage--The Old House--Ridgefield--The
Meeting-house--Parson Mead--Keeler's Tavern--The
Cannon-ball--Lieutenant Smith 9
CHAPTER II.
The New House--High Ridge--Nathan Kellogg's Spy-glass--The
Shovel--The Black Patch in the Road--Distrust of British
Influence--Old Chich-es-ter--Aunt Delight--Return after Twenty
Years 16
CHAPTER III.
Ridgefield Society--Trades and Professions--Chimney-Corner
Courtships--Domestic Economy--Dram-drinking--Family
Products--Molly Gregory and Church Music--Travelling
Artisans--Festival of the Quilts--Clerical Patronage--Raising
a Church--The Retired Tailor and His Farm 30
CHAPTER IV.
Habits of the People--Their Costume--Amusements--Festivals--
Marriages--Funerals--Dancing--Winter Sports--My Two
Grandmothers--Mechanical Genius--Importance of
Whittling--Pigeons--Sporting Adventures 45
CHAPTER V.
Death of Washington--Jerome Bonaparte and Miss Patterson--Sunday
Travelling--Oliver Wolcott--Timothy Pickering--American
Politeness quite natural--Locomotion--Public Conveyances--My
Father's Chaise 58
CHAPTER VI.
The Upper and Lower Classes of Ridgefield--Master Stebbins
and his School--What is a Noun?--Deacon Benedict and his Man
Abijah--My Latin Acquirements--Family Worship--Widow
Bennett--The Temple of Dagon 65
CHAPTER VII.
The Clergy of Fairfield--A Laughing Parson--The Three Deacons 79
CHAPTER VIII.
Mat Olmstead, the Town Wit--The Salamander Hat--Solar
Eclipse--The Old Hen and the Philosopher--Lieutenant
Smith--Extraordinary Meteor--Fulton and his Steam-boat--Granther
Baldwin and his Wife--Sarah Bishop and her Cave 87
CHAPTER IX.
Farewell to Home--Danbury--My New Vocation--My Brother-in-law--
His Conversations with Lawyer Hatch--Clerical Anecdotes 108
CHAPTER X.
New Haven--Distinguished Men--Whitney's Cotton-gin--Durham--My
Grandmother's Indian Puddings--In Search of a Doctor--Return
to Danbury--The Cold Friday--Factory Workmen--Mathematics 117
CHAPTER XI.
Arrival at Hartford--My Occupation There--Restlessness--My
Friend George Sheldon 129
CHAPTER XII.
War with England--In the Army--My Uncle's Advice--
Campaigning--On the March--Our Military Costume--My first
Soldier's Supper 134
CHAPTER XIII.
New London--Our Military Reputation--Sent with a Letter--British
Cannon-balls--Out of Harm's Way--An Alarm--On Guard--Take a
Prisoner--Strange Emotions--My Left-hand Chum--A Grateful
Country 138
CHAPTER XIV.
Effects of War in New England--Personal Experience--News of
Peace--Illuminations--Confessions 145
CHAPTER XV.
Evil Effects of Night Study--Commencement of a Literary
Career--Thoughts on Dancing--New York--Saratoga--Death of my
Uncle--Become a Bookseller--Cold Summer--T'other Side of Ohio 149
CHAPTER XVI.
Marriage--Walter Scott--Byron--Sidney Smith's Taunt--Publication
of Original American Works--Mrs. Sigourney 159
CHAPTER XVII.
Domestic Troubles--Sketch of Brainard--Aunt Lucy's
Back-Parlor--The Fall of Niagara--Death of Brainard 164
CHAPTER XVIII.
My First Visit to Europe--Hurricane--Arrival at Liverpool--
London--Travel on the Continent--Return to Bristol--Interview
with Hannah More--Design in Travelling--Visit to Ireland and
Scotland 172
CHAPTER XIX.
The Edinburgh Lions--Literary Celebrities--Jeffrey in
the Forum--Sir Walter at the Desk--Riding with Scotch
Ladies--Beautiful Scenery--A Scotch Mist 179
CHAPTER XX.
Blackwood--The General Assembly--Sir Walter Scott--Mr. and
Mrs. Lockhart--Origin of "Tam O'Shanter"--Last Words of Scott 187
CHAPTER XXI.
En Route for London--"The Laird o'Cockpen"--Localities of
Legendary Fame--Difference between English and American
Scenery 195
CHAPTER XXII.
London again--Jacob Perkins and his Steam-gun--Dukes of
Wellington, Sussex, and York--British Ladies at a Review--House
of Commons and its Orators--Catalani--Distinguished
Foreigners--Edward Irving compared to Edmund Kean--Byron lying
in State 202
CHAPTER XXIII.
Return to the United States--Boston and its Worthies--Business
Operations--Ackermann's Forget-Me-Not the Parent of all other
Annuals--The American Species--Their Decline 216
CHAPTER XXIV.
"The Token"--N. P. Willis and Nathaniel Hawthorne--Comparison
between them--Lady Authors--Publishers' Profits--Authors and
Publishers 222
CHAPTER XXV.
I become an Author--His real Name a profound Secret--How it was
divulged--Great Success--Illness--The Doctors disagree--English
Imitations--Conduct of a London Bookseller--Objections to
Parley's Tales--Mother Goose 232
CHAPTER XXVI.
Children my first Patrons--A Visit to New Orleans--Feelings of
Humiliation--The Mice eat my Papers--A Wrong Calculation 251
CHAPTER XXVII.
I make a Speech--Lecture on Ireland--Politics--Personal
Attacks--Become a Senator--The "Fifteen Gallon Law"--A Pamphlet
in its Favor--"My Neighbor Smith"--A Political Career
unprofitable 257
CHAPTER XXVIII.
Am appointed U. S. Consul to Paris--Louis XVIII.--A few Jottings
upon French Notabilities--Cure for Hydrocephalus--Unsettled
State of Things in Paris 266
CHAPTER XXIX.
Louis Philippe and the Revolution--List of Grievances--The Mob
at the Madeleine--Barricades--"Down with Guizot!"--The Fight
commenced--Flight of the King and Queen--Scene in the Chamber
of Deputies--Sack of the Tuileries 274
CHAPTER XXX.
After the Revolution--"Funeral of the Victims"--The Constituent
Assembly--Paris in a State of Siege--Cavaignac--Louis Napoleon
chosen President 296
CHAPTER XXXI.
The Author's Duties as Consul--Aspect of Things in Paris--Louis
Napoleon's Designs--The 2nd of December, 1852--The New Reign
of Terror complete--Louis Napoleon as Emperor--Out of
Office--Return to New York--Conclusion 301
CHAPTER XXXII.
The Death of Peter Parley 313
ILLUSTRATIONS.
AUNT DELIGHT (_Frontispiece_)
MAKING MAPLE SUGAR 37
DEACON OLMSTEAD 82
FIRST ADVENTURE ON THE SEA 119
THE COLD FRIDAY 124
WHITTLING 167
PETER PARLEY'S OWN STORY.
CHAPTER I.
BIRTH AND PARENTAGE--THE OLD HOUSE--RIDGEFIELD--THE
MEETING-HOUSE--PARSON MEAD--KEELER'S TAVERN--THE
CANNON-BALL--LIEUTENANT SMITH.
In the western part of the State of Connecticut is a small town named
Ridgefield. This title is descriptive, and indicates the general
form and position of the place. It is, in fact, a collection of
hills, rolled into one general and commanding elevation. On the west
is a ridge of mountains, forming the boundary between the States
of Connecticut and New York; to the south the land spreads out in
wooded undulations to Long Island Sound; east and north, a succession
of hills, some rising up against the sky and others fading away in
the distance, bound the horizon. In this town, in an antiquated and
rather dilapidated house of shingles and clapboards, I was born on
the 19th of August, 1793.
My father, Samuel Goodrich, was minister of the Congregational
Church of that place, and there was no other religious society and
no other clergyman in the town. He was the son of Elizur Goodrich, a
distinguished minister of the same persuasion at Durham, Connecticut.
Two of his brothers were men of eminence--the late Chauncey Goodrich
of Hartford, and Elizur Goodrich of New Haven. My mother was a
daughter of John Ely, a physician of Saybrook, whose name figures,
not unworthily, in the annals of the revolutionary war.
I was the sixth child of a family of ten children, two of whom died
in infancy, and eight of whom lived to be married and settled in
life. My father's annual salary for the first twenty-five years, and
during his ministry at Ridgefield, averaged four hundred dollars
a-year: the last twenty-five years, during which he was settled at
Berlin, near Hartford, his stipend was about five hundred dollars
a-year. He was wholly without patrimony, and owing to peculiar
circumstances, which will be hereafter explained, my mother had not
even the ordinary outfit when they began their married life. Yet they
so brought up their family of eight children, that they all attained
respectable positions in life, and at my father's death he left an
estate of four thousand dollars. These facts throw light upon the
simple annals of a country clergyman in Connecticut, half-a-century
ago; they also bear testimony to the thrifty energy and wise
frugality of my parents, and especially of my mother, who was the
guardian deity of the household.
Ridgefield belongs to the county of Fairfield, and is now a handsome
town, as well on account of its artificial as its natural advantages;
with some two thousand inhabitants. It is fourteen miles from Long
Island Sound, of which its many swelling hills afford charming views.
The main street is a mile in length, and is now embellished with
several handsome houses. About the middle of it there is, or was,
some forty years ago, a white, wooden Meeting-house, which belonged
to my father's congregation. It stood in a small grassy square,
the favorite pasture of numerous flocks of geese, and the frequent
playground of school-boys, especially on Sunday afternoons. Close by
the front door ran the public road, and the pulpit, facing it, looked
out upon it on fair summer Sundays, as I well remember by a somewhat
amusing incident.
In the contiguous town of Lower Salem dwelt an aged minister, by
the name of Mead. He was all his life marked with eccentricity, and
about those days of which I speak, his mind was rendered yet more
erratic by a touch of paralysis. He was, however, still able to
preach, and on a certain Sunday, having exchanged with my father,
he was in the pulpit and engaged in making his opening prayer. He
had already begun his invocation, when David P----, who was the Jehu
of that generation, dashed by the front door upon a horse, a clever
animal, of which he was but too proud--in a full, round trot. The
echo of the clattering hoofs filled the church, which, being of wood,
was sonorous as a drum, and arrested the attention, as well of the
minister as the congregation, even before the rider had reached it.
The minister was fond of horses, almost to frailty; and, from the
first, his practised ear perceived that the sounds came from a beast
of bottom. When the animal shot by the door, he could not restrain
his admiration; which was accordingly thrust into the very marrow
of his prayer "We pray Thee, O Lord, in a particular and peculiar
manner--_that's a real smart critter_--to forgive us our manifold
trespasses, in a particular and peculiar manner," &c.
I have somewhere heard of a traveller on horseback, who, just at
eventide, being uncertain of his road, inquired of a person he
chanced to meet, the way to Barkhamstead.
"You are in Barkhamstead now," was the reply.
"Yes, but where is the centre of the place?"
"It hasn't got any centre."
"Well, but direct me to the tavern."
"There ain't any tavern."
"Yes, but the meeting-house?"
"Why didn't you ask that afore? There it is, over the hill!"
So, in those days, in Connecticut, as doubtless in other parts of
New England, the meeting-house was the great geographical monument,
the acknowledged meridian of every town and village. Even a place
without a centre, or a tavern, had its house of worship; and this was
its point of reckoning. It was, indeed, something more. It was the
town-hall, where all public meetings were held for civil purposes; it
was the temple of religion, the pillar of society, religious, social,
and moral, to the people around. It will not be considered strange,
then, if I look back to the meeting-house of Ridgefield, as not only
a most revered edifice, but as in some sense the starting-point
of my existence. Here, at least, linger many of my most cherished
remembrances.
A few rods to the south of this there was, and still is, a tavern,
kept in my day by Squire Keeler. This institution ranked second only
to the meeting-house; for the tavern of those days was generally
the centre of news, and the gathering-place for balls, musical
entertainments, public shows, &c.; and this particular tavern had
special claims to notice. It was, in the first place, on the great
thoroughfare of the day, between Boston and New York; and had become
a general and favorite stopping-place for travellers. It was,
moreover, kept by a hearty old gentleman, who united in his single
person the varied functions of publican, postmaster, representative,
justice of the peace, and I know not what else. He, besides, had
a thrifty wife, whose praise was in all the land. She loved her
customers, especially members of Congress, governors, and others in
authority who wore powder and white top-boots, and who migrated to
and fro in the lofty leisure of their own coaches. She was, indeed, a
woman of mark; and her life has its moral. She scoured and scrubbed,
and kept things going, until she was seventy years old; at which
time, during an epidemic, she was threatened with an attack. She,
however, declared that she had not time to be sick, and kept on
working; so that the disease passed her by, though it made sad havoc
all around her, especially with more dainty dames who had leisure to
follow the fashion.
Besides all this, there was an historical interest attached
to Keeler's tavern; for, deeply imbedded in the north-eastern
corner-post, there was a cannon-ball, planted there during the famous
fight with the British in 1777. It was one of the chief historical
monuments of the town, and was visited by all curious travellers who
came that way. Little can the present generation imagine with what
glowing interest, what ecstatic wonder, what big, round eyes, the
rising generation of Ridgefield, half a century ago, listened to the
account of the fight, as given by Lieutenant Smith, himself a witness
of the event and a participator in the conflict, sword in hand.
This personage, whom I shall have occasion again to introduce to my
readers, was, in my time, a justice of the peace, town librarian, and
general oracle in such loose matters as geography, history, and law;
then about as uncertain and unsettled in Ridgefield, as is now the
longitude of Lilliput. He had a long, lean face; long, lank, silvery
hair; and an unctuous, whining voice. With these advantages, he spoke
with the authority of a seer, and especially in all things relating
to the revolutionary war.
The agitating scenes of that event, so really great in itself,
so unspeakably important to the country, had transpired some
five-and-twenty years before. The existing generation of middle age
had all witnessed it; nearly all had shared in its vicissitudes. On
every hand there were corporals, serjeants, lieutenants, captains,
and colonels, no strutting fops in militia buckram, raw blue and
buff, all fuss and feathers, but soldiers, men who had seen service
and won laurels in the tented field. Every old man, every old woman,
had stories to tell, radiant with the vivid realities of personal
observation or experience. Some had seen Washington, and some Old
Put; one was at the capture of Ticonderoga under Ethan Allen; another
was at Bennington, and actually heard old Stark say, "Victory this
day, or my wife Molly is a widow!" Some were at the taking of Stony
Point, and others in the sanguinary struggle of Monmouth. One had
witnessed the execution of André, and another had been present at the
capture of Burgoyne. The time which had elapsed since these events
had served only to magnify and glorify these scenes, as well as the
actors, especially in the imagination of the rising generation. If
perchance we could now dig up and galvanize into life a contemporary
of Julius Cæsar, who was present and saw him cross the Rubicon, and
could tell us how he looked and what he said, we should listen with
somewhat of the greedy wonder with which the boys of Ridgefield
listened to Lieutenant Smith, when of a Saturday afternoon, seated
on the stoop of Keeler's tavern, he discoursed upon the discovery
of America by Columbus, Braddock's defeat, and the old French war;
the latter a real epic, embellished with romantic episodes of Indian
massacres and captivities. When he came to the Revolution, and spoke
of the fight at Ridgefield, and punctuated his discourse with a
present cannon-ball, sunk six inches deep in a corner-post of the
very house in which we sat, you may well believe it was something
more than words--it was, indeed, "action, action, glorious action!"
How little can people now-a-days comprehend or appreciate these
things!
CHAPTER II.
THE NEW HOUSE--HIGH RIDGE--NATHAN KELLOGG'S SPY-GLASS--THE
SHOVEL--THE BLACK PATCH IN THE ROAD--DISTRUST OF BRITISH
INFLUENCE--OLD CHICH-ES-TER--AUNT DELIGHT--RETURN AFTER TWENTY
YEARS.
My memory goes distinctly back to the year 1797, when I was four
years old. At that time a great event happened--great in the narrow
horizon of childhood: we removed from the Old House to the New House!
This latter, situated on a road tending westward and branching from
the main street, my father had just built; and it then appeared
to me quite a stately mansion and very beautiful, inasmuch as it
was painted red behind and white in front: most of the dwellings
thereabouts being of the dun complexion which pine-boards and
chestnut-shingles assume, from exposure to the weather. Long after,
having been absent twenty years, I revisited this my early home, and
found it shrunk into a very small and ordinary two-story dwelling,
wholly divested of its paint, and scarcely thirty feet square.
This building, apart from all other dwellings, was situated on what
is called High Ridge, a long hill, looking down upon the village,
and commanding an extensive view of the surrounding country. From
our upper windows, this was at once beautiful and diversified. On
the south, as I have said, the hills sloped in a sea of undulations
down to Long Island Sound, a distance of some fourteen miles. This
beautiful sheet of water, like a strip of pale sky, with the island
itself, more deeply tinted, beyond, was visible in fair weather, for
a stretch of sixty miles, to the naked eye. The vessels, even the
smaller ones, sloops, schooners, and fishing-craft, could be seen,
creeping like insects over the surface. With a spy-glass--and my
father had one bequeathed to him by Nathan Kellogg, a sailor, who
made rather a rough voyage of life, but anchored at last in the bosom
of the Church, as this bequest intimates--we could see the masts,
sails, and rigging. It was a poor, dim affair, compared with modern
instruments of the kind; but to me, its revelations of an element
which then seemed as beautiful, as remote, and as mystical as the
heavens, surpassed the wonders of the firmament.
To the west, at a distance of three miles, lay the undulating ridge
of hills, cliffs, and precipices already mentioned, and which bear
the name of West Mountain. They are some five hundred feet in height,
and from our point of view had an imposing appearance. Beyond them,
in the far distance, glimmered the peaks of the highlands along the
Hudson. These two prominent features of the spreading landscape--the
sea and the mountain, ever present, yet ever remote--impressed
themselves on my young imagination with all the enchantment which
distance lends to the view. I have never lost my first love. Never,
even now, do I catch a glimpse of either of these two rivals of
nature, such as I first learned them by heart, but I feel a gush of
emotion as if I had suddenly met with the cherished companions of my
childhood. In after days, even the purple velvet of the Apennines
and the poetic azure of the Mediterranean, have derived additional
beauty to my imagination from mingling with these vivid associations
of my childhood.
It was to the New House, then, thus situated, that we removed, as
I have stated, when I was four years old. On that great occasion,
everything available for draught or burden was put in requisition;
and I was permitted, or required, I forget which, to carry the
_peel_, as it was then called, but which would now bear the title of
"shovel." Birmingham had not then been heard of in those parts, or at
least was a great way off; so this particular utensil had been forged
expressly for my father by David Olmstead, the blacksmith, as was the
custom in those days. I recollect it well, and can state that it was
a sturdy piece of iron, the handle being four feet long, with a knob
at the end. As I carried it along, I doubtless felt a touch of that
consciousness of power which must have filled the breast of Samson
as he bore off the gates of Gaza. I recollect perfectly well to have
perspired under the operation, for the distance of our migration was
half-a-mile, and the season was summer.
One thing more I remember: I was barefoot; and as we went up the
lane which diverged from the main road to the house, we passed over
a patch of earth blackened by cinders, where my feet were hurt by
pieces of melted glass and metal. I inquired what this meant, and was
told that here a house was burned down by the British troops already
mentioned, and then in full retreat, as a signal to the ships that
awaited them in the Sound, where they had landed, and where they
intended to embark.
This detail may seem trifling; but it is not without significance.
It was the custom in those days for boys to go barefoot in the mild
season. I recollect few things in life more delightful than, in the
spring, to cast away my shoes and stockings, and have a glorious
scamper over the fields. Many a time, contrary to the express
injunctions of my mother, have I stolen this bliss; and many a time
have I been punished by a severe cold for my disobedience. Yet the
bliss then seemed a compensation for the retribution. In these
exercises I felt as if stepping on air; as if leaping aloft on wings.
I was so impressed with the exultant emotions thus experienced, that
I repeated them a thousand times in happy dreams; especially in my
younger days. Even now these visions sometimes come to me in sleep,
though with a lurking consciousness that they are but a mockery of
the past; sad monitors of the change which time has wrought upon me.
As to the black patch in the lane, that, too, had its meaning.
The story of a house burned down by a foreign army seized upon my
imagination. Every time I passed the place I ruminated upon it,
and put a hundred questions as to how and when it happened. I was
soon master of the whole story, and of other similar events which
had occurred all over the country. I was thus initiated into the
spirit of that day, and which has never wholly subsided in our
country; inasmuch as the war of the Revolution was alike unjust in
its origin, and cruel as to the manner in which it was waged. It
was, moreover, fought on our own soil; thus making the whole people
share, personally, in its miseries. There was scarcely a family in
Connecticut whom it did not visit, either immediately or remotely,
with the shadows of mourning and desolation. The British nation,
to whom this conflict was a foreign war, are slow to comprehend
the popular dislike of England, here in America. Could they know
the familiar annals of our towns and villages--burn, plundered,
sacked--with all the attendant horrors, for the avowed purpose of
punishing a nation of rebels, and those rebels of their own kith and
kin: could they be made acquainted with the deeds of those twenty
thousand Hessians, sent hither by King George, and who have left
their name in our language as a word signifying brigands, who sell
their blood and commit murder for hire: could they thus read the
history of minds and hearts, influenced at the fountains of life for
several generations, they would perhaps comprehend, if they could not
approve, the habitual distrust of British influence, which lingers
among our people.
About three-fourths of a mile from my father's house, on the winding
road to Lower Salem, which I have already mentioned, and which bore
the name of West Lane, was the school-house where I took my first
lessons, and received the foundations of my very slender education.
I have since been sometimes asked where I graduated: my reply has
always been, "At West Lane." Generally speaking, this has ended
the inquiry; whether, because my questioners have confounded this
venerable institution with "Lane Seminary," or have not thought it
worth while to risk an exposure of their ignorance as to the college
in which I was educated, I am unable to say.
The site of the school-house was a triangular piece of land,
measuring perhaps a rood in extent, and lying, according to the
custom of those days, at the meeting of four roads. The ground
hereabouts--as everywhere else in Ridgefield--was exceedingly stony;
and, in making the pathway, the stones had been thrown out right and
left, and there remained in heaps on either side, from generation
to generation. All around was bleak and desolate. Loose, squat stone
walls, with innumerable breaches, inclosed the adjacent fields. A few
tufts of elder, with here and there a patch of briers and pokeweed,
flourished in the gravelly soil. Not a tree, however, remained; save
an aged chestnut, at the western angel of the space. This, certainly,
had not been spared for shade or ornament, but probably because it
would have cost too much labor to cut it down; for it was of ample
girth. At all events, it was the oasis in our desert during summer;
and in autumn, as the burrs disclosed its fruit, it resembled a
besieged city; the boys, like so many catapults, hurled at it stones
and sticks, until every nut had capitulated.
Two houses only were at hand: one, surrounded by an ample barn, a
teeming orchard, and an enormous wood-pile, belonging to Granther
Baldwin; the other was the property of "Old Chich-es-ter;" an
uncouth, unsocial being, whom everybody, for some reason or other,
seemed to despise and shun. His house was of stone, and of one story.
He had a cow, which every year had a calf. He had a wife--dirty and
uncombed, and vaguely reported to have been brought from the old
country. This is about the whole history of the man, so far as it
is written in the authentic traditions of the parish. His premises,
an acre in extent, consisted of a tongue of land between two of the
converging roads. No boy, that I ever heard of, ventured to cast a
stone, or to make an incursion into this territory, though it lay
close to the school-house. I have often, in passing, peeped timidly
over the walls, and caught glimpses of a stout man with a drab coat,
drab breeches, and drab gaiters, prowling about the house; but never
did I discover him outside of his own dominion. I know it was darkly
intimated he had been tarred and feathered in the revolutionary war;
but as to the rest, he was a perfect myth.
The school-house itself consisted of rough, unpainted clapboards,
upon a wooden frame. It was plastered within, and contained two
apartments, a little entry, taken out of a corner for a wardrobe, and
the school-room proper. The chimney was of stone, and pointed with
mortar, which, by the way, had been dug into a honeycomb by uneasy
and enterprising penknives. The fireplace was six feet wide and four
feet deep. The flue was so ample and so perpendicular, that the rain,
sleet, and snow fell directly to the hearth. In winter, the battle
for life with green fizzling fuel, which was brought in lengths and
cut up by the scholars, was a stern one. Not unfrequently the wood,
gushing with sap as it was, chanced to go out, and as there was no
living without fire, the thermometer being ten or twenty degrees
below zero, the school was dismissed, whereat all the scholars
rejoiced aloud, not having the fear of the schoolmaster before their
eyes.
It was the custom at this place to have a woman's school in the
summer months, and this was attended only by young children. It was,
in fact, what we now call a primary or infant school. In winter,
a man was employed as teacher, and then the girls and boys of the
neighborhood, up to the age of eighteen, or even twenty, were among
the pupils. It was not uncommon, at this season, to have forty
scholars crowded into this little building.
I was about six years old when I first went to school. My teacher was
Aunt Delight, that is Delight Benedict, a maiden lady of fifty, short
and bent, of sallow complexion and solemn aspect. I remember the
first day with perfect distinctness. I went alone--for I was familiar
with the road, it being that which passed by our old house. I carried
a little basket, with bread and butter within, for my dinner, and
this was covered over with a white cloth. When I had proceeded about
half way, I lifted the cover, and debated whether I would not eat my
dinner then. I believe it was a sense of duty only that prevented
my doing so, for in those happy days I always had a keen appetite.
Bread and butter were then infinitely superior to _pâté de foie gras_
now; but still, thanks to my training, I had also a conscience. As my
mother had given me the food for dinner, I did not think it right to
convert it into lunch, even though I was strongly tempted.
I think we had seventeen scholars--boys and girls--mostly of my own
age. Among them were some of my after-companions. I have since met
several of them--one at Savannah and two at Mobile--respectably
established, and with families around them. Some remain, and are
now among the grey old men of the town: the names of others I have
seen inscribed on the tombstones of their native village. And the
rest--where are they?
The school being assembled, we were all seated upon benches, made
of what were called _slabs_--that is, boards having the exterior or
rounded part of the log on one side: as they were useless for other
purposes, these were converted into school-benches, the rounded part
down. They had each four supports, consisting of straddling wooden
legs set into augur-holes. Our own legs swayed in the air, for they
were too short to touch the floor. Oh, what an awe fell over me,
when we were all seated and silence reigned around!
The children were called up one by one to Aunt Delight, who sat
on a low chair, and required each, as a preliminary, "to make his
manners," which consisted of a small, sudden nod. She then placed
the spelling-book--which was Dilworth's--before the pupil, and with
a buck-handled penknife pointed, one by one, to the letters of the
alphabet, saying, "What's that?" If the child knew his letters, the
"what's that?" very soon ran on thus:--
"What's that?"
"A."
"'Stha-a-t?"
"B."
"Sna-a-a-t?"
"C."
"Sna-a-a-t?"
"D." &c.
I looked upon these operations with intense curiosity and no small
respect, until my own turn came. I went up to the schoolmistress with
some emotion, and when she said, rather spitefully, as I thought,
"Make your obeisance!" my little intellects all fled away, and I did
nothing. Having waited a second, gazing at me with indignation, she
laid her hand on the top of my head, and gave it a jerk which made my
teeth clash. I believe I bit my tongue a little; at all events, my
sense of dignity was offended, and when she pointed to A, and asked
what it was, it swam before me dim and hazy, and as big as a full
moon. She repeated the question, but I was doggedly silent. Again, a
third time, she said, "What's that?" I replied: "Why don't you tell
me what it is? I didn't come here to learn you your letters." I
have not the slightest remembrance of this, for my brains were all a
wool-gathering; but as Aunt Delight affirmed it to be a fact, and it
passed into a tradition in my family, I put it in.
What immediately followed I do not clearly remember, but one result
is distinctly traced in my memory. In the evening of this eventful
day the schoolmistress paid my parents a visit, and recounted to
their astonished ears this my awful contempt of authority. My father,
after hearing the story, got up and went away; but my mother, who
was a careful disciplinarian, told me not to do so again! I always
had a suspicion that both of them smiled on one side of their faces,
even while they seemed to sympathize with the old lady on the other;
still, I do not affirm it, for I am bound to say of both my parents,
that I never knew them, even in trifles, say one thing while they
meant another.
I believe I achieved the alphabet that summer, but my after progress,
for a long time, I do not remember. Two years later I went to the
winter school at the same place, kept by Lewis Olmstead--a man who
made a business of ploughing, mowing, carting manure, &c., in the
summer, and of teaching school in the winter; with a talent for music
at all seasons, wherefore he became chorister upon occasion, when,
peradventure, Deacon Hawley could not officiate. He was a celebrity
in ciphering, and Squire Seymour declared that he was the greatest
"arithmeticker" in Fairfield county. All I remember of his person
is his hand, which seemed to me as big as Goliath's, judging by the
claps of thunder it made in my ears on one or two occasions.
The next step of my progress which is marked in my memory, is the
spelling of words of two syllables. I did not go very regularly
to school, but by the time I was ten years old I had learned to
write, and had made a little progress in arithmetic. There was not
a grammar, a geography, or a history of any kind in the school.
Reading, writing, and arithmetic were the only things taught, and
these very indifferently--not wholly from the stupidity of the
teacher, but because he had forty scholars, and the custom of the
age required no more than he performed. I did as well as the other
scholars, certainly no better. I had excellent health and joyous
spirits; in leaping, running, and wrestling I had but one superior of
my age, and that was Stephen Olmstead, a snug-built fellow, smaller
than myself, and who, despite our rivalry, was my chosen friend and
companion. I seemed to live for play: alas! how the world has changed
since then!
After I had left my native town for some twenty years, I returned and
paid it a visit. Among the monuments that stood high in my memory
was the West Lane school-house. Unconsciously carrying with me the
measures of childhood, I had supposed it to be thirty feet square;
how had it dwindled when I came to estimate it by the new standards
I had formed! It was in all things the same, yet wholly changed
to me. What I had deemed a respectable edifice, as it now stood
before me was only a weather-beaten little shed, which, upon being
measured, I found to be less than twenty feet square. It happened
to be a warm summer day, and I ventured to enter the place. I found
a girl, some eighteen years old, keeping a ma'am school for about
twenty scholars, some of whom were studying Parley's Geography. The
mistress was the daughter of one of my schoolmates, and some of the
boys and girls were grandchildren of the little brood which gathered
under the wing of Aunt Delight, when I was an abecedarian. None of
them, not even the schoolmistress, had ever heard of me. The name of
my father, as having ministered to the people of Ridgefield in some
bygone age, was faintly traced in their recollection. As to Peter
Parley, whose geography they were learning, they supposed him to be
a decrepit old gentleman hobbling about on a crutch, a long way off,
for whom, nevertheless, they had a certain affection, inasmuch as
he had made geography into a story-book. The frontispiece picture
of the old fellow, with his gouty foot in a chair, threatening the
boys that if they touched his tender toe he would tell them no more
stories, secured their respect, and placed him among the saints in
the calendar of their young hearts. "Well," thought I, "if this goes
on, I may yet rival Mother Goose!"
I hope the reader will not imagine that I am thinking too little of
his amusement and too much of my own, if I stop a few moments to note
the lively recollections I entertain of the joyousness of my early
life, and not of mine only, but that of my playmates and companions.
In looking back to those early days, the whole circle of the seasons
seems to me almost like one unbroken morning of pleasure.
I was of course subjected to the usual crosses incident to my age,
those painful and mysterious visitations sent upon children--the
measles, mumps, whooping-cough, and the like; usually regarded as
retributions for the false step of our mother Eve in the Garden; but
they have almost passed from my memory, as if overflowed and borne
away by the general drift of happiness which filled my bosom. Among
these calamities, one monument alone remains--the small-pox. It was
in the year 1798, as I well remember, that my father's house was
converted into a hospital, or, as it was then called, a "pest-house,"
where, with some dozen other children, I was inoculated for this
disease, then the scourge and terror of the world.
The lane in which our house was situated was fenced up, north and
south, so as to cut off all intercourse with the world around. A flag
was raised, and upon it were inscribed the ominous words, "[Hand
symbol pointing right] SMALL-POX." My uncle and aunt, from New
Haven, arrived with their three children. Half-a-dozen others of the
neighborhood were gathered together, making, with our own children,
somewhat over a dozen subjects for the experiment. When all was
ready, like Noah and his family, we were shut in. Provisions were
deposited in a basket at a point agreed upon, down the lane. Thus
we were cut off from the world, excepting only that Dr. Perry, the
physician, ventured to visit us.
As to myself, the disease passed lightly over, leaving, however, its
indisputable autographs on various parts of my body. Were it not for
these testimonials, I should almost suspect that I had escaped the
disease, for I only remember, among my symptoms and my sufferings,
a little headache, and the privation of salt and butter upon my
hasty-pudding. My restoration to these privileges I distinctly
recollect: doubtless these gave me more pleasure than the clean
bill of health which they implied. Several of the patients suffered
severely, and among them my brother and one of my cousins.
But although there is evidence that I was subject to the usual
drawbacks upon the happiness of childhood, these were so few that
they have passed from my mind; and those early years, as I look
back to them, seem to have flowed on in one bright current of
uninterrupted enjoyment.
CHAPTER III.
RIDGEFIELD SOCIETY--TRADES AND PROFESSIONS--CHIMNEY-CORNER
COURTSHIPS--DOMESTIC ECONOMY--DRAM-DRINKING--FAMILY
PRODUCTS--MOLLY GREGORY AND CHURCH MUSIC--TRAVELLING
ARTISANS--FESTIVAL OF THE QUILTS--CLERICAL PATRONAGE--RAISING
A CHURCH--THE RETIRED TAILOR AND HIS FARM.
Let me now give you a sketch of Ridgefield and of the people, how
they lived, thought, and felt, at the beginning of the present
century. It will give you a good idea of the rustic life of New
England fifty years ago.
From what I have already said, you will easily imagine the prominent
physical characteristics and aspect of my native town: a general mass
of hills, rising up in a crescent of low mountains, and commanding
a wide view on every side. The soil was naturally hard, and thickly
sown with stones of every size. The fields were divided by rude stone
walls, and the surface of most of them was dotted with gathered
heaps of stones and rocks, thus clearing spaces for cultivation, yet
leaving a large portion of the land still encumbered. The climate was
severe, on account of the elevation of the site, yet this was perhaps
fully compensated by its salubrity.
Yet, despite the somewhat forbidding nature of the soil and climate
of Ridgefield, it may be regarded as presenting a favorable example
of New England country life and society at the time I speak of.
The town was originally settled by a sturdy race of men, mostly
the immediate descendants of English emigrants, some from Milford.
Their migration over an intervening space of savage hills, rocks and
ravines, into a territory so uninviting, and their speedy conversion
of this into a thriving and smiling village, bear witness to their
courage and energy.
At the time referred to, the date of my earliest recollection, the
society of Ridgefield was exclusively English. I remember but one
Irishman, one negro, and one Indian in the town. The first had begged
and blarneyed his way from Long Island, where he had been wrecked;
the second was a liberated slave; and the last was the vestige of
a tribe which dwelt of yore in a swampy tract, the name of which I
have forgotten. We had a professional beggar, called Jagger, who had
served in the armies of more than one of the Georges, and insisted
upon crying, "God save the king!" even on the 4th of July, and when
openly threatened by the boys with a gratuitous ride on a rail. We
had one settled pauper, Mrs. Yabacomb, who, for the first dozen years
of my life, was my standard type for the witch of Endor.
Nearly all the inhabitants of Ridgefield were farmers, with the few
mechanics that were necessary to carry on society in a somewhat
primeval state. Even the persons not professionally devoted to
agriculture had each his farm, or at least his garden and home lot,
with his pigs, poultry, and cattle. The population might have been
1200, comprising two hundred families. All could read and write, but
in point of fact, beyond the Almanac and Watts' Psalms and Hymns,
their literary acquirements had little scope. There were, I think,
four newspapers, all weekly, published in the State: one at Hartford,
one at New London, one at New Haven, and one at Litchfield. There
were, however, not more than three subscribers to all these in
our village. We had, however, a public library of some two hundred
volumes, and, what was of equal consequence, the town was on the
road which was then the great thoroughfare, connecting Boston with
New York; and hence we had means of intelligence from travellers
constantly passing through the place, which kept us acquainted with
the march of events.
If Ridgefield was thus rather above the average of Connecticut
villages in civilization, I suppose the circumstances and modes of
life in my father's family were somewhat above those of most people
around us. We had a farm of forty acres, with four cows, two horses,
and some dozen sheep, to which may be added a stock of poultry,
including a flock of geese. My father carried on the farm, besides
preaching two sermons a-week, and visiting the sick, attending
funerals, solemnizing marriages, &c. He laid out the beds and planted
the garden; pruned the fruit-trees, and worked with the men in the
meadow in hay-time. He generally cut the corn-stalks himself, and
always shelled the ears; the latter being done by drawing them
across the handle of the frying-pan, fastened over a wash-tub. I
was sometimes permitted, as an indulgence, to share this favorite
employment with my father. With these and a few other exceptions, our
agricultural operations were carried on by hired help.
It was the custom in New England, at the time I speak of, for
country lawyers, physicians, clergymen, even doctors of divinity, to
partake of these homespun labors. In the library of the Athenæum,
at Hartford, is a collection of almanacs, formerly belonging to
John Cotton Smith--one of the most elegant and accomplished men of
his time--a distinguished Member of Congress, Judge of the Superior
Court, and several years Governor of the State; in looking it over,
I observed such notes as the following, made with his own hand: "Cut
my barley," "began rye harvest," "planted field of potatoes," &c.:
thus showing his personal attention to, if not his participation in,
the affairs of the farm. Nearly all the judges of the Superior Court
occasionally worked in the field, in these hearty old federal times.
But I returned to Ridgefield. The household, as well as political,
economy of those days lay in this,--that every family lived as
much as possible within itself. Money was scarce, wages being
about fifty cents a-day, though these were generally paid in meat,
vegetables, and other articles of use--seldom in money. There was
not a factory of any kind in the place.[1] There was a butcher, but
he only went from house to house to slaughter the cattle and swine
of his neighbors. There was a tanner, but he only dressed other
people's skins. There was a clothier, but he generally fulled and
dressed other people's cloth. All this is typical of the mechanical
operations of the place. Even dyeing blue a portion of the wool, so
as to make linsey-woolsey for short gowns, aprons, and blue-mixed
stockings--vital necessities in those days--was a domestic operation.
During the autumn, a dye-tub in the chimney corner--thus placed so as
to be cherished by the genial heat--was as familiar in all thrifty
houses as the Bible or the back-log. It was covered with a board,
and formed a cosy seat in the wide-mouthed fireplace, especially
of a chill evening. When the night had waned, and the family had
retired, it frequently became the anxious seat of the lover, who was
permitted to carry on his courtship, the object of his addresses
sitting demurely in the opposite corner. Some of the first families
in Connecticut, I suspect, could their full annals be written, would
find their foundations to have been laid in these chimney-corner
courtships.
Being thus exposed, the dye-tub was the frequent subject of
distressing and exciting accidents. Among the early, indelible
incidents in my memory, one of the most prominent is turning this
over. Nothing so roused the indignation of thrifty housewives,
for, besides the stain left upon the floor by the blue, a most
disagreeable odor was diffused by it.
To this general system of domestic economy our family was not an
exception. Every autumn, it was a matter of course that we had a fat
ox or a fat cow ready for slaughter. One full barrel was salted down;
the hams were cut out, slightly salted, and hung up in the chimney
for a few days, and thus became "dried" or "hung beef," then as
essential as bread. Pork was managed in a similar way, though even on
a larger scale, for two barrels were indispensable. A few pieces, as
the spare-ribs, &c., were distributed to the neighbors, who paid in
kind when they killed their swine.
Mutton and poultry came in their turn, all from our own stock, except
when on Thanksgiving-day some of the magnates gave the parson a
turkey. This, let me observe, in those good old times, was a bird
of mark; no timid, crouching biped, with downcast head and pallid
countenance, but stalking like a lord, and having wattles red as a
"banner bathed in slaughter." His beard was long, shining, and wiry.
There was, in fact, something of the native bird still in him, for
though the race was nearly extinct, a few wild flocks lingered in the
remote woods. Occasionally, in the depth of winter, and towards the
early spring, these stole to the barnyard, and held communion with
their civilized cousins. Severe battles ensued among the leaders for
the favors of the fair, and as the wild cocks always conquered, the
vigor of the race was kept up.
Our bread was made of rye, mixed with Indian meal. Wheat bread
was reserved for the sacrament and company; a proof not of its
superiority, but of its scarcity and consequent estimation. All the
vegetables came from our garden and farm. The fuel was supplied by
our own woods--sweet-scented hickory, snapping chestnut, odoriferous
oak, and reeking, fizzling ash--the hot juice of the latter, by the
way, being a sovereign antidote for the earache. These were laid in
huge piles, all alive with sap, on the tall, gaunt andirons. The
building of a fire, a real architectural achievement, was always
begun by daybreak. There was first a back-log, from fifteen to
four-and-twenty inches in diameter, and five feet long, imbedded in
the ashes; then came a top log, then a fore stick, then a middle
stick, and then a heap of kindlings, reaching from the bowels down to
the bottom. Above all was a pyramid of smaller fragments, artfully
adjusted, with spaces for the blaze. Friction matches had not then
been invented. So, if there were no coals left from the last night's
fire, and none to be borrowed from the neighbors, resort was had to
flint, steel, and tinder-box. Often, when the flint was dull, and
the steel soft, and the tinder damp, the striking of fire was a task
requiring both energy and patience. If the pile on the andirons was
skilfully constructed, the spark being applied, there was soon a
furious stinging smoke; but the forked flame soon began to lick the
sweating sticks above, and by the time the family had arisen, and
assembled in the "keeping-room," there was a roaring blaze, defying
the bitter blasts of winter, which found abundant admittance through
the crannies of the doors and windows. To feed the family fire in
those days, during the severe season, was fully one man's work.
But to go on with our household history. Sugar was partially supplied
by our maple-trees. These were tapped in March, the sap being
collected, and boiled down in the woods. This was wholly a domestic
operation, and one in which all the children rejoiced, each taking
his privilege of tasting, at every stage of the manufacture. The
chief supply of sugar, however, was from the West Indies.
[Illustration: MAKING MAPLE-SUGAR.]
Rum was largely consumed, but our distilleries had scarcely begun.
A half-pint of it was given as a matter of course to every day
laborer, more particularly in the summer season. In all families,
rich or poor, it was offered to male visitors as an essential point
of hospitality, or even good manners. Women--I beg pardon--ladies,
took their schnapps, then named "Hopkins' Elixir," which was the
most delicious and seductive means of getting tipsy that has been
invented. Crying babies were silenced with hot toddy. Every man
imbibed his morning dram, and this was esteemed temperance. There
is a story of a preacher, about those days, who thus lectured his
parish: "I say nothing, my beloved brethren, against taking a
little bitters before breakfast, and after breakfast; especially if
you are used to it. What I contend against is, this dramming,
dramming, dramming, at all hours of the day. There are some men
who take a glass at eleven o'clock in the forenoon, and at four in
the afternoon. I do not purpose to contend against old-established
customs, my brethren, rendered respectable by time and authority; but
this dramming, dramming, is a crying sin in the land."
As to brandy, I scarcely heard of it, so far as I can recollect,
till I was sixteen years old, and, as an apprentice in a country
store, was called upon to sell it. Cider was the universal table
beverage. Brandy and whisky soon after came into use. I remember, in
my boyhood, to have seen a strange zigzag tin tube, denominated a
"still," belonging to one of our neighbors, converting, drop by drop,
certain innocent liquids into "fire-water." But, in the days I speak
of, French brandy was confined to the houses of the rich, and to the
drug-shop.
Wine, in our country towns, was then almost exclusively used for the
sacrament.
There was, of course, no baker in Ridgefield; each family not only
made its own bread, cakes, and pies, but its own soap, candles,
butter, cheese, and the like. The manufacture of linen and woollen
cloth was no less a domestic operation. Cotton--that is, raw
cotton--was then wholly unknown among us at the North, except as a
mere curiosity, produced somewhere in the tropics; but whether it
grew on a plant, or an animal, was not clearly settled in the public
mind.
We raised our own flax, rotted it, hackled it, dressed it, and spun
it. The little wheel, turned by the foot, had its place, and was as
familiar as if it had been a member of the family. How often have
I seen my mother, and my grandmother, too, sit down to it--though
this, as I remember, was for the purpose of spinning some finer kind
of thread--the burden of the spinning being done by a neighbor of
ours, Sally St. John. By the way, she was a good-hearted, cheerful
old maid, who petted me beyond my deserts. I grieve to say, that I
repaid her partiality by many mischievous pranks; for which I should
have been roundly punished, had not the good creature forgiven and
concealed my offences. I did, indeed, get fillipped for catching her
foot one day in a steel-trap; but I declare that I was innocent of
malice prepense, inasmuch as I had set the trap for a rat, instead
of the said Sally. Nevertheless, the verdict was against me; not
wholly on account of my misdemeanor in this particular instance, but
because, if I did not deserve punishment for that, I had deserved
it, and should deserve it for something else; and so it was safe to
administer it.
The wool was also spun in the family; partly by my sisters, and
partly by Molly Gregory, daughter of our neighbor, the town
carpenter. I remember her well as she sang and spun aloft in the
attic. In those days, church-singing was the only one of the fine
arts which flourished in Ridgefield, except the music of the drum and
fife. The choir was divided into four parts, ranged on three sides of
the meeting-house gallery. The tenor, led by Deacon Hawley, was in
front of the pulpit, the bass to the left, and the treble and counter
to the right; the whole being set in motion by a pitch-pipe, made by
the deacon himself, who was a cabinet-maker. Molly took upon herself
the entire counter, for she had excellent lungs. The fuguing tunes,
which had then run a little mad, were her delight. In her solitary
operations aloft I have often heard her send forth, from the attic
windows, the droning hum of her wheel, with fitful snatches of a
hymn, in which the bass began, the tenor followed, then the treble,
and, finally, the counter--winding up with irresistible pathos. Molly
singing to herself, and all unconscious of eavesdroppers, carried on
all the parts thus:--
_Bass._ "Long for a cooling--
_Tenor._ "Long for a cooling--
_Treble._ "Long for a cooling--
_Counter._ "Long for a cooling stream at hand,
And they must drink or die!"
The knitting of stockings was performed by the women of the family
in the evening, and especially at tea-parties. This was considered a
moral, as well as an economical, employment; for people held, with
Dr. Watts, that
"Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do."
Satan, however, dodged the question: for if the hands were occupied
the tongue was loose; and it was said that, in some families, he
kept them well occupied with idle gossip. At all events, pianos,
chess-boards, graces, battledoors and shuttlecocks, with other
safety-valves of the kind, were only known by the hearing of the ear,
as belonging to some such Vanity Fair as New York or Boston.
The weaving of cloth--linen as well as woollen--was performed by an
itinerant workman, who came to the house, put up his loom, and threw
his shuttle, till the season's work was done. The linen was bleached
and made up by the family; the woollen cloth was sent to the fuller
to be dyed and dressed. Twice a-year, that is, in the spring and
autumn, the tailor came to the house and made a stock of clothes for
the male members; this was called "whipping the cat."
Mantuamakers and milliners came, in their turn, to fit out the
female members of the family. There was a similar process as to
boots and shoes. We sent the hides of the cattle--cows and calves we
had killed--to the tanner, and these came back in assorted leather.
Occasionally a little morocco, then wholly a foreign manufacture, was
bought at the store, and made up for the ladies' best shoes. Amby
Benedict, the travelling shoemaker, came with his bench, lapstone,
and awls, and converted some little room into a shop, till the
household was duly shod. He was a merry fellow, and threw in lots of
singing gratis. He played all the popular airs upon his lapstone--as
hurdygurdies and hand-organs do now.
Carpets were then only known in a few families, and were confined
to the keeping-room and parlor. They were all home-made: the warp
consisting of woollen yarn, and the woof of lists and old woollen
cloth, cut into strips, and sewed together at the ends. Coverlids
generally consisted of quilts, made of pieces of waste calico, sewed
together in octagons, and quilted in rectangles, giving the whole a
gay and rich appearance. This process of quilting generally brought
together the women of the neighborhood, married and single; and a
great time they had of it, what with tea, talk, and stitching. In
the evening the men were admitted; so that a quilting was a real
festival, not unfrequently leading to love-making and marriage among
the young people.
This reminds me of a sort of communism or socialism, which prevailed
in our rural districts long before Owen or Fourier was born. At
Ridgefield we used to have "stone bees," when all the men of a
village or hamlet came together with their draught cattle, and
united to clear some patch of earth of stones and rocks. All this
labor was gratuitously rendered, save only that the proprietor of the
land furnished the grog. Such a meeting was always, of course, a very
social and sociable affair.
When the work was done, gymnastic exercises--such as hopping,
wrestling, and foot-racing--took place among the athletic young men.
My father generally attended these celebrations as a looker-on. It
was, indeed, the custom for the clergy of the olden time to mingle
with the people, even in their labors and their pastimes. For
some reason or other, it seemed that things went better when the
parson gave them his countenance. I followed my father's example,
and attended these cheerful and beneficial gatherings. Most of the
boys of the town did the same. I may add that, if I may trust the
traditions of Ridgefield, the cellar of our new house was dug by a
"bee" in a single day, and that was Christmas.
House-raising and barn-raising, the framework being always of wood,
were done in the same way by a neighborly gathering of the people.
I remember an anecdote of a church-raising, which I may as well
relate here. In the eastern part of the State, I think at Lyme, or
Pautipaug, a meeting-house was destroyed by lightning. After a year
or two the society mustered its energies, and raised the frame of
another on the site of the old one. It stood about six months, and
was then blown over. In due time another frame was prepared, and the
neighborhood gathered together to raise it. It was now proposed by
Deacon Hart that they should commence the performances by a prayer
and hymn, it having been suggested that perhaps the want of these
pious preliminaries on former occasions had something to do with
the calamitous results which attended them. When all was ready,
therefore, a prayer was made, and the chorister of the place gave out
two lines of the hymn, thus:--
"If God to build the house deny,
The builders work in vain."
This being sung, the chorister completed the verse thus, adapting the
lines to the occasion:--
"Unless the Lord doth shingle it,
It will blow down agin!"
I must not fail to give you a portrait of one of our village homes,
of the middle class, at this era. I take as an example that of our
neighbor, J. B., who had been a tailor, but having thriven in his
affairs, and being now some fifty years old, had become a farmer.
It was situated on the road leading to Salem, there being a wide
space in front occupied by the wood-pile, which in these days was
not only a matter of great importance, but of formidable bulk. The
size of the wood-pile was, indeed, in some sort an index to the rank
and condition of the proprietor. The house itself was a low edifice,
forty feet long, and of two stories in front; the rear being what
was called a _breakback_--that is, sloping down to a height of ten
feet; this low part furnishing a shelter for garden tools and various
household instruments. The whole was constructed of wood, the outside
being of the dun complexion assumed by unpainted wood, exposed to
the weather for twenty or thirty years, save only that the roof was
tinged of a reddish brown by a fine moss that found sustenance in the
chestnut shingles.
To the left was the garden, which in the productive season was a
wilderness of onions, squashes, cucumbers, beets, parsnips, and
currants, with the never-failing tansy for bitters, horseradish for
seasoning, and fennel for keeping old women awake in church time.
The interior of the house presented a parlor with plain, whitewashed
walls, a home-made carpet upon the floor, calico curtains at the
window, and a mirror three feet by two against the side, with a
mahogany frame: to these must be added eight chairs and a cherry
table, of the manufacture of Deacon Hawley. The "keeping" or
sitting-room had also a carpet, a dozen rush-bottom chairs, a table,
&c. The kitchen was large--fully twenty feet square, with a fireplace
six feet wide and four feet deep. On one side it looked out upon the
garden, the squashes and cucumbers climbing up and forming festoons
over the door; on the other it commanded a view of the orchard,
embracing first a circle of peaches, pears, and plums; and beyond,
a wide-spread clover-field, embowered with apple-trees. Just by was
the well, with its tall sweep, the old oaken bucket dangling from
the pole. The kitchen was, in fact, the most comfortable room in the
house; cool in summer, and perfumed with the breath of the garden and
the orchard: in winter, with its roaring blaze of hickory, it was a
cosy resort, defying the bitterest blasts of the season. Here the
whole family assembled at meals, except when the presence of company
made it proper to serve tea in the parlor.
The bed-rooms were all without carpets, and the furniture was
generally of a simple character. The beds, however, were of ample
size, and well filled with geese feathers, these being deemed
essential for comfortable people. I must say, by the way, that every
decent family had its flock of geese, of course, which was picked
thrice a-year, despite the noisy remonstrances of both goose and
gander. The sheets of the bed, though of home-made linen, were
as white as the driven snow. Indeed, the beds of this era showed
that sleep was a luxury, well understood and duly cherished by all
classes. The cellar, extending under the whole house, was by no means
the least important part of the establishment. In the autumn, it
was supplied with three barrels of beef and as many of pork, twenty
barrels of cider, with numerous bins of potatoes, turnips, beets,
carrots, and cabbages. The garret, which was of huge dimensions, at
the same time displayed a labyrinth of dried pumpkins, peaches, and
apples, hung in festoons upon the rafters, amid bunches of summer
savory, boneset, fennel, and other herbs, the floor being occupied by
heaps of wool, flax, tow, and the like.
The barn corresponded to the house. It was a low brown structure,
having abundance of sheds built on to it, without the least regard
to symmetry. It was well stocked with hay, oats, rye, and buckwheat.
Six cows, one or two horses, three dozen sheep, and an ample supply
of poultry, including two or three broods of turkeys, constituted its
living tenants.
The farm I need not describe in detail, but the orchard must not
be overlooked. This consisted of three acres, covered, as I have
said, with apple-trees, yielding abundantly--as well for the
cider-mill as for the table, including the indispensable winter
apple-sauce--according to their kinds. I think an apple orchard
in the spring is one of the most beautiful objects in the world.
How often have I ventured into Uncle Josey's ample orchard at this
joyous season, and stood entranced among the robins, blackbirds,
woodpeckers, bluebirds, jays, and orioles,--all seeming to me like
playmates, racing, chasing, singing, rollicking, in the exuberance of
their joy, or perchance slily pursuing their courtships, or even more
slily building their nests and rearing their young.
The inmates of the house I need not describe, further than to
say that Uncle Josey himself was a little deaf, and of moderate
abilities; yet he lived to good account, for he reared a large
family, and was gathered to his fathers at a good old age, leaving
behind him a handsome estate, a fair name, and a good example.
His wife, who spent her early life at service in a kitchen, was a
handsome, lively, efficient woman, and a universal favorite in the
neighborhood.
This is the homely picture of a Ridgefield farmer's home half a
century ago. There were other establishments more extensive and more
sumptuous in the town, as there were others also of an inferior
grade; but this was a fair sample of the houses, barns, and farms of
the middle class.
FOOTNOTE:
[1] I recollect, as an after-thought, one exception. There was a
hatter who supplied the town; but he generally made hats to order,
and usually in exchange for the skins of foxes, rabbits, muskrats,
and other chance peltry. I frequently purchased my powder and shot
from the proceeds of skins which I sold him.
CHAPTER IV.
HABITS OF THE PEOPLE--THEIR COSTUME--AMUSEMENTS--FESTIVALS--
MARRIAGES--FUNERALS--DANCING--WINTER SPORTS--MY TWO
GRANDMOTHERS--MECHANICAL GENIUS--IMPORTANCE OF
WHITTLING--PIGEONS--SPORTING ADVENTURES.
You will now have some ideas of the household industry and
occupations of the country people in Connecticut, at the beginning
of the present century. Their manners, in other respects, had a
corresponding stamp of homeliness and simplicity.
In most families, the first exercise of the morning was reading the
Bible, followed by a prayer, at which all were assembled, including
the servants and helpers of the kitchen and the farm. Then came the
breakfast, which was a substantial meal, always including hot viands,
with vegetables, apple-sauce, pickles, mustard, horseradish, and
various other condiments. Cider was the common drink for laboring
people: even children drank it at will. Tea was common, but not
so general as now. Coffee was almost unknown. Dinner was a still
more hearty and varied repast--characterised by abundance of garden
vegetables; tea was a light supper.
The day began early: the breakfast hour was six in summer and seven
in winter; dinner was at noon--the work-people in the fields being
called to their meals by a conchshell winded by some kitchen Triton.
Tea was usually taken about sundown. In families where all were
laborers, all sat at table, servants as well as masters--the food
being served before sitting down. In families where the masters
and mistresses did not share the labors of the household or the
farm, the meals of the domestics were taken separately. There was,
however, in those days a perfectly good understanding and good
feeling between the masters and servants. The latter were not Irish:
they had not as yet imbibed the plebeian envy of those above them,
which has since so generally embittered and embarrassed American
domestic life. The terms "democrat" and "aristocrat" had not got
into use: these distinctions, and the feelings now implied by them,
had indeed no existence in the hearts of the people. Our servants,
during all my early life, were generally the daughters of respectable
farmers and mechanics in the neighborhood, and, respecting others,
were themselves respected and cherished. They were devoted to the
interests of the family, and were always relied upon and treated as
friends. In health they had the same food, in sickness the same care,
as the masters and mistresses or their children.
At the period of my earliest recollections, men of all classes
were dressed in long, broad-tailed coats, with huge pockets; long
waistcoats, breeches, and hats with low crowns and broad brims: some
so wide as to be supported at the sides with cords. The stockings of
the parson, and a few others, were of silk in summer and worsted in
winter; those of the people were generally of wool. Women dressed in
wide bonnets, sometimes of straw and sometimes of silk; and gowns of
silk, muslin, gingham, &c., generally close and short-waisted, the
breast and shoulders being covered by a full muslin kerchief. Girls
ornamented themselves with a large white vandike. On the whole, the
dress of both men and women has greatly changed; for at Ridgefield,
as at less remote places, the people follow, though at a distance,
the fashions of Paris.
The amusements were then much the same as at present, though some
striking differences may be noted. Books and newspapers were then
scarce, and were read respectfully, and as if they were grave
matters, demanding thought and attention. They were not toys and
pastimes, taken up every day, and by everybody, in the short
intervals of labor, and then hastily dismissed, like waste paper. The
aged sat down when they read, and drew forth their spectacles, and
put them deliberately and reverently upon the nose. Even the young
approached a book with reverence, and a newspaper with awe. How the
world has changed!
The two great festivals were Thanksgiving and "Training-day;" the
latter deriving, from the still lingering spirit of the revolutionary
war, a decidedly martial character. The marching of the troops, and
the discharge of gunpowder, which invariably closed the exercises,
were glorious and inspiring mementoes of heroic achievements upon
many a bloody field. The music of the drum and fife resounded on
every side. A match between two rival drummers always drew an
admiring crowd, and was in fact one of the chief excitements of the
great day.
Tavern-haunting, especially in winter, when there was little to do,
for manufactures had not then sprung up to give profitable occupation
during this inclement season, was common even with respectable
farmers. Marriages were celebrated in the evening, at the house of
the bride, with a general gathering of the neighborhood, and were
usually finished off by dancing. Everybody went, as to a public
exhibition, without invitation. Funerals generally drew large
processions, which proceeded to the grave. Here the minister always
made an address suited to the occasion. If there were anything
remarkable in the history of the deceased, it was turned to religious
account in the next Sunday's sermon. Singing-meetings, to practise
church music, were a great resource for the young in winter. Dances
at private houses were common, and drew no reproaches from the sober
people present. Balls at the taverns were frequented by the young;
the children of deacons and ministers attended, though the parents
did not. The winter brought sleighing, skating, and the usual round
of indoor sports. In general, the intercourse of all classes was
kindly and considerate, no one arrogating superiority, and yet no one
refusing to acknowledge it where it existed. You would hardly have
noticed that there was a higher and a lower class. Such there were,
certainly; for there must always and everywhere be the strong and
the weak, the wise and the foolish. But in our society these existed
without being felt as a privilege to one, which must give offence to
another.
It may serve in some degree to throw light upon the manners
and customs of this period, if I give you a sketch of my two
grandmothers. Both were widows, and were well stricken in years
when they came to visit us at Ridgefield, about the year 1803-4. My
grandmother Ely was a lady of the old school, and sustaining the
character in her upright carriage, her long, tapering waist, and her
high-heeled shoes. The customs of Louis XV.'s time had prevailed in
New York and Boston, and even at this period they still lingered
there in isolated cases. It is curious enough, that at this time
the female attire of a century ago is revived; and every black-eyed,
stately old lady, dressed in black silk, and showing her steel-grey
hair beneath her cap, reminds me of my maternal grandmother.
My other grandmother was in all things the opposite; short, fat,
blue-eyed, and practical; a good example of a hearty country dame. I
scarcely knew which of the two I liked the best. The first sang me
plaintive songs, told me stories of the Revolution--her husband, Col.
Ely, having had a large and painful share in its vicissitudes--she
described Gen. Washington, whom she had seen; and the French
officers, Lafayette, Rochambeau, and others, who had been inmates of
her house. She told me tales of even more ancient date, and recited
poetry, generally ballads, which were suited to my taste. And all
this lore was commended to me by a voice of inimitable tenderness,
and a manner at once lofty and condescending. My other grandmother
was not less kind, but she promoted my happiness and prosperity in
another way. Instead of stories, she gave me bread and butter: in
place of poetry, she fed me with apple-sauce and pie. Never was there
a more hearty old lady: she had a firm conviction that children must
be fed, and what she believed she practised.
I can recollect with great vividness the interest I took in the
domestic events I have described. The operations of the farm had no
great attractions for me. Ploughing, hoeing, digging, seemed to me
mere drudgery, imparting no instruction, and affording no scope for
ingenuity or invention.
Mechanical operations, especially those of the weaver and carpenter,
on the contrary, stimulated my curiosity, and excited my emulation.
Thus I soon became familiar with the carpenter's tools, and made such
windmills, kites, and perpetual motions, as to win the admiration
of my playmates, and excite the respect of my parents; so that they
seriously meditated putting me apprentice to a carpenter. Up to the
age of fourteen, I think this was regarded as my manifest destiny. It
was a day of great endeavors among all inventive geniuses. Fulton was
struggling to develop steam navigation; and other discoverers were
seeking to unfold the wonders of art as well as of nature. It was,
in fact, the very threshold of the era of steam-boats, railroads,
electric telegraphs, and a thousand other useful discoveries, which
have since changed the face of the world. In this age of excitement,
perpetual motion was the great hobby of aspiring mechanics. I
pondered and whittled intensely on this subject before I was ten
years old. Despairing of reaching my object by mechanical means, I
attempted to arrive at it by magnetism, my father having bought me
a pair of horse-shoe magnets in one of his journeys to New Haven. I
should have succeeded, had it not been a principle in the nature of
this curious element, that no substance will intercept the stream of
attraction. I tried to change the poles, and turn the north against
the south; but there, too, nature had headed me, and of course I
failed.
A word, by the way, on the matter of whittling. This is generally
represented as a sort of idle, fidgety, frivolous use of the
penknife, and is set down, by foreigners and sketchers of American
manners, as a peculiar characteristic of our people. No portrait of
an American is deemed complete, unless with penknife and shingle in
hand. I feel not the slightest disposition to resent even this, among
the thousand caricatures that pass for traits of American life. For
my own part, I can testify that, during my youthful days, I found
the penknife a source of great amusement, and even of instruction.
Many a long winter evening, many a dull, drizzly day, in spring, and
summer, and autumn--sometimes at the kitchen fireside, sometimes
in the attic, sometimes in a cosy nook of the barn, sometimes in
the shelter of a neighboring stone wall, thatched over with wild
grape-vines--have I spent in great ecstasy, making candle-rods, or
some other simple article of household goods, for my mother; or
in perfecting toys for myself and my young friends; or perhaps in
attempts at more ambitious achievements. This was not mere waste
of time; mere idleness and dissipation. I was amused: that was
something. Some of the pleasantest remembrances of my childhood carry
me back to the scenes I have just indicated; when, in happy solitude,
absorbed in my mechanical devices, I listened to the rain pattering
upon the roof, or the wind roaring down the chimney: thus enjoying a
double bliss, a pleasing occupation, with a conscious delight in my
sense of security from the rage of the elements without.
Nay more; these occupations were instructive: my mind was stimulated
to inquire into the mechanical powers, and my hand was educated to
mechanical dexterity. If you ask me why it is that this important
institution of whittling is indigenous among us, I reply that, in
the first place, our country is full of a great variety of woods,
suited to carpentry, many of them easily wrought, and thus inviting
boyhood to try its hands upon them. In the next place, labor is dear;
and therefore even children are led to supply themselves with toys,
or perchance to furnish some of the simpler articles of use to the
household. This dearness of labor, moreover, furnishes a powerful
stimulant to the production of labor-saving machines; and hence it
is--through all these causes co-operating one with another--that
steam-navigation, the electric telegraph, the steam-reaper, &c.,
&c., are American inventions: hence it is that, whether it be at
the World's Fair at London or Paris, we gain a greater proportion
of prizes for useful inventions than any other people. That is what
comes of whittling!
I must add, that in these early days I was a Nimrod, a mighty hunter;
first with a bow and arrow, and afterwards with the old hereditary
firelock, which snapped six times and went off once. The smaller
kinds of game were abundant. The thickets teemed with quails;[2]
partridges drummed in every wood; the gray squirrel--the most
picturesque animal of our forests--enlivened every hickory copse with
his mocking laugh, his lively gambols, and his long, bushy tail. The
pigeons, in spring and autumn, migrated in countless flocks; and many
lingered in our woods for the season.
Everybody was then a hunter; not, of course, a sportsman: for the
chase was followed more for profit than for pastime. Game was, in
point of fact, a substantial portion of the supply of food at certain
seasons of the year. All were then good shots, and my father was no
exception: he was even beyond his generation in netting pigeons. This
was not deemed a reproach at that time in a clergyman; nor was he the
only parson that indulged in these occupations. One day, as I was
with him on West Mountain, baiting pigeons, we had seduced a flock
of three or four dozen down into the bed where they were feeding;
my father and myself lying concealed in our bush-hut, close by.
Suddenly, whang went a gun into the middle of the flock! Out we ran
in great indignation; for at least a dozen of the birds were bleeding
and fluttering before us. Scarcely had we reached the spot, when we
met Parson M----, of Lower Salem, who had thus unwittingly poached
upon us. The two clergymen had first a squabble, and then a good
laugh; after which they divided the plunder and then parted.
The stories told by Wilson and Audubon as to the amazing quantity
of pigeons in the West, were realized by us in Connecticut
half-a-century ago. I have seen, in the county of Fairfield, a
stream of these noble birds pouring at brief intervals through the
skies, from the rising to the setting sun. Of all the pigeon tribe,
this of our country--the passenger pigeon--is the swiftest and most
beautiful. At the same time, it is unquestionably superior to any
other for the table. All the other species of the eastern, as well as
the western continent, which I have tasted, are soft and flavorless
in comparison.
I can recollect no sports of my youth which equalled in excitement
our pigeon hunts, which generally took place in September and
October. We usually started on horseback before daylight, and made
a rapid progress to some stubble-field on West Mountain. The ride
in the keen, fresh air, especially as the dawn began to break, was
delightful. The gradual encroachment of day upon the night filled my
mind with sublime images: the waking up of a world from sleep, the
joyousness of birds and beasts in the return of morning, and my own
sympathy in this cheerful and grateful homage of the heart to God,
the Giver of good--all contributed to render these adventures most
impressive upon my young heart. My memory is still full of the sights
and sounds of those glorious mornings: the silvery whistle of the
wings of migrating flocks of plover, invisible in the gray mists of
dawn; the faint murmur of the distant mountain torrents; the sonorous
gong of the long-trailing flocks of wild geese, seeming to come from
the unseen depths of the skies--these were among the suggestive
sounds that stole through the dim twilight. As morning advanced,
the scene was inconceivably beautiful: the mountain sides, clothed
in autumnal green, and purple, and gold, rendered more glowing by
the sunrise--with the valleys covered with mists, and spreading
out like lakes of silver; while on every side the ear was saluted
by the mocking screams of the red-headed woodpecker, the cawing of
congresses of crows; and, finally, the rushing sound of the pigeons,
pouring like a tide over the tops of the trees.
By this time of course our nets were ready, and our flyers and
stool-birds on the alert. What moments of ecstasy were these, and
especially when the head of the flock--some red-breasted old father
or grandfather--caught the sight of our pigeons, and turning at the
call, drew the whole train down into our net-bed! I have often seen
a hundred, or two hundred of these splendid birds, come upon us,
with a noise absolutely deafening. Sometimes our bush-hut, where we
lay concealed, was covered all over with pigeons, and we dared not
move a finger, as their red, piercing eyes were upon us. When at
last, with a sudden pull of the rope, the net was sprung, and we went
out to secure our booty--often fifty, and sometimes even a hundred
birds--I felt a fulness of triumph which words are wholly inadequate
to express!
Up to the age of eight years I was never trusted with a gun. Whenever
I went forth as a sportsman on my own account, it was only with a
bow and arrow. My performances as a hunter were very moderate. In
truth, I had a rickety old gun, that had belonged to my grandfather,
and though it perhaps had done good service in the Revolution, or
further back in the times of bears and wolves, it was now very
decrepit, and all around the lock seemed to have the shaking palsy.
Occasionally I met with adventures, half serious and half ludicrous.
Once, in running my hand into a hole in a hollow tree, some twenty
feet from the ground, being in search of a woodpecker, I hauled out
a blacksnake. At another time, in a similar way, I had my fingers
pretty sharply nipped by a screech-owl. My memory supplies me with
numerous instances of this kind.
As to fishing, I never had a passion for it: I was too impatient. I
had no enthusiasm for nibbles, and there were too many of these in
proportion to the bites. I perhaps resembled a man by the name of
Bennett, who joined the Shakers of New Canaan about these days, but
soon left them, declaring that the Spirit was too long in coming--"he
could not wait." Nevertheless, I dreamed away some pleasant hours in
angling in the brooks and ponds of my native town. I well remember,
that on my eighth birthday I went four miles to Burt's mills,
carrying on the old mare two bushels of rye. While my grist was being
ground I angled in the pond, and carried home enough for a generous
meal.
Now all these things may seem trifles, yet in a review of my life
I deem them of some significance. This homely familiarity with the
more mechanical arts was a material part of my education: this
communion with nature gave me instructive and important lessons from
nature's open book of knowledge. My technical education, as will
be seen hereafter, was extremely narrow and irregular. This defect
was at least partially supplied by the commonplace incidents I have
mentioned. The teachings, or rather the training of the senses,
in the country--ear and eye, foot and hand, by running, leaping,
climbing over hill and mountain, by occasional labor in the garden
and on the farm, and by the use of tools, and all this in youth--is
sowing seed which is repaid largely and readily to the hand of
after-cultivation, however unskilful it may be. This is not so much
because of the amount of knowledge available in after-life, which
is thus obtained--though this is not to be despised--as it is that
healthful, vigorous, manly habits and associations, physical, moral,
and intellectual, are thus established and developed.
FOOTNOTE:
[2] The American quail is a species of partridge, in size between the
European quail and partridge. The _partridge_ of New England is the
_pheasant_ of the South, and the _ruffed grouse_ of the naturalists.
CHAPTER V.
DEATH OF WASHINGTON--JEROME BONAPARTE AND MISS PATTERSON--SUNDAY
TRAVELLING--OLIVER WOLCOTT--TIMOTHY PICKERING--AMERICAN
POLITENESS QUITE NATURAL--LOCOMOTION--PUBLIC CONVEYANCES--MY
FATHER'S CHAISE.
The incidents I have just related occurred about the year 1800--some
a little earlier and some a little later. Among the events of
general interest that happened near this time I remember the death
of Washington, which took place in 1799, and was commemorated all
through the country by the tolling of bells, funeral ceremonies,
orations, sermons, hymns, and dirges, attended by a mournful sense
of his loss, which seemed to cast a pall over the entire heavens.
In Ridgefield the meeting-house was dressed in black, and we had
a discourse pronounced by a Mr. Edmonds, of Newtown. The subject,
indeed, engrossed all minds. Lieutenant Smith came every day to our
house to talk over the event, and to bring us the proceedings in
different parts of the country. Among other papers he brought us a
copy of the _Connecticut Courant_, which gave us the particulars
of the rites and ceremonies which took place in Hartford in
commemoration of the great man's decease. The celebrated hymn,
written for the occasion by Theodore Dwight, sank into my mother's
heart--for she had a constitutional love of things mournful and
poetical--and she often repeated it, so that it became a part of the
cherished lore of my childhood.
I give you these scenes and feelings in some detail, to impress you
with the depth and sincerity of this mourning of the American nation,
in cities and towns, in villages and hamlets, for the death of
Washington.
I have already said that Ridgefield was on the great thoroughfare
between Boston and New York, for the day of steamers and railroads
had not dawned. Even the mania for turnpikes, which ere long
overspread New England, had not yet arrived. The stage-coaches took
four days to make the trip of two hundred miles between the two
great cities. In winter, during the furious snow-storms, the journey
was often protracted to seven, eight, or ten days. With such public
conveyances, great people--for even then the world was divided into
the great and little, as it is now--travelled in their own carriages.
About this time--it must have been in the summer of 1804--I remember
Jerome Bonaparte coming up to Keeler's tavern with a coach and four,
attended by his young wife, Miss Patterson of Baltimore. It was a
gay establishment, and the honeymoon sat happily on the tall, sallow
stripling and his young bride. You must remember that Napoleon was
then filling the world with his fame: at this moment his feet were on
the threshold of the empire. The arrival of his brother in the United
States of course made a sensation. His marriage, his movements, all
were gossipped over from Maine to Georgia, the extreme points of the
Union. His entrance into Ridgefield produced a flutter of excitement
even there. A crowd gathered around Keeler's tavern to catch a sight
of the strangers, and I was among the rest. I had a good look at
Jerome, who was the chief object of interest, and the image never
faded from my recollection.
Half a century later, I was one evening at the Tuileries, amid the
flush and the fair of Louis Napoleon's new court. Among them I saw
an old man, taller than the mass around--his nose and chin almost
meeting in contact, while his toothless gums were "munching the airy
meal of dotage and decrepitude." I was irresistibly chained to this
object, as if a spectre had risen up through the floor and stood
among the garish throng. My memory travelled back--back among the
winding labyrinths of years. Suddenly I found the clue: the stranger
was Jerome Bonaparte!
Ah, what a history lay between the past and present--a lapse of
nearly fifty years. What a difference between him then and now! Then
he was a gay and gallant bridegroom; now, though he had the title
of king, he was throneless and sceptreless--an Invalid Governor of
Invalids--the puppet and pageant of an adventurer, whose power lay in
the mere magic of a name.
About this time, as I well remember, Oliver Wolcott passed through
our village. He arrived at the tavern late on Saturday evening, but
he called at our house in the morning, his family being connected
with ours. He was a great man then; for not only are the Wolcotts
traditionally and historically a distinguished race in Connecticut,
but he had recently been a member of Washington's cabinet. I mention
him now only for the purpose of noting his deference to public
opinion, characteristic of the eminent men of that day. In the
morning he went to church, but immediately after the sermon he had
his horses brought up, and proceeded on his way. He, however, had
requested my father to state to his people, at the opening of the
afternoon service, that he was travelling on public business, and
though he regretted it, he was obliged to continue his journey on the
Sabbath. This my father did, but Deacon Olmstead, the Jeremiah of the
parish, shook his white locks, and lifted up his voice against such
a desecration of the Lord's day. Some years after, as I remember,
Lieutenant-Governor Treadwell arrived at Keeler's tavern on Saturday
evening, and prepared to prosecute his journey the next morning, his
daughter, who was with him, being ill. This same Deacon Olmstead
called upon him, and said, "Sir, if you thus set the example of
violation of the Sabbath, you must expect to get one vote less at the
next election!" The Governor was so much struck by the appearance of
the deacon, who was the very image of a patriarch or a prophet, that
he deferred his departure till Monday.
Although great people rode in their own carriages, the principal
method of travelling was on horseback. Many of the members of
Congress came to Washington in this way. I have a dim recollection of
seeing one day, when I was trudging along to school, a tall, pale,
gaunt man, approaching on horseback, with his plump saddlebags behind
him. I looked at him keenly, and made my obeisance, as in duty bound.
He lifted his hat, and bowed in return. By a quick instinct, I sat
him down as a man of mark. In the evening, Lieutenant Smith came to
our house and told us that Timothy Pickering had passed through the
town! He had seen him, and talked with him, and was vastly distended
with the portentous news thereby acquired, including the rise and
fall of empires for ages to come, and all of which he duly unfolded
to our family circle.
Before I proceed, let me note, in passing, a point of manners then
universal, but which has now nearly faded away. When travellers met
on the highway, they saluted each other with a certain dignified and
formal courtesy. All children were regularly taught at school to
"make their manners" to strangers; the boys to bow, and the girls to
courtesy. It was something different from the frank, familiar, "How
are you, stranger?" of the Far West; something different from the
"_Bon jour, serviteur_," of the Alps. Our salute was more measured
and formal; respect to age and authority being evidently an element
of this homage, which was sedulously taught to the young.
For children to salute travellers was, in my early days, as well
a duty as a decency. A child who did not "make his manners" to a
stranger on the high-road was deemed a low fellow; a stranger who
refused to acknowledge this civility was esteemed a _sans culotte_,
perhaps a favorer of Jacobinism.
But I must return to locomotion. In Ridgefield, in the year 1800,
there was but a single chaise, and that belonged to Colonel Bradley,
one of the principal citizens of the place. It was without a top,
and had a pair of wide-spreading, asinine ears. That multitudinous
generation of travelling vehicles, so universal and so convenient
now--such as top-wagons, four-wheeled chaises, tilburies, dearborns,
&c., was totally unknown. Even if these things had been invented,
the roads would scarcely have permitted the use of them. Physicians
who had occasion to go from town to town went on horseback; all
clergymen, except perhaps Bishop Seabury, who rode in a coach,
travelled in the same way. My father's people, who lived at a
distance, came to church on horseback; their wives and daughters
being seated on pillions behind them. In a few cases--as in
spring-time, when the mud was bottomless--the farm wagon was used for
transporting the family.
In winter it was otherwise, for we had three or four months of
sleighing. Then the whole country was a railroad, and gay times we
had. Oh! those beautiful winters, which would drive me shivering to
the fireside now: what vivid delight have I had in their slidings and
skatings, their sleddings and sleighings! One thing strikes me now
with wonder, and that is, the general indifference in those days to
the intensity of winter. No doubt, as I have said before, the climate
was then more severe; but, be that as it may, people seemed to suffer
less from it than at the present day. Nobody thought of staying at
home from church because of the extremity of the weather. We had no
thermometers, it is true, to frighten us with the revelation that it
was twenty-five degrees below zero. The habits of the people were
simple and hardy, and there were few defences against the assaults of
the seasons. The houses were not tight; we had no stoves, no Lehigh
or Lackawanna coal; yet we lived, and comfortably, too: nay, we even
changed burly winter into a season of enjoyment.
I have said that, in the year 1800, there was but a single chaise in
Ridgefield; and this was brought, I believe, from New Haven. There
was not, I imagine, a coach, or any kind of pleasure-vehicle--that
crazy old chaise excepted--in the county of Fairfield, out of the
two half-shire towns. Such things, indeed, were known at New York,
Boston, and Philadelphia; for already the government had laid a tax
upon pleasure conveyances: but they were comparatively few in number,
and were mostly imported. In 1798 there was but one public hack in
New Haven, and but one coach; the latter, belonging to Pierpoint
Edwards, was a large, four-wheeled vehicle, for two persons, called a
chariot. In the smaller towns there were no pleasure vehicles in use
throughout New England.
About that time there came to our village a man by the name of Jesse
Skellinger, an Englishman, and chaisemaker by trade. My father
engaged him to build him a chaise. A bench was set up in our barn,
and certain trees of oak and ash were cut in our neighboring woods.
These were sawed and seasoned, and shaped into wheels and shafts.
Thomas Hawley, half blacksmith, and half wheelwright, was duly
initiated, and he cunningly wrought the iron necessary for the work.
In five months the chaise was finished, with a standing top; greatly
to the admiration of our family. What a gaze was there, as this
vehicle went through Ridgefield street upon its first expedition!
This was the beginning of the chaise-manufactory in Ridgefield, which
has since been a source of large revenue to the town. Skellinger
was engaged by Elijah Hawley, who had formerly done something as a
wagon-builder; and thus in due time an establishment was founded,
which for many years was noted for the beauty and excellence of its
pleasure vehicles.
CHAPTER VI.
THE UPPER AND LOWER CLASSES OF RIDGEFIELD--MASTER STEBBINS
AND HIS SCHOOL--WHAT IS A NOUN?--DEACON BENEDICT AND HIS
MAN ABIJAH--MY LATIN ACQUIREMENTS--FAMILY WORSHIP--WIDOW
BENNETT--THE TEMPLE OF DAGON.
Ridgefield, as well as most other places, had its Up-town and
Down-town; terms which have not unfrequently been the occasion of
serious divisions in the affairs of Church and State. In London this
distinction takes the name of West End and the City. The French
philosophers say that every great capital has similar divisions; West
End being always the residence of the aristocracy, and East End of
the _canaille_.
Ridgefield, being a village, had a right to follow its own whim; and
therefore West Lane, instead of being the aristocratic end of the
place, was really rather the low end. It constituted, in fact, what
was called _Down-town_, in distinction from the more eastern and
northern section, called _Up-town_. In this latter portion, and about
the middle of the main street, was the Up-town school, the leading
seminary of the village; for at this period it had not arrived at the
honors of an academy. At the age of ten years I was sent here, the
institution being then, and for many years after, under the charge
of Master Stebbins. He was a man with a conciliating stoop in the
shoulders, a long body, short legs, and a swaying walk. He was at
this period some fifty years old, his hair being thin and silvery,
and always falling in well-combed rolls over his coat-collar. His
eyes were blue, and his dress invariably of the same color. Breeches
and knee-buckles, blue-mixed stockings, and shoes with bright
buckles, seemed as much a part of the man as his head and shoulders.
On the whole, his appearance was that of the middle-class gentleman
of the olden time; and he was, in fact, what he seemed.
This seminary of learning for the rising aristocracy of Ridgefield
was a wooden edifice, thirty by twenty feet, covered with brown
clapboards, and, except an entry, consisted of a single room. Around,
and against the walls, ran a continuous line of seats, fronted by
a continuous writing-desk. Beneath were depositories for books and
writing materials. The centre was occupied by slab seats, similar
to those of West Lane. The larger scholars were ranged on the outer
sides, at the desks; the smaller fry of abecedarians were seated in
the centre. The master was enshrined on the east side of the room,
and, regular as the sun, he was in his seat at nine o'clock, and the
performances of the school began.
According to the Catechism, which we learned and recited on Saturday,
the chief end of man was to glorify God and keep His commandments;
according to the routine of this school, one would have thought it to
be reading, writing, and arithmetic, to which we may add spelling.
From morning to night, in all weathers, through every season of the
year, these exercises were carried on with the energy, patience, and
perseverance of a manufactory.
Master Stebbins respected his calling: his heart was in his work;
and so, what he pretended to teach, he taught well. When I entered
the school, I found that a huge stride had been achieved in the march
of mind since I left West Lane. Webster's Spelling-book had taken
the place of Dilworth, which was a great improvement. The drill
in spelling was very thorough, and applied every day to the whole
school. I imagine that the exercises might have been amusing to a
stranger, especially as one scholar would sometimes go off in a voice
as grum as that of a bull-frog, while another would follow in tones
as fine and piping as those of a peet-weet. The blunders, too, were
often very ludicrous; even we children would sometimes have tittered,
had not such an enormity been certain to have brought out the birch.
As to rewards and punishments, the system was this: whoever missed,
went down; so that perfection mounted to the top. Here was the
beginning of the up and down of life.
Reading was performed in classes, which generally plodded on without
a hint from the master. Nevertheless, when Zeek Sanford--who was
said to have "a streak of lightning in him"--in his haste to be
smart, read the 37th verse of the 2nd chapter of the Acts,--"Now when
they heard this, they were _pickled_ in their heart,"--the birch
stick on Master Stebbins's table seemed to quiver and peel at the
little end, as if to give warning of the wrath to come. When Orry
Keeler--Orry was a girl, you know, and not a boy--drawled out in
spelling, "k--o--n, _kon_, s--h--u--n--t--s, _shunts_, konshunts,"
the bristles in the master's eyebrows fidgeted like Aunt Delight's
knitting-needles. Occasionally, when the reading was insupportably
bad, he took a book, and himself read as an example.
Master Stebbins was a great man with a slate and pencil, and I have
an idea that we were a generation after his own heart. We certainly
achieved wonders in arithmetic, according to our own conceptions,
some of us going even beyond the Rule of Three, and making forays
into the mysterious regions of Vulgar Fractions.
But, after all, penmanship was Master Stebbins's great
accomplishment. He had no pompous lessons upon single lines and
bifid lines, and the like. The revelations of inspired copy-book
makers had not then been vouchsafed to man. He could not cut an
American eagle with a single flourish of a goose-quill. He was guided
by good taste and native instinct, and wrote a smooth round hand,
like copper-plate. His lessons from A to &, all written by himself,
consisted of pithy proverbs and useful moral lessons. On every page
of our writing-books he wrote the first line himself. The effect was
what might have been expected--with such models, patiently enforced,
nearly all became good writers.
Beyond these simple elements, the Up-town school made few
pretensions. When I was there, two Webster's Grammars and one or two
Dwight's Geographies were in use. The latter was without maps or
illustrations, and was, in fact, little more than an expanded table
of contents, taken from Morse's Universal Geography--the mammoth
monument of American learning and genius of that age and generation.
The grammar was a clever book, but I have an idea that neither Master
Stebbins nor his pupils ever fathomed its depths. They floundered
about in it, as if in a quagmire, and after some time came out pretty
nearly where they went in, though perhaps a little confused by the
din and dusky atmosphere of these labyrinths.
Let me here repeat an anecdote, which I have indeed told before, but
which I had from the lips of its hero, a clergyman, of some note
thirty years ago, and which well illustrates this part of my story.
At a village school, not many miles from Ridgefield, he was put into
Webster's Grammar. Here he read, "_A noun is the name of a thing--as
horse, hair, justice_." Now, in his innocence, he read it thus: "_A
noun is the name of a thing--as horse-hair justice_."
"What, then," said he, ruminating deeply, "is a noun? But first I
must find out what a horse-hair justice is."
Upon this he meditated for some days, but still he was as far as ever
from the solution. Now, his father was a man of authority in those
parts, and, moreover, he was a justice of the peace. Withal, he was
of respectable ancestry, and so there had descended to him a stately
high-backed settee, covered with horse-hair. One day, as the youth
came from school, pondering upon the great grammatical problem, he
entered the front door of the house, and there he saw before him
his father, officiating in his legal capacity, and seated upon the
old horse-hair settee. "I have found it!" said the boy to himself,
greatly delighted--"my father is a horse-hair justice, and therefore
a noun!"
Nevertheless, it must be admitted that the world got on remarkably
well in spite of this narrowness of the country schools. The elements
of an English education were pretty well taught throughout the
village seminaries of Connecticut, and, I may add, of New England.
The teachers were heartily devoted to their profession: they
respected their calling, and were respected and encouraged by the
community. They had this merit, that while they attempted little,
that, at least, was thoroughly performed.
I went steadily to the Up-town school for three winters; being
occupied during the summers upon the farm, and in various minor
duties. I was a great deal on horseback, often carrying messages to
the neighboring towns of Reading, Wilton, Weston, and Lower Salem,
for then the post routes were few, and the mails, which were weekly,
crept like snails over hill and valley. I became a bold rider at an
early age: before I was eight years old I frequently ventured to put
a horse to his speed, and that, too, without a saddle. A person who
has never tried it, can hardly conceive the wild delight of riding
a swift horse, when he lays down his ears, tosses his tail in air,
and stretches himself out in a full race. The intense energy of
the beast's movements, the rush of the air, the swimming backward
of lands, houses, and trees, with the clattering thunder of the
hoofs--all convey to the rider a fierce ecstasy, which, perhaps,
nothing else can give. About this period, however, I received a
lesson, which lasted me a lifetime.
You must know that Deacon Benedict, one of our neighbors, had a
fellow living with him named Abijah. He was an adventurous youth,
and more than once led me into tribulation. I remember that on one
occasion I went with him to shoot a dog that was said to worry the
deacon's sheep. It was night, and dark as Egypt, but Bige said he
could see the creature close to the cow-house, behind the barn. He
banged away, and then jumped over the fence, to pick up the game.
After a time he came back, but said not a word. Next morning it was
found that he had shot the brindled cow; mistaking a white spot in
her forehead for the dog, he had taken a deadly aim, and put the
whole charge into her pate. Fortunately her skull was thick and the
shot small, so the honest creature was only a little cracked. Bige,
however, was terribly scolded by the deacon, who was a justice of the
peace, and had a deep sense of the importance of his duties. I came
in for a share of blame, though I was only a looker-on. Bige said the
deacon called me a "parsnip scrimmage," but more probably it was a
_particeps criminis_.
But to proceed. One day I was taking home from the pasture a
horse that belonged to some clergyman--I believe Dr. Ripley, of
Greensfarms. Just as I came upon the level ground in front of Jerry
Mead's old house, Bige came up behind me on the deacon's mare--an
ambling brute with a bushy tail and shaggy mane. As he approached
he gave a chirrup, and my horse, half in fright and half in fun,
bounded away, like Tam O'Shanter's mare. Away we went, I holding on
as well as I could, for the animal was round as a barrel. He was no
doubt used to a frolic of this sort, although he belonged to a doctor
of divinity, and looked as if he believed in total depravity. When
he finally broke into a gallop he flew like the wind, at the same
time bounding up and down with a tearing energy, quite frightful to
think of. After a short race he went from under me, and I came with a
terrible shock to the ground.
The breath was knocked out of me for some seconds, and as I recovered
it with a gasping effort, my sensations were indescribably agonizing.
Greatly humbled and sorely bruised, I managed to get home, where
the story of my adventure had preceded me. I was severely lectured
by my parents, which, however, I might have forgotten, had not
the concussion made an indelible impression on my memory, thus
perpetuating the wholesome counsel.
When I was about twelve years old, a man by the name of Sackett
was employed to keep a high-school, or, as it was then called, an
academy. Here I went irregularly for a few weeks, and at a public
exhibition I remember to have spoken a piece, upon a stage fitted up
in the meeting-house, entitled "Charles Chatterbox." This was the
substance of my achievements at Sackett's seminary.
The narrowness of my father's income, and the needs of a large
family, induced him to take half-a-dozen pupils to be fitted for
college. This he continued for a series of years. It might seem
natural that I should have shared in these advantages; but, in the
first place, my only and elder brother, Charles A. Goodrich--now
widely known by his numerous useful publications--had been destined
for the clerical profession, partly by his own predilection, partly
by encouragement from a relative, and partly, too, from an idea that
his somewhat delicate constitution forbade a more hardy career. To
this may doubtless be added the natural desire of his parents that
at least one of their sons should follow the honored calling to
which father, grandfather, and great-grandfather had been devoted.
Hence he was put in training for college. The expenses to be thus
incurred were formidable enough to my parents, without adding to
them by attempting anything of the kind for me. And, besides, I
had manifested no love of study, and evidently preferred action to
books. Moreover, it must be remembered, that I was regarded as a born
carpenter, and it would have seemed tempting Providence to have set
me upon any other career. So, with perfect content on my part, from
the age of twelve to fourteen, I was chiefly employed in active
services about the house and farm. I could read, write, and cipher;
this was sufficient for my ambition, and satisfactory to my parents,
in view of the life to which I was apparently destined.
Nevertheless, though my school exercises were such as I have
described, I doubtless gathered some little odds and ends of learning
about those days, beyond the range of my horn-books. I heard a good
deal of conversation from the clergymen who visited us, and, above
all, I listened to the long discourses of Lieutenant Smith upon
matters and things in general. My father, too, had a brother in
Congress, from whom he received letters, documents, and messages, all
of which became subjects of discussion. I remember, further, that out
of some childish imitation, I thumbed over Corderius and Erasmus--the
first Latin books, then constantly in the hands of my father's
pupils. I was so accustomed to hear them recite their lessons in
Virgil, that
_Tityre, tu patulæ recubans sub tegmine fagi_--
and
_Arma_, arms--_virumque_, and the man--_cano_, I sing,
were as familiar to my ears as _hillery, tillery, zachery zan_, and
probably conveyed to my mind about as much meaning. Even the first
lesson in Greek--
<En>, in--<archê>, the beginning--<ên>, was--<ho logos>, the Word--
was also among the cabalistic jingles in my memory. All this may seem
nothing as a matter of education; still, some years after, while
I was an apprentice in Hartford, feeling painfully impressed with
the scantiness of my knowledge, I borrowed some Latin school-books,
under the idea of attempting to master that language. To my
delight and surprise, I found that they seemed familiar to me. Thus
encouraged, I began, and bending steadily over my task at evening,
when my day's duties were over, I made my way nearly through the
Latin Grammar and the first two books of Virgil's _Æneid_. In my
poverty of knowledge, even these acquisitions became useful to me.
From the age of twelve to fifteen, though generally occupied
in the various tasks assigned me, I still found a good deal of
time to ramble over the country. Whole days I spent in the long,
lonesome lanes that wound between Ridgefield and Salem, in the
half-cultivated, half-wooded hills that lay at the foot of West
Mountain, and in the deep recesses of the wild and rugged regions
beyond. I frequently climbed to the tops of the cliffs and ridges
that rose one above another; and having gained the crown of the
mountain, cast long and wistful glances over the blue vale that
stretched out for many miles to the westward. I had always my gun in
hand, and though not insensible to any sport that might fall in my
way, I was more absorbed in the fancies that came thronging to my
imagination. Thus I became familiar with the whole country around,
and especially with the shaded glens and gorges of West Mountain. I
must add that these had, besides their native, savage charms, a sort
of fascination from being the residence of a strange woman, who had
devoted herself to solitude, and was known under the name of "the
Hermitess." This personage I had occasionally seen in our village;
and I frequently met her as she glided through the forests, while I
was pursuing my mountain rambles. I sometimes felt a strange thrill
as she passed; but this only seemed to render the recesses where she
dwelt still more inviting.
I have no doubt that I inherited from my mother a love of the night
side of nature; not a love that begets melancholy, but an appetite
that found pleasure in the shadows, as well as the lights, of life
and imagination. Eminently practical as she was--laborious, skilful,
and successful in the duties which Providence had assigned her, as
the head of a large family, with narrow means--she was still of a
poetic temperament. Her lively fancy was vividly set forth by a pair
of the finest eyes I have ever seen; dark and serious, yet tender and
sentimental. These bespoke, not only the vigor of her conceptions,
but the melancholy tinge that shaded her imagination. Sometimes,
indeed, the well of sadness in her heart became full, and it ran
over in tears. These, however, were like spring showers; brief in
duration, and afterwards brightening to all around. She was not the
only woman who has felt better after a good cry. It was, in fact,
a poetic, not a real sorrow, that thus excited her emotions; for
her prevailing humor abounded in wit and vivacity, not unfrequently
taking the hue of playful satire. Nevertheless, her taste craved
the pathetic, the mournful; not as a bitter medicine, but a spicy
condiment. Her favorite poets were King David and Dr. Watts: she
preferred the dirge-like melody of Windham to all other music. All
the songs she sang were minors.
You will gather, from what I have said, that my father not only
prayed in his family night and morning, but before breakfast, and
immediately after the household was assembled he always read a
chapter in the sacred volume. It is recorded in our family Bible,
that he read it through, in course, thirteen times in the space of
about five-and-twenty years. He was an excellent reader, having
a remarkably clear, frank, hearty voice; so that I was deeply
interested, and thus early became familiar with almost every portion
of the Old and New Testament.
The practice of family worship, as I before stated, was at this time
very general in New England. In Ridgefield, it was not altogether
confined to the strictly religious; to clergymen, deacons, and church
members. It was a custom which decency hardly allowed to be omitted.
No family was thought to go on well without it. There is a good story
which well describes this trait of manners.
Somewhere in Vermont, in this golden age, there was a widow by the
name of Bennett. In consequence of the death of her husband, the
charge of a large farm and an ample household devolved upon her. Her
husband had been a pious man, and all things had prospered with him.
His widow, alike from religious feeling and affectionate regard for
his memory, desired that everything should be conducted as much as
possible as it had been during his lifetime. Especially did she wish
the day to begin and close with family worship.
Now, she had a foreman on the farm by the name of Ward. He was a good
man for work, but he was not a religious man. In vain did the widow,
in admitting his merits at the plough, the scythe, and the flail,
still urge him to crown her wishes, by leading in family prayer. For
a long time the heart of the man was hard, and his ear deaf to her
entreaties. At last, however, wearied with her importunities, he
seemed to change, and, to her great joy, consented to make a trial.
On a bright morning in June--at early sunrise--the family were all
assembled in the parlor, men and maidens, for their devotions. When
all was ready, Ward, in a low, troubled voice, began. He had never
prayed, or at least not in public, but he had heard many prayers,
and possessed a retentive memory. After getting over the first
hesitancy, he soon became fluent, and taking passages here and there
from the various petitions he had heard--Presbyterian, Methodist,
Universalist, and Episcopalian--he went on with great eloquence,
gradually elevating his tone and accelerating his delivery. Ere long
his voice grew portentous, and some of the men and maids, thinking he
was suddenly taken either mad or inspired, stole out on their toes
into the kitchen, where, with gaping mouths, they awaited the result.
The Widow Bennett bore it all for about half an hour; but at last,
as the precious time was passing away, she lost patience, and sprang
to her feet. Placing herself directly in front of the speaker, she
exclaimed, "Ward, what do you mean?"
As if suddenly relieved from a nightmare, he exclaimed, "Oh dear,
ma'am, I'm much obliged to you; for somehow I couldn't wind the thing
off."
I must not pass over another incident having reference to the topic
in question. Under the biblical influence of those days my father's
scholars built a temple of the Philistines, and when it was completed
within and without, all the children round about assembled, as did
the Gazaites of old. The edifice was chiefly of boards, slenderly
constructed, and reached the height of twelve feet; nevertheless,
all of us got upon it, according to the 16th chapter of Judges. The
oldest of the scholars played Samson. When all was ready, he took
hold of the pillars of the temple, one with his right hand and one
with his left. "Let me die with the Philistines!" said he, and
bowing himself, down we came in a heap! Strange to say, nobody but
Samson was hurt, and he only in some skin bruises. If you could see
him now--dignified even to solemnity, and seldom condescending to
any but the gravest matters--you would scarcely believe the story,
even though I write it and verify it. Nevertheless, if he must have
played, he should have taken the part of Samson, for he is one of the
most gifted men I have ever known.
CHAPTER VII.
THE CLERGY OF FAIRFIELD--A LAUGHING PARSON--THE THREE DEACONS.
Before I complete my narrative so far as it relates to Ridgefield,
I should state that in the olden time a country minister's home was
a ministers' tavern, and therefore I saw at our house, at different
periods, most of the orthodox or Congregational clergymen belonging
to that part of the State. My father frequently exchanged with
those of the neighboring towns, and sometimes consociations and
associations were held at Ridgefield. Thus, men of the clerical
profession constituted a large portion of the strangers who visited
us. I may add that my lineage was highly ministerial, from an early
period down to my own time. The pulpit of Durham, filled by my
paternal grandfather, continued in the same family one hundred and
twenty-six consecutive years. A short time since we reckoned among
our relations, not going beyond the degree of second cousin, more
than a dozen ministers of the Gospel, and all of the same creed.
As to the clergy of Fairfield county, my boyish impressions of them
were, that they were of the salt of the earth; nor has a larger
experience altered my opinion. If I sometimes indulge a smile at
the recollection of particular traits of character, or more general
points of manner significant of the age, I still regard them with
affection and reverence.
I need not tell you that they were counsellors in religious matters,
in the dark and anxious periods of the spirit, in times of sickness,
at the approach of death. They sanctified the wedding, not refusing
afterward to countenance the festivity which naturally ensued. They
administered baptism, but only upon adults who made a profession,
or upon the children of professors. I may add that, despite their
divinity, they were sociable in their manners and intercourse. The
state of the Church was no doubt first in their minds, but ample room
was left for the good things of life. Those who came to our house
examined my brother in his Greek and Latin, and I went out behind the
barn to gather tansy for their morning bitters. They dearly loved
a joke, and relished anecdotes, especially if they bore a little
hard upon the cloth. The following will suffice as a specimen of the
stories they delighted in.
Once upon a time there was a clergyman--the Rev. Dr. T----, a man
of high character, and distinguished for his dignity of manner.
But it was remarked that frequently as he was ascending the pulpit
stairs he would smile, and sometimes almost titter, as if beset by
an uncontrollable desire to laugh. This excited remark, and at last
scandal. Finally, it was thought necessary for some of his clerical
friends, at a meeting of the Association, to bring up the matter for
consideration.
The case was stated, the Rev. Dr. T---- being present. "Well,
gentlemen," said he, "the fact charged against me is true, but I beg
you to permit me to offer an explanation. A few months after I was
licensed to preach I was in a country town, and on a Sabbath morning
was about to enter upon the services of the church. At the back of
the pulpit was a window, which looked out upon a field of clover,
then in full bloom, for it was summer. As I rose to commence the
reading of the Scriptures, I cast a glance into the field, and there
I saw a man performing the most extraordinary evolutions--jumping,
whirling, slapping in all directions, and with a ferocious agony
of exertion. At first I thought he was mad; but suddenly the truth
burst upon me--he had buttoned up a bumblebee in his pantaloons! I
am constitutionally nervous, gentlemen, and the shock of this scene
upon my risible sensibilities was so great, that I could hardly
get through the services. Several times I was upon the point of
bursting into a laugh. Even to this day, the remembrance of this
scene, through the temptation of the devil, often comes upon me
as I am ascending the pulpit. This, I admit, is a weakness, but I
trust it will rather excite your sympathy and your prayers than your
reproaches."
It may be amusing, perhaps profitable, to give here a few sketches
of the remarkable characters of Ridgefield, at the opening of the
present century. Some were types of their time; others, however
eccentric, were exemplifications of our race and our society,
influenced by peculiar circumstances, and showing into what fashions
this stuff of humanity may be wrought. They are still prominent in
my recollection, and seem to me an essential part of the social
landscape which encircled my youth.
I begin with the three deacons of my father's parish. First was
Deacon Olmstead, full threescore years and ten at the opening
of the present century. His infancy touched upon the verge of
Puritanism--the days of Increase and Cotton Mather. The spirit of the
Puritans lived in his heart, while the semblance of the patriarchs
lingered in his form. He was fully six feet high, with broad
shoulders, powerful limbs, and the august step of a giant. His hair
was white, and rolled in thin curls upon his shoulders; he was still
erect, though he carried a long cane, like that of father Abraham in
the old pictures, representing him at the head of his kindred and his
camels, going from the land of Haran to the land of Canaan. Indeed,
he was my personification of the great progenitor of the Hebrews;
and when my father read from the twelfth chapter of Genesis, how he
and Lot and their kindred journeyed forth, I half fancied it must be
Deacon Olmstead under another name.
[Illustration: DEACON OLMSTEAD.]
Deacon Olmstead was in all things a noble specimen of humanity--an
honor to human nature, a shining light in the church. I have spoken
of him as having something grand about him, yet I remember how kindly
he condescended to take me, a child, on his knee, and how gently his
great brawny fingers encircled my infant hand. I have said he was
wise; yet his book-learning was small, though it might have been as
great as that of Abraham, or Isaac, or Jacob. He knew, indeed, the
Bible by heart, and that is a great teacher. He had also lived long,
and profited by observation and experience. Above all, he was calm,
just, sincere, and it is wonderful how these lamps light up the
path of life. I have said he was proud, yet it was only toward the
seductions of the world: to these he was hard and stern: to his God
he was simple, obedient, and docile as a child: toward his kindred
and his neighbor, toward the poor, toward the suffering, though not
so soft, he was sympathetic as a sister of charity.
I must now present a somewhat different portrait--that of Deacon
John Benedict. He was a worthy old man, and enjoyed many claims
to respect. He was not only a deacon, but a justice of the peace;
moreover, he was the father of Aunt Delight, of whom I desire
ever to speak with reverence. She, not being a beauty, was never
married, and hence, having no children of her own, she combed and
crammed the heads of other people's children. In this way she was
eminently useful in her day and generation. The Deacon respected
the law, especially as it was administered in his own person. He
was severe upon those who violated the statutes of the State, but
one who violated the statutes of Deacon John Benedict committed the
unpardonable sin. He was the entire police of the meeting-house on
Sunday, and not a boy or girl, or even a bumblebee, could offend
without condign punishment.
Nevertheless, the Deacon is said, in one case--rather before my
time--to have met his match. There was in the village a small, smart,
nervous woman, with a vigorous clack, which, once set going, was hard
to stop. One day she was at church, and having carried her dinner of
mince-pie in a little cross-handled basket, she set it down under the
seat. In the midst of sermon-time a small dog came into the pew, and
getting behind her petticoats, began to devour the pie. She heard
what was going on, and gave him a kick. Upon this the dog backed out
with a yelp, taking with him the dinner-basket, hung about his neck,
across the pew into the broad aisle.
"Oh dear!" said the woman, in a shrill voice, "the dog's got my
dinner! There! I've spoken loud in meeting-time! What will Deacon
Benedict say? Why! I'm talking all the time. There it goes agin!
What shall I du?"
"Hold your tongue!" said the Deacon, who was in his official seat,
fronting the explosion. These words operated like a charm, and the
nervous lady was silent. The next day Deacon John appeared at the
house of the offender, carrying a calf-bound volume in his hand. The
woman gave one glance at the book, and one at the Deacon. That was
enough: it spoke volumes, and the man of the law returned home, and
never mentioned the subject afterward.
Deacon Hawley was very unlike either of his two associates whom I
have described. He was younger, and of a peculiarly mild and amiable
temper. His countenance wore a tranquil and smooth expression. His
hair was fine and silky, and lay, as if oiled, close to his head. He
had a soft voice, and an ear for music. He was a cabinet-maker by
trade, a chorister by choice, and a deacon by the vote of the church.
In each of these things he found his place, as if designed for it by
nature.
In worldly affairs as well as spiritual, Deacon Hawley's path was
straight and even: he was successful in business, beloved in society,
honored in the church. Exceedingly frugal by habit and disposition,
he still loved to give in charity, though he did not talk of it.
When he was old, his family being well provided for, he spent much
of his time in casting about to find opportunities of doing good.
Once he learned that a widow, who had been in good circumstances, was
struggling with poverty. He was afraid to offer money as charity, for
fear of wounding her pride--the more sensitive, perhaps, because of
her change of condition. He therefore intimated that he owed a debt
of fifty dollars to her late husband, and wished to pay it to her.
"And how was that?" said the lady, somewhat startled.
"I will tell you," said the Deacon. "About five-and-twenty years
ago, soon after you were married, I made some furniture for your
husband--to the amount of two hundred dollars. I have been looking
over the account, and find that I rather overcharged him in the price
of some chairs--that is, I could have afforded them at somewhat less.
I have added up the interest, and here, madam, is the money."
The widow listened, and as she suspected the truth, the tears came to
her eyes. The Deacon did not pause to reply, but laid the money on
the table and departed.
The term _deacon_ is associated in many minds with a sort of
affectation, a cant in conversation, and an I-am-holier-than-thou
air and manner. I remember Deacon C----, who deemed it proper to
become scriptural, and talk as much as possible like Isaiah. He was
in partnership with his son Laertes, and they sold crockery and
furniture. One day a female customer came, and the old gentleman
being engaged, went to call his son, who was in the loft above.
Placing himself at the foot of the stairs, he said, attuning his
voice to the occasion, "La-ar-tes, descend--a lady waits!" Deacon
C---- sought to signalize himself by a special respect to the ways
of Providence; so he refused to be insured against fire, declaring
that if the Lord wished to burn down his house or his barn he should
submit without a murmur. He pretended to consider thunder, and
lightning, and conflagrations as special acts of the Almighty, and it
was distrusting Providence to attempt to avert their effects. Deacon
Hawley had none of these follies or frailties. Though a deacon,
he was still a man; though aspiring to heaven, he lived cheerily
on earth; though a Christian, he was a father, a neighbor, and,
according to his rank in life, a gentleman, having in all things the
feelings and manners appropriate to each of those relations.
CHAPTER VIII.
MAT OLMSTEAD, THE TOWN WIT--THE SALAMANDER HAT--SOLAR
ECLIPSE--THE OLD HEN AND THE PHILOSOPHER--LIEUTENANT
SMITH--EXTRAORDINARY METEOR--FULTON AND HIS STEAM-BOAT--GRANTHER
BALDWIN AND HIS WIFE--SARAH BISHOP AND HER CAVE.
Another celebrity in Ridgefield, whom I must not forget, was Matthew
Olmstead, or Mat Olmstead, as he was usually called; he was a day
laborer, and though his specialty was the laying of stone fences, he
was equally adroit at hoeing corn, mowing, and farm-work in general.
He was rather short and thick-set, with a long nose, a little bulbous
in his latter days; with a ruddy complexion, and a mouth shutting
like a pair of nippers, the lips having an oblique dip to the left,
giving a keen and mischievous expression to his face: qualified,
however, by more of mirth than malice. This feature was indicative
of his mind and character; for he was sharp in speech, and affected
a crisp, biting brevity, called dry wit. He had also a turn for
practical jokes, and a great many of these were told of him; to
which, perhaps, he had no historical claim. The following is one
of them, and is illustrative of his manner, even if it originated
elsewhere.
On a cold, stormy day in December, a man chanced to come into the
bar-room of Keeler's tavern, where Mat Olmstead and several of his
companions were lounging. The stranger had on a new hat of the latest
fashion, and still shining with the gloss of the iron. He seemed
conscious of his dignity, and carried his head in such a manner as to
invite attention to it. Mat's knowing eye immediately detected the
weakness of the stranger; so he approached him, and said,--
"What a very nice hat you've got on! Pray who made it?"
"Oh, it came from New York," was the reply.
"Well, let me take it," said Mat.
The stranger took it off his head, gingerly, and handed it to him.
"It is a wonderful nice hat," said Matthew; "and I see it's a real
salamander!"
"Salamander?" said the other. "What's that?"
"Why, a real salamander hat won't burn!"
"No? I never heard of that before: I don't believe it's one of that
kind."
"Sartain sure; I'll bet you a mug of flip of it."
"Well, I'll stand you!"
"Done: now I'll just put it under the fore-stick?"
"Well."
It being thus arranged, Mat put the hat under the fore-stick into a
glowing mass of coals. In an instant it took fire, collapsed, and
rolled into a black, crumpled mass of cinders.
"I du declare," said Mat Olmstead, affecting great astonishment, "it
ain't a salamander hat arter all! Well, I'll pay the flip!"
Yet wit is not always wisdom. Keen as this man was as to things
immediately before him, he was of narrow understanding. He seemed not
to possess the faculty of reasoning beyond his senses. He never would
admit that the sun was fixed, and that the world turned round.
I remember, that when the great solar eclipse of 1806 was
approaching, he with two other men were at work in one of our fields,
not far from the house. The eclipse was to begin at ten or eleven
o'clock, and my father invited the workmen to come up and observe it
through some pieces of smoked glass. They came, though Mat ridiculed
the idea of an eclipse--not but the thing might happen; but it was
idle to suppose it could be foretold. While they were waiting and
watching, my father explained the cause and nature of the phenomenon.
Mat laughed with that low, scoffing chuckle, with which a woodcock,
safe in his den, replies to the bark of a besieging dog.
"So you don't believe this?" said my father.
"No," said Mat, shaking his head; "I don't believe a word of it. You
say, Parson Goodrich, that the sun is fixed, and don't move?"
"Yes, I say so."
"Well: didn't you preach last Sunday out of the 10th chapter of
Joshua?"
"Yes."
"And didn't you tell us that Joshua commanded the sun and moon to
stand still?"
"Yes."
"Well: what was the use of telling the sun to stand still if it never
moved?"
This was a dead shot, especially at a parson, and in the presence of
an audience inclined, from the fellowship of ignorance, to receive
the argument. Being thus successful, Mat went on,--
"Now, Parson Goodrich, let's try it again. If you turn a thing that's
got water in it bottom up, the water'll run out, won't it?"
"No doubt."
"If the world turns round, then, your well will be turned bottom up,
and the water'll run out!"
At this point my father applied his eye to the sun, through a
piece of smoked glass. The eclipse had begun: a small piece was
evidently cut off from the rim. My father stated the fact, and the
company around looked through the glass, and saw that it was so. Mat
Olmstead, however, sturdily refused to try it, and bore on his face
an air of supreme contempt; as much as to say "You don't humbug me!"
But ignorance and denial of the works of God do not interrupt
their march. By slow and invisible degrees, a shade crept over the
landscape. There was no cloud in the sky; but a chill stole through
the atmosphere, and a strange dimness fell over the world. It was
mid-day, yet it seemed like the approach of night. All nature seemed
chilled and awed by the strange phenomenon. The birds, with startled
looks and ominous notes, left their busy cares and gathered in the
thick branches of the trees, where they seemed to hold counsel one
with another. The hens, with slow and hesitating steps, set their
faces toward their roosts. One old hen, with a brood of chickens,
walked along with a tall, halting tread, and sought shelter upon
the barn-floor, where she gathered her young ones under her wings,
continuing to made a low sound, as if saying, "Hush, my babes, lie
still and slumber."
I well remember this phenomenon--the first of the kind I had ever
witnessed. Though occupied by this seeming conflict of the heavenly
bodies, I recollect to have paid some attention to the effect of the
scene upon others. Mat Olmstead said not a word; the other workmen
were overwhelmed with emotions of awe.
At length, the eclipse began to pass away, and nature slowly returned
to her equanimity. The birds came forth, and sang a jubilee, as if
relieved from some impending calamity. The hum of life again filled
the air; the old hen with her brood gaily resumed her rambles, and
made the leaves and gravel fly with her invigorated scratchings. The
workmen, too, having taken a glass of grog, returned thoughtfully to
their labors.
"After all," said one of the men, as they passed along to the field,
"I guess the parson was right about the sun and the moon."
"Well, perhaps he was," said Mat; "but then Joshua was wrong."
* * * * *
This incident of the total eclipse was, many years later, turned to
account in Parley's Magazine, in the following dialogue between Peter
Parley and his children:
_Parley._ Come, John, you promised to write something for this
number of the Magazine; is it ready?
_John._ Well--* * *--not exactly.
_Jane._ Oh, Mr. Parley--'tis ready--he read it all to me, and
it's real good, if anybody could understand it.
_P._ Bring it here, John. (_John comes up gingerly, and gives
Mr. Parley a piece of paper._)
_John._ There 'tis--but you mustn't read it aloud.
_All the children._ Yes, yes, read it! Read it! Go ahead!
_P._ Well, I'll read it--it looks pretty good. Now let all be
perfectly still. (_Parley reads._)
The Old Hen and the Philosopher: a Fable.
PART I.
REFLECTIONS OF A HEN WITH CHICKENS DURING AN ECLIPSE OF THE SUN.
"Craw * * * craw * * * craw! What's the matter with my eyes? It looks
very dark, for a clear summer's day. I must be getting old, for it
ain't more than ten o'clock, and it seems exactly like sundown. Craw
* * * craw * * * craw! Why, it's getting cold. It seems as chill as
evening. Cut, cut, cudawcut! What can be the matter? Why, the sun is
going to bed before it's fairly got up. Cur--r-r-r-r-r! Well, after
all, it may be only a fit of the vapors--or my gizzard may be put out
of order by that toad I ate yesterday. I thought, then, I should pay
dear for it. Cur--r-r-r-r-r? Here chicks--come under my wings! I'm
going to take a nap. Come along--Nip, Dip, Pip, Rip--come into your
featherbed, my little dearies! There! Don't stick your noses out--be
still now--I'm going to sing a song.
Hush, my chickies--don't you peep--
Hush, my children--go to sleep!
Now the night is dark and thick--
Go to sleep each little chick!
* * * * *
Fiddle-de-dee--I can't sleep, and the chickens are as lively as
bed-bugs. Cut--cut--cu--daw--cut! What on airth is the matter! The
sun has got put out, right up there in the sky, just like a candle.
Well--never did I see or hear of such a thing afore! And now it's
night in the middle of the day! What will come next? Why, I expect I
shall walk on my head, and fly with my claws! It ain't half fair, to
shave an old hen and chickens out of their dinner and supper in this
way. However, it's too dark for decent people to be abroad. So, my
chicks, we must get into the coop and go to rest. Cur--r-r-r-r--it's
very queer indeed. How thankful I am that I don't make day and
night, and get the world into such a scrape as this. Come in! Come
in, chicks! It ain't our affair. Come along--there--you rowdies! You
ain't sleepy, and I don't wonder at it. But hens and chickens must go
to bed when the lamp is put out. Cur--r-r-r-r-r."
PART II.
REFLECTIONS OF A PHILOSOPHER UPON A BLADE OF GRASS.
Here is a leaf, which we call a blade of grass. There are myriads
like it in this field; it seems a trifle; it seems insignificant.
But let me look at it with my glass. How wonderful is its texture!
It seems woven like network, and nothing can exceed the beauty of
its structure. And yet every blade of grass is like this. It exceeds
all human art in the delicacy of its fabric, yet it grows here out
of the ground. _Grows!_ What does that mean? What makes it grow? Has
it life? It must have life, or it could not grow. And what is that
life? It cannot think; it cannot walk; who makes it grow then? Who
made this blade of grass? It was not man; it is not the beast of
the field. It is God who made it! And is God here in the field, all
around me--in every blade of grass, in every leaf, and stem, and
flower?
It must be so, indeed. How full of instruction is every thing around
us, if we use the powers we possess!
* * * * *
_Moral._ Some people believe, that birds and beasts have minds and
souls as well as human beings; but we see that the most stupendous
wonder of nature excited in one of the most intelligent and civilized
of birds, only a queer sort of surprise, expressed in the words
cut--cut--cu--dawcut! At the same time it appears that a single
blade of grass opens to the philosopher a sublime strain of thought,
teaching the profound lesson that God is everywhere!
Is there not a gulf as wide as eternity, between the human soul and
animal instinct?
* * * * *
_All the children._ Bravo, bravo--John!
_Parley._ Well, John--that'll do for a boy. I shan't insert it as
my own, you know; people will say, it's good for John Smith, only
fourteen years old; but for Peter Parley--why, it's too ridiculous,
altogether. At any rate--John--the moral is good--and if people do
laugh at the article, you just say to 'em--_keep your tongue between
your teeth, till you do better, and you won't speak for a year_!
There's nothing like showing a proper spirit upon occasions of
importance.
* * * * *
To return to Mat Olmstead. Notwithstanding his habitual incredulity,
he had still his weak side, for he was a firm believer in ghosts: not
ghosts in general, but in two that he had seen himself. These were
of enormous size, white, and winged like angels. He had seen them
one dark night as he was going to his house, which was situated in
a lonesome lane that diverged from the high road. It was very late,
and Mat had spent the evening at the tavern, like Tam O'Shanter;
like him, he "was na fou, but just had plenty." Well, Mat Olmstead's
two angels turned out to be a couple of white geese, which he had
startled into flight as he stumbled upon them quietly snoozing in the
joint of a rail fence!
It has often appeared to me that Mat Olmstead was a type, a
representative of a class of men not very rare in this world of
ours. It is not at all uncommon to find people, and those who are
called strong-minded, who are habitual unbelievers in things possible
and probable--nay, in things well established by testimony--while
they readily become the dupes of the most absurd illusions and
impositions. Dr. Johnson, it is stated, did not believe in the
great earthquake of Lisbon in 1755, until six months after it had
happened, while he readily accepted the egregious deception of the
Cock Lane Ghost. In our day we see people, and sharp ones, too, who
reject the plainest teachings of common sense, sanctioned by the good
and wise of centuries, and follow with implicit faith some goose
of the imagination, like Joe Smith or Brigham Young. These are Mat
Olmsteads, a little intoxicated by their own imaginations, and in
their night of ignorance and folly they fall down and worship the
grossest and goosiest of illusions.
I now turn to a different character, Lieutenant, or, as we all called
him, _Leftenant_ Smith, who has been already introduced to you. He
was a man of extensive reading and large information; he was also
some sixty years old, and had stored in his memory the results of his
own observation and experience. He read the newspapers and conversed
with travellers, affected philosophy, and deemed himself the great
intelligencer of the town: he dearly loved to dispense his learning,
asking only in return attentive listeners; and he liked discussion,
provided the talk was all left to himself. He was equal to all
questions: with my father, he dilated upon such high matters as the
purchase of Louisiana; Lewis and Clarke's exploring expedition; the
death of Hamilton in the duel with Aaron Burr; the attack of the
Leopard on the Chesapeake; Fulton's attempts at steam navigation, and
the other agitating topics of those times, as they came one after
another.
I have an impression now that Lieut. Smith, after all, was not very
profound; but to me he was a miracle of learning. I listened to his
discussions with very little interest, but his narratives engaged my
whole attention. These were always descriptive of actual events, for
he would have disdained fiction: from them I derived a satisfaction
that I never found in fables. The travels of Mungo Park, his strange
adventures and melancholy death, which about those days transpired
through the newspapers, and all of which Lieut. Smith had at his
tongue's end, excited my interest and my imagination, even beyond the
romances of Sinbad the Sailor and Robinson Crusoe.
In the year 1807 an event occurred, not only startling in itself,
but giving exercise to all the philosophical powers of Lieut. Smith.
On the morning of the 14th of December, about daybreak, I had
arisen, and was occupied in building a fire, this being my daily
duty; suddenly the room was filled with light, and, looking up, I
saw through the window a ball of fire, nearly the size of the moon,
passing across the heavens from north-west to south-east. It was
at an immense height, and of intense brilliancy. Having passed the
zenith, it swiftly descended toward the earth: while still at a great
elevation it burst, with three successive explosions, into fiery
fragments. The report was like three claps of rattling thunder in
quick succession.
My father, who saw the light and heard the sounds, declared it to
be a meteor of extraordinary magnitude. It was noticed all over the
town, and caused great excitement. On the following day the news
came that huge fragments of stone had fallen in the adjacent town
of Weston, some eight or ten miles south-east of Ridgefield. It
appeared that the people in the neighborhood heard the rushing of the
stones through the air, as well as the shock when they struck the
earth. One, weighing two hundred pounds, fell on a rock, which it
splintered; its huge fragments ploughing up the ground around to the
extent of a hundred feet. This meteor was estimated to be half-a-mile
in diameter, and to have travelled through the heavens at the rate of
two or three hundred miles a minute.
On this extraordinary occasion the Lieutenant came to our house,
according to his wont, and for several successive evenings discoursed
to us upon the subject. I must endeavor to give you a specimen of his
performances.
"I have examined the subject, sir," said he, addressing my father,
"and am inclined to the opinion that these phenomena are animals
revolving in the orbits of space between the heavenly bodies.
Occasionally, one of them comes too near the earth, and rushing
through our atmosphere with immense velocity, takes fire and
explodes!"
"This is rather a new theory, is it not?" said my father. "It
appears that these meteoric stones, in whatever country they fall,
are composed of the same ingredients: mostly silex, iron, and nickel:
these substances would make rather a hard character, if endowed with
animal life, and especially with the capacity of rushing through
space at the rate of two or three hundred miles a minute, and then
exploding?"
"These substances I consider only as the shell of the animal, sir."
"You regard the creature as a huge shell-fish, then?"
"Not necessarily a fish; for the whole order of nature, called
_Crustacea_, has the bones on the outside. In this case of meteors,
I suppose them to be covered with some softer substance; for it
frequently happens that a jelly-like matter comes down with meteoric
stones. This resembles coagulated blood; and thus what is called
bloody rain or snow has often fallen over great spaces of country.
Now, when the chemists analyze these things--the stones, which I
consider the bones; and the jelly, which I consider the fat; and
the rain, which I consider the blood--they find them all to consist
of the same elements; that is, silex, iron, nickel, &c. None but my
animal theory will harmonise all these phenomena, sir."
"But," interposed my father, "consider the enormous size of your
aërial monsters. I recollect to have read only a short time since,
that in the year 1803, about one o'clock in the afternoon, the
inhabitants of several towns of Normandy, in France, heard noises in
the sky, like the peals of cannon and musketry, with a long-continued
roll of drums. Looking upward, they saw something like a small cloud
at an immense elevation, which soon seemed to explode, sending its
vapor in all directions. At last a hissing noise was heard, and then
stones fell, spreading over a country three miles wide by eight
miles long. No less than two thousand pieces were collected, weighing
from one ounce to seventeen pounds. That must have been rather a
large animal, eight miles long and three miles wide!"
"What is that, sir, in comparison with the earth, which Kepler, the
greatest philosopher that ever lived, conceived to be a huge beast?"
"Yes; but did he prove it?"
"He gave good reasons for it, sir. He found very striking analogies
between the earth and animal existences: such as the tides,
indicating its breathing through vast internal lungs; earthquakes,
resembling eructations from the stomach; and volcanoes, suggestive of
boils, pimples, and other cutaneous eruptions."
"I think I have seen your theory set to verse."
Saying this, my father rose, and bringing a book, read as follows,--
"To me things are not as to vulgar eyes--
I would all nature's works anatomize:
This world a living monster seems to me,
Rolling and sporting in the aërial sea:
The soil encompasses her rocks and stones,
As flesh in animals encircles bones.
I see vast ocean, like a heart in play,
Pant systole and diastole every day.
The world's great lungs, monsoons and trade-winds show--
From east to west, from west to east they blow.
The hills are pimples, which earth's face defile,
And burning Etna an eruptive boil.
On her high mountains living forests grow,
And downy grass o'erspreads the vales below:
From her vast body perspirations rise,
Condense in clouds and float beneath the skies."
My father having closed the book, the profound Lieutenant, who did
not conceive it possible that a thing so serious could be made the
subject of a joke, said,--
"A happy illustration of my philosophy, sir, though I cannot commend
the form in which it is put. If a man has anything worth saying,
sir, he should use prose. Poetry is only proper when one wishes to
embellish folly or dignify trifles. In this case it is otherwise, I
admit; and I am happy to find so powerful a supporter of my animal
theory of meteors. I shall consider the subject, and present it for
the consideration of the philosophic world."
One prominent characteristic of this philosopher was, that when a
great event came about, he fancied that he had foreseen and predicted
it from the beginning. Now, about this time Fulton actually succeeded
in his long-sought application of steam to navigation. The general
opinion of the country had been, all along, that he was a monomaniac,
attempting an impossibility. He was the standing theme of cheap
newspaper wit, and a God-send to orators who were hard run for a
joke. Lieutenant Smith, who was only an echo of what passed around
him during the period of Fulton's labors, joined in the current
contempt; but when the news came, in October, 1807, that he had
actually succeeded--that one of his boats had steamed at the rate of
five miles an hour against the current of the Hudson river--then,
still an echo of the public voice, did he greatly jubilate.
"I told you so! I told you so!" was his first exclamation, as he
entered the house, swelling with the account.
"Well, and what is it?" said my father.
"Fulton has made his boat go, sir! I told you how it would be, sir.
It opens a new era in the history of navigation. We shall go to
Europe in ten days, sir."
Now, you will readily understand, that in these sketches I do not
pretend to report with literal precision the profound discourses of
our Ridgefield _savant_; I remember only the general outlines, the
rest being easily suggested. My desire is to present the portrait
of one of the notables of our village--one whom I remember with
pleasure, and whom I conceive to be a representative of the amiable,
and perhaps useful race of fussy philosophers to be found in most
country villages.
From the town oracle I turn to the town miser. Granther Baldwin, as
I remember him, was threescore years and ten--perhaps a little more.
He was a man of middle size, thin, wiry, and bloodless, and having
his body bent forward at a sharp angle with his hips, while his head
was thrown back over his shoulders, giving his person the general
form of a reversed letter Z. His complexion was brown and stony; his
eye grey and twinkling, with a nose and chin almost meeting like a
pair of forceps. His hair, standing out with an irritable friz, was
of a rusty gray. He always walked and rode with restless rapidity.
At church, he wriggled in his seat, tasted fennel, and bobbed his
head up and down and around. He could not afford tobacco, so he
chewed, with a constant activity, either an oak chip or the roots
of elecampane, which was indigenous in the lane near his house.
On Sundays he was decent in his attire, but on week-days he was a
beggarly curiosity. It was said that he once exchanged hats with a
scarecrow, and cheated scandalously in the bargain. His boots--a
withered wreck of an old pair of whitetops--dangled over his shrunken
calves and a coat in tatters fluttered from his body. He rode a
rat-tailed, ambling mare, which always went like the wind, shaking
the old gentleman merrily from right to left, and making his bones,
boots, and rags rustle like his own bush-harrow. Familiar as he was,
the school-boys were never tired of him, and when he passed, "There
goes Granther Baldwin!" was the invariable ejaculation.
I must add, in order to complete the picture, that in contrast
to his leanness and activity, his wife was very fat, and, either
from indolence or lethargy, dozed away half her life in the
chimney-corner. She spent a large part of her life in cheating her
husband out of fourpence-ha'pennies, of which more than a peck were
found secreted in an old chest at her death.
It was the boast of this man that he had risen from poverty to
wealth, and he loved to describe the process of his advancement. He
always worked in the cornfield till it was so dark that he could
see his hoe strike fire. When in the heat of summer he was obliged
occasionally to let his cattle breathe, he sat on a sharp stone, lest
he should rest too long. He paid half-a-dollar to the parson for
marrying him, which he always regretted, as one of his neighbors got
the job done for a pint of mustard-seed. On fast-days he made his
cattle go without food as well as himself. He systematically stooped
to save a crooked pin or a rusty nail, as it would cost more to make
it than to pick it up. Such were his boasts--or at least, such were
the things traditionally imputed to him.
He was withal a man of keen faculties; sagacious in the purchase
of land, as well as in the rotation of crops. He was literally
honest, and never cheated any one out of a farthing, according to
his arithmetic, though he had sometimes an odd way of reckoning. It
is said that in his day the law imposed a fine of one dollar for
profane swearing. During this period, Granther Baldwin employed a
carpenter who was notoriously addicted to this vice. Granther kept a
strict account of every instance of transgression, and when the job
was done, and the time came to settle the account, he said to the
carpenter,--
"You've worked with me thirty days, I think, Mr. Kellogg?"
"Yes, Granther," was the reply.
"At a dollar a-day: that makes thirty dollars, I think?"
"Yes, Granther."
"Mr. Kellogg, I am sorry to observe that you have a very bad habit of
taking the Lord's name in vain."
"Yes, Granther."
"Well, you know that's agin the law."
"Yes, Granther."
"And there's a fine of one dollar for each offence."
"Yes, Granther."
"Well--here's the account I've kept, and I find you've broken the law
twenty-five times; that is, sixteen times in April, and nine in May.
At a dollar a time, that makes twenty-five dollars--don't it?"
"Yes, Granther."
"So, then, twenty-five from thirty leaves five; it appears,
therefore, that there is a balance of five dollars due to you. How'll
you take it, Mr. Kellogg? In cash, or in my way--say in 'taters,
pork, and other things?"
At this point the carpenter's brow lowered, but with a prodigious
effort at composure he replied,--
"Well, Granther, you may keep the five dollars, and I'll take it out
in _my_ way--that is, in swearing!"
Upon this he hurled at the old gentleman a volley of oaths, too
numerous and too profane to repeat.
One sketch more, and my gallery of eccentricities is finished. Men
hermits have been frequently heard of, but a woman hermit is of rare
occurrence. Nevertheless, Ridgefield could boast of one of these
among its curiosities. Sarah Bishop was, at the period of my boyhood,
a thin, ghostly old woman, bent and wrinkled, but still possessing a
good deal of activity. She lived in a cave, formed by nature, in a
mass of projecting rocks that overhung a deep valley or gorge in West
Mountain, about four miles from our house.
The rock, bare and desolate, was her home, except that occasionally
she strayed to the neighborhood villages; seldom being absent more
than one or two days at a time. She never begged, but received such
articles as were given to her. She was of a highly religious turn
of mind, and at long intervals came to our church, and partook of
the sacrament. She sometimes visited our family--the only one thus
favored in the town--and occasionally remained overnight. She never
would eat with us at the table, nor engage in general conversation.
Upon her early history she was invariably silent; indeed, she spoke
of her affairs with great reluctance. She neither seemed to have
sympathy for others, nor to ask it in return. If there was any
exception, it was only in respect to the religious exercises of the
family: she listened intently to the reading of the Bible, and joined
with apparent devotion in the morning and evening prayer.
My excursions frequently brought me within the wild precincts of
her solitary den. Several times I have paid a visit to the spot,
and in two instances found her at home. A place more desolate, in
its general outline, more absolutely given up to the wildness of
nature, it is impossible to conceive. Her cave was a hollow in the
rock, about six feet square. Except a few rags and an old basin, it
was without furniture; her bed being the floor of the cave, and her
pillow a projecting point of the rock. It was entered by a natural
door about three feet wide and four feet high, and was closed in
severe weather only by pieces of bark. At a distance of a few feet
was a cleft, where she kept a supply of roots and nuts, which she
gathered, and the food that was given her. She was reputed to have
a secret depository, where she kept a quantity of antique dresses;
several of them of rich silks, and apparently suited to fashionable
life: though I think this was an exaggeration. At a little distance
down the ledge there was a fine spring of water, near which she was
often found in fair weather.
There was no attempt, either in or around the spot, to bestow upon
it an air of convenience or comfort. A small space of cleared ground
was occupied by a few thriftless peachtrees, and in summer a patch
of starveling beans, cucumbers, and potatoes. Up two or three of the
adjacent forest-trees there clambered luxuriant grape-vines, highly
productive in their season. With the exception of these feeble marks
of cultivation, all was left ghastly and savage as nature made it.
The trees, standing upon the tops of the cliff, and exposed to the
shock of the tempest, were bent and stooping towards the valley:
their limbs contorted, and their roots clinging, as with an agonized
grasp, into the rifts of the rocks upon which they stood. Many
of them were hoary with age, and hollow with decay; others were
stripped of their leaves by the blasts; and others still, grooved
and splintered by the lightning. The valley below, enriched with
the decay of centuries, and fed with moisture from the surrounding
hills, was a wild paradise of towering oaks, and other giants of the
vegetable kingdom, with a rank undergrowth of tangled shrubs. In
the distance, to the east, the gathered streams spread out into a
beautiful expanse of water called Long Pond.
A place at once so secluded and so wild was, of course, the chosen
haunt of birds, beasts and reptiles. The eagle built her nest and
reared her young in the clefts of the rocks; foxes found shelter in
the caverns; and serpents revelled alike in the dry hollows of the
cliffs and the dark recesses of the valley. The hermitess had made
companionship with these brute tenants of the wood. The birds had
become so familiar with her, that they seemed to heed her almost as
little as if she had been a stone. The fox fearlessly pursued his
hunt and his gambols in her presence. The rattlesnake hushed his
monitory signal as he approached her. Such things, at least, were
entertained by the popular belief. It was said, indeed, that she had
domesticated a particular rattlesnake, and that he paid her daily
visits. She was accustomed--so said the legend--to bring him milk
from the villages, which he devoured with great relish.
It will not surprise you that a subject like this should have given
rise to one of my first poetical efforts; the first verses, in fact,
that I ever published. I gave them to Brainard, then editor of the
Mirror, at Hartford; and he inserted them, probably about the year
1823.
The facts in respect to this Nun of the Mountain were, indeed,
strange enough, without any embellishment of fancy. During the winter
she was confined for several months to her cell. At that period she
lived upon roots and nuts, which she had laid in for the season.
She had no fire; and, deserted even by her brute companions, she
was absolutely alone. She appeared to have no sense of solitude, no
weariness at the slow lapse of days and months. When spring returned,
she came down from her mountain a mere shadow; each year her form
more bent, her limbs more thin and wasted, her hair more blanched,
her eye more colorless. At last, life seemed ebbing away, like the
faint light of a lamp sinking into the socket. The final winter came;
it passed, and she was not seen in the villages around. Some of the
inhabitants went to the mountain, and found her standing erect, her
feet sunk in the frozen marsh of the valley. In this situation, being
unable to extricate herself, she had yielded her breath to Him who
gave it!
The early history of this strange personage was involved in some
mystery. So much as this, however, was ascertained, that she was
of good family, and lived on Long Island. During the Revolutionary
war, in one of the numerous forays of the British soldiers, her
father's house was burned, and she was infamously treated. Desolate
in fortune, blighted at heart, she fled from human society, and
for a long time concealed her sorrows in the cavern which she had
accidentally found. Her grief--softened by time, perhaps alleviated
by a veil of insanity--was at length so far mitigated, that, although
she did not seek human society, she could endure it. She continued to
occupy her cave till the year 1810 or 1811, when she departed in the
manner I have described; and we may hope, for a brighter and happier
existence.
CHAPTER IX.
FAREWELL TO HOME--DANBURY--MY NEW VOCATION--MY
BROTHER-IN-LAW--HIS CONVERSATIONS WITH LAWYER HATCH--CLERICAL
ANECDOTES.
In the autumn of the year 1808, a sudden change took place in my
prospects. My eldest sister had married a gentleman by the name of
Cooke, in the adjacent town of Danbury. He was a tradesman, and
being in want of a clerk, offered me the place. It was considered a
desirable situation by my parents, and, overlooking my mechanical
aptitudes, they accepted it at once, and at the age of fifteen I
found myself installed in a country store.
This arrangement gratified my love of change; and at the same time,
as Danbury was a much more considerable town than Ridgefield,
going to live there naturally suggested the idea of advancement,
especially as I was to exchange my uncertain prospects for a positive
profession. However, I little comprehended what it meant to say,
"Farewell to home:" I have since learned its significance. In thus
bidding adieu to the paternal roof, we part with youth for ever.
We part with the spring-tide of life, which strews every path with
flowers, fills the air with poetry, and the heart with rejoicing. We
part with that genial spirit which endows familiar objects--brooks,
lawns, play-grounds, hill-sides--with its own sweet illusions; we bid
adieu to this and its fairy companionships. Even if, in after life,
we return to the scenes of our childhood, they have lost the bloom
of youth, and in its place we see the wrinkles of that age which has
graven its hard lines upon our hearts.
Farewell to home implies something even yet more serious: we
relinquish, and often with exultation, the tender care of parents, in
order to take upon ourselves the responsibilities of independence.
What seeming infatuation it is, that renders us thus impatient of the
guidance of those who gave us being, and makes us at the same time
anxious to spread our untried sails upon an untried sea, to go upon
a voyage which involves all the chances, evil as well as good, of
existence! And yet it is not infatuation--it is instinct. We cannot
always be young; we cannot all remain under the paternal roof. The
old birds push the young ones from the nest, and force them to a
trial of their wings. It is the system of nature that impels us to go
forth and try our fortunes, and it is a kind Providence, after all,
which endues us with courage for the outset of our uncertain career.
I was not long in discovering that my new vocation was very different
from what I had expected, and very different from my accustomed way
of life. My habits had been active, my employments chiefly in the
open air. I was accustomed to be frequently on horseback, and to make
excursions to the neighboring towns. I had also enjoyed much personal
liberty, which I failed not to use in rambling over the fields and
forests. All this was now changed. My duties lay exclusively in
the store, and this seemed now my prison. From morning to night I
remained there, and, as our business was not large, I had many hours
upon my hands with nothing to do but to consider the weariness of my
situation. My brother-in-law was always present, and being a man of
severe aspect and watchful eyes, I felt a sort of restraint, which,
for a time, was agonizing. I had, consequently, pretty sharp attacks
of homesickness; a disease which, though not dangerous, is one of the
most distressing to which suffering humanity is exposed.
This state of misery continued for some weeks, during which time
I revolved various plans of escape from my confinement: such as
stealing away at night, making my way to Norwalk, getting on board
a sloop, and going as cabin-boy to the West Indies. I believe that
a small impulse would have set me upon some such mad expedition. By
degrees, however, I became habituated to my occupation, and as my
situation was eligible in other respects, I found myself ere long
reconciled to it.
The father and mother of my brother-in-law were aged people, living
with him in the same house, and as one family. They were persons of
great amiability and excellence of character: the former, Colonel
Cooke, was eighty years of age, but he had still the perfect exercise
of his faculties, and though he had ceased all business, he was
cheerful, and took a lively interest in passing events. Never have
I seen a more pleasing spectacle than this reverend couple, at the
age of fourscore, both smoking their pipes in the evening, with two
generations of their descendants around them.
My brother-in-law was a man of decided character, and his portrait
deserves a place in these annals. He had graduated at Yale College,
and had been qualified for the bar; but his health was feeble, and
therefore, chiefly for occupation, he succeeded to the store which
his father had kept before him. Being in easy circumstances, he made
no great efforts in business. Though, as I have said, he was of
stern aspect, and his manners were somewhat cold and distant, his
character was that of a just and kind man. In business he treated
people respectfully, but he never solicited custom: he showed, but
never recommended his goods. If his advice were asked, he offered it
without regard to his own interest. He gave me no instructions, but
left me to the influence of his example. He was of a religious turn
of mind, not merely performing the accustomed duties of a Christian,
but making devotional books a large part of his study. Perhaps he was
conscious of failing health, and already heard the monitory voice of
that disease which was ere long to terminate his career.
Nevertheless, he was not insensible to the pleasures of cultivated
society, and however grave he might be in his general air and manner,
he was particularly gratified with the visits of a man, in all things
his opposite, Moses Hatch, then a leading lawyer in Danbury.
This person was a frequent visitor to the store, and the long winter
which commenced soon after I entered upon my apprenticeship was not a
little enlivened by his conversations with my master. It frequently
happened during the deep snows, that the day passed without a single
customer, and on these occasions Lawyer Hatch was pretty sure to
pay us a visit. It was curious to see these two men, so opposite
in character, attracted to each other as if by contradiction.
My brother-in-law evidently found a pleasant relaxation in the
conversation of his neighbor, embellished with elegant wit and varied
learning, while the latter derived equal gratification from the
serious, manly intellect of his friend. In general the former was the
talker, and the latter the listener; yet sometimes the conversation
became discussion, and a keen trial of wit _versus_ logic ensued. The
lawyer always contended for victory; my brother-in-law for the truth.
The precise form of these conversations has vanished from my mind,
but some of the topics remain. I recollect long talks about the
embargo, non-intercourse, and other Jeffersonian measures, which
were treated with unsparing ridicule and reproach; anecdotes and
incidents of Napoleon, who excited mingled admiration and terror;
with observations upon public men, as well in Europe as America. I
remember also a very keen discussion upon Berkeley's theory of the
ideality of nature, mental and material, which so far excited my
curiosity, that, finding the "Minute Philosopher" by that author,
in the family library, I read it through with great interest
and attention. The frequent references to Shakespeare in these
conversations led me to look into his works, and, incited by the
recommendations of my sister, I read them through, somewhat doggedly,
seeking even to penetrate the more difficult and obscure passages.
It frequently happened that my master, owing to the influence of
disease, was affected with depression of spirits; and the lawyer's
best wit and choicest stories were expended without even exciting
a smile. Not discouraged, but rather stimulated by such adversity,
he usually went on, and was pretty sure at last to strike the vein,
as Moses did the water in the rock, and a gush of uncontrollable
laughter was the result. I remember in one instance, Mr. Cooke sat
for a long time, looking moodily into the fire, while Squire Hatch
went on telling stories, chiefly about clergymen, of which he had a
great assortment. I will endeavor to give you a sketch of the scene.
"I know not why it is so," said the lawyer; "but the fact is
undeniable, that the most amusing anecdotes are about clergymen.
The reason perhaps is, that incongruity is the source of humorous
associations; and this is evidently the most frequent and striking
in a profession which sets apart its members as above the mass of
mankind, in a certain gravity of character and demeanor, of which the
black coat is the emblem. A spot upon this strikes every eye, while a
brown coat, being the color of dirt, hides rather than reveals what
is upon its surface. Thus it is, as we all know, that what would be
insipid as coming from a layman, is very laughable if it happens to
a parson. I have heard that on a certain occasion, as the Rev. J----
M---- was about to read a hymn, he saw a little boy sitting behind
the chorister in the gallery, who had intensely red hair. The day
was cold, and the little rogue was pretending to warm his hands by
holding them close to the chorister's head. This so disconcerted the
minister, that it was some minutes before he could go on with the
services."
The only effect of this was, that my master drew down one corner of
his mouth.
"I have heard of another clergyman," said the lawyer, "who suffered
in a similar way. One day, in the very midst of his sermon, he saw
Deacon B---- fast asleep, his head leaning back on the rail of the
pew, and his mouth wide open. A young fellow in the gallery above,
directly over him, took a quid of tobacco from his mouth, and taking
a careful aim, let it drop plump into the deacon's mouth. The latter
started from his sleep, and went through a terrible paroxysm of
fright and choking before he recovered."
Mr. Cooke bit his lip, but was silent. Lawyer Hatch, although he
pretended to be all the while looking into the fire, got a quick
side-glance at the face of his auditor, and continued,--
"You know the Rev. Dr. B----, sir? Well, one day he told me, that as
he was on his way to New Haven he came to the house of one of his
former parishioners, who, some years before, had removed to that
place. As he was about to pass it, he remembered that this person had
died recently, and he thought it meet and proper to stop and condole
with the widow. She met him very cheerfully, and they had some
pleasant chat together.
"'Madam,' said he, after a time, 'it is a painful subject--but you
have recently met with a severe loss.'
"She instantly applied her apron to her eyes, and said,--
"'Oh yes, doctor; there's no telling how I feel.'
"'It is indeed a great bereavement you have suffered.'
"'Yes, doctor; very great, indeed.'
"'I hope you bear it with submission?'
"'I try tu; but oh, doctor, I sometimes feel in my heart--Goosy,
goosy gander, where shall I wander?'"
The lawyer glanced at the object of his attack, and seeming to see a
small breach in the wall, he thought it time to bring up his heavy
guns. He went on,--
"There's another story about this same Dr. B----, which is amusing.
Some years ago he lost his wife, and after a time he began to look
out for another. At last he fixed his mind upon a respectable lady
in a neighboring town, and commenced paying her his addresses.
This naturally absorbed much of his time and attention, and his
parish became dissatisfied. The deacons of the church held several
conferences on the subject, and it was finally agreed that Deacon
Becket, who had the grace of smooth speech, should give the Reverend
Doctor a hint of what they deemed his fearful backsliding.
Accordingly, the next Sabbath morning, on going to church, the deacon
overtook the parson, and the following dialogue ensued,--
"'Good morning, Dr. B----.'
"'Good morning, Deacon Becket.'
"'Well, Doctor, I'm glad to meet you; for I wanted to say to you as
how I thought of changing my pew!'
"'Indeed! And why so?'
"'Well, I'll tell you. I sit, as you know, clear over the backside of
the meeting-house; and between me and the pulpit there's Judy Vickar,
Molly Warren, Experience Pettibone, and half-a-dozen old maids, who
sit with their mouths wide open, and they catch all the best of your
sarmon; and when it gets to me, it's plaguy poor stuff!'"
My brother-in-law could hold out no longer: his face was agitated for
a moment with nervous spasms; and then, bending forward, he burst
into a round, hearty laugh. The lawyer--who made it a point never to
smile at his own jokes--still had a look upon his face as much as to
say, "Well, sir, I thought I should get my case."
It may be easily imagined that I was greatly interested by these
conversations and discussions; and always felt not a little annoyed,
if perchance, as sometimes happened, I was called away in the midst
of a good story, or a keen debate, to supply a customer with a
gallon of treacle, or a paper of pins. I know not if this disgusted
me with my trade; but it is very certain that I conceived for it a
great dislike, nearly from the beginning. Never, so far as I can
recollect, did I for one moment enter heartily into its spirit. I
was always, while I continued in it, a mere servile laborer; doing
my duty, perhaps, yet with a languid and reluctant heart. However,
I got through the winter; and when the summer came, Mr. Cooke
nearly gave up personal attention to business in consequence of ill
health; and we had a new clerk, who was older than myself, and took
the responsible charge of the establishment. He was an excellent
merchant, and to me was a kind and indulgent friend. He afterwards
settled in Troy, where he is still living, in the enjoyment of an
ample fortune, and in excellent reputation as a father, friend,
Christian, and neighbor; the natural fruit of good sense, good
temper, and good conduct.
CHAPTER X.
NEW HAVEN--DISTINGUISHED MEN--WHITNEY'S COTTON-GIN--DURHAM--MY
GRANDMOTHER'S INDIAN PUDDINGS--IN SEARCH OF A DOCTOR--RETURN TO
DANBURY--THE COLD FRIDAY--FACTORY WORKMEN--MATHEMATICS.
In the summer of 1809 I made a short tour with my brother-in-law and
my sister, for the health of the former. This, to me, was a grand
expedition; for among other places we visited was New Haven, then a
sort of Jerusalem in my imagination; a holy place containing Yale
College, of which Dr. Dwight was president. Besides all this, one of
my uncles and some of my cousins lived there; and, better still, my
brother was there, and then a member of the college. Ah, how my heart
beat when we set out! Such was the vividness of my perceptions, that
I could fill a book with recollections of that short, simple journey;
the whole circuit not exceeding one hundred and twenty miles.
I was duly impressed with the beauty of New Haven; for then, as
now, it was celebrated for a rare union of rural freshness and city
elegance. I have recently, in passing through it, had a transient
view of its appearance; and may safely affirm that, after pretty
large observation in the Old World as well as in the New, I know of
no town or city more inviting; especially to one whose judgment is
cultivated by observation and study, and whose feelings are chastened
by reflection and experience. There is something of the activity and
bustle of commerce in a part of the town, and at one point, all the
spasm of a railway station. In other portions of the place, and over
three-fourths of its area, there is the quietude and repose proper
to a seat of learning. Here the houses seem suited to the city, each
with a garden breathing the perfumes of the country.
At the period of the visit I am describing, New Haven had not
one-half its present population; and many of the institutions which
now adorn it did not exist. The College, however, was then as now, a
leading literary institution in the country. To me it was an object
of special reverence, as my grandfather and his five sons had all
graduated there. My brother and two of my cousins were at this time
among its inmates. Of course, I looked with intense curiosity at the
several buildings that belonged to it. Many things here excited my
admiration. I looked with particular interest--I may add, with some
degree of envy--at the students, who seemed to me the privileged
sons of the earth. Several were pointed out as promising to be the
master-spirits of their age and generation; in some cases, I have
since seen these anticipations fulfilled.
Next to the College I visited the Bay, and for the first time
actually stood upon the shore of that living sea which, through my
whole childhood, had spread its blue bosom before me in the distant
horizon. A party of three or four of us took a boat, and went down
toward the entrance of the Bay, landing on the eastern side. From
this point the view was enchanting; it was a soft summer afternoon,
and the sea only breathed upon by light puffs of wind that came
from the west. I looked long, and with a species of entrancement,
at its heaving and swelling surface: I ran my eye far away, till
it met the line where sky and wave are blended together: I followed
the lulling surf as it broke, curling and winding, among the mimic
bays of the rocky shore. It was a spectacle, not only full of beauty
in itself, but to me it was a revelation and a fulfilment of the
thousand half-formed fancies which had been struggling in my longing
bosom from very childhood.
[Illustration: FIRST ADVENTURE ON THE SEA.]
Our party was so occupied with our contemplations, that we had
scarcely noticed a thunder-storm, which now approached and menaced
us from the west. We set out to return, but before we had got half
across the Bay it broke full upon us. The change in the aspect of
the sea was fearful: all its gentleness was gone; and now, black and
scowling, it seemed as if agitated by a demon, threatening everything
with destruction that came within its scope. By a severe struggle we
succeeded in reaching Long Walk, though not without risk.
While staying at New Haven, I met many distinguished men; as the
house of my uncle, Elizur Goodrich, was frequented by all the
celebrities of the place. Among these was Eli Whitney, the inventor
of the cotton-gin, a machine for combing out the seeds from the
cotton in its raw state, to which America may almost be said to owe
her cotton trade. Whitney's first gin was made in 1793, at which time
almost the whole of our raw material was imported. The results of
his invention may be estimated by the fact, that while in 1789 only
one million pounds of cotton were produced in the United States, the
product of the year 1855 exceeded fourteen hundred millions!
We saw the original model of Mr. Whitney's gin at his gun-factory,
which was situated in a wild, romantic spot, near the foot of East
Rock, and about two miles distant from New Haven.
Having spent about a week at New Haven, we proceeded to Durham, an
old-fashioned, sleepy town, of a thousand inhabitants. It is chiefly
remarkable for the distinguished men it has produced--the Chaunceys,
celebrated in the annals of New England, and, I may add, in those
of the country at large; the Wadsworths, no less noted in various
commanding stations, military and civil, public and private; the
Lymans, renowned in the battlefield, the college, the pulpit, and the
senate; the Austins--father and son--to whose talent and enterprise
Texas owes her position as a member of the Union.
To this list of remarkable names, I trust I may add that of the
Goodriches, without the imputation of egotism, for historical
justice demands it. At the time I visited the place, nearly all the
family had long since left it. My grandfather, Dr. Goodrich, died in
1797, but my grandmother was living, as well as her daughter, Mrs.
Smith, wife of Rev. David Smith, the clergyman of the place, who had
succeeded to my grandfather's pulpit.
I trust I have all due respect for my paternal grandmother, who has
already, by the way, been introduced to your notice. She was now
quite lame, but active, energetic, and alive to everything that was
passing. She welcomed me heartily, and took the best care of me in
the world, lavishing upon me, without stint, all the treasures of her
abundant larder. As to her Indian puddings--alas, I shall never see
their like again! A comfortable old body she was in all things, and,
as I have before remarked, took a special interest in the welfare of
the generation of descendants rising up around her. When she saw me
eating with a good appetite, her benignant grandmotherly face beamed
like a lantern.
As to my uncle and aunt Smith, I may remark that they were plain,
pious people, the former worthily filling the pulpit of my
grandfather, and enjoying a high degree of respect, alike from his
position and character. Besides attending to his parochial duties,
he prepared young men for college. Among his pupils were several
persons who attained distinction. As a man, he was distinguished
for his cheerful, frank, friendly manners: as a preacher, he was
practical, sincere, and successful. I must mention a story of him,
among my pulpit anecdotes. As sometimes happens, in a congregation
of farmers during midsummer, it once chanced that a large number of
his people, even the deacons in the sacramental seat, fell asleep in
the very midst of the sermon. The minister looked around, and just at
this moment, the only person who seemed quite awake was his eldest
son, David, sitting in the pew by the side of the pulpit. Pausing a
moment, and looking down upon his son, he exclaimed, in a powerful
voice:
"David, wake up!"
In a moment the whole congregation roused themselves, and long did
they remember the rebuke.
During our stay at Durham, my brother-in-law was so ill as to need
the advice of a skilful physician. Accordingly, I was dispatched on
horseback to Middletown, a distance of eight or ten miles, for Dr.
O----, then famous in all the country round about. On my way I met a
man of weather-beaten complexion and threadbare garments, mounted on
a lean and jaded mare. Beneath him was a pair of plump saddlebags.
He had all the marks of a doctor, for then men of his profession
traversed the country on horseback, carrying with them a collection
of pills, powders, and elixirs, equivalent to an apothecary's shop.
Instinct told me that he was my man. As I was about to pass him
I drew in my breath, to ask if he were Dr. O----, but a sudden
bashfulness seized me: the propitious moment passed, and I went on.
On arriving at the house of Dr. O----, I learned that he had gone
to the village in the south-western part of the town, six or eight
miles off. "There!" said I to myself, "I knew it was he: if I had
only spoken to him!" However, reflection was vain. I followed to the
designated spot, and there I found that he had left about half an
hour before, for another village in the central part of the town. I
gave chase, but he was too quick for me, so that I was obliged to
return to Durham without him. "Ah!" I thought, "how much trouble a
little courage would have saved me!" In fact, I took the incident
to heart, and have often practised to advantage upon the lesson it
suggested; which is, Never to let a doctor, or anything else, slip,
for the want of asking an opportune question.
At length we departed from Durham, and took our way homeward, through
a series of small towns, arriving at last at Woodbury. The week of
our sojourn here flew on golden wings with me. The village itself
was after my own heart. It lies in a small tranquil valley, its
western boundary consisting of a succession of gentle acclivities,
covered with forests; that on the east is formed of basaltic ledges,
broken into wild and picturesque forms, rising sharp and hard against
the horizon. Through the valley, in long serpentine sweeps, flows
a stream, clear and bright, now dashing and now sauntering; here
presenting a rapid, and there a glassy pool. In ancient times it
was bordered by cities of the beaver; it was now the haunt of a few
isolated and persecuted muskrats. In the spring and autumn, the wild
ducks, in their migrations, often stooped to its bosom for a night's
lodging. At all seasons it was renowned for its trout. In former
ages, when the rivers, protected by the deep forests, ran full to the
brim, and when the larger streams were filled to repletion with shad
and salmon, this was sometimes visited by enterprising individuals
of their race, which shot up cataracts, and leaped over obstructing
rocks, roots, and mounds, impelled by instinct to seek places remote
from the sea, where they might deposit their spawn in safety. In
those days, I imagine, the accidents and incidents of shad and salmon
life often rivalled the adventurous annals of Marco Polo or Robinson
Crusoe.
There was about this little village a singular union of refinement
and rusticity, of cultivated plain and steepling rock, of blooming
meadow and dusky forest. The long, wide street, saving the highway
and a few stray paths here and there, was a bright, grassy lawn,
decorated with abundance of sugar-maples, which appeared to have
found their Paradise. Such is the shape of the encircling hills
and ledges that the site of the village seemed a sort of secluded
Happy Valley, where everything turns to poetry and romance. And this
aptitude is abundantly encouraged by history; for here was once the
favored home of a tribe of Indians. All around--the rivers, the
hills, the forests--are still rife with legends and remembrances
of the olden time. A rocky mound, rising above the river on one
side, and dark forests on the other, bears the name of "Pomperaug's
Castle;" a little to the north, near a bridle-path that traversed the
meadows, was a heap of stones, called "Pomperaug's Grave." To the
east I found a wild ledge, called "Bethel Rock." And each of these
objects has its story.
It was a great time, that happy week--for let it be remembered that
for a whole year I had been imprisoned in a country store. What
melody was there in the forest echoes then! Ah! I have since heard
Catalani, and Garcia, and Pasta, and Sontag, and Grisi; I have even
heard "the Swedish Nightingale;" nay, in France and Italy--the very
home of music and song--I have listened to the true nightingale,
which has given to Jenny Lind her sweetest and most appropriate
epithet; but never, in one or all, have I heard such music as filled
my ears that incense-breathing morn, when I made a foray into the
wilds of Woodbury!
We returned to Danbury after a tour of some five or six weeks. The
succeeding autumn and winter presented no peculiar incident--with a
single exception. There was, if I rightly remember, in the month of
February, a certain "cold Friday," which passed down to succeeding
generations as among the marvels of the time. It had snowed heavily
for three days, and the ground was covered three feet deep. A driving
wind from the north-east then set in, and growing colder and colder,
it became at last so severe as to force everybody to shelter. This
continued for two days, the whole air being filled with sleet, so
that the sun, without a cloud in the sky, shone dim and grey as
through a fog. The third day the wind increased, both in force and
intensity of cold. Horses, cattle, fowls, sheep, perished in their
coverings. The roads were blocked up with enormous drifts; the mails
were stopped, travelling was suspended; the world, indeed, seemed
paralyzed, and the circulation of life to be arrested.
[Illustration: THE COLD FRIDAY.]
On the morning of this third day, which was the ominous and famous
Friday, word was brought to my sister that a poor family, about two
miles off, to whom she had long been a kind friend, was in danger
of starvation. She knew no fear, and tolerated no weakness. A thing
that ought to be done, was to be done. Therefore, a sack was filled
with bread, meat, candles, and a pint of rum: this was lashed around
my waist. The horse was brought to the door--I mounted and set off.
I knew the animal well, and we had enjoyed many a scamper together.
He was, indeed, after my own heart--clean limbed, with full, knowing
eyes, and small, pointed sensitive ears. He had a cheerful walk, a
fleet, skimming trot, a swift gallop, and all these paces we had
often tried. I think he knew who was on his back; but when we got to
the turning of the road, which brought his nostrils into the very
tunnel of the gale, he snorted, whirled backward, and seemed resolved
to return. I, however, brought him steady to his work, gave him sharp
advice in the ribs, and showed him that I was resolved to be master.
Hesitating a moment, as if in doubt whether I could be in earnest, he
started forward; yet so keen was the blast, that he turned aside his
head, and screamed as if his nostrils were pierced with hot iron. On
he went, however, in some instances up to the saddle in the drift,
yet clearing it at full bounds.
In a few minutes we were at the door of the miserable hut, now half
buried in a snow-drift. I was just in time. The wretched inmates--a
mother and three small children--without fire, without food, without
help or hope, were in bed, poorly clothed, and only keeping life
in their bodies by a mutual cherishing of warmth, like pigs or
puppies in a similar extremity. The scene within was dismal in the
extreme. The fireplace was choked with snow, which had fallen down
the chimney: the ill-adjusted doors and windows admitted alike
the drift and the blast, both of which swept across the room in
cutting currents. As I entered, the pale, haggard mother comprehend
at a glance that relief had come, burst into a flood of tears. I
had no time for words. I threw them the sack, remounted my horse,
and, the wind at my back, I flew home. One of my ears was a little
frost-bitten, and occasionally, for years after, a tingling and
itching sensation there reminded me of my ride; which, after all,
left an agreeable remembrance upon my mind.
Danbury is a handsome town, chiefly built on a long, wide street,
crossed near the northern extremity by a small river, a branch of
the Housatonic, which, having numerous rapids, affords abundance of
mill-sites in its course. At this crossing there were two extensive
hat-factories, famous over the whole country.
Nearly all the workmen in these establishments, of whom there were
several hundred at the time I am describing, were foreigners, mostly
English and Irish. A large part of the business of our store was
the furnishing of rum to these poor wretches, who bought one or
two quarts on Saturday night and drank till Monday, and frequently
till Tuesday. A factory workman of those days was thought to be
born to toil, and to get drunk. Philanthropy itself had not then
lifted its eye or its hopes above this hideous malaria of custom. It
is a modern discovery that manufacturing towns may rise up, where
comfort, education, morals, and religion, in their best and happiest
exercise, may be possessed by the toiling masses.
A few words more, and I have done with Danbury. The health of my
brother-in-law gradually failed, and at last, as winter approached,
he took to his room, and finally to his bed. By almost insensible
degrees, and with singular tranquillity of mind and body, he
approached his end. It was a trait of his character to believe
nothing, to do nothing, by halves. Having founded his faith on
Christ, Christianity was now, in its duties, its promises, and its
anticipations, as real as life itself. He was afflicted with no
doubts, no fears. With his mind in full vigor, his strong intellect
vividly awake, he was ready to enter into the presence of his God.
The hour came. He had taken leave of his friends, and then, feeling
a sense of repose, he asked to be left alone. They all departed save
one, who sat apart, listen
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