Looking Back: An Autobiography
by Merrick Abner Richardson · English · Gutenberg #46286 · 483,782 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Looking Back: An Autobiography
Author: Merrick Abner Richardson
Release date: July 14, 2014 [eBook #46286]
Most recently updated: October 24, 2024
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOOKING BACK: AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY ***
[Illustration: MERRICK RICHARDSON AT THE AGE OF SEVENTY-FIVE.]
LOOKING BACK
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY
_By_
MERRICK ABNER RICHARDSON
AUTHOR OF
"JIM HALL AND THE RICHARDSONS", "EIGHT DAYS OUT", "MINA FAUST",
"ROSE LIND", "PERSONALITY OF THE SOUL", "CHICAGO'S
BLACK SHEEP", "TWILIGHT REFLECTIONS."
PRIVATELY PRINTED
CHICAGO: MCMXVII
_Copyright 1917
By_
MERRICK ABNER RICHARDSON
PREFACE
My spare time, only, is occupied in literary efforts. I never allow
them to interfere with either my business or social life.
In composing, in a mysterious way, I comprehend the companionship of my
imaginary friends as vividly as I do the material associates of life.
To me imagination is the counterpart or result of inspiration, while
inspiration is light thrown upon the unrevealed. The image may be the
result of known or unknown cause, but the mystery does not blot out the
actual existence of the image. The material image we call sight, the
retained memory, and the unknown revelation, but all are comprehensive
images.
I see a bird, its form created a picture on my eye, the image of which
mysteriously remained after the object had disappeared. Now what or who
cognizes the primitive object, the formed picture or the retained image?
The materialist assumes he has solved the mystery when he says; The
appearance of the object formed an impression on your brain; omitting
the important part of who comprehends the impression.
These material and spiritual views are not the two extremes, there
is no midway, one is right and the other is wrong. Either man is a
spiritual, responsible being or he is just temporary mud.
Therefore imagination, to me is incomprehensible realization, while
materialism is the symbol of passing events. This explains how my
imaginary friends become so dear to me.
The ideas presented in my story of Mary Magdalene I gained through
descriptions conveyed to me by Jona while traveling across the Syrian
desert. He always began in the middle of his story and worked out both
ways, which made it difficult to take notes, besides at the best it was
but a legend, dim and indistinct.
In this work I have carefully avoided Oriental style, language or
customs for two reasons: First, there is not an Oriental scholar now,
who could do them justice, Second, one is perfectly safe in bringing
any people of any age right down to our times. For, the culture of
one tribe or race does not influence incoming souls for the next
generation. The human family enter life on about the same plane. A
child from the low tribes of the jungles or from the desert wild, if
brought up by a Chicago mother, might become as great as one of the
royal family. The feelings, aspirations, sorrows and love of Mary
Magdalene and Peter were similar to what ours would have been under the
same conditions. Therefore I bring the story of Magdalene right down to
yesterday.
I first constructed the story of Magdalene while in Jerusalem, then I
revised it in Egypt, and have been revising it at intervals ever since.
From Jona's continued reiteration regarding her prepossessing gifts,
spiritual and unwavering qualities, especially her firmness before
Caiaphas, I formed her personality in my mind and associated her with
bright women of today, then I let Magdalene talk for herself.
To me she was no exception from the women I associated with in
Chicago. There are not wanting women in Oak Park who under the same
circumstances would have followed Jesus to Jerusalem, disdained to
deny him and would have pleaded before the sanhedrim at the dead of
night to have saved their associate from the misguided servants of the
devil.
The reminiscenses of the pioneer Richardsons, Jim and Winnie, Sunshine
days around Wabbaquassett, John Brown, roving escapades of the
Richardson Brothers, my athletic exploits, my travels and other scenes
of my life are primitive truths copied from memory and set forth in my
original form of expression.
My attack on materialists or infidelic instructors stands on its own
feet and opposes a tendency that will create degeneracy if continued.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PAGE
MY ANCESTORS 9
WOBURN 10
TRADITIONS 12
RECORDS 15
OLD HOMESTEAD 17
JIM HALL 19
LOVE SPATS 20
JIM'S STORY 31
THE ARREST 35
THE MARTYRS 37
THE ESCAPE 38
STUBBS' STORE 40
SUSAN BEAVER 45
REVENGE 49
ALONE IN THE WILDERNESS 51
HUNTING FOR BABY 54
MULDOON 57
OUR WABBAQUASSETT MOUNTAIN HOME 61
WOODCHUCK IN THE WALL 64
SUNDAY MORNING 69
HUSKING BEE 76
PRAYER MEETING AT UNCLE SAM'S 78
GOLDEN DAYS 81
THE WILD SEXTON STEER 83
SCHOOL DAYS 87
COUNTRY BOYS IN TOWN 89
AS A YANKEE TIN PEDDLER 94
THE THOMPSON FAMILY 97
JOHN BROWN 99
THE DEAD APPEAR 106
VIDA'S DARING EXPLOIT 108
OWEN BROWN'S STORY 110
AFTER THE MIST HAD CLEARED AWAY 115
YANKEE HORSEMEN GO WEST 117
MY RELATION 121
HORSE JOCKIES 123
LANDED IN CHICAGO 126
DR. THOMAS 128
EARLY CHICAGO 131
HORSE RACING IN CHICAGO 134
HOPEFUL AND RARUS 137
CHICAGO PIETY 141
PUBLIC CONVEYANCE 143
MY ATHLETIC EXPLOITS 146
MY FIRST HUNDRED MILE RUN 148
ARTHUR'S AND WALTON'S LONG RUN 151
THE FIRST CENTURY RACE 157
DEAD GLACIER 160
MIRACULOUS ESCAPE FROM A BEAR 168
MY EDUCATION 173
HAWAIIAN ISLANDS 176
SOUTH SEA ISLANDS AND AUSTRALIA 180
NEW GUINEA 183
COCHIN CHINA 190
MESOPOTAMIA 192
RUD HURNER 193
OFF FOR BABYLON 198
ON THE EUPHRATES 200
ON THE SHAT-EL-CHEBAR 201
KOOFA, ARABIA 203
THE SHEIK OF KOOFA 205
WILD, YET BEAUTIFUL 209
NAZZIP 211
THE MAN I HAD SEEN BEFORE 212
REAL BEDOUINS AFTER US 214
SUSPICION AROUSED 217
THE RECHABITES 221
SLEEPING BEAUTY OF THE DESERT 225
THE ABANDONED CASTLE 227
MARY MAGDALENE 229
DINA OF ENDOR 231
THE HOME OF MAGDALENE 235
JOHN AND MAGDALENE 237
RUTH 240
DARKNESS OVER GALILEE 242
SURPRISE FOR THE PHARISEES 248
COUNCIL OF THE DISCIPLES 251
TURN OF THE TIDE 253
MAGDALENE'S HEROIC PLEA 255
JESUS SPEAKS 261
THE EXODUS 262
WAITING BY THE JORDAN 265
IN COUNCIL AT JERICHO 267
ARRIVAL AT JERUSALEM 270
ADULTERY 272
MAGDALENE PLEADING WITH JESUS 278
AT THE HOME OF MARY AND MARTHA 280
A NAUGHTY MAID 282
LAZARUS RESTORED 285
CONSPIRACY TO MURDER JESUS 287
THE MOB FALL UPON JESUS 292
MAGDALENE BEFORE CAIAPHAS 295
JESUS BEFORE PILATE 300
THE CRUCIFIXION 302
ALONE ON OLIVET 304
MAGDALENE HERSELF AGAIN 307
RUTH COMES TO MEET MAGDALENE 311
JOSEPH'S LAST INTERVIEW 312
MAGDALENE'S LAST NIGHT WITH JOHN 315
LAST GOOD-BYE 321
THE PRICKETT HOME 324
OURSELVES 326
WILLIAM JAMES, OF HARVARD 328
GLADSTONE 335
EVENING OF MY LIFE DAY 340
FIFTY-FOUR MILES' HIKE 342
BACK HOME 348
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
FACING
PAGE
MERRICK A. RICHARDSON i
CAMP OF THE STAFFORD PIONEERS 14
ANCIENT CEMETERY OF THE STAFFORD PIONEERS 16
WINNIE RICHARDSON 21
GOOD MORNING, MISS RICHARDSON 23
JIM IN THE WOODS 52
OUR MOUNTAIN HOME 61
CHASING FOR A KISS 76
PRAYER MEETING AT UNCLE SAM'S 80
WHEN THE FOLKS WERE AWAY 84
THE ABORN HOME 86
WABBAQUASSETT GIRLS 88
CHARMING OLD WABBAQUASSETT 90
ALBUM OF SUNNY DAYS 94
MARY JANE HOYT 96
JOHN BROWN, 1850 99
VIDA THOMPSON'S MIDNIGHT RIDE 109
NEAR JOHN BROWN'S ADIRONDACK HOME 115
YANKEE HORSEMEN 117
HORSE SALES 123
DR. THOMAS 128
EARLY CHICAGO 142
G. M. RICHARDSON AND FAMILY 144
SADDLE HORSE DAYS 148
CYCLING RUN TO SOUTH PARK 150
NORTH SHORE, LOON LAKE, WINONA GROVE 152
THE FOX RIVER BICYCLE RACE 158
ARTHUR RICHARDSON AND FRIENDS 164
EASTER ISLAND 181
NEW GUINEA 187
MESOPOTAMIA SERVANTS 193
DESERT LIFE AMONG THE ARABS 209
RUINS OF TADMOR 227
MARY MAGDALENE 231
PRICKETT HOME 324
ARTHUR RICHARDSON AND HIS TWINS 336
OUR OAK PARK HOME 338
FANNIE PETERSON 342
VIDA 344
BARBARA BEAVER 346
MY CHILDREN 349
LOOKING BACK
MY ANCESTORS
Ezekiel Richardson, with his wife Susanna, joined the Protestant
Church in the Village of Charlestown, Mass.--now Boston--in 1630. The
following year Thomas and Samuel Richardson joined the same church; the
records of the will of Ezekiel prove them to have been his brothers.
When they came to New England, or where from, is unknown, but as about
thirty ships of British emigrants came into Boston Harbor about that
time, it is safe to assume that they came on one of these vessels, but
possibly they may have come on one of the boats which followed the
Mayflower nearly ten years previous.
It appears that there arose dissensions in the church and those good
Pilgrim Fathers and Mothers strove among themselves until 1634, when
the three Richardsons, with several other families, withdrew and
decided to start a colony and a church of their own, where they could
worship God in peace.
WOBURN
Through a swamp on the west, called Cat Bird Glen, ran a trout brook to
the meadows below. Beyond this woodland glen lay an upland plain, held
by the Indians as a camping ground, which the Richardsons concluded
they might, through the persuasion of powder and bullets, be able
to occupy and leave the parent church at Charlestown to mourn their
departure.
Accordingly about twenty families, including the Richardsons, took
possession of the site, dug their cellars, and built primitive homes
together with a log church and named the town Woburn.
Joy mingled with pride encouraged the men to subdue the soil, hunt,
snare and trap the game and fish, while the buxom dames hummed their
spinning wheels as they cooed their frolicsome babies beneath the
shadows of the great forest monarchs who seemed loath to give way to
the encroaching steps of the white man.
Contrary to the general rule, that rats and ministers advance hand in
hand with civilization, in this case the ministers failed to appear for
the reason that the home church of England refused to recognize the
seceders as children of God by turning down their supplication for a
regular ordained preacher.
Here the true spirit and determination which seems to tinge the veins
of the Richardsons made its first appearance. Ezekiel, by the grace of
God, took upon himself the leadership in all the praying and singing
of the independent church for about ten years. He officiated at all
weddings and funerals, besides established the whipping post for those
who did not appear in church, with clean shirts on, three Sundays each
month to hear him preach two long sermons, when it is said he often
preached so loud that he could be distinctly heard in the Charlestown
church two miles away, to the annoyance of his old-time associates.
After Ezekiel's thrifty swarm had become greater than the parent
hive at Charlestown and the hand of time began pressing heavily upon
his shoulders, a regularly ordained preacher was sent in, which the
parishioners did not like as well as they did Ezekiel, for he could not
clothe and feed himself as Ezekiel had done, but he stayed until he
died, and here is a sample of primitive piety in our grandfather's days:
"The Reverend Mr. Carter of the Woburn Episcopal Church died, and being
a good man, our forefathers decided to turn out in mass, give him a
Christian burial and charge the expenses to the town. Of the itemized
bill--coffin, shroud, grave-digging, and stimulants,--the latter, the
liquor bill, exceeded all the other expenses."
See Woburn Town Records, Volume 3, page 68.
Thus while we find traces of weakness in our ancestors, a principle
seems to have been involved which made New England a hot-bed for vags
and tramps. No wonder we sigh for the good old days when respectable
citizens did not have to lock their doors on Sunday, for all the
thieves were in church.
TRADITIONS
Through the first appearance of the Richardsons in Charlestown we have
an unbroken line of nine generations through Ezekiel of Woburn 1630 to
Marvin of Chicago 1917.
Ezekiel of Woburn.
Theopolis of Woburn.
John of Stafford Street.
Uriah of Stafford Street.
John of Devil's Hop Yard.
Warren of Wabbaquassett Lake.
Merrick of Chicago.
Arthur of Chicago.
Marvin of Chicago.
Of course, my brothers and cousins perpetuate this name, the same as I
do. Collins and Gordon, my brothers, with Orino, the son of my Uncle
Orson, alone have raised about twenty boys.
The living male descendants of Ezekiel, Samuel and Thomas, who carry
our name, must now be more than one hundred thousand Richardsons,
and I presume few of them trace back their relation more than three
generations, but they could if they would.
MY GRANDMOTHER'S STORY
My grandmother, Judith Burroughs Richardson, who died in 1859, age 94,
seemed in the evening of her life-day to think, dream and commune with
her ancestors and friends, who long since entered Paradise, and now
seemed to be throwing back kisses to loved ones approaching that land
of delight.
From her experience and traditional reminiscences I here give a
condensed sketch of her apparent and vivid memories:
James Burroughs, her grandfather, was the son of the minister, George
Burroughs, her great-grandfather, who was hanged at Salem, Mass.,
August 19, 1692, for being in league with the devil.
James was arrested soon after, but escaped from Salem jail and,
under the name of Jim Hall, lived in Connecticut for several years.
Later, under his right name, he married Winnie Richardson, a Stafford
Street girl, and they settled near Brattleborough, Vermont, where
grandmother's father, Amos Burroughs, was born.
After James died, her grandmother Winnie came to West Stafford to live
with them. She died before grandma was born and was buried in the
family lot near their house. Her gravestone was still standing when my
father was old enough to go with his grandfather Amos Burroughs and see
them.
The homestead where Winnie died and grandmother was born and married
can be found by following the south road out of West Stafford and
turning the first road to the right, across the brook and up the hill
to the first farm scene.
Winnie's father, Theopolis, son of Ezekiel, and several other men
with their families, came West when she was a little girl and took
possession, or squat, on the northern rise of a highland plain, where a
grand view of the far-away Western mountains can be seen. They called
their camp Stafford.
John, Winnie's brother, who was conducting an Indian trading post at
Medford came on later, with his two brothers, Gershom and Paul, and
opened up the famous Stafford Street, which was laid out twenty rods
wide and about two miles long, the southern terminus being about one
mile northeast of Stafford Springs.
John Richardson took up the first farm at the north entrance on the
west side and Silas Dean took the first on the left, or east, side from
the old campus on the hill at the north end of the street.
All between the walls, which was later changed to sixteen rods, was
commons. The church in the center was used for spiritual devotion,
recorder office and court of justice.
[Illustration: ARRIVAL OF THE WOBURN PIONEERS AT STAFFORD STREET WHEN
WINNIE RICHARDSON WAS TEN YEARS OF AGE. RECENT VIEW OF THE WESTERN
HILLS FROM THE ORIGINAL CAMP.]
RECORDS
The records of those New England pioneers are dim, as the Puritans
considered church members only, as persons.
Boston records (Woburn), as we have seen, seem to extol Ezekiel.
Theopolis according to his will, must have been a financial success.
The Stafford Street records, I was informed by Mrs. Larned, who
now lives on the old homestead, were kept in their family from the
beginning until lately, when they became such a source of annoyance
from ancestor seekers, like myself, that they sent them to the
recorder's office at Stafford Springs.
At the recorder's office at Stafford Springs I found that John
Richardson from Medford came to Stafford Street in 1726, this, though
meager, acts as the official connecting link between Woburn and
Stafford.
Another scrap I found was that Paul Richardson had taken land adjoining
his brother, John Richardson, this identifies both John and Paul.
Regarding Gershom, the other one of the three brothers, I found this:
"Gershom Richardson, son of Gershom and Abigail, born in 1761."
This would make the elder Gershom Richardson contemporary with John and
Paul.
E. Y. Fisk, an early settler, told me that a part of the early church
records have been burned.
In the old graveyard just south of the brook which crosses Stafford
Street still remains the headstone of Lot Dean, who died in 1818.
Lot would be of the next generation from Silas Dean, who took the farm
opposite John Richardson.
Near the grave of Lot are the headstones of Uriah Richardson and his
wife Miriam, who died October 18, 1785, at the age of 75. Uriah must
have been all right, for Miriam, who died twenty years later, had had
inscribed on his headstone:
"The memory of the just is blessed."
Grandmother remembered Uriah, the son of John and the father of John,
her husband.
Now while the traditions, records and gravestones may prove each in
themselves to be weak evidence, together they form an unbroken chain
from Ezekiel down to our times.
[Illustration: ANCIENT CEMETERY OF THE STAFFORD STREET PIONEERS WHERE
MOST OF THE GRAVE STONES ARE FOUND BROKEN AND IN THE WALL WHICH IS
BUILT AROUND THE LOT.
LEFT TO RIGHT. M. A. RICHARDSON. WALTER SKINNER. LUCIUS ABORN.]
OLD HOMESTEAD
With my interesting nieces, Joe and Lina Newell, one bright summer day,
I visited the ancient homes of the Stafford Street, Conn., Richardsons.
E. Y. Fisk and his son now possess the historical property. The son
from Springfield, who was haying there at the time, invited us and all
the other Richardson tribe to come and camp on the homestead grounds,
sit on the old walls, gaze over the western mountains and even coquet
with the star Venus evenings, all of which look now the same as when
our ancestors saw them 200 years ago.
That day, July 19, 1916, with those girls, viewing the scenes and
taking pictures of the surroundings, imprinted on my mind an oasis of
beauty ever awaiting recall as I journey over the trackless sands of
time.
The present seemed to pass away as the past unfolded its charms while
we were reminded of the long ago.
Sacredly we listened to the voice of Mother Mary calling Winnie from
the kitchen door, saw the men in homespun shirts and trousers coming up
from the meadow below. Heard the careless boy whistling while unyoking
the lazy oxen. Saw old dog Towser sleeping in the shade. And in the
pasture far away we seemed to hear the faint tinkling of the cow bell
on the brindle steer.
Day dreams, says one.
Imagination, says another.
May it not be that when death removes this earthly garment, we will
again realize that the past, present, and future are one.
If the image of the face before me now is the retention of the face
I saw yesterday, may not all fiction, invention and imagination be
retention of occurences we can only recall in parts?
The power of recall is mysterious. If we dream of the dead as living
when we know that they are dead, but we cannot recall that which we
know, may we not know of pre-existence but lack the power to recall?
Thus Lina, Joe and myself spent a happy summer day on the New England
hills, which we will pleasantly recall when the cold winds of winter
rattle the doors and windows and we are hugging the radiators.
JIM HALL
During the days of the New England pioneers our early church had more
trouble in evolutionizing Christianity from bigotry than in driving
the red man from his native lair. Therefore, as the records show my
ancestors to have been entangled in this muss, I have arranged, in this
family record, and the story of my life, the story of Winnie and Jim.
One warm May evening, in 1693, a stranger, who said his name was James
Hall, appeared at the door of Deacon Felker's home in Stafford, Conn.,
and applied for a job. His face betokened firmness, his speech was
clear and distinct, while a tinge of sadness seemed to pervade his
distant smile.
He claimed to be a good chopper and, as the deacon was now clearing up
his future home in the New England wilderness, he soon bargained with
Jim for all the season.
Hall soon became a favorite in the colony, broke all the unruly steers,
saddled the ugly colts, collared Bill Jones, the terror of the town,
and thrashed him soundly; but did not attend church until the influence
of Winnie Richardson changed hatred to forgiveness.
LOVE SPATS
For some weeks the Felkers had had many callers, who sympathized deeply
with the poor broken-hearted mother over her lost Juda among the
Indians, but time, the blessed obliterator of all earthly troubles,
soon brought forward other scenes and changes, and people laughed,
joked and enjoyed themselves at Stafford as usual.
Winnie Richardson and her father were over to see the Felkers almost
every day and Mr. Richardson would hear nothing about the pay for the
colt which the Indians had stolen from Jim while searching for Juda,
saying he had another one as nice, which, if Jim would come over and
break, so Winnie could ride it, he would call it square.
One evening Winnie came over and, as was her custom, fluttered around
and fussed over Jim, bandaging up his sore foot, which he had hurt
during the hunt for Juda. Then she made tea for Mrs. Felker and slicked
up the room, while Jim lay back in the chair and watched all her
movements.
Jim felt almost like crying, he was so worn out and heart-broken over
the loss of little Juda. Everyone knows how sweet home and friends seem
under such circumstances; but here was Winnie, who had won his heart,
and he wanted to tell her so, but she would not let him.
"Winnie," he said, in as a careless a manner as he was capable of, "you
do not know how much that new gown becomes you."
[Illustration: WINNIE RICHARDSON, WAITING ON THE EASTERN BLUFFS OF OLD
WABBAQUASSETT.]
"Thanks, Jim, I'm glad you like it; do you know I have worked on it
ever since you went away? I was so worried about you I had to work or
ride old Dan, to keep from going wild. Several times I rode down to
the Springs, followed the trail around the west bend way up to old
Wabbaquassett, around to the eastern highlands from where I gazed
across the pretty waves, hoping to see you coming, but saw only Nipmunk
maidens sporting in their canoes."
"Then, if I had never come back, Winnie, I suppose you would have
worked on that gown and ridden to Wabbaquassett Lake all the remainder
of your life."
"I do not know. I know I wanted you to come home."
Jim was encouraged. This was more than she had ever said before, so he
ventured to say, "Winnie, come here and give me your hand."
She came forward, and placing her hand in his, said, laughingly, "Well,
Jim, what?"
"Now, Winnie, why were you worried for fear I would not come home and
what did you want me to come back for?"
"Why, Jim, are you so simple as all that? You know that father expects
you to break his colts in the spring, besides he thinks he cannot get
along without your opinion on cabbages and turnips, then why would it
not worry me? Now, Jim, I'm going home, and I want you to limp over
tomorrow and see me, and stay all day, and we will have a good visit.
But, really, Jim, you must not talk serious to me; you must give up
that." Both were silent a moment and then she continued: "There, James
Hall, has that little lecture almost killed you? I see you have the
dumps. That will never do. Look up here, Mr. Hall, have you forgotten
that Miss Richardson is present?"
Jim looked up and endeavored to catch her eye, but no use. When she saw
how pitiful he looked she burst out laughing and walked away with her
chin way up high, then came back with a smile, bade him good-night, and
she was gone.
Jim was in trouble. Mrs. Felker was delirious with grief. Little Juda,
the sunshine of the home, was gone, and Winnie had told him plainly
he must abandon all serious thoughts. He lay awake way into the night
and formed his plans thus: "I will not go over to Richardsons in the
morning, nor the next day nor the next, and perhaps never. I will take
my axe and go up among the old hickory trees and work from sun to sun
and try to banish little Juda from my mind, and also try to forget what
a fool I am; fool--fool--of course I am, tossing around here all night
over a girl that does not care for me. The idea of my consulting with
her father over a cabbage patch. I think Jim Hall is not quite dead
gone yet--no, I will not show my face there again very soon, of course
not. Now I will turn over and go to sleep." But poor Jim, like many
others, would like to forget his Winnie, but could not. Winnie had won
his heart. She had come to stay.
Morning came and as the sun banished the dew from the grass, so
daylight had upset all of Jim's plans concerning the hickory logs. He
did not want to see Winnie in particular--no, but then he must not
treat Mr. Richardson shabbily because Winnie had misused him. "Oh, I'll
go over, of course I will, and visit the old folks, and if I see her I
will pass the time of day to her--that is all."
[Illustration: GOOD MORNING, MISS RICHARDSON!]
He found the old gent out feeding pigs and soon they were engaged in
a friendly conversation. When they turned into the house, Aunt Mary
came briskly forward to greet him and asked many questions concerning
his long hunt for Juda among the Indians, which he could have answered
more sensibly had he not been expecting Winnie. Of course, he was not
anxious to see her, but he wondered where she was.
"Jim," said Mr. Richardson, "you will find plenty of those early apples
down in the orchard if you care for them." So Mr. Hall started through
the orchard and came spat upon Winnie by the wild rose bush, on the
orchard wall.
"Good morning, Miss Richardson," he said, as he extended his hand in a
cold businesslike manner.
Winnie paid no attention to his good morning, but brushing aside his
extended hand she began fixing a white rose in the buttonhole of his
coat as she said in a soft tone: "Jim, how would you feel if you were
a girl and had gone and primed yourself all up nice so as to look
sweet as possible, waiting for your fellow to come and say, 'Hello,
Winnie, how sweet you look this morning!' but instead to see him come
stalking through the trees as though he was monarch of all he surveyed,
saying 'good morning, Miss Richardson.' Now, own up, Jim, that you
deliberately planned that scheme to frighten me."
"Well, but you see, my dear."
"Yes, Jim, I see. I know all about it. You have been nerving yourself
up to show that you did not care for me. You did it nicely. I thought
you could not hold out more than a minute, but I think you did about
two. And now you're smiling, calling me dear, and will not let go of
my hand. You did not sleep well last night, did you?"
"No, I did not."
"Was Mrs. Felker nervous?"
"Yes, she did not sleep a wink before two o'clock."
"And how about Frank?"
"Oh, he always sleeps like a log."
"Say, Jim, why do you take such an interest in Frank; where did the
Felkers get him?"
"Boston, or somewhere East."
"What is his name?"
"Burroughs, they say."
"Burroughs--Burroughs--he did not come from Salem, did he?"
Winnie, noticing Jim's emotion, turned back to the original theme and
continued: "And I suppose Juda was on your mind?"
"Yes, she was, and still I know it is wrong to worry about her, but I
shall never cease to love that little angel. You know, I have lots of
love letters she wrote me? She used to bring them over into the lot
herself and then turn her back while I read them. She said she could
not bear to see a man read a love letter. She was like her mother,
artful as she could be. She used to enjoy our love spats, as she called
them; she would pretend to get mad and go pouting around all day and
expect me to come and make up with her, and sometimes it required lots
of coaxing, but, of course, she always gave in at last. You see, now
she is gone, I cannot help thinking about those things, and that is not
all the trouble with me, either."
"That is enough, Jim. You need not tell your other troubles. Come
along to the grove, I want to talk with you."
Following the cart path they entered the woods, when she turned quickly
and said: "Jim, I have something on my mind which I wish to unload, and
you will not think me silly even if I am wrong?"
"No, no," he replied with a searching look. "I like to have you confide
in me."
"Do you know, Jim, that I think there is a possible chance yet to find
Juda alive."
He sprang to his feet as he exclaimed, "Tell me, Winnie, tell me all
you know!"
"Do not get excited; I have no proof. Tell, me, Jim, all about the
first day you were out hunting for Juda, who you saw and what they
said?"
After he had gone through with the particulars she asked: "How many
Indians camped at Wabbaquassett Lake that first night?"
"Only four, besides those regular lake dwellers."
"Did you see them all at one time?"
"Yes, we saw the four and talked with them. They came from the West."
"Were they Mohawks?"
"No, they were Narragansetts."
"Well, if Juda had been with the camp when you and Frank came upon
them, could they have concealed her?"
"Certainly, but I do not think she was there."
"I do not think, Jim, she was killed by the wolves," said Winnie, as
she frowned thoughtfully while looking on the ground. "If she is dead
the Indians killed her."
"Did not you and all the neighbors, after we had gone, find the place
where the wolves had killed her?"
"Oh, yes, Jim, I was there, but those Indians are so cunning. You see
they broke camp about noon and that must have been about the time she
would have arrived there. Now, if she arrived at the camp after they
had gone, she could have come back home, but if lost, why did she not
hear the calls for her, for the wolves disturb no one until after dark."
"Suppose your theory is true, Winnie, what steps would you take to find
her?"
"Will you do what I want you to do about it?"
"Yes, Winnie, I feel like Queen Esther, when risking her life for her
people."
"Queen Esther? Jim Hall, who taught you the Bible?"
He studied a moment and then said: "Go on about Juda, please."
Winnie scrutinized him keenly, then turned from the painful subject
and continued about Juda. "I want you to wait several months until the
Indians think we have given her up, then go quietly among the tribes;
you know you talk all their tongues, and if you find her, Jim, I will
love you for your bravery, and if you do not, the endeavor ought to
count some. Now I suppose you want to go in and visit with papa and
mamma."
"Y-e-s."
"What makes you drag out that 'yes' so long?"
"I thought you might like to take a walk in the grove."
"If you had not been so cross to me this morning."
"Well--but, I really did think--"
"What has changed your mind, Mr. Hall?"
"Well, Winnie."
"Well, Jim, say, do you really want to make up? Oh, catch me, Jim, my
heart--my heart!"
Jim sprang and saved her from falling into the brook, as she pushed him
from her and began laughing.
"Oh, Winnie, you do not know how you did frighten me, you are a roguish
girl, but I like you and think you a perfect pet."
"Perfect pet--get out. Did you know John Bragg was over to see me?"
"John Bragg?"
"Yes, John Bragg."
"I thought you had given him up?"
"Oh, no. I did think when you and I came home from church on the black
colt, it would give him a shock, but he is all the more attentive.
Think of it, all the fathers and mothers have had their daughters
cooing around him for the last three years and he does not bite, but is
in great agony over me. Now, what can I do? I will have to marry him to
get rid of him, won't I?"
"To get rid of him?"
"Oh, Jim, but his father is rich. You see, it is dignified to have such
a beau. He came over last night after I left you and said his father
had bought of Mr. Converse a beautiful saddle horse and he wanted me
to take a ride on it, but when I told him I was engaged he looked
downcast. He proposed to bring over his sister Lydia and, if it pleased
you, we would all go up to the west bend fishing together and have a
fish fry. What do you thing of that?"
"I would be delighted to go."
"Yes, but he will expect to escort me and leave you to attend to Lydia."
"That is all right; I like Lydia."
"You do?"
"Of course, I do."
"But, Jim, you are older than Lydia."
"I do not think she cares for that by what she said."
"What she said? When was all this talk?"
"Oh, not long ago."
"Not long ago? Look around here, James Hall!" At this he smiled and she
said, "There, now, you were fooling me--own up that it was not true."
"It may not be exactly true, but bordering on the truth."
"What do you mean by bordering on the truth?"
"I actually saw her."
"Did you talk that way to her?"
"Oh, no; we did not speak."
"There, Jim, now I like you just a little bit; sort of sisterly love,
you know. That is all, Jim--do you hear?"
"No," he said, drawing her to him. "I did not catch that last sentence.
Come a little nearer, Winnie."
"Never! Never! James Hall," she said, withdrawing with a flushed face.
"You are holding a secret from me and unless you confide all, Winnie
Richardson will die an old maid."
"Thank God," he replied, with irony, "That cuts off John Bragg."
"John is already cut off. I love the tracks you make in the dust more
than I do him, but no girl should allow herself to follow a love trail
into a snare. You may be all right. I think you are, but do not advance
another shade until I know all."
Jim dried her falling tears as caressingly as he dared, but the mystery
still remained.
Winnie turned and gazed to the far away hills, but she did not see
them, for her soul was silently summoning courage for the trying
ordeal. Jim could but see in her the model of pure virtue and
loveliness, as she turned to him, saying:
"Is your name James Hall?"
"No."
"Were you ever married?"
"Yes."
"Is your wife alive?"
"No."
"What is your name?"
"James Burroughs."
"Is your father alive?"
"No."
"What was his name?"
"George Burroughs."
"Where did he die?"
"Salem."
"When?"
"August 19, 1692."
"Was he that George Burroughs?" Here Winnie's voice failed, and Jim
answered, "He was."
Winnie stepped back while her thin lips parted and seemed to look as
white as the ivories between them.
"Was your wife that beautiful Fanny Shepherd, who died with a broken
heart at Casco Bay, after the report of your death?"
"She was."
Winnie stood a moment as if to satisfy herself that the world was real
and she was not dreaming, then coming softly forward she sat on his
knee and putting her arm around his neck began kissing him, while she
said: "Mother is to have hot biscuits, butter and honey for supper,
and we must go now, and after that I will give her a hint of what has
happened, and we will take to the parlor and you must tell me the
story of your life, and you may talk just as serious as you please.
Now, Jim, I want you to hug and kiss me for keeps."
Father and mother were puzzled to conjecture what had caused the turn
in the tide, for the distance between Winnie and Jim had suddenly
disappeared, and Winnie began bossing him around, just like regular
married folks.
"Jim," said Winnie, as they entered the parlor. "Your clothes do not
fit, your boots are too big, and your hair is too long. Oh, dear me,
after we are married what a time I will have fixing you up. What makes
you smile?"
"Who has said anything about marrying, Winnie?"
"I did."
"When is all this to take place?"
"Oh, it will be several months yet. You know, papa and mamma will want
me to look nice and I will have to make all my new clothes. Now begin
your story."
"Will you promise not to cry, Winnie?"
"Really, I will try. But think of it, it seems to me something like one
rising from the dead; and still, believe me, dear, something of this
kind impressed me from the day you arrived in Stafford, nearly eight
years ago. If I should tell you my dreams you would call me visionary,
but I will tell that some other time. Now begin and I will be good
except when I want to pet you."
JIM'S STORY
I was born in Boston, May 1, 1670. My father, George Burroughs, then
an ordained minister, was traveling on a circuit, preaching in stores,
schoolhouses or any place where it was convenient, as most preachers
did at that time. When I was four years old we moved to Salem, where
father had charge of the Salem Mission, and when I was twelve years of
age my mother died.
Father's liberal views did not please Samuel Harris and several other
officials of the church, and they petitioned the presiding elder that
he be removed.
Soon father learned that a settlement at Casco Bay, Maine, a landing
on the coast nearly 100 miles north of Salem, had no preacher, so
accordingly, one morning after a friend had given us our lodging,
breakfast and two dollars in money, we started on foot for Casco Bay.
The evening before leaving, we had spent several hours fixing up
mother's grave, and as we passed by the yard the next morning we went
in and knelt, and I remember how father thanked God that our angel
mother had passed to the land of dreams, "Where the wicked cease from
troubling and the weary are at rest."
On our way along the north shore road, father preached several times,
for which the people lodged, fed and gave us some money. On arriving at
our destination, father announced that he would preach next morning,
Sunday, in Gordon Richardson's barn. Well do I remember the text,
"Come unto me, all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give
ye rest." I noticed all paid close attention and some shed tears, and
when we sang, all joined in and it seems to me I have never heard
such voices since. It was a bright, clear summer day, all the little
settlement was quiet, and when those standing outside joined in the
chorus the peaceful strains seemed to waft my soul far away and make me
think that I was with my mother.
After it was over Lucius Aborn, when shaking hands, said, "Your talk
suits me, Mr. Burroughs, and although I'm not a church-going man, here
is my dollar, and I want you and the boy to come right up to my house
and stay six or eight weeks, and we will all pitch in and find you a
place to live and preach."
CASCO BAY
Oh, how well we prospered in that little one-horse town, where there
was little money, but the fields, orchards and gardens brought forth
their fruit abundantly, while fish and game were plenty. The business
center consisted of one large grocery and notion store, a sawmill,
gristmill, fish and game market, and several large storehouses. I soon
found employment in the store which was kept by Obadiah Stubbs, where I
worked while I was not in school as long as I lived there.
At the end of one year, father had ninety members in his flock, and
was still preaching in the schoolhouse. Eight years after our arrival,
the congregation had built a commodious log and plastered church and
father was receiving four hundred dollars salary, while I had saved two
hundred dollars. With this and father's savings, we bought the Dimmick
place, a comfortable village home.
On my twenty-first birthday I married Fanny Shepherd, a beautiful
blue-eyed girl of eighteen, when we, with father, moved into our new
quarters, and as Mr. Stubbs had proposed taking me in as a partner, we
looked forward to a happy and prosperous life.
Father's affectionate acts and words to Fanny caused her to love him
and, when we were blessed with a little baby boy, our happiness was
complete, but, oh, how little did I dream of the dark storm that was
gathering on yonder horizon, whose distant thunder I could not hear,
and angry lightning I could not see, but whose dark mantle, when spread
over, would cause me to bow down in grief, such as few ever realize.
DEACON HOBBS
Deacon Hobbs, returning in March, from Salem, stated in open church
that he had learned that George Burroughs was not a regularly ordained
minister, even if he once had been, and if he received spiritual aid,
as he claimed, it was not the spirit of God, but that of the devil. He
advised all members to beware of wolves in sheep clothing.
Father replied: "'An evil tree cannot bring forth good fruit.' Look
to the right and left, Deacon Hobbs, and view the two hundred members
working in the Master's vineyard. Compare my life of the past few years
with yours. I, with my son's assistance, and the liberality of my
flock, have saved enough to buy a modest home, while you have sponged
up nearly half the wealth of this town. Your barns, storehouses, and
pockets are full. I have not charged usury for money, cheated the
red man out of his honest dues or trampled upon the rights of widows
and orphans; all these things you have done. I think I divine your
purpose; but now listen, you steeple of soulless piety, neither
insinuations nor acts will intimidate me. Not for an extension of this
momentary life would I budge one hair to the right or left from the
path my Master has laid out for me. He knows it all, and why should I
fear?" At this point Hobbs left the church.
THE ARREST
On May 4, 1692, father, Fanny and myself were at the table with the
baby boy in father's arms, he saying that it did not seem to him that
the whole family was there unless he had the baby on his knee. As dear
Fanny was joking him about feeding a baby two weeks old, two officers
stepped into the room and read a warrant to him. It was for the arrest
of George Burroughs as being suspected of being in complicity with the
Devil. The warrant was dated Boston, April 30th, 1692. (See Boston
Records.)
Without permission to bid us privately good-bye, his hands were
shackled, he was placed on a horse, and they rode away at full gallop.
Fanny was in no condition to be left alone, but she urged me to saddle
her father's horse at once and follow on. Soon the horse was waiting
for me, but she could not let me go, she wept so bitterly while she
flung her lovely arms around my neck, but at last with one sweet kiss
she bade me hasten and said she would go home to Father Shepherd's
until I returned.
Fanny, oh, Fanny! How little did I think the heart which loved me
so fondly would soon be silent in the grave and I a fugitive and a
wanderer--no friends, no home, and no one to love me.
Twenty miles away I caught up with them, when we rode nearly three
days, with father's hands unnecessarily shackled, most of the time.
The second day he said: "Jimmy, this is my last earthly ride. The
church is in error and will continue its injustice until some tragedy
awakens the people, then it will be restrained. I may as well suffer as
another. Jesus intends righteousness to eventually govern His church,
but his professed followers are often blind to truth and righteousness,
and will be until some great wrong is committed whereby they can place
right against wrong for compromise. Do not weep, my boy, soon, in a
moment as it were, you and I will stand before the judge, and who will
this judge be? Our lives, just the plain record of our lives. There and
then we can easily forgive those who have wronged us, but if we have
wronged others, will their forgiveness to us set us free? Not unless
a higher power steps in. Oh, this will be all right, my son, when the
sunlight of Jesus shall awaken us to the new born day. I was thinking
last night how glad I was that Jesus had already pleaded my cause. Oh,
yes, the cause of poor unworthy me. Pray, pray, humbly my brave boy.
Pray that you enter not into temptation and seek revenge. Do not forget
that your Heavenly Father knows your inmost secret thoughts, and when
you pray ask Jesus to forgive my tormentors, for as he said on Calvary,
'They know not what they do.'"
I will omit the bitter experience I passed through during father's sham
trial and cruel execution.
THE MARTYRS
The public records of the execution of the Salem martyrs were:
_June 10, 1692._
Bridget Bishop.
_July 19, 1692._
Sarah Good, Sarah Wildes, Lizzie Howe, Rebecca Nurse, Susanna Martin.
_August 19, 1692._
George Burroughs, John Proctor, George Jacobs, John Willard, Martha
Carrier.
_September 19, 1692._
Giles Corey.
_September 22, 1692._
Martha Corey, Mary Easty, Alice Parker, Ann Pudeator, Margaret Scott,
Wilmot Reed, Samuel Wardwell, Mary Parker.
Abel Pike, John Richardson, Mary Parsons, Annie Hibbins, Margaret
Jones, and others were known to have been executed, but there is no
record of their arrest or trial at Salem. On the gallows, Richardson
said: "Go on with your hanging, I do not want to live in a world with
such fools."
THE ESCAPE
The evening after father's execution I started for Casco Bay, and on
arriving at a tavern about ten miles out, I found two officers awaiting
me. I was at once taken back to the same prison and placed in a cell to
await my turn on gallows hill.
The jailer, whom I had know when a boy, said his orders were to give
me bread and water once a day. He was a man about my size, but I knew
that I was stronger than he; besides in a struggle for life, I believed
my guardian angel would increase my power. I concluded that if once
outside the jail, with ten minutes the start, I could reach the woods
and make my way to some far-away Indian tribe and in time come and take
Fanny and the baby to live with me among the natives, who, now, to me,
seemed angels.
Accordingly, when he came about noon the third day, I pointed to the
wall back of him, saying, "What is that?" and when he turned, I slipped
my hand under his arm and seized him by the throat, and with the other
in his long hair I broke him backwards over my knee to the ground,
continuing my deadly grip until he ceased to struggle and lay like one
dead. Then, quickly, before he revived, I slipped on his official garb
and drawing his hat over my face started for the door, which I passed
through and slammed behind me. Then lazily locking it and dangling the
bunch of keys I had taken from him I walked towards Cotton Mather, who
was standing, his back to me, and unlocked one of the cells. Then,
as he did not notice me, I passed him, and on turning towards the
outer door I saw the jailer's assistant, who was talking to a female
prisoner, whom I also passed without interruption. Stepping into the
free world, I locked the door behind me, leaving the keys in the door,
and walked down the road, to a woodshed, where I threw off the official
garb and ran to the woods for dear life.
I now worked my way to Casco Bay with great difficulty. I could not
travel nights, for fear of the wolves, so I crept cautiously along in
the daytime through the woods and came down and slept in barns nights,
where I usually found milk or eggs; and on the fifth day, as the sun
was setting, I arrived in an opening on what we called Chestnut Hill,
and looked down on the village of Casco Bay.
STUBBS' STORE
Oh, I wanted to see Fanny so badly, but I knew I was on dangerous
ground, as officers would surely be waiting for me, and probably at
Father Shepherd's was where they would expect to find me. Accordingly I
decided to wait until midnight and then go down to Mr. Stubbs' store,
where I had worked so many years, and could easily gain entrance,
and hide among the boxes and lie there through the day to learn from
overhearing what was going on about the village. So after breaking into
the store and eating my fill of Stubbs' crackers and cheese, I fixed my
nest under the dirty old front counter and fell asleep.
In the morning I heard the boy unlock the store, which reminded me of
the times I first came there. He walked directly on the brown sugar
hogshead and stood and ate for about three minutes, and then began to
hunt for the broom while with his mouth full of cheese he tried to
whistle a lively tune.
Soon another boy came in and I heard him say, "Hello, Ralph, did you
hear about the 'tectives?"
"'Tectives--what is a 'tective?"
"Why, don't you know, Ralph? I have always known that. Besides father
told us all about it this morning. They are officers with their coats
buttoned up, and you would think they were real men until they catch
you and take you to jail and hang you; so father says."
"Gracious alive! Have you seen a live one, Bill?"
"No, I never have, but father has. He said there were two hanging
around Uncle William's last night. He thinks they are the same ones
which carried off our minister, and he says he don't know who they are
after unless it is Jim Burroughs, and it can't be him, either, for he
is dead, they say the Indians or wolves have eat him up."
"Golly, that's strange, Bill. Maybe they're after Jim's wife. You know
them pleggy ministers at Salem kill lots of good folks."
"Oh, no, Ralph, no 'tectives haven't touched her, because she's got a
baby, besides she is awful sick. When she heard Jim was dead she went
right into spazumbs or something, and she is going to die. Why, she
moans so loud we can hear her clear over to our house. Mother said she
was crazy all day and thought that Jim was at the foot of the bed and
would not take her in his arms. She kept saying, 'Oh, Jim, Jim, don't
you love me any more, won't you let me put my arms around your neck and
kiss you once more before I die?'"
Here the conversation ended, and I could see Ralph with his arm on
Bill's shoulder both sobbing and wiping the tears with their dirty
sleeve and I bowed my face down and moaned until Ralph said, "What was
that noise?"
Stubbs came in and said, "Ralph, why have you not swept the floor?"
"Because I can't find the broom. Besides Bill has been telling me all
about how sick Jim Burroughs' wife is, and how there is 'tectives
around here to catch some one--I think you had better look out."
"It isn't 'tectives, Ralph, say detectives. Do wipe the sugar off your
mouth and speak more proper."
"Didn't know there was sugar on my mouth--Oh, yes, there was a lump
fell out of the hogshead when I was sweeping, and it was so dirty that
I did not like to put it back into the clean sugar, so I ate it."
"I thought you said you had not swept, for you could not find the
broom."
"Oh--I--yes--say, Mr. Stubbs, did you ever see a live detective?"
"Now, that will do, Ralph; never mind the sweeping; go and count
Mrs. Armstrong's eggs, for she is waiting. Now, Ralph, do not count
double-yelk eggs for two any more, do you understand?"
"I don't see why, as long as there might be a rooster and a pullet."
"Yes--yes--Mrs. Armstrong, he is coming as soon as he grasps the cause
of twins."
PAUL DIMOCK
Stubbs and the boy now trudged around the store waiting on customers
until about 10 o'clock, when Paul Dimock came in and engaged Stubbs in
an undertone, but being directly over my head, I could hear all. "I
have learned," said Dimock, "that two detectives are stopping at Deacon
Hobbs', and have been several days, and no one knows who they are
looking for."
"You see, Paul," said Stubbs, "that Hobbs was instrumental in Brother
Burroughs' arrest, and I have been told his daughter, Abigail, swore at
Salem that she saw two black devils standing behind Brother Burroughs
while praying--"
At this point a third party came in, and I recognized the well-known
voice of Susan Beaver.
"Isn't it awful about Deacon Hobbs?" she said. "I suppose that is your
secret? Why, I do think it is just terrible."
"What news, Mrs. Beaver? What have you heard?"
"Why, last night when Tom came home late, he said he saw two strangers
come out of the woods and sneak into the deacon's house. So, out of
curiosity, Sarah and I slid around and peeped in at the window, and
sure enough there they were, eating supper and the deacon was--hush,
there comes old Hobbs now."
"Good afternoon, Deacon," said Stubbs, "what is the news?"
"Bad news, awful bad. They say Fanny Burroughs is very low. My heart
aches for that family. James was a good boy, and I wonder if anyone
knows for certain that he is dead. I think possibly he may be among
the Indians yet, although Shepherds' folks are sure he is dead, or he
would come to Fanny. I suppose you have no particulars. Then there was
George, his father, that they hung down at Salem. I wonder where they
got evidence to convict him? To be sure, he and I did not exactly agree
as to our religious views, but I never took that to heart, and would
have done all I could to have saved him, even if he was not a regular
ordained minister. I think from his record here that he was honest,
don't you, Mr. Dimock?"
"Yes, Deacon Hobbs, I do. And James, his son, was an honest, upright
and worthy citizen, and whoever was instrumental in causing those
officers at Salem to come into our midst and take them away and murder
them outright will surely repent when it is too late. I believe they
have imprisoned Jim, and either have or will hang him, for the report
of his being killed by the Indians, or wolves, may have come direct
from Salem. Oh, Mr. Hobbs, it shatters my faith, that our Heavenly
Father allows such men to live. This is terrible," he uttered, as
he wiped the perspiration from his face and repeated, "terrible,
terrible." Then as if aroused by wrong, he raised his voice as he
faced the deacon, and continued: "Deacon Hobbs, I am no more safe than
they were. If an officer should come in here now and arrest me for
complicity with the devil, I should consider it my death knell, would
you not?"
"Well, really," began the deacon, "I do not know. You see, I have been
down to Salem and talked with Cotton Mather and others prominent in the
church, and they seem to be worthy Christians. I have thought George
Burroughs may have been convicted of some other crime. You see, the
prison is closely guarded and all we get is hearsay."
SUSAN BEAVER
The reader will remember that Susan Beaver was talking when the deacon
came in, and now stood listening to his subterfuge, and Dimock's
stinging insinuations. As I remember Susan, she was short, stout, with
black eyes, glistening teeth, and quick movements. She tried to keep
silent, but now her cup of wrath was full, and reached the high-water
mark, where danger could not restrain the break, and she broke:
"Deacon Hobbs, you miserable old liar, I saw the detectives in your
house myself. Maybe they're waiting to take my husband to Salem. If so,
you can inform them that they can never cross our threshold unless it
is over my dead body. You say you do not know much about it. Was not
Abigail at Salem, swearing against the minister? Did not you both swear
he was in league with the Devil? Now you say he may have been convicted
of some other crime. George Burroughs, that worthy Christian minister,
defile his name, now he is dead, will you? Oh, you ought not to live
another minute," and suiting the action to the word, she sprang across
the store to the old cheese box. Now, I knew the cheese knife was long
and heavy, and in the hands of a desperate woman. Bang-slam-bang, they
went around and around the store, he holding a chair before him and
crying, "Help! Murder!" while she struck out wildly without speaking a
word. Dimock and Stubbs sprang in to save the deacon's life, but when
I peeped through the crack and saw the broad grin on Dimock's face, I
concluded their interference was not genuine. The deacon worked around
the counter, when she sprang on top and had him in a trap, at which
he dropped his chair and ran and plunged through the window headlong.
After he had escaped, and Susan had time to think, she sat down and
began to cry, but on being assured by Dimock that no one would think
the less of her, she left the store.
While Paul was helping board up the broken window, I overheard Stubbs
ask him: "Do you consider Cotton Mather and his associates murderers?"
"Oh, no," was the reply, "not exactly that. It is a phenomenal wave
of insanity. Similar waves have spread their gloomy pall over the
innocent, long before Joshua put the women and children to death
at Jericho. These Salemites are at war with the Devil on the same
principle that one nation wars with another; they justify themselves
through a spasmodic lunacy, that duty calls them to kill their fellow
beings.
"God works in a mysterious way. Cotton Mather may be blind. He may be
a tool in the hand of a higher power. Finite beings do not comprehend
the infinite. If God permits, does He not sanction? These cruelties
will have a tendency to humanize Christianity. When years have passed
and Brother Burroughs thinks over earthly life he will not regret that
his Maker called him home at noon. Friendship and love will increase
towards the Burroughs family. They are just leaving their lights along
the shore. The love of Jesus will spread when the church shall have
hatched out of its shell of ignorance; then it will stand on a higher
and more liberal plane; midnight to us may be morning to the angels.
Do you know, Stubbs, what is the main trouble with the human family?"
"I do not, Paul. What is it?"
"It is that they know less than they are aware of."
After the store had been closed and Stubbs was working on his books, I
heard the door open and some one come in.
"Good evening, doctor. How is Fanny Burroughs?"
The doctor came near and replied in an almost inaudible voice, "She is
dead." The little bullet-headed doctor was affected, for I could hear
his voice tremble. "Oh, well," he replied to Stubbs' inquiry, "She
had no disease, the poor girl actually died of a broken heart. Such
suffering I never saw before, but when she did go if you had seen her,
Stubbs, you would never question the theory of life beyond dissolution
of the body. She raised her eyes upwards, smiled so sweetly and said:
'Oh, father, father, where is Jim?' I am sorry, Stubbs, I have not
led a better life, for I have known Fanny Shepherd since she was born
and if God will forgive the past, I will turn over a new leaf and try
to meet her when I die. I know now that our minister, whom I always
ridiculed, was right there in the room with us when she was dying.
Besides, Mr. Stubbs, I believe Jim is alive, for if he had been dead he
would have been the first one for her to recognize. You see, she was
expecting to see him and he was not there."
Here Jim's heart and voice seemed to fail and Winnie put her arm around
his neck and they sobbed convulsively for a moment and then continued.
When all was still I crept from my hiding place, washed my face, but
could not eat. As usual, the shutters were closed, so I lit a candle
and began to rummage around the store. I found Stubbs had a new musket
with a horn of powder and a bag of shot, and as I knew he would gladly
give them to me, I took them. Then I waited until near dawn, when I
went out to the hill in the woods and stayed all day, on the very spot
where I had spent many happy hours with Fanny. I could look down into
the room where I had courted and wedded my dear Fanny, and could see
part on one of her arms, as her body lay near the window, in Father
Shepherd's house. Also I saw the village carpenter making my Fanny's
coffin and a stranger digging her grave. That night I slept in the
store again and the next day, from the same hill, I saw them lower her
body into the grave, but my heart was locked in despair; I could not
weep.
REVENGE
At night I came down and went to the grave. The distant stars seemed to
be shedding their soft light on a lonely world, while the moon about
setting cast her ghastly beams among the chestnut trees, making the
scene, oh, so lonely, in that silent little graveyard. Out upon the
cold waters of the bay I could see the silver waves glisten in the
moonlight among the familiar bayous, which I should never see again,
while far beyond the bosom of the great Atlantic seemed to heave a sigh
of grief at my loneliness. I fell upon dear Fanny's grave, kissed the
clay and wondered if she was there. Then breathing a long farewell, I
folded my hands in prayer, asking God to forgive me for the crime I was
about to commit.
Hastily I then walked towards Stubbs' store, resolved to settle with
Deacon Hobbs and then turn my back on white man forever. I entered the
store and wrote on a slip of brown paper: "Obadiah Stubbs, a friend has
taken your gun and ammunition," and placed the slip in the cash drawer.
When outside of the store I walked lively to the deacon's nearest
storehouse, then ran from one to the other, and at last set fire to his
home, then stepped back into the lilac bushes and cocked my gun.
Soon I saw great curls of smoke ascending from the storehouses on the
wharf, then the barns and sheds, and now the home had caught fire. Then
seeing the family in danger, to awaken them I seized a rock and dashed
it through the window.
The family were now aroused and Hobbs ran to the well for water, when
I raised my gun, but a shadow came before me, and I could not see him.
Again he ran out and again I raised the gun, determined to kill him,
just as I felt a soft pressure on my shoulder and turning quickly I
found myself alone. Then I knew I must not.
As I walked away from old Chestnut Hill, I gave one last, lingering
look. It was now daybreak, and as I gazed down on the little village
where I had spent so many happy days I saw that all of Deacon Hobbs'
wealth had ascended into smoke. Stubbs' old store looked as dingy and
dirty as ever. Father's church, on which I had often looked so fondly,
now seemed silently waiting to catch the first glimmer of the morning
sun as it came to give light and life to the hills and valleys of old
New England. Father Shepherd's house, the door through which I had
passed so many times with a light heart, were all plain to my view.
Once more I looked through the trees to the grave of Fanny and walked
away.
ALONE IN THE WILDERNESS
About noon, the first day out, I met three Indians and we took lunch
together, they furnishing bear meat and I cheese and crackers, which
I had borrowed from Stubbs. After this I trudged on, following an old
trail in a westerly direction, hoping to find Indians who could give me
shelter for the night, but finding none, I started a fire at dark to
scare the wolves away and prepared to stay in the woods alone.
As darkness came on and my fire lit up the woods, I was lonely and
yearned for a friend, while a strangeness came over me which caused me
to shudder. The excitement had past, and I was left to contemplate as
to the course I had taken and where my pathway of life might be leading
me. I saw myself, as only a short time before, a promising young man
of the wild wood harbor village; but now alone in the wilderness, soon
to be a ragged, friendless outcast. Was my condition better or worse
than Fanny's or father's? Silently I knelt and implored the unseen to
forgive all and keep me pure in heart as I wended my way over mountains
of trouble and through vales of temptation.
While pondering I heard the flapping of wings, and a large owl came and
lit on a dry limb above me and began its lonely hooting. The night was
still, save the occasional bark of a wolf and the echo of the bird's
dreary chant, which under ordinary circumstances would have startled
me, but now rising to my feet I gazed at the intruder with an eye of
gladness and longed to caress him as a friend, while I murmured, "Your
lot on earth as compared with mine is to be envied. Carelessly and
thoughtlessly your days pass with no regret for the past or anxiety for
the morrow, while my sympathetic heart, actuated by an ingenious brain,
dashes cold waves of sorrow against bleak rocks of cruel destiny."
I closed my eyes and again implored my Heavenly Father to increase my
strength to tread the thorny way. Then I pondered over my condition
again and cried, "Oh, the heart--the human heart--that beats in
sympathy! Oh, the soul that longs to comfort some one and yearns to be
loved in return!"
Gazing high into the far away Eternity where all seemed lovely and
serene, I said, "Silence is the token of love. Fanny is; yes, she still
lives, but she is silent and in her silence she loves me still."
Then the stars, hills and trees, like friends, came near and shared
with me my troubles, and as I sank upon the ground overcome I thought
I was a child again and mother whispered low and sweet, "Love your
enemies and Jesus will love you."
Resting upon a bed of leaves with my boots for a pillow, the angel
of dreams took me in her fair arms. Fanny and I were walking beside
a laughing crystal stream, gathering wild flowers, whose fragrance
seemed to fill the balmy air, where familiar birds came and warbled
sweet notes over our heads while the soft sunshine bore upon the
scene, peeping into the shady grove and forming our peaceful nook into
a perfect bower of love. Here upon a bank strewn with tiny violets I
kneeled at Fanny's feet and asked her to become my wife. She did not
speak, but looked on me with her own sweet smile as she glided softly
away. I arose to follow her, when I awoke and found myself alone in the
dark woods.
[Illustration: POOR JIM, LONELY BUT NOT ALONE, FANNIE IS NEAR.]
Morning came at last, and not being able to taste my food, I trudged
on, and in a few days reached Springfield, where I first assumed the
name of James Hall. There I worked about ten days for a man named Anson
Newell, but when I learned there were two families there from Salem I
feared detection and decided to go.
HUNTING FOR BABY
I now abandoned the idea of living with the Indians and worked my way
over the Green Mountains, then down the Hudson River to New York.
During the winter my mind was continually on my baby boy, and when
spring came I started East to try to locate him. At Hartford I stayed a
few days, hoping to find someone from Casco Bay, but being unsuccessful
I went on and spent the night with about thirty Indians in the dark
grove south of Wabbaquassett Lake. Here I found a buck and his squaw,
who had lived near Casco Bay, but they knew nothing of church affairs.
Next morning near Stafford, just as I was turning north from the
river bend, I met a party of hunters, one of whom I recognized as
Josiah Converse, from near Casco Bay. After passing, I overheard him
remark--"That man looks and walks just exactly like Jim Burroughs, and
if I did not know he was dead, I would swear it was he." This remark
disturbed me, for I had thought that my full beard and shabby clothes
had disguised me. Soon I passed near my baby boy but did not know it.
When I arrived at Casco Bay I was puzzled as to how I was to get my
information. Stubbs' store could not be approached now, as I had left
traces of my last visit and someone might be on the alert, so I hung
around Chestnut Hill three days, secreted near the road, hoping to see
someone passing who was a stranger. Several acquaintances passed each
day, among whom was old Deacon Hobbs, which made my blood boil, and
I almost forgot that I was to love my enemies. One day a strange boy
approached and I ran up to the brow of the hill and then turned and met
him.
"Does Deacon Hobbs live in this town?" I inquired.
"Yes, he lives over there in that cottage."
"Do you think he wants to hire a man?"
"Oh, no, he does not want help. He is poor now; all he had is burned
up."
"Who did it?
"We do not know, but think it was an angel from heaven, and every one
is glad."
"Why were they glad?"
"Oh, because he killed the minister. That was last year, and I was not
here."
"How did he do it?"
"Well, he did not kill him, but he got some folks down in Salem to come
up and arrest him and they hanged him."
"Did he kill anyone else?"
"Yes, he killed James Burroughs and Fanny, too, so Mr. Shepherd says."
"Who were they?"
"James was the minister's son and Fanny was his wife. I live with the
Shepherds and heard them say these things."
"Did James and Fanny have any children?"
"Yes, they must have had one, for I heard Mrs. Shepherd tell how the
minister's sister came on from Boston and took it home with her."
Then looking inquiringly in my face, he said, "Say, mister, are you
sick?"
"Oh, no," I replied, and we passed on.
On arriving at Boston I learned that uncle had died and Aunt Hannah had
gone with her sister, Abigail, who lived in Salem. In Salem, with great
difficulty, I learned they had sold out all their property and gone
West. All further efforts were fruitless and I returned to New York and
began to work at my last winter's job, where I worked quietly, ever on
the alert to gain tidings of my boy.
MULDOON
One day while I was working with an Irishman named Muldoon, the
proprietor, Mr. Benjamin, came along, leading his little daughter, who,
pointing to Muldoon, said, "Papa, what makes you hire paddies? I do
not like them." Muldoon resented the innocent prattle, and turning to
Benjamin, said: "Will ye allow that wee bit of a brat to spake that way
of a gintleman?"
"You are no gentleman to call a child a brat, and if you answer back
I'll discharge you at once."
Pat tugged away in silence and when Benjamin had gone he said: "I niver
knew but one mon in me life as mane as ould Benjamin and that was
Cotton Mather himself."
"What do you know about Cotton Mather?" I eagerly inquired.
"Nothing good, sir."
"Were you ever at Salem?"
"Do yees think that auld Ben aught to larn that wee bit of a snipe to
insolt the loikes of me?"
"But, Pat, that does not answer my question."
"Thin why should a gintlemin aloix yee be axen meself quistions which I
niver knew a-tal-tal?"
"Yes, you do know, and if I explain why I am so anxious you'll tell me
all you can, won't you, Pat?"
"Yees moight be an officer."
"Nonsense, Pat, haven't you worked beside me for a long time?"
"Sure, but you moight be."
"No, I am not, and you should not be afraid, for you have never
committed any crime."
"Oh, but it was the innocent that they murthered. But, Jim, if yees
will lit me come to your room at the did o' night and yees will kiss
the Holy Cross and hold the sacred Mary to your heart while ye swear
niver to till, I might till yees the bit I know."
When Pat arrived at midnight he whispered in my ear, "Ye see, that if
Cotton Mather hears that I till the truth he will git some one to swear
I am posist with the devil and they will hang me sure."
After I had explained to him how large a dowery had been left for the
Burroughs family, and that a child had been lost, he said: "Then it
is not Giles Corey yees are after hearing, for I might tell yees more
about him, for I lived with him both before and after he was dead."
"No, I want you to tell me all about George Burroughs. Did you ever
hear about him?"
"Faith and indade, I did, I heard him make his last prayer when on the
gallows, asking God to forgive his inimies and we all wipped loike
babbies, we did."
"Did he have a family?"
"Yis, a son. A fair young mon. He looked so much loike yees that I
think of him when yees walk along, but he is dead, poor bye. When he
started home he lost his way and the wolves ate him. Some said he may
not be ded, but shot up in prison to be hung, but I know he was dead,
for I hilped to bury his bones."
"Did you see them?"
"No, they were in a box, but I knew he was ded, fer he did not smill
like a live man, and his wife died, but they had a little one, who is
alive now."
"Where is he?"
"He was first taken to Boston to his Aunt Hannah's and thin to his Aunt
Abigail's in Salem, thin a man came on from Stafford, Conn., and took
him to keep. His wife was Aunt Hannah's daughter and Aunt Agibail wint
to Stafford hersilf."
The day I arrived at Stafford Street I walked from Hartford, and the
nearer I came the faster I walked. When I arrived at the village some
men were working on the road and in answer to my inquiry, said: "The
widow Abigail Drake lives in that red house," which they pointed out.
I called on her under the pretense of buying her home, and staid quite
a while. She mentioned some of the best families, Deans, Converses,
Richardsons, etc., but I could not find out who had the boy until I
spoke of the church, when she mentioned that Deacon Felker had adopted
a boy who was her nephew. Then I asked her who his parents were. She
hesitated, and then said, "His father and mother are both dead."
"Were you acquainted with his father?"
"Yes, I was; he was a man about your build, only when I saw him last he
was in trouble, and pale and thin."
"What trouble?"
"Trouble," she replied wiping the tears away with her apron. Then
coming near me inquired quizzically, "What is your name?"
I saw she was on the point of detecting me, and looking straight in her
eye I answered, "James Hall."
Again she hesitated and then said, "You do look so much like James
Burroughs, who is dead, that I thought the dead had been raised." She
then told me all about father's execution, Fanny's death and mine,
after which I walked over to Deacon Felker's.
When I arrived, there was no one in but the deacon, so I struck him
up for a job. Soon I saw a lady coming up the walk who I at once
recognized as Cousin Phoebe, whom I had not seen for fifteen years.
Beside her ran a little boy. The deacon introduced me, and in shaking
hands I squeezed hers so hard that she looked up quickly, then
presuming me to be very rough, she spoke pleasantly. Then I picked up
my own little boy and as in some phantom mirror, Fanny seemed to look
me right in the face.
While waiting for tea, Winnie Richardson came in and adroitly
introduced herself by saying, "I presume our town looks tame to you,
especially if you've been living in the city, but to us who have never
traveled Stafford is the center of the world."
At the conclusion of Jim's story the sweet Winnie softly caressed the
troubled man with her arm around his neck, and here we leave Winnie
and Jim, to whirl and swirl in their frail barques of life, on the
restless waves of time, until they mysteriously cross the bar out into
the unknown ocean of Eternity, from whence, if they return to guide our
thoughts, we do not comprehend it.
[Illustration: OUR MOUNTAIN HOME NEAR WABBAQUASSETT LAKE, BUILT BY
WARREN RICHARDSON, 1832.
PORTRAITS OF CHILDREN, 1870, EXCEPT MARIETTE. LEFT TO RIGHT. ELIZA,
ADELIA, COLLINS, CAROLINE, MERRICK, GORDON, JANETTE.]
OUR WABBAQUASSETT MOUNTAIN HOME
John, my Grandfather Richardson, son of Uriah, built his home on the
east side of the Devil's Hopyard, while Abner, one of John Dimock's ten
sons, built his home on the west side.
John Richardson raised a family of boys, John, Warren, Collins, Marvin,
Orson, and one girl, Fanny, while Abner Dimock raised a family of
girls, Lovey, Manerva, Luna, Hannah, Arminia, Abigail, and one boy,
Abner.
Warren Richardson crossed the Hopyard, wooed and won Luna Dimock, and
they built their nest near Wabbaquassett Lake, where the flowers bloom
in early spring, wild birds awake the summer morn and the babbling
brook sings through the winding vale below, all day long.
Here they raised a group of laughing, frolicing, romping backwoods
mischief and their names were:
Mariette A.--Married Frank Slater.
Eliza L.--Married Lucius Kibbes.
Adelia A.--Married Epaphro Dimock.
Caroline C.--Married Lucius Aborn.
Collins W.--Married Martha Aborn.
Merrick A.--Married Mary Hoyt.
Gordon M.--Married Amanda Pitt.
Janette A.--Married George Newell.
Wabbaquassett retained its virgin bloom of nature long after the
surrounding country had been occupied by white invaders.
Stafford, Ellington, Somers and Tolland Streets had become
self-centered, while the sleeping beauty, Wabbaquassett, was held
by the Nipmunks as a sort of rendezvous for the Pequods, Mohegans.
Mohawks, Narragansetts and several other tribes who were roaming over
New England, stealing fowls, cattle and even children, for the red
man felt that the brooks, lakes and forests, together with all they
contained, virtually belonged to him.
Wabbaquassett of old, with its broad sandy shore, dreaming in the
protecting arms of a dense forest of oak, pine, chestnut and maple
giants was truly the gem of New England.
When the Richardsons, Dimocks, Newells and Aborns began their
encroachment into these forests the Indians were loath to leave their
pow-wow home in the oak grove, on the south shore of the lake, for
the American Indian dreaded the law more than the tomahawk, but the
following instance routed them.
A buck named Wappa, who lived on the shore, south of the old West Rock,
killed his squaw, Dianah, for which he was tried at Tolland Street and
hanged. On the gallows he saw Captain Abner Dimock, my mother's father,
among the spectators and called for him to come on the gallows and pray
for him.
My father and mother were in the crowd and when the sheriff asked the
Indian if he was ready, mother fainted. The execution took place August
22, 1816, after which the Indians left Wabbaquassett and never returned.
In those days, Wabbaquassett, since called Square Pond, and now Crystal
Lake, was the nucleus of four prominent families, Dimocks, Richardsons,
Newells and Aborns.
The group consisted of the following families:
Abner Dimock Anson Newell
Orwell Dimock Armherst Newell
Ephraim Dimock Charles Newell
Lorain Dimock Ezekiel Newell
Sexton Dimock Ephraim Newell
Warren Richardson Lucius Aborn
Orson Richardson Parkel Aborn
Marvin Richardson Morton Aborn
John Richardson Gilbert Aborn
Royal Richardson Jedediah Aborn
Of these twenty families in 1850 I now find, at the Lake, only one
descendant, A. M. Richardson, son of my brother, Collins, who with his
interesting wife, Bessie, actually holds the fort alone.
WOODCHUCK IN THE WALL
Recently when my son Arthur and myself with our families were touring
with automobile over the Alleghanies, up the sea-shore, and over
the Green Mountains, we spent several days at the Lake, with many
old-timers who came to meet us, when they coaxed me to tell the
woodchuck story, which ran as follows: Bow-wow-wow is heard on the
hillside across the little meadow from our old farm house. We boys,
Gordon and I, drop our hoes and run, for we knew by the sound that old
Skip had a woodchuck in the wall and wanted us to come and get him out.
"Hold on, Gordon," said I, "now is the time for us to give our Towser a
chance."
Towser was a young bull terrier, we boys had bought of Holmes, who had
recommended him to be able to catch the largest ox by the nose and hold
him, or catch a hog by the ear and hold the hog, or off would come the
ear, and as for woodchucks, he would pick them up as a hen would pick
up kernels of corn.
Our Towser, as we boys called him, was at once unchained and we were
off to the pasture on the hillside, where in days gone by, old Skip had
captured so many woodchucks.
As we ran along, the conversation ran thus:
"Hey-hey, Towser," said I, "Mr. Woodchuck don't know that you're
coming; he thinks it is old Skip, but when he sees you, he will know
that he's got to die."
"Oh, dear," said Gordon, "when he gets those great white teeth on to
him, won't the blood fly? I hope he won't swallow him whole, for we
want his hide to make shoe strings."
"You bet," said I. Then patting the dog on the head, I continued:
"Won't old Skip be ashamed when he sees you, Towser?"
Skip was a little brindle cur who had watched the whole farm night and
day for ten years. He would never worry the cat or chase the chickens,
but would speak, roll over, sit up, or play he was dead, to please us
boys. He could hustle the cattle out of the corn, keep the pigs from
the door and had kept all the rabbits and woodchucks away from the
garden. In fact, he was a friend to everyone except Towser. Of course,
he was jealous of him.
When we boys arrived on the scene, we found old Skip bounding over the
wall back and forth, barking, squealing, pawing and biting off roots in
his great excitement, while the woodchuck was chattering, whistling and
snapping his teeth in great shape.
"Oh, look here, Gordon," said I, as I peeped into the wall, "He is as
big as two tomcats; it must be the one father said had been nibbling
all our green pumpkins."
"Yes, yes," says Gordon, "Pa said Skip has been trying to get between
him and his hole all summer, and now our Towser has got him at last.
Say, Merrick, don't you think we had better let Skip kill him. I'm
afraid that Towser will tear him all to flitters and we won't have his
hide left."
Now there was a terrible yelping and we discovered that the big bulldog
was shaking little Skip unmercifully. We clubbed him off, and tried to
drive Skip home, as, of course, we would not need him any more, but he
would not go, so we tied him to a white birch tree with Towser's chain
and continued tearing down the wall.
Gordon's countenance took on a sort of a funeral aspect as he said,
"Now, Mr. Woodchuck, you have got to die."
"Yes," said I, as I jammed my dirty thumb into my mouth to keep from
weeping, "My heart aches for him, but it has got to be done."
Towser was anxious to get at the woodchuck. Everytime we boys rolled
off a stone, he would jam his head into the wall, so anxious was he to
get at his prey, while poor little Skip, who should have had the honor,
was up under the white birch tree trying to break the chain and come
down and help, not even minding his bleeding ear, where Towser had bit
him.
At last the right stone was removed and the unfortunate old woodchuck
could do no better than face grim death, and he did it bravely.
Standing on his little hind legs, with his front paws extended, he
chattered defiance, while snapping his white teeth and awaiting the
onslaught.
Towser plunged into the wall and out came the woodchuck, but to our
surprise, Towser had not got the woodchuck, but the woodchuck had
Towser right by the nose.
Over and over they rolled as the blood squirted from the dog's nose,
each sommersault working them farther and farther down the swale in
the direction of the woodchuck's hole. Towser roared, bellowed and
squealed, but the woodchuck would not let go his lucky hold.
We boys saw the danger of escape and I, seizing a club, started on to
help Towser, while Gordon ran to unchain Skip, as it began to look now
as if old Skip's help might be necessary after all.
The clever old woodchuck, who was watching to take advantage of the
first favorable opportunity, when he saw Skip coming, let go his grip
and started for his hole. Towser, who was also figuring for his own
personal safety, when released, curled his tail between his legs and
started for home, crying "ki-yi-yi-yi."
Skip bounded forward just in time to seize his woodchuckship by the
tail, just as he was entering the hole. Now a desperate struggle
ensued, the woodchuck trying to pull the dog into the hole and the dog
trying to pull the woodchuck out.
Skip was losing ground, when, seizing him by the hind legs, I planted
my bare feet in the gravel and pulled with all my might. The woodchuck
chattered and squealed, the dog shook and growled, as I pulled them
out, when the tail broke, he darted into the hole, and the game was
lost.
Then we boys took Skip up to the spring and washed his poor bleeding
ear and promised him right then and there that we would take Towser
back to Mr. Holmes and that he, Skip, might run the farm as long as he
lived.
Lemuel Warner followed up the woodchuck story by acting out, in his
genial manner, the stuttering man trying to testify in prayer-meeting.
Orino Richardson and Perlin Richardson came in with their extremely
ridiculous tales, followed by hymns and old plantation songs.
In all this we seemed to forget ourselves, with the fifty years of ups
and down on Life's tempestuous waves, and in friendly glee we were
back again in that fair morning, dreamily anticipating Life's strange
journey, so unlike the reality fond memory now reveals.
Together we all visited the cemeteries on the hill at the north, where
the rippling waves of old Wabbaquassett click along the shore so near
the feet of those whose voices we do not hear, but whose sweet smiles
seem to reflect back to us their beauty as our earthly vision grows dim.
Soon the stranger will pause to read and say: "Who were all these
Richardsons, Newells, Aborns and Dimocks?" In the silence reason seems
to whisper: They came forth in the dawn; enjoyed a brief day; and
returned to the silence of an endless Eternity.
"Now dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood,
When fond recollections present them to view;
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood,
And every loved spot which my infancy knew.
The wide-spreading Pond, and the Mill that stood by it,
The Bridge and the Rock where the cataract fell;
The Cot of my Father, the dairy-house nigh it,
And e'en the rude Bucket which hung in the Well."
SUNDAY MORNING
Father and mother did not marry until their home had been established,
but they lost no time when they got started, for, thirteen years gave
them a brood of eight children.
Father was a shrewd dealer in land and cattle, through which he gained
enough to purchase about 350 acres of wild land and built a house and
barn, while mother, as was customary for New England women, braided
palm leaf hats for the slaves of the Southern planters, until she had
saved enough to furnish the house. Then they got married.
Our living room was the big kitchen, where we warmed ourselves by the
old-fashioned fireplace while the pots and kettles hung on the crane
before us. Beside it was a brick oven, where mother baked the good
things, especially on Thanksgiving Day, when we did not fill up with
old common potatoes.
The parlor, which we were seldom allowed to enter, was to a little boy
dazzling. Looking-glass, with gilded frame, paper of many colors, and
high-shining brass andirons in the fireplace.
Sunday morning we all gathered there for family worship and one morning
father gave us a lesson on "Inspiration," which has nerved me up to
fight infidelity all my days.
He had quite a collection of books and one day he brought home a book
on geology, from which, after studying it evenings, he declared that
the creation of the world in science and the Bible exactly agreed.
That lesson and the surroundings on that sunny Sabath morning is one of
the old landmarks in my memory to which I often return in moments of
reflection.
"Now children," he began, "no one knows who wrote the first chapter of
Genesis, which appears to have no connection with the other chapters.
It may have been written by Moses, his sister, Miriam, or some other
person along about that time, say four or five thousand years ago. The
strange thing about it is that, according to their new geology, the
writer revealed the secrets of that which transpired millions of years
ago.
"People had supposed, until about one hundred years ago, that the first
chapter of Genesis was a fable, or fairy tale, but now geology proves
it to have been a true history of what the writer knew nothing about.
"It must have been that an angel who had lived all through the time the
world was being made, sat right beside or in some way influenced the
author to write the wonderful story of the creation. This is what I
call real inspiration, don't you?
"Some folks think, and I would not wonder if it might be true, that
fiction is a faint glimmer of inspiration, and that composers are
often led along by the spirit of some person who once lived in this
world. Let this be as it may, I wish one of you children might become a
novelist, but you never will, you will be farmers just like all us New
England mountaineers.
"Learned men have discovered, by digging in the rocky surface of the
earth, that under certain conditions, oysters or other animals, will
turn to stone. They call them fossils. Scientists have also learned
that each kind, wherever found, represents the age in which the animal
lived. So, the fossil, you see, is an animal which died and turned to
stone, perhaps millions of years ago.
"By investigation they find that one kind of rock, called azoic,
contains no fossils, so they know there was a day or age when there was
no life in this world, and this is the first day in the Bible, which I
have been reading to you.
FIRST DAY
"They find by the conglomerate condition of the azoic rock that after
the gaseous confusion of the elements had subsided, it sort of settled
into one boiling mass of mixed elements. Then the heavier elements,
gold, mercury, lead and the like, condensed and formed a center of
attraction, while the more rare elements, such as oxygen, hydrogen and
nitrogen, formed a floating band around it, then, as the Bible states,
darkness must have been upon the face of the deep until the lighter
elements rarefied, when the sun would feebly penetrate in the daytime
and the rotation of the world would make it correspond to the first day
and night of the Bible.
SECOND DAY
"This day, in which the firmament was formed, is wonderful in that it
was preparation for the day when the land should appear, as it would
need rain to make the vegetation grow. Man's highest imagination cannot
grasp or conceive the wonders of this strange scheme. It really meant
condensing part of the water to become liquid, or seas, and raising
part to become clouds, or rain, as we now find them. So again the two
accounts agree as to the second day.
THIRD DAY
"Seas and land appear. This Bible account exactly agrees with the
carboniferous and crustacean births which followed on through the ages,
when vegetation grew in such abundance that its decay, when submerged
by eruptions, laid the foundations for our coal and oil fields.
FOURTH DAY
"While the former days occupied millions of years each, this day
was not a duration of time, not even one moment. It was simply an
illustration of the then present conditions. Had we been on earth
at that time we would have seen all the heavenly bodies and their
movements just as this Bible account describes, and as we see them now.
FIFTH DAY
"As the fourth Bible day did not include time to produce geological
changes, the two ages divonian, or fish, and amphibious, or reptilian,
ages exactly fit in to make up the fifth day.
"Could we have visited the earth when it first became solid with the
sea floating over it, we would have seen at the bottom of the sea
animals of the oyster family beginning to live in their shells, which
later they took up and carried around on their backs, and now we call
them turtles. We know they were there, for they are still sleeping in
their little stone coffins on mountain tops, which God raised up when
He made dry land. God called them all moving creatures, which have
life, which, of course, included fish and frogs.
"Now hark, I will read the twentieth verse over again. There now, you
see God did not make the birds up in the mountains and tell them to
fly. He made them in the water, I guess He fixed legs where the fins
were, so they could hop and crawl, and then fixed wings where the legs
were, so they could fly, and this exactly corresponds to the reptilian
age in geology. That transformation must have made even God stop and
think, for it took millions of years. Many kinds came out of the water,
so you see we have many kinds of birds on the land. Some of them were
awfully large. One, geologists call the Pterodactyl, had a mouth and
teeth like a horse, tail like a fish or snake, and wings which he could
spread more than twenty-five feet. I imagine it flew from shore to
shore catching turtles for breakfast, who were out on the sand laying
eggs as big as our old peck measure.
SIXTH DAY
"God made cattle and all other big walking things, and all the creeping
things.
"The family of largest animals are called Dinosaur. Their fossil
bones are found in the Rocky Mountains. They must have lived there on
the plains before the upheavel of the mountains. Some of them were
about one hundred feet long and twenty-five feet high. In New Jersey,
geologists have dug up the fossil bones of an animal they call the
Iguanodon, a sort of frog with a snake tail; when he sat up his head
was about thirty feet high. Had he lived on men he would have eaten
three for dinner. It seems that when those animals raised up on all
four, like elephants, they lost their fish-like tails, except to use
as fly whiskers. Those animals lived all through what is called the
mammalian age in geology, or the sixth day in the Bible.
"Now, children, this twenty-fifth verse ends up the creation of the
world and all its animals. Then God called a halt and said, 'Let us
make something special.' What was it?" "Man, man," we said. "What was
man to be like?" "Just like God himself."
"Is God an animal?"
"No."
"What is He?"
"Nobody knows."
"Think again, what did I read last Sunday about Christ at Jacob's well?"
"Oh, yes, God is a spirit."
"Then is man a spirit or an animal?"
"Both," I said.
"How so, Merrick?"
"Why, God made she-male man and he-male man of dirt, so they could have
a lot of children. Then the image man, we cannot see, who was to do the
thinking, was to have dominion, that means it was to boss themselves
and everything else around. That is the man that goes to Heaven when he
dies."
"How is that, Luna, for a boy of eight years old?" he said to mother.
"You are all right, Merrick," she said, drawing me to her for a kiss.
"Now, you must try to govern yourself and not be so stubborn, even if
you do think you are in the right. Let wisdom instead of spunk be your
guide, and then the angels will be with you in your dreams and our
pretty school-ma'am will not have to switch you so often."
"Pretty school-ma'am, eh! Why, she walks just exactly like a cow."
HUSKING BEE
One of my earliest recollections is of hearing mother telling a
neighbor housewife about the prayer meeting up at Uncle Sam's. Mother
was a great tease, and to see her act out Aunt Lovey in this particular
case was enough to make the bushes laugh.
In order to picture the scene at the prayer meeting, I will give one of
mother's escapades by the way of contrast between Lovey, Uncle Sam's
wife, and her wide-awake sisters, of which mother was accused of being
the ring leader in many daring acts. Therefore, I will begin with the
story of the husking bee at Grandfather Dimock's home, when mother was
a girl.
At a husking in those days all in the neighborhood would gather, not so
much, I imagine, to husk corn as for the frolic, and the good things
they had to eat.
The custom was to set the shocks of corn around a large circle and
all husk from the outside. Then if a lady found a red ear she was
privileged, if she dare, to throw it across a space at a man whom, if
she hit, was privileged to chase her around the outer ring, for which
if he caught her while on the circuit he could kiss her.
Well, mother found a red ear and she threw it at the minister, hitting
him, whack! side of the head. His name was Frink, a real minister of
the Gospel, yet he could not allow such an opportunity to escape, so he
dropped his dignity and started.
[Illustration: GIRL RUNNING REPRESENTS MY MOTHER WHEN 16. FRINK, THE
MINISTER, CHASING FOR A KISS WHICH HE DID NOT GET.]
The arranged plan was that all should get out of the way to give the
lady a chance to run, while the real plan was for all to stumble into
the way and see the fun.
Mother, finding it impossible to break through, turned quickly and lit
out for the orchard. This bold but admirable act caused 200 huskers
to raise on tip-toe, for it was a pretty scene in the moonlight to
see the daring maid, clad in a pretty white frock, dodging among the
dark shadows of the apple trees, evading the terrific lunges of her
eager pursuer, whose physiognomy took on a strange earnestness which
betokened his consideration that the prize was worth striving for.
When the girl, by artful dodging, escaped and struck out for home, old
Jasiah Bradley, forgetting his 80 years, roared out, "Stand back! Stand
back! Give the girl a chance," at which two rows quickly formed, giving
the girl, whose knee action betokened great speed, a clear way until
as she crossed the line, Frink extended his hand to grab, but did not
catch her.
This illustration represents the innocent dare of the family to which
mother belonged, except the oldest Lovey, who was very sedate, and in
this case said that Luna ought to be spanked and put to bed. Lovey wore
her skirts very long and would walk way around to pass through the
gate, while her astonishing sisters would jump or climb over the fence
and whistle just like boys.
PRAYER MEETING AT UNCLE SAM'S
Lovey married Samuel Harwood. They built their home on Chestnut Hill,
where they raised a fine family. Monroe was their youngest son, who
figured very seriously in the catastrophy I am about to relate.
Uncle Sam and Aunt Lovey were both strictly religious, but did not
agree as to the mode of procedure. She threw her whole religious weight
on the sixth verse of the sixth chapter of Matthew, while he was a
roaring Methodist. Together they attended church on Sunday, but Lovey
never attended the weekly home prayer meetings, neither would she allow
the church to have one at her home, and so they worshiped for years
until Sam's grey locks and the children's clamor induced her to try it
just once. Such an unusual event caused the whole church to turn out in
mass for a real good spiritual uplifting.
Their house, which my wife and I rode by last time we were in
Connecticut, is of the old dominion style. Kitchen, dining and living
rooms all in one, and very commodious. Under the stairs to the second
story were the stairs to the deep, dark cellar below, of which there
was no broad stair at the top, and the cellar door opened into the
cellar.
On that memorable evening the room was crammed to suffocation when
the meeting opened with the hymn, "On Jordan's Stormy Banks I Stand."
Then Abner Dimock, who always prayed so loud as to be heard a mile,
and several others, led in prayer, which was followed by inspiring
testimonials, to all of which Uncle Sam chimed in Amen, amid the shouts
of halleluiah, while Aunt Lovey sat in dreamy silence, with her nose
turned just a trifle askance.
The pinnacle was reached when Anise Ladd arose to testify, for every
one knew Anise poured forth her feelings without reserve.
"I," she began, "was born peevish and as my neighbors can here testify,
was, to say the least, irritable through my maiden and middlehood
earthly career, but last winter at our revival meetings, I experienced
a genuine halleluiah wave of godliness, and now I coo like a turtle
dove and fret or scold no more."
To Uncle Sam, who was tipping back in his chair, this wonderful
halleluiah testimony so coincided with his desires toward Lovey, that
he shouted, "Glory to God," as in the expansion of his joy he lost his
balance, his chair striking the cellar door, which flew open, causing
him, still in the chair, to start, head downwards, on his perilous
journey into the dismal region below. He did not swear, neither did he
shout halleluiah, but fresh grunts followed in rapid succession as he
pounded from stair to stair.
During the excitement all trying with lighted tallow candles to
ascertain if he was still alive, his son, Monroe, continued roaring and
laughing until some one said, "Why, Monroe, it might have killed your
father," to which he replied between spasms, "I should have laughed
just the same, if I had known it had killed him."
During the excitement Aunt Lovey pressed her hand to her heart, but did
not speak until urged by the pastor, when she said: "Well, really, you
were all talking so much about going to heaven that when I witnessed
Samuel's sudden departure, I wondered, yes, I really wondered, whether
my halleluiah husband had started for heaven or for the other place."
Uncle Sam survived and lived on the old place until he was 94 years
old, but that was the first and last prayer meeting up to Uncle Sam's.
[Illustration: ANISE LADD'S HALLELUJAH TESTIMONY. UNCLE SAM LOSING HIS
BALANCE. AUNT LOVEY, NONCHALANT, UNDER THE PICTURE ON THE WALL.]
GOLDEN DAYS
Oh, those golden days when with indulgent parents we gathered around
the table of plenty. There we romped in the orchards, woods and
meadows, among the wild flowers and through the shady dells, where
we chased the rabbits and squirrels, hunting the shy nests of birds,
watching the pretty fish in the crystal stream, as they darted about
showing their silver sides. The side hills teemed with wild fruit,
shadberries, checkerberries, cherries, grapes, strawberries, etc.
Wild birds were in abundance and their songs were gay; I think I hear
them now. Father taught us that we must not destroy the nests of
crows, hawks or other bad birds, not even the homes of the mischievous
woodchucks, who nibbled our pumpkins. He said, "Let them bring up their
little families. God provides room and food for all."
When we brought the little blue eggs in for mother to see, she would
kiss and hurry us back with them to the nest, for she said the mother
bird's heart would ache if we broke one of her little eggs.
And yet, after all, my brother, Gordon, and myself were not real
neighborhood pets, for the two little sun-burned blondes were not as
innocent as they looked. Aunt Becky Bragg, our second-door neighbor,
was quoted as saying that Warren Richardson's two little whiteheaded
urchins were the bane of her life, and all attempts to chide them
seemed only to add fuel to the flames.
We must have been useful about the farm, in teaching the chickens
and cats to swim and the colts and steers to let us ride them, who
occasionally dumped us where we least expected. One lively pastime was
to tie a tin pan to one of the sleepy old cattle's tail, and watch him
bound over the bushes to clear himself from what seemed to be following
him. I can now see these great gentle creatures with half-closed eyes
chewing their cuds, while father was around them, but when we appeared,
they would stop chewing, bulge out their eyes and make ready to jump
over the wall at our first gesture.
Still we had our confiding pets, hens, lambs and even pigs. We had a
curly-haired pig which would follow us around and lie down for us to
scratch him, and as for dogs--why, old Major, the neighborhood tramp of
suspicious character, stood in well with us and licked our hands and
faces as we fed and gave him a warm shelter from the cold night.
Father and mother understood it all, I know they did, but they realized
how we would soon be out in the hand-to-hand conflict of life, and they
wanted us to look back to our childhood mountain home with gladness and
not pain.
I was exceedingly stubborn and moderately truthful, so much so that one
of the first remembrances of my life was that in some mysterious way I
had acquired the nickname of Old Honesty. Oh, it did make me so mad to
be called that, for I must have considered it a sort of defamation of
character.
THE WILD SEXTON STEER
One day in the spring of 1855, when all the folks were away except
Gordon and myself, we felt somewhat elated that we were running the
farm on our own hook, so we conjured up a little fun.
Our long barnyard opened with bars towards the house across the center
to separate the cattle from the sheep. Here, just for sport, when no
one was around, we would put up two or three bars and then chase the
cattle, one by one, and see them jump over.
We had a ferocious wild steer, we called Sexton, which would jump over
almost anything to get away from us boys, so he was usually our victim
for sport.
Father was accustomed, each fall, to bring muck into the barnyard,
which through the winter was covered with cornstalks, straw and manure
from the stables, which the cattle would tread in during the rainy
spring and mix it ready for the land. On this occasion it had been
raining, and the mixture, soft as jelly, was about a foot deep, with
the exception of a dry spot by the house bars.
Our custom was to teach all the newcomers into our ranch, or farm, to
carry us on their backs, and as the bushes hung low in the pastures and
the steers had no manes to cling to, we often got dumped, but we did
not care for scratches and bruises, for I boasted to be able to hang to
a frightened steer's tail through a bush pasture longer than any boy in
the neighborhood.
On this occasion the wild Sexton steer was in the yard--a big black
fellow, who was so mean that he would kick the boards off the barn,
just if we tickled him with the tines of a pitchfork. Really, he was so
unruly that he had no respect for the other cattle, or even a ten-rail
fence, when Gordon and I, with the dog, got after him.
Forgetting we were going to prayer meeting that evening, and that we
had already put on our Sunday clothes, I said to Gordon:
"I think now is a good time to teach old Sexton to let us ride him."
"Oh, Merrick, don't try that again, he will kill you."
"Nonsense, I'm not afraid; if he throws me off, I will land on my feet."
"You may and you may not; see how black his eyes are; let us take our
bows and arrows and go and shoot at Kendel's cats. Mr. and Mrs. Kendel
went to Sommers today, so there is no one at home but Grandpa Bragg and
he cannot see well enough to tell whether it is us or the Wires' boys."
"Never mind the cats, Gordon," I said as I stripped off my coat in
a real businesslike manner, "I am dying for a ride on that steer.
Come and help me catch him. There, that's right, now we have him, so,
bossy--so, bossy--so-so-bossy, so. Look out, there, Gordon!"
"Merrick, I told you we could not catch him."
"It was because you was so slow. Now you come and stand on this dry
spot and when I chase him around, stop him, and I will creep up--there,
that is better--so-bossy-so."
"There he goes again. What did I tell you, Merrick? I said we could not
catch him."
[Illustration: ALL THE FOLKS AWAY FROM HOME EXCEPT US TWO BOYS.]
"Oh, that is because you are so slow. Now, when I get him here again
and he lets me put my hand on him, you must be ready to grab the foot I
raise and throw me over square on his back, then I will ride him around
and around until he gets tired out; that is just the way they tame
elephants. Here we have him again, grab, now grab--there I am. Say,
isn't it funny he does not move or stir? Why, I am having a regular
picnic up here."
"Oh, Merrick, but if you could see his eyes, and his neck is curved
like a ram's horn. He is going to do something. You better seize his
tail and slide off backwards before he starts."
"Oh, you little fraid goose, I am just here on his back and he can't
help himself. It's just fun, and when I tell the girls about it, won't
it make their eyes open wide? He can't just help himself, now punch him
a little with the fork handle right under the flanks--gee whiz, it is
funny he doesn't start, isn't it? I wonder if steers ever rear up in
the front?"
"First you know, Merrick, he will rear up behind and send you into the
middle of next week. See, he won't stir when I punch him with the fork
handle. He is just getting ready to do something terrible, and when he
does start, something will happen. Oh, how he kind of swells up."
"I'm not afraid. Just twist his tail a little, twist it harder.
Hey-hey, here I go--look out! Gordon, stop him--whoa-whoa--Oh, Gordon,
where have I been? What did he do? Where am I now? and where are my
pants?"
"Why, Merrick, just as you were talking to me, he hollered 'Bah,' and
started. First your legs flew up and before you caught your balance he
stopped suddenly, threw up his head and his horns caught your pants
and ripped them clean off, and you took the most awful plunge. You
actually flew through the air about ten feet, like a quail, and then
disappeared in this manure pond. I thought he had killed you. Say, are
you almost dead?"
"Dead, no, but where are my pants and did anybody see us? Did Charlotte
Lewis and Mariva Shepherd come this way from school?"
"No, they did not, but see your pants are on his horns now. Oh,
Merrick, your eyes, and ears, and hair are just chuck full. Do you
think you are hurt inwardly?"
"Hurt? No, I'm not hurt. Gee-whiz, I'm glad the school girls weren't
coming along about then. Say, Gordon, lets run for the brook and I will
dive, head-foremost, right into the old deep hole, and when I come up I
will be span clean."
"Gracious, Merrick, but there is ice floating down now and aren't your
legs cold?"
"Cold? No. Pa says there are lots of people in the world who wear no
pants--say, Gordon, now listen--if you won't ever tell of this to
no living soul I will do all the chores: milking, feeding the hogs,
cleaning the stables, building the fire mornings, and I'll be hanged if
I don't help you lie yourself out of every mean scrape you get into in
the next ten years."
[Illustration: ALWAYS WELCOME AT SISTER CAROLINE'S WABBAQUASSETT HOME.
LEFT TO RIGHT. CAROLINE, MARTHA, WALTON, WARREN, EVERETT, LUCIUS.]
SCHOOL DAYS
Nearby was a backwoods school which was called the White Birch, where
about eighty scholars met in winter to fit themselves for future
eminence. Here it was that life's troubles began with me. The mode of
punishment in those days for a boy was to draw him over the master's
knee and spank him, and I am quite sure I got more floggings than all
the other seventy-nine scholars together. Tom Wheelock often spanked me
so furiously that the rising dust often made the other scholars think
he was setting me on fire.
From the first at school I had been a mental genius. When eight years
old I could calculate in my head problems intended for large scholars
to work out with slate and pencil. The knottiest problems in Colburn's
old mental arithmetic were as simple for me as three times ten,
and this I could do without ever looking at the rules. But, oh, my
spelling, reading and writing were shockingly deficient, and my grammar
was laughable. Once the master compelled me to write a composition, and
when he read it he laughed and said, "The ideas are good, Merrick, but
it needs a Philadelphia lawyer to connect them."
I would as soon fight as eat and was ready to hammer any boy of my
size who had broken up a bird's nest, and was ready to protect the
girls to the limit of my strength and ability. Whether I was right or
wrong, I can now see that I was unconsciously following the dictates
of conscience. When fourteen years old I took a serious dislike to
punishment of any kind, and the result was that I left school for good.
[Illustration: WABBAQUASSETT GIRLS. NEWELL HILL IN THE DISTANCE.]
COUNTRY BOYS IN TOWN
My boyhood days were spent in what might be termed, the upper strata
of the last stages of the tallow candle age. Mother dipped candles
each fall to light us through the year. Whale oil was also used, but a
little later coal oil from Pennsylvania came into vogue.
In order to obtain whale oil, vessels for that purpose were sent out
from New Bedford, New London, New York and other harbors along the
northern Atlantic Coast. Accordingly, four of us youngsters, my brother
Collins, Lucius Aborn, Lyman Newell and myself, formed a scheme to go
catching whales and decided to visit New York and look the matter up
and, if possible, learn why our parents so seriously objected to having
us become sailors.
Accordingly, we went to Hartford and took the night steamer, on the
Connecticut River, for New York. While waiting for the boat in Hartford
we all went out to get shaved and I remember it, for it was my first
shave.
The barber must have been a funny fellow, of the Abe Lincoln type, who
looked serious when he said and did funny things. He was not sparing
of his lather, for my ears held quite a lot, but I bore it bravely
until he grabbed me right by the nose to begin, which made me burst out
laughing and let the lather run into my mouth. When I sobered down he
would seize me by the nose and begin again, which would make my friends
and the other barbers all laugh. I laughed a little myself, but he
never smiled--just watched for his chance to seize me. When he got
through, without a smile, he said he never charged boys anything for
the first shave.
On the steamer, of which the cabins seemed to me as dazzling, beautiful
and wonderful as the constellation of Orion does now, the cabin porter
got our cow-hide boots, while we were asleep, and shined them and then
demanded ten cents for each boot, but we compromised on ten cents for
the whole lot, and threatened to throw him overboard at that.
When we landed at Peck Slip, New York, we at once inquired for the
office where sailors were enlisted for three-year voyages catching
whales.
The agent was a man probably seventy years old and began inquiring our
names and where we were from, and then he said he knew about Square
Pond, as he once drove stage right along its shore on the old route
from Hartford to Boston. Then he said: "Sit down, boys," and he talked
to us to this effect:
"Now, boys, you do not want to enlist for a three years' voyage. If you
have got the fishing fever I can get you all a chance on a smack for
three months, off the coast of Newfoundland, catching codfish. Then
if you are not sick of the job you can go whaling." We listened to
him kindly and finally gave up, not only the whaling, but the fishing
altogether.
We then began canvassing the book stores for a book which Lyman had
heard about, which boys ought not to read, and that was why he wanted
it. The title was "Fanny Hill," and when we inquired at the book stores
we were turned down, until we struck a Yankee who sold second-hand
books, who inquired where we were from, and when our boat would leave
New York, and then said he hardly dare sell it to us for fear he would
be arrested.
[Illustration: BEAUTIFUL WOMEN, WORTHY MEN, CHARMING OLD WABBAQUASSETT.
CENTRAL LOWER LADY FIGURE, JULIA NEWELL WARNER, MY LIFE-LONG ESTEEMED
FRIEND.]
The price he said was $1.00, and he would run the risk, if we would
come around just before the boat started and then promise, all of us,
not to open the package until the boat had left the dock. To this we
readily agreed and then went on taking in the town, thinking more about
the book than we did about the giants, pygmies, monkeys and elephants
which we found at Barnum's Museum.
We were now hungry again, so we took another oyster stew and then
started up the Bowery, when we heard music and were invited in where
a wheel table was turning. One could put down ten cents and might win
$100.00. We were going shares in everything, so decided to risk ten
cents, and the other boys allowed me to try. "Forty dollars," cried the
man, and then discovered his mistake, that it was only forty cents, and
then began telling of folks from the country winning money, and this
was one of the stories which did not take:
"A large man," he said, "came to New York from the mountains of
Pennsylvania and offered to bet $50.00 that he could carry a
feather-bed tick full of buckshot across Broadway on his head. Well,
boys, we loaded the tick, which took nearly all the shot in the city,
and he started. He won the bet, I saw him do it, but you see that stone
pavement on Broadway, do you? Well, boys, when he crossed the street
the load was so heavy that he mired into that stone pavement clear up
to his knees, but he won the $50.00."
Then we told him that we were liars ourselves, and trudged on, actually
having beat the gamblers out of thirty cents.
After another oyster stew dinner we strolled into the Bowery Theatre,
where minstrels were playing, which amused us, as it was the first we
had ever seen, and supposed they were genuine darkies. They sat in a
half circle and after singing and playing, the two end men would ask
questions, and one dialogue ran this way:
"Rastus, I heard you was out last night."
"Yes, Sah, I was out prominading on Broadway."
"Did you have your best girl along?"
"Zartenly."
"Did you take her home?"
"Zartenly."
"Did she invite you in?"
"Not zackly. We stood inside the gate."
"Did she exhibit great affection?"
"Great what?"
"Great affection."
"I suppose so."
"What did she and you do?"
"Dat am a pointed question, sah."
"Well, but you said she showed great affection."
"Showed what?"
"Great affection, Rastus. Did she love you?"
"Yes, sah, she squozed my hand and then I squoze her with my arm."
"Squoze, Rastus? Why, there is no such word as squoze."
"Yes, there is, for she said she had never been squoze by a regular man
before."
"Where do you get that word?"
"Noah Webster, sah. Shall I instruct you?"
"Certainly."
"Is not rise, rose, risen, proper?"
"Certainly."
"Then why not squize, squoze, squizzen?"
Then they all sang again.
One incident that I yet remember was that all had on light-colored
vests, and while crossing Broadway, dodging here and there among
the omnibusses, trucks, and other vehicles, such as we had never
seen before, I slipped on the wet stone pavement and fell flat on my
stomach, but it soon dried off and I was at the front again, and at
the appointed time we appeared at the book store and gave the man his
dollar, who again cautioned us not to let the police see it.
It was papered up nicely and I can now see how nervously Newell jammed
it into his inside pocket, which was not quite large enough, and then
we boarded the steamer, all the while looking out of the corners of our
eyes that no one suspicioned us.
After the steamer had cleared the dock and Lute Aborn said we were on
the high seas, we slipped around behind the wheel pit, for it was a
side-wheeled steamer, and as Newell was nervously untying the string,
he said: "Now we will all look at the pictures first and then you,
Lute, who is the best reader, will read it aloud"--when, behold, it was
nothing but a New Testament worth ten cents.
This little Fanny Hill experience was really a blessing in disguise
to us boys, but we did not think so at the time, and if we could have
gotten hold of that dealer we would have taught him that there was yet
a God in Israel.
AS A YANKEE TIN PEDDLER
At the Methodist Church just south of Wabbaquassett there were revivals
each winter and with other I experienced religion, but mine, even
though serious, sort of struck in and did not break out again for
several years.
At the age of nineteen I had become sort of terror to my enemies, for I
was quick, strong and fearless. One night I had my usual warning dream,
of trouble ahead, and the next day I nearly killed a man as fearless as
myself. The following day when I caught my father weeping I resolved
ever after to avoid all personal encounters, which determination for
self-control has carried me over many a rickety bridge in safety, and
my warning dreams have never troubled me since.
Farming soon became too tame for me, and while nature's adornments
which made up and surrounded our quiet home, often charmed my soul
into serious dreamlike fancies, yet, somehow I enjoyed singing funny
songs and telling stories, together with their proper amendments and
legitimate construction--in fact, like my mother, I could tell an
old story which every one had heard forty times in such a way as to
cause laughter. Therefore, as farm life seemed to be an insufficient
incubator for hatching out fresh productions, I mysteriously evolved
into the seemingly exalted position of a Yankee Tin Peddler.
[Illustration: ALBUM OF SUNNY DAYS.
CENTRAL LOWER LIKENESS IS OF MY COUSIN O. M. RICHARDSON, NOW RETIRED
MANUFACTURER OF ROCKVILLE, CONN. THREE GIRLS IN CENTRAL SCENE, LINA,
ELVA AND JOSEPHINE NEWELL, DAUGHTERS OF MY SISTER JANETTE AT HER OLD
WABBAQUASSETT HOME. 1890.]
There were at that time at least ten firms in New England and York
State who manufactured tinware, for which they loaned carts and gave
credit to lively chaps who had teams. The peddler would go on the road
and trade the tinware for barter, old iron, copper, brass, lead, zinc
and all kinds of paper stock, besides cow hides and sheep pelts or
anything of which he knew the value, and ship it in to pay his account.
It was a lucrative business for a clever boy, often clearing $100.00
per week besides his expenses. Also it gave him a chance to study human
nature, as a good peddler must be able to read his customer before he
says the wrong thing, for a frolicsome Irish woman appreciates a tone
and language with perhaps a friendly slap on the shoulder, which would
frighten an elderly, sedate, bloodless maiden into spasms.
Soon my two brothers and myself with several neighboring young men were
into the business, and in the Spring of 1861 Alonzo Shepherd and myself
ventured a trip to Long Island by the way of New York City. On this
trip we acquired both wealth and fame. The ridiculous instances of our
travels often come up before me now. We were continually playing tricks
on each other which always ended in laughter. On this trip we became
horse traders, which proved to be more lucrative than peddling.
In 1863 I shipped my team to Batavia, New York, and in August sent
for my brother Gordon to come to Dunkirk, where I had another team,
and we peddled through Pennsylvania, Ohio and Michigan, returning to
Connecticut in the Fall, after which I returned to Elba, N. Y., where,
December 10th, I married Mary Jane Hoyt, a beautiful, intelligent girl
of twenty years.
The following year, 1864, with several other teams each, we came West
again and returned to Albany for the winter. On my return I followed
the shore road of Lake Ontario around to Watertown, N. Y., while
Gordon returned through Pennsylvania, our object being to buy horses of
the mountain farmers.
[Illustration: MARY JANE HOYT, ELBA. N. Y., 1863. WILDER WOODS.
THIS PICTURE WAS TAKEN THE SUMMER BEFORE WE WERE MARRIED.]
THE THOMPSON FAMILY.
From Watertown, I worked East, where I fell in with a family by the
name of Thompson, who owned a large stock-raising farm in the foot
hills of Mount Seward, not far from North Elba, the Adirondack home of
John Brown.
My experience with the Thompsons left a vivid impression on my memory
which never grows dim.
As I remember them Mr. Thompson was short, heavy set, blue eyed, fair
complexion, with a physiognomy indicating that he seldom suffered
defeat. He was usually thoughtful and serious, but when telling stories
or relating experience he was full of mirth.
Mary, his wife, was an interesting woman. Her stout figure, dark eyes
and hair with fair skin made her look striking, especially in laughing,
when her eyes twinkled and gave expression of mirth. All the animals
on the farm were seemingly her special pets, but their little dog Joe
came in for the lion's share. Really the little white, curly fellow
with black eyes and nose, when standing erect with head and tail up,
did look as though he was monarch of all he surveyed. Everybody loved
him except the cats. Much of Mrs. Thompson's time was given over to
church work, for which she must have been well fitted, as her Christian
character was discernible at every move and turn.
Vida, their daughter of sixteen summers, was fair, with large dark
eyes, auburn hair and prominent chin. Her quick glance and mirthful
smile betokened self-esteem and decisive character, while glee and dare
innocently portrayed pent emotion and artful design.
During the evening I turned the conversation to the story of John
Brown, and was glad to learn that Mr. Thompson had been a near friend
of Brown and was with him on the Kennedy farm only a few days before
the raid on Harper's Ferry.
At Mrs. Thompson's suggestion we planned that we four take a horseback
ride after church services on the morrow, up to the Brown farm and see
John's grave and the big rock nearby from which, in former days, he had
done much preaching to the mountaineers.
Our horses were good lopers, taking us up and downhill through the
woods to the farm, at which we arrived very quickly, but found none of
the family at home. We finally gained entrance to the little farm house
and sat in John's chair by his cheap desk. Afterwards we climbed on the
big rock now near his grave which seems to stand as a lone sentinel, in
the rocky wilds, silently calling the coming generations to the resting
place of the ashes of him who followed the dictates of conscience,
regardless of immediate results.
After enjoying hot cream biscuit with wild honey and crabapple jelly,
with a neighbor of the Browns, we started down the mountain, and
through the evening we sat before the crackling hickory flames in the
great fireplace while Mr. Thompson gave his experience with the Browns,
which were substantially as follows:
[Illustration: JOHN BROWN, 1850.
GOD CALLS EVERY MAN AND WOMAN TO DUTY AND REQUIRES A RESPONSE ACCORDING
TO THEIR INDIVIDUAL ABILITY.]
JOHN BROWN.
One evening in the summer of 1850, John Brown, whom I had known in
Springfield, Mass., as a successful wool merchant, surprised us by
calling, and relating his troubles.
"I," he said, "through misfortune or mismanagement, have lost the
fortune which I amassed in 25 years. In trying to retrieve, I shipped
my stock to Europe, but after staying there about four months I sold
it so low that my loss, including the expense of the trip, left me
stranded. My ardor for the slave has not in the least abated, and
through the assistance of Gerritt Smith I have taken up land and am
building a home over in North Elba, I am a sort of instructor to the
colored folks of Smith's Wild Wood Colony.
"I have several colored men working for me in clearing up and planting,
and they work well. I brought along some blooded cattle, pigs and hens,
and finding many hard maples on the place, which produce sap for sirup,
we feel quite independent. Two of our heifers have come in and we have
plenty of milk, so I tell my wife if we have not crossed the Jordan
into the land of milk and honey, we have crossed the Connecticut into
the land of milk and maple molasses. Now I must be going in order to
reach home before dark."
"Stay, Mr. Brown," I said, "why, we have not visited at all yet."
"I know, Mr. Thompson, but I came just to let you know where we are,
and if you will come to see us we will treat you to fried chicken,
boiled potatoes, hot corn bread and fresh butter. Will you come?"
"Surely; how far is it, John?"
"About 25 miles up the mountain, and 10 miles down; but I am still
good for four miles an hour. Say, Mrs. Thompson, set on something for
me to eat, the very best you have, for the Bible says, 'Be not slow
to entertain strangers for thereby you may be entertaining angels,
unaware.'"
Soon after, early one morning, we saddled our horses and rode over to
call on our new neighbors, when Brown would hear nothing but that we
must stop with them overnight, and although we all visited, cooked, ate
and slept in the same room, we did enjoy ourselves.
Before retiring, we all knelt in family worship, when Brown prayed
so clear and fervent that no one could doubt his faith in the loving
Father, who he believed was listening.
Ruth, Brown's eldest daughter, and her husband, Henry Thompson, were
with them, and several of the younger children. Oliver, one of those
killed at Harper's Ferry, recently, was then about 10 years old.
After supper, Brown and I climbed onto the great rock, beside where
his body now lies, when he revealed to me his disconnected plans of
venturing into a slave state and arming negroes who could fight for
their own liberty.
"But," said I, "the law gives those Southerners the right to hold
slaves."
"What law?" he exclaimed as he extended his lower jaw defiantly and
repeated, "What law? Jesus defined laws as the will or mandate of
Jehovah. If you call the conclusions of an assembly of men today
which another assembly of men tomorrow can prove to be felonious, law,
then John Brown is an outlaw; but if the Saviour's definition, 'Love
the Lord, thy God, with all thy mind and soul, and thy neighbor as
thyself,' is law, then John Brown is a law-abiding citizen, and will,
if needs be, die for those who are in bondage, who have committed no
crime."
Then raising his tall form and moving slowly to and fro in the
moonlight on the great rock, he continued in a soft tone.
"God calls every man and woman to duty and requires a response
according to their individual ability. I feel that I have had a call to
open the gate of freedom to the slaves in this, Columbia. This call is
not a direct communication from God, but more in the line of duty. I
am somehow impressed that I am the man to answer this call, for, when
I pray for guidance, the echo seems to come back, 'Your strength is
sufficient.' When you and I were boys, Dan, we read of famous persons
whose characters glittered before us, but we somehow overlooked the
fact that duty and praise do not travel hand in hand, but rather, that
duty treads the thorny way and fame creeps softly after.
"Not only is this God's law, but it coincides with experience.
Disappointment mingled with failure seems to be the earthly lot of man,
and yet it is not failure. When the morn of eternity dawns, and you and
I shall stand to be judged according to our past records, what will be
more glorious than that we meet failure in trying to accomplish good? I
know that slavery is a sin, and, if needs be, I will die for the cause."
Of course, I saw Brown occasionally during the next nine years, but I
have no time this evening to relate his wildcat crusades in Kansas and
Missouri, so we will pass over to the closing days of his life.
Oliver, Brown's youngest son, grew up on the North Elba farm, and
through him I was kept informed concerning Brown's border free-booters
until Brown came and took him to the Kennedy Farm near Harper's Ferry.
NEAR HARPER'S FERRY.
Anna, Brown's oldest daughter by his second wife, returned from
Maryland about the last of October, 1859, when at her father's request
she sent for me and gave me all the particulars concerning their
rendezvous at the Kennedy Farm and their contemplated raid on Hall's
Rifle Works at Harper's Ferry.
The next day, after promising my pets, my wife and Vida, that I
would not join the mutineers, as Vida liked to call them, I left for
Washington, and was soon in consultation with John Brown in the attic
of the little house on the Kennedy Farm, where Anna had, as Brown said,
acted as his watchdog, entertaining and detaining all strangers until
he or his men could disperse or prepare.
I soon discovered that his attitude toward universal freedom had not
abated, and that all his men, including three sons, had become much
like him, as, at the prayer meeting in the little church nearby and
the family altar, they often chimed in "Amen." As I think of them now
I can truthfully say I never saw a band of men more Christianized in
their expressions than those, for John had instilled into their minds
his theory that the world was to be benefited by the struggle they were
about to begin.
One day Oliver, his father and I walked down to Harper's Ferry, and
while returning in the evening, Oliver and I pressed him for an
explanation of the course he would pursue when he had taken possession
of the arms at the Rifle Works, as the slaves would be useless at
first, but he had none--he seemed to rely implicitly upon God and the
Northern abolitionists to see him through.
Suddenly stopping us under the dark shadowy trees, and laying one hand
on Oliver's shoulder and the other on mine, he said low and earnestly:
"I do not know where I shall be when that beautiful moon has made
its journey around this world once more, but one thing I do know
and that is this: through my ceaseless efforts I have corralled the
slave holders until now I have them in a trap. If my efforts are not
impeded the slave will eventually free himself. If they are, and I am
destroyed, the North, through sympathy for me and justice to the slave,
will continue my cause until the bondmen are free. So you see I have
them in a trap, but my aim is to avoid a bloody war, for the families
in the South are as dear to me as those in the North, but slavery is a
sin and must cease. Soon this generation will be passed, other men our
lands will till and other men our streets will fill. When we are all
gone the South as well as the North will speak kindly of him who dared
to oppose his country's unjust laws."
All of Brown's men as well as myself considered the Harper's Ferry raid
an unwise move, but to Brown, human life seemed a secondary matter, as
compared to the continuation of national sin.
The last evening I stayed at the Kennedy Farm. After a supper of corn
cake and molasses, Stephens and Tidd, who had melodious voices, sang
"All the Dear Folks at Home Have Gone" and "Faded Flowers." Their
voices echoing softly down the glens where the tree of freedom was
about to appear rooted and nourished in the blood of those brave
helpless invaders. Oliver Brown, noticing my emotion, gave me a
friendly slap on the shoulder, saying, "Now we will all join in with
father, 'Nearer my God to Thee,'" which we did before kneeling together
for the last time at that strange family altar.
When I left for the North next day, the understanding was that the raid
would not take place until about November 1st, but condition made it
expedient for them to move at once, which they did.
I arrived home the 17th of October, and after supper I saddled the
horses, when my wife, Vida and myself ran up the mountains at a
spirited canter, arriving at the Brown Farm in the dark. In the small
frame house we found his wife, Mary, and three of his daughters, Anna,
Sarah and Ellen; Mary, the wife of Oliver; Henry and Ruth Thompson and
several neighbors.
All listened in silence, while I related the incidents of my visit
at the Kennedy Farm, but, of course, none of us knew that Brown had
already taken possession of Harper's Ferry, that Oliver and Watson had
been killed, and that the old man was holding out so grimly in the
engine house.
About ten days later the exaggerated telegrams concerning Harper's
Ferry were afloat which set us all agog, but not until Friday the 21st
did we get a copy of the New York Times, of the 18th, which I took up
to the Elba home, and we all listened while Annie read it through, then
for several moments all remained silent, as we thought father and all
were dead.
Later we learned that the father was alive, but Watson and Oliver were
dead, and that Owen was missing, which was considered equivalent to
being dead.
John Brown's trial ended October 21st. On November 2d he was sentenced
to be hanged, which execution was carried out December 2, 1859.
Of those missing, Cook and Haslet were captured, and we took it for
granted that Owen and the other three for whom there was a reward
offered had been killed at the Ferry, but not reported.
THE DEAD APPEAR
Near the time set for the execution of Mr. Brown we were all nervous,
especially our Vida and Sarah Brown; they were about ready to fly, and
what happened, Vida must tell it herself.
"Oh, no, papa; you're telling the story; keep right on."
Well, as I have said, we knew that the three Brown boys, Watson, Owen
and Oliver, were dead and the father was to be executed December 2d,
and we were running back and forth to the Elba Farm all the time,
trying to help the women to bear up under this trying ordeal.
One dark evening, the last of November, two neighboring girls came in
and stayed until after 10 o'clock, when Vida and my wife accompanied
them to the gate. When she returned, as we were sitting before the fire
in this big fireplace, a soft rap came on the door, which we seldom
use, and as I rose up Vida said: "That is Flossy, let me go."
The door being in the entry, from where we sat Mary and I could not see
Vida when she opened it, but listened if we might recognize the voice.
The voice being inaudible, I started to go just as Vida uttered a low
moan, staggered backwards to where I could see her, and fell in a dead
faint.
I sprang to the open door and called out, but could see nor hear no
one. Then I closed and locked it, and Mary brought the camphor, but we
could not bring her back, so as to tell whom she had seen for a long
time. When she recovered she said it was one of the Browns, but she
thought he was dead. I instantly decided it was John Brown, who had
escaped from Charlestown jail, which was a feasible conclusion, as all
the news we were receiving in the Adirondacks was nearly a week old and
unreliable.
Rushing out I ran down into the road, calling John by name, when I
heard a voice near the house, and turning back, discovered it was Owen
Brown, who had been reported missing, and we supposed he was dead.
When in out of the cold and before the big fireplace with Mary washing
his hands and face, Vida trying to untangle his unkempt hair and I
getting off his shoes, which had not been removed in weeks, he covered
his face with his hands and wept, but did not speak.
After supper he listened to our reports from Harper's Ferry and North
Elba as we had gained them, and then inquired if I thought it was
imprudent for him to try to visit those at home, to which I assured him
that he would be more safe in Washington than he was in the Adirondacks.
"Then," said he, "it is better that they never know you have seen me."
Then turning to Vida said: "You can keep a secret?" Vida put her hand
on his head saying, "Try me and see."
It was soon arranged that Mary should spend the next day cleaning and
fixing his clothes, Vida would run Fleet Foot Jim up to the Elba Farm
and without revealing anything bring back all the news, while I was to
borrow what money he might require, and the following night he and I
were to run, on saddle, to Robert Doan, a staunch abolitionist, from
which place he would make his way to his brother at Dorsett, Ohio.
VIDA'S DARING EXPLOIT
We were unable to get Owen ready for the night ride until the second
evening, when Vida declared her intention to accompany us as far as
Jobe's Hill, seventeen miles down the mountain. "For," said she, "when
Mr. Brown is clear from the Adirondack region, he can make his way in
comparative safety to Utica, or if he is going to Ohio, he can follow
the lake shore to Rochester. Now do not say no, Papa, for I am not
afraid; they will never catch Old Jim while I am on his back. Besides,
a lady riding with two men might fool even a shrewd detective, if
such a thing might be that any of our mountain greenhorns have turned
detectives for the sake of the reward which is out for Owen."
"Why, Vida," said Owen.
"Please do not object, Mr. Brown. I am an Adirondack lassie who used
to go barefoot in summer, and I know as much about these backwood
aspirants as anyone."
"Now, my dear child," I said.
"Papa," she continued, "will you, for once, allow your pet to have
her own way? If you should be caught, think of the consequences; and
you, Mamma and I would be ashamed to hold up our heads in church. Now,
Mamma, will you take my side?"
"You know, Papa," said Mrs. Thompson, "that all the girls are
accustomed to--"
"All right--all right," I said, for I felt that Vida's plan was
sensible.
[Illustration: ADIRONDACK MOUNTAINS.
VIDA THOMPSON ON HER WILD MIDNIGHT RIDE.]
At 10 o'clock, when we went out to saddle the horses, we were startled
by two strangers standing near the gate, but soon learned they were
wood choppers from the timberlands farther up the mountain, who had
become confused, thinking they might be on the wrong road.
Fleet Foot Jim, who was always proud when my wife or Vida was on his
back, pranced, nibbled his bit, paced and cantered until Vida patted
his neck and talked baby talk to him, when he steadied down and we went
on at a brisk trot, seldom speaking until we reached Jobe's Hill, where
Vida kissed me again, bidding me not to worry, shook hands good-bye
with Owen and she was off on a spirited run through the midnight gloom.
Brown and I listened to the klick of the horse's feet as they made the
turn down through the dark timber valley, then ascending the hill the
klicking grew fainter until they passed over the brow of the hill, when
it ceased altogether.
"Listen," said I to Brown, "the long wooden bridge we came over is not
more than two miles away," and as we waited the rumbling thunder from
old Jim's heels on the bridge assured us that Vida's lonely midnight
ride up the Adirondack Mountains would soon be over, and so it was, for
she left the hemlock grove on Jobe's Hill at just 11:30 and bounced
into her waiting mother's arms at home at 12:15, making the 17 miles in
45 minutes, which she always refers to as her glorious midnight ride.
OWEN BROWN'S STORY
"Soon after you left us at the Kennedy Farm we were startled by the
rumor that the authorities were about to come down upon us, so we
decided to seize the arsenal Sunday night.
"Father routed us out earlier than usual for our family worship on
Sunday morning, and all of us knelt together for the last time.
"Now Oliver and Watson are dead, father is to be hanged tomorrow, I
am a fugitive with a large reward over me and most of the others are
either dead or soon will be.
"We left Kennedy Farm at dusk Sunday, October 16, 1859. In our party
there were, besides father; Watson, Oliver and I, Marriam, the two
Coppic boys, Cook, Tidd, Kagi, Taylor, Bill Thompson, Hazlett,
Copeland, Leary, Greene, Anderson and several other men.
"Father rode in the wagon and the others walked two by two, all but
Marriam, Cook, Barclay, Coppic and myself, who were left to guard the
arms and other effects until we heard from the raid.
"Tidd came out to us in the morning stating that the battle was going
on fiercely and that our men were being hemmed in on all sides. Then he
reported that more than fifty had been killed, the Mayor of Harper's
Ferry had been shot, and Watson and Oliver were dead; so, upon this
report we decided to flee from the scene and leave all behind.
"We hastily ate and fixed up as much lunch as we could carry, when
Marriam, Coppic, Cook, Tidd and myself ran across the country to
Maryland Heights, where we could view the scene but could not help.
"At first we saw no troops, but hundreds of men from behind trees,
rocks and buildings firing at our men, who, as yet, held the town.
We could see father, with sword in hand, walking about apparently
encouraging the men.
"Soon we saw a squad of more than a hundred soldiers leave the bridge
and march down the street towards father and his few men, and could see
father begin preparing for the onslaught.
"When they were about two hundred feet distant father apparently gave
the word to fire, and it was kept up until two of our men and more than
twenty of their troop lay dead in the street, while their live ones
retreated in confusion to the covered bridge from whence they came.
"Truly it was a strange sight to see father, an old man, with a handful
of mountaineers holding the town of Harper's Ferry against that company
of Maryland regulars, besides receiving an occasional shot from behind
buildings or other places of safety. He was facing odds of more than
fifty to one, who, not knowing what father's re-enforcements might be,
were really panic stricken.
"Through continuous firing, one after another of our few men were shot
down, until father abandoned the arsenal and seemed to be barricading
the engine house with his few men, probably not more than three or four
besides himself.
"Colonel Robert E. Lee, with a company of United States Marines,
appeared just before dark but did not attempt to capture the enemy's
stronghold in the engine house, possibly because he had heard the rumor
that father had three or four thousand men in the mountains waiting his
command.
"Knowing that anything more on our part to help father would virtually
be suicide, we gathered up our effects and started on our night tramp
through the Blue Ridge Mountains in a northwesterly direction.
"We traveled in the roads strung out about ten rods apart, myself in
advance, so when I met anyone I would engage him in conversation until
the other boys were concealed from the view of the road. When passing
villages we climbed the fences and ran around.
"Soon our food was ear corn, which we pillaged from the farmers. This
we could not pop or roast, as we dare not build a fire. We could travel
in the rain nights, but we could not sleep days when it was wet and
cold, and we suffered terribly. After several days suffering, Cook
proposed to venture into the town for food, to which Tidd strongly
objected and I often had my hands full trying to quiet their quarrels.
"About the sixth day out we slept on a mountain which overlooked Ole
Forge, near Chambersburg, Pa., where Cook was determined to go down for
food, which he did, and never returned, and as you know, was captured
and will soon share the fate of others at Charlestown.
"Marriam was now so weak that he could go no further, and I at a great
risk, got him down to Chambersburg, where he boarded a train without
detection. Then we were but three."
"Fearing that Cook might be forced to reveal our whereabouts and
intentions, we traveled all that night back towards the hill from
whence we came, making our course as zigzag as possible, so detectives
would be unable to design our intentions or lay in wait for us.
"The third day after Cook's capture, an old lady hunting nuts in the
woods came spank upon us, while we were sleeping in the sun. We were
still near Chambersburg and from what she had heard she knew who we
were, and told us so. To kill her would be wrong, to let her go back
and report would be dangerous; but she soon put us at ease by telling
about her abolition friends in Massachusetts and how her son, with whom
she lived, and all her neighbors would help us on the way.
"We trusted her and at dark we found ourselves in her son's home eating
chicken-pie and drinking hot coffee, which we had not partaken of in
ten days. Soon another sympathizer came in and the two men arranged to
take us on our journey as far as they could before morning.
"When we were small, father used to tell us children about the
angels and I formed the idea that they were sweet, lovely and looked
beautiful, but oh, Mr. Thompson, that dear old lady, I wish you could
have seen her just as she looked to me that night, stepping around so
softly to make us comfortable. Why, Thompson, she seemed so handsome,
while looking through my tears I actually think she might have been an
angel which God sent to comfort us. When we were ready to start, she
put her arm around each of our necks and kissed us, saying, 'We will
play that I am your mother, just for tonight.'
"Acting on our host's guarantee, we rode boldly down through
Chambersburg, where Cook had just been taken, but all was well. At
break of day, when about forty-five miles away, we jumped out with our
luggage, eight loaves of bread and part of a boiled ham, and fled into
the woods.
"Now we found ourselves among the Quakers, who fed and protected us,
and in a few days we separated, I working my way to you, and here I am
tonight.
"Father taught his followers that the move on Harper's Ferry would
precipitate conditions which would free the slaves. If, as we believe,
God was leading him, it surely will, for dark as it appears to us
today, it may be all right when viewed by the coming generations."
Then in a voice, just like old John Brown himself, Owen softly sang
a verse of the hymn, "God Moves in a Mysterious Way His Wonders to
Perform." We rode a little way in silence and again he struck up:
"Let us love one another as long as we stay
Where storm after storm rises dark o'er the way."
[Illustration: NEAR JOHN BROWN'S ADIRONDACK HOME, 1911.]
AFTER THE MIST HAD CLEARED AWAY
Forty-six years have passed since the sixteen year old Vida played her
part so well in the strange drama of freedom's birth, and now, in an
automobile tour to the coast of Maine with my wife, Mary Prickett, and
our sixteen year old Vida, who to me, is a veritable imprint of the
afore-characterized Vida Thompson. I again travel the winding roads of
the old Adirondack Mountains.
We visit the John Brown farm, sit in his easy chair, and climb the
great rock which silently stands sentinel where, in turn, the cold
winter's blasts in their wild midnight ride howl weirdly, and the sweet
spring mornings awaken the forest song birds who shy their nests among
the wild flowers near the grace of the old Hero--John Brown.
The Browns are gone from North Elba. New York State has secured
possession of the farm and erected a fitting monument to the memory
of John Brown. When the old home is gone, and the monument has been
replaced, the great rock will stand there just as Brown found it,
seeming to say, "I alone will stay and guard his long repose."
Strangers now live in the Thompson home, the evergreen on Jobe's
Hill is seen no more, the long wooden bridge over which Old Jim
thundered out the distant echo as he hastened the fair Vida through
the mountains, has been replaced and each fair day, as the evening
sun nears Ontario's restless waves, it kisses a fond adieu to the
little cemetery where Mr. and Mrs. Thompson sleep, while a little child
smoothes Grandma Vida's silver locks on yonder's distant shore where
the grand old Pacific ebbs and flows as time rolls on.
[Illustration: YANKEE HORSEMEN.
LEFT TO RIGHT, UPPER. PERRIN, PARKHOUSE, WILSON, MERRICK, SLATER.
LEFT TO RIGHT, LOWER. JONES, WESTCOTT, COLLINS, GORDON, SHERMAN.]
YANKEE HORSEMEN GO WEST
The following year, 1865, it appears Gordon and I were not satisfied
to let well enough alone, so we gave up our lucrative business for
something more leisurely, by going into Batavia, New York, as fruit
dealers. We had a stack of money and pitched right in, buying up whole
orchards and paying approximately 40 per cent down, and when apples
declined from $8.00 to $5.00 per barrel we had hardly enough money
left to get out of town with, but our brother, Collins, loaned us all
we needed and we struck out again at our old business, undaunted, as
though nothing had happened.
The next year, 1866, we three brothers, with our wives, and all our
teams hung out for the winter at Cleveland, Ohio.
Collins and Martha.
Merrick and Mary.
Gordon and Amanda.
In the spring, 1867, with about fifty teams, we scattered over the
south and west planning a rendezvous on the Mississippi River, where we
all grouped for about three months. Our evenings of sport are better
remembered than imagined. We had expanded our business until there were
nearly 100 of us, playing tricks on each other, wrestling, lifting,
swimming, running horses, telling stories, singing songs, etc.
One of our men, a hostler, named Kelly, made an impromptu speech one
evening, which was comical, but without the surroundings could not be
appreciated. Ramson Young started an old-time school play of snapping
the whip. It consisted of a captain standing at his post and as many as
were take hold of hands and when he gave the word, all start on a swing
to run around him. Of course, the outer one must run faster and the
trick was to all pull the outer or tail man off his feet and see him
try to save himself from falling. They got Kelly on the end and when he
came around the next man let go of his hand, his body got ahead of his
legs and he ran among the tables and dishes and through the camp fire
in his big bare feet, before he could stop, but did not catch on that
it was intentional.
Next evening the boys gathered again and when Kelly saw that he
would be on the tail end, he let go, and stepping onto a stump said:
"Gentlemen, I am a Hoosier, born in the State of Indiana, and an
uneducated man, but you will never again get me on the tail end of that
'ere." I did not like to see Young impose on Kelly, so I embraced the
first opportunity to even up matters. One evening while waiting in camp
for supper, near Duluth, Kelly was exhibiting his new shotgun, when
Young said to me: "I'm going to bet with Kelly he cannot hit my new hat
at twenty paces, and you must load the gun, but put in no shot."
"I will do nothing of the kind," I said.
"Yes, you will, Mr. Richardson; this is just for a joke."
"I tell you I will have nothing to do with your tricks."
"Kelly," he cried, "I will bet you a quarter that you cannot hit my new
hat at twenty paces, and Mr. Richardson says he will load the gun."
"All right," says Kelly, "Richardson is honest; I will trust him."
I again refused, but when they both insisted I took the new gun and
ammunition and when out of sight I put in, not only a good charge of
powder, but a whole handful of buckshot, and when I delivered it, Young
said to Kelly: "Suppose we make it fifty cents instead of a quarter?"
"All right," said Kelly.
By this time all the boys were excited, for they knew Kelly could hit
the hat, and Young began betting five and ten cents each, with them,
until he had nearly two dollars up and his new straw hat on stake.
Young caught me smiling, and looked at a little scared as he whispered,
"There is no shot in the gun?" to which I paid no attention. Now Kelly
squared himself and took aim long and steady and then fired. Of course,
blowing the new hat all to driblets.
Young gave me one wicked glance and then stood around like a rooster
in the rain, and when the joke got out he simply remarked, "If a man
cannot trust a preacher, who can he trust?"
We had a ministerial looking fellow with us, who gave his name as
Wilson from New Jersey. He had worked for us but a few months when one
morning three men came up and stopped one of our teams. Wilson, who was
driving a front team, looked back, and, dropping his rein, ran for the
woods, nearly a half mile distant, looking neither to the right or left
until he disappeared into the bushes. Next day, going through a piece
of woods, I heard Wilson's voice, "Is everything all right?" and when
told that the men only wanted to buy a horse, he still suspected that
he had seen one of them before. Although he was with us until near the
end of our travels he never told us why he ran so fast.
Of course, our lives were full of peculiar incidents. Mr. Young, who
deputized me to load the gun, delighted in telling the fortunes of
those who came around the camp fire in the evening, and it was rich to
listen to him when he had a fellow and girl on the string, who were
really serious.
MY RELATION
We camped over Sunday near the home of a distant relative of mine, who
had come out west many years before and had been prosperous. He was
a great big generous farmer of about seventy-five years, who enjoyed
our stories and songs hugely, while he supplied our camp with eggs,
ham, chicken, cream and vegetables. One of his neighbors told me a
secret about the old man's narrow escape from death, which I have not
forgotten.
It appears that after his first wife's death, the old chap married
a young woman of the neighborhood, who made him an excellent wife,
although there was a slight blemish of character on the family from
which she came. It seems that before the marriage he had agreed never
to twit her about her relation, but had broken over several times, for
which she had warned him to desist if he valued his life.
One day, as the story went, she was making pies and he was in the
kitchen tormenting her, for which she gave him tit for tat until he
remarked, "Well, thank the Lord I was reared in a family of God-fearing
and law-abiding citizens." She uttered an unprintable phrase, and drew
a butcher knife from the table drawer. It was the one which the old
gent had often used to slay pigs and calves, but he had never dreamed
it would one day be used to wind up his own earthly career.
A glance at the keen, ugly blade caused him to unceremoniously
discontinue the argument and rush out the back door crying, "Help!
Help!" Knowing the unscrupulous character of the family to which his
sweetheart belonged, and the heat to which he had fired her passion,
he, without stopping to either pray or swear, lit out for the orchard,
hoping to distance his fair pursuer and climb a tree.
In this horrid dilemma of running while looking, both before and
behind, he forgot about the old unused well without a curb, and just as
she was about to plunge the awful knife, he dropped into the well just
deep enough to save himself from decapitation.
"I was one," said the relator, "to help old John out of the well and
patch up an armistice, which I think he has held sacred, and twitted
his wife no more about her relation."
[Illustration: OUR EVERYDAY TRANSACTIONS, EXCEPT SUNDAY.]
HORSE JOCKIES
We had now abandoned our tin peddling business except as a means of
settling expense bills, and had become successful horse dealers.
Our fine horses gave us a sort of prestige and welcome in traveling
over the country. Our lookout for bargains was always in unmanageable
young horses, which usually became docile through kind treatment.
Of the three brothers, Collins was the best judge of a horse, while
Gordon and I were close buyers. Our method was to trade for or buy
unmanageable young sound horses and put them on the wheel of a
four-horse team. After they had fought and tired themselves out they
would come along and soon be working all right. In this way we could
tame the ugliest animals and never whip them. Then they were for sale
and would please the buyer. Sometimes we had more than one hundred
horses, which gave a good selection for the buyer.
A few of our men were on good salary, but many were hangers on.
Frank Button, from Vermont, was always on hand in the time of trouble.
He was kind-hearted, but when on a lark was always looking for the
bully of the town. The Aurora papers came out one morning with large
headlines, stating that Ben Grim, the "Terror or Terrier" of Aurora,
had tackled one of Richardson's horse jockies, named Button, who
although appearing like a common cloth-bound wooden-button, proved to
have been brass inside, but it was hoped that Grim would live.
At Davenport we camped over Sunday on the river just north of the town,
where the Methodist minister (a jolly good fellow) thought to invite us
to come and hear him preach. In coming up through the teams he chanced
to climb the six-horse van to see how things looked inside. Tiger, the
one-eyed brindle pup, could not stand for that, and when we all rushed
to see what the stranger was yelling about, we found the minister
swinging from the top bar of the Broad Gauge by both hands, while
Tiger was swinging from the seat of the minister's pants by his teeth.
Our liberal donation for his new pants virtually healed the breach,
but that evening, when in his sermon he lauded us for our Christian
benevolence and sympathy, he said nothing about the seat of his pants,
nor even mentioned the faithfulness of our beloved Tiger.
At Evansville I boarded an Ohio River steamer for Louisville, on which
there were four colored men, accustomed to singing old plantation
melodies at each landing. I took them with us through the hills of old
Kentucky for several weeks and we all learned to sing their songs. I
am wishing now I could be in that old camp once more, and hear those
voices again:
"Oh, Dearest May, You're Lovelier Than the Day," "Down on the Old P.
D.," "My Old Kentucky Home Far Away," "Darling Nelly Gray," and the
like.
Prosperity and joy were with us in every way, and never in all our
travels did we have a man get severely hurt. We three brothers were
strong, athletic and humorous and always made companions of our men.
Our foot and horse racing was often exciting. Our last foot race was in
Cleveland, Ohio, where after we three brothers had outdone all the men
we ran it off between ourselves on the Lake Shore, where Collins won,
but I told him it was just by the length of his nose.
Some of us were good marksmen, but when we run on to a backwoodsman in
Missouri, who had about a dozen squirrels he had killed that morning,
all shot in the eye except one, which was hit in the ear, for which he
apologized, as he declared that in the tallest tree he was able to hit
ninety-nine out of one hundred in the eye, we boasted no more about our
marksmanship.
If Frank and Jesse James, the notorious outlaws of the Wild West, ever
visited our camp, we did not know it. I visited their old home twice
while in Missouri, and listened to their mother's story about her boys
she loved so well. At that time the State of Missouri had out rewards,
in the aggregate of more than $50,000 for their capture, dead or alive.
LANDED IN CHICAGO
In the fall, Collins and Gordon returned to Connecticut, while
I, having spent much time in the South, laid up in Cleveland for
the winter. They returned to Cleveland in the spring, when at the
solicitation of our dear wives we decided to dispose of as many of our
teams as possible during the summer and locate permanently in some
large city, which we did, and in the fall of 1868, with about 100
horses and seventy-five men, we landed in Chicago.
We purchased the northwest corner of Canal and Lake Streets, running to
the alley each way. Besides some little stores on Lake Street, there
was an immense ice house and a large wooden structure occupied by
Garland, Downs & Holmes, as sales station of a carriage manufacturer
in Boston. These gave us ample room for all our teams, but before
our titles were perfected the city condemned most of the property
in opening Dutch Broadway (Milwaukee Avenue) into Lake Street, and
although we never came into legal possession of the property the city's
appraisement was such that our purchase left us a good bonus besides
our occupation of the building for over a year. We then lived over
stores on Canal Street, where the Chicago & Northwestern Depot now
stands.
In 1869 we bought property on both sides of Lake Street, in the second
block west of Western Avenue, where we built homes on the south and
a factory on the north side of the street. We then sold our teams,
mostly to our men on the installment plan, holding the property in our
name until paid for. Then we started manufacturing tinware, working
about fifty tinners, selling the ware to those who bought the teams.
It was a success. Soon all the teams were off our hands, and the once
prolific and romantic business and escapades of the three Richardson
brothers had entirely disappeared.
In 1872 Collins sold out to Gordon and me, he returning to Connecticut
and settling down on a farm.
In 1874 we sold out the tin factory, and Gordon, who had always been a
lover of fast horses, began dealing in them again.
I, who had all the time been exhorting and writing books, entered the
Evanston Theological Seminary, preparing for the ministry, but when
Dr. H. W. Thomas experienced his troubles with Rock River Conference,
I abandoned that course, but kept up, through private instructors, the
languages and scientific studies for five years, including one year of
experimental astronomy on the great telescope then at Cottage Grove.
DR. THOMAS
Thomas' ideas moulded my thoughts into lines of truth. He was a good
man, a profound scholar and deep thinker, but lived before his time.
The following I copy from his thoughts:
THE ORIGIN AND DESTINY OF MAN
BY H. W. THOMAS, D.D.
We say that this is the 12th day of December. We say that this is the
year 1870. We say that it is the Sabbath evening, and that we are
gathered here in the house of worship. We say that we look into each
other's faces, and that you hear my words. But is this a dream, or
is it reality? For in the night-time we have often dreamed that we
have seen large assemblages; we have heard music and singing; we have
listened to sermon or lecture; we have loved, we have hoped, we have
wept, we have been glad--and in the morning we have found it was only a
dream. There have not been wanting, in our world's history, those who
have held that all our day-life is only another kind of a day-dream.
And, when we come to think of it, it is not the easiest thing to
disprove this. I do not know how to prove that I am here better than
just to say so. I do not know how I can be much more certain of the
fact than I am of certain facts in my dreams. Yet somehow we feel that
there is something more in this life than simply an illusion, and I
guess that our senses do not deceive us. The revolving earth is beneath
our feet; the heavens are above our heads. But if this be so, how came
we here? How and whence did we come? Are we the results of some process
of material nature, the fortuitous concurrence of innumerable atoms,
or are we the creatures of a living God? Is there an order and a plan
about our being? Shall our days end with the autumn and the snow, or
will there be a spring time? and shall we wake in the long tomorrow and
be forever? Now we may ask, "Is this that we call death the end of our
being?" It seems to me, if we get a correct view of death, that it is
only another form of birth. Personally, I think that one coming down to
a point of dying may find it something like the setting of the sun. Had
we never seen the going down of our sun, we would dread the thought of
darkness coming on. Men would gather in the deepest alarm as the great
orb began to descend in the west. They would gaze anxiously at the last
lingering rays on the tree-tops and hilltops. But as the sun gradually
disappeared, and darkness began to settle over them, they would see
in the distance a twinkling star; and as they looked at this, another
would appear, and another, and another, till, as they stood gazing, the
whole starry heavens would shine out before them. Instead of the going
down of the sun being an eclipse, it only makes visible the splendor of
the heavens. So we should go down to dying, thinking of the change as
only revealing to us the vaster universe beyond.
[Illustration: H. W. THOMAS, D. D.
"I AM GLAD THAT IMMORTALITY IS NOT ONLY A FAITH BUT A GREAT FACT. I AM
GLAD THAT WHILE THE SNOWS OF WINTER MAY LIE OVER THE GRAVES OF LOVED
ONES, THEIR SPIRITS ARE UP WITH GOD."]
Socrates, before he died, said he expected soon to be with Homer, and
Hesiod, and Orpheus, and Musaius. Cicero apostrophized his departed
daughter, and said he would meet her in the realms of the blest. Dante
thought to find his Beatrice in the spirit-life.
As I stand here, it seems like a dream that I am talking to you in
the light of this beautiful room; that the time will soon come when
others shall be here and we shall be gone. Yes, my friends, the strange
mystery lies before us.
EARLY CHICAGO
Chicago, then about 300,000 inhabitants, was virtually in the hands of
the gang. The heelers from the assessors' office boldly reduced the
valuation on property to those who stood their assessments for what
they called electioneering purposes, while raising the assessment on
those who refused to bribe, until the burden on the honest taxpayer
became griveous to bear.
Cases are said to be on record where two vacant lots lying side by
side were assessed, one five times as much as the other, and that not
one of our aldermen paid personal property tax, while families whose
income was less than $400.00 per year, were heavily assessed on their
household effects.
John Wentworth ("Long John"), one of Chicago's early mayors, who had
fought the Indians at Fort Dearborn, with several other large land
holders, refused to pay their taxes until the court of last resort
decided they must pay as assessed, but the effect of the attempt was
good, for the following year the valuation on real estate was cut down
nearly one-half.
This so diminished the income of the Cook County wolves that a panic
ensued, which incensed the ever-irritable element and finally swelled
into anarchy, consummating in the Haymarket Riot, in 1886, in which
several officers were maimed or killed, and for which a few of the
chief conspiring anarchists were executed, and thus civilization was
restored.
Good men were then selected for responsible positions, while the dirty
constables and rotten, self-elected magistrates, who held courts in
extreme corners of the county, where victims were summoned to appear,
only to find that judgment had been rendered against them, were at last
stamped under the heels of decency.
Mr. Story, editor of the Chicago Times, who had amassed a large
fortune, as the story ran, became infatuated with a feminine spiritual
medium, who acted both as advisor and architect in the construction of
a marble mansion on Grand Boulevard, whose apparent cost would have
been four times his capital. The warmth of the medium did not offset
the chill of old age, and becoming weary, he laid down the burden of
life and the mansion was never completed.
Philip Hoyne was perhaps then the most noted criminal lawyer in
Chicago, and this was the story of how he first became famous.
A man had been arrested for horse stealing who had no lawyer and the
judge appointed Hoyne, then a young man, to defend him.
"What shall I do for him?" inquired Hoyne.
"Clear him if you can," said the judge.
Hoyne took the prisoner into the ante-room, used for counsel, and said
to him:
"Mr. O'Flerity, did you steal the horse?"
"I did, your honor."
"Do you expect to go to the penitentiary?"
"I do, sir."
"Do you want me to clear you?"
"If you can do it. I swear by the Holy Virgin Mary that I will come to
your wake and bring all me relations."
Hoyne raised the window and said, "Do you see those woods yonder?"
"Indade, I do, sir."
"Now, I will hold my watch and see how long it takes you to run there."
When Hoyne returned to court the judge inquired where his client was.
"I do not know."
"Did I not place him in your charge?"
"Yes, but you said, 'Clear him if you can,' and the last I saw of him
he was entering the woods about two miles away."
HORSE RACING IN CHICAGO
Mr. Billings, the original West Side gas monopolist, had a pacer which
could go on the street 2:40 or better, and my brother Gordon drove Tom,
the silver-tailed trotter, who could crowd 2:30 very close. Billings
lived on Lake Street, near Union Park, while we lived farther west, and
we used to race horses nearly every day.
One noon, on going home to lunch, Billings tackled us on Washington
Street for a race. Tom drawing us two was a little handicapped, so it
made the race about an even thing. Billings became so excited that he
did not turn off at Sheldon Street, to his home, but kept on through
Union Park. When at Robey Street we encountered a fat colored woman and
her dog crossing the street. A policeman saw us coming and tried to get
her out of the way, but we ran over the whole bunch.
We turned right back to the policeman, who knew Billings had been
instrumental in getting him his job. He said he was not much hurt, only
his shins ached terribly where we had run over them with both wheels.
The woman had been rolled over and over in the mud, but she said she
did not care, only for her dog.
We decided on the officer's advise that it was better to settle the
case out of court, so we gave the woman a dollar for her dog. The
next noon we had the race over again, and really it was rich to hear
Billings and my brother both tell how easily they would have won had
not their horses gone into the air.
We West Siders had what we called the gentlemen's race track, on the
south wing of Central Park (Garfield Park). Every Saturday afternoon
many of the prominent men with their wives and fast horses assembled
there, one to show the other how easy his horse could do the other
fellow's nag up.
Mr. Eighmy, a man past 75 years, usually had a fine stepper and he was
a good driver. One day in a race of five or six, we could see from the
grandstand that on turning into the back stretch they had purposely
enclosed the old gent in a pocket, allowing Wrigley with Fly-Away and
my brother Gordon with Tom to pass on the outside. Soon we saw the
sulky in front and the one at the old gent's side, together with his
own, all in a mixup and turning flipflops. When we reached the spot we
found them all bruised and bleeding, with their horses loose on the
prairie, but the old man was game, and this is what he said:
"I ran between them purposely. I knew it would top us all over, but
I said to myself, 'Old Eighmy, you haven't long to live at the best,
and if you must die you might as well kill a couple of these damn mean
cusses for the good of the community, after you're gone.'"
Isaac Waxwell and Jim Rawley were forever wrangling. Jim was usually on
the judge's stand and Isaac claimed that Jim did not give him a fair
show. He certainly should have had a fair show, for it was rich to see
him drive in the dead heat; he had a peculiar way of leaning forward
and sticking out his elbows so it looked as though he was pushing on
the reins.
John Brennock, a pioneer packer from the stockyards, was a unique
character. He was a big man with a large head, and his mouth was very
large in proportion to his head. Everyone liked Brennock and knew he
was rich, for he had told them so. His last resort, in a dead heat,
was to bawl so loud as to frighten the other drivers' horses off their
feet.
HOPEFUL AND RARUS
On the sportsman's track, adjoining ours on the west, national events
took place. The race between Hopeful and Rarus was the most exciting
of anything which ever took place in those days. About 60,000 people
gathered to see the race.
The blooded Rarus was a tall six-year-old bay trotter of national
fame, from Beldom Brothers' stock farm in California. Hopeful was a
chubby little white pacer, from a farm on the New England hills. He was
twenty-two years old, and had never been on a race track until that
season.
Neither horse had ever lost a race, and while the press, from the
Atlantic to the Rockies, leaned hopefully towards Hopeful, yet they
seemed to think that he was overmatched.
The match was really a strife between the people and the sporting
fraternity, for horse racing throughout the country had become
demoralized to the extent that the gamblers seldom allowed the best
horse to win. Therefore, all the people wanted to see the old farmer,
with his handsome pet, win the race.
It was a delightful October day and not only did the whole city turn
out, but thousands came in from the country, to witness the great
national race which had long been advertised.
Rarus came out first, stepping lively around the mile course and
speeding down past the grandstand, which brought forth applause, for
all admired the Pacific Ranger, who had come to Chicago to win the
laurels of the day.
When Hopeful came out and paced slowly up past the grandstand he
looked one way and the other to those who applauded him with a sort of
confident grin, but when he turned at the north end of the home stretch
and let loose, the people just yelled and roared, while the women acted
as though they would like to hug him in their arms.
When lots were chosen and Hopeful won the pole, there was another
shout, but it was soon followed by a row in the judge's stand, as there
seemed to be a misunderstanding as to who should call time, or give
the word to go, but it was finally settled, and the horses appeared
for probably the most exciting race ever pulled off on the American
continent.
At the word "go" they were off and we all craned our necks as they
shot around the south bend, Hopeful hugging the pole and Rarus laying
on the wheel of his sulky. On the back stretch, Rarus pulled out
endeavoring to pass, and our hearts were in our mouths, while the
little mountaineer elevated his head a trifle and steadily held the big
ranger on the hub until they came under the wire, Hopeful winner, first
in three.
We were still uneasy, for the impression was prevalent that the blooded
animal was a stayer, while Hopeful could not make the second mile as
fast as the first, but he still held the pole, and we argued that if
Rarus had done his best we were all right.
When they came out for the second heat we soon discovered that we were
being jockeyed, for several times they came under the wire, neck and
neck, and yet were called back by the starter, whose neck we wanted to
wring, for we knew he was doing it to fuss, worry and tire our Hopeful.
The last time they were called back, Rarus turned sooner than usual,
and before Hopeful could turn he was at full speed and came under the
wire far ahead and got the word "go," which gave him time to swing in
and take the pole.
A murmur seemed to stifle the friends of Hopeful as the horses swung
into the back stretch, where we hoped to see the pacer try to pass,
but he steadily hung on the hub, as he had done around the south bend,
and continued this all the way around the north bend, when suddenly
his driver pulled him out into the center of the home stretch, and the
great race was on in dead earnest.
We had taken some ladies from the ground into our carriage, so they
could see, while I stepped onto the tire of one wheel with my wife,
Mary's hand on my neck to keep me from falling. In the excitement she
gripped me so hard I can almost feel her hand now.
Our position near the judge's stand gave us a full view of the horses
as they were coming, with Hopeful's head high and his knees far apart.
For a few seconds the silence which seemed to reign was only broken by
the seemingly far away sound of the horses' feet on the soft dirt, but
soon those at the north started a cheer, which wildly broke along the
throng like a wave, as Hopeful steadily poked his nose farther to the
front until Rarus flew up into the air, when the news began flashing
over the wires into the country that Hopeful had won.
Amid the cheers and yells, a ridiculous scene occurred which the
reader should have witnessed to appreciate. Suddenly in the crowd
nearby a gruff voice seemed uttering smothered oaths, while a woman
shouted shrieks of terror, as she suddenly appeared above the throng
sitting on the top of a man's head, he pawing with both hands to try to
get her off, while she was struggling for release.
The cause of this strange episode took place something like this: He
was a burly, cross-eyed Wolverine, from the tall pine tree country,
who came down to bet his hard-earned money on the famous Pacific Coast
trotter. During the excitement someone knocked his glasses off, and in
order for the cross-eyed man to see to find them he had to put his face
near to the ground. She, Mrs. Durgan, a little woman, it seems, when
awfully tickled, was accustomed to spat her hands on her knees and run
backwards while laughing. When she heard Hopeful had won, forgetting
where she was, she indulged in her old habit of running backwards until
she sat on his head.
When he felt her alight he sprang erect and, of course, not being able
to see out or know what was happening, uttered a few excusable oaths.
After the good-natured man had found his spectacles he looked pitifully
at the woman, who was deluged in a flood of tears, and then turning to
me smiled, as he said, "Didn't that beat hell?"
That was long, long ago. Should the recording angel call the roll today
of those who were there that day, not one in ten would answer, and in a
few years all will be silent. Where have they gone, and will they come
again?
CHICAGO PIETY
Jim Sackley, an Irishman of merited renown, was living in the
neighborhood of Lake Street and Western Avenue, when we arrived in
Chicago. He had been a sort of self-appointed constable of the town of
Cicero, which he said included all the territory west of Western Avenue.
Thompson Brothers at the time were running a general store on Lake
Street and, as they were politically inclined, their store seemed to be
a gathering place for the worthy aspirants of the neighborhood.
One evening Gordon and I were in the store when Tony McGuel, a
gentleman from Cork, came in to announce the death of his wife. We all
huddled around him in sympathy, for we had not even heard that she was
sick. The surroundings of the scene were made all the more pitiful, as
it had taken place just before pay day at the car barns, and he needed
a little assistance financially, so Hiram and Harvey Thompson headed
the subscription list, and soon we had raised quite a respectable sum.
Jim Sackley was there and in just the frame of mind to shed sympathy
copiously, for it was said that one of his near relatives had recently
passed away and he was in communication, at intervals, with the priest,
who was still praying her out of purgatory. Not only this, but Jim,
although not an Irishman himself, for as he had said his children were
all born in this country, yet he had seen the auld sod and, like Joseph
and his kinsmen in Egypt, with a five dollar bill in his hand he fell
on Tony's neck and they kissed and hugged like mother and babe.
Of course, they had both been drinking slightly, which made the tears
flow more freely, which so affected us all that we pulled out our linen
and wiped away the surplus moisture.
After Tony had gone with about $13.00, which Sackley said would only
buy the cheapest coffin, Sackley and Harvey Thompson shaved, put
on clean shirts, and called at the home to view the corpse and, if
necessary, offer prayer, when to their surprise the corpse met them at
the door, and said she did not know where Tony was; the last she heard
of him he was trying to borrow money to attend a wake down on Canal
Street.
[Illustration: EARLY CHICAGO.]
PUBLIC CONVEYANCE
During those days the Chicago Street Railway Company suffered much
through what might be called growing pain. The Randolph Street cars
turned at Union Park over onto Lake Street, as far as Robey, and there
they stopped during the busy hours of morning and evening, only running
to their barns on Western Avenue, when they were not in a hurry.
Their excuse for not running all their cars to Western Avenue was that
they could not afford to carry passengers so far for five cents, as hay
was $5.00 a ton and oats twenty-seven cents per bushel, besides the
public demanded such extravagant service.
The patrons continually murmured about the cars being cold in winter,
so the company filled into each car about a foot of loose straw to keep
feet warm. This did not work, for the ladies' skirts dragged in the mud
and tobacco spittle, and as a result our common council rashly passed
an ordinance requiring the company to heat their cars.
The company's first impression was that it could be done with hot water
bags, which the wise city fathers rejected, so the company turned to
red hot iron. They made receptacles at intervals under the seats, where
they carried hot iron, which they exchanged, the cold for the hot, at
the return of each trip. This could hardly be considered a success, for
if one set over where there was no heat the chills would creep up his
spinal column, while if he sat over a fresh hot slab he was in danger
of being blistered, but the ordinance had been obeyed, and the company
was proud of their West Side horse car line until the cruel hand of
competition disturbed their sweet repose.
A wide awake German by the name of Kolbe bought up the old North Shore
buss line and furnished it with much better horses than the railroad
company were using and started in to carry passengers over the same
route for four-cent fare.
At first the railroad company ignored Mr. Kolbe, but soon reduced their
fare to four cents, and even at that the busses got all the passengers,
for they were driven faster.
Now the fun began. The company ordered their drivers to make the
trip as fast as the omnibusses, or they would be discharged, while
Kolbe gave orders to his drivers to outdo the company. This gave the
passengers, whose destination was State Street, regular joy rides, but
those who attempted to get on or off along the route, took their lives
in their hands. During the heat of excitement, Kolbe dropped the fare
to three cents, which the company followed. Even at this, the more
frisky passengers continued to patronize the buss line, leaving only
a few grandfathers and gentle dames to ride in the cars. This dropped
the fare to two cents, when the company bought Kolbe out, paying him
a fabulous price for his old bus line, in railroad stock, which now
advanced rapidly, and thus the wide awake German made a handsome
fortune.
In 1877 Gordon and I opened up a factory just east of the river, on
Lake Street. In 1882 we sold our homes on West Lake Street, and built
on Washington Boulevard, he at the southwest corner of Albany Avenue,
and I at the southeast corner of Francisco Street.
[Illustration: BOULEVARD HOME OF MY BROTHER G. M.
RIGHT TO LEFT. G. M., ELMER, PERRIN, ELLA, LAWRANCE, GERTIE, MERRICK,
GEORGE, AMANDA.]
We continued partners until 1885, when we dissolved, he remaining at
the old stand and I starting in the same line on Lake Street, just west
of State Street, where through damage by water from an adjacent fire, I
lost heavily and made a bad failure. Soon I picked up again and in 1890
bought the northwest corner of Washington Boulevard and Curtis Street,
and erected a six-story factory and began manufacturing on a more
extensive scale.
MY ATHLETIC EXPLOITS
I mention with pride the physical strength and agility with which I
was born, and which sustains me still. Equestrianship came into vogue
in western cities in about 1885, and was kept up until bicycles came
out. At one period I kept four saddle horses for the use of my family.
Like other horse fanciers, I carried it to the extreme. For over two
years, summer and winter, wet or dry, I mounted my pet horse, Deacon,
at four o'clock in the morning, and rode ten to thirty miles before
breakfast. I also had a vicious horse--Blackhawk--who objected to the
saddle, which I took out occasionally, just for the fun. Often with
me in the saddle he would rear up and come over on his back, which,
when I felt him going, I would swing around and land on my feet, then
mount him again when he was springing up. When I gave him the spurs
he would kick, only to get the spurs again when his heels came down,
and sometimes we both went over the sidewalk into the ditch, which I
enjoyed, for I never got hurt.
In 1895 the bicycle craze came on, and we all left our horses and
mounted wheels. I objected to the wheel at first, but when my son,
Arthur, brought me a wheel to the factory and insisted that I should
try it. I did, and made lots of sport for the hands who were watching
me trying to mount, for whenever I lost my balance I would throw the
wheel against the curbstone.
That evening Arthur and Walton Aborn gave me a lesson in the dark, and
the next day I could ride--that was if all the gates were closed--but
when I saw one open I somehow seemed to start right for it, often to
the disgust of some dignified old gentleman or frowning lady, who were
scrambling for their lives to get out of my way and wondering what I
was trying to do.
About the third day I started before daybreak for my brother's summer
cottage at Twin Lakes, Wis., about sixty-five miles northwest of
Chicago. I arrived about noon, but, oh, the summersaults I did take.
Honestly, when I got there, there was scarcely an inch on the wheel
where the varnish was not scratched, or any very large patches on my
legs where the skin was presentable, for when I took a heels over
head into the wayside, the bark usually got scraped off of either
the saplings or me. The next day I took a 100-mile circuitous route
home, and then for a day was under the care of Dr. Chamberlain, my
son-in-law, who was bound to have my picture taken, which I stubbornly
declined, but now I wish I had it.
MY FIRST HUNDRED MILE RUN
My son, Arthur, then famous as one of the long distance riders of
the west, got up a party of about twenty aspirants to take over the
100-mile Elgin and Aurora course at a breakneck speed. I was not fitted
for such a run, but I fell in and we were all off at about five o'clock
in the morning.
The wind blew almost a gale in our faces and before we reached Elgin
all had dropped out but Walton Aborn, Jim Carroll, Billy Push, Arthur
and myself.
Down the Fox River Arthur increased the pace to that extent that Billy
threw himself into the shade of a barn and refused to budge, so we left
him there.
On the home run from Aurora, Jim Carroll declared his intention not to
alight, as was customary at the S. Hill, but ride his wheel down, a
feat which Arthur told him no fatigued rider should attempt.
We fell back and let him lead, and held our breath as he shot out of
sight around the first corner at a thirty-mile pace.
When we turned the corner hoping to see Jim far away across the
Skunkamunk Valley, we discovered a swath in the roadside down through
the underbrush, briers and brambles nearly to the foot of the hill. At
the end of the swath under an immense heap of rubbish we found Jim and
his wheel, he blinking like a toad under a harrow.
[Illustration: OUR WASHINGTON BOULEVARD HOME IN THE DAYS WHEN THE
SADDLE HORSE CRAZE WAS ON.
LEFT TO RIGHT. ALBERTA, MERRICK, BARNEY, MARY, MINNIE, ARTHUR, ARTHUR
ASTRIDE THE DEACON, MY FAVORITE.]
Jim groaned and grunted and finally told us he did not think he
was dead, but his back was probably broken. We soon had him on his
feet with his wheel righted and was pleased to learn that, with the
exception of the few tufts of hair and chunks of hide left in the trail
where he had slidden down, he was the same man, only his eyes were so
full of gravel that he could not see.
He now proposed to take a bath in the creek in order to find out just
how much skin he had left on his body. For this purpose he attempted to
crawl under the barbed wire fence, into which his clothes got caught
in such a way that he could neither raise up nor let down, back out or
push forward, work his pants off, or keep his shirt on.
When we began to laugh and roar, Jim began to swear and cry, and said
if we would go on about our own business he would get out and come home
when he got good and ready.
Now there were only three of us, and Arthur lit out, leaving Walton and
myself to come as fast as we could. We got into a mixup and both took
headers over our wheels, when we sung out to Arthur to come back and
help us.
When he returned I showed deep regret that my wheel was broken, for,
of course, I was not much tired, but when he pronounced both wheels
in good running order, I felt awfully, for I would have given most
anything for an excuse to go no farther.
Arthur now encouraged us by saying he would run on a while and then
wait for us, so we took it steady, and in some way got past him. Then
we sat down in the shade and waited, for we did not want to report at
the club house that we had left him in the country, for fear they would
blame us. We finally started on and came slowly, stopping in every
shade, waiting for Arthur, until we reached Garfield Park, where we
met Minnie, my eldest daughter, with Dr. Chamberlain, her husband,
and Alberta, my next, with her husband, George Carlson, together with
several other neighbors, all riding their wheels, who laughed at us and
said Arthur arrived home about three hours before.
[Illustration: CYCLING RUN TO SOUTH PARK. THE LOWER LEFT-HAND LADIES AN
INTERESTING TRIO. LEFT TO RIGHT, LOTTIE SOPER, ALLIE OLIVER AND LUCY
NEWELL. TWO TALLEST MEN IN BACK, CHARLIE SOPER AND CHARLIE NEWELL.]
ARTHUR'S AND WALTON'S LONG RUN
The next summer Arthur and Walton made their famous ride through to
Crystal Lake, Conn. Here is an outline of their exploit, which was
considered a great achievement, considering the rainy weather and the
rough roads they encountered between Chicago and Toledo and between
Silver Creek and Memphis, N. Y.
Here I reproduce the letters which Arthur sent back while on the road:
Perrysburg, Ohio, June 17, 1896.
Dear Father:--
Walton and I were very much surprised at the end of our first day's
ride at Mishawaka, Ind., to read in the Tribune so much about your
winning the 100-mile race over all the crack Illinois bicycle riders.
The paper was shown us by our friends at Mishawaka, and at first we
thought there was a mistake that father had won the closely contested
race, but Walton said: "No use talking, Uncle Merrick is fast--but it
is not all in his legs; it is his indomitable will power that wins."
Then we pictured to ourselves the occasion and "he 55 years old," said
I. "Well, God gave him a strong constitution, and he has taken care of
it."
Batavia, N. Y., June 19, 1896.
Dear Folks at Home:--
This letter is especially for mother, Minnie and Bertie, while the
ones about bicycle riding go to father.
We are stopping here at Uncle John's at Batavia, and the rest is very
welcome. We were mighty tired and this is the first day we have had a
chance to rest since we left home.
I tell you, mother, I have a couple of fine cousins in Carrie and Ida.
I don't think Walton will ever forget Ida's kindness. He was so sore
from riding his wheel that when he got here he couldn't sit down. He
had to sleep standing, but Ida made him the dandiest pillow and sewed
it on to his bicycle saddle, so poor Walton is all right now.
We are going to see Grandmother Hoyt at Elba tomorrow. You know it is
only six miles north. Well, mother, the Hoyts are all in good standing
around here, and I feel mighty proud of you all. Aunt Alida seems
young as ever, and the bloom of youth is on her cheek. But, say, you
would think I was writing a novel, wouldn't you?
Uncle John and I sat up nearly all night, and he certainly told
me some very int
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