Читать книгу The Life of P.T. Barnum - P.T. Barnum, P.T. Barnum - Страница 11

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It is,” was the reply.

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

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

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

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

“I wish I could stop this plaguy breathing.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The best Santa Cruz,” was the reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not at all,” was the reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The transcribers’ laugh nettled him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why not?” asked the farmer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t believe it,” said Ben Hoyt.

“I do,” replied my grandfather.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There was a man whose name was Nick,

He drew seven prizes very slick;

For the avails he took tinware,

Which caused his wife to fret and swear.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“To make hats,” was the reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It is, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who sent you here?” asked sister Mary.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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