But to proceed. One day I was taking home from the pasture a

horse that belonged to some clergyman--I believe Dr. Ripley, of

Greensfarms. Just as I came upon the level ground in front of Jerry

Mead's old house, Bige came up behind me on the deacon's mare--an

ambling brute with a bushy tail and shaggy mane. As he approached

he gave a chirrup, and my horse, half in fright and half in fun,

bounded away, like Tam O'Shanter's mare. Away we went, I holding on

as well as I could, for the animal was round as a barrel. He was no

doubt used to a frolic of this sort, although he belonged to a doctor

of divinity, and looked as if he believed in total depravity. When

he finally broke into a gallop he flew like the wind, at the same

time bounding up and down with a tearing energy, quite frightful to

think of. After a short race he went from under me, and I came with a

terrible shock to the ground.

The breath was knocked out of me for some seconds, and as I recovered

it with a gasping effort, my sensations were indescribably agonizing.

Greatly humbled and sorely bruised, I managed to get home, where

the story of my adventure had preceded me. I was severely lectured

by my parents, which, however, I might have forgotten, had not

the concussion made an indelible impression on my memory, thus

perpetuating the wholesome counsel.

When I was about twelve years old, a man by the name of Sackett

was employed to keep a high-school, or, as it was then called, an

academy. Here I went irregularly for a few weeks, and at a public

exhibition I remember to have spoken a piece, upon a stage fitted up

in the meeting-house, entitled "Charles Chatterbox." This was the

substance of my achievements at Sackett's seminary.

The narrowness of my father's income, and the needs of a large

family, induced him to take half-a-dozen pupils to be fitted for

college. This he continued for a series of years. It might seem

natural that I should have shared in these advantages; but, in the

first place, my only and elder brother, Charles A. Goodrich--now

widely known by his numerous useful publications--had been destined

for the clerical profession, partly by his own predilection, partly

by encouragement from a relative, and partly, too, from an idea that

his somewhat delicate constitution forbade a more hardy career. To

this may doubtless be added the natural desire of his parents that

at least one of their sons should follow the honored calling to

which father, grandfather, and great-grandfather had been devoted.

Hence he was put in training for college. The expenses to be thus

incurred were formidable enough to my parents, without adding to

them by attempting anything of the kind for me. And, besides, I

had manifested no love of study, and evidently preferred action to

books. Moreover, it must be remembered, that I was regarded as a born

carpenter, and it would have seemed tempting Providence to have set

me upon any other career. So, with perfect content on my part, from

the age of twelve to fourteen, I was chiefly employed in active

services about the house and farm. I could read, write, and cipher;

this was sufficient for my ambition, and satisfactory to my parents,

in view of the life to which I was apparently destined.

Nevertheless, though my school exercises were such as I have

described, I doubtless gathered some little odds and ends of learning

about those days, beyond the range of my horn-books. I heard a good

deal of conversation from the clergymen who visited us, and, above

all, I listened to the long discourses of Lieutenant Smith upon

matters and things in general. My father, too, had a brother in

Congress, from whom he received letters, documents, and messages, all

of which became subjects of discussion. I remember, further, that out

of some childish imitation, I thumbed over Corderius and Erasmus--the

first Latin books, then constantly in the hands of my father's

pupils. I was so accustomed to hear them recite their lessons in

Virgil, that

_Tityre, tu patulæ recubans sub tegmine fagi_--

and

_Arma_, arms--_virumque_, and the man--_cano_, I sing,

were as familiar to my ears as _hillery, tillery, zachery zan_, and

probably conveyed to my mind about as much meaning. Even the first

lesson in Greek--

<En>, in--<archê>, the beginning--<ên>, was--<ho logos>, the Word--

was also among the cabalistic jingles in my memory. All this may seem

nothing as a matter of education; still, some years after, while

I was an apprentice in Hartford, feeling painfully impressed with

the scantiness of my knowledge, I borrowed some Latin school-books,

under the idea of attempting to master that language. To my

delight and surprise, I found that they seemed familiar to me. Thus

encouraged, I began, and bending steadily over my task at evening,

when my day's duties were over, I made my way nearly through the

Latin Grammar and the first two books of Virgil's _Æneid_. In my

poverty of knowledge, even these acquisitions became useful to me.

From the age of twelve to fifteen, though generally occupied

in the various tasks assigned me, I still found a good deal of

time to ramble over the country. Whole days I spent in the long,

lonesome lanes that wound between Ridgefield and Salem, in the

half-cultivated, half-wooded hills that lay at the foot of West

Mountain, and in the deep recesses of the wild and rugged regions

beyond. I frequently climbed to the tops of the cliffs and ridges

that rose one above another; and having gained the crown of the

mountain, cast long and wistful glances over the blue vale that

stretched out for many miles to the westward. I had always my gun in

hand, and though not insensible to any sport that might fall in my

way, I was more absorbed in the fancies that came thronging to my

imagination. Thus I became familiar with the whole country around,

and especially with the shaded glens and gorges of West Mountain. I

must add that these had, besides their native, savage charms, a sort

of fascination from being the residence of a strange woman, who had

devoted herself to solitude, and was known under the name of "the

Hermitess." This personage I had occasionally seen in our village;

and I frequently met her as she glided through the forests, while I

was pursuing my mountain rambles. I sometimes felt a strange thrill

as she passed; but this only seemed to render the recesses where she

dwelt still more inviting.

I have no doubt that I inherited from my mother a love of the night

side of nature; not a love that begets melancholy, but an appetite

that found pleasure in the shadows, as well as the lights, of life

and imagination. Eminently practical as she was--laborious, skilful,

and successful in the duties which Providence had assigned her, as

the head of a large family, with narrow means--she was still of a

poetic temperament. Her lively fancy was vividly set forth by a pair

of the finest eyes I have ever seen; dark and serious, yet tender and

sentimental. These bespoke, not only the vigor of her conceptions,

but the melancholy tinge that shaded her imagination. Sometimes,

indeed, the well of sadness in her heart became full, and it ran

over in tears. These, however, were like spring showers; brief in

duration, and afterwards brightening to all around. She was not the

only woman who has felt better after a good cry. It was, in fact,

a poetic, not a real sorrow, that thus excited her emotions; for

her prevailing humor abounded in wit and vivacity, not unfrequently

taking the hue of playful satire. Nevertheless, her taste craved

the pathetic, the mournful; not as a bitter medicine, but a spicy

condiment. Her favorite poets were King David and Dr. Watts: she

preferred the dirge-like melody of Windham to all other music. All

the songs she sang were minors.

You will gather, from what I have said, that my father not only

prayed in his family night and morning, but before breakfast, and

immediately after the household was assembled he always read a

chapter in the sacred volume. It is recorded in our family Bible,

that he read it through, in course, thirteen times in the space of

about five-and-twenty years. He was an excellent reader, having

a remarkably clear, frank, hearty voice; so that I was deeply

interested, and thus early became familiar with almost every portion

of the Old and New Testament.

The practice of family worship, as I before stated, was at this time

very general in New England. In Ridgefield, it was not altogether

confined to the strictly religious; to clergymen, deacons, and church

members. It was a custom which decency hardly allowed to be omitted.

No family was thought to go on well without it. There is a good story

which well describes this trait of manners.

Somewhere in Vermont, in this golden age, there was a widow by the

name of Bennett. In consequence of the death of her husband, the

charge of a large farm and an ample household devolved upon her. Her

husband had been a pious man, and all things had prospered with him.

His widow, alike from religious feeling and affectionate regard for

his memory, desired that everything should be conducted as much as

possible as it had been during his lifetime. Especially did she wish

the day to begin and close with family worship.

Now, she had a foreman on the farm by the name of Ward. He was a good

man for work, but he was not a religious man. In vain did the widow,

in admitting his merits at the plough, the scythe, and the flail,

still urge him to crown her wishes, by leading in family prayer. For

a long time the heart of the man was hard, and his ear deaf to her

entreaties. At last, however, wearied with her importunities, he

seemed to change, and, to her great joy, consented to make a trial.

On a bright morning in June--at early sunrise--the family were all

assembled in the parlor, men and maidens, for their devotions. When

all was ready, Ward, in a low, troubled voice, began. He had never

prayed, or at least not in public, but he had heard many prayers,

and possessed a retentive memory. After getting over the first

hesitancy, he soon became fluent, and taking passages here and there

from the various petitions he had heard--Presbyterian, Methodist,

Universalist, and Episcopalian--he went on with great eloquence,

gradually elevating his tone and accelerating his delivery. Ere long

his voice grew portentous, and some of the men and maids, thinking he

was suddenly taken either mad or inspired, stole out on their toes

into the kitchen, where, with gaping mouths, they awaited the result.

The Widow Bennett bore it all for about half an hour; but at last,

as the precious time was passing away, she lost patience, and sprang

to her feet. Placing herself directly in front of the speaker, she

exclaimed, "Ward, what do you mean?"

As if suddenly relieved from a nightmare, he exclaimed, "Oh dear,

ma'am, I'm much obliged to you; for somehow I couldn't wind the thing

off."

I must not pass over another incident having reference to the topic

in question. Under the biblical influence of those days my father's

scholars built a temple of the Philistines, and when it was completed

within and without, all the children round about assembled, as did

the Gazaites of old. The edifice was chiefly of boards, slenderly

constructed, and reached the height of twelve feet; nevertheless,

all of us got upon it, according to the 16th chapter of Judges. The

oldest of the scholars played Samson. When all was ready, he took

hold of the pillars of the temple, one with his right hand and one

with his left. "Let me die with the Philistines!" said he, and

bowing himself, down we came in a heap! Strange to say, nobody but

Samson was hurt, and he only in some skin bruises. If you could see

him now--dignified even to solemnity, and seldom condescending to

any but the gravest matters--you would scarcely believe the story,

even though I write it and verify it. Nevertheless, if he must have

played, he should have taken the part of Samson, for he is one of the

most gifted men I have ever known.

CHAPTER VII.

THE CLERGY OF FAIRFIELD--A LAUGHING PARSON--THE THREE DEACONS.

Before I complete my narrative so far as it relates to Ridgefield,

I should state that in the olden time a country minister's home was

a ministers' tavern, and therefore I saw at our house, at different

periods, most of the orthodox or Congregational clergymen belonging

to that part of the State. My father frequently exchanged with

those of the neighboring towns, and sometimes consociations and

associations were held at Ridgefield. Thus, men of the clerical

profession constituted a large portion of the strangers who visited

us. I may add that my lineage was highly ministerial, from an early

period down to my own time. The pulpit of Durham, filled by my

paternal grandfather, continued in the same family one hundred and

twenty-six consecutive years. A short time since we reckoned among

our relations, not going beyond the degree of second cousin, more

than a dozen ministers of the Gospel, and all of the same creed.

As to the clergy of Fairfield county, my boyish impressions of them

were, that they were of the salt of the earth; nor has a larger

experience altered my opinion. If I sometimes indulge a smile at

the recollection of particular traits of character, or more general

points of manner significant of the age, I still regard them with

affection and reverence.

I need not tell you that they were counsellors in religious matters,

in the dark and anxious periods of the spirit, in times of sickness,

at the approach of death. They sanctified the wedding, not refusing

afterward to countenance the festivity which naturally ensued. They

administered baptism, but only upon adults who made a profession,

or upon the children of professors. I may add that, despite their

divinity, they were sociable in their manners and intercourse. The

state of the Church was no doubt first in their minds, but ample room

was left for the good things of life. Those who came to our house

examined my brother in his Greek and Latin, and I went out behind the

barn to gather tansy for their morning bitters. They dearly loved

a joke, and relished anecdotes, especially if they bore a little

hard upon the cloth. The following will suffice as a specimen of the

stories they delighted in.

Once upon a time there was a clergyman--the Rev. Dr. T----, a man

of high character, and distinguished for his dignity of manner.

But it was remarked that frequently as he was ascending the pulpit

stairs he would smile, and sometimes almost titter, as if beset by

an uncontrollable desire to laugh. This excited remark, and at last

scandal. Finally, it was thought necessary for some of his clerical

friends, at a meeting of the Association, to bring up the matter for

consideration.

The case was stated, the Rev. Dr. T---- being present. "Well,

gentlemen," said he, "the fact charged against me is true, but I beg

you to permit me to offer an explanation. A few months after I was

licensed to preach I was in a country town, and on a Sabbath morning

was about to enter upon the services of the church. At the back of

the pulpit was a window, which looked out upon a field of clover,

then in full bloom, for it was summer. As I rose to commence the

reading of the Scriptures, I cast a glance into the field, and there

I saw a man performing the most extraordinary evolutions--jumping,

whirling, slapping in all directions, and with a ferocious agony

of exertion. At first I thought he was mad; but suddenly the truth

burst upon me--he had buttoned up a bumblebee in his pantaloons! I

am constitutionally nervous, gentlemen, and the shock of this scene

upon my risible sensibilities was so great, that I could hardly

get through the services. Several times I was upon the point of

bursting into a laugh. Even to this day, the remembrance of this

scene, through the temptation of the devil, often comes upon me

as I am ascending the pulpit. This, I admit, is a weakness, but I

trust it will rather excite your sympathy and your prayers than your

reproaches."

It may be amusing, perhaps profitable, to give here a few sketches

of the remarkable characters of Ridgefield, at the opening of the

present century. Some were types of their time; others, however

eccentric, were exemplifications of our race and our society,

influenced by peculiar circumstances, and showing into what fashions

this stuff of humanity may be wrought. They are still prominent in

my recollection, and seem to me an essential part of the social

landscape which encircled my youth.

I begin with the three deacons of my father's parish. First was

Deacon Olmstead, full threescore years and ten at the opening

of the present century. His infancy touched upon the verge of

Puritanism--the days of Increase and Cotton Mather. The spirit of the

Puritans lived in his heart, while the semblance of the patriarchs

lingered in his form. He was fully six feet high, with broad

shoulders, powerful limbs, and the august step of a giant. His hair

was white, and rolled in thin curls upon his shoulders; he was still

erect, though he carried a long cane, like that of father Abraham in

the old pictures, representing him at the head of his kindred and his

camels, going from the land of Haran to the land of Canaan. Indeed,

he was my personification of the great progenitor of the Hebrews;

and when my father read from the twelfth chapter of Genesis, how he

and Lot and their kindred journeyed forth, I half fancied it must be

Deacon Olmstead under another name.

[Illustration: DEACON OLMSTEAD.]

Deacon Olmstead was in all things a noble specimen of humanity--an

honor to human nature, a shining light in the church. I have spoken

of him as having something grand about him, yet I remember how kindly

he condescended to take me, a child, on his knee, and how gently his

great brawny fingers encircled my infant hand. I have said he was

wise; yet his book-learning was small, though it might have been as

great as that of Abraham, or Isaac, or Jacob. He knew, indeed, the

Bible by heart, and that is a great teacher. He had also lived long,

and profited by observation and experience. Above all, he was calm,

just, sincere, and it is wonderful how these lamps light up the

path of life. I have said he was proud, yet it was only toward the

seductions of the world: to these he was hard and stern: to his God

he was simple, obedient, and docile as a child: toward his kindred

and his neighbor, toward the poor, toward the suffering, though not

so soft, he was sympathetic as a sister of charity.

I must now present a somewhat different portrait--that of Deacon

John Benedict. He was a worthy old man, and enjoyed many claims

to respect. He was not only a deacon, but a justice of the peace;

moreover, he was the father of Aunt Delight, of whom I desire

ever to speak with reverence. She, not being a beauty, was never

married, and hence, having no children of her own, she combed and

crammed the heads of other people's children. In this way she was

eminently useful in her day and generation. The Deacon respected

the law, especially as it was administered in his own person. He

was severe upon those who violated the statutes of the State, but

one who violated the statutes of Deacon John Benedict committed the

unpardonable sin. He was the entire police of the meeting-house on

Sunday, and not a boy or girl, or even a bumblebee, could offend

without condign punishment.

Nevertheless, the Deacon is said, in one case--rather before my

time--to have met his match. There was in the village a small, smart,

nervous woman, with a vigorous clack, which, once set going, was hard

to stop. One day she was at church, and having carried her dinner of

mince-pie in a little cross-handled basket, she set it down under the

seat. In the midst of sermon-time a small dog came into the pew, and

getting behind her petticoats, began to devour the pie. She heard

what was going on, and gave him a kick. Upon this the dog backed out

with a yelp, taking with him the dinner-basket, hung about his neck,

across the pew into the broad aisle.

"Oh dear!" said the woman, in a shrill voice, "the dog's got my

dinner! There! I've spoken loud in meeting-time! What will Deacon

Benedict say? Why! I'm talking all the time. There it goes agin!

What shall I du?"

"Hold your tongue!" said the Deacon, who was in his official seat,

fronting the explosion. These words operated like a charm, and the

nervous lady was silent. The next day Deacon John appeared at the

house of the offender, carrying a calf-bound volume in his hand. The

woman gave one glance at the book, and one at the Deacon. That was

enough: it spoke volumes, and the man of the law returned home, and

never mentioned the subject afterward.

Deacon Hawley was very unlike either of his two associates whom I

have described. He was younger, and of a peculiarly mild and amiable

temper. His countenance wore a tranquil and smooth expression. His

hair was fine and silky, and lay, as if oiled, close to his head. He

had a soft voice, and an ear for music. He was a cabinet-maker by

trade, a chorister by choice, and a deacon by the vote of the church.

In each of these things he found his place, as if designed for it by

nature.

In worldly affairs as well as spiritual, Deacon Hawley's path was

straight and even: he was successful in business, beloved in society,

honored in the church. Exceedingly frugal by habit and disposition,

he still loved to give in charity, though he did not talk of it.

When he was old, his family being well provided for, he spent much

of his time in casting about to find opportunities of doing good.

Once he learned that a widow, who had been in good circumstances, was

struggling with poverty. He was afraid to offer money as charity, for

fear of wounding her pride--the more sensitive, perhaps, because of

her change of condition. He therefore intimated that he owed a debt

of fifty dollars to her late husband, and wished to pay it to her.

"And how was that?" said the lady, somewhat startled.

"I will tell you," said the Deacon. "About five-and-twenty years

ago, soon after you were married, I made some furniture for your

husband--to the amount of two hundred dollars. I have been looking

over the account, and find that I rather overcharged him in the price

of some chairs--that is, I could have afforded them at somewhat less.

I have added up the interest, and here, madam, is the money."

The widow listened, and as she suspected the truth, the tears came to

her eyes. The Deacon did not pause to reply, but laid the money on

the table and departed.

The term _deacon_ is associated in many minds with a sort of

affectation, a cant in conversation, and an I-am-holier-than-thou

air and manner. I remember Deacon C----, who deemed it proper to

become scriptural, and talk as much as possible like Isaiah. He was

in partnership with his son Laertes, and they sold crockery and

furniture. One day a female customer came, and the old gentleman

being engaged, went to call his son, who was in the loft above.

Placing himself at the foot of the stairs, he said, attuning his

voice to the occasion, "La-ar-tes, descend--a lady waits!" Deacon

C---- sought to signalize himself by a special respect to the ways

of Providence; so he refused to be insured against fire, declaring

that if the Lord wished to burn down his house or his barn he should

submit without a murmur. He pretended to consider thunder, and

lightning, and conflagrations as special acts of the Almighty, and it

was distrusting Providence to attempt to avert their effects. Deacon

Hawley had none of these follies or frailties. Though a deacon,

he was still a man; though aspiring to heaven, he lived cheerily

on earth; though a Christian, he was a father, a neighbor, and,

according to his rank in life, a gentleman, having in all things the

feelings and manners appropriate to each of those relations.

CHAPTER VIII.

MAT OLMSTEAD, THE TOWN WIT--THE SALAMANDER HAT--SOLAR

ECLIPSE--THE OLD HEN AND THE PHILOSOPHER--LIEUTENANT

SMITH--EXTRAORDINARY METEOR--FULTON AND HIS STEAM-BOAT--GRANTHER

BALDWIN AND HIS WIFE--SARAH BISHOP AND HER CAVE.

Another celebrity in Ridgefield, whom I must not forget, was Matthew

Olmstead, or Mat Olmstead, as he was usually called; he was a day

laborer, and though his specialty was the laying of stone fences, he

was equally adroit at hoeing corn, mowing, and farm-work in general.

He was rather short and thick-set, with a long nose, a little bulbous

in his latter days; with a ruddy complexion, and a mouth shutting

like a pair of nippers, the lips having an oblique dip to the left,

giving a keen and mischievous expression to his face: qualified,

however, by more of mirth than malice. This feature was indicative

of his mind and character; for he was sharp in speech, and affected

a crisp, biting brevity, called dry wit. He had also a turn for

practical jokes, and a great many of these were told of him; to

which, perhaps, he had no historical claim. The following is one

of them, and is illustrative of his manner, even if it originated

elsewhere.

On a cold, stormy day in December, a man chanced to come into the

bar-room of Keeler's tavern, where Mat Olmstead and several of his

companions were lounging. The stranger had on a new hat of the latest

fashion, and still shining with the gloss of the iron. He seemed

conscious of his dignity, and carried his head in such a manner as to

invite attention to it. Mat's knowing eye immediately detected the

weakness of the stranger; so he approached him, and said,--

"What a very nice hat you've got on! Pray who made it?"

"Oh, it came from New York," was the reply.

"Well, let me take it," said Mat.

The stranger took it off his head, gingerly, and handed it to him.

"It is a wonderful nice hat," said Matthew; "and I see it's a real

salamander!"

"Salamander?" said the other. "What's that?"

"Why, a real salamander hat won't burn!"

"No? I never heard of that before: I don't believe it's one of that

kind."

"Sartain sure; I'll bet you a mug of flip of it."

"Well, I'll stand you!"

"Done: now I'll just put it under the fore-stick?"

"Well."

It being thus arranged, Mat put the hat under the fore-stick into a

glowing mass of coals. In an instant it took fire, collapsed, and

rolled into a black, crumpled mass of cinders.

"I du declare," said Mat Olmstead, affecting great astonishment, "it

ain't a salamander hat arter all! Well, I'll pay the flip!"

Yet wit is not always wisdom. Keen as this man was as to things

immediately before him, he was of narrow understanding. He seemed not

to possess the faculty of reasoning beyond his senses. He never would

admit that the sun was fixed, and that the world turned round.

I remember, that when the great solar eclipse of 1806 was

approaching, he with two other men were at work in one of our fields,

not far from the house. The eclipse was to begin at ten or eleven

o'clock, and my father invited the workmen to come up and observe it

through some pieces of smoked glass. They came, though Mat ridiculed

the idea of an eclipse--not but the thing might happen; but it was

idle to suppose it could be foretold. While they were waiting and

watching, my father explained the cause and nature of the phenomenon.

Mat laughed with that low, scoffing chuckle, with which a woodcock,

safe in his den, replies to the bark of a besieging dog.

"So you don't believe this?" said my father.

"No," said Mat, shaking his head; "I don't believe a word of it. You

say, Parson Goodrich, that the sun is fixed, and don't move?"

"Yes, I say so."

"Well: didn't you preach last Sunday out of the 10th chapter of

Joshua?"

"Yes."

"And didn't you tell us that Joshua commanded the sun and moon to

stand still?"

"Yes."

"Well: what was the use of telling the sun to stand still if it never

moved?"

This was a dead shot, especially at a parson, and in the presence of

an audience inclined, from the fellowship of ignorance, to receive

the argument. Being thus successful, Mat went on,--

"Now, Parson Goodrich, let's try it again. If you turn a thing that's

got water in it bottom up, the water'll run out, won't it?"

"No doubt."

"If the world turns round, then, your well will be turned bottom up,

and the water'll run out!"

At this point my father applied his eye to the sun, through a

piece of smoked glass. The eclipse had begun: a small piece was

evidently cut off from the rim. My father stated the fact, and the

company around looked through the glass, and saw that it was so. Mat

Olmstead, however, sturdily refused to try it, and bore on his face

an air of supreme contempt; as much as to say "You don't humbug me!"

But ignorance and denial of the works of God do not interrupt

their march. By slow and invisible degrees, a shade crept over the

landscape. There was no cloud in the sky; but a chill stole through

the atmosphere, and a strange dimness fell over the world. It was

mid-day, yet it seemed like the approach of night. All nature seemed

chilled and awed by the strange phenomenon. The birds, with startled

looks and ominous notes, left their busy cares and gathered in the

thick branches of the trees, where they seemed to hold counsel one

with another. The hens, with slow and hesitating steps, set their

faces toward their roosts. One old hen, with a brood of chickens,

walked along with a tall, halting tread, and sought shelter upon

the barn-floor, where she gathered her young ones under her wings,

continuing to made a low sound, as if saying, "Hush, my babes, lie

still and slumber."

I well remember this phenomenon--the first of the kind I had ever

witnessed. Though occupied by this seeming conflict of the heavenly

bodies, I recollect to have paid some attention to the effect of the

scene upon others. Mat Olmstead said not a word; the other workmen

were overwhelmed with emotions of awe.

At length, the eclipse began to pass away, and nature slowly returned

to her equanimity. The birds came forth, and sang a jubilee, as if

relieved from some impending calamity. The hum of life again filled

the air; the old hen with her brood gaily resumed her rambles, and

made the leaves and gravel fly with her invigorated scratchings. The

workmen, too, having taken a glass of grog, returned thoughtfully to

their labors.

"After all," said one of the men, as they passed along to the field,

"I guess the parson was right about the sun and the moon."

"Well, perhaps he was," said Mat; "but then Joshua was wrong."

* * * * *

This incident of the total eclipse was, many years later, turned to

account in Parley's Magazine, in the following dialogue between Peter

Parley and his children:

_Parley._ Come, John, you promised to write something for this

number of the Magazine; is it ready?

_John._ Well--* * *--not exactly.

_Jane._ Oh, Mr. Parley--'tis ready--he read it all to me, and

it's real good, if anybody could understand it.

_P._ Bring it here, John. (_John comes up gingerly, and gives

Mr. Parley a piece of paper._)

_John._ There 'tis--but you mustn't read it aloud.

_All the children._ Yes, yes, read it! Read it! Go ahead!

_P._ Well, I'll read it--it looks pretty good. Now let all be

perfectly still. (_Parley reads._)

The Old Hen and the Philosopher: a Fable.

PART I.

REFLECTIONS OF A HEN WITH CHICKENS DURING AN ECLIPSE OF THE SUN.

"Craw * * * craw * * * craw! What's the matter with my eyes? It looks

very dark, for a clear summer's day. I must be getting old, for it

ain't more than ten o'clock, and it seems exactly like sundown. Craw

* * * craw * * * craw! Why, it's getting cold. It seems as chill as

evening. Cut, cut, cudawcut! What can be the matter? Why, the sun is

going to bed before it's fairly got up. Cur--r-r-r-r-r! Well, after

all, it may be only a fit of the vapors--or my gizzard may be put out

of order by that toad I ate yesterday. I thought, then, I should pay

dear for it. Cur--r-r-r-r-r? Here chicks--come under my wings! I'm

going to take a nap. Come along--Nip, Dip, Pip, Rip--come into your

featherbed, my little dearies! There! Don't stick your noses out--be

still now--I'm going to sing a song.

Hush, my chickies--don't you peep--

Hush, my children--go to sleep!

Now the night is dark and thick--

Go to sleep each little chick!

* * * * *

Fiddle-de-dee--I can't sleep, and the chickens are as lively as

bed-bugs. Cut--cut--cu--daw--cut! What on airth is the matter! The

sun has got put out, right up there in the sky, just like a candle.

Well--never did I see or hear of such a thing afore! And now it's

night in the middle of the day! What will come next? Why, I expect I

shall walk on my head, and fly with my claws! It ain't half fair, to

shave an old hen and chickens out of their dinner and supper in this

way. However, it's too dark for decent people to be abroad. So, my

chicks, we must get into the coop and go to rest. Cur--r-r-r-r--it's

very queer indeed. How thankful I am that I don't make day and

night, and get the world into such a scrape as this. Come in! Come

in, chicks! It ain't our affair. Come along--there--you rowdies! You

ain't sleepy, and I don't wonder at it. But hens and chickens must go

to bed when the lamp is put out. Cur--r-r-r-r-r."

PART II.

REFLECTIONS OF A PHILOSOPHER UPON A BLADE OF GRASS.

Here is a leaf, which we call a blade of grass. There are myriads

like it in this field; it seems a trifle; it seems insignificant.

But let me look at it with my glass. How wonderful is its texture!

It seems woven like network, and nothing can exceed the beauty of

its structure. And yet every blade of grass is like this. It exceeds

all human art in the delicacy of its fabric, yet it grows here out

of the ground. _Grows!_ What does that mean? What makes it grow? Has

it life? It must have life, or it could not grow. And what is that

life? It cannot think; it cannot walk; who makes it grow then? Who

made this blade of grass? It was not man; it is not the beast of

the field. It is God who made it! And is God here in the field, all

around me--in every blade of grass, in every leaf, and stem, and

flower?

It must be so, indeed. How full of instruction is every thing around

us, if we use the powers we possess!

* * * * *

_Moral._ Some people believe, that birds and beasts have minds and

souls as well as human beings; but we see that the most stupendous

wonder of nature excited in one of the most intelligent and civilized

of birds, only a queer sort of surprise, expressed in the words

cut--cut--cu--dawcut! At the same time it appears that a single

blade of grass opens to the philosopher a sublime strain of thought,

teaching the profound lesson that God is everywhere!

Is there not a gulf as wide as eternity, between the human soul and

animal instinct?

* * * * *

_All the children._ Bravo, bravo--John!

_Parley._ Well, John--that'll do for a boy. I shan't insert it as

my own, you know; people will say, it's good for John Smith, only

fourteen years old; but for Peter Parley--why, it's too ridiculous,

altogether. At any rate--John--the moral is good--and if people do

laugh at the article, you just say to 'em--_keep your tongue between

your teeth, till you do better, and you won't speak for a year_!

There's nothing like showing a proper spirit upon occasions of

importance.

* * * * *

To return to Mat Olmstead. Notwithstanding his habitual incredulity,

he had still his weak side, for he was a firm believer in ghosts: not

ghosts in general, but in two that he had seen himself. These were

of enormous size, white, and winged like angels. He had seen them

one dark night as he was going to his house, which was situated in

a lonesome lane that diverged from the high road. It was very late,

and Mat had spent the evening at the tavern, like Tam O'Shanter;

like him, he "was na fou, but just had plenty." Well, Mat Olmstead's

two angels turned out to be a couple of white geese, which he had

startled into flight as he stumbled upon them quietly snoozing in the

joint of a rail fence!

It has often appeared to me that Mat Olmstead was a type, a

representative of a class of men not very rare in this world of

ours. It is not at all uncommon to find people, and those who are

called strong-minded, who are habitual unbelievers in things possible

and probable--nay, in things well established by testimony--while

they readily become the dupes of the most absurd illusions and

impositions. Dr. Johnson, it is stated, did not believe in the

great earthquake of Lisbon in 1755, until six months after it had

happened, while he readily accepted the egregious deception of the

Cock Lane Ghost. In our day we see people, and sharp ones, too, who

reject the plainest teachings of common sense, sanctioned by the good

and wise of centuries, and follow with implicit faith some goose

of the imagination, like Joe Smith or Brigham Young. These are Mat

Olmsteads, a little intoxicated by their own imaginations, and in

their night of ignorance and folly they fall down and worship the

grossest and goosiest of illusions.

I now turn to a different character, Lieutenant, or, as we all called

him, _Leftenant_ Smith, who has been already introduced to you. He

was a man of extensive reading and large information; he was also

some sixty years old, and had stored in his memory the results of his

own observation and experience. He read the newspapers and conversed

with travellers, affected philosophy, and deemed himself the great

intelligencer of the town: he dearly loved to dispense his learning,

asking only in return attentive listeners; and he liked discussion,

provided the talk was all left to himself. He was equal to all

questions: with my father, he dilated upon such high matters as the

purchase of Louisiana; Lewis and Clarke's exploring expedition; the

death of Hamilton in the duel with Aaron Burr; the attack of the

Leopard on the Chesapeake; Fulton's attempts at steam navigation, and

the other agitating topics of those times, as they came one after

another.

I have an impression now that Lieut. Smith, after all, was not very

profound; but to me he was a miracle of learning. I listened to his

discussions with very little interest, but his narratives engaged my

whole attention. These were always descriptive of actual events, for

he would have disdained fiction: from them I derived a satisfaction

that I never found in fables. The travels of Mungo Park, his strange

adventures and melancholy death, which about those days transpired

through the newspapers, and all of which Lieut. Smith had at his

tongue's end, excited my interest and my imagination, even beyond the

romances of Sinbad the Sailor and Robinson Crusoe.

In the year 1807 an event occurred, not only startling in itself,

but giving exercise to all the philosophical powers of Lieut. Smith.

On the morning of the 14th of December, about daybreak, I had

arisen, and was occupied in building a fire, this being my daily

duty; suddenly the room was filled with light, and, looking up, I

saw through the window a ball of fire, nearly the size of the moon,

passing across the heavens from north-west to south-east. It was

at an immense height, and of intense brilliancy. Having passed the

zenith, it swiftly descended toward the earth: while still at a great

elevation it burst, with three successive explosions, into fiery

fragments. The report was like three claps of rattling thunder in

quick succession.

My father, who saw the light and heard the sounds, declared it to

be a meteor of extraordinary magnitude. It was noticed all over the

town, and caused great excitement. On the following day the news

came that huge fragments of stone had fallen in the adjacent town

of Weston, some eight or ten miles south-east of Ridgefield. It

appeared that the people in the neighborhood heard the rushing of the

stones through the air, as well as the shock when they struck the

earth. One, weighing two hundred pounds, fell on a rock, which it

splintered; its huge fragments ploughing up the ground around to the

extent of a hundred feet. This meteor was estimated to be half-a-mile

in diameter, and to have travelled through the heavens at the rate of

two or three hundred miles a minute.

On this extraordinary occasion the Lieutenant came to our house,

according to his wont, and for several successive evenings discoursed

to us upon the subject. I must endeavor to give you a specimen of his

performances.

"I have examined the subject, sir," said he, addressing my father,

"and am inclined to the opinion that these phenomena are animals

revolving in the orbits of space between the heavenly bodies.

Occasionally, one of them comes too near the earth, and rushing

through our atmosphere with immense velocity, takes fire and

explodes!"

"This is rather a new theory, is it not?" said my father. "It

appears that these meteoric stones, in whatever country they fall,

are composed of the same ingredients: mostly silex, iron, and nickel:

these substances would make rather a hard character, if endowed with

animal life, and especially with the capacity of rushing through

space at the rate of two or three hundred miles a minute, and then

exploding?"

"These substances I consider only as the shell of the animal, sir."

"You regard the creature as a huge shell-fish, then?"

"Not necessarily a fish; for the whole order of nature, called

_Crustacea_, has the bones on the outside. In this case of meteors,

I suppose them to be covered with some softer substance; for it

frequently happens that a jelly-like matter comes down with meteoric

stones. This resembles coagulated blood; and thus what is called

bloody rain or snow has often fallen over great spaces of country.

Now, when the chemists analyze these things--the stones, which I

consider the bones; and the jelly, which I consider the fat; and

the rain, which I consider the blood--they find them all to consist

of the same elements; that is, silex, iron, nickel, &c. None but my

animal theory will harmonise all these phenomena, sir."

"But," interposed my father, "consider the enormous size of your

aërial monsters. I recollect to have read only a short time since,

that in the year 1803, about one o'clock in the afternoon, the

inhabitants of several towns of Normandy, in France, heard noises in

the sky, like the peals of cannon and musketry, with a long-continued

roll of drums. Looking upward, they saw something like a small cloud

at an immense elevation, which soon seemed to explode, sending its

vapor in all directions. At last a hissing noise was heard, and then

stones fell, spreading over a country three miles wide by eight

miles long. No less than two thousand pieces were collected, weighing

from one ounce to seventeen pounds. That must have been rather a

large animal, eight miles long and three miles wide!"

"What is that, sir, in comparison with the earth, which Kepler, the

greatest philosopher that ever lived, conceived to be a huge beast?"

"Yes; but did he prove it?"

"He gave good reasons for it, sir. He found very striking analogies

between the earth and animal existences: such as the tides,

indicating its breathing through vast internal lungs; earthquakes,

resembling eructations from the stomach; and volcanoes, suggestive of

boils, pimples, and other cutaneous eruptions."

"I think I have seen your theory set to verse."

Saying this, my father rose, and bringing a book, read as follows,--

"To me things are not as to vulgar eyes--

I would all nature's works anatomize:

This world a living monster seems to me,

Rolling and sporting in the aërial sea:

The soil encompasses her rocks and stones,

As flesh in animals encircles bones.

I see vast ocean, like a heart in play,

Pant systole and diastole every day.

The world's great lungs, monsoons and trade-winds show--

From east to west, from west to east they blow.

The hills are pimples, which earth's face defile,

And burning Etna an eruptive boil.

On her high mountains living forests grow,

And downy grass o'erspreads the vales below:

From her vast body perspirations rise,

Condense in clouds and float beneath the skies."

My father having closed the book, the profound Lieutenant, who did

not conceive it possible that a thing so serious could be made the

subject of a joke, said,--

"A happy illustration of my philosophy, sir, though I cannot commend

the form in which it is put. If a man has anything worth saying,

sir, he should use prose. Poetry is only proper when one wishes to

embellish folly or dignify trifles. In this case it is otherwise, I

admit; and I am happy to find so powerful a supporter of my animal

theory of meteors. I shall consider the subject, and present it for

the consideration of the philosophic world."

One prominent characteristic of this philosopher was, that when a

great event came about, he fancied that he had foreseen and predicted

it from the beginning. Now, about this time Fulton actually succeeded

in his long-sought application of steam to navigation. The general

opinion of the country had been, all along, that he was a monomaniac,

attempting an impossibility. He was the standing theme of cheap

newspaper wit, and a God-send to orators who were hard run for a

joke. Lieutenant Smith, who was only an echo of what passed around

him during the period of Fulton's labors, joined in the current

contempt; but when the news came, in October, 1807, that he had

actually succeeded--that one of his boats had steamed at the rate of

five miles an hour against the current of the Hudson river--then,

still an echo of the public voice, did he greatly jubilate.

"I told you so! I told you so!" was his first exclamation, as he

entered the house, swelling with the account.

"Well, and what is it?" said my father.

"Fulton has made his boat go, sir! I told you how it would be, sir.

It opens a new era in the history of navigation. We shall go to

Europe in ten days, sir."

Now, you will readily understand, that in these sketches I do not

pretend to report with literal precision the profound discourses of

our Ridgefield _savant_; I remember only the general outlines, the

rest being easily suggested. My desire is to present the portrait

of one of the notables of our village--one whom I remember with

pleasure, and whom I conceive to be a representative of the amiable,

and perhaps useful race of fussy philosophers to be found in most

country villages.

From the town oracle I turn to the town miser. Granther Baldwin, as

I remember him, was threescore years and ten--perhaps a little more.

He was a man of middle size, thin, wiry, and bloodless, and having

his body bent forward at a sharp angle with his hips, while his head

was thrown back over his shoulders, giving his person the general

form of a reversed letter Z. His complexion was brown and stony; his

eye grey and twinkling, with a nose and chin almost meeting like a

pair of forceps. His hair, standing out with an irritable friz, was

of a rusty gray. He always walked and rode with restless rapidity.

At church, he wriggled in his seat, tasted fennel, and bobbed his

head up and down and around. He could not afford tobacco, so he

chewed, with a constant activity, either an oak chip or the roots

of elecampane, which was indigenous in the lane near his house.

On Sundays he was decent in his attire, but on week-days he was a

beggarly curiosity. It was said that he once exchanged hats with a

scarecrow, and cheated scandalously in the bargain. His boots--a

withered wreck of an old pair of whitetops--dangled over his shrunken

calves and a coat in tatters fluttered from his body. He rode a

rat-tailed, ambling mare, which always went like the wind, shaking

the old gentleman merrily from right to left, and making his bones,

boots, and rags rustle like his own bush-harrow. Familiar as he was,

the school-boys were never tired of him, and when he passed, "There

goes Granther Baldwin!" was the invariable ejaculation.

I must add, in order to complete the picture, that in contrast

to his leanness and activity, his wife was very fat, and, either

from indolence or lethargy, dozed away half her life in the

chimney-corner. She spent a large part of her life in cheating her

husband out of fourpence-ha'pennies, of which more than a peck were

found secreted in an old chest at her death.

It was the boast of this man that he had risen from poverty to

wealth, and he loved to describe the process of his advancement. He

always worked in the cornfield till it was so dark that he could

see his hoe strike fire. When in the heat of summer he was obliged

occasionally to let his cattle breathe, he sat on a sharp stone, lest

he should rest too long. He paid half-a-dollar to the parson for

marrying him, which he always regretted, as one of his neighbors got

the job done for a pint of mustard-seed. On fast-days he made his

cattle go without food as well as himself. He systematically stooped

to save a crooked pin or a rusty nail, as it would cost more to make

it than to pick it up. Such were his boasts--or at least, such were

the things traditionally imputed to him.

He was withal a man of keen faculties; sagacious in the purchase

of land, as well as in the rotation of crops. He was literally

honest, and never cheated any one out of a farthing, according to

his arithmetic, though he had sometimes an odd way of reckoning. It

is said that in his day the law imposed a fine of one dollar for

profane swearing. During this period, Granther Baldwin employed a

carpenter who was notoriously addicted to this vice. Granther kept a

strict account of every instance of transgression, and when the job

was done, and the time came to settle the account, he said to the

carpenter,--

"You've worked with me thirty days, I think, Mr. Kellogg?"

"Yes, Granther," was the reply.

"At a dollar a-day: that makes thirty dollars, I think?"

"Yes, Granther."

"Mr. Kellogg, I am sorry to observe that you have a very bad habit of

taking the Lord's name in vain."

"Yes, Granther."

"Well, you know that's agin the law."

"Yes, Granther."

"And there's a fine of one dollar for each offence."

"Yes, Granther."

"Well--here's the account I've kept, and I find you've broken the law

twenty-five times; that is, sixteen times in April, and nine in May.

At a dollar a time, that makes twenty-five dollars--don't it?"

"Yes, Granther."

"So, then, twenty-five from thirty leaves five; it appears,

therefore, that there is a balance of five dollars due to you. How'll

you take it, Mr. Kellogg? In cash, or in my way--say in 'taters,

pork, and other things?"

At this point the carpenter's brow lowered, but with a prodigious

effort at composure he replied,--

"Well, Granther, you may keep the five dollars, and I'll take it out

in _my_ way--that is, in swearing!"

Upon this he hurled at the old gentleman a volley of oaths, too

numerous and too profane to repeat.

One sketch more, and my gallery of eccentricities is finished. Men

hermits have been frequently heard of, but a woman hermit is of rare

occurrence. Nevertheless, Ridgefield could boast of one of these

among its curiosities. Sarah Bishop was, at the period of my boyhood,

a thin, ghostly old woman, bent and wrinkled, but still possessing a

good deal of activity. She lived in a cave, formed by nature, in a

mass of projecting rocks that overhung a deep valley or gorge in West

Mountain, about four miles from our house.

The rock, bare and desolate, was her home, except that occasionally

she strayed to the neighborhood villages; seldom being absent more

than one or two days at a time. She never begged, but received such

articles as were given to her. She was of a highly religious turn

of mind, and at long intervals came to our church, and partook of

the sacrament. She sometimes visited our family--the only one thus

favored in the town--and occasionally remained overnight. She never

would eat with us at the table, nor engage in general conversation.

Upon her early history she was invariably silent; indeed, she spoke

of her affairs with great reluctance. She neither seemed to have

sympathy for others, nor to ask it in return. If there was any

exception, it was only in respect to the religious exercises of the

family: she listened intently to the reading of the Bible, and joined

with apparent devotion in the morning and evening prayer.

My excursions frequently brought me within the wild precincts of

her solitary den. Several times I have paid a visit to the spot,

and in two instances found her at home. A place more desolate, in

its general outline, more absolutely given up to the wildness of

nature, it is impossible to conceive. Her cave was a hollow in the

rock, about six feet square. Except a few rags and an old basin, it

was without furniture; her bed being the floor of the cave, and her

pillow a projecting point of the rock. It was entered by a natural

door about three feet wide and four feet high, and was closed in

severe weather only by pieces of bark. At a distance of a few feet

was a cleft, where she kept a supply of roots and nuts, which she

gathered, and the food that was given her. She was reputed to have

a secret depository, where she kept a quantity of antique dresses;

several of them of rich silks, and apparently suited to fashionable

life: though I think this was an exaggeration. At a little distance

down the ledge there was a fine spring of water, near which she was

often found in fair weather.

There was no attempt, either in or around the spot, to bestow upon

it an air of convenience or comfort. A small space of cleared ground

was occupied by a few thriftless peachtrees, and in summer a patch

of starveling beans, cucumbers, and potatoes. Up two or three of the

adjacent forest-trees there clambered luxuriant grape-vines, highly

productive in their season. With the exception of these feeble marks

of cultivation, all was left ghastly and savage as nature made it.

The trees, standing upon the tops of the cliff, and exposed to the

shock of the tempest, were bent and stooping towards the valley:

their limbs contorted, and their roots clinging, as with an agonized

grasp, into the rifts of the rocks upon which they stood. Many

of them were hoary with age, and hollow with decay; others were

stripped of their leaves by the blasts; and others still, grooved

and splintered by the lightning. The valley below, enriched with

the decay of centuries, and fed with moisture from the surrounding

hills, was a wild paradise of towering oaks, and other giants of the

vegetable kingdom, with a rank undergrowth of tangled shrubs. In

the distance, to the east, the gathered streams spread out into a

beautiful expanse of water called Long Pond.

A place at once so secluded and so wild was, of course, the chosen

haunt of birds, beasts and reptiles. The eagle built her nest and

reared her young in the clefts of the rocks; foxes found shelter in

the caverns; and serpents revelled alike in the dry hollows of the

cliffs and the dark recesses of the valley. The hermitess had made

companionship with these brute tenants of the wood. The birds had

become so familiar with her, that they seemed to heed her almost as

little as if she had been a stone. The fox fearlessly pursued his

hunt and his gambols in her presence. The rattlesnake hushed his

monitory signal as he approached her. Such things, at least, were

entertained by the popular belief. It was said, indeed, that she had

domesticated a particular rattlesnake, and that he paid her daily

visits. She was accustomed--so said the legend--to bring him milk

from the villages, which he devoured with great relish.

It will not surprise you that a subject like this should have given

rise to one of my first poetical efforts; the first verses, in fact,

that I ever published. I gave them to Brainard, then editor of the

Mirror, at Hartford; and he inserted them, probably about the year

1823.

The facts in respect to this Nun of the Mountain were, indeed,

strange enough, without any embellishment of fancy. During the winter

she was confined for several months to her cell. At that period she

lived upon roots and nuts, which she had laid in for the season.

She had no fire; and, deserted even by her brute companions, she

was absolutely alone. She appeared to have no sense of solitude, no

weariness at the slow lapse of days and months. When spring returned,

she came down from her mountain a mere shadow; each year her form

more bent, her limbs more thin and wasted, her hair more blanched,

her eye more colorless. At last, life seemed ebbing away, like the

faint light of a lamp sinking into the socket. The final winter came;

it passed, and she was not seen in the villages around. Some of the

inhabitants went to the mountain, and found her standing erect, her

feet sunk in the frozen marsh of the valley. In this situation, being

unable to extricate herself, she had yielded her breath to Him who

gave it!

The early history of this strange personage was involved in some

mystery. So much as this, however, was ascertained, that she was

of good family, and lived on Long Island. During the Revolutionary

war, in one of the numerous forays of the British soldiers, her

father's house was burned, and she was infamously treated. Desolate

in fortune, blighted at heart, she fled from human society, and

for a long time concealed her sorrows in the cavern which she had

accidentally found. Her grief--softened by time, perhaps alleviated

by a veil of insanity--was at length so far mitigated, that, although

she did not seek human society, she could endure it. She continued to

occupy her cave till the year 1810 or 1811, when she departed in the

manner I have described; and we may hope, for a brighter and happier

existence.

CHAPTER IX.

FAREWELL TO HOME--DANBURY--MY NEW VOCATION--MY

BROTHER-IN-LAW--HIS CONVERSATIONS WITH LAWYER HATCH--CLERICAL

ANECDOTES.

In the autumn of the year 1808, a sudden change took place in my

prospects. My eldest sister had married a gentleman by the name of

Cooke, in the adjacent town of Danbury. He was a tradesman, and

being in want of a clerk, offered me the place. It was considered a

desirable situation by my parents, and, overlooking my mechanical

aptitudes, they accepted it at once, and at the age of fifteen I

found myself installed in a country store.

This arrangement gratified my love of change; and at the same time,

as Danbury was a much more considerable town than Ridgefield,

going to live there naturally suggested the idea of advancement,

especially as I was to exchange my uncertain prospects for a positive

profession. However, I little comprehended what it meant to say,

"Farewell to home:" I have since learned its significance. In thus

bidding adieu to the paternal roof, we part with youth for ever.

We part with the spring-tide of life, which strews every path with

flowers, fills the air with poetry, and the heart with rejoicing. We

part with that genial spirit which endows familiar objects--brooks,

lawns, play-grounds, hill-sides--with its own sweet illusions; we bid

adieu to this and its fairy companionships. Even if, in after life,

we return to the scenes of our childhood, they have lost the bloom

of youth, and in its place we see the wrinkles of that age which has

graven its hard lines upon our hearts.

Farewell to home implies something even yet more serious: we

relinquish, and often with exultation, the tender care of parents, in

order to take upon ourselves the responsibilities of independence.

What seeming infatuation it is, that renders us thus impatient of the

guidance of those who gave us being, and makes us at the same time

anxious to spread our untried sails upon an untried sea, to go upon

a voyage which involves all the chances, evil as well as good, of

existence! And yet it is not infatuation--it is instinct. We cannot

always be young; we cannot all remain under the paternal roof. The

old birds push the young ones from the nest, and force them to a

trial of their wings. It is the system of nature that impels us to go

forth and try our fortunes, and it is a kind Providence, after all,

which endues us with courage for the outset of our uncertain career.

I was not long in discovering that my new vocation was very different

from what I had expected, and very different from my accustomed way

of life. My habits had been active, my employments chiefly in the

open air. I was accustomed to be frequently on horseback, and to make

excursions to the neighboring towns. I had also enjoyed much personal

liberty, which I failed not to use in rambling over the fields and

forests. All this was now changed. My duties lay exclusively in

the store, and this seemed now my prison. From morning to night I

remained there, and, as our business was not large, I had many hours

upon my hands with nothing to do but to consider the weariness of my

situation. My brother-in-law was always present, and being a man of

severe aspect and watchful eyes, I felt a sort of restraint, which,

for a time, was agonizing. I had, consequently, pretty sharp attacks

of homesickness; a disease which, though not dangerous, is one of the

most distressing to which suffering humanity is exposed.

This state of misery continued for some weeks, during which time

I revolved various plans of escape from my confinement: such as

stealing away at night, making my way to Norwalk, getting on board

a sloop, and going as cabin-boy to the West Indies. I believe that

a small impulse would have set me upon some such mad expedition. By

degrees, however, I became habituated to my occupation, and as my

situation was eligible in other respects, I found myself ere long

reconciled to it.

The father and mother of my brother-in-law were aged people, living

with him in the same house, and as one family. They were persons of

great amiability and excellence of character: the former, Colonel

Cooke, was eighty years of age, but he had still the perfect exercise

of his faculties, and though he had ceased all business, he was

cheerful, and took a lively interest in passing events. Never have

I seen a more pleasing spectacle than this reverend couple, at the

age of fourscore, both smoking their pipes in the evening, with two

generations of their descendants around them.

My brother-in-law was a man of decided character, and his portrait

deserves a place in these annals. He had graduated at Yale College,

and had been qualified for the bar; but his health was feeble, and

therefore, chiefly for occupation, he succeeded to the store which

his father had kept before him. Being in easy circumstances, he made

no great efforts in business. Though, as I have said, he was of

stern aspect, and his manners were somewhat cold and distant, his

character was that of a just and kind man. In business he treated

people respectfully, but he never solicited custom: he showed, but

never recommended his goods. If his advice were asked, he offered it

without regard to his own interest. He gave me no instructions, but

left me to the influence of his example. He was of a religious turn

of mind, not merely performing the accustomed duties of a Christian,

but making devotional books a large part of his study. Perhaps he was

conscious of failing health, and already heard the monitory voice of

that disease which was ere long to terminate his career.

Nevertheless, he was not insensible to the pleasures of cultivated

society, and however grave he might be in his general air and manner,

he was particularly gratified with the visits of a man, in all things

his opposite, Moses Hatch, then a leading lawyer in Danbury.

This person was a frequent visitor to the store, and the long winter

which commenced soon after I entered upon my apprenticeship was not a

little enlivened by his conversations with my master. It frequently

happened during the deep snows, that the day passed without a single

customer, and on these occasions Lawyer Hatch was pretty sure to

pay us a visit. It was curious to see these two men, so opposite

in character, attracted to each other as if by contradiction.

My brother-in-law evidently found a pleasant relaxation in the

conversation of his neighbor, embellished with elegant wit and varied

learning, while the latter derived equal gratification from the

serious, manly intellect of his friend. In general the former was the

talker, and the latter the listener; yet sometimes the conversation

became discussion, and a keen trial of wit _versus_ logic ensued. The

lawyer always contended for victory; my brother-in-law for the truth.

The precise form of these conversations has vanished from my mind,

but some of the topics remain. I recollect long talks about the

embargo, non-intercourse, and other Jeffersonian measures, which

were treated with unsparing ridicule and reproach; anecdotes and

incidents of Napoleon, who excited mingled admiration and terror;

with observations upon public men, as well in Europe as America. I

remember also a very keen discussion upon Berkeley's theory of the

ideality of nature, mental and material, which so far excited my

curiosity, that, finding the "Minute Philosopher" by that author,

in the family library, I read it through with great interest

and attention. The frequent references to Shakespeare in these

conversations led me to look into his works, and, incited by the

recommendations of my sister, I read them through, somewhat doggedly,

seeking even to penetrate the more difficult and obscure passages.

It frequently happened that my master, owing to the influence of

disease, was affected with depression of spirits; and the lawyer's

best wit and choicest stories were expended without even exciting

a smile. Not discouraged, but rather stimulated by such adversity,

he usually went on, and was pretty sure at last to strike the vein,

as Moses did the water in the rock, and a gush of uncontrollable

laughter was the result. I remember in one instance, Mr. Cooke sat

for a long time, looking moodily into the fire, while Squire Hatch

went on telling stories, chiefly about clergymen, of which he had a

great assortment. I will endeavor to give you a sketch of the scene.

"I know not why it is so," said the lawyer; "but the fact is

undeniable, that the most amusing anecdotes are about clergymen.

The reason perhaps is, that incongruity is the source of humorous

associations; and this is evidently the most frequent and striking

in a profession which sets apart its members as above the mass of

mankind, in a certain gravity of character and demeanor, of which the

black coat is the emblem. A spot upon this strikes every eye, while a

brown coat, being the color of dirt, hides rather than reveals what

is upon its surface. Thus it is, as we all know, that what would be

insipid as coming from a layman, is very laughable if it happens to

a parson. I have heard that on a certain occasion, as the Rev. J----

M---- was about to read a hymn, he saw a little boy sitting behind

the chorister in the gallery, who had intensely red hair. The day

was cold, and the little rogue was pretending to warm his hands by

holding them close to the chorister's head. This so disconcerted the

minister, that it was some minutes before he could go on with the

services."

The only effect of this was, that my master drew down one corner of

his mouth.

"I have heard of another clergyman," said the lawyer, "who suffered

in a similar way. One day, in the very midst of his sermon, he saw

Deacon B---- fast asleep, his head leaning back on the rail of the

pew, and his mouth wide open. A young fellow in the gallery above,

directly over him, took a quid of tobacco from his mouth, and taking

a careful aim, let it drop plump into the deacon's mouth. The latter

started from his sleep, and went through a terrible paroxysm of

fright and choking before he recovered."

Mr. Cooke bit his lip, but was silent. Lawyer Hatch, although he

pretended to be all the while looking into the fire, got a quick

side-glance at the face of his auditor, and continued,--

"You know the Rev. Dr. B----, sir? Well, one day he told me, that as

he was on his way to New Haven he came to the house of one of his

former parishioners, who, some years before, had removed to that

place. As he was about to pass it, he remembered that this person had

died recently, and he thought it meet and proper to stop and condole

with the widow. She met him very cheerfully, and they had some

pleasant chat together.

"'Madam,' said he, after a time, 'it is a painful subject--but you

have recently met with a severe loss.'

"She instantly applied her apron to her eyes, and said,--

"'Oh yes, doctor; there's no telling how I feel.'

"'It is indeed a great bereavement you have suffered.'

"'Yes, doctor; very great, indeed.'

"'I hope you bear it with submission?'

"'I try tu; but oh, doctor, I sometimes feel in my heart--Goosy,

goosy gander, where shall I wander?'"

The lawyer glanced at the object of his attack, and seeming to see a

small breach in the wall, he thought it time to bring up his heavy

guns. He went on,--

"There's another story about this same Dr. B----, which is amusing.

Some years ago he lost his wife, and after a time he began to look

out for another. At last he fixed his mind upon a respectable lady

in a neighboring town, and commenced paying her his addresses.

This naturally absorbed much of his time and attention, and his

parish became dissatisfied. The deacons of the church held several

conferences on the subject, and it was finally agreed that Deacon

Becket, who had the grace of smooth speech, should give the Reverend

Doctor a hint of what they deemed his fearful backsliding.

Accordingly, the next Sabbath morning, on going to church, the deacon

overtook the parson, and the following dialogue ensued,--

"'Good morning, Dr. B----.'

"'Good morning, Deacon Becket.'

"'Well, Doctor, I'm glad to meet you; for I wanted to say to you as

how I thought of changing my pew!'

"'Indeed! And why so?'

"'Well, I'll tell you. I sit, as you know, clear over the backside of

the meeting-house; and between me and the pulpit there's Judy Vickar,

Molly Warren, Experience Pettibone, and half-a-dozen old maids, who

sit with their mouths wide open, and they catch all the best of your

sarmon; and when it gets to me, it's plaguy poor stuff!'"

My brother-in-law could hold out no longer: his face was agitated for

a moment with nervous spasms; and then, bending forward, he burst

into a round, hearty laugh. The lawyer--who made it a point never to

smile at his own jokes--still had a look upon his face as much as to

say, "Well, sir, I thought I should get my case."

It may be easily imagined that I was greatly interested by these

conversations and discussions; and always felt not a little annoyed,

if perchance, as sometimes happened, I was called away in the midst

of a good story, or a keen debate, to supply a customer with a

gallon of treacle, or a paper of pins. I know not if this disgusted

me with my trade; but it is very certain that I conceived for it a

great dislike, nearly from the beginning. Never, so far as I can

recollect, did I for one moment enter heartily into its spirit. I

was always, while I continued in it, a mere servile laborer; doing

my duty, perhaps, yet with a languid and reluctant heart. However,

I got through the winter; and when the summer came, Mr. Cooke

nearly gave up personal attention to business in consequence of ill

health; and we had a new clerk, who was older than myself, and took

the responsible charge of the establishment. He was an excellent

merchant, and to me was a kind and indulgent friend. He afterwards

settled in Troy, where he is still living, in the enjoyment of an

ample fortune, and in excellent reputation as a father, friend,

Christian, and neighbor; the natural fruit of good sense, good

temper, and good conduct.

CHAPTER X.

NEW HAVEN--DISTINGUISHED MEN--WHITNEY'S COTTON-GIN--DURHAM--MY

GRANDMOTHER'S INDIAN PUDDINGS--IN SEARCH OF A DOCTOR--RETURN TO

DANBURY--THE COLD FRIDAY--FACTORY WORKMEN--MATHEMATICS.

In the summer of 1809 I made a short tour with my brother-in-law and

my sister, for the health of the former. This, to me, was a grand

expedition; for among other places we visited was New Haven, then a

sort of Jerusalem in my imagination; a holy place containing Yale

College, of which Dr. Dwight was president. Besides all this, one of

my uncles and some of my cousins lived there; and, better still, my

brother was there, and then a member of the college. Ah, how my heart

beat when we set out! Such was the vividness of my perceptions, that

I could fill a book with recollections of that short, simple journey;

the whole circuit not exceeding one hundred and twenty miles.

I was duly impressed with the beauty of New Haven; for then, as

now, it was celebrated for a rare union of rural freshness and city

elegance. I have recently, in passing through it, had a transient

view of its appearance; and may safely affirm that, after pretty

large observation in the Old World as well as in the New, I know of

no town or city more inviting; especially to one whose judgment is

cultivated by observation and study, and whose feelings are chastened

by reflection and experience. There is something of the activity and

bustle of commerce in a part of the town, and at one point, all the

spasm of a railway station. In other portions of the place, and over

three-fourths of its area, there is the quietude and repose proper

to a seat of learning. Here the houses seem suited to the city, each

with a garden breathing the perfumes of the country.

At the period of the visit I am describing, New Haven had not

one-half its present population; and many of the institutions which

now adorn it did not exist. The College, however, was then as now, a

leading literary institution in the country. To me it was an object

of special reverence, as my grandfather and his five sons had all

graduated there. My brother and two of my cousins were at this time

among its inmates. Of course, I looked with intense curiosity at the

several buildings that belonged to it. Many things here excited my

admiration. I looked with particular interest--I may add, with some

degree of envy--at the students, who seemed to me the privileged

sons of the earth. Several were pointed out as promising to be the

master-spirits of their age and generation; in some cases, I have

since seen these anticipations fulfilled.

Next to the College I visited the Bay, and for the first time

actually stood upon the shore of that living sea which, through my

whole childhood, had spread its blue bosom before me in the distant

horizon. A party of three or four of us took a boat, and went down

toward the entrance of the Bay, landing on the eastern side. From

this point the view was enchanting; it was a soft summer afternoon,

and the sea only breathed upon by light puffs of wind that came

from the west. I looked long, and with a species of entrancement,

at its heaving and swelling surface: I ran my eye far away, till

it met the line where sky and wave are blended together: I followed

the lulling surf as it broke, curling and winding, among the mimic

bays of the rocky shore. It was a spectacle, not only full of beauty

in itself, but to me it was a revelation and a fulfilment of the

thousand half-formed fancies which had been struggling in my longing

bosom from very childhood.

[Illustration: FIRST ADVENTURE ON THE SEA.]

Our party was so occupied with our contemplations, that we had

scarcely noticed a thunder-storm, which now approached and menaced

us from the west. We set out to return, but before we had got half

across the Bay it broke full upon us. The change in the aspect of

the sea was fearful: all its gentleness was gone; and now, black and

scowling, it seemed as if agitated by a demon, threatening everything

with destruction that came within its scope. By a severe struggle we

succeeded in reaching Long Walk, though not without risk.

While staying at New Haven, I met many distinguished men; as the

house of my uncle, Elizur Goodrich, was frequented by all the

celebrities of the place. Among these was Eli Whitney, the inventor

of the cotton-gin, a machine for combing out the seeds from the

cotton in its raw state, to which America may almost be said to owe

her cotton trade. Whitney's first gin was made in 1793, at which time

almost the whole of our raw material was imported. The results of

his invention may be estimated by the fact, that while in 1789 only

one million pounds of cotton were produced in the United States, the

product of the year 1855 exceeded fourteen hundred millions!

We saw the original model of Mr. Whitney's gin at his gun-factory,

which was situated in a wild, romantic spot, near the foot of East

Rock, and about two miles distant from New Haven.

Having spent about a week at New Haven, we proceeded to Durham, an

old-fashioned, sleepy town, of a thousand inhabitants. It is chiefly

remarkable for the distinguished men it has produced--the Chaunceys,

celebrated in the annals of New England, and, I may add, in those

of the country at large; the Wadsworths, no less noted in various

commanding stations, military and civil, public and private; the

Lymans, renowned in the battlefield, the college, the pulpit, and the

senate; the Austins--father and son--to whose talent and enterprise

Texas owes her position as a member of the Union.

To this list of remarkable names, I trust I may add that of the

Goodriches, without the imputation of egotism, for historical

justice demands it. At the time I visited the place, nearly all the

family had long since left it. My grandfather, Dr. Goodrich, died in

1797, but my grandmother was living, as well as her daughter, Mrs.

Smith, wife of Rev. David Smith, the clergyman of the place, who had

succeeded to my grandfather's pulpit.

I trust I have all due respect for my paternal grandmother, who has

already, by the way, been introduced to your notice. She was now

quite lame, but active, energetic, and alive to everything that was

passing. She welcomed me heartily, and took the best care of me in

the world, lavishing upon me, without stint, all the treasures of her

abundant larder. As to her Indian puddings--alas, I shall never see

their like again! A comfortable old body she was in all things, and,

as I have before remarked, took a special interest in the welfare of

the generation of descendants rising up around her. When she saw me

eating with a good appetite, her benignant grandmotherly face beamed

like a lantern.

As to my uncle and aunt Smith, I may remark that they were plain,

pious people, the former worthily filling the pulpit of my

grandfather, and enjoying a high degree of respect, alike from his

position and character. Besides attending to his parochial duties,

he prepared young men for college. Among his pupils were several

persons who attained distinction. As a man, he was distinguished

for his cheerful, frank, friendly manners: as a preacher, he was

practical, sincere, and successful. I must mention a story of him,

among my pulpit anecdotes. As sometimes happens, in a congregation

of farmers during midsummer, it once chanced that a large number of

his people, even the deacons in the sacramental seat, fell asleep in

the very midst of the sermon. The minister looked around, and just at

this moment, the only person who seemed quite awake was his eldest

son, David, sitting in the pew by the side of the pulpit. Pausing a

moment, and looking down upon his son, he exclaimed, in a powerful

voice:

"David, wake up!"

In a moment the whole congregation roused themselves, and long did

they remember the rebuke.

During our stay at Durham, my brother-in-law was so ill as to need

the advice of a skilful physician. Accordingly, I was dispatched on

horseback to Middletown, a distance of eight or ten miles, for Dr.

O----, then famous in all the country round about. On my way I met a

man of weather-beaten complexion and threadbare garments, mounted on

a lean and jaded mare. Beneath him was a pair of plump saddlebags.

He had all the marks of a doctor, for then men of his profession

traversed the country on horseback, carrying with them a collection

of pills, powders, and elixirs, equivalent to an apothecary's shop.

Instinct told me that he was my man. As I was about to pass him

I drew in my breath, to ask if he were Dr. O----, but a sudden

bashfulness seized me: the propitious moment passed, and I went on.

On arriving at the house of Dr. O----, I learned that he had gone

to the village in the south-western part of the town, six or eight

miles off. "There!" said I to myself, "I knew it was he: if I had

only spoken to him!" However, reflection was vain. I followed to the

designated spot, and there I found that he had left about half an

hour before, for another village in the central part of the town. I

gave chase, but he was too quick for me, so that I was obliged to

return to Durham without him. "Ah!" I thought, "how much trouble a

little courage would have saved me!" In fact, I took the incident

to heart, and have often practised to advantage upon the lesson it

suggested; which is, Never to let a doctor, or anything else, slip,

for the want of asking an opportune question.

At length we departed from Durham, and took our way homeward, through

a series of small towns, arriving at last at Woodbury. The week of

our sojourn here flew on golden wings with me. The village itself

was after my own heart. It lies in a small tranquil valley, its

western boundary consisting of a succession of gentle acclivities,

covered with forests; that on the east is formed of basaltic ledges,

broken into wild and picturesque forms, rising sharp and hard against

the horizon. Through the valley, in long serpentine sweeps, flows

a stream, clear and bright, now dashing and now sauntering; here

presenting a rapid, and there a glassy pool. In ancient times it

was bordered by cities of the beaver; it was now the haunt of a few

isolated and persecuted muskrats. In the spring and autumn, the wild

ducks, in their migrations, often stooped to its bosom for a night's

lodging. At all seasons it was renowned for its trout. In former

ages, when the rivers, protected by the deep forests, ran full to the

brim, and when the larger streams were filled to repletion with shad

and salmon, this was sometimes visited by enterprising individuals

of their race, which shot up cataracts, and leaped over obstructing

rocks, roots, and mounds, impelled by instinct to seek places remote

from the sea, where they might deposit their spawn in safety. In

those days, I imagine, the accidents and incidents of shad and salmon

life often rivalled the adventurous annals of Marco Polo or Robinson

Crusoe.

There was about this little village a singular union of refinement

and rusticity, of cultivated plain and steepling rock, of blooming

meadow and dusky forest. The long, wide street, saving the highway

and a few stray paths here and there, was a bright, grassy lawn,

decorated with abundance of sugar-maples, which appeared to have

found their Paradise. Such is the shape of the encircling hills

and ledges that the site of the village seemed a sort of secluded

Happy Valley, where everything turns to poetry and romance. And this

aptitude is abundantly encouraged by history; for here was once the

favored home of a tribe of Indians. All around--the rivers, the

hills, the forests--are still rife with legends and remembrances

of the olden time. A rocky mound, rising above the river on one

side, and dark forests on the other, bears the name of "Pomperaug's

Castle;" a little to the north, near a bridle-path that traversed the

meadows, was a heap of stones, called "Pomperaug's Grave." To the

east I found a wild ledge, called "Bethel Rock." And each of these

objects has its story.

It was a great time, that happy week--for let it be remembered that

for a whole year I had been imprisoned in a country store. What

melody was there in the forest echoes then! Ah! I have since heard

Catalani, and Garcia, and Pasta, and Sontag, and Grisi; I have even

heard "the Swedish Nightingale;" nay, in France and Italy--the very

home of music and song--I have listened to the true nightingale,

which has given to Jenny Lind her sweetest and most appropriate

epithet; but never, in one or all, have I heard such music as filled

my ears that incense-breathing morn, when I made a foray into the

wilds of Woodbury!

We returned to Danbury after a tour of some five or six weeks. The

succeeding autumn and winter presented no peculiar incident--with a

single exception. There was, if I rightly remember, in the month of

February, a certain "cold Friday," which passed down to succeeding

generations as among the marvels of the time. It had snowed heavily

for three days, and the ground was covered three feet deep. A driving

wind from the north-east then set in, and growing colder and colder,

it became at last so severe as to force everybody to shelter. This

continued for two days, the whole air being filled with sleet, so

that the sun, without a cloud in the sky, shone dim and grey as

through a fog. The third day the wind increased, both in force and

intensity of cold. Horses, cattle, fowls, sheep, perished in their

coverings. The roads were blocked up with enormous drifts; the mails

were stopped, travelling was suspended; the world, indeed, seemed

paralyzed, and the circulation of life to be arrested.

[Illustration: THE COLD FRIDAY.]

On the morning of this third day, which was the ominous and famous

Friday, word was brought to my sister that a poor family, about two

miles off, to whom she had long been a kind friend, was in danger

of starvation. She knew no fear, and tolerated no weakness. A thing

that ought to be done, was to be done. Therefore, a sack was filled

with bread, meat, candles, and a pint of rum: this was lashed around

my waist. The horse was brought to the door--I mounted and set off.

I knew the animal well, and we had enjoyed many a scamper together.

He was, indeed, after my own heart--clean limbed, with full, knowing

eyes, and small, pointed sensitive ears. He had a cheerful walk, a

fleet, skimming trot, a swift gallop, and all these paces we had

often tried. I think he knew who was on his back; but when we got to

the turning of the road, which brought his nostrils into the very

tunnel of the gale, he snorted, whirled backward, and seemed resolved

to return. I, however, brought him steady to his work, gave him sharp

advice in the ribs, and showed him that I was resolved to be master.

Hesitating a moment, as if in doubt whether I could be in earnest, he

started forward; yet so keen was the blast, that he turned aside his

head, and screamed as if his nostrils were pierced with hot iron. On

he went, however, in some instances up to the saddle in the drift,

yet clearing it at full bounds.

In a few minutes we were at the door of the miserable hut, now half

buried in a snow-drift. I was just in time. The wretched inmates--a

mother and three small children--without fire, without food, without

help or hope, were in bed, poorly clothed, and only keeping life

in their bodies by a mutual cherishing of warmth, like pigs or

puppies in a similar extremity. The scene within was dismal in the

extreme. The fireplace was choked with snow, which had fallen down

the chimney: the ill-adjusted doors and windows admitted alike

the drift and the blast, both of which swept across the room in

cutting currents. As I entered, the pale, haggard mother comprehend

at a glance that relief had come, burst into a flood of tears. I

had no time for words. I threw them the sack, remounted my horse,

and, the wind at my back, I flew home. One of my ears was a little

frost-bitten, and occasionally, for years after, a tingling and

itching sensation there reminded me of my ride; which, after all,

left an agreeable remembrance upon my mind.

Danbury is a handsome town, chiefly built on a long, wide street,

crossed near the northern extremity by a small river, a branch of

the Housatonic, which, having numerous rapids, affords abundance of

mill-sites in its course. At this crossing there were two extensive

hat-factories, famous over the whole country.

Nearly all the workmen in these establishments, of whom there were

several hundred at the time I am describing, were foreigners, mostly

English and Irish. A large part of the business of our store was

the furnishing of rum to these poor wretches, who bought one or

two quarts on Saturday night and drank till Monday, and frequently

till Tuesday. A factory workman of those days was thought to be

born to toil, and to get drunk. Philanthropy itself had not then

lifted its eye or its hopes above this hideous malaria of custom. It

is a modern discovery that manufacturing towns may rise up, where

comfort, education, morals, and religion, in their best and happiest

exercise, may be possessed by the toiling masses.

A few words more, and I have done with Danbury. The health of my

brother-in-law gradually failed, and at last, as winter approached,

he took to his room, and finally to his bed. By almost insensible

degrees, and with singular tranquillity of mind and body, he

approached his end. It was a trait of his character to believe

nothing, to do nothing, by halves. Having founded his faith on

Christ, Christianity was now, in its duties, its promises, and its

anticipations, as real as life itself. He was afflicted with no

doubts, no fears. With his mind in full vigor, his strong intellect

vividly awake, he was ready to enter into the presence of his God.

The hour came. He had taken leave of his friends, and then, feeling

a sense of repose, he asked to be left alone. They all departed save

one, who sat apart, listening to every breath. In a few moments she

came and found him asleep, but it was the sleep that knows no waking!

I continued in the store alone for several months, selling out the

goods, and closing up the affairs of the estate. I had now a good

deal of time to myself, and thumbed over several books, completing my

reading of Shakspeare, to which I have already alluded. It happened

that we had a neighbor over the way, a good-natured, chatty old

gentleman, by the name of Ebenezer White. He had been a teacher,

and had a great taste for mathematics. In those days it was the

custom for the newspapers to publish mathematical questions, and

to invite their solution. Master White was sure to give the answer

first. In fact, his genius for mathematics was so large, that it

left rather a moderate space in his brain for common sense. He was,

however, full of good feeling, and was now entirely at leisure.

Indeed, time hung heavy on his hands, so he made me frequent visits,

and in fact lounged away an hour or two of almost every day at the

store. I became at last interested in mathematics, and under his

good-natured and gratuitous lessons I learned something of geometry

and trigonometry, and thus passed on to surveying and navigation.

This was the first drop of real science that I ever tasted--I might

almost say the last, for though I have since skimmed a good many

books, I feel that I have really mastered almost nothing.

CHAPTER XI.

ARRIVAL AT HARTFORD--MY OCCUPATION THERE--RESTLESSNESS--MY

FRIEND GEORGE SHELDON.

I now enter upon a new era in my life. Early in the summer of 1811, I

took leave of Danbury, and went to Hartford. On my arrival there, I

was installed in the dry-goods store of C. B. K----, my father having

made the arrangement some weeks before.

My master had no aptitude for business, and spent much of his time

away, leaving the affairs of the shop to an old clerk, by the name

of Jones, and to me. Things went rather badly, and he sought to mend

his fortune by speculation in Merino sheep--then the rage of the

day. A ram sold for a thousand dollars, and a ewe for a hundred.

Fortunes were made and lost in a day during this mania. My master,

after buying a flock and driving it to Vermont, where he spent three

months, came back pretty well shorn--that is, three thousand dollars

out of pocket! This soon brought his affairs to a crisis, and so in

the autumn I was transferred to the dry-goods store of J. B. H----.

My new employer had neither wife nor child to take up his time, so

he devoted himself sedulously to business. He was, indeed, made for

it--elastic in his frame, quick-minded, of even temper, and assiduous

politeness. He was already well established, and things marched

along as if by rail. For a time we had another clerk, but he was

soon dismissed, and I was the only assistant; my master, however,

seldom leaving the shop during business hours. Had the capacity for

trade been in me, I might now have learned my business. I think I

may say that I fulfilled my duty, at least in form. I was regular

in my hours, kept the books duly journalized and posted. I never

consciously wronged arithmetic to the amount of a farthing. I duly

performed my task at the counter. Yet, in all this I was a slave:

my heart was not in my work. My mind was away; I dreamed of other

things; I thought of other pursuits.

And yet I scarcely knew all this. I had certainly no definite plan

for the future. A thousand things floated before my imagination.

Every book I read drew me aside into its own vortex. Poetry made me

poetical; politics made me political; travels made me truant. I was

restless, for I was in a wrong position; yet I asked no advice, for

I did not know that I needed it. My head and heart were a hive of

thoughts and feelings, without the regulating and sedative supremacy

of a clear and controlling intelligence.

I was then eighteen years of age. I had been sufficiently educated

for my station. My parents had now removed from Ridgefield to Berlin,

a distance of but eleven miles from my present residence, so that I

had easy and frequent communication with them. My uncle, Chauncey

Goodrich, then a Senator of the United States, lived in an almost

contiguous street, and while in the city, always treated me with the

kindness and consideration which my relationship to him naturally

dictated. In general, then, my situation was eligible enough; and yet

I was unhappy.

The truth is, I had now been able to sit in judgment upon myself--to

review my acquirements, to analyze my capacities, to estimate my

character, to compare myself with others, and to see a little into

the future. The decision was painful to my ambition. I had all along,

unconsciously, cherished a vague idea of some sort of eminence, and

this, unhappily, had nothing to do with selling goods or making

money. I had lived in the midst of relations, friends, and alliances,

all of which had cultivated in me trains of thought alien to my

present employment. My connections were respectable--some of them

eminent, but none of them rich. All had acquired their positions

without wealth, and I think it was rather their habit to speak of it

as a very secondary affair. Brought up under such influences, how

could I give up my heart to trade? It was clear, indeed, that I had

missed my vocation.

Full of this conviction, I besought my parents to allow me to quit

the store, and attempt to make my way through college. Whether for

good or ill, I know not, but they decided against the change, and

certainly on substantial grounds. Their circumstances did not permit

them to offer me any considerable aid, and without it they feared

that I should meet with insuperable difficulties. I returned to the

store disheartened at first, but after a time my courage revived,

and I resolved to re-educate myself. I borrowed some Latin books,

and with the aid of George Sheldon, an assistant in a publisher's

establishment, and at this time my bosom friend, I passed through the

Latin Grammar, and penetrated a little way into Virgil. This was done

at night, for during the day I was fully occupied.

At the same time I began, with such light and strength as I

possessed, to train my mind, to discipline my thoughts, then as

untamed as the birds of the wilderness. _I sought to think_--to think

steadily, to acquire the power of forcing my understanding up to a

point, and make it stand there and do its work. I attempted to gain

the habit of speaking methodically, logically, and with accumulating

power, directed to a particular object. I did all this as well by

study as by practice. I read Locke on the Understanding and Watts

on the Mind. I attempted composition, and aided myself by Blair's

Rhetoric.

This was a task; for not only was my time chiefly occupied by my

daily duties, but it was a contest against habit--it was myself

against myself; and in this I was almost unaided and alone. I

was to lay aside the slipshod practice of satisfying myself with

impressions, feelings, guesses; in short, of dodging mental labor by

jumping at conclusions. I was, indeed, to learn the greatest of all

arts, that of reasoning--of discovering the truth; and I was to do

this alone, and in the face of difficulties, partly founded in my

mental constitution, and partly also in my training.