“EVERY MAN TO HIS VOCATION” AND “NATURE WILL ASSERT HERSELF”--REST

BY THE WAYSIDE--A HALF-SHAVED PARTY--CONSTERNATION OF A

CLERGYMAN--NATIVES IN NEW YORK--DOCTORING A CORN-DOCTOR--RELIGIOUS

RAILWAYS--THE BRIGHTON BUGLE BUSINESS--CASH AND CONSCIENCE--CASTLES

IN THE AIR--A DELUDED ANTIQUARIAN--GAMBLING AND POLITICS--IRISH

WIT--ABOUT CONDUCTORS--DR. CHAPIN AS A PUNSTER--FOWL ATTEMPTS--A

PAIR O’ DUCKS--CUTTING A SICK FRIEND--REV. RICHARD VARICK DEY--HIS

CRIME AND ITS CONSEQUENCES--FORE-ORDINATION--PRACTICAL JOKING BY MY

FATHER--A VALUABLE RACE-HORSE--HOW HE WAS LET AND THEN

KILLED--AGONY OF THE HORSE-KILLER--THE FINAL “SELL”--FOREIGN AND

DOMESTIC FRENCH--COCKNEYISM--WICKED WORDS IN EXETER HALL.

And now as a traveller, when almost home, sits down by the wayside to

rest, and meanwhile discourses to his companion about minor matters

relating to the journey, or revives reminiscenses of home and foreign

lands, so I stop to sum up in this chapter some of the incidents and

anecdotes which seem pertinent to my story.

The old adages, “Every man to his vocation,” and “Nature will assert

herself” are oftentimes amusingly illustrated. Every one knows the fable

of the man who prayed to Jupiter to convert his cat into a woman, and

Jupiter kindly gratified him and the man married the woman. This was

well enough, till one night the feline female heard a mouse scratching

at the door, when she jumped out of bed and began a vigorous hunt, to

the consternation of her husband, if not of the mouse. Something almost

as absurd and quite as illustrative of “instinct,” or “nature” occurred

during my management of the Museum.

I had brought out a play entitled “The Patriot Fathers,” or something of

the sort; it was patriotic at any rate, and required a great many

people, who had very little to do excepting to dress, group themselves,

and go on and off the stage at the proper times demanded by the

incidents or situations of the play. One night I suddenly found myself

short of supernumeraries to do these subordinate parts, so I sent up to

Centre Market for a supply of young men who were willing to be soldiers,

Indians, or anything else which the exigencies of Revolutionary times

not less than my own immediate necessities demanded.

Now, it fortunately happened that an engine company near by, the famous

“Forty” of by-gone days, had just returned from a fire, and my messenger

proposed to these men to come down and help me out of my difficulty. The

boys wanted no better fun. At least thirty of them came headed by their

foreman, Mr. William Racey. They were soon dressed, one as a woman, a

mother of the Revolution; others as Indians, British soldiers, Hessian

grenadiers, and Continentals. A very little drilling sufficed to put

these new recruits in order for presentation on the stage, for they had

little to do but to follow directions as to where they must stand, and

when they must go on and off. Numbers, not talent, were needed. They

were apt pupils, and did excellently well from the start.

But in the very midst of one of those convulsions which threatened the

fate of the struggle for Independence, the City Hall bell sounded out

the alarm for fire. That was enough. Racey shouted out on the stage:

“Boys, there’s a fire in the Seventh! Put for ‘Forty’”; and the thirty

incontinently fled in post haste for “Forty,” and soon after appeared in

the street, followed by a jeering, cheering crew, the most motley

company that ever dragged a fire engine through the streets of New York.

They were in full costume as they left the Museum. The red-coated

British troops, the Hessians in their tall bear-skin caps, the Indians

in their paint and feathers, and even the “woman” helped to drag the

machine, and at the fire these strange people, including the woman,

helped to “man” the brakes. It is unnecessary to say that they succeeded

in creating in the street, what I hoped they would have done on the

stage, a positive sensation.

I confess that I am fond of story-telling as well as fun, and I inherit

this I think from my maternal grandfather, whom I have already

chronicled in these pages as a “practical joker of the old school.” One

of the best illustrations of his peculiar fondness for this amusement

appears in the following:

Danbury and Bethel were and still are manufacturing villages. Hats and

combs were the principal articles of manufacture. The hatters and comb

makers had occasion to go to New York every spring and fall, and they

generally managed to go in parties, frequently taking in a few

“outsiders,” who merely wished to visit the city for the fun of the

thing. They usually took passage on board a sloop at Norwalk, and the

length of their passage depended entirely upon the state of the wind.

Sometimes the run would be made in eight hours, and at other times

nearly as many days were required. It, however, made little difference

with the passengers. They went in for a “spree,” and were sure

[Illustration: _A GROTESQUE FIRE COMPANY._]

to have a jolly time whether on land or water. They were all fond of

practical jokes, and before starting they usually entered into a solemn

compact, that any man who got angry at a practical joke should forfeit

and pay the sum of twenty dollars. This agreement frequently saved much

trouble; for occasionally an unexpected and rather severe trick would be

played off, and sadly chafe the temper of the victim.

Upon one of these occasions a party of fourteen men started from Bethel

on a Monday morning for New York. Among the number were my grandfather,

Capt. Noah Ferry, Benjamin Hoyt, Esq., Uncle Samuel Taylor, (as he was

called by everybody,) Eleazer Taylor, and Charles Dart. Most of these

were proverbial jokers, and it was doubly necessary to adopt the

stipulation in regard to the control of temper. It was therefore done in

writing, duly signed.

They arrived at Norwalk Monday afternoon. The sloop set sail the same

evening, with a fair prospect of reaching New York early the next

morning. Several strangers took passage at Norwalk, among the rest a

clergyman. He soon found himself in jolly company, and attempted to keep

aloof. But they informed him it was of no use, they expected to reach

New York the next morning, and were determined to “make a night of it,”

so he might as well render himself agreeable, for sleep was out of the

question. His “reverence” remonstrated at first, and talked about “his

rights”; but he soon learned that he was in a company where the rights

of “the majority” were in the ascendant; so he put a smooth face upon

affairs, and making up his mind not to retire that night, he soon

engaged in conversation with several of his fellow-passengers.

The clergyman was a slim, spare man, standing over six feet high in his

stockings; of light complexion, sandy hair, and wearing a huge pair of

reddish-brown whiskers. Some of the passengers joked him upon the

superfluity of hair upon his face, but he replied that nature had placed

it there, and although he thought proper, in accordance with modern

custom, to shave off a portion of his beard, he considered it neither

unmanly nor unclerical to wear whiskers. It seemed to be conceded that

the clergyman had the best of the argument, and the subject was changed.

Expectation of a speedy run to New York was most sadly disappointed. The

vessel appeared scarcely to move, and through long weary hours of day

and night, there was not a ripple on the surface of the water.

Nevertheless there was merriment on board the sloop, each voyager

contributing good humor to beguile the tediousness of time.

Friday morning came, but the calm continued. Five days from home, and no

prospect of reaching New York! We may judge the appearance of the beards

of the passengers. There was but one razor in the company; it was owned

by my grandfather, and he refused to use it, or to suffer it to be used.

“We shall all be shaved in New York,” said he.

On Saturday morning “all hands” appeared upon deck, and the sloop was

becalmed opposite Sawpits (now Port Chester)!

This tried the patience of the passengers sadly.

“I expected to start for home to-day,” said one.

“I supposed all my combs would have been sold at auction on Wednesday,

and yet here they are on board,” said another.

“I intended to have sold my hats surely this week, for I have a note to

pay in New-Haven on Monday,” added a third.

“I have an appointment to preach in New York this evening and

to-morrow,” said the clergyman, whose huge sandy whiskers overshadowed a

face now completely covered with a bright red beard a quarter of an inch

long.

“Well, there is no use crying, gentlemen,” replied the captain; “it is

lucky for us that we have chickens and eggs on freight, or we might have

to be put upon allowance.”

After breakfast the passengers, who now began to look like barbarians,

again solicited the loan of my grandfather’s razor.

“No, gentlemen,” he replied; “I insist that shaving is unhealthy and

contrary to nature, and I am determined neither to shave myself nor loan

my razor until we reach New York.”

Night came, and yet no wind. Sunday morning found them in the same

position. Their patience was well nigh exhausted, but after breakfast a

slight ripple appeared. It gradually increased, and the passengers were

soon delighted in seeing the anchor weighed and the sails again set. The

sloop glided finely through the water, and smiles of satisfaction forced

themselves through the swamps of bristles which covered the faces of the

passengers.

“What time shall we reach New York if this breeze continues?” was the

anxious inquiry of half a dozen passengers.

“About two o’clock this afternoon,” replied the good-natured captain,

who now felt assured that no calm would further blight his prospects.

“Alas! that will be too late to get shaved,” exclaimed several

voices--“the barber shops close at twelve.”

“And I shall barely be in time to preach my afternoon sermon,” responded

the red-bearded clergyman. “Mr. Taylor, do be so kind as to loan me your

shaving utensils,” he continued, addressing my grandfather.

The old gentleman then went to his trunk, and unlocking it, he drew

forth his razor, lather-box and strop. The passengers pressed around

him, as all were now doubly anxious for a chance to shave themselves.

“Now, gentlemen,” said my grandfather, “I will be fair with you. I did

not intend to lend my razor, but as we shall arrive too late for the

barbers, you shall all use it. But it is evident we cannot all have time

to be shaved with one razor before we reach New York, and as it would be

hard for half of us to walk on shore with clean faces, and leave the

rest on board waiting for their turn to shave themselves, I have hit

upon a plan which I am sure you will all say is just and equitable.”

“What is it?” was the anxious inquiry.

“It is that each man shall shave one half of his face, and pass the

razor over to the next, and when we are all half shaved we shall go on

in rotation and shave the other half.”

They all agreed to this except the clergyman. He objected to appearing

so ridiculous upon the Lord’s day, whereupon several declared that any

man with such enormous reddish whiskers must necessarily always look

ridiculous, and they insisted that if the clergyman used the razor at

all he should shave off his whiskers.

My grandfather assented to this proposal, and said: “Now, gentlemen, as

I own the razor, I will begin, and as our reverend friend is in a hurry

he shall be next--but off shall come one of his whiskers on the first

turn, or he positively shall not use my razor at all.”

The clergyman seeing there was no use in parleying, reluctantly agreed

to the proposition.

In the course of ten minutes one side of my grandfather’s face and chin,

in a straight line from the middle of his nose, was shaved as close as

the back of his hand, while the other looked like a thick brush fence in

a country swamp. The passengers burst into a roar of laughter, in which

the clergyman irresistibly joined, and my grandfather handed the razor

to the clerical gentleman.

The clergyman had already well lathered one half of his face and passed

the brush to the next customer. In a short time the razor had performed

its work, and the clergyman was denuded of one whisker. The left side of

his face was as naked as that of an infant, while from the other cheek

four inches of a huge red whisker stood out in powerful contrast.

Nothing more ludicrous could well be conceived. A deafening burst of

laughter ensued, and the poor clergyman slunk quietly away to wait an

hour until his turn should arrive to shave the other portion of his

face.

The next man went through the same operation, and all the rest followed;

a new laugh breaking forth as each customer handed over the razor to the

next in turn. In the course of an hour and a quarter every passenger on

board was half shaved. It was then proposed that all should go upon deck

and take a drink before operations were commenced on the other side of

their faces. When they all gathered upon the deck, the scene was most

ludicrous. The whole party burst again into loud merriment, each man

being convulsed by the ridiculous appearance of the rest.

“Now, gentlemen,” said my grandfather, “I will go into the cabin and

shave off the other side. You can all remain on deck. As soon as I have

finished, I will come up and give the clergyman the next chance.”

“You must hurry or you will not all be finished when we arrive,”

remarked the captain; “for we shall touch Peck Slip wharf in half an

hour.”

My grandfather entered the cabin, and in ten minutes he appeared upon

deck, razor in hand. He was smoothly shaved.

“Now,” said the clergyman, “it is my turn.”

“Certainly,” said my grandfather. “You are next, but wait a moment, let

me draw the razor across the strop once or twice.”

Putting his foot upon the side rail of the deck, and placing one end of

the strop upon his leg, he drew the razor several times across it. Then,

as if by mistake, the razor flew from his hand, and dropped into the

water! My grandfather, with well-feigned surprise, exclaimed in a voice

of terror, “Good heavens! the razor has fallen overboard!”

Such a picture of consternation as covered one-half of all the

passengers’ faces, was never before witnessed. At first they were

perfectly silent as if petrified with astonishment. But in a few minutes

murmurs began to be heard, and soon swelled into exclamations. “An

infernal hog!” said one. “The meanest thing I ever knew,” remarked

another. “He ought to be thrown overboard himself,” cried several

others; but all remembered that every man who got angry was to pay a

fine of twenty dollars, and they did not repeat their remarks. Presently

all eyes were turned upon the clergyman. He was the most forlorn picture

of despair that could be imagined.

[Illustration: _HALF-SHAVED._]

“Oh, this is dreadful!” he drawled, in a tone which seemed as if every

word broke a heart-string.

This was too much, and the whole crowd broke into another roar.

Tranquillity was restored! The joke, though a hard one, was swallowed.

The sloop soon touched the dock. The half-shaved passengers now agreed

that my grandfather, who was the only person on board who appeared like

a civilized being, should take the lead for the Walton House, in

Franklin Square, and all the rest should follow in “Indian file.” He

reminded them that they would excite much attention in the streets, and

enjoined them not to smile. They agreed, and away they started. They

attracted a crowd of persons before they reached the corner of Pearl

Street and Peck Slip, but they all marched with as much solemnity as if

they were going to the grave. The door of the Walton House was open. Old

Backus, the landlord, was quietly enjoying his cigar, while a dozen or

two persons were engaged in reading the papers, etc. In marched the file

of nondescripts, with the rabble at their heels. Mr. Backus and his

customers started to their feet in astonishment. My grandfather marched

solemnly up to the bar--the passengers followed, and formed double rows

behind him. “Santa Cruz rum for nineteen,” exclaimed my grandfather to

the barkeeper. The astonished liquor-seller produced bottles and

tumblers in double-quick time, and when Backus discovered that the

nondescripts were old friends and customers, he was excited to

uncontrollable merriment.

“What in the name of decency has happened,” he exclaimed, “that you

should all appear here half shaved?”

“Nothing at all, Mr. Backus,” said my grandfather, with apparent

seriousness. “These gentlemen choose to wear their beards according to

the prevailing fashion in the place they came from; and I think it is

very hard that they should be stared at and insulted by you Yorkers

because _your_ fashion happens to differ a trifle from theirs.”

Backus half believed my grandfather in earnest, and the bystanders were

quite convinced such was the fact, for not a smile appeared upon one of

the half-shaved countenances.

After sitting a few minutes the passengers were shown to their rooms,

and at tea-time every man appeared at the table precisely as he came

from the sloop. The ladies looked astonished, the waiters winked and

laughed, but the subjects of this merriment were as grave as judges. In

the evening they maintained the same gravity in the bar-room, and at ten

o’clock they retired to bed with all due solemnity. In the morning,

however, bright and early, they were in the barber’s shop, undergoing an

operation that soon placed them upon a footing with the rest of mankind.

It is hardly necessary to explain that the clergyman did not appear in

that singular procession of Sunday afternoon. He tied a handkerchief

over his face, and taking his valise in his hand, started for Market

Street, where it is presumed he found a good brother and a good razor in

season to fill his appointment.

Let me give an illustration of a “practical joke,” which is quite

professional as well as practical with the operator, and in nine cases

out of ten, no doubt, profitable withal. When I was in Paris in 1845,

there came one day to my room in the Hotel Bedford, where I was

staying, a smart little Frenchman with a case of instruments under his

arm. He announced himself as a chiropodist who could instantly remove

the worst corns, not only without pain, but he promised by means of a

mysterious liniment in his possession to immediately heal the spot from

which he removed the corn.

Now I had not a corn on my feet, but willing to test his wonderful

powers, I told him to examine my left foot, and to remove a troublesome

corn on the little toe. Surely enough he did remove and exhibit such a

corn as I am sure would have prevented my walking, had I known that I

was so grievously afflicted. He then poured some of his red oil on the

toe and triumphantly showed me that the place had already entirely

healed. Pretending to be delighted with his skill, I held out another

toe for “operation,” and watching him carefully I saw him slip a

manufactured corn into his oil bottle, which, after fumbling awhile and

pretending to pare the unoffending toe, he “extracted.” More delighted

than ever, I rang the bell, and told the servant to send up the

landlord, as I wished him to witness the extraordinary skill of the

corn-doctor. The landlord arrived, and, after a few words of eulogy upon

the chiropodist, I submitted another healthy toe, and forth came another

monstrous corn; for the same process of extraction, with the same

results, could have been performed on the foot of a marble statue.

It was now my turn, to “operate,” so I rose and bolted the door and took

off my coat, telling the “doctor” that I greatly admired his gold

mounted instruments and the brazen impudence with which he swindled the

public, but that this time he had “caught a Tartar,” and that he could

not leave the room till he had been searched.

The quack bristled up in grand style at what he termed my ungentlemanly

behavior, and threatened if I touched him to bring me before the

“Tribunal.” I remarked that I rather thought the “Tribunal” was the last

place on earth at which he desired to appear, and then assuring the

landlord that the fellow was an arrant imposter, and that if he would

assist me in searching him I would prove it and warrant that no harm

should come to the searchers, he consented, and collared the

chiropodist. The fellow seeing that we were resolved, quietly submitted.

We first searched his pockets and found nothing; but upon examining his

morocco instrument case, we discovered a drawer in which were eighty

ready-made corns and a small piece of horn which furnished the raw

material for the manufacture! Fortunately, my right foot was not bare,

and I forthwith gave the chiropodist a lesson in the shape of a warm

visitation of shoe-leather, which sent him flying down stairs, where the

dose was doubled by an attentive servant till the chiropodist reached

the street. He did not call at the Hotel Bedford again during my stay.

I was a good deal amused when I was in Brighton, England, during the

same year, to see how some people manage to reconcile cash and

conscience. Every one knows that Brighton is a fashionable

watering-place, frequented by all sorts of people; but the actual

residents, many of whom are very wealthy, are supposed to be quite

removed from the fashionable and other follies of the visitors from

abroad during the “season.” The millionnaires of Brighton, when I was

there, were great church-goers, and at the same time were extensive

owners in the stock of the railway which brought so many visitors to the

place. It was therefore for their interest that trains should run on

Sundays, as well as on other days, but as such a course would clash with

their religious professions, it was necessary that some plan should be

devised by which a compromise could be effected between profits and

profession, cash and conscience,--for the idea of ever sacrificing

interest to principle never enters the minds of those whose religion may

be in their heads while it never reaches their hearts. The compromise

between the duty and the dividends of the Brighton railway shareholders

was effected as follows:

After a great deal of talk _pro_ and _con_ on the subject, the trains on

Sunday were permitted to arrive and depart on the following conditions.

But little noise and confusion was manifest and there were fewer porters

employed about the station than on week-days, obliging the arriving and

departing passengers not only to look after, but to lift their baggage,

and as bell-ringing, that is, locomotive bell-ringing, would disturb the

sanctity of the Sabbath, a bugle gave notice of the incoming and

outgoing of the trains. But even this was not enough; it was expressly

stipulated that the bugle-player should play nothing but sacred music!

Thus trains came in to “Old Hundred,” or some similar Psalm tune, and

went out to the air of “Dismission” common to the hymn commencing,

“Lord, dismiss us with thy blessing.” I do not know that this custom is

still kept up at Brighton, but it certainly was so when I was there in

1845; and it was gravely recommended to others who favored a very strict

observance of Sunday, and yet liked their dividends, or were eager for

Sunday mails. In common phrase, it was whipping the Evil One round the

stump in a curious way.

It reminded me of the good old deacon in Connecticut who was in the

habit of selling milk to his neighbors on all days in the week. One

Sunday, however, his parson came home with him to tea, and while they

were at the table a little girl came in for a quart of milk. The deacon

was afraid of being scandalized in the presence of the parson, and so he

told the girl he did not sell milk on Sunday. The girl, who had been

accustomed to buy on that day as on other days, was much surprised and

turned to go away, when the sixpence in her hand was too much of a

temptation for the deacon, who called out:

“Here, little girl! you can leave the money now, and call and get the

milk to-morrow!”

During my journeyings abroad I was not wholly free from the usual

infirmity of travellers, viz, a desire to look at the old castles of

feudal times, whether in preservation or in ruins; but there was one of

our party, Mr. H. G. Sherman, who had a peculiar and irresistible taste

for the antique. He gathered trunks full of stone and timber mementos

from every place of note which we visited; and, if there was anything

which he admired more than all else, it was an old castle. He spent many

hours in clambering the broken walls of Kenilworth, in viewing the

towers and dungeons of Warwick, and climbing the precipices of

Dumbarton. When travelling by coach, Sherman always secured an outside

seat, and, if possible, next to the coachman, so as to be able to make

inquiries regarding everything which he might happen to see.

On our journey from Belfast to Drogheda, Sherman occupied his usual seat

beside the driver, and asked him a thousand questions. The coachman was

a regular wag, with genuine Irish wit, and he determined to have a

little bit of fun at the expense of the inquisitive Yankee. As we came

within eight miles of Drogheda, the watchful eye of Sherman caught the

glimpse of a large stone pile, appearing like a castle, looming up among

some trees in a field half a mile from the roadside.

“Oh, look here! what do you call that?” exclaimed Sherman, giving the

coachman an elbowing in the ribs which was anything but pleasant.

“Faith,” replied the coachman, “you may well ask what we call that, for

divil a call do we know what to call it. That is a castle, sir, beyond

all question the oldest in Ireland; indade, none of the old books nor

journals contain any account of it. It is known, however, that Brian

Borrhoime inhabited it some time, though it is supposed to have been

built centuries before his day.”

“I’ll give you half-a-crown to stop the coach long enough for me to run

and bring a scrap of it away,” said Sherman.

“Sure, and isn’t this the royal mail coach? and I would not dare detain

it for half the Bank of Ireland,” replied the honest coachman.

“How far is it to Drogheda?” inquired Sherman.

“About eight miles, more or less,” answered the coachman.

“Stop your coach, and let me down then,” replied Sherman; “I’ll walk to

Drogheda, and would sooner walk three times the distance than not have a

nearer view, and carry off a portion of the oldest castle in Ireland.”

With that Sherman dismounted, and, raising his umbrella to protect him

from the cold rain which was falling in torrents, he marched off in the

mud, calling out to me that I might expect him in Dublin by the next

train to that which would take us from Drogheda, the railroad being then

completed only to that point from Dublin.

We arrived in Dublin about five o’clock, cold and uncomfortable; but

warm apartments and good fires were in waiting for us, and in a few

hours we had partaken of an excellent supper, and were as happy as

lords. About nine o’clock in the evening, the door of our parlor was

opened, and who should come in but poor Sherman, drenched to the skin

with cold rain,--the legs of his boots pulled over the bottoms of his

pantaloons, and covered with thick mud to the very tops, and himself

looking like a half-famished, weary and frozen traveller.

“For Heaven’s sake, let me get to the fire!” exclaimed Sherman, and we

were too much struck with his suffering appearance not to heed it.

“Well, Sherman,” I remarked, “that must have been a tedious walk for

you,--eight long Irish miles through the rain and mud.”

“I guess you would have thought so if you had walked it yourself,”

replied Sherman, doggedly.

“I hope you have brought away trophies enough from the castle to pay you

for all this trouble,” I continued.

“Oh, curse the castle!” exclaimed Sherman.

“What do you mean by that?” I asked, in astonishment.

“Oh, you need not look surprised,” replied Sherman; “for I have no doubt

that you and that bog-trotting Irish coachman have had fun enough at my

expense before this time.”

I assured him that I positively had not heard the coachman speak on the

subject, and begged him to tell me what had occurred to vex him in this

manner.

“Why, if you don’t already know,” replied Sherman, “I would not have you

know for twenty pounds, for you would be sure to publish it. However,

now your curiosity is excited, you would be certain to find it all out,

if you had to hire a post-chaise, and ride there on purpose; so I may as

well tell you.”

“Do tell me,” I replied, “for I confess my curiosity is excited, and I

am unable to guess why you are so angry; for I know you love to see

castles, and that pleasure you surely have enjoyed, for I caught a

glimpse of one myself.”

“No, you have not seen a castle to-day, nor I either!” exclaimed

Sherman.

“What on earth was it, then?” I asked.

“A thundering old lime-kiln!” exclaimed Sherman; “and I only wish I

could pitch that infernal Irish coachman into it while it was under full

blast!”

It was many a long day before Sherman heard the last of the lime-kiln;

in fact, this trick of the Irish coachman rendered him cautious in

making inquiries of strangers.

One day we rode to Donnybrook, the place so much celebrated for its

fairs and its black eyes; for it would be quite out of character for Pat

to attend a fair without having a flourish of the shillelah, and a

scrimmage which would result in a few broken heads and bloody noses.

Near Donnybrook we saw something on the summit of a hill which appeared

like a round stone tower. It was probably sixty feet in circumference

and twenty-five feet high.

“I would like to know what that is,” said Sherman.

I advised him to inquire of the first coachman that came along, but,

with a forced smile, he declined my advice.

“It can’t be a lime-kiln, at any rate,” continued Sherman; “it must be a

castle of some description.”

The more we looked at it the more mysterious did it appear to us, and

Sherman’s castle-hunting propensities momentarily increased. At last he

exclaimed: “A man who travels with a tongue in his head is a fool if he

don’t use it; and I am not going within a hundred rods of what may be

the greatest curiosity in Ireland, without knowing it.”

With that he turned our horse’s head towards a fine-looking mansion on

our right, where we halted. Sherman jumped from the carriage, opened the

small gate, proceeded up the alley of the lawn fronting the house, and

rang the bell. A servant appeared at the door; but Sherman, knowing the

stupidity of Irish servants, was determined to apply at head-quarters

for the information he so much desired.

“Is your master in?” asked Sherman.

“I will see, sir. What name, if you plaze?”

“A stranger from the United States of America!” replied Sherman.

The servant departed, and in a minute returned and invited Sherman to

enter the parlor. He found the gentleman of the mansion sitting by a

pleasant fire, near which were also his lady and several visitors and

members of the family. Sherman was not troubled with diffidence. Being

seated, he hoped he would be excused for having called without an

invitation; but the fact was, he was an American traveller, desirous of

picking up all important information that might fall in his way.

The gentleman politely replied that no apology was necessary, that he

was most happy to see him, and that any information which he could

impart regarding that or any other portion of the country should be

given with pleasure.

“Thank you,” replied Sherman; “I will not trouble you except on a single

point. I have seen all that is important in Dublin and its vicinity, and

in and about Donnybrook; there is but one thing respecting which I want

information, and that is the stone tower or castle which we see standing

on the hill, about a quarter of a mile south of your house. If you could

give me the name and history of that pile, I shall feel extremely

obliged.”

“Oh, nothing is easier,” replied the gentleman, with a smile. “That

‘pile,’ as you call it, was built some forty years ago by my father; and

it was a lucky ‘pile’ for him, for it was the only windmill in these

parts, and always had plenty to do: but a few years ago a hurricane

carried off the wings of the mill, and ever since that it has stood as

it now does, a memorial of its former usefulness. Is there any other

important information that I can give you?” asked the gentleman, with a

smile.

“Not any,” replied Sherman, rising to depart: “but perhaps I can give

you some; and that is, that Ireland is, beyond all dispute, the meanest

country I ever travelled in. The only two objects worthy of note that I

have seen in all Ireland are a lime-kiln and the foundation for a

windmill!”

Upon resuming his seat in the carriage, Sherman laughed immoderately,

although he evidently felt somewhat chagrined by this second mistake in

searching for ancient castles.

Calling one day in one of the principal hotels in Dublin, I noticed

among the “rules” framed and hung in the coffee-room for the warning,

instruction, or entertainment of the guests of the house, the following:

“No Gambling or Politics will be allowed to _take place_ in this house,

by any parties whatever.”

How politics could “take place” in an Irish hotel, or elsewhere, would

have been a mystery to me, if I did not remember that the “scrimmages”

and rows, which often follow the mere discussion of politics, seemed to

warrant the landlord in classing politics with gambling, or any other

dangerous amusement which might take place in the coffee-room of an

Irish inn.

Speaking of Irishmen, I am reminded of an illustration of ready Irish

wit, which is located on the line of the Boston and Fitchburg Railroad.

Some years ago, the Reverend Thomas Whittemore, a wealthy Universalist

minister, who was a large stockholder in the road, was appointed

president of the company; and, as he was exceedingly conscientious in

the discharge of his duty, he once took upon himself to walk over every

foot of the route, to see if every part of the road was in complete

order. Walking along in this way and alone, he came to a place where a

loose rail lay alongside of the track; and, seeing an Irishman near by,

who was apparently employed on the road, Mr. Whittemore called out to

him:

“Here, Pat, pick up this rail, and lay it alongside of the fence out of

the way, till it is wanted.”

It never occurred to Mr. Whittemore that every man whom he met did not

know him and his official position; but Pat, not dreaming that his

virtual employer, the president of the railroad company, was giving him

an order, sharply answered:

“Jist go to the divil, will ye?”

“My dear friend,” said the smiling Whittemore, who instantly

comprehended “the situation”--that is, that Pat did not know him, and no

particular wonder, either--“‘go to the devil?’ why, that is the last

place I should desire to go to!”

“An’ faith, an’ I think it’s the last place you _will_ be goin’ to,”

responded Pat.

Of railroads and railroad travel and employees I have heard and told no

end of stories; but one of the latest and best, I think, is told of a

man in a town “down East,” who had some difficulty with a conductor, and

vowed that not another cent of his money should ever go into the

treasury of that company.

“But,” said the conductor of the road, “you own property in one place on

the line, and do business in another place, and are obliged to go back

and forth almost every day: how are you going to help paying something

to the company?”

“Oh! hereafter I shall pay my fare to you in the cars,” was the reply.

It may be a joke, but conductors themselves, that is, some of them, are

more or less facetious on the subject of what in the vernacular is known

as “knocking down.” Soon after the conductors on the New York and New

Haven Railroad were put in costume while on duty, and were obliged to

wear a badge bearing the initials of the company, my friend Rev. Dr.

Chapin was accompanying me over the road to my Bridgeport home, when

along came a conductor, whom we both knew well, to collect our fares.

“Ah, I see,” said Dr. Chapin, pointing to the letters on the new badge,

“N. H., N. Y.,--‘Neither Here, Nor Yonder.”

“No,” whispered the conductor confidentially in the Doctor’s ear; “it

means, ‘New House, Next Year.’”

It is scarcely necessary to tell the thousands who know Dr. Chapin that

he is a man of most ready wit, and an inveterate punster. One day, when

we were dining together, I was carving a chicken, which the Doctor

pronounced a “hen-ous offence,” when, having some difficulty with a

tough wing, I exclaimed:

“How shall I get the thing off, anyhow?”

“Pullet,” gravely answered the Doctor.

“Eggsactly,” said I.

Then began what the Doctor called a “battle of the spurs,”--I trying to

“crow” over the Doctor, and he endeavoring to upset my “cackle-ations”;

urging me meanwhile to “scratch away,” till at last I told him, if he

made another pun on that “lay,” he would knock me off the roost.

“Oh, then,” said the Doctor, finally feathering his nest, “Sha’n’t I

clear?!”

An equally fowl pun of the Doctor’s was perpetrated in cold blood, or

rather in very cold water, down at Rockport, Massachusetts. Thither

every summer season were wont to congregate, for their vacation, such

celebrated clergymen as Starr King, Dr. Chapin, and others, mainly for

the fine sea-bathing there. One season Dr. Chapin arrived at least a

fortnight behind the rest; and, when they went down bathing together,

the acclimated visitors pronounced the water to be “delightful,” “just

right,” and so on.

“But isn’t it cold?” asked Dr. Chapin.

“Oh, no,” replied Starr King; “you have only to go down and up twice,

and you are warm enough.”

“Ah, I see how it is,” said Dr. Chapin, who tried the experiment and

came up half frozen; “you are warm after down and up twice? Why, that’s

a pair o’ ducks!”

Fowls naturally suggest the market, and this brings to mind a neighbor

of mine in New York who keeps two things,--a boarding-house, and “bad

hours.” His wife justly suspected him of gambling; but he generally

managed to get in before midnight, and always had money enough in his

pocket to go to market with in the morning. On one occasion, however,

after gambling all night, he did not come home till six o’clock in the

morning, when, after a sound scolding from his wife for staying out all

night and “gambling,” as she insisted, he was sent to market to get

something for breakfast. Returning, he was again berated by his wife for

gambling, he protesting all the while that he had been “spending the

night with a sick friend.”

His wife might have believed him, if he had not sat down at the head of

the table, half asleep, and solemnly passed the bread to the nearest

boarder with the exclamation,--

“Cut!”

“_That’s_ your ‘sick friend!’” exclaimed the wife, while a general roar

around the table woke the host to the fact that he was passing bread,

and not a pack of cards.

This story-telling carries me back to my boyhood days at Bethel, and

brings to mind an old clerical acquaintance whom I knew long before I

met Dr. Chapin. The Rev. Richard Varick Dey, who resided at Greenfield,

Connecticut, was in the habit of coming to Bethel to preach on Sabbath

evenings. He was a very eloquent preacher, and an eccentric man. He

possessed fine talents; his sermons were rich in pathos and wit; and he

was exceedingly popular with the world’s people. The more

straight-laced, however, were afraid of him. His remarks both in and out

of the pulpit would frequently rub hard against some popular dogma, or

knock in the head some favorite religious tenet. Mr. Dey was therefore

frequently in hot water with the church, and was either “suspended,” or

about to be brought to trial for some alleged breach of ministerial

duty, or some suspected heresy. While thus debarred from preaching, he

felt that he must do something to support his family. With this view he

visited Bethel, Danbury, and other towns, and delivered “Lectures,” at

the termination of which, contributions for his benefit were taken up. I

remember his lecturing in Bethel on “Charity.” This discourse overflowed

with eloquence and pathos, and terminated in a contribution of more than

fifty dollars.

It was said that on one occasion Mr. Dey was about to be tried before an

ecclesiastical body at Middletown. There being no railroads in those

days, many persons travelled on horseback. Two days before the trial was

to take place, Mr. Dey started for Middletown alone, and on horseback.

His valise was fastened behind the saddle; and, putting on his large

great-coat surmounted with a half a dozen broad “capes,” as was the

fashion of that period, and donning a broad-brimmed hat, he mounted his

horse and started for the scene of trial.

On the second day of his journey, and some ten miles before reaching

Middletown, he overtook a brother clergyman, also on horseback, who was

wending his way to the Consociation.

He was a man perhaps sixty years of age, and his silvered locks stood

out like porcupine quills. His iron visage, which seemed never to have

worn a smile, his sinister expression, small, keen, selfish-looking

eyes, and compressed lips, convinced Mr. Dey that he had no hope of

mercy from that man as one of his judges. The reverend gentlemen soon

fell into conversation. The sanctimonious clergyman gave his name and

residence, and inquired those of Mr. Dey.

“My name is Mr. Richard,” replied Rev. Richard V. Dey, “and my residence

is Fairfield.” (Greenfield is a parish in the town of Fairfield.)

“Ah,” exclaimed the other clergyman; “then you live near Mr. Dey: do you

know him?”

“Perfectly well,” responded the eccentric Richard.

“Well, what do you think of him?” inquired the anxious brother.

“He is a wide-awake, cunning fellow, one whom I should be sorry to

offend, for I would not like to fall into his clutches; but, if

compelled to do so, I could divulge some things which would astonish our

Consociation.”

“Is it possible? Well, of course your duty to the Church and the

Redeemer’s cause will prompt you to make a clean breast of it, and

divulge everything you know against the accused,” responded the excited

clergyman.

“It is hard to destroy a brother’s reputation and break up the peace of

his family,” answered the meek Mr. Richard.

“It is the duty of the elect to expose and punish the reprobates,”

replied the sturdy Puritan.

“But had I not better first tell our brother his fault, and give him an

opportunity to confess and be forgiven?”

“Our brother, as you call him, is undoubtedly a heretic, and the true

faith is wounded by his presence amongst us. The Church must be purged

from unbelief. We must beware of those who would introduce damnable

heresies.”

“Are you sure that Mr. Dey is an unbeliever?” inquired the modest Mr.

Richard.

“I have heard that he throws doubt upon the Trinity,--shrugs his

shoulders at some portions of the Saybrook Platform, and has said that

even reprobates may sincerely repent, pray for forgiveness, and be

saved; ay, that he even doubts the damnation of unregenerate infants!”

“Horrible!” ejaculated Mr. Richard.

“Yes, horrible indeed! But I trust that our Consociation will

excommunicate him at once and forever. But what do you know concerning

his belief?”

“I know nothing specially against his belief,” responded Mr. Richard;

“but I have witnessed some of his acts, which I should be almost sorry

to expose.”

“A mistaken charity. It is your duty to tell the Consociation all you

know regarding the culprit, and I shall insist upon your doing so.”

“I certainly desire to do that which is right and just; and, as I am but

young in the ministry, I shall defer to your judgment, founded on age

and experience. But I would prefer at first to state to you what I know,

and then will be guided by your advice in regard to giving my testimony

before the Consociation.”

“A very proper course. You can state the facts to me, and I will give

you my counsel. Now what do you know?”

“I know that on more than one occasion I have caught him in the act of

kissing my wife,” replied the injured Mr. Richard.

“I am not at all astonished,” responded the clergyman; “such conduct

coincides exactly with the opinion I had formed of the man. I

commiserate you, sir, but I honor your sense of duty in divulging such

important facts, even at the expense of exposing serious troubles in

your domestic relations. But, sir, justice must have its course. These

facts must be testified to before the Consociation. Do you know anything

else against the delinquent?”

“I know something more; but it is of a nature so delicate, and concerns

me personally so seriously, that I must decline divulging it.”

“Sir, you cannot do that. I will not permit it, but will insist on your

telling the whole truth before our Consociation, though your

heart-strings were to break in consequence. I repeat, sir, that I

sympathize with you personally, but personal feelings must be swallowed

up in the promotion of public good. No sympathy for an individual can be

permitted to clash with the interests of the true Church. You had better

tell me, sir, all you know.”

“Since you say that duty requires it, I will do so. I have caught him,

under very suspicious circumstances, in my wife’s bedroom,” said the

unfortunate Mr. Richard.

“Was your wife in bed?” inquired the man with the iron face.

“She was,” faintly lisped the almost swooning Mr. Richard.

“Enough, enough,” was the response. “Our Consociation will soon dispose

of the Rev. Richard V. Dey.”

The two clergymen had now arrived at Middletown. The Rev. Mr.

Vinegarface rode to the parsonage while Mr. Dey, _alias_ “Mr. Richard,”

went to a small and obscure inn.

The Consociation commenced the next day. This ecclesiastical body was

soon organized, and, after disposing of several minor questions, it was

proposed to take up the charges of heresy against the Rev. Mr. Dey. The

accused, with a most demure countenance, was conversing with his quondam

travelling companion of the day previous, who upon hearing this

proposition instantly sprang to his feet, and informed the reverend

Chairman that providentially he had been put in possession of facts

which must necessarily result in the immediate expulsion of the culprit

from the Church, and save the necessity of examining testimony on the

question of heresy. “In fact,” continued he, “I am prepared to prove

that the Rev. Richard V. Dey has frequently kissed the wife of one of

our brethren, and has also been caught in a situation which affords

strong evidence of his being guilty of the crime of adultery!”

A thrill of horror and surprise ran through the assembly. Every eye was

turned to Mr. Dey, who was seated so closely to the last speaker that he

touched him as he resumed his seat. Mr. Dey’s countenance was as placid

as a May morning, and it required keen vision to detect the lurking

smile of satisfaction that peeped from a corner of his eye. A few

minutes of dead silence elapsed.

“Produce your witnesses,” finally said the Chairman, in an almost

sepulchral voice.

“I call on the Rev. Mr. Richard, of Fairfield, to corroborate under oath

the charges which I have made,” responded the hard-visaged Puritan.

Not a person moved. Mr, Dey looked as unconcerned as if he was an utter

stranger to all present, and understood not the language which they were

speaking.

“Where is the Rev. Mr. Richard?” inquired the venerable Chairman.

“Here he is,” responded the accuser, familiarly tapping Mr. Dey on the

shoulder.

The whole audience burst into such a roar of laughter as probably never

was heard in a like Consociation before.

The accuser was almost petrified with astonishment at such inconceivable

conduct on the part of that sedate religious assembly.

Mr. Dey alone maintained the utmost gravity.

“That, sir, is the Rev. Richard V. Dey,” replied the Chairman, when

order was restored.

The look of utter dismay which instantly marked the countenance of the

accuser threw the assembly into another convulsion of laughter, during

which Mr. Dey’s victim withdrew, and was not seen again in Middletown.

The charges of heresy were then brought forward. After a brief

investigation, they were dismissed for want of proof, and Mr. Dey

returned to Greenfield triumphant.

I have often heard Mr. Dey relate the following anecdote. A young couple

called on him one day at his house in Greenfield. They informed him that

they were from the southern portion of the State, and desired to be

married. They were well dressed, made considerable display of jewelry,

and altogether wore an air of respectability. Mr. Dey felt confident

that all was right, and, calling in several witnesses, he proceeded to

unite them in the holy bonds of wedlock.

After the ceremonies were concluded, Mr. Dey invited the happy pair (as

was usual in those days) to partake of some cake and wine. They thus

spent a social half-hour together, and, on rising to depart, the

bridegroom handed Mr. Dey a twenty-dollar bank note; remarking that this

was the smallest bill he had, but, if he would be so good as to pay

their hotel bill (they had merely dined and fed their horse at the

hotel), he could retain the balance of the money for his services. Mr.

Dey thanked him for his liberality, and went at once to the hotel with

the lady and gentleman, and informed the landlord that he would settle

their bill. They proceeded on their journey, and the next day it was

discovered that the bank-note was a counterfeit, and that Mr. Dey had to

pay nearly three dollars for the privilege of marrying this loving

couple.

The newspapers in various parts of the State subsequently published

facts which showed that the affectionate pair got married in every town

they passed through,--thus paying their expenses and fleecing the

clergymen by means of counterfeits.

One of the deacons of Mr. Dey’s church asked him if he usually kissed

the bride at weddings. “Always,” was the reply.

“How do you manage when the happy pair are negroes?” was the deacon’s

next question. “In all such cases,” replied Mr. Dey, “the duty of

kissing is appointed to the deacons.”

My grandfather was a Universalist, and for various reasons, fancied or

real, he was bitterly opposed to the Presbyterians in doctrinal views,

though personally some of them were his warmest and most intimate

friends. Being much attached to Mr. Dey, he induced that gentleman to

deliver a series of Sunday evening sermons in Bethel; and my grandfather

was not only on all these occasions one of the most prominent and

attentive hearers, but Mr. Dey was always his guest. He would generally

stop over Monday and Tuesday with my grandfather, and, as several of the

most social neighbors were called in, they usually had a jolly time of

it. Occasionally “mine host” would attack Mr. Dey good-naturedly on

theological points, and would generally come off second best; but he

delighted, although vanquished, to repeat the sharp answers with which

Mr. Dey met his objections to the “Confession of Faith.”

One day, when a dozen or more of the neighbors were present, and

enjoying themselves in passing around the bottle, relating anecdotes,

and cracking jokes, my grandfather called out in a loud tone of voice,

which at once arrested the attention of all present:

“Friend Dey, I believe you pretend to believe in foreordination?”

“To be sure I do,” replied Mr. Dey.

“Well, now, suppose I should spit in your face, what would you do?”

inquired my grandfather.

“I hope that is not a supposable case,” responded Mr. Dey, “for I should

probably knock you down.”

“That would be very inconsistent,” replied my grandfather, exultingly;

“for if I spat in your face it would be because it was foreordained I

should do so: why then would you be so unreasonable as to knock me

down?”

“Because it would be foreordained that I should knock you down,” replied

Mr. Dey, with a smile.

The company burst into a laugh, in which my grandfather heartily

joined.

My father, as well as my grandfather, was very fond of a practical joke,

and he lost no occasion which offered for playing off one upon his

friends and neighbors. In addition to his store, tavern, and

freight-wagon business to Norwalk, he kept a small livery-stable; and on

one occasion, a young man named Nelson Beers applied to him for the use

of a horse to ride to Danbury, a distance of three miles. Nelson was an

apprentice to the shoe-making business, nearly out of his time, was not

over-stocked with brains, and lived a mile and a half east of our

village. My father thought that it would be better for Nelson to make

his short journey on foot than to be at the expense of hiring a horse,

but he did not tell him so.

We had an old horse named “Bob.” Having reached an age beyond his teens,

he was turned out in a bog lot near our house to die. He was literally a

“living skeleton,”--much in the same condition of the Yankee’s nag,

which was so weak his owner had to hire his neighbor’s horse to help him

draw his last breath. My father, in reply to Nelson’s application, told

him that the livery horses were all out, and he had none at home except

a famous “race-horse,” which he was keeping in low flesh in order to

have him in proper trim to win a great race soon to come off.

“Oh, do let me have him, Uncle Phile” (my father’s name was Philo; but,

as it was the custom in that region to call everybody uncle, or aunt, or

squire, or deacon, or colonel, or captain, my father’s general title

among his acquaintances was “Uncle Phile”). “I will ride him very

carefully, and not injure him in the least; besides, I will have him

rubbed down and fed in Danbury,” said Nelson Beers.

“He is too valuable an animal to risk in the hands of a young man like

you,” responded my father.

Nelson continued to importune, and my father to play off, until it was

finally agreed that the horse could be had on the condition that he

should in no case be ridden faster than a walk or slow trot, and that he

should be fed four quarts of oats at Danbury.

Nelson started on his Rosinante, looking for all the world as if he was

on a mission to the carrion crows; but he felt every inch a man, for he

fancied himself astride of the greatest race-horse in the country, and

realized that a heavy responsibility was resting on his shoulders, for

the last words of my father to him were: “Now, Nelson, if any accident

should happen to this animal while under your charge, you could not pay

the damage in a lifetime of labor.”

Old “Bob” was duly oated and watered at Danbury, and at the end of

several hours Mr. Beers mounted him and started for Bethel. He concluded

to take the “great pasture” road home, that being the name of a new road

cut through swamps and meadows as a shorter route to our village.

Nelson, for the nonce forgetting his responsibility, probably tried the

speed of his race-horse and soon broke him down. At all events something

occurred to weaken old Bob’s nerves, for he came to a stand-still and

Nelson was forced to dismount. The horse trembled with weakness and

Nelson Beers trembled with fright. A small brook was running through the

bogs at the roadside, and Beers, thinking that perhaps his “race-horse”

needed a drink, led him into the stream. Poor old “Bob” stuck fast in

the mud, and, not having strength to withdraw his feet, quietly closed

his eyes, and, like a patriarch as he was, he dropped into the soft bed

that was awaiting him, and died without a single kick.

No language can describe the consternation of poor Beers. He could not

believe his eyes, and vainly tried to open those of his horse. He placed

his ear at the mouth of poor old Bob, but took it away again in utter

dismay. The breath had ceased.

At last Nelson, groaning as he thought of meeting my father, and

wondering whether eternity added to time would be long enough for him to

earn the value of the horse, took the bridle from the “dead-head,” and

unbuckling the girth, drew off the saddle, placed it on his own back,

and trudged gloomily towards our village.

It was about sundown when my father espied his victim coming up the

street with the saddle and bridle thrown across his shoulders, his face

wearing a look of the most complete despair. My father was certain that

old Bob had departed this life, and he chuckled inwardly and quietly,

but instantly assumed a most serious countenance. Poor Beers approached

more slowly and mournfully than if he was following a dear friend to the

grave.

When he came within hailing distance my father called out, “Why, Beers,

is it possible you have been so careless as to let that race-horse run

away from you?”

“Oh, worse than that,--worse than that, Uncle Phile,” groaned Nelson.

“Worse than that! Then he has been stolen by some judge of valuable

horses. Oh, what a fool I was to intrust him to anybody!” exclaimed my

father, with well-feigned sorrow.

“No, he ain’t stolen, Uncle Phile,” said Nelson.

“Not stolen! Well, I am glad of that, for I shall recover him again;

but where is he? I am afraid you have lamed him.”

“Worse than that,” drawled the unfortunate Nelson.

“Well, what is the matter? where is he? what ails him?” asked my father.

“Oh, I can’t tell you,--I can’t tell you!” said Beers with a groan.

“But you must tell me,” returned my father.

“It will break your heart,” groaned Beers.

“To be sure it will if he is seriously injured,” replied my father; “but

where is he?”

“He is dead!” said Beers, as he nerved himself up for the announcement,

and then, closing his eyes, sank into a chair completely overcome with

fright.

My father groaned in a way that started Nelson to his feet again. All

the sensations of horror, intense agony, and despair were depicted to

the life on my father’s countenance.

“Oh, Uncle Phile, Uncle Phile, don’t be too hard with me; I wouldn’t

have had it happen for all the world,” said Beers.

“You can never recompense me for that horse,” replied my father.

“I know it, I know it, Uncle Phile; I can only work for you as long as I

live, but you shall have my services till you are satisfied after my

apprenticeship is finished,” returned Beers.

After a short time my father became more calm, and, although apparently

not reconciled to his loss, he asked Nelson how much he supposed he

ought to owe him.

“Oh, I don’t know; I am no judge of the value of blood horses, but I

have been told they are worth fortunes sometimes,” replied Beers.

“And mine was one of the best in the world,” said my father, “and in

such perfect condition for running,--all bone and muscle.”

“Oh, yes, I saw that,” said Beers, despondingly, but with a frankness

that showed he did not wish to deny the great claims of the horse and

his owner.

“Well,” said my father, with a sigh, “as I have no desire to go to law

on the subject, we had better try to agree upon the value of the horse.

You may mark on a slip of paper what sum you think you ought to owe me

for him, and I will do the same; we can then compare notes, and see how

far we differ.”

“I will mark,” said Beers, “but, Uncle Phile, don’t be too hard with

me.”

“I will be as easy as I can, and endeavor to make some allowance for

your situation,” said my father; “but, Nelson, when I think how valuable

that horse was, of course I must mark something in the neighborhood of

the amount of cash I could have received for him. I believe, however,

Nelson, that you are an honest young man, and are willing to do what you

think is about right. I therefore wish to caution you not to mark down

one cent more than you really think, under the circumstances, you ought

to pay me when you are able, and for which you are now willing to give

me your note of hand. You will recollect that I told you, when you

applied for the horse, that I did not wish to let him go.”

Nelson gave my father a grateful look, and assented to all he said. At

least a dozen of our joke-loving neighbors were witnessing the scene

with great apparent solemnity. Two slips of paper were prepared; my

father marked on one, and after much hesitation, Beers wrote on the

other.

“Well, let us see what you have marked,” said my father.

“I suppose you will think it is too low,” replied Beers, handing my

father the slip of paper.

“Only three hundred and seventy-five dollars!” exclaimed my father,

reading the paper; “well, there is a pretty specimen of gratitude for

you!”

Nelson was humbled, and could not muster sufficient courage to ask my

father what _he_ had marked. Finally one of our neighbors asked my

father to show his paper--he did so. He had marked, “_Six and a quarter

cents_.” Our neighbor read it aloud, and a shock of mirth ensued, which

fairly lifted Beers to his feet. It was some time before he could

comprehend the joke, and when he became fully aware that no harm was

done, he was the happiest fellow I have ever seen.

I might fill a volume with these reminiscences of my younger days, but

turning once more to my foreign notebooks, I find material there which

seems to claim a place in this story-chapter. I am never tired of

telling and laughing at some of my mishaps and adventures in trying to

use the French language, when I first went abroad. It was no unusual

thing to travel half a day in a “diligence,” or in the cars, with some

Englishman, as I would afterwards discover, both of us doing our best to

make ourselves intelligible to each other in French, till at last, in

despair, one or the other would utter the conventional conundrum:

“_Parlez-vous Anglais?_”

“Why, of course; I am an American” (or an Englishman); and then a mutual

roar would follow.

American, or English, or Dutch French is generally quite a different

thing from “French French.” Thus I could always understand the Dutchmen

who spoke to me in French in Amsterdam, and I may add, they could

perfectly understand me. We spoke the same _patois_. I wrote to my wife,

I remember, from Amsterdam, that I found they spoke much purer French in

that city than in Paris!

Once on arriving in Paris at the station of the Northern Railway, I,

with other passengers, was in the room devoted to the examination of

baggage. Among the rest, was a party consisting of a New York merchant

and his wife, with their daughter, a young lady of eighteen, who was at

once volatile and voluble. Undoubtedly, she had spoken the best

Madison-Avenue school French for five years or more; and with this she

fairly overwhelmed the official interpreter who was present. After

hearing her for full five minutes, the interpreter gravely asked:

“Do you speak English, Miss?”

“Certainly,” was the reply.

“Well, speak English then, if you please, for I can understand your

English better than I can your French.”

I was one evening at the house of my friend, Mr. John Nimmo, in Paris,

and while waiting for him and his family to return from the theatre, was

entertained for an hour or more by two very agreeable young ladies, to

whom I made such reply in French, from time to time, as I could. At last

came the inevitable inquiry as to the capacity of the young ladies in

the English language:

“Why, bless us, Mr. Barnum,” was the reply; “we are Scotch governesses,

who are here in Paris simply to learn French!”

The last time I went from France to England, arriving late at night, I

stopped in Dover, at the hotel nearest the custom-house, so as to look

after my luggage next day. Ringing my bell early in the morning, for

shaving-water, half asleep I called out to the serving-maid for “_l’eau

chaude_.”

“Please, sir,” was the reply, “I do not speak French.”

“Nor I, either,” said I, promptly; “just bring me some hot water, if you

please.”

But some of the English have a queer way of speaking their own language,

and the cockney’s management of what he would call the “haspirate” is

sufficiently familiar. Crowding into Exeter Hall, London, at an

entertainment, one evening, I heard the usher just before me shouting

out seats, as he looked at the checks, in this fashion:

“Letter Ha, first row; letter Hef, sixth row; letter He, fifth row;

letter Hi, ninth row”; and so on. Seeing that my own check was “L,” I

showed it to him, and quietly inquired:

“Where do I go to, usher?”

“You go to Hell,” was the prompt response; which was not intended to be

either profane or impolite.

But I must bring this story-telling chapter--an episode in the narrative

of graver events in my autobiography--to a close, and discourse of

Sea-side Park and Waldemere.

CHAPTER XLVI.

SEA-SIDE PARK.

INTEREST IN PUBLIC IMPROVEMENTS--OLD PARK PROJECTS--OPPOSITION OF

OLD FOGIES--THE SOUND SHORE AT BRIDGEPORT--INACCESSIBLE

PROPERTY--THE EYE OF FAITH--TALKING TO THE FARMERS--REACHING THE

PUBLIC THROUGH THE PAPERS--HOW THE LAND WAS SECURED FOR A GREAT

PLEASURE-GROUND--GIFTS TO THE PEOPLE--OPENING OF SEA-SIDE PARK--THE

MOST BEAUTIFUL GROUND BETWEEN NEW YORK AND BOSTON--MAGNIFICENT

DRIVES--THE ADVANTAGES OF THE LOCATION--MUSIC FOR THE MILLION--BY

THE SEA-SIDE--FUTURE OF THE PARK--A PERPETUAL BLESSING TO

POSTERITY.

From the time when I first settled in Bridgeport and turned my attention

to opening and beautifying new avenues, and doing whatever lay in my

power to extend and improve that charming city, I was exceedingly

anxious that public parks should be established, especially one where

good drive-ways, and an opportunity for the display of the many fine

equipages for which Bridgeport is celebrated, could be afforded. Mr.

Noble and I began the movement by presenting to the city the beautiful

ground in East Bridgeport now known as Washington Park,--a most

attractive promenade and breathing place and a continual resort for

citizens on both sides of the river, particularly in the summer

evenings, when one of the city bands is an additional attraction to the

pleasant spot. Thus our new city was far in advance of Bridgeport proper

in providing a prime necessity for the health and amusement of the

people.

Our park projects in the city date as far back as the

[Illustration: _SEA-SIDE PARK_]

year 1850. At that time, by an arrangement with Deacon David Sherwood,

who lived in Fairfield, a few rods west of the Bridgeport line, and who

owned land adjoining mine, we agreed to throw open a large plot of

ground free to the public, provided State Street, in Bridgeport, was

continued west so as to pass through this land. But a few “old fogies”

through whose land the street would pass, thereby improving their

property thousands of dollars in value, stupidly opposed the project in

the Fairfield town-meeting, and the measure was defeated. Seventeen

years afterwards, in 1867, after a long sleep, these same old fogies

managed to awake, as did the citizens of Fairfield generally, and then

State Street was extended without opposition; but property, to some

extent, had changed hands and had largely increased in value, so that

the chance of having a free park in that locality was forever lost, and

the town was actually obliged to pay Deacon Sherwood for the privilege

of continuing the highway through his land. How many similar

opportunities for benefiting the public and posterity in all coming time

are carelessly thrown away in every town, through the mere stupidity of

mole-eyed land-owners, who stand as stumbling-blocks not only in the way

of public improvements, but directly in opposition to their individual

interests, and thus for scores of years rob the community of the

pleasures to be derived from broad avenues lined with shade-trees and

from open and free public grounds.

Up to the year 1865, the shore of Bridgeport west of the public wharves,

and washed by the waters of Long Island Sound, was inaccessible to

carriages, or even to horsemen, and almost impossible for pedestrianism.

The shore edge in fact was strewn with rocks and boulders, which made

it, like “Jordan” in the song, an exceedingly “hard road to travel.” A

narrow lane reaching down to the shore enabled parties to drive near to

the water for the purpose of clamming, and occasionally bathing; but it

was all claimed as private property by the land proprietors, whose farms

extended down to the water’s edge. On several occasions at low tide, I

endeavored to ride along the shore on horseback for the purpose of

examining “the lay of the land,” in the hope of finding it feasible to

get a public drive along the water’s edge. On one occasion, in 1863, I

succeeded in getting my horse around from the foot of Broad Street in

Bridgeport to a lane over the Fairfield line, a few rods west of

“Iranistan Avenue,” a grand street which I have since opened at my own

expense, and through my own land. From the observations I made that day,

I was satisfied that a most lovely park and public drive might be, and

ought to be opened along the whole water-front as far as the western

boundary line of Bridgeport, and even extending over the Fairfield line.

Foreseeing that in a few years such an improvement would be too late,

and having in mind the failure of the attempt in 1850 to provide a park

for the people of Bridgeport, I immediately began to agitate the subject

in the Bridgeport papers, and also in daily conversations with such of

my fellow-citizens as I thought would take an earnest and immediate

interest in the enterprise. I urged that such an improvement would

increase the taxable value of property in that vicinity many thousands

of dollars, and thus enrich the city treasury; that it would improve the

value of real estate generally in the city; that it would be an

additional attraction to strangers who came to spend the summer with

us, and to those who might be induced from other considerations to make

the city their permanent residence; that the improvement would throw

into market some of the most beautiful building-sites that could be

found anywhere in Connecticut; and I dwelt upon the absurdity, almost

criminality, that a beautiful city like Bridgeport, lying on the shore

of a broad expanse of salt water, should so cage itself in, that not an

inhabitant could approach the beach. With these and like arguments and

entreaties I plied the people day in and day out, till some of them

began to be familiarized with the idea that a public park close upon the

shore of the Sound was at least a possible if not probable thing.

But certain “conservatives,” as they are called, said: “Barnum is a

hair-brained fellow, who thinks he can open and people a New-York

Broadway through a Connecticut wilderness”; and the “old fogies” added:

“Yes, he is trying to start another chestnut-wood fire for the city to

blow forever; but the city or town of Bridgeport will not pay out money

to lay out or to purchase public parks. If people want to see green

grass and trees, they have only to walk or drive half a mile either way

from the city limits, and they will come to farms where they can see

either or both for nothing; and, if they are anxious to see salt water,

and to get a breath of the Sound breeze, they can take boats at the

wharves, and sail or row till they are entirely satisfied.”

Thus talked the conservatives and the “old fogies,” who unhappily, even

if they are in a minority, are always a force in all communities. I soon

saw that it was of no use to expect to get the city to pay for a park.

The next thing was to see if the land could not be procured free of

charge, or at a nominal cost, provided the city would improve and

maintain it as a public park. I approached the farmers who owned the

land lying immediately upon the shore, and tried to convince them that,

if they would give the city free, a deep slip next to the water, to be

used as a public park, it would increase in value the rest of their land

so much as to make it a profitable operation for them. But it was like

beating against the wind. They were not so stupid as to think that they

could become gainers by giving away their property.’ Such trials of

patience as I underwent in a twelvemonth, in the endeavor to carry this

point, few persons who have not undertaken like almost hopeless labor

can comprehend. At last I enlisted the attention of Messrs. Nathaniel

Wheeler, James Loomis, Francis Ives, Frederick Wood, and a few more

gentlemen, and persuaded them to walk with me over the ground, which to

me seemed in every way practicable for a park. These gentlemen, who were

men of taste as well as of enterprise and public spirit, very soon

coincided in my ideas as to the feasibility of the plan and the

advantages of the site; and some of them went with me to talk with the

land-owners, adding their own pleas to the arguments I had already

advanced. At last, after much pressing and persuading, we got the terms

upon which the proprietors would give a portion and sell another portion

of their land which fronted on the water, provided the land thus

disposed of should forever be appropriated to the purposes of a public

park. But unfortunately a part of the land it was desirable to include

was the small Mallett farm, of some thirty acres, then belonging to an

unsettled estate, and neither the administrator nor the heirs could or

would give away a rod of it. But the whole farm was for sale,--and, to

overcome the difficulty in the way of its transfer for the public

benefit, I bought it for about $12,000, and then presented the required

front to the park. I did not want this land or any portion of it for my

own purposes or profit, and I offered a thousand dollars to any one who

would take my place in the transaction; but no one accepted, and I was

quite willing to contribute so much of the land as was needed for so

noble an object. Indeed, besides this, I gave $1,400 towards purchasing

other land and improving the park; and, after months of persistent and

personal effort, I succeeded in raising, by private subscription, the

sum necessary to secure the land needed. This was duly paid for, deeded

to and accepted by the city, and I had the pleasure of naming this new

and great public improvement, “Sea-side Park.”

Public journals are generally exponents of public opinion; and how the

people viewed the new purchase, now their own property, may be judged by

the following extracts from the leading local newspapers, when the land

for the new enterprise was finally secured:

OUR SEA-SIDE PARK.

[_From the “Bridgeport Standard,” August 21, 1865._]

Bridgeport has taken another broad stride of which she may well be

proud. The Sea-side Park is a fixed fact. Yesterday Messrs. P. T.

Barnum, Captain John Brooks, Mr. George Bailey, Captain Burr Knapp,

and Henry Wheeler generously donated to this city sufficient land

for the Park, with the exception of seven or eight acres, which

have been purchased by private subscriptions. Last night the Common

Council appointed excellent Park Commissioners, and work on the

sea-wall and the avenues surrounding the Park will be commenced at

once. Besides securing the most lovely location for a park to be

found between New York and Boston, which for all time will be a

source of pride to our city and State, there is no estimating the

pecuniary advantage which this great improvement will eventually

prove to our citizens. Plans are on foot and enterprises are

agitated in regard to a park hotel, sea-side cottages, horse

railroad branch, and other features, which, when consummated, will

serve to amaze our citizens to think that such a delightful

sea-side frontage has been permitted to lie so long unimproved. To

Mr. P. T. Barnum, we believe, is awarded the credit of originating

this beautiful improvement, and certainly to his untiring,

constant, and persevering personal efforts are we indebted for its

being finally consummated. Hon. James C. Loomis was the first man

who heartily joined with Barnum in pressing the plan of a sea-side

park upon the attention of our citizens, but it is due to our

citizens themselves to say that, with an extraordinary unanimity,

they have not only voted to appropriate $10,000 from the city

treasury to making the avenues around the Park, and otherwise

improving it, but they have also generously aided by private

contributions in purchasing such land as was not freely given for

the Park. Of course, we shall not only, at an early day, publish

the names of such citizens as have subscribed money for this

purpose, but they will also be handed down to posterity, as they

will richly deserve, in the publication of the Park Commissioners.

[_From the “Bridgeport Standard,” August 21, 1865._]

The names of P. T. Barnum, Capt. John Brooks, Mr. George Bailey,

Capt. Burr Knapp and Henry Wheeler have gone into history as the

generous contributors to the best enterprise ever attempted for the

benefit of our city; and the city has accepted the trust with the

most commendable promptness, and appointed its commissioners, who

have already entered upon their duties. We shall watch now with

eager interest the unfolding and development of such a park as can

nowhere be found on either side of the Sound, and one which shall

be “a thing of beauty and a joy forever” to our city.

It needs but the hand of skilful art, assisted by a proper public

spirit, to render the Sea-side Park a charmed spot of delightful

resort for public drives or private walks. The commissioners chosen

to superintend the inauguration of the laying out and improvements

of the grounds are men of correct taste, of good judgment and of

liberal and comprehensive views as to the wants and demands of a

growing city like Bridgeport. They understand that Nature is here

to be made so attractive by Art, that all classes shall be drawn

hither not merely for the pleasure of enjoying a favorite resort

but also for the profit which comes to the nobler impulses of our

nature, by the contemplation of cunning handicraft upon the

landscape, as God left it for man to adorn and beautify. Here will

be planted trees of every variety that will endure the temperature

of this latitude, and flowers of every hue and perfume; here will

walks serpentine through shady groves, and anon lead out to behold

the broad expanse of the beautiful Sound.

Some one has aptly said, that one work of art was worth a thousand

lectures on art. Here, then, let the statues of the artist be

placed, to educate the masses by their silent teachings, and win

them to higher ideas and better views of life by their mute

eloquence. One feature of American parks is especially worthy of

mention: they are essentially and emphatically democratic. They are

made for the people, and are in turn appreciated by the people.

They are open alike to the millionnaire with his coach-and-six, and

the poor pedestrian without a penny. The advantages possessed by

Bridgeport as a manufacturing city are becoming daily more and more

appreciated by business-men from various portions of the country.

There is no city in the State which can compare with ours in the

recent erection of large and permanent manufacturing

establishments. This fact brings into our midst a large industrial

population, for which, even now, the supply of dwellings is

inadequate to the demand. This population, commingling and

combining with our own, and possessing energy, enterprise, business

tact and intelligence, will rapidly develop the resources of our

city and its surroundings for mechanical pursuits, and the

productions of the various manufacturing establishments already

erected, or in process of erection. To such a class, the benefits

of a Park, possessing such facilities for recreation and

improvement as the Sea-side Park will present, will be

incalculable, in fostering the health, promoting the happiness, and

elevating the taste of all who can avail themselves of its

beneficial influences.

To the public-spirited gentlemen who have so generously donated to

the city the land for the Sea-side Park, Bridgeport owes a debt of

gratitude which she can never repay. Their names will descend to

posterity, and be remembered with pride and exultation as among the

noblest of public benefactors, so long as the flowers bloom and the

waves wash the margin of the Sea-side Park. No citizen of

Bridgeport, identified with her growth and prosperity, and having

the future welfare of the city at heart, should fail to contribute,

in such a manner as best he may, to such a grand improvement. Let

our citizens take hold of this noble enterprise with that large and

liberal spirit in which it has been conceived and thus far

consummated, and Bridgeport will ere long possess an attraction

which will draw hither for permanent residence much of the wealth

and intelligence, refinement and virtue of the great metropolis,

which now sequesters itself along the banks of the Hudson, or among

the sand-knolls of New Jersey.

Thus was my long-cherished plan at length fulfilled; nor did my efforts

end here, for I aided and advised in all important matters in the laying

out and progress of the new park; and in July, 1869, I gave to the city

several acres of land, worth at the lowest valuation $5,000, which were

added to and included in this public pleasure-ground, and now make the

west end of the park.

At the beginning, the park on paper and the park in reality were two

quite different things. The inaccessibility of the site was remedied by

approaches which permitted the hundreds of workmen to begin to grade the

grounds, and to lay out the walks and drives. The rocks and boulders

over which I had more than once attempted to make my way on foot and on

horseback were devoted to the building of a substantial sea-wall, under

the able superintendence of Mr. David W. Sherwood. Paths were opened,

shade-trees were planted; and fortunately there was in the very centre

of the ground a beautiful grove of full growth, which is one of the most

attractive features of this now charming spot; and a broad and

magnificent drive follows the curves of the shore and encircles the

entire park. Although work is constantly going on and much remains to be

done, yet a considerable portion of the park presents a finished

appearance: a large covered music-stand has been built; and, on a rising

piece of the ground, a substantial foundation has been built for a

Soldiers’ Monument. The corner-stone of this monument was laid with

impressive ceremonies and a military display, in the presence of a large

concourse of citizens and soldiers, among whom were Major-General Alfred

H. Terry, U. S. A.; Major-General and Governor Joseph H. Hawley;

Adjutant-General Charles T. Stanton; Quartermaster-General Julius S.

Gilman; Surgeon-General Philo G. Rockwell; Paymaster-General William B.

Wooster; Aides-de-Camp and Colonel John H. Burnham, Alford P. Rockwell,

William H. Mallory, Charles M. Coit, General S. W. Kellogg, of the First

Brigade; Colonel S. E. Merwin, jr., Colonel Crawford, and other officers

of the Governor’s staff, and of the Connecticut State Militia.

The branch horse-railroad already reaches one of the main entrances, and

brings down crowds of people every day and evening, and especially on

the evenings in which the band plays. At such times the avenues are not

only thronged with superb equipages and crowds of people, but the whole

harbor is alive with row-boats, sail-boats and yachts. The views on all

sides are charming. In the rear is the city, with its roofs and spires;

Black Rock and Stratford lights are in plain sight; to the eastward and

southward stretches “Old Long Island’s sea-girt shore”; and between lies

the broad expanse of the salt water, with its ever “fresh” breezes, and

the perpetual panorama of sails and steamers. I do not believe that a

million dollars to-day would compensate the city of Bridgeport for the

loss of what is confessed to be the most delightful public

pleasure-ground between New York and Boston.

For these magnificent results, accomplished in so short a time, the

people of Bridgeport are indebted to the park commissioners, and

especially to Mr. Nathaniel Wheeler, whose untiring energy and exquisite

taste have been mainly instrumental in bringing this work forward to its

present state of completion.

There is easy and cheap access to this ground by means of the

horse-railroad from East Bridgeport and Fairfield, and numerous avenues

open directly upon the park from Bridgeport. It is the daily resort of

thousands, who go to inhale the salt sea-air; and the main drive is

already, on a lesser scale, to the citizens of Bridgeport, what the

grand avenue in Central Park is to the people of New York; with this

priceless advantage, however, in favor of Sea-side Park, of a frontage

on the Sound, and a shore on which the waves are ever breaking, and

sounding the grand, unending story of the mysteries of the great deep.

On the western and northern margins of this public ground, in sight of

the Sound and in full view of every part of the park, will hereafter be

built the villas and mansions of the wealthiest citizens, and, when the

hand that now pens these lines is stilled forever, and thousands look

from these sea-side residences across the water to Long-Island shore,

and over the groves and lawns and walks and drives of the beautiful

ground at their feet, it may be a source of gratification and pride to

my posterity to hear the expressions of gratitude that possibly will be

expressed to the memory of their ancestor who secured to all future

generations the benefits and blessings of Sea-side Park.

CHAPTER XLVII.

WALDEMERE.

MY PRIVATE LIFE--PLANS FOR THE PUBLIC BENEFIT IN

BRIDGEPORT--OPENING AVENUES--PLANTING SHADE-TREES--OLD

FOGIES--CONSERVATISM A CURSE TO CITIES--BENEFITING BARNUM’S

PROPERTY--SALE OF LINDENCROFT--LIVING IN A FARM-HOUSE--BY THE

SEA-SHORE--ANOTHER NEW HOME--WALDEMERE--HOW IT CAME TO BE

BUILT--MAGIC AND MONEY--WAVEWOOD AND THE PETREL’S NEST--MY

FARM--THE HOLLAND BLANKET CATTLE--MY CITY RESIDENCE--COMFORTS OF

CITY LIFE--BEGGING LETTERS--MY FAMILY--RELIGIOUS REFLECTIONS--MY

FIFTY-NINTH BIRTHDAY--THE END OF THE RECORD.

What I can call, without undue display of egotism or vanity, my “public

life,” may be said to have closed with my formal and final retirement

from the managerial profession, when my second Museum was destroyed by

fire, March 3, 1868. But he must have been a careless reader of these

pages, which record the acts and aspirations of a long and industrious

career, who does not see that what, in opposition to my “public life,”

may be considered my “private life,” has also been largely devoted to

the comfort, convenience, and permanent prosperity of the community with

which so many of my hopes and happiest days are thoroughly identified. I

speak of these things, I trust, with becoming modesty, and yet with less

reluctance than I should do, if my fellow-citizens of Bridgeport had not

generally and generously awarded me sometimes, perhaps, more than my

need of praise for my unremitting and earnest efforts to

[Illustration: _WALDEMERE._]

promote whatever would conduce to the growth and improvement of our

charming city.

When I first selected Bridgeport as a permanent residence for my family,

its nearness to New York and the facilities for daily transit to and

from the metropolis were present and partial considerations only in the

general advantages the location seemed to offer. Nowhere, in all my

travels in America and abroad, had I seen a city whose very position

presented so many and varied attractions. Situated on Long Island Sound,

with that vast water-view in front, and on every other side a beautiful

and fertile country with every variety of inland scenery, and charming

drives which led through valleys rich with well-cultivated farms, and

over hills thick-wooded with far-stretching forests of primeval

growth,--all these natural attractions appeared to me only so many aids

to the advancement the beautiful and busy city might attain, if

public-spirit, enterprise, and money grasped and improved the

opportunities the locality itself extended. I saw that what Nature had

so freely lavished must be supplemented by yet more liberal Art.

Consequently, and quite naturally, when I projected and established my

first residence in Bridgeport, I was exceedingly desirous that all the

surroundings of Iranistan should accord with the beauty and completeness

of that place. I was never a victim to that mania which possesses many

men of even moderate means to “own everything that joins them,” and I

knew that Iranistan would so increase the value of surrounding property

that none but first-class residences would be possible in the vicinity.

But there was other work to do, which, while affording advantageous

approaches to my property, would at the same time be a lasting benefit

to the public; and so I opened Iranistan Avenue, and other broad and

beautiful streets, through land which I freely purchased and as freely

gave to the public, and these highways are now the most convenient as

well as charming in the city.

To have opened all these new avenues, in their entire length, at my own

cost, and through my own ground, would have required a confirmation of

Miss Lavinia Warren’s opinion, that what little of the city of

Bridgeport and the adjacent town of Fairfield was not owned by General

Tom Thumb, belonged to P. T. Barnum. It is true that, apart from my East

Bridgeport property, I became a very large owner of real estate on the

other side of the river, in Bridgeport proper and in Fairfield, my

purchases in Fairfield lying on and so near to the boundary

line--Division Street--as virtually to be in Bridgeport. Everywhere

through my own lands I laid out and threw open to the public, streets of

the generous width which distinguished the old “King’s roads” in the

colonies, before grasping farmers and others encroached upon, and fenced

in as private property, land that really belonged to the public forever;

and on both sides of every avenue I laid out and planted a profusion of

elms and other trees. In this way, I have opened miles of new streets,

and have planted thousands of shade-trees in Bridgeport; for I think

there is much wisdom in the advice of the Laird of Dumbiedikes, in

Scott’s “Heart of Mid-Lothian,” who sensibly says: “When ye hae naething

else to do, ye may be aye sticking in a tree; it will be growing when

ye’re sleeping.” But, in establishing new streets, too often, when I had

gone through my own land, the project came literally to an end; some

“old fogy” blocked the way,--my way, his own way, and the highway,--and

all I could do would be to jump over his field, and continue my new

street through land I might own on the other side, till I reached the

desired terminus in the end or continuation of some other street; or

till, unhappily, I came to a dead stand-still at the ground of some

other “old fogy,” who, like the original owners of what is now the

shore-front of Sea-side Park, “did not believe there was money to be

made by giving away their property.”

And this is the manner in which these old fogies talked: “We don’t

believe in these improvements of Barnum’s. What’s the use of them? We

can get to the city by the old road or street, as we have done for forty

years. The new street will cut the pasture or mowing-lot in two, and

make a checkerboard of the farm. It was bad enough to have the railroad

go through, and we would have prevented that if we could; but this new

street business is all bosh!” And then, singularly enough, every old

fogy would wind up with: “I declare, I believe the whole thing is only

to benefit Barnum, so that he can sell land, which he bought anywhere

from sixty to two hundred dollars an acre, at the rate of five thousand

dollars an acre in building-lots, as he is actually doing to-day.”

It is strange indeed that these men, who could see the benefit to

“Barnum’s property” by opening new streets which would immediately

convert cheap farm and pasture land into choice and high-priced

building-lots, should not see that precisely the same thing would

proportionately increase the value of their own property. Conservatism

may be a good thing in the state, or in the church, but it is fatal to

the growth of cities; and the conservative notions of old fogies make

them indifferent to the requirements which a very few years in the

future will compel, and blind to their own best interests. Such men

never look beyond the length of their noses, and consider every

investment a dead loss unless they can get the sixpence profit into

their pockets before they go to bed. My own long training and experience

as a manager impelled me to carry into such private enterprises as the

purchase of real estate that best and most essential managerial quality

of instantly deciding, not only whether a venture was worth undertaking,

but what, all things considered, that venture would result in. Almost

any man can see how a thing will begin, but not every man is gifted with

the foresight to see how it will end, or how, with the proper effort, it

may be made to end. In East Bridgeport, where we had no “conservatives”

to contend with, we were only a few years in turning almost tenantless

farms into a populous and prosperous city. On the other side of the

river, while the opening of new avenues, the planting of shade-trees,

and the building of many houses, have afforded me the highest pleasures

of my life, I confess that not a few of my greatest annoyances have been

occasioned by the opposition of those who seem to be content to simply

vegetate through their existence, and who looked upon me as a restless,

reckless innovator, because I was trying to remove the moss from

everything around them, and even from their own eyes.

In the summer of 1867, the health of my wife continuing to decline, her

physician directed that she should remove nearer to the sea-shore; and,

as she felt that the care of a large establishment like Lindencroft was

more than she could bear, I sold that place. I have already spoken of my

building of this residence. It was emphatically a labor of love. All

that taste and money could do was fairly lavished upon Lindencroft; so

that, when all was finished, it was not only a complete house in all

respects, but it was a perfect home. And a home I meant it to be, in

every and the best sense of the word, for my declining years.

Consequently, from basement to attic, everything was constructed, by

days’ work, in the most perfect manner possible. Convenience and comfort

were first consulted, and thereafter, with no attempt at ostentation,

elegance, pure and simple, predominated and permeated everywhere. No

first-class house in the metropolis was more replete with all that goes

to constitute a complete dwelling-place. Under this new roof I gathered

my library, my pictures, my souvenirs of travel in other lands, and

assembled my household “gods”; while the surrounding grounds, adorned

with statuary and fountains, displayed also, in the walks, the arbors,

the lawns, the garden, the piled-up rocks even, the profusion of trees

and shrubbery, and the wealth of rare and beautiful flowers, my wife’s

exquisite taste, which in times past had made the grounds of our loved

and lost Iranistan so celebrated as well as charming. It was hard indeed

to tear ourselves from this fascinating spot, but there are times when

even the charms of home must be sacrificed to the claims of health.

Lindencroft was sold July 1, 1867, and we immediately removed for a

summer’s sojourn to a small farm-house adjoining Sea-side Park. During

the hot days of the next three months we found the delightful sea-breeze

so bracing and refreshing that the season passed like a happy dream, and

we resolved that our future summers should be spent on the very shore of

Long Island Sound. I did not, however, perfect my arrangements in time

to prepare my own summer residence for the ensuing season; and during

the hot months of 1868 we resided in a new and very pretty house I had

just completed on State Street, in Bridgeport, and which I subsequently

sold, as I intended doing when I built it. But, towards the end of the

summer, I added by purchase to the Mallett farm, adjoining Sea-side

Park, a large and beautiful hickory grove, which seemed to be all that

was needed to make the site exactly what I desired for a summer

residence. It will be remembered that I bought this Mallett farm, not

for myself, but so that a portion of it could be devoted to the public

park; and, a generous slice having been thus given away, there were

several acres remaining which were admirably adapted to one or more

residences, and the purchase of the grove property made the location

nearly perfect.

But there was a vast deal to do in grading and preparing the ground, in

opening new streets and avenues as approaches to the property, and in

setting out trees near the proposed site of the house; so that ground

was not broken for the foundation till October. I planned a house which

should combine the greatest convenience with the highest comfort,

keeping in mind always that houses are made to live in as well as to

look at, and to be “homes” rather than mere residences. So the house was

made to include abundant room for guests, with dressing-rooms and baths

to every chamber; water from the city throughout the premises; gas,

manufactured on my own ground; and that greatest of all comforts, a

semi-detached kitchen, so that the smell as well as the secrets of the

cuisine might be confined to its own locality. The stables and gardens

were located far from the mansion, on the opposite side of one of the

newly opened avenues, so that in the immediate vicinity of the house, on

either side and before both fronts, stretched large lawns, broken only

by the grove, single shade-trees, rock-work, walks, flower-beds and

drives. The whole scheme as planned was faithfully carried out in less

than eight months. The first foundation stone was laid in October, 1868;

and we moved into the completed house in June following, in 1869.

It required a regiment of faithful laborers and mechanics, and a very

considerable expenditure of money, to accomplish so much in so short a

space of time. Those who saw a comparatively barren waste thus suddenly

converted to a blooming garden, and, by the successful transplanting and

judicious placing of very large and full-grown forest trees, made to

seem like a long-settled place, considered the creation of my new summer

home almost a work of magic; but there is no magic when determination

and dollars combine to achieve a work. When we moved into this new

residence, we formally christened the place “Waldemere,”--literally, but

not so euphoniously, “Waldammeer,” “Woods-by-the-Sea,”--for I preferred

to give this native child of my own conception an American name of my

own creation.

On the same estate, and fronting the new avenue I opened between my own

property and the public park, I built at the same time two beautiful

cottages, one of which is known as the “Petrel’s Nest,” and the other,

occupied by my eldest daughter, Mrs. Thompson, and my youngest daughter,

Mrs. Seeley, as a summer residence, is called “Wavewood.” From the east

front of Waldemere, across the sloping lawn, and through the reaches of

the grove, these cottages are in sight, and before the three residences

stretches the broad Sound, with nothing to cut off the view, and

nothing intervening but the western portion of Sea-side Park. Sea-side

and sea-breezes, however, do not include the sum of rural felicities in

summer; and so I still keep possession of the fine farm which, years

ago, was the scene of the elephant-plowing feats. On this property,

which is in charge of a judicious farmer, I have some very fine imported

stock, including several head of the celebrated white-blanket “Dutch

cattle,” which excite the curiosity and attract the attention of all who

see them. These cattle are black, with a distinctly defined white

“blanket” around their bodies, giving them a very unique appearance; and

when they struck my fancy in Holland, some years ago, I imported several

of them: nor is their singular appearance their best recommendation, for

they are excellent milkers, and my dairy and farm products keep my table

constantly supplied with fresh fruits and vegetables, poultry, and that

choicest of country luxuries, pure cream.

Amid such comforts, advantages, and luxuries the summer months speed

swiftly and sweetly by. My well-supplied stables afford the means of

enjoying the numberless delightful drives which abound in the vicinity;

and my salt-water-loving friend, Mr. George A. Wells, is always ready to

minister to the pleasure of myself or my guests by tendering the use of

anything in his Sound fleet, from a row-boat to a yacht. The five months

in the year which I devote to rural rest seem all too short for the

enjoyment which is necessarily compressed in the twenty weeks. But I can

feel at the end of the season that it is a consolidation as well as

compression, not only of pleasure, but of capital, in the way of health

and vigor for the winter’s campaign of city living and metropolitan

excitement.

For, at my time of life, and especially for a man who has had so much to

do with the metropolitan million as I have done, I am convinced that the

city is the most congenial residence during the cooler season of the

year. No matter how active may have been one’s life, as a man grows

older, if he does not become a little lazy, he at least learns to crave

for comfortable ease and seeks for quiet. To such a man, the city in

winter extends numberless pleasures. There is a sense of satisfaction

even in the well-cleared sidewalks after a snow-storm, and an almost

selfish happiness in looking out upon a storm from a well-warmed library

or parlor window. One loves to find the morning papers, fresh from the

press, lying upon the breakfast-table; and the city is the centre of

attractions in the way of operas, concerts, picture-galleries,

libraries, the best music, the best preaching, the best of everything in

æsthetical enjoyments. Having made up my mind to spend seven months of

every year in the city, in the summer of 1867 I purchased the elegant

and most eligibly situated mansion, No. 438 Fifth Avenue, corner of

Thirty-ninth Street, at the crowning point of Murray Hill, in New York,

and moved into it in November. My residence therein in the winter season

has fully confirmed my impressions in its favor. The house is replete

with all that can constitute a pleasant home, and the location is so

near to Central Park that we spend hours of every fine day in that great

pleasure-ground. While I am in town, it is scarcely more than once or

twice a week that I take pains to ascertain by personal observation that

I am living on the edge of a toiling, excited city of a million

inhabitants. My pecuniary interests in Connecticut and in New York

occupy my attention sufficiently to keep me from _ennui_, and an

extended correspondence--for which I do not yet feel the need of a

private secretary--employs an hour or more of every day. I have had

letters from New Zealand, and other remote quarters of the globe,

respecting curiosities, and addressed simply to “Mr. Barnum, America,”

and the post-office officials, knowing of no other Barnum who would be

likely to receive letters from such out-of-the-way places, regularly put

these vaguely addressed letters in my New York box.

Yet I suppose that not less than two-thirds of all the letters I receive

are earnest petitions for pecuniary aid. This begging-letter business

began to persecute me as long ago as the time of the Jenny Lind

engagement, and even before. Many of these letters ask money as a free

gift, and some of them demand assistance; while others request temporary

loans, or invite me to furnish the capital for enterprises which are

certain to bring the richest returns to all concerned therein. When I

was travelling with Jenny Lind, I received a letter from a woman in

Pittsburg, Pennsylvania, who informed me that she had named her

just-born boy-and-girl twins “P. T. Barnum” and “Jenny Lind,” coolly

adding that we might send $5,000 for their immediate wants, and make

such provision for their future education and support as might be

determined upon at the proper time! In some of these letters, the

amusement afforded by the orthography and grammar was almost a

compensation for the annoyance and impudence of the requests. One very

bad speller, referring me to a former employer of the letter-writer,

wrote: “I Can rePhurr you too Him”; another, urging his petition,

declared; “god Nose I am Poore”; and not long ago I received a

communication from an old man who claimed to be too decrepid to earn a

support, but he urged that he was a religious man, and added: “I tak

grait pleshur in Readin my bibel, speshily the Proffits”; and it did

look a little as if he had a sharp eye to the “Proffits.”

I have said but little in these pages of the immediate circle which is

nearest and dearest to me. My wife, with whom I have lived so many happy

years, and who has been my support in adversity and my solace in

prosperity, still survives. Our children are all daughters: Caroline C.,

the eldest, was married to Mr. David W. Thompson, October 19, 1852;

Helen M., my second daughter, was married to Mr. Samuel H. Hurd, October

20, 1857; Frances J., the third daughter, was born May 1, 1842, and died

April 11, 1844; and Pauline T., the fourth daughter, was married on her

birthday, March 1, 1866, to Mr. Nathan Seeley. For my eldest daughter I

built and furnished a beautiful house on ground near Iranistan, and she

moved into it immediately after her marriage, though of late years she

has resided in New-York in winter and in Bridgeport in summer. For Helen

and Pauline, I bought and furnished handsome houses in Lexington Avenue,

in New-York, within a short distance of my own city residence in Fifth

Avenue. A fine young rising generation of my grandchildren is growing up

around them and me.

I have written as little as might be, too, about my religious principles

and profession, because I agree with the man who, in answer to the

pressing inquiry, declared that he had “no religion to _speak_ of”; and

I believe with him that true religion is more a matter of work than of

words. When I am in the city, I regularly attend the services and

preaching of the Rev. Dr. E. H. Chapin, and I usually go to the

meetings of the same denomination in Bridgeport. “He builds too low who

builds beneath the skies”; and I can truly say that I have always felt

my entire dependence upon Him who is the dispenser of all adversity, as

well as the giver of all good. With a natural proclivity to look upon

the bright side of things, I am sure that under some of the burdens--the

Jerome entanglement, for instance--which have borne so heavily upon me,

I should have been tempted, as others have been, to suicide, if I had

supposed that my troubles were brought upon me by mere blind chance. I

knew that I deserved what I received; I had placed too much confidence

in mere money and my own personal efforts; I was too much concerned in

material prosperity; and I felt that the blow was wisely intended for my

ultimate benefit,--a chastening, which, like the husks to the prodigal

son, should cause me to “come to myself,” and teach me the lesson that

there is something infinitely better than money or position or worldly

prosperity in our “Father’s house.”

And I should be ungrateful indeed, if on my birthday, this fifth of

July, 1869, when I enter upon my sixtieth year in full health and vigor,

with the possibility of many happy days to come, I did not reverently

recognize the beneficent Hand that has crowned me with so many comforts,

and surrounded me with so many blessings. It is on this day, in my own

beautiful home of Waldemere, that I write these concluding lines, which

record a long and busy career, with the sincere hope that my

experiences, if not my example, will benefit my fellow-men.

(844th page, including engravings.)

APPENDIX.

REST ONLY FOUND IN ACTION.

A NEW EXPERIENCE--“DOING NOTHING” A FAILURE--EXCITEMENT

DEMANDED-VISIT OF ENGLISH FRIENDS--I SHOW THEM OUR COUNTRY--NIAGARA

FALLS--WE VISIT CUBA--NEW ORLEANS--MAMMOTH

CAVE--WASHINGTON--“CASTLE THUNDER”--TRIP TO CALIFORNIA--SALT LAKE

CITY--I OFFER BRIGHAM YOUNG TWO HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS TO “SHOW”

HIM “DOWN EAST”--AM “INTERVIEWED” AT SACRAMENTO AND SAN

FRANCISCO--THE CHINESE--SEA LIONS--THE GEYSERS--MARIPOSA--THE BIG

TREES--INSPIRATION POINT--YOSEMITE VALLEY--THE REMARKABLE TOWN OF

GREELEY, IN COLORADO--QUEBEC--SAGINAW RIVER--SARATOGA--ALICE

CARY--WILD BUFFALO HUNT IN KANSAS--MY GREAT TRAVELLING SHOW--THE

WINTER EXHIBITION IN NEW YORK--THE EMPIRE RINK--SUCCESS OF THE

SHOW--OPINIONS OF THE PRESS--CURIOSITIES FROM CALIFORNIA--MY

IMITATORS--ATTEMPTS TO DECEIVE AND SWINDLE THE PUBLIC.

Every one knows the story of the Emperor Charles the Fifth. His ambition

gratified to satiety in the conquest of kingdoms, and the firm

establishment of his empire, he craved rest. He abdicated his throne,

“retired from business,” content to live on his laurels in the peaceful

shades of the Cloister at Yustee. The tradition is that here he forgot

the world without, withdrew in thought as in person from the cares and

turmoils of state, and found rest and cheerfulness by alternating his

devotions with the tinkering of clocks. Perhaps every one is not so

familiar with the somewhat recent correction by Mr. Stirling of this

romantic story. In fact, the Emperor was never so restless as when he

was taking rest; was never so full of the perplexities of empire as

when, in “due form,” he had shaken them off. In the Cloister he was the

same man that he was in the Camp and the Court, and when he sought to

repress his energies, they simply tormented him.

Not denying that my egotism is equal to a good deal, I must beg my

readers not to suppose that I assume for my own history a very extended

similarity to that of the greatest monarch of his time. In fact, the

points of difference are quite as striking as those of resemblance. It

is true, we both tried the “clock business;” but I must claim that my

tinkering in that way throws that of the Emperor entirely in the shade.

I was not, however, fool enough to go into a cloister. Let not an

illustration any more than a parable “run on all fours.” But I want a

royal illustration; and the history of Charles the Fifth, in the

particular of abdicating for rest, I find very pertinent to my own

experience. I took a formal, and as I then supposed, a last adieu of my

readers on my fifty-ninth birth-day. I was, as I had flattered myself,

through with travel, with adventure, and with business, save so far as

the care of my competence would require my attention. My book closed

without a suspicion that in any subsequent edition “more of the same

sort” would make possible an ADDITIONAL CHAPTER. It is with a sense of

surprise, and withal a feeling akin to the ludicrous, that in this new

edition, I cannot bring my career up to my sixty-second year, without

filling a few more pages, in their contents not unlike in kind to those

which make the bulk of my book.

As stated on page 768, my final retirement from the managerial

profession closed with the destruction of my Museum by fire, March 3,

1868. But when I wrote that sentence I had not learned by a three years’

cessation of business, how utterly fruitless it is to attempt to chain

down energies which are peculiar to my nature. No man not similarly

situated can imagine the _ennui_ which seizes such a nature after it has

lain dormant for a few months. Having “nothing to do,” I thought at

first was a very pleasant, as it was to me an entirely new sensation.

“I would like to call on you in the summer, if you have any leisure, in

Bridgeport,” said an old friend.

“I am a man of leisure and thankful that I have nothing to do; so you

cannot call amiss,” I replied with an immense degree of

self-satisfaction.

“Where is your office down-town when you live in New York?” asked

another friend.

“I have no office,” I proudly replied. “I have done work enough, and

shall play the rest of my life. I don’t go down-town once a week; but I

ride in the Park every day, and am at home much of my time.”