“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.
“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.
ANDnow 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
A GROTESQUE FIRE COMPANY.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.
HALF-SHAVED.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 becauseyourfashion 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 wasstaying, 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 interestthat 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 talkproandconon 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 Connecticutwho 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 havea 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, callingout 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 thecoachman 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 pickingup 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, Shermanlaughed 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 totake placein 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 manwhom 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 youwillbe 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 alongcame 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’syour ‘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 gentlemanto 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, hedropped 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 shallrecover 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 whathehad 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.” ThusI 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 samepatois. 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.