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I looked upon him as a great man, for he had been to “York,” and to “go to York” in those days was thought quite as much of as to go to Europe is now. I listened to the relation of his adventures in city and country, my interest in the man continually increasing. At last I heard him say to my father, that he expected to buy many more cattle in Ridgefield, and at other points on his way to the city, and he would be glad to hire a boy who was light of foot, to run along with him and assist in driving the cattle. I immediately besought my father (like a modern office-seeker) to intercede for me, and if possible procure me the coveted situation. He did so. Consultation with my mother resulted in her consent, and it was immediately arranged that I should visit New York. I was told to retire at once, so as to be ready to start with the drove of cattle at daylight in the morning. I went to bed, but not to sleep. Visions of all sorts haunted my imagination. A new world was about to be opened to me. I slept an hour or two towards morning, dreaming of the great city with streets paved with gold, and many castles – in the air.
At daylight I was aroused, took a few mouthfuls of breakfast, and started off on foot in the midst of a heavy snow-storm, to help drive the cattle. Before reaching Ridgefield, Mr. Brown put me on his horse to gallop after a wandering ox; the horse fell, rolled upon my foot, and sprained my ankle. I suffered intensely, but dared not complain lest my employer should contrive some way to send me back, for I was not yet ten miles from home. He very considerately allowed me to ride behind him on the horse, and that night the landlady of the hotel where we stopped bathed my ankle, which was considerably swollen. The next day it was a trifle better, but as I continued to limp, Mr. Brown permitted me to ride most of the time.
In three or four days we reached the city of New York, and put up at the Bull’s Head tavern, kept, I think, by Mr. Givens. The drover would be busy a week selling his cattle, and then I was to return home with him in a sleigh.
That was a great week for me. My mother gave me a dollar before I left home, and I never expected to see the end of it. I supposed it would supply my every wish, and yet leave unknown quantities of small change on hand. The first outlay I made was for oranges. I was very fond of this fruit, and had often wished I could have as many as I could eat. I entered a confectionery store and inquired the price of oranges. “Four pence apiece,” was the reply.
Now, “four pence” in Connecticut is six cents, and I supposed it was the same the world over. Profiting by my experience in “beating down” the price, and not doubting Franklin’s proverb that “a penny saved is two pence earned,” I informed the lady that “I considered four pence apiece too dear, but I would give her ten cents for two.”
The feminine shopkeeper hesitated for a moment, but finally said that seeing it was me, and as it was probably my first visit to New York, she would let me have the two oranges for ten cents, but she should expect me to trade with her whenever I wanted any thing in her line. I thanked her, and took the oranges. I thought it was very liberal in her to make such a generous deduction from the price of her fruit, little dreaming that, owing to the difference in currency, I had paid her two cents more than she asked.
Soon dispatching my two oranges, I purchased two more, and had eighty cents left. This seemed to me sufficient for all mortal wants. I then bought for thirty-one cents a little gun, which would “go off” and send a stick some distance across the room. I intended to astonish my schoolmates with the gun when I got home, for it astonished me considerably, as I had never seen any thing of the kind before. I went into the bar-room of our hotel, and began to amuse myself with the extraordinary implement. The bar-room was crowded with customers, and shooting at random, the arrow grazed one man’s nose and passed on, hitting the barkeeper in the eye. Smarting under the pain it occasioned, the latter came in front of his counter, caught me by the collar, shook me sternly, boxed my ears till my head rung, and told me to put that gun out of the way or he would throw it into the stove. I felt considerably injured in my feelings, and sneaking slyly up stairs placed the precious treasure under my pillow.
Visiting the toy shop again, the good woman instructed me in the mystery of torpedoes. She threw one with considerable force on the floor, and it exploded, greatly to my delight. Would not these astonish our school-boys? I bought six cents’ worth for that purpose, but could not wait to use them at home. As the guests at the hotel were passing in to dinner, and supposing that they had never seen any thing in the torpedo line and would be delighted to do so, I could not refrain from giving them the opportunity. So taking two from my pocket and throwing them with all my strength against the side of the hall through which the crowd was passing, a loud double-report followed, much to the surprise and annoyance of the guests. The landlord came rushing out in a high state of excitement, and discovering the culprit he stretched me upon the floor at a single blow with his open hand.
“There, you little greenhorn,” he exclaimed, “see if that will teach you better than to explode your infernal crackers in my house again!”
It did. I was perfectly taught in a single lesson; went up stairs and deposited the balance of the torpedoes with my gun. I ate no dinner that day. My dignity had been insulted and my appetite had vanished. I was humbled. I felt forlorn and forsaken. I however had one resource. It was the toy shop. I visited it again, bought a watch, a breast-pin, and a top. I was still a rich man. I had eleven cents left. I went to bed and dreamed of all my possessions.
The next morning, immediately after breakfast, I visited the toy shop again to “look around,” and perceived many things which I had not noticed the day previously. Presently I saw a beautiful knife with two blades, besides a gimlet and cork-screw! This was a novelty. The most useful article in existence, beyond all doubt. I must possess it. My father would be delighted, for it was a carpenter shop in miniature, and was too valuable an article to leave behind me. Wouldn’t old Bethel be astonished! But what was the price of this combination of all that was useful and ornamental? Only thirty-one cents. Alas, I had only eleven! I learned to my astonishment that my funds were exhausted. But have the knife I must, and so I proposed to my kind friend, the shop woman, that she should receive back the top and breast-pin at a slight deduction from what I had paid for them, and then taking my eleven cents, should let me have the knife. The kind creature consented, and thus I made my first “swop.” Presently I discovered some molasses candy. It was whiter and nicer than any I had ever seen before. I must have some. So I asked the lady to take back the watch at a slight discount, and give me the worth of it in molasses candy. She did so. It was delicious. I had never tasted any thing so nice – and before night I had resigned my gun into her possession and swallowed its value in molasses candy. The next morning I swallowed all my torpedoes in the same shape, and in the course of the day even my knife followed in the sweet footsteps of its illustrious predecessors. Molasses candy was the rock on which I split. My money was all gone – my notions all swopped for it – and yet, like Oliver Twist, I cried for “more.”
The good woman had a son of about my size. I had no particular use for my two pocket handkerchiefs. Her boy could use them, and I gladly accepted her proposal to trade them for four sticks of molasses candy. I had an extra pair of stockings which I was sure I should never need, and they went for five more rolls of molasses candy!
When thus divested of all I possessed, I became resigned to my fate, and, turning my attention to some other source of excitement, I made the acquaintance of a young gentleman from Connecticut. He was about twenty years of age, had been in New York once before, “knew the ropes,” and proposed to show me the city. I gladly accompanied him, and saw many sights that day which astonished me beyond measure. He took me to “Bear Market,” as it was then called – “Washington Market,” as it is now designated. I was greatly surprised at the immense quantities of meat there displayed.
“What under heaven do they expect to do with all this meat?” I asked my companion with much curiosity.
“They expect to sell it, of course,” he said.
“They’ll get sucked in then,” I replied exultingly, for I felt assured that it would never be possible to consume all that beef before doomsday. It was probably all masticated within the next twenty-four hours, but to a raw boy from the country such a thing would seem incredible. It was equally incredible to “Uncle Sam Taylor,” several years afterwards. Rising early one morning, the old gentleman roused his companions, saying, “Let us look in upon Fulton Market. I rather guess there will be a grand show of beef. I have already seen three cart loads go by!”
I think I shall never forget an inscription which I saw painted on a small square piece of board and fastened to a post on the dock at the rear of the market. It was a corporation warning, and read as here presented.
FIVE DOLLARS FINE FOR
THROWING any kind of DAMD
aged meat or fish into
the Public Docks.
I was astonished at the profanity of the public authorities, and wondered why they could not have said simply, “aged meat or fish,” without prefixing the offensive adjective. I called the attention of my friend to the deplorable state of public morals as exhibited on their public “sign,” when he explained that some wicked wag, not having the fear of the city aldermen before his eyes, had interpolated the little “D,” and thus made the word “damaged” express its own true meaning, though in an unnecessarily strong and objectionable manner.
My friend also took me out of town to see the State Prison, paid my way in, and witnessed my astonishment at seeing so many wicked convicts dressed in the striped prison suit, and especially to see about two hundred shoe-makers turn their faces to the door when we entered, with as much precision as if they had been automatons all moved by a single wire. I also saw a large windmill the same day, which was the first time I had ever seen the like.
My week was soon up. Mr. Brown took me into his one-horse sleigh immediately after dinner, drove as far as Sawpitts, now called Port Chester, stopped over night, started early the next morning, and arrived at Bethel the same evening.
I had a thousand questions to answer, and found my brothers and sisters much disappointed that I had brought them none of the fruits of my dollar. My mother examined my wardrobe, and finding it two pocket-handkerchiefs and one pair of stockings short, I was whipped and sent to bed. Thus terminated my first visit to New York.
I was however for a long time quite a lion among the school-boys, for I had “been to York,” and seen with my own eyes many wonders “which they had only heard tell of.”
CHAPTER II
Clerk in a Store – Anecdotes
Clerk in a Store – An Eye to Business – Jokers’ Exchange – My Inheritance – Ivy Island – Anticipations – An Exploring Expedition – Among the Bogs – A Hornets’ Nest – The Promised Land – Vanished Dreams – Razor-strops – Diamond cut Diamond – Drunkard’s Keg – Sense of Honor – The Dark Picture – Credit stopped – Tricks of Trade – Three in a Bed – Traps and Barricades – Battle of the Spurs – The Wrong Horse.
MY aversion to hand-work, on the farm or otherwise, continued to be manifested in various ways, all of which was generally set down to the score of laziness. I believe, indeed, I had the reputation of being the laziest boy in town, probably because I was always busy at head-work to evade the sentence of gaining bread by the sweat of the brow. In sheer despair of making any thing better of me, my father concluded to try me as a merchant. He had previously erected a suitable building in Bethel, and taking Mr. Hiram Weed as a partner, they purchased a stock of dry goods, groceries, hardware, and a thousand other “notions;” and I was duly installed as clerk in a country store.
Like many greenhorns before me, this was the height of my ambition. I felt that it was a great condescension on my part to enter into conversation with the common boys who had to work for a living. I strutted behind the counter with a pen back of my ear, was wonderfully polite to ladies, assumed a wise look when entering charges upon the day-book, was astonishingly active in waiting upon customers, whether in weighing tenpenny nails, starch, indigo, or saleratus, or drawing New England rum or West India molasses.
Ours was a cash, credit and barter store; and I drove many a sharp trade with old women who paid for their purchases in butter, eggs, beeswax, feathers, and rags, and with men who exchanged for our commodities, hats, axe-helves, oats, corn, buck-wheat, hickory-nuts, and other commodities. It was something of a drawback upon my dignity that I was compelled to sweep the store, take down the window-shutters, and make the fire; nevertheless the thought of being a “merchant” fully compensated me for all such menial duties.
My propensities for money-making continued active as ever, and I asked and obtained the privilege of purchasing candies on my own account, to sell to the juvenile portion of our customers. I received a small salary for my services, (my father as usual stipulating that I should clothe myself,) and I intended to be faithful to my employers; but I have found, all through life, that wherever there are conflicting interests, men are very apt to think of self first, and so I fear it was with me, – for I well remember spending much time in urging indulgent mothers to buy candies for their darling children, when other customers were waiting to be served with more substantial articles of merchandise.
A country store in the evening, or upon a wet day, is a miserably dull place, so far as trade is concerned. Upon such occasions therefore I had little to do, and I will explain why the time did not hang unpleasantly upon my hands.
In nearly every New England village, at the time of which I write, there could be found from six to twenty social, jolly, story-telling, joke-playing wags and wits, regular originals, who would get together at the tavern or store, and spend their evenings and stormy afternoons in relating anecdotes, describing their various adventures, playing off practical jokes upon each other, and engaging in every project out of which a little fun could be extracted by village wits whose ideas were usually sharpened at brief intervals by a “treat,” otherwise known as a glass of Santa Cruz rum, old Holland gin, or Jamaica spirits.
Bethel was not an exception to this state of things. In fact no place of its size could boast more original geniuses in the way of joking and story-telling than my native village. As before stated, my grandfather, Phineas Taylor, was one of the sort. His near neighbor, Benjamin Hoyt, or “Esquire Hoyt,” as he was called, on account of being a justice of the peace, was one of the most inveterate story-tellers I ever knew. He could relate an anecdote with better effect than any man I have ever seen. He would generally profess to know all the parties in the story which he related, and however comic it might be, he would preserve the most rigid seriousness of countenance until its dénouement, when he would break forth into a hearty haw! haw! which of itself would throw his hearers into convulsions of laughter.
Luckily or unluckily, our store was the resort of all these wits, and many is the day and evening that I have hung with delight upon their stories, and many the night that I have kept the store open until eleven o’clock, in order to listen to the last anecdotes of the two jokers who had remained long after their companions had gone to rest.
Inheriting a vital love of fun and an aptness for practical jokes, all that was said and done by these village wags was not only watched with the most intense pleasure by myself, but was also noted upon the tablets of a most retentive memory, whence I can now extract them without losing scarcely a word. Some of these specimens I will present to the reader hereafter. I will however here advert to a circumstance which will show how the whole neighborhood, as it were, would join in practising and perpetuating a joke.
It will be remembered that my grandfather, a few days after my birth, in consideration of my taking his name, presented me with a tract of land called “Ivy Island.” I was not four years of age before my grandfather informed me, with much seriousness, that I was a landowner; that he had given me a valuable farm on account of my name, etc.; and I am certain that not a week elapsed, from that period till I was twelve years of age, that I did not hear of this precious patrimony. My grandfather never spoke of me in my presence, either to a neighbor or stranger, without saying that I was the richest child in town, because I owned all “Ivy Island,” the most valuable farm in Connecticut. My mother often reminded me of my immense possessions, and my father occasionally asked me if I would not support the family when I came in possession of my property. I frequently assured my father, in the most perfect good faith, that he need give himself no uneasiness upon that score, for I would see that all the family wants were bountifully supplied when I attained my majority and received my estate. Our neighbors, too, reminded me a dozen times a day, that they feared I would refuse to play with their children, because I had inherited such immense wealth, while they had nothing of the sort.
These continual allusions to “Ivy Island,” for six or eight years, I fear excited my pride, and I know that the prospect made me wish that the slow-moving wheels of time would attain a rapidity which would hurry up that twenty-first birth-day, and thus enable me to become the nabob, which my grandfather’s generous foresight had cut me out for. How often, too, did I promise my playmates, when they rendered me a kind action, that when I became of age they should have a slice of “Ivy Island” that would make them rich for life! I sincerely intended to fulfil these promises to the letter. But, alas for the mutability of human affairs! an issue was at hand which I little expected, and one which was destined to effect a serious change in my hopes and aspirations.
One summer (I think it was 1822, at which period I was twelve years old) I asked my father’s permission to visit “Ivy Island.” He promised I should do so in a few days, as we should be getting hay in that vicinity. I scarcely slept for three nights, so great was my joy to think that, like Moses of old, I should be permitted to look upon the promised land. The visions of wealth which had so long haunted me in relation to that valuable locality now became intensified, and I not only felt that it must be a land flowing with milk and honey, but caverns of emeralds, diamonds, and other precious stones, as well as mines of silver and gold, opened vividly to my mind’s eye.
The wished-for morning at length arrived, and my father informed me that we were to mow in the meadow adjoining “Ivy Island,” and that I might visit it with our hired man during “nooning.” My grandfather kindly reminded me that when I came to look upon the precious spot, I was to remember that I was indebted to his bounty, and that if I had not been named “Phineas” I never could have been the proprietor of “Ivy Island.” My mother, too, had to put in a word.
“Now, Taylor,” said she, “don’t become so excited when you see your property as to let your joy make you sick, for remember, rich as you are, that it will be nine years before you can come into possession of your fortune.” I promised to be calm and reasonable.
“If you visit Ivy Island,” she continued, “you will lose your rest at noon, and you will feel tired, after turning hay all the forenoon. Had you not better lie under the trees and rest at ‘nooning,’ and visit Ivy Island at some other time?”
“No, my dear mother,” I replied, “I don’t care for nooning, I shall not feel tired, and I am so anxious to step upon my property, that I cannot wait any longer.”
“Well, go,” said my mother; “but don’t feel above speaking to your brothers and sisters when you return.”
I felt that this injunction was not altogether superfluous, for I already began to feel that it was rather degrading for me to labor as hard as those who had no estate settled upon them.
We went to work in our meadow. It was situated in that part of “Plum-Trees” known as “East Swamp.” When we arrived at the meadow I asked my father where “Ivy Island” was.
“Yonder, at the north end of this meadow, where you see those beautiful trees rising in the distance,” he replied.
I looked towards the place indicated, and my bosom swelled with inexpressible pride and delight, as I beheld for the first time the munificent gift of my honored and generous grandsire.
The forenoon soon slipped away; I turned the grass as fast as two men could cut it, and after making a hasty repast with my father and the workmen under the shade trees, our favorite “hired man,” a good-natured Irishman named Edmund, taking an axe upon his shoulders, told me he was ready to go with me to visit “Ivy Island.”
I started upon my feet with delight, but could not restrain asking him why he took an axe. He replied that perhaps I would like to have him cut into some of the beautiful specimens of timber upon my property, in order that I could see how superior it was in quality to that found in any other part of the world. His answer was perfectly satisfactory, and we started. As we approached the north end of the meadow the ground became swampy and wet, and we found great difficulty in proceeding. We were obliged to leap from bog to bog, and frequently making a mis-step, I found myself up to my middle in water. At one time I stood upon a bog, and the next was so far off that I greatly feared I could not reach it. My companion, who was several rods in advance of me, saw my dilemma, and called out for me to leap stoutly and I should succeed.
“I am sure I cannot,” I replied; “and if I could, I shall be worse off when I reach the next bog than I am now, for there is no place near it that is above water.”
“You are a little off from the regular track,” responded my Hibernian friend; “but never mind, you will have to wade a little.”
“The water will be over my head, and I shall be drowned,” I replied, in a most despairing tone.
“Divil a danger at all at all, for the water is not four feet deep in the deepest place,” was the reply.
“If I go under, you must help me out,” I replied tremblingly.
“To be sure I will; so never fear, but give a strong jump, and you are all safe,” was the encouraging response.
I summoned all my strength, clenched both my hands, sprang with all my force, and just saved myself by striking upon the edge of the next bog. I straightened myself up, got upon the middle of the bog, and began to prepare for wading in the water, which I greatly feared would be too deep for me to ford, when I saw countless hornets rising from the spot on which I stood. Instantly they came buzzing about my face and ears. One vicious rascal stung me on the tip of my nose, and, shrieking with the smart, I leaped into the water regardless of consequences. I soon found myself up to my neck, and fearful that the next step would carry me under water altogether, I roared lustily for help.
The trusty Irishman, feeling that there was no real cause for alarm, broke into a peal of laughter, and bade me be of good cheer, “For,” said he, “you’ll not have to wade more than a quarter of a mile in that way before you reach the verge of your valuable property.”
“If I go under, you must help me in a moment, for I can’t swim,” I replied despondingly.
“Niver fear me; if I see ye in danger I’ll have ye out in a twinkling.”
With this assurance I made an advance step and found my head still in the air. Half a dozen hornets now attacked me, and I involuntarily ducked my head under the water. When I popped out again my tormenters had disappeared, and I waded on as well as I could towards “Ivy Island.” After about fifteen minutes, during which time I floundered through the morass, now stepping on a piece of submerged wood, and anon slipping into a hole, I rolled out upon dry land, covered with mud, out of breath, and looking considerably more like a drowned rat than a human being.
“Thank the Merciful Powers, ye are safe at last,” said my Irish companion.
“Oh, what a dreadful time I have had, and how that hornet’s sting smarts!” I groaned, in misery.
“Niver mind, my boy; we have only to cross this little creek, and ye’ll be upon yer own valuable property,” was the encouraging reply.
I looked, and behold we had arrived upon the margin of a stream ten or twelve feet wide, the banks of which were so thickly lined with alders that a person could scarcely squeeze between them.
“Good heavens!” I exclaimed, “is my property surrounded with water?”
“How the divil could it be ‘Ivy Island’ if it was not?” was the quick response.
“Oh! I had never thought about the meaning of the name,” I replied; “but how in the world can we get across this brook?”
“Faith, and now you’ll see the use of the axe, I am thinking,” replied Edmund, as he cut his way through the alders, and proceeded to fell a small oak tree which stood upon the bank of the stream. This tree fell directly across the brook, and thus formed a temporary bridge, over which Edmund kindly assisted me.
I now found myself upon “Ivy Island,” and began to look about me with curiosity.
“Why, there seems to be nothing here but stunted ivies and a few straggling trees!” I exclaimed.
“How else could it be ‘Ivy Island’” was the quiet answer.
I proceeded a few rods towards the centre of my domain, perfectly chop-fallen. The truth rushed upon me. I had been made a fool of by all our neighborhood for more than half a dozen years. My rich “Ivy Island” was an inaccessible piece of barren land, not worth a farthing, and all my visions of future wealth and greatness vanished into thin air. While I stood pondering upon my sudden downfall, I discovered a monstrous black snake approaching me, with upraised head and piercing black eyes. I gave one halloo and took to my heels. The Irishman helped me across the temporary bridge, and this was my first and last visit to “Ivy Island!” We got back to the meadow, and found my father and men mowing away lustily.
“Well, how do you like your property?” asked my father, with the most imperturbable gravity.
“I would sell it pretty cheap,” I responded, holding down my head.
A tremendous roar of laughter bursting from all the workmen showed that they were in the secret. On returning home at night, my grandfather called to congratulate me, with as serious a countenance as if “Ivy Island” was indeed a valuable domain, instead of a barren waste, over which he and the whole neighborhood had chuckled ever since I was born. My mother, too, with a grave physiognomy, hoped I had found it as rich as I anticipated. Several of our neighbors called to ask if I was not glad now, that I was named Phineas; and from that time during the next five years I was continually reminded of the valuable property known as “Ivy Island.”
I can the more heartily laugh at this practical joke, because that inheritance was long afterwards of service to me. “Ivy Island” was a part of the weight that made the wheel of fortune begin to turn in my favor at a time when my head was downward.
“What is the price of razor strops?” inquired my grandfather of a peddler, whose wagon, loaded with Yankee notions, stood in front of our store.
“A dollar each for Pomeroy’s strops,” responded the itinerant merchant.
“A dollar apiece!” exclaimed my grandfather; “they’ll be sold for half the money before the year is out.”
“If one of Pomeroy’s strops is sold for fifty cents within a year, I’ll make you a present of one,” replied the peddler.
“I’ll purchase one on those conditions. Now, Ben, I call you to witness the contract,” said my grandfather, addressing himself to Esquire Hoyt.
“All right,” responded Ben.
“Yes,” said the peddler, “I’ll do as I say, and there’s no back-out to me.”
My grandfather took the strop, and put it in his side coat pocket. Presently drawing it out, and turning to Esquire Hoyt, he said, “Ben, I don’t much like this strop now I have bought it. How much will you give for it?”
“Well, I guess, seeing it’s you, I’ll give fifty cents,” drawled the ’Squire, with a wicked twinkle in his eye, which said that the strop and the peddler were both incontinently sold.
“You can take it. I guess I’ll get along with my old one a spell longer,” said my grandfather, giving the peddler a knowing look.
The strop changed hands, and the peddler exclaimed, “I acknowledge, gentlemen; what’s to pay?”
“Treat the company, and confess you are taken in, or else give me a strop,” replied my grandfather.
“I never will confess nor treat,” said the peddler, “but I’ll give you a strop for your wit;” and suiting the action to the word, he handed a second strop to his customer. A hearty laugh ensued, in which the peddler joined.
“Some pretty sharp fellows here in Bethel,” said a bystander, addressing the peddler.
