Recollections of a Lifetime, by Samuel Griswold Goodrich (New York & Auburn: Miller, Orton & Mulligan, 1856)

[To main page for this work]

-----
[frontispiece]

-----
[title page]

RECOLLECTIONS

OF

A LIFETIME,

OR

MEN AND THINGS I HAVE SEEN:

IN A SERIES OF

FAMILIAR LETTERS TO A FRIEND,

HISTORICAL, BIOGRAPHICAL, ANECDOTICAL, AND DESCRIPTIVE.

-----
BY S. G. GOODRICH.
-----

VOL. I.

NEW YORK AND AUBURN:

MILLER, ORTON AND MULLIGAN.
New York, 25 Park Row;--Auburn, 107 Genesee-st.

M DCCC LVI.

-----
[copyright page]

------------
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1856,
 S. G. GOODRICH,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York.
------------

-----

PREFATORY NOTE.

-------

The first Letter in the ensuring pages will inform the reader as to the origin of these volumes, and the leading ideas of the author in writing them. It is necessary to state, however, that although the work was begun two years since--as indicated by the date of the first of these Letters, and while the author was residing abroad--a considerable portion of it has been written within the last year, and since his return to America. This statement is necessary, in order to explain several passages which will be found scattered through its pages.

New York, September, 1856.

-----

ENGRAVINGS.

----------

VOL. 1

Portrait of the Author ... Frontispiece

Aunt Delight ... 36

Making Maple Sugar ... 68

Whittling ... 94

Catching Pigeons ... 100

How are you, Priest? How are you, Democrat? ... 130

The Jerking Exercise ... 202

Deacon Olmstead ... 222

Grace Ingersoll at the Court of Napoleon ... 260

The Hermitess ... 294

First Adventure upon the sea ... 342

The Cold Friday ... 394

Peace! Peace! ... 505

-----

VOL. II.

George Cabot ... 36

Emigration in 1817 ... 80

Percival ... 132

Brainard writing "Fall of Niagara" ... 148

Sir Walter Scott, Clerk of the Court of Sessions ... 176

Edinburgh ... 180

England ... 214

Byron's Coffin ... 250

These are God's Spelling-book ... 309

The Student ... 433

View in Paris ... 502

Rome ... 525

-----

CONTENTS.

-------

LETTER I.

Introductory and Explanatory ... 9

LETTER II.

Geography and Chronology--The Old Brown House--Grandfathers--Ridgefield--The Meeting-House--Parson Mead--Keeler's Tavern--Lieutenant Smith--The Cannon-Ball ... 15

LETTER III.

The first Remembered Event--High Ridge--The Spy-glass--Sea and Mountain--The Peel--The Black Patch in the road ... 24

LETTER IV.

Education in New England--The Burial Ground of the Suicide--West Lane--Old Chichester--The School-House--The First Day at School--Aunt Delight--Lewis Olmstead--A Return after Twenty Years--Peter Parley and Mother Goose ... 30

LETTER V.

The Joyous Nature of Childhood--Drawbacks--The Small-Pox--The Pest-House--Our House a Hospital--Inoculation--The Force of Early Impressions--Rogers' Pleasures of Memory--My First Whistle--My Sister's Recollections of a Sunday Afternoon--The Song of Kalewala-- Poetic Character of Early Life--Obligations to make Childhood Happy--Beautiful Instinct of Mothers--Improvements in the Training of Children Suggested--Example of our Saviour--The Family a Divine Institution--Christian Marriage ... 41

LETTER VI.

The Inner Life of Towns--Physical Aspect and Character of Ridgefield--Effects of Cultivation upon Climate--Energetic Character of the First Settlers of Ridgefield--Classes of the People as to Descent--Their Occupations--Newspapers--Position of my Father's Family--Management of the Farm--Domestic Economy--Mechanical Professions--Beef and Pork--The Thanksgiving Turkey--Bread--Fuel--Flint and Steel--Friction Matches--Prof. Silliman--Pyroligneous Acid--Maple Sugar--Rum--Dram-drinking--Tansey Bitters--Brandy-- Whisky--The First "Still"--Wine--Dr. G.'s Sacramental Wine--Domestic Products--Bread and Butter--Linen and Woolen Cloth--Cotton-- Flax and Wool--The Little Spinning-wheel--Sally St. John and the Rat-trap-- Manufacture of Wool--Molly Gregory and Fuging Tunes--The Tanner and Hatter--The Revolving Shoemaker--Whipping the Cat--Carpets--Coverlids and Quiltings--Village Bees and Raisings--The Meetlng-House that was destroyed by Lightning--Deaconing a Hymn ... 56

LETTER VII.

Domestic Habits of the People--Meals--Servants and Masters--Dress--Amusements--Festivals--Marriages--Funerals--Dancing--Winter Sports--Up and Down--My Two Grandmothers ... 83

-----
I, p. 6

LETTER VIII.

Interest in Mechanical Devices--Agriculture--My Parents Design me for a Carpenter--The Dawn of the Age of Invention--Fulton, &c.--Perpetual Motion--Whittling--Gentlemen--St. Paul, King Alfred, Daniel Webster, &c.--Desire of Improvement, a New England Characteristic--Hunting--The Bow and Arrow--The Fowling-piece--Pigeons-- Anecdote of Parson M....--Audubon, and Wilson--The Passenger Pigeon--Sporting Rambles--The Blacksnake and Screech-owl--Fishing--Advantages of Country Life and Country Training ... 90

LETTER IX.

Death of Washington--Jefferson and Democracy--Ridgefield on the Great Thoroughfare between New York and Boston--Jerome Bonaparte and his Young Wife--Oliver Wolcott, Governor Treadwell, and Deacon Olmstead--Inauguration of Jefferson--Jerry Mead and Ensign Keeler--Democracy and Federalism--Charter of Charles II.--Elizur Goodrich, Deacon Bishop, and President Jefferson--Abraham Bishop and "About Enough Democracy" ... 106

LETTER X.

How People traveled Fifty Years ayo--Timothy Pickering--Manners along the Road--Jefferson and Shoe-strings--Mr. Priest and Mr. Democrat--Barbers at Washington--James Madison and the Queue--Winter and Sleighing--Comfortable Meeting-house--The Stove Party and the Anti-Stove Party--The first Chaise built in Ridgefield--The Beginning of the Carriage Manufacture there ... 126

LETTER XI.

Up-town and Downtown--East End and West End--Master Stebbins--A Model Schoolmaster--The School-house--Administration of the School--Zeek Sanford--Schoolrooms--Arithmetic--History--Grammar--Anecdote of G.... H......--Country Schools of New England in these Days--Master Stebbins's Scholars ... 138

LETTER XII.

Horsemanship--Bige's Adventures--A Dead Shot--A Race--Academical Honors-- Charles Chatterbox--My Father's School--My Exercises in Latin--Tityre tu patulæ, etc.--Rambles--Literary Aspirations--My Mother--Family Worship--Standing and Kneeling at Prayer--Anecdotes--Our Philistine Temple ... 147

LETTER XIII.

My Father's Library--Children's Books--The New England, Primer and Westminster Catechism--Toy Books--Nursery Books--Moral Effect of these--Hannah Mare's Moral Repository--The Shepherd of Salisbury Plain--Visit to Barley-wood--First Idea of the Parley Books--Impressions of Big Books and Little Books--A Comparison of the Old Book and the New Books for Children and Youth--A Modern Juvenile Bookstore in Broadway ... 164

-----
I, p. 7

LETTER XIV.

The Clergymen of Fairfield County--The Minister's House a Minister's Tavern--Dr. Ripley, of Green's-farms--Dr. Lewis, of Horseneck--Dr. Burnett, of Norwalk--Mr. Swan--Mr. Noyes--Mr. Elliott, of Fairfield--Mr. Mitchell, of New Canaan--A Poet-Deacon--Dr. Blatchford, the Clairvoyant--Mr. Bartlett, of Reading--Mr. Camp, of Ridgebury--Mr. Smith, of Stamford--Mr. Waterman, of Bridgeport, &c.--Manners of the Clergy of Fairfield County--Their Character--Anecdote of the Laughing D. D.--The Coming Storm ... 175

LETTER XV.

Ideas of the Pilgrm Fathers--Progress of Toleration--Episcopacy--Bishop Seabury--Dr. Duché--Methodism in America,--In Connecticut--Anecdotes--Lorenzo Dow--The Wolf in my Father's Fold ... 186

LETTER XVI.

The Three Deacons ... 218

LETTER XVII.

The Federalist and the Democrat--Colonel Bradley and General King--Comparison of New England with European Villages ... 229

LETTER XVIII.

The Ingersolls--Rev. Jonathan Ingersoll--Lieutenant-governor Ingersoll--New Haven Belles--A chivalrous Virginian among the Connecticut D. D.'s--Grace Ingersoll--A New Haven Girl at Napoleon's Court--Real Romance--A Puritan in a Convent ... 248

LETTER XIX.

Mat Olmstead, the Town Wit--The Salamander Hat--The Great Eclipse--Sharp Logic--Lieutenant Smith, the Town Philosopher--The Purchase of Louisiana--Lewis and Clarke's Exploring Expedition--The Great Meteor--Hamilton and Burr--The Leopard and the Chesapeake--Fulton's Steamboats--Granther Baldwin, the Village Miser--Sarah Bishop, the Hermitess ... 265

LETTER XX.

A Long Farewell--A Return--Ridgefield as it is--The Past and Present Compared ... 299

LETTER XXI.

Farewell to Ridgefield--Farewell to Home--Danbury--My new Vocation--A Revolutionary Patriarch--Life in a Country Store My Brother-in-law--Lawyer Hatch ... 323

LETTER XXII.

Visit to New Haven--The City--Yale College--My Uncle's House--John Allen--First view of the Ocean--The Court-house--Dr. Dwight--Professor Silliman--Chemistry, Mineralogy, Geology--Anecdote of Colonel Gibbs--Eli Whitney--The Cotton-gin--The Gun-factory ... 3[38]

LETTER XXIII.

Durham--History of Connecticut--Distinguished Families of Durham--The Chaunceys, Wadsworths, Lymans, Goodriches, Austins, &c.--Woodbury--How Romance becomes History--Rev. Noah Benedict--Judge Smith ... 368

-----
I, p. 8

LETTER XXIV.

The Cold Winter and a Sharp Side--Description of Danbury--The Hat Manufactory--The Sandimanians--Gen. Wooster's Monument--Death of my Brother-in-law--Master White--Mathematics--Farewell to Danbury ... 393

LETTER XXV.

Farewell to Danbury--Hartford--My first Master and His Family--Merino Sheep--A Wind-up--Another Change--My new Employer--A new Era in Life--George Sheldon--Franklin's Biography ... 403

LETTER XXVI.

My Situation under my new Master--Discontent--Humiliating Discoveries--Desire to quit Trade and go to College--Undertake to Reeducate myself--A Long Struggle--Partial Success--Infidelity--The World without a God--Existence, Nature, Life, all contradictions, without Revealed Religion--Return after long Wanderings ... 417

LETTER XXVII.

Hartford forty years ago--The Hartford Wits--Hartford at the present time--The Declaration of War in 1812--Baltimore Riots--Fading in New England--Embargo--Non-intercourse, &c.--Democratic Doctrine that Opposition is Treason ... 435

LETTER XXVIII.

Specks of War in the Atmosphere--The First Year--Operations on the Land and on the Sea--The Wickedness of the Federalists--The Second Year--The Connecticut Militia--Decatur driven into the Thames--Connecticut in trouble--I become a Soldier--My First and Last Campaign ... 451

LETTER XXIX.

Description of New London--Fort Trumbull--Fort Griswold--The British Fleet--Decatur and his Ships in the Thames--Commodore Hardy--Letters from Home--Performances of the Hartford Company--Fishing--A few British Broadsides--Apprehensions of an Attack--Great Preparations--Sober Second Thoughts--On Guard--A Suspicious Customer--Alarm, alarm!--Company called out--Expectations of instant Battle--Corporal T.'s Nightmare--Consequences--Influence of Camp Life--Return to Hartford--Land Warrants--Blue Lights--Decatur, Biddle, and Jones ... 466

LETTER XXX.

Continuation of the War--The Creeks subdued--Battles of Chippewa and Bridgewater--Capture of Washington--Bladensburg Races-- Humiliation of the President--Defense of Baltimore--The Star-spangled Banner--Ravages of the Coast by the British Fleet--Downfall of Napoleon--Scarcity of Money--Rag Money--Bankruptcy of the National Treasury--The Specie Bank-note, or Mr. Sharp and Mr. Sharper--Scarcity and exorbitant Prices of British Goods--Depression of all Kinds of Business--My Pocket-book Factory--Naval and Land Battle at Plattsburg--Universal Gloom--State of New England--Anxiety of the Administration--Their Instructions to the Peace Commissioners--Battle of New Orleans--Peace--Illuminations and Rejoicings ... 488

Appendix. ... 515

RECOLLECTIONS OF A LIFETIME,

IN A SERIES OF

FAMILIAR LETTERS TO A FRIEND.

-------

LETTER I.

Introductory and Explanatory.

My dear C******

A little thin, sheet of paper, with a frail wafer seal, and inscribed with various hieroglyphical symbols, among which I see the postmark of Albany, just been laid upon my table. I have opened it, and find it to be a second letter from you. Think of the pilgrimage of this innocent waif, unprotected save by faith in man and the mail, setting out upon a voyage from the banks of the Hudson, and coming straight to me at Courbevoie, just without the walls of Paris, a distance of three thousand miles!

And yet this miracle is wrought every day, every hour. I am lingering here, partly because I have taken a lease of a house and furnished it, and therefore I can not well afford to leave it at present. I am pursuing my literary labors, and such are the fa-

cilities of intercourse, by means of these little red-lipped messengers, like this I have just received from you, that I can almost as well prosecute my labors here as at home. Could I get rid of all those associations which bind a man to his birth-land; could I appease that consciousness which whispers in my ear, that the allegiance of every true man, free to follow his choice, is due to his country and his kindred, I might perhaps continue here for the remainder of my life.

My little pavilion, situated upon an elevated slope formed of the upper bank of the Seine, gives me a view of the unrivaled valley that winds between Saint Cloud and Asnières; it shows me Paris in the near distance--Montmartre to the left, and the Arch of Triumph to the right. In the rear, close at hand, is our suburban village, having the aspect of a little withered city. Around are several chateaus, and from the terraced roof of my house--which is arranged for a promenade--I can look into their gardens and pleasure-grounds, sparkling with fountains and glowing with fruits and flowers. A walk of a few rods brings me to the bank of the Seine, where boatmen are ever ready to give the pleasure-seeker a row or a sail; in ten minutes by rail, or an hour on foot, I can be in Paris. In about the same time I may be sauntering in the Avenue de Neuilly, the Bois de Boulogne, or the galleries of Versailles. My rent is but about four hundred dollars a year, with the freedom of the gar-

dens and grounds of the chateau, of which my residence is an appendage. It is the nature of this climate to bring no excessive cold and no extreme heat. You may sit upon the grass till midnight of a summer evening, and fear no chills or fever; no troops of flies, instinctively knowing your weak point, settle upon your nose and disturb your morning nap or your afternoon siesta; no elvish mosquitoes invade the sanctity of your sleep, and force you to listen to their detestable serenade, and then make you pay for it, as if you had ordered the entertainment. If there be a place on earth combining economy and comfort--where one may be quiet, and yet in the very midst of life--it is here. Why, then, should I not remain? In one word, because I would rather be at home. This is, indeed, a charming country, but it is not mine. I could never reconcile myself to the idea of spending my life in a foreign land.

I am therefore preparing to return to New York the next summer, with the intention of making that city my permanent residence. In the mean time, I am not idle, for, as you know, the needs of my family require me to continue grinding at the mill. Besides one or two other trifling engagements, I have actually determined upon carrying out your suggestion, that I should write a memoir of my life and times-- a panorama of my observations and experience. You encourage me with the idea that an account of my life, common-place as it has been, will find readers,

and at the same time, your recommendation naturally suggests a form in which this may be given to the public, divested of the air of egotism which generally belongs to autobiography. I may write my history in the form of letters to you, and thus tell a familiar story in a familiar way--to an old friend.

I take due note of what you recommend--that I should make my work essentially a personal narrative. You suggest that so long as the great study of mankind is man, so long any life--supposing it to be not positively vicious--if truly and frankly portrayed, will prove amusing, perhaps instructive. I admit the force of this, and it has its due influence upon me; but still I shall not make my book, either wholly or mainly, a personal memoir. I have no grudges to gratify, no by-blows to give, no apologies to make, no explanations to offer--at least none which could reasonably find place in a work like this. I have no ambition which could be subserved by a publication of a merely personal nature: to confess the truth, I should rather feel a sense of humiliation at appearing thus in print, as it would inevitably suggest the idea of pretense beyond performance.

What I propose is this: venturing to presume upon your sympathy thus far, I invite you to go with me, in imagination, over the principle scenes I have witnessed, while I endeavor to make you share in the impressions they produced upon my own mind. Thus I shall carry you back to my early days, to my native

village, the "sweet Auburn" of my young fancy, and present to you the homely country life in which I was born and bred. Those pastoral scenes were epics to my childhood; and though the heroes and heroines consisted mainly of the deacons of my father's church and the school-ma'ams that taught me to read and write, I shall still hope to inspire you with a portion of the loving reverence with which I regard their memories. I shall endeavor to interest you in some of the household customs of our New England country life, fifty years ago, when the Adams delved and the Eves span, and thought it no stain upon their gentility. I shall let you into the intimacy of my boyhood, and permit you to witness my failures as well as my triumphs. In this the first stage of my career, I shall rely upon your good nature, in permitting me to tell my story in my own way. If I make these early scenes and incidents the themes of a little moralizing, I hope for your indulgence.

From this period, as the horizon of my experience becomes somewhat enlarged, I may hope to interest you in the topics that naturally come under review. As you are well acquainted with the outline of my life, I do not deem it necessary to forewarn you that my history presents little that is out of the beaten track of common experience. I have no marvels to tell, no secrets to unfold, no riddles to solve. It is true that in the course of a long and busy career, I have seen a variety of men and things, and had my share

of vicissitudes in the shifting drama of life; still the interest of my story must depend less upon the importance of my revelations than the sympathy which naturally belongs to a personal narrative. I am perfectly aware that in regard to many of the events I shall have occasion to describe, many of the scenes I shall portray, many of the characters I shall bring upon the stage, my connection was only that of a spectator; nevertheless, I shall hope to impart to them a certain life and reality by arranging them continuously upon the thread of my remembrances.

This, then, is my preface; as the wind and weather of my humor shall favor, I intend to proceed and send you letter by letter as I write. After a few specimens, I shall ask your opinion; if favorable, I shall go on, if otherwise, I shall abandon the enterprise. I am determined, if I publish the work, to make you responsible for my success before the public.

S. G. Goodrich.

Courbevoie, near Paris, June, 1854.

Geography and Chronology--The Old Brown House--Grandfathers--Ridgefield--The Meeting-House--Parson Mead--Keeler's Tavern--Lieutenant Smith--The Cannon-Ball.

My dear C******

It is said that geography and chronology are the two eyes of history: hence, I suppose that in any narrative which pretends to be in some degree historical, the when and where, as well as the how, should be distinctly presented. I am aware that a large part of mankind are wholly deficient in the bump of locality, and march through the world in utter indifference as to whether they are going north or south, east or west. With these, the sun may rise and set as it pleases, at any point of the compass; but for myself, I could never be happy, even in my bedroom or study, without knowing which way was north. You will expect, therefore, that in beginning my story, I make you distinctly acquainted with the place where I was born, as well as the objects which immediately surrounded it. If, indeed, throughout my narrative, I habitually regard geography and chronology, as essential elements of a story, you will at least understand that it is done by design and not by accident.

In the western part of the State of Connecticut, is

a small town by the name of Ridgefield.* This title is descriptive, and indicates the general form and position of the place. It is, in fact, a collection of hills, rolled into one general and commanding elevation. On the west is a ridge of mountains, forming the boundary between the States of Connecticut and New York; to the south the land spreads out in wooded undulations to Long Island Sound; east and north, a succession of hills, some rising up against the sky, and others fading away in the distance, bound the horizon. In this town, in an antiquated and rather dilapidated house of shingles and clapboards, I was born on the 19th of August, 1793.

My father, Samuel Goodrich, was minister of the First Congregational Church of that place, there being then, no other religious society and no other clergyman in the town, except at Ridgebury--the remote northern section, which was a separate parish. He was the son of Elizur Goodrich,† a distinguished minister of the same persuasion, at Durham, Connecticut. Two of his brothers were men of eminence--the late Chauncey Goodrich of Hartford, and Elizur Goodrich of New Haven. My mother was a daughter of John Ely,‡ a physician of Saybrook, whose name figures not unworthily in the annals of the revolutionary war.

I was the sixth child of a family of ten children,

two of whom died in infancy, and eight of whom lived to be married and settled in life. All but two of the latter are still living. My father's annual salary for the first twenty-five years, and during his ministry at Ridgefield, averaged 120, old currency--that is, about four hundred dollars a year: the last twenty-five years, during which he was settled at Berlin, near Hartford, his stipend was about five hundred dollars a year. He was wholly without patrimony, and owing to peculiar circumstances, which will be hereafter explained, my mother had not even the ordinary outfit, as they began their married life. Yet they so brought up their family of eight children, that they all attained respectable positions in life, and at my father's death, he left an estate of four thousand dollars.* These facts throw light upon the simple annals of a country clergyman in Connecticut, half a century ago; they also bear testimony to the thrifty energy and wise frugality of my parents, and especially of my mother, who was the guardian deity of the household.

Ridgefield† belongs to the county of Fairfield, and is now a handsome town, as well on account of its artificial as its natural advantages--with some 2000 inhabitants. It is fourteen miles from Long Island Sound--of which its many swelling hills afford charm-

ing views. The main street is a mile in length, and is now embellished with several handsome houses. About the middle of it there is, or was, some forty years ago, a white wooden meeting-house, which belonged to my father's congregation. It stood in a small grassy square, the favorite pasture of numerous flocks of geese, and the frequent playground of schoolboys, especially of Saturday afternoons. Close by the front door ran the public road, and the pulpit, facing it, looked out upon it, in fair summer Sundays, as I well remember by a somewhat amusing incident.

In the contiguous town of Lower Salem, dwelt an aged minister by the name of Mead. He was all his life marked with eccentricity, and about these days of which I speak, his mind was rendered yet more erratic by a touch of paralysis. He was, however still able to preach, and on a certain Sunday, having exchanged with my father, he was in the pulpit and engaged in making his opening prayer. He had already begun his invocation, when David P., who was the Jehu of that generation, dashed by the front door, upon a horse--a clever animal of which he was but too proud--in a full, round trot. The echo of the clattering hoofs filled the church,--which being of shingles and clapboards was sonorous as a drum--and arrested the attention as well of the minister as the congregation, even before the rider had reached it. The minister was fond of horses--almost to frailty--and from the first, his practiced

ear perceived that the sounds came from a beast of bottom. When the animal shot by the door, he could not restrain his admiration, which was accordingly thrust into the very marrow of his prayer: "We pray thee, O Lord, in a particular and peculiar manner--that's a real smart critter--to forgive us our manifold trespasses, in a particular and peculiar manner," &c.

I have somewhere heard of a traveler on horseback, who, just at eventide, being uncertain of his road, inquired of a person he chanced to meet, the way to Barkhamstead.

"You are in Barkhamstead now," was the reply.

"Yes, but where is the center of the place?"

"It hasn't got any center."

"Well but direct me to the tavern."

"There ain't any tavern."

"Yes, but the meeting-house?"

"Why didn't you ask that afore? There it is, over the hill!"

So, in those days, in Connecticut--as doubtless in other parts of New England--the meeting-house was the great geographical monument, the acknowledged meridian of every town and village. Even a place without a center or a tavern, had its house of worship, and this was its initial point of reckoning. It was, indeed, something more. It was the town-hall, where all public meetings were held, for civil purposes; it was the temple of religion, the ark of the covenant, the pillar of society--religious, social, and moral--

to the people around. It will not be considered strange then, if I look back to the meeting-house of Ridgefield, as not only a most revered edifice--covered with clapboards and shingles, though it was--but as in some sense the starting point of my existence. Here, at least, linger many of my most cherished remembrances.

A few rods to the south of this, there was, and still is, a tavern, kept in my day, by Squire Keeler. This institution ranked second only to the meeting-house; for the tavern of those days was generally the center of news, and the gathering place for balls, musical entertainments, public shows, &c.; and this particular tavern had special claims to notice. It was, in the first place, on the great thoroughfare of that day, between Boston and New York, and had become a general and favorite stopping-place for travelers. It was, moreover, kept by a hearty old gentleman, who united in his single person the varied functions of publican, postmaster, representative, justice of the peace, and I know not what else. He besides had a thrifty wife, whose praise was in all the land. She loved her customers, especially members of Congress, governors, and others in authority, who wore powder and white-top boots, and who migrated to and fro, in the lofty leisure of their own coaches. She was indeed a woman of mark, and her life has its moral. She scoured and scrubbed and kept things going, until she was seventy years old, at which time, du-

ring an epidemic, she was threatened with an attack. She, however, declared that she had not time to be sick, and kept on working, so that the disease passed her by, though it made sad havoc all around her--especially with more dainty dames, who had leisure to follow the fashion.

Besides all this, there was an historical interest attached to Keeler's tavern, for deeply imbedded in the northeastern corner-post, there was a cannon-ball, planted there during the famous fight with the British in 1777. It was one of the chief historical monuments of the town, and was visited by all curious travelers who came that way.* Little can the present generation imagine with what glowing interest, what ecstatic wonder, what big round eyes, the rising generation of Ridgefield, half a century ago, listened to the account of the fight as given by Lieutenant Smith, himself a witness of the event and a participator of the conflict, sword in hand.

This personage, whom I shall have occasion again to introduce to my readers, was, in my time, a justice

of the peace, town librarian, and general oracle in such loose matters as geography, history, and law--then about as uncertain and unsettled in Ridgefield, as is now the fate of Sir John Franklin, or the longitude of Lilliput. He had a long, lean face; long, lank, silvery hair, and an unctuous, whining voice. With these advantages, he spoke with the authority of a seer, and especially in all things relating to the revolutionary war.

The agitating scenes of that event, so really great in itself, so unspeakably important to the country, had transpired some five and twenty years before. The existing generation of middle age, had all witnessed it; nearly all had shared in its vicissitudes. On every hand there were corporals, sergeants, lieutenants, captains, and colonels--no strutting fops in militia buckram, raw blue and buff, all fuss and feathers--but soldiers, men who had seen service and won laurels in the tented field. Every old man, every old woman had stories to tell, radiant with the vivid realities of personal observation or experience. Some had seen Washington, and some Old Put; one was at the capture of Ticonderoga under Ethan Allen; another was at Bennington, and actually heard old Stark say, "Victory this day, or my wife Molly is a widow!" Some were at the taking of Stony Point, and others in the sanguinary struggle of Monmouth. One had witnessed the execution of Andre, and another had been present at the capture of Burgoyne.

The time which had elapsed since these events, had served only to magnify and glorify these scenes, as well as the actors, especially in the imagination of the rising generation. If perchance we could now dig up, and galvanize into life, a contemporary of Julius Cæsar, who was present and saw him cross the Rubicon, and could tell us how he looked and what he said--we should listen with somewhat of the greedy wonder with which the boys of Ridgefield listened to Lieutenant Smith, when of a Saturday afternoon, seated on the stoop of Keeler's tavern, he discoursed upon the discovery of America by Columbus, Braddock's defeat, and the old French war--the latter a real epic, embellished with romantic episodes of Indian massacres and captivities. When he came to the Revolution, and spoke of the fight at Ridgefield, and punctuated his discourse with a present cannon-ball, sunk six inches deep in a corner-post of the very house in which we sat, you may well believe it was something more than words--it was, indeed, "action, action, glorious action!" How little can people nowadays--with curiosity trampled down by the march of mind and the schoolmaster abroad--comprehend or appreciate these things!

LETTER III.

The first Remembered Event--High Ridge--The Spy-glass--Sea and Mountain--The Peel--The Black Patch in the road.

My dear C******

You will perhaps forgive me for a little circumlocution, in the outset of my story. My desire is to carry you with me in my narrative, and make you see in imagination, what I have seen. This naturally requires a little effort--like that of the bird in rising from the ground, which turns his wing first to the right and then to the left, vigorously beating the atmosphere, in order to overcome the gravity which weighs the body down to earth, ere yet it feels the quickening impulse of a conscious launch upon the air.

My memory goes distinctly back to the year 1797, when I was four years old. At that time a great event happened--great in the near and narrow horizon of childhood: we removed from the Old House to the New House! This latter, situated on a road tending westward and branching from the main street, my father had just built; and it then appeared to me quite a stately mansion and very beautiful, inasmuch as it was painted red behind and white in front--most of the dwellings thereabouts being of

the dun complexion which pine-boards and chestnut-shingles assume, from exposure to the weather. Long after having been absent twenty years--I revisited this my early home, and found it shrunk into a very small and ordinary two-story dwelling, wholly divested of its paint, and scarcely thirty feet square.

This building, apart from all other dwellings, was situated on what is called High Ridge a long hill, looking down upon the village, and commanding an extensive view of the surrounding country. From our upper windows, this was at once beautiful and diversified. On the south, as I have said, the hills sloped in a sea of undulations down to Long Island Sound, a distance of some fourteen miles. This beautiful sheet of water, like a strip of pale sky, with the island itself, more deeply tinted, beyond, was visible in fair weather, for a stretch of sixty miles, to the naked eye. The vessels--even the smaller ones, sloops, schooners, and fishing craft--could be seen, creeping like insects over the surface. With a spy-glass--and my father had one bequeathed to him by Nathan Kellogg, a sailor, who made rather a rough voyage of life, but anchored at last in the bosom of the church, as this bequest intimates--we could see the masts, sails, and rigging. It was a poor, dim affair, compared with modern instruments of the kind; but to me, its revelations of an element which then seemed as beautiful, as remote, and as mystical as the heavens, surpassed the wonders of

the firmament as since disclosed to my mind by Lord Rosse's telescope.

To the west, at the distance of three miles, lay the undulating ridge of hills, cliffs, and precipices already mentioned, and which bear the name of West Mountain. They are some five hundred feet in height, and from our point of view had an imposing appearance. Beyond them, in the far distance, glimmered the ghost-like peaks of the Highlands along the Hudson. These two prominent features of the spreading landscape--the sea and the mountain, ever present, yet ever remote impressed themselves on my young imagination with all the enchantment which distance lends to the view. I have never lost my first love. Never, even now, do I catch a glimpse of either of these two rivals of nature, such as I first learned them by heart, but I feel a gush of emotion as if I had suddenly met with the cherished companions of my childhood. In after days, even the purple velvet of the Apennines and the poetic azure of the Mediterranean, have derived additional beauty to my imagination from mingling with these vivid associations of my childhood.

It was to the New House, then, thus situated, that we removed, as I have stated, when I was four years old. On that great occasion, every thing available for draft or burden was put in requisition; and I was permitted, or required, I forget which, to carry the peel, as it was then called, but which would now bear

the title of shovel. Birmingham had not then been heard of in those parts, or at least was a great way off; so this particular utensil had been forged expressly for my father by David Olmstead, the blacksmith, as was the custom in those days. I recollect it well, and can state that it was a sturdy piece of iron, the handle being four feet long, with a hemispherical knob at the end. As I carried it along, I doubtless felt a touch of that consciousness of power, which must have filled the breast of Samson as he bore off the gates of Gaza. I recollect perfectly well to have perspired under the operation, for the distance of our migration was half a mile, and the season was summer.

One thing more I remember: I was barefoot; and as we went up the lane which diverged from the main road to the house, we passed over a patch of earth, blackened by cinders, where my feet were hurt by pieces of melted glass and metal. I inquired what this meant, and was told that here a house was burned down* by the British troops already men-

tioned--and then in full retreat--as a signal to ships that awaited them on the Sound where they had landed, and where they intended to embark.

This detail may seem trifling, but it is not without significance. It was the custom in those days for boys to go barefoot in the mild season. I recollect few things in life more delightful than, in the spring, to cast away my shoes and stockings, and have a glorious scamper over the fields. Many a time contrary to the express injunctions of my mother, have I stolen this bliss, and many a time have I been punished by a severe cold for my imprudence, if not my disobedience. Yet the bliss then seemed a compensation for the retribution. In these exercises I felt as if stepping on air--as if leaping aloft on wings. I was so impressed with the exultant emotions thus experienced, that I repeated them a thousand times in happy, dreams, especially in my younger days. Even now, these visions sometimes come to me in sleep, though with a lurking consciousness that they are but a mockery of the past--sad monitors of the change which time has wrought upon me.

As to the black patch in the lane, that too had its meaning. The story of a house burned down by a foreign army, seized upon my imagination. Every time I passed the place, I ruminated upon it, and put a hundred questions as to how and when it happened. I was soon master of the whole story, and of other similar events which had occurred all over the

country. I was thus initiated into the spirit of that day, and which has never wholly subsided in our country, inasmuch as the war of the Revolution was alike unjust in its origin, and cruel as to the manner in which it was waged. It was, moreover, fought on our own soil, thus making the whole people share, personally, in its miseries. There was scarcely a family in Connecticut whom it did not visit, either immediately or remotely, with the shadows of mourning and desolation. The British nation, to whom this conflict was a foreign war, are slow to comprehend the depth and universality of the popular dislike of England, here in America. Could they know the familiar annals of our towns and villages--burned, plundered, sacked--with all the attendant horrors, for the avowed purpose of punishing a nation of rebels, and those rebels of their own kith and kin; could they be made acquainted with the deeds of those twenty thousand Hessians, sent hither by King George, and who have left their name in our language as a word signifying brigands, who sell their blood and commit murder, massacre, and rape for hire: could they thus read the history of minds and hearts, influenced at the fountains of life for several generations--they would perhaps comprehend, if they could not approve, the habitual distrust of British influence, which lingers among our people. At least, thus instructed, and bearing in mind what has since happened another war with England, in

which our own territory was the scene of conflict, together with the incessant hostility of the British press toward our manners, our institutions, our policy, our national character, manifested in every form, and from the beginning to the end--the people of England might in some degree comprehend what always strikes them with amazement, that love of England is not largely infused into our national character and habits of thought.

Education in New England--The Burial Ground of the Suicide--West Lane--Old Chichester--The School-House--The First Day at School--Aunt Delight--Lewis Olmstead--A Return after Twenty Years--Peter Parley and Mother Goose.

My dear C******

The devotion of the New-England people to education has been celebrated from time immemorial. In this trait of character, Connecticut was not behind the foremost of her sister puritans. Now, among the traditions of the days to which my narrative refers, there was one which set forth that the law of the land assigned to persons committing suicide, a burial-place where four roads met. I do not recollect that this popular notion was ever tested in Ridgefield, for

nobody in those innocent days, so far as I know, became weary of existence. Be this as it may, it is certain that the village school-house was often planted in the very spot supposed to be the privileged graveyard of suicides. The reason is plain enough: the roads were always of ample width at the crossings, and the narrowest of these spaces was sufficient for the little brown seminaries of learning. At the same time and this was doubtless the material point the land belonged to the town, and so the site would cost nothing. Such were the ideas of village education in enlightened New England half a century ago. Let those who deny the progress of society, compare this with the state of things at the present day.

About three-fourths of a mile from my father's house, on the winding road to Lower Salem which I have already mentioned, and which bore the name of West Lane, was the school-house where I took my first lessons, and received the foundations of my very slender education. I have since been sometimes asked where I graduated: my reply has always been, "at West Lane." Generally speaking, this has ended the inquiry, whether because my interlocutors have confounded this venerable institution with "Lane Seminary," or have not thought it worth while to risk an exposure of their ignorance as to the college in which I was educated, I am unable to say.

The site of the school-house was a triangular piece

of land, measuring perhaps a rood in extent, and lying, according to the custom of those days, at the meeting of four roads. The ground hereabouts--as everywhere else in Ridgefield--was exceedingly stony, and in making the pathway the stones had been thrown out right and left, and there remained in heaps on either side, from generation to generation. All around was bleak and desolate. Loose, squat stone walls, with innumerable breaches, inclosed the adjacent fields. A few tufts of elder, with here and there a patch of briers and pokeweed, flourished in the gravelly soil. Not a tree, however, remained, save an aged chestnut, at the western angle of the space. This, certainly, had not been spared for shade or ornament, but probably because it would have cost too much labor to cut it down, for it was of ample girth. At all events it was the oasis in our desert during summer; and in autumn, as the burrs disclosed its fruit, it resembled a besieged city. The boys, like so many catapults, hurled at it stones and sticks, until every nut had capitulated.

Two houses only were at hand: one, surrounded by an ample barn, a teeming orchard, and an enormous wood-pile, belonged to Granther Baldwin; the other was the property of "Old Chich-es-ter," an uncouth, unsocial being, whom everybody for some reason or other seemed to despise and shun. His house was of stone and of one story. He had a cow, which every year had a calf. He had a wife--filthy, un-

combed, and vaguely reported to have been brought from the old country. This is about the whole history of the man, so far as it is written in the authentic traditions of the parish. His premises, an acre in extent, consisted of a tongue of land between two of the converging roads. No boy, that I ever heard of, ventured to cast a stone, or to make an incursion into this territory, though it lay close to the school-house. I have often, in passing, peeped timidly over the walls, and caught glimpses of a stout man with a drab coat, drab breeches, and drab gaiters, glazed with ancient grease and long abrasion, prowling about the house; but never did I discover him outside of his own dominion. I know it was darkly intimated that he had been a tory, and was tarred and feathered in the revolutionary war, but as to the rest he was a perfect myth. Granther Baldwin was a character no less marked, but I must reserve his picture for a subsequent letter.

The school-house itself consisted of rough, unpainted clapboards, upon a wooden frame. It was plastered within, and contained two apartments a little entry, taken out of a corner for a wardrobe, and the school-room proper. The chimney was of stone, and pointed with mortar, which, by the way, had been dug into a honeycomb by uneasy and enterprising penknives. The fireplace was six feet wide and four feet deep. The flue was so ample and so perpendicular, that the rain, sleet, and snow fell direct to the hearth.

In winter, the battle for life with green fizzling fuel, which was brought in sled lengths and cut up by the scholars, was a stern one. Not unfrequently, the wood, gushing with sap as it was, chanced to be out, and as there was no living without fire, the thermometer being ten or twenty degrees below zero, the school was dismissed, whereat all the scholars rejoiced aloud, not having the fear of the schoolmaster before their eyes.

It was the custom at this place, to have a woman's school in the summer months, and this was attended only by young children. It was, in fact, what we now call a primary or infant school. In winter, a man was employed as teacher, and then the girls and boys of the neighborhood, up to the age of eighteen, or even twenty, were among the pupils. It was not uncommon, at this season, to have forty scholars crowded into this little building.

I was about six years old when I first went to school. My teacher was Aunt Delight, that is, Delight Benedict, a maiden lady of fifty, short and bent, of sallow complexion and solemn aspect. I remember the first day with perfect distinctness. I went alone for I was familiar with the road, it being that which passed by our old house. I carried a little basket, with bread and butter within, for my dinner, the same being covered over with a white cloth. When I had proceeded about half way, I lifted the cover, and debated whether I would not eat my din-

ner, then. I believe it was a sense of duty only that prevented my doing so, for in those happy days, I always had a keen appetite. Bread and butter were then infinitely superior to pâté de foie gras now; but still, thanks to my training, I had also a conscience. As my mother had given me the food for dinner, I did not think it right to convert it into lunch, even though I was strongly tempted.

I think we had seventeen scholars--boys and girls--mostly of my own age. Among them were some of my after companions. I have since met several of them--one at Savannah, and two at Mobile, respectably established, and with families around them. Some remain, and are now among the gray old men of the town; the names of others I have seen inscribed on the tombstones of their native village. And the rest--where are they ?

The school being organized, we were all seated upon benches, made of what were called slabs that is, boards having the exterior or rounded part of the log on one side: as they were useless for other purposes, these were converted into school-benches, the rounded part down. They had each four supports, consisting of straddling wooden legs, set into augur-holes. Our own legs swayed in the air, for they were too short to touch the floor. Oh, what an awe fell over me, when we were all seated and silence reigned around!

The children were called up, one by one, to Aunt

Aunt Delight Vol. 1, p. 36.

swam before me dim and hazy, and as big as a full moon. She repeated the question, but I was doggedly silent. Again, a third time, she said, "What's that?" I replied: "Why don't you tell me what it is? I didn't come here to learn you your letters!" I have not the slightest remembrance of this, for my brains were all a-woolgathering; but as Aunt Delight affirmed it to be a fact, and it passed into a tradition, I put it in. I may have told this story some years ago in one of my books, imputing it to a fictitious hero, yet this is its true origin, according to my recollection.

What immediately followed I do not clearly remember, but one result is distinctly traced in my memory. In the evening of this eventful day, the school-mistress paid my parents a visit, and recounted to their astonished ears this, my awful contempt of authority. My father, after hearing the story, got up and went away; but my mother, who was a careful disciplinarian, told me not to do so again! I always had a suspicion that both of them smiled on one side of their faces, even while they seemed to sympathize with the old petticoat and pen-knife pedagogue, on the other; still I do not affirm it; for I am bound to say, of both my parents, that I never knew them, even in trifles, say one thing while they meant another.

I believe I achieved the alphabet that summer, but my after progress, for a long time, I do not remember. Two years later I went to the winter-school at the

same place, kept by Lewis Olmstead--a man who had a call for plowing, mowing, carting manure, &c., in summer, and for teaching school in the winter, with a talent for music at all seasons, wherefore he became chorister upon occasion, when, peradventure, Deacon Hawley could not officiate. He was a celebrity in ciphering, and 'Squire Seymour declared that he was the greatest "arithmeticker" in Fairfield county. All I remember of his person is his hand, which seemed to me as big as Goliah's, judging by the claps of thunder it made in my ears on one or two occasions.

The next step of my progress which is marked in my memory, is the spelling of words of two syllables. I did not go very regularly to school, but by the time I was ten years old I had learned to write, and had made a little progress in arithmetic. There was not a grammar, a geography, or a history of any kind in the school. Reading, writing, and arithmetic were the only things taught, and these very indifferently not wholly from the stupidity of the teacher, but because he had forty scholars, and the standards of the age required no more than he performed. I did as well as the other scholars, certainly no better. I had excellent health and joyous spirits; in leaping, running, and wrestling I had but one superior of my age, and that was Stephen Olmstead, a snug-built fellow, smaller than myself, and who, despite our rivalry, was my chosen friend and companion. I seemed to live

for play: alas! how the world has changed since I have discovered that we live to agonize over study, work, care, ambition, disappointment, and then--?

As I shall not have occasion again, formally, to introduce this seminary into my narrative, I may as well close my account of it now. After I had left my native town for some twenty years, I returned and paid it a visit. Among the monuments that stood high in my memory was the West Lane school-house. Unconsciously carrying with me the measures of childhood, I had supposed it to be at least thirty feet square; how had it dwindled when I came to estimate it by the new standards I had formed! It was in all things the same, yet wholly changed to me. What I had deemed a respectable edifice, as it now stood before me was only a weather-beaten little shed, which, upon being measured, I found to be less than twenty feet square. It happened to be a warm, summer day, and I ventured to enter the place. I found a girl, some eighteen years old, keeping a ma'am school for about twenty scholars, some of whom were studying Parley's Geography. The mistress was the daughter of one of my schoolmates, and some of the boys and girls were grandchildren of the little brood which gathered under the wing of Aunt Delight, when I was an a-b-c-darian. None of them, not even the school-mistress, had ever heard of me. The name of my father, as having ministered unto the people of Ridgefield in some bygone

age, was faintly traced in their recollection. As to Peter Parley, whose geography they were learning--they supposed him some decrepit old gentleman hobbling about on a crutch, a long way off, for whom nevertheless, they had a certain affection, inasmuch as he had made geography into a story-book. The frontispiece-picture of the old fellow, with his gouty foot in a chair, threatening the boys that if they touched his tender toe, he would tell them no more stories--secured their respect, and placed him among the saints in the calendar of their young hearts. Well, thought I, if this goes on I may yet rival Mother Goose!