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

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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.

My dear C******

I can recollect with great vividness the interest I took in the domestic events I have described, and which circled with the seasons in our household at this period. I had no great interest in the operations of the farm. Plowing, hoeing, digging, seemed to me mere drudgery, imparting no instruction, and affording no scope for ingenuity or invention. I had not yet learned to contemplate agriculture in its economical aspect, nor had my mind yet risen to that still higher view of husbandry, which leads to a scientific study of the soil and the seasons, and teaches man to become a kind of second Providence to those portions of the earth which are subjected to his care. The mechanical operations I have described, as well as others--especially those of the weaver and carpenter, on the contrary, stimulated my curiosity, and excited my emulation. Thus I soon became familiar with the tools of the latter, and made such windmills,

kites, and perpetual motions, as to extort the admiration of my playmates, and excite the respect of my parents, so that they seriously meditated putting me apprentice to a carpenter. Up to the age of fourteen, I think this was regarded as my manifest destiny. I certainly took great delight in mechanical devices, and became a celebrity on pine shingles with a penknife. It was a day of great endeavors among all inventive geniuses. Fulton was struggling to develop steam navigation, and other discoverers were thundering at the gates of knowledge, and seeking to unfold the wonders of art as well as of nature. It was, in fact, the very threshold of the era of steamboats, railroads, electric telegraphs, and a thousand other useful discoveries, which have since changed the face of the world. In this age of excitement, perpetual motion was the great hobby of aspiring mechanics, as it has been indeed ever since. I pondered and whittled intensely on this subject before I was ten years old. Despairing of reaching my object by mechanical means, I attempted to arrive at it by magnetism, my father having bought me a pair of horse-shoe magnets in one of his journeys to New Haven. I should have succeeded, had it not been a principle in the nature of this curious element, that no substance will instantly intercept the stream of attraction. I tried to change the poles, and turn the north against the south; but there too nature had headed me, and of course I failed.

A word, by the way, on the matter of whittling. This is generally represented as a sort of idle, fidgety frivolous use of the penknife, and is set down by amiable foreigners and sketchers of American manners as a peculiar characteristic of our people. No portrait of an American is deemed complete, whether in the saloon or the senate-chamber, at home or on the highway, unless with penknife and shingle in hand. I feel not the slightest disposition to resent even this, among the thousand caricatures that pass for traits of American life. For my own part, I can testify that, during my youthful days, I found the penknife a source of great amusement and even of instruction. Many a long winter evening, many a dull, drizzly day, in spring and summer and autumn--sometimes at the kitchen fireside, sometimes in the attic, amid festoons of dried apples, peaches, and pumpkins: sometimes in a cosy nook of the barn; sometimes in the shelter of a neighboring stone-wall, thatched over with wild grape-vines--have I spent in great ecstasy, making candle-rods, or some other simple article of household goods, for my mother, or in perfecting toys for myself and my young friends, or perhaps in attempts at more ambitious achievements. This was not mere waste of time, mere idleness and dissipation. I was amused: that was something. Some of the pleasantest remembrances of my childhood carry me back to the scenes I have just indicated, when in happy solitude, absorbed in my me-

chanical devices, I still listened to the rain pattering upon the roof, or the wind roaring down the chimney--thus enjoying a double bliss--a pleasing occupation, with a conscious delight in my sense of security from the rage of the elements without.

Nay more--these occupations were instructive: my mind was stimulated to inquire into the mechanical powers, and my hand was educated to mechanical dexterity. Smile, if you please--but reflect! Why is it, that we in the United States surpass all other nations, in the excellence of our tools of all kinds? Why are our axes, knives, hoes, spades, plows, the best in the world? Because--in part, at least--we learn, in early life, this alphabet of mechanics theoretical and practical--whittling. Nearly every head and hand is trained to it. We know and feel the difference between dull and sharp tools. At ten years old, we are all epicures in cutting instruments. This is the beginning, and we go on, as a matter of course, toward perfection. The inventive head, and the skillful, executing hand, thus become general, national, characteristic among us.

I am perfectly aware that some people, in this country as well as others, despise labor, and especially manual labor, as ungenteel. There are people in these United States who scoff at New England on account of this general use of thrifty, productive industry, among our people as a point of education. The gentleman, say these refined persons, must not

work. It is not easy to cite a higher example of a gentleman--in thought, feeling, and manner--than St. Paul, and he was a tent-maker: King Alfred was a gentleman, and he could turn his hand to servile labor. But let me refer to New England examples. Daniel Webster was a gentleman, and he began with the scythe and the plow; Abbot Lawrence was a gentleman, and he served through every grade, an apprenticeship to his profession; Timothy Dwight was a gentleman, and was trained to the positive labors of the farm; Franklin, the printer; Sherman, the shoemaker; Ellsworth, the teamster--all were gentlemen, and of that high order which regards truth, honor, manliness, as its essential basis. Nothing, in my view, is more despicable, nothing more calculated to diffuse and cherish a debasing effeminacy of body and soul, than the doctrine that labor is degrading. Where such ideas prevail, rottenness lies at the foundation of society.

But to go back to my theme. If you ask me why it is that this important institution of, whittling is indigenous among us, I reply, that, in the first place, our country is full of a great variety of woods, suited to carpentry, many of them easily wrought, and thus inviting boyhood to try its hands upon them. In the next place, labor is dear, and therefore even children are led to supply themselves with toys, or perchance to furnish some of the simpler articles of use to the household. This dearness

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Whittling. Vol. 1, p. 94.

of labor, moreover, furnishes a powerful stimulant to the production of labor-saving machines, and hence it is--through all these causes, co-operating one with another--that steam navigation, the electric telegraph, the steam reaper, &c., &c., are American inventions: hence it is that, whether it be at the World's Fair in London or Paris,, we gain a greater proportion of prizes for useful inventions, than any other people. That is what comes of whittling!

There is no doubt another element to be considered in a close and philosophical view of what I state--this aptitude of our people, especially those of New England, for mechanical invention. The desire of improvement is inherent in the New England character. This springs from two principles: first, a moral sense, founded upon religious ideas, making it the duty of every man to seek constantly to be and do better, day by day, as he advances in life. This is the great main-spring, set in the heart by Puritanism. Its action reaches alike to time and to eternity. Mr. Webster well illustrated the New England character in this respect, when he describes his father as "shrinking from no toil, no sacrifice, to serve his country, and to raise his children to a condition better than his own." This desire of improvement is indeed extended to the children, and animates the bosom of every parent.

The other principle I allude to is liberty, civil and social--actual and practical. New England is

probably the only country in the world, where every man, generally speaking, has or can have the means--that is, the money, the intelligence, the knowledge the power--to choose his career; to say where he will live, what profession he will follow, what position he will occupy.

It is this moral sense, in every man's bosom, impelling him to seek improvement in all things, cooperating with this liberty, giving him the right and the ability to seek happiness in his own way--which forms this universal spirit of improvement--the distinguishing feature of the New England people. It is this which has conquered our savage climate, subdued the forests, and planted the whole country with smiling towns and villages: it is this which has established a system of universal education, cherished religion, promoted literature, founded benign institutions, perfected our political system, and abolished negro slavery, imposed upon us by the mother country.

It is easy to trace the operations of this principle in the humblest as well as the highest classes. The man at the plow is not a mere drudge: he is not like the debased subject of European despotism, a servile tool, an unthinking, unhoping, unaspiring animal, to use his muscles, without thought as to the result of his labor. Let me tell you an anecdote which will illustrate this matter. Some years ago, a young New Englander found himself in the back parts of Penn-

sylvania, ashore as to the means of living. In this strait he applied to a wealthy Quaker in the neighborhood for help.

"I will furnish thee with work, and pay thee for it, friend," said the Quaker; "but it is not my custom to give alms to one able to labor, like thee."

"Well, that's all I want," said the Yankee: "of course I am willing to work."

"What can thee do, friend?"

"Any thing. I will do any thing, to get a little money, to help me out of my difficulties."

"Well--there is a log yonder; and there is an axe. Thee may pound on the log with the head of the axe, and if thee is diligent and faithful, I will pay thee a dollar a day."

"Agreed: I'd as soon do that as any thing else."

And so the youth went to work, and pounded lustily with the head of the axe upon the log. After a time he paused to take breath; then he began again. But after half an hour he stopped, threw down the axe impatiently, and walked away, saying, "I'll be hanged if I'll cut wood without seeing the chips fly!"

Thus the Yankee laborer has a mind that must be contented: he looks to the result of his labor; and if his tools or implements are imperfect, his first impulse is to improve them, and finally to perfect them. In this endeavor, he is of course aided by the mechanical aptitude, to which I have already alluded; and hence it is, that not only our utensils, for every

species of common work, but our machines generally for the saving of labor, are thus excellent. With what painful sympathy have I seen the peasants in ingenious France and classic Italy sweating and toiling with uncouth, unhandy implements, which have undergone no improvement for a thousand years and which abundantly bespeak the despotism which for that period has kept their minds as well as their bodies in bondage! You will not wonder that such observations have carried me back to my native New England, and taught me to appreciate the character and institutions of its people.

I must add, in descending from this lofty digression to my simpler story, that in these early days, I was a Nimrod, a mighty hunter--first with a bow and arrow, and afterward with the old hereditary firelock, which snapped six times and went off once. The smaller kinds of game were abundant. The thickets teemed with quails;* partridges drummed in every wood; the gray-squirrel--the most picturesque animal of our forests--enlivened every hickory copse with his mocking laugh, his lively gambols, and his long bannered tail. The pigeons in spring and autumn migrated in countless flocks, and many lingered in our woods for the season.

Everybody was then a hunter, not of course a

sportsman, for the chase was followed more for profit than for pastime. Game was, in point of fact, a substantial portion of the supply of food at certain seasons of the year. All were then good shots, and my father could not be an exception: he was even beyond his generation in netting pigeons. This was not deemed a reproach at that time in a clergyman, nor was he the only parson that indulged in these occupations. One day, as I was with him on West Mountain, baiting pigeons, we had seduced a flock of three or four dozen down into the bed where they were feeding--my father and myself lying concealed in our bush-hut, close by. Suddenly, whang went a gun into the middle of the flock! Out we ran in great indignation, for at least a dozen of the birds were bleeding and fluttering before us. Scarcely had we reached the spot, when we met Parson M.... of Lower Salem, who had thus unwittingly poached upon us. The two clergymen had first a flurry and then a good laugh, after which they divided the plunder and parted.

The stories told by Wilson and Audubon as to the amazing quantity of pigeons in the West, were realized by us in Connecticut half a century ago. I have seen a stream of these noble birds, pouring at brief intervals through the skies, from the rising to the setting sun, and this in the county of Fairfield. I may here add, that of all the pigeon tribe, this of our country--the passenger pigeon--is the swiftest and most

beautiful of a swift and beautiful generation. At the same time it is unquestionably superior to any other for the table. All the other species of the eastern as well as the western continent, which I have tasted are soft and flavorless in comparison.

I can recollect no sports of my youth which equaled in excitement our pigeon hunts, generally taking place in September and October. We usually started on horseback before daylight, and made a rapid progress to some stubble-field on West Mountain. The ride in the keen, fresh air, especially as the dawn began to break, was delightful. The gradual encroachment of day upon the night, filled my mind with sublime images: the waking up of a world from sleep, the joyousness of birds and beasts in the return of morning, and my own sympathy in this cheerful and grateful homage of the heart to God, the Giver of good--all contributed to render these adventures most impressive upon my young heart. My memory is still full of the sights and sounds of those glorious mornings: the silvery whistle of the wings of migrating flocks of plover--invisible in the gray mists of dawn; the faint murmur of the distant mountain torrents; the sonorous gong of the long-trailing flocks of wild geese, seeming to come from the unseen depths of the skies--these were among the suggestive sounds that stole through the dim twilight. As morning advanced, the scene was inconceivably beautiful--the mountain sides, clothed in autumnal

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Catching Pigeons. Vol. 1, p. 100.

green and purple and gold, rendered more glowing by the sunrise--with the valleys covered with mists and spreading out like lakes of silver; while on every side the ear was saluted by the mocking screams of the red-headed woodpecker, the cawing of congresses of crows, clamorous as if talking to Buncombe; and finally the rushing sound of the pigeons, pouring like a tide over the tops of the trees.

By this time of course our nets were ready, and our flyers and stool-birds on the alert. What moments of ecstasy were these, and especially when the head of the flock--some red-breasted old father or grandfather--caught the sight of our pigeons, and turning at the call, drew the whole train down into our net-bed. I have often seen a hundred, or two hundred of these splendid birds, come upon us, with a noise absolutely deafening, and sweeping the air with a sudden gust, like the breath of a thundercloud. Sometimes our bush-hut, where we lay concealed, was covered all over with pigeons, and we dared not move a finger, as their red, piercing eyes were upon us. When at last, with a sudden pull of the rope, the net was sprung, and we went out to secure our booty--often fifty, and sometimes even a hundred birds--I felt a fullness of triumph, which words are wholly inadequate to express!

Up to the ago of eight years, I was never trusted with a gun. Whenever I went forth as a sportsman on my own account, it was only with a bow and arrow.

If I failed in achievement, I made up for it in vivid feelings and imaginings. The intensity of my perceptions on these occasions, are among my most distinct recollections. Every bird that flew, every sound that trembled in the air, every copse and thicket, every hill and dale--every thing that my senses realized, my memory daguerreotyped. Afterward, when I arrived at the honors of shot-pouch and powder-horn, I roamed the country far and wide, over mountain and dell, with a similar vivacity of experience. My performances as a hunter were very moderate. In truth, I had a rickety old gun, that had belonged to my grandfather, and though it perhaps had done good service in the Revolution, or further back in the times of bears and wolves, it was now very decrepit, and all around the lock seemed to have the shaking palsy. Occasionally I met with adventure--half serious and half ludicrous. Once, in running my hand into a hole in a hollow tree, some twenty feet from the ground, being in search of a woodpecker, I hauled out a blacksnake. At another time, in a similar way, I had my fingers pretty sharply nipped by a screech-owl. My memory supplies me with numerous instances of this kind.

As to fishing, I never had a passion for it; I was too impatient. I had no enthusiasm for nibbles, and there were too many of these in proportion to the bites. I perhaps resembled a man by the name of Bennett, who joined the Shakers of New Canaan

about these days, but soon left them, declaring that the Spirit was too long in coming--"he could not wait." Nevertheless, I dreamed away some pleasant hours in angling in the brooks and ponds of my native town. I well remember that on my eighth birthday, I went four miles to Burt's mills, carrying on the old mare two bushels of rye. While my grist was grinding, I angled in the pond, and carried home enough for a generous meal.

Now all these things may seem, trifles, yet in a review of my life, I deem them of some significance. This homely familiarity with the more mechanical arts was a material part of my education; this communion with nature gave me instructive and important lessons from nature's open book of knowledge. My technical education, as will be seen hereafter, was extremely narrow and irregular. This defect was at last partially supplied by the commonplace incidents I have mentioned. The teaching, or rather the training of the senses, in the country--car and eye, foot and hand, by running, leaping, climbing over hill and mountain, by occasional labor in the garden and on the farm, and by the use of tools--and all this in youth, is sowing seed which, is repaid largely and readily to the hand of after cultivation, however unskillful it may be. This is not so much because of the amount of knowledge available in after-life, which is thus obtained--though this is not to be despised--as it is that, healthful, vigorous, manly habits and

associations--physical, moral, and intellectual--are thus established and developed.

It is a riddle to many people that the emigrants from the country into the city, in all ages, outstrip the natives, and become their masters. The reason is obvious: country education and country life are practical, and invigorating to body and mind, and hence those who are thus qualified triumph in the race of life. It has always been, it will always be so; the rustic Goths and Vandals will march in and conquer Rome, in the future, as they have done in the past. I say this, by no means insisting that my own life furnishes any very striking proof of the truth of my remarks; still, I may say that but for the country training and experience I have alluded to, and which served as a foothold for subsequent progress, I should have lingered in my career far behind the humble advances I have actually made.

Let me illustrate and verify my meaning by specific examples. In my youth I became familiar with every bird common to the country: I knew his call, his song, his hue, his food, his habits; in short, his natural history. I could detect him by his flight, as far as the eye could reach. I knew all the quadrupeds--wild as well as tame. I was acquainted with almost every tree, shrub, bush, and flower, indigenous to the country; not botanically, but according to popular ideas. I recognized them instantly, where-ever I saw them; I knew their forms, hues, leaves,

blossoms, and fruit. I could tell their characteristics, their uses, the legends and traditions that belonged to them. All this I learned by familiarity with these objects; meeting with them in all my walks and rambles, and taking note of them with the emphasis and vigor of early experience and observation. In after days, I have never had time to make natural history a systematic study; yet my knowledge as to these things has constantly accumulated, and that without special effort. When I have traveled in other countries, the birds, the animals, the vegetation, have interested me as well by their resemblances as their differences, when compared with our own. In looking over the pages of scientific works on natural history, I have always read with the eagerness and intelligence of preparation; indeed, of vivid and pleasing associations. Every idea I had touching these matters was living and sympathetic, and beckoned other ideas to it, and these again originated still others. Thus it is that in the race of a busy life, by means of a homely, hearty start at the beginning, I have, as to these subjects, easily and naturally supplied, in some humble degree, the defects of my irregular education, and that too, not by a process of repulsive toil, but with a relish superior to all the seductions of romance. I am therefore a believer in the benefits accruing from simple country life and simple country habits, as here illustrated, and am therefore, on all occasions, anxious to recommend them to my

friends and countrymen. To city people, I would say, educate your children, at least partially, in the country, so as to imbue them with the love of nature, and that knowledge and training which spring from simple rustic sports, exercises, and employments. To country people, I would remark, be not envious of the city, for in the general balance of good and evil, you. have your full portion of the first, with a diminished share of the last.

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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."

My dear C******

The incidents I have just related revolved about the period of 1800--some a little earlier and some a little later. Among the events of general interest that occurred near this time, I remember the death of Washington, which took place in 1799, and was commemorated all through the country by the tolling of bells, funeral ceremonies, orations, sermons, hymns, and dirges, attended by a mournful sense of loss,

seeming to cast a pall over the entire heavens. In Ridgefield, the meeting-house was dressed in black, and we had a discourse pronounced by a Mr. Edmonds, of Newtown. The subject, indeed, engrossed all minds. Lieutenant Smith came every day to our house to talk over the event, and to bring us the proceedings in different parts of the country. Among other papers, he brought us a copy of the Connecticut Courant, then, as now, orthodox in all good things, and according to the taste of the times, duly sprinkled with murders, burglaries, and awful disclosures in general. This gave us the particulars of the rites and ceremonies which took place in Hartford, in commemoration of the Great Man's decease. The paper was bordered with black, which left its indelible ink in my memory. The celebrated hymn,* written for the occasion by Theodore Dwight, sank into my mother's heart--for she had a constitu-

tional love of things mournful and poetic--and she often repeated it, so that it became a part of the cherished lore of my childhood. This hymn has ever since been to me suggestive of a solemn pathos, mingled with the Ridgefield commemoration of Washington's death--the black drapery of the meeting-house, and the toll of those funeral bells, far, far over the distant hills, now lost and now remembered, as if half a dream and half a reality--yet for these reasons, perhaps, the more suggestive and the more mournful. I give you these scenes and feelings in some detail, to impress you with the depth and sincerity of this mourning of the American nation, in cities and towns, in villages and hamlets, for the death of Washington. It seems to me wholesome to go back and sympathize with those who had stood in his presence, and catch from them the feeling which should be sacredly cherished in all future time.*

I have already said that Ridgefield was on the great thoroughfare between Boston and New York, for the day of steamers and railroads had not

dawned. Even the mania for turnpikes, which ere long overspread New England, had not yet arrived. The stage-coaches took four days to make the trip of two hundred miles between the two great cities. In winter, the journey was often protracted to a week, and during the furious snow-storms of those times, to eight or ten days. With such public con-

veyanccs, great people--for even then the world was divided into the great and little, as it is now--traveled in their own carriages.

About this time--it must have been in the summer of 1801--I remember Jerome Bonaparte coming up to Keeler's tavern with a coach and four, attended by his young wife, Miss Patterson, of Baltimore. It was a gay establishment, and the honeymoon sat happily on the tall, sallow stripling, and his young bride. You must remember that Napoleon was then filling the world with his fame: at this moment his feet were on the threshold of the empire. The arrival of his brother in the United States of course made a sensation. His marriage, his movements, all were gossiped over, from Maine to Georgia--not Castine to California--these being the extreme points of the Union. His entrance into Ridgefield produced a flutter of excitement, even there. A crowd gathered around Keeler's tavern, to catch a sight of the strangers, and I among the rest. I had a good, long look at Jerome, who was the chief object of interest, and the image never faded from my recollection.

Half a century later, I was one evening at the Tuileries, amid the flush and the fair of Louis Napoleon's new court. Among them I saw an old man, taller than the mass around--his nose and chin almost meeting in contact, while his toothless gums were "munching the airy meal of dotage and decrepitude." I was irre-

sistibly chained to this object, as if a spectre had risen up through the floor, and stood among the garish throng. My memory traveled back--back among the winding labyrinths of years. Suddenly I found the clue: the stranger was Jerome Bonaparte!

Ah, what a history lay between the past and present--a lapse of nearly fifty years. What a difference between him then and now! Then he was a gay and gallant bridegroom; now, though he had the title of king, he was throneless and scepterless--an Invalid Governor of Invalids--the puppet and pageant of an adventurer, whose power lay in the mere magic of a name.*

About this time, as I well remember, Oliver Wolcott passed through our village. He arrived at the tavern late on Saturday evening, but he called at our house in the morning, his family being connected

with ours. He was a great man then; for not only are the Wolcotts traditionally and historically a distinguished race in Connecticut, but he had recently been a member of Washington's cabinet. I shall have occasion to speak of him more particularly hereafter. I mention him now only for the purpose of noting his deference to public opinion, characteristic of the eminent men of that day. In the morning he went to church, but immediately after the sermon, he had his horses brought up, and proceeded on his way. He, however, had requested my father to state to his people, at the opening of the afternoon service, that he was traveling on public business, and though he regretted it, he was obliged to continue his journey on the Sabbath. This my father did, but Deacon Olmstead, the Jeremiah of the parish, shook his white locks, and lifted up his voice against such a desecration of the Lord's day. Some years after--as I remember--Lieutenant-governor Treadwell arrived at Keeler's tavern on Saturday evening, and prepared to prosecute his journey the next morning, his daughter, who was with him, being ill. This same Deacon Olmstead called upon him, and said, "Sir, if you thus set the example of a violation of the Sabbath, you must expect to get one vote less at the next election!" The Governor was so much struck by the appearance of the deacon--who was the very image of a patriarch or a prophet--that he deferred his departure till Monday.

Another event of this era I remember, and that is, the celebration of the inauguration of Jefferson, March 4th, A. D. 1801. At this period, the Democratic, or, as it was then called, the Republican party, was not large in Connecticut, yet it was zealous in proportion to its insignificance. The men of wealth, the professional men--those of good position and large influence generally--throughout the State, were almost exclusively federalists. The old platform of religion and politics still stood strong, although agitated and fretted a little by the rising tide of what afterward swelled into a flood, under the captivating name of Toleration. The young Hercules in Ridgefield was in his cradle when Jefferson was made President; but nevertheless, he used his lungs lustily upon the occasion. On the day of the inauguration, the old field-piece, a four-pounder, which had been stuck muzzle down as a horse-post at Keeler's tavern, since the fight of 1777, was dug up, swabbed, and fired off sixteen times, that being the number of States then in the Union. At first the cannon had a somewhat stifled and wheezing tone, but this soon grew louder, and at last the hills re-echoed to the rejoicing of democracy from High Ridge to West Mountain. This might be taken as prophetic, for the voice of democracy, then small and asthmatic, like this old field-piece, soon cleared its throat, and thundered like Sinai, giving law to the land.

My father was a man of calm and liberal temper,

but he was still of the old school, believing in things as they were, and therefore he regarded these demonstrations with certain degree of horror. But no doubt he felt increased anxiety from the fact that several of the members of his congregation participated in these unseemly orgies. Among these--who would have thought it?--was Jerry Mead, the shoemaker, once itinerant, but now settled down, and keeping his shop. He was one of our near neighbors, and the sound of his lapstone, early and late, was as regular as the tides. His son Sammy was his apprentice, and having a turn for mirth and music, diverted the neighborhood by playing popular airs as he pounded his leather; but Jerry himself was a grave, nay, an austere person, and for this reason, as well as others, was esteemed a respectability, he was a man of plain, strong sense; he went regularly to meeting; sent his children to school, and cut their hair, close and square, according to the creed. It might have been natural enough for his son Sammy, who was given to the earthly vanities of music, dancing, and the like, to have turned out a democrat; but for sour, sober, sensible Jerry--it was quite another thing. What must have been my father's concern to find on the occasion of the aforesaid celebration that Jerry Mead had joined the rabble, and--in a moment of exaltation, it is said--delivered an oration at one of their clubs! This might have been borne--for Jerry was not then a professor--but

conceive his emotion when he heard that Ensign Keeler--the butcher and bell-ringer--who was a half-way convert-member of the church, had touched off the cannon! I am happy to believe that both these persons saw the error of their ways, and died old federalists, as well as church members in full communion--notwithstanding these dark episodes; but for the time, their conduct seemed to shake the very pillars of the state.

It is difficult for the present generation to enter into the feelings of those days. We who are now familiar with democracy, can hardly comprehend the odium attached to it in the age to which I refer, especially in the minds of the sober people of our neighborhood. They not only regarded it as hostile to good government, but as associated with infidelity in religion, radicalism in government, and licentiousness in society. It was considered a sort of monster, born of Tom Paine,* the French Revolution, foreign

renegadoes, and the great Father of Evil. Mr. Jefferson, the founder of the party, had been in France, and was supposed by his political opponents to have adopted the atheism and the libertinism of the revolutionists. His personal character and dangerous

political proclivities, as I have said, were not then well understood. The greatest fear of him, at thin time, was as to his moral, religious, and social influence. It was supposed that his worshipers could not be better than their idol, and it must be confessed that the democracy of New England in its beginning raked up and absorbed the chaff of society. It is due to the truth of history to state that men of blemished reputations, tipplers, persons of irregular tempers, odd people, those who were constitutionally upsetters,* de-

structives, comeouters, flocked spontaneously, as if by a kind of instinct, to the banner of democracy, about the period of Jefferson's first election, and constituted, for a considerable period afterward, the staple of the party. In due time and when they had increased in numbers, they gradually acquired respectable leaders. General King, who became the head of the party in Ridgefield, was a high-minded, intelligent man; and so it happened in other places. But still, the mass in the outset were such as I have described.

It may be conjectured, then, with what concern a sincere and earnest pastor--like my father--saw some

of the members of his own flock, including others whom he hoped to gather into the fold, kneeling down to this Moloch, of democracy. Time passed on, and less than twenty years after, federalism was overturned and democracy triumphed in Connecticut. The old time-honored parchment of Charles II. supposed to be a sort of eleventh commandment, and firm as Plymouth Rock, passed away, like a scroll, and a new constitution was established. What bodings, what anxieties, were experienced during this long agony of Conservatism! And yet society survived. The old landmarks, though shaken, still remained, and some of0 them even derived confidence, if not firmness, from the agitation. Nay, strange to say, in the succeeding generation, democracy cast its slough, put on clean linen, and affected respectability. Many of the sons of the democrats of 1800, and conceived in its image, were the leaders of federalism in 1825. Indeed, the word democracy, which was first used as synonymous with Jacobinism, has essentially changed its signification, and now means little more than the progressive party, in opposition to the conservative party.

Such is the cycle of politics, such are the oscillations of progress and conservatism, which, in point of fact, regulate the great march of society, and spur it on to constant advances in civilization. These two forces, if not indispensable to liberty, are always attendant upon it; one is centripetal, the other centrifugal, and are always in conflict and contending

against each other. The domination of either doubtless lead to abuses; but the spirit of duly tempered, combines to work out the good of all. One thing is settled in this country--though democracy may seem to rule; though it may carry the elections and engross the offices, it is still obliged to bow to conservatism, which insists upon the supremacy of law and order. Democracy may be a good ladder on which to climb into power, but it is then generally thrown down, with contempt, by those who have accomplished their object, and have no further use for it. I must here note, in due chronological order, an event which caused no little public emotion. One of the first, and perhaps the most conspicuous victim of proscription in Jefferson's time, was my uncle, Elizur Goodrich, Collector of the port of New Haven--at that time an office of some importance, as New Haven had then a large West India trade. The story is thus told by the historian:

For several reasons, this event caused great excitement. The election of Jefferson had been made by the House of Representatives, after a severe conflict, which lasted several weeks. The choice was finally effected by Mr. Jefferson's giving pledges to James A. Bayard, of Delaware, and some other members, who consequently bestowed upon him their vote. He agreed, if elected, to follow certain principles of conduct, and stipulated, that while, of course, he would fill

important confidential offices--as those of the secretaries of state and treasury, foreign ministers, &c. with persons of his own political creed--no removals from inferior stations, such as "collectors of ports," &c., including offices of mere detail, generally, should take place on the ground of opinion. The removal above alluded to, being in direct violation of this pledge caused great indignation.

Hitherto removals of even inferior officers had never been made because their opinions did not suit the President, and hence this instance created general surprise as well as alarm, especially when the circumstances and the motives for the measure were taken into consideration. The principal citizens of New Haven, particularly the merchants, felt this as a severe blow, and accordingly addressed to the President a respectful but earnest remonstrance against the change that had taken place. Mr. Jefferson replied in a letter, which has become celebrated, as it not only displayed, in a remarkable degree, his rhetorical skill and political tact, but it may be said to have settled, as a matter of principle in our government, that it is within the province of the President to make removals from office on mere party grounds. It is true that this was not largely practiced by Mr. Jefferson, for public opinion seemed not then to be prepared for it; but the example he set, and the skill he manifested in defending this fatal doctrine, afterward resulted in an open declaration

by his party, that "to the victors belong the spoils"--and hence the whole arena of politics has been degraded by infusing into it the selfishness and violence which characterize a battle, where "beauty and booty" is the watchword.

I may not find a better place than this for an anecdote, which shows the tendency of political storms, like those of nature--by sea and by land--to revolve in a circle. This Abraham Bishop, just mentioned, the son of Collector Bishop, grew up a democrat, and became an able and skillful stump orator, he is said to have originated the electioneering apothegm--"one doubt loses ten votes!" For several years he was the Boanerges of the party in Connecticut, and always went on a circuit to stir up the democracy just previous to the elections. At length he was appointed Collector of the port of New Haven, with some five thousand dollars a year. Well: again, when an election was approaching, he was desired by the leaders of the party to go forth and wake up the democracy by a round of speeches. "No, no," said the Collector with $5000 a year: "I think we have quite democracy enough, now!" A few years later, Mr. Bishop was in the ranks of the whigs or federalists, and died much respected as a man of conservative politics, morals, and manners!

In short, my dear C...., though I respect a quiet, conscientious democrat, as much as I do any other man--still, when I see a noisy politician crying out, "The

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I, p. 126

democracy! ho, the democracy!"--I consider it pretty certain--judging from long experience and observation--that, according to the proverb, "Somebody has an axe to grind," and desires to wheedle his dupes into turning the grindstone, gratis.

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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.

My dear C******

I have incidentally remarked that about the beginning of the present century great people traveled, in our quarter, not in cars, or steamers, or even in stagecoaches, to any considerable extent, but in their own carriages. The principal travel was on horseback. Many of the members of Congress came to Washington in this way. I have a dim recollection of seeing one day, when I was trudging along to school, a tall, pale, gaunt man, approaching on horseback with his plump saddlebags behind him. I looked at him keenly, and made my obeisance as in duty bound. He lifted his hat, and bowed in return. By a quick instinct, I set him down as a man of mark. In the

evening, Lieutenant Smith came to our house and told us that Timothy Pickering had passed through the town! He had seen him and talked with him, and was vastly distended with the portentous news thereby acquired--including the rise and fall of empires for ages to come--and all of which he duly unfolded to our family circle.

Before I proceed, let me note, in passing, a point of manners then universal, but which has now nearly faded away. When travelers met with people on the highway, both saluted one another with a certain dignified and formal courtesy. All children were regularly taught at school to "make their manners" to strangers; the boys to bow and the girls to courtesy. It was something different from the frank, familiar "How are you, stranger?" of the Far West; something different from the "bon jour, serviteur," of the Alps. These no doubt arise from the natural sociability of man, and are stimulated into a fashion and a tradition by the sparseness of the population, for sociability is greatly promoted by isolation. Our salute was more measured and formal, respect to age and authority being evidently an element of this homage, which was sedulously taught to the young. Its origin I cannot tell; perhaps it came from England with the Puritans, and was a vestige of that kindly ceremony which always marks the intercourse of the upper and lower classes in a country where the patrician and plebeian are estab-

lished by law and public sentiment. Perhaps it bespoke also something of that reign of authority, which then regulated society in the affairs of Church and State.

But however this may be, it is certain that for children to salute travelers was, in my early days, as well a duty as a decency. A child who did not "make his manners" to a stranger on the high-road, was deemed a low fellow; a stranger who refused to acknowledge this civility was esteemed a sans culotte--perhaps a favorer of Jacobinism. It may be remarked that men of the highest rank in those days were particular in these attentions to children; indeed, I may say that the emphasis of a stranger's courtesy was generally the measure of his station. I can testify that in my own case, the effect of this was to impress me strongly with the amiability of rank which thus condescended to notice a child; at the same time, it encouraged children, in some sort, to imitate high and honorable examples.

The decadence of this good old highway politeness in Connecticut, began soon after the period of which I now write. Remember that this was long before the era of railroads and lightning telegraphs. Of course it would be idle for boys and girls now-a-days to undertake to bow and courtesy to locomotives: in such a process they would run the risk of wringing their necks and tripping up their heels. But forty years ago people plodded along at the rate of two

to four miles the hour. Everybody had time then to be polite. It is all changed: aspiring young America was then slow, as it is fast now. Since every thing goes by steam and electricity, tall walking and tall talking are the vogue. It is easy to comprehend how this comes about; but it was even before the advent of this age of agony, that the good old country custom on the part of the rising generation, to salute strangers along the road, had waned. It first subsided into a vulgar nod, half ashamed and half impudent, and then, like the pendulum of a dying clock, totally ceased.

Thus passed away the age of politeness. For some reason or other, it seems to have gone down with old Hartford Convention Federalism. The change in manners had no doubt been silently going on for some time; but it was not distinctly visible to common eyes till the establishment of the new constitution. Powder and queues, cocked-hats and broad-brims, white-top boots, breeches, and shoe-buckles--signs and symbols of a generation, a few examples of which still lingered among us--finally departed with the Charter of Charles II., while with the new constitution of 1818, short hair, pantaloons, and round hats with narrow brims, became the established costume of men of all classes.

Jefferson was, or affected to be, very simple in his taste, dress, and manners. He wore pantaloons, instead of breeches, and adopted leather shoe strings in

place of buckles. These and other similar things were praised by his admirers as signs of his democracy: a certain coarseness of manners, supposed to be encouraged by the leaders, passed to the led. Rudeness and irreverence were at length deemed democratic, if not democracy.* An anecdote, which is strictly historical, will illustrate this.

About this time, there was in the eastern part of Connecticut a clergyman by the name of Cleveland, who was noted for his wit. One summer day, as he was riding along, he came to a brook. Here he paused to let his horse drink. Just then, a stranger rode into the stream from the opposite direction, and his horse began to drink also. The animals approached, as is their wont under such circumstances, and thus brought the two men face to face.

"How are you, priest?" said the stranger.

"How are you, democrat?" said the parson.

"How do you know I am a democrat?" said one.

"How do you know I am a priest?" said the other.

"I know you to be a priest by your dress," said the stranger.

"I know you to be a democrat by your address," said the parson.

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"How are you, Priest?" "How are you, Democrat?" Vol. I, p. 130.

There is an anecdote of a somewhat later date, which illustrates the same point. In Washington's time, the manners of the country, among the leading classes, assumed a good deal of stateliness, and this was perpetuated by the example of this great man--great alike from his office, his character, and his history. This was made the foundation of the charge against him--so basely urged--that he was at heart a monarchist. It was but natural that Jefferson should appear to be, in all things, his opposite. Under his administration, as I have just said, a great change was effected in external manners. As was reasonable, the democrats followed the example of their leader, now chief magistrate of the nation, while among the old federalists there still lingered vestiges of the waning costume of other days.

A very keen observer, then and long afterward a senator of the United States, once told me that at this period, all the barbers of Washington were federalists, and he imputed it to the fact that the leaders of that party in Congress wore powder and long-queues, and of course had them dressed every day by the barber. The democrats, on the contrary, wore short hair, or, at least, small queues, tied up carelessly with a ribbon, and therefore gave little encouragement to the tonsorial art. One day, as the narrator told me, while he was being shaved by the leading barber of the city--who was of course a federalist--the latter suddenly and vehemently burst out against the

nomination of Madison for the presidency by the democratic party, which had that morning been announced.

"Dear me!" said the barber, "surely this country is doomed to disgrace and shame. What Presidents we might have, sir! Just look at Daggett of Connecticut and Stockton of New Jersey! What queues they have got, sir--as big as your wrist, and powdered every day, sir, like real gentlemen as they are. Such men, sir, would confer dignity upon the chief magistracy; but this little Jim Madison, with a queue no bigger than, a pipe-stem! Sir, it is enough to make a man forswear his country!"

But I must return to locomotion--not railing but wheeling. In Ridgefield, in the year 1800, there was but a single chaise, and that belonged to Colonel Bradley, one of the principal citizens of the place. It was without a top, and had a pair of wide-spreading, asinine ears. That multitudinous generation of traveling vehicles, so universal and so convenient now--such as top-wagons, four-wheeled chaises, tilburies, dearborns, &c., was totally unknown. Even if these things had been invented, the roads would scarcely have permitted the use of them. Physicians who had occasion to go from town to town, went on horseback; all clergymen, except perhaps Bishop Seabury, who rode in a coach, traveled in the same way. My father's people, who lived at a distance, came to church on horseback--their

wives and daughters being seated on pillions behind them. In a few cases--as in spring-time, when the mud had no soundings--the farm wagon was used for transporting the family.

In winter it was otherwise, for we had three or four months of sleighing. Then the whole country was a railroad, and gay times we had. Oh! those beautiful winters, which would drive me shivering to the fireside now: what vivid delight have I had in your slidings and skatings, your sleddings and sleighings! One thing strikes me now with wonder, and that is, the general indifference, in those days, to the intensity of winter. No doubt, as I have said before, the climate was then more severe; but be that as it may, people seemed to suffer less from it than at the present day. Nobody thought of staying at home from church because of the extremity of the weather. We had no thermometers, it is true, to frighten us with the revelation that it was twenty-five degrees below zero. The habits of the people were simple and hardy, and there were few defences against the assaults of the seasons. The houses were not tight; we had no stoves, no Lehigh or Lackawanna coal; yet we lived, and comfortably too; nay, we even changed burly winter into a season of enjoyment.

Let me tell you a story, by the way, upon the meeting-houses of those days. They were of wood, and slenderly built, of course admitting somewhat freely the blasts of the seasons. In the severe win-

ter days, we only mitigated the temperature by foot-stoves; but these were deemed effeminate luxuries suited to women and children. What would have been thought of Deacon Olmstead and Granther Baldwin, had they yielded to the weakness of a foot-stove! The age of comfortable meeting-houses and churches, in county towns, was subsequent to this, some twenty or thirty years. All improvement is gradual, and frequently advances only by conflict with prejudice, and victory over opposition. In a certain county town within my knowledge, the introduction of stoves into the meeting-house, about the year 1830, threatened to overturn society. The incident may be worth detailing, for trifles often throw light upon important subjects.

In this case, the metropolis, which we will call H.... had adopted stoves in the churches, and naturally enough some people of the neighboring town of E.... set about introducing this custom into the meeting-house in their own village. Now, the two master-spirits of society--the Demon of Progress and the Angel of Conservatism--somehow or other had got into the place, and as soon as this reform was suggested, they began to wrestle with the people, until at last the church and society were divided into two violent factions--the Stove Party and the Anti-stove Party. At the head of the first was Mrs. Deacon K.... and at the head of the latter was Mrs. Deacon P..... The battle raged portentously, very much

like the renowned tempest in a teapot. Society was indeed lashed into a foam. The minister, between the contending factions, scarcely dared to say his soul was his own. He could scarcely find a text from "Genesis to Jude," that might not commit him on one side or the other. The strife--of course--ran into politics, and the representative to the assembly got in by a happy knack at dodging the question in such wise as to be claimed by both parties.

Finally, the progressionists prevailed--the stove party triumphed, and the stoves were accordingly installed. Great was the humiliation of the anti-stoveites; nevertheless, they concluded to be submissive to the dispensations of Providence. On the Sabbath succeeding the installation of the stoves, Mrs. Deacon P...., instead of staying away, did as she ought, and went to church. As she moved up the broad aisle, it was remarked that she looked pale but calm, as a martyr should, conscious of injury, yet struggling to forgive. Nevertheless, when the minister named his text--Romans xii. 20--and spoke about heaping coals of fire on the head--she slid from her seat, and subsided gently upon the floor. The train of ideas suggested was, in fact, too much for her heated brain and shattered nerves. Suddenly there was a rush to the pew, and the fainting lady was taken out. When she came to the air, she slightly revived.

"Pray what is the matter?" said Mrs. Deacon

K...., who bent over her, holding a smelling-bottle to her nose.

"Oh, it is the heat of those awful stoves," said Mrs. Deacon P....

"No, no, my dear," said Mrs. Deacon K....; "that can't be: it's a warm day, you know, and there's no fire in them."

"No fire in the stoves?" said Mrs. Deacon P....

"Not a particle," said Mrs. Deacon K....

"Well, I feel better now," said the poor lady; and so bidding her friends good-by, she went home, in a manner suited to the occasion.

I have said that in the year 1800 there was but a single chaise in Ridgefield, and this was brought, I believe, from New Haven. There was not, I imagine, a coach, or any kind of pleasure vehicle--that crazy old chaise excepted--in the county of Fairfield, out of the two half-shire towns. Such things, indeed, were known at New York, Boston, and Philadelphia--for already the government had laid a tax upon pleasure conveyances; but they were comparatively few in number, and were mostly imported. In 1798, there was but one public hack in New Haven, and but one coach; the latter belonging to Pierpoint Edwards, being a large four-wheeled vehicle, for two persons, called a chariot. In the smaller towns, there were no pleasure vehicles in use throughout New England. What an Old Fogy the world was then!

About that time, there came to our village a man

by the name of Jesse J. Skellinger, an Englishman, and chaisemaker by trade. My father engaged him to build him a chaise. A bench was set up in our barn, and certain trees of oak and ash were cut in our neighboring woods. These were sawed and seasoned, and shaped into wheels and shafts. Thomas Hawley, half blacksmith and half wheelwright, was duly initiated, and he cunningly wrought the iron necessary for the work. In five months the chaise was finished, with a standing top--greatly to the admiration of our family. What a gaze was there, my countrymen, as this vehicle went through Ridgefield-street upon its first expedition!

This was the beginning of the chaise manufactory in Ridgefield, which has since been a source of large revenue to the town. Skellinger was engaged by Elijah Hawley, who had formerly done something as a wagon-builder, and thus in due time an establishment was founded, which for many years was noted for the beauty and excellence of its pleasure vehicles.

The origin of local and special kinds of industry is often hidden in mystery. It would be difficult to tell who began the manufactory of needles at Redditch, ribbons at St. Etienne, or watches at Geneva; but it is certain that our chaise, built in our barn, was the commencement of the Ridgefield carriage manufactory, which greatly flourished for a time, and gave rise to other branches of mechanical industry, which still contribute to the prosperity of the place.