Recollections of a Lifetime, by Samuel Griswold Goodrich (New York & Auburn: Miller, Orton & Mulligan, 1856)
-----I, p. 323
million--the majority of all nations are composed. Say not, then, that I have written these light and hasty sketches in vain!
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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.
My dear C******
It was in the autumn of the year 1808, as I have intimated, that a sudden change took place in my prospects. My eldest sister had married a gentleman by the name of Cooke, in the adjacent town of Danbury. He was a merchant, and being in want of a clerk, offered me the place. It was considered a desirable situation by my parents, and overlooking my mechanical aptitudes, they accepted it at once, and at the age of fifteen I found myself installed in a country store.
This arrangement gratified my love of change, common to the young and inexperienced. At the same time, Danbury was a much more considerable town than Ridgefield, and going to live there naturally suggested the idea of advancement, especially as I was to exchange my uncertain prospects for a positive profession. However, I little comprehended
what it meant to say farewell to home: I have since learned its significance. In thus bidding adieu to the paternal roof, we part with youth forever--words of mournful import, which every succeeding year, to the very end, impresses on the heart. We part with the spring-tide of life, which strews every path with flowers, fills the air with poetry, and the heart with rejoicing. We part with that genial spirit which endows familiar objects--brooks, lawns, play-grounds, hillsides--with its own sweet illusions: we bid adieu to this and its fairy companionships. Even if, in after life, we return to the scenes of our childhood, they have lost the bloom of youth, and in its place we see the wrinkles of that age which has graven its hard lines upon our hearts.
Farewell to home implies something even yet more serious: we relinquish, and often with exultation, the tender providence of parents, in order to take upon ourselves the dread responsibilities of independence. What seeming infatuation it is, that renders us thus impatient of the guidance of those who gave us being, and who are on earth the brightest reflection of heaven--making us at the same time anxious to spread our untried sails upon an untried sea, and upon a voyage which involves all the chances--evil as well as good--of existence. And yet it is not infatuation--it is instinct. We can not always be young; we can not all remain under the paternal roof. The old birds push the young ones from the nest, and force them to a
trial of their wings. It is the system of nature that impels us to go forth and try our fortunes, and it is a kind Providence, after all, which thus endues us with courage for the outset of our uncertain career.
I was not long in discovering that my new vocation was very different from what I had expected, and very different from my accustomed way of life. My habits had been active, my employments chiefly abroad--in the open air. I was accustomed to be frequently on horseback, and to make excursions to the neighboring towns; I had also enjoyed large personal liberty, which I failed not to use in rambling over the fields and forests. All this was now changed. My duties lay exclusively in the store, and this seemed now my prison. From morning to night I remained, here, and as our business was not large, I had many hours upon my hands with nothing to do, but to consider the weariness of my situation. My brother-in-law was always present, and being a man of severe aspect and large ubiquitous eyes, I felt a sort of restraint, which, for a time, was agonizing. I had consequently pretty sharp attacks of homesickness, a disease which--save that it is not dangerous--is one of the most agonizing to which suffering humanity is exposed.
This state of sin and misery continued for some weeks, during which time I actually revolved various plans of escape from my confinement--such as stealing away at night, making my way to Norwalk, get-
ting on board a sloop, and going as cabin-boy to the West Indies. I am inclined to think that a small impulse might have set me upon some such mad expedition. By degrees, however, I became habituated to my occupation, and as my situation was eligible in other respects, I found myself, ere long, reconciled to it.
The father and mother of my brother-in-law were aged people living with him, in the same house, and as one family. They were persons of great amiability and excellence of character: the former, Col. Cooke, was eighty years of age, but he had still the perfect exercise of his faculties, and though he had ceased all business, he was cheerful, and took a lively interest in passing events. His career* had been one of
great activity and usefulness. During the Revolution he was a colonel of the Connecticut militia, and upon the death of Gen. Wooster, in the retreat from Danbury, the command devolved upon him, the next in rank. He was greatly esteemed, not only by the community, but by the leading men of the country. He enjoyed the friendship and confidence of Washington, and the acquaintance of Lafayette, Rochambeau, and De Grasse, whom he entertained at his house. He
was a member of Congress under the Confederation, and subsequently filled the various offices of judge of the County Court, judge of Probate, and member of the Governor's council--receiving for many years a larger popular vote than any other individual of that body. His style of living was liberal, and with a large family, settled in the neighborhood, he was like one of the patriarchs of old--dignified, tranquil--loving and beloved. In manner and dress, he was
strongly marked with the Washingtonian era: he was sedate, courteous, methodical in all his ways: he wore breeches, knee-buckles, shoe-buckles, and a cocked hat, to the last. The amenity and serenity of his countenance and conduct, bespoke the refined gentleman and disciplined Christian. His wife was a sister of the Rev. Noah Benedict, of Woodbury, and inherited the traditionary talent of that branch of the Benedict family. Never have I seen a more
pleasing spectacle than this reverend couple--at the age of fourscore--"both smoking their pipes in the evening, with, two generations around them, all looking with affectionate veneration upon the patriarchal pair.
My brother-in-law was a man of decided character, and his portrait deserves a place in these annals. He was graduated at Yale College, and had been qualified for the bar, but his health was feeble, and therefore--chiefly for occupation--he succeeded to the store
which his father had kept before him. Being in easy circumstances, he made no great efforts in business. Though, as I have said, he was of stern aspect, and his manners were somewhat cold and distant, he was always a gentleman, and his substantial character that of a just and kind man. In business, he treated people respectfully, but he never solicited custom: he showed, but never recommended his goods. If his advice were asked, he offered it without regard to his own interest. He gave me no instructions, but left me to the influence of his example. He was of a highly religious turn of mind, not merely performing the accustomed duties of a Christian, but making devotional books a large part of his study. Perhaps he was conscious of failing health, and already heard the monitory voice of that disease which was ere long to terminate his career.
Nevertheless, he was not insensible to the pleasures of cultivated society, and however grave he might be in his general air and manner, he was particularly gratified with the visits of a man, in all things his opposite--Moses Hatch, then a leading lawyer in Danbury. Mr. Cooke was tall, emaciated, somewhat bent, with a large head, and large melancholy eyes. His look was gravity itself, his air meditative, his movements measured, slow, and wavering. 'Squire Hatch,* on the contrary, was rather short, full-chested,
perpendicular, and with a short, quick, emphatic step. His eye was small, gray, and twinkling; his lips sharp and close-set, his hair erect and combed back, giving to his face the keen expression of the old-fashioned flint, set in a gun-lock. You expected, of course, on the least movement to see the fire fly; he was, in fact, a man celebrated for his wit no less than his learning, and he seldom opened his mouth without making a report of one or both.
This person was a frequent visitor to the store; and the long winter which commenced soon after I entered upon my apprenticeship, was not a little enlivened by his conversations with my master. It frequently happened during the deep snows, that the day passed without a single customer, and on these occasions, Lawyer Hatch was pretty sure to make us a visit. It was curious to see these two men--antipodes in character--attracted to each other as if by contradiction. My brother-in-law evidently found a pleasant relaxation in the conversation of his neighbor, embellished with elegant wit and varied learning, while the latter derived equal gratification from the serious, solid, manly intellect of his friend. In
general the former was the talker, and the latter the listener; yet sometimes the conversation became discussion, and a keen trial of wit, versus logic, ensued. The lawyer always contended for victory, my brother-in-law for the truth: the one was influenced, no doubt, by the easy practices of his profession; the other by the stern habit of his conscience and character.
The precise form of these conversations has vanished from my mind, but some of the topics remain. I recollect long talks about the embargo, non-intercourse, and other Jeffersonian measures, which were treated with unsparing ridicule and reproach: anecdotes and incidents of Napoleon, who excited mingled admiration and terror, with observations upon public men, as well in Europe as in America. I remember also a very keen, discussion upon Berkeley's theory of the idealty of nature, mental and material, which so far excited my curiosity, that finding the "Minute Philosopher," by that author, in the family library, I read it through with great interest and attention. The frequent references to Shakspeare, in these conversations, led me to look into his works, and--incited by the recommendations of my sister--I read them through, somewhat doggedly, seeking even to penetrate the more difficult and obscure passages.
It frequently happened that my master--owing to the influence of disease--was affected with depression of spirits, and the lawyer's best wit and choicest stories were expended without even exciting a smile.
Not discouraged, but rather stimulated by such adversity, he usually went on, and was pretty sure, at last, to strike the vein, as Moses did the water in the rock, and a gush of uncontrollable laughter was the result. I remember in one instance, Mr. Cooke sat for a long time, looking moodily into the fire, while 'Squire Hatch went on telling stories, chiefly about clergymen, of which he had a great assortment. I will endeavor to give you a sketch of the scene.
"I know not why it is so," said the lawyer, "but the fact is undeniable, that the most amusing anecdotes are about clergymen. The reason perhaps is, that incongruity is the source of humorous associations, and this is evidently the most frequent and striking in a profession which sets apart its members as above the mass of mankind, in a certain gravity of character and demeanor, of which the black coat is the emblem. A spot upon this strikes every eye, while a brown coat, being the color of dirt, hides rather than reveals what is upon its surface. Thus it is, as we all know, that what would be insipid as coming from a layman, is very laughable if it happens to a parson. I have heard that on a certain occasion, as the Rev. J... M .... was about to read a hymn, he saw a little boy sitting behind the chorister in the gallery, who had intensely red hair. The day was cold, and the little rogue was pretending to warm his hands by holding them close to the chorister's head. This so disconcerted the minister, that
it was some minutes before he could go on with the services.["]
The only effect of this was, that my master drew down one corner of his mouth.
"I have heard of another clergyman," said the lawyer, "who suffered in a similar way. One day, in the very midst of his sermon, he saw Deacon B.... fast asleep, his head leaning back on the rail of the pew, and his mouth wide open. A young fellow in the gallery above, directly over him, took a quid of tobacco from his mouth, and taking a careful aim, let it drop plump into the deacon's mouth. The latter started from his sleep, and went through a terrible paroxysm of fright and choking before he recovered."
Mr. Cooke bit his lip, but was silent. Lawyer Hatch--although he pretended to be all the while looking into the fire--got a quick side glance at the face of his auditor, and continued--
"You know the Rev. Dr. B.... of B., sir? Well, one day he told me that as he was on his way to New Haven, he came to the house of one of his former parishioners, who, some years before, had removed to that place. As he was about to pass it, he remembered that this person had died recently, and he thought it meet and proper to stop and condole with the widow. She met him very cheerfully, and they had some pleasant chat together.
"'Madam,' said he, after a time, 'it is a painful
subject--but you have recently met with a severe loss.'
"She instantly applied her apron to her eyes, and said--
"'Oh yes, doctor; there's no telling how I feel.'
"'It is indeed a great bereavement you have suffered.'
"'Yes, doctor; very great indeed.'
"'I hope you bear it with submission?'
"'I try tu; but oh, doctor, I sometimes feel in my heart--Goosy, goosy gander, where shall I wander!'"
The lawyer glanced at the object of his attack, and seeming to see a small breach in the wall, he thought it time to bring up his heavy guns. He went on:
"There's another story about this same Dr. B.... which is amusing. Some years ago he lost his wife, and after a time he began to look out for another. At last he fixed his mind upon a respectable lady in a neighboring town, and commenced paying her his addresses. This naturally absorbed much of his time and attention, and his parish became dissatisfied. The deacons of the church held several conferences on the subject, and it was finally agreed that Deacon Becket, who had the grace of smooth speech, should give the reverend doctor a hint of what they deemed his fearful backsliding. Accordingly, the next Sabbath morning, on going to church, the deacon overtook the parson, and the following dialogue ensued:
"'Good morning, Dr. B....'
"'Good morning,' Deacon Becket.
"'Well, doctor, I'm glad to meet you; for I wanted to say to you, as how I thought of changing my pew!'
"'Indeed! And why so?'
"'Well, I'll tell you. I sit, as you know, clear over the back-side of the meeting-house; and between me and the pulpit, there's Judy Vickar, Molly Warren, Experience Pettybone, and half-a-dozen old maids, who sit with their mouths wide open, and they catch all the best of your sarmon, and when it gets to me, it's plaguey poor stuff!'"
My brother-in-law could hold out no longer: his face was agitated for a moment with nervous spasms, and then bending forward, he burst into a round, hearty laugh. The lawyer--who made it a point never to smile at his own jokes--still had a look upon his face as much as to say--"Well, sir, I thought I should get my case."
It may be easily imagined that I was greatly interested by these conversations and discussions, and always felt not a little annoyed, if perchance, as sometimes happened, I was called away in the midst of a good story or a keen debate, to supply a customer with a gallon of molasses, or a paper of pins. I know not if this gave me a disgust of my trade, but it is very certain that I conceived for it a great dislike, nearly from the beginning. Never, so far as I can
recollect, did I for one moment enter heartily into its spirit. I was always, while I continued in it, a mere servile laborer, doing my duty, perhaps, yet with a languid and reluctant heart. However, I got through the winter, and when the real summer came, Mr. Cooke nearly gave up personal attention to business, in consequence of ill health, and we had a new clerk, H. N. Lockwood, who was older than myself, and took the responsible charge of the establishment. He was an excellent merchant, and to me was a kind and indulgent friend. He afterward settled in Troy, where I am happy to say he is still living, and in the enjoyment of an ample fortune, and an excellent reputation as a father, friend, Christian, and neighbor--the natural fruit of good sense, good temper, and good conduct.
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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.
My dear C******
In the summer of 1809 I took a short tour with my brother-in-law and my sister, for the health of the former. This to me was a grand expedition, for among other places we visited was New Haven, then a sort of Jerusalem in my imagination--a holy place,
containing Yale College, of which Dr. Dwight was president. Besides all this, one of my uncles and some of my cousins lived there, and better still, my brother was there, and then a member of the college. Ah, how my heart beat when we set out! Such was the vividness of my perceptions, that I could fill a book with recollections of that short, simple journey--the whole circuit not exceeding one hundred and twenty miles. But, my dear C...., be not alarmed! I shall not inflict them upon you: a few brief notes will be the entire burden you shall bear, on this occasion. I pass over the journey to New Haven, and permit you at once to enter the city. I was of course duly impressed with its beauty, for then, as now, it was celebrated for a rare union of rural freshness and city elegance. I have recently, in passing through it, had a transient view of its appearance, and may safely affirm that after pretty large observation in the Old World, as well as in the New, I know of no town or city more inviting; especially to one whose judgment is cultivated by observation and study, and whose feelings are chastened by reflection and experience. There is a taste of the university in the long shady streets, fit for the walks of Plato, and a metropolitan air in the public buildings and squares, suggestive of ideas of the Forum. There is something of the activity and bustle of commerce in a part of the town, and at one point, all the spasm of a railway station. In other portions of the place, and over
three-fourths of its area, there is the quietude and repose proper to a seat of learning. Here the houses seem suited to the city, each with a garden, breathing the perfumes of the country.
At the period of the visit I am describing, New Haven had not one half its present population, and many of the institutions which now adorn it did not exist. The college, however, was then, as now, a leading literary institution in the country. To me it was an object of special reverence, as my grandfather and his four sons had all been graduated there. My brother and two of my cousins were at this time among its inmates. Of course I looked with intense curiosity at the several buildings that belonged to it. The splendid mineralogical cabinet, now the first in the United States, was not there; nay, the science of mineralogy hardly existed at that time. The Trumbull Gallery of Paintings, comprising many of the best productions of that distinguished painter, and enriched by nearly two hundred portraits of celebrated men, has since been added. Nevertheless, many things here excited my admiration. I looked with particular interest--I may add with some degree of envy--at the students, who seemed to me the privileged sons of the earth. Several were pointed out as promising to be the master-spirits of their age and generation; in some cases I have since seen these anticipations fulfilled.
Next to the college I visited the bay, and for the
first time actually stood upon the shore of that living sea, which through my whole childhood had spread its blue bosom before me, in the distant horizon. A party of three or four of us took a boat, and went down toward the entrance of the bay, landing on the eastern side. From this point the view was enchanting--it being a soft summer afternoon, and the sea only breathed upon by light puffs of wind that came from the west. I looked long, and with a species of entrancement, at its heaving and swelling surface: I ran my eye far away, till it met the line where sky and wave are blent together: I followed the lulling surf as it broke, curling and winding, among the mimic bays of the rocky shore. I looked down into the depths of the water, and perceived the finny inhabitants, gliding through the dim recesses, half sheltered in their tranquil domain by groves of sea-weed, or the shadows of the deepening waters. It was a spectacle not only full of beauty in itself, but to me it was a revelation and a fulfillment of the thousand half-formed fancies, which had been struggling in my longing bosom from very childhood.
Our party was so occupied with our contemplations, that we had scarcely noticed a thunder-storm, which now approached and menaced us from the west. We set out to return, but before we had got half across the bay, it broke full upon us. The change in the aspect of the sea was fearful: all its gentleness was gone, and now, black and scowling,
it seemed, as if agitated by a demon, threatening every thing with destruction that came within its scope. By a severe struggle, we succeeded in reaching Long Wharf, though not without risk. The general impression of the whole scene upon my mind, may be gathered from the following lines, though you must not consider me as the literal hero of the story, nor must you regard this description as a veritable account of the day's adventure:
I stood
Upon a rock that wall'd the Deep:
Before me roll'd the boundless flood--
A Glorious Dreamer in its sleep!
'Twas summer morn, and bright as heaven;
And though I wept, I was not sad,
For tears, thou knowest, are often given
When the o'erflowing heart is glad.
Long, long I watch'd the waves, whose whirls
Leap'd up the rocks, their brows to kiss,
And dallied with the sea-weed curls
That stoop'd and wooed the proffer'd bliss.
Long, long I listened to the peal
That whisper'd from the pebbly shore,
And like a spirit seem'd to steal
In music to my bosom's core.
And now I look'd afar, and thought
The Sea a glad and glorious thing;
And fancy to my bosom brought
Wild dreams upon her wizard wing--
Her wing that stretch'd o'er spreading waves,
And chased the far-off flashing ray,
Or hovering deep in twilight caves
Caught the lone mermaid at her play.
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First Adventure upon the Sea Vol. 1, p. 342.
And thus the sunny day went by,
And night came brooding o'er the seas;
A thick cloud swathed the distant sky,
And hollow murmurs fill'd the breeze.
The white-gull, screaming, left the rock,
And seaward bent her glancing wing,
While heavy waves, with measured shock,
Made the dun cliff with echoes ring.
How changed the scene! The glassy deep,
That slumber'd in its resting-place,
And, seeming in its morning sleep
To woo me to its soft embrace--
Now waken'd, was a fearful thing--
A giant with a scowling form,
Who from his bosom seem'd to fling
The blacken'd billows to the storm!
The wailing winds in terror gush'd
From the swart sky, and seem'd to lash
The foaming waves, which madly rush'd
Toward the tall cliff with headlong dash.
Upward the glittering spray was sent,
Backward the growling surges whirl'd,
And splinter'd rocks by lightnings rent,
Down thundering midst the waves were hurl'd.
I trembled, yet I would not fly;
I fear'd, yet loved, the awful scene;
And gazing on the sea and sky,
Spell-bound I stood the rocks between.
'Twas strange that I--a mountain-boy--
A lover of green fields and flowers--
One who with laughing rills could toy,
And hold companionship for hours
With leaves that whisper'd low at night,
Or fountains bubbling from their springs--
Or summer winds, whose downy flight
Seem'd but the sweep of angel wings:
'Twas strange that I should love the clash
Of ocean in its maddest hour,
And joy to see the billows dash
O'er the rent cliff with fearful power.
'Twas strange--but I was nature's own,
Unchecked, untutor'd; in my soul
A harp was set, that gave its tone
To every touch without control.
The zephyr stirr'd, in childhood warm,
Thoughts like itself, as soft and blest;
And the swift fingers of the storm,
Woke its own echo in my breast.
Aye, and the strings that else had lain
Untouch'd, and to myself unknown,
Within my heart, gave back the strain,
That o'er the sea and rock was thrown.
These lines were written many years after the events I have been describing, yet the feelings and fancies they portray were suggested, at least in part, by this my first visit to the sea, and my first adventure upon its capricious bosom. I have since crossed the Atlantic sixteen times, and am therefore familiar with all the aspects of the ocean--but never have they impressed me so deeply and so vividly as upon this occasion.
The next object that attracted my attention was the Court-house. Here, for the first time, I saw a "Court"--its awful judges, holding the issues of life and death, and sitting high and apart upon the
"Bench;" here also were twelve hard-looking men, exercising the high functions of that glorious Saxon institution, called a "Jury." Here also was that terrible man--the "sheriff," and a poor wretch in a pen--the "prisoner at the bar." The trial had already begun, and a lawyer, with a powdered head, was telling the court--the jury and the judges--what a desperate scoundrel he was. He proved him to be a burglar of the very worst description. I felt my heart burn with indignation that such a monster should ever have been at large among society. Pretty soon another lawyer got up, and made it as clear as light, that the man was entirely innocent. My feelings were now totally changed, and I felt as if he were a most deserving and most injured person. The jury at last went out, and after an anxious half hour, returned with a verdict of "guilty." The court then sentenced the culprit to "Simsbury Mines"* for five years.
I had been three hours in the court-room, and my interest had been wound up to the highest pitch. When I left it, my head was in a whirl; my feelings also were painfully excited. I had deemed that a Court of Justice was holy ground; that judges were saints, and jurors grave men, deeply impressed with the duty of a religious fulfillment of their high functions. I had imagined lawyers to be profoundly skilled in the art of discerning and developing the
truth. I had indulged a fancy that justice and judgment would here reign in every heart, appear in every face, and guide every tongue. How different seemed the reality! The general impression on my mind was a horror of the place, and all the proceedings: it appeared to me that lawyers, judges, jury, sheriff, and all, were a set of the most heartless creatures I had ever seen--pretending to seek justice, and yet without a single sentiment of humanity. Even decency seemed to be outraged, in the treatment of witnesses, and in jibes cast at the poor prisoner, who, however guilty, rather invited sympathy than ridicule. I must confess that I have never got entirely over this my first impression: the atmosphere of a court-room is to me always depressing--though, I am aware, that the manners here have undergone a great and favorable revolution in modern times.
On Sunday I went to the college chapel, and heard Dr. Dwight preach. He was then at the zenith of his fame--a popular poet, an eloquent divine, a learned author, and, crowning all, president of the college.
He was unquestionably, at that time, the most conspicuous man in New England, filling a larger space in the public eye, and exerting a greater influence than any other individual. No man, since his time, has held an equal ascendency, during his day and generation, in New England--except perhaps Daniel Webster. In allusion to his authority in matters ecclesiastical as well as civil--for he was a statesman, and exercised his influence in politics, not obtrusively, but by his counsel--he was familiarly called by political adversaries, Old Pope Dwight.
In person he was about six feet in height, and of a full, round, manly form. His head was modeled rather for beauty than craniological display. Indeed, phrenology had not then been discovered, and accordingly great men were born without paying the slightest attention to its doctrines. Dr. Dwight had, in fact, no bumps: I have never seen a smoother, rounder pate than his, which, being slightly bald and close shorn, was easily examined. He had, however, a noble aspect--a full forehead and piercing black eyes, though partly covered up with large spectacles in a tortoise-shell frame--for he had been long afflicted with a morbid sensibility of the organs of sight. On the whole, his presence was singularly commanding, enforced by a manner somewhat authoritative and emphatic. This might have been offensive, had not his character and position prepared all around to tolerate, perhaps to admire it. His voice was one of
the finest I ever have heard from the pulpit--clear, hearty, sympathetic--and entering into the soul like the middle notes of an organ. The subject of his discourse I do not recollect; trained, however, as I had been from childhood, to regard him as second only to St. Paul--I discovered in it full justification of his great fame.*
The house of my uncle, Elizur Goodrich, where
we stayed, was then rather the focal point of society in the city--partly because of his official position and genial manners, and partly, also, on account of the character of his wife, who, to say the least, in a happy union of the highest womanly qualities, was inferior to few ladies of her time. Every evening there was here a levee of accidental visitors, consisting of
the distinguished men of the city, and often including other celebrities. Among the noted individuals I saw there, was John Allen, brother of Mrs. Goodrich--a man of eminent talents and most imposing person, being six feet six inches high, with a corresponding power of expression in his form and face. He had been a member of Congress, and is recorded in its
annals by the title of "Long John." He was in person, as well as mind, a sort of Anakim among the members of the House.*
Here also I saw Dr. Dwight, who was perhaps even more distinguished in conversation than in the pulpit. He was indeed regarded as without a rival in this respect: his knowledge was extensive and various, and his language eloquent, rich, and flowing. His fine voice and noble person gave great effect to what he said. When he spoke, others were silent. This arose in part from the superiority of his powers, but in part also from his manner, which, as I have said, was somewhat authoritative. Thus he engrossed, not rudely, but with the willing assent of those around him, the lead in conversation. Nevertheless, I must remark, that in society the imposing grandeur of
his personal appearance in the pulpit, was softened by a general blandness of expression and a sedulous courtesy of manner, which were always conciliating, and sometimes really captivating. His smile was irresistible.
In reflecting upon this good and great man, and reading his works in after-time, I am still impressed with his general superiority--his manly intellect, his vast range of knowledge, and his large heart;--yet, I am persuaded that, on account of his noble person--the perfection of the visible man--he exercised a power in his day and generation, somewhat beyond the natural scope of his mental endowments. Those who read his works only, can not fully realize the impression which he made upon the age in which he lived. His name is still honored: many of his works still live. His Body of Divinity takes the precedence, not only here, but in England, over all works of the same kind and the same doctrine; but at the period to which I refer, he was regarded with a species of idolatry by those around him. Even the pupils of the college under his presidential charge--those who are not usually inclined to hero-worship--almost adored him. To this day, those who had the good fortune to receive their education under his auspices, look back upon it as a great era in their lives.
There was indeed reason for this. With all his greatness in other respects, Dr. Dwight seems to have been more particularly felicitous as the teacher, the
counsellor, the guide, of educated young men. In the lecture-room all his high and noble qualities seemed to find their full scope. He did not here confine himself to merely scientific instruction: he gave lessons in morals and manners, and taught, with a wisdom which experience and common sense only could have furnished, the various ways to insure success in life. He gave lectures upon health--the art of maintaining a vigorous constitution, with the earnest pursuit of professional duties--citing his own example, which consisted in laboring every day in the garden, when the season permitted, and at other times at some mechanical employment. He recommended that in intercourse with mankind, his pupils should always converse with each individual upon that subject in which he was most instructed, observing that he never met a man of whom he could not learn something. He gave counsel, suited to the various professions; to those who were to become clergymen, he imparted the wisdom, which he had gathered by a life of long and active experience: he counseled those who were to become lawyers, physicians, merchants--and all with a fullness of knowledge and a felicity of illustration and application, as if he had actually spent a life in each of these vocations. And more than this: he sought to infuse into the bosom of all, that high principle which served to inspire his own soul--that is, to be always a gentleman, taking St. Paul as his model. He considered
not courtesy only, but truth, honor, manliness in all things, as essential to this character. Every kind of meanness he despised. Love of country was the constant theme of his eulogy. Religion was the soul of his system. God was the center of gravity, and man should make the moral law as inflexible as the law of nature. Seeking to elevate all to this sphere, he still made its orbit full of light--the light of love, and honor, and patriotism, and literature, and ambition--all verging toward that fullness of glory, which earth only reflects and heaven only can unfold.
Was not this greatness?--not the greatness of genius, for after all Dr. Dwight was only a man of large common sense and a large heart, inspired by high moral principles. He was, in fact, a Yankee, Christian gentleman--nothing more--nothing less. Where could such character--with such lights and shades--be produced, except here in our stern, yet kindly climate of New England? Can you find such a biography as this in France? in Germany? in Old England, even? You may find men of genius, but hardly of that Puritan type, so well illustrated in the life and character of Timothy Dwight. Shake not your head, then, my dear C...., and say that nothing good can come of this, our cold, northern Nazareth!
Another man, whom I now saw for the first time, was Professor Silliman, then beginning to fill a large space in the public eye. He had recently returned from a visit to Europe, but did not publish his "Jour-
nal of Travels" till the next year. It was a great thing then to go to Europe, and get back safe. It was a great thing then to look upon a person who had achieved such an enterprise, and especially a man like the professor, who had held communication with the learned and famous people on the other side of the Atlantic. But this was not all: Professor Silliman had begun to popularize the discoveries of the new science of Chemistry. What wonders were thus disclosed to the astonished people! By means of blowpipes, flasks, and crucibles, all nature seemed to be transformed as by the spells of a sorcerer. The four old-fashioned elements were changed--proved, in short, to be impostors, having been passed off from time immemorial as solid, substantial, honest elements, while they were in fact, each and all, only a parcel of compounds! Fire was no longer fire; it was only an incident of combustion: heat was a sensation, and at the bottom of the whole matter was a thing called caloric. Earth, that stable, old-fashioned footstool of man and his Maker, was resolved into at least fifty ingredients; air was found to be made up of two, gases, called oxygen and nitrogen--one being a sort of good angel, supporting life and combustion, and the other a kind of bad devil, stifling the breath, putting out the candle, and destroying vegetation. As to water, that, too, was forced to confess that it had hitherto practiced an imposition upon the world, for instead of being a simple, frank, honest element, it
was composed of oxygen and hydrogen--the latter of such levity as to be fit for little else than inflating balloons!
What a general upsetting of all old-fashioned ideas of creation was this! It is scarcely possible for any one to conceive what a change has taken place, through the influence of chemistry, within the last half century. Every substance in nature has been attacked, and few have preserved their integrity. This science has passed from the laboratory to the workshop, the manufactory, the farm, the garden, the kitchen. Everybody is now familiar with its discoveries, its principles, its uses. Chemistry, which was a black art when I was a boy, is in the school-books now; and Professor Silliman was the great magician that brought about this revolution in our country. He had just commenced his incantations, and already the world began to echo with their wonders. With what engrossing admiration did I look at him, when he came into the room, and I heard his name announced!
At this time, his lectures were not only attended by the youth of the college, but by a few privileged ladies and gentlemen from the world without. I went with one of my cousins, entertaining the common idea that chemistry was much the same as alchemy--an art whose chief laboratory was in the infernal regions. I had read something about the diableries of Friar Bacon, seeking by compact with the Great
Blacksmith below, to discover the philosopher's stone, but hitting by accident upon gunpowder; and this formed my general notion of the science. When I entered the lecture-room, and saw around, a furnace, an anvil, a sink, crucibles, flasks, retorts, receivers, spatulas, a heap of charcoal, a bed of sand, with thermometers, pyrometers, barometers, hydrometers, and an array of other ometers, with a variety of odd-looking instruments--the use of which I could not imagine--I began to feel a strange sort of bewilderment. This was turned to anxiety, when I perceived in the air an odor that I had never experienced before, and which seemed to me to breathe of that pit which is nameless as well as bottomless. I asked one of the pupils who sat near me about it, and he said it was sulphureted hydrogen, whereupon I became composed; not that I knew any better what it was, but as they had a name for it, I supposed it was of earth and not of the other place.
At last the lecturer began. I was immediately attracted by his bland manner and beautiful speech. All my horrors passed instantly away, and in a few moments I was deep in the labyrinths of alkalies, acids, oxygen, hydrogen, nitrogen, &c. I learned how sulphur with an ic meant one thing, with an ous, another, with an et, another, and so on. Finally, the professor got beyond my reach, and I was completely lost in a maze of words, too deep for my comprehension. But now the theory was done, and the experi-
ments began. The lights were put out. A piece of wire was coiled in a glass jar, filled with oxygen. A light was applied--and fizz--fizz--fizz, went the wire, actually burning like a witch-quill! That was chemistry, brought down to the meanest capacity. We all clapped hands, as they do now at Niblo's. After this, one or two of the pupils took exhilarating gas, and thereupon seemed to enjoy the most delicious trances. Still other experiments followed, and everybody was convinced that the new science was not a thing to be feared, as smelling of necromancy, but that in fact it was an honest science, fit to be introduced even into the domestic arts. Since that time it has actually transformed the whole business of life, producing benefits which no words can adequately describe.
Geology followed close upon the heels of chemistry. This, too, which was confined to the arcana of science in my boyhood, and was even there a novelty, is now a school study. Professor Silliman has been a leader in this also. He had commenced at the period of which I am speaking, but he had only advanced into its precincts--the science of mineralogy. This had begun to be popular in the centers of learning; young collegians went into the mountains with bags and hammers, and came back loaded with queer stones. In fact, hunting specimens took the place of hunting bears, deer, and foxes, and was pursued with all the ardor of the chase. Ladies, turning blue, had pieces
of marble, ore, quartz, and other things of the kind, on their mantel-pieces, and those who were thoroughly dyed, had little cabinets, all arranged on Haüy's principles of crystallography. Let me tell an anecdote in illustration of the spirit of the age.
About this time Colonel Gibbs, originally from Rhode Island, but who now lived on Long Island, near Flushing, became an enthusiast in the new science. He was in fact the founder of the splendid mineralogical cabinet at present belonging to Yale College. While he was in the very crisis of his fever, he chanced to be traveling in a stage-coach among one of the remote rocky districts of New Hampshire. Coming at last to a region which looked promising of mineralogical discoveries, he stopped at a small, obscure tavern, borrowed a hammer, and went into the mountains. Here he soon became engrossed in his researches, which were speedily rewarded by several interesting specimens. In his enthusiasm, his own exertions were not sufficient, so that he employed several persons to assist him in knocking the rocks to pieces. At the end of a week he had completely exhausted his cash. He then paid the workmen in coats, pantaloons, boots, shoes, and at last in shirts. These finally came to an end, and he paid in promises, in no degree abating his zeal. By this time he had collected three sacks of stones, which it took six men to carry. The people around did not comprehend him, and of course supposed him to be insane. One day, while
he chanced to be in the tavern, an acquaintance of his came along in the stage-coach, and the two eagerly exchanged salutations. The keeper of the hotel, seeing this, took the stranger aside, and said:
"You seem to be acquainted with this gentleman?"
"Yes; I know him: it is Colonel Gibbs, of Long Island."
"Well, he said his name was Gibbs, but he is as mad as a March hare."
"Indeed: what makes you think so?"
"Why he has been here a fortnight knocking all Monadnock to pieces. He has spent all his money, and given away his clothes, till he hasn't a shirt to his back. If you are a friend of his, you ought to make his family acquainted with his situation, so that he may be taken care of."
"Oh, I understand. The colonel is not insane: he is a mineralogist."
"A what?"
"A mineralogist--a collector of curious stones."
"Are they to eat?"
"No; they are specimens to be preserved for scientific purposes."
"Ha, ha! what Quiddles there are in this world! Every little while, one on 'em comes along here. Last year, a man, called a professor from Cambridge, stopped here a week, ketching all the bugs, beetles, and butterflies he could find. About the same time, another man came, and he went into the mountains,
pulling up all the odd weeds and strange plants he met with. He took away a bundle as big as a haycock; and now this Colonel somebody is making a collection of queer stones! I think the people down your way can't have much to du, else they wouldn't take to such nonsense as this."
I give you this story, not vouching for its precise accuracy, but as characterizing the zeal for modern science, in this its birthday. The truth is, that somewhat more than half a century ago, physical science had almost completely engrossed the leading minds in Europe. Discouraged or disgusted with diving into the depths of metaphysics, the learned world eagerly began to bore into the bowels of the earth: instead of studying mind, they pounded and pondered upon matter. Chemistry, mineralogy, geology, and a whole family of ologies, became the rage. This transatlantic epidemic migrated to America. It was in full vigor among the learned here, at the time I speak of. In the benighted parts of the country, as in the precincts of Monadnock, this mania still appeared to be madness. There was method in it, however. The modern discoveries of chemistry, mineralogy, &c., as already intimated, have wrought a change in human knowledge, astonishing alike for the enlargement of its boundaries, the novelty of its revelations, and the certainty and precision which have taken, the place of doubt and conjecture. The hills, the mountains, the valleys, with their founda-
tions--the layers of rocks which have been hidden, from the "beginning"--have been examined, and their secrets laid open to the world. Here have been found the traces of kingdoms--vegetable, mineral, and animal--belonging to other creations, such as leaves of perished races of plants, bones of extinct races of animals, rocks built before the flood. These have all become familiar to us, and their inscriptions have disclosed wonders of which mankind had never before dreamed. Thus within the last fifty years, new sciences have been created, and have lavished their wonders upon the astonished world. Champollion discovered the means of interpreting the mystic signs upon the monuments of Egypt; but behold a greater wonder: Cuvier and his followers have enabled us to read the lines written by God upon the rocks which were laid deep in the foundations of the earth, millions of ages ago!
When Dr. Webster came to revise his Dictionary in 1840, after a lapse of twelve years, he found it necessary to add several thousand words, in order to express the ideas which had recently passed from technological science, into our common language. Similar additions were required, a few years after, in the preparation of another revised edition. Nothing can more strikingly mark the progress of knowledge, not merely in the minds of scholars, but among the masses, during the period to which I refer, than this. There is no half century like the last, in the history
of mankind. Nor is the end yet. The thirst for discovery seems only to have begun.
Indeed, such is the celerity of our progress, that some heads grow giddy. They begin to see double: old men have visions, and young maidens dream dreams. Materialism pervades the air, and the new spiritual world is a mere mesmeric phantasmagoria of this earthy ball, which we inhabit. Spirits, nowadays, push about tables, rap at the door, tumble over the chairs, learn the alphabet, and spell their names with emphasis. Lusty spirits are they, with vigorous muscles, hard knuckles, and rollicking humors! They will talk, too, and as great nonsense as any alive. If these are the only kind of souls to be met with, in their seven heavens, one would hardly like to go there. Really, these mesmeric spirits seem very much of the ardent kind, and I suspect have more alcohol of the imagination than real immortality about them.
Another remarkable person whom I saw at my uncle's house was Eli Whitney, the inventor of the cotton-gin. He was a large man of rather full habit, slightly round-shouldered, and doubling himself forward as he sat. His face was large and slightly oval; his nose long and hooked; his eye deep-set, black, and keen; his look penetrating and prolonged. His hair was black, though sprinkled with gray, for he was now some five and forty years old; his skin was smooth, sallow, and pallid. Altogether, his appearance was striking, the expression of his face having a deep
thoughtfulness about the brow, tempered by a pleasant smile at the corners of the mouth.
In conversation he was slow, but his thoughts were clear and weighty. His knowledge seemed at once exact and diversified: he spoke more of science than literature; he was not discursive, but logically pursued trains of thought, shedding light at every sentence. Few men have lived to more purpose than be. Before his time, cotton was separated from the seed by hand, and hence its price was thirty to fifty cents a pound. He produced a machine, by which a series of hooked, iron teeth, playing through openings in a receiver, performed the labor of five hundred men in a day! An immense facility in the production of cotton has been the result, with a corresponding fall in its price and extension of its use, throughout Christendom.
In 1790,* cotton was hardly known in this country;
in 1800, the whole product of the United States was eighty-five thousand bales; in 1855, it is three millions and a half of bales. Nearly half the nations of the earth, seventy-five years ago, went naked or in rags, or in bark or skins; but they are now clothed in cotton. Then a shirt cost a week's work; now a man earns two shirts in a day. Now, during every twelve hours of daylight, the spindles of the world produce threads of cotton sufficient to belt our globe twenty times round at the equator! And Eli Whitney was the Chief Magician who brought this about.
At the time I speak of, his Gun-factory, two miles north of New Haven, was the great curiosity of the neighborhood. Indeed, people traveled fifty miles to see it. I think it employed about a hundred men. It was symmetrically built in a wild romantic spot, near the foot of East Rock, and had a cheerful, tasteful appearance--like a small tidy village. We visited it of course, and my admiration was excited to the utmost. What a bound did my ideas make in mechanics, from the operations of the penknife, to this miracle of machinery! It was, at the time, wholly
engaged in manufacturing muskets for the government. Mr. Whitney was present, and showed us over the place, explaining the various processes. Every part of the weapons was made by machinery, and so systematized that any lock or stock would fit any barrel. All this, which may seem no wonder now, was remarkable at the time, there being no similar establishment in the country. Among other things, we here saw the original model of the Cotton-gin,* upon which Mr. Whitney's patent was founded.