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“Your name is Taylor, I believe, sir?”
“It is,” was the reply.
“It takes nine tailors to make a man,” responded the lawyer triumphantly.
“And your name is Bacon, I think,” said my grandfather.
“Yes, sir.”
“Bacon is the meanest part of the hog,” rejoined the pettifogger.
Even the court joined in the laughter which followed, and at the same time advised Mr. Bacon to refrain in future from remarks which were unnecessary and unbecoming. The learned attorney exhibited a ready willingness in acceding to the request of the Judge.
My grandfather was troubled with the asthma. One day while walking up a steep hill in company with Mr. Jabez Taylor, (father to Oliver,) an old wag of about his own age, my grandfather, puffing and breathing like a porpoise, exclaimed:
“I wish I could stop this plaguy breathing.”
“So do all your neighbors,” was the facetious reply.
One of our neighbors, “Uncle Sam Taylor,” as he was called, was an eccentric man. He always gloried in being on the contrary side. If a proposition was as plain as the sun at noon-day, Uncle Sam would never admit it. If a question had two sides to it, he would be sure to find the wrong one, just for the sake of the argument. Withal, he was a good-hearted man, and an excellent neighbor. Ask him to loan you his axe or hoe, and he would abruptly reply: “You can’t have it, I don’t lend my tools,” and presently he would bring the article you desired.
I once called to borrow his horse to ride to Danbury. “You shan’t have it,” he replied in a tone that frightened me. I started towards the door quite chop-fallen.
“You will find the saddle and bridle on the stairs,” called out Uncle Sam. The hint was sufficient, and I rode his horse to “town.”
On one occasion Uncle Sam and my uncle Edward Taylor were mowing for Phineas Judd. Mr. Judd visited the meadow several times in the course of the day, and seemed dissatisfied with the labor. In the afternoon he complained that they had not cut as much grass as he expected they would in the same space of time.
“I don’t care any thing about you, Phin,” said Uncle Sam. “I have worked as fast as I am going to do, and faster than you should expect men to work on New England rum.”
“New England rum!” exclaimed Mr. Judd, with surprise. “It is good Santa Cruz.”
“It is the meanest kind of New England rum, Phin, and you know it – real white-face,” said Uncle Sam.
“You are certainly mistaken, Mr. Taylor,” said Mr. Judd, in a tone which showed his feelings were injured. “I told the boy to get the best kind of Santa Cruz rum.”
“No, you didn’t. You told him to get New England rum, and you know it,” said Uncle Sam.
Mr. Judd called up the boy. “What kind of rum did you tell Mr. Weed you wanted?” said Mr. Judd, addressing the boy.
“The best Santa Cruz,” was the reply.
“There,” said Mr. Judd triumphantly, “now you see it is just as I told you, Mr. Taylor.”
“It’s New England rum, and you know it,” replied Uncle Sam, and then addressing my uncle Edward, he said: “Come, Ed, let us take another drink of ‘white-face’ and go on with our mowing.”
They did so, and Mr. Judd left the field with downcast countenance. When he had got out of hearing, my uncle Edward said:
“Uncle Sam, is that really New England rum?”
“No, it is as good Santa Cruz as ever was tasted, but I thought I’d pay Phin for his grumbling,” said the ever contrary Uncle Sam.
“You do like to be contrary,” responded uncle Ed.
“I always was on the contrary side, and I always mean to be,” replied the eccentric old man.
A religious revival took place in Bethel. As is generally the case on these exciting occasions, many persons were awakened, became converted, and joined the church. One man was taken into the church who was not overstocked with brains. When he joined the church one of the deacons, addressing him, said:
“Brother P—, from this time we shall all look to you as one of the pillars of the church.”
Poor P—, looking around and noticing the columns which supported the gallery, not doubting that he was to be placed in a similar position as a “pillar,” burst into tears, exclaiming, “That burthen will be greater than I can bear.”
Another half-witted man was determined to join the church, but not being wanted, he was told that “the church was full.” He then applied for the first vacancy, and waited a long time in patience for death to make a removal, so that he could be admitted.
One old man, who was quite stubborn in his religious notions, attended all the meetings, but was not converted. The village clergyman took that opportunity to urge him to come to the anxious seat – but the old man replied:
“You know my sentiments on this subject, for I have frequently argued points of theology with you. You are welcome to your opinion, I have mine. We don’t agree.”
The next day the clergyman mentioned the old man’s case to one of the Revivalist ministers.
“Oh,” he replied, “that man evidently needs some sound arguments. Introduce me to him, and if his heart don’t become softened I am mistaken.”
The introduction was made, and the clerical stranger said to the old man:
“Have you any objections to listening to some arguments which I desire to offer in favor of your being converted and joining the church?”
“Not at all,” was the reply.
The clergyman then commenced his argument, which lasted three-quarters of an hour. The old man listened attentively.
“Now,” says the clergyman, “what do you think about joining the church?”
“Oh, I suppose it’s well enough for some folks, but I have got so old, it is hardly worth pottering about,” was the curious reply.
As Danbury lies twenty miles from the sea-board, we had no fish market there, but a good substitute was found in numerous fish peddlers, who brought clams, oysters, scallops, and all kinds of fish and samphire in its season from Bridgeport, Norwalk, etc., and sold the same from house to house in such quantities as might be wanted. These peddlers usually each made several trips per week, so that although we were situated inland, we could usually obtain a daily supply of fresh fish. My grandfather, who took great pride in excelling his neighbors in any thing he undertook, made a standing offer of one dollar for the first fresh shad that was brought to our village each season. As customers usually were willing to buy shad only when they were sufficiently plenty to retail at twenty-five cents each, my grandfather was sure to receive his “first shad” annually a week or two before any others were seen in that market. One season, as usual, the itinerant fish merchant coming into Bethel with a load of “porgies,” clams and fresh cod, brought the prize shad and received his dollar. My grandfather invited several of the neighbors to breakfast with him the next morning, and placed his shad in cold water upon his back piazza. Captain Noah Ferry, a precious wag, managed to steal it just in the dusk of the evening and conveyed it to his own house. The neighbors were as usual gathered at the store in the evening. My grandfather countermanded his invitations, and complained bitterly that the shad had been stolen. He could not help thinking that a dog had done it, and concluded that it was destroyed. The neighbors, most of whom were in the secret, pretended to sympathize with the loser.
“Never mind, Phin,” said Captain Noah, “you must be more careful next time and put your fish out of the reach of dogs. As it is, you probably have made no provision for breakfast, so I invite you and Ben and Dr. Haight to come over and breakfast with me. I shall have a nice loin of veal cooked in a new style, which I am sure will please you.”
The invitation was accepted, and Noah purchased a quart of Santa Cruz rum, at the same time enjoining ’Squire Hoyt to be sure and bring over some fresh tanzy in the morning for bitters.
The guests arrived at an early hour, and after a brief social chat, breakfast was announced. Instead of veal, a splendid shad, hot, well buttered, and bearing the marks of the gridiron, appeared upon the table. My grandfather perceiving the joke, and waiting for the hearty “haw-haw” of his neighbors to cease, merely remarked, “Well, Noah, I always suspected you were a thief, and now I am sure of it.” Another laugh from the company gave an additional zest to their appetite, and the “first shad of the season” was soon numbered among the things that were.
The following spring, my grandfather’s prize shad was stolen by a dog. Somewhat more than half of the tit-bit was, however, redeemed from the thief, and put into a pan of clean water on the back piazza. By ’cute management of its owner, Ferry stole the precious morsel, and invited a company to breakfast, as before, without specifying the viands. My grandfather purposely arrived at too late an hour to participate in the luxury. Ferry expressed regret, “for,” said he, “we had the first shad of the season.” When the facts came out, he was thoroughly chop-fallen, and it was long before he forgave the practical joke.
As before stated, my grandfather had a great desire to excel. On his farm he had a particular meadow of ten acres which every season he would have cut, dried, and put into the barn in a single day, merely that he could brag of doing what no one else did. Of course he hired extra help for that purpose. In the year 1820 he was appointed deputy marshal for taking the census in that part of the county. True to his natural characteristics, he was determined it should be done quicker than any predecessor had ever accomplished the same thing. Consequently he arose every morning at daylight, spent little time at breakfast, and mounting his horse started off on his mission, not returning home till dark. He would ride up to a house, give a “halloo,” and immediately address his interrogations to the lady or whoever else happened to come to the door.
“What is the name of this family?” “How many children?” “What sexes?” “What ages?” “How many can read and write?” “Any deaf and dumb,” etc., etc. Then placing his memorandum book in his side coat pocket, he would say “All right,” and gallop off to the next neighbor. My grandfather’s chirography was horrid. It usually looked as if a spider that had dropped into a bottle of ink was permitted to crawl over the paper. He himself could not read it half the time when he had forgotten the purport of the subject he had written about.
He hurried up the census of the territory placed under his charge in twenty-one days. Ten years previously it had taken thirty-nine days. Here was a feat for him to boast of, and he improved the opportunity.
But having once taken the census, it was now necessary to get competent persons to transcribe, or perhaps I might more properly say, translate it. For this purpose he employed Moses Hatch, Esq., a talented and witty lawyer in Danbury, ’Squire Ben Hoyt, who wrote a plain round hand, and his own son, Edward Taylor.
It was a rare treat to see these individuals seated at the table trying to decipher the wretched manuscript that lay before them. My grandfather walked up and down the room, being called every few minutes to explain some name or other word that was as unintelligible as if it had been written in Arabic. He would put on his spectacles, look at it, turn it over, scratch his head, and try to recollect some circumstance which would enlighten him and aid in threading the labyrinth. He had an excellent memory, and would generally manage, after long studying, to make out what he had intended to write. The delay, however, occupied many more days than he had gained in taking the census. At times the old gentleman would lose his patience, and protest that his writing was not half as bad as his transcribers pretended, but that their own obtuseness caused the delay; he would then say, “It is unreasonable to expect me to write, and then furnish brains to enable you to copy it.”
On one occasion Moses Hatch, after puzzling in vain for twenty minutes over something that was intended for a man’s name, called out, “Come, Uncle Pnin, here is a man named Whitlock, but what in all conscience do you call this which you have marked down for his Christian name?”
My grandfather glanced at it for a moment, and said it was “Jiabod,” adding, “Any fool could see that, without calling on me to read it for him.”
“Jiabod!” said Hatch. “Now, what mother would ever think of giving her son such an outlandish name as ‘Jiabod?’”
“I don’t know nor care any thing about that,” replied my grandfather, “but I know it is Jiabod. I recollect the name perfectly well.”
“Jiabod Whitlock,” repeated Hatch; “you are certainly mistaken; you must be mistaken; no man ever could have been named Jiabod.”
My grandfather insisted he was right, and intimated to Mr. Hatch that he desired him to write away and not dispute him when he knew he could not be mistaken.
’Squire Hoyt looked at the word some time, and then said, “Phin, was not his name Ichabod?”
“I declare I believe it was,” said my grandfather, mellowing down considerably.
The transcribers’ laugh nettled him.
“You can laugh, gentlemen,” said he, “but remember under what circumstances that was written. It was done on horseback, in warm weather, and the horse was continually kicking off the flies; the devil could not write legibly under such circumstances.”
“Oh no,” said Hatch soothingly; “as you say, nobody could write plainly on horseback while the horse was kicking off the flies; but only give you a good pen, ’Squire Taylor, and let you sit down to a table, and you do write a beautiful hand!”
My grandfather could not help joining in the merriment that followed this happy hit. It was many years before he heard the last of “Jiabod.”
Doctor Haight, the father of John, was a good-natured joker. He took the world very easily – could tell a good story, and laugh as heartily as any body. His language was not always chosen with the degree of discretion that could be wished, and he consequently frequently slipped out expressions which sounded harshly, especially to those who did not know him.
On one occasion he and Mr. Jonathan Couch, a very worthy and sedate Methodist in Bethel, were appointed administrators on an estate. They visited the Probate Judge at Danbury for the purpose of taking out letters of administration. Judge Cook, who was a gentleman of the old school, received his visitors with considerable dignity.
“Will you please take the necessary oath, gentlemen?” said Judge Cook, with official solemnity.
“I prefer to affirm,” said the conscientious Mr. Couch. The affirmation was solemnly administered by Judge Cook, who then turned to Dr. Haight and said, “Which do you prefer, sir, the affirmation or the oath?”
“Oh, I don’t care a d—n which I take,” said the doctor abruptly. The moral sense of his auditors was of course shocked beyond expression.
Dr. Carrington, Esquire James Clarke, and other well-known jokers of Danbury, were the authors of many anecdotes which I heard in my younger days. The doctor kept a country store. A small farmer coming to trade with him one day, asked him if he took cheese in exchange for goods. “Certainly,” was the reply. The farmer brought in a large bag and emptied out eleven very small cheeses. “Only eleven!” said the doctor counting them; “I can’t do any thing with them.”
“Why not?” asked the farmer.
“There is not a full set – there should be twelve,” responded the doctor.
“A full set of what?” inquired the farmer.
“Button moulds, of course,” was the reply.
Fortunately the farmer was of a humorous turn and took the joke in good part.
“Tin peddlers,” as they were called, were abundant in those days. They travelled through the country in covered wagons, filled with tin ware and small Yankee notions of almost every description, including jewelry, dry goods, pins, needles, etc., etc. They were a sharp set of men, always ready for a trade whether cash or barter, and as they generally were destitute of moral principle, whoever dealt with them was pretty sure to be cheated. Dr. Carrington had frequently traded with them, and had just as frequently been shaved. He at last declared he would never again have any business transaction with that kind of people.
One day a peddler drove up to the doctor’s store, and jumping from his wagon went in and told him he wished to barter some goods with him.
The doctor declined trading, quietly remarking that he had been shaved enough by tin peddlers, and would have nothing more to do with them.
“It is very hard to proscribe an entire class because some of its members happen to be dishonest,” said the wary peddler, “and I insist on your giving me a trial. I am travelling all through the country, and can get rid of any of your unsaleable goods. So, to give you a fair chance, I will sell you any thing I have in my wagon at my lowest wholesale price, and will take in exchange any thing you please to pay me from your store at the retail price.”
“Your offer seems a fair one,” said the doctor, “and I will look over your goods.”
He proceeded to the wagon, and seeing nothing that he wanted except a lot of whetstones, of which the peddler had a large quantity, he inquired the price.
“My wholesale price of whetstones is $3 per dozen,” replied the peddler.
“Well, I will take a gross of them,” said the doctor.
The twelve dozen whetstones were brought in, counted out, and carefully placed upon a shelf behind the counter.
“Now,” said the peddler, “you owe me $36, for which I am to take such goods as you please at the retail price. Come, doctor, what are you going to pay me in?”
“In whetstones at fifty cents each, which will take just six dozen,” replied the doctor gravely, at the same time commencing to count back one half of his purchase.
The peddler looked astonished for a moment, and then bursting into what is termed “a horse laugh,” he exclaimed, “Took in, by hokey! Here, doctor, take this dollar for your trouble (handing him the money); give me back my truck, and I’ll acknowledge for ever that you are too sharp for a tin peddler!”
The doctor accepted the proposed compromise, and was never troubled by that peddler again.
In those days politics ran high. There were but two parties, Democrats and Federalists. On one election day it was known that in Danbury the vote would be a very close one. Every voter was brought out. Wagons were sent into all parts of the town to bring in the “lame, halt, and blind” to cast their votes. The excitement was at its height, when a slovenly fellow who had just voted was heard to whisper to a friend, “I have voted once, and I would go and vote again if I thought the moderator would not know me.”
“Go and wash your face, and nobody would know you again,” said uncle Jabez Taylor, who happened to overhear the remark, and who was on the opposite political side.
My uncle, Colonel Starr Barnum, who is still living, was always famous for a dry joke. On one occasion he and my grandfather engaged in a dispute about the church. My grandfather had contributed largely towards building the Bethel “meeting-house,” and twenty years afterwards, when he invited a clergyman of his own particular belief to preach there, the use of the house was refused him. He was indignant, and in this conversation with my uncle he became much excited, and said “the church might go to the devil.”
“Come, come, my dear fellow; you are going a little too fast, my dear fellow,” said the Colonel; “it don’t happen to be your business to be sending folks to the devil in that way. You are a little too fast, my dear fellow.”
The expression, “my dear fellow,” was a favorite one with my uncle, and was used on all occasions.
In the course of their conversation the belligerents disputed about an ox-chain. Each claimed it as his own. Finally my grandfather seized it, and declaring that it was his, said that no person should have it without a law-suit.
“Take it and go to the devil with it,” said the Colonel in a rage.
“Come, come, my dear fellow,” said a neighbor who had heard all their conversation; “you are a little too fast, my dear fellow. You must not send Uncle Phin to the devil in that way, my dear fellow.”
My uncle saw the force of the remark, and merely replied with a smile, “You must remember, my dear fellow, that he was sending a whole church to the devil, when I was sending only one man there. That, I take it, is a very different thing, my dear fellow.”
The old Colonel, now over seventy years of age, still resides in Bethel. I called on him a few days since. He is quite infirm, but retains his vivacity in a great degree. I spent half an hour with him in talking over old times, and when about to leave, I said, “Uncle Starr, I want to come up and spend several days with you. I am collating facts for my autobiography, and I have no doubt you could remind me of many things that I would like to put into my book.”
“I guess I could remind you of many things that you would not like to put in your book,” grunted the old Colonel with a chuckle, which showed his love of the humorous to be as strong as ever.
My grandfather one day had a cord of hickory wood lying in front of his door. As he and ’Squire Ben Hoyt stood near it, a wood-chopper came along with an axe in his hand. Always ready for a joke, my grandfather said, “Ben, how long do you think it would take me to cut up that load of wood in suitable lengths for my fire-place?”
“I should think about five hours,” said Ben.
“I think I could do it in four hours and a half,” said my grandfather.
“Doubtful,” said Ben; “hickory is very hard wood.”
“I could do it in four hours,” said the wood-chopper.
“I don’t believe it,” said Ben Hoyt.
“I do,” replied my grandfather.
“I don’t think any man could cut that wood in four hours,” said ’Squire Ben, confidently.
“Well, I’ll bet you a quart of rum this man can do it,” said my grandfather.
“I will bet he can’t,” replied Ben, who now saw the joke.
The wood-chopper took off his coat and inquired the time of day
“Just nine o’clock,” said my grandfather, looking through the window at his clock.
“Ten, eleven, twelve, one; if I get it chopped by one o’clock, you win your bet,” said the wood-chopper, addressing my grandfather.
“Yes,” was the response from both the bettors.
At it he went, and the chips flew thick and fast.
“I shall surely win the bet,” said my grandfather.
“I don’t believe it yet,” said Esquire Hoyt.
Several of the neighbors came around, and learning the state of the case, made various remarks regarding the probable result. Streams of perspiration ran down the wood-chopper’s face, as he kept his axe moving with the regularity of a trip-hammer. My grandfather, to stimulate the zealous wood-cutter, gave him a glass of Santa Cruz and water. At eleven o’clock evidently more than half the wood-pile was cut. My grandfather expressed himself satisfied that he would win the bet.
Esquire Hoyt, on the contrary, insisted that the wood-chopper would soon begin to lag, and that he would give out before the wood was finished. These remarks, which of course were intended for the wood-cutter’s ear, had the desired effect. The perspiration continued to flow, but the strength and vigor of the wood-cutter’s arms exhibited no relaxation. The neighbors cheered him. His pile of wood was fast diminishing. It was half-past twelve, and only a few sticks were left. All at once a thought struck the wood-chopper. He stopped for a moment, and resting on his axe addressed my grandfather.
“Look here, who is going to pay me for cutting this wood?” said he.
“Oh, I don’t know any thing about that,” said my grandfather, with great gravity.
“Thunder! You don’t expect I’m going to cut a cord of wood for nothing, do you?” exclaimed the wood-chopper indignantly.
“That’s no business of mine,” said my grandfather; “but really I hope you won’t waste your time now, or I shall lose my bet.”