PETER PARLEY'SOWN STORY.

FROM THE PERSONAL NARRATIVE OF THE LATE SAMUEL G. GOODRICH, ("PETER PARLEY.")

With Illustrations.

NEW YORK: PUBLISHED BY SHELDON & COMPANY, 335 BROADWAY, COR. WORTH ST, 1864.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863, by THE HEIRS OF S. G. GOODRICH, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, for the Southern District of New York.

Electrotyped by Smith & McDougal, 82 & 84 Berkman St. Printed by C. S. Westcott & Co., 79 John St.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I.

PAGE

Birth and Parentage—The Old House—Ridgefield—The Meeting-house—Parson Mead—Keeler's Tavern—The Cannon-ball—Lieutenant Smith

9

CHAPTER II.

The New House—High Ridge—Nathan Kellogg's Spy-glass—The Shovel—The Black Patch in the Road—Distrust of British Influence—Old Chich-es-ter—Aunt Delight—Return after Twenty Years

16

CHAPTER III.

Ridgefield Society—Trades and Professions—Chimney-Corner Courtships—Domestic Economy—Dram-drinking—Family Products—Molly Gregory and Church Music—Travelling Artisans—Festival of the Quilts—Clerical Patronage—Raising a Church—The Retired Tailor and His Farm

30

CHAPTER IV.

Habits of the People—Their Costume—Amusements—Festivals—Marriages—Funerals—Dancing—Winter Sports—My Two Grandmothers—Mechanical Genius—Importance of Whittling—Pigeons—Sporting [iv]Adventures

45

CHAPTER V.

Death of Washington—Jerome Bonaparte and Miss Patterson—Sunday Travelling—Oliver Wolcott—Timothy Pickering—American Politeness quite natural—Locomotion—Public Conveyances—My Father's Chaise

58

CHAPTER VI.

The Upper and Lower Classes of Ridgefield—Master Stebbins and his School—What is a Noun?—Deacon Benedict and his Man Abijah—My Latin Acquirements—Family Worship—Widow Bennett—The Temple of Dagon

65

CHAPTER VII.

The Clergy of Fairfield—A Laughing Parson—The Three Deacons

79

CHAPTER VIII.

Mat Olmstead, the Town Wit—The Salamander Hat—Solar Eclipse—The Old Hen and the Philosopher—Lieutenant Smith—Extraordinary Meteor—Fulton and his Steam-boat—Granther Baldwin and his Wife—Sarah Bishop and her Cave

87

CHAPTER IX.

Farewell to Home—Danbury—My New Vocation—My Brother-in-law—His Conversations with Lawyer Hatch—Clerical Anecdotes

108

CHAPTER X.

New Haven—Distinguished Men—Whitney's Cotton-gin—Durham—My Grandmother's Indian Puddings—In Search of a Doctor—Return to Danbury—The Cold Friday—Factory Workmen—Mathematics

117

CHAPTER XI.

Arrival at Hartford—My Occupation There—Restlessness—My Friend [v]George Sheldon

129

CHAPTER XII.

War with England—In the Army—My Uncle's Advice—Campaigning—On the March—Our Military Costume—My first Soldier's Supper

134

CHAPTER XIII.

New London—Our Military Reputation—Sent with a Letter—British Cannon-balls—Out of Harm's Way—An Alarm—On Guard—Take a Prisoner—Strange Emotions—My Left-hand Chum—A Grateful Country

138

CHAPTER XIV.

Effects of War in New England—Personal Experience—News of Peace—Illuminations—Confessions

145

CHAPTER XV.

Evil Effects of Night Study—Commencement of a Literary Career—Thoughts on Dancing—New York—Saratoga—Death of my Uncle—Become a Bookseller—Cold Summer—T'other Side of Ohio

149

CHAPTER XVI.

Marriage—Walter Scott—Byron—Sidney Smith's Taunt—Publication of Original American Works—Mrs. Sigourney

159

CHAPTER XVII.

Domestic Troubles—Sketch of Brainard—Aunt Lucy's Back-Parlor—The Fall of Niagara—Death of Brainard

164

CHAPTER XVIII.

My First Visit to Europe—Hurricane—Arrival at Liverpool—London—Travel on the Continent—Return to Bristol—Interview with Hannah [vi] More—Design in Travelling—Visit to Ireland and Scotland

172

CHAPTER XIX.

The Edinburgh Lions—Literary Celebrities—Jeffrey in the Forum—Sir Walter at the Desk—Riding with Scotch Ladies—Beautiful Scenery—A Scotch Mist

179

CHAPTER XX.

Blackwood—The General Assembly—Sir Walter Scott—Mr. and Mrs. Lockhart—Origin of "Tam O'Shanter"—Last Words of Scott

187

CHAPTER XXI.

En Route for London—"The Laird o'Cockpen"—Localities of Legendary Fame—Difference between English and American Scenery

195

CHAPTER XXII.

London again—Jacob Perkins and his Steam-gun—Dukes of Wellington, Sussex, and York—British Ladies at a Review—House of Commons and its Orators—Catalani—Distinguished Foreigners—Edward Irving compared to Edmund Kean—Byron lying in State

202

CHAPTER XXIII.

Return to the United States—Boston and its Worthies—Business Operations—Ackermann's Forget-Me-Not the Parent of all other Annuals—The American Species—Their Decline

216

CHAPTER XXIV.

"The Token"—N. P. Willis and Nathaniel Hawthorne—Comparison between them—Lady Authors—Publishers' Profits—Authors and Publishers

222

CHAPTER XXV.

I become an Author—His real Name a profound Secret—How it was divulged—Great Success—Illness—The Doctors disagree—English Imitations—Conduct of a London Bookseller—Objections to Parley's Tales—Mother [vii]Goose

232

CHAPTER XXVI.

Children my first Patrons—A Visit to New Orleans—Feelings of Humiliation—The Mice eat my Papers—A Wrong Calculation

251

CHAPTER XXVII.

I make a Speech—Lecture on Ireland—Politics—Personal Attacks—Become a Senator—The "Fifteen Gallon Law"—A Pamphlet in its Favor—"My Neighbor Smith"—A Political Career unprofitable

257

CHAPTER XXVIII.

Am appointed U. S. Consul to Paris—Louis XVIII.—A few Jottings upon French Notabilities—Cure for Hydrocephalus—Unsettled State of Things in Paris

266

CHAPTER XXIX.

Louis Philippe and the Revolution—List of Grievances—The Mob at the Madeleine—Barricades—"Down with Guizot!"—The Fight commenced—Flight of the King and Queen—Scene in the Chamber of Deputies—Sack of the Tuileries

274

CHAPTER XXX.

After the Revolution—"Funeral of the Victims"—The Constituent Assembly—Paris in a State of Siege—Cavaignac—Louis Napoleon chosen President

296

CHAPTER XXXI.

The Author's Duties as Consul—Aspect of Things in Paris—Louis Napoleon's Designs—The 2nd of December, 1852—The New Reign of Terror complete—Louis Napoleon as Emperor—Out of Office—Return to New York—Conclusion

301

CHAPTER XXXII.

The Death of Peter Parley

313

[viii]

ILLUSTRATIONS.

[9]

PETER PARLEY'S OWN STORY.

CHAPTER I.

BIRTH AND PARENTAGE—THE OLD HOUSE—RIDGEFIELD—THE MEETING-HOUSE—PARSON MEAD—KEELER'S TAVERN—THE CANNON-BALL—LIEUTENANT SMITH.

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

My father, Samuel Goodrich, was minister of the Congregational Church of that place, and there was no other religious society and no other clergyman in the town. He was the son of Elizur Goodrich, a distinguished minister of the same persuasion at Durham, Connecticut. Two of his brothers were men of eminence—the[10] late Chauncey Goodrich of Hartford, and Elizur Goodrich of New Haven. My mother was a daughter of John Ely, a physician of Saybrook, whose name figures, not unworthily, in the annals of the revolutionary war.

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

Ridgefield belongs to the county of Fairfield, and is now a handsome town, as well on account of its artificial as its natural advantages; with some two thousand inhabitants. It is fourteen miles from Long Island Sound, of which its many swelling hills afford charming views. The main street is a mile in length, and is now embellished with several handsome houses. About the middle of it there is, or was, some forty years ago, a white, wooden Meeting-house, which belonged to my[11] father's congregation. It stood in a small grassy square, the favorite pasture of numerous flocks of geese, and the frequent playground of school-boys, especially on Sunday afternoons. Close by the front door ran the public road, and the pulpit, facing it, looked out upon it on fair summer Sundays, as I well remember by a somewhat amusing incident.

In the contiguous town of Lower Salem dwelt an aged minister, by the name of Mead. He was all his life marked with eccentricity, and about those days of which I speak, his mind was rendered yet more erratic by a touch of paralysis. He was, however, still able to preach, and on a certain Sunday, having exchanged with my father, he was in the pulpit and engaged in making his opening prayer. He had already begun his invocation, when David P——, who was the Jehu of that generation, dashed by the front door upon a horse, a clever animal, of which he was but too proud—in a full, round trot. The echo of the clattering hoofs filled the church, which, being of wood, was sonorous as a drum, and arrested the attention, as well of the minister as the congregation, even before the rider had reached it. The minister was fond of horses, almost to frailty; and, from the first, his practised ear perceived that the sounds came from a beast of bottom. When the animal shot by the door, he could not restrain his admiration; which was accordingly thrust into the very marrow of his prayer

"We pray Thee, O Lord, in a particular and peculiar manner—that's a real smart critter—to forgive us our manifold trespasses, in a particular and peculiar manner," &c.

I have somewhere heard of a traveller on horseback, who, just at eventide, being uncertain of his road, inquired[12] of a person he chanced to meet, the way to Barkhamstead.

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

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

"It hasn't got any centre."

"Well, but direct me to the tavern."

"There ain't any tavern."

"Yes, but the meeting-house?"

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

So, in those days, in Connecticut, as doubtless in other parts of New England, the meeting-house was the great geographical monument, the acknowledged meridian of every town and village. Even a place without a centre, or a tavern, had its house of worship; and this was its point of reckoning. It was, indeed, something more. It was the town-hall, where all public meetings were held for civil purposes; it was the temple of religion, the pillar of society, religious, social, and moral, to the people around. It will not be considered strange, then, if I look back to the meeting-house of Ridgefield, as not only a most revered edifice, but as in some sense the starting-point of my existence. Here, at least, linger many of my most cherished remembrances.

A few rods to the south of this there was, and still is, a tavern, kept in my day by Squire Keeler. This institution ranked second only to the meeting-house; for the tavern of those days was generally the centre of news, and the gathering-place for balls, musical entertainments, public shows, &c.; and this particular tavern had special claims to notice. It was, in the first place, on the great thoroughfare of the day, between Boston and New York; and had become a general and favorite stopping-place[13] for travellers. It was, moreover, kept by a hearty old gentleman, who united in his single person the varied functions of publican, postmaster, representative, justice of the peace, and I know not what else. He, besides, had a thrifty wife, whose praise was in all the land. She loved her customers, especially members of Congress, governors, and others in authority who wore powder and white top-boots, and who migrated to and fro in the lofty leisure of their own coaches. She was, indeed, a woman of mark; and her life has its moral. She scoured and

scrubbed, and kept things going, until she was seventy years old; at which time, during an epidemic, she was threatened with an attack. She, however, declared that she had not time to be sick, and kept on working; so that the disease passed her by, though it made sad havoc all around her, especially with more dainty dames who had leisure to follow the fashion.

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

This personage, whom I shall have occasion again to introduce to my readers, was, in my time, a justice of the peace, town librarian, and general oracle in such loose matters as geography, history, and law; then[14] about as uncertain and unsettled in Ridgefield, as is now the longitude of Lilliput. He had a long, lean face; long, lank, silvery hair; and an unctuous, whining voice. With these advantages, he spoke with the authority of a seer, and especially in all things relating to the revolutionary war.

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

had served only to magnify and glorify these scenes, as well as the actors, especially in the imagination of the rising generation. If perchance we could now dig up and galvanize into life a contemporary of Julius Cæsar, who was present and saw him cross the Rubicon, and could tell us how he looked and what he said, we should listen with somewhat of the greedy wonder with which[15] the boys of Ridgefield listened to Lieutenant Smith, when of a Saturday afternoon, seated on the stoop of Keeler's tavern, he discoursed upon the discovery of America by Columbus, Braddock's defeat, and the old French war; the latter a real epic, embellished with romantic episodes of Indian massacres and captivities. When he came to the Revolution, and spoke of the fight at Ridgefield, and punctuated his discourse with a present cannon-ball, sunk six inches deep in a corner-post of the very house in which we sat, you may well believe it was something more than words—it was, indeed, "action, action, glorious action!" How little can people now-a-days comprehend or appreciate these things!

[16]

CHAPTER II.

THE NEW HOUSE—HIGH RIDGE—NATHAN KELLOGG'S SPY-GLASS—THE SHOVEL—THE BLACK PATCH IN THE ROAD—DISTRUST OF BRITISH INFLUENCE—OLD CHICH-ES-TER—AUNT DELIGHT—RETURN AFTER TWENTY YEARS.

My memory goes distinctly back to the year 1797, when I was four years old. At that time a great event happened—great in the narrow horizon of childhood: we removed from the Old House to the New House! This latter, situated on a road tending westward and branching from the main street, my father had just built; and it then appeared to me quite a stately mansion and very beautiful, inasmuch as it was painted red behind and white in front: most of the dwellings thereabouts being of the dun complexion which pine-boards and chestnut-shingles assume, from exposure to the weather. Long after, having been absent twenty years, I revisited this my early home, and found it shrunk into a very small and ordinary two-story dwelling, wholly divested of its paint, and scarcely thirty feet square.

This building, apart from all other dwellings, was situated on what is called High Ridge, a long hill, looking down upon the village, and commanding an extensive view of the surrounding country. From our upper windows, this was at once beautiful and diversified. On the south, as I have said, the hills sloped in a sea of[17] undulations down to Long Island Sound, a distance of some fourteen miles. This beautiful sheet of water, like a strip of pale sky, with the island itself, more deeply tinted, beyond, was visible in fair weather, for a stretch of sixty miles, to the naked eye. The vessels, even the smaller ones, sloops, schooners, and fishing-craft, could be seen, creeping like insects over the surface. With a spy-glass—and my father had one bequeathed to him by Nathan Kellogg, a sailor, who made rather a rough voyage of life, but anchored at last in the bosom of the Church, as this bequest intimates—we could see the masts, sails, and rigging. It was a poor, dim affair, compared with modern instruments of the kind; but to me, its revelations of an element which then seemed as

beautiful, as remote, and as mystical as the heavens, surpassed the wonders of the firmament.

To the west, at a distance of three miles, lay the undulating ridge of hills, cliffs, and precipices already mentioned, and which bear the name of West Mountain. They are some five hundred feet in height, and from our point of view had an imposing appearance. Beyond them, in the far distance, glimmered the peaks of the highlands along the Hudson. These two prominent features of the spreading landscape—the sea and the mountain, ever present, yet ever remote—impressed themselves on my young imagination with all the enchantment which distance lends to the view. I have never lost my first love. Never, even now, do I catch a glimpse of either of these two rivals of nature, such as I first learned them by heart, but I feel a gush of emotion as if I had suddenly met with the cherished companions of my childhood. In after days, even the purple velvet of the Apennines and the poetic azure of the Mediterranean,[18] have derived additional beauty to my imagination from mingling with these vivid associations of my childhood.