The Life of P.T. Barnum. P.T. Barnum
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I have finished I will come up and give the clergyman the next chance.”
“You must hurry or you will not all be finished when we arrive,” remarked the captain, “for we shall touch Peck Slip wharf in half an hour.”
My grandfather entered the cabin, and in ten minutes he appeared upon deck razor in hand. He was smoothly shaved.
“Now,” said the clergyman, “it is my turn.”
“Certainly,” said my grandfather. “You are next, but wait a moment, let me draw the razor across the strop once or twice.”
Putting his foot upon the side rail of the deck and placing one end of the strop upon his leg, he drew the razor several times across it. Then as if by mistake the razor flew from his hand, and dropped into the water! My grandfather with well-feigned surprise exclaimed in a voice of terror, “Good heavens! the razor has fallen overboard!”
Such a picture of consternation as covered one half of all the passengers’ faces was never before witnessed. At first they were perfectly silent as if petrified with astonishment. But in a few minutes murmurs began to be heard and soon swelled into exclamations. “An infernal hog!” said one. “The meanest thing I ever knew,” remarked another. “He ought to be thrown overboard himself,” cried several others; but all remembered that every man who got angry was to pay a fine of twenty dollars, and they did not repeat their remarks. Presently all eyes were turned upon the clergyman. He was the most forlorn picture of despair that could be imagined.
“Oh, this is dreadful!” he drawled in a tone which seemed as it every word broke a heart-string.
This was too much, and the whole crowd broke into another roar. Tranquillity was restored! The joke, though a hard one, was swallowed. The sloop soon touched the dock. The half-shaved passengers now agreed that my grandfather, who was the only person on board who appeared like a civilized being, should take the lead for the Walton House in Franklin Square, and all the rest should follow in “Indian file.” He reminded them that they would excite much attention in the streets, and enjoined them not to smile. They agreed, and away they started. They attracted a crowd of persons before they reached the corner of Pearl street and Peck Slip, but they all marched with as much solemnity as if they were going to the grave. The door of the Walton House was open. Old Backus the landlord was quietly enjoying his cigar, while a dozen or two persons were engaged in reading the papers, etc. In marched the file of nondescripts with the rabble at their heels. Mr. Backus and his customers started to their feet in astonishment. My grandfather marched solemnly up to the bar – the passengers followed and formed double rows behind him. “Santa Cruz rum for nineteen,” exclaimed my grandfather to the barkeeper. The astonished liquor-seller produced bottles and tumblers in double quick time, and when Backus discovered that the nondescripts were old friends and customers, he was excited to uncontrollable merriment.
“What in the name of decency has happened,” he exclaimed, “that you should all appear here half shaved?”
“Nothing at all, Mr. Backus,” said my grandfather, with apparent seriousness. “These gentlemen choose to wear their beards according to the prevailing fashion in the place they came from, and I think it is very hard that they should be stared at and insulted by you Yorkers because your fashion happens to differ a trifle from theirs.”
Backus half believed my grandfather in earnest, and the by-standers were quite convinced such was the fact, for not a smile appeared upon one of the half-shaved countenances.
After sitting a few minutes the passengers were shown to their rooms, and at tea-time every man appeared at the table precisely as they came from the sloop. The ladies looked astonished, the waiters winked and laughed, but the subjects of this merriment were as grave as judges. In the evening they maintained the same gravity in the bar-room, and at ten o’clock they retired to bed with all due solemnity. In the morning however, bright and early, they were in the barber’s shop undergoing an operation that soon placed them upon a footing with the rest of mankind.
It is hardly necessary to explain that the clergyman did not appear in that singular procession of Sunday afternoon. He tied a handkerchief over his face, and taking his valise in his hand, started for Market street, where it is presumed he found a good brother and a good razor in season to fill his appointment.
In the month of August, 1825, my maternal grandmother met with an accident which, although considered trivial at the time, resulted in her death. While walking in the garden she stepped upon the point of a rusty nail, which ran perhaps half an inch into her foot. It was immediately extracted, but the foot became swollen, and in a few days the most alarming symptoms were manifest. She was soon sensible that she was upon her death-bed, but she was a good Christian, and her approaching end had no terrors for her. The day before her departure, and while in the full possession of her faculties, she sent for all her grandchildren to take their final leave of her. I never can forget the sensations which I experienced when my turn came to approach her bed-side, and when, taking my hand in hers, she spoke to me of her approaching dissolution, of the joys of religion, the consoling reflections that a death-bed afforded those who could feel that they had tried to live good lives and be of benefit to their fellow-men. She besought me to think seriously of religion, to read my Bible often, to pray to our Father in heaven, to be regular in my attendance at church; to use no profane nor idle language, and especially to remember that I could in no way so effectually prove my love to God, as in loving all my fellow-beings. I was affected to tears, and promised to remember her counsel. When I received from her a farewell kiss, knowing that I should never behold her again alive, I was completely overcome, and however much I may have since departed from her injunctions, the impressions received at that death-bed scene have ever been vivid among my recollections, and I trust they have proved in some degree salutary. A more sincere Christian or a more exemplary woman than my grandmother I have never seen.
But my serious moods did not long remain undisturbed. One of the customers at our store was an Irishman named Peter O’Brien, a small farmer in one of the districts several miles north of Bethel. An Irishman in those days was a rarity in the interior of Connecticut, and the droll mother-wit, as well as the singular Irish bulls of Peter, gave him considerable celebrity in those parts.
On one occasion Peter visited the store to make some purchases, and one of our village wags perceiving a small dog in his wagon, and wishing to joke the Hibernian, asked O’Brien if the dog was for sale.
“As for the matter of that, I’ll be afther selling almost any thing for money,” responded the Irishman.
“Is he a good watch-dog?”
“Faith, and he’ll defind with his last dhrop of blood any property that you’ll show him.”
“Is he good to drive cattle from a field?”
“He’ll never give over chasing any thing he sees till it’s fairly into the street, after you once acquaint him with your wishes.”
“Will you warrant all that you say is true?”
“Sure I will, and I’ll give back the money if it’s a lie I’m telling you,” earnestly replied Peter O’Brien.
“What will you take for the dog?”
“Only the trifling matter of two dollars.”
“Well,” replied our villager, “he don’t look as if he was worth two cents, but as I want a watch-dog with all the good qualities which you recommend, I’ll take him.”
“I’m sure it’s making fun of me you are,” said Peter; “and I don’t know what Mrs. O’Brien could do without her favorite dog.”
“I confess I was joking at first, Peter, but I am now in earnest, and there is your money,” said his customer, handing him the two dollars.
“A bargain is a bargain,” replied Peter, as he stowed away his money in a bit of old bladder which he used as a purse, “but sure and there’ll be the deuce to pay with Mrs. O’Brien.”
“Oh, you must buy her a little snuff to pacify her,” replied the wag.