“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