Part 1

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UNCLE FRANK'S BOY'S & GIRL'S LIBRARY,

BY

FRANCIS C. WOODWORTH, EDITOR OF WOODWORTH'S YOUTH'S CABINET.

THE PEDDLER'S BOY;

OR,

"I'LL BE SOMEBODY."

With Tinted Illustrations.

BY UNCLE FRANK, AUTHOR OF "A PEEP AT OUR NEIGHBORS," "WILLOW LANE STORIES," "THE DIVING BELL," ETC., ETC.

BOSTON: PHILLIPS, SAMPSON & CO., PUBLISHERS.

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1851, by PHILLIPS, SAMPSON & CO., In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the District of Massachusetts.

C.W. BENEDICT, STEREOTYPER AND PRINTER, 201 William st., N.Y.

CONTENTS.

PAGE

A BIRD'S-EYE GLANCE, 7

PEDDLERS AND PEDDLING, 14

THE OTHER SIDE, 32

DEACON BISSELL, 36

THE YOUNGEST BOY, 48

A NOBLE RESOLUTION, 60

A TALK ABOUT THE FUTURE, 75

THANKSGIVING AND TEMPTATION, 80

PATRIOTISM AND POWDER, 89

THE GLASS OF GIN, 100

LIFE IN A FACTORY, 111

A GLANCE AT FREDERICK, 120

SAMUEL IN BOSTON, 132

THE FLOUR STORE, 140

THE WINDING UP, 152

ILLUSTRATIONS.

THE PEDDLER AND HIS GRANDCHILDREN, (Frontispiece)

VIGNETTE TITLE-PAGE, 1

SAMUEL AND THE SCHOOLMASTER, 52

LOOKING THROUGH THE TELESCOPE, 65

A TALK ABOUT THE FUTURE, 74

THE YOUNG DRUMMER, 93

THE DRUNKARD, WITH HIS FATHER, 128

MR. BISSELL AND HIS CHILDREN, 147

THE PEDDLER'S BOY.

CHAP. I.

A BIRD'S-EYE GLANCE.

Among the many beautiful villages near Boston, there is one quite as beautiful as any, situated but a few miles from that busy metropolis, called--but I must not mention its name; that is of very little consequence. A few rods from the Common, the pride of the Bostonians, is the depot of the railroad which passes through this place; and one has only to jump into the cars, and in less than fifteen minutes he is there. Uncle Frank has some dear friends in this village, and choice spirits they are, in his estimation. How much this fact has to do with his opinion of the beauty of the place, he does not pretend to say. He has scarcely settled it in his own mind. Nor is it much matter, as the story about to be related will neither lose nor gain much in its interest, by the good or ill opinion which the reader may happen to have of the village itself; though I may be pardoned for adding that I should put rather a low value upon the taste of that man, or woman, or child, who could visit this part of the country, when Nature has her best dress on, and not pronounce it one of the most delightful spots, in his or her opinion, that the sun or moon ever shone upon.

Among my friends in this charming village, is one whom, at present, I will call Mr. Bissell--Mr. _Samuel Bissell_. I will call him so for the present, I say. His real name is no more like Bissell than yours is--no more like Samuel Bissell than it is like John Smith or George Jones; but I think he will forgive us, though, for taking such a liberty with his "good name," should he ever happen to come across this story, and should it prove to him a sort of looking-glass, in which he can see his own features.

When he was a lad, about twelve years old, his father, who had been possessed of a handsome property, failed in business, and as Samuel says, "became as poor as a church mouse." What would have taken place if Samuel's father had been successful in his business affairs, so that it would not have been absolutely necessary for the lad to work for a living, is more than I can say. Probably it is more than anybody can say. Very likely it would not have been as well for Samuel. It is a good thing for boys and girls to work. Idleness is the cause of a great deal of mischief. I really pity the boy whose father brings him up without giving him a chance to learn some trade or profession. I am always afraid that, in such cases, the lad will learn a trade "on his own hook," and one which will give him trouble, if his father or guardian does not himself see that he gets something better to do.

As I was saying, it is impossible to tell what would have been the history of Samuel Bissell, if, by his father's failure in business, he had not been driven to get a living by his own labor. It is enough for us to know what his history actually was in the circumstances in which he was placed when his father, by a sudden change of fortune, became a poor man.

But I must go back a little in my history. I want you to see and mark well two or three things, which, though little in themselves, are very important. Little things, let me tell you, are not to be despised, because they are little. A very small stream of water, which you might easily wade across, can set the machinery of a whole factory in motion. Half a dozen marks made with a pen in as many seconds, are sufficient to send weeping and death into every family in an empire. So I must go back a few years in the history of our young friend, and see where he was, what he was, and what sort of a bringing up he had, before the time of his father's unfortunate failure.

CHAP. II.

PEDDLERS AND PEDDLING.

I have more than half a mind to give you a rough sketch of the _Yankee Peddler_.

"But I know all about this race of men already," perhaps you will say.

Do you? Well, then, consider my sketch as having been made for another reader, and not for you. The fact is--for I want to let you into one of my little secrets, just here, to start with--the story I am telling is one about a peddler's boy; and I have got a notion that it would be a good plan to devote one chapter, before I have any more to do with the boy himself, to that famous class of men who get their living principally by peddling small wares about the country.

The peddler--the genuine Massachusetts or Connecticut peddler--usually has a wagon built on purpose for his business, so fitted up that it will conveniently hold all the articles he has for sale. One who has ever taken a peep into a peddler's wagon, will not need to be told that his assortment comprises a great many different articles. Tin ware occupies a large space. In this department may be found tin ovens, sauce pans, milk pans, graters, skimmers, and things of that sort. Then the genuine peddler is always provided with two tin trunks, I believe--trunks which are large enough to hold about half a bushel each. These trunks are stored full of little knick-knacks, "too numerous to mention," as the dealer in dry goods has it in his advertisement.

The peddler does not often drive his trade in the city. He finds the country the best place for him. So you generally come across him where there are not many stores, and where the houses are not very close together. He stops before the door of a house. I say _he_ stops; but I ought rather to have said _his horse_; for the old nag, who, perhaps, has been in his service for a quarter of a century, stops of her own accord at the door of every respectable looking house on the route. She needs no hint from her master in relation to this matter.

Indeed, I once heard of a peddler's mare, who was so well persuaded that it would be for the interest of her master to stop at the gate of a certain large and neat-looking farm-house, which gate the peddler seemed, for once, disposed to pass by, that she actually stopped in the road, and looked round at the man who had the helm, as if she would say, "My dear sir, there must be some mistake about this matter. Are you crazy? Upon my word, this is one of the strangest things that has ever turned up since we've been driving this peddling business."

We will suppose, now, that the faithful horse, guided by something which, for want of a better name, people generally call _instinct_, but which seems to me a good deal like _reason_, has stopped at the door of a house. The peddler, taking good care to carry along with him the tin trunks before mentioned, leaves the wagon, and goes into the house, the faithful mare, in the meantime, leisurely grazing, if it is summer, and stamping and kicking, just for exercise, in order to keep warm, if it is winter.

"Any tin ware to-day, madam?" the peddler asks. Perhaps madam does want some tin ware, and perhaps she does not. We will suppose, now, that as far as the department of tin ware is concerned, her wants have been entirely supplied. Then follows a partial enumeration of the contents of the two trunks. Did you ever hear a peddler rattle over the names of these small wares? He does it as rapidly, almost, as a bobolink goes through the different notes of his song: "Any pins, needles, sewing silk, twist, buttons, tape, jew's harps, hooks and eyes, scissors, penknives, pocket books, handkerchiefs, breast pins, ear rings"--and so he runs on, hardly waiting for the good lady, who is looking over the articles by this time, to put in a word edgewise.

Peddlers, as a class, are set down as pretty wide awake in driving a bargain. They have been slandered, I doubt not. A great deal of unfairness and dishonesty have been charged to them, of which they never were guilty. Still, I think they are apt to be pretty shrewd and keen, when they are trading. Sometimes, no doubt, though not always, they are _too_ shrewd and keen to be strictly honest; for there is a point where shrewdness and keenness ought to stop.

When I was a little boy, I lived in Connecticut. My home was in the very bosom of the country. It was not often that anybody from the busy world came there; and when one did come, he was sure to make something of a stir, especially among us little folks. The advent of a tin peddler's wagon, I recollect, I hailed as a most remarkable event. It always seemed to me that a peddler's head was as full of knowledge as it could well hold. Such a budget of news as he always opened! Such smart things as those which came from his mouth! Such wonderful good nature as he showed towards the children. Why I don't remember that I ever heard a peddler speak cross to a boy, though we used always to tumble over the nameless "notions" in his trunks to our hearts' content, all the time he stayed in the house. I hardly know which interested me more, the driving up to our door of a peddler's wagon, or the entrance into our kitchen of half a dozen Mohegan Indians, with their squaws and pappooses.

The age of clock peddlers had not come then. Wooden clocks are plenty as blackberries now; and you can buy one for a song, almost. But Connecticut clocks were quite unknown in my childhood. Now, I suppose, the peddlers sell more clocks than tin ovens and sauce pans. But the peddler of clocks and the peddler of tin ware is, in all important particulars, one and the same.

Did you ever hear of the peddler who sold a load of clocks that would only keep in order twenty-four hours, and hardly that? It seems that his clocks were, like Peter Pindar's razors, _made to sell_, and not to run. Well, he went a good way off from home, before he offered any of his wares for sale. He found no trouble in selling the clocks, for they were wonderfully cheap; and besides, as he took good care to inform all his customers, each clock was warranted, and on his way homeward he would call at every house where he sold a clock, when he should take pleasure in exchanging all the clocks that did not perform well. Now it turned out that his clocks were not worth a farthing. He sold out the whole load, though--every clock but one. Then he turned about, and commenced his journey homeward, calling upon all his customers, as he had agreed to do.

"Well, how did that _are_ clock run neighbor?"

"Run! it didn't run at all. It stopped as still as a gate post before you had got up Pudding Hill!"

"Did it though, _raly_?"

"To be sure it did. What on earth did you sell me such a clock for?"

"Well, now, you needn't take on in that style. I'll give you another clock. I told you I would, when I sold it to you."

So the cunning peddler gives his customer the only clock he has left, and takes the one he sold him at first, in place of it. And that is the way the fellow managed all the way home.

There are a great many stories told about peddlers, which, I presume, are not true, and it is sometimes rather difficult to sift the genuine stuff from the chaff. I really don't know how much to believe of the anecdotes of Connecticut peddlers of former times. It is a matter of history, that they sold wooden nutmegs, and horn gun flints, and white-wood cucumber seeds, and white oak hams. But I should not wonder if these stories were made out of whole cloth. The truth is, there have been, first and last, a great many false charges made against "the land of steady habits."

It is a common notion that peddlers are very apt to make dupes of the ladies. Perhaps they are. But I know of one instance in which a peddler got nicely come up with by a lady. I don't believe any man could have done it better. The story is this. A peddler, with a wagon load of tin ware, drove up to the door of a house around which quite a number of children were playing. The mistress of the house made her appearance, and was urged to trade. She had no money, she said. That was no matter, the peddler replied. He would take anything in pay--rags, old clothes, worn out tin, anything. But she hadn't got _anything_.

"Well," the peddler continued, "I'll take one of your children."

The lady thought a moment. "Very good," said she, "you may have that ragged boy yonder for ten dollars, and I'll take the value of him in tin."

The bargain was struck.

The lady selected the tin ware, and it was carried into the house. The peddler mounted his seat, with the ragged urchin by his side, and threatened to drive off. "Of course," he thought, "she will not let me go away with the boy. She will pay me the money, when she sees that I am _raly_ going." He was mistaken, though. He had reckoned without his host, this time.

Crack went the whip. "I'm going now," said he. "I'm off in less than no time."

"Very well," said the good woman; "so I supposed."

He actually started, and went a few rods, slowly, when he stopped, turned around, and said, "There, now I'm off for _sartain_."

"So I heard you say some time ago," said the lady.

"But are you willing I should take off this _'ere_ boy?"

"Certainly," said the lady. "We keep the _town's poor_ here, and this is the worst fellow in the lot."

The story is that the peddler, when he found how completely he was outwitted, gave, in money, about as much as the tin he had parted with was worth, to get out of the scrape, or in other words, to get clear of his young pauper.

CHAP. III.

THE OTHER SIDE.

If I should stop here, in my sketch of the New England peddler, I am not sure but I should give a false view of that class of people, and I should be sorry to do that. I must throw some _lights_ into the picture, in order to make it more perfect and truthful.

I have said before, that the peddler has been charged with a great many sins which probably he never dreamed of, and certainly never committed. But a great deal more than this is true of that large class who make their living by selling merchandise from house to house. There are hosts of men engaged in this business, who are strictly honest and fair in all their dealings. They never cheat any one. They have no disposition to cheat, any more than the merchant who sells his goods in his own store. Besides, the business, though a great deal has been done to make it _seem_ anything but respectable, is well enough, in itself. There is nothing disgraceful about it. It is, or may be, an honest calling; and it is one of Uncle Frank's doctrines that any business that is lawful, and honest, and does nobody any harm, ought to be considered respectable. Why not? Why ought not the boy, even, who brushes my boots, if he knows as much, and his character is as good, why ought he not to be respected as much as the one who sets the types for my daily newspaper? I can't see why, and it would puzzle anybody to see why, I guess.

I know of peddlers, good men and true, who would as soon part with one of their fingers as to cheat any of their customers. They want to make good bargains, when they sell anything. Of course they do. But they want only that. They would not take advantage of a person's ignorance of the price of an article, and sell him or her that article for ten times as much as it is worth, just because they _can_ do it.

CHAP. IV.

DEACON BISSELL.

DEACON BISSELL--Deacon Abijah Bissell, was a peddler of this sort. I should not wonder if some of my readers had heard of the deacon. He is in heaven now, I doubt not. But his fame, which, while he was living, had spread over quite a large section of country in the commonwealth of Massachusetts, is not dead yet. I dare say scores and scores of housewives are now on the stage, within a good deal less than a hundred miles of Boston, who could show you milk pans still on duty in their cheese room, which came from Deacon Bissell's wagon.

Deacon Abijah Bissell--_Buysell_ a great many people had it--occupied a snug little house, with ever so many flowers in the door yard, and ever so many tufts of moss on its old shingles. He did not spend more than half his time at home. The rest was devoted to peddling. No wandering Arab ever moved oftener from place to place than Deacon Bissell. Still he had his orbit, and he traveled in it as regularly as the moon, and Jupiter, and our own planet, travel in their orbits. Every family he visited knew almost the exact day of his arrival. The deacon had a great deal of method in everything he did. He was one of the most punctual and precise men you ever met. An anecdote at this moment occurs to me, which goes to show what a value he placed upon punctuality.

Patty Bissell, his eldest daughter, was to ride over to Boston with the old gentleman. She had been wanting to go to the city for a long time, and she was delighted when her father invited her to go.

"Patty, how long will it take you to get ready?" asked the deacon.

"Half an hour," the girl replied.

"Well, say an hour," said the deacon. "But don't fail to be ready at the moment. I want you to learn to be punctual, my dear."

"Oh, I shall be ready in an hour, father, and in less time, too."

"Very well."

The hour passed. The deacon was in his wagon, ready to start. "Well, Patty," he shouted, so that his daughter could hear him in the room where she was busy putting herself in a trim for the city. She was not quite ready. I think she had forgotten where her gloves were, and was ransacking every drawer in her bureau for them. The deacon spoke again.

"In one minute," said Patty.

The deacon waited one minute more, a very long minute, according to his watch--and off he started for Boston.

Poor Patty! The disappointment was a sore one for her. But it taught her a lesson in punctuality which was worth more to her than a quarter's schooling at the Roundhill Academy.

Mr. Bissell, you will please to take notice, was a _real_ deacon. In the country, it is a very common thing, I presume you are aware, for almost all the folks to have some handle or another fixed to their names; and very often the handle is put on, nobody knows how, or why, or when, or where. One man is known as a military officer, a _captain_, perhaps, or a _general_. But when you come to inquire into his history, you find that he never rose to a higher rank than that of a corporal in the militia, and possibly not quite so high as that. Another man is a _squire_. But how he came to be one, and, indeed, what is meant by the title in his case, are questions which would puzzle the wisest heads in the neighborhood. There are, also, in almost every part of the country, sundry men whom everybody calls _uncle_. Each one of them is _everybody's_ uncle in general, and nobody's uncle in particular. _Deacons_, too, scores of them, may be found, who have no other claim to the title than this--that they are _called_ so, by nearly all the men, women and children in the parish.

But Mr. Bissell, as I said before, was a _real_ deacon. The title had been given to him by the little church in his native parish. And he was a good man, too. Some people make up their religion into a sort of a cloak, which they regard as too nice for every day use. They put it on and wear it every Sunday, and take it off every Monday morning, and keep it off until Saturday night. You never get a sight of their religion, when they are about their business. They wear long faces, to be sure. But a face as long as a broom handle is not worth much to Uncle Frank, as a sign of a man's piety. People may say what they will about religion--and in this country, especially, where everybody can think for himself, and very few get other folks to think for them, there must be a great many different notions as to what religion is--but people may say what they will about it, I think more of _actions_ than I do of _words_. I don't care if a man's creed reaches as far as from the Battery to Grace Church. If he is not fair in his dealings, and a good neighbor, in every respect, I don't think much of his religion.

The piety of Deacon Bissell did not all fly off in words, as a glass of soda water flies off in foam. He was a good man on Saturdays and Mondays, as well as on Sundays, at home as well as at church, in his worldly business as well as out of it.

Deacon Bissell had a brother, who did a large business in Boston, and was supposed to be very rich. Rich people, however, sometimes get a little cramped in their business, and find it hard to get along. Deacon Bissell's brother happened, at one time, to need some thousands of dollars more than he had at command. He knew that the deacon had saved quite a snug sum from the profits of his small trading, and so he went to him, and asked him if he would put his name to a note of some ten or twelve thousand dollars. The deacon had never done anything of the kind before. But supposing his brother would be able to pay the note when it was due, and always being anxious to oblige everybody, when he could, he put his name to the note.