P.T. Barnum - The Life of P.T. Barnum

Another laugh followed, in which the dog-purchaser joined.

“Well, you may keep the money,” he replied, “but you may take the dog.”

“No, I thank ye, it would only be opening the wound of Mrs. O’Brien afresh, and that you know would be cruel,” replied Peter.

In the days of which I am now writing, a much stricter outward regard was paid to the Sabbath in the State of Connecticut than at present. If a man was seen riding horseback or in a carriage on Sunday before sundown, a tithing-man, deacon of a church, or grand-jury man was sure to arrest him, and unless he could show that sickness or some other case of necessity induced him to come out, he was fined the next day.

The mail stage from New York to Boston was permitted to run on the Sabbath, but in no case to take passengers. Sometimes the cupidity of the New York agents would induce them to book travellers through Connecticut on the holy day, but nearly every meeting-house had its sentinel on the look-out, and it was very difficult for a driver to escape being arrested if he had one or more persons in his coach. In that case the driver, his horses, stage, mail and passengers were obliged to “lie to” until Monday morning, when driver and passengers must each pay a fine before being permitted to depart.

On one occasion, Oliver Taylor and Benjamin Hoyt, a brace of wags from Bethel, were in New York, and as the way-bill was filled for several week-days ahead, they went to the stage office, No. 21 Bowery, early one Sunday morning, and asked to be carried that day to Norwalk, Ct.

“It can’t be done,” peremptorily replied the stage agent.

“It is very important,” responded Oliver; “my wife and children are dangerously sick at Bethel, and I must reach there before to-morrow morning.”

“And my mother isn’t expected to live the day out,” meekly added ’Squire Ben, with a face considerably elongated.

“It won’t do, gentlemen; these periodical sicknesses are excessively prevalent, and I am wonderfully sorry for you, but we have been stopped, fined, and our mail detained several times this year, in your State. We are decidedly sick of it, and will carry no more passengers in Connecticut on Sunday,” was the prompt reply.

“They are not as strict now as they were formerly,” urged Mr. Taylor.

“Not half,” added Mr. Hoyt.

“Formerly!” exclaimed the agent; “why, it is only two weeks since we were arrested in Stamford.”

“Yes, and it cost me eleven dollars besides the detention,” added the proprietor, who had just stepped in.

“Now, sir,” said Mr. Taylor, addressing the proprietor, “our business is urgent; we are Connecticut men, and know Connecticut laws and Connecticut deacons – yes, and how to dodge them, too. We will pay you ten dollars for our passages to Norwalk, and whenever we pass through a Connecticut village we will lie down on the bottom of the stage, and thus your vehicle, being apparently empty, will pass through unmolested.”

“Will you do this promptly as you pass through each Connecticut village?” asked the melting proprietor.

“Positively,” was the reply of Taylor and Hoyt.

“Well, I don’t think it any sin to dodge your Yankee blue-laws, and I’ll take you on those conditions,” responded the stage man.

The passage money was paid, the two valises snugly packed under the inside seats, and their two owners were as snugly seated in the mail coach.

“Remember your promises, gentlemen, and dodge the Yankee deacons,” said the stage proprietor, just as the driver flourished his long whip, and the horses started off in a gallop. The two passengers nodded a willing assent.

Messrs. Taylor and Hoyt knew every inch of the road. As the stage approached the Connecticut line, they prepared to stow themselves away. Just before reaching Greenwich, they both stretched themselves upon their backs on the bottom of the coach. The agents of the law – and gospel, were on the look-out, the driver’s face assumed a most innocent look, the apparently empty stage “passed muster,” and was permitted to move along unmolested, a straight-laced deacon merely remarking to the tithing-man, “I guess them ’ere Yorkers have concluded it won’t pay to send their passengers up this way on the Lord’s day.” The tithing-man nodded his satisfaction.

At Stamford the game of “hide and seek” was successfully repeated. At Darien, which is within six miles of Norwalk, where our passengers were to leave the stage and take their chances for reaching Bethel, about twenty miles north, they once more laid themselves down upon their backs, and the driver, assuming a demure look, let his horses take a slow trot through the village.

“Now, Ben,” said Taylor, “I’m a-going to give the deacons a chance, fine or no fine,” and instantly he thrust his feet a tempting distance out of the side window of the coach.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake draw in your feet,” exclaimed Hoyt, in horror, as he saw a pair of boots sticking a couple of feet [no pun intended] out of the window.

“Couldn’t think of such a thing,” quietly responded Taylor, with a chuckle.

“But we agreed to hide, and now you are exposing the stage-driver as well as ourselves,” urged the conscientious and greatly alarmed Hoyt.

“We agreed to lie on our backs, and we are doing it flat enough; but my legs want stretching, and they must have it,” was the mischievous reply.

They were now opposite the village church, and the poor driver, unconscious of the grand display his passengers were making, carried his head high up, as much as to say, “You may look, gentlemen, but it’s no use.”

A watchful deacon, horror-struck at beholding a pair of boots with real legs in them emerging from the stage window, hallooed to the driver to stop.

“I’m empty, and shan’t do it,” responded coachee, with a tone of injured innocence.

“You have got a passenger, and must stop,” earnestly replied the deacon.

The driver, turning his face towards the body of his coach, was alarmed at seeing a pair of legs dangling out of the window, and with a look of dismay instantly jerking his reins and giving his horses half a dozen smart cuts, they struck into a quick gallop just as the deacon’s hand had reached within a foot of the leader’s bridle. The coach slightly grazed the deacon, half knocking him over, and was soon beyond his reach. The frightened driver applied the lash with all his might, continually hallooing, “Draw in them infernal boots!”

A double haw-haw of laughter was all the satisfaction he received in reply to his commands, and, Jehu-like, the team dashed ahead until not a house was in sight. The driver then reined in his horses, and began remonstrating with his passengers. They laughed heartily, and handing him half a dollar, bade him be quiet.

“In ten minutes it will be sundown,” they added, “you can therefore go into Norwalk in safety.”

“But they will pull me up in Darien and fine me when I return,” replied the driver.

“Don’t be alarmed,” was the response; “they can’t fine you, for no one can swear you had a passenger. Nothing was seen but a pair of legs, and for aught that can be proved they belonged to a wax figure.”

“But they moved,” replied the driver, still alarmed.

“So does an automaton,” responded Mr. Taylor; “so give yourself no uneasiness, you are perfectly safe.”

The driver felt somewhat relieved, but as he passed through Darien the next day, he had some misgivings. The deacon, however, had probably reached the same conclusion in regard to the rules and nature of evidence as had Mr. Taylor, for no complaint was made, and the driver was permitted to pass unheeded. His fright, however, caused him to notify his employers, that if they ever sent any more passengers to Connecticut on the Sabbath, they might send a driver with them, for he would see them – “blowed” before they would catch him in another such a scrape.