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

The trusty Irishman, feeling that there was no real cause for alarm, broke into a peal of laughter, and bade me be of good cheer, “For,” said he, “you’ll not have to wade more than a quarter of a mile in that way before you reach the verge of your valuable property.”

“If I go under, you must help me in a moment, for I can’t swim,” I replied despondingly.

“Niver fear me; if I see ye in danger I’ll have ye out in a twinkling.”

With this assurance I made an advance step and found my head still in the air. Half a dozen hornets now attacked me, and I involuntarily ducked my head under the water. When I popped out again my tormenters had disappeared, and I waded on as well as I could towards “Ivy Island.” After about fifteen minutes, during which time I floundered through the morass, now stepping on a piece of submerged wood, and anon slipping into a hole, I rolled out upon dry land, covered with mud, out of breath, and looking considerably more like a drowned rat than a human being.

“Thank the Merciful Powers, ye are safe at last,” said my Irish companion.

“Oh, what a dreadful time I have had, and how that hornet’s sting smarts!” I groaned, in misery.

“Niver mind, my boy; we have only to cross this little creek, and ye’ll be upon yer own valuable property,” was the encouraging reply.

I looked, and behold we had arrived upon the margin of a stream ten or twelve feet wide, the banks of which were so thickly lined with alders that a person could scarcely squeeze between them.

“Good heavens!” I exclaimed, “is my property surrounded with water?”

“How the divil could it be ‘Ivy Island ’ if it was not?” was the quick response.

“Oh! I had never thought about the meaning of the name,” I replied; “but how in the world can we get across this brook?”

“Faith, and now you’ll see the use of the axe, I am thinking,” replied Edmund, as he cut his way through the alders, and proceeded to fell a small oak tree which stood upon the bank of the stream. This tree fell directly across the brook, and thus formed a temporary bridge, over which Edmund kindly assisted me.

I now found myself upon “Ivy Island,” and began to look about me with curiosity.

“Why, there seems to be nothing here but stunted ivies and a few straggling trees!” I exclaimed.

“How else could it be ‘Ivy Island ’” was the quiet answer.

I proceeded a few rods towards the centre of my domain, perfectly chop-fallen. The truth rushed upon me. I had been made a fool of by all our neighborhood for more than half a dozen years. My rich “Ivy Island” was an inaccessible piece of barren land, not worth a farthing, and all my visions of future wealth and greatness vanished into thin air. While I stood pondering upon my sudden downfall, I discovered a monstrous black snake approaching me, with upraised head and piercing black eyes. I gave one halloo and took to my heels. The Irishman helped me across the temporary bridge, and this was my first and last visit to “Ivy Island!” We got back to the meadow, and found my father and men mowing away lustily.

“Well, how do you like your property?” asked my father, with the most imperturbable gravity.

“I would sell it pretty cheap,” I responded, holding down my head.

A tremendous roar of laughter bursting from all the workmen showed that they were in the secret. On returning home at night, my grandfather called to congratulate me, with as serious a countenance as if “Ivy Island” was indeed a valuable domain, instead of a barren waste, over which he and the whole neighborhood had chuckled ever since I was born. My mother, too, with a grave physiognomy, hoped I had found it as rich as I anticipated. Several of our neighbors called to ask if I was not glad now, that I was named Phineas; and from that time during the next five years I was continually reminded of the valuable property known as “Ivy Island.”

I can the more heartily laugh at this practical joke, because that inheritance was long afterwards of service to me. “Ivy Island” was a part of the weight that made the wheel of fortune begin to turn in my favor at a time when my head was downward.

“What is the price of razor strops?” inquired my grandfather of a peddler, whose wagon, loaded with Yankee notions, stood in front of our store.

“A dollar each for Pomeroy’s strops,” responded the itinerant merchant.

“A dollar apiece!” exclaimed my grandfather; “they’ll be sold for half the money before the year is out.”

“If one of Pomeroy’s strops is sold for fifty cents within a year, I’ll make you a present of one,” replied the peddler.

“I’ll purchase one on those conditions. Now, Ben, I call you to witness the contract,” said my grandfather, addressing himself to Esquire Hoyt.

“All right,” responded Ben.

“Yes,” said the peddler, “I’ll do as I say, and there’s no back-out to me.”

My grandfather took the strop, and put it in his side coat pocket. Presently drawing it out, and turning to Esquire Hoyt, he said, “Ben, I don’t much like this strop now I have bought it. How much will you give for it?”

“Well, I guess, seeing it’s you, I’ll give fifty cents,” drawled the ’Squire, with a wicked twinkle in his eye, which said that the strop and the peddler were both incontinently sold.

“You can take it. I guess I’ll get along with my old one a spell longer,” said my grandfather, giving the peddler a knowing look.

The strop changed hands, and the peddler exclaimed, “I acknowledge, gentlemen; what’s to pay?”

“Treat the company, and confess you are taken in, or else give me a strop,” replied my grandfather.

“I never will confess nor treat,” said the peddler, “but I’ll give you a strop for your wit;” and suiting the action to the word, he handed a second strop to his customer. A hearty laugh ensued, in which the peddler joined.

“Some pretty sharp fellows here in Bethel,” said a bystander, addressing the peddler.

“Tolerable, but nothing to brag of,” replied the peddler; “I have made seventy-five cents by the operation.”

“How is that?” was the inquiry.

“I have received a dollar for two strops which cost me only twelve and a half cents each,” replied the peddler; “but having heard of the cute tricks of the Bethel chaps, I thought I would look out for them and fix my prices accordingly. I generally sell these strops at twenty-five cents each, but, gentlemen, if you want any more at fifty cents apiece, I shall be happy to supply your whole village.”

Our neighbors laughed out of the other side of their mouths, but no more strops were purchased

There was a poor sot in Bethel, who had a family consisting of a wife and four children. Before he took to drink he was an industrious, thriving, intelligent, and respectable man – by trade a cooper; but for ten years he had been running down hill, and at last became a miserable toper. Once in a while he would “keg,” as he called it; that is, he would abjure strong drink for a certain length of time – usually for a month. During these intervals he was industrious and sober. He visited the stores; the neighbors gladly conversed with him, and encouraged him to continue in well doing. The poor fellow would weep as he listened to friendly admonitions, and would sometimes reply:

“You are right, my friends; I know you are right, for now my brain is cool and clear, and I can see as well as you can that there is no happiness without sobriety. I am like the prodigal son, who, ‘ when he came to himself ,’ saw that there was no hope for him unless he arose and returned to his father and to the walks of duty and reason. I have come to myself .”