LETTER II.

Geography and Chronology- The Old Brown House-GrandfathersRidgefield-The Meeting-House-Parson Mead-Keeler's Tavern-Lieutenant Smith-The Cannon-Ball.

MY DEAR C******

It is said that geography and chronology are the two eyes of history: hence, I suppose that in any narrative which pretends to be in some degree historical, the when and where, as well as the how, should be distinctly presented. I am aware that a large part of mankind are wholly deficient in the bump of locality, and march through the world in utter indifference as to whether they are going north or south, east or west. With these, the sun may rise and set as it pleases, at any point of the compass; but for myself, I could never be happy, even in my bedroom or study, without knowing which way was north. You will expect, therefore, that in beginning my story, I make you distinctly acquainted with the place where I was born, as well as the objects which immediately surrounded it. If, indeed, throughout my narrative, I habitually regard geography and chronology as essential elements of a story, you will at least understand that it is done by design and not by accident.

In the western part of the State of Connecticut, is

a small town by the name of Ridgefield.* This title is descriptive, and indicates the general form and position of the place. It is, in fact, a collection of hills, rolled into one general and commanding elevation. On the west is a ridge of mountains, forming the boundary between the States of Connecticut and New York; to the south the land spreads out in wooded undulations to Long Island Sound; east and north, a succession of hills, some rising up against the sky, and others fading away in the distance, bound the horizon. In this town, in an antiquated and rather dilapidated house of shingles and clapboards, I was born on the 19th of August, 1793.

My father, Samuel Goodrich, was minister of the First Congregational Church of that place, there being then, no other religious society and no other clergyman in the town, except at Ridgebury-the remote northern section, which was a separate parish. He was the son of Elizur Goodrich,† a distinguished minister of the same persuasion, at Durham, Connecticut. Two of his brothers were men of eminence the late Chauncey Goodrich of Hartford, and Elizur Goodrich of New Haven. My mother was a daughter of John Ely, a physician of Saybrook, whose name figures not unworthily in the annals of the revolutionary

war.

I was the sixth child of a family of ten children,

*See Note I., p. 515. See Note II., p. 528. See Note III., p. 583.

two of whom died in infancy, and eight of whom lived to be married and settled in life. All but two of the latter are still living. My father's annual salary for the first twenty-five years, and during his ministry at Ridgefield, averaged £120, old currency-that is, about four hundred dollars a year: the last twentyfive years, during which he was settled at Berlin, near Hartford, his stipend was about five hundred dollars a year. He was wholly without patrimony, and owing to peculiar circumstances, which will be hereafter explained, my mother had not even the ordinary outfit, as they began their married life. Yet they so brought up their family of eight children, that they all attained respectable positions in life, and at my father's death, he left an estate of four thousand dollars.*

These

facts throw light upon the simple annals of a country clergyman in Connecticut, half a century ago; they also bear testimony to the thrifty energy and wise frugality of my parents, and especially of my mother, who was the guardian deity of the household.

Ridgefield belongs to the county of Fairfield, and is now a handsome town, as well on account of its artificial as its natural advantages-with some 2000 inhabitants. It is fourteen miles from Long Island Sound-of which its many swelling hills afford charm

* One thousand of this was received, a short time before the death of my parents, for the revolutionary services of my maternal grandfather. For an account of the present condition of Ridgefield, see letter to C. A. Goodrich, page 300.

ing views. The main street is a mile in length, and is now embellished with several handsome houses. About the middle of it there is, or was, some forty years ago, a white wooden meeting-house, which belonged to my father's congregation. It stood in a small grassy square, the favorite pasture of numerous flocks of geese, and the frequent playground of schoolboys, especially of Saturday afternoons. Close by the front door ran the public road, and the pulpit, facing it, looked out upon it, in fair summer Sundays, as I well remember by a somewhat amusing incident.

In the contiguous town of Lower Salem, dwelt an aged minister by the name of Mead. He was all his life marked with eccentricity, and about these days of which I speak, his mind was rendered yet more erratic by a touch of paralysis. He was, however, still able to preach, and on a certain Sunday, having exchanged with my father, he was in the pulpit and engaged in making his opening prayer. He had already begun his invocation, when David P...., who was the Jehu of that generation, dashed by the front door, upon a horse-a clever animal of which he was but too proud-in a full, round trot. The echo of the clattering hoofs filled the church, -which being of shingles and clapboards was sonorous as a drum-and arrested the attention as well of the minister as the congregation, even before the rider had reached it. The minister was fond of horses -almost to frailty-and from the first, his practiced

ear perceived that the sounds came from a beast of bottom. When the animal shot by the door, he could not restrain his admiration, which was accordingly thrust into the very marrow of his prayer: "We pray thee, O Lord, in a particular and peculiar mannerthat's a real smart critter-to forgive us our manifold trespasses, in a particular and peculiar manner," &c.

I have somewhere heard of a traveler on horseback, who, just at eventide, being uncertain of his road, inquired of a person he chanced to meet, the way to Barkhamstead.

"You are in Barkhamstead now," was the reply. "Yes, but where is the center of the place?"

"It hasn't got any center."

"Well-but direct me to the tavern."

"There ain't any tavern."

"Yes, but the meeting-house?"

"Why didn't you ask that afore? over the hill!”

There it is,

So, in those days, in Connecticut-as doubtless in other parts of New England-the meeting-house was the great geographical monument, the acknowledged meridian of every town and village. Even a place without a center or a tavern, had its house of worship, and this was its initial point of reckoning. It was, indeed, something more. It was the town-hall, where all public meetings were held, for civil purposes; it was the temple of religion, the ark of the covenant, the pillar of society-religious, social, and moral