USA > Rhode Island > Bristol County > Bristol > Sketches of old Bristol > Part 21
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After them came Capt. Sam Gladding and Henry Congdon. They were familiar sights around the depot at the turn of the century. Capt. Sam was never without a segar in his mouth, and I can see him now prodding his old steed along Hope street in all kinds of weather. Always a smile on his furrowed old face, he was one of the most friendly old gentlemen of those days.
This account of the old-time drivers would not be complete without mentioning "Ham Otis", who was one of the interesting characters of the town in those days. Ham Otis (Wright) was a colored fellow; he was a hostler for Henry Goff, Jr., who ran a livery stable back in the nineties. Ham was the blackest of the black, good natured and liked by everybody. At one time he was one of those who hung around the depot and met all trains on their arrival.
"Blondie" Rawson told a good story about the colored boy. Ham used to like to shake dice and would now and then show up at Blondie's back room and join in a crap game which usually was in session there. He had the usual luck, sometimes going away with a pocket full of money, but more often going broke. One time Ham was having an exceptional run of luck and right in the midst of the game he excused himself for a few moments. In about a half hour he came back and as he breezed into the room, announced his return something like this, "Well, how do I look!" The colored boy was all smiles, and he was also all dolled up in a brand new rig from head to foot, new yeller shoes, new checkered suit, shirt of a very loud pattern, new tie, and a new derby hat of the latest style. In fact, as Blondie said, "He was a veritable fashion plate." It seems that while he was winning, it had occurred to him to stock up with this new outfit before his run of luck changed.
David Pierce in those days kept a gents' furnishing store just a few doors up the street from Blondie's and it was there that Ham betook himself to procure this transformation.
An old account of this part of Thames street, written in 1846, will help to give some idea as to its layout before the days of the railroad.
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"We are pleased to perceive that much improvement is being made on North part of Thames street. The old distillery which stood for several years in a dilapidated state, has been repaired and converted into a Butt Factory and Grist Mill. The old stores and blacksmith's shops on Peck's wharf are to be repaired and moved to the opposite side of the street and the dock filled up to half the distance of the wharf. This estate was recently purchased by Mr. Isaac G. Peck, who is making the improvements. A large new two-story engine house has just been erected between Peck's and Church's wharf. Other buildings are being put up, and others repaired, which altogether, when finished, will make a decided improvement in the looks as well as in the business of the street."
The old station and terminal are gone-things are right back as they were two hundred years ago-the site is as bare as the Sahara desert. Except for scattered fragments of brick, there is nothing left of the old landmark. The 1851 map of Bristol shows Church's wharf and the large warehouses fronting on Thames street. This was the site of the terminal and when they cleared the land one of the warehouses* was moved directly across the street, and now after all these many years, it still is in use. The old accounts of those days tell of clearing the site for the new road, moving some of the buildings away, tearing down others, and filling in the land. A large part of the site is made land. From the time they started to build in 1855, up to about 1895, they were continually filling it in. Even at that late date the water from the harbor came up to the west side of Thames street at a point just a little south of the station. The old wharf, judging it as scaled on the map, must have been of good size, one of the largest along the waterfront.
All of this property belonged to the Church family who lived over on Pappoosesquaw.
*The old warehouse was moved across the street in the year 1854, for that is the date marked in large white figures on the east end wall of the third story. The date the building was built was marked on the under side of the roof but a few years ago the old roof was repaired and the section where the date was cut in was removed. Unfortunately no record was kept of the date.
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Thomas Church 1761-1843
Hon. Samuel W. Church 1803-1881
James C. Church 1854-1936
his sons Dr. Howard W. Church Samuel W. Church
Years ago a very interesting account of the town as it was in the year 1 840 appeared in our local paper; it told about Church's wharf and old Thomas Church who built it. "The wharf was owned by Thomas Church, who was engaged in the export and import trade with Cuba. He exported large quantities of hoops, which were used in making hogsheads for molasses, which he imported to Bristol. He also exported large quantities of pota- toes and onions to Cuba.
"He lived on the farm owned by the late Benj. Church on, Pappoosesquaw. He was the father of the late Samuel W. Church, State Senator for many years, and no man had reason to complain of his integrity, for he was an honest man, whose word was as good as any man's bond."
THE TOWN CRIER
Written in 1883
A FEW years ago, the citizens in town meeting voted to give the Town Crier's old bell to Hon. S. P. Colt. When this old bell was first brought into use by the town, it inaugurated a new era in the mode of giving public notice. Before that time public an- nouncements had been made by "beat of drum." John Coy was the town crier at the time the change was made, and continued so for years after. He lived in a small cottage house on the west side of Hope street, near the north corner of Hope and Smith streets. Mr. Coy loved his drum, and was a vigorous drummer. After perambulating the town, and crying his notices at the street corners, he would strike up a lively din on his way home. If the
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passer in the street sometimes failed to catch the tune and its har- mony, not so Mr. Coy, for after reaching home he would march through and around his house until the tune was finished.
At the time of which I write, newspapers and printing presses were not as common as they are today. There was not a daily paper published in the state. The Providence Journal had a semi-weekly issue; there may have been one, perhaps two other weekly papers published in Providence. The old Mercury was at that time published in Newport. The Herald or the Times was not started until some years later. The only other paper in the state was the Northern Star, published once a week on Satur- day by Charles Randall, in Warren. He had some thirty or forty patrons in Bristol, and the papers were sent down in a bundle on the Providence stage, and distributed to subscribers by a carrier. There was no printing press in Bristol, and the lack of facilities for reaching the public required frequent crying at street corners.
There was another use to which the Town Crier and his drum were put; that was to drum vagrant and undesirable persons out of town. The writer remembers, somewhat indistinctly, the last case of "drumming out of town" that occurred. A negro tramp, who had made himself obnoxious, was ordered by the Town Council to be "drummed out of town". This drumming out process was as follows: a horse and cart and driver were brought into requisition and the victim was tied to the tail end of the cart, the Town Crier behind him beating the drum. The procession thus formed would proceed from the jail through Hope street, north over the town bridge, the driver walking his horse, to pre- vent undue haste. The writer remembers the negro passing along Hope street, with Mr. Coy a few feet behind drumming for dear life, and a rabble following, hooting and yelling.
I have mentioned the Providence stage. This was the only public conveyance between Providence and Bristol (except sail- ing vessels on the bay) and connected at Bristol Ferry with a stage to Newport, carrying passengers and mail. The stage left Providence at 9 o'clock a. m., and usually arrived at Bristol soon after II o'clock. Leaving here the mail and Bristol passengers,
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it proceeded to Bristol Ferry, where the fares and mail were exchanged to and from Newport. The passengers were taken across the Ferry in a horse-boat, two horse power, the combined capital of William Pearse, on the Bristol side, and Jeremy Gif- ford on the island side of the strait. The stage returned to Prov- idence in the afternoon, leaving here at 2 o'clock, taking mail and passengers. This was the only mail received and dispatched in those days. The Post Office was in the small building on the north side of State street now owned and occupied by Mrs. Schneider. A flight of stairs in front led up to the second floor where the Post Office was kept. Dr. Lemuel W. Briggs was post- master at that time; he was the father of our present Dr. Briggs. There was a baggage wagon, drawn by four horses, a Mr. Daven- port as driver, that came every week from Boston, by way of Taunton. It left Boston on Monday and arrived here on Wednes- day. Returning it left here on Thursday and reached Boston on Saturday. This baggage wagon was always a welcome sight to the boys of that day. It was a strongly built affair, with a heavy canvas arched over it to protect its load from stormy weather. When it stopped on the south side of State street, just west of the entrance to the yard of the Bristol Hotel, with what interest we boys gathered to see the driver push aside the heavy curtains and expose to view the good things within-boxes of lemons and oranges and raisins, drums of figs, packages of confectionery, and bags of nuts. And this wagon coming once a week, was the trans- portation line for the exchange of commodities between these ports of trade-Boston, Taunton and Bristol. Mr. Hathaway succeeded Mr. Davenport. When the Boston and Providence Railroad was started, the baggage wagon ceased to run.
Some years before the opening of the Boston and Providence Railroad, John Chadwick ran a stage to Providence, called, and rightly so, the accommodation stage. It left here at 7 o'clock in the morning, and returning, left Providence at 4 o'clock p. m. Some months after it was started, a mail was made up and dis- patched by it, affording the people of the town additional facil- ities. Think of the many packages carried by Mr. Chadwick,
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and errands done without compensation; sometimes the more thoughtful did thank him. The express was not then known, it came into being at a later date.
When the Boston and Providence Railroad opened, Mr. Chadwick's stage left here at 5 o'clock in the morning, in order to connect with the 7 a. m. Boston train at India Point, then the only Providence terminus of that road; and left Providence at 6 p. m., after the arrival of the 4 o'clock afternoon train from Boston. The stage usually arrived here about 8 p. m. This made a pretty long day of it for the driver; Mr. Chadwick followed it six days in the week, exposed to all kinds of weather that a New England winter can produce. And the baggage he had to handle, you ought to have seen the top of his stage sometimes, when there were three or four female passengers inside. No; no "Saratogas". But there were bandboxes, and bandboxes in cloth sacks with drawing strings, and what would not a full grown bandbox with a deep sack cover hold, inside and on top? Nathaniel Maxfield, who succeeded Mr. Chadwick as driver, was a worthy successor with his accommodating spirit.
But the old bell, if it could speak, what a story it could tell of ye olden times, of the hands that so firmly grasped it, and swung it to and fro-of distress warrants, and vendue sales of bankrupt estates, of poor debtors' effects sold, to release them from prison. The law did not do much to shield the unfortunate debtor in those days; the creditor was entitled to his "pound of flesh", and usually took it. The wail of one poor debtor comes down to us, a hard-hearted creditor kept him in jail "six weeks in the cold month of January."
Let us accompany Mr. Coy with his old bell, as he starts on his rounds to give public notice. The sale to be advertised covers sundry articles of household furniture-tables, chairs, a feather bed, and other effects, from the home of a poor debtor (husband and father) in prison. So long as the creditor will pay his board he must remain in prison, until the debt and costs are paid. His family, dependent on his daily earnings for their bread, have endured the privation as long as it can be borne and, to pay the
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debt, the wife has sent these articles to the auction room. Some of them, perhaps, were heirlooms, dear from hallowed associa- tions, and are given up with tears, but they must be sacrificed. Mr. Coy is familiar with the circumstances of the case. He times his movements, so as to be at the foot of State street (Pump Lane), in front of the old market, at noon, just as the workmen from the shops and the wharves are streaming along on their way home to dinner. He rings his bell vigorously, and the people stop to listen. He begins-"Will be sold at public vandoo," naming the hour and place; and then follows a list of the articles to be sold. But the crowd still lingers, expecting to hear some quaint expression from the old crier. Today, after giving the name of the vendue master, he exclaims with much fervor- "God bless the rich," and then, dropping his voice, he adds, as he moves along-"the poor can beg." The crowd having heard the close, scatter to their homes; many laugh, while to others the old man's closing remarks are "food for reflection."
BRISTOL SKETCHES
By J. A. REID, 1848-1924
SAM SLOCUM was scullery-maid, house-maid, dish-washer, gardener, and errand boy for the Misses Cushman, who years ago kept a fashionable and select boarding house on Hope street, nearly opposite Wardwell street. In the early fifties he was one of the characters of the town. He never got drunk, was always sober, in a sense, frequently mad, and usually surrounded when on the street by small boys devilishly intent upon irritating him to a point of exasperation to make him swear at them, which he could do in ten languages. The jokes played upon him were endless and he became greatly enraged under the tantalizing treatment he received when he was sent out on errands.
On the Fourth, Sammy was in his fullest glory; the immac- ulate suit of white marseilles, a frock coat doubly starched, with
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the coat tails sticking out behind, a panama hat on his Websterian cranium, a most extravagant cane for a baton, and a gorgeous flower stuck in his coat lapel, he came pretty near leading the parade. He was one of the marvels of the parade, with Dan Tanner-the colored barber-at the head of the band, Sam a good second, and Dan Coggeshall in that flaming red flannel shirt of his, with his inimitable strut pointing the way for the King Philips, that patriotic parade was a howling success for many an Independence Day.
There is a well-known photograph of Joseph Jefferson, the famous actor, which comes as near representing Sam's striking countenance as anything I can think of. It is the one that shows the popular actor as Rip Van Winkle as he originally appears before going up into the Catskills for his 20 years' slumber, with the old, dilapidated, drooping felt hat, the brim lopping over his half-silly, sly, cunning and humorous face-a round head, a broad face, clean-shaven and rosy, rugged and wiry-he was in many ways, physically, the counter part of the famed character which Washington Irving and Jefferson created for the delight of millions of Americans.
Sam dearly loved all kinds of flashy jewelry, rings, pins, but- tons and about everything that would attract the eye. When he was dressed up, with his fingers covered with rings, he would hold them up and admire them, exclaiming: "ain't they purty, ain't they purty?" Sam came from Newport and spent a good portion of his days in Bristol. He made a not uninteresting part of its activities for a decade or more. He is entitled to a gracious mention in these annals of old Bristol, and we drop a smile and a tear, and pass him with deep regret.
"Uptown gentlemen, Downtown rats, Goree niggers, And Poppasquash cats,"-
This was a Bristol doggerel of 1855.
Goree to me was a great source of interest in my boyhood days. When I first knew it there were a number of black men still liv-
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ing there: Charlie Munroe, George Peck, Prime Clark, Kernton Slade, and a score of others whose names I have forgotten. The street had a variety of little houses-simplicity itself in their style of architecture, but bewilderingly pretentious in window decorations and door ornamentations. At the head of Franklin street there was one in which Charlie Munroe lived, where there must have been about forty-seven little pickaninnies "hived". I think they had enough of those small black woolly pates to re- place every broken pane of glass in the house-sides, front and back-where they didn't have them stuffed with old rags, and all the panes were all broken at all times, but I never passed there but the heads were stuck out of the holes-and the house careen- ing to one side or the other, just as though Charlie was contin- uously shifting his ballast to keep his old craft upright. Charlie himself was an interesting character; he was a distinguished look- ing old fellow, wore a tall white beaver hat-carried a heavy walking stick, and supported with great dignity his position there at the head of one of the main avenues of a famous seaport which has sent more than one rover to Africa for kings and queens in black.
Charlie Munroe was a native of Bristol, a descendant of the Wampanoag tribe of Indians; he was a son of Ichobod and Margaret Munroe, well and favorably known natives of Bristol. The many woolly pates hived with the old couple did not belong to them, for they had no children-they must have taken them in out of the rain sometime or another, and there they stayed.
Around this quaint neighborhood the colored folks of the town had clustered-and they were a pretty good class of people, too, some of them decidedly interesting. The men and women were decently self-respecting, some of the girls uncommonly good-looking, and the boys bright and clever; as good compan- ions for a lark as the average white boys. Among them I remem- ber John Robbins, young George Peck, Gid and Walter Sher- man, Mark and Bill DeWolf, young Kernton Slade, Jabe Hazard and a lot of other fellows who lived in Goree, good fish- ermen, clam-diggers, berry-pickers, carrot-pullers, corn-huskers
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and onion-bunchers, when forced to work, and very jolly boys when the time came to play.
The old Oakum Works was then standing just off Franklin street, in the neighborhood nearby were Peck's Rocks-the Rubber Works had not arrived-and in the winter time Good- ings' and Maj. Munroe's ponds were where we skated. At the foot of Franklin street the skiffs and other small boats supplied our needs for amusement in the summer time.
When the Artillery company held their annual fair they im- ported from Warren an entertainer named Valorious Glorious; he was a coal-black nigger, could play the accordion, dance the Highland Fling in the original Scotch, knee-breeks, plaid, Glen- garry and all, or he could present a fancy dance as a charming ballet girl with flesh-colored tights and spangles. His strong point was that accordion, that he would make speak; with his impersonations and costumes, he was a welcome favorite and almost the whole show wherever he appeared. For years he traveled over the country, giving at fairs, picnics, hotels and shore resorts a sort of musicale and dance, which, by its very sim- plicity and the unique character of Valorious himself, was sure to meet with great favor. He was awfully black, supple in his movements-and when he talked lisped a bit, this took the fancy of the boys and girls, and made him very popular. The last time I saw him was at a fair given at the Armory of the Artillery Company on State street. But the principal feature about him after all was that name-Valorious Glorious George Washington Peck Hathaway Stout-where he got it, or how, I never knew. What became of him, would be interesting to know. In his day he did his little to make life happier and merrier, and his name rightfully belongs on the roll we are recording.
Thanksgiving Day in those days, with football on the Com- mon, skating on the harbor and on Reynolds', Josephus Good- ing's, Sydney DeWolf's and Major Munro's ponds; plenty of ducks, geese, and turkeys for the dinner after the morning services at the various churches, made that a day to look forward to, but Independence Day was, after all, the greatest of the year. Wash-
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ington's Birthday was sure to see a parade of the Train of Artil- lery and a salute of as many guns as the nation was old; " 'Lec- tion Day" at Newport brought home a few tin horns, and some waterlogged leftovers. "Gunpowder Treason Night" stirred up active memories of Guy Fawkes in the purloining of fences, gar- den gates and loose barn doors for the bonfires after it grew dark; circus days were always great and fascinating, but the Fourth was the "Day of Days" for the patriotic youngsters of the town,- starting at four o'clock in the morning and lasting till 10:30 at the other end of the day. How much we lived on that day. Peepers began to open at three o'clock, impulses to quicken at three-thirty and bouncing out of bed at four. The drum corps began to make the welkin ring soon after, and the Antiques and Horribles turned out in their fantastic costumes as near daybreak as the law would allow. The din of firecrackers, pistols and guns ushered in the day, the day we had waited for one long year, with a vengeance. Along about nine o'clock the small boys began to gather in front of the Armory and the King Philip's Fire Engine House, eager to get a sight of the soldier boys and the red-shirted firemen. The "Red, White and Blue" colors were everywhere. The peanut stands with their fancy lemonade, sugar ginger bread, popcorn balls, confections, torpedoes, firecrackers, pin- heads and slow-matches were all about the front of the Common and on the street corners along High and Hope streets from Bradford to Church. They made us glad we were alive and lured out of our pockets before dinner time every cent we had, and sent us to father and mother for more ..
When we saw Colonel Elisha Wardwell and Lieut. Col. Tom Frank Usher appear in their gorgeous uniforms and take com- mand of the Artillery, we knew things were about to commence, the company get into line, and that the American Band, led by old Joe Green with his celebrated bugle, would at once make things move to the inspiration of the "Star Spangled Banner", "Hail Columbia", and "Old Bristol". Under the marshalship of Col. Charles Sherry, next to Gen. Burnside one of the best- looking as well as most public spirited gentlemen who has lived
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under the shade of Bristol's magnificent elms, the parade was formed at ten o'clock to march through the principal streets to the Town Hall. Here the citizens listened to the opening prayer by the Rev. Dr. Shepard, the reading of the Declaration of Inde- pendence by the prettiest girl from the High School, a fine ora- tion by the Hon. Henry White Diman, a benediction by the Rev. Samuel F. Upham, and the splendid music of Joe Green's famous band.
At noon, the usual salute was fired on the Common, the church bells were rung-that in the Congregational Church by Nat Church, the faithful old soul who looked after that form of expression year in and year out, with nervous fervor and tireless assiduity. After the dismissal of the parade came the Fourth of July dinner, then games on the Common in the afternoon,- chasing of greased pigs, climbing the greased poles, etc.,-ring- ing of the church bells again at 6 o'clock, and the band concert with fireworks on the Common and at "Fort Daddy Rounds" in the evening.
No Fourth was complete in the old town without a few rows on State street in the neighborhood of the old Town Pump, or around the old Steamboat wharf, and if somebody didn't get licked in the afternoon the day was not considered a success. There were certain boys who evidently came into the town with a premeditated plan to celebrate in this way, and they were usually accommodated.
One of the places on Hope street which catered to the boys and girls faithfully on this and all other days was that of Dan Wilcox, who served the best ice cream ever, with the help of his gracious, gentle and sweet-tempered helpmate, in his own quick, snappy way. Sweet are thy memories, Mr. and Mrs. Dan, they will always linger with us.
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