I did not dispute even this assurance on his part. And when he left, I had one hundred dollars of his money, and he took away with him four of my "splendid" pure-bred Grey Shanghaes, which I sent to the cars with him when he bade me good-day.
This was but a single sample of the real humbugs that presented themselves to us, from time to time, all of whom were certain to inform us that they were "thoroughly acquainted" with the entire details of the business; all of whom had been through the routine, and "knew every rope in the ship;" none of whom were affected with the "fever" (so they always declared), and not one of whom believed, while they were thus striving to pull wool over the eyes of others, that they were all the time being "shaken down" without mercy!
This was the very class of men who, in the later days of the malady, assisted most to keep up the delusion, and to aid in carrying on the hum of the trade. To be sure, the keepers of agricultural warehouses talked, and told big stories to their poor customers, who would buy eggs and chickens of them, for a while, at round prices; true, most of the agricultural papers strove from week to week to keep up the deceit, after the editors or proprietors found their yards over-stocked with this species of property, for which they had originally paid me (or somebody else) roundly, and which they "couldn't afford to lose," though they knew it to be valueless! True, the hen-men themselves kept their advertising and the big stories of their success constantly before "the people," whom they gulled from day to day. But no portion of the community did more to "help the cause along" than did this self-sufficient, learned, know-nothing, thin-skinned class of "wise-acres," who never chanced to make much more than a considerable out of the writer of this paragraph—I think!
Among this well-informed (?) set of men there was a "John Bull" who was connected in some way with a Boston weekly, which was nominally called an agricultural sheet, but which for several years was filled with articles upon the subject of "the equality of the sexes."
His name was Pudder, or Pucker, or Padder, as nearly as I remember. From the commencement of this fever he was sorely affected, and his articles upon the merits of the different breeds of fowls he raised were very learned and instructive! He sold eggs for three, four, or five dollars a dozen, for a few weeks; but, as they didn't hatch, his game was soon blocked. Still, he stuck to this hum with the obstinacy of a "bluenose;" and his readers were indebted to his advice for possessing themselves of the most worthless mass of trash (in the shape of poultry) that ever cursed the premises of amateur. His lauded "Plymouth Rocks," his "Fawn-colored Dorkings," his "Italians," his "Drab Shanghaes," etc., sold, however; and the poor devils who read the paper, and who purchased this stuff, lived (like a good many others) to realize, to their hearts' content, after paying this fellow for being thus humbugged, the truth of the old adage that "the fool and his money is soon parted."
Still, Podder was useful—in his way—in the hen-trade. The operations of such ignorant and wilful hucksters had the effect of opening the eyes of those who desired to obtain good stock, and who were willing to pay for it. And after they had been thus fleeced, they became cautious, and procured their poultry only of "honorable" and responsible breeders (like myself), who imported and bred nothing but known pure stock.
As late as in January, 1855, a western agricultural sheet alludes to the flaming advertisement of an old hand in this traffic, and says: "It is known to all who know anything about poultry that Mr. G—— has been an amateur breeder for about forty years, and is undoubtedly better 'posted,' in reference to domestic and fancy fowls, than any other man in America; and, beside this, he is an honest man, and has no 'axe to grind.' He has raised fowls, heretofore, solely for his own amusement; but now he proposes to accommodate the public by disposing of some of them."
This man is my "fat friend" in Connecticut,—who has bred and bought and sold as much trash, in the past ten years, as the best (or the worst) of us. Friend Brown, we could tell you a story worth two of yours, on this point! But—we forbear.