The total tonnage of the above, forty-six ships, was 67,041, averaging 1,457. The greatest achievements of these vessels were the passage of the Flying Cloud, Capt. Cressey, from New York to San Francisco in 89 days, and the run by the Sovereign of the Seas of 430 geographical miles in 24 hours.
Some of the customs prevailing in my youth and early manhood may be as interesting as the topographical changes in Boston. There was no day police established in Boston until 1854, and old Constable Derastus Clapp stationed in and about State street, was the only officer ever seen. In the above year a police force, under the direction of a chief, was established, but not uniformed until 1856. I remember that the newspapers on a day after the 4th of July, commented with pride on the quiet and peaceful dispersion of the crowd on the Common, witnessing the fireworks the evening before, without a police officer to keep them in order. There were only night watchmen with their rattles who cried the hour with “All is well.” They wore in cool weather plaid camlet cloaks, and as there was a city ordinance forbidding smoking in the streets, which by the way has never been repealed, I have many a time when meeting them concealed my cigar until they were out of sight. My readers may not be aware that a by-law was adopted in Plymouth in 1831, which is still in force, forbidding smoking in any street, lane or public square, or on any wharf in the town.
Ringing the bell at various hours during the day and evening for the convenience of the inhabitants, has so far as Plymouth is concerned, been confined to the town sexton. Since, however, the ringing has been detached from the duties of a sexton proper, who was an officer of the church, the name sexton in our town is now given to the bell ringer, who continues to be chosen by the town every year, though he has now no connection with the church. The first mention of a sexton in the town records is under date of 1712, when Eleazer Rogers was chosen “to ring the bell, sweep the meeting house, keep the doors and windows of said meeting house shut and open for the congregation’s use upon all occasions, and carefully look after said house as above said.” In 1714 he was required to ring the bell at nine o’clock every evening. From that time to this a town sexton is chosen each year, who since the severance of the First Church from the town no longer rings the bell for church, while each church has its own sexton for that duty. The custom in Plymouth is to ring the Town bell as follows at 7 a. m., 12 noon, 1 p. m. and nine p. m., all the year; 6 p. m. when the sun sets after that hour, and on Saturdays 5 p. m., instead of 6. This custom of bell ringing existed in Boston, as well as other places, and I have heard it stated that the Old South Church bell was rung as late as 1836 at 11 a. m. to announce “the grog time o’ day.” The nine o’clock evening bell had its origin in the ancient curfew bell, which derived from the French words, “couvre feu,” was rung at an hour when the fires in houses should be covered up. It was adopted in New England merely to indicate the hour.
There was a method in Boston of lighting the street lamps, which was primitive. The city was divided into districts, and a lamplighter was appointed for each district. The lamps were all oil lamps until 1834, and each lighter would start from home in the morning carrying a ladder, a can of oil, and a filled and trimmed lamp. He would take the old lamp out of the first lantern, putting the fresh one in its place. He would then fill and trim the lamp he took out and go on to the next lantern, and so on through his district. There was another custom, so far as I know peculiar to Boston, where domestic life was less extravagantly and luxuriously enjoyed than in New York, Philadelphia and Baltimore. Few families kept men servants, and many gentlemen, rather than impose the work of blacking boots on servant girls, or have blacking in the house, fell in with a plan suggested by the Brattle street negroes. For many years the shops on the south side of that street were chiefly occupied by shoe blacks and negro dealers in second hand clothing. Some of these negroes went about on the first of January and secured lists of subscribers for their work for the year as a milkman or an ice man would for his milk or ice. If, for instance, he was a beginner in the industry, he would start out early in the morning with two rods about eight feet long, and an inch or more in diameter, and calling at the house of the first subscriber, take his boots and stringing them by the tugs on a rod like herrings on a stick, go the rounds of his subscribers, and the next morning exchange the clean boots for soiled ones. A more general employment of men servants, and finally boot black shops and stands put an end to this custom.
CHAPTER XXXXII.
The changes in the militia system of Massachusetts within my memory have been great, but in my judgment not materially for the better. There are always those who are anxious to tinker existing methods of doing things and
“Who are apt to view their sires
In the light of fools and liars,”
and the organization of the militia has not escaped their meddlesome hand. Under the militia law in force when I was a boy, every man between the ages of eighteen and forty-five was enrolled, and was required to appear at an annual inspection and drill. The volunteer militia and some specified persons, were exempted from this service. These enrolled men were called militia men, and on the day fixed by law those in Plymouth appeared on Training Green, and after being duly inspected, were generally dismissed. But this was not invariably the case. I remember one year when a newly chosen captain determined to exact of his company all the duties, which the spirit, if not the letter, of the law required. Much to the discomfort of his men he marched them through town and nearly out to Seaside, and made it known that the legal fine would be imposed on all delinquents. I have a distinct recollection of their march up North street, their line extending in single file from Water to Court street. The younger men in the ranks enjoyed the fun, each carrying his musket as was convenient to himself, and some wearing knapsacks of domestic manufacture, displaying devices intended to excite the applause of the accompanying crowd. Apples and peanuts were freely indulged in, while long nine cigars and pipes of extraordinary proportions left a trail of smoke like the steam from a locomotive. It was not, however, the law, but the method of enforcing it, which made the annual inspection a farce, and if it be necessary to inculcate a martial spirit in the community and maintain a volunteer militia, it would be well to revive the old law and re-establish the old militia from which volunteers could be drawn.
Under the old system, the volunteer militia was in a healthy condition, and was at the height of its glory when the Civil War broke out. It was divided into divisions, brigades and regiments, and for many years there were in Plymouth an infantry and an artillery company; an infantry and artillery company in Abington, and infantry companies in Carver, Plympton, Halifax, Middleboro, Bridgewater, and I think Hingham. There were in those days annual brigade or regimental musters, and the musterfield in Plymouth was what is now the Robbins’ field, opposite to the house of Gideon F. Holmes. Those musters were great occasions for the boys, and we were always on hand, not caring whether school kept or not. We carried out our programme for the day to the minutest detail. We were on hand in Town square when the Carver company abandoned their wagons and began their march to the tented field. We then inspected the caparisoned horses of Col. Thomas Weston of Middleboro and his staff in the yard of Bradford’s tavern, and when under escort of the Standish Guards and the Plymouth Artillery, they marched to the music of the Plymouth Band, we followed, and perhaps reached the field in time to witness the arrival of the Halifax Light Infantry and the Plympton Rifle Rangers. A few cents in our pockets were sufficient to carry us through the day. The company drills, the dress parade and the sham fight received our careful attention, and the casualties in the last were on one occasion less than they would have been had not a ramrod fired by a careless soldier found a target in a distant barn. When I recall my experience at muster I am reminded of a remark made by Edward Trowbridge Dana, a brother of the late Richard H. Dana, after a service at the old Trinity church in Summer street, in Boston, in which Bishop Eastburn officiated. The Bishop was an Englishman, a handsome man, and splendid horseman, whom I have often seen riding in Boston streets wearing top boots, and looking as if he had been accustomed to following the hounds. He was as showy in the pulpit as in the saddle, and impressed his hearers more by his voice and gestures than by the matter of his discourse. On the occasion referred to, Dana, when asked by a friend on coming out of church, how he liked the Bishop, replied, “I feel as I used to when a boy on the muster field, belly full of watermelon, and head full of bass drum.” It was at one of the musters above referred to held in Dedham that a new, slangy name was introduced. It was when the temperance movement was active, and the sale of intoxicating liquor was kept as much as possible out of public sight. One of the side show tents at the muster in question exhibited over its entrance a large canvass bearing a picture of a striped pig, which could be seen for a fee of ninepence. This new zoological specimen attracted great attention, and crowds learned novel lessons in Natural History. The exit from the tent was in the rear, and it was observed that every zoological student came out wiping his lips, while a large number returned for a second sight of the “critter.”