The Life of Benjamin R. Tucker

3. Boyhood in New Bedford

As I must have been at least ten or eleven years old at the time of my grandfather's death, I can account for my failure to recall him more clearly only by the fact that my uncommonly good memory has sometimes played me curious tricks. He had two brothers and a sister living almost side by side in the village of North Dartmouth. His bachelor brother William and his maiden sister Hetty lived together in a small house, while two or three doors away lived his brother John (who was also my father's brother-in-law), in a larger house, with his wife Elizabeth and a large family of children. Benjamin, dying in 1865 or thereabouts, left an estate of some importance, but William, with whom he was closely associated in real estate interests, left a very much larger one, principally because he had no immediate family and spent little or nothing, dying many years later in a condition of absolute senility. (Though John was not rich, his children, like Benjamin's, inherited from their uncle William. There were many heirs, but the property, for those days, was large. Of course, my mother was one of the beneficiaries, -- a fact that, because of its importance in the shaping of my career, justifies this interruption of my story, which I now resume.

A Neglected Lesson in Self-Determination.

Wilson's doctrine was presented to New Bedford just before the firing on Sumter, and, if I had been older, I could have appreciated its force. In a speech delivered in that city on April 9, 1861, in the presence of a hissing audience, no less a person than Wendell Phillips said: "Here are a series of States guiding the Gulf, who think that their peculiar institutions require that they should have a separate government. They have a right to decide that question, without appealing to you or me. A large body of people, sufficient to make a nation, has come to the conclusion that they will have a government of a certain form. Who denies them the right? Standing with the principles of '76 behind us, who can deny them the right?....I maintain, on the principles of '76 that Abraham Lincoln has no right to a soldier in Fort Sumter.....Understand me: I believe in the Union, exactly as you do, in the future. This is my proposition: 'Go out, gentlemen; you are welcome to your empire; take it.' Let them try the experiment of cheating with one hand and idleness with the other. I know that God has written bankruptcy over such an experiment....When the battles of Abraham Lincoln are ended, New England may claim the right to secede."

It is little wonder that these sentiments were greeted with hisses.

In New Bedford, in 1861, even moderate self-determinationists had a hard road to hoe. They were known as "copperheads," and among them were some of the best men in the city. I was too young to realize their value. My school days were beginning, during which I was to acquire the rudimentary knowledge that would enable me to study for myself self-determination and kindred problems.

Directly across the street from the Ricketson house there was a private school for juveniles, kept by a tall, plain, and effusive young woman, Miss Ellen T. Congdon. Her father, James B. Congdon, was the City Treasurer, and her uncle, Charles P. Congdon, was our editorial writer of no mean ability on the staff of the New York Tribune under Horace Greeley. She was my first school-teacher, and I doubt if the benefit of her tuition amounted to more than a strengthening of my grasp upon such knowledge as my mother had already imparted. When I was withdrawn from her school at the end of a year, my principal feeling was one of relief at being freed from the necessity of kissing twice a day a woman upon whom nature had cruelly bestowed a luxuriant black moustache. Possibly this experience helped to make me backward about killing the girls for long, long years to come.

The Firm of Tucker & Cummings.

In May 1861, my mother gave birth to another daughter, Alice, who lived but little more than a year. She was named for my father's aunt, Mrs. Alice Peckham, who lived in Westport with her husband, Peleg Peckham. They were an old and childless couple, and had some property. I do not recollect that I ever saw them. They died during the sixties, and their estate fell to their neighbors (the Church family already spoken of) and to my father and his family. In the distribution the younger generation was not forgotten. My share, I believe, was one thousand dollars, which went into the bank to keep company with the hundred given to me at my birth.

Summer in the Green Mountains.

My father came from New Bedford for several week-ends, and once for a fortnight's stay. We're returned early in September, my mother nearly well, but Alice worse. Comfortable transportation was then unknown, and the baby had no rest during the tedious journey, the cars were filled with drunken and ill-behaved soldiers. As a result, she died before the month was out.

Despite this untoward termination of our summer, my father, an enthusiast by nature, lost thereafter no opportunity to sing the praises of Stowe. All his friends in New Bedford heard of it; those in Boston also. And the summer of 1863 saw the little brick hotel filled to overflowing. We passed three successive summers there, -- that of 1864 in a large, new, wooden hotel accommodating several hundred guests. The resort has been prosperous ever since, and it may fairly be said that it owes its fortune to my father.

The Friends' Academy.

The Friends' Academy, as its name implies, was founded by the Quaker element in New Bedford, and stood in large grounds extending from Morgan Street, the girls' side, to Elm Street, the boys'. The boys' playground was especially spacious. The sexes were separated according to Quaker practice, but pupils were received regardless of religious profession. Probably the Unitarian denomination was represented among the pupils more largely than any other. I do not remember that religious ceremonies played the least part in the school exercises. In 1863 the institution was in charge of two brothers, T.P. and Edward A.H. Allen, members of a large family of pedagogues, seven or eight in all. T.P., as he was called, had charge of the boys. The lowest class, in which I was placed, comprise about a dozen members, all my mates being from one-and-a-half to three years older than myself. I have two school reports rendered by T.P. to my parents, one dated October 30, 1863, the other March 4, 1864. The first reads as follows:

"Reading: remarkably good. Spelling: excellent. Writing: painstaking and improving. Drawing: excellent. Geometry: very faithful and studious. Geography: entirely satisfactory. General Exercise: attentive and interested. Written exercise very creditable.

"Benjamin's mind is not so mature as the other boys', and does not grasp a subject quite so quickly; but he is exceedingly faithful, learns his lessons well, and is making good progress. "

In my view, the ratings for drawing and geometry should have been transposed. For drawing, I have no talent at all, whereas in geometry, from the moment that I began its study, my mind grasped instantly every elementary problem that I lacked the self-possession shown by boys two years my senior, but I venture the opinion that a boy of nine who, competing with a boy of eleven, does not lag behind, shows, in proportion to his years, the greater maturity.

The second report simply lists the studies without special comments, and concludes thus:

"Benjamin continues to give us entire satisfaction. He appears interested in his work and to understand thoroughly what he is about. The whole class to which he belongs is an uncommonly pleasant and intelligent one, and I think his progress in connection with it cannot but be rapid and solid."

In the second report grammar is listed among the studies. This is certainly a mistake. Never in my life have I had a set lesson in English grammar, strange as the fact may seem. My study of grammar began when I took up Latin, and was confined to the structure of that language. At that time, the architecture of speech came to me as a complete revelation. Subsequently I studied it in connection with other tongues. But my sole instruction in English grammar has consisted in correction of grammatical errors in written exercises, unaccompanied by explanation or statement of rules. In this branch my real knowledge has been acquired by constant reading of good literature, as is indicated by the fact that I write correctly, while my speech is far from what it should be. Through reading too has come the art of composition, so far as I possess it.

My First Composition.

"The structure of the ear is the most difficult to find out about, of any of the organs of the body. When a man makes a speech, that is so long that it takes an hour and a half to make it to twenty thousand people, every word of that speech falls distinctly, and at the same instant, on every one of those forty thousand ears. If you are in a room all alone, and you are turning your attention chiefly to a book and a person should come into the room, and speak to you five or six times in a loud tone, you would not hear him, because you was paying so much attention to the book. When you are walking about on the busy streets of a city, where there is a continual buzz and whir, and yet you could turn your attention to one particular noise, so that you would not be conscious of hearing the other noises. If two persons go into the water and are a half a mile apart, and one of the persons puts his hands into the water, and strikes two stones together in the water, the other one would hear it. Whispering Galleries are rooms which are so well constructed, that if you put your ear to a certain point in the wall, and another man goes a long distance away, and makes a slight noise, the other person could hear it. If a man took a long stick, and put one end to a man's ear, and made such a slight noise on the other end that he could not hear it himself, the other person would hear it. If a person was in a church where there were two hundred persons singing, and fifty musical instruments besides an organ, he could turn his attention to one particular instrument, and if the man that played the organ was playing with all his fingers and both feet at the same time, he could turn his attention to any one of the fingers, and not be conscious of hearing any of the others."

T.P. Allen resigning in 1864, Edward A.H. Allen became principal of the two schools, with Edwin P. Seaver, a Harvard graduate, as first assistant in special charge of the boys. In 1865 Mr. Seaver accepted a position of more importance in Boston, and was succeeded by John Tetlow, a Brown graduate. Still later, through the retirement (or possibly the death) of Mr. Allen, Mr. Tetlow became principal, with Andrew Ingraham as first assistant. Of all these gentlemen Mr. E.A.H. Allen was the mildest, Mr. Seaver the handsomest, Mr. Tetlow the most efficient, and Mr. Ingraham the most cultured. I got on very well with all of them. During the successive stages there was a steady trend toward co-education of the sexes. As a first step, they mingled in the class-rooms only; later all pupils had their desks in the largest room, up one flight, originally devoted to the girls exclusively, but Quakerism still kept the boys on one side and the girls on the other Such was the status when I left in 1870. Heaven knows what goes on there now, in this year of our Lord, 1928! Very likely, at recess, they dance the black bottom to the music of a jazz band.

Favorite Sports.

My Debt to Unitarianism.

Feb. 25, 1927

Dear Sir:

Your interesting programme of sermons on "Damaged Isms" falls under my eye very tardily. But I hope that it is not too late to suggest that, in view of the fact that the man who is credited (or debited perhaps), whether deservedly or not, with being the leading American Anarchist was raised in the parish over which you now preside, and during his ten most formative years sat steadily under the remarkable preaching of one of the greatest of your predecessors, and furthermore, just fifty years ago. At the age of twenty-three, though known as an Atheist and Materialist, was invited by that courageous, distinguished, and highly revered clergyman to take a class in his Sunday School (said invitation nevertheless being gratefully declined on the ground that such a bull in such a china shop must inevitably do irreparable damage to the porcelain), it is almost ungenerous on your part to neglect to say a "God Word" for Anarchism, when you are showering your "Good Words" so lavishly upon almost all the other Isms, including Anarchism's direct opposite, Communism.

Perhaps, however, in the foregoing criticism, I am unjust to you. Indeed, I cherish the hope that you look upon Anarchism as the only Ism that, despite all the furiously insane assaults upon it, remains undamaged, and therefore is in no need of your assistance. And I make bold to say that it will so continue, with or without your "Good Word."

Yours respectfully,

Benjamin R. Tucker"

My Escape from Sunday School.

The New Bedford Lyceum.

Literary Preferences.

While continuing the fiction, I turn my attention to science and philosophy. The reading of Darwin's "Origin of Species" and "Descent of Men," followed by Spencer's "First Principles," constituted an event in my life and virtually completed my acquaintance with books up to the finish of my school days in New Bedford. Nearly all the works just mentioned, as well as many single volumes besides, I obtained from the city's public library and from a circulating library in Cummings Building. My newspaper reading up to the age of twelve was confined to the two dailies of New Bedford, the Mercury and the Standard, and to the Boston Journal, to which my father was a subscriber. Shortly before my twelfth birthday, being asked by my parents what I would like for a birthday present, I expressed a preference for a year's subscription to Horace Greeley's journal, the New York Tribune. My wish was granted, and from that day I read the Tribune religiously until Greeley's death about seven years later. This fine gift, received in the spring of 1866, was followed in the autumn by another still more notable and from the same source, -- a set of the "New American Cyclopedia," edited by George Ripley and Charles A. Dana, in sixteen large volumes, bound in sheep. To me these books have been, as still are (though out of date) of invaluable service. It speaks highly for the wisdom and the generosity of my parents that they, not "bookish" themselves, were willing and glad to indulge my literary tastes. The home library was not large. My mother read the better novels of the day and some poetry. As for my father, he read the daily newspapers with a degree of regularity, but, so far as I know, the only book that he ever read was "Uncle Tom's Cabin." They were subscribers, however, to the Independent, a weekly which I enjoyed because of Theodore Tilton's brilliant editorial writing.

New Bedford Homes.

Between 1862 and 1868 the Tucker household knew two removals. On the expiration of the Bonney Street lease in 1865, my father effected a new three-year lease of a large house on the corner of School and Sixth Streets, near the centre of the city and about a quarter of a mile from his place of business. It was an old, roomy, and comfortable structure, known as the Howland house, having no grounds, but wasting a stable that was anything but stable, as will be seen presently. Late in 1867 we moved again, to a house two blocks distant, which may mother purchased for six thousand dollars. It was on the corner of Spring and Seventh Streets, the Spring Street number being 93. This house, too, was a survival. At the present day it must, I think, be nearing the end of its second century. It was build by an old physician, Dr. Spooner, and was long know by his name. His idea of convenience must have been primitive. Several of the rooms were inaccessible except by passage through others, and the toilet facilities certainly were afterthoughts. Yet there were delightful features, -- among them an immense square living room having no less than six windows, two on each of three sides, and in which I did nearly all my reading.

In 1904 this house became my property through inheritance. In the meantime the population of the city had tripled. Yet, strange to say, this piece of real estate, situated but one short block from the principal business street, had gained very little in value. I sold it at auction (in 1907, I believe) for eight hundred dollars in excess of the figure paid by my mother. The buyer was my cousin, Benjamin Cummings. A few years ago he in turn sold it to an undertaker, at what price I do not know. Doubtless at a good one, for everything that he touches turns to gold. But is it one of the little ironies of Fate that my old dwelling place should have passed out of the hands of my cousin, who hardly can pass a cemetery without roundly cursing such abominable waste of valuable land to be advertised daily in the New Bedford newspapers as "WS Dillingham's Colonial Funeral Home." (This additional advertisement is purely gratuitous.)

Dancing and Riding.

In such a case I endeavor to regain their confidence by recounting a disastrous equestrian adventure that befell me contemporaneously. It occurred in the unstable stable. My Westport cousin, Christopher Church, was visiting us at the time and had brought his pony with him. As my father kept no horses then, we had not tested the old stable, but it was decided that we could safely give the pony accommodation. On the afternoon following Christopher's arrival, no one being at home except the domestics and my sister Julia, then seven years old, I concluded that the moment was auspicious for venturing a short ride. So Christopher saddled and bridled the pony, and I mounted him in the middle of the stable floor. Just at that moment a domestic came running in, carrying Julia in her arms. This sudden appearance frightened the pony, and he reared. As his forelegs came down with force upon the rotten floor, the timbers gave way, and the pony and I dropped about four feet into the cellar, floundering among broken beams. After several frantic efforts, the terrified animal, with a vigorous leap, recovered sound footing, and I clambered off his back. The pony rushed into his stall, I began to scold the servant, Julia began to cry, and Christopher viewed the hole in the floor with blank dismay. What happened after the return of the family I do not remember nor what disposal was made of the pony, but it is safe to say that for some time to come, I preferred dancing to riding. Glory is not always agreeable, but ignominy is ever intolerable.

Death of Sister Julia.

Julia was a child of promise. Not exactly beautiful, her features nevertheless were remarkably sympathetic. After her death the leading crayon artist of the day made a life-size bust-portrait of her from a tin-type. It is still in my possession and strangers sometimes ask if it is a likeness of myself as a child. I often wonder whether, had she lived, her intellectual bent would have corresponded with my own. That she was not exactly stupid is shown by a little incident that occurred some weeks before her death. Among local political issues that of prohibition versus license was prominent. The State law permitted each community to exercise local option annually. The friends of license were banded in an organization styling itself the Personal Liberty League, the members being known familiarly as P.L.L.s. In New Bedford the municipal election was approaching, and the P.L.L. candidate for mayor was a near neighbor of ours, Andrew G. Pierce, on of the most staid, sober, and substantial citizens of the community. One morning, at the breakfast table, the campaign was under discussion. The P.L.L.s being referred to as members of the Personal Liberty League, Julia looked surprised. "Why!" she exclaimed, "I thought those letters meant 'Pierce Loves Liquor'." Our neighbor was much amused when my father told him the story.

Joyous Memories of the Great.

Strangely enough, I am writing this paragraph just after returning from a lecture delivered here in Monaco by an Englishwomen on "Humor Among the English People." Nine-tenths of the audience were English, some of them white-haired. Dickens, of course, was spoken of with warmth. I wondered, as I listened, whether, should the lecturer ask of her audience: "Who among you all ever saw Charles Dickens's face?" I should not be the only one to rise. It would indeed be delightful to find some one now and then with whom to share this joyous memory, but there is also a certain selfish pleasure in my singularity. Realization of this has led me to the conclusion that parents should take pains to store the minds of children with similar recollection, and I have heeded the lesson the case of my own daughter, Oriole. I am sure that the experiment will not prove a failure, but at least in one instance it led to a ludicrous result. In the year 1920 we were living in Nice, and Oriole was not yet twelve years old. About the theatre she knew next to nothing, little opportunity for dramatic entertainment having been afforded during the war. Suddenly announcement was made that Sarah Bernhardt was coming to Nice to share with the public her reminiscences of Edmond Rostand, who had died some months before. For years Bernhardt had been in rebellion against old age, but had not been able to defy it. She was little more than a reminder of her former self, her marvelous voice had lost is charm, and, having suffered an amputation of one of her legs, she could appear only under circumstances that permitted concealment of her infirmity. Seated behind a draped reading desk, she could relate and recite, and whatever she could do she was determined to do until the last. Oriole was told of her great career, but could form little conception of it. To some extent I enlisted her interest by informing her that I had known the artist personally and had been her guest. As Oriole understood and spoke French, it was sure that Bernhardt's efforts, however imperfect, would leave some impress on her youthful mind. Accordingly we attended the recital. The result was sufficient to inspire Oriole with a desire to convey her impressions to the readers of her favorite magazine, St. Nicholas, and she began her letter with the statement that she had "been to see Sarah Bernhardt, the great one-legged actress." At the risk of darkening her enthusiasm, she was persuaded that, while her letter was worthy of preservation among her own memoirs, it had been await publicity on a more suitable occasion Which occasion, so far the phrase cited is concerned, now presents itself.

Earning My Pocket-Money.

My Unique Cousin.

A Debate and a Victory.

Diet, Disease, and Death.

As for myself, I was born with a constitution and a power of digestion that easily entitled me to a century of life. At the age of seventy-four I cannot "read my title clear" to such a rounding, let alone the "mansions in the skies." I had nearly all the usual children's diseases, which in those benighted times were looked upon as more desirable than dangerous. Fortunately I had them lightly. Later I was troubled a little by repeated attacks of tonsillitis, which I got rid of in my twenty-fifth year by growing a full beard, never shaving again until my fiftieth year. At the age of thirty-five a mild but persistent siege of rheumatic fever, caused by insufficient sleep resulting from a combination of day and night work, haunted me for nine weeks. Apart from these, I enjoyed more than half a century of the most perfect health imaginable, rarely suffering pain in any form. I hardly know what it is to have a headache. The comparative absence of pain still continues, but fifty years of heavy eating destroyed the stability of my equilibrium, in the of which now lies my chief danger.

I was not only gourmand but to an extent gourmet. In my boyhood my father often took me with him on his buying trips to Boston, so highly did he value my services as a taster of butter, for which I was always well paid by an abundant and toothsome luncheon at Boston's most famous restaurant, Parker's. It was my father's opinion, frequently expressed, that I could "digest a board nail." We always had a good table at home. It pleased my mother to provide it and it pleased the rest of us to consume it. What she could not endure with perfect equanimity was failure to appear punctually at the festive board. Every member of the household was expected to be ready for breakfast at the appointed hour, with no evidence of neglect of toilet.

Punctuality and Self-Help.

Moreover, this was not the only way in which, without knowing it, she prepared me for my Anarchistic career. She taught me self-help also. We always had two domestics, but she would never allow me to call upon them. "They have their appointed work," she would say to me; "it is for you to leave them free to do it. If you want extra service, perform it yourself." And here again she set the example. Even in her very old age she would always climb one or two flights of stairs herself rather than allow another to going her stead. By nature she was a remarkable woman, respected and loved by all, ever ready to help, never ready to be helped.

"Joe Bigler."

Trip to Washington.

First Play and First Opera.

Household Games.

Still less than sports in general did society pleasures charm me. When I curled up in an easy chair at home, reading Herbert Spencer, it was a difficult thing to drive me out of our house to enter another where I might be expected to talk with a girl having nothing but beauty to recommend her, and perhaps very little of that. As for dancing parties, which were common in New Bedford, they were the bane of my existence. The "German" was the fashionable dance then, and an invitation to a party imposed upon the boy receiving it the duty of hunting a partner. How I used to pity the girl who, too truthful to declare that she was already under pledge, and too polite to say that she preferred to be a "wall flower," was obliged to answer me with a smiling "Yes" that at once cast doubt upon her honesty.

A Momentous Decision.

It was shortly after my sixteenth birthday that I announced my purpose to the consternation of my parents. Seeing that something must be done at once, they summoned the principal of the Academy, Mr. Tetlow, to the house that he might spend an evening in an effort to convince me of my error. There was a vigorous battle, which resulted in a compromise. At the moment I viewed the situation with no little dissatisfaction, but now I look back at that evening's decision as the greatest favor that Fortune ever did me. It being evident that I was determined no to go to Harvard, the suggestion was made that I go instead to the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, then a comparatively young, but promising, school of industrial science. This in itself did not appeal to me, as I am lacking in mechanical faculty, and therefore could not hope for success in a technical career. But the plan had incidental aspects not unpleasing, and I saw, moreover, that its adoption would, perhaps, prevent my parents' hearts from breaking altogether. Such scientific training as I might acquire would never come amiss and a series of years in the heart of Boston was tempting to a boy of my tastes, offering me in a tenfold degree such opportunities as in New Bedford had already been the object of my choice. Those who find it contradictory that a boy averse to "the humanities" should gravitate to the "Athens of America" (I pray forgiveness for recalling a title once deserve, but now a misnomer) may be reminded that in Athens the Agora was as important as the Academy.

Influenced by these consideration, whether contradictory of not, I gave assent, and was at once rewarded by Mr. Tetlow's assurance that my curriculum would be revolutionized directly, in order to fit me for the Institute's entrance examinations that were to take place only six weeks latter, in the month of June. Accordingly he handed me over to his chief assistant, Mr. Andrew Ingraham, who gave me special lesson; and, that I might concentrate my attention upon these, I was relieved of all other studies and school exercises of whatever nature.

Last Day at Friends' Academy.

It was a rather shabby part that I played on this occasion, I confess. For poor excuse I offer my age, -- that age, which in its ebullient onrush knows no pity, no consideration. Not only was I in error, but I sacrificed an opportunity. If I had simply walked to the front of the school-room, extended my hand to my teacher, thanked him publicly for his kindness, and bidden him a respectful farewell, perhaps his would have been the shame for a severity hardly called for by so trivial an offence committed by a pupil of long standing and creditable record, who was not given to misbehavior. As it is, all that I can say, with the little Latin that this record left me, is Mea Culpa.

Billy Rip's Hasty Conclusion.

My studies, of course, were not to begin till the following autumn. About two months of the intervening summer I passed in the little town of Northville, near Cayuga Lake, in New York State, where I visited a distant cousin on my father's side, Arthur E. Slocum, who had inherited a moderate fortune, and was beginning a farmer's career at the age of twenty. I found my relatives there most agreeable and hospitable people, who took care that I should pass a delightful vacation, the only drawback being that politeness compelled me to attend a Presbyterian church every Sunday, where a preacher young enough to know better drummed into my disgusted ears doctrines worthy of the Dark Ages. I had not yet read Frances Wright's work, "A Few Days in Athens," so inspiring to all Rationalists, but the belated and benighted puritanism of this officious prig led me to look forward with ever-growing eagerness to a few years in the "Athens of America," then a city which Epicures would have loved.
 

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