THE WAUPACA POST

April 5, 1894

 

REMINISCENCES OF EARLY DAYS

Circulating Sample Copies of the Waupaca Spirit.

 

            Let us speak of the advent of the first number of the ethereally-named creature that first beamed on the Waupaca intellect.

            There are but very few living now who were present when the sample copies of the Waupaca Spirit, Vol. 1, No. 1, were brought from the dingy, unplastered room upstairs over the pioneer post office presided over by Captain David Scott, and handed over to him to be put in the different boxes constituting the post office department of his pioneer store.

            Some have failed and some have prospered, but nearly all have died, for forty-one years and more have gone by since that event.  One of the surviving old settlers came to me yesterday and we chatted of the olden time.  I was a boy then, and he a grown man.  He is not so very old now, for fortune or fate, or destiny, or providence, or whatever you may choose to call it, has treated him kindly, and as he goes down the afternoon pathway of life he sees and feels the evidences of his thrift on the Indian lands.

            We especially chatted of the establishment of the first newspaper, and the delivery through the post office of the initial number.

            A copy was sent to every man who had an existence in the region.  Those who had boxes in the post office found their paper there.  Among the number was a man from the “East Woods,” as they were called.  When he came to get his mail and was given the paper, still damp from the press, he turned it over, opened it cautiously, red the title, which was perhaps ill-omened according to his mode of thinking, handed the paper back through the delivery hole, and said:

            “Say, Captain Scott, what’s this?  I don’t take no paper.”

            And the white-haired captain, who had come out to grow up with the country, and was growing up, said with one of his most benignant smiles:

            “That’s the new paper that is being established here, and a copy is being given you that you may examine it, and in the hope that you will become a subscriber.”

            And old Spondulix drew his chin down until it nearly touched his waist, put on what he probably deemed the look of Moses when he delivered the law, and said in the most melancholy tones:

            “Captain Scott, I’m a religious man, an’ heerd a minister say onct that printin’ wuz a black art, an’ the devil wuz the father of the black art, an’ that they’s lots o’ corrup’ books an’ papers that pizen the mind an’ the soul, an’ hadn’t orter be read.  Now, I got a box in this post office ‘cause my wife gets a letter sometimes from her folks, but I won’t let her take no newspaper, ‘cause they’s so corruptin’, an’ I won’t read none myself.  I don’t read nothin’ but the Bible.”

            The old captain gave an Angel Gabriel smile and said:  “I think you had better speak to the young men about it, and I am sure they will avoid anything that is corrupting.”

            So Spondulix (that was not his name, but I dare not give his true name, for he would make a picnic) went out to seek Charlie and Joe.  He worked his way up the old outside staircase, mumbling as he went.  I was interested, and followed.  I was the only boy in Waupaca at the time who could set type, and had helped set up the first paper, and consequently had easy entrée to the place where brains were thrown into type.  To disarm suspicion I stripped off my coat and went to setting type with my ears wide open.

            Our worthy friend handed his newspaper to Charlie, and said:  “Say, be you the editor o’ this ‘ere paper?  I found it in my post office box.”

            Charlie nodded his head in acquiescence of the soft impeachment, when Spondulix eyed him from head to foot and began in solemn measure:

            “I am a religious man, an’ I heerd a minister say onct that print’ wuz a black art, an’ the devil wuz the father uv the black art, an’ that they’s lots o’ corrup’ books an’ papers that pizen the mind an’ the soul, an’ hadn’t orter be read.  Now, I got a box in the post office ‘cause my wife gets a letter sometimes from her folks, but I won’t let her take no newspaper, ‘cause they’s so corruptin’, and’ I won’t read none myself.  I don’t read nothin’ but the Bible.”

            The swarthy face of good natured Charlie looked extremely sober, although there was a twinkle in his eye, and he replied as nearly as I can remember, as follows:

            “Sir, the moral atmosphere that pervades the sanctum wherein this paper has been born and shall flourish and grow, is of such crystalline purity that ministers of the gospel will take their text from its columns.  One-fifty.  Shall I put your name down?”

            Old Spondulix – he’s gone to glory now; yes, long years ago – or somewhere else – guess it must be somewhere else – went off to prayer meeting that night, and in the course of his remarks he said:

            “My brethering, I am a religious man, an’ I heerd a minister say onct that printin’ wuz a black art, an’ the devil wuz the father uv the black art, an’ that they’s lots o’ corrup’ books an’ papers that pizen the mind an’ corrup’ the soul, an’ hadn’t orter be read.  Now, I got a box in the post office, ‘cause my wife gets a letter from her folks sometimes, but I won’t let her take no newspaper, ‘cause they’s so corruptin’, an’ I won’t read none myself.  I don’t read nothin’ but the Bible.  Let us pray agin it in our midst.”

            For three weeks a paper was religiously put in his box, when he went to his minister with his woe.  His minister approved his reading the Bible, but thought he had better try the new paper a little while, too.  But no, he “wuz a religious man,” and his conscience would not permit him, and when he found the fourth copy reposing innocently in his box, he grew angry, and said:

            “Job says it must be put under foot, an’ I shall put it under my feet.”

            A little inquiry showed that he had used the singular method of divination of inserting a pin point between the leaves of the Bible, and reading the verse that was pricked.  It so happened that a Bible was with some difficulty procured – Waupaca did not have many at that time – and he was asked to show the place where he derived his authority for putting the newspaper under his feet.  The queer old genius was pretty well posted on the Bible in general, and quickly turning to the book of Job, he pointed to chapter xiii, verse 27.  Sure enough, there it was:  “Thou puttest my feet also in the stocks, and lookest narrowly unto all my paths; thou settest a print upon the heels of my feet.”

            “There it is, gentlemen, there it is; see what I told you,” and he read it with peculiar emphasis, particularly the latter part.  Then elevating his voice he began:  “Now, I’m a religious man, an’ I heered a minister say onct –“ but no one waited to hear the remainder.  They went out and left him preaching to Captain Scott.

            The good old captain could not be prevailed upon to put a paper into his box again.

                                                                                    CHARLES ROLLIN BRAINARD