Yesterday we went to Salida and had a picnic in the park by the river. We bought a Shipwreck sandwich at Sweeties in downtown Salida and will be stopping there again.
So, I've been off having a wonderful time instead of tending to my blog but winter will be here soon and we need to take advantage of these perfect days. There is already snow on some of the 14,000+' peaks to remind us these days are numbered.
Today's story is from the 1884 Burlington FREE PRESS newspaper and is about some serious penny pinching. Enjoy.
“Brunswick” writes from the Boston Sunday Gazette: I think that there can be but the one opinion of Mr. Ben Richardson, late of One Hundred and Twenty-fifth street, Harlem. If he is not an eccentric, then no one is. For a number of years Mr. Richardson has occupied a frame house set back from the sidewalk, and labelled in bold letters “Lincoln Cottage.” The front yard is filled with chickens, which roost at night upon the most convenient, as well as most conspicuous thing in the yard, the State Coach, late property of His Excellency President George Washington. Though little more than a wreck today, one can still see the remains of grandeur in its gilded ornaments and crimson panels.
Those who saw the last Evacuation day procession in this city will remember this coach, which formed an interesting feature of the parade. From the two small windows under the roof of the cottage the mouths of cannon are projected. One window is named Fort Sumter and the other Fort Lincoln. Peeping down the front chimney is the effigy of a chimney sweep, life size, which stands there in all winds and weathers. The outside of Lincoln Cottage is a fair index of what may be found within. There is nothing new in the house. Its owner has a passion for relics, and especially for anything connected with Washington or Lincoln. He has a number of suits of clothes that were once worn by these historic Presidents, and no end of walking sticks upon which they have leaned. Some of his relics are of considerable value; others are simply rubbish. But of all the curious things in Lincoln Cottage, perhaps the most novel is this manifesto, printed in bold letters, which hangs in a frame over the parlor door. It reads, as near as I can remember, as follows, with the exception of the woman’s name:
THIS IS TO CERTIFY THAT AMELIA BROWN IS MY HOUSEKEEPER
AND NOTHING MORE; AND THAT SHE NEVER HAS HELD ANY
OTHER RELATION TO ME, AND HAS NO CLAIM UPON MY PROPERTY,
AND NEED MAKE NONE AFTER MY DEATH.––BENJ. RICHARDSON
This must be pleasant reading for Amelia Brown, who passes under it a dozen times a day.
Benjamin Richardson is a man somewhere between 60 and 70 years of age, who dresses like a tramp, and wears a beard – or did until within the past few weeks – that reached from his chin to his feet. He did not display this unpleasant appendage on all occasions but buttoned it under his coat, leaving an ordinary amount on the outside. If you should happen to meet Mr. Richardson standing on the corner of a street, cooling his grizzled locks by holding his hat in his hand, you would, if charitably inclined, be sure to drop a penny into it. If you did, you would be carrying coals to Newcastle. Mr. Benjamin Richardson is worth, in round numbers, $8,500,000! All well invested, too, some in solid railroad bonds, some in California vineyards, and the rest, where he made it, in Harlem real estate.
Richardson began his career, as did his townsman, John Kelly, as a grate setter. He had a frugal turn of mind and spent all the time not engaged in grate setting picking up bricks in vacant lots or from among such ruins as might be found about the vicinity of New York. These he used in his business; and by such practices of economy he got a little money ahead, with which he bought lots in Harlem, then the remote suburbs of the city. Every dollar he made he shrewdly invested in this manner, until he was the largest real estate owner in the now flourishing annexation. Of course, the value of his property quadrupled and more. Then he turned his attention to California, where he has several prosperous vineyards and makes quantities of wine.
Notwithstanding his wealth, Old Ben, as his neighbors call him, practices the same economies resorted to in those days when he gathered bricks to set grates. He has been married and has a granddaughter living with him. His son left home long ago because he didn’t care to follow the occupation insisted upon by his father, that of a nail gatherer. His father made him knock the nails out of all the old boards he could find along the streets, bring them home, and spend his leisure in hammering them straight. This did not seem to the son a very useful of remunerative profession, so he said, “good morning” to his father, and one day went forth to seek his fortune in some more promising channel. The old man took up the nail gathering business himself, to which he adds his old trade of brick collecting.
It would be impossible to imagine anyone practicing more rigid economies than this millionaire. One evening a friend of mine was at his house, and the granddaughter came into the parlor to light the gas. One burner was lighted, but for some reason it was necessary to have more light, and she scratched a match for lighting purposes. The head broke off, and she took another. Old Ben heaved a sigh. “Is this all you have learned with my careful upbringing – to take two matches too light two burners? Why didn't you light the broken stem in the gas and use that? Such waste! Such waste!” he said, with a melancholy shake of the head.
A short time ago it occurred to Mr. Richardson that the place he was occupying is too valuable for living purposes, so he concluded to rent it. He did not intend, however, that any real estate dealer should make anything out of the transaction, so he fastened little signs all over the outside of the house, and even tied them to the shrubbery. “This place for rent; inquire within.” Finally an inquirer applied within, and the lease was made out. Lincoln College will henceforth be a summer garden for the sale of beer and the performance of a wheezy orchestra. So Old Ben spiked his guns, packed his relics, and wheeled Washington’s State Coach down to an equally dilapidated old house, with more grounds around it, at the foot of 128th street, on the East river. But I have not told you the most singular thing about Mr. Richardson. He has founded and pays for the entire running expenses of a School of Mines in a Western State, where any one desiring to be educated for an engineer may get his education free.
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