Radio Script #87
Little Talks On Common Things
December 10, 1950
That economic philosopher of Portland, Maine, Ed Chase, whom I have more than once quoted on this program, had something to say the other day about 2 plus 2. Everybody, says Mr. Chase, recognizes that 2 plus 2 equals four, and 2 plus 2 plus 2 equals six. But, says he, keep on writing 2 plus 2 plus 2 plus 2 on and on to the point where the answer is no longer clear at a glance, and see how gullible folks can be. Put down almost any number as the supposed total, and a big majority of readers will never question it.
But, says Mr. Chase, there is always an intelligent minority which comprehends and accepts the whole only as the sum of all its parts. In the existence of that minority Mr. Chase sees hope of our national economic survival. It is they who understand that the total resources of the United States is only equal to the sum of the resources of all its subdivisions.
OUr listeners have long ago sensed that we are not in sympathy with a lot of the claims for huge federal spending of money. We are not so stupid as not to realize that some communities must have help, just as some individuals must be aided, in our highly complex inter-dependent society. But we cannot go along with the argument that the federal government can easily afford to do for all the states what no one state can afford to do for itself. Just examine that argument.
What else can it mean except, let the money come from the surplus by which the whole of our national resources exceeds the sum of all the parts of our national resources? There just isn’t any such excess.
Many thrilling accounts have appeared in print about the great ice harvests on the Kennebec. Some of them are almost poetic, such as the chapter in Robert Coffin’s “The Kennebec” in the Rivers of America series.
There has recently come to my attention a volume called “Picturesque Gardiner”, an illustrated book about the industries, attractions and surroundings of our neighbor city down the river. This book, loaned to me by James Wing of the H & W Company, was published in Gardiner in 1896 and was part of the publicity of the lively Gardiner Board of Trade.
The volume has some excellent pictures of the harvesting, storage and shipping of Kennebec ice. There is a full-page scene of ice cutting in front of the huge plant of the Knickerbocker Ice Company; pictures of the trim, fast, threemasted and four-masted schooners that carried the ice to distant ports; a view of the Cochran-oler plant with its capacity of 175,000 tons. Altogether there are pictures of the ice houses and ships of six companies with total storage capacity of 600,000 tons.
The first ice is said to have been shipped from the Kennebec in 1826. It was cut in front of Gardiner and placed on board the brig Orion, which had been hauled up at that river port for winter quarters. The next spring the owners took the vessel along the coast, without selling the cargo until they got to Baltimore, when the whole lot went for $700.
In 1869 the Gardiner publication announced: “Today the largest and most convenient ice houses in the world line both banks of the river, with a total storage of 1,500,000 tons. More than a third of this capacity is at Gardiner and Randolph.
The average harvest, compared with that first $700 cut in 1826, is now, 70 yep.rs later, $2,000,000.
Gardiner pioneers in the ice business were Tudor, Tiffany, Page and Cheesman.
By 1896 outside interests had control, the largest being the Knickerbocker Company of Philadelphia. The Morse Ice Company had already come in with small holdings, but it was twenty years later when the Bath tycoon, Charles D. Morse, became the ice king of America.
What would those men of 1896 think if they could see their river in winter today? Electric refrigeration has done to their ice what the internal combustion engine has done to the horses that used to dot the river by hundreds when the ice was being cut. Truly, other times, other ways.
So many people have asked for a broadcast of the old ballad that celebrated the murder of Edward Mathews by Dr. V. P. Coolidge, that I have decided to give it to you tonight. No one knows Who wrote this ballad. It first appeared in the form of a handbill of the ‘kind that, Mary Ellen Chase says, her Elu’e ‘!ill I parson used to write, print and sell at hangings. It has been reprinted from time to time in the newspapers during the last hundred years, but the original handbills are rare.
I am fortunate enough to have seen and copied one of those original sheets, and it is from that earliest text that I read the poem tonight. The handbill is headed “The Waterville Tragedy! or Death of Edward Mathews by Valorus P. Coolidge. Tune — Mary’s Dream.”
Indulgent friends and strangers too,
A thrilling tale I’ll tell to you;
‘Twill grieve your hearts the thing to hear,
And many an eye will drop a tear.
A mournful tragedy of late
A young man’s life did terminate;
The murderer’s hand has laid him low,
Which makes our hearts with grief o’erflow.
Poor Edward Mathews, where is he?
Sent headlong to eternity.
The mortal debt by him is paid,
And in his narrow bed is laid.
No more will anguish seize his soul!
No more will poison fill his bowl!
No more will friendship clutch his throat,
And o’er his mangled body gloat.
Oh, v. P. Coolidge, how could you
So black a deed of murder do?
You, on your honor did pretend
To be his dearest earthly friend.
For weeks and months you laid your plan
To kill your friend and fellow man;
You thought the thing to safely do,
Take both his life and money too.
You knew to Brighton he had gone,
And watched each hour for his return;
The pay for cattle which he drove
You swore within yourself to have.
You failed in that, but did succeed
By promising a mortgage deed,
Of everything you here possessed,
So that he could in safety rest.
The money from the bank he drew,
And brought with faithfulness to you;
Not dreaming of your vile intent,
Alone into your office went.
You said, “Dear Mathews, worthy friend,
Our friendship here shall never end,
A glass of brandy you must drink.
‘Twill do you good I surely think.”
He drank the liquor you had fixed,
With prussic acid amply mixed,
Then cried, “0 Lord, what can it be?
What poison have you given me?”
You grasped his throat and stopped his breath,
until your friend lay still in death;
Then with a hatchet bruised his head,
After he was entirely dead.
His money then you took away,
And hid his watch out in your sleigh;
Then called for your confederate
And all your doings did relate.
“I have a secret, Flint”, you said,
“And if by you I am betrayed,
The State will me for murder try
And on the gallows I must die.
“Poor unsuspecting murdered friend,
My earthly race must sh0rtly .end,
And I must stand before my God
And feel his mighty. chastening rod.
“0, Edward Mathews, could you know
The scathing pangs I undergo,
You surely would look down from Heaven
And say, ‘Let Coolidge be forgiven’.
“I see thy murdered form displayed,
When night has cast its sable shade
Around my dark and lonesome cell.
Such horrid feelings none can tell.
“When sleep, that harbinger of rest,
Has spread its mantle o’er my breast,
My thoughts will wander back to thee
And see thee die in agony.
“0, youthful days forever past,
I thought thy joys would ever last;
If I had worlds, them would I give,
If I once more this life could live.
“But all in vain, the die is cast,
The prison walls will hold me fast
Till to the scaffold I am led,
To yield that life I’ve forfeited.
“Take warning now by me I pray.
Let right and justice guide your way;
May Heaven’s choice blessings to you flow
And save you from a murderer’ s woe.”
Brought up in a small town and in a small business, I have a strong liking for the small, independent business man. But I cannot go a10ng with some of the bureaucrats in Washington who condemn all big business simp1y because it is big. To hear those fellows talk about mergers, you would .think that a merger of companies was something sinister and evil. They talk continuously about how the big corporation has swallowed up the little fellow.
I have no doubt there have been cases of the ruthless strang1ing of competition, but for every such case there are numerous cases where mergers have brought strength and new resources to all parties to the combination.
What is the United States, anyway? Is it not itself a merger of thirteen original colonies into a federa1 union? Does anyone regret or now denounce that merger? Why then are po1itical mergers good, but industrial mergers bad?
By what reasoning does a government whose motto is “E Pluribus Unum” (one out of many) pass a law making the economic observance of that motto a crime? To abolish mergers in order to protect competition is no more sensible than to burn down the house in order to get rid of the rats.
I don’t intend for a minute to 1et you forget that I was brought up in the horse and buggy age. I am still fond of horses, and I was delighted to see the fo1lowing item in the September 29th issue of that good old Scotch newspaper, the Peebleshire News: “Sandy, the horse which draws the milk-f1oat of the Cooperative Society in Selkirk, has just returned to his normal milk round after spending three weeks in Edinburgh, performing in the Tattoo whi<;ili was presented nightly at the castle during the festival period. Sandy was one of four horses chosen to pull the landau which carried Lord and Lady Montrose in the Installation of the Governor tableau. Last year this horse was chosen for a pageant representing “Transport through the Ages”, and this year Sandy came to the rescue When the organizers could not find a grey horse elegant enough to fill the bill.
Sandy fitted the part perfectly. Now he has returned to his milk round.”
That item, believe me, brought back fond memories — memories of my favorite horse, Old Charlie, who like Sandy was a big grey of elegant appearance.
I have a picture of Old Charlie all dressed up and hitched to a decoratedgrocery wagon, ready to take his proud place in the Bridgton Fourth of Julyparade of 1906.
He was unbelievably smart, that Old Charlie. Not only would he back between the shafts of a wagon without guidance — a lot of horses could do that but he could do a regular stunt that I have never seen duplicated. Between my father’s store and the next building was a space exactly ten feet wide. All freight brought to the store was unloaded on a platform that jutted out from the side of the store some thirty feet back from the street. Every time we hauled freight from the narrow guage freight house to the store the team had to be cautiously backed into that narrow space to the end of the platform.
At the risk of being accused of telling Baron Munchausen yarns, I seriously declare that Old Charlie could and regularly did back the wagon up to that plattorm without a hand on the reins. Many a time I have driven him up the steep hill from the narrow guage yards, with a heavy load, turned him about to face the street in front of the areaway, jumped off the team, thrown the reins over his back, and said, “All right, Charlie, back her up.” And without touching a wheel to either building, Charlie would back up true to the platform.
That ought to start some of you listeners with some of your own horse stories. Let’s have them.
Year: 1950