There was nothing remarkable about his babyhood except his red hair and the great quantity of soothing syrup necessary to keep him toned down.
He was born of humble parents. His father had never been on a jury, delivered a Fourth of July oration, or been sued for slander, and his mother had never rescued anybody from drowning, or delivered a lecture on woman’s rights.
He never had any brothers or sisters. He might have had in due time, but his midnight howls wore his mother out when he was two years old, and she went to join the angels and left him to howl it out.
His father was accidentally shot while courting a second wife, and the boy kicked the clothes off the bed to find himself an orphan.
He was the sole heir to all the property, and the property consisted of a wheelbarrow, a toothbrush, and one or two other things. The boy’s uncle swooped down on the estate, stole everything but the debt it was owing, and the orphan was given a grand bounce into the cold and heartless world.
But little is known of his boyhood. He probably had patches before and behind, like other orphans; wept over the grave of his mother in his sad moments, and crawled under the circus canvas in his hours of sunshine. Nothing in his demeanor attracted the attention of John Jacob Astor or Commodore Vanderbilt, and consequently he had more cuffs than fat clerkships.
At the age of fifteen he was invited to go up in a balloon.
He didn’t go.
When he was seventeen he decided to become a pirate, and all the captains of the Erie canal discouraged him.
At eighteen he was in the legislature—sat there and heard a speech and then left with the other spectators.
At twenty he was foreman of a fire company, but was impeached because he couldn’t “holler” as loudly as “No. 7.”
He had just reached his majority when he led a rich and beautiful girl to the altar—and handed her over to the bridegroom. He commenced in that year to be a “head-writer” on newspapers. Was almost daily informed that his proper sphere was acting governor of a state, or in commanding armies, but he stuck to journalistic work.
He was funny from the start, but it took eighteen years to make people believe it. He has had many wives, and is the father of scores of happy children. He has had the cholera and small-pox, written articles varying from astronomy to the best manner of curing hams, been wrecked, shot, assassinated, and banished, and is to-day hale, hearty, and bald-headed.
All reports about a steamboat blowing him up are canards. He blew the boat up.
For further particulars see circulars.
