id that if any man would faithfully write his
autobiography, giving truly his own history and experiences, the ills
and joys, the haps and mishaps that had fallen to his lot, he could not
fail to make an interesting story; and Disraeli makes Sidonia say
that there is romance in every life. How much romance, as well as sad
reality, there is in the life of a man who, among other experiences,
has married seven wives, and has been seven times in prison--solely on
account of the seven wives, may be learned from the pages that follow.

I was born in the town of Chatham, Columbia County, New York, in
September, 1813. My father was a New Englander, who married three times,
and I was the eldest son of his third wife, a woman of Dutch descent,
or, as she would have boosted if she had been rich, one of the
old Knickerbockers of New York. My parents were simply honest,
hard--working, worthy people, who earned a good livelihood, brought up
their children to work, behaved themselves, and were respected by their
neighbors. They had a homestead and a small farm of thirty acres, and on
the place was a blacksmith shop in which my father worked daily, shoeing
horses and cattle for farmers and others who came to the shop from miles
around.

There were three young boys of us at home, and we had a chance to go to
school in the winter, while during the summer we worked on the little
farm and did the "chores" about the house and barn. But by the time I
was twelve years old I began to blow and strike in the blacksmith
shop, and when I was sixteen years old I could shoe horses well, and
considered myself master of the trade. At the age of eighteen, I went
into business with my father, and as I was now entitled to a share
of the profits, I married the daughter of a well-to-do neighboring
farmer, and we began our new life in part of my father's house, setting
up for ourselves, and doing our own house-keeping.

I ought to have known then that marrying thus early in life, and
especially marrying the woman I did, was about the most foolish thing
I could do. I found it out afterwards, and was frequently and painfully
reminded of it through many long years. But all seemed bright enough
at the start. My wife was a good-looking woman of just my own age; her
family was most respectable; two of her brothers subsequently became
ministers of the gospel; and all the children had been carefully brought
up. I was thought to have made a good match; but a few y