People were just as anxious to get and keep before the public years ago as they are now, and I remember several very ingenious advertisin’ dodges that were indulged in.
About the time I came to New York John B. Gaugh was just beginning to be known as a “temperance orator,” and the women were just beginnin’ to go wild over him. I don’t doubt but that Gough was afterwards, when he got right into harness, as it were, a sincere man about not drinkin’. But it did look as if at first there was a great deal of humbug about him; and one thing is certain, he owed the greatest part of his “start,” which is two-thirds of the whole journey, to goin’ backwards–”backslidin’,” as they call it, and then “repentin’” and gettin’ a great time made over his backslidin’s and his returnin’ to the fold. All of which struck a good many people at the time as bein’ a first-class specimen of advertisin’.
One of Gough’s backslidin’s made a tremendous stir, not only in New York, where he did his backslidin’ (New York being then as now the boss place to backslide in), but all over the country, and caused a lot of controversy that helped Gaugh more in gettin’ himself before the public in a month than he could have got by merely bein’ good and steady in ten years.
He delivered a temperance lecture; then he disappeared. Nobody could find him for a week. Some thought he was robbed or murdered, some said the rum-sellers had poisoned or murdered him to get him out of the way. This disappearance was a great sensation.
And the findin’ of him was a better one. He was traced, accordin’ to the papers, to a house of ill-repute in Walker street (which used to be then what “the Lava Beds” upon Sixth avenue are to-day). In this Walker street place the papers said he had been drunk–wild, blind, stavin’ drunk, all the time he had disappeared and was supposed to be murdered.
This drunk business was a better “gag” than the disappearance business, but the reform business, repentance and amendment that took place right after the drunk (it never takes place “before” the drunk, somehow), was the best advertisement of the three.
Gaugh came right forward (while the papers were describin’ how he had gone backward) and announced “a moral and temperance lecture” by John B. Gaugh at the Broadway Tabernacle. He got ex-Mayor Harper and the Rev. Dr. Patten to “indorse” his repentance and preside at the meetin’. And then, of course, a lot of “the Daughters of Temperance” got around him and slobbered over him, and, altogether, they made more fuss over John B. Gaugh, the sinner, in two hours than they would have made over a regular “saint” in two centuries.
Gaugh was “written up” as a “victim of a foul conspiracy;” as “havin’ been drugged, either through design or by mistake;” as “havin’ been laborin’ under intense nervous excitement,” etc. He got “doctors’ certificates” and ministers’ certificates, and did the whole thing quite as well in old New York as he ever could have done it in New York in 1881.
Then there was a man called Henry M. Paine, who had eyeglasses to sell, and who hit upon the finest way in the world to sell ‘em. He got himself shot at, and was all the time narrowly escapin’ assassination, accordin’ to his own account. Every little while the papers would have an account of “Henry M. Paine shot at again,” and naturally people would go to see the man who had such singular bad or good luck, and then naturally enough they would buy an eyeglass or two.
According to Paine’s story, he was mixed up in some negotiations between the Mexican Generals Almonte and Santa Anna, and France and England, and all three different attempts at assassination were instigated by the political agents of Mexico, or France, or England. Three big nations all helpin’ him to sell his eyeglasses, which was very kind on the part of the three great nations.
Paine was “shot at” some seven or eight times, but only hit twice, once in his leg and once in his hat. He used to go by the name of “The Great Unshot.” I don’t think there is anythin’ around New York to-day to equal that for high.
But the simplest, and perhaps the best dodge ever played, certainly the funniest, was that “tried on” by a cheap furniture man called Richard Davis. He had painted a splendid sign over his store in a big, fancy letters, which attracted the attention of the whole neighborhood. One night some malicious person or a persons utterly destroyed and painted out his splendid sign, makin’ it by the mornin’ light, a mere daub of paint. Davis was mad, but he set to work and had the sign renewed, just as big and splendid as it was before. But another night the malicious enemies who had ruined the first sign ruined his second, makin’ it a mere blackboard. This sort of thing got Davis the notice and the sympathy of the entire vicinity. He had his sign repainted for the second time, and his sympathizing neighbors bought his goods readily. Then his sign was re-ruined again, and then re-repainted once more, till Davis and his signs got to be the talk of his part of the town. For a while Davis did very well indeed, and sold his cheap furniture three times faster than the rival establishment, kept by man called Colter–which Colter, by the by, had been suspected by some of bein’ the envious man who had destroyed so often Davis’s signs. But Colter wasn’t the man, but he discovered, after a while, who was the man, and found out that it was Davis himself. Stayin’ up one entire night, and watchin’ Davis’s house all the time, Colter saw, about three o’clock, in all the rain, a man climb up the ladder and daub paint all over Davis’s sign. Colter went up to the ladder, knocked it down, and found that he had knocked down Davis with it. Next day Davis “sold out” to Colter, and left New York.
[Editor’s notes: Perhaps due to his foibles, Gaugh has been overlooked as a Temperance leader. His autobiography is available online. A large part of his popularity was due to the dramatic scenes he performed during his lectures, imitating a drunk and the effects of drinking. A handsome man, he could contort himself into monstrous grimaces and expressions of misery.
Henry M. Paine is a fascinating figure. He was a mechanical engineer and inventor by profession (not an optician–but he patented eyeglass frames and a process for making lenses). Paine had over a dozen patents, some profitable.
In 1846, Paine claims that he loaned money to a man who was a diplomatic courier, and the courier quickly gambled it all away. Fearing the wrath of his employers, the courier gave messages to Paine to deliver. Paine agreed, but also looked at the messages, and discovered they related to secret machinations by General Santa Anna of Mexico–who was at that time in exile in Cuba–to be restored to power. Paine didn’t deliver the messages, but instead tried to sell them. This, according to Paine, caused the assassination attempts. Few believed his wild story [but Santa Anna was restored as President in 1847]. Paine, the Great Unshot, died peacefully of old age.
Paine has had currency in the past few decades for one of his patents: a process to safely separate water via electrolysis into oxygen and hydrogen–normally an extremely hazardous process. His idea has been taken up in recent years as a “free energy” process (a claim never made by Paine). ]
