Quakertown Online
 

 

The Autobiography of Jonathan Whipple (1794-1875)

of Quakertown, Ledyard, Connecticut

Unfinished

Written ca. 1870-71

 


 

Chapter 1—Teaching and Example.

 

My father, Samuel Whipple, was born in Groton, Connecticut, November 28, 1767. My mother’s maiden name was Hephzibah Gates; she was daughter of Thomas Gates of Preston and was born December 1766. My parents had seven children, of whom I was the fourth. They were poor people but very industrious and always lived comfortably and labored diligently to bring up their children aright.

My father’s life was a very eventful one, and I shall often have occasion in telling my own history to refer to it in order to show the influence which the teaching and example of a parent may exert over the life of a child. His father died when he was at the age of seven years. It was in the time of the Revolutionary War when a total stagnation of business pervaded the country, and although my grandfather had some property at the time of his death, yet as it is often the case, it was used to such a disadvantage that my grandmother was left poor, having nothing but a small house and garden. Father being the oldest of five children, a burden fell upon him at an early age, and the war continuing year after year, he had a hard time laboring for his widowed mother.

But in the course of a few years my grandmother married. But unfortunately, her second husband proved to be a very intemperate man, and his example was a great snare to her four sons, and especially Father, as his step-father would almost every day send him after liquor, and when it was brought would say, “Now you are a good boy; you must have some to drink.” And if my father refused, he would be greatly offended; so Father, rather than take a scolding every day, would drink, and it was not long before he began to acquire an appetite, and being young, did not realize where it would lead him. But at the age of 22, he married—Mother not having a thought that she had got an intemperate husband (but so it proved). Yet they loved each other affectionately.

Father had many good properties. He was honest, industrious, and very capable in business, and also conscientious. About the time of my birth, Father became so thoroughly convinced that the course he was pursuing was sure to bring destruction—not only upon himself, but his whole family—that he drew up a full resolution that, by the help of God, he would totally abstain from the use of intoxicating liquors. And my mother, being true, kind, and a faithful co-laborer with him, she encouraged him, and he made a profession of religion. He also took a stand against wars, slavery, suing at the law, swearing, and even using the filthy weed tobacco. This reformation took place when Father was about 28 years of age. After I became old enough to notice what was said, I often would hear my father say, “There is no middle ground for a person to take. If he has been a drunkard as I have, he must let all kinds of intoxicating liquors entirely alone.” And I have often heard him quote the scripture, “Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it.”

He lived a temperate life several years, while his old associates used their persuasions to induce him to drink—but of no avail. This was 69 years ago, when it was the common practice for every one, even ministers of the gospel, to indulge in the use of liquor; and a minister would feel imposed upon, if the decanter, well filled, was not set before him when he was called to preach a funeral sermon. Father used to talk with the minister who baptized him, inquiring whether he thought it would prove a snare to him to drink a little cider. “Oh no,” said the old man, “cider is harmless. I use it.” And Father, having all confidence in him, ventured to try its use also. And having a brandy cask that had been filled with cider and become thoroughly permeated, he tapped that, and had some brought to the dinner table; but after taking the first glass, it only awakened an appetite for the second, third, and even the fourth. And Mother, fearing the consequences as he began to be quite merry, asked him into the other room aside from the family and the hired help, that she might caution him; and did so in a very kind and affectionate manner, telling him that she was afraid he was about to make himself a public example. But he, being already somewhat under the influence of the stimulant which he had been drinking, undertook to tell her to mind her own business and he would mind his; but before he had half spoken the sentence, an uncontrollable spasmodic cramp seized his jaw, drawing it entirely on one side, and there holding it, so that he was speechless for more than 12 hours, and yet having his sense perfectly, all the time. After he had suffered enough, both in body and mind, to thoroughly convince him that there was but one sure way for him to be a temperate man, his jaw was loosened, and he could talk and bless God for his recovery; and [he] thanked his dear companion for warning him of his danger. No one in the house, save Mother, knew aught of Father’s condition, as he stayed in a room apart from the family. The next day Father went into the cellar drew the tap from the cask, and went away and left…

 

[Pages six and seven of the original manuscript were lost.]

 

…attending a meeting in her native town. There was a very full attendance, and it happened that this Indian was there. After the minister had closed, he gave liberty for remarks from others, and the colored preacher arose and asked permission to say a few words. A brother exclaimed, “We can get along without the help of an Indian.” The poor Indian immediately took his seat. But another and more feeling brother arose and said, “If Brother Occum has something to say among us, I should like to hear him—speak on Brother Occum.” The Indian again arose and addressed the meeting, and what he said was so full of feeling, there was scarcely a dry eye in the house. It seemed to do more good than all that had been said before. But it was then as it is now: the poor Indians were so unkindly treated, that they could hardly find a place on the face of the earth where they could feel safe.

 

 

Chapter 2—Providential Circumstances.

 

Near the house where I was born and lived until I was five years old, there was quite a large brook with overhanging elm, maple, and ash trees on either side of the stream, with alders, swamp briers, and rushes thickly interspersed among them; in this brook lived different kinds of fish, such as we called pickerel, perch, bullheads, chubs, pumpkinseeds, and shiners—all of which were good to eat, though the bullhead was of less account. So long as I can remember anything, I recalled going with Father to this brook and being placed on a rock a short distance from the stream and seeing him catch those fish, some of which would weigh a pound or two. The pickerel were the largest. Sometimes in one hour he would catch about 40, enough for several meals, and they were very good. Sometimes my brother, older than myself, would be provided with hook, line, and poll, and I would go with him fishing. He would now and then let me try, and if I succeeded in catching a fish, I would be under such an excitement, I would sometimes throw it entirely off the hook and into the brush, and we would have quite a search before finding it. When [it was] found, I would grasp it with such eagerness that, perhaps, before I knew it, I should have some of its fins stuck into my hands.

On this same stream, and not over a hundred yards from where we lived, there was a millpond, and on its bank a gristmill, a tan yard and dwelling house. Very often the people who owned the tan yard would have hides and sheep skins in the pond soaking—for in those days, they dried instead [of] salting the hides and skins; consequently they required much soaking to prepare them for use. The land Father improved adjoined their pond, and often we children would run about its edge in our play.

One day when I was a little fellow not more than four years old, I saw the edge of a sheepskin in the pond and thought it must be a fish. Said I to my older brother and sister, who were with me, “I see a fish and am going to catch it.” And stepping onto a round-topped rock covered with slime, I slipped off and plunged entirely over my head. My brother, being as frightened as a child could be, ran for home to tell the family I was drowned; but my sister Hepzibah—who was four years older than I, a little slender girl—came with all haste to the spot, and looking into the water, saw my hair as deep down as she could reach. Stepping one foot on the rock off of which I slipped, and keeping the other on the shore, she reached down, clenching her little fingers into my hair, and drew me out on the dry land; and there I lay, she holding me to keep me from rolling into the water while struggling for breath. But after a short time I so cleared my lungs that I began to know something, and with her help, I stood up on my feet and began to step about; and she leading me, we set out for home. We had not got far before we were met by a large, stout washwoman and my brother (Mother being unable to get about at the time and Father from home). The woman took me in her arms and carried me home and presented me alive to my mother, but dripping wet, of course. There was joy among the whole family that “Jonty,” as I was called, was still alive. Had not my sister have been a remarkable child I certainly must have drowned, as there was no chance for me to do anything to save myself—for the rock was very slippery and the water considerably deeper than my height. This was the first narrow escape that I passed through.

The next year, we moved from this to a neighboring house, where we lived one year, during which time we had our firewood to buy. Instead of having it brought to our house, Father would buy standing trees, chop, and haul them home himself. I well remember one circumstance which occurred. There was a deep snow upon the ground that winter. And one day Father was preparing to go after wood. The day was cold but clear. Noah, my elder brother, and myself anxiously inquired if we might go into the woods with him and stay until he came home at night. “I don’t care,” said he. So, taking fodder for his team and dinner for himself and boys, off we started, all on the ox sled going about two miles. When we got into the woods, Father chained the oxen to a tree and commenced chopping, bidding us to stand the sunny side of a large tree, where there was no snow. We remained there until we had eaten our dinner, and then getting chilly, we began to complain and wanted to go home. Said Father, “Noah, you know the way to Eunice Little’s” (this was the wash woman who carried me from the pond). “Oh, yes,” said Noah. “Well, you and Jonty may go there and warm yourselves and stay two hours and then come back.” It was about half a mile by a path through the woods to the house. I was never there before. It was an old-fashioned log house, about 20 feet square. Two old women lived there besides Eunice. She, I think, was about 30 and was the daughter of one of the old women. We sat there the two hours, and I surveyed the appearance of the dwelling closely. It was very clean and nice. There was one bed in sight. Quite a number of shelves on the west side of the room were well filled with bright pewter and wooden dishes. I asked many questions, being so well acquainted with “Aunt Eunice.” This was quite an experience for me, as I never had seen a log house before.

The next spring we again moved, it being in the year 1800. News came that Father’s uncle Joseph Whipple had fallen from a cherry tree and killed himself, and his widow wanted Father to move on to her farm and improve it…

 

[Page 14 of the original manuscript was lost.]

 

…load of grain on his back—for we had no wagons then. I told him yes. He dare not have me on the horse’s back, as I was only a little fellow, not quite six years old; so he loaded the horse, and as I was going to start, Jabez, a younger brother, four years old, asked if he might go with me, and was told he might.

We got there all right, and the grists were carried into the mill. The miller (a young man some 20 years old, son of the owner of the mill), after he had commenced grinding, inquired whose children we were. I told him. “Well,” said he to my little brother, “I am going to cut off your ears.” Said I, “You let him alone or I will tell of you.” But he kept teasing Jabez until he commenced crying and, running out of doors, crawled out of sight under some lumber. Then he made an attack upon me with open knife, threatening to cut my ears off, taking hold of me and sawing the back of his knife across my ears—I telling him to let me alone or I would tell my parents. “Ah,” said he, “I will cut your throat, and then you can tell no tales,” and commenced drawing his knife across my throat, I telling him to let me alone. Finally he made it out that his knife would not cut. An old board was lying near, which he took and said, “With this, I can cut off your head,” and dragging me to the side of the mill, and crowding my head against the boards, commenced striking just above my head, telling me at every blow, “Next time I shall cut off your head.”

After a while I got away from him, and out of doors I stayed until our grists were on the horse. I then took Jabez, and we went home to tell of the savage treatment we met with, and hardly waited to get into the house before commencing to tell how near we came to being killed outright. Said Mother, “The miller is a miserable fellow to scare little boys so. He was not going to hurt you; he only wanted to see how smart you was, Jonathan. Did he make you cry?” “No, I would not cry, but told him I would tell you of him.” “If he ever serves you so any more, we shall not send another grist to his mill while we live here.” When that meal was gone, I was sent again. The first thing I said was, “When I was here before I told you I meant to tell of you for acting so to us, and I did; and Mother told me to tell you if you did so any more we never should send to mill any more to you.” “O, I did not mean to hurt you. I wanted to see how smart you were. You are a real smart little boy. I shan’t hurt you.” This was the end of his abuse to us. He always treated us very kindly afterwards.

I have continued to bear in mind my whole life Father’s saying, “Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it.” While we lived in this village we had many very enticing temptations laid before us. At one time a boy of about Brother Noah’s age came to us in a very friendly but private way and said, “Have you seen Mr. Caprin’s plot of melons in his cornfield?” We said we had. “Well, I came to get you to go with me and get some of them. We can do it, and no one will be any the wiser for it. Will you go?” We said, “No, that would be stealing. We are not allowed to steal.” “O no, hooking melons is not stealing. Come—go with me. If you are afraid to pick them, I will do that and give you just as many as you can eat.” “No,” said we, “we will have nothing to do with it.” And we left him. This was Sunday.

The fore part of the week Mr. Caprin came to Father and said, “Neighbor Whipple, I have come to enter a complaint against your boys. Last Sunday they went into my field and plundered my melon patch and made dreadful havoc. I did not think it of them. I was sorry to acquaint you of the fact, but thought I ought.” Said Father, “If they have done so, I am very sorry. I do not allow them in such things. How do you know they did it?” “George W. told me and seemed to know all about it.” “I will call my boys,” said Father, “and inquire of them. I think I can tell something about it by their appearance.” So he called us and made inquiry before Mr. Caprin. After the old gentleman heard our story he said, “Neighbor Whipple, I will clear your little boys. They are innocent I know. George is the thief.” And so it proved, for we knew nothing of the matter excepting that he had told us.

The village boys used to engage in many war-like exercises—such as marching, drumming, fifing—and as I had a strong voice and was quite active, they would have been very willing to have had me an officer among them. But my father would say, “I do not want my little boys to go among the fighting boys; I want them to make peace men. For Jesus said ‘Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.’” During the whole three years that we lived there, we never once went into the streets to join in their war plays. For this reason they would often call us “Quaker, Quaker,” when they saw us passing about. But we attended to our training and never quarreled with any of them while we lived in the place.

After the first year, some of the large boys would take our part if they saw us pestered. The second year we lived at this place, Father hired a young fellow by the name of Barnard O’Brine to work for him by the month. He was 16 years old, but was a man grown—and very smart, and partial towards us. He was so much older than we, Father told us that, when he was not present, we must mind “Barney,” as he was called; and so we did.

One day we were plowing turf ground with a large plough and a stout team, Barney holding plough and we driving the oxen. Out of the village, boys came where we were and [one boy in particular] commenced calling us names and plaguing us. Said the young man, “Let these little boys alone. They are good boys. Away with you or I will bury you under the turf.” He did not go but continued his abuse of us. Finally the young man, losing all patience, caught the boy and threw him into the furrow and there held him, telling Noah to hold the plough and me to drive the oxen. But we, fearing that would not be in accordance with Father’s teaching, told him we did not want to. Said he, “Your father says you must mind me. Drive along.” So we drove on and covered the boy all up but his head, Barney taking hold of the plough again and leaving the boy to work himself out the best he could. He was quite a spell working himself out and, after getting out, left the field.

The horse we owned while living here was a very spirited young horse, and I used to ride him to plough between corn, etc. We had our firewood to bring a distance of a mile and a half over a very hilly road. When we went after wood we would take two yokes of oxen and the horse, and I used to ride the horse. One day as we were on our way to the woods, we met a large lumber wagon up on the top of long hill. As both teams were long, and the road narrow, Father had to detach our horse from the oxen, that he could clear the road and allow the other team to pass. When it passed, the wagon made such an unusual noise in going down the hill, that our horse took fright and, being clear from the oxen, wheeled short about and ran down hill, rearing, jumping, and kicking. The traces, whiffletree chain, and whiffletree all fastened together, and as the horse ran, he, of course, heard the rattling of the chains behind him, which frightened him still more. Father anxiously called to me to turn the horse to the wall; but that I could not do, I being so small and the horse so badly frightened. Father, seeing that I could not turn the horse, shouted to me to hold on. That, of course, I tried to do. Father then called out upon the top of his voice, “Stop my horse; stop my horse!” The men, hearing him, sprang from their wagon and spread their arms and whips, trying their best to stop the horse, but all to no purpose. They were obliged to clear the road. The horse passed them with me hanging to him. After Father saw that there was no checking the horse, he stopped in the road and stood there, powerless, expecting to see me killed before his eyes. I held on to the horse’s main as long as I could, but at last my hold was broken and I began to turn under the horse, he jumping, kicking, and rearing. In a moment I was hanging by his side, my foot being caught in the stirrup leather, while my head appeared to strike against the high rocks which projected into the road, and to all appearances he struck me with his hind feet at every jump, until the girth broke and I fell clear from him. When I lay upon the ground, Father started to come to me, but before he reached me, the men had taken me up and carrying me to Father said, “Your little boy is dead.” Said Father, “I expected he was.”

As Father took me in his arms, one of the men said, “Mr. Whipple, get right into our wagon and we will go to your house.” Father did so. After he had got into the wagon, the blood seemed to be running out of my nose, mouth, and ears, and I had every appearance of being dead. My head hung down as I lay in Father’s lap, and I did not breathe at all. After they had gone some 40 or 50 rods, I shook my head and seemed to catch for breath. And then Father raised up my head, but had no thought that I should ever breathe again. But at last I began to make a sort of noise, now and then, my head, throat, and stomach being full of blood. As we passed through the village all eyes were upon us, and people were given to understand that I was mortally wounded, for that was what those thought who were with me. I was carried home and laid upon a bed in a large room. The room was soon filled with people, to see the little dying boy. But after I had lain a while upon the bed, and had the blood cleared from my mouth and nose, I recovered enough to open my eyes and look around and notice who stood in the room. The young man Barney (who always called me his boy), when he saw me open my eyes, spoke and said, “You know me, don’t you?” I said, “Yes, it is Barney.”

This circumstance to me has ever seemed providential. For notwithstanding I received such a terrible kicking from the horse and smashing against the rocks, yet there was not a bone broken. As I continued to bleed at my nose and mouth, it was expected that I should not live through the night, and Father sent for a brother of his to stay that night. After the family had retired and the house was still—and I just then appearing quiet—Father inquired if he could be absent a few moments. Uncle said, “Yes.” Father feeling an anxious desire to pour his spirit in prayer privately to God, the giver of all good, he retired to the attic, it being two floors above where I lay. While there in prayer he asked for my recovery and was answered in these words: “Then shall the lame man leap as an hart, and the tongue of the dumb sing”—and with it, a certain knowledge of my recovery, and coming with such power that it brought him upon his feet, leaping and shouting those words. He immediately returned and said to my uncle, “My little boy will live.” Said Uncle, “Why do you think so?” “Because God has promised it,” said Father. And, surely, it was but three days before I was about again.

The doctor was the nearest neighbor, and as I lay upon the bed when first brought home, all were saying, “Send for the doctor, send for the doctor.” But Father, seeing that I continued to bleed and fearing that the first thing the doctor would do would be to bleed me, he thought he would not send for him. And no doctor was sent for at all. Both Father and Mother were very cautious how they had much to do with physicians, as doctors in those days were continually pouring down poison into the stomachs of the sick, and bleeding was much more practiced then than now.

Another incident which occurred this same season I will mention. One day in the month of August, the month that I was seven years old, we left the field and came to dinner. It was not twelve o’clock, but Father not feeling well, we had left work. After coming to the house, he said to Mother, “I don’t feel well. I think I can eat none of your dinner.” Said Mother, “If I knew what you could eat I would get it.” “I could eat some fresh fish fried if I had it,” said Father. But we had no fresh fish. He then spoke and said, “I think I will lie down a spell and see if I don’t feel better.” We lived near Poquetannuck Cove, where were plenty of crabs. Brother Noah asked if we might go and catch some, and Father gave us permission. So we ran down the hill with spear and basket, intending to follow the shore, and while one caught the crabs, the other was to carry them in the basket. So we were busily engaged. All at once we saw the wake of a fish, which appeared to swim directly for the shore, but at the distance of 30 rods. Said Noah, “Do you see the wake of that fish? Let us go and catch it.” We had to run around the head of the cove, the fish making a straight course for our shore. About the time the fish was there, we were. And the fish came so nigh to the shore that Noah tried to stick his spear into it, but could not hit it. All at once it seemed to be gone.

We stood there lamenting the loss of the fish for a moment, when it made its appearance again, by the side of a large rock quite near the shore. It seemed to be in a great exercise, as though caught by the head. Noah sprang for it again. Said I, “Let me come; I can catch it.” I ran into the water crowding my hands down by the rock and clenched my fingers into its gills and holding on, and Noah sticking the spear into it, he holding down, and I dragging it along to the shore, then carrying it to the house. It was a striped bass that weighed seven pounds. After dressing it, Mother fried a portion and called Father. After seeing what she had, he was astonished, not knowing where she could have got fresh fish. After hearing our story, Father thought it to be providential, and in fact it did seem strange that one lone fish should come as that did, and two little boys should catch it in the manner we did.

Another little boyish incident, which is almost laughable, occurs to my mind that took place during the same season, which I will mention. In the summer we used to drive our cows through the village every night, to the house where we lived to be milked. We had a heifer in the flock that had no horns. Said I to Noah one night as we had the cows almost to the village, “I can ride No-horns.” Said Noah, “You can’t do it; you can’t get on to her.” At that, I watched my opportunity and as she came by the side of a high spot, and on I sprang. I was no sooner on, then the heifer was off upon the jump, but I, fastening my fingers into the long hair on her shoulders, held fast while she raced with the speed of a fleet horse through the village and to our house, it being more than 50 rods. I did not fall off or loose my hold. When the heifer got home, she stopped, and I slid off all right. The exercise through the village caused much laughter. Father talked to me very seriously, telling me the danger of such a prank and that I must do the like no more.

 

 

Chapter 3—Strictly Temperance.

 

I before stated that while living there we were in sight of my grandmother’s. She still lived with her husband, and he continued to drink to great excess. When he drank, he was very abusive to her and would threaten her life, etc. She had no remedy but to acquaint Father; and he would interfere but would do it in a kind and Christian manner. But when we were going to leave, Grandmother told Father that she knew not what to do—that she never could stand it. Father told her that she might go with him. The house was large enough for his family and her too. Said Grandmother, “I don’t know as your father would go.” Said Father, “Let him do as he pleases about it. If he goes I will be as kind to him as to you, but as to his doing as he now does, that I cannot allow. He will have to leave drinking and abusing you.” “Well, Samuel, if I can go with you, I shall,” said Grandmother. “We can let my house.” And that was the final conclusion. But Grandfather had not been consulted. When he was talked with, said he to Grandmother, “You may go where you please, but I am going not a step at all in the world. I am not going to get under Sam.” He was Scotch by birth, and had ways to express himself not commonly used by Americans.

But the time came for moving, and I obtained permission to go with Father to Grandmother’s, when he went to assist in loading up her goods, for I wanted to see what Grandfather would do about going. The first thing after Father got there he went to Grandfather and said, “Well, Father, Jabez has come to take Mother’s goods, and I thought I would speak to you, that I might know what you are going to do about going with her.” Said he, “I am a poor old infirm man. I can do nothing if I am not with your mother. I want to go if you are willing.” “O yes, I am as willing for you to go, as for her,” was Father’s answer, “and will treat you as well as I will her. But this I must have you to understand. If you move into my hired house, you must not bring any liquor there, nor come to the house intoxicated, nor abuse my mother, as you have been in practice of doing.” This Father told him very emphatically. Said Grandfather, “If you will let me go, I will attend to all you require.” “Then that is settled,” said Father, “and I shall expect you to remember.” I felt relieved after seeing Grandfather so willing to do as Father wished him to.

There were no unkind feelings existing between Father and his widowed aunt that caused him to leave her farm; the only reason that caused him to leave was, he had a larger one offered him; and as we boys were more able to work, Father thought he could do better on a larger farm.

Well, we moved, and Grandfather and Grandmother with us. All went quiet for a while, Grandfather remaining sober. But he, being a shoemaker (as before stated), commenced dealing with the merchants near our new home, making shoes for them, and not long after, came home intoxicated and commenced his abuse to Grandmother. She immediately acquainted Father with the fact. Said Father, “I will attend to it,” and going to their room, he reminded Grandfather of his bargain, telling him that he must stop at once or leave. Said the old man, “Sam, I’ll not be in bondage to you. I will leave tomorrow morning by day break.” “Very well,” said Father, and left the room. The next morning Father was into Grandmother’s room by daybreak. But the poor old man was yet in bed. Said Father, “It is day break; it is time you were off.” Said Grandfather, “I have kept awake all the night—have slept none at all. I have been an abusive man. I have abused your mother shamefully, and have abused you. And now I will get down upon my knees to you, if you will forgive me and let me stay: I promise you I will do the like no more at all in the world.” Said Father, “I do not want you to get upon your knees to me. All I want is for you to do as you told me you would and be kind to my mother.” “I certainly will,” replied Grandfather. “Will you try me again?” “O, yes,” said Father, “I do not want to drive you from my house. All I want is to have you a sober man, and the only way to do that is to let liquor entirely alone. That I have found by experience. And if you stay here you must do that.” “I will,” said Grandfather. “Try me again.” “O, yes, that I am willing to do—and will be as kind to you as to Mother.”

Well, the old gentleman lived eleven years—a temperate man, a kind husband to Grandmother, a kind father-in-law (/stepfather) to Father and good kind step-grandfather to myself, brothers, and sisters. At the age of 75, he passed away, leaving many that heartily lamented his loss. In his last sickness I was with him night and day for quite a spell, as it required men’s help to wait upon him and he chose me to do it. I have followed this circumstance to the end in order to show the effect of training up children in the way they should go. My father’s training, of course, commenced with me as far back as I can remember. But when my grandparents moved in with us I was in my 9th year, and when Grandfather died I was 20. All of which time Father’s preaching—and certainly his practice—was the same: strictly temperance. We have seen the effect of his faithfulness in the case of his stepfather. I will now return to my own history.

As above stated I was in my 9th year when we moved from the village. But as small as I was and as kind a father as I had, yet I was put to work and kept steadily at it. Every morning, Noah and myself were called up as soon as it was light, and each had three cows to milk, Father having 15 in all. And they must be out of the yard by sunrise. We used to plant some 15 acres of corn. And when that began to come up, I was called up before the birds started from their roosts to watch the corn to keep them off. There were hundreds and hundreds of blackbirds about the farm, it being surrounded with swamps. Father used to say, “Jonty can holler and whistle so loud. When you go into the field among the corn, you must not sit down and get to sleep—you must run about from place to place, all through the corn, and halloo and whistle as loud as you have a mind to. But don’t step on the corn.” So I would go out when it was so dark I could hardly see the corn and would scamper around, hallooing and whistling as loud as I could, until I was called to breakfast. By that time the sun would be up an hour and a half high. And the birds would be back to the swamps, waiting until towards night, when out they would sally again in large flocks ready to devour all before them. But I would be at my post, ready for them, and as blithe and noisy as before; and there stay until a little after sunset, and then away the birds would fly back to the swamps. And home I would go. As soon as the corn was large enough to possibly answer to weed, we were in the field weeding, and then the birds would leave.

We improved this farm four years, during which time we had no lack of work, as the farm contained 180 acres—40 acres of mowing and no mowing machines with horse rakes, as now, but all done by the strength of man. Father and we boys, three large enough to work, did the most of the work, [and] the young fellow spoken of [worked] six months, and in mowing and hoeing time, some by the day. But one thing was never done in mowing or hoeing time, which was to furnish any kinds of intoxicating liquors for the help. No never. Before hiring his help he would tell them that he furnished no kinds of stimulants for anybody to drink on his premises; he used none himself nor furnished any; that he knew it was a common practice and men expected their “grog” as much as their food— “But I consider it a poor practice. There is no nourishment in distilled liquors, and their use only serves to make drunkards. And I know what it is to be a drunkard, for I have been one myself. I will not have rum on my premises among my boys. If you can’t work without it, you can’t work for me. In hay time I furnish a good luncheon between meals, any kinds of drink such as milk porridge, milk and water, or molasses and water, but no rum.I always pay my help well—that I am willing to do, ‘For a laborer is worthy of his hire.’” He could always get all the help he wanted—and the temperate portion. My step-grandfather never went into the fields to labor, other than to drop corn or rake hay. I think he never milked a cow in his life.

I want it kept in mind that Father, in training up his family, not only kept before them the miserableness of using liquor, but also the dreadfulness of one portion of the human family enslaving another. And above all things, the awfulness of one man taking the life of another; or of many taking the lives of many. For the greater the number, the greater the calamity—that to have many engaged in human slaughter did not lesson the crime, but augmented it in proportion to the number slaughtered and the number it took to do the work.

I was of good size, healthy and resolute, not willing that any boy should outdo me in any of the field labor, or, in fact, in anything else. But Noah, being two years and more my senior, was not willing to have it so and would undertake to outdo me in different kinds of work that we could decide without a quarrel. But when he undertook to exercise his authority over me by using strength, I would not stand that, but would fly into a rage and strike, throw stones, or do whatever I could to gain the victory. And several times while young, I badly hurt my brother. I was not apt to begin, but to stand my hand and come out conqueror. Here again comes in Father’s teaching. Instead of his ever doing a thing to forward or approve of such conduct, after we had had one of our childish freaks he would take us alone and reason with us in the most candid and Christian-like manner that a kind father possibly could to impress it upon our young and tender hearts what the result of such conduct would be. That children who were allowed in such acts and followed them to manhood would become hardened, and fit subjects for warriors, duelists, and perhaps candidates for the gallows. That he wanted that we should try and be considerate, kind, and loving to each other. And should we live to be men, instead of our being subjects for any such purposes as he had mentioned, we might be followers of the meek and lowly Jesus, who went about doing good and was the “Prince of Peace.” Before he had done with us, we should be ready to make any amends that we were able to make by acknowledging our faults and promising to do so no more.

I have not called my dear and affectionate mother’s life and teaching in question as much as I have Father’s. But here let me say that she in no respect was a whit behind him. No family that ever was raised had more reason to venerate and respect a mother than we. If the world had a peacemaker in it, my mother was one. I will remember a remark that was made over her remains the morning after she died. A person came in to see her and, after standing and viewing the corpse a moment, said, “One peacemaker is gone. If there was ever a peacemaker in the world, she was the one.”

In carrying along my history, I shall speak of circumstances and anecdotes such as I think will interest the reader. The second year we lived on this farm, Father bought a yearling bull. As soon as we bought him, we found that he was easily excited and was naturally wild. After we had had his service among our cows, my uncle wanted him a spell. Father told him that he could have him if he could get him home. (He had to take him a mile or more, cross lots.) Said Uncle, “I have Sammy with me; we can get him home well enough.” “Well, you can take him,” said Father. So off they went with the bull. This was early in the morning. And about ten o’clock, home came the bull and jumped out of our pasture into the road. Father, happening to stand not far off, said to me, “There—that bull has got away from your uncle; you run and turn him into the barnyard and shut him in.” He ran into the yard, and I had put up one bar when he sprang for me in the most furious manner—I leaping and springing across the road to the dooryard fence, and sprang over that. The bull then turned and ran down the road toward Mystic village. But a short time after, Uncle and two or three other men came with all haste, inquiring if we had seen the bull—[saying] that he had run mad and must be taken care of immediately or he would kill somebody. I told them he ran down the road. And away they went as fast as possible, and Father with them.

The bull got in sight of the village and stopped in the road. They managed to get around him and drove him back and confined him in the barnyard. The fact was, he was naturally wild and nervous and was taken from his home and got frightened, and so badly pestered my uncle that, while on his way, he called on several of his neighbors, and out they sallied with two little dogs; and setting them after him, [they] scared the bull entirely crazy or mad, and [he] never got over it while he lived. This was the last of July, and he was butchered, I think, the first of November. But during the whole time, we had to keep him by himself and not suffer a person to go in where he was. He was known as “the run at bull.” From that to the present time, I have known that the only way to manage successfully with cattle or horses that are of a nervous, scarish make is to treat them mildly, kindly, and with much patience.

As I before stated, we had no lack of work on this farm. For when our crops were all gathered in, then came on our threshing, getting out flax, and getting home our year’s firewood for three fires [as well as] fatting our 2000 pounds of pork, for we had to pay 2000 pounds of pork and the same weight of cheese for rent. And as Father was so afflicted with asthma that he could not thresh at all, Noah and I had it all to do, with the exception of 40 bushels of oats one year. And we sowed from six to 14 acres of oats yearly, and seven acres of rye every year, and one acre of flax. And Noah and I had that to break—no threshing machines in those days. Instead of our being sent to school winters as children are now, we had to stay at home and work. What odd spells we could snatch, and evenings when we were not too tired, we occupied [ourselves] in getting what education we could. So you see, that must have been limited. Yet after all we did acquire enough so that we have worked along through life quite comfortably.

 

 

Chapter 4—Water Excursions.

 

While we lived on this farm we were but about one half mile from Mystic River. And as Father had been accustomed, in his younger days, to going on the water some, he joined with some other men and had a boat built, calculating to go a-fishing now and then, and did do so. One fall after getting through harvesting, Father and his brother, Noah and myself, started off for a fishing excursion to the south side of Fisher’s Island. It was about the 10th of November—quite a pleasant morning. We went after black fish. It continued pleasant until afternoon. About the time we started for home, a squall from the northeast struck us before we had got through the east race, and it blew a gale. There was no such thing as crossing the sound. With much labor and ado we succeeded in getting into east harbor as it was called, a mile or more from the east end of Fisher’s Island.

It was night when we got there and getting quite cold, and what to do we did not know. As for crossing the sound, that we could not do, and where to stay all night we knew not. After getting our little boat well fastened to the old dilapidated wharf, said Father, “O, Silas,” (speaking to his brother) “I will tell you what I think we can do. There used to be a fish hut to Barley Field, and it may be there now. We will go and see.” So off we all started. Father had worked on the island one season when a young man and knew about the hut. It was, perhaps, a half mile or more to Barley Field. We got there and found the hut. Had there been no moon, we could have done nothing, but as luck would have it, the moon was almost at its full, so that we could see a little. We found a door to the old hut, and it appeared fastened. We felt about each side or edge of the door and found an opening through which we thrust our hand and found how the door was fastened and opened it without doing any harm. We then went in and felt about there, in the dark, and found a sort of a fireplace and a chest, which was not locked. We hauled that before the door, where we could see a little, and found an old tinderbox, flint, and steel, but no tinder—no matches then, as now. We went to the fireplace and found some coals, and although one would have thought they would have been so damp that it would have been impossible to have struck fire amongst them so that it would have catched, but we succeeded in getting fire, and made up a good fire. And after getting light, so that we could see in all parts of the hut, we found an old dinner pot.

It now had got to be eight or nine o’clock at night. Said Father, “Well, boys we have nothing to eat but a little bread, and that is over to the boat. Now you take this old pot and wash it out clean, and your uncle and I will go back to the boat and take care of all of our things and get some fish, and we will have some boiled fish and bread for supper.” We had caught 60 good, large blackfish that day. This fish hut was on the south side of the island. Well, Father and Uncle started for the boat, and my brother and I, getting ready to wash the pot, we had got water in the pot and had it over the fire, and we had a wisp of dry grass for a dish cloth—and before using it, we threw it into the fire, and it flashed almost equal to powder and flamed out of the top of the chimney and the wind, blowing a gale, blew it into the dry seaweed that the top of the hut was composed of, and it flamed as high as a man’s head.

Noah ran into the hut, grabbed the pot with what water it had in it, and around the hut he ran and on to the top (for the back side was even with the bank) to pour on the water; but one foot slumped through, and away went the pot, down off of the hut, hopping and bounding down the hill among the rocks. And Noah then was so excited that he ran upon the top of the hill and hallowed, “Fire! Fire!” But while he was hallowing “fire,” I ran and got the pot (as it happened not to break) full of water and put out the fire—or rather, after it had flashed over the top of the mud, it went out of itself as the inside was damp. But back came Father and Uncle, all out of breath, wanting to know what was the matter. When they first heard the cry of fire they looked around and saw the flame. But after they saw that no harm was done, returned back to the boat, got some fish, and we cleaned, and boiled some in salt water and had some supper. And in fact it was all we had to eat in three days. For it blowed a gale for three days, and there we had to stay with nothing to eat but blackfish boiled in salt water. The third day night, about two o’clock, the wind abated, and we put everything in good condition in the old hut and left, crossed the Sound safe, and got home about eight or nine o’clock in the morning. The folks, all very glad to see us. For they greatly feared that we were blown off to sea and lost.

One more water excursion we had while living on this farm I will mention. Father wanted to buy a ton of flaxseed oilcake for his hogs—and could get it at Norwich, Connecticut. About 14 miles and a very hilly, bad road. So he thought he would go in the boat after it, as he could come to the head of Mystic, and that would be within half a mile. So started off in the boat. Noah and I went with him. Took a very early start, thinking to return the same day. (This was in the month of June I think.) We got there in good season, but by some means before we got our ton of oil cake and got underway for home, it was almost night, and by then we got to Gales Ferry, some six miles. It was eight or nine o’clock and thundering very heavily and the cloud fast rising; and what course to take Father hardly knew. But finally he says, “Boys, I know this little vessel, and I know the man that owns it. We will go to the wharf, and I will go and see if he will not let us stay all night on board.” So we went to the wharf, and Father went to try his luck and, shortly returning, said, “We can stay, boys.” Then going along side of the vessel, as she lay at anchor out in the stream. It still was thundering and lightning very sharp, and the cloud almost overhead. By the time we got all secure and into the cabin, the rain came in torrents, and almost constant thunder and sharp lightning. No one on board but we three. There was not a gale, but it blew fresh. When the man told Father that he could stay aboard, Father told him he should start as soon as it was light and wanted to know what to pay, and he would pay that night. Said the man, “I shall ask you nothing. Here is the key, and you will find comfortable berths for you and your boys. You can stay in welcome and start when you have a mind. Leave the key in the door.”

It was clear in the morning and the wind blowing a smart breeze at northwest. We got underway with our little loaded boat as soon as it was light, and the wind kept rising and hauling more and more into the west, and by nine o’clock it was almost in the southwest and blew a gale. We got as far as New London, and it blew so very heavy, we stopped there a spell, but the wind continued to blow, and Father concluded that he would try and get as far down as the mouth of the river, and if the wind continued to blow, he would stop on board some of the vessels, as the harbor was full on account of the wind. We succeeded in getting down, and the wind continued to blow a gale, so we got alongside of a fishing vessel and asked liberty to come on board and stay until the wind abated; “O, yes,” was the reply. And we got on board and there stayed until the men were going ashore and, as they were not acquainted, told Father that he must leave, as they were going. So we started off, the wind right after us and blowing as hard as ever, and our boat not more then five inches out of water and a large swell now going. The vessel we started from was but a short distance from shore New London lighthouse. When we got out where the wind had fair sweep, it seemed that there was no chance for us. Had it not been that Father was a good boatsman, we should have been “swamped,” but we succeeded in crossing the harbor and got under the lee of Pine Island and there got ashore and stayed until the wind abated, and then put out for home.

It was night before we got to the head of Mystic. Every one wondered how we could possibly come through the sound with that little boat so deeply loaded. After getting home, we found that there had been wind there as well as where we were. We found limbs twisted off of the large buttonwood trees (that stood by the house) six or eight inches through. As we stayed so long, and the wind blowing so hard, our folks thought we were drowned this time certainly. But finally we got home all right again.

I have stated that my parents were not much for employing doctors. While we had lived here, my youngest brother, Samuel, was sorely afflicted with an ague sore—a small boy in his eighth year. After he was taken, most of the neighbors wondered that we did not send for the doctor. But Father would answer them in his usual manner, “Well, I haven’t much faith in doctors. I think they do more harm than good, many times.” The doctor passed very commonly and would inquire about him. And I remember of hearing him tell Father, “Mr. Whipple, you seem to be afraid of doctors. We now shall have a chance to see whether patients that are in your son’s condition get along better without a doctor. I now have two that I am tending upon; I will show you.” But no doctor was ever asked to even look at my brother while confined. But he became a well man—was lame none at all. But the doctor’s patients—one died, and the other was a cripple for life.

After living on this farm four years, we moved to another farm of 100 acres, Father thinking of giving his sons a chance to get trades as they became old enough. This was in the year 1807. I then was in my 13th year, and Noah 15. This farm was also in Groton, Connecticut, and situated some two miles from the head of Mystic. Here we lived three years. My grandmother and step-grandfather also moved with us. My uncle Silas then lived in the house and continued to live there a year after we moved in. He was a carpenter by trade, and Father calculated to let us learn trades of him when we were old enough. After living all in this house one year, Uncle moved out. And Noah, then being 16 years old, went to live with him.

One little water incident that took place while Uncle lived here with us I must mention. The reader will recollect that Father and others owned a little boat—we still owned it and continued to go fishing. About the first of May, Father and Uncle concluded to go the south side of Fisher’s Island after cod fish and, getting all ready over night calculating to start the next morning about two o’clock, said to us, “Boys, you all better retire early, as we shall call one of you to go with us. And we are going to start very early.” So we all started off to bed with a rush, each rather expecting that “I” shall be called. Uncle’s boy, Daniel, and I thought we would sleep together; I felt so much like a sailor boy and thought I was so very smart, I felt almost sure that I should be called (Daniel and I were just of an age)—all wanting to go, yet but one going. As for my part, I felt so animated with the thought of going, I could hardly get to sleep, but after a while did. But the next thing I knew, I heard, “Daniel, come, get up; it is now time to start.” I was down; O, I never was so disappointed in my life. But the matter was settled. Daniel was going, and I must stay at home. Daniel was up at once and dressed, down stairs and off. But I lay and mourned and lamented my disappointment. But there was no help. I had it to endure.

After a while I got to sleep again and slept until morning. I then got up, but found it very cloudy and the wind northeast, and as red in the east as I ever saw it. Noah and I went about our chores and got them all done, and a good pile of wood in, to last through the storm; and just as we got all through, it began to rain. And, O, how it did rain, and continued to rain, and was as cold as it could be and not snow. About 10 or 11 o’clock, the fishermen and Daniel returned, and Daniel as nigh perished as a little fellow could be—soaked through and through (and so they all were) and perfectly satisfied with his voyage. They went fairly on to the fishing ground about eight miles south of Fisher’s Island, anchored their boat, and Father putting all things in order ready to fish. Uncle being in such a hurry to get catching fish, that he forgot to fasten his line on the reel, or winder, and letting it run off in such haste, away it went, leaving the reel in his hand—a new line never wet before. Just as that happened, the rain began to come, and Father never put his line overboard. And when they saw how matters stood, they started for home. Well, when I saw and heard the whole story, I felt happy to think that I had the good luck to get disappointed in the morning while in a good comfortable bed. I knew in the morning that if I got up and asked to go, it would be useless, that if I had been wanted Father would have called me. The fact was, Daniel would have been so badly disappointed, that Uncle wanted to let him go. And Father knew that I could endure it even if I was disappointed. And so he consented to have Daniel called. Noah generally cared less about fishing excursions.

Daniel was two months older than I, but was less in stature and not so healthy, but very ambitious, never willing to have it said that I was stouter or could do more than he. And I being of the same make, it caused some strife between us at times. Perhaps it would begin about hoeing or doing some other kind of work. And after seeing how he came out in that, would say, “Well, I can outrun you,” or perhaps, “I can whip you.” But I, always knowing it would not do to quarrel, would put him off until I would be so badly imposed upon that I would think I could stand it no longer. And two or three times before I was 14, we had quite little brushes, but were both reprimanded sharply and both would feel sorry and ashamed. But I would try and excuse myself as well as I could by saying, “Daniel began it.” But in Father’s presence that was no excuse. I should be told, “Jonathan, it matters not what Daniel has said or done to you; you know that you are not allowed to quarrel for any cause.” And then he would go on and tell me that that was the very way the whole world of mankind took, even the great men of the nations. They would think that they were imposed upon, and take resent, and begin to contend, and finally go to war, and perhaps before the matter would be settled, thousands of people would be slaughtered. [He] would finally tell me that there was but one way for me to give him satisfaction, and that was to go to my cousin and tell him that I had done very wrong in quarreling and was sorry for so doing. Well, such teaching was good, and it had a good effect on me. So the age of 16, I went to a trade to my uncle, and worked with this same cousin Daniel for years. And we never had one single quarrel during our lives. Whenever I found him in a fret and inclined to talk unreasonable, I would say not a word to tease or aggravate him. I have, from my youth to the present time, felt to thank my heavenly Father that he gave me parents who lived in his fear and taught me, prompted by the influence of his spirit.

 

 

Chapter 5—Profession of Religion.

 

Not far from the time I went to my trade, I was thoroughly awakened to a realizing sense of duty by an unthought-of accident, which happened to me by being hooked in the lower part of my body by a cow. The cow sprang at a dog and, missing him, plunged her horn into me. It certainly was a wonder that I was not killed outright. The morning this happened, it was cold and snowing very fast. I went to fodder the cattle, and the dog followed me. I had thrown the fodder off the stack and jumped over the fence to scatter it, and that moment the dog started from underside of the fence and dodged between me and the cow (we had a flock of cattle). I never supposed the cow meant to hook me, but the dog. I got to the house after being hooked, but in a bad condition. Here again it would be thought that the doctor must be sent for. But no, a doctor’s name was not mentioned, though I was covered in blood from my body to my feet. Father in his usual calm manner in time of trials said, “Jonathan, what is the matter?” I told him. After sending all the family out of the room, he examined me and found that I was so badly torn that my wound must be sewed; he did that and finally got me as comfortable as my condition would admit. I then had nothing to do but to lie and reflect. And certainly, I had thoughts I never had before. At this time I was old enough to take matters into consideration. And as I reflected upon the narrow escapes I had passed through, and yet my life was spared, it was high time for me to think for myself and act as an accountable being. And from that day I made up my mind, if I was suffered to live, I would try and live a new life. It was but a few weeks before I was about and well. No one can think how thankful I felt to have my life spared. It certainly was a wonder that my bowels were not all let out upon the ground.

The next year I made a profession of religion among a people who differed but little in principle from the Friend Quakers—only in the ordinance of water baptism and the Lord’s Supper. These observe both, and the Friends neither; otherwise I believe they are one people. After making a profession, I continued on striving to beautify it—by not taking part, or uniting with, any of the sinful practices that were carried on by the multitude, such as: having anything to do with the military operations, in any form or in any shape; having anything to do with slavery; uniting with government to regulate that; suing at the law to get my due; using any kinds of intoxicating drinks as a beverage; using tobacco in any of its forms; or hanging about those places where such business was practiced.

Of course while I was a minor, I could have nothing to do with governmental business, if I had wished, in point of managing. But when I became 18 years of age, I was called in question by governmental laws to learn the warrior’s art. But I refused and gave my reasons, which was, “I profess to be a Christian. I can kill no one, even my enemy; and I don’t wish to learn the trade.” But giving my reasons did not prevent their continued call. And some threats were given out, but that altered not my views nor caused me to comply with that which I knew to be wrong. From childhood I knew it to be wicked to kill human beings; I had been taught that by my parents. And after I became of suitable age to read and understand what I read, I found that the New Testament scriptures taught the same, and so plainly “that the way faring man, though a fool, could understand it.”

While I was quite young, and prompted by my quick irritable disposition, if I was crowded upon and what I considered insulted, all that kept me in check was, my Christian parents. I knew that if I undertook to retaliate and stand my hand, I, at once, should be called to an account, and an acknowledgement demanded by them—and I should have to go and make a humble confession to the child I had quarreled with. There was no excuse for me to make, that the child commenced upon me, etc. The demand of my parents to me was, or would be, “Jonathan, you are told not to quarrel. It matters not what the boy has done to you. You must never quarrel. Now, if you choose to go alone and confess to the boy, very well; and if not, you must go with me.”

Such was the training I had while young. And it has such an effect upon me that, as irritable as my disposition was, I never had one quarrel with any person after I was 14 years old. I still had my disposition, but through teaching and experience, I had found a better way than to resort to violence—at an early age.

After making a profession of religion, I took an interest in reading the Scriptures, both old and new testaments, and in reading them I found that the new superceded the old, as Christ himself forbade that which was allowed and even commanded under the Mosaic dispensation, in the first sermon he ever preached, which commences at the 5th chapter of Matthew. In that sermon we find killing, slavery, suing at law, swearing, lying, stealing, etc., all emphatically forbidden, and this was what I had been taught by my parents. They had taught that Christ was a peacemaker and had pronounced blessing upon peacemakers.

Well, time passed on. I was well, healthy, and labored on in trying to do well and be a Christian. The day I was 16 years of age, I was standing to the carpenter’s workbench at work, not noticing the condition of any of the tools that day on the bench. But there happened to be a hewing hatchet, as they are called, lying upon the bench, as heavy as a common narrow axe and just ground as sharp as it could be. One of the men at the bench [was] morticing sash, which cause[d] a constant jar, and the hatchet happening to lie edge off, the first I knew it fell across my naked foot, cutting the whole width of my foot and into the bones, cutting off the cords of three of my toes—and an artery, which caused the blood to flow most profusely. Here was a case, it would seem, that a physician must be had, but none was even spoken of. At the time I was about half a mile from home. Father and Mother were sent for (but before they got there, rags were wrapped about my foot, but not stopping the blood at all). As soon as Father got there, all the rags were taken off. And the moment the foot was naked the blood flew more than two feet. But in one moment they had it entirely stopped. It did not bleed through two thicknesses of a linen rag. It had bled more than a quart before they came. But there I was, a cripple—and some thought, for life.

Well, in a few days I was got home. I was unable to get about any for weeks. It being cut exactly across my foot, it was much worse on every account. The flesh will not heal as quick, and if I undertook to step, it was tearing all open. But as bad as the wound was, I was away to work the next spring. For months, I could not spring upon that foot as I could upon the other, and I was afraid I never should be able to—but it became entirely well as the other. And I can put that foot under anything heavy and raise it up as well as with the other. While I was hobbling about, I often times would be spoken to in this way: “You will always be a cripple.” Well, time passed on again; I was well, as to lameness, and my health was good—and I always worked very steady and at laborious kinds of work.

The year I was advancing towards nineteen, in the month of March, I was taken unwell—something like a bad cold—, but instead of getting better of it, I continued to grow worse, my cough increasing and my appetite for food failing and [it] raising some blood. I soon got so I was unable to do any work and could hardly walk about, but I continued to go out every day. I told the family that I intended to go to the barn every day as long as I could get there and back. I had a very hard cough and got to sweating nights very much. There was a young man whose father and mother both died of consumption, who used to come in every morning to see me. And finally concluding that it would be wrong to try to deceive by flattering me, he began to say, “Jonathan, if my father or mother died of consumption, you have got it.” And he was not the only one; they were telling on all sides that I had it. But as strange as it may seem, a doctor was not mentioned in my sickness, as being called upon for me. But when the weather grew warm I began to amend, and the hotter in was, the better I felt. My cough began to abate, my appetite began to come, and the first of September I was well. And I have never been subject to a cough since.

At the age of 20, Father gave me my time, and the spring following, Brother Noah and I commenced working in company. Dr. John O. Miner of Groton, Maj. Elisha Avery of the same town, and others had made arrangements to build a small woolen factory in Groton, about a mile west of Centre Groton. And they hired Noah and I to do their mason work, not only for the factory but for two dwelling houses. Notwithstanding our ages and limited experience in masonry, yet we gave such satisfaction that they employed us by the day, through their whole job, which took a whole season.

This was the year the English fired into Stonington Point and undertook bombarding it. The day they were throwing shells, Noah and I happened to be quarrying out stone (for the work we were doing) in Candlewood Hill, which was in plain sight, where we could see both the village and the bomb ship—and could see the operation of the ship every time she discharged her bomb. It had such an effect on the vessel, every time she fired, that she would roll as that she would almost fetch the end of her lower yards into the water. My brother and I had had such thorough training against all of this man-destroying business, that their operations seemed inhumane, savage, and barbarous enough to us. No Christianity about, or in, such business. Our names were, at that time, enrolled. And we were summoned to go and “kill the Britons.” And the same company that our names were enrolled in went and killed two (I think it was) poor fellows, here on the shore of Mystic River. But we could have nothing to do with such business, as we both professed to be Christians. Some of the men went from the same job where we were at work to “kill Britons” if they could, as they said. But the “Britons” seemed as much like my brothers as my own countrymen did, who were no nigher blood akin than they, and [it seemed] that I had no more right to kill them.

Our work at this establishment lasted until the last of November. And about that time I was taken with the whooping cough, and not knowing that I had been exposed, I took no special care of myself; and it being just as winter was coming on, I had it severely, and it continued all winter. But when spring opened and the weather grew warm, the cough left me, and I was all right and my health good.

And Brother Noah and I continuing on in company, and still working at the mason business, which consisted mostly in taking down old-fashioned large stone chimneys (with fireplaces the whole width of the chimneys) and building smaller ones with flue ovens—and making the fireplaces of nice cut stone (no cooking stoves then) and plastering the dwelling houses (as there were no country dwellings plastered in those days, of any account). This is 1815, the year I was 21.

 

 

Chapter 6—“The September Gale.”

 

As both my brother and myself understood the carpenter business, we had the advantage of some; for when we did not have business at one, we might have at the other branch. And it was with difficulty that I could put off the old farmers in haying time, as they would all be after me to mow for them. And as I could use the broadax well, and there being no sawed timber in those days, I was always called upon to hew timber, whenever they could get me, if I was not otherwise engaged. The forepart of this season we worked at the carpenter business in repairing our own house (for we had bought a house and small farm) and rebuilding the chimney. We got that all repaired up in good shape for two families—for I was calculating to marry in the fall, and both [families were to] live in the house.

After getting through with our work, we commenced abroad again. But before haying time, one of the old farmers was after me to help him do his mowing—and pled so hard that I concluded to try and help him. And when the time came, Noah concluded to go with me, and we both went. And the old gentleman told Noah that he might go to work. He had a very smart young man, by the month. After breakfast we three went into the field. Of course the monthly man passed no compliments but set in ahead himself. Noah, though the oldest, never would mow ahead of me, so I set in next. It was not long before our employer came with his rum jug and says, “Here is your liquor and water; you can drink when you please.” Said I, “Noah and I drink no rum.” “Ah, well, you must have something besides water; what will you have?” “Milk and water, or molasses and water— just which you please,” said I. “You can have just which you choose.” “Give us milk and water, then,” said I. The monthly man spoke up very promptly, “You can’t stand it to mow here and not drink rum.” I said not much, but merely spoke and told him that we were not used to drinking liquor. But we mowed on, the leader of course trying to show us that men could not mow with him without using rum. We passed off the forenoon in quite a brisk manner, my brother some of the time a little behind—but all very pleasant.

At twelve o’clock we went to dinner, and at the dinner table the old gentleman inquired how we got along without rum. The monthly man spoke again very promptly, “No man on God’s earth can stand it to mow with me without drinking rum.” The old gentleman turning to me said, “Can’t you, Jonathan?” “Yes,” said I. I noticed that Brother Noah and the old gentleman looked rather mischievous but said nothing. After dinner we two were set to mowing again, and Noah and the others to getting up hay. We were kept to mowing all day. And the next day at an early hour, at it again, and we two kept at mowing all day until sunset. The third morning Noah and I got up and unloaded a ton of hay, and the old gentleman milked five or six cows, and were going from the barn to the house and met the monthly man, who had just turned out. Said the old man, “Well, you have stuck to your bed well this morning; has Jonathan tired you out?” “No, sir,” he replied. The old man had told us in the barn, before meeting him, that he would not have us behind “Harry” any more in his field, that that was not my place, and he wanted me to tell him so. We ground our scythes, ate our breakfast, and started for the field. While on our way, said I, “Harry, what do you think the old gentleman says?” “I don’t know—what does he say?” “He says he will have you no more ahead of me in his field, and wished me to tell you,” said I. “Well, I was going to tell you myself this morning, I am going ahead of you no more—you are an abler man than I am,” said he. But I told him, “Keep your swath; I don’t want it.” But he would not set in ahead any more. But one thing the poor fellow found out—that men could mow without rum, and stand it.

In those days there were but a precious few that thought it possible to do hard work without liquor—or to stand the cold or very hot weather without it. I have not mentioned this circumstance to boast of my skill in mowing, but to show how foolish it is for any person to get such an high esteem of liquor. For its constant use is about sure to ruin any person. This very young man became a downright sot. I had never mowed for this old gentleman before. The day we finished his mowing, as we were going to dinner, he said to me, “Jonathan, I want to engage you now for another year to help me do my mowing.” If he found no other saving in employing total abstinence men, he had no rum to furnish.

After getting through with the mowing business, our next work was at masoning again. From this we went to preparing stone for a chimney about two and a half miles from home. And just as we got the old chimney down, cleared away, and commenced the new one, the September Gale (as it has ever been called) came on. I think it was the 20th day. It commenced blowing soon after sunrise, unusually fresh, and by seven o’clock, it blew heavy. About seven we were called to breakfast, some ten rods from where we were at work. We all sat down to eat, and the wind continued to rise, and it rose to such an extent that the house began to rattle—or something made a noise in the chamber, as if there was pounding (this was a one story house). We ran into the chamber and soon found what the noise was. The wind blew as powerfully against the windward roof, that it pressed it down and sprang up the other, and that would jump the foot of the rafters out of their track, and there they were a-pounding. And in five minutes the roof would have been off. But Noah and I sprang about then and found pieces of joints and drove them under the windward rafters and nailed them there, and then got a stout rope and fastened it to one of the leeward rafters and brought it down the stairway and had that confined. All that we [had] done in two minutes. But while we were about it, away blew a wide piece of a board from the peak of the roof; and the wind whirled in with such power that it took Noah’s hat off his head, and away it went out of the hole, when it was seen no more that day.

There were no more boards taken off and no more harm done to the house. The gale had such an effect on our employer, that it made him so sick, that he commenced vomiting and could do nothing. Had it not been for Noah and I, his house would have been unroofed if no more. There were many large trees about the house—apple trees and one very large buttonwood. The most of the apple trees were torn up. The buttonwood—we expected every moment when that would fall, as it would bend almost down; and finally there was a limb as large as a man’s body split from the body of the tree, and down it came and rolled over and over and whirled around endwise, and then lay still. But the tree stood through the gale.

After it had subsided enough so that we could leave the house we were in, we went to the one where we were building the chimney and found that standing. Noah had borrowed a hat, as his had blown away—but some days after, was found in a pond, some 40 rods from the house. After looking about a little, instead of going to work on the chimney, we started for home, the wind still blowing almost a hurricane. When it first commenced blowing heavy, it was northeast, but as it increased it worked more into the east, and after it got into the southwest it still blew heavy. On our way home we found wonderful destruction among the forest trees, and found our barn unroofed in part. As our house stood where the wind had a fair rake, we expected that was blown away, but it was not disturbed. Noah’s wife and little babe were all that were in the house when the gale first commenced, but it continued to increase so rapidly that she shut all up safe, took her little babe, and ran before the wind to a neighboring new house, where she thought she would be more safe. But when we got home, she was home again. I was married seventeen days before. I made my way to my wife’s father’s, to see what had become of them, my wife still being at home. Their house and barn were standing, but all of the great nice apple trees were down on all sides of their house—but no person hurt. I then started to my own father’s, knowing that his chimney was taken down, for as soon as we had finished where we were at work, we were to put a new one up for Father. In those days chimneys were all stone and so large they were a great support to a house. But as Father’s house had such large timber, and all white oak, it stood as secure as could be. After finding the folks were all alive and not hurt, I then put into our woods to see if there were any trees standing. There was a cart path of some forty rods distance that led through the woods, and I undertook to follow that, and in doing so (I think), I had to climb over 27 tree trunks that lay across the path, and every one large enough for a sawmill-log. Noah and I had seventeen acres of woodland, but I dare not undertake to tell how many trees were down on it—hundreds at all events.

The next day was Sunday. After meeting, Noah and wife asked my wife and I if we would not like to take a walk over to her father’s, to see what had become of them (they lived by the factory pond a half a mile north of the head of Mystic). We told them yes. And so off we started. We found them not blown away nor harmed. After taking dinner, we concluded we would go to the head of Mystic and see what had been done there by the wind and high tide, and we did go. After getting there, as we stood in the street in front of Enoch Burrows’s house, Mrs. burrows came out and told us of the wonderfulness of the scene they witnessed they day before. Said she, “Yesterday the tide rose so high by reason of the mighty wind that it came into our store as high as the counter. And the water was deep enough right where you stand to float quite a vessel. And there were such large waves that they rolled against our front steps with such violence that the water blew onto the doorknocker.” That doorknocker was, I think, ten feet high from the surface of the road in front of the house. We saw cloth spread all about, drying, that was wet in the store. So much about the “September Gale.”

 

 

Chapter 7—Business.

 

After finishing the chimney where Noah lost his hat, we then went to Father’s and built his chimney. The next spring I moved into the house with Noah, as we owned in company. Noah had taken a prentice boy, but as they did not agree very well, when we commenced keeping house, I took him to live in my family, and I had the care of him; yet Noah and I continued co-partnership and kept on working together and getting along as pleasantly as ever two brothers did. For we lived in company seven years, dividing none of our earnings, and our wives using meat, meal, flour, sweetening, etc., etc., in common, and never once having a word of uneasiness. I say, this we practiced seven years and worked together during the whole time, and this prentice boy continued with me four years, working with us all the time. It appeared to many of our acquaintances wonderful how we could get along so friendly. We often should be inquired of, as we were at work, “Which of you are boss? I have not found that out yet.” Noah would commonly answer the question by saying, “O, both of us.” And that was so. But I always kept our accounts and settled our bill.

While we worked in company, a man came and wanted us to build him a dwelling house 28 x 38 feet, one story high. Materials all found, he having nothing to do but pay the bill, and said, “I choose you in preference to any men I know of, and want you to do my work if we can agree.” We had had some acquaintance with him and knew him to be one of the most particular men in the country. After some talk pro and con, we made a bargain to build his house. But both Noah and myself, being young and placing all confidence in people’s word, we concluded that written contracts were no better than a man’s word, and so had no other than a verbal contract. We were very particular on both sides in making the bargain. The money was to be paid as the work progressed, but not all until the job was finished. Not a scratch of writing (as to contract) among us—the house to be finished by such a time. Well, we commenced the job and worked on, people all telling what a snarl we had got ourselves into—that if we had as strong written contract as could be written, we then should [still] have difficulty. And one man in particular—a carpenter—said there would be no such a thing as to build a house for that man and not have difficulty with him, however strong writing they might have.

But we moved on with our job. We told the man in the beginnings, “If you see anything going on contrary to our bargain, don’t be afraid to speak; we shall not be offended”—doing just as we agreed, and the man daily around where we were, and we speaking that if he saw anything wrong we wished him to speak. But no fault found, so on we worked, until we were clapboarding the house. There happened to be a short piece put on between two windows in the front of the house that had a touch of resin in one spot. It was just nailed on (by a good workman we had). Our employer, happening to see it, spoke to the workman that he was sorry that that piece was put on in that place. It affronted the carpenter in a moment, and they had some words. Noah and I, hearing the fuss, inquired what was the matter; our employer told us. We told him that if he did not want it there, we would have it taken off. He replied, “I should rather not have it there right in front of my house.” The workmen declared that it was as good a piece as there was on the house, and he would not take it off; so one of us took it off. Noah nor myself showed anything but friendship and kindness to either. So we continued on in the greatest friendship, and not a word of fault found, until after the house was glazed. And then there happened to be one square of glass put into one of the chamber windows that had one corner cracked or broke off, but it being so small that the square was put in and was tight. Well, that was noticed and spoken of. We told him, “If you don’t want that in, we will take it out. We told you to speak of anything that was not according to our bargain, and we won’t be offended.” “Boys let it alone; it is well enough.”

We continued with our work and finished the house, and not another word of fault found during the whole job. We had had many kinds of articles besides money—oak lumber, corn, pork etc., etc.—at different times. He had kept his account, and I, ours. And as we began to come to a close he would speak about the accounts not agreeing—and that we had got along in such harmony, he hoped that the accounts would agree, that he knew his was correct, etc., etc.

The day we were to finish, I took my book with me, telling Noah I thought it best to settle at once, as everything would be fresh in memory. He had not moved into the new house, but occupied a house nigh by. After looking into every part, said he, “You have finished my house; go to where we live, and I well settle with you and pay you up, if our accounts agree.” So we went, and he got his book, but appeared very much excited and said, “Now Jonathan, I don’t expect our accounts will agree.” Said I, “Supposing they should not; what shall we do?” Said he, “Mine is right—I know it is.” Said I (smiling), “Well, mine is right. I know it is. Come—let us look over and see how they compare.” He got his book and sat down, and there spoke to his son and told him to open the door. His son wanted to know what he wanted that opened for. “I expect someone will want to run before we get through settling.” Nothing would do; the outside door must be opened, and it was. And then the old man undertook to compare accounts, but was under such an excitement that he could do nothing at all and handed his book to his son, saying, “Here, look over for me—I can do nothing.” His son took the book and very calmly commenced reading over the account, and I looking over mine. They agreed for a spell, but at length they differed a half-cent, and that in the old man’s favor. I spoke out, “Wrong.” The old gentleman almost sprang from his seat and exclaimed, “There! I told you so—I didn’t believe they would agree.” But the young man calmly inquired how mine differed from his father’s. I told him I had a half-cent in his father’s favor. “Is that all the difference?” said the old gentleman. I told him it was.

We continued on through the whole account, and I think there were three half-cents difference, and all in his favor. Said I, “Well, now what do you think about the accounts differing.” “I didn’t think you had been so particular—I didn’t certain,” said he. Said I, “I knew I had been particular, and I knew you had, and I expected our accounts would agree, and they have.” “Well,” said the old gentleman, “ I am ready to pay you every dollar—and in hard dollars—if you want them.” We told him that any currency money would answer our purpose.” So he paid us all up and then said, “Now boys, you have not got all of my money; if you get in want of money any time, come to me—I will accommodate you  any time.” After making this remark, he ordered a certain cheese to be brought on, which had been keeping for nine years (I think). So he had told his family that that cheese must be kept until he built a new house. The cheese was cut, and each of us must take a good large slice home to our wives. This ended our house job. But each of us were accommodated any time when we wished to hire money, as he always let us have. I have not told this circumstance to recommend taking jobs without a written contract. I think it a better way to have all bargains of consequence in writing. Yet we, in this case, got along splendidly all through.

As I have mentioned one circumstance respecting the weather, or wind, I think I will mention another, though it ought to have been spoken of before. While I was an apprentice there came one of the most severe snowstorms that has been for more than a century and a half. It is known now by “the Christmas storm.” The weather had been remarkably mild and pleasant. We were framing a building and all worked with our coats off until night, gathered up our tools, and went to the house (we were at home where our uncle lived) and spent the evening as usual, and all in the chamber—the chamber not plastered. Towards morning we all awaked and commenced talking, but found a change in the weather. I happening to thrust one of my hands out of bed, and putting it into a large pile of snow, I called out, “Boys, it’s snowing.” They could hardly believe any such thing. But when it was light, we all saw how the old chamber looked, for not only our beds, but the floor was heaps and piles of snow in every direction. And such a rattling and humming among the clapboards on the old house, I never heard before. And when we went out, we found such a storm as the oldest person never had seen before. The snow was falling not in usual flakes, but more like snow blowing off a building. It seemed to be pouring down—and cold enough to pinch a person at once.

My uncle had but one cow, and that was in the barn cellar, the east side of which was open. I started for the barn to see what had become of the cow; I found her, but all covered up. I ran to the house and told uncle the condition of the cow. Said he, “You must all go and see if you can’t get her into the underground room.” So off all three went. But such a time you hardly ever saw, as we had to get the cow. The snow and ice was frozen all over her and stuck fast, one inch thick, certainly, and she was shaking with the cold to such a rate, come to get her out of the bank that was on all sides of her, she could hardly stand. All the way we could get her to walk or step at all was for two of us to clench hands behind her and press her along, the distance nearly twenty rods. After getting her to the basement door, we had quite a scrabble to force her in, but we did. And after getting her in, we made a large fire in the old eight-foot fireplace and got the cow on the hearth, and there she stood and trembled to such a rate that she could hardly keep upon her feet. But after a while the avalanches of show and ice began to slide off of her, and she got so that she could stand still. But there we kept her 24 hours.

It continued to snow all that day, very fast, and blew a hurricane—and grew cold all the time. It really seemed as if a person could not stand it, any way you could fix it. Many and many fowl froze to death, sheep were covered up in the snow, and one of our neighbors had five cattle (I think it was) covered up and perished under the snow; he hunted high and low but could not find them until after they were dead.  One new fishing smack, owned at Mystic, Connecticut, started for the south the day before the storm and was never heard of after. My uncle and I [had] finished her cabin. She was owned by Joseph Park, principally, I was told. It was said that many sheep, in trying to get some lee, put before the wind and plunged into the water off of Fisher’s Island and were drowned during this dreadful storm.

But to return to my general history, my brother and I and my apprentice boy continuing on at the same business and having all the work that we could do and still living in the same house and each of our wives having children. As before stated, I was married the September the gale came—and the third day, which was in the year 1815. The next year, 1816, November second, our first child, a daughter, was born. Myself and Brother Noah being of one profession and of one mind as to the fundamental principles set forth in the gospel, and taught by our parents the inconsistency of Christians going to war, the wickedness of one portion of the human family enslaving another portion on account of color or for any cause, the absurdity of Christians having a right to sue at the law or take an oath under any consideration—I say, as we were of one opinion in respect to all of these, we were a strength and an encouragement to each other, and especially as we had various trials constantly to encounter while in company. As neither of us would have anything to do with the militia requirements, we were constantly harassed, threatened, and executions got out against us. But by reason of the encouragement we received from each other and from others of our profession, we never in one instance did a thing to violate those principles while we were in company. It would often be told to us, “You now are working for a man that will never pay you if he finds that you will not sue him.” “He has found that out now—we always tell people our belief about such things,” we would tell them. But we never got cheated out of five dollars while we were in company.

One season, we had worked at different places and had done very well and still had good jobs on hand. And as we were quarrying out slate for fireplaces, a very poor man came to us and told his condition, that he had got him up a house in the woods and could get no one to build a chimney (it was before cook stoves were in use)—they were obliged to cook on the ground in a part of his house—and that they suffered greatly. And they he had a family of small children and could get no money to pay mason bills etc., etc. As we had so much work on hand—and where men were able—, we turned off the poor man by telling him that we had so much work on hand we could not attend to his. He turned away and moved off very slowly with a down cast look. I eyed the poor man until he was several rods from us. I felt so much sympathy for him. Said I to Noah, “I feel real sorry for Uncle Ned; don’t you?” “Yes, but what can we do?” “Go and build his chimney if we never get a cent for it,” said I. “I will go if you will,” said Noah. At that, I hallowed to him and told him to come back. He came back, and we told him we had concluded to build his chimney.

You can hardly imagine how thankful he appeared to be. He told something about pay. But knowing he was not worth a dollar, we of course expected nothing. We told him when we would come, and accordingly went and built a stone chimney and a stone oven in it. We knocked it up very quick and after finishing were about to start off, not calculating to say a mind about pay, or expecting to ever get a cent. The poor man spoke and said, “My son came home last evening and very unexpectedly brought home some money. Now, if you will tell me what your bill is, I will pay you.” We both were “struck back” as we were never expecting to get anything. But knowing as we did that he was a poor man and would much need all of his money—and knowing too that he wanted to pay us—, we told him that we should not ask him but so much (about half price). “O, that is too cheap—it won’t half pay you,” etc., etc. But we told him that he was a poor man as well as ourselves and that he had a family to provide for, and we should be satisfied with what we asked him. He thanked us and thanked us—and so did his wife—and paid our bill, and we left him, feeling more than satisfied, as we [had] expected nothing.

Then we returned to our other jobs, one of which was for a man said to be one of the most “slippery” kind of men, that always calculated to get the advantage of every one he dealt with. We commenced his work by the day (after agreeing upon a price), and continuing on for some time in the most friendly manner, [with his] paying us money whenever we asked. People [were] saying, “Well, how do you get along? Have you asked for money yet?” “O, yes.”  “Did you get any?” “All we asked for.” “Ah, he will work you, before you have done with him.” We would reply, “Maybe not.” By and by, he was going to take a short journey, but wished us to continue on with his work. We told him that some had given us a watchword stating “that we should find you ‘slippery’ before we had done with you. You will pay us if we continue to work for you while you are gone, will you?” “Why, yes, I surely will—here, take this. This will more than pay you till I come back.” He handed out 60 dollars, I think it was. We told him we did not want money faster than we earned it. If we could get our pay when it was due that was all we asked for. He took his journey, and we worked on, and finished his work soon after he returned. And he paid us in the most gentlemanlike manner.

While we were at work for this man, a stranger, whom we never saw before, came and told us that he was contemplating building a large dwelling house the next season and wanted to hire us to do all of his mason work and wanted it done by the day—stating that he had heard of us and thought we should suit him, and wished to know if he could depend upon us (after hearing our price). We told him that he was a stranger to us; we hardly knew what to tell him. We depended upon our labor, and we had no work engaged for the next season. We finally told him if he heard nothing to the contrary soon, he might expect us to do his work. (While we were having this conversation, we were in front of our present employer’s house). He, glancing his eye towards the house, said, “Mr. B. and I don’t hitch horses together very well; you need pay no attention to what he may tell you about me.” We told him that our practice was to prove people for ourselves—that if we had heard to all that had been told about this man, we never should have come here. “We now have proved him for ourselves. And, certainly, he is one of the best men we have ever fell in with.” Said he, “ You come and try me, and if I don’t treat you as well as Mr. B. does, you may kick my _______ into the river.” He lived not far from the river.

The next season we went to work for him, commencing the fourth of April. All seemed to go on comfortable for a while, considering the disposition of the man. He had six men by the month on his farm, twelve children, two hired women, five carpenters by the day, and three masons including my apprentice—27 in family, all told. His make was such that he wanted to boss over everything, both indoors and out, on the farm, among his carpenters, and among the masons. There could be not a board sawed by the carpenter, if he was present, but he must tell them where and how to saw it. If he was on the premises he was constantly running from place to place finding fault about something wherever he went. We first commenced quarrying stone for cellar wall, doorsteps, and fireplaces—plenty of stone on his farm. After the cellar was dug, we commenced stoning that, and whenever he was there, he must tell us, “Turn that stone over,” or, “Turn that stone the other end foremost,” or do something different from our calculations.

We bore his maneuvering a spell, but it became so tedious and disgusting that my brother and I made up our minds that we would bear it no longer—that if it must continue so, we would leave. We talked it over between ourselves, and Noah wished me to talk with him upon the subject. I did all of our tool sharpening and all of his blacksmithing for his farm, as he had bellows, anvil, etc., etc., and I told at first that I would do it all if my wages went on the same. He came into my smith office where I was at work alone. Said I, “I want to have a little conversation with you.” “Very well. Talk on—I want to hear you.” Said I, “I don’t know as you will want to hear what I have to say, but I want you to hear me through before you say anything, and after you have heard me through, I will hear whatever you have to say.” Said he, “Talk on—I will hear you.” Then I commenced, and told him his practice and what effect it had—that instead of its forwarding his work, or having it done any better, it worked right the reverse in every particular; and that if he calculated to practice such a course, we had made up our minds to leave—we should work for him no longer. “We consider you our employer and feel willing for you to tell us in what style you want your work done,” etc., etc. “But to have you under our feet, maneuvering about as you have, we are sick of it, and shall have no longer. Now if you want us to continue on with your work, you just cease ordering us about in such a manner any more.” I told him I had said all I wished and would hear whatever he had to say. Said he, “Don’t talk of leaving me—don’t. You have said nothing but what is reasonable, and if the youngest son I have, had talked as reasonable as you have, I would hear to it. I like your person, and I like your work. Don’t leave me.” Said I, “We don’t want to leave you—we never left a place since we followed our business, until we finished our job. But as to have matters as they have been, we will have it so no more.” He promised that he would do the like no more. And, surely, we went on until after Thanksgiving, and no more trouble in any shape.

We asked for no money until July, and then asked for 44 dollars, as we owed that amount and it was wanted. I asked him. He answered me quite short, “I did not expect to be dunned until my job was finished.” I told him that I considered a day laborer entitled to his wages every night if he wanted them. And the employer was bound to pay them, unless a special bargain had been made to the contrary. “If you can’t pay when we want money, we shall leave you and go back to the place we were at work when you first came after us. He wants more work done and will pay us before we touch his job, for the sake of getting us.” “I will have you to know that you need not go to Mr. B’s after money. I will have it for you Saturday.” “All right,” I told him. No more trouble about pay—or anything else. A good employer, and good pay settled all up manlike when we finished his job. He well knew all through his job that if he paid us nothing, we should never sue him nor sell the account to them that would.

Thirty years and more after, I happening to fall in with this old gentleman as he sat in his carriage talking with a Justice of the Peace, I knew him and spoke to him. Said he, “I don’t know you.” “O yes, you know me. I have worked for you many days. You know Jonathan Whipple, don’t you?” If I had have known to what it would have lead, I should have said nothing—for such a routine you never heard as he went through with to the Justice, extolling the wonderfulness of me: and if every man he ever hired had earned their wages as well as I did how many more thousand dollars better off he should be, etc., etc.

I ought to have mentioned a little incident that happened while we were working for this man, a little after I had had the talk with him. The boss carpenter came to us and told over his trouble—that he never fell in with an employer that watched him before, and that every man he had was so sick of him that he did not see but they would all quit him if he stayed, and, “I believe I shall quit, and if we quit, you quit too.” We told him that we had no occasion for quitting—he treated us first-rate. He left us—and told his men that we were afraid of the man and dared say nothing. “I am not going to be in such bondage; let’s quit.” And they had quite a “flare up,” and all quit the job and stayed a few days—and then came to settle for what they had done and get their pay. But he declared he would not settle or pay them anything, unless they came back and went to work and finished his house. One of the carpenters was quite abusive and threw out very hard and abusive words. Noah and I being present, we were called upon to notice what was said, as it would be called in question again. But finally it all blew over, and they all came back and finished the job—but had repeated broils and hard talks.

 

 

Chapter 8—Telling Our Views.

 

Our practice was wherever we worked to tell our views respecting the war spirit, slavery, suing at the law, drinking liquor, using the filthy weed tobacco, etc. And by doing thus, it opened a door for much conversation all of our leisure moments. The “cold summer,” as it was called, we were at work for a Judge of Probate, quite a public man and a good employer. While we were at work for him, he went to a hanging. The evening he returned we got into some conversation about the practice of hanging, and one word brought on another, and finally we had a serious discussion upon the subject—I pleading against, and he for it. He professed to be a believer in the Bible to the fullest extent. I asked him if he believed the ten commandments. “Certainly. They were written by the finger of God. They are binding on man and ever will be.” Said I, “What do you do with the one that says ‘Thou shalt not kill’ when you hang a man between the heavens and earth until he is dead, dead, dead?” Said he, “If you take me upon the words ‘Thou shall not kill,’ I shall state to you that it don’t say what we must not kill, but the words are ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ We will take them as they read, and if so, we are forbidden to kill animals, insects, and even pismires.” “Well, if you take me up in that way,” said I, “I am satisfied. For if we are forbidden to kill animals, insects, and even pismires, certainly we are forbidden to kill human beings—that is certain.”

After finding that he had shut his own mouth by talking that course, he then stated the scripture that says, “He that sheds man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed.”  Said I, “And what do you get by quoting that scripture? If you should kill a man, some other man must kill him, and the man that killed him must be killed, and so on. They must keep killing, must they?” He then stated that we must have laws and that the righteous were the ones to make and enforce them; and then quoted a portion of the sixth chapter of the first Epistle of Paul to the Corinthians, where the Apostle told them what Christians ought to do—and would do—if they were Christians indeed.  But instead of that, they had got into law, brother against brother, etc. And finally said the Apostle to them, “I am ashamed of you”; and still further, said, “Why do ye not rather take wrong? Why do ye not rather suffer yourselves to be defrauded,” etc., etc. All of the scriptures he quoted militated against him.  After seeing where he brought himself by quoting scripture, he ceased talking for that time. All that was said was with the kindest of feelings.

We had much conversation with this man while at work for him. He was a good employer and a man of high reputation and one that took upon himself to preach the gospel at times. After finishing his job I continued to deal with him for some few years,and ever found him, kind, honest, and accommodating. Some 30 years or more after doing his mason job, I fell in with this same old gentleman, being then upwards of 80 years old—but bright and intelligent. Said he, “Neighbor Whipple, I feel that I cannot let you go away and not talk some with you. We have had a long acquaintance and a good understanding. Many years ago when you worked for me we had talks about different subjects and, among other things, upon killing our fellow men. At that time I vindicated the practice. But since, I have been reading the Holy Scriptures, and my views have changed; I now think that we have no right to take from our fellow men that which we cannot restore—we can’t restore life, and we have no right to take it away. As to Christians going into the battlefield, if a man is thoroughly imbued with the spirit of Jesus Christ, there is no fight in them. I never did believe in slavery, neither do I now.” He said much more about the practice of killing each other, which I have not mentioned—that he did not believe in taking human life for any cause, etc., etc. After hearing him through, said I, “Are these actually your views?” “Yes, they are.” Said I, “Notwithstanding your age and infirmity, you could do much good yet, if you should preach this doctrine.” Said he, “I do.” I never saw the man after. He passed away years ago.

After finishing this man’s job, we next went to underpin and plaster a man’s house—an aged man, much out of health. He was living with a second wife, a wife that he married after he became of an advanced age. We soon saw that they were spending an uncomfortable life, he being so much out of health and but a little notice taken of him by the wife. And his children, which were not his, of course did not feel towards him as if he was their father. After we commenced working for him, he kept about where we were much of the time and would observe how friendly my brother and I seemed to get along together, and asked if we never disagreed and if we both had wives and families, and if we lived near each other. After being told that we owned and lived in the same house, and ever had since we were married, and never divided any of our things, save our wives and children (each had his own family)—he seemed to think it almost miraculous, and then wanted to know if our wives always lived in peace. “Always,” we told him. “Or if they have any words, we never hear of it,” we told him.

As we were about to finish his job, he seemed to want some special conversation (we were alone). Said I, “What is it—let us hear what you have to say.” He then went on and stated that if I would move into his house and take care of him while he lived, he would secure all he owned to me. “And this I will do before I will ask you to move here, and will do it so seemly that no person on earth can get it from you.” He was not in debt, and he owned, I think he said, a hundred and 30 or 40 acres of land, a large two-story house all finished, a new barn and corncrib. I asked him if he had no children of his own to give his property to. He said he had two children somewhere, he expected—a son and a daughter. “I know nothing where my son is. I have heard not a word from him for so many years I have forgotten the number.” And his daughter was married and well off, he said. He insisted very much that I would take up with his offer. But I told him that I felt sorry to think that he was not in a situation to enjoy himself better in his feeble condition and advanced age (he was between sixty and seventy and feeble with consumption—lived but about a year). But as he had a living wife and own children, if I should have undertaken to have live with him, or he with me, we both should place ourselves in a situation where we should enjoy ourselves the poorest kind. I told him that money would not tempt me to put my wife in such a place, as she would have no enjoyment. He tried to convince me that he could fix matters so that we should all enjoy ourselves well. But I knew better. I found, afterwards, that he had inquired my wife and I all out, by Brother Noah. I never felt to blame myself for not taking up with his offer. And I never have felt that if I had accepted of his proposal that I should really [have] been better off pecuniarywise.

I and Brother Noah continued our co-partnership until the year 1821. The year previous there was a very calamitous fever in our neighborhood, which continued from April until the following winter—it being so universal and distressing that I had no chance to leave home to work at my trade at all. I was wholly taken up in doing for the sick. Our families were spared, Noah’s and mine, and yet our help was so much needed among the sick neighbors, that we stayed about home to assist. By reason of this sickness some families were deprived of both father and mother, [and] consequently were orphans indeed, two of which I took to live with me, as the prentice boy that came to live with me as soon as we commenced keeping house was out of his time this year. So I kept my numbers good, and instead of losing, I added to my stock.

This season while the fever was raging most furiously, it really seemed as if none would be spared, but all must die that were taken. I was constantly called upon to watch night, and being so drilled out and the disease proving so fatal, I began to feel a good deal tempted about myself, and felt almost sure that I should take the fever and die with it. And while feeling very much cast down—and that duty demanded of me to keep away from it—all at once, and very unexpectedly, words flowed into my soul: “You are not going to die, but live as long as you can do any good.” The whole fear and burden that weighed so heavily upon me was all gone, and I felt sure that I was not to die of that disease, nor until I had done what good I could. From that time through life, I never have been backward in visiting the sick or distressed, and always offered all the assistance that lay in my power to bestow. Young men that were poor and friendless, and were trying to get insight into any of the branches of my business, instead of blackening or operating against them, I ever helped them all I could—by showing them, and letting them work in my gang, and having all of their wages, without making a cent of profit myself off of them. There were certain things that were always understood by those that were acquainted with me. If they came to work with me and continued to work, there would be no swearing, liquor drinking, gambling, etc., tolerated.

I was ever known as a total abstinence man.  I will here mention one circumstance, that the reader may see if it don’t speak well for temperance and honesty. Myself and two of my brethren went a-fishing the south side of Fishers Island, calculating to stay until we got fish enough to dry for family use. So we took food, old clothes, a jug of molasses, salt, etc., and away we put, calculating to make headquarters nights on Fishers Island in the old fish hut. We got onto the fishing ground in good season in the morning, fished all day, and had excellent luck. Time enough to dress our fish after getting to the island. We started [out], but when we got there we found the old fish hut demolished. We looked about and found old planks lying on the shore. We very soon had us a shelter to sleep in, and then dressed our fish and salted them on a flat rock and fixed a shade over them, and then turned in for night on our dry seaweed bed. We all slept first-rate. Turned out early in the morning, leaving all of our fish, clothing, salt, and all—nearly two bbls. of fish. After we had got a mile or so from land towards the fishing ground, we saw a man riding towards our fixtures—after getting there, dismounted and surveyed the premises, mounted his horse, and back he rode. Not long after, we saw two men riding that way. We could not tell what was up, but we went ahead with our fishing, taking no more notice of what was going on on land. We again had excellent luck, got all the fish we wanted, and started for the Island to get our things and fish—and then was going home.

We were away off southeast of the east end, where we got our fish. As we were making our way towards where we left our things, we saw a man on the shore on a rock swinging his hat and hallooing. We made towards him, and after getting near enough to talk, I asked what was wanted. He said we had nothing to “barley field” (there was where our things were left). “If you want your things, come around to east harbor.” We turned about and went to east harbor. There we found the same man. I inquired what the trouble was and why our things were molested. Said he, “Come up to the wharf, and I will tell you all about it.” And he told us the whole story. This was the overseer of the Island. He said that the owner of the Island stayed with him last night, and when he first got up in the morning, he noticed the mast of a boat up to Barley Field. “And he came to me and said, ‘There is a boat in Barley Field (this Barley Field Creek, as it is called, is a small harbor on the south side of the Island about two miles from the east end, answerable for small vessels, say of five or six tons), and I want a horse—I am going there. I will have no fishermen hanging about here.” We got him a horse and off he went; and in a short time returned and told me his discoveries and wanted me to go there with him, and I did. After getting there he said, ‘There! You see what is up? Now I won’t have any of this. I want you to help me destroy the whole concern.’ I told him not to be too fast; I wanted to examine the things that were in the little hut, and I did—and found your coats, your baskets, and your jug of molasses. And Mr. Whipple, I knew they belonged to some of your folks. And I told him that I knew whose things they were and that they were good honest folks and would do no harm. They would steal no fowl, nor sheep, nor do any mischief of any kind. ‘They are good people, and I don’t want to help destroy any of their things.’ This I told him. Said he, ‘How do you know all of this?’ I told him I knew it by your clothing, baskets, and your molasses jug. ‘You find no rum jugs among those people,’ said I to him. After telling him all of this, said he, ‘Well, I won’t have any headquarters for fisherman on the Island.’ I finally told him, ‘Mr. W., I will see to [it] that there shall be none. But I shall destroy none of these things.’”

After the overseer told us all of this he then said, “Mr. W. left the island. And instead of my destroying your things according to his orders, I took my cart and oxen, and went myself and took all of your things carefully and placed your fish on my clean cart body, salt side up. And there everything is now in the cart, and I have kept my oxen yoked to bring them here if you want them. I have been watching for you, so that you need not go to the Barley Field for nothing. Now I will tell you, whenever you come a-fishing, instead of going to Barley Field, come right to the house in welcome and stay as long as you wish. We shall be glad to have you. And now I want you should stay all night with me. You will be no trouble.” I told him we thanked him for all of his kind feelings and treatment, but that we had such good luck that we were going home, as we had got all the fish we wanted—[and] that, from what we saw in the morning as we were going out, we concluded something was in the wind, but what we could not tell. But as we wished no harm to anyone, we hoped none would befall us, and so kept on our way to try for more fish. “Well, if it had not been for me, your things would all [have] been destroyed. Mr. W. was swearing mad. The fact is, the fishermen steal wood, fowl, and even sheep, and he is determined that they shall have no headquarters here.” I told him that I could not blame the man for not wanting people on the Island that would harm him so. After finding that we would not stay all night with him, he had his team bring our things down to us. He then said, “Now, anytime you want to come fishing, come right to the house and stay with us as many nights as you wish. We shall be glad to have you. As long as I have charge of the Island and live here, don’t be afraid to call on us.” We thanked him very kindly for all of his kindness and generous offers, and then left. That the reader may know who this good man was, that treated us poor fishermen with so much kindness, I will state his name. It was B. F. Stanton, Senior, of Stonington, Connecticut—while he had charge of Fishers Island.

Seeing I have called this deceased man’s name in quotation, I will make mention of another little circumstance that speaks well for him and for the man he traded with, who was a younger brother of mine. When I was a youngerly man, my brother younger than I came to me and said, “Jonathan, I want to buy me a cow, and have not the money to pay down for one. How can I manage?” Said I, “Go to Uncle Frank Stanton; I think you can get accommodated.” Said my brother, “I am not very well acquainted with him; he may not want to trust me.” And then, “He is such a trading man; I am afraid he will cheat me.” Said I, “No, I should not be afraid of that. You tell him that you are no trader but are willing to pay the worth of whatever you buy—and don’t want that he should take the advantage of your ignorance—, and he won’t cheat you.” Said my brother, “Come Jonathan, go with me to see him.” I thought I would, and did go with him.

We found him at home (this was before he went to Fisher’s Island). I spoke to him for my brother and then told him, “Now if you trade with my brother, don’t take the advantage of him. He is a poor man and works hard for all he gets.” Said my brother, “I am poor, and so poor I don’t know as we can trade on that account—for I have no money by me to pay for a cow.” Said he, “Not having money to pay for a cow will make no difference. I will sell you a cow just as cheap as if you paid the money down. And you may pay me just when you get ready. If it runs you [illegible] months, you must allow interest. And as to cheating your bother—I would not be guilty of cheating an honest poor man, no how. I have cows of all descriptions. I will describe to your brother just what every cow is, and give him my prices, and give him the privilege to take home any cow he chooses and keep it a week, and if he don’t like it, he may return it. And all will be right. That will be fair, won’t it?” We told him that that was as much as we could ask. He then described his cows. And there was one that he said had been used to be kept alone, kind to milk, gave a good mess and good milk—“and I think will suit you. But take any one you please,” said he. My brother took that, and we left. My brother kept that cow a number of years, and she proved to be an excellent cow, quite as good as he recommended her. After my brother got ready, he paid for her. Said Mr. Stanton, “Well, you found the cow as I told, did you not?” My brother said, “Yes, better.” Said Mr. S., “If I am going to try to take the advantage of anybody, it won’t be of a poor hard-working honest man. It will be of some jockey that I know will cheat me if he can.”  I mentioned this circumstance that the reader may see that even the trading men, who calculate to make money by trading, will treat a man whom they know to be honest, different from what they will a speculating knave.

I will mention another little incident respecting the payment for a cow, though rather out of course. While Brother Noah and I were in company, we bought a cow and was to pay the first of the next April. We had the money due us. It was a very tight time for money—none stirring. The man we owed the money to was a crabbed, morose man and was badly in debt and had a payment to make toward his farm at that time. Before the time, I called on the man whom we expected the money from, as he owed us, and [he] said if it was possible he would pay us. But fearing he might fail us, we thought we would so fix matters that if he did, we should not fail to pay the old farmer. So off I started to see if I could not find some of my acquaintance that I could borrow it of, in case I wanted to. I knew that any who had, and was not going to use it, would let me have it. I went to five or six different places, but none had it. All said, “I would let you have it with pleasure if I had it.” (The debt was but 26 dollars.) In fact, I could not borrow it, and the time was out within two or three days. I said to Noah, “What shall we do? As to wait to the first of April comes, and then not have the money to carry, that won’t do.” Said Noah, “What can we do?” I told him that I was going to see the old man; and off I went, found him at home, and as I had heard so much about him and not being much acquainted with him, I felt rather disagreeable about introducing the subject, as I had not the money to pay him, but finally did and told him all about my trying to borrow it, etc. After hearing my story all through patiently, he spoke out very friendly, “Neighbor Whipple, you have done enough; you go home and wait until the money comes from where it is due you. Any man that manifests your feelings, I would not hurt a hair of their heads. When your money comes, bring it to me.” So I left him feeling different from what I expected. The fourth day of April, our money came. I went immediately and paid him. Said the old man, “There—this is in season. I have not made my payment yet.”

 

 

Chapter 9—The Warrior’s Art.

 

There are some things I want kept in mind. From my earliest boyhood to the present time, I kept it up: I would make no friends of spirituous liquors, the use of tobacco in any of its forms, or taking any part in any of the branches of the militia and war departments—not even to hang about where they were having their training exercises. While I was a child under age, I was forbidden. And after I was a man, I had no inclination to do it, knowing that it was unchristian and tended to evil rather than good. At the time, they were enlisting soldiers to carry on the war with our mother country. There was a Rendezvous set up at the head of Mystic, three miles from where we lived. And all the inducements were held out to entice that could be, to draw the young men around them and flatter them to enlist. I was often sent on errands to the village and had to go directly by their stand, where were a table spread, loaded with liquors, and their fifes and drums sounding out (to my ears) the horror of their business. But I would often be called to and told what wonderful inducements were held out to the young men, and what titles of honor they could achieve by coming forward and enlisting, etc., etc. But I never once turned out of my straight course nor stopped one minute to listen to any of their prattling, for it seemed like such to me, as my teaching had ever been that killing human beings was the capital of all sins—and enslaving human beings the next, in point of wickedness.

For two years previous, they had had my name enrolled in their training department and had required me and others, whose views were similar to mine, to come before their officers and excuse ourselves for not doing military duty as the law “directs.” But as I and others who were in my condition had fathers who felt a great interest in the cause, [they] accompanied us and spoke in our behalf. The officers had made up their minds that they would bear our nonappearance to do military duty no longer [and] sent for us. The place appointed was some seven miles off, and the day happened to be very rainy. But we all attended to the call, for that we could do with a good conscience. After making our appearance before the authority, we found many there upon the same business—to make their excuses. Yet theirs were not the same as ours, for none of theirs were for “conscience’ sake.” We waited and waited, hoping that they would get through, but one case after another came up. And finally we told them that we lived quite a distance; we should be glad if they would have the goodness to hear us as soon as convenient. Said they, “We will hear you soon.” And they gave us the opportunity next.

There were three of our fathers present. One of them arose and stated that, “As all of these young men’s excuses are the same, I shall include all under one head”—and then stated that our excuse was “that they all believed in the teachings of Jesus Christ, who came into the world the Prince of Peace, and as he has left his doctrine for his followers to order their lives and conversations by, and as he has emphatically forbidden his followers doing anything by way of retaliating by violence, to even enemies, and much more in being active in helping kill them or in making any preparation by way of learning the art or trade, which was the trainer’s business to do—therefore their only excuse is (in order that they may have a conscience void of offence before God and Jesus Christ) they have to wholly refuse to take any part in the man-killing business. Let the consequence be whatever it may.” They, the fathers, stated that, “If our sons have to endure suffering in consequence, it will be no more than we have to do.” Then two of the fathers stated that because they were not at liberty to do what “you require of our sons to do, we had to suffer the loss of property, etc.”

After hearing our excuse, said the authority, “Friends, your excuse is quite different from any we have heard today. We will take it into consideration. You are dismissed for the present.” We left for that time. Not long after, I saw a nigh neighbor—a major, who was not present to hear our excuse—and he told me what he had told the higher officers: “I advise you to let them Quakers alone. You can do nothing with them but make trouble for yourselves and for them. They never will do military duty. They are friendly, good people. Let them alone.” The major told me this. While this set of officers had command, we were let alone—we were struck off the Roll.

After a while another set came up who knew us not, and they were full of authority and threats, and soon commenced telling what they were going to do--that there was no mistake, we should be made to do military duty, pay our fines, or be carried to jail and there stay until we were dead and rotten and flies carried us [out] of the keyhole. And our names were all enrolled again. And I was warned, but I heeded it not. Soon after, I was notified that I was fined. I gave no heed to that. Soon after, I was notified that there was an execution out against me, and if I wanted to save expense, I had better attend to it. But I paid no attention to that either. (This was after I had a family.) But the execution of the law seemed to be delayed. I at the time was at work where the son of the officer whose hands the execution was in and to be put in force by [worked]. The son appeared very friendly in stating to me all the particulars, and then said, “Now Mr. Whipple, there will be no getting rid of this, short of doing military duty, paying your fine, or going to jail.” And then [he] told what the Captain had told his father. I told the young man that I should never do military duty or pay any fines. Of course, they could imprison me or do what they would, but they could not make me do what I thought to be wrong and wicked. As I and the young man continued to work at the same place and each went home every Saturday night, I to my family and he to his father’s, he brought me news every week from his father—and of course told his father news from me. But the execution was never prosecuted, and I never had anything taken from me wrongfully during my sojourn here.

While speaking about preparing for war, I will mention one Review case, years ago. I had business to our village, the head of Mystic. After getting there I heard great rattling of drums and the blowing of fifes. I inquired what the doings were. “Why, there is a review up on Mr. D.’s land.” It got to be night before I got through with my business and started for home. I was afoot. As soon as I got out of the village I found the road thronged with all sorts—but sober steady people, scarce one of them. Being on foot, I surveyed the condition of the multitude and reflected upon their business, what they were trying to learn. “Now this is the rudiments of the warrior’s schooling,” said I to myself. Everything but decency and goodness—none of that—no, none. A complete hubbub and confusion.

But I was on my way home, and walked on, and after getting about a mile and a half, I saw something ahead, lying in the road, or one side of the rut track. I walked up to it and found it to be a drunken man. His feet had stuck into the mud, and he had fallen his length toward the road, and his head came almost to the rut. And there he lay, stupid and about senseless. I saw at once that if he was left there, he would have his head smashed very soon. I took hold of him and drew him out of the mud and sat him up and spoke to him; but he knew so little, I could learn not much of him--though he did say he had a hat. I held on to him until I got a man to stop and help me look for his hat, but none was to be found. Pretty soon an ox cart came along, and I prevailed on the teamster to help me get him into his cart and take him to a building where I got permission to leave him all night. I found old sacks enough to cover him comfortably, and then left him.

The next morning early, I called to see what became of him. I found him, and he was sober and knew me. You can hardly tell how thankful he appeared to be when I told him the condition I [had] found him in and [how I] had taken care of him. I asked him about his hat. He said he had a new napt hat that cost him four dollars. “That was stole from me, and all of my money would have been taken, and I should have been killed, if you had not have taken care of me. Now I am going to pay you—here, I have thirty dollars, and I want you should take it to pay you for saving my life.” (I think it was thirty.) But I told him I did not ask anything for doing my duty; he had better keep his money and try and make good use of it—that I should take not a cent. This poor fellow was lucky enough to get housed, but undoubtedly there were many that lay out that night, for such are the effects of the war schools or trainings; for their business is to learn to kill each other, and every evil follows in its train—drunkenness, lying, stealing, yes, every evil.

After getting home, sitting down, and reflecting upon the little speck or spark (as it were) of the war business, then carrying my reflection into a battlefield, and then imagine myself an eye witness to its scene, I then asked myself, “Are such the places and such the company for the true followers of Jesus, the Prince of Peace, to be united and associated with, and be a fellow worker and even a commander to push forward such business?” Before I could answer myself, I was answered by our great Law Giver: “But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you and persecute you.” Said I, “Why should I do this—love enemies, etc.?” “That ye may be the children of your Father which is in heaven.” The same heavenly Father answered through his heavenly and best sermon that ever was preached to the world of mankind, commencing at the fifth chapter of Matthew.

 

 

Chapter 10—Scholars.

 

My parents—and especially my father—was always very zealous for the right, as he understood it, and so taught his children. In his younger days while we were small and ought to have been sent to school, Father, fearing that we should learn more harm than good, kept us at home, telling us that bad boys came to school and he did not want us with them—that we should be better off at home, to work; yet he always wanted his children to learn enough to read, write, and cipher some. Never having any opportunity at school, and but a very limited chance at home, we all came up quite ignorant as to book learning; my make was such, that notwithstanding I had no chance, I did passably acquire enough education so that I taught school a few terms and have written some articles that have been published in different papers.

I never taught school until I was over 30 years of age. The school visitors that used to visit my school often tried to make me believe that I “was somebody,” by telling me that I kept the best school they visited—that the children were kept under good discipline, that their books were kept in good order, that they spoke out loud and plain, when spelling, reading, etc. But I ever will know that I lacked education. Yet there were some things I ever felt that I did not lack; one was love for little timid children, and another was government, though I had all sizes and ages, from 21 down to four, and seventy and upwards in number. I taught four terms, and during the whole time, I had no trouble in keeping order. I always told the parents, “Send on your children—I care not how small, or how large they are. If they are too large to obey my orders, they can’t stay where I am—that will soon be found out. And your little ones, take no trouble about them; they will not get harmed. I love little children.” So, on they would come, large and small, and we would all go to taking “solid comfort,” I, teaching, and they, learning.

One trouble the mothers used to have with their small children, when there came a day so stormy that they could not let them go to school, and that was, the little things would grieve so bitterly, that they could hardly pacify them. The reason of that was, at intermissions, I would always sit down and call the little things around me and entertain them with such conversation as they would appreciate. At different times some of the large boys, or rather young men, tried their hand in not obeying the orders of the school. But they found, immediately, that there was no place with me for children, however large they were, if they were not subject to my orders. I never struck one during my whole stay in the schoolroom. And I never had one leave so, but that he returned and continued the term out.

I was hired one winter, and before commencing, I was at one of the neighbors’ houses, and a man spoke to me saying, “I understand that you are hired to teach our school.” I told him I was. Said he, “I want to tell you one thing about my boy. He is a great mischievous fellow. And if you undertake to call him to an account, he is so afraid of crying that you cannot make him speak.” Said I, “You need not tell me any such thing. I have no scholars that don’t speak to me, if I ask them a question.”  (The boy stood by.) Said the father, “There—you hear that, don’t you?” I told them that I was not at all troubled about any such. Children always spoke to me well enough. The great boy came all winter, and no teacher ever had a better scholar than he was.

One little incident happened—which was rather novel—that I will mention. I had taught two winters and was hired the third, in the same district. And before I commenced teaching, a mother came to me and said, “I am told that you are hired to teach our school again this winter.” I told her I was. Said she, “Well, I think if a person has anything at another, they had better go right to the person’s face and tell them of it.” “Yes,” said I, “that is much the best way, I think.” Said she, “Well, I think you are apt to use partiality among the children when you keep school.” “Well, now, I don’t want you should find fault with me for that; I know that that is not right. But your children are such good children, I can hardly help it,” said I. “Well, I have not much against you—I had about as lief have you as anybody.” When she commenced talking, I knew what the trouble was. The winter before, I called one of her large daughters to account and had her mind, telling her that no child in school was too large to attend to my orders. There were some six children of that family that came to school, and they were good children, and if I had favored by being partial towards any, it was towards them. But I always intended to be impartial among the children, knowing that that was the only right course to pursue.

After becoming somewhat advanced in age, I was at work in a village, and I noticed a large boy seemed to hang about where I was. I finally asked him if there was no school. “Yes, sir,” said he. I then asked him if he went. “Sometimes I do and sometimes don’t. I don’t. I don’t like the teacher very well,” was his reply as he stood rolling his cigar between his lips. Said I, looking at him, “Well, I don’t think much of you anyway, though I am about here at work. I have taught school a few terms. But one thing I did not do. I never used to whip the children to make them mind.” “How did you make them mind then?” said he. I straightened up and, looking him right in the eye, spoke in rather a stern voice. “I spoke to them,” said I. He started back, took his cigar out of his mouth, and looking frightened, spoke out, “God—I don’t wonder you had them not to whip. I should be afraider of that voice than I should of the devil.” I was acquainted with his teacher. He was a very good teacher. I was not acquainted with the boy at all, never saw him before or since, that I know of. I formed my opinion of him by his appearance.

There never was a year passed, from the time we commenced keeping house until I was 54 years old, but what I had from one to five orphan children with me.  And as my father had taken it upon him to provide for Grandmother and my step-grandfather, as soon as I became a provider for myself, I always assisted Father in doing for them. And at the time of Grandfather’s death, as his condition was such that it required men’s help constantly, I stayed with him every night for a long spell, as he felt that no one else could do as well.  He was a great sufferer. While in the British Army, he was wounded by having one ball fired into one side of the small of his back and cut out at the other side, and another fired through the calf of his leg. And then he was badly ruptured. And the greatest of all, and what proved fatal, his urine became so thick that there was no way to get rid of it. He died, I think, at the age of 75. Grandmother survived him about 13 years, during all of which time I always was one that helped provide for her, besides having those orphan children to provide for. For when one lot were gone, another would come. So my doors were ever open to the poor orphan.

 

 

Chapter 11—Rum Sellers.

 

While I followed the mason business, I attended to that from about the first of March until cold weather in the fall. I had worked at that not one season before I had so much insight into the blacksmith business, by reason of going into the shop and sharpening my stone tools, that I could take hold of almost any job quite handy. I finally got blacksmith tools and built a shop, and winters, when I could not work at masoning, I worked at smith work. It made it very convenient for my neighbors and for myself too.  I finally worked into another branch, that of butchering—skinning hogs. I know it will be thought that I have been a “jack at all trades” and, of course, the best at none. But I have ever been so much favored that, whatever business I attempted to follow, I always had all the calls that I could attend to. All of the new branches that I ever undertook I worked into unthinkingly.  It was so my getting into the mason business—I served no apprenticeship—and so of blacksmithing, school teaching, and butchering. I served an apprenticeship at house carpentering. All other branches worked in of themselves.

The reason of my doing anything as butchering [was that] when I was a boy at home with Father, he always did his own butchering, and some seasons had ten or a dozen head of cattle—and more of hogs—, and we boys would always help him. He never skinned any hogs. There were hog skinners in the neighborhood, and if he wanted any skinned, he would call on them. And often I had hogs of my own. As it was the cheapest to have them skinned, I had mine butchered that way, as the skins would pay for butchering and pay for the salt to salt the pork.

One year when I was about 23 or 24, I was working away at masoning, where were a gang of carpenters. And the day before Thanksgiving, our employer told all hands that he could have none of us work on that day. So one of the carpenters, who lived not far from my home, said to me, “We have all got to quit. Now I tell you what I want. I want you should take your wife and come to my house and make a visit, and we will have a good Thanksgiving dinner—and you [will] skin my hog.” Said I, “I never skinned a hog in my life.” “I will risk you. Come—we will have a first-rate dinner, and I will help you.” I finally told him that I would come and try it, and [I] did. That was the first of my attempting to skin a hog. After that I and my brother Noah, who lived together, had hogs, and he said to me, “Come, you better skin our hogs. You will do it just as well as any of them.” So I tried ours and got along first-rate. And one and another called upon me, and I soon got so that they called me the best. And having so many branches that I could turn my hand to, I always had all the work I could do, if not at one branch, at another. But doing all of the different branches of the hardest kind of work, no stimulants was ever used—no, never—not by me as a beverage. I ever preached against its use and certainly practiced against it.

In those days there was not a store anywhere about the country villages if they had anything to sell they would have liquors, and if you happened to be to them at night, you almost always saw some one or more—and perhaps half a dozen—go away staggering. I very often would ask the merchants why they kept it—that if I were a merchant, I would not. “O, if you would not sell to them, others would; the fact is, they will have it,” etc. I was acquainted with one merchant that was an extra [good] man, very accommodating, pleasant, and agreeable—always on hand to trade, but never [to] dun—pay him when you got ready. I was intimately acquainted, as with a brother. I noticed that he had the appearance of using liquor too freely. I now and then would hint a little, but it passed on, and he looked more and more like an intemperate man. Finally one season my business called me far away, that I saw the man not once for months. I finally got about home and called to his store again. And, really, I felt so sorry to see that good man have the appearance he did. I could [have] sat right down and wept, if it could have done any good. I felt as if I could not leave him until I talked with him, if he would hear me. I knew that he was wealthy and I was poor, but I loved him nonetheless.

I finally watched my opportunity—and when he went into his counting room I stepped in, and as he happened to be alone, I told him that I should like to have a little talk with him if he would have the goodness and patience to hear me.  Certainly I will. Talk on. I will hear you.” Said I, “But I want to talk very plainly to you.” “Talk on, Jonathan; I will hear whatever you have to say.” I then commenced and stated that it had been some time since I had seen him, and certainly I never saw a person that had so altered in looks as he had since I last saw him. “And now,” said I, “I beg of you to stop right where you are and use no more liquor, for you are certainly ruining yourself.” Said he, “Do you see that I have altered in looks since you last saw me?” “Why, I never saw a person so changed in my life as you have for the time.” Said he, “Well, I know I drink too much, but what can a body do?” “Clear out every liquor cask you have in your store and never keep the article again in your life,” said I. “Would you?” said he. “Yes indeed, I would,” said I. And then I went on and told him of many persons that both of us had been acquainted with that had fallen victims to its destroying power. I then begged of him to consider his condition before it was actually too late. I told him that I was using plainness of speech but I hoped he would not be offended. “O no,” said he. “Talk on Jonathan—I like to hear you.” I said what I felt upon my mind, and as I was going to leave, he spoke and said, “Jonathan, I am glad you have talked; I shall think of what you have told me.” “Well, one thing I want you should know—that I have nothing but love and good will towards you.” “I know that,” said he.

I left the store and was not there again for some time, say three or four weeks; I then called again on business, it being where I did the most of my trading. After getting into the store, as there were many in and busily trading, I said nothing but stood waiting. Before I was aware, the merchant came crowding along (his clerks waiting upon the customers) and taking me by the hand and speaking quite low said, “Jonathan, do you see any alteration here in my store?” “I think I do—a very great alteration,” said I. “Well, Jonathan, I have cleared out every liquor cask out of my store, and I will never trade in the article again.” Said I, laying my hand on his shoulder, “Good on your head. I hope you will stick to that.” Said he, “I intend to.” And he did, as far as I ever knew.

The stand this good merchant took opened a door where I could do my trading to a temperance store. At that time I had an account with another good, honest sort of a merchant, and I owed him over twenty dollars. I thought to myself, “There is now a temperance store where I can trade. I will pay up the rum-selling merchant and leave him”—and did so. After settling and paying all up, said I, “There, I have settled with you for the last time.” He started, as though he felt surprised, and said, “Why? What is the matter?” I opened my mind to him freely by saying, “Well, I will tell you. There is now a temperance store in this village where I can trade. Heretofore there has been none but ‘grog’ shops. But now there is, and I certainly shall give them my custom—I know it is of not much account.” “Yes, it is. You trade a good deal and are good pay.” “Well,” said I, “I will tell you all about it. Here you stand, a justice of the peace, sworn to prosecute all branches of the law, I suppose. And what are you doing? You are causing poor drunken men that have no power over their appetite to break the law every day almost, and I think it is a dreadful, wrong, wicked thing. And I feel that it is wrong for me to be an upholder of such a concern, if I can help it—and now I can. As there is a store clear from such business, I certainly shall trade there, and not to a rum store. But after all, I don’t want that you should be offended, for I have nothing against your person. You have always treated me well. But your liquor traffic I abhor.” He finally spoke and said, “This liquor selling business is a poor business, and I mean to quit it.” I started to leave, and he followed me out and, leaning against the store, commenced talking and told me that he hated to have me leave his store—that I had always been a good customer and that he always meant to treat me well. I told him he had, always—but that he knew for what reason I was going to leave. He told me he meant to quit it. “Then,” said I, “I shall come and trade with you.” So we parted.

At that time I was at work to New London, quarrying stone near the court house. And one day as I was at work, my employer came to me and said that David Sherman was on his way from the jail to the court house to have the sentence of death passed upon him, and if I would like to hear it, I might leave my work, go in, and hear. I should lose no time. I went in. Pretty soon the poor criminal made his appearance. After I got in, I thought I would notice the people, to see how many of them I should know. I soon noticed this last merchant that I had talked with about selling liquor—and soon saw that he was one of the jury on poor Sherman’s case. When the time came for the court to go forward (old Judge Dagget presided), the Judge arose and stated that, before attending to the judgment upon the criminal, he felt it his duty to make a short address to the people—and then went on and said (I will quote as nigh as my memory serves), “We have one of our fellow men here before the Court, convicted of murder. And whom did he murder? His dear wife and her innocent babe in her arms. And why did he murder? Because he was under the influence of rum.” The old Judge then raised his large body erect and stretched forth his hand and, raising his voice, said, “My voice is raised against you, rum sellers—that when Inquisition is made for blood in judgment, see that you are not found guilty. There you stand behind your counters dealing out the poison to your fellow man, for the miserable pretence of a few cents,” etc., etc. I could not help but noticing the merchant whom I had so recently talked with. I really pitied him. It seemed to me that he felt conscience-smitten.

It was not long after this before I was to this—the Peace Merchant Justice’s—again, but not to trade; but to let him know that I held no envious feelings towards him. The first thing that saluted my ears was, “Well, Jonathan, I have got rid of all liquor works and never will get any more. It is a mean business; it is not only a mean business, but it calls all of the meanest of the people around you and makes many bad debts, and I will have no more to do with it.” Said I, “I am glad to hear that; I hope you never will. It is a bad wicked business, I think. And if you don’t deal in it, I shall deal with you again.” “I hope you will,” said the merchant. He never sold liquor any more to my knowledge. I commenced trading with him again, and we ever had a good understanding.

As I before have stated, I was brought up on a farm, and as there were no mowing machines, good mowers were in great demand—and people used to call me one of that class. Therefore if I was not from home working at my mason business, I was sure to have a call in the hay field. One year I happened not to be from home, and a neighbor of mine, who had a number of sons—but none old enough to take charge in his hay field—was sick of a fever, but not so but that he could talk—and yet confined to his bed. He had some 40 acres or more to mow.  So he sent for me to come and see him. I went, found him a sick man and, as far as his mowing was concerned, at an end. He told me he knew not what to do. “I have help,” said he, “but no head.” [He] wanted to know if I would come and be a head among his boys. I told him that I could help him, and did. He had a fine lot of sons, from 18 down to seven, I should think, —four or five of them—good boys. I went into the field and two of the larger boys with me, having each of them a scythe, and worked very handy.

We had been in the field not long before a younger brother came with a rum jug and said, “Here, Mr. Whipple, is some rum; you can drink when you wish.” Said I, “Well, you can take it right back to the house. I don’t use any.” “What, not in mowing time?” “No, no time.  I never use any. It is poor stuff. It does no good, but much harm.” I then commenced and told them a little history of its bad effects (their father used it too freely) and told them to look around among their neighbors, and they would quick see what rum would do. There were a number of their neighbors that were drunkards. Said I, “Now boys, if I were in your places, I would begin from now and would let liquor alone. Have nothing to do with it, and you will never make drunkards. The rum was carried to the house. I stayed and helped them through—but not a drop of liquor used where I was. Good boys, good people to work for, and first-rate livers—all things went on agreeably.

After leaving, I thought no more about anything that transpired there than at other places where I worked. Those boys all grew up to be men, and very steady men, and men of education. One of them [became] a merchant—but kept no rum. I happened one day to be in his store (there were a number in), and soon there came in a man and said to me, “Mr. Whipple, I want your name on my Temperance Pledge; will you put it down?” “I am a temperance man and ever have been, but have never singed any pledge, but am ever willing to do any thing that is not sinful, if it will be the means of helping my fellow men.” “Well, you can do no good in the cause of Temperance unless you sign the pledge.” This was when Pledges were first about. The man who had the Pledge seemed loud and rather overbearing. I finally told him if he could prove that I could do more good in promoting the cause by signing, I would.  Said he, “Well, you can do no good as you are, nor never did do any.”  At that the merchant (who was one of those boys before spoken of) said, “Mr. E., you will have to tell your story about Mr. Whipple’s doing no good to somebody besides me. I know what he did for me, as long ago as when I was a boy.” And then he went on and told the whole mowing-field story, and finally said, “I don’t believe I ever took a drink of liquor hardly in my life, but I thought of Mr. Whipple’s talk and example in my father’s hay field.” I told them my talk and example were always one thing as to the use of liquor. 

 

 

Chapter 12—An Amazing Stroke.

 

I have omitted mentioning one little incident that took place at the very first place I worked after leaving my uncle. Noah and myself had a chance to work at the carpenter business. After commencing, we found the rum jug was brought every day, but we refused to drink and continued to refuse. But by and by, the boss says, “Boys, you are a couple of fools.” “What are we fools about?” we asked. “Because you deny yourselves one of the greatest privileges in the world.” “What is that?” we inquired. “Why, taking your grog, as other people do. You are fools: take hold and drink. You don’t know how good it is. Your father has always made fools of you by holding up such great scarecrows before you about using liquor.” He talked so much and really made us to appear like such big fools, we thought we would try it—as we never had in our lives. So the next time the liquor was brought around, we both took a little, and continued on for a week, taking but very little, our boss praising us up and telling us that we began to act like common young men. But I had tried it but one week when I began to feel as if I was off of my ground. And I made up my mind that I should touch no more for anyone’s talk, and I told Noah what I was going to do. “Well, if you are going to drink no more, I shan’t.” And we told the boss that we should drink no more, however big fools they called us. And that was the first and the last ardent spirits that I ever drank as a beverage in my life—and I am now in my seventy-seventh year. So I think I shall pass for a temperance man in full.

The spring of 1822 (I think it was), I commenced my season’s work in the town of Montville, in Connecticut, and worked for different persons rebuilding chimneys, building ell chimneys, and plastering. One little anecdote, which is almost laughable, I must mention. As I have before stated, I have been known as a Quaker by reason of being so near in principle as they are. I had promised to build an ell chimney; the time was set. When the day came, according to promise, I went. After getting to the house, I knocked at the door, and as I stood waiting for admittance, I saw a little child run up to the window and ran back to her mother and screamed out, “Mah, Mah, that ain’t a Quaker. It is a man.” The mother hushed her up by saying, “Hold your tongue.” But I was admitted and was told that I was expected, glad to see me, etc.

The stone[s] for [the] fireplace were there—nothing hindering my beginning to cut the stone. I began to lay my tools out on the floor, and the little children (there were several) came up around me to my tools—and to see whether I was a man or a Quaker or some kind of an animal they wanted to see.  And the mother too—she stood looking on and finally spoke out in quite a raised voice, “Mr. Whipple, you must look out for my little brats. They will lose every one of your tools. I have the mischievousest little brats that anybody ever had.” (The man was absent.) I just cast my eye towards her and said, “Don’t worry yourself about your children. Little children never pester me nor lose my tools. I love little children. I was a little child once.” I never saw the woman before. I concluded from her appearance that she was a fretful sort of a woman, and I found her so.  But the little children were as nice as could be. If they happened to see one of my stone chisels among the shavings, they would pick it up and run and lay it down by me and say, “There is your chisel—I shan’t lose it.” “No, your mother thought that you would lose all of my tools, but I knew you were good little children.” So we all got along splendidly at that place.

The same season, I was at work not far from the Raymond Hill meetinghouse, I believe it was called. And one Saturday I did not come home, as I expected to finish, by the middle of the next week. So I went to meeting, but got [there] too late to attend the forenoon meeting. And seeing people standing about the door of a schoolhouse near by, I called there and found a number in, waiting for the afternoon service to commence. So I sat down among them and listened to their conversation. Being not acquainted with a person, I sat in silence—a listener. I noticed an aged woman, who conversed freely and seemed to be looked up to as a mother in Israel. She had the appearance of being a very pious and good old lady. While sitting there, I heard it thunder, but nothing said about it. It soon thundered again—and with it an unspoken voice that said to me, “The meetinghouse is going to be struck with lightning.” Just at that time, the people all left the schoolhouse for the meeting house, but I still sat pondering on what to do, whether to go into the meeting house or not, but finally said to myself, “I will go in; perhaps that voice meant nothing.” So I started for the meetinghouse, and while on my way (it was but a few rods), it thundered again, and with it—and very impressively too—the same words were again spoken, not audibly, but in me. I stopped in the road, until I thought the people would suppose I was some maniac. I finally said to myself, “I will go in anyway” —and did. I went up gallery, took my seat, and almost the first person I noticed was this same old lady I had heard talk so devoutly in the school house. I was in one end of the meetinghouse, up gallery, and she in the other end below, sitting with her head leaning against a post. I noticed in particular how devoted she appeared, with her eyes fixed upon the minister as he gave forth a hymn to be sung.

I had been in the house not to exceed ten minutes, before the thunder squall struck the house—and with it, such a forcible gale that every joint in the house cracked. And in less than one minute after the wind, the lightning struck and came down the post this old lady’s head was against, killing her dead—and also killing one of her little granddaughters that sat by her side and, it was thought at the time, mortally wounding a little sister of the one killed. But I was told that she recovered. When the lightning struck, it came with such power, and with it brought such a crash, that I think it stunned every person in the house. It certainly did me. My head fell as quick as if I had been struck lifeless, and for the moment, [I neither] saw nor knew anything. And when I came to, the house was so filled with smoke, sulfur, dust, and confusion, that I concluded the house was on fire, and I left for a neighboring house as quick as I could, going down stairs and right out of doors.

The cloud passed by in ten minutes, I think. I then returned to the meetinghouse to see what was really done, knowing nothing before.  They had swept a spot on the floor and laid the two dead bodies by the side of each other, and were yet carrying out those that appeared to know nothing. I was told afterwards that all recovered but those two that were killed outright. The shock had such an effect on my system that I got not entirely over it for years. At the time, I felt at the pit of my stomach as if I had had a heavy blow. I was unable to work for quite a spell. I have often reflected upon this scene, and especially the impression I had of the house being struck. It seemed that I knew it would be, and yet I ventured in. After seeing what I did, I composed a few lines that I will here insert:

 

1

At Montville in Connecticut

They felt God’s mighty power

Their meetinghouse with lightning struck

Killing dead two persons on the floor

The one an aged grandmother

Her granddaughter the other

They both lay silent there in death

Upon the church’s floor

2

The lightening did the steeple tear

And split the same asunder

The meetinghouse was surely racked

Yes, but two being killed in number

3

Myself with others were struck down

With the amazing stroke

Yes, timber too was splitten down

And the house was filled with smoke

4

Two hundred panes of glass were broke

And the sash within their frame

The house was opened to the blast

Both to the wind and rain

5

It really was a solemn time

And all faces sober were

The groans and cries were heard aloud

And the minister offering prayer

 

As I first stated, training—or education—has very much to do with persons in after life. Let a family of children be thoroughly educated from infancy to manhood that they must be honest, truthful, peaceful—must let all kinds of intoxicating liquors entirely alone, as also the filthy weed tobacco, etc. Let parents or guardians see that all the above requirements are punctually attended to while raising their families, and they may feel pretty confident that their children will heed it in after life—if parents, or those entrusted with [children], set example by their own lives—in acts—while raising them. I was so thoroughly taught that it was wrong to receive anything from any one that I had not absolutely earned, that all through my working at my trade, I always chose to work by the day, feeling that all I wanted was what I earned—and that day wages, both the employer and myself could easily comprehend.  And for that reason I pretty much always worked by the day.

After finishing my job in Montville, near where the meeting house was struck with lightning, I came nearby home and did a small job, but as before stated, the shock had such an effect upon me that it almost disabled me for work. I felt such a pressed, weak, and trembling feeling at my stomach, for some time I could keep but a part of my food in my stomach—should throw it up. For a number of years I could tell by my feelings when the air was fixed for lightning. I frequently would speak, when I was at work, and say that I thought we should have thunder soon. They would inquire why I thought so. I would reply that my feelings foretold it. And often it came. They would inquire how it was that I told when thunder was coming. I many times have told the circumstances of being in the meeting house and what a shocking effect it had on me. And when the air got full of electricity, it seemed to have, in a measure, that same pressed feeling on my system. But after many years it seemed to work off. As I have before mentioned, I was always called upon in the hay fields if I was not otherwise engaged, and they always felt sure when they called upon me to know whether we were going to get a shower. If I said, “I think we are,” that seemed to set them on the look out.  I soon would hear the gang talking among themselves, “We may look out for a shower.  Mr. Whipple thinks we are going to have one; we may look out,” etc.

I was once working at my trade; I had been there from March until hay time.  My employer was a wealthy man—worked none himself. One morning after breakfast, he came in to my shanty where I was cutting stone and said, “Well, neighbor Whipple, are we going to have a shower today?” Said I, “You speak to me as though you thought I knew all about the weather.” Said he, “Well, I have noticed that whenever you have given your opinion you have hit very nigh. The fact is my men are grinding their scythes and were going to mowing, but I thought I would get your opinion on the weather first.” (He had seven men by the month that worked on his farm.) “What do you think of the weather anyway; let us have your opinion?” I told him my opinion was I thought we should have a shower before night but, of course, could not certainly tell. His men all came from the grindstone with their scythes all fit for use. He turned from me and spoke to his foreman. “Mr. B., I think you had better not go to mowing now.” “Why, sir?  The weather looks first-rate. I think we shall have a good day,” said his foreman. “Neighbor Whipple thinks we shall have a shower, and I think you had better take the men and go into the corn and cut down the weeds.  We won’t mow today.” The foreman appeared angry and spoke out almost insultingly. “It seems that you think Mr. Whipple knows everything.  He don’t know whether it will rain or not any more than I do, and I don’t believe it will.” Said our employer, “Ah, I have noticed that neighbor Whipple hits pretty nigh. We won’t mow today.” I said nothing but kept at my work.

All the farmers went into the cornfield and worked the forenoon.  At 12, all came to dinner; I and my help and four carpenters also. After dinner, [we] sat and talked a short spell. The first thing we heard after going out of the house was the thunder. It thundered often and very heavy. About two o’clock there came one of the smartest showers that I about ever saw. There was not a gale with it, but the rain came in torrents. The farmers all ran to our shanty, and one employer—he came out also. “Well, Mr. Ball, what do you think of neighbor Whipple’s judgment; his shower came along, didn’t it?” “He happened to guess right this time,” said the farmer. So they talked among themselves considerable. But I attended to my stone cutting. This circumstance (though not in order) I mentioned to explain the operation of electricity [on me] after having that dreadful shock at the Montville meeting house.

 

 

Chapter 13—“Do You Think I Am A Fool?”

 

The next in course comes my summer’s work in Montville again. The forepart of the season [I spent] about among the farmers doing small jobs, and on the first of July, I commenced at the Uncas factory, Nathaniel Miner of New London, boss. Brother Noah commenced working when the building was commenced, but when I went to work the wheel pit was finished and they had just got the foundation laid the whole bigness of the building. At this time I had two orphan boys with me that had got large enough to work at the trade and had worked a little before. They both commenced with me here. [Having] one apprentice worked in very well, or formerly did, but for one workman to have two—it was hard to get a chance for them, but I went on trial. I worked one week and then inquired what the prospect was, whether I could continue. “O, come on; I like you and your boys well. Come on; I will let you know when we don’t want you.”

Some of the men, after finding out by my brother that I was expected there, inquired whether I was a workman at the business. Said Noah, “Pretty good, I think.” Said one of them, “I can tell a workman just as soon as I see him sledge a stone, whether he is a workman or not.” I knew nothing about their talk, but as soon as I came and commenced to sledge a stone, I noticed a man standing and looking very intently at me, and soon [he] took a turn by where Noah was at work and there stood and talked a minute. I, being a stranger to all but my brother, took not much notice, but kept at work. At night Noah told us the story and said, “You are watched by all the men.” Said I, “Let them watch.” But I continued on and heard nothing but that I gave satisfaction as a mason.

But by and by, they wanted a blacksmith to commence iron work for a waterwheel. They had a good workman, but he was wholly taken up sharpening tools for the masons. And what to do they knew not, as they knew of no blacksmith that understood sharpening stone tools well. Noah, hearing them talking and not knowing what they could do, said, “Brother Jonathan is a good hand to sharpen tools.” They came to me and inquired if I understood sharpening tools. I told them that I had done something at it. They wanted to know if I was willing to go into the shop and try my hand at it until they could get another hand to take my place. I told them that I would. So I went into the shop and there stayed weeks, until the boss said, “I will have Jonathan off the building no longer; I want him on the building and must have him.” They finally succeeded in getting a smith to take my place—and I, certainly, was very glad, as I did the work in the shop that took two to do after I left and before two went in.

In those days it was the practice to furnish liquor for mechanics, as much as it was to furnish their food. And here at this job every man had his half-pint bottle furnished and filled with rum every day—each his bottle. When a bottle was presented to me and one to each of my boys, I told them I did not use the article at all, neither did I want it furnished for my boys, for I considered it a poor practice—a practice which, if followed, would ruin every one that followed it. The agent told me that it was my due as much as my wages and I was as much entitled to it. “Here is your bottle, and it is filled, and it is yours,” said he. I told him if it was my due, I wanted that, but not in rum. If they had molasses, they could fill our bottles with molasses every day. They said they had a hogshead of molasses and should keep it, and if we chose that, we could have it. So our three half-pint bottles were filled every day. I bought a jug and every day would turn our molasses into that, and every Saturday I would bring a gallon and a pint home to my family of good molasses.

Some of the men were not satisfied with the half pint, and every night would go to the store and get their bottle filled again. And one man of my acquaintance and about my age, a very active smart man, —he would go almost every evening and get his bottle filled, after drinking his rations. And as I noticed his practice, I in the kindest of feelings spoke to him about it and said that I was afraid to drink any, fearing that I should become a drunkard; and then asked him if he was not afraid, if he made so free use of it, that it would get the advantage of him. “Do you think I am a fool?” said he. “Before I let it get the advantage I will quit it altogether.” Said I, “Then it will be the very time you can’t let it alone.” “Well, I am not afraid of it,” he replied. I saw it was useless talking, and stopped.

I will give the reader this man’s history (in short) through life. I said that he was about my age. At that time he had a wife and two small children. But soon after, his wife died, leaving her two children. Soon he married, and had the good fortune to get a good mother to the little children. But he continued to drink, and to such excess that it became so distressing to his wife that she went to different merchants and begged of them to sell no more liquor to him, telling them the distress and sorrow that it brought into their house. But she could not prevail on them to desist, and he kept it up worse and worse, until he finally became so dissipated and captivated by the lust that he had no control of himself. After he had had one of his uncontrollable drunken turns, the horrors would then take hold of him and drive him miles, not knowing whither he was going or for what.

I have spoken of my doing different kinds of work, and among some of which was butchering—skinning hogs. And every year [I] would be called upon by this same man to butcher for him. (He lived some four or five miles from me.) I saw him in my travels from place to place, and he appeared quite sober and inquired when I could butcher his hog. I told him. Said he, “Well, that will do; come on.” The day came, and we went, I and my son. After getting to the house I knocked at the door. A woman’s voice bid me come in. On opening the door, I saw the man sitting with his head hanging down. He took no notice of anything. Said I to his wife, “I came to dress your hog according to promise.” She, casting her eye towards her husband, said, “Well, I don’t think we can have it butchered today.” He had taken no more notice than a dead man, until after his wife had spoken. He then raised his head and rapped out with an oath, “Kill the pig.” His wife then spoke, “You had better kill it.” He, by getting his hands on his chair, succeeded in getting upon his feet, and turned towards me and rapped out again in the most profane and abusive language—with it, clenched his fist and struck at my face with all the power he could. I raised my arm and turned the blow, and then spoke, “You were not going to hit me, was you?” “Kill the pig,” he muttered out.

We went immediately out, and knowing all about the situation of things, at once had the hog out of the pen, and our large dog had the hog by the ear, the hog throwing himself. And just at the moment, out blundered the drunken man, and blundering headlong onto the pig with his right arm across the hog’s head. I, fearing that the hog would have hold of his arm, grabbed hold of him, raising him on his feet and saying, “Let me come and kill the pig.” That moment my son handed my knife, and I had the hog stuck. And the blood spurted with such force that it flew all onto him, and in his fluster, he wet himself, and such a spectacle you hardly ever saw. He made out to get back into the house. We continued on dressing the hog. Pretty soon his wife came to fetch something to put the innards in, and as I had been acquainted with her from childhood, I spoke to her and said, “I feel sorry for you; your life must be an unhappy one.” She bursting into tears said, “Mr. Whipple, no one knows anything about my life and troubles” —and then told me how she had been to different rum sellers and begged them not to let her husband have liquor. But it was all useless. “There is no way for me but to suffer.” Not withstanding his blundering about attempting strike me, he was always as friendly to me when sober, as an own brother. I could not help thinking of his expression to me at the time I spoke to him about drinking when we were young. His life continued a downhill course.

Not long after we butchered this hog here spoken of, he had the horrors so bad that he comprehended so little, that he started off in the night and came within a half mile of my house to a neighbor’s and knocked at their door in the dead of the night. They arose, went to the door, and inquired what was wanted. The reply was, “I want to find Jonathan Whipple’s.” They knew him, and inquired what he wanted of me. His answer was, “I want to get him to skin me—I feel so awful I want to get him to skin me.” They told him that was no way to talk about being skinned—that he had better come in and go to bed, and in the morning he would not want to be skinned. And finally they prevailed on him to come in and go to bed.  In the morning he wandered off and, before he went home, found liquor. And he continued on this downhill road until he was about 52 (I think), when he passed away and filled a drunkard’s grave. So we see that to make free use of intoxicating liquors, there is no surety of not becoming a drunkard. But to let it entirely alone, we are sure of never becoming a drunkard.

Feeling desirous, while detailing my history, to bring into account what may do some good, I will mention one circumstance which was in a measure connected with this man’s life before he became a downright drunkard. His second wife was the sister of a drunken bachelor who lived with his mother, and he would come home and abuse his mother shamefully. After this man had married into this family, he hired a privilege in the house with his second wife’s mother, and where the drunken old bachelor lived. The old bachelor was a large bony man and some 50 years old, but the other, rather of small size, but uncommonly active and very stout of his size. One night the old bachelor came home quite intoxicated and became quite boisterous and abusive to his mother, the mother begging him to be quiet—but no, he kept it up. By and by this youngerly married widower told him to stop his abuse, at which the old bachelor sprang with all fury, clenched the other by the throat, and such a tussle I suppose two men hardly ever had. But the young one broke the hold from his throat and throwed him upon the old kitchen hearth, and grasped him by the throat and beat him until he begged stoutly before he stopped—the poor old mother sitting by through the whole. The bachelor was not suffered to get up until he promised to go strait into his bedroom. And he did go straight into his room and came not out until morning, but kept up a continual stamping and swearing until towards morning, but dare not come out as the young man threatened him so severely. He sat up all night watching the door. Notwithstanding all of this young married widower’s experience, he became such a poor pitiful object as I heretofore have described.

Now, as another circumstance took place between this old drunken bachelor and my aged and venerable father, which I consider worthy of note, I will therefore mention it. As I have stated, he lived with his mother. He was an heir among others of his father’s family to the estate. But he had spent his right and sold out to pay his rum bill. And Brother Noah had bought the right, with the privilege of going to and from it, and by doing which he had to cross the old lady’s thirds. All of the trade was with the kindest of feelings and all well understood. But as this old bachelor had his drunken sprees he would scold and abuse his neighbors, however good and kind they might be.

One morning my brother sent his little boys away with his cows to the lot where they had to cross the widow’s land. The old bachelor came out in great fury, saying, “Go back with your cattle—they shan’t cross here.” They, knowing so well his character, dared not venture another step, but turned about and drove them home. (Brother Noah lived in the house with Father.) The children told their story in Father’s hearing. Said Father, “Come, children, I will go with you; I think he will say nothing to me.” So Father went with them. And when he saw them coming again with the cattle, he came and stood upon a bridge that he had partly taken up to prevent their passing, and when they got nigh by, he paraded himself and flourished about, stepping up to Father, and struck him in the face with [his] fist and knocked off a piece of skin from his lip, and said, “You are not going to pass here.” But Father showed no anger but spoke to him in the most pitiful manner, saying, “Don’t strike me. I am an old man. I am interfering upon nobody’s right. What will become of your poor soul, if you do so?” Said he, “I shall go to hell.” Said Father, “Oh no, I would not do so.” Father had his walking cane. He might have struck him. But no, that was not in accordance with his teaching to us, nor according to his whole life’s example. He threw out no threats, but stood and patiently bore with the wicked man, until he spoke out saying, “Mr. Whipple, you may go. I will do no more.”

After that there was no more trouble; all went quietly on until the poor man left the premises. It run for years, until Father was quite aged. One day as he sat in his room alone, he heard a knock at his door. He bid them come in, and who should come in but the man that struck him. Father spoke to him friendly and told him to take a seat, but he was not prepared to sit yet. Said he, “Mr. Whipple, I have been very sick and expected to die, and I promised the Lord that if he would spare my life, I would come and get down upon my knees and confess my sins to you. And I have come to do it. I abused you the very worst kind and for nothing. And now I am going to get upon my knees and ask your forgiveness.” But Father told him that he did not want him to get upon his knees to him. But nothing would do, but the most penitent and humble confession, begging him to forgive him. Father told him, “I had nothing but love for you, in the time of it, and I am sure now I have nothing but love for you. I wish you well, and ever have.” At this time Father had four sons who were nigh neighbors and were all informed of the circumstance. But none of us ever mentioned it to him, but always treated him with respect and kindness. And certainly after he came and with so much penitence confessed to Father, we could not have anything at the poor man.

The old bachelor and the young married widower, when they had their fight, were both of the same spirit—a cruel, wicked spirit. And there it remained to the day of their deaths, for aught I ever heard—no feeling to confess to each other. But Father’s kind and Christian spirit overcame the cruel vindictive spirit. That captivated him. He could not stand against it. And this is the reason why the Christ spirit is so much to be preferred above the vindictive, cruel, and fighting spirit that is always seeking revenge—which is the very spirit, and when carried to its ultimatum, that has caused all the wars that have ever been upon the face of the earth. How necessary, then, that the Christian at all times should be influenced and actuated by it.

 

 

Chapter 14—Blacksmithing and Breaking Horses.

 

The fall of 1828 I made a bargain to do a heavy job of mason work for a large dwelling 56 feet by 38, with an ell 20 by 30 feet, the underpinning to be of cut stone three feet high, and three courses of stone, each course one foot, with a piazza in front 26 feet long and seven wide with a stone floor. The same fall I quarried out the stone. I was to do this work by the day, as this time I had but one apprentice. After quarrying out the stone, it became cold weather, and I let myself to work at blacksmithing (as I was not to commence cutting the stone for the house until spring). I let myself not as a workman, but telling the man I thought I could take hold quite handy and would do the best I could. After commencing, I think the smith was rather disappointed because, when I first commenced, he thought he must show me about everything he set me to do. I was asked if I could make a good horse nail. I replied that I could make such as I commonly used. He then told that he would show me how to make a horse nail—and did—and then said, “I can make two to a heat.” And so [he] tried that and did make two passable nails. Said I, “Let me try.” “Here, take the rod,” said he. I took the rod and gave it a good heat and of considerable length, and I made three to one heat, and as good ones as his! “Well,” said he, “I need not undertake to show you how to make a horse nail, for you will beat me.”

But I went to work on any kind of work he had—a good deal of ox and horse shoeing. The first ox we undertook to shoe, he came on my side to show me, and did do a little, but I told him I thought I could manage; so he went to his side again, and before he had finished I had my side all done. “What! You are not finished, are you?” “ Yes,” I told him.” “Well, I shall have to attend to my own side for the future,” said he. I had done considerable at shoeing in my own shop and had done almost all kinds of common country work, and I was right in the prime of life. I was in my thirty-third year. I had not worked but a little while before he would call upon me to take his place before the fire when he had a difficult job to do. I well remember of his asking me to take his place in doing two heavy jobs, one making a bickern that weighed 70 pounds, and the other welding some very heavy cart tire. He told me that he never had good luck in welding heavy tire in his life and wanted to know if I [had] ever welded any. I told him I had. “Think you can weld such heavy tire as this?” said he. “I guess so,” said I. “Well, I shall set you at it, if you are willing.” “O, yes, I will try it.” And I did. I saw him out at the wheels a number of times, showing them to different men and saying, “There! Did you ever see as heavy tire as that, welded as nice as that is?” I felt well pleased to have my employer as well pleased with my work. He was a young workman, but for a young man quite a good workman. I had worked but a week or two before he began to inquire of me, when a customer came in wishing to know when we could do his job. “Mr. Whipple, when can we do it?” I would always speak as if he ought to know his own business          

best, and yet would tell when I though we could do it.

We shod a great many oxen and horses. I recollect of one man’s coming and asking us if we thought we could shoe his oxen, on account of their being so bad, and [he] told us that he had had them to one shopand shoes all made and one of the oxen roped and in the shop—, but the ox broke all before him, tore himself clear, and took to the swamp. The blacksmith declared that he would have no more to do with him. “Take your oxen to some other shop. I can do nothing with them.” After the farmer told his story about what his oxen had done, he wanted to know if we thought we could do anything with them. My employer turned to me, saying, “Well, what do you think about such an oxen as those? Can we shoe them in your opinion?” “Of course we can, if they can be got to the shop,” said I. So the farmer told us that he should take them along, and [he] did. We had a first-rate ox frame, and everything very strong and a head rope stout enough to sling an ox right up. They were heavy five-year-old cattle. When they came up to the shop they looked as if they were about frightened to death. They stood trembling and looking this way and that, all ready for a jump. There was a heavy chain fastened to a ringbolt at a post, so well confined that there was no danger of any ox pulling it away. We told the farmer to fastened that chain around the nigh ox’s horns. Then we took our head rope and put it on to the off ox’s horns, and then let the farmer unyoke the off ox. It was all done with the greatest care as not to scare them. I told the men to be very still so that the oxen would not get frightened, and they were so. Well, we got the off one into the slings in such a quiet manner and confined every wayand had his shoes all on, clenched with nails, filed them all off nicely, and he never stirred once, any more than if he had been a dead ox. He was the wildest one, the owner said. Well, we shod them both without the least trouble. I never saw a man so well pleased in my life about any such thing. I continued working here until the first of March. While here we made me a good set of stone tools, including a number of good stone axes.

The fifth of March, I commenced on my heavy job of mason work that I quarried the stone for the year before. As I have before stated, the use of liquor was fashionable in those days. The first day I was there, my employer came with his bottle and glass. Said he, “Well, neighbor Whipple, it is now grog time; we will have something to drink.” I told him that I used no liquor at all. (This was before there was anything done by way of temperance societies.) Said he, “O you have just begun a new job nowyou must drink. Here, take hold.” Said I, “I don’t drink any.” “Ah, but you must drink some now.” “No, if I should work for you seven years, you never need bring your liquor to me, for I should drink none. I don’t use it.” “Why, you are a singular character indeed,” said he, and went away with his liquor.

My taking such an unpopular stand caused some talk among all hands. It was not long before one of the carpenters had something to say to me, and wished to know the reason of my not using liquor. I told him the reason of my not using it was that I wanted to be sure to never make a drunkard, and the only way I knew of was to let it entirely alone. If I never drink any, I am sure not to be a drunkard. He told me that I took a very safe course, but he thought that a person might use it cautiously, have it a comfort to him, and not became a drunkard either. I told him,“Just look at your brother. I don’t suppose he thought of being where he now is. If he had taken my stand, he would now be all right. But now where is he?” He was the most capable of any of the brothersfour in number and all carpenters, and the one I referred to, the oldest, would have been the boss, but was so dissipated that they dare not let him have charge. I, of course, cast no reflections but merely spoke for their consideration. We all worked on, carpenters and masons, and all were perfectly friendlybut the masons used no rum. That, of course, created some discussion. But I found no difficulty in standing my hand and supporting my position. [Because of] my taking such a decided stand against the use of liquorand before, but very little was said against its use, and while every person (and ministers of the gospel too) were all talking in favor of its useI was looked upon, truly, as my employer said the first day of work for him, as “a singular character.” But time passed on.

My employer was a very good man to work forpay always ready, every week, or every night if you ask for it; boarded well. This was the man that had seven men by the month, and who placed so much confidence in my judgment about the weather. By some means, he continued to have confidence in my judgment. Every now and then something would arise among the hands by way of discussion, and if he was concerned any way in it, he would say, “Well, we will leave it to neighbor Whipple; his judgment is good.” His foreman farmer was one of the self-sufficient men, one that considered his judgment not inferior to the best.

Not long after I commenced work my employer came to me and said, “Have you had much experience in breaking horses?” I told him I had had some considerable. He then said that his most valuable horse lacked one thing—and he and his foreman had tried all they knew, but could have no success. I asked him what the trouble was. He said they never could make him back one step since he owned himthat he would take not one step back, no howand then asked me if I thought I could get him so that he would back. I inquired how old the horse was. “He is but six,” was his reply. I told him that if he was no older than that, I thought he could be learned. “Well, neighbor Whipple, if you think you can teach my horse to backand do it, you may have him to go back and forth with just as much as you want him.” (It was about seven miles from my house.) I told him that I did not certainly know, of course, but I thought he could be learned.

About the time we got through talking, his foreman came along, and the employer said to him, “Mr. B., neighbor Whipple thinks that our gray can be learned to back.” “Who does he think can do it?” said the farmer. “Why, he thinks he can.” “I’ll be _______ if he does it,” said the farmer. I said to the farmer, “I should not want to make such an expression as you have. Supposing I should get the horse to back wellwhat would become of you?” “Well, I know you can’t learn him. Mr. Ph____ thinks you know everything. But I know you can’t learn that horse to back, for he and I have tried hours at a time, and we never made him step one single step back in the world. And I know you don’t know more than both of us.” “I don’t say that I can make the horse back; yet I think I can.” The employer finally said, “Well, Mr. B., if neighbor Whipple takes the horse, I think he will get him so he will back.” “Well, I know he won’t,” said the farmer.

This was of a Saturday. The employer wanted to know if I would take the horse that night to go home with. I told him if he wished me to, I would. He did, and had him in the wagon all ready, but had not told me that the horse was accustomed to running away and had stove up one or two vehicles. He was a powerful horse. At the time, good horses were worth less then one hundred dollarsbut this cost three hundred. [He was] such a hard mouthed fellow that he had got a pair of bits, such as I don’t commonly see in usevery strong and so constructed, that by pulling upon them they opened in such a manner that they propped the horse’s mouth wide open, and each end as they opened were sharp so that they hurt the mouth so bad the horse would stop. I knew nothing of this, but when I got started for home, four of us got into the wagon and started off gallantly, not knowing that there was any difficulty about the horse, save [that] he would not back.

We had traveled about two miles when we came to quite a steep hill to go down. When getting a part of the way down, he put outbut I held him so close that he could not run. I stopped him and told the two young men to get out, but that did not quite him. He commenced kicking. I then told Noah, my brother, to get out. He did so, but that did no good. He continued kicking. When he found that he could not run, kicking was his play. I thought I could “ride it out,” but I found I must clear myself from the wagon or be stove up as he had stove in the forepart of the wagon body. So I sprung from the wagon, holding the reins in my hands; but while [I was] in the air he got the advantage, though I struck upon my feet. But before I could brace myself to hold him, I had either to be dragged on the ground or [to] let go. As he had got the advantage of me, I let go, and away he went. The reader need not ask whether that wagon made a humming or not. But the horse had not run more than a quarter of a mile before he was stopped. There being a gang of farmers in the milking, and hearing the wagon, they took their stand and stopped him and had him in the barn, knowing the horse. The wagon was some damaged, but the horse was not injured at all—had lost one shoe. But all of this flourish had not taught the horse to back, and going ahead he understood before. Our ride was out for that night, as the wagon could not be used.

But the horse had but just entered his schooling. We took him out of the stable. I told Noah, “I shall have this horse so that he will back before I get home with him, if I don’t get home till morning.” We then had some four miles to travel before getting home. I think before we got home the horse had walked backwards certainly one mile. The next morning we had him up, a shoe on, and ready for more backward exercise, the first part of which was to fasten each end of a long rope to the breeching of the harness and set a number of boys to hold the horse so that he would have to labor to back them. I soon got him so that two stout young fellows on each side could not hold him. I then put him into a wagon again to see if he would kick that to pieces; took him first into the lots, and there exercise him every which way; took the young fellows with us, and every now and then let them come behind the wagon and hold so that, in backing, he would have more than just the wagon to back. After exercising a while in this way, I took him on to the highway, and there we exercised him as much in backing the wagon up the hills as any way.

After feeling satisfied that he was thoroughly disciplined so that he would back as much as he could draw, I took him back to my house and fed him well and Monday morning put the horse into a wagon of ours and started back to our work again. After getting to the damaged wagon, [we] took that in tow, and on we went. After getting to our employer we saw all hands out watching our return. After getting nigh enough to be spoken to, the employer called out, “Good Morning, neighbor Whipple. You seem to have a long team this morning. I hear you have been cast away.” “Yes,” said I, “but our vessel was ensured.” “Ah, I don’t know about that. Well, have you got Gray so he will back?”(There were two wagons hung to him, and four men in the wagon.) I just spoke, “Back,” but did not move the reins. He rushed all back in a moment. I then spoke to the hired farmer, “Two or three take hold there behind, and hold him.” Three great, stout men stopped up behind the wagons and grasped hold. I called out to the horse, “Back.” He moved the whole with a rush. The employer gave his farmer foreman a hunch with the elbow and said, “He won’t back, will he?” There was never anymore trouble about that horse’s backing, and I never heard of his running away again.

 

 

Chapter 15—A Poor Example and A Good One.

 

I worked one season from the fifth of March until November; then the next, I worked from early spring until fall. My being such a thoroughgoing cold-water man, it caused much talk among the help. One Monday morning the boss carpenter said to me, “Mr. Whipple, we had a sermon preached to us yesterday that would have suited you.” I inquired why he thought it would suit me. He said, “Because it was a temperance sermon.” I inquired if the minister was a temperance man. I soon found that he was not—“but don’t use enough to hurt anyone.” I told him that I was glad to know of anything that favored temperance, but the world needed exampleand especially of his ministrymore than preaching without it. I told him if his minister used no intoxicating liquors at all and then preached temperance, it would do much good.

We finally had a good deal of talk pro and con upon the subject, this time and the next day. I think it was this same minister [who] came to where we were at work. The carpenters, myself, and our employer all happened to be in hearing. The minister took a seat by the side of the carpenter’s work bench and commenced wiping his face (it was quite warm) and said, “I think the scripture says give strong drink to him that is ready to perish and take a little wine for thy stomach’s sake and thine often infirmities. I do not think I am ready to parish, but I do think a glass of wine would do me good.” Said our employer, “Mr. H., walk inwalk inside. We have plenty of wine, and strong drink too. Our fellas will help you to some.” The minister said, “I am very fond of buttermilk.  Think they have any?” He went in where the family was. I knew if he spoke of drink among the family I could hear about it by inquiring of the foreman’s wife, as she waited upon the table in all such ways. At the supper table I inquired if the minister got some buttermilk to drink today. “Buttermilk!  He got a good stiff horn of brandy. I got it myself for him,” said the waiting woman. I then told the boss carpenter that if a minister preached temperance ever so much, and then practiced taking brandy every chance he had, it would not count well for temperance. Said he, “That is so, Mr. Whipple.” But in those days, as I have before stated, it was a universal practiceand especially among the ministers of the gospelto use intoxicating liquors freely. They felt insulted if, at a funeral, the decanterwell filledwas not placed before them. 

But back to my mason job. I continued on with this job until I finished all parts except hard finishing.  I had not been accustomed to doing that. Help from New York did that. This employer was to me a good one. But one little circumstance took place while I was there that I felt in duty bound to use plainness of speech respecting, though some might say it was none of my business. He had a little colored boy, a very active, smart, good little fellow. One day I heard him call his little colored boy. He called as if in anger.  The boy answered. He said, “Come here.” He came. (They were in my sight.) Said he, “How came them pods there?”  Said the child, “I throwed them there, sir.” Said the employer, “Go with meI will learn you not to throw peapods by the door.” The poor little boy followed his master. It was not long before I heard blows, and as smart as you would put on to an ugly animal. I did not count them, but I think not less than ten, the poor little boy begging pitifully. 

As soon as he got through, he came to me and told his performance with the child and said, “I guess Sam will remember next time and put the peapods where I tell him to.” He had told me how he had managed with the poor little fellow. He took him into the chamber by the side of the bed, turned the bed off at the stead, and made the child lean over the frame and hold onto the chord; then with his heavy horse whip, put the blows onto his naked body. (This he had told meand told it, I thought, as though it would please me.) After hearing him through, I told him freely what I thought of such treatmentthat I considered his little colored boy as deserving of kind treatment as his own child, or as my child, and “you never need come to me with whipping stories again, thinking you will please mefor I think it cruel.” I did not know but he would be entirely out with me, for using such plainness of speech, but I felt as if I did not care. But he took no resent at all, as I discovered. He had been a slaveholder. We had many talks upon that subject. He knew it was an evil and wicked institution, but he had seen so much cruelty carried on where he had resided for many years, he could hardly make it seem that the colored race had as much feeling as the whites. I never knew of his striking the little boy after that. If he did, he knew better than to tell me of it thinking I should be pleased. I always believed in having children obedient, but there is no need of abusing them in order to have them so. Treat children and grown people kindly if you want to have kind treatment in return. The strongest may crush and abuse and obtain submission from the weaker, but all such creates no true love and respectnothing but fear and hate.

This employer was of the same age as myself. He never but once showed any of his usurpation over me while I worked for him. One day he was going to leave, and I thought perhaps [he] would not be back before night. And my work [was] so situated that I hardly knew what part to pursue in order to suit him best, and so I asked him. He answered me, but in so low a voice I did not understand him—and that moment ran downstairs. I followed him and said, “Do you want me to mix that mortar?”  He turned and looked angry [and] said, “Do as I told you.” Said I, “If I had known what you told me, I should not be running after you to find out.” He then spoke out very short and loud: “No.” Said I, “Now I know,” and went back to my work. And he left for the day. I made up my mind in the course of the day that if he wanted someone that he could rap out to in that style he must get some one besides me. I told my help that I should free my mind to him when he returned, and as soon as he returned said I to him, “Why did you speak to me this morning so cross?” Said he, “I don’t know that I did.” Said I, “I know that you did, and now I am going to tell you if you don’t like me or my work, pay me up and I will leave. You need not think because you are rich and I am poor, you can run over me and I not know it. I consider you my employer, but not my master.” “Neighbor Whipple, don’t talk of leaving. I like your person and your labor. I want you should stay with me. If I spoke to you as I ought not, I am very sorry. I will do it no more.” I told him that was all I wanted. I did not want to be snapt at “as if I were a dog.” This was the only time he spoke a word to me while I worked for him but what was perfectly friendly and respectful. After finishing his job, he settled, and paid me in the most punctual manner; and we parted, feeling as much friendship toward each other as though we were brothers.

I next will call in question my work in Griswold, Connecticut. There I worked part of two seasons. I was called upon early in the spring to know if I was engaged for the season. They found I was not. The applicant was a wealthy farmer and was preparing to build him[self] a large new dwelling house and wanted me to do the mason work, commencing at the first part of April.  I agreed to do it, and at the time appointed went. I found first-rate people. I was to stone the cellar, underpin the house, build a stone chimney (taking it from the bottom of the cellar), and plaster the house. The stone [was] all quarried out and on the ground, and they board[ed] me. I [was to] cut the stone and do the work. At that time I had one apprentice. This was an agreeable place to work.  I most generally worked by the day, but this work I took on contract. This family I found, in many respects, of my own views. They had no affinity with slavery. They were temperate, used no tobacco, were honest, and in fine, [were] very good people—good place to work. 

When you came to your meals you found all in good order, and perfect freedom. They had a colored man and girl that worked for them—or rather the girl, they brought up. There was no “nigger” table. All sat at the same table and ate the same kind of food, and every afternoon the girl would have on her clean dress and be sitting with girls of the family enjoying the same as they were. I sometimes would speak and tell them that they were off the usual track in their treatment to their colored folks. The old gentleman would say, “I have a rule. My rule is to do by others as I want them to do by me.  If I had happened to have dark skin, I should not want to be turned off and treated ill. No, no, neighbor Whipple.” He had considerable orcharding, and I noticed that he planted a large patch of melons right by the highway and close by a factory village. I asked him if the factory children did not plunder his things, hook his melons, etc. “No, neighbor Whipple, they don’t touch them.”  I asked how that happened. So he told me how he managed. He said, “Before my melons are grown, I go to the city (as it was called) and leave word that, such a time, I want all the children to come to my house and eat melons with us. We are going to have a feast of them. So we pick enough to give all that comes a good taste.” So he went on and told how he treated them when they came—and how he would take fruit, apples, etc., to them and then say, “Now children, if you get fruit-hungry, come to my house.” 

I enjoyed myself exceedingly well working here.  It took me until after mowing to finish his job. And after I finished he paid me all up.  I took three cheeses, but in weighing them he called their weight much less than they really weighed and the price per pound less by a cent or two in a pound. Then turning to his boys [he] said, “Go and drive the sheep into the yard.” The boys wanted to know for what. “I want to put the best lamb we have into neighbor Whipple’s wagon to take home with him.” While they were getting the sheep the old gentleman and [his] wife were putting up a large pan (tin) of honey in the comb, as a present for me to take home. The sheep were brought. “Neighbor Whipple, I want you should go to the yard with me to pick out the best lamb I have to take home with you.” I excused myself—but no use—I must go. Well, they did pick out the very best he had among thirty. After all were snugly stowed into my wagon, said the old gentleman, “Neighbor Whipple, you have finished my job and done it faithfully, and I have meant to pay you honestly. But as you are coming into the neighborhood again to work, we shall have a chance to see you—so we shall not bid you goodbye forever.” So we left for that time, after telling them they had more than paid me and doubly treated me with kindness.

After getting home I found my family all well, glad to see us, and much pleased with the presents—and especially the honey, as we had no bees for making honey. And the fat lamb—after butchering it [I] found it to be as fat as a skunk, and [it] weighed about nine pounds each quarter. But I had not got through with this old gentleman yet. They had been raising up a small factory (wooden factory) in order to put a stone basement, and I was to do the job, and they were to board me and keep my horse. The factory people had no pasture for horse keeping, and so [they] added to my day wages to pay for horse keeping. This same good old farmer had told me that he would keep my horse and told what he should charge. I thought it a pretty good price, but if the factory people were willing to add that much to my wages, it would make no difference to me. And they concluded to do it and did do it. So I had a good little job of several weeks at this place—take my horse every Saturday and come home, horse left only about half a mile from where I worked and kept the first rate. Time passed off nicely here. And after finishing, they paid me all up, horse keeping and all. I then went to settle my horse keeping bill. And [as I was] presenting the money (several dollars), the old man said, “Neighbor Whipple, I am well paid. I shall take not a cent.” I told him that it was not coming out of me. They had paid me—“I am only to hand it over to you.”  “Keep it yourself. I shall take not a cent.” So much for this job. 

But I have not done with him yet, the good old farmer. While I was on this job, a farmer in Lisbon was making inquiry who[m] he could get to build a chimney for him. The old farmer introduced me. And [the farmer in Lisbon] gave me a call, and I answered it and did his work for him.  It was just opposite the old farmer’s farm, the west side of Quinebog River. While here, my horse was still kept at the same place, and after finishing all up and going to leave for good, I then undertook to pay my horse-keeping bill. But no—“I am well paid. All I ask of you is, I want you should not forget us, but come and visit us. And never come without bringing an empty bag or two, and you shall never go away with them not filled. I always have corn and rye a-plenty. I will fill them in welcome. As you say, you have your grain to buy.” As this kind and good employer has passed away, I shall neither embarrass [him] nor puff up his pride by calling his name.  It was Welcome A. Browning of Griswold, Connecticut. I think he told me that he was the son of a Friend Quaker. 

 

 

Chapter 16—Uncle Noah Whipple.

 

The next season I had a call from John Slater’s boss, who was putting up a stone factory in the northeast part of the same town that Esquire Browning lived in—Griswold. They wanted me and wished me to bring six men with me. I collected the six men, and off we started to Pachaug, as the place was called. After getting there I found the boss workman hired the help, as the common practice used to be. He wanted to know my price and the price of my men. I told him I had nothing to do with any man’s wages but my own and my apprentices’. Each man would set his own price. He then wanted to know what my price was. I told him, but he said that that was more than he could pay—there was but two men on the building that he paid that price. I told him I could not work for any less and should not take my tools out of the wagon to make an attempt. (This was on Monday.) He then asked if I would work on trial. I told him I would, but he must pay me the price I asked for what I did work, and after he had proved me, if he did not like me at the price, pay me, and I will leave. “Well,” he said, “go to work.” And the others commenced in the same way. And we all worked until Friday noon.

One of my men had to leave so as to be at home Saturday. So he called on the boss to know what his mind was as to his wages—this man had asked the price I did. But he refused to pay it and told what he would pay. After they got through talking, my man came to me and said, “Are you going to stay and work?” I told him it would depend on circumstances. If they gave me my price I should work, and if they did not I should leave. “Well, he will pay me only so much, and you will find he won’t pay you what you ask.” “Then I shall leave,” said I. He left me and went to work, and I was going to work, but the boss came to me and said, “Mr. Whipple, you are not going to leave us, are you?” Said I, “If you don’t pay me my wages, I shall.” “Let’s see, what did you ask me?” I told him. “O yes, I am willing to pay that. You richly earn it. I want you should stay with us until the building is finished.” After working two days, I rather thought they would want me.

When I first commenced, I was set on the backside of the building, but after working a couple of days I was placed on the front and kept there as long as I worked. The boss, after telling me he was willing to pay my price, said, “Uncle Nick (speaking of one of the men that came with me) is a good man and as stout as a jack. I like him, but he is not workman enough to earn the wages you can.” But he reduced his wages, so that he continued on, and all the others that went with me continued to work through the job. But before the building was quite finished, I was called away.

A letter came from West Point, New York, to my father, stating that a brother of his, an old soldier who had spent ten years of his life in the U.S. service, was in a distressed condition and wanted to get home among his friends. So I, in order to act the part of the Good Samaritan, left my job and prepared to go after my uncle.

Although I had ever been accustomed to being from home, yet I had never been a traveler, had never been even to the city of New York, yet had worked in two different states. Well, I had left my job to prepare for my little journey. So I called at a merchant’s to buy some cloth to have some clothes made, telling the merchant what I was purposing to do—going after my Uncle Noah. He knew all about him. Said the merchant, “Now, you are going away among strangers, and if you go in your Quaker garb, when you get on board the Steam Boat you will be treated as a colored man or a ruffian sailor. You know enough to appear like a gentleman, and you ought to dress like one. Now, I want to sell you some good fine broadcloth to make you a suit.” He took down one of those highest crowned hats and said, “I want to sell you one of these hats.” After hearing him through, said I, “If you would give me one of those hats, I would not wear it; and as for your costly cloth, it would not suit my condition at all.  I am a poor Quaker man and am going in that style.” “You know that gay, costly clothing don’t make gentlemen,” said the merchant. “I know that. I should treat you just as well in your every suit, as though you had on superfines, but you will see how you get treated.” “Come,” said I. “Let me see some of your satinet. That is my kind of cloth. That answers to put on and wear out.” So I bought some of his satinet and fixed out my fashion and started off.

This was the first time I ever went as passenger onboard a steamboat. At that time the practice was—not as it now is—to get your tickets before you get off. I went onboard the boat Washing[ton], commanded by Captain [E. S.] Bunker. After getting into Long Island Sound, the bell rang. I inquired what that was for; I was told for every passenger to pay their fare. I stood and watched the people’s motion and thought I would wait until the rush was over before I attended to paying mine. After they got through, I stepped up to the office window and begged permission to speak a few words in the presence of the captain, if he would have the goodness to hear me, before paying my fare. The captain spoke very respectfully and said, “Sir, I will hear anything you have to say.” Said I, “I live in Groton, Connecticut, a neighbor to my father. And he has received a letter from a brother of his from West Point, stating that he is in a suffering condition and wants to get home among his friends. And Father wished me to go and fetch him home, and I have started for that intent. We are poor people, but thought if we could get my old uncle home among us, we could keep him from suffering. And I thought I would tell you my story, and if you would consider me any in my fare, I should take it very kind of you.” After hearing me through, said the old captain, “Consider you—yes. I will consider you one half. Sir, you are a gentleman. No man but one with a whole soul would make an attempt of this kind. The fare is five dollars. You pay me two and a half, and it’s all you need pay. And should you have the luck to get your old uncle and can get aboard my boat, I will fetch you both on to New London for the fare of one.”

I thanked him very kindly for the favor shown me, and [as I was] going to turn away, a gentleman took me by the arm and told me to follow him. I did so. He took me into the gentleman’s cabin and told me to take a seat at the supper table. I found him to be the steward. I found that I was not turned off so bad after all, as the merchant told me I should be.

After getting to New York, I cruised about considerable, and finding a number of old acquaintances, they accompanied me from place to place—went to Fulton and Washington Markets, to the City Hall and into it. I had from early morning until four o’clock p.m., as no boat was to leave for West Point until that time. I got to West Point at 11 p.m., [and] found at the boat office a gentleman whose business it was to attend to the affairs there. I inquired if he was much acquainted with the people at the place, and if so, if he knew an old soldier by the name of Whipple. He said there was an old man round about the place they called “Uncle Whipple.” “I think that must be him.” “Mister, stay here with me until morning, and I will go and show him to you. I know where he stays.” (I had told him that I came after an old uncle by the name of Noah Whipple.) I stayed until morning, and he went and showed where he stopped. He knocked at the door. An Irishman came to the door. The gentleman said, “Is Uncle Whipple here?” We were told that he was, but he was not up. “This gentleman wants to see him,” said the stranger. So the Irishman called the old uncle.

We still were out of doors. The old man came tottering along—could hardly walk, he was so bad off. I had not seen him for many years, yet I knew him. Said I, “Good morning, Uncle, do you know me?” “I believe it is one of Sammie’s boys, but I don’t know which.” I told him that it was Jonathan and that we had got a letter stating that he wanted to get home among his friends, and I had come after him. “Is that right, Uncle?” said I. “Yes it is,” said he. “I want to get away from this cursed place.” Then he talked on to the Irishman about his mother and brother (my father) and friends, and then said, “Now, Mr. Maloy, I well know what I have got to come to if I go home with my nephew,” said the old man. “What is that?” the Irishman inquired. “I have got to quit drinking rum,” said Uncle. “Then you are a dead man,” said Maloy. Uncle rapped out, “____ the dying. I shall soon be a dead man if I stay in this cursed place.” The old uncle, as before stated, had served ten years as a soldier. And then being so dissipated that he could think of nothing but hanging around such places, as where drinking, gambling, etc., were going on, he set up a little liquor and candy shop there at West Point and kept that in operation as long as he could—but finally got so low that he could do nothing but make soap for the washwomen. And when I found him, he was the dirtiest person I ever saw, completely covered with the old soap kettle smut. Before I could take him away, I had to have him cleaned up. He drew his daily rations from the mess house, of food and liquor, and carried it into the family where he stopped.

When I was ready to leave, the Irish almost filled his pockets with change. The poor old man said, “The time has never been when I was going home, but what I had something to carry home. But now I have nothing, not even to pay my passage.” We shipped on board the steamboat at 4 p.m. for New York. After getting aboard, I found Uncle at the bar the first thing, handing out his change for liquor.  I saw that he would be down before we got to New York. I spoke to the man whom I took to be the captain and told him I wished he would not let the old man have any more liquor while on board. He told me that he was not the legal captain—that he had only come on board to go that trip. “But, sir, you go to the Steward and tell him your story, and I think he will let the old man have no more.” I did so, and he told me that he should have no more aboard the boat. But I was afraid that the old uncle’s pocket of change would tempt him so much that he would let him have; so I kept where I could see what was going on. I soon saw the poor old man tottering along up to the steward and said, “Sonny, another drink of your liquor.” (I was out of sight, but listening.) “Old man, you are going to have no more. You have got enough.” The poor old man clapped his hand to his pocket and said “Ah, sonny, money enough—one more glass.” “No, no more—you have enough.” At that, the old gentleman thrust his hand into is pocket and took out the value of a dollar, I should think, in small stuff, holding it out, and said, “Here, sonny, take this—I want another glass.” But the steward spoke quite smart, “Keep your money; you will need it. You will have no more liquor aboard the boat.” Poor old Uncle understood that and turned away. So, before we got to New York he was quite sober. If I had said nothing, he would have been dead drunk before we had got there.

But as it proved, he—instead of being in a situation to need help to be got from the boat—he was well acquainted in New York—and shamed me—, so that we got along comfortably, though it was eleven o’clock at night. In the morning I went to the wharf where I landed when I came, and found the boat Washing[ton], the same I went in, and as soon as I came along side the boat the steward saw me and said, “Well, mister, did you find your old uncle?” I told [him that] I did. Said he, “You will go back with us, then, won’t you?” After finding that they were not going until the next day, I told him that I must leave if I could get a chance. I found the boat Fanny of Norwich was going that afternoon, and I went in her. Uncle would not take a cabin passage; so I took deck passage too.

We got home all right and delivered the poor old man to his mother, who then was living—and well, for an aged woman—and kept house by herself. Father and sons had for years furnished everything for her to subsist upon. Grandmother had very quick feelings towards this son, as he, when young, was subject to the asthma and [was] a very weak, feeble child. And she became, as mothers ever do to such children, particularly attached. [Because of] his being so slender [and] weakly, she put him to a tailor’s trade. He stayed his time out, then went immediately off and was not heard of for seven years. He was a very smart-appearing, well-formed man, round favored—pleasant black eyes, about five feet and nine inches in height, and capable of making as fine [an] appearance in company as one in a thousand. But when I brought him home he was all bowed down, and so completely broken by reason of a soldier’s life (which is ever attended with hard service and vile habits) that he really was an object of pity. He was all of a trouble. It was with difficulty that he could walk at all, and when he undertook to use the knife and fork at the table, it really seemed that he could not feed himself, his hands were in such a tremulous condition. But notwithstanding all of this, my venerable old grandmother was so overjoyed to have her dear wanderer brought home [that] no pen can write or tongue express her joy.

Not long after I returned, I was at the merchant’s where I was told so much—how I should be used, if I did not fix out in different style from my common practice when I got among strangers. As soon as I went into his store, he inquired if I found my old uncle. I told him I had and had brought him home. After inquiring of his welfare, etc., said he, “Well, didn’t you find it just as I told you, after you got away among strangers?” Said I, “Well, no, not just as you told.” So I told him of the talk that passed between me and the steamboat captain and the captain’s reply to me after hearing my story—when he said, “Sir, you are a gentleman, etc., I say.” When I told that, said he, “Well, he is a gentleman.” I told him that I thought of that while he was talking to me. “Ah, well, you understand human nature pretty well.” He finally made up his mind that I could get along if I did go among strangers in my plain manner, without getting turned entirely off among the ruffian sailors.

But old Uncle is now at home, a poor old man, fifty years old and upwards, unable to do any labor at all. But this was what we expected before I went after him—the very reason why I went to get him home, and try and not have him suffer. If he had spent all of his younger days in ways that we disapproved of, Father, myself, and brothers furnished all necessary things for Grandmother and Uncle, so that they could live as comfortable as heart could wish. They made a little family, and as Uncle knew that liquor would be out of the question, he said not the first word about any. And as to going after it himself, that he could not do, for he was unable to walk but a very short distance; so he had nothing to do but sit about house with his aged, kind, and indulgent mother, and read and talk with her. It was more than six months before he commenced walking erect, his limbs more steady, and his hands, though almost useless when he first came home, became so steady that he would thread a needle almost as readily as a girl. (I have stated that he was a tailor by trade.)

He remained with his mother for some years, a comfort to her, and she to him. But she became so feeble that she felt not able to keep house by herself and do her own work, and her youngest daughter, a widow, offered to let Grandmother and Uncle come into her family if we would continue to provide as we had done. And as she had women’s help, she would do for them. So we concluded to do so. Not long after Uncle got there, he began to travel about more, and finally got to visiting where they used intoxicating drink freely. And he soon got to using it and bringing it home and coming home intoxicated. It soon became such an offence and so much grieved the widowed aunt that she felt that she could not endure it. Father, nor myself nor any of my brothers, knew that he had got to such a place, until my aunt sent one of her little sons and told Father that his mother had got to an end with Uncle—that they were all afraid of him, and they wanted something done. Father came immediately and told me. I told him that I thought the better way would be for him to go to Aunt’s himself, alone, and talk with Uncle in as friendly a manner as possible. And if he heard to him, all would be well, —“but if he lets on in an abusive manner, have no words with him, but come and let me know, and I will attend to it.”

Aunt lived but about a half mile from us. Father went, but was gone but a short time before he came into my house and said, “Jonathan, you must go to your aunt’s as quick as you can go—I am afraid your uncle will kill some of the family before you can get there.” I started off immediately and, after getting there, went into the room where he was. He was in the room with Grandmother, Aunt, and some others, children. Uncle seemed to look very grim. I spoke very pleasantly, “How do you do today, Uncle?” “Very well, if it was not for this _______ infernal works.” Said I, “Pshaw! What are you talking about?” I took a chair and sat down by his side. He sprang to go away. I laid one arm over his shoulders and the other across his lap, and kept him from going anywhere. I then spoke again very pleasantly, “Sit sill, Uncle, I want to talk with you.” But he rapped out with awful oaths saying, “I am not going to sit to hear anything from you—you are a pretty young master.” I held on so that he could not get out of his chair, and then told him that he would have to hear me before I should let him go. I did not move from my chair nor let him get out of his. Said I, “Sit still, Uncle. I am not going to hurt you. I want you should hear me.”

After seeing that he could do nothing, he sat still. I then spoke pleasantly and told him that I was the one that brought him home and placed him there with his poor old feeble mother and his widowed sister, and that his conduct had got to be such that they were so sorely afflicted they were to an end, and had entered a complaint to us. And now, said I, “Your drinking must stop.” He sat and heard me through and then belched out as before with dreadful oaths and told what he would do—how that he would go to the selectmen of the town and complain of me for coming there to meddle with him, etc., etc. Said I, “Why, Uncle, you are the wrong one to complain to the selectmen. I am the one to do that. And something will be done if you manage in this way. The fact is, it must stop.” He finally cooled off so much [that] I took my hands off of him.

He sat a few minutes, started to the cupboard, [took] out a bottle of liquor, and turned out quite a “stiff” horn and drank it. Then taking two bottles of liquor, one a quart and the other a pint bottle—the quart bottle mostly full, the other perhaps a half pint in it—, came to the fireplace and sat down, holding his two bottles, one in each hand. [He] sat there on his knees and commenced trotting them. I shifted my position and took my seat by him again, calculating to take his liquor from him or get it some way. Said I, “Uncle, come—give those bottles to me, will you?” “No, I will be _______ if I will.” But I insisted that he should; but no, he never would. I did not calculate to leave the house until I had the liquor. Here sat poor old Grandmother, my aunt, and my father—for he went back with me—, all fairly trembling, not knowing what would happen. As we were going there, I told Father I had rather he would not speak a word unless I asked him a question. He said he would not, and he did not.

Well, I sat by Uncle, asking for his liquor, and he [was] denying me. I finally said, “Uncle, I must have your liquor. Now, you had better make me a present of it. Come, give it to me. Have it said that you have made me one present.” The poor old man looked this way and that and then into the fireplace. I did not know but he would throw them against the back of the chimney. I was in hopes that he would give them to me, and so kept insisting. And finally he gave me the large bottle. I still sat by his side, and still insisted that he should give me the small bottle. After a while, said he, “If you will let me have a little left in this little bottle, you may have the rest.” “How much do you want to keep?” said I. I told him to turn into the large bottle and let me see how much would satisfy him. So he turned out [some] and [then] spoke, “There, let me have this.” I told him, “There is too much.” He turned out some [more], until there was perhaps a teacup half full. I then said, “There, Uncle, if you will not drink today, you may have that. But one thing you must promise me—that you will never bring any more liquor into this house.” Said he, “I never will bring another drop of liquor into this house in my life.” After he appeared quite composed and quiet, Father and I left, taking the quart bottle about half full with us—and after getting a distance from the house I poured it upon the ground. Father said that he expected nothing but that Uncle would have done something violent to me, he showed such a dreadful spirit. I told him that, knowing that my strength was so superior to his, I did not fear him at all, for I knew that I could hold him so that he could harm no one. Well, he continued there until Grandmother died, but never brought any more liquor into the house.

After her death, he left and went to live with Brother Jabez, who improved a farm. He was a very industrious man, and notwithstanding his infirm condition when he first came home, he now could—and would—do quite a day’s work of some kinds of work on a farm. For a year or two, he got along quietly with Jabez. But he began to be fault finding and using a good deal of unbecoming language among the children and to Jabez’s wife; and finally she lost her health and he became so burdensome, that they felt as if they could keep him no longer. And Jabez told Uncle that he must find himself another home. So Uncle came to Father and told his trouble, and Father took him to me to see what could be done for him. After hearing what they both had to say, I told them that if Uncle thought that he could conform to my requirements, I would take him, and use him “just as well as I would you, Father”—Father being present. Uncle wanted to know what my requirements were. I told him that I would have no swearing among my children, as had been practiced to Jabez, nor swearing to my wife, neither would I have any liquor brought on to my premises, for should any be found, I should destroy it. After Uncle heard me through, said he, “Well, Jonathan, if you will let me come, I will attend to all of your requirements.” I told him that he might come. But he must try and remember upon what conditions he came—[and] that I should attend to the bargain on my side, and should ask the same of him. Well, he wanted to come and did come.

For a while all went on very agreeably. He always wanted to be doing something—never idle. After being with me a while, he began to go away now and then and stay all night among his old acquaintances, and when he came home, if at night, I noticed that he would say but little, but retire soon and, sometimes, without his supper. He would never go away and leave the work he was set about until it was finished. He was very fond of brook fishing. And after planting, hoeing, etc., he, with the boys, would take a run in that way. One season we had done our planting, and we all were going fishing, I telling them that I would go myself. Uncle finally told the boys that he would go another way that day, but I and the boys went fishing and had a fine time and, on our way home, overtook Uncle on his way home also. As soon as I overtook him, I saw that he was not all right. He did not incline to say much. He did not expect to fall in with us.

I had not walked by his side but a short distance before I heard a swashing in his pocket. Said I, “Uncle, what have you in your pocket?” He suddenly stopped and took out of his pocket a pint of liquor and handed it to me. “Don’t break the bottle. It is not mine.” I told him that I would not. “But, Uncle, you will find me as good as my word.” I took the stopper out of the bottle and emptied the liquor all on the ground and handed the bottle to him again. He had no more than got hold of the bottle before he smashed it into a heap of stones and, swearing most profanely, declared that where I had injured him one cent, he would injure me ten dollars. I spoke calmly but firmly, “Uncle, I have done nothing but what I told you I should do and what you agreed to. You will find that I shall fulfill my bargain every time, and that is all I ask of you.” (We at this time were some half a mile from home, and all going to my house.) But he continued on, swearing and threatening. I finally spoke out with rather a raised voice, “Uncle I have heard enough from you. I don’t want to hear any more.” When I spoke, I did not know what effect it would have, but thought I would try it. He, however, stopped immediately and walked on apiece. But being so full he could not govern himself, he belched out again. I spoke again that I did not want to hear such talk. He stopped again, but being so running over full, he would every few minutes rap out something.

After getting home, we found supper ready; so we all sat down to eat. Uncle and I commonly sat opposite to each other at the table. He felt so enraged, mad, and half intoxicated, that he let out again and threaten most awfully and declared that there would be blood spilt before morning. I raised my head and voice and said, “Uncle, I have heard enough from you. Stop your noise at once. Who do you think you are going to scare? Let me hear no more from you.” I did not stir from my seat, but spoke so that he understood me, as I looked him right in the face. He dropped his head and opened not his mouth to speak for some minutes, but when he spoke he said and in a calm and pleasant voice, “Jonathan, I wish you no harm. I would not hurt a hair of your head. I wish no one any harm.” He sat quietly and ate his supper. After supper he went into his bedchamber.

My wife was in another room while we were at supper, but hearing some loud talk, she inquired what it meant. I told her the whole story. Said she, “I am afraid that Uncle will be down here in the night and kill you.” I told her that I was not afraid of it, that he could not come into the room and I not know it. Well, then she was afraid that he would kill all of the children that slept in the chamber. But I told her that I thought that he would do not a thing. We all went to bed as usual and heard nothing from Uncle until morning. Then at an early hour, he came down and spoke in a very pleasant manner, “Well, Jonathan, what shall I do today?” The poor man was done, as to fetching liquor about my premise or using any profane language to me.

I always treated him just as well as if he had been my father. And from that to the time he left me, he was always pleasant and kind—and would have continued with me until the day of his death, had it not been that I felt in duty bound to take a family of five children left both fatherless and motherless, my youngest brother’s children. I told my poor old uncle however that I should not turn him off, but should continue my kind treatment to him, and he should continue to have his own bedchamber, etc., etc. But said he, “Jonathan, it will be too bad for you to have me here and all of that family. I want you should take them, because I think you will be good to them. Perhaps I could get a chance with Amos. You know I can do considerable work. Don’t you think I had better go and see Amos.” This Amos was his half sister’s son—and I, an own brother’s son. I told the poor old uncle I did not want that he should feel as if I wanted to get rid of him, for I was willing that he should continue with me, and I would do all I could to make him comfortable. But the poor old man fearing I should be overborne with burden, he went to see Amos Watrous, and he told him that he might come in welcome, as he wanted someone to do chores. And he left my home and found a comfortable home there.

But he continued with him not long before his health began to become somewhat impaired—poor appetite for his food, and his ambition gone. And I think for the first time [he] began to look around himself with concern for the eternal part which never dies. He began to fear that he would soon have to leave the body. His past life had been such that had given him no chance for heavenly reflections.

My poor old father was yet alive, and a very conscientious and pious man. After Uncle became sick, Father visited him and inquired how he felt in his mind as to leaving the body—whether he had any hope of finding rest for his soul. His reply was, “Sammy, I have been such a miserable wretch all my life, I am ashamed to tell you of my feelings. Christ has appeared and forgiven all of my sins. But I don’t want you should tell of it.” This was in the chamber where he was confined. Father went below and talked with the family, and said that his brother seemed to be different from what he formerly was. They told him that an entire change had come over him; that after he became sick so that he could do no work, he inclined to stay in his chamber all the time and seemed almost in agony, and walking the chamber almost night and day. But of late he seem[ed] entirely calm and quiet and an altered man.

I used to call and see him. He ever appeared glad to see me. Towards the last of his life, he was very anxious to have me with him all the time. I told him that it was quite difficult for me to leave home all the time, as I had so many little boys that needed me among them. But he finally got so sensitive that he thought he could not stand it unless I stayed with him all the time. And finally I left my seven boys and all and stayed with him ten days and eleven nights, until the dear old uncle had passed way. It seemed that he could not have me out of his sight. He would say, “Good man, don’t leave me. You know that Amos can’t watch.” I spoke once or twice that if he could spare me just to go home and see how the boys were getting along, I would come right back. (It was about two miles from my house.) But he would reply in such a pitiful manner and with such a wishful look, “Now don’t leave me.”

I could not leave him, and so stayed by his bedside night and day until he breathed his last. When I saw that he was nigh his end I spoke, “Uncle, you are almost gone; did you know it?” He answered, “Yes.” Said I, “Have you a hope beyond the grave?” “O, yes,” was his reply. He soon left the body. We made preparations and buried the dear old uncle. So thus ends my duty with and to my dear old uncle Noah Whipple. It was wholly for duty’s sake that I left a good job where I was getting good wages and ready pay to go after him at West Point, and during my whole labor anxiety and care that I had for and with him, I never once regretted it. And now in my old age when I reflect upon it, I rejoice that I had a feeling to do it and was faithful to carry out my feelings practically.

 

 

Chapter 17—A House Full of Orphans.

 

As I mentioned the reason of my uncle leaving me—it being on account of my taking or going to take my deceased brother’s family—, I next will state my experience with that sorrowful case—sorrowful, I say. It was truly sorrowful; for in about two months’ time both father and mother were taken from their family of eight children by death. Previous to his death, it was feared that his wife had the consumption, though she was attending to the duties of her family. Her husband, my youngest brother—38 years old and in good health—, was seized with pleurisy in a most violent manner and lived but about five days. He was taken while in New London at work. It was all he could do to get home. He sent for me immediately after getting home, and I left him not once while he lived, he being in such excruciating pain and feeing that no one could do for him as I could. All through his sickness I never saw a person manifest so much resignation of mind to their condition, whatever it might be, as he did. He spoke many times in his sickness in this manner: “I did not know but I should live to be an old man and become a preacher of the gospel, but if I am to be taken away now, Amen. All is well. Let God’s will be done, and not mine.”

This was the same brother that was so sorely afflicted with ague sores all through his boyhood. He had perused the scriptures so thoroughly, and his memory was so good, that you could not mention a passage of scripture in the Old Testament or New, but that he would tell you at once where to find it. He was very circumspect in all his ways. You would never hear him using any vain, unless conversation. I don’t recollect of ever hearing him engaged in blackguarding, joking, and jesting once in my life after he became a man. His life appeared unspotted. He lived a praying life, but it was done in secret. The day before he left home the last time for New London, he went into his barn and kneeled upon his knees, and while praying to God, Christ the Savior of man made his bodily appearance before him, in form like that of a man, but in countenance exceedingly bright, and rays like those of the sun in a clear summer’s day round about his head—which seemed to reflect from his head into the very heavens, and so very bright he could scarce look upon it. This, my brother told me while on his deathbed. He said, “Jonathan, I knew that something special was going to take place, but what, I did not know. Christ forgave all of my sins, but he did not tell me what I was going into. I don’t know but I am going to him and must leave my dear wife and family. And if that is his will, amen. I have nothing to say. It is all right. God will provide for the children he has made.”

He retained his reason until a few minutes before he breathed his last. And during his whole sickness, I saw not the least manifestation of dread, fear, or horror. All [was] peace, quietness, and serenity of mind. Many times he called his dear wife and children around him, telling them not to grieve. “As God always did his work right, if I am to leave you, it will be all right. Don’t weep.” When he finally came to his end, he breathed out his life without a struggle.

He was ever an antislavery man; a true, radical peace man; a total abstinence man, using no intoxicating liquors at all; never used any tobacco in his life; and would not sue at the law for an honest debt, even if he lost it. When President Jackson made his tour through the country and came into New London, we were there at work and our employer came to us and told us that the President was “to arrive in the place at four o’clock this afternoon” and if we would like to see him we need lose no time—we might go and see him. But Brother Samuel would not honor a bloody warrior enough to even go and look at him.

But I will return to the time of his death. He owned a little farm of about 30 acres, and I had taken it to improve the season he died; consequently [I] was round about the premises both before and after his death. Notwithstanding he passed away so serenely, it seemed very desolate to know that he was gone forever—and the more so when I looked at the poor children and the sick widowed mother with her eight fatherless  children. After Samuel had gone, she hoped that she might be spared to raise up the children, [but] as consumption is apt to flatter, so it was in her ease. Some days she would feel quite encouraged that she was actually on the gain and would get well, but perhaps in two or three days, she would be worse than ever. And so it continued to work with her, until finally she concluded within her own mind that her time here was short; and she sent for me to come into the house. I went in. She wished me to sit down, as she wanted to talk with me. I did so. She opened to me the sentiment of her broken heart. She said, “Since my husband died, I have been having some hopes that I should live to see to the raising up of my children. But I must give it up; I feel that I can stay with them but a short time. I must leave them to the mercy of someone. And there is nobody that I feel that I could leave the care of them with as with you. Now I want to know of you if you will take my five boys and be a father to them. Boys need the care and government of a man. My brothers were spoiled, not being governed by a man,” etc., etc. After hearing the poor, sick, and heartbroken sister’s request, I told her that such an undertaking, should I live to commence it, was of great consequence and needed some thought and reflection before promising. I would think of it and talk with my wife and [then] give her an answer. (Two of the girls were old enough to earn their living, and their babe was a girl, and her sister wanted that.) I talked with my wife, and feeling towards the poor little orphans as I did, I concluded if she died and I survived, I would take them (the boys) and told her so. She called the children around her and said to them, “Children, your poor mother has got to leave you soon. Your poor father has already left you. You had a good father, but he has gone forever. You never more can see him. Now children, I give you to your uncle Jonathan. Boys, he will see to you, and he will watch over you as a father, and you must try and be good boys.” She talked on in this way quite a spell. She lived but three or four days after.

After her death, seven of the children came to my house for a while. But afterwards, the two girls went to live with Brother Jabez. The boys all stayed with me. But dear little Daniel was suffered not to live but two years with me. He was three when he came. He was a noble little child and as affectionate as an own child. [He] died of putrid sore throat. The other four lived with me until they were 21—all but the youngest of the four: I gave him his time before he was twenty-one. They were all good children, but none of them of strong constitutions and able to endure hard service at all. I always had to be upon my watch to keep them from getting overworked. Naturally ambitions, but unable to endure.

When my brother died, he was owing some. I took charge of his little farm, attended to his debts, but brought no bills against the property for anything I did. And when the children were of age, their little home was about clear of debt, so that it was sold and each had their portion. It made quite a burden and an expense for me. And I had to take quite a different course in my business, by reason of having so many small boys, my presence being needed among them. Instead of working [away] from home at my trade, I had to give that up and employ myself and orphan dear ones in different work, such as I could contrive about home. I rented out the children’s house and garden, and took the avails and shingled the house. Before the death of the mother, I bought their little saddle beast and paid in the money where my brother was owing, and then kept her to use in the family, as I had no horse. In order to keep all employed to advantage—having two boys of my own and five orphan brothers, seven in all—, I was constantly needed among them. And in order to do which, I took land to improve on shares and by working with them myself; and rainy days working in my blacksmith shop; and falls and winters, after farming business was done up, skinning hogs. The boys [would be] all at school, and I, up at three and four o’clock, and off on my butchering excursions. I generally commenced this about the first of November and continued it [until] about New Year’s. I had done something at butchering (as I have before stated), winters. But now I made it my business, winters—and being so thorough in the business, that I had just as much as I possibly could do by rising early and working late, jumping to it with all speed.

The first winter the children came to live with me, I hardly knew how I should fetch matters about, but hoped for the best. I had taken hog skins for J. R. G. of East Haddam, Connecticut. And this season he came early and engaged me, giving orders what to pay and making a bargain what he would give me for my trouble, and leaving with me two hundred dollars and telling me when that was like to fail me, to send for more. And [he] further stated, “Let no one ever bid in price. If others pay more than I have ordered you to pay, you raise, but let me know.”

Before butchering came on, a strange gentleman came to see me, wishing to know if my name was Jonathan Whipple. I told him that was my name. He said, “Then this must be the hog skinner.” I told [him] that I skinned hogs sometimes. Well, he came to engage me to act as agent for him and offered two cents more in a pound than I was ordered to pay, and double the price for my trouble than what my old employer had offered. Situated as I happened to be, with all these orphan children on my hands, and pretty poor with all, I must say his offer was quite tempting. I told the gentleman, however, that I was engaged for the season and had two hundred dollars left with me. Said he, “Have you a written contract?” “No,” said I. “Well, he cannot hold you then if there is no written contract. I will enter into a written contract with you and hand over all the money you want,” said the stranger. But I told him I had made one bargain and passed my word, and considered my word as binding as any contract I could sign, and should make no more bargains “until this is fulfilled” and that “this will hold good this year.” He tried his best to get hold of me someway, but I told him, “No, I can make no bargains with you this season about hog skins.” So he left.

As it happened, hog skins were on the best demand they ever were while I butchered. Well, I went on with my promise, receiving letters and money whenever wanted. I took off 300 that season. My employer wrote me that he would pay 30 dollars if I would bring them over to him. So I got my two brothers to help me, and we look the three hundred over, all at a time. (No railroads about the towns then as now.) After delivering them, when he was about paying me, I told him that I could have done much better than he was doing by me. He wanted to know how. I called no names, but told him what I had had offered and what I told the gentleman who made the offer. Said my employer, “I know who it was that made you that offer (and told the name), and he has broke all to pieces and cheated his own sister out of three thousand dollars. But Mr. Whipple, you shan’t lose anything for being an honest man. I will pay you what he offered you.” I told him that I had no demand on him for any more than I bargained with him for. “I don’t care for that. I shall pay you.” And in fact, [he] did pay just double, which amounted to 75 dollars. And the thirty for delivering the skins (which my brothers owed me for blacksmithing, and could pay me in this way better than any other) helped me wonderfully. I had no expectation of receiving the extra commission money, as I had no demand whatever. And all he had was just my word, for knowing anything about the extra offer I had had. The hundred and five dollars I had paid me at that time was a great help to me indeed. And I felt to thank my employer many times. But he told me that honest men should not lose anything by dealing with him. I continued my hog skin deal with this man as long as he worked at the business, and his treatment to me was ever in the most honorable manner.

As I before stated, I planted land on shares. I took one little farm a half mile from me, to the halves, of a widow. This I improved five years while the children were with me. I sometimes had to let them work on the farm alone, or not having me with them. I always told her that if the boys were mischievous and did as they ought not, I wished her to inform me, and I would attend to it, as I wished to have them good children. And certainly I wanted my own to be good, and the only way to have them so was to see to them in season. But time passed on, and no complaint came to me. I now and then would speak to her about my boys and say to her, “I have to send my gang of boys here to work, sometimes without me. But if they are mischievous and do to you as they ought not, tell me.” Her reply ever was, “Your little boys are good children. I have no fault to find with them. I had rather have them about here than not. I love to have them here. They are company,” etc. During the whole five years, she never complained one word. But she, certainly, was an extra reasonable and good woman. And I have ever felt that duty required of me to speak highly in her praise as being neighborly, friendly, and a Christian woman, the widow Pamelia Culver of Groton, Connecticut. This was her name and place of residence—a good woman.

While I had these children, we all seemed to enjoy ourselves remarkably well—always had no lack for food or clothing. And all of the children showed as much respect to my wife and me as though we had been their father and mother. As the boys grew and became of suitable ages to learn trades, I could have taken them with me to work at my trade. But there was not one that had a constitution that could endure it. So I had to do the best I could with and for them. I let the oldest try his hand at the carpenter business, but he was unable to work at that. [He] died of consumption at the age of about 26. The second lived to the age of 45 or 46. He also died of consumption, leaving a family of children. The third and fourth are yet alive but have no families. The sisters—three in number—all married and were mothers of children, but all are dead. [They] died of consumption. So thus ends my race with my brother’s orphan family.

 

 

Chapter 18—“The Cold Water Company.”

 

Previous to having this family, I had quite an experience working for the “Water Power Company,” as it was called, while damming the river where “Greeneville” is now situated. The season I commenced there I heard that they were doing something there, and having business in the vicinity, I thought I would stop and see what was going on, and did so. I found that they had about sixty or eighty men at work, and among them some that I was acquainted with—one of which appeared to be a boss carpenter and kept the boarding house. He, seeing me looking about, spoke to a gentleman saying, “Mr. Prentice, here is the very man you want to see. He can take charge of your stone cutting and see that it is done right, and you won’t have to watch him to see that he brings no rum bottle with him.” So the stranger commenced talking with me about stone cutting, wanting to know how much experience I had had in the business and whether I ever had cut any coinstone. I told him that I understood cutting stone tolerably well, but had cut no coin stone. The carpenter put right in, saying, “You hire him. He will do your stone cutting—and do it right—and will drink no rum,” etc., etc. As it happened, I had no work just then. The agent finally engaged me, and the next week I went.

There were capable men there, and men that had worked on public work, but none of these that had cut any coinstone. I had patterns, bevels, etc., furnished and was told to work by them and my stone would be right. I had told the Agent that as I never had cut any of those coinstone, I should prefer working not as the foreman. But he insisted that I should take charge and told me that I might commence alone and examine the patterns, bevels, etc., and try them and try my work by them as much as I wished before taking a man with me—and then select just such men as I chose. And on those considerations I commenced, but had not worked a week before I found that there was trouble brewing among the hands about their board. (There were four different foremen: a foreman carpenter, stone layer, quarryman, and stonecutter.) The foreman stone layer came to me and said, “How do you like our board, Mr. Whipple?” I told him that I was a stranger there. I had not proved anything much—that as far as my experience had gone, I thought they boarded very well. Said he, “There are a portion of my men that don’t like the board at all—and I don’t like it—, and tonight we are going to enter a complaint, and we want all who don’t like the board to be with us in complaining. And now, Mr. Whipple, if you feel delicate about speaking by reason of being a stranger, I will speak in your behalf.” I told him that if I wanted any complaint made, I would make it myself. I wanted no one to complain for me. So he left me.

That same afternoon the man that kept the boarding house came to me and inquired if I had heard anything said against his manner of boarding. (This was the man that introduced me—a man of special acquaintance.) I told him that, as I was a stranger there, I did not want to be found a mischief-maker the first thing: “I probably could tell you something if it would never be spoken of to bring me into blame.” Said he, “You need have no fear of that. Whatever you tell me will remain with me. I will not speak of it.” And he further said, “One thing I want to know of you, which is, do you feel as though you have reason to complain of our not boarding well enough?” “No, I think you board well, or have since I have been here,” said I. I then told him what had been said to me that day, and by whom, and then told him how I should manage if I were in his place. “The way I should do,” said I, “[is that] after we have all given in our time tonight, before they have time to say anything, I should speak myself and tell all hands that I had heard there were some that were dissatisfied with their board, and if there were any present, I should be glad to hear from them. That,” said I, “will give them the ‘laboring oar,’ as the saying is.”

At night, sure enough, the office was pretty well filled. Each foreman gave in the time that was done under him. (The engineer kept the books.) The moment the time was all given in, the man that kept the boarding house spoke and said, “I have heard flying stories by the rounds, that some of the help were dissatisfied with their board. If there are any such, I should be glad to hear from them.” They were taken upon surprise. They hardly knew what to say. They sat and looked at each other for quite a little space, and finally the one that came to me spoke: “I have not much fault to find on my own account. Yet I should like to have a little more flour victuals.” That was his remark. Said the next, “I should like to have some fried cakes once in a while”; and the next, “I should like to have tea in the morning and coffee at night.” The engineer then spoke, “Has Mr. Whipple no fault to find?” The man who kept the boarding house said, “If he has, I want he should speak. What have you to say, neighbor Whipple?” Said I, “When I board better abroad than at home, I generally keep pretty still. As to finding fault, I have been thinking how nicely the Aqua boarded since I have been here—and felt almost proud of my boarding place.” The faultfinders appeared so foolish. They were so mortified that four or five of them sought another boarding place and, after getting it, did not board near as well, I was told.

The manner we boarded was this: mornings we had either hash, or cold beef and pork; good warm brown bread; good new wheat bread; a plenty of good butter; and the first-rate coffee, just as much as you wished, for there were pitchers full within reach of every man—also milk and sugar for each to help themselves to all they wished. At noon the same, only water for drink and at night tea for drink. And fresh meat twice every week— the nicest kind, and cooked the very first-rate—and good rice puddings twice a week and one meal of fish a week. And no lack—a great plenty.

I have told quite a story about boarding, but nothing about liquor drinking—only, that it was not allowed on the premises, and if a man was found with a bottle hid away, he was discharged. At this time the temperance cause had but few advocates. The first season I went there, there was not a house or building on Greeneville premises. There was an old house on the old road, some one hundred rods southwest of the dam, and that was where the men were boarded. There was a temporary addition put to the house so that a table could be set that would accommodate 84 men, and that was the number they had the first season I worked there. It seemed that they were determined to establish the “cold water” system, for the company was called “the cold water company.”

Lectures were just beginning to be delivered on temperance. While I worked there, I was informed that there was to be a temperance meeting at the town house in Norwich— “and every man that works here is invited. And we are all going and are going to march two abreast, and we want you to go.” I told them that I was for temperance, as strong as any of them, I thought; but if I undertook to go with them, I should find myself among bad company and fare as the story was about “poor Tray,” spoken of in our old spelling books. [I feared] that if we should undertake to march through Norwich, someone might fall to stoning us—or be out of sight and fire a gun at some of us—[because] there was so much prejudice against temperance. But I was prevailed upon to go, and finally went, marching two abreast. Eighty-four men made quite a show. We did not get molested any way but [by] being hallooed at. One poor fellow took it upon him to see what he could do. But none of our company even looked at him. We were welcomed into the house and had the privilege of listening to a good discourse, delivered by a reformed drunkard—[a] lawyer by the name of Frost, I was told.

There was something of an experience I had that commenced while [I was] working here, that seems to me worthy of noticing. There was an elderly man—a carpenter by trade—[that] I found here at work when I came. His business was making treenails, or wooden pins, as they were using thousands of them about the dam. There were none that worked with him. While spending our nooning, I would go and sit by this old gentleman. I had known him by sight from my boyhood, but [had] no special acquaintance with him. But finding him very social and agreeable, I would go every day and converse with him. And as my practice was and ever has been, I introduced the subject of using intoxicating drinks and [said] that this company had commenced a good work in not suffering liquors to be brought on the premises. And after he had heard me a spell, said he, “Jonathan, I wish I could let liquor alone. But I can’t do it.” I told him I thought he could if he took the right course and then pursued it. Said he, “You tell me what course is the right, will you?”

But the horn blew for work to commence, so I told him, “We will talk more tomorrow.” So I started off to my stone cutting, and when the next day nooning came, I called again to talk with Uncle “Jimmy” and found him wide awake and ready for another talk, and he commenced by saying, “Well, Jonathan, I want to hear more about how to stop drinking rum. You said you would tell me today.” “The way I must tell you is to tell what my father has told me. I have not had the experience myself. “ “Well, let me hear that then,” said Uncle Jimmy. So I commenced by saying, “You first must make up your mind in full, whether you really want to learn the practice, and if you do, instead of stopping to a single grog shop while on your way home, you must go straight by every one of them. And even if some of your old drinking associates call to you while passing and ask you in, tell them that you have no business there, and keep straight along—stop for nothing. And you will be sure not to drink that time, certainly; that was the only way Father said he could do to let liquor alone—not hang around where it was sold nor associate with them that drank it. There,” said I, “I have told you what I have heard Father say was the only way for him, and I think it would work with you just as it did with him.” “Jonathan, I am not the man your father was. I have not the determination and stability he had.” I told him perhaps he [had] never tried it. I really wished he would, one Saturday night, and not stop once.

Well, we spent this nooning [thus], and we kept it up every day—or the most of the noonings—through the week. The next Monday noon, I called again to see Uncle Jimmy and found him very pleasant and as social as ever. “Well, Jonathan, I went home last Saturday night a sober man. I tried your father’s plan and found it worked,” said the good old gentleman. “Well, I am glad. You will find it will work every time, if you are thorough enough.” This friendly old gentleman was not the only man I conversed with while working at this place upon temperance and other kindred subjects. Being always opposed to using liquor, holding slaves, going to war, and even using tobacco, it always opened a door for conversation between the hours of labor, whenever I worked or had deal[ings] with mankind. And I have flattered myself that it has had some effect, in some instances, for good.

In the case of “Uncle Jimmy,” as I have been pleased to call him, I felt almost sure that I was an instrument in God’s hands of doing him some good, as perhaps my story may make it appear. After I told him of my father’s experience, example, and advice, the good old gentleman seemed to incline to talk—and upon that subject—every day, but [he] would seem to doubt his strength in carrying out a reform in that direction. So I would tell him over and over, “There is but one way for you. Go straight by every grogshop. Don’t stop for anything, and you will get home sober.” Well, the next Monday came. I found the old gentleman at his post and as busy as a bee. And after dinner I took a seat by his side until the horn blew for labor. Said Uncle Jimmy, “ Well, Jonathan, I got home again Saturday night a sober man. I hardly looked towards the grog shops.” “Good on your head,” said I. “I am glad of it—and not only glad, but thankful on your account.”

Well, I continued on until about the first of September. I overworked and got unwell, and so much so that I had to quit. The next season I worked there again, and in going to and from my work, I had to pass “Uncle Jimmy’s” house. As I was passing one day, I heard someone call to me. I looked and saw a man coming toward me from a corn patch not many rods from the road. I saw that it was “Uncle Jimmy,” with hoe on his shoulder and walking very fast. He came up to the fence and then spoke, “Jonathan, stop! I want to come clean up to you and then shake hands with you.” And he did, and we shook hands very heartily, for I was glad to see him—very glad. Said he, “Jonathan, I have taken not a drop of that miserable stuff since we worked up to Greeneville.” “Is that so, Uncle Jimmy?” Said he, “Yes, it is truly so, Jonathan.” “Well, I am glad for your sake. Yes, I am thankful on your account and hope you will continue on in well living,” said I. I sat in my wagon and gladly heard the friendly old gentleman converse for quite a little spell, and pretty much all of his talk was on abstaining from the use of liquor. I wished him well, bid him good-bye, and went on for that time.

As before stated, while working at this place I constantly passed his house in going to and from my work—but mornings, generally, before he was out, and Saturdays after dark. Consequently, it prevented my seeing him. But towards fall I happened to be passing his house, and he saw me and called out, “Jonathan, stop!” I, looking up, saw Uncle Jimmy coming and [was] glad to see him—and was ever glad to see him, for he was a remarkable friendly man. When he first called to me, he was in his lot, but he kept speaking for me to “hold on” until he came out and shook hands with me. And we had a hearty shaking of the hands, after which he commenced by saying, “Well, Jonathan, I have not tasted the miserable stuff yet.” Said I, “Have you drank no liquor since I last saw you?” “I have tasted not one drop since we worked at Greeneville together.” “That is true.” I told him that I was exceedingly glad on his account, for I knew that he and his family could enjoy themselves much better and be much more comfortable. “That is so,” said the old gentleman. “Look up over my door. Don’t you see I have a new sash and glass there?” I told him I did. “As long as I was a drunken man, I could do nothing of that kind,” said he, “And Jonathan, I want to tell you some news.” “Let us hear it, Uncle Jimmy.” “Don’t you think they have chosen me President of the Temperance Society!” “That is good. I am glad of that,” said I. So we had quite a social chat, and I went on my way rejoicing, thinking how glad I was that Uncle Jimmy was a reformed man.

Not far from the first of December, Uncle Jimmy came to my house wishing to get me to butcher two hogs for him, stating that he could get hog skinners nigh by home, but said he did not want them. “They stink of rum. I won’t have them.” I set the time, and when it came I went and found all things ready—two nice fat hogs. While dressing them, the old gentleman said to me, “Jonathan, as long as I was a drunkard I could have no such hogs as these, and in fact some years none. So you see the difference. And another thing I want to tell you. Don’t you think they have chosen me Town Clerk!” “Is that so?” said I. “That is so, Jonathan.” I then went on and told him what I [had] told [him] at Greeniville—how that he thought he could not do as my father had done in leaving the habit of drinking. “But I thought you could,” etc., etc. “You remember, Uncle Jimmy?” “Yes, I do. Well, I have proved true so far.” I encouraged him all I could and left him for that time. I was very busy, it being a busy time with me. The good old gentleman called on me every year to butcher for him as long as he lived, and I was told that he never used liquor while he lived—and lived to a good old age.

 

 

Chapter 19—The Deacon and His Sons.

 

It is generally thought by most people that if we don’t hold it before the world wherever we have deal[ings], [we are likely to be wronged; and] that if we are likely to be wronged out of our due, we shall put law in force. [They think that otherwise] we shall surely get cheated, as there are so many who have no conscience, fear of God, or regard for man, that we—in the travels of life—fall in with. But […] I have had an experience about as lengthy as any one and have dealt with thousands of people, and ever told [them] all, where I told them anything, that if they never paid me anything (however much they might be indebted to me), I never should sue them. I commenced dealing for myself at the age of twenty years and am now seventy-six; so the reader will see that I have had 56 years of experience, and my course of life has been entirely different from that of a farmer or journeyman mechanic, as my business has called me to deal with thousands—and very many where I was told if I worked for [them] I surely should get cheated. I will mention some of those cases.

I once was called upon by a very smart, gentlemanly-appearing man (I had seen him before but had no acquaintance with him), who wanted to engage me to do the mason work for a house that he and his brother were going to have built. I told him that I generally worked by the day, and then if either party got dissatisfied, they could part at any time. But he seemed to prefer hiring by the job, saying that he was wishing to pay the worth of the work, etc., and [he] showed me a sample of such as he wanted. I knew what that cost. I finally gave him a price, but told him that neither need be bound until I came and saw him again, thinking I would make some inquiries about them, as I knew a man that had worked for them. I saw the man and told him about the affair. Said he, “If you want to get cheated, go to work for them.” I told him the brother I talked with appeared to be a likely man. “Yes, and so they both do, but I never knew anyone to work for them but, before they had done with them, they would cheat them. I once built a small farmhouse for them, and they cheated me the worst kind.”

But according to promise, I went to see him (we were to meet at a certain place) and found him all ready for closing the bargain and paying the price I set. I told nothing I had heard, but told him that I was different from most of people—that as I made no use of the law, people could wrong me if they felt so disposed; therefore I had to be particular who I bound myself to and with—I was a poor man and needed what I earned. He wanted to know if I never sued people at the law. I told him I never did nor ever should, even if I lost a debt. He said he had taken pains to go where I had worked to see my work and had inquired about me, and he wanted I should do his work. There would be no difficulty. They should pay what they agreed to, and if I did extra work, they should pay for that. I told him I was no scholar—never was at school a day in my life to be taught—, and it stood me in hand to be careful who I made bargains with, lest I got wronged.

We talked some, pro and con, about doing the job; but he talked as thought he wanted me to do the work so very much and would be so punctual about paying, that I concluded to do the work. [I said] that he might write a contract, and if I liked it, I would sign it. He, being a learned man and quick with the pen, soon had a contract written, and as favorable for me as we had talked. I looked it over and told him I would sign it if he would write another, that each might have one. So he did that, and we finished the bargain and each signed the contracts. When I came to put my name to the contracts, he looked at it. Said he, “You tell about never going to school. You need not tell me that story. I guess you have been to school.” “No, never inside of a school in time of school, as a scholar, in my life,” I told him. “Well, you will beat me writing. You ought to have written the contracts,” etc.

At the specified time, I commenced the job. [I] quarried the underpinning a distance from where the house was built. After commencing cutting the stone, they found I understood blacksmithing, and as they had a shop and all kinds of tools, they wanted I should shoe their oxen, horses, and do other kinds of smith work for them, saying they would make it all right when we settled. The bargain was that I should sharpen my own tools. But they did not know that I could do all sorts of common farmer’s smith work, such as shoeing, mending chains, sharpening ploughs, etc., etc. (Cast-iron ploughs were not in use then.) Matters went on agreeably for a while. I had two hands with me, and there were four carpenters. So that made seven hands—carpenters and masons—, and [there were] two men by the month on their farms, and four men belonging to their own household. So in all, [there were] thirteen men, besides woman and children. In all, [there were] as many as 25.

For a while we boarded very well, but by and by our board became so poor that it was with difficulty that we could stand it. (In country places people generally board their help.) The carpenters came to us stating that if there was not an alteration in the manner of boarding, they should quit; and [they] asked me to write something and stick up in behalf of them and myself, notifying to that effect. But I told them that I should do no such thing. “If your boss is dissatisfied with the board and comes to me, I will talk with him about it and conclude upon something. But as for my sticking up complaints, I shan’t do it.” The same day the boss carpenter came to me and wanted to know if I was satisfied with our board. I told him, “Not very well.” Said he, “My men declare they will quit if they can’t live better.” I told him one of my men had been talking pretty loud about quitting on account of the board. Said the boss, “Well, how do you like it?” I told him that I should like to board better, if I could; but I could stand it—and should, rather than go to sticking up complaints, as his men had wished me to. I told him that I never went to work in a back-handed manner. If I wanted to do anything with people, I always considered it much the best way to go right to the person’s face and talk it over in a friendly manner. Said I, “Now if you and I, after hearing what we have from our men and experiencing what we have ourselves as to the board—if we thought it reasonable and proper to complain to our employers, [we ought to] do it.” “Well, what do you think? Do you not think it would be right to complain in this case?” Said I, “Do you feel like entering a complaint yourself?” He told me he thought there was good reason for it, but thought I could do the subject the best justice; and if I felt so and would do it, he would be with me, and so would all of his men. I told him if that was the case, I would talk with our employer, and had as lief as not.

The same day, the one that wrote my contract came where I was at work, and I spoke to him and stated that we all, both masons and carpenters, had got so far to an end, as to our board, that we could stand it no longer; that some of my men were threatening to leave—“and the boss carpenter has been to me today about his men threatening to leave on the same account. But I want you to understand, that I don’t mean to be unreasonable and faultfinding; but you know you are not boarding your help as men ought to be boarded—that, you know well enough.” I did not talk as though I was mad or intended to be unreasonable. I finally told him, “Now, I don’t want you should be offended or feel that I am an enemy to you, for I am not. All I ask is to have comfortable food, and I think that will satisfy all of the help.” He heard me though and then said, “I know our food of late has not been what it ought to be; I will go to the house this minute and have an overhauling.” Said I, “Now, I don’t want you should go to the house and go to blaming your women. I have nothing at any of you, and I ask for nothing extravagant as to our living; all I want is to be comfortable.” Well, he started for the house.

I saw no more of him that forenoon. But after he left, the boss carpenter came to me wishing to know what I had been saying to our employer. So I told him. He seemed to feel quite troubled what the effect would be, but I told him that that was the least of my trouble—that I had said nothing that I was ashamed of or sorry for. At twelve, all hands were called to dinner, and I, of course, among the rest. The women (the two brothers married sisters), I noticed, looked as if they had been talked to, and the furnishing of the dinner table was renewed. I noticed too that all hands were casting a pleased look towards each other. Well, that passed off—nothing more said. But we boarded well, and all went on very agreeably.

There was an aged father that lived with the two sons, a very zealous and pious old man, and one much set in his way—but had nothing to do in business matters. The two sons attended to that, and the younger kept the books. They were pleasant and agreeable men to work for, and so were their wives—very friendly.

As I have before stated, my practice has ever been whenever I worked to speak against what I considered sinful, and so was at this place. My employers very often would undertake to make capital out of something that I said, but would soon give it up by saying, “You understand scripture better than I do. I wish Father had the opportunity of talking with you. You would find he would hold you to it,” etc. I told them that I should like first-rate to talk with the old gentleman, hoping I might learn something of him. The old father always had his place at the head of the table at mealtime, and they placed me by his side when I first commenced working there. I noticed that they (the sons) would try to get something up for conversation, between the old gentleman and me, that would lead to an argument upon some passage of scripture or religious subject. This aged father [had] studied for the ministry but by some means never took upon him the office. But had for many years been a very pious Presbyterian deacon, and was well versed in the scriptures.

One day as we sat at the dinner table, one of the sons said, “Father, did you hear that President Such-a-one, was dead?”—calling him by name. “No,” said the old gentleman. “It’s a pity it was not Jackson.” He spoke with great emphasis. Said I, “Deacon, do you consider General Jackson a good man?” “No, but a very bad man.” I asked him what he thought became of bad men when they died. “They go to hell,” said the old gentleman. I asked him if he did not think it would have been more to the purpose for him to have wished that Jackson would repent and become a good man, than to wish him dead and in hell. The table was surrounded with men, and all but the two sons commenced laughing. But as for my own part, I felt sorry for the old gentleman, as he looked so very solemn. He sat a while and then said, “I spoke very unadvisedly about Jackson. I ought not to have spoken so.” I well knew why the old gentleman spoke in the manner he did about Jackson. The whole family were “down” on General Jackson. I suppose, at heart, they all would have been very willing to have had Jackson out of the way. The boss carpenter and the most of the hands were what they called Jackson men. But it was well known that I took no part in politics, therefore was not partially favorable toward either side.

My speaking by way of reproof to the old gentleman respecting his wishing Jackson dead, opened the way for further discourse between the deacon and myself, and that was what the sons wanted. So I would ever be [engaged in] holding up the evil of slavery, wars, etc., and the sons in vindicating for such things; and yet [they] could not stand their hand, but thought their father could. Finally, as we all sat after supper (the old deacon among us), he spoke to me by way of inquiry and said (I suppose the sons put him to it), “Neighbor Whipple, don’t you think your people are laboring under a mistake in respect to some of your views?” “In all probability we have some things wrong, but I believe in righting all wrongs as fast as I find that I am in the wrong,” said I. “In what particular do you think we are in the wrong?” “In respect to non-observance of the Sabbath,” said the deacon. I asked him if he considered it as binding on man at the present time to keep the Sabbath, as when the command was given to Moses. “Certainly, certainly. The command was written with the finger of God on stone and will hold binding on man as long as time endures,” said the deacon. “Is that so?” said I. “Certainly, certainly. Time will never obliterate what was written with the finger of God.” “Do you really believe as you talk, deacon?” “Certainly.” “And you believe that that command stands just as it did when it was given and [is] as binding now as then, do you?” “Certainly,” said the deacon. “And you consider, really, that that command is binding now, the same as when given?” “Certainly I do. For it was written with the finger of God.”

After I had him as fairly bound as I wanted, I then recited the command. “Six days thou shalt labour, and do all thy work: but the seventh day is the Sabbath of the Lord thy God: in it thou shalt not do any work,” etc. “You say that this is binding, and never will be obliterated by time. How comes it about that the Presbyterians and most of [the] other professors have the imprudence to throw away the day that was commanded to be kept, written by the finger of God, and substitute another, and half keep that?” said I. When the deacon saw where he was, he felt so excited that he knew not what to say, so he grasped his chair, with a hand on either side, and commenced jouncing it upon the floor, and said, “I don’t wish to get into any argument with you.” I told him that that was not my motive at all, but if I was in an error about anything and could be shown wherein, I was on hand to come out of it. “You have told about the keeping of the Sabbath being as binding now as when the command was given. If so, I think that you are to be blamed. I don’t view it in that light at all. I think it is just as Christ told us—that he was Lord of the Sabbath, and broke the old Jewish Sabbath himself, and set such an example. And the Apostle said, ‘For Christ is the end of the law for righteousness to every one that believeth.’ I believe in Christ, and if I can be shown that I am breaking any of his commands, I will try and alter my course as quick as I can. You seemed to think we were living in the breach of God’s law written upon stone with his finger; and it appears very evident if that law is still binding, you are living in the breach of it, as you have thrown away the seventh day altogether and substituted the first day of the week in its lieu, and don’t half keep that. That you know very well. I would just ask, seeing you have introduced the subject, by what authority you have done this? Will you tell me?”

The deacon replied, “Our Lord arose on the first day of the week. His apostles were found assembled on the first day of the week, and from that we have concluded a change was made, and so keep the first instead of the seventh day.” “Concluded,” said I, “but where is the command for doing it? You said the Mosaic command, written with the finger of God, would never be obliterated as long as time endured.” “I told you I did not want to get into any argument with you,” said the deacon. I told him I did not wish to talk for the sake of arguing, but to get information. The sons, I thought at the time, made up their minds that their father did not make as much out of me as they expected. After that, the deacon never once undertook to raise an argument with me while I worked there, but was ever very friendly, as also the whole household. So time passed on, all in good humor, and all—carpenters, masons and employers—having none but kind words.

 

 

Chapter 20—A Strange Man.

 

As one of my hands who was at work here with me left, and I being called upon by reason of his conduct, I will leave my story here until I get through with my hired man. There was a strange man who came into my neighborhood, having a wife but no children—quite a smart and nice-appearanced man. About the first of April, he came to me and wished to let himself, stating that he had had some experience in stone masonry and wanted to learn the trade. I told him that I had all the help I wanted and he [had] better look somewhere else. He finally left for that time, but in a few days he came again, and I told him the same story, but he seemed unwilling to take “no” as an answer, told over his former gettings along, etc., etc., and finally said that he now had married and if he could get a good steady man to work with, he could steady down in life and do well—and that was what he wanted to do. But I continued to tell him I did not want to hire, but he manifested so much anxiety and actually appeared so disappointed, that I felt sorry for him and finally told him that on certain considerations he might come and try it a while, but I would not be holden for any particular length of time. I then told him that there were certain practices, such as swearing, drinking, card playing, etc., I never had among my help nor ever should—“and if I hear or see any of that introduced by you, I shall dismiss you at once, for I will not have it.” After hearing my story, said he, “That is just what I want. I want to be with a man that don’t suffer such things. I have been where it was carried on long enough. I am now married and want to learn it all.”

Well, he came and went to work, and before I commenced on this job, he had earned enough so that I had bought him a nice cow and furnished provision, etc., so that he had commenced keeping house and seemed to get along very well; and when he asked for money or anything for his little family[’s] use, I would let him have [it] if I owed him anything.

In July he came to me and said he wanted to leave and inquired if it would be any disappointment to me. I inquired why he wanted to leave, and asked him what I had done that started him just now to leave. “O, nothing,” said he. “Only I am in bondage all the time to you.” Said I, “What do I do that keeps you in bondage?” “You don’t do anything, but I am in bondage all the time, and I want to quit.” I asked him if he wanted to quit that day. “Yes”—he did not want to work any longer. “I want to quit now, and should be glad to get a little money.” Said I, “I have but two dollars with me.” “That’s enough,” said he. “You come to my house Sunday, and I will hand you what I owe you,” said I. I then owed but two dollars, and he left. And on my part I was glad. All I hired him for, was on his account. I felt sorry for the fellow.

But he left with his two dollars. I [neither] saw nor heard anything of him until the next Sunday about sunset, when the man whom he hired his privilege of, came to my house (they both lived in the same house) in the greatest excitement I ever saw a person in, in my life—wanted me to go to his house with him as quick as possible, saying, “I expect my family will all be killed if we are not spry.” I told him if he had got into a fight, I wanted to have nothing to do with it, but he cried and plead and begged and seemed in such distress of mind, I knew not what else to do but to go with him, and [I] finally started off. It was two miles from my house. After we started, the man wanted to go by my father’s and get him. I told him, “No, Father is an old man. Let him alone.” But nothing would do—he must get Father to go, and he went. On our way lived another very strong man, and he wanted to get him. I told him, “Now, if you get him, I am afraid there will be quarreling. I had rather you would not get him. He is very excitable.” But nothing would do. He called on him, and he went. So in all that went with me, [we were] four in number.

On we went. After getting within, say, one hundred rods of the house where the trouble was, we met some six persons, all females but two—the man that left me and one other man. It was now dark, with exception of a half moon. Before meeting them, we heard a busy chatting, as though there was much excitement; and the moment we got nigh enough so that the man that left me knew the man he hired of, and with whom he had the quarrel, he sprang for him, as quick as you ever saw a cat spring for a mouse. But the other ran with all speed and dodged about among the folks, and as they came by this stout, excitable man (before spoke of, that went with me), he grabbed him. But the moment he found someone [had] hold of him, he turned and clenched in with him, and they tousled for a short time, and both fell. (They were some two rods from me.) I saw that the strong man was atop, but the under one strove mightily to turn the other, but he could not do it. The little man that came after me, seeing that his enemy was down and held, [became] so excited, I think he knew not what he was about. I saw [that] he appeared to be squatting down by the head of his enemy. The whole—but Father and myself—were in a bunch, and what they were up to I could not tell.

As we kept our distance I soon heard the cry, “Let me get up! Let me get up!” The reply was, “You will be killing somebody if I let you get up.” But he promised that he would harm no one. But the strong man insisted that if he let him get up, he would kill someone. But the other repeated that he would hurt nobody. “Let me get up! He is killing me!” The man that was with them when we met, spoke, “Don’t kick his head.” And then spoke again, “Let him get up; he will hurt no one.” And finally the strong man got off of him, and he got up. He stood motionless for a minute, grinding his teeth, so that I heard them plainly, and then sprang for the strong man again and grasped hold of his vest collar and commenced kicking him right in the bowels and the most tender part of his body. I expected every moment the strong man would knock him down, but he did not strike at all, but pushed him as far from him as he could, but he continued kicking with all vengeance, and finally [the strong man] called out, “Take him off—he is killing me!”

Till now, I had [neither] said nor done a thing. But seeing what was being done, I did not see but the stout man would be entirely ruined, if not killed, I stepped up to them and taking hold of the fighting man’s arm, spoke out with something of a raised voice, “John, what are you doing?” He dropped both of his hands as suddenly as if they had been cut off, and commenced catching for breath, as if he had been struck in the stomach, and commenced saying, “O, Jonathan, is this you? I did not know as you were here—I will do no more.” When I took hold of him, I did not know but he would turn upon me, although we never had had one word of difference while he worked for me; but he showed not the least thing, only submission, and he said, “I will do just what you tell me to.” Said I, “Well, go with me,” and holding onto his arm, took him along with me towards my house.

His wife’s sister lived not far from me, and she and his wife were both there with them while the quarrel was going on, and came along with us, and I thought I would conduct him to his wife’s sister[’s] that night, and by morning he would get sober. I found that he was rum crazy. As soon as I took hold of him, his two antagonists left. I saw no more of them that night, but I took him to his wife’s sister’s. But while on our way, every little while he would halt and say, “I must go back. That fellow will kill my cow” (meaning the man he lived with). “No,” I told him, “he won’t hurt your cow; keep right along with me.” Once he stopped and commenced grinding his teeth and said, “I must go back. I know he will kill my cow.” “O no, he won’t kill your cow. If he does I will give you another. Keep right along with me.”

I finally kept him along until I got him to the house, and after getting him where we had light and I could see how he looked, I must say I was astonished. He had been from me three or four days, and in looks he was another man. When he came home the day he left me, he had a gallon jug and almost full of rum, and he kept at that until it was about gone. And he had got so completely rum crazy that he had threatened to kill his little landlord, and so he ran for me. But as it turned, perhaps it was the best thing he could have done. I have never seen that man from that night until now. He sent and got the balance of his pay. I now will return to my job as I have got rid of my stranger without ever having one unkind word together.

Monday morning I went to my work again and told my employers what an unexpected scene I passed through the night before. “Ah,” said they, “he surly was in bondage to you. He dared not have any of his sprees while here with you. You kept such a steady hand,” etc. Well, I continued on with my job and [was] getting along pleasantly and boarding very comfortably, I doing smith chores anytime when asked, and every now and then some alteration, adding work to my job. But I found no fault, but worked on. I was to have one hundred and eighty dollars for the job, according to contract. But when I finished, I had a bill, including the contract, of two hundred and thirty dollars.

The same brother that I made the bargain with, and that wrote the contract, I was to settle with, as he kept their books. He and myself took our books and went by ourselves and undertook to settle. He told me to read over my account of extra work. I commenced, and [at] the first charge I read, he calls out, “There, that is too much. I am not willing to pay that—but read on.” So I continued on, and he saying to almost every charge, “I am not willing to pay that.” I finally stopped, straightened up, looked at him in the face very candidly and earnestly, and said (calling him by name), “I never have any difficulty with any of my employers, never had in my life. I have charged you reasonably for every extra job I have done. I should be willing to have it out to disinterested men, or I will leave it to yourself. I shall have no difficulty.” He sat a moment looking very sober, and then said, “Mr. Whipple, read over all of your account.” I read it all over. He then said, “I have been acquainted long enough with you to find you to be an honest, candid man, and I shall pay your account just as you have it.” I told him that if he paid it, I wanted to know if he should pay it believing that he ought to, and should do wrong if he did not. “Yes, I know it is reasonable, and I shall pay it willingly.” “That is all right. I shall ever want you to feel that you are a friend to me, and I certainly shall feel so to you.” So he paid me all up, and we parted good friends.

After finishing my job, I saw the man that told me that I should get cheated if I worked for these men. “Well, did you not find them men as I told you—Cheats and knaves?” “No,” I told him, “I found them the first-rate men, to me—I wanted none better.”  So thus ends the job with this gentleman.

 

 

Chapter 21—The Golden Rule.

 

About this time I made a move to get a public road, laid by the town, that would come by my house, there being none within a mile of me, and [only a] very bad way [of] getting on to any road. There were many of my neighbors that were in the same condition as myself. They too would be glad to have a road, but thought it would be useless to try, as the town was in debt and would surely be against us. But I kept talking to my neighbors and trying to excite them to do something with me about it. But I could not stimulate them to act with me about a road. I finally told them that I was going to have a road across my land at all events, if I lived to build it. It was about 76 rods, I believe. Well, we talked pro and con about a new road. I finally got some stimulated enough to say they would do as much toward a new road as I would. And upon that, I commenced and made a good road across my land. And then [I] told my neighbors that, if they would help, I would go myself (and furnish two more men) and work a week more, if it took so long, to build the road through a certain tract of unenclosed woodland. They turned out quite strong and worked a week, and we made a good road, 100 rods or more, through a dreadful ugly place.

After doing enough to open the way, so we thought, the town would take [some] notice of our request. We gave the selectmen an invitation to come and look through [what we had built], the whole distance being about three miles. They came and examined the situation and spoke very favorably, and said they would do all they could to get us a road. A petition was drawn up and presented before the town, and a road was laid. I did more than I was able to do, but I know that if someone took no pains, it would never be done.  I laid out more than a 100 dollars, reckoning my time at what it was worth. At the time I owned no team, cart, or wagon. All wondered at my courage in doing so much for nothing. I told them that it did me good to see my neighbors riding by on a good road. But as matters turned, very soon after I owned both horse and oxen, and traveled the road more than any other man; for about that time I commenced butchering, and was on this and other roads constantly [for] about three months in the year. And every night [I] was sure to be on the road, I took such an interest in building, in either going from home before light in the morning, or in returning home in the evening, after night. So, after all, I got well paid for my trouble, and expense.

In all of my pursuances in life, I have ever felt that duty demanded of me to do by my fellow men as I would wish to have them do to me; sometimes I have told people this, and they would reply that that was the golden rule, but [they] thought that I should have to confess, as they must, that I came far short of it. But I generally replied that I did not claim perfection in performing the duties of life; but if any person, at any time, would prove to me that I had wronged them or had treated them in any manner as I would not be willing to have them treat me, I would make satisfactory amends. This has been the reason of my never being favorable to slavery, or war, or any of those great evils. I should never be willing to be a slave; therefore I should feel guilty to have anything to do in making slaves of others. And certainly, I should never be willing for anybody to kill me or my children; therefore I feel that I have no right to kill any human being for any cause. This has ever been my testimony and practice. 

Another case I will mention where I was called upon to do a job of mason work, and matters turned quite different from what I expected—after seeing what kind of a man I was working for. A man from another town, some eight or ten miles from my house, —a man I never saw or heard of before—came and wanted me to do a job of mason work for a two story dwelling house. [He] told me his name, where he lived, and what he wanted done; and wanted to know if I would do his job.  I saw that he was a singular-appearanced man. I asked him how he came to know anything about me.  He said, “My carpenter (calling him by name) told me.” I, thinking that, of course, the carpenter knew all about him and would not send a bad man to me—or a man he thought would not pay me—, I asked the stranger when he wanted his work done. [I said] that if he was in a hurry I could not do it, as I had work on hand. He told me about when he should want it done. I told him that I could do it, but should have to bring two hands with me. Well, that would be all right. He wanted me to quarry out the stone on such a man’s land. It was where I had got stone before. He had spoken to the man about boarding us. We finished up a bargain. But he inquired not a word about wages, either by the day or job. And as he said nothing, I said nothing about price.

The place where the stone was to be quarried was several miles from where the stranger lived.  But when I got ready to commence, I took my help and went to the quarry and found arrangements made as he told me. After getting out the stone—or enough so that they could commence getting—, they took them off. And when we finished, we went to the stranger’s house—or an old schoolhouse that he lived in, as he had torn down his old house. After getting to where we or some other masons had two months work to do, we found the most singular man I had ever fallen in with— “for he neither feared God, or regarded man.” He had no more restraint over his tongue than the most crazy person I ever saw. And his unguarded and unruly tongue was still but a very small part of the time. The most dreadful imprecations and oaths were pouring out of his mouth almost continually.

After I had worked a spell there, he got a-going to such an awful rate I thought I would just speak a word by way of reproof. But I had only spoken, before the saying of Christ came to my mind, “Give not that which is holy unto the dogs, neither cast ye your pearls before swine, lest they trample them under their feet, and turn again and rend you.” Just as soon as I spoke, he answered back, “I suppose you get your knowledge from your Bible. I know more than Jesus Christ and all his apostles. I have been to the very spot where the old fellow was crucified,” etc., etc., in the same heathenish manner. But [he] seemed not angry at all.  He had a very quite, good sort of a wife, and some very pretty children, and sometimes the little things would come into the new house to look about a little. But if their father happened to be there, he would rap out at them and perhaps threaten to throw a brick at them—taking up a brick. The poor little things would scamper with all speed out of his way. After all, he did not appear like a very passionate man, but a heathen. As far as usage to me and my help was concerned, he appeared friendly, and boarded well. But as he had trouble with his other help, I feared how I should come out at the end. He appeared to be quite wealthy, owned a large farm, and plenty of help appeared to hang about him. But such swearing and overtures one would hardly ever see.

Myself and my help told him, as we ever told others, that he never need bring any liquor to us, as we drank none. A large stout Englishman, that came to tend upon us while building the chimney, said to him the samethat he drank no liquor, and when with us he did not. But one day the old man got him into his hay field to rake hay, and while there, he caught him behind some brush at his rum jug. And it made him so offended, that he had an outbreak in the field with him. But that did not end it. At suppertime, when at the table, the old man commenced again.  And of all the language that I ever heard, he used the most awful and the most insulting. The Englishman heard it until the British blood could endure it no longer. He sprang from the table and rushed into the road (near the house), commenced grinding his teeth and rubbing his fists together, inviting the old man out, telling how quick he would “bathe his hands in his heart’s blood.” The old man would as soon have jumped into a lion’s den as to have gone where he was, for I think he would have been used up as soon. This Englishman was about six feet in height, and well-proportioned, and about 34 years old, and trained [as] a fighter on board a British man-of-war. But the manhe quit that night without his pay, and came back no more. This was of a Saturday. I continued on with my work, but every Saturday I and my help went home.

The old man continued on in his course, and I [on] mine. As much of a heathen as I found him to be, I told him my principle—that I did not believe in war nor in killing human beings for any cause; I did not believe in enslaving human beings, drinking intoxicating liquors, suing at the law, or in using the filthy weed tobacco. He said not the first word about pay, from the time he first came to see me, until his job was done. While doing his job, I told my brother that I never dreaded sitting with any man I ever worked for, as much as I did him, as he appeared to have so little principle. But I was very careful to keep my account correct, as to dates and all. There were more than twenty days work done at the quarry before [my] coming to his house.  But he made not a word’s inquiry about that, or anything about the pay part. And as he said nothing, I said nothing. The week I thought we should finish, I took my account, but told Noah, my brother, “I dread this settlement, the most of any I ever had to make.” Said Noah, “May be the old man will do better than we expect.”

After finishing all up, said the old man, “Well, Jonathan, you have finished my job. Go into the house (an old schoolhouse they lived in), and we will try and settle.  We went in.  He sat down to his old desk and said, “What is your billlet us hear.” I took out my bill and commenced reading it over, the days’ works.  He spoke out very profanely, “God, I don’t care how many days’ works you have donewhat is your bill?” I told him the amount of my bill. “Well, I suppose you want your pay,” said he. “Yes, that is what we work for, for the sake of pay,” said I. He said not a word but commenced rattling over his dollars, and counted out in silver and paper the dollars, and then said, “I have no change.” I thought, of course, he was…

 

[Pages 295-300 of the original manuscript were lost.] 

 

 

Chapter 22—The Tongue of the Dumb Shall Sing.

 

 

[In order to provide information that seems to have been included on the missing pages of the original manuscript, a number of paragraphs taken from an 1867 letter from Jonathan Whipple to Charles K. Whipple have been inserted within brackets to begin this chapter. The letter appears in “Appendix B” of: Alexander Graham Bell. The Mystic Oral School: An Argument in its Favor. Washington, D. C.: Gibson Bros., 1897.]

 

[Enoch was our fifth and youngest child; supposed to be as active and bright as any of our children of his age, but did nothing about trying to talk; yet it never entered neither my own nor my wife’s heart that he was deaf; never once, until we undertook to have him speak a word (our children were all quite young when they commenced talking); he then was about one year old. I had him in my lap. I spoke to him, but he took no notice of me. I spoke again and again, but he did not even turn to look at me (his face being from me). Finally I raised my voice to quite a high key, and withal gave his cheek a little brush with a comb I had in my hand. At that he started almost with a bound, and whirled about and looked at me. I them spoke to my wife, who sat in the corner, on the other side of the fireplace, and said, “This little boy is deaf.” She said, “No, no more than you are.” I said, “I will get his face from you, and then you try him.” I did so, and then she spoke, “Enoch,” but he took no notice. Said I, “Keep speaking until you make him hear, if you can,” and so she did so, but had to raise her voice almost to the highest key before he heard, and when he heard a noise, he knew nothing which way it came from, but whirled this way and that. I then spoke, “There, you see, he is deaf, don’t you?” Said she, “He surely is.” Well, after this, we knew we had a little deaf son, and so deaf that he would never learn to talk unless there was some extra effort some way.

We found that he would not try to do a thing towards speaking, unless he was looking you right in the face, and then he would try to imitate you. Instead of motioning out any word or letter, or thing, we would be very particular in speaking very plain, and be sure his face was toward us. And by thus doing we found he could learn and did learn.He was not quite so forward in learning to talk as our other children were; but he is an intelligent talker, a very good reader, a good speller, and quite good in figures; and he does nothing by motioning any more than you would.

If Enoch should now happen to come into your house, and you knew nothing who he was, and should commence talking, you would have no mistrust that he was deaf at all, unless your mouth was covered with beard; that would betray his condition, as he would have no chance to see the operation of the mouth and lips. Some people, you know, will have a quid of tobacco in their mouth, and that sometimes makes it difficult for him to understand; and again, a person that talks very quick, sometimes he will have to ask a second time; and still another class who use their mouths and lips so very little that you can hardly see them move any, such persons it bothers him sometimes to understand. But any and every person, who speaks in a plain, intelligent manner, he understands just as readily as a person who hears well.

I have noticed that many times when he and I have been sitting in our wagon together, as we were passing about from place to place in our butchering business, being in quite a hurry, a man would call out to us, and would want to know when we could butcher for him, &c., and I should not hear, and as I commenced to ask what he said, Enoch would answer the man’s inquiry, and out with our book to see when we could do his work. After my eyesight got poor he carried our time-book. I have often said to Enoch, “You did not hear that man, did you?” “Why, no; I saw his mouth.” Now, I don’t want you to understand that he hears nothing; but I do want you to understand that he can understand a good plain-spoken person, if he hears not a breath of noise.

As I have mentioned… I never had the opportunity to go to school one day as a scholar, yet I tried teaching for a few terms, and that happened when Enoch was a child. I sent him to school when I did not teach, but he used to say that he could hear not a word, only when the teacher screamed as loud as he could. He would say: “Father, the school-room is as still as the graveyard to me.” When I did not teach the school, I would attend to his case at home, and would encourage him and keep him along with his class.

People that have no experience in this line, never have thought upon the subject. Now, all of us who think at all, know that every person who speaks the letters A, B, C, or any other letter plain, has to have the same operation with the mouth and lips, and so it is in speaking the name of anything, or person’s names, etc.

After having my experiences with this son of mine, I begin to think that any person, however deaf he might be, could be taught to talk.

There happened to be a mute whose father lived in my neighborhood, and the mute was at Hartford, at the Dumb Asylum. I was well acquainted with him before he went, for he was often at my house. After he got through with his learning and came home, he soon came to my house to see us. I very soon took a slate and on it wrote, “Did you ever speak a word?” He took the slate and answered, “No, I can hear none.” I again wrote, “I think I can teach you to speak.” He again wrote, “No. I can hear none at all.” But I again wrote, “Notwithstanding that, I think I can teach you to speak.” He looked again, but instead of writing, in answer to that, he turned away in seeming disgust, having his face all scowled up, and his hands raised as if he felt imposed upon. But I did not give it up then. There being a pail of water standing by, we were in the blacksmith’s shop, I wrote water, that being an easy word for the learner to understand, and showed him the word and pointed at the water. He at once manifested that he understood that, and I expected that he did.]

 

…[But then I motioned for him] to look at my mouth, and I mouthed out the word “water” and motioned for him to try and see if he could speak it.  But no, he had no notion of trying it. But I very pleasantly (in looks) insisted that he should try. I finally got him to take notice of my mouth in speaking the word; so I motioned it over and over, and by and by he squeaked out “water” plainly, only in a different voice. I wrote, “Good,” but motioned for him to notice me again. I again spoke the word, as though I spoke it loud, and motioned for him to try it again, and he did, and spoke it as plainly and as natural as a hearing person.  “Butter,” being another easy word to understand from the motion of the mouth, I mouthed that out. And the first time, he spoke it out as naturally as a hearing person. I then tried “melon,” that being an easy word. He spoke it good, after he had spoken “butter.” There being several presentand hearing how nicely he spoke it, they all burst into laughter, and he, seeing them, laughed heartily himself and then wrote, “Teach me to say ‘bread.’” I mouthed out “bread,” and he tried that, readily, but spoken as I knew he would, and as he did: “bed.” But he spoke out promptly.

Just in making this little trial, I saw what could be done in teaching the deaf to articulate. From the time I first attempted to have him speak, until he had spoken “water,” “butter,” “bed” (for “bread”), and “melon,” it was not over fifteen minutes; and he had spoken three or four words plainly. And here he was, a deaf mute,[…] and never had spoken a word. With the experience I had had with my little deaf sonand then seeing how successfully this young man commenced, and I knowing for certain that this one had no advantage at all by hearing, I was strengthened in faith and kept on trying every one I had a chance to. And [I] never tried one, but what I got [him] to speak. But everyone [was] against me. The finger and sign teachers of the deaf, in particular, were always against whatever I might say favoring teaching the deaf to articulate: “It cannot be done, try it however much you may. You will only get a deaf child to make a sort of disagreeable guttural noise that no one wants to hear,” etc.—[such] was the language of the mute teachers.

“But,” says one, “Jonathan Whipple has taught his deaf son to talk.” “Ah, his son can hear very wellcan hear birds sing and crickets make their noises.” That was so in part. He could hear the beautiful little robin pour forth [its] sweet notes—or once did, it being perched upon a very low tree in my dooryard. I had told him that the birds sang and made a beautiful noise. One day I saw a robin on a very low apple tree, sending forth its notes at a wonderful rate. I saw my dear little deaf Enoch a little way off. I pointed to the bird and told him to be careful and get to the body of the tree and perhaps he might hear it sing. And certainly it would have pleased anyone to have seen the poor little fellow working his way under that tree. He got to the very body, and squatted up and sat with his little head turning, first one ear up and then the other, for some minutes until the robin had satisfied itself singing and flew away. Up the little fellow jumped and ran to me saying, “Father, Father, I did hear it sing.” Again, about the noise of the cricket. All who ever lived in the old-fashioned houses, where a space of six by eight feet [was] taken up with a stone chimney, remember of there being crickets almost without number in the chimney. And at certain seasons they would shriekor squeak outsharp enough to pierce your head, and even crawl out of the holes in the old fire places, and almost deafen you with their noise. One evening, poor little Enoch was squatted on the old kitchen hearth, when out crawled a cricket, and he [was] watching it. All at once, it shrieked out. “I heard the cricket sing,” said the little fellow.

Now about his hearing “very well,” as one of the teachers said. All that any mute can hear, we may say, is “very well.” It is [“very well”], as far as it goes; but if they hear so poorly they cannot be taught to talk by hearing, it avails but little. I have known a number that went through their studies at an old asylum, that could hear as well as [my] son Enoch, and [yet] came out mutes. What would it avail, for us to say that those children could hear “very well.” It would not make them talkers. They are mutes. But Enoch is a good talker. 

All who read my history will remember of my being run away with, by a horse; and of my father’s having an earnest exercise in prayer and a passage of scripture coming so forcibly to his mind that [it] brought him upon his feet, jumping and leaping and reciting words that he knew nothing of (as being words he had ever seen in print): “Then shall the lame man leap as an hart, and the tongue of the dumb sing.” Those words are to be found in the thirty-fifth chapter of Isaiah, [the] sixth verse. From the time of the recovery of that hurt until the present day, I have different feelings towards deaf people from any person I was ever acquainted with. It has ever seemed that the deaf ought, could, and would, talk; and whenever I see a mute, I feel that I must be trying to teach them, that I cannot be contented unless I am engaged in trying to do something for them in the line of teaching them to talk.

Whether those feelings were put into me at that time, or I was born with them, I am unable to say. But such has ever been the case. I well remember, while living in the same house where we did when the horse ran away with me, every Sunday evening a deaf Negro man came to stay all night with us. Why he came, I know not.  But he was never turned away. I, a little fellow, but could not content myself unless I was trying to make the poor deaf man understand something. I recollect one Sunday evening it rained powerfully. Mother spoke and said, “It rains so very hard, I think Quash will not be here tonight.” She hardly had done speaking, before we heard him at the door. The door was opened, and in came the poor deaf man, and as wet as he could be. All of the children were glad to see poor old Quash—for that was his name. No scolding from Father or Mother. [We] helped him get off his wet coat and vest and hung them to the fire, and soon got him comfortable—and I trying to talk with him. He lived, say, one and a half miles from us. After finding us, he never missed a single Sunday night but what he came and stayed all night with us. After [our] moving from this place about six miles, he never came another time.  I suppose he knew not where we went.

The next deaf man I became acquainted with was a Stonington man by the name of Copp. The first thing, I was trying to make him hear, and I could whistle so as to make him hear the noise. He would say the word “butter,” and when driving oxen he would say “whoa” when he wanted them to stop. I became acquainted with others when a boy, and whenever I had an opportunity, I would be trying them. But after I had a child of my own, I then could try my skill as much as I wished; and when fairly proved, I found that I had not been so much mistaken, or my feelings unreal. After proving it in my son’s case, I should have tried others immediately if my circumstances would have admitted of it. I was not able to teach for nothing, and so kept in preaching [my views] for forty years and more…

 

Unfinished

 


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