USA > Massachusetts > Franklin County > Whately > History of the town of Whately, Mass., including a narrative of leading events from the first planting of Hatfield, 1661-1899 : with family genealogies > Part 30
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over two hundred pounds avoirdupois, with long, bushy eye- brows and sharp eyes that would fairly flash when with his great hand he would rap on the counter with a force that was easily heard all over the house, and with a scowl on his face, he would point at the disturbers who would most generally sub- side. If not, he would march in among them and by his pres- ence overawe the mischief makers. I well recollect one Sun- day, the latter part of September, some seven or eight tough, roistering young fellows occupied the pew adjoining the one where I sat. To reach our pew one step up was needed and the next one two steps up, fully eighteen inches. These boys had been down into Parsons Wells' orchard and filled their pockets with apples and when the services commenced they be- gan to munch the apples and "whiz" would go a core across to the girls on the north side of the gallery. They had taken off the door to the pew and had laid a board across in front from the sides of the seats. This they had weakened so that it wouldn't bear the weight of an ordinary-sized man for a purpose. They laughed, whispered and threw the apple cores, all the more lively as the deacon's rapping became louder. At last the deacon arose and came with thunderous tread and mounted into the pew, and every eye was on him to see what would happen. He had straddled over the board and plunked himself down ; the board broke and he fell backward into the aisle, striking on his head and shoulders, making things jar. His fall caused much laughter, but not dismayed he regained his feet and marched into that pew, the boys making a seat for him, even without his demanding it. Everybody laughed, and even the good old dominie could with difficulty restrain an out- burst at the grotesque figure cut by the pious old deacon, but you may safely bet your last sixpence that you never saw a pen of lambs that were any more quiet than were these fun-loving chaps.
Tything men were endowed with constabulary powers, and at an earlier day used to be armed with a pole four or five feet long, with some feathers tied on one end, and when one of the tired old ladies fell asleep and was making too much noise in her open-mouthed respirations, the tything man would use the feather end to tickle her face and thus awaken her, and the other end was used to arouse some old man if he snored too loud.
Jeremiah Waite, an uncle of mine, was chosen to the high position of a tything man of Whately. He had Levi Graves
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arrested for using these wicked and profane words following, that is to say: "God damn you, to the great displeasure of Almighty God, against good morals and good manners, against the peace of the said Commonwealth, contrary to the form of the statute in such cases made and provided," dated at Whately 13 April, 1826. Two days later he was arrested and arraigned for the crime. The trial was held and the aforesaid Levi Graves was acquitted.
A few years before this, while good old Nathaniel Coleman and his excellent wife were seated on the back of his faithful, old black mare, going to meeting, it seems that Jacob Mosher, the cooper, was drawing some water and the pole turning on the pin made a loud, screeching noise. This so shocked their pious sensibilities that he went to see Benjamin Cooley, the tything man, and ordered him to notify Mr. Mosher that if he didn't grease his well sweep and stop that unearthly noise he would have him arrested. Suffice it to say that a ladder was procured and the offending well sweep was duly annointed.
CEMETERIES.
These cemeteries were early located in Whately. That in the center of the town is on the west side of Chestnut Plain street at or near the top of Gutter hill. Most of the land is measurably free from stone and is of a light gravelly soil, while the north part is underlaid with stiff clay which is retentive of moisture. This is more particularly true of the northeast corner which has now been underdrained with tile and is largely available for the purposes of burial. This has been en- larged by the addition of land purchased from the farm of Ches- ter K. Waite and son at two different times. These additions have been made by private enterprise by parties who desired a lot for family use.
The town has made liberal appropriations for the fencing and care of cemeteries, and chooses a set of commissioners to keep the grounds in order. This dates back somewhere near 1880, as near as I can estimate it. Quite a number of our citi- zens in this way get excellent lots. About 1875 Rev. John W. Lane commenced agitating the subject of arranging the ground by setting over very many of the headstones so as to conform to plans of the ground furnishing suitable walks between the head- stones, thus giving easy access to every part of the older portion of the grounds where it seemed as though everyone only cared
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for one's own self. Great credit is due to Mr. Lane for his ad- mirable work in this cemetery. It had the effect to induce the town to do what they have since done under the leadership of Leander F. Crafts, who is the sexton as well as the chairman of the board of commissioners. Mr. Crafts fully understands the subject of improving the grounds. Since the work done by Mr. Lane, very many costly monuments have been placed in the cemetery.
The Eastern cemetery is located on the south side of the road leading from the Straits to the River road, just at the top of Hopewell hill, and east from Bartlett's corners. For some years Mr. David Ashcraft has had the control of this cemetery, and under his able supervision the grounds have always had a cleanly, tidy look, showing that they have been well cared for. The soil is easily handled, wholly free from stone, dry and well adapted to the purpose for which it is used, and the small sum appropriated by the town serves, with the assistance of the good people, to keep it in a creditable condition. Probably the first one buried here was Joseph Sanderson whose headstone is dated 20 March, 1772.
The Western cemetery is on the east side of Poplar Hill road south of the Isaiah Brown farm. This too is a well kept ground. It is largely free from stone and boulders, easy of dig- ging and dry. It shows intelligent care of its grounds, and is in evidence that the money furnished by the town for its care is used to good advantage. The oldest headstone is that of Cla- rissa Bardwell, a daughter of Lieut. Noah Bardwell, who died 15 Dec., 1776. It has been claimed that Miss Charity Brown, who died 24 Nov., 1800, aged forty years, was the first adult person buried there. This can't be true, as Mrs. Ezra Turner died 7 Jan., 1777, aged thirty-five years, Peter Train 21 Jan., 1793, and fully seven or eight others before Miss Brown.
The oldest grave in the Central cemetery is that of Esther (Bardwell), wife of Daniel Morton, who died 27 Oct., 1762, while the oldest headstone is that of Jemima, wife of Captain Lucius Allis, who died 9 June, 1864.
We can but commend the liberality of the town not only for the present care of the grounds of all the cemeteries, but for providing a good, substantial tomb for the use of the whole town during the severities of our winters, and affording a suitable hearse and biers for the accommodation of our people in giving suitable service for the burial of our dead.
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The first hearse was given to the town in 1824 by the heirs of Deacon Thomas Sanderson. This Deacon Sanderson had ordered, but he died before its completion.
LONGEVITY.
In looking over the list of marriages where the couple had lived together over fifty years we find the following :
Allis, Elijah and Electa, 59 years ;
Allis, Deacon Russell and Sarah, 57
Bacon, Benjamin and Rebecca, 61
Bardwell, Lieut. Noah and Lucy, 60
Bardwell, Spencer and Sophia, 60
Bardwell, Ebenezer and Sarah Tute,
58
Bartlett, Zebina and Demis,
59
Belden, Joseph and Margaret,
58
Brown, Edward and Hannah, 62
Brown, George and Almira,
63
Chauncey, Richard and Elizabeth, 61
Crafts, Thomas and Sarah, 61
Crafts, Thomas and Mehitable,
57
Dickinson, Eurotus and Sarah, 68
Dickinson, Jehu and Eleanor, 54
Dickinson, Abner and Sarah, 62
Frary, Isaac and Sarah, 59
Graves, David Sr. and Abigail, 6I
Graves, David Jr. and Mary, 50
Graves, Matthew and Hannah, 53
Graves, Deacon Oliver and Rebecca, 56
Graves, Oliver Jr. and Abigail, 58
Graves, Spencer and Lura,
54
Graves, Edward and Elizabeth, 56
Graves, Lyman and Electa, 58
Lesure, Samuel and Lucy, 55
Loomis, J. C. and Electa, 54
Mather, Capt. Benjamin and Abigail, 54
Morton, Justin and Esther,
67
Morton, Consider and Mercy, 64
Morton, Randall and Crissa A., 59
Morton, Joel and Violet,
53
Munson, Reuben and Sibyl, 60
Robinson, Hiram and Sophia, 53
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Scott, Phineas and Rhoda, 67 years ;
Smith, Elisha and Sarah, 57
Smith, Bezaliel and Levinia, 50
Stiles, Capt. Henry and Ruth, 65
Waite, John and Harriet, 60
Wells, Perez and Elizabeth, 65
Wells, Calvin and Thankful, 57
White, Capt. Salmon and Mary, 55
Wood, E. H. and Sarah, 61
In all forty-seven couples with some who came to town and whose dates of marriage we did not obtain. Mr. Temple only mentioned three couples.
WOLF KILLED.
In 1801 Reuben Crafts and two other hunters killed a wolf towards the south-west part of Whately. It had been heralded for somne days that a wolf was thought to be about in this region. The snow was very deep, but they brought the old rascal to the center and exhibited it at the store of Lemuel and Justus Clark which stood where now is the garden of Porter Wells, south of his house. The hunters received a bounty of ten dollars.
WHATEDY GLEN
CHAPTER XXI.
I regret very much that the following beautiful article, de- scriptive of the Glen, could not have been received earlier, but as the printing has progressed while we have waited, so we assign it to the best place that is at our disposal, and we are only too glad to give our readers the beautiful article by our noble townswoman, MISS LAURA A. SANDERSON, the gifted poet of Indian Hill.
WHATELY.
She lies across fair lengths of meadow land, And on the hills where earth and heaven meet She lays her head-while like a gleaming band The river moves majestic at her feet.
No stored wealth is hers, no world-wide fame- And yet she holds our hearts where'er we roam ; And prince of comrades, whatso'er his name, Who says in greeting, "Whately is my home."
Situated on the western slope of the Connecticut Valley about two miles north of Whately village, is a broad plateau midway up the mountain side, which is known as Indian Hill. The point of its location, opposite the abrupt termination of the Pocumtuck range, renders the view unsurpassed. It includes the great lake basin whose outlet was the narrow pass between Mt. Tom and Mt. Holyoke, while across the meadow and be- yond the intervening band of the Great Swamp woods runs the old Indian trail from the fort of Umpanchala, at Hatfield, to Sugar Loaf or Mt. Wequomps. It was to the broad level of
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this western plateau and the mountain solitudes above, that the Indians, crowded from their valley hunting grounds, made their last camp. The Roaring brook swarmed with trout and the heavily timbered heights were a natural game preserve which amply supplied their simple needs.
Into this sylvan solitude the white man came, and in the mouth of the gorge where the brook first flashes into the sun- light he built a rude mill, catching the rushing waters in a little lake upon whose ancient bed the city now enjoys its lunch at the picnic tables. The site of the dwelling house hard-by is still noticeable. Here came the settlers on horse-back or in their rude farm wagons, bringing the grain of their own raising ; and the Indians brought their scanty harvest also and begged grain of the kind-hearted miller.
In later years a dam was laid across the stream farther down, and a saw and gristmill under one roof were built. The old-fashioned up-and-down saw was a wonder in its day and played a prominent part in furnishing lumber for the houses of those early times. Hidden in a hollow of the hills, the roaring, hurrying brook became a tranquil lake over whose grassy banks the trees leaned to watch their own reflection in its crystal depths. At its outlet the escaping waters ran their course through the raceway of the mill. The noisy stream was well known to the Sanderson children who played in its clear waters on scorching summer days and went fishing in the spring and fall. They called it "up the brook." But the beauty of the place, with its grandeur of primeval forest whose mighty mon- archs stretched their giant arms high over the long vista of foaming waters, remained unnoticed.
In 1836 there came to the town and was installed as pastor of the little band of worshipers, the Rev. John Ferguson, a strong and noble character, with the burr of Scotland upon his tongue and the love of nature and nature's God in his heart. "Priest" Ferguson his people called him, and his wise, forceful and witty sayings are still remembered. The picturesque scen- ery of our rocky township was a reminder of his boyhood home in far-off Berwickshire. The drive over Chestnut mountain and the view from Dickinson's hill and the Old Oak were favorites of his, and he was not long in discovering the roaring brook with its wild and rugged surroundings for which he conceived a deep and ardent admiration. He came again and again, bring- ing his friends to enjoy the place, and it was he who first named it "The Glen."
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One of his daughters, Mrs. Margaret Allen, was the hero- ine of an almost fatal accident during one of these excursions. While crossing the stream on the trunk of a fallen pine that bridged the chasm, she slipped and fell upon the jagged rocks below, escaping death as by a miracle. To reach the roadway by following the brookside path was an impossibility, and by almost superhuman exertion her senseless form was carried up the precipitous bank, and she lives to tell the story to her chil- dren's children who come from afar to visit the place and recall its memories.
There are tragic tales too, of the old Conway road, where just below Staddle hill a plain black headstone is inscribed : "Killed on this spot by being thrown from a wagon, Philo Bacon, July, 1825." It was right against these ledges that the bruised and lifeless body of the sturdy farmer was found.
One summer evening in the long ago, the family at the old homestead heard the sound of a wagon lumbering along up the hill and creaking past the house; but they did not know that the driver was dozing on the seat, nor that slow-going faithful Dobbin had taken the old mill road and was wandering further and further out of the way; past the tidy tiers of lumber; past the piles of slab-wood and the gristmill door; past the log-way of the mill; on a little further yet, over the bank and down into the brimming pond. The horse, snorting and terrified, turned instinctively in an effort to gain the shore, and the luckless driver, wakened from a sound sleep by the over- turning of the wagon, bewildered by the darkness and unable to swim, struggled helplessly beyond his depth and sunk to rise no more. The astonished miller found the horse the next morn- ing, and suspecting the truth, drained the pond and recovered the body.
In later times tragedy has given place to comedy, and many the luckless one who has dried his garments over a broil- ing fire on a hot July day, or gone home clad in make-shift habiliments. It is recorded that several parties of girls who went wading in the water above the upper falls, found their shoes wholly unwearable and were forced to return past the pic- nic grounds in barefoot procession, to the undisguised delight of the camera fiend who happened to be along.
While occasional visitors sought the place, no effort was made to render its delights accessible to the world at large until 1860, when Whately church installed as pastor a worthy suc-
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cessor to the godly men who had held the office before him. In full vigor of mind and body, with a keen perception of artis- tic values and a broad and comprehensive grasp on all practical problems, Rev. John W. Lane was ready at all times to minister not only to the spiritual, but to the material needs of the town. In one of his numerous pedestrian trips he followed the course of the rushing stream over the slippery boulders and moss- grown ledges into the depth and solitude of the silent forest, and was charmed with the quiet beauty of the scene. He sought to improve the place by clearing the path of brushwood and the falls from its accumulation of debris, and being mindful of the welfare of others in this as in all other things, he from time to time persuaded photographers to visit the place and secure views. These pictures given by him to many people and offered for sale by photographers at different places, caused the Glen to become widely known and thus brought it to public notice.
In the early '70's the Glen was invaded by the enterprise of the age. Roadways crept along the precipitous banks, bridges stretched across the stream, logways climbed the mountain side, and the mighty forest fell before the onslaught of steel and mus- cle. The old mill was remodeled. New and improved machin- ery took the place of slow-going methods. The whir of the cir- cular saw was heard, the golden grain rode up to light in its Aladdin-like elevator. Old times had passed away. The Glen was a scene of devastation, with its shady sides bare to the blaze of the sun, the swift-running stream choked with rubbish, the paths filled with brush, and desolation everywhere. The Glen passed through its Purgatory of neglect. Years went by and nature, as ever heroic to conceal the scars of her wounds, made haste to reclothe her rugged slopes and shelving banks. The spring floods came swirling down the gorge. The massive tim- bers of the bridges were loosened and swept away by the re- morseless waters, and to-day only a faint trace of the winding roadway remains, unused save as the denizens of the forest wander down its woody ways on their nocturnal rambles.
Even the remodeled mill, with its marvel of machinery, is but a picturesque ruin now, and the squirrels, who for genera- tions held undisputed right to corners and crevices for the stor- age of their winter food supply, revel in the situation and drop saucy admonition and empty shells on the heads of those who acamping come. The erstwhile brimming pond is a green meadow thick covered with clover and buttercup blossoms, through which the brook but hurries on its way.
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In the autumn of 1884, Elbridge Kingsley, the painter- engraver, came to the Glen with his sketching car. The first and only artist to thoroughly understand the mystery of our Indian summer haze and color, he found the hills alight with royal welcome. Some of his most famous engravings were here conceived, and many of his daring successes in color first blazed along the banks of the stream. His fame in the world of art and his wonderful personality have brought his disciples to the place. Here too, came his brethren of the block and burin, notably John P. Davis, pioneer and leader of the Society of American Wood Engravers, and Gustave Kruell, the famous portrait engraver. It is unquestionably to Artist Kingsley that the great popularity of the Glen in late years is due. Of his impressions of the place he says in poetic prose :
"Striving for hidden values is a condition of the human soul in its earthly seeking for the infinite. The Creator dictates : 'My best is in the depths of the sea, in the fastness of the rock, in the floating summer cloud, beyond the reach of all but your highest aspirations.'
. "Mankind longs for the ideal resting place while in the turmoil of practical life. The Connecticut Valley is rich in such refuge from the eternal grind, and nature spreads abroad the meadow carpet, the sylvan groves of elm and maple in the valley, digs the rocky glen in the mountains as invitation for the weary soul to rest from the heat and dust and seek once more the unknown beyond.
"Like unto a dragon's mouth is the gorge at Whately Glen, and the dragon guards the fairy fountain while it weaves gar- lands of fancy for the generations that come and go along its borders.
"The winter frosts build wonderful palaces of the overhang- ing mists among the bending evergreens, in springtime the opening buds dance a unison with the colors of the rainbow, and when summer merges into autumn a gorgeous phalanx of maples comes trooping down from the blue to be reflected in the mirror-like pools.
"But it is so restful, so peaceful, to sit in the cooling shad- ows of the mountain at sunset and look for miles down the smil- ing valley. Softly the light steals away over the hill. Gloom gradually settles over the beautiful vision and blackness issues from the mouth of the Glen. Soon naught is left but the light of the stars and the murmur of falling waters on the evening air.
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"Long may the rocky dragon guard the fairy fountain at Whately Glen for the happiness of future generations of men."
And as here in the grim solitude of the rugged steep, deep in the heart of the hills, we find this rhythm of poesy rippling in its wondrous cadence from rock to rock on its way to an oblivion in the immensity of ocean, so underneath the sometimes for- bidding exterior of the true old-time New Englander we find deep in the heart a love of beauty, a passion for art, a lofty con- ception of true ideals, that are a revelation to those who have never discovered the breadth, the depth and the fineness of character exemplified by our best types of Puritan descent. The superficial observer might cross the hills a hundred tinies and never find the Glen.
The message of the Glen is but the same that comes from all our hills and valleys to the wanderers who have gone forth into the busy world, and who as the river of Time broadens and deepens, can hold their early associations only as a precious memory.
The woodland path still runs by gate and bridge, Beneath the trees deep shadows linger cool ;
The sheen of summer rests on rock and ridge,
The speckled trout lurks in the darkling pool.
And Nature ever reigns triumphant here, To rich and poor her steadfast grace she shows,-
While round the circle of the flying year
Her carnival of seasons comes and goes.
Her message permeates the solitude ; High on the hills her warning beacons burn ;
Her winds go wailing in the wayside wood,
"O children of mankind, return, return."
"Lay by your grief, forget your wrongs and ills,
Tear loose the thorns that hedge your onward way ;
Come to the consolation of the hills,
The earthly peace that God shall hold for aye."
SANDERSON MANSION.
CHAPTER XXII.
THE SANDERSON HOMESTEAD.
Beneath the ancient roof-tree of the old farmhouse at Indian hill four generations have come and gone-a sturdy, thrifty, level-headed race, tracing their ancestry from Robert Sanderson, master of the mint at Boston, who devised the Pine Tree shil- ling. His descendant, Deacon Thomas Sanderson, Esq., one of the first and foremost settlers of the town, owned and occupied a broad tract of land running south from Sugar Loaf mountain and extending from the Connecticut river to Conway line. This was originally a part of Deerfield, but was annexed to Whately through the influence of Deacon Sanderson. He selected Indian hill as the best location and reserved three hundred and fifty acres for his homestead.
The original story-and-a-half house was built in 1769 and remains intact, while each generation has added thereto. Dea- con Thomas Sanderson at his death, divided the farm between two of his sons, but his grandson, Elon Chester Sanderson, bought back the property and also the farm on the south, thus obtaining control of the hillside towards Whately, which he cleared to secure a view of the town.
Elon Sanderson at his death, likewise divided the farm be- tween his two sons, but the land has been bought back again by his son, George Elon, who lives on the old farm.
The saw and gristmills, situated on Roaring brook, are on his farm, as is also the famous Whately glen.
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THE SUMMER RESIDENCE OF HON. T. P. BROWN.
This place was first occupied by Samuel Grimes, who built about 1797, a large house that he used for his dwelling, a store, and later as a hotel. He was succeeded by Leonard Loomis, a nephew of Mrs. Grimes, who continued the store for several years in company with Rev. Dan Huntington and Edward Phelps. About 1850 Mr. Loomis sold off the front house and built all new. About 1873 it was sold to Thomas Sanderson, and it is now owned by Hon. Theophilus Brown of Toledo, O., as a summer residence. Of course there have been many changes and improvements made by Mr. Brown, and every- thing inside as out, shows a refined taste and a love of the beautiful. The picture will show the much-appreciated trees that afford such a luxury of shade.
RESIDENCE OF GEORGE B. MCCLELLAN.
This site was first occupied by the house of Moses Frary. He came to Whately at a very early period and built a house on the west side of the land left for the Chestnut Plain road even before it was surveyed and permanently laid out, probably in 1750 to '55. He sold to Noah Coleman in 1753. He was born - at Hatfield in 1718, and married Lydia Waite, a granddaughter of Benjamin Waite. They had no children and adopted Seth Frary, and he came into possession of the large estate. He was a soldier in the Revolutionary war. He sold to John B. Morton, who was followed by his son, Eurotus Morton, and he sold to Elias B. McClellan, who was succeeded by his son, George B. McClellan, who has entirely remodeled the house and barns. It is now one of the best residences in town, surrounded as it is by a wealth of trees and shrubbery all indicative of refinement and love of the beautiful.
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