It must be evident to intelligent minds that there is a Great First Cause from which emanate all the phenomena of organized life; and equally evident that the governing motive of that intelligence is something higher and more elevating than the enslaving of masses of men in order that a few may accumulate wealth and power. Conditions are indeed improving, though not as rapidly as we might wish to see them. The facilities of the present day for enlightening all classes through higher education are so ample, varied and often so free, as compared with fifty years ago, that none need now be launched upon the uncertain sea of life without being better able to understand and fulfill the purposes of their existence.
I was ushered into the world, according to the record, on the fourth of May, 1819, twenty days before the Queen of England;[40] among the bleak and stony hills of Kortright, Delaware County, New York.[41] My father was born at Bridgehampton, which lies at the eastern end of Long Island, where his ancestors had lived and died since 1640. Thomas Halsey, the first settler there, was a Hertfordshire Englishman who had lived in Naples, Italy, and then in Lynn, Massachusetts,—in the latter place some time before 1637. From Lynn in 1640[42] he sailed with a company of men and women to Long Island, where they founded Southampton, the oldest town, I believe, in this state settled by Englishmen.
My father, after whom I was named, was also a physician and had emanated from the office of the elder Dr. White of Cherry Valley[43] and was of more than average prominence along the Catskill Turnpike in those early days. Being a profound lover of his profession, he was very devoted to its practice.[44] He was never known to refuse a call from rich or poor, day or night, if able to go. Naturally sociable and fond of mirth he was a great story teller, ever ready to give or receive a joke.
I will give an instance when a rather expensive one was perpetrated upon him, but he took it as it was intended, and repaid it in due time with compound interest. A man of the name of William Blakely kept a noted hotel about three miles west of our home. A shooting match was being held there one winter day. My father had great pride in his abilities with the rifle and was present. He and Blakely each had a new beaver hat, which kind of head covering was all the style in those days, costing eight dollars, then a large sum for a hat. Blakely began to banter my father about his marksmanship, and finally offered to set up his beaver forty rods off as a mark at sixpence a shot, Blakely to pay a shilling when the hat was struck, the trial to begin after dinner. While at dinner Blakely exchanged hats and set up father’s as the target instead of his own. A confederate in the joke was sent to report on every shot. He reported a failure until the hat had been struck several times, but finally brought it in, when my father found he had ruined his own hat.
The old Catskill turnpike, that starts at our upper village river bridge, and runs eastward through to Catskill on the Hudson, passes the door of my father’s house. On one of the red mile stones that stood within a few rods of the house was cut “56 miles to Catskill.” It was the goal for many a frolic in boyhood with my neighboring playmates.
As there were no canals or railroads in those days, this turnpike was the outlet for a large portion of western and southern New York, and also for parts of the state of Ohio. The products of the farms, butter, grain lumber, wool, etc., had to be drawn by teams over this road to reach a market at Catskill. Droves of hundreds of head of cattle and sheep were passed daily. Stages with three and four extra teams heavily loaded hourly passed both ways. Hotels were to be found as often as every two miles the whole length of the road, and all crowded every night. Private carriages without number were to be seen loaded with people and their baggage, going on journeys to visit friends at a distance. This vast amount of travel to and from Catskill, naturally made that place a point of great interest in my boyish mind; to see it was the height of my ambition.
In those early days the motto of the civilized world was “to spare the rod is to ruin the child.” My father not only endorsed it but improved upon it, using the rawhide in place of the rod, but as I felt then and am now positive it was a grave mistake. I believe most emphatically that no child, whatever may have been his characteristics, was ever improved mentally or physically, through having the base feeling of fear instilled into him. To this day, when that instrument of torture is brought up and I recall my sufferings from the use of it, the old feeling of resentment and denunciation is aroused. I know it was a great damage in my mental development, and I have no knowledge of any instance where it served a beneficial purpose.
Training and persistent appeals to the budding reasoning faculties of the youthful brain are the only correct method for the parent who would secure control of his children. Love and reverence, not fear and hate, are the principles to inculcate. Are the rod and rawhide calculated in their nature to inspire love and reverence? Parents should rather make companions of children, reason with them, let them see and know there are two sides to all pictures, good and bad; familiarize them with the two sides of all moral questions and then show them through reasoning powers why the right one should be adopted. Brutal chastisement with rod or rawhide never drove a moral idea into a youthful brain and never can.
What a change in every department of life since those times has taken place. Kitchen stoves were then unknown; no carpets covered floors. My father brought the first cooking stove into the town, and his house became as it were a hotel for many days, owing to the callers who came out of curiosity to see the wonderful “Jew’s Harp” cooking stove. Matches were unknown. Many and many a cold, stormy night, have I been called up to harness or unharness my father’s horse, and many a cold morning have I had to go to a neighbor’s forty or fifty rods away, for a shovel of live coals to start the morning fire.