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Rev. Wallace Basis on, pastor of the Northfield Congregational Church
for the past twenty five years, librarian of the William L. Gilbert Memorial
library, is said by residents of the village to have extensive knowledge of
the Peck family, and of early history of the community. "Mr. Humiston is a
great one for collectin' that kind of stuff. You ought to go see him."
The library occupies a large room on the lower floor of the parsonage,
and I arrive before the opening hour, but am invited by the woman who answers
the door to "go right in and wait for Mt. Humiston," who will be fldwon direct-
ly." The Reverend Mr. Humiston, it develops, occupies bachelor quarter upstairs
in the old house, while the first floor rear rooms are tenanted by a childless
couple who look after the place.
There are perhaps a dozen racks of books, most of them of ancient vintage
and bearing signs of much handling, in the big high ceilinged room. A lower
shelf near the door contains bound copies of magazine, some of which, like St.
Nicholas, have not been published for many years. On a deal table are copies of
late periodicals, including the flamboyant picture variety, and they are likewise
the worse for wear.
The librarianie desk contains many volumes currently gracing the beat seller
list, which because of special demand may be kept no more than a week. To the
right and just above the door, is a gilt framed portrait of a dark gentleman with
a formidable pair of side whiskers to whose genorosity the book loving villagers
owe this oasis in what must have been at the time of its inception particularly
arid soil for the literate.
In Gothic lettering is the inscription: Linus Gilbert, donor,
Northfield Library, also Gilbert Home in Winsted, school, etc., Born, Dec. 20,
1806, died Winsted, Dine 29, 1890. He learned How to Work and How to Give."
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Rev. Mr. Humiston enters, and after a brief greeting takes his seat
behind the desk. He carries a small amplifier, to which is attached a pair
of earphones, explains that he is extremely hard of hearing, and that it will
take a short time for this apparatus to "warm up."
"All right now," he says presently, and I make known the nature of my
mission.
"Nell," he says, "I have a few little things that may be of value to you.
Of course I don't remember old Jeremiah Peck, Jerry, they used to call him, but
Howard was still alive when I first came to the village, and in fact I was the
one who discovered him the morning he died.
"I went to call on him and found him lying on the floor. He WAS quite
dead. Uremic poisoning, He lived along, towards the last, though when I first
came here I believe he had a housekeeper. He owned quite a few houses in North-
field, and I presume he was in comfortable circumstances. If you/11 excuse me a
minute I can tell you the exact date of his death."
Mr. Humiston hurries upstairs, returns shortly with a venerable volume
which he deposits on the desk, together with sundry other articles. He hands
me a card on which is inscribed the birth date of Howard Peck (Nov. 26, 1847)
and the date of his death (Sept. 24, 1926.)
"There are numerous anecdotes about the family undoubtedly," says Mr.
Humiston. "I should hesitate to repeat them because it is difficult to know
just which are authentic and which are spurious. The old man was very fond of
children. They had the first Sunday school picnic in the village some time in
the seventies and the Pecks were instrumental in organizing it. They mould stay
up all night, it is said, to get the wagons and other things ready for a picnic.
They were great church -goers, and the old man was an active worker in the cause
of temperance.
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"There was another brother, Will, who entered the ministry. I have
here a catechism of his." Mr. Humiston hands me a little pamphlet, "A New
Catechism of the Protestant Christian Faith, arranged and issued by Rev.
William X. Peck, Corona, New York."
"Northfield has a very interesting history. Down in the old knife
shop --have you learned anything about that --at one time, before the advent of
the knife industry, they manufactured what they called pormanteaus. Now I've
always thought of a portmanteau as a sort of trunk, but here's what they made
there." Mr. Humiston indicates a small leather purse, with compartments for
coins and cards.
"As a matter of fact," he continues, "the Pecks iere not one of the
old village families. The Humistons were perhaps the earliest settlers in these
parts. Old Ben Humiston who died shortly after the war was the last of the
family. My family? Oh, no, we came from New Haven, but there was a connection
between us and the Northfield Humistons.
"And here," handing me the old book," is the Northfield history, sponsored
by the church." I turn the pages, to learn that Northfield was *formed into a
school district in 1774 (Dec. 27) and that a petition for a *winter parish" was
made March 27, 1775 by Roger Marsh and "32 others" but that the proceedings were
interrupted by the Revolutionary War. The petition was refused twice by the
General Assembly, but the village fathers, undaunted, kept up the fight until 1789,
when it was finally granted.
Our perusal of the history is noisily interrupted by the entrance in rapid
succession, of at least a dozen children, ranging in age from eight to fourteen,
and Mr. Humiston is kept busy marking borrowed books and accepting returned volumes.
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There is no attempt to observe the rule of silence generally eforced in libraries,
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the the hubbub is terrific. The harrassed Mr. Htmliston occasionally administers
a milk rebuke, to which not the slightest attention is paid.
An elderly lady, returning a book, id forced to shout almost directly
into the reverend gentleman's earphone. Mt. Humiston raises his voice above
the din.
"This is Mts. Goodwin," he says. "She is quite interested in local
history and she maybe able to help you." Mts. Goodwin, a friendly, garrulous
individual, smiles an acknowledgement, and turns once more to Mr. Humiston.
"I enjoyed that book immensely" she says. She refers to "Through the
Looking Glass," which she has just returned. "I think I like it even better
than 'Alice." And this is the fourth time I've read.it."
Mt. Humiston: "I've read it several times myself."
Mts. Goodwin: "Mays you by any chance got that new book? Grandma Calls It
Carnal?" (Addressing me) "Mr. Humiston has been laughing at
me ever since I asked for it. He says if I knew what the word
meant I wouldn't be so anxious to read it. Of course I know
what it means. But the title intriguee me. I want to read it."
Mt. Humiston: "Toll may find it disappointing." He turns to a youngster
clamoring for attention.
are. Goodwin: “Are you from a paper? I do quite a bit of newspaper work myself.
I write the Northfield news for the Thomaston paper. The publisher
is always after me to do same feature stories --you know Northfield
is just full of lore --but I haven't the time.
"Have you by any chance found out anything about Captain Marsh?
I've been trying to get some data on him for months. He lived just above here
and kept the old tavern for a while. And Jesse Grant. You know the Grants were
related to General Grant. Oh, my, yes. Oh Northfield is just crammed with interest-
ing history.
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"But I haven't the time to look up all the facts. You kn my husband
is ill, and he used to take care of the school, fix the and sweep up and
so forth, and now I have to do it. And between that and the newspaper work it
keeps me fairly busy.
"The Pecks? Oh, yes, why we used to lire right in the same house with
Howard at one time. I believe I have some poetry that he wrote, or his father
wrote, in one of my scrapbooks. And that anonymous poem about Northfield. We're
quite proud of that. You must see that. You give me a little time to look them
up, and come up to the house some day and I'll have them ready for you. Provided
I can find them.
"Well, I must be goin. Ireally must. School is out, and I have to go to
work. I'll look up those poem for you. Good day. Good day Mr. Humiston." But
Mr. Humiston, busily engaged with the younger patrons, fails to hear. He gazes
at me vaguely as I thank him for his courtesy a few minutes later, and it is plain
that he was on the point of forgetting my presence.