Document text
kNIFEMAkER
G -ILL
j2‘445
Almost at the top of the 104,6 hill lined on either side with old fashioned
frame dwellings in good and bad repair that constitutes Northfield's Main Street
is the home of Henry Gill, who conducts as a one man industry the once flourish-
ing Northfield Knife Company. Mt. Gill's big white house bears evidence of care
and attention. Its paint is new, roof tightly shingled, front and side verandahs
neat and shining. Over the front door is the date of erection, "1856". Flanking
the house is a two car garage on one side and on the other the shop itself, a long,
narrow, one storied wooden building, white painted, many windowed.
Mr. Gill is not at home, but Mts. Gill is sure he'll be back shortly "if
you care to wait," and not long afterwards he enters the yard of the premises,
surprisingly enough, as a passenger on a fire truck. This venerable vehicle, it
turns out, has been purchased only recently by the citizenry after virtually 150
years of indifferent fire protection, and the village as a whole and members of
the newly organized department in particular experience a glow of pardonable pride
every time it chugs up Main Street. The body and hood of the truck have been newly
painted in brilliant scarlet, and in largo gilt lettering over the engine is the
legend, "Northfield Fire Department Amber One." (Number Two, it should be ex-
plained, is at this stage purely a matter of wishful thinking.)
Mr. Gill alights from his perch which is considerably higher than is con-
sidered fashionable these days --the truck being a Maxim of obvious maturity despite
its brave new color —and opens the garage doors while the driver, a plump young
man, hatless and curly haired, steers carefully inside. The tires need air;„ it
appears, and Mt. Gill has an electric pump which is at the disposal of the depart-
ment.
Iffow many you think she'll take, Herby?" asks Mt. Gill as the driver unscrews
the valve. "About 45," says Herby, applying the pump. Mt. Gill turns to ma in
W 461g F
quiringly and I make known my business.
"Well," he says, "if I had the time today, I could get you some data. I
got some stuff in the 'mime there. I got all the medals that were won at the
World's Fairs, seven of 'em in all, and I got records down at the old shop. You
see I kind of take care of that for the state, now. And all the records are there.
But I couldn't get at tam today.
"Would you like to see the little shop?" I answer affirmatively and Wt. Gill
leads the way, talking fluently. His aitches are noticeably absent and he tells
me that his father was one of the old "Sheffield Knifemakers" and that he himself
was taken to Sheffield as a small boy by his father, both returning later to this
country.
Illy father said he wanted to take me over there so he could properly show me
the knife trade, but I think to tell you the truth he just wanted an excuse to go
back." We enter the little shop, the interior of which is literally cluttered with
old machinery, presses, drop hammers, forges, benches, wheels, boxes of stock,
drawers, cupboards, belts, arranged in what is apparently a semblance of order to
Wt. Gill, but confusing to the layman.
An ancient hand forge has been placed near the entrance and upon it is a
most curious hammer, the haft polished smooth with long usage, the head —massive
though it is, worn rough with the striking of countless blows. But its peculiarity
lies in its shape, the head bent sharply downwards and in towards the haft instead
of in the conventional fashion.
"That," says Mt. Gill, "is a knifemaker's hammer, and the things they could
do with that tool you probably wouldn't believe unless you saw them. It's old,
at least a 'undred years and maybe more, that hammer is. Like all the stuff I
got 'ere. I got the remnants of four knife companies 'ere. Four of the best
companies in Connecticut, employ/32' between 'em nearly two thousand 'ands. And
this," (Mr. Gill looks around the little room with a kind of melancholy pride,)
"is all that's left."
"If I 'ad the time I'd make up a knife for you right from the beginning,
just to show you how it's done. I don't know whether I was fortunate or not,
but I was of an inquiring turn of mind when I was a youngster and I wasn't
satisfied till I learned all there was to know about the trade. There was about
five principal operations to the knifamaking business. Bladers, forgers, grinders,
cutlers, and finishers.
"Now this tamer 'ere. It was made this way so as to push the metal, instead
of flatten it. And look 'ere," indicating the forge, "the metal is sweating. That's
a sign of rain. A barometer. "Beads of moisture are noticeable on the forge, and
on some of the other mid machinery. "Don't ask me to explain it," says Mr. Gill.
"I bought out this stuff in 1930 and moved it up 'ere. I don't do much, and
it gets less every year. You might say it's more of a hobby with me. The most
business I've done in any one year was about eleven hundred dollars. Last year I
did something like two fundred and seventy five. And after I'd paid my lelp and
paid my taxes and so forth I 'ad just five dollars left to dhow for my year's work.
So you see I don't get nothing out of it. I get old George Wright up at the top of
the 'ere when I've any work. He's one of the old knifemakers. One of the few
that's left around 'ere.
"This 'ere building is the original knife shop that was established in 1858.
The lumber that's in this building is the lumber that was in the old knife shop;
and the windows and doors and all.
"I was superintendent of the old placelhen the Clark Brothers owned it, and
for a while after it went into receivership, and then when they discontinued the
operations there the state took it over and they sort of had me look after it. But
in 1930 I put up this building here and moved up the machinery and stock. All this
stuff that's in 'ere at one time would lave brought eighty thousand dollars.
That's what it was valued at. Remnants of four knife shops.
"Look 'ere," Mt. Gill reaches under a bench, brings out a small, but heavy
die. "Now it used to take a man all day to make up one of these9 And 'e might
time to do two or three of them for one knife. I could make you a knife if you
was to draw a design on paper for me. Just from lookin' at it. And so could any
good knifemaker.
"Came 'ere, I want to show you what old man Wright does." Mt. Gill takes
out of a box one of the smallest of knife blades, the type used in knives of the
watch charm variety, 'Se grinds these with his fingers, old man Wright does. Does
it all by guesswork. Would you believe that? And it comes out perfect. And he
fashions them with that big hammer there by the door, these little bladesS See
that swage there? Done with the hemmer. And these and all the others made 'ere
are from rod steel from England. I gat a couple of tons of it down in my cellar.
',There's six thousand dozen blades 'ere, all shapes and sizes. If 1 say it
myself, the knives I make are knives. They'll out. You buy these things they sell
in a ten cent store and see how good they are.
"The knife business was ruined by the machine age. The machine age and
borrowing money. Those are the two evils of the times. They got hammering them
out in mass production, and cheapening them more and more, and they forced all the
little fellows out, like our little company.
"Machines, machines, machines, and more production, and no equalization, so
that the ones that want to buy can't buy --you've got a terrible problem there. All
these little businesses, that started up in through 'ere, like this one, what's be-
come of them? They've gone down, like this one, or they've grown out of proportion
and are a dead weight. Top heavy. Like the automobile industry.
"There's a business that's got away from them and they can't control it. It's
responsible for a lot of bad things, say what you've a mind to. And the air-
plane. This world would be better off if the Wright brothers had never drawn
breath of life. A toy, you might say, in the hands of children. Vicious
children.
"I've lived my life, most of it, and I don't give a damn, in a way, but I
'ate to think of what's in store for my children and my grandchildren. Things
can't go on this way. There's goin' to be some kind of an upteaval, everything
points to it.
"I honestly believe, young man that I lived through the best period this
country ever saw, or ever will see. There'll never be a return to it, without some
vast change. There'll be a lowerim, of the standard of livint, maybe. A return
to where it used to be. 'Ow can this country continue to compete with countries
like Japan, where they pay about seven cents a day for labor? Or Germany and Italy
where it ain't much better.
"I can remember when things were much simpler 'ere, and it seems to me people
were sappy. They were secure, at least, and they knew if they lost a job they
could get another somewhere, if they were willing to work. Not that way today.
"'Ow much do you think those 'ouses cost across the street there, when they
was put up, back in the sixties? The company 'ouses? Exactly four 'undred dollars
apiece. They didn't 'ewe the perches on
but they were good solid little 'ouses.
You 'eve to pay about two thousand for a
like they 'ave now, nor anything fancy,
They rented for about six dollars a
'ouse like that today.
"It was a ford life, maybe, in lots of ways, but it was 'ealthy, too.
month.
M7
father walked, one time, from Canton, O'io, to Southington. That do you think of
that? There wasn't any 'itch 'ikin'. BS walked all the way.
"They didn't make much in the shop, but they got by on it. Families with two
or three or four or five children. I've seen women working in this 'ere knife factory
for four cents an hour. Setting edges and cleaning knives -and that.
"The old time knifemakers worked on piecework, and they made pretty good
money, as pay went in those days, but the important thing was their trade. The
state was full of knife factories, and they could always get a job. That gave
'em security. And they'd work till they were so old they had to be helped down to
the factory and set in their chairs. They took pride in their work, and the con-
sequences was they did wonderful work. Do you see that today? A man can't take
pride in it, if everything is done by machinery.
"So they saved and they scrimped and some of them bought farms and their own
houses. They knew how to do without things, which is something the young folks don't
know today. You went up to see old man Wright, you say? Well, you didn't see any
electric lights up there did you? Or any vacuum cleaners or things like that? Ellsir,
the Wrights burn oil lamps. But they're not on relief. They know how to live with-
in their means. They never will be on relief.
"Look at the road out there, I can remember when it was so deep in mud this
time the year, you'd go over your ankles. But now it's macadam surface, and if
there's three inches of snow on it, the state plow 'as to clear it off. We've got
to pay for that, 'aven't we, one way or the other. Things are getting away from us.
"I couldn't keep this business goint, if I was to depend on it for a livin'.
Fortunately, I'm independent of it. It's a 'obby with me, more than anything else.
Well, if you come around some other day, I'll try and 'aye some data for you."