1.2 John Johnson  
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| Birth |
21 Nov 1767, Winchester, N.H. |
| Line |
(Capt. John, Isaac, Nathaniel, John, Edward, John.) |
[p. 31-37] Of the five children of John 1st and Ruth, I know more of John 2d than any of the others, for the reason that when I was a young man, at my request, my father, Leonard Johnson, son of John 2d, wrote memoirs of his early life; not very full, for I did not then know how to appreciate them, but now they are very highly prized. From them I learn that he was a farmer in Chester and Plymouth, Vt.; not strong of body, and died when the oldest of his children was about fourteen years of age. Not strong of body and an humble farmer, but of character he was among the noblest. It would be well if all of his children's children would emulate him. He was quiet, unassuming, of strong, upright, honest character. I will quote from my father's memoirs some paragraphs which may be of interest as well as history:
"He was a man of great integrity, honest, truthful, and hated the very appearance of evil. One circumstance that took place when I was about ten years old made a very deep and abiding impression on my mind. My father had moved from Chester to Plymouth, Vt. It was a new country and fruit was scarce. A few of the early settlers had taken care to plant orchards among the first improvements of their farms, and at this time began to yield them the long expected, precious fruit. There were in the neighborhood some lawless young men and boys, who were in the habit of stealing apples, to the great annoyance and vexation of the owners. One evening, just before going to bed, these young men came into our house with quite a bag of apples, to the joy of us boys, and began to hand them round for the family to eat. All took some, I think, but father. He refused to take any. They knew that he was very fond of apples, and began to urge him to take some, but he still declined. They wanted to know his reasons for refusing to eat. He then put some questions to them, as to where they got them and how they got them. Their answers were such as led him to believe that they had stolen them. He then said: 'This is the reason I cannot eat of them. You have obtained them in an unlawful way; stolen them, as I believe; and therefore I cannot eat of them, for the partaker is as bad as the thief.' This was said in a very solemn, serious manner, and excited the attention of all present. It certainly excited my attention. It was a new thought to me. It was among the first practical lessons in morals that I ever received, and one that I never forgot. It went with me through all my wanderings and temptations in life, and formed at once a principle in my mind that more or less influenced my conduct."
. . . "When I was not far from six years old, my father bought a farm in Plymouth, Vt., and we moved onto it. He bought it of one Mr. Mudge. It is the same farm which is now owned and occupied (1857) by Mr. Issac Pollard. The two-story, red house now occupied by Mr. Pollard was built by my father, and in which he lived until his death. (See opening chapter, Old Homestead.) However, the first house that we occupied in our new place of residence was a log house. We lived in that for two or three years.
I have said, the country was new and wild animals were very, plenty, such as bears, wolves, deer, foxes, etc. Often I have been to the door in the evening and heard the wolves in their tumultuous yell, in the woods about a mile from the house. And then as the neighbors would come in, in the evening, what long and startling stories we used to hear, and as one and another would relate his adventures in hunting, his fight with bears or wolves, or what some other one had done or seen or heard, their narrow escape from death, etc. But grandfather Mudge, as was conceded, I believe, on all sides, would excel them all in this line. When he came into the country it was an unbroken wilderness for a great many miles round him. This gave him the advantage of almost all others in story-telling. He was so much ahead of others in the settlement of the country, that if his stories were the fruit of only his imagination, or mere dreams, no one could dispute him, to call in question their reality. And as all enjoyed that kind of amusement so well, they were not very much disposed to dispute him, though many stories that he told were most absurd. And as I now remember them, they were entirely beyond the possibility of truth; and yet at the time now referred to he was a professor of religion, a zealous Methodist. He had frequent meetings at his house, and was himself very fervent in prayer. You may ask, what consistency in such storytelling and religion? I would answer, none at all. And the only apology that I can make for him, and this will not help him very much, is this. He had told the stories so often, though first he told them for amusement, yet now, after repeating so many times, he comes to believe them himself. But remember, my son, that a lie, though often told, does not make it the truth. It is a lie still. Here is the danger of story-telling or novel-reading---we may be led to believe a lie.
"There was one thing that took place about this time that gave us boys, as well as some others, rather a poor opinion of grandfather Mudge's integrity. As my brother Noah and myself were coming home from school, one day in summer, we heard a great noise of bees in the top of a large hemlock tree, close by the road. There was a swarm of bees either coming out of the tree or just going into it. My brother was older than myself, and probably understood bees better than I did. He cried out that he had found a swarm of bees. On our way home we had to go by grandfather Mudge's. He, by some means, found out our discovery, and went immediately and marked the tree in his name. When we had got back to the tree with father, we found that Mr. Mudge claimed it as his. My father, who was a man of peace, after a little talk, yielded it to him. In the fall, when they took it up, they had a washtub full of honey. But it was not very sweet to us boys. We ever felt that that honey belonged in justice to us. In our estimation, it was a stain on the old man's character that never wore off. Let us be careful and treat boys like men in all our transactions with them, for they will soon he men, and as men they will judge us." . . .
"My father's health began to fail when I was about nine years old. He had the consumption. The seeds of the disease were sown, however, when lie was a young man. He lamed his side by chopping, as I have heard him say, just as he commenced life for himself. He, ever after that, had a weakness in his left side. In going on a new farm in Plymouth, and in building a saw-mill, he worked beyond his strength, and in a few years began to sink under it. Then commenced our days of trial. My brother Noah, who was about two years and a half older than myself, had the management of the farm, with the little assistance that father and mother could give us. We raised a little corn and potatoes, and by a little help got in our hay and wood. But those were dark days. Father had just built the mill and the new house, of which I have before spoken, and was involved in debt. Creditors began to call for their pay, and father was exceedingly troubled because he could not meet their demands. The farm was mortgaged, or another man, by some means, had a claim to it, and after father's death it went into his hands. . . .
"After father's death, mother gave up all claim to it, even her third, and she and her six children were left without any means of support. I left home about a year before father's death."
"This winter my father died. One night in February a messenger came for me to go home, saying that they thought my father was dying. I went home, which was about two miles from where I then lived. I found him yet alive. He was able to speak to me, but in the agonies of death. He called me to his bed. He told me he was dying, but could say but little. Looking me earnestly and most affectionately in the face, he said: 'Leonard, you must be a good boy.' Whether he said anything more than this I cannot say. I do not remember. But this one short sentence I do remember. I never forgot it. Through all my wanderings in after life, I never forgot it. I did not at the time understand all that was implied in the term 'good boy.' But in after life I understood it more and more. I have often had occasion to bless God, and hope I shall in eternity, for that word of advice from the lips of my dying father. 'Leonard, you must be a good boy,' has rung in my ears by night and by day. and I have no doubt kept me from vice in times of temptation. . . .
"Mother lived in the old homestead for a few months, and then left it to Captain Pollard. She moved into a small house about half a mile west from where she used to live. There is no house now standing on that spot. But before she quit her old home, we used, occasionally, all get together and talk over past scenes and our future prospects, which were dark enough. These short visits together were much enjoyed by us all, though attended with many unpleasant reflections."
Such is part of the story of John Johnson, 2d, as told by a son, two years before his death -- a fine tribute of a loving son to a noble father, telling of the struggles of one of the many grand families in those early days -- families which have given Vermont character throughout the country.
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| Spouse |
Sally Damon |
| Father |
Noah Damon |
In the Boston Transcript issues of Oct. 3 and Oct. 17, 1934 are items relating to Sally and Nancy Damon of Chester, Vt.
ROLL OF HONOR
Noah Damon was father of Sally Damon, who married John Johnson<2> and of Nancy Damon, who married Luther Johnson<2>, and so was one of the progenitors of these two branches. Further than this I have been able to learn nothing of his life, excepting his Revolutionary war record, which I obtain from the pension department at Washington, which condensed. is as follows:
He was horn at Milton, Mass., Aug. 25, 1760. No record given as to when he enlisted, or in what regiment or company, but that he served under different captains; first under Captain Ebenezer Tucker, in April, 1775. During latter part of 1776 he served three months under Captain Stark and sustained a bayonet wound of right thigh on Long Island. His services are mentioned under different captains and colonels during the years of 1775, 1776, 1777, 1778, 1779 and 1780. He was pensioned January 9, 1850 at $80.00 per annum, from March 1, 1831, at the New Hampshire Agency.
After the war he removed to Waodstock, Vermont, thence to Eaton, Province of Lower Canada, where his first wife died.
He married at Bridgewater, Vt., Sept. 6, 1835, Esther Sumner. He died at Benton, N. H., July 2, 1853. His widow, Esther S. Damon applied for pension, Oct. 25, 1855. Her claim was allowed, and increased by special act of Congress, Feb. 28, 1905. She died at Plymouth Union, Vermont, Nov. 11, 1906. She was the last pensioner of the Revolution. The pension records in Washington will verify this.
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| Marr |
13 Nov 1794, Springfield, VT |
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