Lake County

SEVENTY YEARS IN THE COAL MINES

Pages: 1-16 * 17-47 * 48-71 * 72-101 *
102-115 * 116-134 * 135-151 * 152-16 * Index

ABOUT THE BOOK
 

 My great-grandfather, Philip FRANCIS, was urged by his children and grandchildren to write a book about his colorful life.  He wrote the manuscript in the 1930's when he was over eighty years of age.  He died March 25, 1945, at the age of 91.  As I was less than 2 years of age at that time, this book has been my opportunity to learn about my great-grandfather.  As the book was written for family alone, it was never published for distribution outside the family.  The publisher was instructed to create hardcover editions for each of his eight children and soft-cover editions for each of his grandchildren.  The following has been transcribed from my father's copy, which is now in my possession.

 In transcribing the book, I have made very few changes.  I have capitalized surnames for easier genealogical searching.  I have corrected a few spelling errors that might have misled readers (he misspelled the County of Glamorgan, Wales, as "Glanmorgan" and his name was written as Phillip in the book, although he had always spelled his first name as Philip).  I have left many of his misspellings and grammatical errors intact for historical accuracy.
Excerpts from the book were originally posted on the Schuylkill County rootsweb list (PASCHUYL-L@rootsweb.com) and on the Cumberland River list (CUMBERLAND-RIVER@rootsweb.com).  I was contacted by the coordinator of the Schuylkill County web site to collate the excerpts and to give my permission to post them on the Schuylkill County site.  I was happy to do this, and decided to include the entire book rather than the excerpts.  The page numbers are from the original book and are at the bottom of each original page.

 In addition to sharing this information that may be of genealogical interest to descendants of individuals named in the book, I would be very interested in obtaining additional information about those individuals.  I am especially interested in contacting distant cousins who might exist.  They would be descendants of Thomas JAMES, including his son, Arthur C. JAMES, who are half-cousins, and descendants of my second-great grandmother's sister, whose name I do not know. but one of her sons was named James THOMAS, born circa 1850-1855.  His widowed mother had remarried and lived with her new husband and blended family on upper Center Street in Mahanoy City, PA circa 1870. 

I hope that you find the book entertaining and useful.  

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    SEVENTY YEARS IN THE COAL MINES

      By Philip Francis

    Manuscript Assembled and Typed by

      LOUIS SMITH

      Edited by

     GEORGE D. DOMINICK

     PREFACE

 I am now past 90 years of age.  Seventy-two years of my life have been working underground, coal mining.  There have been three short publications of my life given by newspapers.  My relatives and friends asked me to write my full life.  Having had only a few months of schooling in a village school when a young lad, the story of my life will be crude.  It would be too difficult for me, as I would have to rely on my memory for things that have passed away long ago.  My memory still retains scenes that transpired more than 75 years ago.  We may wander away and mingle with the world's fierce strife and form new associations and friendships and fancy we have almost forgotten the land of our birth, but at some evening hour, as we listen, perchance to autumn winds, the remembrance of other days comes over the soul and fancy bears us back to childhood scenes.  We roam again the old familiar haunts and press the hands of companions long ago since passed on and we listen to the voices that we shall hear on earth no more.  It is then that a feeling of melancholy steals over us which, like music is pleasant, though mournful and sad.

 After life's rush is over, may you retain memories that are pleasant.

     INTRODUCTION

 It is not difficult to find self-made men in America.  Locating self-made men who have retained their principles while making themselves is more difficult. Such a man is Phil Francis, as he is lovingly called by thousands who know him and his work in Eastern Kentucky and Tennessee.  He climbed from a penniless orphan boy in the anthracite mines of Pennsylvania to a coal operator in the above states, fighting and clawing his way every step of the road, but never losing the consideration and fairness that restrained him from taking advantage of an adversary or claiming more than a modest share of any returns from an accomplishment.  He has, therefore, left a benediction in his wake, and today dwells midst the scenes of his labors, universally respected and beloved. Philip Francis belongs to that group of vanishing Americans who possesses ruggedness of purpose and character, who have not been softened by the modern conveniences of living or commerce, and whose feet are firmly planted upon granite principles which no expediency can persuade them to forsake.  Philip Francis was forceful enough to batter down every obstacle that blocked the way to sane, comfortable living for his family, yet soft enough to relish the odor of the most delicate perfume; hard enough to drive the pick's point into anthracite coal faster than any man on the job, yet soft enough to touch the keys of a piano with the gentleness of a maid; hard enough to conquer with his fists the frontier ruffians of another day, yet soft enough to speak of the love of God to men of this day; hard enough to endure the elements in the mountains for days while prospecting or hewing timbers, yet soft enough to enjoy the flowers around his home; hard enough to rush to the conflict with a zeal clearly displayed in his flashing, black eyes, yet soft enough to admonish all to "Keep Serene" if they would get the most out of life.

 Now past ninety years of age, Philip Francis is still vigorously going forward.  His hand is to the plow, and he is not looking back except to recount, as in the following pages, some of his experiences along the way.  Perhaps because he spent seventy years underground is the reason why he made a hobby of studying the heavens and their plants.  Perhaps this study is the reason why he has preserved himself while making himself.  Maybe this looking up has lifted him as he has lifted all who came in contact with him.  As one of these, I commend this book to its readers and vouch for the character and accomplishments of the man of the story.

T. RUSS HILL
Nov. 10, 1943  

   SEVENTY YEARS IN THE COAL MINES

 In the year of 1853, on the 7th day of June, in Danville, Pennsylvania, the writer, Philip FRANCIS, was born.  His parents came from Caerphilly, Glamorgan, South Wales.  They arrived in America in the year 1851.  Their destination was Danville where my father was to work in an iron mill, as there was considerable demand in America for workers in the iron mills.

 Wales at that time was well advertised for that class of labor. Many thousands of the Welsh left Wales with their families and located where there were state quarries and iron works in operation.  It was natural for America to look to Wales for that class of labor as there were many skilled iron workers and coal miners there.  These skilled laborers were needed in Pennsylvania.

 My grandfather's name was Richard FRANCIS.  He lived on a farm by the name of Evalt Farm near Caerphilly, Glamorgan, South Wales.  I have never visited Wales and cannot give a description of the farms, but when I was about ten years of age, I received a letter from him stating that he would like for me and my sister, Margaret, who was then about 12 years old, to come to Wales and live with him; to take care of the horses and to do other work that was necessary on the farm.  I did not know where my sister was as she had been separated from me years before.  He also stated in his letter that I was the nearest heir to the property.  Having no one to advise me, as my parents were dead, I stayed in Pennsylvania.

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    My father died when I was only two months old, at Danville.  I was informed that he was sick only a few days.  My mother then came to Minersville; from there to St. Clair; from there to East Delaware or East Norwegian.  This last place mentioned is the first place that I can remember in my childhood days.  It was there in a very old frame house, with leaky roof and cheerless surroundings, that mother died.  Two years ago, I visited the old house, still there, but almost ready to fall down.  Part of it had been removed and I was told it would all be torn down soon.  My mother must have had a very hard time, with two small children to take care of.  the years 1857-58 were desperate in the coal fields.  Just on the verge of civil war between the North and South.

 During these years my mind was just beginning to realize the many things that were going on about me.  When I would hear some one speak of the colored man, or slave, it was difficult for me to understand.  There were no colored people in that part of Pennsylvania near my old home.

 There was a small hill called Peacock Hill in East Delaware.  Men and women would gather there and listen to some man, who was a good reader, read from a newspaper at the evening hour, the latest news from Washington.  I can remember that many of them would become greatly excited when the reader would emphasize certain passages.  This reading continued when the war was going on.  At that time newspapers were scarce.

  I can vividly remember when the Government

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called for men to join the Union Army.  Some men would hide from the Government officers, sent to bring them.  I have seen them run through fields and woods with officers after them.  There was no let up until they were caught; then they must go to the front or else find a substitute to take their place.

 A few years after my father's death, my mother married again.  Her husband was a man named David JAMES, a coal miner.  They were married at St. Clair and moved from there to East Norwegian.  From that marriage one son was born, Thomas JAMES, four years younger than myself.

 At the time of my mother's death I was too young to remember what it all meant to me.  Shortly after her death my sister left to live with others.  My half brother was also taken care of by some neighbors; leaving me alone with my stepfather.  As he drank a good deal, he would leave me alone for several days and nights.  He would only come in to sober up.  Then he would go to the mines to earn more money.  After a few days in the mines he would repeat his drinking spree again.  He kept up this drinking habit as long as I knew him.

 During those drinking spells, no food was provided for me.  I have often been hungry.  I would go out on the hills in search of tea leaves, birch bark and slippery elm bark in an effort to ease my hunger.  There was plenty of good water to drink.  Some times a neighbor would bring in a few slices of home-made bread, very dry and hard, with common lard spread over it in place of butter.  Salt was spread on it to

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give it seasoning.  No matter how hard the bread was, it tasted good to me then.

Without the counsel of a father or the gently hand of a mother to guide me, I was growing up wild.  I was left-handed and had the habit of stone throwing.  This got me in trouble with other boys; especially Irish Catholic boys, who would make fun of me and call me names which caused me to run them with stones which I always kept handy about me.

 Fighting was common in those days with men and boys and also much drinking.  It was natural, with such influences around me to grow up wild.  I took the stand that I must fight my way through the world, if I expected to live.

 Let me relate one incident that made me bitter against those who mistreated me.  I was standing alone between a railroad and a creek.  A full grown man, an Irishman, called me to come to him.  I was always shy of going close to anyone, but I did cautiously go to him.  Suddenly he picked me up, carried me to the creek and held my head under the water, almost stopping my breath.  The water came from the coal mines and it was strongly impregnated with sulphur.  Twelve years after that, I was a grown man.  I looked for him but could not find him.

 Another incident that caused trouble in my life.  I was sent to a public school near by.  I had been there but a short time, when I got into a fight with a boy named HINKLE.  While we were punching and biting each other between the seats, Mr. KELLY, the teacher, came rushing down to us.  I had HINKLE down between the seats.  He thought I started the fight.

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 He threw me out the door over three steps.  I landed on my feet, picked up a piece of cinder, the size of a baseball, and as he looked toward me, when he was closing the door, I threw it and struck him on the eye.  Next day, I was watching him from a distance, and saw he had a bandage around his head.  My school days were over.  I was suspended by the trustees.  HINKLE and I had fought several times.  The teacher should not have placed us on the same seat.  I did wrong by throwing at the teacher, but my finger was bitten so badly and pained me so that I had forgotten that I was at school and had no chance to explain.

 An incident happened to me shortly after my school trouble that I have never forgotten to this day.  I was walking along the railroad track and noticed a man coming toward me.  I tried to avoid him but the place was narrow.  He spoke to me in a kind voice, placing his hand on my head, he said, 'Where are you going my boy?'  Not being accustomed to kind words, I could not look up nor speak to him.  Even to this day I have never forgotten the kind tone of his voice.  I have followed his example all through my life.  Whenever I meet a boy looking like I felt at that time, I can not pass him without speaking to him kindly and giving him some coins, and leaving him with kind words.  If I had known, at that time that some day I would write these things down, I would have kept many letters that I have received from men, now grown up, thanking me for my advice and kindness to them when they were boys.

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