Chapter VII: Preface (1)

These reminiscences were written by Dr. Halsey for “The Unadilla Times” and were printed in the columns of that newspaper in the spring and summer of 1890. In the following winter they underwent revision, with a view to their appearance in pamphlet form for distribution among his old friends. He had long been in failing health and on February 17, 1891, he passed away at his home in Unadilla. The last mental exertion in which he ever engaged occurred two days before his death and was connected with these papers.

Beginning in the spring of the same year the present writer undertook to prepare a series of footnotes to these papers, with an introduction, giving a brief outline of the early history of this part of the upper Susquehanna Valley. As the subject was investigated, it became evident that for such an introduction a great mass of material, largely unpublished, could be had in libraries and state archives,—in New York City and Albany, and in the Harvard University library and the Wisconsin State Library at Madison. The work of years, rather than of weeks was seen to be necessary to prepare a record that could aspire to be at all worthy of the historic interest of the subject.

Researches from year to year finally resulted in the preparation not of a mere introduction to the reminiscences, but a formidable manuscript of many hundred pages and more than 150,000 words, embracing not only the history of Unadilla village, but the entire upper Susquehanna valley from Otsego Lake to Old Oghwaga, and many neighboring localities. This manuscript that has since been divided into two parts, one of local interest, the other of general,—“The Pioneers of Unadilla Village”, now submitted to the public, and “The Old New York Frontier.” The real germ of the two volumes, therefore, lies in these reminiscences. Indeed, except for my father’s work, those volumes never would have been undertaken.

F. W. H.

146 W. 119TH ST., NEW YORK. Dec. 10, 1901.

Born in 1819, Died in 1891.]

I.

KORTRIGHT AND UNADILLA.

1819-1840.

Readers of our village paper may find some interest in the personal reminiscences of one who came to Unadilla just half a century ago in April of this year, 1890. Such a record may properly include a brief reference to my childhood and early youth, which were spent elsewhere, the object being to contrast old circumstances with the advantages now accessible for training and educating the young that they may the more readily and completely fulfill the purposes of the Great Father of us all.

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.

My school days at Kortright were confined to the district school, and three years in a private school kept by the village clergyman.[45] I then spent a year at Hartwick Seminary[46] near Cooperstown from which place I walked at the close of the term to my home in a day, a distance of 30 miles. The greater portion of the three years of private instruction I have always looked upon as lost or wasted, it having been mainly devoted to acquiring a smattering of the dead languages, Latin and Greek. I say wasted, unless the case were that of a person desirous of becoming a teacher, or of diving into moss covered theological traditions. Even such persons however would be better fitted to advance the general welfare of the race, if they devoted more energies to acquiring a knowledge of what pertains to that welfare, through methods of mental development that belong to modern times. I recently read in the Delhi Gazette a notice of the death of Robert F. McAuley, a member of the bar, at Kingston, on the Hudson river. He was an old schoolmate, and the youngest child of the Rev. William McAuley, referred to above as the village clergyman, whose private school I attended.

The son and I were very intimate in our youthful associations. This led to what I may call an epoch-making incident in my youthful history. In those days the military law of the state called for a general training day; all males between the ages of 18 and 45 were required to be enrolled and to do two days’ duty yearly—one day of company, and one of general training. General training was looked forward to yearly as a very important event, not only for doing military duty, but as a general holiday for the amusement and recreation of old and young, both male and female. Our fathers decided, in order to encourage us in our studies, to give us the privilege of attending the coming general training, which was to be held that year at Delhi; that is, provided we were studious, and attentive to our school duties.

On the morning of the anxiously looked for day we received a letter of introduction to General Erastus Root,[47] of Delhi, who at that time was the most prominent lawyer and statesman in that section of the country, if not in the State, and the commanding officer of the military force assembled. We were received very kindly, and placed in charge of his son, who took pleasure in showing us over the field where the exercises took place, and we went home at night feeling greatly elated over the reception and other delights of the trip.

Mr. McAuley was one of the most highly educated men of his day, a graduate of Glasgow, Scotland; he was as familiar with Latin, Greek, and Hebrew, as with the English language. His church was of the Scotch-Irish Presbyterian faith—“Seceders” as they called themselves in those days; he was looked up to and revered by the entire community, and was the peace-maker in all differences that arose among his parishioners. The communicants numbered several hundred. The grounds about his church on every Sunday were crowded with teams; in fact Sunday was like a general training day in point of numbers. Within a radius of six miles from his church I am sure it is no exaggeration to say there would not be fifty of the populace absent from the services, which were made up of two long sermons each day, opening and closing with a prayer of corresponding length.

At his death the congregation split up into three churches which I am told have a comparatively feeble existence; in fact I was told on a recent visit to the old home by one of the most prominent members of the parent church, that he doubted whether they could longer sustain a clergyman and that they would probably be obliged to sell their building to the Methodists. Mr. McAuley raised to maturity 16 children—9 sons and 7 daughters; he lived to bury all I think but four or five. He was totally blind for several years before he died.

At the age of sixteen I was left an orphan by the death of my father, my mother having died five years previous. They both lie buried in a favorite corner of the ground he owned near the old home which was reserved at the sale of the estate after he died. Time and the elements have not dealt kindly with their monuments, but it has recently been a reverent occupation of my brothers and myself to restore them and enclose the grounds with a new wrought iron fence. The old buildings are still standing, but in a very dilapidated condition; the office, a two story building—the upper story, used by his many students as a dissecting room—stands unoccupied; even the outside front door was unclosed on a recent visit. But in most other things there has been little change. Kortright presents today essentially the same scene that I looked upon in boyhood,—except that the inspiring scenes of busy life along the highway are known no more.

On reviewing at this date the following few years of my free intercourse with the world, unchecked and uninfluenced by parental restraint, I am astonished at my escape from moral destruction, through the wiles and baneful influences, which are every where so prevalent and attractive in appearance to the uncultured, easily impressed, youthful mind. Does the world and do parents, realize their responsibility in watching over and guiding children through this, the most critical period, morally speaking, of life, from sixteen to twenty-one? If we only look about we may see a horde of stranded, mental and physical wrecks as compared with the few who are carried safely through that period.

After spending three years required by law as a medical student, beginning with Dr. E. T. Gibbs in Kortright, two years after the death of my father and ending with Drs. Fitch and Hine of Franklin, I was graduated and received my diploma from the Fairfield Herkimer County Medical College, which was afterward moved to Albany and merged into the college established there.[48] This was in the winter of 1839-40, three months before I reached my majority.

As an example of the wonderful advancement in all departments of knowledge, allow me here to mention the little that was then known of the wonderful, all-pervading principle of electricity. The professor of chemistry at the Fairfield College, James Hadley, when lecturing upon that subject, said to the class before him that this principle, so omnipresent throughout nature, could never be of practical use, for the reason that it could only be made to produce motion, being without other power, and to prove it he had an apparatus, driven by electricity, by which a wheel was made to revolve rapidly, but the slightest obstruction, as a feather, would stop it. He was estimated to be one of the highest of chemical authorities. Could he return to life again with what amazement would he look upon the influence that this element is exerting upon the enlightenment and advancement of the world.

In looking about for a place in which to open an office for the practice of my profession, I decided to stop at what is now Scranton,[49] Pennsylvania, then a hamlet known as Razorville and a lumbering section. Coal was known and the people of the region were burning it but it had no commercial value, for the simple reason that there were no railroads or other facilities for transporting it to market. I finally abandoned the idea and on the 9th day of April, 1840, landed in Unadilla and took board with Erastus Kingsley but not having the traditional shilling piece in my pocket; instead I had $5 borrowed money, and a debt of $700 on my shoulders.

The 9th day of April, 1840, was a clear beautiful spring day; the ground was dry, roads were dusty and farmers busy with their spring’s work. On my way from Franklin to Unadilla on horseback, when opposite the old Daniel Beach Hotel,[50] two miles west of Franklin, a hotel having a reputation far and wide, my horse stumbled throwing me over her head sprawling into the dust, but luckily doing me no damage other than covering me most thoroughly with dust.

Unadilla Village was then a hamlet estimated to contain 300 inhabitants; there were three physicians, one of whom had come in the year before and bought the old Bragg Hotel, the property known in later years as the Dr. Odell place. Had I known that this gentleman intended to practice his profession, in addition to keeping a hotel I probably should not have ventured to remain here, but once arrived and circumstanced financially as I was, I could see no alternative but to stay, and sink or swim as the fates might decree. The two other physicians, Drs. Cone and Colwell, had been here many years, and were firmly established practitioners. While their deportment toward me as a new comer and competitor, was cool and dignified, I had no reason to complain of their treatment. The outlook at best was anything but encouraging for a young stripling lacking a month of being of man’s age.

II.

UNADILLA SIXTY YEARS AGO.

1840.

The village as it would have appeared upon the map in 1840 I may describe as follows: Beginning at the upper or east end, the first building was a one story, weather-beaten house, standing near the shanty occupied by Mrs. Slavin; it was the home of our venerable disciple of St. Crispin, S. H. Fancher.

Then came the house now owned and occupied by Horace Eells. It then stood on the opposite or eastern corner of the old Butternuts road—the site is now occupied by another house—and was owned by David Finch, father of Wm. T. Finch, Esq.

A few rods back on the old Butternuts road stood a small, low shanty that had been used in connection with the Noble and Hayes distillery (since occupied as a tannery by Mr. Eells) as a hog pen; it was then occupied by a family of the name of Nichols—Ti Nichols, who was one of my first patrons. I shall ever retain a feeling remembrance of the premises, for the reason that on my first visit in a dark night, the crown of my head came in violent contact with a knot in a beam over head, the room being not over five feet in the clear.[51]

On the site now occupied by Mr. Eells’s house there stood one of the first houses built in this place, the house on the present Post Office corner being the other and of the same style. The one in question was then occupied by Amos Priest, who was the practical farmer for the Noble and Hayes firm.[52]

Next was the old store building of the above firm, soon afterward used as a tobacco and cigar factory by Noble and Howard.

The two next as now standing were the residences of the Noble and Hayes families with the farm house next adjoining. Mr. Noble had died a few years previously. Mr. Hayes was still living and dealing quite largely in fat stock.

Next came the old yellow building that was recently torn down and a double tenement house erected on its site.

Thence was a vacancy down to the premises now occupied by Frank Bacon, where was a small house afterward succeeded by the present neat cottage.

Next was the adjoining property with the present rear portion of the house; the front was afterward built. This house and the small house to the east of it were then owned and occupied by Thomas H. Graves, a partner in the stage route between Ithaca and Catskill.

The two next were as now the H. H. Howard and Benjamin H. Ayers houses,[53] the latter being years after remodelled by the late Simeon Bidwell.[54]

Thence we pass to the stone law office of C. C. Noble.[55]

Thence was a vacancy down to the site of the A. B. Watson house now occupied and owned by H. C. Gregory, where then stood the Masonic Hall afterwards moved to its present location on Watson Street, and converted into a dwelling by William J. Thompson.[56]

Between this hall and the brick hotel stood the Mechanic’s hall, afterwards moved to its present site and now owned and occupied by R. M. Brant as a grocery and dwelling.

The brick store was then occupied by the firm, I think though am not positive, of Noble and Emory, but it was soon changed to Watson and Noble and finally to Watson and Hayes.

Next came the brick hotel opened that spring by Erastus Kingsley who was probably as well known as a hotel landlord as any man in the rural part of the state. He could count his patrons by the hundred; when traveling they would go 10, 15, and 20 miles extra, just to stay over night with “Old Kingsley.”

All was now vacancy again down to the old yellow house on the corner of Martin Brook Street now owned by the writer.

There were no buildings on Martin Brook Street except a small one story one which is now a part of Dr. Joseph Sweet’s residence; it was then occupied by the widow Lamb and two sons, Lewis and Gurdon.

Next on Main Street came the Rev. N. H. Adams house with farm attached, Lewis Lamb, above mentioned, being his farm hand. This is the house now owned and occupied by M. P. Sweet.[57]

Again was a vacancy down to the stone houses; the first or eastern one was built and occupied by George H. Noble, the other was built by F. A. Sands and occupied by Judge Page, who had purchased it on the death of Mrs. Sands, who was the Judge’s daughter.[58]

Where now stands the Lyman Sperry house stood an old house owned by Bradford Kingsley, the father of Erastus.

Then was a vacancy again to the corner of Clifton Street, since opened, where stood the old Benton and Fellows store, the front of which—afterward built on—was moved across the street and is now the Fellows Block, occupied by M. B. Gregory, the printing office, etc. The firm name was then, I think, Benton and Fellows, but it was soon changed to Fellows, Mead and Finch.

Next was the old Benton house, then occupied as now by Major C. D. Fellows in whose house the elder Benton, his father-in-law, died a few days or a short time after my advent.

A vacancy occurred again and extended down to the house then owned and occupied by Col. Daniel Cone, since remodelled.[59]

A small house stood next, on the lot now occupied by Col. Samuel North’s residence; it was afterward moved farther down on the south side of the street and is now owned by Mr. Bryant, the cooper.

Next was the adjoining brick house, owned by Esq. Eells, father of Horace Eells, and of the wife of E. C. Belknap, the present owner.

Then came the frame part of Edson and Hanford’s carriage shop;[60] and then the brick shop and Wilmot’s cabinet shop.

The adjoining house now owned by the A. P. Gray estate[61] was then owned by a blacksmith of the name of Chatfield, whose wife, a sister of our old patriarch O. F. W. Crane, was in the last stages of consumption, and was put into my hands as a patient by her then attending physician, one of my old preceptors, Dr. Francis W. Hine,[62] of Franklin.

The Oldest House in the Village.]

After the A. P. Gray house came the Wilmot homestead.

The next was an old rookery where the residence of the widow Briggs now stands and in the same yard stood a small house which was afterward burned.

Then came a house patterned after the old house behind the Post Office. An incident attached to the latter dwelling I overlooked in its proper place and will give it here. I bought this property, on the corner of Martin Brook Street, in 1850, of Col. A. D. Williams, and lived in it seventeen years. Here my sons were born. While living there I took out the chimney and in doing so, came across a brick, on which were the initials of a man and the year 1809, thus giving at least a hint as to the age of that chimney.[63] The house mentioned above stood on the site of the fine residence afterwards erected by Evans Owens, which was burned mysteriously.

Next was the Dr. Nijah Cone house, now owned by his grandson Frederick L. Cone, and then the Gilbert Cone house, now owned by James White.

If we now cross the road and return, we find the house at the foot of the hill which was the Niel Robertson residence.

The next house stood where the John Van Cott residence now is[64] and was owned by Johnson Wright who conducted a tannery in the rear of the house. He had a leather store in a building which was moved and now stands on Martin Brook Street where it has been converted into a house for rental.

Then came the house[65] and store owned by Colonel Sheldon Griswold, now the property of the Rev. Mr. Hayes. The store was occupied by Griswold and Cone, Lewis Cone being Mr. Griswold’s partner.

A house occupied by A. P. Gray who was running a harness shop came next.

From there all was vacant up to the Dr. Edson place, now belonging to the Peter Rifenbark estate.[66]

From there the land was all open up to the hotel now the Unadilla House.[67]

Next came the old Page house now owned by H. E. Bailey.

From there all was vacant up to the old school house site now occupied by the Teller residence, except that there was a building on the corner of Main and Walnut Streets, which was afterward moved and is now the upright part of the Jordan place on Walnut Street.

Adjoining the school house stood, as now, the H. S. Woodruff place, and next a small house, where now the L. L. Woodruff house stands. This house was moved and is now occupied by Mr. Price, on Watson Street.

Next came the Episcopal Church and adjoining it a house where the rectory stands, which was moved to Martin Brook Street for a house to rent.

Next was a small house which is now the rear part of the L. B. Woodruff house.[68]

Next across the street came the store and dwelling of Colonel A. D. Williams, now owned respectively by A. Mallory and D. P. Loomis.

Then came the brick house owned by Joel Bragg and now the property of Dr. Gregory.

The next was the hat shop of B. H. Ayers, afterwards converted[69] into a dwelling and now owned by Lyman DeForest and occupied by Charles Mulligan.

The next was the old Bragg Hotel now owned by our agent at the railroad station, Mr. Adams.[70]

From there was an open space up to the old Bissell residence which recently passed into the hands, by purchase, of Mr. and Miss Jeyes.

Next was an old house, since torn down, occupied by Daniel Hayes, a hatter. Lastly came the old Judge Beach house which now is the Oliver Buckley residence.[71]

Thus I have mentioned every house and building of any importance which constituted the village of Unadilla when I first became a resident and which stood on Main Street. Watson Street has since been opened through to Bridge Street with the exception of the portion that runs through the land between the Misses Raitt and Miss Elizabeth Veley residences, but there were no buildings yet erected on it. There was not a dwelling or other building standing on Mill Street except the Woodruff stone blacksmith shop, J. Hanford’s wagon shop, the mills and the house where Hiel Crandall lives, which was then the Mill house and stood on the corner by the Condensery.

Martin Brook road had been opened a few years previous. It was opened in its upper part largely through the efforts of A. B. Watson and A. D. Williams who desired to bring business from the Rogers Hollow country to the upper end of the village. The land on either side was in a state of nature, covered from near the Eells tannery, with pine and hemlock; nearly an unbroken forest through to the Wheeler Warrener farm on the Rogers Hollow side of the hill. There was a small clearing on what is now the John Osborn farm, and just beyond, a man of the name of Wycott, had rolled up the year before, a small one room log house. The road was hardly passable the greater portion of the way and I had quite a serious time one very dark, stormy night in getting home from a visit to one of the Bartholomew families, then living beyond the Rogers Hollow Creek.

I was on horseback, and started for home about eight or nine o’clock, as near as I can remember. It was raining and as dark as a pocket, but I had no difficulty until I reached the summit of the ridge, coming toward the village, where I struck the thickest of the woods. The limbs and underbrush began to whip me in the face, and I soon became aware that my horse had lost the trail—it was not fit to be called road—but I could do no better than give her the reins, protect my face from the brush, and allow her to go where she pleased. After what seemed to me hours, I discovered in the distance, a slight glimmer of light and pointed for it. I found it to be the reflection, through the unmudded chinks, of the Wycott house fire place. They were all abed, and had left the brands burning and the light showing between the logs. I hallooed and induced the old man to lend me his lantern. When I reached home the clock was striking twelve so that I was certainly three hours traveling some three and a half or four miles.

An amusing incident in my experience in that neighborhood occurred on the Osborn farm above referred to. An old log house standing near the creek below the Osborn barn was occupied by Ethan Allen, known as “Capt. Horn,” who was given, as those who remember him will recall, to boasting and telling pretty tough yarns, one of which gave him the nickname above mentioned. This yarn related to his grabbing a bull by the horns and hurling him off a bridge and twisting off the horns.

Well, I was called to see him one cold night and found him suffering severely from pleurisy; while preparing to bleed him, which was the accepted treatment in those days for that disease, he made the remark, in his boastful way, that he had never fainted in his life, and that I might take as much blood out of him as I pleased; I could not make him faint. Feeling a little mischievous I concluded to test his powers of endurance. I drew him up before the fireplace, where a roaring fire was burning, corded his arm, made a free opening into the vein, and the blood poured out in a stream nearly as large as my little finger. In less than two minutes he was on his back on the floor in a complete faint. After a few moments he came to; looking up and rubbing his eyes he said: “Doctor, I was not the least bit faint. I was only a little sick at the stomach and thought I would lie down a moment.”[72]

III.

OLD INHABITANTS AND EARLY PRACTICE.

The following are the names, I believe, of all persons now living whom I found here in April, 1840, and who are still residents in April, 1890: S. H. Fancher, C. I. Hayes, Mr. and Mrs. H. H. Howard, Mrs. C. C. Noble, Mrs. Curtis Gregory, Mrs. A. P. Gray, Major C. D. Fellows, Mrs. E. C. Belknap, Miss Elizabeth Veley, David Hanford, Samuel D. Bacon, Mrs. Louisa Hanford, Mrs. Edson Jennings, Emeline Wilmot and Captain F. A. Bolles. Others who were then here and are still living elsewhere are these: Mrs. George H. Noble, Waverley; Mrs. A. B. Watson, New York; Samuel Robertson, Corning; Mrs. R. S. Hughston, Delhi; William T. Finch, Chicago, and J. I. Laraway. C. W. Carpenter arrived a month later.[73]

J. I. Laraway and his father-in-law Weidman had recently purchased the water power and mills of Joel Bragg, and had moved in from Schoharie County a month or two ahead of me. Older citizens will remember the disaster which befell them soon after their arrival, by the going out of the river dam.

The only Church was St. Matthew’s, of which the Rev. N. H. Adams was rector. He was universally beloved and was very attractive in the pulpit, the church being well filled upon all occasions when he preached. The district school offered the only facilities for educating the young, but it was generally supplied with excellent teachers.

Captain “Horn” was one of my first and most constant patrons. He then lived on the old Butternuts road, about two miles from the village, in a tumbled down log house—log houses were the rule in those days; outside of the villages a frame dwelling was comparatively rare—with a flock of small children nearly as wild as Arabs. My day book for the year 1840 will show that I averaged visits twice a week professionally and my only recompense was the working of my poll tax and an occasional day’s work he did on the lot which I now occupy purchased of A. B. Watson and Isaac Hayes in 1841.

As an instance of how lasting an impression a slight and insignificant matter will make on a person’s mind I give the following: In the woods as you climb the hill on the old Butternuts road going north one day I saw a bird about half the size of a robin, of a dirty red plumage, which had as I remember, but two notes to its song and these of a mournful character. Whenever I have since heard that bird’s song it has brought to my mind the idea of pinching poverty, so closely associated was it with my frequent travels to that poor family.

Col. Williams’ store, on the corner of Mill Street, was a rendezvous in those days for the genial spirits of the village including the Colonel himself. It was rare fun to listen to the jokes and repartee of a coterie of fun-loving men, made up of Dr. Colwell, Rufus G. Mead, Benjamin H. Ayers, L. Bennett Woodruff, A. B. Watson, David Finch and others. The shots and jokes flew thick and fast, keeping the room in a roar of laughter.

Mr. Woodruff was then running the blacksmith shop. He had recently bought a pair of sporting fowls. Mr. Mead rushed into the shop one morning, saying to Mr. Woodruff hurriedly, “there’s a crow in your walnut tree; let me take your gun.” Mr. Woodruff had a double barrelled gun, and prided himself on his abilities as a marksman. He insisted on using it himself—just what Mr. Mead wanted him to do. Mr. Woodruff loaded both barrels and creeping out very cautiously to a proper distance, blazed away and brought down his blooded hen. It was a long time before he heard the last of that joke.

When “Mesmerism” began to attract attention, Dr. Colwell took quite an interest in it. Mr. Mead thought he saw an opportunity to accomplish a good joke on the doctor. He proposed to mesmerize him and appointed a time for the experiment. He prepared on the sly a dinner plate, covered on the bottom with lamp black, which he gave to the doctor to be held by him in front with the clean side opposite his face, Mr. Mead sitting in front with a similar plate, minus the lamp black. Dr. Colwell was to make every motion that Mr. Mead made. Mr. Mead drew his finger across the bottom of his clean plate, and then across his forehead. Dr. Colwell started to make the same motion on his blackened plate—he of course being ignorant of the lamp black—but instantly fathomed the aims of the enemy and putting his thumb to his nose, said, “Don’t you wish you could!”

The street was alive with similar episodes in those days, but when town meeting occurred, then what a tumult! The cries were “up-street” and “down-street!” and “Hurrah, boys”; there was war to the knife for the two factions and a triumph duly celebrated by the winning side. Happily those days, so suicidal and damaging to the welfare of the village, are fast becoming mere matters of history.

Some time in the month of June following my advent in Unadilla, a renowned menagerie—June, Titus and Angevine’s—appeared for exhibition; they stayed over night with Kingsley, where I was boarding, leaving before day break. Mr. June, on going out of his sleeping room in the dark, fell down the stairway, bruising himself severely and had to remain behind for two days. I being in the house was called up to see to his injuries, for which I charged him one dollar. This was the first money I received from my profession.

My first act in dental surgery was performed on the person of the well known Lewis Carmichael, who at that time was a rising influential politician; in fact he almost controlled the politics of the town, though he was not old enough to use the franchise himself.[74]

At the close of my first year of practice I had charged the sum of $125, as my day book will show and three quarters of it still stands unpaid. I owed Kingsley ninety odd dollars for board for which I gave him a note, that was current in the community for several years, apparently legal tender; it passed through many hands before it finally reached mine again. This was anything but encouraging. The future had a decidedly blue look but I could do nothing less than hang on and hope.

I had then a friend to whom I owe a lasting debt of gratitude, which it has ever been a great pleasure to repay so far as has been in my power by rendering similar encouragement to the young man just starting out. His name was Harry Wolcott; he lived on the farm now owned by Gardner Rider on the Franklin road in Sidney and was a bachelor living with an invalid maiden sister. Whenever I met him his encouraging words were “stick doctor; you will finally succeed.” No one but he who is similarly situated can realize and appreciate the value of such a friend as he was. He held a high position in the community as an intelligent, thorough-going business man. That his surroundings in his present state of existence are more in consonance with his faculties and aspirations I can have no doubt.[75]

Asking pardon for this digression, I resume my story. In the fall of 1840—when I cast my first vote, which was cast for Martin Van Buren—I married Theodora Kirby, daughter of Reuben Kirby,[76] of Bainbridge, and began house keeping in the spring of 1841, in the house now owned by Mr. Morse on the corner of Main and Walnut Streets which had been built in the summer of 1840. Death claimed her a little over two years afterwards, beloved by all who had ever known her.

In the spring of 1841 a boy came asking me to go over to what was then known as the Baxter Saw Mill, on Carr’s Creek,[77] to see his brother. On reaching the bridge crossing the creek on the river road, I met another boy urging haste. I hurried accordingly, and when I reached the house a young man stood in the door in great agony for want of breath. Just as I reached him after tying my horse he began to settle down in a suffocating condition. I caught him in my arms and laid him on the bed. After a hasty inquiry, the house being filled with the family and neighbors, I surmised where the difficulty was, unbuttoned his shirt collar and took out my thumb lancet—having no other instrument with me. Mr. Chester Sweet, father of the two Drs. Sweet, a giant of a man, then stepped up and asked, “what are you going to do doctor, cut his throat?”. I replied “yes.” “You must not do it” said he, “let him die a natural death” making a motion to push me away. I replied, “Stand back! I am the doctor here, and you interfere at your peril.” I passed the lancet into the trachea or wind pipe, just below the “Adam’s apple,” or prominence in the male neck, and called for a goose quill, having rolled the man over on his face to prevent the blood from running into the opening.

The instant the lancet entered the trachea the air rushed into the lungs with a whistle, so forcibly were the muscles endeavoring to inhale air into the lungs. In a few moments he recovered consciousness and continued to breath through the quill until the next morning. This operation had taken place in the afternoon. In the night, or toward morning, an abscess broke, discharging a large amount of pus. The operation thus was successful and the fellow lived many years. News of the operation was carried far and near. The young doctor had actually brought a dead man back to life; so went the report, and from that time on I had my share of business.

My first opportunity for treating a broken bone was the case of a young lady living two miles below Teedville, on Trout Creek, a sister of Mrs. H. B. Crooker of this village. On her return from a visit to her parents to resume her position in the woolen mill, then in operation at Crookerville, she was thrown from her carriage, breaking the bone between the knee and hip. In passing over the road to reach her I did not wonder at the accident; a worse road to be called a highway could not be found. I never had better success in all my experience in after practice.

Many years afterwards I had a similar case which proved disastrous to the patient from causes beyond control, but resulted in my having to defend a charge of mal-practice at Delhi. A Mr. Bundy, of East Masonville, had the misfortune to break his thigh. He was past the prime of life, and had been a sufferer for many years from chronic diarrhœa, from which cause he was very thin in flesh, his physical powers poorly conditioned to withstand the strain of a long confinement upon his back as was necessary in the treatment of his injury. I apprised him of the fact at the time, that he might understand his danger.

I used every effort to support his feeble condition but with such slight success that at the end of seven weeks I was obliged to relieve him from the close restraint in order to save his life—three months is the average duration of time necessary in such cases. He fully understood the condition and refused any professional counsel, which I tendered, expressing himself as having confidence in the wisdom of my management. The result was a bending at the seat of the fracture, the callosity not having become sufficiently hard to offset the contraction of the muscles and he was a cripple for the remainder of his life. More than a year afterward, through the influence of professional rivalry, he became dissatisfied, and prosecuted me. The case was tried at Delhi and resulted in disagreement of the jury. Before the sitting of the next court the plaintiff voluntarily offered, through his attorney, to drop the case by each party paying his own costs, which I accepted, notwithstanding Judge Mason, before whom the case was tried, told my counsel he never saw a more complete defense established, and that I was entitled to a verdict.

My first obstetrical case was in the family of John Butler,[78] father of Captain Frank Butler. Dr. Cone was the family physician but was not obtainable, and as a last resort I was called to officiate. I shall never forget the reception I met with, and the close scanning by the sharp black eyes of the patient, with the severe catechising I had to endure. Expecting her “old doctor,” and seeing a young stripling—“Dr. Bean Pole”[79] I was called in those days—she as a matter of course was taken by surprise, never having seen me before. That straight laced moralist, who believes the sin of lying should be denounced under any and all circumstances, would I am sure admit that there are exceptions to all rules, had he been in my shoes at that time and thus forced to give an encouraging answer to the many questions as to my experience in such cases, a truthful answer to which would have driven me from the house. The case terminated happily for all concerned and we have been fast friends ever since.[80]

My horse when I got her was an unbroken three year old colt. She proved to be a remarkably fleet roadster. I drove her six years and during that time had many a frolic with other drivers on the road. I was driving once from Mt. Upton down the Unadilla river, and overtook a man on horseback near where the old Oxford turnpike joins the river road. He refused to let me pass him by whipping in ahead whenever I attempted to pass. My horse soon “caught on” to the situation and was as anxious for a little fun as I. Having a long bow-tipped whip I drew up on the lines and chirupped to the mare. When close enough I gave his horse a cut with my whip which caused him to jump and came very near unhorsing the rider. He had not more than recovered his equilibrium before I brought the whip down again and so on continued to lash the horse which was soon running his best gait.

It became so interesting for the rider that he finally offered me the road by getting outside the track, but I refusing the offer followed up another cut of the whip which brought him back into the road. I ran him in this way to Rockdale, a distance of a mile or more. On reaching his home he rolled himself off without waiting for his horse to stop, and with an oath said: “Now get out of that wagon and I will whip you.” I stopped and laughingly said to him “next time a stranger in civil manner asks for the road I am inclined to think you may find it worth while to give it,” bade him good day and passed on.

On another occasion I was driving home from Cooperstown. Just this side of Portlandville a road comes down off the hill on which a man in a cutter was that day coming. He apparently saw me as he struck his horse into a sharp trot. I allowed him to come in ahead of me, but soon my horse’s head was over the back of his cutter puffing her breath against his head. He lashed his horse into a run but was unable to get away; the mare’s nose still kept his ears warm. Thus I ran him to where he turned up the hill road just this side of Milford Centre. Bidding him good night as I passed him—it was a bright moonlight evening—I came on home.

I could give many like incidents, and cannot refrain from giving one such frolic I had with Dr. Colwell. He had just got a very fast mare from “Bill” Green of Mt. Upton. We were both called in counsel in the case of Zachariah Prindle, father of Judge Prindle of Norwich. He lived in Ideuma and it was his last sickness. It was fine sleighing and when we were putting on our overcoats Colwell said: “Doctor if you get started first, I will try and keep in sight of you.” I replied, “Well, if you do, I will either give you the road or drive fast enough to get out of the way.” I started out first and soon after striking the Hollow Creek road, the doctor’s mare’s nose was in my neck. I drew up on the lines, chirupped to my horse, and soon was out of his way. I doubt whether two horses were ever driven over that road to the village in so short a time. When I drove up to my barn, which still stands in the rear of the Teller residence, the doctor was about where the railroad crosses Martin Brook Street. He never referred to the matter afterwards.

Dr. Colwell was a bachelor, somewhat eccentric, sharp, quick witted, and could be very sarcastic when occasion required it. As an instance, I have heard the following anecdote often told. When he came to Unadilla, Dr. Edson was practicing here—grandfather to our present Supervisor. He was said to have been a nervous excitable man, easily irritated. He met Colwell one day on the road, not long after Colwell settled here, stopped his horse and said to him, “Young man, you had better leave here while you can, for I shall starve you out.” Colwell promptly replied, “You can’t, for I won’t board with you.”

[As an illustration of Dr. Halsey’s fondness for animals may be introduced here a little item written by him on another occasion for the Unadilla Times. Dog Daisy whom he describes was a poodle having a coat as white as Angora wool:

“Kind nature once bestowed upon a household in Unadilla a dear girl baby as another link in the unending chain of organized life in human form. While yet in her infant years an elder brother, grown to manhood, gave her as an evidence of his interest in her welfare an infant specimen of the canine species for a companion and plaything. The two became almost inseparable, by day and by night. Years passed, and their love and friendship strengthened.

“When the child arrived at the proper age to require the pedagogue’s aid in the development of her intellectual faculties, the little white bundle of animated wool would be seen in constant daily attendance upon her, going to and from the school room, during the hours of study, reclining under her seat and by her side during recitations. Upon arrival home at the close of the day’s session he would bound into the house with the happiest possible expression of laughing face and wagging bushy tail, fully understood by the parents as saying ‘One more day of faithful protection for your child.’

“Such were his characteristics of faithfulness and gentleness that both teachers and scholars recognized his claims to an exception in school rules; he was allowed free entrance and occupancy of the general school room. But age and its attendant infirmities which have no respect for any human or other being, gave at last the final decree of change which we call death and Daisy has gone where all good dogs go.”[81]]