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West Virginia Archives and History. Photograph, Dorothy Brooks with opossums pulling her toy wagon, Upshur County, Photograph, Miners huddled around a fire barrel for heat while out on strike, Scott's Run. Photograph, Ninety-niners, women aviators, Parkersburg, 15 April Front l to r: Photograph, Ceramic Grasshopper science fair exhibit and its creator.

Photograph, Hay wagon on a muddy Upshur County road, early s. Photograph, A group of milk drinkers at Romney High School, s. Photograph, Parks Department worker demonstrating soil screening technique for an archaeological outing at Babcock State Park, Fayette County, Photograph, A happy participant displays a projectile point unearthed by her team at the archaeological outing at Babcock State Park, Fayette County, Photograph, Two of a dozen houses moved on barges from the Capitol site to Kanawha City, circa Photograph, 8-inch tong gang construction workers laying pipeline in a Lewis County field.

West Virginia State Archives. Photograph, Pencil sketch by architect Cass Gilbert portraying a proposed capitol building on the hill north of downtown Charleston, December Photograph, Raymond and Letha Harris washing their cat, circa Photograph, Baseball team in Sistersville. Photograph, City kids milking a cow during their agricultural vacation. Photograph, A Webster County sycamore tree, thirty-nine feet in circumference, January Photograph, Family riding on a narrow-gauge railroad in Randolph County, s.

Photograph, Husband, wife, three children and two dogs posing atop three small sleds. Photograph, Shelt Carpenter paddling his hand-made boat on the Elk River, circa Photograph, Alderson Baptist Church youth group posing at the highway historical marker commemorating the battle at Carnifex Ferry, circa Photograph, Lumberman displaying a wide plank in the mill yard of Wilderness Lumber Company, Nallen, circa Photograph, Captain Dayton C. Photograph, Ice cream store shaped like an upside-down cone, Main Avenue, Weston, late s.

Photograph, Young men boxing at Logan Stadium. Photograph, Deaf and blind Girl Scout troop, Institute, Standing, second from left, Mrs.

Davis; middle, Daisy Lawrence; far right, troop leader Minnie Holly. Seated, at center with a Scout on her lap, Lady Baden-Powell. Photograph, Hawks Nest Tunnel, under construction, at power house portal. Excavation above tunnel portal is to accommodate portal retaining walls.

Fan house and air duct running into tunnel are at left, Fayette County, 1 September Tom Mix, actor, front row, third from left. Photograph, Fisherman with a stringer of small-mouth bass, Little Coal River, Photograph, President Franklin D. Collection, West Virginia State Archives.

Photograph, Left to right: Photograph, Edna Faye Bernice Callaghan with five dogs, circa

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But what is the pin? So far as I could tell, the pin had something to do with one's own impotency. I cannot hold this—I cannot express this—I am overcome by it—I am mastered. Somewhere in that region one's discontent lay; and it was allied with the idea that one's nature demands mastery over all that it receives; and mastery here meant the power to convey what one saw now over Sussex so that another person could share it. And further, there was another prick of the pin: But relinquish, I said it is well known how in circumstances like these the self splits up and one self is eager and dissatisfied and the other stern and philosophical , relinquish these impossible aspirations; be content with the view in front of us, and believe me when I tell you that it is best to sit and soak; to be passive; to accept; and do not bother because nature has given you six little pocket knives with which to cut up the body of a whale.

While these two selves then held a colloquy about the wise course to adopt in the presence of beauty, I a third party now declared itself said to myself, how happy they were to enjoy so simple an occupation. There they sat as the car sped along, noticing everything: But I, being somewhat different, sat aloof and melancholy. While they are thus busied, I said to myself: Gone, gone; over, over; past and done with, past and done with.

I feel life left behind even as the road is left behind. We have been over that stretch, and are already forgotten.

There, windows were lit by our lamps for a second; the light is out now. Others come behind us. Then suddenly a fourth self a self which lies in ambush, apparently dormant, and jumps upon one unawares. Its remarks are often entirely disconnected with what has been happening, but must be attended to because of their very abruptness said: For a second I was unable to name it.

Let us try to understand this. Let us reason it out. I feel suddenly attached not to the past but to the future.

I think of Sussex in five hundred years to come. I think much grossness will have evaporated. Things will have been scorched up, eliminated. There will be magic gates. Draughts fan-blown by electric power will cleanse houses. Lights intense and firmly directed will go over the earth, doing the work. Look at the moving light in that hill; it is the headlight of a car. By day and by night Sussex in five centuries will be full of charming thoughts, quick, effective beams.

The sun was now low beneath the horizon. None of my selves could see anything beyond the tapering light of our headlamps on the hedge. I summoned them together. Now we have got to collect ourselves; we have got to be one self. Nothing is to be seen any more, except one wedge of road and bank which our lights repeat incessantly.

We are perfectly provided for. We are warmly wrapped in a rug; we are protected from wind and rain. Now is the time of reckoning.

Now I, who preside over the company, am going to arrange in order the trophies which we have all brought in. Let me see; there was a great deal of beauty brought in to-day: Also there was disappearance and the death of the individual. The vanishing road and the window lit for a second and then dark. And then there was the sudden dancing light, that was hung in the future.

What we have made then to-day," I said, "is this: Look, I will make a little figure for your satisfaction; here he comes. Does this little figure advancing through beauty, through death, to the economical, powerful and efficient future when houses will be cleansed by a puff of hot wind satisfy you?

Look at him; there on my knee. Great sheer slabs of rock, tree tufted, surrounded him. He was for a second very, very solemn. Indeed it seemed as if the reality of things were displayed there on the rug.

A violent thrill ran through us; as if a charge of electricity had entered in to us. We cried out together: And then the body who had been silent up to now began its song, almost at first as low as the rush of the wheels: It is impossible that one should not see pictures; because if my father was a blacksmith and yours was a peer of the realm, we must needs be pictures to each other.

We cannot possibly break out of the frame of the picture by speaking natural words. You see me leaning against the door of the smithy with a horseshoe in my hand and you think as you go by: We are both quite wrong in our judgments no doubt, but that is inevitable.

So now at the turn of the road I saw one of these pictures. It might have been called "The Sailor's Homecoming" or some such title. A fine young sailor carrying a bundle; a girl with her hand on his arm; neighbours gathering round; a cottage garden ablaze with flowers; as one passed one read at the bottom of that picture that the sailor was back from China, and there was a fine spread waiting for him in the parlour; and he had a present for his young wife in his bundle; and she was soon going to bear him their first child.

Everything was right and good and as it should be, one felt about that picture. There was something wholesome and satisfactory in the sight of such happiness; life seemed sweeter and more enviable than before. So thinking I passed them, filling in the picture as fully, as completely as I could, noticing the colour of her dress, of his eyes, seeing the sandy cat slinking round the cottage door. For some time the picture floated in my eyes, making most things appear much brighter, warmer, and simpler than usual; and making some things appear foolish; and some things wrong and some things right, and more full of meaning than before.

At odd moments during that day and the next the picture returned to one's mind, and one thought with envy, but with kindness, of the happy sailor and his wife; one wondered what they were doing, what they were saying now. The imagination supplied other pictures springing from that first one, a picture of the sailor cutting firewood, drawing water; and they talked about China; and the girl set his present on the chimney-piece where everyone who came could see it; and she sewed at her baby clothes, and all the doors and windows were open into the garden so that the birds were flittering and the bees humming, and Rogers—that was his name—could not say how much to his liking all this was after the China seas.

As he smoked his pipe, with his foot in the garden. In the middle of the night a loud cry rang through the village. Then there was a sound of something scuffling; and then dead silence. All that could be seen out of the window was the branch of lilac tree hanging motionless and ponderous across the road. It was a hot still night. There was no moon. The cry made everything seem ominous. Why had she cried? It was a woman's voice, made by some extremity of feeling almost sexless, almost expressionless.

It was as if human nature had cried out against some iniquity, some inexpressible horror. There was dead silence. The stars shone perfectly steadily.

The fields lay still. The trees were motionless. Yet all seemed guilty, convicted, ominous. One felt that something ought to be done. Some light ought to appear tossing, moving agitatedly. Someone ought to come running down the road. There should be lights in the cottage windows. And then perhaps another cry, but less sexless, less wordless, comforted, appeased.

But no light came. No feet were heard. There was no second cry. The first had been swallowed up, and there was dead silence. One lay in the dark listening intently. It had been merely a voice. There was nothing to connect it with.

No picture of any sort came to interpret it, to make it intelligible to the mind. But as the dark arose at last all one saw was an obscure human form, almost without shape, raising a gigantic arm in vain against some overwhelming iniquity. The fine weather remained unbroken. Had it not been for that single cry in the night one would have felt that the earth had put into harbour; that life had ceased to drive before the wind; that it had reached some quiet cove and there lay anchored, hardly moving, on the quiet waters.

But the sound persisted. Wherever one went, it might be for a long walk up into the hills, something seemed to turn uneasily beneath the surface, making the peace, the stability all round one seem a little unreal.

There were the sheep clustered on the side of the hill; the valley broke in long tapering waves like the fall of smooth waters. One came on solitary farmhouses. The puppy rolled in the yard. The butterflies gambolled over the gorse. All was as quiet, as safe could be. Yet, one kept thinking, a cry had rent it; all this beauty had been an accomplice that night; had consented; to remain calm, to be still beautiful; at any moment it might be sundered again.

This goodness, this safety were only on the surface. And then to cheer oneself out of this apprehensive mood one turned to the picture of the sailor's homecoming. One saw it all over again producing various little details—the blue colour of her dress, the shadow that fell from the yellow flowering tree—that one had not used before. So they had stood at the cottage door, he with his bundle on his back, she just lightly touching his sleeve with her hand. And a sandy cat had slunk round the door.

Thus gradually going over the picture in every detail, one persuaded oneself by degrees that it was far more likely that this calm and content and good will lay beneath the surface than anything treacherous, sinister. The sheep grazing, the waves of the valley, the farmhouse, the puppy, the dancing butterflies were in fact like that all through.

And so one turned back home, with one's mind fixed on the sailor and his wife, making up picture after picture of them so that one picture after another of happiness and satisfaction might be laid over that unrest, that hideous cry, until it was crushed and silenced by their pressure out of existence. Here at last was the village, and the churchyard through which one must pass; and the usual thought came, as one entered it, of the peacefulness of the place, with its shady yews, its rubbed tombstones, its nameless graves.

Death is cheerful here, one felt. Indeed, look at that picture! A man was digging a grave, and children were picnicking at the side of it while he worked. As the shovels of yellow earth were thrown up, the children were sprawling about eating bread and jam and drinking milk out of large mugs.

The gravedigger's wife, a fat fair woman, had propped herself against a tombstone and spread her apron on the grass by the open grave to serve as a tea-table. Some lumps of clay had fallen among the tea things.

Who was going to be buried, I asked. Dodson died at last? It's for young Rogers, the sailor," the woman answered, staring at me. Didn't you hear his wife? There are moments even in England, now, when even the busiest, most contented suddenly let fall what they hold—it may be the week's washing. Sheets and pyjamas crumble and dissolve in their hands, because, though they do not state this in so many words, it seems silly to take the washing round to Mrs.

Peel when out there over the fields over the hills, there is no washing; no pinning of clothes to lines; mangling and ironing no work at all, but boundless rest. Stainless and boundless rest; space unlimited; untrodden grass; wild birds flying hills whose smooth uprise continue that wild flight. Of all this however only seven foot by four could be seen from Mrs. That was the size of her front door which stood wide open, though there was a fire burning in the grate.

The fire looked like a small spot of dusty light feebly trying to escape from the embarrassing pressure of the pouring sunshine. Grey sat on a hard chair in the corner looking—but at what? She did not change the focus of her eyes when visitors came in. Her eyes had ceased to focus themselves; it may be that they had lost the power. They were aged eyes, blue, unspectacled. They could see, but without looking. She had never used her eyes on anything minute and difficult; merely upon faces, and dishes and fields.

And now at the age of ninety-two they saw nothing but a zigzag of pain wriggling across the door, pain that twisted her legs as it wriggled; jerked her body to and fro like a marionette.

Her body was wrapped round the pain as a damp sheet is folded over a wire. The wire was spasmodically jerked by a cruel invisible hand. She flung out a foot, a hand. She sat still for a moment. In that pause she saw herself in the past at ten, at twenty, at twenty-five. She was running in and out of a cottage with eleven brothers and sisters. She was thrown forward in her chair.

All dead," she mumbled. And my husband gone. But I go on. Every morning I pray God to let me pass. The morning spread seven foot by four green and sunny. Like a fling of grain the birds settled on the land. She was jerked again by another tweak of the tormenting hand. I can't read or write, and every morning when I crawls down stairs, I say I wish it were night; and every night, when I crawls up to bed, I say, I wish it were day.

I'm only an ignorant old woman. But I prays to God: I'm an ignorant old woman—I can't read or write. So when the colour went out of the doorway, she could not see the other page which is then lit up; or hear the voices that have argued, sung, talked for hundreds of years.

The parish doctor now. Since my daughter went, we can't afford Dr. But he's a good man. He says he wonders I don't go.

He says my heart's nothing but wind and water. Yet I don't seem able to die. So we—humanity—insist that the body shall still cling to the wire. We put out the eyes and the ears; but we pinion it there, with a bottle of medicine, a cup of tea, a dying fire, like a rook on a barn door; but a rook that still lives, even with a nail through it.

No one perhaps has ever felt passionately towards a lead pencil. But there are circumstances in which it can become supremely desirable to possess one; moments when we are set upon having an object, an excuse for walking half across London between tea and dinner. As the foxhunter hunts in order to preserve the breed of foxes, and the golfer plays in order that open spaces may be preserved from the builders, so when the desire comes upon us to go street rambling the pencil does for a pretext, and getting up we say: The hour should be the evening and the season winter, for in winter the champagne brightness of the air and the sociability of the streets are grateful.

We are not then taunted as in the summer by the longing for shade and solitude and sweet airs from the hayfields. The evening hour, too, gives us the irresponsibility which darkness and lamplight bestow.

We are no longer quite ourselves. As we step out of the house on a fine evening between four and six, we shed the self our friends know us by and become part of that vast republican army of anonymous trampers, whose society is so agreeable after the solitude of one's own room. For there we sit surrounded by objects which perpetually express the oddity of our own temperaments and enforce the memories of our own experience.

That bowl on the mantelpiece, for instance, was bought at Mantua on a windy day. We were leaving the shop when the sinister old woman plucked at our skirts and said she would find herself starving one of these days, but, "Take it! So, guiltily, but suspecting nevertheless how badly we had been fleeced, we carried it back to the little hotel where, in the middle of the night, the innkeeper quarrelled so violently with his wife that we all leant out into the courtyard to look, and saw the vines laced about among the pillars and the stars white in the sky.

The moment was stabilized, stamped like a coin indelibly among a million that slipped by imperceptibly. There, too, was the melancholy Englishman, who rose among the coffee cups and the little iron tables and revealed the secrets of his soul—as travellers do. All this—Italy, the windy morning, the vines laced about the pillars, the Englishman and the secrets of his soul—rise up in a cloud from the china bowl on the mantelpiece.

And there, as our eyes fall to the floor, is that brown stain on the carpet. Lloyd George made that. Cummings, putting the kettle down with which he was about to fill the teapot so that it burnt a brown ring on the carpet.

But when the door shuts on us, all that vanishes. The shell-like covering which our souls have excreted to house themselves, to make for themselves a shape distinct from others, is broken, and there is left of all these wrinkles and roughnesses a central oyster of perceptiveness, an enormous eye. How beautiful a street is in winter! It is at once revealed and obscured. Here vaguely one can trace symmetrical straight avenues of doors and windows; here under the lamps are floating islands of pale light through which pass quickly bright men and women, who, for all their poverty and shabbiness, wear a certain look of unreality, an air of triumph, as if they had given life the slip, so that life, deceived of her prey, blunders on without them.

But, after all, we are only gliding smoothly on the surface. The eye is not a miner, not a diver, not a seeker after buried treasure. It floats us smoothly down a stream; resting, pausing, the brain sleeps perhaps as it looks. How beautiful a London street is then, with its islands of light, and its long groves of darkness, and on one side of it perhaps some tree-sprinkled, grass-grown space where night is folding herself to sleep naturally and, as one passes the iron railing, one hears those little cracklings and stirrings of leaf and twig which seem to suppose the silence of fields all round them, an owl hooting, and far away the rattle of a train in the valley.

But this is London, we are reminded; high among the bare trees are hung oblong frames of reddish yellow light—windows; there are points of brilliance burning steadily like low stars—lamps; this empty ground, which holds the country in it and its peace, is only a London square, set about by offices and houses where at this hour fierce lights burn over maps, over documents, over desks where clerks sit turning with wetted forefinger the files of endless correspondences; or more suffusedly the firelight wavers and the lamplight falls upon the privacy of some drawing-room, its easy chairs, its papers, its china, its inlaid table, and the figure of a woman, accurately measuring out the precise number of spoons of tea which——She looks at the door as if she heard a ring downstairs and somebody asking, is she in?

But here we must stop peremptorily. We are in danger of digging deeper than the eye approves; we are impeding our passage down the smooth stream by catching at some branch or root. At any moment, the sleeping army may stir itself and wake in us a thousand violins and trumpets in response; the army of human beings may rouse itself and assert all its oddities and sufferings and sordidities.

Let us dally a little longer, be content still with surfaces only—the glossy brilliance of the motor omnibuses; the carnal splendour of the butchers' shops with their yellow flanks and purple steaks; the blue and red bunches of flowers burning so bravely through the plate glass of the florists' windows.

For the eye has this strange property: On a winter's night like this, when nature has been at pains to polish and preen herself, it brings back the prettiest trophies, breaks off little lumps of emerald and coral as if the whole earth were made of precious stone. The thing it cannot do one is speaking of the average unprofessional eye is to compose these trophies in such a way as to bring out the more obscure angles and relationships.

Hence after a prolonged diet of this simple, sugary fare, of beauty pure and uncomposed, we become conscious of satiety.

We halt at the door of the boot shop and make some little excuse, which has nothing to do with the real reason, for folding up the bright paraphernalia of the streets and withdrawing to some duskier chamber of the being where we may ask, as we raise our left foot obediently upon the stand: She came in escorted by two women who, being of normal size, looked like benevolent giants beside her. Smiling at the shop girls, they seemed to be disclaiming any lot in her deformity and assuring her of their protection.

She wore the peevish yet apologetic expression usual on the faces of the deformed. She needed their kindness, yet she resented it. But when the shop girl had been summoned and the giantesses, smiling indulgently, had asked for shoes for "this lady" and the girl had pushed the little stand in front of her, the dwarf stuck her foot out with an impetuosity which seemed to claim all our attention. It was arched; it was aristocratic. Her whole manner changed as she looked at it resting on the stand.

She looked soothed and satisfied. Her manner became full of self-confidence. She sent for shoe after shoe; she tried on pair after pair. She got up and pirouetted before a glass which reflected the foot only in yellow shoes, in fawn shoes, in shoes of lizard skin. She raised her little skirts and displayed her little legs. She was thinking that, after all, feet are the most important part of the whole person; women, she said to herself, have been loved for their feet alone.

Seeing nothing but her feet, she imagined perhaps that the rest of her body was of a piece with those beautiful feet. She was shabbily dressed, but she was ready to lavish any money upon her shoes.

And as this was the only occasion upon which she was hot afraid of being looked at but positively craved attention, she was ready to use any device to prolong the choosing and fitting. Look at my feet, she seemed to be saying, as she took a step this way and then a step that way.

The shop girl good-humouredly must have said something flattering, for suddenly her face lit up in ecstasy. But, after all, the giantesses, benevolent though they were, had their own affairs to see to; she must make up her mind; she must decide which to choose. At length, the pair was chosen and, as she walked out between her guardians, with the parcel swinging from her finger, the ecstasy faded, knowledge returned, the old peevishness, the old apology came back, and by the time she had reached the street again she had become a dwarf only.

But she had changed the mood; she had called into being an atmosphere which, as we followed her out into the street, seemed actually to create the humped, the twisted, the deformed.

Two bearded men, brothers, apparently, stone-blind, supporting themselves by resting a hand on the head of a small boy between them, marched down the street.

On they came with the unyielding yet tremulous tread of the blind, which seems to lend to their approach something of the terror and inevitability of the fate that has overtaken them.

As they passed, holding straight on, the little convoy seemed to cleave asunder the passers-by with the momentum of its silence, its directness, its disaster. Indeed, the dwarf had started a hobbling grotesque dance to which everybody in the street now conformed: In what crevices and crannies, one might ask, did they lodge, this maimed company of the halt and the blind?

Here, perhaps, in the top rooms of these narrow old houses between Holborn and Soho, where people have such queer names, and pursue so many curious trades, are gold beaters, accordion pleaters, cover buttons, or support life, with even greater fantasticality, upon a traffic in cups without saucers, china umbrella handles, and highly-coloured pictures of martyred saints.

There they lodge, and it seems as if the lady in the sealskin jacket must find life tolerable, passing the time of day with the accordion pleater, or the man who covers buttons; life which is so fantastic cannot be altogether tragic.

They do not grudge us, we are musing, our prosperity; when, suddenly, turning the corner, we come upon a bearded Jew, wild, hunger-bitten, glaring out of his misery; or pass the humped body of an old woman flung abandoned on the step of a public building with a cloak over her like the hasty covering thrown over a dead horse or donkey.

At such sights the nerves of the spine seem to stand erect; a sudden flare is brandished in our eyes; a question is asked which is never answered. Often enough these derelicts choose to lie not a stone's thrown from theatres, within hearing of barrel organs, almost, as night draws on, within touch of the sequined cloaks and bright legs of diners and dancers. They lie close to those shop windows where commerce offers to a world of old women laid on doorsteps, of blind men, of hobbling dwarfs, sofas which are supported by the gilt necks of proud swans; tables inlaid with baskets of many coloured fruit; sideboards paved with green marble the better to support the weight of boars' heads; and carpets so softened with age that their carnations have almost vanished in a pale green sea.

Passing, glimpsing, everything seems accidentally but miraculously sprinkled with beauty, as if the tide of trade which deposits its burden so punctually and prosaically upon the shores of Oxford Street had this night cast up nothing but treasure. With no thought of buying, the eye is sportive and generous; it creates; it adorns; it enhances. Standing out in the street, one may build up all the chambers of an imaginary house and furnish them at one's will with sofa, table, carpet.

That rug will do for the hall. That alabaster bowl shall stand on a carved table in the window. Our merrymaking shall be reflected in that thick round mirror.

But, having built and furnished the house, one is happily under no obligation to possess it; one can dismantle it in the twinkling of an eye, and build and furnish another house with other chairs and other glasses. Or let us indulge ourselves at the antique jewellers, among the trays of rings and the hanging necklaces. Let us choose those pearls, for example, and then imagine how, if we put them on, life would be changed. It becomes instantly between two and three in the morning; the lamps are burning very white in the deserted streets of Mayfair.

Only motor-cars are abroad at this hour, and one has a sense of emptiness, of airiness, of secluded gaiety. Wearing pearls, wearing silk, one steps out on to a balcony which overlooks the gardens of sleeping Mayfair. There are a few lights in the bedrooms of great peers returned from Court, of silk-stockinged footmen, of dowagers who have pressed the hands of statesmen.

A cat creeps along the garden wall. Love-making is going on sibilantly, seductively in the darker places of the room behind thick green curtains. Strolling sedately as if he were promenading a terrace beneath which the shires and counties of England lie sun-bathed, the aged Prime Minister recounts to Lady So-and-So with the curls and the emeralds the true history of some great crisis in the affairs of the land.

We seem to be riding on the top of the highest mast of the tallest ship; and yet at the same time we know that nothing of this sort matters; love is not proved thus, nor great achievements completed thus; so that we sport with the moment and preen our feathers in it lightly, as we stand on the balcony watching the moonlit cat creep along Princess Mary's garden wall. But what could be more absurd? It is, in fact, on the stroke of six; it is a winter's evening; we are walking to the Strand to buy a pencil.

How, then, are we also on a balcony, wearing pearls in June? What could be more absurd? Yet it is nature's folly, not ours. When she set about her chief masterpiece, the making of man, she should have thought of one thing only. Instead, turning her head, looking over her shoulder, into each one of us she let creep instincts and desires which are utterly at variance with his main being, so that we are streaked, variegated, all of a mixture; the colours have run.

Is the true self this which stands on the pavement in January, or that which bends over the balcony in June? Am I here, or am I there? Or is the true self neither this nor that, neither here nor there, but something so varied and wandering that it is only when we give the rein to its wishes and let it take its way unimpeded that we are indeed ourselves? Circumstances compel unity; for convenience sake a man must be a whole. The good citizen when he opens his door in the evening must be banker, golfer, husband, father; not a nomad wandering the desert, a mystic staring at the sky, a debauchee in the slums of San Francisco, a soldier heading a revolution, a pariah howling with scepticism and solitude.

When he opens his door, he must run his fingers through his hair and put his umbrella in the stand like the rest. But here, none too soon, are the second-hand bookshops. Here we find anchorage in these thwarting currents of being; here we balance ourselves after the splendours and miseries of the streets. The very sight of the bookseller's wife with her foot on the fender, sitting beside a good coal fire, screened from the door, is sobering and cheerful. She is never reading, or only the newspaper; her talk, when it leaves bookselling, which it does so gladly, is about hats; she likes a hat to be practical, she says, as well as pretty.

In summer a jar of flowers grown in her own garden is stood on the top of some dusty pile to enliven the shop. Books are everywhere; and always the same sense of adventure fills us. Second-hand books are wild books, homeless books; they have come together in vast flocks of variegated feather, and have a charm which the domesticated volumes of the library lack. Besides, in this random miscellaneous company we may rub against some complete stranger who will, with luck, turn into the best friend we have in the world.

There is always a hope, as we reach down some grayish-white book from an upper shelf, directed by its air of shabbiness and desertion, of meeting here with a man who set out on horseback over a hundred years ago to explore the woollen market in the Midlands and Wales; an unknown traveller, who stayed at inns, drank his pint, noted pretty girls and serious customs, wrote it all down stiffly, laboriously for sheer love of it the book was published at his own expense ; was infinitely prosy, busy, and matter-of-fact, and so let flow in without his knowing it the very scent of hollyhocks and the hay together with such a portrait of himself as gives him forever a seat in the warm corner of the mind's inglenook.

One may buy him for eighteen pence now. He is marked three and sixpence, but the bookseller's wife, seeing how shabby the covers are and how long the book has stood there since it was bought at some sale of a gentleman's library in Suffolk, will let it go at that.

Thus, glancing round the bookshop, we make other such sudden capricious friendships with the unknown and the vanished whose only record is, for example, this little book of poems, so fairly printed, so finely engraved, too, with a portrait of the author. For he was a poet and drowned untimely, and his verse, mild as it is and formal and sententious, sends forth still a frail fluty sound like that of a piano organ played in some back street resignedly by an old Italian organ-grinder in a corduroy jacket.

There are travellers, too, row upon row of them, still testifying, indomitable spinsters that they were, to the discomforts that they endured and the sunsets they admired in Greece when Queen Victoria was a girl. A tour in Cornwall with a visit to the tin mines was thought worthy of voluminous record. People went slowly up the Rhine and did portraits of each other in Indian ink, sitting reading on deck beside a coil of rope; they measured the pyramids; were lost to civilization for years; converted negroes in pestilential swamps.

This packing up and going off, exploring deserts and catching fevers, settling in India for a lifetime, penetrating even to China and then returning to lead a parochial life at Edmonton, tumbles and tosses upon the dusty floor like an uneasy sea, so restless the English are, with the waves at their very door.

The waters of travel and adventure seem to break upon little islands of serious effort and lifelong industry stood in jagged column upon the floor. In these piles of puce-bound volumes with gilt monograms on the back, thoughtful clergymen expound the gospels; scholars are to be heard with their hammers and their chisels chipping clear the ancient texts of Euripides and Aeschylus. Thinking, annotating, expounding goes on at a prodigious rate all around us and over everything, like a punctual, everlasting tide, washes the ancient sea of fiction.

Innumerable volumes tell how Arthur loved Laura and they were separated and they were unhappy and then they met and they were happy ever after, as was the way when Victoria ruled these islands. The number of books in the world is infinite, and one is forced to glimpse and nod and move on after a moment of talk, a flash of understanding, as, in the street outside, one catches a word in passing and from a chance phrase fabricates a lifetime.

It is about a woman called Kate that they are talking, how "I said to her quite straight last night They are spelling out the latest wire from Newmarket in the stop press news. Do they think, then, that fortune will ever convert their rags into fur and broadcloth, sling them with watch-chains, and plant diamond pins where there is now a ragged open shirt?

But the main stream of walkers at this hour sweeps too fast to let us ask such questions. They are wrapt, in this short passage from work to home, in some narcotic dream, now that they are free from the desk, and have the fresh air on their cheeks. They put on those bright clothes which they must hang up and lock the key upon all the rest of the day, and are great cricketers, famous actresses, soldiers who have saved their country at the hour of need.

Dreaming, gesticulating, often muttering a few words aloud, they sweep over the Strand and across Waterloo Bridge whence they will be slung in long rattling trains, to some prim little villa in Barnes or Surbiton where the sight of the clock in the hall and the smell of the supper in the basement puncture the dream.

But we are come to the Strand now, and as we hesitate on the curb, a little rod about the length of one's finger begins to lay its bar across the velocity and abundance of life. Without investigating the demand, the mind cringes to the accustomed tyrant. One must, one always must, do something or other; it is not allowed one simply to enjoy oneself. Was it not for this reason that, some time ago, we fabricated the excuse, and invented the necessity of buying something?

But what was it? Ah, we remember, it was a pencil. Let us go then and buy this pencil. But just as we are turning to obey the command, another self disputes the right of the tyrant to insist. The usual conflict comes about. Spread out behind the rod of duty we see the whole breadth of the river Thames—wide, mournful, peaceful. And we see it through the eyes of somebody who is leaning over the Embankment on a summer evening, without a care in the world. Let us put off buying the pencil; let us go in search of this person—and soon it becomes apparent that this person is ourselves.

For if we could stand there where we stood six months ago, should we not be again as we were then—calm, aloof, content? Let us try then. But the river is rougher and greyer than we remembered. The tide is running out to sea. It brings down with it a tug and two barges, whose load of straw is tightly bound down beneath tarpaulin covers.

There is, too, close by us, a couple leaning over the balustrade with the curious lack of self-consciousness lovers have, as if the importance of the affair they are engaged on claims without question the indulgence of the human race. The sights we see and the sounds we hear now have none of the quality of the past; nor have we any share in the serenity of the person who, six months ago, stood precisely were we stand now.

His is the happiness of death; ours the insecurity of life. He has no future; the future is even now invading our peace. It is only when we look at the past and take from it the element of uncertainty that we can enjoy perfect peace.

As it is, we must turn, we must cross the Strand again, we must find a shop where, even at this hour, they will be ready to sell us a pencil. It is always an adventure to enter a new room for the lives and characters of its owners have distilled their atmosphere into it, and directly we enter it we breast some new wave of emotion.

Here, without a doubt, in the stationer's shop people had been quarrelling. Their anger shot through the air. They both stopped; the old woman—they were husband and wife evidently—retired to a back room; the old man whose rounded forehead and globular eyes would have looked well on the frontispiece of some Elizabethan folio, stayed to serve us. He began opening box after box and shutting them again. He said that it was very difficult to find things when they kept so many different articles.

He launched into a story about some legal gentleman who had got into deep waters owing to the conduct of his wife. He had known him for years; he had been connected with the Temple for half a century, he said, as if he wished his wife in the back room to overhear him.

He upset a box of rubber bands. At last, exasperated by his incompetence, he pushed the swing door open and called out roughly: The old lady came in. Looking at nobody, she put her hand with a fine air of righteous severity upon the right box. How then could he do without her? Was she not indispensable to him? In order to keep them there, standing side by side in forced neutrality, one had to be particular in one's choice of pencils; this was too soft, that too hard.

They stood silently looking on. The longer they stood there, the calmer they grew; their heat was going down, their anger disappearing. Now, without a word said on either side, the quarrel was made up. The old man, who would not have disgraced Ben Jonson's title-page, reached the box back to its proper place, bowed profoundly his good-night to us, and they disappeared. She would get out her sewing; he would read his newspaper; the canary would scatter them impartially with seed.

The quarrel was over. In these minutes in which a ghost has been sought for, a quarrel composed, and a pencil bought, the streets had become completely empty. Life had withdrawn to the top floor, and lamps were lit. The pavement was dry and hard; the road was of hammered silver. Walking home through the desolation one could tell oneself the story of the dwarf, of the blind men, of the party in the Mayfair mansion, of the quarrel in the stationer's shop.

Into each of these lives one could penetrate a little way, far enough to give oneself the illusion that one is not tethered to a single mind, but can put on briefly for a few minutes the bodies and minds of others. One could become a washerwoman, a publican, a street singer.

And what greater delight and wonder can there be than to leave the straight lines of personality and deviate into those footpaths that lead beneath brambles and thick tree trunks into the heart of the forest where live those wild beasts, our fellow men? Still as we approach our own doorstep again, it is comforting to feel the old possessions, the old prejudices, fold us round; and the self, which has been blown about at so many street corners, which has battered like a moth at the flame of so many inaccessible lanterns, sheltered and enclosed.

Here again is the usual door; here the chair turned as we left it and the china bowl and the brown ring on the carpet. And here—let us examine it tenderly, let us touch it with reverence—is the only spoil we have retrieved from all the treasures of the city, a lead pencil.

Whether Jones should come before Wilkinson or Wilkinson before Jones is not a matter likely to agitate many breasts at the present moment, seeing that more than a hundred and fifty years have rolled over the gentlemen in question and diminished a lustre which, even in their own time, round about the year , was not very bright.

Wilkinson might indeed claim precedence by virtue of his office. Captain James Jones might assert that, as Captain of His Majesty's third regiment of Guards with a residence by virtue of his office in Savoy Square, his social position was equal to the Doctor's.

But Captain Jones had to seclude himself beyond the reach of the law at Mortlake. What, however, renders these comparisons peculiarly odious is the fact that the Captain and the Doctor were boon companions whose tastes were congenial, whose incomes were insufficient, whose wives drank tea together, and whose houses in the Savoy were not two hundred yards apart.

Wilkinson, for all his sacred offices he was Rector of Coyty in Glamorgan, stipendiary curate of Wise in Kent, and, through Lord Galway, had the right to "open plaister-pits in the honour of Pontefract" , was a convivial spirit who cut a splendid figure in the pulpit, preached and read prayers in a voice that was clear, strong and sonorous so that many a lady of fashion never "missed her pew near the pulpit," and persons of title remembered him many years after misfortune had removed the handsome preacher from their sight.

Captain Jones shared many of his friend's qualities. He was vivacious, witty, and generous, well made and elegant in person and, if he was not quite as handsome as the doctor, he was perhaps rather his superior in intellect. Compare them as we may, however, there can be little doubt that the gifts and tastes of both gentlemen were better adapted for pleasure than for labour, for society than for solitude, for the hazards and pleasures of the table rather than for the rigours of religion and war.

It was the gaming-table that seduced Captain Jones, and here, alas, his gifts and graces stood him in little stead. His affairs became more and more hopelessly embarrassed, so that shortly, instead of being able to take his walks at large, he was forced to limit them to the precincts of St. James's, where, by ancient prerogative, such unfortunates as he were free from the attentions of the bailiffs.

To so gregarious a spirit the confinement was irksome. His only resource, indeed, was to get into talk with any such "parksaunterers" as misfortunes like his own had driven to perambulate the Park, or, when the weather allowed, to bask and loiter and gossip on its benches.

As chance would have it and the Captain was a devotee of that goddess he found himself one day resting on the same bench with an elderly gentleman of military aspect and stern demeanour, whose ill-temper the wit and humour which all allowed to Captain Jones presumably beguiled, so that whenever the Captain appeared in the Park, the old man sought his company, and they passed the time until dinner very pleasantly in talk. On no occasion, however, did the General—for it appeared that the name of this morose old man was General Skelton—ask Captain Jones to his house; the acquaintance went no further than the bench in St.

James's Park; and when, as soon fell out, the Captain's difficulties forced him to the greater privacy of a little cabin at Mortlake, he forgot entirely the military gentleman who, presumably, still sought an appetite for dinner or some alleviation of his own sour mood in loitering and gossiping with the park-saunterers of St. But among the amiable characteristics of Captain Jones was a love of wife and child, scarcely to be wondered at, indeed, considering his wife's lively and entertaining disposition and the extraordinary promise of that little girl who was later to become the wife of Lord Cornwallis.

At whatever risk to himself, Captain Jones would steal back to revisit his wife and to hear his little girl recite the part of Juliet which, under his teaching, she had perfectly by heart. On one such secret journey he was hurrying to get within the royal sanctuary of St. James's when a voice called on him to stop. His fears obsessing him, he hurried the faster, his pursuer close at his heels. Realizing that escape was impossible, Jones wheeled about and facing his pursuer, whom he recognized as the Attorney Brown, demanded what his enemy wanted of him.

Far from being his enemy, said Brown, he was the best friend he had ever had, which he would prove if Jones would accompany him to the first tavern that came to hand. There, in a private room over a fire, Mr. Brown disclosed the following astonishing story. An unknown friend, he said, who had scrutinized Jones's conduct carefully and concluded that his deserts outweighed his misdemeanours, was prepared to settle all his debts and indeed to put him beyond the reach of such tormentors in future.

At these words a load was lifted from Jones's heart, and he cried out "Good God! Who can this paragon of friendship be? General Skelton, the man whom he had only met to chat with on a bench in St. Jones asked in wonderment. Yes, it was the General, Brown assured him. Then let him hasten to throw himself in gratitude at his benefactor's knee! Not so fast, Brown replied; General Skelton will never speak to you again. General Skelton died last night.

The extent of Captain Jones's good fortune was indeed magnificent. The General had left Captain Jones sole heir to all his possessions on no other condition than that he should assume the name of Skelton instead of Jones. Hastening through streets no longer dreadful, since every debt of honour could now be paid, Captain Jones brought his wife the astonishing news of their good fortune, and they promptly set out to view that part which lay nearest to hand—the General's great house in Henrietta Street.

Gazing about her, half in dream, half in earnest, Mrs. Jones Was so overcome with the tumult of her emotions that she could not stay to gather in the extent of her possessions, but ran to Little Bedford Street, where Mrs. Wilkinson was then living, to impart her joy.

Meanwhile, the news that General Skelton lay dead in Henrietta Street without a son to succeed him spread abroad, and those who thought themselves his heirs arrived in the house of death to take stock of their inheritance, among them one great and beautiful lady whose avarice was her undoing, whose misfortunes were equal to her sins, Kitty Chudleigh, Countess of Bristol, Duchess of Kingston.

Miss Chudleigh, as she then called herself, believed, and who can doubt that with her passionate nature, her lust for wealth and property, her pistols and her parsimony, she believed with vehemence and asserted her belief with arrogance, that all General Skelton's property had legally descended to her.

Later, when the will was read and the truth made public that not only the house in Henrietta Street, but Pap Castle in Cumberland and the lands and lead mines pertaining to it, were left without exception to an unknown Captain Jones, she burst out in "terms exceeding all bounds of delicacy. What remains to be told of the fortunes of Captain Jones can be briefly despatched. Having new furnished the house in Henrietta Street, the Jones family set out when summer came to visit their estates in Cumberland.

The country was so fair, the Castle so stately, the thought that now all belonged to them so gratifying that their progress for three weeks was one of unmixed pleasure and the spot where they were now to live seemed a paradise. But there was an eagerness, an impetuosity about James Jones which made him impatient to suffer even the smiles of fortune passively. He must be active —he must be up and doing. He must be "let down," for all his friends could do to dissuade him, to view a lead mine.

The consequences as they foretold were disastrous. He was drawn up, indeed, but already infected with a deadly sickness of which in a few days he died, in the arms of his wife, in the midst of that paradise which he had toiled so long to reach and now was to die without enjoying. Meanwhile the Wilkinsons—but that name, alas, was no longer applicable to them, nor did the Dr.

Wilkinson, it has been said, resembled his friend Jones in the conviviality of his habits and his inability to keep within the limits of his income. Indeed, his wife's dowry of two thousand pounds had gone to pay off the debts of his youth. But by what means could he pay off the debts of his middle age? He was now past fifty, and what with good company and good living, was seldom free from duns, and always pressed for money. Suddenly, from an unexpected quarter, help appeared. This was none other than the Marriage Act, passed in , which laid it down that if any person solemnized a marriage without publishing the banns, unless a marriage licence had already been obtained, he should be subject to transportation for fourteen years.

Wilkinson, looking at the matter, it is to be feared, from his own angle, and with a view to his own necessities, argued that as Chaplain of the Savoy, which was extra-Parochial and Royal-exempt, he could grant licences as usual—a privilege which at once brought him such a glut of business, such a crowd of couples wishing to be married in a hurry, that the rat-tat-tat never ceased on his street door, and cash flooded the family exchequer so that even his little boy's pockets were lined with gold.

The duns were paid; the table sumptuously spread. Wilkinson shared another failing with his friend Jones; he would not take advice. His friends warned him; the Government plainly hinted that if he persisted they would be forced to act. Secure in what he imagined to be his right, enjoying the prosperity it brought him to the full, the Doctor paid no heed. On Easter Day he was engaged in marrying from eight in the morning till twelve at night.

At last, one Sunday, the King's Messengers appeared. The Doctor escaped by a secret walk over the leads of the Savoy, made his way to the river bank, where he slipped upon some logs and fell, heavy and elderly as he was, in the mud; but nevertheless got to Somerset stairs, took a boat, and reached the Kentish shore in safety. Even now he brazened it out that the law was on his side, and came back four weeks later prepared to stand his trial.

Once more, for the last time, company overflowed the house in the Savoy; lawyers abounded, and, as they ate and drank, assured Dr. Wilkinson that his case was already won. In July the trial began. But what conclusion could there be?

There was often lack of care on account of small quarters. The neighbors were kind and tender to the bereaved and hastened to give all assistance in their power. But as the country became cleared and the health of the pioneers began to improve, everything began to look brighter.

But with all these hardships there was a charm in those old log cabins that lingered in the hearts of those old pioneers, and the story of the old log cabin days and pioneer life in after years they loved to relate.

With the women, the hum of the wheel and the beat of the loom, was music to their ear. To them it was pastime to convey the yarn from the spindle to the reel. And the bright prospects of the future was their happy dream. The husbands' horny hands betokened hard labor. He smiles as he watches the rank wheat nodding in the wind, or the tall corn spreading out to shade the rich alluvial soil. The year of finds Palmyra village with stores, shops and other enterprises to accommodate the people.

But a war cloud is rising in the East that is threatening the pioneers' home. The demands of England, our government cannot accept, and war is declared and the old flint lock musket is once more called upon for protection. The new settlers had hardly gotten upon their feet when they were called upon in defense of their country. Some went to Niagara, Pultneyville and Sackets Harbor.

The farms and all business had to be left to the women and a few men who stayed at home and looked after things as best they could. With the assistance of neighbors the families raised a good many crops, which they harvested.

Care and anxiety pressed heavily upon the wives and mothers at home. On February 16, , glad tidings came to the heavy hearted. A treaty had been ratified by the Senate. Peace was declared and the War of was at an end. The news was received with great rejoicing. In this war General John Swift was made brevert General. Once more the hearts of the pioneers ware saddened, when in while at Queenstown Heights, led by a party to Fort George, were he captured a picket post, and some sixty men.

An oversight permitted the prisoners to retain their guns, and when one asked of them: Alexander McIntyre was standing by his side and he fell into his arms. He was taken to the nearest house and there died. He was buried July 12, When the war was over the citizens of Palmyra exhumed his remains and they were buried in the old cemetery on Church Street in this village.

His age was fifty-two years and twenty-five days. The New York Legislature, out of respect to his patriotism and bravery, presented a sword to his oldest son and dedicated a full length portrait of General Swift to be hung up in the city hall, New York.

And here, too, another one of the first sacrifices to the War of , was from this place. Major William Howe Cuyler was the first lawyer that opened an office in Palmyra, a man still remembered for his public enterprise. He was the aide of General Hall. On the night of the 8th of October, , he was killed at Black Rock by a four-pound ball from the British battery at Fort Erie.

The ball that passed through his body came into the possession of his son, William Howe Cuyler of this village. In Swift built an ashery on the bank of the brook on the south side of East Main Street, where in a man by the name of Wilson built a tannery on the same site of the ashery. Shortly after, he entered into partnership with Mr.

Wilson in the tanning and curing business. After a short time he purchased Mr. Wilson's interest and for a time operated the business alone. Several years later another ashery was built on the north side of the canal of which more will be said as we advance in our journey.

Benjamin Palmer, father of George Palmer, immigrated to Palmyra in , where he died shortly after, leaving his family with small means, to struggle with the hardships incident to life at that period in such a wilderness as was western New York.

The toils and privations of boyhood served to nurture the qualities of self-reliance, endurance and daring. The means of acquiring scholastic education, as now understood, were not accessible to him, and the limited attainments of his life in this direction were the fruits of unaided efforts in hours snatched from the repose which labor served to demand.

He learned his trade as a tanner of Mr. Henry Jessup at Palmyra for two years, formed a partnership with him in , which continued successfully and mutually satisfactory until In , March 24, Mr. After being in company with Mr. Jessup for fourteen years, which had proved to be a financial success, the field at Palmyra had become too limited for the expansive views of Mr.

Palmer, and after an examination of the advantages presented by Rochester and other promising points, he selected Buffalo as his future home. Selling out his interest to Mr. Jessup and taking the money he had made in the tanning business in Palmyra, he moved to Buffalo in He erected a large tannery and carried on a large business. He also became interested in various other enterprises that proved very profitable and with his keen judgment he became wealthy.

Years afterwards his name was good for thousands, when he was conducting large operations, and controlling vast public trusts, and his name was highly respected at home and abroad. Palmer was very much devoted to the church to which he belonged. In , he built a beautiful structure on Delaware Street, known as Calvary church, at a cost of eighty thousand dollars, and the whole was conveyed July 7, , to the society now occupying it. Palmer died September 19, The firm of Jessup and Palmer carried on a large business in tanning, curing, buying hides, selling leather and shoemaking.

The tannery was located on the same site of the Galloway malt house. At that time they had vats that were all out doors and called by the men, "The outdoor tan yard. The firm employed 16 apprentices and as many journeymen, besides farm hands and teams.

As many as 35 or 40 of these men lodged in the garret of the old vinegar factory at the west then the shoe factory. This was called by the men "the sky parlor. Vienna Street on which Mr. Palmer lived was laid out in , and at the time he lived here there were only 4 or 5 houses between his house and the grist mill on the ea. The west end was called Aarondale iIi honor of Aaron Bristee, the only colored man in town with a family.

Palmer built the first barn on the street. General Rogers being at the raising of the barn, took charge of the ceremonies, naming the building by breaking a bottle and calling out, "The chief depository of Aarondale. This old building was afterwards used for a steam grist mill and was run by George Jessup. In the 70's Mr. Taylor bought the property and enlarged the building and had a vinegar factory for a good many years, then later a malt house. Now it is owned by C. Sessions and has been for several years.

In the vat system at the old tannery was done away with when 18 a brick structure was built and the work was all done under cover. This improvement vias made four years after Mr. Palmer had withdrawn from the firm. After carrying on the business alone for a time, Mr. Tuttle became a partner.

The firm name became Jessup and Tuttle, which continued until , when the building was burned and the tannery business came to an end.

Later the late James Galloway acquired the property, enlarged the building and converted it into a malt house. He also put up a steam saw mill in the rear. Logs were bought in different parts of the country, floated down the canal and sawed into lumber.

In the 90's Mr. Galloway sold the entire plant to Mr. After a short time he started to improve the property and after paying out a good deal of money and the malting business began to wane, he abandoned the project and the plans were never carried out.

The double house we see at the west end was remodeled and has been occupied since as a double dwelling house. Around the late Fred W. Clemons bought the property. The double house was once the hide house for the tannery. Merrick stopped work on the building, that was the last attempt to keep the building up and it fast went to decay.

Melissa Knapp purchased the old wreck and tore it down. The future will reveal its fate. Knapp passed away in August, Across the way from the shoe factory are the old General Swift buildings where in , a sign "Drake's Wagon and Sleigh Shop" could be seen. The cellar at the old Swift house is in the north end but not much like a modern cellar.

At the foot of Main Street stands the old George Jessup house. He was the son of Deacon Henry Jessup who died in In the 30's this old white brick house was one of the finest in the village. Jessup lived and brought up his family. He died in the 90's. His children had already married and gone away, and with no one to look after the property, this once fine old brick house fast went to decay.

The trolley company purchased the property. Now as we enter the old house and gaze on its deserted and forsaken rooms that are open to all who care to enter, we catch a glimpse of the old winding stairs with its hand carved railing that would do credit to anyone today to duplicate the same.

In those days William Kellogg was considered a fine workman and one of the best builders a. Many a fine house in town. The old iron latches are still on the doors. The old window sills made of solid oak being exposed to the weather all these long years, show that time has made its mark and they are fast going to decay. The time is not far distant when this old house will be torn down and the old Jessup house at the foot of Main Street with its solid and uncracked walls that has stood the test for so many years, will be forgotten.

When Henry Jessup, sr. Later Jessup and 19 Foster in the 50's had a machine shop where they made grain drills and plaster sowers. Osborn had a dry house, then came the electric light plant. After serving in this capacity for several years it was at last torn down. Jessup's land extended east so as to take in the Dealer's factory. The east line wa. Before the Erie Canal went through, the street past the gas house on Railroad Avenue, was not opened up.

The Montezuma turnpike extended past the Dealer's factory to Jessup's corner, but when the canal went through, the state had to take care of the little brook that runs under the canal.

A culvert had to be made to carry the water under the canal, so they made it long enough, so they could layout the street by the gas house. Later in the 50's they widened the canal and when the old wooden bridges had become unsafe they had to have new bridges.

They were made of iron and were longer. The State would not build two bridges and the town could not afford it, so the one on Throop Street was not put up. Jessup went to the village board and wanted to have the land come back to him, but this the trustees of the village refused to do. Therefore it still remained a street. Now the old canal is filled in so that traffic is again opened up which adds very much to the safety since the coming of the automobile.

At the coming of the Erie Canal a large warehouse called Jessup's warehouse, was built at the east end of the basin on Throop Street. This building in the 50's was occupied by Philip Palmer and Henry Tallou, who were in the produce business for a time, when Mr. Tallou withdrew from the firm and Mr. Palmer carried on the business alone for a time. He closed the business in and went West where he died a few years later.

The old warehouse, after standing some time unoccupied, was finally burned. At that time it was owned by the late William Everson. In the 80's James Galloway purchased this lot of Mr. Everson with the intentions of erecting a warehouse in which to store his malt, but he soon sold the malt house and with him the malting business was at an end.

After a few years the vacant lot was sold to W. Clinton who put up a little shop on the lot. Now it is owned by the Palmyra Creamery Co. This basin was made to accommodate the warehouse where they could come up with their boats to load them.

This was called Jessup's Basin. Here was the first collector's office, conducted by Philip Granden, which was later moved to its present location at Roger's basin at the foot of Market Street. South of the Jessup house was the home of John Drummond, who came here in the 30's. Later Owen Burns, the cooper, bought the place and used the old house for a storehouse.

About Charles O'Conner bought the property, made a good many repairs, when once 20 more the old house became a comfortable dwelling house. It is now owned and occupied by Harvey Bump. We will now pass the old school house and leave its history for a later date. Adjoining this on the south was the home of the late Henry Addicott, a native of England, who came here in the 30's. Later he bought the corner lot of Mr. Jessup, built the present house and lived here until his death which occurred in When he first came to Palmyra he worked at odd jobs such as sawing wood and other work.

Later he teamed it. At that time General Rogers owned the land where the cemetery now is, which then was all woods. Rogers had cut the most of the timber but there was still a good deal of timber left, and he told Mr. Addicott he might have the rest of the timber if he would clear it off. Addicott accepted which paid him well. In the village bought this land for a cemetery and Mr.

Addicott was its first sexton. Later he went into the coopering business, in which he continued until the 60's, when the Burns brothers came from Pennsylvania and bought him out. He then bought a piece of land on the east side of Howell street and opened up a sand pit where he sold and delivered thousands of loads of sand. Addicott's death his son, George, came into possession of the property. George died several years ago. His widow is still living on the place, thus keeping the old homestead in the family over 80 years.

Another son, Benjamin, now lives in the village and all those who know him could say he was an honest man. When I was a boy 6 years old, Mr. Addicott made a lasting impression upon my mind. One day when he was sawing wood for Mr. Nettiville, who lived in the house where Andrew Luppold now lives, and I lived in a house 10 or 12 feet east, that since has been moved on Fayette Street and has been occupied for several years by Robert Hart, We had just come from New Hampshire I brought out my little ax to split a few of the easy sticks when Mr.

Addicott made a proposition to me that if I would split wood he would bring me a big apple, when he came back from dinner. I asked him for the apple. All the answer I got was a grunt, but imagine my disappointment, but the old man never heard the last of it for as long as he lived I dunned him for the apple and all I received from him was a smile.

Now let us take a stroll down Vienna Street. The property was owned by Carlton Rogers and was burned in the 80's. Henderson was in the business in the 50's and 60's. At his death the little house came into the possession of his son Richard, and at the son's death the property was sold to Michael Carey, whose family now occupies the same.

On the east, about , 21 Thomas Cunningham built this modern house. Cunningham, who was a section foreman on the New York Central, was retired on a pension in , dying shortly after. The place is now occupied by his son, T. Adjoining on the east was the home of John Hibbard for nearly 50 years.

He died about The place is now owned and occupied by Everett Robbins. We now come to the old circus ground of the 40's. Later the late Albert Lampson purchased the lot and erected the present house where he lived until his death which occurred in the 70's.

For a good many years he was employed in the Bulmer lumber yard. Lampson married the daughter of the late John Brown. Lampson's death his son Arthur took the place, lived here several years and then moved to New York. Then the place was taken by his brother-in-law, Edwin Tappenden, who is still living there. Today there are but few living that remember the old circus ground. In the early 60's the late Albert Cray bought a lot on the east. A number of years later he sold out and moved away.

Now it is owned and occupied by John Callahan, who has had several village offices and now holds a prominent position in the Dealers' Steam Packing Co. Tappenden, held for over thirty years avery responsible position at the Garlock factory. In , he was put on the retired list under pay for his faithful services and today he is the good samaritan, looking after the sick.

He goes to any home, whether rich or poor, lending a helping hand to the needy, letting the people set their own price, something which is very uncommon in these days. Recently he cared for Mr. Robert Hart, a Civil War veteran, who fell and broke his hip some months ago. No one would be more missed than "Tap," if anything 'should incapacitate him. He has all the paraphernalia of a physician. The citizens of Palmyra will forever owe him a debt of gratitude.

Adjoining the Cray property on the east stands a low old cottage built in the 40's by the late William Walton, a native of England. At his death his son, William, jr. On the east in the 70's two little cottages were built, the one on the west built by Andrew Cavanaugh, while the one on the east by Daniel Hickey.

Now, , one is owned and occupied by Jay Shear and the other by John Adams. We now come to a brick house built by a Mr. Brown, who afterward sold out and moved to Shortsville.

Later this place was owned by J. Willamson and now it is owned and occupied by Walter Gorman. Passing on, we come to the Braman place which he purchased of a man by the name of Harre. Braman was a tanner and currier by trade. At his death, which occurred in the 90's, the property was left to his heirs. Flora Braman Moison is now living on the place. Adjoining on the east is the Carlton Lakey home, son of Thomas Lakey, one of Palmyra's earliest settlers.

Carlton died in the 80's. His widow, after living here several years, sold the place to Harry Yerkes and moved away in The two little houses on the east are old land marks. In , William Pierce owned 22 the west one, now owned by James Trotter. The one on the east is owned by Olin Van Cise. The next little brick house on the east was built in the early 50's by Pliny Hibberd. Hibberd was a carpenter by trade. At his death which occurred in the 80's the little house and four acres of land came to his son Thomas, who was a veteran of the Civil War.

After his death the village purchased the property, using the house for a home for the village policeman, Mr. Johnson being the first village policeman to occupy it in After a few years the village sold the house and frontage to Paul Goodnow. Crossing the cen1etery driveway our first house is where a Mr.

Strong lived in the 60's, later sold to Colporteur Durfee of Marion. After his death the late Augustus Jeffrey bought the place. His son Charles and daughter Edna now live on the place. The John Parshall place comes next where his sisters lived. Now it is owned by Peter Molner, a native of Holland. The late Patrick McGreal lived in the next house. He died about and the place went into the hands of John R.

Now it is owned and occupied by Emil DeBuyser. They were built about In the 50's Anson Boyingtonl bought the little seven-acre farm on the east. After living here a short time he died and the place was sold to Mr.

Talcott, who came here in the early 50's and was engaged in raising tobacco for several years on Maple Avenue. After being in the business several years he sold the place on Vienna Street to a Mr.

Walker and went back to Massachusetts. In the 60's the late William Rushmore, who sold his large farm in Farmington, came to Palmyra, and purchased this place.

At his death, which occurred about , the property was again sold and William Perry became the owner, a stock dealer. Now he is living on the place. In the late 50's Stephen Jerdon, the auctioneer, purchased the home and lot on the east. Since his death, which occurred in the 70's, there has been several different owners. Now it is owned and occupied by Jacob Dayton. Next to the Dayton house on the east has been built a new house owned and occupied by James Webster.

We now come to Howell Street, named after a Mr. Howell, one of the earliest settlers, who owned a farm west of here in an early day, and laid out this street. I have been unable to get the exact bounds of this farm, only his west line was the east line of General John Swift's acres, whose west line was the west line of the Eagle Hotel.

Howell, in laying out Howell Street, kept a narrow strip on the east side of the street that could be sold off in village lots, of which William Beck bought six acres, and built a house and barn on the corner of Vienna and Howell Streets.

On the opposite corner on the west stands a house built by the late William Foskett. Now it is owned by William Durkin. Passing along on Howell Street our first house after leaving the corner on the west is a house built by William S. Our next on the south is a house built by the late George Wheeler in the 50's.

Wheeler was 23 one of the earliest sextons at the Palmyra cemetery. He succeeded Henry Addicott. This office he held with honor until old age compelled him to retire. He died in the 70's. Our next house was built by the late Charles Wright, who was for many years a wagon maker with his shop on east Canal Street. Wright were brothers-in-law, each married a daughter of the late John Brown. The Wheeler place, now is owned by William B.

Clinton, while the Wright place is owned by Lewis Carroll. Adjoining on the south is the home of Harriet Clinton, widow of the late Joseph Clinton. The Clinton place is now occupied by Harlow Veeder, a son-in-law of Mrs. Passing the Catholic cemetery we come to a small farm owned and occupied by Daniel Vanderwege, bounded on the south by his son-in-Iaw's place, John Elias. Across the way on the east side, is the Hornsby homestead, now occupied by Fred Hornsby and sister Millie Hornsby.

Next on the south, down a lane, is the well-kept home of James Noonan. Just east of the Beck place in early days stood an old land mark and for several years was occupied by the Porter family. Later it was moved to the south end of Gates Street on the west side.

It was owned at one time by Elmer Jones, followed by William Parker, a native of Walworth, and a veteran of the Civil War, and it is now owned and occupied by William Plummer. Next on the east is a new house owned and occupied by Harry Beach, followed by a new house owned and occupied by Rev.

Frank Cook, a retired minister. The large brick house that stands back from the road was built in the 30's by Mr. Rossman, who sold the house and farm to Samuel Horton in the 40's. Since then it has changed owners several times. Now it is owned and occupied by Henry Mason, whose son, Henry, has the distinction of building the first airplane made in this town.

Its first successful flight was made on August 19, All this airplane he made himself, except the motor which is a rebuilt motorcycle engine. At one time this was a large farm. Now, 20 acres are in the corporation. Jesse Westfall built the house on the little acre farm on the east, which he sold to Mrs. At his death it became by purchase, the property of the late Thomas Cornwell, later by Mr. Klink, and now by James Fries. From the east line of this farm to the mill pond was a tract of land extending south, containing about 30 acres, owned in the 50's by the late Ira Hadsell.

We now come to the mill pond. Let us now return to Throop Street, passing the Addicott house. As we go east our first house is the M. Adjoining this on the east is owned by the heirs of the late Owen Burns, who came to Palmyra 24 with his brother from Pennsylvania and bought the Addicott cooper shop on Throop Street.

Burns was a cooper by trade. In this shop he carried on an extensive business and employed a good many men making apple barrels and delivering them through the country. This once thriving business has somewhat changed, the business began to wane. Burns became old, the barrel factory was closed, the old shop was torn down and a dwelling house stands on the site and the name of Burns Cooper Shop has passed into history. Our next house on the east, away back in the early 50's, was the old "Black Bett" house, later the home of Frank Barks, followed by Clark and Bert Storms.

In the 60's the late Alfred Sansbury bought the lot on the east, moved the present little house on this lot which he sold in to Miss Amanda Bradley. This little story she used to tell about Judge S. Nelson Sawyer, who lived neighbor to her when a boy.

Back of their house in the bed of the old Erie Canal was a pond of water, where in the winter the boys used to slide and skate. His father had given him strict orders to keep away from the pond on the promise of giving a good whipping if found out, but one day the temptation was too great and in an unguarded moment he went down to the pond and stepped on the ice which broke through, getting both feet soaking wet.

He went into Miss Bradley's where was always his refuge when in trouble. Here he stayed until both stockings were dry, not forgetting to tell Miss Bradley not to reveal this act of disobedience to his father. This old lady died in , being over 94 years old and the place is now owned and occupied by Abraham Johnson, who lives there alone. The three houses on the east, for a good many years, were owned by the late William Foskett, who followed boating all his life. The west house was occupied for a good many years by his brother, Augustus.

The Foskett family have all passed away. William died in the 80's. Augustus was a tailor and died about After the death of William, John Hennessey purchased the middle house. The daughter of William Foskett now lives in the east house and James Fox owns the west one. In the 50's the late Isaac Tabor purchased the lot, built the little brick house on the east.

Tabor was a carpenter by trade and a son of Silas Tabor. Isaac was employed a good many years at the Bulmer lumber yard. His widow continued to occupy the place for several years. At her death the place passed into the hands of Alice Gifford. It is now owned and occupied by William Ray. Clinton Tyler now owns the house on the east. In the vacant lot on the east in early days a house was built and occupied by the late Benjamin Hibberd. After many years the old landmark was torn down.

On this same site Mr. He also built the Tyler house which is followed by a new house which is owned and occupied by Mrs. Ida Webb; also followed by a new cottage occupied by Mrs. When Tyler's house was first built, his son Ezra, who was a tinsmith by. When he moved to Phelps where he died in the 70's, his brother Charles occupied the house west of the large one. Elizabeth Loudell, mother-in-law of Benjamin Hibberd, owned a large tract of land extending from the line of the large house west, taking several lots; also all the land included in the old part of the old cemetery.

Gertrude Johnson, whose husband was a war veteran, lives on the east, while the house to the west of the large Hibberd house is occupied by Glenn Cunningham. We now come to the old Graham place. Graham was a native of England, coming to this country in the 40's. He was a carpenter by trade. After the death of Mr. Graham, which occurred many years ago, the property remained in the hands of the heirs until about , when it was sold after being made over into a double house.

It is now owned by Abram Johnson. Our next house is the old William Sampson house. Sampson was uncle to the late Admiral William T. It is now owned by Mrs. Alice Walker Middleton Button. About James Middleton built a house on this lot and on the east side. His widow, who subsequently married Stanley Button, still owns the place. Then comes Michael Gorman's house, now owned by Richard Dunn.

Adjoining on the east is the new house built on the Walker lot by William. His father, Lemuel Walker, lived on the east. On the east is the house that Hiram O. Young built about The house on the east was built by the late William Jones, who was our street commissioner for several years. He was killed instantly by accident. The place is now owned by Daniel McGuire. We now come to Kent Street, which was opened in the 70's, but was never accepted by the village. The house on the northwest corner was built in the 80's by a Mr.

McLane and is now owned and occupied by Peter Gilman. Passing along we come to a typical old New England house, owned in the 60's by a Mr.

Earl, a blacksmith by trade. Our next house on the east was once the home of James VanNess, a professional weaver, who came from Columbia County to Palmyra about or VanNess bought a small lot on which he built the small house now owned by Charles Hornsby residing in Lyons. He built a little shop, close to the walk, in which he commenced weaving carpets, blankets and coverlets, the latter of which 26 he made a specialty in.

Their artistic design and skill in workmanship was the admiration of those who saw them. Many mothers had one woven to give to each daughter. Now they can be found in many states of the Union where they have been carried by the children or grandchildren and are fondly cherished by them as one of the dearest memories of the old homestead. In he sold out and bought a small farm in the eastern part of the town. In he sold his little farm and moved to Hudson, Mich. About , while fighting a forest fire, he became tired and sat down at the foot of a tree to rest.

A burned limb fell, striking him on the head, killing him. The next house on the east was built in the late 50's by William Smith, a native of England. Now it is owned by William Van Conant. Adjoining on the east is a little house, which in the 30's was owned by Silas Drake, called "Uncle Drake. Drake had a little shop where he did repair work, such as putting in cradle fingers and mending furniture. He also, at one time, had a little mill in the rear where he had a turning lathe.

Drake had no children. One morning in the 20's when he arose, and went to the front door, he saw a market basket on the door step, and on inspecting it, he found a little baby boy, wrapped in a blanket. He took it inside and showed the prize to his wife, and, in waiting in vain for some owner to call, he and Kazia made up their minds they would take it as their own, and tenderly care for it and named it Leonard Drake. After the child had grown to be large enough, he became handy with tools and learned to turn out different things at the lathe in the mill.

About he was employed for a time, working at the lathe in Henry Jenner's cabinet shop. About he was married to Calista Conant. In he moved to Michigan where he died several years later. Drake was one of the earliest settlers on the street, coming here in the 20's. When they became old, Josiah said he generally cut the bread, for he could carry a little steadier hand than Kezia.

Drake passed away in , aged 90 years, and his wife died in , aged 80 years. We now come to the Ira Hadsell place, who, in the 20's, came to Palmyra and was also an expert weaver.

In or he worked on the Erie Canal. After the canal was finished, he bought a little acre farm at the south end of the mill pond. Across the road he bought a lot on which he built a little house and barn, and carried on his little farm until the arrival of Mr.

Van Ness, when he hired out to work for the latter until he sold out in Hadsell bought his looms and patterns and built a shop on his own lot, and continued in the business, until the patronage began to wane, and rugs and carpets were bought more at the stores. Then he closed his shop and turned his attention to his farm, and sold milk in the village for a number of years. He died in at the age of 83 years. Hadsell, his second wife and son moved to California.

At the time the Drake house was burned the Hadsell house and shop was also destroyed. Now there stands on each of these lots new and modern houses. The Beach house was built by A. We now come to the old mill property. On September 17, , three brothers, Isaac, Jonah and Gilbert Howell came to Palmyra, and arrived by the northern inland route, and bought a tract of land at the east end of the village, of which some say the western boundary line was just north of the Throop house on Main Street, while others say it was the east line of the George Jessup property.

These brothers brought with them irons and stones for a saw and grist mill. But as the stream was small and furnished water only Spring and Fall, for the grinding of grain, the grist mill was abandoned, but the saw mill was used for nearly a hundred and twenty years.

Of the Howells, Jonah was the one who carried on the mills. After living in a log house for a time, he built a house east of the mill and on the north side of the road, in which he lived.

Vienna Street was not yet laid out until In the 70's Valentine Natt bought the property on the east side of the brook and built the ice house on the south side of the road and sold ice in the village. In the 60's Ezra Chapman came from Massachusetts to Palmyra, bought the mill and the house on the west side of the brook and ran the saw mill several years, and when the logs became scarce and it no longer paid to run the saw mill, it was converted into a cider mill where they also ground sorghum.

Chapman died in the 80's. They carried on the ice business and ran the cider mill for a number of years, until they sold out to Henry R. In Edward Bowe acquired the property and still owns it. Long years have passed sinc. The arm that guided the mallet and chisel to dress the stone that ground the grain is forever stilled. For more than years the old mill stones lay slumbering unconscious of the past, in the back yard on the west side of the mill, when a few years ago the yard was filled in, covering the old mill stones and now no one knows of their habitation.

Let us once more return to Throop Street. Across from the Jessup basin still stands the old Throop tavern. Its first occupant for a short time was a man by the name of McDonald. Then came Benjamin Throop from Maine, a native of England and a sailor, who came to Palmyra just before the Erie Canal went through, bought out McDonald and moved into this tavern with its brick cellar kitchen in front, now looking very much 28 as it did years ago.

He did a thriving business while the canal was being dug. Many a time someone had to sleep on the floor for want of beds. In front, directly opposite the door was a watering trough with a wooden pen stock. The water came through wooden logs. This faithful old fountain slaked the thirst of many a man and beast.

Many a boy and girl on their way to and from the old stone school house, as a token of respect, would take a social draught from this old fountain. When the New York Central went through, this watering place was moved further west to a place called the Diamond, thus giving better accommodations to the public.

These old watering places will soon be forgotten and known only in history. The old red barn and shed that stood in the corner east of the tavern to accommodate the public has long since been torn down and dwelling houses are occupying the site.

In one corner of the old shed could be seen for many years the old cannon, "Young Hickory," mounted on wheels, waiting the return of another Fourth of July. Then the boys would draw her up on Prospect Hill long before daylight, load her up and touch her off, thus notifying everyone in the village that the glorious old Eagle was again on the wing and "Young Hickory" was again to proclaim it, while in the valley below, Erastus Kellogg played upon the fife, and his brother William beat upon the bass drum and Edwin Tyler put the extra touches on the snare drum.

At one time when "Young Hickory" was called upon to make a speech in front of the Exchange Hotel, one man who was full of glory, wishing to introduce "Young Hickory" to the audience, touched her with a lighted cigar, but "Young Hickory" said, "Hands off.

I do my own talking. This old-time custom has long since passed away and no one today can tell whatever became of "Young Hickory.

Edwin Tyler died with small pox. The Kellogg family consisted of five boys and three girls. Four of the boys went to war, but one, Milo, the youngest of the family, returned. Erastus, William and James never returned. One of the girls married Eugene Smith, the other married William Gilbert. Both of these were in the army and returned at the close of the war, but with broken health. Of all these, not one of the Kelloggs are living today and only known as history records them.

Gilbert 'died in the 70's and Smith died in the 80's, and of these old musicians, who never returned, friend or stranger, when in the Village Hall can read their names chiseled in the marble tablet with the names of other comrades who laid down their lives for the Stars and Stripes.

On the east corner of Mill and Main Streets stands the old Jessup block. This building once ran to the south. A portion of it was turned around so as to face Main Street. While the tannery was running, it was used for a boarding house and was called the Long House. In the 29 80's the late George Williams purchased this property, made a good many repairs. About William Darling bought the property and now is still the owner. Many and many are the tenants that have moved in and out of this old building, some for a short time while others stayed longer.

The old building looks very much as it did over 80 years ago. As we pass down Mill Street, which was laid out in , resurveyed in , our first house on the east came into the possession of George Williams, whose name has been mentioned before. He was a contractor and builder. In the 70's he remodeled this brick house and lived here until his death which occurred about In the 40's, where this brick house stands and the one south owned by John DeVuyst, was a part of the mill yard for the old Jessup saw mill that stood on the east side of Mill Street, while the pond was on the west side.

The mill yard extended across the brook and around on the north side of Vienna Street as far as the Garlock house, corner of Throop and Vienna Streets. At that time there were no houses here and where all those houses now stand was a mill yard where farmers piled their logs that were drawn in the Winter to be sawed into lumber, each taking his turn on the list. This street was only a lane, for it was filled with logs and there was barely room to drive through with a wagon.

In the 40's Draper Allen ran the mill which was kept going during the Winter and Spring months whenever there was sufficient water. General Swift erected this mill at a very early date, and from this old mill went lumber to build many a house and barn for the earlier inhabitants of the village and town. The old mill has long since been torn down and no track or trace of it can be found where once it stood. The name of Draper Allen has been forgotten. When Route 20 went through, the old mill pond was used for a dumping ground.

Little cottages now dot the old mill yard where the logs were piled up to wait their turn to be sawed. Speaking of the old mill yard: As late as in the 40's there were no houses from the Long House on the east side of Mill Street and the north side of Vienna until we come to the corner of Throop and Vienna Streets. On this corner in the early 40's stood an old wood-colored house of a fair size, and was evidently the first house made of frame built on this tract, for at the time Mr.

Jessup came into possession of this property it had barely been cleared of forest trees. I have been unable to locate Mr. He would naturally build on his own land and at that time this would be considered a good location.

Vienna Street was laid out the year previous to his coming to Palmyra and Throop Street was a main thoroughfare. Taking all this into consideration it would go to show that this was at one time his residence. In the early 40's a man by the name of Bristol lived here. He was a cooper and had his shop just north of the house.

Please do not get this shop mixed with the Burns shop that was further north. In the late Augustus Soper lived in this house. His son Adelbert was born in this house and spent all his life here in the village. Later the late Morrison Ford bought the property, and lived here until his death which occurred 30 in the 90's. Ford was street commissioner for several years in the village. After his death Olin J.

Garlock purchased the property, enlarged the house and converted it into a fine, large double house and is still the owner. Among the houses that now occupy the old mill yard on Vienna Street: The first house west of the Garlock house is the Thomas Maley house.

The house adjoining on the west was built by the late Samuel Sawyer. Among the different owners were Spencer Stephens, a Civil War veteran, at one time in the clothing business on Market Street; later a man by the name of Herendeen. Now, and for several years previous, it has been owned and occupied by Judson Garlock. In the 40's the late Isaac Besley built the little one-story cottage on the west.

After his death the little place passed into the hands of John K. Later Charles Lebrecht became its owner. He built a small house on the east side of the lot and sold it to Charles Brownell who is living there.

The original Besley house is owned by Mrs. The house on the west was once owned by Pliny Sexton. Among the different owners were Albert Tremper and it is now owned by Edward Farrell. In passing I would say Mr. Besley was once a business man in our town in the 40's. He had a grocery store on the dock; later a store in the Sanford block. The little house on the corner west was built in the 70's by the late Richard Pritchard.

Among the different owners were Mrs. Now a gas station adjoins the house which is owned by William Orlopp. Later it was owned by the late Charles Johnson. It is now owned by the heirs of the late Lillian Garlock. It also extended from the south side of Main Street on the north to the south side of the mill pond on the south. On the west lot Mr.

Foster erected a fine, large, two-story house, where he lived until his death, which occurred in the 70's. Foster came to Palmyra in early life. After his death the property passed into the hands of James Smith.

In the 80's Delos Cummings purchased the property, enlarged the house, put on a third story and opened it up as a hotel and it was called the Cummings House. This did not prove to be a paying investment. After a few years it was sold to Olin J. Garlock converted the building into an apartment house and heated it with steam coming from the factory that was just south of the office.

After keping this property several years he sold it. Since then it has had several owners. Our next house on the east was the Tuttle house. Tuttle was a tanner by trade and was for several years in the tanning business in company with Henry Jessup. In the 60's the old tannery was burned and the business was closed out, and Mr. Coates acquired the property and after living here several years sold the little old house to George B. Parker, who had a shoe store in the Jarvis 31 block.

He named his store "The Now it is owned by George McKnutt. It is located on the north side of the brook.

The article you have been looking for has expired and is not longer available on our system. This is due to newswire licensing terms. The Death of the Moth. Moths that fly by day are not properly to be called moths; they do not excite that pleasant sense of dark autumn nights and ivy-blossom which the commonest yellow-underwing asleep in the shadow of the curtain never fails to rouse in us. The Voyage of Governor Phillip to Botany Bay with an Account of the Establishment of the Colonies of Port Jackson and Norfolk Island; compiled from Authentic Papers.