Showing posts with label Bishop. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bishop. Show all posts

Wednesday, December 10, 2014

January 1944 | Abigail Fithian Halsey to Jesse Halsey

Sunday Afternoon

Dear Jesse,

Well, this week our good friend Dr. Nugent left us, the funeral was yesterday. He has been bed ridden and I guess stricken on one side since Nov.—Only last week I went in and he said, “Come up.” He and Helen and I had such a good time. I had had a call from Ada Bishop and regaled him with her account of Henry losing his false teeth at night. He lay prone on his bed, but chuckled away and enjoyed it. Helen has been so fine all thru and called me and asked me to write an article for the Press—says it is one of her greatest comforts, it’s so like old times.

I told her I tried to write something he’d like to read and that she and Liz would approve of.

I’ve been shut in the house all week with bronchitis—that ends in a wracking cough, but it’s letting up and I shall get out tomorrow. Jerry had chicken pox and now Jean is down with it, well broken out. Ibby is the valiant one of us all, but is expecting her call any time, is very well. Jerry was home Thurs. after working all night and so tired he slept most of the day. But a great comfort to Ib. to have him come.

The Rulands celebrated their January birthdays by going to Tobey’s (Camp) for supper last night and took Jerry with them. The Herricks are happy today with John and Dorie and Connie all at home. Adelaide spent a day with us and is grand and Ethel takes lovely care of her going and coming. They came in after Dr. Nugent’s funeral Friday.

Dan Halsey and all of them were sick but are better now, also Mr. Van Brunt. Days are very late in the morning, but the sun stays up a little longer.

Let me know your plans, when and where you will be coming out next month—would you be home sometime to get some oysters if I could get any to send? Henry hasn’t been along for two weeks, but the ice must be out now for it is mild for a change.

I have loved Dunnybrook and wish Adelaide Wentworth [of Cincinnati] were here to read of her Kittery. Of course, you knew Dr. Kennon Dunham’s son [Harry] was lost in aviation [while serving in New Guinea]. Sarah Withrow’s letters are full of it, says Mrs. D. stands it wonderfully, Dr. Dunham not so well. A lovely letter finally from Mrs. [W. E.] Stilwell [in Cincinnati] who is broken hearted over the University School going out.

So ends my weekly chronicle with my love for you and all, am anxious to know Abbie’s plans. I hope you all are well and I look forward to being with you all, but feel I am in the right place, and Ibby is certainly fine. Ed is in Wash. And last week had Eddie and Helen and Anita Howell down to N.Y. for a lovely weekend all together Eddie was in and looks well, goes into the Navy tomorrow. Take care of yourself and take time to rest.

Lovingly,
Abbie

Wednesday, December 3, 2014

A Bit of Local History Written by the Late W.S. Pelletreau

Record of the Ownership of the Triangle between Main Street and North Sea Road Southampton Press

The recent burning of the Dawson dwelling and barns recalls an article written by our esteemed historian, the late William S. Pelletreau
--> [1840-1918], and published in the PRESS in May, 1917. The article has much value and interest to all living in that section of the village and is reprinted by request.

In old times, long before the Revolution, the entire triangle between the Main street and the North Sea road was owned by Abner Howell. He was the son of Col. Josiah Howell, and was a man of importance in his day and time. A small, brown tombstone tells us that Mr. Abner Howell died Sept. 16, 1775 in the 76th year of his age. About 1750 he gave his son, Phineas Howell, the lot where John Cavanagh now lives, and he built a house upon it which was standing in our boyhood days. At the same time there was another house exactly like it and this was owned by Mr. Peter Fournier and was where the Commercial House now stands. They were not only exactly alike in other respects but there was a peculiar style to the chimneys which attracted our attention. Both of these houses were torn down about 1849. Abner Howell seems to have divided the entire triangle between his two sons, Phineas and David, and Phineas had the north part and David Howell had the south portion. In 1788 Phineas Howell sold east part to Annanias Halsey and went to what was the “Western Country” and settled in the town of Tully, in what is now Onondaga County, New York, and he died there at a very advanced age. Annanias Halsey was the father of a family that had been prominent in Southampton. His son, Uriah Halsey, lived on the place now owned by Mrs. Wilmun Halsey and had two daughters. One married John Sherry of Sag Harbor and the other married Capt. Crowell of the same place.

Another son of Annanias was Eli P. Halsey, who was the father Edwin P. Halsey, who lived in the old house, next north of Herrick’s store.

Another daughter married Col. Samuel hunting, whose wealth has been of benefit to many families. Another daughter, Mary (or Polly, as she was generally called) married Mr. Daniel Fordham, whose descendants are numerous and well known. Another daughter, Susan (commonly known in our boyhood days as Aunt Susan Halsey) lived and died unmarried in a little old house that stood just north of Capt. Daniel Jagger’s house, now Mr. Donnelly’s. After her death the house was sold by Capt. Jagger to David Terry, who moved it to Tuckahoe where it still remains.

The part of the lot sold to Annanias Halsey was in later years sold to Capt. Harry Halsey, who is well remembered. The part where the little house stood is now owned by Miss Abigail Halsey, and the homestead by the Rev. Jesse Halsey. The old house and lot of Phineas Howell was sold by him to Ebenezr Jagger in 1772. He had a tan yard on the premises, and was the great-grandfather of Mr. Hubert Jagger. In later years the house and lot belonged to Mr. Aja Halsey, who tore down the old house and built a new one and which, after passing through several hands now belongs to John Cavanagh.

We may add that Abner Howell did not live on that tract. His home lot, which was that of his father’s before him, was where Mr. Livingston Bowden now lives. He was the village blacksmith and the relics of his shop were plainly visible some years ago, when the road was ploughed up on Bowden Square.

The south part of the triangle was given by Abner Howell to his son, David Howell, who built a house upon it about 1750. In 1770, the main street of Southampton was surveyed from the beach to the road at Long Springs and David Howell’s house is there mentioned. Like most houses of that time it was built on the line of the street. The present door yard has been taken in from the highway but no one is any the worse for it. David Howell was a silversmith and learned his trade from Capt. Elias Pelletreau. We have seen spoons made by him and stamped with his name. On May 10th, 1782, David Howell sold his house and lot to Col. Josiah Smith of Moriches for £400, or $2,00. As the lot included what is now Mr. Donnelly’s property, it is worth as much today. What became of David Howell we do not know but he may have gone West like his brother. Colonel Josiah Smith bought this place for his daughter Hannah, who married Elias Pelletreau, and they lived there many years keeping a store, which did a large business for those days. Flax was a staple article and was raised in large quantities and taken in trade but times have changed and there has not been an ounce of flax raised in Southampton for nearly 100 years. We may as well mention that another article of extensive sales was West India rum. In the latter part of his life Elias Pelletreau purchased a large farm at the south end of the village, with a house still standing and well known as the Hollyhocks.

After the death of Elias Pelletreau, the David Howell, house and lot was sold to Benjamin Howell and after passing through one or two hands it came into possession of Capt. Austin Herrick and is now owned by his descendents who are well known to us all. The house which still remains, was built originally after the standard style of those times, with a long sloping roof on one side, but at some later period it was changed, and by making gambrel roof with dormer windows, it was made practically a two-story house. In old times, when land was cheap, houses were built large on the ground, the upper part was a necessary evil, and it was not necessary to put one house on another. It has stood the storms of more than 160 years and will outlast many of the flashy houses of the present time.

The person who sees Mr. Dawson’s place would hardly believe that it is a hundred years old. So much has been added that it looks like a new house, but the original house has passed its 100th mark long years ago, and hereby hangs a tale.

In the early part of the last century, the farm at the north end, now owned by Mr. James E. Foster, was the homestead of John Bishop and his wife Jerusha, both models of short-sighted penuriousness. The story goes, and we have heard it repeated by those who evidently believed it, that they were left this farm and much other land, with the condition that they were to support two maiden sisters until their death or marriage. They seem to have been well convinced that the former would happen first and they might have to wait a long time for that, and they worried about certain sharp individuals, and there were sharp people even in those virtuous days, and they were Squire William Herrick, Rufus Sayre, and Joel Jacobs, made them the offer to take the girls off their hands and support them until they were dead or married, in exchange for their farm and some other lands, among which we believe was a lot at Halsey’s neck, now owned by Edward. H. Foster, Esq. They accepted the offer and congratulated themselves on their grand stroke of luck. One of the characters in “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” says, “Gals is mighty on certain things. If you think they have gone one way they are sure to be gone the other.” With that perversity, so peculiar to the female sex, these girls, who were expected never to marry, were both married within a year. The Bishops then repented in sackcloth and ashes, that they had parted with their land so easily. The house on the farm was sold to Paul Sayre, the grandfather of our well-known townsman, Mr. Rufus Sayre, and he moved it to its present site where he purchased a small piece of land of the proprietors. This is the 100th anniversary of its moving and it is certain that it was of some age at the time. Here Paul Sayre lived and died, and his daughter, Miss Nancy Sayre, with a sister lived there within our recollection.

As for the Bishops’ story we hardly know what to say. There are some things which make us doubt it, but as the Italian saying is, “If it is not true, it is well made up.”

The Jesse Halsey Manuscript Collection. Special Collections, Princeton Theological Seminary Library. 

Wednesday, October 1, 2014

Southampton C1887

--> Jesse Halsey

Memory prompts me to go down the village street as it was some 50 years ago. Following the old Indian trail, likely the early settlers placed their houses along the winding way that they called the main street. All the early houses, salt-box style, faced the south. The next generation built their house close to the street, many of the porches coming out even with the sidewalk. The street was wide and line on both sides by massive trees, many of them spreading elms. The trail was deep with dust in the summer, almost impassable with mud in the springtime, and in the winter rough with ruts.

The railroad came through about the time I was born, linking the villages with New York, about ninety miles to the west. Before that, most commercial and cultural connections were with New England; trading vessels plying between Boston and New London, Stonington, and our Island. At the north end of our Main Street there was a Scotch immigrant familiarly called Josh Ellison; he had four boys and six girls. Five of the latter, as I remember, succumbed in a diphtheria epidemic that swept through the village long before the time of anti-toxins. The oldest boy became a very skilled cabinet maker and wood carver. The second boy, John, went to work for the village painter. My older sisters were painting their bedroom and wanted some cream colored paint for wood work. They sent me, a boy of five or six, to the other end of the village where the paint-shop was located. I delivered my order and came home with a quart of the paint that John had mixed. When the girls applied it they found it was a brilliant colonial yellow. My older brother commented at the supper table that night, “The cream from John Ellison’s cows must be a deeper color than from ours.” (I told this story to John Ellison last summer. He still owns the paint business and half the local bank, but he did not seem to appreciate my story.)

Next down the street came “Uncle” Sam Bishop. I remember one day as a boy coming home from Camp’s Pond with a big load of wood. Mud was deep; the horses had all they could pull. As we came by Uncle Sam’s house he called out to me, “Choose a good rut, boy, you’ll be in it for a long time.” Back of the present circumstances there may have been a subtle philosophy.

Next door lived Walter Jagger whose buildings were always freshly painted, his whole farmstead meticulously kept and his farm work was always a week ahead of anyone else’s. He took the latest agriculture journals and was in many ways the most progressive man in the community. Naturally at the time when the little red school houses gave place to a union school and later added a high school, Mr. Walter was the president of the school board. The first graduating class of the new high school put on a “banquet” at the one hotel that catered to the summer visitors. The first course was bouillon served in double-handled cups. Mr. Walter, who presided led off by adding cream and sugar to his cup and saying so all could hear, “The sailors always start the day with coffee, but I suppose New Yorkers who don’t get up until noon have it for dinner. Just why they have to have two handles on the cup I do not know, but here goes.” “Strange tasting coffee,” he remarked, “but one has to keep up with the times.”

His brother [Charles A. Jagger (1862-1914)], living nextdoor, was the editor of the local paper. He had a Ph.D. from a Germanuniversity and had real literary skill. Having some financial resources (his father had been a 49-er in California) it is doubtful if he ever made his newspaper pay. In cold weather it was scarcely legible because the ink stayed sticky in the cold pressroom. Dr. Jay had political opinions and maybe ambitions. He was always in controversy with someone in the village, the President, or the Congressman. He could lay it on thick and his editorials were the talk of the village, and I imagine of the whole county. He was killed when his primitive automobile, likely . . .

Tuesday, September 30, 2014

Jesse Halsey Autobiography


Epilogue

When I was a boy the North Main Street in the Spring was either a rushing torrent or a muddy slough. The melting snow all the way from Long Springs sought its hurried way to the town pond or rather the swamp that then extended as far north as Capt. George White’s lot (Jagger Lane). I have gone from our back gate in a row-boat all the way to the pond and could of course gone on to the beach. My playmate, Lewis Hildreth, as we were sailing shingle boats from a footbridge, fell off and was swept away. I “hollered” with all my lungs and Mr. Charles Seldon (Halsey) ran down and pulled him out. (We were about five years old.)

When the water had gone the frost came out and with the churching of darn wagon wheels the clay became a veritable “slough of despond” through which the horses wallowed, the wheels cutting ever deeper. The sod was cut from tree line to tree line through some put out rails to save the sod and keep the traffic in the roadbed.

Once, coming home from Camp’s Pond with a load of pine wood as we passed “Uncle Sam” Bishop’s he called out, “Pick a good rut, Charlie, you’ll be in it till you get home.”

There was quite a hill coming up toward our place, from what is now Powell Avenue (as the contour of the lawns on the east side of Main St. will reveal) and it was hard pulling for the horses. Main St. is none too straight following an old cow path likely which eased these (small) hills by circumventing them (circumnavigate would be a better word under the two conditions I have mentioned). When the mud had gone and Mr. Dan Phillips had guided the road scraper through the village with two teams tandem pulling the machine, with the oncoming of summer dust took the place of mud and only after the “Yorkers” came was any attempt made to sprinkle the streets.

The first watering carts were low box affairs made locally by George Culver or Andy Jagger that with a trap bottom backed into the town pond (Lake Agawam) and when they were full the horses drew them out and the bottom closed. When they reached the proper place on the street the driver opened the gate and the water ran out through some perforations in a pipe, leaving a trail about six feet wide. A limited area was patrolled, Main St. from the beach to Seely’s Store (no Catina’s) and First Neck Lane—not much more. Later came the windmills installed by the Southampton Village Improvement Association and big Studebaker cars that carried a thousand gallons (I estimate) were circulated over a wider area. One of the big windmills was located back of our barn with an immense tank that furnished a bountiful supply not only for the [railroad] watering cars, but piped into our barn and cow-yard, watered our stock. Before that time it was my daily duty after school to man the old log pump that stood by the back door and pump water that ran through wooden troughs to the barn-yard. Ultimately, the water also piped into our house.

These and other windmills disappeared gradually after the Water Works were built. The pumping station was (and is) north end of the Village. At first it was a pneumatic system, there was no standpipe as at present. In case of fire, the air pump was started and pressure pushed up. Everyone was very proud of the quality of the water—“it never saw the air till it reached your faucet.” Some of the city people had it bottled and sent to their New York homes. One enthusiast took a supply on a shipboard to Europe with him! The trenches were all labouringly dug by hand. Often they caved in before the mains could be laid. With a succession of rains, a stretch on Windmill Lane caved in six times before the pipes finally were in. The man (Johnson) who took that assignment at so much a foot said that “he was gipped, by Jimminy.”

In the haunts of my boyhood on the Millstone Brook Road is a spring. It was in a setting of great oaks on a knoll sloping down to the bay, the deep shadows made a setting for ferns, a place of rare beauty. As I came along one day I found an artist painting the scene.

Some months later, coming to the same spot I found men taking samples of the water for chemical analysis and biological tests. A great house was rising across the road and the engineers were looking for an uncontaminated abundant water supply.

The next summer on a hot August afternoon I came along and there was a scout troop, weary with the hike and hot and thirsty. They were drinking greedily from the spring of the abundant bubbling water.

Religion is like that; it has three aspects: 1) the aesthetic that takes in shape in architectural form and liturgical that expresses deep meaning in sonorous and meaningful phrase; 2) the theoretical as in theology and philosophy; and above all 3) the practical, it meets human needs.

Tuesday, October 9, 2012

By the Cherry Tree Fire | Abigail Fithian Halsey

When the good old russet apple tree
Beside the garden gate
Had gone the way of all the earth
And met its kindly fate,
We chopped it down and sawed the trunk
And piled a mighty pyre
That kept the good old airtight hot
For many a winter fire,
And planted in its place a tree
That Mother, nothing daunted,
Had wished to see beside that gate,
The one she’d always wanted,
An Ox-heart cherry tree at last.
It blossomed white in May,—
But June time came, and Mother went
Along her shining way,
Year after year her cherry tree
Spread boughs above the gate,
Where little ones she never knew
Played early here and late,—
Young Charles & Freck & Little Bill
And John and Ab and Honey
And Luz and Nan and Little Sam
And Bob and Jane and Sonny.
One Day came Daddy with cement
And said, just speaking slow,
“We’ll lean a mark for years ahead
To see how much we grow.”
There underneath the cherry tree
Their hands laid imprints down,
While honey bees and holly hocks
All gaily “went to town.”
September came and back to school
The merry children went.
The hurricane blew down the tree,
But left the old cement.
Today I find the imprints still
Of Ab and Sam and Honey,
Of Charles & Freck & Little Bill
Of Nancy, Luz and Sonny.
Tonight I sit beside the fire
And watch in glowing ember
The cherry tree of other years
Bring back a “long remember.”
Tonight where are the little hands?
In other worlds, in other lands.
Oh Mother, on your shining way
Forgive our tears,
Forgive our fears.
In this new day
Oh, may we know
What you have learned so long ago,—
That love alone like little hands
Leaves imprints on the years.

A.F.H.
October 16, 1943