III.

OLD INHABITANTS AND EARLY PRACTICE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For the following few years up to 1847, I had a full share of patronage, but in consequence of the scarcity of money in circulation, the original load diminished slowly. In 1845 I had found and married my present wife in Yankeeland, Connecticut. Here allow me to perform the most grateful and pleasing duty of my life and say that to her unselfish, and devoted efforts for my interests, I am largely indebted for any measure of success I have attained in life. She had a strong affection for her native State and place of birth. I knew that my ledger showed I had more than enough to balance my obligations. Confident that there was an inviting field at her old home, I decided to emigrate to Connecticut, and in 1847 sold out to Dr. Odell,[82] and left Unadilla as I supposed for good—so little do we know what the future has in store for us. I located first in the town of Southington, Hartford County. The year following I bought a house and lot in Plainville, four miles north and a promising town of recent origin. Here I considered myself a permanent fixture and was building up a good practice when the whole course of my life was changed for a year. The scene was shifted to the tropics and then to California, in the course of which I nearly lost my life.