ADDRESS OF THOMAS W. SEWARD.

I joined the Utica Union Sabbath School, as it was then called, in the summer of 1820. I have reason to remember the day, for the proposal to go to Sunday School was accepted only after a struggle between disinclination and a habit of obedience. At that time, the Sunday School was by no means the favorite and almost universal institution it has since become in every Christian community. It was but natural that I should regard six days' schooling, with punctual attendance on Divine worship twice every Sunday, as fulfilling every requisite of duty and instruction. On this bright Sunday morning therefore, my steps down Genesee street were unavoidably slow, if not wandering. My Eden was near what is now the corner of Genesee and Fayette streets; while my prospective wilderness lay somewhere about the corner of Genesee and Broad streets. Having, by diligent inquiry, found the place, I slowly clambered up the dingy stairway, that led to the still more dingy apartment, commonly, but not classically known as Minerva Hall. Here I was at once assigned to the class of Mr. JARED E. WARNER, and promptly set to work on the second chapter of St. Matthew's gospel. How large a portion of that chapter I mastered, at the morning and afternoon session of the day, I cannot remember; but, judging by the customary tasks of that time, I may safely say that it was the whole of it. Child as I was, and unfamiliar with differences in signification between words of the same sound, I got some ideas from that first lesson, not to be found in any of the commentaries. Thus, in the twenty-second verse, the words reign, and room, conveyed no other sense than that of the falling rain, and a room in a house. I allude to this simple incident rather to "point a moral" than "adorn a tale." There was no oral instruction at that day. The required number of verses were recited to the teacher, and that was all that was ever undertaken or accomplished. Members of the same class were seldom engaged at the same time on the same part of the Bible; so that

the school hours were consumed in the mechanical employ. ment of giving and hearing recitations. No pupil ever thought of demanding explanations, and no teacher had time to volunteer any.

Perhaps my respected teacher has forgotten one incident that strongly marked, in my recollection, the close of the afternoon session of my first Sunday School day. As we were all hurrying down the stairway together, he managed, very adroitly and covertly, to make me the possessor of a handful of sugar plums. I was so much surprised with the suddenness of this act of kind partiality, that I neglected to thank him at the only moment when thanks are rendered gracefully. Forty-six years have since rolled away; but as it is never too late to mend, even one's manners, and as I see him here to-night, I avail myself of the opportunity to make the too long neglected repair.

In the summer of the year of grace 1820, the inhabited limits of the village of Utica were mostly confined between the river and the line of the canal, stopping on the west at Potter's Bridge, but extending up Genesee street, in a straggling way, as high as Oneida Square. Cornhill was a forest from South street to the New Hartford line. As you sat on the huge boulder that lay at the head of John street, the whole village was spread out at your feet. There being no intervening shade trees, the most prominent buildings in view, looking down past the Academy, were Baggs' Hotel, the miniature of what it now is, the Utica Insurance building on the corner of Whitesboro and Division streets, and a little to the west of that, the Bank of Utica, and the old York House. All of these slightly overtopped the low ranges of stores on Genesee street. Only two church steeples enlivened the scene, "the Presbyterian" and "the Episcopal;" and they stood like two sentinels, guarding the village nearly on its eastern and western extremes. In exterior the two churches were much alike; the only dif ference being, that while Trinity rejoiced in pointed arches and a spire, just as she does now, the First Presbyterian was equally happy in the round arch and cupola. Only

one bell, the same that tolled its last note on the disastrous 12th of January, 1851, rang the stipulated week day hours, and called the people to worship on Sunday. A pleasant forest, the favorite haunt of boys on Saturday afternoon, covered the Sand Bank, and skirting the gardens on the west side of Genesee street, came down the slope as far as Columbia street, extended west nearly to Varick street, and on beyond as far as the Asylum Hill. The aristocratic poplars, the common badge and sole ornament of all new villages, stood in unbroken row from Bleecker street to the hill top. The best dwelling houses were unequally divided between Whitesboro, Genesee, and Broad streets. Main street had, apparently, more buildings than it has now. It was lined with the comely residences of prosperous citizens, among whom I cannot forbear naming Dr. AмOS G. HULL, long known in this region of country as one of its most eminent physicians, and remarkable for genial traits of character. At the lower end of the street stood the pleasant mansion and grounds of Judge MORRIS S. MILLER. The spot is classic in Revolutionary history, for here was Old Fort Schuyler. Over in Whitesboro street, were the Bank of Utica, the Manhattan Branch Bank, and the Utica Insurance Company. It was the Wall street of the village. Here, too, was the old York House, for years the most famous hotel in the western country; and, besides this, were the well-remembered inns of BURCHARD and BELLINGER. This was the most populous street of the village, numbering, I have no doubt, nearly as many inhabitants as it does The triangular space known as Bagg's Square, was then called the Hay-market, and was the focus of the town. Here were the hay scales, the town pump, and the fly market, so called, for aught that I could ever learn, because it was on wheels. But its flights never extended beyond Division street, where it was prone to tarry, out of the way of its rivals, the pump and the hay scales. Genesee street was poorly built. Except the Ontario Bank, there was nothing really presentable in it. Most of the stores were wooden and ricketty. The only brick block having any claim to

now.

respectability was the one opposite Broad street, a good part of which still remains. The street was unpaved, and the mud, at times, profound. The side-walks were flagged, but the flagging bore as faint a resemblance to the modern sand stone as the croppings of geological strata. But the business of the street, prosecuted under local disadvantages of which the present generation can form no idea, was a sure fountain of prosperity to all who had part in it. And the street itself, like all business haunts, had its two or three notable features. Here was the noisy tin and copper factory of JAMES DELVIN, the din of whose upper lofts strove in vain to deafen the monotonous rattle and clank of the nail machines plied by the swarthy inmates of the cellar. Here, too, was daily to be found the ancient vendue crier of PETER BOURS, going his solemn rounds with staff and bell. Opposite the Post Office, then kept by MARCUS HITCHCOCK, was the Museum, with its hand organ of vicious tone. That hand organ was a weariness to the flesh, whatever it may have been to the study of "minute philosophies." Its barrel had just six tunes,-one for each secular day. I cannot say positively what day was assigned to the doleful air of "Bonaparte crossing the Rhine," but presume it was Friday. On that day, business down town might as well have been suspended. Buyers and sellers were at loggerheads all day long. The banks refused to discount, and merchants quit the field at night, their thoughts intent only upon assign

ments.

Broad street was occupied as far down as the canal; but it did not contain more than half its present number of buildings. Most of its dwelling houses were equal in style to any in the country, and were all provided with ample side yards and gardens. The shade trees, which had already attained a thrifty growth, are nearly all now standing in giant pride. Catharine street was a pleasant, quiet street, occasionally putting forth an abortive effort to rival its neighbor below. The digging of the canal so near its upper margin settled its fate, however, and consigned it to the condition it has held ever since. Liberty street was

built up as far as Broadway. At the corner of Seneca street was the house of RUDOLPH SNYDER, and at the corner of Broadway, that of THOMAS WALKER. I single these out for mention, because of the remarkable fact that they are both standing to-day, unchanged either by decay or innovation. Opposite the canal side of Mr. Walker's house, and on the ground now held by Hart & Munson's establishment, was the stone mansion house of JAMES KIPP, an ornament to the landscape. Beyond this, all was sweet fields and the quiet woods.

Above the canal, they were beginning to tear down the Coffee House, a brick hotel, that covered rather more than the ground now occupied by the Devereux Block. I do not know when this building was erected; but it must have been an unfortunate investment, for it was occupied as Barracks in the war of 1812, and, at the date of my earliest recollections, such was its dismantled state, that none of us youngsters ever passed it without an unaccountable fear. Opposite the old Coffee House, SAMUEL STOCKING was converting his dwelling house and the cabinet shop of RuDOLPH SNYDER into the new Canal Coffee House, afterwards so long known by all who traveled by stage or canal. About half way between this and the Bleecker street cor ner, was the house of Judge DAVID OSTROM, now embodied in the Franklin House. The corner itself was defaced by a group of shabby buildings which included a blacksmith and carriage shop, and a grocery. That grocery was no rum shop. It was a home of patient industry; and I cannot pass it without stopping to praise its famous molasses candy, and the good woman who made and vended it. Bleecker street was opened, but was neither fenced nor housed. It was mainly used in summer as a cow path to pastures beyond it. In winter, its frozen ditches made a very fair skating park. Above the canal, there were no streets leading westward out of Genesee street. The Supreme Court Clerk's office stood in isolated state on the same ground now occupied by its successor, the County Clerk's Office. The spot where we are now convened, and the ground all