The next house built in 1832 by Capt. Isaac Bartlett, came into the possession of John B. Atwood in 1855, who fitted up a store on its northerly side, and occupied the remainder as a dwelling. Capt. Isaac Bartlett was a shipmaster for many years, and made many voyages in the Havana trade between that port and Plymouth, in the brig Hannah, owned by Barnabas Hedge. I have distinct and agreeable memories of his arrivals with loads of molasses, some of which I licked from sticks introduced into hospitable bung holes, without money and without price. Captain Bartlett died, May 3, 1845. By his second wife, Rebecca, daughter of Caleb Bartlett, he had a son, Robert, born in 1817, and a daughter, Rebecca, born in 1819, both remarkable for minds capable of unlimited development and cultivation. Robert Bartlett, of whom I wish particularly to speak, was fitted for college in Plymouth by George Washington Hosmer and Addison Brown, both graduates of Harvard in the class of 1826; and graduated in 1836. He was tutor in Latin at Harvard from 1839 to 1843, when his early death destroyed the promise of a brilliant career. Aside from being a fellow townsman, I had an opportunity afforded by being a fellow boarder with him two years in Cambridge, of estimating his character and learning. I do not feel that I am violating any rules of propriety in speaking of a passage in his career, which gave me as a young man my first insight into the romances of life. He became engaged to my cousin, Elizabeth Crowell White, a daughter of Capt. Gideon Consider White, a lady of about his own age, and as remarkable as he in literary culture. After the death of her father and mother she was a member of my mother’s family until her death. In 1842, on a visit to relatives in Nova Scotia, she broke off her engagement with Mr. Bartlett, and soon after contracted a new engagement with an English gentleman. The blow to Mr. Bartlett was a severe one, and I remember well the visit which he made to our house on the afternoon of the day he received his letter of dismissal. After her return from Nova Scotia I was not long in discovering that her heart was still in the possession of her former lover, though she endeavored to conceal the fact. At this time an inherited tendency to a disease of the lungs began to show itself, both in her and in Mr. Bartlett, and in both cases, consumption rapidly performed its fatal work. She was soon confined permanently to the house, and he was obliged to abandon his college work, and return home to become like her a prisoner in his chamber and bed. He was brought from Boston in the steamboat, then running, and she, knowing that he was coming, sat by the chamber window on the north side of our house on Cole’s Hill, evidently anxious to catch a glimpse of one whom she had mistakenly cast off, but whom she still loved with all her heart. I remember well the tears she shed as he was carried up the street, and she saw him for the last time. Both failed rapidly.