Edward J. Warren, born in 1809, was in business in New York many years, a part of the time associated with his brother Richard. Of ready wit and quick eye, and with a familiarity with prices he was one of the most attractive and efficient salesmen in New York. He married Mary, daughter of Wm. G. Coffin, the official head for many years of the Massachusetts land office, and died in New York April 27, 1872. Soon after Henry Warren died, Madam Warren removed to Boston and lived some years on Allston street, but later returned to Plymouth and occupied successively until her death, the house on Middle street, next to Mr. Beaman’s undertaking rooms, and the house on Main street, where the new bank building stands. In 1833 Dr. Isaac LeBaron moved into the Warren house, and in 1836 occupied the apothecary’s shop, which Dr. Warren had vacated. I not only remember the gilded pestle and mortar over his door, but also the sugar baker’s molasses, which he kept in stock furnished to him by the father or brother of his wife, who owned a sugar refinery in Leverett street, Boston. Almost as dark colored as tar, and nearly hard enough to cut with a knife, it was like the witch’s gruel, “thick and slab,” and those who now eat buckwheat cakes with honey or syrup, have little idea how good they were eaten with that sugar baker’s molasses. Dr. LeBaron died January 29, 1849. At various times the Warren house was occupied by Mrs. Wm. Spooner, the family of Capt. Wm. Bartlett, and in still later times by the Young Men’s Literary Institute, the Public Library, the Custom House, and stores of Wm. Babb, John Churchill, Pratt & Hedge, James C. Bates, Davis and Whiting, N. M. Davis, Edgar Seavey, Allen Holmes and Edward Baker and Allen T. Holmes. Among the transient residents were Mrs. Ann Boutelle, widow of Dr. Caleb Boutelle, and her daughter Anne Lincoln, boarding with one of the permanent families in the house. The south front chamber is hallowed in my memory, for there on the 5th of December, 1835, Anne Lincoln Boutelle, one of my playmates and schoolmates, died in consumption, one too sweet and pure and frail to tread the rough paths of life. I saw her a day or two before she died, with a little table by her bed side laden with gifts of fruit and flowers, which loving friends had sent, and to which I added my own. I never go into the printing office, which includes the chamber in which she died, without recalling her saintly face, her saintly voice, and her saintly spirit, joyous at the thought of journeying home. A memorial of her life and character was published, written by Mary Ann Stevenson, a niece of Mrs. Judge Joshua Thomas, a copy of which if one can be found, I am anxious to obtain.