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Table of Contents
| The Deserted Village (Poem) | 2 | |
| Chapter One | Introduction and Early History | 3 |
| Chapter Two | Why Dobbins Came To Barclay | 5 |
| Chapter Three | Life in Old Barclay | 5 |
| Chapter Four | The Horrible Epidemic of Diphtheria | 8 |
| Chapter Five | Churches at Barclay | 9 |
| Chapter Six | Accidents and Fires | 9 |
| Chapter Seven | The Inclined Plane: Some Reminiscences | 10 |
| Chapter Eight | Schools; Their Rise and Decline | 12 |
| Chapter Nine | Coal Mining in Barclay Township | 13 |
| Chapter Ten | Mining in Barclay at Present Time | 14 |
| Chapter Eleven | A Visit to Barclay in 1928 | 15 |
| Chapter Twelve | Old Families in Barclay | 16 |
| Chapter Thirteen | Some Interesting Letters | 18 |
| Chapter Fourteen | Laquin - The Last of the Township | 21 |
| Final Poem |
About the Photos: These photos were taken on October 4, 1998 by Joyce M. Tice during the annual tour of Old Barclay sponsored by the Pennsylvania Game Commission. Barclay Mountain is now primarily State Game Land. These are not necessarily the best photos I took that day, but they are just about the only ones that survived a major computer hard disk failure that occurred before I had made a backup of them. They were all taken with an Epson digital camera. I hope to return for the annual tour another time with my Sony Mavica and the unlimited disk space that represents and take another batch of Barclay Photos. Anyone having antique photos from the Barclay area is encouraged to send in scanned files of them to Joyce M. Tice at JoyceTice@aol.com. JPG format preferred.
{Page 2]
Sweet Barclay! loveliest village of the plain,
Where health and plenty cheered the laboring swain,
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,
And parting summer’s lingering blooms delayed.
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,
Seats of my youth when every sport could please,
How often have I loitered o’er thy green,
Where humble happiness endeared each scene!
How often have I paused on every charm,
The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm,
The never failing brook, the busy mill,
The decent church that topped the neighboring hill,
The hawthorne bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whispering lovers made!
How often have I blessed the coming day,
When toil remitting lent its turn to play,
And all the village train, from labor free,
While many a pastime circled in the shade,
The young contending as the old surveyed;
And many a gambol frolicked o’er the ground,
And sleights of art and feats of strength went round;
And still as each repeated pleasure tired,
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired;
The dancing pair that simply sought renown,
By holding out to tire each other down;
The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,
While secret laughter tittered round the place;
The bashful virgin’s sidelong looks of love,
The matron’s glance that would those looks reprove,--
These were thy charms, sweet village! Sports like these,
With sweet succession, taught e’en toil to please;
These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed,
These were thy charms,--but all these charms are fled!
Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn,
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn;
Amidst thy bowers the tyrant’s hand is seen,
And desolation saddens all thy green.
One only master grasps the whole domain,
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain,
No more thy glassy brook reflects the day,
But chocked with sedges, works its weedy way;
Along thy glades, a solitary guest,
The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest;
Amid the desert walks the lapwing flies,
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries.
Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all,
And the long grass o’ertops the mouldering wall,
And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler’s hand,
Far, far away thy children leave the land.
--From Oliver Goldsmith’s "The Deserted Village."
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