Nicholas ROBERTS

                   SOURCE:  CORNEAU 0013 lists Nicholas H. Ridgely's two wives, their
children, and their grandchildren.  It is undated, but was compiled  at
some point after 1923 and prior to 1935, and lists Nicholas Roberts as
living.
SOURCE:  CORNEAU 0008 (Kith and Kin Mailing List, February 26, 1936),
gives address as 87 High Street, Montclair, New Jersey
SOURCE: CORNEAU 0008, CORNEAU 0017
SOURCE: at the time of his mother's death (1935), he lived in Montclair,
New Jersey
He was a great story teller.
DATE OF DEATH:  Death notice, Illinois State Journal, Springfield,
Illinois, Thursday, 16 March 1972, page 12 of his sister, Mrs. Octavia
Roberts Corneau, does not list him as surviving her.
PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS of Catherine Addison Corneau Lenox in January
of 1995:  His mother Octavia Ridgely Roberts was particularly fond of
his conversational skills.  In her elder years, if anyone
dinner table tale-telling, or if she thought someone else's conversation
was growing tedious, she would bang her cane on the floor and say, Let
Nick talk
In the late 1920's he was President of Strauss & Co. [a bond house] in
New York.  The whole thing fell apart in the depression and he went
completely broke. He went to Yale, and they used to keep him with the
Yale chorus because, although he couldn't sing on key, he knew
words to just about every song.  He gave a big do in New York where he
gave a big silver bowl to Yale graduates who had made their Y in Life.
He had a summer house in Shelter Island, sort of the Gold
Island, where the rich folk had their summer houses, and a yacht along
with 9 other boats, all of which he lost in the depression.
CORNEAU 0045 (Kith and Kin, April 1936) his sister Octavia tells of one
of his early adventures:  One sad day, both Nick and Renie were seized
with measles at the same time.  Renie was moved into Mother's room,
but Nick was put to bed in the old nursery.  They were both very sick.
But, on Easter Sunday the doctor pronounced Renie a little better so
Mother ventured to go to church, entrusting the nurse girl to
sick children their medicine.  I must have accompanied her for I
distinctly remember that when she came home, to her horror Nick's bed
was empty. The nurse maid had devoted herself to Renie and Nick had
arisen and escaped.  We found him at last, gay and carefree, playing
about the grounds.  He not only felt no worse, he felt better.
his new found energy had taken an active and unexpected turn.   While we
had been at church, he had pried open the trap to the well and
down several bars of castile soap.  For days our drinking water was
decidedly reminiscent of this adventure.  What Nick's idea was
the soap in the well, we never knew.  Even at this distant day I wish he
would explain.
Quinine, that bitter horror, was given for every kind of cold,
form.  My brother, a lively, resourceful little fellow, dealt in no
unavailing protests.  For him to rebel was to act.  One day,
climbed up to the medicine chest and seized the bottle of quinine, and
brought it into the nursery.  Somehow it must be effectually
and forever.  We watched him with fascination, as his bright eyes
glanced about the room.  Before him stood our beautiful hobby-horse,
Dapple Gray.  His tail chanced to be the exact shade of the drug
awaiting disposal, so onto Dapple Gray's tail it was immediately poured.
To our surprise and disappointment the brush of the tail was not
absorbent, and the quinine streamed to the floor in a dreary tell-tale
puddle.  My brother, not particularly abashed by this mishap, now seized
the ipecac for which he had a fondness, as it was sticky and sweet.  The
small doses he had been given in the past had never satisfied
so with no overseer in sight, he now put the bottle to his lips and
drained the contents to the last drop.  Alas, the penalty was severe; so
great and unexpected that no one held him accountable for the
quinine, which I never remember seeing administered again.
SOURCE:  GEDCOM posted by Robert Thomas Reed, Sr., on America Online's
Genealogy Forum 20 July 1998.