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Welcome to
CHAMPAIGN COUNTY, OHIO
History & Genealogy

History of
CHAMPAIGN and LOGAN COUNTIES
by Joshua Antrim
Published at Bellefontaine, Ohio
by Press Printing Co.
1872

    The First Merchant - James McPherson - John Gunn -
William Hubbard - At the Grave of Simon Kenton (Poem) -
Abram S. Piatt - The Dainty Bee (Poem)

Page 174 - 180

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THE FIRST MERCHANT

In Logan County was ROBITAILLE, better known as ROBINDIJudge McCOLLOCH says his store-room stood near where BRADSMITH'S residence now stands, in Zanesfield.  He represents him to be a very polite and affable Canadian Frenchman.  I think Billy HENRY told me he was buried on the old GUNN farm, on the Ludlow road, one mile south of Bellefontaine.  He took out license in 1805.  Fabian EAGLE kept a small store at Urbana at the same time.

JAMES McPHERSON

Took out license to sell goods at the same time with ROBINDI, (1805) as the records, now on the Clerk's book, in Urbana, show.  I think he sold a short time in Champaign County, just below West Liberty, afterwards in Logan County, where he died in the year 1837.

JOHN GUNN.

     I saw on the same book that John GUNN had taken out license the same year (1805) to keep tavern.  He kept tavern at the old farm spoken of above.  He was there in 1812, during the war.

Page 175 -

WILLIAM HUBBARD.
__________

BY HON. WILLIAM LAWRENCE.

     Born at the quiet rural village of West Liberty on the southern border of Logan county, Ohio, on May 17, 1821, William HUBBARD inherited nothing but an honest name, a healthy constitution, and a vigorous intellect.
     Deprived of a father's care at an early age, he grew up under the guidance of a widowed mother, whose exemplary virtues strong good sense and patient industry, left their impress on the mind and character of her son.  At that early day, the "log School-house" furnished almost the only means of education; but with this, and that home training which every mother should be competent to afford, William became well versed in all the usual branches of an English education.  Early in the year of 1832 he took his first lessons in the "art preservative of arts," the printing business - in the office of the Logan Gazette, a newspaper then edited and conducted in Bellefontaine, by Hiram B. STROTHERS.  Here he served with fidelity, and skill, and industry, for seven years, when, early in 1839, he became the publisher of the paper, and continued as such for a period of six months.   During all this time, as, indeed, in the years which followed, he employed his leisure moments in developing his literary taste, and in the profound study of the best writers of prose and poetry.  In the summer of 1841 he began his career as a school teacher in a district near his native village, in one of the ever-memorable, universal "people's colleges" of the times, the "log School-house."  In this useful, but perplexing and ill-paid capacity, he continued most of his time until the fall of 1845.  Meantime, in 1841, he had determined to study the profession of law, and for that purpose became the student of Benjamin F. STANTON and William LAWRENCE, attorneys in Bellefontaine, and by his literary pursuits, yet as he ha made it a rule of his life

Page 176 -
never to do anything imperfectly, he was not admitted to the bar until he had become a thoroughly well-read lawyer, in the year 1846.
     In the fall of 1845 Mr. HUBBARD became editor of the Logan Gazette, and occupied that position for a number of years, but is now the able and accomplished editor of the North West, published at Napoleon, Henry county, Ohio.  As a political writer he has a wide and deservedly high reputation.  Notwithstanding his duties as an editor, he was elected Prosecuting Attorney of Logan county, in 1848, and again in 1850 and, in that capacity served with skill and ability for four years, when he declined a re-election.  In 1858 Mr. HUBBARD received the nomination of the political party to which he belongs, as its candidate for Congress.  He could scarcely hope for success in a district largely opposed to him politically; but, though defeated, his vote was highly complimentary.  In debates and addresses in that canvass he added much to a local reputation as an orator.  Early love of books, a warm imagination, cultivated by study, and by the beautiful scenery of the fertile valley of the Mad river, with a heart full of pathos and of ardor, all contributed to "Wake to ecstasy the living lyre," and turn his thoughts into eloquence and poetry.  His first published poetical productions were in January, 1858.  We have never known a writer of so much genius with so little ostentation.  He has never sought, but always shunned notoriety.  His poetical writings, if collected, would make a good sized volume.  Below he will be found a beautiful poem, written by him at the grave of Simon KENTON, which I select as a specimen of his poems. . See his other poems in COGGSHELL'S Poets and Poetry of the West.

At the Grave of Simon Kenton.

Tread lightly, this is hallowed ground; tread reverently here!
Beneath this sod, in silence sleeps, the brave old Pioneer,
Who never quailed in darkest hour, whose heart ne'er felt a fear;
Tread lightly, then, and here bestow the tribute of a tear.

Ah! Can this be the spot where sleeps the bravest of the brave?
Is this rude slab the only mark of Simon KENTON'S grave?
These fallen palings, are they all his ingrate country gave
To one who periled life so ott her homes and hearths to save?

Page 177 -

Long, long ago, in manhood's prime, when all was wild and drear,
They bound the hero to a stake of savage torment here -
Unblanched and firm, his soul disdained a supplicating tear -
A thousand demons could not daunt the Western Pioneer.

They tied his hands, Mazeppa-like, and set him on a steed,
Wild as the mustang of the plains, and mocking bade him speed!
They sped that courser like the wind, of curb and bit all freed,
O'er flood and field, o'er hill and dale, wherever chance might lead.

But firm in every trial hour, his heart was still the same,
Still throbbed with self-reliance strong, which danger could not tame.
Yet fought he not that he might win the splendor of a fame,
Which would in ages long to come shed glory on his name.

He fought because he loved the land where first he saw the light -
He fought because his soul was true, and idolized the right;
And ever in the fiercest and thickest of the fight,
The dusk and swarthy foeman felt the terror of his might.

Are these his countrymen who dwell where long ago he came?
Are these the men who glory in the splendor of his fame?
And can they not afford to give a stone to bear his name?
Oh, never let them more presume the hero's dust to claim!

Page 178 -

    ABRAM S. PIATT.

     Abram Sanders PIATT is more generally known to the military and political than the poetical world.  The two pursuits, so wide apart as they are, seldom center in one individual.  Did Mr. PIATT seriously follow either, this would not probably be the fact in this instance.  But the happy possessor of broad acres - and beautiful acres they are - in the Macacheek valley, Logan county, Ohio, he dallies with the muses, and worries the politicians more for amusement than aught else.  His serious moments are given to the care of an interesting family, and the cultivation of his farm.  No one of any refinement could long dwell in the Macacheek valley and not feel more or less of the poetry that seems to live in its very atmosphere.  So rare a combination of plain, and hill, wood and meadow, adorned by the deep clear glittering stream that gives name to the valley, seldom greets the eyes.  There, the hawthorn and hazel gather in clumps upon the sloping hillsides, or upon fields, while, like great hosts, the many tinted forests of burr-oak, maple and hickory close in on every side the view.  Nor is the Macacheek without its legends and historical associations.  Men yet live, rough old backwoodsmen, with heads whitened by the snows of eighty winters, who will point out the precise spot where a poor Indian woman, seen lurking about the smoking ruins of the Macacheek towns, only then destroyed by the white invaders, was shot by a rifleman, who mistook her for a warrior.  Near the PIATT homestead may be seen the spot where Simon KENTON was forced by his cruel enemies to run the gauntlet, when between lake and river lay a vast unbroken wilderness. It was near this that he and GIRTY, the renegade, recognized each other, and the hard heart of the murderer was touched at the sight of his old comrade and friend and he saved his life at a time when this bold act endangered his own.  The family to which Mr. PIATT belongs is one of the pioneer families of the Mad River Valley, and has prominent associations with the literature and politics of the west. Don PIATT, his brother, is well known as a writer and political orator.

Page 179 -
Carrie PIATT, a niece has contributed popular articles in both prose and verse to western Magazines.  A. Sanders PIATT's poems have been published chiefly in the Cincinnati Daily Commercial and in the Macacheek Press.  Below will be found a specimen of his poems.

The Dainty Bee.

The dainty bee 'mid waxen cells
Of golden beauty ever dwells,
     And dreams his life away;
His food a million flowers caught,
From out the sunlight as they wrought,
     Through Spring and Summer day.

Slothful bee, the Spring-time's morning
     Wakes him from his Winter's dream.
Reveler 'mid the pleasures gathered,
     From the wild-blooman the stream.
But the Spring-time's ray of gladness
     Calls him to the fields again,
Calls him with the voice of flowers
     Flowing 'mid the sunlit rain.

Goes he to the fields of plenty,
     Searches 'mid the rare perfume,
Gathers honey from their beauty,
     While he sings his wanton tune,
Filling 'mid the sweets and fancies
     That o'erburthen all the air
Gathering Dainties from the palace,
     That the queenly group may share.

Drunk with treasures, overburened,
     Slow the wings his way along,
Gladdens all the scenes with humming
    O'er his dainty little song.
Wanton bee, ah! busy body,
     Drinking from each perfumed cup,
All day straying in the valley,
     Gathering sweets to treasure up.

Page 180 -

Lives he in a world of plenty,
     Floating on its rare perfume,
Sipping Maytime's early blossoms,
     Reveling in the bed of June?
In the snows, amid athe clover,
     Dainty snows, how sweet and shy,
Treaded with the green of Summer,
     Perfumed frosts of mid day!

Thy home is nature's world-wide palace,
     Nature's wild secluded ways,
Lit with night's dews dream of morning,
     Wakened with a million rays.
See the sunligut's silver fingers,
     Lifting fragrance to the sky,
Fill the ale with many rare joys,
     As they slowly waft them by.

Scents the air, thy wings to bathe in,
     Guides three to the treasures pure;
Airs that play the rarest music,
     For such dainty epicure.
Labor while the Summer lingers,
     Labor while the south wind blows,
Ere the North king, marching southward,
     Fills thy garden with his snows.



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