THE FIRST MERCHANT
In Logan
County was ROBITAILLE, better known
as ROBINDI. Judge 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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LOGAN COUNTY
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