USA > Indiana > Marshall County > A twentieth century history of Marshall County, Indiana, Volume I > Part 43
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HISTORY OF MARSHALL COUNTY.
its courthouse, and schoolhouses, and numerous church spires and manufac- turing establishments, and the beautiful farm and county infirmary, presents a picture of beauty and grandeur that takes away much of the dread of passing over the great divide to "that undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveler returns."
The Seminary.
The first burial ground in Plymouth was on the lot where now stands the Washington school building, west of Plum street, and between Wash- ington and Adams streets, and it was used as such for a number of years. It came about in this way :
In the early history of Indiana the United States government set apart certain sections of land (section 16) in every township for the support of public schools. Provisions were made for the donation of grounds on which were to be built county seminaries. The lot on which the Plymouth school building now stands was so set apart by the original proprietors of the town and was shown on the city records as the "Seminary Lot." The adoption of the present school system by the state under the constitution of 1850 made unnecessary a county seminary, and in 1854 the lot in question was sold to the town of Plymouth for the nominal sum of $100, and the town thereupon erected the first schoolhouse which was the "seminary building," in time for the winter school of 1854.
Plymouth was organized and the first settlement made in 1836, the county having been organized July 20th of that year. Owing to the sickly condition of the country at that period, it was but a short time until several deaths occurred, necessitating the selection of a burial ground or "grave- yard," as they were called, as they did not seem to know much about "ceme- tery" or "seminary." It is quite evident that there was great need of a seminary at that time, as it turned out that those who selected the location for the graveyard mistook the meaning of "seminary" for "cemetery" and established the town burial ground on that lot. A large number of people, young and old, were buried there, very few of whom were known to the present generation. There were no marble or tombstone factories here in those days, and few of the graves had any headboards to tell whose remains the narrow house contained. A few headboards made of thick oak plank bore the names, dates of birth and death of the deceased, but that was all. Nobody paid any attention to the graveyard, and at that time hazel brush and blackberry and raspberry briars had full possession. Sunken ground was all that denoted the last resting place of the one who slept beneath.
Before the old seminary building was erected as many of those who were buried there as could be found were resurrected and re-buried on the grounds now occupied by the Pennsylvania railroad for station purposes, the ground having been set apart by the original proprietors of the town as a public burial ground. At this time these grounds were a long distance out of town, and the coming of a railroad was not thought of as one of the possibilities. So many of the bones of the sleepers on the seminary lot were taken up and buried there. Many, however, were left where they had been buried, the ground smoothed over, and the memory of them left to rot with their bones. The old seminary building was occupied for school purposes until the erection of a new and larger building became necessary in 1874,
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when the old building was sold and removed and the new brick building erected on the ground where it had stood. Several years later it became necessary to erect a large addition to the Washington school building, and in excavating for its basement many skulls and human bones were found scattered around in various places. They were boxed, carried away and buried in the potter's field. In digging further along and deeper, for a furnace, a considerable number of skulls and bones in a fair state of preservation were dug up. One afternoon the writer happened on the grounds while a wagon was being loaded with dirt from the excavation on the south side. While waiting one of the workmen dug up a skull in almost a complete state of preservation, many of the teeth being fast in the jawbones. Perpetrating a ghastly joke about it being "chap-fallen," etc., the workman threw it over among the other dry bones. It had the appearance of being a young woman, and the query was who she might have been? The performance recalled vividly the graveyard scene in Shakespeare's play of "Hamlet." The grave digger throws up a skull and Hamlet says: "That skull had a tongue in it, and could sing once! How the knave jowls it to the ground, as if it were Cain's jawbone that did the first murder !"
" Behold this ruin! 'tis a skull! Once of ethereal spirit full! This narrow cell was life's retreat- This space was thought's mysterious seat! What beauteous visions filled this spot- What dream of pleasure long forgot! Nor joy, nor grief, nor hope, nor fear, Has left one trace on record here!"
The sight to the writer was a sickening one, and as he turned away these words rang out loud and clear: "To this sad end must we all come at last !"
Oak Hill Cemetery.
When the preliminary survey had been made, and it became known that the Pittsburg. Ft. Wayne & Chicago railroad was to be built through Plymouth, and that the depot grounds were to be located about or on the grounds then used as a burial place, steps were taken by the town authori- ties to procure suitable grounds and far enough away so that the bodies would not again have to be taken up and removed. Grounds were there- fore purchased just outside of the extreme southern limit of the town, platted and regularly laid out, the lots numbered, and drives and walks laid out, shade trees set out, grass sowed and everything done to make it a creditable place to bury the dead. The dead bodies in the old graveyard were then taken up, or at least as many of them as could be found and re-buried in the new cemetery, which was called "Oak Hill Cemetery." But it can readily be seen that with the miscellaneous removal that took place from the "seminary" "cemetery" it was impossible for those having charge of the removal to tell anything about what were the names of the persons whose bodies were being removed, and so they were taken up as the workers came to them, except such as had friends to look after
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their remains, and there were few left here at that time to perform that duty. This was twenty-five years after the county was organized. Many had died during the first years here, and many of their relatives, becoming discouraged, had moved away to find more inviting fields for future homes. The town authorities did the best they could under the circumstances, to give the remains of those removed a respectable burial, but throughout, up to the time of the opening of Oak Hill cemetery, the whole thing was little less than a "graveyard vaudeville."
Since that date, now fifty odd years ago, with the deaths that have occurred during that time, and those that were removed from both of the old cemeteries, or graveyards, Oak Hill now contains about 4,000 who have "taken their places in the silent halls of death."
Since Oak Hill was first purchased several additions have been made to it, and the whole has been kept in excellent repair, and it is one of the most beautiful parks of its kind in northern Indiana.
And as the living wander through this "silent city of the dead," what a lesson in right living should it teach them. Here as many as living and walking the streets of Plymouth are quietly sleeping side by side in that sleep that knows no waking. Here political antagonisms are lost in forgetfulness ; church creeds and religious differences are unknown; bick- erings and backbitings, and tattling and gossiping about one another is unknown; here there is no hunger nor thirst, nor heat nor cold. Peace and tranquillity reign supreme, and there is nothing to molest or make them afraid.
They do neither plight nor wed In the City of the Dead, In the city where they sleep away the hours ; But they lie while o'er them range Winter blight and summer change, And a hundred happy whisperings of flowers. No, they neither wed nor plight,
And the day is like the night, For their vision is of other kind than ours.
They do neither sing nor sigh, In the burg of by-and-by, Where the streets have grasses growing cool and long; But they rest within their bed, Leaving all their thoughts unsaid, Deeming silence better far than sob or song. No, they neither sigh nor sing Though the robin be a-wing, Though the leaves of autumn march a million strong.
There is only rest and peace, In the city of surcease, From the failings and the wailing 'neath the sun. And the wings of the swift years Beat but gently o'er the biers, Making musie to the sleepers every one. There is only peace and rest, But to them it seemeth best, For they lie at ease and know that life is done.
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HISTORY OF MARSHALL COUNTY.
LX. THE OLD FORGE.
At the lower end of Twin Lakes, shortly after the organization of the county, a forge was erected for the purpose of smelting and "forging" bog iron ore, of which there was an abundance in the region of country round about. In the beginning it was planned and operated by Charles Crocker, of Mishawaka, who afterwards associated with him French Fisher, of the same place. Timothy Barber had previously built a grist mill at that place, and it was thought by Mr. Crocker and Mr. Barber that there was a great future for "Sligo," the euphonious name they gave to the embryo city. But the country was sparsely settled at that time, and the grist mill failed to do business beyond the making of a living for the proprietor, and the forge failed to produce the amount of iron ore expected, and after paying for its "forging" and hauling a long distance to market there wasn't much left for the proprietors. The "forge" was kept going until gold was discovered in California; shortly afterwards Mr. Crocker disposed of his interest in the business and about 1850 went overland to California, where, before he died many years ago, he became immensely wealthy, leaving an estate that ran up into the millions. A few years ago, LeRoy Armstrong, who had lived in that region in his boyhood days, visited the old "forge," and wrote his impres- sions of it to a Chicago paper, from which the following is taken :
"The forge provided nearly the only means of earning money. Felling trees, clearing forest land, planting, tending, and harvesting the scanty crops occupied much of the pioneer's time, and after it was done there was the barest living. But now and then in the dull season they could prepare char- coal or haul it to the forge; they could mine the ore or haul it to the forge, or they could employ their teams and their time in hauling the iron to the large towns to the north.
"There was a famous axe factory and wagon works of note and excel- lence, both located at Mishawaka, which city was a leader in the state at that early day, dating its rise and drawing its prosperity from the bog ore found and worked in its vicinity, and to these places the Twin Lakes metal was hauled. People hereaway, Crocker and Fisher among them, hoped and believed they would see a greater city spring up here, and all their efforts were directed to that end. Crocker never made a trip to the north but he spread the news of his works at Sligo and the excellent advantages of the neighborhood. He hoped sometime to see a city on the bluffs above the lake and to be the leading man in that development. Had he remained here and continued his exertions he might have been gratified. But, after carrying on a business under difficulties that would have staggered a weaker man, he caught the California fever and abandoned Indiana for the more promising future in the west.
"From a history of Marshall county written by Dan McDonald, 1881, I take the following passage :
"'The old forge, located at the corner of Twin Lakes, gave promise of being a place of considerable importance. Like the famous Duluth, the sky came down at equal distances all around it, and hence it was considered pretty near the center of the universe. Charles Crocker, 1850, was the presiding genius, but the phyrirus of fortune failed to bring him the golden
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fleece, and he sought the golden shores of the Pacific slope to replenish his depleted exchequer. How well he succeeded is shown by the fact that in 1880 he was assessed for $9,000,000.'
"Jacob Gebhardt," says Mr. Armstrong, "was the hammerman in the old forge. He has loosened the lines of his recollection on recent events to tighten them more and more every day on those of an earlier period. He remembers Crocker well, and states that that man could do more busi- ness with a ten-dollar bill than all the rest of the community could with $100.
"Gebhardt's duties consisted in part in building up the fire, which was done by laying a base of charcoal, and then erecting a cone of that material mingled with ore. All the ore was kept well to the center. The mass was fired from the base, and the flame was urged to fiercer heat by a current of air from a great bellows, that filled and respired under the impetus of water- power. Great care was required in the treatment of the work about the time when the metal began to fuse. At exactly the right moment a break was made in the wall of livid coal, and the prisoned metal ran out in shape- less masses on the ground. As it hardened into solidity the hammerman beat it with a sledge until the cinder ran from it in a stream and hardened into grotesque forms. The iron was then grappled with a pair of tongs that swung on a lever, and by slow purchases it was lifted to the anvil where the great trip-hammer was set to work upon it. The trip-hammer was itself run by waterpower from the little race that tapped the dam only a score of feet away. When the iron grew too cold for beating, it was returned to the fire, the glowing charcoal was heaped upon it again, and again it was lifted with the utmost difficulty to the anvil. They called it bar iron when all was done, but it was far from uniform in thickness and width, but was cut into lengths for convenient handling, and was then ready for transporta- tion to South Bend and Mishawaka.
"Sometimes as many as forty men were employed about the forge. The work was prosecuted night and day, for Crocker's' energy was tireless. Scores of other farmers were busy digging the ore, some just below the dam, some five miles away; others were washing it free from soil in the creeks or lake, and still others hauled it to the fire. Men were hired from far and near to make the long trip to the foundries and these brought back with them whatever Crocker found he could sell at Twin Lakes. He owned the store there and made something of a profit on his goods. It seems to be the verdict of good judges that bog ore, instead of making an inferior iron, makes the best. It was of a very compact and tenacious nature. Axes and wagon tires were the supreme test, and no metal has ever been put into them which has lasted so well.
"Crocker was just getting ready for his California trip in 1849, when the forge burned down. He was in Mishawaka at the time, and had com- pleted a deal by which the forge passed to other parties. When the news of his misfortune reached him, he hurried to Twin Lakes and within ten days, hampered as he was by inadequate appliances, had the forge ready for work. But the disaster only delayed his departure one year. Early in 1850 he sold out and got ready to join the stream of fortune hunters, few of whom gave so little promise of success as did he. When he had settled up all his business he remarked to Gebhardt, the hammerman, that he was worth more than he thought.
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""How much have you?' asked Gebhardt.
"'Well, counting the horses at $80 apiece,' replied the future millionaire, 'I am worth $1,500.'
"And that was all he took with him out of Indiana. No, not quite all. He had fallen in love with an excellent girl at Mishawaka, the daughter of a certain druggist. ,The young lady's father declined to receive Crocker's suit until such time as he was worth $5,000.
"Crocker came back with that much gold in just one year, and married the girl of his choice. She went with him through the burdens and blessings of those many years, and he died with a fortune too large to count."
LXI. THE OLD TIME FIDDLERS.
In the beginning of the formation of society in Marshall county, there was nothing that was more conducive to enjoyment and to cement the young people together in the bonds of good fellowship than the "old time fiddlers who made the music for the "Hoe Downs" that were so popular during the formative society period and for a number of years afterwards. Amusements of some kind were an absolute necessity, and during the winter season, when the few amusements of the summer had passed away, the boys and girls determined that they would have an occasional dance-"hoe downs" they were called-to relieve the monotony of the long and dreary winters. The first and most important thing to do was to procure the services of a fiddler -not a violinist, because a violinist was considered entirely too "high toned" for the "back-woods dances" in those days. Some of the younger men who came with their parents and others for the purpose of making this part of the country their home had taken time by the forelock and had purchased fiddles and learned to play after a fashion before they started to "the new country," and had learned to "call" some of the figures of the country dances, so the getting things in shape for a start was not so difficult a thing as it at first appeared. The largest house in the neighborhood was selected as the place where the dance was to be held. The beds were taken down and all the furniture removed, and upon a pinch there was room enough for two sets to dance, provided they did not spread out too much. The boys and girls for miles around were invited and generally were only too glad to accept the invitation, because in that way they could become better acquainted, and many a happy marriage resulted from the acquaintances formed and the associations of these primitive country dances.
As a matter of fact, the old fiddlers, who were artists in their way and could make a whole orchestra, with a caller to spare, were very few. The writer remembers but one in all the region of country round about that could do it up to a turn. That was Charlie Cook, who lived a short distance west of Pretty lake, and who was killed a few years ago, being gored by an infuriated bull. He was not what was called a scientific fiddler, but when he "rosumed up his bow, and plinked and plonked and plunked the strings, and tuned her up, you know," and put his quid of tobacco on the other side of his mouth, and called out: "Take partners for a quadrille," every- body knew the old fiddler would do his level best. He stood at the end of
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the log cabin dancing hall, and did the fiddling and calling at the same time, and you may be assured he kept the boys and girls busy moving to the figures, "down outside and up the middle," "balance all." "doe see doe," "cross over," "swing your partners," "all promenade," etc. He played pieces that the old fiddlers of these days know nothing about, such as "The Girl I Left Behind Me," "Jamie's On the Sea," "Boyne Water." "Fisher's Horn- pipe," "Arkansaw Traveler," and the like. To these inspiring strains-
"They danced all night Till broad daylight,
And went home with the girls in the morning."
Charlie Cook was one of the pioneers of this county, having come here as an "Indian trader" in 1832, and was, therefore, probably the first white settler in the county, and a representative of that class whose early years were a continued struggle with poverty and the hardships of pioneer life. When he first came to the county there were no white people here, and his associates were the Pottawattomie Indians, who were the only residents here then. He necessarily learned their manners and customs, and learned to speak fluently their language, which he did not forget even to the day of his death.
There was a peculiar circumstance connected with his death which is not generally known, and will bear repeating here as a mystery that has not yet been solved. In the neighborhood where he lived there was a consid- erable number of spiritualists, who held occasional meetings, and, through the mediums that developed among the number, claimed to be in communica- tion with those who had "passed over." Mr. Cook was not inclined to be a "believer" and had not attended many, if any, of their meetings. How- ever, on a certain Saturday night, he had agreed that he would attend a meeting which was to be held at the house of his neighbor, Edwin Dwinnell, about three miles distant. He told them he was going to Plymouth to do some trading, and when he returned and arranged things for the night he would go over. He rode his horse to town and when he returned, in leading him through the barn lot to the stable, an infuriated bull gored Mr. Cook in the leg, inflicting a frightful wound, which was not only dangerous but painful. Those assembled at Mr. Dwinnell's waited a long time for Mr. Cook to come, but as it was getting late the "seance" opened in the usual form. One of the mediums went into a trance, and a spirit came who was asked if it could tell anything about Charlie Cook and why he had not come as he had promised. It replied that in leading his horse through the barn- yard he was gored by a bull in the leg and was so badly hurt that he would die in three days. Those present were much excited at the information, and Mr. Dwinnell said he would saddle his horse and go over and see if it was true. He did so, and found Mr. Cook gored and hurt as stated. Three days afterwards he died. Mr. Dwinnell related this to the writer shortly after it occurred and declared that the information came to him as stated, and at the time and under the circumstances he had no other possible way of finding out about it. Mr. Dwinnell is long since dead, as are also most of those who were present on the occasion named, and the matter remains as great a mystery today as it did when it occurred.
It was Charlie Cook, or one of whom he was a type, concerning whom our own "Hoosier Poet" wrote the following charming bit of poetry :
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My fiddle ?- Well, I kind o' keep her handy, don't you know! Though I ain't so much inclined to tromp the strings and switch the bow As I was before the timber of my elbows got so dry,
And my fingers was more limber-like and caperish and spry; Yit I can plonk and plunk and plink, And tune her up and play, And jest lean back and laugh and wink At ev'ry rainy day !
My playin's only middlin'-tunes I picked up when a boy-
The kind o'-sort o' fiddlin' that the folks calls "cordaroy; "
"The Old Fat Gal, " and "Rye-straw, " and " My Sailyor's on the Sea,"
Is the old cowtillions I "saw," when the ch'ice is left to me; And so I plunk and plonk and plink, And rosum-up my bow, And play the tunes that makes you think The devil's in your toe!
I was allus a romanein', do-less boy, to tell the truth, A-fiddlin' and a-danein,' and a-wastin' of my youth,
And a-actin', and a-cuttin'-up all sorts o'silly pranks That wasn't worth a button of anybody's thanks! But they tell me, when I ust to plink And plonk and plunk and play, My music seemed to have the kink O' drivin' cares away !
That's how this here old fiddle's won my hart's indurin' love! From the strings acrost her middle, to the schreechin' keys above- From her "apern, " over "bridge," and to the ribbon round her throat, She's a wooin', cooin' pigeon, singin' "Love me" ev'ry note! And so I pat her neck, and plink Her strings with lovin' hands, And, list'nin' clos't, I sometimes think She kind o' understands!
LXII. TELEGRAPH AND TELEPHONE.
The telegraph is one of the most wonderful and also one of the most useful inventions of modern times. The remotest portions of the world through its instrumentality are brought within speaking distance. The benefits to trade and commerce by its use are incalculable. In a thousand ways it is beneficial to mankind. In fact, so necessary has it become in the every day transactions of business that it could not be dispensed with without serious loss.
The first telegraph line built in this part of the state was what was called the Ohio and Mississippi line. It extended from Chicago through Michigan City, La Porte, Plymouth, Rochester, and thence to Logansport, where it intersected a line extending from Toledo, Ohio, along the Wabash river, and having its terminus at Evansville, Indiana. An office was opened in Plymouth in 1852, mainly for the purpose of enabling the company to keep its line in repair. Before the office was opened here there was no office between La Porte and Logansport, a distance of nearly 100 miles, and the frequency with which the line "got down," owing to the wilder- ness through which it was built, and the long distances the repairers had
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