USA > New York > Monroe County > Rochester > Rochester and Monroe County: A history and guide > Part 5
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The second claimant, John P. Fish, was born seven years later. His father, Col. Josiah Fish, was engaged by Ebenezer Allen in 1796 to take charge of the mills at the Falls. The house in which his son was born, situated near the east end of Aqueduct Street, was the first building on the original site of Rochester to be occupied exclusively as a dwelling.
Some local historians have named James S. Stone as Rochester's first white child, but in later years Mr. Stone himself disclaimed the honor, stating that he was born May 4, 1810, in Orringh Stone's tavern in the town of Brighton while his father, Enos Stone, was building a'log house on St. Paul Street, into which the family moved two weeks later.
George Evans, another claimant, the son of a retired sailor, was launched on life's voyage in 1811 in a cabin near the site of St. Mary's Hospital.
A fifth claimant, Robert C. Schofield, was born April 1, 1812, in a shack hastily constructed to accommodate work-
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men who were building the first Main Street bridge. Al- though Mr. Schofield's tardy entry seems to disqualify him, his claim is not without interest, for an old letter written by him states: "Col. Rochester offered to give me 50 acres of land if my father would name me after him, but as there was another boy born some days after, Stark by name, whose father wanted his boy treated the same way, my father, being rather proud spirited, declined the honor." Thus parental pride deprived the infant at once of 50 acres of land and of the honor of bearing the name of Rochester's founder.
Mortimer Reynolds, born in 1814 on the site of Reynolds Arcade, was long considered to be the first white child born on the Hundred Acre Tract. To William Dennison goes the distinction of being the latest born claimant, for he did not enter the competition until 1819.
However clouded may be the title of First Native Roch- esterian, it is certain that no wedding occurred in Roch- ester until 1815, when Delia Scrantom married Jehiel Barnard.
JEHIEL BARNARD: ROCHESTER'S PIONEER TAILOR
On September 1, 1812, Jehiel Barnard, a young man of 24 and already a master tailor, arrived in Rochesterville on horseback, bringing with him all his worldly posses- sions, including a pair of broad, stubby, London-made shears, which are now a prized possession of the Rochester Historical Society. His first order was a suit for Francis Brown, a prosperous settler in Frankfort, whom he charged 20 shillings for the cutting and sewing. In time he built Rochesterville's first tailor shop, a two-story building, 18 feet by 16 feet, near the present Main Street entrance of the Reynolds Arcade. Part of the space in the building he rented to Rochester's first shoemaker. In the rear of the building he
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and Hamlet Scrantom constructed an oven and carried on the first bakery in the village. In another room of his build- ing, use of which he donated, a school was organized in 1814; eight bachelors paid the cost of educating eight of their neighbors' children. At a meeting held in Barnard's shop it was decided to build a schoolhouse. Early in the life of the village, Sunday services were held in Barnard's tailor shop. In 1815, at a public meeting held in the shop, the first steps were taken to organize the First Presbyterian Church.
Jehiel also had his lighter side. In the first village band, which was organized in Abelard Reynold's tavern in 1817, he played the bassoon. He also had a good voice, and many were the singing bees held in his tailor shop. This versatile tailor even tried to emulate St. Patrick and undertook to rid the village of snakes; he killed six rattlers, and collected for himself six shillings as bounty. His usefulness to the village was recognized in 1817 by his election as one of the five members of the first board of trustees.
In 1815 Barnard married Delia Scrantom, and added to his other accomplishments the honor of being Rochester's first bridegroom. His children became useful and respected citizens of the later city. When his health gave way in 1837 under repeated attacks of asthma, he retired to a farm in Ogden managed by one of his sons. In 1863 he returned to Rochester and lodged with another son on Exchange Street. He died on November 7, 1865, after a long, active, and useful life.
THIRTY-THREE ROCHESTERIANS DEFY THE BRITISH NAVY
In May 1814, a fleet of thirteen British ships commanded by General Yeo anchored at the mouth of the Genesee River, threatening Charlotte with their cannon. Cut off from outside aid by miles of forest, the little village of
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The Old Lighthouse, Charlotte, 1822
Rochesterville was thrown into wild panic. The situation was desperate. There were only 33 able-bodied men to de- fend the village. Under the command of General Porter, and armed with a heterogeneous collection of muskets, scythes, and clubs, these 33 men marched down to Charlotte to defy the British navy.
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In the meantime the women of the village had packed their household goods in ox-carts and the boys had driven the livestock far back into the woods in preparation for flight.
Lacking numbers, the little "army" resorted to guile and subterfuge. Screened by the fringe of trees on shore, the settlers marched in and out of the trees before the astonished eyes of the British, who were convinced that from some source a large army had rallied to the defense of Charlotte. Hurriedly the fleet pulled up anchors and sailed away. The British lion had turned tail and run before 33 men. With laughing affection, Rochester cherishes the story among its collection of "family jokes."
A PAGAN SACRIFICE .IN ROCHESTER
On a day in January 1813, the Senecas gathered on the site of Livingston Park to hold their last Sacrifice of the White Dog. At that time five small Indian encampments still lingered on the fringes of the village; two years later these camps had disappeared.
The last Sacrifice of the White Dog, celebrating the re- turn of the tribe from a hunting trip, lasted nine days. Several braves participated in a mask dance, each wearing a hideous and terrifying mask. They visited each wigwam in turn, where, by weird incantations with firebrands, the evil spirits infesting the wigwams were supposed to be driven into the bodies of the dancers, who then by secret ceremonies transferred the evil spirits into one member of their group. He, in turn, transmitted the spirits to the white dogs. Then, as the dogs were cast onto a sacrificial pyre and roasted, the Indians believed that their own sins had been consumed in the flames. Apparently the evil spirits did not inhere in the bodies of the dogs, for these were afterward converted into a stew and eaten by the tribe.
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CARTHAGE BUILT A BRIDGE TO FAME
The little village of Carthage, like Carthage of old, once knew glory and the hope of future greatness. She visioned herself as the center of a vast web of traffic, both by water and by land. To this end she spanned the Genesee with a wooden bridge of mammoth size. Nowhere in the world at that time, not even in the great cities of Europe, existed a bridge of such height and length. Its incredible length of 718 feet, its arch vaulting to a height of 196 feet, evoked the astonishment of all who saw it. It was one of the engineering miracles of the age. Little Carthage looked with pride upon her achievement.
The Rochester Telegraph of Feb. 16, 1819, sang the praises of the bridge:
It presents the nearest route from Canandaigua to Lewiston; it connects the points of the great Ridge Road; it opens to the counties of Genesee and Niagara a direct communication with the water privileges at the lower falls and the head of navigation in the river, and renders the village of Carthage accessible and convenient as a thoroughfare from the east, the west and the north.
Carthage's hopes seemed built upon a firm foundation. The contractor had guaranteed the bridge to stand for a year and a day, and so it did; but three months later, on May 22, 1820, the arch, not sufficiently braced to sustain its own great weight, buckled in the middle and gave way. The great bridge fell! With it fell the hopes of Carthage, for, though two other bridges succeeded it, both were swept away by floods. This disaster was the beginning of the end of Carthage, for with the coming of the Erie Canal and the later construction of the railroad, Rochester began
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to take her place as the great city of the Genesee. The epitaph of an older Carthage applies equally well to its short-lived namesake:
Great Carthage low in ashes cold doth lie. Her ruins poor, the herbs in height can pass. So cities fall, so perish kingdoms high,
Their pride and pomp lie hid in sand and grass.
THE LAST WOLF HUNT
In the early 1800's so many wolves infested the Genesee Valley that the "wolf at the door" was an ever present menace. The towns of Monroe County offered such a large bounty (in some cases $5) for the extermination of the dangerous pests that by 1830 wolves were believed to be extinct in this region.
In February 1830, great excitement was caused by the news that a wolf was at large in Irondequoit, ravaging sheep and doing much other damage. Through the village of Rochesterville the rumor spread like wildfire that this was no ordinary wolf. Each day new stories were told of its depredations, its fabulous size, its supernatural cunning. It became, in the imagination of the villagers, a veritable loup-garou. Mothers cautioned children to stay near the house or the wolf would get them. Pedestrians walking along the street after dark cast fearful backward glances. Old muskets which had not been fired since 1812 were cleaned and loaded; doors and windows were barred at night. The shadow of the Big Bad Wolf held the village in a stage of siege.
On a winter's day a hunting party of about a hundred people gathered and went to Irondequoit to hunt the wolf. The hunt lasted for five days, a hilarious occasion long remembered, culminating in the killing of the wolf. He was
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brought back to Rochesterville and exhibited. When measured, he was found to be five and one-half feet long. The skin was stuffed, and for many years the last wolf of the Genesee country stood before a hat store opposite the Arcade, snarling silently at passersby. The wilderness had been conquered and its fiercest menace served tamely as an advertising sign.
THE FOX SISTERS
In the fall of 1847, John D. Fox, a blacksmith from Roch- ester, moved with his family into an old house in Hydes- ville, New York. According to local legend the house was haunted by the ghost of a murdered peddler. Strange noises, knocks, and rappings in the house disturbed the Fox family so frequently that the two Fox children, Margaretta and Catharine, aged 12 and 9, lost all fear and made a game of communicating with the ghost by a code of raps. Neighbors came, listened, and went away puzzled and bewildered. In Rochester the strange happenings in Hydesville were re- garded as fraud. A married daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Fox persuaded the family to leave the haunted house and move to Rochester. To their consternation the rappings which they had hoped to escape continued in their new home. A number of prominent Rochesterians investigated the phenomenon. Doctors, ministers, and practical business men lost their scepticism and became convinced that the communications were genuine. A public demonstration in Corinthian Hall was sponsored by these citizens and crowds gathered expecting to see signs and wonders. They were not disappointed. Strange messages were rapped out. But the hall was invaded by a disreputable gang that roused such a disturbance as to cause a mild riot. Police intervened and the meeting broke up in disorder.
A short time after this the Fox family moved to New York City, but not before a great many Rochesterians had
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been converted to the new religion. Spiritualism had ob- tained a strong foothold. Spiritualists throughout this country and abroad regard March 31, 1848, as the memo- rable date upon which communication was first established between this world and the next, through the mediumship of the Fox sisters.
MILLERITES ANTICIPATE THE END OF THE WORLD .
In 1844 a strange religious hysteria called Millerism stormed like a tempestuous wind over western New York. The new religion was originated by William Miller, a captain in the War of 1812, who came from Vermont to Lowhampton, New York. From mathematical calculations based upon biblical dates he evolved a theory that the world would end in 1844. As early as 1831 he began to warn the public in fiery sermons to prepare for the Day of Judgment. On the night of November 13, 1833, occurred a spectacular phenomenon of falling stars; the sky for nearly an hour appeared to rain fire. Terror and panic swept the whole Genesee Valley. Miller's prophecy was remembered with foreboding, and even the newspapers began to give con- sideration to the possibility that the world was coming to an end.
As the Great Day approached many people made their final preparations for the end of the world. Jennie Marsh Parker's father, who lived in Rochester, was appointed by William Miller as head of the western branch of the move- ment. He offered the shelter of his home to Millerites, who had recklessly given away their property while they awaited the moment when the world would burst into flames and the righteous would "all go up together with a shout."
The momentous day of October 24 arrived, and people flocked into the city from miles around to hold watch
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meetings, at which groups of wild-eyed fanatics, under the spell of contagious hysteria, shouted hymns and gabbled incoherent prayers.
Since all were to be caught up to Heaven when the trumpet sounded, the Millerites reasoned that their heav- enly prospects would be better if they ascended to the hill- tops. Therefore Pinnacle Hills was the scene of wild drama on that fantastic night of October 24. From the hilltops watchers scanned the skies, waiting for the great light which was to precede the world conflagration; but the hours dragged on and nothing happened. As anti-clamax to a night of feverish excitement and expectation, the morn- ing of October 25 dawned serene and uneventful, just an- other in the sequence of the world's days! The watchers came down from the hills in their dew-draggled ascension robes and crept furtively back to their homes amid the jeers of their more practical neighbors.
A great part of Miller's converts deserted him, but many were still loyal to their leader and formed the various branches of the Adventist Church which exist today.
THE LEAP OF SAM PATCH
Ex-sailor, ex-factory worker, professional high diver, and, in character, a swaggering braggart, Sam Patch possessed no qualifications that foreshadowed national fame. One day in 1829, accompanied by his trained bear, he wandered into the village to drink and lounge about the taverns. He announced that he would jump from the brink of the Upper Falls of the Genesee, a feat never before attempted. With laughing scepticism several thousand people gathered to see him make good his boast. He leaped, and to everyone's surprise and the enlargement of his own conceit, lived to tell of it. News of his exploit excited the town. Followed by a crowd of admirers, he made the rounds of the taverns, drinking and boasting.
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"I'll show you again how it's done," he bragged. "Some things can be done as well as others." That meaningless statement became a catch-phrase of the times. For years it was a slang expression, not only locally but nationally.
In defiance of fate he chose Friday the 13th as the day for his second leap. To make the stunt more spectacular, he was to leap from a wooden scaffold 25 feet above the 100-foot height of the verge of the Falls. The newspapers gave wide publicity to the event. Special schooners ran excursions from Oswego and from Canadian towns. Hundreds of farmers traveled the muddy roads leading to the Falls. More than 8,000 people, shivering in the cold of that bleak November day, crowded along the river bank to see Sam Patch leap. Large bets were placed. Excited speculation flew like sparks in the wind. Could he do it? Would he drown? The crowd waited.
Sam Patch staggered forward, managed to climb the scaffolding hand over hand. From his lofty platform he shouted his boasts :
"Napoleon was a great general but he couldn't jump the Genesee Falls. Wellington was a great soldier, but he couldn't jump the Genesee Falls. I can do it and I will."
A moment he swayed there. The crowd sensed disaster.
"Stop him. The fool's drunk. He'll kill himself."
Too late to stop him. He jumped-fell, a heart-sickening plunge. Breathless suspense held the crowd. They waited for the sight of a bobbing head in the current below, but the Genesee, defied, revenged itself and held him fast in its depths. Sam Patch had made his last leap.
In horror the crowd fled from the scene. Perhaps in com- punction for having encouraged him to take the risk, the public glorified Sam Patch. From coast to coast the news- papers shouted the news of Sam Patch's fatal leap.
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On St. Patrick's day his broken body was found in a cake of ice near the mouth of the river. He rests in a grave at Charlotte, indicated only by a metal marker on a tree at its head.
THE CHOLERA EPIDEMIC
June of 1832 brought tragedy to Rochester in the insignif- icant person of a peddler from New York, who sickened and died of cholera. Within a few days a terrible epidemic raged here, and in the two following months of July and August between 400 and 500 persons died out of a popula- tion of only 11,000. The doctors, not armed with knowledge of antisepsis and germs, were powerless to fight a disease the character and treatment of which they did not know. They forbade the patients to eat vegetables, and admin- istered copious doses of brandy as a remedy; few of the victims recovered. So great was the dread of the plague that many, believing themselves to be stricken, died of little more than fear.
Few could be found who were willing to risk almost certain death by nursing the sick. The name of Col. Ashbel W. Riley shines like a star against the dark background of those tragic months. He helped nurse as many as possible of those who were ill, and, unaided and alone, prepared for burial 80 corpses. Only after he had nailed up the coffins would the driver of the dead cart venture into the house to help carry out the dead.
The disease struck down its victims so suddenly that a person apparently well in the morning might be dead before midnight. There was no time to dig separate graves, and 30 bodies were buried together in a ditch in the Buffalo Road cemetery without stick or stone to mark the spot. In recent years, while an addition was being built to the Rochester
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General Hospital, which stands on the site of this old cemetery, workers excavated forgotten graves, reminders of that dark year.
Out of that misfortune came one good result, the estab- lishment of a board of health, so that when in 1833 a second cholera epidemic invaded the town preventive measures were taken and the death toll was only 34.
THE FLOOD OF 1865
On various occasions the city has suffered heavy damage from Genesee River floods. The most disastrous flood occurred in 1865.
On March 16 the city anxiously watched the rising river. Water began to seep into cellars along Front Street and by noon of the next day a trickle of water, like a treacherous snake, was inching its way across the street. Rapidly it grew to a thin sheet of water covering the street from curb to curb. Soon a torrent of water was flowing along Exchange Street, and by the middle of the afternoon merchants around the Four Corners began to move their goods; but many had delayed too long and found themselves marooned in their places of business.
At the Four Corners the water rose to a height of six feet, flowing with a strong current which carried all debris before it. Rowboats plying back and forth through down- town streets effected many rescues. Two street-cars were stranded on the Main Street Bridge. After the passengers had been taken off, the cars drifted majestically down- stream, one going over the Falls. To add to the terror and confusion, the gas plant was submerged and the city was in total darkness. In spite of the suddenness of the disaster only one casualty occurred. An unidentified man who was
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crossing the Central Railroad Bridge as the bridge was washed away was believed to have drowned. The property damage caused by this flood exceeded $1,000,000.
REDWOOD TREES IN ROCHESTER
Rochester was at one time a distributing point for young sequoia, or California redwood, trees. As late as 1925 seven of these giant trees standing at 590 Mount Hope Avenue were cut down, having been practically winter-killed by the severe winter of 1917. These trees, from 50 to 52 inches in circumference and averaging 52 feet in height, were rem- nants of the original 4,000 planted by the Ellwanger & Barry Nurseries in 1856. At that time they were the largest specimens of their kind east of the Rocky Mountains.
The story is that a "forty-niner" from Rochester, awed by the magnificent redwood trees of California, gathered a few of the seeds, packed them in a snuff-box, and sent them by Pony Express to Rochester. Ellwanger & Barry Nurseries planted the seeds under glass and later trans- planted the seedlings, thousands of which were shipped to England to be sold to the owners of large estates. Many went to Boston, and others to France.
MAUD S.
On the 11th day of August, 1881, huge crowds gathered to see a race run on the old Driving Park track. The horses lined up at the starting post. A shot. "They're off." They sped down the track, swept around the curve, headed back along the stretch.
"Here they come." A storm of hoof beats. Cheers. "There she goes. She's ahead. She's going to make it. Hurrah, hurrah for Maud S!" That day history was made: under her flying hoofs Maud S measured off a mile in 2:1012, the
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world's record of the age. For six years that record remained unbroken. Maud S was owned at that time by William H. Vanderbilt of New York City. When her racing days were over he sold her, and the gallant little mare was re- tired with honors to the stables of Robert Bonner, pub- lisher.
Rochester now goes to church where once she went to the races, for the cars of those attending Grace Methodist Church are parked in decorous rows where the horse sheds used to stand.
THE OLD AQUEDUCT
Where Broad Street bridge spans the Genesee two suc- cessive aqueducts have stood; both carried the waters of the Erie Canal over the river. The first was built in 1821 by the labor of 30 convicts from Auburn Prison. The uneven bed of the river at that point caused a succession of cascades or small falls, giving to the site of Rochester its first name of The Falls. These falls disappeared when the river bed was leveled by blasting for construction of the aqueduct. The structure, 804 feet long, contained eleven arches and was built entirely of cut stone. When in 1840 the old aque- duct was demolished to make way for the larger one, many of these great blocks of Medina sandstone and limestone were used again in the walls of dwelling houses still stand- ing, one of them at the corner of East Avenue and Upton Park.
European engineers came to view this remarkable feat of a canal constructed high above a river. Artists sketched its chain of arches and carried the pictures back to England to be used for designs on English pottery. In the Municipal Museum in Edgerton Park are dishes of English make stamped with scenes of the aqueduct.
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The completion of the first aqueduct began a new chapter in the city's history. Over its arches a constant stream of traffic flowed-outgoing canal boats loaded with products of the Genesee mills, incoming packet boats bringing new settlers. Its span was the keystone of Rochester's growth.
LOST CITY OF TRYON
Overlooking the valley of Ellison Park from the west is a small tableland above Indian Landing, once the gateway to the territory of the Iroquoian Confederacy. For many years Indians paddled up the drowsy creek from the bay to the Landing, where they disembarked to carry their canoes along the Portage Trail to the Genesee River.
Up from the bay on an August day in 1669 marched La Salle and his men, with glint of armor, jingle of swords, and trample of heavy boots, seeking Indian guides to take them into the Ohio country; but the Indians resented their intrusion and the explorers were forced to turn back.
Eighteen years later battle cries of Denonville's 3,000 men echoed through the valley as they sacked and destroyed the villages of the Senecas. Thirty more years passed over the old trail, and then, in 1721, came English soldiery, under command of Capt. Peter Schuyler, to build a fort on the hill across Irondequoit Creek. For a year its cannon threatened the Landing, and then the fort was abandoned. Far echoes of the French and Indian War reached the little valley as Prideaux and his army passed by on their way to attack the Niagara frontier; and later Sir William Johnson traveled the trail to attend Indian councils at Niagara. During the Revolution, Col. John Butler made his head- quarters at the Landing.
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