Vigo County, Indiana - Chapter 24: Reminiscent, 1891

TN the chapter preceding there is much said of the people of Vigo A county, those who were here at the beginning as children and young men, who, fortunately, had strong marks of that part of our nature that is more or less in all good men and women, in old age to turn in their musing upon the past, and write letters in their old days, and make excellent copies in words of the pictures that have remained upon their minds when their young eyes first beheld the Wabash, Vigo county and Terre Haute. Some of them have writ¬ ten out these recollections, and, in rare instances, diaries were kept. These, all, to the compiler of the local history of this section, are, in minei s plnase, rich pockets, where the virgin gold gladdens the eye of the patient digger and delver. Conspicuous among those who made mental notes in very young life, and, in long-after years wrote them out, only too scanty, but, so far as they do go, every word and sentence is a nugget of pure gold, was 'Capt. William Eaile, the first-born male white child in Terre Haute, the real boy, the boy with his Indian pony, stocky, stubborn, full of tricks, and that could gallop all day under his boy rider and then throw the next boy that got on him to ride him around to the stable, and stop and wait for the lad to get on again, and, as plain as pony lan¬ guage could say it: "What did you fall off for?" And he was that kind of a boy that nearly always had his dog with him, an ugly, mangy cur, with coarse long hair and big tail, that traveled, as a rule, on three legs, until a rabbit would appear in sight, and then down went the lame leg, and a race would follow that was the supieme delight in life to the boy. No chariot or horse race in history ever gave such infinite pleasure as that three-legged dog after the white-tailed rabbit did to that boy that had a preternat¬ ural relish for little knotty green apples, or little sickly-looking watei melons about as unripe as the best of the apples he would pick nearly as soon as the blossom fell off. The love of a healthy boy for his ugly dog and stubborn pony are nearly measured by the ill looks of the one and the ill nature of the other. They, however, understand each other - they quarrel and fight, but it is like brothers, and, in the hottest engagements, let any third party say a word, and how instinctively they drop hostilities at home and turn upon the com- mon enemy. The healthy real boy, not omitting the cur and pony, is a great and glorious Anglo-Saxon institution - a western "plant," in the commercial sense of that term, a Wabash masterpiece, in short. Here is a combination worth its weight in gold. As one of the brace-pieces in the framework of society, there is no other such bundles of possibilities as the robust real boy, cur and pony. He never needs but one suspender, but the larger his one pocket the better; his only troubles in life are getting at the sugar on the sly and nursing his stone-bruises on his heel. If he is a farmer's boy he is apt to cut off all the pigs' tails and enjoy the fun of see¬ ing them wiggle the bleeding stumps, and he has been known to learn to chew twist-tobacco in order to slip up on the sleeping big hogs in the shade of the fence corner and spit in their eyes, and then wait and see the fun when it finally oozes through the closed eye-lids and they are roused to quick movement. Such a boy never walks down the stairway, but slides on the baluster railing head foremost, and the faster the better, as it increases the chances of his heels going over his head at the end and breaking his neck in the tumble to the floor. If, in time, he can get the broken-off end of an old black umbrella handle, this fixes him off for a pistol to run down his waistband and be a fierce cowboy, or Jesse James, to hold up imaginary trains and gallantly come to the rescue of imaginary frightened girls. In his contact with all real girls he is apt to de¬ spise them - they can't play, ride his pony, play "marvels," or go swimming - they are simply great big babies, or dolls, in his esti¬ mation. The real boy prefers the hired hand. He is willing to run his legs off waiting on him. He has long since despaired of ever, in all the eternity of time before him, becoming old enough to be a man, or even a big boy who can go to town by himself, smoke, or go to see the neighbor's girls. And so he lives by proxy in the hired man - a kind of pupilage that every real boy goes through. His father, of course, is the greatest man in the world, and he and the hired man soon speak of him between themselves as the " gov¬ ernor," and, when enraged at him, as " the old man." He is apt to do a little sneaking for the hired man, especially if that individual has sense enough to play him to do all the waiting on him that his little short legs enable him to perform, and has paid for everything in advance by putting his fish-hook on the line, or letting him ride the horse, while he would lead the animal and hold him on. The real bov is a thorough barbarian. He kills birds with stones until big enough to be allowed to take the old smooth-bore shotgun and go out and shoot a meadow lark or a dove, and, in shooting these poor birds, he creeps on them as close as possible and literally blows them to pieces. He is as merciless toward the little birds as he was toward the- poor flies and "lightning-bugs." After he gets about

It is clear from Capt. William Earle's writing in his old days, of his boyish times in Terra Haute, that he was a typical Western boy with all that term implies. The things that he writes about as a much-traveled weather-beaten old tar, are the true index of those mental notes that he "plastered1' on his mind as a boy.

When Terra Haute was a cow-patli town, with a little fringe of log houses along the banks of the Wabash, and there were then here the native sugar trees of the forests; when the dense and graceful willows bordered heavily the water's edge; when in those days there were the sparkling springs of delightful cool water bursting out from the foot of the hill, near the water's edge, and every cabin had its separate path to these springs, both where they secured all their water for domestic purposes as well as where the women and girls regularly repaired to wash and "beat" the clothes each week, and gossip without the proverbial "tea" that writers of all fiction esteem so essential to all female conversation; the separate paths from each cabin to the spring and looking eastward were the cow paths toward the broad and flower- covered prairie that extended before the vision to the distant bending horizon. These were the surroundings amid which William Earle was born September 22, 1818. When he was quite an old man, writing on board his ship which tossed on the waters at the opposite side of the globe, it would seem that he can very nearly remember how he first mastered the intricacies of learning to walk. A child is a good judge of the character of people it is thrown with, even when very young. Gen¬ erally a far better judge then than when full grown and is ready to listen to the song of the siren. And when grown he has forgotten completely those better judgments he had even when in his cradle. In this respect Capt. Earle was an exception, and hence his descrip¬ tion of those who were grown here when he was a mere child are often the best pictures of those that could be transmitted from one generation to another.

There have been the fewest men who in mature life carried out to the full the dreams of their boyhood. As a rule it is this or that ti ivied ciicumstance that shapes all our lives, the merest accident that has brought men and women together, whose whole lives were linked as that of husband and Avife. And similar accidents fix our mature pursuits often as well as the place where we make our homes, and finally where we sleep in the unbroken silence. But with Capt.' Earle this was not so. He as a young boy would a sailor be, travel and see the world - go everywhere upon earth; this was his dream, and he lived to carry it out to its fullest extent. He was but little more than grown when he went to sea, before the - mast, and after he had become the master of his own vessel he was on one whaling voyage that lasted nearly twelve years. He had long since become the veritable "old sea dog," and like the stormy petrel, had been driven before the storm on every sea.

When he left Terre Haute, his birthplace, it was never to return to visit here. One or two short visits, impelled by the sentiment of the poet who said and sung, "How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood," and in lieu of visiting the place, in the realization of the fact that the most of those he remembered had passed away from earth, he did the next best thing possible, namely, sat down at his ship's desk and wrote something of his recollection of Terre Haute and Vigo county as the picture he had carried with him all over the wide world.

Capt. Earle had made his home in New England, near the sea shore, and to this place he finally retired when age and declining life had admonished him that the end was not far off. He died in IS 88.

In 1871 he wrote on board his vessel in the South Sea a com¬ munication to a Terre Haute paper, which is in some respects so much a part of the early history that it is here transcribed nearly entire :

May I be allowed to recur to olden times? May I lift the veil that conceals the past and peer down the long, dark vista of by¬ gone years? May I again feel " the touch of a vanished hand," or hear " the sound of a voice that is still?" As I wander over the realms of memory my feet again thoughtlessly crush the wild flowers of the prairie or rustle amid the fallen leaves of the prime¬ val forest. All the hopes and joys, the cares and sorrows of child¬ hood return. My playmates crowd before me again with their happy faces. But the wild flower lies crushed forever; the fallen leaves have moldered away ; many of the companions of my youth have long since passed away, and the hearts that beat so wildly are now but as clods of the valley. My home has been upon the mount¬ ain wave; my sails have whitened on every sea, from the frozen regions of the north to the ice-bound shores of the Antarctic world. I have tasted the bitterness of death from cold and hunger ; beneath a burning sun I have suffered with thirst till my parched lips cracked and blood flowed from them in streams. I have battled with the mightiest creatures, the hughest monsters of God's creation. Through a thousand perils I have been safely brought. From the pun^, sickly boy I became the strong and hearty man; from the green backwoodsman I became what I am - a sailor. Pardon this egotism I could not help falling into it while remembering that so many of my old-time companions have passed away and that I am

I like to bring back the olden days for their pleasant memories - there were so many good people when I was a child; they must have been good for they were good and kind to me. This retro spect is like a ship sailing along a line of coast, passing bold prom¬ ontories that throw their overshadowing cliffs far out to seadeep, receding bays ; low, sandy capes ; green and beautiful islands - huge black rocks of fanciful form; the low reef, partly submerged' partly above water, with fragments of wreck washed hither ^and thither, and wild breakers dashing foaming, roaring, while lio-htnings gleam and thunders rave; then through tranquil waters with pleasant breezes passing gently; rolling hills covered with verdant foliage; meadow lands reaching to the waters' edge, and fair flowers blooming m garden and lawn. Looking farther and farther alongthe outlines become more dim and indistinct, till at last nothing can be seen but a blue haze hanging above the horizon; beyond is the long gone-by, as fathomless as the past eternity.

In going back to olden times I propose to describe Terre Haute as it was at my earliest recollection - 1823. I think there were t houses in the town. Commencing at the south end of Water street, half way between Oak and Swan on the west side ot the street was a story-and-a-half hewed-log house. On the east side of the street half way between Swan and Poplar streets, stood a similar house; on the bank of the river in front of this house was the slaughter house. On the southeast corner of Water and Pop¬ lar streets standing a few yards back from the street, stood a storyand-a-half house; one-half of it was of hewed logs, the other part was of frame; in that house, on September 22, 1818, was born the writer ot this. On a line with this house, but facing on Poplar street, was ''the store " which my father had occupied as such pievious to his death, which occurred in 1819. Between these two houses and the street was a pleasant little flower garden with borders of currant bushes. On the southwest corner of Water and Poplar was an old, dilapidated house, of round logs, and the remains of the blacksmith shop near it. On the south side of Walnut, at the southwest alley corner, was the dwelling of Mr. George Hussev which was part of logs and part of frame. On the northwest ' cornei ot Water and Walnut streets was a small log house. On the southeast corner lot of Water and Ohio streets, at the south part of the lot, was the dwelling of Dr. C. B. Modesitt, which was a frame building, two stories high, painted white with a red roof. Front- ing oh Ohio street, on the same lot was a long, low frame house sometimes used for a school-house. Hon. William P. Dole finished his schooling in that house. On the northeast corner of the same streets was a house similar to Dr. Modesitt's; there was a store in it, and I think it was kept by John H. Cruft. There were no other houses on Water street.

Taking the south end of First street, the first house was a black¬ smith shop, on the northeast corner of that street and Poplar; William Marrs worked in it. On the next lot north was a two-story frame house, occupied by Mr. Ezekiel Buxton, a painter. The next house was midway between Walnut and Ohio streets, a small frame house with the end to the street, and was occupied by a man by the name of Bacon, a carpenter ' by trade ; a small lean-to house ad¬ joined it on the north. On the west side of the street, nearly op¬ posite Mr. Bacon's, was Mr. McCabe's hatter shop. On the south¬ west corner lot of First and Ohio streets was Col. Thomas H. Blake's law office; Dr. Clarke's office was in the same house, law and physic in the same room. Outlie northwest corner of the same streets was a large frame building; Isaac C. Elston had a store in the corner room and Dr. Shuler lived in the other part. I can re¬ member when this house was finished, but I can not recollect any¬ thing in regard to its building. On the east side of the street, midway between Ohio and Main streets, was a small house with one room, occupied as a grocery. On the southeast corner of First and Main streets stood the Eagle and Lion tavern; it was built of hewed logs and weatlierboarded. At the corner on two posts hung the sign representing an eagle picking a lion's eyes out - America tearing England into shreds. On the Avest side of First street, nearly up to Mulberry, Avas a small frame house occupied by James Hanna ("Jim Hanners"), a chair-maker by trade. On the south¬ east corner of First and Mulberry streets Avas quite a large twostory house, in which lived Mr. Enoch Dole, and nearly adjoining it on the south was another house of the same size, in which last named house was born, early in October, 1818, Matthew Bedford. This finishes First street.

Beginning at the north on Second street the first house stood on the southeast corner of that street and Mulberry, a tAvo-story, hewedlog house, occupied by Mr. Jacques, a Avlieehvright. Turning off Cherry street east, on the northeast alley corner, between Second and Third streets, stood a little square framed house, in which worked a man by the name of Charles Thompson, a shoemaker. One day, while at work on his bench, a boy by the name of Decatur Hanna (Cate Hanners) came in, and, seeing a gun in the corner of the room, said: "I am going to shoot you, Thompson ; " at the same time pointing the gun at him. Thompson told him to put the gun away, as it was loaded, but the poor man had scarcely ceased speaking before the trigger was touched and Thompson was almost instantly killed. Hanna could not have been more than nine years old at the time, and of course it was an accident. This was the first dead person I ever saw.

Still following Second, the next house was on the west side, second lot north from the corner of Main, a two-story frame. In that house was first printed the Western Register and Terre Haute Journal and Advertiser , by John W. Osborn, Esq., editor, propri¬ etor and publisher. On the northwest corner of Second and Main streets was a tavern kept by Francis Cunningham. On the north¬ east corner was the store of Mr. John D. Early, a large frame build¬ ing. On the north side of the public square, midway (nearly) between Second and Third streets, was a store kept, I believe, by Messrs. Josephus and Stephen S. Collett, two-story frame with red roof - afterward by Mr. John F. Cruft. On the west side of the square was the store and dwelling of Mr. Wilson, father of Mr. Ralph Wilson; they were frame houses, and one story. Half way between Ohio and Walnut streets was the store of Maj. George W. Dewees; it was of round logs, with the end to the street; his dwelling was in the rear of the store, and was a one-story frame building. On the southeast corner of Second and Walnut streets was the dwell¬ ing and hatter shop of Mr. Robert Brasher. On the northwest and southwest corners of Second and Poplar streets were two large, liewed-log houses. There were no more houses on Second street. Ihe jail stood on the southeast alley corner on Swan street, between First and Second streets. It was built of smoothly hewn logs, the floor being the same. Light was admitted by a small grated win¬ dow and the keyhole. I remember of one person being confined in it, that was black Dan, for stabbing Bill, another negro. He made his escape by digging away one of the floor logs, which was rotten. Aunt Sue, a colored woman, lived in a little log cabin a few vards south of the jail.

The first on Third street, commencing at the south, was Robert S. McCabe's dwelling, on the west side, south, and near the corner of poplar street, built of hewed logs, two stories. It was afterward occupied by Mr. Salmon Wright, who weatherboarded it. On the opposite side of the street was a large two-story, liewed-log house belonging to Dr. Modesitt. On the southeast corner of Third and M alnut streets was a frame dwelling, occupied by Mr. Malcomb McFadden, but owned by Joseph and Samuel Eversol, coopers, whose shop was of round logs, adjoining to the south. On the east side of the street, a short distance from Walnut street, was Miss Hannah Austin's house, a small frame, of two rooms, end to the street. On the west side of the street, near the alley, was George

Ellison's blacksmith shop. On the east side of the public square, near the corner of Main, was the store and dwelling of William C. Linton, Esq., a two-story house, painted white, with red roof. On the northeast corner of Third and Main streets was Mr. McQuilkin's tavern, a large frame house. The sign was on a post at the corner, a war horse fully caparisoned, rearing, as if impatient for some one to mount and ride into some imaginary battle to the south¬ west. We boys always called it the "Light Horse Tavern." On the northwest corner was a two-story house, painted white, with red roof, occupied first, I believe, by Mr. Barnet; afterward by James Farrington. The next house was midway between Cherry and Mul¬ berry streets, well back from the street, and on the west side. A small frame house, also on the west side, stood near the southwest corner of Third and Mulberry. The last house on Third street was on the west side, nearly up to Eagle, and was occupied by Mrs. Patty Nelson, mother of the late James Nelson, at one time sheriff of Yigo county.

There were only two houses on Fourth street ; the northern¬ most was on the west side of the street near the corner of Eagle, a small frame house occupied by Mr. John Disbrow. When his little daughter died, I for the first time realized that the young could die. I remember well looking at her pale, sweet face as she lay in her little coffin, and wondering if she were never to wake from her still sleep. On the northwest corner of Fourth and Walnut streets was the other house. In it lived, solitary and alone, old Jacob, a negro, who was small in size, with hair very white. He could play the fiddle, and always kept time with his half-shod foot. I think he must have been very kind, as the boys delighted to go to his house on rainy days, to hear the music and dance. Old Jacob brought water from the river, for a great part of the town, on a sled made from the fork of a tree, and drawn by an old horse, which, had its body been as rich in flesh as its tail was in burs, would have shown its ribs less conspicuously. Adjoining Jacob's house to the west was a dilapidated old mill from which Jacob sup¬ plied himself with fuel. Both houses were of round logs.

On Oak street, north side, lived Mrs. Hodge. As this was " out in the woods " in my young days I am at a loss exactly where to locate it, but I think it was on the corner of Fourth and Oak streets. It was built of round logs. The only houses on Fourth street were William Marrs' blacksmith shop, frame, at the south¬ west corner of that street and Main. Mr. Marrs' dwelling of hewed logs stood at the southwest corner of Cherry and Fifth streets, and the school-house at the northwest corner of Fifth and Mulberry, a roughly hewed log house of one story ; by the shape and size of the windows, I think it must have been built for a school-house.

On the south side of Mulberry street, a short distance west of the school-house, was a large two-story liewed-log house. That finishes the town as I first remember it, which was in 1823, with exception of the court-house. I can uot remember when it was commenced ; it was not finished however, till 1832 or 1833 when William Probst, Ebenezer Paddock and somebody else were county commissioners.

On the public square to the south of the court-house was a small grove of sycamores, and near the southeast corner of the building was a low stump of a large tree. Tradition says that a carpenter by the name of Hovey fell from the eaves of the house upon this stump, and a chisel or gouge which he held in his hand, entered his 'breast and he was killed.

The first brick houses were built in 1826 or 1827. I was absent from Terre Haute from May 1826 to May 1828, and I do not know which was the first, but I think Mr. Linton's two-story house on the southwest corner of Second and Main was. The other brick buildings erected were as follows : A two-story store and dwell¬ ing, built by Lucius H. Scott on the southwest corner of Third and Ohio streets ; one on the southeast corner of First and Swan streets (very small); one on the southwest alley, corner of Swan street between Water and First streets. Benjamin I. Gilman, pork packer, had built one on the northeast corner of First and Mul¬ berry for an office. Russell Ross had built another of one story on the west side of Water between Eagle and Chestnut streets. Joseph Miller had erected another of two stories on Chestnut, a little way east of W ater street, and J ames and Harry Ross one nearly abreast of the end of Second street, also two stories high, both on out-lots.

The first burial ground was on the square east of Sixth street, between Ohio and Main streets. Curtis Gilbert afterward built his dwelling on the site. The second burial ground was on the outlot noi th of the town, on the hill overlooking the river west of Water street. Many good people were buried there. It was in what was called the " Old Indian Orchard." The third one was on Third street north of the town on land which, in my early childhood, was an Indian cornfield. A lone grave surrounded by a picket fence was on the west side of Seventh street near the end of Wal¬ nut stieet. The man buried there was Mr. Davenport. I never knew anything of him.

In my remembrance there were no large trees in the town plat east of Water street, but many stumps were standing, and large stumps of trees were lying in several places in the town. The river bank was lined with willows and sycamores south of Modesitt's ferry, and north of it was a large growth of maple, cottonwood and syca¬ more trees, with willows on the bank. The line of lots on the east side of Water street, from Swan to a little north of Ohio street, was cleared. The line of bushes, hazel and oaks, was along the alley between Water and First streets, from Swan to Walnut; thence east¬ ward upon this last named' street to Second street; thence south ' along Second to near the corner of Poplar; thence northeast to nearly the crossing of Third and Walnut; thence southeast to the prairie land; from the northwest corner of Water and Walnut streets, northerly to half way between Ohio and Main streets; thence northeasterly to the crossing of Second and Cherry streets, till it reached the prairie line near the school-house, corner of Fifth and Mulberry streets. There were several fenced fields east of the town on the prairie, and I remember being called out at night to fight the prairie fires as they threatened the fences. Some of the streets were pretty well worn, but roads and paths crossed the town at all conceivable angles. The principal one was the Vincennes road, which left Second street at Poplar, running southwest, nearly to the corner of First and Oak streets; thence south. Another road, much used by Indians in those clays, left the corner of Water and Poplar streets, led down the hill to the bottom land and southerly along the river bank to the " Island Ford." Another road left the north part of the town along the bank of the river to the " Indian Ripple Ford," two miles above the town. A gulley led down to the river from Walnut street, commencing in front of Mr. Hussey's house; another from Poplar street, but I can remember when Thomas Rogers ran a plow over the brink of the hill to make this gulley. There was another gulley just north of Poplar, which was older. There were very few wells in the village, and many people brought their water from the springs that then gushed out from the river banks. I can barely remember when the Indians lived to the north of the town, near the old Indian orchard. There were only a few families of them. A number of backwoodsmen lived " over the river " in the Sugar Creek country. They often passed our house, roaring drunk. The next worst animals were the wolves, but there were not many of them, I never saw the large kind but once. I was riding behind Mr. Elisha U. Brown, coming from his house to town; just as we passed the old Hunnewell house, on Straw¬ berry Hill, we came upon a gang of four or five devouring a hog. Of the common prairie wolves there were more, but they were timid, and I have seen them scampering through the long grass, frightened at the very sight of anything human, no matter how small. A panther I never saw or heard, but it was not unusual to hear people say that they heard a "painter" last night. The first steamboat arrival occurred in 1824 or 1825. Her name was the "Florence." She landed at the old boatyard south of the foot of Oak street. Of course, the whole town went to see her, besides all tlie country round about. The steamboats were always welcomed by firing the "old cannon.'' This old cannon was an institution; it had no carriage, and was elevated by placing a log of wood under it near the muzzle. James Hanna, a poor jolly fellow, acted as artilleryman. Every time he discharged it he would have to spin a long yarn about what he had seen while "in the sarvice." On the Fourth of July the old cannon would be honored with a pair of cart wheels. On the approach of the Fourth of July the people of Clinton would steal the cannon, thus compelling the worthy people of Terre Haute to steal it back again, which they always did, being adepts in that branch of the fine arts. The people of Clinton stole it once too often, for it burst on their hands. Before the days of steamboats, goods were brought overland in wagons - mostly drygoods - and by keelboats, which came up the river in summer time when the water was low, propelled by men with poles. These men, I remember, were a particularly rough set, the citizens of the town having very little communication with them. I give you my recol¬ lections of several of the earliest citizens of Terre Haute who have passed away. They are the impressions made on my memory while a boy.

Mr. George Hussey was our nearest neighbor. If I remember rightly he was a middling-sized man, with thin, sandy whiskers. He had a custom of thrusting his thumbs into the armholes of his vest, throwing his shoulders back, and making a particular kind of h-e-m. He was a player on the flute; how good I don't know. He would come to our house of evenings, play awhile on the flute, and then sit down (he always walked when he was playing) and talk about Baltimore. Of the two performances I liked the Baltimore part the best. He was always very kind and good to me, and I liked him very much. After he moved to his farm I was often a guest of his for weeks, when he always kept me tagging after him over the farm. I don't remember which talked the most. The last time I saw him was in 1853. I paid him a visit on his farm. It was a long time before he could realize I was the once white-headed and often ragged little boy of long ago, but when he was satisfied of the fact his mind seemed to leap over intervening years, and he talked of the olden times as of yesterday.

Dr. Charles B. Modesitt was one of those rare old gentlemen that we meet but once in a lifetime, tall, erect, with hair white as snow. He was the very embodiment of " Old Virginia, " aye, even Cul¬ pepper county itself. He was extremely polite, would say "sir" to old or young, white or black, man, woman, boy or girl. He was very kind to we little boys, and kept an orchard of sour apples on purpose for us to rob.

iron-gray hair and whiskers, small eyes, and a very sour look. He was universally unpopular. His two ferocious white dogs made him most of his reputation with boys of my age. All that glitters is not gold, and somebody is said to be painted blacker than he is; so with the old Major. He was better than he was represented to be. I know of his furnishing a poor young woman with money to pay her passage from Louisville to Terre Haute, and even refusing to be thanked.

Col. Blake was my beau ideal of a gentleman. He was six feet in height, and well proportioned, light hair, neatly trimmed side whiskers, well brushed forward, always well dressed, the ruffle of his shirt standing out beyond his vest, with a smooth glossy hat, polished boots, and corns on his toes. I stepped on them once. He would always give me his fourpences. I liked him for that. I have heard that he was once engaged in a duel with somebody, but no one was hurt. In short, Col. Blake was the greatest man in Terre Haute, in my youthful imagination, except Maj. Lewis.

Of Lucius H. Scott I remember very little previous to 1828. He was a thin, erect man, quick in his movements' and precise in speech. He came to Terre Haute very poor, but prospered. He was sheriff of the county at one time. The last time I saw him was in 1853. I happened to meet him in the cars, and traveled with him nearly 200 miles. Our talk was of the olden times.

Robert Sturgis. I hardly think there is anybody that remem¬ bers him but myself. Poor Bob was a universal favorite - he would keep people laughing all the time he talked, and he talked about all the time. Ostensibly he was clerk in somebody's store, but his most constant occupation was drinking whisky. I remember well the day he died. I was in the habit, small as I was, of calling to see him every day while he was sick, and he was sick some time. That day I called as usual. Mr. John Cruft was the only person in the room, or even in the house. When I entered the room he faintly called me to his bedside. As I approached he held out his emaciated hand, and taking mine in his feeble grasp, he said, "You are very kind, Billy, to think of me on such a day as this." It was the Fourth of July. After a short pause he continued, "Billy, lam dying, when you are a few years older you will know what killed me, do not let it kill you. Be a good boy and you will become a good man. Good-bye." I cried like any child, and Mr. Cruft told me I had better say good-bye too and go, for Mr. Sturgis needed rest. Mr. Cruft remained with him till he died. If I remember rightly he was buried with Masonic honors.

Mr. John W. Osborn, editor, printer and proprietor of the West¬ ern Register and Terre Haute General Advertiser , was a man who, in my estimation, carried in his head all the knowledge of this world.

He was quiet in manner and kind in speech, never passing anyone on the street without a pleasant word. He was particularly opposed to horse racing (then a custom of the country universally indulged in), from a moral point of view. He was particularly sensitive in regard to razor-strops, but I never understood why. To me there were two points of interest in the Western Register ; one was that the news was always "two weeks later from Europe," and the other was Lewis Bedford's advertisement, with the picture of a bureau at the top and "tf" at the bottom. It was always in the paper. Mr. Osborn sold out his paper in 1832 to Thomas Dowling, a gentleman who then held different views in regard to horse racing. Mr. Osborn was a candidate for sheriff in 1833 or 1834, but was unsuccessful. He afterward published the Plow Boy at Putnamville or Greencastle.

Thomas Bogers was the ferryman at Modesitt's Ferry. He was one of those hard-working men who toil and sweat but never get along in the world. Besides tending ferry he would cut wood, drive oxen, feed hogs, kill hogs - do anything in short that an honest man could do, still he lived poor and died poor.

Mr. Bobert Brasher was a hatter by trade, and was one of those good, pious, quiet Christians, inside and out, that we read of but seldom see. He was a tall, spare man, and the veins in the backs of his hands were very large. He made excellent hats, with three trifling faults, viz. : uncouth in shape, too soft in body, and alto¬ gether too durable. I used to delight in the snap, snap, snapping, and the twang, twang, twanging of that long bow of his as he beat up his fur. His wife was a very kind-hearted woman, and prided herself on her hospitality. She was an excellent cook, and much given to novel reading. Her three youngest children had several names each. When she stood at the door and called her absent sons (and they were generally absent), it seemed as if she were call¬ ing a school. If, however, she happened to be calling her daught¬ ers one would hear half the female characters in the " Children of the Abbey" called.

Francis Cunningham kept the tavern at the northwest corner of Second and Main streets. "Uncle Frank," as he was universally called, was one of those genial-hearted men that all love; off handed, generous, liberal, prone to anger, but soon and so easily appeased that his anger often became ludicrous even to himself. He was much given to horse racing, as was the entire community in those days, always had very fast horses - just fast enough to be beaten. He was very persevering in that pursuit, but never successful. Whenever I went to the tavern he made me sit on two chairs and told me stories just the same as if I had been a man. Dear old " Uncle Frank," I think I can see him now. He was postmaster a number of years, and was an ardent democrat. Mrs. Cunningham was no less kind than her husband. I was a great favorite of hers when I was small, and always had a share of the good things when I went to her house. I have traveled far and wide, during the last thirty years, and I have seen but few women so good as I have deemed her to be. In 1853, when I was on a visit to my old home, she sent for me to come and see her. She was very glad to see me. For a few minutes she looked steadily at me with a kind of dreamy expression that told me her thoughts were far back, beyond me in the dim, unreturning past; the tear gathered in her eye, and she said, "I can see your mother in your face." Was it unmanly in me to allow the unbidden tear to moisten my eye? Surely the weather-beaten, storm-driven, tempest-tossed sailor may be allowed to have a heart.

Joseph Thayer was my first schoolmaster. He was a man of very steady habits, during vacation, that is, steady at the whisky bottle, but, in term time, he was never known to drink. We boys had to mind how we carried sail or we would get our head sheets flattened in on the wrong tack. "Yet he was kind, etc.," see Gold¬ smith for the rest of his character.

We once had a schoolmaster by the name of Rathbone. I re¬ member nothing of him except that the big boys locked him in one Christmas and burned brimstone beneath the floor. This was such great sport that Ralph Wilson, in the exuberance of his joy, sawed two of his fingers to the bone with a rusty penknife. As we advance in life we look fondly back to our school days, and I think we do rightly, for there was all our fun. We had one teacher who took the starch out of our sails, yet he never flogged us. He made a threat to flog a boy once, and sent a couple of young scapegraces out to cut him a switch for the purpose. They were gone nearly the whole after¬ noon, and returned just as school was about to be dismissed with half a dozen sycamore rods ten or twelve feet long and lugged them up to the teacher's desk. "School is dismissed," said Mr. Brown, and made a cut at the two young scamps with one of the rods. They were not long in getting outside the school room. The boy who was to be flogged escaped his punishment. How well I can remember my first school day. I was a small boy a little more than four years old, my sister and I loitering along the way to the school, picking flowers and tying them up in little nosegays. Mr. Thayer took me on his knee and called me "a little man." I knew I was only a little boy and thought him very wicked for telling stories. My last school day was when I was fourteen, and as I carried my books home, I felt a pre¬ monition that I had seen the last of a school room as a scholar. Since then the world has been my teacher.

How I love to linger over the past. In memory I live my young clays over again. The companions of my youth have nearly all passed away, some of them have lived as they ought not to have lived, and others have died as they ought not to have died, yet I only know them as they were in my boyhood days.

John Britton was for many years a magistrate, and was es¬ teemed a good one, he also kept the county library. He was a great teacher of mine. He taught me how to guide a horse by haul¬ ing on the starboard rein if I wanted to steer to the right, and haul¬ ing on the port if I wished to veer away to the left. He was rather plain in manner and speech. It was said that at a trial before him, a man by the name of Leatherman jumped up and exclaimed:

" So and so swears to a d - - d lie." Squire Britton then, in an excited voice said, "John Leatherman I fine you $5 for swearing, by G - d." Hewas very fond of fancy gardening and "Britton's garden" was a great place of resort thirty and thirty-five years ago.

James Farrington has too recently passed away for me to say anything interesting of him. He was for a number of years my " guardian," and a kinder-hearted man never lived. I received a letter from him in 1861, while I was in Washington City. He ex¬ pressed much regret at being absent when I was in Terre Haute and a heartfelt pleasure to learn that I had turned out so well in the world. He enclosed a letter to the Hon. Caleb S. Smith, Secretary of the Interior, requesting him to use his influence to assist me in any way.

John Campbell was for many years a merchant in Terre Haute, but he took to drinking and went from bad to worse till everything was gone. He was always very kind to me, but I do not think he was so kind to other boys. I was very fond of his company. We would take long rambles over the prairie, and through the woods, making Mr. George Hussey's farm our objective point, where we would remain three or four days. I remember well the last time I saw him. He bade me "good-bye" saying that I should never see him again, and wished me to remember that he had always thought a great deal of me. He pressed my hand as we parted, and I could see tears in his bloodshot eyes. I have never seen him since. The next day he was gone. I have always thought that he drowned him¬ self.

Cabe , but being of a studious turn took to the law, which he prac¬ tised successfully for many years. I never heard him make but one speech in court, and that was in a murder trial at Marshall, Ill. I took dinner with him that day and we rode home in the night through the almost unbroken forest.

Robert S. McCabe was a hatter and carried on the business on First street. He was a short thick-set man, "Jack-of-clubs" built, or as a sailor would describe him, a "regular-stump-top-gallant-mast." He was a driving sort of a man, Avith many irons in the fire, and had a store, but it was seldom open. His wife was small, but very good and kind-hearted and her name was Patty.

Of William C. Linton I can remember very little in the long ago. I know that he kept store on the east side of the public square. He was a small, spare yellow complexioned man. He would walk back and forth behind his counter, when not busy, very rapidly with his arms swinging or gesticulating as if in fierce debate with some un¬ seen person. He was a very nervous man, but not without courage. I saw him exhibit this quality once in a very remarkable manner. He held a paper in his hand which he proposed to read to the people on election day, 1828. Jehu Gosnell, a burly ruffian, stood near him, with his clenched fist, and told him if he dared to read a word he would knock him down, but Mr. Linton read the paper and Gosnell did nothing but threaten. I do not remember what it Avas about. All that I remember is that Mr. L. read this: "Jehu Gos¬ nell says that he will swear upon a stack of Bibles" - and here Gos¬ nell interrupted him with," A lie, read right or I'll knock you down," at the same time drawing back his fist to strike. Mr. Linton merely said to him, " We have a jail for such fellows as you." "What did you say?" "A stack of Bibles as high as this court-house," was the reply. No man ever did more for Terre Haute than William C. Linton in his day.

John H. Cruft, for many years a merchant in Terre Haute, looms up as conspicuously as any of the "old settlers." At my earliest remembrance, I think his store was at the northeast corner of Water and Ohio streets. Subsequently his store and residence was on the north side of the public square. I do not think there were any of the first settlers who possessed a more varied fund of information than Mr. Cruft. In conversation with him at tAvo dif¬ ferent periods (1853 and 1861) I Avas much surprised by the extent and accuracy of his knoAvledge in regard to the branch of nautical life I had chosen as my profession, and his correct ideas relative to the many out-of-the-Avay parts of the world I had, from time to time, visited in the course of my voyages; the manners and customs of the different peoples; the different kinds of government, laws, etc,; their geographical positions, productions, exports, imports and the like. He seemed to me like a man who had traveled the world over. The last time I saw him was in 1861. On a warm, clear September day we took a stroll along the river bank and through the town, establishing the old land-marks and talking over olden times. Mr. Cruft was always kind to me and gave me great encouragement and aid when I was a boy.

I remember nothing of the Colletts (Josephus and Stephen S.), except they had a store on the north side of the public square, and that Samuel Groenendyke was their clerk. I know he was a very kind-hearted young man.

William Marrs was a blacksmith, and there is no person I remember so far back in the past as I do him, and no house further, in the long gone-by, than his shop. When I was a little fellow, very little, for I wore petticoats, "Uncle Billy," as he was called, found me anchored in a snow-drift, opposite his shop, which stood on the corner of First and Poplar streets. He took me into his shop to warm me up, although he did not know whose boy I was, for he was a new comer. I remember nothing about his taking me out of the snow and carrying me into his house, but I do remember sitting on the forge, while he, with one hand stirred the fire with a poker, and worked the bellows with the other, the ruddy flame, the while, lighting up his swarthy features and the unsteady light causing his shadow to perform strange antics on the wall. "Uncle Billy" was a queer stick, very fond of telling stories, especially about his having seen Washington in Philadelphia. He said lie never saw a picture of Washington but that looked like him. " Uncle Billy" was the butcher of the town, at least he had the cattle killed and sold the beef. John Eveline, a Dutchman, was the professional butcher.

Demas Deming was the best friend I had in all the young part of my life, and I always think of him with a sense of the deepest gratitude. He was willing to do almost anything for me, and time and again he offered me assistance in. whatever I might undertake. He did many acts of kindness for me, and would have done more had I permitted, but my mind yearned to see the world, and my desires have, in part, been gratified, without being a burden to my friends. I have traveled far and wide, and have made many warm, true friends, in different parts of the globe, but none whom I value so highly as I did Judge Deming. If I had met only him as a friend, in all my wayward wanderings, I should still think this world worth living in.

To mention all the old settlers would take too much room. There are a number more who have as strong claims on my memory as many of those whom I have mentioned. There are not manv towns in the great Northwest that can boast of having had so large a number of respectable citizens in tlieir early existence as Terre Haute. Besides those I have mentioned, there were others who have left their imprint upon the place. Chauncey Bose, the Messrs. Warren, Early, Curtis, Elisha M. Huntingdon, Nat Huntingdon (who died when a young man), Elijah Tillotson, Lester Tillotson, James B. McCall, Gen. John Scott, Israel Harris, Samuel McQuillan, the Messrs. Eversol, Joseph Bradt, Enoch Dole, the Messrs. Bedford, James Biddle, Sr., Thomas Houghton, the Messrs. Boss, the Messrs. Collett and Barnetts, Dr. Shuler, Dr. Clark, Dr. Ball, Dr. Septer Pat¬ rick, the Messrs. Markle, B. M. Harrison, Matthew Stewart, Theodore C. Cone, Balpli Wilson, Daniel H. Johnson and others were among the earliest settlers, or at least came during the first decade. This is a goodly array of goodly names for a town of only 200 inhabitants, Avhich was fully as many people as there were there in 1826. In the country around many of the farmers were equally respectable: Mr. Coleman, Gen. Peter Allen, Capt. John Hamilton, Messrs Aspinwall, Bennett, Dickson, Elisha U. Brown, the Bectors, the Brocks and many more. Certainly here was salt enough to preserve the good name the place always bore.

The first two families I remember settling in Terre Haute were those of Judge Elijah Tillotson and Mr. Gosnell, but which came first I can not say. Mr. Tillotson occupied a little shop on the west side of First street, between Poplar and Ohio streets, which had a bow window, in which he hung his watches. The Gosnells, for a short time, lived in the old store on the southeast corner of Water and Poplar streets. In 1826 and 1827 a great many new families came in, but I can not shake off the idea that they can not be classed among the early settlers.

Although Terre Haute had such a large portion of respectability, it was often disturbed by street fighting. On election days and muster days, whisky was drunk freely, and then came the fighting. Election day seemed to me to be set apart for some of the older Haynes boys and the Hiners to bring up their old fued and fight over it. When they inaugurated the fighting it was a signal for half a dozen other battles, in which striking, kicking, biting, or anything was legitimate warfare. Everybody was urging on the strife and none were peacemakers. I do not think any fighting would have been allowed on election day, unless it was either in the interest of the Hayneses or Hiners. I do not know how many years this fued lasted, but this I do know, if they fought it out on that line it took more than one summer. On muster day the fighting was miscellaneous and desultory, and not so bitter, but more like fighting for the sake of making friends again, and drinking whisky over the make-up. Most of these fights would occur near the drummer, Davis, who would be rattling away at his drum, regard- less of the disturbance around him. This Davis was a very short¬ legged, long-bodied, red-faced, big-nosed little man, if you can imagine such a being. He had a loud voice, awfully profane, and while beating the drum he would throw one c*f his sticks in the air. toss off a glass of whisky, catch the stick in its descent and never lose a note, so some of the boys'said. Davis was in the war of 1812, and came very near being killed several times.

ihe first fire I remember of seeing in Terre Haute was the store of Stephen P. Cammack on the northwest corner of First and Wal¬ nut streets. The house belonged to Thomas Parsons, "own free¬ man,' as he loved to style himself, a carpenter and afterward a physician. Yet I can remember something of a fire on Cherry stieet, between Third and Fourth, a cooper shop owned by Mont¬ gomery & Francis. I merely remember that the shop was burned, I did not see the fire ; this must have been prior to the burning of Cammack' s store. The first person I remember being sent to the State prison, from Terre Haute, was a young man by the name of Felix Cunningham. He was lame in one knee and awfully profane. He was sent for two years and never returned again. This was in 1828. Stealing money was his crime. I have now used all rnv papei, and more than that, perhaps, of the patience of your readers. If I have in any way pleased them, or recalled to their minds any incidents of the long past, I am amply repaid. My forte is not writing, I am better with a marlin-spike, splicing the rope ; I am bet¬ ter acquainted Avitli Bowditch's Epitome of Navigation than any grammar, and have more logarithms in my head than words.

Ohl Document. Time is a great factor in adding value to docu¬ ments, or to what, at the time of the occurrence, were looked upon * as trivial things. It is the links of the long past to the present that makes really insignificant things interesting, and, often, very important. The cracked and yelloAved scrap of paper on which is written or printed anything of the long past is valuable. The liv¬ ing never realize that there can ever be any importance attached to anything concerning themselves. They can feel this strong im¬ pulse toward the old, but it is only what is old to them, and, seldom, refiect that the now will some day be the old and silent past to otheis. We see men come and go. In their brief time they con¬ tribute their share in the busy, noisy world, and then silently drop out, and the noise goes on unabated. The individual life to the great Avhole seems so utterly insignificant that it is nearly impossi¬ ble to connect any idea of now and the long dumb future which will come to the ever living.

A gentleman handed me an old soiled paper that he had picked up, and, noticing its appearance, put it in his pocket. It is dated Terre Haute, July 31, 1824. It was a circular address printed and published by Samuel Eversol, and is addressed to: " Fellow citi¬ zens. - The voters of Vigo county ." Beading the document, we find that Eversol had got into a dispute with Thomas H. Clarke, sheriff, about a bill of costs the latter had charged as an officer on an execu¬ tion. In the publication Mr. J ames Farrington is mentioned as having been called upon to settle some legal points in the controversy, and Eversol also mentions " the Tools with which I earn my subsist¬ ence," etc. (With his brother, they had a cooper shop.) There seems to have been only a matter of $9.15 between the parties, and yet Eversol felt that he was justified in paying the printer to inform the world of his wrongs.

It is a peep at what and how neighbors were having their little troubles here sixty-six years ago. This is all the value there is to it. Evidently Samuel Eversol little dreamed, when he wrote and published in hot indignation that, in long future years, the histo¬ rian was to be born who would read his circular and make a note of it.

Nathaniel J. Cunningham died in this city at the Terre Haute House, Thursday, July 7, 1881, aged seventy-one years. He was born in Warren County, Ohio, in the town of Waynesville, Decem¬ ber 7, in the year 1810. In 1820 he moved with his father to this city from Vincennes, having lived in the latter city but a short time before he moved here. Mr. Cunningham received his early education in this city, where afterward he became one of its most prominent citizens. In the year 1834 he moved to Lafayette, Ind., and married Eliza Brown. Afterward he moved back to this city. In the meantime he had become one of the prominent democratic politicians, not only of this county, but of the western part of Indiana. In 1840 he was nominated and elected by the democratic party to the office of county treasurer for a term of four years. At the closing of his term of office he was re-elected to the same office for four years more. At the close of liis second term he was renominated by his party for the same office, but was defeated after a very close contest by Henry Fairbanks, formerly mayor of this city. At the close of Mr. Fairbank's term of office, Mr. Cun¬ ningham was re-elected to that office and served another term of four years. At the close of his last term as county treasurer he engaged in the stock business and was quite successful, and accu¬ mulated a fortune. In the year 1857 he was elected to the office of treasurer of the State of Indiana and filled the office with great honor to himself and the party that elected him. In 1859 he was re-elected on the democratic ticket, and served two more years as treasurer of State, after which he retired from active political work and resumed his private business. About seven years before death Mr. Cunningham received a paralytic stroke in his right side and continued an invalid the remainder of life. Mr. Cunningham left a family of nine persons, most of whom were grown men and women. They are all known to the citizens of this city, being Charles Cunningham, Frank Cunningham, Mary Cunningham, Nathaniel Cunningham, Welton Cunningham, Mrs. Sarah Ringer, Mrs. Capt. Carliss, James Cunningham and Ella Cunningham. He left also his two sisters, Mrs. Margaret, of this city, and Mrs. Dr. Schuler, of Indianapolis. He has besides these, five other re¬ lations in the city, among whom are Mrs. Frank Crawford, Mrs. W. R. McKeen and Crawford Scott. Mr. Cunningham had always been one of Terre Haute's most prominent citizens from its earliest history, and has always been known everywhere as an honest and fair man. In politics he was a man of firm convictions, and was known throughout the entire State as such. As a politician he belonged to the Jacksonian school, and was always true to its prin¬ ciples. And whatever may be said of him, it can be truly said that a more honest man never lived in our city.

James Piety came to the county in 1818, and settled in Praireton township. He was one of the prominent men of the county and a leading and successful farmer. He died on his farm aboulr 1887. Two of his grandsons, James E. Piety (prosecuting attor¬ ney) and John O. Piety (brothers), are attorneys in Terre Haute.