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and falling dead, with others of the same character. It was in 1832. I was on the schooner America, and Mr. May asked me whether I would lay up or go on to Buffalo where the disease was then raging. I replied that I would probably have to face it one place or another, and that it might as well be Buffalo as here. We accordingly went down. We saw a great many hearses going to and fro, and I must confess that things did not look pleasant. When we came back we found a guard on the dock, as the people were determined that no ships with cholera on board should stop here. The wind was well in the northeast, and we came in at a good pace. The sentry, a man named Marshall, caught sight of us, and when he saw me he sung out “any sick?” I answered that we had none, and he said it was all right. I personally saw a number of cases. It came again in 1834. A place had been built on Whisky Island in which the sick were placed. When the Henry Clay came in here on her way back from carrying troops up to the Black Hawk war, she had a number of cases on board. There was great excitement and many declared she should not remain, some wishing to go down and burn her: I remember her captain came up town in disguise, and stopped for a time at the tavern kept by Mr. Abbey. I entered the place once and saw him, but before I spoke to him, he gave me a look that explained the situation and led me to hold my peace.

On one occasion water was wanted at the cholera hospital on Whisky Island, and no one could be got to take it there. My vessel was at the foot of Superior street. We took two casks to a spring near Superior street, filled them, and then rowed them down the river to the point of destination. Word came in from Doan's corners that Job Doan, the father of W. H. Doan, was down with it and needed help. A man named Thomas Coolihan and I agreed to go out and see him. We got a buggy and went to the Franklin house, where we waited a long time before a couple of doctors whum we expected came in. They then mounted another buggy and we drove out, the hour being quite late. We all four went in. The doctors looked at him, shook their heads, and going out returned to the city. He was in great agony. When we, the other two, went up to the bed he took our hands, and by his look showed that he was in great pain. Captain Stark and a man named Dave Little, stood over him, rubbing him

all the time. It was no use. We remained about an hour and then returned to the city. An hour after we left he died.

NARRATION.

BY JOHN DOANE.

Number six of the Annals of the Early Settlers' Association of Cuyahoga County contains an extended account from the pen of the venerable John Doane, covering his early life in Cuyahoga county, and giving many interesting pictures of pioneer times. The following is supplemental thereto, and touches upon some things not included in Mr. Doane's own account. He was born in 1798, and, consequently was eighty-eight years old when the subjoined remarks were recorded :

“Cleveland, as I first remember it," this in answer to a question, "contained only four houses. One was Lorenzo Carter's log dwelling on a small knoll a short distance below what is now Water street, on St. Clair. It was a common, old-fashioned log house. He subsequently built a house near the corner of Water and Superior streets. When it was well under way the men who were employed upon it went down to the old house for breakfast, I think, and while they were gone the structure in some way caught fire and burned to the ground. Then he went into the woods and hewed timber and put up another house, the outside of which was afterwards boarded over. It was in this that Omic, the Indian, was chained prior to his execution on the Public Square. He was a great curiosity, and I remember going in to see him with the rest. I was then about fourteen years of age, and as curious as are most youngsters of that age. As to the four houses I spoke of, in my first recollection of Cleveland, Carter's old log was one, Squire Spafford's, on the south side of Superior street, was the second, and I cannot name the others. It was then all woods on Superior street at the square, and that was also covered with forest.

“My father built the second house erected in Euclid township, a man named Burke having put up the first. When we came down here we were located within forty or fifty rods of a camp of Indians. They

never molested us, and I can remember seeing four or five of them at once around the fire at my father's. They made no objections to our occupancy of the land, although they did claim the ownership of that on the West Side of the river. They might have driven us all out at any time had they been disposed. We often heard of attacks that were to be made at certain times, and the women became alarmed, but they never came to anything. Most of the Indians lived across the river. My brother settled in Columbia township, in 1809, and in going to see him I have rode from the Cuyahoga river twelve miles westward before seeing a house, and that was in Berea. My father bought his land for about one dollar and thirty cents an acre of the Connecticut Land company. His first house was a log one, and his second, a frame, was built in 1815, in front of the old one some forty rods, and is still standing. Of course the first work of the pioneer was to get his farm cleared as rapidly as possible. The trees were chopped down and the brush burned off. There could be no ploughing among the stumps and roots, and so the surface of the land was merely scratched by a drag. It had to be a stout one with not many teeth, and those large ones. With the surface thus broken, the grain or corn would be put in and do much better than one would suppose. I have seen corn growing in the field while the logs were still there. No drag was used there, but we would “tuck” the corn—that is, make a hole in the ground with some sharp instrument, place the corn therein, and cover it up. We would hoe around it as we could, and keep the weeds cut down.

“I have no hunting stories to tell, as I never did a day's hunting in my life. The bears used to be plenty, and they made havoc among the hogs that were allowed to run in the woods to fatten, and occasionally they would even visit the pens near the house. Hogs and cattle were given an ear mark. That mark was recorded in the township book, and each man was thus enabled to claim his own. My father at one time had a flock of twenty-four sheep, and it was my duty as a boy to see that they were shut in their pen each night so the wolves would not get them. One night I forgot them, and in the morning twelve were found dead. Each was torn at the throat, where the wolves drank their blood, but were otherwise uninjured, except one that was torn in the flank.” (Mr. Doane, in the article above re

ferred to, gave his recollections of the War of 1812, but the following may be added): “In the panic that swept all through this section after Hull's surrender, when the approach of the Indians and British was falsely announced and everybody was in a panic, one man, named Hawley Tanner, was determined that the enemy should gain no benefit from his growing garden. He accordingly turned his cattle into it, and they made short work of it. When the alarm was seen to be without foundation, Mr. Tanner came back and saw his fine patch in a needless ruin. There were many other incidents of a like character. The first stage coaches commenced to go by about 1810, as nearly as I can remember. They were a great curiosity to me, as I had never seen four horses driven together, nor a carriage of any kind. The first that I knew anything about were owned by Seth Reed, of Erie. They could not make more than forty or fifty miles a day, and sometimes the roads were awful. Passengers had to often alight and pry the coach out of the mud. There was a hill three miles below here that was in an awful condition, and sometimes a yoke of oxen had to be sent to help four horses drag an empty coach up it. It is not much better

The road along here used to run some rods nearer the ridge, but it was moved down to the present place (the Euclid road) because of the springs that troubled the old highway. We were compelled to go or send to Cleveland for our mails, for a number of years. I remember the excitement consequent on the building of the canal, and when it was opened every one was expected to ride down to Boston and back. The first money I have recollection of was silver, and no one had too much of that. We were compelled to do our trading in coon skins, bear skins, and pearl ash, or black salts. The first school I attended was in Newburgh in 1805. I boarded with a man named Williams, who built the first grist mill in Newburg, the stones of which are now in possession of the Historical Society. I believe that a daughter of 'Squire Spafford was our teacher. There were

some twenty-five children attended, and there were not enough books in the whole community to give us each an outfit. Afterwards a school was started below us, but I never had much chance in it. It held only three months in the winter and three in the summer, but the boys were kept so busy hoeing corn and picking up brush that they did not get much of a chance at the sum

now.

warm.

mer term. The first religious meetings held in the township were in 1805 or 1806, in a log building with a large fireplace in one end. People came to service regardless of a little rain or cold. The congregation would run from twenty-five to rty. In 1816 a frame church was built. It at first had no method of heating. On cold days the women would go into the school house that stood near, where a great fire was roaring, fill their foot-stoves with coals, take them into the church, and keep as warm as they could during the services. Rev. Thomas Barr, father of the late Judge Barr, was our first settled pastor. He came in 1811 and remained until 1820, when he went to Wooster. He preached the straight Calvanistic doctrine, and some of it he gave to us quite blue and

He was a strong temperance man. In those days whisky was kept in every house, and if one went to a neighbor's and was not offered a drink of whiskey he went away with a poor opinion of his host. It was brought out on all occasions. I raised in 1830 the first barn ever put up in Euclid without whisky. I gave the men cider, coffee, cheese and cake, and they seemed as well satisfied as though their drink had been still stronger.” [The barn still stands in good preservation near the Euclid road, a few rods west of Mr. Doan's present dwelling. The siding put on in 1830 was nearly all there, and no paint has ever been put upon it.]

Of the cholera scare, Mr. Doan said : "I remember that very well. My cousin Job Doan died of it. People were as badly frightened hereabout as they were elswhere. There was a rumor that an infected ship load were to land at Euclid creek, and a crowd of men got together to go down and prevent them. The story turned out to have no foundation."

Mr. Doane has lived a quiet and useful life, doing well whatever his hands found to do, and never endeavoring to make a stir in the world. As a child he was feeble, and as a man he was never very strong, but he worked steadily and did not give up working until two years ago. Since then he has done nothing. He has lived nearly all his life on the same farm, completing his eighty-seventh year upon it in November last. There is not a man or woman living in the county who was here when he came. He has seen many wonderful changes in his day, and had any one told him sixty years ago of what was to be in the course

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