History of Woodstock Township, Lenawee County, Michigan Copyright © 2000 by Bryan Taylor. This copy contributed for use in the MIGenWeb Archives. MIGENWEB ARCHIVES NOTICE: These electronic pages may NOT be reproduced in any format for profit or presentation by any other organization or persons. Persons or organizations desiring to use this material, must obtain the written consent of the contributor, or the legal representative of the submitter, and contact the listed MIGenWeb archivist with proof of this consent. The submitter has given permission to the MIGenWeb Archives to store the file permanently for free access. This file is located at: http://files.usgwarchives.net/mi/lenawee/woodstock/hi story/w32301.txt Michigan Historical Society Records, Vol. 8 BY ORSAMUS LAMB, OF ADRIAN Assembled in this hall of legislation, surrounded by those whose forms and faces denote that in the time long ago they came upon the active scenes of life, we feel inspired by the memories of early life to contribute, in our feeble way, something to the sum total of the history of this fair peninsula. And while that part of the State of Michigan of which I shall more particularly speak is, in a measure, unknown to fame and general historic incident, yet Woodstock, with its verdant hillsides, fertile plains and sparkling waters, seems to me like heaven's bright gift to man. While the forests have disappeared under the sturdy blows of the pioneer's ax, and by his toil have been converted into smiling fields of plenty, dotted all over with monuments of industrial skill, yet the face of the old township is the same as when my boyish feet first pressed its virgin soil over fifty years ago. On a bright November afternoon in 1834, mellowed by softness of an Indian summer sun, its beautiful openings, crystal waters and far-reaching landscapes gladdened my sight, and although weary and travel-worn. I felt like leaping for joy. Woodstock (town 5 south, range 1 east) lies nearly upon the elevation of lands in the lower peninsula, where its waters divide and find their respective ways to Lake Erie on the east and Lake Michigan on the west, and its western line is the principal meridian for Michigan.[p.195] The Chicago turnpike was almost the only road laid out at the time spoken of. It was constructed nearly upon the route of the old Indian trail, from Detroit to Chicago, by the United States government, and for thirty years after that time, traces could be found of the trail, worn by the feet of the dusky denizens of the west and their faithful ponies. And for a long time after the road was built, the Indians from the west made their annual pilgrimages over it on their way to Malden, to receive from the English government their yearly dues of money, blankets, etc.; and these yearly pilgrimages were conducted as fancy might picture a pilgrimage to Mecca. There was a tribe of them which remained in the vicinity for years, dividing their time between Hillsdale and Lenawee counties. They were of the Potawatomie tribe. Their chief was Bawbese, one of the finest specimens of the red man it has ever been my fortune to look upon. And, unlike the average Indian, his tall form was well rounded out, and with his erect and manly bearing, he appeared in every way worthy of the position which he filled; but, like all his tribe, he could not forbear, when an opportunity offered, to indulge in the white man's curse--intoxication. But when drunken he would never lose sight of his lordly position, and would bear himself as faultlessly as any of the barons of feudal times. But with the civilization of the white man, these ancient lords of the forest have gone away to the far west, and not one remains to tell the citizen of today where they used to pursue the wild animals of the forest, or mark where the primitive wigwam sheltered him and his dusky family from the rigors of winter, or point to the little mounds here and there which contain the ashes of their cherished dead. And now, as the frosts of over sixty winters have whitened my hair, and, instead of the lithe boy of fifteen summers I find age creeping on apace, but would hardly know it were it not that the term old gentlemen is so frequently made use of by others that 1 am reminded that I must submit and am obliged to accept the situation. And these scenes furnish a sort of dreamy satisfaction, and in memory are again lived over in fancy. The old Chicago road, almost the only landmark of civilization, again appears in its sinnous course from the northeast to southwest, and the enterprising emigrant, fitted out with the necessary means of travel, pursuing his devious way amidst forest scenery, with abundant herbage, bedecked with floral beauty unknown to these modern days, is seen in all the perfection of pioneer life. Again we live over those early days, interspersed with mingled recollections of pleasure and pain. We listen to the ring of the woodman's ax, the merry shout of honest mirth, the sincere fraternal greeting, the lofty hymns of praise ascending from devout and honest[p.196] hearts to Him who hears alike the prayer of the humblest and the most exalted of his subjects. And again we are parched with the internal fires of fever, dream of the cooling draught from the crystal fount of our boyhood's home, hear the death rattle of expiring kindred, stand again beside the open grave of those who were busy actors in the great drama of pioneer life. and shudder as we hear the rattling sand upon the coffin. and hear reiterated again and again "Dust to dust." "Earth to earth," "Ashes to ashes." And as we recount the names of those honest pioneers we find that. Excepting here and there one. Nothing remains as reminders of their presence and honest worth but the monuments they have erected by honest efforts, and the little green mounds which ever and anon we meet, beneath which repose the ashes of those whose memory will ever remain green with us. until we, too, are summoned hence to be forgotten of men. The first house I looked upon in Woodstock was the near log cabin of Benjamin Lair, who preceded my father in the settlement of Woodstock about three or four months. Benjamin was a man of sterling worth, industrious and honest. He settled on a farm of two hundred acres on sections one and twelve. his residence being on section twelve. on the north side of the Chicago road; and there he hewed our for himself a fine home and after about thirty years of pioneer life he laid aside the toils and cares he entered upon in May, 1834, and entered upon the rest of the christian's hope: and in a few years his faithful, loving, christian wife followed him. and their ashes repose side by side near one of the sparkling little lakes which render Woodstock so picturesque and beautiful. They left behind four children. Edwin, the eldest, now a gray haired man of nearly seventy, occupies a part of the old farm. Jacob, now, if living, is in Missouri. Catherine, long since dead, and Lucy a resident of Jackson county. The next house 1 came to in traveling west of the Chicago road was the cabin of Thomas McCourtie, on section eleven: he lived there a few years and finally settled on the same road, a little further west, on section nine. He was a man of untiring industry, small in stature, but made up in energy what he lacked in ponderosity, and was successful in life; died at an advanced age, as did his worthy wife. They reared a large family: Michael D., who resides in Somerset, Hillsdale county; Andrew J., who lives in Woodstock; Amanda, who died on the old homestead. on section nine: Catherine, who died young; Rachel, now a widow, on section seven; Edith. who resides in Cambridge. The next house west on that thoroughfare was the residence of Jesse Osborn, on the west line of section nine. It was a place of prominence in my life afterwards, for on the 13th day of March, 1839. I was duly installed [p.197] in the office of son-in-law to the proprietor; the office I have ever since held, and one which I do not intend to resign. His house became famous as the Silver Creek Hotel,--the half-way house between Tecumseh and Jonesville. and where General Brower's line of stages held one of its stations. It was on the banks of Silver creek, the outlet of Silver lake, whose crystal waters bear testimony to the fitness of the name. He was a true pioneer. one of those apt men who could adapt himself to the exigencies of the times,--endure. without a murmur, the wants and privations such as the pioneer must always endure, and adapt himself to the luxury and refinements of society, however it may he advanced. He remained on the Silver creek homestead until his estimable christian wife was laid to rest, over thirty-five years ago, where the shimmering brightness of the pellucid waters of Silver lake may be seen dancing in the sunlight, from the marble monument erected to her memory by loving hands. Soon after his wife died he removed to Kansas, where he went down like a shock of corn fully ripe and fit for his Master's use, honored and respected by all who knew him. He was the son of Abraham and Loretta Osborn, who were reared amidst the perils of Revolutionary times. They came from their old home near Ithaca, New York, at an advanced age, with their son, Samuel, and settled on section four, about the year 1836. Grandfather Ahraham was a soldier of the Revolution, and Grandmother Loretta was one of those, who escaped the massacre at Wyoming, She was then abouttwelve or fifteen years old, and at that tender age was made prisoner by the Indians. She saw her father murdered and scalped, and dared betray no emotion lest those red devils should visit upon herself the same fate. And, nerved to desperation, she, in order to save the life of her little six-year-old brother--Asel Finch, who afterwards lived at Tecumseh and was father-in-law to the late Judge Blanchard-- carried him on her back sixty miles through an unbroken forest, with the gory scalp of her father continually in view, dangling from his murderers and her captor's belt. She and her little brother were afterwards ransomed. And today the ashes of Abraham and Loretta lie side by side, on a little elevation on section four, as peacefully and as sweetly as if the thunders of British cannon had never awakened their slumber, or the midnight yell of the savage and the fire-fiend had never struck consternation to their hearts. Jesse left six children at his death, and three had preceded him to that silent shadow land whither we are all hastening. The eldest living son, Alvin C., now owns the farm, in Woodstock, where his father lived, and just across the away from the old house he has erected one--a commodious and modern one, where his many old, and even new,[p.198] acquaintances from various sections of the country avail themselves of his hospitality, and enjoy a pleasant recreation amidst the beautiful scenery the neighborhood affords. But he keeps the old house, or at least that portion of it which came to his hands, intact, and stored beneath its roof are many relics of a bygone age, left him by his father, "Uncle Jesse," as he was familiarly and respectfully called by his acquaintances, settled two new farms in Tompkins county, N. Y., one at Tecumseh, one in Woodstock and one in Kansas. He was one of the first settlers at Tecumseh, raised the first wheat in Lenawee county, from which was furnished the first cake at the first Fourth of July celebration ever held in Lenawee county, While at Tecumseh, he began to feel the need of an education for his children, and therefore removed to Detroit for a few years, that they might avail themselves of the superior privileges that city afforded. He always planted an orchard the first proper moment wherever he settled. And when age began to creep on, his friends would frequently say that he was too old to reasonably hope to secure any benefits thereby; but he would always reply to the effect that it was a duty he owed to those who should come after him, and while he might possibly not live to enjoy the fruits thereof, there would be plenty who would gladly accept of them, but that he believed he should be benefited by it himself, as he came of a long-lived race of men. He planted a very extensive orchard in Woodstock, of nearly all the known varieties of fruit, which, though now aged, stands as a monument to his skill and industry, and a source of pride to his descendants. The last one, in Kansas, now sheds, in springtime, the perfume of its blossoms over his last resting place, and its golden fruit in autumn, like jewels in a prince's diadem, contribute to the majesty of his untiring and honest industry, while the breezes from the undulating green of the prairies whisper a fitting requiem to his memory. At the almost western boundary of Woodstock is a farm of thrift, where, in 1834, was the residence of Cornelius Millspaw, which was the first residence in what is now Woodstock, situated on the old Chicago road as the Chicago road was the road of that day. It was a hotel--not such an hotel as we see in these days, oh, no! but far from it; and I fear if the modern traveler or wayfarer of to-day should be no better accommodated than were those who sought its humble and unpretentious accommodations, the hystander might nor form a very favorable opinion of the christian fortitude and forbearance of the traveling public. But the wayfarer of that day was content, although he was not hoisted to his couch of repose by the aid of an elevator, or indemnified against intrusion by locks and bars of modern improvement. He was content to ascend to the loft of the cabin by a rude[p.199] ladder, and felt as if fortune was propitious if he could be screened from the observation of the curious by the intervention of a friendly blanket, suspended from the bark-covered rafters by a couple of otherwise useless table forks. The father of the writer, Nahum Lamb, settled in 1834, on section ten, on the aforesaid turnpike, where he continued to reside for about thirty years, and then went to North Adams, Hillsdale county, where he, at the age of ninety years, peacefully sank to rest, full of years and honors. His father, of Charlton, Massachussetts, was a soldier of the Revolution, Who also lived to a great age. Nahum married for his first wife Miss Holmes of Wales, Erie county, New York; by her he had three children. She died when I was twelve years of age. In about three years he again married. The second wife was Miss Davis of Wales, aforesaid; she is now living at North Adams, Hillsdale county; by her he had four children, three of whom are now living, the eldest of whom is postmaster of that place. He was named for Millard Fillmore, who was a fast friend of my father's, both before and since Fillmore became president of the United States. My father's Whig proclivities no doubt served to strengthen that friendship. The brother of President Fillmore used to teach school in old Wales, Erie county, N. Y., and I can well remember of Millard visiting his brother's school, and mending my goose quill pen many a time, I all unconscious of the exalted position he was to occupy in the coming drama of life. I then only looked upon him as a model military man who made a fine appearance when mounted on his favorite horse at our general parades, which to me--small boy that I--was the height of human greatness, and he the chief central figure of the aggregated perfection. My father was the first supervisor of Woodstock. He was elected-when Woodstock and Cambridge were detached from Franklin and assumed their rightful corporate independence in 1835 or 1836. The canvass was a quiet one, and the ballots, big with after consequences, were deposited in a hat kindly loaned by one of the new citizens of the town for the occasion. There were no stump speeches; no brass bands; no money squandered among the voters to influence the result; no ballot-box stuffing; no persistent office seeker to button-hole the voter and tell of his claims upon him because he had done any amount of dirty political work for the partly; no scratching or slipping of tickets; no printers' bills to pay; and, when the result was declared, no direful threats of a contest before the courts to rob the lucky candidate of the satisfaction which his success warranted.[p.200] I have no data from which to write the result, but the most of the officers elected I can remember. Nahum Lamb, supervisor, residence on section ten; Thomas McCourtie, town clerk, section nine; David Turrell, one of the justices, section seven; Joseph Younglove, another justice, section thirty-six another six; Charles M. McKenzie, justice, section twenty-seven, at the head of Devil's lake, to which he gave the euphonious name of McKenzie's port,--near where Allen and Brazee are now building each a hotel and store and where a little steamer now plies between the M. & O. railroad to Allen's landing in Rollin; Isaac Smith, another justice, on section ten, since the father-in-law of our venerable president, F. A. Dewey; Wardel W. Sanford of section fifteen, William Babcock, of section seven, and Benjamin Lair, of section twelve, commissioners of highways. Nelson Turrell, of section seventeen, treasurer, and I think, Edwin Lair, of section twelve, one of the constables, The others I do not remember, neither can I remember who were school inspectors, but all the officers were elected without question as to politics. But I think they were very evenly divided between democrats and whigs, and the beauty of the thing was, there was no third party in the field to render the political result uncertain. I think Willard Joslin, of section ten, who came to Michigan in company With my father, was one of the assessors, and perhaps, Levi Harlow, of section twenty-three, another. My father and Mr. Joslin came by land with teams from Erie county, New York, and were on the road about seventeen days. We crossed the Maumee river by fording, at Perrysburg, and then we began to realize we were indeed in a new country. Nothing but reaches of marsh land, broken only by slight rises of scanty whortleberry barrens, upon which, here and there, was a dreary settler, who immediately paid for his rashness by chills and fever which rendered his stay quite certain, unless relieved by death, which not unfrequently happened. We got our teams mired in those treacherous marshes and were obliged to camp out one night in that then malarious and desolate region, with nothing to cat ourselves, and nothing for our teams but some poor marsh hay, a stack of which stood like a lone sentinel of the desert to greet us, and near by was a bit of board nailed to a tree, upon which appeared in chalk letters a caution to travelers to be careful of fire, lest their only means of food for teams, should be destroyed. We finally floundered through the marshes and got to Dundee, where plenty again greeted us, and then we took the LaPlaisance Bay Turnpike, which was newly built and not fully completed to Tecumseh. When we came in view of Tecumseh, its beautiful surroundings were a pleasant contrast to the Michigan desert we had crossed, but which has since, by untiring industry and skill, become a fine and thrifty country.[p.201] But lest your patience should be wholly exhausted, I must forbear further mention of the early settlers of Woodstock, feeling that I have not done justice to the matter by those I have mentioned, and still a greater injustice to others whose names do not in this article appear, who were the peers of any herein mentioned. But old Woodstock lies there, spread out just as it was, so far as the face of the country is concerned, when the first white man's voice awakened the echoes amongst her green hills or reverberated over her plains or the peaceful calm of her sparkling waters. Her majestic oaks have given place to beautiful fields of plenty; her green and floral decked landscapes are now dotted over with the homes of affluence and plenty. Where the scream of the loon and the howl of the wild beast or the yell of the savage were all that disturbed the calm repose of nature, now is heard the screech of the locomotive, the hum of busy life, the thundering of machinery, while the beauties of civilization and the evidences of educational advancement appear. And so, as I bid adieu to the old pioneers of 1885, who have battled successfully and long with privations and hardships in converting a wilderness to a land of plenty, a source of pride to her people, and an honor to the Union, I would say in the language of another: "So, dearest friends, in calling up the past, We find our early friendship of that sort That dwells in memory, for it was enshrined With unforgotten names now dead. Kind-hearted, faithful, full of zeal and love, In grave-yard now their abiding place. Beneath the green sprigs they now repose in peace, While we a little longer wait, Cheered by the recollection of their love. "And so in future years, should we be spared, May we recall this one more happy hour; This group of well-known faces; every hand Strong in the grip fraternal; every soul Softened and sanctified by fraternal love." 26[p.202]