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Remembering Crawford County: Pennsylvania's Last Frontier
Remembering Crawford County: Pennsylvania's Last Frontier
Remembering Crawford County: Pennsylvania's Last Frontier
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Remembering Crawford County: Pennsylvania's Last Frontier

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When George Washington ventured into northwestern Pennsylvania in 1753 to confront the French, he discovered an
untouched land of extensive, rich meadows Pennsylvania s last frontier. Thirty-five years later, the first group of settlers moved into the territory, where they encountered western tribes of Native Americans and vicious battles over land claims. As the wake of the Industrial Revolution swept away any vestiges of the
frontier, Crawford County became an island of capitalism at the edge of the wilderness. In Remembering Crawford County, historian Robert D. Ilisevich has collected the best of his historical essays to look at the happenings that helped advance a community and how they influenced national events.
LanguageEnglish
Release dateOct 20, 2008
ISBN9781625848871
Remembering Crawford County: Pennsylvania's Last Frontier
Author

Robert D. Ilisevich

Robert Ilisevich is a retired Professor of American History at Alliance College, and is an active archivist for the Crawford County Historical Society. He has published five local history books on Northwestern Pennsylvania, as well as numerous articles in journals, the Meadville Tribune, and the CCHS newsletter. A member of the Pennsylvania Historical Association, Ilisevich lectures on local history to civic groups and professional organizations.

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    Remembering Crawford County - Robert D. Ilisevich

    role.

    COUNTY’S LAST DUEL IN THE SUN

    Presumably, it was the last recorded duel in Crawford County, and undoubtedly it occurred in broad daylight. Duelists were notoriously bad shots. Even with plenty of light, they often missed each other. Sometimes, in their agitated states of mind, they would try and try again until one of them was hit.

    The county duelists were land agent Roger Alden and attorney Alexander Foster. We’re not sure why these leading citizens wanted to kill each other, but a woman may have been the reason. In 1804, they rendezvoused on the bank of French Creek just south of Meadville. Alden got shot in the leg, either above or below the knee. Sources can’t seem to agree.

    At least the combatants were smart enough to have surgeons for their seconds—Dr. Kennedy of Meadville for Alden and Dr. Wallace of Erie for Foster. Alden allegedly refused to admit defeat and instead wanted another crack at Foster, but the seconds ruled against it. He may have been lame afterward, but according to newspaperman J.C. Hays, He gained the lady in question.

    Dueling dates back to feudal times, perhaps as a development of chivalry. With its code and set procedure, it sprang from the idea of protecting one’s honor. For centuries, both the monarchy and the Church were inconsistent on the question of whether killing of this nature was ever justified. Cynics decried every effort to justify what was to them ordinary murder. As constitutional and judicial systems evolved, written law came to protect against defamatory statements designed to injure one’s reputation, but dueling continued.

    Roger Alden. Crawford County Historical Society.

    In time, this grizzly game of gunplay worked its way to America. If English gentlemen like William Pitt and Lord Byron could do it, why not the class-conscious Brahmins of Boston and Philadelphia? The most famous duel in this country occurred between political rivals Vice President Aaron Burr and Alexander Hamilton. Burr challenged Hamilton, who hesitated to accept at first, but then decided to go through with it. He had lost a son in a duel. One version of what happened had Hamilton firing deliberately over Burr’s head. The vice president, however, took careful aim and mortally wounded Hamilton.

    Closer to home, debonair Tarleton Bates of Pittsburgh, who had been maligned by Ephraim Pentland, a highly critical editor, refused to issue a challenge because Pentland was not a social equal (a curious condition of the sport). Instead, he gave the editor a horsewhipping on a city street. Pentland then sent, through his merchant friend, Thomas Stewart, a challenge to Bates, who explained in a newspaper article why he could not accept. Taking offense to something that Bates had written about him, Stewart challenged Bates, who this time accepted. Stewart may have been to Bates a scoundrel and lackey, but he was still socially acceptable for a challenge! In what became the Oakland section of the city, Stewart proved to be a better shot than Bates, who was killed.

    A good friend of Bates, Henry Baldwin (builder of the Baldwin-Reynolds House), also engaged in a Pittsburgh duel, at least according to an early historian. It nearly cost him his life, which was spared when the bullet hit a silver dollar in his vest pocket. True or not, it is an odd but interesting story that impressed Robert Ripley enough to publish it in his Believe It Or Not!

    By the time dueling reached the Mississippi Valley, it had been Americanized by the frontier. While it retained the idea of killing, the Western duel undid the niceties. The exchange of formal notes and the use of seconds had become passé. Along with spectators who loved the action, an undertaker, doctor or sheriff might witness the spectacle. Traditionally, the winner walked away, free from the law as long as the duel was not illegal. Foster and Stewart walked away. Burr temporarily fled authorities, but then returned to Washington to resume his official duties.

    Over the decades, storytellers have glamorized the violence of men killing men according to the Code of the West—protecting one’s honor, women and property. While lawmen like Wyatt Earp and Bat Masterson were cleansing cattle and mining towns of gun-happy rabble, expert gunslingers were gaining notoriety. Yet they lived in constant danger of being goaded into drawing by some upstart who wanted instant glory and the reputation of being the fastest gun west of the Pecos. Most challengers only landed on Boot Hill.

    The movies and television have made their share of frontier heroes. For years, TV’s Marshal Dillon of Gunsmoke killed scores of bad men, but always in an acceptable manner. Anything was acceptable because Dillon typified all the good qualities of the Westerner. At fifty paces he never missed, and his audiences applauded. A Clint Eastwood movie character, in contrast, could down three outlaws at once by shooting from the hip. Exaggerating the facts to make a real or fictional figure bigger than big is something movie and television directors love to do. It is no way to teach history, admittedly, but who cares? As long as good triumphs over evil, the audience is satisfied and the historian is

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