Even though Mill Hollow opened to the public in 1960, it has been mentioned in the local news for more than a hundred years. I'll be sharing some of the various clippings about Mill Hollow for the next few days.
First up is this article about the Brownhelm Inn, which once stood on a cliff overlooking the hollow. It appeared in the Lorain Journal back on December 27, 1930. I've transcribed it below; the original article is posted below it.
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Old Tavern, Relic of Gay Past, Defies Time’s Attack
Brownhelm Inn, Built in 1825, Stands on Brink of Mill Hollow, Amid Old Memories
By Ralph Neumeyer
ON the brink of Mill Hollow’s steepest cliff, time-worn, weather-beaten, sagging slightly, but still defiant in all of what is believed its white-oak sturdiness, is the shell of what is believed to be the oldest public house in Northern Ohio.
For 125 years – since the time when Thomas Jefferson was president and the map of the United States for most people did not extend past the Appalachian highlands – the inn has been there, a silent witness to the march of events.
And on the same farm, which has been in the hands of one family for generations, are the “last of their line,” Charles and Sarah Bacon, unmarried brother and sister, descendants of a pioneer who first came to the farm in the early part of the nineteenth century.
Keep Tavern Up
They still keep up the old tavern, replacing window lights which have been shattered by missiles of small boys, and taking care of the building.
Today the tavern, located just above the famous Mill Hollow hill, on the road to Brownhelm Center, leans slightly to one side, and the roof drops a little in the center, but still manages to maintain an appearance of sturdiness. “When they put up buildings in those days,” said Charles Bacon, “they were made to last.”
There were once three buildings each the size of the tavern, and stables large enough to hold 12 stage coaches. The old barn is still standing, tho it has been shortened, and covered with new siding. But the rough hewn white oak framework is “as good as new,” Bacon claims.
CARRY yourself back, in your mind’s eye, 75 or 100 years.
The old tavern, now silent and forbidding, then hummed with activity, and was the center of a busy community.
The windows, now long dark, glowed with lights. The sounds of gaiety and merry-making issued from within.
At Christmas time the hall was decked with holly and mistletoe, and dances were held there, with the elite of the then flourishing town of Brownhelm in attendance. Girls’ laughter mingled with the scraping of bows across fiddles and the shouts of the dance-caller.
NOW and then a stage coach stopped. That was an event. The tavern was on the direct stage line from New York thru Buffalo to the “west.” Coming in from the east, the route extended down thru Mill Hollow, up the other side, and on out across western Ohio and the open prairies of the west.
Conditions were dangerous, and roads were poor. At times the stages only “got thru” once a week. When they did arrive, the villagers gathered around excitedly to hear the news from the “east,” and the tales of adventure of the new arrivals.
Brownhelm in those days was a prosperous village. Across the road from the inn was a row of houses, now long since torn down.
In the hollow at one time were three mills, which gave the place the name of Mill Hollow. A grist mill, saw mill, and a potash mill were erected, deriving their power from the stream which wound thru the valley. All supported a number of families.
THEN along about the middle of the 19th century the railroads came, providing cheap, sure, and comfortable transportation.
The stage line struggled on for a number of years and then gave up.
Bacon tells how, in 1850, his half-brother, William Bacon, “drove thru” the last stage. It was a gaudy six-horse affair, the last of a historic line.
Later the three mills in the Hollow went out of business, and the Brownhelm quarries were abandoned. That practically ended the usefulness of the old tavern.
THE inn was on the Bacon farm. “For a time,” says Bacon, “we left it as it was. Then two of the three buildings were torn down.
“The other we left as it was, and we expect to keep it that way.”
The only sign of life in the place today is what was left by a family who used it as a residence for a few months.
But the rough white oak stairway, lacking modern finish, but straight and strong; the old fireplace, once in one of the bar-rooms of the tavern, and the strong framework of the building stand there as they did a century ago, as if defying the march of time.
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