"Hee is a rite gude creetur, and travels _all_ the ground
over most faithfully."
"The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill
together."--SHAKESPEARE.
It is a trite remark, that few studies are more pleasing to the
inquisitive mind than that of the _nature of man_. But, however this
may be, sure it is, few situations in life present greater facilities
for watching its developments than that of the ordinary _wayfaring_
traveller. Though I fully agree with Edmund Burke, that "the age of
chivalry has passed away," with all its rough virtues and its follies,
yet am I convinced that, even in this degenerate era of sophisters,
economists, and speculators, when a solitary individual, unconnected
with any great movements of the day, throws himself upon his horse,
and sallies fearlessly forth upon the arena of the world, whether in
_quest_ of adventure or not, he will be quite sure to meet, at least,
with some slight "inklings" thereof. A thousand exhibitions of human
character will fling themselves athwart his pathway, inconsiderable
indeed in themselves, yet which, as days of the year and seconds of
the day, go to make up the lineaments of man; and which, from the
observation of the pride, and pomp, and circumstance of wealth and
equipage, would of necessity be veiled. Under the eye of the solitary
{63} wanderer, going forth upon a pilgrimage of observation among the
ranks of men--who is met but for once, and whose opinion, favourable
or otherwise, can be supposed to exert but trifling influence--there
is not that necessity for enveloping those petty weaknesses of our
nature in the mantle of selfishness which would, under more imposing
circumstances, exist. To the mind of delicate sensibility, unschooled
in the ways of man, such exhibitions of human heartlessness might,
perchance, be anything but _interesting_; but to one who, elevated by
independence of character above the ordinary contingencies of
situation and circumstance, can smile at the frailties of his race,
even when exhibited at his own expense, they can but afford a fund of
interest and instruction. The youthful student, when with fresh,
unblunted feeling he for the first time enters the dissecting-room of
medical science, turns with sickened, revolting sensibilities from the
mutilated form stretched out upon the board before him, while the
learned professor, with untrembling nerve, lays bare its secrecies
with the crimsoned knife of science. Just so is it with the
exhibitions of human nature; yet who will say that dissection of the
moral character of man is not as indispensable to an intimate
acquaintance with its phenomena, as that of his physical organization
for a similar purpose.
But, then, there are the brighter features of humanity, which
sometimes hang across the wanderer's pathway like the beautiful tints
of a summer evening bow; and which, as they are oftenest met reposing
beneath the cool, sequestered shades of {64} retirement, where the
roar and tumult of a busy world are as the heavy swing of the distant
wave, so there, oftener than elsewhere, they serve to cheer the
pilgrim traveller's heart. Ah! it is very sweet, from the dull
Rembrandt shades of which human character presents but too much, to
turn away and dwell upon these green, beautiful spots in the wastes of
humanity; these _oases_ in a desert of barrenness; to hope that man,
though indeed a depraved, unholy being, is not that _thing_ of utter
detestation which a troubled bosom had sometimes forced us to believe.
At such moments, worth years of coldness and distrust, how
inexpressibly grateful is it to feel the young tendrils of the heart
springing forth to meet the proffered affection; curling around our
race, and binding it closer and closer to ourselves. But your pardon,
reader: my wayward pen has betrayed me into an episode upon poor human
nature most unwittingly, I do assure thee. I was only endeavouring to
present a few ideas circumstances had casually suggested, which I was
sure would commend themselves to every thinking mind, and which some
incidents of my wayfaring may serve to illustrate, when lo! forth
comes an essay on human nature. It reminds one of Sir Hudibras, who
_told the clock by algebra_, or of Dr. Young's satirised gentlewoman,
who _drank tea by stratagem_.
"How little do men realize the loveliness of this visible world!" is
an exclamation which has oftentimes involuntarily left my lips while
gazing upon the surpassing splendour of a prairie-sunrise. This is at
all times a glorious hour, but to a lonely traveller {65} on these
beautiful plains of the departed Illini, it comes on with a charm
which words are powerless to express. We call our world a RUIN. Ah! it
_is_ one in all its moral and physical relations; but, like the elder
cities of the Nile, how vast, how magnificent in its desolation! The
astronomer, as he wanders with scientific eye along the sparkling
galaxy of a summer's night, tells us that among those clustering orbs,
far, far away in the clear realms of upper sky, he catches at times a
glimpse of _another_ world! a region of untold, unutterable
brightness! the high empyrean, veiled in mystery! And so is it with
our own humbler sphere; the glittering fragment of a world _we_ have
never known ofttimes glances before us, and then is gone for ever.
Before the dawn I had left the farmhouse where I had passed the night,
and was thridding the dark old forest on my route to Springfield. The
dusky twilight of morning had been slowly stealing over the landscape;
and, just as I emerged once more upon my winding prairie-path, the
flaming sunlight was streaming wide and far over the opposite heavens.
Along the whole line of eastern horizon reposed the purple dies of
morning, shooting rapidly upward into broad pyramidal shafts to the
zenith, till at last the dazzling orb came rushing above the plain,
bathing the scene in an effulgence of light. The day which succeeded
was a fine one, and I journeyed leisurely onward, admiring the mellow
glories of woodland and prairie, until near noon, when a flashing
cupola above the trees reminded me I was approaching {66}
Springfield.[194] Owing to its unfavourable situation and the fewness
of its public structures, this town, though one of the most important
in the state, presents not that imposing aspect to the stranger's eye
which some more inconsiderable villages can boast. Its location is the
border of an extensive prairie, adorned with excellent farms, and
stretching away on every side to the blue line of distant forest. This
town, like Jacksonville, was laid out ten or twelve years since, but
for a long while contained only a few scattered log cabins: all its
present wealth or importance dates from the last six years. Though
inferior in many respects to its neighbour and rival, yet such is its
location by nature that it can hardly fail of becoming a place of
extensive business and crowded population; while its geographically
central situation seems to designate it as the capital of the state.
An elegant state-house is now erecting, and the seat of government is
to be located here in 1840. The public square, a green, pleasant lawn,
enclosed by a railing, contains the courthouse and a market, both fine
structures of brick: the sides are lined with handsome edifices. Most
of the buildings are small, however, and the humble log cabin not
unfrequently meets the eye. Among the public structures are a jail,
and several houses of worship. Society is said to be excellent, and
the place can boast much literary taste. The plan of Internal
Improvement projected for the state, when carried out, cannot fail to
render Springfield an important place.
It was a cool, beautiful evening when I left Springfield and held my
way over the prairie, rolling its {67} waving verdure on either side
of my path. Long after the village had sunk in the horizon, the bright
cupola continued to flame in the oblique rays of the setting sun. I
passed many extensive farms on my route, and in a few hours had
entered the forest and forded Sangamon _River_--so styled out of pure
courtesy, I presume, for at the spot I crossed it seemed little more
than a respectable creek, with waters clear as crystal, flowing over
clean white sand.[195] At periods of higher stages, however, this
stream has been navigated nearly to the confluence of its forks, a
distance of some hundred miles; and in the spring of 1832 a boat of
some size arrived within five miles of Springfield. An inconsiderable
expense in removing logs and overhanging trees, it is said, would
render this river navigable for keelboats half the year. The
advantages of such a communication, through one of the richest
agricultural regions on the globe, can hardly be estimated. The
Sangamon bottom has a soil of amazing fertility, and rears from its
deep, black mould a forest of enormous sycamores; huge, overgrown,
unshapely masses, their venerable limbs streaming with moss. When the
traveller enters the depths of these dark old woods, a cold chill runs
over his frame, and he feels as if he were entering the sepulchre. A
cheerless twilight reigns for ever through them: the atmosphere he
inhales has an earthly smell, and is filled with floating greenish
exhalations; the moist, black mould beneath his horse's hoofs, piled
with vegetable decay for many feet, and upon whose festering bosom the
cheering light of day has not smiled for {68} centuries, is rank and
yielding: the enormous shafts leaning in all attitudes, their naked
old roots enveloped in a green moss of velvet luxuriance, tower a
hundred feet above his head, and shut out the heavens from his view:
the huge wild-vine leaps forth at their foot and clasps them in its
deadly embrace; or the tender ivy and pensile woodbine cluster around
the aged giants, and strive to veil with their mantling tapestry the
ravages of time. There is much cathedral pomp, much of Gothic
magnificence about all this; and one can hardly fling off from his
mind the awe and solemnity which gathers over it amid the chill,
silent, and mysterious solitude of the scene.
Emerging from the river-bottom, my pathway lay along a tract of
elevated land, among beautiful forest-glades of stately oaks, through
whose long dim aisles the yellow beams of summer sunset were now
richly streaming. Once more upon the broad prairie, and the fragment
of an iris was glittering in the eastern heavens: turning back, my eye
caught a view of that singular but splendid phenomenon, seldom
witnessed--a heavy, distant rain-shower between the spectator and the
departing sun.
Nightfall found me at the residence of Mr. D., an intelligent,
gentlemanly farmer, with whom I passed an agreeable evening. I was not
long in discovering that my host was a candidate for civic honours;
and that he, with his friend Mr. L., whose speech I had subsequently
the pleasure of perusing, had just returned from Mechanicsburg,[196] a
small village in the vicinity, where they had been exerting themselves
upon the stump to win the _aura popularis_ for the coming election.
"_Sic itur ad astra!_"
{69} Before sunrise I had crossed the threshold of my hospitable
entertainer; and having wound my solitary way, partially by twilight,
over a prairie fifteen miles in extent,
"Began to feel, as well I might,
The keen demands of appetite."
Reining up my tired steed at the door of a log cabin in the middle of
the plain, the nature and extent of my necessities were soon made
known to an aged matron, who had come forth on my approach.
"Some victuals you shall get, _stran-ger_; but you'll just take your
_creetur_ to the crib and _gin_ him his feed; _bekase_, d'ye see, the
old man is kind o' _drinkin_ to-day; yester' was 'lection, ye know."
From the depths of my sympathetic emotions was I moved for the poor
old body, who with most dolorous aspect had delivered herself of this
message; and I had proceeded forthwith, agreeable to instructions, to
satisfy the cravings of my patient animal, when who should appear but
my tipsified host, _in propria persona_, at the door. The little old
gentleman came tottering towards the spot where I stood, and, warmly
squeezing my hand, whispered to me, with a most irresistible
serio-comic air, "_that he was drunk_;" and "that he was four hours
last night getting home from _'lection_," as he called it. "Now,
stran-ger, you won't think hard on me," he continued, in his maudlin
manner: "I'm a poor, drunken old fellow! but old Jim wan't al'ays so;
old Jim wan't al'ays so!" he exclaimed, with bitterness, burying his
face in his toilworn hands, as, having now regained the house, he
seated himself with difficulty upon the {70} doorstep. "Once, my son,
old Jim could knock down, drag out, whip, lift, or throw any man in
all Sangamon, if he _was_ a _leetle_ fellow: but _now_--there's the
receipt of his disgrace--there," he exclaimed, with vehemence,
thrusting forth before my eyes two brawny, gladiator arms, in which
the volumed muscles were heaving and contracting with excitement;
ironed by labour, but shockingly mutilated. Expressing astonishment at
the spectacle, he assured me that these wounds had been torn in the
flesh by the teeth of infuriated antagonists in drunken quarrels,
though the relation seemed almost too horrible to be true.
Endeavouring to divert his mind from this disgusting topic, on which
it seemed disposed to linger with ferocious delight, I made some
inquiries relative to his farm--which was, indeed, a beautiful one,
under high culture--and respecting the habits of the prairie-wolf, a
large animal of the species having crossed my path in the prairie in
the gray light of dawn. Upon the latter inquiry the old man sat silent
a moment with his chin leaning on his hands. Looking up at length with
an arch expression, he said, "Stran-ger, I _haint_ no _larnin_; I
_can't_ read; but don't the Book say somewhere about old Jacob and the
ring-streaked cattle?" "Yes." "Well, and how old Jake's ring-streaked
and round-spotted _creeturs_, after a _leetle_, got the better of all
the stock, and overrun the _univarsal_ herd; don't the Book say so?"
"Something so." "Well, now for the wolves: they're all colours but
ring-streaked and round-spotted; and if the sucker-farmers don't look
to it, the prairie-wolves will get {71} the better of all the geese,
turkeys, and _hins_ in the barnyard, speckled or no!"
My breakfast was now on the table; a substantial fare of corn-bread,
butter, honey, fresh eggs, _fowl_, and _coffee_, which latter are as
invariably visitants at an Illinois table as is bacon at a Kentucky
one, and that is saying no little. The exhilarating herb tea is rarely
seen. An anecdote will illustrate this matter. A young man, journeying
in Illinois, stopped one evening at a log cabin with a violent
headache, and requested that never-failing antidote, _a cup of tea_.
There was none in the house; and, having despatched a boy to a distant
grocery to procure a pound, he threw himself upon the bed. In a few
hours a beverage was handed him, the first swallow of which nearly
excoriated his mouth and throat. In the agony of the moment he dashed
down the bowl, and rushed half blinded to the fireplace. Over the
blaze was suspended a huge iron kettle, half filled with an inky
fluid, seething, and boiling, and bubbling, like the witches' caldron
of unutterable things in Macbeth. The good old lady, in her anxiety to
give her sick guest a _strong_ dish of tea, having never seen the like
herself or drank thereof, and supposing it something of the nature of
soup, very innocently and ignorantly poured the whole pound into her
largest kettle, and set it a boiling. Poultry is the other standing
dish of Illinois; and the poor birds seem to realize that their
destiny is at hand whenever a traveller draws nigh, for they
invariably hide their heads beneath the nearest covert. Indeed, so
invariably are poultry and bacon visitants at an Illinois table, that
{72} the story _may_ be true, that the first inquiry made of the guest
by the village landlord is the following: "Well, stran-ger, what'll ye
take: wheat-bread and _chicken fixens_, or corn-bread and _common
doins_?" by the latter expressive and elegant soubriquet being
signified bacon.
Breakfast being over, my foot was once more in the stirrup. The old
man accompanied me to the gateway, and shaking my hand in a boisterous
agony of good-nature, pressed me to visit him again when he was _not
drunk_. I had proceeded but a few steps on my way when I heard his
voice calling after me, and turned my head: "Stran-ger! I say,
stran-ger! what do you reckon of sending this young Jack Stewart to
Congress?" "Oh, he'll answer." "Well, and that's what I'm a going to
vote; and there's a heap o' people always thinks like old Jim does;
and that's what made 'em get me groggy last night."
I could not but commiserate this old man as I pursued my journey,
reflecting on what had passed. He was evidently no common toper; for
some of his remarks evinced a keenness of observation, and a depth and
shrewdness of thought, which even the withering blight of drunkenness
had not completely deadened; and which, with other habits and other
circumstances, might have placed him far above the beck and nod of
every demagogue.
_Decatur, Ill._