Life in the Woods of Pennsylvania--Journey from Vermont to Pennsylvania
in 1826--Travelling on Canal-boats--Incidents by the Way--Home in the
Wilderness--Aggressions of Bears and Wolves.
_July 14_.
"Aunt Esther, in all the stories of your early days that you have told
us, you have not yet described your life in Pennsylvania," said Ida one
evening, when we were gathered about the piano. "Do tell us about it.
You have once or twice merely alluded to living in the woods, and my
curiosity is quite excited. Were they veritable forests? I do not
remember hearing papa say much about them."
Mamma smiled sadly.
"What makes you think of Pennsylvania to-night, my child?" she asked.
"I do not know, auntie," was the reply, "unless perhaps it was hearing
Cecilia sing 'My love is like the red, red rose.' You told me, I
remember, that grandmamma used often to sing that pretty little Scotch
ballad."
"Yes, it was one of mother's favorite songs," said mamma. "I can
remember perfectly the way she used to sing it. Not in your English
version, Cecilia, but with Burns' own Scotch words, and in her sweet,
low voice, with a ring of passion that one rarely hears in a
drawing-room at the present day. As Charles Reade says of one of his
heroines, 'She sung the music for the sake of the words, not the words
for the sake of the music--which is something very rare.'
"I am not surprised that you have never heard your papa say much of our
life in Pennsylvania, for you remember that he did not accompany us
there, but only made us occasional visits. Before we left Vermont
father had already apprenticed him, at his earnest desire, to the
publishers of the _North American Spectator_, at Poultney, and brother
Barnes (who is fifteen months his junior) then took his place in the
household. I think that your papa had been some time in the
_Spectator_ office before our departure for the woods, in September."
"Yes," said Marguerite, who always remembers dates; "he was apprenticed
the April before you left, and came over to Westhaven to bid you all
good-by. I remember what he says of the parting in his
'Recollections:' [1]
"'It was a sad parting. We had seen hard times together, and were very
fondly attached to each other. I was urged by some of my kindred to
give up Poultney (where there were some things in the office not
exactly to my mind), and accompany them to their new home, whence, they
urged, I could easily find in its vicinity another and better chance to
learn my chosen trade. I was strongly tempted to comply, but it would
have been bad faith to do so; and I turned my face once more towards
Poultney, with dry eyes but a heavy heart. A word from my mother, at
the critical moment, might have overcome my resolution. But she did
not speak it, and I went my way, leaving the family soon to travel much
farther and in an opposite direction. After the parting was over, and
I well on my way, I was strongly tempted to return; and my walk back to
Poultney (twelve miles) was one of the slowest and saddest of my life.'
"Do commence at the beginning, mamma," Marguerite continued, "and tell
us all about the journey to Pennsylvania, and how your new home looked
when you arrived. How large was the family then? Aunt Margaret was
born in Vermont, was she not?"
"Yes, and a very pretty little creature she was," said mamma, with a
sister's pride in the youngest of the family. "She was extremely small
for her age--indeed, she weighed only three pounds and a half at her
birth, and I recollect hearing some one say that the nurse put her into
the family coffee-pot and shut down the lid."
"The coffee-pot!" we all exclaimed, in chorus. "Pray how large was it?
Somewhat over the ordinary size, I trust."
Mamma laughed. "Yes, it was larger than coffee-pots of the present
day," she said; "an old-fashioned tin coffee-pot, broad at the bottom
and gradually narrowing towards the top. But still it was
extraordinary that a baby could be put in it, and the lid shut down."
"What induced grandpapa to select Pennsylvania for a residence, Aunt
Esther?" inquired Ida. "Was land cheaper there than elsewhere?"
"You have answered your question yourself, dear," was mamma's reply.
"Land was very cheap there, and through our careful economy in Vermont,
father had saved enough money to buy about two hundred acres, to which
he subsequently added, from time to time, so that the old Greeley
homestead now consists of between three and four hundred acres. Then
two of father's brothers, Uncle Benjamin and Uncle Leonard, had settled
in Wayne township three or four years previous, and, to use your papa's
words, had 'made holes in the tall, dense forest that covered nearly
all that region for twenty to fifty miles in every direction.' Father
went to Pennsylvania in advance of us, bought his land, and then
returned to fetch us to our new home.
"I remember seeing mother weep bitterly when she left Vermont; but, as
ever through her brave life, she made no complaint. As for myself, I
remember no regrets, save at parting with dear brother; for I was too
young to feel other than childish exultation at the prospect of making
a long journey; and that journey from Vermont to our new home upon the
'State line,' between New York and Pennsylvania, I must here remark,
occupied a month. Locomotion, you see, was not so rapid in the year
1826 as it is now."
"I should think not!" exclaimed Gabrielle. "Pray, auntie, in what way
did you travel to advance at such a snail's pace? I should think you
could almost have walked the distance in that length of time."
"You will be amused when I tell you the length of the first day's
journey," replied mamma. "Father hired a large wagon, and stowed away
our trunks, furniture, and all of his family in it, and we went as far
as Whitehall, a distance of about nine miles. Here we stopped over
night, and the next day took the boat for Troy, where we again broke
the journey after travelling, I believe, two days. At that time there
were no regular ferry-boats to cross the river from East to West Troy,
and passengers were taken over in row-boats. I remember that the
boatmen stood by the river-side and called all day and night:
"'Over, over, over, going o-o-o-o-ver!' to attract custom.
"Now came the most delightful part of the journey--going from Troy to
Buffalo upon the canal-boat. There were two different kinds of boats
that went between those cities; the packet-boats, carrying the mails
and passengers but no freight, and the line-boats, which took both
freight and passengers, and were consequently cheaper. These were used
by people like ourselves, who were moving from one part of the country
to the other, with furniture, who wished to economize, and to whom time
was no object; for the packet-boats travelled twice or thrice as
rapidly as the line-boats.
"I think I never enjoyed myself so thoroughly when a child, as at that
time. My sisters and I were much petted by the captain and the
passengers; and the excitement of being on the water, and the constant
change of scene, kept up our spirits to the highest pitch. Margaret,
who was then four years old, was, I remember, an especial favorite on
the boat; for she was extremely pretty, with her fragile, doll-like
figure, her clear complexion, bright blue eyes, and reddish gold curls.
She inherited the family talent for spelling, and was very fond of
displaying her accomplishments in that line; for sister Margaret was a
very self-possessed little creature, and was afraid of no one--not even
of father himself. I recollect that when the boat stopped at any small
town to take on passengers, Margaret's bright eyes would if possible
discover a shop with the sign 'Grocery;' and then, going up to some one
of her new friends, would gravely spell 'G-r-o, gro, c-e, ce, groce,
r-y, ry, grocery;' followed usually by an intimation that a reward of
merit would be acceptable. She was so extremely small for her age,
that her achievement of spelling a three-syllable word was looked upon
as something marvellous by the passengers, and some one would
immediately take her ashore, and buy her some candy or fruit from the
grocery.
"Another incident that impressed itself strongly upon me during this
journey, was eating a peach for the first time. I had never seen a
peach in either New Hampshire or Vermont.
"But, during those long September days that we children spent running
over the boat, and indulging in all sorts of wild mischief, poor mother
had by no means an easy life. It was impossible for her to keep us
together and under her eyes; and what with the fear that we might fall
overboard, or meet with some accident from the bridges, I know that she
only looked forward to the time when the journey should be over, and we
safe on land again."
"The bridges, mamma!" said Marguerite, "to what danger were you exposed
from them?"
"The bridges crossing the canal," explained mamma, "were so extremely
low, that no one upon the boat could stand upright; often the boat
could barely glide under them without grazing the rails of the deck.
The captain used to keep on the lookout, and as we approached one,
would call, 'Bridge ahead.' Then the women and children would rush
down the staircase to the little cabin, and the gentlemen would usually
throw themselves at full length upon the dock until the bridge was
passed. That was always a moment of terrible anxiety for poor mother
if we were out of sight; for accidents and even loss of life had been
known to occur; indeed, on father's previous journey, he witnessed an
accident of a most terrible character. A woman, who was going only a
short distance in the boat, was very much afraid that she would be
taken past the town where she wished to stop, and paid no attention to
the warning to go below as they approached a bridge. The captain,
seeing the danger she was in, seized her by the arm, and thrust her
downstairs. She rushed up, and he again pulled her down. Confident
that she was about to be taken past her destination, the poor woman for
the third time broke away from him, and reached the deck just in time
to be struck by the bridge and instantly killed."
"Frightful!" said Marguerite with a shudder. "Tell us about the rest
of your journey, mamma. How did you travel after you left Buffalo?
Upon Lake Erie, I suppose?"
"No, indeed!" replied mamma, "although there were at that time
steamboats upon the lake; but father had had so terrible an experience
upon his previous journey, that he would not subject his family to the
caprices of Lake Erie. He had started from Buffalo upon a schooner,
but a dreadful storm arose, in which the boat struggled for three days
and was then obliged to put back to Buffalo a complete wreck. Father
declared at that time that he would never expose his family to the
hair-breadth escape from death that he had undergone; consequently, he
hired a strong wagon at Buffalo, and we travelled along what was called
the 'Lake Shore Road' to the town of North East, whence we took a
southern course to Wattsburgh.
"When at Wattsburgh, we were only eight miles distant from our
destination, but as we were now to leave the main road and plunge into
the deep forest, father exchanged his horses and wagon for a heavy
wooden sled and a yoke of oxen. Then we commenced to realize what our
new life was to be. There was no road through the woods, and the only
indication of the route was blazed or marked trees. Huge logs, so high
that the oxen could barely step over them, lay occasionally across our
path, and from time to time we had to stop while father and brother
Barnes hewed down the trees that obstructed the way. We children
thought this pioneer episode even preferable to our experience upon the
boat, but I remember that dear mother sighed often and deeply.
"At the close of the second day, the eight miles were accomplished, and
we reached father's property. He had bought with the land a rough
little log-house, or rather hut, as it had but one room, and in this we
were to live until he could build a better one. At the sight of her
dreary home, mother's heart fairly sunk, and I shall never forget her
tears."
Mamma paused for a moment; then steadying her voice, said:
"I am prouder than ever of my mother when I think how nobly she bore
the separation from her darling son, and her exile from her family,
and, you may almost say, from civilization. She could not, at first,
it is true, restrain her tears, but from that moment never a murmur of
complaint crossed her brave lips, and we children never dreamed, till
years later, how keenly she felt the sacrifice that she had been
compelled to make."
"But were you really so far out of the world, Aunt Esther?" inquired
Ida. "Did you have no neighbors at all? We had two uncles there, I
thought. Surely they must have been some society for grandmamma?"
"I do not believe," mamma replied, "that any other spot upon the globe,
not even Robinson Crusoe's island, could now seem so desolate and shut
off from all communication as our home in the woods did then. You must
remember that there were no railways in 1826, which fact made us still
more remote from the rest of the world. Now, with the railways
spreading in every direction over our vast Republic, you can scarcely
imagine what it was to live with an almost impenetrable forest between
yourself and your nearest neighbor. Uncle Benjamin occupied what was
called the 'next lot,' and had the ground been cleared, the distance
from us would still have been three-quarters of a mile; but when the
distance was increased three-fold by the darkness of the forest, and
there was in addition every probability of meeting a bear or two on the
way, you can imagine that being neighborly was scarcely practicable."
"Bears!" exclaimed Gabrielle, her eyes sparkling with excitement; "how
lovely! Darling auntie, do tell us more about them. It must have been
like one of Captain Mayne Reid's stories, to live in that delightful
Pennsylvania!"
"Our life there," said mamma, "certainly equalled the wildest tales of
adventures experienced by early settlers that I have ever read, and we
children found it quite as 'lovely' as you imagine it to have been. We
never felt isolated, although our entire 'clearing' consisted of only
four acres, upon which our house stood, and any further prospect was
shut out by the woods. To us it was delightful to realize the
adventures of Robinson Crusoe, which, as I told you, brother had read
to us in Vermont, merely changing tropical animals and scenery for that
of the North. I do not remember ever being afraid, but the wolves, who
nightly howled in gangs about our slightly built house, the bears who
ate up the corn in our little patch, the porcupines who gnawed the
hoops off our pork barrels, and the frightful, screaming owls, struck
terror to poor mother's heart.
"I recollect that one night father went out to drive away a porcupine
whose teeth and claws he heard busily at work upon a barrel hoop, but
the creature rushed into the house through the open door, and ran
across the trundle bed where sister Arminda and I slept. I need not
tell you how dangerous it would have been had one of his quills
penetrated our flesh."
"Do go on, auntie; this is delightful," said Gabrielle.
"When father had paid for his land," said mamma, "and bought a yoke of
oxen and a cow--two essential things for a farmer--he had very little,
if any, money left. There was no danger, however, that we should
suffer from want, for the woods were so full of game that father would
take his gun in the morning and go out to shoot something for dinner
with the same confidence that he would have gone to a market to buy it.
Partridges and pigeons in the greatest abundance formed our daily fare,
while the deer used to walk into our corn-patch and almost offer
themselves as targets for father's or brother Barnes' gun. Venison, I
recollect, was so plentiful that a farmer, after shooting a deer, would
only trouble himself to fetch home the hind-quarters and hide--the
latter being marketable. In the spring there were cowslips and other
wood plants in abundance, which made a delicious substitute for
spinach. Tea was very scarce with us, and was kept for Sundays; but
beech nuts, burnt and ground, made a very palatable coffee, that formed
our daily beverage. Butter must have been an unmarketable article, for
I remember that during the first three years we spent there, it sold
for six cents a pound."
"Did you grow anything on the farm to sell, mamma?" I inquired. "I
suppose not, during the first years."
"'No," said mamma; "and if we had, there would have been no market for
it."
"Then what did you do for money, Aunt Esther?" said Ida. "Grandpapa
had very little, you say."
"I must not forget," said mamma, "that we had one marketable
production, and one that you would not easily guess.
"I wonder, Gabrielle, if your favorite chemistry goes back so far into
elementary principles, as to tell you from what black salts are made?
School-books seldom, I think, trouble themselves with the origin of
things, so I will tell you that after the great logs were burnt that
father had felled in clearing, the ashes were collected and leeched,
and the lye boiled down in immense cauldrons till it became granulated
like sugar. It then formed what was called 'black salts,' and these
salts are the basis of potash, soda, etc. The salts could always find
a ready market, and with them we paid our taxes, and bought what
necessaries we could not raise ourselves."
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