Cincinnati and to promote its interests in many ways, deserves more
than a mere mention of his name. He was the son of Jared Mansfield,
Professor at West Point Military Academy and Surveyor General of the
Northwest Territory. He graduated at West Point in 1819, and was
appointed Lieutenant of Engineers, but, at the earnest solicitation of
his mother, resigned and turned his attention to legal pursuits. He
practiced law for a while in Cincinnati in partnership with Mr.
Mitchell, who afterwards became so famous as professor of astronomy.
But finally Mr. Mansfield devoted himself to literary and scientific
investigations, and published several books and essays of great value.
In 1845 he wrote "The Legal Rights of Women," and year after year some
biography or history from his fertile pen came to light, and was
welcomed and appreciated by the reading public. In 1836 he became
editor of the "Cincinnati Chronicle," afterwards of the "Chronicle and
Atlas," and in 1857 of the "Gazette." "As an editor and contributor he
was remarkable for his impartiality and fairness, and was one of the
most extensive newspaper writers in the country. He supported the Whig
party with great ability, and no one in his day did more for the
triumph of the Republican party. His memoirs, published by himself in
his seventy-eighth year, extending over the years from 1803 to 1843,
are of great public interest."
The Asiatic cholera visited the United States for the first time in
1832, and its ravages in Cincinnati were terrible. Business was in a
great measure suspended, schools were closed for a time, and the air
was full of "farewells to the dying and mournings for the dead," but
after a time the dreadful scourge passed away, leaving an indelible
impression on all, and the old order of things was resumed. In 1833 we
left our pleasant home in Cincinnati and went to Fort Winnebago, on
the Fox River, Wisconsin. This was just at the close of the Black Hawk
war, during which my father commanded at Fort Howard, Green Bay, and
had some pretty sharp experiences. On our way to our new station we
stopped at Fort Crawford, Prairie du Chien, several days to rest and
prepare for our journey of nearly a week overland to Fort Winnebago,
and were entertained at the hospitable quarters of Colonel Zachary
Taylor, then in command of the post. Our host and hostess were so
cordial and made us so comfortable and at home, Miss Knox Taylor was
so lovely, and little Dick and Betty such delightful playmates, that
we enjoyed our visit there most fully, and have always remembered it
with great pleasure. And when we learned only a short time after our
arrival at our journey's end that Lieutenant Jefferson Davis had
carried off our beautiful Miss Knox, in spite of her parents'
watchfulness and her father's absolute commands, our grief and
indignation knew no bounds. The pair went to St. Louis and were
married. The Colonel and his wife never recovered from the shock,
which seemed to blight the happiness of their home. They never saw
their child again. There was no reconciliation between the parties,
and the beloved, misguided daughter died in six months after leaving
home. He who treacherously beguiled her away from her happy home is an
old man now, and must soon go to his account. He stands out
prominently against a dark background, and no one will envy him the
recollection of that deed or the place he occupies in the history of
the country to which he proved false in her hour of trial.
It is said that the broken-hearted father never spoke to him for
years, but that on the battle-field in Mexico, Captain Davis made a
successful movement, and in passing him, General Taylor, as commanding
officer of the division to which he was attached, said, "that was well
done, Captain," and perhaps he never spoke to him afterwards.
When our delightful sojourn with the kind friends at Fort Crawford
came to an end, we started in our open vehicle, which had been made as
comfortable as possible for our long ride of several days to our final
destination, and, as there were no public houses on the road, our
dependence for accommodations, was upon the thinly scattered settlers,
who for the most part were "roughing it," and had few conveniences,
scarcely any comforts to offer the weary traveler.
One night the halt was called in front of a low log house of two
rooms, connected by an enclosed passage way, which served the purpose
of an eating room.
The mistress of the house was the wife of a steamboat captain, but
owing to some irreconcilable difference of sentiment, she refused to
live with him, and she was miserably poor. In pity to her sad case,
her husband had sent, by my father, some articles of clothing which he
hoped might be of use to her, and this errand served as our
introduction. She was a tall, fine looking woman, and received and
welcomed us with the air of a princess dwelling in a palace. She was a
niece of James Fennimore Cooper, and her grand and stately mien, in
the midst of such squalid poverty, would have been amusing, but for
the pity of it.
Her father, a very old man, lay dying of consumption in one of the
rooms, and my little sister and I were assigned for the night to a bed
directly opposite the death couch. The one tallow candle on the stand
beside him, guttering down in its socket, the fitful light from the
vast fireplace, which made strange fantastic shapes and shadows on the
rough dark walls, and the clear cut profile of the dying man, with the
erect dignified figure beside him, rising occasionally to arrange his
pillow, or give him water, impressed us most painfully, effectually
driving sleep from our eyes, which, under a kind of fascination, gazed
intently on what they would fain not see. From time to time the dogs
outside howled dismally, and this forced night-watch was made most
hideous by the occasional hooting of an owl, or the prolonged baying
of hungry wolves in the distance. We were very weary, and at last
fell into a troubled slumber, but were haunted even in sleep by the
ghastly face across the room and the weird shadows on the wall, 'till
aroused by mother's morning kiss, and cheery call to breakfast, which
banished all disturbing dreams, and waked us to the realities of a
bright sunshiny morning, and the morning meal which our grand hostess
had prepared for us to eat before we left this most uninviting
caravansary. This repast consisted of potatoes boiled "au natural,"
and some kind of drink which she announced as coffee, and which she
served with the grace of a queen, dispensing the delicacies of her
table.
I have never ceased to admire the admirable tact and grace with which
my father added to this choice menu; some very nice boiled beef and
other toothsome viands, with which our bountiful friends the Taylors,
had packed our messchest; also, some choice tea, which father,
accustomed to camping, knew how to prepare in perfection. All this he
did in such a way as to make the lady feel that it was an honor to us
to share these things with her, and it was really gratifying to see
her calm enjoyment of delicacies to which she had long been a
stranger. I think, too, that the fragrant cup of tea and the delicate
bit of toast, taken to the sick man, may have brought to his mind
tender recollections of a time when he lived like a gentleman, and
dispelled for a little while the memory of the family troubles, and
the complication of misfortunes which had reduced him to poverty and
a dying bed in this comfortless log cabin in the wilderness.
Kind friends met us with a hearty welcome at our journey's end, where
for a few years we had a very happy home. The memory of the weekly
musicals at John Kinzie's pleasant agency, and the delightful rides on
horseback over the Portage to the point where Portage City now stands,
quickens my heart-beats even now.
But where now are all those who then called that little quadrangle
"_home_?" Col. Cutler, Major Green, Captain Low, Lieutenants Johnston,
Hooe, Collingsworth, Lacy, McLure, Ruggles, Reid, Whipple, Doctors
Satterlee, McDougal and Foote, Sutlers Goodell, Satterlee, Clark,
Lieutenant Van Cleve and my own dear father? Alas! of all these but
one answers to roll-call, and he and I hold in sweet remembrance the
dear friends of our youth, and the beloved old fort, where He who hath
led us graciously all our days, first brought us together, and blessed
us with each other's love, and we thank Him from our hearts that He
has spared us to each other for so many years.
_CHAPTER XIII._
NEW HOME--SCHOOL DAYS.
There came a day in April, 1834, when my brother and I bade "good-bye"
to all, and, under our father's care, left Fort Winnebago to go East,
he to West Point, I to school in New Haven.
We descended the sinuous Fox river in an open boat, having on board,
besides ourselves, a crew of soldiers, and two ladies, who embraced
this opportunity to visit their Eastern home.
The spring rains set in the next day, and our voyage down the Fox
river lasted ten days, during which time we had ample opportunity to
test the efficacy of hydropathy, as our awning was by no means
waterproof, and we were literally soaked the greater part of the time.
In passing through Lake Winnebago the wind was so fearful that the
combined efforts of Captain and crew were necessary to prevent
shipwreck and disaster. The passage through the rapids below was
extremely hazardous, but a famous Indian pilot was employed to guide
us over, and no harm befel us. The picture of that tall, dark figure
at the bow, his long, black hair streaming in the wind, his arms bare,
his motions, as he shifted his pole from side to side, rapid and full
of unconscious grace, his eyes glowing like stars with anxious
vigilance, his voice ringing out clear and musical from time to time,
is as fresh in my mind as if all this was only yesterday.
But civilization and never-tiring enterprise have waved over it their
magic wand, and the whole scene is changed. Beautiful towns have
sprung up about the clear, blue lake, and the place that knew the
Indian and his people shall know him no more forever. In a distant
camping-place nearer the setting sun the remnant of a once powerful
tribe is dragging out its existence, waiting and expecting to be moved
still farther west when the white man wants the land they occupy,
_reserved_ to them only till that want becomes imperative and the
United States says: "Go farther!"
When we finally reached Fort Howard, and were cordially welcomed and
hospitably entertained by General Brooke, of the Fifth Regiment, we
forgot, in our exceeding comfort, all the perils and disagreeables by
the way, and not one of us experienced the slightest cold or
inconvenience from our long exposure to the elements.
We remained a week here awaiting a schooner, and I met for the first
time Captain and Mrs. Marcy, parents of Mrs. General McLellan. How
pretty and charming she was, and how kind and tender to the boy and
girl who were going away from home and mother for the first time! The
beautiful wife of General Brooke, too, was so loving and considerate
in her motherly attentions to us that she completely won our hearts,
and when she died, some years afterward, we felt bereaved.
The voyage by schooner to Buffalo through the Straits of
Mich-e-li-mac-i-nac and tempestuous little Lake St. Clair, a day or
two at hoary, magnificent Niagara, the journey thence by stage, canal,
railroad and steamboat to New York, filled up one month from the time
we took our farewell look at the star spangled banner floating over
our far Western home. And this sixteen mile ride by rail from
Schenectady to Albany, which was over the first piece of road opened
for travel in the United States, seemed so like magic as to inspire us
with a kind of awe. I remember that in coming to a steep grade the
passengers alighted, while the train was drawn up the slope by some
kind of stationary machinery.
I recalled this experience of my girlhood a few years ago when, in a
luxurious palace car, a party of us wound up and over the Veta pass,
an ascent of 2,439 feet in fourteen miles, and looking down the dizzy
height, as the two powerful engines, puffing and snorting like living
creatures, labored to reach the summit, I marvelled at the splendid
triumph of genius and skill.
After a pleasant day or two at West Point, where we left the young
Cadet, and a short visit to relatives in New York, a most enjoyable
trip in a "Sound" steamer brought us to the "City of Elms," one of the
great educational centers of New England, which was to be my home for
two years.
There were many learned men in New Haven then, and the faculty of the
time-honored old college had on its roll names which will never die,
Day, Silliman, Olmstead, and many others,--who were mighty in
eloquence and theology, like Leonard Bacon and Dr. Taylor, proclaimed
the truth with no uncertain sound in the churches on the "Green" from
Sabbath to Sabbath. Grand old Noah Webster, standing in the doorway of
his modest home on our road from school to church, was, to me, an
embodiment of the spelling-book and dictionary, and I instinctively
made obeisance to him as we passed that way.
One of the few privileges granted me in the way of recreation while at
"Mrs. Apthorpe's School for Young Ladies" was an occasional visit to
our dear cousins, the Brewsters, who occupied a beautiful home on the
Sound, formerly known as the "Pavillion," which might be called
historic, for in a dark dungeon underneath the house the notorious
regicides, Goff and Whalley, were hidden in the old, old times. And
the graveyard in New Haven, with its tall poplar trees, was an epitome
of the lives of men and women who had made their impress, not only on
that community, but on the world. Our school was situated on Hillhouse
avenue, and our walks were mostly confined to that quiet, shady street
and "Powder House lane," in order that we might avoid meeting the
"students," of whom our teacher seemed to have a great dread, a fear
from which her pupils were entirely free. But for all this care and
precaution we learned to know _by sight_ Benjamin Silliman, who lived
next door to us, and young Thomas Skinner, who was opposite, and it is
delightful to know that these two young men, who were full to the brim
with fun and harmless mischief, have become eminent and dignified men
of renown, one as a chemist and scientist, the other as a
distinguished divine and honored professor in a theological seminary.
The college commencement exercises were held in the Central Church, on
the "Green," and all the schools, male and female, were well
represented in the large audience. The ladies occupied the center of
the church, and, in order that the large bonnets in vogue at that time
might not intercept the view of the stage, several long lines were
stretched longitudinally over their heads, to which they were expected
to attach them, and, after all had hung up their bonnets, these lines
were drawn up out of the way until needed again. Many of the ladies
provided pretty caps and headdresses for the occasion, and the
delicate laces, with their tasteful trimmings, and the bright eyes and
happy faces, formed a pretty picture long to be remembered. Recalling
it, I see again the dimpled cheeks and soft, graceful appointments of
those merry girls, and, wafted backward over the bridge of many years,
I sit among them, the spring-time of youth comes back to me, and I
bless God for memory. What if we are old women now, worn and weary
with care and trial it may be; this blessed gift refreshes us on our
way to the eternal youth that awaits us just beyond, and we exult in
the belief that the flowers over there are fadeless, that old age is
not known, and friends no more say "good-bye."
[Illustration]
_CHAPTER XIV._
FATHER'S DEATH, ETC.
The fall of 1835 found us all, except our Cadet, at Fort Winnebago
again, but heavy afflictions made that winter a very sad one. The
anxiety consequent on the serious illness of two beloved members of
the family so wore upon our dear father, whose constitution had been
severely tried by arduous military duties, that after many weeks of
pain, he died, and left us crushed and desolate.
I have beside me an old "Order Book," open at a page on which is this
sad record:
"The Major Commanding has the painful duty to announce to the
command, the death of Major Nathan Clark; he will be buried
to-morrow afternoon at 2 o'clock, with the honors of war,
where all present, except those persons who may be expressly
excused, will appear under arms in full uniform; the
Commanding Officer directs that the escort be composed of
four companies, which, in accordance with his own feelings as
well as what is due to the deceased, he will command in
person. All officers of this command will wear black crape
attached to the hilts of their swords, and as testimony of
respect for the deceased, this badge will be worn for the
period of thirty days. The Surgeon of the Post will act as
Chaplain.
By order of Major Green.
Feb. 18th, 1836.
Signed J. T. COLLINGSWORTH, Act. Adj."
And at the time appointed, a detail of soldiers from his own "Company
C," reverently place upon the bier the encoffined form of their
beloved commander, having for a pall the "Stars and Stripes", on which
are laid the sword and accoutrements now no longer needed.
Memory brings back to me that mournful afternoon, and I see the
bearers with their burden; the long procession of soldiers with
trailed arms; the commissioned officers each in his appropriate place,
all keeping time and step to the muffled drum as it rolls out its
requiem on the wintry air, in the strains of Pleyel's heart-melting
hymn; the weeping wife and children in the large sleigh,--all passing
out the great gate to the lone graveyard. And the precious burden is
lowered, and at its head stands Surgeon Lyman Foote, our father's
life-long friend, and in a voice trembling with emotion, reads the
wonderful words: "I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord."
After the burial service comes the last salute, and, leaving there
that which is so dear to us, we go back to the empty quarters, bowed
down heavily, as those who mourn for one inexpressibly dear.
During those weeks of pain and languishing, my father, knowing what
the end must be, and realizing the change his death would make in all
our plans, left full directions for our future course; and in
accordance with his last wishes, my marriage with Lieutenant H. P. Van
Cleve was solemnized, in the presence of a few friends, March 22d,
1836. Rev. Henry Gregory, of the Episcopal Church, at that time
laboring as a missionary among the Stockbridge Indians, performed the
ceremony. His station was between the Forts Winnebago and Howard, and
he had a serious time making the journey on horseback to the fort, the
snow being very deep and the weather severe. Besides using up his
horse he became snow-blind, and reached us pretty well worn out, but
we can never forget his cheerful endurance of his trials, and his
genial, affable manner, which made warm friends of all who came in
contact with him. He was one who _lived_ the gospel which he preached,
and unconsciously diffused a beneficial influence all about him.
Notwithstanding his temporary blindness, he was so perfectly familiar
with the marriage service that there was no delay in consequence, and
after resting with us a few days, till his eyesight was restored, he
left us on a new horse to return to his home among the Indians, where
he labored faithfully and effectively for some years longer.
As soon as navigation opened, my mother went to Connecticut with two
children, leaving the youngest, a dear little three year old girl, in
our care. We spent the first summer of our married life very quietly
and happily at the old fort, and enjoyed exceedingly a visit from two
companies of the First Regiment, from Prairie du Chien, who had been
ordered up there, to strengthen our post, on account of a rumor of an
Indian outbreak which had reached Washington. Col. Zachary Taylor
commanded the detachment personally, and encamping just outside the
fort, made a beautiful display. Old General Brady was with them also,
and we were proud and happy to entertain our dear father's old friends
at our own table. To add to the pleasure of this visit, there was not
and had not been the slightest foundation for alarm. It was said that
not only were the Indians perfectly peaceable, but that they had not
enough ammunition to kill what game they needed for food. Colonel
Taylor knew all this, but was obliged to obey orders; so we had a
grand picnic of a few weeks, just when the prairies were covered with
delicious strawberries, and the cows were yielding abundance of milk
and cream. That was in the old time, when mails were monthly, and
telegraphing was a thing of the future.
In the following September, my husband having resigned his commission,
we bade a long "good bye" to the army and its many tender
associations. This step was taken after much thought and deliberation,
and in accordance with the advice of our dear father. But the army had
always been my home; I loved it as such. I love it still, and it is a
comfort to me in my old age to know that I am not far away from a
fort, that I can _almost_ see the beautiful flag, as it sways in the
breeze, can _almost_ hear the drum and fife, the music of my
childhood, and can _feel_ that they are near me, in dear old Fort
Snelling, my earliest home.
[Illustration]
_CHAPTER XV._
In 1840, being in Cincinnati, where we were delightfully situated, we
had a rare opportunity to witness the enthusiasm of our countrymen, as
displayed in the Presidential campaign of which General Harrison was
the successful man. The excitement of that time was tremendous. The
hard cider songs--
"And should we be any ways thirsty,
I'll tell you what we will all do,
We'll bring forth a keg of hard cider
And drink to old Tippecanoe."
Also: "For Tippecanoe and Tyler, too,
And with them we'll beat little Van.
Van, Van's a used-up man,
And with them we'll beat little Van."
Resounded through the streets from morn till midnight, drums beat and
cannons roared, and, seeing the way in which the poor old man was
dragged about from place to place in all kinds of processions, we were
not surprised when we learned of his death a few weeks after his
inauguration. Then, alas! what a sad procession passed through those
same streets, of late so full of life and joy; now heavily draped in
mourning and echoing to funereal strains, as the worn-out old man is
borne slowly through the beautiful city to rest in his quiet home at
North Bend. How empty seem all earthly honors in view of such sharp
contrasts. The lesson sank deep, and can never be forgotten. Looking
over the leaves of my diary kept during that eventful year, I find
recorded there a sorrowful incident that occurred during the winter,
bringing desolation to a rich man's home and grief to many loving
friends. I give it here in the form of a story, as I have told it to
my children from time to time. It is an entirely correct narrative,
without the slightest coloring, and I have called it "A Tale of the
Florida War."