character of this excellent matron, who is often described as the ideal
of a pioneer, is so remarkable as to call for a brief notice. Coming so
early to the backwoods, she had to encounter not a few dangers as well
as inconveniencies from the frequent visits of savages, as yet not used
to the sight of civilization. In her youth she was eminently handsome,
and even at the age of seventy-six retains a most prepossessing
appearance, having a tall and symmetrical figure, but slightly bent,
with a complexion showing the freshness of habitual health. Hers was a
proud and happy bridal in the Old Dominion, and she was fondly attached
to the country where her best years had been spent; but she murmured
not when it became her duty to follow her husband to a distant land.
He now lies buried near the spot he chose for his home, with many
relatives around him; and by the widow’s direction, a place beside him
is reserved for her. Her religious faith, always sound and bright--for
she had made it the staff and guide of life--has been strengthened
by the chastening sorrow she has been called to endure; and the
humility with which she has submitted to every painful dispensation,
offers a salutary lesson both to the afflicted and the prosperous.
She has always been noted for the strong practical sense which fits
its possessor for every event and vicissitude, in every station of
life; yet is her heart open and kind, her benevolent impulses withal
being regulated at all times by sterling judgment. She is one of those
persons of whom it can be said, “Place her in any situation, and she
will appear well.”
In her reminiscences of those early days, Mrs. Allen often speaks of
two young women in particular, who did much to enliven the society
of the place. One of them, Miss Hopy Johnson, undertook the charge
of the school kept in a small log house, to which she was frequently
obliged to walk quite a distance from down the river. The exposure
in all weathers, and with but indifferent protection against the
cold and wet, injured her health, and one evening she informed the
school she should not be able to teach any longer. James, one of Mrs.
Allen’s grandchildren, then under her care, came running home, so out
of breath that he could hardly speak, and entreated his grandmamma to
take the teacher to live in her house. She promised to decide after
consulting her husband, who was then busily engaged in making “Michigan
bedsteads” of tamarack poles stripped of the bark. Plenty of beds had
been brought from Virginia; but some arrangement might be necessary for
the accommodation of another inmate. However, the child’s entreaty was
so urgent for an answer before Miss Johnson should have dismissed her
pupils and gone home, that his grandmother bade him “tell her she may
come and take us as she finds us.” He ran back delighted, and presently
returned with the teacher, so grateful for the offer of a home which
enabled her to continue her beloved occupation, that when the little
boy led her in with--“Grandmamma, here is Miss Johnson,” she sank upon
a seat and wept for joy. This little incident throws an interesting
light on the manners of that day. When asked how they enjoyed life in
the privation of so many comforts and of the society of old friends,
Mrs. Allen would reply: “We were all brothers and sisters then. When
my son Turner was married, he said, ‘You have always given the other
children a good wedding; I want you to do as well by me;’ and so we
invited everybody in the village, and had as good a supper as could be
got up.”
True to the habits of a matron of the olden time, Mrs. Allen has always
shown a delicate sense of propriety in her deportment and conversation.
She looks back with some pride to the days of her bellehood, and speaks
occasionally of the sixteen offers received before she was eighteen;
but with her characteristic regard for decorum, tells of the reproof
she once administered to one over forward suitor. In the mountainous
parts of Virginia, where carriages were but little used, the men and
women were accustomed to travel altogether on horseback. Miss Tate
(afterwards Mrs. Allen) was one day in attendance at a funeral, after
the conclusion of which the newly bereaved widower rode up to the side
of her horse, and to her extreme surprise, expressed a wish that she
might be induced to consent to fill the place of the dear departed one
whose mortal remains had just been laid in the grave. The young lady
regarded him with astonishment and displeasure, and sternly forbade him
to name that subject to her again under a year. Just a year from that
day he proposed in due form, and was rejected!
Mrs. Allen is accustomed to express herself at all times in a manner
so forcible and decisive, and at the same time with so much dignity,
as to evince talent of no ordinary kind. Frequently her language
rises almost to the poetical, without the least design of ornamental
expression. Speaking of a grandchild who was extremely cold in her
manner, she said, “I loved her much, that is, all she would let me
get at to love.” At another time, when a young mother, showing her
little daughter, apologized for the dirt on her hands, as she had
been playing in a sand heap, the matron replied, “It will do her no
harm; there is always rain enough in the heavens to wash such clean;”
thus unconsciously using a phrase nearly identical with the words of
Shakespeare, a poet with whom she was by no means familiar. Being once
asked if she had not reared a large family, she answered, “Oh, no, I
have only had seven children. I laid out to have no less than a dozen;
but the grandchildren left motherless whom I have brought up, perhaps
make out the number.” She has reared five of these, and has lived to
see the third generation.
There was a single piano in the settlement, owned by a Miss Clark, now
Mrs. Kingsley; and seldom did she touch the keys without unexpected
listeners. Often, as a shadow darkened the window, could she observe
the form of a Pottawattomie Indian, accompanied perhaps by two or
three squaws with their papooses. This patriarch of pianos is still
extant, and stands as prim as ever upon its thin legs, a type amongst
the scores that have succeeded it, of a bygone age, and representing
something of the stately politeness and formal breeding of the ladies
and gentlemen of its own date.
Some, with an obstinately rustic taste, seemed to prefer the rudest
articles of furniture used in the infancy of the settlement, to the
modern improvements afterwards introduced. A housewife in Michigan,
finding the men of her establishment too busy _clearing_ to lend her
much aid, set about contriving a press in which she could make cheese.
She succeeded in making one in the corner of a rail fence; and it was
observed that, thrifty as she was, she could not be induced without
great reluctance, to exchange this press of her own contrivance for one
of more pretension, though adopted and praised by all her neighbor.
Among the privations of the early settlers, not the least was the
difficulty of hearing from the friends they had left at “the East.” Not
only were the mails slow and uncertain, but the postage of a letter was
twenty-five cents; a fourth of a man’s pay for a hard day’s work. So
expensive a treat could not be often indulged in, and accordingly it
seldom happened that more than one or two letters were exchanged in the
course of a year by a single emigrant family.
The burning of the marshes often running far into the upland, which was
done every year by the Indians and old hunters, was sometimes attended
by accidents, the fire extending to the opening and overrunning the
land to the destruction of oak-grubs and tall trees. An enterprising
and industrious young emigrant had built a comfortable house in a
pleasant opening for himself and his sisters, one of whom had charge of
it. One day while she was alone, the brother being absent on business,
she discovered that the grass was on fire, and that the devouring
element was rapidly approaching. All her efforts were bent to keep
it from the premises; but finding she could do nothing to check its
progress, and that the outhouses were in imminent danger, she ran to
the door of her dwelling for her bonnet, threw in her apron which she
pulled off hastily from a woman’s instinctive impulse of neatness, and
without looking back, hurried to the nearest neighbor’s, some three
miles off, for assistance. As soon as possible she returned with help;
but they were greeted by a melancholy sight. The burning of the grass,
it was evident, had not extended to the house; but the building was in
flames, and past the hope of saving even an article of furniture. The
poor girl then discovered that the fire must have originated from her
apron, which probably concealed a spark when she threw it in; and thus
she had the chagrin of knowing that her very eagerness had been the
means of depriving herself and family of the only shelter they could
call their own.
The mention of fire reminds us of another curious anecdote recorded
in the annals of Detroit. There was at one time a town ordinance that
every house should be provided with a butt of water for use in case
of fire, the owner being subject to a fine in case of disobedience.
A widow whose neglect had been passed over several times by the
inspectors, one day saw them coming on their usual errand, and resolved
that they should not have it to say they had found her cask _empty_,
jumped into it herself. The stratagem so pleased the men that, laughing
heartily, they fetched water and filled the butt for her.
Some other incidents illustrative of the times, are mentioned by the
old settlers. One tells how a large sleighing party went at night to
Dexter, and how Judge Dexter figured as a seer, and told the fortunes
of the company. They were very merry returning, though it was near
morning, and intensely cold. A sudden breakdown took place, and one of
the gentlemen was obliged to go back some distance to borrow an axe
to repair the damage. Those left waiting, fearing that without some
precaution they should perish with cold, spread the buffalo skins on
the hard snow, and had a lively dance upon them; till the sleigh being
mended, they returned to Ann Arbor without further hindrance.
The inhabitants of Detroit may remember a remarkable old woman, Mrs.
Chappel by name, a true “Betty O’Flanagan,” who followed in the rear
of Wayne’s army, and afterwards kept pushing away from civilization.
At the time my informant knew her, she kept a small tavern on the
Pontiac turnpike, much resorted to by the young men of the town, it
being just distant enough for a pleasant ride. As the hostess was
very homely, they were accustomed to call her in jest “Old Mother
Handsome;” listening often to the reminiscences with which she was
wont to interlard her preparations for supper. When grumbling at the
trouble given her, she would declare that she should have been better
off had “Mad Anthony” lived. She would have been a fine character for a
romance, and deserves more than a mere mention, as a representative of
the spirit of her day among the ruder class of settlers.
XXIII.
HARRIET L. NOBLE.
In 1824 there was almost as great an excitement in Western New York
about going to Michigan as there has been recently in regard to
California. One of those enterprising settlers, the wife of Nathaniel
Noble, has favored me with some of her recollections, which present a
graphic picture of early times in this State. No language could be so
appropriate as her own.
“My husband was seized with the mania, and accordingly made preparation
to start in January with his brother. They took the Ohio route, and
were nearly a month in getting through; coming by way of Monroe, and
thence to Ypsilanti and Ann Arbor. Mr. John Allen and Walter Rumsey
with his wife and two men had been there some four or five weeks, had
built a small house, moved into it the day my husband and his brother
arrived, and were just preparing their first meal, which the newcomers
had the pleasure of partaking. They spent a few days here, located a
farm a little above the town on the river Huron, and returned through
Canada. They had been so much pleased with the country, that they
immediately commenced preparing to emigrate; and as near as I can
recollect, we started about the 20th of September, 1824, for Michigan.
We travelled from our house in Geneva to Buffalo in wagons. The roads
were bad, and we were obliged to wait in Buffalo four days for a boat,
as the steamboat ‘Michigan’ was the only one on the lake. After waiting
so long we found she had put into Erie for repairs, and had no prospect
of being able to run again for some time. The next step was to take
passage in a schooner, which was considered a terrible undertaking
for so dangerous a voyage as it was then thought to be. At length we
went on board ‘the Prudence,’ of Cleveland, Capt. Johnson. A more
inconvenient little bark could not well be imagined. We were seven days
on Lake Erie, and so entirely prostrated with seasickness, as scarcely
to be able to attend to the wants of our little ones. I had a little
girl of three years, and a babe some months old, and Sister Noble had
six children, one an infant. It was a tedious voyage; the lake was
very rough most of the time, and I thought if we were only on land
again, I should be satisfied, if it was a wilderness. I could not then
realize what it would be to live without a comfortable house through
the winter, but sad experience afterwards taught me a lesson not to be
forgotten.
“We came into the Detroit river; it was beautiful then as now; on the
Canada side, in particular, you will scarce perceive any change. As we
approached Detroit, the ‘Cantonment’ with the American flag floating
on its walls, was decidedly the most interesting of any part of the
town; for a city it was certainly the most filthy, irregular place I
had ever seen; the streets were filled with Indians and low French, and
at that time I could not tell the difference between them. We spent
two days in making preparations for going out to Ann Arbor, and during
that time I never saw a genteelly-dressed person in the streets. There
were no carriages; the most wealthy families rode in French carts,
sitting on the bottom upon some kind of mat; and the streets were so
muddy these were the only vehicles convenient for getting about. I said
to myself, ‘if this be a Western city, give me a home in the woods.’ I
think it was on the 3d of October we started from Detroit, with a pair
of oxen and a wagon, a few articles for cooking, and such necessaries
as we could not do without. It was necessary that they should be few
as possible, for our families were a full load for this mode of
travelling. After travelling all day we found ourselves but ten miles
from Detroit (at what is now Dearborn); here we spent the night at a
kind of tavern, the only one west of the city. Our lodging was the
floor, and the other entertainment was to match. The next day we set
out as early as possible, in hopes to get through the woods before
dark, but night found us about half way through, and there remained
no other resource but to camp out, and make ourselves contented. The
men built a large fire and prepared our supper. My sister and myself
could assist but little, so fatigued were we with walking and carrying
our infants. There were fifteen in our company. Two gentlemen going to
Ypsilanti had travelled with us from Buffalo; the rest were our own
families. We were all pretty cheerful, until we began to think of lying
down for the night. The men did not seem to dread it, however, and
were soon fast asleep, but sleep was not for me in such a wilderness.
I could think of nothing but wild beasts, or something as bad; so that
I had the pleasure of watching while the others slept. It seemed a
long, long night, and never in my life did I feel more grateful for the
blessing of returning day. We started again as early as possible, all
who could walk moving on a little in advance of the wagon; the small
children were the only ones who thought of riding. Every few rods it
would take two or three men to pry the wagon out of the mud, while
those who walked were obliged to force their way over fallen timber,
brush, &c. Thus passed the day; at night we found ourselves on the
plains, three miles from Ypsilanti. My feet were so swollen I could
walk no further. We got into the wagon and rode as far as Woodruff’s
grove, a little below Ypsilanti. There were some four or five
families at this place. The next day we left for Ann Arbor. We were
delighted with the country before us; it was beautiful in its natural
state; and I have sometimes thought that cultivation has marred its
loveliness. Where Ypsilanti now stands, there was but one building--an
old trading-house on the west side of the river; the situation was
fine--there were scattering oaks and no brushwood. Here we met a large
number of Indians; and one old squaw followed us some distance with her
papoose, determined to swap babies. At last she gave it up, and for
one I felt relieved.
“We passed two log houses between this and Ann Arbor. About the middle
of the afternoon we found ourselves at our journey’s end--but what a
prospect? There were some six or seven log huts occupied by as many
inmates as could be crowded into them. It was too much to think of
asking strangers to give us a place to stay in even for one night
under such circumstances. Mr. John Allen himself made us the offer of
sharing with him the comfort of a shelter from storm, if not from cold.
His house was large for a log one, but quite unfinished; there was a
ground floor and a small piece above. When we got our things stored in
this place, we found the number sheltered to be twenty-one women and
children, and fourteen men. There were but two bedsteads in the house,
and those who could not occupy these, slept on feather beds upon the
floor. When the children were put in bed you could not set a foot down
without stepping on a foot or hand; the consequence was we had music
most of the time.
“We cooked our meals in the open air, there being no fire in the house
but a small box-stove. The fall winds were not very favorable to such
business; we would frequently find our clothes on fire, but fortunately
we did not often get burned. When one meal was over, however, we
dreaded preparing the next. We lived in this way until our husbands got
a log house raised and the roof on; this took them about six weeks, at
the end of which time we went into it, without door, floor, chimney, or
anything but logs and roof. There were no means of getting boards for
a floor, as everything must be brought from Detroit, and we could not
think of drawing lumber over such a road. The only alternative was to
split slabs of oak with an axe. My husband was not a mechanic, but he
managed to make a floor in this way that kept us from the ground. I was
most anxious for a door, as the wolves would come about in the evening,
and sometimes stay all night and keep up a serenade that would almost
chill the blood in my veins. Of all noises I think the howling of
wolves and the yell of Indians the most fearful; at least it appeared
so to me then, when I was not able to close the door against them. I
had the greatest terror of Indians; for I had never seen any before
I came to Michigan but Oneidas, and they were very different, being
partially civilized.
“We had our house comfortable as such a rude building could be, by
the first of February. It was a mild winter; there was snow enough
to cover the ground only four days, a fortunate circumstance for us.
We enjoyed uninterrupted health, but in the spring the ague with its
accompaniments gave us a call; and by the middle of August there were
but four out of fourteen who could call themselves well. We then
fancied we were too near the river for health. We sold out and bought
again ten miles west of Ann Arbor, a place which suited us better;
and just a year from the day we came to Ann Arbor, moved out of it to
Dexter. There was one house here. Judge Dexter’s; he was building a
sawmill, and had a number of men at work at the time; besides these
there was not a white family west of Ann Arbor in Michigan territory.
Our log house was just raised, forming only the square log pen. Of
course it did not look very inviting, but it was our home, and we must
make the best of it. I helped to raise the rafters and put on the
roof, but it was the last of November before our roof was completed.
We were obliged to wait for the mill to run in order to get boards for
making it. The doorway I had no means of closing except by hanging up
a blanket, and frequently when I would raise it to step out, there
would be two or three of our dusky neighbors peeping in to see what
was there. It would always give me such a start, I could not suppress
a scream, to which they would reply with ‘Ugh!’ and a hearty laugh.
They knew I was afraid, and liked to torment me. Sometimes they would
throng the house and stay two or three hours. If I was alone they would
help themselves to what they liked. The only way in which I could
restrain them at all, was to threaten that I would tell Cass; he was
governor of the territory, and they stood in great fear of him. At last
we got a door. The next thing wanted was a chimney; winter was close
at hand and the stone was not drawn. I said to my husband, ‘I think
I can drive the oxen and draw the stones, while you dig them from the
ground and load them.’ He thought I could not, but consented to let me
try. He loaded them on a kind of sled; I drove to the house, rolled
them off, and drove back for another load. I succeeded so well that
we got enough in this way to build our chimney. My husband and myself
were four days building it. I suppose most of my lady friends would
think a woman quite out of ‘her legitimate sphere’ in turning mason,
but I was not at all particular what kind of labor I performed, so we
were only comfortable and provided with the necessaries of life. Many
times I had been obliged to take my children, put on their cloaks,
and sit on the south side of the house in the sun to keep them warm;
anything was preferable to smoke. When we had a chimney and floor, and
a door to close up our little log cabin, I have often thought it the
most comfortable little place that could possibly be built in so new a
country; and but for the want of provisions of almost every kind, we
should have enjoyed it much. The roads had been so bad all the fall
that we had waited until this time, and I think it was December when
my husband went to Detroit for supplies. Fifteen days were consumed in
going and coming. We had been without flour for three weeks or more,
and it was hard to manage with young children thus. After being without
bread three or four days, my little boy, two years old, looked me in
the face and said, ‘Ma, why don’t you make bread; don’t you like it? I
do.’ His innocent complaint brought forth the first tears I had shed
in Michigan on account of any privations I had to suffer, and they
were about the last. I am not of a desponding disposition, nor often
low-spirited, and having left New York to make Michigan my home, I had
no idea of going back, or being very unhappy. Yet the want of society,
of church privileges, and in fact almost every thing that makes life
desirable, would often make me sad in spite of all effort to the
contrary. I had no ladies’ society for one year after coming to Dexter,
except that of sister Noble and a Mrs. Taylor, and was more lonely than
either of them, my family being so small.