looked delightful. We thought our hardships nearly at an end, when
early in the summer my husband was taken with the ague. He had not
been sick at all the first year; of course he must be acclimated. He
had never suffered from ague or fever of any kind before, and it was
a severe trial for him, with so much to do and no help to be had. He
would break the ague and work for a few days, when it would return.
In this way he made his garden, planted his corn, and thought he was
quite well. About August he harvested his wheat and cut his hay, but
could get no help to draw it, and was again taken with ague. I had it
myself, and both my children. Sometimes we would all be ill at a time.
Mr. Noble and I had it every other day. He was almost discouraged, and
said he should have to sell his cattle or let them starve. I said to
him, ‘to-morrow we shall neither of us have the ague, and I believe
I can load and stack the hay, if my strength permits.’ As soon as
breakfast was over, I prepared to go into the meadow, where I loaded
and stacked seven loads that day. The next day my husband had the ague
more severely than common, but not so with me; the exercise broke the
chills, and I was able to assist him whenever he was well enough,
until our hay was all secured. In the fall we had several added to our
circle. We were more healthy then, and began to flatter ourselves that
we could live very comfortably through the winter of 1826; but we were
not destined to enjoy that blessing, for in November my husband had his
left hand blown to pieces by the accidental discharge of a gun, which
confined him to the house until April. The hay I had stacked during the
summer I had to feed out to the cattle with my own hands in the winter,
and often cut the wood for three days at a time. The logs which I alone
rolled in, would surprise any one who has never been put to the test of
necessity, which compels people to do what under other circumstances
they would not have thought possible. This third winter in Michigan
was decidedly the hardest I had yet encountered. In the spring, Mr.
Noble could go out by carrying his hand in a sling. He commenced
ploughing to prepare for planting his corn. Being weak from his wound,
the ague returned again, but he worked every other day until his corn
was planted. He then went to New York, came back in July, and brought
a nephew with him, who relieved me from helping him in the work out
of doors. Although I was obliged to stack the hay this third fall, I
believe it was the last labor of the kind I ever performed. At this
time we began to have quite a little society; we were fortunate in
having good neighbors, and for some years were almost like one family,
our interests being the same, and envy, jealousy, and all bitter
feelings unknown among us. We cannot speak so favorably of the present
time.
“When I look back upon my life, and see the ups and downs, the
hardships and privations I have been called upon to endure, I feel
no wish to be young again. I was in the prime of life when I came to
Michigan--only twenty-one, and my husband was thirty-three. Neither of
us knew the reality of hardship. Could we have known what it was to
be pioneers in a new country, we should never have had the courage to
come; but I am satisfied that with all the disadvantages of raising a
family in a new country, there is a consolation in knowing that our
children are prepared to brave the ills of life, I believe, far better
than they would have been had we never left New York.”
In view of the formidable journey described by Mrs. Noble from Detroit
to Ypsilanti, it should be mentioned that it is thirty miles by
railroad, and ten miles thence to Ann Arbor; Dexter being still ten
miles further. As a confirmation of her remark about the awe in which
the Indians stood of Cass, an incident may be mentioned. One summer’s
day, accompanied by his negro man, he rode up, on his way from the
West, to the door of one of the early settlers in this county, to get
a draught of water from the well. As he was about going on, a party of
a hundred Indians on their way from Detroit, stopped also, and began
stacking their guns by the side of the house, evidently intending to
make a long stay. The woman, who chanced to be alone, was very much
frightened, and as the savages paid no attention to her request that
they would go on, she begged Gov. Cass to interfere. He spoke a few
words to them in their own language, and as soon as they knew him,
they shouldered their weapons and were “marching off in double quick
time.”
The old picturesque looking windmill on the American side of the
Detroit river, is the one to which all the people in western Michigan,
some thirty years ago, were obliged to come for their grinding. It is
now dismantled of its wings, and the tower in a ruinous state.
The lady whose narrative is quoted is, it will be acknowledged,
“a pioneer indeed.” She is, moreover, an interesting and charming
woman, and admirable in all the relations she has filled. Her manner
is described as being remarkably attractive, and her portraiture in
conversation of the hardships and peculiarities of pioneer life, as
being vivid and thrilling. “She talks with so much spirit,” says one
of her friends, “that I know she can make a more sprightly narrative
than any I have read.” Her children have prospered and are most highly
respected, and neither they nor their descendants will be likely to
forget how deeply they are indebted to a mother so enterprising and
energetic, and so affectionately mindful of their interests.
* * * * *
The village of Dixboro’ in Washtenaw County, Michigan, was first laid
out by Mr. Dix of Massachusetts, and was once somewhat flourishing,
though now a miserable looking place, owning scarce a dwelling that is
not in a state of dilapidation. The inhabitants are not remarkable for
superstition; yet it is curious to notice how strong is the current
belief even to the present day, in an old ghost story. “To doubt it,”
says a resident, “is to offer a personal insult.” The tale ran briefly
thus: A new settler by the name of Van Wart, a relative of one of the
captors of André, who had taken up his quarters in a house recently
occupied by a widow then deceased, testified to the nocturnal visits
of an apparition, whom the neighbors supposed to be no other than the
woman’s ghost. From what transpired during these visitations, it was
supposed she had been murdered by her brother-in-law for the sake of
concealing some crime committed years before. The matter was made the
subject of legal investigation, and Van Wart’s testimony taken in full,
under oath, by the magistrate before a jury. The grave was opened and
the body examined to ascertain if her death had been caused by poison;
probably the only instance in this century at least of a corpse being
disinterred upon the evidence of a ghost! The appearance of the dead
was startlingly like the description given by the ghost seer, who, had
never seen her living; but nothing was found to justify condemnation
of the accused, who was accordingly released and left the country. The
Scotch physician who attended the woman in her last illness, and was
supposed to be implicated in the deed, also quitted the community. The
old log house is still standing, with the room called Tophet, because
appropriated to the use of the sick as a hospital--now in a sadly
tumbledown condition, but once the seat of cheerful hospitality. In
the olden time, many a merry company from Ann Arbor was wont to resort
there, spending the evening in dancing and festivity. Ypsilanti and
Dexter were also favorite places of resort for sleighing and pic-nic
parties. The latter village was laid out by Judge Dexter, brother to
the celebrated lawyer of that name in Boston.
Miss Frances Trask was a cousin of Mrs. Dix, and figured prominently
at that day in the little community as a belle somewhat on the
Amazon order. She had much talent, with a degree of cultivation that
caused her to be looked up to with respect as a person of unusual
accomplishments; she possessed, moreover, real worth and good qualities
of heart; but her eccentricities and unfeminine defiance of general
opinion in many trifling matters, often startled her quiet neighbors,
and made it necessary for those who loved her most to defend her from
censure. She was much admired by the men; her piquancy of wit, force
and decision of character, and a sort of happy audacity, setting off to
advantage her personal attractions. Yet she was not wanting in fitness
for the usefulness peculiar to woman; in cases of sickness she could
do more than any one else, and would watch for many nights together,
bearing fatigues under which an ordinary constitution must have sunk.
In emergencies that required prompt action, her energy was praised
with enthusiasm by her own sex. Finally, when pecuniary embarrassments
made it necessary for Dix and his family to leave their home, and the
wife, a gentle, ladylike creature, was overpowered with grief, and
could do little to expedite preparations, Frances was the _nerve_ of
them all. She packed up everything, dressed the children one by one
the last morning, placing each on a chair when in readiness, with
orders not to move, and with cheerful alacrity arranged everything for
their departure. She had accustomed herself to firing at a mark, and
was considered one of the best shots in the country, besides being
able to ride a horse with any racer. It was said she could cut off a
chicken’s head at an almost incredible number of rods, and that she
often went out deer hunting; but this last tradition does not vouch
for. She was the life of pic-nics or pleasure parties, and seldom let
pass an opportunity of making a smart or satirical speech, sometimes at
the expense of delicate regard for the feelings of others. A certain
Judge Thompson, who had held office at Batavia at the time of Morgan’s
abduction, as sheriff of the county, and had earned a notoriety in no
wise enviable, chanced to be helping her at a pic-nic on one occasion,
and began to rally her on her penchant for meat; “Yes,” she retorted,
“I am fond of flesh; you of blood;” a rejoinder which was keenly felt
by the mortified official.
On another occasion the lady seems to have met her match, being
excessively annoyed by a gallant who chose to vex her by pretending to
mistake her name, calling her “Miss Trash,” and then correcting himself
with an apparently confused apology. She used to laugh heartily in
mentioning a speech meant to be particularly ill-natured, levelled at
her at a dinner party at Ypsilanti by a lady of her own stamp, who had
become irritated beyond forbearance by some of her sallies. Looking
significantly at Miss Trask, she gave her toast, saying, “When Boston
next takes an emetic, I hope it will turn its head towards the ocean.”
It may well be imagined that those to whom Miss Trask chose to be
amiable, liked her much, while she was thoroughly detested by those
who had suffered from the arrows of her wit. Strange as it may seem,
she was held in high esteem by many of her own sex, notwithstanding
her boldness of carriage, from which it may be inferred that she
affected to be more lawless than she was in reality. She accompanied
Mr. Dix and his family when they removed to Texas. Some two years
since, when she returned on a visit to Michigan, the manifest change
and improvement in her bearing and manners were the subject of general
remark. She had grown absolutely quiet and dignified; so that those who
had heard only of her early fame, expressed some disappointment at not
finding her the dashing, sprightly creature she had been represented.
Time and the trials and labors incident to life in a new country had
tamed her wild spirit; she had mourned the loss of a brother in the
Texan service, and had undergone a second term of the difficulties
and privations of pioneer life. The government of Texas, however, had
shown that they appreciated her services by voting her a large tract of
land in compliment to her opening the first seminary for young ladies
in that State. This possession, with the portion of land assigned to
her deceased brother, made her a wealthy woman. Among the curiosities
she brought from her new home, her Mexican blanket attracted great
attention from its novelty, elegance and richness. Some said it had
been valued in Boston at a thousand dollars. A story had gone about,
the details of which were denied by the heroine, that during the
struggle in Texas, a Mexican attempting to force his way into the house
at a time when Mr. Dix was too ill to act on the defensive, had been
shot by the intrepid sister-in-law.
It may be conjectured that Miss Trask had many admirers. She had been
engaged at Dixboro’ to Sherman Dix, a relative of her brother-in-law,
and somewhat her junior; but they quarrelled, it was said, upon one
occasion when she was suffering from an attack of ague--about some
trifling matter, and the suitor was peremptorily dismissed. When the
family removed to Texas some years afterwards, the young man followed,
and remained a bachelor; whether on account of a lingering attachment
to the fair inconstant, or some other reason, it has not been recorded.
Miss Trask’s matrimonial destiny at length overtook her; she married at
Austin a Mr. Thompson, and was left a widow in a few months. Her nephew
by marriage is Secretary of State in Texas and a son and daughter of
Mr. Thompson reside at Chicago.
* * * * *
Among the early settlers of Michigan who deserve a notice, should be
numbered Mrs. Hector Scott, the daughter of Luther Martin, the lawyer
who so ably and successfully defended Aaron Burr. She came to the
State before 1837, and is still residing in Detroit. She has passed
through many severe reverses and trials; but her intellectual ability,
energy, and firmness of character, have sustained her, constraining the
admiration and respect of all who enjoy her acquaintance. Like her,
Mrs. Talbot, once a celebrated beauty, retains the dignified manners of
the olden time. She was the daughter of Commodore Truxton. She still
resides on her farm near Pontiac; the ancient log house embowered in
eglantine, and showing evidence within doors of a refinement of taste
which can invest with elegance the homeliest materials.
At Union City, in the southern part of Michigan, lives Mrs. Mosely,
daughter of the missionary, Bingham, and the first white child born in
the Sandwich Islands. The first child born at the Falls of St. Anthony
was Mrs. Horatio Van Cleve, the daughter of Maj. Nathan Clark. Orren
and Ann White, descendants of the New England pilgrims, came to Ann
Arbor the second year after its settlement, and still reside on the
place they purchased, about two miles from the village.
Mrs. Goodrich, one of the pioneers, who came with her husband and
family to Michigan as early as 1827, prides herself somewhat on a
thrifty grape vine which ornaments her beautiful garden, brought by
her from New England, and a shoot from those vines at “Bloody Brook,”
the tempting clusters of which enticed the unfortunate young men
whose massacre gave name to the locality Miss Hoit, who lived in the
northern part of Livingston County, when the country was covered with
thick forests, wandered one day so far, while gathering wild flowers,
that she entirely lost her way. In her distress she heard the tinkling
of cow-bells, and following the sound, remained with the cattle till
evening, when she went home in safety under their escort.
The wife of a pioneer who had lived in “the bush” nearly three years
without seeing another white female face, has spoken of the delight
with which she found a dandelion in bloom near her door-step. Probably
the seed of the golden flower had been brought with that of the “tame
grass,” as they called “timothy” in distinction from the native marsh
grass; and its unexpected appearance brought back so vividly her old
home associations and remembrance of the beloved ones there, that she
could not resist the impulse to “sit down and have a good cry.” “I felt
less lonely,” she said, “all that day, and ever since. My dandelions
are the only ones in the settlement, and I take care that they and the
white clover, which has since made its appearance, shall not run out.”
Another in Illinois, who had for a long time lived without windows,
found herself at last able to indulge in the luxury of glass panes, and
had a small window set, so that she could see to sew in the day-time in
winter. All the first day, while plying her needle, she found herself
continually looking off, to wonder at the novelty of what she had been
formerly used to regard as an indispensable convenience. The dwellers
on the heavily timbered land, which unlike the pleasant “openings”
where the sunshine falls, afforded no relief except the “clearing”
marked with blackened stumps, were subjected to dangers as well as
inconvenience. Mrs. Comstock, describing her primitive home in Shiwasse
County, says,--“We had previously had a log house erected in the woods,
but we came up in a boat by the river, and when we reached the spot,
were obliged to have a road cut before we could get to our home. Here
for a long time I never dared trust our children outside the enclosure
for fear of the bears; for those animals would often come close about
us, even to the fence.”
Many of the families who had removed to Detroit before the war of 1812,
returned east previous to its outbreak, being in dread of attacks from
the Indians in the neighborhood, who were known to be in British pay,
and made frequent demonstrations of hostility; sometimes encamping near
the houses of residents in numbers of three or four hundred. Captives
brought to Detroit by the savages, were often purchased there to save
them from a more terrible fate. A young girl who had been thus taken
into a family, one day seeing a party of Indians pass by, uttered
a piercing shriek, and fell senseless to the floor. On recovering
consciousness, she declared that she had seen her mother’s scalp in
possession of one of the savages, recognizing it by the long light
braid of hair. Her story was confirmed by a person who had seen the
mother and daughter brought with other prisoners from near Sandusky,
Ohio. The mother being in feeble health, and unable to travel as fast
as was required, was tomahawked, her daughter being hurried on in
ignorance of the cruel murder.
At the time of Hull’s surrender, the women expressed much indignation.
A Mrs. Woodward, since well known in Detroit, mentions a hairbreadth
escape. One morning during the war, she had risen, dressed herself as
usual, and was sitting by an open window which looked upon the Canada
side; suddenly a cannon-ball whizzed past her face and buried itself
in the side of the house. She avers that it actually straightened the
curls of her hair.
The preceding notices may serve to show something of the privations and
perils encountered by female pioneers in Michigan, and the heroism,
patience, and energy with which they were met, as well as afford a
glimpse into the peculiar character which, marking the early settlers,
has in some degree been transmitted to their children.
XXIV.
Even as late as 1835, the emigrants who poured into Michigan, often
building their homes in the dense forest or on wild prairie land, are
entitled to be called pioneers. An idea of the scenery of portions
of the peninsula at that period, and the mode of living among the
early settlers, may be given best in the language of one who has had
opportunity of observing them. For this purpose, I am permitted to make
a few extracts from a manuscript journal kept by a highly gifted and
accomplished lady, now residing in the western part of New York, who
travelled in that year on horseback through the lower peninsula:
“Bronson (now Kalamazoo), May 28th, 1835. Owing to the uniform progress
of journeying day after day from Jacksonburgh to Marshall, a distance
of thirty-six, and from Marshall hence, of thirty-seven miles, ‘the
little lines of yesterday’ have well-nigh faded without being noticed.
The memory of the beautiful, and of such beauty--a forest in its
wildness--is so much more powerful than distinct, and having the same
characteristics, presents so much uniformity that but little record can
be made. On our route we passed over some twenty miles through the wild
woods, without seeing a human being. The foliage was just bursting from
its numberless sheaths into rich drapery, our pathway was literally
strewn with flowers, the horses pressing them at every step, while the
birds in their leafy homes, deluged the otherwise unbroken stillness
with wild and delicious melody. The silence of the deep forest, during
the brief intervals of these untaught lays, seems strangely oppressive;
yet ere you can analyze its unwonted power, earth’s lyre, with its
myriad tones, is struck again, and you are roused to the liveliest
sympathy. I had somewhat the feeling of Milton’s Eve, differently
applied. She asked, ‘Wherefore all night long _shine_ these?’ My
heart-query was, ‘Wherefore all this wealth of varied note and strain?’
But the same heart answered, ‘These feathered songsters know of home,
and love, and sweet companionship, and joyously give thanks for the
gift of being, telling to each other, and to Him who made them, of the
blessing of life.’
“This day we first saw the Kalamazoo River--a narrow, dark stream. We
stopped at a small log cabin, which on its shingle sign advertised
‘Entertainment for man and beast;’ doubtless after the fashion of the
settlements the proprietors had left, and we were grateful for any
shelter from the noonday sun. I noticed, while sitting in an inner
room, to which, as a lady traveller, I was ceremoniously conducted,
that the landlord eyed my husband with singular, yet irresolute
attention. I did not fancy, however, that he had ever seen him
before. He was an odd-looking personage; rather slight in his general
proportions, and short in stature; he had large, prominent features,
overshadowed by a shock of coarse yellow hair, faded and worn, that
gave him a wild and savage aspect, particularly as this hair and his
complexion seemed scarcely to vary a shade in tint. After repeated
advances, accompanied with stolen and hurried glances at my husband,
he rushed out from his so-called bar, and broke out into a sort of
earnest thanksgiving, blessing him for having ejected him from one
of the small pieces of land contracted to settlers in western New
York. He went on to say that he did not at first recognize him, but
he did now, and could tell him that sending him from that farm was
one of the best things that ever happened to him; that after he was
sent away because he could not pay a cent on his land, he came to
this place, and would not give ten acres of it for fifty like that he
left in the State of New York. Setting aside the intrinsic value so
earnestly put forth, this new and much-prized possession was truly a
beautiful spot. The dark current of the river was rushing with arrowy
swiftness past the trail on which he had piled his log dwelling. A fine
piece of rising ground formed the back-ground, which was imperfectly
subdued by cultivation, while a little to the west a scene lay revealed
that might do for a glimpse of fairy-land. A small lake, with its
sparkling waters, reposed like a jewel in its dark green setting.
The forest, on the one side, was enlivened with the luxuriance of
the dog-wood, now in full blossom as far as the eye could reach. The
large white flowers dispensed in such profusion, gave more the aspect
of a boundless garden of lilies, than the unsuspected treasures of
an uncultivated wilderness. There were clear openings on the other
side, the meadow-like ground being just sprinkled with trees, as if
arrayed for picturesque landscape beauty, affording wider vistas from
the foliage only making itself seen in delicate tracery, not being yet
quite unfolded.
‘Many an elf and many a fay
Here might hold their pastime gay.’
“Our landlady for the hour seemed to share fully her husband’s feelings
of self-gratulation, though she told me it was pretty hard times when
they had to live in and under their ox-wagon during the early spring
days, while the logs were felled and put up for their home. This log
house would be quite an object of interest to persons unaccustomed
to the pristine dwellings of the western territories. It seemed to
consist of three distinct buildings, probably put up at different
periods, to meet the increasing demands of ambition as prosperity more
abounded. What was evidently the first pile of logs, was used as a
bar-room of the roughest construction. This also served as a counter
for the ready-change business of this much frequented inn. The boards,
or rather planks of the floor, were hewn, and laid down so unequally
as to be perilous to an unwary or even rapid step. Directly in the
rear was the kitchen, in which the culinary implements and table
necessaries were arranged, evidently with an attempt at order without
the recognized law thereunto of anything in heaven or earth. The
cooking apparatus was so simple, and the vessels for various uses so
few in number, as to excite my wonder and admiration at woman’s homely
tact and skill; and wayworn traveller though I was, the preparation
for our noonday meal was almost as engrossing as the partaking thereof
after it was prepared. A third division of the house served as a
_parlor_ for our hostess, and as an occasional bedroom for ‘special
people’--a phrase which I found quite current as a designation for the
more fastidious class of travellers, who now began to pass through
this hitherto almost unknown territory. Above the main part of these
buildings extended a sort of garret, lighted by a window of four small
panes in one end, and the opening of the ladder-way--the only mode of
entrance. This was the dormitory of India-rubber like capacity for the
multitudes who in this season of land-speculation, did here nightly
congregate.