"encouragements," have, in our own day, caressed, and wept and lamented
over the tawny murderer, Black-Hawk, and his "wrongs" and "misfortunes;"
but the theatre of Indian warfare was then removed a little farther
west; and the atrocities of Haverhill and Deerfield were perpetrated on
the western prairies, and not amid the forests of the east! Yet I do not
mean, by referring to this passage of history--or to the rivers of
wasted sentiment poured out a few years ago--so much to condemn our
forefathers, or to draw invidious comparisons between them and others,
as to show, that the war of extermination, sometimes waged by western
rangers, was not without example--that the cruelty and hatred of the
pioneer to the barbarous Indian, might originate in exasperation, which
even moved the puritans; and that the lamentations, over the fictitious
"wrongs" of a turbulent and bloody savage, might have run in a channel
nearer home.
Hatred of the Indian, among the pioneers, was hereditary; there was
scarcely a man on the frontier, who had not lost a father, a mother, or
a brother, by the tomahawk; and not a few of them had suffered in their
own persons. The child, who learned the rudiments of his scanty
education at his mother's knee, must decipher the strange characters by
the straggling light which penetrated the crevices between the logs;
for, while the father was absent, in the field or on the war-path, the
mother was obliged to bar the doors and barricade the windows against
the savages. Thus, if he did not literally imbibe it with his mother's
milk, one of the first things the pioneer learned, was dread, and
consequently hatred, of the Indian. That feeling grew with his growth,
strengthened with his strength--for a life upon the western border left
but few days free from sights of blood or mementoes of the savage. The
pioneer might go to the field in the morning, unsuspecting; and, at
noon, returning, find his wife murdered and scalped, and the brains of
his little ones dashed out against his own doorpost! And if a deadly
hatred of the Indian took possession of his heart, who shall blame him?
It may be said, the pioneer was an intruder, seeking to take forcible
possession of the Indian's lands--and that it was natural that the
Indian should resent the wrong after the manner of his race. Granted:
and it was quite as natural that the pioneer should return the enmity,
after the manner of _his_ race!
But the pioneer was _not_ an intruder.
For all the purposes, for which reason and the order of Providence
authorize us to say, God made the earth, this continent was
vacant--uninhabited. And--granting that the savage was in
possession--for this is his only ground of title, as, indeed, it is the
foundation of all primary title--there were at the period of the first
landing of white men on the continent, between Lake Superior and the
Gulf of Mexico, east of the Mississippi, about one hundred and eighty
thousand Indians.[72] That region now supports at least twenty millions
of civilized people, and is capable of containing quite ten times that
number, without crowding! Now, if God made the earth for any purpose, it
certainly was _not_ that it should be monopolized by a horde of nomad
savages!
But an argument on this subject, would not be worth ink and paper; and I
am, moreover, aware, that this reasoning may be abused. _Any_ attempt to
construe the purposes of Deity must be liable to the same
misapplication. And, besides, it is not my design to go so far back; I
seek not so much to excuse as to account for--less to justify than to
analyze--the characteristics of the class before me. I wish to establish
that the pioneer hatred of the Indian was not an unprovoked or
groundless hatred, that the severity of his warfare was not a mere
gratuitous and bloody-minded cruelty. There are a thousand actions, of
which we are hearing every day, that are indefensible in morals: and yet
we are conscious while we condemn the actors, that, in like
circumstances, we could not have acted differently. So is it with the
fierce and violent reprisals, sometimes made by frontier rangers. Their
best defence lies in the statement that they were men, and that their
manhood prompted them to vengeance. When they deemed themselves injured,
they demanded reparation, in such sort as that demand could then be
made--at the muzzle of a rifle or the point of a knife. They were equal
to the times in which they lived.--Had they not been so, how many
steamboats would now be floating on the Mississippi?
There was no romance in the composition of the pioneer--whatever there
may have been in his environment. His life was altogether too serious a
matter for poetry, and the only music he took pleasure in, was the sound
of a violin, sending forth notes remarkable only for their liveliness.
Even this, he could enjoy but at rare periods, when his cares were
forcibly dismissed. He was, in truth, a very matter-of-fact sort of
person. It was principally with facts that he had to deal--and
most of them were very "stubborn facts." Indeed, it may be
doubted--notwithstanding much good poetry has been written (in cities
chiefly), on solitude and the wilderness--whether a life in the woods
is, after all, very suggestive of poetical thoughts. The perils of the
frontier must borrow most of their "enchantment" from the "distance;"
and its sufferings and hardships are certainly more likely to evoke
pleasant fancies to him who sits beside a good coal fire, than to one
whose lot it is to bear them. Even the (so-called) "varied imagery" of
the Indian's eloquence--about which so much nonsense has been
written--is, in a far greater measure, the result of the poverty and
crude materialism of his language, than of any poetical bias,
temperament, or tone of thought. An Indian, as we have said before, has
no humor--he never understands a jest--his wife is a beast of
burthen--heaven is a hunting-ground--his language has no words to
express abstract qualities, virtues, or sentiments. And yet he lives in
the wilderness all the days of his life! The only trait he has, in
common with the poetical character, is his laziness.
But the pioneer was not indolent, in any sense. He had no
dreaminess--meditation was no part of his mental habit--a poetical
fancy would, in him, have been an indication of insanity. If he reclined
at the foot of a tree, on a still summer day, it was to sleep: if he
gazed out over the waving prairie, it was to search for the column of
smoke which told of his enemy's approach: if he turned his eyes toward
the blue heaven, it was to prognosticate to-morrow's storm or sunshine:
if he bent his gaze upon the green earth, it was to look for "Indian
sign" or buffalo trail. His wife was only a help-mate--he never thought
of making a divinity of her--she cooked his dinner, made and washed his
clothes, bore his children, and took care of his household. His children
were never "little cherubs,"--"angels sent from heaven"--but generally
"tow-headed" and very earthly responsibilities. He looked forward
anxiously, to the day when the boys should be able to assist him in the
field, or fight the Indian, and the girls to help their mother make and
mend. When one of the latter took it into her head to be married--as
they usually did quite early in life; for beaux were plenty and belles
were "scarce"--he only made one condition, that the man of her choice
should be brave and healthy. He never made a "parade" about
anything--marriage, least of all. He usually gave the bride--not the
"blushing" bride--a bed, a lean horse, and some good advice: and, having
thus discharged his duty in the premises, returned to his work, and the
business was done.
The marriage ceremony, in those days, was a very unceremonious affair.
The parade and drill which now attend it, would then have been as
ridiculous as a Chinese dance; and the finery and ornament, at present
understood to be indispensable on such occasions, then bore no sway in
fashion. Bridal wreaths and dresses were not known; and white kid gloves
and satin slippers never heard of. Orange blossoms--natural and
artificial--were as pretty then as now; but the people were more
occupied with substance, than with emblem.
The ancients decked _their_ victims for the sacrifice with gaudy colors,
flags, and streamers; the moderns do the same, and the offerings are
sometimes made to quite as barbarous deities.
But the bride of the pioneer was clothed in linsey-wolsey, with hose of
woollen yarn; and moccasins of deer-skin--or as an extra piece of
finery, high-quartered shoes of calf-skin--preceded satin slippers. The
bridegroom came in copperas-colored jeans--domestic manufacture--as a
holiday suit; or, perhaps, a hunting-shirt of buckskin, all fringed
around the skirt and cape, and a "coon-skin" cap, with moccasins.
Instead of a dainty walking-stick, with an opera-dancer's leg, in ivory,
for head, he always brought his rifle, with a solid maple stock; and
never, during the whole ceremony, did he divest himself of powder-horn
and bullet-pouch.
Protestant ministers of the gospel were few in those days; and the words
of form were usually spoken by a Jesuit missionary. Or, if the Pioneer
had objections to Catholicism--as many had--his place was supplied by
some justice of the peace, of doubtful powers and mythical appointment.
If neither of these could be procured, the father of the bride, himself,
sometimes assumed the functions, _pro hac vice_, or _pro tempore_, of
minister or justice. It was always understood, however, that such
left-handed marriages were to be confirmed by the first minister who
wandered to the frontier: and, even when the opportunity did not offer
for many months, no scandal ever arose--the marriage vow was never
broken. The pioneers were simple people--the refinements of high
cultivation had not yet penetrated the forests or crossed the
prairies--and good faith and virtue were as common as courage and
sagacity.
When the brief, but all-sufficient ceremony was over, the bridegroom
resumed his rifle, helped the bride into the saddle--or more frequently
to the pillion behind him--and they calmly rode away together.
On some pleasant spot--surrounded by a shady grove, or point of
timber--a new log-cabin has been built: its rough logs notched across
each other at the corners, a roof of oaken clapboards, held firmly down
by long poles along each course, its floor of heavy "puncheons," its
broad, cheerful fireplace, large as a modern bed-room--all are in the
highest style of frontier architecture. Within--excepting some
anomalies, such as putting the skillet and tea-kettle in the little
cupboard, along with the blue-edged plates and yellow-figured
tea-cups--for the whole has been arranged by the hands of the bridegroom
himself--everything is neatly and properly disposed. The oaken bedstead,
with low square posts, stands in one corner, and the bed is covered by a
pure white counterpane, with fringe--an heirloom in the family of the
bride. At the foot of this is seen a large, heavy chest--like a
camp-chest--to serve for bureau, safe, and dressing-case.
In the middle of the floor--directly above a trap-door which leads to a
"potato-hole" beneath--stands a ponderous walnut table, and on it sits a
nest of wooden trays; while, flanking these, on one side, is a
nicely-folded tablecloth, and, on the other, a wooden-handled
butcher-knife and a well-worn Bible. Around the room are ranged a few
"split-bottomed" chairs, exclusively for use, not ornament. In the
chimney-corners, or under the table, are several three-legged stools,
made for the children, who--as the bridegroom laughingly insinuates
while he points to the uncouth specimens of his handiwork--"will be
coming in due time." The wife laughs in her turn--replies, "no
doubt"--and, taking one of the graceful tripods in her hand, carries it
forth to sit upon while she milks the cow--for she understands what she
is expected to do, and does it without delay. In one corner--near the
fireplace--the aforesaid cupboard is erected--being a few oaken shelves
neatly pinned to the logs with hickory forks--and in this are arranged
the plates and cups;--not as the honest pride of the housewife would
arrange them, to display them to the best advantage--but piled away,
one within another, without reference to show. As yet there is no sign
of female taste or presence.
But now the house receives its mistress. The "happy couple" ride up to
the low rail-fence in front--the bride springs off without assistance,
affectation, or delay. The husband leads away the horse or horses, and
the wife enters the dominion, where, thenceforward, she is queen. There
is no coyness, no blushing, no pretence of fright or nervousness--if you
will, no romance--for which the husband has reason to be thankful! The
wife knows what her duties are and resolutely goes about performing
them. She never dreamed, nor twaddled, about "love in a cottage," or
"the sweet communion of congenial souls" (who never eat anything): and
she is, therefore, not disappointed on discovering that life is actually
a serious thing. She never whines about "making her husband happy"--but
sets firmly and sensibly about making him _comfortable_. She cooks his
dinner, nurses his children, shares his hardships, and encourages his
industry. She never complains of having too much work to do, she does
not desert her home to make endless visits--she borrows no misfortunes,
has no imaginary ailings. Milliners and mantua-makers she
ignores--"shopping" she never heard of--scandal she never invents or
listens to. She never wishes for fine carriages, professes no inability
to walk five hundred yards, and does not think it a "vulgar
accomplishment," to know how to make butter. She has no groundless
anxieties, she is not nervous about her children taking cold: a doctor
is a visionary potentate to her--a drug-shop is a depot of abominations.
She never forgets whose wife she is,--there is no "sweet confidante"
without whom she "can not live"--she never writes endless letters about
nothing. She is, in short, a faithful, honest wife: and, "in due time,"
the husband must make _more_ "three-legged stools"--for the "tow-heads"
have now covered them all!
Such is the wife and mother of the pioneer, and, with such influences
about him, how could he be otherwise than honest, straightforward, and
manly?
But, though a life in the woods was an enemy to every sort of
sentimentalism--though a more unromantic being than the pioneer can
hardly be imagined--yet his character unquestionably took its hue, from
the primitive scenes and events of his solitary existence. He was, in
many things, as simple as a child: as credulous, as unsophisticated. Yet
the utmost cunning of the wily savage--all the strategy of Indian
warfare--was not sufficient to deceive or overreach him! Though one
might have expected that his life of ceaseless watchfulness would make
him skeptical and suspicious, his confidence was given heartily, without
reservation, and often most imprudently. If he gave his trust at all,
you might ply him, by the hour, with the most improbable and outrageous
fictions, without fear of contradiction or of unbelief. He never
questioned the superior knowledge or pretensions of any one who claimed
acquaintance with subjects of which _he_ was ignorant.
The character of his intellect, like that of the Indian, was thoroughly
synthetical: he had nothing of the faculty which enables us to detect
falsehood, even in matters of which we know nothing by comparison and
analogy. He never analyzed any story told him, he took it as a unit;
and, unless it violated some known principle of his experience, or
conflicted with some fact of his own observation, never doubted its
truth. At this moment, there are men in every western settlement who
have only vague, crude notions of what a city is--who would feel
nervous if they stepped upon the deck of a steamboat--and are utterly at
a loss to conjecture the nature of a railroad. Upon either of these
mystical subjects they will swallow, without straining, the most absurd
and impossible fictions. And this is not because of their ignorance
alone, for many of them are, for their sphere in life, educated,
intelligent, and, what is better, sensible men. Nor is it by any means a
national trait: for a genuine Yankee will scarcely believe the truth;
and, though he may sometimes trust in very wild things, his faith is
usually an active "craze," and not mere passive credulity. The pioneer,
then, has not derived it from his eastern fathers: it is the growth of
the woods and prairies--an embellishment to a character which might
otherwise appear naked and severe.
Another characteristic, traceable to the same source, the stern reality
of his life, is the pioneer's gravity.
The agricultural population of this country are, at the best, not a
cheerful race. Though they sometimes join in festivities, it is but
seldom; and the wildness of their dissipation is too often in proportion
to its infrequency. There is none of the serene contentment--none of
that smiling enjoyment--which, according to travellers like Howitt,
distinguishes the tillers of the ground in other lands. _Sedateness_ is
a national characteristic, but the gravity of the pioneer is quite
another thing; it includes pride and personal dignity, and indicates a
stern, unyielding temper. There is, however, nothing morose in it: it is
its aspect alone, which forbids approach; and that only makes more
conspicuous the heartiness of your reception, when once the shell is
broken. Acquainted with the character, you do not expect him to _smile_
much; but now and then he _laughs_: and that laugh is round, free, and
hearty. You know at once that he enjoys it, you are convinced that he is
a firm friend and "a good hater."
It is not surprising, with a character such as I have described, that
the pioneer is not gregarious, that he is, indeed, rather solitary.
Accordingly, we never find a genuine specimen of the class, among the
emigrants, who come in shoals and flocks, and pitch their tents in
"colonies;" who lay out towns and cities, projected upon paper, and call
them New Boston, New Albany, or New Hartford, before one log is placed
upon another; nor are there many of the unadulterated stock among that
other class, who come from regions further south, and christen their
towns, classically, Carthage, Rome, or Athens: or, patriotically, in
commemoration of some Virginian worthy, some Maryland sharpshooter, or
"Jersey blue."
The real pioneer never emigrates gregariously; he does not wish to be
within "halloo" of his nearest neighbor; he is no city-builder; and, if
he does project a town, he christens it by some such name as Boonville
or Clarksville, in memory of a noted pioneer: or Jacksonville or
Waynesville, to commemorate some "old hero" who was celebrated for good
fighting.[73] And the reason why the outlandish and _outre_ so much
predominate in the names of western towns and cities, must be sought in
the fact referred to above, that the western man is not essentially a
town-projector, and that, consequently, comparatively few of the towns
were "laid out" by the legitimate pioneer. We shall have more to say of
town-building under another head; and, in the meantime, having said that
the pioneer is not gregarious, let us look at the _manner_ of his
emigration.
Many a time, in the western highways, have I met with the sturdy
"mover," as he is called, in the places where people are stationary--a
family, sometimes by no means small, wandering toward the setting sun,
in search of pleasant places on the lands of "Uncle Sam." Many a time,
in the forest or on the prairie--generally upon some point of timber
which puts a mile or two within the plain--have I passed the "clearing,"
or "pre-emption," where, with nervous arm and sturdy heart, the
"squatter"[74] cleaves out, and renders habitable, a home for himself
and a heritage for his children.
Upon the road, you first meet the pioneer himself, for he almost always
walks a few hundred yards ahead. He is usually above the medium height,
and rather spare. He stoops a little, too; for he has done a deal of
hard work, and expects to do more; but you see at once, that unless his
lungs are weak, his strength is by no means broken, and you are quite
sure that many a stately tree is destined to be humbled by his sinewy
arm. He is attired in frontier fashion: he wears a loose coat, called a
hunting-shirt, of jeans or linsey, and its color is that indescribable
hue compounded of copperas and madder; pantaloons, exceedingly loose,
and not very accurately cut in any part, of like color and material,
defend his lower limbs. His feet are cased in low, fox-colored shoes,
for of boots, he is, yet, quite innocent. Around his throat and wrists,
even in midsummer, you see the collar and wristbands of a heavy,
deep-red, flannel-shirt. Examine him very closely, and you will probably
find no other garment on his person.
His hair is dark, and not very evenly trimmed--for his wife or daughter
has performed the tonsure with a pair of rusty shears; and the longer
locks seem changed in hue, as if his dingy wool hat did not sufficiently
protect them against the wind and rain. Over his shoulder he carries a
heavy rifle, heavier than a "Harper's ferry musket," running about
"fifty to the pound." Around his neck are swung the powder-horn and
bullet-pouch, the former protected by a square of deer-skin, and the
latter ornamented with a squirrel's tail.
You take note of all these things, and then recur to his
melancholy-looking face, with its mild blue eyes and sharpened features.
You think he looks thin, and conjecture that his chest may be weak, or
his lungs affected, by the stoop in his shoulders; but when he lifts his
eyes, and asks the way to Thompson's ferry, or how far it is to water,
you are satisfied: for the glance of his eye is calm and firm, and the
tone of his voice is round and healthy. You answer his question, he nods
quietly by way of thanks, and marches on; and, though you draw your
rein, and seem inclined to further converse, he takes no notice, and
pursues his way.
A few minutes afterward, you meet the family. A small, light wagon,
easily dragged through sloughs and heavy roads, is covered with a white
cotton cloth, and drawn, by either two yokes of oxen, or a pair of lean
horses. A "patch-work" quilt is sometimes stretched across the flimsy
covering, as a guard against the sun and rain. Within this vehicle are
stowed all the emigrant's household goods, and still, it is not
overloaded.
There is usually a large chest, containing the wardrobe of the family,
with such small articles as are liable to loss, and the little store of
money. This is always in silver, for the pioneer is no judge of gold,
and, on the frontier, paper has but little exchangeable value. There are
then two light bedsteads--one "a trundle-bed"--a few plain chairs, most
of them tied on behind and at the sides; three or four stools, domestic
manufacture; a set of tent-poles and a few pots and pans. On these are
piled the "beds and bedding," tied in large bundles, and stowed in such
manner as to make convenient room for the children who are too young to
walk. In the front end of the wagon, sits the mother of the family: and,
peering over her head and shoulders, leaning out at her side, or gazing
under the edge of the cotton-covering, are numerous flaxen heads, which
you find it difficult to count while you ride past.
There are altogether too many of them, you think, for a man no older
than the one you met, a while ago; and you, perhaps, conjecture that the
youthful-looking woman has adopted some of her dead sister's children,
or, perchance, some of her brothers and sisters themselves. But you are
mistaken, they are all her offspring, and the father of every one of
them is the stoop-shouldered man you saw ahead. If you look closely, you
will observe that the mother, who is driving, holds the reins with one
hand, while, on the other arm, she supports an infant not _more_ than
six months old. It was for the advent of this little stranger, that they
delayed their emigration: and they set out while it was very young, for
fear of the approach of its successor. If they waited for their youngest
child to attain a year of age, they would never "move," until they would
be too old to make another "clearing."