differently cast, and thinking you have seen the last of them. But a few
hundred yards further, and you hear the tinkling of a bell; two or three
lean cows--with calves about the age of the baby--come straggling by.
You look for the driver, and see a tall girl with a very young face--the
eldest of the family, though not exceeding twelve or thirteen years in
age. You feel quite sure, that, besides her sun-bonnet and well-worn
shoes, she wears but one article of apparel--and that a loose dress of
linsey, rather narrow in the skirt, of a dirty brown color, with a tinge
of red. It hangs straight down about her limbs, as if it were wet, and
with every step--for she walks stoutly--it flaps and flies about her
ankles, as if shotted in the lower hem. She presents, altogether, rather
a slatternly figure, and her face is freckled and sunburnt.
But you must not judge her too rashly; for her eye is keen and
expressive, and her mouth is quite pretty--especially when she smiles. A
few years hence--if you have the _entree_--you may meet her in the best
and highest circles of the country. Perhaps, while you are dancing
attendance upon some new administration, asking for a "place," and
asking, probably, in vain, she may come to Washington, a beautiful and
accomplished woman--the wife of some member of Congress, whose
constituency is numbered by the hundred thousand!
You may pass on, now, and forget her; but, if you stop to talk five
minutes, she will not forget _you_--at least, if you say anything
striking or sensible. And when you meet her again, perhaps in a gilded
saloon, among the brightest and highest in the land--if you seek an
introduction, as you probably will--she will remind you of the meeting,
and to your astonishment, will laughingly describe the scene, to some of
her obsequious friends who stand around. And then she will perhaps
introduce you, as an old friend, to one of those flax-haired boys, who
peeped out of the wagon over his mother's shoulder, as you passed them
in the wilderness: and you recognise one of the members from California,
or from Oregon, whose influence in the house, though he is as yet a very
young man, is already quite considerable. If you are successful in your
application for a "place," it may be that the casual meeting in the
forest or on the prairie was the seed which, germinating through long
years of obscurity, finally sprung up _thus_, and bore a crop of high
official honors!
The next time you meet a family of emigrants on the frontier, you will
probably observe them a little more closely.
Not a few of those who bear a prominent part in the government of our
country--more than one of the first men of the nation--men whose names
are now heard in connection with the highest office of the
people--twenty years ago, occupied a place as humble in the scale of
influence, as that flaxen-haired son of the stoop-shouldered emigrant.
Such are the elements of our civilization--such the spirit of our
institutions!
We have hitherto been speaking only of the American pioneer, and we have
devoted more space to him, than we shall give to his contemporaries,
because he has exerted more influence, both in the settlement of the
country, and in the formation of sectional character and social
peculiarities, than all the rest combined.
The French emigrant was quite a different being. Even at this day, there
are no two classes--not the eastern and western, or the northern and
southern--between whom the distinction is more marked, than it has
always been between the Saxon and the Frank. The advent of the latter
was much earlier than that of the former; and to him, therefore, must be
ascribed the credit of the first settlement of the country. But, for all
purposes of lasting impression, he must yield to his successor. It was,
in fact, the American who penetrated and cleared the forest--who subdued
and drove out the Indian--who, in a word, reclaimed the country.
In nothing was the distinction between the two races broader, than in
the feelings with which they approached the savage. We have seen that
the hatred, borne by the American toward his red enemy, was to be
traced to a long series of mutual hostilities and wrongs. But the
Frenchman had no such injuries to avenge, no hereditary feud to
prosecute. The first of his nation who had entered the country were
non-combatants--they came to convert the savage, not to conquer him,
or deprive him of his lands. Even as early as sixteen hundred and
eight, the Jesuits had established friendly relations with the Indians
of Canada--and before the stern crew of the May Flower had landed on
Plymouth Rock, they had preached the gospel on the shores of Lake
Huron. Their piety and wisdom had acquired an influence over the
untutored Indian, long before the commencement of the hostilities,
which afterward cost so much blood and suffering. They had, thus,
smoothed the way for their countrymen, and opened a safe path through
the wilderness, to the shore of the great western waters. And the
people who followed and accompanied them, were peculiarly adapted to
improve the advantages thus given them.
They were a gentle, peaceful, unambitious people. They came as the
friend, not the hereditary enemy, of the savage. They tendered the
calumet--a symbol well understood by every Indian--and were received as
allies and brethren. They had no national prejudices to overcome: the
copper color of the Indian was not an insuperable objection to
intermarriage, and children of the mixed blood were not, for that
reason, objects of scorn. An Indian maiden was as much a woman to a
Frenchman, as if she had been a _blonde_; and, if her form was graceful
and her features comely, he would woo her with as much ardor as if she
had been one of his own race.
Nor was this peculiarity attributable only to the native gallantry of
the French character, as it has sometimes been asserted; the total want
of prejudice, which grows up in contemplating an inferior race, held in
limited subjection, and a certain easiness of temper and tone of
thought, had far more influence.
The Frenchman has quite enough vanity, but very little pride. Whatever,
therefore, is sanctioned by those who surrounded him, is, in his eyes,
no degradation. He married the Indian woman--first, because there were
but few females among the emigrants, and he could not live without "the
sex;" and, second, because there was nothing in his prejudices, or in
public sentiment, to deter him. The descendants of these
marriages--except where, as in some cases, they are upheld by the
possession of great wealth--have no consideration, and are seldom seen
in the society of the whites. But this is only because French manners
and feelings have long since faded out of our social organization. The
Saxon, with his unconquerable prejudices of race, with his pride and
jealousy, has taken possession of the country; and, as he rules its
political destinies, in most places, likewise, gives tones to its
manners. Had Frenchmen continued to possess the land--had French
dominion not given place to English--mixture of blood would have had but
little influence on one's position; and there would now have been, in
St. Louis or Chicago, as many shades of color in a social assembly, as
may be seen at a ball in Mexico.
The French are a more cheerful people, than the Americans. Social
intercourse--the interchange of hospitalities--the enjoyment of
amusements in crowds--are far more important to them than to any other
race. Solitude and misery are--or ought to be--synonyms in French; and
enjoyment is like glory--it must have witnesses, or it will lose its
attraction. Accordingly, we find the French emigrant seeking
companionship, even in the trials and enterprises of the wilderness. The
American, after the manner of his race, sought places where he could
possess, for himself, enough for his wants, and be "monarch of all he
surveyed."
But the Frenchman had no such pride. He resorted to a town, where the
amusements of dancing, _fetes_, and social converse, were to be
found--where the narrow streets were scarcely more than a division
fence, "across which the women could carry on their voluble
conversations, without leaving their homes."[75] This must have been a
great advantage, and probably contributed, in no slight degree, to the
singular peace of their villages--since the proximity afforded no
temptation to going abroad, and the distance was yet too great to allow
such whisperings and scandal, as usually break up the harmony of small
circles. Whether the fact is to be attributed to this, or to some other
cause, certain it is that these little communities were eminently
peaceful. From the first settlement of Kaskaskia, for example, down to
the transfer of the western country to the British--almost a century--I
find no record, even in the voluminous epistolary chronicles, of any
personal rencontre, or serious quarrel, among the inhabitants. The same
praise can not be given to any American town ever yet built.
A species of communism seems to be a portion of the French character;
for we discover, that, even at that early day, _paysans_, or _habitans_,
collected together in villages, had their _common fields_, where the
separate portion of each family was still a part of the common
stock--and their tract of pasture-land, where there was no division, or
separate property. One enclosure covered all the fields of the
community, and all submitted to regulations made by the free voice of
the people.
If one was sick, or employed in the service of the colony, or absent
on business of his own at planting or harvest time, his portion was
not therefore neglected: his ground was planted, or his crop was
gathered, by the associated labor of his neighbors, as thoroughly and
carefully as if he had been at home. His family had nothing to fear;
because in the social code of the simple villagers, each was as much
bound to maintain the children of his friend as his own. This state of
things might have its inconveniences and vices--of which, perhaps, the
worst was its tendency to merge the family into the community, and
thus--by obliterating the lines of individuality and personal
independence--benumbing enterprise and checking improvements: but it
was certainly productive of some good results, also. It tended to
make people careful each of the other's rights, kind to the afflicted,
and brotherly in their social intercourse. The attractive simplicity
of manners observable, even at this day, in some of the old French
villages, is traceable to this peculiar form of their early
organization.
It would be well if that primitive simplicity of life and manners, could
be combined with rapid, or even moderate improvement. But, in the
present state of the world, this can scarcely be; and, accordingly, we
find the Frenchman of the passing year, differing but little from his
ancestor of sixteen hundred and fifty--still living in the old
patriarchal style, still cultivating his share of the common field, and
still using the antiquated processes of the seventeenth century.
But, though not so active as their neighbors, the Americans, they were
ever much happier. They had no ambition beyond enough for the passing
hour: with that they were perfectly contented. They were very patient
of the deprivation, when they had it not; and seasons of scarcity saw
no cessation of music and dancing, no abridgment of the jest and song.
If the earth yielded enough in one year to sustain them till the
next, the amount of labor expended for that object was never
increased--superfluity they cared nothing for: and commerce, save such
limited trade as was necessary to provide their few luxuries, was
beyond both their capacity and desires. The prolific soil was suffered
to retain its juices; it was reserved for another people to discover
and improve its infinite productiveness.
They were indolent, careless, and improvident. Great enterprises were
above or below them. Political interests, and the questions concerning
national dominion, were too exciting to charm their gentle natures.
Their intelligence was, of course, not of the highest order: but they
had no use for learning--literature was out of place in the
wilderness--the pursuit of letters could have found no sympathy, and for
solitary enjoyment, the Frenchman cultivates nothing. Life was almost
altogether sensuous: and, though their morals were in keeping with their
simplicity, existence to them was chiefly a physical matter. The
fertility of the soil, producing all the necessaries of life with a
small amount of labor, and the amenity of the climate, rendering
defences against winter but too easy, encouraged their indolence, and
soothed their scanty energy.
"They made no attempt," said one[76] who knew them well, "to acquire
land from the Indians, to organize a social system, to introduce
municipal regulations, or to establish military defences; but cheerfully
obeyed the priests and the king's officers, and enjoyed the present
without troubling their heads about the future. They seem to have been
even careless as to the acquisition of property, and its transmission to
their heirs. Finding themselves in a fruitful country, abounding in
game--where the necessaries of life could be procured with little
labor--where no restraints were imposed by government, and neither
tribute nor personal service was exacted, they were content to live in
unambitious peace and comfortable poverty. They took possession of so
much of the vacant land around them, as they were disposed to till, and
no more. Their agriculture was rude: and even to this day, some of the
implements of husbandry and modes of cultivation, brought from France a
century ago, remain unchanged by the march of mind or the hand of
innovation. Their houses were comfortable, and they reared fruits and
flowers, evincing, in this respect, an attention to comfort and luxury,
which has not been practised by the English and American first
settlers. But in the accumulation of property, and in all the essentials
of industry, they were indolent and improvident, rearing only the bare
necessaries of life, and living from generation to generation without
change or improvement."
"They reared fruits and flowers," he says; and this simple fact denotes
a marked distinction between them and the Americans, not only in regard
to the things themselves, as would seem to be the view of the author
quoted, but in mental constitution, modes of thought, and motives to
action. Their tastes were elegant, ornate, and refined. They found
pleasure in pursuits which the American deems trivial, frivolous, and
unworthy of exertion.
If any trees sheltered the house of the American, they were those
planted by the winds; if there were any flowers at his door, they were
only those with which prodigal nature has carpeted the prairies; and you
may see now in the west, many a cabin which has stood for thirty years,
with not a tree, of shade or fruit, within a mile of its door!
Everything is as bare and as cheerless about the door-yard, as it was
the first winter of its enclosure. But, stretching away from it, in
every direction, sometimes for miles, you will see extensive and
productive fields of grain, in the highest state of cultivation. It is
not personal comfort, or an elegant residence, for which the American
cares, but the enduring and solid results of unwearied labor.
A Frenchman's residence is surrounded by flower-beds and orchards; his
windows are covered by creeping-vines and trellis-work; flower-pots and
bird-cages occupy the sills and surround the corridors; everything
presents the aspect of elegant taste, comfort, and indolence. The extent
of his fields, the amount of his produce, the intelligence and industry
of his cultivation, bear an immense disproportion to those of his less
ornamental, though more energetic, neighbor.
The distinction between the two races is as clear in their personal
appearance and bearing, as in the aspect of their plantations. The
Frenchman is generally a spruce, dapper little gentleman, brisk,
obsequious, and insinuating in manner, and usually betraying minute
attention to externals. The American is always plain in dress--evincing
no more taste in costume than in horticulture--steady, calm, and never
lively in manner: blunt, straightforward, and independent in discourse.
The one is amiable and submissive, the other choleric and rebellious.
The Frenchman always recognises and bows before superior rank: the
American acknowledges no superior, and bows to no man save in courtesy.
The former is docile and easily governed: the latter is intractable,
beyond control. The Frenchman accommodates himself to circumstances: the
American forces circumstances to yield to him.
The consequence has been, that while the American has stamped his
character upon the whole country, there are not ten places in the valley
of the Mississippi, where you would infer, from anything you see, that a
Frenchman had ever placed his foot upon the soil. The few localities in
which the French character yet lingers, are fast losing the distinction;
and a score or two of years will witness a total disappearance of the
gentle people and their primitive abodes. Even now--excepting in a few
parishes in Louisiana--the relics of the race bear a faded, antiquated
look: as if they belonged to a past century, as, indeed, they do, and
only lingered now, to witness, for a brief space, the glaring
innovations of the nineteenth, and then, lamenting the follies of modern
civilization, to take their departure for ever!
Let them depart in peace! For they were a gentle and pacific race, and
in their day did many kindly things!
"The goodness of the heart is shown in deeds
Of peacefulness and kindness."
Their best monument is an affectionate recollection of their simplicity:
their highest wish
----"To sleep in humble life,
Beneath the storm ambition blows."
FOOTNOTES:
[70] _History of the United States_, vol. iii., p. 336. Enacted in
Massachusetts.
[71] A detailed and somewhat tedious account of these savage inroads,
may be found in Warburton's _Conquest of Canada_, published by Harpers.
New-York. 1850.
[72] This is the estimate of Bancroft--and, I think, at least, thirty
thousand too liberal. If the number were doubled, however, it would not
weaken the position in the text.
[73] On the subject of naming towns, much might have been said in the
preceding article in favor of French taste, and especially that just and
unpretending taste, which led them almost alway to retain the Indian
names. While the American has pretentiously imported from the Old World
such names as Venice, Carthage, Rome, Athens, and even London and Paris,
or has transferred from the eastern states, Boston, Philadelphia,
Baltimore, and New York, the Frenchman, with a better judgment, has
retained such Indian names as Chicago, Peoria, Kaskaskia, Cahokia,
Illinois, Wisconsin, Missouri, Wabash, and Mississippi.
[74] This word is a pregnant memento of the manner in which the vain
words of flippant orators fall, innocuous, to the ground, when they
attempt to stigmatize, with contemptuous terms, the truly noble.
"Squatter" is now, in the west, only another name for "Pioneer," and
that word describes all that is admirable in courage, truth, and
manhood!
[75] Perkins's _Western Annals_.
[76] "Sketches of the West," by Judge Hall, for many years a resident of
Illinois.
[Illustration: THE RANGER.]
IV.
THE RANGER.
"When purposed vengeance I forego,
Term me a wretch, nor deem me foe;
And when an insult I forgive,
Then brand me as a slave, and live."
SCOTT.
In elaborating the character of the pioneer, we have unavoidably
anticipated, in some measure, that of the Ranger--for the latter was, in
fact, only one of the capacities in which the former sometimes acted.
But--since, in the preceding article, we have endeavored to confine
the inquiry, so as to use the term _Pioneer_ as almost synonymous with
_Immigrant_--we have, of course, ignored, to some extent, the
subordinate characters, in which he frequently figured. We therefore
propose, now, briefly to review one or two of them in their natural
succession.
The progress of our country may be traced and measured, by the
representative characters which marked each period. The
missionary-priest came first, when the land was an unbroken wilderness.
The military adventurer, seeking to establish new empires, and acquire
great fortunes, entered by the path thus opened. Next came the hunter,
roaming the woods in search of wild beasts upon which he preyed. Making
himself familiar with the pathless forest and the rolling prairie, he
qualified himself to guide, even while he fled from, the stream of
immigration. At last came the pioneer, to drive away the savage, to
clear out the forests, and reclaim the land.
At first, he was _only_ a pioneer. He had few neighbors, he belonged to
no community--his household was his country, his family were his only
associates or companions. In the course of time others followed him--he
could occasionally meet a white man on the prairies; if he wandered a
few miles from home, he could see the smoke of another chimney in the
distance. If he did not at once abandon his "clearing" and go further
west, he became, in some sort, a member of society--was the
fellow-citizen of his neighbors. The Indians became alarmed for their
hunting grounds, or the nations went to war and drew them into the
contest: the frontier became unsafe: the presence of danger drew the
pioneers together: they adopted a system of defence, and the ranger was
the offspring and representative of a new order of things.
Rough and almost savage as he sometimes was, he was still the index to a
great improvement. Rude as the system was, it gave shape and order to
what had before been mere chaos.
The ranger marks a new era, then; his existence is another chapter in
the history of the west. Previous to his time, each pioneer depended
only on himself for defence--his sole protection, against the wild beast
and the savage, was his rifle--self-dependence was his peculiar
characteristic. The idea of a fighting establishment--the germ of
standing armies--had never occurred to him: even the rudest form of
civil government was strange to him--taxes, salaries, assessments, were
all "unknown quantities."
But, gradually, all this changed; and with his circumstances, his
character was also modified. He lost a little of his sturdy
independence, his jealousy of neighborhood was softened--his solitary
habits became more social--he acknowledged the necessity for concert of
action--he merged a part of his individuality into the community,
and--became a ranger.
In this capacity, his character was but little different to what it had
been before the change; and, though that change was a great improvement,
considered with reference to society, it may safely be doubted whether
it made the individual more respectable. He was a better _citizen_,
because he now contributed to the common defence: but he was not a
better _man_, because new associations brought novel temptations, and
mingling with other men wore away the simplicity, which was the
foundation of his manliness. Before assuming his new character,
moreover, he never wielded a weapon except in his own defence--or, at
most, in avenging his own wrongs. The idea of justice--claiming
reparation for an injury, which he alone could estimate, because by him
alone it was sustained--protected his moral sense. But, when he assumed
the vindication of his neighbor's rights, and the reparation of his
wrongs--however kind it may have been to do so--he was sustained only by
the spirit of hatred to the savage, could feel no such justification as
the consciousness of injury.