AMONG the checkered scenes of missionary life on the frontier, there
are not many more pleasant than a genuine Western wedding. The
heartiness, the bold dash, the generous hospitality of the thing, and
often the novel phases of social-life which it reveals, together, of
course, with the "fee," which is rarely small in proportion to the
ability of the parties, make the event quite welcome to the toiling
preacher.
One day, on answering a modest knock, there stood before our log-house
door a young man, barefooted, coatless, with coarse, well-patched pants
and rimless straw hat, his face beaming with a bashful happiness, which
would at once have suggested his errand were it not for his garb, or
rather, want of garb.
"Are you the minister?" he asked.
"Yes," I replied.
Then followed a pause.
"Is there any thing," said I, breaking the silence, "that I can do for
you?"
"Yes. I came to see if you could come down to Mr. Dearborn's next
Thursday, and marry a couple."
"Where does Mr. Dearborn live?"
"Seven miles below here, on the other side of the river. They want you
at two o'clock, Thursday afternoon."
"I will endeavor to be there at that time," said I; "but who are the
parties?"
"Oh," he replied, with a look which was its own interpreter, "you will
know when you get there."
After getting all the directions needful for finding the place, I was
about closing the interview, but my caller lingered as if he had more
to say; and, after evident embarrassment, asked what I "charged for
marrying folks?"
"I generally leave that to the parties," said I.
Then ensued another pause, broken, at length, by his saying, in a
depressed tone,—
"I have no money now; perhaps you wouldn't come down and marry us, and
wait for your pay?"
"That I will," I replied. "And, Providence permitting, you will see me
at precisely the hour named."
The cloud lifted from the sunburnt face, and smilingly thanking me, he
hurried away with a light step.
Seven miles in prairie land is a short distance; but not being in a
mood to walk, I engaged a horse of a neighbor. Meanwhile, for the two
intervening days, it rained, or rather poured incessantly, moderating
to a gentle fall on Thursday. On calling for the horse, however, the
owner was reluctant to let him go.
"Elder," said he (he was a Methodist), "are you used to managing
horses?"
"Somewhat—why?"
"Because," he added, "my horse is a high-spirited fellow, and has a bad
trick of throwing folks. Few can ride him without getting hurt. The
fact is, I didn't sleep a wink last night, worrying about consenting to
let you have him; and I don't feel right to let him go without speaking
of it."
"How does he throw his riders?" I asked.
"By suddenly jumping to one side. He's powerful at jumping—beats all
the horses I ever saw in 'that' line," said he.
"I can look out for him!"
"He'll outwit you, elder; hope you won't try it."
But it was too late to go in search of another, and pleading urgent
business and willingness to incur all risks, the formidable beast was
led out—a powerful, intelligent, fiery animal, black as a raven.
What can be more inspiriting than a horseback jaunt across a rolling
Northwest prairie. So, despite the cold and rain, and now and then a
prodigious leap by Black Hawk, the ride was most exhilarating. It was
two miles to the bridge. On arriving there, I found that the freshet
had swept it away. Just in sight, however, in the margin of a fine
grove, was a snug little cabin, and riding briskly there, the barking
of dogs and my shouts brought the proprietor to the door, a bevy of
flaxen-haired urchins at his heels, with eyes brimful of curiosity.
"Is there any way to cross the river?" I asked.
"Yes; on the bridge," he replied, curtly.
"The bridge is gone."
"Well, then there 'isn't' any way."
"But is there no place on the stream shoal enough to be forded?"
The settler scratched his head comically, scanned me and my beast
leisurely, and said,—
"Take the road to the left, and you will come to the old ford; how it
will be in this flood, can't say. You can try it, though, if you like;
nothing like trying, they say."
There was "need" of trying, I found, on reaching the spot. There rolled
the river, deep and wide, with steep banks on either side. What was
to be done? Go back and wait till the waters subsided? That was not
"Western." The genuine pioneer never thinks of giving up an enterprise.
A short experience in the vicissitudes of frontier life wakes up a
self-reliance and love of adventure, which make danger and difficulty
to be courted rather than shunned,—indeed, they are every-day
occurrences, adding piquancy to privation and hardship. And, as I
looked down into the water of the river, there rose to view the image
of that ragged, barefoot, coatless, moneyless bridegroom; and memory
recalled certain facts which I had learned about his borrowing articles
of apparel for himself and bride, and materials for a wedding supper.
Now, to disappoint persons in their condition was hardly to be thought
of. So, chirruping to my good steed, we made the plunge—and a deep
plunge it was, for the animal above as well as the animal beneath—for
the former went nearly to his neck. However, the horse soon rose to
the surface, permitting his rider, by a happy exercise of unwonted
agility, to strike the saddle "a la Turk," which position I prudently
kept till the opposite shore was gained. Clambering up the steep bank,
my borrowed steed went at a break-neck pace the remaining five miles to
our destination. It was a small, framed house, perched on a swell of
land in the midst of a wide prairie, dotted with an occasional cabin.
The dwelling was covered only with rough boards, between which the
over-restless winds came and went at will. Alighting at the gate, a
gray-haired man—the bride's father, who was cutting wood in the little
front yard—laid down his ax and came forward to take my horse. He had,
as I afterwards learned, served in the Mexican war, and had still a
soldierly bearing. Taking the bridle, he said,—
"You are the minister, I suppose. We had given you up, thinking you
would not come in such a storm as this. But how did you cross the
river? We heard the bridge was gone."
"Horseback," said I.
"Well," said the old soldier, his eye kindling, "'a minister that can
do that can preach, I know'!"
I had fulfilled my engagement partly from sympathy and the pleasure of
conquering obstacles; there was, beside, a sort of presentiment that
urged me on; nor did I in the end regret that I yielded to it.
The interior of the humble dwelling, and its occupants, I shall not
soon forget. What taste and neatness under the most discouraging
circumstances! What method and fertility of arrangement where all
was plain, and rough, and scant! It is on the frontier, where the
appliances of elegant housewifery are impossible, that woman's fertile
resources of tact and skill most strikingly appear—often making the
rude log-house and simple, home-made furniture wear an aspect of
comfort and taste not unfrequently wanting in homes of luxury.
The household consisted of the father, already introduced,—mother,
three daughters, and the young man who had called for my services.
"Mother is not well, and would like to see you a moment," remarked
one or the young ladies, showing me into an adjoining room, where
loving hands had spared no pains to fortify its pining inmate against
exposure, and soothe the anguish of suffering.
A bed, with its snowy counterpane and tasteful curtains, stood in a
corner of the apartment. On it reclined the dying mother, the emaciated
frame and hectic cheek marking her a victim of consumption.
"I am so glad to see you," said she, extending her hand. "It is a long
while since a minister of the gospel has entered our door; and yet I
regret you have been put to so much trouble and exposure in coming. God
will reward you! But I wish to speak with you about this marriage."
I learned from herself and husband that they were from New England, and
in this and subsequent conversations gathered quite a connected account
of their peculiar domestic and religious life.
Mr. Dearborn, like many other good men, at the period when, by
prophetic interpretation, the time of the end of the world was
proclaimed to be ascertained by Mr. Miller and others, became a
convert to that theory. Not that he had ever examined for himself, or
was competent to examine, the premises from which such a conclusion
was drawn, for he knew nothing of chronology, history, sacred or
profane, nor of the principles of Bible exegesis. Indeed, his stock of
information was never very extensive, but the lectures "sounded" well,
the mathematical calculations seemed to be figured up right, and the
fervor and confidence with which all were challenged, on pain of the
most fearful consequences, to accept the whole as truth, completely
captivated his feelings. His sincerity and conscientiousness none
doubted. All his worldly prospects and possessions were sacrificed on
the altar of his new belief; the little church with which he had walked
in fellowship, he left, "shaking off the dust of his feet against it,"
because the light he sought to shed on the benighted minds of pastor
and flock was not received; his children were taken from school, all
business matters settled; and he waited, without a doubt to cloud his
mind, for the fulfillment of his expectations at the time appointed.
"Forty-three" glided by, however, as if no such man as William Miller
had calculated the symbols of Daniel and John. But then the "Jewish
forty"-three, it was announced, would justify the theory. That passed.
The "tenth day of the seventh month" was soon discovered to be the
true time. When that, too, slipped by, the poor man was in a chaos
of prophetic and doctrinal speculation. Not that he thought any more
highly of the cooler judgment of the brethren, whom he had denounced
for their dullness and hardness of heart for not believing in the
period set by his fallible guides, or that he had any less complacent
idea of his own superior piety and biblical wisdom—not he. But then,
in order to adjust the theory to the passing of the time, new opinions
were constantly started; gourds, which came up in a night to perish
in a night, and all the old doctrines in which his faith had been
nurtured, in the wild excitements of the hour were being overturned,
till he had little in common with his previous theological faith.
However, his ingenuity did not forsake him, and he settled down upon
this device, that Mr. Miller's calculations were true; the end had
come, but in a different way; the mistake had been in the "manner" of
the event, and not in the time; the six thousand years, supposed to
be allotted to our globe in its present state, had passed, and the
great Sabbath of rest had come. In accordance with this belief, he now
strictly rested from all labor, deeming it wrong to do any thing for
the support of his family, or for the spiritual good of others, albeit
he still had to eat, and his wife do the cooking, and wherever he went
he was ready to argue for the truth's sake. In this state of idle,
morbid, talkative "waiting," he embraced a thousand vagaries—among the
least harmful of which was, perhaps, when he became a non-resistant.
With such a life, his little farm in Vermont soon melted away, and
without money or business his family were in suffering circumstances.
One day, while in this plight, as he was wandering aimlessly about,
he chanced to stop before a recruiting office. While listening to
the shrill notes of the fife and the roll of the drum, he "had an
impression," to use his own language, that it was his duty to enlist.
Now, impressions had been, during the recent excitements, like a
divine law to him; for, supposing himself to be of a class specially
favored of God with knowledge of the scriptures, and of the indwelling
of the Holy Spirit, as was his custom, he did not stop to confer
with flesh and blood, but put his name down on the roll. Quickly,
however, he awoke to the incongruity of the step,—he, a peace man, a
Second Adventist, one who believed that the kingdoms of this world
were wholly of Satan, that it was contamination to have any thing
to do with human government, and sinful even for a member of the
"Fifth Monarchy" to cast a vote under the "Fourth,"—he, a soldier by
his own voluntary action, and that too in a war against Mexico,—a
war too which Mr. Miller was teaching to be the commencement of the
great battle of Armageddon! But there was no retreat; and the first
his anxious family knew of his whereabouts he was on his way to the
field of strife. Without seeming to realize his inconsistency, while
yet drawing pay as a soldier, he prayed that God would keep him from
actual blood-shedding, and believed that his prayer would be answered.
His expectations were realized. At the battle of Buena Vista, when
his regiment was ordered to charge, the spirit of fight overcame all
other considerations, and he rushed with the rest, shouting to the
conflict. But suddenly, remembering his principles and prayers, he
paused, astounded at his own conduct. Just then an officer rode up from
the front, holding in his hand a disabled gun. Seeing the hesitating
private, he said,—
"Here, Dearborn, take this," handing him the injured weapon, "and let
me have yours, and you may go back and help at the camp."
As his new sphere was congenial, he made himself eminently useful in
dealing out their rations to the soldiers, and guarding them from
surprise by the enemy. He had a quick eye and active temperament, and
was constantly on the alert. The tent from which the food was dispensed
was on a slight eminence, surmounted by a flag. Santa Anna's artillery,
drawn by oxen, would move round the hill, getting the range, but just
as the firing was to be done, the vigilant Yankee would give the word
to the men, and they would vanish from harm's way. By this course he
saved many valuable lives. From this service he was transferred to
the hospital, and was so tender and efficient as a nurse, that he was
continued in this vocation. His pay now was quite respectable; and when
discharged at the end of the war, he went home with a nice little sum,
conscious too of having been useful in the army. His non-combative
sentiments had also been untouched, for he had not fired a gun at his
country's foes during his absence.
He returned to tarry but a short time among the scenes of the past.
Although still clinging to certain features of his prophetic dogmas,
he was disposed so to plan for the future as to seek to invest his
money in some permanently remunerative way. For this purpose he
turned his thoughts towards the "great West." Besides, the changes,
disappointments, and poverty-pinchings of the family, had seriously
affected the health of the wife. Isolation from cherished religious
privileges, the violent sundering of dear and sacred ties binding
her to the people of God, while this was only in keeping with the
husband's rougher, more controversial nature, her loving, sensitive
spirit was well nigh crushed in the process. Mr. Dearborn was filled
with concern when he folded the shadowy form of his wife to his heart.
He deeply loved her, and, hoping that new scenes and a Western climate
might save her from the destroyer, he emigrated at once, making one or
two temporary locations, then selling out and going further into the
unsettled woods.
It was while on their way out that the young man, to whom their
daughter was now engaged, made their acquaintance, and joined his
fortunes with theirs. It happened under circumstances of great trial
to them, and his presence and aid were peculiarly acceptable, indeed,
indispensable. With untiring zeal he devoted himself to their comfort,
and whether on the long journey in the emigrant wagon, or in the toils
incident to making a new home, he was like a son and brother.
What the father's feelings were as he saw the affection that was
springing up between those two young hearts, it is easy to imagine.
And when, one day, as they were putting up rail fence, the young man,
after a deal of hemming and throat-clearing, asked for the willing hand
of the girl, the father for a moment was dumb with astonishment, then
exclaimed, "What! talk of marrying, when I have often shown you that
time can last at most only a few weeks or months longer!"
"I don't see why father must make every body go by his notions," said
the daughter that evening, weeping the while.
"Annie!" replied the mother, "if there ever was a good man in the
world, your father is one."
"Yes, I know that, mother," returned the child, "but I'd like to know
what there is wrong in getting married. George read to me this very day
where the apostle says, 'Marriage is honorable in all.'"
"Yes, but, dear, your father says that that was not meant for these
last days."
"Then why didn't Paul say so, mother?"
"Well, dear, I don't see this matter just as your father does. But let
us be patient, and not cross him, and if he is in the wrong, he is such
a good man I have no doubt he will be set right by and by."
It must be confessed, however, that the prospect looked rather gloomy
at times to the lover and his chosen. But, like Jacob, he would serve
seven, or twice seven, if he might succeed at last. To this end labor,
money, every thing was devoted, till at length the old man leaned
on him, and could not do without him. Meanwhile, Time—that silent
exploder of shallow theories—had set aside many favorite ones of this
warrior-adventist, while the mother, true to the intuitive kindness
and good sense of her sex, lost no opportunities of advancing, in her
own gentle, admirable way, the claims of the persevering suitor, till
finally consent was granted, and the wedding-day set, as we have seen.
"We came here," said the mother, "because of my health, hoping that
the climate might do for me what medicine could not. I now see it was
too late. But for my husband and George's sake, who have sacrificed so
much on my account, I hope this last settlement may prove productive
some day. They have secured a good tract of land, that must be valuable
by and by; but we are 'land-poor' now all our money is gone. Another
season, however, we hope our crops will bring us something more than
the necessaries of life. George is like a child to me; and what is
more, he is a Christian. Annie and he are tenderly attached, and
despite our present poverty, I shall rejoice in knowing that they are
united before I am called away."
But the few friends that had been invited had come in; the simple words
that make two inseparably one, were uttered; and then, as the table was
being laid, bride and bridegroom poured forth their joy in Christian
song. Strangely touching was it here on the lone prairie to listen to
wedded love thus expressed. Very happy were they, and comely too, in
the freshness and vigor of their youth. And, as we gathered around
the well-spread board, the sick mother, taking once more her place at
the head of the table, her face beaming the peace she felt, there was
a glow at my heart, such as I never experienced before as guest at a
marriage feast.
Their happiness was peculiarly artless and childlike; and the hymns
they sang, what strange interpreters of that happiness! There was only
one hymn-book in the house, and that belonged to the father, and was
devoted to the idea that molded his thoughts. But what cared they, if
the sentiment was of unearthly things,—if it only helped them warble
their bird-like joyfulness? With loving looks, and smiling faces,
absorbed in thoughts of each other, they struck up,—
"The chariot! the chariot! its wheels roll in fire,
As the Lord cometh down in the pomp of his ire;
So, self-moving he rides on his pathway of cloud,
And the heavens with the burden of Godhead are bowed.
"The judgment! the judgment! the thrones are all set,
Where the white arrayed throngs, and the elders are met;
From the east, from the west, from the south, from the north,
All the vast generations of men are come forth!"