THE gentler traits of womanly character find little expression on the
outskirts of civilization. When the wife and mother turns her back on
her Eastern home, she enters on scenes which change the whole current
of her existence, and often seem to make her a new being. It is
interesting to notice how the transition process varies in different
persons.
Some are "persuaded" into emigration. They start on the journey
reluctantly, clinging to the old, familiar places. They have no
day-dreams to lure them—no heart for the transplanting. From regard to
others they join the restless tide that sots toward the West. Others
take the "Western fever" as readily as their husbands, and clothe
the stern realities of removal with a roseate hue, seeing only ease,
comfort, competency in prospective. But when, at the end of their
journey, they take up their abode in a wild prairie,—
"Alone, alone, all, all alone,
Alone on a wide, wide sea"
of vegetation, and dead-level monotony; no churches, no school-houses,
scarcely a neighbor to speak to, friends and kindred far away,—how the
thermometer of the feelings goes down! how the air-castles vanish!
But if you think either of these classes make poor pioneers, you
mistake.
There was Mrs. S., a practical, matter-of-fact person, unsusceptible
to the love of adventure or of change. Submit any scheme to her, and,
however dazzling it might be to an ardent nature, she looked at it in
the light of fact, reckoning up the pros and cons with mathematical
coolness. When, therefore, her husband became excited by accounts of
the cheap lands, sure to rise, the fertile soil and healthful climate
of Minnesota, she was calm. When he suggested emigrating, she was
unmoved. Toil, deprivation, disappointment were invisible to his
enthusiasm, but to her they stood revealed as verities, and to argue
with her was useless. Indeed, looking at their present condition, why
should she be in haste to abandon it for a life both new and dubious?
Their pleasant home, with its broad acres and fine buildings, they
owned. Educational privileges were excellent. Her husband was honored
with office in church and state. But the more Mr. S. talked about
a removal, the more his zeal was inflamed. The wife saw that his
happiness was bound up in the matter, and more than that, his health,
perhaps. Often prostrated by acute disease, he had been recommended to
try the climate of the Northwest as a remedy. This consideration turned
the scale in his favor. The homestead was sold, the furniture, farm
implements, &c., advertised for sale at public auction. The avails of
these, together with the "first payment" on the house, were to furnish
the money for use in the new home.
Mr. S., however, after all his pleading, felt a little disheartened,
when, the very night before the appointed sale, his goods took fire and
burned up. But the wife had decided to go, and this untoward event did
not discourage her. As they were to travel by their own conveyance, the
emigrant wagon was made ready, and, with bedding, food, and cooking
utensils packed, poultry-crate lashed behind, and the children aboard,
they started on their "thousand miles'" journey! The first day all
went "merry as a marriage bell," but at night, Mr. S. came down with
ague and fever. He was utterly prostrated, and proposed to give up the
expedition and return.
"No!" replied the wife, who had assumed the office of driver, "I am
not going to drive these horses back again and he laughed at by the
neighbors! Besides, if Minnesota will cure you, you need more than ever
to go there now, and 'I' shall not give up till we are there."
She kept her word; becoming coachman, doctress, nurse, cook, and guide.
She selected the camping-place at night, groomed the horses, took
care not only of the babies, but of her husband. It was she that
inquired the route, led the horses safely around "sloughs," and
forded bridgeless streams, and, at last Mr. S. being still helpless,
she picked out a "claim" on the frontier, and a valuable one it was,
combining water, grassland, plowing, timber, and nearness to a young
town. She made their temporary shanty comfortable as possible, until,
his payments coming in and his land rising, he was able to build a
framed house. Not a word of complaint, reproach, or discouragement
passed her lips through all this, nor did sickness and danger appall
her.
An incident will illustrate her self-possession. There had been
occasional depredations by the Indians. Still further on the frontier a
bloody massacre of whites had taken place, and women were carried off
captives. There were rumors of further trouble, as the savages were
concentrating in force, and, mounted on their ponies, they could make a
long sweep in a night.
One day alone, Mrs. S. stood before the looking-glass attending
to her toilet. The cabin door was open, and her back toward it.
Suddenly, she saw in the mirror the reflection of an Indian entering.
Before she could turn herself, he had glided across the room in his
soft moccasins, and laid hold of her. She gave no sign of terror,
however—always the proper conduct in dealing with savages, as they
respect courage, and suspect some hidden "power" behind it. He gently
seized her long, flowing locks, remarkable for their luxuriant beauty,
and measuring them with his arm, uttered an admiring exclamation, then
released her, and departed as he came!
Mrs. N., another Western woman, was also quite a heroine. She was
hostess of the first tavern at which the stage left me on arriving in
Minnesota. It was a rough log-house. There was in process of building
a small framed addition to it. Before this was a cellar, dug in
anticipation of another "raising." Across this excavation we had to
walk on a narrow plank to gain admittance to the house. The doctors I
had left behind cautioned me not to sit or sleep in a current of air.
That night, in company with a clerical friend, who felt quite merry at
the aspect of things, I slept with the stars full in sight through the
roof, while the winds sighed, and whistled, and moaned, and frolicked
in and out the apartment, as the humor suited them. However, the next
morning found us both, to our surprise, invigorated by the air baths we
had taken.
At breakfast, I felt a little anxious to know how our merriment over
hotel-life in Minnesota had been received by our landlady, who must
have heard some of our criticisms. She impressed me as a lady of
culture, and took our remarks as a matter of course. We soon learned
something of her history. Her husband was from the East, a man of some
property. He made his claim where I now found him, when there was
scarcely a cabin in the region, confident that the site was a good one
for a town. It was a wild, lonely spot, on the margin of a foaming
stream, and between huge, shaggy bluffs, crowned with forests, in which
the Indian and the wild beast roamed. Aside from the fish and game
which abounded, all their supplies were brought from some trading point
on the Mississippi. When her husband was on his long journeys for this
purpose, she was sometimes left alone.
"Did you not feel discontented under such circumstances?" we asked.
"Not in the least. My husband thought it best to remove here, and that
was enough. What was best for him, was best for me!"
"But were you not troubled by the Indians?"
"Yes, at that time, very much. They were afraid of our workmen, and
would behave very well when a few white men were around, but they
always endeavored to impose on us when unprotected."
"What did you do at such times?"
"Put on a bold face, and let them see that I did not fear them. I am
astonished at the nerve I had. One day my husband was away. Quite
suddenly a Sioux came into the house, and, without saying a word, took
a seat. Another followed, and another, until a dozen had entered.
Perceiving that I was alone, they commenced searching the house for
plunder; examining boxes, trunks, and barrels. I had, however, by way
of precaution, concealed what I could, and they did not find much. But
they soon grew saucy and turbulent, and what added to my apprehension
was, the fact that the leader of the party was half intoxicated. Still,
as they had no arms, I thought I could manage them. After a time the
chief chanced to see my husband's rifle, hanging overhead. It was
loaded and capped. He started to get it. I divined his object, and
started too, and as he was taking it down, I said, sternly,—
"Put that rifle back!"
"He made a taunting gesture, and I attempted to wrest the rifle from
him. We struggled,—I with the strength of desperation, for I well knew
it would be a dangerous weapon in his hands, besides it was my only
protection. None of his followers interfered while we contended for the
mastery, but my courage led him to suspect that help was at hand, and,
still grasping the gun, he asked,—
"'White man coming back "bime-by?"' A question which meant, Will he be
long in coming? I quickly replied,—
"No. White man coming back bime-by 'quick!' This startled him, for he
knew he had provoked retaliation, and hastily leaving, followed by his
troop, they mounted their ponies, and drove off at full speed.
"I had also," said she, "a little adventure with the wolves. One day,
feeling lonely, I spent the afternoon at a neighbor's. On my return at
dusk, there had been a light fall of snow. When nearly home, I noticed
that a large gray wolf was stealthily following me. I entered the door
and closed it instantly; but, would you believe me, that creature,
being very hungry, I suppose, sat watching on the door-step all that
long winter's night! He fled next morning at the approach of a settler."
[Illustration: I NOTICED A GREY WOLF. Frontier.]
There was Mrs. L., too, a little butterfly of a woman, who had always
been happy in New England. Her husband was a hard-working man, and took
great pride in beautifying the cottage he had built. It was not paid
for, however, and at length he wearied somewhat of the toil needed
to clear it of pecuniary encumbrance. Hearing of the cheap lands of
the West did not lighten his burden, and he decided to emigrate. She
joined in the project with alacrity, for her fancy painted a prairie
home as a garden of delights. She reached their El Dorado under most
forbidding circumstances. It was in late autumn, when the landscape
stretched away bloomless and sear, and the cold rains were falling. It
was indeed dismal without, and the cramped, uncouth log-and-mud house
which received her as boarder, compared illy with the tasteful dwelling
she had left behind. What a revulsion of feeling was hers! She wept for
weeks, and refused to be comforted.
Some of the settlers thought her case hopeless—that she would never do
for the West, mere New England doll that she was! But she had her cry
out; and, like a true woman, when her husband, apparently moved by her
grief, and homesick himself,—yet secretly glad of a pretext, offered to
give up and return, she resented it!
"Go back!" she exclaimed; "no, I shall not be ready to return until our
Massachusetts friends see that we have been successful in coming out,
and have been profited by the change." And of all busy women, Mrs. L.
became one of the busiest. Henceforth it was smiles and work with her,
and her quiet laugh and cheerful face made sunshine of darkest days.
Often her little figure might be seen tugging her baby across the
prairie to a neighbor's, to collect rare seeds, or bargain for hens.
Her faculties were ever on the alert, devising something to make home
comfortable; nor did snow, rain, loneliness, or sickness diminish her
zeal. Neuralgia, aggravated by exposure, low diet and miasma, often
prevails on the frontier. I have seen the hardiest pioneers writhe
in agony, completely unmanned by it—never at such times venturing
into the open air. Mrs. L. did not escape the disease. But what was
my astonishment, on one of those doleful days in November, when a
drizzling rain, driven by a cold wind, "sent mildew into the bones," to
see Mrs. L. perched on the top of a load of lumber, drawn by oxen. Her
face was bound up as if nursing the toothache, and she told me, with a
ringing laugh, that she had ridden twenty-four miles at that snail's
pace, and had had three teeth extracted!
Mrs. Myers, too, was another heroine whom I unexpectedly met, leading
almost the life of a recluse in the deep gloom of a humble forest home.
It was on this wise. Passing through the shaded path of heavy-timbered
land, on K— River, in a journey which I made on horseback, I came to
the brink of a roaring torrent where stood a mill. As I was looking for
a place to feed my horse, a man came forward, extended his hand, and
said,—
"How do you do, Mr. D.? What brought you away up here? Don't you know
me? My name is Myers, of P—, Massachusetts." But what a change a few
months of another climate and new habits had wrought in my old friend.
From the pale, almost effeminate dealer in dry goods, he had grown to
be bushy-whiskered and portly, his cheeks fairly shaking with fat.
"Do you live here?" I asked.
"Yes; came here last fall, with my wife, and wintered among the bears
and wolves, making shingles. You see," said he, alluding to his weighty
appearance, "I have been a 'gainer' by it. Never knew what it was to
have an appetite before. The cold last winter made me ravenous; and
though we had no market, you see we did not exactly starve. But, come,
my wife will want to see you; the face of an old acquaintance will be
next to going home again."
A low, snug shanty of oaken boards, just large enough to admit in its
one room a bedstead, stove, table, and a few home-made chairs, was
Mrs. Myers's empire—quite in contrast with her Eastern style. She
was a gentle, lady-like person, had been a successful teacher before
marriage, and was an accomplished musician. She cordially greeted me,
saying,—
"I shall make no apologies. I am too glad to see a human being in these
wilds, to care for aught else. Since we came here, not a person has
been at our place, save the few who chanced here for shingles, all
strangers to me, and such a long, cold winter I never experienced.
Until the snow melted, late in the spring, we were quite alone."
"Were you not homesick and gloomy?"
"Only once, and that was the last of February. It had been an almost
uninterrupted succession of storms. It was nothing but snow, snow,
snow. We could not get out for any purpose, and our supplies were
running low. We seemed to be completely shut away from the world—the
only living creatures, save a neighbor in the cabin at the extremity of
the woods, that we knew of, being a pack of wolves that sometimes swept
by. On one occasion, my husband estimated that there were not less than
thirty in the pack. That was a dismal time; and one stormy day, when
the air was filled with snow, and the winds were sighing through the
trees, my heart sank within me. And I rather suspect," said she, archly
glancing at her husband, "that Mr. Myers did not feel much bettor
than I did. Just then, when I felt like giving up entirely, I heard a
little song—a clear, cheerful piping of a bird. You can not tell how it
thrilled and cheered me. I looked from the window to see from whence
the sound came, and there, right on the corner of our dwelling, sat the
tiniest creature, caroling just as if it was June. This gave us both
fresh courage. Said I to husband,—
"'If that wee bit of a thing can sing, much more can I!' and I struck
up a hymn of praise to God, to which a certain bass voice made an
excellent accompaniment. We felt better, and that's the last of the
blues with us; though of course we had some hard rubs, and had to
endure some things that in New England would have made us cowards. As,
for instance, when our house fell down."
"Fell down! how did it happen?"
"You look astonished. I don't wonder at it. You see, when we came,
husband could get nothing but green oak boards to build a temporary
shelter with. And what with the shrinking, and the wrenching by the
winds, and the snapping of the nails by the frost, one dark, stormy
night, after we had been asleep some time, we were awakened by a
strange noise. Looking about, how were we astonished to find that the
boards had fallen apart, leaving us without protection! Hurriedly
putting on our clothes, we had to scamper for the cabin I have spoken
of for shelter till morning, when husband went to work and put this up,
which has served us thus far."
Another case occurs to me.
On the south side of a little grove, at the very outpost of
immigration, was Charles Wallace's log-house. He was from a thriving
manufacturing town in Massachusetts. His business as a journeyman
carriage-maker had enabled him to provide comfortably for his young
family, and pay something annually toward the house in which they
dwelt. It was true he had to work steadily and hard, and made what
some would call slow progress toward competency; still the house was
eligible property, neat, commodious, modern, and the little garden back
of it yielded a bountiful supply of vegetables for the table. School,
also, and religious privileges were all that could be wished.
Mr. Wallace was a thoughtful, reading man, of real worth and Christian
principles, but very diffident. Men less well-informed, of sounder
intellect, blest with self-esteem, and put-yourself-ahead-ativeness,
would cut quite a figure in the eyes of an admiring public, while
he, modest soul, was passed by unnoticed, unappreciated by the
discriminating crowd. He had, however, a noble, generous heart, and
glowing desires to be of use as a disciple of Him who went about doing
good. These dispositions and aspirations, however, were repressed by
his confirmed habits of self-distrust, and he was therefore often
dissatisfied with his manner of life. He had read much of the spiritual
destitutions of the great West, and came to think that if he could once
be established where calls for laborers in the world's harvest were
urgent, and laborers were few, that among new faces he could break
the fetters of self-distrust, and do something for God and humanity.
Moreover, one dull business season his employer failed, owing him quite
a sum, which could not be collected. Now he turned his face towards the
setting sun in good earnest. But the wife, how could he bear to tear
her away from scenes so dear to her, and kindred more precious than
life itself! He well knew the struggle it would cost her to leave New
England, with its prized privileges, congenial society, and domestic
comforts. She was one of those dear, loving creatures that love on, and
love ever; the very trees, rocks, and rivers of her childhood and youth
would cling to her affections with a deep grasp, and father, mother,
brothers, sisters, how could she part from them for the distant and
unknown West! He could scarcely hope for her consent to go, but had
it cheerfully, whole-heartedly, yet with irrepressible tears and many
forebodings, of which she did not speak.
Mr. Wallace had a clerical relative in Minnesota, who had influenced
him in his decision to remove there; and that his family might go at
once to some definite point, or home of their own, he wrote to the
clergyman, commissioning him to purchase for him a farm. He did so. But
on Mr. Wallace's arrival, it fell so far below his expectations that he
sold it at a sacrifice, and went forth prospecting, locating at length
where this account found them. It was late in the fall ere he could
begin to build his cabin; the old settlers' story as to the mildness
of the winters in that climate relieved his anxiety, however. The
winter, nevertheless, set in early, and proved to be one of the coldest
on record. He was overtaken without due preparation as to provisions.
Nor was it otherwise with his neighbors, all new comers, like himself.
The rigors of the prairie made it perilous to venture from home, and
our emigrants, fresh from the abundance of the East, were brought to
most wretched fare. Mr. W. was physically rugged, knowing nothing of
the horrors of dyspepsia; and if there was only a sufficiency for the
table, it mattered not to him what it was. Not so, unfortunately,
with the invalid wife. There was little, at best, that she could eat
that suited her diseased condition, and those very articles it was
impossible to procure. One who was, providentially, an inmate of the
household through the terrors and deprivations of that winter, says,—
"I had read of the rigors of the frozen North, and here I had a taste
of them. For months, in the most sheltered nooks, and on the sunniest
roof-sides, the snow gave no signs of thawing, while from morn till
night, on the frosty atmosphere, luminous pillars, and circles, and
mock suns witnessed to the intensity of the cold; and the nights,—O,
'such' nights! why, you could 'hear' it freezing, freezing; the swine
in their pens piled and crowded together, quarreling for the warmest
place, uttering incessantly cries of distress, with which mingled the
sharp reports, like the discharge of pistols, of the oaken shingles on
the roof, as the nails that secured them burst. I don't know how we got
through that winter. Mrs. W. had courage, endurance, was free-hearted
to a fault, but the commonest articles had to be dispensed with. The
mills were so remote that the corn stored in the attic could not be
turned into meal, greatly as it was needed, save by the slow and
imperfect process of grinding in a coffee-mill, suspended against
the wall. Mr. W. was anxious and low-spirited enough, poor follow,
frequently bursting out into bitter reflections on himself for bringing
his wife to such a place.
"And, indeed, how she was kept alive was a miracle; certainly she ate
nothing, or next to nothing. Then, however, did woman's marvelous
self-forgetfulness and fortitude shine out. Not a word of discontent
or of depression ever escaped her lips. She was uniformly peaceful
and hopeful, at least in the presence of the household, and her mild,
sweet voice was often employed in singing some hymn of holy trust and
cheer. I was ever admiring her spirit and wondering at her conduct. Yet
that she was keenly alive to the situation of affairs, and that she
suffered the pangs of unsatisfied hunger,—not having diet suited to her
needs,—we were obliged to think. An incident impressed me deeply.
"Once, after retiring to rest, I awoke while yet it was dark,
and overheard, in the apartment adjoining mine a low, suppressed
whispering. It was Mrs. W. wrestling in prayer for strength according
to her day. She had taken that hour to seek 'Him who giveth power to
the faint,' that none but God might hear. Night after night did she
thus pour out her soul in agonized supplication, yet on her face not a
shade of anxiety could be discerned through the day.
"Often did Mr. Wallace, during the trials of that winter, and
afterwards, resolve to return to Massachusetts.
"'Not yet, Charles,' she would say, 'not yet, till you have made enough
to pay you for coming.'
"And repressing her own earnest yearnings for the faces of loved ones
far away, by her gentle firmness she held him to his enterprise, till
after some years, a good opportunity occurring to sell out at a fair
advance, for his own sake as well as hers, he embraced it, and joyfully
they retraced their course to the scenes they had left behind.
"It may not be amiss to add, at the risk of a digression, that Mr. W.
was enabled, while dwelling on the prairie, to carry out his plans for
being active in the service of Christ. And so did he win the hearts of
others by his consistent, useful life, that when he was about to leave
the region, an old pioneer, moved by powerful emotions of grief at
parting from him, sought him out, and, throwing his brawny arms about
the good man's neck, wept aloud. The ice of his reserve once broken,
Mr. W. has since taken his place among Christian men at the East."
In the older settled portions of our country, the amenities of the
heart, and the gentle fireside graces often bloom in beauty. But on the
frontier, the stronger, more valiant traits are developed. Indeed, if
it were not for woman, no new country could be civilized: It would be
the old story of Adam and the beasts over again. Every thing would end
in Crusoe experiments, in hunting and trapping, mining and fishing.
Woman, however, has more than her share of work in reclaiming earth's
wastes. I have visited many hundred cabin homes on the frontier, and
my conclusion is, that to the wife and mother, more than to any other
influence, belongs the credit of whatever of advancement is made
socially. Encompassed with untold difficulties, she not only does her
own work, but aids and encourages her husband in his. She helps build
the cabin, "put up the fence," drive home the cows, take care of the
crops, "fight the prairie fires," "tend" the store, keep the tavern,
and take charge of the post-office.
There was Mrs. C., whom I first saw when going with a friend for
family supplies. How I started back on entering "the store," supposing
I had blundered into a private room. A bed, neatly covered, stood in
a corner, a coffee-mill ready for use hung against the wall. These
first met the eye. However, the sight of flour, and other articles
of merchandise, reassured me. It was a two-roomed cabin, with a low
sleeping apartment overhead. Yet in that little building a brisk trade
was carried on, a number of boarders found accommodation, and the
post-office was kept; and Mrs. C., to allow her husband leisure to put
other "irons in the fire," superintended the whole, respected by all
the settlers for her faultless judgment, and kind, dignified bearing.
So also woman's influence is felt in religious matters.
On account of the severity of the winter, our dwelling, being central,
was for a time our sanctuary. One Sabbath morning, the mercury being
thirty below zero, not a person came save two Christian ladies, who had
walked nearly two miles to attend meeting! I had not felt inclined to
chide our brethren for their absence, so fierce was the morning, and
the courageous zeal of those devoted women filled me with admiration.
The incident was characteristic.
And in the fearful national contest now raging, the women of our free
frontier will not be found wanting. Their hearts took fire when Kansas
was invaded by border ruffians. Not a few Southern ladies, brought up
in luxury, have I met with in cabin homes, self-exiled from the places
of their birth, by their abhorrence of American slavery. Prairie women,
self-reliant, free in spirit as the air they breathe, have no affinity
with tyrant traitors. And were it possible that through the sorcery of
party politics, or some other fell influence, the fathers and brothers
of the Northwest should falter in this struggle, the loyal mothers
and sisters could not. Inspired by heroism, nursed by danger and
deprivation, they would court any suffering or peril rather than see
the fair structure of our civilization and freedom overthrown by the
barbarized champions of human bondage.