orientals, though in another form. He says Spirits in the sphere nearest
to this earth are attracted towards us, and wish to communicate with us;
but that some of them are in a low state, and capable of great
duplicity. Many people are satisfied with the theory that these are the
Spirits who are believed to be rapping and tipping tables in all parts
of the country. Certain it is, many of the phenomena that actually occur
cannot possibly be the result of jugglery; though miracles sometimes
seem to be performed by that adroit agency. Candid minds cannot, I
think, avoid the conclusion that Spirit is acting upon Matter in _some_
way not explainable by any known laws of our being. Whether it is Spirit
_in_ the body, or _out_ of the body, seems difficult to decide. The
agents, whoever they are, are obviously nearly on a level with our own
spiritual condition; for they tell nothing which had not been previously
known or imagined; and they do not always tell the truth.
Minds of mystical tendencies find joy in believing that all inspirations
in religion, science, or art, come to us from above, through the medium
of ministering Spirits, who dwell in higher spheres of intelligence and
love, and are attracted towards us by our inward state. The
fast-increasing strength of evil, which often leads men to think the
Devil drives them into some crime, they account for by supposing that
the indulgence of wrong thoughts and feelings brings us into affinity
with Spirits below us, who are thus enabled to influence our souls by
the operation of laws as universal and unchangeable as those which
regulate the attraction and repulsion of material substances.
Rationalists, on the other hand, deem that all mental influences,
whether good or evil, may be sufficiently accounted for by the activity
of the soul in any particular direction; that the indulgence of any
class of thoughts and feelings renders them continually stronger and
stronger, as the pedestrian’s leg, or the wood-cutter’s arm is
invigorated by frequent use.
All these thoughts grew out of the removal of a swallow’s nest. They
left me where they found me. Temperament, and early habits of thought,
inclined me toward mystical theories; while increasing caution, learned
by the experience of many fallacies, beckoned toward the less poetical
side of austere rationality. I remained balanced between the opposite
forces, candidly willing to admit the claims of either. I could only bow
my head in reverent humility, and say, “On these subjects we cannot
certainly _know_ any thing, in this imperfect state of being. Verily,
mysterious is the action of Spirit upon Spirit, and of Spirit upon
Matter.” As I thus dismissed the subject from my mind, a voice from some
corner of my soul said, “The swallows did not _know_ that you took away
their nest, but you _did_.”
THE KANSAS EMIGRANTS.
And unto thee, in Freedom’s hour
Of sorest need, God gives the power
To ruin or to save,
To wound or heal, to blight or bless,
With fruitful soil, or wilderness,
A free home, or a grave.
J. G. WHITTIER.
“You are silent to-night, William,” said Alice May to her lover, as they
walked through a green lane, toward the setting sun.
“Yes, dearest,” he replied, “I have that on my mind which makes me
thoughtful.” After a pause, he added, “That book I was reading to you,
before these golden-edged clouds tempted us out into the fields, has
made a very strong impression on me. I never before realized how much
depends on the state of mind we are in when we read. The story of our
forefathers was all familiar to me; and I always reverenced the
Puritans; but the grandeur of their character never loomed up before my
mental vision as it does now. With all their faults, they were a noble
set of men and women.”
“And what has anointed your eyes to see this more clearly than ever
to-night?” asked Alice.
“All the while I was reading, I was thinking of John Bradford’s project
of going to Kansas; and, while we have been walking in the fields, my
eyes have involuntarily turned away from the glorious sunset clouds, to
glance at the neat dwellings dotted all over the landscape; to the mill
whirling sparkling water-drops into the air; to the school-house, with
its broad play-ground; to the church-spire, gleaming brightly in the
sun. All these we owe to those heroic pilgrims, who left comfortable
homes in England and came to a howling wilderness to establish a
principle of freedom; and what they have done for Massachusetts, John
Bradford and his companions may do for Kansas. It is a glorious
privilege to help in laying the foundation of states on a basis of
justice and freedom.”
“I see that John has magnetized you with his enthusiasm,” she replied;
“and he has magnetized cousin Kate also. How brave she is, to think of
following him, with their little child!”
“Kate is hopeful by temperament,” said William; “but I think she is
hardly more brave than you are. You are both afraid of a snake and a
gun.”
“I was thinking more of the long journey, the parting from friends, and
living among strangers, than I was of snakes and guns,” replied Alice.
“Then everybody says there are so many discomforts and hardships in a
new country. And the Indians, William! Only think of going within sound
of the Indian war-whoop!”
“The Indians are in a very different state now,” he replied, “from what
they were when the Puritan women followed their husbands into the
wilderness of this new world. They are few in numbers now. Their spirit
has been tamed by accumulated wrongs, and they are too well aware of the
power of the United States’ government, to make any aggressions upon
those who are under its protection. Besides, you know it is my opinion
that the Indians never would have made unprovoked aggressions. Who can
read Catlin’s account, without being struck with the nobility of
character often manifested by their much-injured race? I am fully
persuaded that it is easy to make firm friends of the Indians, by
treating them with justice and kindness, and with that personal respect,
which they so well know how to appreciate.” He pressed her arm to his
side, and took her hand within his, as he added, “You seemed greatly to
admire that young Puritan bride, who cheerfully left home and friends
behind her, and crossed the tempestuous ocean, to brave cold and hunger
by her husband’s side, in a wilderness where wolves and savages were
howling.”
Her hand trembled within his; for something in the earnestness of his
look, and the tender modulation of his tones, suddenly revealed to her
what was passing in his mind. She knew he was not thinking of cousin
John’s wife, while he spoke thus of the pilgrim’s bride. It was the
first time that such a possibility had been suggested to her mind; and
it made the blood run cold in her veins. After a painful pause, she
said, with a forced calmness of voice, “We often admire virtues we are
not strong enough to imitate.”
He pressed her hand, and remained silent, till an outburst of tears made
him stop suddenly, and fold her to his heart. “Don’t weep, my beloved,”
he said, “I will never require, or even ask, such a sacrifice of you.
Such a delicate flower as you are needs to be sheltered from the blast
and the storm. But you have conjectured rightly, dearest, that my heart
is set upon accompanying these emigrants. I feel that all there is of
manhood within me, will be developed by the exigencies of such a career.
My character and my destiny will grow more grand with the
responsibilities that will devolve upon me. If I remain here, I never
shall do half I am capable of doing for myself and for posterity. To
speak the plain truth, dear Alice, I have something of the old Puritan
feeling, that God calls me to this work. You have promised to be my wife
within a few weeks; but I absolve you from that promise. If you prefer
it, I will go and prepare a comfortable home for you in that new region,
and endeavour to draw a circle of our mutual friends around me, before
I ask you to leave your New England home.”
She looked up at him, through her tears, with a half-reproachful glance,
which seemed to say, “Do you then suppose there can be any hardship so
great, as separation from the one I love best in the world?”
He understood the mute appeal, and answered it by saying, “Don’t be
rash, clear Alice. Reflect upon it till next Sunday evening, and then
tell me what is your decision. I shall not love you one particle the
less if you tell me that years must pass before you can be the partner
of my life. No duties, no excitements, no lapse of time, can remove your
image from my heart.”
Few more words were spoken, as they returned homeward, lighted by the
crescent moon. It was not until long after midnight that Alice fell
asleep, to dream of standing by a wide chasm, vainly stretching her hand
toward William, on the other side.
During the following days, she asked no counsel, save of God and her
mother. Her mother laid her hand tenderly on her head, and said, “I dare
not advise you. Follow your own heart, my child;” and when she prayed to
God, she seemed to hear an echo of those words. She saw William often,
but she spoke no word to dissuade him from his purpose. Had he been
going to California to dig gold, she would have had much to say in
favour of the humblest home under the protection of the old
order-loving Commonwealth; but he had spoken so seriously of his sense
of duty, that her womanly nature reverenced the manliness of his
convictions; and she prayed that _his_ courage to dare might be equalled
by _her_ fortitude to endure. It rained heavily on Sunday evening, so
that the lovers could not take their accustomed walk; and the presence
of others prevented a confidential interview. But when they parted at
the door, Alice slipped a small package into William’s hand. When he
arrived at home, he opened it with nervous haste, and found a small
Bible, with a mark within it. An anchor was embroidered on the mark,
with the word FAITH beneath it; and his eye was caught by pencil lines
on the page, encircling the words: “Where thou goest, I will go; where
thou lodgest, I will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God
my God.” “God bless her!” he exclaimed. “Now I can go forward with an
undivided heart.” He kissed the anchor again and again, and, bowing his
head on his hands, he wept as he had not wept since boyhood. To his deep
and earnest nature, love and duty were sacred realities.
Great was the joy of cousin Kate and her husband, when it was known that
William Bruce had determined to join the band of emigrants, and that
Alice had acquiesced. William was a young man of such good judgment and
stedfast principles, that they all felt he would be a balance-wheel in
the machinery of any society where he moved. John Bradford was equally
good and true, but his temperament induced more volubility of speech,
and more eagerness of action. When the band of emigrants heard of
William’s decision, they said laughingly to each other, “Now we shall
have both Moses and Aaron to guide us into Canaan.” Kate’s widowed
mother, and a younger brother and sister, resolved to join the
enterprising band. A little nephew of five years old was of the same
mind; and when told that he was too small to be of any use, he declared
himself fully able to catch a bear. Alice’s father and mother had
prospective plans of following their daughter, accompanied by their
oldest son, in case those who went before them should send up a good
report of the land. Her adhesive affections suffered terribly in this
rupture of old ties. But in such natures love takes possession of the
whole being. She would have sacrificed life itself for William. All her
friends knew it was harder for her than for others, to go into a strange
land and enter into entirely new modes of existence. Therefore, they all
spoke hopefully to her, and no one but William ever presented the
clouded side of the picture to her view. He did it from a conscientious
scruple, lest she should go forward in the enterprise with eyes blinded
to its difficulties. But the hardships he described in such tender
tones, never _seemed_ like hardships. His warnings were always met with
the affectionate response, “What a proud and happy woman I shall be,
dear William, if I can do any thing to sustain you through the trials
you will have to encounter.” She never spoke despondingly, never told
the fears that sometimes swarmed in her imagination. If she could not
strengthen him, she at least would not unnerve him, she said to herself;
and as for cousin Kate, she would have been ashamed to acknowledge to
_her_ what a faint heart was beating within her bosom. Kate, who had
earned her own living ever since she was sixteen, and assisted her
widowed mother, and educated her younger brother and sister, in a manner
well adapted to make them useful and active members of society, was just
the woman to emigrate to the West. Sometimes Alice sighed, and wished
she was more like Kate. She did not know how many anxious thoughts were
concealed under her cousin’s cheerful tones, her bright frank smile, and
her energetic preparations for departure.
Thick and fast came in the parting memorials from relatives and
schoolmates; and what showers of tears fell upon them as they were
stowed away in the closely packed chests! That last night at the old
homesteads, oh, how the memories crowded upon those suffocated hearts!
When Alice stole out in the moonlight, and wept, while she kissed the
old elm, from whose boughs she had swung in childhood, she did not know
that the roots were already moistened with Katie’s tears.
To the experienced and the thoughtful, all weddings are solemn
occasions; for when they see the young unmooring their boat from its old
fastenings, and floating away so gaily on the sun-rippled stream, they
know full well that shadows are ahead, and that many a rock lies hidden
under the bright waters. The marriage of William and Alice was solemn
even to sadness; for they were to depart for Kansas on the morrow. The
farewell moment had been so dreaded for days preceding, that all felt as
if it would be a relief to have the agony over. Alice clung to her
parents as the drowning cling. The mother lifted up her voice and wept,
and the old father choked, as he strove to say, “Very pleasant hast thou
been unto me. God bless thee, my child.” But cousin Katie, whose mission
it was to strengthen everybody, came up and pressed their hands, and
said “Good bye, dear uncle; good bye, dear aunt. We’ll make a beautiful
home for you in Kansas; and Willie and Ally will come to bring you to
us.”
As they mounted the wagons, children, who used to attend Mrs. Bradford’s
school, came up with bunches of violets; and the little nephew, who
thought himself such a mighty hunter, called out, “send me a bear!”
“Oh yes, Georgy,” replied Kate. “Will you have him roasted?”
“I want to tie him up in the _darden_, and feed him,” shouted George.
But no one heard him. The wagons had rolled away before he finished the
sentence; and those who watched them forgot that any thing else existed.
The last glimpse of Alice showed her head bowed down on her husband’s
shoulder, her waist encircled by his arm. The last tones of Katie’s
voice had been strong and clear; and no one but her kind-hearted John
saw how the tears rained down on her infant’s face, as they rode through
their native village. They had never fully realized, until now, how
beautiful were the elms in the delicate verdure of spring; how precious
were the golden blossoms profusely strewn over the meadows; how happy
and safe the homes seemed to nestle in the scenery. As they passed the
church, all turned and looked back at that place of pleasant meetings
with relatives, friends and neighbours.
“They will miss our voices in the choir, dear William,” said Alice.
“Yes,” he replied; “but, by the blessing of God, we will sing hymns in
the wilderness, and waken musical echoes among the silent hills.”
“And we will sing ‘Home Sweet Home’ together,” said Alice, with a faint
smile.
“We’ll all join in the tune,” said Katie; “and John, who is ‘up to all
sort o’ fixens’, as the Westerners say, will make some new variations,
on purpose for the occasion.”
Then came the bustle of depôts, the whizzing of steam, and visions of
fields and hills racing away. As usual, the hearts that went recovered
serenity sooner than the hearts left behind. The new excitement of
travelling waked up hope, who shoved memory aside for awhile, and
produced from her portfolio a series of sketches, painted in colours
more prismatic than Rossiter’s. They talked of the genial climate, and
beautiful scenery of Kansas, and foretold that it would be the Italy of
the western world.
“I hope it will be like Italy only in its externals,” said Kate. “I
trust there will be no lazaroni, no monks, no banditti, no despots to
imprison men for talking about the laws that govern them.”
“Why do you _want_ to make a new Italy of it?” inquired Alice. “What
better destiny can you wish for it, than to be like our dear New
England?”
“Nothing better _can_ be wished for it,” rejoined William. “Had I not
been deeply impressed with the conviction that the institutions, and
manners, and consequent welfare of states, depend greatly on the
character of first settlers, I should never have encouraged emigration
from the old Commonwealth by my own example.”
“But the climate and scenery of Italy would be an improvement to
Massachusetts,” said John, “if we could have it without losing the
active soul and strong muscle of New England.”
“That is it exactly, John,” rejoined Katie. “We will have it a young New
England; but it shall be under sunny skies, with Italian dress.”
Several days passed before the emigrants began to be much aware of the
discomforts and fatigue of a long journey. The babies crowed, and seemed
to think the huge machine was invented expressly to furnish them with a
pleasanter motion than cradle or go-cart; while maturer minds found
amusement in observing the passengers that came and went, and pleasure
in the varying scenery, as they were whirled along, past the thriving
farms of New York, the tall forests of Canada, and the flower-dappled
prairies of Illinois. But after a while, even the strongest became aware
of aching bones, and the most active minds grew drowsy. The excessive
weariness of the last days no pen can adequately describe. The
continuous motion of the cars, without change of posture; the disturbed
night on board steamboats full of crying children; the slow floating
over Missouri waters, now wheeling round to avoid a snag, now motionless
for hours on a sand-bar, waiting for the drifting tide, while twilight
settles darkly down over uninhabited forests, stretching away in the dim
distance. The hurry and scramble of arriving at strange places, farther
and farther away from home, and always with a dreary feeling at their
hearts that no home awaited them.
“If I could only make it seem as if we were going anywhere, I don’t
think I should feel so tired,” said Alice, with a kind of weary
bewilderment in the expression of her sweet countenance.
Worn out as Katie was, she summoned a cheerful smile, and replied, “Keep
up a brave heart, Alice, dear. Those who are going nowhere are pretty
sure to arrive.”
After eight days’ travel, they arrived at Kansas City, in Missouri.
There they bade adieu to cars and steamboats, and entered the Indian
Territory, closely stowed away in great wagons, covered with sail-cloth,
and furnished with rough boards for seats. In some places the road swept
along in graceful curves, through miles of smooth open prairie, belted
with noble trees, and sprinkled with wild flowers, as copiously as
rain-drops from a summer shower. The charming novelty of the scene was
greeted with a child-like outburst of delight from all the weary party.
Even the quiet, home-loving Alice, clapped her hands, and exclaimed,
“How beautiful!” without adding with a sigh, “But it isn’t like dear New
England.”
William smiled affectionately at her enthusiastic surprise, and said,
“Virtuous and industrious people can build up happy homes in such
solitudes as these, dear Alice.”
Anon, they descended into deep ravines, which jolted the rough boards,
and knocked their heads together. Through these steep passes the wagons
were jerked by patient mules, till they were brought into streams whose
uncertain depths made the women and children scream; or into creeks
sparkling in the sunshine, whose shallow waters covered holes, easier to
pass by leaving the wagons, and jumping from stone to stone. Then
scrambling up another steep bank, they found marks of wheels to indicate
a road. They packed themselves into the huge wagons again, with their
baskets and babies, bread and cheese, and went tumbling along with
bonnets knocked into cocked-hats, and hats that had lost all appearance
of being wide-awake. Katie was conjecturing, now and then, how many
bowls and plates would arrive in Kansas unbroken; while Alice had a
foggy idea that they were going nowhere; but there was a rainbow across
the fog, because William was going there, too.
Tired out in mind and body, they came at last to the river Wakarusa,
which they crossed slowly at the fording-place, and rode up a bank that
seemed steep enough to set the wagons on end. This brought them into
fields of grass, dotted here and there with small cabins. To New England
eyes it presented little resemblance to a village; but it was called a
town, and bore the honoured name of Franklin. A few miles to the left,
smoothly rounded hills rose on the horizon, terrace-like, one behind the
other. Between those beautiful hills and the thickly-wooded banks of
the river, was the infant town of Lawrence, the destined capital of
Free Kansas.
Here the travellers rested to greet old friends, who had preceded them,
and to form plans for the future. They all agreed that a more beautiful
nestling place for a village had rarely been seen; and really,
considering it was little more than eight months old, it had quite a
grown-up look. There were several neat houses, and many cabins, the
appearance of which indicated industrious inmates, who would rapidly
increase their comforts, and enlarge their borders. The bright river
made a graceful curve, fringed with trees, which the skill of man could
not have arranged so tastefully as nature had done. Hills rose to the
horizon in gradually ascending series, their verdant slopes lighted up
with golden sunshine. One of grander proportions than the others, called
Blue Mound, was immediately singled out by Mr. Bradford as the site of a
future Free State University; and his equally active-minded wife
forthwith matured the plan, by proposing that William Bruce should be
its first president, and her baby become a professor of some ’ology or
other.
“I am afraid we can’t wait long enough for _him_,” replied her husband,
smiling. “We shall have to choose _you_ for a professor, Kate; I, for
one, will give you my vote.”
The rough hands of the settlers, and their coarse garments, soiled with
prairie mud, were offensive to Kate’s ideas of neatness, and still more
so to the delicate tastes of Alice. But on Sundays, when they were
dressed, in their best, and met together to read and sing, they looked
like quite different people. As they became more acquainted, it was an
agreeable surprise to find so large a proportion of them intelligent and
well educated. With a pervading character of sobriety, industry and
enterprise, they seemed to require nothing but time, and a small
allowance of that, to build up thriving towns and form a prosperous
state. Certainly, the manner of living was rude, for many of them ate
their dinner from boards laid across the tops of barrels. The labour
also was hard, for there was much to do, and few to do it; and, as yet,
wells were not dug, or machinery introduced. But where all worked, no
one felt his dignity lessened by toil. They had the most essential
element of a prosperous state; the respectability of labour. The next
most important element they also had; for they placed a high value on
education, and were willing to sacrifice much to secure it for their
children. The absence of conventional forms, and the constant exercise
of ingenuity, demanded by the inconveniences and emergencies of a
settler’s life, have a wonderful effect in producing buoyancy and energy
of character. The tendency to hope for every thing, and the will to do
every thing desirable to be done, were so contagious, that Alice was
surprised to discover the amount of her hitherto undeveloped
capabilities.