Chapter 7

His courage, then, was not ignorance of danger--not that of the child, which thrusts its hand within the lion's jaws, and knows naught of the penalty it braves. His ear was ever listening, his eye was always watching, his nerves were ever strung, for battle. He was stout of heart, and strong of hand--he was calm, sagacious, unterrified. He was never disconcerted--excitement seldom moved him--his mind was always at its own command. His heart never lost its firmness--no suffering could overcome him--he was as stoical as the savage, whose greatest glory is to triumph amidst the most cruel tortures. His pride sustained him when his flesh was pierced with burning brands--when his muscles crisped and crackled in the flames. To the force of character, belonging to the white, he added the savage virtues of the red man; and many a captive has been rescued from the flames, through his stern contempt for torture, and his sneering triumph over his tormentors. The highest virtue of the savage was his fortitude; and he respected and admired even a "pale face," who emulated his endurance.

But fortitude is only passive courage--and the bravery of the pioneer was eminently active. His vengeance was as rapid as it was sometimes cruel. No odds against him could deter him, no time was ever wasted in deliberation. If a depredation was committed in the night, the dawn of morning found the sufferer on the trail of the marauder. He would follow it for days, and even weeks, with the sagacity of the blood-hound, with the patience of the savage: and, perhaps, in the very midst of the Indian country, in some moment of security, the blow descended, and the injury was fearfully avenged! The debt was never suffered to accumulate, when it could be discharged by prompt payment--and it was never forgotten! If the account could not be balanced now, the obligation was treasured up for a time to come--and, when least expected, the debtor came, and paid with usury!

It has been said, perhaps truly, that a fierce, bloody spirit ruled the settlers in those early days. And it is unquestionable, that much of that contempt for the slow vengeance of a legal proceeding, which now distinguishes the people of the frontier west, originated then. It was, doubtless, an unforgiving--eminently an unchristian--spirit: but vengeance, sure and swift, was the only thing which could impress the hostile savage. And, if example, in a matter of this sort, could be availing, for their severity to the Indians, they had the highest!

The eastern colonists--good men and true--"willing to exterminate the savages," says Bancroft,[70] who is certainly not their enemy, offered a bounty for every Indian scalp--as we, in the west, do for the scalps of wolves! "To regular forces under pay, the grant was _ten_ pounds--to volunteers, in actual service, _twice that sum_; but if men would, of themselves, without pay, make up parties and patrol the forests in search of Indians, _as of old the woods were scoured for wild beasts_, the chase was invigorated by the promised 'encouragement of _fifty_ pounds per scalp!'" The "fruitless cruelties" of the Indian allies of the French in Canada, says the historian, gave birth to these humane and nicely-graduated enactments! Nor is our admiration of their Christian spirit in the least diminished, when we reflect that nothing is recorded in history of "bounties on scalps" or "encouragement" to murder, offered by Frontenac, or any other French-Canadian governor, as a revenge for the horrible massacre at Montreal, or the many "fruitless cruelties" of the bloody Iroquois![71]

The descendants of the men who gave these "bounties" and "encouragements," have, in our own day, caressed, and wept and lamented over the tawny murderer, Black-Hawk, and his "wrongs" and "misfortunes;" but the theatre of Indian warfare was then removed a little farther west; and the atrocities of Haverhill and Deerfield were perpetrated on the western prairies, and not amid the forests of the east! Yet I do not mean, by referring to this passage of history--or to the rivers of wasted sentiment poured out a few years ago--so much to condemn our forefathers, or to draw invidious comparisons between them and others, as to show, that the war of extermination, sometimes waged by western rangers, was not without example--that the cruelty and hatred of the pioneer to the barbarous Indian, might originate in exasperation, which even moved the puritans; and that the lamentations, over the fictitious "wrongs" of a turbulent and bloody savage, might have run in a channel nearer home.

Hatred of the Indian, among the pioneers, was hereditary; there was scarcely a man on the frontier, who had not lost a father, a mother, or a brother, by the tomahawk; and not a few of them had suffered in their own persons. The child, who learned the rudiments of his scanty education at his mother's knee, must decipher the strange characters by the straggling light which penetrated the crevices between the logs; for, while the father was absent, in the field or on the war-path, the mother was obliged to bar the doors and barricade the windows against the savages. Thus, if he did not literally imbibe it with his mother's milk, one of the first things the pioneer learned, was dread, and consequently hatred, of the Indian. That feeling grew with his growth, strengthened with his strength--for a life upon the western border left but few days free from sights of blood or mementoes of the savage. The pioneer might go to the field in the morning, unsuspecting; and, at noon, returning, find his wife murdered and scalped, and the brains of his little ones dashed out against his own doorpost! And if a deadly hatred of the Indian took possession of his heart, who shall blame him? It may be said, the pioneer was an intruder, seeking to take forcible possession of the Indian's lands--and that it was natural that the Indian should resent the wrong after the manner of his race. Granted: and it was quite as natural that the pioneer should return the enmity, after the manner of _his_ race!

But the pioneer was _not_ an intruder.

For all the purposes, for which reason and the order of Providence authorize us to say, God made the earth, this continent was vacant--uninhabited. And--granting that the savage was in possession--for this is his only ground of title, as, indeed, it is the foundation of all primary title--there were at the period of the first landing of white men on the continent, between Lake Superior and the Gulf of Mexico, east of the Mississippi, about one hundred and eighty thousand Indians.[72] That region now supports at least twenty millions of civilized people, and is capable of containing quite ten times that number, without crowding! Now, if God made the earth for any purpose, it certainly was _not_ that it should be monopolized by a horde of nomad savages!

But an argument on this subject, would not be worth ink and paper; and I am, moreover, aware, that this reasoning may be abused. _Any_ attempt to construe the purposes of Deity must be liable to the same misapplication. And, besides, it is not my design to go so far back; I seek not so much to excuse as to account for--less to justify than to analyze--the characteristics of the class before me. I wish to establish that the pioneer hatred of the Indian was not an unprovoked or groundless hatred, that the severity of his warfare was not a mere gratuitous and bloody-minded cruelty. There are a thousand actions, of which we are hearing every day, that are indefensible in morals: and yet we are conscious while we condemn the actors, that, in like circumstances, we could not have acted differently. So is it with the fierce and violent reprisals, sometimes made by frontier rangers. Their best defence lies in the statement that they were men, and that their manhood prompted them to vengeance. When they deemed themselves injured, they demanded reparation, in such sort as that demand could then be made--at the muzzle of a rifle or the point of a knife. They were equal to the times in which they lived.--Had they not been so, how many steamboats would now be floating on the Mississippi?

There was no romance in the composition of the pioneer--whatever there may have been in his environment. His life was altogether too serious a matter for poetry, and the only music he took pleasure in, was the sound of a violin, sending forth notes remarkable only for their liveliness. Even this, he could enjoy but at rare periods, when his cares were forcibly dismissed. He was, in truth, a very matter-of-fact sort of person. It was principally with facts that he had to deal--and most of them were very "stubborn facts." Indeed, it may be doubted--notwithstanding much good poetry has been written (in cities chiefly), on solitude and the wilderness--whether a life in the woods is, after all, very suggestive of poetical thoughts. The perils of the frontier must borrow most of their "enchantment" from the "distance;" and its sufferings and hardships are certainly more likely to evoke pleasant fancies to him who sits beside a good coal fire, than to one whose lot it is to bear them. Even the (so-called) "varied imagery" of the Indian's eloquence--about which so much nonsense has been written--is, in a far greater measure, the result of the poverty and crude materialism of his language, than of any poetical bias, temperament, or tone of thought. An Indian, as we have said before, has no humor--he never understands a jest--his wife is a beast of burthen--heaven is a hunting-ground--his language has no words to express abstract qualities, virtues, or sentiments. And yet he lives in the wilderness all the days of his life! The only trait he has, in common with the poetical character, is his laziness.

But the pioneer was not indolent, in any sense. He had no dreaminess--meditation was no part of his mental habit--a poetical fancy would, in him, have been an indication of insanity. If he reclined at the foot of a tree, on a still summer day, it was to sleep: if he gazed out over the waving prairie, it was to search for the column of smoke which told of his enemy's approach: if he turned his eyes toward the blue heaven, it was to prognosticate to-morrow's storm or sunshine: if he bent his gaze upon the green earth, it was to look for "Indian sign" or buffalo trail. His wife was only a help-mate--he never thought of making a divinity of her--she cooked his dinner, made and washed his clothes, bore his children, and took care of his household. His children were never "little cherubs,"--"angels sent from heaven"--but generally "tow-headed" and very earthly responsibilities. He looked forward anxiously, to the day when the boys should be able to assist him in the field, or fight the Indian, and the girls to help their mother make and mend. When one of the latter took it into her head to be married--as they usually did quite early in life; for beaux were plenty and belles were "scarce"--he only made one condition, that the man of her choice should be brave and healthy. He never made a "parade" about anything--marriage, least of all. He usually gave the bride--not the "blushing" bride--a bed, a lean horse, and some good advice: and, having thus discharged his duty in the premises, returned to his work, and the business was done.

The marriage ceremony, in those days, was a very unceremonious affair. The parade and drill which now attend it, would then have been as ridiculous as a Chinese dance; and the finery and ornament, at present understood to be indispensable on such occasions, then bore no sway in fashion. Bridal wreaths and dresses were not known; and white kid gloves and satin slippers never heard of. Orange blossoms--natural and artificial--were as pretty then as now; but the people were more occupied with substance, than with emblem.

The ancients decked _their_ victims for the sacrifice with gaudy colors, flags, and streamers; the moderns do the same, and the offerings are sometimes made to quite as barbarous deities.

But the bride of the pioneer was clothed in linsey-wolsey, with hose of woollen yarn; and moccasins of deer-skin--or as an extra piece of finery, high-quartered shoes of calf-skin--preceded satin slippers. The bridegroom came in copperas-colored jeans--domestic manufacture--as a holiday suit; or, perhaps, a hunting-shirt of buckskin, all fringed around the skirt and cape, and a "coon-skin" cap, with moccasins. Instead of a dainty walking-stick, with an opera-dancer's leg, in ivory, for head, he always brought his rifle, with a solid maple stock; and never, during the whole ceremony, did he divest himself of powder-horn and bullet-pouch.

Protestant ministers of the gospel were few in those days; and the words of form were usually spoken by a Jesuit missionary. Or, if the Pioneer had objections to Catholicism--as many had--his place was supplied by some justice of the peace, of doubtful powers and mythical appointment. If neither of these could be procured, the father of the bride, himself, sometimes assumed the functions, _pro hâc vice_, or _pro tempore_, of minister or justice. It was always understood, however, that such left-handed marriages were to be confirmed by the first minister who wandered to the frontier: and, even when the opportunity did not offer for many months, no scandal ever arose--the marriage vow was never broken. The pioneers were simple people--the refinements of high cultivation had not yet penetrated the forests or crossed the prairies--and good faith and virtue were as common as courage and sagacity.

When the brief, but all-sufficient ceremony was over, the bridegroom resumed his rifle, helped the bride into the saddle--or more frequently to the pillion behind him--and they calmly rode away together.

On some pleasant spot--surrounded by a shady grove, or point of timber--a new log-cabin has been built: its rough logs notched across each other at the corners, a roof of oaken clapboards, held firmly down by long poles along each course, its floor of heavy "puncheons," its broad, cheerful fireplace, large as a modern bed-room--all are in the highest style of frontier architecture. Within--excepting some anomalies, such as putting the skillet and tea-kettle in the little cupboard, along with the blue-edged plates and yellow-figured tea-cups--for the whole has been arranged by the hands of the bridegroom himself--everything is neatly and properly disposed. The oaken bedstead, with low square posts, stands in one corner, and the bed is covered by a pure white counterpane, with fringe--an heirloom in the family of the bride. At the foot of this is seen a large, heavy chest--like a camp-chest--to serve for bureau, safe, and dressing-case.

In the middle of the floor--directly above a trap-door which leads to a "potato-hole" beneath--stands a ponderous walnut table, and on it sits a nest of wooden trays; while, flanking these, on one side, is a nicely-folded tablecloth, and, on the other, a wooden-handled butcher-knife and a well-worn Bible. Around the room are ranged a few "split-bottomed" chairs, exclusively for use, not ornament. In the chimney-corners, or under the table, are several three-legged stools, made for the children, who--as the bridegroom laughingly insinuates while he points to the uncouth specimens of his handiwork--"will be coming in due time." The wife laughs in her turn--replies, "no doubt"--and, taking one of the graceful tripods in her hand, carries it forth to sit upon while she milks the cow--for she understands what she is expected to do, and does it without delay. In one corner--near the fireplace--the aforesaid cupboard is erected--being a few oaken shelves neatly pinned to the logs with hickory forks--and in this are arranged the plates and cups;--not as the honest pride of the housewife would arrange them, to display them to the best advantage--but piled away, one within another, without reference to show. As yet there is no sign of female taste or presence.

But now the house receives its mistress. The "happy couple" ride up to the low rail-fence in front--the bride springs off without assistance, affectation, or delay. The husband leads away the horse or horses, and the wife enters the dominion, where, thenceforward, she is queen. There is no coyness, no blushing, no pretence of fright or nervousness--if you will, no romance--for which the husband has reason to be thankful! The wife knows what her duties are and resolutely goes about performing them. She never dreamed, nor twaddled, about "love in a cottage," or "the sweet communion of congenial souls" (who never eat anything): and she is, therefore, not disappointed on discovering that life is actually a serious thing. She never whines about "making her husband happy"--but sets firmly and sensibly about making him _comfortable_. She cooks his dinner, nurses his children, shares his hardships, and encourages his industry. She never complains of having too much work to do, she does not desert her home to make endless visits--she borrows no misfortunes, has no imaginary ailings. Milliners and mantua-makers she ignores--"shopping" she never heard of--scandal she never invents or listens to. She never wishes for fine carriages, professes no inability to walk five hundred yards, and does not think it a "vulgar accomplishment," to know how to make butter. She has no groundless anxieties, she is not nervous about her children taking cold: a doctor is a visionary potentate to her--a drug-shop is a dépôt of abominations. She never forgets whose wife she is,--there is no "sweet confidante" without whom she "can not live"--she never writes endless letters about nothing. She is, in short, a faithful, honest wife: and, "in due time," the husband must make _more_ "three-legged stools"--for the "tow-heads" have now covered them all!

Such is the wife and mother of the pioneer, and, with such influences about him, how could he be otherwise than honest, straightforward, and manly?

But, though a life in the woods was an enemy to every sort of sentimentalism--though a more unromantic being than the pioneer can hardly be imagined--yet his character unquestionably took its hue, from the primitive scenes and events of his solitary existence. He was, in many things, as simple as a child: as credulous, as unsophisticated. Yet the utmost cunning of the wily savage--all the strategy of Indian warfare--was not sufficient to deceive or overreach him! Though one might have expected that his life of ceaseless watchfulness would make him skeptical and suspicious, his confidence was given heartily, without reservation, and often most imprudently. If he gave his trust at all, you might ply him, by the hour, with the most improbable and outrageous fictions, without fear of contradiction or of unbelief. He never questioned the superior knowledge or pretensions of any one who claimed acquaintance with subjects of which _he_ was ignorant.

The character of his intellect, like that of the Indian, was thoroughly synthetical: he had nothing of the faculty which enables us to detect falsehood, even in matters of which we know nothing by comparison and analogy. He never analyzed any story told him, he took it as a unit; and, unless it violated some known principle of his experience, or conflicted with some fact of his own observation, never doubted its truth. At this moment, there are men in every western settlement who have only vague, crude notions of what a city is--who would feel nervous if they stepped upon the deck of a steamboat--and are utterly at a loss to conjecture the nature of a railroad. Upon either of these mystical subjects they will swallow, without straining, the most absurd and impossible fictions. And this is not because of their ignorance alone, for many of them are, for their sphere in life, educated, intelligent, and, what is better, sensible men. Nor is it by any means a national trait: for a genuine Yankee will scarcely believe the truth; and, though he may sometimes trust in very wild things, his faith is usually an active "craze," and not mere passive credulity. The pioneer, then, has not derived it from his eastern fathers: it is the growth of the woods and prairies--an embellishment to a character which might otherwise appear naked and severe.

Another characteristic, traceable to the same source, the stern reality of his life, is the pioneer's gravity.

The agricultural population of this country are, at the best, not a cheerful race. Though they sometimes join in festivities, it is but seldom; and the wildness of their dissipation is too often in proportion to its infrequency. There is none of the serene contentment--none of that smiling enjoyment--which, according to travellers like Howitt, distinguishes the tillers of the ground in other lands. _Sedateness_ is a national characteristic, but the gravity of the pioneer is quite another thing; it includes pride and personal dignity, and indicates a stern, unyielding temper. There is, however, nothing morose in it: it is its aspect alone, which forbids approach; and that only makes more conspicuous the heartiness of your reception, when once the shell is broken. Acquainted with the character, you do not expect him to _smile_ much; but now and then he _laughs_: and that laugh is round, free, and hearty. You know at once that he enjoys it, you are convinced that he is a firm friend and "a good hater."

It is not surprising, with a character such as I have described, that the pioneer is not gregarious, that he is, indeed, rather solitary. Accordingly, we never find a genuine specimen of the class, among the emigrants, who come in shoals and flocks, and pitch their tents in "colonies;" who lay out towns and cities, projected upon paper, and call them New Boston, New Albany, or New Hartford, before one log is placed upon another; nor are there many of the unadulterated stock among that other class, who come from regions further south, and christen their towns, classically, Carthage, Rome, or Athens: or, patriotically, in commemoration of some Virginian worthy, some Maryland sharpshooter, or "Jersey blue."

The real pioneer never emigrates gregariously; he does not wish to be within "halloo" of his nearest neighbor; he is no city-builder; and, if he does project a town, he christens it by some such name as Boonville or Clarksville, in memory of a noted pioneer: or Jacksonville or Waynesville, to commemorate some "old hero" who was celebrated for good fighting.[73] And the reason why the outlandish and _outré_ so much predominate in the names of western towns and cities, must be sought in the fact referred to above, that the western man is not essentially a town-projector, and that, consequently, comparatively few of the towns were "laid out" by the legitimate pioneer. We shall have more to say of town-building under another head; and, in the meantime, having said that the pioneer is not gregarious, let us look at the _manner_ of his emigration.

Many a time, in the western highways, have I met with the sturdy "mover," as he is called, in the places where people are stationary--a family, sometimes by no means small, wandering toward the setting sun, in search of pleasant places on the lands of "Uncle Sam." Many a time, in the forest or on the prairie--generally upon some point of timber which puts a mile or two within the plain--have I passed the "clearing," or "pre-emption," where, with nervous arm and sturdy heart, the "squatter"[74] cleaves out, and renders habitable, a home for himself and a heritage for his children.