THE PIONEER.
“I hear the tread of pioneers,
Of nations yet to be—
The first low wash of waves where soon
Shall roll a human sea.”
Whittier.
“The axe rang sharply 'mid those forest shades
Which, from creation, toward the sky had towered
In unshorn beauty.”
Sigourney.
Next, in chronological order, after the missionary, came the military adventurer—of which class La Salle was the best representative. But the expeditions led by these men, were, for the most part, wild and visionary enterprises, in pursuit of unattainable ends. They were, moreover, unskilfully managed and unfortunately terminated—generally ending in the defeat, disappointment, and death of those who had set them on foot. They left no permanent impress upon the country; the most acute moral or political vision can not now detect a trace of their influence, in the aspect of the lands they penetrated; and, so far from hastening the settlement of the Great Valley, it is more probable that their disastrous failures rather retarded it—by deterring others from the undertaking. Their history reads like a romance; and their characters would better grace the pages of fiction, than the annals of civilization. Further than this brief reference, therefore, I find no place for them, in a work which aims only to notice those who either aided to produce, or indicated, the characteristics of the society in which they lived.
THE PIONEER.
Soon after them, came the Indian-traders—to whose generosity so many of the captives, taken by the natives in those early times, were indebted for their ransom. But—notwithstanding occasional acts of charity—their unscrupulous rapacity, and, particularly, their introduction of spirituous liquors among the savages, furnish good reason to doubt, whether, on the whole, they did anything to advance the civilization of the lands and people they visited. And, as we shall have occasion to refer again, though briefly, to the character in a subsequent article, we will pass over it for the present, and hasten on to the Pioneer.
Of this class, there are two sub-divisions: the floating, transitory, and erratic frontierman—including the hunter, the trapper, the scout and Indian-fighter: men who can not be considered citizens of any country, but keep always a little in advance of permanent emigration. With this division of the class, we have little to do: first, because they are already well understood, by most readers in this country, through the earlier novels of Cooper, their great delineator; and, second, because, as we have intimated, our business is chiefly with those, whose footprints have been stamped upon the country, and whose influence is traceable in its civilization. We, therefore, now desire to direct attention to the other sub-division—the genuine “settler;” the firm, unflinching, permanent emigrant, who entered the country to till the land and to possess it, for himself and his descendants.
And, in the first place, let us inquire what motives could induce men to leave regions, where the axe had been at work for many years—where the land was reduced to cultivation, and the forest reclaimed from the wild beast and the wilder savage—where civilization had begun to exert its power, and society had assumed a legal and determined shape—to depart from all these things, seeking a new home in an inhospitable wilderness, where they could only gain a footing by severe labor, constant strife, and sleepless vigilance? To be capable of doing all this, from any motive, a man must be a strange compound of qualities; but that compound, strange as it is, has done, and is doing, more to reclaim the west, and change the wilderness into a garden, than all other causes combined.
A prominent trait in the character of the genuine American, is the desire “to better his condition”—a peculiarity which sometimes embodies itself in the disposition to forget the good old maxim, “Let well-enough alone,” and not unfrequently leads to disaster and suffering. A thorough Yankee—using that word as the English do, to indicate national, not sectional, character—is never satisfied with doing well; he always underrates his gains and his successes; and, though to others he may be boastful enough, and may, even truly, rate the profits of his enterprise by long strings of “naught,” he is always whispering to himself, “I ought to do better.” If he sees any one accumulating property faster than himself, he becomes emulous and discontented—he is apt to think, unless he goes more rapidly than any one else, that he is not moving at all. If he can find no one of his neighbors advancing toward fortune, with longer strides than he, he will imagine some successful “speculator,” to whom he will compare himself, and chafe at his inferiority to a figment of his own fancy. If he possessed “a million a minute,” he would cast about for some profitable employment, in which he might engage, “to pay expenses.” He will abandon a silver-mine, of slow, but certain gains, for the gambling chances of a gold “placer;” and if any one within his knowledge dig out more wealth than he, he will leave the “diggings,” though his success be quite encouraging, and go quixoting among the islands of the sea, in search of pearls and diamonds. With the prospect of improvement in his fortunes—whether that prospect be founded upon reason, be a naked fancy, or the offspring of mere discontent—he regards no danger, cares for no hardship, counts no suffering. Everything must bend before the ruling passion, “to better his condition.”
His spirit is eminently encroaching. Rather than give up any of his own “rights,” he will take a part of what belongs to others. Whatever he thinks necessary to his welfare, to that he believes himself entitled. To whatever point he desires to reach, he takes the straightest course, even though the way lie across the corner of his neighbor's field. Yet he is intensely jealous of his own possessions, and warns off all trespassers with an imperial menace of “the utmost penalty of the law.” He has, of course, an excellent opinion of himself—and justly: for when not blinded by cupidity or vexed by opposition, no man can hold the scales of justice with a more even hand.
He is seldom conscious of having done a wrong: for he rarely moves until he has ascertained “both the propriety and expediency of the motion.” He has, therefore, an instinctive aversion to all retractions and apologies. He has such a proclivity to the forward movement, that its opposite, even when truth and justice demand it, is stigmatized, in his vocabulary, by odious and ridiculous comparisons. He is very stubborn, and, it is feared, sometimes mistakes his obstinacy for firmness. He thinks a safe retreat worse than a defeat with slaughter. Yet he never rests under a reverse, and, though manifestly prostrate, will never acknowledge that he is beaten. A check enrages him more than a decided failure: for so long as his end is not accomplished, nor defeated, he can see no reason why he should not succeed. If his forces are driven back, shattered and destroyed, he is not cast down, but angry—he forthwith swears vengeance and another trial. He is quite insatiable—as a failure does not dampen him, success can never satisfy him. His plans are always on a great scale; and, if they sometimes exceed his means of execution, at least, “he who aims at the sun,” though he may lose his arrow, “will not strike the ground.” He is a great projector—but he is eminently practical, as well as theoretical; and if he cannot realize his visions, no other man need try.
He is restless and migratory. He is fond of change, for the sake of the change; and he will have it, though it bring him only new labors and new hardships. He is, withal, a little selfish—as might be supposed. He begins to lose his attachment to the advantages of his home, so soon as they are shared by others. He does not like near neighbors—has no affection for the soil; he will leave a place on which he has expended much time and labor, as soon as the region grows to be a “settlement.” Even in a town, he is dissatisfied if his next neighbor lives so near that the women can gossip across the division-fence. He likes to be at least one day's journey from the nearest plantation.
I once heard an old pioneer assign as a reason why he must emigrate from western Illinois, the fact that “people were settling right under his nose”—and the farm of his nearest neighbor was twelve miles distant, by the section lines! He moved on to Missouri, but there the same “impertinence” of emigrants soon followed him; and, abandoning his half-finished “clearing,” he packed his family and household goods in a little wagon, and retreated, across the plains to Oregon. He is—or was, two years ago—living in the valley of the Willamette, where, doubtless, he is now chafing under the affliction of having neighbors in the same region, and nothing but an ocean beyond.
His character seems to be hard-featured.
But he is neither unsocial, nor morose. He welcomes the stranger as heartily as the most hospitable patriarch. He receives the sojourner at his fireside without question. He regales him with the best the house affords: is always anxious to have him “stay another day.” He cares for his horse, renews his harness, laughs at his stories, and exchanges romances with him. He hunts with him; fishes, rides, walks, talks, eats, and drinks with him. His wife washes and mends the stranger's shirts, and lends him a needle and thread to sew a button on his only pair of pantaloons. The children sit on his knee, the dog lies at his feet, and accompanies him into the woods. The whole family are his friends, and only grow cold and distant when they learn that he is looking for land, and thinks of “settling” within a few leagues. If nothing of the sort occurs—and this only “leaks out” by accident, for the pioneer never pries inquisitively into the business of his guest, he keeps him as long as he can; and when he can stay no longer, fills his saddle-bags with flitches of bacon and “pones” of corn-bread, shakes him heartily by the hand, exacts a promise to stop again on his return, and bids him “God-speed” on his journey.
Such is American character, in the manifestations which have most affected the settlement and development of the West; a compound of many noble qualities, with a few—and no nation is without such—that are not quite so respectable. All these, both good and bad, were possessed by the early pioneer in an eminent, sometimes in an extravagant degree; and the circumstances, by which he found himself surrounded after his emigration to the West, tended forcibly to their exaggeration.
But the qualities—positive and negative—above enumerated, were, many of them, at least, peculiarities belonging to the early emigrant, as much before as after his removal. And there were others, quite as distinctly marked, called into activity, if not actually created by his life in the wilderness. Such, for example, was his self-reliance—his confidence in his own strength, sagacity, and courage. It was but little assistance that he ever required from his neighbors, though no man was ever more willing to render it to others, in the hour of need. He was the swift avenger of his own wrongs, and he never appealed to another to ascertain his rights. Legal tribunals were an abomination to him. Government functionaries he hated, almost as the Irish hate excisemen. Assessments and taxes he could not endure, for, since he was his own protector, he had no interest in sustaining the civil authorities.
Military organizations he despised, for subordination was no part of his nature. He stood up in the native dignity of manhood, and called no mortal his superior. When he joined his neighbors, to avenge a foray of the savages, he joined on the most equal terms—each man was, for the time, his own captain; and when the leader was chosen—for the pioneers, with all their personal independence, were far too rational to underrate the advantages of a head in the hour of danger—each voice was counted in the choice, and the election might fall on any one. But, even after such organization, every man was fully at liberty to abandon the expedition, whenever he became dissatisfied, or thought proper to return home. And if this want of discipline sometimes impaired the strength, and rendered unavailing the efforts, of communities, it at least fostered the manly spirit of personal independence; and, to keep that alive in the breasts of a people, it is worth while to pay a yearly tribute, even though that tribute be rendered unto the King of Terrors!
This self-reliance was not an arrogant and vulgar egotism, as it has been so often represented in western stories, and the tours of superficial travellers. It was a calm, just estimate of his own capabilities—a well-grounded confidence in his own talents—a clear, manly understanding of his own individual rights, dignity, and relations. Such is the western definition of independence; and if there be anything of it in the western character at the present day, it is due to the stubborn and intense individuality of the first pioneer. He it was who laid the foundation of our social fabric, and it is his spirit which yet pervades our people.
The quality which next appears, in analyzing this character, is his courage.
It was not mere physical courage, nor was it stolid carelessness of danger. The pioneer knew, perfectly well, the full extent of the peril that surrounded him; indeed, he could not be ignorant of it; for almost every day brought some new memento, either of his savage foe, or of the prowling beast of prey. He ploughed, and sowed, and reaped, and gathered, with the rifle slung over his shoulders; and, at every turn, he halted, listening, with his ear turned toward his home; for well he knew that, any moment, the scream of his wife, or the wail of his children, might tell of the up-lifted tomahawk, or the murderous scalping-knife.
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.
Upon the road, you first meet the pioneer himself, for he almost always walks a few hundred yards ahead. He is usually above the medium height, and rather spare. He stoops a little, too; for he has done a deal of hard work, and expects to do more; but you see at once, that unless his lungs are weak, his strength is by no means broken, and you are quite sure that many a stately tree is destined to be humbled by his sinewy arm. He is attired in frontier fashion: he wears a loose coat, called a hunting-shirt, of jeans or linsey, and its color is that indescribable hue compounded of copperas and madder; pantaloons, exceedingly loose, and not very accurately cut in any part, of like color and material, defend his lower limbs. His feet are cased in low, fox-colored shoes, for of boots, he is, yet, quite innocent. Around his throat and wrists, even in midsummer, you see the collar and wristbands of a heavy, deep-red, flannel-shirt. Examine him very closely, and you will probably find no other garment on his person.
His hair is dark, and not very evenly trimmed—for his wife or daughter has performed the tonsure with a pair of rusty shears; and the longer locks seem changed in hue, as if his dingy wool hat did not sufficiently protect them against the wind and rain. Over his shoulder he carries a heavy rifle, heavier than a “Harper's ferry musket,” running about “fifty to the pound.” Around his neck are swung the powder-horn and bullet-pouch, the former protected by a square of deer-skin, and the latter ornamented with a squirrel's tail.
You take note of all these things, and then recur to his melancholy-looking face, with its mild blue eyes and sharpened features. You think he looks thin, and conjecture that his chest may be weak, or his lungs affected, by the stoop in his shoulders; but when he lifts his eyes, and asks the way to Thompson's ferry, or how far it is to water, you are satisfied: for the glance of his eye is calm and firm, and the tone of his voice is round and healthy. You answer his question, he nods quietly by way of thanks, and marches on; and, though you draw your rein, and seem inclined to further converse, he takes no notice, and pursues his way.
A few minutes afterward, you meet the family. A small, light wagon, easily dragged through sloughs and heavy roads, is covered with a white cotton cloth, and drawn, by either two yokes of oxen, or a pair of lean horses. A “patch-work” quilt is sometimes stretched across the flimsy covering, as a guard against the sun and rain. Within this vehicle are stowed all the emigrant's household goods, and still, it is not overloaded.
There is usually a large chest, containing the wardrobe of the family, with such small articles as are liable to loss, and the little store of money. This is always in silver, for the pioneer is no judge of gold, and, on the frontier, paper has but little exchangeable value. There are then two light bedsteads—one “a trundle-bed”—a few plain chairs, most of them tied on behind and at the sides; three or four stools, domestic manufacture; a set of tent-poles and a few pots and pans. On these are piled the “beds and bedding,” tied in large bundles, and stowed in such manner as to make convenient room for the children who are too young to walk. In the front end of the wagon, sits the mother of the family: and, peering over her head and shoulders, leaning out at her side, or gazing under the edge of the cotton-covering, are numerous flaxen heads, which you find it difficult to count while you ride past.
There are altogether too many of them, you think, for a man no older than the one you met, a while ago; and you, perhaps, conjecture that the youthful-looking woman has adopted some of her dead sister's children, or, perchance, some of her brothers and sisters themselves. But you are mistaken, they are all her offspring, and the father of every one of them is the stoop-shouldered man you saw ahead. If you look closely, you will observe that the mother, who is driving, holds the reins with one hand, while, on the other arm, she supports an infant not more than six months old. It was for the advent of this little stranger, that they delayed their emigration: and they set out while it was very young, for fear of the approach of its successor. If they waited for their youngest child to attain a year of age, they would never “move,” until they would be too old to make another “clearing.”
You pass on—perhaps ejaculating thanks that your lot has been differently cast, and thinking you have seen the last of them. But a few hundred yards further, and you hear the tinkling of a bell; two or three lean cows—with calves about the age of the baby—come straggling by. You look for the driver, and see a tall girl with a very young face—the eldest of the family, though not exceeding twelve or thirteen years in age. You feel quite sure, that, besides her sun-bonnet and well-worn shoes, she wears but one article of apparel—and that a loose dress of linsey, rather narrow in the skirt, of a dirty brown color, with a tinge of red. It hangs straight down about her limbs, as if it were wet, and with every step—for she walks stoutly—it flaps and flies about her ankles, as if shotted in the lower hem. She presents, altogether, rather a slatternly figure, and her face is freckled and sunburnt.
But you must not judge her too rashly; for her eye is keen and expressive, and her mouth is quite pretty—especially when she smiles. A few years hence—if you have the entrée—you may meet her in the best and highest circles of the country. Perhaps, while you are dancing attendance upon some new administration, asking for a “place,” and asking, probably, in vain, she may come to Washington, a beautiful and accomplished woman—the wife of some member of Congress, whose constituency is numbered by the hundred thousand!
You may pass on, now, and forget her; but, if you stop to talk five minutes, she will not forget you—at least, if you say anything striking or sensible. And when you meet her again, perhaps in a gilded saloon, among the brightest and highest in the land—if you seek an introduction, as you probably will—she will remind you of the meeting, and to your astonishment, will laughingly describe the scene, to some of her obsequious friends who stand around. And then she will perhaps introduce you, as an old friend, to one of those flax-haired boys, who peeped out of the wagon over his mother's shoulder, as you passed them in the wilderness: and you recognise one of the members from California, or from Oregon, whose influence in the house, though he is as yet a very young man, is already quite considerable. If you are successful in your application for a “place,” it may be that the casual meeting in the forest or on the prairie was the seed which, germinating through long years of obscurity, finally sprung up thus, and bore a crop of high official honors!
The next time you meet a family of emigrants on the frontier, you will probably observe them a little more closely.
Not a few of those who bear a prominent part in the government of our country—more than one of the first men of the nation—men whose names are now heard in connection with the highest office of the people—twenty years ago, occupied a place as humble in the scale of influence, as that flaxen-haired son of the stoop-shouldered emigrant. Such are the elements of our civilization—such the spirit of our institutions!
We have hitherto been speaking only of the American pioneer, and we have devoted more space to him, than we shall give to his contemporaries, because he has exerted more influence, both in the settlement of the country, and in the formation of sectional character and social peculiarities, than all the rest combined.
The French emigrant was quite a different being. Even at this day, there are no two classes—not the eastern and western, or the northern and southern—between whom the distinction is more marked, than it has always been between the Saxon and the Frank. The advent of the latter was much earlier than that of the former; and to him, therefore, must be ascribed the credit of the first settlement of the country. But, for all purposes of lasting impression, he must yield to his successor. It was, in fact, the American who penetrated and cleared the forest—who subdued and drove out the Indian—who, in a word, reclaimed the country.
In nothing was the distinction between the two races broader, than in the feelings with which they approached the savage. We have seen that the hatred, borne by the American toward his red enemy, was to be traced to a long series of mutual hostilities and wrongs. But the Frenchman had no such injuries to avenge, no hereditary feud to prosecute. The first of his nation who had entered the country were non-combatants—they came to convert the savage, not to conquer him, or deprive him of his lands. Even as early as sixteen hundred and eight, the Jesuits had established friendly relations with the Indians of Canada—and before the stern crew of the May Flower had landed on Plymouth Rock, they had preached the gospel on the shores of Lake Huron. Their piety and wisdom had acquired an influence over the untutored Indian, long before the commencement of the hostilities, which afterward cost so much blood and suffering. They had, thus, smoothed the way for their countrymen, and opened a safe path through the wilderness, to the shore of the great western waters. And the people who followed and accompanied them, were peculiarly adapted to improve the advantages thus given them.
They were a gentle, peaceful, unambitious people. They came as the friend, not the hereditary enemy, of the savage. They tendered the calumet—a symbol well understood by every Indian—and were received as allies and brethren. They had no national prejudices to overcome: the copper color of the Indian was not an insuperable objection to intermarriage, and children of the mixed blood were not, for that reason, objects of scorn. An Indian maiden was as much a woman to a Frenchman, as if she had been a blonde; and, if her form was graceful and her features comely, he would woo her with as much ardor as if she had been one of his own race.
Nor was this peculiarity attributable only to the native gallantry of the French character, as it has sometimes been asserted; the total want of prejudice, which grows up in contemplating an inferior race, held in limited subjection, and a certain easiness of temper and tone of thought, had far more influence.
The Frenchman has quite enough vanity, but very little pride. Whatever, therefore, is sanctioned by those who surrounded him, is, in his eyes, no degradation. He married the Indian woman—first, because there were but few females among the emigrants, and he could not live without “the sex;” and, second, because there was nothing in his prejudices, or in public sentiment, to deter him. The descendants of these marriages—except where, as in some cases, they are upheld by the possession of great wealth—have no consideration, and are seldom seen in the society of the whites. But this is only because French manners and feelings have long since faded out of our social organization. The Saxon, with his unconquerable prejudices of race, with his pride and jealousy, has taken possession of the country; and, as he rules its political destinies, in most places, likewise, gives tones to its manners. Had Frenchmen continued to possess the land—had French dominion not given place to English—mixture of blood would have had but little influence on one's position; and there would now have been, in St. Louis or Chicago, as many shades of color in a social assembly, as may be seen at a ball in Mexico.
The French are a more cheerful people, than the Americans. Social intercourse—the interchange of hospitalities—the enjoyment of amusements in crowds—are far more important to them than to any other race. Solitude and misery are—or ought to be—synonyms in French; and enjoyment is like glory—it must have witnesses, or it will lose its attraction. Accordingly, we find the French emigrant seeking companionship, even in the trials and enterprises of the wilderness. The American, after the manner of his race, sought places where he could possess, for himself, enough for his wants, and be “monarch of all he surveyed.”
But the Frenchman had no such pride. He resorted to a town, where the amusements of dancing, fêtes, and social converse, were to be found—where the narrow streets were scarcely more than a division fence, “across which the women could carry on their voluble conversations, without leaving their homes.”[75] This must have been a great advantage, and probably contributed, in no slight degree, to the singular peace of their villages—since the proximity afforded no temptation to going abroad, and the distance was yet too great to allow such whisperings and scandal, as usually break up the harmony of small circles. Whether the fact is to be attributed to this, or to some other cause, certain it is that these little communities were eminently peaceful. From the first settlement of Kaskaskia, for example, down to the transfer of the western country to the British—almost a century—I find no record, even in the voluminous epistolary chronicles, of any personal rencontre, or serious quarrel, among the inhabitants. The same praise can not be given to any American town ever yet built.
A species of communism seems to be a portion of the French character; for we discover, that, even at that early day, paysans, or habitans, collected together in villages, had their common fields, where the separate portion of each family was still a part of the common stock—and their tract of pasture-land, where there was no division, or separate property. One enclosure covered all the fields of the community, and all submitted to regulations made by the free voice of the people.
If one was sick, or employed in the service of the colony, or absent on business of his own at planting or harvest time, his portion was not therefore neglected: his ground was planted, or his crop was gathered, by the associated labor of his neighbors, as thoroughly and carefully as if he had been at home. His family had nothing to fear; because in the social code of the simple villagers, each was as much bound to maintain the children of his friend as his own. This state of things might have its inconveniences and vices—of which, perhaps, the worst was its tendency to merge the family into the community, and thus—by obliterating the lines of individuality and personal independence—benumbing enterprise and checking improvements: but it was certainly productive of some good results, also. It tended to make people careful each of the other's rights, kind to the afflicted, and brotherly in their social intercourse. The attractive simplicity of manners observable, even at this day, in some of the old French villages, is traceable to this peculiar form of their early organization.
It would be well if that primitive simplicity of life and manners, could be combined with rapid, or even moderate improvement. But, in the present state of the world, this can scarcely be; and, accordingly, we find the Frenchman of the passing year, differing but little from his ancestor of sixteen hundred and fifty—still living in the old patriarchal style, still cultivating his share of the common field, and still using the antiquated processes of the seventeenth century.
But, though not so active as their neighbors, the Americans, they were ever much happier. They had no ambition beyond enough for the passing hour: with that they were perfectly contented. They were very patient of the deprivation, when they had it not; and seasons of scarcity saw no cessation of music and dancing, no abridgment of the jest and song. If the earth yielded enough in one year to sustain them till the next, the amount of labor expended for that object was never increased—superfluity they cared nothing for: and commerce, save such limited trade as was necessary to provide their few luxuries, was beyond both their capacity and desires. The prolific soil was suffered to retain its juices; it was reserved for another people to discover and improve its infinite productiveness.
They were indolent, careless, and improvident. Great enterprises were above or below them. Political interests, and the questions concerning national dominion, were too exciting to charm their gentle natures. Their intelligence was, of course, not of the highest order: but they had no use for learning—literature was out of place in the wilderness—the pursuit of letters could have found no sympathy, and for solitary enjoyment, the Frenchman cultivates nothing. Life was almost altogether sensuous: and, though their morals were in keeping with their simplicity, existence to them was chiefly a physical matter. The fertility of the soil, producing all the necessaries of life with a small amount of labor, and the amenity of the climate, rendering defences against winter but too easy, encouraged their indolence, and soothed their scanty energy.
“They made no attempt,” said one[76] who knew them well, “to acquire land from the Indians, to organize a social system, to introduce municipal regulations, or to establish military defences; but cheerfully obeyed the priests and the king's officers, and enjoyed the present without troubling their heads about the future. They seem to have been even careless as to the acquisition of property, and its transmission to their heirs. Finding themselves in a fruitful country, abounding in game—where the necessaries of life could be procured with little labor—where no restraints were imposed by government, and neither tribute nor personal service was exacted, they were content to live in unambitious peace and comfortable poverty. They took possession of so much of the vacant land around them, as they were disposed to till, and no more. Their agriculture was rude: and even to this day, some of the implements of husbandry and modes of cultivation, brought from France a century ago, remain unchanged by the march of mind or the hand of innovation. Their houses were comfortable, and they reared fruits and flowers, evincing, in this respect, an attention to comfort and luxury, which has not been practised by the English and American first settlers. But in the accumulation of property, and in all the essentials of industry, they were indolent and improvident, rearing only the bare necessaries of life, and living from generation to generation without change or improvement.”
“They reared fruits and flowers,” he says; and this simple fact denotes a marked distinction between them and the Americans, not only in regard to the things themselves, as would seem to be the view of the author quoted, but in mental constitution, modes of thought, and motives to action. Their tastes were elegant, ornate, and refined. They found pleasure in pursuits which the American deems trivial, frivolous, and unworthy of exertion.
If any trees sheltered the house of the American, they were those planted by the winds; if there were any flowers at his door, they were only those with which prodigal nature has carpeted the prairies; and you may see now in the west, many a cabin which has stood for thirty years, with not a tree, of shade or fruit, within a mile of its door! Everything is as bare and as cheerless about the door-yard, as it was the first winter of its enclosure. But, stretching away from it, in every direction, sometimes for miles, you will see extensive and productive fields of grain, in the highest state of cultivation. It is not personal comfort, or an elegant residence, for which the American cares, but the enduring and solid results of unwearied labor.
A Frenchman's residence is surrounded by flower-beds and orchards; his windows are covered by creeping-vines and trellis-work; flower-pots and bird-cages occupy the sills and surround the corridors; everything presents the aspect of elegant taste, comfort, and indolence. The extent of his fields, the amount of his produce, the intelligence and industry of his cultivation, bear an immense disproportion to those of his less ornamental, though more energetic, neighbor.
The distinction between the two races is as clear in their personal appearance and bearing, as in the aspect of their plantations. The Frenchman is generally a spruce, dapper little gentleman, brisk, obsequious, and insinuating in manner, and usually betraying minute attention to externals. The American is always plain in dress—evincing no more taste in costume than in horticulture—steady, calm, and never lively in manner: blunt, straightforward, and independent in discourse. The one is amiable and submissive, the other choleric and rebellious. The Frenchman always recognises and bows before superior rank: the American acknowledges no superior, and bows to no man save in courtesy. The former is docile and easily governed: the latter is intractable, beyond control. The Frenchman accommodates himself to circumstances: the American forces circumstances to yield to him.
The consequence has been, that while the American has stamped his character upon the whole country, there are not ten places in the valley of the Mississippi, where you would infer, from anything you see, that a Frenchman had ever placed his foot upon the soil. The few localities in which the French character yet lingers, are fast losing the distinction; and a score or two of years will witness a total disappearance of the gentle people and their primitive abodes. Even now—excepting in a few parishes in Louisiana—the relics of the race bear a faded, antiquated look: as if they belonged to a past century, as, indeed, they do, and only lingered now, to witness, for a brief space, the glaring innovations of the nineteenth, and then, lamenting the follies of modern civilization, to take their departure for ever!
Let them depart in peace! For they were a gentle and pacific race, and in their day did many kindly things!
“The goodness of the heart is shown in deeds
Of peacefulness and kindness.”
Their best monument is an affectionate recollection of their simplicity: their highest wish
——“To sleep in humble life,
Beneath the storm ambition blows.”