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.”