Chapter XXV: Elizabeth Kenton, 428 (15)

The scene was one of intense and terrible interest. It lasted but a few moments, amid cheers from both sides, and yells that were absolutely deafening. The children of the white residents who witnessed it, partook of the wild excitement. “My brother Malcolm,” says Mrs. Clark’s daughter, “a little fellow, threw up his cap, and shouted with the rest. One young Indian--‘Young Six’ he was called--had petted us frequently, and was a great favorite; we were anxious he should escape, and watched his fearful race with breathless eagerness. He reached the fence, and sprang upon it; a moment more and he would have been safe among his friends, who were ready to receive and welcome him, when suddenly he bounded high in air and fell, pierced by a shower of bullets.” Women and men then rushed frantically upon the bodies of the slain; the scalps were torn off, and the corpses horribly mutilated with hatchets, the squaws even thrusting their fingers into the bullet-holes, and licking the blood as it flowed! When the savage avengers supposed they had done their duty to their lost friends, the scene was closed with their scalp-dance, the fearful orgies being prolonged several hours.

Perhaps, in the exposed and perilous situation of the garrison, the commandant could not venture to interfere with the execution of savage vengeance; for the mangled bodies of the slain were suffered to lie a long time unburied. The old chief, feeling now that his time was come for departure to the spirit-land, caused himself to be painted according to Indian custom, and the scalps to be hung round his neck, sang his own death-song, and expired with the calmness of a hero or a philosopher.

The daughter of Mrs. Clark was married to Mr. Van Cleve while her parents were at Fort Winnebago. They were obliged to send one hundred miles for the clergyman--Rev. Dr. Gregory, then missionary to the Indians near Green Bay. It was said that when he arrived, it was well he was familiar with the service, being so snow-blind from his long drive, that he could not have read it.

Mrs. Clark is described as still a very handsome woman, with grey hair neatly arranged over a classic head, and a countenance lighted up with intelligence and spirit when in conversation, with great sweetness of expression at all times. She interests every one who forms her acquaintance, and often delights her friends by a narration of the incidents of her pioneer experience, delineating the scenes at Fort Snelling with so much graphic and vivid power that they seem to pass before the auditor. Her children inherit her talent, with her agreeable person and manners, and are ornaments of the polished society in which they move. Mrs. Van Cleve resides at Ann Arbor, Michigan; Mrs. Clark, Miss Clark and Mrs. Lincoln, in Cincinnati, and another married daughter on the other side of the river in Kentucky. Malcolm Clark has spent many years at a distance from civilization among the aboriginal tribes, and is now a trader near Fort Benton in Oregon, married to a woman of the “Black Foot” Indians. He is highly respected by them, and called “Lesokin,” or “four bears,” because he killed four of those animals one morning before breakfast. In 1850 he returned to “the settlements,” on a visit to his family, bringing his two elder children to his sister to be educated at Ann Arbor. The girl--Pistapowaca--had been christened before her arrival by a Roman Catholic priest, but the boy--Natiena--was baptized in St. Andrew’s church in that village--the grandmother herself leading him to the font, and appearing as the only sponsor. The father had a Spanish boy with him, bound to his service by a tie of gratitude, whose duty it was to attend the children. Mr. Clark wore his Indian dress--the leggins ornamented with human hair--as far east as St. Louis--and so much had his complexion changed, that his sisters would scarcely have recognized him. The mother had cheerfully consented to part with her children for their good, for she had a stout heart, and knew they ought to be taught many things. Her boy, she said, would certainly return; he was to be a great chief, as her father had been; and so, when the canoe was ready for the departure of her husband and children, she accompanied them to the river side, and as the bark pushed off, threw herself upon the ground, concealing her face in her dress. When, after rounding a point, they again caught sight of her, she was still lying motionless, absorbed in grief. When the father left his children to return to his distant home, the little girl, taught to subdue the expression of emotion, would not suffer herself to cry out; but clasped her throat with her hands to choke down her feelings.

One incident in Clark’s early life is characteristic. When a mere lad, the men at the fort had trapped a wolf, and were debating how they could manage to muzzle him, before taking him out. Malcolm passing by, inquired what they were about, and immediately offered to hold the animal. Suiting the action to the word, he clapped his hands on either side the creature’s jaws, and held them forcibly together, while the soldiers slipped on the cords. Clark was at West Point when the Texan difficulties with Mexico broke out, and departed to join the service; working his way afterwards to his present home, where the traders have established a garrison of their own, for protection against the hostile Indians. Nearly all of them have married Indian women, who, proud of the alliance, have become the “exclusives” of the country, refusing to hold intercourse with other squaws. The boy aforementioned was the son of a Spaniard by an Indian wife, and had been captured by a party of Indians who had come unexpectedly upon the garrison, seized him while others escaped, and were about to satiate their revenge by torturing him. Watching his opportunity, with wonderful address, Clark rushed out at the gate of the fort into the midst of the savages, caught the boy, and was again safe within the walls before the Indians had recovered from their surprise. The poor lad was wounded severely by the hatchets thrown at him, the scars of which he bore ever afterwards. He became so much attached to his deliverer, that he could not be induced at any time to separate from him.

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Hezekiah Geer was one of the most enterprising among the pioneers of Illinois. His residence is now at Galena, where he is one of the largest lead dealers in that region; and his present prosperity, nobly earned as it has been, is doubly enjoyed from the remembrance of the hardship, privation, and actual suffering endured on their first migration into the country, when the means of the new settler were inadequate without incessant toil to the wants of a large family; when for years they scarcely saw the face of a clergyman, except at distant intervals an itinerant missionary. The reward of these labors, which Mr. Geer’s children share in peace and abundance, she who partook all his cares, and practised every self-denial to lighten them, did not live to enjoy. They removed from Massachusetts to the southern part of Illinois some time about 1820, when the portions of country now covered with smiling villages and thriving farms were a wilderness untrodden save by the roving hunter, the surveyor, or the savages who receded before the footsteps of civilization. Her experience is much the same with that of many others who left home and kindred to seek better fortune in the forest, and found themselves obliged to struggle with difficulties they had never, or but faintly imagined.

During the Black Hawk war a large part of Michigan and the neighboring territories suffered much from apprehension of danger, kept up by floating rumors that the Indians were intent on depredations and incited to attack the whites by the occurrences that had taken place in Illinois. Mr. Geer and his family had then been living at Galena some years. The inhabitants of the place and neighborhood were in a state of excitement from continual alarms, and prepared to take refuge in the fort, in case of the appearance of the dreaded enemy. It was an object with the commander to assure himself that he might depend on the promptitude and courage of his troops and the citizen volunteers in case of sudden attack, and he adopted a singular method of testing these qualities. One dark and stormy night he caused a select number to march off silently to a hill not far distant, where they raised the Indian war whoop. The ruse was but too successful in creating a general panic; the soldiers of the garrison and men of the village were instantly on the alert and ready for action; but the terror and confusion that prevailed among the helpless women and children, were beyond the power of language to describe. Mrs. Geer was at that time the mother of a young infant, with twins not more than two years old. Springing out of bed and hastily throwing on a few articles of clothing, she caught in her arms her babe and one of the twins--her eldest daughter--and followed by the other children, rushed forth, hurrying to the shelter and protection of the fort. Mr. Geer was at that time holding a command, having been on duty since the breaking out of the war. The effects of this cruel experiment were fatal to some of the children who were borne into the cold night air and storm by their terrified mothers. Both those Mrs. Geer carried in her arms died from the effects of the exposure. Yet in the midst of the general consternation occasioned by the alarm, some of the women found time to laugh; for one man who in his fear had hid himself in a corner of the room where they were gathered in the fort, was discovered by some of them, and driven out with a flourish of broomsticks.

Mrs. Clark said that while her husband was at Fort Winnebago, it was no uncommon thing to test the courage of the soldiers by getting up a false alarm. The lead mines were then attracting considerable attention, and desertions to them were so common among the soldiers in the winter of 1819, that orders were often given to beat the long roll at dead of night, that it might be ascertained who was missing. The commanding officer, just before this signal sounded, would go round to the beds of those soldiers in whose fidelity he had confidence to notify them of the object of the alarm. But the women even of his own family, though warned, could not hear the dismal note of the drum without a thrill of terror. It may be supposed that experiments of this kind could not be frequently repeated with the intended effect.

At the time of Mrs. Geer’s last illness and death, her husband sent two hundred miles for an Episcopal clergyman to administer the sacrament and baptize his children; but the spirit could not linger for the “slow arrival,” and had already gone to sit at the heavenly table of Him on whom her hopes of everlasting life were fixed. Her last resting place is near the great Mississippi.

Mrs. Geer’s name was Charlotte Clark. She was the sister of Rev. William A. Clark, D.D., Rector of All Saints’ Church, New York, Rev. Orin Clark, D.D., formerly Rector at Geneva, New York, and Rev. John A. Clark, D.D., of Philadelphia. Mrs. William A. Clark should be numbered among the Western female pioneers. When a young and gay girl, she removed with her godparents, Mr. and Mrs. TenEyck, and the Vredenburghs to Skeneateles, then almost a wilderness. At the time of her marriage, Mr. Clark was one of the first missionaries of the Episcopal church in Western New York; and to him she proved a true co-worker in his duties, conforming cheerfully to the circumstances in which she was placed, and giving up her own inclinations at all times. She became the mother of nine children. The family removed to Buffalo about 1817, and to Michigan in the spring of 1837, after which Mrs. Clark suffered every year from the fevers of the country, which undermined a constitution naturally strong. She is retiring in manner and domestic in her habits, yet fond of society at home, and charming all who approach her. The habit acquired through years of self-denial of sacrificing her own inclinations, has caused her to think less of the merely ornamental than the useful in life. In the first year after her marriage, she was accustomed to wear white muslin dresses; but “some of the congregation” in the country village where her husband officiated, decided that she was “too much dressed,” and finding that the matter was commented on, she laid aside the obnoxious garments and never afterwards wore white. The corner stone of the first Episcopal church in Buffalo was laid by Mr. Clark. He lived but three years after leaving the city of New York for Michigan, and lies buried in a beautiful opening near the village of Brighton, Livingston County. His children owe the cultivation of their talents, and their usefulness in life, to the judicious training of their parents, and most affectionately do they acknowledge the obligation. They have truly risen up to call their mother blessed. Two of them, Chloe and Mary H. Clark, now reside in Ann Arbor, Michigan, and one is a minister of an Episcopal church in Cincinnati.

XXI.

SARAH BRYAN.

In the severe labors peculiar to pioneers in a new country, the trials and privations they were compelled to encounter from day to day, Mrs. Bryan was as conspicuous as any of the early settlers of Michigan. She came with John Bryan her husband, to Ypsilanti, taking up their residence on a small farm at what is now called “Woodruff’s Grove.” Her journal says: “We left Geneseo October 7th, 1823, for our new home--arrived in Detroit in ten days; put up at the Widow Hubbard’s, who kept a sort of boarding house, and deposited our goods in the cellar till my husband could go out to the “Grove” (as the settlement was then called) and procure a team to move us through. He returned in three days with a man, two yoke of oxen, and a wagon, which we found was not sufficient to contain all our goods and the family. This consisted of five children, besides myself and husband. Fortunately for us, however, we found a young man who was going out with but half a load, and persuaded him to take the remainder of ours. After a wearisome and almost indescribable journey of four days through thick woods, my husband cutting the road before us with an axe, we came, the night of October 23rd, to the beautiful Huron shore. We had the privilege of staying in a log cabin till we could build one of our own, which we moved into the last day of December. Eight weeks after this, February 27th, 1824, Alpha was born; we called him Alpha Washtenaw the latter name being given in honor of the county, and the former on account of his being the first white child born in the county.” Allen and Ramsay, the first settlers of Ann Arbor, agreed to mark the auspicious event by presenting the infant with a lot of land at the county seat.

“It was amusing that first fall and winter to hear the corn mills in operation every morning before daylight. There were but two in the settlement, made by burning a hole in the top of a sound oak stump, large enough to hold a peck or more. After scraping the coal clean from the stump, one end of a stick, some six feet long and eight inches in diameter, was rounded, and it was suspended from a spring-pole so that the rounded end would clear the stump when hanging loosely. A hole was bored through this pestle and a stick driven through projecting on each side for handles, and the mill was finished. One man would pound a peck of dry corn in half an hour so that half of it would pass through a sieve for bread; the coarser part being either ground again or boiled for hominy. Very little bread of any other kind was used in the settlement for the first two years. But as regards my own experience, the autumn of 1824 was the most trying. Thus far we had encountered few more inconveniences than we anticipated in the wilderness, and I was prepared for them, prepared to bear all without a murmur. In October Mr. Bryan accepted an offer to finish a building at Maumee city, and shipped his tools at Detroit, where he had been doing an eight months’ job. He came home and stayed a few days to provide some wood, and told me if he was likely to be more than three weeks absent, he would return at the end of that time and put up more provisions, as our small stock would be then exhausted. No person had then attempted to penetrate the forest from our place to Monroe, but rather than go round by Brownstown, he determined to take the risk of finding his way through the woods alone. My heart sank within me to think of what would be my fate and that of my six children, if any evil should befal him alone in the forest; I however summoned my fortitude and resolved not to be faint-hearted.”

An attack of illness followed. “The three weeks passed; a good supply of potatoes was nearly all the provisions we had left, and I began to look with great anxiety for my husband. A felon on my right hand deprived me entirely of the use of it for more than three weeks. With the pain, fatigue, and want of sleep I was ready to despair, but for my children’s sake I kept up my resolution; still no tidings came from Mr. Bryan, and my fears for his safety became more and more painful. Two months passed, and brought cold December for me and my little ones, but brought no news from him whose duty it was to provide for us. My sufferings became extreme. I tried to get some one to go in search of him, and ascertain at least if he ever got through the woods alive, but I had no money even to bear expenses, and all told me they ‘guessed’ he was safe and would soon return. How myself and babes were to live meanwhile I knew not. We had eaten nothing but potatoes for several weeks; the neighbors were nearly as destitute and had nothing to lend, even if I could have borrowed when I could not expect to pay again. For a temporary change in diet from potatoes alone, I ventured to borrow a few ears of corn, promising to pay if Mr. Bryan ever returned; this I shelled and boiled to jelly, which we relished very much while it lasted.

“It was now the 23d of December; I had been all day trying to induce some one to go to Maumee for tidings, and had succeeded in obtaining a promise from a young man that he would go in two or three days if I would get a horse. Alas! horses were as scarce as bread, and I knew it would be impossible to procure one. I returned home and stood in our log cabin door, thinking what to do next, when my husband rode up, and put an end to my fears. He had written several letters, which were delayed in Detroit, and never reached me. Finding wages high, and the roads very bad, he had concluded to remain, supposing I was well provided for. Our sufferings for five or six years after this were even greater, if possible, than before, but it would take a volume to describe them.”

These difficulties passed over. Mr. and Mrs. Bryan had what served for a competence in those days, and were of excellent character and industrious habits; being of respectable stock, and training up their children to become useful members of the community. Their care and efforts were required for a large family; and those who live within reach of all the advantages of civilization, can hardly understand the difficulties in the way of improvement which existed in a pioneer settlement. There were no public schools, no churches, nor did there seem to be any Sabbaths, judging from observation of the habits of some of the backwoodsmen. The first Sabbath school gathered together in this place, was in the summer of 1828. That same year a small school was kept in a log room some twelve or fourteen feet square, by a young woman whose education hardly fitted her for the employment. Mrs. Bryan, with a few other women of the settlement, took a great interest in the Sunday school, and some other efficient plans for benevolent effort were set on foot through her active agency and coöperation. She was directress of the first benevolent society in that part of the country. The new emigrants at that time suffered much from sickness peculiar to the region, and often whole families were prostrated at once by the fever of the country. Mrs. Bryan did not spare herself when her aid or nursing was required by her neighbors; day and night found her at the bedside of the suffering, or in the shanties of the poor, and many an invalid who had no comfortable shelter has been taken to her own home, provided with everything requisite, and waited upon with all the tenderness and care of a mother.

As the children grew older, the want of a good school was more sensibly felt; and as there was none in the vicinity, Mrs. Bryan appropriated to the purpose the best room in her house, and engaged a young man of good education, who was in want of a comfortable home, to teach her children, with others in the village who were permitted to join them. Thus was a good foundation laid for the advantages afterwards enjoyed, and each member of their large family received a substantial English education. Some of them have since attained to distinguished excellence in the higher departments of literature. The eldest daughter, now residing in Illinois, was equalled by few scholars of the time in various branches of study, particularly mathematics; and the second daughter is now Mrs. Lois B. Adams, with whose high reputation as a poet and prose writer many American readers are acquainted. Her first poetical effusions appeared in the Kalamazoo Telegraph, in which paper Mr. Adams had an interest at the time of her marriage. She now resides in the southern part of Kentucky, where she has charge of a female seminary.

In 1835 or ’6 Mr. and Mrs. Bryan removed from Ypsilanti, and at present are living in Constantine, Michigan. They had eight children at the time of their removal, and all have grown up to respectability and usefulness, having in early life had the judicious training of a religious mother, who watched over them in love, guiding them by precept and example, and by her affectionate and cheerful spirit diffusing perpetual sunshine in her home.

A lady whose family lived in Livingston county, one of the most recently settled in Michigan, and inhabited generally by poor people, says their range of what might be called society was limited to less than half a dozen families, the nearest distant about four miles, and some ten or more from each other. They had left a large circle of friends in the city of New York, and as it may be supposed, felt the change to the wild country; yet were they contented and cheerful, pining only when prevented by inclement weather from wandering through the woods or fields in summer, plucking the wild flowers which grow in such profusion and beauty in the openings. The annual fires kindled by the Indians and first settlers to destroy the old grass, and prepare for an early and abundant crop in spring, are said to have produced many of the openings, the flames extending often beyond the marshes or prairies. The farmers were in the habit of ploughing trenches round the outside of their fences to ensure their safety; yet sometimes the fire did serious damage among haystacks, wheat or barns, to which the wind carried it. In consequence of this danger, severe legal penalties were attached to the act of setting fire to marshes, yet it continued to be practised for years till they became private property, sadly marring the beauty of the view, destroying the trees, and preventing the growth of the young oaks. The bushes which sprang in a season from their roots, called “oak-grubs,” are difficult to remove from the soil. A poor man whose means just sufficed to remove his family, and perhaps keep one cow, had often to work out many days before he could afford to hire a “breaking up team,” which was a plough constructed for the purpose, and from five to seven yoke of oxen. The wife picked and dried berries in the fall, often in marshes so wet that she was obliged to wear her husband’s boots. By the sale of cranberries, she furnished herself with many little comforts she could not otherwise have procured. Flour could always be had at the mills in exchange for this article. By such industry and patient perseverance was the way prepared for the occupation of those lands by an intelligent, enterprising, and now prosperous people. Not the least of the sufferings of the primitive settlers arose from sickness, whole families having to pass through the terrible acclimating, often at the same time, and the ravages of disease sometimes leaving desolate the widow and the orphan, far distant from kindred or early friends. At such time the sympathy and kind offices of neighbors were never withheld, even though they might also be suffering and almost destitute. Physicians were few and far apart in the inland counties, and even when their attendance could be had, their want of knowledge of the local fevers was often the source of mischief rather than good.

A change has now passed over the face of the country. How progressive has been the expression “the far West!” Many years since it might have meant the western part of New York, as a resident of its metropolis once said she had been “out west” to visit her sister, who lived at Pennyan, in Yates County! A young woman of Skeneateles was engaged many years--her friends being unwilling to let her marry and go so far away as the Ohio; and when finally the knot was tied, she remained three years under the parental roof before she could be permitted to take so long and perilous a journey. From the Ohio the foot of emigration bore “the far West” farther; it settled for a while in Indiana, Illinois and Michigan, then passed to Iowa and Wisconsin, and now is wavering beyond the Mississippi in Minnesota, with the cry for Oregon and California. And not long since, we noticed a jocular proposition to erect a tollgate at the boundary of the domain of the United States, in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

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Sylvia Chapin, the wife of Dr. Cyrenius Chapin, was the oldest pioneer among the first settlers of Buffalo. In all the vicissitudes she experienced, she well and faithfully discharged the duties that lay before her, as wife, mother, neighbor, and Christian woman; exhibiting, with the high qualities of firmness and energy, a quiet dignity, gentleness and kindliness which won the affection of those who knew her best, as well as commanded the respect of her acquaintances. Her “patient continuance in well doing,” has met its reward in the comfort and respectability of her advanced age, passed among her children and descendants.

Dr. Chapin came to Buffalo with his family in 1805. It is stated in Turner’s “Pioneer History of the Holland Purchase of Western New York, etc.,” that in 1806 there were but sixteen houses in the place, and those located on what is now called Main Street. It will be remembered that in December 1813 the town was burnt by the British, who had crossed near Black Rock. On hearing their firing, Chapin, who commanded a portion of the citizen soldiery, went to meet the enemy, and holding up his cane, with a white handkerchief fastened to the end, obtained a parley, and finally a promise that the town should be spared. Mrs. Chapin at this period of anxiety was compelled to leave home to assist in the care of her daughter’s sick husband, but before her departure instructed her two other little girls to sleep always with a bundle of necessary clothing under their heads, and in case of alarm, to go off with the rest of the citizens if necessary. The agreement not to molest the town was violated. Dr. Chapin was on duty, and of course unable to attend to his children. Louisa related how they were waked at dead of night with the noise and confusion in the streets, hurriedly made their simple preparations, and stepped out of doors to join the crowd. In the darkness, amid the severity of winter, women and children took up their doleful march. The first glimmering of day mingled with the lurid glare from their burning dwellings, and at almost every step those who fled from their homes encountered the wounded and fugitives from the action below. In the pressure and confusion of the crowd hurrying onward, mothers were separated from their children, and lost sight of each other, being in many cases for days ignorant of the fate of their beloved relatives. On, on our fugitives went through the dark deep woods, continually within hearing of the savage yells around them, and trembling with fear, for they could not tell where the Indians were, and they seemed to be coming upon them. Finally, after a travel of some hours, the little girls halted with the rest, and were refreshed with a drink of milk at a farmhouse. In the mean time, while this was going on in the neighborhood of Buffalo, Mrs. Chapin was overwhelmed with anxiety about her husband and children. The sick man she nursed had died, and she was for weeks uncertain of the fate of her children, and for some days of that of her husband, for she knew there had been an engagement.

One woman of masculine bearing, Mrs. St. John, persisted notwithstanding the general alarm, in staying with her young daughters to protect their property, and succeeded in obtaining the favor of having the house she occupied exempted from destruction. It was the only building saved except the stone jail, which resisted the efforts to set it on fire. The house was afterwards presented to Mrs. St. John by the authorities. A neighbor on the opposite side of the street, a Mrs. Lovejoy, was less fortunate. It was supposed that fear had driven her into temporary insanity; she made no attempt to solicit mercy or protection, but barricaded her doors and windows, and thus awaited the intruders. For a while she was unmolested, till an Indian, bent on plunder, effected his entrance; then, instead of submitting to what was inevitable, the loss of her goods, Mrs. Lovejoy attempted to rescue them, and defended herself with a large carving knife. In a contest for a red merino long shawl she wounded the savage, nearly severing his thumb from his hand. The Indian ran across the way to Mrs. St. John, whom he ordered to bind it up; then hurried back, she knew too well for the purpose of vengeance. The next thing she heard was a scream, and presently the savage appeared again, a scalp with a woman’s long hair hanging from his belt.

Mrs. Chapin preserved several pieces of plate which were at that time in her possession. A silver pitcher in her house bears the inscription:--“Presented by the citizens of Buffalo to Colonel Cyrenius Chapin, the brave soldier, the good citizen, the honest man.”

Tradition says that Tecumseh often caused much annoyance to one lady in Detroit, by cutting the air with his tomahawk close to her daughters’ heads; also that her ingenuity devised a scheme of revenge on one occasion, when her children had the measles, and the chief had laid himself on her floor to sleep. She gave him the pillow from under the heads of the sick ones, hoping he would take the disease and lose his life by following the Indian practice of jumping into the water in case of fever. There was no time to test the success of her plan, for shortly after this occurred the battle of the Thames, in which Tecumseh lost his life.

A woman in one of the remote counties of Michigan told one of her neighbors, that after her removal to her new house, when the few provisions they had been able to bring were exhausted, and the roads so wretched through the heavily timbered land that it was scarcely possible to bring supplies from Detroit, her family had lived on potato tops, boiled with a little salt, till something better could be raised. In the early settlement of Wayne county a family having succeeded in getting a pig, penned it up and began to fatten it for slaughter, when the matron one day, at home alone with her children, was alarmed by the sight of a huge bear helping himself without ceremony at her out-of-door larder. Fortunately, she was acquainted with the use of a rifle, and having wounded, succeeded in driving away the bear; he was afterwards tracked by the men, and his thieving career ended with his life.

The story of Lucy Chapin--no relative of those mentioned--is mentioned among the reminiscences of this period. A New England family, sensible, well-educated, and accustomed to all the advantages found in long established communities, from a flaw in the deed securing their farm, found themselves suddenly homeless. One of the brothers, who had learned the carpenter’s trade, went with his sister Lucy to Hamburg, near Buffalo, and purchased land, which he set about clearing to make a home for his mother and the rest of the family. He built a rough log hut, which was for some time without a window, the opening being closed when it was cold or stormy, and the room left in darkness. The brother was obliged to work out at his trade, for means to carry on improvements at his own place, and meanwhile the sister was often left alone for three weeks at a time. She became so nervously sensitive, that the slightest noise would alarm her, and but for a determined spirit, and her brother’s cheerful temperament, she thought her reason would have given way. On one occasion, a weary old man called at the house to ask for a cup of water; Lucy, terrified she knew not at what, ran off, and was found by her brother on his return after one of his long absences, sitting on a stump weeping. He encouraged her, and both returned home, where they found the stranger waiting quietly. Their neighbors lived at a considerable distance, and were all poor and illiterate; they found no congenial society, avoided all association with others except what necessity and civility required, and led a life of hermit-like seclusion, Lucy assisting to provide necessaries by sewing whenever she could get any work to do. It was not long before a family by the name of Russell, agreeable, intelligent, and kind-hearted, came to live in their vicinity; they had been banished by change of fortune from their early home, but were cultivated, and had books, and their arrival was joyfully welcomed by the emigrants. Miss Chapin afterwards kept house in Buffalo for her brother Roswell, who was engaged in the practice of law, and many anecdotes are told of her economy, industry, and ingenuity. She described, among her experiences in the backwoods, her sufferings during an illness when the snow-wreaths often lay upon the coverlet of her bed; their only security for the door, till it could be hung, being to push the wash-tub against it. She would never allow her friends at home in New England to know the trials she endured. “They can never know the half,” she used to say. The loneliness, anxieties, and hardships she suffered so long, seriously impaired her health in after life.

An anecdote illustrative of female quickness of apprehension and presence of mind, is related of the housekeeper of Gen. Porter, at Black Rock. Early one morning, before the General had risen, a party of Indians in the British service, who had crossed from the Canada side, came to the door, demanding to see him. The housekeeper, without betraying the least surprise or alarm, informed them that the General had just gone up to Buffalo, pointing to the road which led thither by the most circuitous course. As the savages hurried away, in hopes of overtaking the object of their pursuit, she gave the alarm to the General, who lost no time in mounting his horse and riding by the shortest way to the town, where he arrived in time to make preparation for the enemy.

Mr. Turner relates a story of “a night with the wolves,” which is worth mentioning as an incident of pioneer life. One of the early settlers of Niagara County had just finished building a log hut--the door only wanting--in the woods, for the occupancy of his family. It was so far to go to mill, that when it was necessary to fetch a supply of flour, he was always obliged to be a night away from home. One night, in his absence, the wife heard wolves snarling just at the door, which was only defended by a blanket. Terrified for the safety of her young children, she forgot all fears for herself, and stood with axe in hand at the opening, keeping guard during the long hours of that night, till the howling died away in the distance, and she was satisfied the fierce creatures would return no more.

“The early settlers in Farmershill, Cataraugus, drew up a code of rules for their mutual advantage, from which the following curious section is extracted: ‘If any single woman over fourteen years of age shall come to reside in our village, and no one of this confederacy shall offer her his company within a fortnight thereafter, then in such case our board shall be called together, and some one shall be appointed to make her a visit, whose duty it shall be to perform the same, or forfeit the approbation of the company and pay a fine sufficiently large to buy the lady thus neglected a new dress.’ Few towns,” continues Turner, “in the Purchase have been more prosperous; and it is quite likely that this early regulation aided essentially in the work of founding a new settlement and speeding its progress.

As an offset to the above, the same writer gives an account of a bachelor’s settlement in Orleans County, which, as might be expected, turned out a failure. A cotemporary says: “They began in a year or two to go east and get them wives.” This broke up the establishment, and most of its bachelor founders became Benedicts and heads of families.

“By perseverance I succeeded early one morning in getting to the old burial place of the Senecas. The Indian church--now used as a stable, with hay protruding from the windows and manure heaps outside--arrested my attention, and I stopped opposite the lane leading from the main road to the spot I sought. At the end of this lane, leaping over a broken rail fence, and following a little foot-path running by the side of a potato patch, a few steps brought me to one of the most beautiful and quiet nooks in the world; a pleasant opening, rather more elevated than the rest of the field with which it was enclosed, and shaded here and there by large oaks, the branches of which were now swaying in the wind, and sighing a requiem to the memory of the red man. Graves were thickly sown around--some marked by boards, others only by the swelling of the turf. There were four marble slabs; two in a picketed enclosure were monuments of white children; one of the daughter of a clergyman, probably the local missionary. The most prominent, which was not enclosed, bore the inscription, ‘In memory of the white woman, Mary Jemison, daughter of Thomas Jemison and Jane Irwin, born on the ocean between Ireland and Philadelphia in 1742 or ’3, taken captive at Marsh Creek, Pa. in 1755, carried down the Ohio, adopted into an Indian family in 1759, removed to Genesee River, naturalized in 1817, removed to this place in 1831. Having survived two husbands and five children, leaving three still alive, she died Sept. 19th, 1833, aged about ninety-one years, having a few weeks before expressed a hope of pardon, etc.’ A little beyond Mary Jemison’s grave, was that of Red Jacket, the celebrated orator and chief.” The stone was much mutilated, being broken off so as to deface the inscription.

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Mrs. Anderson, whose house was visited by depredators, boldly faced them for the protection of her property. Seating herself on a trunk they were about to carry off, she told them they might shoot her, but should never possess it while she lived. The Indians, with a significant “ugh” left her, saying she was too much of a man to be robbed. One of the early settlers in Plymouth, Wayne County, Michigan, showed a more timid spirit and fared worse, it being her practice at first to yield implicitly to their demands. Once she was compelled to hand out of the oven the rolls she had just baked for supper. One evening, her husband having gone to a neighbor’s a quarter of a mile distant, her child lying asleep in the bed, and she occupied in sewing, the door was softly opened, and an Indian entered, “with the stealthy tread peculiar to the moccasined foot.” He made signs that he wanted whiskey. After going around the house as if in search of the article, followed by the savage, she took up her child, and making him understand that it was to be had at the neighbor’s house, motioned him to follow her, and walked the whole distance through the woods with him to the place of safety, where she arrived breathless with terror and agitation.

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Eliza Bull, afterwards Mrs. Sinclair, visited the capital of Wisconsin in 1846 or ’47, and describes the country as very new, and the society extremely limited. The scenery of the locality was wild and picturesque, and from the window of her room at the inn Mrs. Bull could frequently see as many as thirty-six prairie fowls going to roost in a single tree. Every evening in the winter the sound of men stunning fish by striking on the ice was plainly to be heard. One large room in the capitol was appropriated to public gatherings of all descriptions, and in the course of a single week would be used for dancing assemblies, public lectures, funeral services, and preaching by the Methodist congregation. At the balls, the belle of the company was usually the chambermaid of the tavern which was the place of entertainment, a young lady of ash-colored complexion, and locks of similar hue, whose fairy feet were graced with red morocco boots. The party was often enlivened by the presence of members of the legislature. These, with a respectable attendance of their constituents, shuffled around the room with great energy, having cigars in their mouths, and for the most part wearing their hats. If their boots or shoes were found inconvenient in their Terpsichorean evolutions, they were kicked off without ceremony, and the figures completed in stocking-feet. When supper was ready, the company rushed pell-mell through a dark passage to the “provender,” on which they fell to work without mincing.

Near Madison are four small lakes, beside one of which, on “Sauk Prairie,” then quite removed from the neighborhood of civilized residents, stood the dwelling of an Austrian named Harazthy. He was said to be a count, and his wife’s manners indicated that they had been accustomed to cultivated society. It was rumored that his voluntary banishment from his country had been caused by political difficulties, and that he wished to seclude himself from the sight and society of men, having been made misanthropic by disappointed ambition. His father--who was called a general, and always wore his military dress, came out with the family. The elder Mrs. Harazthy did not long survive her removal, but died of very home sickness. The younger used to relate how many years before, a gipsey fortune-teller had foretold that they would remove to a far country, and that the count’s mother would die in their new home. Mrs. Sinclair described this foreigner as a fine, tall and “rosy-faced” woman, with very pleasing manners, and conversation made the more interesting by her foreign accent and imperfect command of English. For months after her removal she refused to receive visitors, but often at twilight would sit at her window looking out upon the wild and strange scenery, watching sometimes whole droves of wolves coming down to the lake to drink. Her family was once startled in the night by piercing cries, and found at their door a poor woman with a child in her arms; she had been terrified by what she took for signs of a meditated Indian attack, and had run twelve miles barefoot through the snow to seek protection, her husband being absent. Her alarm proved groundless, but she had endured as much as if flying from a troop of enemies. The Austrian mentioned kept a variety store for the Indians and the few settlers who lived in that portion of country. His log dwelling-house was picturesquely situated on the margin of the lake and the forest.

XXII.

MARY ANN RUMSEY.

The perils and privations incident to the occupation of the lands in Michigan by the first settlers were not, indeed, so terrible or so romantic as those encountered at an earlier period, when the adventurous few who penetrated the wilderness were exposed to the fury of a savage foe, and assaults far more to be dreaded than those of the wild beasts of the forest. Yet the later pioneers, if they had not to dispute the possession of the soil at the risk of their lives, had their trials and sufferings--their dangers too--not the less difficult to endure because the narration is rather amusing than thrilling. They had also to struggle with that feeling of isolation and loneliness which presses heavily on those who have severed all the endearing ties of home, where cluster those fond attachments only formed in youth. Many a sad hour was passed in remembrance and regret by the young wife in the absence of her husband, when she had no sympathizing friend in whose bosom she could pour her griefs. Little given to repining as she might be, faithful to her duties, and disposed to make the best of everything, still thoughts of the loved ones from whom she had parted for life would weigh on her spirits, and fill her eyes with tears, brushed hastily away while she busied herself about her household employments. A touching instance of the heart’s yearning for companionship occurs to memory, mentioned by one of the female pioneers, who had been three weeks in their new home without having seen the face of another woman. “One Sunday,” she said, “I told my husband that beyond the thick wood, just in the rear of our dwelling, I could see from the upper window another log house. I wanted him to go there with me; we went, and as we approached I saw the woman come out, appearing to be busy about something at the back door. _That was enough_; I did not care to go any further; we went home; I had seen her, and that satisfied me.”

Ann Arbor is the county seat of Washtenaw County. The Indian name, _Washtenong_, signifies “grand” or “beautiful,” and Grand River takes its name from the same word. It was called “Arbor,” on account of the noble aspect of the original site of the village, which was a burr oak opening, resembling an arbor laid out and cultivated by the hand of taste. For the prefix of “Ann,” it was indebted, according to undeniable tradition, to two prominent women whose husbands were the first purchasers and settlers in the vicinity. Some have maintained that the place owed its entire name to them, from the fact that they lived, until houses could be built, in a kind of rude arbor made by poles covered with boughs. However that may be, it is certain that John Allen and Walter Rumsey gave the name to the new settlement, afterwards confirmed by State authority, and ever since retained. Their first garden was the ground now occupied as the public square; and here Allen, who had considerable skill in these matters, planted and raised a fine stock of vegetables, enabling them to supply the neighbors whom their persuasions had induced to join their little community. The two leaders above mentioned came in February, 1824, Rumsey being accompanied by his wife. This couple emigrated from some part of the State of New York, which has furnished so many enterprising families among the inhabitants of Michigan. Some of the New England stock, who were a little proud of their land of the pilgrims, were accustomed to say they “had _stopped_ some years in the State of New York on their way to the West.”

The arbor, or tent, which formed the first shelter for this little party, and served them as such for two weeks, was made of their sleigh-box, with a rag carpet spread over boughs of trees, which were of course denuded of leaves; for there grew not an evergreen within miles, except a few cedars on a hill some two miles from the locality. They had brought with them a few barrels of provisions; and as there were no regular roads all the way to Detroit, and the travelling was tedious and difficult, they lost no time in making a treaty with the roving Indians, who agreed to furnish them with regular supplies of corn and venison. On this they subsisted while they industriously prepared the ground and planted grain and vegetables to serve them for the coming summer and winter. “Ann Arbor” had been the favorite dancing ground of the Pottawattomies, many families of whom lived in the neighborhood. Their place of council was in the light “opening” selected by Allen for his garden, on which at this time there was scarcely a tree. Those that now adorn the square, have been since planted; most of them more than ten years afterwards.

The visits of the Indians were peaceable enough, and generally welcome, for they brought deer and wild turkeys to exchange for other articles, game being then abundant in the woods. Sometimes, indeed, when they found none but women at home, they showed themselves a little disposed to encroach upon hospitality. Mrs. Rumsey confessed being frightened at one time by their wild behavior; but assuming a stern and commanding air, she bade them begone, flourishing a broom at the same time; and though they could not have been said to be afraid of her weapon, they did not hesitate to obey. All the cotemporaries of Mrs. Rumsey agree in describing her as a woman of remarkable beauty and distinguished appearance, and of energetic character, singularly fitted to be a useful pioneer in a new country where difficulties and discouragements must be met with unflinching courage, fortitude, and patient perseverance. Her commanding aspect--whether natural or the result of a habit of being foremost in enterprise--was well suited to her qualities of determination and strength of purpose. Her cheerful disposition, disregard of hardships, and resolute way of “making the best of everything,” have often been mentioned with admiration. “When we had been out land-hunting,” said Mr. Allen, “or otherwise engaged through the day, so that we returned late and tired out, she was always ready for us with good humor and _a good supper_.” By such aid and encouragement is it that woman--a true help-meet--can hold up man’s hands and strengthen his heart when disquieted by care and vexation. To be enabled to appreciate the worth of such a household companion, one must have spent a year at least in the backwoods. Experience and necessity here furnished the best kind of education, fitting for the endurance of every trial, and the thorough enjoyment of the labor-bought pleasures which are relished most keenly when alternated with privations.