Chapter XVIII: John Tower's Town.—a Wedding Tour

"SIR," said the waiter at the Winneshick Hotel, in Decotah, putting his head in at the door of Mr. Parsons's, (the missionary) room, "a gentleman below wants to see you. Shall I show him up?"

And in due time, a man about fifty, of fresh, florid face and stout figure, entered the room.

Slowly unrolling a showily-drawn chart, on the margin of which was emblazoned "Prairie City," he remarked,—

"Let me show you the new town, sir, which I am starting. We have got 'the' location, sir," he continued, emphatically, swinging his chart into the light, "and we expect to make a wide-awake thorough-going thing of it, that will pay for the trouble; and where, if a man invests in a lot, he can be sure of realizing something worth while from the investment. Here, you see, is Main Street," running his finger down the centre. "This is our principal business avenue. Here are our largest stores, storehouses, warehouses, and the like, you understand, as have all great commercial centres.

"Just here, sir, our steam-mills are going up. Not yet erected, you understand; but the companies are formed, and I have letters in my pocket stating that they will be on in the course of a week or two. Plenty of capital, you see; some of the stockholders old friends of mine, schoolmates, stirring men who know just how to put things through. Two railroads have been surveyed and staked out, which take or place on the way. One we are sure of, both are probable. You can see at a glance, sir, what the rise of land will be when these improvements are completed. Our town lies on the direct line from Dubuque to St. Paul. Nature intended a railroad should go there—the only possible route, indeed. Any one can see that who will take the trouble to examine the make of the land.

"I lay this matter before you to give you a chance in the town. We want a minister, sir. I learn that you are one. I believe in the institutions of the gospel for a new place; calls in, you see, the best class of settlers, and makes them contented. Our well-to-do, reliable emigrants are generally brought up to be religious, and cannot do without schools and churches. I've watched this thing, and know that the coming of a clergyman into a young town is often the making of it; real estate always rises. And now, sir, what say you to casting your lot in with us? I'll give you an extra chance. Just say that you'll agree to put up a house, and I'll pledge myself to give you two of the best lots on the plat."

There are few things more interesting than the springing up of a young town on the frontier. Like the embryo plant, it is very small at first—a few cabin homes—while all around are broad prairies and thick woods, where may be seen the fresh trail of the Indian. Persons whose days have been spent in some long-settled locality, where generations come and go, and things remain much the same, if told that yonder cabin, with its blacksmith shop near by, and log tavern, constitute the germ of a town, and lots were offered them for sale in that rough solitude, would laugh in your face.

But a year passes, and, perhaps, how changed the scene! As if by enchantment, the cabins are gone, and framed houses, stores, mills, churches, occupy their places.

Such a place was E—. When Mr. Parsons first happened there, he put up at the little, uncouth, log tavern, the only building in the place. The table was of picnic style, made of unplaned boards. In place of chairs was a bench of slabs and stakes. After dinner, he started out for a walk, to view the town, thinking he was in its suburbs. The proprietor joined him.

"Where is the town?" asked the guest.

"This is it," was the reply.

"But," said the missionary, "where are the people, and the buildings?"

"Well," replied the landlord, "it's true, when you see my cabin, you see all there is now. But let me tell you, it won't be a great while before the people are here, and the buildings too. You are going farther on the frontier; let me advise you to stop here, and put you up a house."

The clergyman, at that period in his personal history, was unwesternized, and the forcibly uttered advocacy of this advice which followed, he listened to very much as he would to the exaggerations of the auctioneer. And turning on his heel, he left him to his day-dreams.

In one year and a half from that time, however, having business that way, he returned. And there stood a conspicuous, well-grown town, in appearance, at least, ten years of age. Two handsome hotels, a stone school-house, stores, tasteful dwellings, streets well laid out, and alive with teams and the din of the business mart, filled him with pleased surprise. And as his Yankee friend—the proprietor—introduced him to the realization of his expectations, and told him he left Massachusetts overwhelmed with debt, when he saw the competency he had acquired since he put up his cabin tavern, the guest's views of him and his schemes underwent a sudden revolution.

There was D—, also. A stage-load, one of whom was our clergyman, fresh from the Mississippi, stopped there one night. After tea, they walked out to see the "lay of the land," and in their stroll, many a sharp joke was cracked at the young town's expense.

Along the margin of a small, shallow stream stood a few cottages and cabins, among which was one shanty-tavern; and these constituted the place. Speckled trout peeped out at them from shady nooks with a boldness unknown in waters where the angler's bait is often thrown. Flocks of quails piped in the long grass, and prairie hens ran fluttering in their path, guiding their helpless broods.

A friend of his, a shrewd Vermont farmer who had two hundred dollars spare money, which he wished to invest to the best advantage, was besought, almost with tears, by one of the settlers, to take his cottage, eight acres of land, and improvements, for that sum, assuring him that he would realize something handsome for it; that he had confidence in the growth of the town, but was too homesick to remain.

The Vermonter knowingly shook his head at the urgent offer, and passed on. He lived, however, to regret it, for in less than two years from that time, four acres of that land sold for eight thousand dollars.

With these and similar instances in mind, the missionary was disposed to listen candidly to the representations of his caller, although he had heard of "paper towns."

One day, some two years later, Mr. J—, a gray-haired man of sixty years, called on the missionary at L—, and taking him mysteriously aside, asked if he would come to N—, some five miles distant, and perform the marriage rite for him, the next day?

He requested the affair to be kept a profound secret, I suppose from fear of a celebration of the event by certain young men who claimed the privilege of making night hideous with blowing tin horns, firing guns, and other discordances, whenever a bachelor or widower entered into matrimony.

Keeping the secret, however, was no light task, for the devoted bridegroom had already advertised the condition of his affairs by his attentive courtship. And as he was seen to call at "the minister's"—an unwonted thing for him—he had, quite innocently, "let grimalkin out of the reticule." To save him from annoyance, it became necessary for the divine, if possible, to put the cat back again.

He discovered this when he went to get a horse for the occasion. The young man who had the care of the stable filled also the office of village gossip, and as he curried the horse, asked, with an air oddly compounded of the deferential and impudent,—

"Who's going to be married 'now,' Mr. Parsons?"

The clergyman's silence did not disconcert him, and he added,—

"'I' think old J—'s a little too old to marry again; but they do say he'll git a fust-rate wife, though. What do you think?"

"Is Mr. J— going to be married?" asked the minister, parrying the attack.

"I don't know who knows if you don't!" he returned, laughing loudly.

And then, leaving his horse tied at the halter ring, he entered the tavern,—it was the dinner hour,—and announced to the people at table that "the minister had come for a horse to go down and marry old J—."

The news flew over the village like wildfire, and having a presentiment that, to make assurance doubly sure, the curious would watch to see if he went towards Mr. J—'s, the minister mounted and rode slowly through the town in the opposite direction. Skirting some heavy woods by a generous circuit, he had struck a road leading to Mr. J's, when, just in the fork, his attention was taken by two men engaged in putting up a guide-post, on which was neatly lettered, "Prairie City, 15 Miles"—the index hand pointing in the direction of his ride. One of the men turned to look at him. It was the proprietor of Prairie City who at once came forward, and was soon arguing again the claims of his town.

"We are going ahead nicely," said he; "prospects never better. But we want a minister. Haven't found one yet. Just agree to put up a house among us, and you shall have two handsome lots, as I said before."

Having little time for conversation, the clergyman left him, his parting words being eloquent in advocacy of his "city."

The wedding was to be at the dwelling of the bride, a widow of fifty.

Her snug cabin showed marks of the thorough housekeeper. Order was supreme, and she was its living embodiment. Each article of dress, from the starched dress-cap to the shoes she wore, fitted with exactness. And whether she sat, walked, talked, or was silent, she was prim and precise. A most estimable woman she was, too, and I scarcely wondered at the devotion of the bridegroom.

Many years had passed since death took from him his loved companion, leading him at last, sad and lonely, to leave his desolate New England home, where every object reminded him of the departed, and seek to forget his bereavement amid the exciting scenes and vicissitudes of the frontier.

He preëmpted a "one-hundred-and-sixty-acre" farm, well balanced in prairie and timber, fenced and ploughed and planted largely, fitted him up a cabin, read the eastern papers, smoked, chewed tobacco, lounged in the village store for society, grew careless in his personal habits, and very irritable. What was the matter? He missed the gentle presence of woman, and the solitude of his western home became more and more irksome.

He was a mere man of the world, quick-tempered, and, of late, when angered, shockingly profane. He had not, by his presence in the place of prayer, manifested the least interest in the higher wants of the soul, and Mr. Parsons was glad to find the bride elect to be a lady of piety, and much weight of character—a circumstance in which the bridegroom took great pride, showing that, hard and irreligious as he seemed, her upright christianly qualities had much to do in influencing his choice.

Indeed, he evinced, on his part, a sincere sense of unworthiness for such an alliance, seeming to realize that morally was a great gulf between them; and there was nervous anxiety with him, lest, somehow, he should lose the prize. Ah, woman without goodness the wicked man shudders at as a monstrosity; woman with piety the profligate adores.

The ceremony was to be in the early afternoon, and to be followed by the usual wedding repast. The missionary, however, had been in the room but a short time, when he saw that something was going wrong. The bridegroom looked anxious, and the family friends embarrassed. Mr. J— himself stated the cause. He had omitted to procure from the justice the legal right to be married. That officer lived miles away, and could not then be found. Mr. J— was unreconciled to a delay of the ceremony.

"Well, then, let us step over the state line!" he exclaimed. "It's only three quarters of a mile; the law 'll let us be married there without any preliminaries. Many a couple has done that!"

But the lady would consent to no irregularity. She would wait a week to be sure that every step was taken with due deliberation. So the bridegroom must needs make the best of the matter, and with a disconsolate face, helped dispose of the nice edibles that had been prepared for the wedding.

"How shall I find my way to Prairie City?" said Mr. Parsons to one of the sons who had followed him to the gate, as he was leaving. "As I haven't had the pleasure of marrying anybody, I guess I'll ride over there and see the place. And there's a family named Willard somewhere in this region. Very likely they are over there—so much has been said about the town!"

"Prairie City," slowly repeated the young man. "I don't know of any such place about here."

"But I passed a guide-board to-day which said, 'Prairie City, fifteen miles,' and the hand pointed in this direction."

"O," said he, "you mean Mr. Tower's town. Well, I've never been over there. It's off the main road. Follow that track round the woods yonder, and keep straight across the prairie, and it's about ten miles, I reckon; but you'll have to inquire."

The road was a lonely one, leading away from the settlements, which were mostly contiguous to the timber land. Mr. Parsons's imagination enlivened the loneliness with pictures of the flourishing place to which he was going. He could almost see its magic growth, and hear the din of its busy population. And on, on he rode, until he began to wonder that the "city" did not come in sight, thinking he must have gone more than the distance specified.

He was relieved at seeing a cabin near by to inquire. It stood alone in the vast solitude, with no living creature about, save a lame old skeleton horse, spiritlessly nibbling at the grass as he hobbled around. The building had recently been occupied; for what purpose, and by whom, in such a doleful place, it was hard to guess; but the inmates were away. So, driving on, again a cabin appeared.

"Where is Prairie City?" he shouted to a man lounging in the doorway.

"No sich place about here, as I knows on," was the reply.

"Is there a man by the name of Tower living anywhere in this region?"

"Tower, John Tower? Why, sir, you came by his cabin more'n three miles back."

"You don't mean to say that the log house that stands all alone, out on the prairie there, is Mr. Tower's place! He told me he'd started a town there!"

"Anything but 'started,' I reckon, stranger; but you ken see for yourself."

"Mr. Parsons," cried a young man, hurrying through the hazel bushes to head off the missionary's horse, as he was returning to town, "so old J—'s married, after all—isn't he?"

"Ah!" said the clergyman. "I am not aware that he is married. When did the event occur?"

"Why, didn't you marry him?"

"No."

"That's what I call sharp, for a minister," said the man of the stable, as he took the clergyman's horse—"going way round them woods jest to throw folks off the track! But you married old J—, after all; I know that!"

"How do you know it?"

"Why, you see, says I to myself, says I, Mr. Parsons has gone that way jest for a blind. So I jest took a ride down to old J—'s to make observations. And sure enough, there you was, over to widow K—'s, the family dressed up in their Sunday best, ready for the wedding. Folks has got to get up afore day to git ahead of this child. I told 'em all that you've married the old widower."

"But I have not married him!"

"You haven't!" he replied, quite crestfallen. Then, rallying, added, "Well, I'm really glad on't. Why, there's his daughter, Mrs. L—, has worried herself sick about it. She don't approve of the old man's marrying; and I guess there's no love lost between 'em, they differ so on this matter. She's up to the town now, and I shouldn't wonder if she hails you, to know jest how the thing stands."

He was right. As the missionary was passing a shop, Mrs. L— came out, and said,—

"Mr. Parsons, some say you've been down to marry my father, and some say you have not. I tell them, if it is so, I know nothing about it, for father hasn't said a word to me. But I wish you would tell me, that I may know what to believe. Did you marry him?"

"No, madam, I did not."

"There!" triumphantly cried Mrs. Cowles, the shopkeeper's wife, from the door. "I told you so! Didn't I sit by that window and watch to see which way the minister went? He didn't go towards old J—'s at all, but right towards Sallie Nason's, and he was seen on the road to her house. I don't object to folks marrying, but I don't see the use of being so sly about it."

"Can you tell me," said Mr. Parsons to a friend, "anything about this Mr. Tower who says he is starting a town some fifteen miles from here? I see he has been putting up guide-boards of late. Has he capital for such an enterprise?"

"You can judge," was the reply. "He called on me yesterday with an old silver watch, worth not more than five dollars, which he wished to sell or pawn, in order to get food for his family. I suppose he wanted you to say you would come to 'Prairie City?' Well, it would have sold lots to his eastern correspondents!"

"Father," exclaimed Mr. Parsons's little boy, one delicious Sunday morning, two weeks after the incidents just narrated, "there's a large double wagon driving towards the house, filled with folks. I guess somebody's coming to get married!"

True enough. On board seats placed across the huge open vehicle were Mr. J— and bride, with a goodly company in their best attire and very smiling faces. It was only an hour to service, and they had ridden through the main street of the village to the clergyman's house—sufficient evidence that Mr. J— had lost his fear of publicity, and now preferred an open to a clandestine marriage—a change due, no doubt, to the good sense of his excellent and dignified lady.

Mr. Parsons took this as a happy omen, and after uniting them in the holy bonds, said,—

"Mr. J—, it is nearly time for meeting. Let me invite you and your friends to go with me to the house of prayer. It would be a fitting beginning to your married life—one I am sure that your estimable wife would approve. Is it not so, madam?"

"O, yes," she replied, with a grateful look.

"Besides," he added, "I am to preach on marriage this morning, and it will be a pleasant coincidence to have you as hearers, and having just made you one."

He cheerfully assented, and the missionary spoke from the text,—

"Blessed are they which are called to the marriage supper of the Lamb."

Mr. J.— listened tearfully, and his wife, it was evident, lifted up her heart in silent prayer for a blessing on the word.

I scarcely need add that the husband's anticipations of a "serenade" were not realized. His wife was too much respected, and the manly, decorous course pursued when the marriage was at last solemnized was a sufficient protection.

But what is a wedding without a "wedding tour"? Happy Mr. J—, desiring to please his bride by omitting none of the proprieties of the event, invited her to accompany him to the Mississippi. With an eye to business as well as enjoyment, he used for the journey the capacious wagon in which he came to be married, as it would enable him to bring back groceries for the neighbors, and also passengers, and thus pay the expense of the trip, and perchance earn a penny besides.

Twice sixty miles, over rolling, roadless prairies, broken at times by rough ravines; on seats of oaken boards laid across the wagon,—think of that for a bridal trip!

Returning, several couple occupied seats behind the owner of the team and his bride. Now, there being no springs under the seats, when the going was "very" uneven, the jolting was violent and unsafe, obliging the lady passengers to cling to their lords or be shaken from the vehicle.

Mrs. J—, however, disapproving of such public freedom, and disdaining support, sat bolt upright and self-reliant. Hold on by her husband—not she!

But "dignity of character" is not an infallible protection against accidents. By and by came a prodigious lurch. There was a flutter of white near the bridegroom, and stately Mrs. J— was sent flying through the air, and plumped down among the prairie grass like a downy pillow.

Her husband did not turn to look at her, or inquire if she was injured, nor dismount to assist her in—he held her in too much awe. Silently, he reined in the horses, gazing meanwhile straight ahead into vacancy, till she had with her snowy kerchief smoothed her disordered apparel, and composedly ascended to her place. Then he dutifully drove on.

Pain, however, will conquer both the masculine and feminine will, and overcome even a mistaken sense of propriety. The passengers were scarcely well out of the perilous ravines, and on the smooth prairie, when a groan issued from the bride's unwilling lips. The husband dutifully forbore to notice it. Another, then another, rising almost to a scream, broke forth. She had sprained an ankle, and the intense pain was too great to be borne.

A mile at the left was a cabin. Driving there, the efficient settler's wife was busy binding a soothing and healing lotion on the foot, when voices of men in altercation arose outside.

"Twas you that took it, you rascal; there was nobody else in our settlement mean enough to steal. Hand it over; quick, too!"

The passengers rushed to the door in time to see old Mr. J— seize a man by the collar, and the latter, with a powerful blow of his fist, strike the gray-haired bridegroom to the ground, then with astonishing agility, bound away towards the ravines.

It was Mr. Grey, "alias" Simmons, "alias" Grimes, on his way to the pirates' rendezvous.

"If I had my rifle here, and my sight was what it once was, I'd put an 'eend' to his villanies quick 's I'd bullet a panther," exclaimed the fuming bridegroom, with an oath, as he reached the cabin door.

"Don't swear, husband," gently interposed his wife.

And dropping his head for shame, he assisted her into the wagon, and resumed the journey home.