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“Three Score Years and Ten,”
Life-Long Memories
of
Fort Snelling, Minnesota,
1888.
.F7V2
PRINTING HOUSE
HARRISON & SMITH,
257 AND 259 FIRST AVENUE SOUTH,
MINNEAPOLIS, MINN.
Entered according to act of Congress in the year 1888, by
Charlotte O. Van Cleve,
in the office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington.
“To the husband of my youth, by whose side I have journeyed more than half a century, and whose tender love has brightened my whole life, this book is dedicated.”
St. Paul, Minnesota,
515 Portland Avenue,
March 14, 1888.
My Dear Mrs. Van Cleve:
Whenever there is growth in any community the desire arises to know something of what was in the beginning. It was with no weariness I read in manuscript the “Reminiscences” from your pen. Each chapter contains something in connection with the dawn of civilization in the west, which is worthy of being preserved. The incidents related are stirring, and the style is graphic. When I finished the perusal I felt the force of the adage, that “Truth is Stranger than Fiction.” As the diary of John Evelyn, throwing light upon the days of Charles the Second, is still read, so I think; if printed, your unaffected narrative will always find a place in the private and public libraries of Minnesota and the Western States.
Believe me,
Sincerely,
One
evening long ago, when this wonderful century, now in a vigorous old age, had just passed its nineteenth birthday, in a bright, cheerful sitting-room in the good old city of Hartford, Conn., sat a fair young matron beside a cradle in which lay sleeping a beautiful boy a year and a half old. The gentle motion of her little slippered foot on the rocker, keeping time with the soft humming of a cradle hymn; the work-basket near by; and the dainty needle work in her hand; the table tastefully spread for two, and the clear wood fire in the old-fashioned fire-place, formed as restful a picture of domestic peace and content as one could wish to see.
But the expectant look in the bright blue eyes, uplifted at each sound, clearly indicated that some one was coming who should round out this little circle and make it complete.
And now the familiar footstep draws near and the husband and father enters; she rises joyfully to meet him, but seeing in his face a look of grief or pain, exclaims, “What
Lieutenant Nathan Clark, U. S. Fifth Infantry:
You are hereby appointed Assistant Commissary of Subsistence, and will forthwith join your regiment at Detroit, which is under orders to move to the Mississippi river and establish a military post at the mouth of the St. Peters river.
With respect and esteem,
George Gibson,
Com. Gen of. of Subsistence.
Twice she reads this order, and then, looking up with a smile, says, with a slight tremor in her voice: “Is this all, beloved? Why should it so distress you? You surely do not flinch from duty?” With a perceptible start at such a suggestion, the gallant young soldier replies: “No, no, my precious wife; but this means separation from you and our boy, for you cannot venture on so long and perilous a journey as that, and our separation is not for days and months, it may be for years; how can I endure it? And we were so happy here in our snug little cottage—you in the midst of early friends and beloved relatives, your childhood companions and associations all about you; and I with my duties as recruiting officer. We had reason to hope and expect at least a year longer of this life, and this sudden blasting of our hopes seems cruel. Oh, Charlotte! how
The young soldier took his true, brave wife to his heart, and, holding her close, exclaimed: “How deep and sacred is the love of woman! who can comprehend its entire unselfishness?” and both found relief in blessed tears of love and thankfulness which cleared away all doubts and anxieties and filled them with hope and happiness. Over the evening meal future plans were cheerfully discussed, dangers and difficulties were looked bravely in the face, and
Preparations were rapidly made; household goods disposed of; all things necessary for along, toilsome journey packed; heart-breaking “good-byes” were spoken, and the faces of the travelers were turned westward.
A wearisome stage journey of many days brought them to Buffalo, where, after resting a short time, they embarked in schooners for Detroit on the 1st of May, which city they reached in time to move forward with the regiment by water to Green Bay; thence in batteaux they ascended the Fox river to Lake Winnebago. Col. Leavenworth, then in command of the regiment, having received instructions to conciliate the Indians, and avoid everything which might arouse the opposition of these owners of the soil, determined to stop at this point to hold a council with them, and crave permission to proceed on their journey. This being announced to the chiefs of the tribe, they assembled to hear what the “white brother” had too say. The day was beautiful; the troops, all in full uniform, “with bayonets glancing in the sun,” made an imposing
When all was in order, Colonel Leavenworth stepped forth, and, through an interpreter, formally requested of the Chief permission to pass peaceably through their country. The Chief, a very handsome young brave, advanced, and, with his right arm uncovered, said, with most expressive gestures: “My brother, do you see the calm, blue sky above us? Do you see the lake that lies so peacefully at our feet? So calm, so peaceful are our hearts towards you. Pass on!” With this full permission so gracefully bestowed, after resting and refreshing themselves among their newly-made friends, the troops left among them a
In spite of heavy rains and other discouraging circumstances, the tedious descent of the Ouisconsin was at length successfully accomplished, and at its mouth stood old Fort Crawford and a settlement of French and half-breeds called “Prairie du Chien.” This fort was simply a rude barracks, and far from comfortable. The two months'
The transportation of their supplies had been attended with so much difficulty that, notwithstanding all possible care, the pork barrels leaked badly and the contents were rusty; the flour had been so exposed to dampness that for the depth of three inches or more it was solid blue mould, and there was no choice between this wretched fare and starvation, for the miserable country about the fort afforded no supplies.
Just at this juncture, scarcely an hour after her arrival, Mrs. Clark's second child was born, and named Charlotte, for her mother, to which was added by the officers “Ouisconsin.” When one calls to mind all the care and comforts and luxuries demanded at the present time on such occasions, it is difficult to realize how my mother endured her hardships, and when I add that almost immediately both she and my brother were seized with fever and ague, which soon exhausted their strength and made them very
The new-born infant was entirely deprived of the nourishment nature kindly provides for incipient humanity, thus complicating to a great degree the trials of that dreadful time. My dear father could never speak of that experience without a shudder, and has told me, with much emotion, how he scoured the whole country to find suitable nourishment for mother and children, with wretched success; adding that, but for the dear mother's unfailing courage, her wonderfully hopeful disposition and her firm trust in God, he could hardly have endured these heavy trials. The surgeon of the regiment at that time (I think his name was Burns) was a man of science and great skill in his profession, but an inveterate drunkard, and it was no uncommon occurrence, when his service were needed, to find him so stupefied with liquor that nothing but a liberal sousing in cold water would fit him for duty, and I imagine that
“soaking the doctor”
became a source of merriment which may have diverted their minds from heavier trials.
So long a time must have elapsed before the provisions could have been officially condemned and fresh supplies sent from St. Louis, the nearest base of supplies, for red tape was more perplexing and entangling then than now, when it is sent back and forth by lightning, that it was concluded to continue the journey with what they had,
By reference to “Neill's History of Minnesota,” I see mention made there of the arrival of ordnance, provisions and recruits from St. Louis before the departure from Prairie du Chien, but am inclined to believe that the additions to the commissariat could not have been adequate to the needs, as there was much suffering for want of proper supplies.
When all was in readiness the expedition finally began the ascent of the Mississippi. The flotilla was made up of batteaux and keel-boats, the latter having been fitted up as comfortably has told me that, notwithstanding the inconveniences and annoyances of such a mode of traveling, the hope that the change might benefit all, and the fact that they were making the last stage of a very wearisome journey, inspired them with fresh courage, and a general cheerfulness prevailed throughout the command.
Of
the difficulties and delays of that eventful journey up the Mississippi, few at the present day can form a clear conception. The keel-boats, similar in construction to a canal-boat, were propelled by poles all that three hundred miles, in the following manner: Several men stood on each side of the boat on what was called a running-board, with their faces to the stern, and, placing their long poles on the river bottom, braced them against their shoulders and pushed hard, walking towards the stern. Then, detaching the poles, they walked back to the bow, and repeated this operation hour, being relieved at intervals for rest.
The perfect safety of this mode of travel commends itself to those who are in no hurry, and desire to learn all about the windings of the river and the geological and floral attractions along its banks.
At night the boats were tied up, camp-fire were lighted, tents pitched, sentinels posted and everything made ready, in case of an irruption of Indians.
Arriving at Lake Pepin, a few days were spent on its beautiful shores, resting, during which time the stores were overhauled and rearranged and the boats regulated and
Sometime in September the pioneer regiment arrived in pretty good condition at—where? No fort, no settlement, no regular landing even; simply at the mouth of the St. Peters river, where we had been ordered to halt, and our long march was ended.
For many weeks the boats were our only shelter, and the sense of entire isolation, the thought that the nearest white neighbors were three hundred miles away, and that months must elapse before they could hope to hear a syllable from
home
, proved, at times, exceedingly depressing to these first settlers in Minnesota. I record, with pleasure, what has been often told me, that in that trying time the courage of the ladies of the party did not fail them, and that their cheerful way of taking things as they came and making the best of them, was a constant blessing and source of strength to that little community.
Without loss of time a space was cleared very near the site of Mendota, trees were cut down, a stockade built enclosing log houses erected for the accommodation of the garrison; everything being made a comfortable and secure as the facilities permitted. The Indians proved friendly and peaceable, and the command entered upon
A prediction at that time that some then living would see these mighty falls turn the machinery of the greatest mills in the world, and a great and beautiful city arise on the adjacent shores, would have been called a visionary and impossible dream by those early visitors who saw this amazing water power in its primeval glory.
That first winter of ‘19 and ‘20, like all winters in this latitude, was very cold, with heavy snows and fierce winds, but there were may sunshiny days, and there was little or no complaining.
The quarters, having been put up hastily, were not calculated to resist the severe storms which at times raged with great violence. Once during that memorable six months the roof of our cabin blew off, and the walls seemed about to fall in. My father, sending my mother and brother to a place of safety, held up the chimney to prevent a total downfall; while the baby, who had been pushed under the bed in her cradle, lay there, as “Sairey Gamp” would express it, “smiling unbeknowns,” until the wind subsided, when, upon being drawn out from her hidingplace, she evinced great pleasure at the commotion, and
By the prompt aid of a large number of soldiers the necessary repairs were rapidly made, and soon all was comfortable as before. But late in the winter, owing to the lack of proper food, scurvy broke out among the soldiers, and forty of them died of this dreadful disease. Many more were affected with it, and far removed as we were from all relief in the way of change of diet or suitable remedies, it was a matter of great uneasiness and alarm, as in the absence of necessary preventives or restoratives medical skill availed nothing.
However, as soon as the frost was sufficiently out of the ground to enable them to dig it, the Indians brought in quantities of the spignot root, assuring the surgeon that would cure the sick. This proved entirely efficacious. The scourge was removed, and after that trial passed away the command was peculiarly exempt from sickness of any kind.
As soon as possible gardens were made. Everything grew rapidly, and a sufficient supply of vegetables was secured to prevent any recurrence of the evil.
More permanent and comfortable quarters were built during the spring at the beautiful spring on the fort side of the river, and named by the officers “Camp Coldwater;” but before moving into the new camp Colonel Leavenworth was relieved from the command by Colonel Josiah
Mrs. Abigal Hunt Snelling was born at Watertown, Mass., January 23d, 1797. Her father's name was Thomas Hunt, Colonel of the First Regiment of Infantry, U. S. A., stationed then at Fort Wayne, Indiana, to which place his little daughter was taken when only six weeks old. The journey was performed on horseback, and the little baby was carried on a pillow, a long, rough trip for so young a traveler, and clearly indicative of her subsequent experience. She tells in her old age of a coincidence in her life which impressed her forcibly. Her father died and was buried at Bellefontaine, Ohio, and some years afterward Colonel Snelling was at this place with his family waiting orders, when their youngest child, an infant, named Thomas Hunt, sickened and died, and was buried by the side of his grandfather. An incident in her eventful life well
She has been blind for many years, but otherwise her faculties are unimpaired and her health is excellent. I should like to have seen my old friend on that occasion, but could only send a congratulatory letter, recalling the memories of old Fort Snelling, with which she and I am so thoroughly identified. I am told she looked very lovely, and was much gratified at the pleasant surprise her friends had prepared for her, but was somewhat excited, and was carefully watched by her granddaughter, Miss Abby Hazard, who takes the most tender care of her precious grandmother.
It is somewhat remarkable that just about that time I learned through Hon. Fletcher Williams, who has a special gift for finding antiquities, that an old lady who had been a member of Mrs. Snelling's family at the fort was visiting her grandchildren at West St. Paul. I lost no time in calling on her, and found that she was one of the Swiss refugees who came to Fort Snelling from the Red River country. Her maiden name was Schadiker. She had married
Josiah Snelling, Colonel Fifth Infantry, commanding. S. Burbank, Brevet Major. David Perry, Captain. D. Gooding, Brevet Captain. R. A. McCabe, Lieutenant. N. Clark, Lieutenant. Joseph Hare, Lieutenant. P. R. Green, Lieutenant Acting Adjutant. W. G. Camp, Lieutenant Quartermaster. H. Wilkins, Lieutenant. Edward Purcell, Surgeon.It
seems proper to record here the names of the officers at the post at this time. They are as follows:
In addition to these I give the names of some who came afterward. All of them are among my earliest recollections, and I can remember each by some peculiarity of speech or characteristic anecdote. In my old age I find myself dwelling upon these recollections of my early years with pleasure, till the flight of time is forgotten, and in fancy I am back again at the old fort, a happy, lighthearted, petted child: Major Hamilton. Captains Russell, Garland, Baxley and Martin Scott. Lieutenants Alexander, Hunter, Harris, St. Clair Denny and Johnston. Major Laurence Taliaferro, Indian Agent. Captain Leonard and Mr. Ortley, Sutlers.
Lieutenant Alexander was very popular, very kind-hearted and genial. A reply of his, when cornered in a discussion at one time, caused much merriment. The subject was bald-headed men. Some one remarked that those who became gray were seldom bald. Alexander replied with considerable warmth: “I know better than that, for my father is as gray as a badger, and hasn't a hair on his head.”
Lieutenant Hunter was a great favorite, and in his way a model man, always courteous and attentive to ladies, and especially kind and considerate to the little ones, but wonderfully firm and unyielding in his views, which peculiarity on more than one occasion caused him serious trouble. As an instance of his persistence: at one time he and Captain Scott determined to find out by actual experiment which could hold out the longest without eating anything whatever. As both were very firm in their determinations, the affair was watched with great interest. However, after two days Captain Scott surrendered unconditionally, and it was generally admitted that Lieutenant Hunter would have perished rather than yield.
Lieutenant St. Clair Denny was an exceedingly estimable young man, a native of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, a Christian gentleman in the highest sense of the term. My recollection of him is of one better calculated to inspire awe and respect than confidence. A memorable event in his life was his marriage with Miss Caroline Hamilton, a beautiful girl of fifteen, as full of fun and lady-like mirth as h was of dignity and reserve. I can barely recall their going in sleighs on the ice to Prairie du Chien accompanied by Lieutenant Hunter and one of the ladies, to be married, that being the nearest point where the ceremony could be performed, for we had neither Chaplain nor Justice of the Peace at the new fort. I have dim recollections of the preparation of the trousseau by the nimble fingers of the officers' wives, of the pleasureable excitement and merry chat over the unusual event, and of the starting off of the excursion on that long, cold ride, the “good-byes,” the tears, the smiles and the blushes, and of the hearty welcome home of the beautiful, happy bride, and the proud but dignified bridegroom, and I there and then yielded my fealty to the sweet child-wife, and always loved her as a dear relative. She was a most loving wife and mother., and some who read these records will call to mind her lovely, interesting daughter, the wife of Mr. Corcoran, for some time Postmaster at St. Paul, and her son Brooke Denny, whose home, when the dear mother passed away, was with his sister in that city, and whose gentlemanly
At one of the frontier stations, where he was doing duty as Quartermaster, he was in his office one day during a fearful thunder storm, accompanied with high wind and pouring rain, which threatened to demolish the building. Every one was alarmed for its safety, and the whole garrison was in a high state of excitement. After the storm had subsided, a group of officers were talking it over, and Lieutenant Denny, speaking of it in his peculiarly measured tones, ended his remarks with this climax: “I was standing in the door of my office when the storm was at its height, and it was so terrible that I was forced to turn and say, even in the presence of my clerk, ‘Bless me! how the wind blows.’”
Any member of the old Fifth Regiment can recall that remark, for it became a household word; but alas! who are now living of that gallant old regiment? Of all the names recorded in these annals, I know of not one left to answer to roll-call, the last survivor, General David Hunter, having passed away at an advanced age only a few months ago. The old Mexican war decimated the regiment, which was always placed in positions of danger, requiring
Major Laurence Taliaferro was for many years a member of our household, and we all loved and honored him. He was very entertaining in conversation and full of anecdotes of Virginia, which was his boyhood's home. His father owned many slaves, and when he, as a student in an Eastern college, was home for vacation, he delighted to amaze the negro boys with his knowledge and excite their admiration. On one occasion he had been using some pretty big words in a speech for their edification, branching out now and then into Greek and Latin quotations, when one of them, overcome by his young master's proficiency, exclaimed: “Oh, Massa Laurence; you larn so much since you done been to college, you clar fool.” He liked to tell this story of himself, and admitted that the boy had good ground for his sweeping conclusion. Dear Major Taliaferro, our happy-hearted, beloved and trusted friend, the faithful servant of the government, and humble follower of Christ. His picture and an accompanying letter, sent me from his home in Bedford, Pennsylvania, when he was eighty-two years old, are before me, and as I look on the well-known features, I repeat from my heart the testimony of his biographer: “For more than twenty years an Indian Agent,
and yet
an honest man.”
A few years ago, in an interview with Major Joseph Brown, so well known to the early settlers of Minnesota, he reminded me of Colonel McNeil's short stay at “Fort St. Anthony,” as it was first called, previous to the arrival of Colonel Snelling, and of Mrs. McNeil, a sister of Franklin Pierce, a most estimable woman, of whom he spoke in the most affectionate, grateful terms, saying that her kindness to him, a mere boy, and her wise counsels had had a beneficial influence on his whole life. He spoke most gratefully of all the ladies at the post, and remembered our Sabbath school, established somewhat later, with real pleasure. He went up the river with the regiment as drummer-boy, and was always considered a faithful, well-behaved soldier.
His whole life was passed in the Northwest. He was at one time Representative in the Wisconsin Legislature, and was afterwards appointed Secretary of the First Legislative Assembly of the Territory of Minnesota. He died only a few years ago at an advanced age.
In
1821 the regiment moved into the beautiful new fort, although it was by no means completed. The outside wall was up on three sides only, and a heavy guard was stationed on the fourth, not only to prevent desertions, but to keep the Indians, our only neighbors, at a respectful distance. The occupation of the new and comfortable quarters was made an occasion of great rejoicing, an event never forgotten by those who took part in it. Then began our regular fort life, the flag-staff was raised in front of headquarters, the stars and stripes were run up at the roll of the drum at “guard mounting” and lowered with the same accompaniment at retreat day after day, and we children learned to love its graceful fold as it floated on the breeze and to feel no harm could come to us under the “Star Spangled Banner.”
The only white people within three hundred miles were shut within that hollow square, a community, dependent largely on each other for all the little every-day kindnesses and amenities which make life enjoyable, having no regular intercourse with the civilized world, except by mail, which at first was received semi-annually, after a while quarterly, and for many years not more frequently
The first few letters are directed to St. Louis, to be forwarded to the Fifth Regiment, wherever it might be; one or two are in regard to furnishing rations to Indians who may visit the agencies of the United States on business or otherwise, and authorizing the Commissary to issue rations to them on the requisition of the Indian agents. I find here a letter of instruction from the War Department to General Gibson, and insert it, as indicating the policy of the Government in regard to the Indians:
”
Sir:
It is customary for the Government to furnish rations to the Indians who may visit the agencies of the United States upon business or otherwise, and I have to request that you will direct the offices of your department, stationed at posts in the vicinity of the agencies at Fort Wayne, Piqua, Chicago, Green Bay and
I am, etc.,
J. C.
Calhoun.
To Colonel George Gibson, Com. Gen. of Subsistence.”
This letter is dated August 30th, 1819, before the troops had reached the mouth of the St. Peters, and was intended, no doubt, as a guide to the officers in their dealing with the Indians.
In the list of rations to be issued to the command, I notice that whisky has its place, and in turning over the leaves of this manuscript book, I find a letter from an officer of the army, Captain J. H. Hook, on duty at Washington, D. C., making various inquiries of my father relative to the condition of the troops, the best way of issuing rations, the best and most desirable articles as rations, the wastage of each article, the precaution to guard against wastage, etc.
One inquiry will be interesting, in the light of the present feeling on the temperance question: “
First
—Would Second
—Could the soldier be brought to submit cheerfully to the privation?”
This suggestion seems to have been acted upon, for I see a general order dated May 11th, 1820, to the effect that “the President was authorized to make such alterations in the component parts of the rations as a due regard to health and comfort may require; and it is hereby ordered that hereafter no issues of whisky will be made to boys under eighteen or to women attached to the army. In the case of soldiers on “extra duty,” each was to receive one gill a day, and I distinctly recall the demijohn with the gill cup hanging on its neck, and the line of “extra duty men” who came up each morning for their perquisite. In those days there seemed nothing wrong in this; but, with the added light and wisdom of sixty years, all right-minded people would now regard it as every way evil.
I find a letter concerning a contract with Joseph Rolette, of Prairie du Chien, for furnishing the troops at Fort Snelling with fresh beef. “The Commissary General directs that Mr. Rolette shall give a bond duly signed by him, that Colonel Snelling may designate and transmit it to this office, with the understanding that the Messrs. Astors, of New York, will unite with him in the bond.” In consequence of some misunderstanding, owing to the extreme delay of communicating with headquarters, the
Soon after the establishment of the fort, my father, as Commissary, was requested by General Gibson to learn by experiment if wheat could be raised in this part of the world, and the result proving that it was a possibility, he was ordered to supply the garrison, at least in part, with One pair burr mill-stones, 337 pounds plaster of Paris, Two dozen sickles, at $9,
This, then, was the outfit for the first flour mill in that part of the great Nortwest which was to be named “Minnesota” in later years, and to become the greatest flour manufactory in the world. Remembering clearly the great complaint of the destruction of grain by black birds, I cannot think that the amount of wheat raised ever made the command independent of outside supplies; but, having played around the old mill many times, I know it was used for the purpose for which it was fitted up.
Soon
after we took possession of the fort, a post school was established and some will remember the old school house just beyond the main entrance, which has been used for various purposes, in later years. It was there we children assembled day after day to learn to spell in Webster's spelling book and to read in that time honored volume, of the “boy who stole the apples;” of the conceited “country mild maid” who spilled her mild with a toss of her head; and of the good “dog Tray,” who fell into bad company and suffered the consequences.
Our teacher was considered very competent for his work, but was a violent tempered man and only maintained his position a few years, but what we learned then, we know now, and the thorough drill we received each day, turned out correct spellers, and good readers; with all the improvements in the way of text books and methods, I do not think the results, as far as fundamental education goes, are more satisfactory now than then.
Another of my earliest recollections is the Sunday School, established by Mrs. Colonel Snelling and my mother. There was no Chaplain allowed us then no Sabbath service and these Christian women felt they could not
The country around the fort was beautiful, the climate invigorating, and in spite of the inconveniences and annoyances experienced by the pioneer regiment they were not without their enjoyments and recreations, and looking back through the years, recalling the social gatherings at each others fireside in the winter, the various indoor amusements, and the delightful rides and rambles in the summer, I feel that ours was a happy life.
But the most charming of all our recreations was a ride to “Little Falls” now “Minnehaha.” The picture in my mind of this gem of beauty, makes the sheet of water wider and more circular than it is now, I know it was fresher and newer, and there was no saloon there then, no fence, no tables and benches, cut up and disfigured with names
It must have been difficult to find amusements and recreations for the winters in that fort, so completely shut away from the world, and so environed by snow and ice, but various devices were planned to keep up the general cheerfulness and to ward off gloomy feelings and homesickness. I can dimly remember the acting of plays in which the gentlemen personated all the characters and the ladies and children looked on. I know the women of the plays looked very tall and angular, and there was much merriment about the costumes which were eked out to fit them. It may be that the performances were as much enjoyed as if everything had been more complete, for I know there was a great deal of fun and jollity at their theatricals.
Among my earliest recollections is that of sitting on a low stool beside Mrs. Snelling and my mother while they read and studied French under the instruction of a soldier named Simon, and the memory of those days was revived “Pioneer Women of the West,”
Mrs. Snelling alludes to this old French teacher and regrets his loss by discharge, adding that, when on the arrival of the first steamboat bringing among other passengers, the Ghevalier Count Beltrami, an Italian adventurer, she expressed this regret, he kindly offered to continue the lessons during his visit. He could speak French fluently, but did not understand English, and was therefore much gratified to find anyone who could converse with him.
In the month of May, 1823, the steamboat Virginia, 118 feet in length and 22 in width, arrived at the fort. “It was built by Knox and McKee at Wheeling, Virginia, and loaded with Government stores for Fort Snelling,” so writes one of the firm, Mr. Redick McKee to the secretary of “Historical Society of Minnesota.” Its arrival was a great event indelibly impressed upon the memory of all who were there to witness it.
“Backward! turn backward, O Time, in thy flight;
Make me a child again, just for to-night.”
Take
me to my early home at Fort Snelling, and help me to live over again that happy time, when I knew nothing of care and sorrow, and when the sight of the dear old flag, run up, each morning, to the roll of the drum, and the sentinel's call, each night, “All's well around,” made me feel secure and at home, even in what was then a wilderness. Many pleasant scenes, and many startling ones, come at my call. Some are more vivid than others, and perhaps the most distinct of my early remembrances is the arrival of the first steamboat. It had been talked of and expected for a long time; it is hard to realize in this age of rapid traveling how deeply interested and excited every one felt in anticipation of what was then a great event. It was to bring us into more direct and easy communication with the world; and small wonder that the prospect of being at the head of steamboat navigation should have caused excitement and rejoicing to those who had been receiving their mails at intervals of
months
instead of
hours.
To me, of course,
At last, one bright summer morning, while amusing myself on the piazza in the rear of the officers' quarters, there came a sound new and very strange! All listened a moment in awe and gratitude, and then, broke out, from many voices, “The steamboat is coming! the steamboat is coming!” And look! there is the smoke curling gracefully through the trees; hark! to the puffing of the steam, startling the echoes from a sleep co-eval with the creation; now she rounds the point, and comes into full view. I stand on tiptoe, but cannot see all I long to, till Lieutenant David Hunter, my special favorite, catches me up and hold me on the balustrade; and now I clap my hands, and almost cry with delight, for there she is, just landing, in all her pride and beauty, as if she
felt
herself the Pioneer Steamboat, and knew she would become historic.
Officers and soldiers, women and children, are hurrying down the hill; terrified Indians rush from their wigwams and look on in amazement, utterly confounded, refusing to go near what they call the
“Bad Spirit.”
Greetings and congratulations warm and heartfelt are exchanged; and speedily the mail is opened, papers and letters are distributed; all search eagerly for news from
The steamboat was the topic of conversation for a long time. The day of its arrival became an ere from which we reckoned, and those of the first occupants of Fort Snelling who still survive, can scarcely recall a more delightful reminiscence than the arrival of the first steamboat, in the summer of 1823. Years passed away, childhood with its lightheartedness gave way to youth, and that again to womanhood, and then came middle life with its many cares, its griefs, its joys too and its unnumbered mercies, with bright anticipations of a blessed rest from toil and pain,—when on one pleasant summer day in 1864, I find myself, with a party of friends who have come to visit Fort Snelling and its many interesting surroundings, standing, side by side with my mother, on the bastion of the fort, recalling days and scenes gone by. Leaning against the railing, and contemplating the river, so beautiful
Hushed and breathless, we gaze at the fast vanishing train, feeling, as we stand there, we two, alone, of all who saw that other great event,
ever forty years ago,
like links connecting the buried past with the living present. And we would fain weep as we think of those who stood beside us then, now long since passed away—but living, loving friends are about us, and we will not let our sadness mar their pleasure; so down in the depth of our hearts we hide these tender recollections, to indulge in when we are alone. I look long a the beautiful river, and think, as it ripples and laughs in the sunlight, that, could our ears catch the language of its murmurings, we should hear:
“Men may come, and men may go,
But I go on forever.”
Oh!
Malcolm, look at that little boy on the steps of our quarters; who can he be? Where did he come from? Oh, sister, do you think he can be the little brother we have been praying God to send us? Let's. run home and ask mother about it.
The scene of this dialogue was the parade ground of Old Fort Snelling, in the spring of the year 1823; the two little children had just been dismissed from the fort school house, and were going home to dinner. The sun shone very brightly that day. The dinner drum was beating, the soldiers, by companies, were in line before their quarters for roll-call, and the dear old flag floated gracefully in front of headquarters. I can see it all now, through my tear-dimmed eyes, and recall the mingled feelings of joyful surprise and expectation with which, we the little son and daughter of Captain Clark, hastened to our home, our eyes all the while fixed on the little fair-haired stranger, who stood on the porch of our father's quarters, the first in the row of officers' quarters as you enter the Fort by the front gate, and just beyond the steps leading down to the old Commissary's store.
When we reached our goal, there stood the pretty blue-eyed boy, looking about with wonder at all he saw, and smiling at us as we came up to him, and laid our hands on him gently, to assure ourselves that he was real. Just inside the door stood dear mother, with a bright happy look, enjoying our surprise, and we, with one voice, exclaimed: “Mother, who is this little boy? where did he come from? is he going to stay with us always?” As soon as we gave her a chance to reply, she said: “Don't you know that every night when you say your prayers, you always say, ‘please, God, give us a little brother.’ How do you know but God has heard your prayer, and sent you this little brother?” We were very quiet now, and tried to take it all in, but before we had succeeded to our satisfaction in fully comprehending it, our father came from roll-call, and taking us by the hand, said: “Come to dinner now, mother will lead little Andrew to his place and we will tell you all about it.” And this is the story we heard on that ever to be remembered day, as we sat by our father and mother, and our hearts went out with love to the little boy beside us:
’A few weeks ago, Col. Snelling heard from some hunters, who had been far out west, that there were two little white boys held captive by a band of Sioux; he sent out some troops, who rescued the children, and they reached the Fort this morning with the boys; the oldest one, John, is at the Colonel's, and this is the other, ‘Andrew
After traveling for many days, they were overtaken by a party of Sioux, who, returning from an unsuccessful hunt, were in a very bad humor, and attacking Mr. Tully, demanded such provisions as he had. He refused, of course, to give up that, without which his family must perish, and they fell upon him, soon disabled him, and seizing the little baby, dashed its brains out on the ice, then mortally wounded his wife, and with a blow of his hatchet, one of the party finished them both. John says he remembers seeing his father, who had broken through the ice, struggling to save his mother and the baby, but that when they knew there was no hope left, his parents told him to take his little brother and hide in the bushes,
He remained at Col. Snelling's during his life, two or three years, and then, from an injury received from an axe, was taken with-jaw and died. During his illness he raved of the barbarous Indians, who killed his dear
Little Andrew grew finely and proved a perfectly healthy child. His preservation and rescue were so remarkable that my father gave him the name of “Marvel,” and almost always addressed him as “Andrew Marvel.” He had been our little playmate and brother for two years when our father obtained a furlough and took us all to New England to visit our relatives there, and we went by the way of New Orleans, that being the only comfortable and continuous route to New York at that time. It was our first journey since we children could remember, and we were all delighted beyond measure at the thought of it. A keel-boat was fitted up nicely for the occasion, and in addition to our immediate family, including Andrew of course, we had as fellow travelers Captain Leonard, his wife and two children, making quite a large party. I remember distinctly our starting, the good-byes from those who stood on shore, the slow progress of the boat as it was poled long by the crew, and it was not without
And so we journeyed on, day after day, until we ,made the whole three hundred miles and landed at Ft. Crawford—Prairie du Chien. I do not remember how many weeks we traveled thus, but I know that all children on board the boat had chicken pox and recovered during the trip. Arriving at the “Prairie,” as it was frequently called in those days, we were to take a steamer for St. Louis and New Orleans; but before our departure I remember we were all vaccinated by the surgeon at that post, whose name was Dr. James, and I know that in every case he was very successful. Our arrival at St. Louis, the first city the children had ever seen, was an epoch in our lives, and I can clearly recall my feeling of loneliness at the utter absence of everything military. It was indeed a new world to me. I could not understand it, and felt not a little indignant that so many men passed and repassed my father as we walked along the streets without saluting him, for which remissness in duty I suggested the guard-house. Arriving at New Orleans, where we were
In 1833 my father made a second visit to the East, and while in New York hunted up Andrew, whom he found apprenticed to a wagon maker, and could not learn why the original purpose of fitting him for the ministry had been abandoned. But the boy seemed doing well and was happy and content. Three years later, when our father lay on his death-bed at Fort Winnebago, a letter came to him from relatives of the Tullys inquiring about these boys, stating that some money from their mother's family was awaiting them. Father dictated a reply telling the writer all he knew of them and gave him the address of Andrew in New York; and for years afterwards we heard nothing of him. My mother made inquiries by letter of parties whom she thought might tell her something concerning him and used all available means to find him, in vain, much to the regret of all our family, and we came
We visited the graveyard and I showed him the grave of his brother John, which having no headboard or name, could only be identified by its being next to the little stone inscribed “E. S.,” which I knew marked the grave of Mrs. Snelling's little daughter. We searched the records at the quartermaster's office in vain for a description of his brother's grave, that we might make sure of the spot, as the Tully family wish to erect a monument to his memory.
We walked about the fort, went to the brow of the bluff where the old bastion formerly stood, and while strolling around the home of our childhood were met by General Gibbon, then in command, who, learning who we were and what was our errand, took us to his quarters and showed us much kindness. I told him many things of the old fort which were never recorded, pointed out to him where the stones in the front wall of headquarters had been riven by lightning when I was a little girl, and our pleasant visit rounded up with a ride in his carriage to call on General Terry and other officers, who all seemed interested to see us; relics, as it were, of the times before their day.
Our courteous escort drove with us to the site of the old Camp Coldwater, and we drank from a tin cup of the clear spring which now supplies the garrison with water, as we had done more than half a century before. Driving back to the fort just as the bugle sounded for “orderly call,” the General, in tender consideration of my deafness, called the bugler, and bade him sound it again by the side of the carriage. To hear is to obey, and the musician, ignorant of the reason for the command, repeated the clear, ringing call, where my dull ears could take it all in. No words can describe my sensations, as, with Andrew Tully beside me, I listened with bated breath to the familiar notes unheard for years, and, with eyes brimming with tears, I could only say, “Oh, General, I thank you; this makes me feel that I must hear my mother's voice calling me home to the dear old quarters over there, “to get ready for dinner.’” And then, as our carriage drove up, and we thanked our noble host for his kind and considerate attentions to us, he said, “I have to thank you for more information about Fort Snelling than ever I had before.” And so, past the old sutler's store, the guard house and the vine-clad tower, we drove away very silently from our early home, and after an hour's resting at Minnehaha, returned to Minneapolis, talking by the way of the strange experiences of our lives, and the wonderful way in which God had brought us together again in our old age.
Andrew made a visit to Winnipeg in search of some one who had known his parents, and there he found an old man named Macbeth, who had blown the bellows in his father's shop, which stood just in one corner of what is now the city of Winnipeg. He told him how the friends there opposed his father's leaving the settlement when he did, as he had remained there three years, and they felt the times would be better soon; but he had made up his mind that he could improve his condition by seeking a more congenial home, and they could not dissuade him. He also told him that, from the accounts of the Indians and others, it was generally believed that the scene of his parent's murder must have been where Grand Forks now stands. He made some inquiries as to the possibility of recovering anything on his father's claim, but could learn nothing encouraging. He hopes to visit Minnesota again; meantime we correspond regularly, and he takes a deep interest in the growth and development of the great Northwest, with which his early life was so singularly identified. He is still in the business for which he was trained, and, by patient industry and skilled workmanship, has reached the summit, and receives satisfactory returns for his labor; and so, although his life has not been without its trials, yet an overruling Providence has dealt graciously with the little fair haired orphan boy who hid from the savages in the hazel copse so many years ago.
We returned home from our eastern trip by the way of
Soon after our return, my father amd Major Garland obtained permission to build more commodious quarters outside the walls, and the result was the erection of the two stone cottages nearly opposite the old Indian Agency, a few rods from the fort. The grounds about them were improved and beautified with flowers and shrubs, and the change was very beneficial and agreeable to us all. Here, I remember, we had regular instruction in the fundamental English branches from out father, whose great anxiety was that we might suffer for want of good schools;and so great was his zeal and thoroughness in this direction, that in after years, when we had greater advantages, it was found that we were fully up to the grade of children of our age who had been to school all their lives.
The two families became much attached to each other, and when Major Garland was ordered elsewhere, we felt the separation keenly. We have never met since that time. One of the Major's daughters, my early friend and playmate, married General Longstreet, and the time came when our husband's stood on opposite sides in the lamentable civil war. Thank God, that is all over now, and should we ever meet again, we could talk lovingly of the old times when, as children, we played together under one flag, in happy unconsciousness of the trials and sorrows that lay before us.
Among
the recreations which relieved the tedium of garrison life, was an occasional wolf chase. I am too tender hearted to call it an amusement, but it was exceedingly exciting. The animal having been caught in a box-trap, and not maimed or crippled in any way, was first muzzled, and then let loose for a race for its life over the prairies, with hounds and hunters in full pursuit. All the blue coats and brass buttons of the hunters did not make that a brave thing to do, but the wolves were great nuisances, and it was long before the days of Bergh. On one of these occasions, the wolf was led to the starting point of some soldiers to be prepared for the chase, but none of them really liked the idea of taking hold of his fierce looking jaws while the muzzling process was going on. My brother, Malcolm, a boy of seven or eight, and already an apt pupil of Martin Scott, stepped up and grasping the animal's snout with his little hands, called out: “Muzzle him now, I'll hold him,” and they did it. Those who know how the land lies, and how well adapted it was for such a chase, can readily imagine that for those who like such sport, it must have been very enjoyable, and a great relief from the monotony of life in a frontier fort.
During the winter of ‘25 and ‘26, the wolves were unusually troublesome, and came every night to the barns and out-houses, carrying off any small stock they could find. We were occupying the stone cottage at that time, and my brother and I were much interested in the case of some chickens and others pets which we were allowed to call ours.
Of course we grieved over the result of these nightly raids, and, finally, thought we would try and catch some of the marauders; so procuring a steel-trap, we had a dead carcass of some animal hauled to the foot of our garden, and began our work in real earnest. Our success was far beyond our hopes, and it was our custom to rise every morning at reveille, dress ourselves hastily and run down to look at the trap, which was rarely without an occupant. One morning, to our astonishment, the trap was gone, but the blood on the snow, and the peculiar track leading toward the woods, satisfied us that a wolf was in that trap somewhere between the fort and the “Little Falls.” Hoping to find him near home, we started in pursuit, without any protection from the cold, which was intense, but the sun shone so brightly that we did not think of the cold; our one idea was—the wolf, and how to catch him. I was bare-headed and bare-handed; my brother, boy-like, had seized his cap and mittens as he left the house, and was better off than I. After traveling on, and on, not in the beaten path, but wherever that
After this Captain Scott took me to the Sutler's store, and made me select for myself a handsome dress, as a present from him, to a brave little girl, as he was pleased to call me, and he took me in his sleigh, drawn by one of his beautiful horses (I think his name was “Telegraph”), back to my mother, telling her, not many little girls of seven years old could go out before breakfast on a cold morning, and chase a wolf so successfully. To my brother he gave a pretty pony, which was a never-ending source of joy to him, and which, under the skillful training of the mighty hunter, he learned to ride fearlessly and most gracefully.
The story of this, my first and last wolf hunt, has entertained children and grand-children, not only mine, but many others, and has been repeated so often that it has been learned by heart, so that if, in telling it, I have sometimes varied the phraseology, I have been promptly corrected and set right. If any of those, once my little hearers, should read this written history, it may carry them back to the days when life was new and fresh, and when adventures of any kind seemed greater and more important than they do now. “God bless them, every one.”
The
story of the early days of Minnesota would be incomplete without a more detailed account of the Red River or Selkirk settlement than the allusions made to it in the history of the Tully boys, and turning to “Harpers Monthly” of December 1878, I find a most satisfactory and interesting history of the enterprise, by General Chetlain of Chicago, who is a descendant of one of the settlers and is so well and favorably known in the Northwest as to need no introduction from me.
After speaking of the disastrous effect of the Napoleonic wars on the social relations of Europe he alludes to the extreme suffering in Central Europe, and in Switzerland particularly, owing to a failure of crops from excessive rains in 1816, and says: “the people wearied of struggles which resulted in their impoverishment, listened eagerly to the story of a peaceful and more prosperous country beyond the sea.” A few years earlier Thomas Dundas, Earl of Selkirk, a distinguished nobleman of great wealth had purchased from the Hudson Bay Company a large tract of land in British America, extending from the Lake of the Woods and the Winnipeg River eastward for nearly
In the spring of 1823, thirteen more of the colonists started to go Missouri, of which country they had heard glowing accounts. They made the journey as far as Lake Traverse, the headwaters of the st. Peter's river,
In the spring of 1826, owing to the great rise of water in the Mississippi and its tributaries, and in the Red and Assinniboine rivers, caused by the unusual deep snow of the preceding winter, which had melted with warm and heavy rains, the losses sustained by the settlers at La Fourche were so heavy that no attempt was made to repair them, and nearly all the French settlers there became
I remember well when this party arrived. One of them, a very pretty girl named Elise, was employed in our family as a nurse for our baby sister, and remained with us some time.
General Chetlaine closes his very interesting article thus: “the descendants of these colonists are numerous, and are found scattered throughout the Northwest, the greater part being in the region of the lead mines. Most of them are thrifty farmers and stock breeders. A few have entered the professions and trade. All, as far as is known, are temperate, industrious, and law-abiding citizens.”
Like
the old man in Dickens’ “Child's Story,” “I am always remembering; come and remember with me.” I close my eyes and recall an evening some sixty years ago, when in one of the stone cottages near Fort Snelling, which was our home at that time, a pleasant company of officers and their families were spending a social evening with my parents.
The doors were thrown open, for the weather was warm, and one of the officers, Captain Cruger, was walking on the piazza, when we were all startled by the sound of rapid firing near us. The Captain rushed into the house, much agitated, exclaiming: “That bullet almost grazed my ear!” What could it mean? Where the Indians surrounding us? Soon the loud yells and shrieks from the Indian camp near our house made it evident that the treaty of peace made that afternoon between the Sioux and Chippewas had ended, as all those treaties did, in treachery and bloodshed. The principal men of the two nations had met at the Indian Agency, and in the presence of Major Taliaferro, their “White Father,” had make a solemn treaty of peace. In the evening, at the wigwam of the Chippewa chief, they had ratified this treaty by smoking
Meanwhile our prompt and efficient Colonel demanded of the Sioux the murderers, and in a very few days a body of Sioux were seen, as we supposed to deliver up the criminals. Two companies of soldiers were sent to meet them and receive the murderers at their hands. Strange to say, although they had the men, they refused to give
A few moment's consideration, a few hurried words of consultation, and the guilty men were handed over to our troops. The tribe followed as they were taken into the fort, and, making a small fire within the walls, the condemned men marched round and round it, singing their death songs, and then were given up to be put in irons and held in custody until time should determine how many lives should pay the forfeit, for it is well known that Indian revenge is literally a life for a life, and the Colonel had decided to give them into the hands of the injured tribe, to be punished according to their own customs.
Some weeks passed, and it was found that five lives were to be paid for in kind. A council of Chippewas decided that the five selected from the prisoners should run the gauntlet, and it was approved. And now, back over the lapse of many years I pass, and seem to be a child again, standing beside my only brother, at the back door of my father's house. The day is beautiful; the sun is so bright; the grass so green, all nature so smiling, it is hard to realize what is going on over yonder, by the graveyard, in that crowd of men and women; for there are
Away off, I can not tell how may rods, but it seemed to us children a long
run,
are stationed the Sioux tribe; and that is the goal for which the wretched men must run for their lives.
And now, all seems ready; the bolts and chains are knocked off, and the captives are set free. At a word, one of them starts; the rifles, with unerring aim, are fired, and under cover of the smoke a man falls dead. They reload; the word is given, and another starts, with a bound for
home;
but, ah! the aim of those clear-sighted, blood-thirsty men is too deadly; and so, one after another, till four are down.
And then the last, “Little Six”, whom, at a distance, we children readily recognize from his commanding height and graceful form; he is our friend, and we hope he will get
home
. He starts; they fire; the smoke clears away, and still he is running. We clap our hands and say, “He will get home!” but, another volley, and our favorite, almost at the goal, springs into the air and comes down—dead! I cover my face, and shed tears of real sorrow for our friend.
And now follow a scene that beggars description. The bodies, all warm and limp, are dragged to the brow of the hill. Men, who at the sight of blood become fiends, tear off the scalps, and hand them to the chief, who hangs them around his neck. Women and children with tomahawks and knives, cut deep gashes in the poor dead bodies, and scooping up the hot blood with their hands, eagerly drink it. Then, grown frantic, they dance and yell, and sing their horrid scalp-songs, recounting deeds of valor on the part of their brave men, and telling off the Sioux scalps taken in former battles, until, at last, tired and satiated with their ghoul-like feast, they leave the mutilated bodies festering in the sun. At nightfall they are thrown over the bluff into the river, and my brother and myself, awe-struck and quiet, trace their hideous voyage down the Mississippi to the Gulf of Mexico. We lie awake at night talking of the dreadful thing we have seen; and we try to image what the people of New Orleans
Next day the chief sat up in bed, painted himself for death, sang his death song, and, with those five fresh, bloody scalps about his neck, lay down and died calmly and peacefully in the comfortable hope, no doubt, of a welcome in the “happy hunting grounds,” prepared by the “Good Spirit” for all those Indians who are faithful to their friends, and avenge themselves upon their foes.
A few years ago, I told this story to another “Little Six.” “Old Shakopee,,” as he lay with gyves upon his legs, in our guard house at Fort Snelling, awaiting execution for almost numberless cold--blooded murders, perpetrated during the dreadful massacre of ‘62. He remembered it all, and his wicked old face lighted up with joy as he told me he was the son of that “Little Six” who made so brave a run for his life, and he showed as much pride and pleasure in listening to the story of his father's treacherous conduct, as the children of our great generals will do some day, when they read or hear of deeds of bravery or daring that their fathers have done.
The
incident recorded in the preceding chapter occurred in June, 1827, and in the autumn of the same year two companies of our command were ordered to Prairie du Chien to strengthen the garrison there, in anticipation of trouble with the Indians. One of these was Company “C”, commanded by our father; the other company was in command of Captain Scott.
We had become so attached to a home so filled with peculiar and very tender associations that out hearts were sad indeed when we bade “good bye” to all, and from the deck of the steamer took our last look at the beloved fort where we had lived so many years. In later years when passing the spot where we bade farewell to the flag which floated over headquarters on that bright morning long ago, I involuntarily look up at the beautiful banner still waving there, and a tender, reverential awe steals over me, as when standing by the grave of a friend long buried.
We had hardly been a year at Fort Crawford when my father was detailed on recruiting service, and ordered to Nashville, Tennessee. This was in 1828, memorable as the year of the presidential campaign which resulted in the election to that high office of General Andrew Jackson. When our friend Mr. Parton was writing his “Life
At the time referred to, our family boarded at the “Nashville Inn,” kept by a Mr. Edmonson, the home of all the military officers whom duty or pleasure called to Nashville. It had also been for a long time the stopping place of General Jackson and his wife, whatever they left their beloved “Hermitage” for a temporary sojourn in the city. Eating at the same table with persons who attracted so much attention, and meeting them familiarly in the public and private sitting rooms of the hotel, I of course felt well acquainted with them, and my recollections of them are very vivid even now. The General's appearance has been so often and correctly described that it would seem almost unnecessary to touch upon it here; but it will do no harm to give my impressions of him.
Picture to yourself a military-looking man, above the ordinary height, dressed plainly, but with great neatness; dignified and grave—I had almost said stern, but always courteous and affable; with keen, searching eyes, iron-gray hair standing stiffly up from an expansive forehead; a face somewhat furrowed by care and time, and expressive of deep thought and active intellect, and you have before you the General Jackson who has lived in my memory
An anecdote which my father told us, characteristic of Mrs. Jackson, impressed my young mind very forcibly. After the evening meal at the Hermitage, as he and some other officers were seated with the worthy couple by their ample fireplace, Mrs. Jackson, as was her favorite custom, lighted her pipe, and having taken a whiff or two, handed it to my father, saying, “Honey, won't you take a smoke?”
The enthusiasm of the people of Nashville for their favorite has been descanted upon, years ago. I remember well the extravagant demonstrations of it, especially after the result of the election was known. I walked the streets with my father the night of the illuminations and saw but two houses not lighted up, and these were both mobbed. One was the mansion of Judge McNairy, who was once a friend of Jackson, but for some reason became opposed to him, and at that time was one of the very few Whigs in Nashville. On that triumphant night the band played the hymn familiar to all, beginning: “Blow ye the trumpet blow,” and ending: “The year of Jubilee is come, return ye ransomed people home.” This certainly looked like deifying the man they delighted to honor, and I remember it seemed very wicked to me. When the old man finally
But the sad part of my remembrances, is the death of Mrs. Jackson. Early one bright pleasant morning my father was putting on his uniform to go with the other officers then in the city, to the Hermitage to escort the President-elect to Nashville. Before he had completed his toilet a black man left at the door a hand-bill announcing Mrs. Jackson's death, and requesting the officers to come to the Hermitage at a time specified, with the usual badges of mourning, to attend her funeral. She had died very suddenly at night, without any apparent disease, it being very generally supposed that her death was occasioned by excess of joy at her husband's election. When it was discovered that she was dead, the grief-stricken
This news caused great commotion. Many ladies went out from the city to superintend the funeral arrangements, and displayed more zeal than judgment by arraying the body in white satin, with kid gloves and slippers. Pearl ear-rings and necklace were likewise placed upon it; but, at the suggestion of some whose good sense had not entirely forsaken them, I believe, these ornaments were removed. The day of the funeral, proving damp and drizzly, the walk from the house to the grave was thickly laid with cotton for the procession to pass over.
Notwithstanding the grief displayed by the friends of this really good and noble woman, on account of her sudden death, it was supposed by many, that after all, they felt it a relief; for it had been a matter of great anxiety how she would appear as mistress of the White House, especially as some of her warm, but injudicious friends, had selected and prepared an outfit for the occasion, more suitable for a young and blooming bride than for a homely, withered looking old woman.
During the war of the rebellion, as the Fifth Division of the Army of the Cumberland was marching from Gallatin to camp near Nashville, the General in command arranged that myself and daughter, who were visiting the army and keeping with them from day to day, should call
“Here lie the remains of Mrs. Rachel Jackson, wife of President Jackson, who died the twenty-second of December, 1828, aged sixty-one. Her face was fair; her person pleasing; her temper, amiable; her heart, kind; she delighted in relieving the wants of her fellow creatures, and cultivated that divine pleasure by the most liberal and unpretending methods. To the poor, she was a benefactor; to the rich, an example; to the wretched a comforter, to the prosperous, an ornament; her piety went hand in hand with
At this own special request, the tablet which marks the spot where he rests, has only this simple record:
”
General Andrew Jackson.
Born on the 15th of March, 1767;
Died on the 8th of June, 1845.”
Among the notable persons whom we frequently met during the year of our sojourn in Nashville, was Samuel Houston, since so thoroughly identified with the early history of Texas. He was at that time moving in gay society, was called an elegant gentlemen, was very fine looking and very vain of his personal appearance; but domestic troubles completely changed his whole life, and leaving his wife and family, he abjured the world and went into exile, as he termed it. While we were in Smithland, Kentucky, to which place our father had been ordered from Nashville, he stopped with us on his way to the wilderness, and excited our childish admiration by his fanciful hunter's garb and the romance which surrounded him. I remember, too, that he begged a fine greyhound and a pointer from my brother, who gave them up, but not without a great struggle with himself, for he loved them—little thinking then, dear boy, that this man, fantastically clad
I record here a reminiscence of Smith which stamps that little town, and its surroundings, indelibly upon my memory. One day, as my brother and I were at play in front of the recruiting office, which was situated on the one long street, near the river bank, a steamboat, with its flag flying, came down the Ohio and rounded to at the wharf. As it made the turn, we noticed that the deck was crowded with negroes, and we heard them singing some of their camp meeting hymns in a way to touch all hearts. The strain was in a minor key, and, as the poor creatures swayed their bodies back and forth and clapped their hands at intervals, we were strangely moved; and when, the landing being effected, and gang-plank arranged, they came off,
chained in pairs,
and were marched, still singing, to a shed prepared for them, we could not keep back the tears. The overseer, a great strong man, cracking his “blacksnake” from time to time, to enforce authority, excited our strong indignation. All this is an impossibility now, thank God, but then it was a cruel, dreadful reality. Like cattle, they were penned for the night, and were to be kept there for a day or two, till another boat should take them to New Orleans to be sold for the cane brake and the cotton field. They had been bought by the dealer in men and women, who had them in charge at the slave pen in Washington, the capital of the
From
this Kentucky town, his two years of service as recruiting officer having ended, our father was ordered to Fort Howard, Green Bay; but, being desirous that his children should have the advantage of the schools in Cincinnati, which at that time were considered exceptionally excellent, he established us in that city in a pretty home of our own, and for the first time the family was separated, he going alone to his post, while mother and children remained in Ohio. In 1829 Cincinnati was very different from the great city which now spreads out over the beautiful hills, and extends miles on “La Belle Riviere.” It was a pretty, flourishing, clean town, and for us it was a delightful home, the dense smoke from the innumerable industries, now hanging like pall over the valley, was not known then, and the atmosphere was clear and bright. Nicholas Longworth was the great man then; his strawberries and his beautiful gardens were famous, and his sudden rise from comparative poverty to enormous wealth, mostly by successful ventures in real estate, was marvelous, such instances being rare in those days. He was an eccentric, but very kind-hearted man, very good to the poor, and he had many warm friends. A few
There were many others whose names could be given and of whom even then the young city was justly proud. Dr. Drake, the eminent surgeon and beloved physician; Rev. Dr. Joshua L. Wilson, the Boanerges of Presbyterianism; Dr. Samuel Johnson and Dr. Aydelotte, the hardworking an vigilant watchmen on the Episcopal watch towers; Judge Bellamy Storer, the distinguished jurist; Edward Mansfield, the great journalist; Salmon P. Chase, then the energetic and promising young lawyer, years afterward Chief Justice of the United States, and many others whose lives are written in the “History of Cincinnati.” From the long list I select a few names of those with whom our family was intimately associated: Major David Gwynne, a former Paymaster in the army, and my father's life-long friend; Judge Burnett, our near and highly-esteemed neighbor; Dr. John Locke, my honored teacher for four years; Alexander Kinmont, the eccentric Scotchman and most thorough educator of boys; the Groesbecks, the Lytles, the Carneals, the Kilgours, the Piatts, the Wiggins',—all of whom bore a prominent part in the early formative days of the beautiful city.
Edward Mansfield, who did so much to shape the literary taste of Cincinnati and to promote its interests in many ways, deserves more than a mere mention of his
The Asiatic cholera visited the United States for the first time in 1832, and its ravages in Cincinnati were terrible. Business was in a great measure suspended, schools
It is said that the broken-hearted father never spoke to him for years, but that on the battle-field in Mexico, Captain Davis made a successful movement, and in passing him, General Taylor, as commanding officer of the division to which he was attached, said, “that was well done, Captain,” and perhaps he never spoke to him afterwards.
When our delightful sojourn with the kind friends at Fort Crawford came to an end, we started in our open vehicle, which had been made as comfortable as possible for our long ride of several days to our final destination, and, as there were no public houses on the road, our dependence for accommodations, was upon the thinly scattered settlers, who for the most part were “roughing it,” and had few conveniences, scarcely any comforts to offer the weary traveler.
One night the halt was called in front of a low log house of two rooms, connected by an enclosed passage way, which served the purpose of an eating room.
The mistress of the house was the wife of a steamboat captain, but owing to some irreconcilable difference of sentiment, she refused to live with him, and she was miserably poor. In pity to her sad case, her husband had sent, by my father, some articles of clothing which he hoped might be of use to her, and this errand served as our introduction. She was a tall, fine looking woman, and received and welcomed us with the air of a princess dwelling in a palace. She was a niece of James Fennimore Cooper, and her grand and stately mien, in the midst of such squalid poverty, would have been amusing, but for the pity of it.
Her father, a very old man, lay dying of consumption in one of the rooms, and my little sister and I were assigned for the night to a bed directly opposite the death couch. The one tallow candle on the stand beside him, guttering down in its socket, the fitful light from the vast fireplace, which made strange fantastic shapes and shadows on the rough dark walls, and the clear cut profile of the dying man, with the erect dignified figure beside him, rising occasionally to arrange his pillow, or give him water, impressed us most painfully, effectually driving sleep from our eyes, which, under a kind of fascination, gazed intently on what they would fain not see. From time to time the dogs outside howled dismally, and this forced night-watch was made most hideous by the occasional hooting of an owl, or the prolonged baying of
I have never ceased to admire the admirable tact and grace with which my father added to his choice menu; some very nice boiled beef and other toothsome viands, with which our bountiful friends the Taylors, had packed our messchest; also, some choice tea, which father, accustomed to camping, knew how to prepare in perfection. All this he did in such a way as to make the lady feel that it was an honor to us to share these things with her, and it was really gratifying to see her calm enjoyment of delicacies to which she had long been a stranger. I think, too, that the fragrant cup of tea and the delicate bit of toast, taken to the sick man, may have brought to his mind tender recollections of a time when he lived like a gentleman, and dispelled for a little while the memory of the family troubles, and the complication of misfortunes
Kind friends met us with a hearty welcome at out journey's end, where for a few years we had a very happy home. The memory of the weekly musicals at John Kinzie's pleasant agency, and the delightful rides on horseback over the Portage to the point where Portage City now stands, quickens my heart-beats even now.
But where now are all those who then called that little quadrangle “
home?
“ Col. Cutter, Major Green, Captain Low, Lieutenants Johnston, Hooe, Collingsworth, Lacy, McLure, Ruggles, Reid, Whipple, Doctors Satterlee, McDougal and Foote, Sutlers Goodell, Satterlee, Clark, Lieutenant Van Cleve and my own dear father? Alas! of all these but one answers to roll-call, and he and I hold in sweet remembrance the dear friends of our youth, and the beloved old fort, where He who hath led us graciously all our days, first brought us together, and blessed us with each other's love, and we thank Him from our hearts that He has spared us to each other for so many years.
There
came a day in April, 1834, when my brother and I bade “good-by” to all, and, under our father;s care, left Fort Winnebago to go East, he to West Point, I to school in New Haven.
We descended the sinuous Fox river in an open boat, having on board, besides ourselves, a crew of soldiers, and two ladies, who embraced this opportunity to visit their Eastern home.
The spring rains set in the next day, and our voyage down the Fox river lasted ten days, during which time we had ample opportunity to test the efficacy of hydropathy, as our awing was by no means waterproof, and we were literally soaked the greater part of the time. In passing through Lake Winnebago the wind was so fearful that the combined efforts of Captain and crew were necessary to prevent shipwreck and disaster. The passage through the rapids below was extremely hazardous, but a famous Indian pilot was employed to guide us over, and no harm befel us. The picture of that tall, dark figure at the bow, his long, black hair streaming in the wind, his arms bare, his motions, as he shifted his pole from side to side, rapid and full of unconscious grace, his eyes glowing like stars
But civilization and never-tiring enterprise have waved over it their magic wand, and the whole scene is changed. Beautiful towns have sprung up about the clear, blue lake, and the place that knew the Indian and his people shall know him no more forever. In a distant camping-place nearer the setting sun the remnant of a once powerful tribe is dragging out its existence, waiting and expecting to be moved still farther west when the white man wants the land they occupy,
reserved
to them only till that want becomes imperative and the United States says: “Go farther!”
When we finally reached Fort Howard, and were cordially welcomed and hospitably entertained by General Brooke, of the Fifth Regiment, we forgot, in our exceeding comfort, all the perils and disagreeables by the way, and not one of us experienced the slightest cold or inconvenience from our long exposure to the elements.
We remained a week here awaiting a schooner, and I met for the first time Captain and Mrs. Marcy, parents of Mrs. General McLellan. How pretty and charming she was, and how kind and tender to the boy and girl who were going away from home and mother for the first time! The beautiful wife of General Brooke, too, was so loving and considerate in her motherly attentions to us that she
The voyage by schooner to Buffalo through the Straits of Mich-e-li-mac-i-nac and tempestous little Lake St. Clair, a day or two at hoary, magnificent Niagara, the journey thence by stage, canal, railroad and steamboat to New York, filled up one month from the time we took our farewell look at the star spangled banner floating over our far Western home. And this sixteen mile ride from Schenectady to Albany, which was over the first piece of road opened for travel in the United States, seemed so like magic as to inspire us with a kind of awe. I remember that in coming to a steep grade the passengers alighted, while the train was drawn up the slope by some kind of stationary machinery.
I recalled this experience of my girlhood a few years ago when, in a luxurious palace car, a party of us wound up and over the Veta pass, an ascent of 2,439 feet in fourteen miles, and looking down the dizzy height, as the two powerful engines, puffing and snorting like living creatures, labored to reach the summit, I marvelled at the splendid triumph of genius and skill.
After a pleasant day or two at West Point, where we left the young Cadet, and a short visit to relatives in New York, a most enjoyable trip in a “Sound” steamer brought us to the “City of Elms,” one of the great educational centers of New England, which was to be my home for two years.
There were many learned men in New Haven then, and the faculty of the time-honored old college had on its roll names which will never die,—Day, Silliman, Olmstead, and many others,—who were mighty in eloquence and theology, like Leonard Bacon and Dr. Taylor, proclaimed the truth with no uncertain sound in the churches on the “Green” from Sabbath to Sabbath. Grand old Noah Webster, standing in the doorway of his modest home on our road from school to church, was, to me, an embodiment of the spelling-book and dictionary, and I instinctively made obeisance to him as we passed that way.
One of the few privileges granted me in the way of recreation while at “Mrs. Apthorpe's School for Young Ladies” was an occasional visit to our dear cousins, the Brewsters, who occupied a beautiful home on the Sound, formerly known as the “Pavillion,” which might be called historic, for in a dark dungeon underneath the house the notorious regicides, Goff and Whalley, were hidden in the old, old times. And the graveyard in New Haven, with its tall poplar trees, was an epitome of the lives of men and women who had made their impress, not only on that community, but on the world. Our school was situated on Hillhouse avenue, and our walks were mostly confined to that quiet, shady street and “Powder House lane,” in order that we might avoid meeting the “students,” of whom our teacher seemed to have a great dread, a fear from which her pupils were entirely free. But for all this by sight
Benjamin Silliman, who lived next door to us, and young Thomas Skinner, who was opposite, and it is delightful to know that these two young men, who were full to the brim with fun and harmless mischief, have become eminent and dignified men of renown, one as a chemist and scientist, the other as a distinguished divine and honored professor in a theological seminary.
The college commencement exercises were held in the Central Church, on the “Green,” and all the schools, male and female, were well represented in the large audience. The ladies occupied the center of the church, and, in order that the large bonnets in vogue at that time might not intercept the view of the stage, several long lines were stretched longitudinally over their heads, to which they were expected to attach them, and, after all had hung up their bonnets, these lines were drawn up out of the way until needed again. Many of the ladies provided pretty caps and headdresses for the occasion, and the delicate laces, with their tasteful trimmings, and the bright eyes and happy faces, formed a pretty picture long to be remembered. Recalling it, I see again the dimpled cheeks and soft, graceful appointments of those merry girls, and, wafted backward over the bridge of many years, I sit among them, the spring-time of youth comes back to me, and I bless God for memory. What if we are old women now, worn and weary with care and trial it may be; this
The
fall of 1835 found us all, except our Cadet, at Fort Winnebago again, but heavily afflictions made that winter a very sad one. The anxiety consequent on the serious illness of two beloved members of the family so wore upon our dear father, whose constitution had been severely tried by arduous military duties, that after many weeks of pain, he died, and left us crushed and desolate.
I have beside me an old “Order Book,” open at a page on which is this sad record:
“The Major Commanding has the painful duty to announce to the command, the death of Major Nathan Clark; he will be buried to-morrow afternoon at 2 o'clock, with the honors of war, where all present, except those persons who may be expressly excused, will appear under arms in full uniform; the Commanding Officer directs that the escort be composed to four companies, which, in accordance with his own feelings as well as what is due to the deceased, he will command in person. All officers of this command will wear black crape attached to the hilts of their swords, and as testimony of respect for the decased,
By order of Major Green.
Feb. 18th, 1836.
SignedCollingsworth,
Act. Adj.”
And at the time appointed, a detail of soldiers from his own “Company C,” reverently place upon the bier the encoffined form of their beloved commander, having for a pall the “Stars and Stripes”, on which are laid the sword and accoutrements now no longer needed.
Memory brings back to me that mournful afternoon, and I see the bearers with their burden; the long procession of soldiers with trailed arms; the commissioned officers each in his appropriate place, all keeping time and step to the muffled drum as it rolls out its requiem on the wintry air, in the strains of Pleyel's heart-melting hymn; the weeping wife and children in the large sleigh,—all passing out the great to the lone grave-yard. And the precious burden is lowered, and at its head stands Surgeon Lyman Foote, our father's life-long friend, and in a voice trembling with emotion, reads the wonderful words: “I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord.” After the burial service comes the last salute, and, leaving there that which is so dear to us, we go back to the empty quarters, bowed down heavily, as those who mourn for one inexpressibly dear.
During those weeks of pain and languishing, my father, lived
the gospel which he preached, and unconsciously diffused a beneficial influence all about him. Notwithstanding his temporary blindness, he was so perfectly familiar with the marriage service that there was no delay in consequence, and after resting with us a few days, till his eyesight was restored, he left us on a new horse to return to his home among the Indians, where he labored faithfully and effectively for some years longer.
As soon as navigation opened, my mother went to Connecticut with two children, leaving the youngest, a dear little three year old girl, in our care. We spent the first summer of our married life very quietly and happily at
In the following September, my husband having resigned his commission, we bade a long “good bye” to the army and its many tender associations. This step was taken after much thought and deliberations, and in accordance with the advice of our dear father. But the army had always been my home; I loved it as such. I loved it still, and it is a comfort to me in my old age to know that I am not far away from a fort, that I can
almost
see the almost
hear the drum and fife, the music of my childhood, and can
feel
that they are near me, in dear old Fort Snelling, my earliest home.
In
1840, being in Cincinnati, where we were delightfully situated, we had a rare opportunity to witness the enthusiasm of our countrymen, as displayed in the Presidential campaign of which General Harrison was the successful man. The excitement of that time was tremendous. The hard cider songs—
“And should we be any ways thirsty,
I'll tell you what we will all do,
We'll bring forth a keg of hard cider
And drink to old Tippecanoe.”
“You had better go, dear Lizzie, it will do you good; the confinement in this lonesome fort does not agree with you. A ride on horseback and a pleasant visit with dear friends will brighten you up and bring back some of the roses to your cheeks. My duty keeps me here, but Sherwood will go with you; the Colonel will provide a suitable escort, and there is nothing to fear. You will return in better spirits and be happy again, will you not, my drooping lily? What! tears again? Dry them, dearest, and let us hope that you will soon receive that long-expected letter from your mother, for she must feel that by this time, if any punishment was necessary, yours has been sufficient. Now smile again, dear one, as you were wont to do in happier days, or I shall tell you that my heart reproaches me for having taken you from your luxurious home and brought upon you so much unhappiness.” “Say anything but that, my beloved, and I will try to conquer my sadness.
“Now, my darling, do not give way to such dismal fore-bodings. You always cheered me during those days of
While he is thus resting and trying to put away unpleasant thoughts, and our fair heroine is pursuing her way to Fort Holmes, we will tell the reader of some of the peculiar circumstances of Lieutenant Montgomery and his gentle bride, at the time our story begins. Lizzie Taylor was a fair girl of little more than seventeen summers when she first met Lieutenant Montgomery at a party elite
of Cincinnati. They were mutually attracted to each other, and being thrown frequently into each other's society, this feeling gradually ripened into love. Honorable and high-minded in all things, young Montgomery did not conceal his fondnes for Lizzie, and it was generally known that he was her lover. But her father, a man of great wealth and ambition, did not approve of what he chose to call her childish fancy, and, being desirous that his daughters should form brilliant marriages, frowned scornfully on the suit of one who had
only
his irreproachable character and his commission in the army of the United States to offer as his credentials. Opposition in this case, however, had its usual effect, and Lizzie, in all things else obedient and complying, felt that here, even her father should not interfere, when his objections were simply want of wealth and influence on the part of him to whom she had given her young heart. The young people, were not hasty, however, but waited patiently and uncomplainingly a year, the father promising them that he would think of it and give them an answer at that time. The proud man flattered himself, that during that probationary year he could divert his daughter from her foolishness, as he termed it, and excite her ambition to form a wealthy alliance.
To this end, he travelled with her, introduced her into gay and fashionable circles, and lavished upon her indulgences in every shape. But he realized little of the
Her father turned upon her in anger, and stamping violently, swore by all that was sacred that never would he give has consent to her union with one so much beneath her in wealth and position. “Then, father,” said his gentle daughter, mildly but with much dignity; “we will marry without it, for as sure as God has witnessed our vows, so surely shall nought but death part him and me; ‘his people shall be my people, and his God, my God.’ Forgive me this first act of disobedience to your commands, and believe me that I still love you as tenderly as I have always loved my father; but there are feelings which not even a parent's authority can control, and with the blessing of God and the love of him most dear to me of all on earth, I can brave even more than a father's displeasure.” So saying, she left the room, while her father, astonished beyond measure, remained motionless, completely taken by surprise at this determined opposition to his will in one who had hitherto been all gentleness and submission. Days passed, and she continued as childish affair
had been nipped in the bud by his timely and judicious authority, when on one bright summer day, like a thunder-clap from an unclouded sky, came a very polite note from Lieutenant Montgomery apprising him of the fact that Lizzie and he had just been married in the presence of a few friends by an Episcopal clergyman, and that they craved his forgiveness and blessing. From that moment her father's heart, already hard, was set as a flint against her. No entreaties could prevail on him to see her, and her mother, nearly crazy with grief, anger and wounded pride, took counsel of friends, who most unwisely encouraged her bitterness and convinced her that no concessions should be made to a disobedient child under any circumstances, making the poor, distressed, mistaken mother feel that it was a Christian duty to let her feel that her act had made her an outcast from her parents' love and home. Therefore, although she saw the poor girl occasionally, she always heaped on her devoted head the most withering reproaches, telling her she had disgraced her father's name, and must expect to reap the fruits of her disobedience. And when the sad little bride sent to her begging for some of her clothes, of which she was sadly in need, for she had carried nothing with her when
During that summer Lieutenant Montgomery was stationed at Newport, Ky., on the recruiting service, where my husband, my mother and I occasionally visited them, and we were astonished to notice with what perfect kindness, even affection, they always spoke of her parents and friends; but when we found her once reading God's Word and staying herself on His precious promises, we no longer wondered that there was in her heart no feeling of bitterness, for she, too, had learned the lessons He taught, who, “when He was reviled, reviled not again, but committed himself to Him who judgeth righteously.” A very few of her friends still visited her, but nearly all felt it would not be politic to be found in sympathy with one on whom the wealthy and influential Griffin Taylor frowned with displeasure. She always believed her father would relent, and sometimes, when she saw him approaching her on the street, her heart would give a great bound with the hope that now he would surely speak to her; but as soon as the proud man saw her, he invariably crossed the street to avoid the meeting, and then she felt sore and wounded, indeed. So the summer passed away, and in the fall came orders for the Lieutenant to join his regiment, then engaged
We stand on the wharf as the boat pushes off, waving our last “good-byes” and breathing prayers for their safety and welfare, while she leans on the arm of him for whom she has forsaken all but God; the great wheels revolve, the boat moves on her way, and that girlish form, on whom our eyes are fixed, grows fainter and fainter, till it fades out of sight. We heard from them immediately on their arrival at Fort Adams, and the Lieutenant wrote that Lizzie was well and would be perfectly happy but for the thought of her parents' displeasure. Her young sister, Carrie, a sweet girl of thirteen, had shed many tears for her, and had used all her eloquence to bring about a reconciliation, apparently in vain, but finally she had so far prevailed with her mother as to extort a promise from her that she would write to her, which fact she straightway communicated to Lizzie, who was, at the opening of our story, looking
The real object of the trip was the bearing of important messages to Fort Holmes, and a full escort had been detailed as a matter of prudence, although the Indians had been very quiet for some time and no danger was apprehended. Lieutenant Sherwood, as commander of the expedition, deemed it an honor to take especial charge of the young wife, who by her gentle loveliness had endeared herself to all. But after they were out of sight Montgomery became very restless, and, remaining only a short time on the sofa where we left him, when we commenced this long digression, he arose and paced the floor in deep and anxious thought, and at length, as if to throw off the terrible weight that oppressed him, went to the door where he had parted from his darling, and oh! horror! there stands her horse, panting and riderless, quivering in every limb with fright. Without an instant's delay he sprang on to the animal and rode, he scarcely knew where, not knowing nor daring to surmise what terrible thing had befallen his precious wife. What words can depict the scene that
Her parents felt that they deserved this, but wrote again begging the body of their daughter, that it might repose among her own kindred and not among a savage people. To this he consented, although he could not be prevailed on to come himself to Cincinnati, and accordingly, early in the spring, the remains of the once lovely and idolized Lizzie Taylor were brought to her father's house.
Her false-hearted summer friends could now weep for her as the daughter of the rich Griffin Taylor, while they would scarcely have regretted her as simply the wife of a poor soldier. Alas! for the hollow friendship of the world! Had one-half the sympathy been bestowed upon the poor child when he was turned from her father's door, an outcast, as we lavished on her poor, unconscious body when lying in that father's house a corpse, how much she would have been cheered and comforted under her sore trial. Everything possible was done to make it a splendid funeral—a rosewood coffin and velvet pall, crape streamers and funereal plumes, an elegant hearse, and an almost unending line of carriages—pitiable, senseless pride, that would cast away as worthless the priceless jewel, and bestow tender care and pompous honor on the perishable casket that one held it!
Nearly fifty years have passed into history since that
From
our pleasant home and work in Cincinnati we were called away by the illness and death of Lieutenant C. C. Daveiss, a brother-in-law and army associate of my husband, to whom he left the care of his family and the settlement of his business. He had resigned his commission in the army a few years before, and had settled on a large plantation which he owned near La Grange, Missouri, and Daveiss Prairie, as it was called, was our home for two years, during which time we had some new experiences, and a fine opportunity to study a class of people entirely different from any former associations. They were mostly from what might be called the backwoods of Kentucky; were ignorant, and had some very crude notions of the world at large. Nearly all of them owned a few slaves, raised a great many hogs, cultivated large fields of corn, and were content with a diet of corn bread and bacon, varied, during their long summers, with vegetables, melons and honey, all of which were very abundant. They had some cows and sheep, and some fine horses, which enjoyed unlimited pasturage on the succulent grasses of the prairies. They made their own clothing from the wool, spun and woven at home, and were in powerful
preacher, who was also the owner of a fine farm and a pretty strong force of negroes. He was held in high esteem for his great natural gifts, and we can never forget the meed of praise accorded him by his gentle, adoring wife, when, in speaking of this mighty man, she said, with exultation: “Mr. L. is so gifted that he never has to study his sermons. They come naturally to him. He hardly ever looks at a book from Sunday till Saturday, not even the Bible!” and we believed her.
The houses were built mostly of logs, and the architecture was of the most primitive style. The living room was furnished with one or more beds, a table, and strong home-made hickory chairs with painfully straight backs; and it was customary in occupying one of them to lean it back against the wall of bed, at a convenient angle, putting the feet on the rounds; and this fashion made it the proper thing to salute a visitor thus: “How-d'y? Walk right in; take a cheer, and lean back.” One of our neighbors, in giving her ideas of a newcomer, said. “She's smart enough's fur as I know, but I don't reckon she knows much about manners, for when I
sot
down on a cheer she never asked me to lean back.”
Soon after we were settled at Daveiss Prairie, a neighbor, hearing we had taught school elsewhere, called to see me, and opened up the subject of education with, “I'd kind o' like to have our Reu
ben
larn figgers; he takes to larnin the prettiest you ever see. But, law sakes, he ain't nothin to our Pop. Why, Pop can read ritin'! I learned subsequently that “our Pop”, a pretty girl of eighteen or twenty, was the wonder of the country on a account of this rare accomplishment, and seeing her frequently on horseback, with her “
ridin-skeert
“ about her, as if for a journey, I inquired one day if she any special calling, and learned that she rode from farm to farm, as her services were needed, to read the letters received by the different families; “and”, my informant added, “she makes a heap of money, too; I tell you Pop's smart.”
Another ambitious mother called to learn if I would teach her “Sam
the tables,
so'st he can measure up potatoes and garden truck handy,” adding, “it ain't no use for girls to bother much with figgers, but I see Miss Daveiss draw in a piece” (into the loom) “without countin' every thread, so you may just let Kitty larn enough to do that-a way.” Spending an afternoon with this mother, a good, sensible woman and very kind neighbor, I found her preparing the wedding trousseau of one of her girls, who was to be married the next week. She was a good girl, a general favorite, and all were muchinterested in the coming event. In the course of my visit one of the daughters called
Besides this class of people of whom I have been telling, there were several families in our neighborhood who were well educated and refined, and we formed lasting friendships among them. If may that, if Missouri had been a free State, we might have made our home there, but slavery, even as exhibited here in its mildest form, was an insuperable objection, and when my husband, having faithfully discharged his trust, felt that his sister's affairs were in such a state that she no longer required his aid, we bade farewell to our beloved relatives, to our dear friend Richard Garnett and others, and returned to Michigan, which had been our first home after leaving the army.
We loved Michigan, and would fain have lived there always, but several of our family became much enfeebled by the malarial influences so prevalent at that time in the beautiful peninsula, and we felt that a complete change of climate was imperatively necessary. So, bidding a reluctant
In
the autumn of 1856 our family removed to Long Prairie, Todd county, Minnesota, as the nucleus of a colony which was to settle and develop a large tract of land, purchased from government by a company, some members of which were our friends and relatives.
The weather was very pleasant when we left our Michigan home, but at the Mississippi river the
squaw winter,
immediately preceding
Indian summer,
came upon us with unusual sharpness, and lasted through the remainder of our journey. We were to cross the river at a little hamlet called “Swan River,” and our plan was to hire conveyances there which should take us the remaining distance. But on arriving at this point we found a young friend who had come West for his health, and was acting as agent for my brother, one of the owners of the purchase. He was on a business errand and not well prepared to take us back with him, but as we learned that it would be impossible to procure transportation for two or three days, and were extremely anxious to reach the end of our journey, he decided to make the attempt. We made the transit in small skiffs amidst huge cakes of floating ice, which threatened to swamp us before we reached the western shore, and our fears well nigh got the better of some of p. m.,
we stuck out into the wilderness, but the roads being rough and our load heavy, we made very slow progress. By 9 o'clock we had not reached the half-way mark, but by way of encouragement to the horses, and in consideration of the tired, hungry children, we came to a halt and improvised a nocturnal picnic. It was cold, very cold, there was no shelter, no light but the camp-fire, and yet there was an attempt at cheerfulness, and the entertainment passed off with some degree of merriment.
After an hour's rest we resumed our journey, and, although our conveyance was an open wagon, so crowded as to be very uncomfortable, especially for the children, yet we did the best we could, and the little emigrants bore the journey bravely for some hours longer. But when within six miles of our destination, just beside a deserted Indian encampment, our horses fairly gave out and would not pull another inch. So a large camp-fire was made; a sort of shelter constructed of branches of trees; a Buffalo robe laid on the ground, and the weary travelers found a temporary resting place, while our young friend, above alluded to, started with the used-up team to bring us help, if he could reach the prairie. I had chosen to pass the hours of waiting in the wagon, feeling that I could better protect my dear little baby in this way. So when all the heart
warmed and comforted, albeit I shivered with external cold; but hugging my baby closer, and committing all to the care of Him who never slumbers nor sleeps, I was just sinking into unconsciousness when a voice, not heard for a year and a half, broke the deep stillness with: “How! Nitchic!” and there by the flickering light of the fire, I saw our eldest son, who had left us, for a trip with his uncle to the Rocky Mountains a mere boy, and now stood before us in size a man. As his father rose to his feet, he exclaimed in an agony of joy: “Oh! father, is it you?” and he fell upon his father's neck and wept, and his father wept upon his neck. Then, as in a dream, I heard, “Where's mother?” in an instant he stood beside me, and I was sobbing in the arms of my first-born, my well-beloved son.
Our messenger had told him that the horses had given out just beside an Indian encampment, and that, unless all haste was made, the load might be carried off. So the boy, without a moment's delay, took his horses and came at full speed to save the goods. Hence his first salutation, greeting, as he supposed, a party of Chippewas.
The little camp was all alive with surprise and joyful excitement, and with a hearty appreciation of this very good practical joke, we were soon in motion again, wending our way, with lightened hearts, to our journey's end, which we reached without further let or hindrance. After a brief, but much needed rest, we opened our eyes on a calm fair Sabbath morning, and our new home, in the soft hazy light of an Indian summer sunrise was very lovely. It required no very vivid imagination to fancy ourselves in the happy valley of “Rasselas, Prince of Abyssinia,” and it seemed to me impossible that any one could ever desire, like that discontented youth, to leave so charming a spot. The term prairie is a misnomer in this case; instead we found a beautiful fruitful valley lying between two low ranges of hills, interspersed with groves of trees and picturesque lakes, and watered by a river winding gracefully through its whole length. It had been the seat of the Winnebago Agency, and there were still standing, in pretty good order, a larger number of houses. These buildings, empty though they were, gave the idea of a settlement, dispelling every thing like a feeling of loneliness
Early in December, winter came upon us in earnest; snow fell to such a depth that we were fairly shut out from the whole world, and so suddenly as to find us unprepared. It was difficult and almost impossible, on bread,
was so rarely
A large number of Chippewa Indians were encamped about us most of the time, and not being able to hunt successfully, on account of the very deep snow, were driven to great extremity, and sometimes, acting on the well established principle, that “self-preservation is the first law of nature,” broke in the windows of our extemporized granaries, and helped themselves to grain. They were welcome to it under the circumstances, but in obtaining it they had broken in the windows, and had mixed glass with it to such an extent that it was unsafe for food until we had picked it all over, grain by grain. This process was our daily occupation and amusement. I distinctly recall the scene in our dining-room, when all the available members of the family were seated around a long pine table, with a little pile of wheat before each, replenished from time to time from the large heap in the center, working away industriously, conversing cheerfully, telling interesting and amusing stories, singing songs, never complaining, but all manifesting a feeling of gratitude that we still saw before us what would support life, for, at least, a while longer; and taking heart and strength to endure, in the hope that before this, our last resource was exhausted, we should receive our long expected supplies, which were somewhere on the way to us. This wheat was boiled, and eaten with salt, the only seasoning of any
The nearest settlement of any kind was “Swan River,” on the Mississippi, but we were so completely blockaded with snow, that no team could possibly get through. Two or three times during that memorable winter, our oldest son, a boy of eighteen years, made the trip on snow-shoes, at the risk of his life, to get our mail, and learn, if possible, something from our supplies. The round trip was a three days' journey, and there being no stopping place or house of any kind on the route, he, of course, was obliged
It is due to our only neighbors, the Indians, to say that they were by no means troublesome, that our intercourse with them was pleasant, and to some of them we became much attached. A great chief's wife was a frequent visitor at our house, her little son, of perhaps eight winters being her invariable attendant. On one occasion having missed a small case-knife of rather peculiar formation, which was in daily use, I ventured to ask her if the little lad had taken it to their wigwam, it occurred to me he might have done so, innocently to show to some of his family, in whose honesty I had implicit faith. The old woman drew herself up to her full height, and with a grace and dignity which would have done honor to the mother of the Gracchi, said, in all the expressiveness of her native tongue:
“The son of Ne-ba-quum cannot steal!”
In real admiration and reverent contrition, I laid my hand on the
Some time in January, our five year old boy was very suddenly seized with pleurisy in its most violent form, and for hours he seemed in mortal agony. We had no efficient remedies, no doctor within thirty, perhaps fifty miles, and to complicate matters, I had lain down sick for the first time, thoroughly vanquished by fatigue and unusual exposure. But that sickness of mine had to be postponed, and we fought all that night with the fearful disease, using vigorously all the external remedies within our reach, cupping the dear child with inexperienced hands, but prayerful hearts, leaning entirely upon God, who, when we cried unto Him in our distress, heard and mercifully regarded our cries. The acute and agonizing symptoms of the attack were subdued, but lung fever supervened,
”
Ill
that God blesses is our
good,
During this trying time, our stock of candles was nearly exhausted, and our weary watchings were only lighted by a sense of God's presence. So with our hand on the dear sufferer, and our ear attentive to his breathing, his father and I sat beside him, lighting our candle only when absolutely necessary, and felt as none can feel until they have tested it, the sustaining grace and Infinite love of the Blessed Watcher, who never slumbers nor sleeps.
During a bitter wind and blinding snow storm, some snow birds took refuge in our wood-shed and were caught by the Indian boy's. At the suggestion of our oldest son, who had read somewhere the story of a sick child and her Canaries, these little refugees were brought into the nursery and so became perfectly tame, flying all about the sick boy's head, lighting on his hands, and amusing and resting him wonderfully. For several days the storm continued, and we sheltered the little creatures, our invalid growing better so rapidly as to excite our surprise. But at last there came a mild bright day, and we turned them out to find their companions. Why was it that they flew only a few rods and then fell dead? To us it seemed that these little winged messengers had been driven us in our extremity by the fury of the storm as healing agents, and had given their lives for our child's. The question now arose, where shall we find suitable food for our convalescent? There seemed no possible help for us, but we believed it would come. One morning as I sat wondering how this would be brought about, my dear brother came in, and handling me a fresh laid egg, said: “I did not
Soon after this the wheat ran low, the long hard winter had told upon us all, and we seemed to need more
Our supplies were ample and varied, and 3 o'clock found a large company seated around a table loaded with excellent, well-cooked food, of which all partook with a gusto most flattering and gratifying to the cook, who was glad to retire to her room with her baby, when the meal was over and rest on her laurels, while the young people danced and made merry in very gladness of heart.
Night closed around a little settlement of thoroughly grateful, happy human beings. What if it was still cold, and there must yet be many stormy days? No fear of suffering or starvation. God had not forgotten us, and we should never cease to trust Him. I could not sleep for very joy, and the delicious sense of relief from anxiety on the score of providing for the daily meals. I seemed Fireh,
“ and felt He had abundantly verified his blessed promise.
In due time the days grew longer and warmer; the snow melted. Large flocks of wild geese passing northward over our heads assured us, with their unmusical but most welcome notes, that the long winter of ‘56 and ‘57 was over and gone. The ground was broken up, crops were planted, and everything gave promise of a favorable season. Our home, in its lovely, fresh robes of green, was enchanting, and we felt that the lines had indeed fallen unto us in pleasant places. But as we take pleasant walks through our happy valley, what means this unusual sound that arrests our footsteps? It is like the pattering of gentle summer rain, and yet the sky is clear and cloudless; no drops fall. What can it be? Ah! see that moving in the grass! We stoop to examine, and find myriads of strange-looking insects hardly larger than fleas. They must be—yes, they are,
young grasshoppers.
And now may
The experience of the past had taught us much. We felt our hearts stronger and richer for its lessons, and we all look back on that memorable time as something we would not willingly have missed out of our lives, for we learned that one may be reduced to great straits, may have few or no external comforts, and yet be very happy, with that satisfying, independent happiness which outward circumstances cannot affect.
A Few
years ago, Colonel Wilbur F. Sanders, President of the Historical Society of Montana, justly claiming my brother as one of the earliest pioneers of Montana Territory, requested me to furnish the society with a sketch of his life, feeling that without it, the records would be incomplete.
His career was peculiar, and in order that those who come after us may have a correct account of it, I insert here the substance of the sketch prepared at the request of Colonel Sanders:
My brother Malcolm Clark was the oldest child of our parents and their only son. He was born July 22d, 1817, at Fort Wayne, Indiana. When he was two years old our home was at Fort Snelling, where we remained for eight years. He was a handsome, bright-eyed, brave and venturesome boy, and soon began to develop a very decided taste for field sports of all kinds, becoming a ready pupil and prime favorite of Captain Martin Scott, widely known as the veritable Nimrod of those days. He was constantly running risks even in his plays, and had some miraculous escapes. But his fortitude and endurance of pain were very remarkable, and his great ambition was to bear himself under all circumstances like a true soldier.
One of my earliest recollections of him is seeing him mounted on his beautiful pony, riding without saddle or bridle, his arms extended, his eyes flashing, and his soft brown hair waving in the wind. This early training in daring horsemanship made him, as all who knew him can testify, a perfect rider. He was very quick to resent anything that looked like an imposition, or an infringement of his rights, it mattered not who was the aggressor. On one occasion, during the temporary absence of the Surgeon, he fell and cut his mouth so badly that it was feared the injury might be very serious.
Colonel Snelling, who had some knowledge of surgery, volunteered to repair the damaged feature, but when the attempted to use the needle, Malcolm, who felt he was not duly authorized, refused to let him touch it, shaking his tiny fist in his face, by way of menace. The Colonel laughingly retreated, and recommended sticking-plaster, which answered an admirable purpose.
A few years later I assisted the Surgeon in dressing a wound which Malcolm had accidentally inflicted on his own arm with a knife, and, although the operation of probing and cleansing it was perfect torture, he submitted to it patiently and without a sound of complaint.
He was a loving, affectionate boy, full of real chivalry and true nobility. Being next in age, I was his constant companion, and his kind, loving consideration of me is deeply impressed upon me. When for some years Cincinnati
At one time a young school-mate made some improper remarks concerning a young girl acquaintance of Malcolm's who bade him take back his words. On his refusing to do this, my brother sized the fellow, who was larger and stouter than, he, and gave him a pretty severe punishment, receiving himself, however, a bad cut on his head from falling on a sharp stone. But neither the pain of his wound nor the rebukes of his friends could make him feel that he had done anything more than justice, and he bore his sufferings with the spirit of a knight who had been wounded in defense of his “faire ladye.” While at school he manifested a marked talent for public speaking, and took the highest rank in elocution in the Kinmont Academy, and I think that all through his life this gift of eloquence gave him a power over those with whom he mingled. I recall distinctly my sisterly pride in him when at an exhibition he delivered that wonderful speech
But one of his company, who had been derelict in duty and had been reported accordingly, accused him of making a false report, and this in those days was an accusation not to be borne. Consequently my impetuous brother, with a mistaken sense of honor, fostered by the teachings and usages of fifty years ago, sent the young man challenge. Instead of accepting or declining it, he took it to the Commandant, thus placing himself in a most unfavorable light.
The next morning at breakfast roll-call my brother stepped out before his company, and, seizing his adversary by the collar, administered to him a severe flogging
In the light of the great improvement in public sentiment with regard to such matters, the young man's course must be condemned, but great allowance must be made for the code of honor in force at that time, and nowhere so strenuously insisted on, as in military circles. Several duels had been fought between the officers at Fort Snelling while that was our home, and Malcolm had heard with delight and awe of the prowess of his hero, Captain Scott, who, as already narrated in these records, had soon after his appointment in the regular army given a final quietus to a young West Point officer who had snubbed and insulted the Green Mountain boy, whose career opened in a volunteer regiment in the war of 1812, instead of at the Military Academy. These influences account for, and in a great measure excuse my rash brother's conduct in this affair. We deeply deplored this event, which changed the whole tenor of his life; and yet, there lies on my table as I write, his defense before the military tribunal, and I confess to a thrill of pride as I read the manly, fearless, yet thoroughly respectful and courteous document, and I feel very sure that a most efficient, high-minded officer
Soon after this he started for Texas to join the desperate men there in their struggle for independence.
During his journey to the “Lone Star” State a characteristic incident occurred which may be worthy of mention. On the voyage from New Orleans to Galveston, the Captain of these ship refused to keep his agreement with his passengers in regard to furnishing ice and other absolute necessaries, thus endangering their health and making their situation thoroughly unendurable. After unsuccessful efforts to bring the captain to reason, my brother took command himself, placed the captain, heavily ironed, in closed confinement, and thus landed in Galveston. Then he released his prisoner, and repaired immediately to General Sam Houston's quarters to give himself up for mutiny on the high seas. His story had preceded him, and, on presenting himself, the President exclaimed: “What! is this beardless by the desperate mutineer of whom you have been telling me?” And, after inquiring into the affair, feeling thoroughly convinced that, according to the laws of self-defense, my brother's conduct was justifiable, dismissed him, with some very complimentary remarks on his courageous behavior. The young hero was loudly cheered by the populace, and borne on their shoulders in triumph to his hotel.
He soon after received a commission in the Texan army,
While in the Southwest, he was one day riding entirely alone through a wilderness, in some part of Texas, I think, when he saw in the distance, riding directly towards him, his old West Point antagonist, who had so far lost caste at that institution as to be obliged to resign about the time of my brother's dismissal. He had learned that Malcolm was in the country, whither he also had drifted, and had threatened to take his life, if ever he crossed his path. My brother, knowing of this threat, of course, concluded that when he met his enemy there would be a deadly encounter. Both were heavily armed; Malcolm had two pistols, but had discharged one at a prairie hen a short time before, and had forgotten which one was still loaded. It would not do to make investigations in the very face of his foe; so with his hand on one of them, and his keen eye firmly fixed on the man, he rode on, determined not to give one inch of the road. Thus they approached each other, neither yielding; my brother's steady gaze never relaxing, till just as their mules almost touched one another, his enemy gave the road, and Malcolm went on, feeling that very probably his foe would shoot him from behind, but never looking bank, till, by a turn in the road, he knew he was out of sight, when he drew a long breath, and felt that he had been in a pretty
Failing to find in cincinnati, Business congenial to his taste, my brother obtained, through our father's life-long friend, Captain John Culbertson, an appointment in the American Fur company, and went to one of their stations on the Upper Missouri. At this time he was just twenty four years old; at the time of his death he was fifty-two, so that more than half his life was spent in the Indian country. The story of his life in the Far West is full of incident. Soon after his arrival in the Blackfoot country he won the name of Ne-so-he-i-u(the Four Bears), by killing four Grizzlies one morning before breakfast, which remarkable feat gave him high rank in the estimation of the tribe. How he traded successfully among these Indians, in all cases studying their best interests; how he came to be looked upon as a great and powerful chief; how he identified himself with them by marrying among them; how, by his deeds of daring, his many miraculous escapes, his rare prowess and skill, and his wonderful personal influence over them, he obtained the dignity of a
Medicine man,”
in whom they professed implicit faith and confidence, are facts well known to all who knew him.
And, how, when the eager, grasping whites encroached upon their territory, seeing before them the fate that had befallen all the other tribes among white
In sketching the record of this life from early childhood to its tragic ending, I seem to see again before me my beautiful, bright-eyed brother, a boy of whom I was very proud, and who was, to me, the embodiment of everything brave, and manly, and true. I follow him in his eventful life, and while I realized that his impetuosity sometimes led him to do things which were not wise, and which he afterwards regretted, yet about all these errors and mistakes, rises memory of his unswerving integrity; his fidelity to his friends; his high sense of honor, between man and man; his almost womanly tenderness towards those whom he loved; his rare culture and refinement; his affable, genial and courteous manners; his hospitality and large-heartedness,—all entitling him richly, to
“Bear without abuse,
The grand old name of gentleman.”
Long Prairie
was our home for five years which though not unmixed with trial and sorrow, were happy years. Some few neighbors settled in and around the Prairie, and the visits of lumbering and surveying parties, passing to and fro, made a pleasant variety in our simple life. We were directly on the route over which the Indians, both Sioux and Chippewas travelled as they went for game or scalps; but they behaved themselves circumspectly, except when bad white men crept into the settlement and made them crazy with “fire water.” This infamous traffic we resisted to the extent of our power, and on one occasion blood was drawn on both sides, but no lives were lost. We always treated the Indians well, dealing fairly with them as with white men, and they looked upon us as their friends. At one time, however, rumors of danger warned us to take measures to insure our safety; and we applied to Floyd, then Secretary of War, for military protection, the result of which step was, that some soldiers were quartered at the Prairie for the winter of ‘58 and ‘59, and we dismissed our fears. Captain Frederick Steele and Lieutenant Joseph Conrad were the officers in command of the detachment, and proved most
The next winter we had the protection of Lieutenant Latimer and his company from Fort Ridgley, a most genial and whole-souled Southern gentleman, who endeared himself to us by his frank kindly manners. Gen. Irwin McDowell, inspecting officer, made us a charming visit during this winter, and by his kindly, unassuming manner, won all hearts, while his splendid form and manly beauty made an impression on us never to be effaced. He survived the war, but died in the prime of life, sincerely mourned by a large circle of friends and fellow soldiers.
Possibly we might have spent our lives at Long Prairie, but for the bombardment of Fort Sumter, on the eventful 12th of April, 1861, whose vibrations thrilled the whole North, and reaching us in our pastoral home, changed entirely our plans and purposes. When our youngest boy was twenty-four hours old, his father went to St. Paul, in obedience to a summons from Governor Ramsey, and was soon after commissioned Colonel of the “2d” Regiment of Minnesota Volunteers, which was rendezvoused at Ford Snelling for thorough organization and drill. As soon as possible his family joined him there, and once again my temporary home was in the old Headquarters, and in were
heroes who won no stars, who received no ovations, whose histories were never written, and who none the less were martyrs to their country.
“But men must work,
And women must weep;
Though storms be sudden and waters deep;
And the harbor-bar be moaning.”
But God gave us the victory and our beloved country, aye, the whole world has made a forward move because of our heart-breaking, agonizing Civil War.
After
the breaking up at Long Prairie, a few months were spent by our family in St. Paul, but in the early spring it seemed expedient to remove to “St Anthony,” which has ever since been our home. It was at that time a very quiet village; very many of the young and vigorous men were at the front, and business was at a stand-still; property was very cheap, and real estate men had little or nothing to do. Minneapolis, on the west side of the river, was a small town, and had any one predicted at that time that the city of Minneapolis would one day become what it is now, he would have been regarded as a lunatic. The Indian outbreak ‘62 stirred things up for a while, but that passed away, and the place resumed its sleepy condition, waking up now and then at the news of a victory, or on the occasion of the return of a regiment, to whom an ovation was tendered, when it became manifest that there was a great deal of energy and power latent in the community, which only needed an occasion to bring it out. But the immense water power kept up its music, the mills ground flour and sawed logs and made paper, and, all unconsciously, we were growing great and preparing to become the wonder of the world. When the old
And while rejoicing at the present state of things, so far in advance of those times, we sometimes look back regretfully at the days when we seemed like one large family, with common interests, and we involuntarily breathe a sigh for those simple, primitive pleasures, that will be ours nevermore.
No need for me to describe in these humble records the phenomenal growth of Minneapolis; it is known and read of all men, and the world is startled at its rapid transition from a somewhat obscure manufacturing town to a great and prosperous city, whose foundations are so solid, and whose possibilities so great, that there seems no limit to its progress. We who have watched it from infancy are justly proud of our city, and it is certainly cause for congratulation that so much time and thought and money are given to establishing and fostering benevolent institutions and charities of all kinds. The people are large-hearted and ready to take hold of anything which has for its object
But better than all this is the earnest desire that we should become good, as well as great, as manifested in the numerous active societies organized for the purpose of overcoming and suppressing the evils incident to large and prosperous cities; and the eloquent, earnest men of all religious denominations who labor faithfully as preachers and pastors for the highest good of the people are doing grand, efficient work towards the accomplishment of this desire.
And side by side with us, a little way down the river, is our beautiful twin sister, the city of St. Paul, to which by the power of mutual attraction we are growing nearer day by day. The healthy rivalry which has existed between us since we began to grow has benefited both cities, and we now stand before the world phenomenal in growth, each year lengthening our cords and strengthening our stakes, with the sure prospect of becoming, in the near future, a mighty metropolis of the great and powerful Northwest.
The tender friendships formed there by our family during the early days of the war grow stronger and more binding each year, and will last through eternity; our children will tell to their children of the kindness rendered by dear ones in St. Paul to “father and mother”
When the beautiful Edith, searching the field after the bloody battle of Hastings, found the body of her beloved, the last of the Saxon Kings, she saw right over his heart, as she wiped the blood from his wounded side, two words graven thereon: Edith,” and beneath it “England.” So on my heart, among my precious things, stands “Minneapolis,” and just beneath it “St. Paul.” God bless them both and make them truly good, as well as eminently great.
Looking
over the quarter of a century that we have lived quietly and happily in our Minneapolis home, I recall some very pleasant satisfying incidents, notably a visit made by my husband and myself to the lovely home of our only daughter in Honolulu, the capital of the Hawaiian Kingdom. We were both enfeebled by sickness and He who has been so gracious to us all our lives, knowing we had need of such a change, provided for it in an unexpected way. We left our home early in December, 1878 under the care of our son-in-law and daughter, and, journeying in the comfortable Pullman cars, took in the wonders and beauties, so often described, of the overland route to San Francisco.
It is needless for me to tell you of these wonders. Many travelers have so descanted upon them as to make them familiar to all, and yet no words can ever do them justice; they must be seen to be comprehended. Comprehended did I say? Ah! that can never be; they overwhelm and fill us with awe, make us very quiet, and incline our hearts to silent worship of Him whose “works are manifold, and who, in wisdom, hath made them all.” As this magnificence unrolls before us like a grand panorama,
Very early on the morning of our last day's ride, we rounded “Cape Horn,” and halted, as is the custom, for all to have a sight of that masterpiece of the Great Architect. The mist still lay in the deep gorge and on the mountain sides, and all was perfect unbroken silence. Without a word we gazed enraptured on the glorious scene, and waited, as if expectant of some royal presence, to fill this magnificent throne of God's own building. And as we look, behold the heralds! And now the King of Day himself, in his chariot of flame, comes forth over the mountain-top, “as a bridegroom coming out of his chamber, and rejoicing as a strong man to run a race.” At his presence, the mists roll away; the mountain sides appear in all their rugged beauty; the American River, like a silver thread, down deep in the mighty gorge, smiles
That day's ride was the perfection of enjoyment, full of wonder and beauty, and just as we reached the terminus, the great monarch whose rays had illumined our path all the way, sank gloriously to rest in the “Golden Gate,” rendering our first view of the mighty ocean unspeakably grand.
After spending ten days very pleasantly and satisfactorily in the great metropolis of the Pacific coast, our party of four embarked on the United States mail steamship, “City of Sydney,” for the beautiful Hawaiian Islands, two thousand miles away, in the midst of the sea, which we reached in the remarkably short time of a little less than seven days, having made the quickest trip on record. Our voyage was most prosperous, and, with the exception of two days of rough weather at the outset, very pleasant. The ship is a fine one, all its appointments being everything that could be desired. The company was intelligent and agreeable. Our party was happy in the anticipation of seeing dear ones in Honolulu, and in the near realization of what had been, to some of us, a beautiful dream for years. And were we disappointed? Oh, no! No picture of our imagination had ever been so bright, so beautiful as that spread out before us, as our gallant ship sailed majestically through the coral reef into the beautiful harbor of Honolulu. It was like entering a new world;
The tall cocoa-nut palms, crowned with their feathery tufts; the rich foliage of the various trees; the gorgeous blossoms; the picturesque, gaily-dressed natives in their arrowy canoes, with luscious fruits, or specimens of coral, shells, and other treasures of the deep; the innumerable little bronze figures darting in and out of the water for bits of coin thrown to them from the deck; and, above all, the dear ones, with happy faces and eager, outstretched hands, awaiting, with loving impatience, the moment of our landing, formed a tableau, which, illumined by the soft, glowing, dreamy atmosphere, made a photograph in my memory which time nor distance can ever efface. Our ride through the city, up the Nu-u-an-u valley, was one continued surprise and wonder, a bright vision, from which we surely must awaken to sober reality.
We knew that, by the almanac, it was the last day but one of the old year, midwinter, a time of frost and snow, and surely these brilliant oleanders, these great scarlet geraniums, these bright hedges of the many-colored Lantana were but a fairy scene which might vanish any
The society of Honolulu, representing many different nationalities, is exceptionally intelligent and cultivated. The climate is simply perfect, the mercury ranging from 60° to 80° the year round; delicious fruits, lovely flowers and spice bearing shrubs abound. The soil is very fertile and favorable to the production of the best of sugar cane, a high grade of coffee and excellent rice, which are the staple productions and a source of great profit to the islands. A most nutritious and satisfying vegetable universally cultivated there, is the Taro, which is to the
In
the month of March, 1886, we sent to our many friends far and near the following invitation, and the hearty response which we received made March 22d a day never to be forgotten by ourselves and our children:
Lieutenant Horatio Phillips Van Cleve, U. S. A.,
and
Charlotte Ouisconsin Clark,
General and Mrs. H. P. Van Cleve,
AT HOME
March 22d, 1886,
603 Fifth Street S. E.,
From 3 until 10 o'clock P. M.
No presents.
The weather seemed as if made for the occasion, the sun shone brightly till its setting, and the old house, which has been our home so long, that we all love it, in spite of its old-fashioned appearance and its entire lack of style, was fitly prepared and adorned by loving hands.
Our friend, Rev. Dr. Neill, spoke to us in his usual felicitous manner, and his address was full of pleasant reminiscences. Our pastor, Rev. Dr. Stryker, recited a poem composed by himself for the occasion, and the evening
Then came to us a full realization that we had walked beside each other half a century, and our thoughts went back to the old quarters at Fort Winnebago, where side by side we stood in the freshness of youth, with life all before us, and promised “to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and cherish each other till death do us part,” and as we looked into each other's eyes, heart answered to heart, “We have kept our vows.”
“And looking backward through the years
Along the way our feet have pressed,
We see sweet places everywhere—
Sweet places, where our souls had rest.
For though some human hopes of ours
Are dead and buried from our sight,
Yet from their graves immortal flowers
Have sprung, and blossomed into light.
Our sorrows have not been so light,
God's chastening hand we could not trace;
Nor have our blessings been so great
That they have hid our Father's face.”
And we thanked Him that He “had mercifully ordained that we should grow old together.” And now, laying down my pen, I say to all who have followed me through these memories: “Good night, dear friends. God Bless you every one.”