The Homes of the New World/Letter XXV.
LETTER XXV.
The most glorious morning! How I have enjoyed it and a solitary ramble on the banks of Rock River (a small tributary of the Mississippi), on which the little town stands. Many a thought also winged its way homeward, and said, “Good morning to my beloved, and I would that I could bear to them, and above all to you, my Agatha, this air, this sun of the New World's Indian summer!”
Watertown is a little, newly sprung-up, infant-town, of two thousand inhabitants. The small, neat houses, most of them of wood and painted white, and very smart and clean, were scattered upon the green slopes between the wood and the river. Columns of smoke ascended from their chimneys in the quiet morning, and the sun shone over them and the mirror-like river. “Are you sunflowers?” asked I (of course in petto). “Are the people within you like the inner blossoms of the sunflower, each bearing seed in itself?” Thus, of a certainty, will it become sometime in this country, which raises itself like a giant-sunflower above the waves of the ocean; but the farther I advance into the West, the more clear it becomes to me that, as yet it is not so generally; and that people in the great West are as yet principally occupied in the acquisition of the material portion of life, in a word, by “Business!” People have not as yet time to turn themselves to the sun.
But the churches, the schools, and the asylums which are in progress of erection; and those small houses and homes which are beginning to adorn themselves with flowers, to surround themselves with gardens—they prove that the light-life is struggling into being. First were the Hrimthursar (the giants of frost)—then the giants and dwarfs, to these succeeded the gods and goddesses; thus say the Vala songs.
I wrote to you last from Chicago. From Chicago I
went by steamer across Lake Michigan to Millewanukee,
escorted by a pleasant and warm-hearted young man,
Mr. R. The proprietor of the steamer would not allow
me to pay for my passage. The voyage was sun-bright
and excellent. We lay to at small infant towns on the
shore, such as Southbord, Elgin, Racine, all having
sprung up within the last seven or eight years, and in a
fair way of growing great under the influence of trade
and the navigation of the Lake.
I was met at Millewankee by Herr L., a Swedish gentleman resident there as a merchant, who had invited me to his house, and who now conducted me thither, where I was most kindly received by his wife, a little, good-tempered Irish lady. That was in the evening. The next morning was rainy, but afterwards cleared up, and became one of the most lovely days. The whole of the forenoon I was obliged to enact the lioness to an incessant stream of callers, ladies and gentlemen, received from them presents of flowers, books, verses, and through all was obliged to be polite, answer the same questions over and over again, and play over and over again on the piano the same ballads and polskas. Some of these people were evidently interesting people, from whose conversation I could have derived pleasure and profit; but ah! this stream carries all pearls along with it.
I was this forenoon in a large ladies' school, where I saw many handsome young girls, made them a speech, and congratulated them on being Americans; I also saw some agreeable teachers, and then again more gentlemen and ladies. An important reformation in female schools is taking place in these Western States at the present time under the guidance of a Miss Beecher, sister to the highly-gifted young minister at Brooklyn, and who is a kind of lady-abbess in educational matters. In the afternoon I was driven about to see all the lions of the place in a carriage, which a gentleman of the town had placed at my disposal. It was very agreeable, for the town is beautiful; has a charming situation on elevated ground, between Lake Michigan and Millewankee river, and increases with all its might. Four great school-houses, one in each quarter of the town, shone in the sunlight with their ascending cupolas. They are as yet in progress of erection, are all alike, and in a good style of architecture—ornamental without pomp. I saw some handsome, well-built streets, with handsome shops and houses, quite different to those of Chicago. Nearly all the houses in Millewankee are built of brick, a peculiar kind of brick, which is made here from the clay of the neighbourhood, and which makes a brick of a pale yellow colour, which gives the city a very cheerful appearance, as if the sun were always shining there. I saw also lovely country-houses in the outskirts, with splendid and extensive prospects over lake and land. Millewankee, not Chicago, deserves to be called “Queen of the Lake.” She stands a splendid city on those sunny heights, and grows and extends herself every day. Nearly half of the inhabitants are Germans, and they occupy a portion of the city to themselves, which is called “German Town.” This lies on the other side of the river Millewankee. Here one sees German houses, German inscriptions over the doors or signs, German physiognomies. Here are published German newspapers; and many Germans live here who never learn English, and seldom go beyond the German town. The Germans in the Western States seem, for the most, to band together in a clan-like manner, to live together, and amuse themselves as in their fatherland. Their music and dances, and other popular pleasures, distinguish them from the Anglo-American people, who, particularly in the West, have no other pleasure than “business.” This reminds me of a conversation I had on one occasion—I think it was at Augusta, in Georgia—in a shop where I went to purchase something. A middle-aged woman stood behind the counter, and I heard by her mode of speaking that she was a German. I asked her, therefore, in German how she liked this New World.
“Oh, yes!” she replied, with a sigh, “it is all very well for business, and for making money. But when I have worked all day and the evening is come I cannot here have any ‘plaisir.’ In the old country, though one perhaps might not get so much by work, yet one could have some ‘plaisir’ when it was done. But here nobody has any idea of any “plaisir,” but just business, business, day out and day in; so that one's life is not very amusing.”
That was in the south, where immigration exists to a much less extent. In the North-Western States the Germans come over in immense crowds, and hand themselves together and have “plaisir” enough, and their music finds its way now and then with a bewitching tone to the ears of the Anglo-Americans, and those strong, blooming German girls sometimes attract them so irresistibly as to occasion an approximation in search for “plaisir,” and whatever more there may be also in that German realm.
In the evening I supped at the house of the mayor of the city, where I saw many very agreeable people. One amiable young lady took a bracelet from her arm and clasped it around mine. I shall bear her memory in my heart.
The house of the mayor was upon a hill, extremely picturesque, looking down upon a deep valley, where also people lived and were building. That is one of the dangers of building a house upon a hill. You have, for instance, bought a piece of land upon a hill, a piece large enough for a house and a little garden; and you have built a beautiful house, and planted trees and flowers around it, rejoiced in your house and in your magnificent view which extends over the whole lake and great part of the country. This is to-day. To-morrow you hear that the ground adjoining your house is purchased by somebody, who intends to cut it down many fathoms, and to build a street directly below your house. You protest and declare that your house will fall down if the hill is undermined just below its walls! There is no help for it! The day after to-morrow you see that the digging and the delving have begun just outside your walls, and you have in a while the agreeable prospect of seeing the sand-hill tumble down, and your house tumbling down with it, make a summerset into the new street at its feet, and, if it has good luck, demolishing in its descent the house which your grave-digger had built. But this is a gloomy picture! Nevertheless I beheld it with my own eyes in Millwankee. I would very willingly live for a time in Millwankee, upon its beautiful heights among its kind, lively people, but as to building a house there—No, I thank you!
A DAY AMONG THE SWEDES AT PINE LAKE.
On the morning of the 29th of September I arrived at this, the first Swedish Colony of the West. Herr Lange drove me there in a little carriage, along a road which was anything but good, through a solitary region, a distance of somewhat above twenty miles from Millwankee. It was on a Sunday morning, a beautiful sunshiny morning. There remain still of the little Swedish colony of Pine Lake, about half-a-dozen families who live as farmers in the neighbourhood. It is lake-scenery, and as lovely and romantic as any may be imagined—regular Swedish lake-scenery; and one can understand how those first Swedish emigrants were enchanted, so that without first examining the quality of the soil, they determined to found here a New Sweden, and to build a New Upsala! I spent the forenoon in visiting the various Swedish families. Nearly all live in log-houses, and seem to be in somewhat low circumstances. The most prosperous seemed to be that of the smith; he, I fancy, had been a smith in Sweden, and had built himself a pretty frame house in the forest; he was a really good fellow, and had a nice young Norwegian for his wife: also a Mr. Bergman who had been a gentleman in Sweden, but who was here a clever, hard-working peasant-farmer; had some acres of good land which he cultivated ably, and was getting on well. He was of a remarkably cheerful, good-tempered, and vigorous Swedish temperament; he had fine cattle, which he himself attended to, and a good harvest of maize which now stood cut in the field to dry in the sun. He had enlarged his log-house by a little frame-house which he had built up to it; and in the log-house he had the very prettiest, kindest, most charming young Swedish wife, with cheeks as fresh as red roses, such as one seldom sees in America, and that spite of her having a four-weeks old little boy, her first child, and having, with the assistance only of her young sister, to do all the work of the house herself. It was a joyous and happy home, a good Swedish home, in the midst of an American wilderness. And the dinner which I had there was, with all its simplicity, exquisitely good, better than many a one which I have eaten in the great and magnificent hotels of America. We were ten Swedes at dinner; most of the number young men, one of whom was betrothed to the handsome young sister of the mistress of the house. Good milk, excellent bread and butter, the most savoury water-fowl and delicious tarts, cordial hospitality, cheerfulness and good feeling, crowning the board; and, besides all the rest, that beautiful Swedish language spoken by every one,—these altogether made that meal a regular festival to me.
Our young and handsome hostess attended to the table, sometimes went out into the kitchen—the adjoining room—to look after the cooking, or to attend to her little baby in the cradle, which cried aloud for its dinner, then came back again to us, and still the roses bloomed freshly on her cheeks, and still the kind smile was on her lips, spite of an anxious look in those clear blue eyes. Both sisters were blonde, with round countenances, blue eyes, light hair, fair complexions, regular, white teeth, lovely and slender figures—true Swedes, especially the young wife, a lovely specimen of the young Swedish woman.
In the afternoon she took me by a little path through the wood, down to the wonderfully beautiful Pine Lake, on the banks of which, but deeper still in the woods, her home was situated, and near to which the other Swedish houses also stood. On our way I asked her about her life, and thus came to hear, but without the least complaint on her part, of its many difficulties. The difficulty of obtaining the help of servants, male and female, is one of the inconveniences and difficulties which the colonists of the West have to encounter. They must either pay for labour at an enormously high rate—and often it is not to be had on any terms—or they must do without it; and if their own powers of labour fail, either through sickness or any other misfortune, then is want the inevitable consequence. There is need of much affection and firm reliance for any one, under such circumstances, to venture on settling down here: but these both lived in the heart of the young Swede, and her eyes sparkled as she spoke of her husband, his kind, good heart, and his vigour both of mind and body. Whilst we were standing beside that quiet lake, garlanded by thick branching trees and underwood, splendid with the colouring of autumn, we heard the husband's voice as he drove the oxen down to water, and soon we saw their huge horns pushing a way through the thick foliage. Our cheerful, well-bred host was now a brisk ox-driver.
After this we betook ourselves to the oldest house of the colony on Pine Lake, where lived Mrs. Bergvall's mother, the Widow Petterson, and who expected us to coffee, and thither we drove, Mr. Lange and I, in our little open carriage, the other Swedish families driving there also, but with oxen. A young Swede, who had married a fat, elderly American widow, was of the company. I saw them going on through the wood, she sitting with her parasol on the carriage, while her young husband drove the oxen. One of Mrs. Petterson's sons, a young man of about twenty, rode before us as a guide through the labyrinths of the wood. Thus we arrived at a log-house, resembling one of the peasant cottages around Årsta, standing upon a green hill, commanding the most beautiful view over the lake, which was here seen in nearly its whole extent.
Mrs. Petterson, a large woman, who in her youth must have been handsome, came out to receive me, bent double and supported on a crutch-stick, but her open countenance beaming with kindness. She is not yet fifty, but is aged and broken down before her time by severe labour and trouble. I saw in her a true type of the Swedish woman of the middle class, with that overflowing heart which finds vent in tears, in kind looks and words; and who does not measure by any niggard rule either what the hand gives or the tongue speaks; a regularly magnificent, warm-hearted gossip, who loves to entertain her friends with good cheer as much as she loves her life. She regaled us with the most delicious coffee, and flavoured that warm beverage with warm, kind looks and words.
Her husband began here as a farmer, but neither he nor his wife were accustomed to hard work; their land was poor (with the exception of Bergvall's farm, all the land around Pine Lake appears to be of a poor quality), they could not get help, and they were without the conveniences of life; they had a large family, which kept increasing; they endured incredible hardships; Mrs. Petterson while suckling her children was compelled to do the most laborious work; bent double with rheumatism she was often obliged to wash for the whole family on her knees. Her husband was at last obliged to give up farming; he then took to shoemaking, and at this trade succeeded in making a livelihood for himself and his family. He had now been dead a few years, and his widow was preparing to leave the little house and garden, which she could no longer look after, and remove to her son-in-law Bergvall's. She felt herself worn out, old and finished before her time, as she said; but still did not regret having come to America, because, as regarded her children and their future, she saw a new world opened to them, richer and happier than that which the mother-country could have offered them, and she would have been glad to have purchased this future for them at the sacrifice of her own life; she would be well contented to go down to the grave, even before her time, and there to have done with her crutch. Their children, four sons and four daughters, the two youngest born here, and still children, were all of them agreeable, and some of them remarkably handsome, in particular the two youngest boys—Knut and Sten. Sten rowed me in a little boat along the shores of the charming lake; he was a beautiful slender youth of seventeen, and as he sat there in his white shirtsleeves, with his blue silk waistcoat, with his clear dark-blue eyes, and a pure, good expression in that lovely, fresh youthful countenance, he was the perfect idea of a shepherd in some beautiful idyll. The sisters, when we were alone, praised Knut and Sten, as sincerely kind and good lads, who would do anything for their sisters and their home.
We rowed along the wooded shores, which, brilliant in their autumnal colouring, were reflected in the mirror-like waters. And here upon a lofty promontory, covered with splendid masses of wood was New Upsala to stand—such was the intention of Uneonius and his friends, when they first came to this wild region, and were enchanted with its beauty. Ah! that wild district will not maintain Upsala's sons. I saw the desolate houses where he, Uneonius, and Schneidan struggled in vain to live.
But the place itself was delightful and lovely; characterised by a Swedish beauty, for dark pines towered up among the trees, and the wood grew down to the very edge of the lake, as is the case in our Scandinavian lakes, where the Neck sits in the moonlight, and plays upon the harp, and sings beneath the overarching verdure. The sun set; but even here again all wore a northern aspect; it was cold and without that splendid glow of colouring which is so general in American sunsets.
Returning to the log-house, we spent the evening, one and twenty Swedes altogether, in games, songs, and dancing, exactly as if in Sweden. I had during the whole time of my journey to the West, been conning over in my mind a speech which I would make to my countrymen in the West; I thought how I would bear to them a salutation from their mother country, and exhort them to create a new Sweden, in that new land! I thought that I would remind them of all that the old country had of great and beautiful, in memory, in thought, in manners and customs; I wished to awaken in their souls the inspiration of a New Scandinavia. I had often myself been deeply affected by the thoughts and the words which I intended to make use of. But now, when I was at the very place where I longed to be, and thought about my speech, I could not make it. Nor did I make it at all. I felt myself happy in being with my countrymen, happy to find them so agreeable and so Swedish still in the midst of a foreign land. But I felt more disposed for merriment than solemnity. I therefore, instead of making my speech, read to the company that little story by Hans Christian Andersen called “The Pine-Tree,” and then incited my countrymen to sing Swedish songs. Neither were those beautiful Swedish voices lost here in the New world, and I was both affected and impressed with a deep solemnity when the men, led by Bergvall, sang with their fresh, clear voices—
“Up Swedes, for king and father-land,”
and after that many other old national songs. Swedish hospitality, cheerfulness, and song live here as vigorously as ever they did in the old country.
The old lady Petterson had got ready a capital entertainment; incomparably excellent coffee and tea especially; good venison, fruit, tarts, and many good things, all as nicely and as delicately set out as if on a prince's table. The young sons of the house waited upon us. At home, in Sweden, it would have been the daughters. All were cordial and joyous. When the meal was over we had again songs, and after that dancing. Mrs. Petterson joined in every song with a strong and clear but somewhat shrill voice, which she said was “so not by art but by nature since the beginning of the world!” The good old lady would have joined us too in the dances and the polskas, if she had not been prevented by her rheumatic lameness. I asked the respectable smith to be my partner, and we two led the Nigar Polska, which carried along with it young and old, and electrified all, so that the young gentlemen sprang up aloft, and the fat American lady tumbled down upon a bench overpowered by laughter; we danced finally round the house.
After that we went in the beautiful evening down to the shore of the lake, and the star-song of Tegnér was sung beneath the bright starry heavens. Somewhat later, when we were about to separate, I asked Mrs. Petterson to sing a Swedish evening hymn, and we all joined in as she sang—
“Now all the earth reposeth.”
We then parted with cordial shaking of hands and mutual good wishes; and all and each returned to their homes in the star-bright night.
I was to remain at Mrs. Patterson's, but not without some uneasiness on my part as to the prospect of rest, for however sumptuous had been the entertainment of the evening, yet still the state of the house testified of the greatest lack of the common conveniences of life; and I had to sleep in the sister's bed with Mrs. Petterson, and six children and grandchildren lay in the adjoining room, which was the kitchen. Among these was young Mrs. Bergvall with her little baby and her little stepson; for when she was about to return home with Herr Lange, his horses became frightened by the pitch darkness of the night and would not go on, and she herself becoming frightened too would not venture with her little children. Bergvall, therefore, set off alone through the forest, and I heard his wife calling after him; “Dear Bergvall, mind and milk the white cow well again to-night.” (N.B. It is the men in this country who milk the cows, as well as attend to all kinds of out-of-door business.) He replied to her with a cheerful “Yes.” And Mrs. Bergvall and her mother prayed me to excuse there being so many of them in the house that night, &c.—me, the stranger, and who was the cause of this throng! It was I who ought to have asked for excuse. And I would rather have slept outside the house than not have appeared satisfied and pleased with everything within it. And when Mrs. Petterson had lain down she said—
“Ah, Miss Bremer, how much more people can bear than can be believed possible!” I sighed, and said, “Yes, indeed!” gave up the search for an extinguisher, which could not be found, put out the candle, therefore, with a piece of paper, and crept into my portion of the bed, where, though my sleep was nothing to speak of, I yet rested comfortably. I was glad the next morning to feel well, and to rise with the sun, which, however, shone somewhat dimly through the mist above the beautiful lake. It was a cool, moist morning; but these warm-hearted people, the warm and good coffee, and the hospitable entertainment, warmed both soul and body.
It was with heartfelt emotion and gratitude that I, after breakfast, took leave of my Swedish friends. Mrs. Petterson would have given me the only valuable which she now possessed—a great, big, gold ring; but I could not consent to it. How richly had she gifted me already! We parted, not without tears. That amiable, young mother, her cheeks blooming like wild roses, accompanied me through the wood, walking beside the carriage silently and kindly, and silently we parted with a cordial pressure of the hand and a glance. That lovely young Swede was the most beautiful flower of that American wilderness. She will beautify and ennoble it.
Heartfelt kindness and hospitality, seriousness and mirth in pure family life; these characteristics of Swedish life, where it is good, should be transplanted into the Western wilderness by the Swedish colonists, as they are in this instance. That day among the Swedes by Pine Lake; that splendid old lady; those handsome, warm-hearted men; those lovely, modest, and kind young women; that affectionate domestic life; that rich hospitality in poor cottagers,—all are to me a pledge of it. The Swedes must continue to be Swedes, even in the New World; and their national life and temperament, their dances and games, their star-songs and hymns, must give to the western land a new element of life and beauty. They must continue to be such a people in this country that earnestness and mirth may prosper among them, and that they may be pious and joyful at the same time, as well on Sundays as on all other days. And they must learn from the American people that regularity and perseverance, that systematising in life, in which they are yet deficient. A new Scandinavia shall one day bloom in the Valley of the Mississippi, in the great assembly of peoples there, with men and women, games, and songs, and dances, with days as gay and as innocent as this day among the Swedes at Pine Lake!
During this day I put some questions to all the Swedes whom I met regarding the circumstances and the prospects of the Swedes in this new country, as compared with those of the old, and their answers were very nearly similar, and might be comprised in the following:
“If we were to work as hard in Sweden as we do here, we should be as well off there, and often better.
“None who are not accustomed to hard, agricultural labour ought to become farmers in this country.
“No one, who is in any other way well off in his native land, ought to come hither, unless having a large family he may do so on account of his children; because children have a better prospect here for their future than at home. They are admitted into schools for nothing; receive good education, and easily have an opportunity of maintaining themselves.
“But the old who are not accustomed to hard labour, and the absence of all conveniences of life, cannot long resist the effects of the climate, sickness and other hardships.
“Young unmarried people may come hither advantageously, if they will begin by taking service with others. As servants in American families they will be well fed and clothed, and have good wages, so that they may soon lay by a good deal. For young and healthy people it is not difficult to get on well here; but they must be prepared to work really hard, and in the beginning to suffer from the climate and from the diseases prevalent in this country.
“The Norwegians get on better in a general way than the Swedes, because they apply themselves more to work and housewifery, and think less of amusement than we do. They also emigrate in larger companies, and thus can help one another in their work and settling down.”
The same evening that I spent at Mrs. Petterson's, I saw a peasant from Norrland, who had come with his son to look at her little farm, having some thought of purchasing it. He had lately come hither from Sweden, but merely, as he said, to look about him. He was, however, so well pleased with what he saw, that he was going back to fetch his wife, his children, and his moveables, and then return here to settle. The man was one of the most beautiful specimens of the Swedish peasant, tall, strong-limbed, with fine regular features, large dark blue eyes, his hair parted above his forehead, and falling straight down both sides of his face,—a strong, honest, good, and noble countenance, such as it does one good to look upon. The son was quite young, but promised to resemble his father in manly beauty. It grieved me to think that such men should leave Sweden. Yet, the new Sweden will be all the better for them!
With that ascending September sun, Mr. Lange and I advanced along the winding paths of the wood till we reached the great high road, where we were to meet the diligence by which I was to proceed to Madison, while Mr. Lange returned to Millwankee. Many incomparably lovely lakes, with romantic shores, are scattered through this district, and human habitations are springing up along them daily. I heard the names of some of these lakes—Silver Lake, Nobbmaddin Lake, as well as Lake Naschota, a most beautiful lake, on the borders of which I awaited the diligence. Here stood a beautiful newly built country-house, the grounds of which were beginning to be laid out. Openings had been made here and there in the thick wild forest, to give fine views of that romantic lake.
The diligence came. It was full of gentlemen; but they made room; I squeezed myself in among the strangers and supported by both hands upon my umbrella, as by a stick, I was shaken or rather hurled unmercifully hither and thither upon the newborn roads of Wisconsin, which are no roads at all, but a succession of hills and holes, and water-pools, in which first one wheel sank and then the other, while the opposite one stood high up in the air. Sometimes the carriage came to a sudden stand-still, half-overturned in a hole, and it was some time before it could be dragged out again, only to be thrown into the same position on the other side. To me, that mode of travelling seemed really incredible, nor could I comprehend how at that rate we should ever get along at all. Sometimes we drove for a considerable distance in the water, so deep that I expected to see the whole equipage either swim or sink altogether. And when we reached dry land it was only to take the most extraordinary leaps over stocks and stones. They comforted me by telling me that the diligence was not in the habit of being upset very often! And to my astonishment I really did arrive at Watertown without being overturned, but was not able to proceed without a night's rest.
I proceed with my letter in the capital of Wisconsin, a pretty little town (mostly consisting of villas and gardens) most beautifully situated between four lakes, the shores of which are fringed with live-oaks. I am here in a good and handsome house on the shore of one of the lakes, surrounded by all the comforts of life, and among kind, cultivated people and friends. At Watertown I discovered that the Public Conveyance Company had given orders that I was to have free transit through all parts of the State, and the host of the hotel, where everything was very good and excellent, would not be paid for my entertainment there, but thanked me for “my call at his house.” That, one may term politeness!
At Watertown I became acquainted with some Danes who resided there, and spent a pleasant evening with one of them just married to a young and charming Norwegian lady. They were comfortable and seemed to be doing well in the city where he was engaged in trade. An elderly Danish gentleman, however, who also was in trade in the city, did not seem to get on so well, but complained of the want of society and of some cheerful amusement in the long and solitary evenings. He was a widower, and widowers, or indeed, men without wives and domestic life in America, lead solitary lives, particularly in small towns and in the country.
I left that kind, little city with regret, in order to be shook onward to Madison. My portmanteau had been sent on by mistake from Watertown, by some diligence, I knew not how or whither; but thanks to the electric telegraphs which sent telegraphic messages in three directions, I received again the next day my lost effects safe and sound. It is remarkable, that in all directions throughout this young country along these rough roads, which are no roads at all, run these electric wires from tree to tree, from post to post along the prairie land, and bring towns and villages into communication.
The road to Madison was difficult, but having a greater resemblance to a road than that between Millwankee and Watertown. There were but few passengers in the diligence, and I was able therefore to place myself a little more comfortably; a bright Aurora Borealis shone across the prairie land as we drove along in that starlight night, and the glow-worms glimmered in the grass which bordered the road. The journey was not unpleasant. The vast, solitary, verdant, billowy extent, embraced by the vast, star-lit firmament, had in it something grand and calm. I sat silent and quiet. At half-past eleven I reached Madison, where it was with difficulty that room could be found for me at the inn, or that anybody would take charge of me. The next day, however, I found both house and home, and friends, and everything excellent.
I am with a family of the name of F. The master of the house, who is a Judge of the State, is now from home; but his wife and their young married daughter, who resides with her parents, have given me the most agreeable reception. And it is hardly possible to imagine a more charming picture than that which is here presented by the three generations—mother, daughter, and grandchild. The elderly lady is delicate and graceful, and still handsome; the daughter, with a certain look of Jenny Lind about her, and an expression of unspeakable goodness in her blonde countenance, is the most charming of young women, and her little girl is one of those loveable little creatures, which not merely mother and grandmother, but every stranger even, must regard as quite out of the common way, gifted even while in the cradle with unusual powers and more than earthly grace. When in the morning I saw the young mother standing with her little child in her arms, and embraced by her mother—that little groupe standing quietly thus in the sunlit room, all three reposing happily in each other's love—I could not but think. Why do I seek for the temple of the sun shining aloft over earth? Is not each sunflower a temple more beautiful than that of Peru or of Solomon? And these people who love and who worship in spirit and in truth, are not they true sunflowers—the temple of the sun upon earth?
The male portion of the family consists for the present of the young son of the house, and this young lady's husband.
October.—I have just returned from church. The minister preached a sermon strongly condemnatory of the gentlemen of the West. All his hope was in the ladies, and he commended their activity in the Western country. To this not very reasonable and not very judicious sermon succeeded the Lord's Supper, silent, holy, sanctifying, pouring its gracious wine into the weak, faulty, male communicants with the Word—not the word of man; with power—not the power of man.
After divine service, the Sunday-scholars assembled, and young and handsome ladies instructed each her class of poor children. And how maternally they did it, and how well, especially my young hostess, Mrs. D., whom I could not but observe with the most heartfelt pleasure in the exercise of her maternal vocation.
The weather was bright and sunny, although cold, and I wished to avail myself of the afternoon for an excursion on the beautiful lake, and the observation of its shores. “But—it is Sunday,” was the answer which I received with a smile, and on Sundays people must not amuse themselves, not even in God's beautiful scenery. But sleep in church,—that they may do!
October 7th.—I had heard speak of a flourishing Norwegian settlement, in a district called Koskonong, about twenty miles from Madison, and having expressed a wish to visit it, a kind young lady, Mrs. C., offered to drive me there with her carriage and horses.
The next day we set off in a little open carriage, with a Norwegian lad as driver. The weather was mild and sunny, and the carriage rolled lightly along the country, which here is hilly, and having a solid surface, makes naturally good roads. The whole of the first part of the way lay through new, and mostly wild, uncultivated land, but which everywhere resembled an English park, with grassy hills and dales, the grass waving tall and yellow, and scattered with oak wood. The trees were not lofty, and the green sward under them as free from underwood as if it had been carefully uprooted. This is attributed to the practice of the Indians to kindle fires year after year upon these grass-grown fields, whereby the bushes and trees were destroyed; and it is not many years since the Indians were possessed of this tract of country.
As we proceeded, however, the land became a little more cultivated. One saw here and there a rudely-built log-house with its fields of maize around it, and also of new-sown wheat. We then reached a vast billowy prairie, Liberty Prairie, as it is called, which seemed interminable, for our horses were tired, and evening was coming on; nor was it till late and in darkness that we reached Koskonong, and our Norwegian driver, who came from that place, drove us to the house of the Norwegian pastor. This too was merely a small log-house.
The Norwegian pastor, Mr. P., had only left Norway to come hither a few months before. His young and pretty wife was standing in the kitchen, where a fire was blazing, boiling groats as I entered; I accosted her in Swedish. She was amazed at first, and terrified by the late visit, as her husband was from home on an official journey, and she was here quite alone with her little brother and an old woman servant; but she received us with true Northern hospitality and good will, and she was ready to do everything in the world to entertain and accommodate us. As the house was small, and its resources not very ample, Mrs. C. and her sister drove to the house of an American farmer who lived at some little distance, I remaining over night with the little Norwegian lady. She was only nineteen, sick at heart for her mother, her home, and the mountains of her native land, nor was happy in this strange country, and in those new circumstances to which she was so little accustomed. She was pretty, refined, and graceful; her whole appearance, her dress, her guitar which hung on the wall, everything showed that she had lived in a sphere very different to that of a log-house in a wilderness, and among rude peasants. The house was not in good condition; it rained in through the roof. Her husband, to whom she had not long been married, and whom for love she had accompanied from Norway to the New World, had been now from home for several days; she had neither friend nor acquaintance near nor far in the new hemisphere. It was no wonder that she was unable to see anything beautiful or excellent in “this disagreeable America.” But a young creature, good and lovely as she is, will not long remain lonely among the warm-hearted people of this country. Her little nine-years old brother was a beautiful boy, with magnificent blue eyes and healthy temperament (although at the present moment suffering from one of the slow, feverish diseases peculiar to the country), and he thought yet of becoming a bishop “like his grandfather in Norway, Bishop Nordahl Brun,” for this young brother and sister were really the grandchildren of Norway's celebrated poet and bishop, Nordahl Brun, whom Norway has to thank for her best national songs. They had come hither by the usual route of the Western emigrants, by the Erie canal from New York, and then by steamer down the lakes. They complained of uncleanliness and the want of comfort in the canal boats, and that the people there were so severe with the little boy, whom they drove out of his bed, and often treated ill.
The young lady gave me a remarkably good tea, and a good bed in her room: but a terrific thunder-storm, which prevailed through the whole night, with torrents of rain, disturbed our rest, especially that of my little hostess, who was afraid, and sighed over the life in “this disagreeable country.”
Next morning the sun shone, the air was pleasant and mild; and after breakfast with the young lady, during which I did all in my power to inspire her with better feelings towards the country, and a better heart, I went out for a ramble. The parsonage, with all its homely thriftiness, was, nevertheless, beautifully situated upon a hill surrounded by young oaks. The place, with a little care, may be made pretty and excellent. I wandered along the road; the country, glowing with sunshine, opened before me like an immense English park, with a back-ground of the most beautiful arable land, fringed with leafy woods, now splendid with the colours of autumn. Here and there I saw little farmhouses, built on the skirts of the forest, mostly of log-houses; occasionally, however, might be seen a frame-house, as well as small grey stone-cottages. I saw the people out in the fields busied with their corn-harvest. I addressed them in Norwegian, and they joyfully fell into conversation.
I asked many, both men and women, whether they were contented; whether they were better off here than in old Norway? Nearly all of them replied “Yes. We are better off here; we do not work so hard, and it is easier to gain a livelihood.” One old peasant only said, “There are difficulties here as well as there. The health is better in the old country than it is here!”
I visited also, with Mrs. P., some of the Norwegian peasant-houses. It may be that I did not happen to go into the best of them; but certainly the want of neatness and order I found contrasted strongly with the condition of the poor American cottages. But the Norwegians wisely built their houses generally beside some little river or brook, and understand how to select a good soil. They come hither as old and accustomed agriculturists, and know how to make use of the earth. They help one another in their labour, live frugally, and ask for no pleasures. The land seems to me, on all hands, to be rich, and has an idyllian beauty. Mountains there are none; only swelling hills, crowned with pine-wood. About seven hundred Norwegian colonists are settled in this neighbourhood, all upon small farms, often at a great distance one from another. There are two churches, or meeting-houses, at Koskonong.
The number of Norwegian immigrants resident at this time in Wisconsin is considered to be from thirty to forty thousand. No very accurate calculation has, however, been made. Every year brings new immigrants, and they often settle upon tracts of country very distant from the other colonists. They call a colony “a settlement,” from the English word settlement. I have heard of one called “Luther's Dale,” nearer to the limits of Illinois, which is said to be large and remarkably flourishing, and under the direction of an excellent and active pastor, Mr. Claussen. If I could have made the time, I would have gone there.
It is said to be difficult to give to one portion of these Norwegian people any sense of religious or civil order; they are spoken of as obstinate and unmanageable; but they are able tillers of the ground, and they prepare the way for a better race; and their children, when they have been taught in American schools, and after that become servants in the better American families, are praised as the best of servants—faithful, laborious, and attached; merely difficult to accustom to perfect cleanliness and order. The greater number of domestic servants in these young Mississippi States come from the Norwegian colonies scattered over the country. In a general way the Norwegians seem to succeed better here than the Swedes. A Norwegian newspaper is published at Madison, called “The Norwegian's Friend,” some copies of which I have obtained.
After an excellent breakfast, at which our young hostess, at my request, regaled us also with the songs of her native land, sung to the guitar with a fresh, sweet voice, we took our leave of that amiable lady, who will now find a good friend in Mrs. C., and through her many other friends in Madison. We drove home in a shower of rain, stopping now and then by the way to talk with the Norwegian people in the fields, and reached Madison as the sun sank amid the most unimaginable splendour, over that beautiful lake district and the city. The prevalence of sunny weather in America, makes it easier and more agreeable to travel there than anywhere else. One may be sure of fine weather; and if a heavy shower does come, you may depend upon its soon being over, and that the sun will shortly be out again.
In Madison I have seen a good many people, and some tiresome interrogators (and these I place among the goats), with the usual questions, “How do you like the United States? How do you like Madison? Our roads? Do you know Jenny Lind personally?” and so on. Some interesting and unusually agreeable people I also saw (and these I place among the sheep), who have enough to say without living by questions, and who afforded me some hours of very interesting conversation. Foremost among these must I mention the Chancellor of the University of Wisconsin, Mr. Lathrop, an agreeable and really intellectual man, full of life, and a clear and intelligent sense of the value of that youthful State in the group of the United States, and their common value in the history of the world. I derived much pleasure from his conversation, and from the perusal of a speech which he made a short time since in the Capitol here, on his installation as Chancellor of the University. This, together with another speech on the same occasion, by Mr. Hyatt Smith, one of the directors of the Educational Committee, shows a great understanding of the social relationship in general, and of that of the New World in particular; of the relationship of the past with the present, and of the present with the future, and both speeches breathe the noblest spirit. I have heard it remarked, that the characteristic of the speeches of the New World, which distinguishes them from those of Europe, is that they embrace a much larger extent of subject, and take much broader views, and generally aim at comprehending the whole past, present and future, and the whole of the human race. They take an immense range, place their subjects in large groups, and obtain large views of the relationship of these to the divine law of progressive advance. And to this I may add also, as characteristic, that they do it all by railway, or with railway speed, which brings together the near and the remote with incredible rapidity, and presents the greatest possible opposite to that German circumstantiality which never reaches its goal. I seem to find these characteristics in a high degree in these speeches delivered on the prairie land of the West, in the youngest state of the Union.
Chancellor Lathrop discovers that all material development on the earth which is derived from art and science, has ultimately the effect of throwing back the soul upon itself. The discipline of its powers during the labour which is requisite to obtain possession of the physical world for itself, strengthens and animates it for new conquests in the spiritual world. And a more perfect knowledge of the law of this, prepares us again for a more perfect dominion over the world without us.
“The history of philosophy testifies to this mutual and friendly relation between the sciences of matter and of mind; and in no period have the spiritual tendencies of the race been more observable than in this, stigmatised though it has been, as the mechanical, the material, the iron age of the world. The science of mind has ceased to be regarded as a subject of barren speculation. Its practical bearings are felt and acknowledged. The treasured results of metaphysical inquiry in past ages, since the injunction, ‘know thyself,’ first opened to the pupil and the philosopher a region of mystery and doubt, will pass to coming generations, enriched by the contributions of the present, and distinguished by the sunlight which our own gifted intellects are shedding on the science of mind.
“But to tarry no longer in the vestibule, let us enter the inner temple. The prosecution of physical, metaphysical or mathematical truth derives, after all, its chief value from its bearing on, and connection with, the social principle in man. It is the social part of his constitution in which is centered mainly the value of an individual, either to himself as a sensitive being, or to the universe as one of its component parts.
“In all questions relative to human progress, therefore, the burden of the inquiry must respect the social advancement of man.
“This inquiry presents a two-fold aspect—the consideration of man, first, as a portion of the universal empire of God; and, secondly, as a political or national society. The constitutions and laws which concern him under the former aspect, are moral constitutions and laws; those which concern him under the latter aspect, are political constitutions and laws.
“Ask we then the ages what historical report they have to bring in of the progress of those moral arrangements, by which God is inviting and enabling man to work out the moral regeneration of his species, to prepare himself for that spiritual life which is to follow his trial here, for the service, the society, and the felicity, of that glorious inner temple, to which this physical scene, with its thousands of revealed and still hidden mysteries, is but the court and the vestibule.
“They point us, in reply, to the schools of the philosophers, those earth-born laboratories of ethical truth, to the constitutions of the Hebrews, divine in their original, and to the more glorious and efficacious arrangements of the Christian dispensation, remedial in its nature, and adapted with a divine precision to the moral diseases of man. And under this latter dispensation, in further exemplification of the law of progress, they point us to the canons of the Fathers, to the reformations of Germany and England, to the dissent of the Puritans, to the rock of Plymouth, to the thousand clustering institutions and associations of this latter day, subsidiary to the instructions of the pulpit and the labours of the evangelist—all intended, and becoming more and more adapted, to render the prevalence of the Christian faith as universal, as its spirit is intelligent, and rational, and catholic, and benign. They exhibit, in strong contrast, the moral darkness which enveloped our pagan ancestry, with the sunlight which rests on the more favoured portions of the Christian world, enabling the believer with a brightening faith, and with a growing knowledge of his manifold duties and high destiny, to discover and to pursue the pathway which leads to the companionship of angelic natures in his spiritual home.
“Ask we too the ages what they have done to develope the true theory of political organisation, to improve the mechanism of the social system, to impart practical wisdom to its ministrations, in order that the State may discharge its high duty to the citizen, for whose sake it exists, and whose allegiance it claims. They point us, in reply, to the council of the Amphictyons, to the laws of Lycurgus and of Solon, to the tables of the Roman law-givers, to the body of the civil law, to Magna Charta, to the Bill of Eights, and to the American Constitution—those precious records of mind, which stand up as pillared inscriptions in the shadowy past, along the lengthened line of civil progress. They exhibit in contrast the wild war of anarchy, with the beneficent reign of social order—the unmitigated despotism of the earlier governments, with the checks and balances of the constitutional monarchies of the day—the wild, unformed democracies of the past, those first experiments of young freedom, with the written constitutions, the perfect action, of the the modern representative republics.
“How manifest it is then that our age is an age of ‘results,’ the causes of which lie far behind us in the stream of time.”
I have given so much of this speech, because I think that it affords a good specimen of the tendency and impulse of speeches in this country, and especially in the Western country, where society evidently feels itself to belong in a high degree to the citizenship of the world; to be universal, because it is composed of people of all nations flowing in hither by emigration; and perhaps also because the immense stretch of landscape in these States of the prairies, leads the soul to take an extensive flight. After his great railway tour round the world, Lathrop finally comes, in his speech, to the duties which the government of the young state of Wisconsin has to fulfil, in order that it may accomplish its great vocation as a home for various nations,—Anglo-Saxons, Celts, Germans, Scandinavians, all directing its being by new elements of life.
“Free schools and public education have everywhere in the United States, shown themselves to be the great principle of the popular elevation and development. The American mind has caught the idea, and will not lose sight of it, that the whole of the States' property, public or private, is holden subject to the sacred trust of providing the means of education for every child in the State.
“Unless we adopt this system, that political equality of which we boast is only a dream, a pleasing illusion. Knowledge is the true equaliser; it is the true democracy; it equalises by elevating, not by bringing down.”
The speaker, in recommending the class of education which the University ought to afford, observed, that the character and position of the teacher must be elevated; that the want of efficient teachers was a subject of universal complaint; and that, therefore, a normal school should be established for the preparation of efficient teachers for the University.
And that the aim of the library should be to contain every work which is worthy of being possessed, in every language and of every age; the whole amount of human thought, and of the experience of society.
“Wisconsin, the youngest state of the Union, established under the most favourable circumstances, able to avail itself of the experience of the older sister-states, rich in a new population composed of various races; rich in its fertile soil, and its advantageous position between the great lakes and the great river,—the arteries of the world's commerce;—Wisconsin must, Minerva-like, advance in existence, and take the initiative in popular progress and in social life!”
There is here, however, vigorous life, Agatha, and vigorous life must make itself felt, otherwise so young a state could not become a leader; nevertheless the leaders here have not gone farther than to school, and the education of schools, which, as the principal requirement for the people, is on the right system; and beyond that the American mind has in a general way not advanced.
But it must advance farther still if it would reach the fountain-heads—the springs of life, wherefrom peoples and states ought to drink the renewing life of youth!
The State of Wisconsin is merely two years old. A very hopeful “baby” of the West, is it not? Seventeen years since the State first became territory; and it is only three or four years since the last great battle was fought in the country with the Indians, and their brave chief, Black Hawk. He and his people were finally taken captive on these prairies, and carried as trophies to New York. There are now no longer Indians in Wisconsin: its white population is rapidly on the increase. Wisconsin has no hills, but on all sides uncultivated, and for the most part fertile land, abounding in lakes and rivers. It is a state for agriculture and the rearing of cattle; the land in many parts, however, and in particular around Madison, where it is appropriated by the Federal government to the supplying an income to the State's university, is already very dear. It has been purchased by speculators at the government-price, a dollar and quarter per acre, and resold by them for not less than ten or twelve dollars per acre.
“And who will give so much for it?” inquired I, of Chancellor Lathrop.
“Your countrymen,” replied he, quickly. “Your countrymen, whose sons will be freely educated at our University.”
I visited, in company with Chancellor Lathrop and his cheerful, intelligent wife, the University which is in progress of erection, and which will now be soon finished. It stands upon an elevation, “College Hill” as it is called, and which commands an open and extensive view; it is a large building without any unnecessary pomp of exterior, as in Gerard College at Philadelphia, but internally it has ample and spacious room. Many of the windows struck me, lighted up, as they were, by the setting sun. Such, after all, ought the Temple of the Sun to be on the Western prairies! And if it fulfils its expection, a Temple of the Light in spirit and in truth, more glorious than that of Peru!
It is only a few years since the Indians dwelt around these beautiful lakes; and they still come hither annually in the autumn to visit the graves of their ancestors, and to lift up their cry of lamentation!
I now write to you from a little log-house, in the midst of prairie-land, between Madison and Galena. The log-house belongs to a farm, and is, at the same time, post-house, and a sort of country inn. Mr. D., the son-in-law of my good hostess in Madison, had the kindness to drive me hither himself, in a little open carriage, by which means I made the journey much more comfortably than by the stage, which comes here in the night.
Blue Mound is one of the highest hills in Wisconsin, and derives its name from its fine dark blue colour when seen from afar. It appears then as if enveloped in a clear purple veil, and is seen at many miles' distance, shining out thus against the soft blue sky. It resembles Kimkulle with us, but is more steep; like Kimkulle, it is covered with pasture-fields and wood.
When I arrived here I was so enchanted with the vast, glorious landscape, and with the view which it afforded over the prairie on all sides, that I resolved to remain here for a couple of days, in order that I might, in peace and solitude, become acquainted with the prairie and the sunflowers.
The house possessed but one guest chamber, and that a little garret within a large garret, in which were lodged half-a-dozen labouring men. But I was assured that they were very silent and well-behaved, and I was furnished with a piece of wood, with which to fasten the hasp of my door inside, as there was no lock. The room was clean and light, although very low and badly arranged; and I was glad to take up my abode in it, spite of the break-neck steps by which it was reached.
I spent nearly the whole of yesterday out in the prairie, now wandering over it, and gazing out over its infinite extent, which seemed, as it were, to expand and give wings to body and soul; and now sitting among sunflowers and asters, beside a little hillock covered with bushes, reading Emerson, that extraordinary Ariel, refreshing, but evanescent, and evanescent in his philosophic flights as the fugitive wind which sweeps across the prairie, and brings forth from the strings of the electric telegraph melodious tones, which sound and die away at the same moment. His philosophy is like that wind; he himself is something much beyond it, and much better. It is his own individuality which gives that wonderfully bewitching expression to these imperfect concords.
How grand is the impression produced by this infinite expanse of plain, with its solitude and its silence! In truth, it enables the soul to expand and grow, to have a freer and deeper respiration. That great West! Yes, indeed, but what solitude! I saw no habitations, except the little house at which I was staying; no human beings, no animals; nothing except heaven and the flower-strewn earth. The day was beautiful and warm, and the sun advanced brightly through heaven and over earth, until toward evening, when by degrees it hid itself in light clouds of sun-smoke, which, as it descended, formed belts, through which the fiery globe shone with softened splendour, so that it represented a vast pantheon, with a cupola of gold, standing on the horizon above that immeasurable plain. This Temple of the Sun was to me one which I shall never forget.
To-morrow, or the day following, I shall leave this place, and on Monday I hope to be on the Mississippi.
I shall now write a few words to young Mrs. D., my beloved sun-flower at Madison. I must tell you that the cook in her family, a respectable, clever Norwegian, would not on any terms receive money from me, for the trouble she had had on my account.
It was cloudy this morning, and I was afraid of rain: but for all that, I went out “à la bonne aventure.” And to set out thus by one's self is so delightful. I followed a little path which wound through low boscage over the prairie. I there met some little children, who, with their mat-baskets in their hands, were wandering along to school. I accompanied them, and came to a little house built also of logs, and extremely humble. This was the school-house. The school-room was merely a room in which were some benches; the children, about a dozen in number were ragged,—regular offspring of the wilderness. But they seemed willing enough to learn, and upon the log-walls of the room hung maps of the globe, upon which the young scholars readily pointed out to me the countries I mentioned; and there were also in that poor school-house such books as the “National Geography,” by Goodrich, Smith's “Quarto Geography,” which contains views of the whole world; whilst in the reading-book in common use I found gems from the literature of all countries, and particularly from that of England and North America. The schoolmaster was an agreeable young man. His monthly stipend was fifteen dollars.
I went onward, the sun broke through the clouds; the day became glorious, and again I spent a lovely day alone on the prairie. The host and hostess of my log-house are of Dutch origin, and not without education. The food is simple, but good; I can have as much excellent milk and potatoes as I desire (without spice or fat, and potatoes in this country are my best food), as well as capital butter and bread. Everything is clean in the house, but the furniture and the conveniences are not superior to such as are to be met with in common, Swedish peasant-houses. I sit at table with the men and maid-servants of the family, just as they come in from their work, and not over clean, as well as with thousands of flies.
The farther I advance into the West the earlier become the hours of meals. What do you say to breakfasting at six in the morning, dining at twelve, and having tea at half-past six in the evening? I do not dislike it. It is a thousand times better than the fashionable hours for meals in New York and Boston.
It is evening. It has begun to rain and blow, and it is no easy thing to keep the wind and rain out of the window which I am sometimes obliged to open, on account of the oppressive heat occasioned by an iron pipe, which goes through the room from an iron stove in the room below. I am beginning to feel not quite so comfortable, and shall be glad to go in the morning to Galena. As far as my neighbours are concerned I do not hear a sound of them, so silent are they. Log-houses are in general warm, but very dusty; so at least I have heard many people say, and I can myself believe it.
You now find me here, a few miles from the great Mississippi, in a little town, picturesquely situated among hills beside a little river, called Five-River, which with many sinuosities winds through the glens. The town is supported by its lead mines which are general in this highland district; by mining, smelting, and the export of this heavy dark metal. A leaden sky hung over the town as I entered it, and I see in the street old madams waddling about in dull grey-coloured cloaks, and old bonnets, very much like poor old madams in shabby bonnets and cloaks in the streets of Stockholm, in grey autumn weather; gentlemen too, or semi-gentlemen, in ragged coats—but less annoyed by them than they would be with us. Everything looks dolefully grey; and it is as cold as it is in November with us. Yesterday it was quite otherwise. Yesterday was a most glorious summer day.
It rained when at dawn I left Blue Mound, but soon afterwards cleared up; the wind chased the clouds across the immense plain, and the play of light and shadow over it, and those glorious views—I cannot express how much I enjoyed that day's journey! The road along that high prairie-land was hard and level as the roads with us in summer. The diligence in which I sate, for the most part alone, rolled lightly across the plain, and seemed to fly over it, approaching every moment nearer to the giant-river, the western goal of my journey. The wind was as warm as with us in July; and these western views, which increased in grandeur the nearer we approached the great river—produced an unspeakable effect. I never experienced anything similar produced by a natural object.
As the day wore on the roads became worse, and late in the evening I arrived excessively weary, at the little town of Waterville, if I rightly remember the name. It was very dark, although the sky was brilliant with stars. I was hungry and tired, and wished to remain all night at the hotel, partly that I might rest, and partly that I might perform the remainder of the journey by day-light, and thus see the great giant plain.
But the hotel was occupied by gentlemen who were now assembled here in convention on educational questions, and were just at this moment in session. There was no room for me; and when I spoke of my fatigue, and my reluctance to travel by night along roads which frequently were no roads at all, and upon which the diligence was overturned six times in the week, the landlord replied by telling me about the great and important Convention, which was sitting in the city, and of the remarkable men who were assembled here on that occasion, and who were lodged in his house. He was so important, and so full of the great Convention, and the members of which were lodged in his house, that he had neither ear nor heart for the poor, weary, travelling lady, who prayed for a little room, merely for one night. I talked of the home of yesterday; and he talked about the parsonage, and between the two there was no comparison. “This hotel,” said he, “was properly no hotel for ladies, but merely for gentlemen.” There was however another hotel in the town, and he offered me a guide to show me the way.
But this also was occupied by the distinguished members of the Convention, “And in any case, I must travel by night, as the diligence did not go to Galena at any other time. I might depend upon having, to-night, the most steady driver; the night was beautiful andI should get very safely and very well to Galena!” So said the landlord.
As this meeting of the distinguished men of the great Convention was likely to last till late at night, and as the diligence was going to set off immediately, I had no hope of being able to speak with any of them, and to ask from them that politeness and hospitality which the landlord of the hotel was so wholly deficient in. I was compelled to set off.
“My good friend,” said I beseechingly to the driver of the diligence, “I am a stranger from a distant country and I am alone. Promise not to overturn me!”
“That I cannot promise you, ma'am,” replied he, “but I will promise to do my best to bring you safely to the end of your journey.”
It was a rational answer, and was spoken in a voice which inspired me with confidence. I took my seat in the diligence, and left the first inhospitable, unfriendly place which I had found in America. There were three or four gentlemen in the diligence, I was the only lady. It was so dark that I could not see their countenances; but their voices and their inquiries told me that they were young and of an uneducated class.
“Are you scared, Miss Bremer?”
“Are you afraid, ma'am?” and so on, were the exclamations with which they immediately overwhelmed me in a good-tempered and cheerful, but somewhat rude style. I replied to their questions by the monosyllable “No!” and was then left in peace. I was not, however, without uneasiness as regarded the nocturnal journey. I had heard of the diligence being lately overturned, of one lady having broken an arm, of another receiving so severe an injury in the side that she still lay sick in consequence of it, at Galena; of a gentleman who received a blow on the head that left him insensible for several hours, and various other such occurrences.
Several of the young men were unknown to each other, but they soon became acquainted. One of them was going to be the schoolmaster somewhere not far from the Mississippi. He stammered wofully, and his pronunciation was broad and like the bleating of a sheep. One of the other gentlemen asked him whether he could solve a mathematical problem “in water.” The schoolmaster seemed to be completely nonplused by this question and his new teacher began to describe the experiment to him circumstantially, in a way which certainly would very much have amused Fabian Wrede. The schoolmaster put various questions which showed that he was not at all familiar with this water art, and when soon after he left the diligence his teacher exclaimed—“Ar'nt he green for a schoolmaster?” and all burst out into laughter. They were evidently green altogether, though harmless and good-tempered. They began singing negro-songs, and sang “Oh Susanna,” “Dandy Jem from Caroline,” and others very well, and in character. After this they slept. The night was beautiful and clear, and the road not so very bad; the driver evidently good and careful. Once only did we stick fast, and then the young fellows were obliged to get out and help us along.
About half-past twelve we arrived at our journey's end without any disaster. All the world of Galena seemed to be fast asleep; even at the hotel all was silent and dark.
The porter of the “American House,” an old man with a strongly-marked English countenance, bushy eye-brows, prominent nose and chin, with an expression of humour and something gentlemanlike in his aspect and demeanour, came out with a candle in his hand, and very soon took me and my effects in charge. He showed me into a nice little room; but when I looked to see if the door would lock I found that the key would not turn. On this discovery I called to my old gentleman and showed him my difficulty. He replied that I need only set my little portmanteau against the door to secure it. “That was all that I needed for my security,” he said. But when I insisted upon it that this was not enough to satisfy me; he began working at the lock, till at length the double lock suddenly shot out, and the door was fast. That was very good, so far; but now, when he wished to unlock it to depart, it was just as immovable as before. He turned and turned, and could not move it the least in the world. The old gentleman and I were locked in the room, for there was no other means of egress but by this door. Very agreeable this!
At this discovery he made such a comical grimace that I could not help bursting out into a hearty peal of laughter; and when he, during a few minutes, had exerted all his art and all his strength to no purpose, and the door remained as firmly closed as ever, I tried what I could do. And first, I examined the lock very minutely, and was not long in discovering a little spring, upon which I pressed my finger, and immediately the bolt sprang back, and opening the large door I allowed the old gentleman to escape, who did not look much less pleased than I did to have got so well out of this adventure.
Later.—I was here interrupted by a visit and the necessity to go out into “the ladies' parlour.” A handsome young lady was sitting there, and singing so false, that it tortured me to the very soul to hear her; nor did she seem as if she would ever come to an end. A young gentleman, who sate beside her and turned over the leaves of the music, must have been altogether without an ear or altogether over head and ears in love.
I heard an interesting account from a married couple whom I received in my room, and who are just now come from the Wilderness beyond the Mississippi, of the so-called Squatters, a kind of white people who constitute a portion of the first colonists of the Western country. They settle themselves down here and there in the Wilderness, cultivate the earth, and cultivate freedom, but will not become acquainted with any other kind of cultivation. They pay no taxes, and will not acknowledge either law or church. They live in families, have no social life, but are extremely peaceable and no way guilty of any violation of law. All that they desire is, to be at peace and to have free elbow-room. They live very amicably with the Indians, not so well with the American whites. When these latter come with their schools, their churches, and their shops, then the Squatters withdraw themselves farther and still farther into the Wilderness, in order to be able, as they say, to live in innocence and freedom. The whole of the Western country beyond the Mississippi, and as far as the Pacific Ocean, is said to be inhabited by patches with these Squatters, or tillers of the land, the origin of whom is said to be as much unknown as that of the Clay-eaters of South Carolina and Georgia. Their way of life has also a resemblance. The Squatters, however, evince more power and impulse of labour; the Clay-eaters subject the life of nature. The Squatters are the representatives of the Wilderness, and stand as such in stiff opposition to cultivation.
Again up and again well, after two days of severe headache, during which I was waited upon, and cared for in the kindest manner by a kind-hearted little Irish girl belonging to the house. I could scarcely have been better attended to in my own home. And no one could possibly perform that uneasy journey through Wisconsin without having something to remember as long as he lived; but with it the severest part of my Western journey is accomplished. And I am sound in body and limb, have possession of reason and of all my senses, and everything has gone on so well, and I now feel myself so perfectly restored to my usual good state of health, that I can only be heartily contented and thankful.
I shall not leave Galena until Monday, because the good steam-boat Menomonie, so called from an Indian tribe, does not proceed up the Mississippi to St. Paul before that day. I shall in the meantime enjoy my liberty at this excellent hotel, and my rambles among the picturesque hills of the neighbourhood. Good-night, beloved! I embrace mamma and you, and greet cordially all my good friends both in and out of the house.