University of Virginia Library

A VISIT TO SIMON KENTON,
THE LAST OF THE PIONEERS.

Falling, the other day, accidentally upon Byron's
beautiful lines in “Don Juan,” on

I thought, as I dwelt upon their freshness—fresh
as the forests and the character which is his
theme—of a visit which I paid some years ago to
Boone's contemporary and similar, Simon Kenton,
who died shortly afterwards, and I determined to
fill out a slight sketch then made of him. One
bright morning in October, I think '34, after a
hearty breakfast on vension, with the becoming
appliances of cranberry-jelly, and all the et ceteras
of a luxurious meal, such as you often get in the
western country, and which our kind hostess of
West Liberty, Ohio, had, according to the promises
of the previous evening, prepared for us by day-dawn,
my friend and myself started from that village
on our way to Bellefontaine, resolved to call
and pay our respects—the respects of strangers
and travellers—to the old pioneer, who, we were
informed, dwelt some thirty miles from our whereabouts.

It was a glorious Indian-summer morning. The
day was just dawning as we started, and the thick
haze, which characterizes this season of the year,
enveloped the whole landscape, but, without concealing,
made it just indistinct enough for the imagination
to group and marshal hill, prairie, tree,
and stream, in a manner agreeable to our feelings.
The haze rested on the face of nature like a veil
over a sleeping beauty, disclosing enough of her
features to charm, without dazzling us with the
flash of her eye, which makes us shrink while we
admire.

A vast prairie extended on our right, through
which loitered a lazy stream, as if it lingered, loath
to leave the fertile soil which embosomed it. A
silvery mist hung over it, making it appear like a
great lake. Here and there, arising from the immense
body of the prairie, were what are called
islands—that is, great clumps of trees, covering
sometimes many acres, appearing just like so
many islands in an outstretched ocean. One, I

observed, was peculiarly striking; it was a natural
mound rising out of the prairie, and was covered
with a dense wood, while around it the plain extended
far and wide, and was as level as a floor.

As the day dawned, the scene became more and
more enchanting. The sun blazed up through the
forest-trees that skirted the prairie, like a beacon-fire.
Those of the trees which were earliest touched
by the frost, and had lost their foliage, seemed like
so many warriors stretching forth their arms in
mortal combat; while the fallen ones, which lay in
their huge length upon the ground, might easily
be fancied so many braves, who were realizing the
poet's description of a contest:—

Then my fancy caught another impression. I
thought, as I looked upon the tranquil scene, the
wide prairie, the sheep browsing on it, the gentle
stream, the mist curling up, the towering trees,
the distant hills, the blue smoke ascending here
and there from a rustic dwelling, all looking tranquillity,
that Peace had lighted her altar, and all
nature was worshipping the Being whose blessings
were upon all. The rich tint of those trees which
still retained their foliage, added to the beauty
and oneness of the scene, and, in gilding the
picture, harmonized with it.

On our left, a hill ascended abruptly, covered

with tall trees, which, in some places, were remarkably
clear of underwood, and in others choked up
with it. The undergrowth, from its great luxuriance
where it did appear, seemed emulous of the
height of its neighbors. At the foot of the hill,
and winding around it, lay our road; sometimes it
would ascend the hill's side to the very summit,
and then abruptly descend to the very foot. This
gave us a full view of the surrounding scenery. It
was beautiful. To me, like that of another world,
coming, as I did, from the contagious breath of the
city, where disease and death were spread, wide as
the atmosphere, for I had just left Cincinnati,
where the cholera was raging. The bustle of business;
the hum of men; the discordant noises; the
dusty streets; the sameness and dingy red of the
houses; the smoky and impure atmosphere; the
frequent hearse; the hurrying physician; the
many in black; were all remembered in contrast
with this bright scene of nature. I caught myself
almost unconsciously repeating the lines of the
poet:—

I felt at once why I had been an invalid. I had
been breathing an air pregnant with all sorts of
sickness; was it any wonder I was sick? I had
swallowed a whole drug shop—for what purpose?
To be drugged to death!

Everything in this world takes the hue of our
feelings. A few weeks previously I had been to a
wedding in Lebanon, where I had enjoyed myself
gloriously. We kept it up till “'tween the late
and early,” and all went off appropriately—

The next morning I breakfasted with the bewitching
bride and her generous lover, and then away
from the bridal scene in a hazy rain, over horrible
roads, tossed about in a trundlebed of a cariole,
with no companion but my crutch, and a whole
host of bachelor reflections. The scene was sad
everywhere. I passed an old rooster by the roadside.
He stood alone, dripping wet, with not a
single hen near him—chick nor child—like a grand
Turk who had been upset in an aquatic excursion,
and had quarrelled with his whole seraglio. A dog
skulked by me with his tail between his legs, looking,
for all the world, as if he had been sheep-killing.
How desolate the girdled trees looked! As
the winds whistled through their leafless branches,
they seemed the very emblems of aspiring manhood,
deprived of all his honors, when he thought

them greenest, yet still standing with the world's
blight upon him. The road wound about, as if it
had business all through the woods; and the
long miry places were covered with rails, to prevent
one from disappearing altogether! What jolting!
zig-zag—this way, that way, every way.
Why, Sancho Panza, when tossed in the blanket,
enjoyed perfect luxury in the comparison. And
when, at last, I did get upon a piece of road that
was straight, it appeared a long vista leading to
utter desolation. The turbid streams were but
emblems of the lowering sky. They looked frowning
on each other like foe on foe, while the autumn
leaves fell thick around me like summer hopes.
To-day is different—all is bright. To-morrow may
be cloudy—and thus wags the world.

There is no nobler theme for the novelist and
the poet than the stirring incidents of the first
settlement of our country. The muse of Scott has
made his country appear the appropriate place for
romantic legend and traditionary feud, but it only
wants his genius to make our country more than
the rival of his in that respect. The field here is
as abundant, and almost untrodden. However, I
am not one of those who believe that legends of
the olden time are the best themes for the novelist.
If he would describe truly the manners, virtues,
and vices around him as they are, he would win
more applause than in the description of other

scenes; because all would feel the truth of the portraiture.
Scott failed in describing modern manners
in “St. Ronan's Well.” Why? Because his
affections and feelings were with the past; and
those ballads and romances in which his boyhood
delighted, exercised over his imagination a controlling
power; and when he came to give them a
“local habitation and a name,” that controlling
power was manifest.

But who of Scott's readers has not regretted
that he did not give us more of the men and manners
of the day? If he had thought as much of
them as of baronial and other periods; and, having
studied, had attempted to paint them when his mind
was in its vigor, he would have succeeded as well
as in “Ivanhoe,” “Rob Roy,” or the “Crusaders.”
Fielding could describe only the manners around
him, because he had thought only of them. Scott's
imagination had a feudal bias, and, consequently,
he painted that period best when, as he describes
it—

How delightful if Scott had given us some of
the scenes which he witnessed among the different

circles with which he mingled. In such scenes he
studied human nature, it is true, but he applied
his knowledge in describing how men acted in
other circumstances than those in which he saw
them act, for he well knew that the truthful
portraiture finds sympathy in every breast. He
learned the whole history of the human heart, and
then gave us volumes of the olden time, because
there his imagination feasted. He should, sometimes,
have shown us ourselves as we are. It
seems to me that not only in our early history is
there a wide field for the novelist, but that in our
own times there is both a wider and a better.
What a great variety of characters in our country!
Men from all climes, of all opinions, parties, sects.
The German, Frenchman, Englishman, Russian,
the Backwoodsman, the Yankee, and the Southerner,
are each and all often found in the bar-room
of a country tavern. To one who likes to
observe character, what enjoyment! Why, as
Falstaff would say, “it is a play extempore.”
And then to quit a scene like this, pass a few
miles from one of these towns, and be right into
the wilderness; for it seems a wilderness to look
around on the deep woods, and the wild prairie,
and see no marks of civilization but the road on
which you travel. How the mind expands! You
look up, and fancy some far-off cloud the Great
Spirit looking down on his primeval world, in all
the freshness and beauty of its first years. The
imagination glows, the feelings freshen, the affections
become intense. Rapidly, then, the scenes of
our boyhood rush upon us—our early manhood, our
hopes, our fears, the lady of our love, the objects
of our ambition. We see some brilliant bird that
we have started from its perch dart off in the blue
ether, and thus before us seems the world, all our
own. And then we enter the town, and behold
the vast variety of human beings among whom
and with whom we have to struggle. Here, too,
we often find woman loveliest and most fascinating,
a flower in the wilderness, and beautiful both in
bud and in bloom. And here are generous and
free spirits, who wear no disguise about them,
whose feelings spring up, like the eagle from its
eyry, in natural fearlessness. The change is enjoyment;
one fits us for the other. In solitude,
we think over, analyze, and examine what we see
in the world; and, in the world, the reflections and
resolutions of solitude strike us like a parental
admonition.

That simplicity which Cooper has described so
well in the character of Leatherstocking, seems
to have been the characteristic of the early pioneers.
It has been my good luck to meet with
several of them. One, who is now a country
squire, and of course far advanced in years, with
whom I became acquainted in the interior of Ohio,

frequently, in conversation with me, dwelt upon
the peculiarities of the pioneers, lamenting with
simplicity, energy, and natural eloquence, which
told that he was one of them, the “falling off,” as
he called it, of the present times.

“Why,” said he to me, “if you will believe me,
there is not half the confidence between man and
man that there used to be, when I was in the wilderness
here, and used to travel to the different
stations. It was a long tramp, I tell you; but
you might rely on the man that went with you, to
life and to death, just as you would on your rifle;
and then you rested on your rifle, and looked upon
the beauties of the wilderness—and the wilderness
is beautiful to them that like it—and felt that you
were a man. Why, I could do everything for myself,
in those days—I needed no help, nohow. I tell
you, I have a snug farm, and, may-be, some things
that you call comforts, but I shall never be as happy
as I was when here in the wilderness with my
dog and rifle, and nothing else. No, I shall never
be as happy again, and that's a fact. Mr. —,
our preacher, preaches a good sermon, bating a
spice of Calvinism, that somehow I can't relish or
believe natural; but he can't make me feel like I
used to—I mean with such a reliance on Providence—as
I did when I roused up in the morning,
and looked out on the beauties of nature, just as
God made them. You find fault with these roads

—and I know the travelling's bad—I thought so
myself as I came to town—and yet I used to travel
through the wilderness when there was no road or
town. I sometimes felt tired, it's true; but it was
not the weariness I feel now; no, no! I never
shall be as happy as I was in the wilderness, and
that's a fact.”

I believe I have repeated the very words, as they
fell from the lips of the fine old man. I was much
amused with his opinion of novels.

“Why, I am told,” he said, “that a man will
write two big books, and not a word of truth in
'em from beginning to end. Now ain't that abominable?
To tell a lie, anyhow, is a great shame;
but to write, and then to print it, is what I never
thought of. How can you tell it from truth, if he's
an ingenious man? It looks just like truth when
'tis printed. It destroys all confidence in books.
Judge Jones tells me that there was a man called
Scott, who has written whole shelves of 'em—what
do you call 'em?—novels? He tells me he was a
pretty good sort of a man, too, with a good deal
of the briar about him. I read one of them books
once, that I liked, I suppose, from the name; they
called it the `Pioneers;' that's the reason I read
it. I think there must be some mistake; you may
depend on it, that man Leatherstocking never
could have known so much about the wilderness

and the ways of the Ingins, without being in it
and among 'em.”

What a fine compliment to the powers of Cooper!
The scenery was striking, and, as we passed along,
our conversation turned of course upon it, and
from that to the dark forms that once flitted
through it, and to those who had first struggled
with the red man for its possession; and how naturally
to him whom we were going to visit, who
had been among the first and most fearless of the
pioneers, and who was now lingering the last of
them.

Simon Kenton's life had been a very eventful
one—perhaps the most so of all the pioneers.
Boone has been more spoken of and written about;
but, in all probability, the reason is because he
was the elder man, and had been then some time
dead.

Kenton was a Virginian by birth, and, I believe,
entirely uneducated. At a very early age he quarrelled
with a rival in a love affair, and, after an
unsuccessful conflict with him, Kenton challenged
him to another, and was getting the worst of it, in
a rough-and-tumble fight; being undermost, and
subject to the full rage of his antagonist, he was
much injured, when it occurred to him that if he
could twist his rival's hair, which was very long,
in a bush near by, he could punish him at his
leisure. Crawling to the point, under the stunning

blows of his antagonist, Kenton, with desperate
energy, seized him by the hair, and succeeded in
entangling it in the bush, as he desired. He then
pommelled him with such right good-will, that he
thought he had killed him. Kenton, fearing the
consequences, instantly absconded, and changed
his name from Simon Butler, which was his real
name, to Simon Kenton. He pushed for the West.
There he joined in several excursions against the
savages, and was several times near being taken by
them. He acted as a spy between the Indians and
the colonies, in the war occasioned by the murder
of Logan's family. After many adventures and
hardships, he was taken by the Indians, in purloining
some of their horses, which, in retaliation,
he had led away in a night foray into one of their
villages. He was treated with great cruelty; he
ran the gauntlet thirteen times, and was finally
saved from torture by the interference of Girty, a
renegade white man who had joined the Indians,
and was their leader in many of their attacks on
the whites. Kenton and Girty had been friends,
and pledged themselves so to continue, whatever
changes might overtake them, before Girty apostatized.
He, with all his savageness and treachery,
was true to Kenton. This is but the caption of a
chapter in Kenton's life.

After journeying for some time through thick
woods, in which there were innumerable gray and

black squirrels, we arrived at an angle of a worm-fence,
and turned off into a swampy road, towards
a log house, in which we were told the old pioneer
lived. The house was comfortable and large for
one of its kind. On stopping, a son-in-law of the
old worthy met us at the bars; and, though he
knew us not, with the hospitality of the country
he insisted on putting up our horses, which kindness
we were compelled to decline, as we could not
tarry long. As we advanced towards the house, I
observed everything about it wore the air of frugal
comfort.

We ascended two or three steps, and entered the
room, in which was a matron, who, we learned, was
the wife of the pioneer, and, seated by the fire, was
the old worthy himself. He rose as we entered.
Advancing towards him, I said: “Mr. Kenton, we
are strangers, who have read often of you and your
adventures, and, being in your neighborhood, we
have taken the liberty to call and see you, as we
are anxious to know one of the first and the last
of the pioneers.”

The old pioneer was touched and gratified by the
remark; and, while shaking hands with us, he said,
“Take seats, take seats; I am right glad to see
you.”

We sat down, and immediately entered into
conversation with him. He conversed in a desultory
manner, and often had to make an effort to

recollect himself; but, when he did, his memory
seemed to call up the events alluded to, and, when
asked anything, “Well, I'll tell you,” he would say,
and, after a pause, he narrated it. I have stood in
the presence of men who had won laurels by field
and flood, in the senate, at the bar, and in the
pulpit, but my sensations were merely those of
curiosity; a wish to know if the impressions which
the individual made upon myself corresponded with
the accounts given of him by others; if his countenance
told his passions, and if the capabilities which
he possessed could be read in him. This wish to
observe prevents all other sensations, and makes
one a curious but cold observer. But far different
were my feelings as I looked upon the bent but
manly form of the old pioneer, and observed his
frank and fine features. Here, thought I, is a man
who, if human character were dissected with a correct
eye, would be found to be braver than many a
one who has won the world's eulogy as a soldier.
Who cannot be brave, with all the
about him; with the neighing steed, the martial
trump, the unfurled banner, the great army? In
such a scene, the leader of so many legions finds
in the very excitement bravery. The meanest soldier
catches the contagious spark, and cowards
fight with emulation. But think of a man alone
in the wide, wild wilderness, whom a love of adventure
has taken there, surrounded by wild beasts
and savage foes, hundreds of miles from human aid;
yet he sleeps calmly at night, and in the morning
rises to pierce farther into the wilderness, nearer to
those savage foes, and into the very den of those
wild beasts. How calm must have been his courage!
How enduring his spirit of endurance! In the deep
solitude, hushed and holy as the Sabbath day of the
world, he stands, with a self-reliance that nothing
can shake; and he feels in the balmy air, in the blue
heavens, in the great trees, in the tiny flower, in
the woods and in the waterfalls, in the bird and in
the beast, in everything and in all things, companionship.
George Washington would have made
such a pioneer.

Kenton's form, even under the weight of seventy
years, was striking, and must have been a model of
manly strength and agility. His eye was blue,
mild, and yet penetrating in its glance. The forehead
projected very much at the eyebrows (which
were well defined), and then receded, and was not
very high, nor very broad; his hair had been a
light brown—it was then nearly all gray; his nose
straight, and well shaped; his mouth, before he lost
his teeth, must have been expressive and handsome.
I observed that he had one tooth left, which, taking
into consideration his character and manner of
conversation, was continually reminding me of

Leatherstocking. The whole face was remarkably
expressive, not of turbulence or excitement, but
rather of rumination and self-possession. Simplicity,
frankness, honesty, and a strict regard to
truth, appeared the prominent traits of his character.
In giving answer to a question which my
friend asked him, I was particularly struck with
his truthfulness and simplicity. The question was,
whether the account of his life in “Sketches of
Western Adventure” was true or not? “Well, I'll
tell you,” he said, “not true. The book says that
when Blackfish, the Indian warrior, asked me, after
they had taken me prisoner, if Colonel Boone sent
me to steal their horses, that I said `No, sir' (here
he looked indignant, and rose from his chair); I
tell you, I never said `sir' to an Ingin in my life;
I scarcely ever say it to a white man.”

Mrs. Kenton, who was engaged in some domestic
occupation at the table, turned round and remarked:
“When we were last in Kentucky, some
one gave me the book to read, and when I came
to that part, he would not let me read any more.”

“And I will tell you,” interrupted Kenton, “I
never was tied to a stake in my life, to be burned;
they had me painted black when I saw Girty, but
not tied to a stake.”

I mention this, not at all to disparage the book,
but to show Kenton's character, for, though personally
unacquainted with the author, I have a

high respect for his talents; besides, Mr. McClung
does not give the account of Kenton's adventures
as narrated to himself by him, but as abridged from
a MS. account given by the venerable pioneer himself,
and now in the possession of Mr. John D.
Taylor, of Kentucky. Kenton stated that he had
narrated his adventures to a young lawyer (whose
name I forget), and that all in the book was true.
In answer to a question about Girty, he observed:—

“He was good to me. When he came up to me,
when the Ingins had painted me black, I knew him
at first. He asked me a good many questions, but
I thought it best not to be too for'ard, and I held
back from telling him my name; but, when I did
tell him—oh! he was mighty glad to see me. He
flung his arms round me, and cried like a child. I
never did see one man so glad to see another yet.
He made a speech to the Ingins—he could speak
the Ingin tongue, and knew how to speak—and
told them if they meant to do him a favor they
must do it now, and save my life. Girty, afterwards,
when we were at (I think he said) Detroit
together, cried to me like a child, often, and told
me he was sorry for the part he took against the
whites; that he was too hasty. Yes, I tell you,
Girty was good to me.”

I remarked, “It's a wonder he was good to
you.”

“No,” he replied, quickly but solemnly, “it's

no wonder. When we see our fellow-creatures
every day, we don't care for them; but it is different
when you meet a man all alone in the
woods—the wild, lonely woods. I tell you, stranger,
Girty and I met, lonely men, on the banks of the
Ohio, and where Cincinnati now stands, and we
pledged ourselves one to the other, hand in hand,
for life and death, when there was nobody in the
wilderness but God and us.” His very language,
and a sublime expression I thought it.

He spoke kindly of the celebrated Logan, the
Indian chief, and said he was a fine-looking man,
with a good countenance, and that Logan spoke
English as well as himself. Speaking of the
Indians, he said: “Though they did abuse me
mightily, I must say that they are as 'cute as
other people—with many great warriors among
them; they are as keen marksmen as the whites,
but they do not take as good care of their rifles.
Finding one's way through the woods is all habit.
Indians talk much less than the whites when they
travel, but that is because they have less to think
about.”

He spoke of Boone, and said that he had been
with him a great deal. He described him as a
Quaker-looking man, with great honesty and singleness
of purpose, but very keen. We were
struck with his acuteness and delicacy of feeling.
He was going to show us his hand, which had been

maimed by the Indians; he half drew off his mitten,
and then pulled it on again.

“No,” said he, “it hurts my feelings.”

My friend observed that it was mentioned in
the different accounts of him, that when himself
and his companions arrived at the Ohio, with the
horses of the Indians, they might have escaped if
they had followed his advice.

“Understand, understand,” said he, “I do not
mean to blame them. The horses would not, somehow,
enter the river. I knew the Indians were
behind us, and told them so. They would not
leave the horses; I could not leave them, so the
Indians came yelling down the hills and took us.”

I observed to him that I wondered, after his
escape from the Indians, that he did not return to
Virginia, and run no more risks of being taken by
them.

“Ah!” said he, “I was a changed man; they
abused me mightily. I determined, after that,
never to miss a chance.” (Meaning at the life of
an Indian.)

He was very anxious that Clarke's life should
be written — General George Rogers Clarke —
who, he said, had done more to save Kentucky
from the Indians than any other man. He told
us that a gentleman from Urbanna, Ohio, had been
with him two or three days, and that he had told
him a good deal about himself. “But,” said he,

“I am mighty anxious to tell what I know about
Clarke. You may depend he was a brave man,
and did much.”

He then told us that not five miles from the
place where we were, he had been a captive among
the Indians, painted black, with his hands pinioned
behind him, his body lacerated with the severest
treatment; the bone of his arm broken, and projecting
through the flesh, and his head shockingly
bruised. I observed to him that he must have
been a very strong and active man, to have endured
so many hardships, and made so many
escapes.

“Yes,” said he, “I believe I might say I was
once an active man. But,” continued he, taking
my crutch in his hand, as I sat beside him, and
holding it, together with his staff—I could trace
the association of his ideas—“I am an old man.”

I observed, from his manner, that he wished to
ask me about my crutch, but that he felt a delicacy
in doing so. I explained it to him; after observing
the fashion of it for some time—for I had a fashion
of my own in my crutches—he looked earnestly at
me, and said, with emotion, showing me his own
staff—

“You see I have to use one, too; you are young
and I am old; but, I tell you, we must all come to
it at last.”

Many, in their courtesy, have tried to reconcile

me to my crutch; but no one ever did it with so
bland a spirit as this blunt backwoodsman, who
never said sir to an Indian in his life, and scarcely
ever to a white man.

True politeness is from the heart, and from the
abundance of the heart it speaketh; the rest is but
imitation, and, at best, the automaton fashioned to
act like a man.

We arose twice to leave ere we did so, the old
worthy pressed us so warmly “not to go yet.”
At last, after a hearty shake of the hand with him,
we departed on our way to Bellefontaine. We
were scarcely on the road before the rain descended
fast upon us; but we went on, transacted
our business, and returned to West Liberty to
spend the night, unmindful of the heavy storm
that poured down upon us in our open buggy, but
full of the old pioneer, and the reflections which
our visit had called up.

We looked around, and did not wonder that the
Indians fought hard for the soil, so fruitful with all
the resources and luxuries of savage life, redolent
with so many associations for them, all their own
—theirs for centuries—their prairies, their hunting-grounds,
the places where their wigwams stood,
where their council-fires were lighted, where rested
the bones of their fathers, where their religious rites
were performed. How often had they hailed the
“bright eye of the universe!” as we hailed him

that morning, almost with a Persian worship, and
on that very spot. In a few hours, we beheld
him sinking in his canopy of clouds. And thus
they sink, and the shadows of their evening grow
darker and darker, and they shall know no morrow.
Happy for those who now possess their
lands, if they cherish, and if their posterity shall
cherish, the homely virtues, the simple honesty
and love of freedom of the early pioneers—of him
with whom we shook hands that morning, on the
brink of the grave. If they do, then, indeed, may
their broad banner, with its stars and stripes
trebled, be planted on the far shores of the Pacific,
the emblem of a free and a united people.