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 cotemporary 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 venison, with the becoming appliances
of cranberry jelly, and all the etceteras 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 travelers—to Simon Kenton, who, we were
informed, dwelt some thirty miles from our whereabouts.

It was a glorious Indian summer morning. The day
had just broke 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, loth 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. Onee I observed
was peculiarly striking: it was a natural mound arising
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 brave ones who were
realizing the poet's description of a contrast:

Then my fancy caught another impression; I thought,
as I looked upon the tranquil scene—the wide prairie—
the sheep browzing 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—I thought that Peace
had lit 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 up, 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 swollowed a whole
drug shop—for what purpose? To be drugged to
death?

Every thing 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 trundle-bed of a carry-all, with no companion
but my crutch, and a whole host of bachelor reflections.
The scene was sad every where. I passed an
old rooster by the road side. 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 has 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, which were covered
with rails, to prevent one from disappearing altogether!
what jolting! what bouncing! zigzag—this way, that
way, every way. Why, Sancho Panza, when tossed in
the blanket, enjoyed pefect 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 round 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 Saint RomansWell.
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, he 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 only describe
the manners around him, because he had only thought
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
whom 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 Fallstaff 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 round 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 women lovliest
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 eyrie, in natural fearlessness. The change is enjoyment:
one fits us for the other. In solitude, we
think over, examine, and analyze 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 upon 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 no how—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 I, somehow, can't relish or believe natural, but he
can't make me feel like I used to—I mean with such 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 traveling'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 is true, but it was not the weariness
I feel now—no, no! I never shall be so 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, any how 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 that 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 upon 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 then 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 oldest man, and
had been, then, sometime dead.

Kenton was a Virginian by birth, and, I believe, entirely
uneducated. At a very early age, he quarreled
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, and being undermost, 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 pummelled 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 was innumerable grey 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
are told, the old Pioneer lived. The house was comfortable
and large, for one of the 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 upon 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
every thing 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, 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 were anxious to know one of the
first and the last 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 the impressions which the individual
made upon himself, corresponded with the accounts
given of him by others—if his countenance told his
passions; and if the capabilites 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 was 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 bud, 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 it receded, and was not very high, nor
very broad—his hair had been a light brown; it was then
nearly all grey—the 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 one
of Leatherstocking. The whole face was remarkably
expressive not of turbulance or excitement, but rather
of veneration and self-possession. Simplicity, frankness,
honesty, and a strict regard to truth, appeared the
prominent traits of his character. In giving an 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 the 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 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. M'Clung 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 forard, 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 of 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 in 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 pinned 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 all must 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 automation fashioned to act like a man.

We rose 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 lit, 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's 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 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, he planted on the far shores of the Pacific, the
emblem of a free united people.