University of Virginia Library

28. CHAPTER XXVIII.

There is in our vicinity one class of settlers whose
condition has always been inexplicable to me. They
seem to work hard, to dress wretchedly, and to live in
the most uncomfortable style in all respects, apparently
denying themselves and their families every thing beyond
the absolute necessaries of life. They complain
most bitterly of poverty. They perform the severe
labour which is shunned by their neighbours; they
purchase the coarsest food, and are not too proud to
ask for an old coat or a pair of cast boots, though it is
always with the peculiar air of dignity and “dont
care,” which is characteristic of the country.

Yet instead of increasing their means by these penurious
habits, they grow poorer every day. Their
dwellings are more and more out of repair. There
are more and more shingles in the windows, old hats
and red petticoats cannot be spared; and an increasing
dearth of cows, pigs, and chickens. The daughters
go to service, and the sons “chore round” for every

body and any body; and even the mamma, the centre
of dignity, is fain to go out washing by the day.

A family of this description had fallen much under
our notice. The father and his stout sons had performed
a good deal of hard work in our service, and
the females of the family had been employed on many
occasions when “help” was scarce. Many requests
for cast articles, or those of trifling value had been
proffered during the course of our acquaintance; and
in several attacks of illness, such comforts as our house
afforded had been frequently sought, though no visit
was ever requested.

They had been living through the summer in a
shanty, built against a sloping bank, with a fire-place
dug in the hill-side, and a hole pierced through the
turf by way of chimney. In this den of some twelve
feet square, the whole family had burrowed since April;
but in October, a log-house of the ordinary size was
roofed in, and though it had neither door nor window,
nor chimney, nor hearth, they removed, and felt much
elated with the change. Something like a door was
soon after swinging on its leathern hinges, and the old
man said they were now quite comfortable, though he
should like to get a window!

The first intelligence we received from them after
this, was that Mr. Newland, the father, was dangerously
ill with inflammation of the lungs. This was
not surprising, for a quilt is but a poor substitute for a
window during a Michigan November. A window
was supplied, and such alleviations as might be collected,
were contributed by several of the neighbours.
The old man lingered on, much to my surprise, and

after two or three weeks we heard that he was better,
and would be able to “kick round” pretty soon.

It was not long after, that we were enjoying the fine
sleighing, which is usually so short-lived in this lakey
region. The roads were not yet much beaten, and we
had small choice in our drives, not desiring the troublesome
honour of leading the way. It so happened that
we found ourselves in the neighbourhood of Mr. Newland's
clearing; and though the sun was low, we
thought we might stop a moment to ask how the old
man did.

We drove to the door, and so noiseless was our
approach, guiltless of bells, that no one seemed aware
of our coming. We tapped, and heard the usual reply,
“Walk!” which I used to think must mean “Walk
off.”

I opened the door very softly, fearing to disturb the
sick man; but I found this caution quite mal-apropos.
Mrs. Newland was evidently in high holiday trim. The
quilts had been removed from their stations round the
bed, and the old man, shrunken and miserable-looking
enough, sat on a chair in the corner. The whole
apartment bore the marks of expected hilarity. The
logs over-head were completely shrouded by broad
hemlock boughs fastened against them; and evergreens
of various kinds were disposed in all directions, while
three tall slender candles, with the usual potato supporters,
were placed on the cupboard shelf.

On the table, a cloth seemed to cover a variety of
refreshments; and in front of this cloth stood a tin
pail, nearly full of a liquid whose odour was but too
discernible; and on the whiskey, for such it seemed,

swam a small tin cup. But I forget the more striking
part of the picture, the sons and daughters of the house.
The former flaming in green stocks and scarlet watch-guards,
while the cut of their long dangling coats showed
that whoever they might once have fitted, they
were now exceedingly out of place; the latter decked
in tawdry, dirty finery, and wearing any look but
that of the modest country maiden, who, “in choosing
her garments, counts no bravery in the world like
decency.”

The eldest girl, Amelia, who had lived with me at
one time, had been lately at a hotel in a large village
at some distance, and had returned but a short time
before, not improved either in manners or reputation.
Her tall commanding person was arrayed in far better
taste than her sisters', and by contrast with the place
and circumstances, she wore really a splendid air.
Her dress was of rich silk, made in the extreme mode,
and set off by elegant jewelry. Her black locks were
drest with scarlet berries; most elaborate pendants of
wrought gold hung almost to her shoulders; and above
her glittering basilisk eyes, was a gold chain with a
handsome clasp of cut coral. The large hands were
covered with elegant gloves, and an embroidered handkerchief
was carefully arranged in her lap.

I have attempted to give some idea of the appearance
of things in this wretched log-hut, but I cannot
pretend to paint the confusion into which our ill-timed
visit threw the family, who had always appeared before
us in such different characters. The mother asked us
to sit down, however, and Mr. Newland muttered something,

from which I gathered, that “the girls thought
they must have a kind of a house-warmin' like.”

We made our visit very short, of course; but before
we could make our escape, an old fellow came in with
a violin, and an ox-sled approached the door, loaded
with young people of both sexes, who were all “spilt”
into the deep snow, by a “mistake on purpose” of the
driver. In the scramble which ensued, we took leave;
wondering no longer at the destitution of the Newlands,
or of the other families of the same class, whose young
people we had recognized in the mêlée.

The Newland family did not visit us as usual after
this. There was a certain consciousness in their appearance
when we met, and the old man more than
once alluded to our accidental discovery with evident
uneasiness. He was a person not devoid of shrewdness,
and he was aware that the utter discrepancy between
his complaints, and the appearances we had witnessed,
had given us but slight opinion of his veracity;
and for some time we were almost strangers to each
other.

How was I surprised some two months after at being
called out of bed by a most urgent message from
Mrs. Newland, that Amelia, her eldest daughter, was dying!
The messenger could give no account of her
condition, but that she was now in convulsions, and
her mother despairing of her life.

I lost not a moment, but the way was long, and ere
I entered the house, the shrieks of the mother and her
children, told me I had come too late. Struck with
horror I almost hesitated whether to proceed, but the
door was opened, and I went in. Two or three neighbours

with terrified countenances stood near the bed,
and on it lay the remains of the poor girl, swollen and
discoloured, and already so changed in appearance that
I should not have recognized it elsewhere.

I asked for particulars, but the person whom I addressed,
shook her head and declined answering; and
there was altogether an air of horror and mystery
which I was entirely unable to understand. Mrs.
Newland, in her lamentations, alluded to the suddenness
of the blow, and when I saw her a little calmed, I
begged to know how long Amelia had been ill, expressing
my surprise that I had heard nothing of it.
She turned upon me as if I had stung her.

“What, you've heard their lies too, have ye!” she exclaimed
fiercely, and she cursed in no measured terms
those who meddled with what did not concern them. I
felt much shocked: and disclaiming all intention of
wounding her feelings, I offered the needful aid, and
when all was finished, returned home uninformed as to
the manner of Amelia Newland's death.

Yet I could not avoid noticing that all was not right.

but the whole appearance of this sad wreck was quite
different from that of any corpse I had ever viewed before.
Nothing was done, but much said or hinted on
all sides. Rumour was busy as usual; and I have
been assured by those who ought to have warrant for
their assertions, that this was but one fatal instance
our of the many cases, wherein life was perilled in the
desperate effort to elude the “slow unmoving finger”
of public scorn.

That the class of settlers to which the Newlands belong,
a class but too numerous in Michigan, is a vicious
and degraded one, I cannot doubt: but whether
the charge to which I have but alluded, is in any degree
just, I am unable to determine. I can only repeat,
“I say the tale as 't was said to me,” and I may
add that more than one instance of a similar kind,
though with results less evidently fatal, has since come
under my knowledge.

The Newlands have since left this part of the country,
driving off with their own, as many of their neighbours'
cattle and hogs as they could persuade to accompany
them; and not forgetting one of the train of
fierce dogs which have not only shown ample sagacity
in getting their own living, but, “gin a' tales be true,”
assisted in supporting the family by their habits of
nightly prowling.

I passed by their deserted dwelling. They had carried
off the door and window, and some boys were
busy pulling the shingles from the roof to make quail-traps.
I trust we have few such neighbours left. Texas
and the Canada was have done much for us in this
way; and the wide west is rapidly drafting off those
whom we shall regret as little as the Newlands.