University of Virginia Library

THE LAND-FEVER.

The wild new country, with all its coarseness and all its
disadvantages of various kinds, has yet a fascination for the
settler, in consequence of a certain free, hearty tone, which has
long since disappeared, if indeed it ever existed, in parts of the
country where civilization has made greater progress. The
really fastidious, and those who only pretend to be such, may hold
this as poor compensation for the many things lacking of another
kind; but those to whose apprehension sympathy and sincerity
have a pre-eminent and independent charm, prefer the kindly
warmth of the untaught, to the icy chill of the half-taught; and
would rather be welcomed by the woodsman to his log-cabin, with
its rough hearth, than make one of a crowd who feed the ostentation
of a millionaire, or gaze with sated eyes upon costly feasts
which it would be a mockery to dignify with the name of hospitality.
The infrequency of inns in a newly settled country leads
naturally to the practice of keeping “open house” for strangers;
and it is rare indeed that the settler, however poor his accommodations,
hesitates to offer the best he has to the tired wayfarer.
Where payment is accepted, it is usually very inconsiderable;
and it is seldom accepted at all, unless the guest is manifestly
better off than his entertainer. But whether a compensation be
taken or refused, the heartiness of manner with which every thing
that the house affords is offered, cannot but be acceptable to the
visitor. Even the ever rampant pride, which comes up so disagreeably
at the West, where the outward appearance of the
stranger betokens any advantage of condition, slumbers when
that stranger claims hospitality. His horse is cared for with

more solicitude than the host ever bestows on his own; the table
is covered with the best provisions the house affords, set forth in
the holiday dishes; the bed is endued with the brightest patchwork
quilt—the pride of the housewife's heart; and if there be
any fat fowls—any white honey—any good tea—about the premises,
the guest will be sure to have it, even though it may have
been reserved for “Independence” or “Thanksgiving.”

This habit was however reversed, or at least suspended, during
the speculating times. The country was then inundated with
people who came to buy land,—not to clear and plough, but as
men buy a lottery-ticket or dig for gold—in the hope of unreasonable
and unearned profits. These people were considered as
public enemies. No personal violence was offered them, as might
have been the case at the Southwest; but every obstacle, in the
shape of extravagant charges, erroneous information, and rude
refusal, was thrown in their way. Few were discouraged by
this, however; for they came in the spirit of the knights of romance
when they had to enter enchanted castles—strong in faith
of the boundless treasures which were to reward their perseverance.

To mislead an unpractised land-hunter was a matter of no
great difficulty; for few things are more intricate and puzzling,
at first, than the system which has been devised to facilitate
the identifying of particular spots. Section-corners and
quarter-stakes, eighties, and forties, and fractions, are plain
enough when one is habituated to them, and they seem plain
enough to the new man,—on paper. But when he finds himself
in the woods, with his maps and his copious memoranda, he is
completely at sea, with no guide but the compass. A friend
who afterwards became quite a proficient in the mysteries of
land-finding tells me that he twice lost himself completely in the
woods. “The first time,” he says, “my mishap was owing to
the wandering habits of a wild Indian pony which I had chosen
on account of his power of ceaseless travel. He had been accustomed
to pick up his living where he could find it, and he took
advantage of my jogging pace, just at dusk, when I did not feel
too certain of my whereabout, to quit the scarce-defined road, in
search of something tempting which he espied at a distance. My

resource in this case was to abandon my horse, and fix my eyes
on the North Star, which I knew would bring me to a certain
State road, in due time. The other occasion was in broad day-light,
but when there was only an occasional gleam of sunshine,
so that I had no steady guide as to direction. The ground was so
thickly strown with leaves that my horse's hoofs left no permanent
track, and I found myself in a complete maze. The trees were
all alike to my bewildered eyes (I had left my compass at the last
lodging-place,); and all I knew was that I was south of the road
which I had quitted for the sake of saving some miles' distance
After many efforts at marking trees—very ineffectual without an
axe—I bethought me of a newspaper, which I tore into pieces
and affixed to bushes and low limbs as I went, and so obtained a
straight line; by which means, after some hours' rather anxious
wandering, I was finally extricated.”

To pass a night in the woods is a small affair for a hunting
party; but it is something quite different for a solitary individual,
unprovided with axe or gun, and, of course, unable to make himself
comfortable in any way. To sleep in a tree might do, if
trees were not occasionally haunted by wild cats; or a lair in the
heaped leaves of autumn, if there were not a chance of warming
into activity a nest of rattlesnakes. These are no doubt partly
useless fears, but to the stranger they are very real; and they
tend not a little to the increase of his difficulties by discomposing
his nerves when cool reflection would be his best friend.

Mistakes in “locating” land were often very serious, even
where there had been no intention to deceive—the purchaser finding
only swamp or hopeless gravel, when he had purchased fine
farming land and maple timber. Every mile square is marked
by blazed trees, and the corners especially distinguished by stakes
whose place is pointed out by trees called Witness-trees, and so
accurate and so minute is the whole system that it seems almost
incredible that so many errors should have arisen. The back-woodsman
made no mistakes, for to him a stump, or a stone, or
a prostrate tree, has individuality; and he will never confound it
with any other. One accustomed to wandering in the woods will
know even the points of the compass, in a strange place, without
sun or star to guide him. But the fact of the unwillingness of

the actual settler to guide the speculator faithfully, became so
well known, that purchasers often preferred relying on their own
sagacity, backed by what seemed unmistakable rules, to trusting
such disaffected guides. Innumerable stories are current in the
woods of the perplexities of city gentlemen;—and the following,
if not strictly true, will serve to illustrate somewhat the state
of things in those wild times when sober prudence was forgotten,
and delusion ruled the hour. I shall call it, for want of better
title,

A REMINISCENCE OF THE LAND-FEVER.

The years 1835 and 1836 will long be remembered by the
Western settler—and perhaps by some few people at the East,
too—as the period when the madness of speculation in lands had
reached a point to which no historian of the time will ever be
able to do justice. A faithful picture of those wild days would
subject the most veracious chronicler to the charge of exaggeration;
and our great-grand-children can hope to obtain an adequate
idea of the infatuation which led away their forefathers, only by
the study of such detached facts as may be noted down by those
in whose minds the feeling recollection of the delusion is still
fresh. Perhaps when our literary existence shall have become
sufficiently confirmed to call for the collection of Ana, something
more may be gleaned from the correspondence in which were
embodied the exultings of the successful, and the lamentations of
the disappointed.

“Seeing is believing,” certainly, in most cases; but in the days
of the land-fever, we, who were in the midst of the infected district,
scarcely found it so. The whirl, the fervour, the flutter, the
rapidity of step, the sparkling of eyes, the beating of hearts, the
striking of hands, the utter abandon of the hour, were incredible,
inconceivable. The “man of one idea” was every where: no
man had two. He who had no money, begged, borrowed, or stole
it; he who had, thought he made a generous sacrifice, if he lent
it at cent per cent. The tradesman forsook his shop; the farmer
his plough; the merchant his counter; the lawyer his office;
nay, the minister his desk, to join the general chase. Even the

schoolmaster, in his longing to be “abroad” with the rest, laid
down his birch, or in the flurry of his hopes, plied it with diminished
unction.
The man with one leg, or he that had none, could at least get on
board a steamer, and make for Chicago or Milwaukie; the strong,
the able, but above all, the “enterprising,” set out with his pocketmap
and his pocket-compass, to thread the dim woods, and see
with his own eyes. Who would waste time in planting, in building,
in hammering iron, in making shoes, when the path to wealth
lay wide and flowery before him?

A ditcher was hired by the job to do a certain piece of work in
his line. “Well, John, did you make any thing?”

“Pretty well; I cleared about two dollars a day: but I should
have made more by standing round;”[1] i. e., watching the land-market
for bargains.

This favourite occupation of all classes was followed by its
legitimate consequences. Farmers were as fond of “standing
round” as any body; and when harvest time came, it was discovered
that many had quite forgotten that the best land requires
sowing; and grain, and of course other articles of general necessity,
rose to an unprecedented price. The hordes of travellers
flying through the country in all directions were often cited as the
cause of the distressing scarcity; but the true source must be
sought in the diversion, or rather suspension, of the industry of
the entire population. Be this as it may, of the wry faces made
at the hard fare, the travellers contributed no inconsiderable
portion; for they were generally city gentlemen, or at least gentlemen
who had lived long enough in the city to have learned to
prefer oysters to salt pork. This checked not their ardour, however;
for the golden glare before their eyes had power to neutralize
the hue of all present objects. On they pressed, with headlong
zeal: the silent and pathless forest, the deep miry marsh, the
gloom of night, and the fires of noon, beheld alike the march of

the speculator. Such searching of trees for town lines! Such
ransacking of the woods for section corners, ranges, and base
lines! Such anxious care in identifying spots possessing particular
advantages! And then, alas! after all, such precious
blunders!

These blunders called into action another class of operators,
who became popularly known as “land-lookers.” These met
you at every turn, ready to furnish “water-power,” “pine lots,”
“choice farming tracts,” or any thing else, at a moment's notice.
Bar-rooms and street-corners swarmed with these prowling gentry.
It was impossible to mention any part of the country which they
had not personally surveyed. They would tell you, with the
gravity of astrologers, what sort of timber predominated on any
given tract, drawing sage deductions as to the capabilities of the
soil. Did you incline to city property? Lo! a splendid chart,
setting forth the advantages of some unequalled site, and your
confidential friend, the land-looker, able to tell you more than all
about it, or to accompany you to the happy spot; though that he
would not advise; “bad roads,” “nothing fit to eat,” etc.; and
all this from a purely disinterested solicitude for your welfare.

These amiable individuals were, strange to tell, no favourites
with the actual settlers. If they disliked the gentleman speculator,
they hated with a perfect hatred him who aided by his local
knowledge the immense purchases of non-residents. These
short-sighted and prejudiced persons forgot the honour and distinction
which must result from their insignificant farms being
surrounded by the possessions of the magnates of the land.
They saw only the solitude which would probably be entailed on
them for years; and it was counted actual treason in a settler to
give any facilities to the land-looker, of whatever grade. “Let
the land-shark do his own hunting,” was their frequent reply to
applications of this kind; and some thought them quite right.
Yet this state of feeling among the Hard-handed, was not without
its inconvenient results to city gentlemen, as witness the case of
our friend Mr. Willoughby, a very prim and smart bachelor,
from —

It was when the whirlwind was at its height, that a gentleman
wearing the air of a bank-director, at the very least—in other

words, that of an uncommonly fat pigeon—drew bridle at the
bars in front of one of the roughest log houses in the county of
—. The horse and his rider were loaded with all those
unnecessary defences, and cumbrous comforts, which the fashion
of the time prescribed in such cases. Blankets, valise, saddle-bags,
and holsters nearly covered the steed; a most voluminous
enwrapment of India-rubber cloth completely enveloped the rider.
The gallant sorrel seemed indeed fit for his burden. He looked
as if he might have swam any stream in Michigan
yet he seemed a little jaded, and hung his head languidly, while
his master accosted the tall and meagre tenant of the log cabin.

This individual and his dwelling resembled each other in an
unusual degree. The house was, as we have said, of the roughest;
its ribs scarcely half filled in with clay; its “looped and
windowed raggedness” rendered more conspicuous by the tattered
cotton sheets which had long done duty as glass, and which now
fluttered in every breeze; its roof of oak shingles, warped into
every possible curve; and its stick chimney, so like its owner's
hat, open at the top, and jammed in at the sides; all shadowed
forth the contour and equipments of the exceedingly easy and
self-satisfied person who leaned on the fence, and snapped his long
cart-whip, while he gave such answers as suited him to the gentleman
in the India-rubbers, taking especial care not to invite him
to alight.

“Can you tell me, my friend,—” civilly began Mr. Willoughby.

“Oh! friend!” interrupted the settler; “who told you I was
your friend? Friends is scuss in these parts.”

“You have at least no reason to be otherwise,” replied the
traveller, who was blessed with a very patient temper, especially
where there was no use in getting angry.

“I don't know that,” was the reply. “What fetch'd you into
these woods?”

“If I should say `my horse,' the answer would perhaps be as
civil as the question.”

“Jist as you like,” said the other, turning on his heel, and
walking off.

“I wished merely to ask you,” resumed Mr. Willoughby,
talking after the nonchalant son of the forest, “whether this is
Mr. Pepper's land.”

“How do you know it an't mine?”

“I'm not likely to know, at present, it seems,” said the traveller,
whose patience was getting a little frayed. And taking out
his memorandum-book, he ran over his minutes: “South half of
north-west quarter of section fourteen—Your name is Leander
Pepper, is it not?”

“Where did you get so much news? You a'n't the sheriff,
be ye?”

“Pop!” screamed a white-headed urchin from the house,
“Mam says supper's ready.”

“So ain't I,” replied the papa; “I've got all my chores to do
yet.” And he busied himself at a log pig-stye on the opposite
side of the road, half as large as the dwelling-house. Here he
was soon surrounded by a squealing multitude, with whom he
seemed to hold a regular conversation.

Mr. Willoughby looked at the westering sun, which was not
far above the dense wall of trees that shut in the small clearing;
then at the heavy clouds which advanced from the north,
threatening a stormy night; then at his watch, and then at his
note-book; and after all, at his predicament—on the whole, an
unpleasant prospect. But at this moment a female face showed
itself at the door. Our traveller's memory reverted at once to
the testimony of Ledyard and Mungo Park; and he had also
some floating and indistinct poetical recollections of woman's
being useful when a man was in difficulties, though hard to
please at other times. The result of these reminiscences, which
occupied a precious second, was, that Mr. Willoughby dismounted,
fastened his horse to the fence, and advanced with a brave
and determined air, to throw himself upon female kindness and
sympathy.

He naturally looked at the lady, as he approached the door,
but she did not return the compliment. She looked at the pigs,
and talked to the children, and Mr. Willoughby had time to observe

that she was the very duplicate of her husband; as tall, as
bony, as ragged, and twice as cross-looking.

“Malviny Jane!” she exclaimed, in no dulcet treble, “be
done a-paddlin' in that 'ere water! If I come there, I'll—”

“You'd better look at Sophrony, I guess!” was the reply.

“Why, what's she a-doin'?”

“Well, I guess if you look, you'll see!” responded Miss Malvina,
coolly, as she passed into the house, leaving at every step
a full impression of her foot in the same black mud that covered
her sister from head to foot.

The latter was saluted with a hearty cuff, as she emerged from
the puddle; and it was just at the propitious moment when her
shrill howl aroused the echoes, that Mr. Willoughby, having
reached the threshold, was obliged to set about making the agreeable
to the mamma. And he called up for the occasion all his
politeness.

“I believe I must become an intruder on your hospitality for
the night, madam,” he began. The dame still looked at the
pigs. Mr. Willoughby tried again, in less courtly phrase.

“Will it be convenient for you to lodge me to-night, ma'am?
I have been disappointed in my search for a hunting-party, whom
I had engaged to meet, and the night threatens a storm.”

“I don't know nothin' about it; you must ask the old man,”
said the lady, now for the first time taking a survey of the new
comer; “with my will, we'll lodge nobody.”

This was not very encouraging, but it was a poor night for the
woods; so our traveller persevered, and making so bold a push
for the door that the lady was obliged to retreat a little, he entered,
and said he would await her husband's coming.

And in truth he could scarcely blame the cool reception he had
experienced, when he beheld the state of affairs within those muddy
precincts. The room was large, but it swarmed with human
beings. The huge open fire-place, with its hearth of rough stone,
occupied nearly the whole of one end of the apartment; and near
it stood a long cradle, containing a pair of twins, who cried—a
sort of hopeless cry, as if they knew it would do no good, yet
could not help it. The schoolmaster, (it was his week,) sat reading
a tattered novel, and rocking the cradle occasionally, when

the children cried too loud. An old grey-headed Indian was curiously
crouched over a large tub, shelling corn on the edge of a
hoe; but he ceased his noisy employment when he saw the stranger,
for no Indian will ever willingly be seen at work, though
he may be sometimes compelled by the fear of starvation or the
longing for whiskey, to degrade himself by labour. Near the
only window was placed the work-bench and entire paraphernalia
of the shoemaker, who in these regions travels from house to
house, shoeing the family and mending the harness as he goes,
with various interludes of songs and jokes, ever new and acceptable.
This one, who was a little, bald, twinkling-eyed fellow,
made the smoky rafters ring with the burden of that favourite
ditty of the west:
and children of all sizes, clattering in all keys, completed the
picture and the concert.

The supper-table, which maintained its place in the midst of
this living and restless mass, might remind one of the square
stone lying bedded in the bustling leaves of the acanthus; but
the associations would be any but those of Corinthian elegance.
The only object which at that moment diversified its dingy surface
was an iron hoop, into which the mistress of the feast proceeded
to turn a quantity of smoking hot potatoes, adding afterward
a bowl of salt, and another of pork fat, by courtesy denominated
gravy: plates and knives dropped in afterward, at the discretion
of the company.

Another call of “Pop! pop!” brought in the host from the pig-stye;
the heavy rain which had now began to fall, having no
doubt, expedited the performance of the chores. Mr. Willoughby,
who had established himself resolutely, took advantage of a very
cloudy assent from the proprietor, to lead his horse to a shed, and
to deposit in a corner his cumbrous outer gear; while the company
used in turn the iron skillet which served as a wash-basin,
dipping the water from a large trough outside, overflowing with
the abundant drippings of the eaves. Those who had no pocket-handkerchiefs,
contented themselves with a nondescript article

which seemed to stand for the family towel; and when this ceremony
was concluded, all seriously addressed themselves to the demolition
of the potatoes. The grown people were accommodated
with chairs and chests; the children prosecuted a series of flying
raids upon the good cheer, snatching a potato now and then as
they could find an opening under the raised arm of one of the
family, and then retreating to the chimney corner, tossing the hot
prize from hand to hand, and blowing it stoutly the while. The
old Indian had disappeared.

To our citizen, though he felt inconveniently hungry, this
primitive meal seemed a little meagre; and he ventured to ask if
he could not be accommodated with some tea.

“An't my victuals good enough for you?”

“Oh!—the potatoes are excellent, but I'm very fond of tea.”

“So be I, but I can't have every thing I want—can you?”

This produced a laugh from the shoemaker, who seemed to
think his patron very witty, while the schoolmaster, not knowing
but the stranger might happen to be one of his examiners next
year, produced only a faint giggle, and then reducing his countenance
instantly to an awful gravity, helped himself to his seventh
potato.

The rain which now poured violently, not only outside but
through many a crevice in the roof, naturally kept Mr. Willoughby
cool; and finding that dry potatoes gave him the hiccups, he
withdrew from the table, and seating himself on the shoemaker's
bench, took a survey of his quarters.

Two double-beds and the long cradle, seemed all the sleeping
apparatus; but there was a ladder which doubtless led to a lodging
above. The sides of the room were hung with abundance
of decent clothing, and the dresser was well stored with the usual
articles, among which a tea-pot and canister shone conspicuous;
so that the appearance of inhospitality could not arise from poverty,
and Mr. Willoughby concluded to set it down to the account
of rustic ignorance.

The eating ceased not until the hoop was empty, and then the
company rose and stretched themselves, and began to guess it
was about time to go to bed. Mr. Willoughby inquired what
was to be done with his horse.

“Well! I s'pose he can stay where he is.”

“But what can he have to eat?”

“I reckon you won't get nothing for him, without you turn
him out on the mash.”

“He would get off, to a certainty!”

“Tie his legs.”

The unfortunate traveller argued in vain. Hay was “scuss,”
and potatoes were “scusser;” and in short the “mash” was the
only resource, and these natural meadows afford but poor picking
after the first of October. But to the “mash” was the good steed
despatched, ingloriously hampered, with the privilege of munching
wild grass in the rain, after his day's journey.

Then came the question of lodging for his master. The lady,
who had by this time drawn out a trundle-bed, and packed it full
of children, said there was no bed for him, unless he could sleep
“up chamber” with the boys.

Mr. Willoughby declared that he should make out very well
with a blanket by the fire.

“Well! just as you like,” said his host; “but Solomon sleeps
there, and if you like to sleep by Solomon, it is more than I
should.”

This was the name of the old Indian, and Mr. Willoughby
once more cast woful glances toward the ladder.

But now the schoolmaster, who seemed rather disposed to be
civil, declared that he could sleep very well in the long cradle,
and would relinquish his place beside the shoemaker to the guest,
who was obliged to content himself with this arrangement, which
was such as was most usual in those times.

The storm continued through the night, and many a crash in
the woods attested its power. The sound of a storm in the dense
forest is almost precisely similar to that of a heavy surge breaking
on a rocky beach; and when our traveller slept, it was only
to dream of wreck and disaster at sea, and to wake in horror and
affright. The wild rain drove in at every crevice, and wet the
poor children in the loft so thoroughly, that they crawled shivering
down the ladder, and stretched themselves on the hearth, regardless
of Solomon, who had returned after the others were in
bed.

But morning came at last; and our friend, who had no desire
farther to test the vaunted hospitality of a western settler, was not
among the latest astir. The storm had partially subsided; and
although the clouds still lowered angrily, and his saddle had enjoyed
the benefit of a leak in the roof during the night, Mr. Willoughby
resolved to push on as far as the next clearing, at least,
hoping for something for breakfast besides potatoes and salt. It
took him a weary while to find his horse, and when he had saddled
him, and strapped on his various accoutrements, he entered the
house, and inquired what he was to pay for his entertainment—
laying somewhat of a stress on the last word.

His host, nothing daunted, replied that he guessed he would let
him off for a dollar.

Mr. Willoughby took out his purse, and as he placed a silver
dollar in the leathern palm outspread to receive it, happening to
look toward the hearth, and perceiving the preparations for a very
substantial breakfast, the long pent-up vexation burst forth.

“I really must say, Mr. Pepper—” he began: his tone was
certainly that of an angry man, but it only made his host laugh.

“If this is your boasted western hospitality, I can tell you—”

“You'd better tell me what the dickens you are peppering me
up this fashion for! My name isn't Pepper, no more than yours
is! May be that is your name; you seem pretty warm.”

“Your name not Pepper! Pray what is it, then?”

“Ah! there's the thing now! You land-hunters ought to know
sich things without asking.”

“Land-hunter! I'm no land-hunter!”

“Well! you're a land-shark, then—swallowin' up poor men's
farms. The less I see of such cattle, the better I'm pleased.”

“Confound you!” said Mr. Willoughby, who waxed warm, “I
tell you I've nothing to do with land. I wouldn't take your whole
state for a gift.”

“What did you tell my woman you was a land-hunter for,
then?”

And now the whole matter became clear in a moment; and it
was found that Mr. Willoughby's equipment, with the mention of
a “hunting party,” had completely misled both host and hostess.

And to do them justice, never were regret and vexation more
heartily expressed.

“You needn't judge our new-country folks by me,” said Mr.
Handy, for such proved to be his name; “any man in these parts
would as soon bite off his own nose, as to snub a civil traveller
that wanted a supper and a night's lodging. But somehow or other,
your lots o' fixin', and your askin' after that 'ere Pepper—one of
the worst land-sharks we've ever had here—made me mad; and
I know I treated you worse than an Indian.”

“Humph!” said Solomon.

“But,” continued the host, “you shall see whether my old woman
can't set a good breakfast, when she's a mind to. Come,
you shan't stir a step till you've had breakfast; and just take
back this plaguey dollar. I wonder it didn't burn my fingers
when I took it!”

Mrs. Handy set forth her very best, and a famous breakfast it
was, considering the times. And before it was finished, the hunting
party made their appearance, having had some difficulty in
finding their companion, who had made no very uncommon mistake
as to section corners and town-lines.

“I'll tell ye what,” said Mr. Handy, confidentially, as the cavalcade
with its baggage-ponies, loaded with tents, gun-cases, and
hampers of provisions, was getting into order for a march to the
prairies, “I'll tell ye what; if you've occasion to stop any where
in the Bush, you'd better tell 'em at the first goin' off that you
a'n't land-hunters.”

But Mr. Willoughby had already had “a caution.”