{26} CHAPTER III

Harrisburgh ferry—Old Jameson—The Conestoga massacre—Militia riflemen—Carlisle and Dickenson college.

On Saturday 24th, I arose early, but the ferry-boat not being ready, I partook of an excellent breakfast with my friendly host and his family, and at ten o’clock I embarked in a large flat, with the western mail and several passengers and horses. The flat was worked by nine stout men, with short setting poles shod and pointed with iron, to break the ice and stick in the bottom. Only one set or pushed on the upper side, while eight set on the lower side, to keep the boat from being forced by the current against the ice, while a tenth steered with a large oar behind. A channel for this purpose had been cut through the ice, and was kept open as loaded wagons could cross the river in a flat with more safety than on the ice.

In twenty-two minutes we were landed on the western shore of the Susquehannah in Cumberland county; and I trudged on, my foot paining me very much, until half past twelve o’clock, when I stopped at a tavern seven miles from the ferry and got some refreshment. Here I found a tall active old man of the name of Jameson, seventy-six years of age, who had crossed the ferry with me, and had afterwards passed me on the road, on horseback. He had accompanied his parents from the county Antrim in Ireland when only six years old, had resided thirty-six years at Paxton, near where Harrisburgh has since been built, (where he had been on business) and had afterwards removed to a part of Virginia about two hundred miles distant, where he has a large farm and distillery. He insisted on treating me, as he said, he liked to encourage the consumption of whiskey; of which, and the telling of old stories he was so fond, that he appeared to forget he had so {27} long a journey beforehim, until reminded by seeing some travellers pass on horseback, whom he hastened to overtake for the sake of their company. He did not however neglect finishing his whiskey, which he swallowed with great gout, and on mounting his horse, cracked jokes about a buxom widow, at whose tavern beyond Carlisle, he proposed sleeping that night. Among other stories with which he had entertained me, he told me the particulars of the massacre of the Indians at Lancaster, and he took a good deal of pride to himself, for having been one of the heroes who had assisted on that memorably disgraceful expedition. In justice however to the old man, I must observe that he related with pleasure that the party he accompanied, arrived too late in Lancaster to assist in the carnage.[11]

{28} As this is a circumstance not generally known, it may not be amiss to introduce here a short account of it.—The Conestoga Indians, as they were called, from their residence near the banks of Conestoga creek, were the remains of a tribe of the Six nations, who entered into a treaty with William Penn the first proprietor of the then province of Pennsylvania, towards the close of the seventeenth century, by which they had a thousand acres of land assigned them inthe manor of Conestoga for their residence. This treaty had been frequently renewed afterwards, and was never violated on either part until their extermination by the surrounding settlers. It is remarked that the Indians diminish rapidly, in proportion to the increase of European settlers in the neighbourhood of any of their towns. This was very observable here, where from a tribe, they had decreased in about seventy years, to seven men, five women, and eight children.

An Indian war had commenced through the intrigues of the French, in the year 1754, at the commencement of which, many of the frontier inhabitants being murdered or driven in by the aborigines, aided by the French, a general panick followed. The Conestoga Indians, notwithstanding their weakness, their local situation, and their peaceable and innocent habits of supporting themselves by making of wicker {29} baskets, brooms and other wooden ware, which they sold to their white neighbours, as well as the skins of the wild animals which they killed in hunting, became objects of terror to the panick struck whites. To be an Indian, was enough to excite both the passions of fear and revenge. This poor defenceless remnant of a once powerful tribe, had but just sent an address, according to their custom on theoccasion of every new governor, to John Penn, esq. who then held that office; welcoming him on his arrival from Britain, and praying a continuance of that favour and protection they had hitherto experienced; when at the dawn of day of the 14th December 1763, the Indian village was attacked by about sixty men well mounted and armed. Only three men, two women and a boy were found at home, the rest being out among the whites vending their little wares. Those poor wretches were butchered and scalped in the manner of the savages, by those more savage descendants of the civilized Europeans: Even the hoary locks of the venerable and good old chief Shebaes, who had assisted at the second treaty between the whites and Indians in 1701, and who had always since been the avowed friend of the former, could not excite the mercy, much less the respect of his barbarous assassins:—he was cut to pieces in his bed, and scalped with the rest, and the huts were then committed to the flames. The magistrates of Lancaster collected the remaining Indians, and brought them into that town, condoling with them on the late misfortune, and promising them protection; with which intent they were put into the jail, as the strongest building in the town.

Their merciless blood hounds not satiated with the blood already spilt, and increased to the number of five hundred well armed men, marched into Lancaster. No opposition was made to them, though the first party which arrived did not consist of {30} more than fifty, who without awaiting any of the rest, forced the jail, dragged their victims into the yard, and there immolated them, while clinging to their knees, and supplicating mercy. In this manner they all, men, women, and children, received the hatchet, amid the exultations of their murderers, who after the tragedy, paraded the streets, huzzaing, and using every other mark of self-approbation for the glorious deed they had achieved. Howweak must have been the government, which dared not attempt any publick investigation of an act so disgraceful to humanity, and in such direct violation of the laws; but it is a fact that not even the name of one of the perpetrators was ever published; they were however generally known by the appellation ofPaxton boys, though the township of Paxton was only one of many concerned.

At the tavern where I overtook Jameson, I saw some young men in blue jackets with scarlet binding, the uniform of a volunteer corps of militia riflemen. They had been with their rifles in search of squirrels, but unsuccessfully, the weather being too cold for those animals to come out of their hollow trees.

Apropos of the rifle.—The inhabitants of this country in common with the Virginians, and all the back woods people, Indians as well as whites, are wonderfully expert in the use of it: thinking it a bad shot if they miss the very head of a squirrel, or a wild turkey, on the top of the highest forest tree with a single ball; though they generally load with a few grains of swan shot, with which they are equally sure of hitting the head of the bird or animal they fire at.

Ten miles further brought me to Carlisle,[12]at six o’clock in the evening; the whole road from Harrisburgh {31} being very fine and level, the houses and farms good, and the face of the country pleasant. The view on the right is all the way terminated by the Blue mountains—the longest north eastern branch of the Allegheny ridge, from six to ten miles distant.

I observed about a mile from Carlisle on the left, and about a half a mile from the road, a large handsome stone house belonging to a Mr. Jackson of Baltimore, which was formerly owned by General Arden; and about half waybetween it and the town, and also to the left of the road, the large barrack, magazine, and depot of arms, built during the revolutionary war. Dickenson college, a spacious stone building with a cupola was directly before me, with the town of Carlisle on the left of it extending to the southward on an elevated plain: the whole having a very good effect on the approach. The twilight shutting out further view, I hastened through a tolerable compact street to Foster’s, to which I had been recommended as the best inn. I asked if I could have a bed that night, and was answered rudely, by an elderly man, in the bar who I took for the landlord, after he had eyed me with a contemptuous scrutiny—that I could not. The house appeared a littlewould be stylish—and I was afoot—so not of consequence enough for Mr. Foster. I turned on my heel, and entered the next tavern kept by Michael Herr, an honest and obliging German, where I found nothing to make me regret my being rejected as a guest at Foster’s, except want of bed linen, sheets not being generally used in this country in the inns, excepting at English ones, or those of fashionable resort. A very good bed otherwise, and an excellent supper, with attentive treatment, well compensated for that little deficiency.

After supper, I received both pleasure and information from the conversation of a philosophick German gentleman, an inhabitant of Carlisle, who favoured {32} me with his company, and who discoursed fluently on opticks, pneumaticks, the French modern philosophy, and a variety of literary topicks, evincing great reading, and a good memory.

Before I retired to rest, I walked to the tavern, where the wagons generally stop, and had the pleasure of finding, that arrived, which carried my baggage, which I had not seen since I left Lancaster.

Carlisle is a post town, and the capital of Cumberland county. It contains about three hundred houses of brick, stone, and wood. The two principal streets cross each other at right angles, where there is a market-house, a neat brick court-house and a large stone meeting-house. There are besides in the town, a German, an Episcopalian, and a Roman Catholick church. The streets are wide, and the footways are flagged or coarsely paved. Dickenson college on the north, was founded in 1783, and was so named in compliment to Mr. John Dickenson, formerly president of the supreme executive council of Pennsylvania, and author of the Pennsylvania Farmer’s Letters, and other writings of much merit. It has a principal,[13]three professors, and generally about eighty students. It has a philosophical apparatus and a library, containing about three thousand volumes. It has £4000 in funded certificates, and the state has granted it ten thousand acres of land: {33} On the whole it is esteemed a respectable seminary of learning, and is extremely well situated for that purpose, in a healthy and plentiful country, and about equidistant from the capital of the state, and the capital of the United States, one hundred and twenty miles from each.[14]

FOOTNOTES:[11]The character here given of old Mr. Jameson, puts us in mind of an old man of a similar character in Washington county, Pennsylvania, of the name ofForeman, who at this time isninety-eightyears of age. I had a curiosity in seeing this old gentleman, and about two years ago called on him for the purpose of conversing a few minutes with him. I was fully paid the trouble, for I found him talkative and considerably worldly minded. Among other things he observed that ‘The fashions of the day had injured society, and had lead astray the minds of young men and young women from the paths of simple and rustick honesty they used to walk in fifty or sixty years ago. That there was much hypocrisy in the shew of so much religion as appeared at present. That people were too fond of lying in their beds late in the morning, and drinking too much whiskey. That he himself used to take a frolick now and then to treat his friends of a Saturday night, after working hard all the week, but that he had not drank any spirituous liquors for twenty-five years. That he had been always an early riser, having been in the habit when he first settled where he now lives (having come from Virginia about thirty years ago) of going around to all his neighbours before or about day-light, to waken them up, and bid themgood morning, and return home again before his own family would be out of bed. I asked him why he never came to Pittsburgh; he replied that he could ride there he supposed, but that he had no business in that place, but that he should like to move to Kentucky or to the state of Ohio, if he went any where. On speaking of his great age and the probable number of years he might yet live, he seemed inclined to believe he would live at least four years longer, (being then ninety-six) wishing as appeared to me, to make out the round number ofone hundred years. He is quite a small man, somewhat emaciated, but erect in his carriage, can see tolerably well, and walks about the house without a cane, milk and vegetables have been, through life, his principal diet, and water his beverage. His present wife, being his second, is quite a smart woman, and is about eighty-six years old. The old gentleman observed that he had never to his recollection been sick, so as to have required the aid of a physician.’ Happy old man thought I, thou hast been happy, and art still so!—Peace to the remainder of thy lengthened days!—Cramer.[12]For an account of Carlisle, see Post’sJournals, vol. i of this series, p. 237, note 75.—Ed.[13]By a letter from Mr. Robert Lamberton, postmaster at Carlisle, it appears Dickenson college was burnt down by accidental fire, February 3d, 1803, and rebuilt in 1804. Doctor Nesbit, a Scotch gentleman of great learning, and much celebrated for his application to his studies, and particularly for the uncommon retentiveness of his memory, had been several years president of this college; he died 18th January, 1804. The Rev. Mr. Atwater, from Middlebury, Vermont, took his place as principal at the last commencement, on Wednesday the 27th September, 1809, and from his known abilities and piety, we may safely calculate that the college is again in a flourishing condition.—Cramer.[14]Dickenson has had many well-known alumni; but after the death of its first president, Dr. Nesbit, a period of decline set in, lasting until 1833, when its founders, the Presbyterians, sold it to the Methodists, who have since maintained the college.—Ed.

[11]The character here given of old Mr. Jameson, puts us in mind of an old man of a similar character in Washington county, Pennsylvania, of the name ofForeman, who at this time isninety-eightyears of age. I had a curiosity in seeing this old gentleman, and about two years ago called on him for the purpose of conversing a few minutes with him. I was fully paid the trouble, for I found him talkative and considerably worldly minded. Among other things he observed that ‘The fashions of the day had injured society, and had lead astray the minds of young men and young women from the paths of simple and rustick honesty they used to walk in fifty or sixty years ago. That there was much hypocrisy in the shew of so much religion as appeared at present. That people were too fond of lying in their beds late in the morning, and drinking too much whiskey. That he himself used to take a frolick now and then to treat his friends of a Saturday night, after working hard all the week, but that he had not drank any spirituous liquors for twenty-five years. That he had been always an early riser, having been in the habit when he first settled where he now lives (having come from Virginia about thirty years ago) of going around to all his neighbours before or about day-light, to waken them up, and bid themgood morning, and return home again before his own family would be out of bed. I asked him why he never came to Pittsburgh; he replied that he could ride there he supposed, but that he had no business in that place, but that he should like to move to Kentucky or to the state of Ohio, if he went any where. On speaking of his great age and the probable number of years he might yet live, he seemed inclined to believe he would live at least four years longer, (being then ninety-six) wishing as appeared to me, to make out the round number ofone hundred years. He is quite a small man, somewhat emaciated, but erect in his carriage, can see tolerably well, and walks about the house without a cane, milk and vegetables have been, through life, his principal diet, and water his beverage. His present wife, being his second, is quite a smart woman, and is about eighty-six years old. The old gentleman observed that he had never to his recollection been sick, so as to have required the aid of a physician.’ Happy old man thought I, thou hast been happy, and art still so!—Peace to the remainder of thy lengthened days!—Cramer.

[12]For an account of Carlisle, see Post’sJournals, vol. i of this series, p. 237, note 75.—Ed.

[13]By a letter from Mr. Robert Lamberton, postmaster at Carlisle, it appears Dickenson college was burnt down by accidental fire, February 3d, 1803, and rebuilt in 1804. Doctor Nesbit, a Scotch gentleman of great learning, and much celebrated for his application to his studies, and particularly for the uncommon retentiveness of his memory, had been several years president of this college; he died 18th January, 1804. The Rev. Mr. Atwater, from Middlebury, Vermont, took his place as principal at the last commencement, on Wednesday the 27th September, 1809, and from his known abilities and piety, we may safely calculate that the college is again in a flourishing condition.—Cramer.

[14]Dickenson has had many well-known alumni; but after the death of its first president, Dr. Nesbit, a period of decline set in, lasting until 1833, when its founders, the Presbyterians, sold it to the Methodists, who have since maintained the college.—Ed.

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