oint of a knife. They were equal
to the times in which they lived.--Had they not been so, how many
steamboats would now be floating on the Mississippi?

There was no romance in the composition of the pioneer--whatever there
may have been in his environment. His life was altogether too serious a
matter for poetry, and the only music he took pleasure in, was the sound
of a violin, sending forth notes remarkable only for their liveliness.
Even this, he could enjoy but at rare periods, when his cares were
forcibly dismissed. He was, in truth, a very matter-of-fact sort of
person. It was principally with facts that he had to deal--and
most of them were very "stubborn facts." Indeed, it may be
doubted--notwithstanding much good poetry has been written (in cities
chiefly), on solitude and the wilderness--whether a life in the woods
is, after all, very suggestive of poetical thoughts. The perils of the
frontier must borrow most of their "enchantment" from the "distance;"
and its sufferings and hardships are certainly more likely to evoke
pleasant fancies to him who sits beside a good coal fire, than to one
whose lot it is to bear them. Even the (so-called) "varied imagery" of
the Indian's eloquence--about which so much nonsense has been
written--is, in a far greater measure, the result of the poverty and
crude materialism of his language, than of any poetical bias,
temperament, or tone of thought. An Indian, as we have said before, has
no humor--he never understands a jest--his wife is a beast of
burthen--heaven is a hunting-ground--his language has no words to
express abstract qualities, virtues, or sentiments. And yet he lives in
the wilderness all the days of his life! The only trait he has, in
common with the poetical character, is his laziness.

But the pioneer was not indolent, in any sense. He had no
dreaminess--meditation was no part of his mental habit--a poetical
fancy would, in him, have been an indication of insanity. If he reclined
at the foot of a tree, on a still summer day, it was to sleep: if he
gazed out over the waving prairie, it was to search for the column of
smoke which told of his enemy's approach: if he turned his eyes toward
the blue heaven, it was to prognosticate to-morrow's storm or sunshine:
if he bent his gaze upon the green earth, it was to look for "Indian
sign" or buffalo trail. His wife was only a help-mate--he never thought
of making a divinity of her--she cooked his dinner, made and washe