The first dance of any kind that came off in Indianapolis with perhaps the exception of that of the war or scalp dance of the tawny Delaware or dusky Pottawattamie, was at the double cabin of John Wyant, in December, 1821, on the bank of White River, near where Kingan’s pork house no [sic] stands.

            Mr. Wyant had invited the entire dancing population of the “new settlement,” men, women and children.  The father and mother of the writer were there, as well as himself.  Indeed there was but little of a public nature in Indianapolis at that early day that I did not see, although there were many private transactions that I did not witness for the want of an invitation, but I have heard considerable about them since.

            There was a charge of twenty-five cents admittance for each male adult that attended this “gathering;” this charge was to furnish the fluids, which was the only costly article used on those occasions.

            The guests had began to arrive, and while the landlord was in “t’other house,” as the second cabin was called, my father (having been educated in a different school of etiquette from that of Mr. Wyant) thought it but politeness to invite Mrs. Wyant with him to open and put the ball in motion, which she gracefully accepted, and they were, with others, going it in fine style when the landlord returned.  He at once commanded the music (which was being drawn from the bowels of a dilapidated looking fiddle by the late Colonel A. W. Russell) to stop, which order was instantly obeyed.

            Mr. Wyant said, that “as far as himself and wife, were concerned, they were capable of and able to do their own dancing, and that he thought it would look better for every man to dance with his own wife; those that had no wife could dance with the ‘gals.’”  This order, as far as Mr. and Mrs. Wyant were concerned, was strictly adhered to and faithfully carried out the balance of the night.  When the guests were ready to leave, at dawn of day, Mr. and Mrs. Wyant were still “bobbing around” together, oblivious to surrounding circumstances, and seemed highly delighted with each other's [sic] society.

            The second marriage in the “new purchase” was early in the year 1822, that of Uriah Gates to Miss Patsy Chinn, daughter of Thomas Chinn, Esq.  Mr. Chinn lived on the north bank of Pogue’s creek, near the residence of the late Governor Noble; he lived in a “double cabin,” one of which was very large, the other was of the ordinary size, about eighteen by twenty feet square.  In the latter room was a dirt floor; in this room the dinner table was made the day preceding the wedding.  The table was made by driving forked poles into the ground of sufficient height and number; on these upright poles others were laid the length of the room; on these last poles puncheons were laid crosswise, which constituted the table.

            The invited guests began to arrive on the morning of the wedding about nine o’clock; the large cabin was being pretty well filled; the elder ladies came for the purpose of assisting Mrs. Chinn in the culinary department, the younger ones for dancing, so some of the marriage ceremony should be performed.  As the two rooms were already occupied, the bride had to make her toilet in the smoke house, where she received the bridegroom and his retinue. 

            About half past ten o’clock they were seen winding their way up the bank of Pogue’s creek, and met the bride and her next friend in the house indicated above.

            About eleven o’clock, and after it was known that the ‘Squire had arrived, they came forth from the smoke house and went to the large cabin, where they were made man and wife with the shortest number of words the ‘Squire had at his command to perform the ceremony.

            Then the older guests and the bride and groom were invited to the dinner cabin.  As I was more deeply interested in this part of the programme I went along as a spectator and to reconnoiter, and to take a peep at the good things in store for me at the proper time.

            On either end of the table was a large, fat wild turkey, still hot and smoking as when taken from the clay oven in which they were roasted; in the middle of the table and midway between the turkeys was a fine saddle of venison, part of a buck killed the day before by Mr. Chinn expressly for the occasion  The spaces between the turkeys and venison were filled with pumpkin, chicken and various other kinds of pies; from the side-table or puncheon Mrs. Chinn, assisted by the old ladies, was issuing coffee, which was taken from a large sugar-kettle that was hanging over the fire; by the side of the tin coffee pot on this side table was a large tin pan filled with maple sugar, and a gallon pitcher of delicious cream.

            Although there was no great display of silver or China ware on that rude table, there was all that the most fastidious appetite could desire, and even at this day it might be considered “a dainty dish to set before a king.”  The dessert and pastry was got up without the aid of a “French cook.”  Such was the first fashionable wedding-dinner in Indianapolis.

            While the first party invited to the table were engaged in stowing away its contents and complimenting the bride and groom, those in the marriage room were “tripping the light fantastic toe” to the tune of “Leather Breeches.”

            After the bride and groom had left the table they were invited to join in (as Beau Hickman would say) the festivities of the occasion.  The bridegroom excused himself, as he had no “ear for music or foot for dancing, but was ready for fun in any other shape that might be offered.”

            The dancing was continued for two days and nights after the wedding.  I remember that my father and mother came home after daylight the second day, slept until the afternoon, then went back and put in another night.

            It may be proper to say that farmer Tom Johnson was conspicuous among the guests at this wedding, and never did his curls that hung down on his cheeks, and his white linen pantaloons with black ribbon drawstrings at the bottom, tied in a bow knot, appear to a better advantage than they did on this occasion; although Tom had not yet seen a “Purranner,” he seemed to enjoy the music and dancing.

            Mr. Gates died but a few years since; he was the father of Mr. John Gates, the well known and popular blacksmith of our city.

            On the morning of the fourth of July, 1822, my father’s family was aroused before daylight by persons ballooing in front of our door.  It turned out to be Captain James Richey, who lived near the Bluffs, and a young man and lady that had placed themselves under the Captain’s charge and ran away from obdurate parents for the purpose of being married.  Mr. Richey was not slow in making known to my father what they wanted, and intimated that, “what it were well to do, ‘twere well it were done quickly.”  He and my father soon found the county clerk (the venerable James M. Ray) at Carter’s Rosebush Tavern, and procured the necessary legal document, and the services of Judge Wm. W. Wick, and before breakfast the two were made one.

            They had scarcely arose from the breakfast table before the young lady was confronted by her angry father.  Captain Richey informed him that he was just a few minutes too late, and that he had not lost “a darter,” as he supposed, but had gained a son, and that when old Jim Richey undertook to do anything, he did it with all his might, and accomplished his object.

            The parties were reconciled and invited to attend the barbecue and ball that was to take place that day, which they did. 

            This was the first fourth of July celebration in Indianapolis; the barbecue was in the middle of Washington street, just west of the Canal.  A fine buck had been killed the day before by Robert Harding, and was roasted whole, and was partaken of by the entire population of the town and surrounding country.

            After dinner the people were entertained by a teamster from Dayton, Ohio, who dressed himself in fantastic or clownish style, singing comic songs and in various other ways amusing the people.  This was the first clown that performed in public in this place, although we have had them by hundreds since in our legislative halls, courts of justice, and political conventions.

            Soon after the clown was through with his performance the dancing commenced in a large, unfinished frame building on the north side of Washington street, near where the barbecue was, and continued until some time on the fifth.  This was the first public dinner and ball in Indianapolis.

            In writing these incidents my object is to show the great difference, and contrast the customs of the early citizens of this place with those of the present day, and the variety of character found among the early citizens.

            I have recurred so often lately to those early scenes in the history of this city, that it has led me to ask myself the question and inquire where was there contentment and true happiness found if not in the pioneers of Indianapolis?

            There was no finely decorated halls then as now, no cornet or fine string bands to pour fourth their melodious strains of music, no fine carriages, with drivers in livery, to take the ladies to the dance, no kid gloves or paper-collared gentlemen to help them in and out of the carriage, no white-aproned servants to hand them the iced custards and creams.

            They were content then to dance in the log cabin, on a puncheon floor; were glad of an opportunity of listening to the musical strains of Champ Helvey, drawn from a three-string fiddle; were hapy to be able to walk to the place barefoot and save their shoes for dancing; they were rejoiced to meet Tom Johnson there with his beautiful curls and white pants; and when they were hungry were able to help themselves to the chicken pie or roast venison.

            Then, when merry autumn came with its profusion of mellow richness, its luxuriant and happy associations, and above all, the beautiful supply of the productions of the soil to gladden the hearts of man and beast, would the hardy pioneers assemble together, and, with their families, celebrate the end of the summer’s toil and labor in the manner described in this sketch.

            These cabins were scattered over a radius of two miles, and their location was only known to the weary traveler as he journeyed along the lonely Indian trace, by the slowly and lazily rising wreaths of blue smoke that here and there curled above the trees of the dense forests that once stood where now stands this beautiful city.  This was all that marked the presence of man.

            I would ask the “old settlers” of Indianapolis, especially those that were here at the time I was writing of, were not these primitive their happiest days in this city?

            Since I commenced writing these sketches I have been, in imagination, carried back so often to those days that I have wished myself a boy again.

                        “When bright dreams of my childhood, fair scenes of my youth,

                        So laden with visions of friendship and truth;

                        And when came the dark hours of sadness and pain,

                        There memory illumes my pathway again.”

 

Nowland, John H. B., Sketches of Prominent Citizens of 1876, With a Few of the Pioneers of the city and County Who have Passed Away, 1877, pp. 127-133.