MILWAUKEE AND THE LAKES.
I REMAINED in Philadelphia a month, then returned to Chicago, in order
to begin where I left off and finish my tour. I only remained in the
“Garden City” long enough to give my old friends there a call, and to
get a slight attack of cholera; then moved northward. I went by railroad
to Milwaukee, Wisconsin, a city with a population of sixty thousand,
situated on the shore of Lake Michigan, about ninety miles from Chicago.
Milwaukee is remarkable for at least three things. First, it is built,
almost exclusively, of a kind of yellow brick that presents a neat
appearance I much admire. Second, the German element predominates in the
population. In fact, I believe that fully three-fourths of the
inhabitants are Germans. Third, the lager-beer there is of a superior
quality. So superior is it, that it deserves more than a passing remark.
It is everywhere conceded among intelligent persons, that Milwaukee
produces the best lager-beer that is made in this country. It has such
extraordinary “body.” It has none of that resin soap-and-old-boot taste,
which we frequently have the misfortune to discover in beer; but is the
pure, unadulterated, unsophisticated lager-beer, even such as nature
intended it should be, when she produced the grain, hops and water to
make it of. Beside, they give a fellow such a large glass there for five
cents! The glass holds about a pint. I confess that I felt
conscience-stricken whenever I took one, and only paid five cents for
it. That was the price, however. I would have offered more, only I
feared that I might be thought verdant; and John Smith does not desire
to rest under such an imputation.
Early in September, I embarked for Detroit, Michigan, on the _St.
Louis_, a handsome lake propeller, running between Chicago and Buffalo.
Our route was _via_ Lake Michigan, Fort Mackinaw, (in the straits,) Lake
Huron, the St. Clair river, Lake St. Clair and the Detroit river. If you
will take the trouble to glance at a map of the United States, dear
reader, you will perceive that Lakes Huron and Michigan are two parallel
lakes running north and south, and that they curve round and intersect
each other at the north, forming an inverted letter U.
I look back upon my voyage on the Lakes, as the pleasantest of my life.
Our vessel was a first-class steamer, the passengers were all jolly and
good-natured, taken collectively; the ladies were amiable, affable and
beautiful; and the gentleman were sober, intelligent, agreeable, and
good judges of beer.
I will never forget my first evening on board the _St. Louis_. We were
steering N. N. E., the western shore had just faded from view, and the
sun was sinking into his rosy couch. A few light clouds hung over the
horizon, like crimson and purple curtains, as the god of day sunk into
his luxuriant bed of rest, reminding one of McDonald Clark’s beautiful
lines:
“Now twilight lets her curtain down
And pins it with a star.”
The lake was nearly smooth, and the red light, making its lengthy paths
over the wide waters, from west to east, looked like myriads of playful
little flames chasing each other over the crests of the waves.
The sun rose next morning and smiled on us over the north-western shore
of the State of Michigan, and we found ourselves approaching Mackinaw
Straits. That afternoon the vessel laid for a couple of hours at an
island in the Straits, and the passengers all went ashore. We discovered
the earth to be about as nearly barren as any soil could be. Late as it
was in the season, September, we found a few stunted raspberries, that
were just making a feeble effort to ripen.
While the propeller lay there, half-a-dozen of the male passengers, I
among them, hired a sail boat, and, accompanied by three or four of the
lady passengers, took a pleasant sail of an hour. I think I never saw
such clear water anywhere as I saw there. A pin could have been
distinctly seen at the depth of twenty feet. I was so charmed with the
limpid water, and the white sand and pebbles at the bottom, that I
fancied it would have been almost a luxury to be drowned there.
That night we stopped for an hour at Fort Mackinaw.
Next morning—Sunday morning—we found ourselves in Lake Huron. Another
beautiful day passed away in perfect harmony and happiness on board the
_St. Louis_, and another night came. All this time the propeller glided
along so smoothly that one could scarcely believe, at times, that she
moved at all, till he should go out, look over the side, and see the
green waters rushing by, and the waves receding from the prow on either
side. I never slept anywhere more tranquilly than on board the _St.
Louis_.
Next morning, we found ourselves in the St. Clair river, which runs
north and south, and connects Lake Huron with Lake St. Clair. On its
eastern shore is Canada, and on its western the State of Michigan.
About nine o’clock, we landed at the town of Newport, Michigan, the home
of the captain. Being assured by him that she would lie there several
hours, another passenger and myself went ashore and walked up into the
town, with the view of hunting a billiard-table and playing a game or
two. Some others also went ashore for a stroll.
We found one, and played one game. I do not remember who won it. What
happened shortly after was calculated to rub out trifles from one’s
memory.
“Now,” said I, when we had finished the game, “we had better go.
Something tells me we will not have time to play another.”
“O, pshaw!” replied my companion. “Didn’t the captain tell us the boat
would lie here several hours?”
“True, but I cannot help feeling uneasy.”
“O, nonsense! let’s play another.”
We commenced another game, and had each made fifteen or twenty points,
when another fit of uneasiness seized me.
“Come,” said I, “something tells me the boat is ready to leave; I’ll
give you this game. Let us go.”
“O, there’s no danger of the boat’s going,” he replied. “It will whistle
first, anyhow.”
We played about seven minutes longer, when a boy came in.
“Bub,” said I, “is the _St. Louis_ lying at the landing yet?”
“Why,” he replied, “did you ’uns intend to go on her?”
“Yes,” said I.
“Yonder she goes!” he said, coolly, as he pointed out the window looking
down the river.
Yes, the _St. Louis_ had gone, and was just disappearing round a bend
nearly half a mile distant.
If the reader wants to know what pure, unalloyed anguish is, I can tell
him that I experienced it on this occasion. There I was, fifty miles
from my destination, and the propeller, on which I had spent several
such happy days, gliding away and disappearing from my gaze, bearing
from me the many good friends I had made among the passengers, whom I
should now never, probably, see again, depriving me of the melancholy
pleasure of bidding them good-by, and also of taking the address of a
handsome young lady I fell in love with—to say nothing of my trunk, and
some other articles I prized highly, scattered about in my state-room.
“I told you so,” said I to my conscience-stricken companion.
He gazed from the window, threw down his cue, and pronounced a great
many words, in rapid succession, which, if found in the Scriptures, are
not found exactly in the same order in which he uttered them. His case
was worse than mine. His destination was Buffalo; and should we fail to
reach Detroit ere the propeller should leave there—and we had little
hope in that direction—he would lose four hundred miles of his ride.
Besides, he had left his overcoat and revolver in his state-room, and
who should answer for their safety?
As for me, my trunk was checked to Detroit, and I felt sure that it
would be put off there; but in my state-room were left my chess-board, a
set of chessmen, and other property, amounting in all to the value of
about fifteen dollars—and what hope had I of ever seeing them again?
_Kein!_
“Well,” said I, “let us make the best of it.”
“Yes, we might as well finish the game now,” said he, ruefully.
“First,” I proposed, “let us drown our sorrows in a glass of beer.”
“Agreed,” said he.
And we did.
“There’ll be another boat along soon,” observed the boy.
“How soon?” we both asked, eagerly.
“It ought to be here by eleven o’clock; that’s its time.”
“Does it run to Detroit?”
“Yes; it’s a little side-wheeler.”
“Then we’ll watch for it.”
“If you will give me a glass of beer,” said the boy, “I’ll watch for it,
and tell you when it comes.”
“Very well, watch for it. Whenever you see it coming, run and tell us,
and we’ll give you the beer.”
In less than half an hour, sure enough, we received the welcome
intelligence that the boat was coming; and, giving the boy his beer, we
hurried down to the landing, and reached it as the little steamer came
up. We went aboard, and paid our fare to Detroit—another net loss of two
dollars—and she soon moved on after the _St. Louis_. But we soon saw,
with sinking hearts, that her speed was not equal to that of the
propeller.
When we reached Lake St. Clair—a lake as round as a dollar, (or the city
of Boston,) and twenty-five miles in diameter—we fancied we could see
the _St. Louis_ just sinking beneath the southern horizon. If we did, we
never saw her again—at least _I_ never did. When we reached Detroit, she
had been gone half an hour. My trunk was there, but my other articles
were clearly forfeited.
My companion and I got on the ferry-boat, went over to Windsor, Canada,
just opposite Detroit, and inquired when the first train would depart
for Buffalo. We were informed that an express-train would go at seven.
He determined to go, and did so, no doubt, arriving at Buffalo a dozen
hours in advance of the propeller. I have never heard of him since. I
told him, when we parted, to go to my state-room when he should reach
the propeller, and take possession of my chess-board, et cetera,
remarking that I “willed” them to him; and I presume that he did so.
The city of Detroit, where I remained a week, is about the size of
Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and is the largest city in Michigan. It was there
that Hull surrendered to the British, during the war of 1812; and it was
there that the Fenians crossed into Canada and frightened the Canadians
in 1866. So much for its historical importance. Its _sobriquet_ is, “The
City of the Straits.” Its location on the Detroit river—which is, more
properly, a _strait_, connecting Lake St. Clair with Lake Erie—gives it
this name. Detroit is a French word for _strait_.