that I did not wonder at an old lady of over ninety, who was born
there, speaking of her visit to Detroit as the time when she went to
the States. Here the old Catholic church dates back to the early days
of French settlement. The lots run from the water-front back. Your
Frenchman must have a water-front, no matter how narrow. So the town
was four miles long, and composed mostly of one street, which
followed the water-front; and although there were four thousand
people living there in 1884, and we had a mayor, the primeval forest
came right into the city.
The only house I could get was new,--so new that we moved in while the
floors were still wet. The lumber in it was green, and we could not
open the sashes for months; but before winter came, the shrinkage
caused the windows to rattle like castanets. To get our furniture
there, we had to cross the railway tracks twice,--once the regular
road, and then the branch which ran to the great furnace at the point.
And yet so new was everything in this old town, that our street had
not been graded, and our wagons had to cross land where they sunk up
to the axles. A few miles up the road the deer, the wolves, and black
bear lived; and no less than eleven deer were seen in the road at one
time near Allenville. We moved in the month of June, and put up our
base-burner, and started the fire.
The climate is delicious from June to October; the air and waters are
as clear as crystal. You can see fish forty feet below you, and the
color of the pebbles at the bottom. There is an indescribable beauty
about these northern shores; the tender green of the larch-fir, or
tamarack, the different shades of blue-green among the cedars, the
spruce, hemlock, and balsam, mixed with the lovely birch, and
multi-colored rocks, make up some of the loveliest scenery on the
continent. Little islands, so small that but one or two trees can find
root, up to the islands that take hours to steam by, while the streams
team with trout and grayling, the lakes with white-fish, muskalonge,
and mackinaw trout and herring. Thousands of men are engaged in the
fisheries, and millions of dollars are invested.
You sit at your door, and can see the home and people of old France,
with their primitive canoe, and at the same time see propellers of
three thousand tons' burden glide stately by.
XI.
A BRAND NEW WOODS VILLAGE.
It does not take long to build a new village on the prairie,--the
hardest work, the clearing of the ground, is already done; but here in
the dense forest it is a different thing, even when the railway runs
through it. First the men go in, and begin to clear the ground. It is
virgin soil, and not an inch of ground but has something growing.
Giant maples--some of them bird's-eye, some curly--are cut down and
made into log heaps; black walnuts are burned up, that, made into
veneer, would bring thousands of dollars.
Such was the state of things within twelve years. To-day it is
different. The settler will take a quarter section, bark the trees to
find the desired kind, cut them down, and leave for another section.
Rich companies came in, and began to devastate the forests to make
charcoal, until the State had to make a law that only a certain number
of acres in the hundred may be cut.
In some few cases women will go with their husbands, and sometimes one
woman will find herself miles and miles away from another. I visited
one such house; and while the good woman was getting the dinner ready,
I strolled about and took notes. On the rude mantel-shelf, I saw some
skulls, and asked what kind of an animal they belonged to. She said,--
"Oh! them's beavers' skulls. My! I wish we had some beavers here now;
I would make you some beaver-tail soup."
"Why, did you have them here since you came?"
"Oh, yes! plenty of them. When I got lonesome--and that was pretty
much every day--I used to go and watch them build their dams. I don't
know how they did it; but I have seen them sink a log so that it would
stay put, and not come up. I tried it dozens of times, but could not
do it. I had lots of time, nothing to read, and the nearest town
fifteen miles away. I used to think I should go mad sometimes, and
even a land-hunter coming from outside was a godsend. Indeed, I
remember one coming here, and he took sick, and died in spite of all
we could do. We had neither boards nor planks, nothing but logs. So we
slipped two flour-barrels over him, and he looked real nice. We buried
a little boy too. I keep the graves clear of weeds, and plant flowers
about them, and often sit there with my work and think of those early
days."
"How long ago was that?" I asked.
"Four years ago! Why, you know there wan't no railway then; but
now,--why, I got Zeke to cut down the trees, and I can see the trains
go by with parlor cars and sleepers. There'll be one pretty soon if it
is on time." And sure enough, in a few minutes a long train thundered
by.
Sometimes a train stopped near us, and hundreds of men from the south
of Ohio came with their dogs, guns, and men-servants, and went hunting
and fishing; and, strange as it may seem, you can find ten times as
many deer to-day as you could forty years ago. The settling of new
lands has driven them into closer quarters, and the game-law does much
good. The State fish-hatcheries supply the streams with fry; and at
times the men sent out to stock the streams get misled by the
settlers, who show them the different streams, and only too late they
find they have put the whole stock of young fry into the same stream.
The average conscience is not yet fine enough to see anything but a
joke in this.
But to the building of our village. Often at first no house has more
than one room. The men are making their homes, and will stop to cut
out a piece of the log, and make a place for a little child's doll.
Cupboards, too, are made in the same way.
Water is one of the indispensable necessities; and, as a rule, the
town will be built on a stream, or near a spring. Sometimes wells have
to be dug over a hundred feet deep. Arrow-heads, and implements of the
chase, and bones of men and extinct races of animals, turn up.
In one town I visited, before the wells were dug, the water for
drinking was brought in barrels on flat cars, while melted snow
answered for washing.
"But what did you do when that was gone?" I asked.
"Well, the maple-sap begun to run, and then the birch, which was
better; but lor! you couldn't iron nothin'."
I passed a little log house standing out of line with the street; and
I thought it was a chicken-coop, and asked why it was built that way.
"My!" said the woman with a laugh, "that ain't a chicken-coop; that's
our first meeting-house. Us women built that. We had one or two old
men to help, and the children; and we women did the rest. We were
quite proud of it too. It cost fourteen dollars complete. For the
minister's chair we cut down a barrel, and covered it with green
baize."
A minister writes, "My room is one end of the garret of a log house,
where I can barely stand erect under the ridgepole. My study-table and
bookcase I made from rough boards. As I sit writing, I look forth from
a window two by three, upon a field dotted with stumps, log huts, and
charcoal kilns, and skirted with dense forests."
While I was visiting this section, a woman showed me her hands cracked
with the frost. The tears came to her eyes as she said, "I tell ye
it's pretty hard lines to have to milk cows when it is forty below
zero." No man can imagine the arduous work and the awfulness of life
in a northern winter. What is a joy to the well-dressed, well-fed man,
with his warm house and the comforts of a civilized community, is
often death to the poor minute-man and settler on the frontier. I
have sat by the side of the minute-man, and heard from him a story
that would bring tears to the eyes of the most cynical.
One man I shall never forget, a good hardy Scotchman, with a brave
little wife and four children. His field was near Lake Superior; his
flock poor homesteaders and Indians. The winters have a hundred and
fifty days' sleighing; the frost sometimes reaches 50° below zero, and
is often for days together 30° below; so that when it suddenly rises
to zero, one can hardly believe it is freezing. Here is his story:--
"We were twelve miles from a doctor; and towards spring two of our
children complained of sore throats. It proved to be diphtheria. We
used all the remedies we had, and also some herbs given us by an old
squaw; but the children grew worse, and we determined to go back to
the old settlement. My wife carried the youngest, and I the next one.
The other children walked behind, their little legs getting scratched
with the briers. We had twelve miles to go to reach the steamer. When
we got there, one of the little ones died; and before we reached home
the other expired. We buried our two treasures among the friends in
the cemetery; and after a while I said to my wife,--
"'Shall we go back to the field? Ought we to go?'
"Her answer was, 'Yes.'
"We went back. Our old parishioners were delighted to see us; and soon
we were hard at work again. Winter came on, and God gave us another
little one. You may be sure he had a double welcome; but as the cold
became intense, our little lamb showed signs of following his
brothers. I tried to keep my wife's spirits up, while I went about my
work dazed. At last the little fellow's eyes seemed so large for his
face, and he would look at us so pitifully, that I would break down in
spite of myself.
"He died; and the ground was frozen over six feet deep, and we had to
bury him in a deep snow-bank that nearly covered our little shanty. My
wife would go out nights when she could hear the wolves howling, and
stand with an old Paisley shawl over her head, while I was miles away
preaching to a handful of settlers in a log cabin; and when I would
return I would find her there keeping watch, and sometimes I would
have hard work to get her into the house. Pardon these tears, my
brother, but come they will."
He need not have said it; my own were running, though my head was
turned away.
Yes, we weep, and hold on to our money, while brave men and women,
with their little ones, suffer for the lack of it, and lay down their
lives for those who come after them. How men and women can live in
fine homes, and spend ten times as much on luxuries as they give to
the Lord, and still sing they love his kingdom, is more than I can
understand --except it be they don't mean what they sing.
The first thing one notices after passing the great iron dock are the
odd names on some of the signs. There is the "Golden Rule" livery
stable, with its attendant saloon. On its left, quaintly linking the
past with the present, is an old log house, built in past century
style, with its logs hewn, tongued, and grooved, but used at present
as a printing-office, with the latest style of presses. One can easily
imagine the time when beside its huge fireplace the half-breed and the
Indian squatted, smoked their pipes, and told their stories; for it is
not four years since that was so. Outside, nailed to the logs, is a
coon-skin, and underneath it the legend, "Hard Cider." From this
primitive place issues the democratic _Free Press_. A little farther
on, and we notice "Dr. ----, horse doctor and saloon keeper." A very
few more steps brings us to the Home Saloon, the Mansion House, the
Clarendon, and the Young Canadian.
Besides these, there are twenty other saloons, with and without names;
you will not be surprised when I tell you that, on my first visit
here, I found a poor man had cut his throat after a heavy spree. The
shame he felt at the thought of meeting wife and children (who were on
their way, expecting to find a home) was too much for him, and hence
suicide. So when wife and little ones arrived they found only a dying
husband and father.
Not long after this a young man, the only support of his parents, went
out into the dark night from a dance, dazed with drink. He fell on the
track, and the morning express crushed him to death. Brother Newberry,
going to condole with the parents, found the poor father bedridden by
an accident, and the mother, who was furious with drink, held by two
men. Down on the dock, one evening, a poor man fell into the lake. He
had been drinking to drown his sorrows (a man having run away with his
wife). The bystanders, among whom was his own son, seemed stupidly
indifferent to his fate; and when they did arouse themselves it was
only to bring up his dead body. This they laid in the freight shed,
while the son went coolly to work on a vessel close by, and brutal men
made jests of the misery of the dead man's married life.
To give you an idea of the zest with which the liquor traffic is
carried on, let me say that three days after the ferry-boat "Algomah"
was stuck fast in the ice-drift, and while it was yet dangerous to
cross the strait by sleigh, a saloon was built on the ice about a mile
from shore to catch the teamsters as they passed with freight. When I
saw it five days later, it had been removed nearer the shore; so that
it was built and taken down and put up again all within a week.
But come with me out of so baneful an atmosphere. Let us cross the
Strait of Mackinaw on the ice by moonlight. What a scene! It is a wild
midnight, the moon at the full, a light snow falling; and although it
is here only six miles to the other side, you cannot see the shore, as
the snow thickens. There are miles upon miles of ice, driven by the
fierce gale, sometimes into the depths, again mounting the crest of
some mighty billow, groaning and cracking up into all shapes and
sizes, swirling as if in some giant whirlpool, transfixed and left in
all its awful confusion. It is glittering with beauty to-night; yet so
wild, so weird, so awfully grand and solemn, that we involuntarily
repeat, "Lord, what is man that thou art mindful of him?"
The sleighs look, in the distance, like a little dog-train. Now you
are gliding over a mile of ice, smooth as glass, while all around it
is heap upon heap; then you pass through gaps cut by the road-makers,
who have left little pine-trees to guide you; and though the ice in
places is packed thirty feet deep, you feel a sense of comfort and
safety as you pass from the bleak sweep of the wind into the thick
cedars on the shore, and nestle down as if in the shadow of His wing.
The next crossing is by early morn. The sun comes cheerily up from out
a great cloud of orange and vermilion, while here and there are
crimson clots and deep indigo-colored clouds rolling off to follow the
night. I cannot describe the beauty of this scene; that needs a poet;
but I can tell you of the odd side. Away we go behind two Indian
ponies, snorting and prancing as if they, too, enjoyed the beauty of
the scene. But look! not forty yards away is the "Algomah." After
being resurrected from the ice with dynamite, she has begun her
regular trips. Bravely she ploughs through two feet of blue ice; and
when she comes to the high ridges backs up and charges them again and
again. After hours of faithful work, she makes St. Ignace after
sundown, seven miles from the spot she left at sunrise.
You will not be surprised, perhaps, to find your missionary from
Northern Michigan turning up at Olivet, Southern Michigan where the
Lord graciously baptized the meetings with his Holy Spirit. I
collected seventy-two dollars towards a little church, to be called
Olivet Chapel; and, better still, quite a number decided to be
Christians. Best of all, thirteen young Christian students gave
themselves to God, and will be ready when the time comes for the work
of Christian missions.
At Ann Harbor I was most cordially welcomed by Brother Ryder and his
church, and received from them hopeful assurance of help for our
church at Sugar Island; so the time was not thrown away in going
South. At Newberry, Brother Curry has been offered the use of the new
church built by Mrs. Newberry of Detroit. So the Lord is opening the
way. If we could only get one or two of those ministers who were seen
"out West" sitting on the four posts of the newly surveyed town,
waiting to build churches, we could furnish parishes already
inhabited. Seney, Grand Marais, Point Detour, Drummond Island, and
many more, are growing, with no churches.
The last time I visited Detour, a large mill had been finished and was
running. The owners would give a lot, and help build a church. There
are some good people living there. They gave me a cordial welcome and
the best bed. I was very tired the first night and slept soundly; so I
was surprised in the morning when the lady asked me if I was
disturbed. On my saying "No," she said that on account of the rats her
husband had to pull up the ladder, as they were sleeping on
shakedowns; but she was glad I was not disturbed. The next night they
kindly lent me a little black-and-tan terrier; so I slept, was
refreshed, and started for home, promising I would send a missionary
as soon as possible.
XII.
OUT-OF-THE-WAY PLACES.
In making a visit to one Home Missionary, I found him living in a
little board house, battened on the outside, but devoid of plaster.
His study-table was a large dry-goods box, near the cook-stove, and on
it, among other things, a typewriter. It looked somewhat incongruous;
and on mentioning this, the good brother said, "Oh that is nothing;
wait until it is dark and I will show you something else."
And sure enough, soon after supper he hung up a sheet, and gave me
quite an elaborate entertainment with the help of a stereopticon. It
seemed very strange to be seated in this little shell of a house, in
such a new town among the pine stumps; and I could hardly realize my
position as I sat gazing at the beautiful scenes which were flashed
upon the sheet.
Across the road was a dance-house; and we could hear the scraping of
the fiddler, the loud voice calling off the dances, and the heavy
thump of the dancers in their thick boots. Afterwards the missionary
gave me a short account of his trials and victories on coming to the
new field, and it illustrates how God opens the way when to all human
wisdom it seems closed.
When he tried to hire a house, the owner wanted a month's rent in
advance; but a short time after called on him and gave him the house
and lot with a clear deed of the property for one dollar! At the same
time he told him that there were lots of cedar posts in the woods for
his garden fence, if he would cut them, and added that maybe some one
would haul them for him. The missionary chopped the posts, "some one"
hauled them for him, and up went the fence.
The missionary felt so rich that he asked the price of a fine
cooking-stove that this man had loaned him. "Oh," he said, "I _gave_
you that." The next thing was to find a place suitable to worship
in--often no easy thing in a new town. At last a man said, "You can
have the old boarding-house." This was said with a sly wink at the men
standing by. So into the old log house went our friend, with his wife;
and after a day's work with hoe, shovel, and whitewash, the place was
ready. The whitewash was indispensable; for though the men had
deserted it, there was still a great deal of life in it.
When the men saw the earnestness of the missionary they turned in and
helped him, and became his friends; and in the old log boarding-house
were heard the songs of praise instead of ribaldry, and prayers
instead of curses, while Bibles and Sunday-school leaflets took the
place of the _Police Gazette_.
The other field in which this brother works would delight Dr.
Gladden's heart: 350 people, 17 denominations, all "mothered" by a
Congregational church; and I don't know of another church under the
sun that could brood such a medley under its wings. When the church
was building, one might have seen a Methodist brother with a load of
boards, a Presbyterian hauling the shingles, a Baptist with some
foundation-stones, and a Mormon hewing the sills--not a Mormon of the
"Latter-Day swindle variety," though, but a Josephite. In this place
our brother had many a trial, however, before getting his conglomerate
together.
The head man of the village offered to give a lot if the church would
buy another; and in the meanwhile his charge was five dollars each
time they used the hall. But the next time our brother went, the man
gave both the lots; the next time, he said he would not charge for the
hall; and finally he gave the lumber for the church. The church was
finished, and a good parsonage added; and to-day fashionable summer
resorters sit under its shadow, and never dream of the wild
lawlessness that once reigned there.
[Illustration: A WINTER SCENE IN NORTHERN MICHIGAN.
_Page 127._]
The next new place I visited was well out into Lake Michigan, and yet
sheltered by high bluffs clothed with a rich growth of forest trees,
so that, notwithstanding its northern latitude, six degrees below zero
was the lowest the mercury reached, up to the middle of February. This
is saying much in favor of its winter climate, when we consider the
fact that in the rest of the State it has often been from zero down to
forty below for nearly a month at a time.
I do not remember such another month in years,--wind, snow, fires,
intense cold, and disease, all combined. However, in spite of
everything, the people turned out remarkably well, and I managed to
preach twenty-eight times, besides giving talks to the children.
It took twelve hours of hard driving to make the forty miles between
home and the appointment, and we were only just in time for the
services. I was surprised to see the number present; but what looked
to me like impassable drifts were nothing to people who had sat on
the top of the telegraph-poles, and walked in the up-stairs windows
off from a snow-bank, as they actually did four winters previously.
The church here has a good building, heated with a furnace, and owns a
nice parsonage where the minister lives with his wife and four
children. Although it stormed every day but one, the meetings were
blessed by the conversion of some, and the church rejoiced with a new
spirit for work.
I next visited E----, a place seven years old, which ran up to fifteen
hundred inhabitants in the first three years of its existence. It had
about twelve hundred inhabitants, and ours was the only
church-building in the place. When the pastor first came, there was
neither church to worship in nor house to live in, save an old shingle
shanty into which they went. It was so close to the railway that it
required constant care in the daytime to keep the children safe, and
not a little watching at night to keep the rough characters out.
Quite a change for the better has taken place, and a bell now rings
each night at nine o'clock to warn saloons to close.
It was a hard winter, and the storms came thicker than ever,
blockading all railways, and making the walking almost impossible.
Service on the first evening after the storm was out of the question,
and for days after the walks were like little narrow sheep tracks.
There are a great many things to contend with in these new mill towns
under the best of circumstances; but when you add to the saloons and
worse places, the roller skating-rink, a big fire, and diphtheria, you
have some idea of the odds against which we worked.
In two places I visited, a fire broke out; and one could not but
notice the ludicrous side in the otherwise terrible calamity that a
fire causes in these little wooden towns in winter. The stores, built
close together, look like rows of mammoth dry-goods boxes. When once
fire gets a start, they crackle and curl up like pasteboard. At one
fire a man carefully carried a sash nearly a block, and then pitched
it upon a pile of cordwood, smashing every pane. Others were throwing
black walnut chairs and tables out of the upper story; while I saw
another throwing out a lamp-glass, crying out as he did so, "Here
comes a lamp-glass!" as if it were a meritorious action that deserved
notice.