MICHIGAN.
Steamboat travelling upon the western Lakes--The waters
of Huron--Saginaw Bay--The stormy night--The beautiful
St. Clair--Detroit--Bishop of Michigan--Ypsilanti--Ann
Arbour--Ore Creek--Bewildered at night in the
woods--Rescue--Meeting of friends--Log cabin.
_Detroit, July 23d._
We parted with the friend we met at Mackinaw in the night. The two steamers
rode off in two opposite directions. Our course, which from Chicago had
been to the north, now became southward. There is something exceedingly
novel in steamboat travelling upon the great western rivers. But the
navigation of the lakes by steam presents scenes to the eye, and furnishes
material for the imagination, far more grand, and striking, and
magnificent. These lakes are indeed great inland seas. The wind and the
storm have mighty power over them. But the well-directed steamer rides
proudly over their agitated surface with all her precious cargo of life,
and holds steadily on her way to the destined port in despite of wind and
waves. This, however, is not always the case. The wind at times blows so
fierce and furious that the vessel is driven back some fifty or ninety
miles in her course. When a storm occurs with great and unwonted violence
upon these lakes, especially upon Huron and Michigan, where there are very
few safe harbours, the expedient adopted is to keep the boat at sea, and
let her drive before the gale. We saw, but in one single instance, these
waters putting on a wrathful appearance. During the greater part of our
voyage, they lay beneath our steamer that swept over them in smooth and
placid tranquillity. There is something in the very appearance of the
waters of these lakes to wake up poetic conception. They have a sandy or
pebbly bottom, which appears white as chalk, while every rippling wave as
well as the whole mass of waters that roll beneath you, though so pure and
transparent that a silver dollar might be distinctly seen at the depth of
thirty feet, everywhere assumes the colour of deep emerald green.
The day after we left Mackinaw, while passing Saginaw Bay, every vestige of
land faded from our sight, and we saw nothing around us but one wide world
of waters. As the close of the day drew on, the hitherto bright sunny
heavens became covered with dark menacing clouds. A wind sprang up, and the
waters of Huron, that had previously slept with the tranquillity and hushed
slumbers of an infant, suddenly woke to the fierceness and fury of an
enraged giant. I plainly saw what an aspect that lake could put on in a
storm!
The sun went down. Neither moon nor stars were visible. The curtains of
darkness were drawn closely around that whole world of waters that roared
and dashed so fiercely. As I stood upon the upper deck, and looked out upon
that scene of darkness and wild commotion, and heard the roar of the wind,
and the dashing of the waves, and the hoarse rumbling breath of steam from
the escapement pipe, like the suppressed growl of a lion, that told of
mighty power to urge onward and to destroy, I felt, in a way I have seldom
done before, my entire dependence on God. As I stood there on the deck,
with the wind sweeping by me, the waves of the troubled lake rolling
beneath me, and the blackness of darkness around me, interrupted and
illumined only by the cloud of ignited sparks that streamed incessantly
forth from the dark funnels of the steamer, I felt the force and meaning of
the 93d Psalm, "The Lord reigneth, he is clothed with majesty. He is
clothed with strength wherewith he hath girded himself. The floods have
lifted up, O Lord, the floods have lifted up their voice: the floods lift
up their waves. The Lord on high is mightier than the noise of many waters,
yea, than the mighty waves of the sea. _Thy testimonies are very sure._"
_There_ I saw my safety. The testimonies of my covenant God were very sure,
who had said, "when thou passest through the waters I will be with thee." I
slept soundly that night. In the morning the sun shone brightly on us, and
all appearance of a storm had gone by. In a few hours we were gliding over
the surface of the beautiful St. Clair, and before evening, Detroit, with
its neatly built streets, and its noble stream sweeping proudly by it, lay
before us. It was with a grateful heart that I stepped on the shore,
remembering the many mercies I had enjoyed, and anticipating much pleasure
in the eight or ten days that I had purposed to spend in Michigan. I was
not disappointed.
Detroit, is an interesting and beautiful town. The parted stream above the
city, and the island around which it winds, as well as the view of Sandwich
on the opposite side, with the improved country that stretches around it,
are all points of interest upon which the eye loves to linger. The houses
in Detroit are generally composed of wood, which are very neatly painted.
Several streets running parallel with the river are exceedingly beautiful,
especially _Jefferson Avenue_, which is the Broadway or Chesnut street of
Detroit. The Episcopal Church is a very neat gothic building. A second
Episcopal Church of a larger size is soon to be erected in another part of
the town. The churches and other public buildings in Detroit are certainly
highly creditable to the place.
I met, soon after my arrival at Detroit, the Rev. Mr. R----, who had come
to supply the pulpit of St. Paul's during the first Sunday of the Bishop's
absence. It has always appeared to me that there was great wisdom in the
views expressed some years since by our present presiding bishop--_that
every diocesan should have a parochial charge_. His judgment, as delivered
at the time to which I refer, was, that all our dioceses should be _small_,
as they were in primitive times; that the mitre should have no worldly
splendour or peculiar emoluments connected with it; that each bishop, like
the rest of his clergy, should have his own parochial charge, to whom he
should look for his maintenance. One reason assigned for this--and that is
what I particularly refer to--was that as one of the great duties of a
bishop is to preach the gospel, it is infinitely important that his heart
should be burning with love for souls; and that he only who had a
particular congregation, the charge of whose souls was upon his hands,
would ordinarily feel a ceaseless and ever wakeful solicitude for dying
sinners; and if he did not feel this he would not preach with the power and
unction that become an ambassador of Christ, and the chief pastor of the
church. Go to that man who, as a minister of the Lord Jesus Christ, has
been spending his days and nights in prayer and toilsome labours to promote
the spiritual interests of the flock committed to his care, and then visit
him after he has been acting four or five years in the capacity of a
professor or president of a college, and see if he does not recognize the
truth of this doctrine, see if he does not sigh for that spirituality and
burning love for souls, which once bore him on so cheerfully in his
labours. However this matter shall be viewed, the bishops in many of our
dioceses must have parochial charges, and this will constitute an important
portion in the field of their labour. In this department of labour the
Bishop of Michigan has been pre-eminently blessed.
One could hardly desire a larger measure of popularity, either with his
parish or in his diocese, than Bishop McCoskry enjoys. Every where the
highest testimony is borne to the loveliness and excellency of his
character, and the faithfulness and evangelical spirit of his ministry.
This I heard from all quarters--from clergy and laity, Episcopalians and
Presbyterians. Indeed I think the bishop's greatest danger lies in this
quarter. May he still have grace as he hath hitherto done, amid all these
praises of men, to count himself as nothing, and to sit as a little child
at the feet of Jesus. When all our bishops become distinguished for their
meekness and simplicity, for the fervour of their love, their spirit of
evangelical piety, and their unquenchable zeal to exalt Christ, and rescue
dying sinners from the iron grasp of the god of this world, we shall then
indeed see a return of primitive days, and evidences of a truly apostolic
church.
I was delighted to learn from the Bishop of Michigan, that in his
contemplated visitation through his diocese, he purposed to hold as far as
it was practicable, continued services for several days in each parish,
like the _Rhode Island convocations_, or the _Pennsylvania and Virginia
associations_. A clergyman speaking of these anticipated services,
remarked, "they will be worth to me in such a place a whole year's labour."
In the place to which he referred, the Episcopal Church was just about
being organized, and there, as every where, the great obstacle to the
establishment of our church was the impression that we were destitute of
piety, and that our object was to establish a particular denomination, and
not to save souls. Let the missionary go where he will _and preach Christ
crucified_, and the people will rally around him. Let him only make the
impression on the mind of any community that he has a message from God to
them--that he stands as between the living and the dead to stay the
plague--that in his view all other things dwindle into nothing, when
compared with the salvation of their undying souls--and he will not want
hearers, he will not want materials with which to build up a church. The
people are not opposed to an Episcopal form of government--they are not
opposed to our liturgy--they are not opposed to our doctrines--but they are
opposed to a _dead_ church. Whether these, their impressions in relation to
us are well or ill-founded, one thing is certain, these impressions do in
ten thousand instances exist, and in my view, that minister of our church,
is the best and soundest churchman, who preaches most faithfully the
doctrines of the cross, and exemplifies most fully the power of
Christianity upon his heart by a holy life. It is not by controversy and
argumentation, but by doing their Master's work, by putting forth all their
energies to bring men to repentance and the foot of the cross, that our
clergy will remove this impression in relation to our want of piety, and
make our Zion a praise in all the earth. And this, I believe, to a very
great extent, the clergy of Michigan are striving to do.
_Tuesday, July 25th._
I was induced to start this morning for Ypsilanti, by the kindness and
importunity of the Rev. Mr. R----, who offered, if I would return with him
to his parish, to convey me in his own carriage to the several points I
wished to visit in the interior of the state. The pledge was fully
redeemed, and my comfort and pleasure greatly augmented by my acceptance of
his kind offer. The road for the first twenty miles towards Ypsilanti gave
us a fine specimen of the toil and tardiness of travelling in a new
country. At one time the formidable slough received us into its cavernous
depths, and as we went down, vehicle and horses and all, seemed to threaten
to swallow us up in its miry embrace. Then, as we rose from this perilous
depth, our carriage went bounding from log to log which lay side by side
transversely across our path, deeply embedded in mud, constituting what is
expressively called a _corduroy road_. These were almost the only
alternations in our path for the first twenty miles. The land, after you
leave Detroit, is, in almost every direction, low, clayey, and wet. It is
also heavily timbered, and therefore will not be very rapidly settled. The
soil of the farms that have been cleared up is said to be productive, but
principally valuable for purposes of grazing.
The last ten miles of our course, as we urged our way on to Ypsilanti, lay
through a country of a totally different character. I almost felt as
though I was again travelling through a section of Illinois, though there
were more signs of cultivation around me than I any where saw there. Our
road now became fine, and we swept along through the oak openings, and by
the side of successive fields of beautifully tasselled corn, luxuriant
oats, and yellow bending wheat, with a speed which soon brought us to the
place of our destination. Ypsilanti is a neat country village, built on
Huron river, and contains a population of nearly two thousand.
_July 27th._
We started yesterday morning from Ypsilanti, directing our course towards
Ann Arbour. We found the country through which we passed, rich and
beautiful, and bearing every where incontestible evidence that it was a
soil which would remunerate the agriculturalist for every stroke struck
upon its bosom.
_Ann Arbour_ also stands on Huron river, and is a very pleasant village
containing nearly three thousand inhabitants. There is here an Episcopal
Church, which has been recently erected, that stands beautifully embosomed
in a grove of oaks. Immediately adjoining the plot of ground on which the
church is built, an acre of land which cost one thousand dollars, has been
purchased by a gentleman residing, I believe, in Monroe, who purposes to
erect upon it a neat and commodious dwelling for the use of the rector, and
to convey it to the parish corporation as a parsonage. To this noble act of
munificence he was prompted from his love of the Redeemer's cause, and an
ardent desire for the success and establishment of our church in Michigan.
He saw that if there was a house provided for the rector, the parish would
soon be able to provide the means for his support, and that thus the
ministrations of the Gospel would be permanently secured to this people.
How many men there are within the bounds of our church, who could in like
manner, with the utmost ease, bestow a few thousand dollars, and secure to
feeble churches the certainty of future ministrations of the word, while at
the same time they would be adding unspeakably to the comfort of a body of
men who are wearing themselves out in the service of the Lord, and by their
exhausting labours and toil to rescue sinners from death, are preparing
themselves for a premature grave! Sure I am, when these opulent men, stand
at last before God and the Lamb, and behold the resplendent crown of glory
which Jesus has purchased for them by his toil and tears, and sweat and
blood--when they look down into the depths of that hell from which he has
rescued them, and up to the heights of that heaven to which he is about to
exalt them, and when that same Jesus points to such an act of munificence,
and says, _Inasmuch as ye did it for the least of these my ministers, ye
did it unto me_, oh then I am sure they will not regret the few thousand
dollars they have given to Christ! Would to God that many professors of
religion, who have already wealth enough to ruin all their children, and
are still holding back their pecuniary means and hoarding them up, refusing
to consecrate any part of them to Christ, would think seriously of this,
would meditate frequently on the scenes of that day.
Our course from Ann Arbour was towards Ore Creek. The country through which
we passed was somewhat undulating, and upon the whole a very fine
agricultural district. No where in the west have I seen better crops. The
yellow golden wheat, the bearded and densely standing barley, the luxuriant
oats, and stout corn, as they were spread out before the eye in vast fields
rapidly succeeding each other, and gently waving in the summer breeze,
presented a scene full of interest, and bore indisputable testimony in
relation to the excellence and fertility of the soil. The point to which we
were directing our course was _North Green Oak_. We had already travelled
some thirty miles, and were now within the limits of this town. Night was
coming on, and we were yet some four miles from the place which I wished to
reach. As it would be dark before our arrival, and the road was rough, and
it was uncertain whether we could all be accommodated for the night at the
place to which I was directing my course, it was decided as a matter of
prudence, that Mr. and Mrs. R----, who had kindly accompanied me in their
carriage, should remain at the log inn which we had already reached, and
whose quaint sign was "CALL AND C," while the driver, mounting one horse,
and myself the other, should go on to find the house of my friend. I
scarcely need say that we had now reached a very new country. It was with
difficulty that we could muster a saddle in the neighbourhood; but at
length one was found, and we set out, bidding adieu to our friends for the
night. During the first two miles our path lay chiefly through the forest:
we however passed in that distance three houses; at the last house, which
was on the borders of a lake, we stopped to enquire for the residence of my
friend. We were told he lived almost two miles on the other side of the
lake, that there was no road save the track of a wagon, and that as our
path was a blind one, it was very uncertain whether we should find the way.
We tried to get some one to go with us as our guide, but there was no one
at home but women and children. It was already dark, our path was through
the thick woods, and as the last rays of twilight were fast fading away, we
had no time to lose. We rode rapidly on, and were soon buried in the dense
forest. We had not proceeded more than a mile before we lost every trace of
our path, but after riding around awhile among the bushes we again struck
upon the track, and were able to advance a little further. Soon, however,
in consequence of the increasing darkness, we were again at fault, and knew
not which way to proceed. We dismounted, and having searched for awhile on
our hands and knees, succeeded in discovering the track of a wagon wheel,
which we followed till it led us into a small oak opening. We had gone but
a few paces, however, on our way, before the path, which had now become
more distinct, diverged into two branches, the one leading into the dense
forest, and the other descending into a low marsh. It now became a grave
question which path we were to take. We were far away from any human
habitation; it was doubtful whether we could retrace our steps, even if we
attempted to return; the night was dark, sultry, and hot, the deep forest
was around us, the musquitoes were biting us most unmercifully, and we had
not provided ourselves with the means of striking a light to kindle a fire.
The idea of spending the night, therefore, unsheltered in the woods under
these circumstances, was not altogether agreeable. What added to our
embarrassment was that if we took either path and were able to follow it,
we knew not but we might be going so much farther from the place where we
would be. The driver, who was now my only companion, proposed to lift up
his voice and halloo, thinking that if any one was within hearing distance,
we should receive an answer. But though the woods rung to the shout, and
echoed back his voice, no other response was returned.--All was still and
silent around us as though we were in some vast and boundless solitude. At
length we determined to advance as far as we could trace the track of a
wheel through the marsh, and if our path did not lead us to the place where
we would be, to return and try the other. We had not proceeded far amid the
high grass before we ascended a hill, and again entered the woods. Our road
now became more distinct, but whether it was leading us in the right
direction we knew not. At length my eye caught the glimmering of a taper;
at first I thought it might be only the phosphorescent light of the
fire-fly, swarms of which had been hovering around our path. A second look,
however, convinced me that it was indeed the light of a taper we saw. I
cannot describe the emotions that then thronged around my heart. I thought
at that moment of those words of Cowper, and could in some measure
understand their meaning, and conceive of the feelings of a lost sinner,
upon whose benighted path the first glimmering of hope fell.
"I see, or think I see
A glimmering from afar,
A beam of day that shines for me,
To save me from despair."
We now rode on with speed, and were soon by the side of a log cottage. It
was the very place which we had been seeking. All anxiety was now at an
end, and the glad welcome so cordially tendered, and the well-known face
glowing with looks of kind recognition, made all the care and toils of the
evening appear as naught. Here was a family around me, consisting in all of
some ten or twelve in number, apparently contented and happy in a log
cabin. They had a single room below and a sort of garret above it. The last
time that I saw them was in an elegant three story house, in East Broadway,
in New York. I know not that they appeared more happy then than they did
this evening. They expected soon to have a better and more commodious
domicil, which they were erecting but even with their present dwelling
place they were contented. Truly happiness is in the mind, and they whose
hopes are on God, and who feel that they are in the path of duty can be
happy in spite of all external circumstances.
The sun was shining brightly the next morning as we retraced our way, and
joined our friends at the log tavern. Our course was then towards Pontiac,
which we reached just at the close of the day. We passed through a
beautiful country rendered truly picturesque and romantic by the chain of
little lakes that stretch through this section of the state. The banks of
these lakes are high and shaded, affording the most delightful spots for
residence. The waters are pure and limpid, and filled with the finest fish.
We must have passed during our journey at least twenty of these lakes.
Pontiac is as beautiful a village for size as I saw in Michigan.
_Friday, July 28th._
On our way to Detroit we stopped to-day at Troy, to visit our old friend,
the Rev. Mr. H----, who is leading a little flock onward in their heavenly
journey.