MICHIGAN TERRITORY

Entry of Detroit river. An island; two passages. We take the English channel. House of Fort Malden. French appearance of the village. Catholic Church. Cock on the church tower. Scottish soldier in full dress on the bank; on the other side two stark naked savages in a canoe, twisting as fast as a whirlpool round our boat. Rings hanging at the nose. Under the trees on the bank, huts of a sort with a fire in the middle. Naked children around. On one side extreme civilization, on the other the extreme opposite.

We arrived at Detroit at 4 o'clock. A fine American village. Many French names on the houses; French bonnets. We went to see Mr. Richard, the priest in charge of the Catholic church in Detroit. We found him busy teaching at school. His story: brought up by the Irish in Paris; studied theology at Saint Sulpice; ordained priest at the last ordination of 1791; went into exile; came to Detroit; a few years ago was Congress representative for the territory of Michigan. An old man whose religion seems to be ardent and sincere. Desultory conversation, but interesting.

The Protestant population begins to be preponderant in Michigan on account of emigration. But Catholicism gains some converts among the most enlightened men. Mr. Richard's opinion about the extreme coolness of the upper classes in America towards religion. One of the reasons for the extreme tolerance; anyhow tolerance complete. Nobody asks you of what religion you are, but if you can do the job. The greatest service one can do to religion is to separate it from temporal power. The slightest nuance of ill feeling towards popular government, intrigues and cabals; the elections are even made by the central government. United States systems for the new states. They are made to get accustomed by degrees to governing themselves. Colon of native Christians at Michilimackinac. Their zeal, their ardor, their education.

On leaving Mr. Richard our embarrassment about which way to set out. All the Americans wanted us to choose the best roads and oldest settlements. We wanted the wilderness and savages but did not like to say so too clearly.

Saginaw Bay was proposed and, to put an end to the argument, we decided on that.

(Tocqueville, p. 131)

Cultivated fields seem to stop all at once. At very long intervals some log-houses. Very picturesque country. Wooded hill. A multitude of lakes seen under the woods.

At five miles from Little Spring a wonderful valley; slope of a hill covered with immense pines. Torrent that can be heard from the bottom of the ravine. We turn back to admire the sight. We notice an Indian who is following us running without making more noise than wolf. Plaited hair, head bare, ear-rings, sort of blouse, red breeches without bottom. Moccasins. A powder-flask, long carbine and two birds in hand.

An involuntary start of terror. What Mr. Williams had said and the look of his face reassure us. We speak to him. He listens quietly and makes a sign that he does not understand English. We give him some brandy and buy his birds. We mount again. After some time we turn round. The Indian following our tracks. We slow down. He slows down. We run. He runs without making the slightest noise. ...

Dinner at Grand Bank. A single shoe-smith. We start out again at 7 o'clock. We enter a forest of huge oaks. The copse begins again. The road turns into a path hard to follow. Night comes on. Our anxiety at not being able to reach Flint River. The wind subsides. Complete tranquility. Deep darkness. Impressive silence of the woods, disturbed by the sound of our horses and the cries of a single bird which seemed to follow us. The full moon rises. Wonderful effects. Beneath the trees, plants silvered by the moon like the waves of the sea, withered trunks that seem black lying on the ground in the middle. Strange effects on the immense trunks of the oaks, huge columns of white marble. Moon through a withered wood on the edge of the clearing. A little lake seen between the hills under the trees. Very far off, the fires of an Indian camp. Icy coolness.

We get to the top of a hill. A clearing. A stream. We are not sure of the way. I go off alone to the houses I see far off in the clearing. I leap from tree to tree my gun in my hand. Immense oak on the ground. I cross the stream on some trees half squared out. Then I see in the moonlight that they have made a rough dike, and begun a building which is probably a saw-mill. Unfinished houses. No one. To find Beaumont again I am forced to shout terribly loud. I am afraid of attracting the Indians. Echoes in the wild. Silence that follows. We find each other. We go on walking for half an hour more.

We hear the distant sound of dogs. We get to a clearing and see a light. B. goes there. Woman alone, hides herself. Points to Mr. Todd. He holds his dog in. His bear tied to the door. He cuts his oats in the moonlight. He gives us a bed. I sleep on the ground.

(Tocqueville, p. 133)

Feeling of isolation, of abandon, greater even than on the ocean. Even more impossible to find one's way. Our Indians leap in front of us for four hours without stopping, never hesitating about which path to take, and seeming to know the ground even in its slightest details. One of them utters a sort of dull savage cry. He points out through the branches the highest tree; a splendid Bible tree. The picture they make. We go on again.

Our Indians stop. They draw a line in the sand. Pointing to one end and shouting "Flint," to the other and shouting "Saginaw," and then indicating the middle to show that we have reached half way and ought to stop. We make a gesture of drinking to show that we want to stop by a stream. They start running again and lead us to a place where there is a pool of rainwater. We unsaddle from our horses and take our provisions.

We could not find any bread at Flint. Our meat is bad and most of our eggs rotten. We only have some sugar and a few biscuits. A cloud of mosquitoes attracted by the water soon make the place intolerable for us. We start out again.

At 5 o'clock we reach the bank of a swift stream, with steep sides, but not deep. We take breath, thinking we can see a settlement of white men. On the other bank, a field of corn and three abandoned wigwams. Delightful view; high forest trees to the right, to the left the stream flowing slowly between its lonely wooded banks.

The Indian points to the sun and makes a sign that it is too late for us to be able to reach Saginaw. He throws himself down on a tree-trunk to make us understand that night will overtake us, and to induce us to pass it where we are. We have not dined. We urge him to go on. He makes a sign that he is tired. We offer him the broken (?) bottle. Then he goes off like an arrow. Journey past high forest trees, from time to time the stream across our path. from time to time a hut of oak bark and the remains of a burnt out fire. We only meet one single being; a woman asleep with a child by a fire. Impassive look.

We kill some game and want to stop. The Indian makes a sign that now we must put an end to the undertaking. Night overtakes us. The whole time immense trees to leap over and marshes to cross. The Indian is clearly worn out with fatigue. He gets a terrible nose-bleed. We mount him behind. Odd sight. We give him our horses, guns and gamebag, and walk.

Dampness and silence of the forest. A gunshot in the distance. The whole party stops. Road almost impossible to find. Cloud of mosquitoes, torments that they make us suffer. At 8 o'clock in the evening we reach a meadow. Grass four feet high. Our two Indians utter three savage cries; an answer comes from the distance where we see a fire. Soon we come upon the banks of a river nearly as large as the Seine at Paris, the Saginaw, which the prairie grass had hidden. The last rays of sunset showed us a little Indian canoe, like a long black fish, coming towards us. In it crouched a man whom we took for an Indian. ... I wanted to get into the boat holding my horse by the bridle.

"You must take the saddle off," the supposed Indian said to me, "sometimes they get drowned."

Norman accent; French hard to understand. I take off my saddle, put it in the canoe, and get in beside it. The grown-up Indian gets in the end, holding the bridle. The French Canadian paddles, the horse swimming. Strangeness of the sight. I talk to the boatman; a mixture of French and Indian blood; half savage. The Indian when he gets to the bank, feeling devoured by mosquitoes, wraps himself completely in his blanket and throws himself on the ground. My anxiety about Beaumont. Soon I hear the sound of the canoe again. The moon comes up full. It casts its light on the forest, the stream and the whole scene. Impression impossible to describe.

Two men address us in French; they are French canadians and their language is that of our peasants. We are taken to one of the tree houses that make up Saginaw. Terrible night. Mosquitoes.

Forced to roll up like the Indian in my blanket and to sleep on the floor. Indians sleep at the door with their dogs.

(Tocqueville, p. 136)

We go into the prairie. Inexpressible torment caused by mosquitoes. We see some long snakes. We ask the French Canadian why he does not follow us into the long grass. He is badly shod, says he, and afraid of the rattlesnakes. So there are some. Many in the prairie. The Indians have a cure which stops them dying. We become more circumspect. We see humming-birds for the first time. A storm that day. Beautiful sight. Calm preceding it. Buzzing of insects, bursts of thunder, its almost endless echo in the solitudes that surround us.

(Tocqueville, p. 140)

(Tocqueville, p. 140)

(Tocqueville, p. 141)

***

When a new settler arrives, he goes to live with a neighbor, if there is one. If there is not, he puts up a tent.

The first operation is to clear the field, which he does with the help of laborers. The expense of this work is estimated at 3 dollars per acre of land (including the clearing and erection of fences). When the land is thus prepared, the new-settler sows an acre of potatoes, and sows wheat or corn in the rest according to the nature of the soil. Corn will do in the dampest soil because it is sown in spring. The new-settler has to bring provisions for at least six months. Two barrels of corn for himself and his family, and one barrel of salted pork will be enough: the latter item costs 14 dollars. Tea does for drink.

It is generally calculated that to establish a new settlement one must start with 150 to 200 dollars in hand. You spend 100 dollars buying the land, and get 80 acres for that sum; the rest is needed for the expenses of the initial settlement and incidentals. With that money the new-settler also buys animals which do not cost much to feed. They are let loose in the woods with a bell, and graze freely. A laborer costs one dollar when he is not fed, 6 shillings when he is. Oxen are used on the work costing 12 shillings a day.

- information provided us on 30 June, 1831 near Pontiac by a young Scottish doctor, a new settler

(Tocqueville, p. 215)

(Tocqueville, p. 141)

(Tocqueville, p. 141)

The day we proposed to leave Detroit to return toward the State of New York, we learned that a superb steamboat, the Superior, was passing at that very moment, going to the Great Lakes to make a run through their entire extent. For a long time the papers had been advertising this excursion, which was represented as of a nature deeply to excite the curiosity of amateurs. We went to visit the vessel. It was already almost filled with travelers, with English and Americans who for the most part had no other interest in this trip than that of passing their time agreeably for several days.

The captain assured me we would not be more than eight or ten days en route. The opportunity was tempting. For the first time a great vessel was venturing into these distant regions; and for him who wishes to see things close up, this was not simply a pleasure trip. In short, we decide to engage places; they give us two fairly uncomfortable beds in the Gentlemen's cabin and, in less than an hour, we make the decision, we install ourselves, and we are sailing on the river Ste. Clair [sic] leading to the lake of the same name, which itself leads to Lake Huron.

Of these two hundred individuals with whom I find myself, there are three quarters and a half of whom I have nothing to say. I haven't much more to tell you of the second half of the last quarter. However, you shall know that among our traveling companions in an Englishman, Mr. Vine [Godfrey Thomas Vigne, author of Six Months in America, London, 1832], a fine fellow, an intrepid traveler, who was in Russia last year and who told me yesterday that he hopes to be in Egypt next spring; Mr. Mullon [James Ignatius Mullon, first editor of the Catholic Telegraph], Catholic priest from Cincinnati (Ohio). He is coming to Michillimachinac [sic] for the express purpose of issuing a public challenge to a Presbyterian minister on a point of religious dispute. Mr. Mul[l]on is a large dry man whose Catholic zeal borders on intolerance.

The religious spirit in this region in nothing resembles what it is in the state of New York and especially in the large cities. In New York, in Albany, the different sects live in peace, one beside the other, and seem to be friends. The same union does not exist here between the different communions. "These Presbyterians," Mr. Mul[l]on said to me, "are wicked as vipers; you crush their heads and they rise on their tails." ...

Besides Mr. Mul[l]on we have two other ecclesiastics, a Presbyterian minister and an Episcopalian. The majority of the steamboat is Presbyterian. Consequently, it was the Presbyterian who the other day (Sunday) officiated. The ceremony took place in the gentlemen's cabin. The Episcopalians, who are not so particular, accommodate themselves very well to the service of their brothers in Protestantism, and in general the disciples of one sect hear with equal satisfaction the ministers of a different sect. This may be tolerance, but may I die if it is faith.

As for Mr. Mul[l]on, he is not so indifferent in this matter. He but appeared in the place of the ceremony, and when he saw what was going on there, he fled from hell. As for me, I was sitting near my bed when the service began, and I did not leave my place, listening and sleeping by turn, according as the preacher raised or lowered his voice. ...

[written] Aug. 11-13, 1831

(Pierson, p. 290)

(Tocqueville, p. 141)

It was in this situation that, the ball being over, the orchestra played the Marseillaise for us. I forgot the beautiful in this music to see only the memories which it recalled to me. It was just a year since I had heard it for the first time, sung in Paris on the Place Vendome and in the court of the Palais Royal. This air thus played was like the echo of the cannon of July, still thundering in the world. But who would have been able to predict to me that a year later I should come to hear it on Lake Huron?

We were to remain but an instant at Fort Gratiot, but the weather was so bad and the wind so contrary that we anchored. Two days passed without conditions becoming more favorable, and we had to spend them in a place where there was nothing at all to see. ...

[written] Aug. 11-13, 1831
(Pierson, p. 292)