"Will You Go Up To Town, Sir?" Was The Question With Which I Was Saluted
By The Drivers Of A Throng Of Vehicles Of All Sorts, As Soon As I Reached
The Land.
They were ranged along a firm sandy beach between the lake and
the river of Milwaukie.
On one side the light-green waters of the lake, of
crystalline clearness, came rolling in before the wind, and on the other
the dark thick waters of the river lay still and stagnant in the sun. We
did not go up to the town, but we could see that it was compactly built,
and in one quarter nobly. A year or two since that quarter had been
destroyed by fire, and on the spot several large and lofty warehouses had
been erected, with an hotel of the largest class. They were of a fine
light-brown color, and when I learned that they were of brick, I inquired
of a by-stander if that was the natural color of the material. "They are
Milwaukie brick," he answered, "and neither painted nor stained; and are
better brick besides than are made at the eastward." Milwaukie is said to
contain, at present, about ten thousand inhabitants. Here the belt of
forest that borders the lake stretches back for several miles to the
prairies of Wisconsin. "The Germans," said a passenger, "are already in
the woods hacking at the trees, and will soon open the country to the
prairies."
We made a short stop at Racine, prettily situated on the bank among the
scattered trees of an oak opening, and another at Southport, a rival town
eleven miles further south. It is surprising how many persons travel, as
way-passengers, from place to place on the shores of these lakes. Five
years ago the number was very few, now they comprise, at least, half the
number on board a steamboat plying between Buffalo and Chicago. When all
who travel from Chicago to Buffalo shall cross the peninsula of Michigan
by the more expeditious route of the railway, the Chicago and Buffalo line
of steamers, which its owners claim to be the finest line in the world,
will still be crowded with people taken up or to be set down at some of
the intermediate towns.
When we awoke the next morning our steamer was at Chicago. Any one who had
seen this place, as I had done five years ago, when it contained less than
five thousand people, would find some difficulty in recognizing it now
when its population is more than fifteen thousand. It has its long rows of
warehouses and shops, its bustling streets; its huge steamers, and crowds
of lake-craft, lying at the wharves; its villas embowered with trees; and
its suburbs, consisting of the cottages of German and Irish laborers,
stretching northward along the lake, and westward into the prairies, and
widening every day. The slovenly and raw appearance of a new settlement
begins in many parts to disappear. The Germans have already a garden in a
little grove for their holidays, as in their towns in the old country, and
the Roman Catholics have just finished a college for the education of
those who are to proselyte the West.
The day was extremely hot, and at sunset we took a little drive along the
belt of firm sand which forms the border of the lake. Light-green waves
came to the shore in long lines, with a crest of foam, like a miniature
surf, rolling in from that inland ocean, and as they dashed against the
legs of the horses, and the wheels of our carriage, the air that played
over them was exceedingly refreshing.
When we set out the following day in the stage-coach for Peru, I was
surprised to see how the settlement of Chicago had extended westward into
the open country. "Three years ago," said a traveller in the coach, "it
was thought that this prairie could neither be inhabited nor cultivated.
It is so level and so little elevated, that for weeks its surface would
remain covered with water; but we have found that as it is intersected
with roads, the water either runs off in the ditches of the highways, or
is absorbed into the sand which lies below this surface of dark vegetable
mould, and it is now, as you perceive, beginning to be covered with
habitations."
If you ever go by the stage-coach from Chicago to Peru, on the Illinois
river, do not believe the glozing tongue of the agent who tells you that
you will make the journey in sixteen hours. Double the number, and you
will be nearer the truth. A violent rain fell in the course of the
morning; the coach was heavily loaded, nine passengers within, and three
without, besides the driver; the day was hot, and the horses dragged us
slowly through the black mud, which seemed to possess the consistency and
tenacity of sticking-plaster. We had a dinner of grouse, which here in
certain seasons, are sold for three cents apiece, at a little tavern on
the road; we had passed the long green mound which bears the name of Mount
Joliet, and now, a little before sunset, having travelled somewhat less
than fifty miles, we were about to cross the channel of the Illinois canal
for the second or third time.
There had once been a bridge at the crossing-place, but the water had
risen in the canal, and the timbers and planks had floated away, leaving
only the stones which formed its foundation. In attempting to ford the
channel the blundering driver came too near the bridge; the coach-wheels
on one side rose upon the stones, and on the other sank deep into the mud,
and we were overturned in an instant. The outside passengers were pitched
head-fore-most into the canal, and four of those within were lying under
water. We extricated ourselves as well as we could, the men waded out, the
women were carried, and when we got on shore it was found that, although
drenched with water and plastered with mud, nobody was either drowned or
hurt.
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