Willard W. Glazier

Detroit and Her Avenues of Approach.—Competing Lines.—London in Canada.—The Strait and the Ferry.—Music on the Waters.—The Home of the Algonquins.—Teusha-grondie.—Wa-we-aw-to-nong.—Fort Ponchartrain and the Early French Settlers.—The Red Cross of St. George.—Conspiracy of Pontiac.—Battle of Bloody Run.—The Long Siege.—Detroit's First American Flag.—Old Landmarks.—The Pontiac Tree.—Devastation by Fire.—Site of the Modern City.—New City Hall.—Public Library.—Mexican Antiquities.

Four lines of railway leading westward from Niagara, place Buffalo and Detroit en rapport with each other, through their connecting steel rails, and compete for the patronage of the traveler. In addition to this, there are not less than two lines by water, thus affording the tourist—if he develops a desire to tempt the waves of Old Erie—ample scope for his choice. The Lake Shore route takes one through a continuous succession of ever-changing landscapes on the southern shore of Lake Erie, and skirts the two great States of Ohio and Pennsylvania before reaching Michigan. It is, perhaps, the preferable route by rail, looking at it from a purely Æsthetic standpoint. The Great Western Road crosses, at Suspension Bridge, the famous chasm cut by Niagara, in its recession from Ontario, and gives a faint conception, as seen in the distance, of the glorious Falls themselves. The roar and rush of water—at the rate of twenty-five million tons per minute—is borne down the deeply-cut channel, and clouds of spray are visible from the car windows. Below the bridge the swift drifts and eddies can be seen foaming on their way to the whirlpool, a mile and a half further down. This route also takes the traveler through London, Canada, a quaint old English town of twenty thousand inhabitants, on the Thames River. The place is brimming over with localities the names of which, carried in the affections of her settlers across the ocean, serve as reminders of the old London left forever behind them on Britannia's Isle. Blackfriar's Bridge and Westminster Bridge both cross the new Thames, and Kensington and Covent Garden market belong also to the transplanted nomenclature. On Saturdays the great square in the heart of the town is filled with marketers and hucksters of all descriptions, and every kind of merchandise, from a feather bed to a table knife, is there bought and sold. Squaws and Indians and quaintly dressed women commingle with the crowd and sell their various wares. The scene is very picturesque, and wears an atmosphere of being a hundred years old.

The Grand Trunk Road—the most northerly of the three routes leading through Canada—has nothing except its easy-going time to recommend it to favor. The traveler on this road stands a fair chance of missing his connecting links in the great railway chain which interthreads the continent east and west, or of being delayed for hours at a time by running off the rails. The Canada Southern is a newly completed road, and is said to be the most direct and shortest of all the competing lines. This route follows the windings of the northern shore of Lake Erie, just opposite from the Lake Shore Road on the southern side, and the shifting landscapes are perhaps quite as full of natural beauty.

Detroit, the fair "City of the Strait," spreads itself along the river front for miles, and the approach from Windsor, on the opposite shore, is suggestive of the pictured lagoons of Venice, Queen of the Adriatic. The Detroit River, or strait, is one of the most beautiful water avenues west of the Hudson. It is from half a mile to a mile wide, is always of a clear green color, and is never troubled by sand bars or anything which might affect its navigation. It has an average depth of twenty-five feet at the wharves and perhaps forty or fifty feet in the centre of the river bed. No floods disturb its calm flow or change the pervading green of its waters. It is, with reason, the pride of the city, and the ferry boats of the several lines plying between Detroit and Windsor are of the most attractive type. In summer a corps of musicians are engaged for the regular trips, and are considered as indispensable to the boat's outfit as the captain or pilot. Their syren strains entice the lounger at the wharf, and he may ride all day, if he chooses, for the sum of ten cents. Whole families spend the day on the river, in this way, taking their dinner in baskets, as they would go to a picnic. The people of Detroit, perhaps, inherit the pleasure-loving characteristics of their French ancestors, or at least they do not seem to have their minds exclusively concentrated on the struggle after the almighty dollar.

Detroit, as the principal mart of the Peninsular State—the nucleus which gradually crystallized into the heart of Michigan—has an early history of thrilling interest; the site of the present populous city of a hundred and twenty thousand souls was long ago, in the shadowy years of its Indian lore, the home of a dusky tribe of the Algonquin family—a race which was once as populous and widespread as the waves of the ocean.

In 1610 the first white man who set foot on these wild and unexplored shores found it occupied by the clustered wigwams of a peaceful Indian village named Teushagrondie.

Another of its ancient names was "Wa-we-aw-to-nong," meaning round by, in allusion to its circuitous way of approach.

In 1679, the Griffin, under La Salle—the first vessel that ever sailed these inland seas—anchored off the group of islands at the entrance to Detroit River. Peaceful Indian tribes were scattered along the banks, and the white man was received with friendly overtures.

In 1701, La Motte Cadillac founded Detroit. He erected a military fort on the site of the future city, which he named after his French patron, Pontchartrain. It was surrounded by a strong stockade of wooden pickets, with bastions at each angle. A few log huts with thatched roofs of straw and grass were built within the enclosure, and as the number of settlers increased the stockade was enlarged, until it included about a hundred houses closely crowded together. The streets were very narrow, with the exception of a wide carriage road or boulevard which encircled the town just within the palisades. The object of the establishment of this military post was to aid in securing to the French the large fur trade of the northwest, and it was also a point from whence the early Jesuit fathers extended their missionary labors.

The little military colony was the centre of the settlement, and the Canadian dwellings were scattered up and down the banks above and below the fort for miles. The river almost washed the foot of the stockade—Woodbridge street being at that time the margin of the water—and three large Indian villages were within the limits of the settlement. Below the fort were the lodges of the Pottawattomies, on the eastern shore dwelt the Wyandots, and higher up Pontiac and the Ottawas had pitched their wigwams.

Fort Pontchartrain remained in the possession of the French until 1760, when, by the fall of Quebec, it fell into the hands of the British, and was surrendered to Major Robert Rogers on the twelfth of September. The Red Cross of St. George now supplanted the Fleur-de-lis of France, and the change to British rule was ill relished by the surrounding Indian tribes, who had been the firm friends and allies of the French. The well known Pontiac conspiracy grew out of this change of administration, and a general massacre of the whites was determined upon. Pontiac, chief of the Ottawas, was the leading spirit of the bloody plot, and so well laid were his plans that ten out of the thirteen posts which were simultaneously attacked fell before their savage onsets. The post at Detroit, at that time under command of Major Gladwyn, was only saved through the timely betrayal of Pontiac's plot, by Catherine, a beautiful Ojibway girl, who dwelt in the village of the Pottawattomies, and who had become much attached to Major Gladwyn, of the Fort. The day before the intended massacre she brought him a pair of moccasins which she had made for him, and then revealed the intended surprise of Pontiac. The garrison and occupants of the fort were supported by two small vessels, the Beaver and the Gladwyn, which lay anchored in the river.

On the morning of May sixth, 1763, a large flotilla of birch canoes, filled with warriors lying flat on their faces, crossed the river above the Port, landing just beyond the banks of Bloody Run, or Parent's Creek, as it was then called. About ten o'clock, sixty chiefs, with Pontiac at their head, marched to the Port and demanded admittance. It was granted, but all preparation was made on the part of Gladwyn to repel the first sign of treachery. Every soldier was armed to the teeth, and the eagle eye of Gladwyn watched every movement of Pontiac, as that brave made a speech of mock friendship. When the savages discovered the failure of their plans, their disappointed rage knew no bounds, and after passing out of the gates of the Fort, their mad thirst for blood was only glutted by massacres of isolated families, and the tomahawk and scalping knife sealed the doom of many an unhappy victim who that day crossed the path of Pontiac's warriors.

From this hour Detroit was in a state of siege, and for eleven long months the siege continued. Bravely the little band at the Fort held out until reinforcements arrived—Captain Dalzell, with a force of three hundred regulars, coming to their aid. A few days afterwards—at two o'clock on the morning of July thirty-first—an attack was made on the Indians, who were stationed along the banks of Parent's Creek, about a mile and a half from the Fort. The troops neared the narrow, wooden bridge which spanned the creek, when suddenly, in the gloom of night, the Indian war-whoop burst on their ears, and a blaze of leaden death followed. Captain Dalzell rushed to the front across the bridge, leading his men forward, but their foes were not to be seen.

Bewildered in the gloom, the English troops were obliged to fall back to the fort and wait for daylight before renewing the attack. Hundreds of Indians lay in ambuscade along the river, whither the soldiers were obliged to pass on their way to the Fort, and the creek ran red with their blood. The waters of the little stream, after this crimson baptism, were re-christened with the name of Bloody Run. The survivors entered the Fort next morning with a loss of seventy killed and forty wounded.

During the war of the Revolution, Detroit was subjected to greater annoyance from Indian tribes than before, but this was the only way in which the war affected it. Through the treaty of Greenville, made by General Wayne with the red men, in August, 1795, Detroit and all the region of the northwest became the property of the United States, and in 1796 Captain Porter, from General Wayne's army, took possession of the post, and flung to the breeze the first American banner that ever floated over the soil of the Peninsular State.

"Pontiac's Grate" was the eastern entrance to the town, and occupies the site of the old United States Court House. In 1763, a rude chapel stood on the north side of St. Ann street—nearly in the middle of the present Jefferson avenue—while opposite was a large military garden, in the centre of which stood a block house, where all the councils with the Indians were held. These were the only public buildings in the town.

The "Pontiac Tree," behind which many a soldier took shelter on the night of the bloody battle at Parent's Creek, and whose bark is fabled to have been thickly pierced with bullets, stood as an old landmark for years, on the site of the ancient field of conflict, and many a stirring legend is told of it.

On June eleventh, 1805—just five months after Michigan was organized as a territory—Detroit was laid in ruins by a wholesale conflagration, which left only two houses unharmed. An act of Congress was passed for her relief, and thus, through baptisms of fire and blood, and through tribulation, has she arisen to her present proud estate. The stranger landing on these shores now is struck with the handsome general appearance of the city—its clean, wide streets, varying in width from fifty to two hundred feet—its elegant business blocks and pervading air of enterprise. The ground on which the city stands rises gradually from the river to an elevation of thirty or forty feet, thus affording both a commanding prospect and excellent drainage. Detroit is an authorized port of entry, and is about seven miles distant from Lake St. Clair and eighteen miles from Lake Erie. Ship and boat building has been an extensive branch of business here, and in 1859 there were nine steam saw mills located in the city, sawing forty million feet of lumber annually. There are also works for smelting copper ore two miles below the city, or rather within that suburban portion of the city known as Hamtramck.

Among the first objects of interest which attract the stranger's attention are the new City Hall and the Soldiers' Monument. The City Hall, fronting on one side of the square known as the Campus Martius, is a structure of which any city in the land might be proud. It is built of Cleveland sandstone, and faces on four streets,—being two hundred feet long on Woodward avenue and Griswold street, with a width of ninety feet on Fort street and Michigan avenue.

It is built in the style of the Italian renaissance, with Mansard roof and a tower rising from the centre of the building, adorned at its four corners with colossal figures fourteen feet high, representing "Justice," "Industry," "Arts," and "Commerce." Its height from the ground to the top of the tower is a hundred and eighty feet, and the three ample stories above the basement furnish accommodation to the city and county offices, in addition to the Circuit and Recorder's Courts. The walls are frescoed, the floors laid in mosaics of colored marbles, and the Council Chamber and other public rooms are furnished with black walnut chairs and desks, and paneled in oak. With these exceptions, there is no woodwork about the immense building. Everything, from basement to dome, is brick and iron and stone. Even the floors are built in delicate arches of brick and iron, and iron staircases follow the windings of the tower to its dizzy top. It is reckoned fireproof. The exterior is curiously carved, and two large fountains adorn the inclosing grounds. The estimated cost of the building is about six hundred thousand dollars.

From the airy outlook of the City Hall Tower, Detroit appears like a vast wheel, many of whose streets diverge like spokes from this common centre, reaching outward until they touch, or seem to touch, the wooded rim of the distant horizon. The hub of this immense wheel is the triangular open space called the Campus Martius, and the Soldiers' Monument, occupying the centre of the Campus Martius, is also the centre of this imaginary hub. Michigan avenue—one of the long arms of the wheel—loses itself in the western distance, and is called the Chicago road. Woodward avenue leads into the interior, toward Pontiac, and Gratiot avenue goes in the direction of Port Huron. Fort street, in yet another direction, guides the eye to Fort Wayne and the steeples of Sandwich, four miles away. Toward the southern or river side of the city, the resemblance to the wheel is nearly lost, and one sees nothing but compact squares of blocks, cut by streets crossing each other at right angles and running parallel and perpendicular to the river. Between the Campus Martius and Grand Circus Park there are half a dozen or more short streets, which form a group by themselves, and break in somewhat on the symmetry of the larger wheel, without destroying it. This point gives the best view of Detroit to be obtained anywhere about the city.

The Soldiers' Monument is a handsome granite structure, fifty-five feet in height, the material of which was quarried from the granite beds of Westerly, Rhode Island, and modeled into shape under the superintending genius of Randolph Rogers, of Rome, Italy. It is surmounted by a massive allegorical statue, in bronze, of Michigan, and figures of the soldier and sailor, in the same material, adorn the four projections of the monument; while bronze eagles with spread wings are perched on smaller pedestals in the intermediate spaces. Large medallions, also in bronze, with the busts of Grant, Lincoln, Sherman and Farragut, in low relief, cover the four sides of the main shaft, and higher up the following inscription is imprinted against the white background of granite:—

"Erected by the people of Michigan
in honor of the martyrs who fell
and the heroes who fought
in defence of Liberty and Union."

The bronzes and ornaments were imported from the celebrated foundry at Munich, Bavaria, and the cost of the monument—donated exclusively by private subscription—amounted to fifty-eight thousand dollars. The unveiling of the statue took place April ninth, 1872.

Another feature of the city is the Public Library, founded in March, 1865, and at present occupying the old Capitol, until the new and elegant Library building now in process of construction is completed.

Beginning entirely without funds, ten years ago, it can now exhibit a muster roll of twenty-five thousand volumes, and is fairly started on the high road to fortune. There is a kind of poetic justice in the fact that its principal source of revenue accrues from county fines and penalties. Here is a knotty question for the divinity doctors, for in this case, at least, good is born of evil. The library is under the control of the Board of Education, and was given an existence from the State constitution. Some very rare volumes of Mexican antiquities have recently been purchased from England by the School Board and added to the library, at a cost of four hundred dollars. They contain a pictorial and hieroglyphic history of the Aztec races occupying Mexico when Cortes came over from a foreign shore with his Spanish galleons. The earliest date goes back to 1324, and the strange figures in the centre of the page are surrounded by devices indicating cycles of thirteen years, four of which made a great cycle, or a period of fifty-two years. The deeds of the Aztec king, Tenuch, and his successors, are here recorded, and through the efforts of an English nobleman who devoted his life to these researches, we have the translation rendered for us.

The city has a scientific association, two years old, and also a Historical Society, in which her citizens manifest considerable pride.

Detroit has been called, with reason, one of the most beautiful cities of the West. Transformed from the ancient Teushagrondie into the present populous "City of the Strait," she sits like a happy princess, serene, on the banks of her broad river, guarding the gates of St. Clair. Backed by a State whose resources are second to none in the Union, emerging from an early history of bloody struggle and battle, rising like the fabled Phoenix, from the ashes of an apparent ruin, contributing her best blood and treasure to the war for liberty and union, she may well be proud of her past record, her present progress, her advancement toward a high civilization and her assured position.

CHAPTER XII.