At last, the night has dragged itself away; and, O, how welcome are the tips of morning’s “rosy wings,” as they flutter upon the horizon among the hills or over the plains! How welcome are the gray streaks that play in the east, ushering glorious morning upon the skies! How welcome the green fields again, as the curtain of the gloomy night is lifted from the face of Nature! I involuntarily exclaim with Shakspeare:
“Look what streaks
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder East!
Night’s candles are put out; and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain top.”
CHAPTER XXXVII.
Milwaukee and the Lakes.
I REMAINED in Philadelphia a month, then returned to Chicago, in order to begin where I left off and finish my tour. I only remained in the “Garden City” long enough to give my old friends there a call, and to get a slight attack of cholera; then moved northward. I went by railroad to Milwaukee, Wisconsin, a city with a population of sixty thousand, situated on the shore of Lake Michigan, about ninety miles from Chicago.
Milwaukee is remarkable for at least three things. First, it is built, almost exclusively, of a kind of yellow brick that presents a neat appearance I much admire. Second, the German element predominates in the population. In fact, I believe that fully three-fourths of the inhabitants are Germans. Third, the lager-beer there is of a superior quality. So superior is it, that it deserves more than a passing remark. It is everywhere conceded among intelligent persons, that Milwaukee produces the best lager-beer that is made in this country. It has such extraordinary “body.” It has none of that resin soap-and-old-boot taste, which we frequently have the misfortune to discover in beer; but is the pure, unadulterated, unsophisticated lager-beer, even such as nature intended it should be, when she produced the grain, hops and water to make it of. Beside, they give a fellow such a large glass there for five cents! The glass holds about a pint. I confess that I felt conscience-stricken whenever I took one, and only paid five cents for it. That was the price, however. I would have offered more, only I feared that I might be thought verdant; and John Smith does not desire to rest under such an imputation.
Early in September, I embarked for Detroit, Michigan, on the St. Louis, a handsome lake propeller, running between Chicago and Buffalo. Our route was via Lake Michigan, Fort Mackinaw, (in the straits,) Lake Huron, the St. Clair river, Lake St. Clair and the Detroit river. If you will take the trouble to glance at a map of the United States, dear reader, you will perceive that Lakes Huron and Michigan are two parallel lakes running north and south, and that they curve round and intersect each other at the north, forming an inverted letter U.
I look back upon my voyage on the Lakes, as the pleasantest of my life. Our vessel was a first-class steamer, the passengers were all jolly and good-natured, taken collectively; the ladies were amiable, affable and beautiful; and the gentleman were sober, intelligent, agreeable, and good judges of beer.