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.