One hundred and Nineteenth Day.
Konnard House,
Buchanan, Michigan,
September Seventh.
Resumed my journey at two o'clock in the afternoon at a small way place between Niles and Buchanan, where I rested at noon. The heavy rains of the preceding days had left the roads in a most wretched condition, and the distance was considerably lengthened as it was necessary to avoid pools and washouts, so that it took two hours of slow riding to reach my destination. Darby, who had gone forward with my advance agents, was the first to greet me at this place and to inform me of the arrangements made for my lecture in the evening.
As my day's journey had been undertaken leisurely, I started out on a tour of inspection, after having first made comfortable provision for Paul. I found a flourishing village, having a population of something over 2,000, and prettily situated on the St. Joseph River. As I walked in and out through its streets and looked for the last time upon the stream, which for its romantic history and natural charm had forced itself upon my notice so often, I could not avoid a certain feeling of regret that this was to be my last halt in the great State through which I had made such a pleasant and profitable journey. Pictures of orchard and meadow, of wheat field and river, passed in review once more, and with them the recollection of the splendid part the patriots of Michigan bore in the War for the Union, than whom was none more loyal than the heroic Custer, for whose memory I had spoken and received such warm response.
One hundred and Twentieth Day.
Private House,
Rolling Prairie, Indiana,
September Eighth.
Called for my horse at Buchanan at nine o'clock in the morning, intending to stop at New Buffalo, but once on the road, I decided instead to make this village my evening objective. A heavy rain-storm, setting in early in the forenoon, compelled me to take refuge at a farm house for about an hour, where I was initiated into the home life of the Northern Indiana "Hoosier." I am sorry to say that during this day's ride I encountered the worst roads and the dullest people of my journey. Many who have resided in this part of Indiana for thirty and even forty years are not only exceedingly illiterate, but know much less of the topography of the country than the average Indian—and absolutely nothing of the adjacent towns. As a consequence I was obliged to trust to chance, which brought me to Galion, a tiny hamlet on the outskirts of a swamp, where I had dinner. My ride thither was made under circumstances which suggested the ride of the belated Tam O'Shanter, and while my tortures could not compare with his, they were none the less acute while they lasted. I was met on the edge of the swamp by a swarm of mosquitoes—known in France as petite diables—who forced their attention upon me without cessation, in spite of the fact that I urged my horse forward at breakneck speed, Paul's steaming flanks and mire-covered legs attesting to the struggle, when we drew up in front of Galion Inn.
