Homesteading in Michigan
"We were taken to the best inn in Pontiac (for there are two), and as usual we were introduced into the bar-room; here all, from the most opulent to the…
Location: Pontiac, Michigan, United States of America
Note: This article has been excerpted from a larger work in the public domain and shared here due to its historical value. It may contain outdated ideas and language that do not reflect TOTA’s opinions and beliefs.
From Memoir, Letters, and Remains by Alexis de Tocqueville, 1862.
We did not reach Pontiac till after sunset. Twenty very neat and pretty houses, forming so many well-provided shops, a transparent brook, a clearing of about a square half-mile surrounded by the boundless forest: this is an exact picture of Pontiac, which in twenty years hence may be a city. The sight of this place recalled to me what M. Gallatin had said to me a month before in New York: "There are no villages in America, at least, in your meaning of the word. The houses of the cultivators are scattered all over the fields. The inhabitants congregate only in order to set up a sort of market to supply the surrounding population. In these so called villages you find none but lawyers, printers, and shopkeepers."
We were taken to the best inn in Pontiac (for there are two), and as usual we were introduced into the bar-room; here all, from the most opulent to the humblest shopkeeper, assemble to smoke, think, and talk politics on the footing of the most perfect equality. The owner of the house, or rather the landlord, was, I must not say a burly peasant, for there are no peasants in America, but at any rate a very stout gentleman, whose face had about as much of frankness and simplicity as that of a Norman horse-dealer. This man, for fear of intimidating you, never looked you in the face when he spoke, but waited till you were engaged in talking with some one else to consider you at his leisure; he was a deep politician, and, according to American habits, a pitiless querist.
They all looked at us at first with surprise; our travelling dress and our guns proved that we were not traders, and travelling for curiosity was a thing never heard of. In order to avoid explanations, we declared at starting, that we came to buy land. The word had scarcely escaped us, when we discovered that in trying to avoid one evil, we had incurred another still more formidable.
They ceased, indeed, to treat us like extraordinary animals, but each wanted to bargain with us. To get rid of them and their farms, we told our host that before deciding on anything we wished to obtain from him useful information on the price of land, and the course of cultivation. He instantly took us into another apartment, spread out with due solemnity a map of Michigan on the oaken table in the middle of the room, and placing the candle before us, waited in silence for our inquiries.
Though the reader has no intention of settling in an American wilderness, he may perhaps be curious to know how the thousands of Europeans and Americans who every year seek a home in this country, set about it. I shall therefore transcribe the information afforded by our host in Pontiac. We often afterwards had occasion to verify its accuracy.
"This country is not like France," said our host, after listening quietly to all our questions, and snuffing the candle. "With you labor is cheap, and land is dear. Here the price of land is nothing, but hands cannot be bought; I tell you this to show you that to settle in America as well as in Europe, one must have capital, only it must be differently employed. For my part, I should not advise any one to seek his fortune in our wilds, unless he has 150 or 200 dollars at his disposal.”
“In Michigan, an acre never costs more than four or five shillings, when the land is waste. This is about the price of a day's work. In one day, therefore, a laborer may earn enough to purchase an acre. But the purchase made, the difficulty begins. This is the way in which we generally try to get over it.”
"The settler betakes himself to his newly-acquired property with some cattle, a salted pig, two barrels of meal, and some tea. If there happens to be a hut near, he goes to it, and receives temporary hospitality. If not, he pitches his tent in the middle of the wood which is to be his field. His first care is to cut down the nearest trees; with them he quickly builds the rude log-house which you must have seen. With us, the keep of cattle costs nothing. The emigrant fastens an iron bell to their necks, and turns them into the forest. Animals thus left to themselves seldom stray far from the dwelling.”
"The greatest expense is the clearing. If the pioneer brings with him a family able to help him in his first labors, the task is easy. But this is seldom the case. The emigrant is generally young, and if he has children they are small. He is therefore obliged either himself to supply all the wants of his family, or to hire the services of his neighbors. It costs from four to five dollars to clear an acre. The ground once prepared, the new owner lays out an acre in potatoes and the rest in wheat and maize. Maize is a providential gift in the wilderness; it grows in our marshes, and flourishes under the shade of the forest better than when exposed to the rays of the sun. Maize saves the emigrant's family from perishing, when poverty, sickness, or neglect has hindered his reclaiming sufficient land in the first year. The great difficulty is to get over the years which immediately succeed the first clearing. Afterwards comes competence, and later wealth."
So spake our host. We listened to these simple details with almost as much interest as if we intended to profit by them ourselves. And when he had done, we said to him: "The soil of these forests left to themselves is generally marshy and unwholesome; has the settler who braves the misery of solitude no cause to fear for his life?"
"Cultivation, at first, is always a dangerous undertaking," replied the American, "and there is scarcely an instance of a pioneer and his family escaping, during the first year, the forest fever; sometimes while travelling in the autumn you find all the occupants of a hut attacked by fever, from the emigrant himself down to his youngest child." "And what becomes of these poor creatures when thus struck by Providence?" "They resign themselves and hope for better times." "But have they no prospect of help from their neighbors?" "Scarcely any." "Can they not at any rate procure the aid of medicine?" "The nearest doctor often lives sixty miles off. They do as the Indians do, they die or get well as it pleases God."
We resumed: "Do the ministrations of religion ever reach them?" "Very seldom. As yet we have not been able to set up public worship in our forest. Almost every summer, indeed, some Methodist ministers come to visit the new settlements. The news of their arrival spreads rapidly from dwelling to dwelling: it is the great event of the day. At the time fixed, the emigrant, with his wife and children, makes his way through the scarcely cleared paths in the forest towards the place of meeting.
Settlers flock from fifty miles round. The congregation have no church to assemble in, they meet in the open air under the arches of the forest. A pulpit of rough logs, great trees cut down to serve as seats, such are the fittings of this rustic temple. The pioneers encamp with their families in the surrounding woods. Here for three days and nights, the people scarcely intermit their devotional exercises. You should see the fervent prayers and the deep attention of these men to the solemn words of the preacher. In the wilderness men are seized with a hunger for religion."
"One more question: among us it is generally thought that European emigration mainly peoples the deserts of America; how is it then that since we have been travelling in your forests we have not happened to meet a single European?" At these words, a smile of proud satisfaction spread over the countenance of our host.
"None but Americans," replied he solemnly, "are brave enough to submit to such privations, and are willing to pay such a price for competence. The European emigrant stops in the large towns of the seaboard, or in the surrounding districts. There he becomes a mechanic, a laborer, or a servant. He leads an easier life than in Europe, and appears content that his children should follow his example. The American takes possession of the land, and tries to create out of it a great social position."
After pronouncing the last words, our host was silent. He let an immense column of smoke escape from his mouth, and seemed prepared to listen to what we had to tell him about our plans.
We first thanked him for his valuable information and wise counsels, assured him that some day we should profit by them, and added, "Before fixing in your country, my dear landlord, we intend to visit Saginaw, and we wish to consult you on this point." At the name of Saginaw, a remarkable change came over his features. It seemed as if he had been suddenly snatched from real life and transported to a land of wonders. His eyes dilated, his mouth fell open, and the most complete astonishment pervaded his countenance.
"You want to go to Saginaw!" exclaimed he; "to Saginaw Bay! Two foreign gentlemen, two rational men, want to go to Saginaw Bay! It is scarcely credible." “And why not?" we replied. "But are you well aware," continued our host, "what you undertake? Do you know that Saginaw is the last inhabited spot towards the Pacific; that between this place and Saginaw lies an uncleared wilderness? Do you know that the forest is full of Indians and mosquitoes; that you must sleep at least for one night under the damp trees? Have you thought about the fever? Will you be able to get on in the wilderness, and to find your way in the labyrinth of our forests?"
After this tirade, he paused, in order to judge of the effect which he had produced. We replied : "All that may be true, but we start to-morrow for Saginaw Bay."
Our host reflected for an instant, shrugged his shoulders, and said slowly and positively, "Some paramount interest alone can induce two strangers to take such a step. No-doubt you have a mistaken idea, that it is an advantage to fix as far as possible from any competition?"
We do not answer.
He continues: "Perhaps you are sent by the Canadian Fur Company to establish relations with the Indian tribes on the frontier?"
We maintain our silence.
Our host had come to an end of his conjectures, and he said no more; but he continued to muse on the strangeness of our scheme.
“Have you never been in Saginaw?" we resumed. "I," he answered, "I have been so unlucky as to go thither five or six times, but I had a motive for doing it, and you do not appear to have any." "But you forget, my worthy host, that we do not ask you if we had better go to Saginaw, but only how we can get there most easily."
Brought back thus to the matter in hand, our American recovered his presence of mind and the precision of his ideas. He explained to us in a few words and with excellent practical good sense how we should set about our journey through the wilderness, entered into the minutest details, and provided for every possible contingency. At the end of his recommendations he paused once more, to see if at length we should unfold the mystery of our journey, and perceiving that neither of us had anything more to say, he took the candle, showed us a bedroom, and after giving us a truly democratic shake of the hand, went to finish his evening in the common room.
On the next day we rose with the dawn, and prepared to start. Our host was soon stirring: the night had not revealed to him the motives of our extraordinary conduct. As, however, we appeared quite determined to despise his advice, he dared not return to the charge; but he kept constantly at our side, and now and then reflected, in an under-tone: "I do not well make out what can take two strangers to Saginaw." ...till at last I said to him, as I put my foot into the stirrup, "We have many reasons for going thither, my dear landlord!"
He stopped short at these words, and, looking me in the face for the first time, seemed prepared to receive the revelation of the great mystery. But I, quietly mounting my horse, gave him no other solution than a friendly wave of the hand, after which I trotted off as fast as I could.
Tocqueville, Alexis de. Memoir, Letters, and Remains. Ticknor and Fields, 1862.
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