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Captain Chelsea Blake tries, fails to avoid cholera

January 20, 2012 in History | No comments

I gave a talk in Milwaukee last week. It was so good! (If you were there, thanks for coming!)

As you might guess, my talks tend to deal strictly with ye olde Detroit. But at this event I wanted to make sure I was at least a little relevant to Milwaukee. My grasp on Milwaukee history is pretty tenuous (I left town before becoming insufferable), so it was tough and involved more research than I was prepared for. I think I pulled it off with a little fawning over Solomon Juneau, Milwaukee’s French-Canadian fur-trader founder (his last house still stands in Theresa, Wisconsin), and no small quantity of yammering about the years during which Wisconsin and Michigan were part of the same territory. (Milwaukee and Detroit were even tossed together in Wayne County for a few years in the 1790s.)

Luckily, I always overestimate how nerdy other people are; I can’t imagine anyone in the audience was bored by things they already knew about territorial boundaries and original Juneautown land plats of the 1820s.

At the very last minute, I had the stroke of brilliance to check the index of Early Days in Detroit for a reference to Milwaukee. I wasn’t expecting much, but I got REALLY lucky.

General Friend Palmer spends a couple of chapters reminiscing about the day when Great Lakes steamboat captains were kings, regally strolling the streets of old Detroit in nankeen trousers, beaver top-hats and silk cravats. Maybe something like this?

Oh yes.

But Captain Chelsea Blake wasn’t like this. He was rude and he loved to swear. General Palmer wrote that ”unlike most of the lake captains of those days, who were perfect gentlemen in manners and dress, he affected none of these, no courtly phrases, no ruffled shirt, no blue coat with brass buttons … his use or abuse of the king’s English was somewhat phenomenal.”

He fought in the War of 1812 at Lundy’s Lane and thereafter became a titan of Great Lakes shipping. Though he was never afraid to cuss out a superior or fight Indians, Blake was apparently terrified of dying.

”Blake … stood in mortal fear of death and from the cholera in particular. He went to Milwaukee to escape the latter, but unfortunately he did not.”

Captain Chelsea Blake died from cholera in Milwaukee in 1849.

From a flowery elegy by R. E. Roberts:

Of almost giant size and commanding presence, no son of Neptune ever united in his composition a rarer combination of the qualities which make a true seaman, a safe commander, a genuine hero. Rough as the billows whose impotent assaults on his vessel he ever laughed to scorn; with voice as hoarse as the tempest which he delighted to rule, this gallant son of the sea had withal a woman’s tenderness of heart to answer the appeals of distress. Sincere was the grief of many he had relieved, and universal regret among those who had ever sailed with him, when he fell a victim to the cholera at Milwaukee in the year 1849.

Poor Chelsea Blake!

Ho, all ye travelers West;
If ye are bound across the Lake,
And wish to take the boat that’s best,
Go on the Illinois with Blake.

A veteran, both by land and sea,
He long has braved the stormy main;
And amongst the foremost, too, was he,
In the great fight at Lundy’s Lane.

… Success attend your bonny boat,
The pride and glory of the lake;
And may ye both forever float —
The Illinois and Captain Blake.

From the Milwaukee Commercial Herald, 1843.

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General Friend Palmer’s scrapbooks

June 17, 2011 in Books, General Friend Palmer | No comments

We haven’t visited with General Friend Palmer in forever!  You remember him, right? The author of Early Days in Detroit, casual historian, lover of dilapidated graveyards, cousin of Senator Thomas W. Palmer, my hero?

Here’s a secret: I’ve been calling on him for help for months now, and keeping his insights all to myself — until now.

It was a fluke when I found out that Friend Palmer’s scrapbooks are intact and available for perusal at the Burton Historical Collection. Imagine my surprise when, after waiting for some mundane item I’d requested to float up from the archives, the librarian handed me a creaky old album, full of clippings of the most miscellaneous order. The initials on the inside cover: F.P. And I knew at once.

The scrapbooks are fragile, the paper rippled from age, and they tend to leave little piles of disintegrating matter wherever they are set. This is a crying shame for preservation’s sake. But compared to Clarence Burton’s scrapbooks — which are archived on microfiche — and from a very selfish standpoint, these hard copies are a charm unparalleled.

I adore them. Along with clips of Palmer’s own historical articles in the Free Press and news of local interest, they include clips about Napoleon, the life of Abraham Lincoln, royal celebrities, recipes for longevity (onions: nature’s miracle!), cartoons about wives (oh, wives! always asking for fancy trunks and scarves and things!), homely parables about being nice to your wife and your family, poems, and portraits of comely Victorian ladies.

And perhaps the most delightful thing in the General’s scrapbooks are his own notes.

Remember Colonel David McKinstry, and his museum? Here’s what General Palmer wrote about it in Early Days:

The museum … contained many rare and curious objects, among which were three Egyptian mummies, a fine collection of wax figures, also a variety of beautiful and rare specimens of birds, beasts, minerals, shells, etc; with many interesting curiosities in nature and art. There were many splendid cosmoramic views, and in the evening phantasmagora and phantascopal illusions were exhibited. The museum was quite popular and a source of considerable revenue to the colonel.

Dramatic exhibitions of a light vaudeville character were given in the fourth story, and laughing gas was also administered to those who desired it. This giving of laughing gas was somewhat dangerous to the operator and to spectators as well. A partition extending from the floor to ceiling hemmed in the partaker of the gas from outsiders. Many funny incidents occurred connected with this pastime. While under its influence, the partaker usually acted out his peculiarities or proclivities, laughing boisterously, dancing, boxing with an imaginary foe, declaiming, etc. It was quite a feature and always attracted a large crowd.

I was doing some research about McKinstry and found an article in Palmer’s scrapbooks about the history of Detroit’s museums. And this made me laugh out loud:

A picture captioned “McKinstry’s Museum” ran alongside the story. Palmer crossed it out with a blue “X”. “This is Stowell and Rood’s book store + Not McKinstry’s Museum!” he wrote on one side.

He crossed out the caption; below it, he just wrote: “No!”

Another illustration of a different museum ran with the story, apparently correctly identified, for Palmer wrote beneath it: “I have been there often,” and “Yes, this is so.”

First of all, laughing out loud in the library is the best. Secondly, I’m grateful that General Palmer corrected the record. Later that day, when I pulled the image file on McKinstry’s museum, it contained only a small clip of the image that ran with Palmer’s article. And I just thought in my head: NO!

Thanks, General.

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Detroit historians on weddings and marriages

February 2, 2011 in General Friend Palmer, History, Weddings | 3 comments

Silas Farmer on marriage law in early Detroit. File under: dusky lovers, child brides and the ever-self-important French commandant:

Long before the French came, dusky lovers strayed through the primeval forests, exchanged whispered vows, and made presents of wild roses, water lilies, and fleur de lis. Indian husbands, however, were less attractive than Indian lovers, and the French when they came carried off the fairest of the forest.

… No one was allowed to marry without permission. Even [Alphonse de] Tonty himself, in 1717, was obliged to solicit a marriage permit that he might marry an attractive widow.

… The presence of the commandant was essential to wedding festivities, and there was much formality attendant upon all the preliminaries. The notary, with his quill and ink-horn, was a man of eminent importance on these occasions and the contract of marriage which he drew up specified with exact care the dowry of the bride and named at length all who were present at the wedding.

… Marriages under the English law were solemnized either by the minister or a justice of the peace. The French maidens were not averse to having English suitors, and were so eagerly sought that they often stepped from childhood into married life. Tradition says that when Dr. G.C. Anthon married Miss St. Martin she had a doll in her arms. Where both parties were French, less than thirty years often covered the united ages of both bride and groom.

Where can a modern-day Detroit bride find a ceremonial quill and ink-horn?

Of course, I turned next to General Palmer for early local wedding lore. A browse through his book is important for remembering that marriages, for much of American (nay, human) history, were just short, sweet preludes to death.

The marriage of Elizabeth Clemens — daughter of Judge Christian Clemens, founder of Mt. Clemens — to the auctioneer Sydney Hawkins, for instance:

The wedding was a fine affair and participated in by the then elite of Macomb County. The knot was tied by Elder Colclazer, the handsome presiding elder of the Methodist church, who it was thought was at one time a suitor for the fair bride’s hand. Miss Caroline Whistler, a niece of Mrs. Judge James Abbott, was the bridesmaid and Mr. John V.R. Scott, a young society man of Detroit, and a partner of Mr. Hawkins, was the best man. I may be pardoned for dwelling a little on this happy event, as all the participants were of the first prominence, socially and otherwise. After a brief and happy married life passed in Detroit, Mr. Hawkins died, and his widow returned to Mt. Clemens.

Or the wedding of Matilda Moran (daughter of Judge Charles Moran and Julie Dequindre) to James Watson:

The wedding was a brilliant one and occurred in the old brick Moran mansion on Jefferson Avenue, lately demolished. At it were gathered all the elite of Detroit. The young couple went to housekeeping directly, in the little wooden cottage (still standing) corner of Jefferson Avenue and Riopelle. After a brief married life of a little more than a year the wife passed away.

Or take Friend Palmer’s father-in-law, Judge Benjamin F.H. Witherell, who had a particularly awful streak:

Judge Witherell was married three times, and survived each of his partners. He was first married to Mary A. Sprague, of Poultney, Vermont, in 1824, by whom he had four children, Martha E., James B., Harriet C.M. and Julia A. His first wife died in 1832, being the first victim of the cholera which prevailed to such an alarming extent that year. In 1837, he married for his second wife Miss Delia A. Ingersoll, by whom he had one child, Charles I. She died in 1847, and in 1849 he was married to Miss Cassandra S. Brady, daughter of General Hugh Brady, and who died in 1864, from the effects of a lamp explosion.

Martha, the eldest daughter, a saint if there ever was one, died just on the verge of womanhood. Harriet, the next daughter, married the writer and after thirty years of a happy married life she too passed away to a glorious immortality.

At the Burton Historical Collection, the General’s scrapbooks are filled with newspaper clippings about being a good partner to your wife, learning to relax when your wife nags you, enjoying the elevated state of matrimony in your everyday life, etc. They married in 1851; Harriet died in 1880. He seems to have loved her a lot.

I just found this picture of her and it made me smile. That’s Harriet on the left; her friend Minerva Cole on the right.

[Source]

Tomorrow we’ll bring you an outrageous Detroit society wedding. With newsreel. That’s right!

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Christmas with General Friend Palmer

December 22, 2010 in Best of THE NIGHT TRAIN, Books, History, Holidays | No comments

The good General dedicated a whole chapter of Early Days in Detroit to the celebration of Christmas in the 1830s and 1840s.

santa

From his account, Christmas was a social expression of early Detroit’s convergence of cultural forces. The many New Englanders living in Detroit introduced Christmas trees, the story of Santa Claus, and “the pleasant custom of the interchange of presents.” The Catholics held an “imposing” midnight mass at Ste. Anne’s. (Protestants, General Palmer notes repeatedly, did not really participate in Christmas, at least not as a religious occasion.) And on Christmas Eve, according to a German custom, everyone stayed up all night to make noise.

It was quite the custom the night before Christmas to usher in the day with the blowing of horns and firing of guns, commencing at 12 o’clock and keeping it up until daylight … Woe betide the English speaking or Protestant family who had a German girl for a domestic. Her admirers would commence at the appointed hour and keep it up till morn. The German maid would be in eager anticipation of the opening of the fusilade and grievously disappointed if it did not occur according to program.

Let’s face it: it wouldn’t be a holiday in early Detroit without some reckless endangerment.

On Christmas day, the stores closed at noon, and the “horsey portion of the male community” came out for a French pony race on Jefferson Avenue (or right on the frozen river, if it wasn’t snowy enough on the street). Indians who lived in nearby settlements would come downtown to join the party and a local milliner would give them free festive hats.

At countryside homes, gigantic Yule logs were hauled in from the woods and burned in the hearth, and Christmas dinners were served of “turkey, with the pumpkin and mince pies, white fish and always the new cider, that had just commenced to sparkle.”

Nearly two centuries later: that quaint New England custom of passing gifts around had blossomed into terrifying throngs of crowds at shopping malls. The Indians have long since been forcibly removed beyond the Mississippi by the government. No one races ponies on the river anymore because — my God, that sounds really dangerous. There are cars where there were once carioles. And Santa skydives over Detroit with a parachute made of balloons.

airplane santa

(via Virtual Motor City, where you can view a tremendous collection of Christmas photos from the 1920s to the 1970s or so. Guaranteed Christmas cheer.)

As an adult I have been rather ambivalent about Christmas, although I do appreciate the chance that it gives all of us to just put the brakes on for a few days and cook/drink a lot. I also just bought a Christmas dress, but I appreciate any occasion to buy a dress, and will sometimes invent one.

But this frontier street party sounds like my kind of Christmas. Just-sparkling cider and mince pie? Just what the doctor ordered.

Merry Christmas/happy holidays, readers.

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The Fourth of July in Early Detroit: FIREBALLS!

July 1, 2010 in History | 2 comments

It’s a very special Fourth of July with Friend Palmer for you to kick off your holiday. The General writes about John Owen, a clerk at a general store, and Owen’s friend Captain Edwards, and their hilaaaarious Independence Day antics:

The then city marshal Adna Merritt [was] a nervous, excitable little body who used to get himself all tangled up trying to stop these two from starting and throwing fire balls, balls of cotton wicking soaked in turpentine and re-enforced with twine. It was quite common then on Fourth of July nights and on other nights as well, during the summer season, for the boys to ignite and throw these balls up and down Jefferson Avenue. Merritt tried to put a stop to it but Owen and Captain Edwards were dead against his doing so and supplied all the fire balls necessary from Dr. Chapin’s store. Did you ever see fire balls thrown or did you ever throw them yourself? ‘Tis great fun, and attended with some danger to the hands, and some to property, although I never knew of any harm to come from them. After a short season both Owen and Edwards joined the Methodist church, having gotten religion. No more fire balls from that quarter after that.

On that note, have a safe and happy holiday.

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Tuesday with General Friend Palmer: The Lost Dauphin

April 19, 2010 in Books, History | No comments

ROYALTY SAW DETROIT.

Prince de Joinville and Suite Spent a Day Here, While Dauphin-Hunting.

WHAT.

Along in the latter while thirties and early forties, I was clerk in the book store of Sidney L. Rood in the Cooper Block of Jefferson Avenue, this city. I recall in incident that happened, in which the Prince de Joinville and his suite figured.

As usual, General Friend Palmer has either no gift or no great concern for dates. Luckily, other people kept better records than he did. In 1841, François-Ferdinand-Philippe-Louis-Marie d’Orléans, prince de Joinville, stopped through Detroit on his Great Lakes tour, part of a broader visit to the United States.

In Detroit, they visited with Lewis Cass, who sent them off with a historian who could answer (in French) their questions about Detroit under French rule, since they were curious. They also stopped by Sidney L. Rood where, according to Friend, they “remained quite a time looking over the French books in stock that I submitted for their inspection, and they purchased quite liberally.”

The real excitement in this story is that the Prince de Joinville was en route to Green Bay (travelling on the steamer Columbia) to meet the Reverend Eleazer Williams, who either claimed to be, or was suspected to be, the Lost Dauphin of France.

The legend of the Lost Dauphin — which guessed that Louis-Charles, Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette’s little boy, who allegedly died in prison, had actually been smuggled to safety, and could return to take the throne  — was evidently a pretty saucy topic, even abroad, during the Restoration.

Eleazer Williams was one of dozens and dozens of men who claimed to be the Lost Dauphin, but without knowing any of the other stories, I’ll go right ahead and say his might have been one of the most interesting. Born sometime in the late 1800s, probably to at least one Mohawk parent, Williams made his name as an Episcopalian minister, missionary and self-styled leader of the New York Indian tribes. Under pressure from the government to relocate, and possibly imaging some sort of grand Indian empire, which he could rule, in the west, Williams moved to Green Bay as part of a land settlement.

The Prince de Joinville would later say that his only interest in meeting Eleazer Williams was in the Reverend’s capacity as an Indian leader, but Williams insisted that it was the Prince’s primary mission in travelling to America in the first place, and that the Prince had news to deliver. From My Scrapbook of the French Revolution (1898), here is Williams’ “own account” (who knows if that’s true) of what transpired:

The prince not only started with evident and involuntary surprise when he saw me, but there was great agitation in his face and manner, a slight paleness and a quivering in the lip which I could not help remarking at the time, but which struck me more forcibly afterwards in connection with the whole train of circumstances, and by contrast with his usual self-possessed manner. He then shook me earnestly and respectfully by the hand and drew me immediately into conversation.
… The prince spoke to this effect: “You have been accustomed, sir, to consider yourself a native of this country, but you are not. You are of foreign descent. You were born in Europe, sir, and however incredible it may at first seem to you, I have to tell you: you are the son of a king.”

Williams would say that the Prince had offered him a vast estate if he would renounce his claim to the throne, but he decided to stick to his honorable and modest guns and refuse the offer, which angered the Prince. The Prince, once again, completely denied this story, and of course it’s easy to see who’s more likely to be right in this situation. The story blew over in a few years, but for some time Williams was a minor sensation. He enlisted “historians” to defend his royal cred in the press and even anonymously authored an article of his own repeating the evidence that he was “the Bourbon among us.”

And what was Friend Palmer’s take on Green Bay’s own Lost Dauphin?

It appears that Louis Phillipe had heard that a man named Reverend Eleazer Williams … claimed that he was the son of Louis XVI and Queen Marie Antoinette, and consequently the dauphin and entitled to the throne of France.

… When [the Princes] saw and spoke to him, however, they became convinced he was either a wilful imposter, or a person deceived by foolish stories.

Williams was well-known in Detroit. When the first St. Paul’s church on the east side of Woodward Avenue, between Larned and Congress Streets, was consecrated on August 24, 1837, he read the consecration service.

So now you know. Also, fun fact: there used to be a “Lost Dauphin State Park” in Wisconsin, near Eleazer Williams’ home there. It’s closed now.

More on the Reverend Eleazer Williams here and here.

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Tuesdays with General Friend Palmer: Goose Yokes

March 29, 2010 in Books, History | No comments

(This occasional series on passages dug up in Early Days in Detroit used to run on Fridays. Then I changed my mind.)

I am a little in love with this story tonight. General Friend Palmer begins a chapter dedicated to the early business men of Detroit with the story of Peter John Desnoyers, born in Paris in 1772 and enticed to the United States by a swindler:

Just previous to the French Revolution, a company had been formed in America known as the Sciota Land Co., which opened an agency Paris and offered large inducements to mechanics and artisans of moderate means to invest in its lands. It was represented that they were eligibly located on a large stream called La Belle River, abounding with fish of an enormous size, embracing magnificent forests filled with wild game, that there were no military enrollments and no quarters to find for soldiers.

… After a voyage of 60 days reached Havre de Grace, Md., and thence proceeded to Gallipolis, Ohio, which was said to be within the company’s domains. They arrived there in 1790. Upon reaching this spot they found that the title deeds which they held were worthless, the company of whom they purchased not owning a foot of the land they had sold.

Wow. So, the Desnoyers get all the way here, having sold most of their worldly possessions, without speaking much if any English, without knowing a soul. And they’re completely stranded. Peter J. Desnoyers is 18 years old.

The Desnoyers spent some time with a small community of other French settlers in Ohio, then moved to Pittsburgh, where Peter J. makes the fortunate acquaintance of Michael Dousman. Dousman had heard good things about Michigan and convinced Peter J. to join him en route to the territory, along the same trail covered by Mad Anthony Wayne’s army. (Michael Dousman would later get rich as a fur trader on Makinac Island; during the War of 1812, he was captured by the British, and when he continued to sell goods to their garrison upon his release, he was branded a traitor. More here.) Michael Dousman and Peter J. Desnoyers arrived in Detroit in 1796, when they were both 24.

detroit 1796

(A map of the city in the year Peter Desnoyer came here. Source.)

After some time as an enlisted armorer, Desnoyers — a silversmith by trade — opened a shop with John Piquette in 1803. Two years later, the entire city burned down. According to an article in this Pioneer Society report, Peter Desnoyers hauled all of furniture out to the city limits, near the corner of Jefferson and Woodward, then plunked his five-year-old son Peter under a table to keep an eye on the goods. When that story was reported in the Free Press in 1876, the table was still in good condition and in the younger Peter’s possession.

In the land auction that happened after the fire, Peter bought a lot at the corner of Jefferson and Bates street and re-opened his shop. And what a shop it must’ve been, according to the General:

Mr. Desnoyers was about the first merchant here (that I remember) to keep marbles, the delight of the average boy’s heart in the early days, and I presume they possess the same charm for those of the present day. All the boys attending the old University School on the corner of Bates and Congress Streets nearby used to patronize him extensively. I myself squandered many a penny for marbles at the old gentleman’s store.

Aside from marbles, Mr. Desnoyers kept in his store as great a variety of articles as possible. It was a common remark when a citizen was in quest of an article that was difficult to be obtained elsewhere, that it could be found at Desnoyers’s, which generally turned out to be true. This became so proverbial that on one occasion, a gentleman made a wager with another that he could name an article that Desnoyers could not furnish. It was agreed. They entered the store, and one of them very seriously inquired of the salesman of versatile resources if he had any goose yokes. “Oui, monsieur” was the prompt reply, and he proceeded to a drawer and produced the article asked for. The merriment of the party was beyond reasonable bounds, Mr. Desnoyers entering as heartily into it as his customers.

(ASIDE: In my efforts to find out what a goose yoke is, I have come across this same story about the outrageous wager that a general store would carry goose yokes, one from James Hike’s general store in 1850s Illinois, the other from the Historic Howell Works Company and General Store at the Allaire Village in New Jersey. This must have been some sort of proverbial legend, like an elaborate way to say “everything and the kitchen sink.” Only it’s everything and … goose yokes. And for the record, this is what a goose yoke is.)

The General remembers Mr. Desnoyers as a man of “great perseverance and industry and strict integrity” who nonetheless was not afraid of a really good joke. In 1877, someone whose memory we must take with a grain of salt wrote this of Peter J. Desnoyers, 31 years after his death:

Monsieur Pierre Desnoyers, that fine looking, smiling, sweet-voiced old gentleman whose bon jour! bon jour! would arrest you as the voice of a lute, whose rosy cheeks, fine mouth, pure teeth, and large blue eyes, with that drooping lid, present the portrait of a fine old Frenchman …

The elder Peter J. Desnoyers, who came to Detroit after he lost everything, then lost everything again in the fire, spawned a whole dynasty of high-society Desnoyers with their “elegant, old-fashioned furniture and costly wines” admired by the pleasant company they kept (including the Palmers, by the General’s recollection). In 1835, Peter J. Desnoyers’ daughter Elizabeth married James A. Van Dyke, who served as mayor of Detroit in 1847. Together they bred a whole bunch of Desnoyers Van Dykes.

And it all started with a land scam. So there you have it; now go out, take some chances and make those lemons into ade.

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Thomas W. Palmer, and his Park

March 10, 2010 in Best of THE NIGHT TRAIN, History | 5 comments

“Built in 1885 as a Summer house or Cottage by Thomas W. Palmer (1830-1913), prominent Lumberman, United States Senator, Minister to Spain, and President of the 1893 Chicago World’s Columbian Exposition Commssion.
The land was purchased from the United States Government in 1833 by his Grandfather, Judge James Witherell.

In 1895 Palmer gave 120 acres of adjacent land to the City of Detroit as a park. Two years later the Log Cabin itself was added to the gift. In 1897 the area was officially designated

as Palmer Park.I do

Palmer Pakr Som

Something I hope you all realize about this blog is that I’m playing it by ear. As a former editor, I know better than to go without an editorial plan, but despite a few half-hearted attempts, I don’t have one. I have no formal scholarly training in history at all, let alone Detroit history. I can barely operate our digital camera.

On good days, I like to think that imparts a sense of adventure around here, and on especially self-inflated days, I think that the thrill of discovery is what my blog is really about. On dark days, I feel like a hack of the highest order, and in frustrated moments, I realize I’m a few steps too far behind some pretty obvious details.

Today, for instance, I made the connection between General Friend Palmer, whose memoirs we explore here on a semi-regular basis, and the more famous Detroit Palmer, Thomas W. Palmer, whose sprawling property at present-day 7 Mile and Woodward encompassed Palmer Woods, Palmer Park and the Detroit Golf Club.

They were cousins. OF COURSE. Thomas W. Palmer gave the eulogy at the General’s funeral, the text of which is printed in Early Days in Detroit. Yet I knew so little about Thomas W. until today.

thomas w palmer

He was born in 1830, in a brick house at Jefferson and Griswold. After a year at the University of Michigan, which he gave up because of a problem with his eyes, Palmer left to travel the world with some of his friends from school, paying his way by “the Daguerrean arts.”

Long story short, when he came back to Detroit he got into lumbering, farming and real estate, and then into politics, serving as a state Senator from 1879-1880 and in the US Senate from 1883-1889, where he became an advocate for women’s suffrage. After his term in the Senate, President Benjamin Harrison appointed him Minister to Spain.

His cousin the General shares this story about T.W.’s return to Europe after the traipses of his youth:

After forty one years had passed, Senator Palmer returned to Spain, to Cadiz. Not as a college graduate just released from his Alma Mater and on a voyage of pleasure or adventure, but as the accredited minister of this great republic to the court of Spain.

… One afternoon, in walking around the ramparts, we came across a somewhat dilapidated Spaniard who was seated on the outer wall fishing in the bay.

Senator Palmer accosted him in Spanish and said, “Well, my friend, I see you are fishing here yet after all these years,”

“Yes, Señor, but how many years?”

“Forty years,” responded the senator.

“Oh,” said the chap with the rod, “that was my father.” And they two had, by constant use all the years, at that point worn quite an indenture in the stone coping of the wall.

Thomas W. Palmer inherited the land that is now Palmer Park from his Grandfather, a Supreme Court Judge of the Michigan territory. In 1885, Palmer commissioned a rustic log cabin on the land to use as a summer home.

palmer park log cabin

In 1895, Palmer donated the land to the city of Detroit for use as a park, on the condition that none of the virgin forest be destroyed (it was sometimes claimed that there was a greater variety of indigenous trees and shrubs in Palmer Park than in Europe. Any arborists out there want to take that on?)

In 1897, he donated the cabin, too. The park was dedicated to him the following year.

palmer park log cabin plaque

On the lawn near the cabin is a massive bell, old-world and emerald with patina. Cast in Spain in 1793, then taken to Mexico, it was a gift to the Senator from some of his political friends:

palmer park bell from spain

At one point, Palmer’s cabin was home to other mementos of his service in Spain, including a plow and ox yoke from the convent La Rabida, whose prior convinced Queen Isabella to send Christopher Columbus on his expedition to the Americas. And General Friend writes adoringly of some of Lizzie Palmer’s “old-time” furniture, as well as some curious leather fire buckets he admired.

Palmer Park is also home to the Merrill Fountain, which was commissioned by Lizzie and unveiled at Campus Martius, in front of the old Detroit Opera House, in 1901. If you zoom in really close on this image of Woodward Avenue in 1917 (via Shorpy), you can see where it used to be:

merrill fountain

The turtle is beheaded, but I love the cattails and the bearded fish:

palmer park merrill fountain

palmer park merrill fountain 2

The fountain is no longer in working order. It was moved to Palmer Park in 1926.

For more on Thomas W. Palmer, I enjoyed skimming this biography, by Agnes M. Burton.

But for more, extraordinarily more, on Palmer Park, please check out this beautiful Souvenir, published by the Silas Farmer Company in 1908.

souvenir

“Asked what his motive was in donating Palmer Park to the people of Detroit,” writes the author, “His answer was: ‘The good of everybody.’”

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Fridays with General Friend Palmer: “Convenience itself”

February 5, 2010 in Books, History | 5 comments

IN the earlier days the streets of Detroit in the absence pavements were very bad in the fall and spring seemed to predominate Cabs and public hacks were in a very lim ted number Peter Cooper colored Jackson a colored barber and George lierron an English barber were about the only persons owning and operating public conveyances and t heir services as may be supposed were taxed to the limit Men wore their heavy boots pants tucked inside and in the outskirts of the city a few boards and planks were laid down lengthwise so that people could manage with difficulty to get along In such a state of things the single two wheeled horsecart was very much in evidence and was a most important institution It was an invention of the old French habitants of the country They were used by all classes and were convenience itself A buffalo robe or blanket was spread on the bottom of the cart two or three ottomans or stools were put in in the absence of other covering for the bottom or floor of the cart hay or straw was used and the horse understanding his business as well as his master off he plodded ofttimes half leg deep in mud to church shopping or to make fashionable calls The carts were mighty enjoyable as I can testify having time and again been the driver on many many occasions sitting perched up in front and the ladies enjoying the bottom of the vehicle protected from the rough boards by soft buffalo robes or other means occasionally the lynch pin that apparently held the cart together would get out of place and the occupants be dumped in the mud!
When General Macomb visited Detroit Mrs Hester Scott took him around the city in one of these French horse carts borrowed for the purpose from Mr HD Harrison the Jefferson Avenue dry goods merchant and it was said that the general enjoyed it hugely Mrs Scott and her three daughters are no doubt well 646
These French carts were very enjoyable also in fine weather on short excursions with the girls into the surrounding woods particularly in October when they had put on their gay autumn attire and the hickory nuts and hazel nuts were plentiful How full of pleasure those trips were The distance to the woods was not great they came down to Elizabeth Street on the west side of Woodward Avenue and down to about Hancock Avenue on the east side and out on Grand River Avenue on the Jones farm not far from Perkins’s tavern and out on Michigan Avenue they came down to where is the hay market once Woodbridge grove and just in the rear of this grove was an immense field of hazelnut bushes which in the season were loaded down with nuts Out Woodward Avenue about where is Farnsworth Street were many acres of blackberry bushes loaded with their delicious fruit in the season And then the excursions in these carts down to that lovely driveway Lovers Lane in the vicinity of what is now Fort Wayne The lane came into the River road about where Winterhalter’s beer garden was and extended out quite a distance toward the Dix settlement My friend Ross in one of his articles in relation to early Detroit says of this lane and as the incident he relates to it is true I copy it

horse drawn cart

[Source]

Welcome back to Fridays with General Friend Palmer! So far it hasn’t been a complete disaster, so let’s continue! This week, General Palmer wistfully recalls Detroit’s bygone horse cart days. Maybe the Streets of Old Detroit exhibit at Detroit Historical Museum should explore incorporating an unpaved thoroughfare or two. It will be immersive! Wear boots!

I like when he casually mentions that sometimes the carts just fell apart.

In the earlier days the streets of Detroit, in the absence of pavements, were very bad in the fall and spring; mud seemed to predominate … Men wore their heavy boots, pants tucked inside, and in the outskirts of the city, a few boards and planks were laid down lengthwise so that people could manage, with difficulty, to get along.

In such a state of things, the single two wheeled horsecart was very much in evidence and was a most important institution. It was an invention of the old French habitants of the country. They were used by all classes and were convenience itself. A buffalo robe or blanket was spread on the bottom of the cart, two or three ottomans or stools were put in (in the absence of other covering for the bottom or floor of the cart, hay or straw was used), and the horse … off he plodded, ofttimes half leg deep in mud, to church, shopping, or to make fashionable calls. The carts were mighty enjoyable, as I can testify, having time and again been the driver on many, many occasions, sitting perched up in front and the ladies enjoying the bottom of the vehicle, protected from the rough boards by soft buffalo robes or other means; occasionally the lynch pin that apparently held the cart together would get out of place and the occupants be dumped in the mud.

Even famous people thought they were kinda fun!

… When General Macomb visited Detroit, Mrs. Hester Scott took him around the city in one of these French horse carts, borrowed for the purpose from Mr H.D. Harrison, the Jefferson Avenue dry goods merchant, and it was said that the general enjoyed it hugely.

And they were even a little flirty in the fairer seasons:

These French carts were very enjoyable also in fine weather on short excursions with the girls into the surrounding woods, particularly in October when they had put on their gay autumn attire and the hickory nuts and hazel nuts were plentiful. How full of pleasure those trips were! The distance to the woods was not great … out on Michigan Avenue, they came down to where is the hay market (once Woodbridge grove) and just in the rear of this grove was an immense field of hazelnut bushes which in the season were loaded down with nuts. Out Woodward Avenue, about where is Farnsworth Street, were many acres of blackberry bushes loaded with their delicious fruit in the season. And then the excursions in these carts down to that lovely driveway, “Lovers Lane,” in the vicinity of what is now Fort Wayne. The lane came into the River road, about where Winterhalter’s beer garden was, and extended out quite a distance toward the Dix settlement.

Sigh. The good old days!

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Fridays with General Friend Palmer: A most exciting fire

January 28, 2010 in Art, Books, Culture, History | 5 comments

I have always approached weekly themed blog posts, especially those involving alliteration, with trepidation. But then I found Early Days in Detroit, the memoirs of historical Detroit old guy General Friend Palmer (1820 – 1906), and I can’t think of any better way to dig through its 1000+ pages, each of them host to at least one illuminating, endearing, hilarious or otherwise just great anecdote, than to share some of the General’s memories of 19th-century Detroit every week.

So, we’ll see if this sticks. But for this Friday, at least, welcome to Fridays with General Friend Palmer. If you hate this I’ll stop it, but I don’t think you’ll hate this.

This week: The General has a whole chapter on Detroit fires that he remembers, specifically fires that destroyed famous buildings. When a wool mill on Randolph street caught fire in the summer of 1832, Friend writes, it “lit up the whole county of Wayne and parts of Canada, apparently … Out where we lived, on Woodward at John R., the illumination was so great one could see to read by it.”

I was really taken with his account of the fire on the steamer Great Western, which went up in flames while it was docked in Detroit sometime around 1838 (his memory was bad when he wrote his book and he died before his editors could help him do rewrites):

One important fire, and so considered at the time … and that was the partial burning of the then finest and most magnificent steamer on the lakes, the Great Western, while lying at her dock, Gillett & Desnoyer’s, near foot of Shelby Street. It happened about 1838 on a summer Sunday afternoon, about 5 o’clock. I have forgotten the exact date. She had arrived that forenoon on her down trip from Chicago to Buffalo. I was present at the fire with engine company No. 4 (that far off time, it seems but yesterday). She was the pride of the lakes, and of her owner and commander, Captain Augustus Walker. She was the first steamer to have her cabins on the upper deck, passengers heretofore having had to dive down between decks if they had any idea of sleeping or eating, and most of them had.

The news that this steamer was ablaze spread like wildfire and hurried everyone to the scene; indeed, all Detroit was on hand. The engines hustling down Wayne and Shelby Streets came near running over the men and boys who had hold of the drag ropes, so wild was the excitement. No. 4 engine company came first in this encounter. It had its station on the dock between the warehouse and the burning steamer, and three of its members had the post of honor during the fire. William Green, the foreman who had the pipe, was assisted by Barney Campau and Kin Dygert. They held the fort, so to speak. They were stationed on the upper deck of the steamer abaft the wheelhouse.

The scene lives in an oil painting by Thomas Burnham, a well known local artist of that day. This painting is now the property of some citizen of this city who should, it seems to me, donate it to the Art Museum or to the present fire department. The upper cabins of the Great Western abaft the wheelhouses and the ladies cabin below were badly wrecked; otherwise the steamer did not sustain much damage. But it was a most exciting fire while it lasted as any one now living who was present at the time will I am sure bear witness.

Okay. I love a sleuth. Where’s this Thomas Burnham painting? Did “some citizen of the city” give it to the now-DIA as General Friend Palmer thought he or she should? Not sure, although an online collection search turns up another Thomas Mickell Burnham painting, First State Election in Detroit, Michigan, 1837 (timely, right?):

And the man was apparently known for his marine and maritime paintings as well, like this one, An English Cutter Gives Chase to a Smuggler, 1836:

So where’s the burning Great Western? Does it indeed belong to the fire department? Is it in some art historian’s special collection of boat paintings or a museum’s American Art gallery?

I’ll put out some feelers. I haven’t really looked yet, having just learned about this painting about a half-hour ago, so if it’s somewhere obvious, tell me now.

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