We did it in Florida. And in New Orleans.

And we were sitting in the garden of a café in Washington, having lunch with a local friend, when I asked if anyone would mind spending an hour in a cemetery. I wasn’t feeling particular. The nearest cemetery would do.

Congressional Cemetery, it turned out, was just a couple of Metro stops away. Notable interments: J. Edgar Hoover, John Phillip Sousa (for whom visiting student marching bands play!), Vice President Elbridge Gerry.

And guess who’s buried there?

The Honorable General Alexander Macomb!

Born in Detroit on April 3, 1782, Alexander Macomb was the son of a fur-trading, land-speculating, get-rich-quick-scheming merchant of the same name. On Grosse Ile, a tablet marks the spot where 18 Potawatomi chiefs sold the Detroit River island to Alexander Macomb Sr., and his brother and business partner William, in 1776.

The Macomb family moved to New York City when the future General Alexander Macomb was just a baby. There they built a house that George Washington would lease for a presidential mansion — and invested in 3.6 million acres of land in northern New York. It became known (and is still known!) as “Macomb’s Purchase,” and it permanently ruined the elder Alexander Macomb, who went to debtor’s prison when his grand speculation (coupled with some shady stock deals) went south.

But that is not the story we are here to tell. We are concerned with the more fortunate Alexander Macomb, who enrolled in a New York militia company when he was 16 and, at the recommendation of (my hero) Alexander Hamilton, was commissioned into the Regular Army the following year.

Macomb came to the nation’s attention in September 1814, after the Battle of Plattsburgh, during which the Americans, under the young Brigadier General Macomb (and the valorous Naval Lieutenant Thomas Macdonough) defended Lake Champlain against invading British troops and effectively closed the northwestern theater of the War of 1812.

(The victory was impressively rag-tag; against 11,000 British troops, Macomb had about 3,400 men, a huge number of which were not fit for battle. He wrote: “Except the four companies of the 6th Regiment, I had not an organized battalion among those remaining; the garrison was composed of convalescents and the recruits of the new regiments — all in the greatest confusion … and the works in no state of defense.”)

Here’s our man on the field of battle.

(Source)

The victory earned him a Congressional medal — and the adoration of the city where he was born. As he carved up counties in 1818, Lewis Cass named one of them after the young hero.

General Macomb returned to command Fort Detroit. In 1821, when he left for Washington to become Chief of the Army Corps of Engineers, the citizens of Detroit presented him with a silver tankard of gratitude bearing the inscription:

PRESENTED

to

MAJOR-GENERAL ALEXANDER MACOMB

by

THE CITIZENS OF HIS NATIVE PLACE, DETROIT,

AS A TESTIMONIAL

OF ATTACHMENT AND RESPECT

FOR HIS PERSON AND CHARACTER

June 4, A.D., 1821

Alexander Macomb went on to become, like Alexander Hamilton (and Mad Anthony Wayne!) before him, Commanding General of the U.S. Army.

He also painted this —

(Detroit as Seen from Canadian Shore, 1821. Alexander Macomb. Source.)

— and wrote a play about Chief Pontiac. Renaissance man!

In 1841, Macomb — still Commanding General of the Army — died in Washington, and was buried in Congressional Cemetery with somber military honors.

Over 170 years later, we found ourselves strolling among the low green-and-granite hills and brick avenues of Congressional Cemetery, hoping to visit General Alexander Macomb.

I was worried we’d have a hard time finding him.

But it turns out that Macomb’s monument is the most elaborate and unusual in the whole place: a lion-footed column of white marble, topped with a Corinthian helmet, its faces embellished with laurel wreaths, butterflies, and tributes of respect.

By chance, we met the cemetery director, looking for something to do in between burials. He found us, promptly removed from his pocket a comically large skeleton key, unlocked the iron gates of the Public Vault and (like it was NO BIG THING!) invited us to stand in the damp cellar where the remains of Presidents, statesman and dignitaries once lay in wait for their big funerals or before permanent burial elsewhere. Presidents William Henry Harrison, Zachary Taylor and John Quincy Adam had bidden time in the Public Vault, as did Dolley Madison, for three years, because her family was too broke to give her a real grave.

You know who else did?

Alexander Macomb.

The cemetery director, upon learning why we had ventured to Congressional Cemetery in the first place, told us the incredible story of Macomb’s exhumation in 2008 to repair his sinking tomb.

Graveyard kismet? I think so.

(By the way: the statue of Macomb on Washington Boulevard might be my favorite statue in the whole city. I love the romantic sweep of his coat, his stately composure and the way he’s sort of approachable and human-scale. I’ve kept a small vintage postcard of the Macomb statue on my writing desk for years, courtesy Dan Austin’s astounding collection. Check out the beautiful historic views of the Macomb Monument at HistoricDetroit.org.)

Friend Palmer was born May 7, 1820 in Canandaigua, New York. He came to Detroit with his family on the steamer Henry Clay when he was seven years old.

Could he ever have guessed that nearly 200 years after his birth he’d be the #1 collaborator / contributor to some lady’s dweeby early history blog?

I wish he were still alive so I could throw him a party even better than this one he attended at the Exchange Hotel in 1850:

It was a brilliant affair, and was attended by the elite of the city, military and all, the latter in full uniform. A short time before issuing the invitations he told the boys he intended giving a dancing party, and charged them all to be on hand as it was going to be a stunner. Well, it came off in good time, and it was a sure enough stunner. I have attended many functions of this kind in my time, and think this affair “took the cake.” The supper room, located in the upper part of the house, was open from the beginning of the party until its close.  Whisky in the gentlemen’s dressing room, and champagne in the supper room; the latter flowed like water. It is a wonder the whole male portion did not get tipsy, but they did not, except two or three. Most of the rest though, it must be confessed, became quite hilarious. Dancing to the music of Gilliam’s String Band was kept up until a late hour. Lyon said on the start that he was going to give the boys all the wine they could get away with, and a general good time. He did it. This “blow out” of his was the talk of the town for quite a while after it occurred.

Ah, the lost glory of the military ball, with influential officers drinking all of the champagne, bringing side arms, and tearing around obnoxiously in spurs:

The officers wore their side arms and spurs, as was the custom at the time. I seem now to hear, as I heard then, the rattling of their accoutrements and the jingling of their spurs, as they whirled through the mazes of the giddy dance. The custom of wearing the spurs on festive occasions was annoying to the ladies, as they made sad havoc with their dresses.

Some of my favorite Friend Palmer posts:

General Friend Palmer and the Lost Dauphin

General Friend Palmer and fireballs in the street 

General Friend Palmer and the Court Crier Isaac Day

General Friend Palmer and his scrapbooks

General Friend Palmer and the Old Log Cabin

Detroit Drunken Historical Society — this Thursday, April 26, Slows BBQ

If you could change one thing in Detroit’s past, what would it be?

Would you undo the surrender of Fort Detroit in 1812? Keep the streetcars, or build a subway instead? Do you wish we had stayed a French city? Would you save a favorite building? Convince Motown to stay in Motown? Re-elect Pingree?

It’s a freestyle edition of the Detroit Drunken Historical Society as we share our bright (and/or boozy) ideas about the past and the future at the third meeting of the Detroit Drunken Historical Society on April 26 at Slow’s BBQ on Michigan Avenue. We’ll talk, drink, talk more and drink more in a free-flowing, side-tracking, imagination-expanding open discussion, supplemented by the barbeque, bourbon & beer selection at Slows. As always, you can RSVP and keep up with the Society on Facebook and Meetup.

Captured Characters: Historical and Modern Profiles of Detroit — May 10, Farmington Public Library

This one is close to my heart. I grew up in Farmington, but this whole fandango — the blog, all it’s become, and everything it’s allowed me to do — started at the Farmington Public Library. I had the good fortune to live next door when I first moved back to Michigan and, unemployed and seeking a new sense of place, I spent hours in their Heritage Collection, pawing through old books, newspapers and journals and growing curiouser and curiouser about the history of our strange, surprising, imperiled Detroit.

So I’ll read some of my favorite character studies from Hidden History of Detroit, and I’ll also talk about some of my favorite Farmingtonians: founding “Uncle” Nathan Power, the cheese-maker bicyclist Governor Fred Warner, and Oliver Perry Hazard.

And John Carlisle of 313: Life in the Motor City will share some of HIS favorite characters from the present day. It’s always a delight to partner up with John and I hope you’ll join us! The event is free but advance registration is recommended.

Pardon any dust

As a final note, you might notice some changes, glitches, or odd little bumps as you explore the site. I’m remodeling a little, but I’m slow and self-taught so please be patient. Thanks!

From Silas Farmer’s History of Detroit and Michigan, a selection of mild seasons:

1823: “Flowers blossomed in the winter out of doors, and a vessel arrived from Sandusky on January 13.

1826: “The winter was so mild that grass is said to have grown a foot in January.”

1878: “No ice formed until February 9. There was no snow until February 11, and boats kept on running.”

(Silas describes a whole gamut of notable weather events in Detroit history, including November 12, 1827, “remarkable as being a very dark day,” and, in 1877, THUNDERSNOW: “On March 20 there was a sharp snow-storm, accompanied by thunder and lightning. It so affected the electrical apparatus in connection with the City Hall bell that at every flash the bell struck one.”)

So how’s your spring? Mine’s been good:

We chased out the Nain Rouge — the little French goblin that’s been terrorizing the city since Cadillac’s time.

I took my dog to Lake Erie. The metropark is only a half-hour from here (it’s easy to forget that we live in a Great Lakes city!) and it’s beautiful. Serene, bracing, and lake-smelling; weeds, and fish, and fog.

It’s a smell of home, and an instant comfort.

“Each sheltered bay, where shadows play,
‘Neath eragged rocks of mottled gray;
With varying hue they mirror true,
Bright clouds that fleck the waters blue.

The dipping oar in soft encore,
Faint echoes wake along the shore;
And gliding boat, or launch afloat,
Appear, with spectral sails remote.”

— Sketches and Stories of the Lake Erie Islands, Lydia J. Ryall. 1913.

I’ve been standing around in my backyard, dumbfounded by the pear blossoms.

And it’s Opening Day! I’m so glad baseball is back. Celebrate with vintage photos of Detroit’s Opening Day, 1963, which my dad took on a fake press pass. (Timely: George Romney in a Tigers cap).

March and April are kind of magic months for me, full of birthdays and anniversaries and champagne on the porch. This time last year I took a sabbatical from the blog to get married. This time, this year, I’m taking a sabbatical to travel — first to Union Pier, MI, for a small spring retreat, then on a whirlwind tour of history and culture on the Eastern seaboard.

It’s kind of a delayed recovery from all of the noise and growth and joy of 2011 — the wedding, the book, the dog — and when I return, I hope to jump back into Detroit’s distant past full-force, with tales of pioneers, and heirloom pear trees, and carts piled high with furs, and graveyards.

Enjoy your April. Come see me again in May. And Go Tigers.

— The Night Train

TONIGHT! Detroit Drunken Historical Society — Liv Resto Lounge

Last month’s inaugural event at St. Cece’s was full of the warmth of fellowship, learning, a fireplace, and many whiskey gingers. Tonight (that’s Wednesday, March 21), join us for another thrilling, cocktail-fueled installment of Detroit’s remarkable history as you’ve never heard it (or read about) before. Brian Mulloy of Michigan Essay (you may have heard him speak at TEDxDetroit last year) gives a talk about original Detroit badass Chief Pontiac, the siege of Detroit, and the Battle of Bloody Run.

Be there at 8:00 for mingling and drinks. Talk starts at 8:30. And join us on Facebook or Meetup for more details, future meeting notices, and maybe even a drink recipe or two.

Marche du Nain Rouge — Sunday, March 25

It’s a little Mardi Gras, a lot of early Detroit spirit as once again we prepare to banish our little red devil beyond the stockade walls. I heard even Gabriel Richard will be around for this one. And I think I’m going to dress up as a steamboat captain. (It was from a steamboat, after all, that the first cholera patient leaped to the river and swam ashore, infecting the entire city with a plague that would kill a seventh of its population. Surely the Nain had a hand in it.)

Drink a bloody at the Bronx (or at the Cass Cafe, where they’ll serve it with a deviled egg.) Then join your fellow townsfolk at the corner of Second and Canfield and get this guy out of here.

Resurget cineribus,

THE NIGHT TRAIN

I had the great pleasure of speaking in Dearborn this week as part of a public lecture series hosted by the Dearbon Historical Society. We met at the McFadden-Ross House, which is beautiful — and used to be the powder magazine for the old Dearborn Arsenal. It dates to 1839, which by local standards is OLD.

In Dearborn, even more than in Detroit, the story of the city is tied up with one man and his era: Henry Ford, and the motors with which he moved the city. But Dearborn, like Detroit, is of course a lot older than that. Farmers started settling in what is now Dearborn in the 1780s, and since the old Chicago Road (now Michigan Avenue) ran right through the area, it became a stopping-point for settlers headed west, especially during the post-Erie Canal, pre-railroad-era of Yankee migration through the territory.

I checked in with — who else? — General Friend Palmer and Early Days in Detroit to see if I could find a charming story about early days in Dearborn.

I was not disappointed.

The Ten Eyck Tavern

(Via the Historical Marker Database)

Conrad Ten Eyck built a tavern along the old Chicago Road in 1826. In that time, it was about a day’s journey from Detroit. (When General Palmer was writing, the trolley had shortened the trip to a speedy 40 minutes.)

The tavern was a wild success. We meet our jovial bar-keep at sunset, as a train of roughed-up wagons bang over the corduroy road and come piling into the bar.

Emerging at nightfall as the sun cast its setting rays upon the broad facade of the substantial old tavern, and greeted by the genial beams of its famous proprietor, “Old Coon” Ten Eyck, as he was affectionately called, the weary pilgrims began to feel something of the glow of that fellow feeling which makes us wondrous kind.

“Sally, have some more wolf-steak put on,” Old Coon would call out in a cheery voice as each new load of hungry pilgrims would drive up.

Conrad Ten Eyck, Palmer goes on to explain, had a little inside joke with his wife about wolf-steaks that, while esoteric, seems to be one way people used to explain the mystery of the Michigan “wolverine”:

Once a particularly pretty and jolly girl emigrant, coming out of the tavern dining room with the taste of the juicy Ten Eyck lamb chops still in her mouth, asked, “And have I really eaten wolf steak?”

“Surely, my pretty miss,” replied Old Coon.

“Then I suppose I am a wolverine,” exclaimed the fair traveler.

“That you are,” said Mr. Ten Eyck, “And will be from this on !”

And then, Palmer relates, all the men in the tavern were like, “Hey, we’re wolverines too!” Because they wanted to impress the girl. Isn’t that how history ALWAYS WORKS?

Palmer admits that the story may not be true — even if Old Coon Ten Eyck did have a little joke about wolf steaks, who knows if  his prank was responsible for the not-so flattering nickname?

“I do not know for a certainty,” wrote General Palmer, “but Clarence Burton does.”

It’s still Black History Month, and I had plans to introduce you to five of my favorite Black Detroiters from the city’s pre-automotive history. But I got wrapped up in just one story, and since I’m of the mind that everyone would do better to celebrate Black History year-round with as much verve as they do in February, I’ll commit right here and now to sharing those stories with you very soon.

For now, though, I want to introduce you to William Webb.

William Webb was born into slavery in Georgia in 1836. In Mississippi, in the years leading up to the Civil War, Webb became involved with a group of slaves secretly organizing for freedom, and at their meetings he called for the creation of an interstate network that could create an irresistible revolutionary movement:

“I told him all the way that could be done with justice would be to establish a king in every State, and let every king make his laws in his own State, and let his place be the headquarters. I thought it best for each king to appoint a man to travel twelve miles, and then hand the news to another man, and so on, till the news reached from Louisiana to Mississippi, and then if we were to rebel, we would rebel in all the States at one time, so the white people would not have a chance.”

That’s from The History of William Webb, Composed by Himself, published in Detroit in 1873 to raise money for education to teach William Webb — 52 years old, and still illiterate — to read and write. (His wife penned the book.)

When war broke out, Webb served as a spy in the Union Army. Captured by slaveholders, he escaped and enlisted in the Army, where he saw victory at the Battle of Fort Henry. Then he snuck onto a prisoner boat headed for Indianapolis: “For I had heard General Wallace talking about it being a free country.”

” … We landed in Indianapolis, Indiana, where the prisoners were going to, and every thing was prepared for us to take breakfast. We arrived there about seven o’clock in the morning. We all took breakfast and then prepared to march to camp Moulton. All the prisoners marched out, and the colored men along with them, but I remained in the depot. Then I walked out and said to myself, “thank God, I am free.” I heard a voice in my ear, say, not free yet; when you depart from sin, then you are free indeed.”

That fall, Webb came to Michigan, where he found work chopping wood for the winter five miles west of Detroit, near what is now Woodmere Cemetery. There, he witnessed people fleeing from the Riot of 1863:

“While I was out there a riot occurred in the city, and a great many colored people were fleeing out in the country where I was, and some came to the house where I was stopping to get shelter, both men and women. They said there was a great many bad feeling white people in the neighborhood, and they did not know whether they were safe themselves. … I came into the city next day to see what damage they had done. The colored people were very scarce in the places I had been used to see them, and I found that some had run over into Canada, and some of them had run into the woods. A great many gentlemen said it was a great pity they had such a cruel riot, and I asked them if there was no law to prevent such a mob, and they said there was no laws for a mob. I said, I think it is a very queer country that has no law to protect people.”

A queer country indeed, and Detroit knew it. As a result of the riot, the city organized its first police force.

I started reading this narrative because I wanted to know more about William Webb, the man who hosted the famous meeting between Frederick Douglass and John Brown in Detroit in 1859. This is a different William Webb — a William Webb still enslaved in 1859, praying and trusting to God that he would be delivered, and fearing no man. He did not have a home in which to host strategy sessions; when he came to Detroit, he lived in boarding houses.

This William Webb was arrested twice — once in Indiana, where it was a crime for a white man to hire a Southern black, and again in Detroit, after he refused to enlist in the army:

“They were very angry at me, and told me I had better be down freeing my people. I said to them, yes, I had been planning that, two or three years before the war broke out, and I thought I had given them a great deal of light. He was very angry when I told him that, and said that every colored man ought to take up arms and go into the field. I said to him, yes, I thought so too, if there was any chance of the rebels whipping the Union soldiers. … He asked me if I would enlist as a soldier. I said I did not think I would. I told him my mind taught me better, that I thought at some future day I might be of some great benefit. He asked me what benefit I expected to be. I told him I did not know, but I had great hope and trust in the future.”

Webb continued to chop wood, work in the fields, and paint fences, including for the Mayor (if I have my dates right, this would be Mayor William Duncan) who sounds like a real creep:

“I whitewashed for the mayor of the city that spring. We got into a little dispute about the work, and I talked to him with the best manners I could. He ran up to me and told me to hush, that he did not allow n***ers to talk to him.”

Ugh. Awful.

These are just a handful of stories from The History of William Webb. (In another story, he has a prophetic dream about his future wife!) Not a great Black leader, or an inventor, or the first Black so-and-so to do such-thing. But worth remembering, I think, as a normal, faithful guy, who conquered hardship, found freedom through work and through God, and who wanted to learn and use his mind to do great things.

I don’t know anything about William Webb that isn’t in his History — I don’t know when he died, if his daughter lived to see adulthood (she was just a baby when this book was published, and first two other children died in infancy), or where he’s buried. And I don’t know if sales of his books allowed him to learn to read.

But I really, really hope so.

Other wonderful stories from Black History Month in Detroit

Black History 101 Mobile Museum — This is amazing! I can’t wait to catch this around town, so I liked them on Facebook to keep apprised of their whereabouts (and you can too).

The trailblazing Detroit Plaindealer — One of the first Afro-American newspapers in the country, founded in Detroit in 1883

Biking Detroit’s Underground Railroad History — Todd Scott of the indispensable m-bike.org talks with Adventure Cycling about the Detroit’s historic and bike-able Underground Railroad attractions, plus more details about the entire 500-mile no-kidding cross-country route.

Love empowered slave couples to flee to freedom — The power of love! An inspiring suite of love / freedom stories from Betty DeRamus.

And finally, some old Detroit-related jazz

Scott and I just re-watched Ken Burns’ Jazz (are you surprised that we’re a big Ken Burns household?) and our home has been filled with the jaunty jibber-jab of old jazz and swing records pretty much 24/7.

I did some research a five-minute YouTube search to find some old Detroit jazz bands from this era. Here’s one! This song starts out kinda wah-wah-y and slow but gets pretty great. Wait for it!

And Jelly Roll Morton’s real name?

Ferdinand. Joseph. La Mothe. FOR REAL!

We’re moving to St. Cece’s in Corktown. There’s a fireplace, and plenty of parking. You’ll love it.

Hope to see you there this Wednesday, Feb. 22, at 8:00 p.m.! Here’re the Meetup and Facebook pages once more for good measure.

Detroit Drunken Historical Society — Inaugural Lecture — Feb. 22 (UPDATED: NEW VENUE!)

FINALLY! This is a dream I’ve been hoping to bring to life for years.

Part lyceum, part drunk history — you’ll learn something, and you might have a headache the next day. Join us at Foran’s St. Cece’s on Wednesday, Feb. 22, around 8 p.m., for Michigan craft beers, mingling with other people who love history, and an entertaining, off-the-cuff lecture about Detroit history. This month, I’m giving the talk. Yes, I’ll be drunk. (A little.)

We’re hoping to make this a monthly gathering, and we’ll be looking for speakers. (You don’t have to drink to give a talk, but of course we encourage it.) Join us on Meetup or Facebook to keep up with our tipsy (yet educational!) engagements.

Palmer Park Winter Festival — Feb. 25

I won’t be speaking at this event, but I will be enjoying snow shoe rentals and ice skating (weather permitting), horse-drawn carriage rides, bonfires and toasted marshmallows, and — oh my gosh,yes! — a dog fashion show! Come out for free, festive family fun in one of the best parks in the city. If I see you there I’ll introduce you to Mona.

More info here!

Dearborn Historical Museum — March 7

I’ll be talking about Hidden History of Detroit at the Dearborn Historical Museum‘s Ross-McFadden House. Starts at 7:30! Tell your friends!

Discover Detroit — Detroit Historical Museum — March 9

Food from local restaurants, talks from local smart folks, representatives from lots of local organizations, all under one roof. It’s a crash-course in Detroit! Only fun and delicious. I’ll be speaking around 7 p.m.; the event is from 6 to 10 p.m.

More info and tickets ($10) available here.

Hope to see some of you around town this late winter/early spring!

Part 2: The Battle of Atlanta

In 1884, John A. Logan, heralded Civil War General, won the nomination for Vice President on the Republican ticket (with Presidential nominee James Blaine). To promote their campaign, Logan commissioned a cyclorama that would vaunt his heroism in the Battle of Atlanta.

I guess he underestimated how long it would take to paint a cyclorama.

Via Wisconsin Historical Society. See more incredible photos of cyclorama painting in Milwaukee here.   

In 1883, the Cyclorama of the Battle of Gettysburg debuted in Chicago. Cycloramas, panoramic in nature but more immersive and over-the-top, were designed to be installed in purpose-built rotundas. You’d walk in, sometimes from winding, narrow tunnels or a staircase beneath the floor, and emerge on a viewing platform. There you were: on a smoke-enshrouded battlefield, amidst dirt and prairie grass and crouching soldiers and corpses. It seemed intensely real.

It was, of course, an elaborate illusion. From Yoni Applebaum’s essay in The Atlantic:

What most astonished observers, though, was the diorama, which began near the edge of the platform and ended at the painting, 45 feet away. Hundreds of cartloads of earth were covered in sod and studded with vegetation, then topped with the detritus of the battlefield. Shoes, canteens, fences, walls, corpses: near the canvas, these props were cunningly arranged to blend seamlessly into the painting. Two wooden poles, painted on the canvas, met a third leaned against it to form a tripod. A dirt road ran out into the diorama.

Also in 1883, a German named William Wehner founded the American Panorama Company in Milwaukee (a city near to my heart, you know). Wehner knew he could find experienced painters in Germany, where panoramas of the Franco-Prussian war were popular. He went to Europe, or worked with agents based in Europe, to recruit some 15 artists to join his crew. In Milwaukee, the artists worked in an octagonal studio at Fifth and Wells — and drank at a bar across the street.

Panorama painters in Milwaukee, 1887 Via Wisconsin Historical Society.

I don’t know who decided, or how, that the Battle of Atlanta would debut in Detroit, but so it was decided. We didn’t have a cyclorama building at the time, but for the Battle of Atlanta, we would build one.

William Wehner traveled here in 1886 to see how things were going. A reporter for the Detroit Tribune caught up with him at the Brunswick bar on December 13, where Wehner — you have to wonder if he was a salty person generally, or just in his cups — complained that the Detroit cyclorama building wasn’t ready yet, then talked trash about another famous cyclorama.

“You had a cyclorama in Detroit some time ago,” said Mr. Wehner, “and I saw it. I am afraid the people of this city will form an opinion of the new exhibit from the old, but that is not fair … People who have seen Battle of Gettysburg only have no idea what a really good cyclorama is. It was certainly the very worst exhibition that I have ever seen.”

Anticipation for the cyclorama, the paper wrote, was at a frenzy — ”The people of Detroit have no idea what it will be like until they see it.” Famous attendees expected to attend the debut included General W.T. Clark, Theodore Davis, and General Logan himself, “who will be present to fight the battle over again.”

Two weeks after this article was published,  General Logan died. (When his widow saw the completed painting in Atlanta years later, it is rumored, she fainted at the sight of his likeness.)

Wehner had hoped the Cyclorama would be open by Christmas, but owing to the delay in completing the cyclorama building (at Bates and Larned — seen above) and the labor-intensive installation of the 42-foot high, 358-foot long painting  the Battle of Atlanta didn’t debut in Detroit until February 1887. When the Battle of Atlanta continued its tour, it was replaced with Custer’s Last Stand. As far as I can tell, those were the only two paintings ever installed at Detroit’s cyclorama building, which was torn down in 1891.

In Milwaukee, the panorama painters created that city’s first vibrant art community; after the panorama craze quelled, those that stayed opened their own studios, became teachers, established schools, and found work decorating the Pabst mansion and painting dioramas for the Milwaukee Public Museum. In Detroit, it seems, as with most other American cities, panoramas were a brief and fantastical flash in the pan, and most of the panoramas exhibited here have long since been lost or destroyed.

You can still see the Battle of Atlanta, though — in Atlanta, naturally — where it remains the largest oil painting in the world.

Further reading:

The Atlanta Cyclorama

Cyclorama — the New Georgia Encyclopedia

What happened to the Panorama Painters? 

Milwaukee County Historical Society — Friedrich W. Heine Diaries