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FRED  LOCKLEY 

RARE  WESTERN  BOOKS 


PORTLAND.  OMt 


FIVE  OREGON  POETS 

Joaquin  Miller.  2.    James  G.  Clark.  3.    Sam.  L.  Simpson. 

4.    Edwin  Markham.  5,    Mrs.  Ella  Higginson. 


OREGON  LITERATURE 


BY 


JOHN  B.  HORNER,  A.M.,  LITT.  D. 

/ 

PROFESSOR  OF  HISTORY  AND  LATIN  IN  THE  STATE  AGRICULTURAL  COLLEGE 
OF  OREGON. 


Take  the  wings 

Of  morning,  pierce  the  Barcan  wilderness, 
Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 
Where  rolls  the  Oregon  .  .  . 

BRYANT  :    Thanatopsis. 


SECOND  EDITION.- 


PORTLAND,  OREGON: 

THE  J.  K.  GILL  CO. 

1902 


Copyright,  1902,  by 
JOHN  B.  HORNER 


STATESMAN  JOB  OFFICE  PRINT 

-  \  l.l.M.  .  I 


INTRODUCTORY 

TO  A  FRIEND. 

<(What  is  a  book?     Let  affection  tell; 
A  tongue  to  speak  for  those  who  absent  dwell, 
A  language  uttered  to  the  eye 
Which  envious  distance  would  in  vain  deny. 

"Formed  to  convey  like  an  electric  chain 
The  mystic  flashes,  the  lightning  of  the  brain, 
And  thrill  at  once  to  its  remotest  link 
The  throb  of  passion  by  the  printer's  ink.'9 

JOHN  BURNETT. 
Corvallis,  July  7,  1899. 


851109 


PREFACE  TO  SECOND  EDITION 

The  men  and  women  who  made  Oregon  have  already 
produced  more  genuine  literature  than  did  the  Thirteen 
Colonies  prior  to  the  American  Revolution.  A  remark- 
able people— the  extract  of  the  greatest  nations— had 
possessed  and  planted  the  new  land.  They  gave  to  the 
West  their  best  thoughts ;  and  these  thoughts  more  than 
any  other  influence  shaped  the  lives,  moulded  the  char- 
acter and  determined  the  future  of  the  present  popula- 
tion. Therefore,  these  sentiments  appeal  to  us,  for  they 
have  been  woven  into  our  being.  They  are  common 
property,  bequeathed  for  the  inspiration,  enjoyment  and 
edification  of  promising  children  and  busy  men  and 
women.  Hence  it  is  patriotic  and  proper  to  familiarize 
ourselves  with  these  sturdy  Oregon  thoughts,  clothed 
sometimes  plainly,  but  yet  in  the  best  garb  that  plain 
men  and  women  could  give  them. 

However,  beyond  a  crude  and  imperfect  collection  of 
excerpts  from  the  writings  of  these  people,  published  a 
few  years  ago  by  the  author  of  this  volume,  no  attempt 
has  been  made  to  place  before  the  public  anv  exhibit  of 
their  literature.  The  ready  sale  that  attended  the  first 
edition,  and  the  demand  that  apparently  exists  for  a 
more  pretentious  work  on  the  subject,  occasioned  the 
present  publication. 

In  this  new  edition  the  scope  of  work  has  been  so  in- 
creased as  to  include  contributions  from  gifted  writers 
who  have  more  recently  come  into  prominence  on  ac- 
count of  use  of  choice  English  as  it  is  spoken  and 
written  in  the  extreme  West.  But  be  it  said  that  the 
interesting  task  of  selecting  nuggets  amidst  a  Klondyke 
of  literary  gems  was  somewhat  incumbered  with  the  con- 
stant fear  that  in  the  delightful  search  many  of  the  most 
valuable  specimens  may  have  been  overlooked.  Bearing 
this  in  mind,  the  author  believes  that  enough  have  been 
gathered  and  are  here  presented  to  convince  the  reader 
that  in  the  realm  of  literature,  no  state  so  youngr  as 
Oregon  has  done  better.  j.  B.  H. 


Oregon  Literature 


Long  ago  the  scholars  of  the  East  passed  the  lamp  of 
learning  from  Rome  to  England,  and  from  England 
westward  to  Boston,  the  front  door  of  America.  From 
Boston  the  lamp  lighted  the  way  of  the  pioneer  across 
mountain  chains,  mighty  rivers,  and  far-reaching  plains, 
till  the  radiance  of  its  beams  skirted  the  golden  shores  of 
our  majestic  ocean.  Then  it  was  that  the  song  of  the 
poet  and  the  wisdom  of  the  sage  for  the  first  time  blended 
in  beautiful  harmony  with  the  songs  of  the  robin,  the 
lark,  and  the  linnet  of  our  valleys.  These  symphonies 
floated  along  on  zephyrs  richly  laden  with  aromas  fresh 
from  field  and  flower  and  forest,  and  were  wafted  heaven- 
ward with  the  prayers  of  the  pioneer  to  mingle  forever 
in  adoration  to  the  God  of  the  Land  and  the  Sea.  This 
was  the  origin  and  the  beginning  of  Oregon  literature. 

INFLUENCE  OF  PIONEER  LIFE. 

A  fearless  people  among  savages,  the  Oregon  pioneers 
surmounted  every  obstacle,  for  they  had  graduated  from 
the  hard  training  school  of  the  plains,  and  had  suffered 
severe  discipline  known  only  to  the  early  settler.  Hon. 
George  H.  Williams,  Attorney-General  of  President 
Grant 's  Cabinet,  said :  '  *  When  the  pioneers  arrived  here 
they  found  a  land  of  marvelous  beauty.  They  found 
extended  prairies,  with  luxuriant  verdure.  They  found 
grand  arid  gloomy  forests,  majestic  rivers,  and  moun- 
tains covered  with  eternal  snow;  but  they  found  no 
friends  to  greet  them,  no  homes  to  go  to,  nothing  but 
the  genial  heavens  and  the  generous  earth  to  give  them 
consolation  and  hope.  I  cannot  tell  how  they  lived; 
nor  how  they  supplied  their  numerous  wants  of  family 


Oregon  Literature 


<  ,•  /»*  «•••••  j    *  ,**«>      •* 

ttfa-':  Afl'tHestf  {hJdgtf  are  mysteries  to  everyone,  except- 
ing to  those  who  can  give  their  solution  from  actual  ex- 
perience." lint  «•!'  this  mie  tiling  he  assured,  under  these 
trying  circumstances,  life  with  them  grew  to  be  real, 
earnest,  and  simple.  They  were  fearless,  yet  God-fear- 
ing; no  book  save  the  Bible,  Walker's  Dictionary, 
Pilgrim's  Progress,  and  a  few  others  of  like  sort— solid 
txutks,  solid  thoughts,  solid  men— three  elements  that 
enter  into  substantial  literature. 

Immigration  steadily  increased  and  the  settlements 
gradually  grew,  so  that  all  the  woods  and  all  the  valleys 
became  peopled.  Only  the  bravest  dared  to  undertake 
the  long  journey  across  the  plains— for  the  plains,  like 
tin*  battlefield,  develop  character — and  only  the  wisest 
and  the  strongest  survived;  hence  Oregon  was  early 
peopled  with  the  strongest,  the  wisest  and  the  bravest; 
the  Romans  of  the  new  race.  And  while  there  may  have 
been  no  Moses,  no  Caesar,  no  Cromwell  among  them, 
there  was  a  generous  distribution  of  men  like  Joe  Meek, 
Gray  the  historian,  United  States  Senator  Nesmith, 
Governor  Abernethy,  General  Joseph  Lane,  Governor 
Whiteaker,  Doctor  McLoughlin,  and  Applegate,  the  sage 
of  Yoncalla— men  of  warm  heart,  active  brain,  skillful 
hand,  and  sinewy  arm.  And  the  women  were  the 
daughters  of  the  women  who  came  in  the  Mayflower,  and 
they  were  like  unto  them.  They  spun  and  they  wove, 
and  in  any  home  might  have  been  seen  a  Priscilla  with 
her  wheel  and  distaff  as  of  old.  And,  although  the 
legends  of  our  Aldens  and  Priscillas  remain  as  yet  un- 
written and  unsung,  Oregon  will  some  day  raise  up  a 
Longfellow  who  will  place  these  treasures  among  the 
classics  of  the  age. 

INFLUENCE  OF  SCENERY. 

Critics  tell  us  that  literature  is  rather  an  image  of 
the  spiritual  world  than  the  physical— of  the  internal 
rather  than  the  external— that  mountains,  lakes,  and 
rivers  are  after  all  only  its  scenery  and  decorations,  not 
its  substance  and  essence.  It  is  true  that  a  man  is  not 


Influence  of  Scenery  7 

destined  to  be  a  great  poet  merely  because  he  lives  at 
the  foot  of  a  great  mountain— a  Hood,  a  Jefferson,  or  a 
Shasta ;  nor  being  a  poet,  that  he  will  write  better  verse 
than  others  because  he  lives  where  he  can  hear  the  thund- 
ering of  a  mighty  waterfall.  "Switzerland  is  all  moun- 
tains; yet  like  the  Andes,  or  the  Himalayas,  or  the 
Mountains  of  the  Moon  in  Africa,  it  has  produced  no 
extraordinary  poet."  But,  while  mountains,  rivers,  and 
valleys  do  not  create  genius,  no  one  can  deny  that  they 
aid  in  developing  it.  Emerson  tells  us  that  "the  charm- 
ing landscape  he  saw  one  morning  is  indubitably  made  up 
of  some  twenty  ,or  thirty  farms.  Miller  owns  this  field, 
Lock  that,  and  Manning  the  woodland  beyond,  but  none 
of  them  owns  the  landscape.  There  is  a  property  in  the 
horizon  which  no  man  has  but  he  whose  eye  can  integrate 
all  the  parts— that  is  the  poet."  The  poet,  therefore,  is 
the  only  millionaire  able  to  own  a  landscape.  Yet  no 
man  or  woman  with  poetic  impulse  can  entirely  escape 
or  resist  the  inspiring  influence  of  towering  peak  or 
sweeping  river.  With  a  state  bounded  on  the  north  by 
the  Columbia,  abutted  on  the  east  by  boundless  prairies 
and  magnificent  vista  of  distant  mountain  chain,  guarded 
on  the  south  t  by  the  lofty  Siskiyous,  bathed  on  the  west 
by  the  sunset  seas;  with  a  state  dotted  here  and  there 
with  everlasting  snow-tipped  peaks,  sentinels  of  the 
world,  bound  together  with  stretching  mountain  system, 
bosomed  with  delightful  valleys,  tesselated  with  charm- 
ing traceries  and  glacier-fed  streams  of  crystal  that 
water  the  violets,  daisies,  and  the  witcheries  of  the  low- 
land—ours is  not  the  scenery  that  makes  gladiators  and 
bandits,  but  is  the  refining,  elevating  scenery  with  mild 
and  gentle  environment  that  day  by  day  has  worked  its 
impress  through  the  eye  and  mind  and  soul  of  dwellers 
in  Oregon,  and  produced  a  literary  beginning  already 
made  noteworthy  by  Miller,  Markham,  Simpson,  Hig- 
ginson,  Bajch  and  many  others.  That  the  sweet  nature 
and  rich  landscapes  about  us  have  done  much  to  stimulate 
and  fructify  our  literature,  and  that  it  will  continue  to 
advance  the  literary  art  to  a  higher  state  of  perfection, 
is  made  certain  by  a  study  of  the  thoughts  and  themes 
with  which  existing  creations  are  ramified  and  inter- 


8  Oregon  Literature 

twined.  It  was  the  gentle  flow  of  the  Willamette  that 
furnished  Simpson  with  a  theme  that  created  one  of  the 
most  delightful  poems  known  to  the  language ;  until  he 
had  stood  on  the  banks  and  heard  the  "lovely  river  softly 
calling  to  the  sea"  his  mind  must  have  remained  without 
the  inspiration  necessary  to  produce  the  sweet  lines  of 
"Beautiful  Willamette."  Likewise  in  Higginson's 
"Pour-Leaf  Clover,"  written  within  sight  of  a  meadow, 
in  Baker's  "Ode  to  a  Wave,"  written  on  the  ocean  beach, 
and  in  Miller's  "Sierras,"  written  with  the  Cascades  in 
the  background— the  complete  reliance  of  the  author 
upon  nature,  not  only  for  inspiration,  but  often  for 
theme  or  thought,  is  clearly  discernable. 

INFLUENCE  OF  SONG. 

Our  pioneer  fathers  and  mothers  were  a  busy,  active 
people,  but  they  had  their  times  for  rest;  and  during 
these  restful  hours  they  found  much  solace  in  song.  The 
violin  was  their  only  piano.  They  listened  to  its  melody 
and  they  danced  to  its  notes;  and  those  who  did  not 
think  it  wicked,  sang  with  it.  They  did  not  all  have  time 
to  read  books,  and  curious  as  it  may  seem  in  this  day  of 
libraries,  colleges  and  public  schools,  some  of  them  did 
not  even  know  how ;  but  all  could  sing,  and  they  found 
time  for  this  recreation;  and  they  sang  more  in  their 
homes  and  in  their  fields  then  than  they  do  now.  If  at 
no  other  time,  they  sang  on  their  way,  to  and  from  labor ; 
and  every  home  became  a  sort  of  musical  conservatory. 
They  had  traveled  far,  and  reached  their  earthly 
Canaan;  and  now  they  were  singing  of  the  Canaan  be- 
yond, drinking  in  the  poetry  that  flowed  like  the  milk  and 
honey  of  the  land  that  they  had  found. 

And  it  is  probable  that  the  men  and  the  women  and 
the  children  who  sing  the  good  songs,  thrilling  the  world 
with  their  melodies,  exert  as  great  an  influence  in  touch- 
ing the  popular  heart  and  in  inspiring  the  nobler  senti- 
ments of  humanity  as  do  the  men  and  women  who  write 
the  good  songs;  and  the  men  and  women  who  write  the 
good  songs  do  as  much  to  develop  the  nation  as  they  who 
write  the  good  laws.  The  singers,  therefore,  are  not  far 


OREGON  STAtE  SCHOOL  SUPERINTENDENTS 


1.  Syl.  C.  Simpson.  F«*,M&73.  to' 

2.  L.  L.  Rowland.  Sept..  1874.  to  Sept.,  1878 

3.  L.  J.  Powell.  Sept.,  1878,  to  Sept.,  1882 


-4,  .JL-'B.  McElroy,  Sept.,  1882,  to  Jan.,  1895 

5.  G.  M.  Irwin,  Jan.,  1895,  to  Jan.,  1899 

6.  J.  H.  Ackerman,  Jan.,  1899. 


Influence  of  Bong  9 

removed  from  the  good  laws  of  the  country.  In  the  days 
when  there  were  no  newspapers,  nor  magazines,  and  books 
were  few,  the  Davids,  the  Homers,  and  the  Alfreds  went 
about  singing  patriotic  odes  to  the  people;  and  thus, 
through  the  art  of  song,  patriotism  became  a  part  of  the 
national  life.  This,  however,  was  not  the  only  influence 
wielded  by  the  songs  then  as  well  as  in  later  days.  As 
in  the  various  ages  of  world  history,  minstrelsy  and  the 
composition  and  singing  of  ballads  became  an  influence 
for  revival  or  stimulation  of  literature;  so  in  our  early 
pioneer  days  the  unskilled  voices  of  settler-folk  in  field 
or  in  home,  mingling  with  the  songs  of  the  birds  in 
neighboring  wood,  inspired  in  the  mind  thoughts  that  in 
the  succeeding  generation  developed  into  a  certain  purity 
and  sweetness,  out  of  which  a  copious  and  lofty  litera- 
ture is  grown. 

In  the  days  of  the  pioneer,  every  community  had  its 
singing  school.  In  charge  there  was  a  professional  sing- 
ing master,  or  a  leader  selected  from  the  membership. 
For  music  the£  were  restricted  to  old  melodies  found  in 
"Carmina  Sacra,"  the  "New  Lute  of  Zion,"  the  "Har- 
mony," the  "Triumph,"  the  "Key  Note,"  "Golden 
Wreath, ' '  the  * '  Revivalist, ' '  and  kindred  collections  long 
since  out  of  print.  Some  of  the  best  books  were  written 
in  the  old  square-note  system  so  the  peopie  could  slowly 
spell  their  way  through  the  music.  Familiar  among  those 
airs  were,  "The  Land  of  Canaan,"  "I  Belong  to  the 
Band,  Hallelujah,"  "Mary  to  the  Saviour's  Tomb," 
"Jesus  Lover  of 'My  Soul,"  "The  World  Will  Be  on 
Fire,"  "I  Want  to  Be  an  Angel,"  "There  Is  a  Happy 
Land,"  "Happy  Day,"  "Work  for  the  Night  is  Com- 
ing," and  scores  of  others,  among  which  were  the  na- 
tional odes.  Such  gatherings— such  music  !  The  singers 
always  looked  forward  to  the  day  when  they  could  join 
in  song.  Sometimes  the  leader  stumbled  a  little,  for  the 
singing  was  more  spirited  than  classical;  but  the  songs 
were  few,  and  the  singers  learned  them  well. 

Of  the  effect  of  these  gatherings  upon  the  subsequent 
life  of  Oregon  there  is  no  doubt.  The  songs  and  the 
elevating  associations  mellowed  men's  hearts  and  set 
their  thoughts  to  flowing  in  channels  where  poetry,  music 


10  Oregon  Literature 

and  the  softer,  sweeter  side  of  human  nature  are  ever 
present.  Deep  and  wide  they  laid  the  foundation  upon 
which  the  future  thought  and  literature  of  the  commun- 
ity was  to  be  builded. 

THE  CAMP  MEETING. 

When  Bryant  wrote  "The  groves  were  God's  first 
temples,"  he  must  have  been  thinking  of  the  western 
camp-meeting  grounds,  where  men  heard  some  of  the 
richest  eloquence  that  has  never  been  recorded  in  book 
or  maga/ine.  At  a  time  when  the  camp  meeting  could 
not  conflict  with  sowing  and  reaping,  people  met  and 
mingled,  and  their  hearts  were  mellowed  by  the  divine 
mcssag"  as  they  heard  it  preached  from  revelation  and 
r.-ad  11  in  Hie  volume  of  nature.  The  preachers  who  in- 
terpreted these  lessons  were  Fowler,  Hines,  Hill,  Ken- 
m.yer,  Conner,  Wilbur,  Driver,  Elledge,  and  others  whose 
names,  have  been  recorded  in  the  hearts  of  their  fellow 
men. 

When  a  man  fails  to  solve  a  difficult  problem  with  his 
head  he  instinctively  undertakes  to  solve  it  with  his 
heart.  Accordingly  this  was  a  season  of  heart  culture 
especially  helpful  to  those  who  had  wrestled  with  the 
d ill ieiil ties  incident  to  settlement  in  a'  new  country— 
such  difficulties  as  no  one  but  the  immigrant,  the  pioneer, 
or  the  soldier,  can  fully  understand.  It  was  the  great 
social  and  religious  meeting  place  of  the  people,  and  it 
grew  to  be  a  part  of  pioneer  life.  But,  in  course  of 
time,  when  the  first  settlers  began  to  pass  from  the  stage 
of  action,  open-air  speaking  and  singing  became  less 
common,  the  camp  meeting  gradually  came  to  be  a  place 
hallowed  only  in  memory  and  in  religious  literature. 

The  ancients  who  learned  to  worship  the  trees  told  us 
that  eloquence  is  of  the  gods  and f  the  groves.  With 
magnificent  groves  along  our  templed  Jiiils>it  might  seem 
that  it  would  not  have  been  difficult  for  the  people  to 
become  druids.  But  1he  idea  is  not  common  to  our  soil, 
so  we  have  'cultivated  sentiments  and  developed  themes 
that  are  destined  to  flower  out  into  a  literature  bearing 
the  impress  of  ths -old-time  campriiieetihg  eloquence. 


Influence  of  the  Pulpit  11 

PULPITEERS. 

Much  wisdom  and  eloquence  were  voiced  and  penned 
by  the  pioneer  pulpiteers,  among  whom  were :  Doctor 
Marcus  Whitman,  Father  Eels,  Wilson  Blain,  James  H. 
Wilbur,  Jason  Lee,  S.  G.  Irvine,  Josiah  L.  Parrish,  A.  L. 
Lindsley,  William  Roberts,  P.  S.  Knight,  Thomas  H. 
Pearne,  Alvin  F.  Waller,  Thomas  Kendall,  James 
Worth,  George  H.  Atkinson,  Gustavus  Alines,  Harvey  K. 
Hines,  Edward  R.  Geary,  Bishop  B.  Wistar  Morris,  and 
Doctor  T.  L.  Eliot;  besides  the  visiting  Bishops^—  Simp- 
son, Glosbrenner,  Scott,  Marvin,  Weaver,  Castle,  Bow- 
man, Foster,  and  other  great  lights  who  always  brought 
new  tidings  and  gave  fresh  inspiration  to  pulpit  oratory, 
in  the  science  of  sciences,  the  ology  of  ologies — theology. 
These  influences  have  quickened  the  pulpit  and  given 
fresh  inspiration  to  every  f orm  Tof  literary  effort,  from 
the  humblest  essay  in  the  public  school  to  the  crowning 
efforts  in  parliamentary,  forensic,  and  sacred  oratory. 

THE  OLD-FASHIONED  PREACHER. 

The  old-fashioned  preacher,  who  preached  in  church, 
school  house,  or  home,wielded  a  powerful  influence  upon 
religious  thought  in  the  earlier  days.  One  of  these  il 
may  not  be  out  of  place  to  mention. 

Some  one,  somewhere,  some  day,  it  is  not  known  when, 
guided  by  a  certain  instinct  which  determines  worth  and 
discriminates  between  men,  will  look  above  and  beyond 
schools  and  art  and  rich  attire  to  find  .one  of  Nature's 
noblemen ;  and  then  will  sit  down  and  write  the  life  of 
Joab  Powell,  whose  utterances  were  like  those  of  Henry 
Clay — spoken  for  the  occasion  and  not  for  the  future. 
There  are  many  who,  on  account  of  their  individuality, 
rise  so  far  above  conventionalism  that  we  forget  their 
titles  and  think  of  them  solely  as  men.  We  say  Socrates, 
Virgil,  Ossian,  Milton,  Demosthenes ;  for  no  title  can  add 
lustre  to  their  names.  How  refreshing  would  sound  Rev. 
Peter,  Dr.  James,  or  Bishop  John,  of  sacred  lore.  So  in 
our  land  there  have  been  those  in  whom  we  at  once 
recognize  and  revere  the  man  and  not  the  title :  as  Roger 


12  Oregon  Literature 

Williams,  Lorenzo  Dow,  and  Peter  Cartwright,  and,  in 
the  farther  West,  Father  Newton  and  Joab  Powell. 
These  untitled  messengers  carried  the  gospel  of  higher 
civilization  when  the  track  of  the  wagon  and  the  iron 
horse  was  but  the  dim  trail  of  the  Indian  and  the 
pioneer;  and  it  now  behooves  the  rising  generation  to 
repeat  and  record  their  words  of  wisdom  ere  all  they 
have  said  will  be  effaced  except  some  trite  tale  unworthy 
of  a  listening  ear. 

THE  BIBLE. 

In  each  wagon  of  the  long  immigrant  trains  that  came 
into  our  valleys  might  have  been  found  a  certain  book- 
plain  book— precious  book— book  of  books— the  Bible; 
and  the  most '  indifferent  sometimes  perused  its  pages. 
In  England,  John  Bunyan  read  the  Bible  until  his  lan- 
guage grew  to  be  the  language  of  the  Bible,  as  may  be 
seen  in  the  " Pilgrim's  Progress,"  an  allegory  in  which 
human  thought  arose  on  angelic  wings  and  took  on  the 
robes  of  Holy  Writ.  In  Oregon  a  large  majority  of  the 
people  have  been  Bible-readers;  and  the  ratio  has  been 
steadily  increasing;  hence  the  Bible  element  or  Saxon 
element  bids  fair  to  grow  in  prominence  with  our  people. 
Furthermore,  the  experience  and  the  environments  of  our 
people  tend  to  produce  a  growing  demand  for  a  language 
of  sentiment  and  sense— the  most  practical  vehicle  of 
expression  employed  in  talking  from  the  heart  to  a  point. 

CLIMATIC  INFLUENCE  UPON  LITERATURE. 

It  is  an  indisputable  fact  that  climate  exerts  an  in- 
fluence upon  literature,  and  there  are  those  who  believe 
they  have  already  noticed  marked  indications  of  climatic 
influence  upon  what  has  been  written  in  the  various  parts 
of  the  state;  and  they  say  that  this  difference  will  con- 
tinue to  increase  so  that  it  will  be  more  noticeable  as  the 
years  go  by. 

It  is  known  that  in  an  extreme  temperature  the  best 
intellectual  results  are  seldom  attained.  Human  energies 
are  exhausted  in  the  effort  to  sustain  life;  hence  we  do 


Climatic  Influence  13 

not  expect  great  books  and  intellectual  triumphs  to  come 
from  those  who  received  their  growth  in  the  torrid  or 
in  the  frigid  zones.  It  also  has  been  observed  that 
climates  in  which  it  is  too  easy  to  obtain  a  livelihood 
impede  intellectual  progress.  It  has,  therefore,  been  be- 
lieved that  no  stirring  thought  will  come  from  the  Fili- 
pinos or  other  people  living  near  the  equator.  In  these 
lands,  they  who  have  palaces  leave  them  to  live  in  groves, 
and  enjoy  gondolas,  chariots,  theaters,  fashionable  clubs, 
popular  resorts,  the  racing  circle,  and  the  bull-fight 
ring;  everything  succumbs  to  pleasure,  until  pleasure 
becomes  licentious — an  influence  which  is  never  truly 
literary.  Accordingly,  we  look  to  the  more  temperate 
climes  for  advanced  literary  achievement  and  human 
endeavor  in  its  glory.  Therefore,  men  have  come  to  be- 
lieve that  Oregon,  which  is  centrally  located  as  to  mild- 
ness of  temperature,  will  produce  a  superior  literature ; 
and  it  has  been  urged  that  since  the  state  has  two  distinct 
climates,  there  will  also  be  two  distinct  literatures. 

Of  the  Saxon  motherland  Taine  said,  "Thick  clouds 
hover  above,  being  fed  by  thick  exhalations.  They  lazily 
turn  their  flanks,  grow  dark,  and  descend  in  showers; 
oh,  how  easily."  Is  not  that  Western  Oregon?  The 
Saxons  of  Europe  have  left  their  climate  to  find  a  similar 
climate  here.  The  West  Oregonian  should,  therefore, 
possess  many  of  the  qualities  which  characterized  the 
typical  Saxon  of  old.  This  is  no  idle  boast.  The  ocean 
side  of  Oregon  is  a  foggy  region  with  its  somber  scenes 
and  low-hanging  clouds,  where  moss  is  not  uncommon, 
and  the  gray  mists  creep  under  a  stratum  of  motionless 
vapor.  While  Eastern  Oregon  is  a  land  of  sunshine  and 
lofty  skies,  where  great  gleaming  bars  of  steel  and  silver 
and  gold  rest  upon  the  mountain  rim  until,  perchance 
they  are  disturbed  by  the  bolts  of  Jove  that  come  boom- 
ing over  the  heights  into  the  valley  below.  The  elements 
are  suddenly  quickened ;  and  the  people  have,  instead  of 
the  gentle  shower  that  floats  in  on  the  heavy  atmosphere 
of  the  sea  coast,  the  drenching  rain  of  the  highland  clouds 
that  were  torn  loose  by  the  thunder  bolt  and  theirs  waters 
spilled  upon  parching  grain  and  thirsting  herds;  in  the 
one  the  air  is  washed— purified  by  the  gentle  drizzling 


14  Oregon  Literature 

rain,  in  the  other  the  air  is  drenched  by  the  swift  sweep- 
ing thunder  showers.  Observe  the  effect  of  these  climates 
upon  the  inhabitants.  Notice  the  growing  difference  be- 
tween the  slow,  deliberate  but  measured  tread  of  the  one 
class  and  the  quick  step  of  the  other,  as  well  as  the  habits 
of  thought  of  the  two  peoples. 

Then,  there  will  always  be  as  marked  contrast  between 
the  literature  of  Eastern  Oregon  and  Western  Oregon 
as  if  the  two  localities  were  two  states  in  different  parts 
of  the  Union.  Think  of  the  humid  atmosphere  washed 
and  kept  pure  by  the  Webfoot  rain— did  rain,  does  rain, 
will  rain ;  gentle  rain ;  rain  that  comes  like  a  huge  joke, 
ever  welcome,  ever  abundant,  and  never  failing  rain ; 
rain  that  shortens  the  days,  lengthens  the  nights,  and 
houses  the  people,  domesticating  men  who  ordinarily 
grow  wild  and  rough  in\  the  exhilarating  sunshine  of 
the  higher  altitudes.  A  heavy,  languid,  drowsy  atmos- 
phere ;  hence  slow  thinkers ;  .slow  to  plan,  slow  to  decide, 
slow  to  act— a  people  not  unlike  the  Saxons  of  old,  with 
senses  not  so  keen  and  quick,  but  with  a  will  ever  vigor- 
ous. There  will  be  a  certain  earnestness,  severe  man- 
ners, grave  inclinations,  and  manly  dignity.  The  West- 
ern Oregonian  will  be  domesticated  per  force  of  circum- 
stances; an  indoor  plant,  a  reader  of  books,  a  student 
of  indoor  ethics.  The  Eastern  Oregonian  will  be  an  out- 
door plant ;  sallying  out  from  beneath  his  roof  to  bathe 
in  the  summer  sunshine  and  accustom  himself  to  the 
severe  atmosphere  and  draw  his  inspirations  from  the 
bold  landscapes  of  the  uplands— a  brave  man,  a  strenu- 
ous man,  a  cultured  man— a  man  of  the  times. 

Inasmuch  as  the  climate  of  Western  Oregon  is  some- 
what tempered  by  the  Japan  Current,  the  people  who 
would  be  cut  down  untimely  in  a  rugged  climate  like 
that  of  Eastern  Oregon  naturally  seek  to  prolong-  life  by 
taking  advantage  of  the  milder  climate  of  Western 
Oregon.  There  will  always  be  those  who,  upon  finding 
the  winter  too  severe  in  Eastern  Oregon,  will  spend  that 
season  in  Western  Oregon.  Besides,  there  will  be  a 
tendency  to  seek  this  region  by  those  afflicted  with  pul- 
monary troubles. 

In  Western  Oregon  there  is,  an  abundance  of  fruit; 


•  »    ' » 

»     1  • '  » 

•  >  •  V 


PIONEER  COLLEGE  AND  UNIVERSITY  PRESIDENTS 


1.  B.  L.  Arnold,  Oregon  Agricultural  College,  1872  to  1891 ;  author  of  an  unpublished  text-book 
on  Mental  Philosophy. 

2.  Sidney  H.  Marsh,  Pacific  University,  1854  to  1879. 

3.  T.  F.  Campbell,- Christian  College,  1869  to  1882;  author  of  "Know  Thyself"  and  "Genesis  of 
Power." 

4.  Thomas  M.  Gatch,  Willamette  University,  1860  to  1865,  1870  to  1879;  Oregon  Agricultural 
College,  1897. 

5.  John  W.  Johnson,  University  of  Oregon,  1876  to  1893 


College  Influence  15 

but  the  supply  of  lime  in  the  water,  vegetables,  milk, 
breadstuff s  and  other  classes  of  diet  that  neutralize  the 
acid  of  the  fruit  is  not  so  plentiful  as  in  the  alkaline 
regions  east  of  the  Cascades.  Since  there  is  a  certain 
lack  of  the  principal  bone-producing  material,  there  is  a 
noticeable  tendency  to  premature  decay  of  the  teeth, 
which  in  a  way  will  have  an  effect  upon  those  physical 
functions  which  give  tone  to  the  system.  While  the 
acidity  is  less  in  Eastern  Oregon,  there  is  more  bone- 
making  material;  hence  the  tendency  to  develop  larger 
bones— larger  frame  work  for  the  body.  Human  off- 
spring brought  up  amidst  the  elements  that  prevail  in 
Eastern  Oregon  will,  therefore,  be  bigger;  consequently 
more  rugged.  The  people  of  Western  Oregdn  will  be 
constructed  on  a  frame  work  of  smaller  bones  •  they  will, 
therefore,  possess  a  more  delicate  nature— fine  physique 
true  enough,  but  thoy  will  not  be  so  strong  and  sturdy, 
hence  more  sensitive  to  warmth  and  cold  and,  on  this 
account,  more  sensitive  to  feeling  and  sentiment.  There 
promises  to  be  a  whol^-souled  air  in  the  literature  of 
Eastern  Oregon,  somewhat  after  the  Dryden  tvpe,  while 
conservatism,  finish,  and  fine  feeling  of  the  Pope  sfyle 
will  characterize  the  literature  of  Western  Oregon. 

COLLEGE  INFLUENCE. 

College  influence  must  not  bo  overlooked  in  the  study 
of  literature.  We  are  told  that  our  national  literature 
thrived  only  as  the  colleges  of  the  Nation  prospered. 
The  best  literature  of  our  country  is  but  the  confluence 
of  streams  flowing  011+  of  the  fountain  heads,  Harvard, 
Yale,  William  and  Mary,  and  other  great  colleges  of  the 
Nation.  So  in  our  state  there  was  Columbia  College, 
which  graduallv  developed  into  the  University  of  Oregon, 
at  Eugene,  whence  came  Joaquin  Miller.  He  may  have 
written  in  the  Sierras  and  sung  of  their  grandeur;  he 
may  have  bowed  to  the  eastern  muse:  his  harn  strings 
may  have  vibrated  with  the  songs  of  vine-clad  Italy,  ye.t 
he  is  an  Oregon  poet— simply  a  child  away  from  home. 

Pacific  University,  like  Jupiter,  from  whom  sprung 
Minerva  full  grown  and  complete,  sen!  out  as  her  first 


16  Oregon  Literature 

graduate  Harvey  W.  Scott,  who  has  a  national  reputation 
as  a  journalist  and  critic. 

History  tells  us  that  Washington  Irving  was  the  first 
ambassador  from  the  new  world  to  the  old— the  first 
American  writer  to  obtain  recognition  on  the  Continent. 
So  Bethel  College,  now  known  only  in  history,  was  the 
first  institution  in  our  state  to  receive  recognition  from 
a  great  university  in  the  mother  country— Dr.  L.  L. 
Rowland,  Fellow  of  the  Royal  Society  of  England,  being 
a  graduate  of  that  institution. 

Philomath  College,  in  1869,  sent  out  Rev.  Louis  A. 
Banks,  D.  D.,  who  has  written  a  score  of  volumes,  oc- 
cupied some  of  the  wealthiest  pulpits  in  the  Methodist 
Episcopal  Church,  and  his  sermons  have  been  read 
probably  by  more  people  than  the  sermons  of  any  other 
writer,  except  those  of  Doctor  Talmage,  for  some  years 
past. 

Willamette  University  gave  to  the  literary  world  the 
late  Samuel  L.  Simpson,  author  of  "The  Beautiful 
Willamette";  and  all  of  our  other  colleges  have  con- 
tributed to  the  fast-flowing  stream  of  our  state  literature. 

THE  CHAUTAUQUA. 

Along  with  these  must  not  be  forgotten  the  influence 
of  the  largest.  Oregon  literary  institution— The  Willam- 
ette Valley  Chautauqua  of  Gladstone  Park.  This  college 
of  liberal  arts  has  already  imported  more  light  from  the 
East,  developed  more  talent  in  the  West,  and  given  in- 
struction to  a  greater  number  of  students  in  the  things 
with  which  busy,  active  men  have  to  think  and  to  do  than 
has  any  other  influence  in  the  state ;  second  only  to  this 
institution  is  the  Chautauqua  at  Ashland. 

INFLUENCE  OF  NEWSPAPERS  AND  MAGAZINES. 

The  pioneers  well  remember  the  time  when  the  news- 
paper came  in  the  semi-annual  mail  and  was  eagerly 
read.  The  old  folks  at  home,  then  the  war  and  other 
topics  of  importance  were  subjects  anxiously  sought  in 
newspapers;  while  Harpers',  Leslie's,  and  the  more  ex- 


PIONEER  JOURNALISTS  OF  OREGON 

1.  Asahel^Bush,  1851,  founder  of  the  Statesman,  Salem,  first]  issue]  March 
21,  1851. 

2.  Col.  W.  G.  T'Vault,  1843,  first  editor  of  the    Spectator,  issued  at  Oregon 
City,  February  5,  1 846,  the  first  paper  west  of  the  Missouri  river. 

3.  Thomas  J.  Dryer,  1850,  founder  of   the  Oregon/an,  first  issue  December 
6,  1 850,  on  the  corner  of  Front  and  Morrison  streets. 

4.  Delazon  Smith,  1852,   founder   of  the  Democrat,  Albany;    1853:    one  of 
the  first  United  States  Senators  from  Oregon. 

5.  Ihornton  T.  McElroy.   1851,  printer    on  the  Spectator,  Oregon   City,  and 
founder  of  the  Columbian,  first  newspaper  north  of  the  Columbia  river,  issued  at 
Olympia,  September  1,  1852. 


Influence  of  the  Press  17 

pensive  publications  found  their  way  into  many  of  the 
more  prosperous  homes.  Thus  the  taste  for  literature 
and  the  news  was  awakened  so  that  in  a  short  time  the 
newspapers  began  to  multiply;  the  monthlies  became 
weeklies;  the  weeklies,  semi-weeklies  and  dailies.  The 
thirst  for  news  and  information  on  current  questions 
will  ever  serve  as  a  tonic  to  create  a  desire  for  abundant 
reading,  hence  will  aid  in  producing  a  better  market  for 
literature. 

It  is  true  we  have  not  published  many  magazines ;  but 
it 'was  not  for  want  of  talent  or  demand.  Our  people 
have  simply  not  had  the  time  to  give  proper  attention 
to  the  matter.  But  many  will  remember  the  West  Shore, 
whose  pen  was  dipped  in  poetry  and  whose  brush  not 
infrequently  gave  us  the  delicate  tinting  of  the  rainbow. 
It  was  a  welcome  visitor  to  our  homes,  and  it  was  eagerly 
sought  by  thousands  of  readers  throughout  the  Nation. 
Nor  would  we  forget  The  Native  Son  Magazine,  which 
had  an  eventful  existence  of  two  years,  and  was  a  beau- 
tifully illustrated  monthly,  edited  by  Mr.  Fred  H. 
Saylor ;  also  the  Oregon  Teachers  Monthly,  published  by 
Prof.  Charles  H.  Jones,  at  the  Capital  City. 

But  no  history  of  Oregon  literature  would  be  complete 
without  proper  credit  being  given  to  the  work  that  is 
being  done  by  The  Pacific  Monthly.  This  magazine,  "of 
which  all  Oregonians  should  be  proud,"  is  giving  a  dis- 
tinctive form  and  a  character  to  Oregon  literature.  It 
is  doing  what  only  a  magazine  can  do,  and  it  is  doing  it 
well.  The  Pacific  Monthly  began  with  a  high  standard 
and  its  publishers  have  steadily  adhered  to  this  policy. 
As  a  consequence  the  magazine  is  a  credit  to  Oregon 
literature  and  to  the  literature  of  the  West.  It  is  char- 
acterized by  an  evenness  of  tone  and  a  literary  atmos- 
phere that  far  older  publications  might  well  envy,  and 
at  the  same  time  its  contents  are  sufficiently  varied  to 
appeal  to  the  popular  taste.  The  magazine  was  estab- 
lished in  1898  by  William  Bittle  Wells,  who  is  its  present 
editor. 

Among  the  abler  journalists  whose  pens  have  been 
influential  in  shaping  the  future  of  Oregon  are :  Harvey 
W.  Scott,  the  critic  and  editor  of  the  Oregonian;  L. 


18  Oregon  Literature 

Samuels,  of  the  West  Shore;  Mrs.  A.  S.  Duniway,  cham- 
pion of  women's  rights ;  the  trenchant  Thomas  B.  Merry ; 
as  also  James  O'Meara,  A. 'Bush,  W.  L.  Adams,  S.  A. 
Clarke,  W.  H.  Odell,  A.  Noltner,  and  others,  whose 
number  has  increased  with  the  tide  of  immigration  and 
the  progress  of  our  country. 

PROGRESS  AND  LITERATURE. 

But  unrest  develops  character;  quiet,  talent;  and 
talent,  literature.  As  grand  as  were  their  deeds,  and 
memorable  their  lives,  the  pioneer  days  are  over.  Homes 
have  been  built  and  farms  improved.  The  Indians  have 
been  civilized;  churches  and  school  houses  erected. 
We  have  passed  through  the  home-seeking  period  and 
entered  into  the  home  and  social  development  era,  an 
era  when  men— thinking  men— have  an  opportunity  to 
sit  down  in  the  quiet  of  their  homes  and  think.  There 
is  scarcely  a  town  or  hamlet  in  the  state  now  that  is  not 
the  seat  of  some  publishing  establishment,  preaching  the 
gospel  of  modern  culture  and  giving  every  evidence  of 
large  literary  progress. 

MERIT  OF  OREGON  LITERATURE. 

In  passing  judgment  upon  the  merits  of  authors  we 
take  into  account  the  quality  as  well  as  the  quantity  of 
what  they  have  written.  Have  they  suited  the  thought 
to  the  action,  the  action  to  the  thought  1  Have  they 
skillfully  adapted  the  expression  to  the  theme?  Have 
they  written  in  a  style  that  would  edify  and  delight  an 
American  reading  circle?  These  questions  must  be  care- 
fully considered.  In  the  days  of  the  Colonists,  trans- 
mission of  thought  was  the  sole  function  of  literature; 
and  this  is  quite  all  fhat  could  have  been  expected  of 
a  people  in  an  age  of  literary  poverty,  when  language 
was  regarded  merely  as  a  clumsy  vehicle  for  the  convey- 
ance of  heavy  thought.  A  century  of  good  schools  has 
taught  our  people  the  art  of  expression,  and  men  and 
women  have  learned  to  decorate  prose  with  the  ornaments 
of  poetry. 


Merit  of  Oregon  Literature  19 

In  the  pioneer  age  of  Oregon,  manner  as  well  as  matter 
enters  as  an  important  element  in  style.  It  is  not  so 
much  what  you  say  as  how  you  say  it.  Merit  of  style 
is  a  quality  found  in  all  the  world's  unwasting  treasures 
of  literature.  In  respect  to  style  or  quality  of  literary 
productions,  the  writers  of  Oregon  in  half  a  century  have 
outclassed  the  writers  of  all  the  Thirteen  Colonies  of 
America  during  the  first  one  hundred  and  fifty  years. 
From  1607,  the  founding  of  Jamestown,  when  John 
Smith  opened  the  stream  of  American  literature  by  de- 
scribing the  country  and  the  people  he  found  in  the  new 
world,  to  1765,  when  the  people  were  aroused  to  resist- 
ance of  the  foreign  authority  of  Great  Britain,  there  was 
not  written  nor  published  in  all  the  colonies  a  set  of 
orations  that  will  compare  with  the  twenty-one  delivered 
and  published  by  George  H.  Williams,  of  Portland, 
Oregon,  in  1890 ;  nor  had  they  a  J.  W.  Nesmith,  a  Delazon 
Smith,  or  a  Col.  E.  D.  Baker.  And  the  best  things 
written  by  Anne  Bradstreet  and  Michael  Wigglesworth, 
the  two  greatest  poets  of  the  Colonial  period,  would  be 
now  regarded  as  mere  doggerel  alongside  of  the  poems  of 
Samuel  Simpson,  Joaquin  Miller,  Edwin  Markham,  or 
Ella  Higginson.  Then  the  historical  descriptions  by  John 
Smith,  Governors  Bradford  and  Winthroix  which  were 
the  best  of  the  age,  could  in  no  wise  be  compared  favor- 
ably with  Gray's  or  Hines's  history  of  Oregon,  or  Mrs 
Victor's  " Rivers  of  the  West,"  or  Mrs.  Dye's  "Mc- 
Loughlin  and  Old  Oregon,"  either  for  beauty  or  literary 
finish.  There  was  also  that  literary  curiosity,  Cotton 
Mather,  who  adopted  the  novel  method  of  securing  a 
library  by  writing  more  than  four  hundred  volumes 
himself.  But  among  all  these  he  did  not  present  to  the 
literary  world  as  readable  a  book  as  L.  A.  Banks 's 
"Honeycombs  of  Life,"  or  Dr.  T.  L.  Eliot's  "Visit  to 
the  Holy  Land."  Jonathan  Edwards 's  "Inquiry  Into 
the  Freedom  of  the  Will, ' '  written  in  1754,  was  regarded 
as  authority  in  metaphysics,  but  it  never  was  classed  as 
literature.  Then  it  may  be  remarked  that  they  produced 
no  songs  or  other  music  of  note,  while  our  Francis,  the 
DeMoss  family,  Heritage,  Parvin,  Yoder,  and  scores  of 
others  have  published  songs,  enjoyed  and  sung  from 


20  Oregon  Literature 

shore  to  shore,  from  sea  to  sea.  They  had  no  great  law- 
yers to  strengthen  their  constitution  by  the  wise  interpre- 
tation of  their  laws,  such  as  we  have  had  in  Matthew  P. 
Deady,  W.  Lair  Hill,  Lafayette  Lane,  W.  P.  Lord,  and 
others  who  have  graced  the  supreme  bench  of  Oregon. 
Modern  journalism  was  then  unknown;  and  a  Homer 
Davenport,  with  an  annual  income  of  $13,000— the  high- 
est salary  ever  paid  a  cartoonist— was  not  to  be  found 
among  them. 

SOME  POPULAR  MUSIC  PUBLISHED  IN  OREGON. 
VOCAL. 

Addie  Ray Parvin 

Adieu,  Adieu,  Our  Deam  of  Life . .  .Shindler 

A  Hot  Time  in  the  Old  Town  Tonight Joe  Hay  den 

An  Old  Man's  Reverie Eastman 

A  Song  That  Never  Was  Sung Eastman 

At  the  Threshold Smith 

At  the  Gateway Parvin 

At  the  Making  of  the  Hay Falenius 

Baby  Eyes Bray 

Blue  Ribbon  War  Song Francis 

College  Train  (The) . '. Parvin 

Constancy Cook 

Cradle  Rest  Lisher 

Drifted  Leaf  (The) Cook 

Donald,  Return  to  Me Emerson 

Drifting  Apart   Finck 

End  Crowns  the  Work  (The) Parvin 

Folding  Away  the  Baby's  Clothes Bray 

Fond  Idol  of  My  Heart Bates 

Flight  of  the  Birds Hodge 

Hear  Dem  Ebening  Bells Bray 

How  Can  I  Go  Without  a  Last  Good-By? Mathiot 

'.  Am  a  Tramp Mathiot 

I  Heard  an  Angel  Voice  Last  Night Bray 

I's  Gwine  Home  Tonight Parvin 

Just  One  Girl .Keating 

Just  as  the  Sun  Went  Down Keating 

I  Have  Left  You  Though  I  Love  You Eastman 


Popular  Music  Published  in  Oregon  21 

Kittle  McGee Cook 

Life  is  Short,  Art  is  Long Parvin 

Long  White  Seam  (The) Denny 

Lost  in  the  Deep,  Deep  Sea Bray 

Message  Came  Over  the  Wires  Today  (A) Bray 

Nevermore Bray 

One  Smile  For  Me,  Sweetheart Bray 

On  Life 's  River Parvin 

Open  Wide  the  Gates  of  Heaven Bray 

Over  the  River Thompson 

Our  Lips  Have  Kissed  Their  Last  G cod-By Gilbert 

Our  Emblem  Flower Eastman 

Put  on  Your  Army  Shoes Sawyer 

Speak  to  Mother  Kindly Bray 

Spot  and  I Bray 

Sweet,  Thoughts,  Bright  Thoughts Bray 

Sister  and  I Van  Gorder 

Shadows Coolidge 

Surely  Apart  en  Life's  Great  Sea : Gilbert 

Slumber  Song .Seals 

Sweet  Oregon  DeMoss 

Sweet  Flower  cf  Cclclcn  Hue Finck 

The  Message  of  the  Flowers Beals 

Stepping  Upward   Parvin 

Think  of  Me Bray 

Tomorrow Cook 

True  Hearts  Are  Beating Parvin 

There's  Mischief  in  Their  Eyes Bray 

Voyaging Parvin 

Water  Mill  (Tho) Cook 

When  She's  Singing Bray 

Why  the  Cows  Came  Late Cook 

Waiting  by  the  Old  Hearthstone Van  Gorder 

You'll  Soon  Forget  Your  Old  Love Van  Gorder 

INSTRUMENTAL. 

Ah!  Waltz  (The) Gilbert 

All  the  Rage  Waltz Sedlak 

Argonaut  Schottische   '.  .  .Sloan 

Aschrof t  Waltz    Cross 

Belle  of  Oregon Finck 


22  Oregon  Literaiure 

Belle  of  Portland  

Ben  Bolt  Transcription 

Concerto  (Violin) Huthyn  Turney 

Creole  Dance M.  Ooodnough 

Chinook  Wind  Whispers  Waltz Mathwt 

Camas  Rose  Redowa Finck 

Columbia  March Look 

Chapel  in  the  Sierras  (The) Cook 

Deck  Promenade Engleman 

Dreams  of  Summer Fmck 

First  Street  211,  First  Street  Polka Parrot 

Frost  Sparkles   Coolidge 

Fond  Hopes  Desire Finch 

Garden  City  Schottische Rosenberg 

Grand  Triumphal  March Rosenberg 

Grammar  School  March Finck 

Heartsease  Waltz Finck 

Hazel  Kirke  Schottische Bray 

In  the  Woods Coolidge 

In  the  Gloaming Coolidge 

Halcyon  Waltzes Al  Weber 

I  Am  Dreaming  of  the  Past Finck 

Jolly  Coons  Schottische Bray 

Love  in  the  Mist  Waltz Finck 

Lady  Slipper  Waltz Finck 

Las  Ondellas  (Little  Waves)  Waltz Cross 

Mathilda  Polka  Thibeau 

McKinley  March Yoder 

Murmurs  From  the  Pacific Cook 

Mount  Hood  in  the  Distance Moelling 

Mountain  Lilly  Galop   Finck 

Marion  Square  Polka Marline 

Mount  Hood  March Homer 

New  Lancers  Quadrille Finck 

Now  and  Forever  Waltz Bray 

One  Smile  For  Me,  Sweetheart— Transcription.  .Finck 

Our  Girls  Schottische Finck 

Oh,  It's  So  Easy  Schottische Bray 

Pioneers '  Grand  March Mathiot 

Pleasant  Hours  Waltzes Josef  Mueller 

Portland  Light  Battery  March Parrott 


Future  Literature  23 

Portland  Mazurka  Sedlak 

Railroad  Polka Van  Dusen 

Sweet  Thoughts,  bright  Thoughts  Schottische.  . .  .Bray 

Speak  to  Me,  Speak— Transcription Finch 

Sea  Foam  Polka Finck 

The  Second  Oregon McElroy 

Telephone  Scherzo Engleman 

University  March Parvin 

Wild  Deer  Galop   Moelling 

Yellow  Violet  Schottische .Finck 

Zephyr  Waltz Cross 

Of  the  future  literature  of  Oregon  it  may  be  said  that 
peace,  home,  and  prosperity  will  be  the  probable  themes 
—  themes  that  are  contemplated  in  the  quiet  of  the 
homes,  and  enjoyed  by  the  really  progressive  classes. 
Agricultural  and  pastoral  life  will  not  be  slighted.  Nor 
will  the  sons  of  the  men  who  made  the  country  permit 
to  be  forgotten  the  legends  incident  to  the  life  of  the 
settler,  and  the  trials  of  the  Indian  who  was  gradually 
crowded  out  of  his  home  that  we  might  be  favored. 
We  have  our  Minnehahas,  our  Niagaras,  our  mountain 
chains,  wonderful  caves,  and  delightful  scenes  awaiting 
the  touch  of  the  pen  of  the  poet  and  the  brush  of  the 
artist.  And  while  there  has  been  enough  suffering  and 
privation  already  endured  in  the  history  of  our  statr 
to  quicken  the  heart  and  fire  the  imagination  of  the 
orator  and  the  poet,  culture  and  schools  will  temper  the 
sentiment  with  philosophy  and  adorn  it  with  artistic 
beauty;  and  as  a  result,  the  future  Oregonian  bids  fair 
to  live  that  higher  literary  life  which  it  is  given  every 
man  in  this  land  to  enjoy. 


24  Oregon  Literature 


Joaquin  Miller 

AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

Autobiographically  the  Poet  says : 

"The  first  thing  of  mine  in  print  was  the  valedictory 
class  poem,  Columbia  College,  Eugene,  Oregon,  1859. 
Oregon,  settled  by  missionaries,  was  a  great  place  for 
schools  from  the  first.  At  this  date,  Columbia  College, 
the  germ  of  the  University,  had  many  students  from 
California,  and  was  famous  as  an  educational  center. 
Divest  the  mind  at  once  of  the  idea  that  the  schools  of 
Oregon  were  in  the  least  inferior  to  the  best  in  the  world. 
I  have  never  since  found  such  determined  students  and 
omnivorous  readers.  We  had  all  the  books  and  none  of 
the  follies  of  great  centers. 

"I  had  been  writing,  or  trying  to  write,  since  a  lad. 
My  two  brothers  and  my  sister  were  at  my  side,  our 
home  with  our  parents,  and  we  lived  entirely  to  our- 
selves, and  really  often  made  ourselves  ill  from  too  much 
study.  We  were  all  school  teachers  when  not  at  college. 
In  1861  my  elder  brother  and  I  were  admitted  to  practice 
law,  under  George  H.  Williams,  afterwards  Attorney- 
General  under  President  Grant.  Brother  went  at  once 
to  war,  I  to  the  gold  mines. 

"My  first  act  there  came  near  costing  my  life,  and 
cost  me,  through  snow -blindness,  the  best  use  of  my  eyes 
from  that  time  forth.  The  agony  of  snow-blindness  is 
unutterable;  the  hurt  irreparable.  In  those  days  men 
never  murmured  or  admitted  themselves  put  at  disad- 
vantage. I  gave  up  the  law  for  the  time  and  laid  hand 
to  other  things ;  but  here  is  a  paragraph  from  the  pen  of 
George  A.  Waggoner  in  the  February,  1897,  Oregon 
Teachers  Monthly,  telling  hew  this  calamity  came  about: 

The  first  man  I  met  among  the  fevered  crowd  was  Oregon's 
poet,  my  old  schoolmate,  Joaquin  Miller.  His  blue  eyes 


JOAQUIN  MILLER 


Joaquin  Miller  25 

sparkled  with  kindly  greeting,  and,  as  I  took  his  hand,  I  knew 
by  its  quickening  pulse  and  tightened  clasp  that  he,  too,  was 
sharing  in  the  excitement  of  the  gold  hunter.  He  was  then 
in  the  first  flush  of  manhood,  with  buoyant  spirits,  untiring 
energy,  and  among  a  race  of  hardy  pioneers,  the  bravest  of 
the  brave.  He  possessed  more  than  ordinary  talent  and  looked 
forward  with  hope  to  the  battle  of  life,  expecting  to  reap  his 
share  of  its  honors  and  rewards.  For  years  he  was  foremost 
in  every  desperate  enterprise — crossing  snow-capped  moun- 
tains, swollen  rivers,  and  facing  hostile  Indians.  When  snow 
fell  fifteen  feet  on  Florence  Mountain,  and  hundreds  were 
penned  in  camp  without  a  word  from  wives,  children  and  loved 
ones  at  home,,  he  said,  "Boys,  I  will  'bring  your  letters  from 
Lewiston."  Afoot  and  alone,  without  a  trail,  he  crossed  tjie 
mountain  tops,  the  dangerous  streams,  the  wintry  desert  of 
Camas  Prairie,  fighting  'back  the  hungry  mountain  wolves,  and 
returned  bending  beneath  his  load  of  loving  .nessages  from 
home.  One  day  he  was  found,  in  defense  of  the  weak,  facing 
the  pistol  or  bowie  knife  of  the  desperado;  and  the  next  day 
he  was  washing  the  clothes  and  smoothing  the  pillow  of  a 
sick  comrade.  We  all  loved  him,  but  we  were  not  men  who 
wrote  for  the  newspaper  or  magazine,  and  his  acts  of  heroism 
and  kindness  were  unchronicled  save  in  the  hearts  of  those  who 
knew  him  in  those  times  and  under  those  trying  circumstances. 

"( Right  into  the  heart  of  the  then  unknown  and  un- 
named Idaho  (Idah-ho)  and  Montana,  gold  dust  was  as 
wheat  in  harvest  time.  I,  and  another,  born  to  the 
saddle,  formed  an  express  line  and  carried  letters  in 
from  the  Oregon  River  and  gold  dust  out,  gold  dust  by 
the  horse  load  after  load,  till  we  earned  all  the  gold  we 
wanted.  Such  rides!  and  each  alone.  Indians  holding 
the  plunging  horses  ready  for  us  at  relays.  I  had  lived 
with  and  knew,  trusted  the  red  men  and  was  never  be- 
trayed. Those  matchless  night  rides  under  the  stars, 
dashing  into  the  Orient  doors  of  dawn  before  me  as  the 
sun  burst  through  the  shining  mountain  pass — this 
brought  my  love  of  song  to  the  surface.  And  now  I 
traveled,  Mexico,  South  America,  I  had  resolved  as  I 
rode  to  set  these  unwritten  lands  with  the  banner  of  song. 

'  *  I  wrote  much  as  I  traveled  but  never  kept  my  verse, 
once  published.  I  thought,  and  still  hold  that  under 
right  conditions  and  among  a  right  people — and  these 
mighty  American  people  are  perhaps  more  nearly  right 
than  any  other  that  have  yet  been— anything  in  litera- 
ture that  is  worth  preserving  will  preserve  itself.  As 


26  Oregon  Literature 

none  of  my  verses  with  this  following  exception  have 
come  down  on  the  River  of  Time  it  is  safe  to  say  nothing 
of  all  I  wrote  could  serve  any  purpose  except  to  teed 
foolish  curiosity.  I  give  the  following  place,  written 
years  after  the  college  valedictory,  not  only  because  it 
is  right  in  spirit  but  because  it  shows  how  old,  how  very 
old  I  was  as  a  boy,  and  sad  at  heart  over  the  cruelties 
of  man  to  man.  This  was  my  first  poem  printed,  after 
the  valedictory,  about  1866,  and  has  been  drifting  around 
ever  since: 

IS  IT  WORTH  WHILE? 

Is  it  worth  while  that  we  jostle  a  brother 

Bearing  his  load  on  the  rough  road  of  life? 

Is  it  worth  while  that  we  jeer  at  each  other 

In  blackness  of  heart?— that  we  war  to  the  knife? 
God   pity    us    all    in    our    pitiful    strife. 

God  pity  us  all  as  we  jostle  each  other; 

God  pardon  us  all  for  the  triumphs  we  feel 
When   a  fellow  goes  down;  poor  heart-broken  brother, 

Pierced  to  the  heart;  words  are  keener  than  steel, 

And  mightier  far  for  woe  or  for  weal. 

Were  it  not  well  in  this  brief  little  journey 

On  over  the  isthmus  down  into  the  tide, 
We  .give  him  a  fish  instead  of  a  serpent, 

Ere  folding  the  hands  to  be  and  abide 

For  ever  and  aye  in  dust  at  his  side? 

Look  at  the  roses. saluting  each  other; 

Look  at  the  herds  all  at  peace  on  the  plain — 

Man,  and  man  onlyL.,  makes  war  on  his  brother, 
And  dotes  in  his  heart  on  his  peril  and  pain — 
Shamed  by  the  brutes  that  go  down  on  the  plain. 

Why  should  you  envy  a  moment  of  pleasure 

Some  poor  fellow-mortal  has  wrung  from  it  all? 

Oh!  could  you  look  into  his  life's  broken  measure — 
Look  at  the  dregs — at  the  wormwood  and  'gall — 
Look  at  his  heart  hung  with  crape  like  a  pall — 

Look  at  the  skeletons  down  by  his  hearthstone — 
Look   at  his   cares   in  their   merciless   sway, 

I  know  you  would  go  and  say  tenderly,  lowly, 
Brother — my  brother,  for  aye  and  a  day, 
Lo!  Lethe  is  washing  the  blackness  away. 


Joaquin  Miller  27 

''Home  again  in  Oregon  I  had  a  little  newspaper ; ..  .  . 
then  elected  Judge;  and  once  more  my  face  to  books, 
night  and  day,  as  at  school. 

*  *  Had  I  melted  into  my  surroundings,  instead  of  read- 
ing arid  writing  continually,  life  had  not  been  so  dismal ; 
but  I  lived  among  the  stars,  an  abstemious  ghost.  Then 
'Specimens,'  a  thin  book  of  verse,  and  some  lawyers 
laughed,  and  political  and  personal  foes  all  up  and  down 
the  land  derided.  This  made  me  more  determined,  and 
the  next  year  'Joaquin  et  a!.,'  a  book  of  124  pages, 
resulted.  Bert  Harte,  of  the  Overland,  behaved  bravely ; 
but,  as  a  rule:  'Can  any  good  thing  come  out  of  Naz- 
areth?' 

"The  first  little  book  has  not '  preserved  itself  to  me, 
but  from  a  London  pirated  copy  of  the  second  one  I  find 
that  it  makes  up  about  half  of  my  first  book  in  London ; 
the  songs  my  heart  had  sung  as  I  galloped  alone  under 
the  stars  of  Idaho  years  before. 

"But  my  health  and  eyes  had  failed  again;  besides, 
everything  was  at  sixes  and  sevens,  and  .  .  .  when  I 
asked  a  place  on  the  supreme  bench  at  the  convention,  I 
was  derisively  told:  'Better  stick  to  poetry.'  Three 
months  later,  September  1,  1870,  I  was  kneeling  at  the 
grave  of  Burns.  I  really  expected  to  die  there  in  the 
land  of  my  fathers ;  I  was  so  broken  and  ill. 

"May  I  proudly  admit  that  I  had  sought  a  place  on 
the  supreme  bench  in  order  that  I  might  the  more  closely 
stick  to  poetry  ?  I  have  a  st  rious  purpose  in  saying  this. 
Was  Lowell  a  bad  diplomat  because  he  was  a  good  poet? 
Is  Gladstone  less  great  because  of  his  three  hundred 
books  and  pamphlets?  The  truth  is  there  never  was, 
never  will  be,  a  great  general,  judge,  lawyer,  anything, 
without  being,  at  heart  at  least,  a  great  poet.  Then  let 
not  our  conventions,  presidents,  governors,  despise  the 
young  poet  who  does  seek  expression.  We  have  plenty 
of  lawyers,  judges,  silent  great  men  of  all  sorts ;  yet  the 
land  is  songless.  Had  my  laudable  ambition  not  been 
despised,  how  much  better  I  might  have  sung;  who 
shall  say  ? 

"Let  us  quote  a  few  lines  from  the  last  pages  of  my 
little  book  published  before  setting  out. 


28  Oregon  Literature 


ULTIME. 

Had  I  been  content  to  live  on  the  leafy  borders  of  the  scene 
Communing  with  the  neglected  dwellers  of  the  fern-grown  glen, 

And  glorious  storm-stained  peaks,  with  cloud-knit  sheen, 

And  sullen  iron  brows,  and  belts  of  'boundless  green, 
A  peaceful,  flowery  path,  content,  I  might  have  trod, 

,And  caroled  melodies  that  perchance  might  have  been 
Read  with  love  and  a  sweet  delight.  But  I  kiss  the  rod. 
I  have  done  as  -best  I  knew.  The  rest  is  with  my  God. 

But  to  conclude.     Do  not  stick  me  down  in  the  cold  wet  mud, 
As  if  I  wished  to  hide,  or  was  ashamed  of  what  I  had  done. 

Or  my  friends  believed  me  born  of  slime,  with  torpid  'blood. 
No,  when  this  the  first  short  quarter  of  my  life  is  run, 
Let  me  ascend  in  clouds  of  smoke  up  to  the  sun.* 

And  as  for  these  lines,  they  are  rough,  wild-wood  bouquet. 
Plucked  from  my  mountains  in  the  dusk  of  life,  as  one 

Without  taste  or  time  to  select,  or  put  in  good  array, 

Grasps  at  once  rose,  leaf,  briar,  on  the  brink,  and  hastes  away. 

' '  The  author  must  be  the  sole  judge  as  to  what  belongs 
to  the  public  and  what  to  the  flames.  Much  that  I  have 
written  has  been  on  trial  for  many  years.  The  honest, 
wise  old  world  of  today  is  a  fairly  safe  jury.  While  it  is 
true  the  poet  must  lead  rather  than  be  led,  yet  must  he 
lead  pleasantly,  patiently,  or  he  may  not  lead  at  all.  So 
that  which  the  world  let  drop  out  of  sight  as  the  years 
surged  by  I  have,  as  a  rule,  not  cared  to  introduce  a 
second  time. 

1  'For  example  take  the  lines  written  on  the  dead  mil- 
lionaire of  New  York.  There  were  perhaps  a  dozen 
verses  at  first,  but  the  world  found  use  for  and  kept 
before  it  only  the  two  following: 

The  gold  that  with  the  sunlight  lies 

In  bursting  heaps  at  dawm 
The  silver  spilling  from  the  skies 

At  night  to  walk  upon, 
The  diamonds  gleaming  in  the  dew 
He  never  saw,  he  never  knew. 

He  got  some  -gold,  dug  from  the  mud, 
Some  silver,  crushed  from  stones; 

*The  Poet,  with  his  own  hands,  has  erected  a  funeral  hill  near  his  home  upon  the 
Heights,  where  his  remains  will '  ascend  in  clouds  of  smoke  up  to  the  sun." 


Joaquin  Miller  29 

But  the  gold  was  red  with  dead  men's  blood. 

The  silver  black  with  groans; 
And  when  he  died  he  moaned  aloud 
"They'll  make  no  pocket  in  my  shroud." 

TO  A  YOUNG  WRITER 

"May  I,  an  old  teacher,  in  conclusion,  lay  down  a 
lesson  or  two  for  the  young  in  letters?  After  the  grave 
of  Burns,  then  a  month  at  Byron's  tomb,  then  Schiller, 
Goethe;  before  battlefields.  Heed  this.  The  poet  must 
be  loyal,  loyal  not  only  to  his  God  and  his  country,  but 
loyal,  loving,  to  the  great  masters  who  have  nourished 
him. 

"This  devotion  to  the  masters  led  me  first  to  set  foot 
in  London  near  White  Chapel,  where  Bayard  Taylor 
had  lived;  although  I  went  at  once  to  the  Abbey.  Then 
I  lived  at  Camberwell,  because  Browning  was  born  there ; 
then  at  Hemmingford  Road,  because  Tom  Hood  died 
there. 

"A  thin  little  book  now,  called  'Pacific  Poems,'  and 
my  watch  was  in  pawn  before  it  was  out,  for  I  could  not 
find  a  publisher.  One  hundred  were  printed,  bearing 
the  name  of  the  printer  as  publisher.  What  fortune ! 
With  the  press  notices  in  hand,  I  now  went  boldly  to  the 
most  aristocratic  publisher  in  London. 

"As  to  the  disposal  of '  our  dead,  except  so  far  as  it 
tends  to  the  good  of  the  living,  most  especially  the  poor, 
who  waste  so  much  they  can  ill  spare  in  burials,  the 
young  poet  may  say  or  do  as  he  elects.  But  in  the 
matters  of  resignation  to  the  Infinite  and  belief  in  im- 
mortality, he  shall  have  no  choice.  There  never  was  a, 
poet  and  there  never  will  be  a  poet  who  disputed  God, 
or  so  degraded  himself  as  to  doubt  his  eternal  existence. 

"One  word  as  to  the  choice  of  theme.  First,  let  it  be 
new.  The  world  has  no  use  for  two  Homers,  or  even  a 
second  Shakespeare,  were  he  possible. 

"And  now  think  it  not  intrusion  if  one  no  longer 
young  should  ask  the  coming  poet  to  not  waste  his 
forces  in  discovering  this  truth :  The  sweetest  flowers 
grow  closest  to  the  ground.  We  are  all  too  ready  to 
choose  some  lurid  battle  theme  or  exalted  subject.  Ex- 


30  Oregon  Literature 

alt  your  theme  rather  than  ask  your  theme  to  exalt  you. 
Braver  and  better  to  celebrate  the  lowly  and  forgiving 
grasses  under  foot  than  the  stately  cedars  and  sequoias 
overhead.  They  can  speak  for  themselves.  It  has  been 
scornfully  said  that  all  my  subjects  are  of  the  -low  or 
savage.  It  might  have  been  as  truly  said  that  some  of 
my  heroes  and  heroines,  as  Reil  and  Sophia  Petrowska, 
di'rd  on  the  scaffold.  But  believe  me,  the  people  of  heart 
are  the  unfortunate.  How  unfortunate  that  man  who 
never  knew  misfortune!  And  thank  God,  the  heart  of 
the  world  is  with  the  unfortunate !  There  never  has  yet 
been  a  great  poem  written  of  a  rich  man  or  gross.  And 
I  glory  in  the  fact  that  I 'never  celebrated  war  or  war- 
riors. Thrilling  as  are  war  themes,  you  will  not  find  one, 
purposely,  in  all  my  books.  If  you  would  have  the  heart 
of  the  world  with  you,  put  heart  in  your  work,  taking 
care  that  you  do  not  try  to  pass  brass  for  gold.  They 
are  much  alike  to  look  upon,  but  only  the  ignorant  can 
be  deceived.  And  what  is  poetry  without  heart!  In 
truth,  were  I  asked  to  define  poetry  I  would  answer  in  a 
single  word,  Heart. 

"Let  me  again  invoke  you,  be  loyal  to  your  craft,  not 
only  to  your  craft,  but  to  your  fellow  scribes.  To  let 
envy  lure  you  to  leer  at  even  the  humblest  of  them  is  to 
admit  yourself  beaten;  to  admit  yourself  to  be  one  of 
the  thousand  failures  betraying  the  one  success.  Braver 
it  were  to  knife  in  the  back  a  holy  man  at  prayer.  I 
plead  for  something  more  than  ^he  individual  here.  I 
plead  for  the  entire  Republic.  To  not  have  a  glorious 
literature  of  our  own  is  to  be  another  Nineveh,  Babylon, 
Turkey.  Nothing  ever  has  paid,  nothinsr  ever  will  pay 
a  nation  like  poetry.  How  many  millions  have  we  paid, 
are  still  paying,  bleak  and  rocky  little  Scotland  to  behold 
the  land  of  Burns?  Byron  led  the  world  to  scatter  its 
gold  through  the  ruins  of  Italy,  where  he  had  mused  and 
sang,  and  Italy  was  rebuilt.  Greece  survived  a  thousand 
years  on  the  deathless  melodies  of  her  mighty  dead,  and 
now  once  again  is  the  heart  of  the  globe. 

"Finally,  use  the  briefest  little  bits  of  Saxon  words 
at  hand.  The  world  is  waiting  for  ideas,  not  for  words. 
Remember  Shakespeare 's  scorn  of  *  words,  words,  words. ' 


Joaquin  Miller  31 

Remember  always  that  it  was  the  short  Roman  sword 
that  went  to  the  heart  and  conquered  the  world,  not  the 
long  tasseled  and  bannered  lance  of  the  barbarian.  Write 
this  down  in  red  and  remember. 

"Will  we  ever  have  an  American  literature  1  Yes, 
when  we  leave  sound  and  wcrds  to  the  winds.  American 
science  has  swept  time  and  space  aside.  American  sci- 
ence dashes  along  at  'fifty,  sixty  miles  an  hour ;  but 
American  literature  still  lumbers  along  in  the  old- 
fashioned  English  stage-coach  at  ten  miles  an  hour ;  and 
sometimes  with  a  red-coated  outrider  blowing  a  horn. 
We  must  leave  all  this  behind  us.  We  have  not  time 
for  words.  A  man  who  uses  a  great  big  sounding  word 
when  a  short  one  will  do  is  to  that  extent  a  robber  of 
time.  A  jewel  that  depends  greatly  on  its  settings  is  not 
a  great  jewel.  When  the  Messiah  of  American  literature 
comes  he  will  come  singing,  so  far  as  may  be,  in  words  of 
a  single  syllable." 

THE  POET  AT  HOME. 

While  traveling  in  California  recently,  the  writer 
could  not  resist  the  temptation  offered  to  visit  the  Recluse 
Poet  in  his  home  at  Oakland  Heights,  where  he  dwells 
as  Walt.  Whitman  and  all  true  children  of  nature  love 
to  dwell,  surrounded  by  rural  scenes,  in  close  com- 
munion with  nature.  The  drive  from  Eas.t  Oakland  to 
the  Heights,  a  distance  of  two  miles,  is  beautiful  in  the 
extreme.  Broad  and  smooth,  the  road  skirts  a  ravine 
and  winds  about  the  hill ;  it  is  cool  and  refreshing,  being 
shaded  on  either  side  by  Monterey  Cyprus,  eucalyptus, 
and  acacia  trees.  On  arriving  at  the  Poet's  home,  the 
first  sight  one  gets  of  the  man  is  furnished  by  the  home 
he  has  built  for  his  mother.  His  father  being  long  since 
dead,  with  loving  hand  the  Poet  has  drawn  his  mother 
away  from  the  more  active  struggles  of  life  to  spend  her 
remaining  days  with  him  on  the  mountain,  near  the 
clouds.  Then  the  conservatory  filled  with  choice  flowers 
speaks  of  him  as  a  lover  of  nature,  but  the  man— the 
lover  of  nature— the  Poet  himself —was  found  in  bed,  in 
a  little  cell  whose  dimensions  and  primitive  simplicity 


32  Oregon  Literature 

forcibly  suggested  the  early  settlement  of  the  Coast. 
Although  only  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  he  had 
retired  to  rest,  but  received  us  most  graciously,  without 
rising.  The  writer  was  invited  to  a  seat  on  the  bed  at 
his  feet.  Here  was  a  man  who  had  received  the  hospital- 
ity of  the  most  polished  men  and  women  of  Europe;  a 
man  who  had  been  a  welcome  guest  in  the  most  mag- 
nificent dwellings  in  the  old  world ;  a  man  whose  attain- 
ments now  entitle  him  to  a  welcome  to  any  society  he 
may  enter;  a  man  who  had  abandoned  all  to  follow  the 
bent  of  his  genius  and  to  live  with  the  primitive  sur- 
roundings of  a  pioneer,  with  wants  as  simple  as  those  of 
a  child. 

A  survey  of  the  apartment  revealed  a  pair  of  trousers 
and  high-heeled  boots  suspended  from  nails  driven  in 
the  wall,  an  ancient  bureau  in  one  corner,  a  horse-hide 
rug  on  the  floor,  and  a  straw  hat  banded  with  a  scarlet 
ribbon  ornamenting  one  of  the  high  posts  of  the  bed. 
Then  the  eye  catches  a  number  of  folded  papers  tacked 
to  the  wall  above  the  Poet's  head:  these  are  letters  re- 
ceived from  distinguished  literary  persons.  And,  last, 
we  were  shown  the  photograph  of  an  Indian  maiden, 
daughter  of  Old  John,  Chief  of  the  Roerue  River  Indians, 
whose*  subjugation  in  1856  cost  many  lives  and  two  mil- 
lion dollars.  There  were  no  lamps,  candles,  nor  books  to 
be  seen.  The  Poet  rises  with  the  birds,  and  with  them 
he  retires.  He  never  burns  "the  midnight  oil"  and 
complains  that  there  are  tco  many  books.  He  declares 
that  men  rely  too  much  on  books ;  that  they  are  valued 
by  the  number  of  books  1hey  carry  with  them,  whether 
or  not  they  know  anything  of  nature  or  of  nature's  God 
of  whom  books  should  speak. 

Everything  about  the  man  is  quaint,  everything 
around  him  is  curious.  The  ruer  on  the  floor  is  said  to  be 
the  skin  of  a  faithful  steed  which  carried  General  Fre- 
mont across  the  plains  in  1843. 

There  seems  to  be  nothing  in  him  like  other  men  except 
his  care  for  flowers  and  his  love  for  his  mother.  But 
the  Poet— it  is  he  of  whom  we  now  speak— once  his  lips 
move,  and  the  little  room  with  its  quaint  furniture,  bare 
floor,  bare  walls  and  ceiling,  disappear;  and  we  stand 


A  8 


Joaquin  Miller  33 

with  bared  brows  beneath  the  broad  canopy  above,  while 
our  ears  are  filled  with  the  murmuring  of  gurgling 
streams  whose  surface  gives  back  to  heaven  the  light  of 
countless  stars.  Old  words  take  on  new  meaning;  old 
thoughts  stand  forth  new  born,  and  living  waters  follow 
every  stroke.  We  were  interested  in  all  he  said,  but  time 
admonished  us  to  trespass  no  longer  on  his  resting  hours. 
Reluctantly  we  said  "good-bye"  and  were  glad  our  road 
wound  lingeringly  around  the  hill,  making  the  transition 
less  abrupt  from  the  Poet's  ideal  world  to  the  busy, 
bustling  scenes  of  every-day  city  life  on  the  plain  below ; 
yet  our  thoughts  were  still  of  the  Poet  on  the  mountain 
where  he  is  keeping  vigil,  his  ear  filled  with  the  low, 
sweet  music  of  nature,  while  his  eye  catches  visions  from 
the  clouds  which  pass  over  his  head. 

His  numerous  works  and  particularly  his  recently 
published  volume  of  poems,  "The  Songs  of  the  Soul," 
show  him  to  be  no  idler.  His  spindle  and  dis'taff  are 
ever  in  his  hand;  he  spins  the  flax  God  sends,  handing 
the  threads  down  to  his  fellows  on  the  plain.  May  we 
not  weave  some  of  them  into  the  woof  or  warp  of  our 
lives? 

Joaquin  Miller's  complete  poetical  works  have  been 
abridged  and  published  in  a  very  neat  volume  of  330 
pages.  The  Poet  of  the  Sierras  has  become  his  own 
censor  so  that  he  might  give  to  the  world  in  one  volume 
the  cream  only  of  all  that  he  has  written ;  and  no  critic 
could  have  been  more  judicious  and  severe  than  he.  The 
preface  is  an  autobiography  coupled  with  some  of  his 
"lessons  not  found  in  books."  This  is  Joaquin  Miller's 
greatest  book,  for  in  it  his  gentleness  of  manner  and 
simplicity  of  style  leads  the  reader  to  feel  that  the  Bard 
upon  the  Heights  has  in  the  evening  of  life  tuned  his 
harp  in  perfect  accord  with  the  sweeter,  softer,  gentler 
strains  of  the  bird-song  in  the  land  of  the  western  sunset. 

NOTES  AND  ANECDOTES. 

He  was  exploring  a  larp-e  map  in  the  Capitol  of 
Oregon.  His  is  a  graceful  figure  of  medium  height  and 
straight  as  an  arrow;  face  refined,  but  firm;  beard,  the 


34  Oregon  Literature 

beard  of  a  Boer,  and  a  wealth  of  auburn  hair  gradually 
growing  snowy  as  it  rests  on  his  liberal  shoulders.  After 
finding  the  ancient  boundary  of  Grant  county,  he  said: 
"I  used  to  be  Judge  over  there— administered  justice 
with  a  law  book  and  two  six-shooters. ' '  This  was  Joaquin 
Miller ;  and  a  look  of  '49  still  lingering  in  his  face  gave 
the  remark  peculiar  force  so  that  no  bystander  contra- 
dicted the  speaker. 

This  scene  suggests  another.  At  the  close  of  a  conven- 
tion—a political  battle— in  Portland  in  1870,  when  mat- 
ters terminated  sadly,  as  they  frequently  do  on  such 
occasions,  three  men  were  standing  by  an  old  fence  dis- 
cussing "what  of  the  future."  The  most  disappointed 
of  the  trio  remarked,  '  *  I  have  failed  to  secure  the  nomin- 
ation, and  am  going  to  Europe. ' '  He  left,  but  that  day 
was  a  milestone  in  their  lives.  One  has  since  graced  the 
gubernatoral  chair  as  Governor  Pennoyer,  another  the 
United  States  Circuit  Court  bench  as  Judge  Bellinger, 
while  the  third,  who  was  the  first  ambassador  of  Oregon 
literature  to  the  old  world,  has  written  classic  lines  and 
noble  sentiments  over  the  name  of  Joaquin  Miller. 

It  is  said  of  Mr.  Miller  that  he  could  never  endure  un- 
necessary delays.  One  day.  when  he  was  a  young  man, 
he  decided  to  attend  a  wedding  in  which  he  was  to  be 
one  of  the  principals.  He  knew  his  own  heart,  but  had 
never  met  the  lady  of  his  choice.  Addressing  a  letter 
to  her,  he  obtained  consent  to  an  interview.  He  visited 
her  for  the  first  time  on  Thursday;  they  were  married 
the  next  Sunday,  thereby  losing  no  time. 

Formalities  were  always  tedious  to  him.  The  story 
goes  that  when  he  visited  England  the  first  time  the 
Queen  desired  to  meet  him  in  her  mansion.  He  promptly 
declined  the  invitation  because  he  had  the  impression 
that  his  choice  Sierra  costume  would  not  be  admissable 
on  that  royal  occasion. 

Mr.  Miller's  wit  never  fails  him.  Recently,  while  the 
guest  of  Cauthorn  Hall  Club,  which  is  connected  with 
the  Oregon  State  Agricultural  College,  a  lady  said:  "Mr. 
Miller,  did  you  meet  the  Queen  in  England?"  his  prompt 
answer  to  the  fair  one  being:  "No,  I  met  her  in  Oregon." 

He  is  humble.    He  commonly  alludes  to  other  Pacific 


Joaquin  Miller  35 

poets  as  his  superiors ;  and  takes  delight  in  speaking  of 
Simpson's  " Beautiful  Willamette"  as  the  greatest  poem 
written  in  Oregon.  He  refers  to  the  best  of  his  own 
writings  with  certain  pride,  not  because  he  thinks  they 
are  especially,  good,  but  because  they  are  his  best. 

Contrary  to  current  reports,  Mr.  Miller  writes  his 
poems  while  he  is  in  bed.  He  writes,  rests  and  reflects 
at  the  same  time. 

He  loves  to  teach  a  truth.  The  Bible  said,  "Judge 
not  that  ye  be  not  judged. ' '  To  inculcate  the  same  prin- 
ciple, Mr.  Miller  said  in  words  as  short  and  simple  as 
Bunyan  or  Poor  Richard  could  have  used : 

In  men  whom  men  condemn  as  ill, 
I  find  so  much  of  goodness  still; 
In  men  whom  men  pronounce  divine, 

I  find  so  much  of  sin  and  blot; 
I  hesitate  to  draw  the  line 

Between  the  two,  when  God  has  not. 

Some  one  has  written  of  him : 

1 '  Excepting  Dwight  L.  Moody,  I  never  heard  an>  one 
read  the  Bible  as  Joaquin  Miller  reads  it.  He  gets  so 
much  out  of  it,  and  grows  so  hanpy  that  his  reading  is 
inspirational.  I  have  heard  gif'ed  elocutionists  read 
'The  Lord  is  my  shepherd,  I  shall  not  want.'  Then  some 
aged  mother  who  scarcely  knew  her  'a,  b,  c's,'  but  who 
could  read  her  title  clear  to  mansions  in  the  skies,  re- 
peated the  same  words  with  telling  effect;  so  charming, 
so  touching.  But  the  Poet  has  the  art  of  the  elocutionist, 
the  understanding  of  the  mother,  and  the  interpretation 
of  the  poet.  One  of  the  prettiest  arguments  I  have  heard 
for  the  authenticity  of  the  scriptures  was  Joaquin  Mil- 
ler's manner  of  reading  a  few  bibical  passages— they 
seemed  so  beautiful,  so  divine. " 


We  have  worked  our  claims, 
We  have  spent  our  gold, 
Our  barks  are  astrand  on  the  bars; 
We  are  battered  and  old, 


36  Oregon  Literature 

Yet  at  night  we  behold, 
Outcroppings  of  gold  in  the  stars. 

Chorus— 

Tho'  battered  and  old, 
Our  hearts  are  bold, 
Yet  oft  do  we  repine ; 
For  the  days  of  old, 
For  the  days  of  gold, 
For  the  days  of  forty-nine. 

Where  the  rabbits  play, 

Where  the  quail  all  day 
Pipe  on  the  chaparral  hill ; 

A  few  more  days, 

And  the  last  of  us  lays 
His  pick  aside  and  all  is  still. 

Chorus— 

We  are  wreck  and  stray, 

We  are  cast  away, 
Poor  battered  old  hulks  and  spars ; 

But  we  hope  and  pray, 

On  the  judgment  day, 
We  shall  strike  it  up  in  the  stars. 

'Chorus— 

WILLIAM  BROWN  OF  OREGON. 

They  called  him  Bill,  the  hired  man, 
But  she  her  name  was  Mary  Jane, 
The  squire's  daughter;  and  to  reign 

The  belle  from  Ber-she-be  to  Dan 

Her  little  game.     How  lovers  rash 
Got  mittens  at  the  spelling  school! 
How  many  a  mute,  inglorious  fool 

Wrote  rhymes  and  sighed  and  dyed  mustache  ? 


Joaquin  Miller  37 

This  hired  man  had  loved  her  long, 
Had  loved  her  best  and  first  and  last, 
Her  very  garments  as  she  passed 

For  him  had  symphony  and  song. 

So  when  one  day  with  flirt  and  frown 

She  called  him  "Bill,"  he  raised  his  heart, 
He  caught  her  eye  and  faltering  said, 
:  I  love  you ;  and  my  name  is  Brown. ' ' 

She  fairly  waltzed  with  rage;  she  wept; 

You  would  have  thought  the  house  on  fire. 

She  told  her  sire,  the  portly  squire, 
Then  smelt  her  smelling-salts  and  slept. 
Poor  William  did  what  could  be  done ; 

He  swung  a  pistol  on  each  hip. 

He  gathered  up  a  great  ox-whip 
And  drove  right  for  the  setting  sun. 

He  crossed  the  big  backbone  of  earth, 

He  saw  the  snowy  mountains  rolled 

Like  nasty  billows;  saw  the  gold 
Of  great  big  sunsets;  felt  the  birth 
Of  sudden  dawn  upon  the  plain ; 

And  every  night  did  William  Brown 

Eat  pork  and  beans  and  then  lie  down 
And  dream  sweet  dreams  of  Mary  Jane. 

Her  lovers  passed.    Wolves  hunt  in  packs. 
They  sought  for  bigger  game;  somehow 
They  seemed  to  see  about  her  brow 

The  forky  sign  of  turkey  tracks. 

The  teter-board  of  life  goes  up, 
The  teter-board  of  life  goes  down, 
The  sweetest  face  must  learn  to  frown; 

The  biggest  dog  has  been  a  pup. 

0  maidens !  pluck  not  at  the  air ; 

The  sweetest  flowers  I  have  found 

Grow  rather  close  unto  the  ground, 
And  highest  places  are  most  bare. 


38  Oregon  Literature 

Why,  you  had  better  win  the  grace 
Of  one  poor  cussed  Af-ri-can 
Than  win  the  eyes  of  every  man 

In  love  alone  with  his  own  face. 

At  last  she  nursed  her  true  desire. 

She  sighed,  she  wept  for  William  Brown. 

She  watched  the  splendid  sun  go  down 
Like  some  great  sailing  ship  on  fire, 
Then  rose  and  checked  her  trunks  right  on; 

And  in  the  cars  she  lunched  and  lunched, 

And  had  her  ticket  punched  and  punched, 
Until  she  came  to  Oregon. 

She  reached  the  limit  of  the  lines, 
She  wore  blue  specs  upon  her  nose, 
Wore  rather  short  and  manly  clothes, 

And  so  set  out  to  reach  the  mines. 

Her  right  hand  held  a  Testament, 
Her  pocket  held  a  parasol, 

And  thus  equipped  right  on  she  went, 
Went  water-proof  and  water-fall. 

She  saw  a  miner  gazing  down, 

Slow  stirring  something  with  a  spoon ; 
"0,  tell  me  true  and  tell  me  soon, 
What  has  become  of  William  Brown  V 
He  looked  askance  beneath  her  specs, 

Then  stirred  his-  cocktail  round  and  round, 
Then  raised  his  head  and  sighed  profound, 
And  said,  "He's  handed  in  his  checks." 

Then  care  fed  on  her  damaged  cheek, 
And  she  grew  faint,  did  Mary  Jane, 
And  smelt  her  smelling-salts  in  vain, 

Yet  wandered  on,  way-worn  and  weak. 

At  last  upon  a  hill  alone; 

She  came,  and  here  she  sat  her  down; 

For  on  that  hill  there  stood  a  stone. 

And,  lo!  that  stone  read,  "William  Brown.' 


Joaquin  Miller  39 

"0  William  Brown!    0  William  Brown! 

And  here  you  rest  at  last,"  she  said, 
"With  this  lone  stone  above  your  head, 
And  forty  miles  from  any  town ! 
I  will  plant  cypress  trees,  I  will, 

And  I  will  build  a  fence  around 

And  I  Will  fertilize  the  ground 
With  tears  enough  to  turn  a  mill." 

She  went  and  got  a  hired  man. 

She  brought  him  forty  miles  from  town, 

And  in  the  tall  grass  squatted  down 
And  bade  him  build  as  she  should  plan. 
But  cruel  cowboys  with  their  bands 

They  saw,  and  hurriedly  they  ran 

And  told  a  bearded  cattle  man 
Somebody  builded  on  his  lands. 

He  took  his  rifle  from  the  rack, 

He  girt  himself  in  battle  pelt, 

He  stuck  two  pistols  in  his  belt, 
And  mounting  on  his  horse's  back, 
He  plunged  ahead.    But  when  they  shewed 

A  woman  fair,  about  his  eyes 

He  pulled  his  hat,  and  he  likewise 
Pulled  at  his  beard,  and  chewed  and  chewed. 

At  last  he  gat  him  down  and  spake; 
1 '  0  lady,  dear,  what  do  you  here  1 ' ' 
' '  I  build  a  tomb  unt  o  my  dear, 
I  plant  sweet  flowers  for  his  sake." 
The  bearded  man  threw  his  two  hands 
Above  his  head,  then  brought  them  down 
And  cried,  "O,  I  am  William  Brown, 
And  this  the  corner-stone  of  my  lands ! ' ' 

The  preacher  rode  a  spotted  mare, 

He  galloped  forty  miles  or  more ; 

He  swore  he  never  had  before 
Seen  bride  or  bridegroom  half  so  fair. 


40  Oregon  Literature 

And  all  the  In  j  ins  they  came  down 
And  feasted  as  the  night  advanced, 
And  all  the  cowboys  drank  and  danced, 

And  cried:   "Big  Injin!  William  Brown.' 


THE  RIVER  OF  REST. 

A  beautiful  stream  is  the  River  of  Rest; 

The  still,  wide  waters  sweep  clear  and  cold. 
A  tall  mast  crosses  a  star  in  the  west, 

A  white  sail  gleams  in  the  west  world 's  gold ; 
It  leans  to  the  shore  of  the  River  of  Rest— 
The  lily-lined  shore  of  the  River  of  Rest. 

The  boatman  rises,  he  reaches  a  hand, 

He  knows  you  well,  he  will  steer  you  true, 

And  far,  so  far,  from  all  ills  upon  land, 
From  hates,  from  fates,  that  pursue  and  pursue, 

Far  over  the  lily-lined  River  of  Rest— 

Dear,  mystical,  magical  River  of  Rest. 

A  storied,  sweet  stream  is  the  River  of  Rest: 
The  souls  of  all  time  keep  its  ultimate  shore ; 

And  journey  you  east  or  journey  you  west, 
Unwilling,  or  willing,  sure-footed  or  sore, 

You  surely  will  come  to  this  River  of  Rest— 

This  beautiful,  beautiful  River  of  Rest. 


TO  JUANITA. 

Come,  listen  0  love  to  the  voice  of  the  dove, 
Come,  hearken  and  hear  him  say 

There  are  many  tomorrows,  my  love,  my  love, 
But  only  one  today. 

And  all  day  long  you  can  hear  him  say 

This  day  in  purple  is  rolled, 
And  the  baby  stars  of  the  Milky  Way 

They  are  cradled  in  cradles  of  gold. 


Joaquin  Miller  41 

Now  what  is  the  secret,  serene  gray  dove, 

Of  singing  so  sweetly  alway, 
There  are  many  tomorrows,  my  love,  my  love, 

But  only  one  today. 

THE  PASSING  OF  TENNYSON. 

We  knew  it,  as  God's  prophet's  knew; 

We  knew  it,  as  mute  red  men  know, 
When  Mars  leapt  searching  heaven  through 

With  flaming  torch  that  he  must  go. 
Then  Browning,  he  who  knew  the  stars, 
Stood  forth  and  faced  insatiate  Mars. 

Then  up  from  Cambridge  rose  and  turned 

Sweet  Lowell  from  his  Druid  trees- 
Turned  where  the  great  star  blazed  and  burned, 

As  if  his  own  soul  might  appease, 
Yet  on  and  on  through  all  the  stars 
Still  searched  and  searched  insatiate  Mars. 

Then  staunch  Walt  Whitman  saw  and  knew; 

Forgetful  of  his  ''Leaves  of  Grass," 
He  heard  his  "Drum  Taps,"  and  God  drew 

His  great  soul  through  the  shining  pass, 
Made  light,  made  bright  by  burnished  stars, 
Made  scintillant  from  flaming  Mars. 

Then  soft-voiced  Whittier  was  heard 
To  cease;  was  heard  to  sing  no  more; 

As  you  have  heard  some  sweetest  bird 
The  more  because  its  song  is  o'er, 

Yet  brighter  up  the  street  of  stars 

Still  blazed  and  burned  and  beckoned  Mars. 

And  then  the  king  came,  king  of  thought. 

King  David  with  his  harp  and  crown   .    .    . 
How  wisely  well  the  gods  had  wrought 

That  these  had  gone  and  sat  them  down 
To  wait  and  welcome  'mid  the  stars 
All  silent  in  the  light  of  Mars. 


42  Oregon  Literature 

All  silent  ...   So,  he  lies  in  state  .    .    . 

Our  redwoods  drip  and  drip  with  rain   .    .    . 
Against  our  rock-locked  Golden  Gate 

We  hear  the  great  sad  sobbing  main. 
But  silent  all  ...   He  passed  the  stars 
That  year  the  whole  world  turned  to  Mars. 

COLUMBUS. 

Behind  him  lay  the  gray  Azores, 

Behind  the  Gates  of  Hercules; 
Before  him  not  the  ghost  of  shores, 

Before  him  only  shoreless  seas. 
The  good  mate  said:    "Now  must  we  pray, 

For  lo!  the  very  stars  are  gone. 
Brave  Adm'rl,  speak;  what  shall  I  say  V 
"Why,  say:  'Sail  on!  sail  on!  sail  on!'  : 

"My  men  grow  mutinous  day  by  day: 

My  men  grow  ghastly,  wan  and  weak." 
The  stout  mate  thought  of  home;  a  spray 

Of  salt  wave  washed  his  swarthy  cheek. 
* '  What  shall  I  say,  brave  Adm  'rl,  say 

If  we  sight  naught  but  seas  at  dawn?" 
"Why,  you  shall  say  at  break  of  day: 

'Sail  on!  sail  on!  sail  on!  sail  on!'  ! 

They  sailed  and  sailed,  as  winds  might  blow, 

Until  at  last  the  blanched  mate  said: 
"Why,  now,  not  even  God  would  know 
Should  I  and  all  my  men  fall  dead. 
These  very  winds  forget  their  way, 

For  God  from  these  dread  seas  is  gone. 
.     Now  speak,  brave  Adm'rl;  speak  and  say—" 
He  said:  "Sail  on!  sail  on!  and  on!" 

They  sailed.     They  sailed.    Then  spake  the  mate, 
"This  mad  sea  shows  his  teeth  tonight. 
He  curls  his  lip,  he  lies  in  wait, 
With  lifted  teeth,  as  if  to  bite ! 


Joaquin  Miller  43 

Brave  Adm'rl,  say  but  one  good  word, 

What  shall  we  do  when  hope  is  gone?" 
The  words  leapt  as  a  leaping  sword: 
"Sail  on!  sail  on!  sail  on!  and  on!" 

Then,  pale  and  worn  he  paced  his  deck, 

And  peered  through  darkness.    Ah,  that  night 
Of  all  dark  nights !    And  then  a  speck— 

Alight!     Alight!     Alight!     Alight! 
It  grew,  a  starlit  flag  unfurled ! 

It  grew  to  be  Time's  burst  of  dawn. 
He  gained  a  world ;  he  gave  that  world 

Its  grandest  lesson :    "  On !  sail  on ! " 

THE  FORTUNATE  ISLES. 

You  sail  and  you  seek  for  the  Fortunate  Isles, 

The  old  Greek  Isles  of  the  yellow  birds'  song? 
Then,  steer  straight  on,  through  the  watery  miles— 
Straight  on,  straight  on,  and  you  can't  go  wrong; 
Nay,  not  to  the  left— nay,  not  to  the  right— 
But  on,  straight  on,  and  the  Isles  are  in  sight— 
The  Fortunate  Isles  where  the  yellow  birds  sing, 
And  life  lies  girt  with  a  golden  ring. 

These  Fortunate  Isles,  they  are  not  so  far— 
They  lie  within  reach  of  the  lowliest  door ; 
You  can  see  them  gleam  by  the  twilight  star, 

You  can  hear  them  sing  by  the  moon's  white  shore— 
Nay!  never  look  back!    Those  level  gravestones, 
They  were  landing  steps,  they  were  steps  unto  thrones 
Of  glory  of  souls  that  have  sailed  before, 
And  have  set  white  feet  on  the  fortunate  shore. 

And  what  are  the  names  of  the  Fortunate  Isles? 

Why,  Duty,  and  Love,  and  a  large  content. 
Lo!  these  are  the  Isles  of  the  watery  miles, 

That  God  let  down  from  the  firmament. 
Lo !  Duty,  and  Love,  and  a  true  man 's  trust, 
Your  forehead  to  God,  though  your  feet  in  the  dust ; 

Aye,  Duty  to  man,  and  to  God  meanwhiles, 
And  these,  O  friend !  are  the  Fortunate  Isles. 


44  Oregon  Literature 

THE  MOTHERS  OF  MEN. 

The  bravest  battle  that  ever  was  fought ! 

Shall  I  tell  you  where  arid  when? 
On  the  map  of  the  world  you  will  find  it  not 

'Twas  fought  by  the  mothers  of  men. 

Nay,  not  with  cannon  or  battle  shot, 

With  sword  or  nobler  pen! 
Nay,  not  with  eloquent  words  or  thought, 

From  mouths  of  wonderful  men! 

But  deep  in  the  walled-up  woman's  heart— 
Of  woman  that  would  not  yield, 

But  bravely,  silently,  bore  her  part— 
Lo,  there  is  that  battle  field ! 

No  marshaling  troup,  no  bivouac  song, 
No  banner  to  gleam  or  wave; 

But  oh !  these  battles  they  last  so  long— 
From  babyhood  to  the  grave. 

Yet  faithful  still  as  a  bridge  of  stars. 
She  fights  in  her  walled-up  town — 

Fights  on  and  on  in  the  endless  wars, 
Then  silent,  unseen,  goes  down. 

Oh,  spotless  woman  in  a  world  of  shame ; 

With  splendid  and  silent  scorn, 
Go  back  to  God  as  white  as  you  came — 

The  kingliest  warrior  born ! 


EDWIN  MARKHAM 


Edwin  Markham 


AUTHOR  OF 

With  an  ancestry  of  legislators,  preachers,  scientists 
and  other  nation-builders  extending  back  to  William 
Penn's  first  cousin  and  secretary— Colonel  William 
Markham,  Deputy  Governor  of  Pennsylvania— the 
toiler's  friend  and  poet,  Edwin  Markham,  was  born  at 
Oregon  City,  April  23,  1852.  Off  for  California  at  the 
age  of  five,  the  fatherless  lad  lived  in  the  companionship 
of  a  stern  mother  with  poetic  taste,  a  deaf  brother,  and 
the  poems  of  Byron  and  Homer— society  which  would 
naturally  tend  to  make  a  peculiar  man.  Colonial  blood ; 
Oregon  born;  California  culture;  a  teacher  and  poet; 
this  is  Edwin  Markham,  the  author  of  "The  Man  With 
the  Hoe. " 

A  recent  critic  says  of  Mr.  Markham 's  verse:  "One  of 
its  distinct  features  is  its  breadth  of  range.  This  gives 
it  greatness— a  greatness  unknown  to  the  singers  of  the 
flowery  way.  He  breaks  open  the  secret  of  the  poppy; 
he  feels  the  pain  in  the  bent  back  of  labor ;  he  goes  down 
to  the  dim  places  of  the  dead ;  he  reaches  in  heart-warm 
prayer  to  the  Father  of  Life." 

Another  has  written:  "The  salient  features  of  Mr. 
Markham 's  poetry  are  vigorous  imagination,  picturesque- 
ness  of  phraseology,  and  nervous  tenseness  of  style.  He 
is  almost  always  at  white  heat.  He  seldom  or  never  sits 
poised  on  the  calm,  ethereal  heights  of  contemplation. 
He  is  mightily  stirred  by  his  teeming  fancies,  and  his 
lines  are  as  burning  brands." 

It  warms  the  heart  to  read  such  glowing  verses,  in 
which  the  thoughts  are  as  red  coals  in  an  open  fire.  It 
is  a  tremendous  relief  after  the  dreary  platitudes  of  the 
average  magazine  drivelers,  with  their  wooden  echoes 
of  Keats  and  Wordsworth,  to  read  the  lines  of  a  man 
who  has  thought  out  style  of  his  own,  and  who  hurls 


46  Oregon  Literature 

his  ideas  out  bravely  and  loudly.  The  poem  which  gives 
its  title  to  the  book  was  inspired  by  Millet's  well  known 
picture.  Mr.  Markham's  greatest  poem  is  an  outcry  for 
the  recognition  of  the  wrongs  of  labor.  In  the  Man 
with  the  Hoe  he  sees  the  type  of  the  down-trodden  work- 
man, and  in  five  stanzas  thunders  his  sermon. 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  HOE. 

Bowed  by  the  weight  of  centuries  he  leans 

Upon  his  hoe  and  gazes  on  the  ground. 

The  emptiness  of  ages  in  his  face, 

And  on  his  'back  the  'burden  of  the  world. 

Who  made  him  dead  to  rapture  and  despair, 

A  thing  that  grieves  not  and  that  never  hopes, 

Stolid  and  stunned,  a  'brother  to  the  ox? 

Who  loosened  and  let  down  this  "brutal  jaw? 

Whose  was  the  hand  that  slanted  back  this  brow? 

Whose  breath  blew  out  the  light  within  this  brain? 

Is  this  the  Thing  the  Lord  God  made  and  gave 

To  have  dominion  over  sea  and  land; 

To  trace  the  stars  and  search  the  heavens  for  powers; 

To  feel  the  passion  of  Eternity? 

Is  this  thvi  Dream  He  dreamed  who  shaped  the  suns 

And  pillared  the  blue  firmament  with  light? 

Down  all  the  stretch  of  Hell  to  its  last  gulf 

There  is  no  shape  more  terrible  than  this — 

More  tongued  with  censure  of  the  world's  blind  greed — 

More  filled  with  signs  and  portents  for  the  soul — 

More  fraught  with  menace  to  the  universe. 

What  gulfs  between  him  and  the  seraphim! 
Slave  of  the  wheel  of  labor,  what  to  him 
Are  Plato  and  the  swing  of  Pleiades? 
What  the  long  reaches  of  the  peaks  of  song, 
The  rift  of  dawn,  the  red  reddening  of  the  rose? 
Through  this  dread  shape  the  suffering  ages  look; 
Time's  tragedy  is  in  that  aching  stoop; 
Through  this   dread    shape   humanity  betrayed. 
Plundered,  profaned  and  disinherited, 
Cries  protest  that  is  also  prophecy. 

O  masters,  lords  and  rulers  in  all  lands, 

Is  this  the  handiwork  you  give  to  God, 

This  monstrous  thing  distorted  and  soul-quenched? 

How  will  you  ever  straighten  up  this  shape; 

Give  back  the  upward  looking  and  the  light; 


Edwin  Markham  47 

Rebuild  in  it  the  music  and  the  dream; 
Touch  it  again  with  immortality; 
Make  right  the  immemorial  infamies, 
Perfidious  wrongs,,  immedicaible  woes? 

O  masters,  lords  and  rulers  in  all  lands. 
How  will  the  Future  reckon  with  this   Man? 
How  answer  his  brute  question  in  that  hour 
When  whirlwinds  of  rebellion  shake  the  world? 
How  will  it  be  with  kingdoms  and  with  kings — 
With  those  who  shaped  him  to  the  thing  he  is— 
When  this  dumb  Terror  shall  reply  to  God 
After  the  silence  of  the  'centuries? 

True  greatness  is  measured  by  one 's  ability  to  stamp 
his  impress  upon  humanity.  Mr.  Markham  would  there- 
fore be  great  if  he  had  done  nothing  more  than  to  cause 
the  world  to  pause  and  consider  these  four  lines  written 
of  the  servile  laborer: 

Bowed  by  the  weight  of  centuries  he  leans 
Upon  his  hoe  and  gazes  on  the  ground. 
The  emptiness  of  ages  in  his  face, 
And  on  his  back  the  'burden  of  the  world. 

People  of  all  nationalities  clearly  see  in  these  words 
the  man  with  a  hoe  as  painted  by  Millet  and  described 
by  Markham ;  and,  as  suggested  by  a  Western  lady,  they 
have  not  entirely  overlooked  the  woman  with  the  wash- 
tub  and  broom.  Hence  as  a  result  of  the  thought  he 
has  awakened  there  is  a  demand  for  greater  intelligence 
in  the  humbler  pursuits  of  honorable  industry.  The 
world  now  wants  to  know  if  that  "emptiness  of  ages" 
really  exists  in  the  face  of  honest  labor;  for  if  it  does 
exist  there,  the  same  world  will  correct  it,  and  that  upon 
the  inspiration  of  Edwin  Markham,  the  Poet  of  Brooklyn, 
who  delights  to  be  remembered  as  a  native  Oregonian. 


Mrs.  Ella  Higginson 

One  of  the  prettiest  little  valleys  the  homeseeker 
chanced  to  find  in  the  early  days  of  Oregon,  was  an 
amphitheater  excavated  in  the  Blue  Mountains,  a  thou- 
sand feet  deep.  Every  passer-by  has  noticed  its  sym- 
metry, remarked  its  beauty,  been  inspired  by  its 
grandeur,  arid  longed  to  linger  within  its  great  rugged 
walls.  Clear  atmosphere,  lofty  sky,  sublimity  and  sun- 
shine—save  when  the  black  storm-cloud  angrily  crawls 
up  close  behind  Mount  Emily,  and  with  thundering 
threats  sends  the  stampeding  herds  r»ell-mell  into  the 
'deep  canyons,  to  hide  from  winds  that  sway  the  fir,  the 
tamarack,  and  the  pine.  It  is  one  of  those  places  where 
the  heavens  fit  down  so  closely  over  the  mountain  rim 
that  the  valley  and  the  heavens  seem  to  make  up  the 
whole  world.  In  fact,  it  is  world  enough  for  those  who 
live  there.  Nature  made  it  the  abode  of  home-building, 
progress,  and  contentment ;  and  the  immigrants  who  set- 
tled there  seldom  have  left  it  to  return  to  the  land 
whence  they  came. 

Once,  according  to  an  ancient  legend,  some  Frenchmen 
traveled  that  way,  and,  having  ascended  a  ridsre  where 
the  old  emigrant  road  peeped  over  the  crest,  at  the  vision 
lying  ahead,  suddenly  exclaimed  "Grand  Ronde!"  It 
was  in  the  month  of  May,  and  the  first  view  of  the  pic- 
turesque valley  broke  in  upon  them  at  a  time  when  that 
spot  of  emerald,  hidden  away  in  the  Blue  Mountains, 
waves  like  a  summer  sea — a  time  when  the  lightning 
begins  to  sparkle  on  the  minarets  above,  and  a  hundred 
thermal  springs  steadily  send  up  clouds  of  hot  steam, 
rarefying  the  lower  atmosphere  and  invitinar  the  cool, 
exhilarating  breezes  from  the  high  snowcliffs  of  the 
Powder  River  Range.  Such  was  the  scene  that  inspired 
the  Frenchmen  to  exclaim  "Grand  Ronde/'  a  name 
which  the  geographers  have  been  repeating  ever  since, 
a  name  which  will  be  perpetuated  in  prose  and  in  song. 


MRS.  ELLA  HIGGINSON 


Mrs.  Ella  Higginson  49 

Of  this  charming  spot  made  homelike  to  the  Poetess, 
Mrs.  Ella  Higginson  has  written  the  following  poem : 

THE  GRAND  RONDE  VALLEY. 

Ah,  me!    I  know  how  like  a  golden  flower 
The   Grande   Ronde  Valley  lies  this   August  night, 
Locked  in  by  dimpled  hills  where  purple  light 

Lies  wavering.     There  at  the   sunset   hour 

Sink  downward,  like  a  rainbow-tinted  shower, 
A  million  colored  rays,  soft,  changeful,  bright. 
Later  the  large  moon  rises,  round  and  white, 

And  three  Blue  Mountain  pines  against  it  tower, 

Lonely  and  dark.     A  coyote's  mournful  cry 
Sinks  from  the  canyon — whence  the  river  leaps. 
A  Wade  of  silver  underneath  the  moon. 

Like  restful  seas  the  yellow  wheat  fields  lie. 
Dreamless  and  still.     And  while  the  valley  sleeps, 
O  hear! — the  lulla'bies  that  low  winds  croon. 

Such  was  the  childhood  home  of  Mrs.  Ella  Higginson, 
the  charming  poet  and  noted  story  writer,  whose  life 
work  bids  fair  to  honor  the  name  of  the  delightful  valley 
in  which  her  early  thoughts  were  nurtured.  Born  at 
Council  Grove.  Kansas,  she  crossed  the  plains  while  an 
infant,  and  wi+h  her  parents  located  at  La  Grande,  which 
is  beautifully  situated  on  the  most  prominent  dais  of 
Grand  Ronde  Valley.  The  country  was  sparsely  settled, 
and  as  yet  untried,  and  there  were  ponies  and  ponies 
and  ponies.  And  it  was  then  that  little  Ella  Rhoads, 
afterward  Mrs.  Ella  Higsrinson,  acquired  the  love  and 
the  art  of  horseback  riding.  Sidesaddles  and  riding- 
steeds  were  as  fashionable  then  as  in  the  days  of  Queen 
Elizabeth ;  and  it  is  said  that  the  little  schoolgirl  deter- 
mined to  excel  the  horsemanship  of  the  Queen  who  made 
England  one  of  the  first  nations  of  Europe.  It  was  her 
delight,  and  she  practiced  the  art.  On  her  swift  steed 
she  swept  over  the  valley  and  drank  in  the  poetry  of  the 
scenes,  the  anthem  of  the  winds,  and  the  voice  of  the 
thunder  as  it  broke  through  the  mountain  gorge.  These 
attuned  her  muse,  and  she  began  to  sing  to  a  delighted 
people.  Thus  she  became  a  master  with  the  rein  and 
the  pen. 

True  poetry  is  what  the  muse  has  learned  in  nature 


50  Oregon  Literature 

without  the  aid  of  books— simply  direct  communion  with 
created  things.  In  order  to  fathom  these  wonders,  the 
poet  chooses  to  be  alone  where  naught  can  disturb  him. 
Solitude  is  his  opportunity,  and  silence  his  s  udy  hour. 
He  lives  amid  his  thoughts,  hence  partakes  of  the  sights 
and  the  sounds  that  inspire  them.  He  loves  nature's 
works,  for  he  sees  God  in  everything  about  him.  The 
lily,  the  nightingale,  the  waters  and  the  mountains,  all 
become  living  things  to  him,  and  their  influence  upon 
him  is  but  another  one  of  God's  marvelous  dealings  with 
man.  N.  P.  Willis,  upon  visiting  the  American  rapids, 
applied  this  thought  in  these  words:  "This  opportun- 
ity to  invest  Niagara  with  a  human  soul  and  human 
feelings,  is  a  common  effect  upon  the  minds  of  visitors, 
in  every  part  of  its  wonderful  phenomena."  Of  the 
influence  of  scenery  upon  the  feelings  and  actions, 
Bayard  Taylor,  upon  viewing  the  same  falls  from  another 
point,  wrote:  "I  was  not  impressed  by  the  sublimity  of 
the  scene,  nor  even  by  its  terror,  but  solely  by  the  fascin- 
ation of  its  wonderful  beauty— a  fascination  which  con- 
tinually tempted  me  to  plunge  into  the  sea  of  fused 
emerald,  and  lose  myself  in  the  dance  of  the  rainbows. ' ' 
Anthony  Trollope,  although  not  a  poet,  has  recognized 
this  principle  in  his  utterances  upon  visiting  the  falls: 
"You  will  find  yourself  among  the  waters,  as  though 
you  belonged  to  them.  The  cool,  liquid  green  will  run 
through  your  veins,  and  the  voice  of  the  cataract  will 
be  the  expression  of  your  own  heart.  You  will  fall  as 
the  brig;ht  waters  fall,  rushinsr  down  into  your  new 
world  with  no  hesitation  and  with  no  dismay ;  and  you 
will  rise  again  as  the  spray  rises,  bright,  beautiful  and 
pure."  Accordingly  it  must  not  be  forgotten  that  the 
poet  whose  life  and  works  we  are  studying,  lived  for 
a  long  time  beside  the  Willamette  Falls  at  Oregon  City. 
Nor  must  the  fact  be  overlooked  that  the  Willamette  Falls 
are  but  a  common-sense  edition  of  the  Niagara  Falls, 
which  so  manv  critics  have  said  stimulate  genius  and 
influence  poetic  art.  There  is  a  rumble  and  a  dashing 
in  the  lines  Mrs.  Higginson  has  written  that  echo  back 
to  the  splendid  dashing  and  rhythmic  rumble  of  the 
mighty  falls  of  our  poetic  river. 


Mrs.  Ella  Higginson  51 

From  Oregon  City  she  moved  to  Portland,  Oregon, 
where  she  met,  loved  and  was  married  to  Mr.  Russell 
Garden  Higginson,  a  gentleman  of  Boston  culture,  who 
Descended  from  Francis  Higginson,  one  of  the  founders 
of  New  England.  In  1882,  she,  with  her  husband,  moved 
to  New  Whatcom,  where  they  have  since  resided  in  their 
cozy  upland  home,  which  furnishes  a  commanding  view 
of  the  snow  domes  and  the  hills,  the  ocean  and  the  shore, 
that  have  suggested  so  many  themes  the  author  has 
written  in  pretty  musical  English,  for  the  peoples  of 
two  continents. 

While  Mrs.  Higginson  writes  both  poetry  and  prose 
excellently,  she  has  proved  herself  a  true  poet,  both  in 
verse  and  in  lines  not  set  in  metrical  array.  Many  of 
her  short,  unpretentious  story  sentences,  are  little 
poems  within  themselves —prose  poems  scattered  in  bits 
of  tragedy,  like  particles  of  silver  and  gold,  found  in 
the  pathway  of  the  Indian,  the  leper  and  the  refugee. 

As  a  poet  she  won  her  first  recognition  in  literary 
circles.  The  Overland  Monthly  editorially  said  of  her: 
"  A  few  years  ago  there  appeared  in  various  Eastern  and 
Pacific  Coast  publications  frequent  bits  of  verse  of  such 
high  merit,  fraught  with  so  much  feelins:,  and  possessing 
so  sensuous  a  charm,  that  they  sprang1  into  immediate 
prominence.  Many  of  them  were  widelv  copied  by  the 
newspapers  East,  and  West,  and  republished  in  the  lead- 
ing reviews  of  London  and  the  East.  One  that  a+- 
tracted  universal  attention  was  ' God's  Creed,'  which  ap- 
peared originally  in  Frank  Leslie's  Illustrated  Weekly. 
The  verses  quoted  are  characteristic  of  the  poet: 

Forgive  me  that  hear  thy  creeds 

Unawed  and  unafraid; 
They  are  too  small  for  one  whose  ears 

Have  heard  God's  organ  played — 
Who  in  wide,  no'ble  solitudes 

In  simple  faith  has  prayed. 

I  watched  the  dawn  come  up  the  east, 

Like  angels  chaste  and  still; 
I  felt  my  heart  beat  wild  and  strong, 

My  veins  with  white  fire  thrill. 
For  it  was  Easter  morn,  and  Christ 

Was  with  me  on  the  hill.  r- 


62  Oregon  Literature 

Her  poems,  which  are  always  musical,  breathe  a  spirit 
of  piety  which  commend  them  to  the  most  refined;  and 
her  great  spirituality  will  always  win  her  an  increasing 
patronage  among  the  ever-growing  circle  of  readers  who 
learn  to  regard  her  as  their  friend  and  adviser.  Leading 
London  and  American  reviewers  have  commented  favor- 
ably upon  what  she  has  wriften,  in  her  three  volumes  of 
poetry,  "A  Bunch  of  Clover,"  ''The  Snow  Pearls,"  and 
"When  the  Birds  Go  North  Again."  The  Boston 
Evening  Gazette,  Providence  Journal,  Chicago  Graphic, 
Dilletante,  and  the  Northwest  Magazine  have  said  re- 
spectively of  her  work  as  a  poet : 

"Its  merits  are  a  simple  directness,  truth  to  nature, 
sincerity  and  feeling  that  occasionally  touches  the  depth 
of  passion." 

"They  have  a  melody  to  an  unusual  deerree." 

"Her  work  is  distinguished  by  its  delicaov  and  fire. 
.  .  .  Her  genius  makes  her  cosmopolitan." 

"Filled  with  forceful  imagery  and  similes  of  beauty. 
.  .  .  An  exquisite  bit  of  work." 

"Ella  Higginson's  genius  entitles  her  to  be  ranked 
close  to  Joaquin  Miller.  .  .  .  There  is  heart  and  soul  in 
her  work,  embodied  in  the  richest  and  most  delicate 
imagery." 

That  some  knowledge  of  her  poetry  can  be  gleaned 
from  personal  inspection,  the  following  selections  are 
given : 


FOUR-LEAF  GLOVER. 


I  know  a  place  where  tho  sun  is  like  gold, 
And  the  cherry  blooms  burst  with  snow, 

And  down  underneath  is  the  loveliest  nook, 
Where  the  four-leaf  ci  overs  grow. 

One  leaf  is  for  hope,  an!  one  is  for  faith, 

And  one  is  for  love,  you  know, 
And  God  put  another  in  for  luck— 

If  you  search,  you  will  find  where  they  grow. 


Mrs.  Ella  Higginson  53 

But  you  must  have  hope,  and  you  must  have  faith, 
You  must  love  and  be  strong— and  so— 

If  you  work,  if  you  wait,  you  will  find  the  place 
Where  the  four-leaf  clovers  grow. 


THE  RHODODENDRON  BELLS. 

Across  the  warm  night 's  subtle  dusk, 
Where  linger  yet  the  purple  light 

And  perfume  of  the  wild,  sweet  musk— 
So  softly  glowing,  sof ily  bright, 

Tremble  the  rhododendron  bells, 
The  rose-pink  rhododendron  bells. 

Tall,  slender  trees  of  evergreen 

That  know  the  moist  winds  of  the  sea, 
And  narrow  leaves  of  satin's  sheen, 
And  clusters  of  sweet  mystery- 
Mysterious  rhododendron  bells, 
Rare   crimson  rhododendron  bells. 

0  harken— hush !    And  lean  thy  ear, 

Tuned  for  an  elfin  melody, 
And  tell  me  now,  dost  thou  not  hear 

Those  voices  of  pink  mystery — 
Voices  of  silver-throated  bells, 

Of  breathing,  rhododendron  bells  ? 

SUNRISE  ON  THE  WILLAMETTE. 

The  sun  sinks  downward  thro'  the  silver  mist 
That  looms  across  the  valley,  fold  on  fold, 

And  sliding  thro'  the  fields  that  dawn  has  kissed, 
Willamette  sweeps,  a  chain  of  liquid  gold. 

Trails  onward  ever,  curving  as  it  goes, 
Past  many  a  hill  and  many  a  flowered  lea, 

Until  it  pauses  where  Columbia  flows. 

Deep-tongued,  deep-chested,  to  the  waiting  sea. 


54  Oregon  Literature 

0  lovely  vales  thro '  which  Willamette  slips ! 

0  vine-clad  hills  that  hear  its  soft  voice  call ! 
My  heart  turns  ever  to  those  sweet,  cool  lips 

That,  passing,  press  each  rock  or  grassy  wall. 

Thro '  pasture  lands,  where  mild-eyed  cattle  feed, 

Thro'  marshy  flats,  where  velvet  tules  grow, 
Past  many  a  rose  tree,  many  a  singing  reed, 

1  hear  those  wet  lips  calling,  calling  low. 

The  sun  sinks  downward  thro '  the  trembling  haze, 
The  mist  flings  glistening  needles  high  and  higher, 

And  thro'  the  clouds— O  fair  beyond  all  praise! 
Mount  Hood  leaps,  chastened,  from  a  sea  of  fire. 

THE  EYES  THAT  CANNOT  WEEP. 

The  saddest  eyes  are  those  that  cannot  weep ; 

The  loneliest  breast  the  one  that  sobbeth  not ; 

The  lips  and  mind  that  are  most  parched  and  hot 
Are  those  that  cannot  pray,  and  cannot  sleep  — 
It  is  the  silent  grief  that  sinketh  deep. 

To  weep  out  sorrow  is  the  common  lot — 

To  weep  it  out  and  let  it  be  forgot— 
But  tears  and  sobs  are  after  all  but  cheap, 
We  weep  for  worries,  frets  and  trifling  cares, 

For  toys  we've  broken,  and  for  hopes  that  were, 
And  fancied  woes  of  passing  love  affairs; 

But  only  One  can  ease  the  breast  of  her 
Whose  hurt  for  fruitless  moans  has  gone  too  deep. 
Pity,  0  God,  the  eyes  that  cannot  weep. 

THE  LAMP  IN  THE  WEST. 

Venus  has  lit  her  silver  lamp 

Low  in  the  purple  west, 
Breathing  a  soft  and  mellow  light 

Upon  the  sea's  full  breast; 
It  is  the  hour  when  mead  and  wood 

In  fine  seed-pearls  are  dressed. 


Mrs.  Ella  Higginson  55 

Far  out,  far  out  the  restless  bar 

Starts  from  a  troubled  sleep, 
Where  roaring  thro'  the  narrow  straits 

The  meeting  waters  leap ; 
But  still  that  shining  pathway  leads 

Across  the  lonely  deep. 

When  I  sail  out  the  narrow  straits 

Where  unknown  dangers  be, 
And  cross  the  troubled,  moaning  bar 

To  the  mysterious  sea — 
Dear  God,  wilt  thou  not  set  a  lamp 

Low  in  the  west  for  me1? 

WHEN  THE  BIRDS  GO  NORTH  AGAIN. 

Oh,  every  year  hath  its  winter, 

And  every  year  hath  its  rain ; 
But  a  day  is  always  coming 

When  the  birds  go  north  again.  j. 

When  new  leaves  swell  in  the  forest, 
And  grass  springs  green  on  the  plain, 

And  the  alder's  veins  turn  crimson, 
And  the  birds  go  north  again. 

Oh,  every  heart  hath  its  sorrow, 

And  every  heart  hath  its  pain ; 
But  a  day  is  always  coming 

When  the  birds  go  north  again. 

'Tis  the  sweetest  thing  to  remember, 
If  courage  be  on  the  wane, 

When  the  cold,  dark  days  are  over- 
Why,  the  birds  go  north  again. 

Mrs.  Higginson  is,  however,  winning  her  greatest  fame 
as  a  short-story  writer.  Her  ability  in  this  field  of  lit- 
erature was  recognized  in  the  stories  she  wrote  for  the 
Oregon  Vidette,  which  suspended  publication  some  years 
ago.  She  afterwards  won  a  prize  of  $500  offered  by 


56  Oregon  Literature 

McClure's  Magazine  for  the  best  short  story,  "The 
Takin'  of  Old  Mis'  Lane,"  having  for  her  competitors 
many  of  the  best  American  writers.  Since  that  time  her 
stories  have  appeared  in  the  Century,  Harper's  Weekly, 
McClure's  Magazine,  Cosmopolitan,  Lippincott's,  Frank 
Leslie's  Illustrated  Weekly,  and  other  leading  publica- 
tions of  the  East. 

These  stories  of  Western  life  have  been  published  in 
two  volumes,  "The  Forest  Orchid"  and  "The  Flower 
That  Grew  in  the  Sand,"  the  title  of  the  latter  volume 
being  subsequently  changed  by  the  Macmillans  to  "The 
Land  of  the  Snow  Pearls."  Of  the  author  as  a  story 
writer,  the  Overland  Monthly  says :  ' '  Her  style  is  strong, 
powerful  and  realistic.  .  .  .  She  writes  from  the  heart, 
of  the  plain,  every-day  folk  she  meets,  and  consequently 
she  touches  the  heart.  Her  stories  are  unpretentious 
tales  of  common  people,  told  simply  and  naturally,  yet 
so  vivid  and  graphic  are  they,  that  they  charm  the  reader 
from  the  first  to  the  last.  She  is  as  keen  a  student  of 
human  nature  as  she  is  a  close  observer  of  incident  and 
detail,  and  her  sympathetic  comprehension  of  the  trials 
and  joys,  the  hardships  and  the  romances  of  humble, 
hard-working  people  who  constitute  her  characters,  and 
her  ability  to  interpret  them  with  such  dramatic  power 
and  delicacy  of  touch  as  to  make  the  commonplace  beau- 
tiful, are  among  the  strongest  features  of  her  work." 

Of  her  as  a  story  writer,  the  Chicago  Tribune  said: 
"She  has  shown  a  breadth  of  treatment  and  knowledge 
of  human  verities  that  equals  much  of  the  best  work  of 
France. ' ' .  The  New  York  Independent  says :  '  *  Some  of 
the  incidents  are  sketched  so  vividly  and  so  truthfully 
that  persons  and  things  come  out  of  the  page  as  if  life 
itself  were  there. ' '  In  the  Outlook  we  are  told  that ' '  she 
is  one  of  the  best  American  short-story  writers. ' '  From 
Public  Opinion  we  learn  that  "no  Eastern  writer  can  do 
such  work  better."  And  the  Picayune  announces  that 
"she  writes  of  the  far  West  with  the  sympathy  of  one 
who  loves  it." 

The  following  story,  '  *  The  Isle  of  the  Lepers, ' '  is  here 
given  as  an  illustration  of  her  tremendous  power  in  her 
chosen  field  of  literary  effort : 


Mrs.  Ella  Higginson  5? 

THE  ISLE  OF  THE  LEPERS. 

There  was  an  awful  beauty  on  the  Gulf  of  Georgia  that 
summer  night.  It  was  as  if  all  the  golds  and  scarlets 
and  purples  of  the  sunset  had  been  pounded  to  a  fine  dust 
and  rolled  in  from  the  ocean  in  one  great  opaline  mist. 

The  coloring  of  the  sky  began  in  the  east  with  a  pale 
green  that  changed  delicately  to  salmon,  and  this  to  rose, 
and  the  rose  to  crimson — and  so  on  down  to  the  west 
where  the  sun  was  sinking  into  a  gulf  of  scarlet, 
through  which  all  the  fires  of  hell  seemed  to  be  pouring 
up  their  flames  and  sparks.  Long,  luminous  rays  slanted 
through  the  mist  and  withdrew  swiftly,  like  searchlights 
—having  found  all  the  lovely  wooded  islands  around 
which  the  burning  waves  were  clasping  hands  and 
kissing.  The  little  clouds  that  had  journeyed  down  to 
see  what  was  going  on  in  that  scarlet  gulf  must  have 
been  successful  in  their  quest,  for  they  were  fleeing  back 
with  the  red  badge  of  knowledge  on  each  breast.  Only 
the  snow-mountains  stood  aloof,  white,  untouched— types 
of  eternal  purity. 

Through  all  that  superb  riot  of  color  that  heralded 
the  storm  which  was  sweeping  in  from  the  ocean,  moved 
a  little  boat,  with  a  flapping  sail,  lazily.  In  it  were  a 
man  and  a  woman.  The  woman,  was  the  wife  of  the 
man's  best  friend. 

They  had  left  Vancouver— and  all  else— behind  them 
in  the  early  primrose  dawn.  Trying  to  avoid  the  courses 
of  steamers,  they  had  lost  their  own,  and  were  drifting. 
...  In  less  than  an  hour  the  storm  was  upon  them. 
All  the  magnificent  coloring  had  given  place  to  white- 
edged  black.  Occasionally  a  scarlet  thread  of  lightning 
was  cast,  crinkling,  along  the  west.  Then,  in  a  moment, 
followed  the  deep  fling  and  roar  of  the  thunder.  Fierce 
squalls  came  tearing  up  the  straits  where  the  beautiful 
mist  had  trembled. 

The  little  boat  went  straining  and  hissing  through  the 
sea.  As  each  squall  struck  her  the  sail  bellied  to  the 
water..  There  was  no  laughter  now,  no  love-glow,  on 
the  faces  in  that  boat;  they  were  white  as  death,  and 
their  eyes  were  wild.  Veins  like  ropes  stood  out  in  the 


58  Oregon  Literature 

-.A\> 

man 's  neck  and  arms,  and  t  he  woman  could  not  speak 
for  the  violent  beating  in  her  throat.  She  held  on  to 
the  tiller  with  swollen  hands  and  wrenched  arms.  When 
the  boat  sank  into  the  black  hollows  she  braced  herself 
and  looked  down  into  the  water,  and  thought— of  many 
things.  And  through  all  his  agonized  thought  for  the 
woman,  the  man  had  other,  more  terrible  thoughts,  too. 

Straight  ahead  of  them  arose  the  white,  chalky 
shoulder  of  an  island.  He  realized  that  he  was  power- 
less to  avoid  it.  There  was  one  low  place,  sloping  down, 
green,  to  a  beach  of  sand,  but  the  sharp  outlines  of  rocks 
rose  between— and  there  was  no  shelter  from  the  wind. 
Still,  it  was  their  only  chance.  That  or  death.  (He 
wished  afterward  that  it  had  been  death.)  He  braced 
himself  and  pulled  at  the  ropes  until  spots  of  blood 
quivered  before  his  eyes. 

"Port!"  he  yelled.  "Pert  hard!"  But  the  woman 
gave  one  gesture  of  despair;  her  hands  fell  from  the 
tiller,  and  she  sank  in  a  huddle  to  the  bottom  of  the  boat. 

It  seemed  but  a  moment  till  the  boat  struck  and  they 
were  struggling  in  the  waves.  But  a  strip  of  headland 
now  cut  off  the  worst  fury  of  the  storm.  The  water  was 
calmer;  and,  as  the  man  was  a  powerful  swimmer,  they, 
after  a  fierce  battle  with  the  waves,  reached  the  shore 
and  fell,  dumbly,  in  each  other's  arms,  upon  the  beach, 
exhausted.  .  .  . 

Suddenly,  as  they  lay  there,  above  the  sounds  of  the 
winds,  the  waves  and  the  crushing  to  pieces  of  their  boat 
upon  the  rocks,  another  sound  was  borne  to  their  ears — 
a  long,  moaning  wail  that  was  like  a  chant  of  the  dead, 
so  weird  and  terrible  was  it. 

They  staggered  to  their  feet.  Coming  down  to  them 
from  a  little  row  of  cabins  above  were  a  dozen  human 
creatures,  the  very  sight  of  which  filled  them  with  terror. 
Some  were  without  eyes ;  others  without  hands  or  arms ; 
others  were  crawling,  without  feet.  And  as  they  ap- 
proached, they  wailed  over  and  over  the  one  word  that 
their  poor  Chinese  tongues  had  been  taught  to  utter: 
"Unclean!  Unclean!  Unclean!" 

Both  the  man  and  the  woman  understood;  but  the 


Mrs.  Ella  Higginson  59 

man  only  spoke.  ' '  Great  God !  It  is  D ' Arcy  Island ! ' ' 
he  said,  in  his  throat.  "The  island  of  lepers!" 

The  woman  did  not  speak ;  but  she  leaned  heavily 
upon  him.  The  waves  pounded  behind  them,  and  the 
firs  on  the  hill  above  them  bowed,  moaning,  before  the 
storm— some  never  to  rise  again.  And  still,  above  every- 
thing, arose  that  awful  wail— "Unclean!  Unclean!" 

The  man  looked  down  upon  her.  Already  she  seemed 
far,  far  from  him.  She  had  lost  everything  for  him— 
but  he  was  thinking,  even  now,  of  what  he  had  lost  for 
her.  They  were  stranded  upon  an  island  whereon  there 
was  no  human  being  save  the  lepers  placed  there  by  the 
British  Government — an  island  at  which  steamers  never 
landed,  and  from  which  escape  was  impossible,  unless 
they  signaled.  .  .  .  (And  these  two  dared  not  signal.) 
.  .  .  For  lepers  there  are  only  silence  and  opium— and 
death. 

His  voice  shook  when  he  spoke  again. 

"What  accursed  luck— what  damnable  luck— steered 
us  here ! "  he  cried,  bitterly. 

Then  the  woman  spoke,  lifting  herself  from  him  and 
standing  alone. 

"It  was  not  luck  at  all,"  she  said,  steadily;  "it  was 
God." 

Then,  suddenly,  she  cast  all  her  trembling,  beauliful 
length  downward  and. lay  prone,  her  face  sunken  to  the 
wet  sand.  And  lying  so,  she  clasped  her  hands  hard, 
hard,  behind  her  neck,  and  cried  out  in  a  voice  that  lifted 
each  word,  clear  and  distinct,  above  the  storm— so  deep, 
so  terrible  was  it  with  all  passion,  all  submission,  all 
despair— the  most  sublime  prayer  ever  uttered  by 
woman:  "Oh  Thou  God— Who  hast  guided  us  two  to 
the  one  spot  on  earth  where  we  belong !  I  see !  I  under- 
stand, Oh,  Thou  awful  God— Thou  just  God!" 

The  lepers,  crawling  back  to  their  hovels,  left  those 
two  alone,  but  their  weird  wail  still  sank  through  the 
falling  darkness — * '  Unclean  !  Unclean ! ' ' 

Mrs.  Higginson 's  latest  publication  is  "Mariella,"  a 
further  study  of  the  Northwest  she  knows  so  thoroughly, 
and  whose  atmosphere  she  interprets  so  vividly  in  all  its 


60  Oregon  Literature 

\ 

fresh,  even  crude,  youth.  A  critic  says  the  scenes  are 
laid  in  the  early  pioneer  days  at  first  and  later  during 
the  boom  of  1888-9.  It  is  the  story  of  a  young  girl's 
development  in  the  hard  frontier  farming  life;  in  the 
forced  social  changes  and  evolutions  following  the 
"boom";  and  in  the  offered  choice  between  men  of 
different  social  standing  who  love  her.  The  feeling  for 
nature  in  its  special  local  characteristics,  so  notable  in 
her  stories,  is  fresh  and  strong,  resulting  in  charming 
descriptive  torches,  among  pages  full  of  social  insight 
and  keen  wit.  It  is  Mrs.  Higginson's  first  novel  and  is 
by  far  her  most  important  and  mature  work.  Simultan- 
eous with  this  publication  will  appear  three  new  editions 
of  books  already  written  by  Mrs.  Higgmson,  attesting 
the  popularity  of  her  productions  in  poety  and  prose. 
Furthermore,  Mrs.  Higginson  's  poems  are  in  great  de- 
mand with  musical  composers,  the  most  prominent  of 
whom  are  Horatio  Parker,  professor  of  the  theory  of 
music  in  Yale  University ;  Whitney  Combs,  of  New  York, 
and  Charles  Willeby,  of  London,  where  the  leading 
English  contralto,  Ada  Crossley,  has  taken  them  up  and 
made  a  notable  success  of  them. 


SAM.  L.  SIMPSON 


Sam.  L.  Simpson 

Sam.  L.  Simpson  was  born  October  10,  1845,  in  the 
State  of  Missouri.  His  parents,  Hon.  Ben.  Simpson  and 
Nancy  Cooper  Simpson,  started  soon  thereafter  for 
Oregon,  where  they  arrived  in  the  spring  of  1846.  Omit- 
ting the  earlier  period  of  Simpson's  eventful  life,  we 
note  the  first  lessons  in  his  educational  career,  when  his 
mother  taught  him,  at  the  age  of  four  years,  his  letters, 
by  making  them  in  the  ashes  upon  the  broad  hearthstone 
of  their  pioneer  home  on  the  Clackamas  River. 

His  childhood  -passed  through  the  usual  humdrum  of 
pioneer  life,  which  he  has  commemorated  bv  one  short 
poem  entitled  the  "Winding  Path  to  the  Country 
School."  During  his  earlier  "teens"  he  was  clerk  for 
his  father  in  the  sutler's  store,  on  the  Grande  Ronde 
Reservation,  where  he  met  and  beopme  the  flattered  and 
petted  companion  of  Grant,  Sheridan,  and  other  lesser 
personages  of  a  frontier  military  nost.  The  latter  gentle- 
man presented  him  with  a  copv  of  Byron's  poems,  which 
he  esteemed  very  highly,  and  to  which,  no  doubt,  is 
attributable  the  similaritv  of  stvle  so  noticeable  in  many 
of  Simpson's  poems  to  those  of  Byron. 

Indeed,  the  complaining  moods  of  Byron  are  very  con- 
spicuous in  Simpson's  verses.  It  is  probable  that  the 
contact  of  this  brilliant  boy  with  the  careless  ways  of  a 
frontier  garrison  was  the  initiative  of  a  life,  subse- 
quently, so  frauerht  with  grief  and  disappointment. 
From  the  Reservation  he  went  to  the  Willamette  Univer- 
sity, at  Salem,  where  he  graduated  with  honors  in  the 
class  of  '65.  He  was  noted  for  versifying  among  his 
college  associates,  and  besran  about  this  time  to  con- 
tribute to  newspapers  of  the  state. 

In  1866  he  was  prepared  to  be  admitted  to  the  bar, 
but  owing  to  his  age  he  was  not  admitted  to  practice  until 
'67.  This  year  was  a  noted  epoch  in  Simpson's  life.  He 
wrote  ' '  Ad  Willametam, ' '  now  known  as  l '  The  Beautiful 


62  Oregon  Literature 

Willamette/'  in  the  spring  of  1867,  and  the  Democrat, 
of  Albany,  upon  publishing  the  poem,  remarked  that 
the  young  author  might  be  expected  to  do  something 
meritorious. 

In  the  fall  of  '67  Simpson  was  married  to  Miss  Julia 
Humphrey,  a  lady  noted  for  her  beauty  and  accomplish- 
ments, not  the  least  of  which  was  her  enrapturing  voice 
for  song.  She  was  Simpson 's  ' '  Sweet  Throated  Thrush, ' ' 
his  "Lurlina"  of  whom  he  writes: 

Heaven  flies  not 

From  souls  it  once  hath  blessed. 
First  love  may  fade  but  dies  not 
Though  wounded  and  distressed. 

To  the  end  of  his  life  he  was  constant  in  his  adoration 
of  his  ''First  Love." 

After  his  marriage  he  associated  with  the  late  Judge 
R.  S.  Strahan  in  the  practice  of  law,  and  these  years 
were  the  happiest  that  mortals  ever  experience.  He 
soon,  however,  from  that  uncontrollable  impulse,  betook 
himself  to  journalism,  which  he  pursued  until  he  died, 
in  1900. 

Judge  John  Burnett,  who  read  law  with  him,  said, 
"  Simpson  is  the  Burns  of  Oregon.  What  Poe  was  to 
the  beginning,  Simpson  was  to  the  close  of  the  century. 
The  first  singer  of  Oregon— the  preparer  of  the  way." 
Truly  it  may  be  said,  he  added  to  his  ideal  beauty  of 
conception  of  .nature,  ever  true,  a  classical  expression 
and  descriptive  power  seldom  equalled,  if  ever  excelled. 
His  soul  was  set  to  music.  The  morning  stars  sang  to 
him  as  sublime  a  hymn  of  adoration  of  the  Creator  as 
to  the  seers  of  ages  past.  The  sea  had  for  him  a  voice 
enrapturing  beyond  the  appreciation  of  less  inspired 
beings.  Plowiner  waters  had  to  him  "Many  thingrs  to 
sing  and  say."  "The  Beautiful  Willamette"  is  full  of 
that  melancholy  music  of  flowing  waters,  so  aptly  de- 
scriptive of  the  same  stream  in  another  poem,  where 
he  says: 

It  pives  YOU  back  the  minor  key 

That  thrills  in  music's  sweetest  lines 

The  mystery  of  minstrelsy.  ; 


Sam.  L.  Simpson  63 

His  imagination  interpreted  the  deep  and  mournful 
music  of  the  forest— 

"I  hear  sweet  music  over  there, 

The  mountain  nymphs  are  calling  me," 
He  murmured  "How  divine  an  air 
O  soul  of  mine  is  wooing  thee." 

; 

Or  swept  by  winter's  storm  these  forests  had  a  differ- 
ent voice  for  him— 

The  Gothic  minstrel  of  the  woods, 

'He  sings  the  lightest  lullaby, 
Or.  swept  "by  winter's  fitful  moods 

The  'battle  chants,  and  loud  and  high 
The  Pyrrhic  numbers  rise  and  roll 

To  midnight  stars,  and  Earth's  great  soul 
Wails  in  the  solemn  interludes 

Of  death  and  woe  that  never  die. 

The  shriek  of  ships,  the  war  of  waves. 

The  fury  of  the  blanching  surge — 
The  desolation  of  lone  graves — 

The  shouts  that  still  the  onset  urge — 
The  sofos  of  maidens  in  despair — 

All  saddest  sounds  of  earth  and  air — 
The  harp  of  Thor  o'er  peaks  and  caves, 

Blend  in  the  paean  and  the  dirge. 

Maybe  it  was  an  inherpnt  quality  of  his  soul,  or  maybe 
environment,  but  in  all  Simpson's  work  we  note  the  sad 
undertone— "The  wail  in  mirth's  mad  lav,"  "The  Sad 
Refrain"  of  love.  "The  thorn  beneath  the  rose"  that 
seemed  to  have  pierced  his  heart.  This  thought  is  forci- 
bly expressed  in  the  following  lines: 

The  breath  of  immortality 

But  withers  human  thought,  we  love 

The  summer  smouldering  on  the  lea, 
The  mournful  deathsong  of  the  dove. 

This  idea  seems  to  have  become  such  as  passion  that 
he  exclaims — 

The  divinest  pleasures  arise  and  soar 
On  wing's  that  are  sorrow  laden. 


6£  Oregon  Literature, 

Simpson's  nature  was  the  essence  of  love  of  all  things 
good  and  beautiful,  gloomed  by  a  sorrow-laden  life,  but 
with  an  abiding  faith  in  the  great  hereafter.  Hear  the 
conclusion : 

O  when  the  angel  of  silence  has  brushed 
Me  with  his  win<gs  and  this  pining  is  hushed; 
Tenderly,  graciously),  light  as  the  snow 
Fall  the  kind  mention  of  all  that  I  know; 
Words  that  will  cover  and  whiten  the  sod, 
Folding  the  life  that  was  'given  of  God; 
Wayward,  maybe,  and  persistent  to  rove, 
Restful,  at  last,  in  the  glamour  of  love. 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  WILLAMETTE. 

Of  the  origin  of  "The  Beautiful  Willamette,"  Mr.  C. 
H.  Sox,  of  Albany,  Oregon,  has  written : 

It  was  during  Sam.  L.  Simpson's  residence  at  Albany, 
Oregon,  that  he  wrote  "Ad  Willametam"  ("Beautiful  Willam- 
ette"), the  grandest  and  prettiest  of  his  poems,  and  it  was  my 
•good  fortune  to  first  put  this  poem  into  type  from  the  original 
manuscript.  It  was  printed  in  the  Democrat,  Aoril  18  1868. 
The  editor  had  this  to  say  of  it:  "The  original  poetry,  under 
the  title  of  'Ad  Willametam,'  to  be  found  elsewhere  in  today's 
Democrat,  signed  by  IS.  'L.  S.,  we  consider  a  very  beautiful 
poem,  and  we  trust  the  author  will  not  let  this  be  the  last 
time  he  will  favor  us  with  his  literary  productions." 

After  the  appearance  of  this  poem  in  the  Democrat,  the 
entire  press  of  the  state  printed  it;  the  leading  California 
papers  then  took  it  up,  and  shortly  afterwards  it  appeared  in 
many  Eastern  publications,  and  was  highly  praised  everywhere. 

Simpson  was  a  young  man  at  that  time,  .  temperate,  un- 
married, in  fact  just  out  of  college,  and  the  poem  was  written 
in  the  seclusion  of  his  own  private  apartments.  I  kept  the 
manuscript  of  the  poem  for  several  years,  but  it  became  mis- 
placed and  lost. 

From  the  Cascades'  frozen  gorges, 

Leaping  like  a  child  at  play, 
Winding,  widening1  through  the  valley 
Bright  Willamette  glides  away; 
Onward  ever, 
Lovely  river, 


Sam.  L.  Simpson  65 

Softly  calling  to  the  sea ; 

Time,  that  scars  us, 

Maims  and  mars  us, 
Leaves  no  track  or  trench  on  thee. 

Spring's  green  witchery  is  weaving 

Braid  and  border  for  thy  side ; 
Grace  forever  haunts  thy  journey, 

Beauty  dimples  on  thy  tide ; 
Through  the  purple  gates  of  morning, 

Now  thy  roseate  ripples  dance, 
Golden  then,  when  day,  departing, 

On  thy  waters  trails  his  lance. 
(Notice  the  music  of  the  old  song.) 
Waltzing,  flashing, 
Tinkling,  splashing, 
Limid,  volatile,  and  free- 
Always  hurried 
To  be  buried 
In  the  bitter,  moon-mad  sea. 

In  thy  crystal  deeps  inverted 

Swings  a  picture  of  the  sky. 
Like  those  wavering  hopes  of  Aidenn, 

Dimly  in  our  dreams  that  lie ; 
Clouded  often,  drowned  in  turmoil, 

Faint  and  lovely,  far  away- 
Wreathing  sunshine  on  the  morrow, 
Breathing  .fragrance  round  today. 
Love  would  wander 
Here  and  ponder, 
Hither  poetry  would  dream; 
Life's  old  questions, 
Sad  suggestions, 
"Whence  and  whither?"  throng  thy  streams. 

On  the  roaring  waste  of  ocean 

Soon  thy  scattered  waves  shall  toss, 
'Mid  the  surges'  rhythmic  thunder 

Shall  thy  silver  tongues  be  lost. 


66  Oregon  Literature 

Oh!  thy  glimmering  rush  of  gladness 

Mocks  this  turbid  life  of  mine, 
Racing  to  the  wild  Forever 

Down  the  sloping  paths  of  Time. 

Onward  ever, 

Lovely  river, 
Softly  calling  to  the  sea; 

Time,  that  scars  us, 

Maims  and  mars  us, 
Leaves  no  track  or  trench  on  thee. 


ONLY  A  FEATHER. 

There  is  never  a  rose  in  the  green  garden  blows 

;In  the  time  of  the  dreamiest  weather 
That  enkindles  my  heart  till  in  rapture  it  glows 

As  the  flame  of  this  dear  little  feather. 
It  is  crimson,  you  see,  and  so  many  there  be 

That  may  rival  its  aniline  luster. 
It  is  strange  that  it  weaves  such  a  spell  upon  me, 

As  the  redolent  memories  cluster. 

The  philosophers  read  any  secret  at  need, 

And  restore  a  dead  field  from  a  flower, 
Or  a  forest  with  banners  from  one  withered  seed, 

That  has  slept  in  a  fossilized  bower ; 
And  they'd  tell  me  today,  from  this  tremulous  spray, 

This  endeared  and  adorable  feather, 
Of  a  Romanized  warbler  that  wore  it  one  day 

When  the  sun-birds  were  singing  together. 

And  I'd  nod,  and  I'd  smile,  but  I'd  know  all  the  while 

They  were  lost  in  a  tangle  of  fable; 
There  was  never  a  bird  in  a  palm-crested  isle 

That  the  orient  fairies  called  Mabel; 
And  there 's  no  bird  that  roves  in  the  pomegranate  groves. 

Or  savannas  of  villas  suburban, 
That  displays  such  a  plume,  as  it  gracefully  moves 

In  a  dainty  Parisian  turban. 


Sam.  L.  Simpson  67 

And  from  tip  unto  tip,  with  a  pause  at  her  lip, 

It  is  useless  to  tell  you  the  measure 
Of  the  sweet-throated  thrush  that  allured  me  to  sip 

The  delight  of  the  chalice  of  pleasure; 
For  the  years,  as  they  flow,  have  a  cadence  of  woe 

That  rny  heart  was  bowed  down  to  discover, 
Since  she  moulted  this  plume  many  summers  ago, 

As  she  leaned  on  the  breast  of  her  lover. 


Oh,  the  myrtle-sweet  days,  how  they  throng  to  my  gaze 

In  a  crimsoning  vista  of  roses, 
And  the  light  of  romance  reverentially  plays 

O'er  the  scene  that  my  fancy  discloses; 
For  my  sweetheart  is  there  on  the  glimmering  square, 

Where  the  school  girls  a^  evening  are  trooping. 
And  her  wavering  plume,  like  a  flame  in  the  air, 

Is  gracefully  swaying  and  drooping. 

Ah,  well,  it  is  right  that  I  sorrow  tonight, 

And  I  kneel  to  the  fate  that  is  given, 
For  the  joy  of  that  time,  like  Promethean  light, 

Was  purloined  from  the  treasure  of  heaven : 
It  is  well  that  I  moan  for  the  day  that  is  gone, 

For  my  life  is  astray  altogether, 
And  the  dreams  of  my  summer  like  swallows  have  flown, 

And  left  this  memorial  feather. 


THE  CROWNING  OF  THE  SLAIN. 

I. 

Again,  in  the  month  of  beauty, 

When  the  blush  of  the  rose  is  born, 
In  the  kiss  which  the  earth,  at  robing, 

Receives  on  the  bridal  morn, 
We  think  of  the  heroes  that  slumber, 

Away  from  the  light  of  the  sun, 
Where  the  banners  of  forests  are  waving? 

And  the  musical  riyerg  run, 


68  Oregon  Literature 

II. 

The  white  tented  mists  in  the  valley, 

Pass  dreamily  on  at  dawn, 
And  the  rustling  of  feet  in  the  greenwood, 

Is  made  by  the  rabbit  and  fawn ; 
It  is  only  the  glint  of  a  plowshare, 

As  it  turns  in  yon  distant  field, 
And  never  the  bayonet-glimmer 

By  a  wheeling  rank  revealed. 

III. 

The  days,  among  pearls  and  lilies, 

Awake  with  a  smile  of  peace, 
And  pass— reclining  at  sunset 

On  a  glory  of  golden  fleece; 
But  never  a  war-drum  startles, 

And  never  the  cannon  roar — 
Nor  the.angel  of  battle  passes 

With  brows  that  are  red  with  gore. 

IV. 

The  flowers  have  come,  in  a  splendor 

Of  color  and  perfect  perfume. 
.     The  birds  build  again  in  their  branches, 

And  the  honey-bee  rifles  the  bloom— 
The  loving  and  loved,  in  the  gloaming, 

And,  oft,  by  the  silvery  beam, 
Are  plucking  the  roses  of  Eden, 

And  dreaming  the  beautiful  dream ; 

V. 

But  the  strong  hands  folded  from  battle 

Will  nevermore  toil  nor  caress — 
The  roses  return,  but  the  soldier 

Sleeps  on  in  his  patriot  dress, 
His  name  and  his  deeds  are  forgotten, 

His  sword  in  its  scabbard  will  rust, 
But  the  sunshine  is  brighter  above  him, 

And  the  olive  will  spring  from  his  dust. 


Sam.  L.  Simpson  69 

VI. 

Ah,  God !  in  our  banners  of  crimson, 

How  cling  the  crape  shadows  of  grief— 
How  close  to  the  palm  and  the  laurel 

Is  the  funeral  cypress  leaf? 
And  'tis  well  that  we  cherish  our  martyrs— 

Else  the  triumph  might  seem  too  dear 
That  gave  back  a  country  unbroken, 

But  left  us  no  heart  for  a  tear. 

VII. 

And  so,  in  the  month  of  beauty, 

When  the  sea  and  the  sky  are  blue, 
And  we  love  more  tender, 

And  are  true  with  a  heart  more  true- 
st us  gather  the  flowers  in  clusters, 

And  weave  them  in  chaplets  fair, 
And,  wherever    a  soldier  slumbers, 

To  his  low  grave  side  repair. 

VIII. 

For  this  is  the  month  of  beauty, 

When  the  sea  and  the  sky  are  true— 
A  time  to  be  tenderly  thoughtful 

Of  those  that  have  worn  the  blue, 
And  who  sleep  away  from  the  sunshine 

In  their  low  and  lonesome  graves, 
While  ever,  on  land  and  ocean, 

The  dauntless  banner  waves. 

IX. 

And  what  shall  we  bring,  but  flowers, 

To  hallow  the  heroes'  sleep— 
These  gifts  of  the  dew  and  the  daylight 

That  ever  memorial  keep 
Of  the  spirit  immortal— and  ever 

In  bursting  the  mold  of  death 
Renew  the  perishing  garlands 

On  the  shadowy  brow  of  Faith ! 


70  Oregon  Literature 

THE  MYSTIC  RIVER. 

(This  poem  was  composed  at  the  request  of  Miss  Ellen 
Chamberlin.) 

(Tune,   Cantilena.) 
I. 

Beside  the  mystic  river, 

At  holy  even  fall, 
Where  golden  lilies  quiver, 

And  reedy  murmurs  call— 
We  pause,  dean  hearts,  at  starting, 

Each  leaning  on  his  oar, 
And  never  knew  till  parting, 

How  beautiful  the  shore ! 

Chorus— 

Touch  hands  with  love, 

Touch  lips  with  tears— 
The  golden  lilies  chime, 

And  call  us  to  the  river, 
And  down  the  tide  of  time. 

II. 

The  brow  of  Alma  Mater 

Ne'er  shone  with  such  a  light, 
And  O  we  know  that  later, 

When  tempests  come,  and  night, 
That  light,  forever  shining 

Along  life's  troubled  main, 
Will  cheer  us,  though  repining 

In  darkness  and  in  pain. 
Chorus- 
Ill. 

The  stars  march  on— the  gleaming 

Of  every  diamond  crest, 
And  white  plume  dimly  streaming 

Above  the  world's  unrest— 


Sam.  L.  Simpson  71 

Tell  us  the  martial  story 

That  rules  the  realm  of  space— 
The  combat  and  the  glory 
Heroic  lives  may  face. 
Chorus— 

IV. 

The  last  word  must  be  spoken, 

The  last  song  must  be  sung— 
Yet  0  we  give  no  token 

Of  how  our  hearts  are  wrung, 
As  here,  beside  the  river, 

We  lean,  and  look,  and  sigh, 
And  on  our  faint  lips  quiver 

The  long,  long  words,  ' '  Good  bye ! ' ' 
Chorus— 


SNOW-DRIFT. 
I. 

Tenderly,  patiently  falling,  the  snow 
Whitens  the  gleaming,  and  in  the  street  glow 
Spectrally  beautiful,  drifts  to  the  earth- 
Pale,  in  life's  brightness,  and  still,  in  its  mirth: 
Swarming  and  settling  like  spirits  of  bees 
Blown  from  the  blossoms  of  song-haunted  trees- 
Blown  with  the  petals  of  dreams  we  have  grown 
Rosy  with  heart-dews  in  days  that  are  gone. 

II. 

Spirits  of  flowers  and  spectres  of  bees- 
Beauty  and  soil— is  't  an  emblem  of  these 
Thrown  to  us  silently— cold  and  so  fair— 
Treasure  we  piled  in  the  mansions  of  air? 
Just  as  if  heaven,  that  gathered  our  sighs, 
Wept  for  the  hope  that  the  future  denies, 
Dreamingly  lifted  the  glowing?  bouquet, 
Bright  from  earth's  garden,  and  tossed  it  away! 


Oregon  Literature 

III. 

Soft  as  the  touch  of  the  white-handed  moon, 
Waking  the  world  in  a  twilight  of  June, 
Gently  and  lovingly  hastens  the  snow— 
Weaving  a  veil  for  dead  nature  below  ; 
Kissing  the  stains  from  the  hoof  -beaten  street, 
Folding  the  town  in  a  slumber  so  sweet— 
Surely  the  stars,  in  their  helmets  of  gold, 
Patient  must  linger  and  love  to  behold. 

IV. 

Thus  our  endeavor  may  fail  of  its  prize— 
Hope  and  ambition  drop  cold  from  our  skies  ; 
Yet  on  the  pathway  so  lonely  and  sere, 
Rugged  with  failure,  and  clouded  by  fear, 
Spirits  of  beauty  come  out  of  defeat, 
Cover  life's  sorrows,  and  shield  its  retreat— 
Healing  the  heart  as  the  fall  of  the  snow 
Mantles  the  darkness  of  winter  below. 

V. 

0,  when  the  Angel  of  Silence  has  brushed 
Me  with  his  wing,  and  this  pining  is  hushed, 
Tenderly,  graciously,  light  as  the  snow, 
Fall  the  kind  mention  of  all  that  I  know— 
Words  that  will  cover  and  whiten  the  sod 
Folding  the  life  that  was  given  of  God; 
Broken,  may  be,  and  persistent  to  rove— 
Restful,  at  last,  in  the  glamour  of  love. 


THE  FEAST  OF  APPLE  BLOOM. 
I. 

When  the  sky  is  a  dream  of  violet 
And  the  days  are  rich  with  gold, 

And  the  satin  robe  of  the  earth  is  set 
With  the  jewels  wrought  of  old  ; 


Sam.  L.  Simpson  73 

When  the  woodlands  wave  in  coral  seas 

And  the  purple  mountains  loom, 
It  is  heaven  to  come,  with  birds  and  bees, 

To  the  feast  of  apple  bloom. 

n. 

For  the  gabled  roof  of  home  arose 

O  'er  the  sheen  of  the  orchard  snow, 
And  is  still  my  shrine,  when  storms  repose 

And  the  gnarly  branches  blow; 
And  the  music  of  childhood's  singing  heart, 

That  was  lost  in  the  backward  gloom, 
May  be  heard  when  the  robins  meet  and  part 

At  the  feast  of  apple  bloom. 

III. 

And  I  think  when  the  trees  display  a  crown 

Like  the  gleam  of  a  resting  dove, 
Of  a  face  that  was  framed  in  tresses  brown 

And  aglow  with  a  mother's  love; 
At  the  end  of  the  orchard  path  she  stands, 

And  I  laugh  at  my  manhood's  doom 
As  my  spirit  flies,  with  lifted  hands, 

To  the  feast  of  apple  bloom. 

IV. 

When  the  rainbow  paths  of  faded  skies 

Are  restored  with  the  diamond  rain, 
And  the  joys  of  my  wasted  paradise 

Are  returning  to  earth  again, 
It  is  sadder  than  death  to  know  how  Brief 

Are  the  smiles  that  the  dead  assume ; 
But  a  moment  allowed,  a  flying  leaf 

From  the  feast  of  apple  bloom. 

V. 

But  a  golden  arch  forever  shines 

In  the  dim  and  darkening  past, 
Where  I  stand  again,  as  day  declines, 

And  the  world  is  bright  and  vast; 


74  Oregon  Literature 

For  the  glory  that  lies  along  the  lane 
Is  endeared  with  sweet  perfume, 

And  the  world  is  ours,  and  we  are  twain 
At  the  feast  of  apple  bloom. 

VI. 

She  was  more  than  fair  in  the  wreath  she  wore 

Of  the  creamy  buds  and  blows 
And  she  comes  to  me  from  the  speechless  shore 

When  the  flowering  orchard  grows ; 
And  I  sigh  for  the  dreams  so  sweet  and  swift, 

That  are  laid  in  a  sacred  tomb— 
Yet  are  nothing  at  last  but  fragrant  drift 

From  the  feast  of  apple  bloom. 


THE  NYMPHS  OF  THE  CASCADES. 

i  ;  *i 

Dedicated  to  the  memory  of  George  E.  Strong,  a  brilliant 
young  journalist,  formerly  of  the  Oregonian  staff,  who,  imag- 
ing that  he  heard  beautiful  strains  of  music  and  sweet  voices 
calling  him,  wandered  away  from  a  camp  in  the  Cascade  Moun- 
tains while  his  companions  were  sleeping  and  was  utterly  lost, 
no  trace  of  him,  dead  or  alive^  having  ever  been  found. 

The  camp  fire,  like  a  red  night  rose, 

Blossomed  beneath  a  gloomy  fir ; 
When  weary  men  in  deep  repose, 

Heard  not  the  gentle  night  wind  stir. 
The  priestly  robes  high  over  head— 

Heard  not  the  wild  brook 's  wailing  song, 
(Nor  any  nameless  sounds  of  dread, 

Which  to  the  midnight  woods  belong. 

The  moon  sailed  on  a  golden  bark, 

Astray  in  lilied  purple  seas; 
And  forest  shadows  weirdly  dark, 

Were  peopled  with  all  mysteries ; 
And  all  was  wild  and  drear  and  strange 

Around  that  lonely  bivouac, 
Where  mountains,  rising  range  on  range 

Shouldered  the  march  of  progress  back. 


Sam.  L.  Simpson  75 

The  red  fire 's  fluttering  tongues  of  flame, 

Whispered  to  brooding  darkness  there, 
And  spectral  shapes  without  a  name 

Were  hovering  in  the  haunted  air; 
And  from  the  fir  tree's  inner  shade, 

A  drear  owl,  sobbing  forth  his  rune 
Kept  watch  and  mournful  homage  paid 

At  intervals  unto  the  moon. 

The  travelers  dreamed  on  serene., 

Save  one,  whose  brow,  curl-swept, 
Was  damp  from  agony  within; 

Who  tossed  and  murmured  as  he  slept, 
The  fretful  fire-light  on  his  face, 

Wavered  and  danced  in  fitful  play, 
Until  the  old  enchanting  grace 

Of  young  aimbition  on  it  lay. 

The  glamour  of  the  rosy  light 

The  heavy  lines  concealed, 
And  trembling  shadows  of  the  night 

Beyond  him,  like  sad  spirits,  kneeled ; 
For  his  had  been  the  lustress  gift— 

Of  genius  lent  by  God  to  few, 
The  splendid  jewel  wrought  by  swift 

Angelic  art  of  fire  and  dew. 

But  like  the  pearl  of  Egypt's  queen, 

'Twas  drowned  in  pleasure's  crimson  cup, 
And  lo,  its  amethystine  sheen, 

In  baleful  vapors  curling  up, 
Soon  wreathed  his  brain  in  that  dark  spell, 

That  has  no  kindred  seal  of  woe ; 
And  phantoms  that  with  Oreus  dwell, 

In  mystic  dance  swept  to  and  fro. 

Swept  to  and  fro  and  maddened  him 
With  gestures  wild  and  taunts  and  jeers, 

And  waved  the  withered  chap  lets  dim 
That  he  had  worn  in  flowery  years ; 


76  Oregon  Literature 

His  spirit  furled  its  shining  wings, 
Never  again  to  sing  and  soar, 

And  wove  all  wild  imaginings 
In  shapes  of  horror  evermore. 

The  sleeper  started,  partly  raised 

Upon  his  elbow,  leaned  awhile, 
And  deep  into  the  darkness  gazed 

With  wistful  eyes  and  brightened  smile : 
"I  hear  sweet  music  over  there, 

The  mountain  nymphs  are  calling  me. ' ' 
He  murmured,  "How  divine  an  air, 

Oh,  soul  of  mine,  is  wooing  thee. ' ' 

"Coming!"  he  whispered,  and  arose, 

And  in  the  air  first  reached  a  hand, 
To  clasp  a  spirit?    No  one  knows, 

Or  where  he  stood  can  ever  stand— 
And  lo,  into  the  heavy  night, 

As  led  by  hands  unseen,  he  fled, 
A  startling  figure,  clad  in  white 

Into  the  canyons  dark  and  dread. 

'Twas  years  ago,  but  trace  or  track 

Of  him  has  never  yet  been  found, 
For  echo  only  answered  back 

The  hunter 's  call  and  baying  hound ; 
Forever  lost,  untracked,  unseen, 

In  the  upheaved  and  wild  Cascades, 
Forever  lost,  untracked,  unseen, 

A  shadow  now  among  the  shades. 

From  some  snow-wreathed  and  shining  peak 

His  soul  swam  starward  long  ago. 
And  now  no  more  we  vainly  seek, 

The  secret  of  his  fate  to  know. 
While  fires  of  sunset  and  of  dawn 

Flame  red  and  fade  on  many  a  height, 
The  myst'ry  will  not  be  withdrawn 

From  him,  long  lost  from  human  sight. 


Sam.  L.  Simpson  77 

And  yet  I  sometimes  sit  and  dream 

Of  him,  my  schoolmate  and  my  friend, 
As  wandering  where  bright  waters  gleam, 

:In  some  sweet  life  that  has  no  end- 
Within  the  Cascades'  inner  walls, 

Where  nymphs,  beyond  all  fancy  fair, 
Soothe  him  with  siren  madrigals, 

And  deck  him  with  their  golden  hair. 


TONIGHT. 
DECEMBER  24,  1877. 

When  the  stars  gather  in  splendor,  tonight, 

Darkness,  0  Planet,  will  cover  thy  face— 
Death-ridden  darkness,  in  shapes  that  affright, 

Black  with  the  curses  that  blacken  our  race! 
And  the  mist,  like  the  ghost 
Of  a  hope  that  is  lost, 

Strangely  will  hover  o'er  fields  that  are  bare 
And  the  seas,  at  whose  heart  the  old  sorrow  is  throbbing 
Restless  and  hopeless,  eternally  sobbing — 

Madly  will  kneel  in  a  tempest  of  prayer. 

When  the  stars  gather  in  armor,  tonight, 

Planet  of  wailing,  thy  fate  shall  be  read ! 
Steal  like  a  nun  neath  the  scourge  from  their  sight, 

Gather  thy  sorrows,  like  robes,  to  thy  head! 
For  the  vestal  white  rose 
Of  the  crystalline  snows 

Coldly  has  sealed  thee  to  silence  unblessed: 
And  the  red  rose  is  dead  in  thy  gardens  of  pleasure— 
Forests,  like  princes,  bereft  of  all  treasure 

Rise  and  uubraid  thee,  a  skeleton  jest ! 

When  the  stars  gather  in  vengeance,  tonight, 

Gibbering  history,  too,  will  arise, 
Rustling  her  garments  of  mildew  and  blight. 
Only  to  curse  thee.  0  mother  of  lies ! 
With  thy  goblet  all  drained, 
And  thy  wanton  lip  stained— 


78  Oregon  Literature 

Singing  wild  songs  where  all  ruin  appears— 
What  shall  thou  say  of  this  dust  that  was  glory, 
Dust  that  beseeches  thee  still  with  a  story. 

Deep  in  whose  silence  are  rivers  of  tears? 

When  the  stars  gather  in  chorus,  tonight, 

Singing  the  lullaby  song  of  our  Lord, 
Childhood  shall  come  to  us,  dimpled  and  bright, 

Kissed  by  His  promise,  and  fed  by  His  word ; 
And  our  fears  shall  depart, 
And  our  anguish  of  heart, 

Rending  us  darkly  the  lengthy  years  thro*; 
And  the  dust  of  the  perished  shall  blossom,  and  beauty 
Garland  the  lowliest  pathway  of  duty, 

Rich  with  the  hopes  that  our  spirits  renew. 


SIMPSON'S 
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JAMES  G.  CLARKE 


James  G.  Clarke 

Miss  L/eona  Smith  says :  "  '  Poetry  and  Song, '  written 
by  James  G.  Clarke,  for  many  years  a  resident  of  Grants 
Pass,  Oregon,  does  not  possess  all  the  elements  necessary 
to  world-wide  renown,  but  it  will  undoubtedly  continue 
to  be  an  inspiration  to  many  throughout  this  Nation. 
The  poems  have  a  sweet,  soft,  sad  melody  which  reveal 
to  us  the  suffering  of  the  author.  They  are  not  the 
hopeless  longings  of  a  soul  unsatisfied,  but  they  are  the 
expression  of  one  who  is  sure  of  a  place  in  his  Father's 
home.  He  even  fancies  that— 

He  catches  the  sweet  strains  of  songs 
Floating  down  from  distant  throngs 
And  can  feel  the  touch  of  hands 
Reaching  out  from  angel  ibands. 

"  Purity  is  one  of  the  prominent  traits  of  his  writings. 
He  wrote  some  very  tender  love  poems,  but  they  are  all 
on  the  strain  of  'I  cannot  live  without  you.'  Many  of 
his  poems  are  of  childhood ;  in  one  he  says : 

Friends  of  my  childhood 
Tender  and  loving, 

Scattered  like  leaves  over  a  desolate  plain; 
Dreams  of  childhood,  where  are  you  roving. 

Never  to"  gladden  my  pathway  of  pain. 

"The  poem  'Look  Up'  is  representative  of  his  work; 
it  is— 

Look  up,  look  up,  desponding  soul! 

The  clouds  are  only  seeming, 
The  li'ght  behind  the  darkening  scroll 

Eternally  is  beaming. 

There  is  no  death,  there  is  no  night, 

No  life  nor  day  declining, 
Beyond   the   day's  departing  light. 

The   sun  is  always  shining. 


80  Oregon  Literature 

Could  we  but  pierce  the  rolling  storms 

That  veil  the  pathway  southward, 
We'd  see  a  host  of  shining  forms 

Forever  looking  onward. 

"  'The  Mount  of  the  Holy  Cross,'  which  is  numbered 
among  American  classics,  is  his  greatest  poem." 


THE  MOUNT  OF  THE  HOLY  GROSS. 

The  Mount  of  the  Holy  Cross,  the  principal  mountain  of  the 
Saguache  (Range,  Colorado,  is  I4;i76  feet  above  tide-water. 
The  Cross  is  located  near  the  top,  facing  the  east,  and  consists 
of  two  crevices  filled  with  snow  summer  and  winter.  The 
crevices  are  about  fifty  feet  wide,  and  the  snow  in  them  from 
fifty  to  one  hundred1  feet  in  depth.  The  perpendicular  arm 
of  the  Cross  is  some  fifteen  hundred  feet  long,  and  the  hori- 
zontal arm  seven  hundred  feet.  The  'Cross  may  be  seen  at  a 
distance  of  thirty  or  forty  miles. 

The  ocean  divided,  the  land  struggled  through, 

And  a  newly-horn  continent  burst  into  view; 

Like  furrows  upturned  by  the  plowshare  o'f  God, 

Tne  mountain  chains  rose  where  the  billows  had  trod ; 

And  their  towering  summits,  in  mighty  array, 

Turned  their  terrible  brows  to  the  glare  of  the  day, 

Like  sentinels  guarding  the  gateway  of  Time, 

Lest  the  contact  with  mortals  should  stain  it  with  crime. 

The  ocean  was  vanquished,  the  new  world  was  born. 
The  headlands  flung  back  the  bold  challenge  of  morn: 
The  sun  from  the  trembling  sea  marshalled  the  mist 
Till  the  hills  by  the  soul  of  the  ocean  were  kissed ; 
And   the  Winter-king  reached   from   his   cloud-castled 

height 

To  hang  on  each  brow  the  first  garland  of  white; 
For  the  crystals  came  forth  at  the  touch  of  his  wand, 
And  the  soul  of  the  sea  ruled  again  on  the  land. 

Then  arose  the  loud  moan  of  the  desolate  tide, 
As  it  called  back  its  own  from  the  far  mountain  side : 
"0  soul  of  my  soul!   by  the  sun  led  astray, 
Return  to  the  heart  that  would  hold  thee  alway; 


James  G.  Clarke  81 

The  sun  and  the  silver  moon  woo  me  in  vain; 
By  day  and  by  night  I  am  sobbing  with  pain ; 
Oh,  loved  of  my  bosom  !   Oh,  child  of  the  Free, 
Come  back  to  the  lips  that  are  waiting  for  thee ! ' ' 

But  a  sound,  like  all  melodies  mingled  in  one, 

Came  down  through  the  spaces  that  cradled  the  sun. 

Like  music  from  far-distant  planets  it  fell, 

Till  earth,  air,  and  ocean  were  hushed  in  the  spell : 

"Be  silent,  ye  waters,  and  cease  your  alarm, 

All  motion  is  only  the  pulse  of  my  arm; 

In  my  breath  the  vast  systems  unerringly  swing, 

And  mine  is  the  chorus  the  morning  stars  sing. 

tf  'Twas  mine  to  create  them,  'tis  mine  to  command 

The  land  to  the  ocean,  the  sea  to  the  land ; 

All,  all  are  my  creatures,  and  they  who  would  give 

True  worship  to  me  for  each  other  must  live. 

Lo !  I  leave  on  the  mountain  a  sign  that  shall  be 

A  type  of  the  union  of  land  and  sea— 

An  emblem  of  anguish  that  comes  before  bliss, 

For  they  who  would  conquer  must  conquer  by  this. ' ' 

The  roar  of  the  earthquake  in  answer  was  heard, 
The  land  from  its  solid  foundation  was  stirred, 
The  breast  of  the  mountain  was  rent  by  the  shock, 
And  a  cross  was  revealed  on  the  heart  of  the  rock; 
One  hand  pointing  south,  where  the  tropic  gales  blow, 
And  one  to  the  kingdom  of  winter  and  snow, 
While  its  face  turned  to  welcome  the  dawn  from  afar, 
Ere  Jordan  had  rolled  under  Bethlehem's  star. 

The  harp  of  the  elements  over  it  swung, 

In  the  wild  chimes  of  Nature  its  advent  was  rung, 

Around  it  the  hair  of  the  Winter-king  curled, 

Against  it  in  fury  his  lances  were  hurled, 

And  the  pulse  of  the  hurricane  beat  in  its  face 

Till  the  snows  were  locked  deep  in  its  mighty  embrace, 

And  its  arms  were  outstretched  on  the  mountain's  cold 

breast, 
As  spotless  ancl  white  as  the  robes  of  the  blest. 


82  Oregon  Literature 

Then  the  spirit  of  Summer  came  up  from  the  south 
With  the  smile  of  the  Junes  on  her  beautiful  mouth, 
And  breathed  on  the  valley,  the  plains,  and  the  hills, 
While  the  snow  rippled  home  in  the  arms  of  the  rills ; 
The  winter  was  gone,  but  the  symbol  was  there, 
Towering  mutely  and  grand,  like  the  angel  of  prayer, 
Where  the  morning  shall  stream  on  the  place  of  its  birth 
Till  the  last  cross  is  borne  by  the  toilers  of  earth. 

It  will  never  grow  old  while  the  sea  breath  is  drawn 
From  the  lips  of  the  billows  at  evening  and  dawn, 
While  heaven's  pure  finger  transfigures  the  dews, 
And  with  garlands  of  frost-work  its  beauty  renews ; 
It  was  there  when  the  blocks  of  the  pyramid  pile 
Were  drifting  in  sands  on  the  plains  of  the  Nile, 
And  it  still  shall  point  homeward,  a  token  of  trust, 
When  pyramids  crumble  in  dimness  and  dust. 

It  shall  lean  o'er  the  world  like  a  banner  of  peace 
Till  discord  and  war  between  brothers  shall  cease, 
Till  the  Red  Sea  of  Time  shall  be  cleansed  of  its  gore, 
And  the  years  like  white  pebbles  be  washed  to  the  shore ; 
As  long  as  the  incense  from  the  ocean  shall  rise 
To  weave  its  bright  woof  on  the  warp  of  the  skies, 
As  long  as  the  clouds  into  crystals  shall  part, 
That  cross  shall  gleam  high  on  the  continent's  heart. 


EVA  EMERY  DYE 


Mrs.  Eva  Emery  Dye 

The  Land  of  Sunshine,  of  Los  Angeles,  says : 
/'Eva  Emery  Dye,  whose  strong  book,  'McLoughlin 
and  Old  Oregon, '  has  been  warmly  commended,  was  born 
in  Prophetstown,  Illinois,  of  New  England  ancestry. 
There  in  the  historic  haunts  of  Black  Hawk,  she  turned 
even  as  a  child  to  the  fascination  of  the  past.  Graduat- 
ing from  Oberlin  College  in  1882  she  married  a  class- 
mate, Charles  Henry  Dye,  of  Fort  Madison,  Iowa;  and 
in  1890  they  removed  to  Oregon  City,  Oregon.  The 
wealth  of  history  and  romance  in  that  unharried  field 
appealed  strongly  to  Mrs.  Dye ;  and  she  plunged  at  once 
into  ardent  cross-examination  of  the  pioneers  and  pioneer 
times  of  the  far  Northwest.  'Old  Oregon'  is  still  new 
enough  so  that  contemporaries  of  the  first  heroes  still 
survive.  It  is  not,  like  California,  two  long  lifetimes 
back  to  the  historic  beginnings;  or  New  Mexico  with 
more  than  three  centuries  and  a  half  of  history.  And 
even  as  it  is  scant  in  the  documentary  treasures  of  which 
the  older  West  has  such  marvelous — though  recondite — 
store,  it  is  richer  in  the  human  parchments.  And  here 
was  Mrs.  Dye's  bonanza.  She  has  foregathered  with 
these  tottering  chronicles,  and  gathered  from  them  their 
reminiscences.  White-headed  men  and  women  have  told 
her  of  the  migrations  of  the  early  'Forties ;  missionaries 
of  the  'Thirties  have  gone  over  with  her  the  times  that 
tried  men's  souls;  and  still  further  back,  the  old  voya- 
geurs  and  fur-traders  of  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company 
have  given  her  their  eye-witness  versions  of  that  Homeric 
day.  Even  the  Indian— one  of  the  most  vital  and  com- 
petent of  witnesses,  when  one  knows  how  to  get  at  him— 
has  not  been  forgotten  in  Mrs.  Dye's  eager  research; 
and  every  old  book,  document  or  letter  that  she  could 
lay  her  hands  upon  was  as  earnestly  devoured. 

"The  result  is  in  evidence.     'McLoughlin  and  Old 
Oregon'  is  one  of  the  best  Western  books  in  its  sort— 


84  Oregon  Literature 

and  a  good  sort.  Taking  it  in  conjunction  with  Coues's 
critical  '  Larpenteur, '  one  may  have  an  excellently  clear 
concept  of  the  old  Northwest,  and  of  that  most  romantic 
corporation  in  human  history,  the  Hudson's  Bay  Com- 
pany, in  all  its  gallantry  and  all  its  meanness.  Mrs. 
Dye's  home  is  in  Oregon  City,  Oregon." 

Mrs.  Dye's  book,  now  in  press,  is  to  be  called  "The 
Conquest:  The  True  Story  of  Lewis  and  Clarke,"  and 
deals  with  the  great  middle  West  movement  ending  with 
the  Expedition  of  Lewis  and  Clarke  that  brought  the 
United  States  under  our  dominion.  An  edition  of  15,000 
copies  is  now  in  press,  with  A.  C.  McClurg  &  Co.,  Chi- 
cago, to  be  out  in  November.  The  frontispiece  is 
"Judith,"  the  girl  for  whom  Clarke  named  the  River 
Judith  in  Montana  and  whom  he  afterward  married. 
The  incident  of  their  courtship  and  marriage  forms  a 
romantic  feature  of  the  book ;  the  special  heroine  of  the 
expedition  itself  is  Sacajawea,  the  beautiful  Shoshone 
Indian  girl  who  piloted  Lewis  and  Clarke  through  the 
mountains  and  spent  the  winter  with  them  at  Fort 
Clatsop  by  the  Oregon  sea.  Sacajawea 's  husband, 
Charboneau,  was  interpreter  and  voyageur.  In  this 
book  Mrs.  Dye  has  made  use  of  many  interesting  and 
valuable  traditions  preserved  by  the  Western  Indians 
concerning  these  marvelous  first  white  men  that  came 
to  them  out  of  the  East. 

JO  LANE  AND  THE  INDIANS. 

Table  Rock  is  a  flat-topped  mountain  overhanging 
Rogue  River,  in  Southern  Oregon.  From  this  watch- 
tower,  sweeping  the  valley  for  miles,  the  Indians  noted 
incoming  immigrants  and  the  movements  of  gold-seekers. 
Thus,  with  accurate  knowledge  of  their  strength  and 
movements,  the  Indians  could  swoop  down  with  unerring 
aim  and  annihilate  whole  encampments.  They  became 
expert  robbers,  bandits  of  as  wild  exploits  as  any  ever 
celebrated  in  song  or  story.  Strangers  entering  the 
lovely  valley  of  the  Rogue  little  imagined  that  pictur- 
esque peak  cf  the  Table  Rock  sheltered  the  deadliest  foe 
of  settlement  and  of  civilization. 


Mrs.  Eva  Emery  Dye  .      85 

In  the  days  of  the  gold  rush,  large  companies  passed 
in  comparative  safety,  but  many  a  straggler,  many  a 
group  of  three  or  four,  went  out  never  to  return. 

In  the  spring  of  1850,  Governor  Jo  Lane,  the  * '  Marion 
of  the  Mexican  War,"  decided  to  go  down  and  quiet 
those  Indian  banditti.  With  an  escort  of  fifteen  men,  a 
pack-train  bound  for  the  mines,  and  a  few  friendly 
Klicki tats— born  foes  of  the  Rogue  Rivers— he  made  a 
descent  on  their  country.  Camping  near  some  Indian 
villages,  General  Lane  sent  word  to  the  principal  chief, 
"I  want  a  'peace  talk.'  Come  unarmed." 

The  chief  and  seventy-five  followers  came  and  sat  in 
a  ring  on  the  grass  around  the  Eyas  Tyee  of  the  whites. 
Lane  very  flatteringly  and  with  great  ado  brought  the 
Indian  chief  into  the  center  with  himself.  Just  behind 
sat  his  Klickitat  aides.  Before  the  conference  began, 
seventy-five  more  Indians  appeared,  fully  armed.  "Put 
down  your  arms  and  be  seated,"  said  Lane  to  the  new 
comers.  They  sat  down.  General  Lane,  the  hero  of 
many  a  battle,  made  a  great  peace  talk.  "I  hear  you 
have  been  murdering  and  robbing  my  people.  It  must 
stop.  My  people  must  pass  through  your  country  in 
safety.  Our  laws  have  been  extended  here.  Obey  them, 
and  you  can  live  in  peace.  The  Great  Father  of  Wash- 
ington will  buy  your  lands  and  pay  you  for  them." 

He  paused  for  response.  The  Rogue  River  chief 
littered  a  stentorian  note.  His  Indians  leaped  to  their 
feet  with  a  war-cry,  brandishing  their  weapons.  At  a 
flash  from  the  General's  eye  the  Klickitats  seized  the 
chief.  Motioning  his  men  not  to  shoot,  with  utter  fear- 
lessness Lane  walked  into  the  midst  of  the  warriors, 
knocking  up  their  guns  with  his  revolver.  * '  Sit  down, ' ' 
he  sternly  motioned.  The  astonished  chief,  with  the 
Klickitat 's  knife  before  his  eye,  seconded  the  motion, 
and  the  savages  grounded  their  arms.  As  if  nothing 
had  happened,  Lane  went  on  talking.  "Now,"  he  said, 
"go  home.  Return  in  two  days  in  a  friendly  manner  to 
another  council.  Your  chief  shall  be  my  guest. ' ' 

The  crestfallen  Indians  withdrew',  leaving  their  chief 
a  prisoner  with  General  Lane.  At  sunrise  an  anxious 
squaw  came  over  the  hills  to  find  her  lord.  Jo  Lane 


86  Oregon  Literature 

brought  her  in  and  treated  her  like  a  lady.  For  two 
days  Lane  talked  with  that  savage  chief  and  won  his 
friendship.  When  the  warriors  came  a  treaty  was  easily 
concluded. 

"And  now  bring  the  goods  you  stole  from  my  people/' 
said  General  Lane.  The  Indians  bundled  away  and  soon 
brought  in  whatever  was  left.  But  the  treasures  of  a 
recent  robbery  were  gone  beyond  retrieve.  Ignorant  of 
their  value,  the  savages  had  emptied  the  precious  sacks 
of  gold-dust  into  the  river. 

"What  is  the  name  of  this  great  chief?"  asked  the 
Indians  of  the  interpreter.  The  General  himself  an- 
swered, "Jo  Lane." 

'  '  Give  me  your  name, ' '  said  the  Indian  chief.  ' '  I  have 
seen  no  man  like  you." 

"I  will  give  you  half  my  name,"  said  Lane.  "You 
shall  be  called  Jo.  To  your  wife  I  give  the  name  '  Sally, ' 
and  your  daughter  shall  be  called  Mary." 

General  Lane  wrote  a  word  about  the  treaty  on  slips 
of  paper  and  signed  his  name.  Giving  them  to  the 
Indians,  he  said,  "Whenever  any  white  man  comes  into 
your  country,  show  him  this.  Take  care  of  my  people." 

As  long  as  those  precious  bits  of  paper  held  together 
the  Indians  preserved  them.  Whenever  a  white  man 
appeared  they  went  to  him,  holding  out  the  paper,  saying 
rapidly  the  magic  password,  "Jo  Lane,  Jo  Lane,  Jo 
Lane"— the  only  English  words  they  knew.  For  about 
a  year  Chief  Jo  tried  to  keep  the  peace  with  the  ever- 
increasing  flood  of  white  men. 

After  a  while,  when  all  the  other  Indians  around  him 
were  fighting,  Chief  Jo  went  again  on  the  warpath. 
General  Lane,  no  longer  Governor,  was  building  a  home 
on  his  claim  in  the  Umpqua  Valley,  near  the  present  site 
of  Roseburg,  when  he  heard  the  news.  Hastily  gathering 
a  small  force,  he  hurried  to  the  scene  of  hostility.  For 
a  hundred  miles  up  and  down  the  California  trail  the 
Indians  were  slaughtering  and  burning.  Houses  were 
destroyed  and  the  woods  were  on  fire,  and  a  dense  smoke 
hid  the  enemy's  track. 

As  soon  as  Lane  appeared  he  was  put  in  command. 
They  traced  the  Indians,  and  a  great  battle  was  fought 


Mrs.  Eva  Emery  Dye  87 

at  a  creek  near  Table  Rock.  Chief  Jo  had  been  proudly 
defiant  and  boasted,  "I  have  a  thousand  wiarriors.  I 
can  darken  the  sun  with  their  arrows."  But  when  he 
saw  his  warriors  falling,  and  their  women  and  children 
prisoners,  the  old  chief's  feathers  dropped.  He  heard 
that  Jo  Lane  had  come,  and  sent  for  a  "peace  talk." 
"Jo  Lane,  Jo  Lane,"  all  the  Indians  began  to  call— "Jo 
Lane,  Jo  Lane"— from  bush  and  hollow. 

The  General,  wounded  in  the  battle,  and  faint  from 
the  loss  of  blood,  ordered  a  suspension  of  hostilities. 
Not  wishing  them  to  know  that  he  was  wounded,  he 
threw  a  cloak  over  his  shoulders  to  conceal  his  arm,  and 
walked  into  the  Indian  camp.  His  men  were  amazed, 
and  censured  this  rash  exposure  of  his  life.  Far  off,  as 
soon  as  Chief  Jo  caught  sight  of  Lane  approaching,  he 
cried  his  griefs  across  the  river :  *  *  The  white  men  have 
come  on  horses  in  great  numbers.  They  are  taking  our 
country.  We  are  afraid  to  lie  down  to  sleep,  lest  they 
come  upon  us.  We  are  weary  of  war,  and  want  peace. ' ' 

Lane  sat  down  by  his  namesake,  Chief  Jo.  "Our 
hearts  are  sick,"  said  the  despondent  chief.  "We  will 
meet  you  at  Table  Rock  in  seven  days,"  was  the  final 
conclusion,  "and  give  up  our  arms."  Lane  agreed  to 
this,  and  took  with  him  the  son  of  Chief  Jo  as  a  hostage. 

During  the  armistice,  reinforcements  were  arriving— 
among  them  a  howitzer  and  muskets  and  ammunition— 
in  charge  of  young  Lieutenant  Kautz,  of  Port  Vancouver. 
Also,  a  guard  of  forty  men,  led  by  Captain  Nesmith, 
from  the  Willamette  Valley.  General  Joel  Palmer,  Su- 
perintendent of  Indian  Affairs,  came,  and  Judge  Deady, 
who  was  on  his  way  to  Jacksonville  to  hold  court. 

The  Indians  heard  of  the  howitzer  long  before  it 
arrived.  *  * Hyas  rifle, ' '  they  said ;  "it  takes  a  hatful  of 
powder,  and  will  shoot  down  a  tree. ' '  They  begged  that 
the  great  gun  might  not  be  fired.  The  reinforcements 
were  wild  to  have  a  chance  at  those  Indians  whose  camp- 
fires  nightly  shone  from  Table  Rock,  but  General  Lane 
held  them  to  the  armistice. 

The  day  of  the  council  arrived.  In  the  language  of 
Judge  Deady,  an  eye-witness :  '  *  The  scene  of  the  famous 
•peace  talk'  between  Joseph  Lane  and  Indian  Joseph— 


88  Oregon  Literature 

two  men  who  had  so  lately  met  in  mortal  combat— was 
worthy  of  the  pen  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  and  the  pencil  of 
Salvator  Rosa.  It  was  on  a  narrow  bench  of  a  long 
gently  sloping  hill  lying  over  against  the  noted  bluff 
called  Table  Rock.  Lane  was  in  fatigue  dress,  the  arm 
which  was  wounded  at  Buena  Vista  in  a  sling,  from  a 
fresh  wound  received  at  Battle  Creek.  Indian  Joseph, 
tall,  grave  and  self-possessed,  wore  a  long  black  robe 
over  his  ordinary  dress.  By  his  side  sat  Mary,  his  fav- 
orite child  and  faithful  companion,  then  a  comparatively 
handsome  young  woman,  unstained  by  the  vices  of  civil- 
ization. Around  these  sat  on  the  grass  Captain  A.  J. 
Smith,  who  had  just  arrived  from  Port  Orford  with  his 
company  of  the  First  Dragoons;  Captain  Alvord,  then 
engaged  in  the  construction  of  a  military  road  through 
the  Umpqua  Canon;  and  others.  A  short  distance 
above,  upon  the  hillside,  were  some  hundreds  of  dusky 
warriors  in  fighting  gear,  reclining  quietly  on  the  ground. 
The  day  was  beautiful.  To  the  east  of  us  rose  abrup'ly 
Table  Rock,  and  at  its  base  stood  Smith's  dragoons,  wait- 
ing anxiously,  with  hand  on  horse,  the  issue  of  this  at- 
tempt to  make  peace  without  their  aid." 

Captain  Nesmith,  on  account  of  his  knowledge  of 
Chinook,  was  chosen  interpreter.  "But  those  Indians 
are  rogues,"  interposed  Nesmith.  "It  is  not  safe  to 
go  among  them  unarmed." 

"I  have  promised  to  go  into  their  camp  without  arms, 
and  I  shall  keep  my  word,"  said  Lane.  Nevertheless, 
one  man,  Captain  Miller,  did  keep  a  pistol  concealed 
beneath  his  coat. 

In  the  midst  of  the  council  a  young  Indian  rushed 
panting  in,  made  a  short  harangue,  and  threw  himself 
upon  the  ground,  exhausted.  A  band  of  white  men,  led 
by  one  lawless  Owens,  had  that  morning  broke  the 
armistice,  and  shot  a  young  chief.  Every  Indian  eye 
flashed;  they  began  to  uncover  their  guns. 

In  the  face  of  that  band  of  fierce  and  hostile  savages, 
every  white  man  thought  his  time  had  come,  and  whis- 
pered a  prayer  for  wife  and  children.  Some  muttered 
words  that  were  not  prayers.  Captain  Smith  leaned 
upon  his  saber  and  looked  anxiously  down  upon  his  beau- 


Mrs.  Eva  Emery  Dye  89 

tiful  line  of  dragoons,  sitting,  with  their  white  belts  and 
burnished  scabbards,  like  statues  upon  their  horses  in 
the  sun  below.  And  yet  no  word  could  reach  them  of 
that  imminent  peril  on  the  mountain  side. 

General  Lane  sat  with  compressed  lips  on  a  log.  An- 
other and  another  Indian  spoke,  belaboring  back  and 
forth  their  anger.  As  if  stopping  the  mouth  of  a  volcano, 
General  Lane  stepped  out,  calling  in  a  loud  tone  the 
Indian  murmurs,  "Owens  is  a  bad  man.  He  is  not  one 
t)f  my  soldiers.  When  we  catch  him  he  shall  be  punished. 
You  shall  be  recompensed  in  blankets  and  clothing  for 
the  loss  of  your  young  chief. ' '  The  red  men  caught  the 
winning  words.  As  Lane  went  on  talking  the  excitement 
gradually  subsided  and  the  conference  went  on. 

The  treaty  was  concluded,  the  Indians  ceding  the  whole 
of  the  Rogue  River  Valley  and  accepting  a  reservation 
at  Table  Rock.  They  were  to  give  up  their  arms,  except 
a  few  for  hunting ;  to  have  an  agent  over  them ;  and 
to  be  paid  sixty  thousand  dollars  by  the  Government,  to 
be  expended  in  blankets,  clothing,  agricultural  imple- 
ments, and  houses  for  chiefs. 

When  all  was  over  the  white  men  wended  their  way 
down  the  rocks.  The  bugle  sounded,  and  the  squadrons 
wheeled  away.  As  General  Lane  and  party  rode  across 
the  valley  they  looked  up  and  saw  the  rays  of  the  setting 
sun  gilding  the  summit  of  Table  Rock. 

Nesmith  drew  a  long  breath.  "General,  the  next  time 
you  want  to  go  unarmed  into  a  hostile  camp,  you  must 
hunt  up  somebody  besides  myself  to  act  as  your  in- 
terpreter." 

With  a  benignant  smile  General  Lane  responded,  "God 
bless  you,  Nesmith ;  luck  is  better  than  science. ' '  Never- 
theless, twenty  years  later,  in  just  such  a  case,  General 
Canby  lost  his  life  at  the  Modoc  camp. 

Wonderful  to  relate,  in  all  the  fierce  and  frightful 
Indian  wars  that  followed,  the  treaty  Indians  o,f  Table 
Rock  forever  kept  the  peace.  When  all  other  tribes 
around  them  were  on  the  warpath,  they  alone  remained 
quiet  on  their  reservation. 


90  Oregon  Literature 

THE  OREGON  SKYLARK. 

Descendant  of  a  thousand  springs, 
The  skylark  lifts  his  gladsome  wings, 
The  skylark  lifts  and  sings  and  sings 
The  song  of  all  created  things. 

The  skylark  sings  and  summer  lifts 
Her  head  among  the  snowy  drifts 
Of  petal  bloom  that  softly  sifts 
Thro'  breeze  and  sun  and  leafy  rifts. 

The  skylark  sings  and  floats  and  floats, 
Upon  his  melody  he  gloats, 
Outflinging  showers  of  silver  notes 
As  from  a  thousand  silver  throats. 

The  skylark  sings  and  multiplies 
His  little  being  as  he  flies, 
A  heart  athrob  far  in  the  skies 
Till  in  the  blue  his  paean  dies. 

Sing  on,  sing  on,  0  bird  apart, 
Check  thou  my  tears  before  they  start, 
'Thine  airy  grace,  thine  untaught  art 
Lift  sorrow  from  the  human  heart. 

Sing  on,  sing  on,,  0  skylark,  sing, 
Mine  eye  attendant  on  thy  wing 
Hath  caught  its  tender  quivering, 
The  far  vibration  of  a  string. 

By  angels  swept,  a  winged  lyre 
That  kindles  all  the  heart  afire, 
That  kindles  all  a  saint's  desire, 
Like  thee,  to  rise,  to  hope,  aspire. 


WINNIE  MYRTLE  MILLER 


Minnie  Myrtle  Miller 

Poetess  of  the  Coquelle 

ENCAMPED. 

The  twilight  air  is  soft  and  still; 

The  night  'bird  trills,  the  crickets  sing; 
The  zephyrs  from  the  distant  hill 

A  thousand  pleasant  odors  bring; 
The  tents  are  spread,  the  snowy  tents, 

Grouped   in  the   grassy  glen; 
The  "bugle  note  has  died  away; 

And  silence  reigns  again. 

— Minnie  Myrtle  Miller. 

Edwin  Arnold  once  said,  "Joaquin  Miller  is  one  of 
the  two  greatest  American  poets."  But  Joaquin  Miller's 
life  and  lines  can  never  be  fully  understood  and  appre- 
ciated without  some  acquaintance  with  Minnie  Myrtle 
Miller,  his  wife,  who  stood  unrivalled  for  her  peculiar 
versatility.  She  could  carry  a  gun  into  the  mountain 
fastness  and  ,slay  a  deer,  an  elk,  or  a  bear,  on  which 
to  dine,  or  she  could  relapse  into  quietude  and  write  a 
poem  that  showed  unquestioned  genius,  or  she  could 
appear  in  high  social  circles  with  a  queenly  grace  and 
there  entertain  the  princely  and  the  wealthy. 

We  know  of  no  one  whose  life's  history  more  forcibly 
illustrates  the  restless  longing  for  larger  and  higher 
sphere  of  action  than  the  subject  of  this  sketch,  Minnie 
Myrtle  Miller.  Thirty-six  years  ago,  when  the  war  cloud 
lowered  heavy  and  dark  over  our  land,  when  there  were 
heard  criminations  and  recriminations  everywhere,  when 
the  deliberations  of  our  Congress  assumed  the  form  of 
angry  debate,  when  the  startling  cry  of  "traitor"  was 
heard  echoing  through  the  halls  dedicated  to  liberty, 
when  father  and  son  held  bitter  converse,  and  brothers 
prepared  to  array  themselves  as  enemies  in  deadly  com- 
bat, when  every  home  in  the  land  was  shocked  by  the 
clash  of  arms  and  the  tramp  of  mustering  steeds— she 


92  Oregon  Literature 

first  was  known  through  the  public  press  and  beyond  the 
immediate  neighborhood  of  her  home.  Even  there, 
though  furthest  removed  from  the  seat  of  war  on  the 
extreme  western  verge  of  civilization,  she  heard  among 
her  few  associates  angry  words  spoken  by  youthful 
tongues  and  read  fiery  sentences  penned  by  aged  hands. 
Hers  was  a  nature  too  gentle,  too  kind,  too  sweet  to  sound 
or  even  echo  the  notes  of  war.  When  all  the  land  was  a 
Babel  of  angry  voices,  hers  was  clear  and  sweet.  She 
wrote  of  her  home,  her  friends,  of  the  sunlit  waves  of  the 
Pacific  which  smoothed  the  sands  for  her  feet,  and  told 
the  beautiful  stories  whispered  by  the  tall  pines  as  she 
wandered  through  the  groves. 

Pier  name  was  Theresa  Dyer;  with  the  quick  ear  for 
the  musical,  which  characterized  all  her  writings,  she 
adopted  the  nom  de  plume  of  ' '  Minnie  Myrtle ' '  and  sent 
her  productions— both  prose  and  verse— to  the  neighbor- 
ing weekly  papers.  Her  future  husband,  Cincinhatus 
Heine  Miller,  since  known  as  "Joaquin  Miller,"  was  at 
that  time  writing  for  the  same  papers,  wild,  weird  and 
sometimes  blood-thirsty  stories,  signed  "Giles  Gaston." 
In  one  of  these,  in  which  he  thrillingly  depicted  a  battle 
on  the  border  with  the  Indians,  he  expressed  a  desire  to 
become  acquainted  with  the  sweet  singer  of  the  Coquelle, 
whoever  she  might  be.  Although  but  a  youth,  he  knew 
none  but  a  sweet  young  girl,  filled  with  all  the  pleasing 
fancies  and  fallacies  of  life,  could  write  as  she  did.  In 
Minnie's  next  story  was  given  her  address;  and  the 
correspondence,  which  a  few  months  later  resulted  in 
her  marriage  to  the  Poet,  began  by  his  mailing  her  an  ap- 
preciative letter  inclosing  a  tin-type  picture  of  himself. 
He  was  tall,  strong,  and  not  graceless  in  a  woman 's  eye. 
He  found  her  gentle,  handsome  and  sweet,  in  the  first 
flush  of  young  woimanhood.  Their  first  meeting  sealed 
their  fate.  Let  the  Poet  tell  the  story,  for  he  knows 
it  best: 

"Tall,  dark  and  striking  in  every  respect,  this  first 
Saxon  woman  I  had  ever  addressed,  had  it  all  her  own 
way  at  once.  She  knew  nothing  at  all  of  my  life,  except 
that  I  was  an  expressman  and  country  editor.  I  knew 
nothing  at  all  of  her,  but  I  found  her  with  her  kind, 


Minnie  Myrtle  Miller  93 

good  parents,  surrounded  by  brothers  and  sisters,  and 
the  pet  and  spoiled  child  of  the  mining  and  lumber 
camp.  In  her  woody  little  world  there  by  the  sea  she 
was  worshipped  by  the  rough  miners  and  lumbermen, 
and  the  heart  of  the  bright  and  merry  girl  was  brimming 
full  of  romance,  hope  and  happiness.  I  arrived  on 
Thursday.  On  Sunday  next  we  were  married !  Procur- 
ing a  horse  for  her,  we  set  out  at  once  to  return  to  my 
post,  far  away  over  the  mountains.  These  mountains 
were  then,  as  now  and  ever  will  be,  I  reckon,  crossed 
only  by  a  dim,  broken  trail,  with  houses  twenty  or  thirty 
miles  apart  for  the  few  travelers. 

"The  first  day  out,  toward  evening  we  came  upon  a 
great  band  of  elk.  I  drew  a  revolver,  and  with  wild  de- 
light we  dashed  upon  the  frightened  beasts,  and  follow- 
ing them  quite  a  distance  we  lost  our  way.  And  so  we 
had  to  spend  our  first  night  together,  tired,  hungry, 
thirsty,  sitting  under  the  pines  on  a  hillside  holding  on  to 
our  impatient  horses.  We  reached  our  home  all  right, 
however,  at  length,  after  a  week's  ride,  but  only  to  find 
that  my  paper  had  been  suppressed  by  the  Government, 
and  we  resolved  to  seek  our  fortunes  in  San  Francisco. 
But  we  found  neither  fortune  nor  friends  in  the  great, 
new  city,  and,  returning  to  Oregon,  I  bought  a  band  of 
cattle,  and  we  set  out  with  our  baby  and  a  party  of 
friends  to  reach  the  new  mining  camp,  Canyon  City,  in 
Eastern  Oregon. 

"And  what  a  journey  was  this  of  ours  over  the  Oregon 
Sierras,  driving  the  bellowing  cattle  in  the  narrow  trail 
through  the  dense  woods,  up  the  steep,  snowy  mountains, 
down  through  the  roaring  canyon  !  It  was  wild,  glorious, 
fresh,  full  of  hazard  and  adventure!  Minnie  had  a 
willow  basket  and  swung  it  to  her  saddle  horn,  with  the 
crowing  and  good-natured  baby  inside,  looking  up  at  her, 
laughing,  as  she  leaped  her  horse  over  the  fallen  logs 
or  made  a  full  hand  with  whip  and  lasso,  riding  after 
the  cattle.  But  when  we  descended  the  wooded  moun- 
tains to  the  open  plain  on  the  eastern  side  of  the  sierras, 
the  Indians  were  ready  to  receive  us,  and  we  almost 
literally  had  to  fight  our  way  for  the  next  week's 
journey,  every  night  and  day.  And  this  woman  was  one 


94  Oregon  Literature. 

of  the  bravest  souls  that  ever  saw  battle.  I  think  she 
never,  even  in  the  hour  of  death,  knew  what  fear  was. 
She  was  not  only  a  wonderful  horsewoman,  but  very 
adroit  in  the  use  of  arms.  She  was  a  much  better  shot, 
indeed,  than  myself.  In  our  first  little  skirmish  on  this 
occasion  I  had  taken  position  on  a  hill  with  a  few  men, 
while  the  cattle  and  pack  animals  were  corralled  by-  the 
others  in  a  bight  in  the  foothills  below  to  prevent  a 
stampede.  And  thus  intrenched  we  waited  the  attack 
from  the  Indians,  who  held  the  farther  point  of  the  ridge 
on  which  I  had  stationed  my  men.  Suddenly  Minnie, 
baby  in  arms,  stood  at  my  side  and  began,  to  calmly 
discuss  the  situation,  and  to  pass  merry  remarks  about 
the  queer  noises  the  bullets  made  as  they  flattened  on 
the  rocks  about  us  and  glanced  over  our  heads.  I  finally 
got  her  to  go  down,  or,  rather,  promise  to  go  down  to 
camp,  for  the  better  safety  of  the  baby.  But  in  a 
moment  she  was  back.  She  had  hidden  the  laughing  little 
baby  in  the  rocks,  and  now,  gun  in  hand,  kept  at  my 
sid^  till  the  brush  was  ovf»r  and  the  Indians  beaten  off. 

"Here  is  a  leaf  from  her  journal,  or  rather,  I  think, 
her  recollections  of  the  journey,  which  she  left  me  along 
with  her  other  papers,  when  she  died:  'One  night  of 
that  journey  I  shall  not  soon  forget.  There  had  been 
some  fighting  ahead  of  us,  and  we  knew  the  foe  was 
lurking  in  ambush.  They  made  a  kind  of  fort  of  the 
freight,  and  while  we  lay  down  in  the  canyon,  baby  and 
I,  way  up  on  the  high,  sharp  butte,  Joaquin  suool  sentinel. 
And  I  say  this  tonight  in  his  behalf  and  in  his  praise  that 
he  did  bravely,  and  saved  his  loved  ones  from  peril  that 
night.  That  he  stood  on  that  dreary  summit,  a  target 
for  the  foe,  and  no  one  but  me  to  take  note  of  his  valor 
—stood  till  the  morning  shone  radiant,  stood  till  the 
night  was  passed.  There  was  no  world  looking  on  to 
praise  his  courage  and  echo  it  over  the  land;  only  the 
frozen  stars  in  mystic  groups  far  away,  and  the  slender 
moon,  like  a  sword  drawn  to  hold  him  at  bay. '  ! 

After  seven  years  of  married  life  they  were  separated, 
Joaquin  going1  to  Europe,  while  the  saddened  mother, 
with  her  three  children,  returned  to  her  father's  home. 
The  cause  of  their  separation  is  still  a  mystery ;  whether 


Minnie  Myrtle  Miller  95 

some  rude  shock  broke  the  bonds  which  love  had  tied, 
or  ardent  love  was  slowly  crushed  to  death  by  the  at- 
trition of  dissimilar  natures  was  never  known. .  Certain 
it  is  that  neither  was  happy  after  their  separation.  The 
life  of  each  was  saddened  before  it  had  well  begun.  At 
the  early  age  of  thirty-seven,  when  the  poor,  tired  mother 
laid  down  her  burden,  she  was  soothed  by  the  tender 
words  and  sustained  by  the  strong  arm  of  the  poet  lover 
who  had  won  her  maiden  heart  in  the  springtime  of  life. 
She  died  in  New  York,  surrounded  by  friends,  leaving 
unfinished  several  poems  and  a  sketch  of  her  life,  which 
she  labored  hard  to  complete  before  her  summons  came. 
It  has  never  been  published.  The  manuscript,  although 
undoubtedly  worthy  of  preservation,  became  misplaced 
and  cannot  now  be  found.  Her  friends  deeply  regret 
this,  but  it  may  be  best  that  it  was  lost.  While  it  would 
surely  have  found  a  ready  sale,  it  could  not  but  have 
brought  to  its  readers  more  tears  than  smiles.  A  key 
to  much  of  this  lost  story  of  her  life  appears  to  be  given 
in  these  lines  of  her  poem,  "At  the  Land's  End": 

I  am  conscript — hurried  to  battle 

With  fates — yet  I  fain  would  be 

Vanquished  and  silenced  forever 

And  driven  tack  to  my  sea. 

Oh!  to  leave  this  strife,  this  turmoil 

Leave  all  undone  and  skim 

With  the  clouds  that  flee  to  the  hilltops 

And  rest   forever  with  Him. 

Something  of  the  love  she  inspired  in  those  who  knew 
her  best  can  be  gathered  from  the  following  extract  from 
a  faded  letter  lying  before  us,  written  by  a  lady  in  New 
York,  with  whom  the  poetess  spent  the  last  few  months 
of  her  life ;  it  was  addressed  to  the  eldest  sister  of  Minnie 
Myrtle,  Mrs.  Hilborn,  of  Marshfield,  Oregon,  and  hears 
date  of  May  24, 1882  :  "Minnie  was  a  wonderful  woman, 
and  many  a  heroine  has  been  made  great  in  history  by 
the  possession  of  a  small  share  of  her  heroic  endurance, 
daring  courage,  calm  self-possession,  and  loyal  heart  and 
creative  brain.  We  could  not  appreciate  her,  much  as 
we  loved  her;  grand!  and  sweet  she  was,  and  all  the 


96  Oregon  Literature 

clouds  that  lowered  about  her  house  could  not  shake  her 
poise  of  character/' 

We  do  not  incline  to  eulogize ;  but  by  reading  the  few 
poems  Minnie  Myrtle  published  we  are  led  to  the  con- 
viction that  had  her  environment  been  less  severe  and 
her  life  prolonged  to  a  ripe  age,  she  would  have  been 
known  and  recognized  as  one  of  the  sweetest  songsters  of 
the  West.  Her  sweet  disposition,  as  well  as  her  poetic 
talent,  was  contagious.  She  produced  a  marked  change 
in  the  character  and  writings  of  her  husband.  That 
delicate  and  refined  love  for  the  truly  beautiful  in  nature, 
and  the  breadth  and  warmth  of  sympathy  for  ^he  erring 
and  unfortunate  which  characterizes  his  writings  must 
be  admitted  to  date  from  his  marriage  day.  We  have 
seen  what  is  called  a  composite  picture,  composer!  of  'V»° 
best  features  of  two  or  more  individuals.  Many  of 
Joaquin  Miller's  poems  may  be  considered  composites, 
combining  the  keen  perception  and  fiery  dash  of  the 
young  pioneer,  as  his  early  writings  display  him,  with 
the  kindly  thought,  the  gentle  touch  and  the  delicate 
coloring  inseparable  from  all  that  was  said  and  done  by 
his  lost  wife.  She  was  the  vision  that  ever  beckoned 
him  on  and  up  to  sublime  heights.  Oh,  how  beautiful 
seems  gentleness  arid  purity  and  sympathy  and  truth ! 
They  tell  us  what  the  soul  should  be,  when  time  and 
God's  resources  have  wrought  their  work  upon  man. 
And  they  are  to  be  cherished  as  the  mariner  cherishes 
the  guiding  star  that  stands  upon  the  horizon.  They 
are  to  be  cherished  as  some  traveler  lost  in  a  dark,  close 
forest  cherishes  the  moment  when  the  sun  breaks 
through  a  rift  in  the  clouds  and  he  takes  his  bearings 
out  of  the  wilderness  toward  his  home.  Visions  are  God 
within  the  soul.  This,  Joaquin  Miller  fully  realized, 
and  has  said,  "That  which  is  best  in  my  work  was  in- 
spired by  her. ' ' 

Though  their  separation  was  Jong  a  sorrow  to  both, 
and  the  flowers  have  blossomed  for  many  years  over  the 
grave  of  the  poetess,  yet  in  object,  aim  and  desire,  they 
are  one  today ;  and  the  soul  of  the  beautiful  bride  which 
the  poet  wooed  and  won  in  the  wilds  of  the  Coquelle  so 
long  ago,  still  shines  in  all  his  lines  and  brightens  all 
his  pages. 


Carrie  Blake  Morgan 

Carrie  Blake  Morgan  spent  her  childhood  days  in 
Union  County,  Oregon,  where  she  gave  unmistakable 
evidence  of  rare  talent  in  writing;  and  it  may  be  said 
of  her  that  her  poems  and  stories  have  for  years  found 
ready  acceptance  with  many  of  the  best  magazines. 
She  devotes  much  of  her  time  to  literary  pursuits  with 
her  sister,  Mrs.  Ella  Higginson,  at  Whatcom,  Washing- 
ton. The  following  were  taken  from  her  booklet  entitled 
"The  Path  of  Gold": 


NO  MAN  HATH  RIGHT. 

No  man  hath  right  to  rear  a  prison  wall 

About  himself,  and  then  to  sit  therein 
And  sigh  for  freedom,  gone  beyond  recall, 

And  make  his  moan  for  things  that  might  have  been. 

Nor  hath  he  right  to  build  himself  a  stair, 

By  which  to  scale  his  prison's  high  rampart, 

When  every  stroke  must  mean  some  soul's  despair. 
And  every  step  a  bleeding  human  heart. 


THE  OLD  EMIGRANT  ROAD. 

Aged  and  desolate,  grizzled  and  still, 

It  creeps  in  slow  curves  round  the  base  of  the  hill; 

Of  its  once  busy  traffic  it  left  little  trace, 

Not  a  hoof-print  or  wheel-track  is  fresh  on  its  face. 

Rank  brambles  encroach  on  its  poor  ragged  edge. 

And  bowlders  crash  down  from  the  moun'ainside  ledge; 

The  elements  join  to  efface  the  dim  trail. 

The  torrents  of  springtime,  the  winter's  fierce  gale. 


98  Oregon  Literature 

Yet  with  pioneer  sturdiness,  patient  and  still, 
It  lingers  and  clings  round  the  base  of  the  hill ; 
Outlasting  its  usefulness,  furrowed  and  gray, 
Ghaunt  phantom  of  yesterday,  haunting  today. 

MEMORY. 

A  low-hung  moon ;  a  path  of  silver  flame 
Across  a  lonely  stream ;  a  whispering  wood ; 

A  vigil  drear  for  one  who  never  came; 
And  all  around  God's  peopled  solitude. 

SACRED. 

Deep  in  each  artist's  soul  some  picture  lies 
That  he  will  never  paint  for  mortal  eyes; 
And  every  singer  in  his  heart  doth  hold 
Some  sad,  sweet  tale  that  he  will  leave  untold. 

AT  DEAD  OF  NIGHT. 

I  woke  at  dead  of  night.     The  wind  was  hi^h; 

My  white  rosebush  was  tapping  'gainst  the  pane 

With  ghostly  finger  tips;  a  sobbing  rain 
Made  doleful  rhythm  for  my  thoughts,  and  I 
Strove  vainly  not  to  think,  and  wondered  why 

My  brain,  ghoul-like,  must  dig  where  long  had  lain 

The  pulseless  dead  that  time  and  change  had  slain. 
I  fear  no  living  thing.    But  oh  !  to  lie 

And  see  the  gruesome  dark  within  my  room 
Take  eyes  and  turn  on  me  with  yearning  gaze! 

To  hear  reproachful  voices  from  the  tomb 
Of  duties  unfulfilled— might  well-nigh  craze 

A  stronger  brain !     God  save  me  from  the  gloom 
Of  sleepless  hours  that  stretch  between  two  days! 


Wallis  Nash 

The  following  is  an  extract  from  a  volume  entitled 
"Two  Years  in  Oregon,"  published  by  Hon.  Wallis 
Nash,  of  Nashville,  Oregon.  In  1880-1  Mr.  Nash  visited 
Oregon,  and  upon  returning  to  London  he  wrote  his 
impressions  in  the  volume  mentioned.  Oregon  won  him ; 
and  upon  coming  hither  for  a  permanent  home,  he  con- 
tributed very  liberally  to  magazines  and  other  publica- 
tions, announcing  the  attractions  and  resources  of  Ore- 
gon—the emerald  state. 

TWO  YEARS  IN  OREGON. 

What  the  notions  of  some  of  our  party  were  you  will 
understand  when  I  mention  that  all  I  could  say  could 
not  prevent  the  young  men  of  the  party  from  arming 
themselves,  as  for  a  campaign  in  the  hostile  Indian 
country,  so  that  each  man  stepped  ashore  from  the  boat 
that  brought  us  up  the  Willamette  with  a  revolver  in 
each  pocket,  and  the  hugest  and  most  uncompromising 
knives  that  either  London,  New  York,  or  San  Francisco 
could  furnish. 

As  ill  luck  would  have  it,  just  as  we  arrived  the  sheriff 
had  returned  to  town  with  an  escaped  prisoner,  and  had 
been  set  upon  by  the  brother,  and  a  pistol  had  been 
actually  presented  at  him.  I  should  say  in  a  whisper 
that  the  sheriff,  worthy  man,  had  proposed  to  return 
the  assault  in  kind,  but  had  failed  to  get  his  six-shooter 
out  in  time  from  the  depths  of  a  capacious  pocket,  where 
the  deadly  weapon  lay  in  harmless  neighborhood  with 
a  long  piece  of  string,  a  handful  or  so  of  seed  wheat,  a 
large  chunk  of  tobacco,  a  leather  strap  and  buckle,  and 
a  big  red  pocket  handkerchief.  So  I  fancy  he  had  not 
much  idea  of  shooting  when  he  started  out. 

But  the  incident  was  enough  to  give  a  blood  color  to 
all  our  first  letters  home,  and  I  dare  say  caused  a  good 
many  shiverings  and  shudders  at  the  thought  of  the 
wild  men  of  the  woods  we  had  come  to  neighbor  with. 


100  Oregon  Literature 

The  worst  of  it  was,  that  it  was  the  only  approach  to 
a  tragedy,  and  that  we  have  had  no  adventures  worth 
speaking  of.  "Story,  God  bless  you!  I  have  none  to 
tell  you,  sir."  Still  we  did  know  ourselves  to  be  in  a 
new  world  when  we  stepped  ashore  from  the  large  white- 
painted,  three-story  structure  on  the  water,  that  they 
called  a  stern-wheel  river  boat,  and  in  which  we  had 
spent  two  days  in  coming  up  the  groat  river  from  Port- 
land. It  was  the  17th  of  May,  just  a  month  after 
leaving  Liverpool,  that  we  landed.  The  white  houses  of 
the  little  City  of  Corvallis  were  nestled  closely  in  the 
bright  spring  green  of  the  alders  and  willows  and  oaks 
that  fringed  the  river,  and  the  morning  sun  flashed  on 
the  metal  cupola  of  the  courthouse,  and  lighted  up  the 
deep  blue  clear-cut  mountains  that  rose  on  the  right  of 
us  but  a  few  miles  off. 

When  we  got  into  the  main  street  the  long,  low,  broken 
line  of  booth-like,  wooden,  one-storied  stores  and  houses, 
all  looking  as  if  one  stronsr  man  could  push  them  down, 
and  one  strong  team  could  carry  them  off,  grated  a  little, 
I  could  see,  on  the  feelings  of  some  of  the  party.  The 
redeeming  feature  was  the  trees,  lining  the  street  at  long 
intervals,  darkening  the  houses  a  little,  but  clothing  the 
town,  and  giving  it  an  air  of  age  and  respectability  that 
was  lacking  in  many  of  the  bare  rows  of  shanties, 
dignified  with  the  title  of  town,  that  we  had  passed  in 
coming  here  across  the  continent. 

The  New  England  Hotel  invited  us  in.  A  pretty 
plane-tree  in  front  overshadowed  the  door;  and  a 
bright,  cheery  hostess  stood  in  the  doorway  to  welcome 
us,  shaking  hands,  and  greeting  our  large  party  of 
twenty-six  in  a  fashion  of  freedom  to  which  we  had  not 
been  used,  but  which  sounded  pleasantly  in  our  travel- 
worn  ears.  The  house  was  tumble-down  and  shabby, 
and  needed  the  new  coat  of  paint  it  received  soon  after 
—but  in  the  corner  of  the  sitting-room  stood  a  good 
parlor  organ.  The  dining-room  adjoining  had  red  cloths 
on  the  tables,  and  gave  a  full  view  into  the  kitchen; 
but  the  "beefsteak,  mutton-chop,  pork-chop,  and  hash" 
were  good  and  well  cooked,  and  contrasted  with,  rather 
than  reminded  us  of,  the  fare  described  by  Charles 


Wallis  Nash  101 

Dickens  as  offered  him  in  the  Eastern  States  when  he 
visited  America  thirty-nine  years  4g®-''  '•>  ' ',  •*»  »** 

The  bedrooms,  opening  all  on  V  ihfe-'  long  passage 
upstairs,  with  meager  furniture  'and  pa 
the  whole  wooden  house  shaking  a  $w*:,  trotted  V 
to  room,  were  not  so  interesting,  and  tempted  no  long 
delay  in  bed  after  the  early  breakfast- gong  had  been 
sounded  <soon  after  six.  Breakfast  at  half -past  six, 
dinner  at  noon,  and  supper  at  half -past  five,  only  set 
the  'clock  of  our  lives  a  couple  of  hours  faster  than  we 
had  been  used  to ;  and  bed  at  nine  was  soon  no  novelty 
to  us. 

The  street  in  front  was  a  wide  sea  of  slushy  mud  when 
we  arrived,  with  an  occasional  planked  crossing,  needing 
a  sober  head  and  a  good  conscience  to  navigate  safely 
after  dark ;  for,  when  evening  had  closed  in,  the  only 
street-lighting  came  from  the  open  doors,  and  through 
the  filled  and  dressed  windows  of  the  stores. 

Saloons  were  forbidden  by  solemn  agreement  to  all  of 
us,  but  the  barber's  shop  was  the  very  pleasant  substi- 
tute. Two  or  three  big  easy-chairs  in  a  row,  with  a  stool 
in  front  of  each.  Generally  filled  they  were  by  the 
grave  and  reverend  seigniors  of  the  city— each  man  re- 
posing calmly,  draped  in  white,  while  he  enjoyed  the 
luxury,  under  the  skillful  hands  of  the  barber  or  his 
man,  of  a  clean  shave.  At  the  far  end  of  the  shop  stood 
the  round  iron  stove,  with  a  circle  of  wooden  chairs  and 
an  old  sofa.  And  here  we  enjoyed  the  parliament  of 
free  talk.  The  circle  was  a  frequently  changing  one,  but 
the  types  were  constant. 

The  door  opened  and  in  came  a  man  from  the  country : 
such  a  hat  on  his  head!  a  brim  wide  enough  for  an 
umbrella,  the  color  a  dirty  white;  a  scarlet,  collarless 
flannel  shirt,  the  only  bit  of  positive  color  about  him; 
a  coat  and  trousers  of  well-worn  brown,  canvas  overall 
(or,  as  sometimes  spelled,  "overhaul"),  the  trousers 
tucked  into  knee-high  boots,  worn  six  months  and  never 
blacked.  His  hands  were  always  in  his  pockets,  except 
when  used  to  feed  his  mouth  with  the  constant  "chaw." 
—"Hello,  Tom,"  he  says  slowly,  as  he  makes  his  way 
to  the  back,  by  the  stove.  ' '  Hello,  Jerry, ' '  is  the  instant 


102  Oregon  Literature 

response.  "How's  your  health?"  "Well;  and  how  do 
you  make  it?"  i4S<-so."  "Any  news  out  with  you?" 
"W^il,  no;-' t.iings  pretty  quiet."  And  he  finds  a  seat 
and.  sbaks  into  it  as  if  he.  intended  growing  there  till  next 
bar-vest. 

We  all  know  each  other  by  our  "given"  names.  I 
asked  one  of  our  politicians  how  he  prepared  himself 
for  a  canvass  in  a  county  where  I  knew  he  was  a  stranger 
this  last  summer.  "Well,  I  just  learned  up  all  the  boys' 
given  names,  so  I  could  call  them  when  I  met  them," 
was  the  answer.  "I  guess  knowing  'em  was  as  good  as 
a  hundred  votes  to  me  in  the  end."  It  was  a  little 
startling  at  first  to  see  a  rough  Oregonian  ride  up  to 
our  house,  dismount,  hitch  his  horse  to  the  paling,  and 
stroll  casually  in,  with  "Where's  Herbert?"  as  his  first 
and  only  greeting.  But  we  soon  got  used  to  it. 

But  the  barber's  shop  was,  and  is,  useful  to  us,  as 
well  as  amusing.  The  values  and  productiveness  of 
farms  for  sale,  the  worth  and  characters  of  horses,  the 
prices  of  cattle,  the  best  and  most  likely  and  accessible 
places  for  fishing,  and  deer-shooting,  and  duck-hunting— 
all  such  matters,  and  a  hundred  other  things  useful 
for  us  to  know,  we  picked  up  here,  or  "sitting  around" 
the  stoves  in  one  or  other  of  the  stores  in  the  town. 

Another  good  gained  was,  that  thus  our  new  neigh- 
bors and  we  got  acquainted :  they  found  we  were  not 
all  the  "lords"  they  set  us  down  for  at  first,  with  the 
exclusiveness  and  pride  they  attributed  to  that  maligned 
race  in  advance;  while  we  on  our  side  found  a  vast 
amount  of  self-respect,  of  native  and  acquired  shrewd- 
ness, of  legitimate  pride  in  country,  state,  and  county, 
and  a  fund  of  kindly  wishes  to  see  us  prosper,  among 
our  roughly-dressed  but  really  courteous  neighbors. 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  feminine  curiosity  displayed 
on  either  side,  by  the  natives  and  the  new-comers.  When 
we  went  to  church  the  first  Sunday  after  our  arrival, 
there  were  a  good  many  curious  worshipers,  more  intent 
on  hats  and  bonnets  of  the  strangers  than  on  the  service 
in  which  we  united.  We  heard  afterward  how  disap- 
pointed they  were  that  1he  stranger  ladies  were  so  quietly 
and  cheaply  dressed.  We  could  not  say  the  same  when 


Wallis  Nash  103 

callers  came,  which  they  speedily  did  after  we  were 
settled  in  our  little  home— such  tight  kid  gloves,  and 
bright  bonnets,  and  silk  mantles!  It  was  a  constant 
wonder  to  our  women-folk  how  their  friends  managed  to 
show  as  such  gay  butterflies,  two  thousand  miles  on  the 
westward  side  of  everywhere. 


Colonel  John  Kelsay 

TO  THE  OREGON  PIONEER. 

The  chilling  autumn  winds  blow  hard  upon  you  now ; 
many  of  you  are  far  down  on  the  sunset  side  of  Time 
and  will  soon  pass  from  this  life.  Long  will  you  and 
your  acts  be  remembered  by  a  grateful  posterity.  Your 
early  settlement  of  this  country  and  the  many  dangers 
ajid  difficulties  you  have  encountered  will  outlive  the 
English  language. 


William  R.  Lord 

Rev.  William  R.  Lord,  author  of  ''The  Birds  of 
Oregon  and  Washington,"  is  a  native  of  Massachusetts, 
having  been  born  in  Boston,  May  6,  1847.  He  graduated 
at  Amherst  in  1875,  and  at  Union  Theological  Seminary, 
New  York,  in  1878.  His  years  of  ministry  have  been 
passed  in  the  larger  cities  of  the  country,  New  York, 
Boston,  St.  .Paul,  and  latterly  in  Portland,  Oregon. 

Upon  cominsr  to  Oregon  Mr.  Lord  was  attracted  to  the 
bird-life  of  the  state;  and.  after  familiarizing  himself 
with  it  undertook  to  do  for  the  people  of  the  Northwest 
Pacific  States  what  may  have  been  done  for  the  Atlantic 
Coast,  that  is  to  make  comparatively  easy  the  identi- 
fication of  the  birds  more  commonly  seen.  He  wrote  a 
book  entitled  "The  Birds  of  Oregon  and  Washington," 
which  has  already  gone  through  several  editions.  In 
doing  this  work,  Mr.  Lord  has  been  greatly  assis'ed  by 
his  fellow  student  and  wife,  Mrs.  Lord,  who  shares  with 
him  an  interest  and  joy  in  these  winged  creatures. 

THE  BIRDS  OF  OREGON  AND  WASHINGTON. 
A  WORD  TO  BEGINNERS  AND  TEACHERS. 

Certainly  all  education  should  tend  to  ennoble  char- 
acter and  furnish  the  sources  of  the  highest  happiness. 
If  this  be  the  end  sought,  then  a  sympathetic  and  aesthe- 
tic interest  is  the  thing  we  must  seek  to  get  and  give, 
in  our  pursuit  of  knowledge  of  birds. 

Indeed,  it  is  a  pursuit  fairly  dangerous  to  our  own 
possible  enjoyment,  when  we  set  out  with  opera-glass 
and  note-book  to  name  and  catalogue  the  birds,  lest  we 
shall  be  less  satisfied  to  listen  with  exquisite  satisfaction 
to  some  superb  singer,  than  to  get  his  description  in  our 
note-books.  It  is  not  a  tithe  as  important  that  we  should 
know  the  name  and  habits  of  a  bird  as  that  we  should 
answer  his  ecs'asy  of  song  with  ecstacy  of  delight.  Dr. 


William  R.  Lord  105 

Henry  Van  Dyke  has  given  us  a  motto  for  the  societies 
which  are  opposing  the  heartless  and  harmful  practice 
of  using  birds  for  millinery,  purposes.  It  is :  "A  bird  in 
the  bush  is  worth  ten  in  the  hat."  Should  not  every 
bird-student  have  at  the  beginning  of  his  note-book  some 
sentiment  like  this  1  "A  bird  in  the  heart  is  worth  more 
than  a  hundred  in  the  note-book."  In  a  word,  let  us, 
in  the  study  of  birds,  learn  to  take  more  time  to  listen  to 
the  beauty  of  song  and  to  look  upon  the  beauty  of  form, 
of  color  and  of  movement,  than  to  add  their  names  to 
our  lists  and  familiarize  ourselves  with  their  curious 
habits. 

THE  WESTERN  MEADOWLARK. 

If  this  part  of  our  country  had  no  bird  except  the 
Meadowlark,  it  would  be,  in  respect  of  bird  song,  blessed 
above  any  other  land  I  know.  Such  a  rarely  beautiful, 
endlessly  varied  and  wonderfully  incessant  singer!  No 
bird  anywhere  has  a  fuller  or  richer  note;  none  such 
variety  of  songs,  except,  perhaps,  the  Mocking-bird  and 
the  Longtailed  Chat;  none  like  this  bird  makes  varied 
and  joyous  melody  in  summer  and  in  winter,  too ;  in 
rain,  in  snow,  in  cold.  Not  a  day  in  the  winter  of  1900 
and  1901,  have  the  Meadowlarks  upon  a  hill  near  Port- 
land failed  to  voice  the  happiness,  or  bid  depart  the 
gloom,  of  their  human  neighbors.  No  one  knows  the 
bird  until  he  has  listened  to  the  many  different  songs 
that  he  sings  while  perched  upon  tree  or  fence,  or  again 
upon  a  telegraph  pole,  or  even  upon  the  ridgepole  of  a 
house;  nor  yet  unless  he  has  caught  a  peculiar  and 
most  rapturous  song  while  the  bird  is  on  the  wing — a 
song  so  unlike  those  we  are  accustomed  to  that  it  seems 
not  to  have  been  uttered  by  Meadowlark  at  all. 

How  TO  DOMESTICATE  AND  TAME  BIRDS. 

Everybody  enjoys  the  familiar  presence  of  "wild" 
birds.  Even  persons  who  have  never  thought  much  of 
these  winged  creatures  are  pleased  when  the  Wrens  or 
Bluebirds  force  themselves  into  notice  by  nesting  in  the 
letter  box  at  the  gate,  or  pre-empting  a  cranny  under  the 
piazza  roof. 


106  Oregon  Literature 

People  do  not  realize  that,  with  a  very  little  trouble, 
they  might  have  a  hundred  bird  neighbors  in  summer, 
where  now  there  are  none,  or  only  a  pair  or  two,  who 
have  come  uninvited  and  unprovided  for.  Every  home 
in  the  country  or  near  our  cities,  and  very  many  in  the 
towns,  and  even  in  the  ciiies  themselves,  might  have, 
with  each  coming  of  spring,  a  score  of  feathered  friends 
returning  from  a  faraway  southern  wintering. 

Nothing  so  civilizes  and  humanizes  children  as  this 
care  and  interest.  In  Worcester,  Massachusetts,  in  one 
district  where  the  care  and  protection  of  birds  have  been 
taught  to  and  inspired  in  the  children  of  a  public  school, 
vandalism  has  ceased  among  the  boys.  They  are  busy 
providing  bird-boxes,  watching  for  nests  in  the  trees, 
guarding  the  fledgings  against  cats  and  dogs,  and  their 
hearts  have  softened  meanwhile.  Were  it  only  a  measure 
for  taming  and  civilizing  boys,  the  taming  of  birds 
would  be  worth  while. 

But  what  a  minstry  of  delight  do  these  angels  of  song 
and  grace  bring  to  old  and  young,  when  once  we  have 
taken  them  under  our  care !  ' '  Let  but  a  bird— that  being 
so  free  and  uncontrolled,  which  with  one  stroke  of  the 
wing  puts  space  between  you  and  himself— let  him  be 
willing  to  draw  near  and  conclude  a  friendship  with 
you,  and  lo,  how  your  heart  is  moved."— Mme.  Michelet. 


J.  H.  Ackerman 

THE  POWER  OF  LITERATURE. 

There  are  two  ways  of  viewing  any  object:  it  may  be 
viewed  concretely  and  scientifically  or  it  may  be  viewed 
in  accordance  with  its  aesthetic  or  moral  value.  As  the 
result  of  the  first  we  have  knowledge;  of  Ihe  second, 
culture. 

Each  has  what  in  the  widest  sense  must  be  called  its 
body  of  literature.  But  how  much  stronger  the  litera- 
ture of  the  second!  How  much  more  appealing  to  our 
innate  love  of  the  good,  the  beautiful !  How  much  more 
moving  to  the  human  heart  the  artist's  description 
of  the  tented  field  than  the  quartermaster 's  list  of  all  the 
implements  of  war  therein  contained !  What  power  lies 
within  the  artist's  dream  as  compared  with  the  bare 
realities  of  a  sombre  catalogue!  Literature,  the  litera- 
ture of  power,  is  based  upon  real  culture. 

How  much  then  of  our  public  school  work  ministers 
to  the  daily  need  of  the  pupil  for  moral  and  aesthetic 
education?  Little  of  it  except  reading  can  be  strictly 
put  under  the  classification.  Formerly  this  fact  was 
considered  of  little  importance  and  the  child's  nature 
was  misjudged  and  in  consequence  starved.  We  now 
know  that  it  is  not  the  abnormal  child  alone  who  cares 
for  literature,  but  all,  even  the  e very-day  children 
around  us  are  more  or  less  susceptible  to  its  influence. 
The  childish  appreciation  of  literature  shown  by  great 
writers  should  not  be  taken  to  prove  the  lack  of  this  ap- 
preciation in  others,  but  rather  to  prove  that  a  child  may 
love  a  good  book  even  as  he  does  the  sunlight  or  the 
quiet  beauty  of  green  fields  and  shining  water  courses. 

On  account  of  the  undue  importance  attached  to  facts 
as  mere  facts,  for  many  years  the  child  who  was  dull  in 
their  acquirement  was  never  allowed  to  quicken  his 
powers  by  delving  in  fable  and  romance.  Now  we  are 


108  Oregon  Literature 

beginning  to  realize  that  a  child  as  a  child,  or  as  he 
reaches  the  mysterious  merging  into  manhood  or  woman- 
hood, lays,  for  better  or  for  worse,  the  foundations  of 
his  future  taste  for  real  or  false  jewels  of  literature. 
The  literature  of  power  should  not  be  shut  out  of  our 
elementary  schools.  Let  its  acquaintance  be  made 
through  the  medium  of  books  and  libraries,  through  tall 
buildings  and  broader  opportunities,  till  our  people  shall 
be  a  people  of  growing  literary  pc  'v°r,  a  people  appreci- 
ative of  poetry  and  the  broader  humanity,  and  shall  be 
guided  to  the  heart  of  poetry,  humanity,  to  what  in 
human  is  divine;  and  shall  be  led  to  love  the  beautiful 
within  and  ''behold  good  in  everything  but  sin." 


Peter  H.  Burnett 

A  BIT  OF  LOGIC. 

I  never  knew  so  fine  a  population,  as  a  whole  commun- 
ity, as  I  saw  in  Oregon  most  of  the  time  I  was  there. 
They  were  all  honest,  because  there  was  nothing  to  steal ; 
they  were  all  sober,  because  there  was  no  liquor  to  drink ; 
there  were  no  misers,  because  there  was  nothing  to  hoard ; 
they  were  industrious,  because  it  was  work  or  starve. 


i  I 


/ 


ABIGAIL  SCOTT^DUNIWAY 


Mrs.  Abigail  Scott  Duniway 

Before  the  days  of  reading  circles  in  Oregon  there  were 
a  few  ladies  who  believed  that  a  woman  could  raise  her 
family  properly  and  yet  have  time  for  books  and  other 
literary  diversions  that  furnish  food  for  the  mind. 
Prominent  among  these  was  Mrs.  Abigail  Scott  Duniway, 
for  many  years  editor  of  the  New  Northwest.  She  wrote 
for  women  who  believe  that  they  should  be  emancipated 
from  many  of  the  features  of  society  that  tolerate  in- 
temperance. She  advocated  the  theory  that  woman  has 
a  responsibility  to  assume,  and  that  every  mother  should 
fearlessly  attack  intemperance  in  the  home,  in  society 
and  at  the  ballot  box.  This  was  the  theme  of  the  gospel 
she  preached. 

She  also  wrote  many  beautiful  stories  in  prose  and 
versified  David  and  Anna  Matson,  a  paraphrase  of  Whit- 
tier's  story.  Some  of  her  poems  are:  "The  Dirge  of 
the  Sea,"  "West  and  West,"  "The  Nocturnal  Wed- 
ding," "The  Destiny  of  Freedom,"  "Thoughts  in  Storm 
and  Solitude,"  "Laudamus,"  and  "After  Twenty 
Years." 

AFTER  TWENTY  YEARS. 

(Written  by  Mrs.  A.  S.  Duniway  on  the  Great  Plains 
opposite  her  mother's  grave,  near  Fort  Laramie,  May 
5th,  1872.) 

Adown  the  dead  and  distan^  years 

My  memory  treads  the  sands  of  time, 

And  blighted  hope  a  vision  rears. 
Enriched  by  solitudes  sublime. 

And  down  the  mys'ic,  dreamy  past 

In  chastened  mood  I  wander  now, 
As  o'er  these  prairies,  old  and  vast, 

Move  lines  of  oxen,  tired  and  slow. 


110  Oregon  Literature 

Their  rough-ribbed  sides  and  hollow  eyes 
And  listless  gaze  and  lazy  tread, 

As  under  cloudless,  burning  skies 

Our  way  o'er  trackless  wastes  they  led, 
But  visions  are  of  long  ago. 

Today,  an  iron  horse,  "The  Storm," 
All  panting  rushes  o'er  the  plain; 

His  breath  with  steam  is  quick  and  warm, 
As  on  he  thunders  with  our  train. 

Afar  the  Rocky  Mountains  rise, 

Their  rugged  steeps  adorned  with  snow, 
While  o'er  the  hill  the  antelope  hies, 

And  Indians  wander  to  and  fro. 
The  buffalo  gazes  from  afar, 

Where  erst  in  trust  secure  he  fed, 
Ere  man  upon  him  had  made  war, 

And  he  was  wont  at  will  to  tread 

Anear  our  oxen,  sure  and  slow. 

Fort  Laramie,  across  away, 

Beyond  yon  hills  that  intervene, 

My  memory  sees  as  on  that  day, 
Just  twenty  years  ago,  'twas  seen. 

There,  in  the  echoing  hills,  hard  by, 

Surnamed  "The  Black,"  adorned  by  woods, 
My  mother  laid  her  down  to  die, 

In  those  grand,  awful  solitudes. 
The  wild  coyote  yet  roams  at  will, 

The  timid  hare  and  buffalo, 
The  antelope  and  serpent  still 

In  freedom  range,  and  come  and  go, 

While  Indians  gaze  in  scornful  moods. 

Gone  are  the  oxen,  patient  brutes, 
And  drivers,  with  the  song  and  jest. 

Of  ruder  days  they  were  the  fruits, 
And  toiling  well,  they  did  their  best. 


Mrs.  Abigail  Scott  Duniway  111 

Their  day  is  past,  and  now,  at  ease, 

We  glide  along  at  rapid  pace, 
Gazing  abroad,  while  though' s  of  these, 

The  days  of  yore,  take  present  place. 
And  I  am  self-forgetful,  too, 

For  through  the  long,  eventful  past, 
Since  last  I  dreamed  beneath  the  blue, 

Arched  dome  above  these  plains  so  vast 

I  find  of  twenty  years  no  trace. 

My  mother  sleeps,  dear  God,  as  slept", 
Her  peaceful  form  when  we  that  day 

Laid  her  to  rest,  marched  on  and  wept, 
Too  sad  to  talk,  too  dumb  to  pray. 

Was  it  the  breath  of  angel's  wing 

That  fanned, .  erewhile,  my  fevered  brow  1 
Did  I  hear  heavenly  seraphs  sing, 

When  eyes  and  ears  were  closed  just  now? 
0,  mother,  memory,  God,  and  truth, 

While  yet  I  tarry  here  below, 
Guide  oft  thy  faltering,  trembling  one. 

May  I  regret  not  years,  nor  youth, 
Nor  that  my  life  thus  far  is  done, 

As  through  these  wilds  once  more  I  go. 

THOUGHTS  IN  STORM  AND  SOLITUDE. 

The  rain,  the  sobbing  and  pattering  rain, 

Is  falling  in  torrents  tonight ; 

While  the  winds  in  loud  chorus  join  in  the  refrain, 
Keeping  time  to  the  sobs  of  the  pattering  rain 
And  the  throbs  of  my  heart  in  its  dull  aching  pain, 

As  I  toss  on  my  pillow  tonight. 

0,  rest  and  oblivion,  where  are  you  flown? 

'Tis  a  question  I  ask  o'er  and  o'er; 
But  the  elements  answer  with  many  a  moan, 
Crying,  "Rest  and  oblivion,  where  are  you  flown?" 
And  Hope  in  her  might  scarcely  stifles  a  groan, 

As  the  question  is  asked  o'er  and  o'er. 


112  Oregon  Literature 

The  rain,  the  shrieking  and  sibilant  rain, 

Rusheth  down  in  wild  frenzy  tonight ; 
The  wild  wipds  shout  on  in  their  madness  again, 
Defying  the  shrieking  and  sibilant  rain, 
While  I  s'ruggle  for  sleep,  but  the  effort  is  vain. 

For  repose  hath  departed  tonight. 

Grim  darkness  hath  settled  o'er  earth  like  a   pall; 

Assassins  and  thieves  dare  not  stir; 
The  All-Seeing  Eye  beholds  earth's  children  all, 
Seeth  even  the  darkness  o'er  us,  like  a  pall, 
Xoteth  even  the  sparrow,  his  flight  and   his  fall, 

And  I  know  "here  is  nothing  to  fear. 

Now,  rain,  the  pelting  and  pitiless  rain, 

Husheth  down  the  rude  voice  of  the  wind ; 
How  potent  the  spell  that  such  spirit  hath  Iain- 
How  strong  art  them,  pelting  and  pitiless  rain, 
As  back  <o  his  home  on  the  mountain  and  main, 
Thou  drivest  the  rude,  shrieking  wind. 

'Tis  day-dawn.     Sweet  slumber  steals  over  my  brow 

"While  silently  weepeth  the  rain. 
I  care  little  for  sorrow  or  storm-ragings  now, 
While  thrice-welcome  slumber  steals  over  my  brow, 
I'm  at  peace  with  the  world  and  my  neighbors,  I  trow. 

AVhile  silently  weepeth  the  rain. 

Albany,  Oregon,  November,  1868. 


LOUIS  ALBERT  BANKS 


Louis  Albert  Banks 

What  good  can  come  out  of  Nazareth?  has  been  an- 
swered again.  From  infancy  to  childhood,  and  from 
childhood  to  the  boy  preacher  of  sixteen,  we  find  him 
in  Oregon.  Charles  Parkhurst,  the  great  divine  and  re- 
former, says  of  him :  *  *  Louis  Albert  Banks,  after  leav- 
ing  Philomath  College,  commenced  to  preach  the  gospel 
in  Washington  Territory,  and  many  were  converted, 
From  seventeen  to  twenty-one,  he  taught  school  and 
studied  law,  being  admitted  to  practice  in  the  courts. 
He  received  his  first  regular  appointment  from  Bishop 
Gilbert  Haven,  and  was  stationed  in  Portland,  Oregon. 
Fearless  as  a  reformer,  in  his  pulpit,  he  has  been  shot 
down  by  the  infuriated  saloonist,  and  mobbed  by  the 
anti-Chinese  rioters."  He  has  occupied  some  of  the 
wealthiest  pulpits  of  the  Methodist  Episcopal  Church 
in  the  United  States,  where  he  has  met  with  remarkable 
success  as  a  minister  and  as  an  author. 

His  principal  books  are  "Censor  Echoes,"  "The  Peo- 
ple's Christ,"  "The  Revival  Giver,"  "White  Slaves," 
"Common  Folks'  Religion."  "Honeycombs  of  Life," 
"The  Heavenly  Tradewinds,"  "The  Christ  Dream," 
"Christ  and  His  Friends,"  "The  Saloon  Keeper's 
Ledger,"  "Seven  Times  Around  Jericho,"  "The  Hero 
Tales  from  Sacred  History,"  "An  Oregon  Boyhood," 
"Sermon  Stories  for  Boys  and  Girls,"  "The  Christ 
Brotherhood"  and  "Immortal  Hymns  and  Their  Story." 

Dr.  Banks 's  popularity  as  an  author  is  such  that  the 
great  reformer  in  writing  an  introduction  to  one  of  these 
books  said,  "To  be  invited  to  a  place  beside  the  author 
of  the  volume,  and  to  present  him  to  the  reading  public, 
is  a  delightful  privilege. ' ' 

Mr.  Banks 's  books  and  sermons  may  fitly  be  termed 
"the  Wild  Flowers  of  Oregon,"  for  he  has  culled  the 
lambs '  tongue,  the  rhododendron,  the  wild  lilac,  the  field 
lily,  the  honeysuckle,  and  the  wild  grape,  and  taken  this 


114  Oregon  Literature 

handful  of  wild  flowers  from  the  hills  and  valleys  of 
Oregon  and  woven  them  into  beautiful  sermons  and 
books— thus  furnishing  a  delightful  source  of  help  to 
thousands  of  men  and  women  on  both  continents.  In- 
deed, his  style  may  be  denned  as  the  wild  flowers  of 
Oregon  so  delicately  transplanted  from  the  mild  atmos- 
phere of  the  West  into  the  conservatories  of  the  rigid 
East  that  they  have  lost  none  of  their  original  fragrance 
or  beauty.  Thus,  through  Dr.  Banks  our  scenery  has 
flowered  out  upon  an  eastern  landscape  and  developed 
into  a  beautiful  style  which  he  may  proudly  call  his  own  ; 
and  while  the  scholars  of  the  East  may  notice  the  exotic 
elements  in  it  they  cannot  resist  the  pleasure  it  gives 
them;  therefore,  they  will  encourage  Dr.  Banks  in  pre- 
serving his  literary  identity  in  the  fast-flowing  stream  of 
books  he  is  pouring  out  upon  the  reading  public. 


Belle  W.  Cooke 

The  following  poems  were  written  by  Mrs.  Belle  W. 
Cooke,  of  Salem,  a  lady  who  has  obtained  considerable 
distinction.  She  is  the  author  of  an  interesting  volume 
of  poems,  and  wherever  known  is  recognized  as  a  woman 
of  culture  and  high  spcial  attainments.  Her  home  at 
the  present  time  (1902)  is  in  San  Francisco,  California. 

SEATTLE. 

Queen  city  by  the  Northern  Sound, 

High  seated  on  thy  sloping  hills, 
Begirt  with   snowy  mountains  round, 

Thy  beauty  all  my  being  thrills. 

When  burns  the  sunset  in  the  west, 
With  crimson  bars  and  purple  shades, 

On  dark  Olympus'  snow-flecked  crest 
A  misty  crown  gleams  out  and  fades. 

While  on  Tacoma's  kingly  face 

The  rosy  blushes  gleaming  lie, 
And  changeful  hues,  with  wondrous  grace 

Across  the  watery  mirror  fly. 

When  morning  looks  through  fringe  of  trees, 
And  tips  the  western  peaks  with  gold, 

And  misty  veils  curled  by  the  breeze 
Lie  on  the  water,  fold  on  fold— 

! 

Then  rocky  gorge,  and  tree-crowned  spur, 
Touched  by  the  pencil  of  the  dawn, 

With  rounded  heights,  and  groves  of  fir, 
Spring  out  to  greet  the  beauteous  morn, 


116  Oregon  Literature 

The  ice-crowned  king  with  shadows  cold 
Sparkles  and  glistens  white  and  grand, 

And  beauty  wakes  in  wood  arid  wold, 
And  beams  from  nooks  on  every  hand. 

Long  may  thy  beauty  bless  the  earth, 
And  teach  the  lesson  God  doth  mean, 

Arid  nobler  men  in  thee  have  birth 
Than  ever  yet  the  world  hath  seen. 


I  KNOW  NOT. 

I  know  not  what  the  day  may  bring 

Of  sorrow  or  of  sweetness, 
I  only  know  that  God  must  give 

Its  measure  of  completeness; 
I  reach  for  wisdom  in  the  dark, 

And  God  fills  up  the  measure— 
Sometimes  with  tears,  sometimes  with  cares, 

Sometimes  with  peace  and  pleasure. 

From  hours  of  grief  and  saddened  face 

True  wealth  of  heart  I  borrow, 
And  heavenly  wisdom  oftenest  comes 

Clad  in  the  guise  of  sorrow; 
I  know  not  which  is  best  for  me 

Of  all  his  mercy  bringeth,  < 

I  know  his  praise  every  day 

My  willing  spirit  singeth. 

^ 

I  know  not  what  my  life  may  yield 

Of  fruit  that  will  not  perish, 
I  know  God  gives  both  seed  and  soil, 

And  all  the  growth  must  cherish. 
How  great  his  work !    How  small  my  part ! 

I  wonder  at  my  weakness, 
And  his  great  patience  fill  my  heart 

With  gratitude  and  meekness. 


Belle  Tf.  CooUe  lit 

I  know  not  what  e'en,  heaven  can  give 

To  blessed  souls  who  gain  it; 
I  know  God's  goodness  it  must  show, 

For  earth  cannot  contain  it. 
And  if  eternity  but  rings 

With  love,  the  same  sweet  story 
That  earth  is  telling  every  day— 
" Thine,  Lord,  shall  be  the  glory." 


Dr.  T.  L.  Eliot 

Of  Doctor  Eliot,  Hjnes's  "History  of  Oregon"  says: 
"Mr.  Eliot  has  the  distinction  of  having  held  the  longest 
pastorate  in  the  City  of  Portland  or  in  the  State  of 
Oregon.  He  was  called  from  the  City  of  St.  Louis  in 
1867,  while  yet  a  young  man,  to  the  pastorate  of  the 
First  Unitarian  Church  of  Portland,  worshiping  in  a 
very  unpretentious  chapel,  situated  on  the  site  of  the 
present  large  and  beautiful  edifice.  From  1867  to  1893 
Mr.  Eliot  continued  as  its  pastor,  when  he  voluntarily 
resigned  his  charge  on  account  of  impaired  health,  thus 
giving  a  full  quarter  of  a  century  of  extraordinarily 
useful  service  to  his  church  and  the  state  of  which  he 
has  been  so  eminent  a  citizen."  Doctor  Eliot  has  visited 
the  Holy  Land  and  published  his  observations  and  im- 
pressions of  that  region  in  two  very  attractive  volumes. 

TEMPERANCE. 

(From  a  sermon  on  Temperance  delivered  at  Portland, 
Oregon,  by  Rev.  T.  L.  Eliot,  September  16,  1862.) 

See  how  clear  and  high,  how  deep  and  broad,  the 
principle  which  can  be  laid  down — how  it  covers  all 
cases,  without  regard  to  individual  differences  of  con- 
science or  taste.  See  how  this  statement  of  the  case 
proves  that  after  all  it  is  Christianity  that  must  conquer 
the  evil  of  intemperance.  Must  we  wait  until  everybody 
has  it  proved  to  him  individually,  personally,  that  it  is 
a  sin  for  him  to  touch  liquor?  My  friends,  the  cause 
would  die  by  inches  under  such  a  process.  In  spite  of 
all  that  zealous  temperance  reformers  say,  it  is  an  open 
question,  as  to  whether  abstractly  considered,  there  may 
not  be  a  right  use  and  individual  good  coming  from  the 
stimulative  action  of  proper  doses  of  alcohol.  I  say  it  is 
an  open  question,  by  no  means  proved;  and  if  it  were 
so,  there  would  remain  the  fact  that  thousands  upon 


Dr.  T.  t.  Eliot  119 

thousands  of  individual  consciences,  looking  upon  it  as  a 
mere  personal  matter,  are  at  liberty.  But  this  principle 
of  Paul's,  this  principle  of  Christ's  comes  in  to  every 
such  case ;  it  is  an  appeal  to  high  and  low,  to  every  class 
and  condition— shall  your  liberty  be  a  stumbling-block? 
Does  your  abstract  right,  become  by  the  condition  of 
society,  a  concrete  wrong?  Has  your  example  any 
weight?  Have  you  any  duty  toward  society  standing 
just  as  it  does  and  as  you  do  ?  Now  there  are  hundreds 
of  thousands  who  in  this  principle,  if  it  could  reach,  and 
be  clearly  before  them  today,  would  see  a  Christian  law 
where  they  saw  no  conscience  law.  They  would  see  that 
in  the  sight  of  God  and  Christ  they  were  called  on  to 
use  their  liberty  as  a  ladder  and  not  as  a  stumbling-block. 
There  are  men  who  will  say  "I  can  drink — I  can  afford 
it,  I  can  be  moderate,  it  does  me  good,  more  or  less,  I 
can  step  up  to  a  bar,  and  not  feel  injured."  But  look 
you !  the  community  is  tainted,  nine  tenths  of  the  liquor 
is  poisoned  and  drugged,  every  other  man  has  the  plague 
spot  of  an  inherited  thirst  for  liquor,  ninety-five  retail 
saloons— nearly,  all— are  plying  nefarious  arts,  ringing 
in  their  victims.  It  is  notorious  that  they  live  upon  the 
infirm  and  weak  of  purpose— the  hard-drinking,  and 
those  running  down  hill— these  air  holes  to  the  pit,  are 
dragging  in  young  men,  corrupting  boys,  sending  out 
their  fumes  into  the  very  home  and  sanctuary.  Physical 
and  moral  idiots  stalk  the  streets,  the  asylum  and  the 
jail  rise  up  as  witnesses  against  us— drink  if  you  can, 
in  the  face  of  this!  Why,  my  brother,  it  seems  to  me 
that  I  would  as  soon  throw  pitch  upon  a  house  on  fire, 
or  eat  with  the  knife  that  had  cut  another  man's 
throat!  Once  realize  the  nature  and  extent  of  this  evil 
in  your  midst,  the  heart-ache,  the  bitter,  burning  woe, 
the  degradation  that  lie  at  the  door  of  this  awful  drink- 
ing habit,  and  you  must  pause!  You  must  see,  that 
liberty,  or  no  liberty,  there  is  but  one  thing  to  do— that 
you  must  cast  your  influence  high,  clear,  positive,  or 
woe  be  unto  you  in  that  great  day  when  Christ  shall 
judge  between  you  and  your  fellow  man. 


Anonymous 

REMEMBERED  BY  WHAT  SHE  HAS  DONE. 

Lines  read  at  the  forty-fifth  anniversary  of  an  Oregon 
Church,  in  which  the  music  was  regularly  furnished  by  a  choir 
consisting  of  the  family  of  a  lady  who  during  half  her  lifetime 
had  been  their  organist  and  leader. 

The  spirit  has  flown ;  and  the  song  unsung 
Has  tuned  the  harp  long  left  unstrung; 
And  the  heart  beats  the  notes  of  the  love  aglow 
With  the  echoing  tones  of  the  long  ago. 

> 

We  heard  her  sing,  for  loved  ones, 
To  the  swelling  notes  of  the  old  organ  tones, 
Till  the  zephyrs  that  lingered  in  the  church  old  and  gray 
Transported  fond  memories  from  the  far  away. 

We  heard  her  sing  in  the  Sunday  School 
Where  the  little  ones  learned  the  Golden  Rule, 
From  the  books  that  are  now  both  tattered  and  torn. 
But  precious  to  us  for  the  tidings  they  have  borne. 

We  heard  her  sing  at  the  graveyard  lonely  and  cold 
Where  friends  had  been  laid  midst  sorrows  untold, 
Where  the  mourners  met  round  the  lonely  bier 
To  offer  a  tribute  and  a  farewell  tear. 

We  went  to  her  grave  when  her  voice  was  stilled, 
And  our  saddened  hearts  with  memories  thrilled; 
And  we  listened,  but  her  song  was  no  more, 
For  the  singer  was  standing  on  another  shore. 

She  had  crossed  to  the  land,  in  which  we  are  told, 
There  are  cities  and  harps  and  crowns  of  gold, 
To  mingle  for  aye  with  the  joyous  throng 
That  ever  will  ever  sing  a  rapturous  song. 


Anonymous  121 

And  she's  singing  tonigh:  in  the  invisible  choir 
With  voices  attuned  to  the  heavenly  lyre ; 
And  the  song  that  she  chants  is  the  sweetest  by  far, 
For  she's  singing  the  song  of  Bethlehem's  star. 

We  returned  to  church  again  and  again 
To  hear  the  same  sweet  gentle  strain 
Which  was  sung  by  lips  attuned  anew 
By  her  who  had  bidden  the  earth  adieu. 

Oft  and  again  throughout  the  days 

Our  hearts  were  uplifted  in  joyous  praise 

By  the  spirit  of  song  which,  like  an  angel's  breath, 

Whispers  gently  though  the  singer  is  silent  in  death. 


ANGELS  ARE  WAITING  FOR  ME. 

A  saint  whose  wearied  body  rests  .in  the  silent  city 
crowning  a  little  Oregon  hill,  and  whose  sacred  memory 
is  a  precious  legacy  to  those  who  survive  her,  and  whose 
example,  like  an  angel's  touch,  gently  impels  upward, 
caught  a  few  glimpses  of  the  higher  heaven  from  the 
heaven  she  lived  in  here  below ;  and  before  the  final  hour 
came,  gave  expression  in  poetic,  psalm-like  language  to 
her  rapture  upon  the  visions  she  beheld.  These  utter- 
ances were  entrusted  to  a  youth  who  wove  them  into 
verse. 

After  the  poem  descants  briefly  upon  her  departure 
from  the  home  of  her  birth  to  a  far-distant  land  to  share 
with  the  loVed  ones  of  earth  in  bearing  the  burdens  and 
toil  for  Him  who  bled  for  our  wrong,  in  the  full  con- 
sciousness of-  a  glorious  victory,  she  says:  "His  peace 
as  a  river  now  flows  through  soul  and  body  so  free  that 
glory  abounds  in  my  heart  while  angels  are  waiting  for 
me. ' '  She  continues : 

''The  Bible  is  plain  to  me  now; 
For  Jesus  explains  as  I  read, 
And  lines  for  me  verses  ne'er  sung — 
With  manna  my  spirit  they  feed ! 


122  Oregon  Literature 

There 's  such  a  bright  light  round  the  cross ; 

And  over  the  dark,  stormy  sea, 
The  friends  who  before  me  have  gone 

Are  angels  now  waiting  for  me. 

"Among  the  long  ranks  that  they  form 

In  Glory,  my  Savior  there  stands 
With  multitudes  grand,  who  are  saved, 

And  marking  in  beautiful  bands; 
'They're  coming  in  thousands'  with  Him— 
Those  bright  ones  o  'er  there  can  you  see, 
Whose  luster  illumines  that  throng? 
Those  'angels  are  calling  for  me.' 

"Those  mansions  and  cities  so  fair 

Are  teeming  with  armies  in  white, 
The  courts  will  be  empty  of  them — 

'They're  coming  to  me'  in  their  flight; 
'More  coming!'  Now  'Glory  to  God!' 

'  They  stand  by  my  bed. '    '  Can  you  see  ? ' 
I  'm  waiting ;  yes,  '  waiting ' ;  because 

Those  '  angels  are  coming  for  me. '  ' ' 


ROSES  AND  LILIES. 

The  ruddy  rose,  amid  the  thorns 
And  leaflets  green  which  she  adorns; 
Sustains  her  charm,  preserves  her  grace, 
And  heavenward  lifts  her  lovely  face. 

Although  her  rough  companions  pierce, 
With  lances  keen  and  daggers  fierce, 
The  rose  unsullied  lives  and  dies 
As  do  the  brave,  the  true,  the  wise. 

And  though  in  life  one  oft  receives 

A  pang  that  sorely,  sadly  grieves, 

'Tis  sweet  to  know  that  roses  bloom 

Midst  winds  and  rain  and  thorns  and  gloom. 


In  Memoriam 


PROF.  MCELROY'S  GRAVE 


Anonymous  123 

From  out  their  bosoms  pure  as  snow, 
The  lilies  of  the  valley  grow ; 
Their  leaves  are  still ;  their  heads  they  bow, 
As  if  to  heaven  they  make  a  vow. 

Since  from  the  heart  the  actions  grow, 
A  duty  to  ourselves  we  owe, 
To  do  the  right,  and  that  in  love, 
Though  fading  here  to  bloom  above. 

The  rose  adds  beauty  to  her  thorns ; 

The  lily  pastures  green  adorns ; 

The  world  conceals  its  faults  to  please, 

While  innocence  and  lilies  abound  in  the  leas. 

Aromas  from  these  flowers  unite. 
And  lure  our  prayers  to  yonder  height, 
Where  mingling  in  sweet  bliss  and  praise — 
Enriching  heaven  through  endless  days. 

Bloom  on,  bloom  on,  thou  lily  pale, 
In  meadow  green  and  fertile  vale; 
Thine  own  soft  colors  give  to  thee 
A  tender  look  of  modesty. 

Blush  on,  blush  on,  thou  ruddy  rose; 
Thy  crimson  face  with  beauty  glows; 
Pure  symbol  thou  of  a  sinless  breast, 
Where  truth  and  peace,  like  angels  rest. 


E.  B.  MCELROY. 

Professor  E.  B.  McElroy,  who  served  three  terms  as 
State  Superintendent  of  Public  Instruction  of  Oregon, 
and  held  the  chair  of  English  in  the  Oregon  Agricultural 
College,  also  in  the  University  of  Oregon,  died  at  his 
home  in  Eugene,  May  4,  1901,  and  was  buried  in  the 
Odd  Fellow's  Cemetery  near  Corvallis  on  the  following 
Sunday.  On  the  ensuing  Decoration  Day  a  eulogy  was 


124  Oregon  Literature 

delivered  before  Ellsworth  Post,  G.  A.  R.,  of  Corvallis, 
from  which  the  following  extract  was  taken : 

THE  MCELROY  EULOGY. 

Near  the  home  of  Professor  McElroy  in  the  City  of 
Eugene,  there  is  a  neat  church,  built  on  a  stone  founda- 
tion thickly  studded  with  marks  of  pebbly  white.  Upon 
approaching  the  building,  however,  the  stones  prove  to 
be  ancient  cemeteries,  filled*  with  shells  of  animals  which 
lived  long  ago  upon  the  shore  of  some  forgotten  sea ;  and 
here  and  there  you  may  observe  the  traces  left  by  the 
waves,  the  tracks  of  birds  that  walked  along  the  sand 
one  day,  and  the  print  of  the  leaf  that  fell  and  lay  there. 
Within  a  million  years  or  more  the  shore  hardened  into 
rock,  and  the  rock  like  storied  urn  has  held  every  trace 
throughout  succeeding  centuries.  In  like  manner  will 
be  preserved  the  work  of  Professor  McElroy,  who  has 
been  so  active  in  the  promotion  of  Oregon  public  schools, 
doing  those  things  and  exerting  those  influences  that 
thousands  of  children  now  living  and  thousands  of 
children  belonging  to  generations  yet  unborn  will  take 
permanently  into  their  lives. 

What  is  taken  into  men's  lives  leaves  its  lasting  im- 
pressions—more enduring  than  time,  more  precious  than 
shell  or  leaf  or  templed  stone ;  for  a  useful  life  with  its 
hallowed  influences  goes  forth  in  a  thousand  unseen 
meanderings  to  the  winds  of  the  earth,  forever  and  for- 
ever. Yet  the  man  is  even  greater  than  his  influence  or 
his  handiwork.  The  Bible  reveals  it,  science  teaches  it, 
experience  proclaims  it,  the  learned  and  unlearned  be- 
lieve it.  Therefore,  if  the  shell  of  an  animal  from  the 
palaces  of  the  deep  exist  a  thousand  or  a  million  years 
to  adorn  a  temple  for  a  man  to  worship  in  that  his  life 
may  expand  into  a  nobler,  purer  and  more  exalted  char- 
acter, how  much- longer  will  survive  that  man  of  worth 
and  influence  for  whom  the  silent  shell  was  created? 

When  the  superstructure  of  the  temple  has  decayed, 
time  and  storm  have  worn  away  the  historic  foundation, 
the  shells  have  been  exposed  to  view,  have  crumbled  and 
vanished  forever,  and  man  has  forgotten  even  the  edifice 


Anonymous  125 

where  once  multitudes  assembled  for  worship,  the  en- 
during work  of  the  Oregon  Educator  will  live  and  be 
more  beautiful  as  it  grows  to  assume  nobler  proportions. 
And  centuries  hence  when  the  school  house  and  the 
chapel  will  have  largely  accomplished  their  mission,  when 
literature  has  winged  her  flight  to  the  western  shores  of 
America,  and  scholars  have  made  classic  the  story  of 
Oregon,  then  teachers  and  sjtudents  will  make  pilgrim- 
ages to  the  shrine  on  yon  little  hill  where  a  pathway  will 
be  worn  across  the  green  to' the  grave  of  him  we  love. 
When  the  little  oak  which  shelters  that  hallowed  spot 
shall  have  older  grown,  fallen  and  been  forgotten,  kind 
hands  will  gently  smooth  the  sod  and  plant  a  vine  by  the 
grassy  mound  where  we  laid  him.  There  amidst  quietude 
and  pensiveness  many  a  flower  will  be  plucked  as  a 
memento,  and  many  a  prayer  breathed  at  the  last  resting 
place  of  him  who  contributed  his  best  endeavors  to  the 
establishment  of  common  schools ;  and  the  pilgrims,  when 
they  return  to  their  homes,  will  resume  their  labors  with 
renewed  determination  to  emulate  the  noble  qualities 
found  in  their  fellow  beings.  Flowers  will  bloom  as 
beautiful  and  the  birdsong  be  as  gay,  men  build  and 
occupy,  the  earth  swing  through  space  as  safely  as  if  in 
the  hand  of  God,  and  the  sun,  moon  and  stars  sustain 
their  glory  then  as  now;  but  the  undimmed  lamp  of 
learning  which  our  benefactor  lifted  to  the  Oregon  school 
house  spire  will  shine  with  increasing  effulgence  and 
with  glory  more  resplendent,  illuminating  the  pathway 
of  men,  brightening  their  future  and  blessing  their 
labors;  and  the  world  ever  changing,  ever  improving, 
ever  growing  heavenly  will  be  better  for  the  life  of  this 
educator,  patriot  and  gentleman,  who  gave  the  choicest 
within  him  for  the  betterment  of  mankind. 


Sidney  H.  Marsh 

A  PLEA  FOR  RELIGIOUS  INSTRUCTION  IN 
COLLEGES  AND  UNIVERSITIES. 

(An  extract  from  the  inaugural  address  of  Sidney  H. 
Marsh,  President  of  Pacific  University,  Forest  Grove, 
Oregon. ) 

There  is  a  necessity  which  neither  profits  nor  pleasure 
can  satisfy,  and  for  which  all  art  and  science  are  inade- 
quate. It  is  this  want  that  true  and  genuine  learning 
would  seek  to  satisfy.  We  need,  as  rational  and  ac- 
countable beings,  surrounded  by  the  fogs  of  sinful  ignor- 
ance, a  light  that  shall  dispel  darkness.  Lost  like  a 
traveller  amid  the  tangled  jungles  of  tropical  regions,  we 
need  a  guide  to  the  mountain  summits  and  the  open 
ways.  We  need  a  knowledge  of  ourselves  and  our  cir- 
cumstances, of  men  and  things.  We  need  the  light  that 
investigations  into  the  laws  of  language  and  laws  of 
thought  may  perchance  give  us.  We  need  to  know  what 
principles,  and  whence,  have  governed  men  in  divers 
countries  and  different  ages,  and  under  varied  circum- 
stances; perhaps  from  such  a  study  of  history  we  may 
better  know  ourselves.  These  studies  are  indeed  valuable 
for  other  ends,  but  chiefly  because  they  tend  to  satisfy  the 
craving  thirst  for  knowledge,  which  our  souls  demand, 
not  for  their  pleasure,  or  temporary  happiness,  but  for 
their  permanent  well-being.  I  know  that  there  is  much 
thought  and  intellectual  activity  which  does  not,  and 
cannot  satisfy  these  spiritual  cravings,  which  is  a  wander- 
ing of  the  intellect  to  and  fro  in  the  earth  without  any 
ascension  above  it.  There  is  much  acquisition  that  is  not 
true  knowledge,  much  theorizing  that  does  not  really  in- 
crease the  insight.  The  history  of  literary  men  is  full 
of  evidence  of  misspent  power,  power  misspent  for  the 
great  purposes  of  thought,  though  not  uuiruitful  per- 


Sidney  H.  Marsh  127 

haps  in  inferior,  temporary  and  temporal  good.  We  have 
painful  evidences  of  the  unsatisfactoriness  of  thought 
not  rightly  directed  in  minds  delicately  organized,  where 
the  cause  of  need  was  perhaps  obscurely  felt,  where  the 
insufficiency  of  all  their  efforts  wrung  tears  and  groans, 
clothed  though  they  were  in  the  most  lovely  garb  of 
imagination  and  poetry.  Such  spirits  have  felt  the  in- 
aptness  of  their  own  theories  as  an  increase  of  their  suf- 
ferings and  want.  Their  own  thoughts  have  thus  re- 
turned to  s1ing  them,  and  driven  like  the  daughter  of 
Inachus,  they  have  sought  in  vain  during  a  life  of  flight, 
a  Prometheus  to  reveal  a  future  release  from  their  suffer- 
ings. Such  have  been  many  among  the  Germans,  who 
have  spent  a  life  in  theorizing,  and,  although  ever  un- 
satisfied with  their  own  efforts,  have  still  been  compelled 
to  theorize  right  on.  Such  have  been  many  among  the 
English,  such,  many  among  our  own  people,  who  like 
Shelly  and  Keats,  most  sad  examples,  were  "pard-like 
spirits,  beautiful  and  swift,"  who  * ' Actaeon-like  fled  far 
astray,  and  as  they  wandered  o'er  the  world's  wilderness, 
their  own  thoughts  along  the  rugged  way  pursued  like 
raging  hounds  their  father  and  their  prey."  But  such 
misdirections  of  power,  such  consequent  uselessness  of 
knowledge  for  all  its  higher  ends,  far  from  disproving 
its  spiritual  purpose,  indicate  rather  the  connection,*  the 
dependence  unon,  the  subservience  of  the  intellect,  con- 
sidered as  a  faculty,  to  the  spirit  and  its  wants.  For 
without  some  spiritual  initiative,  all  thought  in  the 
higher  departments  has  been  ineffectual,  and  a  life  spent 
in  theorizing  has  produced  no  enduring  results. 


John  Buchanan 

VALUE  OF  FRIENDSHIP. 

I  care  not  for  station,  I  care  not  for  wealth, 

I  care  not  for  honors  nor  fame ; 
I  pray  for  the  blessings  of  freedom  and  health, 

And  friends  that  are  worthy  the  name. 
Friends  that  are  loyal,  friends  that  are  true, 

Till  life's  fitful  journey  shall  end; 
There's  no  other  treasure,  for  treasures  are  few, 

So  dear  as  a  true-hearted  friend. 

I  fear  not  an  enemy's  vengeful  attack, 

I  fear  not  the  trouble  he  sends ; 
With  Truth  for  my  armor  and  friends  at  my  back— 

A  few  loved,  congenial  friends. 
A  true  friend's  a  treasure  I  value  far  more 

Than  treasures  in  nuggets  or  dust ; 
Let  others  choose  riches  abundant  in  store, 

I'm  rich  with  a  friend  I  can  trust. 

THE  WILLAMETTE. 

Let  others  incline  to  sing  of  the  Rhine, 

Or  of  Hudson's  fairy  dells; 
I  sing  of  a  stream  that  flows  on  like  a  dream 

To  the  tune  of  wedding  bells. 
For  of  all  the  streams  '  neath  the  sun 's  bright  beams, 

The  Willamette  is  dearest  to  me, 
Which  springs  from  repose  in  a  prison  of  snows, 

And  joyously  bounds  to  the  sea. 

I  hail  with  delight  that  river  so  bright, 

Which  cheerily  flows  along; 
And  ever  the  strain  of  a  glad  refrain, 

I  hear  in  its  merry  song. 
Far  dearest  of  all  the  rivers  of  earth, 

Is  that  fair  river  to  me, 
And  brightly  it  flows  from  the  region  of  snows, 

Till  lost  in  the  arms  of  the  sea. 


JOHN  BURNETT 


John   Burnett 

John  Burnett  came  to  Corvallis  in  1858 ;  was  admitted 
to  the  bar  in  1860,  since  which  time  until  his  death  (in 
1900)  he  was  actively  engaged  in  his  profession.  He 
was  elected  Presidential  Elector  in  1865 ;  Associate 
Justice  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  the  state  in  1874 ;  ap- 
pointed Judge  of  the  Second  Judicial  District;  and  in 
1878  he  was  elected  Senator  from  Benton  County.  Judge 
Burnett  was  a  self-made  man.  Being  a  man  of  the 
people  he  interested  himself  in  all  public  enterprises, 
local  or  general ;  and  it  was  a  part  of  his  creed  to  re- 
ligiously guard  alike  the  interests  of  the  opulent  and  the 
humble.  Inclined  to  be  strongly  intellectual,  he  was 
also  very  sympathetic;  hence  he  easily  enjoyed  the  dis- 
tinction of  being  classed  among  the  ablest  public  speakers 
of  the  state,  both  as  an  advocate  at  the  bar  and  as  a 
popular  orator  on  other  public  occasions. 

THE  ALBANY  ORATION. 

(Extract  from  an  oration  delivered  by  Judge  John  Bur- 
nett, at  Albany,  Oregon,  July  4, 1878.) 

Many  trials  and  perils  have  environed  the  good  ship 
of  state  since  she  was  first  launched,  bu^  each  trial  has 
only  served  to  show  her  strength  and  durability,  and  the 
skill  of  her  architects.  The  War  of  1812  proved  our 
ability,  in  bur  infancy,  to  cope  with  one  of  the  first  mili- 
tary powers  on  the  globe,  and  in  the  crowning  victory  at 
New  Orleans  to  defeat  the  men  who  afterwards  at 
Waterloo  broke  the  military  power  of  France  and  pros- 
trated the  great  Napoleon  at  the  feet  of  the  British  Lion. 
In  the  war  with  Mexico  we  proved  to  the  world  our 
ability  to  protect  our  citizens  from  insult,  let  it  come 
from  what  quarter  it  may,  and  conquered  a  peace  by  the 
powers  of  American  arms.  The  courage  and  heroism  of 
American  soldiers  as  proven  upon  every  battle  field 


130  Oregon  Literature 

from  Vera  Cruz  to  the  City,  of  Mexico  adds  another 
bright  page  to  American  history.  The  rebellion  of  1861, 
unjust  and  causeless  as  it  was,  was  the  greatest  strain 
upon  our  Government  to  whieh  it  had  ever  been  sub- 
jected. It  was  the  crucial  test,  the  sunken  reef,  upon 
which  has  been  wrecked  every  Republic  that  has  pre- 
ceded us. 

When  the  war  of  1861  first  began,  the  crown-heads  of 
Europe  clapped  their  hands  in  glee,  and  prophesied  dire 
calamity  to  the  American  Republic.  They  said  to  us, 
"You  cannot  carry  on  a  war.  You  have  no  army. 
You  can't  make  soldiers  like  Europe  has."  But  on  a 
line  of  battle  extending  over  a  period  of  less  ^han  five 
years,  more  than  two  million  and  a  half  of  men  had  been 
trained  to  the  most  efficient  soldiery  on  the  globe.  Then 
they  opened  their  eyes  and  admitted  that  our  people 
made  good  soldiers. 

General  Sheridan  said,  on  coming  back  from  the  great 
battle  of  Sedan,  that  he  saw  no  fighting  equal  to  the 
fighting  of  American  citizens.  When  the  war  closed  they 
said,  ' '  You  have  a  vast  army,  that  must  be  admitted,  but 
when  you  come  to  disband  them  you  will  have  trouble. 
They  will  carry  the  morals  of  the  soldiers'  camp  into 
your  villages  and  towns,  and  you  will  have  riots  and 
conspiracies."  But  two  millions  and  a  half  of  men 
melted  away  from  the  battle— went  as  quietly  as  the 
drops  of  snow  in  spring  melt,  and  every  flake  turns  to 
working  drops  of  dew  that  grasped  the  flower,  the  grass, 
the  vine,  the  shrub,  the  tree.  There  never  has  been  one 
riot,  there  never  has  been  one  conspiracy.  We  have  never 
had  any  difficulty  whatever  with  our  disbanded  soldiery. 
They  have  proved  that,  though  having  been  brought  up 
in  civil  life,  they  were  competent  ^o  perform  military 
services  of  the  highest  character,  and  then  they  all  went 
b'ack  to  citizenship  again,  and  bore  witness  to  the  world 
that  they  loved  the  duties  of  the  citizen  more  than  the 
duties  of  the  soldier. 

Ah !  said  Europe,  you  are  still  bound  to  be  ruined  by 
your  war,  for  notwithstanding  you  marshalled  an  army 
in  a  few  years  from  the  private  walks  of  life  that  in  size 
and  efficiency  was  the  wonder  and  admiration  of  the 


John  Burnett  131 

world,  and  before  which  the  armies  of  Xerxes,  Hannibal 
and  Napoleon  sink  into  insignificance,  and  notwithstand- 
ing the  fact  that  this  great  army  was  disbanded  at  the 
close  of  a  successful  war  and  melted  away  among  the 
people  from  whence  they  came,  leaving  no  trace  of  their 
organization  except  the  splendid  victories  they  gained 
and  the  magnificent  peace  they  conquered,  yet  you  have 
got  to  pay  a  debt  that  will  tax  your  people  beyond  all 
endurance.  Besides  all  this  waste  of  life  and  expenditure 
of  property  there  is  six  thousand  millions  of  dollars  that 
stands  against  you.  Six  thousand  millions !  Your  people 
will  never  bear  taxation. 

What  afe  the  facts?  All  of  that  debt  that  could  be 
reached  has  been  paid,  principal  and  interest,  in  gold 
coin.  Another  thing  connected  with  the  late  Civil  War 
that  is  hard  for  foreign  nations  to  understand,  is  the 
rapid  restoration  of  good  fraternal  feelings  between  all 
sections  of  the  country,  which  has  been  going  en  ever 
since  the  surrender  at  Appomattox,  until  now  on  this 
day,  the  people  will  be  gathered  together  in  every  city, 
town  and  neighborhood  in  this  broad  land,  from  the 
frozen  regions  of  Alaska  to  the  everglades  of  Florida, 
and  from  the  pine-clad  hills  of  Maine  to  where  rolls  the 
Oregon,  to  rehearse  the  story  of  the  valor  of  a  common 
ancestry  in  the  heroes  of  '76,  and  renew  their  devotion 
to  an  unbroken  and  glorious  union. 

I  join  in  that  grand  refrain  and  I  am  proud  to  lend 
my  voice  to  swell  the  anthem  as  it  goes  up  to  heaven 
from  thousands  of  throats  of  free  men— ''Liberty  and 
union,  now  and  forever,  0110  and  inseparable."  Such  a 
condition  of  affairs  would  be  impossible  under  any  other 
form  of  government.  At  the  close  of  the  war  there  were 
no  attainders,  no  confiscations,  no  executions.  The 
President  of  the  United  Spates  had  enforced  obedience 
to  the  constitution  and  laws  and  the  argument  of  the 
great  Webster  in  the  United  States  Senate,  in  answer  *o 
Calhoun  and  Hayne,  was  as  potent  a  weapon  in  pre- 
serving the  Union  as  the  sword  of  General  Grant. 

All  of  these  things  should  inspire  us  on  this  day  above 
all  others  with  a  more  exalted  idea  and  a  more  impas- 
sioned devotion  and  faith  in  our  country. 


132  Oregon  Literature 

EXTRACTS. 

The  roar  and  smoke  of  battle  fill  the  atmosphere  and 
Lexington,  Concord  and  Bunker  Hill  announce  that  the 
American  Revolution  is  fully  inaugurated.  We  pass  on 
a  few  years  and  the  battle  of  Yorktown  brings  the  strug- 
gle for  American  independence  to  a  successful  close.  The 
genius  of  Washington  ascends  to  the  clear  upper  sky 
to  preside  over  the  child  of  Columbus.  Under  his 
guiding  hand  and  influence  the  fruits  of  the  War  for 
Independence  were  preserved  and  a  government  finally 
framed  that  has  excited  the  envy  and  admiration  of  the 
whole  world. 

Seasons  of  sorrow  make  all  the  world  akin  and  open 
the  fountains  of  the  best  feelings  of  the  human  heart. 

We  seldom  think  of  the  great  event  of  death  till  the 
shadow  falls  across  our  own  pathway,  hiding  from  our 
eyes  the  faces  of  loved  ones  whose  loving  smile  was  the 
sunlight  of  our  existence.  This  severing  of  earthly  ties 
is  the  greatest  trial  we  have  in  this  life ;  and  as  link 
after  link  slips  away  from  love's  chain,  we  are  led  to  feel 
more  and  more  that  this  is  not  our  abiding  place.  There 
are  very  few  who  can  look  around  and  say,  "My  heart's 
treasures  are  all  here." 

With  us  the  reign  of  the  common  people  is  supreme. 
Public  sentiment  informed  and  instructed  by  an  inde- 
pendent, able  and  fearless  press  will  correct  as  far  as 
possible  the  evils  that  afflict  the  body  politic ;  for  though 
1 '  She  travel  wi+h  a  leaden  heel,  she  strikes  with  an  iron 
hand." 


B.  F.  Irvine 

THE  MAST  ASHORE. 

Did  the  ship  go  down?     What  tale  concealed 

Of  wreck  and  death,  lies  here  with  thee? 
What  hapless  victims  loud  appealed 

To  Him  for  help  that  night  at  sea? 
Did  lightning  bolts,  and  winds  and  waves, 

In  awful  mood,  the  good  ship  beat — 
Aye,  beat  till  all  on  board  found  graves, 

With  billows  for  a  winding  sheet! 

Did  the  ship  go  down?     Perhaps  her  fate 

Is  told  in  phantom  ship  that  oft 
The  ocean  roves;    her  sails  wide  set, 

And  ghostly  sailors  staring  'loft 
Where  perching  raven  croaks  of  doom; 

And  hollow  wail  and  storm-blown  cry 
Of  help  are  heard  through  gathering  gloom, 

As  though  once  more  that  night  were  nigh. 

Did  the  ship  go  down  ?    Not  e  'en  her  name 

Is  known.    Nor  those  who  sailed  and  died ; 
Nor  whither  bound,  nor  whence  they  came, 

Nor  where  in  all  the  ocean  wide 
They  went  to  doom.    We  know  no  more 

Than  this— this  mutely  told  by  thee— 
They  proudly  sailed  for  distant  shore, 

And  now  they  sleep  beneath  the  sea. 

Yes,  the  ship  went  down.    All  ships  go  down 

When  Time  and  Tide  command.    E  'en  men 
Who  voyage  life  with  hopes  full-blown, 

Go  down.     They  sail  a  day,  and  then 
The  billow-beats  of  vice  and  strife 

Unship  the  masts  and  sweep  the  decks, 
Till  beach  that  bounds  the  sea  of  life 

Is  strewn  with  melancholy  wrecks. 


134  Oregon  Literature 

THE  FOUR-YEAR-OLD. 

Red  lips,  curved  with  a  roguish  air; 
Sun-tint  curls  like  the  cupids  wear; 
Eyes  that  laugh  with  a  mischief  rare, 

And  his  face  with  gladness  beaming. 
Pockets  crammed  with  his  childhood  toys ; 
House  upset  with  his  endless  noise; 
Four  years  old,  and  a  king  of  boys, 

With  his  days  in  sunshine  streaming. 


Paints  with  mud  on  a  spotless  wall ; 
Ties  tin  cans  to  the  dogs  that  call ; 
Wades  the  pond  till,  with  slip  and  fall, 

Little  head  and  heels  go  under. 
Pounds  and  bangs  at  a  fastened  door; 
Scatters  toys  on  a  tidy  floor; 
Laughs  out  loud  ere  the  prayers  are  o  'er, 

And  is  chided  for  his  blunder. 


Marble  slab  in  the  churchyard  lone; 
Sleeping  lamb  on  the  silent  stone; 
Drooping  flowers  on  the  new  mound  strewn, 

Where  the  four-year-old  lies  sleeping. 
Childhood  chair  that  the  boy  loved  best ; 
Empty  shoe  that  the  wee  foot  pressed ; 
Anguished  heart  in  a  mother's  breast, 

As  she  sits  beside  them,  weeping. 

Neighbor  boys  loved  the  four-year-old; 
Sit  in  tears  when  his  fate  is  told; 
Whisper  low  of  the  churchyard  mold, 

Where  the  playmate  lost,  lies  sleeping. 
Swing  no  more  on  the  back-yard  gate ; 
Noisy  tread  of  the  boyish  feet 
Heard  no  more  down  the  silent  street, 

Where  the  mother  lone  sits  weeping. 


MATTHEW  P.  DEADY 


Matthew  P.  Deady  135 

Each  dark  cloud  has  a  lining  bright; 
Sweet  morn  dawns  on  the  darkest  night ; 
Far  up  there,  in  the  mystic  light, 

Is  a  scene  for  grief  beguiling. 
Eyes  that  laugh  with  a  mischief  bold ; 
Fair  head  crowned  with  its  curls  of  gold ; 
Sweet  boy  face  of  the  four-year-old, 

Is  from  heaven's  window  smiling. 


Matthew  P.  Deady 

THE  AMERICAN  SETTLER. 

The  American  settler  was  always  animated— often  it 
may  have  been  unconsciously— with  the  heroic  thought 
that  he  was  pre-eminently  engaged  in  reclaiming  the 
wilderness — building  a  home — founding  an  American 
state  and  extending  the  area  of  liberty.  He  had  visions, 
however  dimly  seen,  that  he  was  here  to  do  for  this  coun- 
try what  his  ancestors  had  done  for  savage  England  cen- 
turies before— to  plant  a  community  which  in  due  time 
should  grow  and  ripen  into  one  of  the  great  sisterhood 
of  Anglo-American  states,  wherein  the  language  of  the 
Bible,  Shakespeare  and  Milton  should  be  spoken  by  mil- 
lions then  unborn,  and  the  law  of  Magna  Charta  and 
Westminster  Hall  be  the  bulwark  of  liberty  and  the  but- 
tress of  order  for  generations  to  come. 


William  P.  Lord 

EDUCATION. 

(Extract  from  Governor  William  P.  Lord's  Message  to 
the  Nineteenth  Regular  Session  of  the  Legislative  As- 
sembly of  Oregon.) 

COMMON  SCHOOLS. 

The  general  diffusion  of  knowledge  is  the  best  guar- 
anty of  the  stability  of  republican  institutions.  Their 
safety  and  prosperity  depend  on  the  spread  of  knowl- 
edge among  the  masses.  The  fact  is  now  recognized  that 
intelligence  in  communities  is  essential  to  social  progress 
and  political  reform,  is  conducive  to  sobriety  and  in- 
dustry, and  serves  to  establish  justice  and  promote  the 
public  interests.  As  a  means  of  disseminating  intelli- 
gence, our  common  schools  are  most  active  and  potent 
factors.  There  are  no  other  instrumentalities  compar- 
able with  them  for  the  accomplishment  of  this  object. 
They  seek  to  increase  the  general  average  of  human  in- 
telligence by  the  education  of  the  rising  generation,  and 
in  this  way  to  elevate  the  citizen  and  strengthen  the 
state.  The  state  cannot  neglect  its  educational  interests, 
without  loss  of  public  intelligence  and  detriment  to  its 
well  being. 

NORMAL  SCHOOLS. 

The  object  of  the  normal  schools  is  to  furnish  teachers 
for  our  common  schools.  The  scope  of  their  work  in- 
cludes special  instruction  in  those  branches  of  education 
which  are  taught  in  the  public  schools,  and  thorough 
training  in  the  science  of  teaching.  The  effect  of  their 
work,  when  successfully  prosecuted,  is  to  increase  the 
usefulness  of  the  teacher  and  elevate  the  standard  of 
our  public  schools.  Our  normal  schools  are  a  useful 
and  indispensable  adjunct  to  our  common  school  system. 


William  P.  Lord  137 

AGRICULTURAL  COLLEGE. 

It  is  the  life  and  prosperity  of  our  country  to  keep 
up  and  maintain  its  institutions,  dedicated  to  the  work 
of  education  in  all  its  departments,  to  their  utmost  ef- 
ficiency, although  it  may  require  some  expenditure  of 
the  public  revenue.  Our  people,  to  a  large  extent,  are 
engaged  in  agricultural  and  industrial  pursuits.  A 
sound,  practical  education  along  the  lines  of  these 
callings  or  vocations  is  a  need  of  our  people,  and  its 
benefits  to  the  state  cannot  be  overestimated.  To  fill 
this  want  is  the  object  of  our  Agricultural  College,  in 
our  educational  system.  Its  chief  end  and  aim  is  to  give 
its  students  a  thorough  agricultural  and  mechanical 
training,  as'  distinct  from  college  or  university  courses. 
It  is  a  different  education  in  its  practical  results  from  a 
university  education,  but  is  not  in  conflict  with  it.  In 
this  age  when  so  many  industrial  projects  require 
mechanical  or  scientific  education  for  their  management, 
the  Agricultural  College  affords  excellent  opportunities 
for  acquiring  such  an  education. 

UNIVERSITY. 

There  are  those  who  think  our  University  should  not  re- 
ceive financial  support,  while  there  are  others  who  think 
it  is  bad  policy  and  worse  economy  to  withhold  from  it 
any  needed  aid.  It  is  no  doubt  true  that  taxation  is  for 
the  general  benefit,  and  that  objects  of  f its  fostering  care 
should  conserve  the  public  good.  But  the  fact  that  com- 
paratively few  can  enjoy  the  University's  advantages 
is  not  conclusive  that  its  benefits  are  not  for  the  public 
welfare.  If  the  University  is  an  essential  part  of  our 
educational  system,  in  conducing  to  the  progress  and 
development  of  our  state,  and  to  the  prosperity  and  in- 
tellectual greatness  of  the  people,  it  is  of  general  benefit 
and  entitled  to  receive  public  support.  The  University 
aims  to  furnish  such  an  education  as  will  enable  those — 
always  the  few— who  possess  the  requisite  abilities,  to 
become  useful  citizens  and  leaders  of  thought  in  the  pro- 
fessions, in  statesmanship,  in  the  various  branches  of 
learning,  in  philanthrophy,  and  works  of  charity,  in  pro- 


138  Oregon  Literature 

moting  industrial  projects  and  conducting  commercial 
enterprises,  and  in  devising  methods  for  the  moral  and 
political  advancement  of  the  people.  Its  existence  is  due 
to  recognition  of  the  fact  that  the  state  needs  captains 
in  every  department  of  life,  affecting  human  happiness 
and  welfare,  and  that,  as  a  means  to  this  end,  it  should 
provide  an  institution  whose  course  of  study  would  lay 
the  foundation  to  supply  them. 


S.  F.  Chadwick 

A  MAY  DAY  IN  OREGON. 

Nature  smiling  through  her  rills,  streams,  hills,  valleys 
and  mountains,  greets  us  this  morning  and  welcomes  us 
to  partake  of  her  bountiful  hospitality.  How  beautiful 
she  is.  Clothed  in  her  attractive  habiliaments  of  spring  -, 
in  her  tender,  strong,  but  gracious  reproduction  of  every- 
thing in  her  kingdom  for  the  sustenance  of  man.  Here 
are  flowers  of  every  hue  and  description,  filling  the  air 
with  fragrance;  the  woods  and  forests  are  made  attrac- 
tive by  the  shrill  notes  of  nature's  sweet  songsters. 
Spring,  in  all  her  beauty,  like  hope  in  its  innocent  full- 
ness, charms  as  it  possesses  us,  filling  us  with  the  promise 
of  offerings  the  mind  craves,  and  bespeaks  the  approach 
of  an  abundant  harvest  for  our  physical  well-being;  a 
season  of  plenty  for  the  husbandman,  his  fields,  flocks 
and  herds ;  a  season  in  which,  .wilh  a  light  heart,  he  may 
go  forth  to  the  hills,  valleys  and  fields  and  welcome  this 
plenteous  outpouring  from  the  liberal  hand  of  the  Great 
Giver  of  all  things. 


Samuel  A.  Clarke 

Samuel  A.  Clarke,  author  of  the  following  poems, 
arrived  in  Oregon,  from  Ohio,  in  1850.  He  edited  the 
Oregonian  during  the  last  year  of  the  war.  He  pub- 
lished the  Salem  Statesman  in  '68;  after  disposing  of 
his  interest  in  that  journal,  he  purchased  the  Willamette 
Farmer  in  company  with  D.  W.  Craig.  He  now  lives 
in  Washington,  D.  C.  The  Native  Son  Magazine  once 
said  of  Mn  Clarke:  "Since  '62  he  has  commanded  an 
enviable  reputation  as  a  writer.  Hris  descriptive  articles 
have  received  highest  praise,  his  articles  on  history  un- 
excelled, and  his  verse  liked  by  all  who  care  for  rhyme. ' ' 

LIFE. 

There's  nothing  sadder  than  the  years 

That  have  no  useful  trend; 
There's  naught  that  weakens  like  the  tears 

The  heart  cannot  defend; 
There's  nothing  fainter  than  the  hope 

That  has  no  polar  star, 
Nor  narrower  than  must  be  the  scope 

That  reaches  out  too  far. 

The  springtime's  bud  will  end  in  bloom, 

Will  burst  and  be  the  rose; 
The  early  summer's  rare  perfume 

Is  born  of  winter  snows. 
The  harvest-time's  uncounted  wealth— 

The  autumn's  bend  of  fruit— 
Teach  how  the  winter  works  by  stealth 

When  nature  seems  so  mute. 

And  ever,  as  the  dawning  glows, 

The  morning  star  grows  dim 
Beside  the  ray  the  sun  god  throws 

Across  the  mountain's  brim. 


140  Oregon  Literature 

We  lose  the  lesser  in  the  great— 

The  day  is  fairly  won 
When  all  the  heaven,  consecrate, 

Worships  the  risen  sun. 

By  love  and  faith,  and  hope  and  light, 

The  bud,  the  leaf,  the  flower— 
The  winter's  trust,  the  spring's  delight, 

The  summer's  fruiting  hour— 
These  make  the  full  and  rounded  year, 

And  years  make  life  supreme, 
Through  which  we  know  the  smile,  the  tear ; 

To  sow,  to  reap,  to  dream. 

BY  THE  WAYSIDE. 

I  gathered  some  weeds  by  the  wayside— 
Weeds  that  had  blossomed  to  flowers- 
Sweet  clovers,  late  daisies  and  goldenrods— 

New  bathed  by  the  midsummer  showers : 
As  I  did  it  the  flash  of  the  lightning 
Lent  its  glow  to  the  evening  hours. 

I  grouped  them  with  red  of  the  clover 
Contrasting  with  daisies  white; 

The  goldenrod's  glow  bending  over 
Like  flashes  of  lightning  flight; 

Any  eye  then  could  discover 
They  made  a  bouquet  of  delight. 

What  then  to  do  with  this  bloom-life, 
Thus  gathered  by  idling  hands7? 

In  the  great  city  halls  was  a  fair  one 
Sat  waiting  for  fate's  commands ; 

I  gave  them  to  her,  and  she  twined  them 
In  the  midst  of  her  sun-gold  bands. 

They  had  beauty  enough  mid  the  stray  ings 
That  grew  by  the  tangled  wayside; 

They  shone  with  bright  look  as  the  playings 
And  flashes  of  lightnings  betide; 

But  twined  in  her  tresses  betrayed  there 
The  charm  of  her  own  grace  and  pride. 


Samuel  A.  Clarke  141 

The  fragrance  and  bloom  of  the  wildwood 
Have  ever  known  charm  for  us  all ; 

The  wandering  footsteps  of  childhood 
May  gather  them  ere  they  fall ; 

But  supremer  graces  of  womanhood 
Hold  even  the  wild  flower  in  thrall. 

SNOW  DROP  MEMORIES. 

It  was  on  the  twenty-third  of  February,  1892,  the  fortieth 
anniversary  of  our  wedding1  day.  that  I  came  from  the  orchard 
and  having1  staid  at  the  old  home  over  night,  started  to  go  to 
Portland,  at  early  day,  when  I  saw,  under  the  'bay  window,  a 
bunch  of  snow  drops  in  bloom,  that  had  been  planted  "by  my 
wife  many  years  "before.  She  had  been  dead  three  years.  I 
gathered  several  and  that  evening,  as  retiring  at  the  Esmond, 
I  sat  on  the  -bed's  edge  and  wrote  the  following  verse: 

Years,  many  a  one, 

Have  come  and  gone : 
Their  fears,  their  hopes  have  sped : 

Since  in  life's  down, 

In  yonder  town, 
With  holy  vows  we  wed. 

Our  hopes  were  high 

As  she  and  I 
Made  home  upon  this  hill: 

In  sunny  hours 

She  planted  flowers. 
That  tell  me  of  her  still. 

As  March  winds  sweep 

Her  snow  drops  peep 
Through  drifts  of  fallen  leaves: 

They  love  to  bloom 

When  winter's  gloom 
Is  nursing  harvest  sheaves. 

Does  she  who  trod 

This  garden  sod 
To  tend  the  tiny  flower, 

Transplanted  to 

Scenes  ever  new 
Forget  her  evening  hour? 


142  Oregon  Literature 

iTie  city's  hum 
Since  then  has  come— 

It  climbs  the  hill  today: 
Our  young  have  flown — 
They  seek  their  own : 

My  locks  are  turned  to  grey. 

The  old  home  spot 

Is  near  forgot— 
'Tis  lonely;    she's  not  here; 

But  snow  drops  still 

Bloom  on  the  hill 
As  March  winds  bring  them  cheer 

Soon  hyacinths 

And  tulips  tints 
Of  purple,  pearl  and  gold, 

On  this  parterre 

Will  grace  confer 
And  all  spring's  hues  unfold. 

And,  later  still 

The  daffodil, 
The  lilac,  and  the  rose, 

Will— one  by  one— 

To  warmer  sun 
Give  greeting :    But  who  knows, 

If  that  fond  hand, 
At  whose  command 

This  spot  to  beauty  grew, 
In  fairer  sphere 
Than  we  know  here, 

Tends  flowers  earth  never  knew. 


Lischen    M.    Miller 

THE  HAUNTED  LIGHT. 

AT  NEWPORT  BY  THE  SEA. 


Situated  at  Yaquina,  on 
the  coast  of  Oregon,  is  an 
old,  deserted  lighthouse. 
It  stands  upon  a  prom- 
ontory that  juts  out  di- 
viding the  bay  from  the 
ocean,  and  is  exposed  to 
every  wind  that  blows. 
Its  weather-beaten  walls 
are  wrapped  in  mystery. 
Of  an  afternoon  when  the 
fog  comes  drifting  in  from 
1  he  sea  and  completely  en- 
velopes the  lighthouse  and 
then  stops  in  its  course 
as  if  its  object  had  been 
attained,  it  is  the  lone- 
liest place  in  the  world. 
At  such  times  those  who 
chance  to  be  in  the  vicin- 
ity hear  a  moaning  sound 
like  the  cry  of  one  in  pain, 
and  sometimes  a  frenzied 
call  for  help  pierces  the 
death-like  stillness  of  the 
waning  day.  Far  out  at 
sea,  ships  passing  in  the 
night  are  often  guided  in 
their  course  by  a  light 
that  gleams  from  the  lan- 
tern-tower where  no  lamp 
is  ever  trimmed. 


144  Oregon  Literature 

In  the  days  when  Newport  was  but  a  handful  of 
cabins,  roughly  built,  and  flanked  by  an  Indian  camp, 
across  the  bar  there  sailed  a  sloop,  grotesquely  rigged 
and  without  a  name.  The  arrival  of  a  vessel  was  a  rare 
event,  and  by  the  time  the  stranger  had  dropped  anchor 
abreast  the  village  the  whole  population  were  gathered 
on  the  strip  of  sandy  beach  to  welcome  her.  She  was 
manned  by  a  swarthy  crew,  and  her  skipper  was  a 
beetle-browed  ruffian  with  a  scar  across  his  cheek  from 
mouth  to  ear.  A  boat  was  lowered,  and  in  it  a  man 
about  forty  years  of*  age,  and  a  young  girl,  were  rowed 
ashore.  The  man  was  tall  and  dark,  and  his  manner 
and  speech  indicated  gentle  breeding.  He  explained 
that  the  sloop's  water  casks  were  emnty,  and  was  di- 
rected to  the  spring  that  poured  down  the  face  of  the 
yellow  sandstone  cliff  a  few  yards  up  the  beach.  Issu- 
ing instructions  in  some  heathenish,  unfamiliar  tongue 
to  the  boatmen,  he  devoted  himself  to  asking  and  an- 
swering questions.  The  sloop  was  bound  down  the  coast 
to  Coos  Bay.  She  had  encountered  rough  weather  off 
the  Columbia  River  bar,  and  had  been  driven  far  out  of 
her  course.  To  the  young  lady,  his  daughter,  the  voyage 
proved  most  trying.  She  was  not  a  good  sailor.  If, 
therefore,  accommodations  could  be  secured,  he  wished 
to  leave  her  ashore  until  the  return  of  the  sloop  a  fort- 
night later. 

The  landlady  of  the  "—  '  had  a  room  to  spare, 

and  by  the  time  the  water  casks  were  filled,  arrangements 
had  been  completed  which  resulted  in  the  transfer  of  the 
fair  traveler's  luggage  from  the  sloop  to  the  "hotel." 
The  father  bade  his  daughter  an  affectionate  adieu,  and 
was  rowed  back  to  ihe  vessel,  which  at  once  weighed 
anchor  and  sailed  away  in  1he  golden  dusk  of  the  sum- 
mer evening. 

Muriel,  that  was  the  name  she  gave,  Muriel  Trevenard, 
was  a  delicate-looking,  fair-haired  girl  still  in  her  teens, 
very  sweet  and  sunny-tempered.  She  seemed  to  take 
kindly  to  her  new  environment,  accepting  its  rude  in- 
conveniences as  a  matter  of  course,  1  hough  all  her  own 
belongings  testified  to  the  fact  that  she  was  accustomed 


Lischen  M.  Miller  145 

to  the  refinements  and  even  luxuries  of  civilization.  She 
spent  many  hours  each  day  idling  with  a  sketch  block 
and  pencil  in  the  grassy  hollow  in  the  hill,  seaward  from 
the  town,  so  well  known  to  pleasure-seekers  of  today,  or 
strolled  upon  the  beach  or  over  the  wind-swept  uplands. 
The  fortnight  lengthened  to  a  month  and  yet  no  sign 
of  the  sloop,  or  any  sail  rose  above  the  horizon  to 
southward- 

" You've  no  cause  to  worry,"  said  the  landlady. 
"Your  father's  safe  enough.  No  rough  weather  since 
he  sailed,  and  as  for  time— a  ship's  time  is  as  uncertain 
as  a  woman's  temper,  I've  heard  my  own  father  say." 

"Oh  I  am  not  anxious,"  replied  Muriel,  "not  in  the 
least." 

It  was  in  August  that  a  party  of  pleasure-seekers  came 
over  the  Coast  Range  and  pitched  their  tents  in  the 
grassy  hollow.  They  were  a  merry  company,  and  they 
were  not  long  in  discovering  Muriel. 

"Such  a  pretty  girl,"  exclaimed  Cora  May,  who  was 
herself  so  fair  that  she  could  afford  to  be  generous.  "I 
am  sure  she  does  not  belong  to  anybody  about  here.  We 
must  coax  her  to  come  to  our  camp." 

But  the  girl  needed  little  coaxing.  She  found  these 
light-hearted  young  people  a  pleasant  interruption,  and 
she  was  enthusiastically  welcomed  by  all,  young  and  old 
alike.  She  joined  them  in  their  ceaseless  excursions,  and 
made  one  of  the  group  that  gathered  nightly  around  the 
camp  fire.  There  was  one,  a  rather  serious-minded 
youth,  who  speedily  constituted  himself  her  cavalier.  He 
was  always  at  hand  to  help  her  into  the  boat,  to  bait  her 
hook  when  they  went  fishing,  and  to  carry  her  shawl, 
or  book  or  sketch  block,  and  she  accepted  these  attentions 
as  she  seemed  to  accept  all  else,  naturally  and  sweetly. 

The  Cape  Foulweather  light  had  just  been  completed, 
and  the  house  upon  the  bluff  above  Newport  was  de- 
serted. Some  members  of  the  camping  party  proposed 
one  Sunday  afternoon  that  they  pay  it  a  visit. 

"We  have  seen  everything  else  there  .is  to  see,"  re- 
marked Cora  May. 

"It  is  just  an  ordinary  house  with  a  lantern  on  top," 


146  Oregon  Literature 

objected  Muriel.    "You  can  get  a  good  view  of  it  from 
the  bay.    Besides  it  is  probably  locked  up." 

"Somebody  has  the  key.  We  can  soon  find  out  who," 
said  Harold  Welch.  "And  we  haven't  anything  else 
to  do." 

Accordingly  they  set  out  in  a  body  to  find  the  key. 
It  was  in  the  possession  of  the  landlady's  husband  who 
had  been  appointed  to  look  after  the  premises.  He  said 
he  had  not  been  up  there  lately,  and  seemed  surprised 
after  a  mild  fashion  that  any  one  should  feel  an  interest 
in  an  empty  house,  but  he  directed  them  how  to  reach  it. 

' l  You  go  up  that  trail  to  the  top  of  the  hill  and  you  '11 
strike  the  road,  but  you  won't  find  anything  worth 
seeing  after  you  get  there.  It  aint  anywhere  like  the 
new  light." 

With  much  merry  talk  and  laughter  they  climbed  the 
hill  and  found  the  road,  a  smooth  and  narrow  avenue 
overshadowed  by  dark,  young  pines  winding  along  the 
hill-top  to  the  rear  of  the  house. 

It  stood  in  a  small  enclosure  bare  of  vegetation.  The 
sand  was  piled  in  little  wind-swept  heaps  against  the 
board  fence.  There  was  a  walk  paved  with  brick,  lead- 
ing from  the  gate  around  to  the  front  where  two  or 
three  steps  went  up  to  a  square  porch  with  seats  on 
either  side.  Harold  Welch  unlocked  the  door,  and  they 
went  into  the  empty  hall  that  echoed  dismally  to  the 
sound  of  human  voices.  Rooms  opened  from  this  hall- 
way on  either  hand  and  in  the  "L"  at  the  back  were 
the  kitchen,  storerooms  and  pantry,  a  door  that  gave 
egress  to  a  narrow  veranda,  and  another  shutting  off 
the  cellar.  At  the  rear  of  the  hall  the  stairs  led  up  to 
the  second  floor,  which  was  divided  like  the  first  into 
plain,  square  rooms.  But  the  stairway  went  on,  winding 
up  to  a  small  landing  where  a  window  looked  out  to 
northward,  and  from  which  a  little  room,  evidently  a 
linen  closet,  opened  opposite  the  window.  There  was 
nothing  extraordinary  about  this  closet  at  the  first 
glance.  It  was  well  furnished  with  shelves  and  drawers, 
and  its  only  unoccupied  wall  space  was  finished  with 
a  simple  wainscoting. 

"Why,"  cried  one,  as  they  crowded  the  landing  and 


Lischen  M.  Miller  147 

overflowed  into  the  closet,  ' '  this  house  seems  to  be  falling 
to  pieces. ' '  He  pulled  at  a  section  of  the  wainscote  and 
it  came  away  in  his  hand.  "Hello!  what's  this?  Iron 
walls  ?" 

"It's  hollow,"  said  another,  tapping  the  smooth  black 
surface  disclosed  by  the  removal  of  the  panel. 

"So  it  is,"  cried  the  first  speaker.  "I  wonder  what's 
behind  it?  Why  it  opens!"  It  was  a  heavy  piece  of 
sheet  iron  about  three  feet  square.  He  moved  it  to  one 
side,  set  it  against  the  wall,  and  peered  into  the  aperture. 

"How  mysterious!"  exclaimed  Muriel,  leaning  for- 
ward to  look  into  the  dark  closet,  whose  height  and 
depth  exactly  corresponded  to  the  dimensions  of  the 
panel.  It  went  straight  back  some  six  or  eight  feet  and 
then  dropped  abruptly  into  what  seemed  a  soundless 
well.  One,  more  curious  than  the  rest,  crawled  in  and 
threw  down  lighted  bits  of  paper. 

"It  goes  to  the  bottom  of  the  sea,"  he  declared,  as  he 
backed  out  and  brushed  the  dust  from  his  clothes.  "Who 
knows  what  it  is,  or  why  it  was  built?" 

"Smugglers,"  suggested  somebody,  and  they  all 
laughed,  though  there  was  nothing  particularly  ^humor- 
ous in  the  remark.  But  they  were  strangely  nervous 
and  excited.  There  was  something  uncanny  in  the  at- 
mosphere of  this  deserted  dwelling  that  oppressed  them 
with  an  unaccountable  sense  of  dread.  They  hurried 
out,  leaving  the  dark  closet  open,  and  climbed  up  into 
the  lantern-tower  where  no  lamp  has  been  lighted  these 
many  years. 

The  afternoon,  which  had  been  flooded  with  sunshine, 
was  waning  in  a  mist  that  swept  in  from  the  sea  and 
muffled  the  world  in  dull  grey. 

"Let  us  go  home,"  cried  Cora  May.  "If  it  were  clear 
we  might  see  almost  to  China  from  this  tower,  but  the 
fog  makes  me  lonesome." 

So  they  clambered  down  the  iron  ladder  and  descend- 
ing the  stairs,  passed  out  through  the  lower  hall  into  the 
grey  fog.  Harold  Welch  stopped  to  lock  the  door,  and 
Muriel  waited  for  him  at  the  foot  of  the  steps.  The 
lock  was  rusty,  and  he  had  trouble  with  the  key.  By 


148  Oregon  Literature 

the  time  he  joined  her  the  rest  of  the  party  had  dis- 
appeared around  the  house. 

"You  are  kind  to  wait  for  me,"  said  he,  as  they 
caught  step  on  the  brick  pavement  and  moved  forward. 
But  Muriel  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"I  must  go  back,"  she  said.  "I— I— dropped  my 
handkerchief  in— the— hall  upstairs,  I  must  go  back  and 
get  it" 

They  remounted  the  steps,  and  Welch  unlocked  the 
door  and  let  her  pass  in.  But  when  he  would  have  fol- 
lowed, she  stopped  him  imperiously. 

"I  am  going  alone,"  she  said.  "You  are  not  to  wait. 
Lock  the  door  and  go  on.  I  will  come  out  through  the 
kitchen."  He  objected,  but  she  was  obstinate,  and, 
perhaps  because  her  lightest  wish  was  beginning  to  be 
his  law  of  life,  he  reluctantly  obeyed  her.  Again  the 
key  hung  in  the  lock.  This  time  it  took  him  several 
minutes  to  release  it.  When  he  reached  the  rear  of  the 
house  Muriel  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  He  called  her 
two  or  three  times  and  waited,  but,  receiving  no  reply, 
concluded  that  she  had- hurried  out  and  joined  the  rest, 
whose  voices  came  back  to  him  from  the  avenue  of  pines. 
She  had  been  nervous  and  irritable  all  the  afternoon, 
so  unlike  herself  that  he  had  wondered  more  than  once 
if  she  were  ill,  or  weary  of  his  close  attendance.  It  oc- 
curred to  him  now  that  possibly  she  had  taken  this  means 
to  rid  herself  of  his  company.  He  hurried  on,  for  it  was 
growing  cold,  and  the  fog  was  thickening  to  a  rain.  He 
had  just  caught  up  with  the  stragglers  of  the  party,  and 
they  were  beginning  to  chaff  him  at  being  alone,  when 
the  sombre  stillness  of  the  darkening  day  was  rent  by  a 
shriek  so  wild  and  wierd  that  they  who  heard  it  felt  the 
blood  freeze  suddenly  in  their  veins.  They  shrank  in- 
voluntarily closer  and  looked  at  each  other  with  blanched 
cheeks  and  startled  eyes.  Before  anyone  found  voice 
it  came  again.  This  time  it  was  a  cry  for  help,  thrice 
repeated  in  quick  succession. 

"Muriel!  Where  is  Muriel?"  demanded  Welch,  his 
heart  leaping  in  sudden  fear. 

' '  Why  you  ought  to  know, ' '  cried  Cora  May.  ' '  We  left 
her  with  you," 


Lischen  M.  Miller  149 

They  hurried  toward  the  deserted  house. 

"She  went  back  to  get  her  handkerchief,"  explained 
Welch.  ' '  She  told  me  not  to  wait,  and  I  locked  the  door 
and  came  on." 

"Locked  her  in  that  horrid  place?  Why  did  you  do 
it  ?"  'exclaimed  Cora,  indignantly. 

' '  She  said  she  would  come  out  by  way  of  the  kitchen, ' ' 
replied  he. 

"She  could  not.  The  door  is  locked,  and  the  key  is 
broken  off  in  the  lock, ' '  said  another.  ' '  I  noticed  it  when 
we  were  rummaging  around  in  there." 

They  began  to  call  encouragingly,  ""Muriel,  we  are 
coming.  Don't  be  afraid."  But  they  got  no  reply. 

"Oh  let  us  hurry,"  urged  Cora,  "perhaps  she  has 
fainted  with  fright." 

In  a  very  few  minutes  they  were  pouring  into  the 
house  and  looking  and  calling  through  the  lower  rooms. 
Then  upstairs,  and  there,  upon  the  floor  in  the  upper 
chamber,  where  the  grey  light  came  in  through  the  un- 
curtained windows,  they  found  a  .pool  of  warm,  red 
blood.  There  were  blood  drops  in  the  hall  and  on  the 
stairs  that  led  up  to  the  landing,  and  in  the  linen  closet 
they  picked  up  a  blood-stained  handkerchief.  But  there 
was  nothing  else.  The  iron  door  had  been  replaced,  and 
the  panel  in  the  wainscote  closed,  and  try  as  they  might, 
they  could  not  open  it.  They  were  confronted  by  an 
'apparent  tragedy,  appalled  by  a  fearful  mystery,  and 
they  could  do  nothing.  They  returned  to  the  village 
and  gave. the  alarm,  and  re-enforced,  came  back  and  re- 
newed the  hopeless  search  with  lanterns.  They  ran- 
sacked the  house  again  and  again  from  tower  to  cellar. 
They  scoured  the  hills  in  the  vain  delusion  that  she 
might  have  escaped  from  the  house  and  wandered  off  in 
the  fog.  But  they  found  nothing,  nor  ever  did,  save  the 
blood  drops  on  the  stairs  and  the  little  handkerchief. 

"It  will  be  a  dreadful  blow  to  her  father,"  remarked 
the  landlady  of  the  "  -  - . "  "  I  don 't  want  to  be  the 
one  to  break  it  to  him."  And  she  had  her  wish,  for 
the  sloop  nor  any  of  its  crew  ever  again  sailed  into 
Yaquina  Bay.  As  time  went  by,  the  story  was  forgotten 
by  all  but  those  who  joined  in  that  weary  search  for  the 


150  Oregon  Literature 

missing  girl.  But  to  this  day  it  is  said  the  blood-stains 
are  dark  upon  the  floor  in  that  upper  chamber.  And 
one  there  was  who  carried  the  little  handkerchief  next 
to  his  heart  till  the  hour  of  his  own  tragic  death.— 
Pacific  Monthly  Magazine. 


Geo.  L.  Curry 

TROUBLE. 

With  aching  hearts  we  strive  to  bear  our  trouble, 

Though  some  surrender  to  the  killing  pain; 
Life's  harvest  fields  are  full  of  wounding  stubble, 

To  prove  the  goodness  of  the  gathered  grain. 
With  aching  hearts  we  struggle  on  in  sorrow, 

Seeking  some  comfort  in  our  sorest  need; 
The  dismal  day  may  have  a  bright  tomorrow, 

And  all  our  troubles  be  as  "precious  seed." 
As  precious  seed  within  the  heart's  recesses, 

To  germinate  and  grow  to  fruitage  rare, 
Of  patience,  love,  hope,  faith  and  all  that  blesses, 

And  forms  the  burden  of  our  daily  prayer. 
With  aching  heart  we  cling  to  heaven's  evangels, 

The  beautiful,  the  good,  the  true,  the  pure, 
Communing  with  us  always  like  good  angels, 

Tp  help  us  in  the  suffering  we  endure. 
Indeed,  to  suffer  and  sustain  afflictions 

Is  the  experience  which  we  all  acquire; 
Our  tribulations  <ire  the  harsh  restrictions 

To  consummations  we  so  much  desire. 
With  aching  hearts  life's  battle  still  maintaining, 

The  pain,  the  grief,  and  death  we  comprehend, 
As  issues  we  accept  without  complaining, 

So  weary  are  we  for  the  end. 
Alas!  so  weary,  longing  for  the  ending, 

For  that  refreshing  rest— that  precious  peace, 
That  common  heritage,  past  comprehending, 

When  all  the  heart-aches  shall  forever  cease. 


Dr.  Thomas  Condon 

~  Of  all  men  Dr.  Thomas  Condon,  author  of  "The  Two 
Islands, ' '  has  without  doubt  accumulated  the  largest 
fund  of  information  touching  the  geology  of  Oregon. 
For  a  third  of  a  century  and  more  this  apostle  of  science 
has  been  steadily  exploring  mountain  and  valley  and 
plain  gleaning  knowledge,  and  has  traversed  every  Ore- 
gon shore,  examining  the  old  sea-banks  for  the  strata 
that  lie  one  above  the  other  like  so  many  unfolded 
scrolls— scrolls  on  which  strange  things  have  been 
written  by  an  unseen  hand— age-marked  scrolls  which 
speak  of  the  works  and  show  the  finger  prints  of  Father 
Time.  As  a  reward  of  patient  research  science  has  re- 
vealed to  this  student  of  nature  the  marvelous  story  of 
Oregon  reaching  back  countless  centuries  before  the  land 
was  visited  by  man.  And  the  narrative,  scientific  but 
simple,  has  been  produced  in  a  volume  in  a  style  that 
appeals  alike  to  the  learned  and  to  the  unlearned ;  young 
and  old.  Only  in  the  one  book  is  it  given;  but  it  is 
told  so  fully,  it  is  safe  to  assert,  one's  knowledge  of  Ore- 
gon cannot  be  said  to  be  complete  till  he  has  read  the 
story  of  "The  Two  Islands"  as  written  by  Doctor 
Condon. 

THE  DEVELOPMENT  THEORY. 
AN  EXTRACT. 

But  a  few  years  ago  light,  heat,  electricity,  chemical 
reactions  and  mechanical  motion  were  supposed  to  be 
due  to  entirely  separate  acts  of  creation.  It  is  now 
clearly  seen  that  these  and  other  physical  forces  are 
only  separate  links  of  one  chain  of  underlying  natural 
force.  It  is  demonstrated,  that  nothing  of  this  under- 
lying force  is  ever  wasted.  The  motion  of  a  mill,  of  an 
arm,  of  a  steam  engine,  occurs  because  heat  or  some 
other  link  of  the  chain  is  changed  into  motion.  The 


152  Oregon  Literature 

motion  thus  created  expands  itself  by  becoming  again 
heat  or  electricity  or  some  other  form  of  the  same  chain 
of  forces.  Nothing  of  all  this  is  now  made  or  destroyed, 
not  even  wasted. 

These  things  are  now  the  commonplace  facts  of  sci- 
ence. The  natural  effect  of  them  on  human  thought 
would  be,  that  whereas  we  once  thought  God  creaccd 
light  alone,  we  now  know  he  must  have  created  a  wider 
fact  of  which  light  is  only  a  part.  And  with  scientific 
Christians  this  was  the  only  effect  the  change  produced. 
Would  that  it  had  been  left  to  this ! 

How  this  view  of  the  truth  could  lessen  anyone's 
adoring  reverence  of  the  Infinite  Source  of  all  this  wider 
force  and  pro  founder  power  is  difficult  to  understand ; 
that  it  should  carry  with  it  a  tendency  to  atheism  is  in- 
credible, for  somewhere  in  the  long  chain  of  sequences 
the  Creator's  power  must  come  in.  The  normal  effect 
upon  our  belief  would  be  expressed  by  such  a  statement 
as  this:  "I  once  believed  God  created  a  small  fact]  I 
now  see  he  must  have  created  a  whole  system  of  facts 
at  once." 

This  tendency  to  wider,  more  generalized  facts  is  the 
one  characteristic  of  recent  scientific  experiments.  Our 
thoughts  must  be  adjusted  to  this  current  of  things  if 
we  would  keep  our  theology  a  working  power  among  men. 

Still  more  plainly  is  this  wider  generalization  marked 
in  the  domain  of  chemistry.  In  chemistry,  as  in  other 
departments  of  science,  experiments  continually  reveal 
other  and  wider  facts  and  forces  underlying  our  surface 
ones. 

The  discoveries  of  late  years  through  the  use  of  the 
spectroscope  have  added  greatly  to  this  conviction.  These 
show  that  the  distant  stars  are  composed  of  chemical 
elements  like  those  of  our  own  earth.  This  certainly 
gives  one  a  sufficiently  generalized  idea  of  the  nature  of 
the  materials  out  of  which  sun,  moon  and  planets  are 
made.  If  we  consider  these  materials  as  we  find  them 
in  the  rocks  around  us.  we  shall  find  evidence  enough  of 
development  from  single  elements  to  complex  combina- 
tions. 

As  a  surface  fact  nothing  can  be  more  simple  than  a 


Henry  H.  Woodward  153 

piece  of  chalk,  yet  if  you  examine  it  closely  you  will 
find  its  simplicity  to  vanish  and  in  the  place  of  that 
simplicity  a  most  complex  combination  of  chemistry,  his- 
tory and  mineralogy.  It  tells  of  the  lowly  life  of  a 
company  of  animals  existing  in  the  deep  regions  of  the 
ocean,  milleniums  ago,  extracting  the  carbonate  of  lime 
from  the  waters  around  them  and  through  the  wonderful 
chemical  forces  of  life  converting  this  lime  carbonate 
into  bony  skeletons  which  on  the  death  of  the  animals 
were  consigned  to  the  deep  oozy  bed  of  the  ocean  to 
become  chalk.  It  tells  of  a  subsequent  elevation  of  tnis 
ancient  chalk  bed  into  a  mountain  mass  of  a  neighboring 
continent.  How  far  from  simple,  either  in  time,  in  place 
or  in  chemistry,  is  this  strange  mixture  of  rock  and  of 
history ! 

Yet  you  may  say  of  this  piece  of  chalk,  '  *  God  created 
it."    So  he  did,  but  how?    Evidently  by  a  long  process 
of  development  from  simpler  elements  of  time,  force  and 
material,  to  what  you  now  find  it. 
i 


Henry  H.  Woodward 

Near  where  the  Umpquas  meet,  "the  veteran  soldier- 
poet,"  Henry  H.  Woodward,  has  pitched  his  tent  and 
sung  his  song.  Quiet,  homelike  and  peaceful  are  his 
haunts;  sweet,  tender  and  serene  his  song.  A  half 
century  of  travel  and  war  and  touch  with  men  rings  in 
the  "Lyrics  of  the  Umpqua."  The  spirit  of  his  song  is 
love  and  friendship  and  religion  as  influenced  by  the 
land  and  the  sea ;  and  he  records  a  memorial  to  many  a 
friend  who  lives  in  poetry  but  not  in  the  history  of  men. 
It  is  true  that  he  is  neither  a  Shakespeare,  a  Milton,  nor 
a  Byron,  but  his  writings  prove  to  us  that  he  has  a  good 
heart,  that  he  upholds  the  right,  and  speaks  a  cheery 
word  to  every  fellow  traveler ;  hence  we  sit  down  content 
edly  under  his  melodies,  little  regarding  the  strain  of  his 
song  or  the  march  of  its  music. 


Mrs.  S.  Watson  Hamilton 

On  taking  up  a  volume  of  Byron,  the  careful  reader 
will  feel  that  the  author  had  chosen  Edmund  Spenser 
as  his  model.  And  while  some  of  the  proofs  for  his 
opinion  may  be  so  subtle  as  to  baffle  analysis,  yet  the 
inevitable  conclusion  will  the  that  he  is  correct.  So,  in 
reading  "The  Angel  of  the  Covenant"  for  the  first  time, 
the  reader  will  feel  that  the  authoress  has  taken  Milton 
as  her  model,  developed  a  theme,  and  then  written  the 
book  with  her  Bible  on  her  knee.  "The  Angel  of  the 
Covenant"  is  probably  the  longest  religious  epic  written 
in  Oregon.  The  peculiar  nature  of  the  subject  and 
the  lengthy  treatment  given  it  has  destined  the  poem 
to  resemble  the  "Paradise  Lost,"  in  that  its  number  of 
admirers  will  probably  exceed  its  number  of  readers.  It 
is  not  at  all  presumptuous  to  assert  that  the  poem  will 
live  a  century ;  hence  it  must  be  a  satisfaction  to  believe 
that  one's  writings  will  go  on  preaching  some  immortal 
truth  to  the  children  of  men  long  after  the  author  has 
finished  her  work. 

Throughout  the  poem  Mrs.  Hamilton  deals  with  stern 
religious  truths  as  eloquent  facts,  and  exhibits  a  de- 
votional spirit  directed  by  that  wisdom  that  comes  from 
philosophy  and  interpretation;  her  poems  are  therefore 
intellectual.  She  rarely  alludes  to  nature,  but,  if  she  w,ere 
to  enjoy  a  bouquet  of  flowers,  she  would  revel  in  their 
variety,  arrangement  and  beauty,  and  be  delighted  with 
their  fragrance,  which  would  be  poetical;  unconsciously 
she  might  go  a  step  further  and  ask  why  are  they  beau- 
tiful. This  would  still  be  poetical.  But  when  she  begins 
to  analyze  their  aromas  to  ascertain  the  kinds  and  the 
proportion  of  each  that  pleases  her  she  enters  a  realm 
of  investigation  which  causes  most  minds  to  think  so 
intensely  that  the  heart  loses  its  opportunity  to  feel. 


E.  S.  McComas  155 

Hence,  at  times  the  poem  becomes  somewhat  metaphysi- 
cal, and  consequently  appreciated  by  those  who  read  it 
more  as  mental  than  as  spiritual  food.  It  is  worthy  of 
a  place  on  the  center  table  of  every  Oregon  home  where 
religious  thought  is  given. 


E.  S.  McComas 

THE  OLD  PIONEERS. 

They  have  come  from  the  valley,  and  from  the  mountains 

down, 
They  are  gathered  from  the  country,  from  the  city  and 

the  town, 
They  came  to  swap  reminiscences  of  time  now  on  the 

wane, 
Of  the  anxious  months  of  dangers,  of  ''the  trip  across 

the  plains." 
Their  ranks  are   getting  thinner  and  their  forms   are 

bending  low, 
Their  eyes  are  growing  dimmer  and  their  locks  are  white 

as  snow, 

Give  them  every  comfort,  tho '  they  carry  well  their  years, 
They  are  grand  old  men  and  women,  these  "Old  Pio- 


Let  their  annual  reunions  continue  ever  on 

Until  the  last  old  pilgrim  among  them  is  gone ! 

They  have  sown  the  golden  wheat  where  the  camas  once 
did  grow, 

And  the  palace  car  now  follows  the  trail  the  pack  mule 
used  to  go. 

The  school  house  takes  the  place  of  the  Indian  "Wick- 
eyup," 

And  they  who  wrought  the  change  deserve  the  "Golden 
Cup." 

Scatter  flowers  in  their  pathway,  adown  declining  years, 

They  are  grand  old  men  and  women,  these  "Old  Pio- 
neers. ' ' 


Blanche  Fearing 


All  peoples  have  had  their  blind  bards  who  gave  the 
world  some  message  that  was  withheld  from  those  "who 
having  eyes  yet  see  not";  and  we  say  this  is  a  Homer 
who  inspired  the  soldiery  of  the  world,  or  an  Ossian  who 
made  Scottish  legends  more  precious,  or  a  Milton  who 
"undertook  what  no  man  ought  to  have  undertaken,  and 
did  with  it  what  no  other  man  could  have  done"— de- 
scribed heaven.  It  would  be  presumptuous  to  claim  that 
we  have  had  either  of  these,  but  we  have  had  a  blind 
poetess  who  like  a  comet  swept  suddenly  across  our  orbit. 
Her  name  was  Lilian  Blanche  Fearing.  No  one  knew 
whence  she  came  or  whither  she  went ;  but  some  time  in 
the  quiet  City  of  Rosburg  she  learned  of  a  sleeping 
infant  and  left  these  lines,  which  may  be  found  in  her 
book  entitled  "The  Sleeping  World": 


LET  HIM  SLEEP. 

Oh,  do  not  wake  the  little  one, 
With  flowing  curl  upon  his  face, 

Like  strands  of  light  dropped  from  the  sun, 
And  mingled  there  in  golden  grace ! 

Oh,  tell  him  not  the  moments  run 

Through  life's  frail  fingers  in  swift  chase! 
'  *  Let  him  sleep,  let  him  sleep  ! ' ' 

There  cometh  a  day  when  light  is  pain, 
When  he  will  lean  his  head  away, 

And  sunward  hold  his  palm,  to  gain 
A  respite  from  the  glare  of  day; 
For  no  fond  lip  will  smile,  and  say, 
"Let  him  sleep,  let  him  sleep  !" 


B.  J.  Hawthorne  157 

Hush!  hush!  wake  not  the  child! 

Just  now  a  light  shone  from  within, 
And  through  his  lips  an  angel  smiled, 

Too  fresh  from  heaven  for  grief  to  win ; 
Oh,  children  are  God's  undefiled, 

Too  fresh  from  heaven  to  dream  of  sin ! 
"Let  him  sleep,  let  him  sleep !" 


B.  J.  Hawthorne 

UNIVERSAL  EDUCATION. 

When  many  people  at  the  same  time  manifest  great 
interest  in  an  object,  a  strong  current  of  popular  opinion 
sets  in  towards  that  object— an  irresistible  current. 
When  the  balance  of  ignorance  in  a  community  is  greater 
than  the  balance  of  knowledge,  it  is  certainly  time  that 
the  current  should  be  formed.  Yes,  even  before  the 
community  begins  to  suffer  for  want  of  knowledge. 

The  interest  manifested  in  education  by  this  country 
is  an  indication  of  our  high  appreciation  of  1he  necessity 
and  benefits  of  schools.  The  schools  are  a  power  for 
good.  Whatever  a  citizen  can  do  to  aid  popular  educa- 
tion, aids  the  development  of  the  community  in  which 
he  lives ;  aids  it  materially  as  well  as  spiritually. 

I  would  beg  leave  to  state  tha4^  the  moral  and  intel- 
lectual welfare,  that  the  material  welfare  of  this  mighty 
Nation  is  in  the  hands  of  the  school  teachers — is  depend- 
ent upon  the  education  of  its  citizens. 

The  safety  of  our  republican  and  democratic  form  of 
government  will  be  found  in  universal  education.  It  is 
not  enough  to  teach  reading,  writing,  and  arithmetic,  but 
philosophy,  literature,  aesthetes  and  higher  culture  in 
all  the  branches  of  human  knowledge.  The  foundation  of 
our  educational  establishment  was  laid  on  a  rock  near 
the  Atlantic— additions  to  the  original  have  been  built 
until  now  it  reaches  the  far-off  Pacific.  May  the 
structure  rise  and  rise  until  it  reaches  heaven. 


Jesse  Applegate 

AN  EVENING  ON  THE  PLAINS. 

But  time  passes;  the  watch  is  set  for  the  night,  the 
council  of  the  old  men  has  broken  up,  and  each  has  re- 
turned to  his  own  quarter.  The  flute  has  whispered  its 
last  lament  to  the  deepening  night.  The  violin  is  silent, 
and  the  dancers  have  dispersed.  Enamored  youth  have 
whispered  a  tender  "good  night"  in  the  ear  of  blushing 
maidens,  or  stolen  a  kiss  from  the  lips  of  some  future 
bride— for  Cupid  here  as  elsewhere  has  been  busy  bring- 
ing together  congenial  hearts,  and  among  these  simple 
people  he  alone  is  consulted  in  forming  the  marriage  tie. 
Even  the  doctor  and  the  pilot  have  finished  their  con- 
fidential interview  and  have  separated  for  ihe  night.  All 
is  hushed  and  repose  from  the  fatigues  of  the  day,  save 
the  vigilant  guard,  and  the  wakeful  leader  who  still  has 
cares  upon  his  mind  that  forbid  sleep. 

He  hears  the  ten  o'clock  relief  taking  pest  and  the 
"all  well"  report  of  the  returning  guard;  the  night 
deepens,  yet  he  seeks  not  the  needed  repose.  At  length 
a  sentinel  hurries  to  him  with  the  welcome  report  that 
a  party  is  approaching— as  yet  too  far  away  for  its  char- 
acter to  be  determined,  and  he  instantly  hurries  out  in 
the  direction  seen.  This  he  does  both  from  inclination 
and  duty,  for  in  times  past  the  camp  had  been  unneces- 
sarily alarmed  by  timid  or  inexperienced  sentinels,  caus- 
ing much  confusion  and  fright  amongst  women  and 
children,  and  it  had  been  made  a  rule,  that  all  extra- 
ordinary incidents  of  the  night  should  be  reported 
directly  to  the  pilot,  who  alone  had  the  authority  to  call 
out  the  military  strength  of  the  column,  or  so  much  of  it 
as  was  in  his  judgment  necessary  to  prevent  a  stampede 
or  repel  an  enemy. 

Tonight  he  is  at  no  loss  to  determine  that  the  ap- 
proaching party  are  our  missing  hunters,  and  that  they 


Singer  Hermann  159 

have  met  with  success,  and  he  only  waits  until  by  some 
further  signal  he  can  know  that  no  ill  has  happened  to 
them.  This  is  not  long  wanting.  He  does  not  even  await 
their  arrival,  but  the  last  care  of  the  day  being  removed, 
and  the  last  duty  performed,  he  too  seeks  the  rest  that 
will  enable  him  to  go  through  the  same  routine  tomorrow. 
But  here  I  leave  him,  for  my  task  is  also  done,  and, 
unlike  his,  it  is  to  be  repeated  no  more. 


Binger  Hermann 

The  following  extract  was  taken  from  Binger  Her- 
mann's address  upon  "The  Life  and  Character  of  the 
Hon.  Charles  Crisp,  Late  Speaker  of  the  House  of  Rep- 
resentatives ' ' : 

"Like  the  spire  on  some  lofty  cathedral  seen  at  close 
view,  when  neither  its  true  height  nor  its  majestic  pro- 
portions can  be  accurately  measured,  so  is  ex-Speaker 
Crisp,  in  according  to  him  his  just  place  in  history  in  so 
brief  a  period  after  his  death.  His  splendid  life  work 
will  shine  forth  in  even  greater  luster  as  time  goes  on, 
for  then  the  mists  which  more  or  less  obscure  every  active, 
ambitious  genius,  surrounded  by  enmities  and  personal 
antagonisms,  will  have  faded  away,  and  expose  to  view 
the  intrinsic  worth  and  the  perfect  symmetry,  the 
strength  and  beauty  of  this  well-balanced  life. ' ' 

Again  he  says : 

"The  light  of  our  friend  was  extinguished  while  it 
was  yet  day— yea,  at  high  noon.  He  was  still  in  the 
midst  of  his  usefulness,  and  no  premonition  pointed  out 
the  untimely  end.  The  summons  came,  and  the  work  was 
done.  It  is  difficult  to  realize  thaf  this  is  true.  Do  we 
comprehend  the  uncertainty  of  life?  Is  it  so  frail?  We 
hear  the  answer  in  the  expiring  breath  and  see  it  in  the 
open  grave.  It  leaves  an  admonition  to  us  all:  'Do 
thy  work  today;  for  thee  there  may  be  no  tomorrow/ 
May  we  not  hope  that  if  not  here  there  may  be  that  to- 
morrow in  the  celestial  realms,  'in  that  temple  not  made 
with  hands,  eternal  in  the  hea,vens?'  " 


J.  Quinn  Thornton 

Born  March  24,  1810,  near  Point  Pleasant,  Mason 
County,  Virginia.  With  his  parents  he  moved  to  Cham- 
paign County,  Ohio,  in  infancy.  Educated  at  the  Uni- 
versity of  Virginia,  studied  law,  and  admitted  to  prac- 
tice. Removed  to  Palmyra,  Marion  County,  Missouri,  in 
1835,  where  he  taught  school,  practiced  law,  and  for  a 
short  time  edited  a  political  paper.  March  8,  1833, 
married  Nancy  M.  Kogue  at  Hannibal,  Missouri,  end 
removed  to  Quincy,  Illinois,  where  he  practiced  law. 
Came  to  Oregon  in  1846.  Judge  of  the  Supreme  Court 
under  the  Provisional  Government  of  Oregon.  Was  ap- 
pointed by  Governor  Abernethy  a  commissioner  to  go  to 
Washington  to  urge  upon  Congress  the  necessity  of 
providing  a  territorial  government  for  the  Pacific  North- 
west, and  drew  up  the  bill  extending  the  jurisdiction  of 
the  United  States  over  the  Oregon  country.  Wrote  a 
book  entitled  "Oregon  and  California."  Died  in  Salem 
Sunday  night,  February  5,  1888,  and  buried  in  Lee 
Mission  Cemetery,  where  his  body  lies  in  an  unmarked 
grave. 

A  GRAVE  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

A  humble  grave  was  dug  under  the  spreading  boughs 
of  a  venerable  oak,  and  there  the  remains  were  followed 
by  a  silent,  thoughtful  and  solemn  company  of  emigrants, 
thus  so  forcibly  reminded  that  they  too  were  travelers  to 
that  land  ' '  from  whose  bourne  there  is  no  return. ' '  The 
minister  improved  the  occasion  to  deliver  to  us  an  im- 
pressive sermon  as  we  sat  around  that  new-made  grave 
in  the  wilderness,  so  well  calculated  to  impress  upon  the 
mind  the  incalculable  importance  of  seeking  another  and 
better  country,  where  there  is  no  sickness  and  no  death. 

I  had  often  witnessed  the  approach  of  Death;  some- 
times marking  his  progress  by  the  insidious  work  of  con- 
sumption; and,  at  others,  assailing  his  victim  in  a  less 
doubtful  manner.  I  had  seen  the  guileless  infant,  with 


Prince  L.  Campbell  161 

the  light  of  love  and  innocence  upon  its  face,  gradually 
fade  away,  like  a  beautiful  cloud  upon  1he  sky  melting 
into  the  dews  of  heaven,  until  it  disappeared  in  the  blue 
ethereal.  I  had  beheld  the  strong  man,  who  had  made 
this  world  all  his  trust,  struggling  violently  with  death, 
and  had  heard  him  exclaim  in  agony,  "I  will  not  die." 
And  yet  death  relinquished  not  his  tenacious  grasp  upon 
his  victim.  The  sound  of  the  hammer  and  the  plane  have 
ceased  for  a  brief  space ;  the  ploughman  has  paused  in 
the  furrow,  and  even  the  schoolboy  with  his  books  and 
safchel  has  stood  still  and  the  very  atmosphere  has 
seemed  to  assume  a  sort  of  melancholy  tinge,  as  the  tones 
of  the  tolling  bell  have  come  slowly,  solemnly,  and  at 
measured  intervals  upon  the  moveless  air,  and  hushing 
the  mind  to  breathless  thoughts  that  fain  would  know 
the  whither  of  the  departed.  But  death  in  the  wilderness 
—in  the  solitude  of  nature,  and  far  from  1he  fixed  abodes 
of  busy  men— seemed  to  have  in  it  solemnity  that  far 
surpassed  all  this. 


Prince  L.  Campbell 

AN  OLD  VIOLIN. 

0  quaintly-carved,  grotesque  old  violin, 

Than  thee  Cremona's  shops  no  rarer  prize, 
Nor  fairer  masterpiece,  e'er  held  within 

Their  ancient  walls.    Thy  melodies  arise 

As  soft  as  angels'  harps  heard  through  the  skies. 
The  subtlest  sw.eetness  thou  hast  gathered  in 

From  all  thy  sweetest  notes,  till  now  there  lies 
To  thee  the  store  of  years,  which  thou  didst  win 

By  freely  giving.     So,  I've  thought,  do  men 
From  noble  deeds  the  choicest  blessing  reap : 

The  sweetness  given  out  returns  again 
Unto  the  giver,  and  the  soul  doth  keep 

A  still  increasing  store  as  more  is  given, 
Till;  like  thy  notes,  each  thought  seems  sent  from  heaven. 


Elwood  Evans 

THE  OREGON  REPUBLIC. 

Penetrating  the  veil  and  looking  behind,  what  do  we 
realize?  Our  fellow  countrymen  and  women,  few  in 
numbers,  but  steadfast  in  purpose,  who  had  been  for- 
gotten by  their  government,  yet  neglect  could  not  weaken 
their  loyalty  and  love.  Submitting  patiently  to  that 
injustice,  always  true  to  birthright  and  origin,  they 
carried  with  them  love  of  republican  institutions,  had 
established,  and  upon  that  very  day  were  successfully 
administering,  a  government  of  the  people,  by  1he  people. 
Oregon  already  contained  within  it  an  infant  republic. 
Here  was  a  thriving,  loyal  American  commonwealth, 
started  by  children  of  the  great  republican  household, 
who,  though  for  a  time  discarded,  had  ever  been  ani- 
mated with  unabated  zeal  for  the  glory  and  grandeur  of 
their  parent  government. 

When  I  contemplate  this  history,  this  undying  devo- 
tion to  fatherland,  this  patriotic  love  of  their  native  in- 
stitutions. I  know  not  which  most  to  commend— their 
implicit  confidence  in  the  title  of  their  country  to  Oregon 
which  they  never  failed  to  assert  on  every  proper  oc- 
casion, and  so  sure  were  they  that  it  would  be  main- 
tained, their  patriotic  avowal  was  that  the  government, 
they  constituted  their  trusteeship  of  the  terrifory,  should 
only  continue  ''until  such  time  as  the  United  States  shall 
extend  jurisdiction" — their  signal  and  undying  love  for 
republican  institutions,  breathing  through  every  line  of 
the  fundamental  code  of  the  government  they  founded; 
or  their  eminent  conservative  wisdom  as  displayed  in  that 
system,  the  laws  enacted  and  their  administration.  How 
truly 

"Each  man  made  his  own  stature,  built  himself; 
Virtue  alone  outbids  the  pyramids, 
Her  monuments  shall  last  when  Egypt's  fall. " 


Henry  S.  DeMoss 

SWEET  OREGON. 

(As  sung  by  the  DeMoss  fiunilij,  official  song-writers  of 
the  World's  Columbian  Exposition,  Chicago,  1893.) 

I'm  thinking  now  of  a  beautiful  land, 

Oregon,  Oregon; 
With  rivers  and  valleys  and  mountains  grand, 

Oregon,  sweet  Oregon; 

From  the  mountain  peak  all  covered  with  snow, 
A  swift  crystal  streamlet  ever  doth  flow 
By  the  home  of  my  youth,  which  I  shall  adore, 

Oh !  Oregon,  my  home. 

Chorus — 

Oh  Oregon,  sweet  Oregon, 

My  native  home,  I  long  for  thee; 

My  native  home,  I  long  for  thee. 

I  think  of  the  forests  and  the  prairies  wide, 

Oregon,  Oregon ; 
The  mines,  the  fish,  and  the  ocean  tide; 

Oregon,  sweet  Oregon; 

Where  the  mighty  Columbia  rolls  down  to  the  sea ; 
And  while  the  pines  are  echoing  in  the  breeze, 
Like  a  beautiful  dream  to  my  memory  comes 

Sweet  Oregon  my  home. 

I  long  to  dwell  in  my  mountain  home, 

Oregon,  Oregon; 
Away  from  thy  vales  I  shall  never  roam, 

Oregon,  sweet  Oregon ; 
I  sigh  for  thy  bountiful  harvest  again, 
Thy  fruit  and  thy  calm  gentle  rain ; 
And  thy  pure,  balmy  air,  which  wafts  freedom's  best 
song; 

Oh !  Oregon,  my  home. 


Rabbi  Bloch 

THE  JEWISH  MILESTONE. 

Let  us  then  reason:  If  the  unfolded  book  of  nature 
has  its  inspiring  lesson  for  a  poet's  invocation,  how  much 
more  should  the  mighty  volumes  written  by  the  hand 
of  Providence  invite  us  to  profound  contemplation? 
Our  Passover  stands  forth  as  the  grandest  milestone, 
as  the  epoch  that  marks  the  starting  point  in  the  evolu- 
tion of  liberty.  With  the  Passover,  Egypt  began  the 
early  spring  of  humanity, '  still  wrapped  in  the  deadly 
frost  of  slavery.  Israel's  departure  from  Egypt  was 
the  starting  point  on  the  journey  to  Sinai,  over  whose 
ideal  peak  that  sun  should  rise,  whose  fire  and  light  was 
strong  enough  to  melt  every  iron  shackle  and  stamp  every 
man  with  the  image  of  his  Creator. 

Whether  celebrated  on  the  shores  of  the  Nile,  or  on 
the  hallowed  banks  of  the  Jordan,  by  a  Joshua  or  Josiah, 
in  the  days  of  exile  on  the  Euphrates,  or  in  the  golden 
era  of  the  Maccabeans  under  conquering  Rome,  or  .its 
dissolution,  whether  crouched  in  dark  ghettos  or  hunted 
by  intolerant  mobs— the  Passover  remained  our  conse- 
crated milestone,  that  inspires  us  to  heroic  endurance  and 
perseverance  in  the  cause  of  truth,  and  the  hopes  of  a 
brighter  dawn  on  the  horizon  of  mankind.  Passing  over 
the  streams  and  mighty  rivers  of  time,  and  from  mile- 
stone to  milestone,  set  by  grief  or  joy.  it  was  +he  ever- 
cheering  voice  jof  Israel's  songs  that  drowned  all  sor- 
row and  aroused  anew  our  vigor,  marching  to  tempo  of 
time's  tread,  ever  nearer  and  nearer  to  Israel's  goal.  The 
old  and  withering  walls  of  the  middle  ages  began  to 
crumble  into  dust  under  the  heavy  stroke  of  the  advanc- 
ing age  of  reason.  With  every  breach  a  new  passageway 
was  made  to  the  advanced  hosts  of  humanitarians.  The 
Jew  amongst  them  entered  the  cause  dearest  to  him,  and 


Rabbi  Block  165 

on  every  battlefield  he  proved  that  the  heroism  of  the 
Maccabees  was  still  abiding  in  his  race. 

The  final  glory,  however,  has  not  yet  come.  The  battle 
is  still  going  on.  Here  and  there  and  everywhere  social 
questions  await  its  final  solution.  In  the  heat  of  the 
combat  strange  revelations  of  human  nature  are  brought 
about.  Amongst  these,  the  old  prejudice  has  concen- 
trated itself  in  the  opposition  to  Jewish  freedom,  hon- 
estly won  in  the  last  2000  years.  But  this,  too,  will  suc- 
cumb, and  the  last  blot  against  mankind  will  be  wiped 
out.  Meanwhile  we  must  not  desert  Israel 's  old  camping 
grounds.  Our  holy  days  must  never  degenerate  into 
mere  feasting  days.  These  must  more  than  ever  become 
the  high  watch-towers  from  which  to  hail  the  sign  of 
ages,  and  from  which  shall  float  forever  the  old  banner  of 
Judaism,  cheering  the  old  and  the  young,  and  summon- 
ing the  true  and  brave  to  the  old  song  of  the  Passover: 
"O  give  thanks  to  the  Eternal,  for  He  is  good,  for  unto 
eternity  endureth  His  kindness." 


Harrison  R.  Kincaid 


WAR. 

(Extract  from  an  editorial  upon  the  threatened  war  with 

Chile.) 

Man,  in  all  ages,  has  been  the  most  destructive  and 
turbulent  animal  on  the  globe.  He  has  always  delighted 
more  in  excitement  and  war  than  in  peace  and  the  pur- 
suits of  learning,  morality  and  harmonious  development. 
The  world  is  one  great  field  of  carnage  where  the  armies 
of  countless  ages  have  marched  to  battle  and  where  mil- 
lions and  hundreds  of  millions  have  been  slain  and  their 
bones  strewn,  layer  upon  layer,  over  every  continent  and 
at  the  bottom  of  every  sea.  One  war  has  followed  an- 
other, in  regular  succession,  in  all  civilized  and  savage 
nations,  as  one  wave  follows  another  over  the  ocean. 
.  .  .  The  Lnited  States  has  been  the  most  peaceable, 
intelligent  and  progressive  nation  of  which  history  gives 
any  account.  But  the  spirit  of  war,  the  rattle  of  drums, 
the  sound  of  bugles,  the  neighing  of  prancing  steeds,  the 
clashing  of  steel,  the  roar  of  artillery  and  all  the  symbols 
of  war  of  ancient  times  thrill  the  hearts  of  the  American 
people  far  beyond  any  other  passion  or  sentiment.  The 
spirit  of  war,  which  has  desola'ed  the  earth  in  all  ages, 
is  not  dead  but  only  slumbering  in  our  people.  We 
have  already  had  several  wars  during  onr  brief  national 
existence  and  may  have  many  more.  The  people  worship 
warriors— great  fighters— far  more  than  they  do  the 
greatest  intellectual  and  moral  giants  the  world  has  ever 
produced.  No  man,  however  great  he  may  have  been 
intellectually  and  morally,  has  ever  been  elected  Presi- 
dent of  the  United  States  over  any  kind  of  a  military 
hero.  And  no  party  or  man  has  ever  opposed  a  war  in 
this  country,  just  or  unjust,  without  having  been  swept 
out  of  power  by  popular  indignation. 


J.  Fred  Yates 

DAMON  AND  PYTHIAS. 

(From  an  address  delivered  at  Portland,  Oregon,  October 
13,1898.) 

As  we  dwell  for  a  time  upon  the  beautiful  story  of 
Damon  and  Pythias  we  cannot  but  be  benefited  by  its 
recital,  and  derive  new  lessons  from  it  which  will  actuate 
our  better  motives  toward  each  other,  and  toward  our 
fellow  men,  and  give  us  new  inspirations  which  we  can 
carry  back  with  us  into  the  practical  affairs  of  life. 

As  we  never  tire  of  looking  at  the  beautiful  blendings 
of  color  and  tints  of  the  rainbow,  so  we  never  grow 
weary  watching  the  weaving  threads  that  wove  the  lives 
of  Damon  and  Pythias  together;  and  as  the  rainbow 
is  not  more  beautiful  than  each  separate  color  so  not  more 
beautiful  is  the  knitted  web  of  these  two  characters  than 
is  each  separate  thread  of  the  web  entwined  around  their 
names. 

Damon  and  Pythias— at  the  mention  of  the  names 
thought  bounds  backward  and  upward,  and  faith  grows 
warmer  with  the  thrill  of  joyful  memory.  Theirs  were 
the  examples  of  the  highest  types  of  simple  fidelity,  of 
the  virtues  of  princely  natures,  though  found  in  private 
spheres. 

Hpw  great  a  man  may  be  who  never  sits  on  a  throne, 
nor  emblazons  a  page  of  history,  with  his  human  glory 
by  simply  doing  his  individual  duty  to  God  and  to  man. 
To  see  others  exalted  without  envy  or  jealousy,  to  devote 
himself  to  generous  deeds  of  true  friendship,  to  be  loyal 
to  others  under  all  circumstances,  to  be  faithful  to  God, 
and  Christ  like  to  man,  may  perchance  not  gain  for  him 
a  niche  in  the  galleries  of  the  world's  great  heroes  and 
heroines,  but  it  means  true  greatness  and  noble  heroism. 
Because  of  this  the  name  of  Damon  will  go  down  to 
posterity  as  one  of  the  greatest  of  profane  or  divine  his- 


168  Oregon  Literature 

tory,  and  will  remain  immortal  in  the  records  of  time. 
His  was  a  princely  nature  without  being  a  prince,  and 
he  had  the  qualities  of  kingliness  without  being  a  king. 
As  we  stand  at  the  estuary  of  some  river  where  its 
mighty  flood  passes  into  the  ocean,  it  often  seems  to  us 
that  its  current  is  actually  reversed ;  the  tidal  wave  beats 
strongly  from  the  sea,  and  the  superficial  waves  beat 
upward  from  the  stream.  But  down  beneath  the  surface, 
with  unceasing  flow,  the  true  current  of  the  river  moves 
steadily  on.  So  it  is  with  the  principles  displayed  in  the 
lives  of  those  who  imitate  the  examples  of  Damon  and 
Pythias;  the  true  current  is  ever  flowing  toward  tho 
right.  In  such  lives  we  find  the  qualities  of  candor, 
courage,  confidence,  loyalty,  tenderness  and  unselfishness, 
which  grow  into  true  nobleness  and  true  manhood,  until 
character  rises  to  the  full  zenith  of  greatness  and  power. 


Rev.  H.  K.  Mines 

ASCENT  OF  MOUNT  HOOD. 

The  following  is  the  closing  of  an  account  of  the 
"Ascent  of  Mount  Hood,''  made  in  July,  1866,  by  Rev. 
H.  K.  Hines,  D.  D.,  author  of  Hines's  History  of  Oregon. 
The  paper  was  prepared  for  the  Royal  Geographical 
Society  of  London,  by  request  of  Sir  Robert  Brown^  of 
Edinburg,  Scotland,  and  was  read  before  that  society 
which  passed  unanimously  a  resolution  of  thanks  to  Dr. 
Hines,  which  was  conveyed  to  him  by  letter  with  the 
personal  compliments  of  Sir  Roderick  Marchison,  who 
was  then  its  president.  It  is  given  as  a  specimen  of  Dr. 
Hines's  descriptive  writing: 

Standing  upon  the  summit  of  the  mountains  when  the 
ethereal  brightness  of  the  early  northern  summer  was 
spread  over  the  landscape  near  and  far,  it  was  given  me 
to  behold  scenes  that  were  their  own  and  only  parallel. 
I  am  in  despair,  go  where  I  may  on  earth,  of  finding 
others  like  them.  It  was  not  the  sublimity  of  the  great 
mountains  alone,  nor  yet  the  altitude  which  lifted  me  so 
high  above  the  rolling,  billowy  breast  of  the  great  ranges 
sleeping  their  rocky  slumbers  so  far  beneath  my  feet, 
eastward,  westward,  southward  and  northward  away  to 
the  far  and  blue  horizon.  It  was  not  the  reaching  in  and 
out  of  the*  great  glittering  riverflow  which  cleft  moun- 
tain from  mountain  like  a  silver  sea,  and  seemed  ever 
listening  to  the  whispering  forth  and  back  of  tempest 
and  lightning  from  pinnacle  to  pinnacle  far  above  its 
sleeping  sweetness.  It  was  all  these,  and  much  more, 
aggregating  and  blending  their  sublimities  in  a  creation 
of  indescribable  grandeur  before  and  below  me.  And 
then,  above,  the  sky  seemed  so  near !  almost  within  touch 
of  my  fingers.  Where  I  had  so  often  seen  the  clouds 
wander  on  their  airy  journeys  so  far  above  was  now  as 
far  below.  They  were  silver-flecked  robes  wrapping  the 
icy  foot  of  the  mountain,  and  I  stood  far  on  their  sun- 


170  Oregon  Literature 

ward  side  and  gazed  down  on  their  shining  broidery  of 
infinite  brightness.  And  yonder,  near  a  hundred  miles 
northward,  the  storm-king  broke  his  clouds  and  dashed 
his  thunderbolts  in  harmless  violence  against  the  rocky 
sides  and  icy  glaciers  of  Mount  Adams,  whose  peaks 
glowed  in  unclouded  light  above  the  swift  beat  of  the 
storm.  The  hour  was  auspicious,  as  if  chosen  of  God, 
in  which  to  greet  the  foo!  steps  of  mortal  where  few  but 
the  Immortal  had  ever  trod  before.  It  was  a  glorious 
welcome  to  this  colossal  masterpiece  of  His  creation. 

Yonder,  two  hundred  miles  to  the  north,  the  huge, 
rugged,  inverted  icicles  of  Mount  Baker  pierce  the  snowy 
drifts  fallen  around  their  base,  while  in  the  intervals 
between  are  deep  ravines,  vast  gorges,  and  rude,  craggy 
peaks,  as  if  the  earthquakes  had  taken  this  whole  western 
world  in  their  frenzied  arms  and  tossed  its  mightiest 
rocks  in  wild  disorder  across  ihe  plains.  South,  another 
hundred  miles,  over  the  deep  chasms  of  rivers,  and  the 
dread  blackness  of  vast  lava-piles  frozen  into  rocks  by  the 
winter  of  ages,  Diamond  Peak  seems  almost  a  rival  to 
the  mountain  on  which  I  stand.  Eastward,  in  the  fore- 
ground, sweep  far  away  the  golden  plains  of  the  Des 
Chutes,  John  Day  and  Umatijla  Rivers,  enframed  within 
the  piney  crests  of  the  great  Blue  Mountain  Range,  a 
hundred  and  fifty  miles  distant.  On  the  west  the  ever- 
green summits  of  the  Coast  Range  cut  clear  against  the 
blue  sky,  with  the  Willamette  Valley,  unsurpassed  in 
beauty  on  the  earth,  a  hundred  miles  in  length,  sleeping 
in  quiet  loveliness  at  their  feet.  The  broad,  silver  belt 
of  the  Columbia,  without  a  peer  in  grandeur  and  purity 
on  the  continent,  winds  down  through  its  bordering  of 
sunlit  vales  and  shaded  hills  toward  the  ocean,  which  I 
see  blending  with  the  blue  of  the  horizon  through  the 
broad  vista  between  the  lofty  capes  that  sentinel  its  en- 
trance to  the  sea,  an  hundred  and  fifty  miles  away.  With- 
in these  almost  measureless  limits,  which  I  had  but  to 
turn  upon  my  heel  to  sweep  with  my  vision,  was  every 
variety  of  vale  and  mountain,  lake  and.  prairie,  bold, 
beetling  precipices  and  gracefully  rounded  summits, 
blending  and  melting  into  each  other,  and  forming  a 
whole  of  unutterable  magnificence. 


Mrs.  Harriet  K.  McArthur  171 

Now,  as  often  as  thought  recurs  to  the  moment  when  I 
stood  upon  that  awful  height,  the  same  awe  of  the  Infinite 
God  "who  setteth  fast  the  mountains,  being  girded  with 
power,"  comes  over  my  soul.  I  praise  Him  that  He  gave 
me  strength  to  stand  where  His  power  speaks  with  words 
few  mortals  ever  heard,  and  the  reverent  worshippings  of 
mountains  and  soltudes  seem  ever  nowing  up  to  His 
Throne. 


Mrs.  Harriet  K.  M'Arthur 

SENATOR  NESMITH  AND  HIS  TUTOR. 

Senator  Nesmith  always  was  passionately  fond  of 
books,  and,  notwithstanding  misfortune  and  hardship,  at 
that  time  exhibited  much  of  the  same  high  spirit  and  love 
of  fun  and  humor  that  he  always  retained.  The  tutor 
he  remembered  most  vividly  was  one  Gregor  MacGregor, 
to  whom  he  went  to  school  one  hundred  and  twenty  days 
and  received  one  hundred  thrashings.  He  admitted  it 
was  the  only  school  where  he  ever  learned  anything,  and, 
notwithstanding  a  genuine  feeling  of  regard  for  his  old 
tutor,  had  vowed  he  would  thrash  him  if  he  was  ever 
large  enough.  The  time  came,  but  he  did  not  execute  his 
threat.  In  the  year  1860,  when  Mr.  Nesmith  went  to  the 
United  States  Senate,  he  journeyed  into  New  England  to 
revisit  the  scenes  of  his  early  days.  He  went  to  see 
his  old  tutor,  and  said,  "Mr.  MacGregor,  I  have  always 
intended  thrashing  you  in  return  for  your  early  cruelty 
to  me,  and  now  I  think  I  can  do  it."  "Weel,  Weel, 
Jeems,"  said  the  auld  Scot,  "if  I  had  given  you  a  few 
more  licks  you  would  have  been  in  the  Senate  long  before 


Valentine  Brown 

Valentine  Brown,  of  Portland,  Oregon,  has  recently 
written  and  published  two  volumes,  ''Poems"  and 
''Armageddon,"  of  which  the  latter  is  probably  the 
stronger  book.  The  almost  monosyllabic  style  of  his 
beautiful  strain  is  illustrated  in  the  following  verses : 


HELEN. 

From  a  wide,  wide  sea,  came  a  joy  to  me, 

Came  a  tiniest,  daintiest  star, 
And  my  quiet  rooms  its  light  illumes 

With  the  fairest  tints  which  are. 

It  is  not  a  gleam  from  the  land  of  dream, 
Nor  a  star  from  the  azure  sky, 

But  a  life  and  light,  which  day  and  night 
Must  either  smile  or  cry. 

'Tis  a  babe  as  sweet  as  one  would  meet 
Where  the  babes  of  heaven  be, 

And  this  I  know,  but  a  month  ago 
From  heaven  she  came  to  me. 

Her  joyous  coo  is  a  song  anew, 
And  her  wee  cry  moves  my  heart, 

And  the  angels  where  all  things  are  fair, 
Must  have  sighed  from  her  to  part. 

But  she  surely  brought  to  my  mortal  lot 

Heaven 's  own  sweet  delight, 
For  I  bend  and  kiss  my  little  miss, 

And  she  smiles  with  all  her  might. 


George  H.  Himes 

TWO  HISTORIC  PRINTING  PRESSES. 

George  H.  Himes,  secretary  of  the  Oregon  His'crical 
Society,  has  written: 

The  first  printing  press  used  by  Americans  on  the 
Pacific  Coast  was  sent  from  Boston,  Massachusetts,  to 
Honolulu,  Hawaii,  in  1819,  by  the  American  Board  of 
Commissioners  for  Foreign  Missions  (the  Foreign  Mis- 
sionary Society  of  the  Congregational  Churches  of  the 
United  States),  with  type,  fixtures,  paper,  etc.,  all  to- 
gether costing  $450.00.  It  was  used  by  the  early  mis- 
sionaries at  Honolulu  for  printing  translations  of  differ- 
ent portions  of  the  Scriptures,  hymns,  etc.  A  brass 
tablet  upon  the  press  bears  the  following  inscription: 
"A  Ramage  Patent  Printing,  Copying  and  Seal  Press, 
No.  4."  Description:  Height,  twelve  inches;  length  of 
impression  lever,  two  feet;  platen,  twelve  by  fourteen 
and  three-fourths  inches-;  bed,  twelve  and  one-half  by 
sixteen  and  three-eighths  inches ;  length  of  track,  thirty- 
one  inches ;  size  of  largest  sheet  that  can  be  printed  upon 
it,  ten  by  fourteen  inches.  The  press  stands  on  a  strong 
wooden  frame  +hirty  inches  hierh,  twenty-six  inches  wide 
and  thirty-seven  and  one-fourth  inches  Ions;,  in  the  form 
of  a  Roman  cross.  The  impression  is  applied  by  means 
of  a  screw  instead  of  a  compound  lever.  Speed  probably 
about  one  hundred  and  fifty  impression  per  hour.  The 
American  Board  Mission  in  Honolulu  sent  the  plant  as 
above  noted  to  the  American  Board  Mission  in  Oregon, 
of  which  Dr.  Marcus  Whitman  was  the  head,  and  it 
arrived  at  Vancouver,  on  the  Columbia  River,  about 
April  10,  1839.  It  was  transported  by  canoes  and  pack 
animals  to  Lapwai,  now  in  Idaho,  as  quickly  as  possible, 
placed  in  position,  and  the  first  proof  sheet  struck  off 
on  May  18,  1839.  A  dozen  or  more  editions  of  portions 
of  the  New  Testament,  primers,  hymnbooks,  etc.,  were 


174  Oregon  Literature 

printed,  and  in  1847  it  was  removed  to  The  Dalles. 
Early  the  following  year  it  was  removed  to  the  farm  of 
Rev.  J.  S.  Griffin,  near  the  present  City  of  Hillsboro, 
Washington  County,  Oregon,  and  used  by  Mr.  Griffin  in 
printing  a  monthly  magazine  called  The  Oregon  Ameri- 
can and  Evangelical  Unionist,  which  was  suspended  after 
eight  issues.  Years  later  Mr.  Griffin  presented  the  press 
to  the  Oregon  Pioneer  Association,  and  through  this 
organization  it  came  into  the  possession  of  the  Oregon 
Historical  Society,  and  may  be  seen  in  the  rooms  of  that 
society  in  the  City  Hall,  Portland,  together  with  a  num- 
ber of  the  publications  printed  upon  it. 

The  first  newspaper  on  the  Pacific  Coast,  The  Oregon 
Spectator,  was  issued  February  5,  1846.  The  press  and 
type  were  brought  to  Oregon  from  -New  York  late  in  the 
previous  year  by  the  Oregon  Printing  Association.  The 
press  used  was  a  Washington  Hand  Press,  bed,  twenty- 
five  by  thirty-eight  inches,  and  this  is  still  in  active  ser- 
vice in  the  office  of  the  Oregon  State  Journal,  Eugene,  H. 
R.  Kincaid,  proprietor.  The  Printing  Association,  above 
alluded  to,  was  composed  of  the  following  persons: 
William  G.  T 'Vault,  president;  James  W.  Nesmith,  vice 
president  (afterwards  United  States  Senator) ;  John  P. 
Brooks,  secretary;  George  Abernethy,  treasurer  (he  then 
was  the  Provisional  Governor  of  the  Territory  of  Ore- 
gon) ;  Dr.  Robert  Newell,  John  E.  Long,  John  H.  Couch, 
directors.  The  constitution  of  the  Printing  Association 
was  as  follows: 

"In  order  to  promote  science,  temperance,  morality 
and  general  intelligence;  to  establish  a  printing  press; 
to  publish  a  monthly,  semi-monthly  or  weekly  paper  in 
Oregon— the  undersigned  do  herebv  associate  ourselves 
together  in  a  body  to  be  governed  by  such  rules  and 
regulations  as  shall,  from  time  to  time,  be  adopted  by  a 
majority  of  the  stockholders  of  this  compact  in  a  reg- 
ularly called  and  properly  notified  meetiner.  ' 

There  were  eleven  "Articles  of  Compact."  No.  8 
says:  "The  press  owned  by  or  in  connection  wdth  this 
Association,  shall  never  be  used  by  any  party  for  the 
purpose  of  propagating  sectarian  principles  or  doctrines, 
nor  for  the  discussion  of  exclusive  party  politics. " 


John  Minto  175 

William  G.  T  'Vault  was  the  first  editor,  with  a  salary 
of  $300.00  per  year.  He  resigned  at  the  end  of  two 
months.  His  successors  were  Henry  A.  G.  Lee,  George 
L.  Curry,  Aaron  E.  Wait,  Rev.  Wilson  Blain,  D.  J. 
Schnebly,  and  C.  L.  Goodrich,  in  whose  hands  the  paper 
expired  in  March,  1855. 


John  Minto 

A  GRANGER'S  LOVE  SONG. 

Come  to  the  grange  with  me,  lov<' . 

Come  to  the  farm  with  me, 
Where  the  birds  are  singing  and  the  flowers  are  springing. 

And  life  is  happy  and  free. 

While  the  wheat  grows  in  the  field,  love, 

And  the  fuel  is  cut  from  the  grove, 
Neither  want  nor  cold  shall  the  night  dreams  haunt; 

Only  plenty  and  comfort  and  love. 

Chorus— 

Come  to  the  grange  with  me,  love,  etc. 

We'll  build  our  home  by  the  hill,  love, 
Whence  the  spring  to  the  brooklet  flows ; 

On  the  gentle  slope  where  the  lambkins  play 
In  the  scent  of  the  sweet  wild  rose. 

Chorus— 

In  the  labors,  joys,  and  cares  of  the  errange,  love, 

In  shelter  and  shade  of  the  grove, 
Life's  duties  we'll  meet  in  companionship  sweet, 

And  there  rest  from  our  labors  in  love. 

Chorus— 


Narcissa  White  Kinney 

DESCENT  OF  THE  AVALANCHE. 

We  are  told  so  often  that  it  is  wasted  effort  to  try  to 
reform  the  world  or  any  portion  of  it.  Especially  is  this 
said  in  reference  to  the  temperance  reiorm.  The  drink 
habit  is  such  an  ancient  habit!  The  liquor  traffic  is  so 
fortified  by  appetite  and  wealth  and  politics,  which  they 
tell  us  nothing  can  destroy. 

Do  you  see  those  rocks  upon  that  mountain  side? 
Rocks  hoary  with  age!  Seemingly  strong  as  steel  and 
firm  as  adamant.  Before  man  was,  they  were!  Can 
they  ever  be  removed?  But  see  again!  God's  agencies 
are  at  work.  Just  a  flake  of  snow,  a  drop  of  rain,  and 
God's  hoary  frost.  Then  another  drop  and  another 
flake — and  another  and  another;  months  pass,  years 
pass.  The  rock  remains,  but  the  glacier  grows.  And 
now  see  again!  A  new  agency  has  been  at  work— God's 
golden  sunbeam,  until  at  length  that  mass  of  icy  snow 
stands  so  nicely  poised  that  it  only  requires  the  flutter 
of  an  eagles  wing  to  send  it  down  a  thundering  avalanche 
—and  every  jutting  crag  and  every  opposing  rock  is 
only  a  crushed  and  mangled  mass  at  the  bottom  of  the 
precipice ! 

(Can  the  liquor  traffic  ever  be  destroyed!  For  years 
past  God's  agencies  have  been  at  work.  A  demonstra- 
tion in  a  laboratory,  a  lesson  in  a  public  school,  a  lecture 
on  a  public  platform,  a  written  page,  a  printed  column ! 
Saloons  go  on.  Patrons  throng  their  doors.  None 
notice  the  ever  increasing  multitude  who  are  total  ab- 
stainers. Few  note  the  fact  that  yearly  the  drinking 
man  is  outlawed  by  all  business  firms.  Few  hear  the 
tread  of  the  youthful  feet— keeping  time  to  the  music  of 
"Alcohol  a  Poison,  a  Poison";  "Saloons  Must  Go- 
Saloons  Must  go."  But  the  avalanche  is  growing  and 


E.  Hofer  177 

at  length  it  will  only  require  the  flutter  of  an  angel's 
wing  to  set  in  motion  this  mighty  thing  called  public 
sentiment  and  send  it  hurling  down  the  mountain  side, 
and  every  brewery  and  distillery— every  saloon  and  bar- 
room will  be  crushed  beneath  its  weight. 


E.  Hofer 

MID-SUMMER  BIRD  SONG. 
A  NATURE  POEM. 

Our  mating  done, 

Love's  course  is  run, 
On  bouyant  wing  our  spirits  rise ; 

All  passion  past, 

We're  free  at  last— 
We  march  and  counter  march  the  skies. 

Our  young  are  reared, 

The  fields  are  cleared, 
The  sun  a  golden  glamour  throws; 

Our  broods  are  grown, 

And  fledglings  flown — 
The  air  with  autumn  perfume  glows. 

We  lilt  and  sing 

And  flit  and  fling 
Through  every  copse  and  heather ; 

We  coast  and  glide 

By  country  side— 
Week  in,  week  out,  of  golden  weather. 

We  bask  through  days 

Of  azure  haze, 
And  carol  into  dewless  nights; 

We  sink  to  rest 

On  earth's  warm  breast 
And  wake  the  morn  with  new  delights. 


178  Oregon  Literature 


We  flash  and  fly 

We  skim  the  sky 
And  hurtle  down  the  vaulted  dome ; 

All  winds  are  fair, 

All  days  are  rare, 
Where'er  our  marshalled  armies  roam. 

The  wild  grain  grown, 

The  thistle  blown, 
And  all  the  world  in  dainties  dressed, 

Our  life  is  free, 

No  care  know  we — 
Both  earth  and  air  yield  us  their  best. 


J.  R.  N.  Bell 


IMMORTALITY. 

As  the  nineteenth  century  is  closing,  human  inquiry 
in  reference  to  human  destiny  is  deepening.  The  darker 
problems  that  challenged  human  credulity,  and  drove 
many  an  inquirer  into  the  realms  of  doubt  in  the  past, 
are  now  shining  out  as  clear  as  noonday— the  mists  and 
fogs  dispelled— the  illuminating  rays  of  scholasticism, 
investigation  and  religion  are  making  clear  the  problems 
hitherto  obscure.  We  welcome  the  light.  Shine  forth 
O  glorious  day!  Students  of  all  schools  of  learning 
'drink  deep  of  pure  thought— quaff  the  gurgling  streams 
of  knowledge  as  they  flow  so  freely  by  your  doors.  Here 
is  an  Arch.  Understanding,  knowledge  and  wisdom, 
these  three,  but  the  greatest  of  these  is  wisdom.  These 
form  one  column  of  the  Arch.  Faith,  hope,  love,  these 
three,  but  the  greatest  of  these  is  love.  These  form  the 
other  column  of  the  Arch.  How  grandly  they  rise ;  they 
begin  on  earth,  they  rise  to  heaven.  Wisdom  is  the 
highest  of  the  first  column,  and  love  is  the  highest  of  the 
second  column;  they  are  of  equal  height,  and  curve  to- 
wards each  other,  but  they  are  not  united— something  is 
wanting— what  is  it?  It  is  the  keystone— that  keystone 


J.  R.  N.  Bell  179 

will  complete  the  Arch— it  will  unite  soul  and  spirit- 
God  and  man— a  complete  unity.  The  name  upon  that 
keystone  is  a  secret  name,  and  no  man  can  read  it  except 
him  that  receiveth  it.  Above  the  Arch  is  a  streamer,  and 
upon  it,  in  soft  and  beautiful  characters,  rising  into  the 
resplendency  of  God's  fadeless  light,  is  the  inscription 
* '  Immortality. ' '  Then  bring  forth  the  keystone,  let  it  rest 
upon  the  two  columns  as  they  curve  towards  each  other, 
let  wisdom  and  love  be  united,  and  man  is  redeemed, 
man  is  complete.  Let  us  celebrate  the  completion  of  the 
work  with  songs  and  with  minstrelsy — with  our  grandest 
choruses  and  best  oratorios.  Let  us  bring  our  choicest, 
sweetest  flowers— bring  the  rose  and  the  lily,  the  tulip 
and  the  pink,  the  sweet  jassamine  and  voluptuous 
hyacinth,  and  the  amaranth  and  orange  blossoms  and  all 
the  flow,ers  from  the  wild  wood— now  weave  them  all  into 
a  garland— a  crown— let  this  coronation  of  music  har- 
monize with  man's  perfect  bliss — the  crown  of  flowers 
his  adornment— the  keystone  in  the  Royal  Arch— his  im- 
mortality a  face— and  man  is  now  redeemed,  full-orbed, 
restored  to  his  original  unity ;  rehabilitated  with  all  the 
possibilities  of  a  divine  fraternity,  and  with  all  the  bles- 
sing of  a  perpetual  theophany. 


James  Wiles  NesmitK 

Senator  James  Wiles  Nesmith  was  born  in  New 
Brunswick,  July  23,  1820.  He  received  his  education  in 
country  schools,  and '  determining  to  try  his  fortune  in 
the  West,  he  arrived  in  Oregon  City,  in  October,  1843, 
where  his  abilities  were  at  once  recognized.  In  1849  he 
moved  to  Polk  County,  which  was  his  home  the  remainder 
of  his  life.  Mr.  Nesmith  served  as  Captain  in  the  Cayuse 
and  Rogue  River  Wars,  and  as  Colonel  in  the  Yakima 
War.  He  helped  to  organize  the  provisional  government; 
was  elected  Judge  in  1845 ;  was  United  States  Marshal 
in  1853-5 ;  Superintendent  of  Indian  Affairs  for  Oregon 
and  Washington;  in  1860  he  was  elected  United  States 
Senator,  and  in  1873  he  was  elected  Representative  to 
Congress  to  fill  the  vacancy  caused  by  the  death  of  Joseph 
G.  Wilson.  He  died  June  17,  1885.  The  following 
eulogy  is  an  extract  from  an  address  delivered  in  the 
House  of  Representatives,  Monday,  April  27,  1874. 

NESMITH'S  EULOGY  ON  CHARLES  SUMNER. 

But  sir,  had  Charles  Sumner  possessed  the  stateman's 
creative  power,  he  was  too  pure  a  man  for  the  politics 
of  our  day  and  generation.  In  his  high  posifion  it  was 
not  possible  for  him  to  be  the  paid  advocate,  it  was  not 
possible  for  him  to  be  the  associate  of  men  who,  while 
waving  the  banner  of  freedom  with  one  hand,  stole  from 
the  public  treasury  with  the  other.  Why,  sir,  he  was 
so  pure  and  single-hearted  that  he  could  not  even  under- 
stand such  characters. 

Differing,  as  I  honestly  and  heartily  did,  with  Mr. 
Sumner  upon  the  great  issues  out  of  which  his  fame 
grew,  I  feel  it  incumbent  upon  myself  to  say  that  while 
my  own  opinions  upon  those  questions  remain  at  variance 
with  his,  I  concede  to  him  an  honesty  of  purpose  in 
urging  his  peculiar  theories,  with  a  pertinacity  unparal- 
leled in  our  political  history.  Defeat  strongly  inspired 


James  Wiles  Nesmith  181 

him  with  renewed  energy;  and  when  the  popular  vote 
of  the  Nation,  as  it  did  at  times,  condemned  him  and  his 
cause,  he,  phoenix-like,  arose  from  the  ashes  of  defeat, 
to  advocate  with  fresh  ardor  and  invigorated  courage  the 
* '  equality  of  the  races  before  the  law. ' ' 

His  courage  was  of  a  higher  order  than  that  inspired 
by  mere  brute  force.  He  adhered  to  his  theories  through 
contumely,  adversity  and  disgrace ;  and  when  the  results 
of  his  labors,  his  sufferings  and  his  courage  elevated  those 
who  had  defamed  and  despitefully  used  him,  from  obsur- 
ity  to  power,  he  bore  their  renewed  reproaches  with  but 
slight  retaliation  or  complaint. 

In  my  humble  estimation,  Mr.  Sumner  never  appeared 
greater  than  when  he  magnanimously  proposed  in  the 
Senate  that  the  achievements  of  our  gallant  troops  in  an 
intestine  war  should  be  obliterated  from  their  flags.  An 
envious  and  malignant  man  would  have  desired  to  see 
our  Southern  brethren  humiliated  by  the  emblazonment 
of  their  disasters  upon  that  proud  banner,  which  we  all, 
as  American  citizens,  desire  to  hail  as  the  emblem  of  a 
great  and  united  nationality. 

The  evil  passions  growing  out  of  the  war  had  become 
so  furious  and  unreasoning  as  to  cause  his  own  state  to 
condemn  his  generous  impulses  upon  that  subject,  but  I 
thank  God  that  his  last  moments  on  earth  were  cheered 
with  the  rescinding  resolutions  of  the  representatives  of 
a  people,  themselves  the  descendants  of  those  who  felt, 
upon  sober,  second  thought,  what  was  due  to  a  people 
who  had  gallantly  risked  their  lives  in  their  adherence 
to  what  they  conceived  to  be  the  principle  that  '  *  all  just 
government  is  derived  from  the  consent  of  the  governed. ' ' 
His  familiarity  with  English  history  had  demonstrated 
to  him  the  folly  of  perpetuating  hatred  and  sanguinary 
reminiscences  in  a  people  who,,  in  the  nature  of  things, 
should  be  homogeneous.  In  the  latter  part  of  his  life 
he  gave  evidence  of  his  abhorrence  of  the  white  political 
slavery,  no  less  than  that  which  pertained  to  the  African. 

Mr.  Speaker,  inexorable  Death  has  claimed  Charles 
Sumner  as  his  own,  and  the  grave  has  closed  over  his 
mortal  remains.  We  shall  never  in  our  generation  look 
upon  his  like  again,  simply  because  there  are  no  sur- 


182  Oregon  Literature 

roundings  to  develop  such  a  character.  The  freedom 
of  the  African  is  assured,  and  it  now  remains  the  highest 
duty  of  the  statesman  to  assure  the  freedom  of  the  citizen. 

"Peace  hath  her  victories  no  less  renowned  than  war" ; 
and  the  man  who  by  persistent  direction  of  peaceful 
agencies  converts  a  nation  of  politicians  to  his  views,  is 
as  much  entitled  to  the  triumphal  'arch  as  is  the  mere 
soldier  who,  by  the  unreasoning  power  of  brute  force, 
completes  a  victory  with  the  sword  and  points  to  the 
hecatomb  of  the  slain  as  his  passport  to  power.  The 
saddest  thing  about  Charles  Sumner's  life  to  me  is  that 
he  survived  himself— that  he  lived  to  see  other  men  oc- 
cupying the  proud  position,  and  wielding  the  power  he 
had  created,  with  no  higher  motive  promoting  them  than 
the  self-aggrandizement  to  be  found  in  wealth. 

H)e  is  gone  from  among  us.  His  chair  in  the  Senate  to 
which  all  eyes  were  turned  when  any  great  question 
agitated  the  grave  body  will  never  be  filled  by  a  public 
servant  more  pure  in  his  motives,  more  elevated  and 
courageous  in  his  action,  or  truer  to  his  convictions.  Let 
us  keep  his  virtues  in  remembrance.  May  his  monument 
be  of  spotless  marble,  for  it  cannot  be  purer  or  whiter 
than  his  life. 


W.  Lair  Hill 

THE  HOME  BUILDING. 

A  voyage  of  adventure  brought  not  back  the  golden 
fleece,  and  the  argonauts  no  longer  poured  over  the 
Sierras  into  California,  nor  overflowed  her  northern  mils 
to  seek  fugitive  fortune  in  Oregon.  The  home  builders, 
too — blessings  on  them  everywhere  and  forever! — whose 
caravans,  freighted  with  the  precious  burden  of  wife  and 
children  and  household  goods,  the  lares  and  penates  of  a 
gentler  than  a  Trojan  race,  had  whitened  the  desert  with 
a  constantly  increasing  stream  direct  to  Oregon. 


HQMER  DAVENPORT 


Homer  Davenport 

When  a  great  genius  is  just  rising  to  view,  the  aston- 
ished world  says,  "Who  would  have  expected  it?"  So 
it  was  said  of  Homer  Davenport  who  rose,  out  of  Silver- 
ton  to  glitter  among  the  artists  of  the  world.  Busy  men 
and  women  who  had  mingled  with  his  modest  ancestry 
for  decades  could  scarcely  realize  that  there  had  been 
generations  of  unassuming  greatness— a  veritable  wealth 
of  mind— that  time  and  circumstances  and  God  had 
wrought  into  an  extraordinary  man.  They  were  glad — 
so  glad  they  could  hardly  believe  it— yet  they  were  wont 
to  think  of  him  as  a  sort  of  intellectual  accident  eman- 
ating from  nothingness  and  springing  suddenly  into  the 
front  ranks  of  modern  artists.  But  genius  comes  not  in 
this  manner.  "Who  is  this  Nast?"  was  the  question 
whispered  throughout  the  world.  "Whence  came  he?" 
rung  down  the  electric  lines  of  the  continents.  "How 
came  he  by  this  God-given  power?"  was  the  question 
of  the  hour.  And  the  answer  was,  "He  hails  from  an 
Oregon  hamlet  and  he  is  the  evolution  of  a  talented 
family  and  favorable  environments."  His  mind  is  the 
offspring  of  an  ancestry  that, has  given  the  world  great 
men  and  women  in  almost  every  department  of  human 
endeavor;  and  his  intellectual  faculties  early  reveled  in 
the  scenery  of  Oregon,  and  fed  upon  the  nourishment 
of  the  ages.  Then  you  cast  your  eye  upward  to  behold 
the  onward  march  of  Genius,  and  you  find  him  there— a 
great  man  who  puts  life  and  magic  into  every  touch  of 
his  wonderful  brush.  This  is  Homer  Davenport,  the 
greatest  cartoonist  of  America. 

But  let  the  father,  T.  W.  Davenport,  tell  the  story. 

"Homer  C.  Davenport  was  born  on  his  father's  farm, 
located  in  the  Waldo  Hills,  some  five  miles  south  of  Sil- 
verton,  Marion  county,  the  date  of  his  birth  being  March 
8,  1867.  His  mother's  maiden  name  was  Miss  Flora 
Geer,  daughter  of  Ralph  C.  Geer.  She  was  married  to 


184 


Oregon  Literature 


the  writer  of  this  article  November  17,  1854,  and  died 

November  20,  1870. 

"His  extraordinary  love  for  animals,  and  especially 

of  birds,  was  exhibited  when  he  was  only  a  few  months 

old.    Unlike  other 
babies, 
forded 


HOMER    WATCHED    HIS    FATHER    HOEING    CORN, 

AND   REPRODUCED  THE   SCENE  ON 

THE    BARN    DOOR. 


toys  af- 
him  but 
little  amusement. 
Shaking  rattle 
boxes  and  blowing 
whistles  only  fret- 
ted him,  and  his 
wearied  looks  and 
moans  seemed  to 
say  that  he  was 
already  tired  of 
existence. 

"Carrying  him 
around  into  the 
various  rooms  and 
showing  pictures  soon  became  irksome,  and  in  quest 
of  something  to  relieve  the  monotony  of  indoor  life,  his 
paternal  grandmother  found  a  continuous  solace  for  his 
fretful  moods  in  the  chickens.  But  it  was  worth  the  time 
of  a  philosopher  to  observe  the  child  drink  in  every 
motion  of  the  fowls,  and  witness  the  thrill  of  joy  that 
went  through  his  being  when  the  cock  crew  or  flapped 
his  wings. 

"Such  a  picture  is  worth  reproducing.  Old  grand- 
mother in  her  easy  chair  on  the  veranda;  baby  sitting 
upon  the  floor  by  her  side ;  the  little  hands  tossing  wheat 
at  intervals  to  the  clucking  hen  and  her  brood,  the  latter 
venturing  into  baby's  lap  and  picking  grain  therefrom, 
despite  the  Warnings  of  the  shy  old  cock  and  anxious 
mother.  This  lesson  with  all  its  conceivable  variations 
learned,  ceased  to  be  entertaining,  and  a  broader  field 
was  needed.  So  grandma  or  her  substitute  carried  baby 
to  the  barnyard,  and  there,  sitting  under  the  wagon  shed, 
acquaintance  was  made  with  the  other  domestic  animals, 
which  afforded  him  daily  diversion.  At  first  their  forms 
and  quiet  attitudes  were  of  sufficient  interest,  but  as  these 


Homer  Davenport  185 

became  familiar  more  active  exhibitions  were  required, 
and  the  dog,  perceiving  his  opportunity,  turned  the 
barnyard  into  a  circus  of  animals. 

"After  his  mother's  death  the  family  was  subjected 
to  several  months  of  social  isolation,  during  the  rainy 
season,  when  Homer,  just  recovered  from  the  dread 
disease  of  smallpox,  was  kept  indoors.  During  the^e  dull 
months  he  worked  more  assiduously  at  drawing  than 
ever  since  for  pay.  Sitting  at  the  desk,  or  lying  prone 
upon  the  floor,  it  was  draw,  draw,  draw.  Fearing  the 
effect  of  such  intense  application  upon  the  slimsy  fellow, 
his  grandmother  tried  various  diversions  without  much 
success.  She  could  interest  him  with  Indian  or  ghost 
stories,  but  such  gave  him  no  bodily  exercise,  and  only 
set  him  to  drawing  'how  granny  looked  when  telling 
ghost  stories' 

[Among  Homer's  subjects  for  illustration  was  his 

father,  whom  he  pictures  in  various  ways  on  the 

fences,  barn  or  wherever  he  could  find  a  board  large 

enough   to   accommodate   the    scene   He   wished   to 

portray.    For  years  this  habit  brought  about  no  ideas 

in  his  father's  mind  of  future  prominence  for  his  son, 

but  rather  a  feeling  of  irritation  at  being  drawn  as 

he  was,  and  in  ludicrous  positions.    As  a  result  he 

put  in  considerable  time  in  trying  to  develop,  with 

the  aid  of  a  branch  of  hazel-bush,  a  more  matter  of 

fact  manner  of  action  in  Homer.    He  had  to  finally 

give  it  up,  However,  for  the  latter  kept  on  making 

his  cartoons,  often  showing  'what  father  did  when 

he  got  mad  at  them.'     These  incidents  the  justly 

proud   parent   has   seemingly    forgotten,    but    this 

article  would  not  be  complete  without  giving  them 

mention,  so  the  liberty  was  taken  to  supply  the  om- 

mission.— Editor  Oregon  Native  Son.] 

"Plainly  observable,  even  thus  early,  was  his  love  of 

the  dramatic  in  everything  having  life.     Though  much 

attracted  by  beautiful  specimens  of  the  animal  kingdom, 

his  chief  satisfaction  came  from  representing  them  in 

their  moods.     His  pictures  were  all  doing  something. 

Horses,  dogs,  monkeys,   chickens,  ducks,  pigeons,  were 

exhibiting  their  peculiar  characteristics,  and  so  fitted  to 


186 


Oregon  Literature 


the  occasion  as  to  awaken  the  supposition  that  the  artist 
was  'en  rapport'  with  all  animated  nature.  A  mad  horse 
was  mad  all  over,  and  an  ardent  dog  showed  it  in  every 
part,  regardless  of  proportions. 

"Homer's  early  method  of  work,  if  an  impulsive  em- 
ployment may  be  dignified  by  the  term  method,  was 
'sui  generis,'  and  probably  unique,  if  not  wonderful.  Co- 
incident with  the  drawing  of  a  mad  horse,  was  the  acting 
by  himself.  The  work  would  be  arrested  at  times,  seem- 
ingly for  want  of  appreciation  or  mental  image  of  a  horse 
in  that  state  of  feeling,  and  then  he  took  to  the  floor. 

After  vigorously  stamp- 
ing, kicking,  snorting 
and  switching  an  im- 
provised tail,  which  he 
held  in  his  hand  behind 
his  back,  until  his  feel- 
ings or  fancy  became 
satisfied,  the  picture 
was  completed  and  re- 
ferred to  me  with  the 
question,  'Is  that  the 
way  a  mad  horse  looks  ? ' 
'Yes,  he  appears  to 
be  mad  through  and 
through. '  'r 

When  Homer  ap- 
proached early  man- 
hood, his  father  said  of 
him: 

"We  had  a  general  merchandise  store,  and  he  had  ex- 
perimented enough  in  selling  goods  to  know  that  his  mind 
could  not  be  tied  to  the  business.  Customers  buying 
tobacco  got  it  at  their  own  price,  and  shopping  women 
objected  to  his  habit  of  stretching  elastic  tape  when 
selling  it  by  the  yard.  There  was  fun  in  such  things, 
but  no  perceptible  profit.  He  opened  the  store  in  the 
morning  while  I  was  at  breakfast,  and  took  his  after- 
wards.  Upon  going  in  one  morning  and  finding  the  floor 
unswept  I  soon  saw  what  had  engaged  his  attention 
during  the  half  hour.  A  magnificent  carrier  pigeon  on 


DAD  FOUND  THE  PICTURE,  THEN 
FOUND    HOMER. 


Homer  Davenport  187 

the  wing,  and  above  it  in  colored  letters  this  legend: 
'How  glorious  the  night  of  a  bird  must  be.' 

"Homer  afterward  attended  the  Commercial  College 
in  Portland,  devoting  much  of  his  time  to  art ;  then  spent 
a  short  time  in  a  California  art  school,  which  he  soon 
left  because  he  was  compelled  to  draw  by  scribe  and  rule. 
He  was  soon  employed  by  the  Portland  Mercury,  then  by 
the  San  Francisco  Chronicle,  the  Examiner,  and  finally 
by  the  New  York  Journal,  where  the  genius  of  the  un- 
schooled Oregon  boy  proved  him  equal  to  the  ambition 
of  his  employer. 

"He  works  from  the  small  hours  in  the  afternoon  until 
near  midnight,  at  the  New  York  Journal  office,  in  the 
Tribune  building,  New  York  City,  and  after  breakfast  in 
the  morning  he  and  his  two  children  live  in  the  barn- 
yard, which  has  a  larger  assortment  of  choice  animals 
than  his  father's  had.  His  rests,  relaxation  and  inspira- 
tion are  with  his  earliest  idols." 


A.  W.  Patterson 


Dr.  A.  W.  Patterson,  of  Eugene,  Oregon,  published 
the  Western  Literary  Magazine,  much  of  the  material 
coming  from  his  own  pen.  It  contained  a  serial  of  some 
length— "The  Adventures  of  Captain  Samuel  Brady," 
the  Indian  fighter  of  the  West,  the  material  for  which 
was  obtained  from  Brady's  daughter,  then  a  poor  old 
woman  living  in  an  alley  in  Pittsburg.  He  wrote  a  his- 
tory of  the  West,  but  this  never  reached  circulation, 
being  burned  in  the  bindery.  He  also  prepared  a  hand 
book  named  "Eorty  Principles  of  the  English  Lan- 
guage. ' '  His  poem,  '  *  Onward. ' '  from  which  the  follow- 
ing extract  is  taken,  was  published  in  book  form  in  1869. 
In  1873  Doctor  Patterson  entered  into  contract  with  A. 
L.  Bancroft  &  Co.,  of  San  Franxjisco,  California,  to  pre- 
pare the  manuscript  for  a  set  of  school  readers  and  a 
speller  to  be  known  as  the  Pacific  Coast  Series.  Ac- 
cordingly he  wrote  the  first  three  readers  and  the  speller ; 
but  being  unable  to  finish  all  by  the  required  time,  upon 
his  suggestion,  Samuel  L.  Simpson  was  employed  to  pre- 
pare the  remaining  fourth  and  fifth  readers. 


ONWARD. 

Midst  tangled  wildwoods,  or  in  prairie  nook, 
Beside  the  pleasant  stream,  or  winding  brook, 
Mirrored  with  wild  flower  on  the  wavelets'  breast, 
Gladdening  some  fertile  region  of  the  West, 
Where  settler's  cabin  only  late  has  been, 
The  beauteous  rising  village  may  be  seen ! 


A.  W.  Patterson  189 

The  curling  smoke  ascending  through  the  trees— 
The  sounds  of  workmen  coming  on  the  breeze— 
The  clustering  buildings  busily  rearing  there— 
The  saw  mill  grating  on  the  troubled  air— 
The  hum  of  voices— the  occasional  song— 
The  shout,  the  laugh  among  the  merry  throng— 
With  all  the  mingling  tumult  on  the  ear, 
Proclaim,  indeed,  that  village  life  is  here ! 

Silence  no  longer  o'er  the  valleys  broods, 
Echo  reverb 'rates  through  their  solitudes; 
Around  is  heard  the  ax-man's  measured  stroke, 
And  far  prevails  the  awe  of  stillness  broke ! 
The  wild  deer,  startled,  leaves  the  lowland  brake — 
Water- fbwl,  screaming,  quit  the  marshy  lake— 
The  bison  bounds  away  with  matchless  might— 
The  wolf,  dismayed,  is  skulking  from  the  sight— 
The  Indian  too — no  less  a  wild-like  race — 
Resigns,  though  more  reluctantly,  the  place. 
Saddened  in  heart,  with  mute  and  steadfast  gaze, 
He  lingers  mournfully  o'er  the  wildering  maze. 
See!  how  with  wonder  in  his  troubled  eye, 
He  marks  that  spire  uprising,  strangely  high ; 
Surveys  the  restless,  creaking  millwheel  turn, 
And  strangers'  curious  skill  with  deep  concern; 
Around  are  closing  in  the  white  man's  fields, 
He  e'en  in  turn,  at  length  dominion  yields! 
And  goes,  disturbed,  the  early  hunter  too; 
Following  his  game,  he  thrids  the  wilds  anew ! 
Beside  yon  springlet  where  the  alder  grows,  • 
His  shapeless  cabin  unfrequented  rose. 
The  idling  savage  but  his  casual  guest, 
He  lived  as  loved  the  daring  hunter  best. 
But  now  more  distant  depths  of  solitude 
Are  sought,  where  hum  of  life  may  not  intrude ; 
His  dogs  and  gun,  companions  of  his  way, 
The  restless  Leather-Stocking  of  his  day ! 


190  Oregon  Literature 

Crowds  are  gathering  over  hills  and  nlains. 
Some  from  New  England's  joyous,  purling  rills- 
Some  from  the  Allegheny's  wide-spread  hills— 
Some  from  more  western  vales,  or  Southern  slopes- 
Some  where  the  high  Canadian  landscape  opes; 
Others  as  well,  from  Europe's  peopled  shores, 
Where  Rhine  or  Rhone  his  ancient  current  pours ; 
Where  Norway  frowns,  Italy's  summer  smiles; 
The  Celt  and  Saxon  plow  the  British  Isles: 
But  vain  to  tell  whence  severally  they  hail, 
The  wide  world  sends  them  from  every  hill  and  dale ! 


A  wonder  often  wakens  in  the  eye, 

So  great  the  turmoil,  so  intent  they  ply ; 

The  coming  stranger,  with  a  slackening  pace, 

Pauses  to  gaze  in  silence  on  the  place ; 

The  gray-haired  woodsman,  visiting  the  town, 

Lingers  in  mazement  till  the  sun  is  down! 

Buildings  around  on  every  hand  are  seen 

Ascending,  as  by  magic,  o'er  the  green. 

The  cabin  rises  by  the  spreading  shade, 

As  well,  the  dome  that  looks  o  'er  grove  and  glade 

With  many  a  structure  architect  ne'er  planned, 

The  homely  fashion  of  a  border  land, 

Till  looms  the  village  in  the  evening  sun 

Greater,  as  each  succeding  days  is  done! 


And  while  the  busy  builders  fill  the  air 
With  ceaseless  echoes  of  their  restless  care, 
There  is  a  stir  of  trade  around  the  "store"— 
The  mill-wheel  rumbles  by  the  sedgy  shore — 
The  blacksmith's  anvil  rings,  his  bellows  blows - 
The  teamster  brawls  and  whistles  as  he  goes — 
The  salesman  shouts  adown  the  crowded  street— 
The  jockey  clamors  where  the  loitering  meet — 
The  speculator  talks  of  corner  lots — 
The  marksman  wagers  on  his  sounding  shots— 


A.  W.  Patterson  191 

The  school  room  even  mingles  in  its  cares — 

The  lawyer  pettifogs— the  gambler  swears— 

The  quack  boasts  skill— the  preacher  talks  of  sin— 

The  cobbler  beats  an  alto  to  the  din! 

While  many,  another,  busied  not  in  vain, 

Whate'er  his  part,  as  loudly  strikes  for  gain. 


Thus  hum  the  ever-active  hours  away, 
The  noisy  tumult  of  the  eager  day, 
Unceasingly,  while  echoing  far  and  long, 
Is  borne  the  cadences  of  mighty  song. 


Thomas  Franklin  Campbell 

Thomas  Franklin  Campbell  was  born  in  Rankin 
County,  Mississippi,  May  22,  1822,  and  died  at  Mon- 
mouth,  Oregon,  January  17,  1893.  He  came  to  Oregon 
in  1869,  and  became  the  president  of  Christian  College 
at  Monmouth.  He  founded  the  Christian  Messenger, 
which  he  edited  while  he  had  charge  of  the  school.  He 
was  the  president  and  inspiration  of  the  college  until 
1882,  when  the  institution  was  merged  into  the  State 
Normal  School.  At  the  time  of  his  death  he  was  pastor 
of  the  Christian  Church  at  Monmouth,  Oregon.  He  pub- 
lished two  volumes  of  popular  lectures,  "Know  Thy- 
self" and  "Genesis  of  Power."  Few  men  have  had  a 
wider  influence  in  the  educational  and  religious  affairs  of 
Oregon  than  this  scholar  who  took  for  his  motto :  '  *  True 
politeness  is  a  light  coin,  but  above  par  all  over  1he 
world." 

LANGUAGE. 

Language  is  the  universal  medium  between  spirit  and 
spirit.  Whatever  its  form,  whether  sign  or  sound,  oral 
or  written,  it  must  be  translated  into  words  understood 
by  him  who  hears  them  before  it  can  be  effective  in  arous- 
ing thought  in  the  mind  of  another. 

A  word  is,  therefore,  the  complete  investment  of  a 
single  element  of  spiritual  power.  It  is  not  a  mere  sound 
of  the  voice,  nor  a  combination  of  letters  representing  a 
sound,  but  a  definite  thought  conceived  or  uttered  in 
articulate  sound.  If  merely  conceived  in  the  mind,  it 
is  formulated  energy  ready  for  utterance. 

It  is  like  a  ship  freighted  for  a  distant  port,  ready  to 
weigh  anchor ;  or  a  train  ready  to  move,  only  waiting  the 
signal  of  the  conductor.  .When  uttered  it  speeds  its 
flight  with  the  velocity  of  sound,  discharging  its  cargo 
of  thought  in  the  expectant  mind.  Thus,  for  illustration, 
a  party  has  in  his  mind  power  to  cause  another,  moving 
at  a  distance,  to  turn  and  move  in  the  opposite  direction. 
The  power  can  accomplish  nothing  while  it  remains  in 


Thomas  Franklin  Campbell  193 

his  breast.  It  must  be  formulated,  brought  out,  sent 
forth,  and  lodged  in  the  mind  of  the  other.  This  is  done 
by  coining  the  appropriate  sentence  and  uttering  it  with 
the  voice,  so  that  it  reaches  the  ear  and  the  understanding 
of  the  other.  The  intelligence  is  of  sufficient  interest  to 
cause  him  to  turn  and  move  the  other  way. 

Another,  intending  to  visit  the  city,  is  changed  in  pur- 
pose by  power  in  his  neighbor's  mind,  which  was  con- 
veyed to  him  in  words,  showing  that  it  was  his  interest 
to  remain  at  home. 

Language  is  in  these,  and  all  similar  instances,  the 
medium  or  vehicle  by  which  the  power  is  conveyed  from 
its  source  to  its  object.  It  is  an  instrument  of  Divine 
appointment,  sublime  in  simplicity,  wonderful  in  result. 

Unlike  the  ship  or  the  train,  which  having  reached  its 
appointed  port  or  depot,  and  discharged  its  freight,  in- 
cumbers  the  bay  or  obstructs  the  track,  and  needs  to  be 
removed;  the  sound  corresponding  to  the  ship  or  train, 
having  reached  its  destination  and  deposited  its  burden 
of  thought  in  the  mind  of  the  hearer,  vanishes,  utterly 
disappears,  nor  leaves  a  wreck  behind. 

It  is  the  most  convenient  and  inexhaustible  of  all 
media.  With  the  thought  comes  the  sentences  to  him  who 
has  been  trained  in  language. 

Unlike  any  other  medium  of  conveyance,  which  reaches 
a  single  destination  and  discharges  a  single  cargo,  the 
same  word  uttered  by  a  single  impulse  reaches  one  or  a 
thousand  or  ten  thousand  minds  at  the  same  instant, 
discharging  the  same  treasure  of  knowledge  in  each,  the 
sound  dying  immediately  and  leaving  the  identical 
thought  formulated  in  every  mind.  Its  ability  to  multi- 
ply as  a  medium  is  limited  only  by  the  number  of  minds 
within  hearing  distance. 

This  medium,  though  wonderful,  is,  nevertheless, 
entirely  artificial,  and  as  in  any  other  art,  its  application 
must  first  be  learned ;  and  then  he  who  would  use  it  must 
manufacture  all  the  words  he  needs  for  every  occasion. 

This  is  quickly  and  easily  done.  Having  the  organs 
of  speech  as  instruments,  and  the  atmosphere  as  material, 
he  can  construct  as  many  vehicles  of  thought  as  may  be 
necessary  to  communicate  with  his  fellows, 


194  Oregon  Literature 

The  felicity  with  which  conversation  is  carried  on  be- 
tween fluent  talkers,  shows  how  readily  any  number  of 
words  may  be  coined  without  apparent  effort.  This  is 
the  result  of  skill,  acquired  by  practice.  The  infant  can 
neither  make  nor  mould  the  voice  into  articulate  sounds 
until  taught.  No  one  ever  spoke  until  he  heard  some 
other  speak. 

The  deaf  are  always  dumb.  The  first  man  had  no 
mother  to  teach  him,  hence  no  mother  tongue.  He  must 
have  been  taught  of  God,  his  Father.  Language  is, 
therefore,  a  Divine  art.  The  noun  is  the  basis  of  every 
tongue.  God  taught  his  son  the  art  of  naming.  ''What- 
soever Adam  called  every  living  creature,  that  was  the 
name  thereof." 

How  long  it  took  Adam  to  acquire  a  complete  vocab- 
ulary the  record  does  not  show,  nor  is  it  stated  how  long 
they  conversed  together  as  Father  and  son,  either  before 
or  after  the  advent  of  Eve. 

Between  the  latter  advent  and  the  fall,  much  time 
must  have  intervened;  for  in  the  adjudication  of  their 
transgression  both  Adam  and  Eve  displayed  skill  and 
ingenuity  in  the  use  of  language. 

Inspiration  need  not  be  claimed,  nor  miraculous  power 
invoked  in  this  origin  of  language.  A  Divine  teacher 
with  students  mature  in  body  and  mind,  was  all-suiucient 
for  the  result. 

When  God  gave  man  language,  religion  became  a 
necessity;  without  it  religion  is  impossible.  The  ele- 
ments of  good  and  evil  were  in  man's  heterogeneous 
nature;  but,  "the  knowledge  of  good  and  evil,"  was 
involved  in  the  terms  that  expressed. 

Satan,  who  was  also  master  of  language,  and  knew 
its  potency  as  an  instrument,  used  it  freely  to  prepare 
the  way  for  sin  and  death.  So  ingenious  was  he  in  the 
use  of  words  that  he  deceived  the  woman,  and  then 
caused  her  to  become  his  instrument,  adding  Satanic 
eloquence  to  her  charms  of  grace  and  beauty,  to  cause 
Adam,  knowingly  and  willingly,  to  transgress,  involving 
himself  in  ruin.  Satanic  spiritual  power  is  still  formu- 
lated in  words  uttered  by  those  whom  he  deceives,  and 


Thomas  franklin  Campbell  195 

who  become  his  willing  tools  to  lead  others  captive  af 
his  will. 

Since  language  is  only  a  medium,  it  may  be  used  by 
Satan,  as  well  as  by  man,  to  transport  thought  from  mind 
to  mind,  and  to  bring  spiritual  pressure  to  bear  upon 
free  agents,  to  cause  them  to  act  in  harmony  with  the 
power  impressed. 

Controlled  by  Satan,  through  the  promptings  of  the 
flesh,  "the  tongue,"  put  by  metonymy  for  the  words  it 
utters,  is  a  Iit1  le  member,  and  boasteth  great  things. 
* '  Behold  how  great  a  matter  a  little  fire  kindleth !  And 
the  tongue  is  a  fire,  a  world  of  iniquity :  so  is  the  tongue 
among  our  members  that  defileth  the  whole  body,  and 
setteth  on  fire  the  course  of  nature,  and  it  is  set  on  fire 
of  hell;  .  .  .  the  tongue  can  no  man  tame;  it  is  an 
unruly  evil,  full  of  deadly  poison."  The  wisdom  which 
guides  such  a  tongue,  is  said  to  be,  "earthy,  sensual, 
devilish." 

The  disciples  of  Sa'an  have  coined  a  very  large  vo- 
cabulary of  words  appropriate  to  only  Satanic  power, 
or  human  power  with  Satanic  characteristics;  and  by 
the  use  of  these  more  than  any  other  differential  trait, 
may  the  disciples  of  Sa1  an  be  recognized. 

Pure  speech  out  of  a  pure  heart  should  ever  distin- 
guish, "a  chosen  generation,  a  royal  priesthood,  n  holy 
nation,  a  peculiar  people. ' ' 


Rev.  G.  H.  Atkinson 


THE  PIONEERS  OF  1848. 


» 


The  year  which  we  celebrate  marks  a  fruitful  period 
for  the  Pacific  Northwest;  1848  was  the  turning  point 
in  our  history.  Alternate  hopes  and  fears  had  moved  the 
people  up  to  this  date.  There  had  been  no  recognition  by 
Congress.  Laws  had  been  enacted  and  executed  by  tho 
pioneers.  Society  had  begun  to  organize  in  a  few  centers, 
and  public  sentiment  was  respected ;  but  our  Nation  had 
not  recognized  this  small  band  of  American  citizens  on 
her  extreme  frontier  along  the  Pacific  Ocean  until  1848. 
The  earlier  pioneers — the  hunters  and  trappers,  the  mis- 
sionaries and  their  wives,  and  the  immigrant  families  of 
the  settlers— had  found  the  path  and  opened  the  way 
Hither,  and  offered  a  safe  and  welcome  home  to  all  new 
comers.  Great  was  their  task  and  nobly  they  com- 
pleted it. 

They  had  organized  the  Provisional  Government  in 
1842-4,  on  the  American  plan  of  equal  rights  and  equal 
justice  to  every  citizen,  and  had  included  all  as  citizens 
who  were  so  held  under  state  and  national  laws.  Tfyey 
had  ventured  the  experiment  of  self-government  as  a 
duty  of  self -protection,  and  not  in  disrespect  or  defiance 
of  Congress  or  the  Constitution.  Having  marched  two 
thousand  miles  westward  over  the  famed  "American 
Desert,"  and  over  three  mountain  ranges,  and  still  stand- 
ing on  American  soil,  they  wished  no  divorce  from  the 
home  government,  but,  rather,  a  stronger  union  with  it. 
The  fires  of  patriotism  burned  more,  not  less,  brightly 
within  them  under  the  force  of  their  long  and  painful 
tramp  to  plant  and  defend  the  "Flag  of  Our  Nation" 
on  this  Pacific  frontier. 


;,'*  •• 


FREDERIC  H.  BALCH 


Frederic  Homer  Balch 

Frederic  Homer  Balch,  the  author  of  "Bridge  of  the 
Gods,"  was  born  at  Lebanon,  Oregon,  December  14, 
1861.  As  a  child,  stories  of  war  fascinated  him,  and 
as  he  grew  older,  the  study  of  ancient  history  was  his 
especial  delight.  Books  were  expensive  then,  and  few 
of  the  frontier  families  could ,  afford  libraries ;  but  oc- 
casionally an  Eastern  family  settled  near  his  home,  and 
among  their  possessions  were  often  books,  which  were 
always  willingly  loaned  to  the  boy  who  so  appreciated 
their  contents.  He  once  wrote  to  his  sister,  "Much  of 
the  education  I  have  is  due  to  the  ceaseless  reading  and 
re-reading  of  Macaulay ' ' ;  and  of  Milton  he  wrote,  * '  How 
I  thrilled  and  exulted  in  the  mighty  battle  of  Satan  for 
the  throne  of  God ;  in  his  fierce  defiance  and  unbending 
hate,  after  the  battle  was  lest ;  and  in  the  dusky  splendor 
of  the  palace,  and  the  pomp,  with  which  he  and  his 
followers  surrounded  themselves  in  hell." 

When  about  thirteen  years  old,  he  wrote  poetry  and 
historical  sketches.  He  had  an  intense  love  for  his 
native  state,  and  from  boyhood  made  a  study  of  its  early 
history,  and  of  the  Indians  along  the  Columbia.  This 
gradually  inspired  him  with  a  desire  to  preserve  the 
legends  of  a  fast-disappearing  people — weaving  their 
traditions  in  with  the  first  attempt  at  civilization  in 
Oregon,  and  embellishing  the  whole  with  the  magnificent 
scenery  of  the  Northwest— writing  romances  that  would 
be  to  Oregon  what  Scott's  were  to  Scotland. 

This  ambition,  formed  in  his  boyhood,  grew  with  him 
so  that  subsequently  he  collected  and  carefully  stored 
away  a  vast  fund  of  knowledge  regarding  the  Indians, 
their  habits,  religious  beliefs,  Iraditions  and  mode  of 
living.  He  devoted  himself  to  the  one  ambition,  studying 
their  habits,  religious  beliefs,  traditions  and  mode  of 
the  farm.  Schools  and  colleges  are  so  plentiful  today 
that  the  student  of  the  present  cannot  realize  the  strug- 
gles of  an  ambitious  boy  to  educate  himself  thirty  years 
ago,  in  the  then  thinly-settled  West. 


198  Oregon  Literature 

When  about  twenty-one,  he  entered  the  ministry,  and 
for  several  years  did  missionary  work,  organizing 
churches,  spending  his  days  in  the  saddle  and  his  even- 
ings in  the  pulpit,  going  into  the  remote  settlements 
where  sermons  were  practically  unknown ;  and  ever  kept 
his  appointments  absolutely  regardless  of  health  or 
weather. 

With  all  the  added  duties  of  this  new  work,  he  carried 
on  the  search  for  material  for  his  book,  continuing  his 
study  of  Indian  lore  as  zealously  as  before.  Much  of 
his  vacation  was  spent  in  traveling  over  the  Northwest 
gleaning  information  from  every  available  source,  and 
verifying  doubtful  statements.  After  a  long  and  thor- 
ough search  for  information,  much  study  and  slow 
questioning  of  Indians  from  many  tribes — especially  the 
aged  ones— he  was  firmly  convinced  of  the  previous  ex- 
istence of  the  " Bridge  of  the  Gods"  of  Indian  tradition. 

After  a  time  he  settled  in  the  pastorate  of  the  Con- 
gregational Church  at  Hood  River,  so  gaming  a  little 
more  time  for  writing;  and  there,  during  a  vacation,  he 
began  "The  Bridge  of  the  Gods."  After  its  completion 
he  entered  a  seminary  in  Oakland,  California,  to  take  a 
course  in  theology.  In  all  the  years  past  he  had  thought 
but  little  of  himself,  his  work  so  fully  absorbing  his 
attention.  When  within  a  few  weeks  of  completing  the 
seminary  course,  illness  attacked  him  and  he  had  not 
the  strength  to  rally.  Bravely  and  patiently  he  battled 
against  the  disease,  as  all  through  life  he  had  fought 
and  overcome  obstacles  that  threatened  the  overthrow 
of  his. cherished  plans.  "The  Bridge  of  the  Gods"  had 
just  been  published,  and  it  seemed  now  as  if  the  work 
and  plans  of  a  lifetime  were  soon  to  be  realized.  Hard 
indeed  it  was  to  lay  down  his  work,  the  writing  and 
research  that  was  as  a  part  of  his  life,  and  the  ministry 
he  so  loved,  but  he  uttered  no  word  of  complaint.  Wifh 
his  wonted  gentleness  and  patience  he  simply  said,  "It 
is  all  right,  the  Master  has  work  for  me  elsewhere  that 
I  could  not  do  here."  His  decease  occurred  in  Portland, 
Oregon,  June  3,  1891. 

Through  the  years  of  his  ministry  he  neglected  neither 
his  literary  nor  his  pastoral  work,  and  there  are  many 


Frederic  Homer  Balch  199 

today  who  will  tell  you  that  the  words  and  the  ex- 
ample of  the  young  minister  still  abide  with  them  and 
that  his  beautiful  influence  yet  shines  in  their  lives. 

With  the  indomitable  energy  bequeathed  to  him  by 
pioneer  life  Mr.  Balch  had  outlined  several  other  books, 
and  had  partly  written  one— "Tenasket,"  a  tale  of 
Oregon  in  1818;  "Genevieve,"  a  story  of  the  Oregon 
of  today;  "Crossing  the  Plains,"  and  "Olallie,"  and 
other  stories,  some  of  which  are  yet  in  manuscript  only. 
All  these  were  to  be  of  Oregon,  her  past,  her  early 
settlers  and  Indian  tribes,  and  would  have  been  rich  in 
the  legends  and  customs  of  the  race  now  but  a  handful 
in  a  region  where  once  they  reigned  supreme.  , 

THE  BRIDGE  OF  THE  GODS. 
CHIEF  MULTNOMAH  IN  COUNCIL. 

The  chiefs  of  the  Willamettes  had  gathered  on  Wapato 
Island,  from  time  immemorial  the  council  ground  of 
the  tribes.  The  white  man  has  changed  its  name  to 
"Sauvie's"  Island;  but  its  wonderful  beauty  is  un- 
changeable. Lying  at  the  mouth  of  the  Willamette 
River  and  extending  for  many  miles  down  the  Columbia, 
rich  in  wide  meadows  and  crystal  lakes,  its  interior 
dotted  with  majestic  oaks  and  its  shores  fringed  with 
cottonwoods,  around  it  the  blue  and  sweeping  rivers,  the 
wooded  hills,  and  the  far  white  snow  peaks— it  is  the 
most  picturesque  spot  in  Oregon. 

The  chiefs  were  assembled  in  secret  council,  and  only 
those  of  pure  Willamette  blood  were  present,  for  the 
question  to  be  considered  was  not  one  to  be  known  by 
even  the  most  trusted  ally. 

All  the  confederated  tribes  beyond  the  Cascade  Range 
were  in  a  ferment  of  rebellion.  One  of  the  petty  tribes 
of  Eastern  Oregon  had  recently  risen  up  against  the 
Willamette  supremacy;  and  after  a  short  but  bloody 
struggle,  the  insurrection  had  been  put  down  and  the 
rebels  almost  exterminated  by  the  victorious  Willamettes. 

But  it  was  known  that  the  chief  of  the  malcontents 
had  passed  from  tribe  to  tribe  before  the  struggle  com- 
menced, inciting  them  to  revolt,  and  it  was  suspected 


200  Oregon  Literature 

that  a  secret  league  had  been  formed;  though  when 
matters  came  to  a  crisis,  the  confederates,  afraid  to  face 
openly  the  fierce  warriors  of  the  Willamette,  had  stood 
sullenly  back,  giving  assistance  to  neither  side.  It  was 
evident,  however,  that  a  spirit  of  angry  discontent  was 
rife  among  them.  Threatening  language  had  been  used 
by  the  restless  chiefs  beyond  the  mountains ;  braves  had 
talked  'around  the  camp  fire  of  the  freedom  of  the  days 
before  the  yoke  of  the  confederacy  was  known ;  and  the 
gray  old  dreamers,  with  whom  the  mimaluse  tillicums 
(dead  people)  talked,  had  said  that  the  fall  of  the 
Willamettes  was  near  at  hand. 

The  sachems  of  the  Willamettes,  advised  of  every- 
thing, were  met  in  council  in  the  soft  Oregon  spring- 
tide. They  were  gathered  under  the  cottonwood  trees, 
not  far  from  the  bank  of  the  Columbia.  The  air  was 
fresh  with  the  scent  of  the  waters,  and  the  young  leaves 
were  just  putting  forth  on  the  ' '  trees  of  council, ' '  whose 
branches  swayed  gently  in  the  breeze.  Beneath  them 
their  bronze  faces  were  more  swarthy  still  as  the  dancing 
sunbeams  fell  upon  them  through  the  moving  boughs, 
thirty  sachems  sat  in  close  semi-circle  before  their  great 
war-chief,  Multnomah. 

It  was  a  strange,  a  sombre  assembly.  The  chiefs  were 
for  the  most  part  tall,  well-built  men,  warriors  and 
hunters  from  their  youth  up.  There  was  something 
fierce  and  haughty  in  their  bearing,  something  menacing, 
violent  and  lawless  in  their  saturnine  faces  and  black, 
glittering  eyes.  Most  of  them  wore  their  hair  long; 
some  plaited,  others  flowing  loosely  over  their  shoulders. 
Their  ears  were  loaded  with  hiagua  shells;  their  dress 
was  composed  of  buckskin  leggings  and  moccasins,  and 
a  short  robe  ,£  dressed  skin  that  came  from  the 
shoulders  to  the  knees,  to  which  was  added  a  kind  of 
blanket  woven  of  the  wool  of  the  mountain  sheep,  or  an 
outer  robe  of  skins  or  furs,  stained  various  colors  and 
always  drawn  close  around  the  body  when  sitting  or 
standing.  Seated  on  rude  mats  of  rushes,  wrapped  each 
in  his  outer  blanket  and  doubly  wrapped  in  Indian 
stoicism,  the  warriors  were  ranged  before  their  chief. 

His  garb  did  not  differ  from  that  of  the  others,  except 


Frederic  Homer  Balch  201 

that  his  blanket  was  of  the  richest  fur  known  to  the 
Indians,  so  doubled  that  the  fur  showed  on  either  side. 
His  bare  arms  were  clasped  each  with  a  rous^h  band  of 
gold;  his  hair  was  cut  short,  in  sign  of  mourning  for 
his  favorite  wife,  and  his  neck  was  adorned  with  a  collar 
of  large  bear-claws,  showing  he  had  accomplished  that 
proudest  of  all  achievements  for  the  Indian — the  killing 
of  a  grizzly. 

Until  the  last  chief  had  entered  the  grove  and  taken 
his  place  in  the  semi-circle,  Multnomah  sat  like  a  statue 
of  stone.  He  leaned  forward  reclining  on  his  bow,  a 
fine  unstrung  weapon  tipped  with  gold.  He  was  about 
sixty  years  old,  his  form  tall  and  stately,  his  brow  high, 
his  eyes  black,  overhung  with  shaggy  gray  eyebrows 
and  piercing  as  an  eagle's.  His  dark,  grandly  impassive 
face,  with  its  imposing  regularity  of  feature,  showed  a 
penetration  that  read  everything,  a  reserve  that  re- 
vealed nothing,  a  dominating  power  that  gave  strength 
and  command  to  every  line.  The  lip,  the  brow,  the  very 
grip  of  the  hand  on  the  bow  told  of  a  despotic  temper 
and  an  indomitable  will.  The  glance  that  flashed  out 
from  this  reserved  and  resolute  face— sharp,  searching 
and  imperious — may  complete  the  portrait  of  Multno- 
mah, the  silent,  the  secret,  the  terrible. 

When  the  last  late-entering  chief  had  taken  his  place, 
Multnomah  rose  and  began  to  speak,  using  the  royal 
language;  for  like  the  Cayuses  and  several  other  tribes 
of  the  Northwest,  the  Willamettes  had  two  languages— 
the  common,  for  every-day  use,  and  the  royal,  spoken 
only  by  the  chiefs  in  council. 

In  grave,  strong  words  he  laid  before  them  the  troubles 
that  threatened  to  break  up  the  confederacy  and  his 
plan,  for  meeting  them.  It  was  to  send  out  runners 
calling  a  council  of  all  the  tribes,  including  the  doubtful 
allies,  and  to  try  before  them  and  execute  the  rebellious 
chief,  who  had  been  taken  alive  and  was  now  reserved 
for  the  torture.  Such  a  council,  with  the  terrible  warn- 
ing of  the  rebel's  death  enacted  before  it,  would  awe 
the  malcontents  into  submission  or  drive  them  into  open 
revolt.  Long  enough  had  the  allies  spoken  with  two 
tongues;  long  enough  had  they  smoked  the  peace-pipe 


202  Oreyon  Literature 

with  both  the  Willamettes  and  their  enemies.  They 
must  come  now  to  peace  that  should  be  peace,  or  to  open 
war.  The  chief  made  no  gestures,  his  voice  did  not  vary 
its  stern,  deliberate  accents  from  first  to  last;  but  there 
was  an  indefinable  something  in  word  and  manner  that 
told  how  his  warlike  soul  thirsted  for  battle,  how  the 
iron  resolution,  the  ferocity  beneath  his  stoicism,  burned 
with  desire  of  vengeance. 

There  was  perfect  attention  while  he  spoke— not  so 
much  as  a  glance  or  a  whisper  aside.  When  he  had 
ceased  and  resumed  his  seat,  silence  reigned  for  a  little 
while.  Then  Tla-wau-wau,  chief  of  the  Klackamas,  a 
sub-tribe  of  the  Willamettes,  rose.  He  laid  aside  his 
outer  robe,  leaving  bare  his  arms  and  shoulders,  which 
were  deeply  scarred ;  for  Tla-wau-wau  was  a  mighty 
warrior,  and  as  such  commanded.  With  measured  de- 
liberation he  spoke  in  the  royal  tongue. 

"Tla-wau-wau  has  seen  many  winters,  and  his  hair 
is  very  gray.  Many  times  has  he  watched  the  grass 
spring  up  and  grow  brown  and  wither,  and  the  snows 
come  and  go,  and  those  things  have  brought  him  wisdom, 
and  what  he  has  seen  of  life  and  death  has  given  him 
strong  thoughts.  It  is  not  well  to  leap  headlong  into 
a  muddy  stream,  lest  there  be  rocks  under  the  black 
water.  Shall  we  call  the  tribes  to  meet  us  here  on  the 
Island  of  Council  ?  When  they  are  all  gathered  together 
they  are  more  numerous  than  we.  Is  it  wise  to  call 
those  that  are  stronger  than  ourselves  into  our  wigwam, 
when  their  hearts  are  bitter  against  us?  Who  knows 
what  plots  they  might  lay,  or  how  suddenly  they  might 
fall  on  us  at  night  or  in  the  day  when  we  were  unpre- 
pared? Can  we  trust  them?  Does  not  the  Klickitat's 
name  mean  '  he  that  steals  horses '  ?  The  Yakima  would 
smoke  the  peace-pipe  with  the  knife  that  was  to  stab 
you  hid  under  his  blanket.  The  Wasco's  heart  is  a  lie, 
and  his  tongue  is  a  trap. 

.  "No,  let  us  wait.  The  tribes  talk  great  swelling  words 
now  and  their  hearts  are  hot,  but  if  we  wait,  the  fire 
will  die  down  and  the  words  grow  small.  Then  we  can 
have  a  council  and  be  knit  together  again.  Let  us  wait 


Frederic  Homer  Balch  203 

till  another  winter  has  come  and-  gone ;  then  let  us  meet 
in  council,  and  the  tribes  will  listen. 

"Tla-wau-wau  says,  'wait,  and  all  will  be  well.'  ' 

His  earnest,  emphatic  words  ended,  the  chief  took  his 
seat  and  resumed  his  former  look  of  stolid  indifference. 
A  moment  before  he  had  been  all  animation,  every  glance 
and  gesture  eloquent  with  meaning;  now  he  sat  seem- 
ingly impassive  and  unconcerned. 

There  was  another  pause.  It  was  so  still  that  the 
rustling  of  the  boughs  overhead  was  startlingly  distinct. 
Saving  the  restless  glit'.  er  of  black  eyes,  it  was  a  tableau 
of  stoicism.  Then  another  spoke,  advising  caution, 
setting  forth  the  danger  of  plunging  into  a  contest  with 
the  allies.  Speaker  followed  speaker  in  1he  same  strain. 

As  they  uttered  the  words  counselling  delay,  the 
glance  of  the  war-chief  grew  ever  brighter,  and  his  grip 
upon  the  bow  on  which  he  leaned  grew  harder.  But  the 
cold  face  did  not  relax  a  muscle.  At  length  rose  Mishlah 
the  Cougar,  chief  of  the  Mollalies.  His  was  one  of  the 
most  singular  faces  there.  His  tangled  hair  fell  around 
a  sinister,  bestial  countenance,  all  scarred  and  seamed 
by  wounds  received  in  battle.  His  head  was  almost  flat, 
running  back  from  his  eyebrows  so  obliquely  that  when 
he  stood  erect  he  seemed  to  have  no  forehead  at  all; 
while  the  back  and  lower  part  of  his  head  showed  an 
enormous  development — a  development  that  was  all 
animal.  He  knew  nothing  but  battle,  and  was  one  of 
the  most  dreaded  warriors  of  the  Willame'tes. 

iHe  spoke,  not  in  the  royal  language,  as  did  the  others, 
but  in  the  common  dialect,  the  only  one  of  which  he  was 
master. 

"My  heart  is  as  the  heart  of  Mul  nomah.  Mishlah  is 
hungry  for  war.  If  the  tribes  that  are  our  younger 
brothers  are  faithful,  they  will  come  to  the  council  and 
smoke  the  pipe  of  peace  with  us;  if  they  are  noL,  let  us 
know  it.  Mishlah  knows  not  what  it  is  to  wait.  You  all 
talk  words,  words,  words ;  and  the  tribes  laugh  and  say, 
'The  Willamettes  have  become  women  and  sit  in  the 
lodge  sewing  moccasins  and  are  afraid  to  fight.'  Send 
out  the  runners.  Call  the  council.  Let  us  find  who  are 
our  enemies ;  then  let  us  strike  ! ' ' 


204  Oregon  Literature 

The  hands  of  the  chief  closed  involuntarily  as  if  they 
clutched  a  weapon,  and  his  voice  rang  harsh  and  grating. 
The  eyes  of  Multnomah  flashed  fire,  and  the  war-lust 
kindled  for  a  moment  on  the  dark  faces  of  the  listeners. 

Then  rose  the  grotesque  figure  of  an  Indian,  ancient, 
withered,  with  matted  locks  and  haggard  face,  who  had 
just  joined  the  council,  gliding  in  noiselessly  from  the 
neighboring  wood.  His  cheek  bones  were  unusually 
high,  his  lower  lip  thick  and  protruding,  his  eyes  deeply 
sunken,  his  face  drawn,  austere,  and  dismal  beyond  de- 
scription. The  mis-shapen,  degraded  features  repelled 
at  first  sight;  but  a  second  glance  revealed  a  great  dim 
sadness  in  the  eyes,  a  gloomy  foreboding  on  brow  and  lip 
that  were  weirdly  fascinating,  so  sombre  were  they,  so 
full  of  woe.  There  was  a  wild  dignity  in  his  mien ;  and 
he  wore  the  robe  of  furs,  though  soiled  and  torn,  that 
only  the  richest  chiefs  were  able  to  wear.  Such  was 
Tohomish,  or  Pine  Voice,  chief  of  the  Santiam  tribe  of 
the  Willamettes,  the  most  eloquent  orator  and  potent 
medicine  or  tomanowos  man  in  the  confederacy. 

There  was  a  perceptible  movement  of  expectation,  a 
lighting  up  of  faces  as  he  arose,  and  a  shadow  of  anxiety 
swept  over  Multnomah 's  impressive  features.  For  this 
man's  eloquence  was  wonderful,  and  his  soft  magnetic 
tones  could  sway  the  passions  of  his  hearers  to  his  will 
with  a  power  that  seemed  more  than  human  to  the  super- 
stitious Indians.  Would  he  declare  for  the  council  or 
against  it;  for  peace  or  for  war? 

He  threw  back  the  tangled  locks  that  hung  over  his 
face,  and  spoke: 

"Chiefs  and  warriors,  who  dwell  in  lodges  and  talk 
with  men,  Tohomish,  who  dwells  in  caves  and  talks 
with  the  dead,  says  greeting,  and  by  him  the  dead  send 
greeting  also." 

His  voice  was  wonderfully  musical,  thrilling  and 
pathetic ;  and  as  he  spoke  the  salutation  from  the  dead, 
a  shudder  went  through  the  wild  audience  before  him — 
through  all  but  Multnomah,  who  did  not  shrink  nor  drop 
his  searching  eyes  from  the  speaker's  face.  What  cared 
he  for  the  salutation  of  the  living  or  the  dead?  Would 


Frederic  Homer  Balch  205 

this  man  whose  influence  was  so  powerful  declare  for 
action  or  delay? 

1  'It  has  been  long  since  Tohomish  has  stood  in  the 
light  of  the  sun  and  looked  on  the  faces  of  his  brothers 
or  heard  their  voices.  Other  faces  has  he  looked  upon 
and  other  voices  has  he  heard.  He  has  learned  the  lan- 
guage of  the  birds  and  the  trees,  and  has  talked  with 
the  People  of  Old  who  dwell  in  the  serpent  and  the 
coyote;  and  they  have  taught  him  their  secrets.  But 
of  late  terrible  things  have  come  to  Tohomish." 

He  paused,  and  the  silence  was  breathless.  f'>r  the 
Indians  looked  on  this  man  as  a  seer  to  whom  the  future 
was  as  luminous  as  the  past.  But  Multnomah's  brow 
darkened;  he  felt  that  Tohomish  also  was  against  him, 
and  the  soul  of  the  warrior  rose  up  stern  and  resentful 
against  the  prophet. 

"A  few  suns  ago,  as  I  wandered  in  the  forest  by  the 
Santiam,  I  heard  the  death-wail  in  the  distance.  I  said, 
'Some  one  is  dead,  and  that  is  +he  cry  of  the  mourners. 
I  will  go  and  lift  up  my  voice  with  them.  But  as  I 
sought  them  up  the  hill  and  through  the  thickets  the 
cry  grew  fainter  and  farther,  till  at  last  it  died  out  amid 
distant  rocks  and  crags.  And  then  I  knew  that  I  had 
heard  no  human  voice  lamenting  the  dead,  but  that  it 
was  the  Spirit  Indian-of-the-Wood  wailing  for  the  living 
whose  feet  go  down  to  the  darkness  and  whose  faces  the 
sun  shall  soon  see  no  more.  Then  my  heart  grew  heavy 
and  bitter,  for  I  knew  that  woe  had  come  to  the 
Willamettes. 

"I  went  to  my  den  .in  the  mountains,  and  sought  to 
know  of  those  that  dwell  in  the  night  the  meaning  of 
this.  I  built  the  medicine  fire,  I  fasted,  I  refused  to 
sleep.  Day  and  night  I  kept  the  fire  burning;  day  and 
night  I  danced  the  tom.anowos  dance  around  the  flames 
or  leaped  through  them,  singing  the  song  that  brings 
the  Spee-ougk,  till  at  last  the  life  went  from  my  limbs 
and  my  head  grew  sick  and  everything  was  a  whirl  of 
fire.  Then  I  knew  that  the  power  was  on  me,  and  I  fell, 
and  all  grew  black. 

"I  dreamed  a  dream. 

"I  stood  by  the  death-trail  that  leads  to  the  spiritland, 


206  Oregon  Literature 

The  souls  of  those  who  had  just  died  were  passing;  and 
as  I  gazed,  the  wail  I  heard  in  the  forest  carne  back,  but 
nearer  than  before.  And  as  the  wail  sounded,  the  throng 
on  the  dealh-trail  grew  thicker  and  their  tread  swifter. 
The  warrior  passed  with  his  bow  in  his  hand  and  his 
quiver  swinging  from  his  shoulder;  the  squaw  followed 
with  his  food  upon  her  back;  the  old  tottered  by.  It 
was  a  whole  people  on  the  way  to  the  spirit-land.  But 
when  I  tried  to  see  their  faces,  to  know  'hern,  if  they 
were  Willamette  or  Shoshone  or  our  brother  tribes,  I 
could  not.  But  the  wail  grew  ever  louder  and  the  dead 
grew  ever  thicker  as  they  passed.  Then  it  all  faded  out, 
and  I  slept.  When  I  awoke  it  was  night;  the  fire  had 
burned  into  ashes  and  the  medicine  wolf  was  howling 
on  the  hills.  The  voices  that  are  in  the  air  came  to  me 
and  said,  'Go  to  the  council  and  tell  what  you  hav^  seen' ; 
but  I  refused,  and  went  far  into  the  wood  to  avoid  them. 
But  the  voices  would  not  let  me  rest,  and  my  spirit 
burned  within  me,  and  I  came.  Beware  of  the  great 
council.  Send  out  no  runners.  Call  not  the  tribes 
together.  Voices  and  omens  and  dreams  tell  Tohomish 
of  something  terrible  to  come.  The  trees  whisper  it: 
it  is  in  the  air,  in  the  waters.  It  has  made  my  spirit 
bitter  and  heavy  until  my  drink  seems  blood  and  my 
food  has  the  taste  of  death.  Warriors,  Tohomish  has 
shown  his  heart.  His  words  are  ended." 

He  resumed  his  seat  and  drew  his  robe  about  him, 
muffling  the  lower  part  of  his  face.  The  matted  hair 
fell  once  more  over  his  drooping  brow  and  repulsive 
countenance,  from  which  the  light  faded  the  moment 
he  ceased  to  speak.  Again  the  silence  was  profound. 
The  Indians  sat  spell-bound,  charmed  by  the  mournful 
music  of  the  prophet's  voice  and  awed  by  the  dread 
vision  he  had  revealed.  All  the  superstition  within 
them  was  aroused.  When  Tohomish  took  his  seat,  every 
Indian  was  ready  to  oppose  the  calling  of  the  council 
with  all  his  might.  Even  Mishlah,  as  superstitious  as 
blood-thirsty,  was  starred  and  perplexed.  The  war- 
chief  stood  alone. 

He  knew!  it,  but  it  only  made  his  despotic  will  the 
stronger.  Against  the  opposition  of  the  council  and  the 


Frederic  Homer  Batch  207 

warning  of  Tohomish,  against  tomanoivos  and  Spee-ough, 
ominous  as  they  were  even  to  him,  rose  up  Ihe  instinct 
which  was  as  much  a  part  of  him  as  life  itself — the 
instinct  to  battle  and  to  conquer.  He  was  resolved  with 
all  the  grand  strength  of  his  nature  to  bend  the  council 
to  his  will,  and  with  more  than  Indian  subtility  saw  how 
it  might  be  done. 

He  rose  to  his  feet  and  strod  for  a  moment  in  silence, 
sweeping  with  his  glance  the  circle  of  chiefs.  As  he 
did  so,  the  mere  personality  of  the  man  began  to  produce 
a  reaction.  For  forty  years  he  had  been  the  great  war- 
chief  of  the  tribes  of  the  Wanna,  and  had  never  known 
defeat.  The  ancient  enemies  of  his  race  Dreaded  him : 
the  wandering  bands  of  the  prairies  had  carried  his 
name  far  and  wide ;  and  even  bevond  the  Rockies,  Sioux 
and  Pawnee  had  heard  rumors  of  the  powerful  chief  by 
the  Big  River  of  the  West.  He  stood  before  them  a 
huge,  stern  warrior,  himself  a  living  assurance  of  victory 
and  dominion. 

As  was  customarv  with  Indian  orators  in  preparing 
the  way  for  a  special  appeal,  he  began  to  recount  the 
deeds  of  the  fathers,  the  valor  of  the  ancient  heroes  of 
the  race.  His  stoicism  fell  from  him  as  he  half  snoke, 
half  chanted  the  harangue.  The  rmssion  that  was  burn- 
ing within  him  made  his  words  like  pictures,  so  vivid 
they  were,  and  thrilled  his  tones  with  electric  power. 
As  he  went  on,  the  sullen  faces  of  his  hearers  grew 
animated;  the  superstitious  fears  that  Tohomish  had 
awakened  fell  from  them.  Again  they  were  warriors, 
and  their  blood  kindled  and  their  pulses  throbbed  to  the 
words  of  their  invincible  leader.  He  saw  it,  and  began 
to  speak  of  the  battles  they  themselves  had  fought  and 
the  victories  they  had  gained.  More  than  one  dark  cheek 
flushed  darker  and  more  than  one  hand  moved  uncon- 
sciously to  the  knife.  He  alluded  to  the  recent  war  and 
to  the  rebellious  tribe  that  had  been  destroyed. 

"That,"  he  said,  "was  the  people  Tohomish  saw  pass- 
ing over  the  death-trail  in  his  dream.  What  wonder 
that  the  thought  of  death  should  fill  the  air,  when  we 
have  slain  a  whole  people  at  a  single  blow !  Do  we  not 
know  too  that  their  spirits  would  try  to  frighten  our 


208  Oregon  Literature 

dreamers  with  omens  and  bad  tomanowosf  Was  it  not 
tomanowos  that  Tohomish  saw  ?  It  could  not  have  come 
from  the  Great  Spirit,  for  he  spoke  to  our  fathers  and 
said  that,  we  should  be  strongest  of  all  the  tribes  as 
long  as  the  Bridge  of  the  Gods  should  stand.  Have  the 
stones  of  that  bridge  begun  to  crumble,  that  our  hearts 
should  grow  weak?" 

He  then  described  the  natural  bridge  which,  as  tradi- 
tion and  geology  alike  tell  us,  spanned  at  that  time  the 
Columbia  at  the  Cascades.  The  Great  Spirit,  he  declared, 
had  spoken ;  and  as  he  had  said,  so  it  would  be.  Dreams 
and  omens  were  mist  and  shadow,  but  the  bridge  was 
rock,  and  the  word  of  the  Great  Spirit  stood  forever.  On 
this  tradition  the  chief  dwelt  with  tremendous  force,  set- 
ting against  the  superstition  that  Tohomish  had  roused 
the  still  more  powerful  superstition  of  the  bridge— a  su- 
perstition so  interwoven  with  every  thought  and  hope  of 
the  Willamettes  that  it  had  become  a  part  of  their  char- 
acter as  a  tribe. 

And  now  when  their  martial  enthusiasm  and  fatalistic 
courage  were  all  aglow,  when  the  recital  of  their  fathers' 
deeds  had  stirred  their  blood  and  the  portrayal  of  their 
own  victories  filled  them  again  with  the  fierce  joy  of 
conflict,  when  the  mountain  of  stone  that  arched  the 
Columbia  had  risen  before  them  in  assurance  of  dominion 
as  eternal  as  itself — now,  when  in  every  eye  gleamed 
desire  of  battle  and  every  heart  was  aflame,  the  chief 
made  (and  it  was  characteristic  of  him)  in  one  terse 
sentence  his  crowning  appeal— 

"Chiefs,  speak  your  heart.  Shall  the  runners  be  sent 
out  to  call  the  council?" 

There  was  a  moment  of  intense  silence.  Then  a  low, 
deep  murmur  of  consent  came  from  the  excited  listeners ; 
a  half -smothered  war-cry  burst  from  the  lips  of  Mishlah, 
and  the  victory  was  won. 

One  only  sat  silent  and  apart,  his  robe  drawn  close, 
his  head  bent  down,  seemingly  oblivious  of  all  around 
him,  as  if  resigned  to  inevitable  doom. 

"Tomorrow  at  dawn,  while  the  light  is  yet  young, 
the  runners  will  go  out.  Let  the  chiefs  meet  here  in 
the  grove  to  hear  the  message  given  them  to  be  carried 
to  the  tribes.  The  talk  is  ended, ' ' 


George  A.  Waggoner 

Hon.  George  A.  Waggoner,  of  Corvallis,  has  written 
a  great  many  thrilling  stories  of  early  Oregon  life  in  the 
strain  that  Bert  Hjarte  wrote  of  California  in  the  mining 
days.  Mr.  Waggoner  is  a  gifted  conversationalist,  and 
as  a  writer  of  stories  he  is  always  interesting.  The  fol- 
lowing is  a  scene  from  Snake  River  life  at  a  time  when 
the  country  was  yet  new  to  the  white  man : 

BUCKSKIN'S  FIGHT  WITH  THE  WOLVES. 

Mark  ran  out  on  the  ice  and  fired  at  the  wolves  that 
had  surrounded  their  victim  on  the  bank,  but  the  distance 
was  too  great  for  him  to  hit  them.  The  report  of  the 
gun,  however,  frightened  1hem  so  they  did  not  attack, 
but  sneaked  around  until  it  was  dark,  when  the  noise 
of  snorting  and  snapping  of  teeth  told  Buck's  friends 
that  the  battle  was  on  again.  It  raged  with  more  or  less 
fury  through  the  night. 

It  was  impossible  for  our  bachelors  to  rest  while  the 
old  horse  was  so  bravely  fighting  for  his  life.  A  fire 
was  built  on  the  bank  and  guns  were  fired  at  short 
intervals  until  morning.  AVhen  it  came,  old  Buck  was 
still  defiant  yet  his  tireless  enemies  still  beset  him. 

' ' What  shall  we  do ? "  said  Guy.  "It  is  awful  to  stay 
here  and  not  aid  the  poor  old  fellow  when  he  neighs 
to  us  so  piteously.  He  almost  talks.  I  feel  as  if  it 
were  a  man  begging  us  to  help  him.  Can't  we  cut  a 
channel  through  the  ice  for  the  ferryboat1?" 

"That  would  be  impossible.  The  ice  has  drifted  and 
lodged  about  it  many  inches  thick,"  answered  his  uncle, 

"Then  let  us  make  a  raft." 

"I  have  been  thinking  about  that,"  said  Mart,  "but 
we  have  nothing  with  which  to  make  it.  Our  whole 
house,  if  taken  down  and  made  into  a  raft,  would  scarcely 
float  us  and  we  would  freeze  to  death  in  this  weather 
before  we  could  build  it  up  again." 


210  Oregon  Literature 

"I'll  tell  you  what,"  said  Guy,  "there  are  two  large 
barrels  in  the  house.  They  would  float  one  of  us." 

"Yes,  but  one  of  them  is  full  of  old  rye  whiskey  which 
cost  four  dollars  a  gallon  and  there  is  nothing  in  which 
to  empty  it,"  said  Mart. 

"Let  us  pour  it  out,"  beerged  Guy.  "We  can  put 
some  of  it  in  the  water  bucket  and  camp  kettle  and  then 
pour  it  back  when  we  are  done." 

"  I  am  afraid  your  father  would  not  approve  of  that, ' ' 
answered  Mart. 

"If  he  were  here,  he  would.  I  know  him  too  well  to 
think  he  would  ever  let  a  horse  die  like  that.  None  of 
us  like  whiskey.  What  does  he  want  with  it?" 

"It  belongs  to  the  man  at  Payette  Station,  and  it  is 
here  because  he  has  not  yet  come  for  it,"  answered 
Mart.  ' '  He  will  be  after  it  when  the  snow  melts  a  little 
and  he  will  be  displeased  if  we  threw  it  out." 

Guy  had  again  taken  the  glass,  and  was  looking  in- 
tently at  the  battle.  He  could  plainly  see  the  old  horse 
was  becoming  worried  and  that  he  would  soon  starve 
to  death.  Blood  showed  on  several  parts  of  his  body 
where  the  wolves  had  torn  him  with  their  sharp  teeth. 
All  at  once  a  large  one  darted  from  the  pack  and,  missing 
the  horse's  throat,  fastened  on  his  shoulder.  Buckskin 
seized  the  wolf  in  his  teeth,  and  tearing  him  loose, 
pressed  him  to  the  ground  and  struck  him  again  and 
again  furious  blows  with  his  fore  feet  until  he  lay  ap- 
parently lifeless.  The  rest  attempted  to  close  in,  but 
the  courageous  horse  showed  such  a  determined  and 
hostile  front  that  they  paused,  afraid  to  invoke  the  fate 
of  their  comrade. 

Guy  could  endure  it  no  longer.  He  turned  to  his 
uncle,  his  face  streaming  with  tears,  "I  can't  stand  it 
any  longer,  Uncle.  You  and  father  promised  me  fifty 
dollars  a  month  to  help  run  the  ferry.  You  owe  me  one 
hundred  and  fifty  dollars.  I  will  pay  for  that  whiskey 
and  you  can  take  it  out  of  my  wages,  and  I  want  that 
barrel.  I  am  going  over  the  river  to  help  old  Buck." 

Mart  was  a  noble-hearted,  impulsive  man,  whose  own 
heart  had  been  swelling  up  with  pity  for  the  fate  of  the 
brave  old  horse.  He  threw  both  arms  around  the  boy 


George  A.  Waggoner  211 

and  blurted  out,  "That's  just  like  you,  Guy.  God  bless 
you.  I  am  with  you.  We  will  save  old  Buckskin  if  it 
takes  all  the  ferry  is  worth  to  do  it.  Now  run  and  rip 
off  those  planks  fastened  to  the  stanchions  of  the  ferry 
boat  while  I  get  the  barrels." 

In  a  very  few  moments  the  two  large  barrels  were 
rolled  down  on  the  ice.  They  wej-e  placed  about  eight 
feet  apart  and  lashed  securely  to  the  broad  planks  Guy 
brought  from  the  boat.  Then  they  had  a  sled  and  boat 
combined.  When  it  was  ready  Mart  said,  "Now  bring 
both  rifles,  our  pistols  and  plenty  of  amunition.  The 
wolves  may  attack  us.  They  are  very  hungry  or  they 
would  not  be  so  bold." 

Mart  had  managed  to  save  most  of  the  whiskey  in 
emptying  the  barrel.  The  cooking  vessels  were  all  filled, 
including  the  frying  pan  and  coffee  pot;  and  lastly,  but 
by  no  means  least,  a  pair  of  Mart's  huge  boots  did  good 
service  in  holding  a  couple  of  gallons  of  the  fiery  liquid. 

When  all  was  ready  they  pushed  the  raft  ahead  of 
them  on  the  ic6  until  they  came  to  the  channel.  To 
prevent  accidents  the  guns  were  tied  to  the  raft,  then 
the  novel  boat  was  launched.  The  barrels  were  taughtly 
corked  and  proved  quite  buoyant  enough  to  bear  the 
two  men.  With  clap  boards  for  paddles,  they  soon 
crossed  the  current  and  landed  safely  on  the  ice. 

The  wolves  paid  but  little  attention  to  them.  They 
had  renewed  the  fight  with  greater  vigor  than  ever  and 
were  pressing  old  Buckskin  closer  and  closer.  One  would 
dart  from  the  pack,  snapping  at  him  as  he  passed.  They 
appeared  to  be  trying  to  get  him  to  run,  but  were  care- 
ful about  getting  in  reach  of  his  heels  or  teeth.  More 
than  once  he  was  seen  to  seize  a  wolf  and  hurl  him 
several  yards.  In  his  battles  he  had  developed  a  kind 
of  science  of  fighting.  He  kept  near  the  bank,  never 
allowing  his  foes  to  get  behind  him.  When  he  found  it 
necessary  to  charge,  to  drive  them  back,  he  did  it  with 
such  vigor  as  to  drive  everything  before  him.  Then, 
before  they  could  rally,  he  regained  his  place  and 
turned  a  solid  front  to  them.  Never  did  a  horse  show 
more  courage  or  sagacity,  and  seldom,  if  ever,  was  one 
more  deeply  sympathized  with  than  he  was. 


212  Oregon  Literature 

The  two  rescuers  crept  up  to  the  bank,  to  within 
twenty  yards  of  the  combatants.  "Take  good  aim  and 
get  ready  before  you  fire,"  said  Mart,  as  he  leveled  his 
rifle.  Both  guns  rang  out  with  one  report  and  two  of 
old  Buck's  foes  fell.  Then  with  pistols  the  battle  was 
opened  in  earnest.  Crack !  crack  !  crack !  The  wolves 
scampered  off,  leaving  four  of  their  number  dead  on  the 
field,  while  several  that  ran  away  were  badly  wounded, 
as  was  shown  by  the  bloody  trail  they  left  behind  in 
the  snow. 

Buckskin  was  nearly  as  much  surprised  at  his  de- 
liverance as  were  the  wolves  at  their  defeat.  He  was 
cruelly  gashed  in  many  places,  nearly  starved  and  utterly 
worn  out  with  fatigue  and  the  loss  of  blood.  But  he  had 
made  a  most  gallant  fight  and  was  looked  upon  as  quite 
a  hero  by  his  rescuers. 

They  led  him  out  on  the  ice,  but  he,  who  had  fought 
so  bravely,  was  reluctant  to  try  a  bath  in  the  cold  waters 
of  the  swift  river.  He  was  coaxed  and  pushed  into  the 
channel,  led  across  behind  the  raft  and  pulled  out  on 
the  ice  on  the  other  shore.  The  next  morning  his  two 
friends  helped  him  to  break  a  trail  through  the  snow 
to  the  hills,  where  the  wind  had  blown  the  grass  bare, 
and  left  him  with  plenty  of  food  at  his  feet.  Soon  after 
the  snow  disappeared  and  spring  invited  the  wolves  back 
to  their  native  haunts  in  the  mountains.  When  the 
flowers  came  again,  Buckskin  was  fat  and  sleek,  coming 
every  few  days  to  the  ferry  to  see  his  friends  and  to 
look  for  company  of  his  own  kind.  He  was  quite  a 
handsome  pony  but  through  his  shining,  glossy  coat 
could  be  seen  the  scars  of  his  many  wounds,  mute  wit- 
nesses of  the  terrible  conflict  through  which  he  had 


D.  Solis  Cohen 

D.  Solis  Cohen,  of  Portland,  Oregon,  has  lectured  ex- 
tensively on  the  Talmud,  American  Citizenship,  and 
other  subjects  of  common  interest.  He  sounded  the  first 
appeal  from  an  American  platform  for  the  Lewis  and 
Clarke  Exposition.  Mr.  Cohen  is  an  active  promoter  of 
public  schools  and  general  intelligence,  and  regards  with 
favor  any  opportunity  to  hold  up  before  the  rising  gen- 
eration the  noblest  deeds  of  the  makers  of  this  country. 

THE  DEATH  OF  MUZA. 

"Armed  at  all  points,  he  issued  from  the  city  at  night, 
and  was  never  heard  of  more."  .  .  . 

"Woe  to  Granada,  woe!"  For  long,  long  years  had 
these  words  of  mingled  grief  and  warning  sounded  in 
Moorish  ears.  From  the  first  rash  act  of  the  impetuous 
Muley  Abul  Hassan,  which  had  given  the  Spaniards  the 
long-desired  pretext  for  a  war  of  extermination,  until 
this  black,  sad  night— at  intervals— after  a  disastrous 
engagement,  an  unsuccessful  sortie,  or  the  death  of  a 
noted  warrior,  that  cry  had  been  heard  through  the  city 
at  the  midnight  hour.  But  none  had  discovered  who 
uttered  that  awful  and  solemn  sound. 

Never,  however,  had  the  words  fallen  with  such  dis- 
heartening effect  as  upon  this  night.  And  yet— what 
further  sorrow  could  be  in  store  for  Granada?  True; 
Moorish  troops  still  filled  the  Alhambra,  but  their  scimi- 
ters  hung  not  by  their  sides;  the  warlike  fire  gleamed 
not  from  beneath  their  bushy  eyebrows;  no  songs,  no 
jests,  no  tales  of  valor  passed  between  them.  Silent  and 
moody  they  listened  to  the  steady  tread  of  the  sentinels 
and  their  stated  cries;  but  the  tread  was  the  tread  of 
their  enemies,  and  the  cries  were  in  the  tongue  they 
hated.  On  the  morrow,  the  city,  already  in  the  actual 
possession  of  a  Spanish  detachment,  would  be  formally 


214  Oregon  Literature 

surrendered.  On  the  morrow,  in  gorgeous  pageantry 
their  conquerors  would  enter  and  place  their  standard 
upon  the  Alhambra's  towers.  Would— would  that  Allah 
might  prolong  the  night !  But,  no !  the  sands  of  time 
would  run  as  usual ;  the  remorseless  moments  bury  them- 
selves, regularly  and  swiftly,  in  the  deep,  wide  grave  of 
time  past.  The  morning's  sun  would  rise  and  shine. 
Ay,  as  years  before  he  had  shone,  gilding  the  banners 
floating  proudly  and  defiantly,  glorying  in  his  rays,  so 
would  he  shine  when  those  banners  should  kiss  the  dust, 
and  the  ensign  of  their  enemies  woo  the  breezes.  Yes ! 
the  morning's  sun  would  come— and  then— 

In  the  magnificent  audience  room  of  Boabdil,  glowing 
in  its  bright  colors,  its  gold  and  its  jewels,  as  though 
no  danger  threatened  the  weak-hearted  monarch,  a  band 
of  warriors  surrounded  their  king.  Silence  reigned,  and 
despair  marked  every  countenance.  Boabdil  rested  his 
face  within  his  hands,  hiding  his  countenance  from  these 
men  who  had  struggled  for  their  country  and  his  throne, 
and  to  whom  now  all  hope  was  lost.  Suddenly,  loud 
and  shrill,  as  though  within  that  very  chamber,  came  the 
dread  cry— "Woe  to  Granada,  woe!" 

Boabdil  trembled;  a  groan  escaped  his  lips:  "Un- 
fortunate, unfortunate  that  I  am,"  he  muttered  while 
the  warriors  looked  around  in  fear.  All  save  one :  Muza 
—he  whose  voice  had  ever  been  for  war;  he  who  had 
counseled  death,  self-immolation  rather  than  surrender; 
he  who  had  inspired  them  to  heroic  courage  time  and 
again,  but  who  at  last  had  spoken  to  ears  deadened  by 
despondency.  His  fierce,  black  eyes  seemed  now  to  flash 
with  living  fire.  He  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  turning  to 
the  king,  he  spoke  in  those  deep,  thundering  tones  which 
had  so  often  thrilled  his  co-patriots. 

"Nay,  call  thyself  not  'unfortunate.'  The  man,  the 
warrior,  rises  above  misfortune;  but  'tis  water  courses 
through  thy  veins.  Useless  are  my  efforts,  vain  my 
words,  for  vainly  do  I  look  for  one  responsive  throb  from 
thee.  I  rise  not  now  to  talk !  Our  country  is  lost  to  us ; 
her  hours  are  numbered,  but  there  is  still  tor  us  one  last 
resource;  let  us  seize  it— death!  The  blood-soaked 
ground  invokes  us;  the  souls  of  our  brethren  call  upon 


D.  Solis  Cohen  215 

.us;  let  us  be  brave  as  they!  Ay,  weep,  Boabdil,  weep; 
Allah  should  have  made  thee  a  woman.  0  king— king- 
in  name,  but  slave  in  heart— show  one  spark  of  sovereign 
spirit;  join  with  us,  we  who  are  here,  let  us  give  our 
city  to  the  flames  and  perish  with  her.  Come  brothers, 
and  this  night  we  will  rest  in  Paradise."  He  paused 
and  looked  around  him.  The  cheeks  of  the  warriors 
plowed,  but  their  lips  were  silent;  the  king  moved  not, 
did  not  raise  his  head.  Muza  smiled  in  scorn. 

' '  "Pis  well, ' '  he  continued,  * '  'tis  well.  Welcome  your 
oppressors;  welcome  the  Spaniards  to  your  walls!  0 
dastards !  though  you  may  bow  your  heads  before  this 
hated  horde,  and  slip  your  shoulders  'neath  the  yoke, 
Muza  at  least  will  never  yield.  Gaze  on  me,  cowards, 
for  you  will  never  see  me  more."  Turning  rapidly  upon 
his  heel,  Muza  left  the  apartment,  while  at  the  same 
moment  the  blood-chilling  cry  again  echoed  through  the 
hall- 

' '  Woe  to  Granada,  woe ! ' ' 

With  a  quick  step  Muza  descended  the  broad  stone 
stairway  leading  to  the  courtyard;  looking  neither  to 
the  right  nor  to  the  left,  to  answer  the  greeting  of  friend 
or  salute  of  comrade.  He  gave  the  privilege  pass  to  the 
Spanish  officer  in  charge  of  the  gates,  and  a  moment  later 
was  upon  the  dark,  unlighted  street.  The  peaceful  sky 
seemed  to  mock  his  wild  spirit,  as  he  proceeded  with  a 
firm  tread  towards  his  residence.  A  footstep  behind 
him,  following  quickly  upon  his  own,  caused  him  to 
pause  and  turn.  His  brave  heart  beat  with  double  force 
at  the  form  which  greeted  his  eyes;  a  form  plainly 
visible,  supernaturally  visible,  in  the  unlighted  street. 
A  tall,  straight  figure,  towering  above  his  own ;  flashing 
eyes,  bright  in  the  darkness  as  the  stars  above ;  a  long 
white  beard,  sweeping  below  the  waist  of  a  loose  black 
gown  without  sash  or  girdle,  and  white  locks  blowing 
uncovered  in  the  wind. 

"Son,"  spoke  a  voice,  full  and  deep,  yet  low  as  a 
loving  mother's  tone  to  her  cherished  offspring,  "son, 
thy  soul  prompts  thee  to  a  noble  deed;  I  will  accom- 
pany thy  steps."  Without  a  word  Muza  resumed  his 
walk;  he  seemed  to  feel  a  new  impulse,  stronger  even 


216  Orctjoit   Literature 


than  his  own  strong  will.  He  reached  his  home  and 
paused  that  the  stranger  might  precede  him  through  the 
entrance;  but  the  old  man  moved  back.  "Nay,  son," 
he  said,  "thy  task  is  best  performed  alone.  I  await 
thee  here." 

Without  a  question  in  his  mind  as  to  how  the  stranger 
should  divine  his  thoughts,  Muza  passed  through  the 
portals  and  entered  a  small  side  chamber.  He  lighted 
a  lamp  of  scented  oil  which  hung  low  from  the  ceiling. 
Upon  a  couch  reposed  a  female  form  ;  young,  and  in  the 
graceful  negligence  of  sleep,  with  head  resting  upon  a 
rounded  arm,  and  long  black  hair  in  beautiful  disorder 
concealing  the  night  robe,  half  exposed*  from  'neath  the 
broidered  covering.  A  lovely,  calm  expression  rested 
upon  the  almost  childish  face  of  the  sleeper,  and  her 
breath  came  sweet  and  regular  through  her  half  opened 
lips,  marking  the  beatings  of  her  heart.  Her  closed  eyes 
displayed  long,  silken  lashes,  and  her  cheeks,  somewhat 
flushed  by  gentle  dream,  heightened  the  charm  of  her 
clear  complexion.  Muza  approached  the  couch  and 
gazed  upon  the  sleeping  form.  He  bent  and  pressed  his 
lips  to  hers,  then  passed  his  hands  caressingly  upon  her 
forehead,  and  moved  aside  the  rich  wealth  of  hair.  As 
he  did  so,  the  faint  echo  of  a  far-off  sound  whispered 
through  the  room— 

'  '  Woe  to  Granada,  woe  !  '  ' 

Muza  started;  with  a  quick  motion  he  drew  from 
beneath  his  gaudy  scarf  a  dagger,  a  keen  steel  blade,  and 
raised  it  above  the  unconscious  form,  as  though  about 
to  bury  it  in  the  soft  breast  beneath  him.  But  he  paused 
even  in  the  act  of  striking,  seemingly  at  a  new  thought, 
and  again  kissing  the  red  lips,  he  laid  the  weapon  upon 
a  stand  by  the  couch,  and  with  soft  touch  awakened  the 
sleeper.  She  turned  her  eyes  upon  him,  smiled  and  half 
raised  herself  with  a  glad  welcoming  motion;  she  was 
about  to  speak,  but  he  stopped  her,  and  in  a  voice  of 
low  sweetness,  which  trembled  even  in  its  firmness,  he 
said: 

"Ayma,  my  soul!  a  moment  since  I  stood  above  thee, 
with  yon  dagger  in  my  hand,  its  point  directed  toward 
thy  heart—  thy  heart  which  beats  for  me  alone.  But, 


D.  Solis' Cohen  217 

Ayma,  them  art  a  warrior's  child.  I  could  not  strike 
thee  in  thy  sleep.  I  could  not  spare  myself  the  anguish 
of  thy  eyes,  thy  look,  thy  voice;  I  could  not  rob  thee 
of  the  living;,  eternal  glory  of  being  thyself  the  one  to 
yield  thy  life  to  Allah.  List  to  me,  child,  and  put  thy 
arms  about  my  neck,  thus  bravely,  and  thy  cheek  to 
mine;  now  prove  thy  heart,  for  oh,  my  soul,  holy  to 
me  has  been  the  thought  that  I  possessed  a  son's  heart 
and  spirit  in  a  daughter's  frame.  List  to  me,  dear  one— 
with  tomorrow's  sun  the  Spaniards  enter  our  city;  with 
the  dawn  of  day,  all  that  it  contains,  its  wealth,  its  youth 
—you  listen,  Ayma— its  beauty,  will  be  in  the  power  of 
those  who  glory  in  our  disgrace.  Our  base  king  and  his 
pale-souled  councilors  flatter  themselves  with  the  vain 
hope  that  they  and  theirs  will  be  spared  dishonor.  Not 
so,  my  child;  0  rny  soul,  believe  me;  the  corning  day 
will  find  thee  a  polluted  slave,  or  among  the  blessed  in 
Paradise.  Choose,  Ayma,  soul  of  my  soul,  which  shall 
it  be?" 

Ayma  fixed  her  large  black  eyes  upon  her  father's 
face.  There  was  no  fear  in  their  clear  depths.  A  high 
and  lofty  look,  such  as  blazed  from  his  own,  proved  that 
he  had  spoken  truly  in  regard  to  his  daughter's  spirit. 
There  was  no  trembling  in  the  hand  with  which  she 
pointed  to  the  glittering  steel,  no  tremor  in  the  voice  with 
which  she  said,  "Give  me  the  weapon." 

Muza  pressed  her  to  his  heart. 

"Farewell,  brave  child,  I  go  to  strike  one  more  blow, 
single-handed,  for  my  country ;  we  meet  tomorrow  morn 
at  Allah's  throne." 

With  one  last  convulsive  embrace,  he  released  himself 
from  his  daughter's  arms,  and  handing  her  the  dagger, 
passed  swiftly  from  the  apartment  and  joined  tile 
stranger  without. 

"  'Tis  well,  my  son,"  whispered  the  old  man,  "noble 
sires  give  birth  to  noble  souls.  Follow  me,  and  I  will 
lead  thee  to  thy  destination  and  thy  glorious  end." 


Without  the  walls  of  Granada,  in  the  city  which  the 
powerful   Ferdinand   had   built   after   the    flames   had 


218  Oregon  I/iterature 

destroyed  his  encampment— Santa  Fe,  the  cross-shaped 
city  of  the  faith,  here  all  had  been  feasting  and  merri- 
ment. The  labor  of  ten  long  years  had  at  last  terminated 
successfully,  and  in  their  proud  congratulations  the 
Spanish  host  forgot  the  dread  losses  they  had  suffered, 
the  thousands  and  thousands  of  brave  men  who  had 
perished,  and  the  devastation  which  had  marked  the 
birth  and  death  of  days.^  Tomorrow,  in  all  the  glare 
and  glitter,  pomp  and  power  of  parade,  they  would  enter 
victorious  into  the  city  which  had  so  long  defied  their 
might.  Not  a  soldier  among  that  mighty  host,  but 
dreamed  that  night  of  gold  and  jewels,  of  soft,  bright 
eyes  and  waving  hair.  As  the  night  wore  on,  the  sounds 
of  revelry  ceased,  and  in  obedience  to  commands  the 
soldiers  sought  repose.  The  camp  city  was  left  to  the 
sentinels,  who  trod  their  beats  with  unsteady  gait  and 
half-closed  eyes,  for  generous  measures  of  Castilian  wines 
had  warmed  their  veins  and  soothed  their  senses. 

Slowly  creeping;  now  along  the  ground,  now  in  the 
dark  shadows,  two  figures  approached  the  royal  head- 
quarters; gliding  noiselessly  along,  and  passing  sentry 
after  sentry  without  notice,  till  they  reached  within  a 
few  yards  of  the  arched  entrance  with  its  crossed  banner. 
There  they  paused,  and  the  old  man  spoke. 

' '  My  son,  here  we  part. ' ' 

"Father,"  said  Muza,  "thou  hast  brought  me  safely 
through  all  these  dangers,  who  art  thou  1  Speak,  father, 
thy  name?" 

"Nay,  my  son;  rest  satisfied,  thy  work  will  prosper; 
take  my  blessing." 

Muza  prostrated  himself  before  the  old  man,  and  when 
he  rose  again,  the  old  man  had  vanished. 

"God  is  great!"  murmured  Muza,  and  lying  flat  upon 
the  ground,  with  his  keen  eye  upon  the  guard  pacing 
before  the  entrance,  he  slowly  dragged  himself  forward. 
Close,  closer,  and  when  the  sentry  turned  he  placed  him- 
self with  a  quick  spring  between  him  and  the  entrance. 
Then,  as  the  sentinel  came  back,  he  jumped  up  suddenly 
and  faced  him,  and  before  the  startled  man  could  cry 
or  think,  he  caught  him  firmly  by  the  throat,  bore  him 
to. the  ground,  and  compressing  his  windpipe  with  one 


D.  Solis  Cohen  219 

hand,  drew  with  the  other  a  dagger  and  stabbed  him  to 
the  heart.  Even  while  the  man's  limbs  moved  in  his 
fearful,  silent  death  struggle,  Muza  took  his  upper  gar- 
ment from  him  and  with  it  clothed  himself.  Then  rising 
cautiously,  he  slowly  and  regularly  trod  the  beat  which 
the  dead  man  had  walked,  glancing  carefully  upon  the 
entrance  each  time  he  passed,  and  noting  well  the  build- 
ing. For  full  half  an  hour  he  paced  thus  with  slow  and 
measured  tread ;  then  suddenly,  with  a  loud  and  fearful 
cry,  a  piercing  scream  which  echoed  wildly  in  the  still 
n-ight,  he  shouted: 

"Treachery!  Treachery!  They  come!  The  Moors! 
The  Moors!!" 

Yelling  thus  fiercely,  he  dashed  through  the  entrance 
into  the  building.  His  scimiter  he  held  loosely  in  his 
han'd. 

The  soldier  sleeps  lightly.  Easily  is  he  aroused  even 
from  dreams  of  love  and  home.  From  all  parts  of  the 
building  Spanish  officers  came  rushing,  while  outside  all 
was  in  confusion. 

"The  king!"  cried  Muza,  "the  king!  Where  is  the 
king?"  and  tightening  his  hand  upon  the  hilt  of  his 
scimiter,  and  keeping  it  close  to  his  side,  while  in  his 
other  hand  he  displayed  the  lance  he  had  taken  from  the 
sentinel,  he  darted  through  the  long  corridor. 

A  door  at  the  end  was  thrown  open.  A  tall  form 
appeared  upon  the  threshold.  With  one  spring,  such  as 
a  wounded  tiger  might  make  upon  his  foe,  Muza  leaped 
upon  this  form;  he  dropped  his  lance,  and  with  one 
swoop  of  his  scimetar  he  severed  head  from  body. 

"Ha  ha!"  he  laughed,  "die,  Spanish  dog!  die,  dog  of 
a  Spanish  king,  die  in  thine  own  stronghold  by  the  hand 
of  Muza.  Granada,  thou  art  avenged!" 

He  was  seized  by  the  Spaniards  crowding  around,  but 
he  laughed  long  and  fiercely. 

"Do  your  worst,  there  lies  your  king." 

But  suddenly  his  cheeks  blanched ;  his  knees  trembled ; 
what  was  it!  Had  fear  seized  upon  his  soul?  He  looked 
straight  before  him;  his  eyes  seemed  starting  from  their 
sockets;  for  there  approached  a  man  before  whom  all 
bowed;  a  man  who  gazed  sternly  upon  the  prisoner. 


220  Oregon  Literature 

Fatal  Mistake!  Ferdinand,  king  of  Spain,  stood  be- 
fore him !  .  .  . 

In  the  morning,  as  the  Spanish  troops  marshalled  for 
their  triumphal  procession,  the  soul  of  Muza  ascended 
amid  the  fire  of  the  stake:  From  the  moment  when  he 
became  aware  of  his  great  error,  until  the  moment  the 
flames  rose  up  about  him,  he  uttered  not  a  sound ;  but  as 
his  soul  left  his  body,  that  soul  spoke;  one  word— 
"Ayma." 


Frederick  Schwatka 

Frederick  Schwatka^  born  in  Galena,  Illinois,  Septem- 
ber 29,  1849.  Came  with  his  parents  to  Oregon  in  1853, 
settling  at  Astoria.  Removed  to  Albany  where  they  re- 
mained until  1859,  when  they  went  to  Salem.  Was  edu- 
cated* at  Willamette  University  and  learned  printer's 
trade.  Received  appointment  to  United  States  Military 
Academy  at  West  Point,  graduating  in  1871,  and  was 
appointed  second  lieutenant  in  Third  Cavalry.  Served 
on  garrison  and  frontier  duty  until  1877.  Studied  law 
and  medicine,  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  Nebraska  in 
1875,  and  received  his  medical  degree  at  Bellevue  Hos- 
pital Medical  College,  New  York,  in  1876.  Commanded 
an  expedition  in  search  of  Sir  John  Franklin's  party 
1878-1880.  Afterward  explored  the  course  of  the  Yukon 
in  Alaska,  rejoining  his  regiment  in  1884.  In  August 
resigned  his  commission  as  first  lieutenant  in  the  army, 
and  commanded  the  New  York  Times  Alaska  exploring 
expedition  in  1886.  He  was  an  honorary  member  of  the 
greatest  geographical  societies  of  the  world  and  had  re- 
ceived medals  from  many  of  them.  During  the  later 
years  of  his  life  he  made  two  tours  of  exploration  through 
Mexico.  Among  his  writings  are  "Along  Alaska's  Great 
River,"  1885;  ^'Nimrod  in  the  North,"  1885;  "The 
Children  of  the  Cold,"  1886.  He  died  in  Portland, 
Oregon,  November  2,  1892,  and  was  buried  in  Rural 
Cemetery,  Salem,  beside  his  parents. 


FRANCES  FULLER  VICTOR 


Frances  Fuller  Victor 

Frances  Fuller  Victor  was  born  in  Rome  Township, 
New  York,  May  23,  1826,  and  came  to  Oregon  in  1865. 
Her  literary  career  may  be  summarized  as  follows: 
poems,  1851;  "Florence  Fane  Sketches,"  1863-65;  "The 
River  of  the  West,"  1870 ;  "All  Over  Oregon  and  Wash- 
ington," 1872;  "Woman's  War  Against  Whiskey," 
1874;  "The  New  Penelope,"  1877;  "Bancroft  History 
of  Oregon,"  two  volumes,  1886;  "Bancroft  History  of 
Washington,  Idaho  and  Montana";  "Bancroft  History 
of  Nevada,  Colorado  and  Wyoming;"  "Bancroft  History 
of  California,"  Vols.  6  and  7;  "History  of  Early  In- 
dian Wars  in  Oregon,"  1893;  "Atlantis  Arisen": 
"Poems,"  1900.  Died  at  Portland,  Oregon,  November 
14,  1902. 

GOL.  JOSEPH  L.  MEEK. 

Joseph  L.  Meek  was  born  in  Washington  County,  Vir- 
ginia. He  was  the  son  of  a  planter,,  and  his  mother  was 
of  a  good  Virginia  familv— one  of  the  Walker's— and 
aunt  to  the  wife  of  President  Polk.  But  unfortunately 
for  her  son,  this  lady  died  early,  and  young  Joseph  was 
left  very  much  to  his  own  devices,  on  a  plantation  where 
there  was  nothing  for  him  to  do,  and  little  to  learn, 
except  such  out-door  sports  as  boys  delight  in.  These 
he  enjoyed  in  the  most  unrestrained  liberty,  having  for 
his  companions  only  the  children  of  his  father's  slaves, 
towards  whom  he  stood  in  the  relation  of  master. 

Such  circumstances  would  be  inimical  to  habits  of 
mental  industry  in  any  case;  and  the  lad  found  his 
temptations  to  a  busy  idleness  so  many  and  strong,  that 
he  refused  even  to  avail  himself  of  the  little  elementary 
teaching  that  he  might  have  had  on  the  plantation.  His 
stepmother,  for  whom  he  seems  to  have  tffelt  a  dislike, 
either  did  not,  or  could  not  influence  him  in  the  direction 


222  Oregon  Literature 

of  study;  and  it  fell  out  that  when  he  arrived  at  the 
age  of  sixteen  years,  he  was  a  tall,  merry,  active  boy,  who 
knew  hardly  as  much  of  spelling  and  reading  as  is  con- 
tained in  the  child's  first  primer.  Why  it  was  that  his 
father  negfetted  him  in  so  culpable  a  manner  does  not 
appear;  but  what  is  evident  is,  that  young  Meek  was 
not  happy  at  home,  and  that  his  not  being  so  was  the 
cause  of  his  abandoning  the  plantation  when  between 
sixteen  and  seventeen  years  of  age,  and  undertaking  to 
enter  upon  a  career  for  himself.  This  he  did  by  going  to 
Kentucky,  where  some  relations  of  his  father  resided; 
and,  on  finding  things  not  to  his  mind  in  the  new  place, 
finally  pushing  on  to  St.  Louis,  then  a  mere  trading  post 
on  the  Missouri  frontier,  where  he  arrived  in  the  fall 
of  1828. 

This  was  the  decisive  step  that  colored  all  his  after 
life.  St.  Louis  was  the  rendezvous  of  fur  traders,  who 
yearly  enlisted  new  men  for  service  in  trapping  beaver 
in  the  Rocky  Mountains.  Young  Meek  offered  himself, 
and  though  younger  than  the  other  recruits,  was  ac- 
cepted, on  his  assurance  that  he  would  not  shrink  from 
duly,  even  if  that  duty  should  be  to  fight  Indians.  The 
spring  of  1829  accordingly  found  him  in  the  employ  of 
Mr.  William  Sublette,  one  of  the  most  enterprising  and 
successful  of  the  fur  traders,  who  annually  led  a  com- 
pany of  men  to  the  mountains,  and  through  them,  from 
summer  to  winter  rendezvous;  leaving  them  the  follow- 
ing spring  to  go  to  St.  Louis  for  the  necessary  Indian 
goods  and  fresh  recruits. 

Little  did  the  boy  of  eighteen  realize  the  fateful  step 
he  was  taking ;  that  for  eleven  years  he  should  roam  the 
mountains  and  plains  like  an  Indian,  carrying  his  life 
in  his  hand  at  every  step;  that  he  should  marry  an 
Indian  woman;  and  leave  a  family  of  half-Indian 
children  in  the  valley  of  that  far  off  Oregon,  of  which 
then  he  had  hardly  ever  heard  the  name.  But  a  man 
once  entered  into  the  service  of  the  fur  companies  found 
it  nearly  impossible  to  abandon  the  service,  unless  he 
had  shown  himself  cowardly  and  unfit — in  which  case 
he  was  permitted  to  return  when  the  trading  partner 
went  to  St.  Louis  for  goods.  A  brave  and  active  man 


Jessie  Buoy  223 

was  sure  to  be  kept  in  the  company's  debt,  or  in  some 
other  way  in  its  power;  so  that  no  opportunity  should 
be  afforded  of  leaving  the  life  he  had  entered  upon  how- 
ever thoughtlessly.  Letters  were  even  forbidden  to  be 
written  or  received ;  lest  hearing  from  home  should  pro- 
duce homesickness  and  disaffection.  The  service  was  so 
full  of  dangers,  that  it  was  estimated  fully  one-fifth  if 
not  one-fourth  of  the  trappers  were  killed  by  the  Indians, 
or  died  by  accident  and  exposure  each  year. 

Yet,  with  all  these  chances  against  him,  Meek  lived 
eleven  years  in  the  mountains,  fighting  Indians  and  wild 
beasts,  with  never  in  all  that  time  a  serious  wound  from 
Indian  arrow  or  paw  of  grizzly  bear;  a  fact  that  illus- 
trates better  than  any  words,  the  address,  quickness  and 
courage  of  the  man.  Though  often  sportively  alluding 
to  his  own  subterfuges  to  escape  from  danger,  it  still 
remained  evident  that  an  awkward,  slow  or  cowardly 
man  could  never  have  resorted  to  such  means.  An  un- 
suually  fine  physique,  a  sunny  temper  and  ready  wit, 
made  him  a  favorite  with  both  comrades  and  employers, 
and  gave  him  influence  with  such  Indian  tribes  as  the 
mountain-men  held  in  friendly  relations. 


Jessie   Buoy 

ON  THE  RIVER. 

Oh,  gray  dawn  and  white,  white  mist, 

And  hills  so  mute  and  still ; 
Oh,  wild  west  wind,  wherever  you  list 

To  go  at  your  own  sweet  will ; 
Oh,  golden  sky  and  sea-fowl  flown, 

And  cattle  and  meadow  and  home 
It  takes  you  all— yes,  every  one— 

To  make  a  day  on  the  river. 


Harvey  W.  Scott 

Harvey  W.  Scott  came  to  Oregon  in  his  boyhood.  He 
helped  his  father  clear  the  old  donation  claim  in  Wash- 
ington County ;  then  undertaking  his  own  education,  he 
was  the  first  regular  graduate  of  Pacific  University. 
Early  in  life  he  pursued  a  prodigious  course  of  study; 
and  with  a  logical  faculty  somewhat  remarkable  his  pen 
soon  won  prominence  in  communicating  his  opinions. 
Since  1865  he  has  been  editor  of  the  Oregonian.  Under 
'tis  management,  that  journal  has  gained  the  reputation 
of  being  one  of  the  greatest  dailies  on  the  continent, 
ranking  with  the  New  York  Sun  and  the  Evening  Post. 
It  was  his  pen  that  gave,  the  Oregonian  its  character. 
However,  as  a  rule,  the  tone  and  excellence  of  a  publica- 
tion is  in  part  attributable  to  the  taste  of  the  numerous 
readers  who  create  a  demand  for  a  publication  of  that 
sort.  As  a  critic  in  the  journalistic  art,  Mr.  Scott  com- 
pares favorably  with  Dana  and  Bryant;  and  while  he 
has  not  neglected  his  editorial  duties  and  written  books 
as  have  some  noted  editors,  he  has  established  a  precedent 
in  the  journalistic  field  worthy  of  the  study  and  emula- 
tion of  young  men  and  women  who  look  forward  to 
literary  employment  as  a  life  vocation. 

THE  BIBLE  IN  ENGLISH. 

(An  editorial  written  for  the  Oregonian.} 
A  plea  is  again  presented  for  a  new  translation  of  the 
Bible  into  English,  for  the  purpose,  it  is  said,  of  speech. 
It  is  argued  that  the  version  so  long  in  use,  since  it  does 
not  belong  to  the  language  of  our  time,  is  not  suited  to 
ordinary  and  common  use  for  the  present  day,  and  to 
many  is  even  scarcely  intelligible.  It  does,  indeed, 
abound  with  a  peculiar  phraseology  and  with  singular 
words  long  since  abandoned,  and  its  style  is  maintained 


HARVEY  W.  SCOTT 


,»«  •»  c* 
»o  *  d  *v<rt 
A •  •• • 9  < 


Harvey  W.  Scott  225 

no  where  else  in  our  literature;  but  these  are  precisely 
the  features  that  make  it  impressive,  concentrate  atten- 
tion upon  it,  and  give  it  the  sacred  character  it  possesses. 
Through  this  translation  the  Bible  means  more  to  readers 
of  English  than  to  those  who  use  any  other  tongue.  The 
general  antique  color  of  the  diction  perpetuates  this 
translation  as  the  literary  representative  of  our  sacred 
speech.  In  the  literature  of  no  other  language  is  there 
anything  that  corresponds  to  it. 

It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  there  is  no  possibility  of 
supersedure  of  this  version  by  another.  It  is  a  part,  and 
no  small  part,  of  the  intellectual,  moral  and  religious 
culture  of  all  English-speaking  peoples.  The  forms  of 
expression  in  which  the  text  is  rendered  have  long  been 
household  words  unto  millions,  and  the  change  of  a  word 
or  a  syllable  would  produce  a  jar  to  many  ears  as  harsh 
as  dissonance  in  music.  As  a  work  of  literature,  this 
version  is  a  transcript  of  the  religious  and  in  ellectual 
energy  that  produced  it.  Its  downright,  sinewy  and 
idiomatic  English,  coming  to  us  from  the  best  age  of 
our  literature,  is  strong,  where  a  new  version  would  be 
diffuse  and  feeble.  From  the  same  type  of  mind  thaf 
produced  this  version  flowed  those  innumerable  tributary 
streams  that  fed  the  mighty  sea  of  Shakespeare.  To 
substitute  another  version  for  this  one  would  be  to 
abandon  one  of  the  strongest  clews  to  the  entire  living 
existence,  moral,  intellectual  and  religious,  of  all  who 
inherit  the  English  tongue.  Of  course,  therefore,  it  can- 
not be  supplanted.  It  makes  the  highest  ideas,  clothed 
in  words  of  compass  and  power,  part  of  the  daily  life 
and  growth  of  multitudes.  No  substitution  of  another 
version  for  it.  nor  even  any  material  change  in  this  one 
would  be  possible ;  or,  even  were  it  possible,  it  would  be 
a  positive  loss  to  literature  and  history,  and  would  tend 
to  impoverishment  of  the  soil  in  which  the  moral  and 
religious  ideas  of  a  great  people  have  1heir  nourishment 
and  growth. 

Here  is  the  genius  of  the  English  tonsrue  at  its  greatest 
and  best,  flinging  its  full  strength  unon  a  task  which  at 
the  time  lay  close  to  the  heart  of  the  English  people.  The 
English  Bible  is  the  masterpiece  of  our  prose,  as  Shakes.- 


226  Oregon  Literature 

peare's  work  is  of  our  poetry;  it  beats  not  only  with 
the  divine  impulse  of  its  original,  but  also  with  that  im- 
mense vitality  of  religious  life  in  the  days  when  to  our 
ancestors  religion  and  life  were  identical.  In  this  version 
we  have  that  tremendous  reach  of  emotion,  borne  on  a 
style  majestic  and  clear,  which  has  been  and  will  con- 
tinue to  be  one  of  the  great  forces  in  the  movements  of 
history.  This  English  Bible  is  among  the  greatest  of  the 
agencies  in  spreading  the  English  language  throughout 
the  world,  and  in  extending  the  principles  of  liberty  and 
of  jurisprudence  that  go  with  it  and  find  their  expression 
through  it.  This  view  shows  that  missionary  work 
carried  on  in  the  English  tongue  throughout  the  world 
has  a  field  vastly  wider  than  propagation  of  mere  ecclesi- 
astical dogma.  It  is  introductory  to  and  part  of  a  greatly 
wider  field  of  effort  and  progress.  Its  potency  lies  in  the 
fact  that  the  religious  feeling  is  the  most  powerful  of 
the  forces  through  which  men  are  moved,  and  in  all 
times  has  been  the  underlying  force  in  the  expansion  of 
civilization.  This  is  not  to  say  that  it  has  not  been 
abused,  or  has  not  run  into  errors,  or  at  times  even  into 
crimes,  some  of  them  colossal.  Nevertheless,  without  the 
religious  impulse  the  world  never  could  get  on, 

*A 

THE  EVOLUTION  OF  OREGON. 
(F?  jm  an  Address  Before  the  Oregon  Pioneer  Society.) 

The  earliest  explorers  of  Oregon,  the  missionaries  of 
the  somewhat  later  day  included,  were  mostly  from  our 
Atlantic  states;  but  when  the  active  migration  began 
the  states  of  the  Upper  Mississippi  Valley  supplied  far 
the  greater  number.  These  persons  were  of  the  pioneer 
stock  of  Missouri,  of  Illinois  and  of  other  states  of  the 
region  then  known  as  the  AVest.  The  story  of  Oregon 
had  reawakened  their  old  love  of  adventure;  it  offered 
a  source  of  relief  to  their  restlessness,  and  it  held  out  to 
them  the  vague  hopes  always  promised  by  the  unknown. 
Situated  where  they  were,  communities  were  growing  up 
around  them ;  they  had  lost  the  sovereignty  of  space  and 
wanted  to  recover  it;  they  liked  not  close  settlements, 


Harvey  W.  Scott  227 

still  less  cities,  where  man  disputes  with  man  for  air, 
space,  sunshine.  Fixed  residence  was  less  agreeable  than 
indefinite  removal,  the  imagination  loved  to  dwell  on  the 
illimitable,  where  no  bounds  are  set  to  freedom  of  move- 
ment and  action.  He  who  is  alone  feels  that  he  is  import- 
ant; for  he  measures  himself  by  his  actual  standard, 
and  not  by  the  method  of  the  census  taker,  not  by  the 
indistinguishable  numerical  value  which  his  single  ex- 
istence represents  in  a  populous  city  or  nation.  The 
imagination  is  fed  by  visions  and  illusions;  and  yet  so 
deep  a  mystery  is  man,  that  these  in  fact  have  greater 
power  over  him  than  realities,  and  the  realm  of  imagina- 
tion becomes  man's  truest  world. 

These  were  the  people  who  constituted  the  body  of 
those  now  coming  to  Oregon.  There  had  been  an  effort 
to  establish  missions  among  the  Indians,  but  these  people 
did  not  come  for  missionary  purposes.  There  were 
earnest  endeavors  on  the  part  of  a  few  far-seeing  men 
to  augment  the  force  of  Americans  in  the  country,  so  as 
to  create  a  counterpoise  to  British  influence  and  secure 
the  disputed  territory  to  the  United  States;  but  this 
was  not  the  motive  that  impelled  the  main  column  of 
migration.  Efforts  for  missionary  work  and  reports  of 
missionaries  on  the  country  had  done  much  to  create  an 
ititerest  in  Oregon,  as  in  the  case  of  Rev.  Jason  Lee,  whose 
lectures  in  Illinois  in  1838  started  the  Peoria  party  in 
1839;  agitation  of  the  "Oregon  Question"  in  Congress 
and  throughout  the  country,  based  on  the  desire  to  plant 
a  body  of  American  citizens  here  whose  presence  would 
attest  the  sovereignty  of  the  United  States,  had  helped 
to  make  Oregon  known ;  and  the  Western  pioneer  hearing 
of  Oregon  as  a  wonderland,  could  not  restrain  his  im- 
patience; he  had  not  yet  been  satiated  with  adventure, 
and  he  looked  back  on  the  conditions  of  pioneer  life  from 
which  the  states  of  the  Upper  Mississippi  region  were 
just  emerging,  as  a  golden  age  of  freedom  which  might 
be  renewed  on  the  distant  shores  of  the  Pacific,  and  the 
fact  that  privation  was  to  be  met  and  danger  was  to  be 
braved  added  zest  to  the  undertaking. 

The  story  of  the  toilsome  march  of  the  wagon  trains 
over  the  plains  will  be  received  by  future  generations 


228  Oregon  TAtcraturc 

almost  as  a  legend  on  the  border  land  of  myth,  rather 
than  as  a  veritable  history.  It  will  be  accepted,  indeed, 
but  scarcely  understood.  Even  now  to  those  who  made 
the  journey,  the  realities  of  it  seem  half  fabulous.  It  no 
longer  seems  to  have  been  a  rational  undertaking.  The 
rapid  transit  of  the  present  time  appears  almost  to 
relegate  the  story  to  the  land  of  fable.  No  longer  can 
we  understand  the  motives  that  urged  our  pioneers  to- 
ward the  indefinite  horizon  that  seemed  to  verge  on  the 
unknown.  Mystery  was  in  the  movement,  mystery  sur- 
rounded it.  It  was  the  last  effort  of  that  profound  im- 
pulse which,  from  a  time  far  preceding  the  dawn  of 
history,  has  pushed  the  race  to  which  we  belong  to  dis- 
covery and  occupation  of  western  lands,  i 

Here  now  we  are ;  the  limit  has  been  reached.  The 
stream  can  flow  no  further  onward,  but  must  roll  back 
on  itself.  Life  must  develop  here,  and  in  this  develop- 
ment it  must  diversify  itself,  and  take  on  new  and  char- 
acteristic forms.  This,  in  fact,  it  is  doing.  Oregon,  from 
the  circumstances  of  its  settlement,  and  its  long  isolation, 
and  through  development  here  of  the  materials  slowly 
brought  together,  has  a  character  almost  peculiarly  .its 
own.  In  some  respects  that  character  is  admirable ;  in 
others  it  is  open  to  criticism.  Our  situation  has  made 
for  us  a  little  world  in  which  strong  traits  of  a  character 
peculiarly  our  own  have  been  developed ;  it  has  also  left 
us  somewhat  out  of  touch  with  the  world  at  large.  We 
are  somewhat  too  fixed  and  inflexible  in  our  ways  of 
thought  and  action,  and  do  not  adjust  ourselves  readily 
to  the  conditions  that  surround  us  in  the  world  of  men, 
and  now  are  steadily  pressing  in  on  us  from  all  sides. 

The  life  of  a  community  is  the  aggregate  life  of  the 
individuals,  who  are  its  units,  and  the  general  law  that 
holds  for  the  individual  holds  for  the  society.  The 
human  race  can  make  progress  only  as  the  conduct  of  a 
man  as  an  individual  and  of  a  man  in  society  is  brought 
into  harmony  with  surrounding  forces  under  the  govern- 
ment of  moral  law.  Of  this  progress  experience  becomes 
the  test.  The  multiplying  agencies  of  civilization,  oper- 
ating in  our  own  day  with  an  activity  continually  cum- 
ulative and  never  before  equalled,  are  turned,  under 


Harvey  W.  Scott  223 

the  pressure  of  moral  forces,  into  most  powerful  instru- 
ments for  instruction  and  benefit  of  mankind.  It  is 
probable  that  nothing  else  has  contributed  so  much  to  the 
help  of  mankind  in  the  mass,  either  in  material  or  moral 
aspects,  as  rapid  increase  of  human  intercourse  through- 
out the  world.  Action  and  reaction  of  peoples  upon 
peoples,  of  nations  upon  nations,  of  races  upon  races, 
are  continually  evolving  the  activities  and  producing 
changes  in  the  thought  and  character  of  all.  This  inter- 
course develops  the  moral  forces  as  rapidly  as  the  intel- 
lectual and  material;  it  has  brought  all  parts  of  the 
world  into  daily  contact  with  each  other,  and  each  part 
feels  the  influence  of  all  the  rest. 

Common  agents  in  this  work  are  commerce  in  mer- 
chandise and  commerce  in  ideas.  Neither  could  make 
much  progress  without  the  other.  Populations  once  were 
stagnant.  Now  they  are  stirred  profoundly  by  all  the 
powers  of  social  agitation,  by  travel,  by  rapid  movements 
of  commerce  by  daily  transmission  of  news  of  the  im- 
portant events  of  the  world  to  every  part  of  the  world. 
Motion  is  freedom  and  science  and  wealth  and  moral 
advancement.  Isolated  life  is  rapidly  disappearing; 
speech  and  writing,  the  treasures  of  the  world's  liter- 
ature, diffused  throughout  the  world,  enlarge  and  expand 
the  general  mind,  and  show  how  much  is  contained 
within  humanity  of  which  men  once  never  dreamed.  In 
language  itself  there  is  a  steady  advance  towards  sim- 
plicity, compass,  exactness  and  uniformity.  As  civiliza- 
tion makes  progress  and  increases,  the  number  of  dialects 
diminishes,  provincialisms  are  merged,  the  same  tongue 
becomes  common  to  a  mighty  people. 

Phases  of  life  pass  away,  never  to  return.  In  the  first 
settlement  of  a  country  the  conditions  of  nature  produce 
our  customs,  guide  our  industries,  fix  our  ways  of  life. 
Later,  modifications  take  place,  fashioned  on  changing 
conditions.  Oregon,  long  isolated,  has  now  been  caught 
up  and  is  borne  onward  in  the  current  of  the  world's 
thought  and  action.  Under  operation  of  forces  that 
press  upon  us  from  contact  with  the  world  at  large,  and 
under  the  law  of  our  own  internal  development,  we  are 
moving  rapidly  away  from  the  old  conditions.  Pioneer 


230  Oregon  TM  Mature 

life  is  now  but  a  memory ;  it  will  soon  be  but  a  legend  or 
tradition.  Modern  society  has  no  fixity.  Nothing  abides 
in  present  forms.  See  how  complete  has  been  the  trans- 
formation of  New  England  within  twenty-five  years.  A 
similar  process  is  now  in  rapid  movement  among  our- 
selves in  the  Pacific  Northwest.  Once  we  had  here  a  little 
world  of  our  own.  We  shall  have  it  no  more.  The 
horizon  that  once  was  bounded  by  our  own  board  enlarges 
to  the  horizon  of  man. 


John  Gill 

GANTORI  MORTUO. 

Swift  Voices  of  the  Night, 

Crying  abroad  through  all  the  sleeping  land: 
"Balder,  the  beautiful,  is  dead!     The  hand 
That  woke  the  harp  on  Wild  Acadia  's  shore 
To  noblest  strains,  shall  strike  that  harp  no  more ! 

Shrouded,  and  still,  and  white ! ' ' 

Speak  to  the  rolling  waves, 
Breaking  in  thunders  on  his  native  Coast; 
Tell  them  the  bard  who  loved  their  music  most 
Sleeps  in  the  old  house  by  the  tranquil  bay, 
Deaf  to  their  fury,  or  their  giant  play 

In  the  green  ocean  caves. 

The  building  orioles  sing- 
In  the  long  branches  of  his  old  elm  trees ; 
The  bluebird  pours  upon  the  vernal  breeze 
His  mellow  notes,  unconscious  that  he  lies 
Reckless  of  song  and  warmly-bending  skies, 

In  the  returning  Spring. 

No  more  the  bells  of  Lynn, 
Or  billows  mourning  on  Nantucket's  shore, 
Or  winds  that  thro '  the  wayside  elm  trees  roar, 
Filling  the  night  with  voices  sweet  and  strong, 
Shall  rouse  his  spirit  to  immortal  song, 

Or  his  soft  numbers  win. 

The  River  Charles  flows  by 
His  loved  old  city,  on  its  brimming  tide 
Reflecting  Auburn's  tower,  and  streaming  wide 
Under  the  bridge;    the  stately  street  resounds 
With  shout  and  song  from  his  old  college  grounds, 

Where  youth  can  never  die. 


232  Oregon  Literature 

The  old  clock  on  the  stair, 

That  marked  the  long,  long  thoughts  of  childhood's  page, 
His  manhood,  noble  prime,  and  green  old  age 
White  with  kind  frosts,  speaks  yet  in  solemn  tone, 
Forever— never— as  in  years  bygone; 

Years  past,  forever  fair. 

Into  the  Silent  Land 

His  steps  have  entered,  where  his  treasures  were; 
There  may  the  choiring  angels  minister 
Peace  to  his  soul,  true  kindred  of  their  own; 
His  Psalm  of  Life  is  sung,  his  day  gone  down 

In  sunset  calm  and  grand. 

Never— Forever !  v 

In  curfewbell,  in  voice  of  summer  streams, 
In  wildbird  songs,  in  music  of  our  dreams, 
In  all  the  noblest  promptings  of  the  heart 
His  words  of  love  and  fire  shall   have  their  part, 

Echoing  evermore. 

Oh,  Voices  of  the  Night ! 

Breathe  low_  and  sweet  above  that  sacred  mound 
Through  woods  in  summer  green;    or  mournful  sound 
Through  sighing  pines,  dark  in  Acadian  snow, 
A  requiem  for  the  soul  of  Longfellow, 

Soared  to  its  highest  flight ! 


GEORGE  H.  WILLIAMS 


George  H.  Williams 

Hon.  George  H.  Williams  was  born  in  Columbia 
County,  New  York,  March  26,  1823;  educated  in  the 
academy  on  Pompey  Hill  in  Onondaga  County;  and 
admitted  to  practice  law  in  1844.  He  then  moved  to  Fort 
Madison,  Iowa;  and  in  1847,  was  elected  Judge  of  the 
First  Judicial  District.  In  1852  he  was  appointed  Chief 
Justice  of  Oregon,  by  President  Pierce.  In  1864  he  was 
elected  United  States  Senator.  Soon  after  his  term  in 
the  Senate  he  was  appointed  one  of  the  Joint  High  Com- 
missioners to  settle  by  treaty  with  Great  Britain  the 
Alabama  claims  and  other  disputed  questions  between 
the  two  countries.  He  was  the  author  of  the  act  under 
which  the  states  lately  in  rebellion  were  reconstructed— 
generally  known  as  the  "Reconstruction  Act."  In  1871 
he  accepted  from  President  Grant  the  appointment  of 
Attorney-General  of  the  United  States.  Since  retiring 
from  that  office  Judge  Williams  has  been  steadily 
engaged  in  the  practice  of  law,  devoting  his  spare 
moments  to  literary  pursuits.  Ample  entertainment  and 
instruction  can  be  found  in  the  lines  of  Mr.  Williams 's 
"Occasional  Addresses,"  a  neatly  bound  volume  of  two 
hundred  pages. 

PARALLEL  BETWEEN  SHERMAN  AND  GRANT. 

We  are  familiar  with  the  story  of  David  and  Jonathan ; 
but  if  their  extraordinary  friendship  was  more  senti- 
mental, it  was  not  more  interesting  than  the  relations 
of  Grant  with  Sherman.  These  relations  were  indeed 
beautiful.  They  exalted  both  men  in  my  estimation. 
Our  country,  and  all  countries,  from  time  immemorial. 
have  been  cursed  with  the  rivalries  and  jealousies  of 
great  men.  Few  people  know  how  much  these  have  to 
do  with  the  turmoils,  wars  and  bad  government,  of  the 
world.  Grant  and  Sherman  were  the  two  great  Generals 


234  Oregon  Literature 

of  the  war.  Circumstances  conduced  to  make  them  rivals 
for  distinction  and  the  honors  of  their  country.  There 
was  ample  room  and  provocation  enough  for  jealousy 
between  them;  but  the  common  cause  in  which  they 
drew  their  swords  seems  to  have  rounded  their  lives  into 
an  unbroken  harmony. 

I  have  frequently  conversed  with  each  about  the  other. 
There  were  no  complaints  or  fault-findings  upon  these 
occasions.  Grant  always  spoke  kindly  of  Sherman; 
Sherman  enjoyed  the  praises  of  Grant.  It  is  difficult 
co  compare  the  military  capabilities  of  two  men  so  dif- 
ferent in  temperament.  Sherman  was  quick,  nervous 
and  impulsive;  Grant,  thoughtful,  deliberate  and  im- 
perturable.  Marching  through  Georgie  suited  the  dash 
of  Sherman;  the  siege  of  Vicksburg,  the  deep  resolve 
and  unyielding  tenacity  of  Grant.  Both  have  written 
books.  Sherman  had  more  snap  and  sparkle  in  his  style ; 
Grant,  more  terseness,  strength  and  simplicity.  Grant 
was  a  man  of  few  words,  and  no  speech-maker ;  Sherman 
frequently  spoke  on  public  occasions  in  a  fluent  and 
pleasing  manner. 

Twenty-five  years  ago  the  war  for  the  Union  ended. 
Death  has  been  busy  with  men  of  that  war;  but  time 
is  erecting  a  monument  to  their  memories,  in  states 
united,  that  will  stand  as  long  as  our  flag  represents  the 
freedom  and  'union  of  the  American  people. 

Our  country  has  folded  to  its  green  bosom  and  to  their 
earthly  rest,  Grant,  Sherman,  Sheridan,  Thomas,  Han- 
cock, Logan,  and  many  of  their  compatriots;  but  their 
graves  are  pilgrim  shrines  to  which  future  generations 
will  come  to  commune  with  the  historic  dead,  and  con- 
secrate themselves  to  the  service  of  their  country. 

UPON  THE  VALUE  OF  GOOD  THOUGHTS. 

A  group  of  essays  taken  from  an  address  to  the  gradu- 
ating class  of  the  High  School  in  Portland,  Oregon, 
June  23,  1891.  They  are  ink-drops  from  the  busy 
pen  of  one  who  for  more  than  a  half  century  has  been 
constantly  employed  in  giving  counsel  to  people  of  all 
ranks  and  ages. 


George  JL  Williams  235 

FAITH. 

"According  to  your  faith,  be  it  unto  you,"  is  a  rev- 
elation  and  promise  from  Infinite  Wisdom  and  Power. 
Faith  is  the  Archimedean  lever  that  moves  the  world. 
Faith  convoyed  Columbus  to  the  discovery  of  a  western 
hemisphere.  Faith  spans  oceans  with  telegraphs  and 
continents  with  railroads.  Faith  has  founded  empires 
and  won  great  victories.  Faith  is  the  inspiration  of 
every  great  invention  and  every  great  enterprise;  and 
without  faith  the  dead  level  of  animal  life  would  hardly 
be  disturbed.  Faith  is  defined  to  be  the  substance  of 
things  hoped  for,  the  evidence  of  things  not  seen ;  which 
is  a  summary  way  of  describing  life  in  the  world  of 
thought  brightened  by  the  promise  of  hope.  Faith  in 
God,  faith  in  man,  and  faith  in  the  good,  the  true  and 
the  beautiful,  are  elements  of  exalted  and  refined 
pleasures. 

GOOD  THOUGHTS. 

True  happiness  consists  in  having  your  minds  occupied 
with  good,  just  and  pure  thoughts;  and  if  your  minds 
are  filled  with  such  thoughts  your  bodily  surroundings 
are  of  no  great  consequence.  This  power  of  controlling 
the  thoughts,  especially  under  adverse  circumstances,  is 
not  intuitive ;  nor  is  it  easily  acquired.  Like  other  ac- 
complishments of  the  mind  and  body,  it  comes  through 
cultivation  and  discipline.  Our  minds,  untrained,  have 
a  tendency  to  produce  evil  thoughts,  like  the  tendency 
of  the  untilled  earth  to  produce  wild  grasses  and  weeds. 

Avarice,  envy,  jealousy,  hatred,  malice,  discontent 
and  fear,  are  names  given  to  classify  those  different  con- 
ditions of  the  mind  from  whieh  proceed  a  great  part  of 
the  unhappiness  of  the  human  family. 

To  overcome  and  put  an  end  to  these  mental  condi- 
tions is  like  the  fight  of  Hercules  with  the  hydra; 
but  in  this  fight,  as  in  that,  perseverance  will  achieve 
success.  One  person  is  born  in  poverty,  and  bound  by 
circumstances  beyond  his  control  to  a  life  of  obscurity 
and  toil.  Another  is  born  in  affluence,  and  inherits  dis- 
tinction and  ease.  Very  often  the  former  is  discontented 


236  Oregon  Literature 

and  depressed  with  his  lot,  and  his  life  is  poisoned  with 
envy  of  the  latter ;  when,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  there  may 
not  be,  and  in  a  majority  of  cases  is  not,  any  good  ground 
for  this  unhappiness.  It  is  misery  made  out  of  nothing 
but  perverted  thoughts. 

When  a  poor  man,  in  good  health,  has  all  that  he 
needs  to  eat,  to  drink  and  to  wear,  he  has  about  all  a  rich 
man  can  get  out  of  his  wealth,  so  far  as  bodily  enjoy- 
ments are  concerned.  The  air  is  as  fresh  and  pure,  the 
sunshine  as  bright  and  warm,  to  the  poor  as  to  the  rich. 
All  the  glories  of  the  heavens  and  all  the  beauties  of  the 
earth  are  as  free  to  1(he  poor  as  to  the  rich.  God  is  no 
respecter  of  persons,  and  all  His  wondrous  works  are 
for  the  equal  good  and  pleasure  of  all  His  children. 
Moreover,  it  does  not  follow  that  because  a  man  is  rich 
he  is  happy;  for  happiness  does  not  depend  so  much 
upon  external  circumstances  as  upon  mental  conditions, 
and  it  may  happen  that  the  mind  of  the  man  with 
millions  of  money  is  distracted  with  care  and  trouble, 
while  the  boy  who  blacks  his  boots  is  happy  in  the 
thought  of  better  days  to  come. 

Were  it  possible  to  look  into  the  thoughts  of  those 
around  us,  we  should  find  that  there  is  not  half  as  much 
differenpe  among  people,  so  far  as  their  happiness  is 
concerned,  as  there  seems  to  be.  Alexander  wept  for 
other  worlds  to  conquer,  but  Diogones  was  contented  in 
his  tub.  Envious  thoughts  are  extremely  foolish,  for 
they  neither  help  the  envious  nor  hurt  the  envied.  They 
only  sting  the  brain  that  brings  them  into  being.  Our 
great  need  is  to  know  how  to  change  injurious  and  evil 
thoughts  into  those  that  give  us  pleasure  and  peace. 

WILL  POWER. 

We  must  be  diligent  in  the  exercise  of  1he  will  power. 
Self-examination  will  show  that,  as  a  rule,  our  wills  are 
allowed  to  be  dormant,  while  passion,  prejudice,  or  some 
exciting  circumstances  evolve  and  control  our  thoughts. 
Disuse  makes  our  wills,  like  our  limbs,  weak  and  in- 
efficient when  we  desire  to  use  them.  You  believe  that 
some  one  has  wronged  you,  in  consequence  of  which  you 
are  exicited  with  angry  and  revengeful  thoughts.  To 


George  tt.  Williams  237 

get  rid  of  these  thoughts  as  soon  as  possible  is  advisable, 
because  they  not  only  destroy  mental  serenity,  but 
inaugurate  disorders  of  the  body.  To  do  this  it  is 
necessary  to  substitute  pleasant  and  soothing  thoughts 
for  those  that  irritate  and  annoy.  Bring  ur>  from  the 
storehouse  of  memory  some  scene  to  which  your  affections 
cling ;  think  of  some  event  tha>  has  given  you  pleasure 
or  profit,  or  give  yourself  up  to  some  bright  dream  of 
the  future.  Drive  away  the  clouds  and  ^nter  into  the 
sunlight.  Poe's  ''Raven"  is  the  picture  of  a  mind  filled 
with  thoughts  of  sorrow,  gloom  and  death,  while  Woorl- 
worth's  "Old  Oaken  Bucket"  is  the  picture  of  a  mind 
full  of  refreshing  and  grateful  memories.  To  substitute 
the  thought  that  inspired  the  song  of  Woodworth  for 
those  that  inspired  the  wail  of  Poe,  is  to  substitute  the  oil 
of  joy  for  the  ashes  of  mourning. 

To  change  or  divert  the  thoughts  from  that  which  is 
evil  to  that  which  is  good,  is  comparatively  easy;  but 
the  difficulty  is  to  maintain  the  change.  Bad  thoughts 
are  Always  striving  for  the  mastery,  and  eternal  vieril- 
ance  is  necessary  to  prevent  their  success.  To  try  this 
experiment  involves  a  mental  struggle.  There  will  be 
failures  and  disappointments:  but  every  time  the  un- 
conquered  will  brings  in  good  thoughts  it  era  ins  strength 
for  the  next  conflict;  and  so  by  persistent  efforts,  the 
mind  is  released  from  distraction,  and  made  the  citadel 
of  contentment  and  peace.  T  want  to  say  this  with 
emphasis :  Watch  the  coming  and  going  of  your  thoughts, 
and  whenever  you  perceive  that  an  evil,  unkind  or 
unhappy  thought  has  entered  into  vour  mind,  displace 
it  at  once  with  something  that  is  good,  kind  or  agreeable; 
and  if  you  can  make  this  the  fixed  habi4^  of  your  mind, 
you  have  gained  what  is  worth  more  to  your  happiness 
than  all  "  the  wealth  of  Ormus  or  of  Ind." 

INDIVIDUAL  DIFFERENCES. 

I  have  had  more  or  less  to  do  with  the  quarrels  of 
men  for  nearly  fifty  years,  and  the  result  of  my  ob- 
servation and  experience  is,  that  a  great  part  of  these 
disagreements  are  unnecessary,  and  would  not  occur  if 
people  did  not  act  without  reflection.  I  have  no  right 


238  Oregon  Literature 

when  I  differ  with  another,  to  get  angry,  and  act  from 
passion ;  but  it  is  my  duty  to  consider  that  I  may  be 
blinded  by  self-interest,  or  that  I  may  have  been  mis- 
informed, or  may  have  misunderstood  what  has  been 
said  or  done,  and  I  ought  to  know  the  views  and  thoughts 
of  the  other  man  before  I  decide  upon  any  definite  action. 
Our  Lord  gave  us  good  advice  when  he  said,  * '  Judge  not 
according  to  the  appearance,  but  judge  righteous  judg- 
ment." 

You  will  be  better  satisfied  with  yourselves,  and  add 
to  your  happiness,  if  you  take  a  charitable  view  of  the 
motives  and  actions  of  other  people :  though  you  may 
know  that  others  have  gone  wrong,  it  is  noble  and  gen- 
erous to  think  of  them  that  they  "have  but  stumbled 
in  the  path  you  have  in  weakness  trod. ' '  What  a  world 
of  trouble  and  sorrow  would  be  prevented  if  people  would 
think  more  kindly  and  justly  of  each  other. 

THE  DELUSIONS  OF  LIFE. 

Everybody  is  praising  truth;  but  who  would  take 
away  from  children  their  conceptions  of  Santa  Glaus 
or  those  little  works  of  fiction  which  they  read  with  so 
much  avidity  and  pleasure,  of  which  * '  Little  Red  Riding 
Hood"  is  an  example?  Who  would  suppress  the 
maternal  instincts  of  the  little  girl  by  robbing  her  of 
her  doll,  or  dispel  the  manly  conceits  of  the  little  boy 
in  riding  his  wooden  horse?  Visions  of  love,  wealth 
and  power  are  to  the  morning  of  life  what  summer 
breezes  and  the  singing  of  birds  are  to  the  rising  day, 
and,  though  largely  delusive,  are  delightful  while  they 
last,  and  shed  their  fading  brightness  over  the  sober 
scenes  of  later  life.  I  have  lived  in  handsome  houses  of 
brick  and  stone,  and  held  high  positions  of  honor  and 
trust;  but  the  most  beautiful  houses  in  which  I  ever 
lived,  and  the  highest  honors  I  ever  enjoyed,  are  those 
which  an  unfledged  ambition  constructed  out  of  my' 
boyhood  fancies. 

CHEERFULNESS. 

Whatever  your  circumstances  in  life  may  be,  try  to 
take  a  cheerful,  and  not  a  gloomy  view  of  your  prospects 


George  II.  Williams  239 

and  surroundings.  To  cultivate  a  cheerful  disposition  or 
state  of  mind,  is  not  only  to  cultivate  your  own  happi- 
ness, but  to  make  your  presence  like  mingled  flowers 
and  sunshine  to  your  family  and  friends.  I  think  iL 
safe  to  say  that  more  than  one-half  of  the  troubles  of 
life  have  no  existence  outside  of  a  misguided  or  morbid 
state  of  mind.  Take,  as  an  illustration,  Shakespeare's 
great  impersonation  in  Othello.  Here  was  a  solrlier, 
honored  by  men  and  loved  by  woman  for  his  great  deeds, 
who  was  driven  by  false  and  poisoned  thought  to  murder 
a  true  and  loving  wife,  and  then  to  commit  the  kindred 
crime  of  suicide.  All  this  was  the  outcome  of  thinking 
evil  instead  of  good  of  one  whose  virtue  and  purity  were 
ignored  to  give  place  to  a  base  suspicion.  There  is  no 
greater  folly  than  to  brood  despondently  over  some  mis- 
take or  misfortune  that  has  passed  beyond  recall.  Try 
always  to  encourage  yourself  with  the  reflection  that 
apparent  evils  are  frequently  blessing^  in  disguise. 
Looking  backward  over  the  ills  of  life  is  poor  business; 
but  to  look  forward  and  upward  with  faith  and  hope  is 
to  draw  from  heaven  some  of  the  choicest  blessings. 

GOOD  THOUGHTS  ARE  UPLIFTING. 

Rich  people  can  diversify  their  lives  with  recreations 
and  amusements  of  various  kinds ;  but  those  who  labor 
for  their  daily  bread  are  largely  dependent  upon  their 
daily  thoughts  for  refreshment  and  rest:  though  the 
body  is  bound  to  earth,  the  thought  may  be  in  heaven. 
Where  can  the  mother,  whose  heart  is  bleeding  from  the 
loss  of  her  child,  find  such  comfort  as  in  the  thought  of 
being  reunited  to  her  loved  one  in  another  and  a  better 
world?  Our  Lord  has  provided  for  the  poor  and 
afflicted,  by  showing  them  that,  if  they  will  make  their 
thoughts  like  His  thoughts,  they  will  have  a  wealth  of 
peace  which  the  world  cannot  give  or  take  away.  Some 
people  profess  to  believe  that  these  comforting  thoughts 
are  nothing  but  the  vagaries  of  weak  and  sensitive  minds ; 
but,  be  this  as  it  may,  they  have  lightened  the  burdens 
of  many  weary  souls;  and  it  is  safe  to  assume  that  they 
will  be  found  to  be  eternal  realities,  when  flesh  and 
blood  have  mouldered  into  dust. 


240  Oregon  Literature 

INFLUENCE  OF  GOOD  THOUGHTS. 

Our  thoughts  affect  others,  favorably  or  unfavorably, 
as  they  affect  ourselves.  Good  thoughts  exert  a  good 
influence,  and  bad  thoughts  a  bad  influence,  upon  those 
around  us.  Some  philosophers  contend  that  thought  is 
as  much  a  substance  as  magnetism,  electricity  or  beat; 
and  the  analogies  of  this  argument  are  good,  for  all  alike 
are  intangible,  invisible  and  capable  of  changing  and 
controlling  material  things.  Actual  experiments  have 
demonstrated  that  thought  can  be  transferred  from  one 
mind  to  another  without  the  use  of  any  visible  or 
audible  signs;  and  it  is  therefore  a  reasonable  conclusion 
that  all  thoughts,  to  some  extent,  are  common  to  all 
minds.  Go  into  a  company  of  people  whose  thoughts 
are  pure,  bright  and  joyous,  and  then  go  into  another 
company  whose  thoughts  are  low,  hateful  and  gloomy; 
and,  though  nothing  be  said,  the  change  will  be  percepti- 
ble in  the  changed  condition  of  your  thoughts.  On" 
little  spark  may  kindle  a  great  fire ;  and  one  new  and 
vigorous  thought  may  set  in  motion  a  great  thought- 
wave.  I  have  noticed,  in  the  political  and  religions 
world,  that  where  the  thought  in  one  locality  drifted  in 
a  certain  direction,  the  same  drift  was  observed  in  other 
and  remote  localities.  Language  may  in  .part  account 
for  this;  but  results  indicate  that  currents  of  though f 
run  through  the  social  fabric,  like  currents  of  electricity 
through  the  unconscious  earth.  When  the  spiritual  is 
more  fully  developed,  and  the  intellectual  becomes  more 
apprehensive,  it  may  be  that  the  telegraph  and  telephone 
will  fall  into  disuse,  and  mind  answer  to  mind,  and 
thought  to  thought,  through  a  medium  common  to  all. 
Our  thinking  faculties  conjoin  us  to  the  Supreme  Intelli- 
gence of  the  Universe.  They  stamp  the  dust  of  the  earth 
with  the  image  of  the  Deity.  They  can  lift  us  to  the  pin- 
nacles of  human  life.  They  can  do  more :  they  can  lift 
us  up  to  heaven,  or  they  can  bear  us  down  the  endless 
declivities  of  eternal  darkness.  Gird  UP  the  loins  of 
your  minds.  Prepare  yourselves  for  the  smiles  and 
frowns  of  fortune.  Go  out,  with  faith  in  God,  into  the 
field  of  duty,  always  remembering  that  the  secret  of  a, 
happy  life  is  to  think  good  thoughts, 


EDWARD  DICKINSON  BAKER 


Edward  Dickinson  Baker 

Edward  Dickinson  Baker  was  born  in  London.  Eng- 
land, February  24,  1811.  Five  years  later  his  father's 
family  settled  in  Philadelphia,  where  Edward  at  an  early 
age  was  apprenticed  to  a  weaver.  In  1825  the  family 
moved  to  Indiana,  and  the  following  year  to 'Illinois. 
Young  Baker  drove  a  dray  in  St.  Louis  for  a  season, 
but  returned  to  Illinois,  where  he  was  admitted  to  the 
bar.  In  1831  he  seriously  thought  of  entering  the 
ministry  in  the  Reformed  or  Christian  Church.  He  ob- 
tained a  Major's  commission  in  the  Black  Hawk  War; 
was  twice  elected  to  the  lower  branch  of  the  State  Legis- 
lature, then  one  term  to  the  upper  branch ;  was  elected 
to  Congress  in  1844;  then,  commissioned  Colonel  in  the 
Mexican  War;  and  returned  to  Congress  in  1849.  In 
1852  he  located  in  San  Francisco,  but  in  1860  moved  to 
Oregon,  where  he  was  chosen  United  States  Senator.  His 
greatness  as  a  soldier,  statesman,  orator  and  patriot  was 
of  that  character  which  made  him  inevitable  in  any  state 
or  national  disturbance ;  so  that  while  Oregon  of  all  the 
states  honored  him  the  most,  the  Nation  in  the  onset  of 
a  threatening  calamity  laid  first  claim  upon  his  highest 
energies.  Attired  in  the  full  uniform  of  a  Colonel  he 
appeared  before  his  fellow  Senators  in  a  stirring  defense 
of  the  Union,  August  2,  1861 ;  and  four  days  later  he 
was  confirmed  Brigadier  General.  He  fell  in  the  battle 
of  Ball's  Bluff,  October  21,  1861.  In  recognition  of  his 
services,  a  commission  as  Major  General  of  Volunteers 
was  afterwards  issued  in  his  name. 

As  an  orator  Colonel  Baker  seeing  clearly  beheld 
things  as  they  were ;  hence  treated  each  subject  in  a 
style  of  its  own.  Therefore  he  was  enabled  to  give  to 
us  a  typical  plea  in  the  "Defense  of  Cora,"  the  repartee 
in  his  "iReply  to  Benjamin,"  the  ready  fire  of  Patrick 
Henry  in  the  "Baker  Mass-Meeting  Address,"  fraternal 
sympathy  in  the  Broderick  oration,  the  ornate  in  the 


242  Oregon  Literature 

oration  on  the  Atlantic  Cable,  and  poetry  and  music  in 
the  ' '  Ode  to  a  Wave. ' '  On  all  occasions  the  flight  of  the 
"Old  Gray  Eagle"  was  lofty,  attracting  the  eyes  up- 
ward and  uplifting  the  minds  of  men  above  sordid 
thoughts  and  groveling  themes. 

THE  ATLANTIC  GABLE  ADDRESS. 

Amid  the  general  joy  that  thrills  throughout  the  civil- 
ized world,  we  are  here  to  bear  our  part.  The  great  enter- 
prise of  the  age  has  been  accomplished.  Thought  has 
bridged  the  Atlantic,  and  cleaves  its  unfettered  path 
across  the  sea,  winged  by  the  lightning  and  guarded  by 
the  billow.  Though  remote  from  the  shores  that  first 
witnessed  the  deed,  we  feel  the  impulse  and  swell  the 
paean;  for,  as  in  the  frame  of  man,  the  nervous  sensi- 
bility is  greatest  at  the  extremity  of  the  body,  so  we, 
distant  dwellers  on  the  Pacific  Coast,  feel  yet  more 
keenly  than  the  communities  at  the  centers  of  civiliza- 
tion, the  greatness  of  the  present  success,  and  the 
splendor  of  the  advancing  future. 

The  transmission  of  intelligence  by  electric  forces  is 
perhaps  the  most  striking  of  all  the  manifestations  of 
human  power  in  compelling  the  elements  to  the  service 
of  man.  The  history  of  the  discovery  is  a  monument  to 
the  sagacity,  the  practical  observation,  the  inductive 
power  of  the  men  whose  names  are  now  immortal.  The 
application  to  the  uses  of  mankind  is  scarcely  less 
wonderful,  and  the  late  extension  across  a  vast  ocean 
ranks  its  projectors  andl  accomplishes  with  the  bene- 
factors of  their  race.  We  repeat  here  today  the  names 
of  Franklin,  and  Morse,  and  Field.  We  echo  the  senti- 
ments of  generous  pride,  most  felt  in  the  commonwealth 
of  Massachusetts,  at  the  associated  glory  of  her  sons. 
But  we  know  that  this  renown  will  spread  wherever 
their  deeds  shall  bless  their  kind ;  that,  like  their  works, 
it  will  extend  beyond  ocean  and  deserts,  and  remain  to 
latest  generations. 

THE  MARCH  OF  SCIENCE. 
The  history  of  the  Atlantic  Telegraph  is  fortunately 


Edward  Dickinson  Raker  243 

% 

familiar  to  most  of  this  auditory.  For  more  than  a 
hundred  years  it  has  been  known  that  the  velocity  of 
electricity  was  nearly  instantaneous.  It  was  found  that 
the  electricity  of  the  clouds  was  identical  with  that  pro- 
duced by  electric  excitation;  next  followed  the  means 
for  its  creation,  and  the  mechanism  of  transmission.  Its 
concentration  was  found  in  the  corrosion  of  metals  in 
acids,  and  the  use  of  the  voltaic  pile;  its  transmission 
was  completed  by  Morse  in  1843,  and  it  was  reserved  to 
Field  to  guide  it  across  the  Atlantic.  Here,  as  in  all 
other  scientific  results,  you  find  the  wonder-working 
power  of  observation  and  induction ;  and  nowhere  in 
the  history  of  man  is  the  power  of  Art— action  directed 
by  Science — knowledge  systematized — sisrnally  and  beau- 
tifully obvious.  I  leave  to  the  gifted  friend  who  will 
follow  me,  in  his  peculiar  department,  the  appropriate 
description  of  the  wonders  of  the  deep  seaway ;  of  the 
silent  shores  beneath ;  of  sunless  caverns  and  submarine 
plains.  It  is  for  others  to  describe  the  solitudes  of  the 
nether  deep.  Yet  who  is  there  whose  imagination  does 
not  kindle  at  the  idea  that  every  thought  which  springs 
along  the  wires  vibrates  in  those  palaces  of  the  ocean 
where  the  light  fails  to  penetrate  and  the  billows  never 
roll? 

From  those  dark,  unfathomed  caves  the  pearl  that 
heaves  upon  the  breast  of  beauty  is  dragged  to  the  glare 
of  day.  There  the  unburied  dead  lie  waiting  for  the 
resurrection  morning,  while  above  them  the  winds  wail 
their  perpetual  requiem;  there  the  lost  treasures  of 
India  and  Peru  are  forever  hid;  there  the  wrecks  of 
the  Armada  and  Trafalgar  are  forever  whelmed. 

What  flags  and  what  trophies  are  floating  free 
In  the  shadowy  depths  of  the  silent  sea  1 

But  amid  these  scattered  relics  of  the  buried  past, 
over  shell-formed  shores  and  wave-worn  crags,  the 
gleaming  thought  darts  its  way.  Amid  the  monsters  of 
the  deep,  amid  the  sporting  myriads  and  countless  armies 
of  the  sea,  the  single  link  that  unites  two  worlds  conveys 
the  mandate  of  a  king  or  the  message  of  a  lover.  Of 
old,  the  Greek  loved  to  believe  that  Neptune  ruled  the 


244  Oregon  Literature 

ocean  and  stretched  his  trident  over  the  remotest  surge. 
The  fiction  has  become  reality ;  but  man  is  the  monarch 
of  the  wave,  and  his  trident  is  a  single  wire ! 

The  scene  in  which  we  each  bear  a  part  today  is  one 
peculiar,  it  is  true,  to  the  event  which  we  celebrate ;  but 
it  is  also  very  remarkable  in  many  and  varied  aspects. 

JOY  VISITS  THE  PACIFIC  COAST. 

Never  before  has  there  been  on  the  Pacific  Coast  such 
an  expression  of  popular  delight.  We  celebrate  the 
birthday  of  our  Nation  with  signal  rejoicing;  but  vast 
numbers  who  are/  here  today  can  find  no  place  in  its 
processions,  and  perhaps  wonder  at  its  enthusiasm ;  we 
celebrate  great  victories  which  give  new  names  to  our 
history  and  new  stars  to  our  banner — these  are  but 
national  triumphs;  but  today  the  joy  is  universal;  the 
procession  represents  the  world — all  creeds,  all  races, 
all  languages  are  here;  every  vocation  of  civilized  life 
mingles  in  the  shout  and  welcomes  the  deep.  The 
minister  of  religion  sees  the  Bow  of  Promise  reflected 
under  the  sea,  which  speaks  of  universal  peace;  the 
statesman  perceives  another  lengthening  avenue  for  the 
march  of  free  principles;  the  magistrate  here  can  see 
new  guards  to  the  rights  of  society  and  property,  and 
wide  field  for  the  sway  of  international  law;  the  poet 
kindles  at  the  dream  of  a  great  republic  of  letters  tending 
toward  a  universal  language ;  and  the  seer  of  science 
finds  a  pledge  that  individual  enterprise  may  yet  embody 
his  discoveries  in  beneficent  and  world-wide  action. 

The  mechanic  walks  with  a  freer  step  and  more  con- 
scious port,  for  it  is  his  skill  which  has  overcome  the 
raging  sea  and  stormy  shore;  and  labor— toil-stained 
and  sun-browned  labor— claims  the  triumph  as  his  own 
in  twofold  right.  First,  because  without  patient,  endur- 
ing toil,  there  could  be  neither  discovery,  invention, 
application  or  extension;  and  again,  because  whatever 
spreads  the  blessings  of  peace  and  knowledge  comes 
home  to  his  hearth  and  heart. 

Surrounded  then,  as  I  am,  by  the  representatives  of 
all  civilized  nations,  let  me  express  some  of  the  thoughts 
that  are  struggling  for  utterance  upon  your  lips  as  you 


'Edward  Dickinson  Raker  245 

contemplate  the  great  event  of  the  century.  Our  first 
conviction  is  that  the  resources  of  the  human  mind  and 
the  energies  of  the  human  will  are  illimitable ;  from  the 
time  when  the  new  philosophy,  of  which  Francis  Bacon 
was  the  great  exponent,  became  firmly  written  in  a  few 
minds,  the  course  of  human  progress  has  been  unfettered 
— each  established  fact,  each  new  discovery,  each  com- 
plete induction  is  a  new  weapon  from  the  armory  of 
truth;  the  march  cannot  retrogade;  the  human  mind 
will  never  go  back;  the  question  as  to  the  return  of 
barbarism  is  forever  at  rest.  If  England  were  to  sink 
beneath  the  ocean,  she  hath  planted  the  germ  of  her 
thought  in  many  a  fair  land  beside,  and  the  tree  will 
shadow  the  whole  earth.  If  the  whole  population  of 
America  were  to  die  in  a  day,  a  new  migration  would 
repeople  it;  not  with  living  forms  alone,  but  with  living 
thought,  bright  streams  from  the  fountains  of  ail  nations. 
0  Science,  thou  thought-clad  leader  of  the  company 
of  pure  and  great  souls,  that  toil  for  their  race  and  love 
their  kinds !  measurer  of  the  depths  of  earth  and  the 
recesses  of  heaven!  aposfle  of  civilization,  handmaid 
of  religion,  teacher  of  human  equality  and  human  right, 
perpetual  witness  for  the  Divine  Wisdom — be  ever,  as 
now,  the  great  minister  of  peace!  Let  thy  starry  brow 
and  benign  front  still  gleam  in  the  van  of  progress, 
brighter  than  the  sword  of  the  conqueror,  and  welcome 
as  the  light  of  heaven ! 

COMMERCIAL  PROGRESS. 

The  commercial  benefits  to  accrue  to  all  nations  from 
instantaneous  communication  are  too  apparent  to  permit 
much  remark ;  the  convenience  of  the  merchant,  the  cor- 
respondence of  demand  and  supply,  the  quick  return  of 
values,  the  more  immediate  apprehension  of  the  condition 
of  the  world,  are  among  the  direct  results  most  obvious 
to  all  men;  but  these  are  at  last  mere  agencies  for  a 
superior  good,  and  are  but  heralds  of  the  great  ameliora- 
tions to  follow  in  the  stately  march. 

The  great  enemy  of  commerce,  and  indeed  of  the 
human  race,  is  war.  Sometimes  ennobling  to  individuals 
and  nations,  it  is  more  frequently  the  offspring  of  a 


246  Oregon  Literature 

narrow  nationality,  and  inveterate  prejudice.  If  it 
enlists  in  its  service  some  of  the  noblest  qualities  of  the 
human  heart,  it  too  often  perverts  them  to  the  service 
of  a  despot. 

From  the  earliest  ages  a  chain  of  mountains,  or  a  line 
of  a  river,  made  men  strangers,  if  not  enemies.  What- 
ever, therefore,  opens  communication  and  creates  inter- 
change of  ideas,  counteracts  the  sanguinary  tendencies  of 
mankind,  and  does  its  part  to  "beat  the  sword  into  the 
plowshare. ' ' 

We  hail,  as  we  trust,  in  the  event  we  commemorate,  a 
happier  era  in  the  history  of  the  world,  and  read  in  the 
omens  attendant  oni  its  completion  an  augury  of  per- 
petual peace. 

The  spectacle  which  marked  the  moment  when  the 
cable  was  first  dropped  in  the  deep  sea,  was  one  of 
absorbing  interest.  Two  stately  ships  of  different  and 
once  hostile  nations,  bore  the  precious  freight.  Meeting  in 
mid-ocean  they  exchanged  the  courtesies  of  their  gallant 
profession— each  bore  the  flag  of  St.  George,  each  carried 
the  flowing  Stripes  and  blazing  Stars— on  each  deck 
that  martial  band  bowed  reverently  in  prayer  to  the 
Great  Ruler  of  the  Tempest:  exact  in  order,  perfect  in 
discipline,  they  waited  the  auspicious  momen^  to  seek  the 
distant  shore.  Well  were  those  noble  vessels  named — 
the  one,  Niagara,  with  a  force  resistless  as  our  own 
cataract;  the  other,  Agamemnon,  "the  king  of  men," 
as  constant  in  purpose,  as  resolute  in  trial,  as  the  great 
leader  of  the  Trojan  war.  Right  well,  O  gallant  crews, 
have  you  fulfilled  your  trust!  Favoring  were  the  gales 
and  smooth  the  seas  that  bore  you  to  the  land ;  and  oh ! 
if  the  wish  and  prayer  of  the  good  and  wise  of  all  the 
earth  may  avail,  your  high  and  peaceful  mission  shall 
remain  forever  perfect,  and  those  triumphant  standards 
so  long  shadowing  the  earth  with  their  glory  shall  wave 
in  united  folds  as  long  as  the  Homeric  story  shall  be 
remembered  among  men— or  the  thunders  of  Niagara 
reverberate  above  its  arch  of  spray. 

It  is  impossible,  fellow  citizens,  within  such  limits  as 
the  nature  of  this  assemblage  indicates,  to  portray  the 
various  modes  in  which  the  whole  human  race  are  to  be 


Edward  Dickinson  Baker  247 

impelled  en  the  march  cf  progress  by  the  telegraphic 
union  of  the  two  nations;  but  I  cannot  forget  where  I 
stand,  nor  the  audience  I  address.  The  Atlantic  tele- 
graph is  but  one  link  in  a  line  of  thought  which  is  to 
bind  the  world;  the  next  link  is  to  unite  the  AtlanHc 
and  Pacific.  Who  doubts  that  this  union  is  near  at  hand  ? 
Have  we  no  other  Fields  f  Shall  the  skill  which  sounded 
the  Atlantic  not  scale  the  Sierra  Nevada  ?  Is  the  rolling 
plain  more  dangerous  than  the  rolling  deep?  Shall 
science  repose  upon  its  laurels,  or  achievements  faint  by 
the  Atlantic  shore?  Let  us  do  our  part;  let  our  energy 
awaken!  Let  us  be  the  men  we  were  when  we  planted 
an  empire.  We  are  in  the  highway  of  commerce ;  let 
us  widen  the  track— one  effort  more,  and  science  will 
span  the  world.  While  I  speak,  there  comes  to  us,  borne 
on  every  blast  from  the  East  and  from  the  West,  high 
tidings  of  civilization,  toleration,  and  freedom.  In  Eng- 
land the  Jews  are  restored  to  all  the  privileges  of  citizens, 
and  the  last  step  in  the  path  of  religious  toleration  is 
taken.  The  Emperor  of  Russia  has  decreed  the  emanci- 
pation of  his  serfs,  and  the  first  movement  for  civil 
liberty  is  begun.  China  opens  her  ports,  and  commerce 
and  Christianity  will  penetrate  the  East.  Japan  sends 
her  Embassador  to  America,  and  America  will  return 
the  blessings  of  civilization  to  Japan.  0  human  heart 
and  human  hope !  never  before  in  all  your  history  did 
ye  so  rise  to  the  inspiration  of  a  prophet  in  the  majesty 
of  your  prediction! 

A  GREAT  ACHIEVEMENT. 

Fellow  citizens,  we  have  a  just  and  generous  pride  in 
the  great  achievement  we  here  commemorate.  We  rejoice 
in  the  manly  energy,  the  indomitable  will,  that  pushed 
it  forward  to  success ;  we  admire  the  skillful  adaptation 
and  application  of  the  forces  of  nature  to  the  uses  of 
mankind;  we  reverence  the  great  thinkers  whose  ob- 
servation swept  through  the  universe  of  facts  and 
events,  and  whose  patient  wisdom  traced  and  evolved  the 
general  law.  Yet,  more  than  this,  we  turn  with  wonder 
and  delight,  to  behold  on  every  hand  the  results  of 
scientific  method  everywhere  visible  and  everywhere  in- 


248  Oregon  Literature 

creasing ;  but  amid  that  wonder  and  delight  we  turn  to 
a  still  greater  wonder— the  human  mind  itself!  Who 
shall  now  stay  its  progress?  What  shall  impede  its 
career?  No  longer  trammeled  by  theories  nor  oppressed 
by  the  despotism  of  authority— grasping,  at  the  very 
vestibule,  the  key  to  knowledge,  its  advance,  though 
gradual,  is  but  the  more  sure.  It  is  engaged  in  a  per- 
petual warfare,  but  its  empire  is  perpetually  enlar^in^. 
No  fact  is  forgotten,  no  truth  is  lost,  no  induction  falls 
to  the  ground;  it  is  as  industrious  as  the  sun;  it  is  as 
restless  as  the  sea;  it  is  as  universal  as  the  race  itself; 
it  is  boundless  in  its  ambition,  and  irrepressible  in  its 
hope.  And  yet,  in  the  very  midst  of  the  great  works 
that  mark  its  progress,  while  we  behold  on  every  hand 
the  barriers  of  darkness  and  ignorance  overthrown,  and 
perceive  the  circle  of  knowledge  continually  widening 
we  must  forever  remember  that  man,  in  all  his  pride  of 
scientific  research,  and  all  his  power  of  elemental  con- 
quest, can  but  follow  at  an  infinite  distance  the  methods 
of  the  Great  Designer  of  the  Universe.  His  research  is 
but  the  attempt  to  learn  what  nature  has  done  or  may 
do;  his  plans  are  but  an  imperfect  copy  of  a  half-seen 
original.  He  strives,  and  sometimes  with  success,  to 
penetrate  into  the  workship  of  nature;  but  whether  he 
use  the  sunbeam,  or  steam,  or  electricity— whether  he 
discover  a  continent  or  a  star — whether  he  decompose 
light  or  water— whether  he  fathom  the  depths  of  the 
ocean  or  the  depths  of  the  human  heart— in  each  and 
all  he  is  but  an  imitation  of  the  Great  Architect  and 
Creator  of  all  things.  We  have  accomplished  a  great 
work ;  w,e  have  diminished  space  to  a  point ;  we  have 
traversed  one-twelfth  of  the  circumference  of  our  globe 
with  a  chain  of  thought  pulsating  with  intelligence,  and 
almost  spiritualizing  matter. 

THE  Bow  OF  PROMISE. 

But,  even  while  we  assemble  to  mark  the  deed  and  re- 
joice at  its  completion,  the  Almighty,  as  if  to  impress 
us  with  a  becoming  sense  of  our  weakness  as  compared 
with  his  power,  has  set  a  new  signal  of  his  reign  in 
heaven !  If  tonight,  fellow  citizens,  you  will  look  oat 


Edward  Dickinson  linker  249 

from  the  glare  of  your  illuminated  city  into  the  north- 
western heavens,  you  will  perceive,  low  down  on  the 
edge  of  the  horizon,  a  bright  stranger,  pursuing  its  path 
across  the  sky.  Amid  the  starry  hosts  that  keep  their 
watch,  it  shines  attended  by  a  brighter  pomp  and  fol- 
lowed by  a  broader  train.  No  living  man  has  gazed  upon 
its  splendors  before;  no  watchful  votary  of  science  has 
traced  its  course  for  nearly  ten  generations.  It  is  more 
than  three  hundred  years  since  its  approach  was  visible 
from  our  planet.  When  last  it  came,  it  startled  an 
emperor  on  his  throne,  and  while  the  superstition  of  the 
age  taught  him  to  perceive  in  its  presence  a  herald  and 
a  doom,  his  pride  saw  in  its  naming  course  and  fiery 
train  the  announcement  that  his  own  light  was  about 
to  be  extinguished.  In  common  with  the  lowest  of  his 
subjects,  he  read  omens  of  destruction  in  the  baleful 
heavens,  and  prepared  himself  for  a  fate  which  alike 
awaits  the  mightiest  and  the  meanest.  Thanks  to  the 
present  condition  of  scientific  knowledge,  we  read  the 
heavens  with  a  far  clearer  perception.  W,e  see  in  the 
predicted  return  of  the  rushing,  blazing  comet  through 
the  sky,  the  march  of  a  heavenly  messenger  along  his 
appointed  way  and  around  his  predestined  orbit.  For 
three  hundred  years  he  has  traveled  amid  the  regions  of 
infinite  space.  "Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost,"  he  has 
left  behind  him  shining  suns,  blazing  stars,  and  gleam- 
ing constellations,  now  nearer  to  the  eternal  throne,  and 
again  on  the  confines  of  the  universe.  He  returns,  with 
visage  radiant  and  benign;  he  returns,  with  unimpeded 
march  and  unobstructed  way;  he  returns,  the  majestic, 
swift  electric  telegraph  of  the  Almighty,  bearing  upon 
his  flaming  front  the  tidings  that  throughout  the  universe 
there  is  still  peace  and  order— that,  amid  the  immeasur- 
able dominions  of  the  Great  King,  his  rule  is  still  perfect 
— that  suns  and  stars  and  systems  tread  their  endless 
circle  and  obey  the  Eternal  Law. 

AMERICAN  GREATNESS. 

When  Pericles,  the  greatest  of  Athenian  s'atesmen, 
stood  in  the  suburbs  of  the  Kerameikos  to  deliver  the 
funeral  oration  of  the  soldiers  who  had  fallen  in  the 


250  Oregon  Literature 

expedition  to  Samos,  he  seized  the  occasion  to  describe, 
with  great  but  pardonable  pride,  the  grandeur  of  Athens. 
It  was  the  first  year  of  the  Peloponnesian  War,  and  he 
spoke  amid  the  trophies  of  the  Persian  conquest  and  the 
creations  of  the  Greek  genius.  In  that  immortal  oration 
he  depicted  in  glowing  colors  the  true  sources  of  national 
greatness,  and  enumerated  the  titles  by  which  Athens 
claimed  to  be  the  first  city  of  the  world.  He  spoke  of 
the  constitutional  guarantees,  of  democratic  principles, 
of  the  supremacy  of  the  law,  of  the  freedom  of  the  social 
march.  He  spoke  of  the  elegance  of  private  life— of  the 
bounteousness  of  comforts  and  luxuries— of  a  system  of 
education — of  their  encouragement  to  strangers — of  their 
cultivated  tastes— of  their  love  of  the  beautiful— of  their 
rapid  interchange  of  ideas ;  but  above  all,  he  dwelt  upon 
the  courage  of  her  citizens,  animated  by  reflections  that 
her  greatness  was  achieved  "by  men  of  daring,  full  of 
a  sense  of  honorable  shame  in  all  their  actions. ' ' 

Fellow  citizens,  in  most  of  these  resnects  we  may  adopt 
the  description ;  but  if  in  taste,  in  manners,  if  in  temples 
and  statues,  if  in  love  and  appreciation  of  art,  we  fall 
below  the  genius  of  Athens,  in  how  many  respects  is  it 
our  fortune  to  be  superior !  We  have  a  revealed  religion ; 
we  have  a  perfect  system  of  morality ;  we  have  a  litera- 
ture, based,  it  is  true,  on  their  models,  but  extending 
into  realms  of  which  they  never  dreamed;  we  have  a 
vast  and  fertile  territory  within  our  own  dominion,  and 
science  brings  the  whole  world  within  our  reach;  ^we 
have  founded  an  empire  in  a  wilderness,  and  poured 
fabulous  treasures  into  the  lap  of  commerce. 

But,  amid  all  these  wonders,  it  is  obvious  that  we 
stand  upon  the  threshold  of  new  discoveries,  and  at  the 
entrance  to  a  more  imperial  dominion.  The  history  of 
the  last  three  hundred  years  has  been  a  history  of  suc- 
cessive advances,  each  more  wonderful  than  the  last. 

There  is  no  reason  to  believe  that  the  procession  will 
be  stayed,  or  the  music  of  its  march  be  hushed ;  on  the 
contrary,  the  world  isi  radiant  with  hope,  and  all  the 
signs  in  earth  and  heaven  are  full  of  promise  to  the  race. 
Happy  are  we  to  whom  it  is  given  to  share  and  spread 
these  blessings;  happier  yet  if  we  shall  transmit  the 


Edward  Dickinson  Baker  251 

great  trust  committed  to  our  care  undimmed  and  un- 
broken to  succeeding  generations. 

A  PROPHECY. 

I  have  spoken  of  three  hundred  years  past— dare  I 
imagine  three  hundred  years  to  come?  It  is  a  period 
very  far  beyond  the  life  of  the  individual  man;  it  is  a 
span  in  the  history  of  a  nation,  throughout  the  changing 
generations  of  mental  life.  The  men  grow  old  and  die, 
the  community  remains,  the  nation  survives.  As  we 
transmit  our  institutions,  so  we  shall  transmit  our  blood 
and  our  names  to  future  ages  and  populations.  What 
multitudes  shall  throng  these  shores,  what  cities  shall 
gem  the  borders  of  the  sea !  Here  all  people  and  all 
tongues  shall  meet.  Here  shall  be  a  more  perfect  civiliz- 
ation, a  more  thorough  intellectual  development,  a  firmer 
faith,  a  more  reverent  worship. 

Perhaps,  as  we  look  back  to  the  struggle  of  an  earlier 
age,  and  mark  the  steps  of  our  ancestors  in  the  career 
we  have  traced,  so  some  thoughtful  man  of  letters  in  ages 
yet  to  come,  may  bring  to  light  the  history  of  this  shore 
or  of  this  day.  I  am  sure,  fellow  citizens,  that  whoever 
shall  hereafter  read  it,  will  perceive  that  our  pride  and 
joy  are  dimmed  by  no  stain  of  selfishness.  Our  pride  is 
for  humanity;  our  joy  is  for  the  world;  and  amid  all 
the  wonders  of  past  achievement  and  all  the  splendors 
of  present  success,  we  turn  with  swelling  hearts  to  gaze 
into  the  boundless  future,  with  the  earnest  conviction 
that  it  will  develop  a  universal  brotherhood  of  man. 

FREEDOM. 
(Extract  from  American  Theater  Speech.) 

In  the  presence  of  God— I  say  it  reverently— freedom 
is  the  rule,  and  slavery  the  exception.  It  is  a  marked, 
guarded,  perfected  exception.  There  it  stands !  If  pub- 
lic opinion  must  not  touch  its  dusky  cheek  too  roughly, 
be  it  so;  but  we  will  go  no  further  than  the  terms  of 
the  compact.  We  are  a  city  set  on  a  hill.  Our  light 
cannot  be  hid.  As  for  me,  I  dare  not,  I  will  not  be  false 


252  Oregon  Literature 

to  freedom!  Where  in  youth  my  feet  were  planted, 
there  my  manhood  and  my  age  shall  march.  I  will  walk 
beneath  her  banner.  I  will  glory  in  her  strength.  I 
have  seen  her,  in  history,  struck  down  on  a  hundred 
chosen  fields  of  battle.  I  have  seen  her  friends  fly  from 
her;  I  have  seen  her  foes  gather  around  her;  I  have 
seen  them  bind  her  to  the  stake;  I  have  seen  them  give 
her  ashes  to  the  winds,  regathering  them  that  they  might 
scatter  them  yet  more  widely.  But  when  they  turned 
to  exult,  I  have  seen  her  again  meet  them  face  to  face, 
clad  in  complete  steel,  and  brandishing  in  her  strong 
right  hand  a  flaming  sword  red  with  insufferable  light ! 
And  I  take  courage.  The  Genius  of  America  will  at  last 
lead  her  sons  to  freedom. 

TO  A  WAVE. 

(The  first  appearance  of  this  poem  was  in  the  Philadel- 
phia Press,  November,  1861.) 

Dost  thou  seek  a  star  with  thy  swelling  crest 
O  wave,  that  leavest  thy  mother's  breast? 
Dost  thou  leap  from  the  prisoned  depths  below. 
In  scorn  of  their  calm  and  constant  flow? 
Or  art  thou  seeking  some  distant  land 
To  die  in  murmurs  upon  the  strand^ 

Bast  thou  tales  to  tell  of  the  pearl-lit  deep, 
Where  the  wave-whelmed  mariners  rock  in  sleep  ? 
Canst  thou  speak  of  navies  that  sunk  in  pride 
Ere  the  roll  of  their  thunder  in  echo  died? 
What  trophies,  what  banners  are  floating  free 
In  the  shadowy  depths  of  that  silent  sea? 

It  were  vain  to  ask,  as  thou  rollest  afar, 
Of  banner,  or  mariner,  ship  or  star; 
It  were  vain  to  seek  in  thy  stormy  face 
Some  tale  of  the  sorrowful  past  to  trace. 
Thou  art  swelling  high,  thou  art  flashing  free — 
How  vain  are  the  questions  we  ask  of  thee ! 


8-1 


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r-c     CD 


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>  0  *>   ^  •  »  *  «1  «    «> 

*  V    S*J  5  *•" 


Edward  Dickinson  Baker  253 

I,  too,  am  a  wave  on  a  stormy  sea; 

I,  too,  am  a  wanderer  driven  like  thee ; 

I,  too,  am  seeking  a  distant  land 

To  be  lost  and  forgot  ere  I  reach  the  strand. 

For  the  land  I  seek  is  a  waveless  shore, 

And  thev  who  once  reach  it  shall  wander  no  more. 


THE   END. 


INDEX 


Page 

Ackerman,  J.   H 107 

After  Twenty  Years 109 

A  Grave  in  the  Wilderness..  160 

A  Granger's  Love  Song 175 

Agricultural    College 137 

A  May  Day  in  Oregon 138 

An  Evening  on  the  Plains....  158 
Angels  Are  Waiting  for  Me..  121 

An   Old  Violin 161 

Applegate,  Jesse 158 

At  Dead  of  Night 98 

Atkinson,  Rev.  G.  H 196 

Ascent  of  Mount  Hood 169 

Baker,  E.  D 241 

Balch,   F.   H 1*7 

Banks,  Louis  Albert 113 

Beautiful   Willamette 64 

Bell,  J.  R.  N 178 

Bloch,    Rabbi 164 

Brown,    Valentine 172 

Buchanan,   John 128 

Buckskin's     Fight    with     the 

Wolves  209 

Buoy,    Jesse 223 

Burnett,   John 129 

Burnett,  Peter  H 108 

By  the  Wayside 140 

Campbell,   Prince  L 161 

Campbell,  Thomas  F 192 

Cantori  Mortuo 231 

Chadwick,  S.  F 138 

Cheerfulness    238 

Chief  Multnomah  in  Council..  199 

Clarke,  James  G 79 

Clarke,  Samuel  A 139 

Climatic  Influence  Upon  Lit- 
erature      12 

Cohen,   D.   Soils 213 

College  Influences 15 

Columbus   42 

Common    Schools 136 

Condon,  Thomas 151 

Cooke,   Belle  W 115 

Curry,  George  L 150 

Damon  and  Pythias 167 

Davenport, .  Homer 183 

Davenport,  T.  W 183 

Deady,  Matthew  P 135 

DeMoss,  Henry  S 163 

Descent  of  the  Avalanche 176 

Dye,   Mrs.   Eva  Emery 83 

Eliot,    T.    L 118 

Encamped    91 

Helen    172 

Hermann,  Binger 159 

Grande   Ronde   Valley 49 

Hamilton,  Mrs.  S.  Watson....  154 

Hawthorne,  B.  J 157 

Evans,  Elwood 162 

Faith    235 

Fearing,   Blanche 156 

"49"    35 


Page 

Four-Leaf  Clover 52 

Freedom   251 

Gill,  John 231 

Good    Thoughts 235 

Good  Thoughts,  Influence  of..  239 
Good  Thoughts  Are  Uplifting  239 

Good  Thoughts,  Value  of 234 

Higginson,   Mrs.   Ella 48 

Duniway,  Abigail  Scott 109 

Hill,   W.   Lair 182 

Himes,  George  H 173 

Hines,  H.  K 169 

Hofer,    E 177 

How      to      Domesticate      and 

Tame   Birds 105 

I    Know    Not 116 

Immortality   178 

Individual  Differences 237 

Irvine,   B.   F 133 

Is  it  Worth  While? 26 

Toaquin  Miller,  Autobiography    24 

Joaquin  Miller  at  Home 31 

Icaqu  n  Miller— Notes  and  An- 

ecdotete   33 

Jo  Lane  and  the  Indians 84 

Kelsay,  Col.   John 103 

Kincaid,   Harrison  R 166 

Kinney,  Narcissa  White 176 

Language   192 

Let  Him  Sleep 156 

Lord,  William  P 136 

Lord.  William  R 104 

Markham,  Edwin 45 

McArthur,  Harriet  K 161 

Marsh,   Sidney   H 126 

McElroy,    Eulogy 124 

McComas,   E.    S 155 

Meek,  Col.  Joseph 221 

Memory   98 

Mid-Summer  Bird  Song 177 

Miller,  Joaquin 24- 

Life. 139 

Miller,   Lischen   M 143 

Miller,  Minnie  Myrtle 91 

Minto,  John 175 

Morgan.   Clara   Blake 97 

Nash.   Wallis 99 

Nesmith's  Eulogy  on  Sumner  180 

Nesmith,  J.  W 180 

Newsnaoers    and    Magazines, 

Influence    of 16 

On  the  River 223 

Onward    188 

No  Man  Hath  Right 97 

Normal  Schools 136 

Only  a  Feather 66 

Oresron  Literature.   Merit  of..    1 

Oregon  Teachers  Monthly 17 

Pacific    Monthly 17 

Parallel      Between     Sherman 

and   Grant 233 

Patterson,  A.  W 188 


Index 


Page 

Pioneer  Life,  Influence  of.....  5 
Plea  for  Religious  Instruction  126 

Poetess  of  the  Coquelle 91 

Popular  Music,  List  of 20 

Progress  and  Literature 18 

Pulpiteers  11 

Remembered  by  What  She 

Has  Done 120 

Rhododendron  Bells 63 

Roses  and  Lilies 122 

Sacred  98 

Saylor,  Fred  H 17 

Scenery,  Influence  of 6 

Schwatka,  Frederick 2'2u 

Scott,  Harvey  W 224 

Seattle  115 

Senator  Nesmith  and  His 

Tutor  171 

Simpson.  Sam.  L HI 

Snowdrift 71 

Snow  Drop  Memories 141 

Song,  Influence  of 8 

State  University 137 

Sunrise  on  the  Willamette 53 

Sweet  Oregon 163 

Temperance  118 

The  Albany  Oration 129 

The  American  Settler 135 

The  Atlantic  Cable  Address..  242 

The  Bible 12 

The  Bible  in  English 224 

The  Birds  of  Oregon  and 

Washington  104 

The  Bridge  of  the  Gods 199 

The  Camp  Meeting 10 

The  Chautauqua ifi 

The  Crowning  of  the  Slain 67 

The  Death  of  Muza...  ..  213 


The  Delusions  of  Life 

The  Development  Theory 

The  Evolution  of  Oregon 

The  Eyes  that  Cannot  Weep 
The  Feast  of  Apple  Bloom.. 

Yates,   J.  F 

The   Fortunate  Isles... 


Page 

The  Haunted  Light 143 

The  Home  Builders 182 

The  Isle  of  the  Lepers 57 

The  Jewish  Milestone 164 

The  Lamp  in  the  West 54 

The  Man  with  the  Hoe 46 

The  Mast  Ashore 13S 

The  Mothers  of  Men 44 

The  Mount  of  the  Holy  Cross    SO 

The  Mystic  River 70 

The  Native  Son  Magazine 17 

The  Nyirmhs  of  the  Cascades    74 

The  Old  Emigrant  Road 97 

The  Old-Fashioned  Preacher.    11 

The  Old  P'onoers 155 

The  Oregon  Republic 162 

The  Oregon  Skylark ;.  .    90 

The  Passing  of  Tennyson...   .    41 

The  Pioneers  of  1848 196 

The  Power  of  Literature 107 

The  River  of  Rest 40 

The  Western  Meadow  Lark.  .  105 

The   Willamette 128 

Thornton,   J.   Quinn 160 

Thoughts  in  Storm  and  Soli- 
tude     ill 

To  a  Wave 252 

To  a  Young  Writer 29 

To    Juanita 40 

Tonight    77 

Trouble    1  so 

Two  Historic  Printing  Presses  173 

T^n  Years  in  Oregon 99 

Ultime 28 

LTniversal   Education 157 

Value  of  Friendship 128 

Victor,    Frances  Fuller ">'->! 

'Waggoner,   George  A 209 

War 166 

When     the    Birds    Go    North 

Again    55 

William  Brown  of  Oregon 36 

Williams,  George  H 233 

Will    Power 236 

Woodward,  Henry  H 153 


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