Oregon Literature  (1899) 
by John B. Horner

This book was published in at least two editions (see also 1902 edition IA) and also incorporated in Oregon: Her history, her great men, her literature.





Professor of Rhetoric and English Literature 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.



Statesman Job Print, Salem, Ore.



"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."

John Burnett.

Corvallis, July 7, 1899.


OREGON has produced more genuine literature during the short period of her history, extending back only fifty years, than all the thirteen American colonies wrote in a century and half. Notwithstanding this fact, she is the oldest state in the Union that has not collated the best things written by her sons and daughters. This task has been delayed merely for want of time and inclination. No one did it, so I undertook it. This is the explanation.

Kindly attribute the objectionable features of this pamphlet to the youngest printer in the office.

J. B. H.

Oregon Literature.

Long ago the scholars of the East passed the lamp of learning from England westward to Boston, the front door of America. And 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 valley. These symphonies floated along on zephyrs richly laden with aromas fresh from the field and flowers and forests, and were wafted heavenward 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.


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 and gloomy forests, majestic rivers, and mountains 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 life. All these things are mysteries to everyone, excepting to those who can give their solution from actual experience." But of this one thing be assured, under these trying circumstances, life with them grew to be real, earnest, and simple. They were fearless, yet God-fearing; no book save the Bible, Walker's dictionary, Pilgrim's Progress, and a few others of like sort; solid books, solid thought, solid men—three elements that enter into substantial literature.

A recent number of the "Daily Oregonian" tells us that the original type of the Oregon pioneer began his career with the settlement of New England4n 1620, and he ended it when he reached the Pacific. It took him about 250 years to conquer nature and the Indian from the Atlantic to the Pacific. The Oregon pioneer in his deeds outran even the prophetic vision of the great American novelist who left him in Nebraska struggling on his way along the Platte, and today Nebraska is ten years younger in statehood than Oregon because the Pacific, found time to turn around and form a state. The sterling merit of the Oregon pioneers of the '405 may be measured from the fact that the Oregonian who went to California on the discovery of gold in 1848-49 included a number of men, like Peter Burnett, who obtained honorable distinction in the history of California. The gold fever swept a vast immigration of all sorts to California within a few months, but as a whole it was far inferior in mental and moral quality to the men who laid the foundations of our great state.

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, and only the wisest and the strongest survived; hence Oregon was early peopled with the strongest, the wisest and the bravest of the new race. And while there may have been no Moses, no Caesar, no Cromwell among them, there was a large sprinkling of such men as Joe Meek, Gray the historian, United States Senator Nesmith, Governor Abernethy, General Joseph Lane, Doctor Laughlin, and Applegate, the sage of Yoncolla men with warm hearts, teeming brains, skillful hands, and sinewy arms. And the women were the daughters of the women who came in the Mayflower, and they were like unto them. They spun and wove, and in any home you might have seen a Priscilla with her wheel and distaff as of old. And, although the legends of our Aldens and Priscillas remain as yet unwritten and unsung, our own proud Oregon will some day raise up a Longfellow that will place these treasures- among the classics of the age.


Critics tell us that literature is rather an image of the spiritual world, than of 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. And it is true that a man will not necessarily be a great poet 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 poems than others because he lives where he can hear the thundering falls of the mighty Willamette. "Switzerland is all mountains; 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 charming landscape he saw one morning is undubitably made up of some twenty of 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 is the only millionaire that is wealthy enough to purchase a landscape. Yet, no man or woman with the least poetic impulse can entirely escape and resist the inspiring influences of luxuriant vegetation, balmy air, and delightful scenery. With a state drained on the north by the mighty Columbia, measured on the east by rivers and prairies and gold, guarded on the south by the sky-kissed Siskiyous, bathed on the west by the sunset seas; a state dotted here and there by the everlasting peaks—the sentinels of the world bound together with great mountain chains, reveling in delightful valleys beautifully tessalated with charming traceries—crystal streams winding like silvery threads from the glaciers far above as if seeking the violets, the daisies, and the witcheries of the lowlands, ours is not the scenery that makes warriors and bandits, but it is the taming, refining, elevating influence of the milder, gentler, environments peculiar to our land—environments that will in the coming days produce a literature most admired for the gentleness of its sentiment and the grace of its art. With us the perfection of the literary art will attain its zenith in approximating the perfection of the sweet nature and rich landscapes about us.


Our fathers 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 music 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 many of them did not know how; but they could all sing, and they found time for this recreation; and they sang more in their homes and in their fields 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 beyond, 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 touching the popular heart and in inspiring the nobler sentiments of humanity as do the men and the 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, some way or other are just back of 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 songs to the people; and thus, through the art of song, patriotism became a part of national life. Away down the ages their children's children came to the shores of Oregon with a new song upon their lips; and young men from every community representing many of the best families of our state have responded to the nation's call, and they have sung the new song and carried a message of liberty to the down-trodden nations in the far-away isles of the unknown seas.

In the days of the pioneer, every community had its singing school. They selected from their number a leader, and sang from some of those old collections of musical gems, such as the "Carrnina Sacra," the "New Lute of Zion," the "Harmony," the "Triumph," the "Key Note," "Golden Wreath," the "Revivalist," and others. Some of the best books were written in the old square-note system so the people could slowly spell their way through the music. Have you heard those songs—"The Land of Canaan," "I Belong to the Band, Hallelujah," "Mary to the Savior's Tomb," "Jesus Lover of My Soul," "The World Will Be on Fire," "I Want to Be an Angel," "There Is a Happy Land," "Work for the Night is Coming," and scores of others, among which were the national 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 they learned them well and they have been singing them ever since. Some of that band have gone to join the choir immortal where they will chant blessed songs forevermore amidst an array of angelic hosts. Others whose lives were influenced by those songs have been spared a little longer; yet the meeting will be bye and bye, and they'd like to think that they could take those dear old songs along with them. They love to hear them during hours of joy, during prosperity, and during hours of sickness; and, what is more comforting and consoling in that darkest of hours than one of those dear old songs?

A little midget in a home was piping one of those songs; and I could not help but think that a half century had rolled by since a master trained the tuneless voices heard then among men; and I wished he were still here that he might listen to the little one sing. Then he could see that he had taught better than he knew, for he taught an unborn generation to sing; and thus he tuned their hearts to sweeter, softer, gentler strains. Those songs have softened the soul and sweetened the literature of Oregon, for they have become a part of of Oregon life.


I sometimes think the muse that first sung the "Beautiful Willamette," that poem which was set to the gliding movement, waltz-like measure, and rippling music of our poetic river was inspired by the spirit of those beautiful songs—the songs of long ago—the songs whose voices have long been stilled.

Every great poem has an experience back of it; this will explain why many of the immortal songs are the out-growth of war. While the author of the "Beautiful Willamette" may have never been able to recall the particular event that brought out all his poetic energies in this special instance, yet there was an event and that event was followed by an experience; and the poem relates it in the notes of its song. Just what it was I know not, but some day there will appear upon the stage of literary achievement a penetrating, discriminating, discerning intellect that will fathom the full meaning of the poem, and read the secret to the world. However, one who poses not as a philosopher or sage, but who has studied the poem carefully, could imagine that the author might have caught sight of the great, winding sheet of water and, overcome with its smoothness and beauty at once contrasted the placid river with his turbulent life. At this moment came the spirit of the old songs floating along in rhythmic measures upon the music of the waters and the poet sat down and wrote these immortal lines:

"Onward ever,
Lovely river,
Softly calling to the sea;
Time, that scars us,
Maims and mars us,
Leaves no track or trench on thee."

No wonder that Samuel L. Simpson, the Edgar Poe of Oregon, sang to the world


From the Cascades' frozen gorges,
Leaping like a child at play,
Winding, widening through the valley
Bright Willamette glides away;
Onward ever,
Lovely river,
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,

Limpid, 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 to-day.
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.
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.

If for no other reason than that it breathes the spirit of its noble ancestry—the songs of long ago—the "Beautiful Willamette" is destined to be one of the surviving gems of American literature. Every state must sing a song; and, in the absence of a state song that will rank as a classic, Oregonians may be content to sing of their most beautiful river. The "Beautiful Willamette" will be memorized by children, by toilers, and sweet singers; and, although it may be a hundred years before it will fully catch the national ear, it will rank with some of the sweetest lines yet written by any American.


When Bryant wrote "The groves were God's first temples," he must have been thinking of the old camp-meeting grounds—those theological institutions located throughout the West where men heard some of the sweetest eloquence that has never been recorded in book or magazine. At a time, when the camp-meeting would not conflict with sowing and reaping, people met and mingled and their hearts were mellowed with the word of God as they heard it preached from revelation and read it in the volume of nature spread out before them. The preachers who interpreted these lessons were Fowler, Hines, Hill, Kennoyer, Conner, Driver, Elledge, and others precious to the memories of many who under their instructions have rejoiced to see within our own valley the dewy rose of Sharon bud midst showers of blessings, and blossom 'neath the sunshine of Heaven.

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 needed by those who had wrestled with the difficulties incident to pioneer life—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 the course of time, when the pioneers began to pass away, the campmeeting 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 belongs only to the gods and the groves. With such magnificent groves along our templed hills, we might have easily become druids or tree worshippers like them; but instead, we have cultivated the thought and developed the themes that will yet flower out into a literature not unlike that of the old time camp-meeting dissertation.


Much wisdom and eloquence was voiced and penned by the pioneer pulpiteers among whom were: Dr. Marcus Whitman, Father Eels, Wilson Blain, James H. Wilbur, Jason Lee, S. G. Irvine, Josiah L. Parrish, A. L. Lindsey, William Roberts, Father Blanchet, Thomas H. Pearne, Alvin F. Waller, Thomas Kendall, James Worth, George H. Atkinson, Gustavus Hines, Harvey K. Hines, Edward R. Geary, B. Wistar Morris, Thomas Condon, Dr. Elliot, and others; besides the visiting bishops Simpson, Glosbrenner, Scott, Morris, Marvin, Weaver, Castle, Bowman, 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 form of literary effort, from the humblest essay in the public school to the crowning efforts in parliamentary forensic and sacred oratory.

Then there was another class of ministers who wielded an influence on religious thought in the earlier days, one of whom it may not be out of place to mention at this time.


Someone, somewhere, some day, I know not 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's—spoken for the occasion and not for the future. There are those 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 Elder John, of sacred lore. So in our land there have been those in whom we at once recognize and revere the man: as Roger Williams, Lorenzo Dow and Peter Cartwright; and, in the farther West, Jason Lee, 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 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.


In each wagon of the long immigrant trains that came into our valley 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 language 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 in the language of our people. Furthermore, the experience and the culture of our people tend to mellow the feelings and warm the hearts of the masses and bring about a constantly growing demand for the language of the heart, the language of sentiment and sense, the language of those who use the best vehicle of expression in talking direct from the heart to a point.


It is an indisputable fact that climate has always exerted an influence upon a truly great literature, and there are those who believe they have already noticed marked indications of climatic influence upon what has been written in our state; and they pretend to believe that this influence will continue in its development so that it will be more noticeable and more influential 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
(On this press was printed the Oregon City "Spectator," February 5, 1846—the first newspaper west of the Missouri River)
sustain life; hence we do not expect great books and intellectual triumphs to come from those who received their growth in the torrid or in the frigid zones. It has also been observed that those climates, in which it is too easy to obtain a livelihood, impede intellectual progress. It has, therefore, been believed that no stirring thought will come from the nations of equatorial Africa nor from our cherished Philippines. In these lands, those who have palaces leave them to live in groves, gondolas, chariots, theaters, fashionable clubs, popular resorts, the racing circle, and the bull-fight ring; everything succumbs to pleasure, until pleasure becomes licentious in its influence an influence which is never truly literary. Accordingly, we look to the more temperate climes for literary achievement at its zenith and human endeavor in its glory; and men of attainment have come to believe that Oregon, which is centrally located as to mildness of temperature will produce a superior literature; and that it has two distinct climates, each of which is favorable to the growth and development of a particular literature, peculiarly pure, perspicuous and powerful.

Of the Saxon motherland the scholarly 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 western Oregonian should, therefore, be the true type, the typical Saxon of the century that is about to dawn. This is not boasting, but prophecy. Indeed, this is a foggy land with its seasons of sombre scenery, 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 silently float great gleaming bars of steel, and silver, and gold, until, perchance, they are disturbed by the bolts of Jove that come booming o'er the mountain into the valley below. All nature is 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 thunderbolt and their waters spilled upon parching grain and thirsting herds. In the one the air is purified by the gentle, falling raindrops; in the other by the swift, sweeping showers from the thundercloud. Observe the effect of this upon the life of those dwelling in these different sections. Notice the difference between the measured tread of the one 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 difference between the literature of Eastern Oregon and the literature of Western Oregon as if they were two different states on two different coasts. Think of our 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 free light, exhilarating sunshine of the higher altitudes. A heavy, languid, drowsy atmosphere; hence slow thinkers; slower to plan, slow to decide, slow to act,—a people not unlike the Saxons of old, their senses will become blunted, the muscles braced, and the will vigorous. There will be a certain earnestness leading from frivolous sentiments to noble ones—severe manners, grave inclinations, and manly dignity. The western Oregonian will be domesticated per force of circumstances. An indoor plant, a reader of books, a student of indoor ethics. The eastern Oregonian will be an outdoor plant; sallying out from beneath his roof to bathe himself in the summer sunshine and inure himself to the severe atmosphere and draw his inspirations from the bold landscapes, solid clouds that stretch away like great gleaming bars of bronze and gold. A bold man, a brave man, a courageous man, a cultured man, nature's man.

Inasmuch as the climate of Western Oregon is somewhat tempered with the Japanese 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 more or less of those who find the winters too severe in Eastern Oregon and they will, therefore, spend the winter in Western Oregon. Besides there will be a tendency to seek this resort for those who are troubled with pulmonary troubles. Moreover in all this healthy valley will be found a great number of imported pulmonary cases—cases that would be fatal without notice in Eastern Oregon. Hence chronic ailments will commonly be found in this great hospital for the afflicted. Look not, therefore, for those rugged sayings in the literature of Western Oregon that you might expect to find in the literature of Eastern Oregon.

In Western Oregon there is much acid, little lime; much fruit, yet little to neutralize it; the teeth decay early, and there is but little bone material. In Eastern Oregon there is less fruit and more lime or bone-making material; hence, the generations growing there will develop larger bones and frames. They will be bigger, consequently more rugged. The people of Western Oregon will be constructed on a frame-work of smaller bones; they will, therefore, possess a more delicate nature—fine physique true enough, but they 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 whole-souled air in the literature of Eastern Oregon somewhat after the Dryden type, while finish and fine feeling of the Pope style will characterize the literature of Western Oregon.


The college influence must not be overlooked in the study of literature. We are told that our national literature thrived only as the colleges of the nation prospered. The great literature of our country is but the confluence of streams flowing out of the fountain heads, Harvard, Yale, William and Mary, and other great colleges of the nation. So in our state there was the Oregon academy which gradually developed into the University of Oregon at Eugene, whence came the noted Joaquin Miller. He may have written in the Sierras and sung of their grandeur; he may have bowed to the muses in the East; his soul may have been mellowed with the sentiments of the vine-clad Italy, yet he is an Oregon poet,—simply a child away from home.

Pacific University, like Jupiter who conceived Minerva full grown and complete, sent out as her first graduate Harvey W. Scott, who is recognized throughout the nation as a distinguished journalist and critic.

History tells us that Washington Irving was the first embassador 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, is a graduate of Bethel college.

St. Mary's academy graduated Mrs. Irene Colbraith, of McMinnville, whose poetical contributions have been sought by many of the best magazines of our country.

Philomath college, in 1869, sent out Rev. Louis A. Banks, who has written a score of volumes, occupied some of the wealthiest pulpits in the Methodist Episcopal church, and who writes books that are sought after by certain classes next to the writing of Talmage and Moody.

Willamette University gave to the literary world the late Samuel L. Simpson, already mentioned as the author of "The Beautiful Willamette;" and all of our other colleges have contributed their share to the literature of our state.


Along with these must not be forgotten the influence of the largest institution that has been organized within our borders—The Willamette Chautauqua Association of Gladstone Park. This college of liberal arts has already imported more light from the East, brought out more talent in the West, and given instruction 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 our state.


The pioneers well remember the time when the newspaper came in the semi-annual mail and was ravenously devoured. They wanted to know about the old folks at home, then afterwards came the war and other national topics of importance. Harper's, Leslie's, and the more expensive current literature, found their way into many of the more prosperous homes. A taste for literature and the news was being awakened so that in a short time the newspapers began to multiply; the monthlies became weeklies; the weeklies, semi-weeklies; the semi-weeklies dailies; and, if there are to be many victories such as Dewey's, the people will rise up en masse and demand an hourly bulletin. The thirst for news and information on national questions will ever serve as a tonic to create a desire for abundant reading, hence will produce a better market for literature.

It is true we have not published many magazines; but it is not for want of talent, or scenery, or demand; we have simply not had the time and we could get it done cheaper in the East than we could hire it done in the West. But every one remembers the "West Shore" whose pen was dipped in poetry and whose brush was colored with the tints of the rainbow; how it visited our homes and how eagerly it was sought by thousands of readers throughout the nation. Among the greater journalists whom many of us have read since we were children are H. W. Scott, the critic and editor of the Oregonian; L. Samuels, of the West Shore; Mrs. A. S. Duniway, champion of women's rights; the trenchant Thomas B. Merry; and then there were James O'Meara, A. Bush, W. L. Adams, S. Pennoyer, S. A. Clarke, W. H. Odell, D. W. Craig, A. Noltner, and others, whose number has increased with the tide of immigration and the progress of our country.


But unrest develops character; quiet, talent; and talent, literature. As grand as was the time, and hence the deeds, and memorable the lives, the pioneer days are over. Our homes have been built, farms have been made, the Indian has been tamed, churches have been erected, schools are culturing the young; we have passed through the home-building period and entered into the home and social development era, an era when men—thinking men—will have an opportunity to sit down in the quiet of their homes and reflect. There is already hardly a town or a hamlet in our state that is not the seat of a publishing establishment, preaching the gospel of modern culture and literary progress. And in this connection may be mentioned the Sabbath school


  1. Col. W. G. T'Vault, 1843, first editor of the "Spectator," issued at Oregon City, February 5, 1846, the first paper west of the Missouri River.
  2. Thomas J. Dryer, 1850, founder of the "Oregonian," first issue December 6, 1850, on the corner of Front and Morrison streets.
  3. Asahel Bush, 1851, founder of the "Statesman," Salem, first issue March 21, 1851.
  4. Thornton 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.
  5. Delazon Smith, 1852, founder of the "Democrat," Albany, 1853: one of the first United States senators from Oregon.
Holy Land." Jonathan Edwards' "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, our DeMoss family, our Heritage, our Parvin, our Yoder, and scores of others have published songs, enjoyed and sung from shore to shore, from sea to sea. They had no great lawyers to strengthen their constitution by the wise interpretation 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 highest salary ever paid a cartoonist—was not to be found among men.


To summarize we have among the Oregon books and authors:

POETRY.—Joaquin Miller, Minnie Myrtle Miller, James G. Clark, Ella Higginson, Col. Baker, Mrs. S. Hamilton, Samuel L. Simpson, H. H. Woodward, Lilian Blanche Fearing.

SHORT POEMS OF MERIT.—T. W. Davenport, John Minto.

HISTORY.—W. H. Gray, H. K. Hines, Frances F. Victor, H. O. Lang, F. Rigler and J. Q. Thornton.


ORATORY.—George H. Williams, Col. E. D. Baker, Delazon Smith, United States Senator J. W. Nesmith.

LAW.—W. Lair Hill, L. F. Lane, W. P. Lord, Matthew P. Deady.

JOURNALISM.—Harvey W. Scott, P. S. Knight, Harvey Goddon, L. Samuel, Mrs. A. S. Duniway, Thos. B. Merry, James O'Meara, A. Bush, W. L. Adams, S. Pennoyer, D. W. Craig, S. A. Clarke, Mrs. C. A. Coburn, W. H. Odell.

THEOLOGY.—Dr. T. L. Elliott, Lewis A. Banks.

MATHEMATICS.—Prof. Lilley.

ORTHOGRAPHY.—Dr. Patterson.

MUSIC.—Prof. A. L. Francis, Prof. Yoder, DeMoss family, Prof. R. A. Heritage, Prof. Z. M. Parvin.

ARTIST.—Homer Davenport.

LECTURES.—Dr. Thomas Condon.

PAMPHLETS AND BULLETINS.—Historical, Agricultural, Mining, etc., etc.

Let us notice a few of these authors that have been mentioned so prominently.


What good can come out of Nazareth? has been answered again. From infancy to childhood, and from childhood to the boy preacher of 16, we find him in Oregon. Charles Parkhurst, the great divine and reformer, says of him: "Louis Albert Banks, after leaving Philomath college, commenced to preach the gospel in Washington territory, and many were converted. From 17 to 21, 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 People'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, Immortal Hymns and Their Story, and he is under contract to write three other volumes at the present time.

Dr. Banks' 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' 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 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. Indeed, his style may be defined as the wild flowers of Oregon so delicately transplanted from the mild atmosphere 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 preserving his literary identity in the fast flowing stream of books he is pouring out upon the reading public.


The story of literary greatness is sometimes a strange, but thrilling one. Genius has always its charms. Its language has never yet been fully written, its eloquence never been fully spoken. Schliepmann, uncovering the marble upon which Phidias and his followers carved out immortality for themselves, has wrought more effectually and more wonderfully than have some of the humbler men of genius in these modern days. Upon his canvas of stone, the unknown artist portrays for us Herod's temple with its outer courts and columns and its massive walls. Upon his canvas of immortal vision, all athrill with poetic beauty and inspiration, the obscure genius sometimes portrays pictures of living thought and life—pictures that forever glow in the radiant glory of unfading light.

Thus it is that since the earliest stars in the bright constellation of the western writers began to appear, the reading public have been eagerly scanning each new light conjecturing if perchance it might not be a new planet—a new luminary brighter and more enduring than the mere flash of a passing meteor or the dying spark of a falling star. But those were pioneer times, pioneer manners, and pioneer men—even the infusion from the East grew to be pioneer in strength of body, pioneer in vigor of intellect, and pioneer in passion and fervor of imagination—so that the whole western life came to be that bold, daring, dashing, adventurous life, peculiar to the woodsman, the gold hunter, the Indian fighter, the Pacific coast pioneer. Hence it was but natural that there should arise amidst these wild mountain scenes a genius whose poetry is tropical in its profusion of color, eastern in the glowing heat of its impetuous passion, and western in its sincerity and wildness. Schooled in the lore of the miner's camp, and surrounded by scenes, wild, quaint and curious—the hill, the valley, the mountain gorge, the mighty river, the warm path of the deer, the elk, the panther, the bear, and the savage—poems of nature; exalted with visions of lofty firs, towering forests, and majestic mountains, whose music is softened and sweetened with the rhythm of the gurgling brook and the cadence of sighing boughs and mountain zephyrs—it is not surprising that a genius like Joaquin Miller should suddenly appear and attract attention on account of his strange background, rich coloring, gorgeous descriptions and gigantic scenery. Nature and Burns and Byron and Swinburne were his masters; and he learned from them a certain wild freedom and passion of song that have enriched his poems with truthfulness and an almost cloying sweetness of rhythm and rhyme. Of the latter-day poets whose works have become famous, the new world has produced its full share. Whittier, Bryant, Longfellow,
Holmes, Lowell, and a score of others represent the East, while Bret Harte, Col. Baker, Samuel L. Simpson, Minnie Myrtle Miller, Ella Higginson, and many others have caught and fixed the brightest tints of the western sunset, and sung sweet melodies along the golden shores of the Pacific; but among the first of the Western poets, and superior to them all, is Oregon's adopted son, Joaquin Miller, the subject of this sketch,—he who has said to the world:

"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 a line
Between the two when God has not."

He has attracted more attention and provoked more discussion than any other one of them all. Adverse criticism no less than the praise he has won marks him as a poet of no ordinary talent, and insures him a lasting place in literature. Today he can truly say to those who derided his earliest efforts, as Joseph said to his brethren, "Ye thought evil of me, but God meant it for good." They had sold Joseph into slavery, but when they were hungry, he gave them bread, and they were reconciled unto each other; the poet, like Joseph, has given his brethren bread when they were hungry. Will they not be reconciled unto him? While traveling in California, recently, I 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 communion with nature. The drive from East 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 forcibly suggested the early settlement of the coast. Although only 3 o'clock in the afternoon, he had retired to rest, but received us most graciously without rising. I was invited to a seat on the bed at his feet, while my wife occupied the only chair in the room. Here was a man who had received the hospitality of the most polished men and women of Europe, a man who had been a welcome guest in the most magnificent dwellings in the old world, a man whose attainments 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 surroundings 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 received from distinguished literary persons. And, last, we were shown the photograph of an Indian maiden, daughter of Old John, chief of the Rogue Rivers, whose subjugation in 1856 cost many lives and two million dollars. There were no lamps, candles, or 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 too many books. He declares that men rely too much on books; and that they are valued by the number of books that they 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 rug on the floor is said to be the skin of a faithful steed which carried General Fremont across the plains in 1843. It has been related, though we saw no evidence of it, that he has a hose attached to a pipe from a spring above the house in such a manner that he can cause the water to fall in a shower on the roof when he wants to write. If this be true, it must be intended as a compliment to Oregon where it rains so much, and where the poet's boyhood days were spent. 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, walls and ceiling, disappear; and we stand with bared brows beneath the broad canopy above, while our ears are filled with the murmuring of gurgling streams whose surface gives back 10 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 so the transition was 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 distaff 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?

On our return home Hon. George A. Waggoner, an old schoolmate and friend of the poet, handed me a sketch published in a Corvallis paper ten years ago. In this, Mr. Waggoner, who has written a volume that may yet add luster to Oregon lore, speaks so beautifully and kindly of Joaquin Miller as known among his associates before he attempted to write, that we obtained permission to insert the following extract:

"The first man I met among the fevered crowd was Oregon's poet—my old schoolmate—Joaquin Miller. His blue eyes 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 mountains, swollen rivers, and facing hostile Indians. When snow fell fifteen feet deep on the 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 the 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 messages from home. One day he was found in defence 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. He is of earth's first blood, but has seen a life of sorrow and disappointment. He has struggled with poverty and unfavorable circumstances, yet through all he has been true to his own land. He has wooed his muse, and tuned his lyre across the great waters; but he sang of his boyhood scenes, of the Pacific coast, its great rivers, mountains, and men, and has been true to them all. He poetized the grandeur of our land so nobly as to electrify all Europe, the swelling notes of his praise echoing and reechoing until they have reached our ears from across the Atlantic."

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 only the cream 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.

England insists on placing Joaquin Miller in the front rank of living American poets. But Joaquin Miller's life and lines can never be fully understood and appreciated 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 undoubted genius, or she could appear in high social circles with a queenly grace and there entertain the rich and the princely.


Is there something about poetic talent that renders its possessor unhappy? Is the gift fatal to the fullest enjoyment of life? Does its fervid warmth destroy the shrine whereon its fires burn, or its smallest spark scar the breast which holds it? These are questions often asked, and the lives of our poets have furnished evidence contradictory in the extreme. Those who have become intimately acquainted with many of them often pause in reading their inspiring strains to muse sadly over the wrecked hopes, and unhappy lives of those who have tuned to rhythm and set to melody the hearts of all the peoples of earth.

We candidly confess our inability at this time to summon sufficient testimony to decide these questions, but would suggest that should their affirmative be established then must the world feel additional gratitude to its songsters, to those who have followed the bent of their genius in striving to elevate and ennoble mankind while destroying their own share of its happiness. Although it may be difficult to disprove the theory somewhat prevalent that poets are restless, irritable and unhappy in their social relations with their fellows, yet it is so adverse to the generally acknowledged beneficence of the laws of nature which must control the endowment of mental powers and attributes
as well as physical organization and development, that we incline to the belief that poetic talents no more than those which enrich the fields of science, literature and art should contain an inherent tendency to render their possessor unhappy. All pioneers, in whatever line of thought or action their labors may lie, must feel at times a sense of loneliness and isolation, akin to that felt by one who has been selected for his peculiar fitness to go into a strange land to mark the way for the coming multitude. We cannot but imagine that though his journey by day and his campfires by night do not bring him the pleasure of social companionship, he has abundant joy and the keenest delight in the thought that ere long a joyous crowd shall come along his path hailing with pleasure the landmarks he has made for guidance in their journey through a beautiful and virgin land. May not the bright blaze of his campfire reveal a face beaming with pleasure and fall upon a breast swelling with pride as he reflects that he has marked a way over the sunniest slope and greenest meadows, and left hints where the multitude when weary may rest and refresh themselves in the most enchanting vales beside rippling streams? But it maybe readily understood it is a source of unhappiness for one to feel the possession of talents whose cultivation is calculated to benefit mankind and leave an enduring name, and yet to be so environed by circumstances as to render such cultivation impossible. The cry of the poor caged starling, "I can't get out," is echoed by many a talented mind when its possessor is surrounded by poverty and other circumstances unfavorable to mental development.

We know of no one whose life's history more forcibly illustrates this 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 combat, when every home in the land was shocked by the clash of arms and the tramp of mustering steeds—she 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.

Her 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 neighboring weekly papers. Her future husband, Cincinnatus 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 appreciative 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 womanhood. Their first meeting sealed their fate. After seven years of married life they were separated, Joaquin going 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 some rude shock broke the bonds which love had tied, or ardent love was slowly crushed to death by the attrition 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 with 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—hurrid to battle
With fates—yet I fain would be
Vanquished and silenced forever
And driven back to my sea.
Oh! to leave this strife, this turmoil,
Leave all undone and skim
Wth the clouds that flee to the hill tops
And rest forever with Him."

Gems of Oregon.


Copyright 1889, by Wiley B. Allen.

Wild flower of Oregon,
Loved by each native son,
Of thee we sing.
Emblem of hope and pride,
Along the mountain-side,
Down to the ocean's tide,
We praises bring.

From cascades to dell,
Where birds in echo swell,
Their songs so free,
Where rolls the Oregon,
By love's sweet labor won,
From morn to setting sun,
We sing of thee.

From Hood's prophetic crest,
Throughout the golden West,
In every bower,
Columbia's breeze has blown,
Sweet yellow petals grown,
"Wild grape of Oregon,"
Our emblem flower.

—Ena M. White.

  • The Oregon grape is the Oregon state flower. The marguerite is the emblem of the Oregon Native Sons.


Miss Leona Smith says: "Poetry and Song," written by James G. Clark, 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 throng's
And can feel the touch of hands
Reaching out from angel bands."

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 light 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."

"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.


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 all analysis, yet we believe he was correct in his opinion. 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, wrought out a theme, and then wrote the book with her Bible on her knee. The poem is probably the longest religious epic written in Oregon. The peculiar nature of the subject and lengthy treatment given it has destined the poem to resemble the "Paradise Lost" in the fact that its number of admirers will excel 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 awful facts, and exhibits a devotional spirit directed by that wisdom that comes from philosophy and interpretation; her poems are therefore intellectual. She rarely alludes to nature, but, if she were 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 beautiful? This would still be poetical. But when she begins to analyze their aroma 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. Hence, at times the poem becomes somwhat metaphysical, and consequently appreciated by those who read it more as food for the mind than as food for the heart.

The poem which contains about 1,500 lines is divided into three books, the first of which pursues the following argument:

BOOK I.—There is one God of whom mind is an offspring through division; Wisdom and Death are personified; man represents the evil nature ajid woman a nature that was "slain" by her faith in the Word of God, while Adam of the Covenant fills the figure of Christ, who, as the Voice of God, is the Bow of the Conqueror. As the Forbidden Tree is the sword of the Divider, the records of the Heavenly Garden are of knowledge of which Israel is an allegory, and the visions of St. John, revelations. The first description is of the rise and fall of the first Kingdom of Knowledge, a house that was built on the sand.
BOOK II.—This is a description of the second Kingdom of Knowledge, where man by eating the Forbidden Fruit, awakes from spiritual death, recalls his knowledge of the past, and is born a living soul. The seven angels with the seven trumpets aresymbols of the curses under which man fell and his resurrection.

BOOK III.—Adam, the Temple of the Voice, of which Christ is the finished work, is measured into years from Eden to Calvary; Christ is the figure of the two witnesses of God. The generations of Wisdom are recalled as visions. Mystery is spiritual night, to which the presence of God is the corresponding day. The image of the spoken word preserves a knowledge of the light while darkness reigns. In Adam the generations of knowledge are perpetual, who is of Wisdom the first, and last, the beginning and the end. May the conditions of man always meet the demands of knowledge.


In speaking of Mrs. Ella Higginson, the "Oregonian" recently said:

"Mrs. Higginson is a typical American woman, a very interesting conversationalist, and she has achieved brilliant success as an author of both prose and poetry. She has taken several first prizes for stories, the last being the McClure prize of $500. The products of her pen are eagerly sought by Eastern publishers, and are now issued by the McMillans. Her latest books are 'The Flower That Grew in the Sand,' 'From the Land of the Snowpearls,' and 'A Forest Orchid,' and she will soon have ready a new book of poems entitled 'When the Birds Go North Again.'"

Mrs. Higginson began her literary career in Oregon, wrote her first story for the Oregon Vidette, in Portland, in 1879. She passed her girlhood in LaGrande and Oregon City, and has many pleasant memories of those towns, and especially of the inspiring scenery surrounding the well-named Grand Ronde valley. Before marriage she was Miss Ella Rhodes, and her old schoolmates well remember her, and are glad that her literary productions are brightening thousands of homes throughout the land and that her fame is growing.


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"—described 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 sometime in the quiet city of Roseburg she learned of a sleeping infant and left these lines which may be found in her book entitled "The Sleeping World":


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 fiond lip will smile, and say,
"Let him sleep, let him sleep!"

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 undented,

Too fresh from heaven to dream of sin!
"Let him sleep, let him sleep!"

The volume, which contains a score or more of short poems, reveals poetic ideas as well as poetic language; and when you find both in the same selection you are pleased with it and feel like lingering on certain choice passages so as to drink in the full meaning; and, frequently, the reader yields to the inclination to read the entire poem again and again. The authoress exhibits many indications of growth, so that later, we may expect another and a greater volume from her pen.


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 cherry word to every fellow traveler; hence we sit down contentedly under his melodies, little regarding the strain of his song or the march of its music.

In his "Mariner's Life" we read—

"On the raging deep they often see
Humanity's blessings freely poured;
Where the weak to the strong for succor flee,
And pity is oft in a rough bosom stored."

In the "Apostrophe to the Ocean" are these lines,—

"Deep and expansive sea which encircleth
This terrestrial sphere, sublimely
Grand and beautiful; in calmly mood,
Like an infant in placid slumber dreaming."

You will observe a finger pointing heavenward in the following lines,—

"Mortal! remember that life to thee was given
By Him who rules o'er earth and heaven;
The universe was made by His Almighty hand,
And He empowered man to subdue the land."

Elsewhere he says,—

"Where'er we stray, O God, we find,
Some marks of thy Almighty Hand."


Among the great orations of Col. Edward Dickinson Baker were his great Union speech made in Platt hall, San Francisco, while on his way to Washington, as senator-elect from Oregon; his oration on the occasion of celebrating the laying of the Atlantic cable, made in 1853; his oration on the occasion of the death of Broderick. One who heard Col. Baker's oration at Salem on the Fourth of July, 1860, said: "The orator's fame had spread far and near, and when the speaker began the crowd was so vast that fully one-fourth were fortunate in finding standing room; but the eloquence of the speaker was such that in less than twenty minutes all were standing."

The following is selected from his great Union speech, and is especially appropriate in this place:

"Here, then, long years ago, I took my stand by Freedom; and where the feet of my youth were planted, there my manhood and my age shall march. And, for one, I am not ashamed of Freedom. I know her power; I glory in her strength. I have seen her again and again struck down on a hundred chosen fields of battle. I have seen her foes gather around her, and bind her to the stake. I have seen them give her ashes to the winds, regathering them again, 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, therefore, I take courage. The people gather around her once more. The genius of America will at last lead her sons to Freedom."

May we briefly follow him as a poet while he reads a page from the volume of nature? He was probably along the shore near where Golden Gate swings out into the deep, or where Empire City looks out upon the sea, or at Seal Rock, where the Siletz, the Alsea, and the Yaquina Indians met in festivity; or he may have been where the mighty Columbia mingles with that eternity of waters, the Pacific ocean. It was evidently just after the evening twilight, when the dark gray of the night was coming on, and the beautiful stars, "the lovely forget-me-nots of the angels were blossoming in the infinite meadows of heaven." Overhead was the sky as silent as a summer cloud; and 'before him was the sea ever changing, ever heaving, ever restless as in the ages. A wave caught his attention, and he said:—

Dost thiou 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?"

A prophet, scholar and poet—his mind sweeps overt he wrecks of navies and armadas, and visions of battles, where the honor of nations was contested, rise before him; and poet-like, he regards the ocean as a living, breathing, sympathizing creatture, and thus addresses it:

"Hast thou tales to tell of the pearl-lit deep,
Where the wave-whelmed mariner rocks 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!"

But when the poet comes down with his message from the mountain of the ideal into the plain of the real, he regards the land and the sea with the wisdom of a philosopher; so he is reminded that the vast ocean will roll a million of years after the man is gone and forgotten; and he is then surprised—yea, astonished—at himself for having presumed to ask these questions; and conscientious as he is conscious, he hastens to acknowledge—

"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!"

Again the wave demands his attention; it recedes, but is followed by another; by a third; then by a fourth, a fifth, a sixth; and then comes the seventh that overrides them all. This is in turn overwhelmed by another seventh; and so on throughout the days. Like the true poet, he again drinks in a lesson as a thinks of the Napoleons, the Caesars, the Alexanders, that were overwhelmed by some higher wave in the tide of human affairs; and he teaches us the vanity of ambition, and the certainty of death, as he applies the lesson to himself in these words—

"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 gone ere I reach the strand;
For the land I seek is a waveless shore,
And they who once reach it shall wander no more."


Gov. Geo. L. Curry.

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 to-morrow,
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,
To help us in the suffering we endure.
Indeed, to suffer and sustain afflictions
Is the experience which we all acquire;
Our tribulations are 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.


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 blessed example like an angel's touch gently impels heavenward, 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 utterances were entrusted to a youth who wove them into the poetry of men; but often when I have read them, I have been unable to forego the felicity of feeling that they were the words of one whose body was on earth while her soul was already visiting the eternal city.

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 consciousness 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." To me, that sounds like the poetry of angels; and 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!
"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 marching 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.'"


When a great genius is just rising to view, the astonished world says, "Who would have expected it?" So it was said of Homer Davenport who rose out of Silverton 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 a genius. They were glad—so glad they could hardly believe it—yet they were wont to think of him as a sort of intellectual accident emanating from nothingness and springing suddenly into the front ranks of modern artists. But, my friends, Genius comes not in this manner. "Who is this Nast?" was the burning question whispered throughout the world. "Whence came he?" rung down the electric lines of the continents. "How came he by this God-given genius?" was the question of the hour. And the answer came "He is a man from an Oregon hamlet—a child of genius—the evolution of a talented family and favorable environments." His mind is the natural offspring of an ancestry that has given the world great men and women in almost every department of human endeavor; and his mind was early nurtured upon the pictures he beheld in the scenes of Oregon, and he 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 truth and magic into every touch of his wonderful brush. This is Homer Davenport, the greatest cartoonist of America.


The bravest battle that ever was fought!
Shall I tell you where and 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 though,
From mouths of wonderful men!

But deep in the walled-up woman's heart—
Of woman that would not yield,
But brave'y, silently, bore her part
Lo, there is that battle field!

No marshalling troup, no bivouac song,
No banner to gleam or wave;
But oh! these battle 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 oh in the endless wars,
Then silent, unseen, goes down.

Oh, spotless woman in a world of shame;
With splendid and silent scorn,
Go frack to God as white as you came
The kingliest warrior born!

—Joaquin Miller.


But time passes; the watch is set for the night, the council of the old men has broken up, and each has returned 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 bringing 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 confidential interview and have separated for the 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 post 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 character 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 unnecessarily alarmed by timid or inexperienced sentinels, causing much confusion and fright amongst women and children, and it had been made a rule, that all extraordinary 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.

To-night he is at no loss to determine that the approaching party are our missing hunters, and that they 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 to-morrow. But here I leave him, for my task is also done, and, unlike -his, it is to be repeated no more.

—Jesse Applegate.


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 impressive 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; sometimes, marking his progress by the insidious work of consumption; and, at others, assailing his victim in a less doubtful manner. I had seen the guileless infant, with the light of love and innocence upon its face, gradually fade away, like a beautiful cloud upon the 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 school boy with his books and satchel 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 the fixed abodes of busy men, seemed to have in it solemnity that far surpassed all this.

Hon. J. Quinn Thornton, A. M., D. C. L., LL. D.


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 forgotten 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 the 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 animated with unabated zeal for the glory and grandeur of their parent government.

When I contemplate this history, this undying devotion to fatherland, this patriotic love of their native institutions, I know not which most to mend—their implicit confidence in the title of their country to Oregon which they never failed to assert on every proper occasion, and so sure were they that it would be maintained, their patriotic avowal was that the government, they constituted their trusteeship of the territory, 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

{{block center|"Each man made hig own stature, built himself:
Virtue alone outbids the pyramids,

Her monuments shall last when Egypt's fall."

—Elwood Evans.


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 hills 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. Hon. W. Lair Hill.


The seething mass of anxious adventurers was a multitude that no man could number. This burning, insatiable desire to reach California assumed the form of an epidemic. It was not bounded by the Atlantic and western border. This yellow fever prevailed wherever humanity existed. But between them and the gold a great gulf was fixed. The frowning winter, the desolate plains, the utter want of transportation across the unknown, untried wilderness, were all that prevented men, women and children from a stampede that would have depopulated and left vacant and tenantless, the happy homes of America. The ties of home and sweet domestic bliss were now engaged in fierce and deadly conflict with the lion powers of Avarice. The old and the young, the rich and the poor, all were victims of the prevailing malady.

—Hon. F. A. Chenoweth.


The acts of those who preceded us, have doubtless contributed to our edification. Historians, philosophers and antiquarians have devoted ages to the most laborious investigation and research, spreading barrels of ink over tons of paper in their attempts to elucidate incidents, phases and facts which might and ' have been preserved by those whose lives were contemporaneous with the subjects sought to be investigated.

A correct narration of the condition, situation and surroundings of the early settlers of our state will be of interest to those who succeed us. Their mode of life, dress, manners, occupation, state of their manufactories, agricultural and other industries, and all that pertained to their comparatively rude and primitive condition must be of value to their successors in estimating the progress and benefits of civilization.

In the far-off future, when the "New Zealander will sit upon the ruined pier of London bridge/and indulge in antiquarian cogitations relative to the past, it might be convenient for him or some other delver in historic mine, to refer to the archives of the Oregon Pioneer Society to establish the fact that the founders of our state, unlike Romulus and Remus, derived their sustenance from something more respectable than a she wolf.

—U. S. Senator J. W. Nesmith.


Come to the grange with me, love;
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.


In the labors, joys, and cares of the grange, love,
In the shelter and shade of the grove,
Life's duties we'll meet in companionship sweet,
And there rest from our labors in love.


—John Minto.


Turning toward the setting sun, we left Harvard Square; and strolling along a mile of paved streets and modern palaces, reached Elmwood, the birthplace and home of James Russell Lowell, the poet. A promenade along the outer, edge of the enclosure, which is marked by a fence half hidden with lilacs and clematis, and we enter the old-fashioned gate, where we obtain the first full view of the historic mansion. On our right and on our left, everywhere, are trees and shrubs and vines distributed irregularly over a closely shaven lawn that skirts away as far as the eye can see through the dense foliage.

And it is all precious to us. These plants have yielded their flowers which the mother plucked and fondly arranged for the boy's study. This widespreading elm was set out by the elder Lowell; that acacia, by Agassiz, who loved it; that spruce by an admiring prince; and that chestnut was planted and fostered by the poet; and so on through the gardener's inventory. All these were placed here for the poet, and he was ours; hence they are ours also, and we love to linger among them.

The mansion, which is a structure of colonial times, stands before us as a mute witness of the generations of patriotic fathers and mothers and children who have grown older and wiser and better under its sheltering roof, and then in their turn solemnly and silently passed away. It was built in 1760, and has ever since "been the home of American nobility, and its memories are dear to our people. Did I say, the home of American nobility since 1760? No; yes. This patriotic family gave Elmwood over to the government in 1775, and it was used during revolutionary times as an American hospital, it is true; but it was still the home
of American nobility. Nations have perished in a day, but the family tree of the Lowells, planted in colonial times, survived the revolutionary period, flourished in the national age of the republic, and made Elmwood a noted home of classical poetry, and patriotic song.

Why should not this be a home of patriotism and poetry, since everything around and about it indicates that Cambridge is the great school of patriotism and poetry? We have just passed the Charles on whose banks stands the steepled church that signaled the midnight ride of Paul Revere; undei yonder elm, Washington took command of the American forces; there are the cemeteries peopled with the good and the great who died for freedom; beyond is the home of Longfellow, the father of American literature; and a thousand other influences among which is Harvard, the first university of America all historic, all patriotic all poetic.

In response to a stroke or two of the old-fashioned knocker, the door swings open. A glance within reveals the library, the desk, the tobacco knife, the pipe, and such other things as were common in the homes of the Eastern poets. Paintings, mirrors, statuary and souvenirs from representative men and countries of both continents adorn the rooms and halls of the palace. All the appointments are such as would especially administer to the comfort and pleasure of a plain old man, who, as a polished scholar, had won distinction in the universities of New England; who, as a gifted poet, evolved themes that rank among the classics of the age; and who, as a citizen, has been honored in every quarter of the globe; and yet was so simple in the habits of his life that when he became weary at the end of his journey, he tarried at the foot of the hill, and chose for his last resting place a spot in the shade of an elm, where now stands an only slab—the plainest in all the great cemetery.

The home was like the man; for what the home was in the world of nature and art, Lowell was in the world of poetry and critical study. It has become a part of his own life; therefore everything has been held sacred and left undisturbed, that we may know more of the poet, the better understand his art, and come closer to the man. No one need have told us this, for it is one of the things the visitor feels without knowing why. We are interested in all that we see, become engaged in this and that particular object, forget something that has taken place, and then heedlessly cast about thinking that he has just completed "The Vision of Sir Launfal" or some other classic, laid aside his pen, and stepped out. And we take up the lap desk seemingly fresh from his fingers; and the conversation glides on while we linger a little longer, unconsciously awaiting him to step in again. Thus the visit moves along until a late hour, when, in the absence of the poet, we are given the parting hand of his grandson; and we take a farewell glance at the home of the most cultured American that has graced the court of Saint James.



Say, I'm lonesome, awful lonesome now,
Since my chum, goiod chum Bub is gone.
There's no more rompin' in the mow,
An', no more playin' 'cept by me alone.
I wisht you'd tell me: tell me do,
Where's my chum, good chum Bub Karaboo.

Oh! I an' Bub did have sich times,
In the ode smimmin' hole 'neath the maple tree,
Where the white-tailed yaller-hammer sung his chimes,
An' sweet htoneysucklea were sipped by the bee.
Such friends, good friends you bet are few,
As was me an' my chum, Bub Karaboo.

In the ole milk-house where the spring bubbled up,
An' the weepin' wilier switches hung down low,
We'd slip in easy, the sweet cream sup,
Then pocket some cheese an' out we'd go.
But say, whore's Bub? You know, don't you,
My chum, good chum, Bub Karaboo?

We drove the milch cows up the lane,
When the sun went down behind the hill.
We gathered the eggs for sister Jane,
An' carried the shucked corn to the mill.
But it's all done now, an' I wigh't I knew
Where's my chum, go>od chum Bub Karaboo.

But somethin' took hold uv Bub one day,
He'd caught somethin' sickly, so people said,
On the gate uv his house just over the way,
Wus hung a flag all shinin' an' red.
Say, what was the trouble an' why'd this they do,
For I couldn't see good chum Bub Karaboo?

One day a lot uv carriages to Bub's house went,
An' soon filed away kinder solem an' slow.
In the lead uv the line, as on sorrow bent,
Four blacks pulled a carriage; and there were people with heads bowed low.
I didn't see Bub when they passed, did you?
So where was he anyway, Bub Karaboo?

They lined to the graveyard on the hill,
Where they lingered fer an hour or two,
Then the blacks came back with a hum an' a buzz,
I thought they was bringin' back Bub Karaboo.
But they wasn't. So tell me, what did they do
With my chum, good chum Bub Karaboo?

—Dennis H. Stovall.


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 the 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 missionaries 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 completed it.

They had organized the provisional government in 1842-4, on the American plan of equal rights and and equal justice to every citizen, and had included all as citizens who were so held under state and national laws. They 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 standing 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.

—Rev. G. H. Atkinson.


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 danger, 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 Pioneers."

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 schoolhouse takes the place of the Indian "Wickeyup,"
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 Pioneers."

—E. S. McComas.


(As sung by the DeMoss family, official song-writers of the World's Columbian Exposition, Chicago, U. S. A., 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.


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 blest song;
Oh! Oregon, my home.

—Henry S. DeMoss.


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 evolution 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 consecrated 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 milestone to milestone, set by grief or joy, it was the ever-cheering voice of Israel's songs that drowned all sorrow 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 advancing 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 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 concentrated itself in the opposition to Jewish freedom, honestly won in the last 2000 years. But this, too, will succumb, 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 watchtowers 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 summoning 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."

—Rabbi Bloch.


'Extract from an editorial upon the threatened war with Chili.)

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 pursuits 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 millions 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 another, in regular succession, in all civilized and savage nations, as one wave follows another over the ocean. * * * The United 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 desolated the earth in all ages, is not dead but only slumbering in our people. We have already had several wars during our brief national existence and may have many more. The people worship warriors great fighters for 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 president 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.

—Hon. Harrison R. Kincaid.


The ruddy rose, amid the thorns
And leaflets green which she adorns;
Sustains her charms, 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.

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


The gold that with the sunlight lies
In bursting heaps at dawn,
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;
But the gold was red with the dead man's blood,
The silver black with groans;
And when he died he moaned aloud,
"They'll make no pocket in my shroud."

—Joaquin Miller.


There is an old poetic land
Of purple vales and violet heights,
Where sculptors wrought and marble breathed
And thought took wildest, widest flights,—
A sea-girt land whose crystal airs
Intoxicated unawares,
Where mountain peaks fenced out the world
And lonely tribes immortal grew,
Where freedom kissed the budding soul
And let the light of genius through.
O land of Greece! O land of art!
One picture of a race confined
To God and nature, till it snatched
Joy and despair for all mankind.
Along the fair Pacific slope
A chain of sea-kissed, sun-kissed lands—
Green orchards bend with endless bloom,
Bright rivers roll o'er golden sands;
Like sentinels the white peaks rise
That guard this new-world paradise;
Deep in her valleys genius waits
To nurse awhile her tropic bloom
That yet shall burst and bear abroad
Immortal cycles of perfume;
Sierra's heights, Willamette's vales,
Thy inland seas and southland sun
As fairer yet shall yet surpass
Old Delphi's fount and Helicon.

—Eva Emery Dye.


The judge whose judicial action is influenced by fear, adds official delinquency to his miserable
cowardice. The post of duty should not be introduced to the craven-hearted. A judge who is intimidated from doing his duty by the outcries of the mob, or the censure of public opinion, or the unjust criticisms of the press, betrays his trust and fouls the fountains of justice. Our courts are the sanctuaries of our liberties; their judges are the guardians of our lives, our fortunes, and our honor. They must have the courage of their convictions, and register their decrees unawed by the hand of power, uninfluenced by the voice of popular clamor, and unintimidated by the threats of political vengeance. They must stand as immovable as a rock in the sea, amid the rush and roar of contending passions.

—W. P. Lord, Governor.


Orators have extolled the spirit of adventure characteristic of our Anglo-Saxon stock; a spirit which led men, like those, to hew their way through a perilous, toilsome pilgrimage to this summer land of the sun-down seas. But many were the women, daily companions of these men of valor, with lives equal to theirs in rectitude and energy, whose names, as yet, have found no place in song or story, who did their part as well as any man; and their memory remains today enshrined only in the hearts of rustic neighbors, or of their descendants who knew and loved them in their obscurity.

—Mrs. Abigail Scott Duniway.


"I never knew so fine a population, as a whole community, 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."

—Peter H. Burnett.


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 habiliments of spring; in her tender, strong, but gracious reproduction of everything 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 attractive by the shrill notes of nature's sweet songsters. Spring, in all her beauty, like hope in its innocent fullness, 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, with 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.

—Governor S. F. Chadwick.


The links in the chain of personal friendship will again be brightened by those of us who long ago, in poverty and obscurity, shared the common toils and dangers incident to the reclaiming of the wilderness from the dominion of the savages and wild beasts, causing it to "bud and blossom as the rose." Those of us who have passed the meridian of life can hardly realize the changes that have taken place under our observation since the hopeful days of our young and vigorous manhood. We have witnessed the invasion of the solitude of the forests by civilization. We have seen what we used to know from our school geographies as "the great American desert," stretching away nearly 2,000 miles west from the borders of the old republic to the Pacific, dotted all over with cities, towns and rich productive farms. The domestic cattle of the herdsman now graze upon the thousand hills over which we once saw the bison and wolf roaming. Great marts of trade have arisen upon spots that it only seems to us like yesterday were inhabited by hostile savages and wild beasts. Agricultural and mechanical industries have sought out beauti- ful and remote places, which we recollect as many days' travel from the nearest settler's cabin. Com- merce, in its ceaseless activity, not content with vexing all our rivers with the steamer's prow, has sought out the remote valleys, and sent the iron horse to disturb with his resounding scream, sol- itude which had existed since the hour of creation.

—U. S. Senator J. W. Nesmith.


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 grate- ful posterity. Your early settlement of this coun- try and the many dangers and difficulties you have encountered will outlive the English language.

—Colonel John Kelsay.


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 country what his ancestors had done for savage England centuries 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 millions then unborn, and the law of Magna Charta and Westminster Hall be the bulwark of liberty and the buttress of order for generations to come.

—Matthew P. Deady.


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 threshing 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 now."

—Mrs. Harriet K. M'Arthur.


The following extract was taken from Binger Hermann's address upon "The Life and Character of the Hon. Charles Crisp, late Speaker of the House of Representatives:"

"Like the spire on some lofty cathedral seen at close view, when neither its true height nor its majestic proportions 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 exposed 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 that 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 to-day; for thee there may be no to-morrow." 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 heavens?"


(The following is the closing of an account of the "Ascent of Mount Hood made by Rev. H. K. Hines, D. D., in July 1866. 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' 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 river-flow which cleft mountain 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 the 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 sunward 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 footsteps 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 the plains. South, another hundred miles, over the deep chasms of rivers, and the dread blackness of vast lava-piles frozen into rock by the winter of ages, Diamond Peak seems almost a rival to the mountain on which I stand. Eastward, in the foreground, sweep far away the golden plains of the Des Chutes, John Day and Umatilla rivers, enframed within the piney crests of the great Blue Mountain range, a hundred and fifty miles distant. On the west the evergreen summits of the Coast range cut clear against the blue sky, with the Willamette valley, unsurpassed MI 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 towards the ocean, which I see blending with the blue of the horizon through the broad vista between the lofty capes that sentinel its entrance to the sea, an hundred and fifty miles away. Within 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 unutterable magnificence.

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 solitudes seem ever flowing up to His Throne.


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 the necessity and benefits of schools. The schools are a power for good. Whatever a citizen can do to aid popular education, aids the development of the community in which he lives; aids it materially as well as spiritually.

I would beg leave to state that the moral and intellectual welfare, that the material welfare of this mighty nation is in the hands of the school teachers—is dependent 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, aesthetics 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.

—Prof. B. J. Hawthorne.


(Extract from address delivered upon the 100th anniversary of Washington's inauguration as president of the United States).

We live in a land of promise and beauty. Our state is on the threshold of a great career. We are rapidly increasing in population, wealth and power. Our thoughts stretch away in wonder at what Oregon will be when this celebration is repeated at the end of another hundred years. Nothing is necessary to stimulate the material progress of our state, but eternal vigilance is the price of moral character. Our fields may excel in the fruits of the earth, our mountains unbosom their mineral riches, our commerce bring the wealth of foreign lands to our shores; but all these will be as dross if they pour their treasures into the lap of a debauched and degraded people. Oregon, with all its advantages, may aspire to stand in moral comparison among her sister states, as Mount Hood stands among the other mountains, robed in whiteness and purity. To put our young state upon this eminence should be the great ambition of our people. Let us labor to this end. Let the rich man give his money, the intellectual man his learning, and all others their influence, to build up our state upon the solid foundations of intelligence and virtue. Money and merchandise are transient and perishable; but this is something that moth and rust cannot corrupt, nor thieves break through and steal. Let us do our full duty in this respect, and future generations will be as grateful to us as we are to Washington and his compeers, and
when we are gone we shall live on in our influence, and our good works will smell sweet and blossom in the dust.

On the banks of the Potomac, in the City of Washington, stands a monument to the memory of him who has been affectionately called the father of his country. Towering above the dome of the capitol, the highest of all human structures, it represents the gratitude of a great nation, and the grandeur of a great life. Every state has a stone in that monument, indicative of its hope and faith in the Federal Union, and every stone symbolizes a prayer that our republic may withstand sectional and party strife as this majestic pile of marble withstands the storm-clouds that break upon the summit. To us and to all posterity, this monument makes a sublime appeal always to bear in mind that the only way that our nation can be preserved is to transfuse into its life the patriotism and purity that graced the life of Washington.

—George H. Williams, ex-Attorney General, U. S. A.


The literature of the past has been the heavy substantial foundation material to be used as the basis for the literature of the incoming century, the noble superstructure of the coming ages. With the light of the past fifty years beaming upon us we can see how the literature of the pioneer will give strength and support to the literature of the future. Then, along with other influences, we shall draw from Grecian art, Italian music, German tenderness, ness, Spanish passion, Yankee shrewdness, French vivacity, Irish wit, English sense, Indian courage, and Oregon dreams and visions; and Oregon literature will rank as American literature, which is English literature under a different sky.

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 home, 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 Minnchahas, our Niagaras, our mountain chains, wonderful caves, and delightful scenes awaiting the touch of the pen and the brush of the artist and the poet. And while there has been enough suffering and privation already endured in the history of our state 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.