← catalogue

Memoirs of Orange Jacobs

by Orange Jacobs · English · Gutenberg #35992 · 409,118 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Memoirs of Orange Jacobs
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: Memoirs of Orange Jacobs

Author: Orange Jacobs


        
Release date: April 29, 2011 [eBook #35992]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/35992

Credits: Produced by David E. Brown, Bryan Ness and the Online
        Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
        book was produced from scanned images of public domain
        material from the Google Print project.)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MEMOIRS OF ORANGE JACOBS ***




Produced by David E. Brown, Bryan Ness and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
book was produced from scanned images of public domain
material from the Google Print project.)









  [Illustration: O. Jacobs]




  _MEMOIRS
  OF
  ORANGE JACOBS_

  WRITTEN BY HIMSELF

  _CONTAINING MANY INTERESTING, AMUSING AND INSTRUCTIVE
  INCIDENTS OF A LIFE OF EIGHTY YEARS OR MORE,
  FIFTY-SIX YEARS OF WHICH WERE SPENT IN
  OREGON AND WASHINGTON._

  SEATTLE, WASH.
  LOWMAN & HANFORD CO.
  1908




DEDICATION.


To the Pioneers of the State of Washington, whose privations nobly
borne, whose heroic labors timely performed, and whose patriotic
devotion to the Republic, gave Washington as a star of constantly
increasing brilliancy to the Union--this book is gratefully dedicated.




CONTENTS.


     I. My Autobiography.

    II. Incidents in crossing the Plains in 1852.

   III. Pen sketches of events, amusing, interesting and
        instructive of a Pioneer's life on the Pacific
        Coast, extending over fifty-six years.

    IV. Indian civilization, its true methods, its difficulties.

     V. Indian customs, legends, logic and philosophy of life.

    VI. Religion and reasons for some fundamental doctrines.

   VII. Official life and some incidents connected therewith.

  VIII. Game animals and birds of the State of Washington.

    IX. A few public addresses delivered by me.

     X. The result of Pioneer patriotism and energy.




Introduction


I have often been requested by my friends to write a sketch book,
containing, first, my autobiography, with some of the incidents of a
life already numbering eighty years and more; secondly, some of the
addresses and papers made by me as a private citizen or public official;
and, thirdly, some of the impressions, solemn, ludicrous and otherwise,
made upon me in my contact with all the forms of the _genus homo_,
principally on the Pacific Coast, where I have resided since 1852--in
Oregon for seventeen years; in Seattle, Washington, thirty-eight years,
plus the dimming future.

I have finally concluded to undertake the delicate task. If it is ever
completed and printed, I fondly hope its readers, if any, may be
interested, if not instructed, by these extracts from a long experience
of contact and conflict with the world.

I say "conflict," because every true life is a battle for financial
independence, social position and the general approval of one's
fellow-men.

If an autobiography could be completed by an accurate and simple
statement of facts, such as one's birth, education and the prominent and
distinguishing events or acts of one's career, it would be a
comparatively easy task. But, even then, too great modesty might incline
to dim the lustre of the paramount facts, or to narrow their
beneficence; while a dominating egotism might overstate their merits
and extent, and exaggerate their beneficial results. Both of these are
to be avoided. But where is the man so calm, so dispassionate and
discriminating as to avoid the engulfing breakers on either hand? If
there could be an impartial statement of the facts I have suggested,
still they would be but a veil encompassing the real man. The true man
would but dimly appear by implication. Character, that invisible entity,
like the soul, constitutes the true man. Any biography that does not
develop the traits, the qualities, of this invisible entity is of no
value. Character is complex and compound. It consists of those
tendencies, inclinations, bents and impulses which come down through the
line of descent and become an integral part of the man, and are
therefore constitutional. These are enlarged and strengthened, or curbed
and diminished or modified, by education, environment and religious
belief. Education possesses no creative power. It acts only on the
faculties God has given. It draws them out, enlarges and strengthens
them--increases their scope and power--and gives them greater breadth
and deeper penetration. By education I do not mean the knowledge derived
from books alone, for Nature is a great teacher and educator. The
continuous woods, the sunless canyon, the ascending ridges and mountain
peaks, as well as the sunlit and flower-bestrewn dells and valleys--in
fact all of the beautiful and variegated scenes in Nature--possess an
educational force and power very much, in my judgment, underestimated.
Man's emotional nature is enlarged--his taste for the beautiful
quickened--and his love for the grand and sublime broadened and deepened
by frequent intercourse with Nature. Byron felt this when he wrote

  "There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
    There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
  There is society, where none intrudes,
    By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
    I love not man the less, but Nature more,
  From these, our interviews, in which I steal
    From all I may be, or have been before,
  To mingle with the Universe, and feel
    What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal."

I have mentioned environment above. It is not only a restraining and
quasi-licensing, but also an educational force. There are, I fear, in
every community, especially on the Pacific Coast, many young persons,
who, lacking in fixed moral principles and habits of life like the
sensitive and impressionable chameleon, assuming the color of the bark
on the tree which for a time is its home--take on the moral coloring of
the society in which they move, and become for a time, at least, an
embodiment of its moral tone. But let the conditions change--let such
persons migrate and become residents of a society of darker moral hue
and of lower moral tone--and, like the chameleon, they almost
immediately take on the darkened coloring and echo the lower tone. If it
is their nature to command, they become leaders in a career of
associated viciousness or infamously distinguished in the line of
individual criminality. The general result is, however, that having
broken loose from their moral moorings, they drift as hopeless,
purposeless wrecks on the sea of life.

During my residence on the Pacific Coast I have known many sad instances
of this degeneration, and our own beautiful and prosperous city has not
been free from such sad examples. It is a true, if not an inspired
saying that "evil communications corrupt good manners." It is more
emphatically true that evil associations corrupt good morals, which was
probably the meaning intended by the translators.

I have mentioned religious belief as an element in the formation of
character. The doctrine of no religious teacher has ever exercised such
a dominating and controlling force in the formation of character in the
civilized world, as have the doctrines of Christ. Before His advent the
learned world received the philosophy of Aristotle, as a sufficient
basis of moral doctrine and civic virtue. But that philosophy, great as
it was, and impinging as it often did on the domain of absolute truth,
has as a system of moral conduct, given way or been subordinated to the
clear, direct yet simple enunciation of Christ, summed up in that grand
and universally applicable rule of individual and civil conduct: "Do
unto others as you would have others do unto you." A character in which
this doctrine forms the basis will always respond to the demands of
honor and right.

These observations must answer as a preface, or, as Horace Greely once
styled such performances, as "preliminary egotism."




Autobiography


I was born in the Genesee Valley, Livingstone County, State of New York,
on the second day of May, A. D. 1827. I was number two of a family of
eight children,--six boys and two girls. My mother, while not in the
popular sense an educated woman, having but a common-school education,
had, as the philosopher Hobbes termed it, a large amount of "round-about
common-sense." While she gave, as a religious mother, her assent to
Solomon's declaration that he who spares the rod spoils the child, it
was only in the most flagrant instances of disobedience that she put the
doctrine in practice. She was firm, consistent, and truthful, indulging
in no unfulfilled threats or promises of punishment in case of
non-compliance with her orders. In fact, she acted upon the
principle that certainty and not severity of punishment was the
preventative of disobedience. Her all-prevailing governing power was
affection--love,--thus exemplifying the teaching of the Master that "he
who loveth Me keeps My commandments." I say it now, after eighty years
of memory, that we obeyed her because we loved her. She has gone to her
reward. My observation and experience is that the mother's influence
over her sons, if she be a true and affectionate mother, is far stronger
than that of the father. Her love is ever present in the conflict of
life; it remains as an enduring and restraining force against evil, and
a powerful impulse in favor of honor and right. Someone has said that
there are but three words of beauty in the English language: "Mother,
Home, Heaven."

My father owned a farm of forty acres in the Genesee Valley, and I first
saw the light of day in a plain but comfortable frame house. Back of it,
and between two and three rods from it, quietly ran in a narrow channel
a flower-strewn and almost grass-covered spring brook, whose clear and
pure waters, about a foot in depth, were used for domestic and farm
purposes. I mention this brook because connected with it is my first
memory. I fell into that brook one day when I was about three years old,
and would have drowned had it not been for the timely arrival of my
mother. As the years advanced, observation extended, experience
increased and enlarged, and I became a parent myself, I have often
considered how many children would have reached manhood or womanhood's
estate wanting the almost divine affection and ceaseless vigilance of a
mother's love.

The next circumstance in my life distinctly remembered occurred some two
or three months after the water-incident stated above. Running and
romping through the kitchen one day, I tripped and fell, striking my
forehead on the sharp edge of a skillet, making a wound over an inch in
length and cutting to the bone. The profuse flow of blood alarmed me;
but my mother, who was not at all a nervous woman but calm, thoughtful
and resourceful in the presence of difficulties, soon staunched the flow
of blood and drew the bleeding lips of the gaping wound together. The
doctor soon after added his skill; then Nature intervened; and, to use
the stately language of court, the incident, as well as the wound, was
closed.

I have stated these two events not as very important factors in the
history of a life, but because they illustrate the teaching of mental
philosophy, that memory's power of retention and in individual's ability
to recall any particular fact depends upon the intensity of emotion
attending that fact or event. Especially is this true of our youth and
early manhood, when our emotional nature is active, vigorous and strong.
In after years our emotional nature is not so active and not so readily
aroused; still it exists, a latent but potent factor in memory's domain.
Given the requisite intensity, it will still write in indelible
characters the history of events on the tablets of memory.

Memory is of two kinds--local and philosophical. Local memory is the
ability to retain and recall isolated and non-associated facts. The vast
mass of early facts accumulated in memory's store-house rests upon this
emotional principle. As the years increase and the mind matures, other
principles become purveyors for that store-house. The laws of
classification and association become in after years the efficient
agencies of the cultivated mind to furnish the data for reflection and
generalization. The operation of these laws constitutes philosophic
memory. But such facts have no pathos,--no coloring. The recalled facts
of our youthful days have a thrill in them; not always of joy, sometimes
of sorrow. I must, however, dismiss these imperfect thoughts on mental
philosophy, and return to autobiography.

My father, not being satisfied with his forty-acre farm, in the Genesee
Valley, but being desirous of more extended land dominion, and inflamed
with the glowing description of the fertile prairie and wooded plains in
Southern Michigan, made a trip to that territory in the summer of 1831
and purchased in St. Joseph County two tracts of land of 160 acres
each--one being on what was afterwards called Sturgis Prairie; the
other, in what was known as the Burr Oak Openings. St. Joseph County,
now one of the most populous in that great State, then had less than two
hundred people within its large domain. Near the center of the prairie,
which contained five or six sections of land, there were four or five
log houses--the nucleus of a thriving town now existing there. There was
also quite a pretentious block-house, manifesting the existence of the
fear that the perfidious savage,--like the felon wolf,--might at any
time commence the dire work of conflagration and massacre. There were
many Indians in that section of the country. They belonged to the then
numerous and powerful tribe called the Pottawattomies. Southern Michigan
is a level and low country, abounding in small and deep lakes and
sluggish streams. These lakes and streams were literally filled with
edible fish. Deer and wild turkeys, also the prairie chicken, pheasant
and quail, were abundant. Strawberries, cherries, grapes, plums, pawpaws
and crabapples--as well as hazelnuts, hickory nuts, black walnuts and
butternuts--were everywhere in the greatest profusion in the woodlands.
It was a paradise for Indian habitation. I cannot omit from this a
slight digression--the statement that, having lived on the frontier most
of my life and having become acquainted with many Indian tribes, their
habits and customs, they do not, like the tiger, or many white men,
slaughter just for the love of slaughtering, but for food and clothing,
alone; hence, game was always plentiful in an Indian country. The
buffalo, those noble roamers over the plains, and which a century or
less ago, existed in almost countless numbers, have nearly disappeared.
The destructive fury and remorseless cupidity of the white man have done
their work. The indian and the buffalo could and would, judging by the
past, have co-existed forever. Now the doom of annihilation awaits them
both.

In the spring of 1832 we started for our new home in the wilds of
Michigan. Our outfit consisted of a wagon loaded with household goods
and provisions--two yoke of oxen and a brood mare of good stock. We
reached our destination in a little over a month. I say "we" and "our"
because I wish it to be understood that I took my father and mother and
elder brother along with me to our western home, for I thought that they
might be useful there. I distinctly remember but two incidents of that
journey; of not much importance, however, in the veracious history of a
life. I became bankrupt in the loss of a jack-knife that a confiding
friend had given me on the eve of our departure, with which I might
successfully whittle my way through to the land of promise. I was
inconsolable for a time. I had lost my all. My father, to alleviate my
grief, promised me another. So true is it that faith in a promise,
whether human or divine, assuages grief, lifts the darkening cloud, and
often opens up a fountain of joy.

We had to cross Lake Erie on our journey. The not over-palatial floating
palace in which we embarked was struck by a storm. She pitched and
rolled and lurched in the tumbling and foaming waters. The passengers,
save myself and some of the crew, as I was informed, lurched and foamed
at the mouth in unison with the turbulent waves.

I was confined, for fear I might be pitched over-board; but I felt no
inclination to join in the general upheaval. Since that time I have
journeyed much on the lakes and on the ocean, in calm and in storm, but
have ever been immune from that distressing torture.

We arrived at our destination on the first of June. There was no house
or building of any kind on the land purchased by my father. By the
kindly invitation and permission of a Mr. Parker, a pioneer in that
country, we were permitted for the time being, to transform his
wood-shed into a living abode. My father immediately commenced the
cutting and the hauling of logs for a habitation of our own; but before
he had completed the work he was summoned to join forces then moving
westward for the subjugation of Blackhawk and the hostile tribes
confederated under him, who were then waging a ruthless war on the
settlers of Illinois. Any signal success by this wily chieftain, and his
confederate forces might, and probably would, have vastly increased the
area of conflict and conflagration. Indian fidelity as a general rule,
is a very uncertain quantity. There are, I am glad to say, many noble
individual exceptions, but perfidy is the general trait. Vigorous action
was taken by the Government for the subjugation of the hostile tribes
and for the capture of Blackhawk. This was accomplished in the early
summer of 1832.

On the morning after my father's departure I accompanied my mother to a
spring about a quarter of a mile from Mr. Parker's house, where we
obtained water for domestic purposes. Mr. Parker's house was on the
southern edge of the prairie which was fringed by a thick growth of
hazel, sumach, plums, crabapples, wild cherries and fox grapes. This
fringe was narrow and only extended back from two to four rods--beyond
which was the open timber. The trail to the spring was in the open
timber, but close to the inner circle of the copse. Nearing the spring,
we saw, skulking near the outer edge of this thicket fringe, five
Pottawattomie warriors. They seemed to be somewhat agitated and were
intently observing the movements of the white soldiers and listening to
the roll of the drum and the call of the bugle. My mother hesitated at
first, but went on to the spring, and, having filled her pails with
water, we went back with quickened steps to the house. Shortly after,
these warriors came to the house. Mr. Parker, who imperfectly understood
their language, succeeded, however, in explaining to them the meaning of
this martial array, and they left, seemingly well satisfied. We saw them
frequently afterwards and often purchased from them choice venison,
turkey and other game birds, as well as fish, for a mere trifle. But
those were troublous days and full of dire apprehension to the lone
settler. Every night a few, principally old men, would gather at Mr.
Parker's house, and when the door was closed and securely fastened, the
light extinguished, the few men would lay down with their loaded rifles
by their side. The door was not opened in the morning until a careful
reconnoissance had been made through the port-holes, of the surrounding
country. Apprehension has in it as much of terror as actual danger. The
one is continuing--the other but momentary, and the one usually
increases in its fervor, while the other disappears with its cause.

My father returned after an absence of about two months. He won no
military glory--he saw no hostile indians--Blackhawk and his
confederates having surrendered before the hostile country was reached
by the command to which my father belonged.

Peace having been secured and confidence restored, father proceeded
diligently in the erection and completion of a double log house on his
own domain.

I love to think of that old log house with its hewed puncheon floors and
thick oaken doors, where my youth was spent. It was a home of peace, of
comfort, of plenty and prosperity. Its site was a beautiful one on a
knoll near the great military road leading from Detroit to Chicago, and
about midway between those cities. The next spring my father, my older
brother and myself accompanying him, went to the nearby timber land and
got two hundred young sugar maples, black walnuts and butternut trees
that were presently planted in concentric circles around that home
castle. My father did not believe in drilling ornamental trees into rank
and file, like a column of soldiers. He had faith in Nature's beauty and
did not think it could be improved by man. Nature should be subordinated
to man's will only when cultivation becomes an essential element to the
growth, which as a general rule holds only when the tree or plant or
shrub is not indigenous to the soil.

In the fall of that year I was prostrated by a large abscess in the
right groin. I could neither stand on my feet, nor sit in an upright
position. A pallet on the floor, or in some shady nook outdoors when the
weather was propitious, was my favorite, and for most of the time my
lonely, resting place. On the morning of which I am about to write, my
mother was urging my father, as the abscess by its color indicated that
it was ripe for the surgeon's lance, to go for a doctor to examine it
and my condition, and if proper, to open it and let out the long
accumulated poison. The nearest doctor lived some thirty miles away, but
my father, yielding to my mother's persuasions, concluded to go. Before
he had arisen from his seat at the table he requested my brother to
bring in some stove wood. Boy-like, brother piled up such a quantity on
his left arm that he could not see over it, and, bending backward, he
came into the house seemingly oblivious to my location, tripped against
me and fell, striking the end of the wood upon the abscess. Effectually,
but not in a very scientific manner, this opened it. I swooned away, and
it was sometime before consciousness returned to me. As proof of my
brother's surgical skill, a star-shaped scar over an inch in length,
remains today. There were some mitigating circumstances, however, in
this surgical work:--it saved a lonely journey and a large doctor bill.
He received no compensation--but otherwise--for his effective treatment,
and the resultant benefit.

On account of sickness and the want of opportunity, I did not attend
school until I was nine years of age. I had a large number of picture
books containing stories of bears, panthers, lions and tigers. I had to
hire other boys to read them to me, and this kept me in a bankrupt
condition. I was frantic to be able to read them myself, and when
opportunity offered I soon accomplished this purpose.

When I was fourteen years of age the district school was taught by one
Dowling--an Irishman--full six feet in height, a fine specimen of
physical manhood, and an excellent teacher. He was employed by the
Directors not only to teach, but also, if necessary, to subjugate the
rebelious spirit theretofore existing among the larger boys attending
the school. His presence and firm and courteous manner dispelled all
fear of insubordination.

An incident occurred at that school which has remained fresh in my
memory. There was a boy attending by the name of Joe Johnson. In age Joe
was between fifteen and sixteen. He was quiet, meditative, awkward--the
victim of many tricks, the butt of many jokes. One day Dowling ordered
all who could write to turn to their desks and within half an hour to
produce a verse of original poetry, or as near an approach to it as they
were able to go. We had learned that for Dowling to command was for us
to obey. I was sitting next to Joe. After meditating a few moments he
rapidly wrote the following:--

  "I saw the devil flying to the south,
  With Mr. Dowling in his mouth;
  He paused awhile and dropped the fool,
  And left him here to teach a common school."

I looked over Joe's shoulder and read as he wrote, and when he had
completed the verse--oblivious to the conditions--I laughed outright.
Mr. Dowling, with vigorous application of his hazel regulator, soon
restored my reckoning, and indicated my true latitude and longitude. Mr.
Dowling read Joe's poetry to the school, to show the ingratitude of the
pupil to his preceptor; but the matter was otherwise received by the
older pupils, and it was dropped. This incident no doubt revealed to Joe
that he possessed poetic ability of the highest order. Joe, after he had
arrived at manhood's estate, published a small volume of poems full of
wit, beauty of description, and pleasing satire.

I attended the district school in the winter and worked on the farm in
the spring, summer and fall, until I was eighteen years of age, when I
left the farm and enrolled myself as a student at the Albion College, a
Methodist institution strict in its discipline, thorough in its
teachings, and of good repute for its excellent educational work. I was
there over four years, but did not graduate because of failing health.
In measuring up intellectually with a host of other young men in debate
and composition, I was inspired with the faint hope that I might at
least win a few victories in the actual conflict of life. I gave much
attention to the languages, and was especially proficient in Greek and
Latin. I had an inclination and love for that line of study. I did not,
however, neglect the exact sciences, but I had no intuition assisting in
that direction. What I know of mathematics, and my studies in that line
were quite extensive, is the result of pure reasoning. If proper here,
let me observe that the best teacher of the exact sciences is he who
obtains a knowledge of them as I did, because he will more fully
appreciate all the difficulties met with by the ordinary student.

He who intuitively sees the relation of numbers, form and quantity,
needs but little, if any, assistance from a teacher. It is he who, by
slow and laborious process of correct reasoning, discovers or unfolds
these relations, that needs the sympathetic assistance of a teacher.

I left school because my physician thought I needed more ozone than
Greek--more oxygen and sunshine than Latin, and more and better physical
development for any success in life's arduous work and its strenuous
conflicts. While under the care of Nature's physician, I spent most of
my time in hunting and fishing, with occasional work on the farm. This
continued for nearly a year. The treatment was beneficial, and I enjoyed
it. During this time I received an invitation from a literary society in
the town to deliver before them a lecture, on such subject as I might
choose and on such evening as I might designate. I accepted the
invitation, and chose as my subject "The Eclectic Scholar." I named a
day one month ahead. As this was my first appearance before a public
audience, and that, too, composed of the companions and acquaintances of
my youth--the most unpropitious of all audiences for a young man to
face--I spent nearly the entire month in the preparation of that
address. I will not attempt to give its substance or a skeleton of the
topics discussed. It was published in the local paper with flattering
comments, but I have neither the manuscript nor a copy. My first
intention was to read it, but I finally concluded to commit it to
memory, and to deliver it without the aid of the manuscript. An incident
occurred in this connection that, annoying as it was to me at the time,
I cannot omit. After the address had been memorized, I went to a dense
copse on the land of Mr. Parker, selected a small opening and delivered
the address with proper gesticulations to the surrounding saplings,
thinking no human ear or eye heard or saw me; but I was mistaken. Old
man Parker was out pheasant hunting. He was near me when I commenced to
speak, and, quickly concealing himself, saw and heard from his ambush
the whole performance. When I picked up my hat to go, he arose, came
into full view, clapped his hands and said, as he approached me, "Well
done, Orange." As I was not in a conversational mood I did not tarry. At
the appointed time I had a full audience. A vote of thanks was tendered
me and a request for a copy for publication. Since that time I have
learned that many of the great addresses of the world by orators, and
statesmen, are first carefully written, then memorized, then repeated in
front of mirrors, before delivery to the audiences for whom they were
intended.

Late in the fall of this year I concluded to study law, and to make its
exposition and practice my life work. With this end in view I entered
the office of Hon. John C. Howe, of Lima, La Grange County, Indiana.
Here let me say by way of parenthesis, that our esteemed brother lawyer,
James B. Howe of Seattle, is a near relative of his. A brief description
of my preceptor may be admissible. He was a quiet, somewhat reserved
man, and a great student. Though inclined to be taciturn, yet, when in
the mood, his conversation was charming. I have often thought his mind
was a little sluggish in its ordinary movement; but, let it be
stimulated by an important case or a large fee, and he seemed to be,
like Massena, almost inspired. It is said of Napoleon's great Marshal
that in the ordinary affairs of life he was a dull and even a stupid
man; but that when he saw the smoke of battle, and heard the roar of
cannon, the rattling of musketry, and saw the gleam of bayonets in the
hands of the charging legions, he was seemingly inspired, and never,
amid the roar and tumult of battle, made a mistake. In a sense this was
true of my preceptor. He was of strong physique and could work with an
intensified industry that approached genius. He possessed great power of
generalization and could readily reduce complicated and voluminous facts
to their proper classes, and thus completely master them. Few men in
American history have possessed this ability in a pre-eminent degree. I
might, among the few, mention John C. Calhoun and Oliver P. Morton of
Indiana. Another characteristic of my preceptor was his preferential
love of English Reports and English authors; hence, in addition to
Blackstone's Commentaries, I read Starkey on Evidence; Chitty and
Stephen on Pleadings; Chitty on Contracts, on Notes, and Bills of
Exchange; Coke on Littleton; Hale's Pleas to the Crown; Archibald on
Criminal Law; Lord Redesdale's Equity Pleadings and Jurisprudence; and
Seldon on Practice. I read Dr. Lushington's Admiralty Reports.
Seemingly, I had no use for admiralty, living as I did in the inland
empire; but I found such knowledge of great use after I was appointed to
a Judgeship in Washington Territory. A little brushing-up and some
additional reading enabled me to try the admiralty causes brought before
me to the satisfaction of the bar. I cannot close this brief reference
to my law preceptor without the narration of an incident in which he was
one of the principal actors. The sheriff of St. Joseph County, Michigan,
had been elected for four consecutive terms, and it was alleged and
conceded that he was a defaulter in a large amount. He had given a
different set of bondsmen for each term, and the question arose which of
these sets was responsible. My preceptor was employed by the county; the
bondsmen, of which my father was one, employed Columbus Lancaster,
afterwards a delegate to Congress from Washington Territory, and one of
the judges in the provisional government of Oregon. Lancaster was a
witty and eloquent speaker and a successful trial lawyer. As the case
was an important one, and the counsel distinguished, many lawyers
attended the trial. At that time the laws of Michigan gave three
justices of the peace, sitting in bank, all of the powers, by the
consent of the parties, of the Superior Court. This was a trial before
such tribunal. But little evidence was taken, just enough to raise the
legal questions involved. The argument of Howe was clear, compact and
to my mind conclusive. It had for its basis English authorities and
cases. Lancaster answered in an eloquent and witty speech, and after a
brief reply from Howe the case was submitted. The justices retired, but
in a short time returned. Their judgment was for the defendants. Howe
was manifestly disappointed and he said to Lancaster: "I will offer
this: You may choose any three from the lawyers present, and we will
re-argue the question and I will agree to abide by their decision." The
answer of Lancaster was characteristic; he said: "I never run all day to
catch a rabbit, and then let him go just to see whether I can catch him
again."

Both of these men have long since been gathered to their fathers. They
were just men and true, and in ability far above the average.

I was admitted to the bar in the fall of 1850. Under the laws of
Michigan at that time, admission to the bar was not necessary to
practice law in that State, but it was the usual and dignified course.
The class seeking admission was quite a large one; most of them, in fact
all of them save myself, were old lawyers seeking admission in the
regular and time-sanctified order. An afternoon was given by Judge Wing,
who presided, for the hearing of the petition of the applicants. The
Judge and the Bar were the examiners. They all took a free hand. I
thought I could discover a disposition on the part of the Judge and the
Bar to put the old practitioners, whose knowledge of elementary
principles had been somewhat dimmed by the lapse of years, at a
disadvantage as compared with the accuracy of a young man fresh from the
books. Hence, many questions were rushed to me for a full and accurate
statement of the text-books, which in most cases I was able to give, to
the manifest pleasure of the examiners. We were all admitted. In
anticipation of so propitious a result, we had provided a banquet for
Bench and Bar. At its conclusion the Judge said, "a motion for a new
trial would be in order, and if such motion was made he would take it
under advisement till the next term of the court, when he had but little
doubt that it would be granted."

After my admission to the Bar I diligently continued my legal studies,
confining myself, however, almost exclusively to American Reports and
authors, such as Kent's Commentaries; Story on the Constitution, on
Equity Jurisprudence and Pleadings; Greenlief on Evidence; Gould on the
Form and the Logic of Pleadings; Bishop on Criminal Law; and many
others. I have continued this extensive reading during all of my
professional career when books were at hand. Looking back from a
standpoint of eighty years' time, I am satisfied that I have read too
much, and reflected, reasoned, analyzed, generalized and thoroughly
digested too little. I often think of the saying of Locke, the
philosopher, that if he had read as much as other men he would have
known as little as they. There is much truth in this statement. To read
without thought, without reflection, without analysis and a thorough
digest of what one reads, is a waste of time. More, it weakens the
memory, does not accumulate knowledge, and incapacitates the mind for
serious work. While I have no admiration for a correctly-styled "case
lawyer," yet, were I to live my professional career over again, I would
get my legal principles from a small but well-selected library of
authors of established repute; and then I would consult leading cases on
each topic or subject, as a help for their proper and logical
application. The practice of law consists in the application of a
well-defined legal principle to a certain combination of facts. Whether
the principle applies is a question for the courts; whether the facts
that enter into the definition exist is a question for the jury. But, as
I am not writing a legal treatise, I leave the topic here.

My father caught the gold fever, and early in the spring of 1849 started
with an ox-team across the plains to the gold-fields of California. He
returned in the winter of 1851-2, having been moderately successful. For
many years I had been a sufferer from neuralgia. Its painful development
was in the forehead. I was a pale and emaciated specimen of the genus
homo, weighing less than 150 pounds. My father was of the opinion that
the air of the Pacific Coast was rich in ozone, and his physical
appearance indicated that his judgment was sound. "Go west, my son," he
said; "go to Oregon--not to California--for you would amount to nothing
as a miner. You will be subject to a continual alkaline bath on the
plains, and this will prepare you for the renovating effects of the
salubrious air of the Pacific Coast." My father was not a physician, but
I readily consented to take his prescription, provided he would pay the
doctor's bill. This he willingly consented to do. I soon found three
other young men who had the Oregon fever in its incipient stages. It
soon became fixed and constitutional, and they determined to go. A wagon
was soon constructed under my father's direction--light but strong, with
a bed water-tight and removable, so that it could be used as a boat for
ferrying purposes; a strong cover for the wagon, and a tent which in
case of storm could be fastened to the wagon to supplement the
effectiveness of the cover. Each furnished a span of light, tough and
dark-colored horses. White was not allowed on account of their alleged
want of toughness and durability. Each was allowed two full suits of
clothes and no more, and two pair of double blankets and no more. The
object was to prevent overloading. Each was to have a rifle or shotgun,
or both, and a pistol and sheath-knife. I am thus particular, because in
this day of railroads and Pullman cars, these things are fast passing
from memory.

On the first of March, 1852, we left Sturgis, Michigan. Our first point
of destination was Cainesville on the Missouri River. We did our own
cooking and slept in our wagon when the weather was clement; at hotels
and farm houses when it was inclement. None of us had ever tried our
hand at cooking before, and our development along that line had a good
deal of solid fact, and but little poetry in it. We could put more
specific gravity into a given bulk of bread than any scientific cook on
earth. Taken in quantity, it would test the digestive energies of an
ostrich; but we took it in homeopathic doses. We lived in the open air
and survived, as our knowledge of the culinary art rapidly increased.
The moral of this mournful tale is:--mothers, teach your sons to do at
least ordinary cooking; they may many times bless you in the
ever-shifting, and strenuous conflict of life.

I was born and reared in a cold climate; but when the mercury fell, the
atmosphere lost its moisture; and while the wind was fierce and biting,
it was dry. You can protect yourself against such cold; but when you
come to face the cold, damp, fierce and penetrating winds that sweep
over the prairies of Illinois and Iowa when winter is departing, they
find you, and chill you through any kind or reasonable quantity of
clothing.

On account of snow-storms we stopped for a week, in the latter part of
March, at a farm-house in the outer settlements of Iowa. The people were
intelligent and refined. Our hostess had two lovely daughters, and we
young men were at home. Prairie chickens were very abundant in the
vicinity, and with my shotgun I more than kept the family supplied while
there. Our hostess was a good cook and we lived high. A short distance
away was a log school-house also used for a church, and we accompanied
the family to church on Sunday. The minister was a Methodist
circuit-rider; and while he was not an eloquent man and did not, like
Wirt's blind preacher, in the wilds of Virginia, tell us with streaming
eyes that "Socrates died like a philosopher, but Jesus Christ like a
God," yet with force and emphasis he preached Christ and Him crucified
for a sinful world. This was the first church service we had attended
since leaving home, and it gave us all a touch of homesickness.

As soon as the storm abated and the weather gave indications of more
sunshine and less downpour, we bade adieu to our hostess and her fair
daughters, and journeyed slowly onward over horrid roads towards
Cainesville. We arrived at this bustling outfitting town on the 23rd of
April. We found there a large number of persons and prairie schooners,
but most of them were on a voyage to the gold-fields of California. By
diligent inquiry I found seventeen wagons, with an average of four
persons to the wagon, whose destination was Oregon. We agreed to cross
the Missouri River on the 2nd day of May, and on the afternoon of that
day we were all safely landed on the western shore. We were now beyond
the realm of social constraint, conventional usage, and the reign of the
law. It was interesting to me to note the effect of this condition upon
a few men in our party. They seemed to exult in their so-called freedom.
They spoke of the restraining influence of organized society as tyranny,
and of the government of law as government by force. A meeting for
organization was called for that evening. I was elected chairman, and in
response to a request for my views, I said, that we on the morrow were
to start on a journey of over two thousand miles through an Indian
country; and while it was reported that the tribes through whose country
we were to pass were at peace with the whites, yet it was a sound maxim,
in the time of peace to be prepared for war; and that our safety, and
that of our property, depended upon our strictness, watchfulness and
unity of action, and these beneficial results could only be secured by
organization; hence I proposed that, without being myself a candidate
for any position and not desiring any, we organize ourselves into a
semi-military company by the election of a captain and a first and
second lieutenant. A motion was made in accordance with the views
expressed by me, and seconded; I declared it open for discussion. One of
the persons mentioned above, who thought he had just enhaled the air of
perfect freedom, arose and said that he was opposed to the motion; he
did not propose to be lorded over by any one; he would be governed by
his own judgment and wishes. I replied that we did not propose to lord
it over any one, but to govern in all ordinary matters by common
consent, and in all matters by the laws of safety and decent morals. The
motion was put and it was carried with only five dissenting votes. A
vote was taken by ballot for Captain, and to my astonishment I received
all the votes but two--one of which was cast by myself for a gentleman
who had crossed the plains and who had returned to the States to get
married, and, having accomplished that purpose, was returning with his
wife and an unmarried sister of hers to his home in Oregon City; the
other vote, presumptively, was cast by a gentleman that, on account of
his military appearance and the arsenal of weapons which he carried on
his person, and his alleged thirst for Indian blood, we styled Colonel.
As the Colonel was an open candidate for the office, the opinion
prevailed that he had voted for himself. The first and second
lieutenants were soon elected and a quasi-military organization was soon
formed. The first lieutenant was unpopular with the men. He was a good
man, but possessed no fitness for the position; he had much of the
_fortiter in re_, but none of the _suaviter in modo_. The second
lieutenant was a doctor by profession and was eminently fitted for the
position; he was calm, cool in danger, discreet in words and action, and
courageous in conduct. Thus equipped, the next morning at eight o'clock
we rolled out and made about twenty miles; we camped on a plateau
covered with grass and by a brooklet of pure, cold spring water. The
second and third days were but repetitions of the first. The fourth day
we reached the Loup Fork, a large tributary of the Platte. We ferried
over it successfully and resumed our journey across the valley of rather
low but rich land, still covered in places with a mass of tall dry
grass, the fading glory of last year's beneficence. We were in the
Pawnee country. When we were about two and one-half or three miles from
the river, from seventy-five to a hundred Indians arose suddenly out of
the grass, stopped our teams, and by their unearthly yelling came near
stampeding our horses. We were caught unprepared. We did not expect to
meet hostiles, or even troublesome Indians within an hundred miles of
the Missouri River. Many of the guns were not loaded. A lame chief,
pretty well dressed in buck-skin, with a sword by his side, a pistol in
his belt, a fine rifle in his hand, and a photograph of ex-President
Fillmore, in a metallic frame, on his breast, was in command of the
Indians. He, and three subordinate chiefs were standing near the head of
the train, and I sent the doctor--the second lieutenant--and another
discreet person to confer with them and ascertain what this meant. The
other Indians in open order extended the full length of the train, and
were about five rods away. All had bows and arrows or firearms. They
used the weapons in their movements, with incessant yelling, in a
menacing manner. All things being in readiness, I went to where the
doctor and his companions and the chiefs were, near the head of the
train. I asked the doctor what they wanted. He answered that they wanted
one cow brute, a large quantity of sugar, tobacco and corn, for the
privilege of crossing their country. They were in a squatting position,
marking on the ground the boundaries of the country claimed by them. I
told the doctor that we had no cow brute and could not give one; that we
had but little sugar and tobacco, and could spare none; that if they
wanted corn to plant, we would give them a sack of shelled corn, and no
more. They understood what I said, and quickly sprang to their feet and
covered the doctor and myself with their guns. I had a double-barreled
shotgun by my side. I seized it; but before I could get it into
position, the muzzles of the guns were lowered, the yelling ceased, and
the sack of corn was accepted as toll. This was to me a new and rather
startling application of the doctrine of _posse comitatus_ for the
enforcement of an unadjudicated demand; but I have since learned that
civilized nations use battleships and cannon for that purpose.

The great Carlyle declares that if a person possess a quality in a high
degree, whether that quality be mental or physical, he is unconscious of
the fact; but if he be deficient in any quality, either moral or
physical, he is always conscious of the deficiency; and, seeming to act
on the supposition that what he feels so distinctly, he fears others
might perceive, he is constantly hedging: therefore, a dishonest man is
always talking about his honesty, and a coward about his bravery. All
the men of our company behaved well but one, and that one was "the
Colonel." I cannot refrain from recalling an incident connected with
him. I have mentioned the unmarried lady who was accompanying her sister
to her Western home. She was sitting in the wagon with the reins in her
hand and a pistol in her lap, during all the excitement and uproar. As I
passed up and down the train, I saw the Colonel, either at the rear or
on the side of the wagons, away from the yelling Indians. The last time
I passed the wagon, the Colonel stuck his head out from the opposite
side and asked, "What are you going to do, Captain?" I said, "Fight,
sir, if necessary." The young lady, looking at him, exclaimed: "Yes,
sir; fight if necessary. Get on the other side of the wagon; be a man!"
Although the Colonel subsequently, by his conduct at Shell Creek,
partially redeemed his reputation, yet the insinuating jeers of the men,
as to which was the safer side of the wagon, kept him in hot water, and,
taking my advice, he left the train after the passage of Shell Creek,
at the first opportunity. It was a good riddance, for a coward driven to
bay, and constantly wounded by the shafts of ridicule, is dangerous.

Our toll having been paid and the excitement having abated, we resumed
our journey across the Loup Fork valley and over the slightly elevated
high land that separate its waters from the Platte. We descended from
this high land by an easy grade, and made an early camp. Wood, water and
grass were abundant.

We knew that a large ox-train, consisting of forty wagons or more and
known as the Hopkins train, would cross the Loup Fork the next morning.
There were quite a number of women and children in the train; hence our
gallantry, as well as our bravery, prompted assistance. Further, we had
concluded that it was wise to travel in larger bodies through the
country of the Pawnees. According to our estimate, this train would
arrive at the danger point, or toll gate, between ten and eleven o'clock
a. m. Thirty of us volunteered to go back, to assist in case of
difficulty. We were mostly mounted and ready for the start, when we saw
a horseman rapidly approaching us, and we rode out to meet him. He told
us that the Hopkins train had been attacked by the Indians, that two of
his company had been seriously, if not mortally, wounded; and he asked
for a doctor. The doctor was with us and readily consented to go, after
returning to the wagon for instruments and medicine he might need. The
rest of dashed up the gentle slope--hurry-scurry, pell-mell. At the top
we slackened our speed for observation. We saw that the Indians had
abandoned the conflict and were hurrying to the river, on the further
side of which was their village. The occasional puff and report of a
white man's rifle, at long and ineffective range, no doubt quickened
their speed. We struck out on an acute angle to cut them off from the
river, but failed. Those in boats had either reached or were near the
other shore, some three or four hundred yards away; those in the water
swam with the current and were practically out of danger: the boys,
however, took some shots at the retreating heads. I think no Indian was
killed or wounded by the shooting, but some of the boys were of a
different opinion. We were at the river bank but a short time; but
before we left it, the lame chief and his two subalterns, mentioned
above, came down to the opposite shore, raised their hands to show that
they had no weapons, then jumped into a canoe and rapidly crossed the
river to us. They asked permission to go up with us to see their dead
and to care for their wounded. The chief said five Indians were dead and
many wounded. We saw but three dead and two slightly wounded. Two white
men were wounded--one with a flint-headed arrow in the chest, the other
shot with a large ball through the fleshy part of the thigh close to the
bone. Although the arrow-head had entered the chest cavity, it had not
pierced any vital organ, and recovery was rapid; the other wound was of
a complex character, which I cannot mention, and was dangerous if not
mortal. This man was slowly recovering, however, while he remained with
us and under the doctor's assiduous care. What the final result was I
never knew. The wounded having been attended to, the train was soon on
the move for our camp. After a consultation held that evening, it was
agreed that we should travel together through the Pawnee country, and
that I should have general control of our united forces.

Shell Creek, which was full five days' travel ahead, was said to be one
of the boundary lines separating the country of the Pawnees from that of
the Sioux. Notices stuck up along the road warned us to look out for the
Pawnees at Shell Creek. It was their last toll-collecting station. This
fact and their difficulty with the Hopkins train put us on our guard.
From what we saw of the action of the Indians, there were manifest
indications, that they were collecting at Shell Creek. We saw every day
on the opposite side of the river, long lines of them journeying towards
that point. In the afternoon of the fifth day after our union, we
arrived on the plain, through which the creek had cut its way to the
Platte River. We made a corral with our wagons, some seventy-five or
eighty rods from the creek.

A few small flags of different colors were floating from the top of the
bank descending to the creek, indicating that the Indians were there. I
called for seventy-five volunteers to go with me to the crossing. I am
glad to say that the Colonel promptly stepped forward; and more than the
requisite number offered to go. Where the road crosses Shell Creek
valley, if it is proper so to call it, it is from fifteen to twenty feet
below the general face of the country, the valley not being over four or
five rods in width. It is a small stream, but its shallow waters flow
over a bed of treacherous quick sand. The earlier immigrants had cut
down the nearly perpendicular bank so as to make the descent and ascent
practicable, to and from, the narrow valley. They had also, from the
nearby timber in the valley of the Platte River, obtained stringers,
placed them across the creek, and covered them with heavy split or hewn
cottonwood puncheons.

I formed my volunteers in a line, open order, and facing the crossing.
In this order we marched quite rapidly towards the creek until we were
eight or ten rods away, when an order of double quick was given,--we
dashed down to the bank, and found from seventy-five to a hundred
Indians, all armed, at different points along the bank and near the
crossing. We covered them with our rifles and shotguns. There was an
ominous silence for a short time. They soon arose, however, and all but
two crossed the creek and went to a bald knoll a short distance below
the crossing. One or two started to come up to us, but we waved them
off. The puncheons had been removed from the stringers and thrown into
an irregular pile on the further side of the creek. Two Indians stood
upon the pile. I asked for two young men to go down to replace the
puncheons. Quite a number volunteered. I selected one standing near me,
and another called Brad. Both were stalwart and muscular. Brad was a
great boaster, but a noted exception to Carlyle's rule. He was as
courageous as a lion. The puncheons were thick, water-soaked and heavy.
One of the two Indians standing upon them departed as Brad and his
companion approached; the other, silent and sullen, maintained his
position on the pile, and when Brad took hold of the end of a puncheon
he walked down to that end, thus compelling Brad to lift him as well as
the puncheon. Someone said "hit him, Brad." I thought the order a proper
one; so I said nothing. Brad, who was great in a power emanating from
the shoulder and culminating in the knuckles of the hand, struck, with
all his force, the Indian on the point of the jaw; the Indian fell to
the ground a limpid heap, and did not recover until nearly all of the
puncheons had been replaced. When he arose his face was covered with
blood from either the effect of the blow or his fall. He walked slowly
towards the knoll where the other Indians were, and his appearance among
them created quite a sensation and uproar. It was manifest that there
was no unity of purpose, or action among them. As soon as the bridge was
repaired we crossed over with four-fifths of the men; the other
one-fifth went back to help bring up the train, and to assist in the
crossing if necessary. I left the command with the doctor, and as the
evening was fast approaching I selected a camp about one-half of a mile
beyond the crossing, where grass, water and wood were plentiful. The
first lieutenant superintended the camping. When I returned I found that
the doctor had "the lame chief" and two other younger chiefs as
prisoners. They had crossed the line marked out by him, and he retained
them as hostages. The lame chief was somewhat reconciled to his lot, but
the young men were taciturn and sullen. The lame chief knew English and
talked it sufficiently well for us to understand him. I told him that we
would give them plenty to eat, with blankets upon which they could
sleep, and that we would part as friends in the morning. I told him
further that if the Indians attacked us that night he and the two young
chiefs would be killed. I told him that he could control the Indians,
and that we required him to do it. All of this was said to him in a most
positive and emphatic manner, and he communicated it to the younger
chiefs. I asked him what so many Indians, all armed, had come away from
their villages and to the boundary of their country for? He said the
Indians had no bad feelings towards the horse-train, but they had come
to make the cow-train pay for the killed and wounded in the fight at
Loup Fork. He said that they did not expect to find us with the
cowtrain. Certain it is, that every circumstance pointed to the
conclusion that had not our train been present, the Hopkins train would
have been compelled to contribute largely, or would have had another
fight more disastrous, perhaps, than the first. The night was made
hideous by the almost constant yelling of the Indians. I remained up
until eleven, when I retired, worn out and with an acute attack of
neuralgic head-ache. After a time I slept or dozed, notwithstanding the
uproar. The doctor also had gone to his wagon. The first lieutenant was
in command. About three o'clock he came to my wagon, and requested me to
get up; he feared, he said, an attack. The Indians, he informed me, were
already approaching us. I found that the warriors had left the strip of
timber on the river and were within one hundred yards of our
picket-line. I went around the camp and found nearly everyone awake and
up. I then went with the lame chief and his guard to the picket-line. I
told him to tell the Indians, that they must not come any nearer. The
chief began to speak immediately and continued to talk for two minutes
or more; and while we did not understand what he said, the tumult
ceased, and from thence on, comparative quiet prevailed. In the morning
we gave our hostages a good breakfast and presented them with a cow
brute so lame that it could not travel farther. I saw it killed. An
Indian with a strong, and to me almost inflexible bow, threw himself on
his back, holding the steel or iron-pointed arrow with both hands
against the string of the bow, and with his feet springing it sent the
arrow deep into the heart of the animal, which fell at his feet. This
was the first exhibition I had ever seen of the power of the bow as a
weapon and life-extinguisher. At short range, with a cool nerve, with a
full quiver, a person thus armed would be a dangerous foe.

We got an early start the next morning. We bade our hostages good-bye
without regret, and entered onto the land of the Sioux with hopeful
satisfaction. We journeyed full twenty miles that day, and camped on a
treeless plain with good water and plenty of grass, but no wood save
buffalo chips. This want of wood was to continue for hundreds of miles.
It was amusing at first, to see the ladies handle the buffalo chips.
They literaly cooked with their gloves on. But the principle announced
by the poet soon asserted itself:

  "Vice is a monster of so frightful mien,
  As to be hated, needs but to be seen;
  Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face,
  We first endure, then pity, then embrace."

I do not mean to say that they embraced this fuel; only that they used
it as they would other fuel--simply obeying a law of necessity and
enduring it.

This morning we parted from the Hopkins train, got an early start and
made a late camp over twenty miles away.

Early in the commencement of our jurney to the sunset land, I organized
a hunting party of four good shots, two of whom I was personally
acquainted with and knew that they were well qualified for their
position; the other two were chosen on the recommendation of their
acquaintances and friends. This selection turned out to be not only
harmonious, but a fit and proper one. They organized by the election of
the doctor and myself as alternate captains, expecting that one of us
would accompany them on each day's hunt. The work was exciting, with a
dash of danger in it, and was arduous. Heretofore there had been no
opportunity for the proof of their skill. This day, having determined
from our guide-book where to camp, I accompanied them to the hills.
Shortly after noon the hunters came across a small herd of buffalo in a
gully where there was a little pool of seepage water, and succeeded in
killing two--one a yearling, the other a barren cow. I was not in at the
killing, but I succeeded soon after in ending the swift-bounding career
of a fine antelope. We cut the meat from the carcass of the two buffalo
and placed it in sacks or rather strong saddle-bags made for that
purpose. The bones, neck and horns, save tongue, as well as the hide,
were left to be more thoroughly cleaned and devoured by wolves, the
ever-ready scavengers of the plains. My trophy of this day's hunt, minus
the head and neck, was strapped to the saddle of my horse, and thus by
her, grudgingly, borne into camp; but she became accustomed to such
work, and protested only at the stinging tightness of the cinch. This
was our first ration of fresh meat since crossing the Missouri River.
The meat was a treat, fat, juicy and tender. Two days after this the
hunters, accompanied by the doctor, at an early hour started for the
hills. They returned in the early evening, each with an antelope on his
saddle. They saw plenty of buffalo, but could not approach them
sufficiently near to get an effective shot. The meat of the antelope,
while not as rich and juicy as that of the buffalo, is in the spring of
the year, when the grass is green, sweet and tender. It is of much finer
grain than that of the buffalo; and the animal is more select in his
appetite, eating only the finer grass, with a delicate flavoring of the
finest sage, which in many cases was quite distinguishable. I remember
that not many years ago the choicest beeves were steers fattened on the
rich and luxuriant bunch-grass of the hills, which a week or ten days
before marketing were driven to and herded in the valleys where the
small sage abounds. They ate it not as a matter of first choice, but of
necessity. Such beef, to the epicures, was the realization of a
long-felt want.

The work of the hunters was strenuous, and as a partial compensation for
their longer hours, and the beneficent results of the successful work by
them, they were excused from guard-duty in the night. To this all
agreed.

On the second day after the doctor's debut as a hunter, I accompanied
the hunters to the hills. We did not find game plentiful, but we
occasionally caught the glimpse of an antelope bounding away out of
range. The day was excessively hot. Late in the afternoon, however, the
hunters started a large buffalo bull from the channel of a dry creek, he
ran up the channel towards me; and as he attempted to pass me a few rods
away, I fired and struck him in the heart, and he staggered, lunged and
fell. This was my first buffalo, and I was, of course, elated with my
luck. The hunters would probably have killed him had it not been for my
fortunate intervention, for they were in close pursuit on the higher
plateau on either side, and were fast converging towards him. He could
have scarcely run in safety, the gauntlet of four such expert riflemen.
As it was, however, the honor was mine. The pelt or robe was large and
very fine, but we were compelled to leave it and the stripped bones to
be devoured by the waiting wolves. From thence on until we crossed the
Rocky Mountains, we had a liberal supply of fresh meat, consisting of
antelope, buffalo, a few deer, three elk, one brown bear, and one
bighorn Rocky Mountain sheep, or goat.

So far as travel was concerned, each day was but the tiresome repetition
of the preceding one, with very slight variations. When we arrived at
Fort Laramie we stopped for some three or four hours. We crossed the
river and made a friendly visit to the officers of the fort. We found
them to be true American soldiers and gentlemen. The commandant told us
that he had heard of the Pawnee difficulty, and had sent an officer and
a squad of soldiers to enquire into the affair. He was very anxious to
hear from us a statement of the whole matter. I gave him as full a
statement as I was able to, and both of us were of the opinion that it
was precipitated by the want of proper discipline and control of the men
in the train. This may not be very flattering to the white men, but it
is the truth, notwithstanding.

I am not a military man, but I was not impressed with the idea that
Laramie, surrounded as it is by an amphitheatre of commanding hills, was
a fit site for a fort. As against an enemy with modern artillery, I
thought it to be hopelessly defenceless. As against Indians it possibly
might do. But then, I knew nothing of Plevna, similarly situated, and so
heroically defended by the Turks against a superior and well-equipped
Russian army.

Leaving Fort Laramie, we now entered the Black Hills country. After a
two-days' journey in the hills, finding grass, water and wood in great
abundance, we concluded to rest for two days for laundry and
recuperative purposes. Our horses began to show the effects of the
journey, and the want of their accustomed food. No animal has the power
of endurance of man, unless it may be the wolf, "whose long gallop,"
says the poet, "can tire the hounds' deep hate and hunter's fire."

On the first day of our rest I accompanied the hunters into the hills
for game. About three miles from camp, on a wooded side-hill, they came
across a band of fifteen or more of elk and succeeded in killing three
of them. I was not in at the killing, but caught a distant view of the
noble antlered monarchs of the forest, as they sped away to deeper and
safer retreats in the depths of the woods. As we did not kill for the
love of slaughter, but for food, we declared the day's hunt a success,
and prepared our meat for transportation to the camp, in the usual
manner. I have killed quite a number of elk since that time in the
mountains of Oregon, but I have never seen one larger than one of those,
although I have seen much larger and finer antlers than adorned the
heads of any of them. The purpose of the antlers, in my judgment, is not
to furnish the animal a weapon in fight, but as a protection to his
shoulders as he dashes through the brush in flight from an enemy or in
pursuit of his mate. When he moves swiftly he elevates his nose until
his face is nearly in a line with his back; the antlers, extending back
on each side of the shoulders, thus affording them protection. The bucks
always lead in such flights, and to a certain extent open the way; hence
the females have no need, or not so much need, of such protection.
Somewhat disappointed with my failure to get a shot at an elk on the
preceding day, I again accompanied the hunters. We made a wide circuit
through the hills, some of which were covered with timber, while others
were bald. That it was a country abounding in game was manifest in the
signs appearing everywhere. We saw a few antelope in full flight and out
of range; we also startled from his sylvan couch a black-tailed buck,
being the first of the deer kind seen in our journey. One of the hunters
sent a ball after him as he bounded through the brush and timber, but,
unscathed, he dashed on. As the day was fast waning we turned our
horses' heads campward, and commenced the ascent of quite a high hill to
take an observation of our latitude and longitude, and also to determine
the exact location of our camp and the best route to it. The western
side of this hill was covered with brush and fallen and dead timber.
While we were standing on the top viewing the topography of the
surrounding country, a large cinnamon bear, affrighted by our presence,
started from his lair, and in all probability his patrimonial jungle,
and dashed at a furious speed down through the brush and over the logs
and rocks of this steep side-hill. We emptied our rifles at him as he
plunged downward at such headlong speed. But one ball struck him and
that broke his right shoulder, much diminishing his speed and almost
entirely destroying his climbing powers. We soon came upon him at the
foot of the hill in a bad humor, but we quickly ended his career. He was
in fine condition; his estimated weight was from 275 to 300 pounds. We
removed the pelt, with his feet, and took them into camp as a matter of
curiosity; we also took the meat into camp, but it was not much
relished. The hide as well as most of the meat was given to begging
Indians.

At Laramie a man and his wife and one child--a little girl between seven
and eight years of age--asked permission to travel with us. The man had
started the year before, got as far as Laramie and had remained there
during the winter. His team consisted of four yoke of young oxen, well
conditioned for the trip. He had a hired man to drive them. He had a
band of forty heifers and cows. Many of the cows were giving milk;
thinking a little milk in our coffee would give it a home flavor, we
readily acceded to the request. We helped him to drive his loose stock
and do the milking. When we asked her, by politeness called his better
half, for a small quantity of milk, we found that we were dealing with a
Shylock. She had milk for sale, but not to give away. We were about to
strike when the husband intimated that our canteens were useful. We took
the hint, and after that, somehow, our coffee changed its color. To cut
this narration short, let me say that while he was six feet tall and
well proportioned, he stood still higher in the class of
antivertebrates--henpecked nincompoops--than any specimen of the genus
homo I have ever known; and she stood higher in her class of imperious
virago. How a child, sweet in her disposition, and lovable in all her
ways, could be the issue of such a union, was a mystery to us all.
Afterwards I had the pleasure of saving the little girl from drowning in
the crossing of Port Neuf near Fort Hall. A majority of the company
voted to go by way of Fort Hall and to cross the Port Neuf near its
junction with the Snake, instead of crossing it higher up, thus keeping
continuously on the highlands. I protested, but finally yielded to this
almost unanimous desire. I think the agreeable companionship of some of
the factors of the company with whom we had become acquainted, at Soda
or Steamboat Springs on Bear River, had much to do with this
determination. From the Fort, where we were hospitably entertained, to
the bluff and road beyond the Port Neuf was about five miles. The water
of the Snake and the Port Neuf had but recently overflowed the valley
between the two, and left it a miry quicksand morass, almost impossible
of passing. It took us three days of hard labor and strenuous efforts to
reach the bluffs. The heavily-loaded wagon of the nincompoop and the
virago was almost constantly mired. We had little to do with him, but
with her it was a constant conflict. At last we got her wagon to the
river. He was on the highlands with the loose stock. The river for
twenty feet or more was from seven to ten feet in depth. With a true
team and a proper wagon this space could be safely passed. Her team,
however, consisting of a horse and a mule, when they reached deep water
made a lunge, then balked. The wagon filled with water and the current
turned it over. She had insisted on driving and on having the little
girl with her in the wagon. When it went over quite a number of us young
men, who had been working nearly all day in our drawers and undershirts,
plunged into the stream, and as we passed over the cover of the sinking
wagon seized it and stripped it from its bows. Close beside me the
little girl popped up; I seized her, and with a few strokes took her to
shore, with no damage done her save a good wetting. It was a question,
for a short time, whether the virago would drown the young men who were
trying to save her, or they would succeed in their efforts. I went to
their assistance and we brought her to the shore, but she needed the
doctor's assistance. She had in ballast more water than was necessary,
and by a rolling process was forced to give it up. Their team having
been safely extricated--the wagon and its contents on shore, and soon
transported to highlands, we found among their contents a large demijohn
of first class brandy, to all appearances never opened, probably
because the Snake country had not been reached; and as the dominant
owner of said brandy was suffering from the too free use of water, we
all drank to the toast, with a delicate courtesy, for her speedy
delivery. Oblivious of the fearful danger of microbes, each tipped the
demijohn at an angle and for a duration of time suited to the occasion.
This spiritual passage having become historic, we hitched up our teams
and journeyed onward to a creek about two miles distant, where we camped
for the night. Next morning we bade a sorrowful adieu to the sweet, and
much-loved and sprightly daughter of our train and our whilom
companions, and resumed our journey down the left bank of the Snake
River. This road led us over a desolate and treeless plain of sage-brush
and grease-wood. The sun, at times, sent down its rays with scorching
power. The alkaline dust, betimes rolled up in suffocating volumes. The
pleasures of the chase were at an end. This dreary and waterless plain
was not the abode of animal life, save the lizard, the horn toad and the
rattlesnake. Game was said to be plentiful in the foothills and
mountains, but they were too far away. The few Indians scattered along
the river and the far-separated and uncertain tributaries had, I am
informed, no organized tribal relation, but were the vagabonds driven
off by contiguous tribes. Their subsistance was precarious, consisting
of fish, grasshoppers, crickets or black locusts, and an occasional
rabbit. But two incidents worthy of narration occurred in our journey
down the river. One was a stampede of our horses by the Indians about
two o'clock a. m. One of the four men detailed to guard them on that
night informed me that he was unwell, and I took his place. The horses
were on excellent grass a little over a mile from camp. A short time
before sundown we rolled up our blankets and with our arms, departed for
our night's work. We all took a careful survey of the surroundings and
the horses, and then two of us rolled ourselves up in our blankets to be
awakened at one o'clock a. m. Promptly at that time we were called. The
watchmen reported that all was well; but the horses seemed a little
restless and uneasy, and the watchmen thought that wolves were prowling
around in the sage-brush, and although unseen by them, the presence of
the wolves was detected by the keener scent and clearer vision of the
horses.

The night was star light and clear. The moon, when our watch commenced,
was just lifting its pale head above the eastern hills. We made a
circuit of the herd and passed among and through them, for some were
spanselled and others had long trail ropes about their necks. Finding
all things in a satisfactory condition, my companion took his position
on the left of the center of the herd, and I a similar position on the
right. Scarcely had we got to our position when a small band, or party,
of Indians suddenly arose from the sage-brush about midway between us,
and, with a wild whoop and flourish of blankets, startled the horses and
sent them, with all the speed they were capable of making, towards the
distant western hills. I fired a shot at long range in the direction of
the perfidious savages, but I am quite certain that it did them no harm.
They immediately disappeared, however, in the thick sage-brush, and I
saw no more of them until I had succeeded in stopping the horses. I got
hold of several trail-ropes, one of which belonged to my favorite riding
mare; I quickly mounted her, and with a dash I was soon in front of the
affrighted animals. I talked to them; they knew my voice and stopped.
The horse looks to his master as his protector. I have seen many proofs
of this fact in my lonely wanderings in the hills and mountains, with no
companion but my faithful horse. Such a horse always knows where you
are; if he does not, he will take your trail and come to you. If in a
strange wood, and you get separated from him, he will often whinny; but
I am digressing.

After having succeeded in stopping the affrighted animals, I took a
careful survey of my desolate surroundings. I saw to my left three
Indians standing on a slightly elevated ground, and I raised my rifle to
fire. They saw my movement and they quickly dropped to the ground. I
sent a bullet as near as I could to the spot; and while I think it did
them no injury, yet it was a notice that I was armed, and an admonition
not to come within range. I was satisfied that they were unarmed, save
with bows and arrows, which, to be effective, required both ambush and a
short range; so, although five or six miles from camp, I was fearful of
neither.

I saw that the horses, hobbled or spanselled, were very much impeded in
their ability to travel, only being able to go by short jumps.
Dismounting, I unbuckled some and cut the hobbles of others. About three
miles from camp I met a rescuing party, among whom was my guard
companion. I was inclined to blame him for not accompanying me in my
wild race, but I have long since forgiven him. Such an incident was not
uncommon in the early migrations to this coast. The attempts were
numerous, but generally not as successful as this one.

The next day, early in the morning, as we were moving slowly along at
the foot of a high and bald ridge, whose top was enveloped in fog, we
heard coming from the top a shrill voice saying in prolonged accents,
"Steal Hoss--God dam!" Some thought it to be the voice of an angel;
others said that if the voice was that of an angel, it must have come
from a fallen angel, because the language was very improper for one
retaining his first estate; while others suggested that it was nothing,
but an extract, or echo from my soliloquy, as I dodged through the
sage-brush and grease-wood on that awful night in hot pursuit, of our
affrighted and fleeing horses. Despite the plausibility of this last
suggestion, I adhere to Lord Byron's contention that the anatheme was
the nucleus of England's native eloquence; and if so, why not of Indian
oratory?

After passing around the point of this angelic ridge, the road diverges
to the westward from Snake River and passes over some high, bald ridges
separating it from Burnt River.

On the afternoon of the 17th of July, an oppressively hot and sultry
day, our train descended from a high and volcanic table land to the
narrow valley of Burnt River in Southeastern Oregon. The way down was
through a long, narrow and treeless canyon into which the sun poured
with focal power. This canyon, and, in fact, Burnt River valley, is the
home of the festive rattlesnake. He is of the large yellow bellied
species, fierce in his war moods, and deadly when, from his spiral coil
battery, "He pours at once his venom and his length."

Impatient with the slow progress we were making, myself and three other
young men that night, resolved that in the morning we would dissolve our
connection with the train, and hasten, with longer marches and
quickened pace, to our journey's end. Accordingly, early the next
morning we packed our provisions, blankets and other personal effects on
our horses, and, bidding adieu to our companions, shouldered our rifles
and, with reliant faith in our ability to protect ourselves, started on.
Our course was up the narrow, silent and gloomy valley of Burnt River.
The banks of the river were fringed with a stunted growth of cottonwood
and poplar. On either side were high and treeless hills of red earth and
rocks, the still remaining evidence of the presence of tremendous
igneous agencies in the far-distant past, and which, no doubt, gave the
river its name. We camped at noon on a small brooklet which came
rollicking down from its canyon home until it reached the valley, and
then, embosomed in willows and tall rye grass, flowed silently on to the
more noisy and pretentious river. A short distance from camp in a sunny
glen we discovered an abundance of service berries and black currants,
large, luscious and fully ripe. Having tasted no fruit of any kind for
over three months, that noonday repast was not only greatly relished by
us, but it awakened associations of home and home life. As we feasted we
talked of sister, mother and the bright-eyed girl far away. All things
enjoyable must have an end.

It was time to move on. On our return to camp we came across a monster
rattlesnake, coiled up and defiant in his lonely home. Having heard it
said that tobacco was a deadly poison to this species of snake, we
concluded to stop long enough to verify or disprove this saying. We cut
some long willow switches and split the smaller end, into which we
fastened a quantity of strong, fine-cut chewing tobacco, moistened so
that the juice would flow freely, and then presented it to his worthy
snakeship with our compliments. He struck it three times viciously. We
could not induce him to strike it any more. He had got a quantity of the
juice and some of the tobacco in his mouth. It manifestly had taken all
the viciousness out of him. He was evidently subjugated. He began slowly
to uncoil, and as he lay at full length a tremor passed over him and he
was seemingly dead; but for fear he might recover we bruised his head,
not with our heels, but with stones.

In stating this little incident I have wandered somewhat from the thread
of my narrative. I do this for two reasons: First, to show that I am a
lover of experimental science; and, secondly, to show that the filthy
weed may be put to a good purpose.

Late that afternoon we made our last camp in the dismal valley of Burnt
River. The next morning we made an early start, and found ourselves on a
high sage-brush plateau just as old Sol was lifting his fiery rim above
the eastern horizon. To me an alkaline plain covered with unsightly
sage-brush, burnt with fervent heat, destitute of water and animate with
no carol of bird, or hum of insect, is the very symbol of desolation; a
silent, monotonous and dreary waste, fit only for the habitation of
lizards, horned toads, and other reptiles. Such, to a great extent was
the prospect before us. We consulted our guide-book and learned that the
only water for over forty miles was a well or spring near the road, some
twenty miles distant.

We pushed on. The day was intensely hot. Two o'clock came, and three,
and four, but no spring. We had, evidently in our headlong eagerness to
make distance, overlooked it. The sun went down in a bank of clouds,
whose storm-heads loomed above the Blue Mountains, to our left. Darkness
came on. The gleam of lightning and the sullen roar of distant thunder
warned us that a storm was coming. The fast-ascending clouds soon
covered the sky, and the darkness became intense. We called a halt, and
decided to stop for the night. We unpacked our horses and turned them
loose with trail-ropes fastened to their necks. By the friendly aid of
the lightning we were able to spread our blankets amid the sage-brush. I
must confess that as I lay that night wrapped in my blankets, with a
saddle for my pillow, startled ever and anon by the lightning's fearful
glare, and listened to the rolling thunder as it reverberated with many
voices through the canyons of the Blue Mountains, a spirit of absolute
loneliness came over me. I was homesick. I thought of my father's home,
where there was comfort and abundance. I was also troubled with the
thought that our horses might hopelessly wander away in that night of
storm. But balmy sleep--tired Nature's sweet restorer--soon put an end
to these melancholy reflections. I slept soundly despite the storm, and
did not awake until the gray streaks of morning streamed up the eastern
sky. When fairly awake, I leaped from my blankets, uncovered and
examined my rifle, and after buckling on my belt in which were a Colt's
navy revolver and hunting knife, without disturbing my companions, I
started on a hunt for our horses. I soon found their trail and followed
it with quickened speed. I found them about three miles from camp in a
beautiful little valley covered with grass, and through which flowed a
small streamlet of pure cold water. After quenching my thirst and
filling my canteen, I mounted my favorite animal, and rode back to
camp, the others following. I arrived at camp before my companions had
awakened. I aroused them with a wild whoop, and treated them all from
the contents of my canteen. We speedily packed up and hastened onward in
search of green fields, and especially running brooks. About eight
o'clock we came to a tributary of Powder River. Here we cooked our
breakfast, not having eaten anything but hard tack for over twenty-four
hours.

We made a late camp in the afternoon of that day on Grand Rounde River.
The evening of the next day found us on the west bank of the Umatilla
River. These long and forced marches had begun to tell unfavorably on
our horses. I was reminded of the declaration that man had better bottom
and finer staying qualities than any animal, except the wolf. Enured as
we were to hardship and in perfect health, with no surplus flesh, and
with muscles hardened by over three thousand miles of travel, mostly on
foot, the wolf even, could ill afford to give us percentage in a race
that involved staying qualities. Our camp being an excellent one, and
grass, wood and water, as well as fish and game, being abundant, we
decided to remain for three days to recruit our jaded horses.

While out hunting the next day, I came upon the camp of a white man,
about a mile up the valley from our camp. I made bold to appear at the
door of his tent, and found a middle-aged and jolly-looking man who
received me with open-handed cordiality. With a smile he told me that
his name was Kane, that he was the Indian Agent for that portion of
Oregon. In answer to his inquiries I told him all I remembered about
myself, and he, as a compensation, gave me a brief synopsis of his
personal history. The conversation soon turned on Indian habits and
customs; the numerical strength of the tribes in the great Columbia
basin, their war tendencies and their desire of, and capability for a
higher civilization, at least so far as the tribes under his supervision
were concerned. He argued that they had already passed from the purely
savage state to the pastorial; that they were owners of large bands of
horses, had made a commendable start in the acquisition of horned
cattle, and were very desirious of increasing their stock. He said that
quite a number of individual Indians owned from one hundred to five
thousand head of horses, "and to convince you," he said, "that these
Indians desire to advance in the line of higher civilization, I may
mention the fact that a Cayuse chief, the fortunate owner of over 2,000
head of horses, and has an only and lovely daughter, offers to give 600
head of valuable horses to any respectable white American who will marry
his daughter, settle down among them, and teach them agriculture." He
gave a glowing description of this maidenly flower, born to blush
unseen, and waste her sweetness on the bunch-grass plain. Touched by the
inspiration of his eloquence, I inadvertently expressed my desire to see
this incomparable princess. The agent responded that he had business
with the chief and that he would accompany me on the morrow to his camp,
situated about six miles up the valley. Nine o'clock in the morning was
fixed for starting. I returned to our camp, rehearsed to my companions
the incidents of the day, and took an inventory of my rather limited
wardrobe. Be not alarmed, gentle reader; I am not about to tell you what
my attire was on that interesting occasion; suffice it to say that it
was becoming to an American sovereign.

At the appointed time I was at the agent's camp. Two horses saddled,
with ropes around their lower jaw for bridles, were in readiness. I
approached the one allotted to me, but as I neared it, it snorted and
shied. I inquired if it was gentle. "Perfectly so," was the emphatic
answer. An Indian held him, however, as I volted into the saddle. He let
go, and we bounded away at a furious speed. At the distance of two miles
or more I found him willing to yield to the pressure on his jaw and to
slacken his headlong pace. We arrived at the Indian village about 10 a. m.
It was stationed on the margin of the river in a beautiful grove of
timber. It consisted of a dozen or more conical shaped tents. We rode up
to the front of the principal one, dismounted, and hitched our horses by
dropping the trail rope to the ground. The chief came to meet us, and
his reception of the agent seemed to be very cordial. I was introduced
as his friend, and we shook hands and said "Klahowa" to each other. We
entered the tent. There was no furniture, so we were seated on a roll of
bed-clothing next to the wall. An animated conversation was kept up
between the chief and the agent. I did not understand the Indian
dialect, nor could I then speak the classic jargon; hence I had plenty
of time and opportunity for observation. My eyes rolled around the
somewhat contracted royal mansion. I saw there a dumpy female of middle
age, with a heavy but knotted and uncombed head of hair silently engaged
in ornamenting a new pair of moccasins with steel and glass beads. This
could not be the princess?

The agent told me that the chief desired to talk with me about the
incoming emigration; I assented, the agent acting as interpreter. This
conversation ending, I went out to take a more accurate survey of the
village. While standing in front of the chieftain's tent, a young Indian
woman, riding astride of a very fine horse, approached the tent. She
reined up her steed a few feet in front of me, showed a little
astonishment at my presence, and lightly dismounted without any
assistance from me. She tarried for a moment to pet her horse, thus
giving me an excellent chance for observation. While I can not say that
her form was sylph-like and elegant, yet her features were not
irregular, nor was her form misshapen. She was of medium height and
stood erect. Her head was covered with a luxuriant growth of dark coarse
hair, flowing over her shoulders and extending down to her waist. Her
hair was neatly combed; around her neck she had several strings of
different-colored beads, large and of bogus pearls; she had on a short
gown closely fitting her neck and body, and extending to her knees; it
was made out of soft buckskin and was tastefully ornamented with beads,
and fringed around the bottom; her lower limbs were wrapped in buckskin
leggings with fringed stripes at the sides; her feet were covered with a
neat pair of moccasins, ornamented with beads. Such was the chieftain's
daughter as I then saw her. She dashed by me and entered the tent. I
soon after followed. I judged from the long and inquiring stare of the
mother, and the quick and abashed look of the daughter, that the agent
and chief were talking about me; and I subsequently learned that such
was the fact. By invitation of the chief we stayed for dinner. I will
not detain you by a description of that repast. After dinner we smoked
the pipe of peace and friendship, then bade adieu to the chieftain and
rode back to our camp. The next day I went up to the agent's camp and
wrote for the "Detroit Free Press" a description of the Umatilla Valley
and the surrounding country, stated the number of Indians residing
there, their mode of life, their habits and customs, together with their
desire for civilization. I stated the generous offer of the Cayuse
chief, and closed with a glowing description of the dusky princess. I
mailed the letter at The Dalles.

In due time we arrived in the Willamette Valley. Over three months
elapsed before I received a copy of The Free Press containing my letter.
By a strange perversion the printer had changed the word "cayuse" into
"hans." This explained a mystery. Quite a number of letters directed to
the chief of the "Hans" Indians, care of the superintendent of Indian
affairs for Oregon, had been received by him. No one knowing anything
about the Hans Indians. These letters were afterwards published in the
Oregon papers. I will give from memory a synopsis of two of them. The
first was written by a Michigan man, and he was endorsed by Lewis Cass,
Henry Ward Beecher and many other noted persons. It was a plain,
straight-forward letter and unconditionally accepted the chieftain's
offer. He desired to be speedily notified, in order that he might come
on to accept his patrimony and open his agricultural school. The other
letter was written by a Virginian. He was endorsed by the Senators of
that State and by most of its Representatives in Congress. A
daguerreotype accompanied the letter. This gallant gentleman stated to
the Chief that he would scorn to accept the hand of the daughter unless
he could first win her heart. He flattered himself, however, that he
would have no difficulty in that matter. The whole tone of the letter
was that of a regular masher. I do not know whether these letters ever
reached the chief and his fair dusky daughter or not, nor do I know
whether he was blessed or cursed with a white son-in-law.

My belief is that the perverseness of that Detroit printer obstructed
the civilization of a tribe.

In conclusion, the jolly Indian agent was gathered to his fathers years
ago. The bow has fallen from the nerveless grasp of the generous
chieftain. The princess may still be alive; if so, and if her eyes by
chance should fall upon these lines, she will, no doubt, remember the
bashful and ungallant young man who met her in front of her royal
father's mansion in the beautiful Umatilla Valley in 1852.

On the morning of the fifth day after our arrival in the beautiful and
fertile valley of the Umatilla we resumed our journey. Our first point
of destination was The Dalles. There we replenished our nearly exhausted
stock of provisions. From thence, our first camp was at the eastern base
of the Cascade Mountains. We passed over this rugged and
densely-timbered range by the Barlow Route. In addition to the stillness
of the solemn and continuous woods, and the majestic splendor of the
amphitheatre of surrounding mountains, there is the steep descent at
once of Laurel Hill from a summit plateau to the valley of the Sandy
River below. While it involves some sacrifice of truth to call this the
descent of a hill, it requires a greater poetic imagination, from the
few stunted Madronas, not laurels, standing on the western rim, of this
summit table-land, to call the place Laurel Hill. I saw wagons with
their household goods and gods descend this so-called hill. None but
pioneers on whose brow and face sunshine and storm had stamped their
heraldic honors, who had swam cold and turbulent mountain streams, had
passed down steep, rocky and dangerous canyons, and had crossed
treacherous streams of quicksand, would ever have attempted this
descent. To such seasoned veterans, impossibilities had a constantly
diminishing radius. With a steady yoke of oxen--or a true and biddable
span of horses--with a long and strong rope fastened to the hind
axle-tree of the wagon and wound around some contiguous tree and
gradually loosened, the wagons were safely let down these rough and
almost perpendicular descents. My information is that no wagons pass
over this road now. It answers for a bridle-path and pack-trail, and no
more. Old Mount Hood, along whose southern base we passed, stood forth
in her imperial grandeur. The waters of the Columbia wash her northern
base and the southern base of Mount Adams, her sister peak. A huge
rock-ribbed canyon, at the bottom of which rolls the Oregon, separates
the two.

An interesting Indian tradition connected with these mountains has a
narrow yet substantial footing in fact, but a broader, more airy and
more poetic foundation in myth. It runs thus:

Prior to the tremendous conflict and convulsions mentioned herein, the
waters of the Columbia and of its many tributaries were confined in the
great basin east of the Cascade Mountains. They had no outlet to the
ocean. Mount Hood and Mount Adams had for ages been friends; but in
process of time they became estranged. That estrangement deepened in
intensity until it culminated in a tremendous conflict. They hurled
giant boulders at each other. From their tops they sent against one
another huge and flaming volumes of fire and molten lava. In their
herculean and supreme efforts for victory they tore asunder the
mountains and let the long-accumulated waters of the upper basin rush
downward to the ocean. Thus, was their separation made final and
irrevocable.

It is not in the line of this narrative to marshal the reasons for, or
against the probability, or improbability, of Indian legends. If I
should depart from this rule in this instance, I would say that the
similarity of the rocks on both sides of the great Columbia River gorge;
the presence of submarine shells embedded in the great eastern basin, as
well as the formation of its converging ridges, and the character of its
soil, lend a certain tinge of verification to a portion of this legend.
The other portion may be taken as a poetic description of volcanic
action, with an attendant earthquake or seismic convulsion of great
intensity, and of tremendous force.

From this speculation, let us return to more solid ground. There are two
rivers heading near the same point, in the marshes and the highest
tableland of the Cascade Mountains. The waters of the one, flow eastward
and find the Columbia by a tortuous course east of the mountains; the
waters of the other, flow westward and empty in the Columbia above the
mouth of the Willamette. The Barlow Road is located on the northern side
of this depression, or break in the mountains. Let this brief, and
imperfect geographic statement serve as an introduction to the following
incident:

Late in the fall of 1847 a large ox-train, with many loose cattle,
attempted the ascent of the mountains by the eastern river, but were
finally blockaded by the constantly-increasing depth of snow. There
were many women and children, as well as stalwart men, in the train. The
situation was perilous, threatening great suffering, and the possibility
of starvation; hence, two men were deputed to cross the intervening
snow-fields to the Willamette Valley for assistance. R. and B. were the
men chosen for the difficult task; and with both of them I subsequently
became well acquainted. Equipped with snow-shoes, they successfully
passed over the summit's ridges to the desolate base of old Mt. Hood.
Here they were enveloped in a dense fog--that most fearful of all
calamities to a man in unknown woods, or mountains. Even to the
experienced hunter or trapper, familiar with the topography of a
mountain range, or a dense forest, the coming-in or settling-down of a
fog envelopment, is viewed with apprehension, and alarm. A fog
obliterates all the landmarks. Darkness has different shades of
blackness;--the depth before you has an intensified blackness; the
shadow of a mountain peak makes its huge column, or wooded side still
darker. R. and B. became bewildered in the continuous fog. Their
provisions were exhausted, and they were subsisting on snails. R. was
six feet and well proportioned--brawny and enured to toil; B. was
smaller and of a more delicate constitution. R. was a pronounced
skeptic; B. was a man of faith and inclined to look for safety to a
higher power when immediate danger was impending: hence, while R. was
eagerly hunting for food, B. was engaged in prayer. One day, deep down
under the snow, R. found the slimy trail of a snail; it led directly
under B.'s knee. R. pushed B. aside, saying: "Get out of my way--I am
nearly frantic for that snail." The game was soon captured, and R.
generously divided it with his starving companion. At the conclusion of
their scanty feast, B. said to R.: "You are much stronger than I am, and
you will probably survive me: now, if I die, what will you do with me?"
"Eat you, sir: eat you!" was the emphatic reply. B., in his subsequent
narration of the incident, said that the idea was so abhorrent to him
that it nerved him up until their escape was made. The families were
rescued, and they came down the Columbia River to the Willamette Valley,
while most of the stock was left on good pasturage east of the
mountains. R. and B. have long since been gathered to their fathers.
Their trials, difficulties and dangers are over. May they rest in peace!

Crossing the Sandy we arrived at Foster's, situated at the west end of
the Barlow Road and at the western base of the Cascade Mountains. We
were now in the great Willamette Valley. What a change presented itself!
Here were green fields, meadows and pasturage lands. The breezes were
moist and balmy. For over three months we had been crossing over
scorched and desolate plains, encountering quite a number of sunburnt,
treeless and waterless deserts. In this valley vegetation of all kinds
was luxuriant and the smaller fruits abundant. For over three months we
had eaten no vegetable food, and we never before so warmly appreciated
the beauty and poetry of beets, onions, cabbages, potatoes and carrots.
I remained in the vicinity of Foster's for four days. On the evening of
the fourth day a rancher by the name of Baker, who lived on the
Clearwater offered me employment. He had let in the sunlight on about
ten acres of very fertile soil in the dense forest. This he cultivated
in vegetables. He took a canoe-load every day to Oregon City, distant
about five miles by his water route. My business was to prepare these
vegetables for transportation, for which I received five dollars per
day; but one morning he set me to rail making and after working a day at
it I struck. He was much amused at my rail making performance. He asked
me if I could shoot well; I answered that that was just to my hand. So
the next day we took our rifles and went up the creek-bottom and found
deer very plentiful. I shot two fine bucks while they were bounding
away, and Baker was much pleased by my ability in this line; so he
offered me six dollars a day for every day that I would furnish him, on
the bank of the creek, two deer. I successfully did this for ten days,
when, the game becoming somewhat scarce in that vicinity, he wanted me
to go out some six or seven miles into the foothills of the mountains.
This proposition carried with it so much loneliness and isolation, that
it was declined.

While wandering through the valley of the Clearwater and the adjacent
hills, I was much struck with the wonders of petrification. I saw huge
fir-logs, petrified. I can never think of what I then saw without
recalling a story which I heard while delegate to Congress, and at
Washington City. Congress always makes liberal appropriations for the
investigation of the flora and fauna, and the mineral indications, as
well as the water supply or rainfall, in the territories, and in the
desert portions of the United States. Rugged old Ben Wade, while a
Senator from Ohio, always opposed these appropriations as a waste of the
people's money in what he styled, bug-hunting expeditions. Two
scientists, eminent for their learning, and known as Major Hayden and
Captain Powell, were usually employed in these explorations. The Major
was said to be something of a martinet, while the Captain was an
excellent judge of human nature, and had plenty of what the Philosopher
Locke called "round-about common-sense." While on one of these
scientific exploring expeditions these two gentlemen were in the
mountains near Pike's Peak. That country abounds in fine specimens of
petrification. One day the Major met a company of miners, and related to
them the wonderful specimens of petrification seen by him that day. The
miners listened with eloquent, but I fear insincere, attention to the
Major's statement. When he had concluded, one of them said: "If you will
go with me, Major, to the other side of the ridge, I will show you a
specimen of petrification that discounts anything you have seen today."
The Major listened while the miner said, that at the base of a nearly
perpendicular wall of rock, extending upward several hundred feet, there
was an Indian with a rifle in his hand pointing at an angle upward
towards the rock; that both Indian and rifle were petrified; that the
smoke around the muzzle of the gun was petrified; and, what was more
wonderful, that a short distance from the muzzle of the gun a cougar was
petrified right in the air. The Major showed some uneasiness as the
story proceeded, and said at its conclusion: "I was inclined to believe
you when you began, but now I know you are lying." The miner softly put
his hand to his pistol, but, relenting, said: "You are a tenderfoot and
I forgive you; but why did you say I was lying?" "Because," said the
Major, "I know that the laws of gravitation would bring that cougar
down." "The laws of gravitation be damned," said the miner, "they were
petrified too."

I visited Oregon City with my friend, and observed the beautiful falls
of the Willamette and the waste of electrical and mechanical power.
Returning to his humble home, I bade him the next day a regretful
good-bye, and with my horses started for a point in Mill Creek Valley,
six or seven miles south of Salem, to the home of a friend with whom I
became acquainted on the plains. This friend had taken up a claim, and I
found him busily engaged in the erection of a building which might be
styled in architecture as a midway between a dwelling house and a cabin.
He had determined, as soon as this structure was completed, to go to the
mines in Southern Oregon. I also concluded to try my luck in digging for
gold. In the latter part of October, 1852, in company with two other
gentlemen, we started for the mines in Rogue River Valley, Southern
Oregon. The habitations in the Willamette Valley at that time were few
and far between. Large bands of Spanish cattle roamed over, and found
ample food in the upper portion of the valley. It was dangerous for a
footman to pass through that country. On horseback he was safe. But
little of interest occured on this trip. My friend claimed to be and he
was an expert rider. He had a large and powerful Spanish horse as his
riding animal. While in the Umpqua Valley he mounted this horse one
morning without saddle or bridle on a steep hill. The horse viciously
resented this breach of etiquette and plunged with stiff-legged vaults
downward and sideways on the steep incline, throwing his rider over his
head. The rider struck with his full weight and the momentum of the
horse's motion, on his right hand, throwing the small bones, to which
some of the muscles of the inner arm are attached, out of their sockets
at the base of the palm of the hand. The tendency was for these muscles
still further to contract--thus aggravating his injury. The nearest
doctor was fifty miles away. Upon examination, I concluded that these
small bones ought to be forced into their proper place, if possible,
before inflammation intervened. We accordingly placed the injured man
upon his back on the ground, and as the operation would be very painful,
the others held him securely while I forced these bones back into their
sockets. Then we bound the wrist tightly, so as to keep them in place.
When we arrived at the Doctor's he, after an examination, complimented
me highly for my surgical skill, and gave me credit for saving the wrist
of the injured man. On our way to the mines we passed through what is
known as the Canyon in the mountain-spur that separates the Umpqua
country from the Rogue River county. People now passing through this
canyon scarcely appreciate the difficulties attending the passage which
then existed. The canyon is formed by two streams, both heading in a
small pond or lake at the summit of the mountain; the one that flows
northward is called Canyon Creek. It was then crossed eighty-four times
by the road. The other stream flowed southward and was crossed by way of
the road over sixty times. In the rainy season, and especially when the
mountains were covered, or blockaded with snow, the passage was almost
impossible. The passage was strewn with the wrecks of wagons and the
bones of horses and mules. Subsequently, Congress made an appropriation
of $40,000 for a military road through this mountain gorge. This money
was faithfully expended by General Hooker. The distance through the
canyon is about nine miles. General Hooker built the military road on
the side of the mountain. In quite a number of places you can sit in
the stage and look down into a nearly perpendicular and sunless abyss
hundreds of feet in depth. Large sums of money have since been expended
by toll corporations, to keep this military road passable and in repair.

We arrived at Jacksonville, in Southern Oregon, in the first part of
November.

To a person who prior to that time had always been accustomed to a
different order of society, and who had never visited the mines in the
palmy days of California, a new social order was manifest. I state the
facts and the impression they made upon me as a tenderfoot; but I ought
to add that since that time, having become somewhat familiar with such
scenes, my moral sense has toughened, so that my ability to "endure" is
far greater now, than then, though my judgment as to the ultimate moral
result of such a social order has never changed.

There were in Jacksonville and its immediate vicinity from seven to
eight thousand men, possibly more. The coat as an article of dress had
fallen into "innocuous desuetude." Soft slouch hats were universally
worn. There were but a few women, and most of them not angelic. The
mines were rich, money was abundant, and gambling rampant. I ought not
to omit the dance-halls that pointed the lurid way to perdition. I said
that money was abundant; I do not mean by this that much United States
gold coin was in circulation. There was a five-dollar gold piece that
had its origin in Oregon. It was stamped on one side with the words
"United States of America," and on the reverse side with the impress of
a beaver; hence, it was called "beaver money." It was of the same size
of the minted half-eagle, but contained more of gold. The other piece
of money in circulation was octahedron in shape or form. It was stamped
on one side the same as the beaver money, and on the reverse side were
the words "Fifty Dollars." It contained more gold than the same weight
of minted coin; but the money used in nearly all transactions was gold
dust; hence, every merchant, saloonkeeper or gambler had his gold scales
at command. Gold dust had a standard value of sixteen dollars per ounce,
and purchases were paid for in gold dust. There was some silver in
circulation, but the lowest denomination was twenty-five cents. A drink
of milk, glass of beer or any other liquor, was twenty-five cents.
Sunday was partly a laundry day, but mostly a gala day. Mining ceased on
that day. All came to town to see the sights, to hear the news, to try
their luck at the gambling tables, or to purchase supplies for the
coming week. This day was a harvest day for the gambler, the
saloonkeeper, and the merchant. While there was a large quantity of
alcoholic beverages consumed, drunkennes was at a minimum. Nearly
everyone carried a pistol in his belt, and a sheath-knife in his boot.
Homicides were not frequent; this was due to the character possessed by
the great body of miners, who acted on the great law of honor, and to
the fact that to call a man a liar or to impeach the honor of his
origin, or to use towards him any epithet imputing dishonor, was to
invite the contents of a pistol into the accuser's physical economy. The
laws of chivalry and honor were the only laws obeyed in such matters.
This kind of society, rough and uncouth in its exterior, had a strong
basis in the nobler principles of a chivalric manhood. It had also a
poetic side, being composed principally of young men; it did not
suppress the finer impulses and feelings of their better nature. As an
illustration: there was located in the valley a family, consisting of
husband and wife and two children. They had quite a number of cows and
kept milk for sale. A large number of young men used to visit this
family every Sunday for the ostensible purpose of buying milk, when the
real purpose was to see someone who had the form, the purity and the
affection of a mother. When they left the humble abode of this mother,
they talked of their own mothers, of home and its sweet recollections.
The strong ligaments of a mother's love serves as a moral anchor to them
in the billowy storms of life, even far away from that mother.

Personal property of great value, such as gold in sluice boxes, though
unguarded, was perfectly secure. The sneak thief, the burglar and the
robber were conspicuous by their absence. Probably the certainty,
promptness and severity of the punishment deterred their visitation.

There were no churches in that mining town, and religious services were
infrequent. I remember one incident in this line: A Methodist minister,
by the name of Stratton, came over from California and notices were
posted that he would preach the next Sunday. There was a large building
in process of erection for a gambling-house on the opposite side of the
street from the principal gambling saloon. The roof was on this new
building and a large party of us, desiring to hear the Gospel again
preached, fitted up this hall with seats from the unused lumber. The
minister had a large audience, the seats were all filled and hundreds
stood on the outside of the building. He was an able and eloquent man
and presented the simple story of the Gospel in a very forcible and
earnest manner. When he had concluded his sermon, the contribution-box
was passed around and carried across the street to the gambling saloon,
and they all contributed liberally, some of them dropping into the box a
fifty-dollar gold piece. As soon as he had pronounced the benediction,
two mounted auctioneers, one desiring to sell a horse, the other a mule,
requested the audience to remain while they offered them bargains and
cried the virtues of these animals. Most of the audience did remain and
the bidding was quite spirited and animated; so you see that that
congregation had an opportunity to hear the Gospel, to buy a horse or a
mule, as each man's wants might demand.

Civil government had not been extended over that section of the country.
The only system they had was the Alcalde system. This was borrowed from
California, and by the Californians was borrowed from the mining
jurisprudence of Spain. Every mining community of any considerable size
had its Alcalde. He held his office by election, and his jurisdiction
swept over the entire field of jurisprudence. There was no appeal from
his judgments or decrees. Jacksonville and its mining community had such
an officer; his name was Rogers. I think he was a lawyer, but had long
since ceased to practice. He was a grey-headed and venerable-looking
man. He administered the unwritten and the unclassified law of justice
and equity as it appeared to him from the facts of each case heard by
him. His judgments and decrees were promptly enforced; but there came a
change. In the fall of '52 four men in the Willamette Valley formed
themselves into a co-partnership for mining purposes, and with their
horses and provisions went to Jackson Creek to try their fortune at
mining. At first they were not successful. Provisions running low, they
dispatched one of their number to the Willamette Valley with their
horses to bring in an ample supply of provisions for the
fast-approaching winter. This partner, sent on such a mission, became
acquainted on his trip with a blooming damsel who had just crossed the
plains. He made love to her; she reciprocated, and they were married.
The season had far advanced when the honeymoon was over. He brought,
however, on his delayed return an abundant supply of provisions. His
partners during his absence, had located some claims, opened them and
found them very rich. But on his return, while they accepted the
provisions, they denied to him all accounting, and refused to
acknowledge his interest in the new-found claims. He brought an action
before the Alcalde for an accounting and for the affirmation of his
interest in the claims. The Alcalde, after hearing and fully considering
the facts of the case, granted both of the petitions. Up to this time I
had had no employment in the case and had taken but a general interest
in it. The defeated parties called a miners' convention, whose declared
object was the election of a judge of appeals for that and other cases.
My connection with the case commenced at this point. I was employed by
the successful party before the Alcalde, and by others, to oppose this
movement. At the appointed time nearly all of the miners of Jackson
Creek and its vicinity assembled in convention at the appointed place.
The feeling for and against the proposition was quite intensified. After
the convention was organized I arose and with some trepidation addressed
the large crowd. I was listened to throughout with silent and respectful
attention. I took the position, first, that inasmuch as the machinery of
civil government had not as yet been extended over that district of the
country, the Alcalde system prevailed, and thousands upon thousands of
valuable properties had changed hands by virtue of the Alcalde judgments
and decrees and their enforcement, and the property rights of many were
dependent upon the validity and stability of such judgments and decrees,
all would be endangered by the proposed change; that his ministerial
officers might be subject to prosecution; that under such circumstances
we had better stand upon the records of the past,--records as old as the
institution of mining in the United States. I further argued that if we
attempted to complicate affairs by the election of a judge of appeals,
and possibly by the institution of other tribunals for the correction of
error, we turn a system simple in itself, and beneficent in its
operations in the past, into a complicated farce. I argued in favor of
the probability of the Legislature, when it extended its machinery of
civil government over that section of country, passing an act validating
the judgments and decrees or providing for a liberal mode and time for
an appeal from them. My last point, omitting others, was that this
movement had its origin in, and promotion by, the parties defeated in
the Alcalde's court. If they had the power to secure a determination in
favor of a court of appeals they certainly had power to elect the judge
of appeals; that as this would be the first case to be heard by him,
they certainly would not elect a judge who was not favorable to their
interests; and that it had the appearance to me of a court organized to
convict or to reverse. I pushed this point with every reason and every
illustration and consideration that I could command. I appealed in
conclusion to their native sense of justice and equity, and closed
after speaking a little over an hour. I was roundly applauded. My
opponent was what was known in the States as a pettifogger. I use this
term not opprobriously. He was an old miner and possessed the power of
rough-edged ridicule and philippics. He thought that the best way to
answer my argument was to annihilate me. His description of a beardless
tenderfoot coming all the way from Michigan to teach veteran miners what
they ought to do, or ought not to do was certainly amusing, if not
overdrawn by its exaggeration. He was frequently applauded by his side.
When he was through the voting commenced. The contending forces arrayed
themselves on each side of a line, with a space of four or five feet
between them. The pulling and hauling across the space was continuous.
After several efforts to make an accurate count, it was reported to the
President that there was a majority of from three to ten in favor of the
proposition. The next move was to select a judge of the court of
appeals. This was soon accomplished. The judge so elected notified the
parties of the time and place where the appeal was to be heard. At the
appointed time I appeared and filed a written protest and demurrer to
his jurisdiction. When I had finished reading them he promptly, and
without hearing the other party, overruled both protest and demurrer. He
heard the case anew and promptly reversed the judgment of the Alcalde. I
think this was the only case the judge of appeals ever heard. Nothing
but the dignity of the office remained. In after years I became well
acquainted with said judge, but I never mentioned the subject to him. A
more extended account of this affair is given in one of Bancroft's
histories of the coast. The record or papers filed by me in this case,
I have been informed, are in the archives of Jackson County.

Two incidents occurred late in the fall of '53 which as they are
somewhat historical in their character and results, may bear narration.
Rogue River Valley was unoccupied and afforded abundant pasturage for
horses and mules and horned cattle. Some enterprising fellow had just
pre-empted all of that portion of the valley west of Bear Creek, and
received stock for pasturage on that pre-empted domain, at so much per
head. Late in the fall, four fine American horses had been stolen from
this pasture. The theft was immediately attributed by the owners, and by
the keepers of the stock, to the Indians. A party of hot-headed fellows,
headed by the owners of the lost horses, went to the Indian Ranceree on
Rogue River and took four of its younger men as prisoners, or rather as
hostages--threatening to kill them if the stock was not delivered within
a week. The hostages were brought to Jacksonville and strictly confined
until the time should elapse. This action created great excitement among
the Indians, and to save the lives of their companions they hunted for
the lost animals in every direction, but could find no trace of them.
The Rogue River Indians gave it as their opinion that a band of Klamath
Indians but recently in Rogue River Valley, on a trading expedition, had
stolen the horses and driven them across the mountains to the Klamath
Lake country. The fatal day arrived and the horses were unfound; and the
determination was expressed by a large party of miners, reinforced by
the gambling element, to carry the threat into execution. One of the
Indians asked that he might talk to the whites before he was led out to
execution. His request, after some considerable opposition, was finally
granted. His speech was interpreted into English and ran, as far as I
remember it, about as follows: He said that neither himself nor his
companions had stolen the horses, and that they knew nothing about their
loss; that the white man did not claim that they stole the horses, but
they were to be killed because others had stolen the white man's horses,
and neither they nor their friends were able to deliver them up to the
white man; that the Indians had always treated the white man
kindly--when he was hungry they gave him something to eat--but the white
man had taken possession of their country, had driven the game far away
into the mountains, had decreased the number of fish in the rivers and
streams by muddying their waters, and had by the tramping of their
horses and cattle destroyed the Kamas and Kouse upon which they largely
subsisted and had entirely destroyed the grass and other seeds which
they gathered in large quantities for food; that he felt like one
wandering alone in the deep fog and dark timber on a mountain side, and
he heard the voice of the spirits of his fathers calling to him "be
quiet and brave; the Great Spirit will avenge you." He closed. Someone
moved that the punishment be mitigated to whipping. I protested against
any punishment at all, but voted for the mitigation. The motion carried;
the poor innocent Indians were led away to receive the punishment; but I
must say that the executioner of the sentence did not lay on the lash in
a severe and brutal manner. The Indians were told to go; and they stayed
not on the order of their going, but left with good speed. Such
unjustified acts are pregnant with trouble, and the Indian war followed
soon after.

There lies east of the southern portion of Rogue River
Valley a wide slope of land free from timber and ending at the rim of
the mountain, and beyond and easterly from which--there is a high
mountain table land--covered with fine green timber, among which sleep
verdant valleys whose arms extend like the radius of a star, in every
direction. Some of these valleys are wet and marshy, while others are
dry and produce a rich and abundant growth of bunch grass. There was a
large number of stock pastured in this section of country. Occasionally
a small band of the fattest and largest steers would mysteriously
disappear from this range. The number disappearing increased each
successive year. The cattle men became alarmed, and organized an armed
and mounted patrol to keep guard and watch over their stock. In the fall
of '51 it was reported that some five or six fine steers were missing
from their accustomed range. A search was immediately made and the trail
of the missing cattle discovered. It led over the rim into the mountain
basin or plateau, above referred to and across a marsh, now, and from
this circumstance, called Dead Indian Prairie, and up a narrow arm of
the prairie to a mountain culmination in a lonely spot, surrounded on
nearly all sides by a dense growth of tall chapparal brush. Here the
carcasses of the cattle, also the bodies of three Indians were found,
with all the indications that they had been recently killed. These
patrol men said that they also found the meat of the slaughtered cattle
on platforms, with a slow fire of hardwood still burning beneath them.
Thus the process of jerking preparatory to packing was in full
operation. They gave it as their opinion that the cattle had been stolen
by Klamath Indians, and that a party of predatory Modocs came upon them
a short time before the patrol men appeared, and, finding a good
opportunity to supply themselves with food, shot down the Klamaths; but
that before they could appropriate to themselves the booty, the whites
made their appearance and the Modocs hid away in the chapparal brush.
This theory was received by their employers as rational and
satisfactory. In '58 I visited this country for the first time--having
heard the story, I sought the spot where the tragedy occurred. There
were still the bleached bones of the cattle and the whitened skeletons
of three Indians. The platform was still standing, and the extinguished
brands of charcoal and the ashes, of the vine-maple fire still existed.

It was late in the afternoon. The sun was fast disappearing behind the
western hills. I hesitated for a moment whether to take a long route by
way of the narrow prairie to our camp, or to go down the brush-covered
mountain sides and thus cut off at least a mile of the distance. The
side of the mountain down which I determined to go, was said to be
infested with grizzly. I examined my rifle and pistol, to see if they
were in order and then with rapid strides commenced the descent. When
about half way down I heard a rustling in the brush to my left; I turned
and looked in that direction, and saw two large grizzlies on their
haunches attentively surveying me. My first thought was to shoot; but as
my rifle was a muzzle loader, I concluded that discretion was the better
part of valor, inasmuch as there were two of them--hence I stood quiet
till they dropped out of sight in the brush. I did not allow the grass
to grow much under my feet, as I dodged through the chapparal brush to
reach the prairie beyond. I am convinced that I could have killed one
of them, but what to do with his enraged mate, was the question. I
remember the answer of a young man, who, while hunting, came across a
grizzly probably in her own jungle, in about the same way. He was asked
why he did not shoot; his answer was, that it would be some honor for a
man to kill a full grown grizzly, but a far greater honor for a grizzly
to kill a man.

This great basin--circular in form and some eight miles in diameter--has
been visited by me in connection with hunting parties many times since.
It is, or was in former years the hunter's paradise; but I am informed
that the cattle men--the pre-emptor, and the homesteaders, and timber
monopolizers--have extended their dominion over the luxuriant
grass-producing prairies and the magnificent forests of pine, fir,
hemlock and larch, and have driven the game far back into the fastnesses
of the mountains. The Indian kills only to satisfy his wants and with
only imperfect instruments of destruction; he did not menace the entire
extinction of the beasts of the field and forest, hence game of every
kind existed and multiplied all around him; but to the white man, armed
with a repeating rifle, and fired with a devouring avarice their doom is
fixed. Nothing but the intervention of the strong arm of the law can
avert the decree of annihilation. Having alluded to this matter once
before in these sketches I will not pursue it further here.

Black-tail deer were abundant on this mountain plateau, and it did not
take long for a party of good shots to obtain all the venison desired.
We did not kill for the mere love of slaughter, but for food and for the
attendant excitement and recreation of hunting.

There roamed through these forests numerous small bands of elk; I say
small bands, for I have never seen them here in such large herds as I
have seen in the Coast and Olympic ranges of mountains. They seemed to
exist here in family groups, ranging in number from three to seven or
eight. I counted one group, however, numbering fifteen, in an exploring
expedition in the dark woods near the base of snow-crowned Mount
McLaughlin. I had a fine opportunity to shoot a good sized buck whose
head was crowned with large and fine antlers; but was so distant from
camp and the ground was so rough and difficult of access, that I
forebore, and seated myself on a rock to study their habits and to watch
their movements. These small bands were quite difficult to find, for the
elk is a great roamer, but with pluck and perseverance, and the
discomforts of sleeping on their trail perhaps for one night, we were
usually successful, unless the trail led into the impassable breaks in
the mountains.

The bear family was well represented in this mountain plateau. The
black, the brown, the cinnamon, the grizzly and what is known among
hunters as the mealy-nosed brown bear, were plentiful. This last species
of bear, if it be proper to call them a species, I have always thought
was a cross between the grizzly and the brown bear. His nose or muzzle
up to his eyes is nearly white. Like many crosses, he inherits all the
bad qualities of his progenitors, and seemingly, none of their good
qualities. In size he is between the grizzly and the brown bear. While
most of the species of the bear family will run on the approach of man,
unless one comes upon them suddenly in their patrimonial jungle, or a
female with her cubs, the mealy-nosed bear is inclined to stand his
ground, and to resent any crowding upon him. Doctor Livingston says, in
his Book of Travels in Africa, that if you come upon the lion in the
day time, he will face you and quietly look at you; and if you stand
still he will in a short time turn and look at you over his shoulder,
and then commence easily to move away, and when he thinks he is out of
sight he will bound off with accelerated speed. The mealy-nosed brown
bear acts very much in the same manner. Hunting parties sometimes have
with them a leash of trained bear-dogs, and they always close the hunt
in a chase for bruin. There is in this kind of sport a dash of danger,
that makes it all the more exciting.

Hunters, like poets, are born. Keenness of vision, presence of mind in
case of conflict or danger, together with steadiness of nerve, are the
essential characteristics of a true hunter. No practice or exercise can
fully supply these qualities. I could narrate many exciting and
dangerous conditions, or situations, arising from the want of some of
these qualities; but as the actors may be living, I omit them.

I am at liberty to narrate only my own acts and mistakes. I cannot omit
from these sketches the first grizzly killed by me. Myself and companion
were camping on Dead Indian Prairie, when we were informed that there
were some fresh elk-tracks near a large wet prairie some three miles
from our camp. We started out to hunt for these elks. We went up a
narrow prairie through which flowed a small brook to a larger prairie
through which this brook also flowed. The brook was fringed on each side
with a thick growth of willows from three to five rods in width. We
hitched our horses near the larger prairie, and my companion was to go
carefully through the timber on the right hand, while I was to cross the
brook and carefully scout the timber on the left hand. Shortly after I
had crossed the brook and got a good view of the prairie beyond, I saw a
large grizzly feeding near the outer line of the willows. He was some
sixty or seventy rods away. I considered for a moment, my plan of
action. I had left my pistol at the camp and had only my rifle and
hunting-knife. I kept in the timber out of sight until I got opposite to
him and probably about forty rods away. Grass on the prairie was tall,
and I concluded that as I only had one shot, I would get closer to him;
so I crawled through the grass towards him until I was possibly twenty
rods away. He commenced to act as though all was not right, and he stood
listening, reared upon his haunches, and snuffing the air. I began to
get a little nervous. I desired to get a shot at or near the butt of his
ear. While he was listening, however, he kept turning his head from me
and towards the willows. I concluded that I could strike his heart, and
quickly brought my rifle in position, and fired. He fell to the ground;
I arose to my feet and commenced to reload. My rifle was muzzle-tight,
and I had to carry in my pouch a bullet-starter. Having got the powder
in the gun and started the ball, just as I pulled the ramrod he arose to
his feet. As I was in plain view, he started directly for me. Casting my
eye around, I saw a hemlock tree, with pendent limbs, some thirty or
more rods away. I started for it with all the speed I possessed. As he
was running on a kind of circle hypothenuse, I could see that he was
rapidly closing the space between us. He was probably fifteen or twenty
feet from me when I dropped my rifle and leaped for the branches of the
tree. My aspirations were lofty just then. Had he come on, he might
possibly have gotten me, but I was soon out of his reach. He stopped to
grasp my rifle and shook it violently. It was a half-stocked rifle, and
he bit off a portion of the stock. He stayed around the tree some three
or four minutes licking his wound, which I subsequently found was less
than half an inch too high. It was a mortal shot, but did not produce
immediate death. He suddenly leaped to his feet and dashed off to a
thicket of chapparal some twelve or thirteen rods away. I descended from
the tree, found my rifle to be in an effective condition, rammed down
the ball, put on a cap and ran for a tree standing outside of the
chapparal brush--listened and looked; and I quickly saw him. He had run
into the forks of a felled tree and had all the appearance of life. I
fired at the butt of his ear, but he did not move. I reloaded and
carefully approached him and found him to be dead. He was poor, but was
estimated to weigh some two hundred and fifty or three hundred pounds.
We took his pelt, and after a good deal of persuasion and blindfolding
my riding-horse took it into camp.

Moral: no man has the right to hunt grizzly bear with a muzzle-loading
rifle and muzzle-tight at that.

I have several times since then, either alone or with a hunting
companion, met them, and with a Remington repeater found no difficulty
in commanding the situation.

The winter of 1852-'53 was distinguished for--so far as the memory of
the oldest inhabitants recalled--its unprecedented deep fall of snow.

Rogue River Valley is rimmed around on all sides by high ranges of
mountains. These mountain ranges were rendered impassable for pack
trains or other modes of transportation. The supply of provisions in the
mines grew less and less, until it was nearly exhausted. Flour and
beef, the staples of the miners' diet, went up to a dollar a pound and
more; salt was worth nearly its weight in gold. This was the result of a
corner, however. In these circumstances myself and three partners, who
had purchased some mining claims a considerable distance down Rogue
River, took our blankets, rifles and a scanty supply of provisions on
our backs and started for our claims. It was with some difficulty that
we were able to reach them. They were gulch claims, and if intelligently
worked under fair conditions of the weather would yield about an ounce a
day to each laborer. We commenced work on them, but the weather was so
inclement and the snow fall so continuous that we suspended. I ought to
have stated that there was quite a good log cabin on the claims. My
partners all claimed to be good hunters, but showed no disposition to
try or show their skill in that regard. I did all the hunting and
succeeded in keeping the camp quite well supplied with venison. I
finally tired of their masterly inactivity, and my strenuous work in
wallowing about in the snow.

I also ceased hunting. The provisions were soon exhausted. Nothing was
left but coffee and sugar, of which we had a fair supply. With a drink
of strong coffee well saturated with sugar, and jolly in spirit, we
treated the situation as a huge joke. We all started out for venison. I
saw nothing during the day, but frequently heard the report of the
rifles of my partners. Each shot was full of hope. We all returned quite
late in the evening, and the report of nothing killed was somewhat
dismaying. We made, however, a cup of strong coffee--told our best
stories, then rolled ourselves in our blankets to dream of home, and of
our father's house, where there was bread enough and to spare. We rose
early the next morning, taciturn and sad; not much conversation was
indulged in. Each, after his breakfast of coffee and sugar, took his own
course into the woods, while I had my accustomed ill luck of seeing no
game. I heard reports of my companions' rifles, but their echoes did not
carry with them much of faith, or hope. I returned quite late that
evening and found my companions all in the cabin. Things began to look
serious. We took our accustomed coffee and sugar, and soon retired to
our bunks to dream of tables loaded with provisions; but some fatality
always prevented us from reaching them. I was hungry, and while slowly
working my way through the snow to the cabin I looked anxiously for some
bird or squirrel that I might kill and eat. The next morning we held a
short consultation to determine whether it was better to leave, or to
make still further efforts to obtain provisions. In the afternoon of
that day I saw a large buck and three does in a clump of brush above me
on the mountain side. They were too far away for an effective shot--so I
slowly approached them. They saw me and were somewhat disturbed by my
presence. They could not go higher on account of the increasing depth of
snow. I was lying on the snow with my rifle in position, watching an
opportunity for a successful shot. All at once the buck left the clump
of brush and came plunging down the mountain side, attempting to pass me
some eight rods to my right. If I ever looked through the sights of a
rifle with a desperate determination, it was then. I fired when he was
nearly opposite me and he plunged headlong into the snow. I had struck
him fairly in the heart, and life was immediately extinct. I got to him
as soon as I could, after reloading my rifle, and cut out of his ham a
piece, which I ate while it was still warm. It had the same effect upon
me for a short time as a drink of strong brandy has upon an empty
stomach. I cut off the saddle, threw it over my shoulder, and started
for camp. It was in the dusk of the evening when I arrived. My partners
were there, and when they saw me coming said nothing, but with a fixed
gaze, as though to be certain of relief, fairly grabbed the saddle from
my shoulders, rushed into the cabin and began to roast and eat. The
roasting was not overdone. About midnight, for fear that wolf or cougar
might find the portion left on the mountain side, they took my trail to
where it was, and brought it in. We stayed about a week longer, but I
had no difficulty in killing an abundance of venison. I did the hunting;
my partners did the packing. On the last day of our stay I killed three
deer, and with the echo of my last shot, the ghost of starvation, which
I had imagined was standing on the clouds and pointing Willametteward,
disappeared in thin air.

Resting for two days, and in the meantime having received an offer for
our claims from a company mining on the bars of Rogue River, my partners
were anxious to accept the offer. I first opposed it, but finally
consented. My partners were not only tenderfeet, but they were subject
to periodic attacks of cold feet. I drew the bill of sale, and each
partner took his $250 in gold dust. It was an unwise transaction, for
the claims were worth much more. We all determined to go to the
Willamette Valley. When we arrived at the road we found that many
miners, especially of those living in the Umpqua, or Willamette Valley,
were returning home. The second night we stopped at what was called a
hotel, about four miles south of the mouth of the canyon. It rained hard
and continuously all of the second day of our journey, and we wallowed
through the slush, snow and water until about 11 o'clock p. m. before we
reached our stopping-place. The next morning early, twenty-five or
thirty of us were at the southern mouth of the canyon and on the creek
that flows south. We found it a dashing, foaming and roaring torrent,
but it had to be crossed; so eight of us, with strong poles in our
hands, standing in a line, elbow to elbow, moved slowly and in unison
through the tumbling waters. The worst, so far as that creek was
concerned, was over. The other crossings were made without so much
difficulty, or danger. It rained continuously all day. We arrived at the
little lake on the summit about noon. There we commenced the descent of
Canyon Creek proper. This has a larger, deeper and more furious current.
The first crossings were accomplished without much trouble or peril; but
as we descended the mountain its volume increased and its current became
so swift and strong, that we were compelled to make our way, the best we
could, on the steep mountain side. We crawled under logs and over logs,
and in dangerous places hung onto brush to steady us. I was among the
first to reach the hotel near midnight of that awful day, tired, wet and
hungry. We were now in a land of plenty, and although we paid a dollar
each for one meal of good, plain, solid food, we did not begrudge it.
The next day we made a camp in an old deserted shack in the valley and
remained there for about a week. The flood had swept away all the
ferry-boats on the South Umpqua, and there were no means to cross that
swollen and rapid river. The ropes, or cables still remained, however.
The owner of the ferry offered eight of us board, and a place to sleep
in his barn, if we would assist him in the construction or rather
digging out, of a canoe from a huge log which he had selected for that
purpose. We accepted his proposition, and experience soon showed that
most of those who had accepted his offer were quite good mechanics. One
of them, who was a wagon maker by trade, was elected as boss, and every
day, by the continuous stroke of ax, adz and other tools, that canoe
began to assume the shape and form of the real thing. It was full thirty
feet in length, and of several tons capacity. It might be classed a
giant in the canoe family. It was placed upon an extemporized sleigh,
and two yoke of oxen drew it to the river bank. The wire or rope
extending across the river being intact, the next day the builders of
this ark, or most of them, and the ferryman with his two sons, launched
it; and we having deposited our blankets in it, the owner, seated in the
stern, acted as captain, while two of the strongest men in the party
took hold of the rope and by a hand over hand motion, to keep it
straight in the current, thus attempted to work it across the river. But
when the stronger current was encountered, it became impossible to hold
it without filling it with water, and the command was given to let go.
It rapidly shot down stream, but the captain succeeded in steering it
into the willows on the side where we desired to land, though a
considerable distance below, and we all seized hold of the willows and
succeeded in making a landing. Had we gone down stream much further, we
might have been compelled to take an ocean voyage; but all is well that
ends well. The captain and his two sons thought that they could reach
the further shore by running diagonally across the current. We stood
upon the bank and watched the operation, and saw that it was successful.
I have stated probably with too much particularity this incident in
order to show something of the hardships, as well as joy, of pioneering.

The trip across the Umpqua Valley and down the Willamette was a
continuous wade through slush, and mud, and the steady downpour of the
garnered fatness of the clouds. I had for my companion a, seemingly,
intelligent man, but a pronounced pessimist, bordering on the
anarchistic type. His gloomy philosophy of life added a moral chill to
the prevailing dampness. I gladly bade him adieu in the hills south of
Salem, where I departed to the home of a friend. Safely arriving there,
I rested and recuperated for ten days. I had adopted the maxim, never to
pay board when I had the ability or capacity to earn it. I therefore
considered what it was best to do, and I determined to teach school for
a time, and then to return to Michigan. I drew up a simple article of
agreement and went up into the Waldo Hills--that country being settled
with families--to offer my services as a school-teacher. The prospect
proved to be not very encouraging, although I offered to teach a
three-months' school for five dollars a scholar, and board. Three-days'
effort secured but seven-and-a-half scholars. The afternoon of the third
day was an alternation of rain and snow. I stopped quite late in the
afternoon at the house of Mr. Waldo, the father of the late Hon. John B.
Waldo. I freely stated to him the object of my visit, and he promptly
told me that he did not care to subscribe. I stood for a time waiting
for the storm to abate somewhat, when he suddenly asked me what State I
came from; I answered "from Michigan." He said laughingly that they
wanted no more Michigan men, or men from the North to come to this
country, for they had already, by their presence, changed the climate.
After a moment I asked him from what state he came; he proudly answered,
"from Virginia, sir." I laughingly replied "that if we had any more
Virginians in this country I feared we would have neither schools, nor
churches, nor any other agency of civilization." He said to me: "Walk
into the house, and we will talk this matter over." We walked into the
house; and as Cervantes' work, containing the exploits of Don Quixote,
lay on the table, the conversation turned upon that. I was quite
familiar with the work, and its absurdity and wisdom, and we discussed
chivalry and its social aspect, as well as its system of land tenures,
together with Sancho's judgment after he became governor of the island,
and Don Quixote's profound maxims of government. By his invitation I
stayed all night. He said to me the next morning that as a matter of
courtesy, I should see certain friends whom he named, and that as there
would be a meeting held in the school-house, which was also used as a
church, he would have it publicly announced at that meeting, that school
would be opened by me at that place, one week from the following Monday.
I followed his advice, and at the appointed time there was quite a full
attendance of pupils. Mr. Waldo was somewhat eccentric, but in him was
embodied that principle of the Roman maxim, that true friendship is
everlasting.

I ought possibly to have stated that the first person that I called upon
in my educational venture was a baldheaded and sharp-visaged man, with a
family of five boys, the youngest of whom was over ten years of age. He
told me that his oldest son had been almost through arithmetic, and that
it would require some ability in a teacher to instruct him. I modestly
informed him that I thought I could do it; but my assurances did not
seem to satisfy him, and he only signed one-half of a scholar. During
our conversation he told me that he was a poet, that he had crossed the
plains in '45 and had written an account of the trip in poetry. He said
he would like to repeat a portion of that poem; but before he did so he
exacted from me a promise that I would give him an honest opinion of the
merits of his poem. He was a weird and skeleton-like man, and rising to
his feet, and with sundry gestures, repeated his poem to me. It was a
hard matter for me to keep a solemn aspect on my countenance during this
recitation. I only remember two lines:

  "The Soda Springs lay on our way--
  It makes good beer, I do say."

When he took his seat, I stated to him briefly some of the laws of
poetic composition, and then showed him how his lines failed to comply
with these laws; I added, however, by way of salving his feelings, that
genius knows no law, and was not to be judged by ordinary mortals. He
seemed a little nettled, and replied that he had repeated his poem to a
great many people, who were scholars and good judges of poetry, and that
they had pronounced it a fine performance. This ended the incident. Had
my judgment been given before he signed one-half a scholar, it would
probably have been one-tenth, or a still smaller proportion of a
scholar. His boys all attended school, however, and he personally urged
me to teach another quarter. On the last day of school, many of the
parents came in and paid me for my services, three hundred dollars, and
hired me for six-months' more teaching at the same price. I taught in
all about three years in that neighborhood.

My teaching career was in every way pleasant, and I have every reason to
feel proud of the positions of honor and trust attained by at least
three of my pupils, and by the general financial success and high moral
standing of all. Judge Bellinger, late of the United States District
Court of Oregon, was a pupil of mine for about a year. He was the son of
poor parents, and by sheer force of intellect and study pushed his way
to the front, and to the honorable position which he attained, and which
he held at the time of his death.

John B. Waldo, recently demised, was also a pupil of mine for about two
years. He was a sober, clear-headed, studious and somewhat taciturn boy,
quick to perceive and prompt to act. He became judge of the Supreme
Court of the State of Oregon for one term. His decisions are models of
clearness, and directness. In addition to his store of legal learning,
he probably knew more of the flora and fauna, of the mountains of Oregon
than any other man. He was not a man of robust constitution, and his
health was precarious. His death, in the prime of manhood, was deeply
mourned by all who knew him.

Our own honored Oregon Dunbar, was also a pupil of mine. He was a frank,
open-hearted boy, of determined will and intense application. He had
what the great law-writer Bishop calls a legal mind--a natural
perception of the relation of legal truths--and superior powers of
classification and generalization. He is eminently a fit man for the
position he holds on the Supreme Bench of Washington. Long may he
continue as a distinguished member of that Bench--and late may be his
return to Heaven!

With such a triumvirate of integrity, high legal attainments, and
judicial honor, a teacher may well feel proud. While it is the duty of
the teacher to aid and assist his pupils and to impart instruction in
the various branches taught, yet this is not his whole, or principal
mission. His higher and nobler mission is to arouse into action all the
latent forces and qualities of his pupil's nature and to inspire him
with a noble ambition to conquer in the arduous conflicts of life. If he
succeeds in the accomplishment of this, he has fully performed his
mission.

After I ceased to teach public school in Marion County, I became the
private tutor of the children of R., who was at the time Superintendent
of Indian Affairs for Oregon and Washington. I also became to some
extent his literary secretary. R., though not a learned man, had
business capacity of a high order. In religious matters he was an
agnostic, and he read more of Shakespeare than he did of the Bible. He
was a man of inflexible integrity, and a capable and faithful
administrative officer. He was much interested in Indian civilization,
and talked much of it. He was of the opinion that the system of most of
the churches was wrong in principle, and not fruitful in good results.
He maintained that the first move in this work of civilization was to
improve the physical condition of the Indian, and that the moral
improvement would come as a slow, but necessary consequence. Being full
of the subject, he concluded to call a council of the chiefs and the
principal head men of the various tribes under his jurisdiction, and to
impart to them his ideas in this behalf. The time was fixed, the place
named was the general council hall in the city of Salem, and notices
were sent out requesting their attendance. R., while he had a good
residence in town, usually spent most of his time upon his fine farm in
the country. At the appointed time he invited me to go with him to the
council and take notes of the proceedings. When we arrived at the
council chamber we found from fifty to seventy-five Indians seated on
the floor with their backs to the wall. After a general salutation, R.
took a seat on the rostrum and requested an Indian whom he knew to act
as interpreter. As the interpreter could not speak in the language of
the various tribes represented, the jargon was adopted as the mode of
communication--all the Indians understanding that. R. briefly stated to
them the object of the council, and then asked the question, "Did they
desire fine houses, fine horses and cattle, and plenty to eat and wear":
R. was a very emphatic man and spoke in short and positive sentences.
The Indian is a stoic, and if any emotion ever agitates him it is not
betrayed in his countenance. I was much interested in the interpreter.
He seemed to be full of his mission, and he imitated the tone of voice
and gestures of R. Having asked the question, R. himself emphatically
answered that all these things that he had mentioned, and which they
desired, were obtained by "work." He reminded them that many of them had
visited his fine house in the city, and had seen his fine furniture and
other things, and he asked: "How did I get these things?" He again
answered, "By work." Having concluded his short, emphatic and impulsive
speech, silence prevailed for a short time. Finally a chief arose and
with great deliberation adjusted his blanket about him; this being
accomplished, he spoke as follows: "We are very thankful for the good
talk of our father; we will consider it; we cannot answer now." He
suggested that one week from that time they would meet the good father
at that place and tell him their conclusions.

We afterwards learned that they appointed what we would call a
committee. That committee, in their investigations, when they found a
man engaged in some menial employment and roughly clad, followed him to
his house, found that it was a very humble abode, and was not filled
with fine things; then they followed up the merchant, who had many fine
things and wore good clothes, to his home, and they found a fine house
filled with fine furniture; they also applied the same test to the
saloon keeper. Neither the merchant nor the saloon keeper, according to
their views, worked at all. On our way home from the council chamber I
ventured to suggest to R. that most of the wealth of this world was in
the hands of men who organized, or directed labor or work, and but a
small pittance in the possession of those who actually performed the
labor. I gave as my judgment that the Indian had no conception of this
work of directing and organizing labor, and that he would not consider
it as work at all. At the appointed time for the answer, the spokesman
for the Indians narrated what I have briefly stated above, and announced
very plainly and flatly as their conclusion, that what the good father
had said was not true. R. was much disappointed at his failure to start
a general movement upward in the line of Indian civilization. I am of
the opinion that his feelings went farther and impinged on the domain of
actual disgust. The subject of Indian civilization fell, henceforward,
into innocuous desuetude.

Looking at the surface manifestations only, and not having the ability
to look deeper into that complex machine called society, we cannot be
astonished at the conclusion reached by the Indian committee.

While I had the honor to represent Washington Territory in Congress, and
by request of several members of the Committee on Indian Affairs with
whom I was acquainted, and while the bill reported by them was under
consideration and general debate was in order, I made a speech on Indian
civilization. I shall not reproduce that speech here, nor give an
extended synopsis of it. I commenced with the declaration that the
philosophy of an Indian's life was to put forth an act and to reap
immediately, the result of that act; that he threw a baited hook into
the water, and expected to obtain fish; that he sent an arrow or a
bullet on its fatal mission, and he expected game; that he did not plant
nor sow, because the time between planting or sowing, and reaping--the
gathering and enjoyment of the result of his work, was too distant; that
it requires the highest degree of civilization to do an act, or to make
an investment, the profits of which are not to be realized until the
lapse of considerable time: that this primary law inherent in an
Indian's philosophy of life is fundamental, and no system for his
civilization can disregard it. My next cardinal proposition was that
Indian tribes, if civilized at all, must be civilized along the lines of
their past history, habits and modes of life; that some tribes of
Indians subsist, and have subsisted for ages, on the products of ocean,
lake and river: that these are sometimes called fish Indians: that to
make appropriations to teach these Indians agriculture, or the
successful operation of the farm, is a wasteful expenditure of public
money; they are naturally sailors, and have carried the art of canoe
making and sailing to a high degree of perfection; their larger canoes
are models of symmetry, safety and strength; that in them they
fearlessly go out on the ocean a distance of 40 or 50 miles to obtain
halibut, codfish and fur seals. Let the Government, I said, if it
desires to civilize these Indians, build them a sailing-vessel of a
hundred tons or more capacity, and they will almost intuitively learn to
sail and manage it; it would act as a consort for their larger canoes
and as a storehouse for the profits of the sea taken or captured by
them; that with such a boat, the Neah Bay Indians, for instance, would
soon become self-supporting. My views had a respectful hearing, and
influenced to some extent the policy of the Government in that regard. A
large number of copies of this speech were sent by me to the people of
the Territory, and to all our Territorial papers; but none of these, so
far as I know, noticed it further than to say that I had made such a
speech. Copious extracts from it, containing its points, were published
in many of the Eastern papers, while two published it in full. There was
some discussion as to the soundness of my views, but generally they were
approved. So far as the Neah Bay Indians were concerned, the Government
did build a sailing-vessel of smaller dimensions, however, and many of
the Neah Bay Indians have like vessels of their own, and have become, to
a great extent, self-supporting and prosperous. The same policy in a
modified form, but in fact the development of the same idea, was adopted
by Rev. Wilbur, agent of the Yakima Indians; and these Indians, to a
great extent, have given up their nomadic mode of life; they have small
farms, and neat and comfortable houses; they have gardens, chickens and
a large accumulation of domestic animals about them. They are
prosperous, and slowly moving along the line to a higher civilization.

Civilization is a slow process. It takes all the forces, moral,
intellectual, educational and religious, now in successful operation, to
hold the world from falling back and to move it slowly, but surely
onward and upward, to a higher plane of civilization. While it is a
tedious and arduous, if not an impossible task, to make a white man, in
his habits and modes of life, out of an Indian, yet the descent of the
white man to the modes, habits of life and appearance of an Indian, is a
sadly speedy process.

In a trip I made to Colville, Washington, in 1856 there came into our
camp one day a person whom I supposed at first to be an Indian. He was
dressed in buckskin, ornamented with fringes and beads, with a blanket
over his shoulders; his hair was long and unkept, with no hat on his
head and his face bronzed like that of an Indian; and he was besmeared
across the forehead with red ochre, or some other kind of paint. I
should judge that he was 36 years of age. At first he refused to talk,
except in jargon; but after a while, when we were alone, he became more
communicative, and gave me something of his history. He spoke good
English. He claimed to be a graduate of one of the Eastern Colleges, and
I have no doubt his claim was true. He had gotten into some difficulty
in the States and had been living as an Indian for some eight years, or
more. To all appearances he was an Indian; he looked like an Indian and
acted like one. I was in his company for some three days, and when alone
he talked to me in good English; he said he loved this wild and nomadic
life, with its perfect freedom from the shams and hypocrisy of
so-called civilization. He said that the hills, the mountains with
their snow-crowned culminations, the dark woods, the silver thread of
the stream viewed from an elevated point and fringed with green as it
went leaping and rollicking to its ocean home, were to him an unwritten
poem, the rythm of which he enjoyed, and the lines of which he was
trying to interpret. He quoted to me from Byron the passage concerning
the pleasures of the pathless woods, and from Bryant:

  "Where rolls the Oregon,
  And hears no sound, save his own dashings."

On the evening of the third day he rode away in the continuous woods to
enjoy, I suppose, their poetry and solitude. This case illustrates the
facility of the descent, by even an educated white man, to the level of
an Indian; retaining, however, in his soul, still glowing, some of the
lights of civilization.

While I was stopping at R.'s I wrote a series of eight articles for The
Oregonian, showing the necessity of manufacturing crevices in the
country to hold the gold taken out of the gold mines, and also that
which was being brought in great abundance by its citizens from
California. These articles were used by The Oregonian, by my implied
assent, as editorials. The Oregonian was the leading opposition paper in
the Territory, with Silver-Gray Whig tendencies. The leading Democratic
paper was The Statesman, published at Salem, and owned and edited by Asa
Bush, who was a sharp, pungent, and effective editorial writer. "Tom
Drier," as the editor of The Oregonian was familiarly called, was an
editorial writer of considerable ability. Drier usually added some
introductory matter to my articles, and also some matter of
amplification, or illustration. It was to me a matter of interest, and
amusement, to note that the editor of The Statesman was always able to
point out to its readers the matter written by The Oregonian's "hired
man," and what was added by the editor. Bush did not know who wrote
these articles, nor did anybody else know except myself, R. and the
editor of The Oregonian. Bush spoke highly of these articles and
enforced, in editorials of his own, the logic and necessity of the
policy recommended by them. These articles had much to do with the
establishment of the first woolen mills in the State of Oregon. These
mills were built at Salem.

As the State of Washington is woefully lacking, so far as manufacturing
is concerned, I am tempted to recall, with a Seattle application, one of
the many facts embodied in the logic of those articles. Seattle has a
population of 250,000, we will say. It costs at least $7.00 each for the
feet clothing of such people for one year. This would give the sum of
$1,750,000 for boots and shoes alone. When we come to add to this the
value of the leather for harness-making, for belting and the other
purposes for which leather is used, we have over $2,000,000 taken
annually from the people of this city for leather, and its fabrics. The
absurdity of this thing appears when we consider that we have a great
abundance of hides, which are sold for a mere song, and are received
back in manufactured articles. Our forests are rich in tanning; in fact,
the raw materials of all kinds required are abundant. Any person by
giving serious consideration to the subject will soon be convinced of
its great importance, and the imperious necessity of action. As well
might we ship the logs cut in our forests to foreign countries, or the
Eastern States, to be manufactured into furniture, or finished lumber,
as to ship other raw materials away and receive their finished products
back, paying for them the increased price, resulting from the labor
performed upon them, and for the freight both ways. No country can stand
such a drainage, and prosper.

It was in the summer of 1855, if I remember correctly, that I was
nominated by an opposition convention to run as a candidate for the
Lower House of the Territorial Legislature in Oregon. I did not attend
the convention at which I was nominated, nor was I a delegate thereto.
At first I hesitated about the acceptance of the nomination; but urged
by my friends, I finally consented to run. The Territory as well as the
County, was largely Democratic. The platform announced three cardinal
principles: first, the most stringent regulation of the liquor traffic;
second, America for Americans; and thirdly, the curtailment of public
expenses and the cutting-down of salaries. The first and last of these
principles I heartily endorsed; the second, in the know-nothing sense,
and application, I was not in favor of; furthermore, I was opposed to
secret political societies. I favored an open field and a fair fight.
Having concluded to run, I went into the fight vigorously, and made
speeches in nearly all of the precincts in the County. My canvass
alarmed the Democrats, and they sent some of their best speakers after
me. I met them in joint debate at times, and at other times I, alone,
spoke. As the time approached for election, the excitement increased,
and public interest in the campaign was very much aroused. I won, during
the campaign, quite a reputation for a raconteur. A point illustrated
and enforced by an anecdote or story becomes an integral part of a man's
mental and moral constitution.

About the big bills, I told the story of the farmer who had a large
flock of chickens and an equally numerous flock of ducks. He fed them
with grain. He noticed that the ducks, on account of their larger and
broader bills, were able to get more than their share of the food, and
he came to the conclusion that in order to equalize matters, he must cut
down their bills. This was just what I told the people that we proposed
to do. One of the speakers sent out by the Democracy found fault with
every proposition announced by me, and I answered him by the narration
of the story of a friend who had not seen his quondam neighbor for many
months. He was so pleased at his return that he provided a feast for
him. Mine host had roast beef, roast mutton, roast pork and chickens. He
says to John Doe: "Shant I help your plate with some of this roast beef,
which is very juicy and fine?" "No," said John Doe. "I have come to the
conclusion that a man who eats beef becomes sluggish and stupid." "Then
shall I help you to some of the mutton?" "No," says Doe, "a man who eats
mutton becomes timid and cowardly." "Well," says mine host, "you will
certainly take some roast pork?" "No," says Doe, "a man who eats pork
becomes coarse and swinish." "Then you will take some of the roast
chicken?" "No," says Doe, "of all the creatures used by man for food,
the chicken is the most filthy in his diet of them all." Mine host,
being somewhat disgusted, called to his son Sam to go out to the barn
and get some eggs--"possibly this old fool would like to suck an egg or
two."

Just before election, tickets were scattered all over the County with my
name printed in every shape and form, and quite a number of these
tickets had printed on them "for representative, O. Jaques." The
canvassers refused to count for me the last named ticket, and this
defeated me. There was no other man running whose name in orthography,
or sound, resembled mine. Had these tickets been counted for me, they
would have elected me by a small majority. I was urged to contest the
election, but I refused to do it. My own opinion, as a lawyer, was that
probably the judgment of the canvassing board was right; at least there
was enough plausibility in its support to furnish an excuse to sustain
the position of the canvassing board.

Not being entirely satisfied with the climate and country, and being
desirous of visiting California and Mexico, before my return to
Michigan, I quite suddenly, in the fall of 1857, concluded to make a
start. What means I had were loaned out on demand notes. To my regret I
found my debtors unable to respond promptly. I concluded, however, to go
to Jackson County and there to await collections. I made the trip on
horseback and most of the time alone. Approaching Canonville late in the
afternoon one day I saw a lone horseman ahead of me, whose appearance
indicated that he was a traveler. I increased my speed and was soon
along side of him,--I said "How do you do, sir?" He turned a frowning
countenance towards me and snarlingly answered, "None of your business,
sir." I was not long in coming to the conclusion that possibly company
was not desired by him and especially my company; so I touched the spurs
to my horse and left him to his melancholy meditations. I might have
been wrong in my conclusion, and I must confess that I felt a good deal
as I suppose the fellow felt who was kicked out of the fourth-story
window: after gathering himself up and finding that his physical
economy, though somewhat bruised, was intact, he came, after deliberate
reflection, to the conclusion that possibly he was not wanted up there.

I stopped at a town in Jackson County, bearing the euphonious name of
Gasberg. I rested there for a couple of weeks. The people of that
settlement were contemplating the erection of a building for a high
school or seminary; and they offered me $150 a month to teach a
six-months' school. Mr. Culver, quite a wealthy gentleman, offered me an
additional $50 a month to keep his books posted, a work I could attend
to at night without interfering with the school. I concluded as I
probably would have to wait until spring for my collections, to accept
the offer. The district already had quite a good school-house. My
scholars were mostly young men and women, and I taught everything from
reading and spelling, up to and including algebra, and surveying. I
never had to do with a finer lot of pupils, and my position was in every
way agreeable to me. I ought possibly to state that my wife, then Miss
Lucinda Davenport, the only daughter of Dr. Davenport, attended that
school. This added to my other employments the delightsome one of
courting, and we were married on the first of January, 1858. Although we
have lived together for fifty years, we never have been reconciled yet,
because there never has been any occasion for a reconciliation.

At the close of the first term I contracted to teach for another term of
six months, as my roving disposition had dissolved into thin air. When
the second term was closed, I was appointed a Justice of the Peace of
that precinct, and I returned to the practice of law--occasionally
writing for the newspapers.

When the Civil War commenced, the editor of the principal paper in the
southern part of the state--The Sentinel--was a Secession sympathizer,
and he and the proprietor and publisher had a fight in which the editor
was seriously wounded. I was solicited by the publisher and a committee
of leading Union men to assume charge of the editorial department of the
paper. I did so, and wrote all the editorials in the paper for over
three years. The paper was a weekly, but at times, when the news was
stirring, it was published semi-weekly. The paper under my control
rapidly increased in circulation. The editorial work that I did while on
the paper secured me an offer, when I announced my intention to resume
the practice of law, from the Sacramento Union, then the leading paper
on the Pacific Coast, to become one of its editorial staff at a good
salary. I considered the proposition for quite a time; then concluded to
decline it. Had I accepted this offer, it would have changed the whole
course and direction of my life, and I probably would have continued in
that line of work to this day. It was while I was editor of The Sentinel
that a rumor was telegraphed to me that President Lincoln had been
assassinated. It came first merely as a rumor and I communicated it only
to a few persons, anxiously waiting to hear whether it was true or not.
Many of the good and patriotic citizens of all parties feared a riot. I
issued an extra, on the confirmation of the news, briefly stating the
facts of the assassination: and every store, business house and saloon
was immediately closed, and their doors draped in mourning. A meeting
was shortly called, and I was invited to deliver an oration on the
character and service of the lamented President. I was given three days
to prepare that address. The Methodist minister was also invited to
deliver an address on that occasion. The crowd was immense; no church
in town being large enough to hold it. My oration was published in The
Sentinel and other papers in the State and in some of the California
papers. I have a copy of that oration; but, as I give in full the
oration delivered by me in the City of Seattle on the death of President
Garfield a more recent occurrence, I have concluded to give only the
later address.

I ran for the Lower House of the Legislature in Jackson County and I was
fairly elected, but was counted out; not unjustly, I do not mean to say,
for on the face of the returns I was defeated by six votes. The County
was largely Democratic, and I ran as a Republican. I said that I was
fairly elected, because there was a contest in one of the precincts for
the office of Justice of the Peace; I was the contestant's attorney, and
he succeeded in his contest because he conclusively showed that thirteen
illegal votes were cast against him. To have thrown them out on a
contest would have elected me by seven majority. I refused to contest
the election, and the matter dropped. Subsequently I ran in that County
for the office of County Judge. After I took the field, the Democrats
became alarmed, and they withdrew the candidate nominated by them, in
convention, and placed in his stead a Mr. Duncan, one of the strongest
and most popular Democrats in the County. He beat me by sixteen votes.
The other Democratic candidates were elected by majorities ranging from
three hundred to four hundred.

At the time Mr. Harding was elected United States Senator for Oregon I
was without consultation, or being present, put in nomination for the
position, and I lacked only two votes of an election.

Thus, while I was a hard man to beat, I was always beaten, fairly, or
unfairly.

I was appointed Associate Justice of the Supreme Court of Washington
Territory in 1869. Less than a year afterwards, by unanimous
recommendation of the members of the Territorial Legislature, I was
appointed Chief Justice of that Court, and at the expiration of that
term was re-appointed Chief Justice. During this last term I was
nominated by the Republican party and elected Delegate to Congress. At
the expiration of that term I was renominated and re-elected.

To make an account of my official career complete, I ought to state that
I was a member of the Territorial Council (the equivalent of a State
Senate) of Washington for one term; also Mayor of the City of Seattle
for one term; and Regent of the Territorial University of Washington for
ten years, and Treasurer of the Board of Regents all of that time.

As a member of the Territorial "Council" I was appointed chairman of the
judiciary committee, and also chairman of the committee on education.
The work on these committees was almost continuous. It absorbed all of
my time for nearly every evening of the session.

The iniquitous gross earning tax law, as applied to railroads, was
repealed at this session. The vote on its repeal in the "Council" was
close--and if I were not a modest man--I would say, that I contributed
largely to its repeal. I made the only elaborate argument in the
"Council" against its unequal, unjust, inequitable and partial
provisions, discriminating in favor of centralized wealth and organized
power. It was a close and hard fight in the "Council" but repeal won.

The school system theretofore existing in the Territory, was radically
remodeled at this session of the Legislature. The bill as presented to
the committee was the work of a selected body of teachers. In a
legislative sense it was crude and in some of its provisions, intensely
radical. I, in fact, re-wrote the whole bill making its retained
provisions full and accurate--omitting surplus statements, and embodying
many new provisions. The bill thus remodeled passed the "Council" and
the "House," and its essential provisions remain the law of the State
today.

A few general observations may be allowable: Rare are the men who
possess in a high degree, constructive legislative ability. Every act of
legislation ought by clear and accurate provisions cover every element
of the subject matter stated in the title. As the act approaches this it
approaches perfection.

Any act of legislation laying the foundation of a system--such as the
school system and providing for its administration is a difficult task.
The human judgment is imperfect--and prescience is limited--hence any
approach to perfection in the system itself, or in its administrative
provisions, is a matter of evolution of slow growth--and of the survival
of the fittest. As time advances and light and knowledge increase, the
dead and useless branches are pruned off and the fit and vigorous remain
to blossom and bear fruit.

The effective and beneficial work of Delegate to Congress is in the
various departments of the Government, and in the various committees of
both houses of Congress. In a new country, rapidly filling up with
people, post-routes and post-offices must be provided. On the
established lines there is a constant and pushing demand for an increase
of service. When I was elected, the daily mail stopped at Tacoma, and
Seattle had only a weekly mail. One of my first efforts was to increase
this Seattle service to a daily mail. I had some difficulty in
accomplishing this object, because the postal authorities claimed that
the revenues of the Seattle office were not large enough to warrant such
increased service. I got it increased, however, to a daily service. I
had not so much difficulty in getting a daily service from Seattle to
Victoria and way-ports. Everybody on Puget Sound knows that Port
Discovery is about six miles west of Port Townsend. Port Discovery was a
milling town visited largely by foreign vessels and many American ships,
and a large volume of business was done there. There was a stage running
daily, from Port Townsend to Port Discovery and back, and it had only a
weekly service. I asked for a daily service, but it at first was
refused, and I notified the people interested of the result. A Mr.
Young, the manager of the Port Discovery Mills, stated to me in a letter
that, inasmuch as the Government was very poor and the people of Port
Discovery were rich, they, out of the abundance of their wealth, would
pay the additional cost, if I would secure the assent of the Government
to allow the contractor for the weekly service, to carry the mail daily.
I showed this letter to the Postmaster-General, and he, after reading
it, said: "Judge, I think the Government can stand the increased
expense, and those people shall have a daily mail;" and he ordered it.

A Delegate, in order to wisely and intelligently, as well as promptly,
discharge his duties, ought to be a lawyer, and well acquainted
especially with the land-laws of the United States and other laws
pertaining to Territories. He is constantly called upon to push
land-claims to patent, and in this respect he becomes the attorney,
without fee, of the people of the Territory. There is a large volume of
such business, and he must examine the papers in order to understand the
status of the case and to advance it for patent. Representatives from
the older States have but very little of such business to demand their
attention, and to consume their time.

When I was elected, I do not think there was a single lighthouse, or fog
signal, or foghorn, on the waters of Puget Sound, and I secured the
establishment of quite a number of them.

I forced the loosening of the grasp of the Northern Pacific Railroad
Company on large quantities of the public land, and I did much to secure
the passage of the law returning to purchasers one-half of the
double-minimum price ($2.50 per acre) paid by them, which was exacted on
the ground that the land so purchased was double in value by virtue of
its proximity to a railroad line. This is a brief and imperfect synopsis
of some of the results of my efforts as Delegate.

A Delegate has not even the unit of political power--a vote on any
measure; he can therefore form no combination to further friendly
legislation in the interest of his Territory. The Delegates from the
different Territories, however, were regarded as quite an influential
body of men, and were usually able, by scattering through the House, by
use of personal persuasion, by attendance before committees and
receiving favorable reports, to get a part, at least, of what they
desired for their Territories.

While a member of the House of Representatives I was much interested in
the study of its members and its mode of operation. The popular opinion
is that it is a calm and deliberative body. This is true as a general
rule; but there are times, and they are not infrequent, when the House
is anything else than a sedate and deliberative body of men.

General Benjamin F. Butler had a seat back of me, and frequently, when
he desired to speak, asked me to change seats with him for a time--my
seat being nearer to the Speaker of the House and a fine place wherein
to stand and from which to be distinctly heard. On one occasion it was
announced that Butler would deliver a speech on the financial question.
I offered him my seat for the purpose. The House was full. Butler was
cross-eyed and near-sighted. He commenced the delivery of his speech by
reading from a manuscript. Every eye was turned towards him. He always
commanded the attention of the House when he spoke. In the delivery of
his speech he had to keep his manuscript close to his face and to move
it to the right and to the left on account of his being cross-eyed. He
did not often speak from manuscript. This was his first attempt to do so
at that Congress. The spectacle was so novel that many members began to
laugh and to interrupt him by asking him questions. He threw the
manuscript on the desk, stepped out into a space nearly in front of the
Speaker, and gave the points of his speech without the aid of his
manuscript. He was frequently interrupted, especially by the Democrats;
and he suggested to me the idea of a lion at bay, shaking off and
striking at his opponents with caustic wit and scathing repartee. On
another occasion, a gentleman from Maryland, a large and portly man, who
was Chairman, I think, of the Committee of Foreign Affairs, arose to
introduce and briefly to explain the provisions of a bill reported from
his Committee. This gentleman was quite deaf, and like all deaf persons
spoke in a very low tone of voice; in fact, he could not be heard six
feet away from him; but he had, no doubt adopted Demosthenes' idea that
gestures were the levers of eloquence; and his arms would go up and down
and to the right and to the left, and his eyes sometimes rolled upward
and then downward to the floor. Someone cried out: "Is this a pantomime
performance, or a public speech?" Then others gathered around him, and
all kinds of remarks were made concerning the performance. The Speaker
finally compelled the Members to take their seats; whereupon the Member
ceased his motions, and probably his speech, and resumed his seat. This
gentleman came to Congress with a great reputation as an orator.
Probably he had been such in former years, but his deafness had
destroyed his powers in that regard.

I was in the House at the time that James G. Blaine, then a prominent
candidate for the Republican nomination for President, annihilated J.
Proctor Knott, who was Chairman of the Committee on the Judiciary. A
report had been made by that Committee on a matter referred to it; it
seriously reflected on Blaine's honor and integrity as a man and as a
member of the House of Representatives. It seems to have been the intent
of the majority of the Committee who joined in the report, and who were
all Democrats, not to bring up the report for hearing, but to let it
stand as damaging evidence against Mr. Blaine, in order to prevent his
nomination, or to defeat his election, if nominated. Blaine and his
friends determined to expose its animus and falsity on the floor of the
House, so that the refutation would go with the charge. To make this
vindication, however, it was necessary for Blaine to obtain the floor;
this would be opposed and was opposed. In the parliamentary conflict
for the floor which ensued, Blaine's superior knowledge and tact
succeeded, and he was recognized by the Speaker. I never saw a more
forlorn look of disappointment, and of sullen resignation, than that
manifested in the countenances of many of his opponents, when the
Speaker announced that the gentleman from Maine was entitled to the
floor. Blaine was pale, and all aflame with indignation. His voice,
although at first a little tremulous, soon became clear and ringing. His
sentences were compact and parliamentary. He accused that great
Committee of darkening its former reputation by making a report for
political purposes. He further accused them of the deliberate
suppression of evidence that completely exonerated him, he drew from his
pocket a certified copy of such suppressed evidence, read it to the
House, and waved it in triumph amid the uproarious applause of his
Republican colleagues, and of many Democrats. He spoke in this vein for
about thirty minutes. When he closed, his friends were joyous, and his
enemies dismayed. Among the first, personally to congratulate him, was
Ben Hill of Georgia, a distinguished member of the then extinct
Confederate Congress.

A ludicrous scene occurred in the House, when the bill making a large
appropriation for the re-building of the various edifices formerly
constituting William and Mary's College, in the State of Virginia, came
up for consideration. These buildings were alternately in the possession
of the Union and Confederate forces during the war, and were destroyed
by fire while the Union forces were in possession of the ground upon
which they stood. Most of the members of the Democratic party favored
this bill. A few opposed it. The Republican members generally opposed
the appropriation, but there were some who favored it. It was
understood that when the bill came up for final passage, but one speech
would be made in its favor, and that was to be made by Mr. Loring, of
Massachusetts, a Republican. Mr. Loring had a national reputation for
finished and eloquent orations. When the time arrived the House and
galleries were full. Mr. Loring arose and partly read from a manuscript
his great oration. He stated in a clear and comprehensive manner what
the laws of war formerly were, and how they had been modified by the
generous principles of Christianity and of civilization. He stated that
now as recognized by every Christian and civilized nation, churches,
hospitals, institutions of learning and other eleemosynary institutions
were exempt from the ravages of war. He spoke in eloquent terms of the
sacred walls within which poets, philosophers, statesmen, lawyers, great
divines and warriors, if not born, received their inspiration and were
qualified for their grand missions. He was listened to, throughout, with
breathless attention. When he closed, at the expiration of a little over
an hour, he was greatly applauded. I thought it the finest oration I had
ever had the pleasure of hearing. The Republicans were anxious to break
the magnetic spell of his oratory, and to get a little time for the
sober second thought, of the members to assert itself. Conger, of
Michigan, had the ability to crowd more sarcasm, wit and scathing
repartee into the same length of time than any other member of the
House, and he was chosen by the Republicans to break the magnetic spell
of Loring's great speech. He arose, and after complimenting the
honorable gentleman from Massachusetts on his great effort, stated that
some of the buildings constituting the College, while in the possession
of the Rebel forces, were used as stables for their horses, that their
floors were covered with excrement of such animals, that other buildings
were used as hospitals for the sick and wounded, and that their walls
were besmeared with blood and filth; and he sneeringly remarked, that
these were the sacred walls that so inspired the eloquence of the
honorable gentleman from Massachusetts. After indulging in other bitter
declarations of the same character, he ceased--having spoken for about
thirty minutes. The Virginia members were very much excited. One of
their number, by the name of Good, arose to reply to Conger. Good
possessed the ability to open his mouth and, without seeming effort or
preparation, to pour forth a volume of sweetened wind or a volume of
scathing philippics. He denounced the honorable gentleman from Michigan
for preaching a gospel of hate and vengeance, which had heretofore
well-nigh wrecked this glorious Government, which if persisted in, would
keep open the wounds and sores that under a more liberal and generous
spirit were fast healing. He indulged in more of this kind of
denunciation, and finally, in a supreme effort of indignation, consigned
the honorable gentleman from Michigan to ruined towers and castles and
crumbling walls, where he could be fanned by the damp and dismal wings
of bats, and listen to the hooting of owls, forever. Conger, who had not
resumed his seat, but stood calmly gazing at the honorable gentleman
from Virginia, exclaimed, with a piercing and ringing voice, "I hear
them--even now." This remark was received with roars of laughter, joined
in by Democrats as well as Republicans. Mr. Good tried to proceed; but
when he did so, someone would exclaim, "The owls are hooting again,"
and poor Good resumed his seat.

I have noticed that some pungent remark, or sarcastic repartee is often
more effective than a set speech. All remember Butler's reply to
"Sunset" Cox, when the former was frequently interrupting him. With a
motion of his hand over his bald head, he exclaimed to Cox: "Shoo, Fly!
don't bother me." It was taken from one of the popular songs of the day.
It hurt Cox's prestige and lessened to some extent his power. Cox was
physically a small man, and the application carried with it an
expression of contempt. Holman, of Indiana, on account of his objections
to all bills making appropriations of money, got the name of being "the
watchdog of the Treasury." Towards the end of his term an amendment was
offered in which a near relative was much interested. The familiar "I
object" was not heard, and the amendment went through with his support;
whereupon a member sitting near exclaimed:

  "'Tis sweet to hear the watchdog's honest bark
  Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near home."

In a more recent case, a gentleman from Indiana, in his indignation
against a gentleman from Illinois, called the Illinois member "an ass."
This was unparliamentary language, and the Indiana gentleman had to
apologize and to withdraw the remark. The gentleman from Illinois arose
and said he did not know what was the matter with him that he should
always so excite the ire of the gentleman from Indiana; the gentleman
from Indiana replied: "If you will inquire of some veterinary surgeon,
he can probably tell what is the matter with you." This was perfectly
parliamentary and a complete exterminator.

Many people suppose Congress to be an assemblage of orators. This is a
great mistake. In point of ability its members are eminently
respectable, and many of them distinguished in their particular line of
business, profession or thought. Most of the set speeches are delivered
from manuscript. The matter is well considered and in most cases clearly
stated; but the delivery is often dull, listless and without animation.
This is particularly true of speeches founded on a dreary array of facts
and statistics. While the logic of such facts or figures may be very
convincing, yet in the hands of most men their presentation is very
uninteresting. Few men can present statistics in an interesting and
captivating manner. Garfield must be considered as pre-eminent among
that class of men. I have heard him make a speech of over an hour in
length on financial questions in which he not only presented a
formidable array of statistics, but held his auditors spell-bound to its
conclusion. It may be said of the orators of the House that though they
are great advocates, they are not constructive statesmen; they are
orators and nothing more; they are good to show the reason for a
provision and skillful in their defense of it from attack. Conkling, one
of the most brilliant speakers in the Senate, although a member of that
distinguished body for many years, is not the author of any beneficial
act of legislation. The career of such a man will be brilliant, but it
will be brief. It is the constructive statesman who succeeds in writing
his name permanently in the legislative history of his country. Most of
the legislation benefiting the people, or putting their rights on deeper
or broader foundations, has originated with the silent workers in
either House of Congress.

To show the listless and inanimate manner in which some speeches, truly
great in their logic and in their facts, are delivered in the House, let
me state an incident. A gentleman from New York, who came to Congress
with an established reputation as a public man, arose to address the
House on the necessity of a more liberal and reciprocal trade-treaty and
tariff, with the Dominion of Canada. In the expectation that he would
address the House on the evening that was set for general debate, the
House was full when he arose, and every eye was turned towards him. He
read his address from manuscript. His voice was indistinct and it lacked
in volume. After reading two or three pages from the manuscript before
him, he seemed to be unable readily to decipher it--it having been
reduced to writing by his clerk. He halted, stumbled and misread
portions of it, and then re-read it to correct his mistakes. The members
commenced quietly to leave their seats and to retire to the cloak-rooms.
As he was a member of the Committee on Commerce, and had shown me many
favors, I took a vacant seat near him. When the chairman announced that
his time had expired, I arose and moved the chairman for the extension
of his time for twenty minutes. The chairman said he heard no objection,
and he extended the time of the gentleman from New York for twenty
minutes more. While on my feet I looked around and saw there were not
over eight members in the House, that they were all engaged in writing
at their desks, and that the chairman was reading a newspaper. The next
morning the speech appeared in the Congressional Record, and every one
spoke of it as a very fine argument in favor of the policy advocated by
him.

My judicial career may be briefly stated. My district was the Third. It
was bounded on the south by the southern boundary of Pierce and Kitsap
Counties; on the east by the dividing ridge of the Cascade Mountains; on
the north by the northern line of the Territory, which was the
International boundary line; and on the west by the Pacific Ocean. I
held two terms of Court annually at Seattle, Port Townsend, and
Steilacoom. There was quite a volume of admiralty business. This was
attended to whenever it arose, in term-time and out of term-time, in
order to meet the convenience of suitors. No appeal was ever taken from
my decrees in this class of business. I made it a point to clear the
docket of all accumulated cases at each term. Homicides were quite
frequent in the district, and I rarely held a term of Court without

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/35992