Class PS.„ax^ CoipghiN'' 14-£lSL COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. ^A FIVE OREGON POETS 1. Joaquin Miller. 2. James G. Clark. 3. Sam. L. Simpson. 4. Edwin Markham. 5. Mrs, Ella Higginson. Oregon Literature JOHN B. HORNER, A.M., Litt. D. PROFESSOR OF HISTORY AND LATIN IN THE STATE AGRICULTURAL COLLEGE OF OREGON. Take the wings Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon . . . Bryant ; Thanatopsis. SECOND EDITION. PORTLAND, OREGON: THE J. K. GILL CO. 1902 llTHV'tieRAHV OF CU»S* Cl^XXr No. COPY B Copyright, 1902, by John B, Horner STATESMAN- JOB OFFICE PRINT SAI'EM, ORECiON INTRODUCTORY TO A FRIEND. "WJiaf is a hook? "Let affection, tell; A tongue to speak for those ivJio absent dwell, A language tittered to the eye Which envious distance woidd in vain deny. "Formed to convey like an electric chain The mystic Jlitslus, llic lightning of tlir brain, And thrill at once to its remotest link Ttie throb of passion by the printer's ink." John Burnett. Corvallis, July 7, 1899. PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION The men and women who made Oregon have already produced more genuine literature than did the Thirteen Colonies prior to the American Revolution. A remark- able people— the extract of the greatest nations— had possessed and planted the new land. They gave to the West their best thoughts ; and these thoughts more than any other influence shapf^d the lives, moulded the char- acter and determined the future of the present popula- tion. Therefore, these sentiments appeal to us, for they have been woven into our being. They are common property, bequeathed for the inspiration, enjoyment and edification of promising children and busy men and women. Hence it is patriotic and proper to familiarize ourselves with these sturdy Oregon thoughts, clothed .sometimes plainly, but yet in the best garb that plain men and M'omen could give them. However, beyond a crude and imperfect collection of excerpts from the writings of these people, published a few years ago by the authoi- of this volume, no attempt has been made to place before the public any* exhibit of their literature. The ready sale that attended the first edition, and the demand that apparently exists for a more pretentious work on the subject, occasioned the present publication. In this new edition the scope of work has been so in- creased as to include contributions from gifted writers who have more recently come into prominence on ac- count of use of choice English as it is spoken and written in the extreme "West. But be it said that the interesting task of selecting nuggets amidst a Klondyke of literary gems was somewhat ineumliered with the con- stant fear that in the delis'htful search many of the most valuable specimens may have been overlooked. Bearing this in mind, the author believes that enough have been gathered and are here presented to convince the reader that in the realm of literature, no state so young as Oregon has done better. J. B. H. Oregon Literature Long ago the scholars of the East passed the lamp of learning from Rome to England, and from England westward to Boston, the front door of America. From Boston the lamp lighted the way of the pioneer across mountain chains, mighty rivers, and far-reaching plains, till the radiance of its beams skirted the golden shores of onr majestic ocean. Then it was that the song of the poet and the wisdom of the sage for the first time blended in beautiful harmony with the songs of the robin, the lark, and the linnet of our valleys. These symphonies tioated along on zephyrs richly laden with aromas fresh from field and flower and forest, and were wafted heaven- ward with the prayers of the pioneer to mingle forever in adoration to the God of the Land and the Sea. This was the origin and the beginning of Oregon literature. INFLUENCE OF PIONEER LIFE. A fearless people among savages, the Oregon pioneers surmounted every obstacle, for they had graduated from the hard training school of the plains, and had suffered severe discipline known 'only to the early settler. Hon. George H. Williams, Attorney-General of President Grant's Cabinet, said: "When the pioneers arrived here they found a land of marvelous beauty. They found extended prairies, with luxuriant verdure. They foiind grand and gloomy forests, majestic rivers, and moun- tains covered with eternal snow ; but they found no fi^iends to greet them, no homes to go to, nothing but the genial heavens and the generous earth to give them consolation and hope. I cannot tell how they lived; nor how they supplied their numerous wants of family 6 Oregon Literature life. All these things are mysteries to everyone, except- ing- to those who can give their solution from actual ex- perience. " But of this one thing be assured, under these trying circumstances, life with them grew to be real, earnest, and simple. They were fearless, yet God-fear- ing; no book save the Bible, Walker's Dictionary, Pilgrim's Progress, and a few others of like sort — solid books, solid thoughts, solid men— three elements that enter into substantial literature. Immigration steadily increased and the settlements gradually grew, so that all the woods and all the valleys became peopled. Only the bravest dared to undertake the long journey across the plains — for the plains, like the l)attlefield, develop character — and only the wisest and the strongest survived ; hence Oregon was early peopled with the strongest, the wisest and the bravest; the Romans of the new race. And while there may have been no Moses, no Caesar, no Cromwell among them, there was a generous distribution of men like Joe Meek, Gray the historian. United States Senator Nesmith, Governor Abernethy, General Joseph Lane, Governor Whiteaker, Doctor McLoughlin, and Applegate, Ihe sage of Yoncalla — men of warm heart, active brain, skillful hand, and sinewy arm. And the women were the daughters of the women who came in the Mayflower, and they were like unto them. They spun and they wove, and in any home might have been seen a Priscilla with her wheel and distaff as of old. And, although the legends of our Aldens and Priscillas remain as yet un- written and unsung, Oregon will some day raise up a Longfellow who will place these treasures among the classics of the age. INFLUENCE OF SCENERY. Critics tell us that literature is rather an image of the spiritual world than the physical— of the internal rather than the external — that mountains, lakes, and rivers are after all only its scenery and decorations, not its substance and essence. It is true that a man is not Influence of Scenery 7 destined to be a great poet merely because he lives at the foot of a great mountain — a Hood, a Jefferson, or a Shasta ; nor being a poet, that he will write better verse than others because he lives where he can hear the thund- ering of a mighty waterfall. "Switzerland is all moun- tains; yet like the Andes, or the Himalayas, or the Mountains of the Moon in Africa, it has produced no extraordinary poet." But, while mountains, rivers, and valleys do not create genius, no one can deny that they aid in developing it. Emerson tells us that "the charm- ing landscape he saw one morning is indubitably made up of some twenty or thirty farms. Milier owns this field, Lock that, and Manning the woodland beyond, but none of them owns the landscape. There is a property in the horizon which no man has but he whose eye can integrate all the parts— that is the poet." The poet, therefore, is the only millionaire able to own a landscape. Yet no man or woman with poetic impulse can entirely escape or resist the inspiring influence of towering peak or sweeping river. AA^ith a state bounded on the north by the Columl)ia, abutted on the east by boundless prairies and magnificent vista of distant mountain chain, guarded on the south by the lofty Siskiyous, bathed on the west by the sunset seas; with a state dotted here and there with everlasting snow-tipped peaks, sentinels of the world, bound together with stretching mountain system, bosomed with delightful valleys, tesselated with charm- ing traceries and glacier-fed streams of crystal that water the violets, daisies, and the witcheries of the low- land—ours is not the scenery that makes gladiators and bandits, but is the refining, elevating scenery with mild and gentle environment that day by day has worked its impress through the eye and mind and soul of dwellers in Oregon, and produced a literary beginning already made noteworthy by Miller, Markham, Simpson, Hig- ginson, Balch and many others. That the sweet nature and rich landscapes about us have done much to stimulate and fructify our literature, and that it will continue to advance the literary art to a higher s'ate of perfection, is made certain by a study of the thoughts and themes with which existing creations are ramified and inter- 8 Oregon Literature twined. It was the gentle flow of the Willamette that furnished Simpson with a theme that created one of the most delightful poems known to the language ; until he had stood on the banks antl heard the "lovely river softly calling to the sea" his mind must have remained without the inspiration necessary to produce the sweet lines of "Beautiful Willamette." Likewise in Higginson's ' ' Four-Leaf Clover, ' ' written within sight of a meadow, in Baker's "Ode to a Wave," written on the ocean beach, and in Miller's "Sierras," written with the Cascades in the background— the complete reliance of the author upon nature, not only for inspii-ation, but often for theme or thought, is clearly discernable. INFLUENCE OF SONG. Our pioneer fathers and mothers were a busy, active people, but they had their times for rest ; and during these restful hours they found nnich solace in song. The violin was their only piano. They listened to its melody and they danced to its notes; and those who did not think it wicked, sang with it. They did not all have time to read books, and curious as it may seem in this day of libraries, colleges and public schools, some of them did not even know how ; but all could sing, and they found time for this recreation; and they sang more in their homes and in their fields then than they do now. If at no other time, they sang on their way to and from labor; and every home became a sort of musical conservatory. They had traveled far, and reached their earthly Canaan; and now they were singing of the Canaan be- yond, drinking in the noetry that flowed like the milk and honey of the land that they had found. And it is probable that the men and the women and the children who sing the good songs, thrilling the world with their melodies, exert as great an influence in touch- ing the popular heart and in inspiring the nobler senti- ments of humanity as do the men and women who write the good songs; and the men and women who write the good S(mgs do as much to develop the nation as they who write the good laws. The singtn-s, therefore, are not far OREGON STATE SCHOOL SUPERINTENDENTS Syl. C. Simpson. Feb,, 1 873, to Sept., 874 L L Rowland. Sept.. 1874, to Sept., 1878 l' J Powell, Sept., 1 878, to Sept., 1 882 E B. McElroy, Sept., 1882. to Jan .1895 G. M. Irwin, Jan., 1 895, to Jan., 1 899 J. H. Ackerman, Jan., 1899. Influfvcr of Snncf 9 removed from the good laws of the country. In the days when there were no newspapers, nor magazines, and books were few, the Davids, the Homers, and the Alfreds went about singing patriotic odes to the people; and thus, through the art of song, patriotism became a part of the national life. This, however, was not the only influence wielded by the songs then as well as in later days. As' in the various ages of world history, minstrelsy and the composition and singing of ballads became an influence for revival or stimulation of literature ; so in our early pioneer days the unskilled voices of set:ler-folk in field or in home, mingling with the songs of the birds in neighboring wood, inspired in the mind thoughts that in the succeeding generation developed into a certain purity and sweetness, out of which a copious and lofty litera- ture is grown. In the days of the pioneer, every community had its singing school. In charge there was a professional sing- ing master, or a leader selected from the membership. For music they were restricted to old melodies found in "Carmina Sacra," the "New Lute of Zion," the "Har- mony," the "Triumph," the "Key Note," "Golden Wreath," the "Revivalist," and kindred collections long since out of print. Some of the best books were written in the old square-note system so the peopie could slowly spell their way through the music. Familiar among those airs were, "The Land of Canaan," "I Belong to the Band, Hallelujah," "Mary to the Saviour's Tomb," "Jesus Lover of My Soul," "The World Will Be on Fire," "I Want to Be an Angel," "There Is a Happy Land," "Happy Day," "Work for the Night is Com- ing," and scores of others, among which were the na- tional odes. Such gatherings— such music ! The singers always looked forward to the day when they could join in song. Sometimes the leader stumbled a little, for the singing was more spirited than classical ; but the songs were few, and the singers learned them well. Of the effect of these gatherings upon the subsequent life of Oregon there is no doubt. The songs . and the elevating associations mellowed men's hearts and set their thoughts to flowing in channels where poetry, music 10 Oregon Literature and the softer, sweeter side of human nature are ever present. Deep and wide they hiid the foundation upon which the future thought and liierature of tlie commun- ity was to he builded. THE CAMP MEETING. When Bryant wi'ote "The groves were God's first tempk^s, " he must have been thinking of the western ea]iip-meeting grounds, where men heard some of the richest eh^quence that has never been recorded in book or magazine. At a time when the camp meeting could not conflict with sowing and reaping, i>eople met and miijgled, and their hearts were mellowed by the divine message as they heard it preached from revelation and read it in the volume of nature. The preachers who in- terpreted these lessons were Fowler, Hines, Hill, Keu- noyer, Conner, Wilbur, Driver, EUedge, and others whose names hav(^ been recorded in the hearts of their fellow men. When a man fails to solve a difficult problem with his head he instinctively undertakes to solve it with his heart. Accordingly this was a season of hearl; culture especially helpful to these who had wrestled with the difficulties incident to settlement in a new country — such difficulties as no one but the immigrant, the pioneer, or the soldier, can fully understand. It was the great social and religious meeting plac(^ of the people, and it grew to be a part of pioneer life. But, in course of time, when the first settlers began to pass from the stage of action, open-air speaking and singing became less common, the camp meeting gradually came to be a place hallowed only in memory and in religious literature. The ancients who learned to worship the trees told us that eloquence is of the gods and the groves. With magnificent groves along our templed bids, it might seem that it would not have been difficult for the people to become druids. But ^he idea is not common to our soil, so we bavc cullivatcd sentiments and developed themes that are destined to flower out into a literature bearing the impress of the old-time camp-meeting eloquence. Influence of ilie Pulpit 11 PULPITEERS. j\Iueh wisdom and eloquence were voiced and penned by the pioneer pulpiteers, among whom were: Doctor Marcus Whitman, Father Eels, Wilson Blain, James H. Wilbur, Jason Lee, S. G. Irvine, Josiah L. Parrish, A. L. Lindsley, William Roberts, P. S. Knight, Thomas H. Pearne, Alvin F. Waller, Thomas Kendall, James Worth, George H. Atkinson, Gustavus rlines, Harvey K. Hines, Edward R. Geary, Bishop B. Wistar Morris, and Doctor T. L. Eliot; besides the visiting Bishops— Simp- son, Glosbrenner, Scott, Marvin, Weaver, Castle, Bow- man, Poster, and other great lights who always brought new tidings and gave fresh inspiration to pulpit oratory, in the science of sciences, the ology of ologies — theology. These intiuences have quickened the pulpit and given fresh inspiration to every form of literary effort, from the humblest essay in the public school to the crowning efforts in i)ai'liam(nitary, forensic, and sacred oratory. THE OLD-FASHIONED PREACHER. The old-fashioned preacher, who preaclnMl in church, school house, or home,wielded a powerful influence upon religious thought in the earlier days. One of these it may not be out of place to mention. Some one, somewhere, some day, it is not known v/hen, guided by a certain instinct which determines worth and discriminates between men, will look above and beyond schools and art and rich attire to find one of Nature's noblemen ; and then will sit down and write the life of Joab Powell, whose utterances were like those of Henry Clay — spoken for the occasion and not for the future. There are many who, on account of their individuality, rise so far above conventionalism that we forget their titles and think of them solely as men. We say Socrates, Virgil, Ossian, Milton, Demosthenes ; for no title can add lustre to their names. How refreshing would sound Rev. Peter, Dr. James, or Bishop John, of sacred lore. So in our land there have been those in whom we at once recognize and revere the man and not the title : as Roger 12 Orffjon Liifrafurr Williams, Lorenzo Dow, and Peter Cartwright, and, in the farther West, Father Newton and Joab Powell. These nntitled messengers carried the gospel of higher civilization when the traclv of the wagon and the iron horse was but the dim tjail of the Indian and the pioneer; and it now behooves the rising generation to repeat and record their words of wisdom ere all they have said will l)e effaced except some trite tale unworthy of a listening ear. THE BIBLE. In each wagon of the long immigrant trains that came into our valleys might have been found a certain book- plain .book — precious book — book of books— the Bible; and the most indifferent sometimes perused its pages. In England, John Bunyati read the Bible until his lan- guage grew to be the language of the Bible, as may be seen in the "Pilgrim's Progress," an allegory in which human thought arose on angelic wings and took on the robes of' Holy Writ. In Oregon a large majority of the people have been Bible-readers; and the ratio has been steadily increasing; hence the Bible element or Saxon element bids fair to grow in prominence with our people. Furthermore, the experience and the environments of our people tend to produce a growing demand for a language of sentiment and sense— the most practical vehicle of expi-ession employed in talking from the heart to a point. CLIMATIC INFLUENCE UPON LITERATURE. It is an indisputable fact that climate exerts an in- tiuenee upon literature, and there are these who believe they have already noticed marked indications of climatic influence upon what has been written in the various parts of the state; and they say that this difference will con- tinue to increase so that it will be more noticeable as the ye.'irs go by. It is known tliat in an extreme temperature the best intelh^ctual results are seldom attained. Human energies are exhausted in the effort to sustain life; hence M'e do CVunatic In/Jaoicc 13 not expect great hooks and intellectnal trinniphs to come from those who received their growth in the torrid or in the frigid zones. It also has been observed that climates in which it is too easy to obtain a livelihood impede intellectual progress. It has, therefore, been be- lieved that no stirring thought will come from the Fili- pinos or other people living near the equator. In these lands, they who have palaces leave them to live in groves, and enjoy gondolas, chariots, theaters, fashionable clubs, popular resor's, the racing circle, and the bull-fight ring; everything succumbs to pleasure, until pleasure becomes licentious— an influence which is never truly literary. Accordingly, we look to the more temperate climes for advanced literary achievement and human endeavor in its glory. Therefore, men have come to be- lieve that Oregon, which is centrally located as to mild- ness of temperature, will produce a superior literature; and it has been urged that since the state has two distinct climates, there will also be two distinct literatures. Of the Saxon motherland Taine said, "Thick clouds hover above, being fed by thick exhalations. They lazily turn their flanks, grow darlv, and descend in showers; oh, how easily." Is not that Western Oregon? The Saxons of Europe have left their climate to find a similar climate here. The West Oregonian should, therefore, possess many of the qualities which characterized the typical Saxon of old. This is no idle boast. The ocean side of Oregon is a foggy region with its somber scenes and low-hanging clouds, where moss is not uncommon, and the gray mists creep under a stratum of motionless vapor. While Eastern Oregon is a land of sunshine and lofty skies, where great gleaming bars of steel and silver and gold rest upon the mountain rim until, perchance they "are disturbed by 1 he bolts of Jove that come boom- ing over the heights into the valley below. The elements are suddenly quickened ; and the people have, instead of the genth^ shower that floats in on the heavy atmos]ihere of the sea coast, the drenching rain of the highland clouds that were torn loose by the thunder bolt and theirs waters spilled upon parching grain and thirsting herds; in the one the air is washed— purified by the gentle drizzling 14 Oregon Literature rain, in the other the air is drenched hy the swift sweep- ing thunder showers. Observe the effect of these climates upon the inlia])itants. Notice the growin^i: difference be- tween the sk)w, deliberate but measured tread of the one class and the f|uick s^ep of the other, as well as the habits of -thought of the two peoples. Then, there will always be as marked contrast between the literature of Eastern Oregon and Western Oregon as if the two localities were two states in different parts of the Union. Think of the humid atmosphere washed and kept pure by the AVelifoot rain— did rain, does rain, will rain; gentle rain; rain that comes like a huge joke, ever welcome, ever abundant, and never failing rain ; rain that shortens the days, lengthens the nights-, and houses the people, domesticating men who ordinarily grow wild and rough in the exhilarating sunshine of the higher altitudes. A heavy, languid, drowsy atmos- phere; hence slow thinkers; slow to plan, slow to decide, slow to act — a people not uidike the Raxons of old, with senses not so keen and quick, but with a will ever vigor- ous. There will be a certain earnestness, severe man- ners, grave inclinations, and manly dignity. The 'West- ern Oregonian will be domesticated per force of circum- stances; an indoor plant, a reader of books, a student of indoor ethics. The Eastern Oregonian will be an out- door plant; sallying out from beneath his roof to bathe in the summer sunshine and accustom himself to the severe atmosphere and draw his inspirations from the bold landscapes of the uplands— a brave man, a strenu- ous man, a cultured man — a man of the times. Inasmuch as the climate of Western Oregon is some- what tempei'ed by the Japan Current, the people who would be cut down untimely in a rugged climate like that of Eastern Oregon naturally seek to prolong life by taking advantage of the milder climate of Western Oregon. There will always be those who, upon finding the winter ioo severe in Eastern Oreg-on, will spend that season in Western Oregon. Besides, there will be a tendency to seek this region by those afflicted with pul- monary troubles. In Western Oregon there is an abundance of fruit; PIONEER COLLEGE AND UNIVERSITY PRESIDENTS 1. B. L. Arnold, Oregon Agricultural College, 1872 to 1891 : author of an unpublished text-book on Mental Philosophy. 2. Sidney H. Marsh, Pacific University, 1854 to 1879. 3. T. F. Campbell, Christian College, 1869 to 1882; author of "Know Thyself" and "Genesis of Power." 4. Thomas M. Gatch, Willamette University, 1860 to 1865, 1870 to 1879; Oregon Agiicultural College, 1897. 5. John W. Johnson, University of Oregon, 1876 to 1893 College Influence 15 but the supply of liiiic in the water, vegetables, milk, breadstiitfs and other classes of diet that neutralize the acid of the fruit is not so plentiful as in the alkaline rearions east of the Cascades. Since there is a certain lack of the principal bone-producing material, there is a noticeable tendency to premature decay of the teeth, which in a way will have an effect upon those physical functions which give tone to the system. While the acidity is less in Eastern Oregon, +here is more bone- making material; hence the tendency to develop larger bones— larger frame work for the body. Human off- spring brought up amidst the elements that prevail in Eastern Oregon will, therefore, be biafger; consequently more rugged. The people of Western Oregon will be constructed on a frame work of smaller bones ; they will, therefore, possess a more delicate nature — fine physique true enough, but they will not be so strong and sturdy, hence more sensitive to warm'h and cold and, on this account, more sensitive to feeling and sentiment. There promises to be a whole-souled air in the literature of Eastern Oregon, somewhat after the Dryden tvpe, while conservatism, finish, and fine feeling of the Pope s*^yle will characterize the literature of Western Oregon. COLLEGE INFLUENCE. College influence must not be overlooked in the study of literature. We are told that our national literature thrived only as the colleges of the Nation prospered. The best literature of our country is but the confluence of streams flowing ou^ of the fountain heads. Harvard, Yale, William and Mary, and other great colleges of the Nation. So in our state there was Columbia College, which graduallv develorted into the TTniversitv of Oresron, at Eugene, whence came Joaquin ]\Tiller. He may have written in the Sierras and sung: of their grandeur-, he may have bowed to the eastern muse; his harn strings may have vibrated with the songs of vine-clad Italy, yet he is an Oregon poet— simply a child away from home. Pacific University, like Jupiter, from whom sprung Minerva full grown and complete, sent out as her first 16 Oregon Literature graduate Harvey W. Scott, who has a national reputation as a journalist and critic. History tells us that Washington Irving was the first ambassador from the new world to the old — the tirst American writer to obtain recognition on the Continent. So Bethel College, now known only in history, was the first institution in our state to receive recognition from a great university in the mother country — Dr. L. L. Rowland, Fellow of the Royal Society of England, being a graduate of that institution. Philomath College, in 1869, sent out Rev. Louis A. Banks, D. D., who has written a score of volumes, oc- cupied some of the wealthiest pulpits in the Methodist Episcopal Church, and his sermons have l)een read probably by more people than the sermons of any other writer, except those of Doctor Talma ge. for some years past. Willamette University gave to the literary world the la^e Samuel L. Simpson, author of "The Beautiful Willamette"; and all of (mr other colleges have con- trilnited to the fast-flowing stream of our state literature. THE CHAUTAUQUA. Along with these must not be forgotten the influence of the larges^^ Oregon literary institution — The Willam- ette Valley Chautauqua of Gladstone Park. This college of liberal arts has already inu^orted more light from the East, developed more talent in the AVest, and given in- struction to a greater number of students in the things with which busy, active men have to think and to do than has any other influence in the state ; second only to this institution is the Chautauqua at Ashland. INFLUENCE OF NEWSPAPERS AND MAGAZINES. The pioneers well remember the time when the news- paper came in the semi-annual mail and was eagerly read. The old folks at home, then the war and other topics of importance were subjects anxiously sought in newspapers; while Harpers', Leslie's, and the more ex- PIONEER JOURNALISTS OF OREGON 1. Asahel Bush, 1851, founder of the Statesman. Salem, first issue March 21. 1851. 2. Col. W. G. T'Vault, 1 843, .'first editor of the Spectator, issued at Oregon City, February 5, 1846, the first paper west of the Missouri river. 5, Thomas J. Dryer, 1850, founder of the Oregonian, first issue December ?, 1 650, on the corner of Front and Morrison streets. i- Delazon Smith, 1852, founder of the Democrat, Albany; 1855; one of ^e first United States Senators from OreRon. 5. ihornton T. McElroy, 1851, printer on the Spectator. Oregon City, and f®mi4er of the Columbian, first newspaper north of the Columbia river, issued 5^t Oiythpia, September 1, 1852. Influence of the Press 17 pensive t)ublicatioiis found tlieir way in^o many of the more prosperous homes. Thus the taste for literature and the news was awakened so that in a short time the newspapers began to multiply ; the monthlies became weeklies; the weeklies, semi-weeklies and dailies. The thirst for news and information on current (juestions will ever serve as a tonic to create a desire for abundant reading, hence will aid in producing a better market for literature. It is true we have not published many magazines; but it was not for want of talent or demand. Our people have simply not had the time to give proper attention to the matter. But many will remember the West Shore, whose pen was dipped in poetry and whose brush not infrequently gave us the delicate tinting of the rainbow. It was a welcome visitor to our homes, and it was eagerly sought by thousands of readers throughout the Nation. Nor would we forget The Native Son Magazine, which had an eventful existence of two years, and was a beau- tifully illustrated monthly, edited by Mr. Fred H. Saylor; also the Oregon Teachers Monthly, published by Prof. Charles H. Jones, at the Capital City. But no history of Oregon literature would be complete without proper credit being given to the work that is being done by The Pacific Monthly. This magazine, "of which all Oregonians should be proud," is giving a dis- tinctive form and a character to Oregon literature. It is doing what only a magazine can do, and it is doing it well. The Pacific Monthly began Math a high standard and its publishers have s+eadily adhered to this policy. As a consequence the magazine is a credit to Oregon literature and to the literature of the West. It is char- acterized by an evenness of tone and a literary atmos- phere that far older publications might well envy, and at the same time its contents are sufficiently varied to appeal to the popular taste. The magazine was estab- lished in 1898 by William Bittle Wells, who is its present editor. Among the abler journalists whose pens have been influential in shaping the future of Oregon are : Harvey W, Scott, the critic and editor of the Oregonian; L, 18 Oregon Literature Samuels, of the West Shors; Mrs. A. S. Duniway, cham- pion of women's rights ; the trenchant Thomas B. ]\Ierry ; as also James O'Meara, A. Bush, W. L. Adams, S. A. Clarke, W. H. Odell, A. Noltner, and others, whose number has increased with the tide of immigration and the progress of our country. PROGRESS AND LITERATURE. But unrest develops character; quiet, talent; and talent, literature. As grand as were their deeds, and memorable their lives, the pioneer days are over. Homes have been built and farms improved. The Indians have been civilized ; churches and school houses erected. We have passed through the home-seeking period and entered into the home and -social development era, an era when men — thinking men — have an opportunity to sit down in the quiet of their homes and think. There is scarcely a town or hamlet in tlu^ state now that is not the seat of some publishing establishment, preaching the gospel of modern culture and giving every evidence of large literary progress. MERIT OF OREGON LITERATURE. In passing judgment upon the merits of authors we take into account the quality as well as the quantity of what they have written. Have they suited the thought to the action, the action to the thought ? Have they slvillfully adapted the expression to the theme? Have they written in a style that would edify and delight an American reading circle'? These questions must be care- fully considered. In the days of the Colonists, trans- mission of thought was the sole function of literature ; and this is quite all ^^hat could have been expected of a people in an age of literary poverty, when language w^as regarded merely as a clumsy vehicle for the convey- ance of heavy thought. A century of good schools has taught our people the art of expression, and men and women have learned to decorate prose with the ornaments of poetry. 3Ierit of Oregon Litcroture 19 In the pioneer age of Oregon, manner as well as matter enters as an important element in style. It is not so much Avhat you say as how you say it. Merit of style is a quality found in all the world's unwasting; treasures- of literature. In respect to style or quality of literary productions, the writers of Oregon in half a century have outclassed; the writers of all the Thirteen Colonies of America during the first one hundred and fifty years. From 1607, the founding of Jamestown, when John Smith opened the stream of American literature by de- scribing the country and the people he found in the new world, to 1765, when the people were aroused to resist- ance of the foreign authority of Great Britain, there was not written nor pul)lished in all the colonies a sot of orations that will compare with the twenty-one delivered and published by C4eorge H. Williams, of Portland, Oregon, in 1890 ; nor had they a J. AV. Nesmith, a Delazon Smith, or a Col. B. D. Baker. And the best things written by Anne Bradstreet and Michael Wigglesworth, the two greatest poets of the Colonial period, would be now regarded as mere doggerel alongside of the poems of Samuel Simpson, Joaquin Miller, Edwin ]\Iarkham, or Ella Higginson. Then the historical descriptions by John Smith, Governors Bradford and Winthron. which were the best of the age, could in no wise be compared favor- ably with Gray's or Hines's history of Oregon, or Mrs Victor's "Rivers of the West," or Mrs. Dye's "Mc- Loughlin and Old Oregon." either for beauty or literary finish. There was also that literary curiosity. Cotton Mather, who adopted the novel method of securing a library by writing more than four hundred volumes himself. But among all these he did not present to the literary world as readable a book as L. A. Banks's "Honeycombs of Life," or Dr. T. L. Eliot's "Visit to the Holy Land." Jonathan Edwards's "Inquiry Into the Freedom of the Will," written in 1754, was regarded as authority in metaphysics, but it never was classed as literature. Then it may be remarked that they produced no songs or other music of note, while our Francis, the DeMoss family. Heritage, Parvin, Yoder, and scores of others have published songs, enjoyed and sung from 20 Oregon Literature shore to shore, from sea to sea. They liad no c^reat hiw- yers to st.ren one read the Bible as Joaquin Miller reads it. He gets so much out of it, and grows so hanpy that his reading is inspirational. I have heard gif ed elocutionists read * The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. ' Then some aged mother who scarcely knew her 'a, b, c's,' but who could read her title clear to mansions in the skies, re- peated the same words with telling effect ; so charming, so touching. But the Poet has the art of the elocutionist, the understanding of the mother, and the interpretation of the poet. One of the prettiest arguments I have heard for the authenticity of the scriptures was Joaquin Mil- ler's manner of reading a few bibical passages— they seemed so beautiful, so divine." "49." We have worked our claims. We have spent our gold. Our barks are astrand on the bars; We are battered and old, 36 Oregon Literature Yet at night we behold, Outcroppings of gold in the stars. Chorus— The' battered and old, Our hearts are bold, Yet oft do we repine ; For the days of old, For the days of gold. For the days of forty-nine. Where the rabbits play. Where the (jnail all day Pipe on the chaparral hill ; A few more days. And the last of us lays His pick aside and all is still. Chorus— We are wreck and stray, We are cast away. Poor battered old hnlks and spars: But we hope and pray. On the judgment day, We shall strike it up in the stars. Chorus- WILLIAM BROWN OF OREGON. They called him Pill, the hired man, But she her name was Mary Jane, The squire's daughter; and to reign The belle from Ber-she-be to Dan Her little game. How lovers rash Got mittens at the spelling school ! How many a mute, inglorious fool Wrote rhymes and sighed and dyed nuistache ' Jnaquui MiUcr 37 This hired man had loved her long, Had loved her best and first and last, Her very garments as she passed For him had symphony and song. So when one day with flirt and frown She called him "Bill," he raised his heart, He caught her eye and faltering said, ■ I love you ; and my name is Brown. ' ' She fairly waltzed with rage; she wept; You would have thought the house on fire. She told her sire, the portly squire. Then smelt her smelling-salts and slept. Poor AVilliam did what could be done; He swung a pistol on each hip. He gathered up a great ox-whip And drove right for the setting sun. He crossed the big backbone of earth, He saw the snowy mountains rolled Like nasty billows; saw the gold Of great big sunsets ; felt the birth Of sudden dawn upon the plain ; And every night did William Brown Eat pork and beans and then lie down And dream sweet dreams of Mary Jane. Her lovers passed. A\"olves hunt in packs. They sought for bigger game ; somehow They seemed to see about her brow The forky sign of turkey tracks. The teter-board of life goes up. The teter-board of life goes down, The sweetest face must learn to frown ; The biggest dog has been a pup. maidens! pluck not at the air; The sweetest flowers I have found Grow rather close unto the ground, And highest places are most bare. 38 Oregon Literature Why, you had better win the grace Of one poor cussed Af-ri-can Than win the eyes of every man In love alone with his own face. At last, she nursed her true desire. She sighed, she wept for William Brown. She watched the splendid sun go down Like some great sailing ship on fire, Then rose and checked her trunks right on; And in the cars she lunched and lunched. And had her ticket punched and punched, Until she came to Oregon. She reached the limit of the lines, She wore blue specs upon her nose, Wore rather short and manly clothes, And so set out to reach the mines. Her right hand held a Testament, Her pocket held a parasol. And thus equipped right on she went. Went water-proof and water-fall. She saw a miner gazing down. Slow stirring something with a spoon ; "0, tell me true and tell me soon, What has become of William Brown?" He looked askance beneath her specs, Then stirred his cocktail round and round, Then raised his head and sighed profound, And said, "He's handed in his checks." Then care fed on her damaged cheek. And she grew faint, did Mary Jane, And smelt her smelling-salts in vain, Yet wandered on, way-worn and weak. At last upon a hill alone; She came, and here she sat her down; For on that hill there stood a stone. And, lo ! that stone read, "William Brown." Joaquin Miller 39 "0 William Brown! O William Brown! And here you rest at last," she said, "With this lone stone above your head, And forty miles from any town] I will plant cypress trees, I will, And I will build a fence around And I will fertilize the ground With tears enough to turn a mill." She went and got a hired man. She brought him forty miles from town. And in the tall grass squatted down And bade him build as she should plan. But cruel cowboys with their bands They saw, and hurriedly they ran And told a bearded cattle man Somebody builded on his lands. He took his rifle from the rack, He girt himself in battle pelt. He stuck two pistols in his belt, And mounting on his horse's back, He plunged ahead. But when they shewed A w^oman fair, about his eyes He pulled his hat, and he likewise Pulled at his beard, and chewed and chewed. At last he gat him down and spake; ' ' lady, dear, what do you here ! ' ' ' ' I build a tomb unto my dear, I plant sweet flowers for his sake." The bearded man threw his two hands Above his head, then brought them down And cried, "0, I am William Brown, And this the corner-stone of mv lands!" The preacher rode a spotted mare. He galloped forty miles or more ; He swore he never had before Seen bride or bridegroom half so fair. 40 Oregon Literature And all the In j ins they came down And feasted as the night advanced, And all the cowboys drank and danced, And cried: "Big; Injin! William Brown.'' THE RIVER OF REST. A beautiful stream is the River of Rest; The still, wide waters sweep clear and cold. A tall mast crosses a star in the west, A white sail gleams in the west world 's gold ; It leans to the shore of the River of Rest — The lily-lined shore of the River of Rest. The boatman rises, he reaches a hand, He knows you well, he will steer you true, And far, so far, from all ills upon land, From hates, from fatf s, that pursue and pursue, Far over the lily-lined River of Rest — Dear, mystical, magical River of Rest. A storied, sweet stream is the River of Rest: The souls of all time keep its ultimate shore; And journey you east or journey you west, Unwilling, or willing, sure-footed or sore, You surely will come to this River of Rest — This beautiful, beautiful River of Rest. TO JUANITA. Come, listen love to the voice of the dove, Come, hearken and hear him say There are many tomorrows, my love, my love, But only one today. And all day long you can hear him say This day in purple is rolled. And the baby stars of the Milky Way They are cradled in cradles of gold. Joaquin Miller 41 Now what is the secret, serene gray dove, Of singing so sweetly alway, There are many tomorrows, my love, my love, But only one today. THE PASSING OF TENNYSON. We knew it, as God's prophet's knew; We knew it, as mute red men know, When ]\Iars leapt searching heaven through With tiaming torch that he must go. Then Browning, he who knew the stars. Stood forth and faced insatiate J\Iars. Then up from Cambridge rose and turned Sweet Lowell from his Druid trees — Turned where the great star blazed and burned, As if his own soul might appease, Yet on and on through all the stars Still searched and searched insatiate Mars. Then staunch Walt Whitman saw and knew ; Forgetful of his "Leaves of Grass," He heard his "Drum Taps," and God drew His great soul through the shining pass. Made light, made bright by burnished stars. Made scintillant from flaming Mars. Then soft-voiced Whittier was heard To cease ; was heard to sing no more ; As you have heard some sweetest bird The more because its song is o'er, Yet brighter up the street of stars Still blazed and burned and beckoned Mars. And then the king came, king of thought. King David with his harp and crown . . . How wisely well the gods had wrought That these had gone and sat them down To wait and welcome 'mid the stars • All silent in the light of Mars. 42 Oregon I/iterature All silent . . . So, he lies in state . . . Our redwoods drip and drip with rain . . . Against our rock-locked Golden Gate We hear the great sad sobbing main. But silent all . . . He passed the stars That year the whole world turned to Mars. COLUMBUS. Behind him lay the gray Azores, Behind the Gates of Hercules; Before him not the ghost of shores, Before him only shoreless seas. The good mate said: "Now must we pray, For lo ! the very stars are gone. Brave Adm'rl, speak; what shall I say?" "Why, say: 'Sail on! sail on! sail on!' " "My men grow mutinous day by day: My men grow ghastly, wan and weak." The stout mate thought of home ; a spray Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek. "What shall I say, brave Adm'rl, say If we sight naught but seas at dawn?" ' ' Why, you shall say at break of day : 'Sail on! sail on! sail on! sail on!' " They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow, Until at last Ihe blanched mate said: "Why, now, not even God would know Should I and all my men fall dead. These very winds forget their way. For God from these dread seas is gone. Now speak, brave Adm'rl; speak and say — " He said : ' ' Sail on ! sail on ! and on ! " They sailed. They sailed. Then spake the mate, "This mad sea shows his teeth tonight. He curls his lip, he lies in wait. With lifted teeth, as if to bite! Joaquin Millfr 43 Brave Adm'rl, say but one good word, What shall we do when hope is gone?" The words leapt as a leaping sword: ' ' Sail on ! sail on ! sail on ! and on ! " Then, pale and worn he paced his deck. And peered through darkness. Ah, that night Of all dark nights ! And then a speck— A light ! A light ! A light ! A light ! It grew, a starlit flag unfurled ! It grew to be Time's burst of dawn. He gained a world; he gave that world Its grandest lesson : " On ! sail on ! " THE FORTUNATE ISLES. You sail and you seek for the Fortunate Isles, The old Greek Isles of the yellow birds' song? Then, steer straight on, through the watery miles— Straight on, straight on, and you can't go wrong; Nay, not to the left— nay, not to the right- But on, straight on, and the Isles are in sight— The Fortunate Isles where the yellow birds sing. And life lies girt with a golden ring. These Fortunate Isles, they are not so far— They lie within reach of the lowliest door ; You can see them gleam by the twilight star, You can hear them sing by the moon's white shore- Nay ! never look back ! Those level gravestones, They were landing steps, they were steps unto thrones Of glory of souls that have sailed before, And have set white feet on the fortunate shore. And what are the names of the Fortunate Isles? Why, Duty, and Love, and a large content. Lo! these are the Isles of the watery miles, That God let down from the firmament. Lo! Duty, and Love, and a true man's trust. Your forehead to God, though your feet in the dust ; Aye, Duty to man, and to God meanwhiles. And these, friend ! are the Fortunate Isles. 44 Orffjo)! Liferaiurc THE MOTHERS OF MEN. The bravest battle that ever was fought ! Shall I tell you where and when? On the map of the world you will find it not- 'Twas fought by the mothers of men. Nay, not with cannon or battle shot, With sword or nobler pen ! Nay, not with eloquent words or thought, From mouths of wonderful men ! But deep in the walled-up woman's heart — Of woman that would not yield, But bravely, silently, bore her part — Lo, there is that battle field ! No marshaling troup, no bivouac song, No banner to gleam or wave ; But oh ! these battles they last so long— From babyhood to the grave. Yet faithful still as a bridge of stars. She fights in her walled-up town^ Fights on and on in the endless wars. Then silent, unseen, goes down. Oh, spotless woman in a world of shame; With splendid and silent scorn. Go back to God as white as you came— The kingliest warrior born ! EDWIN MARKHAM Edwin Markham AUTHOR OF *'tI1E MAN WITH THE HOE.'' With an ancestry of legislators, pi-eaehers, scientists and other nation-builders extending back to William Penn's first cousin and secretary— Colonel AVilliam Markham, Deputy Governor of Pennsylvania— the toiler's friend and poet, Edwin Markham, was born at Oregon City, April 23, 1852. Oft' for California at the age of five, the fatherless lad lived in the companionship of a stern mother with poetic taste, a deaf brother, and the poems of Byron and Homer— society which would naturally tend to make a peculiar man. Colonial blood ; Oregon born; California culture; a teacher and poet; this is Edwin Markham, th.^ author of ''The Man With the Hoe." A recent critic says of ^Ir. Markham 's verse: "One of its distinct features is its breadth of range. This gives it greatness— a greatness unknown to the singers of the flowery way. He breaks open the secret of the poppy; he feels the' pain in the b^nt back of labor ; he goes down to the dim places of the dead ; he reaches in heart-warm prayer to the Father of Life." Another has written: "The salient features of Mr. Markham 's poetry are vigorous imagination, picturesque- ness of phraseology, and nervous tenseness of style. He is almost always at white heat. He seldom or never sits poised on the calm, ethereal heights of contemplation. He is mightily stirred by his teeming fancies, and his lines are as burning brands." It warms the heart to read such glowing verses, in which the thoughts are as red coals in an open fire. It is a tremendous relief after the dreary platitudes of the average magazine drivelers, with their wooden echoes of Keats and Wordsworth, to read the lines of a man who has thought out style of his own, and M^ho hurls 46 Oregon Literature his ideas out bravely and loudly. The poem which gives its title to the book was inspired by Millet's well known picture. IMr. Markham's greatest poem is an outcry for the recognition of the wrongs of labor. In the Man with the Hoe he sees the type of the down-trodden work- man, and in five stanzas thunders his sermon. THE MAN WITH THE HOE. Bowed 'by the weight of centuries he leans Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground. The emptiness of ages in his face, And on his 'back the burden of the world. Who made him dead to rapture and despair. A thing that grieves not and that never hopes. Stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox? Who loosened and let down this brutal jaw? Whose was the hand that slanted back this brow? Whose breath blew out the light within this brain? Is this the Thing the Lord God made and gave To have dominion over sea and land; To trace the stars and seaich the heavens for powers; To feel the passion of Eternity? Is this thi' Dream He dreamed who shaped the suns And pillared the blue firmament with light? Down all the stretch of Hell to its last gulf There is no shape more terrible than this — More tongued with censure of the world's blind greed- More filled with signs and portents for the soul — More fraught with menace to the universe. What gulfs between him and the seraphim! Slave of the wheel of labor, what to him .^re Plato and the swing of Pleiades? What the long reaches of the peaks of song. The rift of dawn, the red reddening of the rose? Through this dread shape the sufifering ages look; Time's tragedy is in that aching stoop; Through this dread shape humanity betrayed, Plundered, profaned and disinherited, Cries protest that is also prophecy. O masters, lords and rulers in all lands. Is this the handiwork you give to God, This monstrous thing distorted and soul-quenched? How will you ever straighten up this shape; Give back the upward looking and the light; Edwin Markham 47 Re'build in it the music and the dream; Touch it again with immortality; Make right the immemorial infamies, Perfidious wrongs,, immedicaible woes? O masters, lords and rulers in all lands. How will the Future reckon with this Man? How answer his brute question in that Hour When whirlwinds of rebellion shake the world? How will it be with kingdoms and with kings — With those who shaped him to the thing he is — When this dumb Terror shall reply to God After the silence of the centuries? True greatness is measured by one's ability to stamp his impress upon humanity. ^Ir. ^larkham wouhl there- fore be great if he had done nothing more than to cause the world to pause and consider these four lines written of the servile laborer: Bowed by the weight of centuries he leans Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground. The emptiness of ages in his face, And on his 'back the burden of the world. People of all nationalities clearly see in these words the man with a hoe as painted by Millet and described by Markham ; and, as suggested by a Western lady, they have not entirely overlooked the woman with the wash- tub and broom. Hence as a result of the thought he has awakened there is a demand for greater intelligence in the humbler pursuits of honorable industry. The world now wants to know if that "emptiness of ages" really exists in the face of honest labor; for if it does exist there, the same world will correct it, and that upon the inspiration of Edwin Markham, the Poet of Brooklyn, who delights to be remembered as a native Oregonian. Mrs. Ella Higginson One of the prettiest little valleys the h(»meseeker chanced to find in the early days of Oreiion, was an amphitheater excavated in the Bine Moun'ains, a thou- sand feet deep. Every passer-by has noticed its sym- metry, remarked its beanty, been inspired by its grandeur, and longed to liuger within its great rugged walls. Clear atmosphere, lofty sky. sublimity and sun- shine—save when the black storm-cloud angrily crawls up close behind Mount Emily, and with thundering threats sends the stampeding' herds pell-mell into the deep canyons, to hide from winds that sway the fir. the tamarack, and the pine. It is one of those places where the heavens fit down so closely over the mountain rim that the valley and the heavens seem to make up the whole world. In fact, it is world enough for those who live there. Nature made it the abode of home-building, progress, and contentment ; and the immigrants who set- tled there seldom have left it to return to the land whence they came. Once, according to an ancient legend, some Frenchmen traveled that way, and, having ascended a ridse where the old emigrant road peeped over the crest, at the vision lying ahead, suddenly exclaimed "Orand Ronde!" It was in the month of May, and the first view of the pic- turesque valley broke in upon them at a time when that spot of emerald, hidden away in the Blue Mountains, waves like a summer sea — a time when the lightnins: begins to sparkle on the minarets above, and a hundred thermal springs steadily send up clouds of hot steam, rarefying the lower atmosphere and invitinai: the cool, exhilarating breezes from the high snowcliffs of the Powder River Range. Such Avas the scene that inspired the Frenchmen to exclaim "Grand Ronde," a name which the geographers have been repeating ever since, a name which will be perpetuated in prose and in song. MRS. ELLA HIGGINSON Mrs. Ella Uigginson 49 Of this charmincr spot made homelike to the Poetess, Mrs. Ella Hig:ginson has written the following poem: THE GRAND RONDE VALLEY. Ah, me! I know how like a golden flower The Grande Ronde Valley lies this August night, Locked in by dimpled hills where purple light Lies wavering. There at the sunset hour Sink downward, like a rain'bow-tinted shower, A million colored rays, soft, changeful, 'bright. Later the large moon rises, round and white, And three Blue Mountain pines against it tower. Lonely and dark. A coyote's mournful cry Sinks from the canyon — whence the river leaps. . A Wade of silver underneath the moon. Like restful seas the yellow wheat fields lie. Dreamless and still. And while the valley sleeps, O hear! — the lulla'bies that low winds croon. Sueh was the childhood home of Mrs. Ella Higginson, the eharniing poet and noted story writer, whose life work bids fair to honor the name of the delightfnl valley in which her early thonsrhts were nnrtnred. Born at Council Grove, Kansas, she crossed the plains while an •infant, and wi^^h her parents located at La Grande, which is beautifully situated on the most prominent dais of Grand Ronde Valley. The country was sparsely settled, and as yet untried, and there were ponies and ponies and ponies. And it was then that little Ella Rhoads, afterward Mrs. Ella Higsjinson. acquired the love and the art of horseback riding. Sidesaddles and riding- steeds were as fashionable then as in the days of Oneen Elizabeth ; and it is said that the little schoolgirl deter- mined to excel the horsemanship of the Queen who made England one of the first nations of Europe. It was her delight, and she practiced the art. On her swift steed she swept over the valley and drank in the poetry of the scenes, the anthem of the winds, and the voice of the thunder as it broke through the mountain gorge. These attuned her muse, and she began to sing to a delighted people. Thus she became a master with the rein and the pen. True poetry is what the muse has learned in nature 50 ' Oregon Literature without the aid of books— simply direct eoiiimiinion with created things. In order to fathom these wonders, the poet chooses to be alone where naught can disturb him. Solitude is his opportunity, and silence his s udy hour. He lives amid his thoughts, hence partakes of the sights and the sounds that inspire them. He loves nature's works, for he sees God in everything about him. The lily, the nightingale, the waters and the mountains, all become living things to him, and their influence upon him is but another one of God's marvelous dealings with man. N. P. Willis, upon visiting the American rapids, applied this thought in these words: "This opportun- ity to invest Niagara with a human soul and human- feelings, is a common effect upon the minds of visitors, in every part of its wonderful phenomena." Of the influence of scenery upon the feelings and actions, Bayard Taylor, upon viewing the same falls from another point, wrote: "I was not impressed by the sublimity of the scene, nor even by its terror, but solely by the fascin- ation of its wonderful beanty— a fascination which con- tinually tempted me to plunge into the sea of fused emerald, and lose myself in the dance of the rainbows. ' ' Anthony Trollope, although not a poet, has recognized this principle in his utterances upon visiting the falls: "You will find yourself among the waters, as though you belonged to them. The cool, liquid green will run through your veins, and the voice of the catarac*" will be the expression of your own heart. You will fall as the bright waters fall, rushinsr down into your new world with no hesitation and with no dismay ; and you will rise again as the spray rises, brisrht, beautiful and pure." Accordingly it must not be forgotten that the poet whose life and works we are sMidying, lived for a long time beside the Willamette Falls at Oregon City. Nor must the fact be overlooked that the AVillamette Falls are but a common-sense edition of the Niagara Falls, which so manv critics have said stimulate genius and influence poetic art. There is a rumble and a dashing in the lines Mrs. Higginson has written that echo back to the splendid dashing and rhythmic rumble of 1he mighty falls of our poetic river. Mrs. Ella Higginson 51 From Oregon City she moved to Portland, Oregon, where she met, loved and was married to Mr. Russell Garden Higginson, a gentleman of Boston culture, who descended from Francis Higginson, one of the founders of New England. In 1882. she. with her husband, moved to New Whatcom, where they have since resided in their cozy upland home, which furnishes a commanding view of the snow domes and the hills, the ocean and the shore, that have suggested so many themes the author has written in pretty musical English, for the peoples of two continents. While Mrs. Higginson writes both poetry and prose excellently, she has proved herself a true poet, both in verse and in lines not set in metrical array. Many of her short, unpretentious story sentences, are little poems within themselves—prose poems scattered in bits of tragedy, like particles of silver and gold, found in the pathway of the Indian, the leper and the refugee. As a poet she won hfr first recognition in literary circles. The Overland 3Iont1dij editorially said of her: "A few years aero there appeared in various Eastern and Pacific Coast publications frequent bits of verse of such high merit, fraught with so much feeling, and possessing so sensuous a charm, that they spraner into immediate prominence. Many of them were widelv conied by the newspapers East and AA^est. and republished in the lead- ing reviews of Loudon and the East. One that at- Iracted univerfsal atteiition was 'Ood's Creed,' which ap- peared originally in Frank Leslie's Illustrated Weekly. The vers^^s quoted are characteristic of the poet : Foreive me that hear thv creeds Unawed and unafraid; Thev are too small for one whose ears Have heard God's orp:an played — Who in wide, noble solitudes In simple faith has prayed. I watched the dawn come un the east, Like angels chaste and still; I felt my heart beat wild and strong, My veins with white fire thrill. For it was Easter morn, and Christ Was with me on the hill. z 52 Oregon LifcraUire Her popTiiR, which are always musical, breathe a spirit of piety which coinniend them to the most. refined ; and her great spirituality will always win her an increasincr patronage among the ever-growing circle of readers who learn to regard her as their friend and adviser. Leading London and American reviewers have commented favor- ably upon what she has wri^^ten. in her three volumes of poetry, "A Bundi of Clover," "The Snow Pearls." and ''When thr Birds Go North Again." The Boston l^veninc] Gazette, Providence Journal, Chicago Gravhic, Dilletante, and the Northwest Magazine have said re- spectively of her work as a poet: "Its merits are a simple directness, truth to nature', sincerity and feeling that occasionally touches the depth of passion." "They have a melody to an unusual deo-ree." "Her w^ork is distinguished by its dplicaev and fire. . . . Her genius makes her cosmopolitan." "Filled wuth forceful imacerv and similes of beauty. . . . An exquisite bit of work." "Ella Higginson's cenius entitles her to be ranked close to Joaquin Miller. . . . There is heart and soul in her Avork. embodied in the richest and most delicate imagery." That some knowledcre of her poetrv can be cleaned from personal inspection, the following selections are given : FOUR-LEAF CLOVER. I know a place where *h<' sun is like gohl. And the cherrv bleoms burst with snow. And down underneath is the loveliest nook. Where the four-leaf clovers grow. One leaf is for hope, anl one is for faith. And one is for love, you know. And God put another in for luck— If you search, you will find where they grow. Mrs. Ella Higginson 53 But you must have hope, and you must have faith, You must love and be strong— and so— If you work, if you wait, you will find the place Where the four-leaf clovers stow. THE RHODODENDRON BELLS. Across the warm night's subtle dusk. Where linger yet the purple light And perfume of the wild, sweet musk— So softly glowing, sofily bright. Tremble the rhododendron bells, The rose-pink rhododendron bells. Tall, slender trees of evergreen That know the moist winds of the sea, And narrow leaves of satin's sheen, And clusters of sweet mystery— Mysterious rhododendron bells, Rare crirasdn rhododendron bells. harken— hush ! And lean thy ear. Tuned for an elfin melody. And tell me now, dost thou not hear Those voices of pink mystery — Voices of silver-throated bells. Of breathing, rhododendron bells ? SUNRISE ON THE WILLAMETTE. The sun sinks downward thro' the silver mist That looms across the valley, fold on fold, A.nd sliding thro' the fields that dawn has kissed, Willamette sweeps, a chain of liquid gold. Trails onward ever, curving as it goes, Past many a hill and many a flowered lea, Until it pauses where Columbia flows, Deep-tongued, deep-chested, to the waiting sea. 54 Oregon Literature lovely vales thro' whicli Willamette slips! vine-clad hills that hear its soft voice call ! My heart turns ever to those sweet, cool lips That, passing, press each rock or grassy wall. Thro' pasture lands, where mild-eyed cattle feed, Thro' marshy Hats, where velvet tiiles grow. Past many a rose tree, many a singing reed, 1 hear those wet lips calling, calling low. The sun sinks downward thro' the trembling haze. The mist flings glistening needles high and higher, And thro' the clouds— fair beyond all praise! Mount Hood leaps, chastened, from a sea of fire. THE EYES THAT CANNOT WEEP. The saddest eyes are those that cannot weep ; The loneliest breast the one that sobbeth not ; The lips and mind that are most parched and hot Are those that cannot pray, and cannot sleep — It is the silent grief that sinketh deep. To weep out sorrow .'is the common lot — To weep it out and let it be forgot — But tears and sobs are after all but cheap, We weep for worries, frets and trifling cares, For toys we've broken, and for hopes that were. And fancied woes of passing love affairs ; But only One can ease the breast of her Whose hurt for fruitless moans has gone too deen. Pity, God, the eyes that cannot weep. THE LAMP IN THE WEST. Venus has lit her silver lamp Low in the purple west. Breathing a soft and mellow light Upon the sea 's full breast ; It is the hour when mead and wood In fine seed-pearls are dressed. Mrs. Ella Higginson 55 Far out, far out ;he restless bar Starts from a troubled sleep, Where roaring thro' the narrow straits The meeting waters leap ; But still that shining pathway leads Across the lonely deep. When I sail out the narrow straits Where unknown dangers be, And cross the troubled, moaning bar To the mysterious sea — Dear God, wilt thou not set a lamp Low in the west for me? WHEN THE BIRDS GO NORTH AGAIN. Oh, every year hath its winter. And every year hath its rain ; But a day is always coming When the birds go north again. l When new leaves swell in the forest. And grass springs green on the plain. And the alder's veins turn crimson. And the birds go north again. Oh, every heart hath its sorrow, And every heart hath its pain; But a day is always coming When the birds go north again. 'Tis the sweetest thing to remember. If courage be on the wane, When the cold, dark days are over — Why, the birds go north again. Mrs. Higginson is, however, winning her greatest fame as a short-story writer. Her ability in this field of lit' erature was recognized in the stories she wrote for the Oregon Vidette, which suspended publication some years ago. She afterwards won a prize of $500 offered by o6 Oregon Literature McClure's Magazine for the best short story, "The Takin' of Old Mis' Lane," having for her competitors many of the best American writers. Since that time her stories have appeared in the Century, Harper's Weekly, McClure's Magazine, Cosmopolitan, Lippincott's, Frank Leslie's Illustrated Weekly, and other leading publica- tions of the East. These stories of Western life have been published in two volumes, "The Forest Orchid" and "The Flower That Grew in the Sand," the title of the latter volume being subsequently changed by the Macmillans to "The Land of the Snow Pearls." Of the author as a story writer, the Overland Monthly says : ' ' Her style is strong, powerful and realistic. . . . She writes from the heart, of the plain, every-day folk she meets, and consequently she touches the heart. Her stories are unpretentious tales of common people, told simply and naturally, yet so vivid and graphic are they, that they charm the reader from the first to the last. She is as keen a student of human nature as she is a close observer of incident and detail, and her sympathetic comprehension of the trials and joys, the hardships and the romances of humble, hard-working people who constitute her characters, and her ability to interpret them with such dramatic power and delicacy of touch as to make the commonplace beau- tiful, are among the strongest features of her work." Of her as a story writer, the Chicago Tribune said: "She has shown a breadth of treatment and knowledge of human verities that equals much of the best work of France." The New York Independent says: "Some of the incidents are sketched so vividly and so truthfully that persons and things come out of the page as if life itself were there." In the Outlook we are told that "she is one of the best American short-story writers." From Public Opinion we learn that "no Eastern writer can do such work better." And the Picayune announces that "she writes of the far West with the sympathy of one who loves it." The following story, ' ' The Isle of the Lepers, ' ' is here given as an illustration of her tremendous power in her chosen field of literary elf ort : Mrs. Ella Higginson 57 THE ISLE OF THE LEPERS. There was an awful beauty on the Gulf of Georgia that summer night. It was as if all the golds and scarlets and purples of the sunset had been pounded to a fine dust and rolled in from the ocean in one great opaline mist. The coloring of the sky began in the east with a pale green that changed delicately to salmon, and this to rose, and the ros^ to crimson— and so on down to the west where the sun was sinking into a gulf of scarlet, through which all the fires of hell seemed to be pouring up their flames and sparks. Long, luminous rays slanted through the mist and withdrew swiftly, like searchlights — having found all the lovely wooded islands around which the burning waves were clasping hands and kissing. The little clouds that had journeyed down to see what was going on in that scarlet gulf must have been successful in their quest, for they were fleeing back with the red badge of knowledge on each breast. Only the snow-mountains stood aloof, white, untouched— types of eternal purity. Through all that superb riot of color that heralded the storm which was sweeping in from the ocean, moved a little boat, with a flapping sail, lazily. In it were a man and a woman. The woman, was the wife of the man's best friend. They had left Vancouver— and all else— behind them in the early primrose dawn. Trying to avoid the courses of steamers, they had lost their own, and were drifting. ... In less than an hour the storm was upon them. All the magnificent coloring had given place to white- edged black. Occasionally a scarlet thread of lightning- was cast, crinkling, along the west. Then, in a moment, followed the deep fling and roar of the thunder. Fierce squalls came t>?aring up the straits where the beautiful mist had trembled. The little boat went straining and hissing through the sea. As each squall struck her the sail bellied to the water. There was no laughter now, no love-glow, on the faces in that boat ; they were white as death, and their eyes were wild. Veins like ropes stood out in the 58 Oregon Literature man's neck and arms, and the woman eonld not speak for the violent beating in her throat. She hekl on to the tiller with swollen hands and wrenched arms. When the boat sank into the black hollows she braced herself and looked down into the water, and thought — of many things. And through all his agonized thought for the woman, the man had other, more terrible thoughts, too. Straight ahead of them arose the white, chalky shoulder of an island. He realized that he was power- less to avoid it. There was one low place, sloping down, green, to a beach of sand, but the sharp outlines of rocks rose between — and there was no shelter from the wind. Still, it was their only chance. That or death. (He wished afterward that it had been death.) He braced himself and pulled at the ropes until spots of blood quivered before his eyes. ''Port!" he yelled. "Port hard!" But the woman gave one gesture of despair; her hands fell from the tiller, and she sank in a huddle to the bottom of the boat. It seemed but a moment till- the boat struck and they were struggling in the waves. But a strip of headland now cut off the worst fury of the storm. The water was calmer; and, as the man was a powerful swimmer, they, after a fierce battle with the waves, reached the shore and fell, dumbly, in each other's arms, upon the beach, exhausted. . . . Suddenly, as they lay there, above the sounds of the winds, the waves and the crushing to pieces of their boat upon the rocks, another sound was borne to their ears— a long, moaning wail that was like a chant of the dead, so weird and terrible was it. They staggered to their feet. Coming down to them from a little row of cabins above were a dozen human creatures, the very sight of which filled them with terror. Some were without eyes ; others without hands or arms ; others were crawling, without feet. And as they ap- pioached, they wailed over and over the one word that their poor Chinese tongues had been taught to utter : ' ' Unclean ! Unclean ! Unclean ! ' ' Both the man and the woman understood; but the Mrs. Ella Higginson 59 man only spoke. "Great God! It is D'Arey Island!" he said, in his throat. ' ' The island of lepers ! ' ' The woman did not speak; but she leaned heavily upon him. The waves pounded behind them, and the firs on the hill above them bowed, moaning, before the storm— some never to rise again. And still, above every- thing, arose that awful wail— "Unclean! Unclean!" The man looked down upon her. Already she seemed far, far from him. She had lost everything for him — but he was thinking, even now, of what he had lost for her. They were stranded upon an island whereon there was no human being save the lepers placed there by the British Government — an island at which steamers never landed, and from which escape was impossible, unless they signaled. . . . (And these two dared not signal.) . . . For lepers there are only silence and opium— and death. His voice shook when he spoke again. "What accursed luck— what damnable luck— steered us here ! " he cried, bitterly. Then the woman spoke, lifting herself from him and standing alone. "It was not luck at all," she said, steadily; "it was God." Then, suddenly, she cast all her trembling, beau I if ul length downward and. lay prone, her face sunken to the wet sand. And lying so, she clasped her hands hard, hard, behind her neck, and cried out in a voice that lifted each word, clear and distinct, above the storm— so deep, so terrible was it with all passion, all submission, all despair — the most sublime prayer ever uttered by woman: "Oh Thou God— Who hast guided us two to the one spot on earth where we belong ! I see ! I under- stand. Oh, Thou awful God— Thou just God!" The lepers, crawling back to their hovels, left those two alone, but their weird wail still sank through the falling darkness — " Unclean ! Unclean ! ' ' Mrs. Higginson 's latest publication is "Mariella," a further study of the Northwest she knows so thoroughly, and whose atmosphere she interprets so vividly in all its 60 Oregon Literature fresh, even crude, youth. A critic says tlie scenes are laid in the early pioneer days at first and later during the boom of 1888-9. It is the story of a young girl's development in the hard frontier farming life; in the forced social changes and evolutions following the "boom"; and in the offered choice between men of different social standing who love her. The feeling for nature in its special local characteristics, so notable in her stories, is fresh and strong, resulting in charming descriptive touches, among pages full of social insight and keen wit. It is Mrs. Higginson's first novel and is by far her most important and mature work. Simultan- eous with this publication will appear three new editions of books already written by Mrs. Higgmson, attesting the popularity of her productions in poety and prose. Furthermore, Mrs. Higginson's poems are in great de- mand with musical composers, the most prominent of whom are Horatio Parker, professor of the theory of music in Yale University ; Whitney Combs, of New York, and Charles AVilleby, of London, where the leading English contralto, Ada Crossley, has taken them up and made a notable success of them. Sam. L. Simpson Sam. L. Simpson was born October 10, 1845, in the State of IMissoiiri. His parents, Hon. Ben. Simpson and Nancy Cooper Simpson, started soon thereafter for Oregon, where they arrived in the spring; of 1846. Omit- ting; the earlier period of Simpson's eventful life, we note the first lessons in his educational career, when his mother taught him, at the age of four years, his letters, by making them in the ashes upon the broad hearthstone of their pioneer home on the C]ackamas River. His childhood passed through the usual humdrum of pioneer life, which he has commemorated bv one short poem entitled the "Winding Path to the Country School." During his earlier "teens" he was clerk for his father in the sutler's store, on the Crande Ronde Reservation, where he met and ber-nme the flattered and petted companion of Grant. Sheridan, and other lesser personages of a frontier military r>ost. The latter gentle- man presented him with a copv of Byron's poems, which he esteemed very highly, and to which, no doubt, is attributablp the similaritv of stvle so noticeable in many of Simpson's poems to those of Byron. Indeed, the complaining moods of Byron are very con- spicuous in Simpson's verses. It is probable that the contact of this brilliant boy with the careless ways of a frontier garrison was the ini+iative of a life, subse- quently, so frauffht with grief and disappointment. From the Reservation he went to the Willamette Univer- sity, at Salem, where he srraduated with honors in the class of '65. He was noted for versifying among his college associates, and besran about this time to con- tribute to newspapers of the state. In 1866 he was prepared to be admitted to the bar, but owing to his age he was not admitted to nractice until '67. This year was a noted epoch in Simpson's life. He wrote "Ad Willametam," now known as "The Beautiful 62 Oregon Literature Willamette," in the sprincr of 1867, and the Democrat, of Albany, upon publishing the poem, remarked that the young author might be expected to do something meritorious. In the fall of '67 Simpson was married to Miss Julia Humphrey, a lady noted for her beauty and accomplish- ments, not the least of which was her enrapturing voice for song. She was Simpson 's * ' Sweet Throated Thrush, ' ' his * ' Lurlina ' ' of whom he writes : Heaven flies not From souls it once hath blessed. First love may fade hut dies not Though wounded and distressed. To the end of his life he was constant in his adoration of his ''First Love." After his marriage he associated with the late Judge R. S. Strahan in the practice of law, and these years were the happiest that mortals ever experience. He soon, however, from that uncontrollable impulse, betook himself to journalism, which he pursued until he died, in 1900. Judge John Burnett, who read law with him, said, "Simpson is the Burns of Oregon. What Poe was to the beginning, Simpson was to the close of the century. The first singer of Oregon — the preparer of the way." Truly it may be said, he added to his ideal beauty of conception of nature, ever true, a classical expression and descriptive power seldom equalled, if ever excelled. His soul was set to music. The morning stars sang to him as sublime a hymn of adoration of the Creator as to the seers of ages past. The sea had for him a voice enrapturing beyond the appreciation of less inspired beings. Flo win sr waters had to him "Manv things to sing and sav." "The Beautiful WillameUe" is full of that melaneholy music of flowing waters, so aptly de- scriptive of the same stream in another poem, where he says: Tt civps vou back the minor key That thrills in music's sweetest lines The mystery of minstrelsy. ', ' Sam. L. Simpson 63 His imagination interpreted the deep and mournful music of the forest— "I hear sweet music over there. The mountain nymphs are calling me," He murmured, "How divine an air O soul of mine is wooing- thee." Or swept by winter's storm these forests had a differ- ent voice for him — The Gothic minstrel of the woods, 'He sings the lightest lullaby. Or. swept "by winter's fitful moods The "battle chants, and loud and high The Pyrrhic nuni'bers rise and roll To midnight stars, and Earth's great soul Wails in the solemn interludes Of death and woe that never die. The shriek of ships, the war of waves. The fury of the 'blanching surge — The desolation of lone graves — The shouts that still the onset urge — The sohs of maidens in despair — All saddest sounds of earth and air — The harp of Thor o'er peaks and caves. Blend in the paean and the dirge. Maybe it was an inhprpnt quality of his soul, or maybp environment, but in all Simpson's work we note the sad undertone— "The wail in mirth's mad lav." "Tho Sad Refrain" of love. "The thorn benfath the rose" that seemed to have pierced his heart. This thought is forci- bly expressed in the following lines: The breath of immortality But withers human thought, we love The summer smouldering on the lea, The mournful deathsong of the dove. This idea seems to have become such as passion that he exclaims — The divinest pleasures arise and soar On win-gs that are sorrow laden. 64 Oregon Literaiure Simpson's nature was the essence of love of all thinpfs good and beantifnl, gloomed by a sorrow-laden life, but with an abiding faith in the great hereafter. Hear the conclusion : O when the ang^el of silence has 'brushed Me with his win'prs and this pininsr is hushed; Tenderly. p;raciously) light as the snow Fall the kind mention of all that I know; Words that will cover and whiten the sod. Folding- the life that was given of God; Wayward, maybe, and persistent to rove. Restful, at last, in the glamour of love. THE BEAUTIFUL WILLAMETTE. Of the origin of "The Beautiful WillameHe," Mr. C. H. Sox, of Albany, Oregon, has written : It was during Sam. L. Simpson's residence at Albany. Oregon, that he wrote "Ad Willametam" (''Beautiful Willam- ette"), the grandest and prettiest of his poems, and it was my good fortune to first put this poem into type from the original manuscript. It was printed in the Democrat, Anril i8 1868: The editor had this to say of it: "The original poetry, under the title of 'Ad Willametam,' to be found elsewhere in today's Democrat, signed by IS. 'L. S.. we consider a very beautiful poem, and we trust the author will not let this lie the last time he will favor us with his literary productions." After the appearance of this poem in the Democrat, the entire press of the state printed it; the leading California papers then took it up. and shortly afterwards it appeared in many Eastern publications, and was hjghly praised everywhere. Simpson was a young man at that time, temperate, un- married, in fact just out of college, and the poem was written in the seclusion of his own private apartments. I kept the manuscript of the poem for several years, 'but it 'became mis- placed and lost. From the Cascades' frozen gorges. Leaping like a child at play, Windiuir, widening through the valley Bright Willamette glides away. Onward ever, Lovely river, Sam. L. Simpson 65 Softly calling to the sea ; Time, that scars us, Maims and mars us, Leaves no track or trench on thee. Spring's green witchery is weaving Braid and border for thy side; Grace forever haunts thy journey, Beauty dimples on thy tide ; Through the purple gates of morning, Now thy roseate ripples dance. Golden then, when day, departing, On thy waters trails his lance. (Notice tiie music of the old song.) Waltzing, flashing. Tinkling, splashing, Limid, volatile, and free- Always hurried To be buried In the bitter, moon-mad sea. In thy crystal deeps inverted Swings a picture of the sky. Like those wavering hopes of Aidenn, Dimly in our dreams that lie; Clouded often, drowned in turmoil. Faint and lovely, far away- Wreathing sunshine on the morrow% Breathing fragrance round today. Love would wander Here and ponder, Hither poetry would dream: Life's old questions. Sad suggestions, ''Whence and w^hither?" throng thy streams. On the roaring waste of ocean Soon thy scattered waves shall toss, 'Mid the surges' rhythmic thunder Shall thy silver tongues be lost. 66 Oregon Literature Oh ! thy *rliminerinj? rush of gladness Mocks this turbid life of mine, Racing to the wild Forever Down the sloping paths of Time. Onward ever, Lovely river, Softly calling to the sea; Time, that scars us, Maims and mars us, Leaves no track or trench on thee. ONLY A FEATHER. There is never a rose in the green garden blows Tn the time of the dreamiest weather That enkindles my heart till in rapture it glows As the flame of this dear little feather. It is crimson, you see, and so many there be That may rival its aniline luster. It is strange that it weaves such a spell upon me, As the redolent memories cluster. The philosophers read any secret at need. And restore a dead field from a flower. Or a forest with banners from one withered seed. That has slept in a fossilized bower ; And they'd tell me today, from this tremulous spray, This endeared and adorable feather. Of a Romanized warbler that wore it one day When the sun-birds were singing together. And I'd nod, and I'd smile, but I'd know all the while They were lost in a tangle of fable; There was never a bird in a palm-crested isle That the orient fairies called Mabel ; And there's no bird that roves in the pomegranate groves, Or savannas of villas suburban. That displays such a plume, as it gracefully moves In a dainty Parisian turban. Sam. L. Simpso)! 67 And from tip unto tip, with a pause at her lip, It is useless to tell you the measure Of the sweet-throated thrush that allured me to sip The delight of the chalice of pleasure-. For the years, as they flow, have a cadence of woe That my heart was bowed down to discover. Since she moulted this plume many summers ago. As she leaned on the breast of her lover. Oh, the myrtle-sweet days, how they throng *o my gaze In a crimsoning vista of roses. And the light of romance reverentially plays O'er the scene that my fancy discloses ; For my sweetheart is there on the glimmering square, Where the school girls a"^ evening are trooping. And her wavering plume, like a flame in the air. Is gracefully swaying and drooping. Ah, well, it is right that I sorrow tonight, And I kneel to the fate that is given. For the .joy of that time, like Prome'hean light, Was purloined from the treasure of heaven : It is well that I moan for the day that is gone. For my life is astray altogether. And the dreams of my summer like swallows have flown. And left this memorial feather. THE CROWNING OF THE SLAIN. I. Again, in the month of beauty. When the blush of the rose is born. In the kiss which the earth, at robing. Receives on the bridal morn, We think of the heroes that slumber. Away from the light of the sun. Where the banners of forests are waving, ApA the musical rivers run, 68 Oregon Literature II. The white tented mists in the valley. Pass dreamily on at dawn, And the rustling' of feet in the greenwood, Is made by the rabbit and fawn ; It is only the glint of a plowshare, As it tnrns in yon distant field, And never the bayonet-glimmer By a wheeling rank revealed, III. The days, among pearls and lilies, • Awake with a smile of peace, And pass— reclining at sunset On a glory of golden fleece; But never a war-drum startles, And never the cannon roar— Nor the_angel of battle passes With brows that are red with gore. IV. The flowers have come, in a splendor Of color and perfect perfume. The birds build again in their branches. And the honey-bee rifles the bloom — The loving and loved, in the gloaming. And, oft, by the silvery beam. Are plucking the roses of Eden, And dreaming the beautiful dream; But the strong hands folded from battle Will nevermore toil nor caress— The roses return, but the soldier Sleeps on in his patriot dress. His name and his deeds are forgotten. His sword in its scabbard will rust. But the sunshine is brighter above him. And the olive will spring from his dust. Sam. L. Simpson 69 VI. Ah, God ! in our banners of crimson. How cling the crape shadows of grief— How close to the palm and the laurel Is the funeral cypress leaf? And 'tis well that we cherish our martyrs- Else the triumph might seem too dear That gave back a country unbroken. But left us no heart for a tear. VII. And so, in the month of beauty. When the sea and the sky are blue, And we love more tender, And are true with a heart more true— uet us gather the flowers in clusters, And weave them in chaplets fair. And, wherever a soldier slumbers, To his low grave side repair. VIII. For this is the month of beauty. When the sea and the sky are true — A time to be tenderly thoughtful Of those that have worn the blue. And who sleep away from the sunshine In their low and lonesome graves, While ever, on land and ocean, The dauntless banner waves. IX. And what shall we bring, but flowers. To hallow the heroes' sleep— These gifts of the dew and the daylight That ever memorial keep Of the spirit immortal — and ever In bursting the mold of death Renew the perishing garlands On the shadowy brow of Faith ! 70 Oregon Literature THE MYSTIC RIVER. [This poem was composed at the request of Miss Ellen Chamberlin.) (Tune, Cantilena.) I. Beside the mystic river. At holy even fall, Where golden lilies quiver, And reedy murniurs eall— " We pause, dean hearts, at starting, pjach leaning on his oar. And never knew till parting, How beautiful the shore ! Chorus— Touch hands with love, Touch lips with tears — The golden lilies chime, And call us to the river, And down the tide of time. II. The brow of Alma Mater Ne'er shone with such a light. And O we know that later. When tempests come, and night. That light, forever shining Along life's troubled main. Will cheer us, though repining In darkness and in pain. CJiorus — III. The stars march on — the gleaming Of every diamond crest, And white plume dimly streaming Above the world's unrest— Sam. L. Simpson 71 Tell ns the martial story That rules the realm of space— The combat and the glory- Heroic lives may face, Cliorits— IV. The last word must be spoken, The last song must be sung— Yet we give no token Of how our hearts are wrung, As here, beside the river, We lean, and look, and sigh. And on our faint lips quiver The long, long words, "Good bye!" Chorus — SNOW-DRIFT. I. Tenderly, patiently falling, the snow Whitens the gleaming, and in the street glow Spectrally beautiful, drifts to the earth- Pale, in life's brightness, and still, in its mirth: Swarming and settling like spirits of bees Blown from the blossoms of song-haunted trees — Blown with the petals of dreams we have grown Rosy with heart-dews in days that are gone. II. Spirits of flowers and spectres of bees — Beauty and soil — is 't an emblem of these Thrown to us silently — cold and so fair — Treasure we piled in the mansions of air? Just as if heaven, that gathered our sighs, AVept for the hope that the future denies, Dreamingly lifted the glowing' bouquet. Bright from earth's garden, and tossed it awav! '72 Oregon LitcrniiU'C III. Soft as the touch of the white-handed moon, Waking the world in a twilight of June, Gently and lovingly hastens the snow— Weaving a veil for dead nature below ; Kissing the stains from the hoof-beaten street. Folding the town in a slumber so sweet — Surely the stars, in their helmets of gold, Patient must linger and love to behold. IV. Thus our endeavor may fail of its "prize — Hope and ambition drop cold from our skies ; Yet on the pathway so lonely and sere, Rugged with failure, and clouded by fear. Spirits of beauty come out of defeat, Cover life's sorrows, and shield its retreat- Healing the heart as the fall of the snow Mantles the darkness of winter below. V. 0, when the Angel of Silence has brushed Me with his wing, and this pining is hushed, Tenderly, graciously, light as the snow. Fall the kind mention of all that I know- Words that will cover and whiten the sod Folding the life that was given of God; Broken, may be, and persistent to rove- Restful, at last, in the glamour of love. THE FEAST OF APPLE BLOOM. I. When the sky is a dream of violet And the days are rich with gold. And the satin robe of Ihe earth is set With the jewels wrought of old ; Sam. L. Simpson 73 When the woodlands wave in coral seas And the purple mountains loom, It is heaven to come, with birds and bees, To the feast of apple bloom. II. For the gabled roof of home arose 'er the sheen of the orchard snow, And is still my shrine, when storms repose And the gnarly branches blow ; And the music of childhood's singing heart, That was lost in the backward gloom. May be heard when the robins meet and part At the feast of apple bloom. III. And I think when the trees display a crow^n Like the gleam of a resting dove, Of a face that was framed in tresses brown And aglow with a mother's love; At the end of the orchard path she stands, And I laugh at my manhood's doom As my spirit flies, with lifted hands, To the feast of apple bloom. IV. When the rainbow paths of faded skies Are restored with the diamond rain. And the joys of my wasted paradise Are returning to earth again, It is sadder than death to know how brief Are the smiles that the dead assume ; But a moment allowed, a flying leaf From the feast of apple bloom. V. But a golden arch forever shines In the dim and darkening past, Where I stand again, as day declines. And the world is bright and vast; 74 Oregnn Literature For the glory that lies alonfj the lane Is endeared with sweet perfume, And the w^orld is ours, and we are twain At the feast of apple hloom. VI. She was more than fair in the wreath she wore Of the creamy buds and blows And she comes to me from the speechless shore When the flowering' orchard grows; And I sigh for the dreams so sweet and swift, That are laid in a sacred tomb — Yet are nothing at last but fragrant drift From the feast of apple bloom. THE NYMPHS OF THE CASCADES. Dedicated to the memory of George E. Strong-, a brilliant young journalist, formerly of the Oregonian stafT. who, imag- ing that he heard beautiful strains of music and sweet voices calling him, wandered away from a camp in the Cascade Moun- tains while his companions were sleeping and was utterly lost, no trace of him, dead or alivev having ever 'been found. The camp fire, like a red night rose. Blossomed beneath a gloomy fir; When weary men in deep repose. Heard not the gentU' night wind stir. The priestly robes high over head — Heard not the wild ])rook's wailing song. Nor any nameless soitnds of dread. Which to the midnight woods belong. The moon sailed on a golden bark. Astray in lilied purple seas; And forest shadows weirdly dark, M^ere peopled with all mysteries; And all was wild and drear and strange Around that lonely l)ivouac. Where mountains, rising range on range Shouldered the marcli of progress back. Sam,. L. Simpson 75 The red fire 's fluttering tongues of flame, WhisDered to brooding darkness there, And spectral shapes without a name Were hovering in the haunted air; And from the fir tree's inner shade, A drear owl, sobbing forth his rune Kept watch and mournful homage paid At intervals unto the moon. The travelers dreamed on serene, Save one, whose brow, curl-swept. Was damp from agony within ; Who tossed and murmured as he slept. The fretful fire-light on his face. Wavered and danced in fitful play. Until the old enchanting grace Of young aimbition on it lay. The glamour of the rosy light The heavy lines concealed. And trembling shadows of the night Beyond him, like sad spirits, kneeled ; For his had been the lustress gift — Of genius lent by God to few. The splendid jewel wrought by swift Angelic art of fire and dew. But like the pearl of Egypt's queen, 'Twas drowned in pleasure's crimson cup. And lo, its amethystine sheen, In baleful vapors curling up. Soon wreathed his brain in that dark spell, That has no kindred seal of woe ; And phantoms that with Oreus dwell, In mystic dance swept to and fro. Swept to and fro and maddened him With gestures wild and taunts and jeers. And waved the withered chaplets dim That he had worn in flowery years ; 76 Oregon Literature His spirit furled its shining wings, Never again to sing and soar, And wove all wild imaginings In shapes of horror evermore. The sleeper started, partly raised Upon his elbow, leaned awhile. And deep into the darkness gazed With wistful eyes and brightened smile : "I hear sweet music over there, The mountain nymphs are calling me." He murmured, "How divine an air, Oh, soul of mine, is wooing thee." "Coming!" he whispered, and arose. And in the air first reached a hand, To clasp a spirit? No one knows. Or where he stood can ever stand— And lo, into the heavy night, As led by hands unseen, he fled, A startling figure, clad in white Into the canyons dark and dread. 'Twas years ago, but trace or track Of him has never yet been found. For echo only answered back The hunter's call and baying hound; Forever lost, untracked, unseen. In the upheaved and wild Cascades, Forever lost, untracked, unseen, A shadow now among the shades. From some snow-wreathed and shining peak His soul swam starward long ago. And now no more we vainly seek, The secret of his fate to know. While fires of sunset and of dawn Flame red and fade on many a height. The myst'ry will not be withdrawn From him, long lost from human sight. Sam. L. Simpson 77 And yet I sometimes sit and dream Of him, my schoolmate and my friend, As wandering where briglit waters gleam, ;In some sweet life that has no end- Within the Cascades' inner walls. Where nymphs, beyond all fancy fair, Soothe him with siren madrigals. And deck him with their golden hair. TONIGHT. DECEMBER 24, 1877. When the stars gather in splendor, tonight. Darkness, Planet, will cover thy face— Death-ridden darkness, in shapes that affright. Black with the curses that blacken our race! And the mist, like the ghost Of a hope that is lost. Strangely will hover o'er fields that are bare And the seas, at whose heart the old sorrow is throbbing- Restless and hopeless, eternally sobbing— Madly will kneel in a tempest of prayer. When the stars gather in armor, tonight. Planet of w^ailing. thy fate shall be read ! Steal like a nnn neath the scourge from their sight. Gather thy sorrows, like robes, to thy head ! For the vestal white rose Of the crystalline snows Coldly has sealed thee to silence unblessed : And the red rose is dead in thy gardens of pleasure- Forests, like princes, bereft of all treasure Rise and uDbraid thee, a skeleton jest ! When the stars gather in vengeance, tonight. Gibbering history, too, will arise. Rustling her garments of mildew and blight. Only to curse thee. mother of lies ! With thy goblet all drained. And thy w^anton lip stained— 78 Oregon LUfmiure Singing wild songs where all ruin appears — What, shall thou say of this dust thai was glory. Dust that beseeches thee still with a story. Deep in whose silence are rivers of tears! When the stars gather in chorus, tonight, Ringing the hillaby song of our Lord, Childhood shall come to us, dimpled and bright, Kissed by His promise, and fed by His word; And our fears shall depart, And our anguish of heart. Rending us darkly the lengthy years thro'; And the dust of the perished shall blossom, and beauty Garland the lowliest pathway of duty. Rich with the hopes that qwy spir-its renew. SIMPSON'S "BEAUTIFUL WILLAMETTE' WITH ILLUSTRATIONS. SS SS c o K-1.0-' ^£ £ til] ■ox .ECQ 5^ - S ta C O .c _ c c .^ . O Ot3 c H a 73 ~ < ■-£ t/5 /erted the sk opes they 1 d in tu < •-r°-^§ a P.S 0) o "U -1 ^ J:; ^ aj 3 ■" fc T3 £(^55 g 3t £ J o O C i- — 3 5 hi.E "J c ^ ro "-> "» cd to -J nj >. 3 >. ox: i/)£ ID Cj: = £; o-tJ Id O 2 c Si c ^3i V ta S2 ' T !-■- a OJ O n3 E ■n o ■a - bu c cd 2 c JAMES G. CLARKE James G. Clarke Miss Loona Sinitli says: " 'Poetry and Song,' Avritten by James G. Clarke, for many years a resident of Grants Pass, Oretron, does not possess all the elements necessary to world-wide renoAvn, but it will undoubtedly continue to be an inspiration to many throughout this Nation. The poems have a sweet, soft, sad melody which reveal to us the suffering of the author. They are not the hopeless longings of a soul unsatisfied, but they are the expression of one who is sure of a place in his Father's home. He even fancies that — He catches the s^eet strains of songs Floating down from distant throngs And can feel the touch of hands Reaching out from angel (bands. "Purity is one of the prominent traits of his writings. He wrote some very tender love poems, bu^ they are all on the strain of 'I cannot live without you.' Many of his poems are of childhood; in one he says: Friends of my childhood Tender and loving, Scattered like leaves over a desolate plain; Dreams of childhood, where are you roving, Never to gladden my pathway of pain. "The poem 'Look Up* is representative of his work; it is — Look up, look up, desponding soul! The clouds are only seeming, The light behind the darkening scroll Eternally is beaming. There is no death, there is no night, No life nor day declining. Beyond the day's departing light, The sun is always shining. 80 Oregon Literature Could wc but pierce the rolling storms That veil the pathway southward, We'd see a host of shining- forms Forever looking onward. " 'The Mount of the Holy Cross,' which is numbered among American classics, is his greatest poem." THE MOUNT OF THE HOLY CROSS. The Mount of the Holy Cross, the principal mountain of the Saguache iRan-ge, Colorado, is 14,176 feet a^bove tide-water. The Cross is located near the top, facing the east, and consists of two crevices filled with snow summer and winter. The crevices are a'bout fifty feet wide, and the snow in them from fifty to one hundred feet in depth. The perpendicular arm of the Cross is some fifteen hundred feet long, and the hori- zontal arm seven hundred feet. The Cross may be seen at a distance of thirty or forty miles. The ocean divided, the land struggled through, And a newly-born continent burst into view; Like furrows upturned by the plowshare of r4od. The mountain chains rose where the billows had trod ; And tlieir towering summits, in mighty array. Turned their terrible brows to the glare of the day. Like sentinels guarding the gateway of Time, Lest the contact with mortals should stain it with crime. The ocean was vanquished, the new world was born. The headlands flung back the bold challenfre of morn ; The sun from the trembling sea marshalled the mist Till the hills by the soul of the ocean were kissed ; And the Winter-king reached from his cloud-castlerl height To hang on each brow the first garland of white; For the crystals came forth at the touch of his wand. And the soul of the sea ruled again on the land. Then arose the loud moan of the desolate tide. As it called back its own from the far mountain side : ' ' O soul of my soul ! by the sun led astray, Return to the heart that would hold thee alway; James G. Clarke Si The Sim and the silver moon woo me in vain ; By day and by night. I am sobbing with pain ; Oh, loved of my bosom ! Oh, child of the Free, Come back to the lips that are waiting for thee!*^' But a sound, like all melodies mingled in one, Came down through the spaces that cradled the sun. I;ike music from far-distant planets it fell. Till earth, air, and ocean were hushed in the spell: "Be> silent, ye waters, and cease your alarm, All motion is only the pulse of my arm; In my breath the vast systems unerringly swing. And mine is the chorus the morning stars sing. '^ 'Twas mine to create them, 'tis mine to command The land to the ocean, the sea to the land; All, all are ray creatures, and they who would give True worship to me for each other must live. Lo ! I leave on the mountain a sign that shall be A type of the union of land and sea — An emblem of anguish that comes before bliss. For they who would conquer must conquer by this." The roar of the earthquake in answer was heard, The land from its solid foundation was stirred, The breast of the mountain was rent by the shock. And a cross was revealed on the heart of the rock; One hand pointing south, where the tropic gales blow, And one to the kingdom of winter and snow. While its face turned to welcome the dawn from afar. Ere Jordan had rolled under Bethlehem's star. The harp of the elements over it swung, In the wild chimes of Nature its advent was rung, Around it the hair of the Winter-king curled. Against it in fury his lances were hurled, And the pulse of the hurricane beat in its face Till the snows were locked deep in its mighty embrace. And its arms were outstretched on the mountain's cold breast. As spotless and white as the robes of the blest. 82 Orcgo)! Literature Then tlie spii-it of Simmier caine up fi'oin the south With the smile of the Junes on her heautiful mouth, And breathed on the vaUey, the phiins, and the hills, While the snow rippled home in the arms of the rills ; The winter was gone, but the symbol was there, Towering mutely and grand, like the angel of prayer, Where the morning shall stream on the place of its birth Till the last cross is borne by the toilers of earth. It will never grow old while the sea breath is drawn From the lips of the billows at evening and dawn. While heaven's pure finger transfigures the dews, And with garlands of frost-work its beauty renews ; It was there when the blocks of the pyramid pile Were drifting in sands on the plains of the Nile, And it still shall point homeward, a token of trust, When pyramids crumble in dimness and dust. It shall lean o'er the world like a banner of peace Till discord and war between brothers shall cease, Till the Red Sea of Time shall be cleansed of its gore, And the years like white pebbles be washed to the shore ; As long as the incense from the ocean shall rise To weave its bright woof on the warp of the skies, As long as the clouds into crystals shall part. That cross shall gleam high on the continent's heart. mH ^ A"-*^! 11 ^K.'. 'J % 1 1 ^il M Tt%^ ^H B ^1 ^^ MRS. EVA EMERY DYE Mrs. Eva Emery Dye The Land of Sunshine, of Los Angeles, says: "Eva Emery Dye, whose strong book, 'McLoughlin and Old Oregon,' has been warmly commended, was born in Prophetstown, Illinois, of New England ancestry. There in the historic haunts of Black Hawk, she turned even as a child to Ihe fascination of the past. Graduat- ing from Oberlin College in 1882 she married a class- mate, Charles Henry Dye, of Fort Madison, Iowa ; and in 1890 they removed to Oregon City, Oregon. The wealth of history and romance in that unharried field appealed strongly to Mrs. Dye ; and she plunged at once into ardent cross-examination of the pioneers and pioneer times of the far Northwest. 'Old Oregon' is still new enough so that contemporaries of the first heroes still survive. It is not, like California, two long lifetimes back to the historic beginnings; or New Mexico with more than three centuries and a half of his^^ory. And even as it is scant in the documentary treasures of which the older West has such marvelous— though recondite- store, it is richer in the human parchments. And here was Mrs. Dye's bonanza. She has foregathered with these tottering chronicles, and gathered from them their reminiscences. White-headed men and women have told her of the migrations of the early 'Forties ; missionaries of the 'Thirties have gone over with her the times that tried men's souls; and still further back, the old voya- geurs and fur-traders of the Hudson's Bay Company have given her their eye-witness versions of that Homeric day. Even the Indian— one of the most vital and com- petent of witnesses, when one knows how to get at him — has not been forgotten in Mrs. Dye's eager research; and every old book, document or letter that she could lay her hands upon was as earnestly devoured. "The result is in evidence. 'McLoughlin and Old Oregon' is one of the best Western books in its sort— 84 Oregon LHcraiure and a good sort. Taking it in conjunction with Cones 's critical 'Larpentenr, ' one may have an excellently clear concept of the old Northwest, and of that most romantic corporation in hnman history, the Hudson's Bay Com- pany, in all its gallan^y and all its meanness. Mrs. Dye's home is in Oregon City, Oregon." Mrs. Dye's book, now in press, is to be called "The Conquest: The True Story of Lewis and Clarke," and deals with the great middle West movement ending with the Expedition of Lewis and Clarke that brought, the United States under our dominion. An edition of 15,000 copies is now in press, with A. C. McClurg & Co., Chi- cago, to be out in November. The frontispiece is "Judith," the girl for whom Clarke named the River Judith in Montana and whom he afterward married. The incident of their courtship and marriage forms a romantic feature of the book; the special heroine of the expedition itself is Sacajawea. the beautiful Shoshone Indian girl who piloted Lewis and Clarke through the mountains and spent the winter with them at Fort Clatsop by the Oregon sea. Sacajawea's husband, Charboneau, was interpreter and voyageur. In this book Mrs. Dye has made use of many interesting and valuable traditions preserved by the Western Indians concerning these marvelous first Avhite men that came to them out of the East. JO LANE AND THE INDIANS. Table Rock is a flat-topped mountain overhanging Rogue River, in Southern Oregon. From this watch- tower, sweeping the valley for miles, the Indians noted incoming immigrants and the movements of gold-seekers. Thus, with accurate knowledge of their strength and movements, the Indians could swoop down with unerring aim and annihilate whole encampments. They became expert robbers, bandits of as wild exploits as any ever celebrated in song or story. Strangers entering the lovely valley ( f the Rogue little imagined that pictur- esque peak of the Tjd)le Rock sheltered the deadliest foe of settlement and of civilization. Mrs. Eva Emery Dye 85 In the days of the gold rush, large companies passed in comparative safety, but many a straggler, many a group of three or four, went out never to return. In the spring of 1850, Governor Jo Lane, the "Marion of the Mexican War," decided to go down and quiet those Indian banditti. With an escort of fifteen men, a pack-train bound for the mines, and a few friendly Klickitats— born foes of the Rogue Rivers— he made a descent on their country. Camping near some Indian villages. General Lane sent word to the principal chief, "I want a 'peace talk.' Come unarmed." The chief and seventy-five followers came and sat in a ring on the grass around the Ilyas Tyee of the whites. Lane very fiatteringly and with great ado brought the Indian chief into the center with himself. Just behind sat his Klickitat aides. Before the conference began, seventy-five more Indians appeared, fully armed. "Put down your arms and be seated," said Lane to the new comers. They sat down. General Lane, the hero of many a battle, made a great peace talk. "I hear you have been murdering and robbing my people. It must stop. My people must pass through your country in safety. Our laws have been extended here. Obey them, and you can live in peace. The Great Father of Wash- ington will buy your lands and pay you for them." He paused for response. The Rogue River chief uttered a stentorian note. His Indians leaped to their feet with a war-cry, brandishing their weapons. At a flash from the General's eye the Klickitats seized the chief. Motioning his men not to shoot, with utter fear- lessness Lane walked into the midst of the warriors, knocking up their guns with his revolver. ' ' Sit down, ' ' he sternly motioned. The astonished chief, with the Klickitat's knife before his eye, seconded the motion, and the savages grounded their arms. As if nothing had happened. Lane went on talking. "Now," he said, "go home. Return in two days in a friendly manner to another council. Your chief shall be my guest." The crestfallen Indians withdrew, leaving their chief a prisoner with General Lane. At sunrise an anxious squaw came over the hills to find her lord. Jo Lane 86 Oregon Literature brought her in and treated her like a lady. For two days Lane talked with that savage chief and won his friendship. When the warriors came a treaty was easily concluded. "And now bring the goods you s'^ole from my people," said General Lane. The Indians bundled away and soon brought in whatever was left. But the treasures of a recent robbery were gone beyond retrieve. Ignorant of their value, the savages had emptied the precious sacks of gold-dust into the river. "What is the name of this great chief?" asked the Indians of the interpreter. The Gcnieral himself an- swered, "Jo Lane." " Give me your name, ' ' said the Indian chief. ' ' I have seen no man like you." "I will give you half my name," said Lane. "You shall be called Jo. To your wife I give the name 'Sally,' and your daughter shall be called Mary." General Lane wrote a word about the treaty on slips of paper and signed his name. Giving them to the Indians, he said, "Whenever any white man comes into your country, show him this. Take care of my people." As long as those precious bits of paper held together the Indians preserved them. Whenever a white man appeared they went to him, holding out the paper, saying rapidly the magic password, "Jo Lane, Jo Lane, Jo Lane" — the only English words they knew. For about a year Chief Jo tried to keep the peace with the ever- increasing flood of white men. After a while, when all the other Indians around him were lighting. Chief Jo went again on the warpath. General Lane, no longer Governor, was building a home on his claim in the Umpqua Valley, near the present site of Roseburg, when he heard the news. Hastily gathering a small force, he hurried to the scene of hostility. For a hundred miles up and down the California trail the Indians were slaughtering and burning. Houses were destroyed and the woods were on fire, and a dense smoke hid the enemy's track. As soon as Lane appeared he was put in command. They traced the Indians, and a great battle was fought Mrs. Eva Emery Dye 87 at a creek near Table Rock. Chief Jo had been proudly defiant and boasted, "I have a thousand wiarriors. I can darken the sun with their arrows." But when he saw his warriors falling, and their women and children prisoners, the old chief's feathers dropped. He heard that Jo Lane had come, and sent for a "peace talk." "Jo Lane, Jo Lane," all the Indians began to call— "Jo Lane, Jo Lane"— from bush and hollow. The General, wounded in the battle, and faint from the loss of blood, ordered a suspension of hostilities. Not wishing them to know that he was wounded, he threw a cloak over his shoulders to conceal his arm, and walked into the Indian camp. His men were amazed, and censured this rash exposure of his life. Far off, as soon as Chief Jo caught sight of Lane approaching, he cried his griefs across the river : ' ' The white men have come on horses in great numbers. They are taking our country. We are afraid to lie down to sleep, lest they come upon us. We are weary of war, and want peace." Lane sat down by his namesake. Chief Jo. "Our hearts are sick, "said the despondent chief. "We will meet you at Table Rock in seven days," was the final conclusion, "and give up our arms." Lane agreed to this, and took with him the son of Chief Jo as a hostage. During the armistice, reinforcements were arriving — among them a howitzer and muskets and ammunition — in charge of young Lieutenant Kautz, of Fort Vancouver. Also, a guard of forty men, led by Captain Nesmith, from the Willamette Valley. General Joel Palmer, Su- perintendent of Indian Affairs, came, and Judge Deady, who was on his way to Jacksonville to hold court. The Indians heard of the howitzer long before it arrived. ' ' Hyas rifle, ' ' they said ; "it takes a hatful of powder, and will shoot down a tree. ' ' They begged that the great gun might not be fired. The reinforcements were wild to have a chance at those Indians whose camp- fires nightly shone from Table Rock, but General Lane held them to the armistice. The day of the council arrived. In the language of Judge Deady, an eye-witness : ' ' The scene of the famous 'peace talk' between Joseph Lane and Indian Joseph— 88 Oregon Literature two men who had so lately met in mortal combat— was worthy of the pen of Sir Walter Scott and tlie pencil of Salvator Rosa. It was on a narrow bench of a long gently sloping hill lying over against the noted blnli" called Table Rock. Lane was in fatigue dress, the arm which was wounded at Buena Vista in a sling, from a fresh wound received at Battle Creek. Indian Joseph, tall, grave and self-possessed, wore a long black robe over his ordinary dress. By his side sat Mary, his fav- orite child and faithful companion, then a comparatively handsome young woman, unstained by the vices of civil- ization. Around these sat on the grass Captain A. J. Smith, who had just arrived from Port Orford with his company of the First Dragoons; Captain Alvord, then engaged in the construction of a military road through the Umpqua Canon ; and others. A short distance above, upon the hillside, were some hundreds of dusky warriors in fighting gear, reclining quietly on the ground. The day was beautiful. To the east of us rose abruplly Table Rock, and at its base stood Smith's dragoons, wait- ing anxiously, with hand on horse, the issue of this at- tempt to make peace without their aid. ' ' ■ Captain Nesmith, on account of his knowledge of Chinook, was chosen interpreter. "But those Indians are rogues," interposed Nesmith. "It is not safe to go among them unarmed." "I have promised to go into their camp without arms, and I shall keep my word," said Lane. Nevertheless, one man, Captain Miller, did keep a pistol concealed beneath his coat. In the midst of the council a young Indian rushed panting in, made a short harangue, and threw himself upon the ground, exhausted. A band of white men, led by one lawless Owens, had that morning broke the armistice, and shot a young cdiief. Every Indian eye Hashed ; they began to uncover their guns. In the face of that band of fierce and hostile savages, every white man thought his time had come, and whis- pered a prayer for wife and cliildren. Some muttered words that were not prayers. Captain Smith leaned upon his saber and looked anxiously down upon his beau- •Mrs. Eva Emery Dye 89 tiful line of dragoons, sitting, with their white belts and burnished scabbards, like statues upon their horses in the sun below. And yet no word could reach them of that imminent peril on the mountain side. General Lane sat with compressed lips on a log. An- other and another Indian spoke, belaboring back and forth their anger. As if stopping the mouth of a volcano, General Lane stepped out, calling in a loud tone the Indian murnuirs, "Owens is a bad man. He is not one of my soldiers. AVhen we catch him he shall be punished. You shall be recompensed in blankets and clothing for the loss of your young chief. ' ' The red men caught the winning words. As Lane went on talking the excitement gradually subsided and the conference went on. The treaty was concluded, the Indians ceding the whole of the Rogue River Valley and accepting a reservation at Table Rock. They were to give up their arms, except a few for hunting; to have an agent over them; and to be paid sixty thousand dollars by the Government, to be expended in blankets, clothing, agricultural imple- ments, and houses for chiefs. When all was over the white men wended their way down the rocks. The bugle sounded, and the squadrons wheeled away. As General Lane and party rode across the valley they looked up and saw the rays of the setting sun gilding the summit of Table Rock. Nesmith drew a long breath. ' ' General, the next time you want to go unarmed into a hostile camp, you must hunt up somebody besides myself to act as your in- terpreter." With a benignant smile General Lane responded, "God bless you, Nesmith ; luck is better than science. ' ' Never- theless, twenty years later, in just such a case. General Canby lost his life at the ]\Iodoc camp. Wonderful to relate, in all the fierce and frightful Indian wars that followed, the treaty Indians of Table Rock forever kept the peace. When all other tribes around them were on the warpath, they alone remained quiet on their reservation. 90 Oregon Lifcratnre THE OREGON SKYLARK. Descendant of a thousand springs, The skylark lifts his gladsome wings. The skylark lifts and sings and sings The song of all created things. The skylark sings and summer lifts Her head among the snowy drifts Of petal bloom that softly sifts Thro' breeze and sun and leafy rifts. The skylark sings and floats and floats, Upon his melody he gloats, Outflinging showers of silver notes As from a thousand silver throats. The skylark sings and multiplies His little being as he flies, A heart athrob far in the skies Till in the blue his paean dies. Sing on, sing on, O bird apart. Check thou my tears before they start, T'hine airy grace, thine untaught art Lift sorrow^ from the human heart. Sing on, sing on, skylark, sing. Mine eye attendant on thy wing Hath caught its tender quivering. The far vibration of a string. By angels swept, a winged lyre That kindles all the heart afire. That kindles all a saint's desire. Like thee, to rise, to hope, aspire. rM ■ ^ jp "l ;^ '> ^^ ;"■ || ; f ■ »w i»|i« ' i i i m MINNIE MYRTLE MILLER Minnie Myrtle Miller Poetess of the Coquelle ENCAMPED. The twilight air is soft and still; The night tird trills, the crickets sing; The zephyrs from the distant hill A thousand pleasant odors bring; The tents are spread, the snowy tents, Grouped in the grassy glen; The 'bugle note has died away; And silence reigns again. — Minnie Myrtle Miller. Edwin Arnold onc6 said, "Joaquin Miller is one of the two greatest American poets." But Joaquin Miller's life and lines can never be fully understood and appre- ciated without some acquaintance with Minnie Myrtle Miller, his wife, who stood unrivalled for her peculiar versatility. She could carry a gun into the mountain fastness and slay a deer, an elk, or a bear, on which to dine, or she could relapse into quietude and write a poem that showed unquestioned genius, or she could appear in high social circles with a queenly grace and there entertain the princely and the wealthy. We know of no one whose life's history more forcibly illustrates the restless longing for larger and higher sphere of action than the subject of this sketch, Minnie Myrtle Miller. Thirty-six years ago, when the war cloud lowered heavy and dark over our land, when there were heard criminations and recriminations everywhere, when the deliberations of our Congress assumed the form of angry debate, when the startling cry of "traitor" was heard echoing through the halls dedicated to liberty, when father and son held bitter converse, and brothers prepared to array themselves as enemies in deadly com- bat, when every home in the land was shocked by the clash of arms and the tramp of mustering steeds — she 92 Oregon Literature first was kno\\Ti througli the public press and beyond the immediate neighborhood of her home. Even there, though fnrtliest removed from the seat of war on the extreme western verge of civilization, she heard among her few associates angry words spoken by youthful tongues and read fiery sentences penned by aged hands. Hers was a nature too gentle, too kind, too sweet to sound or even echo the notes of war. When all the land was a Babel of angry voices, hers was clear and sweet. She wrote of her home, her friends, of the sunlit waves of the Pacific which smoothed the sands for her feet, and told the beautiful stories whispered by the tall pines as she wandered through the groves. • Her name was Theresa Dyer; with the quick ear for the musical, which characterized all her writings, she adopted the nom de plume of ' ' ^linnie Myrtle ' ' and sent her productions— both prose and verse — to the neighbor- ing weekly papers. Her future husband, Cincinnatus Heine Miller, since known as "Joaquin Miller," was at that time writing for the same papers, wild, weird and sometimes blood-thirsty stories, signed "Giles Gaston." In one of these, in which he thrillingiy depicted a battle on the border with the Indians, he expressed a desire to become acquainted with the sweet singer of the Coquelle, whoever she might be. Although but a youth, he knew none but a sweet young girl, filled with all the pleasing fancies and fallacies of life, could write as she did. In Minnie's next story was given her address; and the correspondence, which a few months later resulted in her marriage to the Poet, began by his mailing her an ap- preciative letter inclosing a tin-type picture of himself. He was tall, strong, and not graceless in a woman's eye. He found her gentle, handsome and sweet, in the first fiush of young wottnanhood. Their first meeting sealed their fate. Let the I\)et tell tlie story, for he l