Editors Union: to most of the population of your state the Territory of Oregon is indeed a terra incognita! I have been much surprised when in California to find such widespread ignorance prevailing there of our new state, and its vast, though undeveloped, industrial resources. Much of this, however, is certainly chargeable upon our local journalists, who, instead of pointing out to the outside world the vast field for industry that Oregon presents, are filling their columns fifty-two times a year with the dirtiest personalities engendered in that hotbed of rancor and hate--politics. Many a page might be well filled with word paintings of the sublime and beautiful views which the ever-varying landscapes of these three valleys--the Willamette, the Umpqua and the valley of the Rogue River--afford. The Willamette, which extends from the Columbia River on the north to the Calapooia Mountains on the south, and from the Coast Range on the west to the Cascades or Sierras on the east, in its geographical formation resembles the valley of the Sacramento. But it is far from being either so arid or so destitute of timber. It is smaller in extent than the Sacramento, but what it lacks in broad acres it more than makes up for in productiveness. It may be said, indeed, without exaggeration, to be the farmer's paradise! Every kind of grain or vegetable known to the temperate zone, and fruit, too, with precious few exceptions, can be raised there to perfection, and from the bottom of the highest hill to the top without the trouble of irrigation. It is thinly settled at present--though containing the bulk of our population--being held mostly by section and half-section settlers, but is bound to be densely populated at no very distant day. There is little or no vacant land there at present, but excellent farms can be purchased, with as good title as our Uncle Samuel can make, and well improved, for from five to ten dollars per acre. I am straying, however, I find, from the order of my heading--the Umpqua.
    The Umpqua is less of an agricultural country than the Willamette, being very broken into rugged, barebrowed hills, covered with a luxuriant growth of trefoil or wild clover. As may be inferred from this description, it is the country for stock raising, and it is. Sheep and cattle raising is the principal occupation of its inhabitants, who send annually thousands of beeves and muttons to feed the hungry of the Golden State. The country, extending from the Calapooia Mountains north to the Cañon or entrance to Rogue River Valley south, about one hundred miles, with a breadth of perhaps fifty miles, is thinly inhabited, but there is room for thousands more. Strange that your people should quarrel as they do about the land of California, worthless as most of it is, when a few miles north, and within three days' sail of San Francisco, on the Coquille or Rogue River, around Coos Bay, and in this beautiful valley, they could find good land, well timbered, well watered, and with a propitious sky over all, for the taking! But mankind are like the feline race in one respect at least--what they get by force or stealth is sweetest.
    But to return to what we set out to tell of--the scenery on the Umpqua River and its tributaries. Our imagination may do it justice, but words must fail us.Such a task would require the pencil of an artist of no mean order. One has been here, we understand, from San Francisco, taking views on the river from its mouth to Scottsburg, for a panoramic painting, which, if well executed, cannot fail to commend itself to the lovers of the beautiful in nature and art. We ascended the river from its mouth to Gardiner--a distance of four miles--in the ocean steamer Columbia. A lighthouse has recently been erected on the beach on the right hand of the entrance. The river runs out to the ocean nearly in a southerly direction, but bends away to the east after leaving Gardiner. On the left, as you enter, is a low tongue of sand beach, on which is Fort Umpqua, where are some United States soldiers stationed to guard the Indians on the Reserve around the Fort. It is a good location for a reserve, but must be a dismal place for whites, used to the civilities and amenities of life, to live. The Indians are not numerous, and are said to be peaceably disposed. They are under charge of Indian Agent Drew. The steamer sent a boat ashore opposite the Reserve, and several of the officers and men (of the army) came on board in her. There is no human habitation between there and Gardiner City, and only one house and a wharf there. The river here is a mile or over wide, and rolls dark and deep. Not an object on its banks but the primitive forests, and that solitary house composing the city of Gardiner. We round to at the wharf, and lo! "an Oregon girl," the blossom of the wilderness, attracts the attention of a group of young men on the steamer's deck. She is picking flowers in a wild meadow at the rear of the house--herself the fairest flower amongst them. Precipitated in three days from the sight of the bundles of hoops, laces, crinoline and rouge that promenade J Street and Montgomery, into this untrodden Eden, you may be sure this solitary Eve, in all her simplicity of dress and wildness of manner, was the object of their criticism. "No hoops here," said a gawky [sic], evidently from the region of Hangtown. "What a slim figure!" exclaims a second, "and how fresh and fair she looks!" chimed in a third. Without running over the catalog of the various remarks which she called forth, the general result of the criticism upon the charms of the "lassie wi' the lint white locks"--who was all unconscious of it--ended in her favor. This good opinion of the young woman was afterwards heightened to admiration, when, at the door of her father's cottage, the thirsty boys received from her hands, with a smile, draughts without stint of the nectar called fresh buttermilk! I am not a bachelor, you know, and cannot be accused of being floored by the witching god, but I'll be bound that simple unsophisticated Maid of Gardiner made an impression on the mind of many a Fraser-bound gold seeker, carrying him back to other days, and other scenes far away among the White or Green mountains of his native state. She was the remembrancer of sister or sweetheart to the sad heart of many a long-absent, weary wanderer. But a truce to sentiment. I'm in the cold world of reality again. One look upon the wild, savage grandeur of the first bend of the Umpqua, and in a little steamer fifteen by ten, which looks by the side of the Columbia like a Nautilus by a seventy-four, and we are steaming up the river to Scottsburg--some twenty miles in the interior, and the highest point navigable on the Umpqua. Away to the left, and running parallel with the coast in a northerly direction, amongst the everlasting Coast Range, we come opposite to a bay of considerable width, which our pilot informs us is the mouth of Smith's River, and up which, he says, for some twenty miles or more is some of the finest unsettled country on the Pacific Coast. It is prairie and timbered bottom land, some of its submerged by tide water at high tides. The river or bay is navigable all the way up. There are some white settlements on its banks. We must hurry on. It is now past seven o'clock, and Luna is just peeping over the high, precipitous hills that wall in the river on either side, coming down to the very water's edge. And such hills! and such a river! and at such an hour in the gray, solemn twilight of evening! Not a sound to break the stillness that reigns around as when the earth first came from the hand of the Great Architect, except the "puff," "puff" of the little steamer, and now and then the dissonant scream of the scared waterfowl as it wings its way high up into the mountains. Even the passengers have ceased to be communicative in [the] presence of the awful grandeur of the scenery. Rough, untutored-looking workmen hired in San Francisco to work upon the government roads in Oregon have ceased their blasphemous obscenity, and commune in silence with their own thoughts. It is night upon the waters! The clear shadow created waters, with the pale moon streaming occasionally down between two cleft mountains upon its bosom, which sends the borrowed light in glories back to heaven! What a time and place for meditation! But see! Here is a tongue of land, large enough for a garden, perhaps, but overgrown with trees. One dark object is discernible on the margin of the river. We pass it. "That," says our pilot, "was the solitary residence of Pierre Blancartee, a trapper of the Hudson's Bay Company for nearly twenty years. Upon that point of land, crushed out, as it were, from under the mountain by its weight, the Frenchman enjoyed his solitary life, until his eyesight failing, he was forced to give up his favorite pursuit, and betake himself to the French Prairie, where he has since reared a family of half-breeds, and is himself a hale and hearty old man of nearly seventy years."
    We passed several of these old trappers' residences on our way to Scottsburg, which are now deserted. They are the only inhabitants to be seen on the river. Indeed, it is not habitable. An idea of the ruggedness of the country may be formed from the fact that it is impossible to build a road from Scottsburg to Gardiner. The river runs through one vast cañon, cut through the Coast Range, where, as Ossian said of Cuchullin's retreat:
    The Palisades along the Hudson are nothing to it in grandeur, for the Palisades have been spoiled by art, but here nature has her solitary reign. It is idle for me to follow up the description. No tongue nor pen can do it justice. I jotted down a few thoughts caught passing through my brain while ascending--mere fragments--and they are before the reader. Should business or pleasure ever call him up the Umpqua by moonlight, he may realize what I can feel, but cannot paint in language.
    We reached Scottsburg at midnight, and found a good supper and warm bed at the only hotel in the place. It was Oregon fare--good, comfortable, plenty, and cheap. The prosperity of Scottsburg, and indeed of the entire of Central Oregon, is greatly retarded by the villainous--it is the most fitting expression that I can find--conduct of the Pacific Mail Steamship Company, who have the contract for the delivery of a semi-monthly mail at Gardiner. This contract, owing to the difficulty of entering the river from sea in hard weather, leaves the company the discretionary power to come in or out, as the officers of the ship please, and when they please. The result may be easily anticipated. The steamer never can be depended upon. Sometimes she touches going up to Portland--sometimes not until coming back, and very frequently neither way. I have known Umpqua-bound passengers carried from San Francisco to Portland and back again to San Francisco, and on the next trip carried to Umpqua, and in the middle of summer, too, before being landed. So it is with the mail. The officers have only to say there was a fog, or a heavy sea, or they passed in the night and couldn't land "to perform their contract"! The Postmaster General could have remedied all this by stipulating that every time the steamer failed to land the mail in proper time, the company should forfeit a certain sum. Then I'll warrant there wouldn't be so many difficulties, and so frequently in the way of her landing. We hope the California delegation in Congress, together with our delegation-elect, will see that some such stipulation is made in the next contract. The very last trip, in the place of landing the mail, the Columbia took a cargo of Fraser River passengers up to Puget Sound, and delivered our mail coming back.
    On my return from Salem, I had occasion to travel the California and Oregon road, and it is literally crowded with Fraser River-bound gold seekers. I counted five Spanish trains in nine miles. California must be fast becoming depopulated. Your state, I understand, has lost some fifty or sixty thousand inhabitants by the exodus. Oregon has not lost one hundred as yet! Why is this? The answer is easy. Your population have no stake in the country--our have. Ours have farms, crops, harvests, fruit orchards, stock and families to attend to--most of yours take their worldly goods on their backs. This stampede cannot fail to almost ruin California for a time, but I anticipate it will result in her ultimate and permanent good, in this wise: Your state government is an expensive piece of machinery which has hitherto drawn its propelling power mostly from the miners. That source, once "dried up," the tax will come upon the land more heavily. In this case, the land grabbers may be glad to sell out at a reasonable price to actual settlers, thus inducing a population to California who will not be carried off by every gold humbug that arises. Your next Legislature, with this end in view, and with no sparing hand, should pile the tax on to the land without stint. In a few years your landocrats would tire of paying for unproductive acres. In this way California may profit by her present exodus, and will, if her leading minds are patriotic. The Union, with its widespread circulation, can do much towards this end. Oregon does not feel the exodus, and for the reason I have named. We will gain by your loss of population. So will Washington Territory, and still further north. There are good lands in abundance north--sufficient to build up a Pacific Empire--and the mere penniless and venturous go north. If they are only unable to get away, the better for that country.
Sacramento Daily Union, August 21, 1858, page 1


Sacramento Daily Union, August 24, 1858, page 1


    The Pacific arrived in port here, early this morning, after lying off the harbor all night--a thick fog preventing her entrance--and I address you a few lines.
    The harbor presents, just now, a lively appearance, in comparison with its usual condition. The Pacific, the Santa Cruz, the Wilson Hunt, and the Latona are at anchor. The Hunt has just arrived from San Francisco, and the Santa Cruz from Humboldt Bay. The latter steamer started from San Francisco ten days ago, with the Latona in tow, and arrived here in seven days, but her coal giving out, she went back to Humboldt Bay for more. She will again sail hence with the Latona today, bound to Victoria. Some doubts are expressed whether the Santa Cruz will be able to take the Latona through. These doubts, however, I have heard only from landsmen, and they may be unworthy of any serious thought. The Ranger No. 2, a little steamer, 40 feet long, or thereabouts, bound for Victoria, arrived here a couple of days since, 28 days from San Francisco, and steamed off again yesterday, in pursuance of her voyage. She spent two weeks and a half, according to report, in getting round Cape Mendocino, having to put in frequently for wood.
    Crescent City is a dull place for news. The only excitement, other than that of Fraser River, which has prevailed here for a long time, was a couple of weeks ago, on the occasion of the quashing of the indictment of "the Judds," for the murder of Rothenheim, nearly a year since. The indictment having been declared defective, because it failed to specify the part of the body in which the murdered man was shot, a motion was made that the accused should be discharged. Thereupon a vigilance committee was formed to seize the Judds if they should be liberated, and prevent them from committing any more murders; but the district judge remanded the prisoners to jail, to await the action of the next grand jury, and the vigilance committee has remained quiet.
    Another case which caused some scandal was the trial of a fellow who had been preaching the gospel on Klamath River, but whose true character appeared on detection in horse stealing. When brought up for trial, he asked for a change of venue, on the ground that he could not get justice here, and when this motion was overruled, and the petty jury was being empaneled, the prisoner, who has several aliases--R. C. Waters and P. C. Culp being among them--cocked up his legs on the table and objected to a number of jurors, perfect strangers to him, making such remarks as "I don't like the look on that fellow's mug," "that's a regular &c. loafer; I don't want to be tried by any such chap as him." He was sentenced to the state prison for two years.
    There is a rumor of Indian troubles near Humboldt Bay, but I can obtain no particulars.
    The town of Crescent City offers little for me to describe. It is composed of about a hundred wooden and brick buildings, strung along the beach. The harbor is protected by Point St. George, which just out about half a mile due west into the ocean; and south of this point is a tolerable anchorage during summer, while the winds are from the north, but a very unsafe one during the winter. The town was laid out in '53, and high hopes were entertained of its future and speedy greatness until the end of '54, when it became plain that Yreka, and Weaverville and vicinity, would persist in obtaining their supplies from Shasta. Since then Crescent City has grown but little. During the last year there were 151 arrivals of vessels in port. About 7,000 tons of merchandise are imported annually. The price of freight per ton from San Francisco was $12.50 on an average last year; this year, on account of the Fraser River fever, it has been $20. Very little freight is brought hither during the winter.
    There is a good wagon road to Yreka, part of the way planked. A stage runs to Yreka thrice a week, making the trip in three days, by way of Jacksonville and Althouse, O.T. At the latter place, and Sailor Diggings in its vicinity, are some of the richest diggings on this coast, and they offer--if rumor is true--a fair reward to men working alone with the rocker and pan, and still better rewards to those who have the capital to make extensive dams and sluices.
    Among the notabilities of Crescent City is a United States lighthouse, provided with a fine Fresnel light, which can be seen at a distance of twenty miles. The lamp cost $3,000 in France, and is a beautiful specimen of workmanship.
Daily Alta California, San Francisco, August 20, 1858, page 1

    To the mountains, boys! Away!--from this Jacksonville August dust! Let labor, trade and science revel in the mountain air, and rub against the forest. Get your mules, arms and ammunition; fishing tackle and salt, and don't forget the howitzer--load it with first-class cognac, of course--it don't miss fire! Agreed, agreed! was the simultaneous exclamation of these bronzed sons of the Pacific, who have grown restless under the regime of enervating luxury, which, with the scent of a bloodhound, follows on the track of gold, and is daily rearing her hydra heads in our midst. Unanimity--the ayes have it--we go! Mount, then, and lead off the cavalcade. To the east, northeast by east. Steer for the mountain of birds. Clouds of dust mark our passage across the valley to Rogue River; in fact, dust seems to be our evil genius--gold dust most especially. Here, on the waters of Rogue, a halt is sounded, and a salute is fired all round from the howitzer; mules watered, and revolvers loaded, when we mount and head up the river for Big Butte Creek. All hands are now on the alert; orders are given for revolver practice on inoffensive grouse and jackass rabbits, two spiritual salutes, premium being offered to the happy possessor of the most scalps on arriving at camp. Well, here we are!--after a drive of 40 miles, beating the shades of night at least two hours in the race to camp. Orderly bugler, "Call the roll." "All here, sir!" We now proceed to bury the donkeys in grass on the creek bottom, after which camp life bursts upon us in full blast; the fumes of grouse and buck rabbit--fried, stewed and grilled--has a magic effect on this little party. All else is forgotten. Our thoughts are set free from the cares of life, and are centered on a single object--grilled grouse--served up in the "Globe" Hotel, where all nature boards, and all mortals lodge.
    To arms, boys! to arms! A drove of elk are stampeding the mules is the cry of our cargadoro. Now, the prospect of larger game chases away the fumes of grilled birds, upsetting camp gravity and setting up chaos; the mind and body pursue nothing but elk. In the general push the paraphernalia of camp is scattered and smashed; camp kettles roll down the hill into the creek, seemingly animated with the sport. Fun, fun and excitement enough to arrest and wipe out the premature wrinkles of age written in the faces of many that are entered in the great race up north after gold. The storming party succeed in capturing a heifer, which they hoist up to the limb of a fir, beyond the reach of impertinent wolves, and then come blowing into camp at dusk. General rejoicing takes place at the unprecedented good luck--two hours in camp, and plenty of meat--the choice of the antlered tribe of the forest. We now conclude to offer a sacrifice to good fortune and fun, and close the first day out by a few more rounds on the mountain howitzer, then pitch into the arms of the drowsy god on the greensward.
    The morning breaks, and so do we from our slumbers. The first thing on the tapis today is a wholesale bath in the creek; the next is broiled elk and coffee, when a blast from the bugle warns us to jump aboard, which we do according--plunging into conversation and the chaparral at the same time with all imaginable zest. The mules lead off at a brisk pace, and seem to enjoy the trip. After traveling about ten miles, we leave the creek and head directly for the peak of Rara Avis, the point of destination. Time wings his way pleasantly 10 miles further, when having lost ourselves in mule peripatetics, it becomes evident to all that we have also lost our trail, taking an elk trail instead, which has led us into a quandary--having run it out--and stuck fast in a brush that was proof against the progress of his elkship. A council is held, the result of which is, onward, giving the elk a lesson on topographical engineering. It is determined to push ahead and camp on the west spur of the Bird. Work now commences. The sweat rolls off the pilgrims of pleasure in profusion. The excursion is a little heavier than we bargained for. Jokes in the crowd are few and far between. Brush tries men's souls, as well as pants. We are now prepared to realize the hardships endured by the volunteers in the last war, and to wonder how they ever chased the Indians out of these mountains. We would say to all the croakers, who howled so incessantly about fighting the poor Indian for the purpose of robbing the treasury, that an excursion hither would strip them of their philanthropy, as well as foggery. They would say with us that the volunteer doubly earned his scrip. But enough of this--we are lost! The brush and darkness thicken around us.
    Camp! Let us camp!! Everybody says camp!!! But where, ah, where is the water? We have had none since morning. We now realize our situation fully, and it is anything but flattering--presenting quite a contrast to last night. After taking a consultation and a pull of brandy, we concluded to camp. The mules are stripped and tied to the brush around us, knowing full well that if turned loose, they would get out of this wilderness on the hunt of grass and water, and without any remorse of conscience leave us afoot. To say the least, we are rather a blank-looking set, lying spread out on the red dirt, amongst the bunches of greasewood, where a spear of grass would be a curiosity, compelled to borrow a camping place from the sterile home of the lizard, is a little too blank, but we set out for a rub against the brush and--what's all that row? What have you found? The spirits of the party go up to about 125 in the shade on the announcement of a providential discovery. While extracting the contents of the hamper, six immortal bottles of claret are found, being the remains of yesterday's sumptuous fare. Presto, the camp changes--a fire is blazing, every countenance expands, and by stretching the imagination, we discover some romance amid all this bald reality. Never was claret more appreciated. We note this down as the Lost Camp, and could enjoy it as the rich feature of the trip were it not for the plaintive, dismal braying of our poor thirsty mules, that are insulted in their cries for water by the howling of a neighboring pack of wolves. But enough. We sup, and turn in, the second night out, with music from the orchestra of mules and wolves.
    On waking up in the morning, overhauling the charts and taking our bearings, we find the Lost Camp located on a long sloping spur of the mountain, about halfway up to the base of the peak, where water never congregates. On either side the course of streams are plainly marked and easily seen. It is now decided by the conseil d'mont to bear to the southward as the nearest point to water. So the mules are packed and mounted, and a kind farewell is given to this arid paradise of brush. Water is the ruling thought. Two hours' ride, where white man never rode before, brought us to the supposed oasis. But fancy the concentrated wrath, and imprecations impious of thirsty excursionists, when, instead of the aqueous element, we discover nothing but broad fields of pumice stone, manufactured and thrown out here from the forge of Rara Avis, probably a thousand years ago, previous to her suspension of volcanic operations. We have heard of pleasure being pursued under difficulties, and beg to record this part of our ramble as a parallel case. But to the winds with speculation. Our tongues are swelling with thirst. Countenances begin to look ferocious. A bottle of brandy is broached and drained, and with desperation and Spanish spurs, we work up speed on the poor donkeys, retracing our steps to the Lost Camp, from which we descend the spur on the north branch seen in the morning, leaving the marks of our transit hanging on the chaparral, as the wrecked state of our raiment fully testify, causing us to strongly resemble a band of returned Fraserites. We reach the creek about 3 p.m. What a refreshing scene! Mules and men are stripped and plunge into the long-looked-for water--taking sweet revenge for past privations. A glorious breakfast is soon discussed, when we bring into requisition the piscatory apparatus, capture a few grasshoppers, and finish the day by angling for trout.
    The fourth day out is a smooth one, without any contretemps to break the general enjoyment, save an epicurean altercation on the best modes of cooking and catching trout, which is decided by target shooting with Colt's pistols, the best shot winning the fishy argument. Today we circumvent our mountain friend. Making a detour and crossing the northern spur, we reach the elevated tableland covered by lakes, lost rivers and tules, camping on Clear Lake, on the east side of the mountain. This huge basin of lakes is a curiosity well worth a visit. It is the grand nursery of all the feathered tribes, between Petropaulowski and Mazatlan, and may well be named the City of Birds. Latitude 42, on the Pacific coast, cutting these lakes, is a medium climate, which accounts for the semi-annual convention of the migratory waterfowl, that are chased by the extremes of climate from the Gulf of Georgia and California. The thaumaturgical priests of old Rome, who foretold the fate of battles by the flight of birds, could here get signs to suit any emergency.
    The Klamath River takes its source from these high lakes, and running west, along [the] 42nd parallel, breaks through the Coast Mountains to the sea. Rogue and Pit rivers head above this basin, divided only by the Shasta Range at its intersection with the Cascades, the latter being bent to the eastward and scattered somewhat, to make room for these rivers and afford a starting place for the Sierra Nevada, Pit and Rogue rivers, starting together, diverge and cut the coast respectively in about 37 and 43 degrees of latitude, forming a triangle which encloses entire several large rivers, some of which are Smith, Illinois, Applegate, Klamath, Shasta, Scott, Trinity, Eel, McCloud, West Branch of Sacramento and all its branches, Cottonwood and Russian rivers. The most of these streams are rich in gold, and taken altogether, affording resources for the profitable employment and support of a population of 500,000 souls. In the older states, probably, this number set out in life every year--say at the age of eighteen--under the age, and as a part and parcel of the machinery of adamantine monopolists, and are crowded through a brief thirty or forty years, then complacently shoved off the stage poor, with the satisfaction of seeking his whole family start in on the same long road, with a prospect of similar success: contributing to the aggregate wealth of corporations and the country at large, but not his own. Here he could do both; ten years in this triangle, with half the exertion and wear and tear of body, and he turns the tables on hereditary poverty. He can then use the lever of wealth to turn the screw of monopoly on the next generation; so pick up a little energy, money and your household goods, and taking advantage of the anticipated regime low steamship fare, spread yourselves on the balmy shores of the Pacific and grow up with an empire instead of it on you. But what are we talking about? Population will seek its level, as well as money or mercury. We have gone around the world in a few centuries, improving some in our notions of art, science and civilization as we go westward, and now we double on our tracks, stirring up the somnolent Chinese, with our deep-mouthed civilizers, waking them up from a two hundred years' dream and tell them to jump aboard of the cars and ride on the western wave, or to be engulfed by its restless flood. But to earth again. Fishing in clear lakes ceases to amusement and degenerates into slaughter, so we square the yards and blankets for a square night's rest, it being our intention to turn out early in the morning, fresh for the ascent of the mountain of birds. This peak having no particular name, we now christen it Rara Avis. May the world slumber as we will tonight.
    Fifth day. Camp is alive this morning at dawn. Our breakfast consists of the good things that swim, fly and run at large; strictly speaking it may be called a wild breakfast. Leaving the cook in charge, we sally forth, passing around the eastern base of the venerable old Bird, we charge on to the southeast spur, but the donkeys recoil, strongly reminding us of that celebrated charger of Quixote de la Mancha on the windmills. The mules are now abandoned, and stringing out afoot, we make aboard from one side of the spur to the other, thus gaining altitude and weaving our way to the summit without much opposition; with the exception of a temporary repulse, from fatigue and slim air, that are easily subdued by appealing to our sympathetic friend, the glass howitzer of cognac. The same kind friend is brought into requisition to signalize the culmination of the excursion--the heavy part of it in particular. A rocket is now sent up to explore space beyond our reach, after which we work up a perspiration with lever power, by starting huge rocks of 500 tons from their diluvian bed, which go crashing for about five miles to the inhabitable world below, flattening large trees on the passage. But growing tired at length of this kind of sport, we assembled for lunch and a look at the seething world. Boys, this is the place we have been looking for. Here nature reigns supreme. Where would you go to get further out of the world? Not a cloud to mar the landscape. A clear vision, obstructed only by the immensity of space! Down there to the southward the Siskiyous, bridled with pine, strings out from east to west. To the northward the Umpqua, both intersecting the Cascade and Coast Mountains, enclosing an area of 150 miles square, constituting Rogue River Valley, a magnificent garden fenced in with mountains. Down there to the southeast you see the elevated table of lakes, formed by the melting snow from the surrounding peaks, the feeders and source of the Klamath. It is proposed--and may not be visionary--to take the snow now melting under our feet and give it an introduction to the Pacific, through the Golden Gate, in latitude 37 instead of 41, where the Klamath now enters below Crescent City. Gold can change the course of rivers, as well as nations, men, politics and religion. In this age we should be surprised at nothing. Five years hence may witness these Klamath Lakes tumbling into Pit River, through a tortuous canal over the transversal Shasta Ranges, clearing the Sacramento of accumulated sediment deposited there by the thousands of rockers, toms and sluices of California, working daily like beavers, damming up a noble river, in the production of gold to satisfy the cormorant appetite of commerce. But the stimulus to this great enterprise lies in the bottom of the Klamath River; recent prospects inducing the belief that it is fabulously rich in the precious oro. Time, time, give us a little time, to arrange our hydraulics, and we will sluice off the Pacific Slope to the bedrock; then, with the proceeds, build the Pacific Railroad, and convert California into a commission house to forward goods for the world, between Canton and Liverpool. Boys, here is the place to take a calm and dispassionate view of the world, free from bias or political prejudice, unmixed with the associated world, we look down on [omission] of life below. What a buzz, what commotion; now a storm--then an earthquake! The current of air change, the seasons too, says Indian tradition, change at the approach of the palefaces. Though the Indian is cruel in knowledge of philosophy, he is about right in this instance, for the attrition of men on the earth's surface, for ages, has undoubtedly produced changes in the seasons. Caucasian blood has raised steam from the earth, brought down lightning from the heavens, and sent them whizzing around the world, displacing earth and air, and taming them for the uses of men. The smoke of civilization rarefies the air, producing a thundershower which is a curiosity to our Indians, and proof of his position on the seasons, he never before having seen this kind of war in the elements during his happy sojourn on his native hunting grounds.
    Yes, boys, from Nature's observatory, seated on this stray knob of the Cascades, we will take a glance at the political orb, through that huge telescope, the press. Attention then, while I look.
    But a short time ago, the world seemed troubled, and smelt of war. England and the United States set their powder mills to grinding on the sea police question. England and France had a slight war discussion about the explosion of infernal machines, by the Red Republicans, in the streets of Paris, which so nearly blew up an empire. England and India are mixing blood on the great cartridge question; the Hindoo will be compelled to relinquish his puppet gods, by feeding on hogs' lard. The army is ahead of the missionary in making proselytes among the Buddhists. What a novelty!
    The British lion roams at large through the world in quest of prey, but at present seems to bare more than he can digest; however, commerce lends her aid, so pitch in, Britons, and congratulate among yourselves, for, in Europe and America, the sulphurous clouds break away at the approach of modern diplomacy, the elements have returned to a healthy equilibrium at the behest of trade. The horizon is once more clear, save the distant suppressed growl of the Imperial Gaul, who would rashly wreck the world--a la Napoleon I--were it not for the potent appeal of commerce, who, in anger at suicidal Europe, points directly to Asia as a field on which to practice the modern art of war. The great shipping firms--England, United States, France and Russia--must not quarrel, but make a descent on China, and smash the walls of that fossil empire, and become their bankers and merchants. It is political economy to mix them with the world through this medium.
    Commerce must use Asia--England wants cotton; France, silk; Russia, a seaport on the Pacific (the Amoor); the United States, a general average, with no police on the high seas--while all agree to take tea comfortably together. Boys, it is amusing to note the difference in the estimation of Asia and Africa by Madame Commerce; one is ingenious and industrious, the other is neither. Both occupy a large space on the earth. Asia is a machine that will run well as she is, and with commercial governors is well balanced in the world's economy; while the African must leave his native soil to be equally productive. Hence, commerce has decreed that a descent be made on the Asiatics, and gives up the benighted Africans to the tender solicitude of Exeter Hall.
    Be calm, boys, and don't get excited. Neither smile, nor groan, nor indulge in levity, but exhibit as much national pride and patriotism as is consistent with possibility in this elevated region of eternal frost, for we now direct our observations toward home. Yes, we leave Europe, and look at the United States; we have an interest there, and should be excusable for slight enthusiasm, while contemplating, in all this wide world, the only practical cradle of the popular will, capable of turning out thrifty and muscular states, almost yearly, that are proof, so far, against the vicissitudes of the world; in fact, so well balanced are these children of the West that, like a barrel of lager beer, they go through a state of fermentation, throwing off all impurities, and without a foreign agent, concentrated love of country and patriotism takes place--becoming a purer and wiser drink, worthy of any German from the Vaterland, and we insist, at the risk of becoming excited, that it is palatable to the gods.
    Ah boys! it's plain enough to be seen that were it cold enough to freeze the mercury, you cannot be calm while looking at this fabulous cradle. Although thousands of miles away from the center, seated on this rim of this great nursery of stars; although huge sovereigns, joint monarchs of all within the range of our vision, we exhibit the weakness of mortals, and submit to bursts of patriotism, while looking at our vast republican home.
    Then give way! Fellow the bent of inclination!! Let us swear by this constitution--seal it up in this empty howitzer--and plant it in this snow, monumental to the oath--we guard well that barrel of lager through all its stages of effervescence, foreign or domestic, political or religious; and to prevent an explosion for all time, insist on girding it with the iron hoops of the Pacific railroad. We can then tap the trade of Asia, and establish an additional safety valve to hold the stars well balanced in the sphere of empire. But the world is liable to convulsions, so are governments and men, and of course our proud states are not invulnerable.
    One of our insidious enemies is Madam Luxury, the twin but prodigal companion of Commerce, who played and coquetted with the United States, permeating the whole body with her enervating drugs, until spots of putrefaction and decay appeared. The national mind grew morbid, and oblivious to her Republico-Continental position in the world. Centralized monarchs of Europe chuckled with delight at the Kansas, Utah, and Abolition storms, painting across the Atlantic with contempt at the symptoms of decay in the Empire Republic. But forbearance ceasing to be a virtue, Commerce waged hot war on her playful sister, Luxury, shelling her with the recent tremendous financial crash, which was sedative to her impertinence, and a pleasant rebuke to her presumption, causing her to retire from the boards, and go below. After the smoke of the bombardment cleared away the national mind became practical, and the body is fast becoming convalescent.
    Stop! Stop!! Cease, ah ye arch agitators! Give our republic an even chance on earth. The strongest government must succumb, when arrayed against herself. Anchor on to the constitution, and lead us not back to the palmy days of Greece, where the ostracism was used, with such happy effect, to garrote her own greatness, depleting the body politic, by making it criminal to be a good statesman or general! No! don't break the phalanx of states, but build the Pacific railroad, with the money spent in dissecting administrations--which will secure more than a general average in the trade of Asia, and cause Madam Commerce to smile with delight, and open wide her arms to embrace you as the premium cask of lager beer. From the summit of Rara Avis, fair world, we bid you adieu.
    Jacksonville, Southern Oregon.
Daily Alta California, San Francisco, October 3, 1858, page 4  This expedition was referred to in a letter to the Oregon Statesman printed September 21, transcribed here.  Rara avis--"rare bird"--may refer to the snowy patch shaped like an osprey (some see an angel) that appears on the western flank of Mount McLoughlin in the spring.


    EDITORS PRESS:--I see in your issue of Sept. 14th, that Mr. S. M. Martin of Petaluma has sent you a sample of wild plum. You seem to be surprised; having been so often told that the plum and crab apple were not indigenous to California.
    There used to be an abundance of wild plums in Scott's Valley, Siskiyou Co., and also in Rogue River Valley, Oregon. There are two varieties, one very dwarf and bearing a bitter fruit. The larger variety produced fruit of fair size and quality. I planted them on my ranch at Crescent City, near the coast, but they were not suitable to that climate. I also tried them as a stock, to graft on, with good success; the smaller variety dwarfed my trees and caused them to bear much younger than the others.
    You say you next hope to hear of a native crab apple. There is an abundance of them in Del Norte Co., especially in Elk Valley, near Crescent City. I have often seen them there with bodies a foot or more in diameter, with spreading tops, loaded with small oval shaped fruit, and when ripe, of a bright golden color, and in early days were much used for making jelly. They are found more abundantly on cold wet land, bordering ponds, or marshy land.
St. Helena, Napa Co., Sept. 16th, 1872.
    The remark we made that--it had been so often told us that neither the plum or crab-apple were indigenous to California that we began to believe it--ought to have been understood as ironically spoken; for, to show that we know better,we have but to refer the doubting to an article of our own writing published in 1858, in the California Culturist, page 11; in which we say--There are among the Sierras elevated tracts of country above the present limits of our introduced fruits, where the common wild plum, of very fair flavor, are produced in great abundance.
    And again, on page 242, in which we say--wild plums ripening upon the mountains where they are indigenous, if brought to the tropical warmth of the valleys below, are found to have their fruiting season hastened. And of the wild crab-apple, though we have personally never seen them growing in California, we have no doubt of their being indigenous in certain localities.
Pacific Rural Press, San Francisco, September 28, 1872, page 198



Last revised October 26, 2024