By way of rusticating, we took a horseback ride up the valley. Passing through Phoenix, its former dilapidated appearance presented some cheering signs of rising from the ashes; as we noticed a commodious building going up and a brick store repairing and fitting up. We learned that the building is to be used for a flouring mill under the auspices of Mr. Wimer, who owns and has in operation in the place one of the best flouring establishments in the valley; whose energy and enterprise goes far towards keeping the business of the place up. In a new store, a stock of goods will be opened soon by our wealthy townsman, Mr. T. G. Reames, who promises to accommodate the public with good bargains, on the principle of "quick sales and small profits." Thomas' well-known habits of fair and square dealing may well ensure him the patronage of the community.
    A short hour's ride brought us to the Hot Sulphur Springs on the roadside about two miles below Ashland. Here we found a bath house and tub, improvised by the kind owner for the use of those visiting, or rather stopping, on the wayside, as no resort has yet been induced to its waters; the open accommodations were indulged in to our delightful refreshment. These waters are insufficiently warm to be comfortable and bracing to the system, and will doubtless one day be a favorite resort. As to the mineral properties of the water, sulphur seems to be the base, and if the alkaline properties are not too strong, it may serve as a valuable tonic; but certainly for bathing purposes it is truly delightful.
    Ashland presents the appearance of a live, neat little mountain town, with marks of thrift and enterprise on every hand. The many well-improved farms and beautiful residences along on the road above the town bespeak the taste and energy of the inhabitants. This is truly a desirable portion of the valley; the beautiful running streams and wooded hill slopes that shut it in closely on both sides blend the beautiful in nature with a truly romantic aspect.
    Leaving the main stage road just below the Mountain House, a ride of three miles drew us up at the Soda Springs Hotel, kept by Dr. M. Colwell for a watering resort and wayside hotel. Here we were so struck with the immediate refreshing effects of the sparkling and effervescing waters of this remarkable spring, we concluded to stop a few days--not that we were "tormentingly unhealthy"--but just to keep from getting in that unpleasant fix. These waters are certainly of the rarest quality; boiling up through a rock fissure, they send forth a strong fountainhead, equal in taste and far superior in effect to any artificial soda fountain; after drinking a few drafts one becomes quite fond of it and craves it as the most favorite beverages. We learn that it has proved as near a panacea for disease as any mineral water ever found.
    We feel assured that the debilitated would run no risk in trying it, as we heard of many truthful instances of its efficacy--having reached almost hopeless cases, where artificial drugs had failed. The accommodations of the house are neat and comfortable, and the table well supplied with everything a reasonable epicurean could wish; besides, the proprietor is a thorough and skillful physician, whose services can be called to patients requiring medical attendance. We feel assured that as soon as the character of these waters are known that this will be one of the first watering places on the Coast. On our return we met many of our farmers and stock men who report this one of the most favored seasons for their interest. The fine stretch of flourishing grain fields and fat, lowing herds on green hillsides testified to our minds that we occupy a most desired spot, and all that we want to make it so is to call it make it our fixed home. We met the Hon. Jesse Applegate on his way to finish up the survey of the Klamath Basin. We also met our worthy County Surveyor, J. S. Howard, assisted by Mr. Wm. Turner, just going out on a surveying tour to sectionize the mountain country lying west of the road, which contains large belts of fine timber. The recent rush for timber lands has demanded the survey of this rough section of our county; and if the fervor on the land question rages as it has the past few months, these lands will soon find a market. And our people can congratulate themselves on this appreciation of our soil and timber, which is giving our material interest a true growth.
Democratic Times, Jacksonville, April 29, 1871, page 2


    I left Portland at 3 o'clock in the afternoon of May 1, and after a railway ride of five hours through the valley of the Willamette, arrived at Albany. On my former visit it was cloudy, and I did not see the four grand mountains--St. Helens, Adams, Hood and Jefferson--all visible at once, with their diadems of perpetual snow. Few valleys in the world can offer such a sight, much less one with such a climate and such a soil. If all men had the hearts of poets, even without the brains, what fabulous prices these fields would command.
    I was born and reared among the finest scenery of the Susquehanna, where rugged highland and cultured lowland, rock-faced precipice, and broad, bright rivers blend with the works of art, to make a landscape worthy of the painter's canvas and the minstrel's song, and I have seen nature elsewhere in some of her grandest aspects, but never before did I so thoroughly realize the soul-lifting presence of the beautiful. Perhaps the balmy breath of May, heavy with the incense of flowers, and the happy thought that I was homeward-bound rendered "more beautiful that which was so.''
    But who shall describe these glorious mountains? Words cannot picture them, therefore I will scarcely attempt "to wreck my thoughts upon expression." Light, fleecy clouds wreathed their sides, or rested upon their summits. For the three hours that Hood was in sight, almost without a change, a white mist was pivoted on its sharp and lofty peak. As we neared Albany I saw Jefferson for the first time in all its grandeur. He was then only fifty miles away!
    As I looked upon the broad and beautiful valley, in the warm light of a May Day sun, I thought of the hundreds of thousands who in a few years would till its fruitful fields and enjoy its temperate climate. In Pennsylvania every acre would be worth $200, which is fifteen times its present value. Here a failure of crops has never been known.
    At Albany we were crowded into a mail coach, and after a night and day ride of fifty-five hours arrived at this town. For the first few hours we were kept awake by the chronic scoldings of a young California widow, with two small children, both of them older than John Rodgers' youngest. She imprecated everybody in Oregon, from the Governor of the state up to the stage driver, because by a change of programme she had been obliged to tarry in Albany twenty-four hours at an expense of five dollars, which an unprincipled publican had charged her for boiled beans, according to her account the only fare attainable at his hostelry. From the amount of gas elaborated in her case I am convinced that boiled beans would prove an economical substitute for bituminous coal in the manufacture of that article. Her objurgations were finally silenced by a good-natured army surgeon dry-nursing one of her babies. As he was going East to be married, his kindness was not entirely disinterested. He was indulging in a little preliminary practice.
    Early in the morning we reached Eugene City, where we exchanged our blatant widow for a good breakfast. She was going to visit her uncle, who kept a pig ranch in the neighborhood. I infer that he does not raise beans from the fact that the telegraph has announced no great commotion in that quarter.
    During the afternoon we passed the summit that divides the Willamette and Umpqua valleys. If I had not been told that the latter was a valley I would not have suspected it, for it contained no level land. It was down one hill and up another, too decidedly rolling to come up to my idea of a valley. On the summit of a roll, about as high as the Alleghenies, I asked a long-legged Dutchman, who was familiar with the neighborhood, when we should come to it. He told me we had been in it for three hours!
    Late in the afternoon of the second day after crossing another summit, we descended into the beautiful Rogue River country--one of the most genial and productive valleys on the Pacific Slope, where winter is almost unknown, and where the summer nights are warm enough to ripen Indian corn. Here grapes grow in perfection, and even the fig is cultivated, and if the summers were not so dry it would be one of the gardens of the world. As in the Willamette, there has never been a failure of cereal crops. At three in the morning we reached Jacksonville.
    After a rest of a few hours, and a late breakfast at the hotel of a garrulous and accommodating French woman, whose misfortune it was to have a drunken Irishman [John Guilfoyle] for an appendage (he was too low down in the scale of manhood to be called a husband) we started for Fort Klamath in a two-horse light carriage, euphemistically called a buggy. As the greater portion of our journey lay through a wilderness, we were accompanied by a guide on horseback. For twenty-three miles south we followed the stage route through the lovely valley; thence four miles east to a lonely inn, kept by a quondam doctor of medicine [Dr. Matthew Caldwell of the Wagner Soda Springs Hotel], who still dispensed mineral waters to hypochondriac and ailing females from the neighboring town and hamlets. There were several mineral springs on the place, one of which was strongly impregnated with iron. Here we found the best of fare, and much we required it for the journey of the next day.
    Twelve hours without rest brought us to the end of it, and we had made only thirty-five miles. But such a road you never saw, and I hope I never shall again, except on horseback or on foot. How that wagon got through will always remain a mystery to me. As it was we broke two double-trees--one in pulling out of a creek, in which we came near drowning. The carriage stood on end as we descended its perpendicular bank into five feet of water. If it had turned over upon us in that swift mountain torrent this letter would have borne a different postmark, and been forwarded by "spook'' express.
    When I came to descend the rocky bed of a stream at an angle of fifty degrees, for a distance of two hundred yards, with not an inch to spare on either side between the massive boulders, I thought I had attained the climax of a wagoner's woe, but a seven-mile stretch the next day satisfied me "that the longer a man lives in this world the more he finds out."
    We began the day by ascending a steep and high mountain, one of the Cascade Range, not less than six thousand feet above tide; nor did we get five hundred feet below this level until near the end of our day's journey. And here from this mountain I heard the first thunder since I came to Oregon, more than ten months ago. It rolled below me, over the Link River country, to the east. By six o'clock we reached the first house, where our unfed horses very naturally stopped, especially when the unfed driver (your correspondent) pulled instinctively on the lines.
    This lonely homestead on the swift-rolling Klamath was "Brown's." I felt related to [Ozro Thomas] Brown when I found he had once lived in Pennsylvania, and the sentiment of consanguinity was not diminished by the cornucopious supper and breakfast set before us by the hefty Mrs. Brown. How she could gather such a variety of good things in that almost inaccessible spot is another source of wonder to me! Why should she exert herself so much when there is no opposition? I commend Mrs. Brown above all the caterers whom it has been my misfortune to meet in Oregon, always excepting the Dutch tavern-keeper at Aurora, before mentioned in these annals.
    Six o'clock next morning found us two miles on our journey, with 45 yet before us. Along the Klamath River we saw scattered farmhouses, and at Link River, 17 miles from Brown's, a small hamlet, consisting of a tavern, a store, and a blacksmith shop. Link River connects the Upper and Lower Klamath lakes. We crossed it by a free bridge, built by a private citizen called "Uncle George Nurse," who owns the contiguous property. In this neighborhood are several boiling sulfur springs--hot enough to cook eggs, and with water enough to run a big saw-mill. And here for the first time I saw Shasta, the monarch of California mountains. If I had not known he was a hundred miles away I would have thought he was less than ten, he loomed up so grandly with his triple peak of snow. He looked like Hood, with Adams and St. Helens, less lofty, leaning against him. The sight of him, in conjunction with Mrs. Brown's supper and breakfast, compensated as for all the hazards and hardships of the way. So blend the sentimental and the sensuous in making up the sum of human happiness--varying in their proportions in individual cases, as swine or angel chances to preponderate.
    After dining at a lowly and lonely hut on the borders of the lake, we struck the worst seven miles of road on the face of the earth, either at the present time or in the ages past. By road I mean a track for vehicles of more than one wheel. The first and best mile of it lay through a swamp, which is the edge of the lake--one of those amphibious arrangements that combine in unequal parts earth and water, with a sprinkling of skunk cabbage. Our host of the hut told us we would find the road beyond this good, only a little stony. I did not appreciate what an inveterate wag he was until we came to it.
    But it was cruel to wag on such a subject, considering the frail character of our vehicle. After getting out of the mud and water, we encountered a piece of natural turnpike that could have furnished raw material for the pyramids of Egypt and the walls of Babylon, and left enough to build stone fences around Horace Greeley's farm and the desert of Sahara. The lowest grade was eleven hundred feet to the mile, and the smallest cobblestone weighed two tons and a quarter. The route was pleasantly varied by a quagmire, in which the stumps of colossal fir trees were mingled with leviathan boulders. Here we ruptured another double-tree on the stump of a single-tree, and were compelled to finish the day's journey with a tow line. I may state here, that this lovely and fertile section is a part of the territory generously surrendered by our beneficent government to the original owners as a reservation. The generosity will be more manifest when I come to speak of the climate. The greater portion of this piece of road is never muddy, even after the wettest rain.
    At the end of it we found a smooth and level country, which extended all the way to our destination. This region is inhabited by the Klamath Indians, who live on fish, horseflesh, and the eggs of wild waterfowl. We encountered but one more obstacle, a wide and rapid river, which we had to ford, as, through ignorance of the way, we missed the ferry. In this stream of melted snow we found Indians standing in three feet of water, fishing with rod and line. After leading our horses and lifting our wagon down the ungraded bank, we had no difficulty in getting over, some kindly Indians on horseback leading the way. On the opposite bank we saw some good-looking young squaws, with fish bones, on which were strung blue and white beads, stuck through their noses. Squaws to be good-looking must be very young. They are old at thirty, repulsive at forty, and hideous beyond description at fifty.
    By keeping our tow line on the stetch, we reached the agency just as darkness began to hide the ill-defined track. Here we found substantial government buildings and a kindly welcome, and, what was equally important, a double-tree architect, who wrought for us on Sunday, notwithstanding the advent of a zealous Methodist preacher, who had traveled hundreds of miles on horseback to minister to them. It was their first "stated preaching,'' and if all persons entertain my views of that region it will be their last.
    The Upper Klamath Lake is 4,200 feet above the sea. At the agency they have frost every month in the year. Only five miles further, and at the same elevation, at Fort Klamath, the average temperature is 5 deg. colder. When the snow is only a few inches deep at the agency, it may be two feet at the fort. So remarkable a difference can only be accounted for by the greater proximity of the mountains, which are snow-covered nearly all the year. Of course, in such a climate wheat, oats, and hay are the only available crops, and yet it is three degrees south of Portland. Its elevation and its location, east of the Cascades, explain its unfavorable temperature. But nature is munificent even in this rude land. The trees are huge and abundant. I saw pines and firs six feet in diameter, at an altitude of nearly six thousand feet. The lakes, rivers, and brooks are alive with fish and waterfowl.
    The mink, beaver, pine marten, fisher, and other fur-bearing animals are numerous. While I was at the agency an old squaw brought in more than a bushel of the eggs of water hens and wild ducks. She carried them on her head in a dilapidated shoe box. Captain Ferree gave her $3 for the lot. As he picked it up to carry it home the bottom fell out and made a mingling of white and yellow equal to anything I had ever seen in the neighborhood of a fort or a mission house. I consoled him with the remark that I had seen the bottom fall out of much bigger speculations, and reminded him of the folly of having "too many eggs in one basket."
    The next morning, leaving our wagon in the hands of the artisan, we started for the fort on horseback--a dreary and desolate spot for the habitation of educated gentlemen and refined ladies, and yet such are compelled to live here. Officers stationed here console themselves with the reflection that any future change must be for the better. But the government seldom troubles itself to disturb its military servants, unless they are comfortable. Comfort, being enervating, is inconsistent with the service. Of course there are some fortunate exceptions. After transacting our business, which was very agreeable to the soldiers and post trader, and subsequently profitable to the copper-colored ladies in the neighborhood, we returned to the agency. That night I dreamed of stony buttes, stumpy quagmires, and mountain torrents with precipitous banks.
    On our return, we found the ferry--a rope article in charge of an Indian. The second house beyond the river is the palace of Blow, a subchief. It is about 8 by 12, one story high, built of logs, and illuminated through one pane of glass. Blow is a fine-looking fellow 45 years old, and the owner of the only beautiful Indian woman I have ever seen--not merely beautiful by contrast but absolutely so. She was the daughter of a former head chief who hanged himself not long ago, for love, as proof that the red man is capable of civilization, and equal to its heaviest responsibility. To this tender-hearted father, Blow paid $700 for his daughter, $500 in cash, and $200 in horses at $20 a head. It was all he had except a flintlock shotgun, a fishing rod and line, and three old beaver traps. He is delighted with his bargain, for in addition to his wife, he now has a six-month-old baby that he sets down in his inventory at $800.
    No doubt some impecunious progenitor of a large family of females, when he reads this article, will wish he was an Indian. It does seem a little hard that it generally requires more money to get rid of an educated young white woman than those businesslike red fellows realize in disposing of their copper-colored, illiterate progeny. The following equation is not flattering to our palefaced beauties:
    Red squaw--$700--white squaw x $800 x pile of new clothes x house and lot x furniture, etc.
Sunbury Gazette, Sunbury, Pennsylvania, June 17, 1871, page 1

    A correspondent of the Oregonian, over the signature of "A.L.L.," writes the following series of letters to that paper, giving graphic and excellent descriptions of the country traversed by him:
    Jackson County contains a larger area than the state of Massachusetts. In fertility, range of productions, climate and minerals, it is superior to that rugged state. But these are gifts of nature. Whether this will ever equal that in wealth, culture and influence is a problem to be solved by the people themselves.
    The county embraces eight thousand square miles, extending across the Cascade Mountains eastward, including the lake region of Oregon. There are several large valleys in this county, the most prominent of which are the Klamath and Goose Lake valleys on the east, and the Rogue River on the west.
    Travelers on the stage pass through this region in the night, and are therefore unacquainted with its beauties by actual sight. The writer has passed through it three times, and although he had heard of its attractions, had no opportunity to behold them. The glimpses of it which the stage traveler catches do not disclose the best part of the valley.
    Mountain ranges define it on every side. The isolation is complete. But the valley is so broad that it produces no sensation of confinement. The southern boundary presents for the most part a precipitous barrier; on the other sides are gentle slopes, climbing to a great height, and rounded in verdant beauty. Some of these tops are clothed with grass of greenest hue, and some with giant firs, which in the distance look like shrubs. Anon, a bolder summit overtops the rest, crowned with spotless white.
    Between these towering ridges is spread out one of nature's fairest scenes. It is a broad plain intersected by the swift-flowing river, descending into it from the Cascade Range by a canyon of extraordinary wildness, through which it plunges with many a lofty leap. Into it from point to point flow the affluents which drain the adjacent vales, all bordered with deciduous and evergreen trees and oak openings, groups of trees and groves, with lordly pine and fir overtopping them with staid precision, [which] diversify the prospect. In various directions appear isolated hills, some of which from peculiarity of form are worthy of a nearer inspection.
    This valley is only a part of the area which may be properly designated the Rogue River region. There are other well-defined valleys which take their names from streams that empty into the river. All of these contain numerous settlements.
    The isolated position of these valleys naturally prompts the inquiry how they came to be so extensively settled. The wide range of production, ease of cultivation and genial and salubrious climate give the explanation.
    The capacity of the soil has been tested for twenty years. All sorts of grain, every variety of fruit known to the temperate zone, and some belonging to the tropics, grow and flourish here. Indian corn, so fickle in most places on the coast, is here a regular crop. Livestock was out on exhibition, worthy of highest prizes. Splendid horses, strong, sleek, ponderous cattle, thick-set fleeces crop the rich pasture, and the ever-grunting swine is pushing snout into more redundant fatness.
    The climate is captivating. Some days in summer are very warm, but a hot term does not last long, and the mountains furnish delightful and very accessible retreats. The rains of winter are frequently suspended by cloudless skies, when sparkling sunshine and balmy breezes repel depression and make breathing a luxury. Rev. M. A. Williams, who has kept a meteorological record regularly for twelve years, reports a highly agreeable state of wind and weather, a remarkable equability of temperature, and a combination of climatic qualities which are highly favorable to health and longevity. Mr. Colver, who is known throughout the state, and knows it by intelligent observation, selected this valley for a home after having traveled all the states of the Union, except two. He raises upon his splendid farm a great variety of fruits of delicious flavor, and regards the valley as able to compete with any agricultural region on the coast.
    Mr. S. D. Van Dyke, formerly a member of the Legislature, gives good reasons for a high estimate of the capabilities of this region.
    These are examples of views and opinions which are universally entertained by the inhabitants, and appear to be quite reasonable to strangers.
    The larger part of Jackson County lies east of the Cascade Range. The pass through the mountains presents some sublime views, mingled with some of nature's strangest freaks. Beyond it, on an elevated plateau among the mountains, is the "Dead Indian Country," which received its name from an occurrence which took place in the time of Indian hostilities. On this extensive tableland snow falls early and stays till May. But the grass grows under the snowy fleece, and when that covering is melted off makes amends for delay. The droves of cattle, which left the shortened herbage of the plains as the spring advanced, and cropped the grass as they ascended towards the summit of the hills, wend their way in summertime through the pass and plunge into the luxuriant pasturage provided on that elevated plain. Thither not only the droves but the families also go and camp out for a season. Leaving artificial tastes at home, they seek natural luxuries. Putting an arrest upon fin and wing and hoof, and levying an income tax upon vine and berry bush, they luxuriate in the choicest gifts of nature. The mountain air exhilarates. Rest on the bosom of Mother Earth recruits exhausted energies. Communion with nature in her unprofaned haunts tends to independence of character and simplicity of life.
    Beyond this, on the lake level, is Fort Klamath, and six miles from it the Klamath Indian Reservation. Further still is Lost River and Goose Lake.
    Near the Dead Indian country is Sunken Lake, a great natural curiosity. Mr. James S. Howard, surveyor of Jackson County, related to the writer some particulars respecting it, which he obtained by personal examination. It occupies a very lofty elevation, and exhibits with its surroundings a desolate scene. It must be fed by subterranean springs, since no visible stream, except rills from melted snow, ever enter it. Below it, and at a considerable distance from it, two streams glide away from it in opposite directions, one to Klamath River and lake, the other to Rogue River. If these proceed from this mountain reservoir, as is highly probable, they find their way out through subterranean cavities. The first view of it is very grand and thrilling. It discloses a chasm, like a vast excavation, in the depths of which the silent waters reflect the surrounding gloom. Perpendicular cliffs, like walls of masonry, rise from the water's edge and prohibit all access to it, except in two places, and the lowest point which overhangs the chasm Mr. Howard estimated at 830 feet from the surface of the water. Its form is elliptical. The narrow diameter he reckoned at five miles, and the long one at eight miles across. The great gulf looks like the crater of a vast volcano, whose fires were extinguished by an irruption of water. And from this resemblance it is proposed to call it Crater Lake. A picture of this curiosity, probably the only one ever taken, is now on exhibition at Mr. Shanahan's in Portland. The painter, Mr. [James M.] Sutton, now a resident of Portland, estimates the diameter at five or six miles by twelve miles. But I must return to more utilitarian themes.
    As I was coming this way, men were looking northward. Here their gaze was divided. They were looking northward, and also towards the east. They were all looking for the locomotive. The announcement of a new railroad connection is received with enthusiasm. The California Pacific Eastern Extension Company proposes to enter Jackson County, near Goose Lake, send a branch track into this valley, and another to Ogden to connect with the Union Pacific. The Oregon Central will place this valley on the main coast line, and the new project will give it a direct connection through the transcontinental line, with the vast network of railroads on the Atlantic side. The prospect is very bright. These connections will undoubtedly be made, and all of Western Oregon and Washington, and the North Pacific Coast, will share in the benefit. Starting from Portland, travelers can then pass through to the Eastern States without change of cars, or being at the outset marked as way passengers, to be set down by a branch railroad to wait for the train.
    The settlement of this valley is connected with gold mining. Mr. Colver's surveys led to the discovery of rich placer diggings 20 years ago. [Samuel Colver is not known to have any connection with the discovery of gold in Jackson County.] And the search for the precious metal in the surrounding mountains led to the discovery of gold quartz, silver, iron, lead and inexhaustible supplies of coal. Here are the ores of both precious and useful metals, and here is the coal to smelt them. Salt springs and medicinal waters also abound.
    A vast amount of gold has been lifted from its native deposits and carried out to enrich other localities--making the valley by so much poorer instead of wealthier. This seems to be the fate of mining localities. The yellow stream hastens to get away. It should be arrested, and made to irrigate the soil whence it first flowed. But no arbitrary law can effect this. The course which wealth takes is like the course of trade--it flows where it can be used and equivalents rendered for it. It is the old law of exchange and circulation, as inflexible as a law of nature. What the mining districts need, then, is an intelligent population, sustaining the institutions and promoting the ends of modern civilization, engaged in diversified pursuits, with cultivated tastes, happy families, attractive homes, and local attachments. Such a community manipulates the law of circulation within itself, as well as beyond. It keeps the golden stream meandering in every direction, sending off supplies on every hand, percolating the soil and distilling its drops like the dew.
    The foundations of such a society are laid in this valley. The men and women are here who helped to lay them, and now measure its course with joy. All honor to them! May they live to pluck the golden fruit!
    It is well that the precious deposits of this state have not all been extracted. Western Oregon is probably as richly endowed with valuable minerals as any portion of the globe of similar extent of surface, and no doubt the supply is inexhaustible. The introduction of varied industries will demand the extraction of these minerals, to be used at home or wrought for other markets.
    Western Oregon is beginning to feel the mighty movements of our age. She hears the locomotive [blowing] the bugle of a grand march. Its sonorous blast is awaking strange echoes in nature's solitudes. A few years of wise legislation, supported by intelligent and patriotic cooperation, will make her an empire in herself. Her three great valleys, interlinked by social and commercial, as well as political ties, uniting their advantages with those of the mountains and the sea, now invite an enlightened immigration to share in developing these inexhaustible resources.

    Yesterday we indulged in some general remarks about Oregon scenery. We now have something to say of a few of the particular scenes of much natural beauty or scenery in the southern portion of the state. At the store of Geo. W. Hillman, on First Street, above Morrison, can be seen two paintings, executed by an Oregon artist, named Sutton, which represent scenes in Jackson County. One is of landscape nature, and gives a pretty view of the noted Table Rock with the waters of Rogue River laving its precipitous basaltic base, and adjacent to it a portion of the valley which takes its name from the river. The artist, for one who may be termed an amateur, has done well, and yet it is no harsh dispraise to remark that he has omitted to present the beautiful and grand natural scenery he has attempted to the best advantage, or as a more experienced landscape painter would present it. Still, to those who have never seen the scenery in all its native beauty and grandeur, the painting will appear very well worth looking at or possessing.
    The other painting is of a large waterfall [Mill Creek Falls] near the head of Rogue River, far up in the rugged mountain gorge. The scene is splendidly wild. The falls are nearly one hundred and fifty feet in height, and the large volume of water leaps from the contracted rift above with one grand plunge into the seething basined chasm below. The deep and narrow mountain gorge, down into which the sunbeams radiate only during midday, is well delineated, and the artist discovers his manifest fondness for natural scenery in the fidelity with which he has treated the details of his praiseworthy picture--the rocks and trees and vegetation. It is singular that, although Rogue River Valley and the mountain regions for miles about there in every direction have been for twenty years explored and located and inhabited, these falls were discovered only a year or two ago. For years teamsters and travelers had passed over the road not more than half a mile from the verge of the great bold rock off which the waters plunge, and they had heard the tremendous roar which reverberated and echoed from the deep chasm into which these waters fall, but as it was known that the gorge was very steep and wild and narrow for a mile or more above, they all supposed the roaring and crashing sounds proceed from the angry torrent as it rushed and foamed down the river's rocky bed. But one fine day about two years ago, a teamster in hunting his stray animals wandered down into the gorge, and there discovered the falls. They are called, we believe, the Falls of Rogue River--a name at once appropriate and likely to last.
    A look at these paintings will well repay one for the walk from any portion of the city to Hillman's Art Gallery. There are likewise other sketches in watercolors and ordinary crayon in his collection of scenery in Oregon and in Washington Territory. The watercolor sketch of Snoqualmie Pass is a charming bit of art, well executed, and is worthy of a place among the art collections of our citizens.
Democratic Times, Jacksonville, September 2, 1871, page 1

    The following we take from the S.F. Bulletin of Sept. 15th. It is from the pen of Mr. Hugh Small, a gentleman of culture, who has recently visited this section of country:
Democratic Times, Jacksonville, September 23, 1871, page 2

    Table Rock Valley comprises that portion of country in Jackson County north of Rogue River, in the vicinity of Table Rock. The arable land contained therein is about equal to the Boise Creek Valley, in the same county; but being separated from the main thoroughfare, it has heretofore attracted but little notice. The expectation that the railroad will pass east of Table Rock has caused much excitement of late. Parties, mostly speculators, have gobbled up the best portion of the country. Yet there remains much good land subject to preemption or homestead.
    The time is not far distant when there will be extensive and valuable improvements in this part of Jackson County. It is contemplated to extend a water ditch of sufficient capacity for manufacturing and irrigating purposes from Hamar's ferry, on Rogue River, to the mouth of Sams Creek, a distance of about 25 miles. This done, it will open up to agriculture a large section of land which is now comparatively of little value, besides creating water power for mills and machinery to any extent desired.
    The timber upon the mountains, north of the valley, is not excelled in the state.
    Coal of excellent quality has been found in several localities, and is supposed to exist in large deposits; but little prospecting has been done, however, as yet, to develop that valuable mineral.
    Grazing is the principal occupation and yields better returns for the capital invested than any other employment.
    It is not necessary for me to say that Jackson County is the banner county this year for its yield of cereals, in proportion to the amount. Some corn in Table Rock Valley will compare favorably with the best crops in Iowa or Missouri.
    I think the climate in Southern Oregon much better than in the Willamette for those who have weak lungs. There is less cloudy weather in winter, and perhaps a few degrees colder. The summers are much like the Willamette.
    The White Sulphur Springs in Sams Valley (a portion of Table Rock Valley, situated at the west of lower Table Rock) possesses rare medical properties, and in time will be a favorite resort for invalids. The health has been excellent for the past year, very few cases of sickness having occurred in this portion of Jackson County.
    I would suggest to those who wish to try a different climate from the Willamette and escape from the rain and fogs there, and dread the severe cold of Eastern Oregon, to try this part of the state. All kinds of produce being abundant and cheap. Peaches, apples, pears, plums and grapes grow well here. Game in the mountains is easily captured, giving pastime to the sportsmen. Let me say, in conclusion, to those who are seeking homes, health or amusement, come and see us.
Democratic Times, Jacksonville, October 14, 1871, page 1