Leaving Roseburg, by private conveyance we arrived at Jacksonville on the evening of the second day, after a buggy ride of one hundred miles over the prettiest road and through the most romantic scenery in the world. The road winding through deep canyons, beside rippling mountain streams, passing over high, narrow grades, traversing glades of gigantic forests, mounting to the summit of lofty mountains, and descending again into rich valleys inhabited by the thriftiest of ranchmen, render the whole route one complete succession of delightful surprises.
    Jacksonville, the metropolis of Southern Oregon, is romantically situated in a lovely little nook at the side of Rogue River Valley and under the shadow of Mount McLoughlin, one of the monarchs of the Siskiyou chain of mountains, which describe a crescent on the south of that most lovely valley. The Rogue River Valley is a large basin, almost oval in shape, and contains many thousands of acres of rich agricultural land, besides having its margin covered with rich gold placer diggings, from which in the winter seasons the miners pan out large quantities of the precious dust. New mining interests are being constantly developed in the region. At present Hon. D. P. Thompson, of Oregon City, ex-Governor of Idaho, has some 350 men employed in constructing a water ditch for the purpose of working a gold mine situated eight or ten miles from Jacksonville. The ditch is to be some forty-one miles in length, and will cost something over one hundred thousand dollars. The company of which Gov. Thompson is the head are all "heavy men," and are determined to push this enterprise to a successful completion at an early day. But as they are confident there is millions in the mine they are not at all frightened at the expenditure of a few hundred thousand just now. Other extensive mining schemes are being pushed forward, both in Jackson and Josephine counties, and if they prove as profitable as their owners anticipate, Southern Oregon is destined to become in time the real El Dorado of the Pacific.
    At Jacksonville we met many valued friends, among whom were Judge Prim and family, Hon. A. C. Jones and family, Mrs. G. T. Vining, widow of the late Hon. G. T. Vining, who went down on the ill-fated steamer Pacific, Gen. Jno. E. Ross, Col. J. N. T. Miller, Hon. Henry Klippel, Thos. G. Reames, Rev. Mr. Bell, et al. Indeed, to attempt to enumerate or name the friends with whom we clasped hands and upon whose bosoms we sighed would occupy the full space of our valuable columns. To Mrs. Judge Prim and daughter, Hon. A. C. Jones and wife and Mrs. G. T. Vining we are especially indebted for courteous hospitalities. Also to Mr. Hermann Helms for valuable relics from his cabinet of geological specimens. Indeed, Mr. Helms has one of the most interesting cabinets in the world, but as he had a rattlesnake skin in most conspicuous view we didn't stop to investigate things very closely. The fact is, the writer of these few lines accidentally and without malice aforethought placed his hand upon a live rattlesnake once, since which time the serpent business has not been extensively patronized by the deponent.
    It was terrible warm in Jacksonville--the geewholloper climbing clear over the 100 pole--hence we drive to Ashland (17 miles south) by moonlight, arriving a little before midnight and stirring out mine host of the Ashland Hotel, with a nervous vim which started several neighborhood canines to howling and came near bringing the "perlice" down onto our exhausted frame. (And by the way, that would have been a diversion for Ashland, for they have had a city government and a mayor and recorder and marshal and the other useless appendages of a country town for a year and a half and haven't yet had a single unfortunate character incarcerated in their neatly constructed calaboose. Indeed, the last Legislature was deluged with long-winded bills granting incorporation charters to the towns throughout the state, at a cost of many hundred dollars to the taxpayers, and it is probable that these charters were all about as badly needed as the one at Ashland. However, this is parenthetical.)
    The little city of Ashland is decidedly the most beautiful and romantically situated of any town in Oregon. It nestles in a little nook at the southern limit of the Rogue River Valley, and is the very footstool of the giant chain of [the] Siskiyou Mountains, which divide Oregon from California; it is carved and checkered by irrigating streams which cause every home within its limits to bloom with loveliest flowers and feed on richest fruits. And besides being a little paradise of home loveliness, its unrivaled water power is busily engaged in driving a large flouring mill, a woolen factory, and other important industries. Indeed, Ashland may be called the Lowell of Southern Oregon, and is destined in time to outstrip many of her more pretentious rivals. And, by the way, there is one thing peculiar about that burg, viz.: Although it numbers some eight hundred inhabitants, yet it contains neither a church nor a saloon!--and it is claimed to be the most moral place in the world! The mystery to us is how in the dickens did they all get so strictly moral without having some brimstone talked into 'em or having the terrible example of a gin mill daily thrust in their faces. The peculiar morals of this town everlastingly knocks the philosophy and reason out from under us, and leaves us in a chaos of uncertainty whether to advise against the establishment of churches or jerk an ethical discourse against the liquor traffic. Come to think of it, however,  morality is only a precept which all men preach and but few follow, hence our injunction to abolish churches and saloons would most probably have about the same weight with this degenerate world.
    At Ashland we met many old-time friends whose tum-tums seemed to vibrate with ecstasy at sight of our night-blooming serious countenance. Here is the mountain retiracy of Hon. W. A. McPherson, once State Printer and therefore much cussed; here is Hon. Jno. McCall, at present a member of the Legislature and a hospitable gentleman--for a Republican; and here, as the blooming city marshal for whom there is nothing to do, is Uncle Isaac Miller, formerly of Linn County, and a Democrat in whom there is no guile. And here are several other Linn County nomads, among whom may be named Hon. Ed. Farlow, Superintendent of Public Instruction for Jackson County, Dan. Gaby, Jas. D. Fountain and Elias Miller, all of whom got their start in "Old Linn," and all of whom express the abhorrent disgust of anybody that won't brag on our grand county. We were glad to learn that they were all flourishing like the traditional green bay horse, and expect to "keep up their lick" till they make their everlasting fortunes.
    From Ashland we drove out on the Linkville road, ten miles, to the Saratoga of the Siskiyous, the Soda Springs--a famous place of resort for Southern Oregonians. Mr. Jas. B. Russell keeps an elegant hotel here, and "lays himself out" for the accommodation of his guests who drink his soda water and make wry faces. Our better half told us confidentially that "Mr. Russell kept a very nice hotel, but if all the inducements he offered his guests was that nasty truck called soda water he couldn't get her patronage again for a long series of years." Mr. and Mrs. S. W. Sawyer (traveling on their wedding tour) were with us, and they unanimously ratified the seditious sentiments above quoted. So far as the undersigned is concerned he can state that he likes this soda water. Its component parts are varied and copious. The iron in it corrodes tin cups and gives a cast iron coating to the stomach; the effervescing qualities makes a smokestack out of your nose, and its peculiar taste of the green persimmon fixes your mouth for whispering politely to a waiter at a state dinner. And then it is more effective than a dose of compound cathartic pills. Yes, and the rattlesnakes in the rocks around the spring keep you lively and frisky, and don't allow you time for reflection on your latter end.
    We don't see how any well regulated family can do without one or two of these soda springs. They are warranted to stir people up any time in the day or night, and the wakefulness which they produce is represented as a cheap substitute for alarm clocks and fire bells.
    The Soda Springs is as far as we went south, but on our return we saw and experienced some things which we reserve for future infliction.

Last revised May 21, 2023