A Ride Through Oregon [pp. 303-310]

I872.].4 RIDE THRO
all, but a succession of little hills, with
dimples and depressions along the crook ed, rocky Umpqua and its tributaries.
Roseburg is a little, peaceful-looking
town of a thousand souls or more, but
it is no baby, and has a bloody record.
Here, on this rickety old bridge, a howling mob hung its victim; and there, in
that dusty, dog-fennel street, last summer, the editors of the two rival little papers had a lively six-shooter war-dance,
and, when the ball closed, three editors
were found fearfully wounded. The cold,
cold world may learn with a possible
tinge of regret, that no one of the three
has, so far, died of his wounds. Back
yonder, oyn the banks of the Umpqua,
one night, at a little country ball, a misunderstanding arose, and, in a moment,
more than half a dozen strong, fine young
men lay dead or dying on the floor.
Roseburg is the home of the Lanesonce the political power of the Atateand up this creek, that comes pitching
down between the great oak-topped hills,
three miles in an easterly direction, and
four miles perpendicular, as his son has
it, lives General Joseph Lane-soldier,
Governor, Senator, and at last candidate
for the Vice - Presidency. Very old is
the General now, and quite retired, but
the same as of old. His quiet, unpretending fireside and frugal meal are
shared by the hermit the same now as
when he was not poor, but strong and
well-to-do, a great politician, and a power in the land.
Boats do not reach Roseburg; but
down the rocky Umpqua, at Scotsburg,
was once a lively trade, and many steamers decked the river-=a river rich in scenery, deep and dark from rugged cliffs
in many places, and then overshadowed
by the spicy myrtle. Two hours' ride
from this little town, through rolling hills
of oak, and we touch the advance of
Holladay's railroad army. Farther on,
we pass a town of tents. Thousands of
men, it seems-and mostly Chinamen
UGH OREGON.
305
are at work, like beavers, sweeping away
the great fir-forest, that shuts out the sun
the whole year through. Two hundred
miles from Portland, and three hundred
miles from the sea, by the line of travel,
we take the cars. At present, the gap
between the California and Oregon sections, that the traveler has to cross by
coach, is three days' hard travel; but it
is safe to say that, in another year, somewhere up about the Siskiyou Mountains,
the last spike will be driven. The Oregon section has the heavier force employed, is displaying the greater energy,
and will probably first reach the junction.
We are now in the matchless and
magnificent Wallamet Valley, fifty miles
wide, one hundred and fifty long, watered and timbered like a park, and capable of being turned into one unbroken
field of grain. The cold, clear river,
with its fringe of balsam and fir, winds
directly through its length; while, on
either hand, far back in the clouds, loom
mountains, black in their forests of eternal green. Here, if a man sows, he shall
surely reap; while many even reap who
do not sow at all, for a succession of volunteer crops is no new thing. Here the
seasons never fail. That reliable individual, known as the oldest inhabitantwho, I believe, makes his home in Oregon-fails to remember a time, in the
last half-century, when this prolific valley failed the husbandman. Here, on
the river, at the head of navigation, is
Eugene City-a dear, delightful town
among the oaks, but slow and badly
"hide-bound." It needs a good shaking
up; wants some one who has the courage,
and is enough its friend, to tell it of its
sins. Here are six great church-buildings
-never half filled-and hardly two decent school-houses. Here is a great army
of boys growing up, proficient chiefly in
the mysteries of "kissing-bees" and
country- dances. No trades, no professions, no education to speak of; nothing