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Have we a literature? Where are our historians, scientists, humorists, poets? Let us see if we can find them.

W. H. Gray, in his "History of Oregon," relates that more than thirty years ago there existed at Oregon City—then the business, as it was afterwards the political capital of the country—a literary society. He says the object of it was to bring together the American and British occupants of the country, and furnish an opportunity for the discussion of certain ticklish points concerning a provisional government without exciting opposition or alarm. He and others may have used the opportunity for such a purpose, but I have never heard that motive ascribed to the society by any other of the members. Undoubtedly it was hoped it would promote concord of feeling and unison of social sentiment. Hon. Geo. Abernethy says that one of the customs of the society was to deposit anonymous contributions in a receptacle called the "Omnibus Box," from which they were drawn and read, and that among them were many of considerable merit, both serious and witty.

In due course the provisional government was formed, whether by the aid of the society or not. It was an event to bring out the talent in the country, literary and executive. A committee was appointed to form a code or draft the organic laws of the county. The labor, however, finally devolved upon Jesse Applegate, Esq., leader of the immigration of 1843, a man whose natural gifts eminently fitted him for a literary life, bu who, with so many others, sunk his abilities in the wilds of Oregon, where no suitable arena could be found for the exercise of his powers. The public documents of those early times, of which he is the author, are of a classic purity of style that has seldom been attained to and never excelled by any writer in the State. Such public offices as the country afforded were open to him, but unless he saw that his services were really required, he declined to accept the small honor and smaller profit, retiring upon his farm to earn his bread by the sweat of his brow, and writing but little.

In 1846 a newspaper called the Spectator was started at Oregon City by a company of gentlemen called the Oregon Printing Association. In looking over this journal one is struck with the evidences of literary talent in the community, and led to conjecture that the editors must have had access to the "Omnibus Box" of the literary society. Scissors could not have played a very important part in getting up a paper, when the mail arrived not oftener than once in six months, and then by private hand. I have made some inquiry with regard to the authorship of contributed articles with partial success. A poem, entitled "Adventures of a Columbia River Salmon," of a good deal more than average merit, was written by Henry N. Peers, an officer of the British ship Modeste, lying at Fort Vancouver from 1844 to 1847. "Lines to Mount Hood" were the production of Hon. Geo. L. Curry, who was at one time editor of the Spectator, and who was then and is now favorably known as a writer. Some verses addressed to "Mary" appear to have been written by an officer of the Modeste on the departure of that ship, and make us wonder which one of Oregon's earliest daughters captured this British heart. Another contributor of merit was "J. B. P."—his name was Passenger; and still another, Mrs. Dr. Bally. These were all writers of verse, as well as several others who wrote anonymously, as "Lothario," "Wandering Bard," "Theta," "Ulysses," "Posiwat" and "M. J. B." A talented writer in those times was H. A. G. Lee, the second editor of the Spectator; and also G. J. Campbell. Others there were who lived under the provisional government who may at different times have contributed to the Spectator, but who are best known for their connection with other matters: Hon. Peter H. Burnett, J. Quinn Thornton, Gustavus D. Hines, S. O. Thurston, and Dr. E. White, all of whom, excepting Thurston, have published books about the country. Hon. Geo. Abernethy, who wrote only in his capacity of Governor of the colony, furnished able and finished documents of much use to the future historian; and there were doubtless others connected with the mission who could and did wield a graceful quill whenever circumstances called them out. There were several gentlemen connected with the Hudson's Bay Company who were elegant writers as well as cultivated gentlemen.

Here we have presented the picture of a little colony of one or two thousand people, of mixed nationality, sequestered from all the world by thousands of miles; poor as to money and goods, toilsome, ill-dressed, weather-beaten, yet full of spirit, patriotism and courage, with time to cultivate literature. The had, at least, this advantage—they brought their culture with them. But how about their immediate descendants? Do they come up to the standard of their progenitors? Talent seldom descends in a direct line from father to son; yet there is a natural feeling of expectancy regarding certain traits, the impression being that, even in the absence of marked heredity of gifts, there must at all events be a conspicuous inheritance of habits of mind and culture. Unhappily in all new counties the first generation is for the most part sacrificed to fill up the gap between an old and a new civilization.

Yet Oregon is not without her men and women of gifts bred on her soil—poets and romancists, and possibly philosophers. F. L. and O. C. Applegate are men with the hereditary strain of literary talent in their composition—neglected, as in the case of their uncle, "the sage of Yoncalla." The genius of Sam. and Sylvester C. Simpson is undoubted, both in prose and poetical composition. Mrs. Belle W. Cooke is a paid contributor to the New York Independent. A Salem lady, over the nom de plume of "Mem Linton," has also written very acceptably for different journals of this State. Rev. Thos. Condon has contributed valuable and interesting articles to the Overland Monthly on his favorite study, "The Geology of Oregon." Hon. M. P. Deady has, from time to time, when he could intermit for a little his judicial labors, furnished the Overland Monthly and journals of California and Oregon with important articles upon the history of Oregon and its founders. Hon. W. Lair Hill occasionally indulges in truly literary work—for which he is eminently fitted—between the labors of law and journalism. John Minto, Esq., has written a good deal in the interest of Oregon and agriculture. S. A. Clarke, Esq., of Salem, is a facile writer of prose, an excellent newspaper correspondent, a journalist, and a versifier also. Harvey Scott, Esq., is another good newspaper writer. His sisters, Mrs. A. J. Duniway and Mrs. C. A. Coburn, have made places for themselves in the newspaper world under great difficulties, showing that, in this instance, as in several others in Oregon, talent pervades the whole family group.

The question naturally suggests itself: If all these writers, and many more probably that have been overlooked, are in possession of the "divine afflatus" to any extent, why we have not a literature purely Oregonian? The answer is not far to find. Men of real ability have generally a corresponding ambition, and in Oregon they find their audience too small to excite enthusiasm. Besides, literature, to be of any worth, should be made a profession, and in Oregon the profession of literature will not give so good a living as almost anything else—hardly furnish a living at all. Even journalism—the only branch of literature that pays—is not considered of sufficient importance to be performed really well. The "leaders" of our newspapers may have been written with some care, but the local columns with none at all. The grammar, the diction, the paucity of language exhibit small regard for literary merit by the publishers of these journals. It might be discreet, while thinking they will do well enough at home—a false proposition—to think how they look to the world beyond home, who take our public journals as standards of our intellectual advancement and our social status.

But we have yet to notice our most and only famous literary man, who, with his gifted wife, determined to win distinction by seeking a wider field, and succeeded—Miller, fantastically dubbed "Joaquin." It is not necessary to advertise his merits—he has done that himself; nor his demerits—they, too, have been rendered sufficiently conspicuous. But as a purely Oregon production, he is worthy of particular mention. He has written as one imbued with the very spirit of the wildness and beauty of the scenes among which he grew up; and whatever faults of style he has, he is in that respect admirable. The very noblest utterances in all the range of his productions are when he speaks of Oregon, though likely enough he calls it California through the promptings of a mean vanity to be thought to belong to a State more favored than his own in authorship. I pass over some bits of mountain pictures in words that I would like to quote, to give place to his tribute to the pioneers of Oregon, made, as I have said, to seem a tribute to the pioneers of California by putting "the Pacific" for "Oregon," and "Sierras" for "Cascades;" but we all recognize the picture, and feel to thank him for this evidence of recognition, however surreptitiously yielded:

"What lives they lived! what deaths they died!

A thousand canyons, darkling wide

Below Sierras' slopes of pride,

Receive them now.

And they who died

Along the far, dim desert route,

Their ghosts are many.

Let them keep

Their vast possessions.

The Piute,

The tawny warrior, will dispute

No boundary with them. And I,

Who saw them live, who felt them die,

Say, let their unplowed ashes sleep

The bearded, sunbrowned men who bore

The burden of that frightful year,

Who toiled, but did not gather store,

They shall not he forgotten.

Drear

And white, the plains of Shoehonee

Shall point us to the farther shore,

And long white shining lines of bones

Make needless sign or white mile stones.

The wild man's yell, the groaning wheel;

The train moved like drifting barge;

The dust that rose up like a cloud,

Like smoke of distant battle! Loud.

The great whips rang like shot, and steel

Flashed back as in some battle charge.

They sought—yea, they did find their rest

Along that long and lonesome way,

Those brave men buffeting the West

With lifted faces. Full were they

Of great endeavor.

Brave and true

As stern crusader clad in steel,

They died afield as it was fit.

Made strong with hope, they dared to do

Achievement that a host to-day

Would stagger at, stand back and reel,

Defeated at the thought of it.

What brave endeavor to endure!

What patient hope when hope was past!

What still surrender at the last,

A thousand leagues from hope!

How pure They lived, how proud they died!

How generous with life!

The wide

And gloried age of chivalry

Hath not one page like this to me.

Let all these golden days go by—

I breathe beneath another sky.

Let beauty glide in gilded car,

And find my sundown seas afar,

Forgetful that 'tis but one grave

From east unto the westmost wave.

Yea, I remember! Tho still tears

That o'er uncoffined faces fell!

The final, silent, sad farewell!

God! these are with me all the years!

They shall be with me ever.

I

Shall not forget. I hold a trust.

They are a part of my existence.

When

Adown the shining iron track

We sweep, and fields of corn flash back,

And herds of lowing steers move by,

I turn to other days, to men

Who made a pathway with their dust."

Mrs. Miller, after trying her literary fortunes abroad, has returned to Oregon to reside. Her short poems show the true poetic inspiration, and have a finish remarkable in consideration of the little aid she could have had from her associations—proof that the true poet has not to be taught numbers.

We now come to a notice of books written and published in Oregon; books written in Oregon and published elsewhere, and books written about Oregon that have been published at home and abroad. Probably the list is incomplete, but it has been with some labor that it has been made as full as it is.

The first book printing done on the Pacific coast—unless the Spanish authorities in Mexico and California owned printing presses—was done on a small hand press that was sent from the mission at the Sandwich Islands to the mission at Lapwai, about 1840. Mr. H. H. Spalding, missionary at that station, printed a portion of the New Testament and a collection of hymns in the Nez Perce tongue for the use of Indians. Idaho was then a part of the Oregon territory. Therefore it is proper to say that the first Oregon book was printed in the Indian language.

The first book printed in English was an edition of "Webster's Spelling Book" at the office of the Spectator at Oregon City in 1846. If a copy of this Oregon edition of Webster could be found, it should be presented to the State library as a relic. The next publication in book form, issued from the same office, was "The Oregon Almanac," in 1848, a copy of which is preserved in Judge Deady's library. The columns of the Spectator were used for the publication of the organic laws of the Territory and reports of legislative proceedings, the book form being dispensed with.

In March, 1848, a paper was started by Geo. L. Curry, Esq., called the Press—in allusion, perhaps, to the censorship to which as editor of the Spectator he had been subjected. Material was not to be had either for "love or money" in those days in Oregon, and "starting the paper" was a notch more difficult enterprise than it is to-day. But there are few things that wit and will cannot accomplish. A wooden press of home manufacture and wooden type, with an "m" turned upside down for a "w," and a "v" in the place of a "u," proved indeed that it was possible to have a free press in Oregon.

About the same time J. S. Griffin, Esq., of Hillsboro, started a paper called the Oregon American, the purpose of which was to expose the machinations of the Jesuits, and to prove that the Hudson's Bay Company were concerned in the massacre of the Protestant missionaries and immigrants at Waiilatpu. Mr. Griffin's paper was printed on the little press belonging to the mission in the upper country, which had been abandoned on account of the Indian war, and was about the size of an ordinary magazine page. Both these