Port Angeles, Washington Territory,
July 20, 1865.

We reached here day before yesterday, very early in the morning. We were called to the forward deck; and before us was a dark sea-wall of mountains, with misty ravines and silver peaks,—the Olympic Range, a fit home for the gods.

A fine blue veil hung over the water, between us and the shore; and, the air being too heavy for the smoke of the Indian village to rise, it lay in great curved lines, like dim, rainbow-colored serpents, over sea and land.

I thought it was the loveliest place I had ever seen. The old Spanish explorers must have thought so too, as they named it "Port of the Angels."

We found that the path to our house was an Indian trail, winding about a mile up the bluff from the beach; the trees shutting overhead, and all about us a drooping white spirea, a most bridal-looking flower. Here and there, on some precipitous bank, was the red Indian-flame. Every once in a while, we came to a little opening looking down upon the sea; and the sound of it was always in our ears. At last we reached a partially cleared space, and there stood the house; behind it a mountain range, with snow filling all the ravines, and, below, the fulness and prime of summer. We are nearly at the foot of the hills, which send us down their snow-winds night and morning, and their ice-cold water. Between us and them are the fir-trees, two hundred and fifty and three hundred feet high; and all around, in the burnt land, a wilderness of bloom,—the purple fireweed, that grows taller than our heads, and in the richest luxuriance, of the same color as the Alpine rose,—a beautiful foreground for snowy hills.

The house is not ready for us. We are obliged at present, for want of a chimney, to stop with our nearest neighbor. But we pay it frequent visits. Yesterday, as we sat there, we received a call from two Indians, in extreme undress. They walked in with perfect freedom, and sat down on the floor. We shall endeavor to procure from Victoria a dictionary of the Haidah, Chinook, and other Indian languages, by the aid of which we shall be able to receive such visitors in a more satisfactory manner. At present, we can only smile very much at them. Fortunately, on this occasion, our carpenter was present, who told us that the man was called "Hunter," which served as an introduction. Hunter took from the woman a white bag, in which was a young wild bird, and put it into my hands. The carpenter said that this Indian had done some work for him, bringing up lumber from the beach, etc., and had come for his pay; that he would not take a white man's word for a moment, but if, in making an agreement with him, a white man gave him a little bit of paper with any thing written on it, he was perfectly satisfied, and said, "You my tilikum [relation]—I wait."

The neighbor with whom we are stopping says, that, the night before we came, a wildcat glared in at her as she sat at her window.

It looks very wild here, the fir-trees are so shaggy. I think the bears yet live under them. Many of the trees are dead. When the setting sun lights up the bare, pointed trunks, the great troops of firs look like an army with spears of gold, climbing the hills.

July 30, 1865.

To-day, as we were descending by the trail from the bluff to the beach, we saw a funeral procession slowly ascending the wagon-road. It came from the Sailors' Hospital. We waited until it passed. The cart containing the coffin was drawn by oxen, and followed by a little white dog and a few decrepit sailors. There was no sign of mourning, but a reverent look in their faces. The body had been wrapped in a flag by brotherly hands. The deep music of the surf followed them, and the dark fir-branches met overhead.

In California, the poorest of people, by the competition of undertakers, are furnished, at low rates, with the use of silver-mounted hearses and nodding plumes, a shrouding of crape, and a long line of carriages. Even those who have really loved the one who is gone seem, in some incomprehensible way, to find a solace in these manifestations, and would have considered this sailor's solitary funeral the extreme of desolation. But Nature took him gently to her bosom; the soft sky and the fragrant earth seemed to be calling him home.

We found by inquiry that it was the funeral of an entirely unknown sailor, who had not even any distant friends to whom he wished messages sent. His few possessions he left for the use of the children of the place, and quietly closed his eyes among strangers, returning peacefully to the unknown country whence he came.

August 2, 1865.

We went this morning to an Indian TamÁhnous (incantation), to drive away the evil spirits from a sick man. He lay on a mat, surrounded by women, who beat on instruments made by stretching deer-skin over a frame, and accompanied the noise thus produced by a monotonous wail. Once in a while it became quite stirring, and the sick man seemed to be improved by it. Then an old man crept in stealthily, on all-fours, and, stealing up to him, put his mouth to the flesh, here and there, apparently sucking out the disease.

August 17, 1865.

Hunter stopped to rest to-day on our door-steps. He had a haunch of elk-meat on his back, one end resting on his head, with a cushion of green fern-leaves. He called me "Closhe tum-tum" (Good Heart), and gave me a great many beautiful smiles.

We find that there are a number of canoes suspended in the large fir-trees on some of our land, with the mummies of Indians in them. These are probably the bodies of chiefs, or persons of high rank. There is also a graveyard on the beach, which is gay with bright blankets, raised like flags, or spread out and nailed upon the roofs over the graves, and myriads of tin pans: we counted thirty on one grave. A looking-glass is one of the choicest of the decorations. On one we noticed an old trunk, and others were adorned with rusty guns.

Last night there came a prolonged, heavy, booming sound, different from any thing we had heard before. In the morning we saw that there had been a great landslide on the mountain back of us, bringing down rocks and trees.

August 30, 1865.

Yeomans, an old Indian chief, the Tyee of the Flat-heads at Port Angeles, came to see us to-day. He pointed to himself, and said, "Me all the same white man;" explaining that he did not paint his face, nor drink whiskey. Mrs. S., at the light-house, said that she had frequently invited him to dinner, and that he handled his napkin with perfect propriety; although he is often to be seen sitting cross-legged on the sand, eating his meal of sea-urchins.

He is very dramatic, and described to us by sounds only, without our understanding any of the words, how wild the water was at Cape Flattery, and how the ships were rocked about there. It was thrilling to hear the sounds of the winds as he represented them: I felt as if I were in the midst of a great storm.

His little tribe appear to have great respect for his authority as a chief, and show a proper deference towards him. He is a mild and gentle ruler, and not overcome by the pride and dignity of his position. He is always ready to assist in dragging our boat on to the beach, and does not disdain the dime offered him in compensation for the service.

His son, a grown man, no longer young, who introduced himself to us as "Mr. Yeomans's son," and who appears to have no other designation, is much more of a wild Indian than the old man. Sometimes I see him at night, going out with his klootchman in their little canoe; she, crouched in her scarlet blanket at one end, holding the dark sail, and the great yellow moon shining on them.

I used to wonder, when we first came here, what their interests were, and what they were thinking about all the time. Little by little we find out. To-night he came in to tell us that there was going to be a great potlach at the coal-mines, where a large quantity of iktas would be given away,—tin pans, guns, blankets, canoes, and money. How his eyes glistened as he described it! It seems that any one who aspires to be a chief must first give a potlach to his tribe, at which he dispenses among them all his possessions.

This afternoon, as I sat at my window, my attention was attracted by a little noise. I looked up; and there was a beautiful young Indian girl, holding up a basket of fruit, of the same color as her lips and cheeks. It was a delicious wild berry that grows here, known as the red huckleberry. Mrs. S. knew her, and told me that she was the daughter of the old chief, lately betrothed to a Cape Flattery Indian.

September 20, 1865.

Everywhere about Puget Sound and the adjoining waters are little arms of the sea running up into the land, like the fiords of Northern Europe. Many of them have large sawmills at the head. We have been travelling about, stopping here and there at the little settlements around the mills. We were everywhere most hospitably received. All strangers are welcomed as guests. Every thing seems so comfortable, and on such a liberal scale, that we never think of the people as poor, although the richest here have only bare wooden walls, and a few articles of furniture, often home-made. It seems, rather, as if we had moved two or three generations back, when no one had any thing better; or, as if we might perhaps be living in feudal times, these great mill-owners have such authority in the settlements. Some of them possess very large tracts of land, have hundreds of men in their employ, own steamboats and hotels, and have large stores of general merchandise, in connection with their mill-business. They sometimes provide amusements for the men, little dramatic entertainments, etc.,—to keep them from resorting to drink; and encourage them to send for their families, and to make gardens around their houses.

The house where we stopped at Port Madison was very attractive. The maple-trees had been cut down to build it; but life is so vigorous here, that they grew up under the porch, and then, as they became taller, came outside, and curved up around it, so that it was a perfect nest. The maple here is not just like the Eastern tree, but has a larger, darker leaf. Inside, the rooms were large and low, with great fireplaces filled with flaming logs, that illuminated them brilliantly.

We began our expedition round the Sound in a plunger,—the most atrocious little craft ever constructed. Its character is well expressed by its name. These boats are dangerous enough in steady hands; but, as they are exceedingly likely to be becalmed, the danger is very much increased from the temptation to drink that seems always to assail the captain and men in these wearisome delays.

To avoid waiting two or three days at Port Madison for the steamer, we determined to cross to the next port by an Indian trail through the woods; though we were told that it was very rough travelling, and that no white woman had ever crossed there, and, also, that we might have to take circuitous routes to avoid fires. We started early in the morning, allowing the whole day for the journey. We passed through one of the burnt regions, where the trees were still standing, so gray and spectral that it was like a strange dream. Farther along we heard a prolonged, mournful sound, that we could not account for; but, in a little while, we came to where the bright flames were darting from the trunks and branches, and curling around them. The poor old trees were creaking and groaning, preparatory to falling. We were obliged, occasionally, to abandon the trail; or, rather, it abandoned us, being burnt through. Off the path, the underbrush was almost impassable; the vine-maple, with crooked stems and tangled branches, with coarse briers and vines, knit every thing together. It seemed more like a tropical than a northern forest, there were so many glossy evergreen leaves. We recognized among them the holly-leaf barberry (known also as the Oregon grape), one of the most beautiful of shrubs. Its pretty clusters of yellow flowers were withered, and its fruit not yet ripe. We found also the sallal,—the Indian's berry,—the salmon-colored raspberry, and the coral-red huckleberry. Occasionally we heard the scream of a hawk, or the whirring of great wings above our heads; but, for the most part, we tramped on in perfect silence. The woods were too dark and dense for small birds.

It was curious to notice how much some of the little noises sounded like whispers, or like footsteps. There was hardly a chance that there could be any other human beings there besides ourselves. It recalled to me the Indian's dread of skookums (spirits) in the deep woods. To him, the mere flutter of a leaf had a meaning; the sighing of the wind was intelligible language. So many generations of Indians had crossed that trail, and so few white people, I felt as if some subtile aroma of Indian spirit must linger still about the place, and steal into our thoughts. Occasionally an owl stirred in the thicket beside us, or we caught a glimpse of the mottled beauty of a snake gliding across our path. The great boom and crash of the falling trees startled us, until we were used to it, and understood it.

Whenever we left the trail, we felt some doubt lest we might not find it again, or might happen upon an impassable stream that would cut us off from farther progress; not feeling quite equal to navigating with a pole on a snag, after the fashion of the Indians.

Near sunset, when the woods began to grow darker around us, we saw a bird, about as large as a robin, with a black crescent on his breast. His song was very different from that of the robin, and consisted of five or six notes, regularly descending in minor key. It thrilled me to hear it in the solitary woods: it was like the wail of an Indian spirit.

It began to be quite a serious question to us, what we were to do for the night; as how near or how far Port Gamble might be, we could not tell. There was no possibility of our climbing the straight fir-trees, with branches high overhead; and to stop on the ground was not to be thought of, for fear of wild beasts. We hastened on, but the trail became almost undistinguishable before the lights of Port Gamble appeared below us. As we descended to the settlement, we were met with almost as much excitement on the part of the mill people, who had never crossed the trail, as if we had risen from the water, or floated down from the sky, among them.

We take great satisfaction in the recollection of this one day of pure Indian life.

The next day we decided to try a canoe. We should not have ventured to go alone with the Indians, not understanding their talk; but another passenger was to go with us, who represented that he had learned the only word it would be necessary to use. He explained to us, after we started, that the word was "hyac," which meant "hurry up;" the only danger being that we should not reach Port Townsend before dark, as they were apt to proceed in so leisurely a way when left to themselves. After a while, the bronze paddlers—two siwashes (men) and two klootchmen (women)—began to show some abatement of zeal in their work, and our fellow-passenger pronounced the talismanic word, with some emphasis; whereat they laughed him to scorn, and made some sarcastic remarks, half Chinook and half English, from which we gathered that they advised him, if he wanted to reach Port Townsend before dark, to tell the sun to stop, and not tell them to hurry up. We could only look on, and admire their magnificent indifference. They stopped whenever they liked, and laughed, and told stories. The sky darkened in a very threatening way, and a heavy shower came on; but it made not the slightest difference to them. After it was over, there was a splendid rainbow, like the great gate of heaven. This animated the Indians, and their spirits rose, so that they began to sing; and we drifted along with them, catching enough of their careless, joyous mood, not to worry about Port Townsend, although we did not reach the wharf till two or three hours after dark.

A day or two after, we found, rather to our regret, that we should be obliged to take a canoe again, from Port Discovery. The intoxicated "Duke of Wellington"—an Indian with a wide gold band round his hat, and a dilapidated naval uniform—came down, and invited us to go in his sloop. We politely declined the offer, and selected Tommy, the only Indian, we were told, who did not drink. With the aid of some of the bystanders, we asked his views of the weather. He said there would undoubtedly be plenty of wind, and plenty of rain, but it would not make any difference: he had mats enough, and we could stop in the woods. But, as we had other ideas of comfort, we waited two days; and, as the weather was still unsettled, we took the precaution, before starting, to give him his directions for the trip: "Halo wind, Port Angeles; hyiu wind, Dungeness," meaning that we were to have the privilege of stopping at Dungeness if it should prove too stormy to go on. So he and his little klootchman, about as big as a child of ten, took us off. When we reached the portage over which they had to carry the canoe, he pointed out the place of the memaloost (the dead). I see the Indians often bury them between two bodies of water, and have wondered if this had any significance to them. I have noticed, too, that their burial-places have always wild and beautiful surroundings. At this place, the blue blankets over the graves waved in the wind, like the wings of some great bird. A chief was buried here; and some enormous wooden figures, rudely carved, stood to guard him. They looked old and worn. They had long, narrow eyes, high cheek-bones, and long upper lips, like true Indians, with these features somewhat exaggerated.

We tried to talk with Tommy a little about the memaloost. He said it was all the same with an Indian, whether he was memaloost, or on the illahie (the earth); meaning that he was equally alive. We were told at the store, that Tommy still bought sugar and biscuits for his child who had died.

When we reached the other side of the portage, the surf roared so loud, it seemed frightful to launch the canoe in it; but Tommy praised R. as skookum (very strong) in helping to conduct it over. He seemed much more good-natured than the Indians we had travelled with before. He smiled at the loon floating past us, and spoke to it.

When we reached Dungeness, he represented that it would be very rough outside, in the straits. So he took us to a farmhouse. I began to suspect his motive, when I saw that there was a large Indian encampment there, and he pointed to some one he said was all the same as his mamma. It was the exact representation of a sphinx,—an old gray creature lying on the sand, with the upper part of her body raised, and her lower limbs concealed by her blanket. I expected to see Tommy run and embrace her: but he walked coolly by, without giving her any greeting whatever; and she remained perfectly imperturbable, never stirred, and her expression did not change in the least. I was horror-stricken, but afterwards altered my views of her, and came to the conclusion that she was a good, kind mother, only that it was their way to refrain from all appearance of emotion. When we started the next morning, she came down to the canoe with the little klootchman, loaded with presents, which she carried in a basket on her back, supported by a broad band round her head,—smoking-hot venison, and a looking-glass for the child's grave, among them. The old lady waded into the water, and pushed us off with great energy and strong ejaculations.

As we approached Port Angeles, we had a fine view of the Olympic Range of mountains,—shining peaks of silver in clear outline; later, only dark points emerging from seas of yellow light. Little clouds were drawn towards them, and seemed like birds hovering over them, sometimes lighting, or sailing slowly off.

Ediz Hook Light, September 23, 1865.

This light-house is at the end of a long, narrow sand-spit, known by the unpoetical name of Ediz Hook, which runs out for three miles into the Straits of Fuca, in a graceful curve, forming the bay of Port Angeles. Outside are the roaring surf and heavy swell of the sea; inside that slender arm, a safe shelter.

In a desolate little house near by, lives Mrs. S., whose husband was recently lost at sea. She is a woman who awakens my deepest wonder, from her being so able to dispense with all that most women depend on. She prefers still to live here (her husband's father keeps the light), and finds her company in her great organ. One of the last things her husband did was to order it for her, and it arrived after his death. I think the sailors must hear it as they pass the light, and wonder where the beautiful music comes from. There is something very soft and sweet in her voice and touch.

Sometimes I see the four children out in the boat. The little girls are only four and six years old, yet they handle the oars with ease. As I look at their bare bright heads in the sunshine, they seem as pretty as pond-lilies. I feel as if they were as safe, they are so used to the water.

Port Angeles, October 1, 1865.

Port Angeles has been the scene of a grand ceremony,—the marriage of Yeomans's daughter to the son of a Makah chief. Many of the Makah tribe attended it. They came in a fleet of fifty canoes,—large, handsome boats, their high pointed beaks painted and carved, and decorated with gay colors. The chiefs had eagle-feathers on their heads, great feather-fans in their hands, and were dressed in black bear-skins. Our Flat-heads in their blankets looked quite tame in contrast with them. They approached the shore slowly, standing in the canoes. When they reached the landing in front of Yeomans's ranch, the congratulations began, with wild gesticulations, leapings, and contortions. They were tall, savage-looking men. Some of them had rings in their noses; and all had a much more primitive, uncivilized look, than our Indians on the Sound. I could hardly believe that the gentlemanly old Yeomans would deliver up his pretty daughter to the barbarians that came to claim her, and looked to see some one step forward and forbid the banns; but the ceremony proceeded as if every thing were satisfactory. There may be more of the true old Indian in him than I imagined; or perhaps this is a political movement to consolidate the friendship of the tribes. When they landed, they formed a procession, bearing a hundred new blankets, red and white, as a potlach to the tribe. They brought also some of the much-prized blue blankets, reserved for special ceremonies and the use of chiefs.

What occurred inside the lodge, we could not tell; but were quite touched at seeing Yeomans's son take the flag from his dead sister's grave, and plant it on the beach at high-water mark, as if it were a kind of participation, on the part of the dead girl, in the joy of the occasion.

October 5, 1865.

Flocks of crows hover continually about the Indian villages. The most proverbially suspicious of all birds is here familiar and confiding. The Indian exercises superstitious care over them, but whether from love or fear we could never discover. It is very difficult to find out what an Indian believes. We have sometimes heard that they consider the crows their ancestors. It is a curious fact, that the Indians, in talking, make so much use of the palate,—kl and other guttural sounds occurring so often,—and that the crow, in his deep "caw, caw," uses the same organ. It may be significant of some psychological relationship between them.

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