The Conditions of Oregon in 1842. The Arrival of a Large Party of Americans. The News They Bore. The Great Ride to Save Oregon. The Incidents of Travel. Whitman Reaches Washington.

We now reach a critical period in Oregon history, and are to study events crowded with exciting interest. Several new missions had been organized by the American Board, and were manned by a scholarly, heroic band of missionary workers. They were Christian men and women in the best sense of the term, and were there in answer to the savage's appeal made at St. Louis, to teach and read to them "the Book of Heaven." But at the same time, they were intensely patriotic American citizens. They had been given passports by the United States authorities before leaving the States; a copy of that given Dr. Cushing Eells is still in the possession of his son, Myron Eells, now living in Washington. It varied, it is true, from regular passports, but nevertheless was enough foreign to make its possessor understand he was destined to "a foreign land," and under the direction of "the Foreign Missionary Society."

The missionaries often met in conference, and generally at Waiilatpui, that being central, having larger accommodations than other posts.

Notwithstanding the courtesies and constant kindness personally received from Dr. McLoughlin, of the Hudson Bay Company, they were ill at ease. They had now been six years in Oregon, and realized its grand possibilities. Their bountiful crops of grains and fruits told them of the productive soil; the healthful climate, the great forests, the wild grand scenery, all emphasized its value. They were missionaries, far away from home, yet Americans, and patriots, to see so fair a domain year by year slipping away from the Union, ground them to the quick. In their private correspondence to friends, and Dr. Parker, in his able book, had encouraged immigrants to brave the dangers of the journey.

The heroic Methodist missionary, Rev. Jason Lee, made a trip across the plains to Washington and brought back with him several Americans. Despite all their efforts, Canadians and adherents of the Hudson Bay Company outnumbered them three to one. The missionaries and all others in Oregon knew that the meaning of the treaty of 1818 was that, whichever nation settled the country would hold and own it. They knew it had been practically in possession of England for many years with the direct sanction of American authorities. They knew the low esteem in which Oregon was held by many American statesmen, but what could they do? Such were the conditions in 1842, when Elijah White, a former Indian agent of the government, reached Whitman's mission in the month of September. With him came one hundred and twenty-five American immigrants. He was an intelligent man, and had many in his company who were thoroughly posted upon American affairs. They found Whitman an intensely interested listener and questioner. In this company was a young lawyer, Amos L. Lovejoy, a most intelligent man, who, in after years, filled a large and honored place in Oregon history, and latterly shared with our hero the daring and danger of his great work.

What was before Congress

These men informed the Doctor that "the Ashburton treaty," fixing the boundary line between the United States and Canada, which had run up against the Rocky Mountain and rested there for half a century, was under discussion between the two governments, and would probably come before the United States Senate for final action during the session of 1842-1843.

Whitman was a man of few words, and quick action. He pondered deeply. He felt that a climax was impending, and in the contest Oregon was to be lost or won for his country. I do not stop to argue whether it was simply the call of patriotism of the man as an American, or whether, like the men of old, "he was called of God," but when we remember the perils to be met, the sacrifices to be made, and none knew them better than Whitman, I cannot believe that so clear-headed a man would ever have entertained the idea, if he had not heard and obeyed a call higher and more commanding than that of man!

He laid the matter before his wife, his chief counselor, that he fondly loved and cherished. The two were as one. They had met dangers and hardships, sacrifices and sorrows, together for seven years. This meant separation and dangers unknown to both for a whole year, during which not a line or a word could pass between them to tell of the fate of the other. Words would fail to express or picture that September conference in the wilds of Oregon if it had ever been written. But Narcissa Whitman was the same heroic woman who years before sacrificed the ease of civilized life and rode on horseback across the dreary plains, climbed mountains, and swam rivers, endured hunger at the call of duty! She was an ideal missionary, and the patriotic wife of a missionary who, in song and prayer, had dedicated the whole fair land to God and the Union upon that memorable anniversary upon the Rockies in 1836, and she answered, "Go!"

The Doctor at once sent messengers to the several missionary stations, summoning them to an immediate council at Waiilatpui for important business. They all responded promptly, glad to come in contact with the many new guests from the States, and hear words from home, as well as to learn the meaning of this sudden and unusual call for conference. Of this meeting, and what was said and done, we have more complete reports, from the written words of Dr. Eells, Dr. Spalding, and other members. When assembled Dr. Whitman lost no time in explaining his call, and that it was to obtain leave of absence from the local conference for one year, to visit Washington and the States! The proposition was astounding to his brethren, and caused wide discussion. While they were, in the main, in full sympathy with Whitman, they well knew the prejudices of the rulers of the American Board against ministers "dabbling in politics," or concerning themselves with questions of state. A second important question was discussed, viz.: "If it became known to the ruling powers in Oregon, upon which all the missions were wholly dependent, would it not greatly embarrass if not destroy them all?" They had the kindliest feeling for Dr. McLoughlin for his eminent services rendered, but they well knew the Hudson Bay Company was there for business, and that it had starved out every American trader who had intruded upon their domain, even the wealthy John Jacob Astor was permitted only one year in Oregon, although he came with the direct sanction of the American government. The company owned all the ships which came and went each year to Hawaii and London, bearing their letters and bringing all the supplies they received from civilization. Would the good Dr. McLoughlin under such conditions be able to shield and protect them? (Further along it will appear that he did, and was driven from his great office for his aid to the missionaries.)

A third reason given was the immensity of the danger of such a journey in mid-winter—was like, as one expressed it, "Going down into the valley and shadow of death to attempt it."

A fourth objection was that while the local board was the adviser in regard to all local affairs of the missions, the home board at Boston required a permit officially signed for any missionary to separate himself from his work. All these questions were canvassed pro and con. The men of that conference were as brothers joined in the one great work, and the counsels given were free and earnest.

Dr. Whitman was mainly a silent listener. When the dangers of his trip were pointed out, and he was asked to "wait until spring," his sententious reply was, "I must go now!" In reply to the objection that he would violate the rules of the Board, Dr. Eells says:

"Dr. Whitman was so fixed in his purpose that he declared he would make the attempt even if he had to withdraw from the mission, remarking, 'I am not expatriated by becoming a missionary.'"

Continuing, says Dr. Eells:

"The idea of his withdrawal could not be entertained. Therefore, to retain him in the mission, a vote to approve his making the perilous journey prevailed."

There has been a contention made by persons ignorant of the facts, that "the sole purpose of Whitman's ride was to save his mission from being closed." It is a silly charge, and unworthy of refutation, except to state the facts. The immigrants in Oregon were curious to know the cause of such a journey, and the people of the Hudson Bay Company doubtless made inquiry, but it was enough for them all to know that "Whitman had business with the American Board," and let it go at that. The missionaries were under no obligations to make known facts detrimental to all their interests, and when the proper time came, all the actors told the whole truth in regard to it. The silence of the missionaries, which was imperative for their own safety, doubtless misled many. Whitman's object was definite and clear.

Dr. Spalding, explaining years after, says:

"The last words Whitman spoke to me as he mounted his horse for the long journey, were: 'My life is of little worth if I can save this country to the American people.'"

The time fixed for his departure by the Board was October 5th, and all set about writing voluminous letters, for it was seldom they had such opportunity. There was much talk and counsel as to a companion and helper of the Doctor on his way. A score of his trusted Indians would have been glad of the opportunity.

The Doctor pondered over the matter, and made up his mind, and approached General Lovejoy, and explained to him the urgency of the case that compelled him to go, and asked the blunt question, "Will you go with me?" He was delighted with the prompt response, "Yes!"

Mrs. Whitman was delighted that "a Christian gentleman like General Lovejoy would bear her husband company, and he would not be left alone to Indians and guides on the long and dreary way." All was now hurry and preparation, and the few things the good wife could find from her stores were gathered and packed. On the 2d of October, for a double purpose of visiting a sick man and securing some needed stores, the Doctor rode to the fort, and while there heard news of an incoming colony of immigrants from Canada. As he galloped home to the mission, he saw increasing danger, and resolved there should be no delay.

It was a great occasion, that beautiful October morning at Waiilatpui. A number of Indians were to go with the party to make sure they got on the new trail to Fort Hall, much shorter and easier than that traversed by the missionaries in 1836.

There were a large number of immigrants around Waiilatpui, and they with many Indians, without knowing the real objects of the expedition, were there to see. One can easily believe that it was a great event in the wilderness country. The ever-faithful Indian Istikus was there as leader of the Indians; as they sat mounted upon their ponies, they added picturesqueness to the group.

The sun was just gilding the treetops along the Walla Walla as it wended its swift and winding way like a silver thread in the distance. The last adieu had been said, and the Doctor emerged from his room and mounted his horse. The faithful old dog, which had run by the side of his master in hundreds of journeys along blind trails, was to be permitted to accompany them, barked impatiently.

They were off, an imposing little cavalcade with Whitman and General Lovejoy in the lead, the Indians led by old Istikus following, the pack mules in the rear, while the old dog ran barking up and down the line as if he was responsible commander of the entire outfit.

I have many times in the years since stood upon the ground of this historic scene, and tried to picture it in my mind, in the full grandeur of its intentions and achievements. I have since marched with great armies with music and banners, bright equipments, guns gleaming in the sunlight and their pageantry was imposing, but I most like to catch the spirit of the history they were all making, and it has seemed as if this little band in the wilderness, made up of Christian and savage life was, even in its simplicity, more notably an expression of God's leadings, when I view them in the light of the great events which followed.

Nor can the reader forget to honor the heroic little Christian American woman, who looking through her tear-dimmed eyes, as she waved farewells to her departing husband until the hills away toward the Blue Mountains hid him from view.

After going to her silent and deserted room, she wrote:

"I look from my window and see the grave of our dear child, surely God will take care of my noble husband and return him to me!"

Love is the greatest word in the English language, and when united to Faith, it lifts the heaviest burdens of life. Who can measure the power of the prayers of one faithful, trusting soul, in guiding that heroic little band over the dangers of their unknown way? Possibly some reader may scoff at such sentiment, but unnumbered instances have proved that there comes an emergency in every human life, when the soul, if reason is not clouded, cries out in prayer to a Being higher than itself.

The cavalcade is made up of rapid riders. The favorite gait of Cayuse horses is a lope, and small as they are, carry a heavy man fifty and sixty miles per day. But as the journey was to be a long one, they selected the finest horses to be found, only those thoroughly broken and tested. They knew the value of caring for their animals in the earlier stages, and lessened their speed.

The first four hundred and fifty miles to Fort Hall was made in eleven days. The Indians, except two to look after the animals, had returned to Waiilatpui.

At Fort Hall their old friend, Captain Grant, was still in command, and when he learned of the proposed journey to the States, openly protested that "it was madness to attempt it at this season of the year." Undoubtedly Captain Grant this time was right, even if Whitman had proved him, to his chagrin, wrong about the wagon in 1836. "It so happened" that a company of scouts just then reached the fort, and confirmed all Captain Grant had said, and more. They reported that the snow in many of the caÑons was from ten to twenty feet deep, and badly drifting. The Silent Man listened, and sat thinking. He knew those mountains and caÑons, and could readily believe the statement of the scouts, and the old Captain, who was an admirer of Whitman, felt certain that he would give up his dangerous expedition and return home. But he did not yet know his man.

The Old Map

Whitman was face to face with a new problem. As he prayed and pondered, a new inspiration came to him. We have no reason to believe that such an idea had occurred to the missionaries, when discussing the dangers of the journey by the route they knew. We have no knowledge that even Whitman had ever before studied the possibilities of a new and undiscovered way to the States.

The old trappers and scouts sat around the stove swapping stories of bears, mountain-lions, of Indians, and wonderful escapes. Whitman, upon looking up, discovered an old United States map hanging upon the wall. It at once attracted his attention, and he brought it to the light and began to study. It had the outlines of all the great West as far as geographers of that day knew and understood. The ranges of the mountains were nearly accurately pictured. "The great Stony," the Sierra and Coast ranges, the Shasta, and Wind River, and the possible passes were marked, so as to give some idea of the lay of the land.

The thought came to him, why not strike west and south and get between the great ranges so as to avoid the earlier snows of winter? He found marked upon the map Fort Uintah, an old abandoned Spanish fort, which came into possession of the United States in 1818, by the Florida treaty. He then began inquiry among the old mountaineers and found a man who knew the blind trail to Uintah, located in what is now northern Utah. He learned also there was an abandoned trail from that point southward. The old scout was ready to pilot them to Uintah, and was at once engaged. At break of day Whitman and Lovejoy were in their saddles en route, led by the guide, not homeward, but upon a voyage of discovery of the unknown way. The route led south through what is now Idaho, thence through Utah leaving Great Salt Lake to the right. General Lovejoy gives very indistinct notes, not sufficiently clear to accurately verify locations. He kept a record of daily events, but Whitman never a line. Lovejoy writes:

"From Fort Hall to Uintah we met with terribly severe weather. The deep snow caused us to lose much time. At Uintah we took a new guide to Fort Uncompagra in old Spanish territory, which place we safely reached. There we hired a new guide, and while passing over a high mountain on the trail toward Grand River, we encountered a terrible snow storm which compelled us to seek shelter in a deep, dark caÑon. We made several attempts to pass on, but were driven back, and detained ten days. We finally got well upon the mountain again, when we met with a violent storm of snow and wind, which almost blinded us, maddened the animals, and made them nearly unmanageable. Finally the guide stopped and said, 'I am lost and can lead you no farther.' In this dire dilemma, adds General Lovejoy, Dr. Whitman got off his horse, and kneeling in the snow, committed his little company, his loved wife, his work, and his Oregon to the Infinite One for guidance and protection. The lead pack mule being left to himself by the guide pricked up his long ears, turning them this way and that, and began plunging through the snowdrifts. The Mexican guide called out, 'Follow this old mule, he will find the camp if he lives long enough to reach it.'"

And he did lead them to the still burning fire they had left in the morning in the deep, dark caÑon. The instinct of dumb animals is a wonderful gift, superior to that of wise men. The writer has, twice in his life, been rescued by his horse when hopelessly lost. One instance I will recite, simply to impress a lesson of kindness upon my young readers for dumb animal life. Two of us, in a large hunting party in Arkansas, got separated from the rest, and found ourselves in the back-water of the Mississippi River, which was many miles away. My companion was an old woodsman, and pretended to know his direction. He assured me "We will come out all right." He led on and on for hours, the water growing constantly deeper. I finally called to him and pointed to the water-mark on the trees as high as our heads as we sat on our horses. I said to him: "You are lost, now I am going to trust to my horse to lead me from danger." He insisted he knew the way, but followed. My horse was a sleepy old fellow, and I gave him a little cut with a whip to wake him up, then gave him a loose rein to go as he pleased. He wound around fallen trees and brush until he got his direction, then turning nearly at a right angle, struck a line like a surveyor, and in two hours we were upon dry land and in camp.

But to our story. They were safely in camp, by a roaring log fire, the deep caÑon protecting them from the raging winds. As they discussed with thankful hearts the perils of the day, from which they had been rescued, they made plans for to-morrow, but here the guide spoke up and said, "I go back, I cannot take you over this mountain." General Lovejoy says, "Whitman talked and plead with the guide until a late hour, but could not change his mind. To any except such a character as Whitman, the situation would have been indeed hopeless; but before he slept his plans were made. He said to General Lovejoy: "You stay here in the caÑon and recuperate the stock, and I will return to the fort and get a new guide." At the first streak of dawn the men were mounted and on their way. It was a cheerless wait for Lovejoy, but he had the companionship of his dog, and he busied himself in cutting bunch grass and tender twigs for the animals and bringing in logs for his fire. The General says, "Whitman was gone just one week, when the old dog heard his distant halloo and answered it with a rejoicing bark." He and his new guide, hungry and tired, were soon enjoying the bright log fire, always the crowning comfort of camp-life.

I trust that my readers may all live to have a camp-fire experience. Permit me to tell you of one great camp-fire, near the summit of the Sierras, which lives in the memory after nearly fifty years of busy life. Our pack-train had been toiling up the mountain, hoping for a resting-place, when our scouts came and reported. Following them along winding paths which grizzlies and Indians had made, around the rugged rocks, we reached a beautiful little valley covered with luxuriant grass. We picketed our tired animals in the meadow, built a great fire of cedar logs against a marble wall straight up for a thousand feet, sang songs, sounded the bugle, and listened to the scores of echoes from the mountain peaks. But we were young and ready to enjoy nature's grand scenes.—Nowhere are they grander than in our own Western mountains.

But our heroic snow-bound travelers were burdened with far too much anxiety to enjoy nature in her magnificent winter adornment. Their eyes were not upon the lofty mountain peaks, but far along unknown trails towards the nation's capital. After they had succeeded in passing the well-nigh impassable mountains, they struck a more level country with sheltered valleys having a bountiful supply of wood and good water. I have often asked myself, when pondering over these events, was it a simple accident that the old scouts reached Fort Hall that October night and turned Whitman and Lovejoy a thousand miles off their direct route? That year the snow lay unusually deep all over the great plains. Had they started and been able to have crossed the Rockies, they would have met snow-covered, treeless plains, and for weeks at a time would have had to go without fires, having to depend upon the Bois de vache for fuel, which, covered deep with the snow, would have been impossible to find. This, with the lack of grass for the animals, would have made the route, not only impracticable, but nearly impossible. The scout and the old map seemed insignificant events, but yet how often they and their kind loom up in grand proportions. They may be marked by the thoughtless as mere happenings, but it is not a tax upon reason to believe that the soul attuned to listen and receive ever has a guidance higher than the wisdom of men.

This detention in the caÑon and along other parts of the route caused the scant supplies to run lower. The bears were holed up in their winter quarters, they could have found deer and elk, had they stopped and hunted; but Whitman's maxim was forever, "travel, travel." He led upon the trail from morning until night, with eyes ever to the front. General Lovejoy tells us they finally reached a great emergency, and the first animal sacrificed to keep them from starving was the faithful old dog. I doubt not, that some of my young readers will stop to criticize so noble a man as Whitman for having any part in such an act, and the writer would sympathize with the sentiment. The dog is man's closest friend, that clings to him when all others forsake him. Seventy-four years ago, when the author's parents came to the Western wilderness across the Alleghanies, we had a great dog named Watch. He kept guard over us children as we rambled through the woods and along the way, as if he were wholly responsible for our safety. He grew old and nearly helpless. A conference was held among the older members, and it was thought merciful to put him out of his obvious misery, and an old friend of the family was selected for the task. I believe that after all three-quarters of a century of years the children, who loved the old dog, never quite forgave his executioner.

General Lovejoy tells us none of the particulars, but it is reasonable to suppose that Whitman was not consulted at all in the matter, and likely knew nothing of it until long after. The second animal used for food was one of the pack mules. They knew if they could live until they reached Taos, in New Mexico, they could secure supplies, and trade their broken-down stock for fresh animals. So they made forced marches.

I have indulged in only enough description of locality as to keep in touch with the travelers, and to note historic events. To-day the same scenes they viewed are the wonderlands of thousands of tourists each year.

They Reach Grand River

A little incident at Grand River reveals Marcus Whitman's indomitable spirit. It is a deep, dangerous, treacherous river, and many an immigrant has lost his life in the Grand or the Green river. The water is icy cold, even in mid-summer.

When the bold group of travelers stood on the bank they found a stream six hundred feet wide, two hundred feet on each side ice, and two hundred in the middle rolled the rapid torrent. The guide shook his head and said, "It is impossible! We cannot cross." Whitman replied, "We must cross, and now." He got down from his horse, cut a strong cottonwood pole about eight feet long. Mounting his horse, he put the pole upon his shoulder, and said, "Now push us in." The guide and the General skated them to the brink, and "horse and rider," says the General, "entirely disappeared, coming to the surface some distance below." The horse soon found footing and made for the shore, where Whitman broke the ice with his pole, and helped his horse to the firm ice. He soon had a rousing fire from the logs and driftwood. Those conversant with animal habits know that when the lead animal has passed any point, however dangerous, the rest are eager to follow. The General and guide broke the ice for a roadway to the water, and each seizing a tail, were towed safely to the farther shore.

They Reach Santa FÉ

Upon reaching Santa FÉ, in New Mexico, they felt quite in touch with civilization. They would no longer have to grope in the dark, along doubtful and unknown trails, but it all the more made Whitman anxious to push forward. They paused only long enough to inquire for news from the States, and to purchase a few needed supplies. It was still a long journey, and as it proved, more perilous to life than any portion they had already passed. Their next point was Bent's Fort on the head waters of the Arkansas River, now in Colorado. It was a cheerless, dreary plains journey, with none of the magnificent scenery of the mountain route to keep them company. Water was often scarce, as well as wood, except along the small streams. The intensely cold winter and deep snows had made the big gray wolves a menace to life of men and beasts. One very cold night they reached a little river which had no wood on the side they camped, but was plentiful on the opposite bank. Whitman seized his ax, but found the ice would break under his feet. He then lay flat upon the ice, wormed himself across, skated a bountiful supply across the glossy surface, and then returned in safety as he had gone.

Unfortunately, one of his heavy blows split his ax-handle. When he returned to his tent, he took a piece of rawhide, wrapped the spliced pieces carefully, and threw it down at the door of the tent. In the morning it was discovered that some thieving wolf attracted by the rawhide had stolen the implement, and they never saw it again. Had this occurred two months before, it would have been regarded as an irreparable disaster.

Four days before reaching Bent's Fort they met Colonel Bent's son with a pack-train en route to El Paso. He informed them that in two days a company of fifty packers would leave the fort for St. Louis, and that there would not be another until towards spring.

He told them that it would be impossible for them with pack animals to reach the fort before the departure of the company. Whitman was at once aroused by the information. He proposed that he should take his blankets and two days' provision, make a forced march, and catch the convoy, while General Lovejoy and the guide could bring on the pack animals and remain at the fort, recuperate the stock, and meet him on the Missouri border in the spring. This was agreed to, and Whitman started on his lonely ride to Bent's. General Lovejoy and the guide moved on leisurely, reaching Bent's Fort four days later. They were astonished and alarmed when told that the Doctor had not arrived.

Whitman is Lost

General Lovejoy stated the whole case to Colonel Bent, who was at once aroused to action. He started runners after the company, ordering them to go into camp on the Cottonwood, and await further commands.

"He sent out his best scouts in the search. Myself, guide, and one of the scouts passed up the banks of the Arkansas for one hundred miles, knowing if Whitman was alive he would make for the river. Every night our camp would be surrounded by hungry, gaunt, gray wolves, which as they were shot down would be torn in pieces and devoured by their fellows."

This gave them great uneasiness about Whitman, alone and without a shelter. They encountered some Indians who told them they had met a white man two days before who was hunting for Bent's Fort, and they had pointed out the way to him. They, in all haste, retraced their steps, along the way the Indians directed, and in an hour after they reached the fort Whitman came in greatly fatigued, and well-nigh despairing. But wearied as he was, he was deeply touched with Colonel Bent's kindness and thoughtfulness, and was buoyed up with new heart and hope that after all the hardships of the long journey he was yet able to prosecute it to the end. In the early morning he was in the saddle upon a fresh horse, with a good guide, and ready to ride forty miles before night to the camp on the Cottonwood, with credentials which would give them safe convoy to St. Louis. General Lovejoy, the guide, and all the stock remained until the next convoy was sent out in the spring, and found Whitman upon the Missouri border. In that early day the route from Bent's Fort to St. Louis was invested by bands of outlaws, as well as savage wild beasts, so that an escort of well-armed men was a necessity for all travelers. Thus a good Providence seemed from the outset to have guided the little band through all its perils in safety.

They Reach St. Louis

Dr. Barrows, in his interesting book, "Oregon, the Struggle for Possession," says:

"Upon the arrival of Whitman in St. Louis, it was my good fortune that he should be quartered as a guest under the same roof, and at the same table. Trappers and traders all eagerly asked questions, and he answered all courteously. He in turn asked about Congress; whether the Ashburton treaty had been passed by the Senate; and whether it covered the Northwestern Territory? He then learned, for the first time, that the Ashburton treaty had been signed, even before he left Oregon, and was confirmed by the Senate about the time he was lost and floundering in the snow upon the mountains."

He was eager to learn whether the Oregon question was still pending, and greatly relieved when told that the treaty only covered a little strip of twelve thousand acres, up in Maine, and that Oregon was left untouched in its boundaries. Dr. Barrows continues:

"Marcus Whitman once seen, and in one's family circle, telling of his business, for he apparently had but one, was a man not to be forgotten by the writer. He was of medium height, more compact than spare, a stout shoulder, and a large head covered with iron-gray hair. He carried himself awkwardly. He seemed built as a man for whom more stock had been furnished than used systematically and gracefully. He was not quick in motion or speech, and no trace of a fanatic, but he was a profound enthusiast. He wore coarse, fur garments, with buckskin breeches. He had a buffalo overcoat with a head hood for emergencies, with fur leggins and foot moccasins. If my memory is not at fault, his entire dress when on the street did not show an inch of woven fabric."

We copy thus fully Dr. Barrows's description of Whitman and his dress, and it agrees with other descriptions less complete, as we trace him to Cincinnati, and again to the door of his old cherished friend, Dr. Parker, and have the testimony of his son, Professor Parker, who opened the door of his father's home to admit the guest in strange costume. Whitman had little confidence in his own power of oratory, and was even timid, while brave. He knew the persuasive eloquence of his old associate, and his enthusiasm for Oregon, and he had hoped and expected to have his help to plead for Oregon in Washington. But the Doctor was confined to his room by ill health, and it was impossible for him to undertake the journey. Glad again to meet his old friend, and sorrowing that he was not to have his aid in this critical time, he resumed his way, and reaching Washington, ended one of the most memorable trans-continental journeys ever recorded.

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