STORY OF FIFTY YEARS AGO.
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Eloquent Address by Rev. L.H. Hallock, D.D.
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MEMORIES ARE RECALLED.
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Sad Pictures of the Scenes of
Suffering and Sacrifice Painted
With Beautiful Words.
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On Monday evening, at the Walla Walla opera house, Rev. L.H. Hallock, D.D., delivered an eloquent address, which THE UNION printed in part yesterday morning. Many who were unable to be present have expressed a desire to read it in full, and this paper gives the full text as follows:
Ladies and Gentlemen, Patriots, Friends: Friends we are all tonight for if
"One touch of nature
Makes the whole world kin"
one throb of uncommon sorrow for our heroic dead, - one thrill of gladness for the glory-crown of granite on yonder burial hill, - makes us brothers in achievement this hour, as we have long been brothers in inheritance from the martyred pioneers.
Rare is our privilege tonight, from this altitude of fifty years to review the tragic period, begun in blood but blossoming today like the century plant, in monumental shaft above the "great grave," in bronze statue within the city of brotherly love, in meetings for memory at the nation's capital and in Boston, and, better than all, in an immortal institution bearing his name and to breathe his spirit so long as these Blue mountains shall guard at the eastern portal of the valley.
Half a century ago tonight lifeless bodies lay unburied at the close of a day of terror and irreparable disaster. Today, springing as the seed, the spirits of these slain come again, looming into the sky as great souls, modest in themselves, but epoch-making in our country's history.
The transformation from mound of earth to marble mausoleum is no more striking than the rescue from criminal oblivion of these twin souls whom God has delighted to honor.
Fifty years ago the lone Whitman lantern in the Walla Walla meadow was violently extinguished; today it stands as a star rapidly growing to the first magnitude.
It is not that "distance lends enchantment," although
"Mountains wear crowns of glory
Only when seen from far,
And sails lose all their whiteness
Inside the harbor bar."
The principal which is giving to our heroes their expansive reputation is quite a different principle from that of the poet; it is the law of perspective, and the limitations of the angle of human vision.
The mountain, whose icy cheek of ermine rests eternally against the blue bosom of the sky, cannot be truly seen at close range - there a little intervening hill, a jutting rock, a tree chunk or a whiff of passing fog even, may conceal its summit; or at best the angle of vision is an impossible angle. But when you have moved miles away, then the towering grandeur lifts - then the tints of ten thousand sunbeams gild and glorify the mountain whose nearness was but chill and rugged - heavenly halos crown the summit when space of sea or prairie lies between.
It is greatness only which grows with time and space; small things and small men sink rapidly to lower levels - when greatness looms. Washington, Lincoln, Grant, Whitman, Hopkins - how they tower; while men who overshadowed them once are long lost in the dim level of historic mediocrity.
Beecher once said, "You cannot tell what any man will do - until he is dead." True; and you cannot tell what any man has done or been, until some scores of years have placed him among the stars, or dimmed the lustre of his early fame by the tarnishing of its own smoke.
Some lights are big, near by, but early disappear - stars shine far afield and forever - stars - twin stars are our theme tonight, and to study them we must lift our eyes unto the heavens - for they are there.
Dr. and Mrs. Whitman, martyrs of '47; heroes of '97; killed in '47, crowned in '97. Unto him primarily, and to his associates likeswise, whether their blood was spilled or spared that day, we pay our tribute of reverent love; and unto every man who lifes a finger, or voice, or pen, or prayer to do them honor, unto him also shall be alittle glory given for paying a farthing at least upon our debt long overdue.
The exercises of the morrow, which include the dedication of the mausoleum and the unveiling of the monument, will worthily inaugurate the second half century after the fatal tragedy. It will be (may I for one moment prophecy?) a half century of appreciation, of pilgrimage, of multiplied memorial tributes, of recognition at the national capital, of ever-kindling patriotic gratitude of the rising in substantial brick and mortar of the halls of Whitman College.
With this in prospect, the first half century should not be allowed to pass into history without a review and revival of many memories. For that purpose we are here; to scan the past, that we may discover the significance of the present, and the promise of the future. It is a rich, rare field. No element of romanticism seems wanting - no height of color, no depth of shadow, no weird wonderment of the wilderness, no note of domestic or religious devotion, no fibre of oak, no sentiment of love; no isolation, no official importance; no impassable obstacles; no undeserved rebuke; no unselfishness of altruism; no sin of treachery; no utterly mistaken thrust of fatal tomahawk; no glory of mid-day leadership, or crimson of sunset slaughter seems missing in the tale which culminated November 29th, fifty years ago tonight. All the colors, all the combinations are there; who may so weave this gobelin tapestry that figures and facts shall stand out in living portraiture, to teach the generation coming noble lesson of gratitude, patriotism and faith in God. Such is the task intrusted to this hour.
Although it may be a twice-told tale, familiar as household words to many who hear me tonight, you will listen yet once again while we put the emphasis where truth demands, and show the pivot on which, in the providence of God, this Northwest empire swung over into the lap of these United States.
It was a foregone conclusion - yet who could know it then? - that the sturdy plant which rooted ont he rim of the blue sea near Massachusetts bay should carry its fruits of free religion and free citizenship westward to the broad Pacific, but how the dependent colonies could ever compass so vast a scheme in the face of Spanish possessions and British ambitions, no wilder dreamer could have dared foretell.
But after the achievement of independence a series of movements was begun upon the international chessboard, made often hestitatingly and in the dark, which resulted so favorably to the flag that the blindest student of history cannot fail to discover the hand of a Father.
The Louisiana purchase, the discovery of the Columbia by Captain Gray, the sending of the missionaries to Oregon Indians, the policy of the Hudson Bay Company, the friendliness of President Tyler, and the personal equation of Dr. Marcus Whitman - all played their part in the game which gave us continental breadth and the supremacy of two oceans.
Strangest of all to us who have long known that the star of empire hangs in the zenith west of the Mississippi, and that the Rocky mountains are the most probable bridge of the balance on which our continental destiny shall swing this way and that in unstable equilibrium, is the attitude of our leading statesmen in the early days of this very century. Almost we lost Oregon for an interest in the Newfoundland fisheries, and it was Daniel Webster himself who said on the floor of the senate concerning this garden of the continent:
"What do we want with this vast worthless area, this region of savages and wild beasts, of deserts, of shifting sands and whirlwinds of dust, of cactus and prairie dogs? To what use could we ever hope to put these great deserts or these great mountain ranges, impenetrable and covered to their base with eternal snow?
"What can we ever hope to do with the western coast, a coast of three thousand miles, rock-bound, cheerless and uninviting, and not a harbor on it? What use have we for such a country? Mr. President, I will never vote one cent from the public treasury to place the Pacific coast one inch nearer Boston that it is now."
Senator Benton said in 1825:
"The ridge of the Rocky Mountains may be named as a convenient, natural and everlasting boundary. Along this ridge the western limit of the Republic should be drawn, and the statue of the fabled god Terminus should be erected on it highest peak, never to be thrown down."
Senator McDuffie said, "I thank God for his mercy in placing the Rocky mountains there."
The National Intelligencer in the early forties published these words: "Of all the countries upon the face of the earth, Oregon is one of the least favored by heaven. It is almost as barren as Sahara, and quite as unhealthy as the Campagna of Italy," and Senator Dayton of New Jersey proceeded to say, "God forbid that the time should ever come when a state on the shores of the Pacific, with its interests and tendencies of trade all looking toward the Asiatic nations of the East, shall add its jarring claims to our already distracted and overburdened confederacy." Evidently the continental idea had not yet reached the senate of these United States.
The kaleidescope turns but twice, and lo; a revolution of public sentiment, effected within two short years, almost unparalleled in any national history, - and I will show you the pivot upon which that revolution turned. We must approach it gradually, for several preliminary facts demand attention.
We take our stand on the shores of the Pacific, and note three adventurous ships coasting up and down the Northern waters, searching for a rumored river, whose existence is still in doubt, but to discover which, is the chief objective of these three explorers.
One is a Spaniard; one is Vancouver; one is Capt. Gray from Boston: Vancouver had passed northward across the Columbia's mouth and had not seen it, and after penetrating the blue and purple beauties of Puget Sound, retraced his course for closer inspection. As he came into the latitude of the river, judge of his chagrin at seeing a Yankee craft flying the stars and stripes just emerging from the long-coveted river, after having explored several miles of it, landed on its banks, and claimed it for the United States. Ours by discovery.
Long before this, in 1670, the old English Hudson Bay Company, under Charles II, was granted "absolute proprietorship over all regions, discovered or undiscovered within the entrance to Hudson Strait."
This company, which paid 10 per cent annual dividend for 150 years and accumulated a surplus of nearly two millions of dollars, a company "controlling 75 degrees of longitude and 28 degrees of latitude from the mouth of the Mackenzie river to the California border," held its ancient possessions with tenacious grasp. It was a shrewd administration over a savage domain; their aim, to keep out every settler who would substitute an acre of wheat for a pelt, or a family home for the lair of a wild beast. They did not hold the land in fee. Charles could not give them that, for it was not his; but theirs was an Englishman's right to traffic in furs with the aborigines of the land, so distant, so unknown, the region, that almost centuries could come and go, with none to dispute their right. The factors of this Company found ignorance more potent, and cheaper, than bayonets, and if by facile pen they could deceive the world concerning what they termed a miasmatic wilderness it was better for them than battalions of war. That is the reason why the press of England and America told the same monotonous story of malarial and productiveless regions fit only for savage beasts and still more savage men. That is the reason why our statesmen at Washington, speaking by the only authority extant, flung such stupendous falsehoods into the face of a deluded public. There was no one to tell them any better. The Hudson Bay Company, which was England, would keep out every settler, English or American, until settlement became inevitable, and then rush in the English and foreclose upon these broad acres.
Under these conditions, in 1818, a treaty was negotiated, renewed in 1827, by which "the Northwest coast of America westward of the stony mountains should be open to the subjects of the two contracting powers, but this agreement was not to be construed to the prejudice of any claim which either of high contracting parties may have to any part of said country."
This was the treaty of Laissez faire - keep silent, freeze out every settler, break every plowshare, arrest every wagon, and by a system of overland forts and sea-port surveillance, prevent every step that pointed toward an actual occupancy of the country.
All this time it was tacitly understood that actual possession by any important body of settlers subduing its acres to the plow should be recognizes as ownership. Difficulties of occupation by sea were vast; by land, over trackless continental ribs, still vaster, and settlement still delayed.
The claims of the two countries
were these: The United States claimed the country -
1. By discovery of the mouth
of the Columbia by Captain Gray.
2. By the Louisiana purchase.
3. By the work of Lewis and
Clarke tracing from its source the Columbia to its exit.
4. By the settlement of Astoria.
5. By the treaty with Spain
in 1818.
6. By treaty with Mexico in
1828.
England's claim rested on the exploration of the Columbia by Vancouver after Gray had discovered it, and the occupancy by the Hudson Bay Company, a monopoly to prevent settlement, as we have seen. With all these claims yet unadjusted, and perhaps inadjustable, the race for actual occupancy was begun.
We are now ready to uncover a signal chapter of events which will show how the United States, by a sudden and brilliant coup d'etat, strode splendidly past her entrenched antagonist, and made the final treaty of 1846 which flung our flag to the breeze forever - a logical necessity.
At last the time has come when the sun-burst of a great revelation will dissipate the darkness and rend that fabric of falsehood which had shielded a vast monopoly so long and concealed for centuries one of the fairest, most royal empires the sun ever shone upon.
The critical move by which this castle fell was made by a pawn, but in making it he reached the king's row, and richly deserves a crown.
The facts are not well known; they are even disputed by some who would rob a martyr of his rights - a protestant mission of its glory; a savior of his crown; yes, and by a so-called historian of the Pacific, whose continual contradictions are suicidal, and whose voluminosity is only exceeded by his unreliablility, (Bancroft, of course.)
The beginning of the prelimnary steps leading up to the opening of the great drama whose close was a crimson tragedy, is unsurpassed in romance, and its dramatis personae weird and strange. An oft-told tale to you, but when first the face of Father Eells lighted up with its telling in my ears, I thought it unparallelled in its pathos.
It was 1832 when four Flathead or Nez Perces Indians appeared in the streets of St. Louis, then a frontier town, strangely dressed, and worn with a journey of 3000 miles, seeking the white man's book of life.
Gen. Clarke, in charge of the post, and a Romanist, showed them the churches and theaters but threw no light upon the object of their search. Unused to the rich food and civilized habits of the city, two of them died during the winter, and at a farewell banquet in the spring of 1833, on the eve of their departure, their chief made the following, now famous and pathetic speech, brimming with Indian eloquence and manifest sincerity:
"I come to you over the trail of many moons from the setting sun. You were friends with my fathers who have all gone the long way.
"I came with an eye partly open, for my people who sit in darkness. How can I go back blind to my blind people.
"I made my way to you with strong arms, through many enemies and strange lands, that I might carry back much to them. I go back with both arms broken and empty.
"Two fathers came with us, they were the braves of many winters and wars; we leave them asleep here by your great water and wigwams. They were tired in many moons, and their moccasins were out.
"My people sent me to get the white man's book of heaven. You took me to where you allow your women to dance, as we do not ours, and the book was not there. You took me to where they worship the Great Spirit with candles, and the book was not there. You showed me the images of the good spirits and the pictures of the good land beyond, but the book was not among them to tell us the way.
"I am going back the long and sad trail to my people in the dark land. You make my feet heavy with gifts and my moccasins will grow old in carrying them, yet the book is not among them.
"When I tell my poor, blind people, after one more snow, in the big council, that I did not bring the book no word will be spoken by our old men or by our young braves. One by one they will rise up and go out in silence. My people will die in darkness, and they will go the long path to other hunting grounds; no white man will go with them, and no white man's book to make the way plain.
"I have no more words."
The facts concerning this Indian visit to St. Louis are fully substantiated and were published widely in the papers of that day. It was by the potency of this plaintive appeal from the wilderness that a spontaneous movement appeared to plant the Oregon mission, and thence came all those subsequent and consequent events which, by welded links of steel, have bound into this union of states the whole brilliant galazy of the Pacific commonwealths.
In response to the challenge "Who will go beyond the Rocky mountains and carry the Book of Heaven?" first appears the name of Rev. Samuel Parker, of Ithica, N.Y. On the 10th of April, 1833, he offered himself to the American board to go to the far and unknown West with the Gospel for Indians. He had enlisted the interest of his own people and hoped to be promptly sent upon his perilous enterprise. But the board hesitated, fearing, distrusting, delaying, but they could not crush the inspiration of this man whom God had touched, and he pressed his suit, offering to raise all needed funds and find suitable associates.
December 3, 1834, while going about in the state of new York stirring up the people to undertake this Oregon mission, he wrote to his wife as follows:
"I have found some missionaries.
Dr. Marcus Whitman, of Wheeler, Steuben county, New York, has agreed to
offer himself to the board to go beyond the Rocky mountains. He has no
family. Two females offer themselves - one a daughter of Judge Prentis,
of Amity, Allegheny county, New York, etc. etc.
"SAMUEL PARKER"
Marcus Whitman and Narcissa Prentiss were afterward married, and thus two chief heroes of this hour were brought to light.
In 1834 Parker and Whitman went as far as St. Louis, but were too late for the fur caravan, and returned to New York. Waiting for the passing of winter, they were not idle. They raised money, made addresses and preparations, and early in 1835 were found again at St. Louis, contracting with the captain of the fur traders to take them as far as "Rendezvous," west of the Rocky mountains.
Exaggeration had magnified the perils of the journey, and the character of the intemperate caravan was forbidding, but on the 7th of April they started, and from that trip Americans for the first time learned the facts of a feasible path across the mountains and the "Titanic, Satanic Range lost its Infernal Crest."
They sent back word that the desert was not found, the mountains not impassable, and the fur park of the Hudson Bay Company was inviting to settlers.
The caravan of 300 reached "Rendezvous" August 12, and the annual fair was "on." Several thousand Indians
(Continued on Third Page)
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STORY OF FIFTY YEARS AGO.
_____
Eloquent Address by Rev. L.H. Hallock, D.D.
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MEMORIES ARE RECALLED.
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Sad Pictures of the Scenes of
Suffering and Sacrifice Painted
With Beautiful Words.
_____
Continued from Second Page
had assembled, and days of feasting and drinking followed. "They sold," says one "their furs, and bought - the devil." Weeks of revelry passed, but there were serious Indians there, and to them the objects of the mission were made known; they gladly promised co-operation and welcome. And since Mr. Parker was commissioned to explore and report fully to the board - and since Dr. Whitman could not start and sustain a mission alone, it was decided that Parker should press on with Indian guides; and that Whitman return with the fur caravan, and the information obtained, and secure associates for the return of forces the following year. This was done. On this trip Parker preached to the Nez Perces in a commodious tent of skins, and passed on to Fort Walla Walla and thence to Vancouver. Returning the following year to New York, he kept burning the flame of zealous interest in the home people, raised money, and offered himself again, unsuccessfully, as a missionary. Much praise is due to critical places and at the critical moments, and that he then and there Samuel Parker, and much good resulted to the Oregon mission from his trip and his book. We part with him here.
It is 1836. Dr. Marcus Whitman, with Mrs. Narcissa Prentiss Whitman, his wife and Mr. and Mrs. Spaulding, have started on the long bridal tour to the great land of the Sunset. That was a wonderful journey for delicate ladies and provessional men to make; but it was heroically undertaken and completed, without a murmur; not for earthly gain but in the hope of saving a savage race.
We may not tarry with them on that more than romantic ride. The crossing of rivers, the wearisome plains the perilous passes are familiar now to you, but to them, on their wedding journey, they were as novel as exhausting.
Referring to their path over the Rockies, Dr. Nixon says: "Fremont discovered the path in 1842" and it bears his name, "bit it is well to remember that upon this notable bridal tour, these Christian ladies passed over the same route six years before the 'Pathfind" or the engineer corps of the United States ever saw it."
And when they reached the summit, planting the American flag to wave in the breeze, they spread their blankets upon the wild grass and took possession of the Western slope of the continent in the name of God as American Christian citizens.
We must not omit one incident of that journey which became historic, viz: the dogged determination with which Dr. Whitman insisted on taking through to the coast at any cost, his wagon. It greatly incensed the commander at Fort Hall: greatly enhanced the difficulty of the mountain passes, and sometimes it would tumble into a gulch, upset among rocks, and seriously hinder their progress, but he kept his wagon and landed it at Waiilatpu. We shall see it again.
It would be a fascinating task her to discuss the results of missionary movements in moulding Indian characters; the psychology of the savage mind meeting the swelling tide of incoming civilization, buoyed or buried by the billow as the case may be.
But we must omit all this and step over six years of excellent service, during which Whitman had built his house, established his school, started his mill and ground the annual crop of wheat for the support of the mission and the help of the natives.
It is now 1842, and the mission has become quite a settlement, while the organization of a government under the Stars and stripes is already agitated. But the English also had multiplied, and were really the autocrats of the country. It was a long still hunt for possession, and neither party had power to effect a movement of sufficient strength to be decisive. So they watched each other, restive, chaffing under neglect, longing for the day when the government should extend its protecting hand over its citizens in the far-away empire.
The Hudson Bay Company was greedy as ever of tis furs, the Jesuits among them jealous as ever of Protestant invasion, the missionaries joyful as ever in their self-denial that the kingdom of Jesus might be advanced.
It was autumn, 1842. The Hudson Bay Company are now eager for English settlers. Missionaries are devout, diligent, patient, but there was one among them, a citizen before he was a missionary, who loved his country as he loved his God, a man who had the strands of a hero in his soul and who saw that the possession of this vast productive domain by the United States was a consummation of vastly greater significance than teaching a few Indian braves the catechism, and the time was fast approaching when the country would need just such a man. Amos Lovejoy has arrived, and brought news to the mission that the Ashburton treaty to fix the northern boundary betwen the United States and England from the Atlantic to the Pacific will probably be signed before the admournment of congress in March 1843.
Dr. Whitman at once decided that he must go immediately to Washington and lay the matter of Oregon before President Tyler and Daniel Webster, then secretary of state. Calling the next day upon a sick man at Fort Walla Walla, he found the score of Hudson Bay Company traders assembled about sitting down to a feast. He was invited to join them. The discussion naturally turned upon the pending treaty, and Whitman heard all but said little.
While the banquet was in progress an express messenger arrived and stated that 140 English and Canadian settlers were en route for the Columbia One young priest threw up his hat and shouted: "Hurrah for Oregon! America is too late! We've got the country!"
A lesser hero than Dr. Whitman would have gone back saddened to his mission, wondering at the strange apathy of the government and the mysterious providence of God. Not so he! Though it was late in the season, and the winter journey across the mountains was suicide, his decision was quickly made. With but a single day for preparation, on the early morning of October 3, 1842, he bade a long good-bye to his faithful wife, and with one man, a guide and three pack mules, he started for that long and ever-memorable ride to Washington to save Oregon for the flag.
The perils and suffering of that historic ride are enough to melt the stoutest heart. Old mountaineers point to it as without a parallel in history, and it was believed to be "a ride down into the valley of the shadow of death."
But Dr. Whitman was not a man to surrender to fear. His only thought was, "I must reach Washington before congress adjourns or all may be lost."
By rapid riding they reached Fort Hall in eleven days. There the old enemy of immigration who had persuaded every settler except Marcus Whitman to leave his impracticable wagon there, undertook to defeat his journey to the states. Without knowning he mistrusted that nothing but business of vital import could suggest such a perilous undertaking. So he told of the hopelessness of the task, with snow already twenty feet deep, Indians on the war path, and storms daily diminishing all possibility of the passage.
Force could not be used to detain him, for Whitman had a permit from the war department, but Grant seemed to have won, as they closed their argument and retired to rest. Judge of his chagrin when in early morning Dr. Whitman instead of turning back as he supposed, set out to the southeast to discover a new route to the states. He knew the general trend of the mountains, was an experienced mountaineer, and knew of the Santa Fe trail one thousand miles to the south of him. But could it be reached.
The weather grew severe and the snow was deep; the guide refused to proceed, and once at least they were hopelessly lost. They were in a dark defile, their animals wild with pelting snow and cold, advance was impossible, and every trace of the path just traversed was obliterated. Dr. Whitman dismounted, knelt in the snow and prayed, for the mission, for his distant wife, for the future of Oregon. Meanwhile the mule, left to himself, turned his long ears this way and that, and suddenly plunged through the snow drifts, the party following, for the guide said, "That mule will find the camp if he lives long enough to reach it," and he did. The storm abated, and they pressed on.
They reached Grand river, always dreaded even in summer, with its strong deep current, a wide acreage of ice on either side, and between a rushing torrent of two hundred feet of icy waters. The guide said; "It cannot be crossed." "We must cross it, and at once," said the intrepid doctor. Cutting a pole, he mounted, drove his horse to the endge o the ice and said to his companions, "Now you shove me off." There was a splash, a plunge - horse and rider disappeared, but soon rose and boldly struck out swimming. They touched the rocky bottom, climed up on the ice after breaking it with his pole, and at length all were landed alive.
The incidents of that journey surpass the wildest romance - but we must not tarry to relate them. At length he reached Sante Fe, but could there learn nothing of the treaty; alone he pressed on. At St. Louis he asked, "Has the Ashburton treaty been ratified?" "Yes, in August," two months before he left Oregon, and was signed by the president November 10th; while he was floundering in the snows of the mountain canons. "Did it include Oregon?" "No," no one cared about Oregon; it settled the ownership of a few controverted acres in Maine, and the Oregon question was still open. He pressed on! It was the 3d of March when he rode into Washington, five months to a day since he left his door on the Walla Walla, and now he must see the president.
He was dressed in course fur garments and buckskin breeches, his face was covered with many months' beard, and the manners of the mountaineer had become natural to him. But he secured the coveted interview with President Tyler and Daniel Webster, and told them his tory. Webster declared that emigration to that country was impossible, that the land was wholly inaccessible, and that a wagon road could never be built across the mountains. Rising in the majesty of his convictions, Dr. Whitman cried; "Mr. Secretary, that is the grand mistake that has been made by listening to the enemies of American interests in Oregon. Six years ago I was told that there was no wagon road to Oregon, and it was impossible to take a wagon there, and yet in spite of pleading and almost threats, I took a wagon over the road, and have it now!" Then warming up in his description of Oregon, he said: "Mr. Secretary, you had better give all New England for the cod and mackerel fisheries of Newfoundland than to barter away Oregon."
It was a memorable meeting. Here was a new character, for these polished diplomats to deal with. He asked for nighing, wanted nothing save the country's good and honor to the flag. The words of this hardy pioneer, with the scars of mountain frosts upon him, the wear of weary months lining his face, not a stitch of woven cloth on his back, nor a thread of selfish ambition in his soul, made a deep impression upon the president, and were not lost upon the learned secretary.
President Tyler granted his one request, viz., that nothing should be done toward parting with Oregon until Whitman himself should have time to demonstrate its accessibility to emigration from the states. Whitman was content. His matchless ride was not in vain. Within a single week he was again en route to Oregon, gathering up emigrants along the way, utilizing every means to arouse interest, telling the story of the wonderful land and offering, personally to conduct a party straight into the valley of the kngly Columbia.
The start was soon made, for Lovejoy had worked well at St. Louis in his absence. The long and perilous journey was successfully accomplished. Riding forth sometimes for two days, selecting the route, he would return to bring up the slow-moving caravan, encouraging them with one word "Travel!, travel! travel!" until on one bright day of September, eleven months from the time he bid good-bye to his wife at Waiilatpu; that same wife, at the same old spot, lifting her waiting eyes, and lo! a vast company of nearly 1000 settlers, with wagons and cattle and all the implements of husbandry, descending the Blue mountains into the Walla Walla valley. Soon come the clatter of hoofs in the street, and the man she loved was at the door, and the long suspense was over. Dr. Whitman was at home! But more than that, the country was saved, the Columbia settled, and as we look over these matchless pages of heroism and daring, we begin to be able to answer the question, why our flag floats over Oregon, viz:
Because of Marcus Whitman's ride to Washington in the winter of 1842-43, to tell the president and secretary before it was too late, the value of the empire they were on the point of bartering to England for "a few small fishes."
If Paul Revere at Lexington and Arthur Gillespie at Johnstown and Phil Sheridan at Winchester, are immortalized by their rides of an hour, surely poet and painter may find a rarer theme for their genius in the unparalleled ride of Marcus Whitman during half a year of wresting with the rigors of the Stony mountains.
Fragments of Alice W. Rollins' lines on "A Ride That Saved a State."
Four thousand miles from his cabind oor
The Potomac meets the Atlantic. On,
Over the trail grown rough and steep, -
Now soft on the snow, now loud on the rock
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides -
"The United States must keep Oregon."
It was October when he left
The Walla Walla, though little heed
Paid he to the season -
It was November when they came
To the icy stream - would he hesitate?
Not he; the man who carried a state
At his saddle-bow;
It is December - as they ride
Slowly across the Great Divide.
It was February when they rode
Into St. Lous.
It was March when he rode at last,
Into the streets of Washington;
The warning questions came thick and fast-
Do you now that the British will colonize,
If you wait another year, Oregon
And the Northwest thirty-six times the size
Of Massachusetts?
You know the rest; in the books you've read
That the British were not a year ahead.
The United States have kept Oregon
Because of one Marcus Whitman, he
Rode eight thousand miles and was not too late.
Did Dr. Whitman's visit really affect the Oregon question? In Senate documents, February 9, 1871, we read: "There is no doubt but the arrival of Dr. Whitman in '43 was opportune. The president was satisfied that the country was worth the effort to win it. The delay was fortunate, for there is reason to believe that if the offer had been renewed of the 49th parallel to the Columbia, and thence down the Pacific ocean, it would have been accepted. The visit of Whitman committed the president against any such action."
An intimate personal friend of Daniel Webster wrote (Independent, 1870): "It is safe to assert that our country owes it to Dr. Whitman and his associate missionaries that all the territory west of Rocky mountains and as far south as the Columbia river is not now owned by England and held by the Hudson Bay Company."
Immediately after the interview with Whitman the attitude of Webster changed, and he wrote: "England must not expect anything south of the 49th degree."
A wonderful revolution of public sentiment set in, and instead of an almost fatal apathy, was formed a political party emblazoning on its banners the legend "Fifty-four-forty or fight!" and the Columbia as a boundary was a thing of the past. In April '46, was effected a compromise ont he parallel of 49 degrees, and Oregon in its larger sense was decorated at last with stars and strips.
Oh, if the sad sequel need not have been! A tragedy of martyrdom! Yet the blood of these martyrs was the seed of an empire, the birth of a college! It made today possible!
In '43, Whitman was in Washington.
In '46 Oregon was ceded to the United States.
In '47 British settlers knew they had lost.
Tools for vengeance or redemption were near: The red men were susceptible, the Jesuit capable.
In 1794 George Washington wrote:
"There does not remain a doubt that all the difficulties we encounter with the Indians, their hostilities, the murders of helpless women and children along our frontiers, result from the agents of Great Britain in this country."
There are unmistakable signs confirming this theory connected with the treachery of the Cayuses and the massacre at Waiilatpu, but I spare you the recital. Enough to recall the pathetic tale: Fifty years ago this day (29th of November, 1847), while prescribing for a sick Indian, another Indian who had been his faithful friend hitherto, crept stealthily up behind him as he sat, and drawing a hatchet from beneath his blanket, struck Dr. Whitman on the back of the head with fatal precision, and he fell with his death wound. Thirteen others also were slain, including Mrs. Whitman; and tomorrow we pay the first installment of a debt of honor, long overdue, to as heroic a patriot as ever loved the flag he planted upon this broad and fruitful land where "rolls the Oregon."
Father Eells, his self-denying associate in the north country, "standing at the great grave, with uncovered head, determined to found a school to the memory of his martyred colleague;" Whitman College is the result.
What Eells begun, with his life-blood of loving sacrifice, Dr. Pearsons is carrying forward with large generosity, and you will soon complete. No monument of granite can for one moment compare with that.
Bunker Hill monument stands - a massive memorial in granite - cold and alone. Beneath its shadows is Harvard College, mother of a multitude, moulding humanity and making immortal manhood magnificent. We cannot even ask which is the greater mission.
Monuments chiselled in stone are worth building, but Christian colleges that carve crude souls along fine lines of clean and Christian character as they pass in ceaseless procession and send them out to bless the world, are unspeakably more excellent.
Whitman College will stand ripening its immortal fruit for the missions beyond, long after winds and storms from the Pacific have ground the granite monument into its native dust; and the true history of Whitman College will be written, not in granite nor on parchment, but upon the souls of man.
The name of Whitman is an inspiration. His, a patriot's heart, a missionary's faith, and the vision of a seer. He placed those three stars in the flag as he battled with storms and snows in mountain passes, carrying Oregon in his pocket, in that memorable winter of 1842-3.
Doubtless he builded better than he knew; but Whitman knew Oregon better than any other statesman of his day - than Daniel Webster or President Tyler, and they learned of him. Had he waited until spring, all north of the Columbia would be British today, and the chances are we should never have owned a foot of land on the Pacific coast. If we had not secured Oregon, the possession of California would have been imperiled and all its golden treasures lost - Alaska, too.
Can we put too much emphasis upon the man's deed? Impossible! Other men than Whitman, other agencies than missionary, conspired to secure to us so grand an empire; but the culmination was imminent. The fruit was ripe and fast slipping from our palsied hand. The hour for which waiting England had long been watching was about to strike. It was reserved for Whitman at the critical moment to cross those wintry leagues, with the key of the country dangling from his frozen wrist, and place it safely in the President's keeping, then he led a thousand settlers to the coast, and the kingdom was ours.
Washington did not achieve American liberty - Lincoln did not obliterate slavery in America - Whitman did not capture Oregon. But as truly as the fate of freedom turned upon the work of Washington, or fetters fell, from the black man by the stroke of Lincoln's pen, so surely was Oregon saved to the union by timely tidings, carried by Whitman to the White House at peril of his life, telling the truth about Oregon, which finally flung our flag to the winds that blow from the western sea.
Oregon! It is an Empire, containing such timber forests as nowhere else puncture the sky with golden tips. Washington alone shipping 500,000,000 feet of timber in a single year; growing 18,000,000 bushels of wheat, developing an oriental commerce which brings into a single port of Puget Sound 80,000 tons of tea, with imports of $7,000,000 and exports of $12,000,000; a land of silver and gold, of fruit and grain and cattle, of homes, of plenty, and of promise without parallel. And our flag floats over it all - thanks to Dr. Whitman.
You will turn out tomorrow, all of you, with your wives and children, clerks and servants, for tomorrow is to be a red-letter day in the annals of the nation. It was stained with blood fifty years ago: it is scarlet, and white, and blue tonight, for the flag with its three Whitman stars flashing bright must ever be associated with this patriot martyr.
We erected a granite shaft where Whitman planted the throne of empire, and tomorrow we will all be there to unveil our monument to immortal worth.
Half a century from his death to his coronation on earth, but he has been crowned in heaven, together with his honored associates, now these many years.
Tomorrow will become great among historic days, and the shaft yonder will tell, above Atlantic roar and Pacific surf, the tale of patriotic devotion to our flag and our God.
In the name of this Nation, in unmeasurable reverence for the hero of Oregon, in glowing forecast of the empire he died to save - to the man, to the missionary, to the hero, to the statesman, we lift our voice in tender eulogy.
By this meeting and this monument, we have begun our memorial work with the out-going half century, but the Nation itself ought to erect, and must in the national capitol, a worthier monument unto the man who wrested the "fallen god Terminus" from the Rocky mountain crest and hurled it far into the broad bosom of the Pacific. A monument to the memory of the man who set the nebula of three stars in the blue canopy of our flag, then died at his post of duty. And tonight, gazing reverently upon that flag, now after fifty years we see that nebula resolved and trace amid those stars the lines of a rising constellation already near the zenith and forever there to remain, a shining constellation, bearing the names of our immortal martyrs, Marcus and Narcissa Whitman.