The town promises to be, some time, a fine one, as it is so well situated; and they have good building material—­a yellow brick, very pleasing to the eye.  It seems to grow before you, and has indeed but just emerged from the thickets of oak and wild roses.  A few steps will take you into the thickets, and certainly I never saw so many wild roses, or of so beautiful a red.  Of such a color were the first red ones the world ever saw, when, says the legend, Venus flying to the assistance of Adonis, the rosebushes kept catching her to make her stay, and the drops of blood the thorns drew from her feet, as she tore herself away, fell on the white roses, and turned them this beautiful red.

I will here insert, though with no excuse, except that it came to memory at the time, this description of Titian’s Venus and Adonis.

“This picture has that perfect balance of lines and forms that it would, (as was said of all Raphael’s) ’seen at any distance have the air of an ornamental design.’  It also tolls its story at the first glance, though, like all beautiful works, it gains by study.

“On one side slumbers the little God of Love, as an emblem, I suppose, that only the love of man is worth embodying, for surely Cytherea’s is awake enough.  The quiver of Cupid, suspended to a tree, gives sportive grace to the scene which softens the tragedy of a breaking tie.  The dogs of Adonis pull upon his hand; he can scarce forbear to burst from the detaining arms of Beauty herself, yet he waits a moment to coax her—­to make an unmeaning promise.  ’A moment, a moment, my love, and I will return; a moment only.’  Adonis is not beautiful, except in his expression of eager youth.  The Queen of Beauty does not choose Apollo.  Venus herself is very beautiful; especially the body is lovely as can be; and the soft, imploring look, gives a conjugal delicacy to the face which purifies the whole picture.  This Venus is not as fresh, as moving and breathing as Shakspeare’s, yet lovelier to the mind if not to the sense.  ’T is difficult to look at this picture without indignation, because it is, in one respect, so true.  Why must women always try to detain and restrain what they love?  Foolish beauty; let him go; it is thy tenderness that has spoiled him.  Be less lovely—­less feminine; abandon thy fancy for giving thyself wholly; cease to love so well, and any Hercules will spin among thy maids, if thou wilt.  But let him go this time; thou canst not keep him.  Sit there, by thyself, on that bank, and, instead of thinking how soon he will come back, think how thou may’st love him no better than he does thee, for the time has come.”

It was soon after this moment that the poor Queen, hearing the frightened hounds, apprehended the rash huntsman’s danger, and, flying through the woods, gave their hue to the red roses.

To return from the Grecian isles to Milwaukie.  One day, walking along the river’s bank in search of a waterfall to be seen from one ravine, we heard tones from a band of music, and saw a gay troop shooting at a mark, on the opposite bank.  Between every shot the band played; the effect was very pretty.