He had left the Mission two days before my departure, and giving his canoe, laden with these valuables, in charge of his Indians, proceeded to the highlands by land. He had arrived at Mr. Johnson’s, when a message reached him to the effect that his canoe had been upset, and its entire contents discharged into the stream. He immediately repaired to the scene of this disaster, where I found him busied in attempting to save some part of his cargo. All the wheat, and a part of the other supplies, together with his gun and other paraphernalia, were lost. I made arrangements to go down with him when he should be ready, and left him to call upon a Captain Young, an American ex-trader, who was settled near. This gentleman had formerly explored California and Oregon in quest of beaver—had been plundered by the Mexican authorities of £4,000 worth of fur; and, wearied at last with his ill-luck, settled nine or ten years ago on a small tributary of the Willamette coming in from the west.[18] {218} Here he has erected a saw and grist mill, and opened a farm. He has been many times to California for cattle, and now owns about one hundred head, a fine band of horses, swine, &c. He related to me many incidents of his hardships, among which the most surprising was, that for a number of years, the Hudson Bay Company refused to sell him a shred of clothing; and as there were no other traders in the country, he was compelled during their pleasure to wear skins.[19] A false report that he had been guilty of some dishonourable act in California was the alleged cause for this treatment; but perhaps, a better reason would be, that Mr. Young occasionally purchased beaver skins in the American territory. I spent the night of the 12th with the excellent old captain, and in the afternoon of the 13th, in company with my friend Mr. Lee, descended the Willamette as far as the Falls. Here we passed the night, more to the apparent satisfaction of vermin than of ourselves. These creature comforts abound in Oregon. But it was not these alone that made our lodging at the {219} Falls a rosy circumstance for memory’s wastes. The mellifluent odour of salmon offal regaling our nasal sensibilities, and the squalling of a copper-coloured baby, uttered in all the sweetest intonations of such an instrument, falling with the liveliest notes upon the ear, made me dream of war to the knife, till the sun called us to our day’s travel. Five miles below the Falls, Mr. Lee and myself left the canoe, and struck across about fourteen miles to an Indian village on the bank of the Columbia opposite Vancouver. It was a collection of mud and straw huts, surrounded and filled with filth which might be smelt two hundred yards. We hired one of these cits to take us across the river, and at sunset of the 15th, were comfortably seated by the stove in “Bachelor’s Hall” of Fort Vancouver.