A CHAPTER ON NAMES.
In the latter part of the seventeenth century that intrepid American
traveler, Jonathan Carver, wrote these immortal words:
"From the intelligence I gained from the Naudowessie Indians,
among whom I arrived on the 7th of December (1776), and whose
language I perfectly acquired during a residence of five months,
and also from the accounts I afterwards obtained from the
Assinipoils, who speak the same tongue, being a revolted band of
the Naudowessies; and from the Killistinoes, neighbors of the
Assinipoils, who speak the Chipeway language and inhabit the
heads of the River Bourbon; I say from these natives, together
with my own observations, I have learned that the four most
capital rivers on the continent of North America, viz.: the St.
Lawrence, the Mississippi, the River Bourbon and the Oregon,
or the River of the West (as I hinted in my introduction),
have their sources in the same neighborhood. The waters of the
three former are within thirty miles of each other; the latter,
however, is further west."
All students of history acknowledge this is the first mention of the
word Oregon in English literature. The narrative quoted was inspired
by his observations on the upper Mississippi, and particularly upon
the event of reaching his farthest point, sixty miles above the Falls
of St. Anthony, November 17th, 1776. This was the farthest up the
Mississippi that the white man had ever penetrated, "So that we are
obliged solely to the Indians for all the intelligence we are able to
give relative to the more northern parts," and yet this man, seemingly
with prophetic sight, discovered the great river of the West, attempted
to name it, and coined a word for the purpose. While Carver missed his
mark and did not succeed in affixing the new-born name to the great
river he saw in his vision, yet the word became immortal through the
mighty empire for which it afterwards stood. Carver made no explanation
as to where the word Oregon came from, but wrote as though it was well
known like the other rivers mentioned. Probably for all time the origin
of this name with be a mystery.
We have a like curious phenomenon in the case of Winthrop first writing
the word Tacoma, in September, 1853. None of the old settlers had
heard that name, either through the Indians or otherwise, until after
the publication of Winthrop's work ten years later, "The Canoe and
the Saddle," when it became common knowledge and was locally applied
in Olympia as early as 1866, said to have been suggested by Edward
Giddings of that place.
However, as Winthrop distinctly claimed to have obtained the word from
the Indians, the fact was accepted by the reading public, and the
Indians soon took their cue from their white neighbors.
It is an interesting coincident that almost within a stone's throw of
where Winthrop coined the name that we find it applied to the locality
that has grown to be the great city of Tacoma.
On the 26th of October, 1868, John W. Ackerson located a mill site on
Commencement Bay, within the present limits of the city of Tacoma,
and applied the name to his mill. He said he had gotten it from Chief
Spot of the Puyallup tribe, who claimed it was the Indian name for the
mountain, Rainier.
The word or name Seattle was unknown when the founders of this city
first began to canvass the question of selecting a site for the town,
and some time elapsed before a name was coined out of the word se-alth.
Se-alth, or Seattle, as he was afterwards known, was reported to be the
chief of six tribes or bands, but at best his control was like most all
the chiefs on the Sound, but shadowy.
Arthur Denny says that "we (meaning himself, Boren and Bell) canvassed
the question as to a name and agreed to call the place Seattle, after
the old chief" (Se-alth), but we have no definite information as to
when the change in the old chief's name took place. Se-alth was quite
disturbed to have his name trifled with and appropriated by the whites,
and was quite willing to levy a tribute by persuasion upon the good
people of the embryo city.
I have another historic name to write about, Puyallup, that we know
is of Indian origin—as old as the memory of the white man runs. But
such a name! I consider it no honor to the man who named the town (now
city) of Puyallup. I accept the odium attached to inflicting that name
on suffering succeeding generations by first platting a few blocks
of land into village lots and recording them under the name Puyallup.
I have been ashamed of the act ever since. The first time I went East
after the town was named and said to a friend in New York that our town
was named Puyallup he seemed startled.
"Named what?"
"Puyallup," I said, emphasizing the word.
"That's a jaw breaker," came the response. "How do you spell it?"
"P-u-y-a-l-l-u-p," I said.
"Let me see—how did you say you pronounced it?"
Pouting out my lips like a veritable Siwash, and emphasizing every
letter and syllable so as to bring out the Peuw for Puy, and the strong
emphasis on the al, and cracking my lips together to cut off the lup,
I finally drilled my friend so he could pronounce the word, yet fell
short of the elegance of the scientific pronunciation.
Then when I crossed the Atlantic and across the old London bridge to
the Borough, and there encountered the factors of the hop trade on that
historic ground, the haunts of Dickens in his day; and when we were bid
to be seated to partake of the viands of an elegant dinner; and when I
saw the troubled look of my friend, whose lot it was to introduce me to
the assembled hop merchants, and knew what was weighing on his mind, my
sympathy went out to him but remained helpless to aid him.
"I say—I say—let me introduce to you my American friend—my American
friend from—my American friend from—from—from—"
And when, with an imploring look he visibly appealed to me for help,
and finally blurted out:
"I say, Meeker, I cawn't remember that blarsted name—what is it?"
And when the explosion of mirth came with:
"All the same, he's a jolly good fellow—a jolly good fellow."
I say, when all this had happened, and much more besides, I could yet
feel resigned to my fate.
Then when at Dawson I could hear the shrill whistle from the would-be
wag, and hear:
"He's all the way from Puy-al-lup," I could yet remain in composure.
Then when, at night at the theaters, the jesters would say:
"Whar was it, stranger, you said you was from?"
"_Puy-al-lup!_"
"Oh, you did?" followed by roars of laughter all over the house. And
all this I could hear with seeming equanimity.
But when letters began to come addressed "Pew-lupe," "Polly-pup,"
"Pull-all-up," "Pewl-a-loop," and finally "Pay-all-up," then my cup of
sorrow was full and I was ready to put on sackcloth and ashes.
The name for the town, however, came about in this way: In the early
days we had a postoffice, Franklin. Sometimes it was on one side of the
river and then again on the other; sometimes way to one side of the
settlement and then again to the other. It was not much trouble those
days to move a postoffice. One could almost carry the whole outfit in
one's pocket.
We were all tired of the name Franklin, for there were so many
Franklins that our mail was continually being sent astray. We
agreed there never would be but one Puyallup; and in that we were
unquestionably right, for surely there will never be another.
Nevertheless, people would come and settle with us. Where the big
stumps and trees stood and occupied the ground, we now have brick
blocks and solid streets. Where the cabins stood, now quite pretentious
residences have arisen. The old log-cabin school house has given way
to three large houses, where now near twelve hundred scholars are in
attendance, instead of but eleven, as at first. And still the people
came and built a hundred houses last year, each contributing their mite
to perpetuating the name Puyallup. Puyallup has been my home for forty
years, and it is but natural I should love the place, even if I cannot
revere the name.