History of Oregon Literature/Chapter 15

by Alfred Powers

CHAPTER 15

Minnie Myrtle Miller

... A list look from my mountain wall . . . I watch the red sun wed the sea Beside your home ... the tides will fall And rise, hut nevermore shall we Stand hand in hand and watch them flow, As we once stood . . . Christ! this is so! JOAQUIN MILLER: Myrrh.

Minnie Myrtle Miller, though one called upon to make the sacrifice, was creative enough in her attitude to grant in her distress that literature is worth any heavy price that might have to be paid for it. "Good sometimes comes of evil," she said. "Our separation and sorrows produced the poems of 'Myrrh' and 'Even So'." In all her unhappy actions and public display of her troubles she was a person of three conflicting moods: a wife out of favor; a tender and unselfish woman truly wishing her husband to be one of the great poets of the world; a poet herself, with a feeling of harsh frustration that her almost equal talents should be choked and smothered by uncontrollable circumstances, while his through ruthless doffing of responsibility should flower and grow.

The latter mood, a kind of professional jealousy, was encouraged by her women friends and by some of the Oregon newspapers, like the Albany Democrat previously quoted. In keeping with this opinion, Mrs. Frances Fuller Victor said of her:

Miller married a woman who as a lyrical poet was fully his equal; but while he went forth free from their brief wedded life to challenge the plaudits of the world, she sank beneath the blight of poverty, and the weight of woman's inability to grapple with the human throng which surges over and treads down those that faint by the way; therefore, Minnie Myrtle Miller, still in the prime of her powers, passed to the silent land.

Those who knew Joaquin Miller and his wife have pretty generally fostered the belief that she was almost as good a poet as he was. During the last 50 years she has retained this reputation through such heritage of praise from old admirers and without the actual confirmation of her poetry. Most of the Oregon libraries have had nothing at all by her, and even the large libraries have had only one complete poem and two fragments. Joaquin Miller himself, while mentioning the absence of qualities necessary for final success, paid high tribute to the promise of her talents and also estimated her as his equal, even his superior. In light of his own judgment of her work, he was cruelly guilty of destroying after her death, or at least of failing to preserve, a large quantity of her writings:

There was quite half a trunk full of papers which she had brought and intrusted to me, some of them suggesting wonderful things, great thoughts and good and new; for much that she wrote—and maybe this is not great praise —was better than any writing of mine. But she lacked care and toil and sustained thought.

It must be owned that none of the Miller family- did anything to prolong the local fame which she had gained through her poems and bright prose in the Oregon papers before her marriage, while she was Minnie Myrtle Dyer at Port Orford; and had gained through her second period of writing in the 70's, after her divorce. A considerable amount of the work produced in the second period has been found and is given in this chapter, but her earlier work—which romantically attracted Miller—still remains lost. Very few of the early papers to which she contributed in her Port Orford days have been preserved. Two years ago, a letter was sent to George Melvin Miller, the poet's brother at Eugene, who has since died, in the hope that he would have clippings of the poems she wrote in the 60's. "I am sorry," he replied, "that I have none of Minnie Myrtle's literary work. Her work was never compiled in book form to my knowledge. According to my recollection, only a few pieces of her work ever were published." George Melvin Miller's own wife, Lischen Miller, had been a poet, but apparently she had shared the family indifference towards the literary fame of Minnie Myrtle Miller.

After several other vain inquiries for clippings, a search was made through all the old papers that could still be had in broken files, with attention focused for anything accredited to her name or her three alliterative initials. This chapter contains all of her poems that were found in this way, as well as some prose, a form in which she was piquant and buoyant when the subject was not her husband. It was all for the second period, however, and still without example of what she wrote in her joyous girlhood days when she was "the merry-hearted and spoiled child of the mines," when she was "the poetess of the Coquelle"—before Joaquin Miller had brought sadness into her life.

The broken marriage of the Millers, and the way he forsook a poetess for poetry, was a matter of wide public interest in Oregon in 1871, while Miller was becoming famous in London, as has already been indicated and as some other selections will still further show. The affair certainly motivated a good Minnie Myrtle Miller's poetry during that year, which she spent in Portland and in Salem—at the latter place probably in close companionship with Mrs. Belle W. Cooke, author of Tears and Victory, who was keeping her little daughter, Maud.

Before giving Minnie Myrtle Miller's own writings, it will be interesting to get the background afforded by an article entitled "A Few Facts About Joaquin Miller". It was published in the New Northwest for July 28, 1871, Mrs. Abigail Scott Duniway's woman's suffrage magazine of Portland. Minnie Myrtle Miller was one of the principal contributors to this paper. Whether or not Mrs. Duniway changed her opinion of Miller as a man, she quoted his poem "Mothers of Men" as the peroration of a speech several years later and referred to him as Oregon's greatest poet. Following is the editorial article in her paper, in which she spoke rather plainly about him and mentioned one romantic fact not generally known. She first quoted two paragraphs from the Bedrock Democrat of Baker and made these the basis for her comments:

Mr. Joaquin Miller, the Oregon poet, formerly of Grant county, has struck a lead in London with his "Songs of the Sierras." He is reported to be the latest pet of the best critical and poetical author ship in the town; the associate of the Rossettis, of Morris, of Jean Ingelow, and others. The principal papers have given him laudatory criticism; and Froude, the historian, Swinburne and Rossetti are to do that office for him in some other leading reviews.

Judge Miller's wife, we understand, recently obtained a divorce from him, because, as Mrs. Duniway alleges, he spent too much time in writing something he termed poetry. Isn't it possible that the late Mrs. Miller was a little nasty? How will she relish swimming adown the gutter of Time with Mrs. John Milton, Mrs. Lord Byron and the obstreperous wife of the author of Boz?

The above is clipped from the Columns of our man's rights contemporary, the Bedrock Democrat. While we are

proud of the genius of our countryman, and are rejoiced at his poetical success, we are not disposed to brook Byron-like instability, the Milton-like moroseness or the Dickens-like pomposity of any literary aspirant. Mrs. Miller has herself a poetical genius of the highest order. It was her inspiration that first evoked the slumbering talents of her inconstant lord. She toiled under pain, inconvenience and poverty to promote the best interests of this American Jean Ingelow—did brother Abbott know Jean was a woman?—and only when she found herself and children deserted, and her husband pursuing another woman who thought his advances capital fun, did she, the outraged wife, and deserted mother, give up her claim of wifehood.

Mrs. "Joaquin" Miller, and another lady quite as deservedly high in poetical fame as this rider of the fabled Pegassus, are at present engaged in rearing the deserted children of this new literary lion. When this task of love and humanity is accomplished the world will yet hear from them sweeter poetical strains than have been wafted to us from across the Atlantic by the truant husband and father, whom the Bedrock Democrat may well liken in his erratic course to some of the dark phases in the lives of illustrious Byron and immortal Boz.

Minnie Myrtle Miller has been described as she appeared at the time she was giving "her bitter lecture about him" in Oregon and California, in 1871 and 1872:

She was a woman of an odd sort of beauty—on the fantastic order—with a splendid head of curly black hair, dark eyes, and of rather imperious carriage. . . . Very thoughtful looking, alive to her finger tips, and oddly dressed. It was a warm day and she had on a white muslin dress with a black fur tippet about her throat.

The poet's absence in Europe and his swift attainment of fame, rather softened her mood for a little while into a sort of defense of him, possibly in some hope of reconciliation, though she held to the picture of her own suffering. When, in the fall of 1871, there was an announcement of his return, now as a famous man, she addressed a long prose letter to the public, through the Salem Mercury and the New Northwest, on November 15, and followed it up with a long poem in the New Northwest on November 24. Following is the prose discourse, done apparently with an eye to what Joaquin Miller would think of it when he should see it. In any case, it was good press-agenting and he could at least appreciate that feature of it.

A Communication to the Public by Mrs. M. M. Miller.

From the Salem Mercury, November 15, 1871

Sir: As Joaquin Miller is now expected to arrive in Portland, I deem it my duty to say a few words in his behalf to the people of Oregon. I have received many letters from different sources requesting me to disclose as much of his conduct toward his children as I will. Although I feel that these things concern no one on the face of the earth but my children and me, still he belongs to the world now, and I have remained silent until remarks have been carried so far as to make my children the subjects of idle gossip, and deem it right to now ask a truce to charges and accusations and request of you to behold the poet, and receive him in a manner that will give due tribute to his genius and success. Mr. Miller has earned a fame, and an appreciation of his efforts should be awarded him. He is a man of literary culture and research; he has read constantly, industriously, and has command of the very best of literature, ancient and modern. It has been his sole ambition for years to go to Europe and acquire a literary fame. He felt, and justly, that he was gifted, and his mind being of a fine poetic structure, and his brain very delicately organized, the coarse and practical duties of providing for a family, and the annoyance of children conflicted with his dreams and literary whims. So, when he wrote to me that he would be absent in Europe five or six years, and, in the meantime, I need not expect to hear from him often, as he would be very busy, I asked him for and obtained a divorce in the Courts of Lane County, and your singer was loosed and free and no longer chained to the annoying cares of a family; he could give his whole attention to his poems. I, myself, sympathize with him in his desire to have time and money to "tamper with the Muses" and cultivate his taste and talent for literature; and I feel that all poets and authors will also sympathize with him.

I did not intend that my misfortunes should be publicly known. Illness overtook me in Portland, and by irregularities of the mails, and accidents, we were cut off for a time from communication with our friends. My youngest brother was with me, and I did not ask for assistance; but by accident my friends found me. I must ever remain grateful to them for their timely and generous assistance, but they can bear me witness that I made no public complaint, and the charges made against Mr. M. were not made with my knowledge. I was as much surprised to see them as any one. If, in five years of labor and complete isolation from my relatives, and the world, I worked with him, and not even my nearest neighbor or dearest friend heard one complaint or murmur from my lips; if, through that long winter in Portland, I sewed humbly, day after day, and day after day, as long as I was able; passed the offices and residences of our mutual friends, who were leading and wealthy people, and chose rather to let my babes come upon the verge of starvation than to blemish his reputation by letting my circumstances be known, it is not likely that after the day of hope came, and all was over, I should publicly make known what I had tried so hard to conceal. As I said before, Mr. Miller felt that he had gifts of mind, and if his system of economy was rigid and hard to endure, it was at least a success; and if he needed all his money to carry out his plans, I am satisfied that he thus used it. The bitter experience of the past cannot come again. My babes lived through all, and I am more than satisfied. I am grateful, and all is well.

The absurd statement of the Eugene Journal, that I had indignantly returned money that Mr. M. sent me, is incorrect; and its informers are as economical of truth as they are of affection for their own flesh and blood. It would be a sad time to show indignation toward a father when his babes were suffering for the necessaries of life. Joaquin Miller does not claim that he has ever sent a dollar to his children, or provided anything for them in any way from the time of his leaving Oregon until about two months ago, when he sent me twenty-five dollars. He has since sent fifty dollars to Mrs. B. Cooke, for my little girl, and twenty-five to my mother who has the care of my younger children. He will doubtless make explanations, which will be satisfactory to those interested, when he returns. It is true that I had a home with my widowed mother, but the place was dreary and secluded, and there was not a church or a school-house within fifty miles of my mother's home. So I did not deem it a proper place to educate my children, and I came away, bringing them with me, which was contrary to the decree of the Court which gave them to my mother. As I brought them away he was released by law for caring for them, and I have no reason to complain, nor can anyone have, justly. Two hundred dollars a year alimony was allowed, but as it was not secured, you will readily see that Mr. M. was entirely released from any obligations.

The marital relations between Mr. Miller and myself are dissolved, but that does not prevent our holding our precious babes in mutual love and protection ; and, although there are many false sentiments in society in regard to these things, I beg the privilege of exercising my own judgment in regard to my duty towards the father of my children, and my children.

As we are both mortals, it would be affectation in me were I to profess to take upon myself all the blame, but I ask to bear my full share. The many who feel an interest in him are of more consequence than the few who know and love me; and henceforth I would have you deal with him only as a poet and author. Pronounce your judgment upon his books; know him by his epic heroes. No mortal man can go beyond himself in any conception; when he attempts to he only strikes against the border of his imagination, and rebounds further back. And when man attempts to image a god he takes a step back, and puts upon the shoulders of his god wings which belong to the lower order of creation. Good sometimes comes of evil; the most deadly pistil exhales a delicate perfume; and our separation and sorrows produced the poems of "Myrrh" and "Even So". If I have, after all, recovered my health, and sometimes smile, as others do, I feel that I have some kind of apology. If I am not today the shadowy, faded woman that might be expected, I beg pardon; and if, as a facetious editor writes, I must go down the stream of life alongside of Lady Byron, Mrs. Bulwer, and the obstreperous wife of the author of "Boz", let that be my punishment.

M. M. MILLER.

SALEM, NOV. 5, 1871.

This was her reply in poetry—and we can imagine her addressing him as she addressed him in verse to the winning of his love in her virginal Port Orford days:

To a Poet

From the New Northwest, November 24, 1871
By M.M.M.

Blue and gold—exquisite!  Guilt-edged and softly tinted! Read the Reviews? Ah! "Genius  Palpable, hidden and hinted."

But I look in vain for my hero.  False hearts and treacherous wiles Come out, like "La Mode" of the fashion,  Dressed in new spring styles. O Poet, sing of my hero  In cadence and strophes and chimes, Or, by the soul of the Muses,  You die in spite of rhymes!

Let your song be sudden and plaintive,  Fearless and faltering not; Like the mystical cry of the panther  That answers the hunter's shot, Let your numbers be fierce, but subtile,  Till into my soul they creep Like lost and roaming echoes,  And I listen, and wildly weep!

No more of the passions of men;—  Of their fabulous vows of love Sound us no note of despair—  No wail of mateless dove— For doves will wail for themselves,  And men will do their mourning: But the hills and rocks speak not  Neither in pride or in scorning; Men are fickle and false  And women grow old and cold, But a cloud will always blush  When dipped in the sunset's gold.

No more in volumes olden  Culling and conning all day, Take your winged steed to yon mountain  And loosen him there to play; O mountain, rise up for my Poet  And show him your grandest peaks; Let your bird from the bright cliffs call him,  While she circles and wildly shrieks.

Let him sing of the homeless hero  Who loitered around your base, When man, in a spacious freedom,  Lived for the camp and the chase; Sing of the lengthened pack trains  That wound through thy solitudes— Of their songs that never echoed  In the wilderness of other woods.

Up high on the rounded summit  A still white cover is spread, And a frozen cloud hangs over,  Still and stark as the dead; On yon point the trees bend over  And crouch from the tyrannous wind, Till he sighs in the valley repentful  And wails, "peccavi, I sinned!" In the depths a stillness is waiting—  A slumberous stillness that fills The air with a dull oppression,  And the heart with icy thrills.

Sing of a weary miner,  Who long, long years ago Traversed these lonesome gulches  And climbed to a summit of snow; In the dead and lonely silence  He lighted his red camp-fire, And it warmed the heart of the forest,  Reaching up higher and higher, And the gray side of the mountain  Comes forth like a scenic show, With a group of pantomime shadows  Wandering to and fro;

And the sound of the sea comes to him  Like thunders of distant cars; The brook leaps up from the canyon  And catches the listless stars; The camp-fire simmers behind him  In a rhyme with the cricket's drone; His meat is crisped on the embers,  And he drinks his tea alone.

A ghastly skull of the red man  Shines out from the fern leaves there; Alas, and alas, poor miner,  Thine own is as smooth and bare! The mad blaze snaps at the pine boughs  That quiver and waver and fall, And his shadow leans over the dead logs,  Lengthened and crooked and tall.

From the wild and gloomy forest  Comes the cry of a lonesome owl; From the dark ravine up-breaking  The threat of a savage growl; But his rifle stands by the fir tree—  In his belt a knife and brace; So he dreamily looks in the camp-fire,  And a smile plays over his face. Down in the gulch he has sifted  Some sand that is fine and black— There is gold lying under the boulder  And under the river's track.

Now down on the side of the mountain  He strays in rambling quest Of a level nook by a fir tree  To spread his lonely rest. In dreams sweet visions come to him  More bright than the gold below, For he dreams that the woman is true  Who was false long years ago; He hears her loving voice,  And they pledge their vows anew, And hand in hand the dreamland  They wander through and through.

Joaquin Miller

Joaquin Miller

Minnie Myrtle Miller

O Poet, sing of my hero;  He is weary and homeless and old, And he sleeps by his dying camp-fire,  Dreaming of love and gold. In his wild- woods a shrill note echoes,  And a dead leaf drops from the stem, And a shadow stirs under the fir tree—  Go, sing thou in numbers of them.

PORTLAND.

Plea for the Inconstant Moon

Written for the New Northwest, May 19, 1871
M. M. Miller

Queen Moon, thy form was round  Only one month ago; And with a halo crowned,  Half-draped in clouds of snow.

Tonight we gazed and wondered;  So sadly changed, and soon? How was thy fair shape sundered,  O broken-hearted Moon?

Who so cruel and cold  As to mar thy regal splendor, And make thee crook'd and old—  Who was the bold offender?

At last we read the secret,  While she wandered through the skies, As we read a woman's answer  Out of her truthful eyes.

Tenderly, faintly reflected,  Down from her silvery sheen, The spoiler chief was detected;  The face of a man was seen!

I will keep his image ever,  Said the faithful-hearted lune, And the white stars said "forever",  O broken-hearted Moon!

And she still is weeping, weeping,  But her tears are so pearly bright That mortals, awake or sleeping,  Mistake them for beams of light. PORTLAND,OREGON.

Have Mercy

From the New Northwest
By Minnie M. Miller

Since one had been unkind to me,  I cannot bear that others are kind! Hush all the sweet voices of sympathy!  Let me walk in my loneliness groping blind!

Since one has been untrue to me,  Let others all be false;—and then I can hold the world a faithless world,  And not my darling the worst of men!

My spirit is strong in slight and scorn;  Help me not down through the intricate street; Since one has chosen to scatter the thorns,  Let them press into my sensitive feet.

Men, who are pitiful oaks of the world,  Lend not your vigor to weakness of mine; Since one has bidden me stand alone,  I am no longer a clinging vine.

Women, with tears and with tender pride,  Bravely cheering and counseling wise, Know ye not if ye did but chide  That I would laugh with my scornful eyes?

I hastened away from the dim, old sea,  And I fled from the wailing haunts of old, For they chilled my heart with a mystery  That my spirit could never to me unfold.

Stars that once I did deem divine,  Claiming a sisterhood in your songs, Light your beams for another shrine—  My spirit to dusky silence belongs.

I can bear the world with its cold deceit;  I can smile in its dark face covered with sneers But touch me not loving or speak to me sweet  Or my heart will sink with its weight of tears! PORTLAND, OREGON. AUGUST 16, 1871.

ChansonsFrom the New Northwest, September 29, 1871By Minnie Myrtle

Now, tell your minstrel to come, my love,  And bring his flute in tune, And while the twilight is hanging above,  To play me "Bonnie Doon",  The braes of "Bonnie Doon"; Play with the thrill of a sorrowful air,  Like the throb of a sluggish lagoon.

The twilight hush of a Long Ago  Felt the thrill of a flute in tune, And it waved the silence to and fro  To the ripple of "Bonnie Doon";  He played for me "Bonnie Doon". And his grave is now in the burning sands  By a dreamless and voiceless lagoon.

Why did I smile when the silence was stained  With the sorrowful tears of a flute, When my heart, like a charmed bird, was chained,  And the voice of my Soul was mute, When the Angel of Death dropped her cadency down  On the strings of his heart for a lute?

***

The Night has opened her minstrelsies, And the stars peal over the sea — I would you would sing a song to me, please, Of the "grave of Eulalie", The song of "Eulalie";Sing in a loving and cheerful voice As tho' you were singing for me.

Out of the sound of the wild sea song, Away from the sound of the sea, In the blackness of Night we rode along, And he sung for me "Eulalie", Now, one is dead and one is false, And both are dead to me.

Together we rode through the dark, old wood, His voice and his heart were near, Our steeds they plunged in the solitude, But my heart felt never a fear— Never a pulse of fear, Tho' I heard the rush of a river's flood, And the way was uncertain and drear.

But why did I weep as I rode along, When my heart was so free from care, And he sang for me, and me only his song, Of "Eulalie", dead and fair, With a cheerful and love-like air? Why did I weep as we rode along? Riding —I cared not where.

The grave is a lonely place to hold All of my precious to be. But a sadder place is a heart that is cold — A heart that is false to me False and fickle is he, So out of the stainful dusk of the grave,  The hues of a Promise I see. SALEM, OREGON, SEPT. 8, 1871.

Miss Anthony's Lectures—Orserveranda

From the New Northwest, September 29, 1871
By Mrs. M. M. Miller

This sketch, which consists of about the first third of the complete report, shows the freshness, cleverness and wit that must indeed have characterized her when she first appealed to Joaquin Miller and caused their common friends to rate her almost his equal as a writer.

The first night of Mrs. Anthony's lecture my attention was entirely taken up with watching the speaker, for, be it known, the first, last and only time I ever heard a woman speak in public was in the "meetin'-house", lang syne, when Aunt Tribulation Fear-the-Lord arose and through her tears, nose and handkerchief told her "experience".

So the first evening I had eyes and ears only for Miss A.

The following evening I gave her my ears, but managed to bestow my eyes furtively upon her audience.

What I took most interest in observing was the countenances of the gentlemen, who had lain aside that evening their important business matters and come to Miss Anthony's lecture like lambs to the slaughter. That my attention should have been bestowed almost exclusively upon the gentlemen may not seem natural; but when I tell you that I had never yet beheld a set of faces so mobile and expressive, so beaming, smiling and scowling, with all the variable and intense emotions of wrought-up manhood, you will not wonder.

The women were as coolly radiant as though the Suttee had never been performed. They were as serene and unruffled as a Quaker's night-gown. It was not their funeral.

But the men!

Here sat one along-side of his wife. She had towed him in. He was a very reluctant-looking man. It seemed as though if it had not been for the name of it he would rather have stayed at home. He was continually shifting his position, meanwhile casting glances at his wife to see the effect of everything upon her. She looked as happy as a cat with her first kitten.

I have not yet reached that point where I take delight in human suffering (now, if the typos print those two last words woman suffrage, I might as well give up). This man's apparent discomfiture made me unhappy, and I wanted to speak in a voice like Mrs. Winslow's syrup and say, "You shall not be hurted", for I could fancy I saw him dodging imaginary blows; he seemed momentarily expecting that Miss Anthony was going to box his ears.

A phlegmatic old gentleman sat behind me, with his chin resting upon his breast and his eyes closed. His play was to be oblivious when Miss Anthony made a point. But cats and old gentlemen are not always asleep when their eyes are closed.

Further on sat a great, benevolent-looking fellow, with his mouth open, staring as never man stared before. This individual interested me, and calling up all my physiognomical and psychological faculties, I assayed to read his thoughts. He heard the truth sublime, as truth ever is; he knew it was the truth, and recognized it as such, but behind him sat a set of cynical old stoics of the old school, and to morrow he must go out with them and canvass and discuss Miss Anthony's lecture, and they will ask him what he thinks of such sophistry as that, and can he say that what he heard was to him logical, forcible and conclusive? and that he believed that glorious woman to be devoted to the true interests of men and women, and laboring to institute a reform which would make men happier and consequently better, and children nearer in the image of Him whose ambassador is fearless and eternal Truth? Will he have the courage to say this to those who scoff? Nay, nay, I read it on his fine, emotional face and weak intellect, but when he meets them in solemn conclave on the street corner he will muster the courage to say if he dies for it, "She is a fine figure of a woman."

Another style sat bolt upright, never moving a muscle of his body, contenting himself with blinking slowly and mildly at a neighboring chignon as much as to say: "Can these things be and not overcome us?" etc. Considering the conflict that must have been going on in his mind, I felt that this behavior was very decorous and subdued.

One Hour

From the New Northwest, October 27, 1871
Inscribed to B. W. M.

Who was B. W. M., to who she returns in pensive retrospect as one of the reactions from her broken marriage? Joaquin Miller had had a squaw wife before her. Does this poem indicate that Minnie Myrtle also had had a first love other than the poet? The last initial does not fit her second husband, who was a Mr. Logan of Portland.

Behold, at last, my changeful fate!  I should not think of thee, I know;  But whither can my lone heart go, In all this world desolate?

My early love, lift up thy brow;  Embalmed in many a secret tear,  We have been silent many a year; O let us speak together now.

'Tis but a little boon I ask  For one who wanders, con amore  And loves to seek a novel shore;It will not be a dreary task.

There is a place—a lonely spot—  Beside a wild, sequestered sea;  Go there sometime and think of me, And mourn an hour our severed lot.

They'll point thee out a spot where oft,  In pensive mien and thoughtful mood,  Full many a time a maiden stood, When ships were sending lights aloft.

My spirit in that place you'll find;  The tinted shells upon the shore  All knew of me in days of yore; The rocks and trees were never blind.

Fit place for love's young dream is this;  A pleasing music fills the air;  The sailing moon cast anchor there; The streaming stars all weep for bliss.

An ancient pair, the sea and strand;  He, hoary-headed, speaketh sweet,  And checks for her his battling feet, And smoothes her wrinkles with his hand.

Seek then, my love, but once that sea,  And out upon the cliff's dark brow  Regret, one hour, the broken vow, And consecrate that hour to me. MINNIE M. MILLER.SALEM, OREGON.

My Boys.
By Minnie M. Miller
From the New Northwest, March 1, 1872

DEDICATED TO MY MOTHER

The Millers had one daughter, Maud, born on Sixes River, north of Port Orford, in 1864. Mrs. Belle W. Cooke of Salem kept her for a while after the divorce. Byronically, Miller later took her from her mother and placed her in a convent school. She became an actress, and died in 1901. There is a fuller note on her in the chapter "A Century of Literary Gossip." The following poem was written of the two younger children—boys, George B. and Harry, born in Canyon City—whom Mrs. Miller had taken to the home of her mother after the divorce.

One glance at the forest and hills,One sound of the river and rills,And my wild heart throbs and thrillsWith memory’s sweetest joys.O hills that furrow the sky!O rivers that gurgle by!Heed my fond heart’s cry—O tell me of my boys!

Fair trees, shake hands together,Nod long plumes like a feather,And swear to be the tetherThat binds them unto me.Let winds assist thy speech,And all thy fair laughs reach,Linked to the low white beach,And to the sun-edged sea.

Tell them in lisping tears,Well suited to their years,Of all my hopes and fears,Of all my cares and losses;Tell them I weary am,And that I long for calm,Long for the soothing balm,Dropping with their glad voices.

Tell them my hopes are crushed,And all my proud hopes hushed;The key I never touchedThat waked the longed-for strain;I listened long and well—The sweet notes never fell,My throbbing pulse to quell;My fingers reached in vain.

Swifter than any thought,Fleeter than message broughtBy magic courier fraught With lightnings from on high, Play over my babies' cheeks, Where the loud-voiced ocean shrieks, With a kiss and a breath that speaks Like a mother's lonely sigh.

Tell them that when the sky Sends white clouds drifting by, And the summer winds are high, And the low summer tides, When they hear the sea-lion's roarCome to the answering shore, Bid them lay the long, white oar Where the heavy anchor hides.

Bid them loose the boat full soon When they see the curved moon Dipping the white lagoon,Where the blue, old lilies float; When the sea-birds leave the river, And the spotted fishes quiver, And the homeless breakers shiver, Darlings, bring the little boat.PORTLAND, OREGON.

The Poet Laborer—Stephen Maybell
From the Morning Oregonian, July 26, 1872
By Mrs. M. M. Miller

In the chapter on humor in this book is included a poem, "The Willamette Bridge", by Stephen Maybell, with a biographical note on him. His clever and satiric poem, which was helped to fame by the long agitation for a bridge across the river, was written a year or two previous to this tribute to him by Mrs. Miller. The West Shore referred to him as having been at that time "a young and untutored bard of some native genius, who resided in East Portland."

Your muse is sunny-faced and sweet, She meets you in the fairest nooks Sequestered in some dim retreat, She reads with you from Nature's books. Her soft, magnetic thrill you feel, You love her presence, and she woosYour languid moods but to reveal The soul of Nature’s veiled truths.So mute and silent is her way The coarser mind can never heed,She pleads with you to stay and stay And Nature’s subtle page to read.

To gather up the trifles sweet The busier eye can never seeAnd make the broken chains complete That link “finite infinity,”The struggling mosses of the sod The weeds that vex the earth and curseTo hold them up and call them God The primal of the universe;To probe the dreamy mystery wrought By insects rearing coral bars,Then reach up with thy poet-thought And read the lives of all the stars;To teach the weary, weary heart To rest and drink life’s sweetness in,To draw the flimsy veil apart That shrouds the Beautiful in Sin.She bids you lay your toil aside And gladly bear her magic wand,And in her dreamy realms abide Till the dull world shall understand.And little waifs that float unseen, Brushed by the careless hand awayShall settle, wooed, in peace serene Upon the soul of men, and stay.

My muse, less kind, or more discreet, Deigns not my lonely steps to guide,And never dares with me to meet Except with one or more beside. She sent me forth amid the throng To toil, to trust and be betrayed,To war with poverty and wrong, To hate, defy and be dismayed.I heard love's snow-white story, pale With sweet delights and blissful fear,And the dear lips that told the tale Turned coldly from me with a sneer;My holy faith was rudely slain In doubt, and clamor and distrust,In sobs and darkness and in pain I saw it buried in the dust.My dreams of fame—she hid them all Like corpses in lone graves at rest,Amid the crowd I saw them fall, Amid the scornful laugh and jest.For one sweet drop of bliss I plead With all the tintless dews and myrrh,"Love hath a balm for thee," she said, "But Sorrow is her messenger."

She sets my face towards the west, Still pointing with her purple fingerWhere suns are set in wild unrest And sable clouds do mourn and linger,She haunts me when my soul is sad And bitter, filled with stings and wrongs,She taunts me till my spirit's mad And madness breathes in all my songs.I hear the moan of dull, sad seas That cannot fall on other ears,And if my lays seem phantasies And sneers too often rhyme with tears;If in my songs the eagle's shriek Doth hush the peaceful, cooing dove,Still bear in mind I sing and seek The wayward truth of human love. And deem my thoughts but atoms thrown From the new Faith that softly gleamsFar off in truth’s dim, chaos-dawn And in the dust of early dreams.We have full time; “there is no death,” No need of toil or doubt or tears;While I unfold a hidden faith Tell thou the mystery of the spheres.PORTLAND, JULY 25, 1872.

All the prose and poetry given above have been recently found. The only poetry of Minnie Myrtle Miller that has been generally familiar during the last 50 years has consisted of "Sacrifice Impetro", in reply to "Myrrh", by Joaquin Miller, previously referred to, and two fragments—"At the Land's End" and "Encamped"'. In order that this chapter might include all of her writings which at this time can be located, these additional poems are also included. "Sacrifice Impetro" was printed in several Oregon papers at the time it was written, including the Oregon Herald, Salem; the New Northwest, Portland; and the Oregon State Journal, Eugene, in which "Myrrh" had first appeared. The Oregon Historical Society has the original manuscript written in pencil on old-fashioned tablet paper.

Sacrifice Impetro

Why did I dream of thee, darling, In the sweet wild hours of the night;Why did thy spirit come near me, Moving in mystical light?Why did you bend above me, With the old and passionate sigh,In this world, where there’s no one to love me, Making me long to die?

Once there was a garden, Daintily scented with clover—Strewn with poppies asleep And corn leaves fluttering over;A fainting sound of waters— A chirp in the swooning grass,And yellow, spying sunflowers Turning as you pass,

You brought your flute and played me The sweetest of all love tunes;'Tis the day of my heart—of all days— The June of my heart—of all Junes.How thrills the whimsical wind, Where the true vines clamber and cling!Love whispers in promise blind, “I am thy beautiful king.”

But down in the town below The fair words never fall;And a ear rolls to and fro, And over the hearts of all.All that is sweet must die— All that is bright must fade;“Love is a dragon!” they cry, “Let the wheels go over his head.”

We three sat there together, Over our hearts a spell;The poppies kindly slept, But the sunflowers watched us well.You, with your passionate heart— I, with my fragile prayer;And He, with his subtle spirit, Standing between us there.

Standing between us, love— For he had the right, you know—Bidding me to come, And bidding you to go. We were fair to the world that day, And under the car we threwOur love, all crowned in splendor— Our hearts, so tender and true.

What good have we done, my darling? You sleep in death’s eclipse,With no touch of mine on your forehead, No kiss of mine on your lips.I dream that I love a god Who speaks with a passionate sigh,Where the sunflowers turn and nod, Watching us like a spy.

And he, through books and bays, Delveth for pretty wordsTo weave in his languid lays Of women and streams and birds.What was my troth to him? A stepping stone at best;My face was proud and my smiles were sweet, And his gold could do the rest.

Decked with my love for a time; But the day and the hour cameWhen he pushed the face you loved in the dust, And stepped to his niche of fame.And the wheels rolled over again, And the car went clattering by;And the lonely heart of your Queen Wearily waiteth to die.

God and the angels may tell us What beautiful faith we have wrought,When we stand there together And a crown or two be brought.But what are crowns to the love That spoke in sighs that June,When you brought me your flute and played me The sweetest of all love’s tunes.

Weary of all this year That beareth the bitter fruit;Weary of everything now, I weep at the sound of a flute.Oh! lethal and livid flowers, Flame over my love, long dead;Let not the black sepulcher darkness Creep over his beautiful head.

To the splendid grave they have made him, Where the tropical drowsiness floats,Where a bird in the plumage of Eros Is tolling his funeral notes,I will come, sometimes, with the shadows; I will hush the wild notes of the bird;And then, in the listening silence, The voice of my heart shall be heard.MINNIE MYRTLE MILLER.

At the Land’s End

I am conscript—hurried to battleWith fates—yet I fain would beVanquished and silenced foreverAnd driven back to my sea.Oh! to leave this stife, this tumoil,Leave all undone and skimWith the clouds that flee to the hilltipsAnd rest forever with Him.

ENCAMPED

The twilight air is soft and still; The night bird trills, the crickets sing;The zephyrs from the distant hill A thousand pleasant odors bring;The tents are spread, the snowy tents, Grouped in the grassy glen;The bugle note has died away; And silence reigns again.MINNIE MYRTLE MILLER.

Leaf From Minne Myrtle Miller's Journal

Left with Joaquin Miller, describing their journey across the Cascades to Canyon City. "Here is one leaf from her journal, or rather, I think, her recollections of the journey, which she left me along with her other papers when she died."

One night of the journey I shall not soon forget. There had been some fighting ahead of us, and we knew the foe was lurking in ambush. They made a kind of fort of the freight, and while we lay down in the canyon, baby and I, way up on the high, sharp butte, Joaquin stood sentinel. And I say this tonight in his behalf and in his praise that he did bravely, and saved his loved ones from peril that night. That he stood on that dreary summit, a target for the foe, and no one but me to take note of his valor-stood till the morning shone radiant, stood till the night was passed. There was no world looking on to praise his courage and echo it over the land; only the frozen stars in mystic groups far away, and the slender moon, like a sword drawn to hold him at bay.

What has been given is all of her published verse and prose that can be found. Here, however, is an addition of one other poem, which has never before been published and which was found in manuscript among the papers left by her daughter Maud. Through the suggestion of Ella Higginson, the poet, long a close friend of the family, the poem was kindly furnished for this book by Mrs. Florence E. Radley of Bandon, Oregon, who is a niece of Minnie Myrtle Miller.

The Lost Portrait

With the poem, Minnie Myrtle Miller's niece sent the following explanation: "We found the original of this among Maud Miller's belongings. We think that it was written when her mother went east to get her after her father sent her to school in a convent. Minnie Myrtle had made several changes in it. . . . So far as we know this has never been published.

It was only a little, childish face There's many and many another oneWith a lovely pose and charming grace And yet there is none that is like it, none.

Who so shall find it with careless eyes: It is not a shadow—a work of artBut something to look at, love and prize And press to your lips and hold to your heart.

Long and lovingly you must gaze And fancy the pure lips speak to you,Fancy the saint-like eyelids raise And the sweet eyes look you through and through.

Let your soul be filled with questionings sad And say: Is it best that she quit her play,That she wonder and wait and be never glad, Calling me, calling me day by day?

Or is it best that she lift her eyes Confiding to those who are in my place,That she smile, clear-eyed, on the sunny skies And laugh and sing, and—forget my face?

What if, under sorrow's sorcery Witching my idols, day by day,On a wide and silent forgetful sea, My darling's features should drift away?

What if, when I seek her with bounding sight I shall find her not in the haunts of yore,And a little specter with mournful eyes Shall stand in her place forevermore?

Let your tortured fancy have wildest scope Until it seems your heart will break,And then with a quick and sudden hope Say it is all for her sweet sake.

There's many a picture under the sun With meek sad face and tresses bright,And yet for me there is only one And that—I lost it yesternight.Cincinnati, O., March, 1873.

Mrs. Radley has also given a more explicit description of the marriage than is contained in Miller's romanticised version, for it was indeed true that his version of anything, especially anything affecting himself, was likely to be romanticised:

Theresa Dyer (Minnie Myrtle) came to Oregon in 1859 with her family. Mother has told me that Joaquin Miller came down to their farm on Elk River in Curry County to see Theresa and that within a week after their first meeting they were married. She told what an exciting and thrilling time that was, when they were preparing for the wedding. We have no dates. They could be found in the records at Gold Beach. We were just little girls when Minnie Myrtle, Aunt Theresa we called her, came home with her children to live with her mother after she left Joaquin. She lived in our home for a while. There were three children, Maud, George B., and Hal. None of them are living.

We do not know Mr. Logan's first name. He and Mrs. Miller were married in Portland probably in the early 70's. They were attracted to each other through a mutual interest in perpetual motion. They had no children. They did not live together long but we do not know whether they were divorced or merely separated.

Long ago Mrs. Ella Higginson read a newspaper interview, in which another relative gave an additional reason why Minnie Myrtle liked her second husband: "Mr. Logan was all fire and Mr. Miller all ice."

"I kept the clipping for years," says Mrs. Higginson, "and it has always puzzled me. Can you imagine Joaquin Miller being 'all ice'?"