Oregon: Her history, her great men, her literature/Joaquin Miller
JOAQUIN MILLER
JOAQUIN MILLER
Cincinnatus Hiner Miller was born in Union County, Indiana, November 10, 1842. His parents moved to Missouri in 1848, and to Oregon in 1852. The Poet tells the story:
"The first thing of mine in print was the valedictory class poem, at Columbia College, Eugene, Oregon, 1859. At this date Columbia College, the germ of the University of Oregon, had many students from Oregon and California, and was famous as an educational center.
MINNIE MYRTLE MILLER
"I had been writing, or trying to write, since a lad. My two brothers and my sister were at my side, our home with our parents, and we lived entirely to ourselves. We were all school teachers when not in college. In 1861, my elder brother and I were admitted to practice law under Geo. H. Williams, afterwards Attorney General under President Grant."
As a lawyer Mr. Miller became deeply interested in Joaquin Murietta, a Mexican brigand for whom he made a legal defense. Later he poetized his client, taking his name. The nom-de-plume became popular; and at the present time the Poet is best known to literature under the name of Joaquin Miller. In 1863, he edited the "Democratic Register," in Eugene, Oregon, which was suppressed for disloyalty. While editor, he was married to Miss Minnie Dyer, of Gold Beach, who became famous in Oregon literary circles as Minnie Myrtle Miller. She produced a marked change in the character and writings of her husband. That delicate and refined love for the beautiful and that sympathy for the erring and unfortunate which characterize his writings must be admitted to date from his marriage. The Poet said: "That which is best in my works was inspired by her."
JOAQUIN MILLER'S PYRE
Miller moved to Canyon City, in Eastern Oregon, where he wrote poetry, served as County Judge and practiced law. In 1868 he published "Specimens;" and in 1869, "Joaquin, Et Al." Believing that he could find a better market for his publications in Europe than in America, he went to London in 1870. Then the "Songs of the Sierras" which were written before he left Oregon, appeared in England and in Boston simultaneously. "His originality, freshness of style, vigor of thought and expression were greeted with applause; and Englishmen hailed him as the "American Byron." Upon returning to America he did journalistic work in Washington, D. C., until the autumn of 1887, when he removed to Oakland, California, and remained until his death which took place February 17, 1913.
In addition to the books mentioned, Joaquin Miller wrote. "Songs of the Sunland," "Songs of the Desert," "Songs of Italy," "Collected Poems," "Songs of Mexican Seas," "The Baroness of New York," "The Danites in the Sierras," "Shadows of Shasta," "Memorie and Rime," "Gold Seekers of the Sierras," and "Songs of the Soul;" and unlike many authors, he acquired a fortune from his pen.
In a tribute to this adopted son of Oregon, upon his death the "Oregon Journal" editorially said: "His 'Mothers of Men' and his 'Columbus' are two of the most beautiful creations of the English language."
THE MOTHERS OF MEN
The bravest battle that ever was fought;
Shall I tell you where and when?
On the maps of the world you will find it not;
It was fought by the mothers of men.
Nay, not with cannon or battle shot,
With sword or nobler pen;
Nay not with eloquent word or thought.
From mouths of wonderful men.
But deep in a walled-up woman's heart—
Of woman that would not yield,
But patiently, silently bore her part—
Lo! there is that battlefield.
No marshaling troops, no bivouac song;
No banner to gleam and wave;
And oh! these battles they last so long—
From babyhood to the grave!
Yet, faithful still as a bridge of stars,
She fights in her walled-up town—
Fights on and on in the endless wars,
Then silent, unseen—goes down.
Oh, spotless woman in a world of shame;
With splendid and silent scorn,
Go back to God as white as you came—
The kingliest warrior born.
TO JUANITA
Come, listen O love to the voice of the dove,
Come, harken and hear him say
There are many tomorrows, my love, my love.
But only one today.
And all day long you can hear him say
This day in purple is rolled.
And the baby stars of the Milky Way
They are cradled in cradles of gold.
Now what is the secret, serene gray dove,
Of singing so sweetly alway?
There are many tomorrows, my love, my love,
But only one today.
LINES ON BYRON
In men whom men condemn as ill
I find so much of goodness still.
In men whom men pronounce divine
I find so much of sin and blot,
I do not dare to draw a line
Between the two, where God has not.
IS IT WORTH WHILE?
Is it worth while that we jostle a brother
Bearing his load on the rough road of life?
Is it worth while that we jeer at each other
In blackness of heart?—that we war to the knife?
God pity us all in our pitiful strife.
God pity us all as we jostle each other;
God pardon us all for the triumphs we feel
When a fellow goes down; poor heart broken brother.
Pierced to the heart: words are keener than steel.
And mightier far for woe or for weal.
Were it not well in this brief little journey
On over the isthmus down to the tide,
We give him a fish instead of a serpent,
Ere folding: the hands to be and abide
Forever and aye in dust at his side?
Look at the roses saluting each other;
Look at the herds all at peace on the plain—
Man, and man only makes war on his brother,
And dotes in his heart on his peril and pain—
Shamed by the brutes that go down on the plain.
Why should you envy a moment of pleasure
Some poor fellow mortal has wrung from it all?
Oh! could you look into his life's broken measure—
Look at the dregs—at the wormwood and gall—
Look at his heart hung with crepe like a pall—
Look at the skeletons down by his hearthstone—
Look at his cares in their merciless sway,
I know you would go and say tenderly, lowly,
Brother, my brother, for aye and a day,
Lo! Lethe is washing the blackness away.
IN THE GREAT EMERALD LAND
A morn in Oregon! The kindled camp
Upon the mountain brow that broke below
In steep and grassy stairway to the damp
And dewy valley, snapp'd and flamed aglow
With knots of pine. Above the peaks of snow,
With under-belts of sable forests, rose
And flash'd in sudden sunlight. To and fro
And far below, in lines and winding rows,
The herders drove their bands, and broke the deep repose.
I heard their shouts like sounding hunter's horn,
The lowing herds made echoes far away ;
When lo! the clouds came driving in with morn
Toward the sea, as fleeing from the day.
The valleys flll'd with curly clouds. They lay
Below, a level'd sea that reach'd and roll'd
And broke like breakers of a stormy bay
Against the grassy shingle fold on fold,
So like a splendid ocean, snowy white and cold.
The peopled valley lay a hidden world,
The shouts were shouts of drowning men that died,
The broken clouds along the border curl'd.
And bent the grass with weighty freight of tide.
A savage stood in silence at my side,
Then sudden threw aback his beaded strouds
And stretch'd his hand above the scene, and cried,
As all the land lay dead in snowy shrouds:
"Behold! the sun bathes in a silver sea of clouds."
Here lifts the land of clouds! Fierce mountain forms,
Made white with everlasting snows, look down
Through mists of many canons, mighty storms
That stretch from Autumn's purple, drench and drown
The yellow hem of Spring. Tall cedars frown
Dark-brow'd through banner'd clouds that stretch and stream
Above the sea from snowy mountain crown.
The heavens roll, and all things drift or seem
To drift about and drive like some majestic dream.
In waning Autumn time, when purpled skies
Begin to haze in indolence below
The snowy peaks, you see black forms arise,
In rolling thunder banks above, and throw
Quirk barricades about the gleaming snow.
The strife begins! The battling seasons stand
Broad breast to breast. A flash! Contentions grow
Terrific, Thunders crash, and lightnings brand
The battlements. The clouds possess the conquered land.
The clouds blow by, the swans take loftier flight.
The yellow blooms burst out upon the hill.
The purple camas comes as in a night,
Tall spiked and dripping of the dews that fill
The misty valley. Sunbeams break and spill
Their glory till the vale is full of noon.
The roses belt the streams, no bird is still.
The stars, as large as lilies, meet the moon
And sing of summer, born thus sudden full and soon.
WILLIAM BROWN OF OREGON
They called him Bill, the hired man,
But she, her name was Mary Jane,
The squire's daughter; and to reign
The belle from Ber-she-be to Dan
Her little game. How lovers rash
Got mittens at the spelling school!
How many a mute, inglorious fool
Wrote rhymes and sighed and dyed—mustache!
This hired man loved her long,
Had loved her best and first and last,
Her very garments as she passed
For him had symphony and song.
So when one day with flirt and frown
She called him "Bill," he raised his head.
He caught her eye and faltering said,
"I love you; and my name is Brown."
She fairly waltzed with rage; she wept;
You would have thought the house on fire.
She told her sire, the portly squire,
Then smelt her smelling-salts and slept.
Poor William did what could be done;
He swung a pistol on each hip,
He gathered up a great ox-whip
And drove right for the setting son.
He crossed the big backbone of earth.
He saw the snowy mountains rolled
Like nasty billows; saw the gold
Of great big sunsets; felt the birth
Of sudden dawn upon the plain;
And every night did William Brown
Eat pork and beans and then lie down
And dream sweet dreams of Mary Jane.
Her lovers passed. Wolves hunt in packs.
They sought for bigger game; somehow
They seemed to see about her brow
The forky sign of turkey tracks.
The teeter-board of life goes up,
The teeter-board of life goes down,
The sweetest face must learn to frown;
The biggest dog has been a pup.
O maidens! pluck not at the air;
The sweetest flowers I have found
Grow rather close unto the ground
And highest places are most bare.
Why, you had better win the grace
Of one poor humble Af-ri-can
Than win the eyes of every man
In love alone with his own face.
At last she nursed her true desire,
She sighed, she wept for William Brown.
She watched the splendid sun down
Like some great sailing ship on fire,
Then rose and checked her trunks right on;
And in the cars she lunched and lunched,
And had her ticket punched and punched,
Until she came to Oregon.
She reached the limit of the lines,
She wore blue specs upon her nose,
Wore rather short and manly clothes,
And so set out to reach the mines.
Her right hand held a Testament,
Her pocket held a parasol,
And thus equipped right on she went.
Went water-proof and water-fall.
She saw a miner gazing down,
Slow stirring something with a spoon;
"O, tell me true and tell me soon,
What has become of William Brown?"
He looked askance beneath her specs,
Then stirred his cocktail round and round,
Then raised his head and sighed profound,
And said, "He's handed in his checks."
Then care led on her damaged cheek,
And she grew faint, did Mary Jane,
And smelt her smelling-salts in vain.
Yet wandered on, way worn and weak.
At last upon a hill alone;
She came, and there she sat her down;
For on that hill there stood a stone,
And lo! that stone read "William Brown."
"O William Brown! O William Brown!
And here you rest at last," she said,
"With this lone stone above your head,
And forty miles from any town!
I will plant cypress trees, I will.
And I will build a fence around,
And I will fertilize the ground
With tears enough to turn a mill."
She went and got a hired man.
She brought him forty miles from town,
And in the tall grass knelt down
And bade him build as she should plan.
But cruel cowboys with their bands
They saw and hurriedly they ran
And told a bearded cattle man
Somebody builded on his lands.
He took his rifle from the rack,
He girt himself in battle pelt.
He stuck two pistols in his belt,
And mounting on his horse's back,
He plunged ahead. But when they shewed
A woman fair, about his eyes
He pulled his hat, and he likewise
Pulled at his beard, and chewed and chewed.
At last he gat him down and spake:
"O lady, dear, what do you here?"
"I build a tomb unto my dear,
I plant sweet flowers for his sake."
The bearded man threw his two hands
Above his head, then brought them down
And cried, "O, I am William Brown,
And this the corner of my lands."
The preacher rode a spotted mare,
He galloped forty miles or more;
He said he never had before
Seen bride and bridegroom half so fair.
And all the Injuns they came down
And feasted as the night advanced,
And all the cowboys drank and danced,
And cried: "Big Injun! William Brown."
THE DAYS OF '49
We have worked our claims,
We have spent our gold,
Our barks are astrand on the bars;
We are battered and old,
Yet at night we behold,
Outcroppings of gold in the stars.
Chorus — Tho' battered and old.
Our hearts are bold,
Yet oft do we repine;
For the days of old.
For the days of gold.
For the days of forty-nine.
Where the rabbits play.
Where the quail all day
Pipe on the chaparral hill;
A few more days.
And the last of us lays
His pick aside and all is still.
Chorus —
We are wreck and stray.
We are cast away.
Poor battered old hulks and spars;
But we hope and pray,
On the judgment day,
We shall strike it up in the stars.
Chorus—
COLUMBUS
Behind him lay the gray Azores,
Behind the gates of Hercules;
Before him not the ghost of shores;
Before him only shoreless seas.
The good mate said: "Now must we pray.
For lo! the very stars are gone.
Brave Adm'r 'l, speak; what shall I say?"
"Why, say: 'Sail on! sail on! and on!"
"My men grow mutinous day by day;
My men grow ghastly wan and weak."
The stout mate thought of home; a spray
Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek.
"What shall I say, brave Adm'r'l, say,
If we sight naught but seas at dawn?"
"Why you shall say at break of day:
'Sail on! Sail on! Sail on! and on!'"
They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow,
Until at last the blanched mate said:
"Why, now not even God would know
Should I and all my men fall dead.
These very winds forget their way,
For God from these dread seas is gone.
Now speak, brave Adm'r'l; speak and say—"
He said: "Sail on! Sail on! and on!"
They sailed. They sailed. Then spake the mate:
"This mad sea shows his teeth to-night.
He curls his lip, he lies in wait,
With lifted teeth as if to bite!
Brave Adm'r'l, say but one good word:
What shall we do when hope is gone?"
The words leapt like a leaping sword:
"Sail on! Sail on! Sail on! and on!"
Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck,
And peered through darkness. Ah, that night
Of all dark nights! and then a speck—
A light! A light! A light! A light
It grew, a starlit flag unfurled!
It grew to be Time's burst of dawn.
He gained a world; he gave the world
Its grandest lesson: "On! sail on!"