# Oregon Literature/Minnie Myrtle Miller

MINNIE MYRTLE MILLER.
Is there something about poetic talent that renders its possessor unhappy? Is the gift fatal to the fullest enjoyment of life? Does its fervid warmth destroy the shrine whereon its fires burn, or its smallest spark scar the breast which holds it? These are questions often asked, and the lives of our poets have furnished evidence contradictory in the extreme. Those who have become intimately acquainted with many of them often pause in reading their inspiring strains to muse sadly over the wrecked hopes, and unhappy lives of those who have tuned to rhythm and set to melody the hearts of all the peoples of earth.
We know of no one whose life's history more forcibly illustrates this restless longing for larger and higher sphere of action than the subject of this sketch, Minnie Myrtle Miller. Thirty-six years ago when the war-cloud lowered heavy and dark over our land, when there were heard criminations and recriminations everywhere, when the deliberations of our congress assumed the form of angry debate, when the startling cry of "traitor" was heard echoing through the halls dedicated to liberty, when father and son held bitter converse, and brothers prepared to array themselves as enemies in deadly combat, when every home in the land was shocked by the clash of arms and the tramp of mustering steeds—she first was known through the public press and beyond the immediate neighborhood of her home. Even there though furthest removed from the seat of war on the extreme western verge of civilization, she heard among her few associates angry words spoken by youthful tongues and read fiery sentences penned by aged hands. Hers was a nature too gentle, too kind, too sweet to sound or even echo the notes of war. When all the land was a Babel of angry voices, hers was clear and sweet. She wrote of her home, her friends, of the sunlit waves of the Pacific which smoothed the ​sands for her feet, and told the beautiful stories whispered by the tall pines as she wandered through the groves.
Her name was Theresa Dyer; with the quick ear for the musical, which characterized all her writings, she adopted the nom de plume of "Minnie Myrtle," and sent her productions—both prose and verse—to the neighboring weekly papers. Her future husband, Cincinnatus Heine Miller, since known as "Joaquin Miller," was at that time writing for the same papers, wild, weird and sometimes blood-thirsty stories, signed "Giles Gaston." In one of these, in which he thrillingly depicted a battle on the border with the Indians, he expressed a desire to become acquainted with the sweet singer of the Coquelle, whoever she might be. Although but a youth, he knew none but a sweet young girl, filled with all the pleasing fancies and fallacies of life, could write as she did. In Minnie's next story was given her address; and the correspondence, which a few months later resulted in her marriage to the poet, began by his mailing her an appreciative letter inclosing a tin-type picture of himself. He was tall, strong, and not graceless in a woman's eye. He found her gentle, .handsome and sweet, in the first flush of young womanhood. Their first meeting sealed their fate. After seven years of married life they were separated, Joaquin going to Europe, while the saddened mother, with her three children, returned to her father's home. ​The cause of their separation is still a mystery; whether some rude shock broke the bonds which love had tied, or ardent love was slowly crushed to death by the attrition of dissimilar natures was never known. Certain it is that neither was happy after their separation. The life of each was saddened before it had well begun. At the early age of thirty-seven, when the poor, tired mother laid down her burden, she was soothed by the tender words and sustained by the strong arm of the poet lover who had won her maiden heart in the springtime of life. She died in New York, surrounded with friends, leaving unfinished several poems and a sketch of her life which she labored hard to complete before her summons came. It has never been published. The manuscript, although undoubtedly worthy of preservation, became misplaced and cannot now be found. Her friends deeply regret this, but it may be best that it was lost. While it would surely have found a ready sale, it could not but have brought to its readers more tears than smiles. A key to much of this lost story of her life appears to be given in these lines of her poem, "At the Land's End."
"I am conscript—hurrid to battle With fates—yet I fain would be Vanquished and silenced forever
And driven back to my sea.
Oh! to leave this strife, this turmoil, Leave all undone and skim
Wth the clouds that flee to the hill tops And rest forever with Him."