The Dickinson press., 1890-10-25
JOAQUIN MILLER A HERMIT.
he Withd.aws from tho NIatiding Grow
to Golden Gate Heights,

he withd.aws from tho Madding Crowd
to Golden Gate Heights.
There was q ripple of surprise manifest
when joaquin Miller, the poet of the
Sierras, refused to furnish the annual
poem for the local committee. People
who know the erratic joaquin, however,
did not marvel over his refusal, rs they
have known for long time that the
poet is no longer tho public character,
the man of the world and the platform
speaker of days gone by, but has of re-
cent years developed into veritable re-
clusc.
Mr.. Miller is not at all charmed with
our modern civilization. There are many
material things which grato harshly upon
his poetic nature, and he has learned to
ignore rather than to love the bustling,
busy life of city and town. Not many
years ago he declared that never again
would he cross the continent, and that
the country to tho east of Mount Shasta
whose rugged peaks he loves so well.
would see him no more.
High up on tho foothills, three miles
back of East Oakland, Miller purchased
fifty acre tract of land two years ago,
and hero he has built his home. From
the doorway of his cottage he views tho
Golden Cato and the cities of San Fran
cisco and Oakland. They are near
enough to him, ho says, from that dis
tance, and he has SO far followed his life
as hermit that he scarcely ever comes
to the city. During tho past year his
visits havo been growing more infre-
quent, and he even refuses to SEQ the city
people who climb the mountain sido to
pay their respects to him.
A long, winding, narrow path. Just
wide enough for sharp shod Z, to
climb, leads to the home of the poet
recluse. Once upon the summit Joaquin
Miller's place is pointed out to the visitor
by rancler's child. There is scarcely
foot of level land on the poets tract of
fifty acres. Shade and fruit trees, young
but sturdy; plants, flowers and strag-
Cling stone wall cling to the mountain
side us if fastened there and held in
place by invisible strings. Tho "homc"
consists of three cottages, fifty feet
apart, strange, odd and fanciful build
ings, designed after some weird genius
of an architect. Miller lives i'll one, his
mother in another and the other mem
bers of tho household in tho third.
When n reporter climbed the dizzy
height he found tho door of tho poets
cottage open. In the center of the room
was n cot, luxurious in rugs and furs,
and OH tho cot reclincd the poet, busy
with pen and paper, pausing in his work
only long enough to glance through the
open doorway at the city below and the
blue cxpanso of ocean fur beyond. This,
as the poet claims, is his only inspiration
the view Of what man has made and
tho work of God as the background of
the picture.
joaquin remains in bed until high
noon. Awaking at an early hour, he
takes light repast and smokes cigar,
and then he writes and works necessarily
until noon. When his days task is done
he gets up like other men, roams about
his acres, trains his vines Or nurses the
young trees growing on the hillside. His
trees are a passion with him. Even
whlle composing verses, and while en-.
joying his morning labor in night car
and dressing gown, he thinks of his trees
He has gathered them from the utter.
most parts of the earth, has imported
sprig, spray and sprout from every
known part of tho civilized world
Mrs. Miller and her daughter, from
New York city, when the guests of Joa-
quin at Tho Heights obey tho poets
dictate and live apart, as does the mother
of this erratic man. Each has her own
dwelling place, which is sacred to the
occupant.
II believe in personal seclusion," says
tho poet. "a man should not be famil.
lar even with members of his own fam.
lily. There are times in the life of every
ono when solitude is an absolute neces-
sity. Men enjoy their own society the
best, and, doubtless, women are the
salnc. Every day men and women in
trude too much upon each other. When
l walk over to mothers cottage stand
without her door, hat in hand, and
knock for permission to enter. The
same is true when she calls at my door
We meet in common only at table. My
house is my castle, and even my mother
would not break in on my solitude with
out first asking permission. San Fran.
cisco Chronicle.