King Under Oregon Mountain

Mount Hood reflected in Mirror Lake, Oregon.jpg

Mount Hood reflected in Enid Lake

File:Joaquin Miller Cabin (Grant County, Oregon scenic images) (graD0088-1).jpg

On this day, February 6, 2022, I John Presco, Republican Candidate for Governor of Oregon, found ‘The Bohemian Guild of Mount Hood. This will be a guild of journalists and writers known as ‘The Wolves of Mount Hood’. Once a year we will meet. We will come from all over the Free World to celebrate our victory over the Russian Wolf of Darkness. We will be wearing deep blue capes -with hood! We will stand on the edge of Enid Lake just after sunset…..ad when the first star appears in this blue lake, we will take off our hoods, and one by one, speak our name while large speakers play the sound of our brothers and sisters.

President Biden has given three hundred and fifty million dollars to the President of Ukraine to help defeat Dark Putin – who is waging war on the press of Russia! The free press – will be his undoing! Zelensky wants ammunition and arms. From what nations will they come? I believe the Czech-Republican will try to make a delivery.

Above is a photograph of members of the Bohemian Club spreading Juaquin Miller’s ashes on a pyre that he built to have his body consumed by flames. But the City of Oakland would not allow this. Miller might have met William Morris at Rosetti’s home. Morris had a powerful influence on Tolkien. The King Under The Mountain Tale – is coming true!

“Around a fire they gathered, at the base of Mount Hood, a refection of a star, in a lake. They took turn through the night, reading…The House of the Wolfings.”

John Presco

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_House_of_the_Wolfings

Exploring the legend of Joaquin Miller in Canyon City | lifestyle | bendbulletin.com

Cogswell-London-Kerouac-Miller | Rosamond Press

The Bohemian Club was originally formed in April 1872 by and for journalists who wished to promote a fraternal connection among men who enjoyed the artsMichael Henry de Young, proprietor of the San Francisco Chronicle, provided this description of its formation in a 1915 interview:

The Bohemian Club was organized in the Chronicle office by Tommy Newcombe, Sutherland, Dan O’Connell, Harry Dam, J.Limon and others who were members of the staff. The boys wanted a place where they could get together after work, and they took a room on Sacramento street below Kearny. That was the start of the Bohemian Club, and it was not an unmixed blessing for the Chronicle because the boys would go there sometimes when they should have reported at the office. Very often when Dan O’Connell sat down to a good dinner there he would forget that he had a pocketful of notes for an important story.[12]

Journalists were to be regular members; artists and musicians were to be honorary members.[13] The group quickly relaxed its rules for membership to permit some people to join who had little artistic talent, but enjoyed the arts and had greater financial resources. Eventually, the original “bohemian” members were in the minority and the wealthy and powerful controlled the club.[14][15] Club members who were established and successful, respectable family men, defined for themselves their own form of bohemianism which included men who were bon vivants, sometime outdoorsmen, and appreciators of the arts.[11] Club member and poet George Sterling responded to this redefinition:

Any good mixer of convivial habits considers he has a right to be called a Bohemian. But that is not a valid claim. There are two elements, at least, that are essential to Bohemianism. The first is devotion or addiction to one or more of the Seven Arts; the other is poverty. Other factors suggest themselves: for instance, I like to think of my Bohemians as young, as radical in their outlook on art and life; as unconventional, and, though this is debatable, as dwellers in a city large enough to have the somewhat cruel atmosphere of all great cities.[16]

Despite his purist views, Sterling associated very closely with the Bohemian Club, and caroused with artist and industrialist alike at the Bohemian Grove.[16]

Oscar Wilde, upon visiting the club in 1882, is reported to have said “I never saw so many well-dressed, well-fed, business-looking Bohemians in my life.”[17]

royal-rosamond

Alas I have traced my grandfather’s mother, IDA LOUISIANA ROSE, to WILLIAM ROSE, who sailed for Cowes Isle of Wight, with William Penn. William and his wife, Jane Sarah Ridgway, landed in Philadelphia in December 3, 1699. They sailed on the Canterbury, perhaps the most important ship that sailed the waters of the Isle of Wight.

Alas, the TWO ROSES are joined in my ROSY FAMILY TREE. This makes my family one of the foremost PATRIOTIC AMERICAN FAMILIES  in history. We fought off pirates to arrive here, so we could practice RELIGIOUS FREEDOM.

Master Miller’s Artist and Poet Colony

Posted on June 8, 2014 by Royal Rosamond Press

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On April 17, 2014, I found a Pre-Raphaelite Grail at the Lane County Historical Society, that hopefully will change the way we look at things today, and the way we live and communicate with one another. I beheld the beautiful master plan put forth by the Miller Brother Prophets, who are right out of the Lord of the Rings.

What I discovered was a pamphlet announcing Joaquin Miller Day. A musical drama was performed at the Woodminster Amphitheater on September 24, 1944. There was going to be the planting of memorial redwood trees around the equestrian statue of Joaquin Miller. On stage was a replica of the studio and garden used by Dante Gabriel Rossetti and Holman Hunt. The Poet, Christina Rossetti was played by Jeanne Jardin. Elizabeth Siddal Hunt’s model and muse is played by Helen Kraum. Carmencita Sanchez and her Mexican dancers, performed. In Scene Two we have the Bonaparte and Queen Victoria.

When we were children we would call up Juanita Miller who we knew as ‘The White Witch’. She gave advice if you had problems. At thirteen, Bill Arnold, Nancy Hamren, and myself adopted the Beat Scene, Jack London and George Sterling, and as Hippies we understood Joaquin Miller was the source of our Bohemianism that some claim is the fastest growing religion in the world. In Eugene Oregon there is a worship of Ken Kesey. Now add to this the images of the Pre-Raphaelites and J.R. Tolkien, and you have the most powerful imagery outside of the Christian Church.

But, we are not done! Joaquin Miller was approached by Japanese Poets who asked if they could live with Joaquin and treat him like their master. There were several Japanese houses built on ‘The Hights’ that was also named ‘The Fremont Ranch’. Fremont is in my family tree because he married Jessie Benton whose father was the proprietor of the Oregon Territory. My later sister was the world-famous artist, Christine Rosamond Benton who had a gallery in Carmel a Art Colony that Elsie Martinez and her husband help found.

Joaquin Miller had dinner at Rossetti and ate with many of the Pre-Raphaelites. I suspect William Morris was present. In 1969 I began to render images on furniture after Morris whose novel ‘The House of Wolfings’ was the main inspiration for Tolkien.

Christine Rosamond Benton and I were drawn into Tolkien’s Trilogy. The artist known as ‘Rosamond’ could not put these books down, nr could I. This caused our mutual friend, Keith Purvis, a British subject, to comment;

“She doesn’t know these books are real.”

We three were original hippies who took the Lord of the Rings to heart as we modified the modern world, made it over more to our liking, we oblivious to what normal folk were about. This is exactly what William Morris and the Pre-Raphaelite Brother and Sisterhood did. They – returned!

I discovered the Pre-Raphaelites in 1969 and let my hair grow long for the first time. I gave up drugs in 1967 and was looking for a spiritual format. I came under the spell of the Rossetti family who were friendly with Joaquin Miller. We Presco children knew Miller’s daughter as ‘The White Witch’ and we would call her for advice. Miller’s home ‘The Abbye’ was above our home in the Oakland Hills. Our kindred were friends of Miller, who was also a friend of Swineburn, who wrote ‘The Queen-Mother and Rosamund’ and ‘Rosamund Queen of Lombards. Tolkien was inspired by the Lombards.

Filed away in Rosamond’s probate is my plea to the executor to allow me to be my sister’s historian. I mention Miller and Rossetti. I saw myself in the role of Michael Rossetti who had his own publishing company. He published Miller and other famous poets. When I was twelve, my mother read evidence I might become a famous poet.

I was twelve when I came upon the Woodminster amphitheatre. I was put in a trance by what I beheld. I sensed I had entered the real world, the one I belonged in. Juanita Miller was the visionary for this outdoor theatre where plays inspired by her father were performed. Redwoods were planted around Woodminster. George Miller planted many trees in his visionary city, Fairmount. Nearby, my great grandfathers had picnics. Note the rifle hanging in the tree. The Stuttmeister farm lie just below this structure that is right out of Lord of the Rings.

Yesterday I presented to Mayor Kitty Piercy my idea for the New Eugene Celebration that would be centered around the Cuthbert Amphitheater and the Mill Race that I see as flowing from the Woodminster Amphitheater Cascade. I see O Lake as a reflecting pond. I see a Japanese arch at the end of a pier where is docked a Japanese boat. Up the hill is a Zen Garden and the cottages rescued from Columbia Terrace located in the lost city of Fairmont platted by George Melvin Miller, the brother of Joaquin.

There is a Writer’s Grove planted next to the cascade. I see a similar grove planted near the Cuthbert. Where will sit the two Craftsman housed rescued from Columbia Terrace. Once house will be a Miller Brother’s Museum, and the other a Museum of Bohemian Art and Literature. Ken Kesey lived in one of the barracks that was moved from Fort White. I see a Museum to Peace, with Kesey and Hippie memorabilia. Our Mayor should contact officials I Japan to see if they see these barracks that once housed soldiers destined to go to war with Japan, of historic significance.

The Calm Waters of Peace, Poetry, and Art, flow underground all the way from Oakland California, and surface in a New Arcadia in Eugene. From brother to brother. let there be a New Cultural Unity!

Jon Presco

President: Royal Rosamond Presss

Copyright 2014

Fair Mountain

Posted on September 1, 2018 by Royal Rosamond Press

With the new proposal for Downtown Eugene, arises my old proposal that was ignored, or, not promoted enough – by me! In this post made two years ago, emerges my idea for the next James Bond movie, and, the birth of the next Tolkien book, and/or movie. All the elements are in place.

What I see in the old EWEB plant, is a Newspaper Museum, with George Miller’s flying machine suspended in air. Joaquin Miller was the editor of The Eugene City Democratic Register, The Oregon State Journal, and the Eugene City Review.  Joaquin took part in a debate at Eugene’s Columbia College whether or not the Pacific States should become a separate nation – before Oregon and California became States. Here is Fairmount, the city that George Miller platted, along with Florence.

https://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/books/jrr-tolkien-fall-of-gondolin-review-latest-last-book-christopher-harper-collins-a8516571.html

There is a good chance Joaquin met William Morris, who inspired Tolkien. This building can be a Castle of The Free Press, standing at the Gate of the McKenzie. There is room enough for a Logging Museum. Wood pulp made newsprint. Before the coming of the silicon chip, this is how good men got the News to the American People.

Freedom Loving People from all over the world will come to pay homage. There should be a Japanese torii on the river, and a grand piano where the compositions of  Henry Cowell can be played. Guest pianists will come from all over the world to play Henry’s music.

Eugene can have a very magical and specialized history based upon facts, and not left to the whims of radicals fighting over Ken Kesey Square. Here is a suitable Dream, that was made manifest, then, made invisible. Why?

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Newsprint

https://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn83045535/

Joaquin Miller had dinner with the Pre-Raphaelites, and was my grandmother’s friend. This history is being compiled for the grant I am applying for. Miller built a monument to my kin, John Fremont, the first Presidential Candidate for the Abolitionist Republican Party, and the first to emancipate slaves, forcing Lincoln’s hand. It is time to erase the history of Joseph Lane from Oregon. He was a traitor and a butcher of Native Americans. He was for human slavery. His son was just the opposite, and thus I suggest a proclamation making Harry the bearers of the Lane name in Lane Country.

Joaquin Miller (1837-1913) was the pen name of writer Cincinnatus Hiner Miller, born on September 8, 1837, to Quaker parents. In 1852, the family moved to Oregon, traveling overland on a three thousand mile trip that took over seven months. They settled near Eugene, Oregon where they established a home and farm. Miller later married the Oregon poet Therese Dyer.

“Miller attended Columbia College in (what was then) Eugene City from 1857 to 1858. He taught school, studied law, and was admitted to the bar in 1861. From 1861 to 1862 Miller rode pony express from Walla Walla to Idaho mines but he soon returned to Eugene City to become a newspaper editor. In his newspaper, The Eugene City Democratic Register, he pleaded for an end to the Civil War. The editorials were suppressed as pro-Southern in sympathy and Miller sold out, moving briefly to Port Orford on Oregon’s southern coast.”

“In 1864 he drove a herd of cattle across the Cascade Mountains to Canyon City where he planted the region’s first orchard and served as Grant County Judge until 1870.”

“Miller’s work Songs of the Sierras was published in Great Britain during a visit in 1870-1871. Among his other works of poetry and prose were My Life Among the Modocs, Unwritten History, In Classic Shades, and A Royal Highway of the World.”

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_House_of_the_Wolfings

“A Tale of the House of the Wolfings and All the Kindreds of the Mark is a fantasy novel by William Morris, perhaps the first modern fantasy writer to unite an imaginary world with the element of the supernatural, and thus the precursor of much of present-day fantasy literature.[1] It was first published in hardcover by Reeves and Turner in 1889.[2] Its importance in the history of fantasy literature was recognized by its republication by the Newcastle Publishing Company as the sixteenth volume of the celebrated Newcastle Forgotten Fantasy Library in April, 1978.

This book also influenced J. R. R. Tolkien’s popular The Lord of the Rings. In a December 31, 1960 letter published in The Letters of J. R. R. Tolkien, (p. 303), Tolkien wrote: ‘The Dead Marshes and the approaches to the Morannon owe something to Northern France after the Battle of the Somme. They owe more to William Morris and his Huns and Romans, as in The House of the Wolfings or The Roots of the Mountains.” Among the numerous parallels with The Lord of the Rings, Morris has Old English-style placenames such as Mirkwood (p. 2), germanic personal names such as Thiodolf (p. 8), and dwarves as skilled smiths (“How the Dwarf-wrought Hauberk was Brought away from the Hall of the Daylings”, p. 97).

This work and its successor, The Roots of the Mountains, were to some degree historical novels, with little or no magic. Morris would go on to develop the new genre established in this work in such later fantasies as Child Christopher and Goldilind the Fair, The Wood Beyond the World, The Well at the World’s End, and The Water of the Wondrous Isles.[3]

Contents [hide]
1 Plot summary
2 Copyright
3 References
4 External links

[edit] Plot summaryThe House of the Wolfings is Morris’ romantically reconstructed portrait of the lives of the Germanic Gothic tribes, written in an archaic style and incorporating a large amount of poetry. It combines his own idealistic views with what was actually known at the time of his subjects’ folkways and language. He portrays them as simple and hardworking, galvanized into heroic action to defend their families and liberty by the attacks of imperial Rome.

Morris’ Goths inhabit an area called the Mark on a river in the forest of Mirkwood, divided according into the Upper-mark, the Mid-mark and the Nether-mark. They worship their gods Odin and Tyr by sacrificing horses and rely on seers who foretell the future and serve as psychic news-gatherers.

The men of the Mark choose two War Dukes to lead them against their enemies, one each from the House of the Wolfings and the House of the Laxings. The Wolfing war leader is Thiodolf, a man of mysterious and perhaps divine antecedents whose ability to lead is threatened by his possession of a magnificent dwarf-made mail-shirt which, unknown to him, is cursed. He is supported by his lover the Wood Sun and their daughter the Hall Sun, who are related to the gods.”

Finding And Recovering Our Lost Dreams

Posted on March 20, 2014by Royal Rosamond Press

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https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harry_Lane

In November 1912, Lane was elected to the United States Senate where he was a leading advocate for woman suffrage and a more benevolent relationship between the American government and the nation’s Native American population.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joseph_Lane

Military operations against Native Americans[edit]

In 1853, after he was re-elected as Delegate in 1853, but before he left for Washington, D.C., Lane was appointed as brigadier general commanding a force of volunteers raised to suppress recent Native American violence. Lane led the force to southern Oregon to stop Native American attacks against settlers and miners there.[1] Lane was again wounded in a skirmish at Table Rock, in Sams Valley, not far from today’s cities of Medford and Central Point.[1]

Lane was also an active participant in the so-called Rogue River Wars of 1855–1856.[1]

Vice-presidential nomination and political decline[edit]

In 1860, the Democratic Party split on the issue of slavery. Pro-slavery Democrats from the South left the national convention and nominated their own candidates: John C. Breckinridge for president, and Lane for vice president.

This “Southern Democrat” ticket was defeated. With his defeat for vice president and the beginning of the Civil War, Lane’s political career ended. His pro-slavery views had been controversial in Oregon; his pro-secessionist views were wholly unacceptable.[5] Lane became notorious for an exchange with Andrew Johnson of Tennessee on his last day in the Senate. Johnson had spoken in favor of the Union and denounced secession. A referendum on secession in Tennessee failed shortly thereafter, generally credited to Johnson’s speech. On March 2, Lane accused Johnson of having “sold his birthright” as a Southerner. Johnson responded by suggesting that Lane was a hypocrite for so accusing Johnson when Lane so staunchly supported a movement of active treason against the United States.[6]

Joaquin Miller, William Morris & Me

Posted on August 5, 2013by Royal Rosamond Press

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Christine Rosamond Benton and I were drawn into Tolkien’s Trilogy. The artist known as ‘Rosamond’ could not put these books down, nr could I. The Bentons secured the Oregon Territory from Britain. John Fremont freed the first slaves and ran against

We three were original hippies who took the Lord of the Rings to heart as we modified the modern world, made it over more to our liking, we oblivious to what normal folk were about. This is exactly what William Morris and the Pre-Raphaelite Brother and Sisterhood did. They – returned!

I discovered the Pre-Raphaelites in 1969 and let my hair grow long for the first time. I gave up drugs in 1967 and was looking for a spiritual format. I came under the spell of the Rossetti family who were friendly with Joaquin Miller. We Presco children knew Miller’s daughter as ‘The White Witch’ and we would call her for advice. Miller’s home ‘The Abbye’ was above our home in the Oakland Hills. Our kindred were friends of Miller, who was also a friend of Swineburne, who wrote ‘The Queen-Mother and Rosamund’ and ‘Rosamund Queen of Lombards. Tolkien was inspired by the Lombards.

Filed away in Rosamond’s probate is my plea to the executor to allow me to be my sister’s historian. I mention Miller and Rossetti. I saw myself in the role of Michael Rossetti who had his own publishing company. He published Miller and other famous poets. When I was twelve, my mother read evidence I might become a famous poet.

Jon Presco

http://www.ochcom.org/miller/

Copyright 2011

William Morris had a major influence on J. R. R. Tolkien. As John Garth points out, unlike most authors traumatized by the experience of World War I, Tolkien did not “discard the old ways of writing, the classicism or medievalism championed by Lord Tennyson and William Morris. In his hands these traditions were reinvigorated so that they remain powerfully alive for readers today” (40). His love of Morris, in particular, goes back to his undergraduate days when he turned from studying the Greek and Latin classics to the the northern traditions — the language and literature of the Scandinavian and Germanic past.

William Morris, from the late 1870s on, decided to “remedy” the defects of the real historical record by producing specific works of “pseudo-history,” fully-fleshed stories that he could present as “re-discovered” manuscripts of ancient tribal lore. So eager were the Germanic speakers of 19th century Europe to know more about their ancestors, that sometimes even academically trained scholars would be fooled by the books Morris wrote, and asked him for his sources, and wanted to read the original saga manuscripts themselves. To which requests Morris replied “Doesn’t the fool realize, that it’s a romance, a work of fiction — that it’s all lies!” (from May Morris, daughter of W. Morris recollections).

Honoring The Visions of George Miller

Posted on May 30, 2016by Royal Rosamond Press

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I will be going out to Coburg today to plant another flower at the grave of George Miller, the brother of Joaquin Miller, a honorary member of the Bohemian Club that was a place for Bay Area Journalists to gather and compare notes. If Miller lived in the Bay Area, then he too would be a honorary member.

http://www.findagrave.com/cgi-bin/fg.cgi?page=gr&GRid=29810634

Elizabeth Maude “Lischen” or “Lizzie” Cogswell married George Miller. Lizzie was the foremost literary woman in Oregon. On Feb. 6, 1897, Idaho Cogswell, married Feb. 6, 1897, Ira L. Campbell, who was editor, publisher and co-owner (with his brother John) of the Daily Eugene Guard newspaper. The Campbell Center is named after Ira.

The Wedding of John Cogswell to Mary Frances Gay, was the first recorded in Lane County where I registered my newspaper, Royal Rosamond Press. Idaho Campbell was a charter member of the Fortnightly Club that raised funds for the first Eugene Library.

George Melvin Miller was a frequent visitor to ‘The Hights’ his brothers visionary utopia where gathered famous artists and writers in the hills above my great grandfather’s farm. The Miller brothers promoted Arts and Literature, as well as Civic Celebrations. Joaquin’s contact with the Pre-Raphaelites in England, lent credence to the notion that George and Joaquin were Oregon’s Cultural Shamans, verses, he-men with big saw cutting down trees.

A year ago I received in the mail a book I ordered on E-Bay. I quickly scanned it to see if their were any illustrations or photographs. Then, I found it, what amounts to my personal Holy Grail. Joaquin Miller dedicated his book of poems ‘Songs of The Sun-Land’ to the Rossetti family that includes Gabriel, Michael, and, Christine. Gabriel was a artist and poet, Michael, a publisher, and Christine, a poet.

“TO THE ROSSETTIS”

Gabriel, who had Joaquin over to his house for dinner, where he met several members of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. Miller sends Michael a photograph of himself, and is sent a photo. This photo may be the famous one taken by Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, who is better known as Lewis Carrol the author of ‘Alice in Wonderland’. If Joaquin had glued this portrait to a piece of paper, then we might have seen it on the dedication page.

What is going on here is extremely profound. Miller has exported his vision and lifestyle to the England, where he wrote Song of the Sierras, and now he is importing to America a cultural brand that contains Grail and Arthurian subject matter that was at the epicenter of the work of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood.

Lewis Carrol posed two children as Fair Rosamond and Queen Eleanore. I associate Fairmount with Rosamond. Johnnny Depp is starring in another Alice in Wonderland movie. Eugene can celebrate our Land of Make Believe, our White Rabbit made famous by the Jefferson Airplane. I stood before the Mayor of Eugene and suggested a Newspaper Museum at Kesey Square wherein is a model of Miller’s Fantastic Flying Machine. We could build a parade around this contraptions, a world contest that would bring creative people to our Fair City.  Children would love this! They too would be in costume for the White Rabbit Run!

Here is what amounts to MY FANTASTIC MOVIE shot in Eugene. What an Amazing Journey is has been!

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bohemian_Club

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https://www.facebook.com/groups/686511378052969/

“Then he had the Japanese and Chinese artists living there. They built their beautiful little Japanese paper houses up through the woods. What beautiful country! It looks like a mess now, but it was beautiful then — a natural and wild landscape — and the Japanese had carefully created a meandering little stream, Japanese style, beautifully arranged with gardens and little rockeries near the poet’s. You know their expertness in creating beauty. They’d made this beautiful place where they had their barbecues. At that time the poet’s barbecues were always run by his Japanese friends. We’d have raw fish and soy sauce — really delicious. Then, always the particular barbecue for which the poet was famous — he had beautifully peeled willow switches on which were arranged rounds of onions and meat — which you held over the fire until cooked to your taste.

Then we’d go up to a little art colony scattered throughout the woods in their beautiful paper houses. These houses were well made, beautifully constructed, but all the doors and windows except the frames were made of paper. We’d go in, take our shoes off and sit down and we’d watch the artists work, or they’d display work to show us. Some were Chinese, most of them were Japanese.

In 1848 William Makepeace Thackeray used the word bohemianism in his novel Vanity Fair. In 1862, the Westminster Review described a Bohemian as “simply an artist or littérateur who, consciously or unconsciously, secedes from conventionality in life and in art”. During the 1860s the term was associated in particular with the pre-Raphaelite movement, the group of artists and aesthetes of which Dante Gabriel Rossetti was the most prominent:[2]

As the 1860s progressed, Rossetti would become the grand prince of bohemianism as his deviations from normal standards became more audacious. And as he became this epitome of the unconventional, his egocentric demands necessarily required his close friends to remodel their own lives around him. His bohemianism was like a web in which others became trapped – none more so than William and Jane Morris.[3]

Jane Morris, Edward Burne-Jones and pre-Raphaelite traits[edit]

Jane Morris, who was to become Rossetti’s muse, epitomised, probably more than any of the women associated with the pre-Raphaelites, an unrestricted, flowing style of dress that, while unconventional at the time, would be highly influential at certain periods during the 20th century.[4] She and others, including the much less outlandish Georgiana Burne-Jones (wife of Edward Burne-Jones,[5] one of the later pre-Raphaelites), eschewed the corsets and crinolines of the mid-to-late Victorian era,[6] a feature that impressed the American writer Henry James when he wrote to his sister in 1869 of the bohemian atmosphere of the Morrises’ house in the Bloomsbury district of London and, in particular, the “dark silent medieval” presence of its chateleine:

It’s hard to say whether she’s a grand synthesis of all the pre-Raphaelite pictures ever made … whether she’s an original or a copy. In either case she’s a wonder. Imagine a tall lean woman in a long dress of some dead purple stuff, guiltless of hoops (or of anything else I should say) with a mass of crisp black hair heaped into great wavy projections on each of her temples … a long neck, without any collar, and in lieu thereof some dozen strings of outlandish beads.[7]

Effie Gray by Thomas Richmond
In his play Pygmalion (1912) Bernard Shaw unmistakably based the part of Mrs. Higgins on the then elderly Jane Morris. Describing Mrs. Higgins’ drawing room, he referred to a portrait of her “when she defied the fashion of her youth in one of the beautiful Rossettian costumes which, when caricatured by people who did not understand, led to the absurdities of popular estheticism [sic] in the eighteen-seventies”.[8]

(January 14, 1867, Huddersfield, England – January 20, 1919, New York City) was a Californian writer.
Whitaker and his family moved to the Piedmont, California hills in 1902 and took up residence in “The Bug House,” which is now Blair Avenue.[1]
His family became part of the Bohemian group including Jack and Bess London and George and Carrie Sterling.[1] His daughter, Elsie Whitaker, was the subject of photographs and paintings.[1] She married Mexican-American artist Xavier Martinez (1869-1943) in October 1907, and they remained married until Martinez’s death in 1943.
His books include The Probationer (1905), The Settler (1906), The Planter (1909), and The Mystery of the Barranca (1913) among many others. His novel Over the Border (1916) was adapted for the John Ford western 3 Bad Men (1926).[2]

http://xaviertizocmartinez.wordpress.com/

http://collections.museumca.org/?q=collection-item/a53168

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/art/art-features/9517270/Pre-Raphaelites-Tate-Britain-exhibition-visions-that-tell-us-who-we-are.html

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bohemian_style

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Dinner at Rossetti’s
by Joaquin Miller
________________________________________
There is no thing that hath not worth;
There is no evil anywhere;
There is no ill on all this earth,
If man seeks not to see it there.
September 28. I cannot forget that dinner with Dante Gabriel Rossetti, just before leaving London, nor can I hope to recall its shining and enduring glory. I am a better, larger man, because of it. And how nearly our feet are set on the same way. It was as if we were all crossing the plains, and I for a day’s journey and a night’s encampment fell in with and conversed with the captains of the march.
But one may not gave names and dates and details over there as here. The home is entirely a castle. The secrets of the board and fireside are sacred. And then these honest toilers and worshippers of the beautiful are shy, so shy and modest. But I like this decent English way of keeping your name down and out of sight till the coffin-lid hides your blushes–so modest these Pre-Raphaelites are that I should be in disgrace forever if I dared set down any living man’s name.
But here are a few of the pearls picked up, as they were tossed about the table at intervals and sandwiched in between tales of love and lighter thoughts and things.
All London, or rather all the brain of London, the literary brain, was there. And the brain of all the world, I think, was in London. These giants of thought, champions of the beautiful earth, passed the secrets of all time and all lands before me like a mighty panorama. All night sol We dined so late that we missed breakfast. If I could remember and write down truly and exactly what these men said, I would have the best and the greatest book that ever was written, I have been trying a week in vain, I have written down and scratched out and revised till I have lost the soul of it, it seems to me; no individuality to it; only like my own stuff. If I only had set their words down on the next day instead of attempting to remember their thoughts! Alas! the sheaves have been tossed and beaten about over sea and land for days and days, till the golden grain is gone, and here is but the straw and chaff.
The master sat silent for the most part; there was a little man away down at the other end, conspicuously modest. There was a cynical fat man, and a lean philanthropist all sorts and sizes, but all lovers of the beautiful of earth. Here is what one, a painter, a ruddy-faced and a rollicking gentleman, remarked merrily to me as he poured out a glass of red wine at the beginning of the dinner:
“When travelling in the mountains of Italy, I observed that the pretty peasant women made the wine by putting grapes m a great tub, and then, getting into this tub, barefooted, on top of the grapes, treading them out with their brown, bare feet. At first I did not like to drink this wine. I did not think it was clean. But I afterward watched these pretty brown women” and here all leaned to listen, at the mention of pretty brown women– I watched these pretty brown women at their work in the primitive winepress, and I noticed that they always washed their feet after they got done treading out the wine.”
All laughed at this, and the red-faced painter was so delighted that he poured out and swallowed another full glass. The master sighed as he sat at the head of the table rolling a bit of bread between thumb and finger, and said, sitting close to me: “I am an Italian who has neven seen Italy. Belle Italia!…”
By and by he quietly said that silence was the noblest attitude in all things; that the greatest poets refused to write, and that all great artists in all lines were above the folly of expression. A voice from far down the table echoed this sentiment by saying:”Heard melodies are sweet; but unheard melodies are sweeter.” “Written poems are delicious; but unwritten poems are divine,” cried the triumphant cynic. “What is poetry?” cries a neighbor. “All true, pure life is poetry,” answers one. “But the inspiration of poetry?” “The art of poetry is in books. The inspiration of poetry in nature.” To this all agreed.
Then the master very quietly spoke: “And yet do not despise the books of man. All religions, said the Chinese philosophers, are good. The only difference is, some religions are better than others, and the apparent merit of each depends largely upon a mans capacity for understanding it. This is true of .poetry. All poetry is good. I never read a poem in my life that did not have some merit, and teach some sweet lesson. The fault in reading the poems of man, as well as reading the poetry of nature, lies largely at the door of the reader. Now, what do you call poetry?” and he turned his great Italian eyes tenderly to where I sat at his side.
To me a poem must be a picture,” I answered.
Proud I was when a great poet then said: “And it must be a picture–if a good poem so simple that you can understand it at a glance, eh? And see it and remember it as you would see and remember a sunset, eh?” “Aye,” answered the master, “I also demand that it shall be lofty in sentiment and sublime in expression. The only rule I have for measuring the merits of a written poem, is by the height of it. Why not be able to measure its altitude as you measure one of your sublime peaks of America?”
He looked at me as he spoke of America, and I was encouraged to answer:”Yes, I do not want to remember the words. But I do want it to remain with me a picture and become a part of my life. Take this one verse from Mr. Longfellow:
“And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares that infest the day
Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.’”
“Good!” cried the fat cynic, who, I am sure, had never heard the couplet before, it was so sweet to him; “Good! There is a picture that will depart from no impressible clay. The silent night, the far sweet melody falling on the weary mind, the tawny picturesque Arabs stealing away m the darkness, the perfect peace, the stillness and the rest. It appeals to all the Ishmaelite in our natures, and all the time we see the tents gathered up and the silent children of the desert gliding away in the gloaming.”
A transplanted American, away down at the other end by a little man among bottles, said: “The poem of Evangeline is a succession of pictures. I never read Evangeline but once.” “It is a waste of time to look twice at a sunset,” said Rossetti, sotto voce, and the end man went on: “But i believe I can see every picture in that poem as distinctly as if I had been the unhappy Arcadian; for here the author has called in ail the elements that go to make up a perfect poem.”
“When the great epic of this new, solid Saxon tongue comes to be written,” said one who sat near and was dear to the master’s heart, “it will embrace all that this embraces: new and unnamed lands; ships on the sea; the still deep waters hidden away in a deep and voiceless continent; the fresh and fragrant wilderness; the curling smoke of the camp-fire; action, movement, journeys; the presence–the inspiring presence of woman; the ennobl- ing sentiment of love, devotion, and devotion to the death; faith, hope and charity,- and all in the open air.”
“Yes,” said the master thoughtfully, ‘no great poem has ever been or ever will be fitted in a parlor, or even fashioned from a city. There is not room for it there.”
“Hear! hear! you might as well try to grow a California pine in the shell of a peanut,” cried I. Some laughed, some applauded, all looked curiously at me. Of course, I did not say it that well, yet I did say it far better, I mean I did not use the words carefully, but I had the advantage of action and sympathy.
Then the master said, after a bit of reflection: “Homer’s Ulysses, out of which have grown books enough to cover the earth, owes its immortality to all this, and its out-door exercise. Yet it is a bloody book a bad book, in many respects–full of revenge, treachery, avarice and wrong. And old Ulysses himself seems to have been the most colossal liar on record. But for all this, the constant change of scene, the moving ships and the roar of waters, the rush of battle and the anger of the gods, the divine valor of the hero, and, above all, and over all, like a broad, white-bosomed moon through the broken clouds, the splendid life of that one woman; the shining faith, the constancy, the truth and purity of Penelope–all these make a series of pictures that pass before us like a panorama, and we will not leave off reading till we have seen them all happy together again, and been assured that the faith and constancy of that woman has had it reward. And we love him, even if he does lie!”
How all at that board leaned and listened. Yet let me again and again humbly confess to you that I do him such injustice to try thus to quote from memory. After a while he said: “Take the picture of the old, blind, slobber-mouthed dog, that has been driven forth by the wooers to die. For twenty years he has not heard the voice of his master. The master now comes, in the guise of a beggar. The dog knows his voice, struggles to rise from the ground, staggers toward him, licks his hand, falls, and dies at his feet.”
Such was the soul, heart, gentleness of this greatest man that I ever saw walking in the fields of art….

To Arms Ye Wolfens

Posted on February 28, 2020 by Royal Rosamond Press

I have failed to get the Mayor and City Council of Eugene and Springfield interested in the real connection between the Miller Brothers, the Pre-Raphaelites, William Morris, and J.R. Tolkien. This would be a boon for all of Lane County – and Oregon! I am not sure what the problem is, but, if I press The Mighty Proud & Ignorant’ they will try to hurt me, like the Kimites and Alleyites, who insist they own all the answers.

“No need to look anywhere else – buster! The days of your curiosity are over. so get back in your little cell, Old Man! Prophet – my ass!”

I think jealousy in involved, because this looks like Big Stuff, and, it is not being presented and exploited by Big People, thus the Wee Ones can own permission to get on board in a safe and puny way. I will pay a penalty for making them look – small! If I would just die, or, go away, then there tiny input will suffice. The feeding frenzy over Nothing, will go on. The ongoing homeless problem will define us. They are all powerless! Not I. I came up with a solution for one homeless person. I did my Civic Duty. Consider Gulliver’s Travels.

J.R. Tolkien was deeply influenced by William Morris’s The House of Wolfen. Morris was a Pre-Raphaelite and great friend of Dante Gabriel Rossetti whose last name is translated thus in French…..ROSAMONDE. I will be safely accused of self-grandizing by invoking this name that was popular amongst the Brotherhood. Rossetti painted a version of Fair Rosamond, and his friend, Swineburne wrote…..ROSAMUND QUEEN OF THE LOMBARDS.

I have been so busy running my little town newspaper, and being a real prophet out to thwart the Mad Man in The White House, that I have neglected the little essay Joaquin Miller wrote about his Dinner with Rossetti. I had not noticed the mention or the poem Evangeline written by Longfellow the friend of Nathaniel Hawthorne, who wrote about my ancestor, John Wilson, in The Scarlet Letter. This work, and the writing of Washington Irving inspired me to write ‘A Rose Among The Woodwose’ which is a continuation, a splicing, a Time Machine that takes up where Longfellow left off….the telling of the Great American Tale and Spirit…that the Mad Woodwose and Wood Master, Jaquin Miller took to England, at the suggestion of Ina Coolbrith, the head of the Oakland Library. Did she know Jack London?

Cease! I have written too much! The Candy-coated Consumer can only take so much. They want QUICK BITES of candy full of Stars. Many want Quick Jesus Candy from a Con Artist and Lunatic. They want A Hit and a Toke! They want to swallow The Ring, then, go for The Ten Minute Ringtone Crown.

Miller’s dinner with Rossetti preceded Tolkien’s discussions with his friend C.S. Lewis. This is my discovery that connects Lane County with Britain. This is an amazing cultural link that has to be ignored and rejected because  it makes me powerful.

John Presco

President: Royal Rosamond Press

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Evangeline

THIS is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,
Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,
Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.
Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.

This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it
Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman?
Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers,—
Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands,
Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven?
Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed!
Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October
Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o’er the ocean.
Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pré.

Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient,
Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman’s devotion,
List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest;
List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy.[16][17][18]

To me a poem must be a picture,” I answered.
Proud I was when a great poet then said: “And it must be a picture–if a good poem so simple that you can understand it at a glance, eh? And see it and remember it as you would see and remember a sunset, eh?” “Aye,” answered the master, “I also demand that it shall be lofty in sentiment and sublime in expression. The only rule I have for measuring the merits of a written poem, is by the height of it. Why not be able to measure its altitude as you measure one of your sublime peaks of America?”

He looked at me as he spoke of America, and I was encouraged to answer:”Yes, I do not want to remember the words. But I do want it to remain with me a picture and become a part of my life. Take this one verse from Mr. Longfellow:
“And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares that infest the day
Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.’”

“Good!” cried the fat cynic, who, I am sure, had never heard the couplet before, it was so sweet to him; “Good! There is a picture that will depart from no impressible clay. The silent night, the far sweet melody falling on the weary mind, the tawny picturesque Arabs stealing away m the darkness, the perfect peace, the stillness and the rest. It appeals to all the Ishmaelite in our natures, and all the time we see the tents gathered up and the silent children of the desert gliding away in the gloaming.”

A transplanted American, away down at the other end by a little man among bottles, said: “The poem of Evangeline is a succession of pictures. I never read Evangeline but once.” “It is a waste of time to look twice at a sunset,” said Rossetti, sotto voce, and the end man went on: “But i believe I can see every picture in that poem as distinctly as if I had been the unhappy Arcadian; for here the author has called in ail the elements that go to make up a perfect poem.”

“When the great epic of this new, solid Saxon tongue comes to be written,” said one who sat near and was dear to the master’s heart, “it will embrace all that this embraces: new and unnamed lands; ships on the sea; the still deep waters hidden away in a deep and voiceless continent; the fresh and fragrant wilderness; the curling smoke of the camp-fire; action, movement, journeys; the presence–the inspiring presence of woman; the ennobl- ing sentiment of love, devotion, and devotion to the death; faith, hope and charity,- and all in the open air.”

http://www.gutenberg.org/files/2137/2137-h/2137-h.htm

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_House_of_the_Wolfings

The House of the Wolfings is a romantically reconstructed portrait of the lives of the Germanic Gothic tribes, written in an archaic style and incorporating a large amount of poetry. Morris combines his own idealistic views with what was actually known at the time of his subjects’ folkways and language. He portrays them as simple and hardworking, galvanized into heroic action to defend their families and liberty by the attacks of imperial Rome.

Morris’s Goths inhabit an area called the Mark on a river in the forest of Mirkwood, divided into the Upper-mark, the Mid-mark and the Nether-mark. They worship their gods Odin and Tyr by sacrificing horses, and rely on seers who foretell the future and serve as psychic news-gatherers.

The men of the Mark choose two War Dukes to lead them against their enemies, one each from the House of the Wolfings and the House of the Laxings. The Wolfing war leader is Thiodolf, a man of mysterious and perhaps divine antecedents, whose ability to lead is threatened by his possession of a magnificent dwarf-made mail-shirt which, unknown to him, is cursed. He is supported by his lover the Wood Sun and their daughter the Hall Sun, who are related to the gods.

The Iron Crown of Lombardy (ItalianCorona Ferrea di LombardiaLatinCorona Ferrea Langobardiae) is both a reliquary and one of the oldest royal insignias of Christendom. It was made in the Early Middle Ages, consisting of a circlet of gold and jewels fitted around a central silver band, which tradition holds to be made of iron beaten out of a nail of the True Cross. The crown became one of the symbols of the Kingdom of the Lombards and later of the medieval Kingdom of Italy. It is kept in the Cathedral of Monza, near Milan.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rosamund_(wife_of_Alboin)

Coolbrith, born the niece of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints founder Joseph Smith, left the Mormon community as a child to enter her teens in Los Angeles, California, where she began to publish poetry. She terminated a youthful failed marriage to make her home in San Francisco, and met writers Bret Harte and Charles Warren Stoddard with whom she formed the “Golden Gate Trinity” closely associated with the literary journal Overland Monthly. Her poetry received positive notice from critics and established poets such as Mark TwainAmbrose Bierce and Alfred Lord Tennyson. She held literary salons at her home in Russian Hill[3]—in this way she introduced new writers to publishers. Coolbrith befriended the poet Joaquin Miller and helped him gain global fame.

While Miller toured Europe and lived out their mutual dream of visiting Lord Byron’s tomb, Coolbrith was saddled with custody of his daughter and the care of members of her own family. As a result, she came to reside in Oakland and accepted the position of city librarian. Her poetry suffered as a result of her long work hours, but she mentored a generation of young readers including Jack London and Isadora Duncan. After she served for 19 years, Oakland’s library patrons called for reorganization, and Coolbrith was fired. She moved back to San Francisco and was invited by members of the Bohemian Club to be their librarian.[4]

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ina_Coolbrith

Whiles in the early Winter eve
We pass amid the gathering night
Some homestead that we had to leave
Years past; and see its candles bright
Shine in the room beside the door
Where we were merry years agone
But now must never enter more,
As still the dark road drives us on.
E’en so the world of men may turn
At even of some hurried day
And see the ancient glimmer burn
Across the waste that hath no way;
Then with that faint light in its eyes
A while I bid it linger near
And nurse in wavering memories
The bitter-sweet of days that were.

CHAPTER I—THE DWELLINGS OF MID-MARK

The tale tells that in times long past there was a dwelling of men beside a great wood.  Before it lay a plain, not very great, but which was, as it were, an isle in the sea of woodland, since even when you stood on the flat ground, you could see trees everywhere in the offing, though as for hills, you could scarce say that there were any; only swellings-up of the earth here and there, like the upheavings of the water that one sees at whiles going on amidst the eddies of a swift but deep stream.

On either side, to right and left the tree-girdle reached out toward the blue distance, thick close and unsundered, save where it and the plain which it begirdled was cleft amidmost by a river about as wide as the Thames at Sheene when the flood-tide is at its highest, but so swift and full of eddies, that it gave token of mountains not so far distant, though they were hidden.  On each side moreover of the stream of this river was a wide space of stones, great and little, and in most places above this stony waste were banks of a few feet high, showing where the yearly winter flood was most commonly stayed.

You must know that this great clearing in the woodland was not a matter of haphazard; though the river had driven a road whereby men might fare on each side of its hurrying stream.  It was men who had made that Isle in the woodland.

For many generations the folk that now dwelt there had learned the craft of iron-founding, so that they had no lack of wares of iron and steel, whether they were tools of handicraft or weapons for hunting and for war.  It was the men of the Folk, who coming adown by the river-side had made that clearing.  The tale tells not whence they came, but belike from the dales of the distant mountains, and from dales and mountains and plains further aloof and yet further.

jaun14
jaun16
jaun17
jaun18

Joaquin Miller
Baum
You’ve mentioned that Joaquin Miller seemed to favor the Whitaker family.

Martinez
My father was very fond of Joaquin Miller. My father and I walked up to Miller’s, a mere four miles or so, I guess at least every other week, sometimes every week. Joaquin Miller was very fond of our family. He was a picturesque figure even as an old man; he was in his seventies then.

We would go up there every year on the Whitaker day, and in between I’d go up with my father, I guess, two or three times a month. There were often a great many interesting people there and a great many interesting Orientals; I met Yone Noguchi, the famous poet there.

I started to write a book on one year in the Whitaker life, and I had a whole chapter and I’m going to leave the manuscript with the album. In one chapter I had written a complete and perfect description of the Miller place. It was exquisite, with the picturesque little chapel and the little house in which his mother lived. She had just died.

On one of our visits up there the famous old Indiana fiddlers had come to see Joaquin Miller. He was born, you know, in a log cabin

― 179 ―
in Indiana. He sat there with the most ecstatic look while those old fiddlers with great big beards — they’d have to stick their long beards into the collar of their coats before they could play. Oh, it was just wonderful.

Then all through the trees — the place was beautiful then. The front of the house was enclosed in rose bowers — he loved roses — rose bowers and orange and lemon trees. There was a tiny bridge over the creek at the entrance of the chapel. Beyond the chapel was a little place where he used to demonstrate for his visitors that he could bring rain. He’d lived with the Modocs. So we decided we had to have him make rain for us, and we all — he held a Whitaker day at the Hights every year — because he said it was so unusual in those days to see a family of seven — good pioneer style.

On the first visit all seven of us were marshalled into this little dark room which was sort of rustic looking, beautiful vines and everything over it, and nothing inside except a great buffalo robe on the floor. So he sat down and told us all to sit around him. Then he began to pray for rain in the Modoc language. First of all it was a gentle murmur, soft, put you to sleep almost, and then it got stronger until it was a roar and the whole place reverberated with the tremendous roar. He stopped suddenly: soon we heard a few raindrops, then a heavy downpour. We all sat there just fascinated. He called us out and there was the sun shining but the shrubbery was dripping. We all of us were a little bit astonished, it was a little astounding, but maybe the Indians could do it. When we were on our

― 180 ―
way home one of my brothers said, “Listen, I sat next to the old man and I felt a bump under the buffalo robe and I found a faucet.” [Laughter] He said, “I found a faucet. I almost touched his hand on it. I pulled it away when I found his hand was there.” He’d turned the faucet on, and that little devil had stuck his hand under the robe and found where his hand was. He was suspicious.

Then he had the Japanese and Chinese artists living there. They built their beautiful little Japanese paper houses up through the woods. What beautiful country! It looks like a mess now, but it was beautiful then — a natural and wild landscape — and the Japanese had carefully created a meandering little stream, Japanese style, beautifully arranged with gardens and little rockeries near the poet’s. You know their expertness in creating beauty. They’d made this beautiful place where they had their barbecues. At that time the poet’s barbecues were always run by his Japanese friends. We’d have raw fish and soy sauce — really delicious. Then, always the particular barbecue for which the poet was famous — he had beautifully peeled willow switches on which were arranged rounds of onions and meat — which you held over the fire until cooked to your taste.

Then we’d go up to a little art colony scattered throughout the woods in their beautiful paper houses. These houses were well made, beautifully constructed, but all the doors and windows except the frames were made of paper. We’d go in, take our shoes off and sit down and we’d watch the artists work, or they’d display work to show us. Some were Chinese, most of them were Japanese. At that time his

― 181 ―
ambition was to overthrow Kipling’s “East and West, never the twain shall meet”. Well, he was going to correct that. He succeeded in arranging several marriages between Americans and Japanese.

My first beau, I was sixteen, was a Japanese poet living there. However, my father, being an Englishman, looked with grave displeasure on the whole thing. My young poet used to come down to our home with reams of beautiful eucalyptus bark on which were inscribed his poem in exquisite Japanese characters.

Those dreadful brothers of mine used to light the fires with them. And it (our friendship) never got beyond the stage of chanting and incense. He’d bring his incense pot, light it, and chant his poems. Of course I didn’t know Japanese but I sat quite serenely and listened to them. Finally my father told Miller that he didn’t approve and it must stop. Then there was one final parting call from Kugi. He brought his incense pot, and his lyrics must have been heartbreaking from the expressions and the dramatic rendering of them. That was the last time I saw him.

Baum
Did he speak English, too?

Martinez
Oh yes. Many Japanese speak English.

Baum
But he never wrote in English?

Martinez
No. Miller arranged the marriage between Gertrude Boyle, the sculptress, and a Japanese Shinto priest. Later she left the priest and married a young Japanese artist. She was a very talented woman, too, and a very interesting one. He had arranged, I understand, several other marriages before that.

― 182 ―

There’s the wonderful tale about Joaquin Miller in Europe that Ina Coolbrith told me. There was a tremendous wave of love of the wild West in Europe, England especially. They admired Mark Twain, Bret Harte was feted in London, Stoddard, too, was loved — he brought the South Seas there long before Stevenson did. And the famous Buffalo Bill Cody and his circus had just swept Europe by storm; Cody entertained all the crowned heads and grand dukes of Europe, taking them on hunting trips in Yellowstone when it was a magnificent wilderness. Lord Houghton had the hobby of collecting wild westerners.

Ina Coolbrith told Lord Houghton about the truly picturesque Joaquin Miller — how he had studied law by correspondence and been a judge in Modoc County; he had been a Pony Express rider, was a famous scout, and lastly, a poet. He had, moreover, lived with the Indians and was an expert on Indian lore and customs, and so Houghton demanded to see him. Ina sent for Joaquin.

He arrived in London, if you please, in his picturesque outfit — a tall Mexican hat the hidalgo wears and a suit of white deerskin which the Sioux Indian women work on until it looks like velvet, a Sioux vest beaded in gorgeous colors and designs, with gobs of raw Klondike gold for buttons, and soft black leather boots up to the knees. He was six feet two and he had blue eyes and golden curls. That night they were to see the Queen who was appearing at a special performance in one of the theaters in London. Ina and Joaquin were to meet in the Green Room. On his arrival, Ina Coolbrith looked him over and said, “You know,” (she’d been doused in the Rossetti tradition

― 183 ―
and everything was Italian style) “Joaquin, I think you should have your hair trimmed just a little, Italian style”. He wouldn’t hear of it. He had blonde curls over his shoulders. So he became angry and left. Ina was terribly upset – what to do?, what to do? She had already briefed him on where to meet them at the Green Room, and when she arrived there, there was no Joaquin Miller. Houghton was much disappointed. However, during the first scene of the performance, into the Houghton box stepped a white figure. She looked up – the curls were gone! She was terribly upset. Right across from Houghton’s box was Queen Victoria’s box. When the lights went up Miller came to the front of the box, took his great hat off, bowed to the Queen and down fell this mass of beautiful curls over his shoulders. (Laughter) That winter to every woman in London it was the fashion to have curls over the shoulders. He was the sensation of the London season. Queen Victoria gave him a special audience thanks to her son, Edward VII, who made much of Joaquin.

In this effete Victorian period, the wild West was so refreshing to them. The “mauve decade” was very properly named. He met all the great men of the period. He met the empire builder Disraeli, and Disraeli’s staunch opponent Gladstone. He met great poets, writers and painters of England. He was given the velvet carpet treatment there and was the hit of the season. Queen Victoria gave him a large autographed portrait of herself. It was in the place of honor in the center of his wall surrounded by autographed photographs of all the great men of England with personal and many glowing tributes

― 184 ―
to him. Before his wife and daughter arrived when he was ill, all these photos disappeared without a clue as to their whereabouts.

He went from England to Italy and became a friend of the King of Italy. He was the figure in Europe in that period. The King of Italy told him about the trouble they were having with malaria in Rome from the Pontine Marshes outside of Rome. Miller said, “Well, I’ll tell you how to take care of that – I will send you 2,000 eucalyptus seedlings that will dry your marshes up.” He sent about 10,000 seedlings – they were planted and, as Miller promised, grew apace and dried up the marshes and helped bring down Rome’s malaria considerably.

Designed by a team headed by Oakland Park Superintendent William Mott Jr and built as a WPA project, Woodminster Amphitheater and Cascades were dedicated in 1940 as a memorial to California writers. The trees and other vegetation along the Cascades, planted by horticulturist and design team member Lionel Sprattling, are designated Writers Memorial Grove, and individual plantings are dedicated to California’s great authors, including Joaquin Miller as well as Bret Harte, Jack London, Mark Twain, Dashiell Hammet, Ina Coolbrith, and many others. This is a fitting tribute, since so many of them visited this spot when “Poet of the Sierras” Joaquin Miller owned this land which he called “The Hights,” spelling intentional.

http://www.theaup.com/SFE_site/Pages/Projects/Parks/WoodminsterCscd01.html#

http://www.dinahroe.com/blog/maria_rossetti_and_chelsea_fc

http://www.george-sterling.org/articles/George+and+Carrie+Sterling+and+the+Havens+Family

Later, when George Sterling replaced Herman Whitaker as London s best
friend and Elsie married Xavier Martinez at the age of seventeen, she moved
to Piedmont, which had become something of a writers center. Through her
San Francisco and Oakland and Piedmont connections she came to know most of
the writers of the Bay Area. She also came to know the members of the Carmel
colony almost as soon as it was started by Sterling in 1906; after her mar
riage to Martinez she would go with him to visit the hospitable Sterlings
and still later, when he was teaching summer art courses at the Del Monte
Hotel in Monterey and in Carmel, she continued to come in contact with writers
like Mary Austin and Harry Leon Wilson. At a still later date she moved to
Carmel, where she now lives.

Still another contact with the writing world came through her friendship
with Harriet Dean, financial manager of the famous Little Review which under
Margaret Anderson s leadership in Chicago had been very influential in
furthering the renascence of American letters which followed the First World War.

iv

For a while the Little Review was published in San Francisco; then
Margaret Anderson took it to Paris while Harriet Dean remained in the
West, living with Elsie in Piedmont and Carmel until her recent death.

The other string for Elsie s bow was, of course, her contact with
local artists. Through her marriage to Martinez, the flamboyant “Aztec”
who loved to capitalize on his Mexican -Indian origins and his experiences
in Paris at the Ecole des Beaux -Arts, she came to know most of the aspiring
artists of the region, from Maynard Dixon to Arnold Genthe. These not only
included the painters who once had had their studios in the old Montgomery
Block, but those who exhibited and taught at Del Monte and Carmel, as well
as those associated with the California College of Arts and Crafts, where
Xavier Martinez spent years as a teacher. The Martinez s daughter,
Micaela or “Kai”, is now a well-known painter of religious art; Elsie s
son-in-law, Ralph Du Casse, is today one of the leading Bay Area painters
and head of the Art Department at Mills College. Thus, Elsie Martinez,
perennially young, has kept in touch with writers and artists to the present
day.

http://archive.org/stream/martinezsfartists00elsirich/martinezsfartists00elsirich_djvu.txt

We lingered silently, overlooking the view father loved, a
soft breeze rippling the already tall grasses on the hillsides; and
from the wooded canyons below, came the pungent scent of sage and
wild mint; and memory followed the old road that wound up the Thorn-
hill Grade over which the early pioneers traveled and, in the past,
after the “round-up,” we watched the cattle drive, a weaving, mas
sive thrust into the valley below; beyond lay the Bay of burnished
silver and, across it, rose the towers of San Francisco and, en
circling the Bay, the expanding towns reaching up into the hills;
across the Bay the Golden Gate, outlet to the Orient, was tied to
Tamalpais, a beautiful mountain whose outlines, to father, had a
curious resemblance to the romantic picture he loved on our wall at

51

Martinez: home, the legendary and hapless Lady of Shalott, Elaine the Fair,
of whose sorrows the troubadours sang –of her last journey,
stretched out on a sumptuous barge her fabulous golden hair in
long waves clinging to the heavily embroidered blue mantle wrapped
about her, floating gently down the historic Thames to London Town.
With a last look at the softly rounded knoll that held his ashes,
they gallantly tried to hide their tears as they wended down the
curving road back home, absorbed in a loneliness they had never
experienced or felt before.

About Royal Rosamond Press

I am an artist, a writer, and a theologian.
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