The chief excellencies of Miller’s works are his gorgeous pictures of the gigantic scenery of the Western mountains. In this sense he is a true poet. As compared with Bret Harte, while Miller has the finer poetic perception of the two, he does not possess the dramatic power nor the literary skill of Harte; nor does he seem to recognize the native generosity and noble qualities which lie hidden beneath the vicious lives of outlaws, as the latter reveals it in his writings. After all the question arises which is the nearer the truth? Harte is about the same age as Miller, lived among the camps at about the same time, but he was not, to use a rough expression, “one of the gang,” was not so pronouncedly “on the inside” as was his brother poet. He never dug in the mines, he was not a filibuster, nor an Indian Sachem. All these and more Miller was, and perhaps he is nearer the plumb line of truth in his delineations after all. Mr. Miller’s home is on the bluffs overlooking the San Francisco Bay in sight of the Golden Gate. In July, 1897, he joined the gold seekers in the Klondike regions of Alaska. * * * * * THOUGHTS OF MY WESTERN HOME. WRITTEN IN ATHENS. SIERRAS, and eternal tents Of snow that flashed o’er battlements Of mountains! My land of the sun, Am I not true? have I not done All things for thine, for thee alone, O sun-land, sea-land, thou mine own? From other loves and other lands, As true, perhaps, as strong of hands, Have I not turned to thee and thine, O sun-land of the palm and pine, And sung thy scenes, surpassing skies, Till Europe lifted up her face And marveled at thy matchless grace, With eager and inquiring eyes? Be my reward some little place To pitch my tent, some tree and vine Where I may sit above the sea, And drink the sun as drinking wine, And dream, or sing some songs of thee; Or days to climb to Shasta’s dome Again, and be with gods at home, Salute my mountains――clouded Hood, Saint Helen’s in its sea of wood―― Where sweeps the Oregon, and where White storms are in the feathered fir. * * * * * MOUNT SHASTA. TO lord all Godland! lift the brow Familiar to the noon,――to top The universal world,――to prop The hollow heavens up,――to vow Stern constancy with stars,――to keep Eternal ward while ♦eons sleep; To tower calmly up and touch God’s purple garment――hems that sweep The cold blue north! Oh, this were much!