the book.
The lines — What was my troth to him? A stepping-stone at best. in Mrs. Miller's reply to Miller's "Farewell," seems to be evidence against him upon the charge of appropriating his wife's literary productions. The italics are used by us. With the largest charity that we are capable of exercising on this occasion, we must say of this new aspirant for literary honors, that he is what no poet ever was —a money-getter, who on general resources and by slow accumulations ac quired a competence. He is what no poet ever can be —de void of affection or concern for his own offspring. Notwith standing the hard efforts of their mother, his babes were rescued from want and taken from a miserable attic in Port land by private charity, a few months after Miller's depar ture from the State. The preservation of its offspring is an instinct that even the brute possesses. The man who deserts his offspring is a little lower than the brute. Poets are a little lower than the angels. No such base metal as this Charles Hiner Miller ever gave out the true poetic ring. He is simply gifted with rare impudence. He is only a com pound of brass and bad grammar. If this be fame, then what is fame worth? It was indeed "shame from the sensational branch of the press in the West." The Albany Democrat said that he published the plagiarized serial stories under his own name. Dr. J. B. Horner said that he was writ ing stories for the weekly papers of Oregon which were "wild, weird and sometimes blood-thirsty" but that he signed them "Giles Gaston." In one of these, in which he thrillingly depicted a battle on the border with the Indians, he expressed a desire to be come acquainted with the sweet singer of the Coquelle, who ever she might be. .. . In Minnie's next story was given her address; and the correspondence, which a few months later
