The morning call., 1892-09-18

because they don't knoW any letter. Bern
hardt never played, or at least
never seemed to me to play, so we'll
as she played here. 1t mag be in part ow-
ing to her improved health and appearance;
and something may be due to our pretheT
theaters, like the Steckwel, Baldwin and
California, that | am able to see Day's peo-
pie do better work here than in New York;
but am going to take the risk of ascrlbing
IL TO certain sort of stimulating art atmos.
phere. For spoke to the greatest OF Eng
lish actors very seriously upon this subject,
ana he entirely agreed with me. "EagIand
IS The trunk OF the tree of art, the Eastern
States are the branches, but California will
be the flower" These are his words, not
mine at ali. l intend TO touch upon this
idea from time TO time. For it is most i'm
portant that we, the workers in art, and
above all. those who sit in judgment on the
various benches Of art should look closely
into this, and if there is anything in it keep
1t constantly in mind.
OF course you can and may deny that
artists do better work here than elsewhete:
you can and may as easily assert that actors
are less able here than elsewhere; for these
are as yet merely matters OF opinion, so
crude are our own notions as to these
branches OF art Yet no one will say that
our writers are equal to themselves in other
lands. And all will coneede that Menkea
wOnld have been forgotten before this but
Tor her sad. sweet snatches Of song done
here.
OF course Helen Hunt Jackson could not
nave been forgotten. for her work, whether
d0ne In Boston or Colorado, was we'll nigh
perfect, such as it was. Bat it was of
cameo kind. And it is quite certain that
had she not come to US and been nOurished
by the vItaliZing breath OF the great calm
sea- America would have known nothing Of
her sweetest and truest story. Thus you
see, however you may dispute about other
branches of art, that authors, at least. gain
nothing by going away, but gain immeas-
urably by coming here. And this is all l
care to say on the subject now. And, in
deed. little more remains 10 be said on the
subject OF this sketch. Let us look upon
the rose in its fun bloom and perfection
and 80 pass on. 1t is dreadful this habit
the world has Of pursuing the hind, like
hounds, down TO the waters edge Enough
10 know that her noble life faded ;like
glorious sunset here by the greas sea OF seas:
DO not come tomorrow, dear; | will not
be here" This is what she said to lady
friend OF mine who had watched with her
almost to the end. 81 will not be here" How
like Socrates. when they asked him at the
end how and where he would be buried.
Bury me anyhow and any where you
please, only you will have to fiud me first"
was his answer.
Weary of all forms, sick of all folles.
tue as truth itself to her vanguished and
vanished red men. she asked to be laid to
is there Mighty mountains. black with
forests and capped with snow. keep watch
about her grave. Some trees are close by.
The grass is long, wild and untrOdden in
the old Indian trail. No stone marks the
place where they laid her; for she would
not have such waste aud folly. But did
they really lay her there? Nay, only her
dust For the real Helen Hunt jackson
lies deep and sacred ii every truly human
heart.
Here are some lines of hers Oh this
theme not her best, for the hand was
weary toward the end, maybe. They are
called
THE LAST WORDS.
Dear hearts whose love has been sweet 70
know,
That 1 am looking backward as 1 90,
Am lingering while haste, and in this rain
OF tears OF Joy am minging tears OF pain.
Do not sdorn With costly shrub. tree,
Or flower the little grave that shelters me.
Let the wild, wIUd sown seed grow up unharmed
And back and forth all summer, unalarmed,
Let all the tiny busy crettures creep:
Let the sweet grass its last years Jangles keep;
And when. remembering me. you come some day
Ana stand there, speak no praise, but only say,
"How she loved US 1t was tor that she dearr'
These are the only words that shall smile to hear.
Brave and lone still, as she lived; giving
her dust to the ghOstly trail of the departed
people for whom she gave her lifel What
dreams, visions may not he hers with her
silent pe0ple-the stormy midnight there
so near the summit of the Rocky Noun
tains. The stateliest tomb in America to-
day is that of Helen Hunt jackson in Chey-
enDe Pass, with not a stick or stone to
mark il. JOAQUIN MILLER.