The morning call., 1892-09-18

tuub CucdpSob hluQ VI pCloO HAl
daring. Her serene and cautious courage
of mind, mental courage. was beyond calcu-
lation. She despised all sensational and
cheap methods of work. Like still. sweet
brook winding through meadow. silently
watering the. thirsty world, yet quite
hidden away among the leaning willows
and wild flowers and long strong grasses
which it feedS-this it seems TO ME was
Helen Hunt Jackson's life and way of
work. Her first books, even their modest.
simple titles, tell all this better than l can
tell it, Bits Of Travel ABROAD" y: Bits of
Travel at Home; Verses by Il. H."
Aye, these two initials tell the whole story
of her shy aud modest dread of noisy popu-
larity. And then the SAKE Holme" papers,
with no name or trace or her at all. But
here | am bound to say On my honor am
not certain she wrote these. Yet the world
claims TO be certain OF it, and that will be
quite enough said for the purpose OF point
ing out her mental valor. She was a sort
of David. who sought constantly to go out
alone without sword or shield or name, and
so smite the giant Wrong in the forehead
with only little pebble from her hand.
Brave A certain man, new to the world
then and without friends in America, was
being all torn to pieces by The press or his
country two decades ago, when she stepped
forward, this lone little woman. and in
answer 10 all men began her valiant review
in the leading magazine OF the land with
these words: Il feel like thanking God
every day of my life that there is such
man as - in America"
1t makes nothing. as the Italians say, who
this man may have BEEN. Who cares to can
find the review and the name in the maga-
zine. i only care to illustrate her courage,
sense of justice and contempt of popular
clamor. Perhaps the following lines OF
hers can show more clearly than words of
mine what a shy recluse she was in song
and story when not on the ramparts OF bat
tie for the right.
THE WAY TO SING.
The birds must know. Who wisely sings
VIII sing as they
The common air has generous wings,
Songs make their way.
No messenger 70 run before,
Deyising pan
No mention of the place or hour
To any man;
No waiting TIL some sound betrsys
No different voice, no IA sw delays
IL steps draw near.
"what bird is that9 Its song is good"
And eager eyes
Go peering through the dusky wood
In glad surprise.
Then late at night. when by his fire
Watching the flames grow brighter. higher.
The sweet song fits
BY snatches through his weary brain
To help him rest.
When next he goes that road again
An empty nest
On leafess boagh Will make him sigh,
Just here heard, in passing by,
That rare bird sIngP'
But while he sings remembering
How sweet the song.
The little bird, on tireless wing,
Is borne along
In other air, and other men,
With weary feet,
On other roads. the simple strain
Are finding sweet.
The birds must know. tho wisely sings
VIII sing they;
The common air has generous wings
Songs make their way 4
had brought out book in Londol<fn
benalf of the Indians, getting permission to
dedicate it to Wendell Phillips, through his
son-in-law. G. V. Smalley of the Tribune,
for did not know Phillips then. and this
book won me kindly letters from this
bravest of brave women. She used her
best influence 10 have Phillips take the plat
form for the Indian as he had done for the
negro. We together went to hear HIM at
church on Thirty-fourth street, New York.
To our amaZement the place was not half
filled. Phillips had TO drop the subject.
But she? His failure only served TO set her
soul on fire. She had an uncle who was
Governor of Colorado, Governor Hunt.
Thither she went, nothing daunted at all.
Here was wrong. II great strong
man could not right 1t ali the
more reason she should step forward
and do what she could. She would quietly,
silently do her duty. Results must care
lot tDeuSeiFSS. An! IL tue WOl III Hdi oui}
needed her, or even our own pititul little
portion of civilization out on the plains
had hardened as she prophesied and sang
from the Colorado mountain top! Tor she
began her litework long before Custer and
his men fell. The Indian, the buffalo.
much of the splendid and wild world of
nature, still survived when she stood up out
there on the border TO battle for the weaker
side.
But the beating of drums drowned her
voice. Sehshness, noise. derision, mock
ery-these were the things she saw and
heard in answer to her Century of Dis
honor"
OF course she had encouragement and
generous eouDtenance from Boston and all
the better part of our land. but right in the
face of all that she did and said tine work Of
''GishonOr" and destruction went on.
Wendell Phillips died. The Indian died !;
at least the liberty and fierce love of free
dom and of room died within him, aud he,
as a rule, followed the phantom buffalo to
"the happy hunting ground" And so her
work was ended in ''tawny Colorado" as
she named the new State. But it seems she
never knew what 1t was TO turn back or de-
part in any manner from her purpose. She
came to US, not to change her work. only
the place of her work. And how fortunate
for Us, for her, for all! This atmosphere
seemed to inspire her.
And right here may be pardoDed for a
bit OF depression. l say. and some time may
undertake TO prove, that there is sort of
mental stimulant here with us-a sort of
art atmosphere, if you please, not found
anywhere else in our land-nay, not any
where else In the world. Mark Twain did
his best work here, Bret Harte did his best
work here, Menken, Stoddard-all who
have gone awav 10 do great things now see
that greatness is here, not there. i know
some painters who went abroad 10 do
great work. Their great work was done
right here or begun here. Great actors who
| come TO us from the East aud from Europe
| play their parts inner and better here in all
ways than elsewhere. Yes. l know the
critics don't say so, but this Ia