 | Helen Jackson |  |
HELEN JACKSON.
THE news of the death of Mrs. Helen Jackson — better known as "H. H." — will probably carry a pang of regret into more American homes than similar intelligence in regard to any other woman, with the possible exception of Mrs. H. B. Stowe, who belongs to an earlier literary generation. With this last-named exception, no American woman has produced literary work of such marked ability. Her fame was limited by the comparatively late period at which she began to write, and by her preference for a somewhat veiled and disguised way of writing. It is hard for two initial letters to cross the Atlantic, and she had therefore no European fame; and as she took apparently a real satisfaction in concealing her identity and mystifying her public, it is very likely that the authorship of some of her best prose work will never be absolutely known. Enough remained, however, to give her a peculiar both hold upon thoughtful and casual readers.
Helen Maria (Fiske) Jackson was the daughter of Prof. Nathan W. Fiske, of Amherst College, whose 'Manual of Classical Literature,' based on that of Eschenberg, was long in use in our colleges, and who wrote several other books. She was born in Amherst, Mass., October 18, 1831; her mother's maiden name being Vinal. The daughter was educated in part at Ipswich (Mass.) Female Seminary, and in part at the school of the Rev. J. S. C. Abbott in this city. She was early married to Captain (afterward Major) Edward B. Hunt, an eminent engineer officer of the United States Army. Major Hunt was a man of scientific attainments quite unusual in his profession, was a member of various learned societies, and for some time an assistant professor at West Point. He contributed to one of the early volumes of the Atlantic Monthly (xii, 794) a paper on "Military Bridges." His wife resided with him at various military stations — West Point, Washington, Newport, R. I., etc. — and they had several children, all of whom died very young except one boy, Rennie, who lived to the age of eight or ten, showing extraordinary promise. His death and that of Major Hunt — who was killed in 1863 by the discharge of suffocating vapors from a submarine battery of his own invention — left Mrs. Hunt alone in the world, and she removed her residence a year or two after to Newport, R. I., where the second period of her life began.
Up to this time she had given absolutely no signs of literary talent. She had been absorbed in her duties as wife and mother, and had been fond of society, in which she was always welcome because of her vivacity, wit, and ready sympathy. In Newport she found herself, from various causes, under strong literary influences, appealing to tastes that developed rapidly in herself. She soon began to publish poems, one of the first of which, if not the first — a translation from Victor Hugo — appeared in the Nation. Others of her poems, perhaps her best — including the sonnets "Burnt Ships" and "Ariadne's Farewell" — appeared also in the Nation. Not long after, she began to print short papers on domestic subjects in the Independent and elsewhere, and soon found herself thoroughly embarked in a literary career. Her first poem in the Atlantic Monthly appeared in February, 1869; and her volume of 'Verses' was printed at her own expense in 1870, being reprinted with some enlargement in 1871, and again, almost doubled in size, in 1874. Her 'Bits of Travel' (1872) was made up of sketches of a tour in Europe in 1868-9; a portion of these, called 'Encyclicals of a Traveller,' having been originally written as circular letters to her many friends and then printed — rather against her judgment, but at the urgent request of Mr. J. T. Fields — almost precisely as they were written. Upon this followed 'Bits of Talk About Home Matters' (1873), 'Bits of Talk for Young Folks' (1876), and 'Bits of Travel at Home' (1878). These, with a little poem called 'The Story of Boon,' constituted, for some time, all her acknowledged volumes; but it is now no secret that she wrote two of the most successful novels of the "No Name" series — 'Mercy Philbrick's Choice' (1876) and 'Hetty's Strange History' (1877). We do not propose here to enter into the vexed question of the authorship of the "Saxe Holm" stories, which appeared in the early volumes of Scribner's Monthly, and were published in two volumes (1873, 1878). The secret was certainly very well kept, and in spite of her denials, they were very often attributed to her by readers and critics.
Her residence in Newport as a busy and successful literary woman thus formed a distinct period of her life, quite apart from the epoch which preceded it and from the later one which followed. A change soon came. Her health was never very strong, and she was liable to severe attacks of diphtheria, to relieve which she tried the climate of Colorado. She finally took up her residence there, and was married, about 1876, to William S. Jackson, a merchant of Colorado Springs. She had always had the greatest love for travel and exploration, and found unbounded field for this in her new life, driving many miles a day over precipitous roads, and thinking little of crossing the continent by rail from the Atlantic to the Pacific. In the course of these journeys she became profoundly interested in the wrongs of the Indians, and for the rest of her life all literary interests and ambitions were utterly subordinated to this. During a winter of hard work at the Astor Library in this city she prepared her 'Century of Dishonor' (1881). As one result of this book she was appointed by the United States Government as one of two commissioners (Abbot Kinney being the other) to examine and report upon "the condition and needs of the Mission Indians of California." Their report, to which Mrs. Jackson's name is first signed, is dated at Colorado Springs, July 13, 1883, and is a thoroughly business-like document of thirty-five pages.
As another fruit of this philanthropic interest, she wrote, during another winter in this city, her
In all this there was not a trace of personal vanity or display; there never was a more complete absorption in a "cause" than that of this woman, whose earlier years had been so different. But in all else she remained the same; time could not dim her vivacity, her freshness, her wit, her winning and persuasive manners. Few women who have such variety of nature as she had, make friends so warmly or so easily, or light up life for these friends in so many different ways. Her likes and dislikes were spontaneous, ardent, sometimes unjust; yet even the injustice was sometimes an inaccurately aimed impulse of justice in disguise; and when she was convinced of it — which indeed was not always — she would be quick to apologize to any one whom she had wronged. In literature her work was conscientious and thorough beyond that of almost any American woman; she never slighted it, never wilfully neglected details, never was weary of trying to perfect it. This applies especially to her prose. For her poetry, it is enough to say that it has won the applause of very fastidious critics — including emphatically the late Mr. R. W. Emerson — while her simpler poems are to be found widely distributed through the cottages and log-huts of our furthest borders, and have given comfort to many hearts. Many notices of her separate books may be found scattered through the magazines; but we can recall no systematic critical essay on her qualities as a writer except that contained in Higginson's 'Short Studies of American Authors.'
Mrs. Jackson died far away from home and kindred; but the spirit with which she met death may be seen in a further extract which we are permitted to make from the letter already mentioned. It would be difficult to imagine a worthier ending to a life marked by steady progress in the direction of unselfish aims:
| Helen Jackson | |