recommend her pone.”
“Tha’s good. I’m a steady man an’ don’t go devilin’ ’round none. ’F I
ma’ied again,”—he was talking pointedly at Mellie—“I druther have a woman
that c’d work an’ keep her mouth shet than anything else. Kin you-all
tell me where I c’n git one that-a-way, Miz Chunn?”
Mellie waited on him with a padlocked tongue. When he had gorged himself
she slipped away and fled to the hickory lead at the edge of the bayou.
In the heavy shade of the forest she buried herself, trying to hide from
the shame and the horror of it all. What could she do? How could she
escape the net which enmeshed her? To whom could she turn for help? Her
throat ached with the intensity of the passion of despair that swept her.
Jed would have known what to do. Jed would have saved her. But he was
a thousand miles away on some unknown ranch. His mother’s domineering
temper had driven him away from home in anger. They had heard of him
just once in the four years. That was when the editor of their country
paper, stopping at Mrs. Chunn’s over night, had mentioned that her son
was still one of the subscribers to the _Beebee Bee_.
“Texas is a mighty big place, an’ a mighty fine country I’ve heard, but
I reckon, Madam”—with a courtly bow to Mrs. Chunn—“be it nevah so humble
the’s no place like home!”
“I ’low that’s why he makes out without evah seeing it,” Jed’s mother
had returned dryly to the burst of editorial oratory. Her boy was the
one weak spot in her inflexible armor of autocracy. To have had him home
again she would willingly have made him an exception to her own rule,
though she never admitted it even to herself.
It was to Jed’s strength that the girl’s weakness went fluttering out
in her hour of need. He would have understood, as nobody else could.
The indolent, masterful force of him would have won her battle for her.
But without him—fear rose in her throat and choked her. She could not
hold out—she knew she could not hold out against the quiet, steadfast,
terrible pressure her stepmother would bring to bear.
Texas was a big country and far away. The paper man from Beebee had said
that. But he had said, too, that he sent his paper to Jed. If so, he must
know where he was living. In the midst of the desert of her despair there
began to rise a tiny wellspring of hope. She would write to Jed.
As it happened, Buck Drumley was going to Beebee next day. Buck rented
on shares the west bottom from Mrs. Chunn and worked it in cotton.
No faintest accent of intelligence disturbed the blur of his vacant
features, and he got along very comfortably without a chin. But Mellie
could depend upon the loyalty of this lank, tow-headed product of the
bayous even if she could not upon his wisdom. Her letter to the editor
made verbal explanations unnecessary.
Buck was delighted to oblige her, and he swore himself to secrecy with
an air of conspiracy so patent that the contorted winks he attempted just
before setting out threatened to disclose everything to Mrs. Chunn.
“What in time’s ailin’ with yo’, Buck Drumley?” demanded the widow.
Buck’s jaw fell. It was Mellie who suggested neuralgia.
“Tha’s hit, Miz Chunn, this yere neuralgatism. Hit keeps a-devilin’
around me wuss’n toothache.”
He had to take half a cup full of vile tasting “yarb” medicine, but he
got away at last with his secret still undivulged. Fifty yards away
he slewed round in his seat to call back with a fatuous smile, “I’ll
sho’ly be back by evenin’, Miss Mellie—three o’clock at the furdest.”
Fortunately Mrs. Chunn had returned to her soapmaking at the back door.
Mellie took the precaution to meet her messenger down the road lest
he should blow up prematurely with his information in the presence of
her stepmother. Buck fished, with much difficulty, a slip of paper and
a quarter from the pocket of his jeans. The girl selected them from a
promiscuous collection of buttons, strings, peppermints and chewing
tobacco.
“This yere’s the place where Jed lives, leastways he useter,” pointing to
the address on the slip—“’n it didn’t cost but six bits to put the piece
in the paper. Hit’s done fixed to go ever week for a month.”
When Buck next went to town he carried with him a letter addressed to Jed
Wilson, 99 Ranch, What Cheer, Texas. A copy of the _Beebee Bee_ came back
in his pocket. Mellie hid the paper hurriedly, and waited to look at it
till she could get away to the shadows of the hickory lead at the edge of
the bayou.
Among the advertisements she found what she was seeking. A chance copy of
a New York paper, flung from a train window by a traveling man, had given
her a model for her first appearance in type.
“If this should meet the eye of Jed he will know that the girl who
hunted ’possums with him six years ago is in great need.”
Hughey pushed his curious wooing persistently. Nearly every evening now
he squirted tobacco juice from the porch and bragged of himself and his
possessions at Mellie _via_ Mrs. Chunn. His greedy, cruel smile filled
the girl with a sick fear. Divining the repulsion he inspired in her,
he offered no chance to give expression to it. That the pressure of her
environment would wear out her will he was confident, and he could afford
to wait till he was sure before he punished her for her detestation of
him. But he scored it up against her none the less.
His approaches were no more obtrusive than those of a spider, but they
were just as certain. Mellie felt herself being taken for granted. He
said no word of love and asked none of the privileges usually accorded
the successful wooer. None the less he obsessed her every waking moment.
She was never oblivious of the encroaching web he spun about her. The
time came when he and Mrs. Chunn could discuss before her the details of
his marriage to her without spoken protest on her part. She sat in an
unconsenting silence that became passionate protest when she was alone
with her stepmother.
But she knew that she fluttered in vain and that every passing week
brought her nearer the inevitable sacrifice. If she could only die—but
it takes more than a breaking heart to kill a healthy young woman! Her
misery could steal the roses from her cheeks, could keep her tossing
through the long nights in an agony of sleepless horror, but in the
daytime she dragged herself listlessly about her work as usual.
“Mose ’lows he won’t be yere to-night. He’s done gone to Beebee,” Mrs.
Chunn explained one evening.
Mellie faintly sighed her relief.
Mrs. Chunn laid her string of peppers on the table and began on another.
She was watching the girl without appearing to do so. “Ain’t you-all
keerin’ what fer he’s gone?”
Her stepdaughter’s hands fell into her lap. She looked up with a face out
of which the color had been suddenly driven.
“Yo’ gump, he’s aimin’ to git the license to-morrow.”
Everything went black before Mellie’s eyes. She caught at the arms of the
rocking chair and gripped them desperately. Presently the blood beat back
to her heart.
Mrs. Chunn’s dry voice—miles away in the haze—came to her distantly.
“’N’s I say, a gyurl that gits fohty acres of good Arkinsaw bottom land
with her man is mighty lucky. I reckon I done mighty well by you-all,
Mellie. Yo’ hadn’t ought to be so ill and ongrateful.”
Mellie hurried out into the quiet night. She was stifling, oppressed by a
deadly choking at her throat. She fled through the slashed field, as if
driven by some impotent instinct to attempt escape from the evil fate.
Habit led her to the big tree in the hickory lead where she and Jed used
to play. Her despair was long past tears. She could only lean her head
against the bark and give herself to long, dry sobbing till her passion
of self-pity had spent itself.
Not till the man was almost beside her did she hear the approaching
footsteps deadened by the soft carpet of moss. Wheeling, she stood poised
for flight, an arrested picture of youth far gone in grief.
Then, “Jed!” she cried, and he, “Mel!”
It was too good to be true. The girl’s voice quavered her doubt.
“Is it really you, Jed?”
“Hit shorely is, Mel. I seen yo’ advertisement three days ago in an old
paper. I be’n away off on the roundup and jest got back. Co’se I burnt
the wind back to help you-all out. I seen someone slippin’ acrost the
slash an’ I suspicioned it might be my little sis Mellie.”
She began to sob. “Oh, Jed, yo’ don’t know haow bad I be’n feelin’! Yo’
can’t think haow often I be’n wishin’ I was dead!”
His indolent, good-looking face took on the dark expression she had seen
only once or twice.
“If anybody’s done you-all any meanness, sis—”
The blood surged into her cheeks. “Maw’s bound an’ ’termined that I’ll
ma’ie Mose Hughey. He’s gittin’ the license to-day.”
“Mose Hughey?” The loose, graceful Southern figure stiffened. “Maw must
be crazy!”
“He’s be’n a-pesterin’ me fer nea’ly two months—an’ I hate him wuss than
a rattlesnake,” she flamed.
“He won’t pester yo’ any more, sis,” said Jed grimly, and laid a
caressing arm across her shoulders.
Mellie moved out of the shadows into the moonlight and instantly Jed’s
arm fell to his side. He stared at her in dumb surprise. The thin,
awkward child of angles he had left had gone forever, and in her place
stood a graceful creature of pliant curves. Never had he seen so sweet
and lovable a face as the one upturned to him with such frank confidence.
No need to question his heart. He had loved her as a child, as a woman
he loved her still. That first, long look surprised the truth from them
both, made it clear first to themselves and then to each other.
* * * * *
Mrs. Chunn came out from the wide gallery to the porch and peered into
the night. Two figures were moving slowly toward the house along the
cedar shadowed path.
“Mellie, is that you?”
“Yes, Maw.”
“Who’s that with you?”
“It’s me, Mother. I’ve come home—to stay.”
A sudden joy flashed into the hard eyes of the mother, but she instantly
hid her tenderness as if it had been a vice.
“Hit’s time,” was her grim comment.
He kissed her gaily. “That’s what I thought, Mother.”
“Did Mellie tell you-all that she’s a-goin’ to git married to-morrow?”
“Yes, we be’n talkin’ about it.”
“She’s a-gittin’ a good man,” defiantly.
Jed laughed. “He ain’t good enough fer her.”
“Don’t yo’ put sech notions in her head,” his mother told him sharply.
“No, Maw,” answered Jed with unwonted humility. “Co’se I want her to
think she gits a good man when she gits me.”
Mrs. Chunn’s beady eyes fastened on him. Instantly she recognized a
defeat that was sweeter than victory, but she was not yet prepared to
admit it. “Oh, she gits you-all, does she? Well, I ’low she don’t git
much ’f yo’ don’t make a better husban’ than yo’ do a son.”
She turned on her heel and went into the house without more words.
Another woman stood first with her boy now. Her jealousy was bitter.
But it was for the moment only, and beneath it was to grow a deep
satisfaction that Jed had at last come to anchorage near her.
Mellie followed her timidly into the house. She found her stepmother
stringing peppers with an impassive face. Kneeling down beside the older
woman, she slipped an arm round her.
“I jes’ cu’dn’t help loving Jed, Maw. I reckon I always have, but I
didn’t know hit till I seen him so sudden-like in the hickory lead.
We’uns are goin’ to be good child’en to you-all and obedient.”
Mrs. Chunn gave a parched little laugh. “Yes, hit looks like it.”
An impressionist’s sketch of a smile touched Mellie’s lips.
“I done like yo’ said. I got a man, Maw.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration: With Bob Taylor]
SENTIMENT AND STORY
In an article accredited to my pen, in the December number of this
magazine, the types had me telling a curious tale of the singing of a
whippoorwill, on a certain joyous night in the blessed Christmas of the
sweet long ago, and the question is raised by certain ornithological
experts whether that doleful bird does its warblings in the winter. It is
best to copy what the _Washington Herald_ says under the heading:
“SWEET BELLS OUT OF TUNE.”
Senator-elect Robert Love Taylor in one of his famous lectures
describes Christmas in the mountains of his native state, and
says:
“When I was a young man in my teens and twenties, the Christmas
season was the brightest of the year. I used to take my fiddle
under my arm at evening, when the whippoorwill began to
sing and the stars began to twinkle, and hie me away to the
merrymakings in the mountains.”
To this statement the _Nashville American_ takes exception, and
declares that no one ever heard a whippoorwill singing in the
mountains of Tennessee during the latter part of December. The
_American_ hints that Mr. Taylor has tuned his instrument to an
unheard-of pitch, and that the music he makes is discordant and
badly out of gear.
This treason right at the future Senator’s very front door is
hard for outsiders to understand. It is very much to be feared
that the _American_ has failed to measure fully up to the
opportunities offered for intimate personal relations with the
foremost fiddler of the age. Perhaps the _American_ never heard
a whippoorwill singing in December, but that does not prove
that “Bob” Taylor hasn’t. Where “Bob” Taylor is, there, also,
are the whippoorwills, the mockingbirds, the catbirds, and all
the sweet and soulful singers known to Dixieland. It matters
not the season, nor the hour, we take it. Song birds hover ever
in his wake, and music hangs upon the lightest trembling of his
bow. Flowers have their hours to fade, and the sun has its time
to set, but for “Bob” Taylor’s fiddle, all hours and times are
the same.
But even were it possible to believe that whippoorwills came
not to the melodious pleadings of his bow, as a matter of
cold and prosaic fact, nevertheless, by reason of the license
granted all poets, this music master of the hills and dales of
Tennessee would still have the right to claim their presence.
Why should the _American_ be captious about a little thing like
that; especially when the sentimental nature of the state’s
favorite son is so inevitably interwoven with the warp and woof
of the argument? A prophet may be without honor save in his own
country, but a fiddler of “Bob” Taylor’s fame deserves loyalty
and cordial praise from all.
Let the _American_ cease from troubling, and concede that the
Senator-to-be has “rings on his fingers and bells on his toes,
and that he shall have music wherever he goes!”
It must be remembered, at the very outset of this discussion, that the
incident happened in the days of my callow youth, when all sorts of
melodies and things were buzzing in my head, and life itself was one
sweet song of tuneful melody; that I was in love and had a fiddle under
my arm, alone in a moonlit mountain cove on my way to a dance, with a
heart throbbing in happy expectancy. It was just at this excruciatingly
delightful junction that the twittering occurred which constitutes the
bone of this contention (if a twitter can be called a bone) and to that
I deem it important to add some observations by way of explanation,
refutation, and extenuation.
Observe, no man has ever heard me say that it was in the nature of a
whippoorwill to sing at any season, but if one lone bird upon a frozen
limb away up the mountain gorge in the dead silence of a moonlit winter’s
night, should choose to violate its nature and change its graveyard
croakings into purling song in harmony with the melodies so sweetly and
vociferously vibrating in the heart of its lone, love-lorn auditor,
where is the harm? My critics limit their denial to the time of year,
and I call my biographers’ attention to the implied admission that the
whippoorwill _does_ sing at some other season. I leave them suspended
upon the horns of this dilemma of their own brewing (horns are sometimes
brewed) and bid them extricate themselves if they can, for I shall not
lend a hand, while I pass on to graver meditations.
That there were sweet and heavenly harmonies hovering and quavering in
that mountain cove that ever-blessed night in the happy long ago, is
certain, but whence came they? Was it really the whippoorwill? And even
if it were, and its song was of that doleful, screeching soul-rending
stridulance that startles ghosts and gives haunts the creeps was it not
sweet music to the only ear that heard it?
Might it not have been the soul of the fiddle stirred by a mountain
breeze to life, getting itself in tune with the frantic transports of the
heart against which it lay? They say a soundpost sometimes comes to life,
and that all the tuneful sprites that burrow and buzz in the vibrant
caverns of a fiddle are set a-humming and a-thrumming when Cupid peeps in
at the slit. Who can tell but that this might have been the mellifluous
sound that ravished my ear then and is raising such a hullabulloo now?
That there was heavenly music in the air that night I take it none will
dare dispute, and that the heart of that care-free swain trudging up the
echoless cove to swing corners with love the live-long night and lave and
slosh his soul in rapturous revels, was tuned to catch its faintest twang
and magnify into pealing orchestras of roaring symphonies, and whooping,
heavenly harmonies, all living souls will surely admit. What wonder then,
that in the tumultuous union of chromatic confusion, when all the lyrics
were raving mad with ecstasy, that the croaking of a whippoorwill might
have been taken for an angel’s harp or the twittering of a catbird?
Thus much for speculation! Thus much in tribute to the harmonies! And
now I come to hurl the cold truth slap into the faces of my critics and
bid them make the most of it!
The types did do me wrong, aided by some unmeant pencil slip along the
line between this cushioned sanctum and the cobwebbed den where sits and
broods and rends his hair, a careworn proofreader with genius in his
dreamy eye and smut upon his classic nose. What I did write was changed,
transmogrified, warped, varied, and subverted.
I mentioned not the whippoorwill. I never heard one sing then, since,
or before; at any season, time, or place. I heard a ravishing song that
might have wrought my very soul to ecstasy, but as plain as pen can make
it, I wrote it then and there, “raccoon.”
* * * * *
I am a King. My realm hath no boundary lines; the world is my kingdom. I
stamp my foot upon the earth and jostle the universe. The sun gives light
for my pleasure, and the timid stars tremble in my presence. The oceans
are my highways, and the mountains are my temples on whose purple domes I
love to stand and throw kisses at the angels, or look down and view with
rapture, the peaceful flocks that graze and sleep on a thousand sunny
hillsides. All the fruited and flowered landscapes that swing between the
seas are my royal hanging gardens, and I walk in the glow of their glory,
and rest in the gloam of their sweet solitudes. All the springs that
bubble there are mine, and all the bright streams that leap from cliff to
crag, and from crag to shadowy gorge are my wandering minstrels singing
to me of flowers born to blush unseen, and speckled trout that glint and
glance in a thousand brimming pools. All the wild deer that spring from
shady copse and tangled coverts at the sound of the hunter’s horn are
my imperial game, and for my princely sport. The sly old fox in his red
uniform gaily leads the royal band, and plays drum major for my bellowing
hounds and for me. The glossy herds come lowing from green pastures,
fragrant with the breath of clover blossoms, burdened with milk for me,
and the bees sweeten my lips with honey, stolen from the lips of the
flowers. The hills unfold their purple mysteries to herald my glory, and
the valleys flaunt their banners of gold and shout, “Long live the King!”
I love to while away the dreamy summer hours in the cool, green groves
that curtain the glimmering fields, where all the joyous wings that brush
the air come fluttering to my leafy bowers, and all the birds that sing
warble their sweetest notes for me.
I am a King. I dwell in the palace of love, by the brawling brook of
laughter, on the brink of the river of song. And so are all the sons
and daughters of Adam equal Kings and Queens with me, whose hearts beat
time to nature’s music, and whose souls are in love with the beautiful.
There is a crown of sunshine for every brow by day; a coronet of stars
by night. The angels of light hover above us all, and arch the heavens
with the rainbow of hope for all, and bring from the vapory vineyards
of the clouds, the sparkling champagne of pure crystal water to bless
the lips of all. All the delightful dreams that spread their wings above
the horizon of the heart, all the glorious thoughts that fly out from
the heaven of the brain, all the jubilees of joy that crowd the circling
hours of mortal life are the regal gifts of God to mankind—the royal
heritage of all. There are songs sweeter than were ever sung; there is
beauty which defies even the brush of a Raphael, for you and for me, and
for us all.
* * * * *
On May 13, 1607, three boats anchored off a peninsula which jutted into
Powhatan’s River, and there set up a stockaded place of defence, which
they called James Fort. One hundred and five settlers were left by the
ships; among these was John Smith, a wonderful genius and adventurer, a
man destined to carry the infant colony through perilous trials.
Smith and his men and those who followed them made out of the fort a
town which they called James City, and later Jamestown. From Jamestown
grew Virginia, and from Virginia, these United States.
The Jamestown Ter-Centennial Exposition will celebrate from the last of
April to the last of November, the three hundredth anniversary of the
nation’s nativity. The beautiful waters and the historic shores will
witness a magnificent tribute to those faithful pioneers who with their
energies, aye with their very life-blood, laid the foundation of our
greatness.
It will be impossible to fail of gaining information by a visit to the
Exposition, it matters not what the extent of a man’s knowledge may
be. Every department of our national government will be represented in
miniature, complete in every detail. Every state will be represented by
a reproduction of some building connected with its formative history,
and the whole will form an object lesson in the history and development
of our country that will surpass any means of teaching and interest ever
before seen. Nearly every state in the Union is already at work upon its
special buildings, and of the Southern states, all (at this writing)
have commenced work except Mississippi, Texas, Alabama and Tennessee. It
is certain that these states will fall into line and their respective
legislatures ought not to fail to make immediate appropriations in order
that the work may be worthily and adequately completed by the opening
of the Exposition. Some of the states whose legislatures could not be
awakened to sufficient patriotic pride to make an appropriation, have
made up a fund by the efforts of their public-spirited citizens, but
Tennessee will not need to resort to such methods. The Volunteer State,
whose affiliations with Virginia, both in past history and in present
commercial development are of the closest, will not fail to help make
this enterprise a shining success. In view of the abundance of her
resources she cannot afford not to make a showing of her phenomenal
growth from a struggling and neglected mountain settlement to her
present proud position among the galaxy of states. We have contributed
leaders and men, and the bone and sinews for every movement which has
resulted in our national progress and our supplies for future development
are unrivalled and inexhaustible, and we cannot afford to be absent when
the showing of the states is made.
THE PARADISE OF FOOLS
PART XI
I sat in a great theater at the National Capital. It was thronged with
youth, and beauty, old age, and wisdom. I saw a man, the image of his
God, stand upon the stage, and I heard him speak. His gestures were the
perfection of grace; his voice was music, and his language was more
beautiful than I had ever heard from mortal lips. He painted picture
after picture of the pleasures, and joys, and sympathies, of home. He
enthroned love and preached the gospel of humanity like an angel. Then
I saw him dip his brush in ink, and blot out the beautiful picture he
had painted. I saw him stab love dead at his feet. I saw him blot out
the stars and the sun, and leave humanity and the universe in eternal
darkness, and eternal death. I saw him like the serpent of old, worm
himself into the paradise of human hearts, and by his seductive eloquence
and the subtle devices of his sophistry, inject his fatal venom, under
whose blight its flowers faded, its music was hushed, its sunshine was
darkened, and the soul was left a desert waste, with only the new-made
graves of faith and hope. I saw him, like a lawless, erratic meteor
without an orbit, sweep across the intellectual sky, brilliant only in
his self-consuming fire, generated by friction with the indestructible
and eternal truths of God.
That man was the archangel of modern infidelity; and I said: How true is
holy writ which declares, “the fool hath said in his heart, there is no
God.”
Tell me not, O Infidel, there is no God, no Heaven, no Hell!
“A solemn murmur in the soul tells of a world to be,
As travelers hear the billows roll before they reach the sea.”
Tell me not, O Infidel, there is no risen Christ!
When every earthly hope hath fled,
When angry seas their billows fling,
How sweet to lean on what He said,
How firmly to His cross we cling!
It is in the desert of evil, where virtue trembles to tread, where hope
falters, and where faith is crucified, that the infidel dreams. To him,
all there is of heaven is bounded by this little span of life; all there
is of pleasure and love is circumscribed by a few fleeting years; all
there is of beauty is mortal; all there is of intelligence and wisdom is
in the human brain; all there is of mystery and infinity is fathomable
by human reason, and all there is of virtue is measured by the relations
of man to man. To him, all must end in the “tongueless silence of the
dreamless dust,” and all that lies beyond the grave is a voiceless shore
and a starless sky. To him, there are no prints of deathless feet on its
echoless sands, no thrill of immortal music in its joyless air.
He has lost his God, and like some fallen seraph flying in rayless night,
he gropes his way on flagging pinions, searching for light where darkness
reigns, for life where death is king.
What intelligence less than God could fashion the human body? What motive
power is it, if it is not God, that drives that throbbing engine, the
human heart, with ceaseless, tireless stroke, sending the crimson streams
of life bounding and circling through every vein and artery? Whence,
and what, if not of God, is this mystery we call the mind? What is this
mystery we call the soul? What is it that thinks and feels and knows
and acts? Oh, who can comprehend, who can deny, the Divinity that stirs
within us!
I have wondered a thousand times if an infidel ever looked through a
telescope. There is our mighty sun, robed in the brightness of his
eternal fires, and with his planets forever wheeling around him. Yonder
twinkle Mercury and Venus, and there is Mars, the ruddy globe whose poles
are white with snow and whose other zones seem dotted with seas and
continents. Who knows but that his roseate color is only the blush of
his flowers? Who knows but that Mars may now be a paradise inhabited by
a blessed race, unsullied by sin, untouched by death? There is the giant
orb of Jupiter, the champion of the skies, belted and sashed with vapor
and clouds; and Saturn, haloed with bands of light and jeweled with eight
ruddy moons; and there is Uranus, another stupendous world, speeding on
in the prodigious circle of his tireless journey around the sun. And
yet another orbit cuts the outer rim of our system, and on his lonely
pathway the gloomy Neptune walks the cold, dim solitudes of space. In
the immeasurable depths beyond appear millions of suns, so distant that
their light could not reach us in a thousand years. There, spangling the
curtain of the black profundity, shine the constellations that sparkle
like the crown jewels of God. There are double and triple and quadruple
suns of different colors, commingling their gorgeous hues and flaming
like archangels on the frontier of stellar space. If we look beyond the
most distant star the black walls are flecked with innumerable patches
of filmy light like the dewy gossamers of the spider’s loom that dot our
fields at morn. What beautiful forms we trace among those phantoms of
light! Circles, ellipses, crowns, shields and spiral wreaths of palest
silver. And what are they? Did I say phantoms of light? The telescope
resolves them into millions of suns, standing out from the oceans of
white-hot matter that contain the germs of countless systems yet to be.
And so far removed from us are these suns that the light which comes
to us from them to-day has been speeding on its way for more than two
million years.
What is that white belt we call the Milky Way, which spans the heavens
and sparkles like a Sahara of diamonds? It is a river of stars, it is
a Gulf Stream of suns; and if each of these suns holds in his grasp a
mighty system of planets, as ours does, how many multiplied millions of
worlds like our own are now circling in that innumerable concourse?
Oh, where are the bounds of this divine conception? Where ends this
dream of God? And is there no life or intelligence in all this throng of
spheres? Are there no sails on those far-away summer seas, no wings to
cleave that crystal air, no forms divine to walk those radiant fields?
Are there no eyes to see those floods of light, no hearts to share with
ours that love which holds all these mighty orbs in place?
It cannot be! It cannot be! There is a God! “The heavens declare His
glory and the firmament showeth His handiwork.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration: With Trotwood]
WHEN I WAKE UP IN THE MORNING
When I wake up in the mornin’, in the laughin’, smilin’ mornin’,
With my soul keyed like a fiddle an’ my heart keyed like a lute,
An’ memory-maids come trippin’, an’ a-slidin’ an’ a-slippin’,
An’ floodin’ all my heart house with the faint notes of their flute—
Then my lips jus’ longs to utter little songs that kind o’ flutter
’Round the earthly cage that coops them, an’ would fly up in the light,
An’ to my soul a-yearnin’, little firefly thoughts come burnin’
An’ bringin’ spirit-lanterns that would lead it out of night—
When I wake up in the mornin’.
When I wake up in the mornin’, in that solemn, silent mornin’,
After long, long years of slumber, an’ long, long years of sleep,
When my spirit’s bird has rested in the heavenly air it breasted
An’ its golden pinions tested for their flight across the Deep—
Lord, I know my soul will flutter up to heaven, an’ will utter
In a clearer note the songs it only tried to sing below;
An’ these fitful, fiery flashes from the pale hope of my ashes
Will be altars of star incense in the glory of Thy glow—
When I wake up in the mornin’.
_John Trotwood Moore._
TWO NOVELS OF THE YEAR
I read two novels by two women not long ago. I believe I should say what
my critical deductions were:
Too many novels are a dangerous thing and two a year are pabulum enough
for a man. For men must fight the life around them. Women may dream,
thank God, and right beautifully do they dream.
These novels were “The Awakening of Helena Richie,” by our country-woman,
Mrs. Margaret Deland, and “Fenwick’s Career,” by Mrs. Humphry Ward, an
Englishwoman. There are two kinds of writers: one is retrospective and
gets his food from without—absorbs from what is seen, heard, copied;
what others say and do; creates, but the creation is imitative; there is
lacking the great, broad highway of initiatory genius. It may be clever
but it is never genius—versatile, but never great.
The other is introspective—grows from within. The best definition of it,
is, I love to think, _God-given_; and its genius is limited only to what
God has put there in the beginning. It copies from no man—it is Master.
Its flow is limitless, like the great tides of the greater ocean, and,
like them, it grows as it goes. It does nothing twice the same way—every
book is different, every poem, every mood.
For books and poems are merely the moods of Genius.
There is no place in literature for the practical, the poised, the
balanced, the consistent, the saving, the so-called sound men and women
of the world. To these God gave the all-sufficient talent of taking care
of themselves. To Genius he gave the greater gift of caring for all
humanity.
“Helena Richie” is introspective. “Fenwick’s Career” is retrospective,
and between them is a gulf boundless.
Woman, by nature, writes the spiritual novel. Men write the novels which
_do_.
Neither of the novels above, in the man-sense, _do_. Because they were
not written by men.
Compare “The Awakening of Helena Richie” with “The Scarlet Letter.”
Hawthorne’s woman and her preacher _did things_—people did things all
through his masterpiece. And they reaped all the infamy and anguish of
it—the illegitimate child, the pillory—death. And yet Hester Prynne and
her preacher-lover had more excuse for their real wrong-doing than the
business love-pair who set up their convenient and quasi establishment
in the village of Dr. Lavendar. For the Puritan people had the excuse of
youth—of passion—and the greater man-excuse of nature and by them called
_nature-given_. But they forget that since the beginning God has been
improving on nature. Helena and her lover merely played with passion; the
others were passion. In Mrs. Deland’s people the fires were out—it was a
weak, sordid, dissatisfied, half revengeful spoiled child determination
to be naughty for naughty’s sake. They were a materialistic pair of
polite adulterers, doing no harm to society, for they left no scarlet
track, and none to themselves, for they were incapable of being hurt.
No man writer would care to have picked up their miserable and naughty
little affair; and instead of ending as it did, they might as well have
been permitted to go on into the society of some city near them among
those of their kind and claimed they had been married.
And not a gossiper of their set, had she found it out, would have gone
two blocks to tell it to another.
Mrs. Deland is not Hawthorne, it is true, but she is great—her novel is
great. It is introspective, virile, uplifting, beautiful. Some of its
characterization is superb and one of its characters, that of the old
man who _knew things_, who spotted character when he smelt it as a setter
dog the unseen quail, is the best drawn of any book of the year. The
idiosyncratic mood of the author—the only mood by which genius may be
known—for it alone makes clear the line between man and men—that cosmic
idiosyncratic insolence which stamps individual authorship—if it be real
authorship—in this, no woman writer of the year has approached her.
In the glow of the warmth of this house of her soul genius, “The House
of Mirth” is a brilliant ice-castle in the Klondike, and “A Fighting
Chance,” that mongrel thing brought to life by the union of “Lady Rose’s
Daughter” and “The House of Mirth”—a thing so clearly marked in its
genealogy that one can easily trace each separate lineament of its doughy
countenance to either parent who is responsible for its existence—this
thing of cigarette-smoking, russet-legged quail-hunting, burning women,
and drunken, lewd-doped society adulterers with not a real man or woman
in its pages, is the Dakota sod-hut of novel houses.
But if “Helena Richie” suffers in comparison with its great prototype,
Mrs. Ward’s book is wiped off the map. In her book nobody does anything
and the years of marvelous anguish they go through doing it should give
the sweet-sixteen readers who glory in it enough sniffle-nose sufferings
to last them till next vacation.
This author glories in heroines a little off-color in their moral make-up
with an over-weening desire to do something naughty but never game enough
to score down to it. We would love every silly one of them more had they
sinned and been sorry. For the sack-clothed sins of real men and women
add most to their growth and bigness.
OUR SINS MAKE US.
Mrs. Ward’s books are all alike, with a little variation in plot and
people. She cannot get away from the illegitimate cross in her moral
pedigree. Her people are oftener paste-boards, her characters the
half-harmonized personalities of incongruous vaporings and she has made
her literary fame and money on the sad but decadent frailty of that
large, honest, well-meaning, but common lot of us who “do dearly love a
lord.”
And these are my deductions: Between Mrs. Deland’s and Mrs. Ward’s
novels have we not greater geniuses at home? And between the unspeakable
Castellane and Marlborough—haven’t we—honest now, ladies! better husbands
here?
JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE.
WHAT CONSTITUTES A SURPRISE
Trotwood loves to take as well as to give and the following letter is too
rich to go into any waste basket. I do not know the writer, but it has
been sent by an esteemed friend, a colonel of an Ohio regiment who was
on the firing line at Shiloh, the letter having been written to him by a
comrade now living in California. Of him our correspondent writes:
“He spent four years in the Civil War, and when he came home to Ohio at
the termination of the war he was not yet old enough to vote.” But here
is his letter:
“My dear Colonel: I am enjoying every inch of the text work in
_Trotwood’s_—and especially that part that deals with the blue and gray
paladins that wrestled for a time on the flanges of hell—in order to
become better _acquainted_.
“Sometime, when you meet our friend Trotwood, tell him you once knew a
trembling country boy, with calliper legs, who enlisted in the earliest
earlies, and really thought for a time that he was a quarter section of
Mars, until he hit Shiloh—and he has never fully recovered confidence
in himself since. Even to this day, that boy needs no map of the ‘high
places’ between Shiloh Church and the river bluffs. If there was a
_sunken road_, it was so far below the level of the chain of pinnacles
that youngster made use of in ‘promoting’ distance between _section_
lines, that he only knows of it by hearsay and tradition, and that vortex
called the ‘Hornet’s Nest’ was omnipresent in that lad’s ears until the
following June. So far as that youth remembers, the “Purdy Road” only had
_one end_ leading in a bee-line to the steamboat landing, and he well
remembers that large stocks of cannon balls were bursting in job lots as
he crossed that open furnace known as the ‘Jones Field.’ For a number
of days after the carnage at Shiloh this stripling of the tented field
had no appetite for the ordinary rations, and it is doubtful if the best
vaudeville extant could have made him sit up and take notice. He was
much like Artemus Ward’s baby bear that straddled a buzz saw—_willing
to quit_. Printer’s ink has been ladled out by the pailful to show that
Shiloh was not a surprise; but the young truthful James of this sketch
says that it was a ‘23’ for him—a powder and ball—before-breakfast
surprise, accompanied by demoniacal yells that frayed the atmosphere and
loosened the tent-pins of Sherman’s entire lines. If the loss of tents,
luggage, arms, munitions, keepsakes, love letters, confidence, pride
and self-respect was not enough to constitute evidences of a full-grown
surprise, there was certainly nothing additional to throw in _unless it
might be the epiglottis and the back teeth_. The youthful scion of this
preachment says he has no doubt but the worthy men who wore the gray
have had many a hearty laugh at the Herculean efforts of the North to
show that Shiloh was not a surprise. Apropos of this, we are reminded of
Len Wardlow, who was hurled from a sixth-story apartment during the San
Francisco earthquake and lit in fifteen feet of water in an open cistern;
Len says he was not one whit surprised, but for a very few minutes he was
d—d badly startled.
“About the best definition of a ‘surprise’ is that it’s the unexpected;
now, if, to drop into the language of Old Wash, our hosts, Grant and
Sherman wuz expectin’ Deacons Johnsing and Booragard to come over real
airly on dat Sunday mornin’ bringin’ dar Hornet’s Nests and bloody
anglers erlong wid em, why in de name ob common eruptions didn’t dey fix
for em? Put de house in order, have de different parts layin’ on de music
rack and put all de perrotecknix whar de performers could stick er match
to ’em? Stid ob dat, we all was a-actin’ as if no visitors was gwine
to call on us dat Sunday mornin’ sure enough! Kase Grant was trimmin’
his korns way down at Savannah and Sharmin had put on no biled shirt to
welcome de visitors. Ebber since dat Shiloh reception de rank and file,
de real workers, hab all s’posed dat dey was sartinly not fixed for de
influx ob callers—and ’specially not so tarnal airly. But de leaders,
dem as was not dar to hear de knockin’ on de front door, and usher in
Brer Johnsing, hab all erlong said dat de kyards had been out and de
punch hole a simmerin’ for jist sech a quiltin’ and we are willin’ to
’serverate de leaders ought to know.”
TWO WOMEN AND A HORSE
Dear Trotwood: Knowing your fondness for satirizing women who drive
horses, I am sending you this little true bill.
I was riding along the other week near a small city when a hard shower
came up suddenly. Just before me I noticed two ladies driving a very
spirited horse to a buggy. They were evidently just from the town.
Instead of putting up the buggy top or drawing out the rain cloth when
the shower came up, they each gave a little feminine shriek and both
grabbed at once an umbrella, paying no attention whatever to the lines,
and bent way over holding it over the rear end of the horse, the rain
pouring down on them all the time. I followed them, looking on in
amazement—there they were bending over the dashboard catching a hard
rain on their graceful backs and well-fitting, new gowns and holding an
umbrella half way over the southern half of a horse who was going along
well enough and perfectly indifferent to the weather. For a mile they
drove thus, and I followed, wondering. Finally, as I rode up to them, my
curiosity was so great that I asked:
“Ladies, pardon me, but will you tell me why you are holding that
umbrella over your horse and not protecting yourselves?”
“Why—yes,” one of them faltered, “we are scared nearly to death. You see,
it is a hired horse, and we don’t know much about him, and when we hired
him the liveryman told us to be very careful not to let him get the rain
under his tail or he would kick us out and run away!”
C. R.
LITTLE MISS FIDDLE
Dar now, Banjo!—t’ek yo’ sign in,—
Let Miss Fiddle sing her song.
O my h’art—I’m jes’ a pinin’—
Come, Miss Fiddle, come along—
Wid yo’ gleam of sun in show’rs,
Nights so sweet an’ days so ca’mful—
Wid yo’ birds an’ bees an’ flowers,
Fetchin’ music by de armful!
_John Trotwood Moore._
SAMUEL SPENCER AS A FACTOR IN NATIONAL AFFAIRS
By Ismay Dooly
In the office of the general counsel of the Southern Railroad in
Washington is a frame containing a newspaper article relative to a recent
railroad trial, wherein the case was one of national import.
An incident described in the article relates to that lion of financial
power, Pierpont Morgan, who, after he had given sworn testimony of vital
importance, was asked if he gave the facts of his own knowledge.
“No,” was the reply, “not on my own knowledge, but the information was
given to me by Samuel Spencer, and I would swear to anything he stated as
a fact.”
This single tribute to the accuracy of the late Samuel Spencer, president
of the Southern Railway, who was one of the greatest men the South has
given to the nation’s productive machinery, illustrates but one of the
many qualities of a man who for the past ten years has been among the
foremost in the public eye of the republic.
He was a man whose career in public and private life was the expression
of an accuracy proceeding not alone from a sense of truth and justice,
but from a thorough and proficient knowledge of any subject of which he
was in any way the exponent.
He was the highly educated man, whose mental and almost instantaneous
grasp of people and things was demonstrated in an adaptability that
served him in every relation and situation.
He possessed as well a wonderful power of perspective—the power to
discriminate between the worthy and the little things, and to economize
and conserve his forces, to that extent when he was equal to direct
action whenever the occasion demanded. Poise and balance completed his
equipment for a life of great action.
LOYALTY TO SOUTHERN INTERESTS
He was one of the most successful railroad men and promoters of
industrial institutions in the South, and one who, from the first days of
his public career, has justly and fully presented the claims of the South
in her higher achievement along every line.
In his splendid leadership of movements entrusted to his guidance he
quickly demonstrated the ability expressive, not alone of his loyalty
to the interests of the South, but his broader aspiration that these
interests become national, and become so a part of the forces upon which
the nation as a whole would find a common interest, that he became one of
the men looked to by his fellow countrymen to solve the great problems of
our complex twentieth century activities.
The expression of this broader aspiration by which he made the
interests of his section the interests of the nation illustrated one
of the essential principles of the highly evolved man—the constructive
principle—the one that draws man to the building up of big movements that
the smaller ones may be inspired to grow and become a part.
HIS NATIONAL SPIRIT
That Mr. Spencer was an exponent of this spirit was given national
recognition in the responsibilities that have been thrust upon him, no
greater example of which could be given than in his part in the recent
rate bill agitation in the United States Congress. He was selected by
the railroad systems of the country as their representative before the
national body and was entrusted with the responsibilities of personally
presenting their side of the question.
[Illustration: SAMUEL SPENCER]
His ready appreciation of the influences necessary to bring to bear
upon the present status of problems in which certain forces of the
nation are retarded in their processes of solving has been seen in his
personal alliance with movements or organizations standing for peace and
arbitration and conciliatory measures.
He was an influential member of the National Civic Federation and his
opinions were no more highly regarded by the president, August Belmont,
than by the vice president, Samuel Gompers, the two men representing at
present the two great conflicting national interests of capital and labor.
A recent incident, widely discussed at the time when Mr. Spencer’s ready
appreciation and acceptance of justice, indicated his ability to assume
great responsibilities, was when the National Civic Federation was agreed
upon as the medium of arbitration in the machinists’ strike on the
Southern Railway system in Knoxville.
Mr. Spencer, as president of the Southern Railway, and other officials
of the road, including the vice president and general manager, met James
O’Connell, the president of the International Association of Machinists,
and the local officials of that organization concerned along the line.
The federation was represented by the chairman of the conciliation
committee, Hon. Seth Low; V. Everet Macy, a capitalist; Ralph M. Easley,
chairman of the executive council, and Samuel B. Donnelly, one of the
labor members representing the Typographical Union. This resulted in the
settlement of the controversy through an agreement reached by both sides
in conference.
POWER IN ORGANIZATION
In reference to the incident a member of the federation in discussing it
with a Georgian said:
“I must tell you of the fine impression made by your fellow Georgian,
Mr. Samuel Spencer, in the strong, impassioned address he made to the
labor representatives at the conciliation meeting. What he said was noble
and stirring, and the expressions of Mr. Samuel B. Donnelly, one of our
labor members representing his side of the controversy, and finally, the
decision of the presiding officer, Hon. Seth Low, the Civic Federation
representative, made the occasion one fully demonstrating the greatness
of the co-operative spirit for which the National Civic Federation stands
in uniting in its membership men representing the forces of the nation.”
These few incidents illustrate the appreciation with which Mr. Spencer
was held by men representing great national questions; the responsibility
thrown upon him by the railroads of the country as their representative
in the House of Congress; his readiness to assume the individual
responsibility thereof; his factorship in national organized effort are
many incidents that entitle him to a position of Napoleonic ascendency in
the history of railroad construction and development; to an everlasting
monument in the hearts of the people of his native Southland, and to
a position of national recognition among men standing for the highest
civilization making now the history of the twentieth century.
Mr. Spencer was born in Columbus, Georgia, in 1846. He went from the
military school of Marietta, Georgia, into the Civil War, and served
gallantly under General Forrest’s command. After the war he graduated
from the University of Georgia, and subsequently from the University of
Virginia.
Soon afterward he became interested in the construction work of Southern
railroads, and died president of one of the greatest railroad systems in
the world.
THE OBSTACLE
’Twas but a little thing that lay
Athwart my path that long-gone day,
And yet I weakly let it lie,—
Just turned aside and passed it by,
Nor thought what the result might be.
Then others came who saw my track,
But no one moved the hindrance back,
So they, too, stepped out on the sod;
And many a weary foot has trod
The devious way first traced by me.
We reach at last the self-same goal,
But oh! the heaviness of soul
That overwhelms me when I look
On those who chose the path I took.
Lord, from the burden make me free!
Nay, son; in weakness thou didst turn;
And ever those who duty spurn,
Who clear not obstacles away,
Who cause men from the right to stray,
The influence of their acts must see.
_Ida Louise Reveley._
[Illustration: BOOKS AND AUTHORS]
LILLIAN KENDRICK BYRN
WHISPERING SMITH. By Frank H. Spearman. New York: Chas. Scribner’s Sons.
Price, $1.50.
Although his previous books have shown Mr. Spearman as an observant
student of human nature, an excellent story teller and a literary artist
of ability, the reader who picks up “Whispering Smith” will lay it
down with the verdict that this character is a genuine contribution to
literature. Without departing from the rules of literary construction
Mr. Spearman has described scenes so far from hackneyed that they seem
absolutely new in every element of their creation. Whispering Smith is
a secret service agent for a Rocky Mountain railroad and his business
is to defend the enterprise against all sorts of enemies and rough and
lawless characters which abound in that region. He owes his sobriquet to
a certain softness of voice, to which he adds a simple, straightforward
and unaffected integrity. This is the principal character in the story,
beside the heroine, a breezy, yet thoroughly feminine girl brought up on
a ranch. The rest of the dramatis personae are the cowboys, railroad men,
bandits and other types characteristic of the frontier, all depicted to
the life by one who knows his subject.
RICH MEN’S CHILDREN. By Geraldine Bonner. Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill Co.
Price, $1.50.
Miss Bonner’s previous California romances, “To-morrow’s Tangle” and
“The Pioneer,” have made for her a wide circle of readers. “Rich Men’s
Children” is even stronger and more thrilling in interest than its
predecessors. The conflicts of two generations and the bold passions of
the far West are delineated with courageous directness and dramatic
vigor. The whole story is absorbing and fascinating, yet the author does
not allow the reader to lose sight of the purpose, which is adhered to
with remarkable sincerity and fidelity.
THE HEART AND THE CROWN. By H. Rhea Woodman. New York and Washington:
Neale Publishing Co. Price, $1.25.
This little volume contains fifty-one sonnets, arranged under the
sub-titles of “The King’s Heart” and “The Queen’s Crown.” The two
themes love and grief, are treated with a sustained purity and artistic
restraint that will give this poetry high rank. The heart verses, of
which there are twenty-five, are passionate and tender, instinct with
deep feeling, vividly expressed. There are twenty-six of the crown
sonnets. These tell of a great sorrow, now expressed in rapid, incisive
words and now reiterated in graceful, musical measure. The volume is a
beautiful example of the bookmaker’s craft, in soft morocco binding,
highly ornamented with gold, deckle-edged, tinted paper, printed in two
colors.
THE VOICE OF THE THIRD GENERATION. By Henry Peck Fry. Chattanooga:
MacGowan-Cooke Printing Co. Price, 25 cents.
The author of this sketch, a prominent member of the Chattanooga bar, has
worked out a logical solution of the race problem, which he presents in
a clear and concise way to his readers. There have been many discussions
of this important question, but few which are so clearly and logically
expressed, so dispassionately proven and so well connected as Mr. Fry’s
views.
THE DISTRACTIONS OF MARTHA. By Marion Harland. New York: Chas. Scribner’s
Sons. Price, $1.50.
The publication of Mrs. Terhune’s last novel added a pleasant feature to
the celebration of the author’s golden wedding. An authority on household
matters of all kinds, this talented Virginian selected for her latest
theme the experiences of a newly married young couple, who move into a
little house in the suburbs and plunge at once into housekeeping. It is
the simplest kind of housekeeping, and yet to Martha—full of theories and
ideas as she is—it quickly becomes very complicated. Her struggles with
seemingly simple recipes, and the extraordinary food that is produced
by an apparently exact following of the rules, are told in a brightly
humorous way that is irresistible. Later, when increased prosperity
brings Martha face to face with the servant problem, her difficulties
are equally grave. The way in which she triumphs, however, will be an
inspiration to everyone struggling with the same difficulties.
DADDY’S DAUGHTERS. By Marion Ames Taggart. New York: Henry Holt & Co.
Price, $1.25.
“Daddy” is an amiable, patient, literary man, who, like many of his
kind, finds it difficult to make both ends meet. His four daughters
are distinct individualities, each with a separate charm, which is
brought into play in the course of the account of the family happenings.
Another family of girls, with three brothers, lives on the other side
of the garden hedge, and their joint excursions and adventures form the
incidents of this very readable juvenile.
POLLY OF THE PINES. By Adele E. Thompson. Boston: Lothrop, Lee & Shepard.
Price, $1.25.
Miss Thompson is notable among authors for the young for her
understanding of youthful character and the sustained interest of her
plots. Polly is a revolutionary heroine, a little rebel among the loyal
Scots of the Carolinas. She leaves her own home and finds refuge with an
uncle and does her best for the colonies. The ubiquitous Tarleton plays
the villain royalist and is completely outwitted when he encounters the
ready and brave little Polly.
ANIMAL SERIALS. By Edwarde Blaisdell. New York: T. Y. Crowell & Co.
Price, $1.
One of the most interesting of the nonsense jingles offered for the
holiday trade is “Animal Serials.” The rhymes are clever and amusing and
the illustrations are exceedingly apt. The humor in each so thoroughly
corresponds to the other that they can be appreciated by all youngsters.
THE SPIRIT OF THE ORIENT. By George William Knox. New York: T. Y.
Crowell. Price, $1.50.
Professor Knox has spent many years in the East and in his beautifully
illustrated work on the manners and customs of that part of the world he
has given us a valuable and interesting picture of the awakening of the
spirit of progress there. This has been especially noticeable since the
Russo-Japanese War; and the rapid increase of our own holdings in the Far
East intensifies the profound import of this problem. The author defines
sharply the difference between the Eastern and the Western character in
the following paragraph: “Man ... seems overpowered by nature in the
East, but he attempts to conquer it in the West.”
PLANTATION SKETCHES. By Margaret Devereux. Boston: Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
This collection of delicate sketches of antebellum Southern life gives
the experiences of a Southern gentlewoman who loves the old South and who
has the power to make others know and love it. The reminiscences possess
the blended humor and pathos which characterize the best descriptions of
plantation life, and bring clearly before us the scenes of those times.
The manner of their telling is finished and most readable, apart from the
interest attaching to the incidents narrated.
COZY CORNER CONFIDENCES. By Walter Pulitzer. New York: Dodge Publishing
Co. Price, 75 cents.
Mr. Pulitzer’s sparkling cynicisms are so well-known that readers pick up
his work with the certainty of enjoyment. In these little “confidences”
we have a varied assortment of neatly-turned maxims, perverted mottoes,
and sage, though sarcastic, advice. The publishers have given the text
a most inviting cover and the marginal decorations are especially
attractive.
BOOK TREASURES OF MAECENAS. By John Paul Bocock. New York: The
Knickerbocker Press.
In the richest of morocco bindings this memorial volume attracts the
eye at once. The forty poems are representative specimens of the work
of the gifted author, who died recently. A Virginian and a graduate of
Washington and Lee University, Mr. Bocock first practiced law, but having
from his earliest youth had a passion for the pen, he definitely entered
journalism in 1883. His newspaper work covered a wide range but his
best-known work shows his love for the classics, which the present little
volume also clearly reveals. The little quatrain on “Oblivion” will show
the delicate charm of his poesy:
Sweet lotos-orbed, velvet-footed maid,
That slippest o’er the wrinkled ocean’s brim,
Garlanded with blue flowers of distance dim—
Is death the passport to thine Isles of Shade?
AUGUSTINE THE MAN. By Amélie Rives. (Princess Troubetzkoy). New York:
John Lane Company. Price, $1.25.
It is a far cry from “The Quick or the Dead?” to “Sélene” and “Augustine
the Man,” but Amélie Rives has made the transition without apparent
effort. In the form of a stirring drama she traces the emotions and
spiritual throes of the Numidian bishop, the poet, the lover, the father
and afterwards the saint. The work is indeed notable, carrying the reader
with irresistible interest through Augustine’s changes of philosophy
and arousing the keenest sympathy for the human side of the man. The
publishers in addition to a binding charming in its simplicity, have
added an exquisitely etched portrait of the author.
THE COUNT AT HARVARD. By Rupert Sargent Holland. Boston: L. C. Page & Co.
Price, $1.50.
There is a perennial fascination in college stories. Even to the
uninitiated the atmosphere of athletic sport, of chaff and slang and
frank absence of interest in lectures is most alluring. Mr. Holland has
given us, in the adventures of “The Count,” a thoroughly interesting
picture of life among that class of students whose object is merely to
pass some years of agreeable leisure at Harvard. The afternoon teas, the
musical evenings, the “proms” and the games are all attractively set
forth.
UNCLE CHARLIE’S POEMS. By Charles Noel Douglas. New York: J. S. Ogilvie
Publishing Co. Price, 50 cents.
Many who are familiar with Mr. Douglas’ poems in _St. Nicholas_, _Judge_
and other periodicals will be surprised to learn that he has been a
“shut-in” for ten years. His poems all show the unfailing cheerfulness,
the genial wit and irresistible gayety which marks the born optimist. He
is equally at home in children’s dialect and coon songs. In addition to
his magazine contributions Mr. Douglas manages a “Sunshine” department in
a number of periodicals, a league of young readers, everyone of whom is
pledged to make this world a better place to live in.
CLIFTON AND WAYNE COUNTY, TENNESSEE
By W. O. Thomas
The resources of Wayne County are multiplex. Many counties may claim
special consideration because of fertility of soil, or this one thing or
that one thing; but the varied resources of Wayne County invite every
line of human endeavor. Here may be found profit for the husbandman,
the lumberman, the iron-monger, the artisan who would work in wood, the
artificer who deals with metallic substances, the capitalist who invests
in nature’s inexhaustible storehouse. For this is yet a virgin country,
and nature, fresh, virile and vigorous, awaits the magic wand of Midas.
Wayne County has seven hundred square miles of land, two hundred square
miles of which are underlaid with iron deposits, almost all in sufficient
quantities and of a quality that would justify actual investment and
operation. Indeed, in point of natural wealth it would be hard to find
a county that surpasses Wayne. Timber, iron ore, marble, building
rock, phosphate, kaolin, cement rock, mineral paint, fertile valleys,
sturdy, God-fearing, liberty-loving people—what more do you want—where
else can you find such a plethora of good things? As we write, an
endless procession of wagons is passing, bearing cross-ties, telegraph
and telephone poles, cotton and other farm products, all consigned
to merchants here or to be shipped direct by way of the Tennessee
river—nature’s great highway—for Clifton is a mighty part of commerce,
and is the entrepot for a vast extent of territory.
For half a century the mainstay of this section has been the timber and
tie industry. Yet in all this time the timber has only been exhausted
from a ten or twelve mile fringe fronting the Tennessee river. Some
idea may be gained of the immensity of this industry when it is stated
that there are shipped annually from Clifton alone 3,000,000 feet of
lumber and 300,000 cross-ties. The principal woods are oak, poplar, ash,
hickory, chestnut and pine. There are several hundred thousand acres of
fine timber lands in Wayne County that are yet untouched.
Wayne County unquestionably possesses fine advantages for the farmer,
the stock man and the lumberman. But it is as a mineral section its
advantages are so apparent and overwhelming that the wonder grows that a
second Birmingham does not mark the site where Clifton now stands. It may
all be explained in one phrase—lack of railroad facilities. Clifton has
magnificent river facilities, and they will be measurably increased when
the government work on Colbert Shoals is completed. At present Clifton
is at the head of deep water navigation. Straight through to St. Louis
the traffic is unimpeded the year round, and boats touch at this point
every day. Yet, while this service is admirable, it cannot altogether
compensate for the lack of railroad facilities. However, the time is near
at hand when this deficiency will be remedied. For some time a movement
has been in progress which it is believed will eventuate in the building
of the Tennessee Industrial Railroad. The road as surveyed will run from
Fox Bluff to Florence, Ala., a distance of nearly two hundred miles.
Clifton is only forty-two miles east of Florence, and that enterprising
little city is making every effort to get into the Wayne County ore
fields. It is generally believed that the Frisco System is behind this
project. This would give the Frisco an almost direct line from the
Birmingham and Wayne County iron districts into St. Louis and Chicago and
open a great section of country not now traversed by any road.
[Illustration: I. G. RUSS
A prominent capitalist of Clifton, Tennessee]
The only iron furnaces operated at present in this county are two at
Allen’s Creek, a point on a branch of the N., C. & St. L. Ry., about
thirty miles from Clifton. They are operated by the Bon Air Coal &
Iron Company, and have a daily output of about ninety tons each. In
the earlier days of its history, however, many charcoal furnaces were
scattered throughout the county. In those days no iron ranked higher than
the Brownsport pig. Because of its remarkable tensile strength it was
listed several dollars higher than other pig. Take an ordinary pig and
strike it a sharp blow with a heavy hammer, and it will snap like glass.
A bar of the Brownsport pig would bend in the shape of a crescent before
it would break.
The mineral field has long been regarded as among the best in the South.
The ore occurs in banks and pockets. At several places the banks have
developed a thickness of 110 feet. The material associated with the ore
is a red clay. It constitutes by weight one-third of the mass, leaving
two-thirds ore. These ores are the brown hematite. The analysis is not
variable, as in many sections of the country, rarely running below 45 or
above 55 per cent metallic iron. The percentage of this ore runs higher
and it is capable of being much more easily and cheaply handled than the
deposits in the famous Birmingham district. One lump of brown hematite
iron ore measuring sixty tons has been taken from the Wayne County ore
field. The average analysis of this lump was 57 per cent metallic iron
and less than 1 per cent phosphorus.
[Illustration: BEECH RIVER PHOSPHATE PROPERTY]
Allen’s Creek, a town of 1,500 inhabitants, deserves special mention here
because of the fact that the furnaces and iron mines of the Bon Air Coal
& Iron Company are located there. This company operates two furnaces at
Allen’s Creek, and mine both iron ore and limestone. The concern also
manufactures a very high and superior grade of silicon iron, which is
used all over the United States as a softener by foundries and machine
shops, and for all purposes where a fluid iron is required. Extensive
plants have been constructed for washing the ore and preparing it for the
furnaces. Probably the largest deposits of brown ore to be found in the
South are near Allen’s Creek and are the property of the Bon Air Company.
At one point as much as 100,000 tons of the ore is known to have been
taken from one acre of land. The management of the plant at Allen’s Creek
is in the hands of Mr. G. W. Bragg, a very worthy and capable man, who
appears to have the interest of the company at heart at all times. The
capacity of the furnaces is 200 tons of pig iron per day.
The coal mines of the Bon Air Company are situated in Cumberland and
White counties, where three collieries and two hundred coke ovens are in
operation. This is where all the celebrated grades of Bon Air coal and
coke are mined and made ready for market. The daily output is about 2,000
tons of coal and coke.
The Bon Air Coal & Iron Company is one of the largest companies in the
South and its extensive business interests are managed by the following
gentlemen: John P. Williams, president; J. M. Overton, vice president;
W. C. Dibrell, treasurer, and C. Cooper, secretary. The main business
office is in the Arcade Building, Nashville.
Here are inexhaustible deposits of the Florida white rock, the best
phosphate known to commerce. A field of it is being developed in the
adjoining county of Decatur, near Parson’s. It runs from 75 to 83
per cent B. P. L. It is far superior to the Mt. Pleasant phosphate,
containing as it does but little deleterious substance. This land is
controlled by the Beech River Phosphate Company. T. S. Hughes, Clifton,
Tenn., is secretary, and Jno. A. Pitts, of Nashville, is president.
The lands of this company, consisting of 9,261 acres, are situated in
Decatur county, Tennessee, just west of the Tennessee river, and from
two to seven miles distant from that stream, and lie along both sides of
Beech river, a tributary of the Tennessee, and the Perryville Branch of
the Nashville, Chattanooga & St. Louis Railway—(originally the Tennessee
Midland).
The best rock as found analyzes as follows:
Per cent
Moisture 50.
Mixed oxides, iron and aluminum 1.38
Bone phosphate 84.89
The composite analyses of twenty different samples selected at random
from various parts of the property, showed:
Per cent
Moisture 40.
Bone phosphate 74.98
Mixed oxides, iron and aluminum 2.49
These analyses were made by Prof. J. C. Wharton, of Nashville, Tenn.
The location of the property is especially favorable to transportation. A
large part of it is immediately on the railroad, and all of it is easily
accessible by spur track; while if desired, tramway could easily be
provided for carrying the output to Tennessee, Ohio and Mississippi river
points. It is a difficult matter to make a computation on the tonnage,
but it has been estimated by experts at from ten to fifteen million tons.
From the developments as made, and the rock exposed, a conservative
calculation places 500,000 tons in sight.
It has been demonstrated that the rock can be prepared for market and
loaded on cars at Parsons, Tenn., for $1.25 to $1.50 per ton, including
all expenses.
Underlying Clifton and adjacent to it are inexhaustible beds of the best
hydraulic limestone cement-making rock. This section also abounds in
acres for the manufacture of paints and the finest of lithograph stone.
One mile from Clifton there is an immense deposit of kaolin or Chinese
clay. It is a valuable constituent, largely used in the manufacture of
pottery and the enameling of book paper.
Eleven miles southeast of Clifton, near the Waynesboro pike, between
Eagle and Hardin Creeks, are 1,225 acres of land on which are a fine
deposit of manganese. The analysis shows 39.31 per cent manganese. The
veins run from five to fifteen feet on the surface.
On Factor’s Fork is a great deposit of building rock of peculiar and
marvelous quality. When first mined it is so plastic that it may be
easily fashioned into any desirable shape, but a few days exposure to the
air hardens it into the consistency of adamant. In the same section has
been found a fine quality of lithographing stone. Concerning phosphates,
it may be added that within the corporate limits of Clifton may be seen a
nine foot face of the Mt. Pleasant phosphate.
It has been known for many years that this section has shown evidence of
the presence of both oil and gas. In his geology of Tennessee the late
Professor Killebrew showed that this point shows the first indications
of these constituents south of the Cincinnati uplift. Wayne County is in
the direct geological line with the oil fields of Pennsylvania and Texas.
At Cincinnati the oil region stopped abruptly. The next point where it
was taken up was in the Beaumont fields. It is reasonable to suppose,
however, that oil exists somewhere on this line nearer Cincinnati than
Beaumont. It is confidently predicted by experts that oil will be found
here at a depth of less than one thousand feet.
[Illustration: FRANK HUGHES COLLEGE]
Some very fine mineral and timber property in the vicinity of Clifton
is owned by Mr. I. G. Russ. This land is now on the market. It consists
of 5,000 acres known as the Old Shannonville or Bob Property; 2,000
acres known as the Walker Furnace property; and 1,200 acres known as the
Carrollville or Glen Kirk property. Part of these lands are now under
option and every indication points to a rapid development of these and
other similar properties in the near future.
The Bob property is situated on the east side of the Tennessee river, six
miles below Clifton. The land lies in the big bend of the river and is
two miles wide at the narrowest point, while it is sixteen miles around
by water. The elevation is high, making it one of the healthiest points
in the state. Regular lines of steamboats from St. Louis and Paducah,
making connections with all the railroad points from Cairo, Ill., on
the Ohio river, to Florence, Ala., on the Tennessee, pass this property
at all seasons of the year. The summers are delightful, the winters are
mild. The erosion of limestone and iron has given this land a strong soil
and fitted it well for grains, fruits, grasses, etc. A more suitable
piece of property for colonization purposes cannot be found in the
United States. For this purpose it has been subdivided into tracts of
about one hundred acres each.
There are 560 acres of bottom land, 1,507 acres of flat land, and 3,376
acres of hill land. There is enough red and white oak and pine to make
500,000 cross-ties. It is estimated that there are about two million
feet of hickory, one-half million feet of ash, two hundred thousand feet
each of elm and gum, and three to five hundred thousand feet of saw oak,
poplar and pine. There is also a large amount of cedar and a vigorous
growth of young hickory.
[Illustration: RUSS HOTEL]
The Walker Furnace property comprises 2,000 acres, and lies between
Clifton and Hardin’s Creek. It is finely timbered and contains phosphates
and iron ore. In addition to its other timbers it has a fine body of
chestnut, estimated to cut between eight and ten thousand telegraph poles.
The Carrollville or Glenkirk property consists of 1,200 acres. It is
historic ground, as once upon a time the old town of Carrollville came
within one vote of being made the capital of the state. It embraces the
site of Glenkirk, one of the best shipping points on the river. The land
has a phosphate deposit that fertilizes and enriches it to such a degree
that it annually produces a heavy yield of cotton, corn, fruit, grain and
grass. It also contains inexhaustible deposits of cement and marble of a
superior grade.
Overland, Clifton is twenty-five miles from Maury, the nearest railway
point. Direct by water it is eighty-five miles from Johnsonville. A
splendid line of packets plies the Tennessee, operated by the St. Louis
& Tennessee River Packet Company, with headquarters in St. Louis. The
steamers include the _Clyde_, _Kentucky_, _Shiloh_, _Memphis_, _Savannah_
and _Saltillo_. Recently the _Chattanooga_, an independent boat, has been
put in commission by the enterprising citizens of that city. Clifton is
served by all of these boats, thus giving a magnificent service. The
_Shiloh_ is a mail packet, and makes three round trips a week between
Danville and Savannah. It is the fastest boat on the river, and because
of the regularity of its schedule enjoys a large passenger traffic.
The overland trip from Allen’s Creek takes one through Waynesboro, the
county seat of Wayne County. This is a town of about eight hundred
people. Its newest acquisition is a splendid court house, recently
finished at an expense of $25,000. Waynesboro is also situated in the
midst of a great iron region and its best days are yet to come.
Clifton has a population of 1,200 souls; for unlike some places, every
man, woman and child in Clifton has a soul of rare quality. In all the
essentials that go to make good citizenship Clifton is in the front
ranks. The people are earnest and conscientious, have a firm grip on
life, and live it with unvarying fidelity to high ideals.
[Illustration: WHARF SCENE AT CLIFTON, TENNESSEE]
Clifton is the only town on the Tennessee river between Florence and
Paducah that has an electric light and ice plant. To go further than
this, it has the best equipped and most luxuriously appointed hotel
within the same limits. It was built four years ago by Mr. I. G. Russ
at a cost of $25,000, and is known far and wide for its comfort and
hospitality.
Three other things the town is noted for—its newspaper, its bank building
and its college. The _Clifton Mirror_ is a co-operative institution,
owned by the business men of the town. It is edited by one of the
stockholders—H. M. Jackson. As a consequence the _Clifton Mirror_
scintillates with both original and reflected brightness, and is doing a
great work in pushing this section to the front.
The People’s Bank of Clifton is steam heated and lighted by electricity
and possesses every modern convenience.
Probably the greatest institution in Clifton is the Frank Hughes College.
The college was only completed last summer and the first term is now
being taught. Rev. J. Thompson Baker, B.L., Ph.M., is the principal of
the college and he has gathered about him a faculty of earnest, ambitious
educators. The school has met with phenomenal success. The enrollment for
the first term is over two hundred.
The building is a splendid structure. It was erected at a cost of
$15,000. It is steam-heated and lighted by electricity, and possesses
every modern convenience. The money to build it was raised by private
subscription, and it is a grand monument to the generosity and faith and
love of a noble people.