of day in this country, because his speech was poetry and fire and
reason, made a speech in New Orleans in behalf of the starving poor of
Ireland. It was only ten minutes’ long, but it sent a shipload of food
to Ireland. And he used in that speech a thought which Shakespeare has
never surpassed. “He who is able and will not contribute to such a cause
as this is not a man and has no right to wear the form. He should be sent
back to the mints of nature and there reissued out of baser metal, a
counterfeit on humanity!”
THE TESTER-BED AND ITS OLD-TIME COVERINGS
By Susie Gentry
Just now, when everyone who can has a “tester-bed,” the subject of these
relics and their coverings is an interesting one.
The days of mahogany and rose-wood were also the days of handicraft of
both needle and loom; and many were the beautiful articles of needlework
and textiles that added grandeur and dignity to the tester—the _chef
d’oeuvre_ of the mechanic’s art.
For every-day wear there were the hand-spun and woven white counterpanes
in a variety of patterns: “The Honey-comb,” “Snowball,” “Walls of
Jericho” and “O and N” were the most common designs. These were finished
around three sides with a hand-tied or woven fringe, in depth from three
inches to that of a hand’s length; they were very large, and hung down
all around almost to the floor, that the trundle-bed under the big bed
might not be visible.
For the “company room,” to be used on “grand opportunities”—as an
Icelandic friend designated the special occasions on which the writer was
to wear her gift of a hand-embroidered silver bullion belt—was the tufted
counterpane, of most intricate and elaborate design. This was the outcome
of some magic knowledge possessed by only the weavers of that bygone day.
It had the design or pattern thrown up by little loops of the thread,
quite short, that gave it the name of “tufted,” and a cameo effect—a flat
background, with a raised design. The pattern most liked was “The Star.”
This was an eight-pointed star in the center, smaller ones surrounding
it, with an elaborate border of the “Greek Key,” finished with the always
accompanying fringe.
The “Stuffed Spread” was another favorite covering, and the most prized
of all except the silk quilt. The “Stuffed Spread” was made of a fine,
closely woven white cambric and “back-stitched” (in stitches as even and
close as those of the sewing machine of to-day), in lines of the width
of a large knitting-needle apart, thus tracing the patterns of grapes and
leaves, birds, baskets of flowers, bowls of fruit and geometric designs.
[Illustration: AN OLD TESTER-BED]
These little cases were stuffed with bits of cotton, by using a goose
quill with which to push the cotton in, until the spread came forth
a thing of beauty in its risen cords, and to be cherished by many
generations for its exquisite needlework, ingenuity and patience, as
exemplified by “Great-grandmother” or “Father’s Aunt Sallie.” Then there
were the knitted and crocheted counterpanes, which have been revived in
our day: the “Oak-leaf,” the “Shell,” “Heart” and “Star;” the crocheted
ones to be used over a colored “comfort” of such color as the taste
dictated.
The “Applied-work” was another prized covering. The background of this
was white cambric or domestic, with lovely roses and leaves, or morning
glories in their natural colors, cut from “painted cambric” or “chintz
calico,” and applied to the spread in a central design and border. The
spaces of white were most beautifully quilted in intricate patterns of
every description. We have seen one such spread, made by a Kentucky
woman, quilted in the center with the arms of the United States.
The patch-work quilts were made of or “pieced” in the favorite patterns
of “The Rose and Bud,” “The Swamp Lily,” “The Sunflower,” “The Tree of
Paradise,” “The Kentucky Feather,” “The Rising Sun,” “Log Cabin” and
other designs displaying equal ingenuity in their origin and in their
execution. These were in as natural colors as could be gotten in the “oil
calicos,” which consisted of reds, yellows, blues and greens and the
“fast pinks.” Some really beautiful and artistic effects were achieved by
those who had artistic taste.
There were the silk quilts—not usual, as silk was not so easily
obtainable as to-day—that were used only on bridal and festive
occasions, when kindred and friends from afar were expected, and for
whom the “fatted calf” was killed and all the best possessions brought
into use. Some of the designs for these were the “Lone Star,” “Small
Stars,” “Pickle-dish,” “Hexagon” and “Block” patterns. These were the joy
and pride of the thrifty, beauty-loving housewife. For winter wear, the
wool or cotton, sometimes mixed, home-dyed and home-woven coverlets, were
used; in patterns of the “Rose of Sharon,” the “Walls of Troy” and many
now forgotten names and designs. The colors were combinations of red,
white, blue or green, with an introducing of black here and there.
Flat feather bolsters were used on these beds, the ends of the slips
hanging down, and ornamented with eyelet embroidery or netted lace.
Nowadays the coverlets are frequently used as portieres, and they are
quite artistic and handsome for this purpose.
The word tester is of curious origin, coming down to us from the Norman
_testere_, a head covering. The English speedily contracted this to
“tester,” which name they gave to helmets. Chaucer speaks of “the
shieldes brighte, testers and trappures” of the Crusaders, and later
the word came to apply to the canopy placed over the bed to support
the draperies which protected the sleeper from wandering draughts, so
plentiful in those old stone castles. Sir Horace Walpole writes early in
the eighteenth century of a visit to a friend’s seat, where he found “no
tester to the bed and slept with the saddles and portmanteaus heaped on
me to keep off the cold.” Our colonists brought the tester-bed with them,
but in this balmy climate they were able to dispense with the curtains;
they did not, however, leave off the mountainous feather bed, which
necessitated the aid of “a pair of steps” to reach its downy heights. By
its side was placed the candle-stand, with its brass candle-stick and
snuffers; and in the days “when grandma danced the minuet” with grandpa,
brave in satin knee-breeches and buckled shoon, they dreamed of no
possibility of rest more hygienic than that obtained on the home-cured
goose feathers, with the home-spun sheets, blankets and counterpanes
which covered their tester-beds.
AUNT JANE’S MOCKING-BIRD
By Alma L. Stewart
“De sassy little deb’l, if dat jes’ don’t beat anything I eber seed,”
Aunt Jane was saying, as she vigorously knocked the well-worn breadtray
against the windowsill, if a hole two by four cut in the side of the
little log cabin can be said to have a window sill, to dislodge the
fragments of dough left from the preparation of the morning meal. After
a few more well-intended knocks she dried the tray and hung it and the
dishcloth on their own nail back of the small stove, and grasping the
corner of her apron she dried her hands and was mopping her face as she
turned and saw me in the doorway.
“Laws a-massy, Missus, whar’d yer drap from? Come in, dat is, ef yer can
find de way wid so much trash strowin’ roun’.
“Git out in de yard, niggers,” she said to a group of dirty, half-naked
little negroes, who were investigating the mysteries of a sardine can
under the table. In their effort to obey their seemingly irate mother,
they nearly upset the rickety old table, one leg of which was propped up
with a broken brick that Aunt Jane had brought from the sidewalk of the
town four miles away for that very purpose. “Bricks is sca’ce in dese
parts,” she had said to a neighbor, who had “ax’d her what in de world
she wuz gwin’ter do wid dat brick?” And so the vanquished pickaninnies
with timorous backward glances, disappeared, rubbing their heads as they
went.
“Viney, do git dat cher fer Miss Annie. Jes’ lay dem clothes on de bed.
My soul alibe, Missus, dese here niggers nearly runs me ’stracted.” And
she turned to me with the air of one whose last hope was gone.
But I knew how to take Aunt Jane’s moods, for she would have torn anyone
else literally to pieces had they dared to intimate anything detrimental
to the “life and charuc’ter of her chillun.” And so I seated myself
comfortably in Aunt Jane’s only rocker, which she declared no one ever
sat in “’cept her white folks.” Meanwhile she busied herself with the
pots and pans of the stove, talking as fast as she could, asking me a
hundred questions about the members of my family. I had come to see her
about taking my laundry. My present washwoman had rubbed all the buttons
off my husband’s shirts, and insisted on starching the nether parts of
them, while my own cambric ones and linen dresses were as limber as Aunt
Jane’s proverbial dishrag. Aunt Jane had been in our family when a girl
and I felt that I could depend upon her.
“Law, Miss Annie, dat nigger don’t know de fust rudermints erbout washin’
an’ irun’n.” And she gave her pan a telling scrape by way of emphasis.
“Talk ter me ’bout dese town niggers,” and she went to the same little
window to empty her dish-pan into the pig-trough placed beneath it, for
convenience Aunt Jane had said.
“Well, ef he ain’t dar agin,” she exclaimed, turning to me as if I knew
who “he” was.
“What is it, Jane?” I asked, going to the window myself, wondering what
was outside of the window to call forth all these exclamations.
“Oh, it’s dat sassy little deb’l, dat yander rascal ob a
mocking-bird—er-mind out, Missus, don’t tech dat table wid putty white
dress o’ yourn. Dis here hole ain’t fit fer yer ter come in no how—but
dat bird, he do beat all I eber seed. He ain’t skeered o’ nothin’, and
sing! My, tain’t nothin’ like it! I do b’leve he sings all de night long.
Why, de tother night ’bout twelve er’ clock, Jake come in ’bout half
drunk. Jake’s alright when he’s sober, but jes’ let him git drunk, he’s
de deb’l hissef, dat’s all’s to it. So when he git dat way I gits out, me
an’ de chillun’.
“Well, we went out yander under dat Cherokee rose yer see by de fence
dar, and laid low. We wuz skeer’d purty nigh ter death. Ever’thing
wuz jes’ as quiet an’ still, ’cept Jake blusterin’ roun’ wid de pans
in de cabin, when all ter wunce dat bird jes’ broke out, mos’ like a
brass-band, right over our heads. I tell yer, Miss Annie, it made me feel
creepy. Seem’d like hev’un wuz right over us, while dar wuz de bad place
purty close by, ’cause Jake wuz a raisin’ a terrible roukus wid de pans
try’nter find somp’in ter eat.
“So, dat’s de way ’tis, Missus,” and she nodded her head meditatively,
“when de deb’l is try’nter raise a roukus wid yer hearts an’ souls, de
angels is right over yer singin’ all de time, ef we’ll be still an’
listen.” And she stopped in a thoughtful attitude.
But her reverie was rudely broken up by such din of screaming and yelling
as only half-starved African youngsters are capable of making.
“What on de top side er creashun ails dem yunguns?” she exclaimed, as we
both went to the door. There we saw Viney armed with a long dog-fennel,
followed by the others similarly equipped, in a wild dash for a lanky
black cat. We both laughed at the pursuit. But, suddenly, above their
yells Aunt Jane caught the distress call of the mocking-bird. That was
enough for her. She seized her battling stick and flew after them,
coming quickly to where they were gathered in a fence corner.
“Lemme in here, git erway niggers,” as she breathlessly tumbled two of
them over one another, and with a terrific whack came down upon the
fastened cat, who was still tenaciously gripping the dying bird.
I stood transfixed, not realizing what had taken place, until I saw them
returning to the house. Viney was dragging the lifeless body of the thief
tied by his hind leg to her apron string, while the boys were meting out
vengeance to him in no unstinted terms, slashing him vigorously with one
hand, the other busily engaged holding up their disjointed pantaloons.
In the lead was Aunt Jane. The little pile of grey feathers on the corner
of her apron, resting tenderly on her hand, was all that was left of her
“sassy little deb’l,” the beautiful mocking-bird.
SOME SOUTHERN WRITERS
JAMES RYDER RANDALL
By Kate Alma Orgain
As a rule all national airs have been composed rapidly, under the strong
inspiration of some moment of intense and enthusiastic feeling, and their
writers little dreamed at the time of the power and influence their
passionate appeals would have. National lyrics play an important part
in every country’s history. What has moved and held the army of France
like “The Marseillaise Hymn?” Nothing rouses the Southern soldier like
our glorious “Dixie,” and since the hour when the notes and words of
“Maryland, My Maryland” first sounded on the air, the noble song has
always started the pulse-beat higher and faster in every Southern heart.
It is a pleasant fact for all Southern people, of Irish descent, to
remember that the four grand lyric poems of the South were written by
Irishmen, or men of Irish parentage. “Dixie” was the work of Dan Emmet,
“The Bonnie Blue Flag” that of Harry McCarthy, “The Conquered Banner”
came from Father Ryan, and “Maryland, My Maryland,” whose beauty has
thrilled the souls of thousands, was, as we know, written by James Ryder
Randall. In a letter received by the writer not long ago, Mr. Randall
says that on his father’s side he is of Irish descent, thus giving us
in our Southern airs a quartette of Irish talent. Mr. Randall was born
in Baltimore in 1839, received the principal part of his education
at Georgetown, D. C., where he went to school from his tenth to his
seventeenth year. Here he obtained a fine classical education, but owing
to delicate health could not entirely finish his course. His work in life
has been chiefly editorial, and at different times he has been connected
with the newspapers of Augusta, New Orleans and Baltimore, and has never
devoted himself exclusively to literature. In 1861 James Ryder Randall
was, though very young, a professor at Poydras College upon the Fausse
Rivière of Louisiana. Only a stripling, just from school, with a soul
full of poetry and romance, the condition of the South, the first gun at
Fort Sumter, the scent of the battle afar, thrilled his ardent heart, and
“one sleepless night in April, in a second story room of Poydras College,
seated at a little old wooden desk,” he wrote the lyric poem that has
been called the “Marseillaise of the Confederacy.” The song, set to
music of an old college melody, “Lauringer Horatius,” by its passionate
appeal, caught the attention of the Southern heart, and was sung in field
and camp, in cottage and palace. It was first set in print in the _New
Orleans Delta_.
[Illustration: JAMES RYDER RANDALL]
Mr. Randall wrote also a number of other beautiful poems, among them
being “The Sole Sentry,” “Arlington,” “John Pelham,” and “The Cameo
Bracelet.” “The Unconquered Banner” was written in reply to Father Ryan’s
“Conquered Banner,” and its beauty and spirit can be seen by even a few
lines:
“Men die, but principles can know no death,
No last extinguishment of mortal breath.
We fought for what our fathers held in trust;
It did not fall forever in the dust.”
Hardly less noted at the time of publication than “Maryland, My
Maryland,” was the poem “There’s Life in the Old Land Yet.”
In a late paper from Columbus, Ohio, we find the following from Atherton
Hastings:
“It was my good fortune to meet recently in New Orleans Mr. James Ryder
Randall, the author of ‘Maryland, My Maryland.’ He is an old man now,
but vigorous in mind and body. He talked freely and without prejudice of
the one-time sectional differences. Individually, he had no apologies
for the part he played in the great conflict. His sentiments on the
basic principles that once divided the South from the North were perhaps
mellowed by age, but not materially changed. I could scarcely realize
that this mild-mannered old man, with the soft Southern voice, was the
same who, nearly half a century ago, lighted and held aloft the wildly
flaming torch of Southern patriotism.”
Modestly and with quiet dignity Mr. Randall still pursues his editorial
work, publishing in New Orleans, _The Morning Star_, a paper of great
purity and strong high purpose. Shall we wait, holding silently our
alabaster boxes of love and praise till the green sod covers the author
of “Maryland, My Maryland,” the song which, Atherton Hastings says, “did
more to unite the Confederate States than any other one force?”
The state of Maryland is thinking of having a homecoming of her sons and
daughters, and will ask James Ryder Randall to be her guest of honor.
Why should not the writer of “Maryland, My Maryland” be thus honored by
all our Southern states at various reunions? Colonel J. Frank Supplee,
of Baltimore, says he has “never found any section of this country in
which this noble song is unknown.” We can in no better way instill love
of country into the hearts of our young people than through our national
songs, and we should see to it that “Maryland, My Maryland” be sung, and
that the memory of its author be kept fresh and green in the heart of
every child.
[Illustration]
SOME QUAINT OLD BALLADS
By Virginia Chambers
Mammy used to sing them to us—those quaint, old ballads. Now, there are
mammies and mammies, and our mammy considered herself a “quality lady.”
She and all her family had always been house servants, and, as such,
looked with utter contempt upon the “field hands.”
Mammy tried to live up to her exalted position; and while she had many of
the characteristics of her race, she had tried to imitate “Ole Mistis”
until her manners were almost ludicrously dignified and prim. As a result
of this, the songs with which she entertained us were those she had heard
from the grandees of old Virginia, when she was young. I am growing old
myself, and Mammy was an old woman when I was a child, so her songs
belong to many generations past, being, most of them, evidently from
England.
I can only give them as I remember them, having never seen one of them
in print; and as they are but a child’s recollections of an ignorant old
negro’s songs, it is to be presumed that they are very faulty. However,
even as we heard them, they seem worth preserving.
The mind can easily call up the picture—the locusts and catalpas
clustered around the back porch of our old plantation home—Mammy in
her low chair under our favorite tree—the baby in her lap—the group of
children all around her, all waiting impatiently for her to croon the
baby to sleep and go with us to gather the jasmine flowers for “Miss
’Gusta’s” pomatum, or the raspberries for “Ole Mistis’s” lunch.
We must have been of a sentimental turn, for the chief favorite was a
doleful ditty, called
LORD LOVELL
Lord Lovell, he stood at his castle gate,
A-combing his milk-white steed,
When out came the lady Nancy Bell,
To wish her lover good speed-speed-speed,
To wish her lover good speed.
“Oh, where are you going, Lord Lovell?” she said,
“And where are you going?” said she.
“I’m going away, Lady Nancy Bell,
Strange countries for to see-see-see,
Strange countries for to see.”
And when he’d been gone a year and a day,
Strange countries for to see,
A languishing thought came over his mind.
His lady-love for to see-see-see,
His lady-love for to see.
So he rode and he rode on his milk-white steed,
Till he came to London town,
And there he heard the great church bell,
And the people were gathered around-’round-’round,
And the people were gathered around.
“Oh, what is the matter?” Lord Lovell, he said,
“And what is the matter?” said he.
And then they said: “A lady is dead;
Some called her the Lady Nancy-cy-cy,
Some called her the Lady Nancy.”
Lady Nancy, she died as it might be to-day,
Lord Lovell, he died on the morrow;
Lady Nancy, she died of pure, pure love,
Lord Lovell, he died of sorrow-row-row,
Lord Lovell, he died of sorrow.
Lady Nancy was buried on one hill top;
Lord Lovell was buried on t’other;
And out of her bosom there grew a red rose,
And out of her lover’s a brier-er-er,
And out of her lover’s a brier.
They grew and they grew, to the church steeple top,
And they couldn’t grow any higher;
And then they formed a true lover’s knot, knot,
Which all true lovers admire-er-er,
Which all true lovers admire.
The tune is even more ridiculous than the words, and the repetition in
each stanza is positively ludicrous.
Next in our esteem was a comic hunting song, of which I recall these
stanzas:
They hunted and they hollered,
And the first thing they did find
Was a frog in the marshes,
And that they left behind.
Look a-there, now! Look a-there!
Some said it was a frog,
And some said nay;
Some said it was a bird
With its feathers shot away.
Look a-there, now! Look a-there!
So they hunted and they hollered,
And the next thing they did find
Was the moon in the elements,
And that they left behind.
Look a-there, now! Look a-there!
Some said it was the moon,
And some said nay;
Some said it was a cheese
With the half cut away.
Look a-there, now! Look a-there!
So they hunted and they hollered,
And the next thing they did find
Was a barn in the meadow,
And that they left behind.
Look a-there, now! Look a-there!
Some said it was a barn,
And some said nay;
Some said it was a church
With the steeple blown away.
Look a-there, now! Look a-there!
So they hunted and they hollered,
And the next thing they did find
Was an owl in the bushes,
And that they left behind.
Look a-there, now! Look a-there!
Some said it was an owl,
And some said nay.
Some said it was _the Devil_
And they all ran away!
Look a-there, now! Look a-there!
This irreverent mention of His Satanic Majesty was, to our childish ears,
almost an unpardonable sin, and we went to our little beds shuddering
and confessing ourselves “miserable sinners,” even to have listened to
such a word.
A third ballad seems to belong to old colonial times. It went thus:
In good old Colony times,
When we were under the king,
Three sons of Moore’s were turned out doors
Because they could not sing, sing,
Because they could not sing.
The first one, he was a miller,
And the second, he was a weaver,
And the third one, he was a little tai_lor_,
With the broadcloth under his arm, arm,
With the broadcloth under his arm.
Now the miller, he stole corn,
And the weaver, he stole yarn,
And the little tai_lor_, he stole broadcloth,
For to keep these three rogues warm,
For to keep these three rogues warm.
But the miller got drowned in his pond,
And the weaver got tangled in his yarn;
And the devil clapped his claw on the little tai_lor_,
With the broadcloth under his arm, arm,
With the broadcloth under his arm.
There were many others, but I do not remember them well enough to write
them out. Barbara Allen was a great favorite, but with that all are
familiar.
Occasionally, as a great treat, Mammy would unbend sufficiently to let us
have some of the little negroes from the quarters come down to the house
and sing for us, and while we loved Mammy’s old-fashioned ditties best,
we were always vastly entertained by such coon songs as
Snake baked a hoe-cake,
An’ set the frawg to mind it.
Lizard come an’ stole it,
An’ frawg, he couldn’t find it!
And this, with accompaniment of patting and shuffling:
Wake up, Jacob, let’s go hunt’n’,
An’ ketch us a skel’ton to cook with a punk’n.
Wake up, Amos, day is a-breakin’,
Peas in the pot an’ hoe-cake a-bakin’.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: BOOKS AND AUTHORS]
LILLIAN KENDRICK BYRN
DON Q IN THE SIERRA. By K. and H. Prichard. Philadelphia: J. B.
Lippincott Co. Price, $1.50.
The thousands of admirers of “Don Q,” the crafty bandit, elusive and
fearless, with claws under velvet that tear with merciless fury when
roused to action, will be delighted with these new chronicles of further
thrilling adventures of that mysterious character. The joint authorship
of the “Don Q” stories is the rather unusual combination of mother and
son, who, having traveled extensively in Spain and Spanish America, are
able to put the local color into their stories with sure hands. It would,
perhaps, be saying too much to declare that the portrait of the bandit is
drawn from acquaintance with the original character, but no one can doubt
that the authors have met with many adventures and heard many stories at
first hand which have suggested the polished outlaw.
SAUL OF TARSUS. By Elizabeth Miller. Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill Co.
Price, $1.50.
This story presents Saul during the time of his persecution of the
Nazarenes and the death of St. Stephen of Galilee, before he became St.
Paul of the Christian Church. The period immediately succeeding the
crucifixion is the most stirringly interesting of any in the world’s
history. Never before or since has there been such a wave of deep
feeling, of psychological uplift and high thought, mingled with the
warring of the fiercest passions and the basest corruption. Miss Miller
has given us, as in “The Yoke,” a skillful weaving of heart-stirring
incidents and a love story of the purest and noblest type.
A CHILD’S BOOK OF ABRIDGED WISDOM. By Childe Harold. New York: Paul Elder
& Co. Price, $1.50.
A delight to the beauty-loving soul is this little book for the amusement
of the children, bound in heavy gray boards, with quaint, corded back and
heavy hand-pressed paper. The drawings and marginal decorations are in
true Childe Harold style, which is a guarantee of their worth.
OVER IN THE MEADOW. By Olive A. Wadsworth. New York and San Francisco:
Morgan Shepard Co. Price, $1.
Mrs. Wadsworth has elaborated and improved an old nursery classic. The
first eight topics are in their original form, but she has added four
others in the same style, and Mabel Wood Hill has set them to appropriate
music. Each full page is prefaced by another verse on the same subject,
but in different meter, and the whole is beautifully bound in brown
boards, with line decorations of birds and beasts in colors, the drawings
being the handiwork of Marguerite Wood and Harold Sichel.
THE ROMANCE OF JOHN BAINBRIDGE. By Henry George, Jr. New York: The
Macmillan Co. Price, $1.50.
A big factory for art stained glass is not a likely place to look for
romance, but Mr. George has laid in such a scene a story of fascinating
interest. The action covers also the great West and mining, timber
cutting and the practice of law in those regions. The central theme of
the story, however, is a study of municipal government under existing
methods of election and maintenance. Conspiracies, lobbying, bribery,
blackmailing and other concomitants of present-day government politics
are laid bare in a convincing manner, while the love story keeps and
holds the reader’s interest in these questions.
ROMANCE ISLAND. By Zona Gale. Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill Co. Price,
$1.50.
The discovery of a fourth dimension is surely a very interesting thing
and no one can give a more thrilling account of the consequences of such
a discovery than the gifted Zona Gale, whose Pelleas and Ettarre stories
are so widely known and loved. The adventure, the mystery and swift rush
of events are so thrilling in this island of Miss Gale’s discovery that
the reader loses himself in the absorbing account, and it is only when
the book is laid down with a sigh when finished that he realizes that he
has been filching time from his usual rest or occupation for a sojourn in
the regions of enchantment.
HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS OF THE MISSISSIPPI VALLEY. By Clifton Johnson. New
York: The Macmillan Co. Price, $2.
This is a thoroughly excellent and descriptive account of the many
lovely nooks and corners that dot the great valley of the “Father of
Waters.” It is also a study of the types of the inhabitants of the
section and contains much interesting and valuable historical matter. The
illustrations are from the author’s own camera and add greatly to the
interest of the chronicle.
THE UPPER HAND. By Emerson Gifford Taylor. New York: A. S. Barnes & Co.
Price, $1.50.
In the ’squire’s house, in a New England house, there has been a tragedy
in the night. Later a piratical seafarer appears and the village becomes
the scene of strange adventures. The mysterious bringing of a little girl
to the squire’s house, her subsequent bringing up and the winning of the
old man’s reluctant affections, her love affair, complicated with the
reappearance of the sailor, whose power over the ’squire only adds to the
mystery, and the final adjustment of all the puzzling questions, bringing
happiness and justice to all, makes a readable story.
FAMOUS ACTOR FAMILIES IN AMERICA. By Montrose J. Moses. New York: T. Y.
Crowell & Co. Price, $2.
A rare value attaches to this book from the fact that it is not only a
succinct account of the actors who have made a name on the American stage
and transmitted to their children their talent, but also reproduces a
number of interesting old portraits, which are of the greatest value to
the student of the beginnings of the American stage. The histories of
such well-known families as the Jeffersons, the Drews and Barrymores, the
Booths and other favorites will find readers everywhere. The whole matter
is well treated and beautifully illustrated.
BLIND ALLEYS. By George Cary Eggleston. Boston: Lothrop, Lee & Shepard
Co. Price, $1.50.
The titles of Mr. Eggleston’s previous books, “A Carolina Cavalier,”
“Evelyn Byrd,” “A Daughter of the South,” etc., show the chosen field
of his work to be the painting of Southern romances. In “Blind Alleys,”
however, he has selected an entirely different field and has given us a
significant and typical study of social conditions in New York. There is
a sweet and wholesome love story, of course. Indeed, there are two of
them, and altogether the novel is one of exceptional interest.
WITH OUR READERS
This department is open to our readers for the expression of their
opinions on questions of public interest. The editors, while inviting
contributions bearing on measures and events of general interest, reserve
the right to exclude such matter as is not deemed suitable, and are not
responsible for opinions expressed.
FRANCE AND THE CHURCH
A great epoch is transpiring in the republic of France—greater, in fact,
than the triumphant continuance of the French democracy. The passing of
the power of the Roman Catholic Church in that country presents a more
marvelous condition or situation than the continued perpetuation of the
republican form of government.
The Church of Rome, saving a few years of Huguenot power, and the
short-lived revolution preceding the advent of Napoleon, has, for more
than ten centuries, linked its history with that of France. In fact, the
latter has, since the days of Charles Martel, been known as the “eldest
daughter of the church.” And what a history! A Roman pope crowned King
Pepin in the eighth century and Napoleon in the nineteenth. Not a line
of history, of romance, of tradition, of public or private right, or
public or private wrong, but through the ages has been mingled with
her name. From Flanders, on the English channel, to Provence on the
Mediterranean, from Lorraine, on the east, to Gascoigne in the west, it
was all Catholic, and Roman Catholic. The counts of Paris, Flanders, and
of Anjou; the dukes of Burgundy, Normandy, of Guise; and the Bourbon
Princes, were all originally Roman Catholics.
Who is there that has not in the morning of life read with delight of
the martial prowess and religious fervor of Jeanne d’Arc, the Maid of
Orleans? Her love of her church, and her love for her country, ought to
be remembered by men who are now playing fast and loose with the fortunes
of both. Who but will admit that their Excellencies, Cardinals Richelieu
and Mazarin, with their imperious sway, did more to extend the glory
of France than either of the great Louises under whom they ministered?
What student of French history could forget the names of La Valliere,
De Montespan, and Maintenon, brilliant, charming, but dissolute, who,
losing royal favor, sought and found solace in the sacred precincts of
the cloister? The grand cathedrals at Rheims, at Rouen; Nôtre Dame and
the Madeleine at Paris; the many rare and splendid chapels to the famous
chateaux of monarchs, and princes, that line the Loire, the Seine, the
Rhone, and Garonne—do they not speak in ancient protest to the late
separation and sequestration? Who but that remembers the sweet, dignified
bearing, and devout humility of the peasant husband and wife bowed in
prayer, in the field, at the ringing of the angelus, as portrayed by
Millet? Typical of religious France! Can such things be swept away and
become a mere memory at the beck of secular and temporal power?
The French Revolution of 1789 with its consequent vulgar excess brought
about in 1801 the so-called “Concordat,” it being a carefully drawn
agreement between Pius VII and Napoleon, which restored, with material
restrictions, the power of the church in France. When one writes of the
church in France he means the Roman Catholic Church, for ninety per
cent of the communicants of religion there belong to that denomination.
There is little or no doubt but that Napoleon overreached the Pope in
that agreement. Only divinity itself could have coped with the masterly
genius of that most wonderful man—the “man of destiny”—who, in changing
the map of the world by his sword, wrought a greater change in its human
affairs through his policies. Much church property had been confiscated
during the revolution, and had passed from the state to other hands.
The titles, so acquired, to that property were to be left undisturbed
by the restoration of the church. Again, the government reserved, in
the Concordat, the right to nominate the archbishops and bishops of the
church, and assumed and asserted the right to determine their attitude
between the Vatican and the state.
The law of “Separation,” as it is called, was passed December 5th, 1905,
by which annual stipends, previously guaranteed by the state to bishops
and priests were abolished, and the churches, parochial residences, and
buildings used for religious purposes, including monasteries, convents,
seminaries, all, should fall under the authority of the state to be
regulated by civil corporations known as “associations of worship.” The
law provided twelve months from its passage, that it should be ratified
by the church.
The civil associations are to hold the church property and have the right
to dictate the mode and manner of the worship therein, even the uses for
which the property shall be employed.
Is it any wonder that Pius X, speaking for Rome, should have rejected
such a law? To confiscate one’s property is one thing—to have the power
to dictate one’s form of worship is quite another thing. Any gendarme
with the order in his hand issued by any upstart official could disperse
at pleasure the worshippers at any sanctuary in the republic. The French
law is not a mere separation of church and state; far more, it is a
subjection of the church to the state.
In France the seats of the mighty in the main are filled now by the
disciples of Voltaire—men of the type of Jaures, Delpech, and Clemenceau.
M. Briand, the Minister of Education, the reputed author of the
“Associations” bill, is charged with declaring in a public speech to the
educational authorities under him:
“The time has come to root up from the minds of French children the
ancient faith which has served its purpose, and replace it with the
light of free thought. It is time to get rid of the Christian idea. We
have hunted Jesus Christ out of the army, the navy, the schools, the
hospitals, the insane asylums, the orphan asylums and the law courts; and
now we must hunt him out of the state altogether.”
In such a fight Christendom itself ought to have a sympathy. The chief
Rabbi of France, M. Lehmann, one of a religion long persecuted, of this
action of the French Assembly, says:
“How could one think on the one hand that the state should suppress
establishments which had been guaranteed by nearly every constitution
since 1791, and protected by every law, and, by means of the same act,
should seize the property they have acquired with its approbation?...
What we want is that places of worship should belong to those who have
built them and who pray in them, and that every religious denomination
should preserve the form of organization which is the most conformable to
its traditions and aspirations.”
Surely a member of a so-called Protestant communion may say amen! to
the foregoing quotation. Surely, any American stands for freedom of
religious belief, as well as that private property shall not be taken
for public use, without just compensation. Think of the millions in
value sequestrated under the French law of 1905, aside from other
considerations! What a beautiful and dignified protest has the world
recently heard from Archbishop Ireland, not only intellectually the
foremost churchman of his faith, but almost unparalleled among orators
of this or any other land. Of the rape of the French church, among other
things, he says:
“For the moment the situation is, undoubtedly, serious—and serious for
the one as for the other of the contestants. Yet, seen more near, it
reveals no coloring of despair, either for France, or for the Church of
France. A bright morning, I dare predict, will at a not distant time dawn
over the field of battle, dropping from the skies sunshine and peace and
begetting both in the Church and in France, joy and exultation that the
passage-at-arms, angry as it once was, has opened the way to a clearer
understanding of mutual interests, to a warmer glow of olden mutual love.
“The Catholic Church,—of course I love her, and I champion her _cause_
with delight. And France, too, I love. While I shall blame her, I shall
not forget all that she has been, during her storied centuries, to
mankind and the Church, and I now bid my hearers to nurture no rancor
against her, and if I beckon her to defeat, it is that she rise from
defeat greater and more glorious than victory could have made her.”
Those who have followed with discerning eyes this oldest of human
institutions among the works of the ages, will look forward with hope
to a speedy and healthy reconciliation between the government of France
and a religious institution which for longer than a thousand years has
been part and parcel of it; which has conserved in great degree its
morals, contended for the peace of its citizens, and especially, during
the monarchies, added glory and renown, wherever opportunity offered.
The Roman Church has ever been an hierarchy, believing in hallowed or
consecrated authority, in what concerns religious order or government,
and too often, doubtlessly, extending this idea to secular or state
affairs—yet, on the whole, who is so wise as to declare what better
results had been to us now had other influences dominated at the many
great and appalling crises in history which that ancient organization has
had to face? This aside, however, will the Christian governments of the
world lie by without a protest to this wholesale confiscation, and avowed
determination to uproot religion in the very heart of Europe, when it is
their custom to make formidable protests against the action of Turkey in
Armenia, and against atrocities of every nature repellant to civilization?
As a humble communicant of a Protestant Church, personally an unworthy
Christian, I have taken the pains to give a very abridged history of what
is passing in France, and registering a feeble public protest against it.
JOHN FRANCIS LOCKETT.
_Henderson, Ky., Jan., 1907._
A DUCK HUNT IN KANSAS
CEDAR VALE, KANS., Nov. 18, 1906.
Dear Trotwood: I have read your Christmas goose hunt and think it great.
Let me take you a duck hunt in this territory, the land of the Osages,
the richest tribe in America. Their pasture lands lie some fifteen miles
to the south, and extend for forty to fifty miles to the south and west
of here, a vast tract of rich grazing land settled along the larger
streams. Beaver Creek heads in the state and flows in a general direction
nearly south. Salt Creek, some eight or ten miles east of Beaver, also
flows nearly south. In order to secure a supply of water for their
herds of Texas cattle, the cattlemen that hold leases on the grass land
between the two creeks have constructed ponds, or tanks, in the heads of
the draws and ravines that start off in either direction, and carry the
surplus water of early spring. By throwing up a bank of earth across a
draw near its head a pond from 150 to 200 yards in length and from 50 to
75 yards wide and eight to ten feet deep is secured, and this usually
lasts the year round.
In the spring and latter part of our winter the ducks, and sometimes
geese, stop for several weeks to pick up corn after the cattle that are
fed along the creeks, and it is then that the ducks use these ponds as a
roosting place. Situated, as they are, five or six miles from any human
habitation, back on a high prairie, not even a bush or tree in sight,
the lay of the country sloping to the east and west, the ducks appear to
think they have found a safe retreat from the merciless hunter. Not so,
however. It is here that the pot-shot hunter is in his glory. Sometimes,
in early spring, just after a northwester has blown itself out, and we
get a few warm days, I have seen these ponds full of ducks; yes, and
sitting out in the grass on each side for a good hundred yards in each
direction. It was just such a time as this, during the first days of
March, 1903, that I and my good Swede friend, Norling, found ourselves
camped about a mile below one of the tanks in a small draw that ran off
in the direction of Beaver Creek. We had selected this particular pond
for our night’s sport because we knew that a bunch of some 2,000 head of
cattle was being fed over on Beaver about five miles away, and then we
had stopped at the pond before going into camp to see if there were any
signs. It did not require an old hunter to see the signs there. The damp
ground around the edge of the pond was strewn with loose feathers and
stamped and patted where the ducks had roosted along the water’s edge
until it looked like the floor of a large poultry yard.
The sun had just set and there was a bank of red in the west, the wind
was coming in little gusts from the north and the night promised to be
clear. The moon would be up in about an hour.
“There they come,” said Norling, in a low voice, and then, just across
the narrow draw, a bunch of a dozen or so passed, flying close to the
ground and headed straight for the pond. It was still light enough to see
them when they reached the pond. They did not circle, as is usual with
ducks about to light, but raised slightly just before reaching the pond,
and then, poised for a second, appeared to drop in, and so still was the
evening and the wind blowing from the pond toward us, we could hear the
water splash as they struck it.
So intensely had our interest been fixed on the first bunch we had not
noticed others that were coming. Scarcely had the first ones settled
before another flock began to drop in, and now they seemed to be coming
in a steady stream. There was a continuous splash, splash, splash, as one
after another they settled in the water. For at least an hour they came
in this way.
“By Jimminy, George, I believe already there is so many in there as we
could with us home take! Let us see how many we could rake down for the
first shots,” said Norling. The moon was up now and cast a dark shadow
from one side to the other of the draw. Taking a piece of white chalk
from my pocket I drew a heavy white line between the barrels of my gun
from sight to sight.
“What is that for?” asked Norling.
“Well, you see, if you are aiming too high you see a long white mark,
if too low you cannot see it at all, and when just right you only see
a small white spot, and when shooting by moonlight this enables you to
shoot with a good deal of accuracy,” I replied.
“Come on, now, and be careful. A step in this dry grass would make noise
enough to send every duck out of that pond. Follow this cow path and keep
down low so they won’t see your head over the dump. The pond is nearly
full of water.”
We were nearly half way, now, and it would not do to talk, not even to
whisper, as a duck has very sharp hearing. The sharp whistle call of the
sprig tail seemed to nearly drown the quack, quack of the mallard, and
the splash, splash of the water against the dam told us we had but a
few yards farther to go. At the foot of the dam we crawled on hands and
knees until by stepping to our feet our heads and shoulders were above
the dump. And then such a sight! The slight noise we made as we rose to
our feet caused every duck in the water and on the banks to turn in our
direction, and the rays of the moon fell on their white breasts and was
reflected back here and there by an open patch of water. But only for an
instant did this scene remain. Just one quick glance and then our guns
came to our shoulders, a long white streak, then a small white dot in
line with a thousand white breasts, a flash and a sharp report, followed
by the greatest quacking, splashing and whirr of wings I had ever heard.
So great was the noise made by the immense flock taking wing that I
could not hear the report of the second barrel of my own gun. A few more
shots were fired at crippled ducks that were still able to swim, a short
wait for the wind to drift the dead ones to the bank, and then we picked
up thirty-one dead ducks, all stopped by our first four shots. Sport and
meat enough for one night?
Just write me a line a few days before you come and I will meet you at
the train; and, by the way, I have some colts three years old by The
Peacher, 2.17¼, pacing at two years old, and by the summaries the best
sire of the season owned in Kansas. These colts are out of mares by
Bertran, 2.20, and Capitalist, 2.29½, and they can step some, too. Better
come about the 10th of March.
Yours truly,
GEORGE BEUOY.
THE DREAM AND THE BUSINESS
(_Hobbes_)
The year 1906 was pre-eminently a year of the so-called fiction of
psychology. This is hardly a passing fad. The more enlightened and
cultured a people, the more are they interested in character study.
Men and women and motives are more entertaining than mere beauty of
description, or complicated plot. And the really successful novels of the
year are written by women, and seem to be concerned with the intricate
workings of the feminine mind.
Not since the appearance of “Lily Bart” in “The House of Mirth” have we
had such a striking character as “Sophy Firmalden” in “The Dream and The
Business,” by John Oliver Hobbes.
This, Mrs. Craigie’s last work, is certainly one of the cleverest
productions of the year.
A very unusual feature of this book is a letter from the Hon. Joseph H.
Choate to the publishers expressing his appreciation of Mrs. Craigie as
woman and author.
The refined atmosphere that permeates all her works—the delicate touch
peculiarly Mrs. Craigie’s own—are compelling features of this brilliant
book.
Clever dialogue there is in abundance.
Conservatism exists in America “only in Webster, side by side with the
word pre-historic.”
That radical nature inherent in all Americans seems to have been
toned down by Mrs. Craigie’s English education and environment. The
conservative English spirit, just blended with a certain amount of
American radicalism to add flavor, presents some most attractive views of
life and living.
It was pathetic, as well as a sad blow to the literary world, that Mrs.
Craigie should die just as this book went to press.
James Firmalden was full of illusion, impetuous and enthusiastic. He
started out in life with the mistaken idea that the “most important acts
in a man’s life—the choosing of a career and of a wife—are accidents.”
There is always a youthful affair. James Firmalden’s was with Nannie
Cloots. As Lord Marlesford said, “This is always the way with women,
sooner or later they make you play the fool exceedingly.” “The Cloots
family were already on his shoulders.” He developed with age; broke their
engagement and had the manhood to tell the “loyal lie.” Ever afterwards
he led a single, uncompleted life.
Dr. Firmalden, the Oxford minister, was one of the many who tried to
believe he had gained wisdom with age, but, like numerous elderly
persons, he had only lost the power of wondering.
His sermons usually contained many “shiny, well-worn platitudes which are
always tedious.”
Sophy Firmalden, one of the leading characters, endowed with good looks
and native wit, was never very happy. One is never wholly satisfied. “The
child wears the mother’s skirts enviously while the mother mourns her
youth.”
“There was that fastidious and elusive instinct in Sophy which always
makes for suffering.”
Inclined to fanaticism and moody, an over developed conscience kept her
from marrying the one man she loved because he was irreligious. They were
never at ease together for their relation could never degenerate into
common comradeship.
Sent abroad to forget Lessard, she thought she had done so, and married
another. “What a charred trail she left in her path!” Becoming cynical,
she said “she would never again allow herself to care much for anybody—it
was always so disappointing.” She declared there were two kinds of men,
“Those who were born to protect us, and those who were born to understand
us”—her husband belonged to the former.
She knew little of the world—had not even seen “Fedora.” One of her
friends said it could not harm her—she could not possibly understand it.
She had a passion for good clothes. “A girl who is satisfied with her
wardrobe can bear many privations.” “Sophy’s silk dresses were the source
of much fortitude in her domestic philosophy.”
James Firmalden’s first love, Nannie Cloots, was of obscure origin—her
mother having once been an ornament of the ballet. Reared with a
fanatical regard for appearances, she was “picturesque, artless and fresh
in her absurd ideas.”
“She was a chaser after celebrities—and wore claret-colored silk at ten
o’clock in the morning. Her chief delight was to associate with frumpish
Philistines.” “She saw the world; and found it stuffed with sawdust.”
Henry Firmalden was ruled by his wife. “In the city, he was a man who
could show great decision and force of will—but at home he was docile,
silent and often hungry.”
Lady Burghwallas, one of the minor characters, belonged to the class “who
must have their social illusions nourished by the newspapers.”
Lessard belonged to the Bohemian set. Of Huguenot extraction, he was of a
defiant mood, accompanied with melancholy characteristic of the sect from
which he sprang.
An “aristocratic vagabond,” he was a man of the world with a wayward
heart. Spontaneous and unconventional, he was disposed to quarrel with
the established order of things.
He was a singer and also a mediocre dramatist, who was admired by certain
“long-haired men who should have been born women, and by short-haired
women who should have not been born at all.”
Gloriana Twomley is an overdressed woman, but clever after a fashion.
She had tact to manage her husband in such a way as to keep him happy,
and at the same time make him entirely satisfied with her work. He never
realized it, “for the less wit a man has, the less he knows that he wants
it.” Her relationship was large. There were many “in-laws” and she was
kept busy trying to regulate their affairs.
The most entertaining character in the whole book is Lady Marlesford.
Vivacious, tactful and pretty, her highly disciplined mind could bear
agitation, pain or anything better than being bored. She and her husband
were of a violently different temperament. He, selfish, exacting and
unresponsive, could not appreciate her brilliant mind. Her keen sense of
humor made him nervous. Whenever he said anything but the obvious, she
invariably asked, “Who said that?” In conversation, she always kept him
“mentally out of breath.” “The pair having exhausted their dislike, were
almost attached to each other by a common bond of suffering.”
It is impossible to read “The Dream and The Business” _understandingly_
and fail to be entertained.
MARK HARWELL PETTWAY.
[Illustration: THE FAMILY SCRAP BOOK]
We have begun this department expecting our readers to make it. It has
been suggested by a number of our readers, and there is no department
that should be more popular. There are few of us who have not in old
scrap books, or elsewhere, something—in prose or poetry—that we cherish;
that has become part of our souls. Send them in, thus preserving them and
permitting others to enjoy them.
L’ENVOI
When earth’s last picture is painted and the tubes are twisted and
dried,
When the oldest colors have faded and the youngest critic has died,
We shall rest—and, faith, we shall need it—lie down for an aeon or
two
Till the Master of all good workmen shall set us to work anew.
And those that were good shall be happy, they shall sit in a golden
chair,
They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes of comet’s hair;
They shall find real saints to draw them—Magdalene, Peter and Paul—
They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired at all.
And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall blame;
And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame;
But each for the joy of the working, and each in his separate star,
Shall draw the thing as he sees it for the God of Things as They Are!
—_Rudyard Kipling._
“STONEWALL JACKSON’S WAY”
Come, stack arms, men! Pile on the rails,
Stir up the camp-fire bright;
No growling if the canteen fails,
We’ll make a roaring night.
Here Shenandoah brawls along,
There burly Blue Ridge echoes strong,
To swell the brigade’s rousing song
Of “Stonewall Jackson’s way.”
We see him now—the queer slouched hat
Cocked o’er his eye askew;
The shrewd, dry smile; the speech so pat,
So calm, so blunt, so true.
The “Blue-Light Elder” knows ’em well:
Says he, “That’s Banks—he’s fond of shell;
Lord save his soul! we’ll give him—” Well!
That’s “Stonewall Jackson’s way.”
Silence! Ground arms! Kneel all! Caps off!
Old Blue Light’s goin’ to pray.
Strangle the fool that dares to scoff!
Attention! it’s his way.
Appealing from his native sod,
_In forma pauperis_ to God:—
“Lay bare thine arm! stretch forth thy rod!
Amen!” That’s “Jackson’s way.”
He’s in the saddle now. Fall in!
Steady! the whole brigade!
Hill’s at the ford, cut off; we’ll win
His way out, ball and blade!
What matter if our shoes are worn?
What matter if our feet are torn?
“Quick step! we’re with him before morn!”
That’s “Stonewall Jackson’s way!”
The sun’s bright lances rout the mists
Of morning, and, by George!
Here’s Longstreet, struggling in the lists,
Hemmed in an ugly gorge;
Pope and his Dutchman, whipped before.
“Bay’nets and grape!” hear Stonewall roar;
“Charge, Stuart! Pay off Ashby’s score!”
In “Stonewall Jackson’s way.”
Ah, maidens, wait and watch and yearn
For news of Stonewall’s band!
Ah, widow, read with eyes that burn,
That ring upon thy hand!
Ah, wife, sew on, pray on, hope on!
Thy life shall not be all forlorn:
The foe had better ne’er been born
That gets in “Stonewall’s way.”
—_John Williamson Palmer._
SOME TIME
Last night, my darling, as you slept
I thought I heard you sigh,
And to your little crib I crept
And watched a space thereby,
And then I stooped and kissed your brow,
For oh, I love you so—
You are too young to know it now
But some time you will know.
Some time when in a darkened place
When others come to weep
Your eyes shall look upon a face
Calm in eternal sleep,
The voiceless lips, the wrinkled brow,
The patient smile will show—
You are too young to know it now
But some time you will know.
Look backward then, into the years
And see me here to-night—
See, oh my darling, how my tears
Are falling as I write;
And feel once more upon your brow
The kiss of long ago—
You are too young to know it now
But some time you will know.
—_Eugene Field._
LARK
Bird of the wilderness,
Blithesome and cumberless,
Sweet be thy matin o’er moorland and lea!
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling-place—
Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!
Wild is thy lay, and loud;
Far in the downy cloud
Love gives it energy—love gave it birth.
Where, on thy dewy wing,
Where art thou journeying,
Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.
O’er fell and fountain sheen,
O’er moor and mountain green,
O’er the red streamer that heralds the day;
O’er the cloudlet dim,
O’er the rainbow’s rim,
Musical cherub soar, singing away.
Then, when the gloaming comes,
Low, in the heather blooms,
Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling-place—
Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!
—_James Hogg._
WEARY OF MYSELF
The following is poetry—every line of it—and infinitely good. It is by
Matthew Arnold.
Weary of myself and sick of asking
What I am and what I ought to be,
At this vessel’s prow I stand, which bears me
Forward, forward o’er the starlit sea.
And a look of passionate desire
O’er the sea and to the stars I send;
Ye who from my childhood up have claimed me,
Calm me, ah compose me to the end!
“Ah, once more,” I cried, “ye stars, ye waters,
On my heart your mighty charm renew;
Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you,
Feel my soul becoming vast like you!”
From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of heaven
O’er the lit sea’s unquiet way
In the rustling night-air came the answer:
“Wouldst thou be as these are? Live as they.
“Unaffrighted by the silence round them,
Undisturbed by the sights they see,
These demand not that the things without them
Yield them love, amusement, sympathy.
“And with joy the stars perform their shining,
And the sea its long-silvered roll;
For self-poised they live, nor pine with noting
All the fever of some differing soul.
“Rounded by themselves, and unregardful
In what state God’s other works may be,
In their own tasks all their powers pouring,
These attain the mighty life you see.”
O air-born voice! long since, severely clear,
A cry like thine in mine own heart I hear;
“Resolve to be thyself, and know that he
Who finds himself loses his misery.”
—_Matthew Arnold._
THE JULEP
’Tis said that the gods on Olympus of old—
And who the bright legend profanes with a doubt?—
One night at their revels by Bacchus were told
That the last butt of nectar had somehow run out.
But determined to send ’round the goblet once more,
They sent to the fair immortals for aid
In composing a draught which, till drinking was o’er,
Should throw every wine ever drunk in the shade.
Grave Ceres herself blithely yielded the corn;
And the spirit that dwells in each amber-hued grain,
And which first had its birth in the dews of the morn,
Was taught to steal out in bright dew drops again.
Pomona, whose choicest of fruits on the board
Lay scattered profusely in everyone’s reach,
When called on a tribute to cull from her hoard,
Expressed the mild juice of the delicate peach.
The spirits were mingled, while Venus looked on
With glances so fraught with sweet, magical power
That the honey of Hybla e’en when it was gone
Has never been wiped from the draught till this hour.
Flora then from her bosom of fragrancy took
And with roseate fingers pressed down in the bowl,
All dripping and wet, as it came from the brook,
The herb whose aroma should flavor the whole.
The draught was delicious, each god did exclaim.
Yet something yet wanted, they all did bewail,
But juleps the drink of immortals became
When Jove himself added a handful of hail.
—_Hoffman._
HOW WE RISE
Heaven is not reached at a single bound,
But we build the ladder by which we rise
From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies.
And we mount to the summit round by round.
I count this thing to be grandly true,
That a noble deed is a step toward God,
Lifting the soul from the common sod
To a purer air and a broader view.
We rise by the things that are under our feet,
By what we have mastered of greed and gain,
By the pride deposed and the passion slain,
And the vanquished ills that we hourly meet.
We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust,
When the morning calls us to life and light;
But our hearts grow weary, and ere the night
Our lives are trailing in sordid dust.
We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we pray,
And we think that we mount the air on wings,
Beyond the recall of sensual things,
While our feet still cling to the heavy clay.
Wings for the angels, but feet for the men,
We may borrow the wings to find the way,
We may hope and aspire and resolve and pray,
But our feet must rise or we’ll fall again.
Only in dreams is a ladder thrown
From the weary earth to the sapphire walls;
But the dreams depart and the vision falls,
And the sleeper awakes on his pillow of stone.
Heaven is not reached at a single bound,
But we build the ladder by which we rise
From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies,
And we mount to the summit round by round.
—_J. G. Holland._
A FABLE.
The mountain and the squirrel
Had a quarrel;
And the former called the latter “Little Prig.”
Bun replied,
“You are doubtless very big;
But all sorts of things and weather
Must be taken in together,
To make up a year
And a sphere.
And I think it no disgrace
To occupy my place.
And if I’m not so large as you,
You are not so small as I,
And not half so spry!
I’ll not deny you make
A very pretty squirrel track;
Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;
If I cannot carry forests on my back,
Neither can you crack a nut.”
—_Ralph Waldo Emerson._
DICKSON COUNTY, TENNESSEE
By W. O. Thomas
Probably there is no county in the state that is attracting as much
attention at the present time as the County of Dickson. It lies on the
meridial line that clearly defines the mineral and gas belt forming one
of the earth’s great arteries connecting the oil fields of Pennsylvania
with the oil fields of Texas, and is rich in every constituent that
contributes to the material wants of mankind.
[Illustration: BUSINESS SECTION OF DICKSON]
Dickson County contains an area of 650 square miles. The county forms
a great watershed, draining into the Cumberland river on the north and
the Duck river on the south. It is watered by many confluents of these
streams. Thus the county is cut up into innumerable rich and productive
valleys, fringed by fruitful uplands that are in turn crowned by great
forests of virgin timber. Talk to any lumberman and he will lament the
decadence of the timber production. Yet it is a fact that nature’s
storehouse still contains a vast reserve supply of this product, and that
the present generation will not live to see it exhausted.
The soil of Dickson County is very diverse. Any crop produced in the
temperate zone can be grown with profit in this county. Corn, wheat,
oats, barley, rye, tobacco, sorghum, peanuts, melons, and all kinds of
small fruits thrive to perfection. The northern side of the county
is within the Clarksville dark tobacco district, while other sections
produce a long leaf tobacco, rivaling in its quality and fibre the famous
Sumatra wrapper. The conditions of soil and climate seem especially
favorable to this industry, and it is quite certain that tobacco growing
will be one of the future staples of Dickson County. The conditions are
ideal for the cultivation of Irish and sweet potatoes, tomatoes and that
class of fruits and vegetables.
[Illustration: DICKSON HOME OF JOHN T. CRAIN,
Southern Representative G. P. Dodge Lumber Co., Chicago]
Lands in Dickson County range in price from $2 to $200 an acre. This is a
wide range, but it is so. In Bell’s Bend, where the Harpeth river sweeps
in a broad semi-circle and doubles back on itself, hugging on either side
a long, narrow bluff, the land is priceless. Here it was that Montgomery
Bell swayed the rod of empire in the palmy days of yore. He has long
since been gathered to his fathers, but his name and fame are traditional
in this state, and Montgomery Bell Academy at Nashville is a monument to
his generosity and philanthropy.
Montgomery Bell was a thrifty Vermonter who settled in Tennessee about
the beginning of the eighteenth century. He acquired vast tracts of land
in Dickson County, and laid the foundations of his prosperity in the
manufacture of pig iron. He was either directly or indirectly interested
in not less than six of these furnaces in Dickson County. They were all
operated by water power, steam being an unknown quantity at that time.
It is written down in the book of chronicles that Dickson County and
Montgomery Bell helped Old Hickory win the battle of New Orleans. For
it was the old Cumberland Furnace, on Barton’s Creek, now known as the
Warner Furnace, and owned by the Tennessee Iron & Coal Company, that
moulded the cannon balls for that memorable battle, and helped repel the
proud British invader. Any school boy in Dickson County can tell you
this, and it is a bit of history of which the citizens are justly proud.
[Illustration: RESIDENCE OF W. C. SMITH, AT DICKSON]
To-day there exists in Bell’s Bend the strangest monument to Montgomery
Bell that ever man had to perpetuate his memory. This man was a builder
of iron furnaces. He built them wherever he could find water power. To
him water power meant useful opportunity. I have spoken of the narrow
bluff that divides the Harpeth in its magnificent sweep through Bell’s
Bend. This bluff is so narrow that a man can stand on its ridge and
easily cast a stone into the river on either side. Right here Montgomery
Bell had a tunnel blasted through the bluff, and by means of a wing dam
drew the waters of the Upper Harpeth through this opening in a mighty,
resistless current that afforded unlimited water power for the operations
of a blast furnace. And there it is to-day, singing its stormy requiem
to the memory of a man and age that have passed into the shade, but yet
inviting in its prodigal waste and riotous power the hand of capital and
enterprise to harness it anew.
In timber, soil, minerals and climate Dickson County is well dowered.
Many of these industries are yet in their infancy. It has been
demonstrated that its phosphates are as good as those of Hickman County,
and only wait on the capitalist. As for oil, at the present time the
Standard Oil Company is preparing to sink two wells near Dickson. It is
well known that this section is underlaid by the best of illuminating
oil, equal to the Pennsylvania product. The Brown oil wells, on Jones’
Creek, twelve miles northwest of Dickson, have been opened for many years
and have pumped as high as twenty barrels a day of fine illuminating oil.
This territory is nearly all under lease, and the indications are that
the time is ripe for its exploitation.
One of the most interesting towns in Dickson County is Ruskin. Ruskin
was founded a number of years ago as a Socialist colony. Here was to
be exemplified the truth of the doctrine that all men are created free
and equal. It was to be a practical demonstration. It will take another
story to tell how and why it failed. About a year ago the property was
acquired by some earnest, ambitious school men. To-day Ruskin is the seat
of Ruskin-Cave College, with a faculty of eleven teachers and students
from twelve states. The village is owned and controlled by the school
board. The full college course compares well with state institutions.
The college presents some very remarkable features that entitle it to
favorable consideration. W. A. Hughes is business manager and R. E. Smith
president.
[Illustration: LIBRARY RUSKIN’S CAVE COLLEGE]
Dickson is the chief commercial town in Dickson County. Charlotte is
the county seat, but it has a population of only a few hundred. The
population of Dickson numbers about three thousand. Within five years
it has almost doubled its inhabitants. It has a chancery and circuit
court and a larger and costlier courthouse than the county seat. Being
accessible by three railroads, it is the logical commercial and political
center of the county. It is also the educational center. In addition to a
good public school system, it is the seat of the Dickson Normal College.
This is a co-educational institution. The college building is modern and
commodious in its every appointment. It is situated in a beautiful grove
of native oaks, on a broad table land overlooking the town of Dickson.
A corps of trained teachers is in charge of the work. The curriculum
embraces a four-years’ course, beginning with an exhaustive study of the
common school branches and including a comprehensive course in language,
science and mathematics. T. B. Loggins, A.M., is the principal of the
college. The enrollment includes students of both sexes from all parts of
the state.
The Hudson Business College is also located in Dickson, and is doing a
fine work in fitting young people for the business world.
Dickson is a plucky town. Twice within a decade it has risen from its
ashes. In 1893 the town was practically destroyed by fire, not over half
a dozen business houses remaining. Nearly all the buildings destroyed
were of frame and were replaced by substantial brick structures. In
November, 1905, another disastrous fire broke out, eating the heart
out of the business section and entailing a loss of $200,000. With
characteristic energy, the work of rebuilding was immediately begun, and
to-day the burned district is covered by even handsomer buildings than
those destroyed. In addition to this new buildings are going up in every
direction, and the town is experiencing a building boom unprecedented in
its history.
[Illustration: REV. A. N. KELLY
Founder of Beulah Colony]
Dickson is on the main line of the N., C. & St. L. railroad, forty-two
miles from Nashville. It is the terminus of the Centreville branch of the
same road, and also the Clarksville branch of the L. & N. These roads tap
many small towns that are tributary to Dickson, and in addition it has a
fine interior trade.
Socially and morally Dickson is abreast of the best towns in the
State. Every religious phase of evangelical faith is represented. The
personnel of the pulpit is much above the average. Fraternal and social
organizations flourish. The town has three banks and there are six in the
county. The aggregate deposits amount to nearly half a million dollars.
In all the essentials of life Dickson and Dickson county are in the
forefront of progress.
[Illustration: RESIDENCE OF A. N. KELLY AT BEULAH.]
Dickson county has a well organized Farmers’ Institute. N. R. Sugg
is president and R. H. Hicks, of Dickson, secretary. The association
meets once a month and is doing a good work in stimulating interest in
agricultural pursuits.
To write of Dickson County without making special mention of “Beulah”
would be omitting one of the most interesting features connected with
the development of this county. Beulah is designed to be Plato’s Ideal
Republic on a small scale.
It is a colony of home seekers who have been attracted thither by the
salubrious climate and the remarkably low-priced lands of this section.
It is located six miles from Dickson, on the Centreville branch of the
N., C. & St. L. R. R. It is not far from the line that divides Dickson
and Hickman Counties, and within a few miles lies Bon Aqua, a summer
resort famous for its healthgiving waters and resinous atmosphere.
Rev. A. N. Kelly is a man of remarkable personality. He is an evangelist
and Christian scholar of national reputation. He is an idealist and a
man of practical affairs. This is an unusual combination and yet a very
useful one when it exists. For it is the man behind the gun who wins the
battles.
These are some of the things Reverend Kelly has accomplished in two years:
He found Beulah almost a wilderness. Hundreds of acres of land could
be bought for from $2 to $4 an acre. An occasional settler eked out a
scanty livelihood in a primitive way, for the lands in this immediate
neighborhood were known as the “Barrens,” and it had never entered
into the mind of man to give them a practical test. To-day a thriving
colony, ever increasing in circumference, marks the spot. Cosy cottages
dot the landscape. A comfortable schoolhouse and church building have
been erected. The land is being rapidly cleared and is found productive
beyond expectation. Much of the land is fast increasing in value, but
as compared with more thickly populated sections is still ridiculously
cheap. For families of small means, who are looking for a pure, healthful
environment, where they may cultivate their own vine and fig tree
under comfortable and easy circumstances, this section offers unusual
advantages. Only the better class of citizens is desired, for this is
designed to be a community of Christian people. Not fanatics, mind you,
with visionary and impractical ideas of life, but clean, wholesome
people, honest and honorable in their dealings, and with high ideals that
propel them constantly upward in the battle of life.
I spent a pleasant day at Beulah, and Rev. Mr. Kelly unfolded to me
some of his plans. He is a man of great faith and very useful and noble
purposes. It was interesting to talk with the man, to note his fine
optimism and invincible energy and courage. He is a college graduate,
with a roomy brain and a dynamic spirit. He knows no such thing as the
impossible.
Small fruits and vegetables grow to perfection here. The soil is a
sub-clay, and, being virgin, retains its pristine strength and vigor.
Apples and peaches, and all kinds of vegetables, grow to perfection. A
canning factory is in course of operation to utilize these products.
The growing of cantaloupes on a large scale will be undertaken this
season. Large tracts of land adjacent to the railroad between Beulah and
Hohenwald, a stretch of thirty miles, have been secured for this purpose,
and a contract has been entered into with the railroad for the marketing
of the crop.
Within the limits of this article it is impossible to more than touch on
Beulah, its many desirable features, its splendid possibilities. To those
more than casually interested, a letter addressed to Rev. A. N. Kelly,
Burns, Rural Route No. 2, will bring full information.
[Illustration]