GEORGIA JOURNALISM
In journalism Atlanta is far in advance of many cities of her size,
North or South. The Atlanta "Constitution," founded nearly half a
century ago, is one of the country's most distinguished newspapers. The
"Constitution" came into its greatest fame in the early eighties, when
Captain Evan P. Howell--the same Captain Howell who commanded a battery
at the battle of Peachtree Creek, in the defense of Atlanta, and who
later called, with his son, on General Sherman, as already
recorded--became its editor, and Henry W. Grady its managing editor.
Like William Allen White and Walt Mason of the Emporia (Kansas)
"Gazette," who work side by side, admire each other, but disagree on
every subject save that of the infallibility of the ground hog as a
weather prophet, Howell and Grady worked side by side and were devoted
friends, while disagreeing personally, and in print, on prohibition and
many other subjects. Grady would speak at prohibition rallies and,
sometimes on the same night, Howell would speak at anti-prohibition
rallies. In their speeches they would attack each other. The accounts of
these speeches, as well as conflicting articles written by the two,
would always appear in the "Constitution."
Of the pair of public monuments to individuals which I remember having
seen in Atlanta, one was the pleasing memorial, in Piedmont Park, to
Sidney Lanier (who was peculiarly a Georgia poet, having been born in
Macon, in that State, and having written some of his most beautiful
lines under the spell of Georgia scenes), and the other the statue of
Henry W. Grady, which stands downtown in Marietta Street.
The Grady monument--one regrets to say it--is less fortunate as a work
of art than as a deserved symbol of remembrance. Grady not only ought to
have a monument, but as one whose writings prove him to have been a man
of taste, he ought to have a better one than this poor mid-Victorian
thing, placed in the middle of a wide, busy street, with Fords parked
all day long about its base.
Says the inscription:
HE NEVER SOUGHT A PUBLIC OFFICE.
WHEN HE DIED HE WAS LITERALLY
LOVING A NATION INTO PEACE.
On another side of the base is chiseled a characteristic extract from
one of Grady's speeches. This speech was made in 1899, in Boston, and
one hopes that it may have been heard by the late Charles Francis Adams,
who labored in Massachusetts for the cause of intersectional harmony,
just as Grady worked for it in Georgia.
This hour [said Grady] little needs the loyalty that is loyal to
one section and yet holds the other in enduring suspicion and
estrangement. Give us the broad and perfect loyalty that loves and
trusts Georgia alike with Massachusetts--that knows no South, no
North, no East, no West; but endears with equal and patriotic love
every foot of our soil, every State in our Union.
Grady could not only write and say stirring things; he could be witty.
He once spoke at a dinner of the New England Society, in New York, at
which General Sherman was also present.
"Down in Georgia," he said, "we think of General Sherman as a great
general; but it seems to us he was a little careless with fire."
Nor was Grady less brilliant as managing editor than upon the platform.
He had the kind of enterprise which made James Gordon Bennett such a
dashing figure in newspaper life, and the New York "Herald" such a
complete _news_paper--the kind of enterprise that charters special
trains, and at all hazards gets the story it is after. Back in the early
eighties Grady was running the Atlanta "Constitution" in just that way.
If a big story "broke" in any of the territory around Atlanta, Grady
would not wait upon train schedules, but would hire an engine and send
his men to the scene. Once, following a sensational murder, he learned
that the Birmingham "Age-Herald" had a big story dealing with
developments in the case. He wired the "Age-Herald" offering a large
price for the story. When his offer was refused Grady knew that if he
could not devise a way to get the story, Atlanta would be flooded next
day with "Age-Heralds" containing the "beat" on the "Constitution." He
at once chartered a locomotive and rushed two reporters and four
telegraph operators down the line toward Birmingham. At Aniston,
Alabama, the locomotive met the train which was bringing "Age-Heralds"
to Atlanta. A copy of the paper was secured. The "Constitution" men then
broke into a telegraph office and wired the whole story in to their
paper, with the result that the "Constitution" was out with it before
the Birmingham papers reached Atlanta.
Atlanta was at that time a town of only about 40,000 inhabitants, but
the "Constitution," in the days of Howell and Grady, had a circulation
four times greater than the total population of the city--a situation
almost unheard of in journalism. Something of the breadth of its
influence may be gathered from the fact that in several counties in
Texas, where the law provided that whatever newspaper had the largest
circulation in the county should be the county organ, the county organ
was the Atlanta "Constitution."
An Atlanta lady tells of having called upon Grady to complain about an
article which she did not think the "Constitution" should have printed.
"Why did you put that objectionable article in your paper?" she asked
him.
"Did you read it?" he inquired.
"Yes, I did."
"Then," said Grady, "that's why I put it there."
Grady and Howell always ran a lively sporting department. Away back in
the days of bare-knuckle prize fights--such as those between Sullivan
and Ryan, and Sullivan and Kilrain--a "Constitution" reporter was always
at the ringside, no matter where the fight might take place. For a
newspaper in a town of forty or fifty thousand inhabitants, a large
percentage of them colored illiterates, this was real enterprise.
A favorite claim of Grady's was that his reporters were the greatest
"leg artists" in the world. He used to organize walking matches for
reporters, offering large prizes and charging admission. This developed,
in the middle eighties, a general craze for such matches, and resulted
in the holding of many inter-city contests, in which teams, four men to
a side, took part. One of the "Constitution's" champion "leg artists"
was Sam W. Small, now an evangelist and member of the "flying squadron"
of the Anti-Saloon League of America.
The most widely celebrated individual ever connected with the
"Constitution" was Joel Chandler Harris, many of whose "Uncle Remus"
stories--those negro folk tales still supreme in their field--appeared
originally in that paper. In view of Mr. Harris's achievement it is
pleasant to recall that there was paid to him during his life one of the
finest tributes that an author can receive. As with "Mr. Dooley" of our
day, he came, himself, to be affectionately referred to by the name of
the chief character in his works. "Uncle Remus" he was, and "Uncle
Remus" he will always be. Mr. Harris's eldest son, Julian, widely known
as a journalist, is said to have been the little boy to whom "Uncle
Remus" told his tales.
Though there is, as yet, no public monument in Atlanta to Joel Chandler
Harris, the "Wren's Nest," his former home, at 214 Gordon Street, is
fittingly preserved as a memorial. Visitors may see the old letter box
fastened to a tree by the gate--that box in which a wren built her nest,
giving the house its name. It is a simple old house with the air of a
home about it, and the intimate possessions of the author lie about as
he left them. His bed is made up, his umbrella hangs upon the
mantelshelf, his old felt hat rests upon the rack, the photograph of his
friend James Whitcomb Riley looks down from the bedroom wall, and on the
table, by the window, stands his typewriter--the confidant first to know
his new productions.
The presence of these personal belongings keeps alive the illusion that
"Uncle Remus" has merely stepped out for a little while--is hiding in
the garden, waiting for us to go away. It would be like him, for he was
among the most modest and retiring of men, as there are many amusing
anecdotes to indicate. Once when some one had persuaded him to attend a
large dinner in New York, they say, he got as far as New York, but as
the dinner hour approached could not bear to face the adulation awaiting
him, and incontinently fled back to Atlanta.
Frank L. Stanton, poet laureate of Georgia, and of the "Constitution,"
joined the "Constitution" staff through the efforts of Mr. Harris, one
of whose closest intimates he was. Speaking of Mr. Harris's gift for
negro dialect, Mr. Stanton told me that there was one negro exclamation
which "Uncle Remus" always wished to reproduce, but which he never quite
felt could be expressed, in writing, to those unfamiliar with the negro
at first hand: that is the exclamation of amazement, which has the
sound, "mmm--_mh!_"--the first syllable being long and the last sharp
and exclamatory.
Mr. Stanton has for years conducted a column of verse and humorous
paragraphic comment, under the heading "Just from Georgia," on the
editorial page of the "Constitution." Some idea of the high estimation
in which he is held in his State is to be gathered from the fact that
"Frank L. Stanton Day" is annually celebrated in the Georgia schools.
Mr. Stanton began his newspaper career as a country editor in the town
of Smithville, Georgia. Mr. Harris, then a member of the
"Constitution's" editorial staff, began reprinting in that journal
verses and paragraphs written by Stanton, with the result that the
Smithville paper became known all over the country. Later Stanton moved
to Rome, Georgia, becoming an editorial writer on a paper there--the
"Tribune," edited at that time by John Temple Graves, if I am not
mistaken. Still later he removed to Atlanta, joined the staff of the
"Constitution," and started the department which has now continued for
more than twenty-five years.
Joel Chandler Harris used to tell a story about Stanton's first days in
the "Constitution" office. According to this story, the paper on which
Stanton had worked in Rome had not been prosperous, and salaries were
uncertain. When the business manager went out to try to raise money in
the town, he never returned without first reading the signals placed by
his assistant in the office window. If a red flag was shown, it
signified that a collector was waiting in the office. In that event the
business manager would not come in, but would circle about until the
collector became tired of waiting and departed--a circumstance indicated
by the withdrawal of the red flag and the substitution of a white one.
According to the story, as it was told to me, reporters on the paper
were seldom paid; if one of them made bold to ask for his salary, he was
likely to be discharged. It was from this uncertain existence that
Stanton was lured to the "Constitution" by an offer of $22.50 per week.
When he had been on the "Constitution" for three weeks Mr. Harris
discovered that he had drawn no salary. This surprised him--as indeed it
would any man who had had newspaper experience.
"Stanton," he said, "you are the only newspaper man I have ever seen who
is so rich he doesn't need to draw his pay."
But, as it turned out, Stanton was not so prosperous as Harris perhaps
supposed. He was down to his last dime, and had been wondering how he
could manage to get along; for his training on the Rome paper had
taught him never to ask for money lest he lose his job.
"Well," he said to Harris, "I could use _some_ of my salary--if you're
sure it won't be any inconvenience?"
Those familiar with the works of Mr. Stanton, Mr. Harris, and James
Whitcomb Riley, Indiana's great poet, will perceive that certain similar
tastes and feelings inform their writings, and will not be surprised to
learn, if not already aware of it, that the three were friends. Mr.
Stanton's only absence from Atlanta since he joined the "Constitution,"
was on the occasion of a visit he paid Mr. Riley at the latter's home in
Indianapolis. The best of Stanton's work must have appealed to Riley,
for it contains not a little of the kindly, homely, humorous
truthfulness, and warmth of sentiment, of which Riley was himself such a
master. Among the most widely familiar verses of the Georgia poet are
those of his "Mighty Like a Rose," set to music by Ethelbert Nevin, and
"Just a-Wearying for You," with music by Carrie Jacobs Bond. "Money" is
a verse in hilarious key, which many will remember for the comical vigor
of the last three lines in its first stanza:
When a fellow has spent
His last red cent
The world looks blue, you bet!
But give him a dollar
And you'll hear him holler:
"There's life in the old land yet!"
Richly humorous though Stanton is, he can also reach the heart. The
former Governor of a Western State picked up Stanton's book, "Songs of
the Soil," and after reading "Hanging Bill Jones," and "A Tragedy,"
therein, commuted the sentence of a man who was to have been executed
next day. One hopes the man deserved to escape. In another case an
individual who was about to commit suicide chanced to see in an old
newspaper Stanton's encouraging verses called "Keep a-Goin'," and was
stimulated by them to have a fresh try at life on earth instead of
elsewhere.
Joel Chandler Harris wrote the introduction to "Songs of the Soil."
Other collections of Stanton's works are "Songs of Dixie Land," and
"Comes One With a Song." The danger in starting to quote from these
books--which, by the way, are chiefly made up of measures that appeared
originally in the "Constitution"--is that one does not like to stop. I
have, however, limited myself to but one more theft, and instead of
making my own choice, have left the selection to a friend of Mr.
Stanton's, who has suggested the lines entitled "A Poor Unfortunate":
His hoss went dead, an' his mule went lame,
He lost six cows in a poker game;
A harricane come on a summer's day
An' carried the house whar he lived away,
Then a earthquake come when _that_ wuz gone
An' swallered the land that the house stood on!
An' the tax collector, he come roun'
An' charged him up fer the hole in the groun'!
An' the city marshal he come in view
An' said he wanted his street tax, too!
Did he moan an' sigh? Did he set an' cry
An' cuss the harricane sweepin' by?
Did he grieve that his old friends failed to call
When the earthquake come and swallered all?
Never a word o' blame he said,
With all them troubles on top his head!
Not him! He climbed on top o' the hill
Whar stan'in' room wuz left him still,
An', barrin' his head, here's what he said:
"I reckon it's time to git up an' git,
But, Lord, I hain't had the measles yit!"
Among those who have been on the staff of the "Constitution" and have
become widely known, may be mentioned the gifted Corra Harris, many of
whose stories have Georgia backgrounds, and who still keeps as a country
home in the State where she was born, a log cabin, known as "In the
Valley," at Pine Log, Georgia; also the perhaps equally (though
differently) talented Robert Adamson, whose administration as fire
commissioner of the City of New York was so able as to result in a
reduction of insurance rates.
Atlanta reporters, it would seem, run to the New York Fire Department,
for Joseph Johnson, who preceded Mr. Adamson as commissioner, was once a
reporter on the Atlanta "Journal." The latter paper used to belong to
Hoke Smith. It was at one time edited by John Temple Graves, who later
edited the Atlanta "Georgian," and is now a member of the forces of
William Randolph Hearst, in New York. The late Jacques Futrelle, the
author, who went down with the _Titanic_, was a Georgian, and worked for
years on the "Journal." Don Marquis, one of the most brilliant American
newspaper "columnists," now in charge of the department known as "The
Sun Dial" on the New York "Evening Sun," was also at one time on the
"Journal," as was likewise Grantland Rice, America's most widely read
sporting writer. Lollie Belle Wiley, whose poetry has a distinct
southern quality, is, I believe, a member of the "Journal's" staff. As
the eminent Ty Cobb once wrote a book, it seems fair to mention him also
among Georgian authors, though so far as I know he never worked on an
Atlanta paper. And if Atlanta's three celebrated golfers have not
written for the papers, they have at least supplied the sporting page
with much material. Miss Alexa Sterling of Atlanta, a young lady under
twenty, is one of the best women golfers in the United States; Perry
Adair also figures in national golf, and Robert T. ("Bobby") Jones, Jr.,
who was southern champion at the age of fourteen, is, perhaps, an
unprecedented marvel at the game--so at least my golfing friends inform
me.
The continued militancy of the "Constitution," under the editorship of
Clark Howell, who sits in his father's old chair, with a bust of Grady
at his elbow, is evidenced not only by its frequent editorials against
lynching, but by its fearless campaign against another Georgia
specialty--the "paper colonel." The ranks of the "paper colonels" in
the South are chiefly made up of lawyers who "have been colonelized by
custom for no other reason than that they have led their clients to
victory in legal battles." Some of the real colonels have been objecting
to the paper kind, and the "Constitution" has bravely backed up the
objection.
The liveliness of journalism in Georgia does not begin and end in
Atlanta. The Savannah "Morning News" has an able editorial page, and
there are many others in the State. Some of the small-town papers are,
moreover, well worth reading for that kind of breeziness which we
usually associate with the West rather than the South. Consider, for
example, the following, in which the Dahlonega (Georgia) "Nugget,"
published up in the mountains, in the section where gold is mined,
discusses the failings of one Billie Adams, the editor's own son-in-law:
On Saturday last, Billie Adams and his wife waylaid the public road
over on Crown Mountain, where this sorry piece of humanity stood
and cursed while his wife knocked down and beat her sister, Emma.
He is a son-in-law of ours, but if the Lord had anything to do with
him, He must have made a mistake and thought He was breathing the
breath of life into a dog.
He is too lazy to work and lays around and waits for his wife to
get what she can procure on credit, until she can get nothing more
for him and the children to eat. Recently he claimed to be gone to
Tennessee in search of work. Upon hearing that his family had
nothing to eat, we had Carl Brooksher send over nearly four
dollars' worth of provisions. In he came and sat there and feasted
until every bite was gone. But this ends it with us.
There are a lot of people who have sorry kinfolks, but in this
instance if there were prizes offered, we would certainly win the
first.
Last year, thinking he would scare his mother-in-law and
sister-in-law off from where they live, so he could get the place,
he shot two holes through their window, turned their mule out of
the stable, and tried to run it into the bean patch, besides
hanging up a bunch of switches at the drawbars. Then their fence
was set afire twice. This is said to be the work of his wife. Then,
after carrying home meat, flour, lard, and vegetables to eat for
her mother and sister, he whipped the latter because she refused to
give him two of the wagon wheels.
The city made a case against both for the whipping, and the wife,
although coming to town alone frequently during the day, brought
her baby and everything to the council room, plead guilty and was
fined one and costs. Billie didn't appear, but if he stays in this
country Marshal Wimpy will have him, when all these things will
come to light, both in the council chamber and grand jury room.
The scandal of newspaperdom in Georgia is, of course, Tom Watson, who
publishes the "Jeffersonian"--a misnamed paper if there ever was one--in
the town of Thomson. Many years ago, when Edward P. Thomas, now
assistant to the president of the United States Steel Corporation, was a
little boy in Atlanta, complaining about having his ears washed; when
Theodore D. Rousseau, secretary to Mayor Mitchel of New York, was having
his early education drilled into him at the Ivy Street school; when
Ralph Peters, now president of the Long Island Railroad, had left
Atlanta and become a division superintendent on the Panhandle Road; when
the parents of Ivy Ledbetter Lee were wondering to what college they
would send him when he grew to be a big boy; when Robert Adamson was a
page in the Georgia Legislature--as long ago as that, Tom Watson was
waving his red head and prominent Adam's apple as a member of the State
House of Representatives. In the mad and merry days of Bryanism he
became a Populist Member of Congress. He was nominated for
vice-president, to run on the Populist ticket with Bryan. Later he ran
for president on the ticket of some unheard-of party, organized in
protest against the "conservatism" of the Populists. Watson's paper
reminds one of Brann and his "Iconoclast." Reading it, I have never been
able to discover what Watson was _for_. All I could find out was what he
was violently against--and that is almost everything. He is the wild ass
of Georgia journalism; the thistles of chaos are sweet in him, and order
in any department of life is a chestnut burr beneath his tail.