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Among the Thinkers and Writers of Dixie By DAVID E. GUYTON. JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS. HERE was a time when a feudal sys tem flourished throughout the South, when mediaeval ideas and institutions were in vogue in the Southern States, when their fertile acres were held in fee by the few overlords of the land, and the mansions of the masters, belted about by the huts of their happy slaves, were the centers of a culture and a civ- T ilization such as the world had never known before and such as the future shall never see again, even till the twilight of the years. This primitive order, with its picaresque types, has passed with the days that are dust. The broad plantation, now broken into parcels, is ruled no longer by a single lord, but is held and tilled by a band of thrifty husbandmen, and is dotted with the cots of its dozen chiefs. The master, too, with his lordly airs, has drifted away like a dream, and his stately home has fallen a prey to the ruth less tooth of time. The huts of the serfs have crumbled into dust; the mirthful banjo is mute; the laughter, the songs, and the shouts of the quar- A ; j- J W Wk WH gyEp war. ■ ■■ , s ■■. Ml V> - a?*’*-'’ g’ \ Photo by Underwood & Underwood, New York. Joel Chandler Harris in His Library. ters no longer float out on the evening air; ami the tribe of Uncle Remus, their tales all forgotten, are peacefully sleeping out under the stars. But tender memories of the glory that is gone are burning still in the Southern breast; and planta tion pictures are flashing from the frames of the rarest romances of the South. From the days of Ir win Russell, the artists of Dixie have striven to sketch the splendors of its past; a few of the number have succeeded in painting the picture in its primi tive beauty. So faithfully, indeed, have these mas ters wrought in portraying the types that are not, that the central figures of the old regime can never fade away; and of all the wizards who have drawn with skill the people of the old plantations, there is none more worthy of the primal place than the subject of the following sketch. Tn the little village of Eatonton, Ga., December 8, 18-18, a little boy was born in the Harris home— a tine, sprightly fellow with big, bright eyes, rosy red cheeks, and a cluster of chestnut curls. He was The Golden Age for September 6, 1906. not a prince of the royal blood; and his advent occasioned no stir in the State; yet the day of his coming was destined to prove worthy to be marked with immaculate stone. His parents were plain, honest people, and they called Itim by a common place name; but Joel Chandler Harris has deepened in meaning as the years have come and gone, and the name now stands as the current synonym of the consummation of the brightest and the best in the legendary lore of the South. Joel was a robust, rollicking lad, fond of the wild out-of-doors, and keenly alive to every sight and sound in forest and field and sky. He gathered the rudiments of an education in the old academy of Eatonton, but he never distinguished himself as a student, and seems to have given more time and attention to a few English classics hidden under his desk than he did to his regular lessons. As a general thing, such practice among pupils is pro ductive of harmful results; but the present inci dent was apparently a striking exception to the ordinary rule; for Joel was not only an insatiable reader, but a discriminating one as well; and only such hooks as the Vicar of Wakefield keenly ap pealed to his aesthetic tastes. this being the name of his journal, he advertised for a thrifty lad who would like to learn the printer’s trade. Interested in the outcome of the unique experiment, young Harris made a care ful examination of every department of the pub lication, and chancing to run across the article in question, he immediately applied for the place, ami made such a favorable impression on the edi tor that the latter at once took him in as an aid. Tn c piie of his youth, the apprentice proved effi cient in performing his duties in the office, and soon developed into such a clever printer that his tasks claimed only a part of his time. These hours of leisure, however, he turned to good account; for his employer imd given him free access to the vol umes of his vast library; and the great English classics became the constant companions of the lad in his boms of idleness. By this delightful method he made himself master of the practical and fundamental points of the language, and learn ed the applications of rhetoric and logic rather This habit of reading, it was, in fact, which indirectly caused him to withdraw from school before he had finished his course and to enter into active journalistic life at the early age of twelve. The era of his advent into the newspaper world was perhaps the most in teresting period of his youth; for it was during those days that he gathered up materials and hid them away in his heart, destined to mould them into marvels of beauty in the calm of his riper years. From the pages of his volume, “On the Old Plantation,” may be glean ed a delightful account of his boyhood, but it is somewhat difficult to determine with ac curacy the dividing line be tween fancy and fact. Never .less enough is discernible to give a conception of the trend of the truth and, according to this semi-authentic narration, the story runs along in a play ful vein, somewhat after the following style: Some ten miles from Eaton ton, there lived a wealthy planter by the name of Turner. Being a somewhat teccentric character, he determined to es tablish and maintain a popular rural paper. Tn the initial number of The Countryman, than the rubbish of theories and rules. Thoroughly permeated with the active principles of Goldsmith, Shakespeare and Brown, the youth, untrammeled by the axioms of the critics, drew his own conclusions, found his own ideals, and felt and spoke in his own quaint way. Thus breathing the atmosphere of books and liv ing very close to the heart of nature, the little free-lance began to contribute anonymous articles to the columns of The Countryman. Though puer ile and (‘rude, at first, they were racy and original in character, and soon attracted the attention and comment of the amiable and capable editor. En couraged by the kindly criticisms of his chief, he dipped more boldly into letters, attempted themes of a loftier type, and succeeded in convincing hotli himself and his friends that he might yet triumph in the role of a writer. But his literary achievements on the staff of The Countryman were of slighter significance than the knowledge he acquired of the legendary lore of Dixie during those tranquil days. The Turner plan tation was spacious and fertile', and dotted with the quarters of swarms of slaves. In the calm of the twilight, when weary of books, the silent lit tle printer would steal away to the hut of a white haired serf, and listen with rapture to the marvel ous adventures of old Brer Fox, Brer Rabbit and Brer Bear and the other folk of the forest, lie nev er grew tired of these thrilling stories as they came from the lips of the credulous slaves; and he al ways remembered the finds of the fable and the speecu of the raconteur—all unconscious at the time, no doubt, but laying up treasures for the future. Such were the years of his youth out on the old plantation; and such mi lit have been tl.e story of his manhood, had the tides of war rolled by; bin even the hush of these sylvan haunts* was brokt'n by the Boys in Bine; for Siu I .man plunder ed the Turner place on his ruthless march to the sea. With the passing of the army practically ended the brilliant career of The Countryman, and with its suspension suddenly began the printer’s darkest days. Thrifty and skillful, he found no trouble in procuring another place; hut he passed the next, few uneventful yeais shifting from city to city. For a while he worked in Hit' office of The Macon Daily Telegraph, then went to New Oilcans, and became the secretary of the editor of The Crescent Monthly. In the latter city he contribut ed freely to the columns of the local papers, but finally growing weary of the Cieole capital, he re turned to his native State, and assumed the role of editor-in-chief of The Forsyth Advertiser. In this capacity, he attracted attention throughout the commonwealth, for he touched up the topics of local interest with a felicitous ami fearless pen. Pleased with his pungent paragiaphs in the pages of (he Advertiser William T. Thompson, of the Sa vannah Daily News, engaged him in IS7I as a mem ber of the editorial staff of his journal, retaining him in this capacity till IS7G. During this interval of live or six years Mr. Harris devoted himself as siduously to the duties of a practical journalist, and steadily extended his reputation throughout the newspaper circles of the State. While his spicy editorials were brightening the columns of the Savannah Daily News, the dialect pieces of Samuel W. Small were increasing the interest in the Atlanta Constitution, and causing its circulation to sweep far beyond the limits of the State. In IS7G Mr. Small withdrew from the staff of the Constitution, and the management of the paper immediately invited Mr. Harris to accept his place. Pleased with the promotion and anxious to escape the terrors of the yellow fever, the suc cessful young journalist straightway assumed the duties of a department editor, and remained a mem ber of the staff of the Constitution for an interval of twenty-five years. Prior to his coming to Atlanta, he seems to have had no aspirations beyond the borders of practical journalism; but the literary spirit of the paper soon possessed him heart and soul, ami almost before he was aware of it himself, he had thrilled two conti- (Continued on page 5.) 3