Newspaper Page Text
venture that there is not a Christian parent in
this country that would rejoice to see his daughter
enter the stage. If we feel this way about our
daughters, what right have we, as Christian peo
ple, to encourage the daughters of other fathers
and mothers in the same damnable career?
The Dance.
We leave now the theatre and speak of the
dance.
There is only one distinct charge that I will pre
sent against the dance. Its chief charm is licen
tiousness. I know this seems extravagant to some
people, that is, they pretend to think so, but it is
extravagant only to the man who has had no ex
perience; who does not believe in the testimony of
others; or is so morally depraved that he can not
appreciate danger. Let us see what we have in
support of the charge.
First, the institution of the round dance had its
birth in a low and disreputable house in Paris.
You know very well why it was inaugurated. You
can see the evil purpose in the minds of those that
started it, and from their standpoint it was a suc
cess and has been ever since. There may be those
who pass through the round dance without harm,
just as it is possible to play with the germs of
yellow fever and not be hurt, but sensible people
will advise against the risk.
Second, men do not dance with men, and women
do not dance with women. This is a part of Satan’s
plan, and it is for the carrying out of the original
design. The round dance is no more attractive
than the square dance unless men and women are
paired together.
Third, it is always most successful when conduct
ed at a late hour in the night. The average dance
passes on beyond the midnight hour. Hence, as
under many other circumstances, men love dark
ness rather than light because their deeds are evil.
Fourth, the dress of the round dance in itself is
enough to argue the impurity in it. Let any woman
who is fond of the round dance give to the world
one sensible answer for the form of her dress in
the ball room, and I will take back everything I
have to say about the dance. It can not be to
show the dress off unless a pile of clothes lying on
the floor would be the same thing, for the most con
spicuous thing about the ball room dress is not
that which gracefully adorns the figure, but that
which sweeps the floor. The figure, as a matter of
fact, is very little adorned. There is where the
trouble lies.
Fifth, the position of the dance comes in, in
support of the charge of impurity. Why the po
sition of the waltz? I defy anybody to explain
away this fact. If it is wrong without music, it is
wrong with it.
Sixth, the drink at the dance. Everbody who is
at all acquainted with ball rooms knows that it is
accompanied by drink. Men and women drink and
dance, and dance and drink. There is never in this
community a great ball that there is not drunken
ness among men and women.
I am aware that these are awful charges, but I
submit that there is not one of them that is unrea
sonable. I ask, therefore, for a verdict by the
chuches. What position ought the church to take
with reference to this form of amusement?
The Card Table.
We now come to the card table. We have not
time to say very much about it, but since it belongs
in this trinity of popular social evils, we must say
a word.
The card table among certain elements of people
—the high fliers in social life on the one hand, and
the negro erap shooters on the other—is one of the
most damnable institutions of the day. In the
first place, it is a silly form of amusement. The
card game was invented for the amusement of an
old idiot king, and they have been amusing the idiots
ever since, and in Atlanta there are a great many
of them to amuse. Think of a lot of sensible wom
en sitting down and wasting a whole afternoon out
of every week shuffling cards!
Again,they are linked with a bad institution.
Cards are inseparable from gambling. A great gam-
The Golden Age for September 6, 1906.
bier has said that ninety per cent of all the money
won in gambling, leaving out cotton futures, is won
with cards.
Another great gambler has said that the major
ity of gamblers get their taste for it by playing cards
with women in innocent sport. Now I submit that
this is too awful to be charged up to women, and
yet I believe they deserve it. If the w’omen of this
country would stop this card playing business it
would do more to check the rapid spread of gamb
ling than anything else. The card playing of our
day is largely carried on by women and almost in
variably is associated with gambling. There is no
need of questioning the fact that playing for prizes
is gambling. Everybody knows that. For one to
argue otherwise makes him silly and ridiculous.
Again, no card player can maintain a spiritual
life. I defy the world to produce one habitual card
player, man or woman, who is noted for any spir
ituality whatever. It can not be otherwise. The
thing is linked up with Satan and tends to destroy
humanity.
What position ought the church to take with
regard to card playing? Just the same as regard
to these other evils. The man or the woman who
persistently continues to be linked up with such
institutions has no business in the church.
“Oh,” but you say, “we can not see it that
way!” Bring your theatre, ball room and card
table to the Lord Jesus and ask him to enlighten
you.
At Ocean Grove, N. J., there used to be a build
ing with a skylight so arranged as to take in the
entire horizon and focus it upon a pool in the cen
ter of the building. Everything that came within
the horizon was reproduced in this pool. For ex
ample: If a ship should come along, it was repro
duced. If a bird should sail through the air, it
was reproduced. Anything that came within the
horizon of that place was made real in this pool.
So the Christian ought to live beneath the sky
light of the Spirit of Jesus Christ. Everything that
comes to his mind and heart ought to be focused
through his spirit, and then we shall see as he sees.
Among Thinkers and Writers of Dixie.
(Continued from page 3.)
nents with his inimitable tales, and made him
self immortal as a raconteur.
In a paper such as this,it is- utterly impossible
to make any analysis of his numerous works; but
a brief pen-picture of old Uncle Remus will answer
the present purpose; for he stands as the full frui
tion of the author’s consummate skill. He is not
a creature of an idle brain, but a throbbing, breath
ing soul. Mr. Harris first met him back in his boy
hood, out on the old plantation. Perhaps he went
by another name in the hut on the Turner place;
but his quaint personality has remained just the
same in spite of the drifting of the years. In his
younger days, he was known far and near as the
principal figure of the quarters, the tallest, the
boldest, the strongest, and the swiftest—the envy
of the whole plantation; and even in the evening
of his life, he still occupies a conspicuous place;
for although many winters have wasted his
strength and his eyes are waxing dim, yet he moves
with the bounding step of the hoy, and prattles
with the garrulous tongue of a girl. With the fire
burning brightly on his humble hearth and the
sweet potatoes roasting in the coals, he sits in his
corner and tells his simple tales to the little white
boy from the mansion of the master. The actors
in all his adventures are the silent folk of the
forest; and old Brer Rabbit is his hero in almost
all of his stories. In spite of their absurd situa
tions, their clash with reason, and their frequent
contradictions, he tells them all with the faith of
a child, and believes them as firmly as does the lit
tle boy. To the minds of many, these meaningless
tales are little more than the echoes of the nur
sery; but a moment of reflection will convince the
majority of fair-minded critics that the stories of
Uncle Remus are simply the Iliad and the Nibe
lungenlied of the great child race of the world.
These unique sketches of Southern folk-lore first
appeared in the pages of The Constitution, but were
later gathered into a volume of their own, entitled
Uncle Remus, his Songs and Sayings. This collec
tion of stories had a marvelous sale throughout
every quarter of the nation; and from the date of
its initial edition, Mr. Harris has enjoyed a
reputation second to no other writer in the South.
In his volumes of a more conventional type, he has
failed to elicit such general applause; yet even
his pictures of Georgia life have met with a hearty
welcome.
Among his numerous books may be mentioned
Uncle Remus, his Songs and Sayings; Nights with
Uncle Remus; Mingo and Other Sketches; Free
Joe and Other Sketches; On the Old Plantation;
Little Mr. Thimble Finger; and Stories of Home
Folks in Peace and War. These are only a part
of the titles; but perhaps they embrace the best;
still nothing unworthy of a literateur has come
from his fascinating pen.
For four or five years, Mr. Harris has devoted
the whole of his time to literature, having severed
his connection with the Constitution in 1901-2. He
shrinks from publicity as much as possible, and pass
es his sweetest hours in the heart of his family in
his beautiful home in the western suburbs of Atlanta.
One of his favorite occupations is caring for the
culture of his roses; and a glance at his garden is
sufficient to show that he never grows too busy to
look to their needs. His home is simple yet ele
gant, the expression of the soul of the man; and
his doors are wide open to the favored few; but
the curious lion-hunters and inquisitive interviewers
are seldom received with a hospitable smile; for
the modest celebrity has no desire to pose as a pop
ular idol.
His pen is still busy; for his copy is in demand
among all literary journals; and almost any publish
ing house in the Nation would gladly welcome a
story from his quill. Perhaps he has written his
masterpiece; perhaps it may yet appear; whatever
the case may be, however, he will always tower
among the authors of the South; and his delight
ful legends will remain forever in the literary treas
ure-house of his land.
Reminded Me of You.
By LILIAN BELL.
The silver moon was slipping
Adown the distant West,
The Eastern sky was glowing
With sunbeams in her crest;
The town was still asleeping
Though day was drawing nigh
As swiftly from the village
We sped—my horse and I.
A nexy light brightly burning
Down in this heart of mine
Gave to an old, oldpicture,.
A beauteous tint divine.
To the hills mine eyes were lifted;
I heard them calling me—
“o come! for in the stillness
Sweet peace awaiteth thee.”
And there upon the hilltops
Those hills, rock-ribbed and grand,
I saw a glorious country.
The heaven’s border-land.
A snowy mist all mellowed
By the sun’s awakening ray,
Hung like a halo over
The portals of the day.
The zephyrs in the treetops,
The sunlight on the hill,
The bird notes from the woodland—
The murmuring of the rill,
The flowers hy the wayside—
Their faces bright with dew,
In language sweet and olden
Reminded me of you !
“Failure is the final test of persistence and
of an iron will; it either crushes a life, or solidi
fies it.”
5