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VOLUMT. THREE
HU MRER TWO
VISCOVEi&NG A GENIUS
HERE’S a lot of hero-worship about
me, and whenever I w 7 alk in the foot
prints of Greatness or come face to
face with Genius, I feel like taking off
my hat and my shoes —for I am borne
on the tides of inspiration that flow
and blow 7 from the thrones of kings. I
recently had such an experience at
Buena Vista, Georgia—and Buena
T
Vista (both the place and the people) is what its
name implies in Spanish—Beautiful View!
There I met Hugh F. Oliver, modest but gifted
son of the distinguished Thaddeus Oliver, who wrote
the famous Confederate war song, “All Quiet Along
the Potomac Tonight.” Thaddeus Oliver who was
an able lawyer at Buena Vista was a hero during
the unhappy civil strife and an officer in the Con
federate army. That poetic soul that spoke and
sang in the limpid fire of that historic song—catch
ing the solemn murmur of the beautiful Potomac and
echoing its martial minstrelsy over the civilized
world, lives today in the heart of the soldier-poet’s
son who has been, maybe, too modest to woo or
win the kiss of fame. Hugh Oliver preaches the
“old, old story” in a pretty little Baptist church,
bringing to the village folk the tender gospel of
Peace, and translating the meaning of that gospel
to a remarkable degree in his own beautiful, unos
tentatious life. I spoke in his church, I visited in
his home, I rejoiced in the rare fellowship of his
noble family—and, having seen occasional gems from
his pen, I made him read to me some of his stirring
poems. Read these three children of his brain and
heart and see if you don’t agree with me that he
is a genius who deserves a place in the South’s
Westminster Abbey:
The Unforgotten Work.
Upon a high tree’s topmost limb’s extremes! height
As almost scorning earth and planning heavenward
flight,
There sat a mocking-bird, unseen until his song
Compelled my eyes to seek where did its fount be
long.
The bird is dead and by all others long forgot,
But from my mem’ry’s loving thought he passeth
not,
And there he is not mute, but singeth evermore,
And lifteth up the low and maketh rich the poor.
For poor and low 7 am I and many times distressed,
But ever soundeth clear unto my heart oppressed
That song —so rapturous sweet, ’twas gathered
melody
From all the fields and flowers their honeyed ec
stasy !
And there’s an Unforgetting One who will not lose
My jewelled word and work, and will forever use
The "Bard of Buena Vista —Hugh F. O lib er —Preacher, Poet, Philosopher.
AT’ ANTA, GA., FEBRUARY 27, 1908.
The best I do for Him and His, and give a crown
To me exalted high who was so oft cast down.
To Charles H. Smith.
“But I am not well and must forbear.” —Bill
Arp’s letter in Atlanta (Ga.) Constitution, Sept.
9, 1902.
0, Charles 11. Smith! thou Southern true
And gentle as the fall of dew 7 ,
Not Sappho with her sounding harp
Could charm as thou with thy Bill Arp.
The piping times of peace are these,
Os husking corn and picking peas,
But w 7 hen the “Dickens” was to pay,
Bill Arp was then our Thackeray.
The years are four times ten and one
Since first thy work was well begun,
To cheer the hearts distressed by war
And comfort those which wear its scar.
Their fathers’ friend the children love
And look in longing prayer above,
While thousands read with heartfelt care,
“But I’m not well and must forbear.”
Our Chaucer, thou, without his rhyme,
Thou gentleman of olden time,
Wit hout his tales, our "Walter Scott,
No lines are thine to wish to blot.
As Socrates, so wise, so good,
And witty as dear Thomas Hood,
Thou canst not write without our prayer,
“But I’m not well and must forbear.”
Abou-Ben-Adhem! ere we part,
The angel of each Southern heart
Would have thee read, in gold, thy name
Upon the threshold whence he came.
My Mother’s Good-Night.
With lighted lamp in hand she stood, her face
Betraying weariness that called for sleep,
Yet beaming, too, with, love for elder son
On Gospel sermon hard at work. His eyes
Were drawn away from Book and pen to look
Upon the one he might not always see
In earthly place, as now w’ithin his home.
The clock was striking ten, her hour to go
For needed rest, and she had seen it near
And so had risen, ready to depart,
As ’twere to her a gentle call of God
She might not slight and wound the Father’s heart.
The day for her was done, but not for him;
His hour not yet had come, and while she rests
He still must labor on. The lamp revealed
The furrows of three-score and ten, and eyes
With crystal depths of mother-love as full
As when he saw them erst in childhood days.
“Good-night!” she softly said, as loth to go
And yet she must; for weight of years and work
Os day just gone, her hands would not neglect
To words of pleading love, were whisp’ring, Rest!
A moment more, and then the hall was dark,
But with a mystic music freighted full,
As if departing angels spread their wings,
Or, come but now from Eden, thrummed their harps.
The hour is coming fast when Heaven’s clock,
On high in mansion fair, will strike for thee,
And thou wilt go, as now, because thou must.
The lamp which all thy years on earth had lit
Thy way, still shining in thy hand, will show
The mournful son thou leav’st below the love,
Undimmed by time or change, thou’dst kept for him.
Oh! then the earth will reel, the stars go out,
His eyes will fail when thy blest form departs,
His heart will break to hear thee say, “Good
night!”
“The Unforgotten Work,” with Sidney Lanier’s
name signed to it, would be counted among the best
of that master of “The Marshes of Glynn.”
“To Chas. H. Smith” was written on the last
line of one of the beloved bard’s letters published
when his health was fast declining. Suppose Moore
or even Milton had dedicated such lines to a writer
of their time! Os course you would recognize their
genius.
And “My Mother’s Goodnight” sounds like Ten
nyson in its exquisite mastery of thought, feeling
and expression. I make way for my newly discov
ered genius. W. D. U.
“Fashions never bother the father of a healthy
Uganda family in East Central Africa. Whenever
his wife or buxom daughters want a new dress he
simply goes out and peels it off a cloth tree. He
is uniquely favored of the gods.
“The bark cloth tree has furnished the native
his clothing from time immemorial. The fiber lies
close to the wood, underneath the heavier outer
bark.' When dried and bleached in the sun it be
comes a soft, flexible, natural cloth of fine texture,
porous and durable. It is worn almost exclusively.”
—Exchange.
We can’t help believing that this item has been
slipped into the public prints by some one who is
interested in encouraging American immigration to
East Central Africa. We are inclined to believe
also that there is a typographical error in the last
line. Should it not read “externally,” instead of
‘ 1 exclusively ’’ ?
TWO DOLL AES A YEAR.
TIVE CENTS A COPY.