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DEEM ME NOT DEAD.
Deem me not dead, though I shall pass
As vapor passes from a glass;
Even as a vapor I shall rise
Unto the everlasting skies.
Deem me not dead, though earth’s gray shore
Shall echo to my tread no more.
My spirit feet will press the road
That reaches —somewhere —God's abode.
Deem me not dead, though like the wind
1 pass and leave no trace behind.
Immortal longings rise and roll
In mighty waves across my soul.
Deem me not dead, though I shall seem
As unsubstantial as a dream.
A shaded -lamp, a blade that’s sheathed;
These things I have been since I breathed.
Deem me not dead, though men consign
To the dark earth rhe likeness mine.
Beyond the utmost reach of time,
Shall I then soar who now must climb.
ARTHUR GOODENOUGH.
Brattleboro, Vermont.
CHAT.
Among the questions that have accumulated in
the query drawer is one about corn. Dan asks, “Was
not corn known to the ancients? I had an argument
with our girl Sunday school teacher about this. I
contended that corn was known to the ancient
Hebrews and Egyptians because it is prominently
mentioned in the Bible. She said that wheat was
meant, but the Bible translators put it corn because
all grain was known as corn. Which of us w r as
right?” Your girl teacher is right. Corn was un
known to the people of the Eastern continent prior
to the discovery of America. The first settlers of
this country found corn growing in the little fields of
the Indians, and in the case of the Massachusetts
colonies, they were kept alive by the sup
plies of corn given them by the generous
hearted Indians who stinted themselves that they
might keep starvation from exterminating the ene
mies, who afterwards exterminated them. The cor
rect name of corn is maize. It has greatly improved
since those early years, through cultivation and
selection. The corn of the Indians was mere nub
bin, with scattered grains. Botanists say that still
farther back in the world’s history each grain of
corn was isolated and covered by its own small
husk or shuck. Corn is a beautiful growth. It is
grown in English gardens and lawns as an orna
mental plant, and is greatly admired for its long,
stamens and pollen, and its richly colored silks,
which are the pistils of the plant. Our two most
distinctively American poets, Longfellow and Lanier,
have immortalized corn in their poems.
Tenneseean, that visit to your mountain retreat
was as delightful as possible and will, perhaps,
inspire the building among those grand heights of
a big, rough cottage, to which our Householders may
go for rest and recreation in the sweet summer
time. Would they not be a merry crowd! Os
course they would take along a cow for Annie Val
entine to milk and a big, gentle horse to draw the
carry-all in which all would take their sight-seeing
jaunts, singing—
“ Wait for the wagon, and we’ll all take a ride.”
Ben Ivy, you have taken a very popular subject—
that of ghosts. In olden days it was thought a proof
of ignorance to believe in ghosts, notwithstanding
that this belief w r as sanctioned by a popular
school text-book of that day—Dr. Abercrombie’s
Mental Philosophy—which gave many authenticated
instances of the appearance in earthly form of per
sons who had passed from life. But it remained for
latter day science to take serious hold of the ques
tion. Committees composed of learned men, college
professors, scientists and physicians—some of them
atheists, believing in no future life —were appointed
to investigate the existence of ghosts. There are
two of these associations —one in England, the other
in America —and each is called the “Society of
Psychical Research.” For years they labored con
scientiously to obtain a knowledge of all the w r ell
authenticated instances of supernatural phenomena.
They had many agents and sent out circulars to post
masters to be distributed, requesting every one who
had had an occult experience to write it briefly
THE HOUSEHOLD
A Department of 'Expression Tor Those Who Teel and Think*
The Golden Age for August 13, 1908.
and send it, with an endorsement from th© minister
of the church or other trustworthy Citizen, as to the
truthfulness ot the relator. The result was the
accumulation of enormous quantities of manuscripts,
the best of which have been published in many
bulky volumes —the largest collection of ghost stories
that ever were, and all certified to as true. The
newspapers called it a “census of ghosts.” Thig
vast amount of evidence was thoroughly examined
and discussed by the learned committees, who
finally decided that the appearance of persons after
death had been fully proved and that their appari
tions were most frequent and distinct directly after
death, when they appeared to friends of the de
ceased hundreds and thousands of miles distant from
the scene of the death. So, no one nowadays need
fear being called superstitious for believing in
ghosts, since science has set its oracular seal on the
statement of their existence. Thoughtful minds hail
the decision of the psychical societies and gladly give
credence to ghosts in confirming the theory of life
after death.
I wish to correct a mistake that occurred in The
Golden Age a few weeks ago. One of our members,
telling about the shut-ins, who had published books
or written interesting letters, instanced Miss Annie
Peavy, of Alabama, and Mattie Beverage, of Dabney,
Arkansas. The printer inadvertently left out two
lines : with the result that our young friends were
mixed up, and it was made to appear that Annie
Peavy was the one who had been cramped and
made helpless by rheumatism from infancy and to
whom The Sunny South Household had given her
heart’s desirt —a little church near enough for her
to attend in her wheeled chair. This dear little
shut-in girl is Mattie Beverage, of Dabney, Arkansas.
Annie Peavy is an invalid, but not cramped or
disfigured, quite able to use her limbs. We have
fine letters next week from Julia Tait, Mattie How
ard, Tennesseean and others.
Wtb ®ur Correspondents
THE OLD BOOKS. ’
Reply to Mr. Walter Neale.
So extremely clever and entertaining was Mr.
Walter Neale’s criticism of the old writers that it
forced me to say, “Almost thou persuadest me.”
Almost, not quite, for though I believe with cur
critic that the condensed style and rapid narrative
of modern fiction is more adapted to the taste and
temperament of the present day. yet I can not forget
that in the golden long ago, Scott, Dickens, and Hugo
opened to me—an otherwise lonely child —a world
of delight, introducing me to new scenes and to new
people, none the less fascinating that some of them
were queer. Others were noble and generous and
not a few were delightfully humorous and naively
mirth provoking.
I can not forget what a debt of gratitude I owe to
the “Magician of the North,” who transported me
from the home fireside in winter and a seat among
the apple boughs in summer, over the seas to merrie
England and bonnie Scotland, and bade me follow
the bold knights in glittering armor, who fought for
king or chief, or rescued fair ladies from peril and
wore their colors in the tournament and the chase.
Never once did I dream of criticising the literary
style and methods of the book. I simply enjoyed,
with a sense of seeing and feeling with the actors
in the story. I believe that books, which held the
attention and commanded the living remembrance
of young and old through changing years must have
been written with the realistic art that survives. Our
parents and grandparents, who knew nothing of criti
cism, valued these books for the life they reflected,
the lessons of life tney incidentally taught, the ap
peals they made to the heart and the information
they gave as to men and customs of other days—the
personages and events often being historical. These
books have been christened “standards” of litera
ture, and such they will remain, continuing to stand
firm as Gibraltar despite the storms of criticism that
heat about them.
It is the best criterion of a book’s worth when it
is regarded with perennial affection. The late Joel
Chandler Harris said, in one of his inimitable edi
torials, “What is a turned up nose to an author who
has a warm place by the fireside and friends to
enjoy him?” Dickens and Scott, Hugo and Thack-
eray, Anthony Trollope and Charles Reade will con
tinue to have their old places by the fireside and
friends to enjoy them, long after their critics have
passed away and are forgotten.
Mr. Neale, in his well written “Rap” on the old
writers, takes up the Why find thfl wherefore of
litSratufbi hndihg by repeating the trite fact that
there is nothing new under the sun in thought or in
the expression of thought. Literature, he avers, is
born of man’s desire for immortality, his craving to
perpetuate himself. Is it? Are there many men
who write for the readers of the far future? I
have always liked to believe that literature is spon
taneous —like the rain and the flowers —that it is the
natural, inevitable outcome of an inflate gift be
stowed on man to make his earthly sojourn pleasant.
Every true book lover will Concede that it is the
greatest of gifts, this power to embody thought and
imagination, and to place scenes and actions vividly
before the minds of others. Those who possess the
splendid gift of genius and who write so as to
win lasting fame, it seems to me use their gift be
cause they can Hot Well help it. They write because
they were bofn to Write, juSt as the song birds were
born to Sing, It is a matter of course for Sueh
writers to express themselves through literature and
I believe they have little thought as to whether
their efforts will live after them or not. It is indeed
true that nothing earthly has everlasting life —not
even the best work of literary art. These
serve their time, then pass as pass all things. Time
is remorseless, but in its onward sweep each suc
ceeding age keeps - the “thread of purpose” that
runs through the whole plan of creation.
“Our standards of life change,” says Mr. Neale.
“What pleases in literature now will not please in
another generation.” True, but it seems to me that a
well-written book, like a well-painted picture, should
have some life sustaining qualities that age will
only make more valuable. “Time makes ancient good
uncouth,” but there are some fundamental essen
tials in literature that even time can not change.
The novel is but the reflection of life. In it we see
some of the faults and some of the virtues of our
time, but when the day it reflects is past, if it has
been true to life and also to art, why should it lose
its value? Age improves many things and to the
mind of the scholar, good literature is one of these.
There is another and a cogent reason why the
“standard” old books should be read by each suc
ceeding generation, and of this reason I will speak
in my visit to the Household next week.
JULIA COMAN TAIT.
1240 Mississippi Ave., Memphis, Tenn.
ABOUT GHOSTS.
The frequency with .which today the future life
is discussed in books, papers, and conversation makes
it probable that the kindred topic of ghosts may
interest the Household. How many of us believe in
ghosts? How many have a vague terror of something
mysterious that lurks in the shadows of night?
Ghost stories are always fascinating—the more so
if the secret of the apparition is not explained. But
even where the mystery is made plain, such stories
have a charm. The usual accompaniments of the
ordinary ghost story are a dark night, a rain storm
and an old castle, deserted house or church. One
of the true stories I have heard of this kind was of
two travelers, who, when overtaken by a storm about
nightfall, took shelter in a dilapidated old church.
Being fatigued with journeying, they soon fell asleep.
About midnight they were suddenly awakened by
strange sounds that echoed startlingly through the
empty old building. The rain was still falling and
the lightning emitting faint gleams. By one of
these flashes the travelers saw several white shapes
up in the gallery. “They are ghosts” was their
instant conclusion, and they felt that unreasoning
terror which somehow the unsubstantial ghost in
spires. They had firearms and were about to shoot
when a loud bleat assured them that the ghostly
shapes were nothing but a couple of goats that had
taken refuge in the church out of the rain and, with
the goat instinct to climb, had mounted into the
gallery.
Another story has the old church for its scene. It
was in the days when the duello was fashionable.
McClurg, of Mississippi, a noted duelist, who had
killed two men in these so-called affairs of honor,
started in his buggy from Columbus to visit a young
