Newspaper Page Text
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A TRI'B UJL
By Tessa Willingham Roddey
ANY pens will tell of the passing away
of the body of Joel Chandler Harris.
My eyes filled with tears and 1 sat for
several moments too grieved for words,
too shocked for comprehension, when
first I read the notice of his death,
when I realized the loss to the South,
to the world. Just when the South
had shown the world a magazine fully
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the equal of any magazine between covers,
just when the world was beginning to realize
that out of the South had come a magazine and an
editor that all the world delighted to honor as a
genius supreme in the world of literary art; as a
man first in that fine and subtle something that
has not yet and cannot be phrased into fitting words,
first in the hearts and minds of children the world
over, the man who, first and best of all the world’s
noted writers, gave a queer, quaint, unique, fresh,
pure, instructive, pervading “literature for the chil
dren,” he reaches the most subtle chords of the
tender, innocent child heart; he has done what no
other writer has done, made the “literature for the
children” rank first and best of all the literature
of the world. That man you all have known so long as
“Uncle Remus.” What has he not done with his
queer, quaint child literature? A literature so new,
yet so old, so simple, yet so vital, so pure, yet so true
and comprehensive; a literature that penetrates,
finds all classes and conditions and makes a strong,
fine appeal to all; a literature that reaches the den
of the idler, the desk of the worker, the studio of
the artist, the boudoir of the woman of leisure, the
cabin of the woodsman, the cottage of the peas
ant, the palace of the merchant prince, the red-tape
tied office of the politician, the library of the emi
nent statesman, and causes one and all to forget
worries of business and cares of state and smile
with one accord at the rare wisdom and cunning
antics of “Brer Rabbit,” one of the homeliest den
izens of field and forest, yet transformed by this
magician of the pen into a national character, re
spected by all for his ability to land, no matter how
bad or absurd his predicament, “right side up with
care.”
The thought had come to me, with something of
Note —This sublime poem was written by Gav
riel Romanovitch Dershavin, a Russian lyric poet,
born in 1743 and died in 1816. It was translated
into English by Sir John Bowring, an English
writer, born in 1792 and died in 1872. Sir John
says that this poem has been translated into Japan
ese by order of the Emperor, and is hung up, em
broidered in gold, in the temple at Yeddo. It has
also been translated into the Chinese and Tartar
languages, and, written on a piece of silk, is sus
pended in the Imperial Palace at Pekin.
0, Thou eternal One! whose presence bright
All space doth occupy, all motion guide;
Unchanged through Time’s all devastating flight;
Thou only God! there is no God beside!
Being above all beings! Mighty One!
Whom none can comprehend and none explore;
Who fill’st existence with Thyself alone;
Embracing all —supporting—ruling o’er —
Being whom we call God —and know no more!
In its sublime research, philosophy
May measure out the ocean deep —may count
The sands or the sun’s rays—but, God! for Thee
There is no weight nor measure; —none can mount
Up to Thy mysteries; Reason’s brightest spark,
Though kindled by Thy light, in vain would try
To trace Thy counsels, infinite and dark;
And thought is lost ere thought can soar so high,
Even like past moments in eternity.
ODE TO GOD
By Gabriel Romanobitch Dershabin
The Golden Age for August 13, 1908.
fear, that perhaps some northern or eastern firm
would try to absorb “Unde Remus’s” with its
broad atmosphere and large clientele; but that fear
was set at rest when the August issue came and 1
read the publisher’s announcement, and real
ized that the South could not spare this, its
only truly great magazine, founded by a man
who remained in his beloved Southland and
here reached the high-water mark in litera
ture. Others of the pen went North, East,
abroad, to gain, as they thought, finer inspiration,
broader atmosphere for fluency and versatility; but
Joel Chandler Harris remained at home and his
fluency, his versatility, far surpass those who sought
elsewhere for what they, in their egotistic blind
ness, thought the South couldn’t give—development
to their art, inspiration for their genius; they for
got, perhaps, that art needs no development, has
often been marred thereby, but genius requires no
inspiration. The art of Joel Chandler Harris was
superior to environment, his genius independent of
conditions; his genius shone clearly through adver
sity, discouragement, unpropitious conditions, shone
on, brighter and brighter, all other lights dimmed
by comparison, until it is now recognized as the
central white light of southern literature. I might
say American literature,, but that word “southern”
appeals to me and chords so perfectly with “Uncle
Remus” and “Brer Rabbit.” No, the South cannot
spare it —will not give it up—from the city of its
birth, from the home of its founder it will come to
ns once each month, and keep fully up to the stand
ard of perfection that has so strongly marked it
since the first issue came to a waiting, eager, wel
coming public.
May the “little boy” who heard those' stories at
first hand feel the mantle of his father’s genius fall
around him, and may he take up his pen and write
right royally his way into the hearts of the people
now open to receive him, who are loyal to the son
of the man who has given to the South from the
South a literature the like of which no other section
lias known, no other country can show; a literature
born in the pure heart and mind of a great and
simple man, and fitted for the hearts and minds of
little children.
Thou from primeval nothingness didst call
First chaos, then existence; —Lord! on Thee
Eternity had its foundation; —all
Sprung forth from Thee; —of light, joy, harmony,
Sole origin—all life, all beauty, Thine.
Thy word created all, and doth create;
Thy splendor fills all space with rays divine.
Thou art, and wert, and shalt be! Glorious! Great!
Light-giving, life-sustaining Potentate!
Thy chains the unmeasured universe surround;
Upheld by Thee, by Thee inspired with breath!
Thou the beginning with the end hast bound,
Ami beautifully mingled life and death!
As sparks mount upwards from the fiery blaze,
So suns are born, so worlds spring forth from
Thee;
And as the spangles in the sunny rays
Shine round the silver snow, the pageantry
Os heaven’s bright army glitters in Thy praise.
A million torches lighted by Thy hand
Wander unwearied through the blue abyss—
They own Thy power, accomplish Thy command,
All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss.
What shall we call them? Piles of crystal light—
A glorious company of golden streams —
Lamps of celestial ether burning bright—
Suns lighting systems with their joyous beams?
But Thou to these art as the noon to night.
Yes! as a drop of water in the sea,
All this magnificence in Thee is lost; —
What are ten thousand worlds compared to Thee?
And what am I then? Heaven’s unnumber’d host,
Though multiplied by myriads, and arrayed
In all the glory of sublimest thought,
Is but an atom in the balance weighed
Against Thy greatness, is a cipher brought
Against infinity! What am I then? Nought!
Nought! But the effluence of Thy light divine,
Pervading worlds, hath reach’d my bosom, too;
Yes! in my spirit doth Thy spirit shine
As shines the sun-beam in a drop of dew.
Nought! but I live, and on hope’s pinions fly
Eager towards Thy presence; for in Thee
I live, and breathe, and dwell; aspiring high,
Even to the throne of Thy divinity,
I am, 0 God! and surely Thou must be!
Thou art! directing, guiding all, Thou art!
Direct my understanding then to Thee;
Control my spirit, guide my wandering heart;
Though but an atom ’midst immensity,
Still I am something, fashioned by Thy hand!
I hold a middle rank ’twixt heaven and earth —
On the last verge of mortal being stand,
Close to the realms where angels have their birth,
Just on the boundaries of the spirit-land!
The chain of being is complete in me;
In me is matter’s last gradation b»st,
And the next step is spirit—Deity!
I can command the lightning and am dust!
A monarch, and a slave; —a worm, a god!
Whence came I here, and how? so marvelously
Constructed and conceived? unknown! —this clod
Lives surely through some higher energy;
For from itself 1 it could not be!
Creator, yes! Thy wisdom and Thy word
Created me! Thou source of life and good!
Thou spirit of my spirit, and my Lord I
Thy light, Thy love, in their bright plenitude
killed me with an immortal soul, to spring
Over the abyss of death; and bade it weai
The garments of eternal day, and wing
Its heavenly flight beyond this little sphere,
Even to its source —to Thee —its Author there.
Oh thoughts ineffable! oh visions blest!
Though worthless our conceptions all of Thee,
Yet shall Thy shadowed image fill our breast,
And waft its homage to Thy Deity.
God! thus alone my lowly thoughts can soar,
Thus seek Thy presence—Being wise and good!
Midst Thy vast works admire, obey, adore!
And when the tongue is eloquent no more,
1 he soul shall speak in tears of gratitude.
The Mission Girl.
(Continued from Page 2.)
The nurse seemed absorbed in a train of thought,
or was she praying? She answered at last enig
matically, without stirring from her position at the
foot of the bed.
“Not yet—wait!”
Dr. Redmond threw himself back in his armchair
and closed his eyes. Science? He had exhausted
her resources. What else was there to do? And
yet what would waiting bring? What did the
golden hours of tomorrow hold for Sylvia Warren
ton? Life on earth, to which she had grown ac
customed? Or would she be transferred to the high
plane of immortality, about which men have
dreamed so long, with broken hearts, and still know
so little?
How long Dr. Redmond sat beside Sylvia Warren
ton he did not realize, but at last the nurse lifted
her white capped head. Dr. Cortelyou looked at
her g’ravely. The inscrutable expression in his
dark eyes did not change. He was watching a
drama. The nurse was one of the actors. It wss
her cue.
(To be Continued.)
