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The Golden Age
Published Ebery Thursday by the Golden Age Publishing
Company (Inc.)
OFFICES: AUSTELL 'BUILDING, 'ATLANTA, GA. .
WILLIAM D. UPSHAW .... Editor
MRS. WILLIAM D. UPSHAW - Associate Editor
MRS G. B. LINDSEY - . Managing Editor
LEN G. BROUGHTON - - - Pulpit Editor
Price: $2 a Year
Ministers $1.50 per Year
In cases of foreign add’ess fifty cents should be added to cober
additional postage
Entered in the Post Office in Atlanta, Qa.
as second-class matter
Manhood Masters Men.
After all, vigorous manhood comes out into the
arena and, like the red battalions of Wellington, the
gray Palladins of Lee, sweeps its posses-
Kern Culls sor to sublime victory. Such vigorous,
the Kernel virile, yivific manhood has John W. Kern,
the new senator-nominee from the schol
arly State of Indiana!
He was nominated unanimously, after a double
barreled refusal, on his part, from the rostrum and
the desk. They wanted a man in the senatorial
toga—and they put it on, so that he could not back
out, with ease.
Kern was a team-mate of the great Bryan, and
comes of the same stern, heroic mold. They both
use the same battle-axe moral courage, and with the
same deadly effect. Tom Taggart, the one-time pop
ulai’ Indiana boss, made it appear that the victory
of Kern was due to his crowd getting in the band
wagon, but, perhaps, it was just to make it entirely
unanimous, and leave no seats vacant.
When Roosevelt or Bryan or Kern take the politi
cal steering wheel, everybody wants to ride.
We heartily and warmly congratulate Mr. Kern on
his great moral victory, and may it be a signal of fire
on the blue hills of Democracy, that a Democrat as
morally strong will occupy the throne of the White
House!
Hail to the chief who in triumph advances.
Green be the Democratic pine.
Manhood Masters Men.
Lamar Strickland Payne.
* M
A Congressman Who Don ’t Forget.
Tell us no more ye misanthropes, ye pessimists, ye
darkened souls who look at the world through dark
ened glasses, that gentlemen be-
Judge
Roddenbery
Starts Right.
Adamson, the genial, scholarly con
gressman from the Fourth District of Georgia has
distinguished himself in congress something like a
decade, but when he heard that The Golden Age had
offered a limited number of Life Subscriptions at $lO
each his vision was clear enough to see the wisdom
of the investment and promptly sent his check for
$lO. And behold! one of the first acts performed by
Judge Anderson Roddenbery, the great prohibition
democrat and oratorical cyclone, after reaching
Washington was to write a glorious letter to the
editor of The Golden Age while he lay on bed at
Winona, Miss, nursing a broken leg, sending a check
for a life-time subscription. Mighty wise congress
man who doesn’t want to rear his charming family
in the atmosphere of Washington society without the
weekly visits of The Golden age. Here is to the
United States Congress, and the new member from
the Second District of Georgia.
I? H
KENNEDY “KEEPS ON.”
Judge L. Kennedy, a leader of the Fitzgerald, Ga.,
bar and a prominent Christian worker, says: “That
letter to your subscribers is irresistible. Here is a
check for $2 to renew for The Golden Age.”
come degenerate as soon as they go
to Congress and breathe the atmos
phere of Washington. Judge W. C.
The Golden Age for May 5/1910.
A NA PVEL NA TCHLESS ELOQUENCE
No man since Henry Grady’s day can “do the thing”
like L. L. Knight. He is the New South’s richest,
most glowing exponent of that rare
Like Another type of beautiful, ornate oratory
Grady, L. L. which fuses mighty thoughts into
Knight Piles matchless words, catches like music
Oratory the listening ear and sweeps every
To the Skies. chord of the eager heart.
John Temple Graves, that wizard
of the human tongue, has gone from us, and from his
pedestal in Gotham has become a national figure.
But we of the South want some man of masterful
pen and platform power who is peculiarly our own;
and Lucian L. Knight, of The Atlanta Georgian,
editor, Historian and orator, is ours—the very incar
nation of Southern chivalry and loyalty, and there
fore the highest possible exemplification of Ameri
can ideals. Best of all, this great writer and winsome
orator is a devout Christian, robust in his faith and
stalwart always in crowning the Book and the Blood.
In his loftiest strains of eloquence, spoken and
written, his most beautiful figures flash with the ra
diance of Scripture truth and glow with the heroism
of Biblical characters.
Mr. Knight’s latest oratorical triumph occurred at
Marietta, Ga., where he delivered the Memorial Ad
dress on the 26th of April. His theme was “Dixie’s
Dead In Kennesaw’s Shadow,” and standing there at
the base of that famous mountain, historic and vocal
yet with the boom of cannon and the carnage of bat
tle —his heart mellowed by the grass-grown graves
of three thousand Confederate heroes at his feet, he
spoke in such matchless fashion and passion as
would have honored the name and power of Sargent
S. Prentiss, Benj. H. Hill or Henry W. Grady. “Too
beautiful,” says the phlegmatic critic. Hush man!
Memorial Day is the day of all days and the time of
all times for expressions of beautiful sentiment. It
is a day when sentiment is enthroned.
Here are a few of the gems of patriotic truth and
beauty that fell from Lucian L. Knight’s wonderful
tongue:
“Forty-five years have passed since Appo
mattox. The raven locks have caught the autum
nal frosts. Life’s fires are dim in eyes once
bright; and stooped are the shoulders of the
youngest veteran who looked upon Dixie’s morn
ing star.
“Most of the Templar Knights of the Southern
Cross are sleeping, but the Spartan mother who
bore them is not one who forgets. Closed are
her marts of trade, and in her sky-lit battle-ab
beys of the hillside she this day gathers—the
April tear-drops in her eyes and the April roses
in her arms—to testify that love still keeps her
vigils above the graves of the Confederate dead
and that, immortally remembered, the wearers
of the old gray jacket are enshrined in Dixie’s
heart forever.
“It is not from the field of battle that your
message bearer comes today. Born since “the
bugles sang truce,” I have plighted allegiance
to but one flag—“the flag of the free heart’s
hope and home.” I love it, for every star is ra
diant with, the glory and every stripe crimson
with the blood of my people. But I also love
the Conquered Banner. Around the blazing win
ter’s fire and in the misty starlight of sweet
summer evenings, I have listened to the story
of the war until I could almost hear the roll of
the Rappahannock and catch the voice of Jack
son in the music of the trees.
“To me the harp of heroism, attuned to the
deeds of the Confederate soldier, is richer in the
soul of song than ever was the border minstrel’s;
and believe me when I tell you here and now
that no higher inspiration to duty or to pa
triotism has ever come into my life than the
consciousness that in my veins there flows the
blood of one who followed the matchless plume
of’The immortal Lee.
“We stand on consecrated ground. Before us
looms historic Kennesaw. Yesterday a peak of
death —wreathed with the brimstone fires of the
inferno. Today a monument of peace. In the
distance can be seen the knob where a cannon
ball opened the breast of General Polk; but the
batteries today are silent. Neither Hood nor
Johnston is longer in command of the Army of the
Tennessee.
“Yonder sleeps Lester with his empty sleeve.
Over there dreams Waddell. Beyond the hedge
of green lies Phillips, waiting to rejoin his le
gion. On the neighboring hills —twelve thou
sand strong—stretch the laureled beds of the
boys in blue. On this velvet couch —“outnum-
bered, but not outbraved” —press the crumbled
hearts of the boys in gray.
“Three thousand of the Dixie knights lie here;
and between the two white camps of silence is
the old ratio of battle —four to one.
“For the victor a nation’s gratitude stands
sentinel, but woman’s love keeps vigil for the
vanquished.”
“Sweet must the slumbers of this bivouac be —
happy these dreamers here. Surrender and de
feat and reconstruction were words whose bit
terness they never knew. They fell ere Dixie
found an Appomattox. They were brought here
from the gory fields. They died defending
Georgia! Hundreds of these boys are strangers.
They pressed the lips of beauty and took the
vows of love in other states; and it may be that
somewhere in the mountains the Highland Marys
are waiting for them still. Not a few sleep in
unknown graves—their names, like their keep
sakes, buried with them in these mounds of
earth. But some fond mother loved them onc.e
Aye, some fond mother loves them now; for
they lie upon no alien lap who lean on Georgia’s
gentle breast.
“Soldier, rest, thy warfare o’er,
Dream of battlefields no more.”
Sleep till the bugles wake thee for thy crowning
day. Sleep till
“the night is gone
And with the morn those angel faces smile
Which you have loved long since and lost a
while.”
i ■'
Perish.the demon of hatred on this spot! We
can cherish no bitter memories here, where
“The old bright wine of valor fills
The chalice of Romance,”
“Away with malice everywhere and forever!
Blasted with the fires of Etna be every preju
dice ungenerous and unkind; but watered with
the dews of Zion be every fragrant recollection!
“The South is loyal to the covenant of Appo
mattox. Nor is she truer to the tryst than when
she gathers among her grass-green graves to
hold communion with her deathless dead. In
the willingness of Americans to die for principle
are grounded the triumphs of the nation in the
conflicts which are yet to come.
“Twelve years ago, when the tocsin of war
sounded, it was the blood of the old Confederacy
that laid the first red rubies upon freedom’s al
tar. Then instantly the world remembered that
it was the South whose soldiership and valor
wrested Yorktown from the British—the South
whose Patrick Henry kindled the fires of the
Revolution, whose Jefferson wrote the Declara
tion of Independence, whose Washington com
manded the Continental army, whose Madison
framed the constitution, whose Marshall inter
preted the organic law—aye, the South to whom
the Union was indebted for existence; and if
from 1861 to 1865 she drew her sword against the
Union’s flag, it was in defense of the Union’s
constitution!
“When the drum tap summoned the flower of
the South to arms, the wife relinquished her hus
band at the altar and the aged mother faltered
at the grave side: “Here is my only boy.” No
maiden smiled upon the youth who skulked at
home. To nurse the child of battle, the patrician
blood of Dixie bore ten thousand Florence Night
ingales. \\ henever Sir Launcelot was unhorsed
(Continued on Page 8.)
