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TWO IN NOCTNTS ABROAD
Ty Lamar Stri kland Payne, Author "Twentieth Century Tables” and Joint Author of "The Mission Girl,” "The Limit of the Line,” Lt:.
(Continued from Last Week.)
We Whirl In a “Joy” Ride.
Soon after our arrival, we were given an automo
bile ride over the city. The afternoon was ideal.
The wind a tonic. The sunlight glinted, in long sil
ver streamers, over the cheerful red-brick fronts, and
the spotless marble steps.
We whirled down Lexington avenue, catching a
brief glimpse of the Old Men’s Home and the Old
Women’s likewise. Small parks laughed at us,
where silver fountains played sonatas to the sun,
where the tree shadows thickened with mystic mean
ing. We would not pass that way again.
We were a party of five. The Rev. H. P. Jackson,
of the Fuller Memorial Baptist church, Mr. Harri
son, a former councilman of Baltimore, his son Les
ter, Mr. W. D. Upshaw, Editor of The Golden Age (a
young lad), and the writer.
The great Lexington street market rose on our
left. It is analogous to the New Orleans market.
Little booths ornament it, for fish and vegetables.
It was not market day, and things were under can
vas. It had the appearance of a Fifth Avenue man
sion closed for the summer.
We passed by, like the Pharisee, the Publican, or
the Priest, or the Good Samaritan, but he did not
pass, eh? At all events, we passed, and swiftly. The
black Aerocar a black imp of speed, nosed her way
among red cars, and crimson and black automobiles.
Carts got into our way, we circled them. Heavy
trucks blocked our path; we dived around them.
The tension was fierce. It was a strenuous environ
ment.
Like a dream, the shopping district evolved and
the Baltimore Bargain House. We paused for a few
moments. Women passed with flowers in their
hands. This was the note of beauty, in the fast pan
orama.
Then came a group of buildings. The court house,
the post office, The Baltimore News. In the center
rose the Statue of Liberty, over which presided the
genius of Baltimore. It told of the death of the
British General Ross. Visions of the defense of Bal
timore, from the British fleet, rose before us. Be
yond, the grim shot tower bulked against the even
ing sky.
We sped into Baltimore street. The wharves drew
the Black Imp like a magnet. We turned hither. A
white sound steamer, with red water line, and red
around her smokestack, held our attention, for a
moment. I read the name Tangier. The pictures
came like flashes of lightning now, scarce burning
their way into the halls of memory. A second wharf
“None knew her but to love her —none named her
but to praise.” If ever that expression was true
of any life wo have ever known, it
A Radiant can be said of Mrs. Mattie Shelnutt
Spirit Gone — Morris, the gifted, consecrated woman
But the Light whose death at East Point, Ga., last
Lingers Yet. week put a home, a church and a com
munity in tears.
Wielding a brilliant pen, dipped always in the
rainbow fountain of hope and love, she might have
given her name to fame if she had devoted her
talents to literary pursuits as unceasingly as she
dedicated her love and time to her family, her
church and her friends. Sorely bereft by her death,
the editor of The Golden Age sent the following
tribute to be read at her funeral at Bowdon, Georgia,
the memorial sermon being preached by her former
pastor, Rev. W. W. Roop, one of “God’s noblemen”.
Unable to attend the funeral of one of the best
and truest, friends I ever had on earth —an occa
sion whose tender sacredness is put into italics,
because it occurs at her old home, Bowdon —a com
munity so fondly cherished by me—l feel that 1
would be recreant to every impulse of friendship,
love and gratitude if I did not send at least one
flower of tribute to lay on the bier of Mrs. Mattie
Shelnutt Morris.
/IRS. JIATTIE SHELNUTT MORRIS
The Golden Age for June 23, 1910.
LETTER NUMBER TWO.
held the Demorest, of a dull-lead color; what ap
peared to be a coast liner. The little launch Adonis
was tied to the bank. Here was a hint of the Great
Dramatist, in the name, at least, a little strain of
things familiar, in the midst of the vast symphony
of strange, strenuous music. I longed to be back
in the oid studio, with Shakespeare on my knee.
But, I was in the midst of the obvious. This was
said to be the real world. The Chief thinks so, at
least. It is life to him. I can not convince him that
the real world is the sub-conscious. It satisfies his
ego, this great, obvious, hustling world. It did not
satisfy my ego. For I know that there is a kazark,
which contains the bulk of a 169 worlds like ours.
Mark Twain invented the kazark. 1 did not tell the
Chief about the kazark, for fear that he would mob
me.
We saw a coal barge. It was in the line of least
resistance, and we had to observe it. Then we saw
another and another and so on. That is the trouble,
when you see one coal barge, you are likely to see
a whole colony. It is the fault of going out into
the world. It is unwise. I had departed from the
creed of the Vishnu, which is distinct from all ob
servation of the present planet. Coal barges can
not carry you to Nirvana. They are anaesthetic,
but useful.
Then 1 saw a steam shovel at work. It will grab
up half a ton of coal from the barge, and carry it to
a chute. It is uncanny, these iron fingers that grab,
grab. If 1 lived before (which the Chief doubts),
it reminded me of the time that I toiled in the
forges of Vulcan, and helped mould the armor of the
gods.
We passed the Savannath line wharf. It made me
home-sick.
The Black Imp turned her back on the wharves.
We had to frolic some in the suburbs. The wester
ing sun was on the last lap of the day’s glad race.
We passed a market for country produce. Road
beds are cut into it. Here Reuben sells his vegeta
bles, right off the wagon. It is charming. It is
ideal. It is “Sic Semper Paregoric.”
We See Johns Hopkins and Druid Hill.
A long, swift run brought us to Johns Hopkins
Hospital. The University is in sections. You will
find it scattered about, at various points. But it
will be corralled, in time. There is a new seventy
acre lot on which the thing will be centralized. One
man has given a $1,000,000 for a new hospital for
mental diseases.
As the Black Imp went past the playground, the
To try to think or write of her as dead pierces my
heart as 1 cannot tell. As a young lady, she was
a treasured guest in our home when 1 was a child,
but her refreshing, ennobling influence first really
blessed my life during the seven years 1 spent on
my bed. 1 shall never forget bow she reached out
her generous hands to receive my book, “Echoes
From a Recluse,” (written while 1 was on bed)
and how her warm-hearted enthusiasm and her prac
tical, substantial friendship in circulating that simple
“firstling” of mine encouraged the shut-in heart
from which that book had come.
And when The Golden Age was launched she look
my paper to her heart, tried to spread it among
her friends, and wrote me such enriching letters
of helpful criticism and commendation as only a
new editor can rightly appreciate.
Mattie Shelnutt Morris was as wholly given up
to the thought and purpose of helping others as
any life 1 have ever known. Indeed, with me she
must over stand in memory on a pedestal all her
own.
Although battling sometimes with trying limita
tions, her brave, trusting, optimistic spirit always
came off “more than conqueror.” She was a living
athletes were crouching for a one-hundred yard dash.
Bare legs and purple jerseys flashed in the sun.
Over in the field, baseball was in progress.
We bored, like the tail of the comet Halley, by
the sandworks of Roland Park, sped past the green
hedges, the English houses of that pretty suburb,
and landed in Druid Hill park.
Giant oaks spread their full green canopy above
us, through which the sun lanced silver speers. Ce
dars rose out of the vistas, plumed and proud. Beech
es stood out, white-barked, like the white knights of
the Holy Grail. We looked to see Prince and Knight
ride out of the dim-lit woods, or Lancelot lead the
Round Table through the rich fires cast from the
heart of the west; or Arthur roll the diamond crown,
down some deep, woody dell.
But gentle fawns, with dove-like eyes, came out
to stare at us, in pairs. Then we paused by the
lake of the sea-seals. The road before this, cut
into the hills, where the deepest shadows fell, and
the golden sunbeams glance, was so beautiful, that
the Chief began to quote Patrick Henry’s, "Liberty
or Death.” It was one of the high moments of liv
ing, when the eye brightens, the soul thrills, the
blood tingles, and the wine of life races through and
through you. You can not describe it, you have to
feel it.
Druid Hill Park ranks next to Yellow Stone, in
points of natural beauty. Around the old oaks are
ringed, circular iron seats, for lovers. It is Eden;
it is Arden; it is the Vale of Avoca rolled into one.
The Black Imp circled the Mansion House, passed
a machine with the tire blown off, with its gray
coated guards, dipped down by the reservoir, whose
waters gleam black as ink, and then headed for
home through Eutaw Place, a swell Jewish quarter.
The dusk was thick about us. The fragrance of
the pansy beds came to us. The first signal stars
were ready to go on watch. It was the twilight
hour, the poet’s hour. In the nature of things, we
five would not meet on such a ride again. This is
the thought that I wish to leave, with the compan
ions of that magic journey.
"Sunset and evening star,
Ami one clear call lor me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When 1 put out to sea.
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again—home.”
illustration of Laurette Boykin’s “Ideal Woman”:
“She thinks what others only drcam;
She says what others only think;
She does what others only say—
And she glories in what others dare but do!”
And, best of all and through it all, this gentle, noble
hand-maiden of God laid her brilliant pen and all
her gifts of purse and person on the altar of her
Redeemer, whom she loved with heavenly passion.
1 rejoice that such a mother lived to hear one of
her sons preach his first sermon as a minister of
Christ. God grant that the others may hear the
same or a kindred call; while for her two devoted
Christian daughters, 1 can ask or wish no greater
blessing than that they catch the fallen mantle of
their blessed mother and wear it in joy and triumph
io the glad Redeemer at the Master’s feet.
“And when she had passed it was as the ceasing
of sweet music.”
but the music comes back to woo our hearts, with
the symphonies of the skies, and—
“On the spirit gentler lies
Than tired eyelids on tired eyes.”
In Loving Friendship and Tender Gratitude,
WILL D. UPSHAW.
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