Newspaper Page Text
10
THE <HOAT) TO USED-TO-VE
Along the road to Used-to-Be
The roses blossom as when we
Came down it long ago.
The summer clouds are just as white,
The summer skies are just as bright,
The winds as softly blow.
The hollyhocks are all aflame,
The bees are murmurous the same
As long ago they were;
And brook and Southern wood are
there,
And Nature gives to each her care,
For they are dear to her.
Along the road to Used to-Be
The sun is shining on the sea,
And on the sea are ships,
Or are they clouds? 1 can not say;
r ~ CHAT.
A WRITER has set odwn ten of
the most common mistakes
which we make in living.
They are to set up our own standard
of right and wrong and judge other
people accordingly, to expect every
one to think and beheve alike;
to expect judgment and wisdom
in the young, to try to gain
friendship by flattery and insincerity,
to expect perfection in our friends; to
worry over past mistakes, and other
things that can not be remedied, to re
fuse to make allowance for the infirm
ities of others; to be over-quick to
take offense and slow in forgiving. To
which may be added to refuse to alle
viate as much as lies in our power,
the needs of our fellow beings.
We are frequently given rules for
living. Perhaps the shortest and most
comprehensive program for getting
happiness out of life is that given by
Dr. Hooker, in a recent lecture. He
said: “Exercise your mind to its full
est capacity; live the simple life;
don’t be afraid of cherishing ideals;
radiate love to all mankind; never
worry—it is fatal; be calm and serene.
In a word, be temperate, simple, cher
ful, aspirational, charitable, and you
will grow to a great age; even then
you will not grow old, except in
years.”
Speaking of growing old reminds
me that a correspondent asks: “How
old is Mrs. Eddy? Do you think she
is still living? Why does she choose
to immune herself from sight of or
contact with others?” Mrs. Eddy is
over ninety years old. There seems
to be no reason to believe she is not
still living. I have a spry neighbor
who is ninety-seven, and one of the la
dies in the government employ in
Washington—is ninety—and still a
worker. A lady who was one of the
members of Mrs. Eddy’s Bible class in
ISBO, when the founder of Christian
Science was over sixty-five, gives this
pen-picture of her at that time. Her
personal appearance was very remark
able. Her hair was abundant, and of
a rich brown color; her complexion
fresh as that of a woman of twenty
five; her figure erect and graceful; her
arms and hands exquisitely modeled.
It would have been very difficult, to
guess her age, as there was a fresh
ness in her that is not always seen
even in very young people; but. also
there was a mental maturity to which
few people attain, and that spiritual
poise which is not swayed by the pass
ing of years, hut which betokens a re
flection of the changeless life of the
THE HOUSEHOLD
A Department of Expression For Those Who Feel and Think.
Arthur Goodenough.
SS3 SSD
But we have watched them day by
day,
With smiles upon our lips.
And to the west are mountain tops,
Where sunset’s splendid angel stops
And crowns with holy light
And dresses each unsightly peak
In glories all to bright to speak,
And then resumes her flight.
Nor sin nor shadows flourish there,
And want a stranger is, and care
The dreamer shall not know;
But still the green is on the tree,
And by the road to Used to-Be
The roses blossom as when we
Came down it long ago.
Spirit.” As a Bible teacher, her meth
ods were impressive. Her acquaint
ance with the Bible was profound. It
was said that she had away of ex
plaining Scripture passages and mak
ing them clear and pointed that was
wonderful. Mrs. Eddy has said that
she lives in seclusion because there is
such ceaseless demands made upon
her by the religious movement she has
instituted and because she needs soli
tude and the turning away from ma
terial to Spiritual things. There is no
doubt that she is a remarkable wo
man, though I do not see how one can
give in to the ethics and practice of
her “Science” —as a whole.
Jane Morrow asks: “Tell us a little
more about the writer of ‘Miss Selina
Lou,’ whom you'met at the conven
tion of Tennessee writers. Would the
book be a suitable present for a girl?”
It would be a suitable present for
any one. It is a simple, sweet, hu
morous story of a big-hearted old
maid store-keeper in a country town.
She mothers everybody particularly
the babies. She helps the mothers
who are sick, over-burdened with
household tasks and children, or
who work outside their homes by tak
ing care of their babies in a back
room of her store, where each baby
occupies a comfortably padded soap
box, and is fed at proper intervals.
The writer of this charming story is
just such a woman as you would ex
pect her to be—young in looks and in
heart; simple, unaffected, joyous—
taking keen interest in what life af
fords. She is quite plump, with a
fresh, rosy complexion, bright eyes
and brown hair. Her book is publish
ed by the Bobbs-Merrill Company,
who bought it outright— syndicated it
through many newspapers—then
brought it out in a neat book for a
dollar, postage paid.
Several correspondents have asked
me, “Don’t you think it is necessary
to whip children?” I wish the House
hold members would give their ideas
as to this. That some form of pun
ishment is occasionally necessary in
managing children, 1 fully believe, but
that it should be corporeal, 1 think is
very doubtful. I am sure it should
nevei be administered in haste or in
anger. Fear should never be the mo
tive in child-training, as it was twen
ty-five years ago, when the household
slogan was: “Be good or mamma, will
whip yon. At school, and even in
college, corporeal punishment was
thought indispensable for the moral
training of boys and girls, in the
pulpit, the preachers dwelt compara-
The Golden Age for July 21, 1910.
tively little on Christ’s teachings of
love and mercy. They persistently
waved the fiery torch of punishment
and thundered forth awful menaces.
The State worked its prisoners by the
same rule. Punishment was carried
on in every form —cold and comfort
less cells, floggings, dark dungeons,
hunger, filth, disease —and hopeless
ness. But within the last quarter of a
century there has been a great revo
lution. Love in its many forms is
now the propelling force in ethical
efforts, and woman has become the
principal worker in the moral field,
because woman understands the sub
tle but all powerful influence of love
bettor than man. 1 wish that some of
you members of the Household —men
and women —would give us your ideas
in this matter through this widely
read department.
Do you think it brutalizes children
to punish them? and engenders the
spirit of bitterness and revenge? Is
it not better to teach them to be good
by holding out attractive ideals to
their impressible minds?
Our brilliant Householder, Mary
Pettus Thomas, sends me interesting
postal cards, as she and her party
make their way over Europe. Her
last card is from Rome. She has seen
the Coliseum and she has seen the
pope.
Our gifted poet, Arthur Goodenough,
has recently been honored by having
his poems praised by the best critics;
also one of them, “The Cry of the
Uncreated,” published in a volume of
selections of the best poetry, edited
by Edward Markham. In a future
number we will give this poem and a
picture of the author, whose noble
work has uplifted the readers of the
Sunny South and The Golden Age
for many years.
Our Julia Coman Tait, though con
valescent, is still a prisoner in her
room, and highly does she appreciate
the letters and cards sent by friends
to her address, 1240 Mississippi Ave
nue, Memphis, Tennessee.
Wtb Our Correspondents
AN HOUR IN A LIBRARY.
On a clear, crisp day, when the first
touch of early spring was seen in the
blue of the sky and felt in the soft
breeze, I entered an old library to
while away an hour in its quiet nooks.
On all sides the walls were lined with
massive cases of ancient oak, in which
gleamed, like jewels, the crimson, gold
and blue bindings of favorite volumes
of romance and poetry, varied by the
more somber black and brown of his
tory and philosophy. From a wide
window one could sec a calmly wind
ing river, flecked with alternate light,
and shadow' and overarched with
drooping boughs just touched with the
green of early spring.
In this quiet and peaceful spot,
where external surroundings were so
harmonious a setting for contempla
tion and memory, I sat and read Ten
nyson’s matchless poem, “A Dream of
Fa’r Women,” and fondly wished that
some vision from the realm of books
would be granted to me in return for
the unceasing homage I had ever paid
to the written page.
1 repeated, half aloud, “O Cadmus,,
or whosoever invented books, grant to
me, a patient follower, a vision of
those heretofore only dimly seen in
the mystic realm of fancy.” In an
swer to this idly uttered plea, a soft
whispef said, “Look!” and a radiant.
glow shone from the window. Turn
ing in that direction, I saw, standing,
framed by the rich, dark curtains, a
figure pictured oft in dreams, the
noble face and gracious dignity of
Portia. The soft voice continued: “Be
it as thou wished, only heed the
maxims of the wondrous guests.” As
I gazed, overjoyed, at the nobility re
vealed in every lineament of the face
of that just judge and peerless wo
man, she spoke in calm tones: “The
quality of mercy is not strained; it
droppeth as the gentle dew from
Heaven upon the place beneath. * * *
So render deeds of mercy.”
Rapt beyond power of speech, I saw
her vanish and other figures appear,
the friends of childhood days, over
whose joys I had rejoiced and over
whose struggles I had wept —David
Copperfield and the gentle Agnes.
With a glow of victory in his eyes, he
spoke: “There is no substitute for hon
est, thorough-going earnestness.”
The next comer was a knight, clad
in armor, -with a stainless sword un
sheathed in his hand. I recognized
Sir Galahad, “whose strength was as
the strength of ten because his heart
was pure.” In accents clear, he spoke
and thrilled my heart as with a trum
pet call: “O just and faithful knight,
ride on; the prize is near.”
Following the knight, as the quiet
evening follows the vigorous noon,
came a beautiful figure, a face fair as
if carved in alabaster, and mournful
eyes of a haunting beauty. It was
Ligeia, beautiful one; but the beauti
ful lips moved not, and, with a sad and
unfathomable glance from those deep
eyes, she vanished. The next figure,
robed in the gorgeous fabrics of the
Orient, the long and loose dark hair,
crowned with pearls, was, as I knew
by the noble bearing and fearless eye,
the Jewish maiden, Rebecca, whose
nobility had early stirred my soul.
She spoke in the calm tones of unfal
tering faith: “Put trust in God, to
whom an instant is as effectual to
save as a whole age.”
As she vanished, an old man ap
peared, his flowing white hair and
beard betokening extreme age, but his
eyes alight with the quenchless fire
of inspiration. It was Merlin, he who
had followed the Gleam, and, in meas
ured tones, he spoke;
“Not of the sunlight,
Not of the moonlight,
Not of the starlight!
O young mariner, \
Down to the haven
Call your companions;
Launch your vessel,
And crowd your canoes,
And, ere it vanishes,
, O’er the margin,
After it; follow it;
Follow the Gleam.”
Then a clear strain of music fell on
my ear, and I saw only the river,
“flowing free,” and the mocking bird,
whose notes had roused me from ray
dream of wonder. Unwilling to part
with the vision, “eagerly I sought to
strike into that wondrous track of
dreams again; but no two dreams are
alike.”
Yet more than a dream it appeared
Io me, that vision in the old library,
for it brought nearer and dearer the
truths and characters of the world of
books, and still deeper impressed upon
ray soul the power of imagination and
poetic beauty, “which keep the world
forever fresh and young, which give it
not its fruitage and its green, but
clothe it with a glorv all unseen.”
“VIOLET”
