Newspaper Page Text
VOL. XX. No. 945.
ATLANTA, GA., MARCH 17, 1894.
PRICE: $2.00 A YEAR.
For The Sunny South.]
A Pair of Old Shoes.
They’re useless and wholly discarded—
These shoes that some little girl wore;
Cast aside, as rubbish regarded,
Their journey's forever more o’er;
Old Time has laid wantonly o’er them
His tarnished mildews and mold;
We know not who owned them or wore them-
Their story will never be told.
Did they move with unwilling paces
Each day on their journey to school,
To loiter in cool shady places,
Defying the teacher’s strict rule?
Did they tread with noiseless soft tipping
The iloor in a sick-room’s deep gloom
Before they went merrily skipping
O’er meadows in burgeon and bloom?
Did they join the gay whirling dancers
And glide in the wildest delight
Through quadrilles and waltzes and lancers
N'eath the glow of chandeliers bright?
Did they speed with steps ready and willing—
[ ;step3 lithesome and airy and fleet—
In eagerness gladly fulfilling
some mission of eharity sweet?
Perhaps the small feet that were hidden
Within them, so dainty and slight,
Have by the kind angels been bidden
To roam in fair gardens of light,
And there, where the soft, balmy weather
Grows never dark, stormy nor cold,
These little shoes fashioned of leather
Were changed for bright sandals of gold.
Memphis, Term. J. G.
The Beatification of Joan of Arc.
The Moniteur de Rome announces the
beatification of Joan of Arc, and The
Tablet, the leading Roman Catholic
journal of Great Britain, says that
this great event in history was brought
about, after a protracted inquiry, which
has included the examination of more
than six hundred documents bearing
upon the case. On the approval of the
Sovereign Pontiff, the process of the
beatification of the glorious Maid was
introduced at the Court of Rome. On
that interesting and historic occasion,
there were present their Eminences
Aloisi-Masella, Prefect of Rites; Par-
oechi, Bianchi, Melchers, Ricci-Parac-
eiani, Ruffo-Scilla, Mooenni, Verga,
Mazella, Macchi, and His Eminence,
< ard nal Langenieux, Archbishop of
Rheiins, who had hurried across France
to be present at the ceremony. After
listening to an address from Cardinal
Parocchi, in which he passed in sur
vey all the evidence which nad accum
ulated before them as the heroism of
the virtues and the authenticity of the
miracles attributed to the Maid, the
members of the congregation voted on
the question : A n sit signanda Commis-
s io iniroductionis, cruste serv<v Dei Toan-
n:c d’Arc, in casu et ad effectum de quo
(t'l'tur. One by one the twelve Cardi
nals rose and returned the same an
swer : Signandam esse Commissionem si
SSmo placuerit. In the afternoon of
the same day, the Secretary of the
Congregation, Mgr. Nussi, waited upon
LeoXtIL, who formerly signed the
decree authorizing the introduction of
the process of beatification, using, as
is customary in such cases, his Christ
ian name Joachim, and reserving his
Pontifical name, Leo PP, XIII., for
the other decrees, which in God's good
time may follow, and which shall test
the heroism of the sanctity and the
authenticity of the miracles of Saint
-loan of Arc.
The girl whose fair fame the genius
of Shakespeare, in England, and that
°f Voltaire, in France, have combined
Jo damn in two literatures, is, says the
leading English Catholic journal, now
the high road to canonization of
file Church of God. Her simplicity
and purity and simpleness of purpose
Lave conquered even Protestant and
-National prejudice, and wrung from
m °st unwilling foes the tribute of un-
u . !1 ogled admiration. Nothing more
significant of the change in the temper
m the time and the mental attitude of
Englishmen could well be wished than
1 he tone of the admirable article with
which the London Times greeted this
a>t and most important act of Pope
Ceo ! “Ir. 5.- Tngn
.. ‘In taking steps to beatify Joan
•I - rc ’ R° m an Church is honoring
i ^ he to which notone nation only,
i* lhe whole world, will gladly pay
w na ge—the type of pure and tender
unianhood in a sensual and merci
less agep
For The Sunny South.]
Literary Talk.
That misfortune should in a kind of
round-about-way become advantage
and the helper of genius, appears
paradoxical, but much of the best
literature of the world has been pro
duced by persons who labored under
some physical affliction.
Cut off by misfortune from the
pleasures and occupations of their
fellows, they have given to study time
which others spent in society and
idleness. If Alexander Pope had been
a vigorous and lusty youth, it is very
probable that the masterly Essay on
Man would never have been known to
English literature.
And to the blindness of Milton we
are indebted for “Paradise Lost.”
Samuel Johnson in bis childhood
was so afflicted with scrofula and bad
eyesight that he was forced to spend
his leisure hours walking about the
fields, where he formed a habit of talk
ing to himself as if conversing with
another person.
Cervantes lost his
left hand in battle
while a young man,
and after a long
term in a Moslem
prison returned in
poverty to Spain,
and “Don Quixote”
was given to the
world.
Scott and Byron
were lame from
childhood,and Pres
cott was almost
blind throughout
his life.
Among those of
our own time Bill
Nye, James Whit
comb Riley and
Rudyard Kipling
are all extremely
nearsighted, and
Miss Murfree was
afflicted with paral
ysis during her
childhood, which
rendered her lame.
had long since gone Shakespeare found
Hamlet and Macbeth ;the revolutionary
period gave Rip Van Winkle to Wash
ington Irving; and when the Southern
Scott shall arise he must go back to
the civil war for his Ivanhoe.
A WITCH OF TO-DAY
By MARY E. BRYAN.
(Copyright. Commenced in Christmas Number )
CHAPTER XXTI.
A young man who displays rare lit
erary promise is Gordon Hiles, of
Rome. His essay on the Seven Won
ders of the Nineteenth Century, which
won the late one hundred dollar prize
offered by Once a Week, is rich in learn
ing and displays something of a Macau-
leyan splendor of style. Mr. Hiles is
a college student, yet under twenty
years of age. He is very*studious and
is widely read in historical and scien
tific matters.
Some time during the coming spring
Maurice Thompson will visit his old
home at Calhoun, where he will spend
several days. It is a source of rare
pleasure to the author of Byways and
This is pre-emi
nently the age of
the dialect short
story, and in this
kind of literature
the South takes
the lead. Nowhere
in the world is
there such a field
for the dialect
writer. Here is the
negro with his gro
tesque superstitions
and crude philoso
phies, and here is
the inexhaustible
wealth of the sun
shine and shadow
—the humor and
pathos of cracker
life.
Edgar Fawcett
lately remarked, by
THE BURNING OF JOAN OF ARC.
way of reproach,
that'one can {alwaystell what themag-
azines will have inthem—they will
have a dialect story,set off by a few
articles on travel anda dash or two of
cheap poetry. Faw-cett’s ill humor is
due to the fact thathe and many others
of the old fashioned school are being
shut out by the editors of the East and
are forced to look to Chicago and
other Western cities for publishers.
As matters stand now the writers of
the South clearly have the right of way
in the leading publications of the coun
try over the story tellers of the other
sections. But a dialect literature is
transitory; it can never be lasting.
Back of this field of dialect in the
South lies a boundless domain of ro-
mance—a domain into which but few
have wandered, and that only in a de
sultory way—and its riches have re
mained almost untouched—the war
period, and especially the sable times
of surrender and reconstruction. When
the South shall produce a really great
novelist, he will not attempt to portray
the life about him. In the times which
Birclnotes to visit the scenes of his
boyhood rambles and aspirations.
J A. Hall.
If I could only persuade you of this;
that the chief duty of the civiliz d
world is to set about making labor hap
py for all, to do its utmost to minimize
the amount of unhappy labor. For
those of us who are employers of labor,
how can we bear to give any man less
money than he can decently live on, less
leisure than his education and self re
spect demand ? And the m- n of labor
spend their strength in daily struggling
for bread, to maintain the vital strength
they labored with, so living in a daily
circulation of sorrow, living but to
work, and working but to live, as if
daily bread were the only end of a
wearisome life, and a wearisome life the
only occasion of daily bread.—William
Morris.
As much valor is to be found in feast
ing as in fighting, and some of our city
captains and carpet knights will make
this good, and prove it.—Robert Burton-
A STORY INTERVIEW.
York mounted the stone steps and
found the outer door ajar. As he stood
before it, with his hand on the bell
knob, the thought came into his mind
that it was not the least likely Miss
Danforth would consent to see him.
In all probability the servant who
would open the door would recogoize
him as the former fiance of his young
mistress and frequent guest of the
house—now under the ban. He would
say in the impurturbable way of the
trained lackey, “ Miss Danforth is en-
gaged,” or, “Miss
Danforth is not re
ceiving visitors to
day,” aud there
would be an end of
it.
York knit his
brow in perplexity
for one minute.
Then he stepped in
to the vestibule, an
amused smile at his
prospective audaci
ty flashing across
his handso’e mouth,
and drew out of his
pocket the gray wig
and mustache he
had bought at the
little Bowery shop.
He took off his hat
and set it down be
side him in a corner
of the vestibule.
He drew the gray
wig over bis head of
short-cropped curls.
It was rather
tight fit, but a peep
into his pocket-
glass showed him
it would answer.
Another dive into
his pocket brought
out the gray mus
tache and a pair of
spectacles. He put
these on and gave a
second glance at his
physiognomy in the
bit of round framed
mirror. Presto 1
what a change! He was a respectable
looking old gentleman. He put his
hat back upon his transformed head,
and stepped outside, rang the bell, and
waited. In the course of time the door
was opened; the dignified face of the
butler appeared. The cold eye of the
stately official scanned him from head
to foot, taking~quick note, first of the
clothes, then of the man; then, with a
majestic and expectant bend of the
head, he waited for the visitor to an
nounce his business.
“How is Mr. Danforth to-day?”asked
York, cool under the stately one’s
scrutiny.
“He is resting. He is seeing no one
except a few intimate frierffls and rela
tions.”
“I will not disturb him. I will see
his daughter instead. Tell Miss Dan
forth I would like to see her for a few
minutes.”
“Your card, sir, please.”
“I have no card with me; it is not
needed. Say a friend of her father
wishes to see her on an important mat*
ter—alone.”
“That jnessage will 'stir her curios
ity ; all women have curiosity, fortu
nately,” York said to himself, as the
servant turned off, leaving him stand
ing in the handsome square hall, where
he could admire his elderly appearance
in the mirror over the Elizabethan fire
place.
The man returned in a little while.
“Miss Danforth has some friends in
the drawing-room,” he said. “She will
see you in the library, sir,” and he led
the way to a small, cosy room in the
rear that had a bay window lined with
stained glass and filled with pots of
thriving plants.
No sooner had the old butler bowed
in ceremonious fashion and withdrew,
closing the door behind him, than
York whipped off the gray wig, the
mustache and the sp?cta
crammed?them into his pockets. He
was smoothing his tumble locks when
he saw the silver door-koob turn, and
the next instant Miss Danforth came
into the room.
He could see her in the mirror as he
stood back against the wall near a pal
metto plant growing in a big blue gar
den pot. She was pale, but very lovely
in her simple house-gown of gray-
green serge, with a bunch of pale-pink
hyacinths stuck untier the green vel
vet girdle at her waist.
She glanced around the room expect
antly.
York, his heart-heats quickened a
little, Stepped out from the shelter of
the palm leaves, and the two were face
to face.
She started, and the color dropped
out of her lip*; they took a hard curve,
and her eyes flashed.
“I expected to see a friend of my
father—his business agent—he was
looking for him—I did not expect to
see you. Where is Mr. Smith?”
“I can not tell you; he is not here, it
seems, and I am here—and you—you
are not angry with me for coming to
ask after your father’s health, and
yours, Miss Danforth.”
“It is an intrusion. You have no
right—” she began haughtily, then she
checked herself. “I have not forgot
ten that you ren dered my father a
great service at that railroad accident.
I owe you thanks for that.”
“Forget it if it gives you such pain
to owe anything to me, Miss Danforth.
I would not give you a moment’s an
noyance, believe me.”
His voice had the tone of manly
earnestness.
She looked full into his eyes for a
moment—a look in which reproach,
pride, pain tried to hide the tender
ness that smoldered in the depths of
her beautiful eyes.
“A moment’s annoyance!” she said,
bitterly. “You, who have—but no
matter. You called, you say, to ask
about my father. He is better—he has
borne the journey very well—he is
resting now and I am keeping visitors
from him. I will tell him of your
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