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THE ATLANTA GEORGIAN
Published Every Afternoon Except Sunday
By THE GEORGIAN COMPANY
At 20 East Alabama St., Atlanta, Ga.
Entered as second-class matter at postoffice at Atlanta, under act of March 3. 187».
• Subscription Price —Delivered hy carrier, 10 cents a week. By mall. 35 00 a year.
Payable in advance.
We Long For Immortal Im
perfection—We Can’t
Have It
AH our longings for immortality, nil our plans for immortal
life are based on the hope that Divine Providence will eonde
scend to let us live in .mother world as we live here.
Each of us wants to be himself in the future life, and to see
his friends as he knew them.
We want to preserve individuality forever ami over, when
the stars shall have faded away and the days of matter ended.
But what is individuality except imperfection? You are dif
ferent from Smith, Smith is different from Jones. But it is sim
ply a difference of imperfect construction. One is more foolish
than another, one is more irresponsibly moved to laughter or
anger—that constitutes his personality.
Remove our imperfections and we should all be alike—smooth
off all agglomerations of matter on all sides and everything
would be spherical.
What would be the use of keeping so many of us if wo were
all perfeer. and therefore all alike? One talks through his nose,
one has a deep voice. But shall kind Providence provide two
sets of wings for nose talkers and chest talkers? Why not make
the, two into one good talker and save one pair of wings?
Why not. in fact, keep just one perfect sample, ami Jet all
the rest plaeidlv drift back to nothingness? Or. better, why not
take all the goodness that there is in all the men and women that
ever were and melt it all down into one cosmic human being?
The raindrops, the mist and the sprays of Niagara all go back,
to the ocean in time. Possibly we all go back at the end to the
sea of divine wisdom, whence wc were sent forth Io do, well or
badly, our little work down here.
Future punishment? We think not.
One drop of water revives the wounded hero—another helps
to give wot feet and consumption to a little child. It all depends
on circumstances.
Both drops go back to the ocean. There is no rule that
sends the good drop to heaven and the other to boil forever and
ever in a sulphur pit.
Troubles beset us when we think of a future state and our
reason quarrels always with our longings. We all want—in
heaven—to meet Voltaire with his very thin legs. But we can not
believe that those skinny shanks are to be immortal. We shall
miss the snuffs and the grease on Sam Johnson’s collar. If an
angel comes up neat and smiling and says, “Permit me to intro
duce myseif—l am the great lexicographer,” we shall say, ‘‘Tell
that to some other angel. The great Samuel was dirty and
wheezy, and I liked him that way.”
And children. The idea of children in heaven flying about
with their little fluffy wings is fascinating. But would eternal
childhood be fair to them? If a babe dies while teething, shall it
remain forever toothless? How shall its mother know if it is
allowed to grow up?
Listen to Heine—that marvelous genius of the Jewish race:
“Yes, yes! You talk of reunion in a transfigured shape. What would
that be to me? 1 knew him in his old brown suntout, and so I would see him
again. Thus he sat at table, the salt cellar and peppty easter on either hand.
And if the pepper was on the right and the salt on the left hand he shifted
them over. I knew him in a brown surtout, and so I would see him again.”
Thus he spoke of his dead father. Thus many of us think
and speak of those that are gone. How foolish to hope for the
preservation of what is imperfect!
How important to have FAITH and to feel that reality will
surpass anticipation, anil that whatever IS will be the best thing
for us and satisfy us utterly.
A Woman’s Political Speech
r »» r
How Many Men Do You Know That Could Talk More Sanely
and Usefully Than Jane Addams?
Jane Addams. of Chicago—one of the millions of good wom
en in this country hitherto disfranchised—has joined the Roose
velt party because that party is pledged Io fair treatment of
women—to woman suffrage.
Those that are unintelligent will believe that women are in
capable of understanding political matters, unable to discuss
public questions intelligently
In order to dispel this idea we print here conspicuously Jane
Addams’ very short address in favor of Roosevelt and in praise
of his convention.
It is short It emphasizes that which is important.
It proves intelligent knowledge of public affairs.
How many men in publie life do you know that are capable
of making a speech as short or as good”
This is Jane Addams' speech:
"Measures of industrial amelioration, demands for social justice, long
discussed by small groups in charity conferences and economic associations,
have here been considered in a great national convention and are at last
thrust into the stern arena of political action.
"A great party has pledged itself to the protection of children, to the
of the aged, to the relief of overworked girls, to the safeguarding of
burdened men. Committed to these humane undertakings, it is inevitable
that such a party should appeal to women, should seek to draw upon the
great reservoir of their moral energy, so long undesired and unutilized in prac
tical politics—one is the corollary of the other, a program of hut an welfare,
L the necessity for woman's participation
W e ratify' this platform not only because it represents our earnest
convictions and formulates our high hopes, but because it pulls upon our
faculties and calls up to definite action. W , find it a prophecy that democ
racy shall be actually realized until no group of our people—certainly not
ten million of them so badly in need of reassurance—shall fail to bear the
responsibility of self-government and that no class of evils shall lie be
yond redress.
"The new party has become tne American exponent of a world-wide
movement toward juster Social conditions. a movement which America,
lagging behind other great nations, has been unaccountably slow to em
body in political action.
"1 second the nomination of Theodore Roosevelt because he is one of
the few men in our public life who have been responsive to modern movement
Because of that, because the program will require a h:id< r of invincible
courage, of open mind, of democratic sympathies, one endowed with power
to interpret the common man and to identify himself with the common lot,
I heartily second the nomination.”
The Atlanta Georgian
“Gee, It’s Great to Meet a Friend From
Your Home Town”
\ By HAL COFFMAN.
I ’ ' ct, j fy s
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Bill
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STAGE STRUCK AT FORTY
SHE'S going on the stage, my
friend of forty.
She has a pretty town
house, a rather stunning country
place, a good husband, two grown
children, a circle of friends, a good
cook, five new frocks every season,
a fair* automobile, two pet dogs, a
thumb ring, five sets of dangling
earrings, a rather decent figure,
good eyes, a voice like a peacock,
well manicured hands, a fad for
actors and about as much ability’
to act as—as, oh, as to cook a good
dinner, and if her cook should leave
her you'd starve to death rather
than dine at her house. Rut for ail
that, she’s going on the stage.
"I have the temperament, the
physique, the face and the am
bition." she said when she told me
about it. “I'm tired of this empty
life of teas and bridges and auto
trips; 1 want to live, to breathe
the higher air; I want to express
my soul."
“What piece have you selected
for your debut?" I ventured to
ask.
“ 'The Vampire,’" site replied
promptly. “They are dramatizing
it for me. It's a glorious part.” and
the woman of 40 looked at herself
in the mirror, settled her hair,
nipped in her waist, made eyes at
the looking glass and laughed
"lightly," like her favorite heroine
in her favorite book;
I Couldn't Stand It.
I couldn't stand it a minute long
er; 1 really couldn't; so I went
home.
on the way home I met the actor
I know. I told him about the wom
an of 40 He threw up his hands
"Save us,” he said, "what is the
stage coming to! They are all there
at the stage door, the women of 40.
The girls have all got some other
fad these days It’s the women who
drive us mad now. What is she
going to play—'The Vampire?”’
“How did you know?" I asked.
"Have you met her?"
The actor laughed. "Not this
one." he gurgled hysterically. “I
didn't nave to. they are all going
to play that 'The Vampire' or
'Zaza.' or 'Camille.' They all fan
cy themselves sirens, the poor
things of 41', who are going on the
stage.
"One pursues me night and day
trying to get me to put her on
in something rather sensational,
don't you know, where my face
and figure would be the thing.' and
if I had my way I'd put her in an
old ladies home and get her to
knit tidies for the parlon chairs.
"What on earth has got hold of
them? Who is it that is telling
them they can act, and why, oh,
why, do they want to be vampires,
and sirens, and ladles who lure?
Scarlet frock in the first act, black
and spangles in the last act, cigar
ettes all through. That's the way
good old ma laid it all out for me
the other day, and the only place
in the world that good, kind wom
an would look like herself is out in
the kitchen making jam.
FRIDAY. AUGUST 16, 1912.
Bv WINIFRED BLACK.
"Crazy—every one of them—cra
zy as bats. Think they can go on
the stage and fascinate the public
after they’ve brought up all their
children and got father comfortable
at the club. It’s really too bad.”
And. really, do you know, I be
lieve it is too bad. I wonder what
on earth it all means'?
What has become of all the good
comfy women we used to know —
women who were forty and glad of
it; women who let out their cor
sets and put on loose shoes, and
tied their hats on with a rubber,
and let it go at that?
All gone—disappeared, vanished
into the beauty parlors to be made
over into twenty. I wonder why?
Forty Is the Fine Age.
Forty is the fine age. the most
comfy age in the world, if we'd
only live it. No more weepy hours
because "he danced oftener with
that CREATURE than with me,” no
more miserable nights trying to
figure out just how to manage to
make over the old frock so your
dearest friend wouldn't know it.
You had a struggle of It that first
year or so. but the business is set
tled now, and things are going
pretty well.
Fat? Os course you're fat. You
ought to be at forty. You know
what to eat and how to eat it; you
know when to rest and how to en
joy it; you can pick out the kind
of book you like at one >glance;
you can tell the summer bore with
one look, and you understand just
The Restaurant
Habitues
By JOHN D. WELLS.
A DULL, monotonous life we live.
With no reward and with none
to give—
We breakfast, dine and sup. and then
We breakfast, dine and we sup again.
And the world wags on. nor knows nor
cares
How one of the Host of the Lonely
fa res,
Nor spares the pity that might atone
For sitting here at our bread —alone.
No heads to bow in a fervent grace,
No sunny smiles in the baby's place,
No table chat of the blessings wrought
Or love and cheer that the daytime
brought;
No soft caress when the day is done,
No evening hour for romp and fun—
No word or smile from our loving own.
For us who sit at our bread—alone.
And yet. there's tears in a passer’s eye,
He quickens his pace as he hurries by;
He cherishes closer the visions of
The home that waits and the arms of
love;
His smiles new hope and his thanks
express,
That's stirred by us and our loneliness!
Then who shall say we no mission own.
Who sit in the shadows and live
alone?
exactly how to get rid of him.
Tanned? Pooh, what do you care!
You can throw back your veil and
love the wind and the sun and
glory of all outdoors, while poor lit
tle Sweet-and-Twenty has to swad
dle herself in gauze to keep that
complexion that is the only thing
she has. x
Friends? Hosts of them —all the
sort you want; you’ve learned how
to get rid of the other sort.
Enemies? Not one in the world.
You have found out what a nui
sance it is to stay awake nights
and hate anybody on earth.
Moonlight, music, love, and flow
ers—you’ve had them all, and have
them yet if you amount to any
thing; and you can wear your old
shoes out into the moonlight and be
comfy.
Forty is the glorious age, the
comfy age. the age of reason, the
age of delicious understanding, the
time of quiet friendships and help
ful companionships.
Why, you can speak to the lone
some young fellow in the train at 40
and say something to comfort hitm
At twenty you would have to
bridle if he even looked your way.
Life, life, life—full, rich, abun
dant, friendly, open-eyed, sane,
joyous, understanding life—that's
what 40 means at its best. Who
would give it up for the longings,
the wonder ings, the uncertainties,
the anxieties, the sad hopes of
twenty—who but my friend who is
"going on the stage?'’ Poor thing,
what a miserable time she’ll have
when she wakes up from her fool
ish dream! ,
Get the chance? Why. of course
she will. She has money, and some
one wants some of it. She’ll get
the chance, all right—in Peoria,
or Metuchen, or anywhere where
the sad. sad spectators sit some
wretched night and gaze at each
other, and wonder what it all
means, and what she is trying to
do in the red frock in the first act
and the spangles in the second,
and the cigarettes all through.
All Ashamed of Her.
And husband, and the boy in col
lege, and the girl at home from
boarding school? Poor things,
they'll all be ashamed of "Mama,'’
and when all her money is gone,
and all the spangles are off the
black dress, and the scarlet frock
is in the pawnshop, she’ll telegraph
home to husband and he’ll take the
first train and go after her and
bring her home from Podunk, or
Saskatchewan. or somewhere —
home to common sense and com
fort and kindness. And maybe,
some day. she’lf see what a goose
she’s been, and she'll tell husband
all about it. and he’ll pat her
shoulder and say. “There, there, it’s
all right: they didn't appreciate
you, that’s all.”
And then maybe my friend will
look at the good man she humili
. ated and the children she deserted,
and be a little. Just a little,
ashamed—but not too much; "tem
peramental" people don't seem to
know very much about that sort
1 of thing, do they?
THE HOME PAPER
Garrett P. Serviss
@ Writes on
The Search For the
Soul
We May Find It When
' We Find the Origin
of Thought
Bv GARRETT P. SERVISS.
A FRENCH writer of reputation,
Henri Bordeaux, has just
been visiting a school for
blind deaf mutes near Poitiers, and
his astonishment over what he saw
leads him, in one of the great Paris
newspapers, to a characteristic
outburst of sentimentality. But
out of the bushel of literary chaff
which he offers, one can pick a
few grains of very interesting facts,
which are well calculated to in
spire reflection.
We will take simply his account
of a young girl named Marie
(Mary) Heurtin. She was born
blind, deaf and mute., She has
never seen the world around her,
nor heard its voice, nor been able
to communicate with it in any other
evident way than by touch. She
comes of an humble family, ignor
ant of all the higher studies, by
means of which we imagine we at
tain an intellectual elevation that
must be incomprehensible to crea
tures less fully endowed than our
selves.
Her relatives could do nothing for
her or with her. Having themselves
al) the ordinary faculties of human
they thought that she, who
seemed to lack everything, was
doomed to pass her life in dull,
blind ignorance, without wish, or
thought, or aspiration—eating,
drinking and sleeping; incompara
bly more helpless than a brute
animal. Perhaps they thought she
had a mind, but they believed there
was no way to reach it.
But a good sister of charity
found the way. I do not know the
details of her operations, but they
can not have differed essentially
from those practiced in the cases
of Helen Keller and Laura Bridg
man, whose histories are so well
known in America. Under that
dull exterior, which presented to
the outer, world but a single nar
row avenue of approach—the sense
of touch—was found a human soul
as full of possibilities as that of
any person possessing all the
senses. Marie Heurtin had only
one of the three senses which we
are accustomed to regard as the
most important, but with its sole
aid she has learned so much about
the world around her that she sim
ply amazes her visitors. She un
derstands what light is, although
she can not see it; what sound is,
although she can not hear it.
She has been taught to compre
hend the ideas of POVERTY, AGE
AND DEATH.
Fond of Reading.
She weeps when she is informed
of the death of a friend.
She wept when she read with
her fingers, on the types that are
furnished for the blind, of the
putting out of Samson's eyes. She
pitied him, and she did not want
him to become like herself.
She is very fond of reading—
which is done only with her fingers,
remember—and she has two favor
ite authors —Bossuet, whose grave
discourses on religion hold her at
tention and. stir her moral senti
ments. and (remarkable to relate)
Alphonse Daudet, the teller of vi
vacious stories, in which light,
color and description of beautiful
landscapes always play a conspic
uous part. If the pictures formed
:: First Prohibitionists ::
By REV. THOMAS B. GREGORY
I
ONE hundred and seventy-nine
years ago, the governing body
of Georgia, by a unanimous
vote, prohibited the use of rum in
the province.
Thus it will be seen that this
action of the Georgia authorities
antedates that of Neal Dow and
the Maine people by one hundred
and twenty-nine years. So far as
our country is concerned, the king’s
trustees in Georgia were the orig
inal prohibitionists. While as yet
Maine was an unorganized wilder
ness, untenanted save by the In
dian and the bull moose, the Geor
gia temperance decree was on its
way across the Atlantic for signa
ture by the king and the comfnons.
The royal signature was obtained,
and tor ten years the Georgians
had to get along without rum. It
may be well to state in this con
nection that nearly all of the Geor
gians of that time were Germans
and Scotchmen.
As long ago as the time of Taci
tus we read of the "thirst" of the
Teutons, and from time immemorial
the men of the heather have been
accredited with being very fond of
their "toddy." But the trustees of
the crown meant business, and for
a decade Georgia was "dry."
But in those days, as is the case
in our own time, there were power-
in her imagination as she reads
are not exactly those which we see,
they are none the less true and
charming to her.
SHE- WRITES —!n ordinary
characters, although she can not
see what she writes. In her let
ters she says to her friends; "I
am glad to SEE you.” She has a
cheerful soul, and she laughs and
claps her hands when she is
pleased. She knows exactly what
she lacks in physical endowment.
She knows that she is poor, and
that her friends are poor, and she
wishes that she could gain money.
She has learned that money is pow
er in this world, but she appreci
ates its limitations also.
And all this has been gained sole
ly through her hands. M. Bor
deaux is quite right to call it the
"Miracle of the Hands.” But to
many it will appear to be far more
than that—it is the MIRACLE OF
THE SOUL.
“Souls in Prison.”
It proves that something is born
in us which does not depend upon
mere physical senses. The senses
are simply instruments. They act
through vibration. Sight depends
upon the vibrations of the ether;
hearing upon the vibrations im
parted from solid objects. If we
had a hundred physical senses
would the nature of the soul be
changed? Do we distinguish be
tween the ideas of right and wrong
by virtue of our senses? If none
of us had been born with any more
senses than poor Marie Heurtin
has. would not those ideas still
have existed in our minds? Her
education has been an education
in the true sense of the word
(e-duco, to “lead cut”). The ideas
were not created for her by her
teachers: they existed already, and
only needed to be taught a form
of expression.
It is this whyh gives its high
philosophical interest to the teach
ing of deaf, dumb and blind mutes.
They are, as another French writer
has aptly and eloquently said,
“souls in prison.” We are all pris
oners of that kind, but not in the
same degree. We all FEEL that
we are prisoners, for there is no in
telligent person who is not con
vinced that his five senses are not
enough to place him in complete
touch with nature. Just as the
French girl has been led to recog
nize the fact that she lacks many
things which other human beings
possess—although, even with her
imperfect physical organization,
she is able to show that she com
prehends their highest ideas—so
every one of us, who carefully ex
amines himself, knows full well
that he has impressions, ideas, as
pirations w hich do not depend upon
sight or hearing or touch, and to
which language can not give ex
pression. Is it a very extravagant
supposition, then, that there may We
beings, far more perfectly endowed
than we are, who take in us an
interest similar to that which we
take in the Helen Kellers, the Laura
Bridgmans and the Marie Heur
tins, striving to cause us, to com
prehend things which lie beyond the
range of our narrow prison, with
its five pitiful little windows? *
But here we touch the frontier
of the domain of speculation.
ful "interests,” and the "interests”
decided that prohibition in Georgia
should cease.
The Lumber trust sent its agents
to England with a "tale of woe.”
and the parliament, on July 14. 1742,
repealed the prohibition law of the
province. The lumber dealers ex
changed their lumber in the West
Indies for rum, which article they
sold to the colonists at a big profit,
and in consideration of this "profit”
the parliament voted to overrule the
trustees and make Georgia "wet”
again.
Os the founder of Georgia, James
< iglethorpe. John Fiske does well in
saying "his name deserves a very
high place among the heroes of ear
ly American history,”
I'iske plight hate added that in
that history no name stands high
er. Ihe associate of royalty and
the companion of nobility, he was
at the same time a sterling demo
crat and plain man of the people.
He desired, above all else, to pro
mote the happiness and virtue of
bis fellow men. For that purpose
he founded the state of Georgia,
and but for the disturbing influ
ences of the mercenary ami unprin
-1 ipled agents of Mammon he might
have succeeded beyond all the other
fathers of American common
wealth.’.