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14 THE ATLANTA GEORGIAN AND NEWS
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THE ATLANTA GEORGIAN
Published Every AfTernrx>n Kxcpjm Sunday
By TH E G F‘ *R« 3 X N C( >M PA N Y
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Perhaps Peter the Great
j I)il) Have Brown Eyes
I He Was Not a Really Great Man Anyhow. No GREAT
MAN Has Had A- ything But Blue or Gray Eyes. We
Are Sorry for J. M. P.
(Copyright, 1913.)
The great men of the world are and have been men with
blue or gray eyes.
The only exception is the man with so-called hazel eyes, so
light that they are included in the category of “light-eyed men.”
Brown eyes and black eyes often belong to meritorious indi
viduals. They are the eyes very often of honest men, capable,
energetic men.
But of the world's GREATEST MEN concerning whom we
have definite knowledge, EVERY ONE WITHOUT EXCEP
TION HAD LIGHT EYES.
Respectable gentlemen with brown or black eyes dislike the
light-eyed theory, but they must in some way accommodate them
selves to it. The simplest way is to hope that the next time they
come to this earth they will have evolved into light-eyed men.
Observe these FACTS. The greatest of all musicians was
Beethoven—gray eyes.
And the next among musicians was Wagner—gray eyes.
The three greatest fighters were Alexander, Caesar and
Napoleon—all with light eyes. And the men whom they
thrashed, pursued and conquered were brown-eyed as a rule
Vercingetorix, the Gaul who made the best fight against
Caesar, was blue-eyed.
General Lee was gray-eyed and General Grant was blue
eyed; so was Lincoln, bigger than Grant.
Greatest of all writers, Shakespeare, had light eyes, and the
next man to him in modern days, Goethe, was a blue-eyed man.
Dante, greatest of the writing Italians, had gray eyes.
And that was true of Michael Angelo, the greatest artist.
The biggest living American inventor, Edison, has blue eyes
that would suit any young baby.
Blue-eyed also were Washington, Jefferson, and Franklin.
In fact, the rule holds good on every page of history.
One young man, Mr. J. M. P., is very earnest and rugged,
and with a few thousand years of evolution on this planet he will
be a great man—this young person dislikes the blue-eyed theory
—he possessing very nice liquid, honest brown eyes. So he
writes in substance as follows:
“I have busted your blue-eye, brown eye theory. Study
ing the life of Peter the Great of Russia, I find that his eyes were
very dark. Yot. can’t deny that HE was a great man, and so
your blue-eye theory falls to the ground."
On the contrary, the theory stands up admirably. Perhaps
Peter the Great DID have black eyes, although we doubt it in
view of his race.
But Peter the Great was not by any means a great man. He
was only PETER the Great. He was remarkable for his day, for
his courage, for his will power.
But if he had been the right kind of a great man he would
not have killed dozens of seamen, on the theory that he could
gradually teach them to drink salt water safely. He would
not have been so needlessly and inconceivably brutal. Cruelty
is ignorance.
Some day we shall know why it is that the man with the
light hair and light eyes is ahead of the dark-haired, black eyed
man. That it IS so we feel instinctively. Even our young friend
J. M. P will admit this. He could not imagine a Viking of the
old days sailing the sea and conquering the south except as a
big broad-shouldered man with fair skin, yellow hair and blue
eyes.
He could not imagine black or brown eyes in the place of
Napoleon’s gray eyes, piercing through men big and little, find
ing a great marshal in the son of a small lawyer, discovering the
ridiculous weakness of the kings that he kept waiting in his
ante-chamber.
We know that this is irritating to our brown eyed brothers.
But let them remember that a man can be very successful, very
useful, and a great deal of an American, even if he has brown
eyes.
It is true that Rockefeller, Carnegie, and the modern DOL
LAR conquerors are blue eyed. Morgan and Harriman had
blue eyes.
But that need not cause despair. Brown-eyed friends, DE
SERVE success, aud you’ll find joy in deserving as great as the
joy of possession.
My Sister of the Factory
By LILIAN LAUFERTY.
I ’M far away In woodlands Kreen,
While she is shackled down
With chains and gyves and links afire
That hind her to the town.
With rust and lust of customs old
The treadmill of the town
| <lill holds my little sister fast.
l*ale-cbeekt»d while 1 urn brown.
I breathe the open spaces vast.
Fill full my lungs with air,
\<>r care that she may come at last
To walk with gaunt despair.
1 talk of knowing your «»wn place,
1 say (»od called us there,
I prate of sisters all but siie
Knows well 1 do uot care.
She toils through long gold summer days.
Where wheels of commerce turn
Her youth into a golden stream
My Summer joys to earn.
So in the whirling factory.
Pale-cheeked while 1 am brown,
Her pain buys Joy o’ life for me—
I bind her to the town.
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READ FOR ‘ *
riIE"ATLANTA GEORGIAN
The Rising Sun of Suffrage
Tired 1 title girl of the tenement.
Climbing into the gloom;
Bringing the sleeping baby
Back to the cheerless room.
Tired little girl of the tenement,
Toiling through sultry days;
What but a true Madonna,
With her brave little mothering ways,
Tired little girl of the tenement—
Ah, doesn’t her mothering show
There’s a Mary-spark in all women—
And lucky for men it’s so!
Mysteries of Science and Nature
l he Electrical Voice of 1 ime—It Can Be Heard Ail Over Western Europe andNorthern
Africa, Speaking in the Language of Radio-Telegraphy From Eiffel dower.
By GARRETT P. SERV1SS
I r~MXCE July 1 time signals, giv-
lug the exact hour as deter
mined by astronomical ob
servation, have been radiating
through the air from the lofty Eif
fel Tower, in Paris, speeding in all
directions with the velocity of
light, and all that people w'ho want
to keep their clocks and watches
regulated in accord with the
steady motion of the earth on Its
axis have to do is to capture these
flying signals with a wireless tele
graph receiver attached to a tele
phone.
Away off in Africa, In Algiers
and Tunis, the invisible electric
waves are caught with perfect
ease, and ships at sea, off the
Preach coast, can take them at
will, and thus regulate their chro
nometers and ascertain their po
sition with an accuracy hitherto
unattainable.
It is Like V/atch Wheels
Geared to Rotating
Earth.
This is truly scientific magic.
Just think of it! You want to
know the true time to the fraction
j of a second, and all you have to
do tn order to get it is to open
! your electric ear to these sounds,
i wtiich scent to drop out of the sky
| as if Old Time himself were speak-
I ing to you!
It Is very much as if the wheels
of your watch were geared for a
moment to the rotating earth in
order to correct thetr rate, for the
whole thing is done automatically.
The pendulum of a special clock in
the Observatory of Paris—a clock
whose running is kept accurately
in accord with the rotation of.the
earth—periodically closes a cir
cuit. which instantly actuates the
wireless apparatus in the Eiffel
Tower and thus sends forth an
electric voice, traveling with a
speed which would suffice to carry
it seven times round the earth in a
single second, and which says in
radiotelegraphic language, "10
a. m." or “midnight,” as the case
may be.
For hundreds of miles around. In
every direction, this mysterious
voice drops out of space and can
be heard in any telephone attached
to a wireless receiver. Beginning
three minutes before the automatic
transmission of the hour is made,
a set of warning signals is sent
out, by listening for which the re
ceiver may be prepared to note
with great accuracy the difference
between the time indicated by his
Watch and that given by the ob
servatory clock. A practiced ob
server can make the correction to
the tenth of a second.
Even home-made wireless re
ceivers suffice for picking ud tliesa
signals. Within the confines of
Paris and its suburbs the signals
are so distinct that an ordinary gas
pipe may be employed for an an
tenna to catch the electric waves
and a water pipe to form the con
nection with the earth, while the
detector may be of the simplest
form, such as any electrician can
make. Persons near the Eiffel
Tower may employ their own
bodies as antennae, merely press
ing between two fingers the ter
minal of a wireless receiver. Simi
larly, the wire connecting the elec
tric bells in a house may be used
for an antenna.
On Cloudy Nights Signals
Are Flashed Around
by Wireless.
If a cloudy night prevents astro
nomical observations in Paris, cor
rections for the master-clock are
received by similar wireless sig
nals sent out from a series of ob
servatories, as at Algiers, Mar
seilles, Nice and Besancon. It is
almost impossible that cloudy
weather should prevail simultane
ously at all these places, but even
if that should happen, provision is
made for keeping the clock regu
lated by the aid of a number of
other very accurate clocks called
j “time guards,” which can be de-
i pended upon nut U> vary more
than a small fraction of'a second
in the course of several days.
As the meaas of sending out
such signals improve, so that they
can be transmitted across the
whole breadth of all the oceans,
from properly chosen central sta
tions, navigation will attain a de
gree of safety hitherto unknown.
At present the officers of a ship at
sea have to depend for the accu
racy of their calculations of longi
tude, or distance east or west of
Greenwich, upon the more or less
true running of their chronome
ters.
Such a System Would
Definitely Locate
the Titanic.
They can ascertain local time
and their latitude by celestial
observations alone, but such ob
servations do not give the longi
tude unless the true Greenwich
time is also known. This the new
system of wireless transmission
will supply with a degree or uni
versality and accuracy that is truly
marvelous. If such a system had
been in operation at the time of
the wreck of the Titanic there
might have been no such uncer
tainty as was actually shown in
the calculations of the positions of
the various ships that played a
part in that terrible tragedy of the
ocean,
THE HOME RARER
Elbert Hubbard
Writes on
“John Barleycorn”
As a Study in Psychology,
He Asserts, Jack London’s
Story Is a Classic and Will
Be New a Hundred Year;
From Now.
By ELBERT HUBBARD
T HE man who strikes a new lit-
'erary vein is like the man
who Invents a new dish, and
Is pretty nearly as unique as one
who discovers a new dimension in
space.
Jack London has done a new
thing in his treatment of J. Barley
corn.
Rousseau’s “Confessions” and
De Quincey’s “Opium-Eater” are
classics, and a classic is a thing
that never grows old.
“jShn Barleycorn” is a classic.
Strong drink has cursed the race
since the very dawn of history, and
to-day it is the one big blot on civil
ization’s ’scutcheon. Solomon,
writing on the subject a thousand
years before Christ, passes out a
few things that are just as true to
day positively as when he uttered
them: “Wine is a mocker, strong
drink is raging, and whosoever Is
deceived thereby is not wise.”
Jack has written a confession.
At least he would have us think so.
Literature a Confession.
In one sense, all literature is a
confession. We confess the things
we have done; also the things we
might have done; and we occasion
ally confess things that we have
thought about, but never dared do.
There must be a certain amount
of truth in Jack’s fine phrases.
How much, It would be indelicate
to ask. Nevertheless, the whole
thing has both grip and punch.
If you read it you find it is on
your nerves. You're thinking about
that boy of seventeen who con
tracted the habit of indulging in
strong drink.
Now and again, as the years
pass, he broke away and did not
touch the stuff for days, weeks and
months. But we find him going
back to it.
He drinks rum, beer, absinthe,
whisky, cocktails. At first one
cocktail suffices to set his brain
a-tingle and his thoughts a-jingle.
Soon he needs more.
He is at peace with the world,
with himself, with the universe,
j with one beautiful woman.
We find him living in sweet
cameraderte with a worthy woman.
He helps her wash the dishes. He
has had one drink. That is not
enough. He sneaks away from the
woman, and dishonestly puts In an
extra one, unknown to her. It
makes you think less of the man;
and yet here he is confessing it—
and how dare you blame a man
who lays his soul before you!
He disarms you by his frank
ness.
Habit Is Upon Him.
When a friend calls, in pure so
ciability they have a drink to
gether. And then the biographer
gumshoes away to the kitchen and
has a couple of drinks by himself
At first the man drinks only
when his day's work is done. But
there comes a time when the morn
ing opens dull, hazy, foggy, damp.
Thoughts are opaque, and refuse to
flow. And so he takes an eye-
opener.
The habit Is upon him. If he
breaks away from it for a few days
the thought is still in hlB mind of
the mad, sad, bad days in Hono
lulu and San Francisco, when good
fellows met together and youth had
its fling.
Jack views the subject from
every standpoint He is as analyt
ical as Herbert Spencer, and a
thousand times more entertaining.
He is so human at times that he
is uncanny.
This man drinks and struggles
with drink, and fights John Bap
leycorn—not to a finish, but to a
draw. And one is tempted to the
belief that If a man can drink as
this man says he can, and still has
the brain to analyze the situation
and put the whole thing on paper
and sell it for a princely sum, as
this man evidently has—then how
can it be that strong drink is whok>
Iy bad?
The Inference.
This man is bigger than drink.
Jack does not say so outright, but
he leaves us to make the infer
ence.
He explains to you that friend
ship and conviviality are the base
of the drinking habit, and that
were it not for saloons, banquets
and meetings, with song and ban
ter and wit and play and fane;
and mad riding of the senses anh
How of soul, John Barleycorn
would be out of the game.
As a study in psychology, "John
Barleycorn,” by Jack London, is
a book that will be new a hundred
years from now. It is a book upon
which an author could safely found
a literary reputation. It is a monu
ment to the man who wrote It.
Big things in literature have no
violence of direction. This story
hasn't. Each one who reads it
will read into it his own experi
ences, and he will extract from it
any argument that he wishes to.
Each one of us imagines that
he is bigger than Fate; that he is
an exception to the rule. And out
of the sadness we distill a kind of
joy on account of the fact that we
are alive. In the pains of others
there, is a certain satisfaction, and
we mentally are congratulating
ourselves on the fact that the trag
edy is none of ours.
Neither For Nor Against.
Jack isn’t writing any Sunday
school tract. He is neither for
nor against. He is stating the
simple facts of temptation and
falling from grace; of the inward
clutch of conscience, and of sin
ning and repenting.
If the whole thing were a tem
perance tract Jack would have ex
plained that he had quit the game
once and forever. But instead of
this he frankly explains that he is
a drinking man still, and will con
tinue to drink to the day of his
death.
The horse is running away with
him, but he maintains that he U
able to keep the mad animal lu the
middle of the road, and thus la
master of the situation.
Can he? That Is the question.
The Bathing Suit
By MINNA IRVING.
T O GET herself a bathing suit
Miss Mary Miller went,
But left her poeketbook at home,
And did not spend a cent.
She called at half-a-dozen stores,
The biggest on the map,
Secured the best material,
But never bought a scrap.
When done It was a dreutn of style,
Of supple satin black.
Adorned with gold and scarlet braid
And buttoned up the back.
The sleeves were short, the neck was low,
The skirt was far from ample;
She was no kleptomaniac,
And made It from a sample.
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