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“ THE LATE. ”
Reader, did you ever run over the pages
of a Magazine, scanning items of news, dip¬
ping into heated controversies, pausing at the
love-stories, as a humming bird would at a
dower, and suddenly find yourself at the last
page, where the editor chronicles the list of
“The Late?”
Who are “The. Late”? They are the men
who have acted their part, and have left the
stage. They are the dead. Last month, they
were full of life—working, quarreling, loving,
hating, scheming,' dreaming, planning for in¬
definite futures, as though all Time was theirs.
They read the Magazine last month, just as
you are doing this month. They scanned the
news, dipped into the discussions, laughed at
the jokes, lingered with the lovers, and sighed
over the chronicles of “The Late.” Then they
closed the book—and now their life-books
are closed; and they join the lists of “The
Late,” which you and I are, this month, to
read and to sigh over.
How sad it all is.
Last month here was a scholar, delving
(deep into the hidden lore of gpanite rocks, of
dust laden manuscript, of ruined temples, of
monumental inscriptions leading back into
hoary ages of the Past,—and now his nerve¬
less hands are crossed, and bis eager feet hur¬
ry no longer after knowledge. Last mouth he
was a palpitating actuality, all ablaze with
hope and purpose: this month he heads the
list of “The Late.”
On the other hand, there was an author,
one who had long been suitor to fame: one
who had toiled and fought grim poverty and
cold neglect. Year after year, he had strug¬
gled upward to the light—’falling back again
fcrith many a sickening disappointment.
Bnt at last, as the silver threads began to
*fcreak his head, a sudden sun-burst of fame
was bis. The storm lifted, and the haven was
there. The wilderness ended, and the labor of
travel was over. Poverty fled, and golden
ducats rained. Neglect vanished and th
world crowded upon him with plaudits, with
the eager offerings of universal Fame.
All this was last month. Your whole heart
went out to the storm-tossed mariner who had
so joyfully made port. Your hands clapped
in unison with all the others for the brave sol¬
dier who had at last won his fight.
This was last month.
Where is the author now? Dead. You
will read his name in the list of “The Late.”
His fame still rings around the world, but,
alas! his ears are too dull to hear. You may
hand him ever so many crowns of laurel, ever
so many wreaths of flowers; his closed eyes
cannot see, has frozen hands cannot hold.
Yonder, again, was the statesman, the
politician, if you like. Last month, what a ro¬
bust figure was his! How he. .bustled, how he
shoved, how he aspired, how he intrigued!
With what immense vitality did he strive to
lift his voice above other voices, his head
above other heads! "What schemes did fill his
busy brain! Throughout all the walks of life
there was not a man more active, more reso¬
lute, more full of pluck and ambition. Re
clashed against his foes with a force that made
the arena ring. He would shiver a spear with
any challenger who struck his shield. Ardent¬
ly hh sought honors, fiercely he combatted op¬
position, tirelessly 7 he served friends—hoping
that they would serve him, in turn.
. That was last month. All eyes followed
him as he gallantlyrode down the lists, armed,
from golden spear to plume-dressed, helm,
seeking in honorable strife to bear away the
prize, and live a space in the huzzas of brave
men, in the smiles of lovely women.
That was last month, and now, it is all
over. Death struck him as he rode. The lance
fell from his hand, his good steed gallops on,
riderless. The brave Knight will seek the
prize no more. His name appears on the list
of “The Late.”
■And so it all goes:—sad, heart-breakingly
sad. And it cannot be helped. We hare trod¬
den down the dead of last month: the living
will tread us down, next month.
Preach peace as much as you will, and
preach love and charity. May their kingdom do
come. May they rule the world. They not
rule it now.
However much we wish to disbelieve it,
the race is mostly to the swift, the battle
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the strong.
The strong nation oppresses the weaker
nation; the strong man, the weaker man.
You hold your place in life, as in a. battle¬
field. You hold it by being able to hold it.
When your strength fails, you retreat.
Bismark grows old—and is forced off’ the
stage: Gladstone decays, and the veins spurn
his palsied hands.
I look over the list of “The Late”, and I
read the name of one I knew. Was he my foe?
Was there enmity between us?
Alas, how pale and worthless the feud now
appears. My passion is all gone. His white
hand seems to wave me a flag of truce. Death
obliterates his faults (if indeed they were his
faults and not my prejudices,) and I recall
whatever was manly and strong and admira*
ble in him. I review our differences, mourn
over the estrangement, and grieve that malice
ever arose between us. The way so short,
the time for joy so brief, human ills of the in¬
evitable sort so numerous, that it. seems t o
me now a supreme pity that the/journey. wilfully added
to the thorns which beset
Was “The. Late” my friend? Was the
dead man one who had loved me, sympathized
Vith me, stood by my side in some hour of
danger, come to my relief, when I was friend¬
less, poor, and down-hearted?
Then indeed what terrible words are
these, “The Late.” I cannot see them through
the mist of tears. I see only the white face of
my friend. I think only of those folded hands,
that loyal heart which hearts no more.
Reader, some day our names will go into
the columns of “The Late.” The list is there,
and our names will be written into the blank,
after a while.
To us it will not matter at all what the
world may think, or may say, when it reads
our names in the list. We will be at rest then
-—so far as the world is concerned. Love can¬
not reach us—nor malice, thank God! Mis¬
construction, envy, hatred, can hurt us no
more. It matters not what the world will say,
except in so far as the world speaks the
Truth/
While we lived, the False may have work
ed us enormous harm- It can never harm us
again. The True will reign supreme,
While we lived, we found lies to be much
more terrible things than the Sunday-school
(and others) had prepared us to'
Thomson, Georgia, Monday, Oct . 9, 1922.
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“OUR.CHIEF”
We found that lies had power to damn, so far
as the world was concerned. We found that
the the people were ignorant, credulous, easily
duped, and falsely led. We found that a lie,
repeated every day, becomes practically the
truth. We found that the public scarcely knew
the whole truth about anything, and that the
people were designedly kept weltering in lies,
and half-truths (which were more deceptive
than lies) in order that the “powers that be”
cuold continue t oruisrule. We found that the
world had become so wedded by custom to this
system, that it was hardly possible to tell the
people the whole truth upon any subject what
ever.
But all the while you felt that, a lie was a
despicable thing—a thing preordained to death
and damnation. Deep down in your soul, you
felt that there was finally no hope of yo.ur
landing your feet on the eternal rocks, unless
you fought lies, and championed Truth.
Did you do it?—-That is the question which
then assumes terrible importance.
* Can it be truly said that, you loved Truth
and Right, Justice and Mercy? Can it be
truly said that your heart turned always to
humanity, and sarove ever for better
things? Can it be said that Duty, as you un¬
derstood it, was your gospel, from first to last,
through good report and evil, through cloudy
days and fair?
Or, did you bend and twist, here and thei^e,
first one way and then the other, true to no¬
body, true to no conception of right, fawning
upon wrong to get a part of the fruits thereof,
adding your voice to the clamor of Ignorance
land Superstition, and Prejudice, and Evil, in
order that you might be one of a dominant ma¬
jority? Did you lay down your manhood at
the feet of Error, knowing it to be Error, and
- ,um m llie canuval of Wrong, simply because
the greater numbers were on that side?
Did you put your soul into bondage know¬
ing that it was a Falsehood you obeyed?
These, and these only, will be the vital
questions, when we shall have left “the quick”
and joined “the dead.”
God pity us all!
And may Truth, the handmaiden of the
Most High, claim us as votaries, in that dx-ead
jday “The when Late.” we shall have been added Jto the hosts
V. < V' i i.
Issued Weekly
THE STEWARDSHIP.
What are you doing with the talent which
gave you? live for
In what way are you trying to
fellow man as well as for yourself? V. hat
your conception of your responsibility as y
-God-sent messenger to the
It, is easy to say that we will cut loose
the noisy crowd and retire into a privacy
which the world shall not break. But
we do it? Can we detach ourselves from
world, its burly burly, its stern realities?
we harden ourselves against the prickings
Conscience, deafen our ears to the call of
You see that the world needs earnest
you*are ashamed to fold your
and sit in slippered ease at your fire¬
You hear the din which rises from the
battle-field of life; you see the lines of
rightous waver and break; you hear the
which calls for you and you are
not to go. You cannot bear that evil
triumph while conscience calls you “cow¬
because you will not take your place in
battle-line. No; it may be madness, but
wheresoever Right unfurls her flag and cries
“Follow me!” you must drop all and march.
The law of nature rules us all. The easv
bask-in-the-sun man is one thing, and a
very useful sort of thing in some ways. He
can, under favorable circumstances, fill the
house with children, delight the Roosevelt soul,
and wear out chair bottoms on the village -side¬
walk, while his over-worked wife earns and
cooks the. dinner, and the tax collector takes
from thriftier citizens the money which edu¬
cates his children.
But the law of your nature is diffe-vnt,
and where it commands you dare not uisou
It says “Come!” and you come; U says “Go
and you go. No matter how distant the jo IV
ney, it must betaken; nr- matter how hopek *
the mot ~~ .....
In no other way can you quiet the voice
within; on no other terms can you make peace
with yourself.
Death were better than loss of self-respect,
and to keep that, you and Duty must walk the
long path hand in hand.
What, truly, is the life worth living?
It. is to cultivate, expand, energize and
consecrate all that is best within you; to search
for Truth and Bight and to lay your willing
sword at their feet; to combat all shams and
hypocricies and superstitions and frauds and
errors and oppressions; to love the best inter¬
ests of your fellow-man and to put your whole
heart in the struggle for his advancement, in
spite of his own cruel hatred and persecution.
What though this life condemns you to un¬
requited labor, unappreciated effort, the in¬
gratitude which cuts like a knife, and the mis¬
representation which chills worse than the win¬
try wind? All this is outward, temporary, in¬
consequent, the mere passing of the fleeting
clouds, nothing more than incidental discords
on the great harp of life. Things like these
wound, inflict pain, sadden the soul somewhat,
but they do not change the course of the vessel
nor make coward him who stands sturdily at
the wheel steering through the night by the
everlasting stars.
He knows, he knows that be has laid his
course aright; and that if, when morning
breaks, the harbor is not in sight, the fault will
not be his.
He will keep his rudder true: no more is
in his power.
The life, which is worth living has not al¬
ways led to ease, worldly success, happiness
and earthly honors.
Too often the man who consecrates him¬
self to the nobler purpose lias been what the
world called ,a failure, has been ltd away into
captivity by pitiless foes, has died at the stake
amid tortures.
But, like the Indian brave, such a warrior
has never feared the stake nor the tortures.
Like the Indian brave, such a warrior de¬
spises those who torment him, and amid the
flames in which he dies his death song rises to
thrill the world.
“I have fought a good fight. Never once
did I lower my flag. To the Right, as God
gaVe me to see it, I was always true. Not once
If€, A Y * - .(Continued on Page Four.),
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