Chapter XIII: Part XII (2)

The Church of Rome, saving a few years of Huguenot power, and the short-lived revolution preceding the advent of Napoleon, has, for more than ten centuries, linked its history with that of France. In fact, the latter has, since the days of Charles Martel, been known as the “eldest daughter of the church.” And what a history! A Roman pope crowned King Pepin in the eighth century and Napoleon in the nineteenth. Not a line of history, of romance, of tradition, of public or private right, or public or private wrong, but through the ages has been mingled with her name. From Flanders, on the English channel, to Provence on the Mediterranean, from Lorraine, on the east, to Gascoigne in the west, it was all Catholic, and Roman Catholic. The counts of Paris, Flanders, and of Anjou; the dukes of Burgundy, Normandy, of Guise; and the Bourbon Princes, were all originally Roman Catholics.

Who is there that has not in the morning of life read with delight of the martial prowess and religious fervor of Jeanne d’Arc, the Maid of Orleans? Her love of her church, and her love for her country, ought to be remembered by men who are now playing fast and loose with the fortunes of both. Who but will admit that their Excellencies, Cardinals Richelieu and Mazarin, with their imperious sway, did more to extend the glory of France than either of the great Louises under whom they ministered? What student of French history could forget the names of La Valliere, De Montespan, and Maintenon, brilliant, charming, but dissolute, who, losing royal favor, sought and found solace in the sacred precincts of the cloister? The grand cathedrals at Rheims, at Rouen; Nôtre Dame and the Madeleine at Paris; the many rare and splendid chapels to the famous chateaux of monarchs, and princes, that line the Loire, the Seine, the Rhone, and Garonne—do they not speak in ancient protest to the late separation and sequestration? Who but that remembers the sweet, dignified bearing, and devout humility of the peasant husband and wife bowed in prayer, in the field, at the ringing of the angelus, as portrayed by Millet? Typical of religious France! Can such things be swept away and become a mere memory at the beck of secular and temporal power?

The French Revolution of 1789 with its consequent vulgar excess brought about in 1801 the so-called “Concordat,” it being a carefully drawn agreement between Pius VII and Napoleon, which restored, with material restrictions, the power of the church in France. When one writes of the church in France he means the Roman Catholic Church, for ninety per cent of the communicants of religion there belong to that denomination. There is little or no doubt but that Napoleon overreached the Pope in that agreement. Only divinity itself could have coped with the masterly genius of that most wonderful man—the “man of destiny”—who, in changing the map of the world by his sword, wrought a greater change in its human affairs through his policies. Much church property had been confiscated during the revolution, and had passed from the state to other hands. The titles, so acquired, to that property were to be left undisturbed by the restoration of the church. Again, the government reserved, in the Concordat, the right to nominate the archbishops and bishops of the church, and assumed and asserted the right to determine their attitude between the Vatican and the state.

The law of “Separation,” as it is called, was passed December 5th, 1905, by which annual stipends, previously guaranteed by the state to bishops and priests were abolished, and the churches, parochial residences, and buildings used for religious purposes, including monasteries, convents, seminaries, all, should fall under the authority of the state to be regulated by civil corporations known as “associations of worship.” The law provided twelve months from its passage, that it should be ratified by the church.

The civil associations are to hold the church property and have the right to dictate the mode and manner of the worship therein, even the uses for which the property shall be employed.

Is it any wonder that Pius X, speaking for Rome, should have rejected such a law? To confiscate one’s property is one thing—to have the power to dictate one’s form of worship is quite another thing. Any gendarme with the order in his hand issued by any upstart official could disperse at pleasure the worshippers at any sanctuary in the republic. The French law is not a mere separation of church and state; far more, it is a subjection of the church to the state.

In France the seats of the mighty in the main are filled now by the disciples of Voltaire—men of the type of Jaures, Delpech, and Clemenceau. M. Briand, the Minister of Education, the reputed author of the “Associations” bill, is charged with declaring in a public speech to the educational authorities under him:

“The time has come to root up from the minds of French children the ancient faith which has served its purpose, and replace it with the light of free thought. It is time to get rid of the Christian idea. We have hunted Jesus Christ out of the army, the navy, the schools, the hospitals, the insane asylums, the orphan asylums and the law courts; and now we must hunt him out of the state altogether.”

In such a fight Christendom itself ought to have a sympathy. The chief Rabbi of France, M. Lehmann, one of a religion long persecuted, of this action of the French Assembly, says:

“How could one think on the one hand that the state should suppress establishments which had been guaranteed by nearly every constitution since 1791, and protected by every law, and, by means of the same act, should seize the property they have acquired with its approbation?... What we want is that places of worship should belong to those who have built them and who pray in them, and that every religious denomination should preserve the form of organization which is the most conformable to its traditions and aspirations.”

Surely a member of a so-called Protestant communion may say amen! to the foregoing quotation. Surely, any American stands for freedom of religious belief, as well as that private property shall not be taken for public use, without just compensation. Think of the millions in value sequestrated under the French law of 1905, aside from other considerations! What a beautiful and dignified protest has the world recently heard from Archbishop Ireland, not only intellectually the foremost churchman of his faith, but almost unparalleled among orators of this or any other land. Of the rape of the French church, among other things, he says:

“For the moment the situation is, undoubtedly, serious—and serious for the one as for the other of the contestants. Yet, seen more near, it reveals no coloring of despair, either for France, or for the Church of France. A bright morning, I dare predict, will at a not distant time dawn over the field of battle, dropping from the skies sunshine and peace and begetting both in the Church and in France, joy and exultation that the passage-at-arms, angry as it once was, has opened the way to a clearer understanding of mutual interests, to a warmer glow of olden mutual love.

“The Catholic Church,—of course I love her, and I champion her _cause_ with delight. And France, too, I love. While I shall blame her, I shall not forget all that she has been, during her storied centuries, to mankind and the Church, and I now bid my hearers to nurture no rancor against her, and if I beckon her to defeat, it is that she rise from defeat greater and more glorious than victory could have made her.”

Those who have followed with discerning eyes this oldest of human institutions among the works of the ages, will look forward with hope to a speedy and healthy reconciliation between the government of France and a religious institution which for longer than a thousand years has been part and parcel of it; which has conserved in great degree its morals, contended for the peace of its citizens, and especially, during the monarchies, added glory and renown, wherever opportunity offered. The Roman Church has ever been an hierarchy, believing in hallowed or consecrated authority, in what concerns religious order or government, and too often, doubtlessly, extending this idea to secular or state affairs—yet, on the whole, who is so wise as to declare what better results had been to us now had other influences dominated at the many great and appalling crises in history which that ancient organization has had to face? This aside, however, will the Christian governments of the world lie by without a protest to this wholesale confiscation, and avowed determination to uproot religion in the very heart of Europe, when it is their custom to make formidable protests against the action of Turkey in Armenia, and against atrocities of every nature repellant to civilization?

As a humble communicant of a Protestant Church, personally an unworthy Christian, I have taken the pains to give a very abridged history of what is passing in France, and registering a feeble public protest against it.

JOHN FRANCIS LOCKETT.

_Henderson, Ky., Jan., 1907._

A DUCK HUNT IN KANSAS

CEDAR VALE, KANS., Nov. 18, 1906.

Dear Trotwood: I have read your Christmas goose hunt and think it great. Let me take you a duck hunt in this territory, the land of the Osages, the richest tribe in America. Their pasture lands lie some fifteen miles to the south, and extend for forty to fifty miles to the south and west of here, a vast tract of rich grazing land settled along the larger streams. Beaver Creek heads in the state and flows in a general direction nearly south. Salt Creek, some eight or ten miles east of Beaver, also flows nearly south. In order to secure a supply of water for their herds of Texas cattle, the cattlemen that hold leases on the grass land between the two creeks have constructed ponds, or tanks, in the heads of the draws and ravines that start off in either direction, and carry the surplus water of early spring. By throwing up a bank of earth across a draw near its head a pond from 150 to 200 yards in length and from 50 to 75 yards wide and eight to ten feet deep is secured, and this usually lasts the year round.

In the spring and latter part of our winter the ducks, and sometimes geese, stop for several weeks to pick up corn after the cattle that are fed along the creeks, and it is then that the ducks use these ponds as a roosting place. Situated, as they are, five or six miles from any human habitation, back on a high prairie, not even a bush or tree in sight, the lay of the country sloping to the east and west, the ducks appear to think they have found a safe retreat from the merciless hunter. Not so, however. It is here that the pot-shot hunter is in his glory. Sometimes, in early spring, just after a northwester has blown itself out, and we get a few warm days, I have seen these ponds full of ducks; yes, and sitting out in the grass on each side for a good hundred yards in each direction. It was just such a time as this, during the first days of March, 1903, that I and my good Swede friend, Norling, found ourselves camped about a mile below one of the tanks in a small draw that ran off in the direction of Beaver Creek. We had selected this particular pond for our night’s sport because we knew that a bunch of some 2,000 head of cattle was being fed over on Beaver about five miles away, and then we had stopped at the pond before going into camp to see if there were any signs. It did not require an old hunter to see the signs there. The damp ground around the edge of the pond was strewn with loose feathers and stamped and patted where the ducks had roosted along the water’s edge until it looked like the floor of a large poultry yard.

The sun had just set and there was a bank of red in the west, the wind was coming in little gusts from the north and the night promised to be clear. The moon would be up in about an hour.

“There they come,” said Norling, in a low voice, and then, just across the narrow draw, a bunch of a dozen or so passed, flying close to the ground and headed straight for the pond. It was still light enough to see them when they reached the pond. They did not circle, as is usual with ducks about to light, but raised slightly just before reaching the pond, and then, poised for a second, appeared to drop in, and so still was the evening and the wind blowing from the pond toward us, we could hear the water splash as they struck it.

So intensely had our interest been fixed on the first bunch we had not noticed others that were coming. Scarcely had the first ones settled before another flock began to drop in, and now they seemed to be coming in a steady stream. There was a continuous splash, splash, splash, as one after another they settled in the water. For at least an hour they came in this way.

“By Jimminy, George, I believe already there is so many in there as we could with us home take! Let us see how many we could rake down for the first shots,” said Norling. The moon was up now and cast a dark shadow from one side to the other of the draw. Taking a piece of white chalk from my pocket I drew a heavy white line between the barrels of my gun from sight to sight.

“What is that for?” asked Norling.

“Well, you see, if you are aiming too high you see a long white mark, if too low you cannot see it at all, and when just right you only see a small white spot, and when shooting by moonlight this enables you to shoot with a good deal of accuracy,” I replied.

“Come on, now, and be careful. A step in this dry grass would make noise enough to send every duck out of that pond. Follow this cow path and keep down low so they won’t see your head over the dump. The pond is nearly full of water.”

We were nearly half way, now, and it would not do to talk, not even to whisper, as a duck has very sharp hearing. The sharp whistle call of the sprig tail seemed to nearly drown the quack, quack of the mallard, and the splash, splash of the water against the dam told us we had but a few yards farther to go. At the foot of the dam we crawled on hands and knees until by stepping to our feet our heads and shoulders were above the dump. And then such a sight! The slight noise we made as we rose to our feet caused every duck in the water and on the banks to turn in our direction, and the rays of the moon fell on their white breasts and was reflected back here and there by an open patch of water. But only for an instant did this scene remain. Just one quick glance and then our guns came to our shoulders, a long white streak, then a small white dot in line with a thousand white breasts, a flash and a sharp report, followed by the greatest quacking, splashing and whirr of wings I had ever heard. So great was the noise made by the immense flock taking wing that I could not hear the report of the second barrel of my own gun. A few more shots were fired at crippled ducks that were still able to swim, a short wait for the wind to drift the dead ones to the bank, and then we picked up thirty-one dead ducks, all stopped by our first four shots. Sport and meat enough for one night?

Just write me a line a few days before you come and I will meet you at the train; and, by the way, I have some colts three years old by The Peacher, 2.17¼, pacing at two years old, and by the summaries the best sire of the season owned in Kansas. These colts are out of mares by Bertran, 2.20, and Capitalist, 2.29½, and they can step some, too. Better come about the 10th of March.

Yours truly,

GEORGE BEUOY.

THE DREAM AND THE BUSINESS

(_Hobbes_)

The year 1906 was pre-eminently a year of the so-called fiction of psychology. This is hardly a passing fad. The more enlightened and cultured a people, the more are they interested in character study. Men and women and motives are more entertaining than mere beauty of description, or complicated plot. And the really successful novels of the year are written by women, and seem to be concerned with the intricate workings of the feminine mind.

Not since the appearance of “Lily Bart” in “The House of Mirth” have we had such a striking character as “Sophy Firmalden” in “The Dream and The Business,” by John Oliver Hobbes.

This, Mrs. Craigie’s last work, is certainly one of the cleverest productions of the year.

A very unusual feature of this book is a letter from the Hon. Joseph H. Choate to the publishers expressing his appreciation of Mrs. Craigie as woman and author.

The refined atmosphere that permeates all her works—the delicate touch peculiarly Mrs. Craigie’s own—are compelling features of this brilliant book.

Clever dialogue there is in abundance.

Conservatism exists in America “only in Webster, side by side with the word pre-historic.”

That radical nature inherent in all Americans seems to have been toned down by Mrs. Craigie’s English education and environment. The conservative English spirit, just blended with a certain amount of American radicalism to add flavor, presents some most attractive views of life and living.

It was pathetic, as well as a sad blow to the literary world, that Mrs. Craigie should die just as this book went to press.

James Firmalden was full of illusion, impetuous and enthusiastic. He started out in life with the mistaken idea that the “most important acts in a man’s life—the choosing of a career and of a wife—are accidents.” There is always a youthful affair. James Firmalden’s was with Nannie Cloots. As Lord Marlesford said, “This is always the way with women, sooner or later they make you play the fool exceedingly.” “The Cloots family were already on his shoulders.” He developed with age; broke their engagement and had the manhood to tell the “loyal lie.” Ever afterwards he led a single, uncompleted life.

Dr. Firmalden, the Oxford minister, was one of the many who tried to believe he had gained wisdom with age, but, like numerous elderly persons, he had only lost the power of wondering.

His sermons usually contained many “shiny, well-worn platitudes which are always tedious.”

Sophy Firmalden, one of the leading characters, endowed with good looks and native wit, was never very happy. One is never wholly satisfied. “The child wears the mother’s skirts enviously while the mother mourns her youth.”

“There was that fastidious and elusive instinct in Sophy which always makes for suffering.”

Inclined to fanaticism and moody, an over developed conscience kept her from marrying the one man she loved because he was irreligious. They were never at ease together for their relation could never degenerate into common comradeship.

Sent abroad to forget Lessard, she thought she had done so, and married another. “What a charred trail she left in her path!” Becoming cynical, she said “she would never again allow herself to care much for anybody—it was always so disappointing.” She declared there were two kinds of men, “Those who were born to protect us, and those who were born to understand us”—her husband belonged to the former.

She knew little of the world—had not even seen “Fedora.” One of her friends said it could not harm her—she could not possibly understand it.

She had a passion for good clothes. “A girl who is satisfied with her wardrobe can bear many privations.” “Sophy’s silk dresses were the source of much fortitude in her domestic philosophy.”

James Firmalden’s first love, Nannie Cloots, was of obscure origin—her mother having once been an ornament of the ballet. Reared with a fanatical regard for appearances, she was “picturesque, artless and fresh in her absurd ideas.”

“She was a chaser after celebrities—and wore claret-colored silk at ten o’clock in the morning. Her chief delight was to associate with frumpish Philistines.” “She saw the world; and found it stuffed with sawdust.”

Henry Firmalden was ruled by his wife. “In the city, he was a man who could show great decision and force of will—but at home he was docile, silent and often hungry.”

Lady Burghwallas, one of the minor characters, belonged to the class “who must have their social illusions nourished by the newspapers.”

Lessard belonged to the Bohemian set. Of Huguenot extraction, he was of a defiant mood, accompanied with melancholy characteristic of the sect from which he sprang.

An “aristocratic vagabond,” he was a man of the world with a wayward heart. Spontaneous and unconventional, he was disposed to quarrel with the established order of things.

He was a singer and also a mediocre dramatist, who was admired by certain “long-haired men who should have been born women, and by short-haired women who should have not been born at all.”

Gloriana Twomley is an overdressed woman, but clever after a fashion. She had tact to manage her husband in such a way as to keep him happy, and at the same time make him entirely satisfied with her work. He never realized it, “for the less wit a man has, the less he knows that he wants it.” Her relationship was large. There were many “in-laws” and she was kept busy trying to regulate their affairs.

The most entertaining character in the whole book is Lady Marlesford. Vivacious, tactful and pretty, her highly disciplined mind could bear agitation, pain or anything better than being bored. She and her husband were of a violently different temperament. He, selfish, exacting and unresponsive, could not appreciate her brilliant mind. Her keen sense of humor made him nervous. Whenever he said anything but the obvious, she invariably asked, “Who said that?” In conversation, she always kept him “mentally out of breath.” “The pair having exhausted their dislike, were almost attached to each other by a common bond of suffering.”

It is impossible to read “The Dream and The Business” _understandingly_ and fail to be entertained.

MARK HARWELL PETTWAY.

We have begun this department expecting our readers to make it. It has been suggested by a number of our readers, and there is no department that should be more popular. There are few of us who have not in old scrap books, or elsewhere, something—in prose or poetry—that we cherish; that has become part of our souls. Send them in, thus preserving them and permitting others to enjoy them.

L’ENVOI

When earth’s last picture is painted and the tubes are twisted and
dried,
When the oldest colors have faded and the youngest critic has died,
We shall rest—and, faith, we shall need it—lie down for an aeon or
two
Till the Master of all good workmen shall set us to work anew.

And those that were good shall be happy, they shall sit in a golden
chair,
They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes of comet’s hair;
They shall find real saints to draw them—Magdalene, Peter and Paul—
They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired at all.

And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall blame;
And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame;
But each for the joy of the working, and each in his separate star,
Shall draw the thing as he sees it for the God of Things as They Are!

—_Rudyard Kipling._

“STONEWALL JACKSON’S WAY”

Come, stack arms, men! Pile on the rails,
Stir up the camp-fire bright;
No growling if the canteen fails,
We’ll make a roaring night.
Here Shenandoah brawls along,
There burly Blue Ridge echoes strong,
To swell the brigade’s rousing song
Of “Stonewall Jackson’s way.”

We see him now—the queer slouched hat
Cocked o’er his eye askew;
The shrewd, dry smile; the speech so pat,
So calm, so blunt, so true.
The “Blue-Light Elder” knows ’em well:
Says he, “That’s Banks—he’s fond of shell;
Lord save his soul! we’ll give him—” Well!
That’s “Stonewall Jackson’s way.”

Silence! Ground arms! Kneel all! Caps off!
Old Blue Light’s goin’ to pray.
Strangle the fool that dares to scoff!
Attention! it’s his way.
Appealing from his native sod,
_In forma pauperis_ to God:—
“Lay bare thine arm! stretch forth thy rod!
Amen!” That’s “Jackson’s way.”

He’s in the saddle now. Fall in!
Steady! the whole brigade!
Hill’s at the ford, cut off; we’ll win
His way out, ball and blade!
What matter if our shoes are worn?
What matter if our feet are torn?
“Quick step! we’re with him before morn!”
That’s “Stonewall Jackson’s way!”

The sun’s bright lances rout the mists
Of morning, and, by George!
Here’s Longstreet, struggling in the lists,
Hemmed in an ugly gorge;
Pope and his Dutchman, whipped before.
“Bay’nets and grape!” hear Stonewall roar;
“Charge, Stuart! Pay off Ashby’s score!”
In “Stonewall Jackson’s way.”

Ah, maidens, wait and watch and yearn
For news of Stonewall’s band!
Ah, widow, read with eyes that burn,
That ring upon thy hand!
Ah, wife, sew on, pray on, hope on!
Thy life shall not be all forlorn:
The foe had better ne’er been born
That gets in “Stonewall’s way.”

—_John Williamson Palmer._

SOME TIME

Last night, my darling, as you slept
I thought I heard you sigh,
And to your little crib I crept
And watched a space thereby,
And then I stooped and kissed your brow,
For oh, I love you so—
You are too young to know it now
But some time you will know.

Some time when in a darkened place
When others come to weep
Your eyes shall look upon a face
Calm in eternal sleep,
The voiceless lips, the wrinkled brow,
The patient smile will show—
You are too young to know it now
But some time you will know.

Look backward then, into the years
And see me here to-night—
See, oh my darling, how my tears
Are falling as I write;
And feel once more upon your brow
The kiss of long ago—
You are too young to know it now
But some time you will know.

—_Eugene Field._

LARK

Bird of the wilderness,
Blithesome and cumberless,
Sweet be thy matin o’er moorland and lea!
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling-place—
Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!

Wild is thy lay, and loud;
Far in the downy cloud
Love gives it energy—love gave it birth.
Where, on thy dewy wing,
Where art thou journeying,
Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.

O’er fell and fountain sheen,
O’er moor and mountain green,
O’er the red streamer that heralds the day;
O’er the cloudlet dim,
O’er the rainbow’s rim,
Musical cherub soar, singing away.

Then, when the gloaming comes,
Low, in the heather blooms,
Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling-place—
Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!

—_James Hogg._

WEARY OF MYSELF

The following is poetry—every line of it—and infinitely good. It is by Matthew Arnold.

Weary of myself and sick of asking
What I am and what I ought to be,
At this vessel’s prow I stand, which bears me
Forward, forward o’er the starlit sea.

And a look of passionate desire
O’er the sea and to the stars I send;
Ye who from my childhood up have claimed me,
Calm me, ah compose me to the end!

“Ah, once more,” I cried, “ye stars, ye waters,
On my heart your mighty charm renew;
Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you,
Feel my soul becoming vast like you!”

From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of heaven
O’er the lit sea’s unquiet way
In the rustling night-air came the answer:
“Wouldst thou be as these are? Live as they.

“Unaffrighted by the silence round them,
Undisturbed by the sights they see,
These demand not that the things without them
Yield them love, amusement, sympathy.

“And with joy the stars perform their shining,
And the sea its long-silvered roll;
For self-poised they live, nor pine with noting
All the fever of some differing soul.

“Rounded by themselves, and unregardful
In what state God’s other works may be,
In their own tasks all their powers pouring,
These attain the mighty life you see.”

O air-born voice! long since, severely clear,
A cry like thine in mine own heart I hear;
“Resolve to be thyself, and know that he
Who finds himself loses his misery.”

—_Matthew Arnold._

THE JULEP

’Tis said that the gods on Olympus of old—
And who the bright legend profanes with a doubt?—
One night at their revels by Bacchus were told
That the last butt of nectar had somehow run out.

But determined to send ’round the goblet once more,
They sent to the fair immortals for aid
In composing a draught which, till drinking was o’er,
Should throw every wine ever drunk in the shade.

Grave Ceres herself blithely yielded the corn;
And the spirit that dwells in each amber-hued grain,
And which first had its birth in the dews of the morn,
Was taught to steal out in bright dew drops again.

Pomona, whose choicest of fruits on the board
Lay scattered profusely in everyone’s reach,
When called on a tribute to cull from her hoard,
Expressed the mild juice of the delicate peach.

The spirits were mingled, while Venus looked on
With glances so fraught with sweet, magical power
That the honey of Hybla e’en when it was gone
Has never been wiped from the draught till this hour.

Flora then from her bosom of fragrancy took
And with roseate fingers pressed down in the bowl,
All dripping and wet, as it came from the brook,
The herb whose aroma should flavor the whole.

The draught was delicious, each god did exclaim.
Yet something yet wanted, they all did bewail,
But juleps the drink of immortals became
When Jove himself added a handful of hail.

—_Hoffman._

HOW WE RISE

Heaven is not reached at a single bound,
But we build the ladder by which we rise
From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies.
And we mount to the summit round by round.

I count this thing to be grandly true,
That a noble deed is a step toward God,
Lifting the soul from the common sod
To a purer air and a broader view.

We rise by the things that are under our feet,
By what we have mastered of greed and gain,
By the pride deposed and the passion slain,
And the vanquished ills that we hourly meet.

We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust,
When the morning calls us to life and light;
But our hearts grow weary, and ere the night
Our lives are trailing in sordid dust.

We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we pray,
And we think that we mount the air on wings,
Beyond the recall of sensual things,
While our feet still cling to the heavy clay.

Wings for the angels, but feet for the men,
We may borrow the wings to find the way,
We may hope and aspire and resolve and pray,
But our feet must rise or we’ll fall again.

Only in dreams is a ladder thrown
From the weary earth to the sapphire walls;
But the dreams depart and the vision falls,
And the sleeper awakes on his pillow of stone.

Heaven is not reached at a single bound,
But we build the ladder by which we rise
From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies,
And we mount to the summit round by round.

—_J. G. Holland._

A FABLE.

The mountain and the squirrel
Had a quarrel;
And the former called the latter “Little Prig.”
Bun replied,
“You are doubtless very big;
But all sorts of things and weather
Must be taken in together,
To make up a year
And a sphere.
And I think it no disgrace
To occupy my place.
And if I’m not so large as you,
You are not so small as I,
And not half so spry!
I’ll not deny you make
A very pretty squirrel track;
Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;
If I cannot carry forests on my back,
Neither can you crack a nut.”

—_Ralph Waldo Emerson._

DICKSON COUNTY, TENNESSEE

By W. O. Thomas

Probably there is no county in the state that is attracting as much attention at the present time as the County of Dickson. It lies on the meridial line that clearly defines the mineral and gas belt forming one of the earth’s great arteries connecting the oil fields of Pennsylvania with the oil fields of Texas, and is rich in every constituent that contributes to the material wants of mankind.

Dickson County contains an area of 650 square miles. The county forms a great watershed, draining into the Cumberland river on the north and the Duck river on the south. It is watered by many confluents of these streams. Thus the county is cut up into innumerable rich and productive valleys, fringed by fruitful uplands that are in turn crowned by great forests of virgin timber. Talk to any lumberman and he will lament the decadence of the timber production. Yet it is a fact that nature’s storehouse still contains a vast reserve supply of this product, and that the present generation will not live to see it exhausted.

The soil of Dickson County is very diverse. Any crop produced in the temperate zone can be grown with profit in this county. Corn, wheat, oats, barley, rye, tobacco, sorghum, peanuts, melons, and all kinds of small fruits thrive to perfection. The northern side of the county is within the Clarksville dark tobacco district, while other sections produce a long leaf tobacco, rivaling in its quality and fibre the famous Sumatra wrapper. The conditions of soil and climate seem especially favorable to this industry, and it is quite certain that tobacco growing will be one of the future staples of Dickson County. The conditions are ideal for the cultivation of Irish and sweet potatoes, tomatoes and that class of fruits and vegetables.

Southern Representative G. P. Dodge Lumber Co., Chicago]

Lands in Dickson County range in price from $2 to $200 an acre. This is a wide range, but it is so. In Bell’s Bend, where the Harpeth river sweeps in a broad semi-circle and doubles back on itself, hugging on either side a long, narrow bluff, the land is priceless. Here it was that Montgomery Bell swayed the rod of empire in the palmy days of yore. He has long since been gathered to his fathers, but his name and fame are traditional in this state, and Montgomery Bell Academy at Nashville is a monument to his generosity and philanthropy.

Montgomery Bell was a thrifty Vermonter who settled in Tennessee about the beginning of the eighteenth century. He acquired vast tracts of land in Dickson County, and laid the foundations of his prosperity in the manufacture of pig iron. He was either directly or indirectly interested in not less than six of these furnaces in Dickson County. They were all operated by water power, steam being an unknown quantity at that time. It is written down in the book of chronicles that Dickson County and Montgomery Bell helped Old Hickory win the battle of New Orleans. For it was the old Cumberland Furnace, on Barton’s Creek, now known as the Warner Furnace, and owned by the Tennessee Iron & Coal Company, that moulded the cannon balls for that memorable battle, and helped repel the proud British invader. Any school boy in Dickson County can tell you this, and it is a bit of history of which the citizens are justly proud.

To-day there exists in Bell’s Bend the strangest monument to Montgomery Bell that ever man had to perpetuate his memory. This man was a builder of iron furnaces. He built them wherever he could find water power. To him water power meant useful opportunity. I have spoken of the narrow bluff that divides the Harpeth in its magnificent sweep through Bell’s Bend. This bluff is so narrow that a man can stand on its ridge and easily cast a stone into the river on either side. Right here Montgomery Bell had a tunnel blasted through the bluff, and by means of a wing dam drew the waters of the Upper Harpeth through this opening in a mighty, resistless current that afforded unlimited water power for the operations of a blast furnace. And there it is to-day, singing its stormy requiem to the memory of a man and age that have passed into the shade, but yet inviting in its prodigal waste and riotous power the hand of capital and enterprise to harness it anew.

In timber, soil, minerals and climate Dickson County is well dowered. Many of these industries are yet in their infancy. It has been demonstrated that its phosphates are as good as those of Hickman County, and only wait on the capitalist. As for oil, at the present time the Standard Oil Company is preparing to sink two wells near Dickson. It is well known that this section is underlaid by the best of illuminating oil, equal to the Pennsylvania product. The Brown oil wells, on Jones’ Creek, twelve miles northwest of Dickson, have been opened for many years and have pumped as high as twenty barrels a day of fine illuminating oil. This territory is nearly all under lease, and the indications are that the time is ripe for its exploitation.

One of the most interesting towns in Dickson County is Ruskin. Ruskin was founded a number of years ago as a Socialist colony. Here was to be exemplified the truth of the doctrine that all men are created free and equal. It was to be a practical demonstration. It will take another story to tell how and why it failed. About a year ago the property was acquired by some earnest, ambitious school men. To-day Ruskin is the seat of Ruskin-Cave College, with a faculty of eleven teachers and students from twelve states. The village is owned and controlled by the school board. The full college course compares well with state institutions. The college presents some very remarkable features that entitle it to favorable consideration. W. A. Hughes is business manager and R. E. Smith president.

Dickson is the chief commercial town in Dickson County. Charlotte is the county seat, but it has a population of only a few hundred. The population of Dickson numbers about three thousand. Within five years it has almost doubled its inhabitants. It has a chancery and circuit court and a larger and costlier courthouse than the county seat. Being accessible by three railroads, it is the logical commercial and political center of the county. It is also the educational center. In addition to a good public school system, it is the seat of the Dickson Normal College. This is a co-educational institution. The college building is modern and commodious in its every appointment. It is situated in a beautiful grove of native oaks, on a broad table land overlooking the town of Dickson. A corps of trained teachers is in charge of the work. The curriculum embraces a four-years’ course, beginning with an exhaustive study of the common school branches and including a comprehensive course in language, science and mathematics. T. B. Loggins, A.M., is the principal of the college. The enrollment includes students of both sexes from all parts of the state.

The Hudson Business College is also located in Dickson, and is doing a fine work in fitting young people for the business world.

Dickson is a plucky town. Twice within a decade it has risen from its ashes. In 1893 the town was practically destroyed by fire, not over half a dozen business houses remaining. Nearly all the buildings destroyed were of frame and were replaced by substantial brick structures. In November, 1905, another disastrous fire broke out, eating the heart out of the business section and entailing a loss of $200,000. With characteristic energy, the work of rebuilding was immediately begun, and to-day the burned district is covered by even handsomer buildings than those destroyed. In addition to this new buildings are going up in every direction, and the town is experiencing a building boom unprecedented in its history.

Founder of Beulah Colony]

Dickson is on the main line of the N., C. & St. L. railroad, forty-two miles from Nashville. It is the terminus of the Centreville branch of the same road, and also the Clarksville branch of the L. & N. These roads tap many small towns that are tributary to Dickson, and in addition it has a fine interior trade.

Socially and morally Dickson is abreast of the best towns in the State. Every religious phase of evangelical faith is represented. The personnel of the pulpit is much above the average. Fraternal and social organizations flourish. The town has three banks and there are six in the county. The aggregate deposits amount to nearly half a million dollars. In all the essentials of life Dickson and Dickson county are in the forefront of progress.

Dickson county has a well organized Farmers’ Institute. N. R. Sugg is president and R. H. Hicks, of Dickson, secretary. The association meets once a month and is doing a good work in stimulating interest in agricultural pursuits.

To write of Dickson County without making special mention of “Beulah” would be omitting one of the most interesting features connected with the development of this county. Beulah is designed to be Plato’s Ideal Republic on a small scale.

It is a colony of home seekers who have been attracted thither by the salubrious climate and the remarkably low-priced lands of this section. It is located six miles from Dickson, on the Centreville branch of the N., C. & St. L. R. R. It is not far from the line that divides Dickson and Hickman Counties, and within a few miles lies Bon Aqua, a summer resort famous for its healthgiving waters and resinous atmosphere.

Rev. A. N. Kelly is a man of remarkable personality. He is an evangelist and Christian scholar of national reputation. He is an idealist and a man of practical affairs. This is an unusual combination and yet a very useful one when it exists. For it is the man behind the gun who wins the battles.

These are some of the things Reverend Kelly has accomplished in two years:

He found Beulah almost a wilderness. Hundreds of acres of land could be bought for from $2 to $4 an acre. An occasional settler eked out a scanty livelihood in a primitive way, for the lands in this immediate neighborhood were known as the “Barrens,” and it had never entered into the mind of man to give them a practical test. To-day a thriving colony, ever increasing in circumference, marks the spot. Cosy cottages dot the landscape. A comfortable schoolhouse and church building have been erected. The land is being rapidly cleared and is found productive beyond expectation. Much of the land is fast increasing in value, but as compared with more thickly populated sections is still ridiculously cheap. For families of small means, who are looking for a pure, healthful environment, where they may cultivate their own vine and fig tree under comfortable and easy circumstances, this section offers unusual advantages. Only the better class of citizens is desired, for this is designed to be a community of Christian people. Not fanatics, mind you, with visionary and impractical ideas of life, but clean, wholesome people, honest and honorable in their dealings, and with high ideals that propel them constantly upward in the battle of life.

I spent a pleasant day at Beulah, and Rev. Mr. Kelly unfolded to me some of his plans. He is a man of great faith and very useful and noble purposes. It was interesting to talk with the man, to note his fine optimism and invincible energy and courage. He is a college graduate, with a roomy brain and a dynamic spirit. He knows no such thing as the impossible.

Small fruits and vegetables grow to perfection here. The soil is a sub-clay, and, being virgin, retains its pristine strength and vigor. Apples and peaches, and all kinds of vegetables, grow to perfection. A canning factory is in course of operation to utilize these products. The growing of cantaloupes on a large scale will be undertaken this season. Large tracts of land adjacent to the railroad between Beulah and Hohenwald, a stretch of thirty miles, have been secured for this purpose, and a contract has been entered into with the railroad for the marketing of the crop.

Within the limits of this article it is impossible to more than touch on Beulah, its many desirable features, its splendid possibilities. To those more than casually interested, a letter addressed to Rev. A. N. Kelly, Burns, Rural Route No. 2, will bring full information.