Bob Taylor’s Magazine.

                       Contents for April, 1905.

The Contents of this MAGAZINE are protected by copyright and must not be
used without the consent of the publishers.

     ══════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════
     COVER DESIGN                      _Mayna Treanor Avent_

     FRONTISPIECE—The Late Hon. John H. Reagan                    2

     THE OLD SOUTH                     _Robert L. Taylor_         3
                     Illustrated with photographs.

     POPULAR EDUCATION IN THE SOUTH    _Henry N. Snyder, LL.D._   9
                      With portrait of the Author.

     TO HELEN KELLER                                             14

     MEN OF AFFAIRS                                              15
                     Illustrated with photographs.

     THE LOST HERD                     _Joseph A. Altsheler_     23
                        With portrait of Author.

     THE ISLES OF SCILLY               _J. H. Stevenson, Ph.D._  32
                     Illustrated with photographs.

     LABOR PROBLEMS IN THE SOUTH       _Herman Justi_            39
                      With portrait of the Author.

     TILDY BINFORD’S ADVERTISEMENT     _Holland Wright_          46
                   Story. Illustrated by the Author.

     THE MAN AND THE MATINEE           _Sybil Stewart_           54
                          Story. Illustrated.

     THE OLD ORDER PASSETH             _Grace McGowan Cooke_     61
                   Poem. Illustrated with photograph.

     SOURCES OF SOUTHERN WEALTH        _Austin P. Foster_        62

     SOCIETY OF THE FOREST             _M. W. Connolly_          66
                  Illustrated by Mayna Treanor Avent.

     SUNSHINE—Conducted by the Editor in Chief                   80

         GREETING.
         FLY IN YOUR OWN FIRMAMENT.
         THE GOVERNOR.
         THE LIEUTENANT-GOVERNOR.
         THE COMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

     LYRICAL AND SATIRICAL—Conducted by Vermouth                 87

     A CUBAN SKETCH                    _Harvey Hannah_           90

     WITHIN A VALLEY NARROW            _Ingram Crockett_         91

     LEISURE HOURS                                               92

     BOOKS AND AUTHORS—Conducted by Mrs. Genella Fitzgerald Nye  95

     THE FIDDLE AND THE BOW            _Robert L. Taylor_       103
                              Illustrated.

     THE SOUTHERN PLATFORM                                      107

         POEM                          _Capt. Jack Crawford._
         THE STORY OF JOSEPH           _Ida Benfey._
         THE MOCKING-BIRD              _Mary H. Flanner._
         THE YOUTH OF SHAKESPEARE      _Frederick Warde._
         A CRITIQUE OF THE MASQUERADER _James Hunt Cook._
     ══════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════

  Copyright 1905 by The Taylor Publishing Co.      All rights reserved
            THE TAYLOR PUBLISHING COMPANY, Publishers,
                         _Vanderbilt Law Building_, Nashville, Tenn.

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  THE LATE HON. JOHN H. REAGAN IN HIS STUDY AT PALESTINE, TEXAS.
]

BOB TAYLOR’S MAGAZINE

 ───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────
 VOL. I                        APRIL, 1905                         NO. 1
 ───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────

                             THE OLD SOUTH.

                          By Robert L. Taylor.

One of the most brilliant civilizations that ever flourished in the
history of the world staggered and fell with broken sword and shattered
shield on that dark day when the flag of Southern hope and glory went
down in blood and tears. Its decimated armies, too exhausted from loss
of blood to longer pull the trigger, too weak from starvation to charge
the enemy, too footsore and too proud to run, stacked their old, bent
and battered muskets in the anguish of defeat and went limping back to
their ruined homes in Dixie.

There is nothing left of that civilization now but a few remnants of its
gray columns—_themselves_ grown gray as if in honor of the uniforms they
wore—and the thrilling and pathetic story of its vanished prestige and
power lingering among its tombstones and monuments like the fragrance of
roses that are faded and gone. Never again will the white-columned
mansions of the masters glorify the groves of live oak and the orange
and the palm where Southern beauty was wooed and won by Southern
chivalry, and life was an endless chain of pleasure. Never again will
the snowy cotton fields and rice fields, stretching away to the Gulf or
to the river, teem with happy slaves and ring with their old time
plantation melodies. Hushed forever is the music of the Old South!
Closed are the lips of its matchless orators! The dust of its statesmen
mingles with the dust of the heroes who died to save it. Only three are
left in the counsels of the nation: Morgan, the brave and the true, the
able, the eloquent and learned Senator from Alabama; Pettus from the
same state, the peer of Morgan in all the exalted traits of character
that distinguish the unswerving and incorruptible representative and
defender of Southern ideals and Southern traditions; and Bate, that
grand old man of dauntless courage, that fearless soldier with many
scars, the hero of Shiloh, the strong and faithful Senator who in
private life is as pure and gentle as the mother of his children, and in
war as bold and daring a cavalier as ever drew a sword![1] It is true
there are other splendid men from the land of cotton and cane in
Congress, whose heads are silvered o’er, and who have nobly led Southern
thought and sentiment. They are superb exponents of the old ante-bellum
civilization, but they were too young to taste the sweets of its glory.
Some of them were born soon enough to listen to the lullaby of the old
black mammy and to sit in the negro cabin and listen to the
blood-curdling tales of uncle ’Rastus about ghosts and goblins; some,
like Daniel of Virginia, Berry of Arkansas, and Blackburn of Kentucky,
were old enough to follow Lee and Jackson and to fight to the finish;
but their youth forbade them from sitting on the throne of living ebony
with these older men, who, in reality, are all that is left of the Old
South in the national legislature; and in whose presence all men,
whether of the North or of the South, delight to lift their hats with
that profound reverence which true nobility of character always
commands. What a shame there are not four!

Footnote 1:

  Senator Bate has died since this was penned.

  SENATOR WILLIAM B. BATE.
]

  GOVERNOR JAMES B. FRAZIER, OF TENNESSEE.
]

A sigh of deep regret came from the Southern heart when Missouri
registered the decree that Cockrell, the soul of honor, the
impersonation of truth and integrity, the soldier and the statesman,
must cease to reflect honor upon that great commonwealth as one of its
representatives in the United States Senate. But it must be a sweet
consolation to him to go back among the people whom he has served so
faithfully and so well, with the consciousness of a clean life behind
him, both private and public, and with the prestige of a glorious record
in the service of his country.

  GOVERNOR JOHN C. W. BECKHAM, OF KENTUCKY
]

To those who have marked the passing of men in recent years, how solemn
the thought that there are so few left to tell the tale of the manhood,
the wealth and the influence of that chivalrous race who staked all and
lost all save honor in the struggle to preserve its institutions. There
is only one remaining who served in the cabinet of Jefferson Davis, in
the person of the venerable and beloved John H. Reagan of the Lone Star
State. The dews of life’s evening are condensing on his brow and its
shadows are lengthening around him, but the burden of his fourscore
years and five still rests lightly upon him. The snows that never melt
have fallen upon his head, but there’s no snow upon his heart; ’tis
always summer there! He has been distinguished through life for his
rigid honesty and the fearless discharge of duty, and he will die, as he
has lived, the idol of his people. May God lengthen the twilight of his
declining years far into the twentieth century![2]

Footnote 2:

  Since this article was set up, Judge Reagan, too, has passed away.

One by one the great majority of the star actors in the thrilling drama
of the past have made their exit behind the sable curtain of death, and
in all probability another decade will clear the stage.

  GOVERNOR ANDREW J. MONTAGUE, OF VIRGINIA.
]

  GOVERNOR EDWIN WARFIELD, OF MARYLAND.
]

  GOVERNOR J. M. TERRELL, OF GEORGIA.
]

It is one of the purposes of this magazine to aid in keeping ever fresh
and green the history and traditions of the Old South; to keep alive its
chivalrous spirit, and to tell the pathetic story of the lion-hearted
men around whose names are woven some of the greatest events of history.
It has been beautifully said that “literature loves a lost cause.” If
this be true, the South will yet be a flower garden of the most
enchanting literature that ever blossomed in any age or in any land.
Some Homer will rise, greater than the Greek, and dream among the
cemeteries where its heroes sleep and sing the sweetest Iliad ever sung!
The spirit of another Hugo will brood over its battle fields and gather
tales of valor and reckless courage; of grim visaged men scorning shot
and shell and riding to the cannon’s mouth; of bayonets mixed and
crossed; of angry armies clinching and rolling together in the bloody
mire of the awful strife; of Death on the pale horse, beckoning the
flower of the Old South to the opening grave! He will gather up the
tears and prayers and the withered hopes of a dying nation; the piteous
wails of pale and haggard maidens for lovers slain in battle; the
shrieks of brides for grooms of a day brought back with pallid lips
sealed forever and jackets all stained with blood; and the swoons of
mothers with the kisses of fallen sons still warm upon their wrinkled
brows. He will gather them up and weave them all into volumes of
romantic love more vivid and terrible than the story of Waterloo! He
will paint in burning words a picture, not of all the horrors that
followed the blunder of Grouchy in that battle upon which hung the fate
of empires, but of Stonewall Jackson falling in the noontide of his
brilliant career and passing over the river to rest under the shade of
the trees; a picture, not of Wellington seizing the fallen Napoleon and
banishing him to solitude and death on a rock in the sea, but of the
great and generous Grant receiving our own immortal Lee like a king at
Appomattox, declining to accept his sword and bidding him return to the
peaceful walks of private life among the green hills of old Virginia; a
picture, not of Ney, who had fought so long and so bravely for the
triumph of his beloved France, shot through the heart by cowards within
the very walls of Paris, but of Gordon, with golden tongue portraying
the last days of the Confederacy amid the shouts and tears of the brave
men who had faced him with booming cannon and rattling musketry on a
hundred fields of glory; a picture, not of the English Channel as the
dividing line between the drawn swords of France and Britain, but of
Mason and Dixon’s line healing into a red scar of honor across the
breast of the great Republic and marking the unity of a once divided
country!

  GOVERNOR NEWTON C. BLANCHARD, OF LOUISIANA.
]

  GOVERNOR N. B. BROWARD, OF FLORIDA.
]

  GOVERNOR JAMES K. VARDEMAN, OF MISSISSIPPI.
]

  SENATOR JOHN T. MORGAN.
]

Not very long ago, during the Spanish-American War, there was commotion
in a far Southern town, caused by a coterie of young men bitterly
protesting against the sons of Confederate veterans wearing the blue and
fighting under the old flag. An elderly man with “crow’s feet” at the
comers of his eyes and silver in his hair, listened for a while in
silence, but finally arose from his chair and said: “Young men, you are
wrong. I followed the stars and bars for four long, weary years! I saw
its colors go down at last and I straggled back to my native state,
barefooted and in rags, only to find my home in ashes. I swore eternal
enmity to the stars and stripes and to the blue. But one day, after the
battle of Manila Bay had been fought, a Mississippi regiment went
marching up the main street of my town and lo! my boy was in the ranks
dressed in the Federal uniform. In my rage I rushed to the Colonel and
shouted, “Take that blue uniform off these young men and let them put on
the gray and show the world how the sons of Confederate veterans can
fight!” but the Colonel smiled and shook his head and the regiment
marched on eager for the fray. I went home in my fury more bitter
against the North than ever before. But when one day they brought my boy
home in his coffin and I looked down upon him pale and motionless, in
his blue uniform and wrapped in the old flag, my animosity vanished in a
moment and in my tears I said: ‘Henceforth that uniform is my uniform,
that flag is my flag and this whole country is my country.’” This
sentiment is not incompatible with loyalty to the gray nor to the folded
stars and bars, but it is the expression of the only feeling that will
ever unite all the sections of the Union.

  SENATOR B. F. PETTUS.
]

We must recognize the fact that a new civilization has arisen in the
South from the ashes of the old, and while her people cherish the past
for its precious memories, their faces are turned toward the morning.
They are not only producing more cotton than ever before, but building
gigantic plants among its snow-white fields, and with the magic of
modern machinery are transforming the raw material into finished
fabrics; they are pulling down the hills and dragging forth their
treasures of coal and iron, of marble, zinc and lead, and are converting
them into all the finished implements of peace; they are harnessing
their beautiful rivers to the thunder-clad steeds of the storm and
turning the myriad wheels of industry with electric power; and they will
some day out-herod Herod in the marts of the world.

The representatives and governors of the South, confronted with new and
perilous problems, have had the courage to grapple with them, the brain
to control them and the heart to turn many of them into blessings. They
have brought wealth out of poverty and prosperity out of desolation; and
Hope stands on the horizon with a new crown in her hand, beckoning this
new civilization to a throne of power never dreamed of by the old. And
yet, while the Southern people rejoice in the resurrection of their
country from the dead and in the bright prospects spread out before
them, let them never forget to worship at the shrine of memory nor to
permit the glory of the blessed past to be dimmed by the splendor of the
future.

                    POPULAR EDUCATION IN THE SOUTH.

                       By Henry N. Snyder, LL.D.

  HENRY NELSON SNYDER, M.A., LITT.D., LL.D.
]

  President Henry N. Snyder, of Wofford College, speaks to our readers
  in a thoughtful and commanding way on a question, that with the rapid
  and general development of the South is becoming more and more
  recognized as a vital popular problem.

  As the executive head of one of the South’s most representative
  denominational colleges and as a lecturer on the subject before
  representative summer schools for teachers, President Snyder has had
  occasion to bestow upon his theme serious and special study and his
  intelligent and earnest treatment of his topic tends to present it in
  a practical and popular form and to eliminate from it those
  speculative and academic qualities that have so generally
  characterized its discussion.

  A native of Macon, Ga., where he was born during the final year of the
  Civil War, President Snyder was reared and educated in Nashville
  where, after completing the course of the city high schools he entered
  Vanderbilt University in 1883, and from which he graduated in arts,
  with both his bachelor’s and master’s degrees.

  He was until 1890 connected with his alma mater, the last three years
  of which time he was instructor in Latin and student of graduate
  subjects. He subsequently pursued advanced special work in German and
  English universities, since which time, until 1902, he was professor
  of the English Language and Literature in Wofford College. He has been
  president of this institution since 1902.

  President Snyder’s contribution to the actual promotion and solution
  of his subject has been considerable, as he has served as lecturer on
  English Literature at the South Carolina State Summer School and the
  Summer School of the South, at Knoxville, Tenn.

  He is a frequent contributor to magazines on literary and educational
  subjects and is a member of the Modern Language Association of
  America, and the Religious Education Association.

The American democracy is not so much an achievement as a prophecy. Its
chief glory cannot be in what it is, but in what it is to be. It has not
attained the measure of its growth till every man in it has a fair
chance and an open field to make the most of himself, and has done so
with reasonable completeness. It is therefore essentially idealistic,
and, however deeply concerned with the present hour’s duty and work, its
face is ever set toward a larger future for itself. But this larger
future can only be realized in a finer and more efficient quality of the
men and women who are to do the work and continue the unfolding life of
this free democracy of equal opportunity,—equal opportunity not for the
few favored by fortune or circumstance, but for every child born in it.
No democracy dare have any other mind with reference to itself.

The most necessary, as the most inspiring, work therefore which a
democracy assumes to do is that of seeing to it that all its children
are rightly trained for intelligent service and skilled efficiency. This
task it undertakes not only that it may live as a collective body but
also that each citizen may in the best and fullest manner express his
own individual life. In this two-fold view of the matter popular
education, the putting of all the children of all the people into the
best possible schools, under the best possible teachers, for the longest
possible time, becomes the sacred and imperative duty of a democracy
that cares for to-morrow as well as for to-day. And the to-morrow of a
democracy, in all the manifold activities of its complex life, is
determined by what it does for the child of to-day.

From this viewpoint no democracy ever had a better opportunity to test
itself and its ability to control the future than that phase of
democratic life working out its destiny here at the South. For the
conditions are such as to make the task of training the citizenship of
the future almost the one thing to be done. The figures representing
those conditions have been so often used of late that one is really
inclined to resent the very mention of them. Nevertheless, a proper
understanding of the conditions entering into this, as into any problem,
is the first step toward the solution. Moreover, in this struggle now on
for popular education at the South, it is no part of courage to blink a
fact because it is ugly, nor of sane judgment to let anything or anybody
beguile us into fighting our battle in the dark. We should keep steadily
before us the facts as they are, the stupendous nature of the work that
lies ahead and how it is to be done, and withal the eternally vital need
of doing it now and in the right way.

Now as far as figures can give one anything like an adequate conception,
the situation is about this: In 1900 there were 8,683,762 persons of
school age in what we are used to call the Southern states,—5,594,284
white persons and 3,089,478 black. It should be said in passing, yet
with all emphasis, that the South may as well get used to reckoning the
children of its former slaves in both its educational assets and
educational liabilities. Justice and expediency are both vitally
involved in this view of the situation. Now, of this future citizenship
only sixty out of every hundred were actually in process of school
training, and of this enrollment only forty-two were, on the average, in
daily attendance. The only comfort that one can get in this situation is
by looking back and seeing that conditions have been worse and forward
to see that they are bound to be better.

These figures, then, represent the mass of material that popular
education has to deal with and the actual portion upon which it is
really working. Now when one considers the machinery of instruction, the
teachers, the school-property, the length of terms, and the capital
invested, one sees even more vividly that the democracy of the immediate
future must be limited in its development, not alone because its
children are not in process of training but because the means themselves
are inadequate and inefficient. The entire country pays, on the average,
for its men teachers a salary of $49.00 per month, for its women $40.00.
The South gets its men for $35.63 and its women for $30.47. Leaving out
of consideration the quality of service to be had at such a pitifully
low price, one can be perfectly sure that no high professional ideals
and standards can be maintained at such rates. But let us look at the
matter from another standpoint; upon every child in its schools the
South spends $6.95 as against $10.57 for the entire country; while some
states of the West spend $31.49, some Southern states are spending only
$4.50. It is not surprising therefore to see what this means as to the
average length of school term among us: in the entire country every
child has a chance to be in school at least 145 days, while the child of
the South has open to him only 99 days. Clear enough is it, then, that
democracy in this section is, in comparison with the rest of the Union,
handicapped in the very beginning of its race. Moreover, the relation of
popular education to its best life, in the light of the situation
revealed by these figures, is a deep and fundamental one.

How deep and fundamental this is, can be best realized by the
comparative density of illiteracy already prevailing at the South. Fifty
out of every hundred negroes ten years old and over can neither read nor
write, and nearly thirteen out of every hundred whites are in the same
condition of darkness. In the United States as many as 231 counties
report a proportion of twenty per cent of illiterate white men of voting
age, and of the total, 210 of these counties are in the South. Now the
conditions represented by all these figures—and at best they can only
bring the matter vaguely to our conception—in one sense, on account of
the magnitude of the work to be done and the difficulties in the way,
are of a nature almost to take hope and courage from us. On the other
hand, the absolute need of doing the work, the fruits that must follow,
and the progress already made are a clarion call to patience,
patriotism, faith, and unresting effort.

But before taking up the progress already made, it would be well to
remind ourselves once more of some of the causes which have brought
about the present state of affairs and render the Southern situation as
to popular education a peculiar one. In the first place, there was the
all but disheartening poverty due to the collapse of the entire social
and industrial system of the South. War, followed by Reconstruction, did
the work with ruthless thoroughness. From 1860 to 1880 taxable property
at the South suffered a decrease in value of $2,167,000,100, that is, to
less than one-half its value at the breaking out of the War. Indeed, in
1870 the one little state of Massachusetts paid considerably over
one-half the amount of taxes paid by the entire South. It is clear,
then, that for nearly twenty years the South was under the simple yet
stern and inexorable compulsion of how to live. In this light,
therefore, what it did accomplish in the matter of training its children
is to be regarded as a really heroic achievement, and is no occasion of
blame because, by comparison, it seems so little. Absolutely, it is
worthy of all praise.

It should be remembered, too, that in spite of its poverty, in spite of
the fact that its energies have been given to a pressing struggle for
its very existence, the South has had to maintain a two-fold system of
popular education. It has had to care for the children of its former
slaves in separate schools, and bear virtually all the expense. This has
both complicated its problem and necessarily limited its educational
advancement. But at this time it can be asserted with emphasis, that the
South, in spite of certain reactionary eddies in the current of its
thinking, will still continue to support Negro schools. Our best thought
is fast fixing itself in the unalterable conviction that to keep the
black man in ignorance is an injustice to ourselves as well as to him;
and, moreover, that expediency itself dictates that he shall neither
remain sunken in the night of illiteracy nor mistrained for the sphere
of life for which he is, in his present stage of advancement, fitted.
Therefore popular education has meant, will continue to mean, with the
South a two-fold system of education. And the Southern white man, with
his own taxes, is largely to maintain it,—at least for many years to
come.

But above everything else, the chief consideration with reference to the
whole question of popular education in the South, both as to its needs
and difficulties, is that we are dealing with a rural folk and rural
conditions. More than eighty-three per cent of the Southern people live
in the country,—a pure, wholesome Anglo-Saxon stock of unwasted, if
untrained, physical, intellectual and moral qualities. The problem of
popular education in villages, towns, and cities is virtually solved.
The task therefore is concerned wholly with what we shall do for and
with the saving, and in this case, the larger remnant which draws its
support from the fields. No democracy ever had better or richer assets
from which to recuperate itself, or a more inspiring duty to perform in
giving this class opportunity for training and development. But from the
very nature of the case the proper performance of this duty is a task of
stupendous magnitude, and even an approximate accomplishment of it must
wait upon necessarily slow processes. The deep-seated conservatism of
the people, the extent to which illiteracy prevails and the narrow
poverty in many sections, remote and widely-sundered homes, roads almost
impassable at certain seasons of the year, the immediate need of the
children in the fields, even if the best of schools were at their
doors,—here are conditions which would discourage any but a brave and
patient people who believe in the divine right of all to whatever power
there is in knowledge and the bounden duty of the state to offer to all
its opportunities.

However, neither the pressure of poverty, nor the double burden of
caring for two races in separate schools, nor the special difficulty
growing out of the peculiar nature of conditions, nor the huge magnitude
of the task, has daunted courage or enfeebled effort. On every hand
there are inspiring marks of progress, and results prophetic of greater
advances yet to follow. In the first place, the last six or eight years
have been a period of quite remarkable educational agitation throughout
the entire South. Every kind of leadership has been systematically at
work to quicken the conscience and stir the sentiment of the people on
this subject. Pulpit, press, organized philanthropy, and civil authority
have combined with professional educators in a campaign whose
rallying-cry has been the uplifting of democracy through the power of
the schoolhouse. The general result is an interest both wide and
intelligent, an awakened conscience, and an aroused sentiment throughout
all this Southern land, all of which tends to put behind special and
definite efforts of improvement an irresistible public opinion. The
South is therefore keenly realizing its sense of civic obligation and
its duty to its own future, and when the South once sees its duty and
that rich vein of sentimentality, which lies at the basis of its
temperament, is once touched, there will be no turning back. And surely
it has now seen its duty and its sentimentality is thoroughly alive to
all that popular education means to the child of to-day and the state of
to-morrow.

For this condition we have to thank, not only the church, the press, and
organized philanthropy, but a strikingly courageous and far-sighted
political leadership, which the situation has called forth,—men, for
example, like Governor Frazier of Tennessee, Governor Aycock of North
Carolina, Governor Heyward of South Carolina, and Governor Montague of
Virginia, men who have convincingly fought for the inalienable right of
every child to be trained by the state at public expense. To their
influence must also be added the skilled patriotic service of such State
Superintendents of Public Instruction as Mynders, Martin, MacMahan,
Merritt, Whitefield and Joyner,—men who seemed to regard their office as
peculiarly the most sacred of all trusts committed by a people to public
servants. The people have listened to such as these when they might have
turned deaf ears to voices from any other source.

Too much importance cannot be attached to the sentiment which has been
thus created in the last half-dozen years. It was the necessary step in
the preparation for more definite things. Its immediate value has been
in the awakening of people to such an extent that they will not only put
their children in school but will also tax themselves for educational
purposes. General and local taxation, as a result, has been increasing
at a significant rate. Indeed, some of the Southern states are now
giving a larger proportion of their income from taxes to the use of
education than the states of the North and West. They are everywhere
building better schoolhouses, furnishing better equipment, and demanding
better trained teachers. Consolidation of schools, free transportation,
longer terms, expert supervision, the removal of educational matters
from the blight of political influence, are the things which now make
the educational atmosphere fairly electric with reform, and the next few
years will show a growth that will please even the most ardent optimist.

This general agitation has thus connected with it certain definite aims
and methods of educational policy, which have already taken shape and
are bearing fruit. Not the least important among them has been the
effort to secure, above everything, trained teachers. Many of the states
have either established Normal Schools for this purpose or have added to
their Universities departments of Education. But it has been felt that
even these were not sufficient to meet the demands for a trained
teaching force. Hence in some of the states, in Georgia, Mississippi,
and South Carolina, for example, summer schools with an attendance of
from four to six hundred have been running for a number of years, and at
Knoxville the great Summer School has been drawing from all over the
South a choice body of teachers to the number of two thousand, and
offering them the best instruction to be had, North or South. To the
influence of these general schools is to be added that of the County
Institutes, which of themselves have been an inestimable source of
power. All have stood for an intelligent knowledge of the situation, for
the missionary spirit of propaganda, for a broader and more accurate
scholarship on the part of the teacher, for the application of expert,
up-to-date methods of instruction and organization, and for the raising
of the teacher’s work to the dignity of a great profession. The
significance of all this is that this movement for popular education is
laying its foundations in wisdom in that it sees that the teacher
himself must first be taught.

And the work has already begun to tell to a degree that can even now be
measured. In the last score of years Virginia has reduced its ratio of
white illiteracy by 7 per cent, Georgia and Mississippi by 8, Kentucky
by 10, Alabama by 11, North Carolina and Florida, by 12, Tennessee by
13, and Arkansas by 14 per cent. These figures are eloquent of present
progress and inspiringly suggestive of the future. Democracy is really
caring for its own. It is told that a famous German teacher of the
Reformation once stepped into his schoolroom and greeted his pupils with
these words: “Hail, reverend pastors, doctors, superintendents, judges,
chancellors, magistrates, professors.” Some there were who laughed at
him as a joker and mocker. But he was wiser than they, and in his wisdom
was the prophet of that true democracy which sees not merely the child
in the school, but the future man in the state. The South therefore
views in this way the progress already made and realizes that what it
now does and will do with its children in the schools of the people is
the true measure of its own life in the coming years.

                            TO HELEN KELLER.

                            BY JAMES TAYLOR.

               Forever veiled thy piteous eyes,
                 Forever sealed thine ear;
               How dark and still creation lies,
                 How distant, yet how near!

               Thy sightless orbs to heaven upturn
                 To crave the blessed light;
               Nor sun, nor stars, above thee burn—
                 Alas, what hopeless night.

               The jeweled arch that bends above,
                 The earth, the air, the sea,
               O’erspanned by wings of Boundless Love,
                 How vainly smile for thee!

               The blush of morn, the sunset glow,
                 The dew-gemmed paradise
               Where Summer’s roses blow,
                 Are not for thy dim eyes.

               Hushed is the sound of Music’s voice,
                 Hushed is the murmuring sea;
               No trembling harp bids thee rejoice,—
                 ’Tis silence _all_ to thee.

               On Beauty’s loom which Nature wields
                 With deft, mysterious skill,
               To deck with tapestries her fields,
                 Her every vale and hill,

               She weaves with gorgeous threads of light
                 In mist, and cloud and rain,
               Her irised gossamers so bright—
                 But weaves for thee in vain.

               But God will make thee doubly whole,
                 And give thy spirit sight,—
               His glory shall illume thy soul,
                 For God is love and light!

                             MEN OF AFFAIRS

  With the commercial awakening of the South and the increased
  importance of the section as a factor in the national life, has
  developed a new citizenship—a sub-structure of the Old South with a
  modernized superstructure—in which with the sterling and standard
  traits of the old regime is strongly blended the nervous activity of
  the new. As a means of paying special tribute to the work being
  accomplished in the local and general fields by new generation of the
  South it is the intention of this magazine to devote a department
  toward setting forth their achievements as well for public information
  as for acknowledgment of their services, and in offering the initial
  installment of this special column it is desired to direct attention
  to the highly representative types herein noticed with the significant
  intimation that all are yet in the prime of life with greater
  opportunities ahead of them.

                          Richard M. Edmonds.

_The Manufacturers’ Record_, the South’s, if not the country’s, most
representative trades journal, had a modest origin less than a quarter
of a century ago in a small desk in an obscure business office in
Baltimore. Its founder and guiding spirit was Richard M. Edmonds, who
from nothing in the way of working capital save sagacity, energy and
determination, has developed a magnificent journalistic property,
occupying its own seven-story building and has himself become a man of
large affairs and wide influence.

In the development of the now admittedly fertile field of trades
journalism, no one point may be more emphasized as having been
significantly demonstrated than that it holds peculiar and pronounced
opportunities for those desirous of actively participating in the vital
activities of commerce.

In no less than three distinct phases of Southern development have Mr.
Edmonds and his paper conspicuously figured—in the encouragement of
industrial and technical education, in the promotion of the cause of
immigration from among the most desirable domestic elements and the
diverting of the cotton manufacturing business from New England to the
cotton fields. It was Mr. Edmonds’ editorial columns that first started
the now irresistible southward migration of the mills by pointing out
the many and conclusive reasons why the advantages for cotton
manufacturing were all in favor of the South.

As a commercial and financial figure it may be noted that Mr. Edmonds is
now a member of the executive committee of the International Trust
Company, a three million dollar Baltimore corporation, and is chairman
of the executive committee of the Alabama Consolidated Coal and Iron
Company, with a capitalization twice that of the former. He is a member
of the American Association for the Advancement of Science, the American
Academy of Political and Social Science, the Southern History
Association, the Maryland Historical Society, the Southern Society of
New York, and other organizations.

Mr. Edmonds was born in Norfolk, Va., in 1857, receiving a common school
education in Baltimore, where he started life as a clerk in the office
of the old _Journal of Commerce_.

  RICHARD M. EDMONDS.
]

                       Jacob McGavock Dickinson.

Successively a teacher, a practitioner of law, a railroad attorney, a
teacher of law, Assistant Attorney General of the United States, general
counsel for one of the country’s large railroad systems and a leading
legal representative of the nation’s interests before the Alaskan
boundary tribunal,—this is the record of this distinguished Southerner,
yet in his physical and mental prime.

A native of Mississippi and a product of ultra Southern environment,
himself a soldier of the gray at the very early age of fourteen, Mr.
Dickinson’s evolution into a representative type of national citizenship
comprises an interesting study in contemporary American life.

Educated at the old University of Nashville and at the Columbia Law
School, New York, with a capstone of extensive travel abroad and special
work in law and economics at the universities of Leipsic and Paris, Mr.
Dickinson has combined an ideal working equipment with a tremendous
energy and a capacity for laborious and sustained mental effort.

As a practitioner his unusual ability was several times recognized by
gubernatorial appointments as special judge on the Tennessee Supreme
Bench, to which he declined a permanent appointment, shortly thereafter
being called to the very high duties of the position of Assistant
Attorney General of the United States. After his retirement from this
position he became District Attorney for Tennessee and northern Alabama
for the Louisville and Nashville Railroad Company, from which he was
promoted to his present position as Chief Counsel for the Illinois
Central, with headquarters at Chicago.

His greatest public service, as is well known, was his representation of
the government in the Alaskan boundary dispute, wherein his presentation
of the nation’s claims is admitted to have had a material influence in
the successful outcome of that famous piece of international litigation.

  JAMES McGAVOCK DICKINSON.
]

Judge Dickinson maintains a close identity with Southern matters by
keeping up his connection with various societies and organizations,
among the number being the Isham Harris Confederate Bivouac, at his
native town, Columbus, Miss.

                            Samuel Spencer.

In the executive feature of railroad operation Samuel Spencer is a
prominent national figure. From an humble position in the ranks, a
combination of native ability, splendid equipment and consistent
application has resulted in his promotion to the presidency of six large
roads, while he is in addition a member of the board of directors of
nearly a score of others and of nearly a dozen of the country’s most
representative banking and other corporations.

  SAMUEL SPENCER.
]

A native of Georgia, where he was born at Columbus, in 1847, Mr. Spencer
entered the Confederate army, serving the last two years and with much
credit, after which he graduated from the University of Georgia with
A.B., and subsequently from the University of Virginia with his
engineering degree.

Since leaving college in 1869 Mr. Spencer has devoted his energies
uniformly to his ambition to rise to the highest round of the railroad
ladder, with the result that he is now president of the Southern, the
Mobile and Ohio, the Alabama and Great Southern, the Cincinnati, New
Orleans and Texas Pacific, the Georgia Southern and Florida, and the
Northern Alabama, aggregating a mileage of over nine thousand miles and
employing more than forty thousand men.

Besides innumerable other roads, in the management of which Mr. Spencer
is director, he is also a director of the Western Union Telegraph
Company, the Old Dominion Steamship Company, three large New York Trust
companies, the Hanover National Bank of New York, and one of Boston’s
large street railway systems.

Mr. Spencer is identified with the American Society of Civil Engineers
and other representative political, scientific and forestry
associations, and is socially very much of a cosmopolite, being a member
of New York, Chicago, Cincinnati, Atlanta and Macon clubs, besides that
wealthy sportsman’s paradise, the Jekyl Island Club.

One of the very few Southerners who have advanced into the circles of
millionairedom, Mr. Spencer resides principally in New York and
Washington, but is much in the South and is still in feeling and
sentiment very much a Southerner.

                        James Clarke McReynolds.

  JAMES C. McREYNOLDS
]

In the appointment of James C. McReynolds to be Assistant Attorney
General of the United States the President followed his revolutionary
precedent in the selection of Judge Thomas G. Jones, of Alabama, as
occupant of the Federal Bench. In this instance conventional custom was
further ignored in the elevation of a man considerably younger than the
age generally considered requisite.

Born at Elkton, Ky., a little over forty years ago, Mr. McReynolds was
graduated from Vanderbilt University and the University of Virginia with
his academic and law degrees, respectively, in both of which
institutions he ranked high in scholarship and character.

His initial experience in public life was gained as the private
secretary of Judge Howell E. Jackson of the United States Supreme Bench,
which, with his already ample legal equipment, served him in good stead
in the general practice in Nashville where his career at the bar was
characterized by ability, integrity and a high order of fidelity to the
many large interests that he represented.

In civic and political movements Mr. McReynolds’ record was signalized
by a notably courageous, independent and unselfish interest.

Since his promotion to the duties of Assistant Attorney General of the
United States he has established principles of large governmental
significance and his able presentation of the government’s litigation
before the Supreme Court has elicited the unanimous commendation of that
impartial and august body.

Mr. McReynolds’ appreciation by the President would have been further
displayed by his appointment as United States District Judge to succeed
Judge Hammond, had not a technicality involving residence interfered.

  THOMAS DIXON, JR.
]

                           Thomas Dixon, Jr.

One of the most picturesque and dramatic figures in the limelight of
to-day is the Rev. Thomas Dixon, Jr., a man who has at his age probably
succeeded in as many different lines of endeavor as any other man of the
times.

An intense product of the new South, Mr. Dixon speaks his opinions on
his section’s great and peculiar problems with an incisive virility and
a fearless conviction, and with his novels, “The Leopard’s Spots” and
“The Clansman” has gained a popular audience for the Southern point of
view, before unreached. He has also illumined the divorce evil and the
subject of socialism in his dramatic story, “The One Woman.”

Born in North Carolina just forty years ago, and educated at Wake
Forest, a Baptist denominational school, Mr. Dixon has in rapid
succession essayed the fields of law, the ministry, lecturing and
authorship, and has been prominently identified with each. He was a
member of the North Carolina legislature at one time and is said to have
essayed the histrionic for a brief spell.

First attaining more than casual prominence as a Baptist minister in New
York, Mr. Dixon felt the opportunity of a non-sectarian evangelist
fraught with higher possibilities in the metropolis and more in keeping
with his temperament and convictions, founding a popular church wherein
as a religious and civic free lance he attracted a large and influential
hearing.

On the lecture platform he found a broader and more congenial labor
still, and from lecturing he took to literature, to which he is now
devoting his time exclusively. He has planned a trilogy of novels in
exposition of the negro question, the second of which, “The Clansman,”
takes its text from the vital role played by the Ku Klux in the
redemption of the South from the triple scourge of the carpet bagger,
the scalawag and their irresponsible tool, the ignorant African.

Mr. Dixon’s late successes have constituted him a man of affairs and he
now resides upon his extensive Virginia plantation, where he does much
of his literary work and incidentally lives the life of the Virginia
planter and gentleman of the olden day.

He is proud to admit the valuable assistance rendered him by his wife,
not only as literary critic but as a ready helper in the physical
construction of his productions.

  JOHN TEMPLE GRAVES.
]

                          John Temple Graves.

As lecturer, orator and editor, John Temple Graves, of Atlanta, is well
known to the country at large. As a lecturer he is classed by George R.
Wendling as being in a class with Governor Taylor at the head of the
Southern field; as an orator he has had the distinction of presenting
his section’s sentiments and peculiar problems to the national ear as
has no other man since Henry W. Grady; and as an editor he has by the
forcefulness of his personality developed in a brief period of time an
extensive business enterprise and a material public influence in his
section.

Mr. Graves’ most telling work on the platform has doubtless been his
contribution to the enlightenment of the Northern mind on the negro
question, while on this and various other subjects he has appeared three
times as the orator of the New England Society of Boston, twice of the
Merchants’ Club of Boston, once of the New England Society of
Philadelphia and twice of the Southern Society of New York. In the
capacity of journalist he has officially represented the South as
spokesman before the World’s Congress of Journalists at Chicago, in
1893, and also before the World’s Press Parliament at St. Louis, last
summer.

As a memorial orator Mr. Graves is entitled to distinguished rank, it
having devolved upon him to deliver the funeral orations over the
remains of his state’s most eminent sons—Grady and Gordon.

Mr. Graves is still a young man and is a native of Rome, Ga., and a
graduate of his state institution at Athens, of which he is a devoted
alumnus. He now devotes his time chiefly to his journalistic interests
and resides in Atlanta.

Though not a politician Mr. Graves has been twice elector at large in
two consecutive presidential campaigns in different states, and has led
the Democratic ticket in both instances.

                               IN VENICE.

                        BY ISABELLA HOWE FISKE.

           All seems a dream of art—upon the arch
           Of the grey bridge, the dim canal that spans,
           A child steps, hand-raised, and my eye that scans,
           Can scarce believe that here too, centuries march,
           For Titian might have painted her just so,
           Slow-foot Venetian centuries ago.

                          JOSEPH A. ALTSHELER.

  Joseph A. Altsheler, whose story, “The Lost Herd,” follows, is a
  representative type of the new generation of Southerners in
  contemporary literature.

  Born, reared and educated in the South, he has won successive and
  substantial laurels in both journalism and literature, and is at
  present the unusual combination of a successful figure in both fields.

  Born in Kentucky, that commonwealth that has contributed so many
  distinguished workers to the literary history of the day, he attended
  the local schools of his native heath in the southern part of the
  state until entering Vanderbilt University, where he ranked high in
  class work, being a Latin scholarship man.

  After leaving college, he immediately took up journalistic work in
  Louisville with _The Evening Post_, subsequently going with the
  _Courier-Journal_, with which paper he remained several years, gaining
  wide journalistic experience as legislative correspondent, dramatic
  critic, city editor and editorial writer.

  In 1892 Mr. Altsheler followed the almost inevitable ambition of the
  American with pronounced literary attainments, migrating to the broad
  and inviting field of the metropolis, since which time he has
  successively filled responsible positions with the _New York World_,
  being at present in charge of its tri-weekly edition.

  About nine years ago Mr. Altsheler turned his attention seriously to
  fiction, since which time he has produced no less than ten novels, in
  many of which he has drawn largely upon his own extensive personal
  experiences as a journalist.

  His first book was “The Sun of Saratoga,” while his latest is “Guthrie
  of the Times,” a contemporary romance with a strong political flavor.
  He has now in press “The Candidate,” also a novel of the day, and
  likewise treating of political life, this time in the West instead of
  in Kentucky.

                             THE LOST HERD.

                        By Joseph A. Altsheler.

Redfield parted the twining bushes with both hands, and pushed his body
through the cleft, while I stood by to see the issue. He took but a
single step and then threw himself back like a soldier who would escape
a bullet, his face, now turned toward me, showing a yellowish hue in the
moonlight. He raised his hand and wiped his damp forehead, while I gazed
at him in silence, seeing fear, sudden and absolute, in his gaze, as if
death had faced him, with no warning.

We stood so, for a few moments, until the terror died slowly in his
eyes, when he took another step back, and laughing a little, in a
nervous way, pointed before him with a long forefinger.

I advanced, but he put a restraining hand upon my shoulder, and bade me
take only a single step. I obeyed and, with his hand still on my
shoulder, looked down a drop of a thousand feet, steep like the side of
a house, the hard stone of the wall showing gray and bronze, where the
light of the moon fell upon it.

I saw at the bottom masses of foliage like the tops of trees, and
running through them a thread of silver, which I felt sure was the
stream of a brook or creek. We were looking into a green valley, and now
I understood Redfield’s terror, when instinct or quickness of eye, or
both, saved him from the next step, which would have taken him to sure
death.

The valley looked pleasant, with green trees and running water, and I
suggested that it would furnish a good camp to us who were weary of
mountains and ravines and stony paths.

Redfield pointed straight before us, and three miles away rose the
mountain wall again, steep and bare, the hard stone gleaming in the
moonlight. I followed his finger as he moved it around in a circle, and
the wall was there, everywhere. The valley seemed to be enclosed by
steep mountains as completely as the sea rings around a coral island.

I said that I had never heard of such a place in these mountains, and
Redfield reminded me that there were many things of which neither he nor
I had ever heard, and perhaps never would hear.

His retort did not dim my curiosity, in which he shared fully, and,
lying down for greater security, we stared over the brink into the
valley, which looked like a huge bowl, sunk there by nature. The sky was
clear, the moon was rising, and we could see the boughs of the trees
below waving in the gentle wind. The silver thread of the brook widened,
cutting across the valley like a sword blade, and we almost believed
that we saw soft green turf by its banks. But on all sides of the bowl
towered the stone walls, carved into fantastic figures by the action of
time and mountain torrents.

The green valley below could not remove the sense of desolation which
the walls, grim and hard, inspired. My eyes turned from the foliage to
the sweep of stone rising above, black where the light could not reach
it, then gray and bronze and purple and green as if the moon’s rays had
been tinted by some hidden alchemy. I assisted nature with my own
imagination and carved definite shapes—impish faces and threatening
armies in the solid stone of the walls. I felt the shiver of Redfield’s
hand, which was still upon my shoulder, and he complained that he was
chilled. I knew it to be the stony desolation of the walls, and not the
cold of the night, that made him shiver, for I, too, felt it in my
bones, and I proposed that we look no more, at least not then, but build
a fire, and rest and sleep.

We did as I proposed, but while we gathered the fallen brushwood, each
knew what was in the other’s mind; the mystery of the valley was upon
us, and we would wait only until daylight to enter it and see what it
held.

Redfield lighted the fire, and the blaze, rising above the heaps of dry
sticks and boughs, was twisted into coils of red ribbon by the wind; a
thin cloud of smoke gathered and floated off over the valley, where it
hung like a mist, while the wind moaned in the great cleft.

Redfield complained that he was still cold, and wrapping his blanket
tightly around him, sat close to the fire, where I noticed that he did
not cease to shiver. I spread out my own blanket, and by and by both of
us lay down on the grass seeking sleep.

When I awoke far in the night, the fire had burned down, the moon was
gone, and Redfield’s figure, beyond the bed of coals, was almost hidden
by the darkness. Damp mists had gathered on the mountain, and my hand,
as I drew the corners of the blanket around my throat, shook with cold.

Not being able to sleep again just then, I rose and put more wood on the
heap of coals. But the fire burned with a languid, drooping blaze,
giving out little warmth and offering no resistance to the encroaching
darkness. Redfield slept heavily and was so still that he lay like one
dead. The flickering light of the fire fell over his face sometimes and
tinted it with a pale red.

I sat by the coals a little while, looking around at the dim forest, and
then the attraction of the great pit, or valley, drew me toward it.

I knelt down at the brink, holding to the scrubby bushes with each hand,
and looked over, but I could no longer see the trees and brook below.
The valley was filled with mists and vapors, and from some point beneath
came the loud moan of the wind.

I stayed there a long time, gazing down at the clouds and vapors, which
heaped upon each other and dissolved, showing denser vapors below, and
then heaped up in terraces again. The stone walls, when I caught
glimpses of them, seemed wholly black in the darkness of the night, and
the queer shapes which took whatever form my fancy wished were
exaggerated and distorted by the faintness of the light. The place put a
spell upon me; if Redfield would not go with me in the morning to
explore it, though knowing well he would, I resolved to go alone, and
see what, if anything, was there besides grass and trees and water. I
felt the strange desire to throw myself from a height which sometimes
lays hold of people, and instantly pulling myself back from the brink I
returned to the fire. Redfield was yet sleeping heavily and the flames
had sunk again, flickering and nodding as they burned low. I lay down
and slept until morning, when I awoke to find that Redfield was already
cooking our breakfast. He proposed that we begin the descent in an hour,
and like myself he seemed to have accepted the conclusion that we had
agreed upon the attempt, though neither had said a word about it.

The valley assumed a double aspect in the bright light of the morning,
green and pleasant far down where the grass grew and the brook flowed,
but grim and gaunt as ever in its wide expanse of rocky wall. The rising
sun broke in a thousand colored lights upon the cliffs, and the stony
angles and corners threw off tiny spear points of flame. The majesty of
the place which had taken hold of us by night held its sway by day.

We had no doubt that we should find a slope suitable for descent if we
sought long enough, and we pushed our way through the bushes and over
the masses of sharp and broken stone along the brink until our bones
ached and our spirit was weak. Yet we encouraged each other with the
hope that we would soon reach such a place, though the circle of the
valley was soon proved to be much greater than we had expected.

Noon came and we were forced to rest and eat some of the cold food that
we had wisely brought with us. The sun was hot on the mountains and the
stone walls of the valley threw the light back in our eyes until,
dazzled, we were forced to look away. But we had no thought of ceasing
the quest; such a discovery was not made merely to leave the valley
unexplored, and rising again after food and rest we resumed our task.
About the middle of the afternoon I saw a break in the wall which we
thought to be a ravine or gully of sufficient slope to permit of our
descent into the valley, but it was nearly night when we reached the
place and found our opinion was correct.

The ravine was well lined with short bushes which seemed to ensure a
safe descent, even in twilight, and we began the downward climb, seeking
a secure resting place among the rocks for each footstep and holding
with both hands to the bushes and vines.

The sun, setting in a sky of unbroken blue, poured a flood of red and
golden light into the valley. The walls blazed with vivid colors, and
the green of the trees and grass was deepened. Redfield stopped, and
touching me on the shoulder pointed with his finger to the little plain
in the center of the valley where a buffalo herd was grazing. Such they
were we knew at the first glance, for one could not mistake the great
forms, the humped shoulders and shaggy necks.

Neither of us sought to conceal his surprise, and perhaps neither would
have believed what his eyes told him had it not been for the presence
and confirmation of the other. We knew, as everybody else knew, that the
wild buffalo had been exterminated in this region years ago, and that
even now the only herd left in the whole United States was somewhere in
the tangled mountains of Colorado, and yet here we were gazing upon
another herd of these great animals, at least fifty of them, for we
could count them as they moved placidly about and cropped the short
turf.

We remained a quarter of an hour in that notch in the wall exulting over
our second discovery, for we considered the tenants of the valley of as
great importance as the valley itself, and exchanged with each other
sentences of surprise and wonder. The sun hovered directly over the
further brink, and poised there, a huge globe of red, shot through with
orange light, it seemed to pour all its rays upon the valley.

Every object was illumined and enlarged. The buffaloes rose to a
gigantic height, the trees were tipped with fire, and the brook gleamed
red and yellow where the rays of the sun struck directly upon it. Again
we said to each other what a wonderful discovery was ours and looked to
the rifles that we had strapped across our backs, for seeing the great
game of the valley we had it in mind to enjoy unequalled sport. I
lamented the speedy departure of the day, but Redfield thought the night
would give us a better chance to stalk the big game, and thus talking we
resumed the descent. The sun sank behind the mountains, the red and
golden lights faded, and the valley lay below us in darkness. The
buffalo herd had disappeared from our sight, but feeling sure that we
should find it we continued our descent, clinging to the bushes and
vines, and wary with our footing.

The twilight was not so deep that the gray mountain walls did not show
through it, and as we painfully continued our descent the trees and the
brook rose again out of the dusk. Nearing the last steps of the slope we
could see that the valley was much larger than it had looked from above,
and our wonder at the presence of the herd was equalled by our wonder at
the manner in which it had ever reached such a place, as there seemed to
be no entrance save the perilous path by which we had come.

At last we left the bushes and stones of the ravine and, standing with
feet half buried in the soft turf of the valley, looked up at the sky as
if from the bottom of a pit.

The twilight was as clear around us as it had been on the mountain
above, and we could see a pleasant stretch of sward, the land rolling
gently, with clumps of bushes and large trees clustering here and there.

We did not pause to look about, both being filled with the ardor of the
chase, and we walked quickly toward the little bit of prairie in which
we had seen the buffaloes, examining our rifles to be sure that they
were loaded properly. I felt that sense of unreality which strange
surroundings always give.

The night, now fully come, was not dark, the stars were appearing and a
pale light glimmered along the edges of the cliffs, which seemed, as I
looked up, to overhang and threaten us.

We reached the brook that we had seen from above, a fine stream of clear
water, a foot deep and a dozen or more across. We paused there to drink
and refresh ourselves, and found it cool and natural to the taste. I
supposed that it flowed into some cave through the mountain, since I
could not imagine any other outlet; but the matter remained for only a
few seconds in my mind, as Redfield began to tug at my sleeve and urge
me on to the chase, to which I was nothing loth.

Yet I noticed that there were no other signs of animal life in the
valley. Not a rabbit popped up in the grass; the trees were fresh with
foliage, but no birds flew among the boughs. All around us was silence,
save for the soft crush of our own footsteps and our breathing, now
quickened by our exertions. I called Redfield’s attention to this
silence and absence of life, and we stopped again and listened but heard
nothing. The night was without wind; I could not see a leaf on the trees
stir, the air felt close and heavy, and Redfield told me that my face
was without color; I had noticed that fact already in his.

Fifty yards farther and we came to the open space in which we had seen
the herd, and we felt sure that it was not far beyond us, for the heads
of the animals had been turned south and we believed they had continued
to move in that direction as they nibbled the grass. We paused to take
another look at our rifles, our ardor for the chase rising to the
highest, leaving us no thought of anything but to kill.

I had never before hunted such big game and I felt now the thrill which
leads men to risk their own lives that they may take those of the most
dangerous wild beasts. The twilight had deepened somewhat, and though of
a grayer tone in the valley, where mists seemed to be collected and
hemmed, it was not dense enough to hinder our pursuit.

Redfield paused suddenly and put his hand upon my shoulder though I had
seen them as soon as he. The herd was grazing in the edge of a little
grove a few hundred yards ahead of us, but within plain sight. This
closer view confirmed our count from the mountain-side that they were
about fifty in number, and admiration mingled with our wonder, for they
were magnificent in size, true monarchs of the wilderness, grazing,
unseen by man, while the rush of civilization passed around their
mountains and pressed on, hundreds of miles into the Farther West. Their
figures stood out in the gray twilight, huge and somber, surpassing in
size anything that I had imagined. I felt a joy that I was one of the
two whose fortune it was to find such game, a proud anticipation of the
trophies that I would show. I saw the same exhilaration in Redfield’s
eyes, and again we spoke to each other of our fortune.

I held up a wet finger, and finding that the wind was blowing from the
herd toward us we resumed our advance, sure that we could approach near
enough for rifle shot. The herd was noiseless, like ourselves, the huge
beasts seeming to step lightly as they cropped the grass, the scraping
of the bushes as they pushed through them not reaching our ears. Again
the sense of silence, of desolation oppressed me. The grayness over
everything, the trees, the grass, the mountains, Redfield, myself even,
the unreality of the place and our situation seized me and clung to me,
though I strengthened my will and went on, the zeal of the chase
directing all else.

Our stalking proceeded with a success that was encouraging to novices
like ourselves, and a few more cautious steps would take us within good
rifle shot. We marked two of the animals, the largest two of the herd,
standing near a clump of bushes, and we agreed that we should fire first
upon these, Redfield taking the one on the right. If we failed to slay
at the first shot, which was very likely, the chase would be sure to
lead us directly down the valley, and we could easily slip fresh
cartridges into our rifles as we ran. Nor could the game escape us
within such restricted limits; and thus, feeling secure of our triumph,
we slipped forward with the greatest caution until we were within the
fair range that we wished. Then we stood motionless until we could
secure the best aim, each selecting the target upon which we had agreed.

The herd seemed to have no suspicion of our presence. However acute
might be the buffalo’s sense of smell, it had brought to them no warning
of our presence. Their heads were half buried in the long grass, and as
I looked along the barrel of my rifle, I felt again the stillness of the
valley, the utter sense of loneliness which made me creep a little
closer to Redfield, even as I sought the vital spot in the animal at
which I aimed my rifle.

Redfield whispered that we could hardly miss at such good range, and
then we pulled trigger so close together that our two rifles made one
report.

We were good marksmen, but both the buffaloes whirled about, untouched
as far as we could see, and looked at us. The entire herd followed these
two leaders, and in an instant fifty pairs of red eyes confronted
Redfield and myself. Then they charged us like a troop of cavalry, heads
down, their great shoulders heaving up. We slipped hasty cartridges into
our rifles and fired again, but the shots, like the first, seemed to
have no effect, and, in frightened fancy, feeling the breath of the
angry beasts already in our faces, we turned and ran with all speed up
the valley, in fear of our lives and praying silently for refuge. I hung
to my rifle with a kind of instinct, and I noticed that Redfield, too,
carried his. I looked once over my shoulder and saw the herd pursuing,
not fifty feet away, in solid line like the front of an attacking
square. I shouted to Redfield to dart to one side among some trees,
hoping that the heavy brutes would rush past us as we could not hope to
outrun them in a straight course, and he obeyed with promptness. We
gained a little by the trick, but the buffaloes turned again presently,
and then we seized the hanging boughs of two convenient trees, and,
managing to retain our rifles, climbed hastily up and out of present
danger.

The buffaloes stopped about a hundred feet away, still in unbroken
phalanx, and stared at us with red eyes. I was filled with fear; I will
not deny it, I felt it in every fiber. I had heard always that these
beasts, however huge, were harmless, their first rush over, but they
were looking at us now with eyes of human intelligence and even more
than human rage; a steady, tenacious anger that threatened us, and
seemed to demand our lives as the price of our attempt upon theirs. I
felt cold to the bone, and the angry gaze of the besieging beasts held
my own eyes until I turned them away, with an effort, and looked at
Redfield. Then I saw that he was as white and afraid as I knew myself to
be. I told him that we were besieged, and he rejoined that the attitude,
the look of our besiegers, betokened persistency.

While we talked, the buffaloes began to move and we hoped that we had
been mistaken in our belief, and that they would abandon us, but the
hope was idle. They formed a complete circle around us, a ring of
sentinels, each motionless after he had assumed his proper position, the
red eyes shining out of the massive, lowered heads, and fixed on us.
Redfield laughed, but it was not the laugh of mirth. He asked me what we
had to fear from the buffalo, which was not a beast of prey; they would
turn away presently and begin to crop the grass again, but his tone did
not express a belief in his own words.

The night had not darkened, but the curious grayness which was the
prevailing quality of the atmosphere in the valley had deepened, and the
forms of the beasts on guard became less distinct. Yet it seemed only to
increase the penetrating gaze of their eyes, which flamed at us like a
circle of watch fires. The sentinels were noiseless as well as
motionless. The wind whimpered gently through the leaves of the trees,
but there was nothing else to be heard in the valley, and saving
ourselves and the buffaloes, nothing of human or animal life to be seen.
Redfield said to me that he wished our guards would move, that while
they stayed in such fixed attitudes he felt as if we were watched by so
many human beings. His voice was at a higher pitch than usual, and I
felt a strange pleasure in noticing it, for I knew then that he had been
affected as I by our peculiar position. He burst suddenly into a laugh,
and when I asked him where he found amusement, he reminded me that both
of us yet carried our rifles, though we seemed to have forgotten the use
for which they were made. He added that the sentinels were within easy
range, and since our object was now self-preservation and not sport, we
could sit on the boughs in perfect safety and shoot as many of them as
we chose, unless they retired.

It was the power of surprise and fear that had prevented us from
thinking of this before, though the weapons were in our hands, and I
felt a sense of shame that we had permitted ourselves to be overwhelmed
in such a manner. I waited before raising my own rifle, to see the
effect of Redfield’s shot. I saw him select his target and look down the
barrel of his rifle as he sought to make his aim true. The eyes of the
buffalo had seemed so human in their intelligence and anger that I
expected to see the animal, knowing his danger, retreat when the rifle
was raised. But he made no motion, looking straight into the muzzle of
the weapon which was threatening him. Redfield pulled the trigger and
fired, and then both of us cried out in surprise and displeasure.

The buffalo did not move, and if the bullet had touched him there was no
mark upon him that we could see to tell of its passage. Redfield said it
was the bad light that had made him miss, but I believed it was a
trembling hand—that the chill, though the night was warm, which affected
me had seized him, too. Yet I steadied myself now that my own time to
fire had come, and took good aim at the buffalo nearest to my tree. It
may have been the strength of my imagination, and in reality the eyes of
the brute may not have been visible at all at such a distance and in the
night, but I was sure that they were staring at me with human malice,
and another expression, too, that I interpreted as defiance. I was
seized with a sudden and fierce anger—anger because I had been afraid,
anger because there was a taunt in the eyes of the beast.

I pulled the trigger and looked eagerly at the result of my shot; then I
cried aloud in disappointment, as Redfield had done. The buffalo,
untouched, was staring at me with the same malicious eyes, not even
moving his head when I fired.

Redfield laughed once more in a mirthless way, and I told him angrily to
hush; that he was afraid but I was not, and I would fire again. I put in
a second cartridge but the shot was as futile as the first, and
Redfield, who tried once more, had a similar lack of success. But we
told each other, and with all the greater emphasis because we were not
sure of it, that it was the imperfect light and our nerves strained by
the descent of the rough cliff. I noticed that Redfield’s voice was
growing louder and more uneven as we talked, and his eyes were gleaming.

At last we exhausted our cartridges without touching the silent ring of
sentinels, or making any of them move, and Redfield, throwing his rifle
to the ground, laughed in the curious, unnatural way that makes one
shiver. I bade him stop and I spoke with anger, but he paid no attention
either to my words or my manner. His laughter ended shrilly, and then he
said that he understood it all: that these animals had been hunted from
the face of the earth except this lone herd, which was left here to hunt
any man who came against it. Behold the present as the proof of what he
said!

I laughed at him, yet my laughter, like his, sounded strange even in my
own ears, and looking at the silent ring of sentinels, I believed his
words to be true. When or how we should escape I could not foresee, and
I did not feel the fear of death; and yet there was nothing that I had
in the world which I would not have given to be out of the valley. The
rifle which I had used to such little purpose burned my hands, and I let
it drop to the ground.

Redfield laughed again in a shrill, acrid way, and when I asked him to
stop, jeered at me and bade me notice how faithful our besiegers were to
their duty.

Not one of them had moved from the circle, their forms becoming duskier
as the night deepened, but growing larger in the thick atmosphere. The
sky above was cloudless, and we seemed to see it from interminable
depths; the huge cliffs rose out of the mists, shapeless walls, and the
trees became gray and shadowy. Redfield began to talk, volubly and about
nothing, varying his chatter with the same shrill, unpleasant laughter,
and I, finding it useless to bid him hush, said nothing. Yet I wished
that he would cease, and I might hear other sounds, the leap of a rabbit
or the scamper of a deer, anything to disturb that horrible chatter, and
the equally horrible silence, otherwise. Securing myself in the crook of
a bough and the tree I tried to sleep, and I think that at last I fell
into a kind of stupor, in which I heard only Redfield’s shrill laugh.
But I awoke from it to find a clear moon, and our silent line of
sentinels still there. The wind, risen somewhat, was moaning up the
valley and the night was cold.

Redfield was silent then, but when I called to him he answered in a
natural tone for the first time in hours and asked me if I had anything
to suggest, as we must change our present position very soon. I told him
that we must descend from the trees, find the path out of the valley and
leave by it, at once. He pointed to the sentinels and said nothing would
induce him to face them, but I told him we must do it since it was the
only thing left for us, though I will admit that my own sense of fear
was of such strength that my words were braver than myself.

The moon came out again and the forms of our guards grew more distinct,
ceasing to have the shadowy quality which at times in the last hour had
made them waver before me. Nevertheless, the light still served to
distort them and enlarge them to gigantic size, and my imagination gave
further aid in the task.

Redfield became silent again, and I thought he might be asleep, but when
I looked at him I saw his eyes shining with the same unnatural light
that I had marked there before, and I felt with greater force than ever
that we must not long delay our attempt to leave the valley. But I
remained for a while without movement or without thought of what we
should do. The belief that we had come there to be hunted by the
survivors of the millions whom we had hunted out of existence became a
conviction, and I felt a reluctance to meet the eyes of the avenging
beasts, eyes that I could always see with my imagination if not with my
own gaze. The light of the moon struck fairly on the sides of the great
cliffs and the grotesque and threatening faces which my fancy had carved
there in the rock lowered at us again. I could even distort the trees
into gigantic half-human shapes, leaning toward us and taunting us, but
I shut my eyes and drove them away. I had not forgotten the curious
light gleaming in Redfield’s eyes.

An hour later I told Redfield that we must descend, that we could not
stay forever where we were and it was foolish for us to delay, wearing
out our strength and weakening our wills with so long and heavy a vigil.
He said no, that he would not stir while those beasts were there
watching; he could see a million red eyes all turned upon him and he
knew that as soon as he touched the earth the owners of those eyes would
rush upon him and trample him to death. I felt some of his own
reluctance, but knowing that it was no time to waste words I told him
that he could stay where he was, if he chose, but I was going; I had
seen enough of the valley and certainly I would never come near it
again. So speaking I began to descend the tree, and Redfield instantly
began to tremble and beg me, like a child, not to go. He said he could
not be left there alone and he would not be for all the world.
Strengthened in my purpose by his pleadings and believing that my method
would compel him to come I again bade him stay if he wished, it was
nothing to me; but while I said these things I continued to descend.
When he saw that I was in truth going he began to lower himself from his
tree, though still begging me not to make the attempt.

My foot struck the ground and I stood there afraid, but resolute. Our
guards still gazed at us but made no movement to attack, and I drew
courage from the fact.

Redfield was shivering, and perhaps my own courage was not of the best,
but I pointed to a dark line in the face of a distant cliff where the
moonlight fell clearly, and asked if it were not the ravine by which we
had come. He said yes, and not giving him time to think and to hesitate
about it I seized him by the arm and pulled him on, telling him that we
must reach the ravine as quickly as we could and leave the valley. Then
we advanced directly toward that segment of the watchful circle which
stood between us and the point we desired to reach.

I retained my firm grasp upon Redfield’s arm and I felt the flesh
trembling under my fingers. We did not recall until long afterward that
we had forgotten our rifles. As we advanced, the line of buffaloes
parted and we passed through it. Redfield cried out in childish delight
and said they were afraid of us, but I shook him, more in anger than
from any wiser motive, and hastened our steps. Fear rolled away from me
and I felt an exhilaration that made me walk with buoyant step. I
dropped my hand from Redfield’s arm and we walked on at a swift pace, my
eyes fixed on the dark line in the cliff which marked the ravine, our
avenue of escape from the valley. Redfield suddenly put his hand upon my
shoulder and motioned me to look back. When I obeyed I saw the buffaloes
following us in a long line, as regular and even as a company of
soldiers. Redfield laughed in the mirthless way which marked him that
night and said we had an escort who would see that we did not linger in
the valley. I could not say that he was wrong, but I grew impatient with
him when he tried to make a jest of it and talked of our bodyguard. I
knew that he was trembling, and I asked angrily, though not in words,
why they could not let us alone. We were leaving as fast as we could,
and as for coming back, nothing could drag me to that valley again; no,
nothing, and I said the “nothing” aloud with angry emphasis.

Our guard did not desert us, but followed at fifty or sixty yards with
noiseless step. And again I noticed that there was no other animal life
in the valley, though the grass was green and the woods abundant, a
place that the birds and rabbits should love.

The outlines of the pass grew more distinct, the tracery of bushes and
vines that lined it was revealed, and in a few minutes we would arrive
at the first slope. I felt like a criminal, a murderer, taken in
disgrace from the place of his crime, and this feeling once having
seized me would not leave, but grew in strength and held me. Redfield
was my brother in crime, and certainly his face, his nerveless manner,
showed his guilt.

I hastened my footsteps, eager to leave the place. Redfield kept pace
with me, and in silence we reached the first slope. It was a rugged and
toilsome ascent, but I thought little of such things, the joy of escape
from the valley mastering all other emotions. A third of the way we
paused, and, looking back, saw the silent line of sentinels watching at
the foot of the cliff, their eyes turned up at us.

Then we resumed our ascent, and, reaching the top of the cliff, left the
lost herd, forever.

                          THE ISLES OF SCILLY.

                       By James Henry Stevenson.

Do not visit The Scillies. Go to Penzance—a charming spot that has not
received the attention from the tourist that it deserves—and see the
hopeful passengers take ship in the morning for the “blessed isles;”
inspect them again on their return in the evening; if you are still
curious go to Land’s End—a drive of eight or ten miles—and look across
the sea that lies between you and The Scillies; buy a guide book and a
few pictures when you come home, and bless your stars that you did not
tempt the deep.

This is the advice which I vowed I would give, when, one day last
summer, for three awful hours I “hove” with the heaving deep. I am not
usually a poor sailor. Indeed I have generally crossed the Atlantic
without making my offering to the gods of the Abyss. Anything in reason
I am prepared to do, but the demands of the little steamer that plies
between the Islands and Penzance are altogether unreasonable.

It was a beautiful morning and Mount’s Bay, on which Penzance is so
picturesquely situated, was as placid as a swimming tank, but I noticed
that the wind was blowing fresh from the southeast, and I mentally
observed that there was likely to be trouble when we rounded Land’s End.
I am proud of that prophecy now, though trouble came sooner than I had
anticipated.

Long before we had lost the shelter of the rocky and fascinating coast
that girts the shores of Cornwall towards Land’s End, many a swain, who
had started off that morning with a light heart and “Arriet,” sadly
admitted that “all was vanity.”

When we reached Land’s End I lost interest in the scenery and gave
up—among other things—the unequal struggle. The “Lyonesse” was crowded
and there was no place to lie down. Indeed one was fortunate to find a
seat. I secured a camp stool and a vacant place in the gang-way, and as
I watched, or rather was conscious of, the movements of our vessel, she
seemed like a fabled sea monster sporting in the deep. Poised for a
moment jauntily on the wave’s crest, or plunging her nose beneath a huge
billow, she was equally happy. I called to mind the legend of the
Lyonesse, the continent that once stretched between Cornwall and the
Isles of Scilly, and which in the days of “good king Arthur” sunk below
the deep at the command of Merlin, engulfing Mordred and his host as
they thundered hard after the remnant of the slain Arthur’s army. I
thought of this and then I knew that our ship was trying to justify her
high sounding title. Just at this moment she made a plunge towards the
sunken continent and a huge wave swept in over the bow, most thoroughly
drenching a party of ambitious sightseers who were tempting Providence
on the ship’s nose. The wave rolled on towards me but I was too busy
just at that moment to successfully evade it.

As we passed close by Land’s End I roused up for a moment to look at the
celebrated point and again as we came in sight of Woolf lighthouse, a
solitary sentinel in the waste of waters, midway between the mainland
and the islands, and an eloquent witness for the Lyonesse legend.

As for the rest, I can say I was conscious of existence, but not taking
much interest in life, when a sudden cessation of the turmoil within and
without re-awakened somewhat my torpid senses, and as we made fast to
the dock, I dragged myself ashore and followed the haggard and
bedraggled passengers through a narrow street into the town. A short
walk brought me beyond the city to a grassy hillside, where, with my
camera for a pillow, having cast aside all literary and artistic
aspirations as worthless, I was soon blissfully unconscious of the
beauty and romance I had come so far and braved so much to see. In the
course of an hour or so, I was awakened by a grazing horse on the alert
for something green, and, recollecting my mission, started forth to make
the tour of the island.

  ST. MARY’S AND OLD TOWN.
]

We landed, as a matter of course, at Hugh Town, St. Mary’s, the largest
and most important island of the group, with Star Fort situated on its
eastern promontory, and Hugh Town on a narrow isthmus connecting this
promontory with the main body of the island.

As I have already intimated, the first thing of interest to me, on
coming ashore, was a vacant bit of real estate wherein to lie down and
forget my past. So, after shaking myself awake, I walked up a hill and
came in sight of the historic little church which is situated at the
head of the bay of Old Town, formerly the chief town of the island. The
church, a very quaint old structure, stands in an enclosure which rises
in successive terraces on the hillside and is filled with a striking
mixture of English and tropical vegetation.

Among the many interesting monuments in the churchyard, I noticed a
granite obelisk, erected by Mr. Holtzmaister of New York, to the memory
of his wife, who perished in the wreck of the ill-fated S. S.
_Schiller_, May 7, 1875. The inscription reads: “In memory of Louise
Holtzmaister, born at New York, May 15th, 1851, who lost her life in the
wreck of the S. S. _Schiller_ off the Scilly Isles, May the 7th, 1875.
Her body rests in the deep. This monument has been erected to her memory
as a mark of affection by her surviving husband.”

The memory fain would linger round some spot where the beloved take
their last long sleep. Tennyson’s beautiful lines awaken a heartfelt
response in every human breast:

                                        “Oh to us
              The fools of habit, sweeter seems
                To rest beneath the clover sod,
              That takes the sunshine and the rains,
              Or where the kneeling hamlet drains
                The chalice of the grapes of God,
                Than if with thee the roaring wells
              Should gulf him deep in fathom brine;
              And hands so often clasped in mine
                Should toss with tangle and with shells.”

  THE CHURCH AND THE TOMBS.
]

The people of these islands have witnessed many a tragedy of the sea in
their day, but perhaps none more awful than that which this monument
recalls. The _Schiller_, a staunch boat, built on the Clyde in 1873, was
in command of Captain Thomas, an Englishman by birth, but then a
naturalized German. She left New York on the 27th of April with
fifty-nine saloon, seventy-five second, and one hundred and twenty
steerage passengers. She was due at Plymouth on the 8th of May, but for
three days previous to the disaster no observations were obtained on
account of the weather. Early on Friday, the 7th, a heavy fog came down.
Captain Thompson, thinking he was near the islands, ordered the engines
at half speed, but about 10 P.M. she ran on the Retarrier Ledges, near
the Island of St. Agnes. Few were in bed at the time of the accident;
the boats were quickly launched, the sailors behaved splendidly, but the
sea was running high, and as the women and children crowded together
into the pavilion a heavy sea swept over it and carried all away. About
forty-five out of three hundred and forty-five were saved. Mrs. Jones
was the only lady survivor. By Saturday evening seventy-eight bodies,
nearly all with life-preservers on, had drifted ashore.

The old church, which is now restored and used only as a mortuary
chapel, was originally built in the form of a cross. In 1662 it was
enlarged. On each side of the communion table ran a long seat, the one
for the members of the Council and the other for their wives or the
widows of dead councilmen. In 1732 it was decreed that if a councilman
died, his wife was entitled to a seat among the wives of living
councilmen during her widowhood, but if she married she was deprived of
that privilege, unless she married a councilman. This high esteem in
which they held their women, and the fact that they used the church as a
council chamber, throw an instructive sidelight on the character of
these old representatives of the right of the people to govern
themselves.

  THE LOGAN ROCK.
]

We leave the quiet churchyard and its tragic story to continue our walk
around the island. A tramp on the promontory Peninnis, which stretches
out southward into the sea, brings to view many fantastic rock
formations. Great boulders are left curiously poised upon each other by
the action of wind and wave in ages past. Pulpit Rock, composed of huge
flat blocks of stone resting on each other and leaning out to sea, is
perhaps the most famous, though why it should be called “Pulpit Rock” is
more than one can well guess. It looks more like an hundred other things
than it does like a pulpit. Most of all it resembles a great gun mounted
on the rock to command the sea at this point. We next encounter the
Logan Rock (pronounce _loggan_). Everyone who has read Baedaker’s “Great
Britain” knows of the existence of Logan Rock in Cornwall, a rock of
sixty-five tons weight so delicately poised that it can be set in motion
quite easily. I was not aware before that the phenomenon had repeated
itself, but I learned last summer that there was quite a number of these
“_loggan_,” or rolling rocks to be found at different places.

The Logan Rock at St. Mary’s is quite famous and was discovered somewhat
recently by accident. A resident of the town, overtaken by the storm,
took shelter beneath a huge rock. The wind was blowing fiercely and to
his great surprise, if not terror, he discovered that the rock was
moving gently to and fro. He could scarcely believe his senses at first,
but on further examination, he found it was so poised that it readily
responded to his efforts and could be made to sway back and forth. Its
estimated weight is three hundred and sixty tons, and while it requires
some energetic effort to put it in motion it rocks with ease afterwards.

Hugh Town, the port and principal town of the island of St. Mary’s, and
indeed of the entire group of islands, enjoys a very unique situation.
On the southwest a promontory juts out into the sea. This is the site of
Star Fort, and one can make its circuit in about half an hour. It is
joined to the mainland by a narrow isthmus of sand which separates St.
Mary’s Pool, the harbor on the north, from Porth Cressa Bay, on the
south. On this narrow strip of land, across which a boy can cast a
stone, and over which the high tide threatens to leap, Hugh Town is
built. There is no pretension to architecture, no striking buildings,
none even that have the interest of antiquity to recommend them. The
town is practically contained on the narrowest part of the isthmus,
though westward, where the strip of land widens, the houses scatter
somewhat. Save for its audacious situation, daring, as it does, the rage
of the sea from both sides, it is commonplace and uninteresting.

  HUGH TOWN.
]

Too much cannot be said in favor of the islands as a health resort. They
are so small in area, and lie so low, that living on them is practically
living at sea. One may here take a protracted cruise with no reeling
deck beneath him, and no nightmare of _mal-de-mer_ to threaten his
dreaming hours.

There are no manufactures of any kind on the island, nor is anything
present to vitiate the air. Sea breezes, from the illimitable reaches of
the ocean, sweep at will across these tiny bits of land, from every
point of the compass, in quick succession. In winter the mean
temperature is 45 and in summer it is 58. The rain fall is very moderate
and, with fine consideration for the tourist, the rain generally comes
at night, a phenomenon noticeable in Cornwall also.

Here is a fine resting place for men and women, physically or mentally
weary. The rush of modern business life is wholly unknown; there are no
street cars nor elevated trains to catch; there is no congestion of
traffic in the streets; no roar of vehicles nor hum of business to
disturb the absolute rest that the place suggests or to chide one who is
disposed to take life easy. One lies down at night with the murmur of
distant waters echoing through his dreams and wakens in the morning to
the song of the surf.

The islands are said to be a “haven of refuge for sufferers from chronic
bronchitis, phthisis and consumption in all its terrible forms,
insomnia, and the strain of overwork; and for children one vast
playground with free and open beaches and sands difficult to surpass.”

Certainly it would be hard to find a more ideal place for overworked
humanity seeking rest and recuperation. The climate is all that could be
desired, living is cheap, the whole atmosphere breathes rest, and there
are ever present the constant sunshine and the eternal sea.

On St. Mary’s Sir Walter Besant lived while engaged on his celebrated
romance, “Armorel of Lyonesse,” the home of whose beautiful Armorel Sir
Walter located on the now uninhabited island of Samson. Half a century
ago Samson had a population of fifty souls, with ten houses, among which
“Armorel’s cottage” may still be seen. In 1885, only one family was
left, and now nothing remains save the wreck of the houses and the
traces of former cultivation, rapidly disappearing. The inhabitants were
moved to other islands to insure the better education of their children,
and, incidentally, to curtail a little private and untaxed trade which
they carried on with their French neighbors.

To trace the history of these fragments of a lost continent through
former generations would be most interesting, but it must be here
foregone. They have, however, bulked considerably in English history and
figured frequently in her relations with her continental neighbors. They
remained true to the royal cause after Charles I had been put to death,
having been held by Sir John Grenville for Charles II. The garrison was
reduced to submission by Ascue and Blake in 1651. Prince Charles was
sheltered in Star Castle for a short while after his flight from
Cornwall.

The islands were notorious as the scenes of smuggling operations during
the eighteenth century, but this was so vigorously dealt with that it
proved as unprofitable as the various honest efforts to earn a
livelihood that have been successively experimented with in this little
world.

It is said that Hamilco of Carthage, a colony of Phœnicia, discovered
the islands in 3000 B.C.; at any rate, they have been identified with
the Cassiterides or Hesperides of the Greeks, and the Sillinæ Insulæ of
the Romans. The Phœnicians traded with them for tin, which was most
probably brought from Cornwall, as there is no evidence that tin was
ever found on the islands. An allusion in Diodorus Siculus throws light
on this custom. He says: The tin “was first refined and then carried to
an adjacent island for shipment to Gaul.” The Romans reduced the islands
during their occupation of Great Britain and made them a place of
banishment, a use to which they were put by Great Britain also during
the seventeenth century.

The Danish sea-kings found them a convenient rallying point for raids
upon places in the Bristol Channel, but Athelstan drove the Danes out in
927. Subsequently an order of monks settled there, retaining an
independent government till Henry I subordinated them to the Abbot of
Tavistock. Scilly remained under the jurisdiction of the monks till the
dissolution of the monasteries in the reign of Henry VIII. The ruins of
an old abbey are still visible on the island of Tresco.

During the reign of Elizabeth, Sir Francis Godolphin built a number of
forts and Star Castle near Hugh Town. The latter remains to the present,
on the left of the harbor, at Star Fort.

We have noted that the islands were used by both Romans and Britons as a
place of punishment, and we learn that in 1637 John Bastwick, M.D.,
after having been banished there for writing libelous books against
church and government, was sentenced to pay a fine of £1,000, to stand
in the pillory, to have his ears cut off, and finally to be confined in
St. Mary’s castle. After such a generous assignment the story of the
“ducking chair” sounds like comedy. The offender guilty of some trifling
misdemeanor was tied in the chair at the head of the dock and thrown
into the water. One cannot help feeling that this would be fine
treatment for the American “hobo,” especially if the salt water was
available and it was not necessary to haul him out too soon.

The inhabitants have had a hard fight for existence and have been on the
verge of starvation more than once. Farming proved a failure. So
likewise did smuggling, shipbuilding, fishing, and other experiments,
that for a time seemed to promise success.

Now, however, they are more prosperous than they have ever been. Early
potatoes, asparagus, and other vegetables are raised in large quantities
for the English market. In this respect Scilly is to London what Bermuda
is to New York. Besides the vegetables, flowers are cultivated for the
London market, and grow in such luxuriant profusion as to guarantee a
handsome return to the gardener. Anyone who has seen an acre or two of
lilies abloom in Bermuda knows what a glorious sight a field of flowers
is. We cannot judge from a florist’s window how splendid is a flower
farm.

During Christmas week wallflowers, marguerites, daisies, narcissi,
roses, pinks, marigolds, fuchsias, geraniums and chrysanthemums are
found in bloom.

The fields are divided off into little squares of about a quarter of an
acre, by high hedges. Here the flowers are protected from the winds and
cuddled up to the gracious sun. Under this nurture aloes attain a height
of five or six feet, and in blossoming throw up a bloom-spike as high as
eighteen or twenty feet.

As London is distant from the islands only about eleven hours it follows
that if the inhabitants are prepared to supply the metropolis with its
flowers and vegetables they may rest easy about “the wolf at the door.”

The islands number about forty, and are situated some twenty-seven miles
west of Land’s End. Five of them are inhabited, and the total
population, which increased during the decade by one hundred and four,
is some two thousand.

As we steamed out of the harbor a fleet of British war ships, twenty-two
in number, was lying at anchor in the bay. When one reflects that these
fighting machines are similarly in evidence in almost every harbor round
the world, he is convinced that Great Britain’s arm upon the sea is a
significant factor to be reckoned with in questions relating to the
world’s peace.

I met the captain of our ship as I stepped aboard and besought him,
though unbelief was regnant, to assure us of a smooth passage home. I
explained to him that I had contributed everything I possessed on the
way hither and that since then I had been too busy sleeping and seeing
the island to replenish my larder. He replied with cordial good humor
that the return voyage would be pleasant. Of course I was sceptical, but
to my great surprise, when we rounded the point where Star Fort is
situated, I saw at once that the ocean’s wrath was greatly appeased.

Time heals most wounds, and, while she banishes to a merciful oblivion
what is sad and unpleasant, she graciously leaves with us the undimmed
vision of our happy days. Thus it is that I have forgotten the raging of
the sea and the tossing of the ship, and treasure the picture which that
August morning brought me, “a small sweet world of wave-encompassed
wonder.”

                          THE LABOR QUESTION.
             WITH SPECIAL REFERENCE TO SOUTHERN CONDITIONS.

                            By Herman Justi.

  The writer of the following pages is one of the recognized authorities
  of the country on labor questions. Born in Kentucky about fifty-three
  years ago, he has been in his time merchant, manufacturer, banker,
  editor, traveler and sociologist. He lived in Tennessee for fifteen
  years and since 1898 has been in Chicago. As commissioner of the
  Illinois Coal Operators’ Association he has dealt with the perplexing
  problems of labor face to face, and thus has been obliged to test
  theory in the crucible of practice. Although a representative, in a
  sense, of capital, he is the friend of organized labor and is so
  recognized by its leaders.

  Mr. Justi has contributed to the current discussions of economic
  topics many valuable papers which have been printed in the leading
  periodicals of the country and it is therefore felt that the following
  paper, treating a question new to the South, but none the less, of
  prime and growing importance, will be read with deep interest.—ED.

In almost every discussion of the labor problem practically the only
class of labor taken into consideration is that known as common labor—by
which term is meant the labor that is grouped into large bodies. That
labor which is known in the North, East and West as common labor is
similarly known in the South. Mill, mine and factory hands, workers on
streets and highways, employes in railway depots and on wharves are
everywhere, for want of a better term, designated as common labor. In
this discussion no notice need be taken of highly skilled laborers who
can be safely classified among the crafts, and who are seldom found in
considerable groups. The craftsmen can take care of themselves and need
no union to protect them. They are treated, not like a commodity that
can be easily replaced by substitutes from an emigrant ship, but like
intelligent human agents, who must be handled with care and respect.

In considering the general subject of labor with special reference to
the South, the question of labor in itself, while important, is not
complicated with so many difficulties as confront us in the North; and
yet the difficulties are many, and some of them, unless intelligently
dealt with, may become serious.

For instance, the loss of the black man as a laborer at the South might
prove a serious embarrassment, or the loss by the black man of
confidence in and respect for the white man’s authority, might
necessitate an admixture, by immigration, of races and nationalities
which would push the black laborer to the wall, and should be avoided if
it is possible to avoid it. To no one is this a matter of so much
importance as to the black man.

The labor problem at the North would be infinitely simpler if there were
fewer nationalities, all of them speaking and understanding the English
tongue. This statement does not imply that those speaking foreign
tongues are necessarily inferior in character or intellect to the
English speaking laborer, but the troubles arise rather because the
non-English speaking laborers are the victims of deception by
unscrupulous interpreters who purposely misrepresent what is said to
them for their benefit, or what is said by them to their employers.

The fact that the black man speaks a language understood by the white
man is a point in his favor, and that is also a reason why he should
continue to be the most desirable common laborer obtainable. The negro
at the North is discriminated against in all labor organizations as well
as in every relation of life, but in the South he still has a fair
chance to market his labor, if he will avail himself of it and will
realize his opportunity. So far the very abundance of cheap common labor
in the South has hindered the growth of the labor union there and has in
many instances defeated its purposes when established. The want of
ambition, which makes the negro content with low wages and inferior
conditions of living, is sometimes found in common labor at the North,
but it is by no means so general as among the black race in the South.
Particularly is this the case in the cities, to which the negroes have
flocked in great numbers, denuding the plantations of needed help while,
in the cities, holding down the wages of common labor,—the only labor in
which the negro competition has yet been apparent. The employers of
labor in the South should do everything in their power to make of the
black man all that it is possible to make of him as a laborer; but, as
he has his limitations and as the black man will at times leave the
South and so leave an opening for new white labor, the South must use
her energies to educate this newly acquired immigrant labor up to
American standards—and no work that it can do will bring greater returns
than teaching the non-English laborer the language of his newly adopted
home.

The very fact that union or organized labor is not strong in the South,
when compared with the average sections of the North, gives the employer
class in the South an opportunity which they may and should utilize in
preparing for that time when the contests incident to organization are
sure to come. And in this preparation they want to bear in mind the
undeniable truth that the quality of the laborer is generally determined
by the quality of the employer. In considering the capacity of any body
of laborers we are unfailingly considering the capacity and intelligence
of the employers in directing their employes. Employer and employe alike
have splendid opportunities opening to them in the South, opportunities
in many respects unrivalled; and it is of the highest importance that
they make a right beginning and understand each other at the start. The
union will indubitably grow, and the employer should welcome it if it
presents itself as a business body seeking the highest wages compatible
with commercial or competitive conditions in return for the best
services of which the labor offered is capable.

But in the South labor must come with reason in its request. It need not
be servile, but it must be respectful, for it is still, as it has always
been, characteristic of the people of the South that they will brook no
interference with their individual liberty. The North does not, and
never did, understand the strength of this underlying principle of
Southern manhood. It is a principle so strong that it does not disappear
in a single generation.

A notable instance of this was seen in a recent dispute over the mining
scale in Franklin County, Illinois. The southern part of Illinois was
settled by Southerners, mainly by Tennesseans and Kentuckians, who
poured into that rich country for a few years before the war and for a
few years afterwards. There are whole communities now dominated by
Southern thought and principles. When the miners’ union was seeking to
establish itself in Franklin County, these farmers, either of Southern
birth or of Southern ancestry, having heard that the representatives of
the miners, whom they described as agitators, were undertaking to
interfere with the individual rights of their sons to work without
dictation from any one, offered their services to the newly established
companies. The newly established companies, however, politely declined
the proffered assistance, preferring peaceable adjustment. But the
tendered services would have been given just as willingly as they were
tendered.

What is needed in the North is also needed in the South; namely, wise
and well informed teachers who are able to illumine the great problem of
labor to the masses, in order that they may distinguish between anarchy
or socialism on the one hand and the accepted political principles of
our country on the other. But there is one thing to be truly said about
the South that will always commend itself to employers contemplating a
change of base or the establishment of themselves for the first time—and
it will commend itself to labor whether organized or unorganized—and
that is the doctrines of the socialist have found no encouragement
there. Such doctrines cannot thrive in the South any more than tropical
plants can survive in the polar regions. Labor leaders should rejoice—in
fact wise, educated, far-seeing labor leaders do rejoice—that this
spirit prevails in the South, for only so can they hold their own
against the radical, trouble-making element in their own ranks.

Thinking too much of established institutions and guarding them too
zealously may at times be a disadvantage, but as a general thing that
community is most law-abiding and most conservative in maintaining the
rights and privileges of all where due reverence is cherished for old
established institutions; and yet the wisest conservatism is that which
steadily, no matter how slowly, prepares itself for changes that are
inevitable. Labor conditions in the South cannot endure as they now
exist, unless the South is to lose all that she has gained since the
overthrow of slavery, and is to stand and view the triumphal march of
the country without participating in it.

The South should not seek to rest under present conditions for they
cannot continue. If the present labor of the South becomes educated and
then improves, it will organize. And if it does not improve, new labor
will come in either already organized or to organize immediately on its
arrival. I know this view will be contested by many able employers, but,
believing it to be true, I deem it best to say it. It is a great deal
better to make yourself strong so that you may trust in your strength
when the certain change comes than to rely upon the fairness of the
other side—and this is equally true of the employer and the employe.

Experience has taught the South much on the question of labor, but so
far as a thorough understanding of the matter goes, the South is barely
at the threshold. The first and greatest thing that the South has to
realize, which as yet is not realized there at all, is this: In the
South as elsewhere, it will be found that cheap labor is the most
expensive. To secure good results is the desired end of all industry and
the experience of older industrial communities has taught that the best
results are, have been, and will ever be obtained by the employment of
the best labor. The best labor is and will always be that labor which
receives the highest wages and which is most nearly satisfied with
surrounding conditions. We can therefore set ourselves no more important
task, no more sacred duty, than that of finding the most nearly perfect
system under which the highest wages can be paid in return for the most
efficient service. And, aside from the justice of this course, aside
from the material benefit to the employer, there is no investment that
brings its returns so quickly to the community at large, as money paid
for good labor. Money so paid is at once spent for the necessities of
life, for all the comforts that can be afforded by the family receiving
it, and so is circulated almost automatically.

Labor organizations have made small headway in the South for other
reasons than the preponderance of negro cheap labor; the first to be
stated being the advantages of climate and of cheap living possessed by
the Southern worker. The winters are short, the summers long. Outdoor
vocations can be pursued in comparative comfort almost the entire year.
Fuel bills are smaller, the cost of clothing less, and the cheapness of
land opens the way for the workman of even moderate means to possess his
own home, if frugal and industrious. He can be his own landlord on
easier terms than in the North. But on the other hand, while the
climatic and other conditions favor the workman of the South, it must
also be remembered that the housing of workmen in the sparsely settled
communities or in mining camps is not as good as in the North where
legislation and the agitation of the labor leaders have brought about
greatly improved conditions.

In the cities of the North the conditions and surroundings of the
workmen are even more noticeably superior to those of the workmen in
Southern cities. The comforts of such flats as workingmen occupy in the
large cities of the North, notably in Chicago, are practically, if not
altogether, unknown in the South, where conveniences are fewer. This
very custom of living without comforts and conveniences has operated to
keep wages down and consequently to offer a check to the spread of
unionism. The homes of many skilled Northern workmen belonging to the
union would be a revelation to the workman in the South equally skilled
but not a member of any labor organization, and receiving less pay for
his services.

The organization of labor in the South has also proceeded more slowly as
compared with the North because of the more rapid growth and development
of the North. It is a fact at once apparent that cities where the unions
are strong are the cities that are growing most rapidly. Another cause
is the scarcity of manufacturing interests in the South and the
consequent small demand for skilled workmen, who are therefore not in
the South in sufficient number to organize effectively against the mass
of unskilled and partly skilled labor. The lack of numerous large
manufacturing enterprises, and of enormous mercantile interests, also
causes a lack of sharpness in competition and has made employes less
ready or able to exact the utmost that could be paid them in wages.

The difficulties of organizing labor in the South are such as always
mark the initial efforts at organization. The union men are out of the
Alabama mines, just at this time, for instance, and new men have their
places. The new men are being trained to their work, and are receiving
practically, if not exactly, the wages asked for by the union. As the
number of these skilled workmen increases, the necessity of organization
will become more apparent to them all, and the larger the number of men
trained for the work, the more effective the union will become. The
union wins victories for others oftentimes where it is itself nominally
defeated.

The question is asked, and with propriety, of the leaders of organized
labor, why it is, if organized labor offers or promises the best
workmen, that employers constantly resist its encroachment and turn it
out and replace it with unorganized labor if they can. There are several
reasons why this is so. It is not, as the labor leader frequently
answers, because the employer is short-sighted and imagines that when he
can get cheap labor he is making money, although it is at times due to
the want of discernment and enlightenment on the part of the employer.
The objection made to organized labor by its very best friends among the
employers is the short-sighted policy of the organization in winking at
or permitting the well-known tyranny of the unions, and also that air of
proprietorship which petty labor leaders so often assume.

I have never denied the right of labor to organize, nor can I deny the
necessity for labor to organize; and, in the very nature of things, it
seems to me that it is best that capital deal with labor as a unit. But
at the same time I have, in pursuing my duties in adjusting labor
disputes, been brought in contact with labor leaders here and there
whose insolence and arrogance, whose absurd claim of being labor’s
unselfish and only friend,—made me wish the whole world of organized
laborers and their leaders at the bottom of the sea. More than one true
friend of organized labor has been lost to a worthy and noble cause for
no other reason than that they have been grossly offended and outraged
by unworthy representatives of labor organizations.

While the slow growth of the union in the South is no doubt a
discouragement to labor organizations, it is a benefit to labor in the
long run. It is also at the same time an advantage to capital that labor
is being slowly organized. Looking to the future it is an advantage both
to capital and labor that the growth of the labor organization does not
go too far in advance of the education of the laboring classes and that
the employer class may, if it has an eye to its own interest, organize
in order successfully and intelligently to treat with organized labor
when it has become a force to be dealt with in the South.

Experience proves that even the most thoroughly organized labor unions
are not all-powerful when the employers stand together, and the
paramount importance of organization among the employers has been
repeatedly demonstrated. When this organization of the employers shall
have been effected, inquiry into cause and effect, careful study of the
labor problem, will quickly show the great advantage and profitableness
of dealing fairly with labor. It will show that, if the employers are
loyal to each other, and if they have an organization in which all of
its members have confidence, they, whether dealing with organized or
unorganized labor, are certain to obtain their approximate rights. The
many labor tangles in which the country has at times been involved were
due far more to the disorganized condition of the employer class than to
the cohesiveness and power of the labor class. Whenever the labor class
has become needlessly strong and where it practices tyranny and
oppression, there the employer class will be found to have neglected its
duty to itself.

Another result of the study of conditions will be that the employer
class will decide to be fair in dealing with labor, because in the long
run it will bring the largest dividends. This cannot be accomplished by
dealing with unorganized labor, where the employers have the whole
matter practically under their own control, and thinking only of
immediate returns, will, consciously or unconsciously, take advantage of
the worker. Dealing with organized labor is not only more satisfactory,
but it is more profitable in its ultimate results.

The question of individual rights has had a large part in Southern labor
troubles. It was a question of the employer’s right to manage his
property for himself in his own way that defeated an almost universal
strike of the Nashville Street Railway employes two or three years ago.
The union was formed and made its demands. The management declined to
recognize the union or to grant the demands, and successfully resisted
the resulting strike. But the management, I am informed, gave careful
examination to the facts thus brought to their attention and has
voluntarily advanced wages and improved conditions to a point far beyond
what was formulated in the union’s demands. There is no union of the
street railway’s employes now at Nashville, and so long as the present
intelligent and progressive policy is pursued there will be none and
there will be none needed. Indeed, the only excuse for labor to organize
is that the policy of the employer has too often been unintelligent,
unprogressive and not in sympathy with the reasonable rights and needs
of labor.

But the organization of labor and the advancement of wages will do more
than any other one thing to lend confidence to those who are looking to
the South as a field for investment. The Northern capitalist and
investor cannot be made to believe that labor as good and efficient as
Northern labor will remain unorganized and render its service for
one-third or one-half of what the Northern workman receives. Nor does
the Southern worker have the same incentive to the high efficiency
reached by the Northern workman. One of the most serious mistakes made
by many Southern communities in presenting to the Northern investor the
advantages at the South is that they put emphasis on the fact that
skilled and unskilled labor is “cheap.” Cheap labor that is at the same
time efficient is an unknown thing in the North, and Northern men who
are familiar with the labor question will not believe that it exists in
the South. “If it were as efficient, it would be as well paid,” they
say. The proffer of “cheap” labor has done much to retard the industrial
development of the Southern states. It is now the universal cry among
the employers of the North, particularly among those who oppose
organized labor, that they are willing to pay and do pay the highest
wages anywhere obtainable and that they are willing to afford and do
afford to their employees the most favorable working conditions.

The question of child labor is one which must be determined by humane
principles, and yet it is a question on which much fanaticism has been
expended and much maudlin sentiment indulged. The child develops earlier
in the South, where the average boy of fourteen is as mature as the
average boy of sixteen in the North. It is a cause for gratification, a
fact to the credit of the South, that recent child labor laws have
removed from mills and mines and factories a vast army of child laborers
who properly belonged in the nursery or at school. It was the South’s
shame that they were ever permitted there under conditions once
existing, and still existing to a degree.

But, while believing that the question of child labor should be closely
studied and the interest of the child guarded, I know that this is not
always accomplished in the case of boys by making it an offense
punishable by fine and imprisonment to keep boys of thirteen and
fourteen years at work, particularly since in certain classes of society
they have no idea of continuing at school after they reach that age.
Anything is better than idleness. It is a thousand to one better for a
boy of twelve to be at work in mine, factory or mill than to be allowed
to remain unemployed and unoccupied. If he is to be forced out of
employment, then provision must be made to force him into school. The
attention that has been drawn to child labor in the South comes about
not so much by the efforts of philanthropists, not so much by the work
of earnest students, as by that class of employers in New England who
formerly employed children of tender years, but who were forced to
desist as the result of legislation, and who for this reason, and not
from any high motives, directed attention to child labor in the cotton
mills of the South. I do not mean to justify what is injurious to the
children, but in considering this whole question trade or competitive
conditions cannot be wholly ignored. We know that the advocates of child
labor laws are often selfishly influenced and that they aim to reduce
the army of workers in the hope thereby to monopolize labor as far as
possible. It is often for the same selfish reason that the hours of
labor are restricted.

Much of the opposition to child labor has undoubtedly been removed by
the course of mill owners in the South, such as the Eagle and Phœnix
mills at Columbus, Ga., the Unity Cotton Mills at Lagrange, Ga., and
mills in Guilford County, N. C., and Pelzer, S. C. In these the children
are required to spend a certain portion of their time in schools ranging
from kindergartens to industrial training schools, which are supported
mainly,—and in many cases altogether,—by the cotton mills themselves.
The press and pulpit unite in saying that in those mills many of the
children have much better facilities for improvement than they had
before their parents left the farms and brought them to the mills.

The South suffers from poorly paid labor, and continues to suffer
despite the fact that conditions are such as make it possible for her to
pay higher prices without injuriously affecting any of her industries.
As the wealth of the world increases the individual wants more and
greater conveniences, and more and more grows the demand for excellence
rather than cheapness to be the chief consideration. The era of
cheapness is on the decline; the product of mill and factory, of shop
and lathe and hand, must be better to-day to be satisfying than at any
time in the world’s history. While excellence is sought the more,
cheapness is laughed at and passed by.

The Southern states are in an enviable position to-day. The South ought
to produce nearly all it consumes, and those things it can economically
produce for its own consumption it should certainly be able to sell in
Mexican and South American markets in successful competition with the
rest of the world. How successfully this can be done will depend upon
the ability of the South to produce the best goods for the least money,
and it can only do this provided its labor is the best. But its labor
cannot be the best unless it is paid the highest wages and is afforded
the most satisfactory conditions under which the workmen can perform
their services, and under which they and their families can live.

When labor is once organized on business lines and is a fair competitor
of unorganized labor, it will not only be the successful competitor but
will furnish the best labor obtainable. Nowhere has organized labor
under such conditions so fine an opportunity or so fair a chance as in