American Adventures Part 31

I am by no means sure that the regular spring visit of the Metropolitan Grand Opera Company may be taken as a sign that Atlanta is peculiarly a music-loving community. Indeed, I was told by one Atlanta lady, herself a musician, that the city did not contain more than a thousand persons of real musical appreciation, that a number of these could not afford to attend the operatic performances, and that opera week was, consequently, in reality more an occasion of great social festivity than of devout homage to art.

"Our opera week," she told me, "bears the same relation to the life of Atlanta as Mardi Gras does to that of New Orleans. It is an advertis.e.m.e.nt for the city, and an excuse for every one to have a good time. Every night after the performance there are suppers and dances, which the opera stars attend. They always seem to enjoy coming here.

They act as though they were off on a picnic, skylarking about the hotel, snap-shotting one another, and playing all manner of pranks. And, of course, while they are here they own the town. Caruso draws his little caricatures for the Atlanta girls, and Atlanta men have been dazzled, in successive seasons, by such gorgeous beings as Geraldine Farrar, Alma Gluck, and Maria Barrientos--not only across the footlights of the auditorium, mind you, but at close range; as, for instance, at dances at the Driving Club, with Chinese lanterns strung on the terrace, a full moon above, and--one year--with the whole Metropolitan Orchestra playing dance music all night long!"

Another lady, endeavoring to picture to me the strain involved in the week's gaieties, informed me that when it was all over she went for a rest to New York, where she attended "a house party at the Waldorf"!

Of all Atlanta's undertakings, planned or accomplished, that which most interested my companion and me was the one for turning a mountain into a sculptured monument to the Confederacy.

Sixteen miles to the east of the city the layer of granite which underlies the region stuck its back up, so to speak, forming a great smooth granite hump, known as Stone Mountain. This mountain is one of America's natural wonders. In form it may be compared with a round-backed fish, such as a whale or porpoise, lying on its belly, partly imbedded in a beach, and some conception of its dimensions may be gathered from the fact that from nose to tail it measures about two miles, while the center of its back is as high as the Woolworth Building in New York. Moreover, there is not a fissure in it; monoliths a thousand feet long have been quarried from it; it is as solid as the Solid South.

The perpendicular streaks of light and dark gray and gray-green, made by the elements upon the face of the rock, coupled with the waterfall-like curve of that face, make one think of a sort of sublimated petrified Niagara--a fancy enhanced, on windy days, by the roar of the gale-lashed forest at the mountain's foot.

The idea of turning the mountain into a Confederate memorial originated with Mr. William H. Terrell of Atlanta. It was taken up with inspired energy by Mrs. C. Helen Plane, an Atlanta lady, now eighty-seven years of age, who is honorary president of the United Daughters of the Confederacy and president of the Stone Mountain Memorial a.s.sociation.

Mrs. Plane presented the memorial plan to Mr. Samuel H. Venable of Venable Brothers, owners of the mountain, and Mr. Venable promptly turned over the whole face of the mountain to the Memorial a.s.sociation.

The exact form the memorial was to take had not at that time been developed. Gutzon Borglum was, however, called in, and worked out a stupendous idea, which he has since been commissioned to execute. On the side of the mountain, about four hundred feet above the ground, a roadway is to be gouged out of the granite. On this roadway will be carved, in gigantic outlines, a Confederate army, headed by Lee and Jackson on horseback. Other generals will follow, and will, in turn, be followed by infantry, cavalry and artillery. The leading groups will be in full relief and the equestrian figures will be fifty or more feet tall. This means that the faces of the chief figures will measure almost the height of a man. The figures to the rear of the long column will, according to present plans, be in bas-relief, and the whole procession will cover a strip perhaps a mile long, all of it carved out of the solid mountainside.

A considerable tract of forest land at the foot of the great rock has already been dedicated as a park. Here, concealed by the trees, at a point below the main group of figures, a temple, with thirteen columns representing the thirteen Confederate States, is to be hewn out of the mountain, to be used as a place for the safe-keeping of Confederate relics and archives.

Two million dollars is the sum spoken of to cover the total cost, and one of the finest things about the plans for raising this money is that contributions from the entire country are being accepted, so that not only the South, but the whole nation, may have a share in the creation of a memorial to that dead government which the South so poetically adores, yet which it would not willingly resurrect, and in the realization of a work resembling nothing so much as Kipling's conception of the artist in heaven, who paints on "a ten-league canvas, with brushes of comet's hair."

Until the Stone Mountain Memorial is completed, Atlanta's most celebrated monument will continue to be that of Jack Smith. The Jack Smith monument stands in Oakland Cemetery, not over the grave of Jack Smith, but over the grave that local character intends some day to occupy. Mr. Smith is reputed to be rich. He built the downtown office building known as "The House that Jack Built." As befits the owner of an office building, he wears a silk hat, but a certain democratic simplicity may be observed in the rest of his attire, especially about the region of the neck, for though he apparently believes in the convention concerning the wearing of collars, he has a prejudice against the concealing of a portion of the collar by that useless and sn.o.bbish adornment, the necktie. Each spring, I am informed, it is his custom to visit his cemetery lot and inspect the statue of himself which a commendable foresight has caused him to erect over his proposed final resting place. It is said that upon the occasion of last season's vernal visit he was annoyed at finding his effigy cravated by a vine which had grown up and encircled the neck. This he caused to be removed; and it is to be hoped that when, at last, his monument achieves its ultimate purpose, those who care for the cemetery will see to it that leafy tendrils be not permitted to mount to the marble collar of the figure, to form a necktie, or to obscure the n.o.bly sculptured collar b.u.t.ton.

CHAPTER x.x.xIV

GEORGIA JOURNALISM

In journalism Atlanta is far in advance of many cities of her size, North or South. The Atlanta "Const.i.tution," founded nearly half a century ago, is one of the country's most distinguished newspapers. The "Const.i.tution" came into its greatest fame in the early eighties, when Captain Evan P. Howell--the same Captain Howell who commanded a battery at the battle of Peachtree Creek, in the defense of Atlanta, and who later called, with his son, on General Sherman, as already recorded--became its editor, and Henry W. Grady its managing editor.

Like William Allen White and Walt Mason of the Emporia (Kansas) "Gazette," who work side by side, admire each other, but disagree on every subject save that of the infallibility of the ground hog as a weather prophet, Howell and Grady worked side by side and were devoted friends, while disagreeing personally, and in print, on prohibition and many other subjects. Grady would speak at prohibition rallies and, sometimes on the same night, Howell would speak at anti-prohibition rallies. In their speeches they would attack each other. The accounts of these speeches, as well as conflicting articles written by the two, would always appear in the "Const.i.tution."

Of the pair of public monuments to individuals which I remember having seen in Atlanta, one was the pleasing memorial, in Piedmont Park, to Sidney Lanier (who was peculiarly a Georgia poet, having been born in Macon, in that State, and having written some of his most beautiful lines under the spell of Georgia scenes), and the other the statue of Henry W. Grady, which stands downtown in Marietta Street.

The Grady monument--one regrets to say it--is less fortunate as a work of art than as a deserved symbol of remembrance. Grady not only ought to have a monument, but as one whose writings prove him to have been a man of taste, he ought to have a better one than this poor mid-Victorian thing, placed in the middle of a wide, busy street, with Fords parked all day long about its base.

Says the inscription:

HE NEVER SOUGHT A PUBLIC OFFICE.

WHEN HE DIED HE WAS LITERALLY LOVING A NATION INTO PEACE.

On another side of the base is chiseled a characteristic extract from one of Grady's speeches. This speech was made in 1899, in Boston, and one hopes that it may have been heard by the late Charles Francis Adams, who labored in Ma.s.sachusetts for the cause of intersectional harmony, just as Grady worked for it in Georgia.

This hour [said Grady] little needs the loyalty that is loyal to one section and yet holds the other in enduring suspicion and estrangement. Give us the broad and perfect loyalty that loves and trusts Georgia alike with Ma.s.sachusetts--that knows no South, no North, no East, no West; but endears with equal and patriotic love every foot of our soil, every State in our Union.

Grady could not only write and say stirring things; he could be witty.

He once spoke at a dinner of the New England Society, in New York, at which General Sherman was also present.

"Down in Georgia," he said, "we think of General Sherman as a great general; but it seems to us he was a little careless with fire."

Nor was Grady less brilliant as managing editor than upon the platform.

He had the kind of enterprise which made James Gordon Bennett such a das.h.i.+ng figure in newspaper life, and the New York "Herald" such a complete _news_paper--the kind of enterprise that charters special trains, and at all hazards gets the story it is after. Back in the early eighties Grady was running the Atlanta "Const.i.tution" in just that way.

If a big story "broke" in any of the territory around Atlanta, Grady would not wait upon train schedules, but would hire an engine and send his men to the scene. Once, following a sensational murder, he learned that the Birmingham "Age-Herald" had a big story dealing with developments in the case. He wired the "Age-Herald" offering a large price for the story. When his offer was refused Grady knew that if he could not devise a way to get the story, Atlanta would be flooded next day with "Age-Heralds" containing the "beat" on the "Const.i.tution." He at once chartered a locomotive and rushed two reporters and four telegraph operators down the line toward Birmingham. At Aniston, Alabama, the locomotive met the train which was bringing "Age-Heralds"

to Atlanta. A copy of the paper was secured. The "Const.i.tution" men then broke into a telegraph office and wired the whole story in to their paper, with the result that the "Const.i.tution" was out with it before the Birmingham papers reached Atlanta.

Atlanta was at that time a town of only about 40,000 inhabitants, but the "Const.i.tution," in the days of Howell and Grady, had a circulation four times greater than the total population of the city--a situation almost unheard of in journalism. Something of the breadth of its influence may be gathered from the fact that in several counties in Texas, where the law provided that whatever newspaper had the largest circulation in the county should be the county organ, the county organ was the Atlanta "Const.i.tution."

An Atlanta lady tells of having called upon Grady to complain about an article which she did not think the "Const.i.tution" should have printed.

"Why did you put that objectionable article in your paper?" she asked him.

"Did you read it?" he inquired.

"Yes, I did."

"Then," said Grady, "that's why I put it there."

Grady and Howell always ran a lively sporting department. Away back in the days of bare-knuckle prize fights--such as those between Sullivan and Ryan, and Sullivan and Kilrain--a "Const.i.tution" reporter was always at the ringside, no matter where the fight might take place. For a newspaper in a town of forty or fifty thousand inhabitants, a large percentage of them colored illiterates, this was real enterprise.

A favorite claim of Grady's was that his reporters were the greatest "leg artists" in the world. He used to organize walking matches for reporters, offering large prizes and charging admission. This developed, in the middle eighties, a general craze for such matches, and resulted in the holding of many inter-city contests, in which teams, four men to a side, took part. One of the "Const.i.tution's" champion "leg artists"

was Sam W. Small, now an evangelist and member of the "flying squadron"

of the Anti-Saloon League of America.

The most widely celebrated individual ever connected with the "Const.i.tution" was Joel Chandler Harris, many of whose "Uncle Remus"

stories--those negro folk tales still supreme in their field--appeared originally in that paper. In view of Mr. Harris's achievement it is pleasant to recall that there was paid to him during his life one of the finest tributes that an author can receive. As with "Mr. Dooley" of our day, he came, himself, to be affectionately referred to by the name of the chief character in his works. "Uncle Remus" he was, and "Uncle Remus" he will always be. Mr. Harris's eldest son, Julian, widely known as a journalist, is said to have been the little boy to whom "Uncle Remus" told his tales.

Though there is, as yet, no public monument in Atlanta to Joel Chandler Harris, the "Wren's Nest," his former home, at 214 Gordon Street, is fittingly preserved as a memorial. Visitors may see the old letter box fastened to a tree by the gate--that box in which a wren built her nest, giving the house its name. It is a simple old house with the air of a home about it, and the intimate possessions of the author lie about as he left them. His bed is made up, his umbrella hangs upon the mantelshelf, his old felt hat rests upon the rack, the photograph of his friend James Whitcomb Riley looks down from the bedroom wall, and on the table, by the window, stands his typewriter--the confidant first to know his new productions.

The presence of these personal belongings keeps alive the illusion that "Uncle Remus" has merely stepped out for a little while--is hiding in the garden, waiting for us to go away. It would be like him, for he was among the most modest and retiring of men, as there are many amusing anecdotes to indicate. Once when some one had persuaded him to attend a large dinner in New York, they say, he got as far as New York, but as the dinner hour approached could not bear to face the adulation awaiting him, and incontinently fled back to Atlanta.

Frank L. Stanton, poet laureate of Georgia, and of the "Const.i.tution,"

joined the "Const.i.tution" staff through the efforts of Mr. Harris, one of whose closest intimates he was. Speaking of Mr. Harris's gift for negro dialect, Mr. Stanton told me that there was one negro exclamation which "Uncle Remus" always wished to reproduce, but which he never quite felt could be expressed, in writing, to those unfamiliar with the negro at first hand: that is the exclamation of amazement, which has the sound, "mmm--_mh!_"--the first syllable being long and the last sharp and exclamatory.

Mr. Stanton has for years conducted a column of verse and humorous paragraphic comment, under the heading "Just from Georgia," on the editorial page of the "Const.i.tution." Some idea of the high estimation in which he is held in his State is to be gathered from the fact that "Frank L. Stanton Day" is annually celebrated in the Georgia schools.

Mr. Stanton began his newspaper career as a country editor in the town of Smithville, Georgia. Mr. Harris, then a member of the "Const.i.tution's" editorial staff, began reprinting in that journal verses and paragraphs written by Stanton, with the result that the Smithville paper became known all over the country. Later Stanton moved to Rome, Georgia, becoming an editorial writer on a paper there--the "Tribune," edited at that time by John Temple Graves, if I am not mistaken. Still later he removed to Atlanta, joined the staff of the "Const.i.tution," and started the department which has now continued for more than twenty-five years.

Joel Chandler Harris used to tell a story about Stanton's first days in the "Const.i.tution" office. According to this story, the paper on which Stanton had worked in Rome had not been prosperous, and salaries were uncertain. When the business manager went out to try to raise money in the town, he never returned without first reading the signals placed by his a.s.sistant in the office window. If a red flag was shown, it signified that a collector was waiting in the office. In that event the business manager would not come in, but would circle about until the collector became tired of waiting and departed--a circ.u.mstance indicated by the withdrawal of the red flag and the subst.i.tution of a white one.

According to the story, as it was told to me, reporters on the paper were seldom paid; if one of them made bold to ask for his salary, he was likely to be discharged. It was from this uncertain existence that Stanton was lured to the "Const.i.tution" by an offer of $22.50 per week.

When he had been on the "Const.i.tution" for three weeks Mr. Harris discovered that he had drawn no salary. This surprised him--as indeed it would any man who had had newspaper experience.

"Stanton," he said, "you are the only newspaper man I have ever seen who is so rich he doesn't need to draw his pay."

But, as it turned out, Stanton was not so prosperous as Harris perhaps supposed. He was down to his last dime, and had been wondering how he could manage to get along; for his training on the Rome paper had taught him never to ask for money lest he lose his job.

"Well," he said to Harris, "I could use _some_ of my salary--if you're sure it won't be any inconvenience?"