to the Mammonism of America be added the rising Mam-
monism of the re-born South, and the Mammonism of this
South be reinforced by the budding Mammonism of its half-
wakened black millions? Whither, then, is the new-world
quest of Goodness and Beauty and Truth gone glimmering?
Must this, and that fair flower of Freedom which, despite the
jeers of latter-day striplings, sprung from our fathers' blood,
must that too degenerate into a dusty quest of gold,--into
lawless lust with Hippomenes?


The hundred hills of Atlanta are not all crowned with
factories. On one, toward the west, the setting sun throws
three buildings in bold relief against the sky. The beauty of
the group lies in its simple unity:--a broad lawn of green
rising from the red street and mingled roses and peaches;
north and south, two plain and stately halls; and in the midst,
half hidden in ivy, a larger building, boldly graceful, spar-
ingly decorated, and with one low spire. It is a restful group,
--one never looks for more; it is all here, all intelligible.
There I live, and there I hear from day to day the low hum of
restful life. In winter's twilight, when the red sun glows, I
can see the dark figures pass between the halls to the music of
the night-bell. In the morning, when the sun is golden, the
clang of the day-bell brings the hurry and laughter of three
hundred young hearts from hall and street, and from the busy
city below,--children all dark and heavy-haired,--to join
their clear young voices in the music of the morning sacrifice.
In a half-dozen class-rooms they gather then,--here to follow
the love-song of Dido, here to listen to the tale of Troy