world revolves; in battle, our fortress of defence; in life, our nourisher of strength; in death, our vestibule to heaven. It is our reward for toil. It is our refuge from care. It is our solace in sorrow. It is our haven of rest. It is dear alike to hope and to memory, to youth and to age, to saint and to sinner. It is the playground of our children. It is the asylum of our gray hairs. It is the sanctuary of our companionships, the strong box in which we hide our treasure, and the holy of holies in which we keep our Ark of the Covenant. It is the synonym of all sweetness. It is the sum of all music. It is the source of all law. It is the seat of all love. It is the empire of motherhood! From all impurity, from all unhappiness, from all debt, may our firesides be spared. God speed the day when, from the homes of America, the last mortgage will be lifted and, in the light of the hearthstone fires, the last bond will be cancelled. Home! Home! Home! O, John Howard Payne,-sweet minstrel of the fireside! Tonight we send thee greetings! On the golden stairway of the starlight, we scale the solitudes, to clasp thee to our hearts! Though denied a home on earth, you have found a home up there, from which the winged wayfarer never wanders. We would not call thee back, but from the vaulted silences we bid thee sing. Sing the old song which heaven has not changed-which still, in the old familiar words, is set to the minstrel's harp of gold. Let the sweet billows of music swell till every wave of the sea is touched, till every voice of the wind is waked, till every fireside of the world gives back the echo, and all our national life is lapped in the strain: "'Mid pleasures and palaces though I may roam, Watchman, what of the night? In ringing accents, you unloose the answer: All is well. You are only women. But listen. It was a woman who delivered Israel when Sisera was encamped upon the plain of Esdraelon. It was a woman who delivered France when the armies of England were thundering at the gates of Orleans. It was a woman who saved the day for England at the siege of Lucknow. The provisions were exhausted. The troops were faint with hunger. A decision was reached to murder the garrison, women and children included. But Bessie Brown still hoped. It may have been only in her dreams, but in the distance she heard the highland pipes of Havelock. With hardly enough strength in her frail body to lift herself from the ground, she thrilled the camp by repeating: "Dinna ye hear it? The Campbells are coming! The Campbells are coming!" Dawn revealed the English colors, and the siege of Lucknow was lifted. We are in the depths. Cotton selling at eleven cents and only half a crop! Starvation is staring many of us in the face, but the Bessie Browns are here to tell us that the Campbells are coming. Let us not linger in the Slough of Despond, nor sleep in the castle of Giant Despair. Beyond us are the cloud-rests of the Delectable Mountains. There's a mist in the lowlands but a gleam on the highland heights. At a crisis in the battle of Lodi the lines of Napoleon began to break. If the army was saved there was seemingly but one thing to do. So, turning to the drummer-boy at his side, he said to him, "beat a retreat!" "Sire", replied the boy, "my master did not teach me to beat a retreat, but I can beat a charge that will wake the dead. I beat it at Austerlitz. I beat it at Marengo, and if you will let me, I will beat it now". Electrified by the answer, he replied, "then beat a charge!" Not a moment was lost. The drum began to roll, and the worn-out veterans began to wheel into line, and the columns began to move, and Lodi was added to the victories of Napoleon. Led by the patriotic women of our state, who are beating the drums, there will be no retreat in Georgia. Already the command has gone up and down the lines, "Forward March!" The Ark of the Covenant has moved ahead. We are under marching orders. Nor do we intend to rest till the Amelekites and the Amorites are behind us in the desert. till the Jordan rolls at our back, till the walls of Jericho lie at our feet, and with the old flag unfurled on the hills of Canaan, we can shout at last with the Hebrew children: "We are safe now in the Promised Land!" THE BELOVED PHYSICIAN: DR. ABNER W. CALHOUN. [Speech delivered at the dedication of Calhoun Hall, in the Fulton County Academy of Medicine, December 15, 1922, Dr. R. T. Dorsey presiding.] The most beautiful of all the gospels was penned by an evangelist who was called the "Beloved Physician". It has ever been the world's delight to think of Him, who walked the fields of Galilee, as One who healed the sick. For twenty centuries it has been to the medical profession that we have looked for the closest approximation to the divine ideal; and, tonight, therefore, with tender reverence for God's anointed, we have come to honor one who honored us; who was, indeed, by every test of royalty, a king—in every trait of manliness, a man; who, giving himself in noble sacrifice to this community, bound it in loving fealty to his own golden heart; and who, among a thousand fragrant spirits, was "the noblest Roman of them all"-Dr. Abner W. Calhoun ! It was a Wise King who said that "a good name is rather to be chosen than great riches". The very name which this man bore was talismanic-an open sesame to all homes and hearts. In the person of the great Nullifier, it cast a magician's spell upon a continent. In the Senate of the United States, when oratory registered its Golden Age, it challenged a Webster and a Clay. In the second highest office in the Republic's gift, it blazed beside an Andrew Jackson's; and that name, which came to him unsullied from his forbears, he transmitted, without a stain upon it to his children; and he gave it a sweetness and a luster of his own, which borrowed no oil from the heirlooms of his ancestors. There was something in that name which woke an echo from Clan-Alpin's distant glens-which called to Macgregor on his native heath-and which told of the highland horn of Roderick Dhu. Both in his physique and in his faith Dr. Calhoun was cast in the rugged molds of Scotland. He took his theology from old John Knox-his sentiment from Robert Burns; and tracing his lineage back to hills of heather-to Scots who bled with Wallace and who fought with Bruce-there was not a virtue of his forbears which he did not exhibit in his character nor a glorious tradition of the highlands which did not mirror its memory on his shield. The motto of his life was the motto upon Georgia's first coat-of-arms-"non sibi sed aliis"-"not for self but for others". In the warfare which he waged against disease-grim, relentless and invincible-he towered like a Saul above the army of Israel and fought like a Joshua in the valley of Ajalon. One of the pioneers of his profession, he was also one of the great specialists of his day. To him came sufferers from distant States of the Union, afflicted with divers ills of the flesh. They came in ever increasing numbers; and they came as did that Syrian general to Elisha's house, to be healed of God's physician-who marveled at the simple treatment which the prophet gave him, but who went back home, cured of his leprosy, to spread the news amongst his kindred, and to wake the praises of the Jordan, beside the waters of Damascus. Inflexibly true to truth, to right and to principle, he was like the sycamores of his ancestral acres-he would break before he would bend. The memory of such a man is a priceless heritage—nay, let us call it immortal. It will outlast all the sky-scrapers of Atlanta. It will prove more lingering than the echoes of the horns of Elfland; and when the statue of Lee is carved upon old Stone Mountain, its benign influence will still be felt-"the shadow of a mighty rock in a weary land". His skill was a proverb and a thing of magic;-its power over disease hinted of a giant's strength, but its tenderness told of a woman's touch. It was said of Sir Philip Sidney that, in an age which knew the Virgin Queen, he was the very pearl of England. I think of him tonight as the prototype of another whose spirit is calling to him from "the red old hills of Georgia." Dr. Calhoun was the "beau ideal" of the Southern gentleman. He fused into one a Chesterfield and a Hotspur, a Cromwell and a Rupert. To the blood of the Scotch-Irish he added the faith of the Puritan and the courtliness of the Cavalier. In the castle of Montgomery, at the hour of milking, how gallantly would he have fetched the pail for Highland Mary, and, at Holyrood, what a courtier would he have made for Mary, Queen of Scots! In the silken glove of courtesy he mailed the iron grip of honor. He bore the baronial hall-mark of the old nobility, and took us back to the spacious days when knighthood was in flower, till we dreamed once more of a Dudley in the halls of Kenilworth and thought of a Raleigh in the throne-room of Elizabeth. Bayard Taylor knew him, for he wrote "The bravest are the tenderest, |