The Taylor-Trotwood Magazine, Vol. IV, No. 4, January 1907

By Author	[ A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z \| Other Symbols ]
By Title	[ A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z \| Other Symbols ]
By Language

Download this book: [ ASCII ]

Look for this book on Amazon

We have new books nearly every day.
If you would like a news letter once a week or once a month fill out this form and we will give you a summary of the books for that week or month by email.

Title: The Taylor-Trotwood Magazine, Vol. IV, No. 4, January 1907
Author: Various
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.

*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Taylor-Trotwood Magazine, Vol. IV, No. 4, January 1907" ***

This book is indexed by ISYS Web Indexing system to allow the reader find any word or number within the document.

VOL. IV, NO. 4, JANUARY 1907 ***

THE
TAYLOR-TROTWOOD MAGAZINE

SUCCESSOR TO
BOB TAYLOR’S MAGAZINE and TROTWOOD’S MONTHLY

PUBLISHED BY THE TAYLOR-TROTWOOD PUBLISHING COMPANY, 11, 13,
16, 19 VANDERBILT LAW BUILDING, NASHVILLE, TENN.

GOVERNOR BOB TAYLOR and JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE, Editors

$1.00 A YEAR MONTHLY 10c. A COPY

Contents for January, 1907

FRONTISPIECE—Portrait of General Lee on Traveler

CAPABILITY. (Sonnet) _John Trotwood Moore_ 345

ROBERT EDWARD LEE _Robert L. Taylor_ 346
Illustrated.

HISTORIC HIGHWAYS OF THE SOUTH—CHAPTER XVI _John Trotwood Moore_ 354
Illustrated.

HOW OLE WASH GOT RID OF HIS MOTHERS-IN-LAW _John Trotwood Moore_ 364

SOME BEAUTIFUL WOMEN OF THE SOUTH 368
Illustrated.

COLONIAL FOOTPRINTS _J. K. Collins_ 373
Illustrated.

HISTORY OF THE HALS—CHAPTER XVI _John Trotwood Moore_ 379

THE MEASURE OF A MAN. (Serial Story) _John Trotwood Moore_ 384

MEN OF AFFAIRS 387
Illustrated.

SOME SOUTHERN WRITERS _Kate Alma Orgain_ 392
Illustrated.

TWELFTH NIGHT REVELS _Jane Feild Baskin_ 395

UNCLE ABRAHAM’S SERMON. (Story.) _John Marshall Kelly_ 398

THE STORY OF THE YEAR-GIFTS _Robert Wilson Neal_ 401

THE SHADOW OF THE ATTACOA. (Serial Story.) _Thornwell Jacobs_ 403

THE RACE PROBLEM _James H. Branch_ 415

REMUS. (Serial Narrative.) _Laps. D. McCord_ 423

NAPOLEON—PART V—Continued _Anna Erwin Woods_ 427

WITH BOB TAYLOR 430
SENTIMENT AND STORY.
THE PARADISE OF FOOLS.

WITH TROTWOOD 439
THE LAST DRIVE. (Poem.)
THE PROBLEM OF LIFE.
A QUAIL HUNT IN AN AUTOMOBILE.

BOOKS AND AUTHORS _Lillian Kendrick Byrn_ 450

Copyright, 1907, by The Taylor-Trotwood Publishing Co. All
rights reserved. ENTERED AT THE POST OFFICE AT NASHVILLE,
TENN., AS SECOND-CLASS MAIL MATTER.

_THE TAYLOR-TROTWOOD MAGAZINE ADVERTISEMENTS_

BRANDON PRINTING COMPANY BLANK BOOK MAKERS

A SHIELD AGAINST INFERIORITY

Brandon’s name on a blank book means that it is well seasoned, well made,
of the best materials obtainable.

A book that falls to pieces before it is used up is dear at half the
price of a good book.

We make ours right, sell them right—in fact, they are the right books for
you to use.

Brandon Printing Co.
Lithographers, Printers and Blank Book Makers
NASHVILLE, TENN.

_In writing to advertisers please mention the Taylor-Trotwood Magazine_

[Illustration: GENERAL LEE ON TRAVELER

_“Robert Edward Lee,” page 346_

_Photographed from life. M. Miley, Lexington, Virginia_]

THE

TAYLOR-TROTWOOD MAGAZINE

VOL. IV JANUARY, 1907 NO. 4

_CAPABILITY_

_A SONNET_

_BY JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE_

_God sends duties to those who show themselves capable of duty, and power
to those who are worthy of power._—Wm. McKinley.

_There comes a time to Nations, as to man,_
_When God shall test them with a furnace fire,_
_Shall weigh them in the scales of His desire—_
_Predestined law of long predestined plan._
_To him who measureth to the nobler span,_
_He maketh him a model and a chart,_
_Of all His ways a parcel and a part_
_Wherever Fate, His pulse of purpose, ran._

_But woe to him He weigheth and find not!_
_And woe to him that testeth not as gold!_
_His name shall be in blighting and in blot,_
_His fame the murk of mildew and of mold._
_He giveth power to him of power and beauty,_
_He addeth strength to him of strength and duty._

[Illustration]

ROBERT EDWARD LEE

_Born January 19, 1807. Died October 12, 1870_

By Robert L. Taylor

To write of Lee in the fulfilling of his manifold duties would be to fill
volumes. Lee as an intrepid young officer in the United States army; as
a practical military engineer; as a man among men; as a staunch patriot,
a brilliant commander and a magnanimous foe; a hero whose strength was
the might of gentleness and self-command; the chief of a vanquished
army, setting an example of noble submission; in the sanctity of his
home, consecrating his energies to the restoration of a prostrate and
desolate country; as the head of a great institution for the upbuilding
of character and scholarship; as parent, as husband, friend; and as a
modest, God-fearing gentleman—in all of these critical relations which
constitute the test of true greatness, the rich nature of Robert Edward
Lee shone with unfailing steadfastness and brilliancy.

I cannot attempt, in the limits of a magazine article, to do justice to
an inexhaustible subject. Why should I when the most eloquent tongues and
pens of two continents have labored to present, with fitting eulogy, the
character and career of our cavalier _par excellence_? It is the South’s
patent of nobility that he is to-day regarded, the world over, not only
as ranking with the greatest military geniuses history has known, but as
having less of the selfish littleness of ordinary humanity than any of
his compeers. I simply weave a wreath of memory to offer on his natal day.

That he was the son of Light Horse Harry Lee and Anne Carter, and was
born at Stratford, the Carter ancestral home in Westmoreland, Virginia,
the nineteenth of January, 1807, are well-known statistics. Miss Emily
V. Mason, in her “Popular Life of General Lee,”[1] gives the following
account of his early life:

When he was but four years of age, his father removed to
Alexandria the better to educate his children, and there are
many persons yet living in that old town who remember him at
that early age. From these sources we are assured that his
childhood was as remarkable as his manhood for the modesty and
thoughtfulness of his character, and for the performance of
every duty which devolved upon him.... At this period General
Harry Lee was absent in the West Indies in pursuit of health,
and he died when Robert was eleven years of age.... His mother
was also an invalid, and Robert was her devoted cavalier,
hurrying home from school to take her for her drive, and
assuming all the household cares, learning at this time the
self-control and economy in all financial concerns which ever
characterized him....

General Lee used to say that he was fond of hunting when a
boy—that he would sometimes follow the hounds on foot all day.
This will account for his well-developed form, and for that
wonderful strength which was never known to fail him in all the
fatigues and privations of his after life.

It was natural that the son of Light Horse Harry should desire to enter
the army, and he was doubtless also inspired to take this step by a
desire to relieve his mother of the expense of his maintenance and
education. “At West Point,” says General Fitzhugh Lee,[2] “he had four
years of hard study, vigorous drill, and was absorbing strategy and
tactics to be useful in after years. His excellent habits and close
attention to all duties did not desert him; his last year he held the
post of honor in the aspirations of cadet life—the adjutant of the corps.
He graduated second in a class of forty-six and was commissioned second
lieutenant in the Corps of Engineers. It is interesting to note that
his eldest son, George Washington Custis Lee, also entered the Military
Academy twenty-one years after his father, was also the cadet adjutant,
graduated first in his class and was assigned to the Engineer Corps.” Of
still greater interest is the graduation, in 1902, of his greatnephew,
Fitzhugh Lee, Jr., who, on his graduation, was appointed special aide to
Mrs. Roosevelt.

Lee’s first assignment to duty was at Fortress Monroe, where he remained
four years.

[Illustration: COLONEL R. E. LEE

About the time of the Mexican War]

“He went much,” continues his nephew biographer, “in the society of
ladies—always most congenial to him.... He was in love from boyhood. Fate
brought him to the feet of one who, by birth, education, position and
family tradition, was best suited to be his life companion. Mary, the
daughter of George Washington Parke Custis, of Arlington, and R. E. Lee
were married on the thirtieth of June, 1831.”

The modesty of the newly married couple was spared the modern newspaper
accounts of the bride’s wedding garments, her trousseau and trunks, the
gifts and other intimate details now demanded by an insatiate public.

Mrs. Lee was possessed of a strong intellect, charming person and
fascinating manners, being at the same time very domestic in her tastes,
and “such a housekeeper as was to be found among the matrons of her day,”
says her friend, Reverend J. W. Jones, who adds: “She was, from the
beginning, a model wife and mother.”[3]

A short account of the children of this exemplary couple may not be amiss
here. George Washington Custis Lee graduated, as has been said, first in
his class, and at the time of the secession of Virginia was an officer
in the Engineer Corps. He was appointed aide on President Davis’s staff,
became brigadier and then major-general, and after the close of the war
was made professor of engineering in the Virginia Military Institute and
succeeded his father as president of Washington and Lee University. This
position he held for twenty-six years, maintaining the high standards set
by his father. Since his retirement, in 1897, he has resided at Burke,
Virginia.

William Henry Fitzhugh, the second son, was a Harvard graduate and was
appointed lieutenant in the army on the special application of General
Scott, but had resigned and was living at home when the war came on, and
he raised a cavalry company, of which he was made captain. He had command
of two companies and was made major of the squadron. After the war he
served in the Virginia Senate and in Congress until his death.

Robert E. Lee, junior, was a student in the University of Virginia when
the war began, and promptly enlisted in the Confederate army. He served
on the staff of his brother, General W. H. F. Lee, and rose to the rank
of captain. Since the war he has been a successful planter, and in 1905
he completed the “Recollections of My Father,” truly a work of love.[4]

Miss Anne Carter Lee died during the war, and Miss Agnes shortly after
the death of her devoted father. Miss Mildred Lee died in 1905, and Miss
Mary Lee is still living, a prominent figure in all social and historical
matters in her state and the national capital.

The oldest son was born at Fortress Monroe, but the other children were
all born at Arlington, where Mrs. Lee passed much of her time when her
husband was sent to distant stations.

Of Lee’s work as military engineer, Mr. Jones says:

The system of river improvements devised by Lee at St. Louis
are still followed there, and to his next work, at Fort
Hamilton, the city of New York owes its perfect defenses to-day.

His campaign under General Scott, in Mexico, was his first taste of
actual service, and history has recorded his zeal, valor and undaunted
energy in that memorable conflict. He now entered upon his real career.
He was breveted major at Cerro Gordo, lieutenant-colonel at Churubusco,
and colonel at Chapultepec. General Scott testified his appreciation in
every report he made to the War Department, and Lee repaid the regard of
his beloved general with an extraordinary admiration and devotion.

He brought his son, Robert, a mustang pony from Mexico. “He was,” writes
Captain Lee, in his “Recollections,” “for his inches, about as good a
horse as I ever met with. While he lived ... he and Grace Darling, my
father’s favorite mare, were members of our family. Grace Darling was a
chestnut mare of fine size and great power. He bought her in Texas from
the Arkansas cavalry on his way to Mexico, her owner having died on the
march out. She was with him during all of the war, and was shot seven
times. As a little fellow I used to brag of the number of bullets in her,
and would place my finger on the scar made by each one.”

In 1852 he was appointed Superintendent of the United States Military
Academy at West Point, where he remained for three years, when he was
sent to Texas. His services on the frontier covered a period of five
years, with one furlough home, during which he was sent, in October,
1859, to capture John Brown, at Harper’s Ferry. In February, 1861, he was
recalled from Texas and ordered to report at Washington. He was not in
favor of secession, for he loved the Union strongly, and he clung fondly
to the hope that the breach might be closed, but he did not hesitate when
he saw that his state would secede. A New York banker, an intimate friend
of General Scott, asked him at this time, in the course of a conversation
on the art of war: “General, whom do you regard as the greatest living
soldier?” General Scott replied immediately: “Colonel Robert E. Lee is
not only the greatest soldier in America, but the greatest now living
in the world. This is my firm conviction from a full knowledge of his
extraordinary abilities, and if the occasion ever arises, Lee will
win this place in the estimation of the whole world.” Refusing the
supreme command of the United States army, he cast in his lot with the
Confederacy, and was placed in command of the troops of Virginia.

[Illustration: ARLINGTON, HOME OF THE LEES]

Much discussion has been held concerning the occupation of Arlington by
the Federal authorities, but it was claimed that this was a justifiable
act, in view of the commanding position of the property. The White House
and the department buildings near it were only two miles and a half from
the highest point on the Arlington grounds; the Capitol only three and a
half miles away, and Georgetown less than a mile. A battery established
on the heights would have had the whole of Washington at its mercy.
General Scott saw the importance of this position, and, reluctant as he
was to turn Mrs. Lee from the lovely home where he had so often received
her hospitality; deeply grieved as he must have been to humiliate by
his first move one who had been his cherished friend and trusted aide,
he sent General Mansfield to take it. “It is quite probable,” wrote the
latter in his report, “that our troops assembled at Arlington will
create much excitement in Virginia; yet, at the same time, if the enemy
were to occupy the ground there a greater excitement would take place on
our side.”

Without going into particular details of the four years of fighting, I
wish to quote Lord Wolseley’s beautiful tribute to Lee:[5]

It is my wish to describe him as I saw him in the autumn of
1862, when, at the head of proud and victorious troops, he
smiled at the notion of defeat by any army that could be sent
against him. I desire to make known to the reader not only the
renowned soldier, whom I believe to have been the greatest
of his age, but to give some insight into the character of
one whom I have always considered the most perfect man I ever
met....

Outsiders can best weigh and determine the merits of the chief
actors on both sides.... On one side I can see, in the dogged
determination of the North, persevered in to the end through
years of recurring failure, the spirit for which the men of
Britain have always been remarkable. It is a virtue to which
the United States owed its birth in the last century.... On
the other hand, I can recognize the chivalrous valor of those
gallant men whom Lee led to victory, who fought not only for
fatherland and in defense of home, but for those rights most
prized by free men. Washington’s stalwart soldiers were styled
rebels by our king and his ministers, and in like manner the
men who wore the gray uniform were denounced as rebels from the
banks of the Potomac to the headwaters of the St. Lawrence....
As a looker-on, I feel that both parties in the war have so
much to be proud of that both can afford to hear what impartial
Englishmen or foreigners have to say about it.

Describing Lee’s appointment to the command of the State Militia, he says:

General Lee’s presence commanded respect, even from strangers,
by a calm, self-possessed dignity, the like of which I have
never seen in other men. Naturally of strong passions, he kept
them under perfect control by that iron and determined will of
which his expression and his face gave evidence. As this tall,
handsome soldier stood before his countrymen he was the picture
of the ideal patriot, unconscious and self-possessed in his
strength.... There was in his face and about his expression
that placid resolve which bespoke great confidence in self, and
which in his case, one knows not how, quickly communicated its
magnetic influence to others.

Comparing Lee with the Duke of Marlborough, he says:

They were gifted with the same military instinct, the same
genius for war. The power of fascinating those with whom they
were associated, the spell which they cast over their soldiers,
... their contempt of danger, their daring courage, constitute
a parallel that it is difficult to equal between any two other
great men of modern times.

He repeats the following pleasantry overheard between two Confederates,
after Pope’s dismissal:

Have you heard the news? Lee has resigned!

Good God! What for?

Because he says he cannot feed and supply his army any longer,
now that his commissary, General Pope, has been removed.

A characteristic anecdote of Lincoln is also given. He was asked how
many rebels were in arms and replied that he knew the number to be one
million, “for,” said he, “whenever one of our generals engages a rebel
army he reports that he has engaged a force of twice his strength; now
I know we have half a million soldiers in the field, so I am bound to
believe the rebels have twice that number.” General Wolseley justly
criticises the lack of concerted action among our regiments.

No fair estimate of Lee as a general can be made by a simple
comparison of what he achieved with that which Napoleon,
Wellington or Von Moltke accomplished, unless due allowance
is made for the difference in the nature of the American
armies and of the armies commanded and encountered by those
great leaders. They were at the head of perfectly organized,
thoroughly trained and well disciplined troops, while Lee’s
soldiers, though gallant and daring to a fault, lacked the
military cohesion and efficiency, the trained company leaders
... which are only to be found in a regular army of long
standing.

The Englishman concludes:

Where else in history is a great man to be found whose whole
life was one such blameless record of duty nobly done? It was
consistent in all its parts, complete in all its relations.

... The fierce light which beats upon the throne is as that of
a rushlight in comparison with the electric glare which our
newspapers now focus upon the public man in Lee’s position.
His character has been subjected to that ordeal, and who can
point to any spot upon it? His clear, sound judgment, personal
courage, untiring activity, genius for war, and absolute
devotion to his state mark him as a public man, as a patriot to
be forever remembered by all Americans.... I have met many of
the great men of my time, but Lee alone impressed me with the
feeling that I was in the presence of a man who was cast in a
grander mould and made of finer metal than all other men. He
is stamped upon my memory as a being apart and superior to all
others in every way; a man with whom none I ever knew, a very
few of whom I have read, are worthy to be classed.

This was one of the popular songs current after the close of the war:

I followed old Marse Robert
For four years, near about;
Got wounded in three places,
And starved at P’int Lookout.

Why Marse Robert? Major Stiles gives the reason[6]:

The passion of soldiers for nicknaming their favorite leaders,
rechristening them according to their own unfettered fancy, is
well known.... There is something grotesque about most of them,
and in many seemingly rank disrespect.... However this may be,
“Marse Robert” is far above the rest of soldier nicknames in
pathos and in power.

In the first place, it is essentially _military_ ... it rings
true upon the elemental basis of military life—unquestioning
and unlimited _obedience_.... There never could have been a
second “Marse Robert,” and but for the unparalleled elevation
and majesty of his character and bearing, there would never
have been the first. He was of all men most attractive to us,
yet by no means most approachable. We loved him much, but we
revered him more. We never criticised, never doubted him; never
attributed to him either moral error or mental weakness; no,
not even in our secret hearts or most audacious thoughts. I
really believe it would have strained and blurred our strongest
and clearest conceptions of the distinction between right and
wrong to have entertained, even for a moment, the thought that
he had ever acted from any other than the purest and loftiest
motive.... The proviso with which a ragged rebel accepted
the doctrine of evolution, that “the rest of us may have
descended or ascended from monkeys, but it took a God to make
‘Marse Robert,’” had more than mere humor in it.... We never
compared him with other men, either friend or foe. He was in
a superlative and absolute class by himself. Beyond a vague
suggestion, after the death of Jackson, as to what might have
been if he had lived, I cannot recall even an approach to a
comparative estimate of Lee.

[Illustration: VALENTINE’S RECUMBENT LEE STATUE

At Washington and Lee University, Lexington, Virginia]

Lee’s devotion to his soldiers and theirs to him are referred to by one
of Pickett’s captains[7]:

Many of those who had been wounded in the battle of the first
day went into the great charge on the third day with bandages
on their heads or arms, at sight of which the imperturbable Lee
shed tears.... Here was a devotion of which the Romans of old
had never dreamed; here was a holocaust of sacrificial victims
such as Greece had never known! The men who at Marathon and
Leuctra bled were not greater heroes than those who fell at
Gettysburg.

In a small volume of War Sketches, issued shortly after the war, I found
the following anecdote contributed to a Washington paper by Miss Woolsey,
a nurse sent to Gettysburg with the Sanitary Commission:

One of the Gettysburg farmers came creeping into our camp three
weeks after the battle. He lived five miles only from the town
and had “never seen a Rebel.” He heard we had some of them,
and came down to see them. “Boys, here’s a man who never saw a
Rebel in his life, and wants to look at you.” There he stood,
with his mouth wide open, and there they lay in rows, laughing
at him. “And why haven’t you seen a Rebel?” Mrs. ⸺ asked. “Why
didn’t you take your gun and help to drive them out of your
town?” “A feller might er got hit,” which reply was quite too
much for the Rebels; they roared with laughter up and down the
tents.

After the surrender at Appomattox General Lee joined his family at
Richmond for a short period of rest before taking up the “burdens of life
again.” “There was,” writes General Long,[8] “a continuous stream of
callers at the residence ... upon every hand manifestations of respect
were shown him.” General Long gives some touching incidents:

One morning an Irishman who had gone through the war in the
Federal ranks appeared at the door with a basket well filled
with provisions, and insisted upon seeing General Lee....
The general came from an adjoining room and was greeted with
profuse terms of admiration. “Sure, sir, you’re a great
soldier, and it’s I that know it. I’ve been fighting against
you all these years, an’ many a hard knock we’ve had. But,
general, I honor you for it; and now they tell me you’re poor
an’ in want, an’ I’ve brought this basket an’ beg you to take
it from a soldier.”

Two Confederate soldiers, in tattered garments and with bodies
emaciated by prison confinement, called upon General Lee and
told him they were delegated by sixty other fellows around
the corner “too ragged to come themselves.” They tendered
their beloved general a home in the mountains, promising him a
comfortable house and a good farm.

“Great and star-like as was the warrior,” says Dr. Shepherd, “the man is
greater.”[9]

It is said that General Lee was offered estates in England and in
Ireland; also the post of commercial agent of the South at New York, and
many other tenders of a home or livelihood. All of these he declined and
accepted the presidency of Washington College, at Lexington.

Founded in 1789 under the name of “Augusta Academy,” the name was changed
in 1782 to “Liberty Hall Academy,” from which was sent a company of
students into the Revolution. Washington, who had accepted from the
new State of Virginia 100 shares of the James River Company only on
condition that he might give them to some school, chose this academy for
beneficiary, and the name was changed in 1798 to “Washington College.”
The buildings, library and apparatus had been sacked during the Federal
occupancy, and the country was able to furnish only forty students at
the opening of the term of ’65-’66. Nothing daunted, the new president
gathered around him an able faculty, raised the standard of scholarship,
renovated the old buildings and secured funds for new ones. He introduced
the “honor system” and knew every student’s name, as well as his class
and deportment record. Asked, at a faculty meeting, for a plan to induce
students to attend the chapel, he advised: “The best way that I know of
is to set them the example,” which he invariably did. This gives the
keynote to his remarkable influence.

The effect of his principles was all-powerful. It is doubtful if any
other college in the world could show such a high average of morals and
scholarship which obtained at Washington College during Lee’s presidency
of five years.

I cannot resist relating an anecdote given by another of our
soldier-authors, John Esten Cooke:[10]

Coming upon the chieftain conversing cordially with an humbly clad man,
he supposed that it was, of course, an old Confederate, the more so as
the general, looking after the retreating figure, said kindly:

“That is one of our old soldiers who is in necessitous circumstances.”
Questioned, however, he admitted that the soldier had fought on “the
other side, but we must not think of that,” was his verdict.

The death of General Lee, on October 12, 1870, brought forth more
encomiums from the press, personages of exalted rank, and from the people
generally than has ever been accorded any man who died in private life
since Washington. “I do not exaggerate,” says Dr. Jones, “when I say
that many volumes would not contain the eulogies that were pronounced,
for I undertook to make a partial collection of them and have a trunk
full now.” In the cemetery near him at Lexington bivouacs his great
lieutenant, Stonewall Jackson. They were born in the same month, the one
on the nineteenth and the other on the thirty-first of January. It is
fitting that they should lie near together. “I know not,” further and
most fittingly continues Mr. Jones, who was chaplain of the University,
“how more appropriately the tomb of Lee could be placed. The blue
mountains of his loved Virginia sentinel his grave. Young men from every
section throng the classic shades of Washington and Lee University, and
delight to keep ward and watch at his tomb.”

[Illustration: MERCIE’S MONUMENT, LEE CIRCLE, RICHMOND]

I sing the hymn of the Conquered who fell in the battle of life,
The hymn of the wounded, the beaten, who died overwhelmed in the strife;
Not the jubilant song of the Victors for whom the resounding acclaim
Of nations was lifted in chorus, whose brows wore the chaplet of fame.
While the voice of the world shouts its chorus, its paeans for those who
have won,
While the trumpet is sounding triumphant, and high to the breeze and the
sun
Gay banners are waving, hands clapping and hurrying feet
Throwing after the laurel-crowned victors, I stand on the field of
Defeat.
Speak, History! Who are Life’s victors? Unroll thy long annals and say;
Are they those whom the world called the victors, who won the success of
a day?
The Martyrs or Nero? The Spartans who fell at Thermopylae’s tryst,
Or the Persians and Xerxes? His judge or Socrates? Pilate or Christ?

—_W. W. Story._

[1] Popular Life of General Lee. By Emily V. Mason. Baltimore: John
Murphy & Co.

[2] General Lee. By Fitzhugh Lee. New York: D. Appleton & Co. (Great
Commanders Series.)

[3] Life and Letters of Robert Edward Lee. By Rev. J. William Jones, D.D.
New York and Washington: Neale Publishing Company.

[4] Recollections of My Father. By Captain Robert E. Lee. New York:
Doubleday, Page & Co.

[5] General Lee. General Viscount Wolseley. Rochester, N. Y.: George P.
Humphrey.

[6] Four Years under Marse Robert. By Major Robert Stiles. New York and
Washington: Neale Publishing Company.

[7] Gettysburg: A Battle Ode Descriptive of the Grand Charge of the Third
Day, July 3, 1863. By R. W. Douthat. New York and Washington: Neale
Publishing Company.

[8] Memoirs of Robert E. Lee: His Military and Personal History. By
General A. L. Long and General Marcus J. Wright. New York, Philadelphia
and Washington: J. M. Stoddart & Co.

[9] Life of Robert Edward Lee. By Henry E. Shepherd, M.A., LL.D. New York
and Washington: Neale Publishing Company.

[10] Robert E. Lee. By John Esten Cooke. New York: G. W. Dillingham & Co.

HISTORIC HIGHWAYS OF THE SOUTH

By John Trotwood Moore

CHAPTER XVI—THE SECOND DAY AT SHILOH

By Lewis M. Hosea

[We give way in this issue to Judge Lewis M. Hosea, Judge of
the Superior Court of Cincinnati and late Brevet Major U. S.
Army, 16th U. S. Infantry, who gives us the viewpoint as seen
by Buell’s army. In this paper by this distinguished gentleman,
appears the best description of how it feels to be under fire
and how the Confederate columns appeared that we have ever seen.

That particular description deserves to live as a classic and
no one may read it without afterwards seeing “the surging line
of butternut and gray moving rapidly across our front” and
“the accompaniment of a leaden blast of hell sweeping into
one’s face as though it were a sort of fierce and deadly wind
impossible to stand against.”

It will also be observed that Judge Hosea takes decided issue
as to certain facts published in the History of the Shiloh
Battlefield Commission which we take pleasure in publishing and
will accord the same privilege to any one who cares to reply,
as it is by this kind of personal testimony that the truth of
history is eventually established.

To the readers of TAYLOR-TROTWOOD we wish to state that these
Historic Highways of the South have been running serially
through Trotwood’s Monthly for fifteen months and include The
Hermitage, The Creek War Highways, New Orleans, Battle of
Franklin, Ft. Donelson, Shiloh and others.—THE EDITOR.]

The two days’ battle at Pittsburg Landing on the Tennessee River, fought
on Sunday and Monday, April 6th and 7th, 1862, viewed from the standpoint
of forty years later, looms up as one of the most significant contests of
the great Civil War. The entire battlefield was a wilderness of scrub oak
and kindred growths, unbroken save by a few settlers’ clearings located
at random upon a plain traversed only by irregular “woods-roads,” and by
drainage ravines leading by winding courses into the two creeks bounding
the field of operations on the north and south—these discharging into the
Tennessee River behind the Union Army.

The troops were for the most part new and untried, and the conditions of
the ground made the transmission of orders difficult and uncertain. It
was impossible for commanders of large bodies to obtain a comprehensive
view of the field so as to perceive and provide intelligently for the
varying exigencies of the battle as it progressed. They could only guess
the swaying movements of the fight by sounds of musketry and by the
chance reports of messengers who could locate nothing by fixed monuments.
Nor could the men in ranks, or even regimental officers, see beyond a
limited distance; and the direction of enfilading or turning movements
could be discovered only by the course of bullets among the trees or the
tearing of the ground by solid shot or shell.

These things made the battle a supreme test of the quality of the
individual units of the army rather than of any directing skill of its
higher commanders. The bulldog courage of individual groups of men who
hung on and fought “to a finish,” or who, like Prentiss, sacrificed
themselves where they stood because of no order to withdraw, delayed
the general advance of the enemy and thus saved the first day from
overwhelming and complete disaster. It became a case of “night or
Blücher;” and when, toward evening, the leading regiments of Buell’s
army arrived upon the field and interposed a fresh line of resistance,
the Union troops had been driven from the field and huddled as a mass of
disorganized fragments in a semicircle of half a mile radius about the
landing.

But the Confederates drew off flushed with the spirit of victory and
ceased fighting only to prepare for an expected certain and triumphant
finish in the morning. Knowing that they had the Union forces hemmed
in the semicircle of their lines extending from river to river, every
Confederate soldier fully believed that surrender or annihilation of the
Union forces would be easy of accomplishment.

This was the spirit and purpose that animated the Confederate forces on
Monday when they began to attack soon after daylight on that second day.
To the forces of Buell, arriving during the night on transports from
Savannah (on the river twenty miles below), and marching up the bank in
the dim light of dawn to form a cordon around the fragments of Grant’s
army, the scene was dismal and discouraging in the extreme. Making our
way through the thousands of men huddled on the bank, hearing at every
step the doleful prognostications of defeat, the wooded plain above
presented to us visible proof of the disastrous conflict of the day
before in the dead and wounded who lay unattended, and the broken and
discarded arms and equipments that strewed the ground. These were the
sights and sounds that greeted us as we marched to our place in line of
battle on the second day; and they fully justified the compliment paid us
by our brigade commander, General Lovell H. Rousseau, who says, in his
official report of the battle in substance: “Seldom have men gone into
battle under such discouraging circumstances, and never have they borne
themselves more gallantly.”

In the personal reminiscences that follow I shall speak more particularly
of the part taken by Rousseau’s brigade of McCook’s division.

I was personally present throughout the second day, as Adjutant of the
First Battalion, Sixteenth U. S. Infantry—which, with similar battalions
of the Fifteenth and Nineteenth Infantry, and the First Ohio, Fifth
Indiana, and Sixth Kentucky Volunteers—constituted Rousseau’s brigade
(4th) of McCook’s division (2d) of the Army of the Ohio commanded by
General Buell.

My position as adjutant gave me a somewhat wider range of observation
than that of a line officer on duty with a company, and I retain some
very distinct recollections of the battle, which I will briefly state in
so far as they bear upon the movements of Rousseau’s brigade; but I shall
leave others to speak of the severity of the fighting, and leave to you
to estimate the quality of the service the brigade rendered the Union
cause.

Rousseau’s brigade reached Pittsburg Landing during the night of the
6th of April, 1862, by steamers from Savannah, and disembarked just
before day. On the level just back of the landing, in the dim light of
the coming dawn, we deposited knapsacks and advanced in a southwesterly
direction through the woods, passing through camps (probably Hurlbut’s)
where our dead lay unburied as they had fallen the day before. After
a short halt we were advanced and deployed to the right and front at
the hither edge of a broad and shallow depression, where a small brook
coursed on to our right through a comparatively open forest without any
visible clearing. Here we were halted, muskets loaded, and, in a short
time, at a little after six o’clock, we heard firing toward our right
rear, and almost immediately our own skirmishers were driven in and we
were engaged with a battle line of the enemy. Then followed a steady and
vigorous “stand-up” musketry fight which lasted the greater part of an
hour, when the enemy drew off, but soon renewed the attack with greater
vigor, only to be again repulsed.

This position was probably on Tilghman’s Creek, shown on the map of the
Shiloh Battlefield Commission to which I shall refer; but the hour stated
on the map as eight o’clock is wrong and should be six o’clock. By eight
o’clock we had been baptized with fire and blood. Here Captain Acker of
the Sixteenth was killed, and a number of other officers and men were
killed and wounded.

It is an old story, perhaps, to most of you—this first experience of
actual battle; yet, even now, dimly remembered through the intervening
years, it seems to me the most horrifying experience that can possibly
fall to the lot of man.

First came the startling report of a musket fired by one of our own
skirmishers out in our front; then a crackling of responses from the
woods beyond, but we could see only a little blue smoke rising above
the undergrowth—for it was early spring and the green leaves were just
beginning to appear—and hear the skipping of stray bullets through the
branches with a whirr of spent force. A stir went through the lines and
faces grew pale, for we knew that the battle was sweeping toward us and
that these shots were the first sprinkle of the coming storm. The quiet
command of “Attention!” was obeyed ere it was uttered; but the climax of
first impressions came with the order to “load.” That order, like the
jarring touch upon the chemist’s glass, crystallized the wild turmoil of
thoughts and focalized all upon the actual business of war. I can realize
now how important a thing in war is the musket as a steadying factor
for overwrought nerves; and how that first order to “load!” brought the
panicky thoughts of men back with a sudden shock to the realization that
they were there upon equal terms with the enemy to do and not alone to
suffer. I remember the “thud” of the muskets as they came down upon the
ground almost as one,—for our men had been well drilled,—and the confused
rattle of drawing ramrods, and their ring in the gun barrels as they
rebounded in ramming the charges home. Every movement and every sound
was an encouragement; and in the reaction of feeling the interchange of
boastful speech almost ripened into cheers. But, meantime, the fire of
skirmishers increased to an almost continuous rattle and grew closer,
until—for all this was a matter of minutes only—our skirmishers could
be seen coming in, firing as they came, and half carrying two or three
wounded men. This, of course, again deepened the tension of nervous
expectation, and faces took on a look of grim determination, as eyes
peered forward to catch the first glimpse of the approaching enemy. As
our skirmishers came into the lines, there went a hoarse whisper down
the ranks, “There they are!”—and looking out through the woods I saw the
flutter of battle flags and beneath them a surging line of butternut and
gray moving rapidly across our front just beyond the shallow ravine,
perhaps fifty or seventy-five yards away. In a moment, as it seemed,
there burst forth a rattle of musketry that almost drowned the command of
our officers to “fire at will!”

The first shock of battle is appalling. The rattle deepens into a roar
as men get down to the work of loading and firing rapidly; but it is not
alone the _noise_ of firing that appals, the vicious “whizz,” and “zip”
past the ears; the heavy “thud” of bullets that strike the tree-trunks
with the force of sledge-hammer blows,—all these make up a horrible din
that has no parallel on earth. But with it all is the realization that
this is but the accompaniment of a leaden blast of hell sweeping into
one’s face as though it were a sort of fierce and deadly wind impossible
to stand against; and the rain of leaves and twigs cut from the trees,
and the occasional fall of larger branches, heightens this impression of
a raging storm. After a little the smoke obscures everything and the
battle goes on in an ever-increasing acrid fog that would make breathing
impossible were it not for the frenzy of battle that seizes upon every
other faculty, physical and mental, and makes one oblivious to all other
surroundings.

Here and there a man drops his musket, throws up his hands and falls
backward dead; or another lunges heavily forward on hands and knees,
mortally wounded; and no one who has seen it will ever forget that look
of agony unspeakable on the faces of those stricken by sudden death in
battle.

For what seemed an interminable time the angry buzz of bullets clipped
by our ears and overhead; and I remember, that, as I passed up and down
the line assisting the commanding officer of the battalion in encouraging
the men to take time in loading carefully and aiming low, a bullet struck
a musket in the hands of a young Irishman of my own company, just as
he was about to bring it to his shoulder, and the force of the impact
shattered the stock and turned him partly about and almost threw him
down. I saw the blood spurt from his arm, for he had in the excitement
rolled up his sleeves to handle his piece the better. I sprang forward to
assist him; but with a cry of rage he stripped off his sleeve, and with
the assistance of a comrade, bound up his wound, which proved to be not
serious, and seized a dead comrade’s musket beside him and went on with
the fight.

But after a time the whirr and hiss of the bullets slackened and
finally ceased; finally, skirmishers were ordered out to reconnoiter,
while disposition was made of the dead and wounded. Soon, however
the skirmishers came hastily back and reported new and heavier lines
advancing, and again we saw the battle-flags among the trees, nearer than
before. This time, however, the fight opened with the thunder of field
guns whose missiles went shrieking overhead with a horrible sound that
made the blood run cold. Then came the order to hug the ground and fire
at will; and the fight went on as before except that as we had advanced
a few rods down the gentle declivity of the ravine, and the line of the
enemy was at a relatively higher level, the majority of bullets and the
cannon shots passed above us and but few came dangerously close.

But the success of our first experience seemed to tell upon the ranks,
and the coolness and deliberation of both men and officers were
noticeable thenceforward; and soon the artillery discharges ceased,
and after a time we knew, as before, by the lessening of the whizz of
bullets, that the enemy had again yielded the ground in our front.

As I look back upon it, it seems astonishing how soon all the natural
feelings of apprehension and fear give way to what has been aptly termed
the “battle rage” which lifts a man up to a plane where the things of the
body are forgotten. Amid the roar and din of musketry and the horrible
swish and shriek of shells, the intellect seemed to be disembodied, and,
while conscious of the danger of being hurled headlong into eternity at
any moment, the pressure upon the brain seemed to deaden the physical
senses—fear among them. Fear came later when the fight was over, just as
in the waiting moments before it began; but throughout the day while the
battle was on I remember having a singular feeling of curiosity about
personal experiences. I seemed to be looking down upon my bodily self
with a sense of impersonality and wondering why I was not afraid in the
midst of all this horrible uproar and danger. I suppose this was the
common experience of soldiers, for if it were not so, battles could not
be fought.

[Illustration: GENERAL FORREST AND HIS CAVALRY GOING OUT TO FORT DONELSON

From “Life of General Nathan Bedford Forrest.” Copyright, 1899, by Harper
& Brothers.]

After repulsing the second attack, at about eight o’clock, we moved
forward slowly across the brook, with skirmishers advanced, fighting at
intervals, for the enemy stubbornly contested the ground. On reaching a
clearing (probably the Duncan field) in the line of our advance we were
met by an opposing concentration of the enemy in great force at the far
side of it, who attempted a desperate charge upon us. This was met by
a steady fire and an unswerving line; and the fighting that ensued is
described by Judge Force, in his account of the battle published in the
“Campaigns of the Civil War” by the Scribners (p. 171), as a “desperate
struggle”—and indeed it was! Guenther, with a section of Terrill’s
battery, arrived upon the scene, coming in upon our right, which was
unprotected, at the crisis of this fight, and, as the enemy gave way at
our front and ran together in a mass to pass through a gate or break in
a fence in the rear, he directed his rapid discharges of canister to
the same point. The effect upon the enemy was appalling and horrible
beyond all description. Among our killed were Lieutenant Mitchell, a most
gallant officer of the Sixteenth, and it was here also that Wykoff, then
a captain of the Fifteenth, lost his eye.

I recall one striking incident of a personal character connected with
this part of the battle. A sergeant of C Company, which I had commanded,
was wounded in the shoulder and disabled though not vitally hurt. A
moment later, as the sergeant was making his way to the rear, I was
knocked down by an exploding shell, whose fragments relieved me of one
boot-leg and left one leg of my pants in shreds, but fortunately left
the leg intact, except for a wrench and a few bruises of no serious
consequence. It so happened that my sergeant saw me fall, and, as he was
among the first of the wounded taken to Cincinnati, he reported me as
killed, to the great distress of my family at home. My brother, who came
down a few days later, found me very much alive, though very ragged,
very dirty, and very thankful that the shell that took my boot-leg took
no more. I was thankful even for the limp that made me the subject of
good-natured derision for some days as I performed my duties as adjutant
on one leg.

We immediately followed in pursuit, after this last fight, capturing
two field-guns from the enemy, and continued the advance until we had
repossessed General McClernand’s headquarters of Sunday, beyond which we
again met a determined resistance, but eventually drove the enemy back
through a large open field into what has been termed the “water oaks
thicket.”

The enemy seemed to be massed in great force at and beyond this point
to oppose our further progress, and a heavy line of battle occupied the
woods beyond the clearing on the hither edge of which we were halted to
replenish our exhausted ammunition.

Our advance, though slow, had been continuous and resulted in projecting
a sort of wedge into the enemy’s lines, of which wedge we seemed to be
the apex. It resulted, therefore, naturally and necessarily that the
enemy concentrated more and more in our immediate front to break the
force that was gradually splitting them in two and endangering their
communications in rear. Firing still continued toward the rear on both
flanks, for we had considerably outstripped the general advance. Our
men fixed bayonets and lay down under orders to hold the position, if
attacked, at all hazards. The firing against us grew quite heavy, but no
reply was made, although some were killed, among them Lieutenant Keyes,
a splendid officer of the Sixteenth, with whom I was standing arm in arm
at the time his summons came,—for among the regulars it was not then
considered “good form” for officers to take shelter.

I have before spoken of the impact of a minie bullet against a tree
as like the blow of a sledge hammer. The Keyes incident gives a very
realistic illustration. As I have mentioned in another place, Lieutenant
Keyes and I were standing arm in arm—my right interlocked with his
left,—in rear of his company. We were, as I recall, just exchanging
sorrowful remarks over the death of a Sergeant Baker—a fine man—who
received a bullet through the forehead just a moment before, while Keyes
was exchanging words with him. Just then the sledge hammer struck one
of us—for a moment I did not know which—and hurled us both to the ground
backwards. As I scrambled to a footing I saw Keyes’ blanched face and the
torn garment showing the passage of the bullet through the left shoulder
joint where a hasty examination showed that the bony structure of the
vicinity had been shattered. He was taken to the rear and died the second
day after.

Here, after a long wait, General Sherman came, and I saw him for the
first time. I will let him tell you what next occurred. General Sherman
is describing, in his official report of the battle, his own movements as
he came up on our right; and is speaking of a battery that had reached
him at the rear. He says:

“Under cover of their fire we advanced until we reached the point where
the Corinth road crosses the line of McClernand camp, and here I saw for
the first time the well ordered and compact columns of General Buell’s
Kentucky forces whose soldierly movements at once gave confidence to our
newer and less disciplined men. Here I saw Willich’s regiment advance
upon a point of water oak and thicket, behind which I knew the enemy was
in great strength, and enter it in beautiful style.”

(The thicket described by General Sherman, I may remark, was just beyond
the field on the edge of which we were lying and through which it was
necessary to pass. The Thirty-second Indiana was regarded as the crack
German regiment of our western army.)

General Sherman continues:

“Then arose the severest musketry fire I ever heard, and lasted some
twenty minutes when this splendid regiment had to fall back.”

(The Thirty-second, let me explain further, had passed around our left
and formed in our front, in the open, in column of companies—“double
column to the center,” as the formation is described by its commander in
his report. The absurdity of this formation seemed to strike even the
rank and file, for it drew a direct and enfilading fire from the extended
line of the enemy in front that reached even the rear companies and gave
rise to the claim on their part that they had been fired upon by the
troops in their own rear. This claim was and is, of course, ridiculous.
The regulars were at that moment engaged in replenishing their cartridge
boxes in the rear of Kirke’s brigade which had been in reserve and had
taken our position temporarily for this purpose. The claim was made as
an excuse for a most unmilitary blunder in placing a column formation in
the open in the face of a battle line, and, as it naturally resulted in
a complete rout of the regiment, some excuse was sought as a salve for
wounded pride).

General Sherman continues:

“This green point of timber is about five hundred yards east of Shiloh
meeting house, and it was evident here was to be the struggle. The enemy
could be seen also forming his lines to the south.... This was about
2 p.m. The enemy had one battery close by Shiloh and another near the
Hamburg road, both pouring grape and canister upon any column of troops
that advanced upon the green point of water oaks. Willich’s regiment
had been repulsed, but a whole brigade of McCook’s division advanced
beautifully, deployed, and entered this dreaded wood.... This I afterward
found to be Rousseau’s brigade of McCook’s division.

“Rousseau’s brigade moved in splendid order steadily to the front
sweeping everything before it; and at 4 p.m. we stood upon the ground of
our original front line, and the enemy was in full retreat....

“I am ordered by General Grant to give personal credit where I think it
is due, and censure where I think it merited. I concede that General
McCook’s splendid division from Kentucky drove back the enemy along
the Corinth road, which was the great center of the field of battle,
where Beauregard commanded in person, supported by Bragg’s, Polk’s and
Breckinridge’s divisions.”

General Sherman lived many years in the belief that he had fully and
truly stated the facts in this matter, but we now know from a veracious
history to which I shall refer, “compiled from the official records upon
the authority of the Shiloh Battlefield Commission,” that what Sherman
supposed to be a concentration of the Confederate army under Beauregard,
including many divisions under distinguished leaders, was only Colonel
Looney, of the Shiloh Battlefield Commission, with his regiment
“augmented by a few detachments” from others, “driving back the Union
line to the Purdy road” and enabling the Confederate army to “leisurely”
walk away unmolested without our even suspecting it!

At the time Sherman came to us, Willich, with his large regiment, was
just going into the open field and our reserve brigade—Kirke’s—was taking
our position while we retired to the road to get a supply of ammunition
which had come forward meantime; so that Sherman saw the advance and
repulse of Willich, and the re-forming, deploying and advance of
Rousseau’s brigade that so favorably attracted his attention as to merit
official praise.

Between three and four o’clock in the afternoon we had pushed the enemy,
still fighting, back to the vicinity of Shiloh Church. This, as afterward
appeared, was Beauregard’s headquarters which he vacated about two
o’clock, from prudential motives, and, manifestly by an afterthought,
sought to minimize the fact of his own defeat by making it appear that
an order to withdraw his army had been given long before. As a matter of
fact, we know now from the records that the only order given was an order
to the extreme wings of his army to fall back to this very point as a
concentration of his forces against the center of our army.

Rousseau’s brigade continued its slow but relentless advance until we
reached and passed the church itself, when the forces immediately
in our front in the vicinity of the road broke in disorder, leaving,
however, a considerable body of the enemy on our right against whom the
regular battalions right-wheeled and whom we pursued half way through the
former camps of Sherman’s troops lying parallel with the Shiloh branch,
completing the rout of all the enemy’s forces in sight. They fled in
disorder across the branch, and we were ordered to rejoin the brigade.
At the final rout of the enemy at 4 o’clock p.m., we were astraddle of
the camps of McDowell’s brigade of Sherman’s division, and this is what
General Sherman refers to when he says in his report:

“At 4 p.m. we stood upon the ground of our original first line and the
enemy were in full retreat.”

In this final movement the troops of Sherman took no part, nor was the
division of General Lew Wallace or that of McClernand in sight. And this
is what General Sherman admits by his frank confession that:

“General McCook’s splendid division drove back the enemy along the
Corinth road which was the great center of the field of battle.”

This crisis of the battle really lasted from about noon, when we faced
the point of water oaks, until four o’clock, when the enemy were routed
and fleeing in confusion across Shiloh branch. If there was any rallying
force at all on the other side of this branch, it made no demonstration
and certainly it was not a battle line of the enemy as represented on the
map of the commission. The only rear-guard stand mentioned in the reports
was at a point two miles further on and a final stand by Breckinridge’s
division at Mickey’s still further toward Monterey.

A few of the Confederate authorities place their final “withdrawal” at
two o’clock, and a few others at three, but the overwhelming consensus of
testimony of the reports place the final and complete rout of the enemy
beyond the Shiloh Church at and after four o’clock; and Sherman again in
his report particularizes 4 p.m. as the close of the engagement (p. 254).

After the fighting was over, General Sherman came over to us in his camps
of the day before, and, speaking to Major Carpenter (of the Nineteenth),
complimented most highly the work of the brigade and particularly of the
regular battalions.

It was about this time also that General Thomas J. Woods arrived at the
front, at the head of a brigade of his division, and, as Major Lowe
reminds me, demanded in no “Sunday school language” to be allowed to go
forward in pursuit of the enemy. But the darkness was approaching, and
the impossibility of handling new troops in the dark in a wilderness of
black jack was manifest, and the pursuit was given over for the night.

The map of the commission shows Wood’s entire division in line with us
and taking part at 2 p.m. in the great and final crisis of the day, in
which the musketry fire was, as described by General Force, “more severe
than any that occurred on the field in either of the two days of the
battle.” _Wood’s division was not there._ One brigade came upon the
field _just as the fighting was over, at about four o’clock_, and the
other did not leave the landing until dark. General Force’s statement,
substantially to the same effect in his history of the battle (p. 177 in
the Scribner’s Series) is:

“Wood’s division, arriving too late to take part in the battle, pushed to
the front and engaged his skirmishers with the light troops covering the
retreat.”

General Buell’s report states the fact as I give it from my recollection.

[Illustration: A TYPE OF TABLET SHOWING SHAPE ADOPTED FOR SECOND DAY’S
BATTLE. THIS PARTICULAR ONE MARKS A POINT ON “HORNET’S NEST”]

In the year 1901, I addressed a letter to the Shiloh Battlefield
Commission, at the invitation of its chairman, stating the substance of
the personal recollections herein given, with a view to the correction
of some very serious errors in its official blue print maps. In this
letter I referred to between thirty and forty official reports of
field organizations engaged in the battle, all showing that the errors
complained of existed; but from that day to this no notice whatever has
been taken of the letter.

I had not then the slightest idea that the commission intended to
constitute itself the official historian of the Battle of Shiloh—for
certainly the law of its appointment contemplates no such thing. But,
during the year 1903, there appeared from the press of the Government
Printing Office, Washington, an innocent looking work bearing on its
title page the following:

“Shiloh National Park Commission. The Battle of Shiloh, and the
Organizations Engaged. Compiled from the Official Records by Major D. W.
Reed, Historian and Secretary, under the Authority of the Commission,
1902. Washington, Government Printing Office, 1903.”

There follows, on a subsequent page, a preface addressed by the Chairman
of the Commission—

“To Shiloh Soldiers”—in which, referring to the intent of the statute
establishing the Shiloh National Military Park to perpetuate the history
of the battle on the ground where it was fought, he expresses the desire
of the commission that “this history” (meaning this publication) “shall
be complete, impartial, and correct,” etc. He then states, that, “to
ensure this accuracy, _all reports have been carefully studied and
compared. The records at Washington have been thoroughly searched and
many who participated in the battle have been interviewed._... It is,
therefore, desired that the statements of the book be earnestly studied
by every survivor of Shiloh and any errors or omissions be reported to
the commission with a view to the publication of a revised edition of the
report.”

This so-called official “history” of the battle contains in permanent
form the same erroneous maps put forth as blue prints in 1901. The
history proper devotes about sixteen pages to a description of the first
day’s operations of the Army of the Tennessee, and one page to those
of the second day covering the participation of the Army of the Ohio.
Short as is the latter portion of the history, we learn that the weight
of numbers really decided the issue before the fight began; and, while
Beauregard made a show of resistance for a while, along about dinner
time he sent Colonel Looney (of the Shiloh Battlefield Commission) with
his regiment “augmented by detachments from other regiments,” who charged
and “drove back the Union line,” and enabled Beauregard to safely cross
Shiloh branch with his army and leisurely retire to Corinth thirty miles
away! So skillfully was all this done, we are told, that the Confederate
army “began to retreat at 2.30 p.m. _without the least perception on the
part of the enemy_” (the Union forces) “that such a movement was going
on”—and this is put forth as “history!”

When we look at the maps to which we are referred in connection with
this account of the second day’s battle, the astonishing accuracy and
completeness of this contribution to history begins to dawn upon us.
There we find that the Union troops, after a late breakfast, came upon
the field and did a little skirmishing with the enemy, who, as the
odds were against them, could not be expected to stay in the game, and
withdrew while the Union forces were at dinner, without letting us know
anything about it. And we are told that this is real history, based upon
an exhaustive search and comparison of all the records, compiled by a
distinguished official body, assisted by a “historian,” and this is
published by the Government of the United States!

Lest it be thought that I exaggerate, let me here quote the principal
portion of this veracious history of the second day’s battle. Beginning
with the statement that the battle of the second day was opened by Lew
Wallace attacking Pond’s brigade, it continues:

“The 20,000 fresh troops in the Union army made the contest an unequal
one, and though stubbornly contested for a time, at about two o’clock
General Beauregard ordered the withdrawal of his army. To secure the
withdrawal he placed Colonel Looney of the Thirty-eighth Tennessee, with
his regiment, augmented by detachments from other regiments, at Shiloh
Church, and directed him to charge the Union center. In this charge
Colonel Looney passed Sherman’s headquarters and pressed the Union
line back to the Purdy road; at the same time General Beauregard sent
batteries across the Shiloh branch and placed them in battery on the high
ground beyond. With these arrangements Beauregard at _four o’clock safely
crossed Shiloh branch with his army_ and placed his rear guard under
Breckinridge in line upon the ground occupied by his army on Saturday
night. The Confederate army _retired leisurely_ to Corinth, while the
Union army returned to the camps that it had occupied before the battle.”

The final touch—“the Union army returned to the camps it had occupied
before the battle”—shows how negligible a quality, in the mind of these
able historians, was the contribution of Buell’s fresh troops who seem to
have been spectators but nothing more.

HOW OLE WASH GOT RID OF HIS MOTHERS-IN-LAW

By John Trotwood Moore

I was telling ole Wash the other night that I thought the President was
a great man and that if he didn’t make any break from now on, as for
instance about knocking out states’ rights and undue blowing about the
devilish little Japs who are itching to scrap with us, he would rank
among the great presidents.

The old man was thoughtful for awhile, looking into the fire.

“Wal, boss, he sho’ is got all the year-marks—a senserble, dermestic wife
an’ no signs of a muther-in-law. Now, sah, befo’ eny man kin be great
he must fus’ ax his wife an’ arter he gits her consent he mus’ ax his
muther-in-law. Now, sah, no man kin be great, don’t keer how much ’bility
he’s got, if his wife is in society an’ his muther-in-law is in de house.
You can look all down de line, sah, an’ when you finds dat combinashun
you’ll find a man whose growin’ gourd of greatness is liable to wilt eny
day, like Job’s, at de fus’ good jolt it gits. Wid both of ’em in society
an’ both in de’ house, why, Lord, boss, his gourd will nurver even sprout!

“Did I urver tell you ’bout my ’sperience in dat line an’ how nigh I cum
to missin’ greatness, all on account of a few muther-in-laws? It wuz a
close shave an’ if I hadn’t seed de way de ship wuz headed an’ steered
out from dat combernashun, instead of bein’ de gent’man an’ floserpher
whose ’pinions you so highly values,” he chuckled modestly, “you’d a had
a ole nigger fit only fur de woodpile an’ de blackin’ bresh.

“Boss,” he laughed as he bit off a chew of Brazil Leaf Twist, bred in
the hills of Maury, “did you kno’ the ole man am a Only? The only man
dat ever lived dat had fo’ muther-in-laws at unct—driv’ a fo’-in-han’ of
’em, so to speak! Oh, I kno’ what you ’bout to say, sah,—but mine wuz
legitermates, de actu’l product of de law an’ matremony.”

“Nonsense,” I said, “you couldn’t have been married to four women at
once, as sly an old coon as you are. Though I did hear Marse Nick Akin
say that he knew of his own knowledge that you once had three wives but
gave two of them to the preacher if he would make you an elder in his
church, which bargain was duly consummated. Oh, I knew you were driving a
very long string of tandems, old man, but four abreast? Tell about it.”

He laughed so loud the pointer jumped up from his bed on the rug and
barked.

“Did Marse Nick vi’late de conferdence I composed in his veracity?” he
laughed again. “Wal, I jis’ well tell it fur you’ll nurver guess how it
wuz.

“Long in de fifties I spliced up wid a likely young widder dat wuz de
sod-relic of Brer Simon Harris, a ’piscopal brudder up at Nashville.
Befo’ dat she had been de relic of several gent’men of color. Fur a week
or so I wuz so busy co’rtin’ her dat I wa’n’t very ’tickler jis’ whut
her entitlements an’ habilerments wuz, nur jis’ whut mineral rights an’
easements went wid de property.

“I’ve allers noticed it’s dat a way in de co’rtin’ stage an’ hits a
wise dispensashun of ole Marster to trap us all into matremony an’ make
us blin’, like snakes in August; an’ eb’ry one of us, when he gits his
seckin’ sight arter de entrapment, wakes up to fin’ dat in de deed
to de state of matremony dar has been passed wid de free-hold a few
hererditerments dat he didn’t cal’late went wid de lan’.

“Sum of us, of co’rse nurver gits dey seckin’ sight at all.

“But I ain’t talkin’ of dem. I’ve nurver writ a fool’s almernac yit!

“But I claims I am de only man dat urver got fo’ muther-in-laws, when I
didn’t ’spec’ to git eny!

“Arter a breef but very pinted co’rtship, in which I done de usual
close-settin’, low-layin’ an’ tall lyin’, I hitched up my team an’ driv’
up to Nashville an’ married Sally. Arter de circus I driv’ de team ’round
to de door fur to carry her home an’ I went in fur to pack up her things.
I got ’em all in one big box, fur Brer Simon hadn’t been very felicertus
in passin’ round de hat, an’ when I tuck it out to de wag’n dar sot Sally
an’ fo’ uther ladies all es cheerful an’ happy as fo’ ole tabby-cats in a
hay loft.

“’Dese am my muthers, Wash,’ sez Sally sweetly, ’an’ of co’rse dey am all
gwine to lib wid us.’”

“‘Look heah, gal,’ sez I sorter faintly, ‘I ain’t nurver heerd of enybody
havin’ mor’n one muther.”

“‘Dese other three am jes’ as dear,’ seys she, p’intin’ to de three ole
ladies, ‘dat’s Simon’s muther, dat’s mine, an’ dem two ober dar—’

“Boss, I nearly had a fit! Do you kno’ dat gal had de muthers of ebry one
of her fus’ husbands dar an’ claimin’ dey wuz mighty nigh to her?

“Dar wa’n’t nothin’ to do but to git a divorcement an’ as I wa’n’t quite
ready fur dat yit, I made de bes’ of it an’ driv’ off; but I knowed if
dar wuz ever a day when I needed sum brains now wuz de time. An’ de three
sod muthers,—dat wuz de entitlement I gib to de three muthers of Sally’s
dead husbands,—dey wuz jes’ plain ole grannies, wid de usual tongue an’
de perviserty fer huntin’ up trouble dat wuz natu’lly predistined fur
sumbody else.

“But Sally’s muther she wuz a fine lookin’ ’oman, jes a shade heftier
an’ handsumer than Sally so I teched her mighty tenderly an’ gin her to
onderstan’ dat I fully intended to fulfill to de letter de scrip’tul
injunshuns of filial affecshuns. She wuz a hefty ’oman, boss, but she wuz
es bossy es she wuz hansum, es I found out. De day she landed at home,
sah, I seed she’d sot in to own de place an’ in two weeks, sah, sides
ownin’ Sally an’ de sod-muthers, she owned de mules, de cow, de pigs an’
de farm, me an’ my ’ligious convicshuns an’ perlitical preferment.

“But es I wuz sayin’, boss, she wuz a han’sum ’oman!

“Now I’m allers willin’ to be bossed fur a while by a handsum ’oman, but
when it comes to dat batch of ole sod-muthers dat looked like busted bags
of dried apples, dat wuz a nurr thing. But I’ve noticed dar is allers a
kin’ of communercashun ’mong women folks es to de bossin’ of a man. It
jis’ travels by grapevine, or dis here wireless business in de air, to de
end dat when one ’oman kin boss a man all of ’em think dey can do it.

“An’ dey think right, only in dis case de thinkin’ hadn’t all ben dun
yit. So dey all jes’ put me down as dead easy.

“I let ’em hab free han’ till de honeymoon wuz over. I didn’ think I
orter mix eny vinegar wid dat; but by dat time de whole tribe of ’em
wuz needin’ sum of de salt dat Lot’s wife got, an’ mebbe sum of de fire
an’ brimstone dat wuz de ’casion of her saltin’. Wal, sah, dey sot in
fur infairs an’ didn’t do nuthin’ but eat fur two weeks. I had to give
’em three infairs myself an’ then they gin to nose aroun’ an’ git my
naburs to have infairs. Fur two weeks mo’ dar wa’n’t nuffin but infairs
fur de bride, an’ groom, fur my naburs wuz polite, all wucked up by dese
sod-muthers, till dey wuzn’t a chicken or shote left in five miles of
my home, an’ if dar had been a hard winter an’ de white folks’ chickens
had-roosted high, we would a had a hard time of it.

“Wal, I stood dat, ’caze dar wuz a honeymoon an’ good eatin’ gwine on wid
it, but ’long ’bout de thud week when de sod-mammies gin to tell me how I
orter roach my hair an’ run my farm I gin to lay my plans fur acshun.

“Dey wuz all ’piscopaliuns, boss, es I wuz sayin’, an’ dey bleeved
tarible in Good Friday; an’ ev’ry Friday wuz Good Friday wid dem when it
come to eatin’. When I seed my chickens all gwine an’ de pigs an’ sich, I
got so disgusted wid dese Good Fridays dat I wanted to be a jay-bird fur
a while so I cud git off to hell ebry Friday myse’f! Frum dat dey begin
to rub it in to me ’bout baptism an’ so forth an’ dat didn’t tend to make
me change in de resolushuns I had fixed up. I went on fixin’ my plans an’
layin’ low, meek as Moses outwardly but inwardly full of wrath.

“By dis time dey gin to ax in all de bredderin of de chu’ch to he’p ’em
eat an’ settin’ up by moonlight wid ’em a holdin’ han’s an’ prayin’. Now,
boss, de hefty one nurver mixed up in dese small things—she wuz layin’
fur bigger game. She seed de sod-muthers wuz managin’ it all right an’ as
she knowed she owned dem an’ Sally an’ dey all owned me, why she let it
res’ at dat.

“Sides dat, as I sed, she wuz a han’sum ’oman!

“I let it run on till de time whut dey call Ash We’nesday come, when
dey all had a feast an’ special prayers fur de souls of all who had
died frum de beginnin’ of de worl’ till den,—or sumpin’ nurr like it.
I had already spent all my money an’ dey had ordered lumber fur a new
house, ’sides orgernizin’ a society to build de nigger preacher in town a
rookery. Dey called it a pay supper—an’ I did all de payin’! It wuz all
to cum off de night of Ash We’nesday.

“Now dat Ash biziness sot me to thinkin’. Here wuz my home turned into
a karnival of noise an’ carousin’ an’ drinkin’ an’ hoodoo’in’, an’ me
payin’ fur it.

“‘Wal,’ sez I to myse’f, ‘I’ll jes’ turn dis thing into a Ash We’nesday
sho’ nuff, so I goes out an’ cuts down a ash tree an’ makes me a good,
lithe stick dat would knock a bull down, an’ den bounce back into yo’
han’s. Dat wuz fur de bredderin. Den I broke up a good ash-bar’l an’ made
de paddles handy fur de sisterin, an’ I sot ’em in de corner behin’ de
cup’ard.

“De night cum, but by dat time dey didn’t keer enuff fur me to ax me into
de feast. I wuz jes’ a common ole Baptis’ nigger. I waited till dey wuz
all dar, de sod-muthers in white apruns, candles burnin’ an’ dude niggers
an’ niggeresses frum town and ev’ry whar, all s’posin’ to be payin’ fur
a thing dat finally cum outen my pocket. I walked in an’ sot down by de
fire, but befo’ I got sot good, one of dem dude niggers put a insultment
on me.

“Dat suit me all right. I didn’t want to start de fight in my own
house—dat wa’n’t good manners—but soon es dat nigger put de insultment on
me, I wuz reddy.

“‘Frien’s, sez I, ‘I am a plain ole Baptis’ nigger, but es I onderstan’
it, dis am Ash We’nesday.’

“‘You bet it am, ole Moses,’ sez one of de dudes, ‘an’ it ain’t a good
place fur Baptists to eat—dey am liabul to hab de collect!’

“I didn’t see de p’int, but dey did, an’ all laf’d.

“‘Yes,’ sez I, ‘he mout, but he is mor’n apt to hab stumic enuff left
to read de burial sarvices over a few dudes,’ an’ I lit in. I’d locked
de do’ but fergot de winder; but I hearn tell arterwards dat only two
niggers got out of dar wid a soun’ head, an’ dey didn’t stop runnin’ till
Easter mo’nin’!

“I lit on de sod-muthers early in de game wid de staves of de ash bar’l
till dey wuz meet fur repentunce, an’ de nex’ mo’nin’ I sent ’em back
to town whar I foun’ dey all had husban’s livin’ dat dey had quit fur a
easier job. Wal, dey had to take ’em back.

“Now, boss, I wuz keerful not to hurt Sally an’ her mammy—dey wuz both
han’sum women, es I wuz sayin’.

“I wuz now rid of de sod-muthers, but how to git rid of Sally’s mammy wuz
de nex p’int. I’d figured dat out too, case es I said, she wuz a han’sum
’oman. De tacticks I used, boss, is whut’ll s’prize you.

“Bout de thud night when I had her alone for a while on de little porch
an’ we wuz waitin’ fur Sally to git supper, fur she had gone to wuck in
earnest arter she seed how handy I wuz wid de ash bar’l, sez I:

“‘A good meny men hab muther-in-laws dat am homely. I’m mighty proud of
mine,’ sez I, ‘she is so han’sum.’

“‘Why, Washin’tun!’ she sez, ‘does you really think so?’

“I seed it tickled her, an’ arter a while I slipped over closer an’ sed:

“‘An’ I nurver seed a muther-in-law wid sech b’utiful eyes as you is
got,’ an’ I took her han’.

“Dat wuz mor’n she cu’d stan’ on a col’ collar an’ you orter seed her
light out—light out an’ he’p git supper, too!

“I let it res’ at dat. I’ve noticed dat too many fo’ks plants dey truck
too fas’ in de spring. An’ at de same time I’ve nurver let a late frost
keep me frum believin’ it’ll be summer by an’ by.

“De nex’ night I sot out on de po’ch ag’in arter a hard day’s wuck an’ I
tuck my stan’ whar I wuz de night befo’ fur I knowed de ole doe allers
crosses de creek at de same place. Sho ’nuff, by an’ by heah she cum
_tipperty-tip—tipperty-tip_.

“An’ all she wanted wuz to ax me if I thought de weather wuz gwine ter
change! I sot up close ag’in an’ sed:

“‘Sum times a man makes a great mistake by marryin’ in too big a hurry.’

“‘How’s dat?’ she sed, tickled to death an’ nestlin’ up to me.

“‘Why,’ sez I, ‘he marries de gal an’ den he fin’s out dat whut ’ud suit
him bes’ wuz de muther-in-law—shoots at de doe an’ kills de fawn,’ sez I,
slippin’ my arm aroun’ her wais’.

“Up she jumps ag’in an’ goes up mad lak an’ big es a balloon.

“‘Ain’t you ’shamed of yo’se’f?’ sez she. ‘I’m gwine right in an’ tell
Sally.’

“I knowed she wouldn’t an’ I set back an’ chuckled. It wuz all wuckin’ to
suit me an’ I seed dar would soon be a complete separashun of de chu’ch
an’ de state.

“Now, boss, you’ll wonder des why I’d play es hefty an’ han’sum a ’oman
es she is sich a trick, but I ’cided dat one wife in de house am enuff in
dat place.

“De thud night I had it fixed. I knowed she’d gone off mad, but I knowed
a ’oman, arter one huggin’, is like a dog burryin’ a bone—he’ll leave it
fur awhile, but he’s sho to cum back to it ag’in! I jes’ waited an’ let
her cum back, fixin’ my plans. I tole Sally to set down in one corner of
de po’ch in de dark an’ keep quiet—dat I had a s’prize fer her to sho’
how her virtuous husban’ wuz bein’ inticed by de Philistine.

“Dat wuz enuff—she sot.

“I waited till dark fore I cum an’ den I stomped aroun’, washed my face
an’ han’s, an’ lit my pipe. An’ heah she cum _tipperty-tip_ an’ all she
wanted to kno’ wuz, _if de moon had riz_!

“Boss, I let her do de talkin’, fur she wuz ripe fur it, an’ ’bout de
time she tole me dat she lubbed me frum de fus’ an’ dat I orter married
her stead of Sally, I heerd a scufflin’ in de co’ner,—Sally riz up, dar
wuz much excitement an’ scatterment of hair an’ when it wuz over dar wuz
nobody on dat place but me an’ Sally, _an’ I owned her_.”

SOME BEAUTIFUL WOMEN OF THE SOUTH

[Illustration: MRS. PAUL LANSING

Versailles, Kentucky

_Buck, Washington_]

[Illustration: MISSES THEODORA AND MARGUERITE SHONTS

Twin daughters of Theodore P. Shonts, of Daphne, Alabama, Washington and
Panama]

[Illustration: MRS. WILLIAM BAILEY LAMAR

Monticello, Florida]

[Illustration: MISS OLIVE WIGGINS

Daughter of F. Lafayette Wiggins, Nashville

_Turner, Nashville_]

[Illustration: MRS. SYDNEY JOHNSTON BOWIE

Anniston, Alabama

_Buck, Washington_]

COLONIAL FOOTPRINTS

By J. K. Collins

“Ring down the curtain of to-day
And give the past the right of way,
Till fields of battle red with rust
Shine through the ashes and the dust,
Across the age and burn as plain
As glowing Mars through window pane.
How grandly glow like grenadiers,
These heroes of a hundred years!”

[Illustration: MARY WASHINGTON]

Our forefathers were great fighters and excelled the world as makers of
history, but unfortunately for us, they were not writers of it. When
a duty was done or a great victory gained it seemed not to demand the
attention from them that we of the present day think it deserved, but was
set aside with perhaps a brief record. It had to make way for new duties
demanded by the exigencies of the times.

While they carried the weight of the nation on their young shoulders,
they have left us only “shreds and patches” from which to deduce anything
like specific exactness of the manners and customs of those early days
of our great country. It is, therefore, difficult to elaborate the
conditions of the country and particularly the distinctive qualities
which made up the social life of those who evolved and produced, to us,
the best government in all the world.

The peculiar conditions of early times invest our greatest leaders with
additional interest and make the fact of their greatness stand out all
the more clearly. Schools were few and travel much restricted. Only
about thirty families had good libraries. To the women of that day
has been ascribed the honor of training the great men of the nation.
George Washington was only eleven years old when his father died. His
mother daily taught him from a manual of maxims which he preserved and
often consulted in after life. A French general, after a visit to Mary
Washington, said, “No wonder America produces such great men when they
have such mothers.”

Thomas Jefferson’s father died when he was fourteen. His mother was said
to have been unusually refined and intellectual, evincing much literary
taste in the art of letter-writing. This was the only field open to
a woman with literary proclivities at that time. It was from her he
inherited his intellect, and in the training of her boy all that was
best and noblest in her was brought to bear upon the formation of his
character. These two mothers of great men are not exceptions. History
records the names of many noble women who have devoted their lives to
their children, not only in Virginia, but elsewhere.

Virginians admired the king and the nobility but liked their own rights
better. They loved the pride and pomp of aristocracy, but this was only a
matter of taste. When it came to losing a freeman’s right they relegated
their aristocratic tastes to the background. They loved the solemn ritual
of the church. Governor Spottswood describes the Virginians of his time
as “living in gentlemanly conformity with the Church of England,” and
the famous old chapel, built in 1632, now familiarly called Old Bruton
Church, is consecrated by many hallowed associations. Here worshiped
the dauntless Spottswood, himself, as well as Lord de Botetourt, Lord
Dunmore and many others in a pew elevated from the main floor and richly
canopied. And here worshiped many men whose names are indissolubly bound
up with the conception of this grand commonwealth. The churchyard is the
place of sepulture of some of Virginia’s most distinguished men.

[Illustration: WILLIAM AND MARY COLLEGE]

Nearly all the great Virginians were descended from the Cavaliers.
Washington was the great-grandson of one of them, and Madison, Monroe,
the Randolphs, Richard Henry Lee, and others were also descendants of
royalists. Virginia succeeded in keeping out the importation of felons.
A number of redemptioners, or political prisoners, who were sold by the
English government to speculators, were traded in the colonies, but
misfortune being their only crime, they became in most cases useful
citizens.

The men of that time were fond of sport. Washington was ever an
enthusiastic fox hunter. Patrick Henry was devoted to the woods,
fields and streams; he also played the fiddle and danced with keenest
zest. Social life was ideal at that time. Each plantation was a small
principality and they vied with each other in hospitality. It was not
unusual for a carriage full of guests to arrive without warning, and
the visitors and their retinue were the recipients of the most lordly
hospitality for days and sometimes weeks. Card playing was much in
vogue, and under great provocation an oath or two was sometimes found to
be the only expression that could do the situation justice. It is said
Washington swore heartily at General Stephens for losing the battle of
Germantown on account of drunkenness.

The dance after supper went without saying, to the music of “the fiddlers
three.” It was a delight in which the stately Washington often indulged,
with, it may be shrewdly guessed, the belle of the ball for a partner. In
the hall of William and Mary College hangs a picture which represents him
dancing the minuet with Mary Cary. The Virginia Reel called for the whole
company. Flushed and breathless, full of laughter and fun they threaded
its mazes in the wee sma’ hours.

“Oh, the instruments are shattered and the strings are snapped in twain,
And the fiddles are forgotten and will never play again.
But above the stars eternal in their faded pinks and blues,
With the powder on their ringlets and the buckles on their shoes,
I shall see the beaux and sweethearts in the long procession kneel,
And their harps will play the music of the Old Virginia Reel.”

[Illustration: TAZEWELL HALL]

William and Mary College, the oldest of the American colleges except
Harvard, is situated in the old colonial capital, Williamsburg, sometimes
called The Middle Plantation. Before the college was burned the first
time it had many rare volumes marked with the coats of arms of royalty
and noblemen whose names were connected with its early days. Within
its walls were trained the youth of the eighteenth century who were to
consecrate their lives to the cause of liberty. The Reverend James Blair
was its founder and its first president. He went to London and unfolded
his scheme of Christianizing the Indians and educating the youth of
America. Queen Mary warmly approved of his plan. King William was equally
agreeable and gave an order for two thousand pounds sterling to be used
in the erection of the buildings. But when Seymour, the Attorney-General,
received the order to draw up the charter and pay the money, he was
enraged. The nation was engaged in an expensive war, he said, and
needed the money for other and better purposes—why was a college wanted
in Virginia, anyhow? Mr. Blair explained its purpose as being that of
preparing young men for the ministry, adding that the people of Virginia
had souls to save as well as the people of England. The idea struck
Seymour as particularly absurd and maudlin; his retort, historically
recorded, was: “Souls! ⸺ your souls! Make tobacco!”

[Illustration: BASSETT HALL]

The Phi Beta Kappa Society, the first fraternal society in this country,
was organized at William and Mary December 5th, 1776, and the first
meeting was held in the Apollo room at the Raleigh tavern.

Jefferson, the first Democrat, was in 1764, five years after Washington
had been happily married to Martha Custis, a gay young student at
Williamsburg, or “Devilsburg,” as he wrote of it, in a letter to a
friend, expressing himself as being “as happy last night as dancing with
Belinda in the Apollo room” could make him.

How close it brings our heroes, to know intimately their youthful
loves and pleasures! “One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.”
To the same chum, who seems to be in a like manner transfixed with
Cupid’s dart, he writes later: “Have you any glimmering of hope? How
does ⸺ do? Had I better stay here and do nothing or go down there and
do less? Inclination tells me to go, receive my sentence and be no
longer in suspense; but reason says, ‘If you go and your attempt proves
unsuccessful you will be ten times more wretched than ever!’——I hear Ben
Harrison has been to Wilton. Let me know his success.” Ben Harrison’s
success at Wilton, where he was courting Anne Randolph, a cousin of
Jefferson, was greater than his own, for she married him and had the
honor of being the wife of a signer of the Declaration of Independence
and a governor of Virginia. Jefferson’s sweetheart might have sat in like
high places if she had only smiled a little more. “Cupid lacks the gift
of prophecy and Fame will not tell her secrets till the time comes, for
the sweetest lips that ever smiled.” Lucy Grymes, a cousin, is said to
have been one of his sweethearts, also beautiful Mary Coles, the mother
of Dolly Madison. It is told of Washington that before he arrived at
wealth and distinction, he went courting Mary Cary and was asked out
of the house by her father, the old colonel, on the ground that his
daughter had been accustomed to ride in her own coach.

[Illustration: MONUMENT AT YORKTOWN]

The Duke of Gloucester Street in Williamsburg still holds much that is
interesting. The foundation of the old Capitol lies at one end and one
mile away at the other end still flourishes the old college, William
and Mary. The courthouse, designed by Sir Christopher Wren, bids fair
to last for generations yet. Across the green stands Tazewell Hall,
with its “ghost rooms high up under the eaves.” This was the home
of the Randolphs. Bassett Hall is on the other side and is noted as
having entertained Lafayette within its walls. Thomas Moore was also
entertained here. It was at this house he first saw the fireflies, which
he immortalized in his poem on the Dismal Swamp.

“And all night long by her firefly lamp,
She paddles her white canoe.”

Martha Washington’s kitchen is yet to be seen not far from Governor
Spottswood’s old Powder-Horn. Governor Dunmore’s ice house is still shown
to strangers. Dunmore was the last of the royal governors. Patrick Henry,
as was fitting, was the first American governor to take his seat in the
vice-regal palace which has now entirely disappeared to make way for a
model school.

YORKTOWN

There are two monuments at Yorktown to commemorate the surrender of
Cornwallis, and the old customhouse still stands, with moss-peaked roof,
thick walls, massive oaken doors and shutters. It is said to have been
the first customhouse erected in America.

In the colonial period, says a popular writer, it was the rendezvous
of the gentlemen of the town and country surrounding it. It was there
that the haughty young aristocrats took snuff, fondled their hounds
and probably talked over the last Assembly ball, and, mayhap, laughed
about the conquests made of their colleagues by the bright eyes of the
country-side belles.

There still stands an old weather-boarded mansion whose antique roof and
fireplaces set across the corners demand for it the reverence inspired
in us by a relic of bygone days. Here in the sitting room were drawn up
the articles of capitulation and surrender. It was historical long before
that, as being the country residence of Governor Spottswood. Here he held
his mimic court, entertaining in the most lavish and ostentatious manner
his knights of the Golden Horse Shoe. Not far away is the foundation
of a curious building said to have been a temple of worship built by
Governor Spottswood. The spectacular taste of the governor gives this
an appearance of truth which is borne up by the name of the surrounding
plantation. It is called Temple Farm.

PITHY POINTS FOR PONDERING PEOPLE

By William J. Burtscher

A dishonest man doesn’t care for honest criticism.

Don’t _stop_ to think if you can think without stopping.

Energy keepeth her eyes open twenty-four hours every day.

Life is a chain of duties. Discharge one, and another looms up ahead.

Do as you please as long as you please, as long as you please to do right.

It is hard for a man to hang to the religion that he hangs on the outside
of himself.

While the lazy man lies in bed dreaming of success, energy gets up and
hustles for it.

Some people are so busy grieving over being poor that they have no time
to begin to get rich.

Some men are so liberal in their criticism that they forget to compliment
the deeds that please.

It is easy to follow the path of an optimist on account of the sunshine
he leaves behind him.

Work is a lazy man’s enemy. So long as he loves not his enemy religion
abideth not with him.

When in Rome do as Rome does—not want you to do. Do as Rome ought to do,
or as right requires.

The rich man is seldom as thankful for his wealth as the hungry tramp
always is when a morsel of bread comes his way.

While some men are waiting for a rich relative to die and leave them a
fortune they could attend to business and make one.

A little man brags of his bravery when the danger is past. The man who is
really brave doesn’t need to brag. His friends do it for him.

HISTORY OF THE HALS

CHAPTER XVI

By John Trotwood Moore

[NOTE.—The History of this remarkable family of horses was begun in the
first number of _Trotwood’s Monthly_, and has proven to be so popular
that nearly all of the back numbers of the magazine have been bought up
and bound by the admirers of this great family of horses. Orders are
coming in daily, often as many as ten to twenty, for a complete set of
last year’s _Trotwood_. We regret, therefore, that we will be unable to
furnish back numbers much longer. This History will be continued during
the year, including the story of Brown Hal, Star Pointer, Mattie Hunter,
Hal Dillard, Old Brooks, Star Hal, Hal B., and many others now known to
fame. It will close with a beautiful tribute to the life and the career
of Edward F. Geers, the “Silent Man from Tennessee,” who is to the turf
world what Napoleon was to war.—Pubs. TAYLOR-TROTWOOD.]

THE REVERY RACE

Quadrupe dante putrem sonitu quatit ungula campum.—_Virgil._

In days agone,
Upon that shore which mortals call the Unreturning Past,
What bursts of speed from gallant steed have come like bugle blast!
What battles have been fought and won, what names to fame been given,
What mighty shout has put to rout the thunder notes of heaven,
When, coming in his pride and scorn
The old horse won in days agone!

In days to come,
Upon that shore where Memory’s twilight skies hang o’er,
Oft will the old horse race as he has never raced before!
His silent ghost will come to post while spectral grandstands listen
To the noiseless beat of his phantom feet—as the silver moonbeams
glisten
On the gray-haired horseman who tells it o’er—
How the old horse won in days of yore!

—_John Trotwood Moore._

“Seeing an article in a turf paper about pacing horses being natural
swimmers,” remarked a friend to Trotwood a few days ago, “reminds me of
an experience I had a dozen years ago down in the piney woods of Alabama,
that convinced me that whether a pacer is a born swimmer or not, one
thing is certain, the trotting horse I was driving that February day
didn’t act like he was a South Sea Islander, by any means.

“You see,” he said, as a companionable crowd of horsemen gathered around
him, and passed around the cigar box, as a sign that a story was about
to begin, “I had been courting down in that state and made up my mind
that I wanted to marry a blue-eyed, pretty daughter of old Major Blank,
and I had about half way convinced the girl that she wanted to marry me,
when this infernal non-swimming horse had about upset the whole thing. I
hadn’t seen the girl for about a month, so I boarded the cars one bright
day in February for a short visit. I took precaution to get the best ring
I could find in Nashville within my means—I knew the fit of her finger
pretty well—and I was as dead certain of leaving that ring in Alabama on
the fourth finger of a dimpled hand as I am to-day that little Robert J.
could pace round a draft horse.

“I stopped at a small town, ten miles from where she lived in the
country, at the house of a friend of mine, for I had to hire a buggy and
drive through to the Major’s, as he lived off the railroad. According to
agreement, the young lady had written me a letter to that point, telling
me how glad they all would be to see me, accenting the “all,” and ending
up with a message that made my heart beat like a thumped horse, and
enclosing a bunch of violets tied with a few _deshabille_ strands of her
own sunset hair. By the way, this was in February as I remarked, but what
was the name of that poet that said, ‘love comes like a summer’s sigh?’

“Well, that letter made it July with me.

“I would have been a married man with an interesting family to-day,”
he remarked after a pause, with a sigh, “if that friend of mine hadn’t
been so everlastingly clever. He had a dish-faced trotter he had bought
up in Kentucky, at one of Shanklin’s sales, that could go a mile in
that Alabama sand in about five minutes, and do it with such a rip
and tear and splutter and dirt throwing that you would think he was
trotting ’round the world in eighty days. I had often bragged on the
beast, just to please my clerking friend, who thought I knew every
trotting horse personally, in the world, and now I got in to it by being
so complimentary. Nothing would do but I must drive that old, shying,
crow-hopping fool. And I had it to do. After I got him out of town he
quit shying at the tree shadows and the black-jack stumps on the road
side, and I thought I was getting along pretty well. Considering the fact
that I was looking into a pair of blue eyes all the way, and putting a
ring on an imaginary finger every mile I went, while the trusting hand to
which it was attached nestled coyly between my two big ones, and I smelt
the sweet perfume of violets in a wavy mass of auburn hair that nestled,
in my mind’s eye, on my breast, I got along without any other accident;
but was about to drive into a pretty rapid sheet of water in my dreaming,
and perhaps end my own and Old Crow’s—the horse’s—career at the same
time, when I heard a gruff voice with true Southern accent and a native
nonchalance, say:

“‘You doan’t wanter go in washin’ this early in the season, do you, sah?”

“Well, I didn’t, and I waked up in time to stop the fool horse and back
him out. The stranger watched me get out and then proceeded to tell me
what I hadn’t had sense enough to see before—that Raccoon Creek was on a
boom and Dead Deer Slough, into which I was driving, would swim a horse
most anywhere. Now, a slough, in the far South, is a low, marshy place
near the borders of a creek or lake, and, while generally dry in summer,
in winter it manages to get plenty of water from the overflowing creek or
lake nearby. This one ran directly across the road leading up to the foot
of the bridge spanning Raccoon Creek beyond, and, though the bridge was
partly under water, I could see it was all right and fully half of it, on
the highest curve, was clear of water. Moreover, the other part was built
on the bluff side of the creek and seemed to be entirely clear. So if I
could only get to the bridge I would be all right.

“‘You had better give it up to-day, sah, and wait till mornin’,’ said the
stranger, who appeared much interested in my movements. ‘The slough will
run down by then, and you can get on the bridge easy. If there are no
stoops in it’—I afterwards learned that stoops meant holes washed out by
the water—‘you will find no trouble getting over. I’ll take keer of you,
sah,’ he added, with true Southern hospitality, ‘for I want somebody to
play euchre with to-night. It’s been raining for five days, and I knew
old Rack would be scudding along, so I just rode down here to watch her,
sah.’

“I thanked him, but told him I was going over. I was young, boys, and the
picture of the old Major’s parlor with the big wood fire sending sparks
up the chimney and then dying down to adjust the shadowy light necessary
for the ring scene and the tableau act, was too much for my youthful head.

“‘But can that horse there swim?’ said the Southerner, with a more
serious expression. ‘It isn’t every horse that can, my young frien’, an’
you had better know what he can do before you go into this mud-hole, sah.’

“‘Oh, I’ll soon teach him,’ I said, with one of those laughs that a man
with more brass than sense is frequently caught indulging in. ‘He’ll have
to swim or drown and you know he’ll swim before he’ll do that.’

“But right there is where I failed to size up that slanting-headed
descendant of old Messenger.

“Well, the Southerner was very quiet and did not intrude his opinion
on me further. He sized me up about right and decided to let me go it.
The buggy was out of the question so I took old Crow out. Stripped him
of everything but the bridle and put the lap robe on his back to help
break the angularity of my seat. By the Southerner’s advice I pulled off
my pants and underclothing, tying them around my shoulders, thrust my
stockings in my upper coat pocket to keep them dry, tied my shoestrings
together and threw my shoes over my shoulders, mounted my steed and
spurred him with my trembling heels—for I was beginning to shake a
little—into the slough. The stranger told me to let the horse have the
bit and keep him to the right of a line of willows which he said skirted
the road. By no means was I to jerk the beast, but guide him gently to
right or left with the line.

“Right here, I want to explain to you that that horse had been listening
to us and had decided that now was the time for him to suicide—a thought
he had had in his mind for a year or two, I am sure. By doing the job
now he expected to kill two birds with one stone, and I was the other
bird—a jay at that—for, looking back at that roaring flood from the
standpoint of fifteen years’ more sense, I am sure nobody but an idiot
would ever have tried it. Well, we went in and I headed him for the
willows, and the water crept up to my feet, then to my knees and was soon
on the horse’s withers. Right here I expected to see him sail off with
me on his back, his tail streaming out, his head on the wave, his ears
laid back and his nostrils dilated and sending his steamy breath right
and left; but not much of a sail he made. I forgot to tell you he had
the longest neck I ever saw on a horse, but I didn’t know it was as long
as it was, or I’d never have gone in that slough. Why, that neck was a
telescope, and after he got me in up to the armpits he just lengthened
it out a notch or two above the waves whenever he wanted to. I am not
much on mathematics, but I saw that, as he then held it, it was fully six
inches higher than the top of my hat, and I imagined I saw the faintest
trace of a satanic grin on his under lip as he let her out another link
and looked back at me, as much as to say:

“‘Well, how do you like swimming?”

“I reached for my pocket knife to cut his throat, but found I didn’t even
have on my drawers, and just then the water gurgled up under my chin
and splashed in my ears and that brute winked his left eye as he let
out another notch in that old telescopic neck of his and walked along
like he was on dress parade. By this time we were half-way across, and
nothing but my nose was out. I was just thinking of getting up on his
back on my knees, when he stepped in a little washout and my head went
under like a cork. I turned loose everything to get air again, and was
swept off before I could say ‘Scat.’ I grasped a willow just as I heard
the stranger, who had been sitting on a big, sloping-shouldered gray Hal
pacer, hello to me to hold on, and his horse soon swam out to the willow
as naturally as if he had done it every day for a year. He circled in
about forty feet of water before reaching me, and, telling me to catch
his horse by the tail, he swam quietly by and I lost no time in doing as
he said and getting back to land. I lost my ten-dollar pants, but this
was more than offset by the hundred-dollars’ worth of common sense I had
tucked away in my head on the different ways in which horses swim.

“And that horse—well, we sat on the bank and watched that head go
leisurely across, lengthening out when it struck a washout and
contracting on the ridges, with that same ironical grin part—the ugliest
mouth I ever saw on a horse. At last he struck the bridge, clambered up,
shook himself like a wet dog, looked back to see if I was taking it all
in, and struck out to the Major’s on his own hook.

“But the worst was yet to come. Just as I landed I heard a buggy turn a
sharp bend in the road, drive up to where the Southerner and his horse
were pulling me out and—great Caesar!—there sat in the buggy old Major
Blank and the angel of my dreams. The girl shrieked and ducked her head
under the lap robe, while I jumped back in that slough to hide the
southern half of me, and tried to commit suicide by drowning, but my
youthful head was so corky I couldn’t keep it under water long enough.
The old Major drove off and started to his home by another route, the
kind gentleman fished me out again, more dead than alive and I went
home, with my new friend just in time to have a hard chill. I was sick
two weeks, during which time I got it pretty straight that my clerking
friend had been courting my blue-eyed beauty for six months himself, and
I will always believe that he loaned me that horse just to get me out of
the way. Anyway, three days afterwards he went down to the Major’s to get
the old horse, stayed all night and fixed the wedding day, while I was
swimming imaginary sloughs with my pulse at 105½.

“I got back home as quickly as I could, and now, when I go to buy a
horse, I never ask, ‘How fast can he go?’ but ‘How far can he swim?’”

And my bachelor friend struck up a whistle which sounded like “After the
Ball” and walked off.

* * * * *

“Very few people”, said Capt. Robert D. Smith, of Columbia, Tenn.,
“know that the late Gen. Wm. B. Bate, who died United States Senator
from Tennessee, told one of the most pathetic horse stories of the
war. General Bate was here before his death, attending the Confederate
reunion, and I reminded him of the incident and got him to relate it
again as it happened. I never saw him so much touched as when he told
again of the attachment of his horse, Black Hawk, for him, and the
animal’s pathetic death at Shiloh. General Bate is very modest and no
braver man ever lived; but I was there and saw the incident and can tell
you how it was. At the battle of Shiloh General Bate was then colonel of
the Second Tennessee. He had two horses which he used; one, an ordinary,
everyday horse which he rode on the march and other rough service; the
other was a magnificent black stallion—a thoroughbred and Hal horse—black
as a crow and as beautiful as you ever saw. He was a very stout horse,
not leggy as some thoroughbreds are, but symmetrical and shapely, and as
the General always took a lively interest in horses, this one had been
selected for him with great care and at a good deal of expense. By the
way, General Bate says he has since heard of a number of Black Hawk’s
sons and other descendants making most creditable races. This horse was
splendidly equipped and used by Colonel Bate only for parades, long
marches where stamina was needed and for battle. The night before the
battle of Shiloh the commoner horse was stolen, and the next morning at
daylight I remember what a superb looking object our colonel presented
on this magnificent animal, who looked fit to race for a kingdom or
charge over the guns of Balaklava.

“Men may talk about Gettysburg, Franklin and other battles of the war,
but I want to see no stubborner or bloodier fight than we had down
there amid the woods, around that little church and on the banks of the
Tennessee. You may know what kind of company we had to entertain us, when
I say that we struck Sherman’s line first. Time and again we drove them
back and as often they reformed and stubbornly contested every foot of
the way. The usual position of a colonel is thirty feet to the rear of
his regiment, and it was in that position that Colonel Bate first went
into the fight. The enemy gave way after the first hard fight—in fact,
I will always think we took them a little unawares, though I know that
both Generals Sherman and Grant did not think so, probably owing to the
fact that they were not at the front when we began the fight, not having
anticipated it to begin so soon—but arriving soon after they heard the
guns. At the next stand they gave it to us hot, and it was here our
lines were nearly broken and it was here that Colonel Bate had to put
himself in front of his regiment before they would charge with enough
determination to drive the boys in blue again. All this time the battle
was raging everywhere. We had driven the Federal army past Shiloh church,
and towards the river, where they finally made the desperate stand that
stopped us the next day after Buell’s arrival.

“Time and again Colonel Bate led us against Sherman’s brave boys—that
thoroughbred horse and rider always in front. Once he made us a short
speech just before we had to charge again, having been repulsed at the
first attempt. He said he wanted us only to follow him and he would not
take us where he would not go himself. This last fight was terrible.
Before we struck the enemy Colonel Bate was shot out of the saddle, the
men fell around us right and left and we charged on leaving all as they
fell.

“Now the remarkable thing was that horse. When Colonel Bate fell the
horse seemed to be at a loss what to do. But as the regiment swept on,
he quickly fell into his place just in the rear of the regiment and
followed us on into battle. We must have fought on for a half mile after
that, and it was a strange sight to see that horse following the regiment
as stately as if on dress parade, and it touched every man to see him
riderless.

“At the first opportunity an ambulance was sent back to find the colonel
and take him to the field hospital, some three miles in the rear. In the
confusion no one had thought of Black Hawk, but it seemed he had not
forgotten his brave rider, for he actually followed the path made by his
colonel, or rather those who carried him to the hospital—almost tracking
him by his blood—straight up to the hospital tent, and to the surprise of
Colonel Bate, who had been badly but not seriously wounded in two places,
one ball going through his shoulder, he poked his head in the tent door
and affectionately whinnied to his master while the surgeon was dressing
his wound. The next instant he walked a few paces in the weeds, staggered
and fell down dead. An examination showed what no one had noticed: he had
been badly wounded in several places, one of which proved fatal. General
Bate says he can still see that almost human look Black Hawk gave him and
that last pathetic whinny as he walked off to fall down and die.”

[Trotwood has heard Senator Bate relate this incident himself and
the last time he met the old warrior at dinner at the Maxwell House,
Nashville, Senator Bate related the above incident and discussed very
fondly the pedigree and value of the Southern breed of horses that could
produce such intelligent animals as Black Hawk.]

THE MEASURE OF A MAN

By John Trotwood Moore

[NOTE.—This story was begun in the November number of _Trotwood’s
Monthly_. It opened with a pioneer horse race at the Hermitage, in
Tennessee, in which Jack Trevellian, General Jackson and others had
entered their horses. Trevellian was a young captain who had been in the
Creek wars with General Jackson, and whom the old soldier loved very
much. Trevellian was in love with Juliette Templeton, a guest of General
Jackson. She had not promised to marry him, but was in love with him. She
came to the race accompanied by Colonel Bristow, also in love with her.
In the very graphic account of the race, the horse of an unknown boy,
the son of an outcast woman, won, for which he was about to be beaten
by those who had bet on the other horses, when Trevellian came to his
rescue, claiming the boy was a Trevellian. “It is his son!” said someone
to Juliette Templeton, and almost fainting she rode away from the field.]

CHAPTER V

An hour afterwards there was a halloo at the lower gate. It was answered
by the dogs, who rushed out, barring the way, and stopping the newcomer
at the entrance. According to pioneer custom, he sat on his horse till
the dogs had been called in by their master.

At a word from Trevellian they slunk back to their kennels.

“Good evening, Jack—you were not expecting me, eh?”

“I am just as glad to see you, General—ride in,” and he opened the gate
with a quick, nervous jerk. “I was just about to have the blues,” he
added—“yes, we all have them at times.”

The older man seemed to have guessed this, for he had dismounted and
hitched his horse, and, arm in arm, they walked up the path to the house.

“I promised Mrs. Jackson I’d not stay long, Jack, but as much as we love
them, boy, there are times when a man must talk to a man. Nothing else
will do,” and he slapped the other affectionately on the shoulder.

Both, for a while, were constrained, and each knew it. Trevellian knew
what the older man had come for, and the other knew that Trevellian had
guessed.

In endeavoring to be natural, the General was slightly embarrassed, a
thing so unnatural with him that he worried more as he recognized it.
But it convinced him how deeply interested he was in the affair before
him—how much he cared for the future of the young man at his side.

“That tobacco they raised at the Hermitage while I was away this year is
not the best in the world, Jack,” he said, passing his buckskin pouch to
the other, “but it will help us out.”

The two were soon smoking. It was plain that the older man had plans, and
that he would soon unfold them. Under any other circumstances his talk
would have been different—the day’s racing, the banterings, the jokes,
the oft-repeated tales of it, the speculation on this and that event, the
praise or condemnation of horse or jockey.

To-night it was different. They smoked in silence, and after a while the
General said:

“I heard from Washington to-day.”

Trevellian looked up quickly—expectantly.

“Not about Pensacola,” went on the other, “but the treaty with the
Creeks. I am directed by the Secretary of War to conclude it, and I will
soon meet them at Ft. Jackson. I’ll want you to go with me—of course—and
the First Regiment.” He stopped and tapped the young man lightly on the
arm:

“And that’s not all the troops I’ll slip into that vicinity. I’ve a good
excuse—there has been no reply to my letter concerning the landing of
British troops at Pensacola, and the treachery of Spain in permitting it,
and I’ll take silence for consent, and with the troops in the forts and
on the frontier I’ll order your regiment in and hold all in good striking
distance of that nest of Spanish snakes. And we’ll strike, Jack—we’ll
strike!”

He arose and began to pace the room.

“I’ll not stay tethered while Spain permits our enemy to use her harbor
to shelter them. What do they know at Washington, a thousand miles away,
with their ears sealed for fear they’ll have another war on their hands?
The government—all governments are abstract things, at best. It is the
men in them that count—the concrete agents who carry out the things
to be done, and there are things every man is called on to solve for
himself, both in war and in life—there are times when the general is the
government, and if he fails to rise to the occasion he is a flunk and a
failure.”

He was still walking around the room, talking more to himself than to
Jack.

“Now, the situation is this: I know. The government doesn’t want to
know. It’s my business to fight and whip the foes of my country. It’s
my government’s to keep out of more than one fight at a time. That’s
all right—but when I can kill two bears with one ball, it’s better than
killing one of them and wounding the other. The British are swarming in
Pensacola. They are our enemy, and once securely entrenched there they
will entrench from the Rio Grande to Mobile Bay. Then it will be too
late. In driving them from Pensacola I’ll drive out Spain at the same
time and hold it so securely that Spain may bluff for a while, but will
finally give in—and Florida will be ours.”

And so he smoked and walked, planning it all out, and in an hour it was
arranged, and the General grew calmer and sat down again.

“Now, while we are gone, the election will come off. To-day you had
Bristow beat—”

“_You_ had him beat, General,” the younger man smiled for the first time.

The General gave his first chuckle. The ice was broken.

“But now—” began the General.

“I am out of the race, sir,” said Trevellian, rising. “I shall so
announce it to-morrow. I am going with you and fight,” he added.

The General arose quickly: “No, you are not out of it, Jack—not while I
am about.”

“What do you mean, General?” He came over and stood face to face with the
older man.

“Let us be seated,” said the other. “I will go into detail. Bristow
remained with us for supper to-night—”

The younger man was still silent.

“But first, Jack, shall I tell you all?”

Jack nodded.

“It was a little thing—perhaps I should not speak of it. Mrs. Jackson
says”—and he smiled—“that for an old Indian fighter I am taking on a lot
of romance since I returned, and that you two have caused it. Well, my
heart is in this thing, and you know it. But I loved Templeton and I love
you, my boy.”

The other bowed his head reverently.

“The girl loves you, Jack; I know it. I know when a woman loves. She is
wretched to-night. Why, didn’t I see her when she came home—in spite of
Bristow, everybody—everything—with her face set like a flint monument in
grief. To-night she was weeping in her room. Mrs. Jackson told me—by God,
but you have broken her heart, and you must tell me, Jack.”

Jack arose hastily and walked the room in silent agitation. At last he
stopped and stood before the other.

“I cannot, my General—my God, I cannot! Blame me, cut me off from your
esteem and friendship as I am already cut off from hers. This thing is
between me and my Maker.

“No man,” said the General, rising, “has the right to ask of you things
which are between you and your God. I do not want to know—and this —is—”

“And I cannot tell you anything, my friend—my more than friend.”

He stood before his father’s picture—the Trevellian portrait that hung
above them on the wall. He bowed his head in the agony of it all.

“I have never kept anything from you before, and you know how hard it is
for me to do this, but—”

The other man was walking the room. He turned and said:

“Well, then, I will tell you what happened. Bristow has said enough for
me to challenge him—said it at my table,” and his face flushed with the
purpling rage which could so quickly mount to it. “My friends’ fights are
my own, Jack—you know that—”

“You have not challenged him, General?” and Jack paled suddenly.

“I will to-morrow—as soon as Patton Anderson can take him a note. I’ll
challenge him, and I’ll kill him.” He came up closer to Jack.

“It’s not you and what he said I’m thinking of. You only give me the
chance. I’ve been wanting to kill him ever since that cowardly night.”

“You could not prove it before a court-martial, General.”

“No, d—n him—no—I wish I could. But there are things a man knows he
cannot prove by the red-tape letter of the law which—no—no—he is too
smart to be caught. But I know it and you know, and every man of sense,
that he treacherously instigated and led the mutiny of those starved and
homesick troops in the Creek wilderness. When—ha, Jack, you know it was
he!”

The General was getting hot.

“But you—you stopped it,” smiled the other.

“Yes—with a rifle in their path, and I wish I had shot him then. No, I
am not fighting your battles, young man. You may take care of yourself,
as I said to him—I am going to kill him for instigating that mutiny when
the life of the army and the fate of the war hung on our fighting it to a
finish.”

“But you will not challenge him, General—you must promise me you will
not.”

The General turned purple with anger—his eyes flashed indignantly into
those of the younger man. He stuck his bony finger in Jack’s face and
fairly shrieked:

“D—n you, Jack, and your sissy, foolish silence! Yes, sir, I will, unless
you tell me you are guilty—that you are not worth Juliette’s love—that
the boy is your son. And if you are silent, why then—”

“And if I am silent, General, why then you will believe I am guilty and
let this thing pass?”

The General nodded.

“General, I must—I must—I cannot—I must be silent.”

The General looked up.

Jack’s eyes were wet. The General grasped his hand silently.

“By God, you are not guilty, Jack—you will tell me in your own time. I
said I’d kill him, but—well, you’ve spoiled my plans. I’ll let him go for
your sake.”

“For my sake, General, and I swear to you you shall one day know. Let him
have the office—let him have the girl. I’ll have my sacred promise to the
dead and my manhood left—that I’ll never part with.”

[_To be continued_]

[Illustration: MEN OF AFFAIRS]

It is quite fitting that the author of _Makers of Virginia History_
should be chosen as Director of the Division of History, Education and
Social Economy of the Jamestown Exposition. Mr. Julian Alvin Carroll
Chandler brings to his work also an experience of more than thirteen
years’ work in the educational field, having been instructor at William
and Mary College, Richmond College, Morgan College, Baltimore, and
president of the Woman’s College, Richmond. Mr. Chandler holds degrees
from William and Mary, Richmond College and Johns Hopkins and has
long been an authority on Southern history, being an active member of
the Virginia Historical Society, American Historical Association and
Society for the Preservation of Virginia Antiquities; and having written
_Representation in Virginia_, _History of Suffrage in Virginia_, _Makers
of Virginia History_ and _Makers of American History_ (joint author).
Since the year 1904 he has been editor for the publishing house of
Silver, Burdett & Co.—the only Southern man who is editor of a New York
publishing house.

[Illustration: J. A. C. CHANDLER]

Mr. Chandler’s interest in the work of the Jamestown Exposition and his
thorough knowledge of the ground and departments covered led to his
being asked to take charge of a special department and he received a
year’s leave of absence from his publishing house in order to accept the
position. His plans include a splendid historical exhibit of the sources
of history as shown in rare documents and letters, valuable relics,
oil paintings and statuary relating to the beginnings of our country;
an educational exhibit, showing the best in our schools throughout
the country, with especial stress upon the schools of the South.
Consolidation of schools; grading of rural schools; the establishment of
county high schools and county agricultural schools, teaching of manual
training and domestic science will be fully brought out in this exhibit
and will contain much of practical assistance to teachers in all parts
of the country. Mr. Chandler’s indefatigable efforts and tireless energy
will make this department a thoroughly interesting one. He is a young
man, having been born in Guineys, Virginia, in 1872.

* * * * *

Joseph Forney Johnston, who was elected Alternate United States Senator
in the Democratic Primary in Alabama, in August last, was born in Lincoln
county, North Carolina, in 1843. He entered the Confederate Army, as a
private, in April, 1861, served until the war closed, was wounded four
times, and rose to the rank of captain. After the war closed, he returned
to Alabama, where he had been studying law when the war commenced. On
being admitted to the bar in 1866, he practiced law at Selma until he
removed to Birmingham, in 1884, to accept the presidency of a bank. He
continued in the banking business until he was elected governor in 1896.

[Illustration: JOSEPH F. JOHNSTON]

Whilst in Selma, he lead the movement which overthrew Republican rule,
and served his party many years as chairman of county, congressional and
state committees. He never held any office, and never sought any, until
he became a candidate for governor.

In the panic of 1893, he was one of the factors that averted financial
disaster to Birmingham. He was one of the organizers and first president
of the Sloss Iron & Steel Company; so that when he became governor he
had behind him large business experience, and a wide knowledge of the
conditions and resources of Alabama.

He was nominated for governor in 1896, in one of the most exciting
campaigns the state ever witnessed, and in spite of the opposition of the
railroads, great corporations and money power.

When he became governor he found a large deficit in the state treasury,
the public schools languishing and the public credit impaired. When he
quit office, after serving two terms, the deficit had been wiped out, the
terms of the public schools largely extended, more competent teachers
secured by wise laws compelling examinations, the credit of the state at
the highest point ever reached, and the public service the most efficient
in the history of the state. Every department of the state government had
lasting impression made upon it by the firmness of his grip; the laws and
policies he established, though severely criticised at the time, have
remained, through adverse administrations, untouched, and stand yet as
monuments to his justice and sagacity. We find from his record that he
began ten years ago the fight on graft that is now sweeping the country;
that he has a mailed fist that does cheerful and effective battle with
corrupt interests and all interests that conflict with the laws and with
the rights of the public, and that he can serenely stand under fire until
an ultimate victory appears out of the smoke of battle.

When we consider Mr. Johnston’s past services, his indomitable spirit,
his unvarying regard for the public interest throughout his entire
career, his fearlessness, aggressiveness and candor, his large experience
in practical affairs, as well as American politics, it is not difficult
to see why the people have chosen him for successive honors.

It is rare that dominant qualities of the kind possessed by Governor
Johnston are coupled with a personality so genial and winning and so rare
a faculty for attaching warm friendships. The boy released from the Army
of Northern Virginia, with his five scars, courageously leaving the home
of his fathers to begin life in Alabama with a capital stock consisting
of a mule and wagon and a box of tobacco, was no more friendly, no more
kind-hearted and approachable than is now this man of affairs and broad
renown, who has been chosen by the democrats of Alabama for succession to
the United States Senate.

* * * * *

One of the heroes of the battle of San Jacinto, that victory won by sheer
force of despair, was General Edward Burleson, who commanded the center
at that famous encounter with the blood-thirsty Santa Anna. Subsequently,
when the little republic of the Lone Star was added to the gallery of
nations General Burleson was made Commander-in-Chief of the army and
was one of the early vice presidents of the republic. Originally from
North Carolina, General Burleson removed in early youth to Tennessee and
followed Jackson on his campaign which ended at New Orleans, serving as
one of “Old Hickory’s” lieutenants. This experience made him immensely
valuable to Sam Houston. The last legislature of Texas placed a handsome
portrait of this pioneer public servant upon the walls of its magnificent
capital amidst a goodly array of great and good men whose efforts lifted
Texas to her present proud position among the commonwealths of the union.

[Illustration: A. S. BURLESON]

General Burleson’s son, Major Edward Burleson, was also a soldier of
the young republic and helped to frame its constitution. He settled at
the head of the lovely San Marcos river and there the subject of this
sketch, Albert Sidney Burleson, was born on the third of June, 1863. His
father was away fighting for the Confederate cause at that time, as were
five of his mother’s brothers—one, Fergus Kyle, a captain in the Terry
Rangers. It would seem that young Burleson was pre-ordained to be either
a soldier or a statesman, with chances more in favor of the former than
the latter. After graduating from the State Agricultural and Mechanical
College and from Baylor University (founded by his cousin, Reverend
Rufus C. Burleson), he decided on the law, taking his degree at the
State University, and serving as Assistant City Attorney at Austin for
six years. He next served four years as District Attorney and was then
elected to Congress. He is now serving his fourth term at Washington,
where he has served his state ably and well.

Last winter Mr. Burleson was put on the appropriation committee and
has secured important appropriations for his state, among them being
appropriations for experiments in exterminating Johnson grass and the
boll weevil; experimental stations for the cultivation of tobacco and
tea; an allowance of ten thousand dollars yearly for the maintenance of
a School of Mines at the State University; laws enabling Confederate
Veterans who took part in the Mexican and Spanish wars to enter National
Soldiers’ Homes; dam at El Paso (secured in conjunction with the efforts
of Congressman Smith), thereby making Texas a participant in the
appropriations for the reclamation of arid lands; the reimbursement of
nearly half a million dollars for monies expended by Texas in protecting
her frontier from Indian depredations.

Mr. Burleson is an expert on agricultural matters and was a member of
the agricultural committee for two terms. He is also the author of the
Cotton Statistics Law, by which the control of the cotton market has been
wrested from the stock exchange, and the regulation of prices placed
in the hands of the farmers. It is natural and right that this law, so
far-reaching in its benefits, should be enacted through the efforts of a
representative of our leading cotton state.

It is unnecessary to add that Mr. Burleson is possessed of a wonderful
persistence and tireless energy which enable him to accomplish everything
he undertakes. He takes his politics seriously and he never stops
working. He is a forceful debater and makes a dramatic speech, having
the eloquence of a man who believes what he says. He is noted not only
for this convincing earnestness, but for the absolute accuracy of all
his statements and his thorough mastery of every point he presents. He
has, withal, a vast store of characteristic Western stories and his jolly
wit, coupled with his loyalty to his friends, makes him one of the most
popular of congressmen.

TRANSITION

The rose leaves fall on Summer’s pulsing breast,
In crimson showers they’re lightly blown along;
The south winds rock the blue bird’s dainty nest
Filled to the brim. Glad is the streamlet’s song.

An empty nest sways on a leafless bough;
Hushed is the gurgling laughter of the stream;
And by the garden path a folded rose
Shuts closely in its heart an unborn dream.

_Beth Slater Whitson._

FOREST FALLS

By C. D. Robinson

Nature shows her power in the waterfall, just as in the daisy and violet
she shows her grace and beauty.

One of the several objects of curiosity and admiration to those who visit
South Georgia is Forest Falls, near Whigham, a town on the Atlantic Coast
Line Railway, in the new county of Grady. A stream of clear, sparkling
water rushes over a cliff and falls into a huge sink nearly a hundred
feet below, where, instead of flowing on in its precipitated direction,
it immediately steals away into the earth as if endowed with life and
seeking refuge beneath monstrous rocks and in the depths of a bed of sand
washed white by the water’s continual dash in shouts of victory.

[Illustration: FOREST FALLS]

A few hours at Forest Falls is a midsummer dream whose refreshing
delights last indelibly. The walls of the sink are splendid transcendent
beauties, robed in richest green, with which nature decks her favorites.

The only way to reach the foot of the falls is adown the walls of this
immense lime sink by following artificial foot-paths, clinging to trees
and roots until the cool, refreshing spray of the falls defies your
approach, which defiance is really a temptation on a warm summer day.

The riotous music of the falls, mingling with enraptured cadence of
singing birds, swinging branches and rustling leaves overhead would alone
charm and enchant the spectator, but the rocks and cliffs and their
delicate draperies of ferns and vines outstrip the imagination.

The most appropriate time to enter the sink is at the noon hour, when old
Sol hangs a bow of richest colors in the falls, when the observer stands
in a ray of sunlight that floods the deep, verdant well from the bottom
of which he peers upward at the swaying branches of trees that lean over
the edge of this strange receptacle.

SOME SOUTHERN WRITERS

IRWIN RUSSELL

By Kate Alma Orgain

This poet was born in Port Gibson, Mississippi, and was among the first
of the Southern writers to recognize the possibilities of negro dialect
and character in poetry and fiction, and to picture in poetry the unique
relation between the Southern slave and his master.

It is not surprising that there is no general knowledge of this gifted
writer, for he passed away after a brief struggle with life, leaving
only one collection of poems, which was published after his death by the
Century Company, in 1888. Irwin Russell’s grandfather was a Virginian,
who moved west to Ohio. Here the father of Irwin was born. He married a
New York lady, and going South he settled in Port Gibson, where Irwin
and two other children were born. At the outbreak of the Civil War,
Irwin’s father cast his lot with the Confederacy, and after the war sent
the boy to St. Louis University in St. Louis, conducted by the Jesuit
Fathers. Here he became a diligent student, and his young friends called
him a “walking encyclopedia.” He also gave evidence of fine mathematical
powers. After graduation he returned to Mississippi and began the
practice of law. He was in Port Gibson during the yellow fever epidemic
in 1878, and he remained through the whole dreadful tragedy of sickness,
serving everywhere as needed, a devoted nurse. He never fully rallied
from the fearful strain and the harrowing scenes through which he passed,
for he was, says W. W. Baskerville, “that rare union of bright mind with
frail body through which the keenest appreciation and most exquisite
sensibility are developed.”

[Illustration: IRWIN RUSSELL]

His father, Dr. William Russell, who had also remained in Port Gibson
during the scourge, staying nobly at his post of duty, sank under the
strain and died.

This left young Russell entirely dependent upon himself. Joel Chandler
Harris says: “Russell always had warm personal friends from whom he could
command everything that affection could suggest.” Going to New York, he
took some literary matter to Charles Scribner’s Sons, who received him
with great personal kindness and encouraged him to adopt the profession
of authorship.

The climate, however, was too severe to allow him to work in New York
and he fell ill with a low fever. He determined to return to the South
and before he was quite recovered, set out to work his passage on a boat
bound for New Orleans. He arrived in port very weak and almost penniless,
but secured employment on the _Times_, and with characteristic disregard
of health or personal comfort, threw himself, heart and soul into his
work.

Although young, Russell gave remarkable evidence of training in the best
of literature. He gave his work hard, painstaking study, and his insight
into the peculiarities and pathos and poetry of the negro character was
truly wonderful.

Thomas Nelson Page says: “Personally I owe him much. It was the light of
his genius, shining through his dialect poems that led my feet in the
direction I have since tried to follow.”

Dr. C. A. Smith says: “The appearance of ‘Christmas Night in the
Quarters’ meant that Southern literature was now become a true
reproduction of Southern conditions.”

Joel Chandler Harris says: “Irwin Russell’s negro character studies rise
to the level of what, in a large way, we term literature. I do not know
where there could be a more perfect representation of negro character
than his operetta, ‘Christmas Night in the Quarters.’ It is inimitable.”

Beginning with the arrival of the negroes who are coming to “Uncle Johnny
Booker’s Ball,” this poem says:

“Some take the path with shoes in hand,
To traverse muddy bottom-land:
Aristocrats their steeds bestride—
Four on a mule, behold them ride.
And ten great oxen draw apace
The wagon from ‘de oder place,’
With forty guests, whose conversation
Betokens glad anticipation.”

Arrived at the scene of merriment the dance is preceded by a prayer by
“Brudder Brown,” who takes the middle of the floor to “beg a blessin’ on
dis dance.”

“O Mahsr! let dis gath’rin’ fin’ a blessin’ in yo’ sight!
Don’t jedge us hard fur whut we does—you knows it’s Chris’mus night;
An’ all de balunce ob de yeah we does as right’s we kin.
Ef dancin’s wrong, O Mahsr; let de time excuse de sin!

“We labors in de vineyard, wu’kin’ hard an’ wu’kin’ true;
Now, shorely you won’t notus, ef we eats a grape or two,
An’ takes a leetle holiday—a leetle restin’ spell,—
Bekase, nex’ week, we’ll start in fresh an’ labor twicet as well.

“Remember, Mahsr,—min’ dis now,—de sinfulness ob sin
Is ’pendin’ ’pon de spirit whut we goes an’ does it in:
An’ in a righchis frame ob min’ we’s gwine to dance an’ sing,
A feelin’ like King David, when he cut de pigeon-wing.

...

“You bless us, please, sah, eben ef we’s doin’ wrong to-night;
Kase den we’ll need de blessin’ more’n ef we’s doin’ right;
An’ let de blessin’ stay wid us, until we comes to die,
An’ goes to keep our Chris’mus wid dem sheriffs in de sky!”

...

“The rev’rend man is scarcely through,
When all the noise begins anew.
And with such force assaults the ears,
That through the din one hardly hears
Old fiddling ‘Josey’ sound his ‘A’,
Correct the pitch, begin to play.”

Then the dance begins.

“_S’lute yo’ pardners!_—scrape perlitely—
Don’t be bumpin’ ’gin de res’—
_Balance all!_—now, step out rightly;
Alluz dance yo’ lebbel bes’.
_Fo’wa’d foah!_—whoop up, niggers!
_Back ag’in!_—don’t be so slow!—
_Sw-i-i-ing cornahs!_—min’ de figgers!
When I hollers, den yo’ go.
_Top ladies cross ober!_
Hol’ on, till I takes a dram—
_Gemmen solo!_—yes, _I’s_ sober—
Cain’t say how de fiddle am.
_Hands around!_—hol’ up yo’ faces,
Don’t be lookin’ at yo’ feet!
_Swing yo’ pardners to yo’ places!_
Dat’s de way—dat’s hard to beat
_Sides fo’w’d!_—when yo’s ready—
Make a bow as low’s you kin!
_Swing acrosst wid opp’site lady!_
Now we’ll let you swap ag’in:
_Ladies change!_—shet up dat talkin’;
Do yo’ talkin’ arter while!
_Right an’ lef’!_—don’t want no walkin’—
Make yo’ steps, an’ show yo’ style!

“And so the ‘set’ proceeds—its length
Determined by the dancers’ strength;
And all agree to yield the palm
For grace and skill to ‘Georgy Sam,’
Who stamps so hard, and leaps so high,
‘Des watch him!’ is the wond’ring cry—
‘De nigger mus’ be, for a fac’,
Own cousin to a jumpin’-jack!’
On, on the restless fiddle sounds,
Still chorused by the curs and hounds;
Dance after dance succeeding fast,
Till supper is announced at last.
That scene—but why attempt to show it?
The most inventive modern poet,
In fine new words whose hope and trust is,
Could form no phrase to do it justice!
When supper ends—that is not soon—
The fiddle strikes the same old tune;
The dancers pound the floor again,
With all they have of might and main;
Old gossips, almost turning pale,
Attend Aunt Cassy’s gruesome tale
Of conjurers, and ghosts, and devils,
That in the smoke-house hold their revels;
Each drowsy baby droops his head,
Yet scorns the very thought of bed:—
So wears the night, and wears so fast,
All wonder when they find it past,
And hear the signal sound to go
From what few cocks are left to crow.”

In the wee sma’ hours near daylight Uncle Booker sings the story of the
first banjo.

“‘Dar’s gwine to be a’ oberflow,’ said Noah, lookin’ solemn—
Fur Noah tuk de ‘_Herald_,’ and he read de ribber column—
An’ so he sot his hands to wuk a-cl’arin’ timber-patches,
An’ ’lowed he’s gwine to build a boat to beat de steamah _Natchez_.
Ol’ Noah kep’ a-nailin’ an’ a-chippin’ an’ a-sawin’;
An’ all de wicked neighbors kep’ a-laughin’ and a-pshawin’;
But Noah didn’t min’ ’em, knowin’ whut wuz gwine to happen:
An’ forty days an’ forty nights de rain it kep’ a-drappin’.
Now, Noah had done cotched a lot of ebry sort o’ beas’es—
Ob all de shows a-trabelin’, it beat ’em all to pieces!
He had a Morgan colt an’ sebral head o’ Jarsey cattle—
An’ druv ’em ’board de Ark as soon’s he heered de thunder rattle.

“Den sech anoder fall ob rain! it come so awful hebby,
De ribber riz immejitely, an’ bu’sted thro’ de lebbee;
De people all wuz drownded out—’sep’ Noah an’ de critters,
An’ men he’d hired to work de boat—an’ one to mix de bitters.

...

“Now, Ham, de only nigger whut wuz runnin’ on de packet,
Got lonesome in de barber-shop, an’ c’u’dn’t stan’ de racket;
An’ so, fur to amuse he-se’f, he steamed some wood an’ bent it,
An’ soon he had a banjo made—de fust dat wuz invented.

“He wet de ledder, stretched it on; made bridge an’ screws an’ aprin;
An’ fitted in a proper neck—’twuz berry long an’ taprin’;
He tuk some tin, an’ twisted him a thimble fur to ring it;
An’ den de mighty question riz: how wuz he gwine to string it?

“De ’possum had as fine a tail as dis dat I’se a singin’;
De ha’rs so long and thick an’ strong,—des fit for banjo-stringin’;
Dat nigger shaved ’em off as short as washday dinner graces;
An’ sorted ob ’em by the size, f’om little E’s to basses.

“He strung her, tuned her, struck a jig,—’twuz ‘Nebber min’ de wedder,”—
She soun’ like forty-lebben bands a-playin’ all togedder;
Some went to pattin’; some to dancin’; Noah called de figgers;
An’ Ham he sot and knocked de tune, de happiest ob niggers!

“Now, sence dat time—it’s mighty strange—dere’s not de slightes’ showin’
Ob any ha’r at all upon de ’possum’s tail a-growin’;
An’ cur’i’s, too, dat nigger’s ways: his people nebber los’ ’em!—
Fur whar you finds de nigger—dar’s de banjo an’ de ’possum!”

...

The night is spent; and as the day
Throws up the first faint, fresh flash of gray,
The guests pursue their homeward way;
And through the field beyond the gin.
Just as the stars are going in,
See Santa Claus departing—grieving—
His own dear land of cotton leaving.
His work is done; he fain would rest
Where people know and love him best.
He pauses, listens, looks about;
But go he must: “his pass is out.”
So, coughing down the rising tears,
He climbs the fence and disappears.

Regarding the merits of Irwin Russell’s verses one critic says: “They
have all a swinging gait, and you can hear the rythmical pattering of the
feet, and see the swaying of the darky figures in the walk round as you
read.”

Russell declared the pathos and humor in the character of the real
old-fashioned negro of the South afforded an inexhaustible amount of
material for both prose and poetry.

Like Sidney Lanier, Russell was passionately fond of music, and became a
remarkably skillful performer on the banjo.

He died at the early age of twenty-six: suffering and sorrow and poverty
were his till the last. The brief struggle ended in New Orleans, leaving
his beautiful contributions to Southern dialect poetry for our heritage.

TWELFTH NIGHT REVELS

By Jane Feild Baskin

Of all the so-called lighter plays of Shakespeare, there is none,
perhaps, which has a greater charm of its own than “Twelfth Night; or,
What You Will.” There is in its droll humor a spiciness, a piquancy,
unsurpassed by any of the great dramatist’s own productions or those of
his contemporaries. Open the volume where you will, and mingle for a time
with the fantastic revelers of the play—what mirth, what laughter, what
drollery is here! The spirit of the “Twelfth Night” is rampant. But we
can better appreciate the aptness of the title if we see for ourselves
the merry-making which of old universally prevailed at that season. In
the modern work-a-day world of the present, but scant time is allotted
that highest and holiest joy of the Christmastide, and long before
“Twelfth Night,” which falls upon the sixth of the new month, we have
soberly resumed the accustomed round of daily duties. From the busy,
bustling world of to-day it is refreshing to turn back to the past again,
and lose ourselves in the joyous abandon of the old-time festival.

It is “Twelfth Night” in “Merrie England” in the days of the long ago,
and the Christmas festivities have lingered on to find their culmination
in the revels of this night. Truly we find here none of our modern haste
in returning to the prosaic realities of life, and unconsciously we
imbibe some of the mirth-prevailing spirit. How gay the shops in their
holiday garb, and what a goodly store of frosted cakes the confectioner
displays! It fairly makes one’s mouth water to see them, and catch a
faint whiff of their spicy fragrance, for these are the “Twelfth Night”
cakes of all sorts and sizes that will find their way into every home
from the highest to the lowest. That little lad turns away regretfully
from the huge frosted creation of the baker’s skill to the wee modest one
of which his few jingling pence will soon make him the proud possessor,
and then gives way good-naturedly to the bustling dame who makes a
judicious selection from the varied assortment; and so the happy throng
moves in and out, for “Twelfth Night” would scarce be “Twelfth Night”
without the cake, the crowning glory of the feast.

The season brings a strange mingling of mirth and superstition and
reverence. The smallest lad is familiar with its origin, and can tell
the story of the three wise men who journeyed from afar over plain and
mountain, until, led by the wondrous star in the East, they knelt beside
the cradle of the infant King and worshiped Him. The wealthier class
bring their gifts of gold and frankincense and myrrh to place upon the
altar, as did those wise men of old, and the humble rustic invokes a
blessing upon his harvest fields.

At dusk the farmer gathers around him his friends and servants, and
together the strange little procession makes its way across the freshly
turned sod to where the young wheat is beginning to spring up. Here, on
the highest part of the ground, twelve small fires and one large one
are kindled. Cider circulates freely while they drink to the health of
the company and to the success of the future harvest, and a fantastic
circle gathers around the larger fire to shout and halloo until the
welkin rings, and the answer is borne back on the night wind from all the
neighboring hillsides where similar fires glimmer dimly in the distance.
This ceremony completed, the merry company return home again, where the
housewife and her maids have been busily preparing for the evening’s
festivities. The table fairly groans under its weight of meats and
puddings, and cakes with caraways, and pitchers of sparkling cider and
ale, while a huge frosted cake with a hole through the center occupies
the position of honor. After supper a queer ceremony takes place. The
company follow the bailiff, or keeper of oxen, to the wain-house, where
the master fills a cup with strong ale, and, standing before the finest
and largest of the oxen, pledges him a curious toast. He then produces
the big cake with the hole in the center, and places it upon the ox’s
horn. The ox is tickled to make him toss his head, and if he throw the
cake behind him, it is considered the mistress’ perquisite, but if
before, the bailiff claims the prize. More sport of the same kind follows
amidst the laughter and shouts of the rustics assembled, and then the
boisterous crowd returns home once more to find the doors fast-barred;
nor can they gain admittance from the fair ones within until they have
earned it with rollicking song and jest. Once inside a scene of mirth
and jollity ensues, and all too quickly the moments speed, for care is
forgotten in the joyous abandon of the present.

In the southern villages a friendly, jovial crowd make their way to the
orchard and encircle the best-bearing tree. In sparkling ale they drink a
toast, chanting in joyous unison,

“Here’s to thee, old apple tree,
Whence thou mayst bud and whence thou mayst blow,
And whence thou mayst bear apples enow.
Hats full! Caps full!
Bushel, bushel, sacks full,
And our pockets full, too. Huzza!”

How lustily the shout rings out on the evening air, and then the merry
company return with empty pitchers, only to be greeted by shouts of
laughter from behind the fast-closed doors. Just a faint whiff of the
goodly store within, and the tantalizing demand to guess what is on the
spit. This, of course, is some bit or dainty not likely to be thought
of, and when, after many random hits and freely interchanged jests, it
is guessed at last, the doors are thrown open, and the lucky clodpole is
rewarded with the much-prized tidbit, amid the congratulations of his
less fortunate companions. So with mirth and wassail speeds the night
away, for truly “care’s an enemy to life.”

The simple-hearted rustic firmly believes that by these timely ceremonies
and invocations he has helped to keep the blight from his rye, and to
insure a goodly return from the well-laden orchard trees. But “Twelfth
Night” festivities are by no means confined to the simple, free-hearted
sports of field and farm. In palace and mansion the feast is observed
with great splendor, with masque and pageant, with rollicking song and
mirth. Thousands of pounds are spent in preparing for the revels of a
night. The long table spread for the feast is a wonder of art fresh from
the hands of the pastry cook and confectioner. There are pasteboard
castles to be blown up in jest, the rarest of old claret flowing like
blood from the side of a wounded stag, with all sorts of curious and
dainty conceits set forth amid sparkling glass and silver, while the
guests playfully pelt one another with eggshells filled with rose-water.
The cake, huge and shining in its frosty whiteness, and wrought in
elaborate design, seems to tower over the rest of the feast with a sort
of proud and smiling benignity, for reposing in its capacious depth lies
the fateful prize of the evening, the bean which proclaims the lucky
finder king over the evening’s festivities. The guests cut for this amid
good-natured laughter and merriment, and when someone more fortunate than
the rest has discovered it, they declare him with one accord “king of the
bean,” and cheer him right lustily. The newly crowned monarch is raised
aloft to the ceiling to mark a white cross upon one of the great oaken
beams, for thereby will evil spirits be warded off for the evening and
through all the year to come. The others then draw lots and assume their
parts of lords or ministers of state, and each sustains his character
with mock dignity throughout the revels. This quaint old ceremony is
observed in palace and mansion and humbler household as well, and a sort
of good-natured fellowship reigns supreme. The story is told of how Mary,
Queen of Scots, when her maid was chosen queen, lent her own royal robes,
that the part might be sustained with proper dignity.

“Mirth and revel, jest and play,
Quickly wears the night away.”

The candles have sputtered and burnt out, the tawdry tinsel is thrown
aside for the soberer garb of the real, and Sir Francis Flatterer and
Sir Randle Rackabite have passed into the ranks of everyday life. The
laughter and mirth are but a memory, and we come back with a start to the
daylight and the present, with its unfinished duties ever pressing for
completion.

And Shakespeare’s “Twelfth Night” lies open before us. From its pages
arise, through the master’s art, the living forms of Sir Toby and
Malvolio, Viola and the Duke. “Grave and gay, the lovers, the laughers,
and the laughed-at, are made to harmonize in one scene and one common
purpose.” We can well imagine that Twelfth Night in the Middle Temple
in the days of the long ago, when the happy company of barristers and
students gathered to hear for the first time, the drama fresh from the
master’s hand, when its exquisite poetry charmed with new grace and
melody the ear of some secluded scholar, and the antics of its revellers
brought a smile even to the lips of that grave and formal dispenser of
justice. One commentator tells us that the title was probably suggested
by this, the first night of its performance, but do we not find a subtler
significance in its embodiment of the spirit of the season? Is not the
mirth and jest of those old-time sports and festivities aptly repeated
here in this crowd of revelling, laughter-creating personages, in the
drollery of Sir Toby Belch and his comrades, and the fantastical vanity
of Malvolio? And as, in the midst of those old-time Twelfth Night revels,
with their care-free abandon and joy, we catch now and then the sub-tone
of the minor, and the richer harmonies of life, a mere glimpse of the
simple love and faith of those lives of the long ago, so it is that we
look past the boisterous merriment of these jesting revellers of the play
to discern the true beauty of the characters who stand in the half-light
behind. Then we become conscious of a quiet harmony of color and form,
and we feel anew the poet’s close touch with life and nature.

UNCLE ABRAHAM’S SERMON

THE SEANCE

By John Marshall Kelly

Author of “The Resurrection,” “The Tempered Wind,” “The Christmas Tree,”
etc.

I’se be’n heahin’ some quare talk erbout yoah doin’s dis pas’ week an’
some yuther times, my heahers. I’se be’n telled erbout some uv dem
_sayoncies_ you niggahs hev be’n holdin’, same’s lak dey do up tuh Kunnel
Simpson’s house, an’ dat dar triflin’ yalleh house gal uv his’n an’ dat
mottled yahd boy be’n lahnin’ you, my belubbed flock, de wiles uv de
debbil an’ claimin’ dey’s meejums an’ claihvoyans, an’ hev be’n holpin’
you-alls talk wif spookses an’ hobgoblins an’ onfamiliar sperits.

Now, my chillen, bein’ as I is yoah pasture an’ is set oveh you tuh gyahd
yoah morils an’ luk afteh yoah etehnal welfaih, as I hev be’n put heah
tuh guide yoah tottehin’ feets in de paf uv de wuhld, I’se boun’ tuh
wahn you-alls dat all sich things am onrighteous an’ sinful an’ am tuh
be ’voided an’ kep out uv de way uv, an’ dat you am temptin’ fate er de
debbil in all sich puhfo’mances.

You-alls ought tuh know, my brudderns an’ sisterns, dat dere ain’ no
comin’ back f’om de sperit wuhld, an’ dat any ’tempt tuh prove dat dey
is am a vexation uv sperit, an’s gwine bring its own results. I wan’
you-alls tuh ’membeh dis tex’, an’ ’membeh hit well, dat w’en Divehs went
tuh hell an’ raised up he eyes in tohment an’ seed Lazarus in ol’ Fatheh
Ab’aham’s buzzum, he axed tuh hev him sont foh er speshil wahnin’ tuh he
brothehs on yea’th, tuh tell ’em tuh gib all dey money tuh de Chu’ch an’
de poah, an’ tuh git some sores foh de dogs tuh lick an’ go beggin’ an’
eat crum’s wif de pupses so’s dey could be in glory bimeby.

Well, now, you ’membeh dat, an’ you ’membeh lakwise dat he wuz tol’ dere
wuz fixed er unpassable gulf ’twixt an’ between an’ dat no one could
cross hit, an’ de people would’n’ heed no wahnin’ ef dey did hev one; he
say’d hit did’n’ mek no diff’unce ef dey wuz tuh sen’ er dead man tuh
come back, dey would’n’ keer, ’cause Lazarus he done riz once, jis’ tuh
try ’em, an’ dat afteh he be’n dead foah days.

Now, you-alls ’membehs all dis, my onrighteous travelehs tuh de bah
uv Gawd, an’ ’membehs dat ef sperits could er come back dat ol’ money
grubbeh Divehs would er come back an’ tol’ de little Divehs, an’ ol’
Mizziz Divehs an’ de whole Divehs fambly, ’bout de trubble he wuz hevin’
down dere an’ tuh wahn dem an’ caution dem ’bout de way dey handled de
propehty w’at dey wuz spendin’ so free.

Lazarus he hed no call tuh come back, kaze he’d done shed he sores an’
wuz in good comp’ny at las’, an’ ’sides afteh de sperimen’ he made onc’t
dey ain’ neveh gwine let _no_ man come back tuh wahn de people. Lazarus
he could’n’ an’ would’n’, an’ Divehs he could’n’ an’ did’n’, an’ dat’s de
way wid all de res’.

Now, den, w’at’s all dis I heahs ’bout dem triflin’ niggahs callin’ up
ol’ Job Mixon an’ hevin’ him tell de folkses w’at dey done es little
chillen, an’ tellin’ dem w’at dey done es grown folkses, an’ doin’
uv hit in sich er foolish way? Who eveh knowed ol’ Job tuh do sich
foolishness ez bumpin’ er table, hey?

Jis’ ’magine ol’ Job, w’at wuz hung foh muhdeh an’ w’at hed be’n a thief
all he life, gwine erbout dis wuhld es er spook, follehin’ afteh dem puny
little house sehvants, rappin’ on tables an’ bumpin’ de floor w’en dey
say so!

“_Dat you, Unc’ Job? Ef so, please knock._”

Table raps; he mean yes.

“_Is you happy oveh theah, Unc’ Job? Rap onc’t ef you is, an’ twic’t ef
you ain’._”

Den dey git two raps, strong an’ hahd, ’cause nobody’s fool ’nough tuh
’spect ol’ Job bein’ wheah he happy less’n he could steal er kill.

Den some trim’lin’, puny little niggah w’at won’ pass de graveyahd at
night, he say: “_Ax him ’bout my mammy; wheah she?_” an’ den dat fool
meejum go th’oo some jinnyfluxins, _one rap A, two rap B, three rap C_,
an’ spell out er whole lot en passel uv trash w’at nobody kin dispute,
an’ den dey say de sperit done answeh!

Yas, I know he tol’ erbout things some uv you-alls done, an’ w’at you
thought nobody knowed, an’ you say dat proof ernough. Proof ernough! You
need no proof! You guv hit yoah own se’f.

“_Mist’ Job, you knows uv anything we-alls done w’at nobody else knows in
dis wuhld?_”

_Do_ he know anything you-alls done? He doan’ need know; you-alls knows
yoah-selves, an’ yoah feah meks yoah heaht palpehtate so foh feah dat
somebody’ll know, an’ yoah body ’gins tuh quake an’ shake so dat you-all
jis’ nachelly meks de little raps in yo’ agertations an’ yoah shivehin’
nervousness jis’ raps “_One rap A, two rap B, three rap C_,” an’ spells
out de deeds you’ve done foh dat meejum in yoah feah.

You does hit yoahself, you frazzled idjits! You tells uv yoah own sin!
You sits dere quakin’ in yoah shoes or wif yoah bare toes rattlin’ on de
boahds, wif de trimble in you answehin’ evehy call uv dat finicky dun
gal, “_One rap A, two rap B, three rap C._”

Job, he mighty fine man tuh be ahbitratin’ uv you-alls fate; mighty fine
man, an’ one w’at ought tuh mek betteh folkses outen you.

He wa’nt no good man on yearth; he wa’nt good foh nuffin in dis life—but
he’s er mighty good wahnin’ dead, an’ I hope he stay a good wahnin’, an’
stay dead. De Lawd knows He need him foh a wahnin’. He ought tuh git some
good outer Job, kaze He sho’ got none heah, foh uv all de liverashous
coons w’at eveh lived he wuz de liverashousest an’ de leas’ account an’
de hahdest tuh kill.

He wuz a scand’lous niggah, Job wuz, an’ no respecteh uv pussons, an’
no regahdeh uv uthority; he didn’ keer no moah foh er man’s ufficial
puhsition ner his sperityil capacity ’n nothin’.

Why, I ’membehs jis es if hit war yistiddy, how he hed de affront’ry tuh
offeh me a drink uv whisky onc’t! Me, his pasture, an’ de watcheh oveh
his soul. I rebuked him, my heahehs, an’ rebuked him seveahly, an’ he
neveh insulted me dat way erg’in. Yas, suh! I gib him a lesson he neveh
fohgot, foh I tuk de whole quaht an’ didn’t gib him er drop uv hit an’ he
didn’t hev no moah.

Heah, oveh theah! You needn’ snicker! I knows w’at tuh do in er
’mehgency, an’ I won’ tek no levity ner laughin’ at my sperityil methods,
an’ I’d do any uv you-alls de same way; yas, I would, ’n you knows hit!

Job hed de ’dacity tuh ’vite me tuh he house tuh er tuhkey dinneh onc’t,
too. _Tuhkey_, w’en he neveh raised a tuhkey ’cept offen some w’ite man’s
roost, ner hed nothin’ but w’at he stole. Dat sho’ wuz er fine tuhkey,
an’ I gib Job er nuther lesson an’ showed him dat stolen goods profiteth
little.

Dat tuhkey wuz er big gobbleh, an’ dere wuz nobody but me an’ Job
dere, an’ I seasoned dat buhd wif de good wine w’at Job hed stole, an’
admonishuns tuh be good an’ wahnin’s f’om de wrath tuh come. Hit wuz
er hahd pull, but I finished dat tuhkey in spite uv Job’s hints dat
he ’spected hit tuh las’ him er week. Hit sho’ly would hev tasted good
if hit hadn’t b’en stoled an’ I hed tuh drink up de wine w’at he hed
’prop’iated f’om somewhere, but de sauce uv a deed well did an’ a sinneh
rebuked, almos’ made hit relish, an’ I held out tuh de end.

Now I’s told you-alls ’bout dis tuh show you how tuh meet de tempteh,
an’ if Job wuz er comin’ back heah in de sperit an’ you-alls treated him
severe he’d go back tuh de place wheah de Lawd put him, an’ let you-alls
alone.

Think uv ol’ Job Mixon as er angel uv light, ol’ thief Job sent back heah
tuh talk tuh you folkses an’ tell you w’at you-alls done did an w’at you
gwine tuh do! Yas, I sees hit, I sees hit! Ol’ Job, w’at man hed tuh keep
in jail mos’ uv de time, an’ w’at wuz a debbil in de flesh. De Lawd tried
tuh kill him time Kunnel Simpson shot him in he henhouse; an’ tuk ’nutheh
tuhn at him de time he got dat whisky. De Lawd knowed he wuzn’t fit foh
dis wuhld w’en He made dat wild mule w’at Job stole fall on him an’ den
tromp on him, an’ if hit hed be’n anybody but Job, he’d hev died.

A angel uv light, an’ foh fohty yeahs de Lawd tried tuh git him erway
f’om you chillen, tuh gib you-all a chanst foh glohy! An’ he’d ’a be’n
alive now if hit hadn’t be’n foh shootin’ at a w’ite man an’ hangin’
three days ’foah anybody foun’ him. Yas suh, no ord’nary hangin’ would
hev killed dat niggah, an’ de Lawd knowed w’at He ’bout keepin’ any uv us
f’om findin’ him afteh he wuz hung.

Claihvoyins! Meejums! Sayoncies! Sperits an’ table rappin’s, an’ “_One
rap A, two rap B, an’ three rap C!_” Sperityilizzum, an’ nex’ thing
Christian Science an’ some uv you advanced niggahs will be goin’ ’round
heah wid yoah jaw tied up, groanin’ wid de toofache an’ sayin’ dey
ain’ no sich thing es pain; some uv you-alls wid razur blades in yoah
annatohmmy a-gnawin’ at yoah vitals, sayin’ hit am ’maginary; dat de will
rules an you kain’t hurt de flesh!

Listen tuh me, you niggahs! Heah yoah pasture! Keep ’way f’om sich
contrapshuns uv de debbil! Sen’ ol’ Job back tuh hell wheah he belong
an’ keep ’way f’om de w’ite folkses’ fads! Go on wid yoah conjurin’, if
you mus’ hev er rickreation, an’ weah yoah graveyahd rabbit feets, an’
yoah little bags uv niggah wool; but keep ’way f’om sperityilizzum an’
Christian Science an’ all dere attendant evils; eschew, as de poet say,
dey alluremen’s, ’less some uv yoah wives an sistehs an’ daughters tuhn
out er Mizziz Eddy an’ tries teh lead you in pashtuhs new er indulges in
holy ghos’ chillen—dey’s nuff not ’counted foh ’thout that.

Go on, my people an’ be yoahselves, an’ hev pains an’ ha’nts, an’ leave
de painless dentistry uv life an’ de ’lightened sperits tuh a w’ite an’
idle an’ moah civilized people; ’membeh dat you hev er neveh-dyin’ soul
teh save, an’ beah in min’, night an’ day, de feelin’ uv de song we is
now gwine teh sing:

I’se gwine tuh be a angel,
A long, tall angel;
I’se gwine be a angel, bye ’n bye!
A w’ite-robed angel,
A charcoal angel;
I’se gwine be a angel, bye ’n bye!

THE MISANTHROPE

He supped on sorrow till his soul
Was sated with the noxious fare;
But not one drop of Love’s pure wine
Could his repleted spirit bear.

_Clara Dargan Maclean._

THE STORY OF THE YEAR-GIFTS

TO BE TOLD TO THE CHILDREN ON NEW YEAR’S EVE

By Robert Wilson Neal

There was an old man, and he was very old indeed—so old that he did not
know his own age, though he knew the age of every boy and girl, and every
man and woman, and every city, and every country, in the world—so old
that he had seen the mountains rise out of the land and the continents
out of the great oceans. He was very, very old indeed, you see; the
oldest man that ever was. He had long, white hair and a long, white beard
that fell quite down to his waist.

But though he was so very old, he was very strong and healthy, so that no
one ever thought that he would die. And because he was so, he was able
to accomplish everything. He was never idle and never had been—no, not
for one minute. He worked while people slept and while they played; no
one ever knew him to stop. That is why he had done so very, very much.
For he had formed great peoples so long ago that nobody but he knows
anything about them; and many, many centuries ago had written wonderful
stories that we still read; and had built great churches and palaces, and
painted beautiful pictures, and carved beautiful statues, and composed
wonderful music, and had discovered wonderful new ways of doing things
and wonderful elements in earth and air that nobody had thought of, and
had done so many things that ought to be done, that I believe a thousand
men could not tell all of them if they wrote all their lives.

He was very good, too, for he meant that everything he did should make
people happier. But oftentimes he made mistakes, and did things wrong, or
seemed to, and then people suffered—sometimes only a few people for a
little while, and sometimes many people for years and years. But as soon
as he saw that he had done wrong or that things were not going as they
should, he set to work to undo his mistake and make things come right;
and he never stopped until he did this, so that people came to say that
he would bring everything right in the end if only it were left to him.
And though he was so busy and so old, he was always glad when he had done
good and was always happy with people he had helped.

He had millions of children, too—millions alive and millions dead. All
the people in the world were his children. If there were a baby Hottentot
born, it was his; and if there were a little Greenlander born, that
was his, too. Even the greatest man that ever lived, whom we all love,
whether we think or not that he was just a man, like others, was his
child, and knew it; for this is what he meant when he said, “The hour is
come.”

Now you may be very sure that this kind, strange old man loved his
children or he would not have worked so very long and hard for them. So
every twelve months he gave each of them a wonderful present; not one
kind of present for one and another for another, but just the same thing
for everybody. The little beggar-boy, standing on his frost-nipped feet
by the king’s road, got just the same as the king who rattled past in his
chariot and never gave him even a copper; the poor Indian squaw, with
nothing to wear but an old wolf skin, got just the same as the beautiful
lady who had wonderful silken dresses and diamond necklaces and shoes
with golden buckles. Yet everybody got just what he wanted, and would
not even think of trading off his present for anything else in the world.

There never has been and never will be anything worth so much as a single
one of these presents. If a boy, or a girl, or a man either, had all the
silver mines of Mexico, and all the gold mines of the Yukon, and all the
diamond fields of South Africa, they would not be worth as much as just
one of these presents, for the presents could be used in any way and for
anything. Yet all that this kind old man asked of people was, please
to use the gifts the best they knew how. If they did so, they were all
happier, but if they did not, they became very miserable, and even the
gifts themselves were a sorrow to them.

Now there was a man and his wife who had a son they loved greatly; and
they had made good use of their presents and were happy. But one day the
boy said, “I want to take my presents now and go to college.” The mother
was glad, but the father said, “The way to use them is the way I tell
you. Then I’ll put mine with yours, and we will use them both together.”

“I cannot, father,” the boy said. “Mine were not meant to be used that
way.”

Then the boy left home so that he could use his presents; and his mother
died: and his father was angry towards him. The boy used as well as he
knew how the presents he received, but he did not know well at first how
to use them (though he learned after awhile), and he was very unhappy
and his life was almost ruined. And his father continued angry with him,
and misused all his presents after that, and was very miserable until he
died; for he saw that what his son had done was right, yet he would not
forgive when he was asked, and all the gifts he had received only made
him feel the sadder.

Again, there was an old man who used his presents to make money. He had
always used them so, and he meant always to use them so. He would not
use them to help people who did not know how to use their own, no, not
even to help a friend. But he could not do that, for nobody would be
friends with such a man. He would not even use any part of them to serve
his country when it was at war and needed him. And every twelve months he
was more miserable, and swore he would give all the money he had made,
just for a little happiness; yet every time he used his gifts in the same
selfish way.

At last the old, old man sent word to this old man (who was nothing but
an hour-old babe beside the other), that he might take back the next gift
at any time. The money-lover trembled and shook; but in a little while
he had forgotten all about his warning and was misusing the gift as he
had done with all he ever had. Then came the old man one dark night, and
snatched back the present from the miser. And the old man who had never
used his presents well, screamed in his terror and fell back dead.

This stern, kindly old man gave his gifts to nations, too, for the
nations were his children just the same as the boys and girls. Now one
time, in midsummer, word was brought him that he had a new nation child.

“I declare,” he exclaimed, “I’ve only a piece of a present left for it.
That will be enough, though; the child won’t live.”

But that was once the old man was wrong, for the child did live; and it
made such good use of its present that he gave it another, and another,
and another. And the nation kept growing, for it used his gifts wisely,
and helped him to do away with many things that were not good; and at
last it used his gifts to save weaker people from hunger, and sword, and
what is worse than either.

And if there be such an old man now (I hope there is, don’t you?), I hope
he has already taught us how to use his gifts; and if there be such a
nation, the child of Father Time, I pray that God has made it wise enough
so that the gifts of years will make certain centuries of existence.

[Illustration: The Shadow of the Attacoa

By Thornwell Jacobs]

SYNOPSIS OF PRECEDING CHAPTERS

Commenced in the April number.

Ervin McArthur, bearing the nickname of “Satan” on account of his
ungovernable temper, learns printing at the office of the _Dunvegan_
(N. C.) _Democrat_ and loves Colonel Preston’s daughter. The colonel,
objecting to a love affair between his aristocratic daughter and a son of
“poor whites,” shifts the youth to a place on the _Charleston Chronicle_.
Here, the Civil War coming on, he distinguishes himself by his
journalistic ability and by his inventions of war-engines. In these last
he is ably assisted by Helen Brooks, a Boston girl visiting Charleston
relatives. She learns to love the inventor and his cause and he struggles
between his allegiance to Helen Preston and his newly awakened love. He
returns to Dunvegan on furlough and in an altercation with his old time
chum, Henry Bailey, the latter meets his death. Ervin escapes and another
friend, Ernest Lavender, is tried and convicted. Ervin confesses and is
tried but cleared on proof discovered by Helen Preston that the crime was
committed by Mack Lonovan, who, wishing to marry Helen Brooks, destroys
the only living witness to his secret marriage with half-witted Nance
West.

Ervin returns to Charleston and invents the ironclad torpedo, destined,
when copied by the Federals, to destroy the Confederate Navy. He also
constructs a submarine torpedo boat and while preparing for his initial
trip has an interview with Helen Brooks.

He decides to attack the _Housatonic_ instead of the _New Ironsides_,
as Helen has confessed that one whom she loves is on the latter. The
_Housatonic_ is sunk, also the torpedo, Ervin alone being rescued and
captured. Sent to the stockade on Morris’ Island, he finds Tait Preston,
who is about to be exchanged on account of a wound. Ervin determines to
escape.

CHAPTER XXXVII—CONTINUED

But weeks passed and McArthur was forced to stay and see himself growing
haggard, weak and filthy. It grew cold and the ragged quilts barely
sufficed to cover the sand.

At last one day at dusk he determined to make his escape or die. A dense
fog had settled down over the island, and in the growing darkness he
could scarcely see the guards with their guns pointed over the stockades.
It was absolute folly to attempt it, but what was a worm-fed man not
willing to attempt? So, as his custom was, he went into his tent, and by
his ragged pallet, asked a mercy from his God, and then went out toward
the death-line. Well nigh crazed, he thought in the fog he could safely
burrow a way unseen under the stockade. He chose a spot midway between
a gullah negro (a lowlander from the rice fields of the Combahee) and a
mulatto who spoke often of his rights and liberty, and who was as anxious
that all should know of his presence as a little game bantam cockerel
that has just learned how to crow. Then, kneeling upon the sand, he
cautiously began work. A long, lanky man from the mountains of North
Carolina saw him and followed:

“Friend, it’s death,” he whispered.

“It doesn’t matter.”

The sand was beginning to fly when he heard a noise as though some
one was clambering up the poles of the stockade. Listening, he stared
intently in the direction of the noise. A gust of wind had blown off the
cap of the Combahee negro, and by means of a rope he was letting himself
down to get it.

Was it a mercy?

At least it was a chance.

Stealing up in the darkness he slapped his hand on the guard’s shoulder.

“To whom do you belong, Jim?”

Taken by surprise, and noting instinctively the white man’s voice, the
thin veneer of freedom and egotism wore off.

“To ’state of Norris—on de main, Marster.”

“Hand me that pistol from your belt.”

Still under the power of the masterful man, the negro handed it over.
Scarcely had McArthur taken it, however, when the spell was broken.

“Looky ’ere, stan’ off dar. I’se one of de gyards. I b’longs to Mr.
Linkum an’ myself, now. Stan’ off an’ gimme dat musket,” he quavered,
trying to re-assume his self-confidence.

Then he shivered as he felt the cold steel against his temple.

“Don’t speak again, or I’ll kill you instantly.”

Terrified, the negro fell to wringing his hands, his teeth chattering
convulsively.

“Take off those clothes,” ordered Ervin, “cap, trousers, coat.”

While this was being done, a dark gray form loomed up by his side out of
the fog.

“You got him? I’ll help you.”

It was the mountaineer.

McArthur handed him the pistol, and divesting himself, took the negro’s
blue uniform and put it on.

“If he speaks, blow his brains out!”

“Ugh, ugh, ugh!” sobbed the negro, trying hard to swallow even this sound.

“Quick, what is your regiment?”

“Secon’ South Ca’lina. Marster, please take down dat gun!”

“Who runs the ferry boat at Cumming’s Point?”

“Hatchett an’ Simpson, Fifty-fourth Massachusetts.”

“What is your company?”

“Company C, sah.”

“Who is the Captain?”

“Cap’n ain’t come, marster—name’s Brown—’spectin’ him to-morrow.”

Quickly climbing the rope, he picked up the gun of the guard, and began
descending. Neither was he to be confused in the fog and darkness. Many
times in the Eseeolas had he taken his bearings from a bucket, two sticks
and the pole star, as though he were really lost.

“You git it?” It was the mulatto’s voice.

“Yeah, aisy,” Ervin answered in pure Combahee.

He went on down the parapet.

“Where you goin’, you blame bluegum gullah?” the mulatto called.

“Huh, you swongerrin’ mighty rash to a free nigger wid a gun!”

The mulatto laughed.

“If I c’d see you, I’d shoot you like one of them d—n rebels. That’s a
fancy way you goin’ to camp.”

“’Tain’t matter about de road, so long as ’e cah’y you to de right
place,” was the answer.

Thoroughly familiar with the island, McArthur veered westward and turned
his face toward Battery Gregg. As he passed it he was challenged.

“Cholly Smif—”

“What regiment?”

“Secon’ South Ca’lina.”

“What duty?”

“Gyardin’ dese d—n rebels.”

“Pass on, you black nigger braggart.”

“I ain’t lahgin’, mister. Take dese white folks to lahge. Niggers cain’t
lahge nuttin’ to de Buckra. Sabby?”

“Get on, Combahee monkey,” called the sentry, recognizing the low country
lingo.

Ervin passed on towards Cumming’s Point, his eyes serving him in good
stead. Almost in a moment he was by the landing. A towboat lay at anchor,
and a couple of mulatto men were in charge of it.

“Hello!” hailed Ervin. His tone was one of easy command.

“Hello,” one of them answered.

“Where are you going?”

“Been out to the _Montauk_—comin’ in—”

“Lay that boat alongside.”

“We have orders against it, sir, except by special request.”

“Never mind about the orders. I guess you don’t know Captain Brown, of
your own company. You are Second South Carolina, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Company C?”

“Yes, sir,” and they saluted.

“You made a splendid charge at Wagner. We nearly drove the rebs out that
night. There, bring her up. You are detailed by Captain Emilio to convey
me to James’ Island, within the Confederate lines. I am going to do a
little reconnoitering.”

So they pulled up the anchor, and the towboat turned into the creeks
between Morris’ and James’ Island.

Scarcely had they gone a hundred yards before a boat was pushed off
hurriedly after them, and a voice called excitedly:

“Stop that boat! Hatchett, Simpson, he’s a rebel prisoner! Stop!”

The two boatmen instantly ceased rowing and looked at McArthur
angrily. Not a feature of his face changed. Only his nostrils dilated
suggestively, and two little flames of fire shot from his eyes.

“Take up those oars, men,” he said, quietly, pointing his pistol at them.
“Row as if all hell were behind you.”

The men hesitated.

McArthur fired at the foremost, intentionally grazing his clothes. At the
report of the pistol, they cowered in mortal terror.

“Good God, marster, doan’ shoot any mo,’ we’se rowin’!”

“Then row!” thundered the master. “If they catch us I’ll kill you both!”

CHAPTER XXXVIII

“Father,” whispered Helen Preston, in the low voice of despair. “Father,
don’t you know me?”

The old warrior who loved Dunvegan sat still as death in his arm chair, a
happy smile on his face.

“Father, it is Helen. Oh, father! Don’t you know me?”

Slowly he opened his eyes with a look of incredulous disappointment.

“Oh! Helen, child, is it you? Why disturb me? I was with him—we had just
won a great victory—the men were cheering old Traveler as he came down
the battle line—”

“But, father, you had been quiet so long—I was afraid—I—”

He had sunk again into a stupor.

She rose heart-broken, and pressed her wan face against the window pane.

“He will die soon,” she murmured, “and I shall be alone. Tait has Annie,
but Ervin is so far away! Oh, if he could only come!”

She looked, as always, from the window that faced the southwest, where
the ivy-covered cabin crouched, only her eyes now wandered on over the
green wheat fields to the blue range of the Wa-haws. Beyond them Ervin
was, Ervin who loved her, and would come back some day, and claim his
highland lassie.

The twilight was falling gently in the Silver Creek valley, the cooing of
the dove came softly from the piny woods. She closed her eyes—and—

The fighting is ended, the tears are over and gone. Of a glad day he
comes back stronger, nobler, manlier. The little red church in under the
oaks is garlanded with roses. Annie is playing the wedding march, and Dr.
Allerton—

“Miss Helen,” called a happy old voice.

“Why, Ben—you—I was asleep surely! What are you grinning at?” Helen asked
dazedly.

“I’se got some good news for de young mistis! Ole Ben’s shorely got some
good news. De white pigeon what was lost is come home!”

In her anguish she saw him wounded—a great hole, perhaps, in his breast.
Pathetically crowning him with her own motives, she hears him tell them
to loose the dragoon, reads the one thought of his soul, that Helen
should know and come to him.

“Helen, my child,” a weak voice called from the arm chair, “come near
me—do not go far away—I feel ill—my child—it is so good to have you with
me at the last—so good to know that you—will not go—a—”

He sank again into a stupor.

She slowly lifted her hand from his forehead where he had lovingly placed
it. Her little figure trembled as a soul before the breath of Jehovah.
She fell on her knees by the bedside, where her mother had taught her to
pray. For an hour the duties fought bloodily over her heart, then she
rose and went toward the stable.

Half an hour later Dr. Allerton heard a knock on his door. He saw her by
the candle light.

“Helen, my child, what can—is he—dead?”

“Oh, Doctor,” she pleaded, piteously, “tell me what to do!”

“Trust, my child,” he said, seating her tenderly.

She told him all, and when it was done he encouraged her.

“How good it is to know that your brother is with him!”

“Tait? No, I have not even that comfort. He is in Virginia.”

“He is everywhere.”

Then she understood.

“Oh, Doctor Allerton, may I go? Tell me I may go!” she pleaded.

For a long while he sat silent, while a memory of the long ago came
stealing through the closed window. A face—a death—a promise kept through
forty long years of celibacy. The face laughed at him as he sat silent
there, as if he had pleased her well.

“Go,” he said.

And he raised his hand in benediction and blessed her.

CHAPTER XXXIX

The fussy little engine had at last completed its task and the train
was ready to start. A crowd of small boys was hanging around it—the
greatest marvel of the world to the mountain lads. Its big funnel-shaped
smoke-stack sent wonder’s own thrills down their backs, and when the
wheels slipped on the cast iron rails they shook with delight. “What a
engine!” one of them said. “It’s ’most as tall as a man!”

The engineer was busy pulling off a sliver that had started from one of
the rails, which experience had taught him might creep upward, farther
and farther, till a car wheel caught it, and sent it through the bottom
of a passenger coach, for it was but cast iron, after all.

Helen Preston turned to go, and her eyes caught sight of the
Attacoa—highest of all the Blue Ridge, save the forehead of Grandfather’s
Mountain. The stranger coming to the village sees it first, and the
inhabitant turns invariably as to an old friend to say good-bye when he
leaves.

“I love old Attacoa,” she said. “It was there that Light conquered
Darkness.”

One by one the mountains sank away behind her, and the forest gave way
to the wheat. Pines and chunky oats ran the fuzzy-fingered spruce and
slender limbed larches away, and at last when night was settling down
over all, after a record-breaking run, averaging twelve miles per hour,
she reached Charlotte, and the queer little passenger coach with its
twelve-paned window sashes was abandoned.

It was early morning when she left for Charleston, and from the window
of her car she watched the red embankments, last semblances of things
familiar, become fewer and fewer, and the soft, gray soil of the low
country take its place. The harsh blowing of the engine became mellower
as the rolling hillocks flattened into fertile plains and juniper trees
hastened to claim place by black, sluggish streams. As she neared
the city, interminable cypress swamps closed in round them, and long
festoons of gray moss hung from every limb. Forests of long leaved pines
took their places when the track left the river bottoms, and all the
rocks crumbled into sand. When the engine stopped for wood, she heard a
bob-white calling his mate, and she fell asleep to dream of the ruffed
grouse in the Silver Creek valley.

The depot was a long, low wooden building, and Helen soon found a colored
driver who knew where the _Chronicle_ office was, knew Colonel Masters
and was sure he was in the city. The cold of the mountain had vanished,
and the air was soft and balmy as she drove through the streets. At last
they stood before a two-storied building that faced the bay, and over the
door the sign of the _Chronicle_ could be deciphered. Underneath was the
simple legend, “What is it but a map of busy life?”

Tremblingly mounting the steps, she found herself looking through the
open door of the office. An old man sat before the fireplace, holding a
tattered flag in his hand. His lips seemed moving slowly, but Helen could
not hear his words, as he muttered:

“Ervin, my son, my son, would God I had died for thee!”

“Is this Colonel Masters?” she inquired, trying to be brave, as his
kindly blue eyes turned towards her.

“It is, madam, your servant, Colonel Masters. Pray be seated.”

“Colonel Masters, I came to ask if you could tell me where Mr. McArthur
is. He is ill somewhere, and I am come to—to find him.”

He looked at her as if he were reading a chapter in his own love story.

“Is—he—ill?” he asked, slowly.

“Yes, sir, he is. I am sure he is. I had hoped that you knew where!”

“I was not aware that he was—ill.”

“He must be—a messenger told me!”

“Could he not tell you where?”

“No, it was not a messenger that could speak.”

Colonel Masters understood. Such messengers had spoken to him many times.

“You loved him,” he said, simply.

A scarlet glow crept over her cheeks.

“I—yes. When did you see him last?”

“When I saw him last he was well, I am sure he was well.”

“How long ago, sir, when—”

“May I be pardoned for asking the name of my pretty inquisitor?”

“It is Helen Preston. I am from Dunvegan.”

“He loved a Helen.”

Again the scarlet flush came. The colonel noticed her eyes light for the
first time.

“I must go, sir. Can you not tell me where to find him?”

“Yes, I know where you will find him,” he said, smiling tenderly. “Heaven
will not be far from where you find him.”

Helen returned his smile trustingly.

“Perhaps Mrs. Adams, his landlady, has heard something of him. I will
send Joe to her house,” Colonel Masters continued, looking, not at the
girl, but at the flag he held in his hand. Helen insisted on accompanying
Joe, for her impatience could not brook delay in her loving search.

* * * * *

Mrs. Adams herself came to the door when Helen rang the bell, and was
stupefied with amazement at the first question:

“Is Mr. McArthur in?”

“Mr. McArthur, madam? Has he risen—has he come back?”

“He is ill somewhere—is it not here?” Her heart sank, for she knew
already the answer.

“He—isn’t he dead?”

“Dead!”

The girl from the far hills fainted on the doorstep.

Mrs. Adams bore her quietly to the settee and stood over her till she
opened her eyes again.

“Did you—did he die here?”

“No, miss, now do be quiet. Maybe he ain’t dead at all,” the good woman
said, soothingly.

“But the pigeon—did he—not loose the pigeon last week?”

At the mention of the pigeon, Mrs. Adams started. Could the girl,
whose accent betrayed her highland blood, know that she had freed the
dragoon? It was an accident that he had escaped, and he had disappeared
instantly, only circling once over the house.

“To be sure, Miss, did he loose the pigeon?”

“Yes, a white one—a big dragoon.”

“Well, now I wonder!”

Then a happy thought came to her.

“If he’s sick, Miss, he must be at the hospital.”

Helen rose, half dazed.

“It is very, very strange,” she said. “Nobody seems to know where he is,
yet you know—you must know. May I go to his room?”

“Certainly, ma’am, but there hasn’t anybody seen him in so long that how
could we be blamed for thinking him dead?”

They had reached McArthur’s room. Everything was neatly in place.
Suddenly Helen started. A glove with a little brown splotch on it hung
over a daguerreotype portrait.

“Whose—whose is that?” she faltered.

“I don’t know, Miss; I don’t know at all.”

“Did—did Mr. McArthur like—anybody?”

Mrs. Adams looked at her sharply.

“Mr. McArthur, Miss, didn’t ever let anybody know his secrets!”

But Helen knew the woman knew, and said quietly:

“You would not hurt my feelings, please tell me.”

“Well, Miss, to be perfectly—that is candid—I think he did.”

“And her name?”

“I think—that is—her name is Helen.”

The highland lassie’s face beamed with pleasure.

“Do you know where she lived?” she asked, wishing to make very sure.

“I—not exactly—her home was not here—I think it was in—”

“Never mind,” said Helen, hurriedly, as if Dunvegan had already been
pronounced. “I will go to the hospital—perhaps he is there.”

CHAPTER XL

“Oh, Tait!” she sobbed, “I did not know you were here. We all thought
you were in Virginia. Oh, I am so glad you are here!”

“Here, Sis, here in this hospital with a game leg?”

“But, Tait, I am here, and you can tell me about Ervin. Is he, oh,
brother, is he dead?” The last words sank to a terror’s whisper.

“Dead!” exclaimed her brother. “Good gracious! No! He’s as ’live as a
Wa-haw squirrel. He’s captured, that’s all. Cheer up, Sis, he’s all
right.”

“Oh, Tait, you are so sweet! Tell me over again, tell me he is just
captured! But he—I know he is sick!”

“Not much, I guess. You can’t make old Ervin sick.”

“I know he is ill, Tait, very ill, and I am going to him. I am going to
him now.”

As she had left father, so she now left brother, and following his
directions, passed out through the long rows of wounded, into the street.

“Go to the Confederate post on James’ Island,” Tait had said, “and they
will get a message through for you. Tell Captain Dillard who you are,
Sis, and he’ll do all he can to help you.” The words rang hopefully in
her ears.

She returned to the _Chronicle_ office, bearing the good news to Colonel
Masters, who immediately began arrangements for her conveyance to James’
Island. Joe and another trusty man were detailed as escort. “I regret
exceedingly, my dear Miss Preston,” the gallant colonel declared, “that I
am unable to accompany you myself, but Ervin’s d⸺ absence—” he corrected
himself joyfully, “leaves me tied here. Joe, however, will do all that
any one can do.”

Joe dressed in an old broadcloth suit, Prince Albert coat, silk hat
crushed into an Egyptian ruin, and hair almost white, made a striking
picture. Little tufts of gray hair grew here and there on his scalp, like
the scrubby bushes that dot a far Eastern landscape.

Once in the boat with its sea-begrimed sails, Helen began to take in the
beauty of the view. Far out in the harbor, Sumter, the unconquerable,
looked like a little black box floating on the water. Cumming’s Point was
on the right, Moultrie on the left, and the famous hundred pines, so tall
that they were seen first of all by the ships at sea, were near at hand
on James’ Island. These were the charmed shores of which she had dreamed
so often, and now she saw for herself the long low islands fringed with
dense deep forests, of palmetto and live oak. The waving salt marshes,
too, now sought, now deserted by the sea, seemed familiar, and the deep
estuaries and the silver ribboned streams. As the boat moved swiftly
over the river, Joe told of the winter residences of the rich planters
that lined the banks farther up, of the golden rice fields and the snowy
drifts of sea island cotton, of how the teal and mallard duck and wild
geese came from the great lakes and wintered in the marshes, and fish
swarmed the channels through the rice fields. Deer there were in the
forest, too, and tough-necked alligators, which had to be pulled out of
the mud when the rice fields dried up in the spring. Emboldened by her
silence, he described the great Christmas festival, as it used to be,
when for weeks the servants in the great houses had been busy. The river
was deserted now, but once sailing crafts of all kinds made the Ashley
look like a blue heaven filled with white-winged gulls, and from every
bank and field came the song of the happy laborers. Time was when large
schooners, fresh from the rice fields along the banks, were making for
the Cooper River wharves, and barges laden with snowy cotton bales were
being towed to the city.

Captain Dillard himself met her on James’ Island. Colonel Masters’
messenger had found him.

“He is here!” she cried, as soon as she saw the captain’s face. “Is he—is
he—how is he?”

“Why, Miss Preston, he is desperately wounded. I can’t imagine how you
knew he was here.”

“I knew he was ill, too,” she murmured.

“Then an angel of God must have told you, for it only happened a few days
ago, and we have kept it absolutely secret.”

“A little bird told me,” she answered, smiling.

“They almost captured him, but our men heard the firing. Two negroes were
dead in the boat, and he had emptied his revolver and was running for the
bushes. They shot him as he made a dash for the woods.”

“Does he know anyone?”

“Absolutely no one, and nothing. He is wildly delirious at times, but
here we are. Colonel Masters wrote me that you had a right to see him. I
shall await your wishes.”

“I will go in now.”

He lay upon a pallet that loving comrades had made in a cabin under the
shadow of the pines. His eyes shone wildly, the unnatural brightness
intensified the pallor of his emaciated face. As Helen entered, he seemed
to know her, and a smile lit up his wan features, a smile which Helen
prized above her life. She bent low over his pillow and he whispered,
“Helen, darling!”

Great tears sprang to her eyes, for she, too, had seen of the travail of
her soul and was satisfied.

“Helen,” he murmured, “we will be married soon, in the little red church
in under the oaks. I will care for you always, I will strike down your
enemies as I struck down the man who smote you in the face!” His voice
rose to a shriek.

“He’s delirious again, madam,” Captain Dillard said sadly, passing out of
the door.

But her heart was happy as was the Dawn-Maiden’s when Ioskeha came.

“He’s delirious now, but he knew me,” she murmured, ecstatically, “he
knew me at first, and he loves me!”

“Ervin, darling boy,” she whispered. “You love me, do you not, you love
only me?”

“I love—I love Helen—” he said, vacantly.

And she clasped him again in her arms, and covered his pale face with
kisses.

CHAPTER XLI

Hattie Corbin and Helen Brooks sat by the fire in the living room. But
yesterday the news had come of the sinking of the _Housatonic_ and of the
submarine torpedo with terrible loss of life on one and total loss on the
other. After the first heartrendings of grief, Helen had sunk into stolid
indifference to everything and everybody. The last scene between them,
and her note with the hastily scribbled “It is too late,” on the back,
crushed her anew at each remembrance. Only one thing had anyone dared to
say to her. It was Hattie who had spoken.

“Now, Helen, dear, you know how much we love the Great Cause, who give
our all.”

So each day only found her face more deeply lined with pain, and her
sympathy with the poor, wounded fellows at the hospital more tender.

One day she was in the hospital and passed by the bed of a poor patient
who had just been brought in from Morris’ Island. His face was thin and
haggard, and the flesh had all gone away from his bones. His right arm
was shattered and one eye had been attacked by cancer. The poor fellow
called weakly:

“Miss, a favor, please ma’am.”

“Certainly, sir. What may I do for you?”

“Could you write a letter for me, Miss?”

“Indeed I shall. Wait until I get the paper and ink.”

A few minutes later he was telling her what to write.

“It’s to Miss Annie Little—I mean Mrs. Tait Preston, at Dunvegan, North
Carolina,” and at the mention of his loved one’s name, the sick man
groaned.

Helen was quick with attention at the mention of Dunvegan.

“Dear Annie: I—am—sick——. Can’t you—come to me? I was—captured
in—Virginia. About ten left. Poor Ervin—”

“Ervin,” she said—“Ervin—”

“Ervin McArthur, ma’am.”

“Did you know him?”

“Yes, ma’am, I did—poor fellow. He was the dearest comrade of us all.”

“Now, what did—did you say?” She controlled herself with a great effort.

“Poor Ervin,” he confirmed, “built a submarine tor—.” She stopped and her
eyes were full of tears.

“I can get some one else to write it, ma’am—”

“I am ashamed of myself, sir, but his death was so sad—he—”

“Good God! Is he dead?” The sick man almost leaped from his bed. She
looked up sadly and replied:

“Yes, sir, he—is—dead!”

The poor fellow leaned back with a groan and turned his face to the wall,
saying in a moan:

“Ervin, dear old boy, my comrade! Ervin dead!” Then suddenly his eyes
flashed through the cancer.

“Damn them, the blasted fiends! Starving a man on worms, shooting them
like dogs. Poor fellow, poor Ervin. God have mercy on his mother! Don’t
tell Annie, Miss—don’t tell her he’s dead. It would kill his mother. He
loved his mother—and now he’s dead!”

Death—Love.

Love and Death are brothers, and we would tell them so, could we but
persuade them to forget their mutual hatred long enough to come and
listen to our words. For Love is life, and Death is death, and they never
meet. Love never dies. There is a third brother, the youngest of the
three, and his name is Fancy, who closely resembles the oldest. Death
often crosses his pathway. His body, they say, too, is often found stiff
and cold in human hearts, and cast out upon the public highway, where
those who hate his elder brother, may see and scorn, and say that Death
is stronger than Love. But it is not Love, it is only the fickle one that
resembles him. Love never dies. Between him and his grim brother the
great gulf is fixed. It is with the weak one that Death walks arm in arm,
for he seems to meet often the dalliance of Fancy, and plays daily with
the infatuations of youth, whom he can never call aright, not knowing
whether it is the ghost of Love or the phantom of Death.

Love and death! We can hardly distinguish between them as we meet them
upon the street. And so they are ever strangers to us, though they are
often the guests of our hearts and homes.

They treat us to the same, so that one never knows whether it is Love
or Death who knocks at the door until the latch is lifted, for their
footsteps are not heard. They are not alike again after they have crossed
the threshold, not alike at all, ever. Each knocks but once at the door
of our hearts, and if we do not answer, but sit still and wait and there
comes no sound, not even the sound of his retreating footsteps, it was
Love. If you do not answer, but sit still in the gloom and silence, and
there is no other knock and the latch lifts, it is Death.

And so we sit expectantly in our humble homes, because we never know when
the latch is raised—never know when that single knock will come, nor
which of the three faces will appear when the door is opened. We tremble
as we open to the visitor, lest he be Death, and glance furtively about
the apartments of our life, lest it be God. But those of us who are wiser
than any others, always lift the latch, for God and Death will enter
anyway, their knock being only a warning that they are coming; and while
it might have been Love, the latch must be lifted before he turns away
into the night, for he never enters unless the door is opened.

The pathos of our lives and their tragedies are dependent upon the order
of the coming of God and Love and Death. If God comes first, we are happy
then, for he seems to know when Love approaches, and so he is never
turned away. Sometimes Love leaves the heart, but never if God comes
first, for he is truer in the presence of the King, and the King is happy
when Love is near. Sometimes Love comes first, and while he sits waiting,
Death knocks; then he flees from the soul, for he fears the face of his
brother, unless God is there, for Death always smiles when he sees God.
Sometimes Death comes first, and then neither Love nor God can enter.
This and this only is Tragedy with us in Dunvegan. Our children never
pass his home at night, and we scarce dare breathe his name at midday—the
home, the name of the man who died and saw neither Love nor God.

About a week after the writing of Tait’s letter, a pretty, girlish figure
entered the hospital, and finding no one near, began searching the beds
for the face of some loved one. On the way down she had been trying to
prepare herself for the meeting and tried to make the bright eyes she
remembered grow dim, the strong muscles flabby, and the hale glow of
health on the cheeks fade to pallor, but she could not.

All the way from Dunvegan she had been planning how she would see him,
among the others, on his white bed, and the old, familiar face would look
as ever into hers. Now when she turned into the wards and saw the ghastly
sights around her, she was stunned for a moment. Men were there looking
ruefully at their stubs of arms and fingers, men with every imaginable
part of their bodies shot off, and one man who lay just beside her, with
his face turned away—Great God!—suppose Tait should be like him—. One eye
was eaten out with cancer; disease had laid hold of his very vitals, and
his right arm had been amputated. The thought of him made her sick, and
she leaned against the bedstead. Then, not daring to look around, she
went back to find a nurse for directions. She had hardly staggered a yard
when she heard a weak voice:

“Annie, Annie!”

Stopping at the sound of her name, she paused to locate the sound.

“Annie, Annie, don’t you hear me? Here I am.”

The voice was weak and husky and unfamiliar, but the name was Annie. She
turned. It was the man whose arm was gone, whose eye was eaten out by
cancer.

“Annie, Annie, I am Tait! Oh, God, don’t you know me?”

The thin wasted hand held out in entreaty. She knew that it was her
husband.

“Tait, darling boy! Oh, what have they done to you? My darling, my
darling!”

Love—and—Death—a woman’s love, a soldier’s death.

* * * * *

A few days later, women were gathering in little groups about their homes
and the boys and old men left in the city were congregated in the street.

Suddenly, as from a clear sky, the news has come—Sherman was coming.
Mrs. Corbin and Helen and Hattie were at breakfast when the morning
_Chronicle_ came in and the news was read.

Sherman coming! Flee, hide your valuables, bury your silver! The
few soldiers in the city had been ordered north to try to save the
Confederacy there. The city was defenseless. Even the bells of St.
Michael’s had been sent to Columbia for safety.

“I am glad Bessie is in Columbia,” Mrs. Corbin said, when it was read.
“The little babe will be born in peace at least.” Bessie was the young
bride of Jack Corbin.

“Mother,” said Hattie, “you and Helen must leave immediately.”

As though to emphasize her words, a cannon ball crashed through the
house, whizzed by the speakers and penetrated into the cellar. In an
instant they realized that it would have exploded if it were going to,
and so sat quietly talking on, so used had Charleston grown to her
sorrows.

“You must go immediately. I will get everything in order and follow later
on.”

So they left in a few days, for Mrs. Corbin must needs be by Bessie, and
Helen would go with her aunt.

As they entered the car set apart for ladies and their escorts, as was
the custom now, a woman in front of them with a little baby, heard a
voice outside:

“Madam, please lend me your baby.”

Her eyes were red and swollen with weeping. She had been pressing her
child closely to her breast. She looked down. It was a poor soldier with
a wounded arm who was going home. Without a word she handed her baby
through the window, and in a few minutes it bobbed up serenely at the car
door. The guard thinking it was the man’s child, let him pass into the
more comfortable car.

“Thank you,” he said, seating himself wearily and handing the baby back.

Soon another soldier borrowed it, and another also, before the train
started on its long, slow ride to Columbia. The rolling stock had fairly
given out during the four years in which nothing could be done to
replenish or repair it.

“Madam, will you give another lady a seat?” she heard the conductor say
to the woman with the baby, who was leaning on a package that lay on two
seats and was covered with a faded shawl. The woman looked up and moved
and they saw that it was a rude wooden coffin.

Her eyes were red and inflamed with much weeping, and she spoke softly in
the accents of the hills.

“It is my husband; I am taking him home.”

Nor did Helen know who the sweet sufferer was, though she heard her ask,
when she left the train at Columbia, when the next train went north to
Dunvegan.

CHAPTER XLII

General Sherman’s army was marching through Georgia.

At daybreak the pillar of cloud went before him, and at night great
bonfires of burning homes lit up their rearward. The strong fled at their
approach, and the weak trembled and prayed.

There was a day when the foragers of the victorious veterans reached the
home of an old couple who lived with their few slaves in the path of the
devourer. They had but returned from the burial of a little baby boy, a
colored baby whose mother was the faithful old cook, Mary Ann, and whose
father was a brother of the _Chronicle’s_ Joe in Charleston. They were
standing under the vine-colored doorway looking at a dense smoke rising
in the direction of a neighbor’s, when a squad of soldiers in blue came
up.

“Old woman, we are hungry. Got anything to eat?”

The best the white-haired grandmother had was set before them, and when
it was gone—more. At last one of them said:

“Madam, you had best hide everything you have, or by this time to-morrow
you will have nothing.”

“Shet up, ol’ Secesh!” said another.

When the men had gone, they dug little holes and hid their few treasures;
a dozen knives and forks and as many spoons, and the old man took his
watch and put it far up the chimney. By the time it was done, blue-coated
soldiers were swarming all over the premises.

“Old man, come out here!”

When he followed some men into the bushes, they made merry with the
grandmother.

“Old woman, where is your silver?”

Silence.

“Where is the silver?”

By this time the smoke-house was on fire and a half dozen bales of cotton
were burning. The negro slaves gathered in terror.

Soon the white-haired man came back, his face purple, his eyes bloodshot,
his step tremulous.

“Give me my watch, Mary.”

“Why, Henry, it is not theirs!”

“Give it. They have choked me nearly to death.”

The old man staggered to his chair. They had taken him to the swamp, and
bending a small sapling over the road, stretched a rope upon it and said:

“Now, old man, tell where you keep your gold.”

“I have no gold, gentlemen.”

“Don’t lie to us. We’ve heard all that before. You might as well tell us
first as last. See that rope, you know what it means.”

“I have told you the truth.” The old man was thin and aged.

“Swing him up, boys.”

He dangled from the end of the rope, and then they let him fall.

“Now, where is the gold?”

He did not understand at first, then he said feebly:

“The gold—oh, yes, the gold—. I am sorry, gentlemen, but I have no gold.”

“Swing him up again.”

The jerk on his neck well-nigh broke it, and the suffocation was almost
too much.

“Will you remember now where it is?”

“The gold—oh, yes, gentlemen,” dazedly, “I’m sorry, but I have no gold.”.

“Swing the damned rebel once more.”

It was really useless, for he was insensible, and when he fell he looked
like a dead man. His withered old hand and his thin gray hair and his
weak aged heart could not stand much. He was totally unconscious.

“We nearly went too far that time, boys.”

When he came to, they were bathing his face in the brook.

“Oh, yes,” he said, involuntarily, “the gold. It is as I have said—only
the watch I told you of at first. I am an old man now and have no use for
gold.”

So they brought him back to the house.

“Old woman, fork out that watch.”

“I will not do it.”

“You will!”

They were coming towards her when the one whom they had called “old
Secesh,” entered, and they stopped.

“Men, for shame! For shame! Don’t dare touch that old woman! The first
man who touches these old people will be shot,” he continued, raising his
gun, and they went sullenly out into the yard.

And when they had gone, they had taken all—the sweet potatoes in the
hills, the corn, bacon, flour, the cows, cooking utensils, anything any
one wanted. And “old Secesh” stayed by the aged woman’s side.

“It is a shame,” he said, apologetically. “If only Grant were our
commander! This isn’t the way he and Lee fight.”

At intervals other soldiers came, and finding all taken, passed on. To
one she looked up reproachfully, and said, as she listened to the groans
of the negroes about their burning cabins.

“And yet you say you are the friends of our negroes?”

“We came to save the Union. Damn the niggers,” was the reply she
received; and then the man continued:

“You think Georgy is havin’ a bad time of it, old woman—jes’ wait till
we git to Ca’liny, we’ll grease her over and burn her up. That’s where
treason begun, an’, by God, that’s where it shall end!”

“Yes, and old Columbia’ll be red, white and blue when we’re done,” chimed
in another.

At sunset the aged woman went out into the empty yards and an old negro
mammy was sitting on her porch, her body swaying backward and forward, as
is the custom of the race when in the deepest misery. Occasionally a low
moan and the ringing of hands in silent sorrow. Then seeing her mistress
approaching, she cried out:

“Mistis, what kind of folks is dese here Yankees? Dey won’ eben let de
daid rest in de grabe.”

“Why, Mary Ann, what is it?”

“You know my little John, what was buried yistiddy? Ain’t dey done tuk
him up and lef’ him on de top o’ de groun’ fer de hogs to root?”

The soldiers had seen the fresh earth, and they mistook the new-made
grave for hidden treasures, and “a little dead nigger was not worth
reburying.”

So the black mother rocked and moaned in horror and agony.

And that night by the campfires not far away, a man was warming his hands
and saying:

“Dees tarn rebels down here tink dey haf a hard time in Georgy—jus’
wait till we strike South Ca’liny oncet. We’ll burn ’em up all to oncet
already.”

“Have you heard what Sherman says, Dutchy?” a soldier asked.

“_I_ know what Cheneral Sherman haf say, and I will carry it oud
entirely. Ve vill burn up that Columbia ven de tree rockets goes up
oncet. Ve vill gif dem hell already, dey hadn’t ought ter lef’ de
glorious union,” and he laughed knowingly.

“General Sherman didn’t say that.”

“Ach, mein Gott, don’t I know vat Cheneral Sherman say and tink? Ach, he
ain’t say nothings, aber he think a blicky full. You jus’ vait till we
burn dat Columbia, and Cheneral Sherman vill be dere and von’t say one
word, py tam!”

[Illustration: _To be continued_]

THE RACE PROBLEM

By James H. Branch

The present race problem is cognate to the African slavery problem,
which preceded it in point of time. Slavery was a grievous fault, and
grievously hath the South answered it. Morally, the whole country is
responsible for its introduction.

The slave trade, the most degrading and offensive branch of slavery, was
carried on by New England, they being a maritime people, and the South,
an agricultural section then, bought the negroes as laborers. Then came
the day when it was to shake the foundation stones of the republic.
It was agitated in pulpit and hall; in song and in story. The art of
the novelist, the moving strains of sacred song, and the dagger of the
assassin, were alike employed to arouse interest and zeal in the fate of
the poor, downtrodden negro.

These were the abolitionists whose chief seat was Boston, whose place
of rendezvous was Faneuil Hall, a place made historic by great speeches
and great meetings there in the early days, by the lovers of free
institutions. Plymouth pulpit added its voice, and the days of slavery
were then numbered; but the country was to be baptized with fire, and
with blood, if nothing better. These people were fanatics, and fanaticism
has been defined as “_a popular movement acting without reason or
judgment_, always, however, founded upon some religious or _philanthropic
idea or sentiment_, to give _it character and volume_.”

This bird of dark plumage and portentous croak, winged its way from
Exeter Hall, London, the parent body of the American society meeting
there. Results will forever mark an object lesson for true patriots, and
practical statesmen and sound a note of warning against incorporating
altruistic, philanthropic fads, and the various cults growing out of
idealism into party platforms and making use of such explosive material
to gain political advantage.

Slavery was abolished in the English colonies and elsewhere peacefully,
as would have ultimately happened here; and though it may have been
delayed a half century, nay, even a century, the net moral gain would
have been far greater.

England had slavery also, and the Exeter Hall people, like those of
Faneuil Hall, were fanatics. They exalted the negro and ascribed to him
attributes, qualities and possibilities equal to those of the white
race, and hated his owners and the constitution, government and laws of
this republic as founded by the fathers. To-day many of the triflers
with the stern facts of anthropological and ethnological science, who
distort the truths of history while laboring under the magic spell of
this fanaticism, confound all dark, dusky or colored peoples with the
true negro of Africa. They have credited the ancient civilization of
Egypt to the negro race, when many school boys know that the Egyptians,
the founders of Thebes, of Memphis, the builders of the pyramids, and
the carvers of the Sphinx, were _Coptics_, not negroes. Neither Pharaoh,
Ptolemy nor Cleopatra, the fair sorceress of the Nile, were negroes,
though natives of Africa.

When the Constitution of the United States was framed many of the
delegates to the convention traveled by private conveyance; and as
slavery existed both at the North and South, many of them brought
negro drivers or servants to the meeting place. Slavery was even then
fully established, recognized and protected by a clause inserted in the
Constitution as follows: “No person held to service or labor in one State
under the laws thereof, escaping into another, shall, in consequence of
any law or regulation therein, be discharged from such service or labor,
but shall be delivered upon claim of the party to whom such service or
labor may be due.”

This provision was adopted by the convention without opposition, and
this solemn instrument, creating a government among men, which was to
become at once the wonder and admiration of the statesmen of the world,
bore the signatures of Washington, Franklin, Hamilton and Madison, but
Senator Sumner, the leading spirit of rabid fanaticism, in the Senate of
the United States, said that it was “a covenant with hell;” and advised
resistance, by force if necessary. Many Northern states enacted “personal
liberty laws” prohibiting the return of fugitive slaves to their owners.

The Republican party was formed upon this new-born craze, and
incorporated these new and strange doctrines into its platform at
Chicago, in June, 1860; and in five months the movement culminated in the
election of Mr. Lincoln to the presidency.

If there is one thing more than another sedulously taught to Southern
youth as a political creed it was that our government was based upon a
_written_ constitution which should be obeyed, upheld and respected; to
do otherwise was treasonable. The South then viewed the situation with
horror and alarm.

Nat Turner, a negro preacher in North Carolina, had, some years before,
fomented a servile insurrection and in the night time the negroes rose
and murdered many white families.

John Brown, a white fanatic from the West, had gone down to Virginia and
incited servile insurrection; and having armed men, made war against
Virginia. He was taken, and after trial for treason, was legally
executed. When his remains crossed the Potomac river, going North, his
casket was covered with flowers, thus testifying that his aborted efforts
in Virginia had many sympathizers. A servile insurrection thenceforth
became a possibility to be thought of. A servile insurrection meant
efforts at midnight assassination. The South is now, as then, desirous of
preserving good order, peace and quiet, between the two races, and the
people of other sections do not realize the situation.

These facts are of interest now only in throwing light upon the view
point of the South, when a new political party triumphed, the leading
principle of which was interference with slavery. Aside from pecuniary
considerations as to the value of the slaves, the effect upon the slaves
themselves of these agitations was a matter of the deepest concern and
the South sought safety and repose in withdrawing from the Union as a
last resort. Its people were divided on the subject and the ordinances
of secession passed by narrow majorities, thus showing that under normal
conditions, the South was strongly attached to the Union.

It is painful to utter views not in accordance with a well founded
hope for the final uplifting of all men, but naught shall be set down
in malice or ill-will to an inferior and weaker race. The white man of
the South has a duty and a burden; and if he has, as has been often
charged, suppressed negro votes and elected legislatures, he has, at
the same time, in ten Southern states, impoverished and ruined by war,
appropriated for negro schools over _one hundred millions of dollars_.
While the South has encouraged the negro in industrial, educational, and
moral training, and produced some fine specimens of the negro race, still
there are millions who are just as they were, and many good observers see
evidences of retrogression in the generation since emancipation.

No prophetic vision can see, no intellect can foretell, what the final
result will be. All sorts of speculations have been indulged, extinction
by absorption, by a gradual dispersion over the states, or, remaining in
the South, a co-equal parallel development of the two races.

A race problem of course implies race antagonisms, and the chief factor
in bringing about race antagonism is not in the bare fact that the
negro vote is Republican, but in the fact that the race, _vote as a
race_, solidly, _en masse_, and _naturally_, in view of the manner of
its emancipation. It is not that white men see in mere party allegiance
a menace to good order, or are intolerant of Republican politics,
especially the _national_ and _economic_ politics of the party, for many
are at heart protectionists; but it is the perpetual _solidarity_ of the
vote of the negro race, voting as a race that sharply accentuates race
attrition. Much has been spoken and written about the _solidarity_ of
the Southern states in voting, and little notice taken of the _cause_,
which is the _solidarity_ of the negro vote. Thus one _solidarity_ begets
another _solidarity_, and the South has not been in a normal condition,
politically, since emancipation.

Is there not a problem in this?

It is submitted to all fair minded men whether it is not true—that
if any race whatever vote solidly and habitually, as a race, be they
German, Irish, Jew, Negro or Chinese, that it would inevitably produce
race antagonism, in any state in the union. The South had at the close
of the Civil War, its share of the Whig party, who on account of _negro
solidarity_ were driven into _white solidarity_—the Democratic party, and
they and their descendants have remained solidly there, voting solidly
against the solid negro vote. In many parts of the South the negroes
outnumber the whites, and could elect, if their solid vote was counted as
cast, judges, clerks and sheriffs, and in at least three states, state
officials, a state of affairs as much to be desired as a Chinaman mayor
of San Francisco, or governor of California. The negro vote has been in
some way neutralized, or he has not voted the full numerical strength of
the race, else such results must have followed.

The fact is, the negro has been practically disfranchised for thirty-five
years, and the South has grown tired of dishonesty in elections. Thus, by
restricting suffrage, the _causa causans_ is removed.

Under these constitutions a new star of hope for civic virtue and fair
elections has just arisen upon the Southern horizon. Throughout this long
midnight of political darkness hope has been cherished of a brighter
day. The political wanton, or fanatic, only, could seek to disturb,
or obstruct it. The best element of the citizens of Alabama are not
unlike, and are morally and intellectually the equals of citizens of
other states, and they may be trusted to do equal justice to both races.
With the right to vote restricted, and the removal of the fear of negro
majorities, white men can afford to divide and sternly call each other
to account at the ballot box. Two parties are essential in the American
political system, and the best results cannot be obtained without them.
When these new constitutions shall be acquiesced in, or judicially tested
and sustained, _solidarity_ in the South will disappear; and the republic
will rest upon surer foundations. The constitutional guarantees of life,
liberty, property, the pursuit of happiness, with the facilities afforded
him for education, moral and industrial training, are of far more value
to the negro than the political right to vote; which in the present stage
of his progress has served only to make friction between the races. After
a time it may be the part of wisdom to remove present restrictions, and
time alone can point the way.

Intelligent and patriotic negroes will not fail to discern, that when
vast masses of the race no longer vote solidly against their white
neighbors, Southern white men will be more and more disposed to enforce,
in his favor, the rights enumerated. In other words, the race is
restricted in a purely political function, but it is enlarged in every
other direction by that very restriction.

It may require the passing of several generations of negroes to determine
their real capabilities under the uplifting influence of American
institutions, for they have failed sadly in other emancipation countries.
There were 6,000,000 Africans held as slaves on this continent, at the
beginning of the century just closed. Only 883,602 of this number, were
held in the United States; about 2,000,000 by Spain on the continent and
West Indian Islands, about 900,000 by England on the continent and in the
West Indies. The remainder were held by the Portuguese, Dutch, Danes and
Norwegians in their various colonies. Their descendants have all been
emancipated, some for a hundred years, some for only a few years, and
they furnish fields for observing the experiments made with the negro as
a part and parcel of the social, political, and economic affairs of those
countries.

Emancipation occurred in Hayti in 1792, as an incident of the French
Revolution, and the negroes rose and exterminated every man, woman and
child of the white race in the island, with atrocious and revolting
details unrecorded. They then set up a republic, a military despotism
it was, and such it has remained. Splendid sugar and coffee plantations
left untilled, grew up in wild growths, the rich resources of the island
were consumed. For a brief space the orderly habits of the white race
flickered, and then went out in darkness, eclipsed by a saturnalia of
idleness and crime. Negro nature, left to itself, relapsed into barbarism.

“But,” says Froude, the most distinguished modern English historian,
“behind the immorality, behind the religiosity, there lies active and
live, the horrible revival of the West African superstition; the serpent
worship, the child sacrifice, and the cannibalism. There is no room to
doubt it.” A missionary assured me that an instance of it occurred only
a year ago, within his personal knowledge. The facts are notorious. A
full account was published in one of the local newspapers, and the only
result was that the president imprisoned the editor for exposing his
country.[11]

Bishop Kingsley, who visited the island in 1871, says: “The chief center
of this detestable system (Obeahism or Vaudoux worship) is St. Vincent,
where, so I am told by one who knows that island well, some sort of
secret college or school of the diabolic prophets exists.... In Jamaica
I was assured by a non-conformist missionary, who had long lived there,
Obeah is by no means on the decrease, and in Hayti it is probably on
the increase, and taking, at least until the fall and death of Salnave,
shapes which when made public in the civilized world will excite more
than mere disgust. But of Hayti I shall be silent, having heard more of
the state of society in that unhappy place than it is prudent, for the
sake of the few white residents, to tell at present.”[12]

Again he says: “The same missionary told me that in Sierra Leone also,
Obeah and poisoning go hand in hand.” Ibid. p. 345.

Sir Spencer St. John, for twelve years the British Minister to Hayti,
later Minister to Mexico, in a work entitled “Hayti, the Black Republic,”
pp. 196-204, gives at length the horrible details of these practices,
as brought out in a legal trial by the evidence, to which trial he was
an eye witness. Several persons were charged with, and convicted of,
cannibalism. A child being the victim, was first offered as a sacrifice,
to propitiate the serpent. “In treating of the black,” says Sir Spencer,
“and the mulatto, as they appeared to me during my residence among
them, I fear that I shall be considered by some to judge harshly. Such,
however, is not my intention. Brought up under Sir James Brook, whose
enlarged sympathies could endure no prejudice of race or color, I do
not remember ever to have felt any repugnance to my fellow creatures
on account of difference of complexion. I have dwelt about thirty-five
years among colored people of various races, and am sensible of no
prejudice against them” (pp. 8 and 9). “All who know me know that I
had no prejudice of color, and if I place the Haytian in general in an
unenviable light, it is from a strong conviction that it is necessary
to describe the people as they are, and not as one would wish them to
be. The most difficult chapter to write was that on Vaudoux worship and
cannibalism. I have endeavored to paint it in the least sombre colors,
and none who know the country will think that I have exaggerated; in
fact, had I listened to the testimony of many experienced residents
I should have described rites at which dozens of human victims were
sacrificed at a time. Everything I have related has been founded on
evidence collected in Hayti, from Haytian official documents, from
trustworthy officers of the Haytian government, my foreign colleagues,
and from respectable residents, principally, however, from Haytian
sources.”

Sir Spencer St. John is an Englishman, a gentleman, and in no way
concerned with the race problem under discussion. His testimony should
stimulate honest inquiry among conservative thinkers, and should sober
fanaticism. While the negro of the Southern states has not fallen to the
level of the Haytian, there is abundant proof in the history of every
country where emancipation has taken place, that the negro race in every
instance, when left to guide itself, and the prop of the white man’s rule
withdrawn, has retrograded—reverted to the original type.

Retrogression, decay, vice and Voodoism are the same in Jamaica as in
Hayti, modified now for the better, since it has been changed from a
responsible colony, as classified in the British Colonial system, to a
crown colony, and the elective franchise withdrawn from the negroes. The
crown colonies are governed directly by the home government.

Emancipation began there in 1838 and was accomplished through the
agitations of Exeter Hall. Jamaica is one of the most fertile spots on
the earth’s surface; and tilled under the direction of Englishmen, it was
a garden spot, producing vast quantities of coffee and sugar, yielding
a large revenue to the government. Indolence followed emancipation, and
the once beautiful plantations became waste places. Poverty and want
prevailed, revenues failed, and the parliament appointed committees to
investigate. The evidence taken showed that the negroes had quit work,
the plantations had grown up in bush, and they had squatted in the
forests and along the streams. The Exeter Hall Society made many excuses
and explanations, and all failing to account for the negro’s degeneracy,
they finally urged that he be given the right to vote, in order to
encourage him; and under the tireless exertions of these fanatics,
parliament enacted a universal suffrage law, with a proviso that the
voter should own some real estate, but without specifying the amount. The
land had been abandoned and had little value, and the Exeter Hall Society
bought a tract of about 1,200 acres, and gave it in small parcels to the
negroes until 50,000 of them were qualified to vote under the law, which
was not passed anticipating such a result.

The negroes then had a majority over the whites, and speedily took charge
of the government of the island, and nearly all white men left their
property and the country. “That Jamaica,” says a British official, “was a
land of wealth, rivaling the East in its means of riches—nay, excelling
it as a market for capital, as a place in which money might be turned;
and that it now is a spot on the earth almost more poverty stricken than
any other, so much is known to almost all men.”

The little island of Barbadoes contained 160,000 negroes and about 300
white men, and as there was no waste land for the negroes to squat
upon, and the white men took care that they obtained no land so as to
qualify, that island has remained a highly cultivated, prosperous and
happy country. These last named islands furnish striking contrasts,
and the islands of Jamaica and Hayti are irrefragable proofs that
unrestricted negro suffrage and negro government bring desolation and
ruin to both races; and there is no instance to the contrary in all of
the emancipation colonies, including the Hispano-American colonies.

San Domingo, once a Spanish colony, and in which emancipation had
taken place, is naturally the most fertile of these islands, and was
abandoned by Spain. During General Grant’s term of office, a commission
was sent there to examine this island and its resources, with a view of
appropriating it, and establishing a negro state, by emigration from
the United States. Senator Sumner, the leading exponent of abolition,
defeated its ratification in the Senate, well knowing the negro’s
incapacity for self-government.

Out of the vast mass of evidence the limits of this paper will not permit
more than a few opinions additional, from travelers and men of science,
in each instance wholly disinterested in American politics, being natives
and residents of other countries.

David Page, of Edinburgh, F. N. S. & C., says: “However much mistaken
philanthropy may argue to the contrary, there can be but little doubt
that the Ethiopian, or black man of Africa, is inferior both to Mongol
and Malay, and still more to the Caucasian. He has had possession of the
African Continent with all its variety of situation, climate and produce,
from time immemorial, and yet has no arts save the rudest, no literature,
no science, no temples, no ships, no cities, no moral code; in most
instances no idea even of a Supreme Being; nothing in fine, that removes
him beyond the desires and necessities of animal existence.[13]”

Professor Page then quotes the English traveler, Sir Samuel Baker, and
says: “Notwithstanding all this and a thousand times more (he refers to
the Andamaner and the native of Australia) there are some who still
argue about the equality of the human race, and talk high sounding
generalizations regarding the unity and brotherhood of men. As well
might they contend for equality of brothers of the same family, or equal
capacity among the men and families of a nation. As in the physical
world there are suns, systems, and satellites, so in the vital and
intellectual, there are higher and lower, races born to command and lead,
and others as certainly destined to obey and follow.

“It is not because one race has risen under favorable circumstances, and
another retrograded or remained stationary under conditions of an adverse
nature, but because of aboriginal differences and capabilities, which no
circumstances can efface nor appliances counteract.

“Brotherhood there may be and ought to be, as far as the inherent
instincts of race toward race will permit; and these instincts are not
to be disregarded with impunity; but as to unity, if by unity is meant
oneness of power and tendency, it is an assertion that all history and
present experience must deny. It is a mere phrase that may please the
unthinking ear, but it is not a fact that can satisfy the reason.[14]”

Captain Richard Burton, geographer, explorer, ethnical psychologist, a
shrewd and sagacious observer, says: “The study of psychology in Eastern
Africa is the study of man’s rudimental mind; when subject to the agency
of material nature, he neither progresses nor retrogrades.

“He would appear rather a degeneracy from the civilized man than a savage
rising to the first step, were it not for his apparent incapacity for
improvement. He has not the ring of the true metal. There is no rich
nature as in the New Zealander for education to cultivate. He seems to
belong to one of those childish races, which, never rising to man’s
estate, fall like worn out links from the great chain of animated nature.
He unites the incapacity of infancy with the unpliancy of age. For
centuries he has been in direct intercourse with the most advanced people
of the Eastern Coast (Arabs), still he has stopped short at the threshold
of progress; he shows no sign of development; no higher or varied orders
of intellect are called into being.[15]”

“I have,” says Du Chaillu, “been struck with the steady decrease of the
population even during the short time I have been in Africa, on the
coast and in the interior, but before I account for it, let me raise
my voice in defense of the white man who has been accused of being the
cause of it. Wherever he settles, the aborigines are said to disappear.
I admit that such is the case; but the decrease of the population had
already taken place before the white man came; the white man noticed, but
could not stop it. The decrease of African population is due to several
causes—witchcraft taking away more lives than ever the slave trade did.

“I have found no vestige whatever of ancient civilization. Other
travelers in different parts of Africa have not been more successful—I
think everything tends to show, that the negro is of great antiquity, and
has always remained stationary. As to his future capabilities I think
extreme views have prevailed. Some think that the negro will never rise
higher than he is; others think he is capable of reaching the highest
state of civilization. I do not agree with either of these opinions. I
believe that the negro may become a more useful member of mankind than he
is at present, that he may be raised to a higher standard, but if left to
himself he will soon fall back into barbarism, for we have no example to
the contrary.

“The efforts of missionaries for hundreds of years have had no effect.
The missionary goes away and the people relapse into barbarism. That he
(the African) will disappear in time from the land I have but little
doubt; and that he will follow in the course of time the inferior races
who have preceded him. So let us write his history.”[16]

The foregoing is from the pen of a man of science, an eminent naturalist,
and is worthy of the thoughtful consideration of all persons to whom
evidence has meaning.

That the present condition of the negro in the Southern states is
superior to the African in his native lair, or his descendants in
other emancipation countries, cannot be doubted. But it should not
be forgotten, that whatever improvement there may be, is due to the
training of a superior race of white men, for many generations, and since
emancipation, to the facilities for education, morally, intellectually,
and industrially.

The Southern white man, under normal conditions, in the absence of
excitement and irritating circumstances, is the negro’s best friend.
He can here work out his destiny, slowly, as natural law moves—through
generations, and he will reach his goal, whether it be high or low, and
no man should obstruct, or deny him this. It is only insisted that he
is not yet fitted for the elective franchise unrestricted—a right, as
jurists hold, not springing out of man’s nature, but a civil right to
be conferred by the state upon those most capable of its intelligent
exercise. Nor is it conferred by the fourteenth and fifteenth amendments
to the constitution; those amendments are merely limitations upon the
states preventing them from enacting a law excluding negroes from voting,
because they are negroes.

They do not prevent restrictions upon voting, if reasonable, and applied
to both races.

About one-fourth of the area of the United States is directly afflicted
with this race problem, and while the people of the South are more
interested in its wise management than the people of other states, yet
every patriot and every business man looking forward to that high destiny
which awaits us as a nation, must feel concerned for its proper solution.

The matter should be put upon a higher plane than party politics.
Investments and rapidly developing industries in the South would be
retarded by partisan agitation, and business men, acting through
their organizations, should seek to avert it. It is believed that
all of the Southern states had, at the time of the adoption of the
fourteenth and fifteenth amendments, universal suffrage fixed in their
constitutions, and since the legislatures could not restrict suffrage
under the old constitutions, the effect of those amendments, was to
suddenly enfranchise ex-slaves, while most of their former owners were
disfranchised for participation in rebellion.

The latter was not unnatural, but the former was, and must stand in
history as the extreme limit to which partisan and fanatical passions
have carried men. The most rapacious exactions of pecuniary indemnity,
or the stripping the conquered of the very soil of their fathers, are in
comparison trifling inconveniences.

That one great enlightened section of the white race, was willing
to submerge another great section of its own race, beneath a sea of
African ex-slaves, has a parallel only in England’s calling to its
aid “the merciless Indian savages, whose known rule of warfare is an
undistinguished destruction of all ages, sexes and conditions.”

The one was an offense against _life_.

The other an offense against _institutions_.

The one violated every known rule of civilized warfare; the other
consigned the conquered to the dominion of African ex-slaves.

Both will live in history—both will testify to enlightened men, the one,
of the horrors of war, the other, of the baleful sequences of war.

By every consideration of prudence, and the general welfare of all
concerned the status of the negroes of the Southern states should not
be interfered with by congressional, or other outside action. His
unrestricted right to vote, and his solid vote as a race, have been the
greatest impediments to good government in the Southern states. Never was
there a more appropriate field for the application of the doctrine of
_laissez faire_.

[11] The English In the West Indies, p. 333.

[12] At Last a Christmas in the West Indies, p. 338.

[13] Man, p. 77.

[14] Great Basin of the Nile, Vol. 1, p. 250.

[15] Lake Regions of Central Africa, p. 489.

[16] A Journey to Ashango Land, pp. 435-437.

A SATANIC SUGGESTION

When de Lawd got Adam all ready foh ter talk,
Sez de debbil, stan’in’ by ’n’ lookin’ shahper ’n a hawk,
“Dey’s sump’n in de ribs what’s gwine ter make a balk!”
’N’ he wink—dat ole debbil.

De rascal met Adam pokin’ ’long one day;
“You’se lonesome, Mistah Adam?” ’n’ he went on ter say,
“Ax de Lawd ter make you sump’n ter dribe dat away.”
’N’ he grin—dat ole debbil.

De Lawd tuk de rib right outen Adam’s side.
When de woman’s all done Adam’s so glad he cried.
Nen comes dat fuss in de gyahden—’n’ de debbil neahly died!
He laf so,—dat ole debbil.

_William Chester Estabrook._

REMUS

(WAS MY DOG)

A SERIAL NARRATIVE OF FUN, FISHING AND FIGHTING FORTY YEARS AGO

BOY TALES FOR BALD HEADS

By Laps. D. McCord

BATTLE OF BURKE’S ORCHARD

Ed and I skinned our rabbits and sunk them in the creek and kept on over
to Burke’s apple orchard, where we found two dozen boys belonging to
all parts of town and representing all the gangs and tribes and feuds.
Newspapers prate about Kentucky feuds, Italian vendettas, the Mafia and
such petty things, as if they were in it alongside of the Fayetteville
feuds. There were various and sundry deadly schisms existing among the
several factions, with sub-feuds between the minor clans, under-feuds,
super-feuds, and inter-feuds, until the feudal system ramified the whole
body politic of Fayetteville boydom so thickly that you could roust one
up and make grim visaged war wrinkle his front whenever two or three boys
were gathered together, except at Sunday-school.

I have not a word in protest of the outrage perpetrated upon us by the
Kentuckians and Italians, in imitating our feuds. Everybody knows it is a
brazen infringement, but these people are outside the jurisdiction of our
two judges.

The clans were dividing, and a brawl brewing when we got there, and it
looked like there was going to be about a five-pronged battle, with
perhaps a little side rock-polemics and personal gouging disputations.
Ed and I did not know the merits of the question under debate, but in
those days the code did not require you to know the mere vulgar details
and causes. All you wanted to be certain of was that the other fellows
were there. The world should rid itself of the delusion that it requires
any especial aggravation to prompt a boy to hit at any head he sees
poking up.

The first thing I saw, Sam Ramsey had climbed after a particularly red
apple that Bob Neeld had claimed the week before, and when he shook it
down John Formwalt picked it up and bit it. Fon Feeney, who belonged to
a subsection of the Ramsey Rooters, saw the dirty deed, and he smashed
John on the jaw with a rotten apple, and Bob grabbed the red apple. A boy
does not mind being hit with a pile driver or a club, or being shoved
off a house backwards, or shaken out of a tree, in a fair fight; but he
despises to be hit with anything soft and rotten. When Fon hit John, Will
McEwen made a dive at Fon, but Bob Wilson tripped him up and fell on top,
and in rushed eight fellows, looking for an opening. John Formwalt, with
rotten apple smeared over his jaw and running down under his shirt, was
a terror to see, and here he came making for everybody in sight, but he
ran jam against Charlie Fulton’s fist, and stopped to count the stars.
Then Matt Neill came frisking up to close the debate, and Willis Bonner
landed on Matt’s snoot, and he hunted grass. There was a mighty mixtry
along about then of gouging boys, and Sam dropped out of the tree right
on top of the Kilkenny bunch and went for every head in sight.

Spot Miller had been sparring for an opening for an under-hook, and
was about to run his fist clean through John Perkins, when Big Yaller
Marshall started for Spot and I punched Big Yaller in the paunch and
doubled him up. It is swollen to this day. Fitzsimmons hit Corbett just a
little above where I hit Big Yaller, but he wrote me afterwards that he
aimed at the same place. Ed ran clean over Bob Bright to get at George
Morgan, who had Bob Clark down rubbing dirt in his mouth. It was just
getting where the fun was ripest when Bob Bright called a truce. Bill
Allen’s nose was bleeding again, and the boys all wanted to see that, for
Bill had the out-bleedingest nose ever stuck on mortal face. I have seen
it myself, coupled with what other boys have seen and sworn to, bleed
four barrels on a stretch, and a good deal on the ground, judging by
the way he messed up his clothes and things around for ten feet, though
of course he may not have bled more than half that much. Billy Hill ran
over home to get a bunch of keys to hang down his back, and I rolled up a
piece of paper and made him put it over his front gums and draw his lip
tightly over it. Hal McKinney (his father was a doctor and Hal was then
a candidate) pressed his fingers hard up and down by the side of Bill’s
nose, and Ed made Bill spit on a chip and he went off and hid it under
a rock. That last is considered about infallible, but it all failed on
Bill’s nose, and then Big Yaller told him to scratch in the ground with
his big toe, and bleed forty drops in it and cover it up with a leaf and
say:

“Bloody nose, two big toes,
No more blood than this goes.”

Strange to say, that failed, too. When Bill’s nose started in to play
ball it finished out nine innings. Bill is no more, and a royal good
fellow he was, but I have seen him shed more blood than Bragg’s army,
and I can prove it. Bob Bright started home with Bill, where they knew
better how to humor his nose, and George Steel laughed at John Formwalt’s
smeared face, and John doused him, and the war broke out with worse
sanguinary symptoms than ever, the crowd gradually dividing into two
parties and backing off and resorting to rocks. It looks dangerous and
bloody on ordinary white paper like this to read about two dozen boys,
all throwing rocks at short range, so thick and fast that you might
hold up your hat and catch it full, and it looks like somebody ought to
get hurt, but they don’t much. I never saw a boy knocked more than one
somerset at a time, and besides that, a boy is as hard to hit as a kildee.

Stooping for a rock, I dropped my pistol and Spot Miller picked it up and
the boys all saw it, and peace brooded instanter. Every fellow dropped
his rocks and crowded in, and I had every marble in the crowd in half an
hour. While these negotiations were proceeding Ed had climbed a tree and
a limb broke and he fell out and broke his left arm. Ed always regretted
it when he broke his arm, and I have seen the poor fellow almost cry over
it. It disqualified a fellow for so many of the pursuits, forcing him to
lie up for the bone to knit. Besides that, Bill Allen made arm-breaking
so common that the boys got tired of it. Bill fell upon every rock he
came across and broke his arm, and then he would rebreak it and break it
over in another place. At first it was something to have your arm broken,
and a fellow was envied and looked up to, but at that time a collar-bone
fracture was considered more _recherché_ and _distingué_. When I was
a boy you had to break all of a boy’s legs and arms and things to
disqualify him for the game. One little measly fracture was just fun, and
kept a fellow out of the garden. The only difference that it made with
Ed and me was that I had to dig all the worms for two weeks and sort o’
hold and piddle around and back him up.

I went home with Ed—and don’t you think they sent for a doctor? I could
have set it myself, but they did not ask me; and, besides that, it did
not need setting. I would bet on Ed’s arm growing out strong and straight
every time. He was that sort. If it had been cut off it would not have
surprised anyone who knew him to see another one grow out. I have already
told why it happened—because he failed to make a cross mark and spit
in it before breakfast. I think now that was also the reason I missed
that rabbit—if the reader persists in saying that I _did_ miss it. I am
willing to admit that the suspicions were against me until I showed the
wounds on the rabbit, but I am not going to try to cram anything down
public credulity, because I have several more things to tell that I am
not willing to swear to, and it is necessary to have the confidence of my
creditors.

While Ed’s arm is knitting I will gather up a few odds and ends that are
needed to round out these exciting narratives. Ed could make a bow and
arrow that was a perfect Indian’s dream, and I doubt if the Six Nations
had anything like them. Find a green cedar limb about an inch thick and
cut it to three feet length; trim the knots smooth and shave it just a
little each side of the center on the concave side at the places where
it must gently bend; cut a notch on the side just at the center for the
arrow to rest in, and string it with a stout cord. Cut your arrows out of
straight hickory and make them plumb, and then take a piece of tin about
two inches square and roll it into a sharp spike and fasten it on tightly
with a rivet. You can send that arrow through a two-inch plank and hit a
tree two hundred yards.

Tony was a little negro boy who lived at Mrs. McEwen’s. We used to hold
him down on his back and prop his eyes open and let the sun shine in. One
day I shied an arrow straight up and it came down and struck Tony on the
forehead about the edge of the hair and went in under the skin of his
forehead, clean down to his eyebrows, and stood up like a flagstaff. I
pulled it out and made him tell that a piece of stovewood flew up and hit
him.

I shot one of Dr. McKinney’s pigs one day through and through, but I did
not mind the loss of the pig nearly so much as the loss of the arrow. The
contrary little thing ran straight up to the back gate, squealing, and I
had no chance to rescue my arrow. Bob McKinney offered the arrow to me
next day, to see if I claimed it, but I was too many for him—I had never
seen it before. They were also too many for me—Joel, Bull Woolens, Tobe,
Hal and Bob—and it would have been very unhealthy to claim it with five
McKinney boys to one me.

Remus suffered an accident one day that came near disfiguring him for
life. I went into Doug Farquaharson’s barber shop and Remus followed,
and then I came out and Remus tried to follow, and there is where he
made the mistake of his life. Doug was a negro who belonged to Colonel
Farquaharson. I hardly imagine that if Doug had had the selection of
his own surname he would have hit upon such an incongruous befuddlement
of letters to spell a name that was pronounced plain “Ferguson,” but
I mention the name only to say that if you take all the letters in it
and rattle them around in a milk-shake a week and then sling them out
promiscuous-like, they would spell something that looks a little like
Remus’ face did when he got out of that shop. There was a long mirror on
the wall right by the door, and when I went out and closed the door after
me, Remus thought I went out through the mirror, and he took a running
start and made a leap at it. If Remus ever had any lurking notion that
he could jump through a brick wall, offhand, he was cured of it then.
He tried his best, but it would not work. He was the most surprised dog
when he bounced back that ever carromed on a plate glass mirror, but he
was not half as much astonished as he was messed up. His countenance
was utterly shipwrecked. No one has ever heard me lay claim to any very
beatific personal beauty for Remus, but I never knew a dog in my life to
lose more sweet elegance of expression than Remus did in half a second. I
was about thirty yards off when I heard Remus hit the wall, and I thought
I saw it bulge out a little, and I stood there four minutes and heard
glass falling. I never went back to Doug’s any more to see whether or not
the mirror was injured. I was afraid I might do him some personal injury
for setting his mirror where it could inveigle Remus into making such a
grave mistake. Four minutes of rattling glass, and the door opened and
Remus popped out, with Doug after him with a barber’s chair. I broke for
Frog Bottom and Remus for home. He stayed under the house a week, and
when he came out his tail was so firmly fixed between his legs that a
surgical operation was necessary. I understand that the wall where Remus
hit is soft to this day, and that once in a while a fragment of glass
falls out yet. It is worthy of remark, and the statement carries with it
a solemn warning to the reader, that I had neglected to spit in a cross
mark before breakfast that morning. The very next day I saw a black snake
over my left shoulder, and a boil broke out under my right arm that very
night. We cannot be too watchful, brethren.

AMBITION LURES

“Ed, dog-gone my cats ef I know whether I want to fight Indians or
not! I’m afraid One-eyed Sam’ll have ’em all killed ’fore we kin git
there.” A new ambition had struck me and I was wabbling between being a
stage-driver or an Indian fighter. Ed was amazed and replied:

“Dod-bust it, Laze, ain’t we done ’greed to go, an’ got ready? They ain’t
nothin’ in this pokey ol’ country to keep a fellow awake.”

“Huh! I’d druther be in Granville Thompson’s place an’ drive the
Huntsville stage than to kill all the Indians I ever see,” I ventured.

“If I thought there was any more bugle horns in the worl’ lack
Granville’s an’ I could git to blow one, I’d druther be one, too,” said
Ed. “I’d druther come a-sailin’ up the river lane on top o’ that big
ol’ stage a-yank-in’ them lines over four horses jes’ a-prancin’ an’
a-gallopin’, an’ a-toot-in’ a tune on that brass bugle—Ta-ta-te-ta-ra-ah!
Gen-tul-_men_! I’d druther be that than to be a policeman almos’. But we
done promise the boys, Laze—how’re we goin’ to git outer that?”

“’Spect we better not let on for a while,” I said, “cause we mightn’t git
to drive a stage. But we gotter do sump’un mighty quick, Ed. Dog-gone ef
I ain’t jes’ a-gittin’ hungry to smash sump’un-nuther.”

“Git your pistol, Laze, an’ le’s go over the river an’ kill hogs. That’ll
keep up the tas’e in our mouths ’till we go Wes’.”

“I lack to clean forgot,” I said excitedly. “’Sposin’ we run off with
that circus that’s a-comin’ nex’ week? Betcher I kin ride stan’in’ up ef
you’ll let me put rozum on my stockin’ feet.”

“I done bin thinkin’ ’bout that, but ef I don’t go out Wes’ I ’spect
I’ll hafter be a dod-busted preacher. They’re jes’ after me at home all
the time to be a big preacher,” said Ed. “I dunno whether to be a circus
rider or a preacher, Laze. Which’d you druther?”

“Shucks, feller—anybody kin preach. I want to be sump’un sho’nuf when I
git a man. I’d druther have a grocery store lack Bill Yates’s than to be
a dratted presidin’ elder or a bishop. Ef I had a store lack that with
nothin’ to do but to eat candy, an’ cheese, an’ sardines, an’ pickles,
an’ sech things, an’ set up in the back room an’ play the fiddle an’ chew
terbacker an’ spit, dog-gone my cats ef I’d quit that to be a policeman
or a emperor.”

“So’d I,” said Ed, “but what’s the use o’ tryin’ to do that? Betcher Bill
Yates’s got more’n fifty dollars worth o’ goods. Nex’ time you’ll wanter
be a queen o’ somewheres. I never see sech a feller for tryin’ to git to
be the bigges’ man in all this whole worl’.”

“They’re raisin’ me to be president,” I said sorrowfully, “an’ I ’spect I
oughter be in Congress right now. All of ’em at home don’t want me to be
nothin’ but some dad-gum little thing lack that.”

“Well, if I hafter be a dod-busted bishop an’ you nothin’ but president,
the boys’ll laugh us clean outer town,” said Ed.

The foregoing conversation occurred on our wood-pile one moonshiny
night about frost. There is no telling what heights Ed and I might have
attained if our destinies had not been controlled by persons totally
devoid of ambition to shine in the greater walks of life.

[_This isn’t all_]

NAPOLEON

PART V—Continued

PRINCE LOUIS NAPOLEON

By Anna Erwin Woods

In after years the Emperor Napoleon III often said to great personages
who visited Paris during his reign: “Go to the _Conciergerie_; it is very
interesting.”

Notwithstanding the sadness which filled his heart, the future sovereign
of France retained his faith in his star. Madame Récamier, the friend
who, at nightfall, in the Coliseum at Rome, had given words of sympathy
to his mother, came to visit the captive. He had also the consolation of
receiving a kind message from his father, King Louis.

At the Conciergerie, September 6th, 1840.

_My Dear Father_: I have not yet written you because I was
afraid of causing you distress. But to-day, when I learn what
interest you have manifested in me, I come to thank you and to
ask your blessing as the only thing which now has any value for
me. My sweetest consolation in misfortune is to hope that your
thoughts sometimes incline toward me....

King Louis had always disapproved of what he considered the vain hopes of
his son, and had never spared him censure or remonstrance. On October 7,
1840, the captive was sent from Paris to the fortress of Ham, condemned
to be incarcerated there for life. He was carefully guarded; four hundred
infantrymen occupied the barracks of the fortress and sixty sentinels,
scattered on every side, obeyed strict orders.

In the beginning his captivity was solitary. After a time the government
accorded him the precious favor of having three faithful friends beside
him. Gen. Count de Montholon came of an old and distinguished family, a
hero in the campaign in Italy, at Austerlitz, Jena, Friedland, Wagram;
at the Emperor’s side at Waterloo; accompanying him to St. Helena; and
in whose arms he died. He was one of the executors of the Emperor’s
will, and the depository of his manuscripts. Devoted to the nephew as he
had been to the uncle, before the Court of Peers he spoke these words:
“I received the Emperor’s last sigh; I closed his eyes; that is enough
to explain my conduct.” He requested and obtained permission to be
incarcerated with the prince. His wife accompanied him to the fortress of
Ham, as she had done to St. Helena.

Dr. Conneau had been secretary to King Louis. He studied medicine in
Florence and intended to establish himself in Paris as a physician, but
after going to visit Queen Hortense at Arenensberg, he never left her.
These words occur in the Queen’s will: “I give to Dr. Conneau a present
of twenty thousand francs and a watch as a souvenir of his devotion in
coming to attend me. I greatly desire that my son may retain him.” This
last wish was piously observed. During the trial of her son, Dr. Conneau
sat on the bench at his side; he had never left him, and asked to share
his captivity. Blondel was not more faithful to Richard of the Lion Heart
than Dr. Conneau to Louis Napoleon.

Charles Thelin’s prayer to those in authority was not for liberty, but
for captivity with a master to whom he was not a valet, but a friend; to
that level the prince had raised him.

The prince was simply lodged. He wrote: “I have a good bed, white
curtains, a round table and six chairs.” He had also a looking glass
measuring thirty-six inches. In after years, in looking into mirrors
in palaces, he many times recalled this looking-glass. Upon two wooden
shelves were placed his silver toilet articles marked with the imperial
arms. After a time he was allowed another room to be used as a study, and
in this were placed some of his family souvenirs. Some wooden shelves
fastened on the wall held the books and papers allowed for his use; on
one of these shelves he inscribed the letter “N,” and said it would bring
him good luck. That plank was destined to be the plank of his salvation.

Everything intended for his personal service was daily subjected to
the minutest examination. An allowance of seven francs apiece was made
for the nourishment of the captives, and their cooking was done by the
gate-keeper. The prince was allowed to cultivate a little garden of
about a hundred feet on the rampart. “I am occupied a good deal just
now gardening,” he writes. “The pleasure I find makes me think that our
nature has many resources and consolations unknown to those who are
happy.” The inhabitants of the town were always asking for flowers from
his garden, and he took great pleasure in sending them.

He gave collations to the school children under an enormous lime tree
which has become legendary, and he distributed medals among them, as
well as alms among the poor. The curé of the town was the medium of
his bounty and became sincerely attached to him. By his gentleness,
affability, simplicity and great kindness he made friends even of his
jailers; captivating all with whom he came in contact, beginning with the
commandant of the fortress. The soldiers were forbidden to speak, stand
or salute in his presence; but they contrived means of secretly showing
their sympathy. On this account the garrison had often to be changed,
and the sentry boxes to be washed to efface inscriptions of “Long live
Napoleon!” “Long live the Emperor!”

Prince Louis Napoleon was a magnificent horseman. He was permitted to
buy a horse and ride in the courtyard. He amused himself by galloping
up the glacis at full speed and stopping suddenly on the summit of
the ramparts, on the very edge of the precipice, the boldness of the
rider never failing to arouse the admiration of all passers-by. Every
detachment of troops passing through the city halted at the foot of the
fortress to catch a glimpse of the prisoner. It would have been safer to
have kept in captivity forever, on distant seas, this man so impassioned
in feeling, so calm and unmoved in expression, so daring in action,
so soft and gentle in manner. What wonder that none could understand
him nor reconcile the rash temerity of his deeds and the impassive
calmness of his attitude. The prisoner of Ham made his prison a place
of meditation and study, silently preparing his political future. He
wrote a great deal, and from these written words can be comprehended
best his character, his ideas, his hopes, his illusions, his sadness and
concentrated enthusiasm. These papers written in imprisonment show the
most remarkably complex nature; the politician, the conspirator. The man
determined to wield tremendous power looks upon his prison as a vestibule
to the palace; the poetic, melancholy dreamer breathes forth in every
word a sad, sentimental longing for love and happiness.

* * * * *

The great captive lived six years at St. Helena, converting his rock into
a monument, of imperishable glory. Memory once more brought kings, as
suppliants, into his presence. The mighty conqueror saw again all nations
tremble at his approach. The captivity at St. Helena is an epilogue; that
at Ham a prologue.

The sad, poetic prisoner, filled with dreams of a wonderful future,
sustained by unshaken faith in the star of his destiny, had also passed
six years in his dreary prison; so far as men could see, calmly accepting
whatever fate might bring. He had said: “I prefer to be a captive on
French soil rather than a free man in foreign land.”

* * * * *

In the year 1845 he received a letter which changed his mind and
influenced his destiny. It was from his father, for whom he had a
profound veneration, and towards whom he had ever been faithful in the
discharge of filial duties. King Louis had not been sparing in his blame
of the vain hopes which had led his son to the escapades of Strasbourg
and Boulogne. With a gloomy memory, replete with bitterness, of all the
tempestuous glory of his family, he looked with anger and compassion upon
this audacious soul—his son who could throw himself into the stormy ocean
of human greatness. A king against his will, an unhappy husband, a loving
father deprived by fate of his children, his life had been one of sadness
and disappointment.

In August, 1845, he wrote:

My son, you deceive yourself strangely if you believe me
indifferent to your position and your sufferings. Doubtless I
am unable to forget that you placed yourself in this position
out of mere wantonness, but I suffer from your sufferings
because I had hoped for some solace in your happiness, a
happiness which should be independent of all the glories of
life. Moral sufferings have reduced me to the point of being
no longer able to stand upright, or even to rise from my chair
without assistance; and yet I have no one who can assist me. I
cannot even write any more, and you will see from my signature
how I can sign. I have taken some measures for you, but it is
only too probable that they will be useless, like all which
have been attempted hitherto.

The Prince replied:

Fortress of Ham, September 19th, 1845.—My Dear Father: The
first real joy I have felt in five years I experienced in
receiving the friendly letter you were so kind as to write me.
M. Poggioli succeeded in reaching me, and I was, at last, able
to talk with someone who is entirely devoted to us and who
saw you not long ago. How happy I am to know that you always
retain your tenderness for me!... I am of your opinion, my
father, the older I grow, the more I perceive the void around
me, and the more convinced I am that the only happiness in this
world consists in the reciprocal affection of beings created
to love each other. What has touched me, affected me most, is
the desire you manifest to see me again. To me this desire
is a command, and henceforward I will do all in my power in
order to render possible this meeting which I thank you for
desiring. Even the day before yesterday I had determined to
make no effort to leave my prison. For where should I go? What
should I do, alone again in foreign lands, far from my own
people? A grave in one’s native land is better. But to-day a
new hope lights up my horizon, a new aim presents itself to my
endeavors; it is to go and surround you with attentions and
prove to you that if for the last fifteen years many things
have come between our hearts, nothing has been able to uproot
filial piety, the first foundation of all virtues; I have
suffered much. Sufferings have destroyed my illusions and have
dispelled my dreams; but happily they have not weakened the
faculties of the soul, those faculties which permit one to
comprehend and love all that is good.

King Louis’ application for his son’s release having proved fruitless,
the Prince resolved to make a personal appeal to the French Government.

[Illustration: With Bob Taylor]

SENTIMENT AND STORY

There was once a civilization in the beautiful land of the South more
brilliant than any that ever flourished in all the tide of time. About
its ruins there clings a pathetic story of vanished dreams made holier
and sweeter by lips that are dust and hearts that are stilled forever.
There is nothing left of that civilization now but the memory of its
departed glory lingering among its tombstones and monuments like
the fragrance of roses that are faded and gone. It was an imperial
civilization, ruled from a throne of living ebony; but like great Caesar,
it fell at last, with a hundred gaping wounds, and its bleeding corpse
dissolved into ashes long ago on the funeral pile of war. I would not
recall those bloody wounds nor wake the hatreds of Civil War, but rather
let me lift the curtain and give you a glimpse of the glory and the grave
of that civilization.

I lift the curtain and see the old South enthroned amid the luxuries of
peace and plenty. Heaven never smiled upon a happier people nor upon a
land more beautiful; the eagles never soared under softer skies. I see
the white-columned mansions of the masters rising in groves of maple and
live oak, where perfect types of Caucasian beauty are wooed and won by
men as brave and courtly as ever shivered lances in the romantic days
when knighthood was in flower. I see the snowy cotton fields stretching
away to the horizon, alive with toiling slaves who, without a single
care upon their hearts, sing as they toil from early morn till close of
day; and when their task is done I hear them laughing and shouting at
the negro quarters in the gathering shadows of the evening. I see them
swinging corners in the old Virginia reel to the music of the banjo
and the fiddle and the bow, until the dust rises above them and swings
corners with the moonbeams in the air. I see the old black mammies
soothing their masters’ children to sleep with their lullabies. I see
the whole black race rejoicing in their transplantation from darkest
Africa and gladly serving the white race who led them into the light of
civilization and the Christian religion, leaving not an infidel among all
those millions of slaves.

I lift the curtain and look again. I hear the tocsin of war. Unfaltering
courage and high-born chivalry with shimmering epaulets of gold and
bright swords gleaming proudly rode to glory and the grave; bayonets
glittered under the silken folds of the Stars and Bars, the shrill
fife screamed and the kettle drum timed the heavy tramp of the shining
battalions as the infantry deployed into line; and thunder-tongued
batteries unlimbered on the bristling edge of battle; a sea of white
plumes nodded to the music of Dixie and ten thousand sabres flashed as
the cavalry hovered on the flanks and rear awaiting the bugle signal for
the charge. Then came the blinding flash and the awful thunder peals
where angry columns in frenzied fury met and the hills were strewn with
the dead and dying, and the very furrows of the fields ran blood. They
were fighting for their homes and the civilization of their fathers as
forward with the fierce and daring rebel yell the intrepid armies of Lee
and Jackson rushed into a hundred carnivals of death.

Once more I lift the curtain and see their decimated and half-starved
columns, ragged and bare-footed, exhausted and encompassed by
overwhelming numbers, reel backward in defeat and anguish at Appomattox;
the harp of Dixie is hung on a willow tree and the flag of its hope and
glory goes down in a flood of tears. Despair swept the harp strings of
Father Ryan’s heart, and the South’s poet priest poured out his soul in
song:

“Furl that banner, for ’tis weary,
’Round its staff ’tis drooping dreary,
Furl it, fold it, it is best;
For there’s not a man to wave it,
And there’s not a sword to save it,
And there’s not one left to lave it
In the blood which heroes gave it,
And its foes now scorn to brave it.
Furl it, hide it, let it rest.”

I lift the curtain and look again. I see the clouds roll away. The
laughter of other days is hushed; the mansions lie in charred and
blackened ruins, and there is nothing left but mourning and requiems
above a land of desolation and of new-made graves. I see the triumphant
armies of the Union, with flags flying and bands playing the martial airs
of victory, marching in pomp and splendor through the grand avenues of
their cities, amid the plaudits of rejoicing millions, leaving the weak
and helpless race they had emancipated as a charge upon their ruined and
impoverished masters. I see the remnants of the Confederate armies giving
shelter and food and raiment to this helpless race and furnishing them
with land and plows and mules, and building school houses and taxing
themselves to promote the education of the negro children at their doors.
I see the sturdy veterans at work in every department of life, and new
cities and towns rising in the track of war, and the devastated South
blossoming like the rose.

Now a vision of the future opens before me. I see the land of Washington
and Jefferson, of Jackson and Polk, of Hill and Gordon again the richest
land in all the world, not only in material wealth, but in the wealth
of brain and courage and manhood, and in the Cabinet and the Congress,
wielding again the destinies of the republic. I see generation after
generation weaving garlands of the lily and the rose and hanging them
about the monuments of those who wore the gray. I see the North and the
South clasping hands in eternal friendship and brotherhood, and Old Glory
waving above a united people for a thousand years to come.

The knightly spirit of the cavalier, that led their comrades to the
opening grave, inspired the heroes who still survived, to face the dark
and lowering future as bravely as they had faced the foe in the dreadful
past; and buttoning on their tattered jackets of gray, their paroles of
honor, they turned their tanned and tear-stained faces Southward and
straggled back to Dixie to rebuild their ruined homes and raise the
domes and spires of a new civilization in the air above the ashes of
the old. Upon their faithful souls there is no stain of treason; upon
their noble brows they wore no bloody wreath of conquest, but only the
crown of honor. When impartial history shall be written by the truthful
and the just, the names of these men who knelt at the shrine of the Old
South and laid their hopes, their fortunes and their lives on its sacred
altar, shall shine with the names of the world’s greatest heroes, and
generations yet to be shall scatter flowers above their hallowed dust,
as sweet tokens of their undying love and their devotion to the precious
memories that cling about the folded Stars and Bars.

[Illustration]

To the jaded politician who has grown weary of fishing for votes and
angling for suckers, there is surcease of sorrow in the brawling brooks
of the mountains, where the genuine speckled trout plays hide and seek
with the sunshine in the shoals, or sleeps in the darkening eddies, under
the fragrant bloom of the overhanging honeysuckles. To the overworked
public servant upon whose head the snows that never melt have too soon
fallen, these bright, leaping, laughing, dashing, buoyant mountain rivers
are the symbols of youth and the synonyms of happiness. On their grassy
brinks he may sit and listen to the singing of his reel and the swish of
his line, and watch the game black bass as he leaps up out of the middle
of the stream, with the hook in his mouth, and flashes in the sunlight,
and then darts back to make the reel sing and the line swish again. Or,
if he wishes a diversity of sport and pleasure, I will lend him one of
my shotguns and a pair of my leggings, and we will leave the trout and
bass in the brook and brimming river and follow my brace of beautiful
Llewellyn bird dogs, “Fiddle” and “Bow,” into the fields, and serenade
the vanishing coveys with chilled shot and smokeless powder. In such a
life, in such a land there is no snow upon the heart; ’tis always summer
there.

[Illustration]

We are the product of the labor and sacrifice of age—labor and sacrifice
which unknowingly worked out its own destiny in shaping ours. In our turn
we toil to-day that future generations may have such heritage as we will
to bequeath to them. Shall we permeate their lives with the dreariness
of drudgery, the weariness of eternal struggle, the unworthiness of our
fellow men and the hopelessness of reward? Or shall we live each day
in joyousness of spirit, in happy accomplishment of duty, in serene
confidence in the worth of mankind, believing that “God’s in his heaven,
all’s right with the world,” attracting to ourselves the happiness and
sunshine we radiate?

Which is the better legacy to our posterity?

[Illustration]

Common folks cannot understand so-called high-class music, nor the
figures of these newfangled dances, and, therefore, they are in a
condition which is beautifully illustrated by a tale I used to hear
before politics snatched me baldheaded. At an old-time country dance,
the fiddlers rosined their bows and took their places on the platform.
The floor manager rose and imperiously shouted: “Get your partners for a
cotillion! All you ladies and gentlemen who wear shoes and stockings will
take your places in the center of the room; all you ladies and gentlemen
who wear shoes and no stockings will take your places immediately behind
them; and you barefooted crowd must jig it around in the corners.”

[Illustration]

THE PARADISE OF FOOLS

[Illustration]

PART X

Why mourn and brood over broken fortunes and the calamities of life? Why
tarry in the doldrums of pessimism, with never a breeze to catch your
limp and drooping sails and waft you on a joyous wave? Pessimism is the
nightmare of the world. It is the prophet of famine, pestilence and human
woe. It is the apostle of the Devil, and its mission is to impede the
progress of civilization. It denounces every institution established
for human development as a fraud. It stigmatizes law as the machinery
of injustice. It sneers at society as hollow-hearted corruption and
insincerity. It brands politics as a reeking mass of rottenness, and
scoffs at morality as the tinsel of sin. Its disciples are those who rail
and snarl at everything that is noble and good, to whom a joke is an
assault and battery, a laugh is an insult to outraged dignity, and the
provocation of a smile is like passing an electric current through the
facial muscles of a corpse.

God deliver us from the fools who seek to build their paradise on the
ashes of those they have destroyed! God deliver us from the fools whose
life-work is to cast aspersions upon the motives and characters of the
leaders of men! I believe the men who reach high places in politics
are, as a rule, men of sterling worth and intelligence, and upon their
shoulders rest the safety and well-being of the peace-loving, God-fearing
millions.

I believe the world is better to-day than it ever was before. I believe
the refinements of modern society, its elegant accomplishments, its
intellectual culture, and its conceptions of the beautiful, are glorious
evidences of our advancement toward a higher plane of being.

I believe the superb churches of to-day, with the glorious harmonies of
their choral music, their great pipe organs, their violins and cornets,
and their grand sermons, full of heaven’s balm for aching hearts, are
expressions of the highest civilization that has ever dawned upon the
earth. I believe each successive civilization is better and higher and
grander than that which preceded it; and upon the shining rungs of this
ladder of evolution, our race will finally climb back to the Paradise
that was lost. I believe that the society of to-day is better than it
ever was before. I believe that human government is better and nobler and
purer than it ever was before. I believe the church is stronger and is
making grander strides toward the conversion of the world and the final
establishment of the Kingdom of God on earth than it ever made before.

I believe that the biggest fools in this world are the advocates and
disseminators of infidelity, the would-be destroyers of the Paradise of
God.

[Illustration: With Trotwood]

THE LAST DRIVE

’Twas long ago, aye, long and long ago,
I see the starlight and the paling clouds
Which linger yet in Mem’ry’s afterglow,
Pale cheeks that lie amid a sky of shrouds.
The swell of Evening’s breathing all around.
The flocks of Fullness by Contentment led,
Heart incense, murmur’d from the grateful ground
Up to the fold of Faith, bright panoplied.
The fields, the fresh’ning air—earth odors from below,
Your laugh, your perfumed hair—gone long, so long ago.

’Twas long ago, aye, long and long ago,
So says the world, Sweet, reckoning thereby
From season unto season. They do not know—
We reckon—we—from mem’ry unto mem’ry.
And when one mem’ry overshadoweth
All others, as morning over moon-skies,
The pink of slumber o’er the pale of death,
It stands alone before my aching eyes—
That evening drive—the hush—the twilight’s deepening blue,
The sunset’s crimson in your blush: “I love you, too.”

Sweets, sweets, sweets, from a heart of sweets!
And sweets to a soul of sad despair—
Oh, love, to-night the Past the Present meets
With love’s own linkéd laughter in the air.
But, oh, you went from out my heart as goes
The full rose, blushing, to the frosts of death—
As autumn flowers to the winter snows;
And now, dear heart, O now I love you so,
I love you yet, altho’ ’twas long, so long ago.

_John Trotwood Moore._

THE PROBLEM OF LIFE

The problem of life is not so strange when taken in its relation to
things around us. The things which to us seem incomprehensible are often
so merely from our own ignorance or failure to look at them in the light
of existing environments. The questions of life and death, could we grasp
them with the myriad of causes before and after, which go with and are a
part of them, might even themselves be understood. Of death we know one
thing which should rob it of all fear, and that is that, as our coming
into the world was painless and unconscious to us, so shall our going out
be; and that as we had no choice in the matter of our coming in, so shall
we have none in the matter of our going out, and that as we are a link
in the cause of events, we should accept our position with the cheerful
fortitude of one upon whom a task has been placed by an unseen Creator,
relying upon the justice of His wisdom to see that it is not greater than
we can bear. For in the bearing of it lie all our growth and all the
strength and nobility which shall fix our place in the life to come.

It seems a paradox, indeed, to us to think that we must die to live; yet
if we look around us we may see where this same principle is carried out
in all the relations of the world; that we grow not by what we get, but
by what we give; that we are developed not through pleasure and play, but
through hard knocks and hard work; that we are softened and ripened not
through happiness, but through pain and sorrow; that use is growth, and
idleness is decay, and that from stone to star and from plant to planet,
disintegration is the law of God, that greater things may be built upon
the ashes of the past, and a grander life evolved from the crucifixions
of the present.

The reason we fail to properly understand the workings of God in our
lives and the lives around us is because we take too narrow a view of
life. We do not look far enough ahead, and so we fail to harmonize things
because of the narrowness of the scope. We see a child born, open its
eyes upon the world, suffer a little pain and pass away as if it ne’er
had been, and we wonder why all of this for nothing. We see injustice
elevated and the wicked people prosper and thrive, and things that are
great come to naught, and things that are little become great, and in
our short-sightedness we complain and doubt, and rush after the short
cuts and practice the bad because, for the time being, it seems more
profitable than the good. These, indeed, would seem paradoxes, and
well might we doubt, and do, if we look at it only from the transitory
standpoint of temporal life. Nay, the very fact that such seeming
injustice can live, that a young life should be taken, that fraud and
envy should prosper, is our strongest evidence that this life is but a
link in a chain, and a very short link at that; that there is one grand
principle of recompense in all nature and all law, and that as surely as
God lives, and the universe lives, and this law lives, so surely will
all things be adjusted and evened up. With this view of it, then, we can
readily see how the young life that is taken here has that much more to
its credit in a land and living a life that is nobler, and that wrong and
injustice may grow gray-headed here; but so sure as the great laws of
centrifugal and centripetal force act in unison to balance and adjust,
there shall be a balancing in which the gray head of every wrong shall
pay back, with interest and to the last farthing, in another life, the
over-drawn account it made in this.

We know nothing—we are too small to know. But we do see this—everywhere,
always, forever and around us: that everything is balanced, and that
Balance is the Great Law of the Universe.

Will this Great Law then balance everything, from star-dust to star, from
force to effect, and leave man’s life unbalanced?

JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE.

A QUAIL HUNT IN AN AUTOMOBILE

A TRUE BILL

My telephone rang and I laid down my pen.

“Hello, Trotwood,” called my neighbor, one of those strenuous business
men who goes at things with a rush from daybreak till dark. He has made a
pile, but like all such he has got hold of the handle of things and can’t
turn loose. Some day he will turn up his toes and leave a handsome widow
with a tempting competency.

“Hello, I say; is that you, Trotwood? Yes? Well, say, let’s go after
quail this morning. Ever see such a pretty day?”

“Never did,” I replied. “It’s glorious, and I am ready for a quail hunt
any day except Sunday—never had any luck on Sunday, you know.”

“I’ll be around in my new automobile in ten minutes.”

“Oh, say,” I shot back, “now, that’s another thing. I’ve never been out
of town in one of those things—they are not bred right, and besides I’ve
got religious scruples on that subject. Cut it out, Horatius. I’ll have
the little mare and buggy hooked up by the time you get here.”

I heard him laugh derisively. “Nonsense! Why, man, I’m going way up
on Bear Creek pike—fifteen miles—and we want to go flying, for it’s 9
o’clock now. But I’ll have you there in forty minutes. Now, the little
mare would be two hours and then dead tired for a long drive back home.
Say, no use talking—I’ll be there in ten minutes; have your pointer
ready; I’ll bring my two setters;” and he rang off.

“I guess I’m in it,” I said to myself, as I went off to put on my hunting
clothes. But I remembered that the Bear Creek pike was not a very public
thoroughfare, and no one that I knew would be likely to meet me.

“If it gets out on me,” I said, “I’ll prove that I didn’t want to.
Besides, this new hunting cap I’ve got would make Moses look like a Turk
in Hades—nobody’ll ever know it.”

The truth is, I wanted to go hunting—it was in my blood that morning, and
these beautiful December days with a hazy glow on the blue hills and that
stillness that comes like a dropping nut in a forest, and the sunshine
spiked with the faintest crisp of a frost would put it into anybody’s
blood—anybody who had it. And when the infection hits you there is only
one antidote—a dog, gun, a tramp over the hills and—whirr! bang! bang!

And to-day was ideal. I had felt it all morning—the cool, bracing air
with that little frosty aroma of leaves curling to crispness under
the first blight of things, and that other delightful odor of pungent
woodland damp with frost-biting dew. And the hills blue and beautiful are
alone worth going to meet, and the trees crimson in the hectic flush of
the dying year.

Jack, my pointer, was jumping all over me and turning dogsprings of
delight.

“Down, Jack! Heigh ho, old boy; that machine is against my religion, but
I’d go hunting in a negro hearse to-day. Besides,” I said, with a twinge
of conscience, “he’ll get us to the field in forty minutes, and the
little mare is getting old and we’ve got a late start.”

I sighed and felt better. I had fought so long and said so much for the
horse, and now—now—it was inexorable; they were being driven to their
fate—they had to go before the relentless wheel of progress. I was
virtually admitting it, I, who had said I’d never—

I shouldered my gun. Somehow it didn’t seem like the old, joyous hunt.

At the front gate the automobile stood—a pretty thing, to be sure. Its
owner was smiling, goggle-eyed and all aglow, his hand on the wheel, or
whatever you call the steering end of it.

“Jump in, Trotwood, old man—we must be in a hurry. Slap Jack in there
behind with my two setters. Be in a hurry! By George! I know where there
are a dozen coveys, and we’ll be there in forty minutes. Hi, Jack! what’s
the matter? Get in! Confound him, what’s the matter with that old dog?”

I was lugging Jack and trying to get him in. He was kicking like a
half-roped steer. He had always jumped to his place in the little buggy,
but now—

I knew what was the matter. Even Jack, dog that he was, had his
principle, and he was man enough to say so. While I—

I turned crimson.

“Get in, old boy,” I begged. “We’ll be there in a jiffy. Dead bird—good
doggie.”

I got him in, with his head down and his tail between his legs. To all
intents he was going to a funeral. I turned quickly away, for I could not
stand the scorn and dumb reproach of his eyes. Right then I would have
quit and gone back, but I didn’t want to hurt my friend’s feelings.

“Jump in, jump in—let’s be going,” he shouted, in his nervous, business
way. “Oh, just a minute! There—you’re on the ground. Say, here, take this
and give that starting crank a whirl. I’m not very expert myself,” he
went on, “and I sometimes forget; but you’re on the ground—there—right
there!”

I took the crank and put it in the spindle he pointed out.

“Now give her a whirl, old man—a good twist—there!”

I gave her a whirl—several of them. I whirled her like blue blazes. I
kept on whirling, while her owner grasped the wheel and his eyes danced
nervously, as he expected her to flash into the throb that said steam was
on.

But she didn’t flash and I kept whirling.

“Faster, Trotwood, harder!” he cried.

I whirled and whirled. I began to get warm. The sweat began to pour off.

“Say,” I said, gasping for breath, “this beats turning a grindstone. What
the devil—”

“Why, I canth—thee—” he lisped “Turnth again—quick—a tharp, sthnappy
onth!”

I turned her again, quick, sharp and snappy. The thing pulled heavy and
felt like an unoiled grindstone, just out of the store. My arms ached,
the sweat poured off and my back was nearly broken.

I gave her a final desperate twist, and—there she was!

Dead as a log wagon.

“Confound it,” I said, mopping my forehead and staggering up; “I could
have curried the mare and hitched her up six times. Why, something’s
wrong with your old gas-wagon,” I went on, getting hot. “I’ll not turn
this crank any more,” I said; “I’ll be so sore in my arms I couldn’t hold
my gun straight to-day.”

He looked puzzled—annoyed.

“Why, I can’t thee—” he began to lisp again.

“What’s that you’ve got in your mouth?” I jerked out. “You don’t lisp
that way naturally.”

A smile broke over his face. He took out a little, black peg and roared.
It was too funny—to him.

“Beg yo’ pardon, old boy—beg yo’ pardon—ha—ha—ha! Good joke. That’s the
switch plug. You take it out when the machine’s idle, and I forgot to
put it back in the little hole. Here,” he said, sticking it in—“and it
connects the current—ha—ha—good joke—now give her a whirl.”

I gave the whirl, but in no manner to enjoy the joke. I heard her fire
up and begin to throb. We moved off beautifully. We began to fly up the
smooth pike, my hand back in Jack’s collar, for fear he’d jump out and
suicide. I dared not turn round to look the honest dog in the eyes.

“Fine, fine—ain’t this fine, old man?” cried my friend enthusiastically,
as we buzzed up the road. “Look at your watch—nine-twenty. Ah, now we’ll
be in the field at ten sharp—sharp—two good hours for hunting before we
eat our pocket lunch.

“Now, your little old mare,” he laughed, “would take up those fifteen
miles by now? Say! ha! ha!—acknowledge the corn, old man—the decree has
gone forth—it’s all over with the old pacers.”

I growled and said nothing. So did Jack. It was good, though, the way we
were eating up space and getting nearer to the birds—those game, nervy,
whirring birds that dart like winged flashes of thunder before your gun.

We whirled over the bridge at the river at lightning speed. I saw the
sign up about the fine for going over faster than a walk, but how—

“How can an automobile walk—ha-ha!” he shouted, for he had read it also
and divined my thoughts and winked knowingly at me. “That applies to
horses and jackasses and such,” he laughed—“things that walk. But this
don’t walk, eh?”

_Honk! Honk!_

He was blowing for a stray mule to get out of his way.

The mule got, tail up, and settled into a barbed wire fence, which he
tried to jump, but only succeeded in cutting up his countenance.

_Honk! Honk!_ “Get out of the way, if that’s all the sense you’ve got.
My! but ain’t we buzzing?”

I nodded, beginning to become exhilarated myself.

“This is pretty good,” I admitted. “I begin to see how you people soon
become speed crazy. We’ll get the birds to-day,” I warmed up, “and I
thank you for—look out! stop!”

He stopped, but not in time. It was a nervous-looking, old, fleabitten,
gray mare, full of Stackpole Traveler, Dan Rice and Boston blood. I had
seen it so often that I knew the very turn of its tail. In the buckboard
she was pulling were three country girls, fat, solidly happy, their lines
wabbling around anywhere, and the old mare going where she listeth. They
were the kind of girls I knew and loved in my sappy days down in Alabama.
I used to commence to kiss ’em about Christmas, knowing they’d wake up
and respond about the Fourth of July. Two of them amply filled up the
buckboard, but, as usual, a third one had piled on top of the others
somewhere, and—

“Great heaven, Horace!” I shouted. “Stop—that one there on top is holding
a baby.”

I sprang out, for I saw the old mare begin to squat, her old, scared,
brown eyes blazing in her white face like holes in a big lard can. I
heard her snort like a scared bear and saw her feet pattering jigs all
over the pike. Then she whirled, running into a fence, where, between the
overturned buckboard, the shafts and the rail fence, she stood wedged
upon her hind legs, pawing the air.

But the girls surprised me. Without a change in their fat, immutable,
expressionless faces, they simply rolled out on the pike in a bunch, the
baby on top, like snow folks tilted over by a boy.

They got up, dusting their frocks. They had taken it for granted. It was
all right. There was not a squawk—not even from the baby, as one of them
picked it up and I grabbed the bits and straightened out the old mare.

“I hope you ladies aren’t hurt,” said my friend from the roadside, in his
machine.

“Sally, is you hurt?” asked the fattest one.

“Naw,” she grunted.

“Mamie, is you?”

Mamie merely wiggled.

“Is Tootsy hurt?”

Tootsy was eating an apple, with unblinking eyes fixed on the wonderful
machine.

Nothing was hurt but the harness. That was hurt before they started, but
I had to spend the next twenty minutes patching it up. Finally we got
them all in, Tootsy on top. No word had they spoken, but I could see they
were eying me with that country suspicion that makes every maid of them
rate every man she meets in the road as Lothario, Jr., or a prince in
disguise.

“Now, ladies, you are all right,” I said, trying to keep cheerful; “and I
am so glad none of you were hurt.”

Then one of them drawled, but looking over toward the distant horizon:

“Ain’t you named Mister Trotwood?”

I turned red and pleaded guilty.

“After all you’ve writ, I don’t think you had oughter done this,” and
they all drove sedately off, still looking toward the horizon.

“Now, that’s the worst thing about automobiles,” said Horatius, after we
started again—“these fool country horses. Why, I waited till this time
of day, thinking they’d all be in town by now, for they get up with the
chickens. Anyway, we are not likely to meet any more of them.”

“I hope not,” I sighed, pulling out a cigar and a match. I struck the
match, as I’d always done in the buggy. It was blown out before the
sulphur burned.

“You can’t do that in an automobile,” he yelled; “we’re going too fast.
Like to stop for you, but we’re fairly humming—be there in half an hour,
old man.” _Honk! honk!_

We had turned a bend in the road.

“Great Caesar!” I shouted. “Nobody going to town! Look!”

His jaws dropped. There they were. We could see for half a mile, and so
help me heaven, but this was the procession that passed as we pulled out
of the narrow pike on the roadside, consumed with impatience to get to
the field, the machine throbbing beneath us like a loft over a bran dance.

First, an old sorrel mare, a worn-out buggy of the vintage of 1874, and
two old ladies.

The whole thing approached gingerly, creeping up like a yellow cat. It
was a toss-up as to which of the two’s eyes popped the biggest, or had
her mouth shut tightest. The old mare was game, and sidled up, and just
as I saw the wheels begin to form in her head and the occupants throw
down the lines and begin to pop two pair of country-yarned legs out of
the two sides of the buggy, exclaiming:

“_Fur ther Lord’s sake thar, Mister, ketch ’er!_”

I jumped out and had her by the bits.

One of them relieved herself by spitting snuff over the dashboard, while
the other took it out on me, deprecating the day when “Sech folks an’
things blocks up ther public trail—an’ so he’p me, ain’t that thar Mister
Trotwood, an’ my old man bred this mar’ by his say so! Trotwood Ananias,”
she sniffed, as she drove off.

The next were right on us—two slick, three-year-old sugar mules, hauling
a load of darkies. They came on in a rattling clip, making more noise
than a freight train, jollying, laughing and cackling. The men were on
plank seats across the wagon, the women in high-back hickory chairs,
squatting low and feeling as good as Senegambians usually do in a white
man’s country, where he does all the worrying and thinking and they do
all the loafing and eating.

They passed us without a wabble. I expected that, for a mule, like a
negro, never sees anything until he has passed it. I saw the gate of the
wagon had been taken out in the rear to let the damsels in; also the
chickens, the coop of ducks, a bundle of coon-skins, pumpkins, a sack of
unwashed wool, some spare ribs and a tub of only such nice chitlings as a
country mammy can prepare. They passed, and then the scare got into those
three-year-old corn feds good, by way of their tails. For I saw these
straighten out first, then their ears. I saw the big driver fall back on
the lines, and—

“_Whoa, dar!_”

They jumped twenty feet the first jump, and ran half a mile in spite of
his lugging and sawing. But the first jump was enough. The damage was
done then, for everything in it but the driver, who held on to the reins,
came boiling out of the rear. Up the road for half a mile was a telegraph
line of chitlings—the rest were mixed up. They all rose but one damsel,
weighing close to 468 pounds. She sat still. A young buck went to help
her up.

“G’way f’m heah, nigger—wait till I see ef my condiments is busted,” she
cried, feeling her sides and her chest. “Sides, I wants Brer Simon to
hope me up.”

Brother Simon helped her and she was all right.

We gave her a dollar and the others a quarter each. It was expensive, but
I deemed it just.

_Dey wuz all right den!_

The following then passed with more or less hesitancy, shying and
plunging:

A surrey and team; a boy and his best girl; a log wagon and four mules,
the leaders rushing by in terror, pulling the wheelers by the neck, as
they were trying to go the other way.

Old ’Squire Jones on his roan Hal pacer. The horse got half-way by before
he decided that the goggle eyes on the roadside had him. Well—no goggle
eyes had ever caught any of his tribe—not yet! In bucking to wheel,
he tapped the old ’squire in the mouth with his poll. The old man had
been raised a Presbyterian, with Baptist propensities, and he made the
ozone sulphuric. He brought his horse back to the scratch, spurring and
swearing. It was all right this time, till the old horse looked into the
back of the machine. True to the fool in his pedigree, he knew what the
machine was, because he had never seen one before; but the dogs—they
were things he had seen all his life, and he bolted backward again,
jamming the old squire’s stomach against the pommel and his back against
the cantle. It was time to go, and we shot out, leaving the old horse
waltzing into town on his hind legs.

“I didn’t hear his last remarks,” I said, as we went along. “They seemed
to be rather personal.”

“Let ’em go,” said Horatius. “You wouldn’t want to put them in your scrap
book.”

“I don’t think the mare and buggy would have made us all these enemies,”
I remarked, “and we would have been there by now. Do you know it’s eleven
o’clock?”

“We’ve got a fine run, now,” he apologized. “We’ll be there in thirty
minutes.”

“We’ll be there by night,” I snarled. “Say, we’ll just call it a ’possum
hunt, eh?”

This made him mad, and he did not speak till he got to the big hill.

Here at the foot we stopped and sat, throbbing.

Horatius fumbled with a side brake a moment, touched a pedal and looked
wise.

“What’s all this for?” I asked.

“I’m resting for a little headway before taking that steep hill. And say,
while we’re at it, you ought to know something about a machine—you might
be called on to help me in an emergency.”

I turned pale. Up to this time I had felt secure. Now I understood
something of the feelings of that pair of mules that never saw danger
until they had passed it.

“Why, I thought you knew all about it,” I began.

“Of course I do, but something might happen to me. You might be thrown
on your own resources. Now here,” he went on, “this little lever at your
foot is the sparker—it quickens things—the next one is the throttle; that
means more power. This is the switch-plug here; this is the starting
crank and this the brake. Now remember and watch me start.”

He did, the thing starting slowly up the hill and then beginning to go in
little jumps, exactly like a horse galloping.

“Pull him down,” I growled; “he’s broken his gait—” for I felt every
moment as if it would soon wabble and quit. But he kept galloping and
I settled down and began unconsciously to wabble my body as I would in
motion to a galloping horse. I couldn’t help it. I glanced at Horatius—he
was doing the same, but hitching at the side crank all the time, and we
were bobbing like two Muscovy ducks over a mud hole.

It was uncomfortable—it was uncanny.

“Confound you,” I growled, “I tell you the thing’s galloping—he’s all
tangled up; bring him down.”

_Snap_, went something, and Horatius breathed easy.

“All right now,” he said, as we began to climb the hill beautifully. Over
the top we went, and then—down—down! How she did fly! My heart jumped
into my throat. I held my breath and felt that same feeling I used to
feel pumping in a swing when I’d soar up to the top and start down again.
The same when I started down the elevator from the 19th story of the
Masonic Temple and felt my legs give way and threw my arms around the
neck of the elevator boy and begged him for heaven’s sake to stop until
I got my breath and my legs in speaking distance of each other, and
collected the rest of myself.

“Stop her,” I cried, “down—this—hill—I’m—feeling—queer—Lord—I’m—stop, I
tell you!”

“It’s easy,” he laughed. “Do it yourself—on that brake—there—just to
teach you—there!”

Gasping for breath and pale with fright, I kicked up the little pedal—

_The thing bumped twenty feet!_

“Don’t!” I heard him yell. “Good Lord, that’s the throttle!”

I saw a big ditch on the other side of us. I saw his hand dart quickly to
his side.

Like all man and woman-kind, in emergencies with a horse, I do the fool
thing—grab at the reins. This instinct overpowered me. I grabbed the
brakes to help him. I over-did it. It stopped so quickly it actually
kicked up behind. It stopped like a twelve-inch ball striking armor
plate. I went over clear across the ditch. The three dogs were faithful
and they followed. Horatius tried it, but the steering wheel stopped him.

“It was my fault,” I said, as I limped up, after the dogs got off of me.
“I grabbed at your reins, I guess—thought you were running away.”

But the sudden stop had sprung something, and Horatius was out fixing it.
He had pulled off his cap and got under the machine, and I saw the beaded
sweat begin to rise on the crown of his bald head, like bubbles on a mill
pond.

This did me a world of good. I lighted a cigar, propped up and began to
smoke.

For half an hour he tinkered and tinkered. I smoked and gave him such
bits of sarcastic encouragement as happened into my head. I reminded him
that Tempus was fugiting, and that it was already quite 9:50 and we were
still ten miles from nowhere; that the little mare would have been there
by now, and we would still have had some friends left on the Bear Creek
pike.

“Consider the lilies that ride in automobiles,” I quoted—“they toil not,
neither do they spin, and yet I say unto you that that old gray mare, in
all her glory never worked as hard as you are working now.”

It was my time, and Jack and I enjoyed it, sensible dog that he was.
After every bit of such he’d wink and fairly guffaw.

Horatio was working hard. He was groveling in the dirt to do it, too, and
that suited me also. I could gauge his efforts by the sweat drops that
arose on his bald spot, growing and then bursting like soap bubbles, to
roll down his collar.

“Plague it,” he said at last, rising, “I can’t see very well without my
glasses. Say, stop your guying, now, and look under here and see if you
can see what’s wrong.”

I got out as leisurely as a lord; all I could see was a small coil of
wire, red hot. “I see it,” I said, solemnly. “The thing’s appendix is red
hot. Give me an axe and I’ll open it up.”

Jack howled with delight. I thought he’d die. Horatius smiled grimly.
But it was one that said:

“I’ll even this up yet.”

“Put in your shells; we’ll hunt around toward that farm house, and up
there I’ll ’phone to town and have Smith come out and fix it.”

Thus he spoke, and I agreed. In fact, there was nothing else to do.
We rolled the machine aside, the dogs were let out, and we were soon
quartering a field toward a farm house.

“Whose place is this?” I asked, as the dogs began to hunt down the wind.

“Old Bogair’s a French Canadian. He came here three years ago from
Canada—ticklish old fellow, but he knows me, and it’s all right.”

I felt secure, for while the game law is very strict, requiring written
permission to hunt on one’s premises, intended as a guard against pot
hunters, no gentleman ever objected to another hunting on his farm.

We started through a cedar wood in a glady spot and I saw Jack beginning
to nose the wind and to throw up his head for quail. Then I heard my
companion calling lustily for me to come. I rushed up, Jack at my heels.

“What is it?” I asked.

“A coon—a big coon—up in that cedar tree. Get on the other side, quick!”

I ran around, and, sure enough, up among the branches, trying to hide,
but showing the end of a brindled and streaked tail, was the coon.

In a trice I let him have it, and he came crashing through the branches.
Jack ran up and seized it, shaking. I saw yellow eyes, ears laid back,
and the coon spitting and fighting for life. It was dying, but struck
out, tearing Jack’s nose to threads. I ran up and planted the heel of my
hunting boot on its neck, while Jack howled with his lacerated nose.

“That’s a funny looking coon,” I said, as I eyed the thing suspiciously.
I heard Horatius laugh and saw him turn and make a break for the road. I
looked up—old Bogair had run up, red-faced and breathless.

“By gar,” he yelled, as soon as he saw what I’d done, “vut fur you keeld
ze house cat fur? Vut fur?”

It was true; but never had I seen a tomcat look more like a coon. On a
distant hillside I could see my deserting friend rolling on the grass and
shouting.

In vain I apologized. Old Bogair kept dancing around and shouting: “Vut
fur you keel ze house cat fur? Vut fur?”

“What are you damaged?” I said at last, with disgust.

“Ah, _en passant_—dees one from T’ronto, I breeng. Hee’s registaire—fife
tallar, an’ fife fur treespaire.”

I paid it like a man. Old Bogair smiled and bowed, with his hand on his
stomach.

“Eet vus all right now.”

I took up the cat by the tail.

“Vut fur, you don’t vant heem,” he gasped.

“Yes, I do,” I said, hotly. “He’s mine. I’ve paid for him and I want to
take him over yonder and rub him under the nose of that villain that
induced me to go hunting in an automobile and steered me on the premises
of a confounded Dago who keeps registered cats that look exactly like
coons when up a tree.”

He thought I was complimenting him.

“_Voila_—I t’ank you,” he said, bowing again, with his hand on his
stomach.

I hunted around an hour before I went to the machine. I waited to cool
off. Jack found a fine covey, and I missed them right and left. I had
lost my nerve and my luck.

When I reached the machine, Horatius was in, blinking, and we said not a
word. It was my time to freeze. Smith had run out from town and fixed it.
A little wire the size of a pencil point had got an inch out of place,
and it had been as dead as a log wagon on us.

It was now exactly 3:30, but we decided we still had a chance to get a
covey. We made the next three miles in beautiful time, meeting only one
man driving a game, high-headed horse that swept by us without giving us
the least notice.

“If they were all bred like that one,” I said, “a man in a machine might
think he had some rights on the road.”

“Glad you are beginning to see the other side,” said Horatius.

I shut up.

“We’ll be there by four,” he said; “just the time the birds begin to feed
good. Oh, we’ll get a few yet. It’s a long lane, you know. Our luck is
turning.”

“This _is_ fun,” I said, as we flew along the newly gravelled road
parallel with the creek—“fine—give it to her.”

The scenery was beautiful; the bluffs were draped in clustering red
berries, and the woods old gold and crimson. The water foamed over the
lime rocks, glowing iridescent in the sun, and the air was bracing as we
buzzed along.

_Honk! Honk!_ “Let her up!” I cried, as a touch of speed mania got into
me. “Say, I see how it is,” I said, “why a man soon gets the speed mania
in him. Horsemen can’t blame you, for they have got it, too.”

“Oh, we’re riding,” he cried. “You have an hour yet.”

We were indeed riding—along a narrow path of the road rising to a rather
abrupt hill. Rising and peeping over, I saw a long procession of creeping
things, their ears just shining above the hill we were both ascending.

“Halt! Stop!” I cried.

It was too late—everlastingly too late! We were meeting a negro funeral
procession—good old Uncle Pete, as good an old-time darky as ever lived.
I had known him well, a fellow of infinite jest. But I did not recognize
him promptly, now—at least as I soon saw him.

I hate to write what followed. I felt faint and sick.

Be it known that every negro loves to be buried behind white mules. It
is his glory and his religion. This kind was hauling Uncle Pete. Now,
a white mule is an old mule, and the older the mule, the bigger the
fool, and when they peeped over the top of that hill, only to butt into
a goggle-eyed demon, they did what mules always do. When I first saw
them I was looking at the north end of that funeral procession. The next
instant I was looking at the south end. And as the thing turned over
once to adjust itself to different direction, a venerable old darky shot
out of the rear end of that hearse, followed by a two-dollar coffin, and
everything in that two miles of vehicles turned tail at the same time.

I jumped out, grabbing my hunting coat, which I knew held a flask of
whiskey, and rushed pell-mell through the woods for the creek bank. All I
wanted was a little water in that whiskey.

After fixing myself so I would not faint, I went back in time to see that
everything had been fixed and the thing headed north again.

“No, sah, it didn’t hurt Brer Pete,” the preacher was explaining to
Horatius; “but it did upsot some ob de sisterin, an’ dey fainted when he
come outer de back end ob dat kerridge so nachul an’ briefly. No, sah;
nobody’s hurt, sah; it wuz jes’ a sivigerus accerdent.”

“How much money have you, Horatius? I’ve spent all mine on dead and
registered cats,” I said, bitterly.

He had plenty, and tipped the whole two miles of them, as they passed by,
singing: “Jordan is a hard road to travel.”

And never had that old song seemed so real to me!

“I stop right here,” I said, after assuring myself that I would not faint
again. “The sun is setting; we’ve been out all day, and found nothing but
a cat and a corpse.”

Our experience had taken our nerve, and we waited two hours by the
roadside, way after dark, until we’d seen everything we met in the
morning go back home.

Then we lit up and reached home at ten o’clock.

The Angel and the Cherub met me at the gate, scared to death.

“So glad you’re safe,” she cried, kissing me. “I know you’ve got a full
bag—you’ve never failed, and, oh, Dearie, I’ve invited a dozen ladies
over to-morrow for lunch, promising quail on toast—so I do hope nothing
has happened.”

By this time the Cherub was climbing over me, shouting: “Daddy, show me
old Bob White—show me old Brer Rabbit.”

The bitterness of it went into me.

“Quail on toast?” I cried with sarcasm. “Change it now, my dear; write
them all a note at once and tell them tom-cat is better, for it’s all
I’ve killed to-day. Just make it tom-cat on toast.”

I left her crying and saying she believed I had taken a drink. But that
was false—to keep from suiciding, I had drunk the whole flask!

TROTWOOD.

THE NEW YEAR

Across the heath the day-gleam creeps,
The landscape glows with radiance fair
Above the hill the sun-god peeps,
And flings the points of glory there.
In bosky dell and upland glade,
Dame Nature sets her signet bright—
Where rippling rill and mossy fen
Flash glistening in the glorious light.

Now comes the bride, a sylvan sprite,
Bedecked in robes of spotless hue;
Reluctant stands, in sweet affright,
Aglisten with the morning dew;
Then speeds away, in merry chase
To run the course so well begun;
God grant her strength and days of grace,
To win the race ere set of sun.

_W. O. Thomas._

IMPORTANT NOTICE

Owing to the election of Governor Robt. L. Taylor to the United States
Senate, and his inability to give all his time to the splendid magazine
his fame and talents had made so successful, Trotwood’s Monthly has
combined with the Bob Taylor Magazine, an account of which will be found
on another page.

By this combination we have the largest list of subscribers of any
Southern Magazine and are in position to give our readers a better
magazine than either publication could give separately.

Trotwood personally wishes to assure his friends that the Taylor-Trotwood
magazine will continue to follow the same literary lines and to follow
the same plans and literary methods Trotwood’s Monthly has pursued from
the beginning. In short, it will be the same old Trotwood with better
facilities, larger scope, a greater field, more capital and a wider
influence, assisted from the United States Senate by the wit, pathos and
humor of the inimitable Bob Taylor, the friend and champion of the plain,
honest, common people of his country. We congratulate ourselves and feel
warranted in congratulating the many thousand readers of Trotwood.

TROTWOOD PUBLISHING COMPANY.

[Illustration: BOOKS AND AUTHORS]

LILLIAN KENDRICK BYRN

ON NEWFOUND RIVER. By Thomas Nelson Page. New York: Chas. Scribner’s
Sons. Price, $1.50.

Mr. Page, whose place among the foremost of living American authors no
one disputes, has given us, in “On Newfound River,” a charming love
story. It is not so long or so elaborate as “Red Rock,” but the author
says of it: “It does not pretend to be a novel. It is, on its face a love
story of simple country life in Old Virginia ... the incidents are those
which might have taken place in a rural community before the war where
the gentry ruled in a sort of manorial manner, and their poorer neighbors
bore a relation to them, part retainer, part friend.” The illustrations
are by John Edwin Jackson, a young Southern artist who has risen to the
front rank in the illustrating world by the merit and sympathetic quality
of his work.

THE AMULET. By Charles Egbert Craddock. New York: Macmillan & Co. Price,
$1.50.

The history and characters of the Tennessee Mountains seem to have become
the peculiar property of Miss Murfree, who is never so happy as when in
this particular field. In her latest book, which, like “The Story of Old
Fort Loudon,” deals with the early settlement of this state, she gives
a stirring history of the vicissitudes of the early settlers, and the
terrible vengeance of the Cherokees. As the time antedates the Revolution
by thirteen years the heroine is a lovely, highborn English girl, while
the hero is a sturdy young product of colonial training and education.
While it is an engrossing love story, it is also a distinct contribution
to American romantic history.

OLD CREOLE DAYS. By George W. Cable. New York: Chas. Scribner’s Sons.
Price, $2.50.

Mr. Cable’s delightful book, his first volume, by the way, was published
in 1879, and so popular has it proven that it goes through several
editions every year. Each issue seems more artistic than the last, but
surely the illustrations can never be better than those which Albert
Herter has given this Christmas. He has caught the very spirit of the
Creoles, their grace, their jauntiness, their naive simplicity. It may
not be generally known that Mr. Cable, born of a Puritan mother and a
Virginia father, started out on a promising newspaper career in New
Orleans, after returning from the Confederate army in 1865; a career
which came to grief because he refused to edit the theatrical column,
having a deep-rooted prejudice against the stage. He then became a clerk
in a cotton firm and his Creole sketches, done at odd times, appeared in
_Scribner’s Magazine_, where they speedily won for him the recognition in
the world of letters which his later work has so well upheld.

THEIR FIRST FORMAL CALL. By Grace MacGowan Cooke. New York: Harper &
Bros. Price, $1.

The laughable experience of two country lads who go to make their first
call on the girls they admire is rendered still more quaintly comical by
Peter Newell’s inimitable drawings. One of the boys had prepared for the
ordeal by a faithful study of “Hints and Helps to Young Men in Business
and Social Relations,” but the principles expounded therein prove very
poor working dependences. “When seated,” the “Hints and Helps” advised,
“ask the young lady who her favorite composer is. Name yours. Ask her pet
poet. Name yours.” The sufferings the boys endured in trying to follow
these instructions, the humiliating climax that ended their first attempt
to fulfill the social amenities, make a thoroughly enjoyable story.

LIFE AND SAYINGS OF SAM JONES. By Mrs. Jones and Reverend Walt Whitcomb.
Atlanta: J. L. Nichols & Co. Price, $2.50.

Carrying out what was perhaps his last request, within one week after
the death of this beloved man, his old co-worker, Mr. Holcomb, with
several stenographers, under the advisement of the bereaved widow, began
working night and day, arranging and weaving together into tangible shape
“The Life and Sayings of Sam Jones.” The result is a book replete with
anecdote, incident and narrative, all showing the forceful and vigorous
character, the personal magnetism, the practical knowledge of human
nature and the winning tenderness of this foe to cant and sham. These
qualities, coupled with his homeliness of speech, every word of which
was a sledge hammer blow to the wicked, brought the rich and poor, the
ignorant and the educated to hear him. He knew how to excite his auditors
to laughter one minute and to tears the next. He knew how to reach the
hearts of the callous, and how to encourage the struggling. The volume is
profusely illustrated and will probably be put through several editions.

A KNIGHT OF THE CUMBERLAND. By John Fox, Jr. New York: Chas. Scribner’s
Sons. Price, $1.25.

Mr. John Fox, Jr., the author of the popular “Little Shepherd of Kingdom
Come,” was born in Bourbon county, Kentucky, the very heart of the
bluegrass region. At fifteen he entered Kentucky University and from
there went to Harvard, where he graduated the youngest of his class.
He first thought of studying law, but became attached to the staff of
the New York _Times_ and has had a passion for the pen ever since. His
interest in the life of the Kentucky mountaineers led to his first book,
“A Modern Europa,” and the success of this first effort led to the
writing of others. At the outbreak of the Spanish War, Mr. Fox joined
the Rough Riders, but left the service to act as special correspondent
for _Harper’s Weekly_. His experience there furnished the material for
his next novel, “Crittenden.” After the war he returned to his home and
has been engaged in writing steadily since, having a half dozen or more
stories to his credit. The study of the mountain dialect is particularly
interesting to Mr. Fox. He has found, he says, over two hundred words
used in his section that were in use in Chaucer’s time. His latest book
is a realistic description of the life and old-world ideals still to
be found in the remote mountain districts, and is written in his usual
sympathetic vein.

BY THE ETERNAL. By Opie Read. Chicago: Laird & Lee. Price, $1.50.

This silhouette of the illustrious and ever fascinating Old Hickory
far exceeds anything that has previously appeared from the pen of the
Arkansas author. It deals with the life and adventures of Jackson up to
and through the battle of New Orleans, showing clearly the integrity, the
invincible determination, and the kindliness, withal, of the hero. Two
duels are described and through the story runs a pretty romance, which
meets and overcomes obstacles, aided by the future president. It goes
without saying that Mr. Read has introduced, or rather brought out, a
strong element of humor throughout the book.

[Illustration: BUSINESS NOTICES]

REUBEN WATSON BOYETT, Amory, Mississippi

[Illustration: REUBEN WATSON BOYETT]

Young Mr. Reuben Watson Boyett, whom we take especial pleasure in
introducing to BOB TAYLOR’S readers, resides at Amory, Mississippi, and
although only thirteen years of age, is the champion local solicitor of
subscriptions. The people in that part of Mississippi stand loyally by
him. A travelling agent through that region recently was met everywhere
with the response that the subscription had been promised young Boyett.
He is a handsome young fellow, but he is better than that: he is what
the slangster calls a “live wire”—pushing, energetic, honest, prompt, a
boy who is sure to become a successful man. His work for BOB TAYLOR’S is
being widely emulated, but other agents must get very busy to pass him.

* * * * *

Don’t fail to read the ad of _The Commoner_ and BOB TAYLOR’S MAGAZINE in
combination in this issue. Bryan’s paper and Taylor’s magazine should be
in every family. By reading _The Commoner_ you understand the political
situation at all times, and it’s bound to be particularly interesting
during the next twelve months. Whether you are for or against Bryan,
he’s an important factor in this country—keep up with him. BOB TAYLOR’S
MAGAZINE differs from other magazines as Bob Taylor differs from other
men. If you already take the magazine, tell your friends about it. Get
some subscribers for us—many or few—and we’ll pay you well.

* * * * *

CHRONIC ASTHMA CURED

Miraculous Recoveries from Asthma and Catarrh Due to Vienna Treatment.

Evidence of the wonderful cures effected by the _Vienna Toxico Treatment_
in Asthma, Catarrh and Bronchitis continue to pour in from all parts of
the country. Diseases of the respiratory tract have evidently this time
met their master. Obstinate cases are cured in less than sixty days. The
dose is minute and acts directly on the membranes and tissues, and it has
a wonderful tonic effect.

The Toxico Laboratory, 1269 Broadway, New York City, who are the sole
dispensers, have generously offered to send a test treatment to every
sufferer who will write for it.

* * * * *

Gray & Dudley Hardware Company, of Nashville, Tenn., offer free a 50-cent
cook book to housekeepers who send them the name of the most prominent
stove dealer nearest to them. It’s a good cook book; costs you nothing.
Write for it and say you saw the offer in BOB TAYLOR’S MAGAZINE.

* * * * *

The Massachusetts Squab Co., Box 878, Whitman, Mass., are offering
bargains in pigeons. See their ad in another column.

*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Taylor-Trotwood Magazine, Vol. IV, No. 4, January 1907" ***

Home